the Year the Horses came

by Mary Mackey

  She waited, but there was no further sign of life. Ah, well, that was what came of hoping too much. You saw things that weren't there. She was about to rise to her feet when she saw it again: a movement so quick and faint she would have missed it if she hadn't been staring directly at his face. He was alive! His left eyelid had fluttered, and even as she watched, it fluttered again!

  Excited, she impulsively reached out and touched his eyelid, and as she did so, both eyes opened, startling her so much she sat back with a cry. The old man gazed blankly up at the sky for a few seconds, but there was no sign that he had seen her or anything else. Marrah felt relief, and then pity. He was alive but he was blind, poor thing. His eyes were two colorless blanks that looked like stones under sunlit water. Perhaps colorless wasn't quite the right word. They were blue, not the dark blue of the ocean but the very pale blue of an early morning sky. She had never seen such strange eyes. But what was she doing sitting here, wondering about the color of his eyes, when she should be getting the salt water out of him! Had she lost what little sense the Goddesses had given her?

  She grabbed the stranger, turned him on his side, and pounded him on the back as hard as she could until he began to spit up sea-water. Wiping his lips with the hem of her skirt, she pinched closed his nose and began to breathe into his mouth, watching his chest rise and fall. It wasn't pleasant, but Sabalah had trained her well and she wasn't squeamish. When she saw color coming back to his cheeks and felt his chest begin to rise and fall of its own accord, she stopped breathing into him and began to slap and chafe his wrists. Straddling him, she bent his arms and used them to pump more air into his lungs. If she'd had a flint and some dry wood, she would have made a fire to warm him, but she had nothing except a feathered cape and a thin linen skirt, so she concentrated on getting the water out of him.

  By the time she was done, she was shaking and covered with sweat, but the old man, although still unconscious, was alive and breathing normally. She rose to her feet, walked unsteadily to the edge of the beach, knelt, and splashed cold seawater on her face. Then she sat down on the pebbles, put her hands over her face, and tried to understand what she had done. Everything had happened so fast. She felt drained and odd, as if she'd eaten something that didn't agree with her. Her stomach was upset, and every time she tried to take a breath it caught in her throat. Somewhere, not far away, a seagull barked and the waves went on slapping the shore. Bit by bit, the numbness passed and she began to understand that she had fought death and won, but instead of making her feel triumphant the knowledge sent her into a fit of tears. She'd been so scared, so sure she was going to lose him. Now what was she supposed to do, all by herself out here without any help? If this 'was what it meant to be a woman, she'd just as soon have stayed a girl.

  After a while, she calmed down and her crying degenerated into a few self-pitying sniffles. As she wiped her eyes on her bare arms, she saw that all her beautiful paintings were now a big smear. She felt a moment of childlike regret for the snake Sabalah had painted on her leg, and then she came back to reality and the old man who was lying on the beach behind her: the old man who was her responsibility, whom she was going to have to get back to the village all by herself because it was clear she couldn't take the chance of leaving him on his own long enough to go for help.

  She walked over to him and reassured herself that he was still breathing normally. He looked a little better now — clammy and pale but not dead. She didn't want to leave him in this condition, but she didn't have any choice. Someone had to go around to the other side of the island and get the dugout, and it certainly wasn't going to be him. She looked down at the remains of her finery and sighed. Her linen skirt was stained with green bits of seaweed, and the feathers of her beautiful cape were muddy and bedraggled. She must look like a big wet bird. She took off the cape, folded it carefully, and placed it under his head. It wasn't much, but perhaps it would make him more comfortable. Grabbing the soiled hem of her skirt, she tucked it into her belt and began the climb back to the other side of the island.

  She found the dugout where she had left it, rocking peacefully in a back eddy. Before she untied it, she faced the shore and waved and called for help, even though she knew there was almost no chance anyone would hear her over the sound of the drums. In the village, smoke from the central fire pit was rising into the air in a calm, steady stream, and people — looking like ants from this distance — were gathered around it dancing or sitting in small groups gossiping or perhaps gambling with carved knucklebones, always a favorite pastime at festivals.

