Shannivar

by Deborah J. Ross

  Esdarash’s wife, Yvanne daughter of Liritark, had positioned herself outside the door flap of Grandmother’s jort. She kept the crowd away, achieving a modicum of quiet. Scarface waited nearby. Shannivar drew herself up and marched up to the jort as if to battle. For an instant, Yvanne held her ground, but at the last moment, she moved aside to let Shannivar step across the threshold.

  The air inside was thick, making it difficult to breathe. The jort seemed not to belong to the rest of the encampment, existing partly in another world, a place of spirits and shadows.

  Grandmother was already resting in her own bed. Its ancient carved wood looked almost black, charred. Bennorakh crouched beside her. He had set his dream stick aside and was speaking to Grandmother in low, intense tones.

  “I’ll have none of it!” Grandmother’s voice, hoarse and querulous, broke through his murmured words.

  “You must listen—” The enaree raised his head to stare at Shannivar.

  Shannivar strode to the bed. “Grandmother, I see you are awake. Can I bring you anything? Tea? K’th?”

  Despite her outward calm, Shannivar was thinking, Would you like me to throw the enaree out for distressing you at a time like this?

  Grandmother dismissed Shannivar’s offers with a flick of her fingers and kept her attention on the enaree. Breath wheezed in her lungs. “Bennu, my friend, we must all bow to Tabilit’s will. I have already seen far more winters than have any other of my people. I will not—I do not wish to—see this doom. This doom upon those I love.”

  Doom? Shannivar’s belly went cold.

  “It is not certain,” Bennorakh’s voice was urgent, almost pleading.

  “We have seen what we have seen, you and I. Do not cling to foolish hope.”

  Bright as bits of sun, Grandmother’s eyes lit on Shannivar. The old woman beckoned her close. Something in the fervor of her gaze chilled Shannivar even more deeply.

  She is like the flare of a torch before it goes out.

  Grandmother held out one hand, trembling so badly that Shannivar had to clasp it between both of hers to hold it still. “Go—you must go.”

  “Go? What are you saying Grandmother? I cannot leave you like this! What if—” What if you should die, and I am not here? How can I then sing you to the Sky?

  “I should . . . have sent you away . . . before this. But I did not want to part with you . . . my Saramark.”

  A long, heart-wrenching pause, and then: “Forgive an old woman’s selfish love.” Another pause, a hush, a falling away of that fevered strength. “Now—it is too late. You cannot escape—what lies ahead.”

  Grandmother’s lids fluttered closed, and her head drifted to one side. For a heartbeat, and another, and third, no breath came from between the withered lips.

  Every resentment Shannivar had ever felt against the old woman, every moment of rebellion, vanished.

  “Go,” Grandmother had commanded. Had begged. Had foreseen. “Forgive me . . . You must go.”

  The hand between Shannivar’s own felt as brittle as an old feather.

  The door flap jerked aside and Esdarash swept into the jort, trailing turbulence like a Darkfall Moon storm. Shannivar hardly recognized him. He was no longer the uncle she had known, stern and just. His face was flushed, his eyes rimmed with white, his mouth distorted. The scent of his fear hung in the air like burned silver. In that moment, Shannivar saw not the aging chieftain nor the warrior, but the son.

  Shannivar hauled herself upright, half afraid that if she remained in Grandmother’s jort for even a single minute longer, she would shatter like ice.

  * * *

  Alsanobal and his brothers waited outside, and behind them, Kendira and a few women cousins. As one, they looked to Shannivar. She did not know what to say. What assurance could she give them? Had Grandmother clung to life only long enough to utter her final command? Where had Bennorakh gone?

  As if in answer, the enaree emerged from the little crowd. He carried his dream stick, a large leather bag, and a skin like that used for storing k’th, only this one was painted with strange symbols. Pointing to Scarface and Kendira, he gestured for them to follow him into Grandmother’s jort.

  “The outlanders have brought this curse upon us!” Alsanobal said, his voice tinny with emotion. “It is all their doing!”

