“Let’s do it,” she said.
“Do what?” Carver asked.
Crystal laughed, feeling better already.
After that it was swift. They went to the head townsman and declared that they were marrying and that their children would be loyal townsfolk. With Crystal’s parents supporting her commitment, the head townsman had to accept it. He nodded, and something relaxed; the watching men no longer had a cause.
Then they walked to the nomad settlement to fetch Carver’s mother, reaching it by evening. The woman was not unduly surprised. “I knew you were dead or married,” she remarked, as if there were not much difference between the two.
“But we want to take you with us, Mother,” Crystal explained. “So we can take care of you.”
Now the woman showed surprise. Crystal realized that she had expected to be deserted by either the death or marriage of her son. So for her it meant doom, regardless.
But she was quick to accept the new order. “Take down the shelter,” she told Carver.
Under her direction, he lowered the poles and carefully folded the stitched furs. They made a considerable pile. Crystal realized that this represented the wealth of the nomad family: the longer it survived, the more furs it collected, and the warmer was its shelter. Carver’s father must have been a good provider.
Carver used poles to make a travois, and heaved the mass of furs onto it. He started to haul it, then realized that this wasn’t enough: there was his mother.
“I’ll haul it,” Crystal said. She fitted herself to the harness. The furs were heavy, but her legs were good, and when she leaned forward she could haul the mass along.
That left Carver free to help his mother. The woman could walk, but only slowly, when her son was supporting her. Crystal realized that Carver’s care for his mother was one of the factors in her decision to marry him. He would have similar loyalty to his wife. His good qualities were subtle but strong.
They were making the trip by night; it was really better for the woman, who liked neither the harsh sun of day nor the stares of strangers as she limped along. Better for Crystal too, because she was soon sweating despite the cooling air and slow pace. This would have been devastating at noon.
By morning they were at the town. Ember served them gruel by the fire while Scorch stared at the bundle of furs with amazement and set about wrestling them into the house.
The three of them were tired, and quickly settled down. Carver’s mother was soon snoring on Ember’s bed. Ember gave Crystal a meaningful glance and took up her basket: she had grain to gather out in the field. Scorch had gone to tend the main town fire right after moving the furs. The house was theirs, for much of the day.
Crystal was fatigued from the long haul, but knew what she had to do. She touched Carver’s shoulder. “I know you are tired, but this is the time we must do it.”
“Do what?” he asked sleepily.
She opened her jacket, showing him her breasts.
Suddenly he understood. After that he needed no more guidance. He did indeed desire her, and now that she was willing, he proceeded with a vigor that belied his fatigue. All she had to do was lie there and let him.
This was just as well, because she realized belatedly that her uncertainty about sex was a significant part of her ambiguity about marriage. She had known what it was and how to do it, but had doubted that it would really work for her. She had somehow felt that a man would find her inadequate, because her breasts were not the fullest and her thighs were not the fattest. But as she noted the thorough enjoyment of her body that Carver was experiencing, those doubts dissipated, never to return. She had worried for nothing.
Carver made a final panting thrust and collapsed. In a moment he was asleep. This was the way of a man, she knew; she had seen her father do it often enough. Crystal stroked his head and concluded that this sufficed.
In the afternoon Crystal woke to find Carver’s mother tending the hearth fire. Then Crystal realized that she remained bare, with Carver’s hand on one of her breasts. His mother had surely seen. Well, perhaps that was just as well; this sort of thing was expected of newly married folk.
Crystal worked her way free, got up, went to the privy trench, cleaned herself, and then approached the hearth. The woman handed her a bowl of gruel. “It is good,” she said. “My boy needed to be married.”
“I needed to be married too,” Crystal said. “But now we must get a house, for us and you.”
“Will the furs be enough?”
Suddenly Crystal realized the point of bringing the furs along. They were worth a fabulous amount! “Yes, I think so.”
Carver stirred. “Crystal,” he called.
“I am here,” she called back.
The old woman made a crooked smile. “No, you must go to him,” she murmured. “He is a young man.” She faced deliberately away from the bed.
Oh. Crystal went back to her husband and doffed her jacket and skirt. In a moment she was amidst another siege of his enjoyment. She was somewhat sore from the prior session, but kept her mouth shut. She remained glad that her body not only performed as it should, but that it excited so much enthusiasm in him. They had been married only a night and a day, but already she felt competent.
In due course Carver was up and dressed and eating gruel. Now, with nice and perhaps not coincidental timing, Ember returned from her harvest. “There may be a house available,” she said. “A widower is moving in with his son, if he can get good value for his house.”
“The furs,” Carver’s mother said.
“Yes, I think so,” Ember agreed.
They went out and talked with the widower and his son. It was a good house, and the widower came to inspect the furs. He was satisfied. By evening the exchange had been made; the furs were gone and they owned the house.
They moved in, with the considerable help of Crystal’s family, and made their own hearth fire. It was dark again, and they were tired, so they settled down to sleep. Carver had at her again, enthusiastically, and she was glad to oblige because she knew that not only did it please him, it would soon put him to sleep.
