by Joan Wolf
A row of spare clothes hung on the right wall, all neatly arranged on pegs that had been hammered into the saplings that formed the hut’s frame. Bror recognized Ronan’s familiar garments, but hanging in company with them today were a smaller fur vest and a deerskin shirt and trousers. Beneath the clothes, Ronan’s reindeerskin boots stood in solitary splendor. Bror thought, that girl will have to make herself a fur tunic and some boots if she wants to stay here for the winter.
Standing along the right wall near the clothing pegs were two pottery jars for water and a small stack of wood and kindling to make the fire. Ronan’s weapons were propped in the corner as usual, and near them was the heap of deerskins on which Nigak made his bed.
Three long flat table-stones lined the back wall. On them were arranged a familiar assortment of items: sinew, spearheads and arrowheads, leather thongs of differing sizes, eating utensils, a basketful of red berries, a basketful of dried tea, and an extra stone lamp.
Two neatly rolled sleeping skins were lying along the left wall of the hut, and another neat pile of scraped leather waiting to be cut into whatever shape Ronan needed. The empty drying rack was on the left wall as well.
The hearthplace was in the center of the hut, under the hole that had been left for the smoke. The floor around the hearthplace was covered with reindeerskin rugs.
Ronan’s wife, Bror thought as he took his place, had not brought much to her new home.
“So,” Ronan said. He put down the leather strap. “What were the problems?”
Bror found himself smiling. “You are so sure I had problems?”
“If you didn’t, I will pass the leadership to you right now.”
Bror laughed. “Most of the problems I managed to solve all right. There are two, however, that require your attention.”
“Two,” Ronan said, encouraged. “That is not so bad.”
“Wait until you hear them,” Bror said.
Ronan raised his brows, “I am waiting.”
“The men from the tribes of the Goddess are demanding to celebrate a ceremony called the horse-calling rites,” Bror began. He saw Ronan’s face immediately grow wary, and he nodded ruefully. They both knew how explosive the word rite could be in this religiously diversified tribe of theirs. Bror continued, “The tribes of the plain hunt the horse to live, and the purpose of this particular rite is to insure the increase of the horse-herds.”
“Mmm,” said Ronan suspiciously. “What does it entail?”
“The young unmarried men of the tribe impersonate stallions. Each night the young women (both married and unmarried) wrap their nakedness in a horseskin and go to the ceremonial dancing place. After the stallion dance is over, each of the women approaches the horseman of her choice, offers him food, and invites him to walk in the forest with her. You can guess what happens next.”
Ronan groaned.
“According to the men of the Goddess, this rite represents the women of the tribe mating with a stallion. This, of course, pleases Horse God, and he sends more foals to the herds as well as making certain the herds come into the hunting grounds of the tribe.”
“Do they really mate?” Ronan asked. “Or is it just ceremonial?”
Bror said, “With all those young stallions heated up from a dance? What do you think?”
There was a line, thin and deep as a knife cut, between Ronan’s eyebrows. “This was proposed by the men of the Goddess?” he asked.
“The unmarried men of the Goddess—backed up, I might add, by the unmarried men of Sky God. It is a good ritual, they told me with grave faces, because the Tribe of the Wolf also hunts the horse.”
“And the married men don’t like it.”
“The married men will not stand for it. Heno has been quite eloquent on the subject.”
“I can imagine,” Ronan muttered. “What did you tell them?”
Bror replied promptly, “I told them all that we must wait for your return, that you would decide.”
Ronan said, “What do you think, Bror? Are they serious?”
“They are serious—all of them. It is the old story, Ronan. Not enough women for too many men.”
Ronan grunted. “I am almost afraid to ask you what the next problem is.”
“The hunting has not been good these last weeks. We have lost our luck with the reindeer; some one of us must have offended them.”
“Who is accusing whom?” Ronan asked resignedly.
“The usual. Cree is accusing the men of Sky God of a lack of reverence. He says they kill female reindeer, and that is why the Mother is angry and has taken away the herds.” Bror ran a hand through the curly black hair that hung down across his broad forehead. “On the other hand, Heno is accusing the men of the Goddess of not practicing proper sexual taboos. He says that they are sleeping with their wives before they hunt, and that is why the reindeer have gone away.”
“Heno was expelled from his tribe for sleeping with his wife before a hunt,” Ronan said ironically.
“That is how he knows how powerful the taboo is. So he says.”
“Dhu.”
“Those are the two problems I could not deal with,” Bror said.
Ronan said, “If I understand you correctly, we have one situation which pits the unwed men against the married men, and another situation which pits the men of Sky God against the men of the Goddess.”
“Sa.”
Ronan said wearily, “I sometimes wonder if it will ever end, Bror.”
A new voice, low-pitched yet unmistakably feminine, said, “What don’t you think will ever end?” Bror’s head snapped around in time to see Ronan’s wife coming in the door, two deer bladders filled with water in her hands. Nigak entered on her heels. She smiled at Bror and went to pour the water into the pottery containers along the right wall. Then she sat herself beside Ronan, as naturally, Bror thought with a resentment he tried to conceal, as if she belonged there. Nigak curled up in his accustomed place in the corner.
