“The famine did this?” Rowan asked.
Mander shook his head. “Famine makes it worse. But his people have lived like this forever. Under the best circumstances, the Face is a terrible place to live.”
“But how dreadful can it be, at the edge of the Outskirts?” the steerswoman asked; but Efraim’s very body and spirit provided her answer. Efraim sat quietly watching the world about him, with the infinite patience and absolute physical alertness of a wild animal, waiting for danger to appear.
“Have you ever walked through a large stand of blackgrass,” Mander asked her, “with it brushing against your skin the whole while?”
“No …”
Mander held up the back of his own hand, as if showing how it had once happened to him. “The skin gets red. If you wash it off, it’s no problem, but there’s an irritant in blackgrass. Get enough of it, and it’s a poison. A little of it, every day, across your life, and it does a slow damage.”
“There’s more blackgrass on the Face …” And beyond lay the prairie, where no redgrass grew at all.
“Not only blackgrass,” Mander went on, and held out fingers as he counted. “Mudwort; poison on tanglebrush thorns; any blue or yellow lichenâeat them and you die. The juice of lichen-towers irritates, but it can actually build up enough to kill you.” He dropped the hand. “If the goats eat too much blackgrass, they get ill. They don’t make enough milk, and the milk they have loses its fat; without enough milk and cheese, your bones get soft. Eat too much meat from those goats, and you grow weak. The goats’ lives get short, your life gets shortâyou’re both living just at the edge of starvation.”
“The Face People eat their dead,” Rowan said; and suddenly it seemed perfectly logical.
Mander nodded. “People are just another kind of meat.”
It was three days later that Efraim was formally accepted into the tribe.
The tribe paused in its travel for one day, and Efraim removed himself from camp before dawn; he would remain alone on the veldt all day and return toward evening, symbolically entering the camp for the first time.
It was traditional that he should offer gifts to the tribe at this time, and under normal circumstances these would be provided by his home tribe, if the shift of membership met with his seyoh’s approval. Efraim, with no home tribe, dug from the veldt two lengths of tanglebrush root, suitable for converting into swords.
Just before evening meal, with all the tribe gathered around the temporary fire pit, Efraim addressed the warriors and mertutials. Rowan and Bel were also present; no one protested, and the steerswoman understood that she and her companion, although outsiders, were held in very high regard indeed.
“I am Efraim, Krisson, Damita,” the Face Person began. He paused, gazing about at the watching faces. “I came from Kriss and Alsander; my sibling is Evandar.” Another pause. “Kriss came from Lan and Serranys; her sibling was Halsadyn. Lan came from Risa and Orryn; her siblings were Kara and Melannys. Risa came from Ren and Larranoâ”
Rowan stirred; Bel stilled her with a gesture. “You mustn’t stand up,” the Outskirter whispered.
Rowan leaned close to Bel’s ear. “To how far back will he recite his ancestors?”
“All the way to his first, to Damita.”
“I should get my logbook. I should be writing this down.”
Bel turned a glower on her. “No.” Then she became less decided. “Ask Efraim to repeat it, later. But I don’t think this should be written.”
Efraim had reached the eighth generation previous to his own. He continued to recite, pausing after each generation, as Rowan listened, fascinated. Around her, each Outskirter was paying careful attention, some leaning forward intensely.
By the twenty-fifth generation, Rowan began to notice an increase in the number of siblings in each generation: one or two children had been usual before; three to six became more common.
At the thirty-first generation, Efraim recited, “Lena came from Genna and Klidan; her siblings were Jona and Dess,” and in the pause that followed, Orranyn stood.
The recitation halted. The two men gazed at each other across the seated crowd, and Orranyn waited calmly. Efraim’s face revealed that he knew he ought to have expected this, but had not dared to hope for it.
Rowan asked a question quietly, and Bel replied, “Orranyn is Damita, as well. His line must branch from this generation, from either Jona or Dess. From here on, all the way back, his lineage and Efraim’s are the same.”
