by Lori Martin
“Momma?” “Go warm up some broth and bring – no, second thought, make it some mulled wine.”
“Momma, my bed sheets!”
“What? Oh.” The innkeeper looked at the coverlet, which had
spreading dark stains from the water-logged body across it. “Never mind, it’s only water. Hurry up now.” The woman on the bed sat up. The heavy wet strands of hair formed a black hood around her white skin. Her clouded eyes roamed, rolled, and the lids closed for a moment; water blinked from the lashes. Pirri touched her shoulder and she opened them.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said radiantly.
“Scayna?”
She turned glowing eyes on the innkeeper. “Good day to you!” Miora bustled over to the bed. “You stay quiet, dear, you’ve had
a shock. Let’s get you out of these wet things.” The young woman held out the skirt of her robe, staring in bewilderment, then patted herself across the neckline and chest. Rivulets ran down her fingers. “These aren’t my clothes,” she said in a wondering tone.
Pirri looked in alarm at the innkeeper, who shrugged. “Just let me untie this sash. We’ll have you nice and dry in just a –”
“These aren’t my clothes!”
“But Scayna, of course they are.”
She smiled up at Pirri as if they’d just met. “Good day to you, mistress. Would you know where my real clothes are?”
The innkeeper’s daughter returned with a sloshing goblet. Miora said, “Here we are. Drink that. It’ll set you right up.”
The young woman’s hand closed on the goblet’s stem. Her grasp was steady. She seemed to think this was important. “You see,” she said in a low voice to the innkeeper, as if she confided a happy secret. “You see how well I am?”
“Of course you are, dear.”
Suddenly she thrust the goblet away. Pirri jumped to take it before it spilled. “These aren’t my clothes and I’m not going to wear them.” She swung herself to her feet.
The innkeeper, who had been trying to undo the catches, saw no point in stopping her; she was yanking the dripping garment over her own head. The sash, still tied, ripped wetly.
The under slip came off, too. She threw both on the floor and stood before them, naked. Her skin was tinged a rose pink from the water.
“Hand me that blanket, Shia. There, there, dear, you don’t want to get ill, do you?” The innkeeper made an unsuccessful attempt to wrap her in the blanket. She dodged out of the way. Miora added to Pirri, “Don’t worry. It’s too hot for her to catch a chill.”
She was spinning, slowly, her arms out on the air, her breasts bobbing. A strange blue bruise showed on her shoulder.
“Scayna,” Pirri protested. “What’s wrong with you?”
She stopped. Her mouth widened in smiling surprise. “No, no, don’t you see? There’s nothing wrong, nothing at all.”
The innkeeper said, “I think we’d better get the healer after all. Shia, go and fetch him.”
“Yes, Momma.” The girl moved to her clothes chest, making a wide circle around their strange visitor, and drew off her working apron. Bright fabrics hung over the chest’s sides.
“Yes!” she shouted. The other women started. “There. Those are my clothes.” She lunged at the chest. Shia gave a little shriek.
“No. No!” The innkeeper’s voice changed. “Not that. Do you hear me, Mendale? Not that!”
She was pulling on a pale yellow robe which floated down over her, billowing over her naked limbs. It seemed to wrap her in sunlight.
The innkeeper thundered, “That’s my daughter’s. It’s a robe for a priestess, only Nialians can – take it off at once!” Purple with emotion, Miora advanced.
Pirri said, “What –?”
“Whoever heard of a Mendale – here, stop! Stop!”
She ran through their clutching hands as if through a weightless mist, and was gone. Pirri heard her laugh disappearing down the stairwell. “No, wait! Scayna!”
Pirri was young, slim, and a trained member of the Mendale army; she was down the stairs before the two Lindahnes were out of the room. Bursting into the heat of the open air, Pirri saw the yellow-robed figure already too far ahead, flying across the sweet summer grass, away from the town. Pirri stopped, drew breath, and screamed.
“Scayna! Stop! You’re ill, you’re not well! Scayna!”