  Shannivar restrained herself from challenging him. The Isarran strangers had just been accepted by the enaree. He had vouched for them and the sincerity of their mission. What motive could they have for harming the clan matriarch?

  Yet, she admitted, it was natural to look for someone to blame. How could anyone rail against Tabilit for the simple passing of years? Grandmother had outlived her brothers, husbands, and some of her sons. Yet even she could not live forever.

  “My Saramark . . .”

  Alsanobal allowed himself to be led away by Mirrimal’s two brothers. They would talk sense into him, or at least keep him from doing any permanent harm.

  Shannivar remained behind. A keening rose from her heart.

  May the strong bones of my body rest in the earth.

  May the black hair on my head turn to meadow-grass.

  May my bright eyes become springs that never fail . . .

  “Come away, Shannu.” Mirrimal appeared beside Shannivar and touched her gently on the arm. “Her spirit is in Tabilit’s care. There is nothing more any of us can do.”

  Chapter 7

  SHANNIVAR allowed Mirrimal to lead her away. Her belly had gone stiff and cold, as if she had swallowed too much snow. They left the ring of jorts and passed the smith’s hut. No sound of tapping filled the air; a silence had fallen here, as well. She wondered about the people who had built the hut, piling stone upon stone, and wondered, too, if one day, her own clan might be nameless, their deeds and dreams forgotten.

  What did it matter if she followed custom and accepted a husband or lived as she wished? In the end, the only thing that endured was the steppe, the wind over the grasses, and the arc of the sky. Tabilit’s Bow, as the new moon was called. The stars that were her tears.

  They reached the edge of the horse field, although Shannivar had no memory of passing beyond the dharlak outskirts. Eriu nickered and ambled toward them, his head low and swinging easily with his stride. His tail swished flies from his glossy back.

  As Shannivar approached, his posture shifted subtly, nostrils flaring, both ears coming up. He dipped his nose. She stroked his chest, his shoulder, inhaled his scent. He turned his head sideways, and one dark eye regarded her calmly. She pressed her cheek against the smooth, sun-warmed neck. He stood like a rock, except for his slow, regular breathing.

  For a moment, Shannivar thought she might weep, but no tears came. Grandmother had made sure she could not return after the khural. Had she known that Shannivar meant to shape her own destiny? Or was that what the old woman had intended all along?

  Eriu’s breath thrummed through his strong body. Shannivar twined her fingers through his long, coarse mane. This, she thought, this is real. This she could depend upon.

  By day, you are my wings,

  By night, you never fail me.

  How long she stood there, Shannivar could not tell. At moments, she became aware of Mirrimal moving through the herd, murmuring to other animals.

  She came back to herself slowly, as the shadows shifted, as the scents of feathergrass and sage deepened in the twilight. The day no longer seemed too bright. Eriu blew out through his nostrils, then bent his head to snatch a clump of grass. Whatever had held them there, woman and horse in silent communion, drained away into the ordinary demands of the day.

  Mirrimal was sitting on a grassy rise. She unfolded her legs and stood up as Shannivar approached. There was no need for speech.

  By the time they returned to the circle of jorts, the other women were busy with dinner preparations. No one sang a
s they worked, and even the usual clatter of pans and stirring sticks was hushed.

  The enaree signaled for the family, including Shannivar and Kendira, to come forward. As they entered Grandmother’s jort, he prayed aloud, blessing Tabilit for endowing the threshold with protection from evil spirits for those who dwelled within.

  Incense swirled in the dim interior. At each corner of the hearth, a small butter lamp burned. The light felt warm and close. It pressed on Shannivar’s senses, a weight on her heart. Grandmother’s wooden bed had been folded and put away, and her body arranged on the floor, lying on one side, her face covered with a white cloth.

  Esdarash and his sons sat at her head, stern and silent, for it was their responsibility to keep watch for evil spirits. Yvanne, Kendira, and Shannivar dismantled the latticed wall section to the right of the threshold. When they were done, the men carried the body through the opening. When Bennorakh was satisfied with the position of the body, Esdarash brought out the drum, and the enaree sang.

