A Wind From the South

by Diane Duane

  Mariarta leaned against the wall, panting with her exertion. “So does Bab Luregn.”

  The herd laughed. “He knows some things. But not all. Some scare him. He won’t go near Tgiern Sogn-Gions.”

  Mariarta laughed, since the ghost there was shut safe in a tin box and could howl all it liked until Judgment Day. “I don’t care about Bab Luregn. Only about that.” She looked at the bow.

  The herd handed it to her, then reached beside him, coming up with a fistful of quarrels. “Today you shoot.” He walked around the side of the hut. Mariarta followed him.

  The hut as seen from the side looked peculiar, since the herd had been shooting at it for many years. The wood of it was all splintered into a surface so rough it resembled fur in places. In addition, limewash had been used to paint target patterns on the wall, the commonest one being the square-within-squares like the board you played jouss on.

  “Here,” the herd said, handing her the quarrels. Mariarta stuck five of them in her pocket, saving one out, then stood on the curve of the bow. She hooked the horn hook through belt and bowstring, stood, felt the string thump smoothly into place. Mariarta laid the quarrel in the groove, slipped its back against the string.

  “The center,” the herd said, indicating the solid- painted square, a handspan across, in the middle of the target. “Not from here. Back up.”

  Mariarta walked some fifty paces from the hut, noting the slight wind she walked into. It would make no difference to her shooting, though it talked in her ears, a low sporadic rumble, as she walked into it.

  “There.”

  She turned around. That white patch looked tiny from here.

  She raised the bow, sighting down its stock, noticing the way the notch carved into the far end of the stock leaned to the left. The wind pushed gently at her back, ruffling her skirts. Mariarta aimed—

  The wind rose. Not in any way that could be felt in clothes or hair; but it seemed to be rushing past her shoulders, down the stock of the bow, rising. The fletching of the quarrel whined softly with it, as if in eagerness to be let go. Everything seemed to be pouring or leaning toward the patch of white. Mariarta breathed in with a great effort, as if the air were all rushing away from her toward the target—then let the breath out and pressed the trigger. The quarrel leaped away, the bow bounded in her hands—

  She heard the hollow sound of the quarrel sinking into the wood. That Mariarta was used to. What she was not used to was the sight of the quarrel dead in the middle of that white patch.

  “Again,” the old herd said.

  Mariarta was already spanning the bow. She had never felt anything like that rush forward and away, the striking: not as something remote, but as something she was part of. Mariarta straightened, the quarrel in the groove, feeling the wind stream past her, hurrying her into what she wanted to do, to aim, shoot, strike—

  The bolt leapt again. She had not even aimed.

  It split the first one.

  “Again,” the old herd said.

  Mariarta strung the bow, aimed. Her excitement made her shake. The wind roared in her ears, an incoherent sound of exultation. The quarrel leapt away.

  It struck a finger’s breadth from the other two.

  “Slower,” said the old herd. “Again.”

  Mariarta strung the bow, nocked up, lifted it, fired. The fourth quarrel splintered the first two as it drove into them.

  The old herd nodded. His mouth moved, but Mariarta couldn’t make out what he was saying for the roaring of the air in her ears, the thunder of her racing heartbeat. This was what it was about. To fire, to be one with the firing, to strike. What would it feel like, she thought, to shoot something live? Would I feel the blood leap the way I feel the wood shake, even from here? Mariarta spanned the bow, stood upright, felt the shot happening already in the rush of air pouring past her. She let the quarrel go, almost without looking. It split the fourth. The pieces fell to the ground.

  Mariarta strung the bow, set the last quarrel in it, then began to walk back toward the hut. The old herd was already settling into his seat by the doorstep.

  She stood before him, breathing hard. The old herd shook his head.

  “Little more teaching you need from me,” he said. “She’s come to finish the job.” He looked away. “Hard to be ridden so, mistral’s daughter. Beware she doesn’t take more of you than you can give.”

  Mariarta stared at him in a mixture of astonishment and fear. “How do you know her?”

  “I know of her.” The old herd turned away. “Don’t ask.”