  "Help!" Marrah yelled. "Look over here! Mama, Ama, Uncle Seme, help me! I need help!" Finally, exhausted and hoarse, she gave up trying to attract their attention. She untied the cord that held the boat and launched it angrily. She couldn't help feeling her relatives were to blame for not noticing her, but why should they? They weren't expecting her to come back for a long time. She dug the blade of her paddle into the water and tried to recall how the currents ran around the island. The leeward route was longer, but if she went the short way round, she would risk being blown up against the rocks. There were always unpredictable gusts of wind this time of year, so leeward it was, like it or not.

  At first the going was fairly easy and she made good time, but once she passed around the point, the currents were strong. Crouched in the bottom of the dugout, she paddled vigorously, dipping the blade into the water and pulling it back so hard the muscles in her arms knotted and she felt the breath burn in her chest. On the seaward side she had to fight not to get washed into the rocks, but she hung on and kept paddling. Finally, after what seemed like forever, she came in sight of the beach, and with ten more long hard strokes she was in, the dugout bottom grating against the ledge.

  She leapt out of the boat and pulled it to safety. The old man was lying where she had left him, still breathing, but blue-lipped and much too cold. She put her arms around him and tried to lift him, but he was too heavy. She struggled, panted, and wrestled, but he hardly budged. Frustrated, she sat down and tried to figure out how to get him down to the boat. That wet cloak of his must weigh as much as a small dog, not to mention all the other things he had on. One thing was certain: he wasn't from any of the shore villages. No one born near the Sea of Gray Waves would climb into a boat wearing such an outfit. Given the way he was dressed, it was a miracle he hadn't drowned. She'd have to make him lighter.

  She untied his belt, took off his knife and quiver, pulled off his boots, and untied his cape. Then, putting her arms under his, she wrestled him into an upright position and dragged him over the rocks toward the boat, apologizing silently every time she stopped to get her breath. Fortunately his heavy tunic and leggings kept him from being cut by the rocks, but by the time she got him to the edge of the water the strange material they were made of was torn.

  Draping the upper part of his body over the edge of the boat, she put her head and hands against his butt and heaved him in unceremoniously. He fell to the bottom with a thump and a moan. She climbed in after him and turned him on his side in case he had to spit up any more seawater. The moan had been encouraging. It was the first sound he had made.

  "I'm sorry about this," she said, after she had gone back for his things. She laid his wet cloak under his head and put the rest in the boat. "I don't normally go around throwing sick people around like baskets of fish, but you can see I don't have any choice. No, you can't see, can you. But maybe you can hear me. If you can, blink or move your hand, or do something to tell me you can hear." The old man didn't move. He only lay in the bottom of the boat, taking up most of the room.

  She shoved him toward the bow, knelt down behind him, and began to paddle back around the island, talking to him as she went. She didn't care that he couldn't hear her. It was a comfort to talk to someone. "I'm taking you back to my village. Its name is Xori. Have you ever heard of it? It isn't very big, but we have a Goddess Stone and a good well and we're protected from the wind. The longhouses are warm. My
brother, Arang, and I helped Aunt Zuriska rematch our roof just last fall. You'll sleep in a dry bed tonight and have hot food. I don't cook much myself because I have a tendency to burn things. My aita says this is because I'm too impatient. My aita — that's Uncle Seme — cooks a limpet broth that would be just the thing for you. Only please don't die. If you die before I get you back, I'm going to be very, very upset."

  He never said a word in return or gave any sign that he heard her, but he was still breathing as she rounded the island and headed for the mainland. As she drew closer to the beach, some of the children spotted her and began to wave. Soon the whole shore was lined with people dancing and singing songs of praise to Amonah. They couldn't see the cargo she carried. They only knew she was coming home quickly, with strong, firm strokes.