  Let her return to you, O Tabilit,

  Let her pure spirit rise up to your Sky Kingdom,

  Carried by the wings of the Golden Eagle.

  Let her take her place with the chosen ones.

  Let her sit at Onjhol’s strong right hand.

  When the song ended, the ritual was complete, and everyone dispersed, some to rest, some to quiet reflection.

  The funeral procession set off the next morning as the last stars were fading from the sky. Bennorakh tied Grandmother’s body to the back of her favorite horse, a gray mare now white with age, and led the mare at the front. Esdarash and his sons followed, then the women of the family, and finally the other mourners.

  On the way, the enaree sang of a great horse, a chief of horses, who was captured by outlanders and taken far away. After years in exile, the horse longed to breathe the free air of the steppe again. One night, heartsick and weary, he escaped, but the years had exacted their price. With each passing mile, his strength waned. He prayed to Tabilit that he might see his homeland once again. Tabilit, Mother of Horses, answered his prayer. As he galloped across the desert, the wind in his mane carried him home.

  Shannivar knew the song by heart. She had sung it at the death of her comrades, slain in battle. Never before had she heard it sung for anyone but a warrior. Never before had she wept at the words. It was not unseemly to shed tears during the last journey of a family member. Esdarash’s cheeks shone and from time to time, he uttered a loud, keening wail. The emotion that swelled in Shannivar’s heart was different. She did not grieve only for Grandmother, although she would miss the old woman and could not imagine the clan without her guidance. This was something more, like a knife turning in her heart, a shadow across the brightness of the sky. She did not know what it was, only that she ached deeper than words. No one spoke to her or remarked on her emotion, and for that small favor, she was grateful.

  Through the morning and into the high sun, the procession wound between the rolling hills. The land grew harder, with stunted weeds clinging to barren soil. Even the wind took on a mournful note. Once or twice, an eagle hovered high overhead.

  They came to a flat area, the ground cracked from seasons of heat and cold. Wiregrass poked through the matted, desiccated stems of last spring’s wildflowers. Bennorakh signaled a halt. He slipped the bridle from the white mare and slapped her rump. The horse sprang into a trot.

  They caught sight of the mare a little while later. She was grazing, moving stiffly. The saddle was empty. Esdarash pointed to where a shapeless bundle lay on the earth only a short distance away. Reverently, they gathered around as Bennorakh straightened the body. He smoothed the white cloth over her face.

  “O Tabilit, Giver of Life,” he intoned, lifting his arms to the sky. “I speak for our sister, who is about to join you. Among your many blessings, you have given her the bounty of the steppe, animals to eat, to clothe her, to ornament her dwelling. Let her last virtuous act be to return nourishment to those animals. To the vulture, to the snake, to the wild fox. May they live in peace because of her gift. May their lives, and the continuing life of the world, praise your goodness.”

  Esdarash went to catch the white mare. After wandering a short distance, she had come to a halt. Her head drooped to the level of her knees, and her legs splayed wide. Suddenly the mare’s knees folded under her. She fell heavily. Her sides heaved as she struggled to breathe. She rocked from side to side, attempting to bring her legs under her, to rise again. Just as Esdarash, who was in the lead, reached her, she fell back. The others caught up to him a moment later.

  A pang ripped through Shannivar, and in that moment, she saw the horse, no longer bleached with age, but gray as a thundercloud, skimming the earth, racing the wind. On her back rode a young woman, guiding her mount without bit or rein. They were one, woman and mare and storm.

  Someday it will be my turn. Someday I will lie on the earth and give back a small measure of its bounty. And Eriu as well—

  Shannivar’s breath caught in her throat. The day went dim. She had never felt so weak, not even during her initiation testing. What was this omen brushing her heart like the shadow of a vulture’s wing? Was something going to happen to Eriu?

  The mare lifted her head as Esdarash bent down to stroke her. She regarded him calmly as he murmured to her. Her head sagged once more. Then, with a sigh, she lay still.

  Esdarash remained as he was, one hand still resting on the mare’s shoulder. He looked as if he could not quite believe the stillness beneath his hand.

