Kazhak emerged from the tent, his friend the chief close behind him. Kazhak repeated the man’s name loudly and with affection, “Potor, Potor!” and they clapped each other on the back. Potor had meant to extend an invitation to Kazhak’s companions to join them in the tent, but then he got a good look at the lone figure sitting on the dark brown gelding.
It was a woman. With yellow hair, and uncovered face!
He muttered an epithet and made a sign to protect himself from evil.
“Is Kelti woman,” Kazhak hastened to explain. “Kazhak bring from the land of the salt miners, many days’ ride. Very valuable, this woman. Worth more than gold.”
Potor took a step backward, away from his friend. “Kazhak has gone mad,” he said with pity.
“No, no, is strange story, but when you hear, you will understand. We sit and eat, drink, is it so?”
Potor was unsure. “Woman … riding a horse?” He still could not believe his eyes.
“She earned it,” Kazhak replied.
“You tell Potor,” the chief decided. “Now.” He went back into the tent, and Kazhak, beckoning to his men to join him, followed.
The tent flap fell closed behind them.
Epona felt eyes staring at her from every wagon, but when she looked, they were not there. The Scythian men had drifted away from the area where she waited, looking over their shoulders at her suspiciously before going about their business. Even the children had melted away, and she was alone with the horses. Yet she knew she was not alone; those hundreds of eyes were watching, watching.
The women must all be in the tents and wagons, kept out of sight. What sort of people did not allow their women to welcome travelers?
What sort of women would willingly stay hidden away from the light and air, imprisoned in cells of felt and leather?
To give herself something to do, Epona dismounted and began tending to the horses. She removed their saddles and rubbed their backs with grass; she offered them a small drink of water each, from the waterskin. She noticed that no one came forward to give her any assistance.
Food smells issued from the tents, and her stomach rumbled.
The men of the tribe stayed at least a dozen gallop strides away as they talked in small clusters or cared for their own horses. True Scythians, they did not dismount unless absolutely necessary. One of them yelled something, and Epona saw a figure swathed in blankets emerge from one of the smaller wagons and carry a bowl to the man, who emptied it while he sat on his horse, drinking in noisy gulps. The person who had served him scurried back to the wagon, face covered so Epona could not see a glimmer of flesh.
But she walked as women walk.
Slaves, Epona thought grimly.
Not me.
There was the sound of masculine laughter in Potor’s tent, and someone was playing a flute.
It was hard to believe the camp was normally so quiet. Epona watched as the men rode back to their herds, and she expected to see the women come out of the wagons, but they did not. The felt hanging on the sides of the wagons twitched as if someone moved it from within, and occasionally she heard a whisper or a smothered exclamation. But no one came to bid her welcome.
The gray stallion put his muzzle in the palm of her hand and breathed a soft sigh. She leaned her forehead against his neck and stood close to him, smelling the familiar horse smells, comforted. She was not alone. She had a friend.
Another well-bundled figure emerged from one of the tents and came toward her, carrying a bronze bowl of fine Thracian workmanship, reeking with fermented mares’ milk. The servitor set the bowl at Epona’s feet and hurried away without speaking.
The mess in the bowl turned the Kelti girl’s stomach. She would rather eat the unseasoned meat and leathery bread in the saddlebags. She emptied the bowl onto the trampled earth, where it lay like a puddle of vomit, and hunted in Kazhak’s pack for something better. She found the small pouch of white leather he kept here; she had seen him take an herb from it occasionally and chew with obvious pleasure. The Scythians claimed the herb enabled a man—or a horse—to go as much as twelve days without water. Now she decided to try the stuff for herself, as compensation for being abandoned.
The first bite was dry and bitter, but as her saliva mixed with it she was aware of a minty taste that improved each time she chewed. It might not abolish hunger and thirst, but it did make her feel pleasantly relaxed. She no longer minded the passage of the sun overhead or her long wait in the dust with the horses.
