by Mary Mackey
Great-Grandmother Ama stepped back, inspected Marrah from head to toe, and declared herself satisfied. Ama was over sixty, which made her the oldest and most respected woman in the village, and no ceremony, however trivial, began or ended without her approval. A large woman with heavy breasts and generous hips, she had a face like a full moon framed by clouds of white hair, but although her face was old, her eyes were bright and full of lusty mischief. Ama had had many lovers since the day she became a woman, but she still remembered what it felt like to be a girl about to come of age. "You'll do," she said to Marrah.
Relieved, Marrah smiled and lifted her leg to inspect the snake. She wanted to say something memorable, but she was overcome with shyness.
"Next," Ama declared, "we put on your clothes." Picking up a large, elaborately beaded leather bag, she untied the drawstrings, reached inside, and drew out a linen skirt and then a feathered cape that made Marrah gasp with wonder. The cape was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, worked with the golden feathers of partridges and bordered with the bluish green sheen of capercaillies and dazzling blue-greens of kingfishers. It was a cape fit for the Bird Goddess Xori herself, as light as a breath, and as soon as Marrah saw it she knew that Sabalah must have woven it. No one could weave like her mother, who had been trained in the temples of Shara.
"Is that for me?" she cried.
Ama made a pretense of looking around. "I don't know. I don't see any other girls about to come of age in here, do you?" She peered into the shadows and chuckled. "No, I guess you're the only one, so we'll have to give it to you."
Grasping Sabalah's hand, Marrah drew her close and kissed her. "Thank you, Mother," she said, and again she wanted to say more, but she was so happy her voice failed her.
It took only a moment to gird the skirt around Marrah's waist and tie the feathered cape around her shoulders. When they were finished, the older women led her outside and escorted her through the cheering crowd over a path of rose petals to the wooden platform at the far end of the village. The walk seemed to take no time at all. Marrah was so excited she could hardly recognize the faces of people she had known her entire life, but somehow she managed to make it to the platform without stumbling.
"Good luck," her friends and relatives called to her. "May Xori protect you! May Amonah protect you! May you have children when you want them! Goodbye, little girl! Hello, new woman!"
With trembling hands, Marrah allowed herself to be lifted up on the platform by her Uncle Seme. Uncle Seme was her aita, which made him the most important man in her life. Roughly translated, aita meant "father," but it was not a biological relationship. The Shore People knew very well how children were conceived, having bred domestic animals for generations, but the fact that a particular man had supplied part of the means to start a child meant virtually nothing to them. True fatherhood was won by a lifelong commitment to nurturing and raising a child. When a baby was born the mother would ask a man — usually an uncle or a great-uncle — to be the aita. Sometimes, if she had a permanent partner, she might give him that honor. The duties of an aita were sacred and were taken very seriously indeed; a man was not thought to have really become a man until he had taken responsibility for a child.
Uncle Seme was Great-Grandmother Ama's youngest son, and Sabalah had chosen him a few months after she arrived in the village with baby Marrah in her arms. He was a fisherman, big and barrel-chested with a bushy beard and ropelike muscles, but she had been impressed with his even disposition and kindness. Now, although he was only in his early thirties, his face was as weathered as a piece of worn leather and he had a permanent squint from looking too long at the sun on the water, but despite his formidable appearance, he had a sentimental streak. As he helped Marrah up on the platform, his eyes filled with tears, although if anyone had asked him he couldn't have said exactly why. Partly it was pride, for who ever had a finer child? And partly it was nostalgia, because when the girl you had sworn to care for became a woman you knew that your own strength was waning.
"May She bless you," he whispered hoarsely to Marrah, and then he handed her over to Sabalah and Ama.
The actual ceremony took only a few minutes. Drawing a small double-headed jadeite ax out of her medicine bag, Ama cut the leather thong of Marrah's child necklace and handed it to her. Then Sabalah knelt before her and offered her a clay bowl of bitter herb tea sweetened with honey. The herbs were the same as those she would drink every month from now on, for although girls officially became women at thirteen they usually did not bear children until they were at least sixteen, although there were exceptions.
