Sister Light, Sister Dark

by Jane Yolen

  “I do use altai,” said Pynt, “but not after the first mile. And Wolf does not help. It is all just words anyway. Besides, altai is really for calling up a dark sister, and we have years more to go before we do that. The only dark sister you can call up now is me.” She fanned herself with her hands.

  “Why would I want to call you up?” teased Jenna. “You just pop up whenever and wherever you want to. Usually behind me. You are not a dark sister, you are a shadow. That is what they call you, you know! Jenna’s little shadow.”

  “Little, maybe,” said Pynt, “but that is because my father was small and yours—whoever he was—was a monster. But I am not your shadow.”

  “No?”

  “No! I cannot keep up with you. What kind of shadow is that?”

  “What is it they say in the Dales? Does the rabbit keep up with the cat?”

  “I do not know if they say it in the Dales. I have never been in the Dales, except for the flood, and then all that was being said there was Hold this. Bail that. Hurry up.”

  “And Help!!!”

  They laughed together.

  “But Donya says it …” Pynt hesitated.

  “All the time!” They spoke the three words together and began laughing in earnest, so uncontrollably that Pynt stumbled back against a tree and a small rabbit was startled out of the tangled underbrush and leaped away down the path.

  “There, cat, see if you can catch up to that one,” said Pynt.

  At Pynt’s dare, Jenna bounded away into the brush after the rabbit and Pynt heard her noisy trampling for many minutes. When Jenna returned, her white braid was peppered with tiny briars, there was a fresh, triangular tear in her leggings, and a long scratch on the back of her right hand. But she held the quivering rabbit in her arms.

  “I do not believe it,” said Pynt. “How did you get her? She is not shot?”

  “My hand is quick where breath is long,” Jenna said, speaking in a high, nasal voice and waggling her fingers in imitation of the priestess. “She is yours, little shadow.” She handed the trembling rabbit to Pynt.

  “But she is only a baby,” said Pynt, taking the rabbit from Jenna and stroking its velvety ears. “Did you hurt her?”

  “Hurt her? Look at me,” said Jenna, thrusting her right hand in Pynt’s face. “That scratch is from her hind nails.”

  “Poor, frightened rabbit,” said Pynt, pointedly ignoring Jenna.

  “Put her down now.”

  “I am keeping her.”

  “Let her go,” said Jenna. “If you bring her home, Donya will want her for the stew tonight.”

  “She is mine,” said Pynt.

  “She is yours,” agreed Jenna, “but that is not an argument to convince Donya. Or Doey.”

  Pynt nodded. “You know, Alna is beginning to sound just like them. Chattering and pompous.”

  “I know,” Jenna said. “I think I liked her better before, full of coughs and fears.”

  Pynt let the rabbit go and they trotted back up the path to the Hame.

  In the heat of the baths, the scratch on Jenna’s hand looked inflamed and Pynt examined it worriedly.

  “Should you show that to Kadreen?” she asked.

  “And what would I say of it? That it is a scar gotten on my shadow’s behalf? It is nothing. We have both had worse.” She splashed water at Pynt, who ducked under and pulled Jenna by the legs until her head went under as well. Spluttering, they both emerged from the steaming bath and let the cooler air dry them.

  “We will have time before dinner …” Pynt began, letting the sentence trail off.

  “And you would like to help with the babes,” said Jenna. “Again.” But she nodded her head and followed after Pynt to the Great Hall, where there were three infants in the cradles, all fast asleep, and two younglings, the latest a two-year-old just newly fostered at the Hame.

  At dinner Jenna sat with Amalda and Sammor, leaving Pynt to play with the little ones and help feed them. Jenna’s patience with the younglings lasted only until the first bit of food was flung. She preferred the company of adults.

  “Mother Alta says that the dark sisters dwelt in ignorance and loneliness until we called them forth,” Jenna said. “Is that true, Sammor?”

  Sammor’s black eyes grew wary. “That is what the Book says,” she said carefully, looking at Amalda.

  “I did not ask what the Book says,” Jenna was quick to point out. “We hear the Book every day.” She imitated Mother Alta’s high, nasal tones. “The dark sisters dwelt in ig-no-rance.” She elongated each syllable.

  Sammor looked down at her food.

