by Andre Norton
“There is refuge by the river,” the bird said in a barely understandable accent, “and sanctuary in the valley. If all women are your sisters, you may enter there as sisters and mothers and daughters. I have said it.”
“Who are you,” Huana whispered in terror, making a sign against evil.
“I am a goddess,” the bird Whispered back, “once a maiden, then the living spirit of vengeance, which was my only justice. Now I am a guardian spirit. Take an oath of kindness, woman, for those I guard set much store by it.”
“This I swear, gladly,” Lisha said promptly. “Is there any here who would not? Assuming that you trust the bird and those who sent her, which I do.”
Gondrin stepped forward. “In my trade you learn to read people, and I say, follow the bird.”
Lisha looked over the small crowd, none of whom had gone another way nor turned back at the path. “Lead, Mistress Hawk,” she decided. “I, for one, will follow. Come on, children.” She picked up her pack again, sighed, settled it on her shoulders, and went forward.
The bird who came to them in early morning left them in late afternoon. Twilight thickened in the forest. Slowly, fearfully, the little party made their way down the path. Leatrice, near the front, kept looking around curiously, then nudged her mother. “Look, Mama, in the trees. Isn't that a house?”
Huana peered through the forest gloom, but saw only a dim shadow that might have been anything. She shuddered. “Leave it be, Leatrice,” she whispered. “The gods only know what lives out here all alone like a wild beast.”
For a moment, Leatrice's heart ached with longing for her father, who feared as little as her mother feared much. Then, resolutely, she again shifted the weight of her heavy pack and kept looking for houses. She saw dim shadows here, traces of paths there, and many things that might or might not mean human life, but at last it could not be mistaken. She saw the gleam of firelight through cracks in a shutter. She nudged her mother again. Grudgingly, Huana said, “It may be a house.” Then she and the other women started talking.
Egil looked disgusted. “These women are going to chatter all night. Shall we wake the householders up?”
“Are you prepared to fight them if they're bandits or shape changers?” Leatrice asked.
Egil's lips twisted in scorn. “I shouldn't have asked a girl,” he conceded, the last word accented like a deadly insult.
Leatrice shoved ahead of him and found the door. “Help,” she called out. “Help us. We're lost and starving and there's no men with us and we won't hurt you. Please?” Egil swore a mild oath at this disgusting, unmanly conduct.
The door opened. A thin, bronze-haired girl of about fourteen answered and rubbed her eyes. “I'll call the elders, sister. What's your name? And—what's a ‘men'?”
Arona, roused from a painful and uneasy sleep, stared at the strangers in shock. So many, many people she had neither grown up with nor seen born! They spoke the tongue used by the only other outsiders she had ever seen: Gunnora's Daughters—the wise women who came to trade each year; and the strange woman of power who called herself The Dissident. Wind rattled her open door, blowing in the first drops of rain of tonight's storm, recalling her manners to her. “Come in and share my fire,” she said laboriously in the same tongue they used. “I am Arona Bethiahsdaughter of the Foxlady Clan, apprentice Keeper of the Records. My mistress is out, but do come in.”
They crowded in, some dozen and a half of people. The young apprentice bit her lip. She would not leave these people alone; yet, someone must be told. On a sudden thought, she put her head out the door and raised her voice in the call meaning “Unidentified strangers, trouble but not much.” Satisfied, she put more wood on the fire and set the cooking pots over the coals.
The cat called Little Red Pest walked over to the strangers and the girl who had first knocked on Arona's door put down her hand to pet her. A tall girl in sheepherder's trousers made rude noises, and her mother swatted her across the rear as she would a mule. Then the mother said to Arona, “Is your (something) or your (he-mother?) home, maiden?”
Drat this wretched language, Arona cursed silently as she found words to frame an answer to a question she did not understand. “I no longer live in my mother's house. My mistress is the record keeper here. I have the right to offer you this kindness,” she reassured them. In the distance she could hear the sounds of rainclad women sloshing through the leaves. Let an elder who spoke this tongue have this burden! Then, because Huana had used a title to her, she corrected her. “I may soon be not maiden, but mother, for the Falconers came last night.”