  "Marrah has left her child necklace behind her," they sang. "She has given it to Amonah."

  Her necklace! Blessed Goddess, she had forgotten to throw her child necklace into the sea! Marrah shipped her paddle and tugged the hem of her skirt out of her belt. There, knotted in one corner, was the strand of white shells that had been the whole point of this trip. Had any girl in the whole history of the Shore People ever forgotten to give her necklace to Amonah? She untied the knots with shaking hands, dumped the necklace into her lap, and sat for a moment looking at it, wondering what she should do. She certainly couldn't go back to the beach on the other side of the island. Not with a sick old man in the boat, likely to die any minute.

  Impulsively, she picked up the necklace, whirled it over her head, and tossed it out of the boat. It flew in a white arc, struck the surface, and disappeared with a splash. "Sweet Goddess," she said, "take my childhood and bless me." It was a short prayer, many words shorter than the one she should have said, but she knew Amonah would understand. A human life always came first with the Goddess. Besides, if she wasn't a woman by now, she never would be.

  She seized the paddle and began to pull furiously toward the shore. Her friends and relatives had no idea what a surprise she was bringing them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Who is he?"

  "Where did you find him?"

  "How did you get him in the boat all by yourself?"

  "Is he dead?"

  Marrah looked from one face to another, not knowing which question to answer first. The whole village — men, women, children, babies, and dogs — were standing in a semicircle around the dugout, looking in amazement at the old man she had brought from the island. The dogs barked and the babies cried.

  "Is this a sign from Amonah?"

  "Did he drown?"

  "Is he a sailor?"

  "A priest?"

  Marrah put up her hands, begging them to give her a chance to say something. "The old man's not dead," she cried. "I saved him by sitting on him and pushing the water out of him."

  "When you save a man's life, he belongs to you," Belaun said. Belaun, nineteen and a man for some six years now, was the sort of person who liked to keep his fishing nets well mended and his relationships with others correct. "You'll have to take him in."

  "Well, I don't want him," Marrah snapped. "I have no use for him at all. I'm sorry for him and I hope he lives, but I certainly don't want him in my sleeping compartment."

  That brought a laugh from the crowd. Marrah glared at them and then glared at the stranger in the bottom of the boat. Having got the old man to shore, she was feeling considerably less charitable toward him. He clearly wasn't going to die, and meanwhile he was spoiling her coming-of-age day. That was probably the most selfish thought anyone had ever had, but she couldn't help it.

  Sabalah saw the look in her eyes and sympathized. She had been thirteen once herself and knew how much this day meant. "Come now," she said, stepping forward, "they didn't mean to make fun of you, dear. They're just startled. We all are."

  People were now nodding, sober-faced, ashamed of themselves for having laughed. Belaun came up to Marrah, bent forward, and touched the sand by her feet. It was a very formal gesture, a way of saying that the person performing it was swearing by Goddess Earth Herself.

  "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to laugh at you, Marrah, daughter of Sabalah. I honor you. We all honor you for saving this stranger's life."

  There was a murmur of assent from the crowd. Several more people made the same gesture. Now, instead of feeling teased, Marrah felt embarrassed. "I only did what I had to do," she protested. "I only did what any of you would have done."

  "And that," Ama interrupted, "is just the point." She walked forward slowly, and people drew aside to let her pass. The sight of her gray hair brought instant silence. She turned and faced the crowd. "Listen to me, all of you. Sabalah has trained Marrah well. Marrah instinctively helps those who need help, and she's so modest she thinks her efforts are nothing special. This right action, this is what the Goddess Earth requires from us." She gestured at Marrah, whose face was red with embarrassment. "Today this girl not only became a woman, she performed the most sacred duty of a priestess. As you know, I don't usually give orders, but I'm giving one now: we aren't going to let this ruin Marrah's coming-of-age day. Instead we'll honor her twice as much as we would have honored her before. It's sad to see this stranger so near death, but Sabalah and I will take care of him. The rest of you must feast and sing and dance in honor of Marrah. Today she's not only a woman, she's a hero, and we'll give her a hero's celebration."