In the morning Crystal took Carver around, introducing him, and showed the carving he had given her. There were several folk who expressed interest in having similar carvings, for which they were prepared to trade. The shaman was indeed interested, as Scorch had surmised. That meant that there would be no trouble there. Crystal nodded; Carver’s skill was viable. She got him assorted pieces of wood, and he settled down to carve.
Nine months later Crystal gave birth to a daughter, whom they named Flower. This capped a generally suitable experience. Carver had done well with his carving, and his mother’s weaving and sewing were competent, and they had never gone hungry. They simply traded his carvings for whatever they needed. She wasn’t certain whether Carver was happier to be constantly indulging his talent, or constantly having a young woman of his own. Certainly he had taken well to town life, and seemed not to miss his former nomadic style at all. He brought her and his mother flowers almost every day, if there were any to be found.
But with the birth of her child, Crystal believed she had truly come of age. She had proven herself capable in every aspect of marriage. What better success could there be in life?
Thus, gradually, the hunter-gatherer society gave way to the settled life. The crafts of the towns supplanted those of the wanderers. The future of mankind lay with the settled regions. But nomads continued to exist, and at times had considerable impact on the settled regions.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
CITY
One of the most remarkable early cities we know of was Catal Huyuk, in Anatolia (modern Turkey), founded about nine thousand years ago. It existed in one form or another for about two thousand years, and may have had as many as 10,000 people at its height. Its architecture was strikingly distinct from what had been before, and from what was to follow. Yet it was not far from the region where the hunter-gatherers still ra
nged. In more than one respect, it might be considered a frontier city, though it did not exist in isolation; there were a number of similar cities in the region. With such large settlements came also the politics of human interaction.
BLAZE spied the trading caravan near the volcano. He had an affinity for the volcano, because it was a fire mountain, though he would have stayed well clear of it had it been violent.
He strode forward to meet the trader. He had not encountered this one before, but knew their nature. The chances were good that the man would have what he wanted.
The man stopped and waited for Blaze to reach him. He was garbed in bright robes, indicating his trade. If Blaze wished to trade for such a robe, the man would take it off, revealing another below it.
“I have glass,” Blaze announced.
Now the trader spoke, having identified Blaze’s language. He of course spoke many languages, and knew how to make himself understood even if verbal communication didn’t work. “Glass we have,” he said, indicating the mountain.
“Yes, of course.” Blaze came here himself to gather crude obsidian. He had a good eye for the fragments that would make the best knives. “But mine has been worked.” He brought out a sample blade that his son Stone had made. Stone was clever with rock, naturally.
“Ah.” The man squinted at the blade, immediately recognizing its craftsmanship. “How many?”
Blaze flashed the fingers of both hands, twice. “Twenty.”
The trader nodded. They would do business. “What do you want?”
“Fine textile for my wife.” Bunny was thirty-four, and showing her age, but a garment made of fine cloth would do much to enhance her.
“Textiles we have. Come.” The trader turned and walked to his largest bag, which he had set down as Blaze approached. Blaze followed, wondering how badly the trader would cheat him. Still, it was better than hiking several more days to the big city, where the merchants would also cheat him.
The man opened the bag to reveal bundles of textile. Nearby sat a strikingly pretty young woman. There was a collar around her slender neck, with a rope extending from it to the bag on which she sat. The girl looked about fourteen, and was dressed in a silken gown whose near translucence showed her breasts. What was such a creature doing here?
The trader caught Blaze’s gaze. “Ah, you notice the slave. Perhaps you would prefer to trade for her instead? The dress goes with her.”
“Her?” Blaze asked, startled. “We mountain folk do not hold slaves!”
“Nor do you need to. Take her and free her, once she accepts you. I keep her tied because I do not know her well enough to trust her, but she has made no effort to escape. Feed her, treat her well, and she will be as fine a wife or mistress as you could ask. She is quality-born.”
“I have a wife!” Blaze said indignantly. “And a son as old as this girl is. I would not—”
“For your son, then.” The trader squinted, surely considering how far he should pursue this matter. “She would be just right for him. For your twenty blades, an even trade.”
For his son. Blaze had never thought of such a thing. But the boy would be unlikely to find any woman as lovely as this one. And, though he tried to quell the realization, Blaze was attracted to her himself. She reminded him of Bunny, when she had been that age, lithe yet wonderful where it counted. No, it wasn’t attraction, it was affinity: because she reminded him of his wife of more than twenty years, he hated to see her bound like this. What would happen to her, if the trader took her to the next town?
But this was foolishness. There had to be a catch. “I’ll trade for cloth,” he said.
But the trader had sniffed a better deal. “You think there must be something wrong with her. Well, there is; she cries too much. See, her eyes are red-rimmed. I do not mistreat her, I only keep her bound, so she will not run away. Yet she weeps. I don’t wish to travel far with such a drag. Take her off my hands, make her happy, and she will be the bargain of the year.”
Blaze was tempted again. Such beauty, for his son! Still, he knew better. “Cloth,” he said firmly.
“Still you fear a bad bargain. Well, I will prove her to you. Talk to her. As long as you need. I will make camp here, so you are not rushed. Get to know her. Then, if you are not satisfied, trade for the cloth.”