But she would never answer to the false name again. It had been lifted from her, the final burden washed away. She was exultant, joyous; worries no longer besieged her. Nothing was wrong with her! She knew what she was doing.
Pirri, despairing, watched her disappear. She knew there were no words that could call her back. As everyone knew, the truly mad were always confident of their rationality.
The god of the Valtah had taken his vengeance on their makeshift canoe while sparing their frail bodies. The two middle fingers of Mejalna’s right hand were broken; Paither’s top lip was split and swollen, and his right ankle badly sprained; beyond this they had only violently colored bruises and a multitude of scrapes from being dragged up the embankment.
How or even why the Feimennas had rescued them remained a puzzle. They had leisure to wonder about it. Paither came to consciousness to find himself chained by his good ankle to a stake in the ground, like a horse. Mejalna sat glumly beside him, also chained. Mendale legends spoke of the Feimennas as fierce savages, quick to kill, but the captives soon doubted the truth of that description. In spite of the shackles, they were being treated well. They were fed fresh fruits and vegetables (their first taste of either in two moons), their wounds were bathed, their clothing mended, and a splint devised for Mejalna’s fingers. They were even given fine bedding. Everything was provided, with a profound courtesy that astounded them.
The riverside encampment was shrouded in fog; in three days they had seen little sun. The camp held perhaps five dozen Feimennas and was clearly a temporary location. As a people they were tall, lithe, graceful; their movements had an air of deliberation. All of them had eyes of a horrifying bright red. Their skins were olive or light brown; black hair fell long and arrow-straight on both men and women. They saw two or three with blond hair, but evidently Mejalna’s copper coloring was new to them; they examined her hair in amazement.
The women wore tunics over long skirts. The men wore chitons over a strange leg-encasing garment, which they had to step into foot by foot. Paither and Mejalna were soon well acquainted with these dressing habits, as the Feimennas took no notice of the physical body, and were as likely as not to emerge nude from their tents in the morning. Nor were they shy of touching, as the two of them discovered when their wounds were bathed: they had to submit to a good deal of handling.The Feimennas’ color-streaked blankets, clothes and rugs were also distressing, particularly for Mejalna. To Lindahne eyes it was anarchy, and an affront to Oanni, god of the rain and rainbows.
Strangest of all, the Feimennas were truly “outside understanding”; the language rolled melodically but without meaning to them. Mejalna, who had never even considered that another language might exist – hadn’t their tongue come straight from the gods? – was astonished and offended. Paither was intrigued. So far neither could make any sense of it.
They guessed that the Feimennas were camped there to fish. Certainly they spent a great deal of time near and on the Valtah, and brought in good catches. “They’re handy with their boats,” Mejalna said mournfully, as two men lifted a sturdy canoe into the water.
“Yes. Which is the reason, I suppose, that we’re alive. I’ve been thinking, remember those floating log-like things I saw, and the cloth pieces? It must have been from one of their boats. I think they were on the water for a few days running, like we were.”
“But why?”
“Nialia knows.”
Two boys were sent over to bring them fresh-fried fish. The elder one helped Mejalna steady the plate with her hurt hand. He looked long at Paither’s scar, then at her copper hair, with the
same unchanging sympathy. Mejalna’s jaw dropped; clearly he considered her coloring another type of disfigurement. His pity came as a shock; she was long used to admiration. She glanced at Paither, paused thoughtfully, and looked back again at the Feimenna, who encouraged her with his repellant red eyes to eat. She smiled into his strange alien face and did as she was bid.
The plates were cut into neat sections, one for the fish, one for grain and vegetables, one for berries from an unknown bush. After some distress on both sides they had learned that they were expected to eat one section’s food at a time, not going on to the next until they finished the previous one, eating with their fingers throughout.
Paither made an inquiring sign for drink. The boys obliged by offering a water flask and a wine flask. Paither chose the former, having already discovered their wine to be unpleasantly sour. The food, however, was delicious.