  “What do you mean—ridden?”

  “You know. You hear her speak.”

  Mariarta felt those cool eyes looking at her from what seemed a great distance—but could become quite close. “I hear the wind—”

  The old herd nodded. “Some do. Some hear voices in water. Or see pictures in fire, or stone. It’s all the same. Their advice, their commands.”

  “Do you hear them too?”

  The old herd looked at her. “Too much talking about them—brings them. Sometimes they don’t care to be brought.”

  Mariarta fell silent. Then she saw the movement by the corner of the hut.

  It was Urs. He was disheveled, smiling at the sight of her and her bow. It was such a smile as she had never seen on him. It reminded her of Reiskeipf.

  “Look at this, then,” Urs said. “What a thing to find on our alp.”

  Mariarta stared at him, astonished and indignant. “You couldn’t have followed me up! I would have seen!”

  “I didn’t follow you up,” Urs said, grinning that wicked grin. “I came yesterday, and didn’t come down.”

  She was shocked at his recklessness. “You’re going to get beaten again, worse this time. Staying out all night, I bet Paol thinks the wolves got you—”

  “He wouldn’t care,” Urs said, quite calmly. “It doesn’t matter anyway. ‘Oh what a fair maiden we have here—the master herder must hear of this'—”

  Mariarta flushed hot with anger. It had never before occurred to her that in his following her, Urs wasn’t just after her company. Now that he knew what she was doing, he wanted to make Mariarta do something he wanted by threatening to tell—who? Probably her father. Mariarta could imagine what his reaction would be. And what did Urs want?

  Me. He wants me to press his suit with bab—

  And Urs had been her friend. Mariarta didn’t want Urs, or anyone, thinking he could threaten her so. But she had nothing to bribe him with. At the moment, she would have settled for being able to make Urs sink into the ground three fathoms deep, as Songt Margriata’s cowherd had when he tried to tell.

  Mariarta turned to the old herd. He sat silent.

  Hot with hopeless anger, Mariarta turned back to Urs. She was confused to see him go pale. Then Mariarta realized what Urs saw—the crossbow, spanned, the last quarrel ready in the groove—behind her, buried in the wall of the hut, three other quarrels, each splitting the last. It had apparently just occurred to Urs that there were any number of ravines nearby where a body might never be found. And who would be surprised, when the herdboy had already been missing for a night? Wolves, werebeasts, anything might have happened to him...

  The wind began to whine past her from behind, pushing at the bow in her hands. Mariarta swallowed, feeling the föhn-anger swelling in her. “Herdboy,” she said softly, “I have other weapons than words. Dare to say a word to anyone about me, and you’ll pay the price. You’ll never know from behind what stone or tree the shaft will find your heart. Easy enough to tell my bab how you caught me alone and tried to force me, how I had to do it. There will be trouble, but not much. And you’ll be dead.”

  Urs stared, openmouthed. “Go home,” Mariarta said, feeling sudden satisfaction at his fear. “Take your beating. And don’t dare boast again to anyone of how you’re wooing me. I have other wooers you don’t dream of. Go!”

  Urs stared at Mariarta a second longer, then ran down the valley like someone pursued
by wolves. Mariarta watched him go, smiling...and the smile faded as she realized that it was not hers but someone else’s. The words had not been hers, either. Shocked, she took a step forward. “Urs—!”

  “Too late,” the old herd said behind her. Mariarta turned, horrified.

  “Ridden,” said the old herd. “As I said.”

  Mariarta stared at him, tears coming to her eyes.

  He held out a hand. Mariarta handed him the crossbow, swallowing. “When should I come again?”

  “I think you will not need to,” said the herd. “This next day after Mass-day is the alpagiada, and the cows come here. Then we go to Val Surrein until May; after that, to Alp Tgom until July. Too far for you. Come after August, if you will.”

  She nodded, uncomfortable. “Bien onn, then.”

  “Maybe so,” he said, and lumbered into the hut: “maybe so.” The door closed.