Blaze knew that the man believed that if he got to know the girl, he would like her increasingly, and would be unable to let her go. Traders were exceedingly canny in their judgment of people. But he was now quite interested in the mysterious girl. At least he could satisfy his curiosity.
“Does she speak my language?” he asked.
“Yes. But the city dialect.”
“That might as well be foreign,” he said. “I can’t understand a fast-talking city man at all.”
“She can make herself understood, if she chooses.” He squinted cannily at Blaze. “You would not trust my translation.”
Exactly. The man wanted to make a sale.
Blaze addressed the young woman, who had been listening throughout. “Woman, will you talk with me?”
She looked up, her eyes great and sorrowful. They were green, and that made him take note; his wife’s eyes were green, as were his own and his children’s. But it was not his eyes the girl was looking at. She saw the great fire mark on his forehead. She did not speak.
Blaze was used to this. He touched the mark. “My head is not burning up,” he said. “I was born with this, and I am ordinary beneath it.”
She averted her gaze.
“I might buy you for my son,” Blaze said. “But I must know you are worth it.”
“You are talking too fast for her,” the trader reminded him. “Use simple words. Gesture.” He moved away, to see about making camp.
Blaze tried. He walked around the bag, so as to face the girl directly. “Blaze,” he said, tapping his head and then his chest. Then he made a gesture as of tapping her chest, without touching her. “You?”
She lifted her hand, but did not gesture. She simply put her arm across her breasts. Blaze saw that she was cold; the scanty garment was intended for display rather than warmth. It served its purpose admirably, but he did not wish to be distracted, and he found himself feeling protective toward her, as he might for one of his daughters.
He reached into his pack and brought out a light fur he used as an extra layer when the night got cold. He shook it out, then offered it to her. “Put this on.” When she did not react, he approached her, lifting it. He wrapped it around her shoulders, so that it formed a small cape. He pulled the edges close in front, then took her limp hand and set her fingers around that overlapping margin so she could hold it closed. He noted that her hand was very fine, with slender fingers that were not callused. The nails were full and healthy, unchipped. This was no laborer of the field.
“Seed,” she said.
“Seed?” he repeated blankly. “To grow a plant?”
She brought out her other hand. She pointed to him. “Blaze.” She pointed to herself. “Seed.”
“Oh. Your name.” He should have realized. “Seed—talk—Blaze?”
She gazed at him another moment, then drew off the fur and held it out to him. She hooked a finger in her gown, pulling it down to expose her breasts.
Blaze was at first startled by the fine formation of her bosom, and the way she showed it. Then he realized that she had misunderstood him. “No. Talk.” He touched his mouth. Then he held the fur out to her again. “Warm.”
She accepted it. But her hand snagged on the cord leading to her collar as she tried to put it on. That reminded Blaze of her status: a bound slave.
He turned his head. “Trader!” he called. “Remove the collar!”
“If she runs away, you have bought her,” the trader called back warningly.
Blaze brought out his supply of worked blades. He set them on the trader’s main bag. “If she runs, they are yours,” he agreed.
“Cut the noose cord,” the trader said.
Blaze brought out his own obsidian knife, one not for trading. Seed’s eyes widened. Realizing that she could misunderstand again, he demonstrated by putting it to his own neck, the sharp edge outward. He made a sawing motion. “Cut. Collar.” Then he brought it slowly to her. He put it to the cord that tied the collar closed, and carefully sliced into it. In a moment it parted and the collar loosened. Blaze put away the knife, took the collar off, and set it on the ground by the bag.
He saw that her neck was chafed and red where the collar had been. He brought out his bag of drinking water and dripped some onto his spare headband. He used the damp cloth to gently wipe her neck clean. Seed sat perfectly still, though he realized that the treatment stung. He saw her pupils narrow, because his face was now close to hers. It was mildly intoxicating to be so close to such a lovely creature, but he focused on his business.
Her eyes were fixed on something, and when he finished with her neck and pulled back he realized what it was: his water bag. She must be thirsty, because the trader probably didn’t concern himself overly much about the needs of a slave.
He lifted the bag. He put it to his mouth and squeezed out a swallow of water. Then he offered it to her.
Seed’s hands shook as she took it. She took one swallow, two, three, before forcing herself to stop: she was thirsty, all right!
“Take more,” he said. He knew where to refill it.
She understood him well enough, this time. She took several more swallows before returning the bag to him.
Was she also hungry? Blaze brought out a morsel of smoked meat. He took a bite, tearing loose a fragment, showing that it was good. Then he offered the rest to her.
She took it and chewed avidly. Yes, she was hungry.
Blaze looked around. He spied outcroppings of rock close by. “Come, Seed,” he said, gesturing to the rocks. He walked to one of appropriate size and sat on it.
She followed, taking a rock opposite him. He noted how gracefully she walked. How had such a creature come to be such a captive? This was surely the child of some wealthy or powerful city man, who should have married within her class. Out in the country women had to work as hard as the men, but he had heard it was different in the city, where some led lives of leisure.
Isle of Woman (Geodyssey) Page 16