“It’s the same old tale,” Ronan answered her. “The customs of the Goddess seem always to be coming in conflict with the customs of Sky God.” Briefly he recounted what he had just learned from Bror.
Nel made a sympathetic sound and turned to look at Bror. “What do the women say about this?” she asked.
“About what?” He knew he sounded abrupt, but he could not help himself. Ever since Eda, he was afraid to be around women.
“About the horse-calling ceremony,” Nel said patiently.
Bror shook his head and looked desperately toward Ronan.
Ronan took pity on him. “I am thinking that this ceremony sounds somewhat like the Red Deer’s ceremony of the fires, Nel,” he said.
The long green eyes turned away from Bror. Nel answered her husband slowly, “The fires is more than a prayer to the Mother for good hunting and the fertility of the herds, Ronan. It is for the life of the tribe as well.” She turned her disconcerting gaze back to Bror and asked, “Why do only the unmarried men play the stallions?”
Bror addressed his answer to Ronan. “That was my own question. The only answer I got was the usual, ‘It was that way from the beginning.’“
There was the sound of feet approaching the hut and a man appeared in the low doorway. It was Heno. “Ronan,” he said loudly, “the married men of the tribe wish to speak to you.”
Ronan arose without haste, went to the open door and ducked his head to go outside. Sitting in silence within, both Bror and Nel could hear his voice very clearly. “I have been speaking with Bror and he has told me of the differences within the tribe,” he said. “I will deal with them tomorrow morning in the hearing of everyone.”
“Has Bror told you that the married men of the Goddess are in agreement with the married men of Sky God over this business of the horse-calling?” a nasal-sounding voice asked in tones that were not quite insolent but certainly verging on it.
“He has told me, Cree,” Ronan replied.
“Then you must understand…”
> “You understand, Cree,” Ronan interrupted with cool authority. “I will deal with this tomorrow, after I have had a chance to reflect. Not tonight. Now you may return to your wives, all of you.”
There was the sound of feet. The men were going, Bror thought thankfully. Then came a voice Bror recognized as Heno’s. “Remember, Ronan, now you also are a married man. How would you like to see your pretty new wife mating with Bror?”
There was a charged silence, and then the sound of feet moving hastily away. It was not until the men’s steps had completely died away that Ronan came back into the tent, his face pale with anger under its dark summer burn. Bror could not bring himself to look at Nel, but clenched his big hands into fists and said to Ronan, “I told you it was serious.”
“So you did.” A beat of silence, then Ronan added quietly, “I am sorry you had to hear that.”
At first Bror assumed that Ronan was speaking to his wife, but then he saw that the chief’s dark gaze was fixed on him. He went hot and then cold. He stood up. “It is growing dark. Good night, Ronan.” He flicked his eyes in the girl’s direction, mumbled something he hoped sounded polite, and fled.
There was silence in the tent for quite a while. Then Nel said softly, “Poor man.”
“Sa,” Ronan sighed. “He is a good man, minnow.” He sighed again. “That, of course, is why he suffers.”
It was growing darker in the tent, and Ronan reached for the stone lamp that stood upon a rock at a little distance from the hearthplace. The lamp was similar to those Nel had seen all her life, an open vessel hollowed out of soapstone and filled with animal fat, which melted as the flame heated it. However, instead of the moss the Red Deer tribe used for a wick, this lamp used a long stringlike piece of plant, which was pleated into a sawtooth shape and then floated along the edge of the vessel. The string, Nel found, was very efficient; for more light, you lengthened the wick, for less light you shortened it.
After Ronan had trimmed the wick and lit it with a coal stored in the stones around the smoldering fire, Nel said, “What are you going to do about the disputes?”
“The hunting conflict I can deal with,” he answered as he set the lamp on its rock. He turned back to her. “It is this business of the women that is the thorny problem.”
“No one appears to have asked the women for their opinion of the horse-calling,” Nel remarked.
“Bror would not go near the women, Nel. That is the chief difficulty of leaving him in charge of the tribe. The men respect Bror. They are even a little afraid of him, and this is good. Men need to be a little afraid of their leader. But he will not involve himself in anything that has to do with the women.”
“You will have to meet with the women yourself, Ronan,” Nel said. “You cannot make any decisions until you hear what their wishes are.”
He had set the lamp almost directly behind him, and its warm glow was lighting his head and shoulders. He gave her his most beguiling smile. “I have been thinking that now I am a married man, I have someone to help me in this matter of the women.”
She did not return his smile. “I do not know these women, Ronan.”
He dismissed her words with a casual gesture. “That does not matter. You are my wife, and that makes you the chief woman of the tribe. This will hold sway with the women of Sky God.” He leaned a little forward, compelling her with both voice and body. “You were also the Chosen One of the Mother; this will hold sway with Berta and Tora.” His eyes were very large and brilliant in the light of the lamp.
“What do you want me to do?” Nel asked.
“What you just said I should do. Talk to them. Discover their thoughts in this matter. They will speak to you more openly than they would ever speak to me.”