  Jenna persisted. “But when I ask questions of Mother Alta, she reads me another passage in the Book. I think it tells only some of the truth. I want to know more.”

  “Jenna!” exclaimed Amalda, slapping her hand quickly on Jenna’s wrist.

  Sammor’s hand touched her other wrist, but lightly, more as a prelude to speech.

  “Wait, let me explain,” said Jenna. “Some things Mother Alta teaches us I can see and feel and make true. Like the breathing. When I do it right, I am the better for it. But when I talk to the dark sisters, they do not seem to be ignorant. And I have heard Catrona weep with loneliness, though she has a dark sister. And Kadreen seems to savor being a Solitary. So the Book does not explain everything. Mother Alta answers no questions beyond what is written.”

  Sammor breathed deeply. “The Book tells all the truth, Jo-an-enna, but it is how we hear it that makes the difference.”

  “So …” Jenna waited.

  Sammor and Amalda breathed together several times, slowly, before Sammor continued. “If darkness is ignorance, then I dwelt in ignorance before I saw the light. If to lack knowledge is ignorance, then indeed I was a fool. If to be sisterless is to be lonely, then I was truly alone. But I did not know I was ignorant or lonely before I came here at A-ma’s behest. I simply was.”

  “Was what?” asked Jenna.

  “I was myself in the dark but without any understanding of my condition.”

  Jenna thought a minute. “But Kadreen is solitary and she is not lonely.”

  Sammor smiled. “There are many kinds of knowledge, child, and Kadreen has but one. There are many ways to be alone and not all are lonely.”

  “There are also many ways of being together, and for some that is as bad as being alone,” Amalda said.

  “You talk in riddles,” Jenna said. “Riddles are for children. I am not a child anymore.” She looked across the table, past the sisters sitting there, to the little table where Pynt was spooning food into two-year-old Kara, Donya’s latest fosterling. The child was laughing as she tried to eat, and both she and Pynt were covered with porridge. “Do all loneliness and all jealousy and all anger end when your sister is called forth?”

  “So it tells us in the Book,” Amalda said.

  Behind Jenna, Sammor snorted. “Do not try to fool this one, A-ma, this child who is not a child. She heard Donya curse out Doey this evening for a sauce slightly burned. She sees Nevara still mooning after Marna. She has heard of Selna …”

  “Sammor, shut up!” Amalda’s voice was hard.

  “What about Selna?” Jenna turned to Sammor, whose mouth was in a thin line. When she turned back to Amalda, her mouth was the same. “And why does everyone always shut up when I ask about Selna? She was my mother, after all. My second mother. My fosterer. And no one will talk to me about her.” Her voice was low so that it reached only the two of them.

  They were silent.

  “Never mind, then. I shall ask Mother Alta in the morning.”

  Amalda and Sammor stood as one, and each held out a hand to Jenna.

  “Come, Jenna, come outside,” whispered Amalda. “The moon is full and we can walk the paths, all three of us together. Do not ask Mother Alta anything. She will just hurt you with her silence. She will try to break you with obedience to the Book. We will tell you what you want to know.”

  Outside there was a small breeze puzzlin
g through the far trees. The Hame walkways were of a dark stone flecked with something shiny that reflected the moonlight. As the three of them paced by the great walls, the moon was occasionally hidden by thready clouds. Each time Sammor would disappear for a moment, reappearing with the cleared moon.

  “There is a story, Jo-an-enna, of the thrice-orphaned child,” said Amalda.

  “I have heard that tale ever since I was little.” Jenna spoke impatiently. “What does my life have to do with stories?”

  “There are some who think you could be that child,” said Sammor a moment before the moon was once again cloud-hidden. Her voice trailed off. One minute her hand held firmly to Jenna’s, the next it was gone.

  Jenna waited until Sammor reappeared. “That is not I. I have had but two mothers. One dead in the forest and one—I do not know where or how. No one will tell me.”

  Amalda said softly, “If I had had my way, you would have had three mothers, for I would have fostered you.”

  “Whether you have the name, I always called you that in my mind, A-ma,” Jenna said.

  “You have called her that in your sleep as well,” said Sammor. “And the one time you were sick with the Little Pox. But it was the fever speaking or the dream.”

  “You see, I have no third mother and besides, you are alive and shall remain so for some time, Alta willing.” She held her hand up in the goddess sign, thumb and forefinger touching in a circle. “So, you see, I can not be the One spoken of.”