  Mariarta headed home. The strangeness was past. She was torn between upset and relief over what had happened with Urs. Yet now he would leave her alone. And until the summer began to wane, she would have a long while of remembering today’s exhilaration, thinking about the promise of the autumn. The mountains—possibly even the hunt. Mariarta went off across the stones, the end of the song breathing itself in her mind.

  “Sontg Margriata quickly goes

  and says goodbye to everything.

  ‘Farewell to you my good master,

  farewell to you my cauldron dear,

  farewell to you my good good hearth

  where I have always had good sleep—'”

  She never noticed the stillness of the wind, a thoughtful, waiting silence.

  ***

  All the herds came together, the next day after Mass-day, to lead the cows out for the alpagiada. The cows were in their summer bells, wreaths of greenery around their necks, bunches of white steilalva between their horns. Brown Crutscha came out first, taking her place in the lead. All the other cows fell in behind her. Everything was as it should be, until the herds counted their own numbers. The old herd was not among them. Everyone assumed he was at the Surpalits hut. But when they got to Surpalits, one of the herdboys came running back into Tschamut with a message for Mariarta’s bab. Together with the rest of the men in town, Mariarta’s father took a lantern and stick and went to help in the search. It was a long time before they found the body. Quite late, Mariarta’s bab came home to sit heavily by the fire.

  “Probably just a misstep on that cliff trail,” he said to her mam. He looked into the fire, shaking his head. “A man gets to be that age, a moment’s carelessness is enough. ...At least it was quick.”

  Mariarta, though, remembered what the old herd had said about talking too much. She resolved to be careful in the future about mentioning the wind.

  Finally the herds took the cows off Surpalits, over to Val Surrein. Soon after that, Mariarta went to the old hut. The herds had naturally taken all the cheesemaking equipment, the copper cauldrons and cheese-harps—but one thing Mariarta knew would still be there. She pried up the loose stone by the hut’s hearth, reached into the hole beneath. There, wrapped in its rags, was the good crossbow. She bundled it into a basket, covered it with new-picked herbs, and took it home, hiding it under the straw mattress of her bed. Then she began to wait. All Mariarta had wanted, once upon a time, was to be able to shoot. Now she could; now she realized that her life was going to be about more than just that. What more, she had no idea. But she would find out.

  THREE

  It was a lonely time for Mariarta after that: some weeks during which no one her own age would speak to her. Especially she missed Urs’s company, but her father seemed glad they had stopped being together, and she dared not complain of it to him.

  Her mother was not there to help. Word had come that her widowed sister in Tgierns, past Selva, was sick with a growth, and needed someone to nurse her until she died, which it was thought would happen within the month. Off Mariarta’s mother went, in haste, leaving Mariarta to manage the house. At any other time, the responsibility would have pleased her: but heartsore as she was over her estrangement from Urs, it seemed only another annoyance. She took up her duties, though, and did them well...until one morning when the world turned itself upside down.

  Mariarta was walking out to fetch water when a sound she had never heard before made her look down the street. The sound was of small bells, a high, soft tinkling: not the bells of any of Tschamut’s goats or cows. Mariarta put the yoke down, staring as the sheep came up the rise in the village street.

  Tschamuts sheep, like all sheep in this part of the world, were grey. But these sheep were white, with black faces. In the sunlight their fleeces burned astonishingly bright. Their light eyes and the curve of their mouths gave them a merrier look than that of the more prosaic Tschamuts sheep. The first few of them trotted past Mariarta. From down the street she heard a call.

  The shepherds were coming. Onda Baia stood in the doorway to look out at the passing sheep: she saw the eight men walking up the street, too, and gasped. They were dressed much as herds elsewhere, in breeches and gaiters, soft shoes and tunics: but the clothes were surprisingly fine—light-woven linen instead of wool, glove-leather for the breeches instead of rough hide. Their packs were of leather too, instead of rough sacking. The men were dark-complected, only partly from the sun: their features were odd, finer than usual. And the men were small. No one of them was even as tall as Mariarta, but they were strong-looking. Their hair was shining black, except for one man’s, a dark brown-red; on all of them it waved or curled. Dark eyes glittered in the dark faces of the strangers, and teeth flashed white as they smiled at the villagers who came out to stare at them.

