by Greg Keyes
“By the River,” she gasped, and Perkar had but to agree. In fact, the vista before them reminded him of the River, the Changeling, upon whose banks Hezhi had been born, a watercourse so wide one could scarcely see its far bank. But this river—the one before them—was of meat and bone, not water. It flowed brown and black, tinted reddish on the woolen crests of its waves, the humps where the great muscles of the beasts piled high behind their massive heads.
“Akwoshat,” Perkar breathed in his own tongue, despite himself. “Wild cattle. More cattle than all of the stars in heaven.”
“I have never seen anything…” Hezhi trailed off, shaking her head. Her black eyes shimmered with wonder, and her mouth was pursed as if to say “oh!” She was very pretty, Perkar thought. One day she would be a beautiful woman.
“There’s your Piraku, Perkar,” Ngangata said softly, padding up behind them. “Drive a herd of those back to your pastures…”
Perkar nodded. “Would that it were possible. Look at them. They are the most magnificent beasts I have ever seen.”
Raincaster had arrived, as well. “You would never tame them, Cattle-Man,” he whispered. “They are like the Mang, untameable.”
“I believe it,” Perkar acknowledged. At this distance it was hard to comprehend the proportions of the individual animals, but they seemed to be at least half again the size of the cattle he knew, and the proud, sharp horns of the largest could probably fit his body between them. These were the cattle of giants, of gods, not of Human Beings. But they were beautiful to behold.
“You really brought me to see this?” Hezhi asked, and Perkar suddenly understood that she was speaking to him, not to all of them.
“Yes, Princess, I really did.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said.
“Hezhi, then.”
To his surprise, she reached over and squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I forgive you for trying to make me break my neck riding down from the hill. Although we could have seen this just as easily coming down here at a leisurely pace.”
“That’s true. But admit it—you love riding. I’ve watched you learn.”
“I admit it,” she said, releasing his hand.
They stood there silently for a time, watching the slow progress of the herd. Now and then one of the beasts would bellow, a proud, fierce trumpet that sent chills straight to Perkar’s bones. The wind shifted in their direction, and the smell of the wild cattle swirled about them, powerful and musky. He literally trembled with homesickness then, with such a fierce desire to see his father’s damakuta and pastures—and the man himself—that he nearly wept. Flexing and unflexing his hands to warm them, he was only absently aware of the arrival of other riders behind them, of the soft crunch of boots approaching.
“Ah, well,” a reedy voice piped. “Look at this, Heen. My nephew Raincaster has no more sense than to let our guests stray onto the open plain.”
Raincaster turned to the new arrival and shrugged. “As soon hold the wind as this one,” he replied, gesturing to Perkar. “Yuu’han and I thought it best to go with them—keep them in our sight.”
“Heen,” Perkar said, shaking himself from reverie to confront Raincaster’s accuser, “tell Brother Horse that I have no time to travel at the pace of an old man.”
Heen—a tired-looking spotted mutt—looked up when Perkar said his name, wagged his tail slightly, and then sniffed at the scent of cattle. If he conveyed Perkar’s message to the old man who stood beside him, Perkar did not notice. Nonetheless, the old man—Brother Horse—glared at him. He was shorter than Perkar, most of the difference in height coming in his bandy, bowed legs. It was remarkable, Perkar thought, how the man’s wide mouth could be downturned and still somehow convey a sly grin. It was, perhaps, the guileful twinkle in his dark eyes or, more likely still, the memory of a thousand smiles etched into the brown leather of his heavy square face.
“This pace has kept me alive much longer than yours is likely to serve you,” Brother Horse admonished. “And you, Granddaughter,” he said, shaking a finger at Hezhi. “You should be wise enough not to follow young men when they set out alone. I have never known an instance in which they failed to find whatever accidents wait along the trail. Let them go first, flush out the dangers. That is what young men are for.”
“Oh,” Hezhi replied, “I had no idea they had any use. Thank you, Shutsebe, for the advice.”