  How much of the spirit of the horse had been in the woman, and of the woman in the horse?

  * * *

  For the next three days, Bennorakh directed the preparation of special foods, barley porridge with sheep cheese, flat cakes, and lake fish. The women took down Grandmother’s jort, untying and rolling the felts, carefully severing the bindings that held the laths together, then stacking the age-darkened wood. Esdarash distributed most of the furnishings and bedding, as well as the carpets, chests, and clothing, among the poorer members of the clan. The jewelry went to Kendira, as Alsanobal’s wife. Shannivar could have put in a claim to it, but she was too sick in spirit to care. She wept as she accepted one of the chests, decorated with stylized images of horses dancing beneath the moon.

  Scarface received a portion of the felts. By the next morning, rumors sped about the camp that she had accepted Timurlenk’s marriage offer. She would have to wait to assemble her jort, but she would have a place, and she would be a good stepmother to his sons, their wives, and their sisters. Even Yvanne, Esdarash’s wife, who had never been particularly kind to Scarface, seemed pleased.

  On impulse, Shannivar gave Scarface the washed-out gray mare, one of the two horses she herself had inherited from her own mother. Shannivar was shy about the gift, uncertain how it would be received. The mare was too old to bear another foal, and too weak for hard riding and the long journey to the gathering.

  For a moment, Scarface stared, still and mute, at the aged mare. Slowly she reached out a hand to stroke the thin gray neck, as if the animal were the most precious thing in the world. In that moment, Shannivar saw the mare not as worn out, of value only for having birthed Eriu, her single extraordinary foal, but as a jewel in herself.

  The mare blew through her nostrils and nuzzled the scarred woman’s shoulder. Tears glimmering in her eyes, Scarface bowed low to Shannivar. Shannivar felt a moment of shame, that she had never seen the other woman’s longing. Scarface had never owned a horse nor ever hoped to. Like all Azkhantian folk, however, her heart had yearned for Tabilit’s Gift. Now, because Shannivar could not take the old mare with her to the gathering, another woman’s dream had been fulfilled.

  * * *

  On the third day, Bennorakh returned to the burial area and ascertained that no spirit lingered over Grandmother’s corpse. The lattice was then burned. Watching the fire consu
me the birch and willow, Shannivar felt as if the last bonds linking her to her past were rising up in the smoke.

  Life returned to the business that had been set aside due to Grandmother’s funeral. Esdarash called the entire clan together for a speaking circle, for the matter of the outlanders remained to be settled.

  Shannivar sat with Mirrimal, across the fire from Alsanobal and the other young men. For the first time since Grandmother had been stricken, she thought of the two Isarrans, what they must be thinking, their fears, their motives. During the mourning period, they had been confined to their trail tent, guarded in turn by the men. Now they watched from the edge of the fire’s light. The ruddy glow burnished their features. Timurlenk stood beside them, hand resting on his sword, eyes wary. She could not believe they possessed the power to curse Grandmother or cause her death. But Grandmother might well have taken their coming as a sign that her own time had ended.

  Esdarash, as chieftain, spoke first. He lifted the speaking stick, staring at it as if trying to draw answers from wood and beads and eagle’s claw by sheer force of will. Then the speaking stick was passed as every adult, women as well as men, contributed their share.

  The shaman had confirmed the story given by the strangers, that they were indeed emissaries from Isarre. Listening to what Esdarash said, and in particular what he did not say, she gathered the enaree had uttered a great deal more, undoubtedly his usual confusing but portentous prophecies.

  There was no question of the importance of the Isarran proposal—and the danger. Even a fool could see that such an alliance could mean either the ruin of Azkhantia or its ultimate freedom from Gelon.

  Two things, moreover, seemed clear to everyone. Firstly, the clans of the Golden Eagle could not act alone; they had neither the numbers nor the military strength, and to dispatch all their able warriors would strip their own defenses. Any action must be taken by the assembled tribes acting together, and the final decision should be one of consensus. No clan would be forced into participation.