Marrah accepted the tea and drank deeply. When she lifted her head, Sabalah took the bowl from her hands, and together they broke it on a large, flat stone. The crowd cheered, and the drums and pipes began to play.
"Behold a new woman!" Ama cried to the people of Xori, and Marrah, daughter of Sabalah, was a child no more.
CHAPTER TWO
Marrah walked toward the sea with her child necklace in her hands. Behind her came the drummers and flute players, the dancers and singers, the young men and women bearing baskets of white flowers, the crowds of friends and relations, and the children, tumbling over each other for a better view. There was nothing organized about this walk to the sea, nothing solemn, although coming-of-age was the most important moment in a girl's life. Like almost all religious events in Xori, this one was noisy and chaotic, a ragged procession of barking dogs, mothers with babies on their hips, old men dancing the dances of their youth, and young people laughing and talking.
As Marrah's bare feet touched the stones of the beach, the noise stopped and a sudden hush descended, for this was the moment when she was passing from the Bird Goddess's keeping into that of the Sea Goddess. The silence was so deep she could hear the sound of the waves striking the far side of the small rocky island that lay some distance offshore. It was not a loud sound, more like someone breathing and exhaling softly, but when she heard it she felt as if the Goddess Amonah Herself were calling to her. The island was only a large boulder of ragged white granite, but everyone in the village regarded it as an especially lucky place. Gray seals sometimes came to sun themselves on its rocks, the best fish were caught in its waters, and precious bits of flint were often found washed up on its beaches. For these reasons, and perhaps others, the island was especially sacred to the Sea Goddess, and every girl who came of age went out to it alone to toss her child necklace back into the water and then sit a while praying and meditating. But first, Marrah thought, the birds must come and give me leave, for the birds are signs of the Goddess Xori's grace, and without them no one can prosper.
The silence lasted for a long time as everyone stood quietly, waiting for a sign. At last it came: the gruff kow-kow-kow of a seagull, Marrah's namesake, the best possible omen. Then, like an added benediction, a cormorant flew by. At the sight of its long bill and metallic-brown wings, a murmur of satisfaction rose from the crowd. Cormorants could use their wings underwater; what better sign could there be of harmony between Xori and Amonah?
The music and noise took up where they had left off. As the drummers called to each other and slapped out new rhythms, Great-Grandmother Ama's three youngest grandchildren came forward: Hatz, a round, comfortable-looking man in his early twenties who was one of the best cooks in the village, and the twins, Belaun and Hanka, who fished with Uncle Seme. The three of them carried Hanka and Belaun's boat, a sturdy dugout with an image of Amonah carved on the bow. The Goddess had the body of a fish and the face of a woman, and no sailor would have thought of setting out to sea without Her.
"Climb in," Hanka said as she handed Marrah one of the wooden paddles. "I think you know how to steer one of these things by now." At that everyone laughed, for when Marrah was only a child of five she had climbed into this very boat, paddled away from shore, and nearly drifted out of sight before Sabalah had spotted her and raised the alarm.
Marrah got into the dugout and made herself comfortable. A
s Hanka and Belaun pushed her into the water, the crowd pelted her with white flowers until she was floating on a sea of blossoms.
"Come back as quick as you can," the children called after her.
"Why? Will you miss me?"
The children laughed and threw more flowers. "Hurry," they insisted.
"It's the food," Hanka said. "They can't touch it until you get back."
"That's right," Arang yelled, "it's the pudding and the honey cakes. Can't you smell them, sister?"
Marrah could smell them; in fact the scent of the honey cakes was making her stomach rumble, but her newfound dignity required that she paddle slowly toward the island as if feasting were the last thing on her mind.