“Yes, Shutsebe,” Perkar said, bowing, calling Brother Horse “grandfather,” as well. Of course neither he nor Hezhi was actually related to the old man, but referring to someone—sixty years old? eighty?—thus was only common courtesy. “And see, we have found all your dangers for you.”
“Have you? Have you indeed?”
Perkar shrugged. “You see them.” He gestured at the cattle.
“I see them, but do you?”
Perkar frowned at the old man, puzzled.
“Raincaster?” Brother Horse asked.
The young Mang pointed with his lips, downslope and to their right. “Spotted Lion over there, crouched down, watching that straggling calf. She scents us, but she will stay away.”
Brother Horse grinned at Perkar’s gape of astonishment.
“A lion?” Hezhi asked. “A lion is near?”
Raincaster nodded. “That’s why you shouldn’t run off alone,” he explained. “If the lioness had been watching the herd here rather than down there when you came running over…” He shrugged. Perkar felt himself blushing at his own stupidity. Of course where there were wild herds there would be wild hunters.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Hezhi demanded.
“I would have—later,” Raincaster assured her. “When it would not be an embarrassment to speak it.” The young man shot Brother Horse an admonishing glance.
Brother Horse only chuckled. “Raincaster, do not forget that they are like children in this land. We have to treat them that way.” He stepped forward and clapped Perkar on the shoulder. “I don’t mean that in a bad way, Perkar.”
“I know that,” Perkar replied. “And you are right, as usual.”
“Everyone knows their own land the best,” Ngangata put in. He had been silent throughout the whole exchange. “So I’m sure that Raincaster meant to mention the second lioness, downslope and on our left hand. Twenty paces.” His voice, though a very faint whisper, got the attention of everyone. Even Brother Horse started a bit.
“Stand tall,” the old man murmured. “Stand tall and walk back.”
Perkar laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Harka?” he whispered.
“Yes?” his sword replied in a voice that was born just within the cup of his ear—a voice no one else could hear.
“This lioness…”
“I was just noticing her. She may be a slight threat, but I sense no real intent to attack.” Perkar suddenly felt his eyes move of their own accord, and a nearby jumble of rocks and scrubby bushes suddenly revealed, in their midst, a yellow eye and the darkened tip of a cat’s muzzle.
“And the other? Why didn’t you mention the other?”
“She is no danger at all. My task is to keep you alive, not to prevent you from appearing foolish. It would take more enchantment than I possess to fulfill that obligation.”
“What of Hezhi? She might have been in danger, when first she ran up there.”
“I can sense danger only to you, not to your friends,” the sword replied.
And so the four of them walked backward until they reached their horses, where Perkar thought he heard Yuu’han—who, true to his word, had waited patiently for them—chuckle dryly.
They waited, mounted, while Raincaster went cautiously back to the ridge and made his offering to the god of the herd. Perkar could see the little wisp of smoke and hear the young man singing in a fine, clear voice. He feared that the lioness would choose to attack the lone warrior, but Raincaster went unmolested.
Perkar understood the man’s determination to make the offering;
back home he and his family sacrificed daily to keep the good graces of the gods of their pasture—how much more important that must be here, where the land was untamed, where many of the gods must be like the lioness, seeing them only as potential prey. He shivered. It put what he and Ngangata were soon to do into a different perspective. And it had been foolish of him to so endanger Hezhi; though she had learned more than seemed possible in a few months, it was important to remember that she had been a captive in her father’s palace for nearly her entire life. She did not even have the natural cautions he did, and his served him poorly in this treeless land. Inwardly he nodded. Any thoughts he had entertained of asking the young woman to join Ngangata and him on their journey vanished. She would be safe with Brother Horse; he knew the ways of this country, had survived them for many years.