“Falconers!” the woman demanded, her voice rising to a strangled squawk, and she stared at Arona as if the girl were being Shunned and had not warned her. As if a fox had raided the henhouse, the women all started shouting at once. The rude big girl, whom Arona could see had faint hairs on her face like a crone, said, “Don't worry, mother, I'll defend you.”
“You're a good boy, Oseberg,” the woman said gratefully as the village elders trooped in, one by one, crowding the small room beyond its comfort.
Eldest Mother Mechtild swung her head around with a suddenness that made Arona's teeth ache. “Boy?” she said ominously.
A babble of voices rose all around Arona, who by now was starting to get a headache. “Boys are the young of the Falconer breed,” Lennis the Miller shouted hysterically. “We've seen what this one's cousin Jommy did, left unchecked, for all her Aunt Eina's careful rearing. It killed a Falconer! That's why they tore down the huts! The Jommy has done violence to me, too!”
“Falconer?” Huana was screaming. “You belong to the Falconers?”
Another Jommy, Arona thought, looking at Oseberg curiously. The rain was beating down harder and the wind was whipping it in through the door. Arona's headache was slowly growing worse. She had liked the gentle, lame Jommy who was so conscious of his anomalous position in the village, boy or no boy; she had taken a dislike to Oseberg even thinking it was a girl. From her pain she said sharply, “We cannot keep them all here all night while we debate, sisters, for they are on the verge of collapse, and so am I.”
“Mother,” Egil spoke then as if handing down a decision, “the young mistress is quite right. There are too many of us, and we cannot all impose on her people like that. Suppose you ladies let us shelter in some outbuilding tonight, and Oseberg ,and I will be quite willing to do chores for you in payment.”
A baby cried thinly from hunger and cold. Noriel the Blacksmith pushed forward. “Noriel Auricasdaughter of Wolfhame Clan,” she said. “There is plenty of room at the forge, if any of you would shelter with me.”
Huana's head jerked up sharply. “Forge? Uh, Mistress Forgewife, does your (something) need another apprentice?”
Noriel's plain, heavy face was transformed by radiance. “Do you offer me an apprentice?” She looked hopefully at Oseberg, who grinned, then looked dubiously at his mother, who nodded agreement. “It is settled.”
Asta Lennisdaughter was staring at Egil, and now tugged at the hem of the miller's heavy rain cloak. “Mother, these people seem so hungry,” she said sadly. “And their oldest girl is so well-spoken.” She lowered her voice. “And looks s-t-r-o-n-g,” she whispered so only her mother should hear. “Of course,” she added slyly, “it will put Aunt Marra's nose out of joint.” That last comment brightened Lennis's eyes vindictively.
Arona's head was aching violently now. Viciously she recalled that every child in the village referred to Lennis's two daughters as Roldeen the Bully and Asta the Sneak. Plainly the Sneak wanted the well-spoken Egil for a sisterfriend—as did Arona. Mostly the young record keeper wanted to be back in bed. She found a wooden mallet and brought it down, hard, on the table. Everyone looked up. And Arona spoke as if she were an elder or a householder.
“Everyone willing to take in these people for even the rest of the night, speak in turn,” she said, taking her spindle from its place beside the fire. “Not you, Dame Noriel; why don't you and your stran
gers seek a nice, warm bed? And you, Dame Lennis, will surely want to tell your strangers where to stay and what to do in more comfort than this.”
Lennis looked at her through narrowed eyes that looked small, piggy, and shrewd. Then the miller laughed, sharply. “A clever little girl for one who was a child yesterday. All right, Little Missy Recorder, we will obey your orders indeed.”
Arona held onto her temper as tightly as she did the spindle. The miller's rudeness, like every other detail of this night, would go into the records exactly as spoken, of course. But then, Arona reassured herself, Dame Lennis had never been too bright. She pounded for silence again and held out the spindle to the next person to speak. As the woman speaking began a long argument both for and against taking in strangers, Arona said, “Yes? Or no? These poor people are exhausted.” The baby cried again.
Another called out, “I cannot bear to hear that poor thing whimper! We have only the front room floor, but if you are agreeable, Mistress, you can stay with us.”
