The Hadra

by Diana Rivers

  Chapter Seven

  Restless and eager to be moving, we woke early the next morning and quickly gathered our belongings. The finished banner had been carefully rolled up on its pole. Our plan was to drift into the city in small groups, each group accompanied by one of the women native to Mishghall. After assembling in parks and side streets near Shell Street, we would await Dhashoti’s signal.

  My heart was pounding with excitement as I followed Dhashoti’s group through the carved and arched east gateway into the city of Mishghall. My first impression was of rippling colors everywhere. Flags and banners were flying from every building: from flagpoles, from windows, from balconies, from market stalls. Even that early in the morning, the streets were full of people. There was a feeling of eager anticipation in the crowd. We were sometimes greeted like heroes and cheered along and sometimes met with hostile stares or words, but no one tried to stop us or block our way.

  I looked around me openmouthed. This city was so different from Eezore, which shows its power in huge buildings made of great blocks of gray stone. Here there was a profusion of balconies, courtyards, benches, fountains, parks, and gardens. Ornately carved bridges curved over wide streets or waterways, and cobbled alleys wound out of sight under arches covered with vines and flowers. Busy markets full of color and noise were already setting up for the day. Below the city, but visible from any rise, was the great curve of the harbor. Beyond that lay the aching blue of the sea herself, the Cherbonaishi, alive with boats whose bright sails were catching the morning light. And, of course, there were horses, dogs, donkeys, oxen, and people, people, people everywhere I looked, as well as throngs of little children darting about, fast as schools of fish. But even with all that bustle and motion, I felt none of the terror that had gripped me upon entering Eezore. Instead, I found myself looking about eagerly, filled with curiosity, pleasure, amazement, and even a rush of pride. The Kourmairi had built this wonderful city. We, their children, could do the same. I did not say any of this to my Muinyairin or Shokarn sisters but kept it in my heart, knowing I would never forget that first sight of Mishghall.

  Not all was beauty, however. There were many signs of the long conflict: smashed and overturned statues, burnt-out buildings, some still smoldering, and, in a few places, entire blocks charred and destroyed. Everywhere I looked, I saw hastily erected rock piles topped with flowers in memory of the recent dead. And among those still living, I saw wounds and burns, scarred faces and missing limbs, even among the children. My heart ached for what had happened here. It made me very glad for my part in turning back the guards.

  As we went through the markets, I noticed that it was mostly women who minded the booths. Smiling and reaching for our hands, they gave us fruit and sweet-breads and flowers for our hair and whatever else they had. We were not allowed to pay. Everything was free, as if we really had rescued their city.

  Yet under all this friendliness, I could feel a thread of uneasiness, a vibration of suspicion and fear, especially from those men who lounged about, watching everything. I suppose, in their eyes, we were not really women, but had somehow usurped the place of men. How were they to know how to treat us? Would we stay on, a new weight on their city, now that they were rid of the Zarn’s men? If so, how could they be rid of us? I could read their thoughts as clear as spoken words and remembered Pell’s words from the night before. From some men I even felt hostility, anger that it was women who had saved their city, anger and a desire for vengeance, as if somehow we had unmanned them. Beautiful as this city was, it was no refuge for us. I heard the words Hadera Lossi, and sometimes Hadra or even Puntyar but never Khal Hadera Lossien.

  The market was buzzing with talk of the great battle; each story was wilder than the last. One told of how we had stood on the line with the villagers of Darthill and driven back the Zarn’s army bare-handed; another of how we had summoned the Oolanth cats down from the hills to help us scatter the soldiers; and still another of how we had crept into their camp, silent as night, and set fire to it while the guards slept. Some, of course, spoke of the ewee, the little black toads who come out each year when the river floods, but even those stories were twisted around. I could almost believe that Alyeeta had been at work, spreading tales. Who knows what these stories might turn into in a month’s time—or even by the next day?