The afternoon wore on and she grew sleepy. She ordered the brown gelding to lie down and stretched out next to him, her head pillowed on his neck, her ankles crossed like a man’s. One might as well be comfortable.
Knowing that the watchers in the wagons were staring at her amused her. I am a free person, she wanted to say to them. I can do what I like.
She smiled to herself and fell asleep in the sun.
Kazhak awoke her by kicking the sole of her foot. The expression on his face was one of outrage at her unconventional attitude; yet his eyes were twinkling and she knew he was not really angry, but secretly amused by her.
She had been an astonishing sight, a woman stretched out like a man, sleeping on her horse’s neck in broad daylight. The shock and scandal would fuel tongues in this tribe for many days. Kazhak could hear the women, the ordinary women, other men’s women, jibber-jabbering.
“We not stay here tonight,” he told Epona. “Get up; we ride on.”
He did not order her to saddle all the horses, as the watching Scythians expected. Each of the four prepared his—or her—own animal and they mounted together, like comrades, and rode away.
The next day they saw more groups of the horse people: single families driving small herds and occasional larger groups, where several families had come together for trade or to share wagon repairs. Kazhak was hailed as he rode by, for many recognized him, but he did not stop to visit. He had been frustrated enough by his conversation with Potor; he did not want to explain Epona again until he reached his own tribe.
He was now very concerned about his ability to convince Kolaxais and the shamans of Epona’s value. And they must believe; he had brought back so little, after leaving with such great expectations. A few splendid Kelti blades, and the girl—that was all he could show to justify his long absence and his tragic expenditure of men and horses.
When he had tried to describe Kelti magic to Potor, to give him an idea of Epona’s value, the other Scythian had been dubious. “Thracian horse was not dying,” he said. “You were fooled, Kazhak. You let woman impress you; is sign of great weakness in man. Potor is surprised at you.”
“Kazhak knows what he saw. Horse was dead while still standing, Potor. Nothing could have saved it. Kazhak has seen other things, too, things with no explanation but very strong magic.”
“Potor has seen this Kelti woman do nothing,” his friend replied. “May be as you say, Kazhak, but may be not. Have her show us. Bring her now, have her do magic, some hard thing, and Potor will listen to your words with pricked ears.”
But Kazhak did not want to waste Epona on convincing Potor and his men. She must be saved, hoarded like the precious gold he no longer carried; saved to dazzle the shamans and give them new respect for Kazhak.
He assumed a haughty expression to show Potor that such a request was beneath consideration.
“Kelti woman does not do tricks like trained monkey taken from eastern traders,” he said with immense dignity. “Her magic is of very high kind. For special use only, Potor. Such magic is to be saved like small drop of water on empty prairie in summertime.”
Potor dug into his mouth with one grimy forefinger, hunting for a meat fiber caught between his back teeth. “It is said that there are people in the west who are very skilled with magic,” he commented, talking almost inaudibly around his probing finger. He found the meat and fished it out, than ate it again with great satisfaction. “But you cannot bring their magic to your tribe, Kazhak. Is foolish th
ing to attempt; is dangerous, all magic is dangerous. Even shamans fear the results of their own actions. If woman has such power as you say, you have done stupid thing and you will regret it.”
Kazhak set his jaw and folded his arms across his chest. “Kazhak will not regret anything,” he said through tight lips, determined to make his words the truth.
As they proceeded eastward, Epona occupied herself with imagining the reception she would receive from Kazhak’s tribe. Obviously, she could not expect to be welcomed as she would have been welcomed into one of the kin-tribes of her own people.
My former people, she corrected herself.
She would have to make her own place in this new life, and that might prove harder than she had anticipated. But leaving the Blue Mountains had been hard; turning her back on all she had known and loved had been hard, but she had done it. She could do this, too.
She actually began to look forward to the challenge. She would not cower timidly in a wagon like the Scythian women, nor come trotting, tame as a trained hound, when some man signaled her. She was born of the Kelti.
Spirits of my people, be with me, she prayed.