Nel stared at him, speechless.
He reached toward her and took both her hands between his. His hands were warm and strong around her small, cold ringers. “Minnow,” he said coaxingly, “you will not refuse to help me?”
She would never refuse to help him, and he knew it. She sighed. “I am far more skeptical about my effectiveness than you are, Ronan, but I will talk to the women and try to ascertain their feelings about this ceremony.”
His arm came around her and drew her to his side. He bent his head and she lifted her mouth to give to him.
* * * *
In the morning Nel went first to Berta’s hut. There she found both sisters busily pegging out a reindeerskin for scraping. They offered Nel tea, and she accepted.
“I have come,” she said after the initial courtesies of greeting had been exchanged, “on behalf of the chief. He wishes to know the will of the women of the tribe in regard to this horse-calling ceremony.”
Berta and Tora exchanged an enigmatic look. Berta said primly, “We do not speak for the women of the tribe.”
“I understand that,” Nel said. “I have come to you first, however, because you are followers of the Goddess. This rite is a rite of the Goddess, or so Bror has told the chief.”
She paused, and two sleek dark heads nodded agreement. Berta said, “Sa. It is a rite of the People of the Dawn, and of the River People also I think.”
“Is it one of your important rites?” Nel asked.
Berta and Tora looked at each other. They shrugged. “There are many rites in our tribe,” Tora said, “The horse-calling is one of them. It is no more or no less important than any of the others.”
“It is not one of the chief rites, then?”
“Na,” said Berta. “The chief rites are the rites of the Fires.”
Nel nodded in understanding. Then she asked, “Do you know why it is that the stallions must be played by the unmarried men?”
Again the frustrating twin shrugs. “It was that way from the beginning,” Tora said unhelpfully.
Nel persisted. “Would it be considered irreverent if the married men played the stallions as well?”
Again the sisters exchanged a look. “It has never been done before,” Tora said.
Nel sipped her tea. “I understand that it has never been done before,” she said, “but what if it was done now?”
Berta frowned. “There is no power of the unknown if a woman lies with her husband,” she said. Her head lifted in a gesture of enlightenment. “Perhaps that is why the unmarried men play the stallions.” She looked challengingly at Nel. “If you are of the Goddess, then you will understand that.”
“I am of the Goddess,” Nel returned. “I understand the things of the Mother. But at our ceremony of the Fires, which is a very powerful fertility rite, a woman may lie with her husband.”
Berta smiled back, showing very white, very strong teeth. “May lie? Or must lie?”
Nel raised her delicate brows. “May lie,” she said.
Silence fell. Nel sipped her tea. The sisters looked at each other. Finally Tora said, “Ronan wants to let the married men play the stallions?”
“It is a possibility,” Nel said.
There was silence as the sisters thought. “Among the People of the Dawn,” Berta said at last, “a woman can approach any number of men at the horse-calling.”
Dhu, Nel thought in dismay.
“Some of the women of our tribe have gone with two handfuls of men in one night,” Tora said proudly.
“Dhu,” said Nel out loud.
The sisters smiled serenely.
Nel said slowly, “Such a thing is possible in your tribe, Tora. Such a thing is possible in my tribe. But it is not possible in the tribes that follow Sky God.”
“The women of those tribes are fools,” Berta said scornfully.
“Not fools,” Nel said. “It is not their fault if they have been cut off from the Mother.”
“They live their lives under the foot of a man,” Tora said.
Nel looked surprised. “Beki? Does Beki live her life under the foot of Kasar? Or Yoli under the foot of Lemo?”
“They are different,” Berta said with a shrug.
“I am thinking of Yeba and Tabara,” T
ora said. Her brown eyes flashed. “Do you know what happened to Tabara because she lay with a man who was not her husband?”
“She was cast out,” Nel said.
“She was cast out, sa, but her husband kept her children!”
“I did not know that,” Nel said softly.
“Can you imagine such a thing? Taking her children away? Did her husband carry those children inside his body? Did he give them his blood? Did he give birth to them in pain and suffering?” Tora looked magnificent in her fury. “Men,” she said. “Men know nothing!”
“Poor Tabara,” Nel said, her voice filled with pity. “Does she still grieve?”
“Grieve?” It was Berta who answered this time. “Of course she grieves. She carried those children under her heart. They grew into her heart. They will never grow out of it. That is what it means to be a mother.” She scowled at Nel. “Does a man know this?”
Nel shook her head.
“All a man knows is one moment. After, his life and his body are the same. It is the woman who carries the fruit of that moment for nine long months in her womb. It is not for a man to make the rules about mating. It is for a woman.”
“Ronan thinks this business of the horse-calling has come up because the unmarried men want a woman,” Nel said.
“Of course that is why it came up,” Berta replied.
“If it is not for the men to make the rules, but for the women,” Nel said, “what do you think the rule should be about the horse-calling?”
Silence.
“You cannot complain about the men making the rules if you allow them to do it,” Nel said reasonably.
Still silence.
“Perhaps we should get the other women and discuss it as a group,” Nel said.
“Sa,” said Berta, She smiled. “That is what we should do.”