  They placed their arms around her and spoke as one. “But Mother Alta fears you are and has ordered that no one foster you in truth.”

  “And my mother Selna?”

  “Dead,” said Sammor.

  “Dead saving you,” said Amalda, and she told Jenna all of the tale save the last, about the knife in the babe’s hand, though why she left it out she could not have said, but Sammor, too, was careful not to add it.

  Jenna listened intently, pacing her breath to theirs. When they were done with the story, she shook her head. “None of that makes me the One, the Anna. Why, then, did she force this orphaning on me? It is not fair. I shall hate Mother Alta forever. She was afraid of a nursery tale. But for me it is my life.”

  “She did what she thought was right for you and for the Hame,” Sammor said, stroking Jenna’s white hair on one side while Amalda stroked it on the other.

  “She did what she wanted to and for her own reasons,” Jenna said, remembering the time she had watched the priestess speak to her mirror. “And a priestess who cares more for words than for her children is …” She could not finish, her anger hot and hard.

  “That is not true, child, and I forbid you to say it again,” said Amalda.

  “I will not say it again because you forbid it, A-ma. But I cannot promise I will not think it. And I am glad my mission year comes soon, for I want to be away from her stale breath and bleak eyes.”

  “Jenna!” Amalda and Sammor said together, their shock evident.

  Sammor added quickly, “There will be other Mother Altas in the Hames you visit.”

  “Other Mother Altas?” It was Jenna’s turn to be shocked.

  “Child, you really are very young,” said Amalda, holding her hand. “We may be a small Hame, but in shape we are like them all. There are warriors and kitcheners and gardeners and teachers. And each Hame is headed by a priestess with the blue Goddess sign burned into her palms. Surely you understood that.”

  “But not like ours,” said Jenna, a pleading in her voice. “Not a hard, uncaring woman with a serpent’s smile. Please.” She turned to Sammor, but the moon had gone suddenly behind a great cloud and Sammor was no longer there.

  “We may be different—each hunter, each gardener,” said Amalda, chuckling. “But, my darling Jenna, I have found that priestesses tend to be the same.” She stroked Jenna’s cheek. “Though I have never been able to figure out if they start out that way or simply grow into it. However, sweetling, it is time for bed, and besides …” She looked up at the sky. “… with the moon so well hidden, we will not be able to include Sammor in our conversation out here. Inside, where the lanterns bring her forth, we can say our good-nights. She will be furious with me if we stay out here. She hates to miss anything.”

  They turned and walked quickly up the stone stairs and into the hall. At the first trembling lantern light, Sammor returned.

  Jenna stopped and held out a hand to each of them. “I shall miss you both with all my heart when I am off on mission. But I shall have Pynt with me. And Selinda, who, for all her dreaming, is a good friend. And Alna.”

  “That you will, child,” said Sammor. “Not all are that lucky.”

  “We will visit as many of the other Hames as we can. A year is a long time. And when we return there will be other young ones for Mother Alta to trouble. I will be old enough then to call my dark sister out, and there is nothing in the tale that says the thrice-orphaned child has a twin! Besides, look at me—do I look like a queen?” She laughed.

  “A queen and not a queen,” reminded Sammor.

  But Jenna’s laugh was so infectious that both Amalda and Sammor joined her and, still laughing, they walked toward the girls’ room.

  Standing in front of Mother Alta’s great mirror, each girl in turn raised her hands and stared into her own face intently.

  “Lock eyes. Then breathe,” Mother Alta instructed. “Altai first. Good, good. Alani. Breathe. Slower, slower.”

  Her voice became the only sound, the silvered twin the only sight. In those moments, Jenna could almost feel her own dark sister calling in a far-off voice, low, musical, with a hint of hidden laughter. Only she could not quite make it out. The words were like water over stone. She concentrated so hard trying to hear, it took a hand on her shoulder to recall her to the room.

  “Enough, child, you are trembling. It is Marga’s turn.”

  Reluctantly Jenna moved away and the movement of her mirrored self was what finally broke the spell. Pynt stepped in front of her with a broad grin that was reflected back.