You rejected them, replied the spirit within.
They saw more bands of nomads, sprawling family encampments and groups of men riding together. The Sea of Grass was more populated than Epona had realized. “There are many horse people,” she remarked to Kazhak.
“As many as blades of grass.”
“Do the Scythians have a long history?”
“We oldest people on earth,” he replied with unassailable certainty.
Epona’s temper flared. “How can you say that? You have no history singers. The bards of the Kelti, who are sworn to truth, tell us ours is an ancient race, going back to the first dawn. And you yourself said there had been towns and copper mines in the valley of the Duna for more generations than anyone could count. But if you have no druii to teach your children, how can you be so certain of your own past?”
“Scythians oldest people on earth,” Kazhak repeated stubbornly. “First people. Best people. Is no argument, is known fact.”
“Not to me!” she answered hotly.
When they had spent fourteen nights on the Sea of Grass, Kazhak announced, “Soon we see herds of Kolaxais, is it so? Maybe today.” He pushed his horse at an unrelenting pace from the moment they mounted, shortly after dawn, and did not allow his party to walk or draw rein until they caught the sight of the first band of grazing horses Kazhak recognized as his tribe’s.
Epona gazed, awed, at the vast number of animals spread across the prairie like a rug of many hues: red and brown and dun-yellow, gray and black and white. Early gelding had given those chosen for riding longer leg bones and necks than most of the breeding animals, but all were beautiful to Epona: finer than any horses she had ever seen. The spirit within rose into her eyes and worshiped the creatures as they grazed.
Kazhak’s tribe was the largest they had yet encountered. In this season, when families were gathering to share a communal preparation for winter, Kazhak’s people filled more than a hundred tents and wagons, spread over the grassland like a portable city.
As they approached, many of the herdsmen recognized Kazhak and galloped toward him, shouting a welcome. He laughed aloud and drew his knees up against the gray stallion’s withers. When he was surrounded by kinsmen he leaped to his feet on the horse’s back, as lithe as a cat, and shouted the cry of the horse people, moving his feet in a neat swift pattern atop his saddle.
There were calls of recognition for Dasadas and Aksinya, but there were also many questions, hesitant at first but then coming thick and fast. Where was Ishkapai? Bartatua? Madyes? Was Donya riding behind, soon to join them? What news of Akov and Telek and young Vasilas?
A hush settled over the men crowding around the new arrivals. Eyes turned toward Epona, who had been sitting quietly, a little apart, muffled in her bearskin cloak against the bone-chilling cold now sweeping the steppes. Her bright hair was covered by a warm felt hood she had taken from Basl’s pack, making her femininity difficult to detect, but the sharpeyed Scythians had begun to notice that she was not just another horse man.
“That is one of the geldings of Basl,” said an accusing voice, “but Basl does not ride him. Where is Basl, and what is that on his horse?”
A subdued Kazhak slid down to straddle his mount again, the exuberance dying away in him.
“Where is Donya my brother?” someone else demanded to know.
Kazhak saw hostility in the familiar faces surrounding him. “Going west,” he began to explain, “we met big tribe of Cimmerians, many warriors, many weapons. Kazhak’s men fought well, but many brothers died. Only best fighters survived: Kazhak, Dasadas, Aksinya still live.” He grinned, asking them to rejoice in his survival, at least.
“Kazhak lived while brothers died?”
“All were wounded,” Kazhak hurried to assure them. “Weak, bleeding, we rode west into mountains where Cimmerians would not follow us. Heard stories there about Kelti smith farther on who forges best swords ever made. So we made hard journey to village of the Kelti, saw the swords, brought them back for great Kolaxais. Brought back other treasure, too, better even than swords, is it so?”
“What is better than swords?” cried a challenging voice.
But Kazhak had said enough; more than he wished. The rest must be told to Kolaxais first. “Where is the Prince of the Horse?” he wanted to know.
“In his tent,” came the answer. “With his shamans.”