  Softly and then with more force, the drummers began to pound out the rhythm of the song they had been playing when Marrah arrived. Someone joined in on the pipes.

  "Sing," Ama commanded.

  Marrah has left her child necklace behind her.

  She has given it to Amonah.

  She has thrown her shells back to the womb of water

  where all shells are made.

  Soon they were all singing. Arang and the other children came forward and scattered flower petals at Marrah's feet, making a path for her as she walked from the boat to the central fire pit.

  Welcome back, Marrah.

  Welcome back, dearest sister.

  Ama took Marrah's hand. "Now go," she said, "and enjoy your day."

  Marrah felt a bit dazed by this sudden turn of events. She stepped onto the carpet of petals and began to walk toward the center of the village. About halfway there, as the crowd sang to her and cheered her and threw more flowers at her feet, she felt an overpowering sense of relief and happiness. "Thank you," she whispered, partly to Ama, partly to her friends and relatives, but most of all to Amonah and Xori, who had given her such a strange and wonderful day.

  When she was sure there would be no more interruptions in Marrah's coming-of-age, Ama ordered the sick man to be carried into her longhouse and settled on a pallet in front of one of the central hearths. Building a big fire in the stone pit, she and Sabalah began the task of stripping off his wet clothes so they could wrap him in sheepskins and put hot stones at his feet. Although they had no word for what was wrong with him, they had both seen people so cold that there was no way to warm them again, so they worked quickly and a little roughly, although not without sympathy.

  The first thing to come off was his tunic, damp and stiff with salt. Ama grabbed it with both hands, pulled it over his head, and tossed it in a sodden heap on the floor. Bare-chested, the stranger now lay revealed as something quite different than what they had first taken him for.

  "Why, he's not old!" Sabalah exclaimed.

  Ama pinched a bit of the man's skin between her thumb and index finger. "You're right," she agreed. "We don't have an old man here; we have a bleached-out young one. You don't find skin like this on people over twenty." She stood back, put her hands on her hips, and clicked her tongue against her teeth to express surprise laced with disapproval. "But it's no wonder Marrah was confused. With all those wet clothes on and that old-man-colored hair, he was doing a passable imitation of an elder. How do you suppose his hair ever got that strange yellow color, Sabalah? It's the ugliest I've ever seen on a young man. If
I had hair like that, I'd dye it with walnut juice."

  "His hair doesn't look so bad to me." Sabalah bent over the stranger's leggings and began to pull at the wet leather laces, but the knots had shrunk tight. Picking up the end of one lace, she began to force it back through, hoping to loosen it. "The poor thing can't help that he was born looking strange. Now that we know he's not old, I'll try to think of his hair and beard as the color of sunlight."

  "Heh." Ama snorted. "The color of dead bone is more like it. But the rest of him is in fine shape. Look at that chest." The stranger had a strong chest, broad muscular shoulders, a slender waist, and well-proportioned limbs, and there was not an ounce of fat on him. Although Ama preferred age and experience in men, she still appreciated the sight of a body in such excellent physical condition. For one thing, it meant she was less likely to have to conduct a funeral ceremony in the near future. With a body like that, a man could survive a lot, even a night on a cold beach. Now that she had a better look at him she could tell that he couldn't be more than eighteen at most — more likely somewhere around seventeen. Of course he was so unnaturally tall you couldn't help but feel he'd spent years growing, but his skin was definitely the skin of a young man.

  "He may not be old," Sabalah said, "but he's blind." She slipped a fingernail into one of the knots and began working it back and forth until it gave. "At least that's what Marrah thinks. While you were out getting the firewood, she sent Arang back to tell us that the stranger had opened his eyes while she was working over him. It seems she got a good look at them. They were colorless, she said."