  So the pattern of the fifth year was set. Breathing exercises, mirror exercises, and then a reading from the Book with long, weighty explications from Mother Alta. Selinda mostly dozed through the history lessons, with her eyes wide open. But Jenna could tell from the glossy blue of her eyes that she was fast asleep. Alna and Pynt often had trouble sitting through the endless lectures, poking each other and occasionally breaking out into fits of giggles, for which they were rewarded with a bleak stare by the priestess. But Jenna was fascinated by it all, though why she could not say. She took it in and argued it out, though when she spoke out loud, she was silenced by Mother Alta’s short responses that were not, after all, answers but merely simple restatements of the things she had just said. So Jenna’s arguments soon became silent ones, the more unanswerable because of it.

  THE HISTORY:

  In the Museum of the Lower Dales is the remainder of a large standing mirror whose antiquity is without question. The ornate, carved wood frame has been dated at two thousand years, and is in fact of a type of laburnum not seen in those parts for centuries. Riddled with wormholes and fire-scorched, it is the one whole wood piece discovered in the Arrundale dig. It was not directly in the gravemound but buried separately some hundred meters distant. Wrapped in a waxy shroud and contained in a large iron casket, the mirror is notably unmarred from its long interment.

  We know this was a mirror because large fragments of coated glass were found embedded in the shroud. Obviously of sophisticated make, the shards had beveled edges and a backing of an amalgam of mercury and tin, which indicates a glass-making craftsmanship unknown in the Dales but popular in the major cities of the Isles as early as the G’runian period.

  What, then, was such a mirror used for and why its elaborate burial? There have been two likely theses put forth by Cowan and Temple, and a third, rather shaky mystical suggestion by the indefatigable mytho-culturist, Magon. Cowan, reminding us that artwork was practically unknow
n in the Hames save for the great tapestries and the carvings on the mirror, argues the provocative idea that handsomely framed mirrors in which living figures were artfully framed were—in fact—the artwork of the Alta sororities. Lacking the skill to draw or sculpt, they saw the human figure as reflected in the mirror as the highest form of art. The burial, Cowan further asserts, suggests that this particular piece was the property of the ruler of the Hame; perhaps only her image was allowed to be reflected in the glass. It is a fascinating theory set down with wit and style in Cowan’s essay “Orbis Pictus: The Mirrored World of the Hames,” Art 99. What is especially intriguing about Cowan’s thesis is that it flies in the face of all other anthropological work with primitive artless cultures, none of which feature mirrors, great or small, in their tribal homes.

  Professor Temple, on the other hand, stakes out the more conventional ground in the chapter “Vanities” in his book Alta-Natives. He suggests that the Hames, being places of women, would naturally be filled with mirrors. He offers no explanation, however, for the peculiar burial of the piece. Though his later work has been pilloried by feminist dialecticians, it is the very sensibleness of his thesis that recommends it.

  Off in the stratosphere once again is Magon, who tries to prove (in “The Twinned Universe,” monograph, Pasden University Press, #417) that the great mirror found in the Arrundale dig was part of a ritual or patterning device in which young girls learned to call up their dark sisters. Leaving aside the flimsiness of the dark-sister thesis for the moment, we find the monograph offers no real proof that the mirror had any but the most mundane of uses. Magon cites the odd carvings on the frame, but except for the fact that each carving has a mirror image on the opposite side—a perfect symmetry that reflects its use as a mirror frame and nothing more (if I may be forgiven the little joke)—there is little else to back up his wild thesis.

  THE STORY:

  Mother Alta touched the Goddess sign at the right side of the mirror frame and sighed. Now that the four girls were gone, the room was quiet again. She had come to treasure more and more the quiet aftermath, the echoing silence of her rooms when no one else was there. Yet this very evening the rooms would be filled again—with Varsa, her foster mother, and the rest of the adult sisters. Varsa would be saying her final vows, calling her sister from the dark. That is, if she could remember all the words and could concentrate long enough. It was always hardest on the slower girls, and Varsa was none too bright. And if, as had happened before, the dark sister did not emerge on the Night of Sisterhood, despite Varsa’s years of training and the vocal encouragement of the others, there would be tears and recriminations and the great sobbing gasps of a disappointed child. Even with the assurance that the dark sister would eventually appear (and Mother Alta knew of no instances when one did not), the girl’s hopes were so entwined with the ceremony it was always a terrible blow.