It was a short trip, but an exciting one. Almost all the excitement was in Marrah's mind. The sea was unusually calm, the sky clear, the water as blue as a necklace of callais, but with every stroke of her paddle she felt as if she was becoming more of a woman. Never again would her mother or Uncle Seme stand on shore and call her back. This was her sea, her boat, her sky, and she could go wherever she wished, even paddle over the rim of the horizon to the very edge of the world if she felt like it.
When she reached the island, she tied the dugout to a rock with a piece of woven cord, knotted her child necklace into a corner of her skirt so her hands would be free, and waded ashore. She looked around hoping to see some seals, but there were none in sight. Feeling mildly disappointed, she began to climb cautiously up the slippery rocks. On the seaward side there was a level area — not a beach, really, for sand had no chance of staying on the island during the winter storms, but more of a ledge that projected into the water. There, alone and facing the sea, she would say a prayer and throw her necklace to Amonah.
The climb was steep, and the narrow linen skirt was no help. Soon she stopped and tucked the hem into her belt. She was so preoccupied with placing her feet securely on the wet stones that she didn't bother to look at the view, which she had seen many times. After she had passed the roughest part of the seaward slope, she turned and saw something that brought her to a stop again. She shaded her eyes with her hand, looked down at the beach, and gave a low whistle of alarm. There seemed to be something — no, someone — lying on the rocks: a dead someone by the look of it, face down and surely drowned.
What kind of disaster was this? Breaking into a run, she stumbled the rest of the way down the slope. When she reached the body she stood over it, gasping for breath. The dead man — for the body was too large to be that of a woman — lay sprawled and limp among bits of seaweed and wreckage washed up by last night's storm. He was tall, perhaps the tallest man she had ever seen, and he was dressed in a hooded capelike garment made out of a strange material that looked like matted brown fur. The cape covered his entire body except for his hands, which were pale and waterlogged.
She stared at his hands in horrified fascination. On every finger he was wearing a ring of some sort, most carved from bone but two of copper. Copper was the yellow color of bones and death, sacred to the Bird Goddess in her most terrible form. In the land of the Shore People it was only worn for religious ceremonies. She shuddered. A dead man in copper rings lying on her beach! No girl's coming-of-age ever had a worse omen than this. It was as if the Goddess Xori were cursing her, as if She were saying, Throw Amonah your childhood, Marrah, and I'll throw a dead man back at you.
But that didn't make any sense. Why should Xori curse her for no reason? They were both bird women, she and the Goddess. Xori loved her like a mother. Only a little while ago She had sent a cormorant as a sign that She had given Marrah into Amonah's keeping. Xori would never turn against her unless she did something wicked, and she'd done nothing wicked, only paddled out to the island as all girls did on their coming-of-age days. Marrah clenched her fists, fought down her fear, and tried to think like Sabalah. "Marrah," she could hear her mother saying, "we aren't always the center of the world. Things happen that have nothing to do with us. You mustn't go around seeing omens everywhere. A priestess who tries to predict the future from every flight of birds does more harm than good. There are true voices and false ones."
She unclenched her fists and forced herself to confront the dead man for what he was: he'd simply drowned. She remembered the big storm last night, the howling wind. He must have been in a boat that had broken up on the rocks. With that in mind, she inspected the beach, but there was nothing to be seen but some gnats buzzing over a pile of seaweed and half a dozen long-legged avocets hunting through the tide pools for brine shrimp. Still, that meant nothing. When the rocks ate boats, they often ate them whole.
She knelt down and touched the wet cape gingerly. It was clammy and sticky with salt. The next thing she had to do was turn him over and make sure he was really dead — not that she had any doubt; he must have been in the water a long time to have hands that pale. What if she found a familiar face? Well, there was no help for it. She couldn't just run away from him. Hadn't Great-Grandmother Ama just told the whole village she was a woman?