When Efraim spoke again, Orranyn spoke, as well. They spoke the same names together: “Genna came from Koa and Dennys; her siblings were Chirro, Lana, and Tallin.” And the two men continued, each generation a confirmation of shared heritage. Efraim’s weathered face became tracked with tears, but he did not suppress them, and so kept his voice clear and steady.
Eight generations further along, far to the back of the crowd, Quinnan stood. Efraim turned his face of weeping joy to the scout; but when the reciting continued, Quinnan did not join, but only remained standing.
“Quinnan isn’t of Damita line,” Rowan said to Bel.
“No. But he found the name of a male ancestor as a mate in Efraim’s line.” Someone who had fathered children by more than one woman, so that his name would appear as a mate in both lines.
By the steerswoman’s counting, Efraim had reached the forty-first generation previous to his own. Rowan became amazed at the man’s memory.
She was not surprised when later, at opposite sides of the crowd, Mander and Chess stood simultaneously. The four Outskirters spoke together the names of their female ancestors, the ancestors’ mates and siblings, for twenty more generations.
And at last Rowan heard the names of Damita, Damita’s mate, their six children. Four voices finished, together: “And Damita was first.”
Efraim looked about him, with eyes blind to everything but the four standing figures. He swallowed. “I am Efraim,” he said again, his voice nearly escaping control, “Krisson, Damita.”
Orranyn spoke, “Orranyn, Diason, Damita.”
“Quinnan, Tilson, Sabine,” the scout said.
Mander grinned. “Mander, Chesson, Damita.”
Old Chess managed to grin and glower simultaneously. “Chess. Simsdotter. Damita.”
Efraim looked at each, one by one. They were his family.
From his seat, Kammeryn spoke up. “Efraim is a warrior. Whose band will be his?”
Orranyn did not hesitate. “Mine.”
And Kammeryn rose to stand beside the new tribe member. “This is Efraim, Krisson, Damita, a warrior of Orranyn’s band, and our tribemate.” Then he threw one hand in the air, and the people gave a single great shout of joy and surged to their feet, with glad laughter and cries of welcome. Those nearby came to Efraim to touch him, take his hand, or embrace him.
When Mander approached, Efraim wrapped him in a bear hug that caused the healer to laugh in pain. “Ho, don’t break the arm!”
Chess received a look of amazement, and the comment “You are so old!”
“Ha. I’ll get plenty older yet.”
To Orranyn, Efraim said, as he looked up at the chief’s great height, “I will serve you well.”
“I know it,” Orranyn replied, and offered his hand.
Standing at the edge of the crowd, with her good comrades beside her, Rowan suddenly felt sad and solitary. Her people, her true family, were her fellow steerswomen; but steerswomen traveled far, alone. Meetings were rare. Nevertheless, each chance encounter between steerswomen was like a homecoming, with these same joyful greetings and embraces. She missed her sisters.
She had not realized that she had leaned back against Fletcher as she thought; and he had wrapped his long arms around her. “You should have been here when they took me in,” he said, from over her head. “Took all of about five seconds. ‘Fletcher, Susannason,’ I said. ‘I came from Susanna and Davis,’ I said. ‘Susanna came from Luisa and Grennalyn,’ which is a good Outskirter name, for all the good i
t did me. That was it. Everyone sat around, waiting for the rest.”
In the center of the crowd, Quinnan had reached Efraim’s side and asked him a question; Efraim replied, and they were soon deep in what appeared, from their gestures, to be a discussion of the techniques of moving in hiding.
“And one day,” Fletcher continued, “I’ll just be a name in someone’s line.” He rocked a bit in place, musing, Rowan rocking with him. “Some poor fool will have to memorize me.”
“Some fool or fools,” Averryl amended.
Fletcher stopped in surprise. “Now, there’s an idea. With some hard work, a little luck, and good timing, I could show up in twenty different lines.”
The steerswoman interrupted his dreams of glory. “Please wait until I leave the Outskirts to begin your campaign.”
He leaned down to her ear. “Ha. What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”
She played along. “But what I discover could prove to be your undoing,” she said archly, then elbowed him in the stomach.
