When Women Were Warriors Book I: The Warrior's Path

by Catherine M. Wilson

  “How can Namet love your warrior? She hardly knows her.”

  “Namet has been Maara’s friend since before midwinter’s night.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

  “This is something Namet needs,” I said.

  Though Namet had first thought of becoming Maara’s mother as a way to help Maara heal the wounds of childhood, I believe that her decision changed something in her own heart. Namet spoke to me about it that morning as if she had been offered a wonderful gift, and when she went to ask Maara for her consent, it seemed to me that she was a little apprehensive that Maara might not accept her.

  I had no doubt what Maara’s answer would be. I would have loved to see her face when Namet spoke to her, but that was a moment for them to share only with each other.

  § § §

  Late that afternoon Namet sent for me.

  “Sit with your warrior for a while,” Namet said to me. “I have some things to do.”

  After Namet left the room, I sat down on the foot of Maara’s bed. She looked much better than she had that morning. She seemed almost her old self again, but I felt something new in her I couldn’t name.

  “You look well,” I told her.

  She met my eyes and gazed at me.

  I needed to hear her voice.

  “How do you feel?” I asked her.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would Namet care for me?”

  “She does,” I said. “Don’t you believe her?”

  “I do believe her. I just don’t understand why.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She told me she’s my friend. She said that will never change, but that if I’m willing, she needs a child as much as I seem to need a mother.” She chuckled. “Do you think I need a mother?”

  I smiled. “We all need our mothers.”

  “Warriors too?”

  “Warriors too.”

  We were silent for a while. It took me several minutes to understand what was different about her. There had always been a wariness in her that I noticed now only because it was gone.

  “Namet has made a strange choice,” Maara said.

  There was something in her tone of voice I didn’t like, as if she thought Namet had made a mistake.

  “I made the same choice,” I reminded her.

  She looked at me then as if she would have opened my heart and peered inside. “Why?”

  I didn’t know how to answer her.

  At last I said, “There’s no one else like you.”

  “Thank the gods for that!” she said.

  She was teasing, but I saw her hide a smile.

  “Do you care for Namet?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s kind. She’s wise. She listens.”

  “Many women here are kind and wise,” I said. “And most of them will listen, at least for a little while. Do you care for them as you care for Namet?”

  She understood what I meant. She laughed.

  “No,” she said. “There’s no one else like Namet. Or like you.”

  § § §

  That night Namet took Maara down into the place of ritual. I had no idea what would happen there. I knew only that in the morning a mother and her child would emerge out of the earth. I was glad for Maara. I knew that Namet’s love would do her good, just as Maara’s love would do Namet good, but there was a feeling in my chest as heavy as grief. I didn’t understand it.

  Sparrow knew what I was feeling. At suppertime she sat beside me at the companions’ table. Once in a while she would lean her shoulder against mine or give my hand a quick squeeze.

  After supper we went together out to the bower. A few girls were sleeping there. We walked down the hill a little way, so that our talk wouldn’t disturb them.

  “I’m sorry for what I said today,” Sparrow told me.

  I had forgotten our conversation. “What are you talking about?”

  “About Namet and your warrior,” she said. “I was jealous, I think.”

  “Jealous for Eramet?”

  “Partly.”

  “What else?”

  “For a long time I was the only person here without a name. Then Maara came to Merin’s house. She was a stranger, as nameless as I. Now she will have a name, but I never will.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Instead of holding my tongue until the right thing occurred to me, I blurted out something foolish.

  “A name isn’t that important,” I said.

  “Only someone with a name would say something like that.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I dishonor my own name by saying such a thing.” I took her hand. “But I don’t believe you will never have a name. Names can be earned, as well as given.”

  Sparrow smiled her teasing smile. “You’re so old-fashioned. That only happens in stories. No one earns a name by her deeds anymore. Anyway, I don’t mind. Once I’ve won my shield, the lack of a name won’t matter.”

  That afternoon a spring shower had cooled the air. The earth we sat on was damp and cold. I shivered a little, and Sparrow put her arm around my shoulders.

  I thought about how Sparrow must feel. Namet was Eramet’s mother, and Sparrow had been Eramet’s beloved. There should have been a bond between them, but it almost seemed as if Namet had given Sparrow’s place to Maara.

  “Was Namet disappointed when Eramet chose you?” I asked her.

  I felt her stiffen. “She wasn’t overjoyed.”

  “Namet didn’t know you. She should have trusted Eramet’s judgment, but no mother ever thinks her child has chosen someone worthy of her, no matter how great a name she bears.”

  Sparrow laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Namet is a good woman. She’s someone well worth knowing for her own sake, and for Eramet’s sake you might try to love her a little.”

  Sparrow sighed. “You would put the whole world around one hearth.”

  I think she meant that I would sooner see people at peace with one another than at odds. I thought to myself, Wouldn’t anyone? Then I remembered Bec, who at the first hint of an argument hastened to encourage the underdog, not for the sake of justice, but only to prolong the altercation.