And wasn't it true that the poor were more willing to share than many of the prosperous? That deserved an aphorism, when Arona could think of one.
Gondrin raised her hand for the spindle and Arona passed it over. “For what it's worth, I am an alewife and a brewmistress, and can earn my keep at the local tavern.”
Arona translated that, and said, “What is a tavern?”
“A place where men come and drink, and discuss things, and meet their friends,” Gondrin said, then looked around. “Oh. I see no men here,” she said suddenly. “This is a village of Falconer women, you said, didn't you? I'll bet they don't drink … here … and it's certain they wouldn't allow you to!”
That started a noisy, angry cascade of voices. Her head pounding as if it would not cease for days, Arona shouted, “Order! Mistress Gondrin, nobody will stop you from having your house of ale. The Falconers do not tell us what to do except at the trailhead, once a year, to the volunteers. They do not concern themselves with our daily lives, which in any case we do not let them see. Please, my sisters, if any of you will help those left, this ancient mother is asleep,” she indicated Melbrigda, “and needs a bed.” By keeping everybody here strictly to the point, she could at least hope to regain her bed before daylight made sleep impossible.
One of the he-hens started its morning salute to the dawn, and Arona groaned. Now they would all be here all day. Why had none of the elders taken this from her hands? It was their place. No, they were too busy debating the long-range consequences of taking in the strangers. Suddenly she said, “Your pardon, Elders; I am sick.”
Old Floree Anasdaughter suddenly recalled that she was a healer as well as an elder, and strode over to where Arona sat, nearly fainting. “Great Goddess, child, you're as pale as snow. You! Clear out and move this meeting to the village hall, you fools; this should never have been laid on that child's shoulders.” She held up the fainting recorder and said, “Can you walk, child?”
“I'll help,” Oseberg said eagerly; for he and his new co-mother had hung around out of curiosity. The blacksmith was shy, but for all that had to know everything, Arona remembered. The hulking youth put one hand under her arm, but then moved it stealthily to one of Arona's breasts. She took it off. “Can't blame a boy for trying,” he said cheerfully under his breath. “You're no maiden, you said. How about you and me … ?”
Arona tried to shake off his grip. “I can walk,” she said. Then she turned on him. “Why are you fondling me like a pet cat?” she snapped, loud enough for all to hear. “Stop it. Or does this village have a second bully?”
Huana, who heard this, sniffed. If the wench was shameless enough to announce what was being done to her, she was not worth a moment's consideration. But Oseberg should be warned not to fall into her doubtless-many traps. She took the lad by the ear. “Come along,” she said firmly.
Floree put Arona to bed in the back room of Healing House, where the girl slept for two days with the worst headache in her family's history. The first strangers ever admitted into village life settled with their adopted families. Riveredge Village would never be the same. And I'm only fourteen, Arona thought as she lay down with a wet cloth over her eyes and gave in to the pain.
Three
New Wine in Old Bottles
Arona woke in Healing House, the senior recorder by her bedside. The girl sat up, rubbed her eyes, and washed her face in icy water from the bedside basin. “I was dreaming of First Times.” As she found and donned her robe, she accused, “Where were you during that dreadful racket last night?”
Maris, who woke whenever a cat twitched its tail, smiled a little and handed Arona her sandals. “Two nights ago. But you were doing quite well, dear.”
The village women were already up and about their business, but more of them than usual were clustered together talking in low tones. Arona stopped while a group of them wearing tool aprons hauled logs to a rundown abandoned cabin now being rebuilt.
Gondrin the alemaker saw her and waved cheerfully. “Thank you for helping us!” she called out, pounding a peg into the cabin side. Feeling better, Arona strolled down the path to Records House, looking around curiously as the strangers passed by.
She stopped to watch two of their children playing a game with sticks. They were clashing their sticks against each other, and as Arona watched, the big blonde's stick touched the little brunette. Ah! A fault against the big blonde! No, the big blonde was crowing, “Gotcha!” to her friend. Arona watched a bit longer, then realized the object of the game was to keep the other child's stick from touching you.
It was a game of self-defense. A shudder ran down Arona's body. What sort of world was out there, that little children played games of self-defense?