Epona had been watching Kazhak’s face. She saw that he was displeased with that answer.
Turning toward her and the others, he said, “We go to Kolaxais now.” He deliberately met eyes with Epona. “All go to Kolaxais,” he added.
They dismounted, and the crowd of men—not one woman, Epona noted, not one—fell away to let them pass. Young boys materialized from the edge of the throng and caught the horses, leading them off to be unsaddled and watered. Epona was reluctant to follow Kazhak until she was sure the horses would be cared for, but then she realized how absurd that was. These were the people of the horse. As she had learned on the journey, the horse came first.
Kazhak led the way to a tent that could belong only to the chief of so numerous a tribe. It was as large as any two other tents, and a pole stuck into the ground in front of it was decorated with a cluster of human heads, most reduced by time and weather to bare skulls.
They showed their teeth to Epona.
You are empty, she told them silently. The spirit is gone; you cannot harm me. She held her head high and walked past.
Epona ducked her head to follow the men through the tent flap. It took a few moments for her eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom within, but then what she saw reminded her very forcibly that she was now in another world, with an alien culture. Her ears and her nose reaffirmed the fact.
The interior of the tent was lined with rugs that appeared to be made of woven wool, though the Scythians did not wear woven wool on their bodies; only felt and leather. Piles of rugs and hides served for furniture, with the exception of small carved chests and a curious stoollike device that emitted the odor of some burning weed.
The tent was cluttered with objects, so that one had to pick one’s way between wooden and pottery bowls, stone lamps, leather purses and cases, sacks of fur, flasks, jugs, wooden serving dishes on little feet, copper censers, drums, and stringed musical instruments. The tent of Kolaxais might have been a packrat’s nest, though opulent with vivid color and thick with the smells of its inhabitants.
The Scythians, Epona thought to herself, have no sense of proportion, of symmetry. Nothing was arranged for artistic effect, as in the lodges of the Kelti; nothing was arranged at all. Like their language, their lifestyle seemed discordant to her. Even the brilliant colors with which they dyed their felts clashed with one another.
Everything was permeated with the scent of wood burned with weeds, and the overriding, nauseous odor
of fermented mares’ milk and rancid butter.
On the pile of rugs that served him as bed and seat was a man so old he might have been a preserved corpse. Only the black eyes glaring from the recesses of his eye sockets burned with the great fire of life. His face was a mass of wrinkles, seam folded upon seam, all individuality altered by the crumpled skin. Thin strands of white hair escaped the felt hood pulled down over his ears, and the hands resting on his folded knees looked like the claws of a bird.
Epona heard Kazhak take a swift indraft of breath, as if surprised by the appearance of the ancient sitting crosslegged on the rugs. “Prince of Horses,” he murmured respectfully, bowing down. The other Scythians bowed as well, but Epona did not.
She realized she was looking at Kolaxais, the great prince of that tribe of Scythians which considered itself royal, destined to rule over all other nomads. She had seen his horses spread out across the Sea of Grass. She could now see the dazzling amount of gold on his person, the fine gold plates worked into a kind of tunic, the massive neckring and other jewels he wore. But she was not impressed, as Rigantona would have been impressed. Kolaxais possessed the things that could be counted and carried, but he was old and wizened and she did not sense an aura of real power, not anymore. A diminished man sat before her, looking out at the world with frightened eyes. Yet strong men like Kazhak bowed down to him. No Kelt would.
Kolaxais was not alone in his tent. Crowding its inward sloping, circular walls were numerous other men, less richly attired, but each with his personal treasure of gold or amber prominently displayed, though the clothes on his body were worn and stained from long seasons in the saddle.
Closest to Kolaxais were two very strange figures. They were men, but they were not dressed as men dress. They wore long skirts of red felt, covered by fur tunics, and on their heads were small, round felt caps, from which hung what appeared to be the entire tails of white horses. More of these long hair pendants were attached to the tunics and to the skirts, so the wearers looked more like white haystacks than human beings.
The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) Page 29