  I yawned. Sparrow stood up and helped me to my feet.

  “Come on,” she said. “It’s past your bedtime.”

  We went back to the bower. Sparrow spread an oxhide on the ground against the damp, then covered it with a soft blanket. I sat down and pulled off my boots and trousers. Then I lay back, and through the wickerwork of the roof, I gazed up at the stars. Sparrow lay down beside me and drew a light blanket over us. I could feel her watching me. After a moment she put her hand shyly on my shoulder.

  I found her nearness comforting, and I snuggled against her, but I couldn’t sleep. I was thinking of Maara, who was at that moment with Namet in the place where she had held my sleeping body through the night while I flew with the beings in the air. I wondered what would pass between them as they knit the bonds of kinship that would last for as long as they both lived.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” Sparrow whispered. “You must be exhausted.”

  “The world changes too much,” I whispered back. “I’m trying to keep up.”

  Sparrow brushed my cheek with her fingertips.

  “You can catch up tomorrow,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

  I felt her soft hand against my cheek, turning my face to hers. Her kiss didn’t surprise me. Her lips were warm and soft. They stopped my thoughts. They awakened in me, not desire, but a longing to be comforted. I turned toward her and put my arms around her.

  The touch of her body easily awakened mine. My body remembered her and trusted her. I felt echo within me the memory of what we’d shared, but this time I felt, not the spark of passion, but the comfort of a deep, familiar pleasure.

  Sparrow began to caress me. I had not forgotten the sleeping girls who shared the bower with
us, and I tried to be quiet. I hid my face in the hollow of Sparrow’s shoulder. Her touch was soft and patient. She gave me a gentle pleasure, and as the pounding of my heart slowed, I floated just under the surface of sleep. I had to struggle to stay awake. When I would have reached for her, she stopped me.

  “Not now,” she whispered. “Go to sleep.”

  I slipped into the dark.

  § § §

  The entire household gathered for the midday meal. It was unusual for everyone to be there all at once except on holidays, but they knew what was going to happen, and no one wanted to miss such an important event.

  Everyone remained standing. Even the Lady and the elders stood by their places at the high table. Usually on these occasions the warriors were impatient. Coughing and mumbling and shuffling of feet would signal their desire to have the formalities over with so that they could eat their dinner. Today they waited in silence, and an air of anticipation filled the hall.

  Namet appeared with Maara in the doorway. They stood in the place where my mother and I had waited for the Lady to summon us on the first day I set foot in Merin’s house. Namet’s face glowed with happiness and pride. I saw Maara glance at her and smile.

  All eyes were on them. The Lady beckoned to Namet, who took Maara’s hand and led her to the Lady’s table, just as my mother had done with me.

  “My daughter,” said Namet.

  I half expected to see resentment or displeasure in the Lady’s eyes, but she surprised me. She bowed her head to Maara in acknowledgement. When she looked up again, I saw in her face acceptance and respect, as she welcomed one who had been a stranger in her house and who now would be a stranger no longer.

  With the same words, Namet presented Maara to each of the elders. One by one they acknowledged her. Then Namet went to each table in turn. She presented Maara to every warrior present, and my warrior became Maara, Namet’s daughter.

  Excerpt from:

  When Women Were Warriors Book II:

  A Journey of the Heart

  28

  Truth

  Maara took the sword from my hand.

  “What is this?” she said.

  “It’s a sword,” I replied, as if she couldn’t see that for herself.

  “What are you doing with it?”

  “Practicing.” I wiped away the sweat running down my face. “I’m not used to its weight anymore.”

  We were standing on the practice ground, where I had been giving a wooden post the benefit of my clumsy blows. I was discouraged. Although I had grown a little taller in the last year, I still had to use both hands to wield the heavy sword, and it had been so long since I’d practiced with it that I felt like a beginner again.

  “Did I say anything to you about practicing with a sword?”

  Maara leaned the sword against the post and beckoned to me to follow her. She found us a place to sit in the shadow of the earthworks where it was cooler.

  I waited for her to speak. I had thought she would be pleased with me. Instead she sat frowning down at the ground.

  At last she said, “I don’t want you to practice with a sword. Not even with the wooden ones.”

  “Why not?”

  “When will you be strong enough to wield a sword one-handed?”

  It was a question I didn’t know how to answer.

  “Someday,” I said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  What dreadful thing would she tell me next? Was she saying I would never be a warrior after all?

  “You don’t believe I’ll ever be strong enough?”

  “No.”

  I couldn’t comprehend what I was hearing. Why would she have apprenticed me if she didn’t believe she could make a warrior of me? I almost suspected her of accepting me because she knew that I would fail and so release her early from her obligation.

  “I thought you believed. . .”

  “What?”

  “That I could become a warrior someday.”

  “Of course you can,” she said. “You will.”

  “A warrior without a sword?”

  “A warrior with a weapon she can use.”