  “Venetians,” Mariarta breathed.

  “Dwarves!” said Onda Baia, crossing herself, and plunged back into the kitchen. “Fadri, Cilgia, ‘Nanin are here—!”

  This once, Mariarta didn’t think her aunt was overreacting. Venetians were uncanny. Stories were told about their great riches, their wiles, and the secret places in the mountains where they mined their wealth. That the Venetians would go willingly into those mountains, or cross them from the South as easily as they did, meant something was unnatural about them—for everybody knew the powers left over from the ancient days were stronger in the mountain depths than anywhere else. But at the same time, the ‘Nanin were known everywhere as the greatest traders of the world. There was nowhere they would not go for the sake of rare and precious wares that would add to the power of their city that ruled the seas. That said, Mariarta wondered what brought them here in the guise of shepherds. Though how sure am I of the truth of all those old stories? she thought. Vaniescha is a great land as well as a city, the books say. Can everyone in it be rich from a secret mine or a dragon’s hoard? Why shouldn’t there be plain fields on the other side of the mountains, and shepherds in them like ours?...

  Still, Mariarta swallowed hard when she saw one of the Venetians coming toward her. There was nothing ugly about the man—but she took a step back as he got close.

  Smiling, he bowed. “Bien di, misterlessa.”

  She might be unnerved, but her manners were still in place. “Bien onn, jestér,” Mariarta said, dropping a curtsey. “And beinvegni here among us. What brings you to Tschamut?”

  He gestured at the flock. “Market is tomorrow in Ursera, as you know, misterlessa. If the mistral will permit, we would graze our flock on your lower slopes for a night, and be away early in the morning. We will be glad to pay—”

  “Not in gems or gold, I hope,” Mariarta’s father said behind her. She stepped aside. “We could hardly make change.”

  “We have coin of various kinds,” said the ‘Nanin. “Solidi of the Pope, thaleren of Swabia, danér of the Bishops of Cuera—”

  “I’m certain we can come to some arrangement,” her father said. “Have your people put the sheep in the near pasture for the moment. Come in and take a glass, signur—”

  Mariarta followed them into the
kitchen. Her father’s mind was much on coin money, since Reiskeipf would be soon demanding the season’s grass-penny. Well, he would get a few more pence from these travelers—

  Mariarta went to the wine-cask with a pitcher. Onda Baia was peering out the window into the street, where one of the dark men was going by; Baia drew back hastily, crossing herself.

  “Onda,” Mariarta said, reaching to the plate-press for two stoneware cups, “they’re just jastérs, after all.”

  Her aunt wheeled about, looking frightened and angry. “Just strangers, you would say, you and your father both. But it’s no surprise you’re so friendly with uncanny folk, seeing what’s in your blood—” She turned away.

  Normally Mariarta would have let this pass. But an odd mood was on her. The hair stood up on the back of her neck; a breath of breeze chilled her there. “You said that once before,” she said, stepping toward her aunt, “and now you’ll tell me what you mean.”

  Odd to see how her aunt took a step back, as Mariarta had from the ‘Nanin. “Oh, come now,” Onda Baia said, “you must have heard by now. Your great-grandfather on your father’s side brought the wrong bride home; it’s the talk of three villages. Out the keyhole the curst tschalarera went three years after he married her, leaving your basat alone, with their son your tat a babe in his arms. Ever after, child and man, the poor creature would go wild when the bad wind blew.” She would not say the föhn’s name. “And when your tat married, and your bab was born, he was just the same. And now you—” She eyed Mariarta. “Too friendly with any jestér to come along, too fond of being in the heights—”

  Mariarta flushed hot. “Be still,” she whispered. The breeze coming in the door blew abruptly stronger. “My doings are my business. And if my basat married a windbride, what’s it to you? At least he managed to marry.”

  Her aunt’s mouth fell open as the wind whipped her graying hair around her temples. “Don’t dare say a word to anyone,” Mariarta said. And hearing a word the breeze whispered in her ear, she added: “Else I’ll have a word with bab about where his sausages have been going.”