  Zheran had stayed with us in the city. She had not been back to Mishghall since being married off at thirteen to Rhomar—the son of her father’s friend—and going to live with him in Darthill. Almost as excited by the sights as we were, her reserve gave way to childlike pleasure at this sudden freedom. In the market she laughed and joked and teased just like any of us, saying over and over, “I almost feel like a girl again.” Not till we crossed paths with Nhokosos and the other folk of Darthill did she speak again of seeing her sister. Asking them to wait, she hugged some of us in a tearful good-bye. That done, she stepped back and said in very formal Kourmairi, “Thank you for more than words can say and more than the heart can hold. Even after you are long gone from here and in a place of your own, I will think of you often. I will never forget you.” Then she was gone, vanished, surrounded by that little troupe of riders. I felt a pang of loss and wondered what her life would be like among people who had so little place for independent women.

  I had just remounted after strolling through the market for a while, with flowers in my hair and a sack of hot sweet-rolls in hand. Several of us were riding together toward our meeting place near Shell Street when we suddenly heard shouts, cries, screams, and the unmistakable sounds of blows coming from the direction of a small square. Rishka beckoned to me. With three or four others, we quickly turned aside and went to see. As we came on the scene, there was no mistaking the source of those sounds. One man was hitting a woman, while two others held her. The small crowd that had gathered seemed to be shouting encouragement to the man and urging him on. In spite of the hopeless odds, the woman was struggling fiercely, screeching obscenities at the crowd as well as her captors. Rishka rode forward and grabbed the man by his collar, so that for a moment he was suspended in the air. His last blow went far wide of its mark.

  “Man, this is the time to be celebrating your freedom, not the time to be beating women,” she said forcefully, giving him an angry shake.

  “This woman is a whore. She was a tax collector for the Zarn. She deserves to die.”

  “Oh, really. And how would you have protected her, if she had refused that work?”

  “The woman is a whore. Why should we have to protect her?”

  “So you think she should have risked her life for you, but you would not do the same for her?”

  “Are you deaf? I tell you the woman is a whore!”

  At that moment, the woman tore herself free of the other two men. They had been neglecting their work to stare at us in amazement. Instantly, she whirled on Rishka and shouted, “I can defend myself well enough! I do not need some filthy Puntyar to speak for me!” With that, she set to straightening her clothes, pulling her torn dress together in an effort to cover herself. Her hair was in wild disarray and her face bruised and bloody, but her spirit blazed with defiance.

  I saw Rishka’s face cloud over and thought she might lash out with some of her old rage. Instead, she shook herself as if shaking off a chill. Then she threw back her head and laughed, much as Pell might have done. “You did not appear to be doing so well on your own before we came. There are none here who seem ready to step forward and save you from that man. Climb on behind me on my horse, and we will get you free of here.” With that, Rishka pushed the man hard so that he lurched away. Then she reached out for the woman’s arm.

  The woman struck at her hand, shouting, “Do not touch me, filthy Puntyar. I would rather take my chances with these men.”

  The men, in turn, began pressing forward, making threatening gestures and shouting, “Give her to us!” “We will take care of her ourselves!” “Death to the whore!”

  Pell, meanwhile, had ridden up.
She leaned over and muttered to me with disgust, “Just as I said, they are dangerous fools.” Then, loud enough for everyone in the square to hear, she called out with good-natured mockery, “Woman, is it ignorance or envy that makes you shout so loudly about the Puntyar? If it is ignorance, that is easily enough cured. There are those among us who would be pleased to help you make acquaintance with our skills. I could give you names. If it is envy, then I wish you half as much pleasure in your bed with such as these,” she gestured at the men who had been taunting and jeering, “as we find in ours.”

  “She is the Zarn’s piece,” a man from the crowd called out eagerly. “Let us get hold of her and teach her a lesson.”

  “And what would be left alive at the end of your lesson? You are very brave against one woman, all three of you. Were you as brave against the Zarn’s guards?” There were shouts and hoots and whistles and derisive laughter and some curses in response.

  This woman now turned on Pell, no doubt about to let loose with another stream of curses. Pell held up her hand and said quickly, “What is your name, woman? If we are to continue this way, we need a name.”

  “Katchaira, queen of the whores,” a man from the back yelled.