  She reached for something that lay hidden in the tall grass. I recognized at once the bow she took from the man who killed Eramet.

  “The bow and the sword are very different weapons,” she said. “A sword takes both strength and endurance. A bow takes a different kind of strength. It also takes great skill and more patience than most people ever have.”

  I was only half listening to her. I was grieving the loss of my dream of myself with sword and shield, standing with my comrades, as I had imagined my mother and her sisters standing, shoulder to shoulder, against the enemy.

  “A bow is a coward’s weapon,” I said. I was mouthing words I’d heard somewhere without understanding what they meant.

  My warrior frowned at me. “Any weapon is a coward’s weapon in the hands of a coward.”

  I blushed with shame and looked away, but my pride was wounded, and I refused to understand her.

  “Why did you accept me if you thought so little of me?”

  “So little?” She waited for me to meet her eyes. “I think the world of you.”

  A lump in my throat prevented me from speaking.

  “If I did not,” she said, “I would hang a sword from your belt and a shield from your shoulder and pray that you never had to use them.”

  If she was making a joke, I didn’t find it funny.

  She turned the bow over in her hands, admiring it. Her fingers followed the carvings, swirling spirals that meandered up and down its length. When I had first seen it, it had no bowstring. Now a new string wound around the shaft of the unstrung bow.

  “Do you know what kind of bow this is?” she asked me.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a forest bow. Powerful, but meant to be used at close range. Easy to carry among the trees. Small enough not to get in its own way.”

  “Small enough even for me?”

  I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. She answered me in kind.

  “Yes,” she said. “Small enough even for you.” Then in a kinder voice she said, “And like you, it is powerful and clever. Like you, it has strengths that are easily overlooked, but they are many nonetheless.”

  The sweetness of her words was meant to help me swallow a bitter truth, but I was not yet ready to give in.

  “If a bow is such a wonderful weapon,” I said, “why is it that you carry a sword?”

  “For the same reason you want so much to carry one. A sword is a symbol of power. A hunter may carry a bow. Even a child can make a bow to shoot at birds that would scratch the farmers’ seed out of the ground. Only a warrior has the right to bear a sword.” She gave me a long look. “I understand your disappointment, but you must face the truth about yourself.”

  “And the truth is that I’m too small and always will be.”

  My words tasted bitter in my mouth. Nothing she could say would sweeten them.

  “Too small?” she said. “Too small for what? Too small to wield a sword? Yes, I believe you are. But the whole truth is that you are small of body. That’s all.”

  She stood up and took several steps away from me, then stopped and turned around. She still held the bow, and she shook it in a gesture of impatience.

  “There is great power in this truth you can’t accept, and I don’t know how to make you see it.”

  Now she had my attention.

  “If you insist on acquiring the trappings of a warrior, that’s all you’ll ever have. A sword can’t make you something you were never meant to be.”

  “What was I meant to be?” I wondered aloud.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “Nor do you, but you’ll discover that only when you can face the truth about yourself.”

  Although nothing could make facing the truth any less painful, she had made it a little easier. She had held out to me the hope that, by letting something go, I might be abl
e to take hold of something better.

  Maara came back and knelt down in front of me.

  “You once told me that every warrior’s heart is different,” she said. “I never thought of it before, but you showed me that it is a warrior’s heart that matters, more than her size or the weapon she carries.”

  Surely it was the power of the oak grove that had given me those words. I could never have thought of them myself.

  “A woman with a warrior’s heart shouldn’t fear the truth,” she said. “No weapon in the world is stronger than the truth.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to find the courage to face the truth about myself. I would have to let go of a dream I’d dreamed since childhood. For a little while grief filled my heart. I had no choice but to bear it. Then the pain subsided, and I put that dream away.

  When Women Were Warriors Book II

  A Journey of the Heart

  “Is she the one?” Gnith’s eyes were on Maara’s face.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Dark,” said Gnith.

  It was the first time I’d known Gnith to be unkind.

  “She can hear you, Mother,” I said.

  “Of course she can,” said Gnith. “She has ears on her, doesn’t she?”

  “What’s that?” said Maara. “A wind through dry leaves? Black water whispering down a cave wall?” She turned to look at Gnith. “No, just the voice of a foolish old woman.”

  In Book II of the trilogy, Tamras’s apprenticeship as a warrior isn’t turning out quite the way she expected. Her unconventional choices lead to her crossing swords, almost literally, with Vintel, the war leader of Merin’s house. She finds herself embroiled in a power struggle she is doomed to lose, but the loss sends her on a journey that will change her destiny and decide the fate of her people.

  ★ ★ ★ ★ A Journey of the Heart [Book II] shows the same strong storytelling ability of the first book. The language is still almost musical and wraps its sweet spell around you.… Storylines that were just starting to grow in the first book are also very well developed here. Intrigue and conflict are fleshed out and take some surprising twists. All that I had hoped for, reading the first book, begins to bloom.… Someone get me the third volume, quickly. It’s a beautiful story.