The boys were friendly. Paither sought again to communicate, trying to mime the suggestion of a Squad or camp leader; no one of any particular authority, so far as they could tell, had yet been near them. He tried an army salute. The boys were bewildered. He sketched a scepter in the air, a little hopelessly; finally Mejalna stood up and performed a formal court curtsy. The boys were delighted by the show but uncomprehending. Mejalna shrugged. Paither drew his hand across his mouth in a gesture of exasperation.
The boys burst out in excitement. Bobbing their heads, they raised hands to mouth, grinning. Paither paused in surprise, fingers still on lips. The boys nodded again emphatically.
“Well, I think you’ve said something,” Mejalna commented. “Yes.” He rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully. “But what?” Later in the afternoon they heard a series of whistles from the
rise of land to their left. The whole camp turned out in answer. The two boys came running up, squealing in excitement, pointing up the rise and repeating the hands-to-lip gesture over and over. Someone boomed out; all the Feimennas in sight scrambled towards the center clearing. They looked up expectantly.
Two riders came over the crest. The camp children ran forward and were called back. The adults stood in formation, very tall and straight.
“Important visitor,” Mejalna hazarded. Paither hushed her. The first rider was a man perhaps ten years older than they, with a cropped black beard. His white chiton of fine linen fell long over the black lower garment. His expression, though open, even friendly, held a hint of sadness. Red eyes danced from face to face, and came to rest on the two Lindahnes. The second rider was a younger woman, so much alike in feature that she was clearly kin to him. Both dismounted.
A Feimenna from the camp stepped forward and gave the fingersto-lip greeting. The man acknowledged it, smiling, and spoke briefly to the group. He looked again at the Lindahnes, listening, nodding, as something was explained. Paither waited quietly, his eyes meeting the newcomer’s.
The man spoke again and the group suddenly dissolved, returning to their camp chores. His kinswoman walked away, chattering with the others.
And as he approached Paither stood, concealing the weakness of his sprained ankle. The Feimenna came up smiling.
“I greet you,” he said clearly, and his fingers darted to his lips.
The astonished Lindahnes stared. Paither gave himself a shake and managed a smile. “Good day to you,” he returned, and tried an imitation of his greeting, using the wrong fingers without knowing it. The Feimenna nodded. Paither said, “You speak our language.”
“I have saved it, yes.That is why I am here.”
“Saved –?” Mejalna began, and broke off at a signal from Paither. The Feimenna’s shiny red eyes rested on her for a moment. Paither made a movement, calling his attention back.
“I am called Nhy,” the Feimenna said. “My mother is second-high in Great Cult. We have the word of you. She sent me for you. My speech, you can understand?”
“Yes, very well,” Paither said, though in fact he was struggling. The words were clear enough, but the tonal pattern was strange, rising and falling in the way, no doubt, of his own language. “I am Paither Lista, relas of Lindahne. This is Mejalna, daughter of Canna and of Maysius of the Third Hill.”
The Feimenna’s brows puckered. Paither said firmly, “We’ve been trying to thank your people for saving our lives. We’re very grateful. We would be even more grateful to be released.” For emphasis he held out his chained leg, giving the shackle a shake and throwing his weight on to his sprained ankle, which promptly throbbed.
The Feimenna nodded. “I have told them, perhaps this is not necessary.”
“We’ve done nothing, except wreck our own canoe. Why are we being treated like criminals?”
“Crim...? I am sorry, that means sin?”
Mejalna gave a short laugh. Paither said, “Well, in a way.”
“If you are free, what you to do?”
“Do? Nothing, if you mean would we do anyone any harm.”
Mejalna suddenly said, “We have to go back home.”
The Feimenna said, “Home, yes. Mendale. And so you do take our boats –”
“No. We’re not thieves. We’re not Mendales, either. Then you have heard about Mendale?”
“I am sorry, I am wrong again? We call your country –” he uttered a wide vowel sound. “But I thought to understand you say, Mendale.”
“Mendale is the right word, but it isn’t our country. We’re from Lindahne.” Seeing that he didn’t understand, Paither added, “Lindahne is the country to the east of Mendale. You don’t know about it?”