  “Well, Katchaira, we cannot leave you here, no matter how it may wound your pride or soil your fine reputation to ride off with the Hadra on this glorious day.”

  As Katchaira was shouting, “Never…” Pell made a signal to Kazouri, who was now standing in back of the woman. Kazouri nodded and moved forward unseen. She swept Katchaira up in her huge arms as easily as if that one were a child or a doll, swung her horse about, and headed out of the square, with her captive under her arm. The rest of us hastily turned to ride after them. As soon as we were clear of the square, Kazouri swung the angry woman up in front of her on her horse and held her there firmly. Surprisingly, Katchaira’s protests subsided as soon as we were out of the square. Kazouri was leaning forward, talking earnestly in the woman’s ear. Whatever she said, it seemed to have a magical effect on Katchaira, or Katchia, as we later came to call her.

  When we caught up with Dhashoti and she saw who was with us, she made no comment, but disgust was plainly written on her face. It did not take the skill of mind-speech to read her thoughts. To my surprise, instead of shouting defiant curses or making rude remarks, Katchia turned her face away and visibly shrank into herself.

  As we reached the park, we were met by a small procession of Kourmairi women coming from the opposite direction. They were all brightly dressed, clearly in their festive clothes. Between them they carried a platform with a large statue of the Goddess at the center. The statue and the platform were all decked with ribbons, flowers, and shells and circled by lit candles. This procession went twice around the square, chanting and ringing bells. Then they stopped in the center, in front of a large, vacant, stone slab. Many rushed forward to help set the Goddess in place, and others, mostly women, quickly brought little offerings of fruit or flowers and stayed to join in the chanting.

  The figure itself was most impressive. It looked to be carved of some highly polished dark wood and was much finer than any I had ever seen at home. In Nemanthi, where only women honored the Goddess, most statues of the Mother were no more than little clay figures, made by the women of the house and kept in a small niche in the kitchen to watch over hearth and home. Even the figures at the Essu were nothing like this one. I could feel Dhashoti being pulled toward the chanters, could see the look of longing on her face. Though she did not abandon us, she was watching them intently. “I wonder how they have managed to keep her safely hidden away for more than two years,” she said with awe in her voice. “Things must truly be changing if it is time to bring the Goddess out of hiding.”

  As we assembled in the park, more and more of the local populace came to stare, so that our numbers on both sides kept growing. While we were gathering in this way, some among us began dressing for the march, pulling from the bottom of our packs whatever finery we had managed to salvage from the disasters of our lives. I, of course, had nothing pretty to put on, as I had escaped wearing only my brother’s clothes. But Zenoria lent me some bright yarn and shells for my newly grown hair, and Zari even offered to braid it Muinyairin style. Renaise added a sash, and, much to my surprise, Murghanth slipped some strings of beads around my neck. In the end, I felt as well decked out as any for the day. All around me, women were dressing; sharing and comparing what they had to wear. The Sheezerti, of course, dressed in the colorful costumes of their troupe, and the few Muinyairin who had stayed with us wore the bright clothes of their people, colors so intense one could almost think they were trying to make up for their small numbers by sheer visual brilliance. We were going to make a show of ourselves, a show we hoped the people of Mishghall would remember for years to come.

  As we dressed, we made our plans for how and in what order we would enter the march. Soon after that, we separated to wait on opposite sides of the avenue and down many little alleys, while Dhashoti went to stand watch for us on a bridge that spanned Shell Street.

  Now there was nothing to do but stay alert and listen for Dhashoti’s signal. After being so sure, I was suddenly very afraid. This was a rude and daring thing we were about to do. The populace, gathering thickly around us and muttering about our large numbers, added greatly to my fears. I kept silent, trying to shield my thoughts so as not to frighten my companions or make them doubtful. Suddenly Pell, standing near me, said loudly, “This day we should remember that we are women. No more hiding, no more concealment, no more farmer-man disguises. I want to celebrate my womanself. Off with our shirts. Let them see our breasts. Let our breasts shine in the sun. We should go bare-breasted, to remind them that it was women who freed their city.”