She mustered all her courage, grabbed the dead man's shoulder, and heaved him over on his back. As he turned, his hood fell back, exposing his face. With relief she saw he was no one she knew. But how strange he looked! He was old, so old that his hair and beard had turned a strange yellow-white, and yet there wasn't a line on his face. It was a thin face, lean and strong-jawed, with skin so pale she could see the veins in his eyelids. In his ears he wore more copper rings: five or six at least, plus two small gold ones. Around his throat hung a necklace of fierce-looking teeth from some animal she didn't recognize, a copper pendant shaped like the sun, and another shaped something like a deer, only more stocky, with thick legs and hair on its head and neck instead of horns.
Marrah sat back on her heels and stared. She had never in her life seen anyone, man or woman, so loaded down with ornaments. No wonder he hadn't been able to swim to safety. What was he doing with so many rings and necklaces? And look at his arms: seven or eight bracelets around each wrist, and a big belt all decorated with shells and copper studs. Why, there was even copper in the hilt of his knife, and what a knife! So long you'd have trouble using it for anything practical and tucked away at his side in a scabbard as if he never went anywhere without it.
With a silent apology to the dead man, who was clearly beyond caring, she reached over and pulled the knife from the scabbard. What a wicked-looking thing it was, made of bone with sharp flint blades set in either side. On the other side of his belt there was another scabbard — no, a quiver — full of arrows with sharp tips, feathered with the plumage of strange birds. She tested one of the slender shafts and found it was perfectly balanced. There was no one in her village who could make arrows like that, or a knife like that either.
She ran her finger cautiously along the edge of the knife, marveling at its sharpness. The old man must be a hunter, but if that was the case, why was he dressed like someone who had been conducting a religious ceremony? Was he a priest? There were men who served the Goddess — not many, because women were thought to hear Her voice most clearly, but sometimes men also heard Her and came to temples to be trained and afterward were admitted to the Society of Priestesses. But priests rarely carried knives unless they were going out in the forest to cut herbs, and what use would a priest have for arrows? And who would go hunting in a copper necklace? It was all very confusing.
She examined him more closely, trying to see something that would resolve the mystery, but everywhere she looked there was only more confusion. His tunic was made of the same strange matted brown fur as his cape, and even though it was late spring he had on leggings and thick boots. Pulling back the cape, she found that the tunic was fastened at his left shoulder with leather thongs. The leather looked tougher than deerskin but not so rough as pigskin, and there were tassels at one end made from coarse white and black and brown hair all woven together in an intricate pattern. The patches of bare skin that showed between the laces were painted with suns, more strange animals
, and other symbols she had never seen before, including something that appeared to be a lightning bolt. How could all those designs have stayed on in the water? The sea should have washed him clean. She gritted her teeth, reached out and touched the lightning bolt, and discovered to her astonishment that it wasn't paint but some kind of blue stain that seemed to be part of his skin. The designs had apparently been cut into his flesh, but why would anyone do such a thing? It must have been terribly painful.
She stood up, looked down at him, and tried to figure out what she should do next. Poor thing. Drowned without a sister or brother to carry him to the Tower of Silence, gone back to the Mother with no kin to bid him goodbye. She decided she would have to take him back to the village, where he could be given a proper funeral. There, his body would be washed and blessed and anointed, and when the ceremony was over they would carry him to a tower bed deep in the forest so the birds could gather him back to the Mother. After the birds had stripped the flesh from his body, they would collect his bones, take them down to Hoza, and lay them in the Womb of Rest with the bones of the ancestors. The old man would not have to sleep alone. He would rest under protection of the owl-eyed goddesses until his soul was clean and ready to start over again in the body of a small bird, or a tree, or perhaps even the body of a human child.
She said a short prayer for him and then turned to more practical matters. Should she bring the boat around through the rough water on the seaward side of the island and try to haul the old man's body into it, or should she go back to the village for help? She was just weighing the advantages and disadvantages of trying to negotiate the currents when she saw something that made her drop to her knees, bend over, and scrutinize him intently. Had his eyelids flickered, or was it just her imagination?