The one called Huana and her daughter Leatrice passed. Arona spoke; Huana jerked Leatrice aside and glared at the young recorder as if Arona had done her some harm. As Arona stared after them, Egil Lishasdaughter came up beside her and said graciously, “Don't mind her. She's terrified for her daughter's virtue. For myself, I'm grateful you took us in. Now, let me see, you're the village scribe's daughter, aren't you?”
Arona slowly puzzled out as much of this as she could. “I'm Maris's apprentice, not her daughter,” she said carefully. “Thank you for your thanks; you're welcome. Please tell Huana not to fear; her daughter is safe now.” Then, “You do not speak our language at all, do you? Any of you? You'll have to see the priestess and learn what we all learn as children.”
Egil looked at her thoughtfully. “At home, I was told schooling is for priests and my betters. Not for the likes of us. My mother may not be able to spare me, but I can talk her around. If your schoolmaster's around, I'll be glad to talk to him.”
Arona frowned again, working out the meaning. “The he-priestess did not want to teach you? You seem bright. Let me take you to Sacred House to see Dame Birka. Our priestess.”
Egil's eyebrows went up. “Gladly! You know, Arona—that's your name, Arona?—you seem to have quite a sharp mind, for a girl. You're not exactly in the common mold, but many a girl who counts herself a beauty would die for those cheekbones and that hair. Interesting, that's the word I want to use, interesting.”
The stranger had an unusually deep voice, Arona thought, and a pleasant one, but what a chatterbox. It, she, whatever was the proper term, seemed to want to be friends, but sounded like a big girl talking to a tagalong. How old was she? At least eighteen, from her size. But as breastless as a little girl, and with hair cut so short Arona wondered if she had been ill. Surely so, for a maiden so sensitive to beauty in others would surely treasure her own beauty. But that crack about having such a fine mind for one so young did not sit at all well with the proud Recorder, who was used to being the eldest and the brightest in her family. I have a rival here, she thought. But, possibly, a friend.
They came to the Sacred House farmyard, and Arona stopped. “Do you like books?” she ventured suddenly.
“Yes. Yes, I do … when I can find one.”
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“And beauty. I can tell that about you.”
“Yes, indeed!” Egil's grin grew wider. Suddenly his face was over her and Egil was kissing her, not as children who are friends nor as kindred do, but a strange sort of kiss that fascinated and frightened her. She yanked her face back and stared. “What—why—Egil, that was—even best friends do not do such things by surprise.”
Egil bowed solemnly, a gesture Arona had never seen. “My humble apologies, Mistress Arona, and I hope indeed we will be friends.” The door opened; he bowed again.
Arona disappeared in the direction of Records House as the priestess nodded a clear dismissal. Not only a chatterbox, the girl thought of Egil, but smooth, slick as a snake. I wonder what she wants of me?
Arona and Egil understood each other less than either of them thought; Noriel and Huana's family understood each other not at all. Noriel knew it and was not bothered by it. She guided the little party to the forge house and waved her hand expansively at the loft, the kitchen, the main room, and her bedroom off the kitchen.
When she gestured that the children would sleep upstairs, Huana threw a wet-hen fit. Noriel shrugged; maybe Leatrice and Oseberg made too much noise together. Huana talked on until Leatrice went to the loft, and Oseberg to the main room floor, then glanced into Noriel's room, stared long and hard at its one bed, and with much complaint, climbed the ladder to the loft.
In the morning, Noriel greeted them cheerfully. Of course, her strangers could neither speak nor understand any more than small babies could, but women still talked to small babies and in time they learned to understand. She splashed water on her face and showed them where all things were, dressed, and went out back to the woodpile. Huana stood in the kitchen doorway, hesitant; Noriel beckoned her out to join her and picked up several chunks of wood. Huana hesitated, then shoved Oseberg out to join Noriel.
Noriel then made hand-over-hand signs of drawing water from the well and beckoned Leatrice to join her; saw Oseberg, and handed him a pile of plates. Huana's heart sank. Bad enough she should be a drudge in a stranger's house, but for her son to be put to women's work? They had fallen very low indeed! She started to weep silently.