  Instantly, a fierce argument broke out, or, rather, several arguments. “Not me!” I said quickly. “There is no way you could persuade me to do such a thing.” I was horrified. I could not imagine riding bare-breasted through a city of men, especially with so much hostility all around. I did not even bother reminding Pell that it was not the Hadra who had rescued the city of Mishghall, but one Witch, one fool, and a million tiny black toads. Throughout the argument, I kept my arms crossed over my breasts as if for protection. When Pell finally said, “Well, I will go shirtless, even if no one else will,” I knew my card had been played. There would be at least two of us. I would not let Pell do that alone.

  As Pell began stripping off her shirt, I felt fear rising in my throat. Then Rishka, next to me, said, “I will do this thing if you will.” And behind me Murghanth growled, “I will unlace my tunic and show my skinny little breasts if you think that will impress them, but I will not take off my good embroidered vest, for it was my grandmother’s. She wore it for performing in the street and it is all I have left of her.” Kazouri roared with laughter, and in one gesture pulled her tunic off over her head. Suddenly, with no more hesitation, I was unbuttoning my tunic and retying my bright borrowed sash around my waist. All around me, women were baring their breasts. The Hadra on the other side of the street had seen us and were doing the same. Maireth was swinging her shirt high over her head, shouting, “Let them see what the Zarns’ fastfire has done to us. Let them look on that work.” Now the men in our crowd of watchers were whistling, shouting, and pointing; some with derision, some with amazement, still others with admiration or approval.

  Just then I heard Dhashoti’s signal from the bridge. Soon she was running toward us, forcing her way through the swarm of people. Faintly, from the distance, came the sound of shouts, cries, music, and the thunder of marching feet. The procession was coming! It was time!

  Over the commotion Kazouri roared, “Make way for the Hadra of Yarmald!” Suddenly we were moving forward through the crowd, pouring out of the side streets and into the main avenue to place ourselves at the head of the march. There was a howl of anger when the people saw what we meant to do. They might have moved to stop us, but we were too quick and too many and they were caught unpr
epared.

  Murghanth blew shrilly on her little whistle. I saw Maireth and four of the other burned ones coming from the opposite side of the street, stripped to the waist, their scars terrible and beautiful in the morning light. Quickly Rishka crossed in front of them, followed by Dhashoti, Pell, and Ozzet. Dhashoti and Ozzet carried our glorious banner with forked sticks propped under its pole, so that it seemed to float over Pell’s head. I hurried to take my place as fifth on that front line, as we had agreed, and soon found myself clinging tightly to Dancer’s back. Full of excitement, she was busy earning her name, weaving and prancing about, almost unseating me. I knew that the burned ones were falling into place behind us, and after them the Sheezerti: Murghanth, Teko, Noya, and the others. Next, I knew, were the Witches, and then some women of the Circle. Behind them, I hoped, the rest of us were falling into line, five or six abreast, as had been planned. The Sheezerti were playing loudly on their drums, the sound mixing strangely with the Kourmairi bands in back of us. As we started forward, the angry voices of the crowd grew loud and threatening. There were many shouts of “Puntyar,” “Disgrace,” and “Insult to our people.” Some were even yelling, “Stop them!” and moving to block our way.

  I leaned forward to catch Pell’s attention and hissed at her, “Do something! Quickly! Before they mob us! This was your idea. You got us out here half-naked in front of them all, and now they are ready to eat us alive. Instead of marching through this city in triumph, we may soon be dragged through on our faces.”

  Dhashoti, riding between us, echoed my words. “Do something quickly, Pell. I cannot carry this banner proudly through waves of hate coming from my own people.”

  Even Pell looked worried. With a nod to both of us, she grabbed Torvir’s mane and gave a quick push to get herself up on her knees. With another push she was standing precariously on his bony back. Balancing herself for a moment, she raised her arms high over her head and shouted, “Mishghall! Free today! Free tomorrow! Free forever!” Instantly the rest of us took up the cry. Then some of the watchers on the street forgot their hostility and joined us, shouting loudly, “Mishghall, Mishghall…”