The decision brought many kinds of relief with it. It was undeniable that he was developing some small sort of affection for Hezhi, though it would be impossible to articulate exactly what he felt. In her, pain and distrust were so tightly bound; he wished sometimes that he could draw her into his arms and somehow understand, soothe away some of that hurt. But she would detest such closeness; it would harden her. And at other times, he had no wish to touch Hezhi at all, much less hold her. There was still so much for him to forget, when it came to her…
As Raincaster sang, the remainder of the Mang hunting expedition came down out of the hills, slowed by the travois their horses carried, packed with meat, pine nuts, and skins for winter clothing. All told, they numbered some thirty men and women and fifty horses. The thin cry of an infant rose clearly from the approaching riders. For the past two months they had all camped in the hills, hunting, singing, and drinking. It had been a good time, and it had given him some chance to heal, to forget his crimes, to be merely a man of eighteen, hunting and riding with Ngangata, Yuu’han, and Raincaster. Now, however, it was time to shoulder his burdens once again.
Raincaster finished his song, and they mounted up and rode east, away from the herd. There had been some suggestion of trying to kill a straggling cow, but they were already burdened with too much food, and the older people—Brother Horse included—disdained hunting for sport. A few of the younger men wanted to tide off and engage in a sport known as Slapping, in which they would ride close to a bull and strike it with a wooden paddle, but Brother Horse forbade it, grumbling that he was too old to explain such foolish deaths to grieving parents. And so they left the incredible herd behind, in peace.
Hezhi rode beside Brother Horse, and Perkar trotted T’esh over to join them. Hezhi was enthusiastically remarking on the previous night’s snowfall.
“It never snows in Nhol?” Perkar asked Hezhi, coming up beside her. T’esh whickered softly, and Dark responded with a like sound.
“Not that I know of,” she replied. “It gets cold sometimes—I may have heard about it snowing there before, but I’ve never seen it.” She gestured out at the landscape. “This is like riding upon the clouds,” she offered.
“Eh?” Brother Horse grunted.
“Clouds. It’s as if we ride above the clouds—on top of them.”
Perkar nodded agreement. They could easily be on the back of an overcast sky; the land was gently rolling paleness, the highlands receding into a gray line to their right and behind. Above them, higher heaven was profound azure with no hint of white. It seemed almost reasonable that at any moment they might pass over a small rift or hole and, peering through it, regard the green, blue, and brown of landscape far, far below.
“Will this weather hinder the—” Perkar paused to try to get the word right. “—Bun-shin?”
“Ben’cheen,” Brother Horse corrected. “Ben’, ‘tent,’ see? ‘Swollen Tents.’”
Perkar nodded through his exasperation. “Will the snow hinder the Ben’cheen festival?”
“Not at all,” Brother Horse said. “Our kinfolk from the high plains will be arriving already, and they’ll have come through worse weather than this.”
“How many people will attend this gathering?” Hezhi asked. “Duk and the other women talk as if it will be the whole world.”
“To you they will seem few,” Brother Horse admitted. “But there will be many hundreds, perhaps a thousand, for at least a score of days.”
“Why in wintertime?” Perkar asked.
“Why not?” Brother Horse grunted. “What else is there to do? And believe me, the winters here in the south are mild—it’s really almost spring, and this the first, probably only, snow. It is our obligation to host the Ben’cheen for our less fortunate kinfolk, give them a warmer place to stay.” He smiled ruefully. “Like birds, flying south,” he offered. “Winter is the best time to tell stories, best time to find a woman—” He winked at Perkar. “—best for all of that. Summer is just work!” He reached over and clapped Perkar on the back. “The two of you will enjoy it. Meet new people. Perkar, you might even encounter some warriors from the northwestern bands and start talking to them about that truce you want to strike between them and your folk.”
“Really more than a truce,” Perkar said. “I hope to convince them to let us expand our pastures into some of their higher rangelands.”
“It’s not impossible,” Brother Horse said. “Not with the right mediator.”
Perkar shook his head. “Our people have been enemies for so long…”
Brother Horse spread five fingers in the wind. “‘Thus the tree grows,’” he quoted, “‘and each new branch, as a new tree. Nothing is unchanging, least of all the ways of people.’” He frowned a bit sternly. “But you have to be there, to have hope of accomplishing anything.”