The next day, Rowan asked Efraim to repeat his line to her, so that she might copy it into her logbook. The steerswoman found it first necessary to explain to Efraim what writing was. She showed him examples and then explained that only persons who could read would be able to discern the names of his ancestors; and among Outskirters, only Fletcher and Bel had that skill. Then she pointed out that the book itself would ultimately return to the Inner Lands, where only steerswomen in research would study it.
He agreed; Bel remained disapproving, purely on principle.
But between time spent traveling, Efraim’s new duties, and the impossibility of Rowan writing and walking simultaneously, it took several days for her to complete the written list of Efraim’s line. During his dictation, Efraim was subject to not a few jibes from his new tribemates; generally, Outskirters only spoke their full lines when joining the tribe as a new member, as a new adult, or when comparing lineage with a person with whom they wished to have children. Seizing this explanation, Fletcher made a great pretense of jealousy, fooling no one but entertaining many.
” ‘And Damita was first,’ ” Rowan finished one morning over breakfast. She paused, then continued writing: Chanly, Gena, Alace, Sabine …
Bel had been reading over Rowan’s shoulder as she worked. “What’s that?” The Outskirter’s literacy was still tenuous.
“The line names. Those that I’ve heard.”
“There are only ten or so in this tribe,” Bel pointed out. “You’d have to ask every new Outskirter you meet for his or her line. It would take forever to get them all.”
Rowan sighed. “Yes.”
Efraim was interested. “The line names?”
“Yes,” Rowan said. “The names of all the first ancestors.”
“The foremothers.” Efraim nodded and composed himself. “Alace, Amanda, Belinn, Bernadieâ”
Rowan sat an instant with her jaw dropped, then dipped her pen, rushing to keep pace.
“Carla, Carmen, Chanly, Corrinn,” Efraim continued. A few people nearby turned puzzled glances and shifted closer to listen. “Debba, Damita, Dian, Dolloreâ” When the list was finished, Rowan had in her possession the names of one hundred and twelve women, each the first of the line that bore her name.
Bel leaned toward Efraim, fascinated. “I’ve never heard that.”
“It is ancient lore. We learn it with our lines.”
“Will you teach it to me?”
“Bel,” the steerswoman said, “look at this.”
The Outskirter puzzled over the writing, her finger following the air over the wet ink. She paused, and smiled. “There’s my line: Chanly.”
“But can you see how it’s organized?”
Bel shook her head.
“This list,” Rowan said, “is in nearly perfect alphabetical order.”
Bel traced along the list, singing under her breath a little tune Rowan had taught her, the one Inner Landers used to remind themselves of the correct order of letters. “Yes … I see it.”
Rowan sat back, thinking. “When we first arrived in this tribe, Kester told me that at one time Outskirters wrote. I had decided that he was mistaken, or boasting.” Kester was dead; Rowan resolved to ask other mertutials, at the next opportunity.
Bel’s fingers had stopped. “What’s that one?”
“Lessa. It’s the only one out of sequence, in among the M’s.” She looked at Efraim, speculatively. “Is it always said that way? ‘Marta, Maryan, Lessa, Mourah?’ It seems more logical that Lessa begin with a different sound.” She demonstrated: “Mmm …”
He repeated the noise, held it, and the name evolved. “Malessa,” he said then, definitely. “There was a man of my old tribe, whose grandmother was brought from another tribe. He was of Lessa line, but always he said it `Malessa.’ He grew angry when we disagreed.”
Rowan dipped her pen, then wrote the new name in the cramped margin above the old. Then she crossed it out. “It’s still wrong …” With her eyes narrowed in thought, she wrote: Melessa, then crossed out again, rewrote it. “Melissa,” she said. “That’s a common name in the Inner Lands.” She scanned the list again. Some of the names were already acceptable Inner Lands names; some became recognizable with slight alteration; others remained entirely strange. “Chanly …” Rowan mused. “I wonder what that used to be …”
Bel was not pleased. ” ‘Used to be’?”