Nhy looked distressed. He withdrew inside himself, thinking hard, his look far above their heads. After a time he said, “If you are free, you will not to do take our boats.”
“No,” Paither said firmly. Then he smiled. “You must know already that even if we did, we probably wouldn’t be able to control one. We don’t have the water skills of your people.”
The Feimenna looked each of them over. Finally he said, “I will to do trust you.” He called over his shoulder. Two men appeared. He gave quick instructions and tools were fetched. Moments later the chains were struck off.
He escorted them to a large tent. Rainbow blankets were spread out for them on the ground (there was no furniture in sight) and wine was set out. “Please, down,” Nhy invited.They sat cross-legged on the blankets, with Paither careful of his ankle.
Mejalna said, “How do you know about Mendale? How do you know our language?”
“We have saved it,” Nhy answered.
For an hour they tried to piece it together. Though Nhy answered their questions, his explanations left gaps; some basic incomprehension divided them. Clearly Mendales had really traveled here, generations beyond count before. But what had happened after that first contact? The memory of Feimenna had faded to mere legend in Mendale, while these people had kept their knowledge of the other country, feeding and caring for it as if it were a living thing. Even the language had been learned and passed along, by a small group of which Nhy was a member: this was as much as they could understand. Paither, watching his face, suspected he was holding something back.
“Enough,” Nhy said briskly. “We do again talk later. This night is a feast. My sister, she who came with me, she is a storyteller, very to celebrated, I hope you to enjoy it.”
Paither, irritated, said, “We’re not concerned with feasting. Are we free to go?”
“I am here to bring you to Great Cult. We go on tomorrow. The second-high will speak with you there, and decide. Your injuries do heal?”
“Yes, thank you,” Mejalna said.
“Just a moment. Decide what? And how far away is this Great Cult?”
The Feimenna made no answer. He leaned over and checked the splint on Mejalna’s fingers, then ran his hand up her arm to her hair. She held still, reminding herself that they thought nothing of casual touch. He drew her auburn hair through his fingers, examining it like a fabric whose quality he wished to determine. Mejalna, who had been about to ask what the Great Cult was, forgot to
speak.
Paither was suddenly conscious of his mended robe, his swollen lip, and his rough new beard. “I’m afraid we can’t go with you. We have to try to return home. It’s very important that we get back soon. Would you be willing to help us?”
The Feimenna paused, then, with the slow thoughtful air of his people, rose to his feet. Paither, afraid his ankle would betray him if he did the same, merely sat up straighter. Nhy said, “I am sorry. You must come with us tomorrow. Tonight we will feast.”
Mejalna was entranced by the storyteller’s art, or perhaps, Paither thought, only by Nhy’s lilting voice. The Feimenna sat beside them murmuring explanations. Nhy’s sister spoke, danced, and sang, conveying the tale, acting out each part with vigor. The audience laughed musically at the jokes; when she sang they closed their eyes, to listen more fully.
She wore long thin skirts, bright layers of gauzy material, which she spun with her hands and legs to great effect. Watching the slender, muscular legs, the firm and lovely movements, Paither thought that the Feimennas were much like his beloved flighter horses: purebreds, proud and strong. And perhaps just as dangerous.
The performance seemed to be over. The Feimennas threw wild flowers; Nhy’s sister pressed her fingers to her lips and retired.
“Will she continue later?”
“No, the feasting is over. Why should she continue?”
“To finish the story,” Mejalna said.
Nhy tilted his head. He repeated, “To finish? I do not understand.”
“The hunters.” Mejalna had been enjoying the tale. “She didn’t explain what happened to the hunters. She stopped in the middle.”
His red eyes opened wide. “But you must know what happens to them.”
“I? How would I? My people don’t tell this tale.”
“But all tales end the same. The hunters do die, of course. All endings are the same. Why ask? So every mortal story ends.”
Paither snorted. Mejalna felt he was laughing at her. Her temper rose. “Well, of course, if you look at it like that. But then why bother to tell a story at all?”