Perkar set his mouth. “I will be there,” he promised. “According to your nephew, Yuu’han, my trip will only delay me for a few days.”
Hezhi turned on him, eyes suddenly wide and angry. She seemed to fight down a sharp remark—so sharp that, by her face, it must have cut her throat to swallow.
“You still plan to go?”
“I must, Hezhi,” Perkar explained. “If I am to set matters right, there are many things I must do, and this is one. Two days’ ride north of here, no more; I must go.”
“Then I should go with you,” she snapped, all her earlier happiness and enthusiasm evaporated. “Unless you still don’t trust me.”
“I trust you,” Perkar insisted. “I told you that. I hold no animosity toward you.”
“So you say,” Hezhi whispered, her voice carrying an odd mixture of anger and… something else. “But I see you looking at me sometimes. I see that look. And when you talk of ‘setting things right,’ I know—” She broke off angrily, seemed unsure whether to glare or look hurt. She was, he reminded himself, only thirteen.
Perkar puffed an exasperated breath, white steam in the frigid air. “Maybe. A little. But I know you did nothing purposely—not like I did.”
“I thought you could—” she began, but again didn’t finish. Her face clamped down in a determined frown, and she kneed her horse, laying the reins so that he turned.
“Go then,” she said. “You owe nothing to me.”
“Hezhi…” Perkar started, but found himself staring at her back. A moment ago they seemed friends, watching the wild cattle hand in hand. He wondered what it was about him that always led him to do the wrong things, say the wrong things.
“What was all that about?” the old man grunted.
Perkar cocked his head in puzzlement, then realized that his conversation with Hezhi had been in Nholish. He started to translate, but a second thought struck him; Brother Horse knew Nholish. When the Mang had spirited Hezhi and him out of Nhol, it had been Brother Horse who first comforted the girl. He was pretending—in typical Mang fashion-—not to understand the argument out of politeness.
“Nothing,” Perkar said. “She just doesn’t want me to go.”
“Well, it isn’t wise,” Brother Horse said.
“Ngangata will be with me.”
“Yes, well, even he may not be able to
keep you out of trouble. Nagemaa, the Horse Mother, gave birth to the Mang. She watches us, teaches us out here on the plain. Did you know that six races of Human Beings died out here in the Mang country before we came along? Among them were the Alwat.”
“He saw the lion when you did not,” Perkar reminded him.
“So he did. As a hunter and tracker, few can match him, I will grant that. But without the blood of horses in his veins, with no kin among the hooved gods, he must rely only on himself. That is a dangerous position to be in.”
“He can rely on me, as I rely on him.”
“Two blind men do not make a sighted one, my friend,” the old man answered.
Hezhi tried to keep her face low, to hide it from the Mang women. If they saw her face, they would read the anger on it as easily as she might read a book. She didn’t want anyone trying to guess what she was angry about, especially since her own ire puzzled and confused her—vexing her even further. Not for the first time, she wished she were back in the palace in Nhol, tucked away in some secret place, alone with her thoughts. Instead, she was surrounded by strangers, people watching her face, noting and questioning each quirk and quiver of her lip. People who wanted to know what she was thinking and were good at figuring it out. These Mang were too concerned about each other, she reflected. It was everybody’s business how everybody else felt. Not because they were kindhearted, either; Duk had explained that. It was just that when you lived with the same few people most of your life, you had to know how they were feeling; there were stories of people going berserk or becoming cannibals because they hadn’t been watched carefully enough, hadn’t been caught before they lost their minds. All of the women told their children such stories—taught them a certain suspicion of everyone, even close relatives.
Well, she could understand knowing only a few people. Everyone here seemed to think that because she was from Nhol, the great city, she must have known thousands of people. But she had really known only a handful, a tiny few, and all of the others had just been shadows cast by the palace, less substantial than the ghosts that wandered its halls. Here, with the Mang, she had to deal on a daily basis with easily three times as many people as she ever had before—people who watched her.