“Yes.” Rowan looked up at her companion and indicated the book with the blunt end of her pen. “Outskirters once wrote, perhaps a thousand years ago. And people’s names from that time, given the natural alterations from being handed down orally across the centuriesâthose names are not much different from Inner Lands names. Long ago, your people and mine were one. You came from the Inner Lands.”
Bel was definite. “No.”
Rowan tapped the book. “Here’s the proof. Writing isn’t useful in the Outskirts; you need paper, you accumulate books. That’s useless baggage to a wandering people. You keep books when you have a place to keep them, a home.”
“We’ve always been in the Outskirts.”
“The Outskirts were once much closer to the Inner Lands.”
Efraim spoke up. “We are the first people.”
“Outskirters were the first human beings,” Bel confirmed.
“And how do you know that?”
Bel became even more annoyed at this doubting of her people’s truths. She said, using the phrase Efraim had used, “It is ancient lore.”
Rowan was too interested in the facts at hand to be concerned about insulting her friend. “Lore changes,” she said, “across years, from mouth to ear, the way the names of your foremothers altered.” She thought a moment. It was Outskirter lore that had provided her these clues; perhaps Outskirter lore could provide yet more. “How do you believe humankind originated?”
Bel was suspicious. “There are different legends. They don’t agree, but they all say something true, in different ways.”
“Legends such as?”
Bel thought. “The gods became lonely and created the first humans as company. But the humans wanted to be equal to the gods, so the gods turned against them.”
Rowan smiled. “Fletcher would recognize that one; it’s not much different from the Christer version. A legend from the Inner Lands. Tell another.”
Bel was reluctant to cooperate in the undermining of her culture’s beliefs. “Across time, some animals grew more intelligent, and eventually changed into people.”
“I’ve heard that one, as well. Bel, think of the wood gnomes.”
“Those horrible creatures that live around the Archives?” Bel’s distaste was immense; and the wood gnomes had found her equally unadmirable.
“They stand halfway between humans and animals. They resemble humans more than they do other animals. They have their own language. And they exist only in the Inner Lands.”
Efraim drew himself up to speak. “As the gods went about their doin
gs,” he said, “their power was such that it spilled over, spreading across the worlds. They did not care that this happened. But it caused much damage, and many strange things to occur. The spilled power entered objects, and they became alive: all the plants, the animals, and humankind. But of all living things, only humans could think and know. When the gods noticed this, they hated the humans for being aware, and seek always to destroy us. They tell us to lie down and die; but we will not. We fight them.”
Rowan considered the life Efraim had previously led, and thought his legend not at all surprising. The Outskirts, indifferent and dangerous, showed no kindness to humans.
41
A week later, Fletcher’s morning prayers were interrupted. The tribe was in fair pastures, planning to stay only a week. Fletcher had removed himself from camp, seeking a private place where he would be hidden from casual view, as was his habit. Rowan watched him depart, then turned to see about breakfast. She passed a relay on duty, but stopped when she saw the woman signal: “Understood.” The relay then signaled wider, to a person farther distant: “Position seven,” and the signal meaning direct address, and one requesting confirmation of previous information. While waiting for reply, the relay glanced away briefly and spoke to the person nearest, who was Rowan. “Get Kammeryn.”
By the time Rowan returned with the seyoh, the relay was hard at work receiving signals from three different points. Fletcher was visible, wading through the grass toward camp. “Report,” Kammeryn said to the relay.
“Fletcher spotted some movement on the veldt, far off, between positions seven and six. Shortly after, outer seven confirmed. Now outer six, seven, and eight have three sources of motion, one of them recognized as human.”
The seyoh nodded curtly, then spoke to his aide. “Have the word passed to twelve-side. Take three people from Kree’s band as extra relays.” The aide went, at a run. Kammeryn gestured to a nearby mertutial. “Tell Anniss to gather the children.”
Fletcher arrived at the camp, loping along in his usual gait. Rowan was not fooled by his nonchalance; his eyes were a shade wider, and when he reached her side she saw the tension in his muscles. He was nervous.
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