Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

  “It is the telling that is important. She creates the beauty. When that is over, the story is over.”

  The audience was breaking up, departing for their tents. A few stayed, playing long flutes which sent sad melodies into the moving fog. The Valtah, ever calling but unseen, crashed beyond.

  Two tents had been pitched for them, side by side. Under Nhy’s eyes Paither forced himself to walk normally, shrugging off Mejalna’s proffered shoulder. The Feimenna followed them into the first tent and asked, “You are comfortable?”

  Someone had left wine and a candle lamp. Soft sleeping blankets were piled in a corner. Paither looked at him sideways, through ironic eyes: did he mean to be a jailor or a host? Mejalna said, “Yes, thank you.”

  Once again he showed no hesitation. He laid two fingertips on a bright bruise along her cheek. “Many marks, you both have.”

  “We were thrown on the rocks.”

  Nhy said to Paither, “And you also... I have heard, a mark on your shoulder...” His voice drifted off. Paither felt an uncertain alarm; the other’s face was unreadable. Then Nhy added briskly, “That all to do discuss at Great Cult. I take my evening of you.”

  “Good even’,” Mejalna said. Paither made no response.

  She spread out her blankets, awkwardly, holding her broken fingers out. Paither stayed by the entranceway, making no move to help. After a time he said, “They’ve put a guard out here and there’s one in front of my tent. He’s quick to put his hands on you, isn’t he?’

  She patted the blankets down smoothly. “I don’t think it means anything.”

  He limped closer and sat down. They looked at each other over the candle lamp. He said, “It does to me.”

  In the glow of the lamp her delicate skin had the sheen of polished copper. Her eyes turned to shimmering sapphire pools: when she glanced down her fine lashes cast shadows on the hollows of her cheekbones. She whispered, “When will we be able to return home, relas?”

  Relas, he thought. Heir and royal... helpless in a land I still can’t believe in. “I don’t know. Perhaps we never will.”

  She shook her head. With simple faith she said, “You’ll get us home.”

  “You believe in that?”

  “Yes. You’re in the hands of the goddess.”

  “And you?”

  She gave a breathless little laugh. “I’m in your hands, relas.”

  All the images he had ever had of her flickered by in the lamplight, one misting into another like the fog outside their tent. He saw the dagger fighter, hair whipping in the cold wind. Then the secret white figure slipping through crowded avenues in a borrowed apron. Then the cool-eyed calculator, assessing his threat to her cause. She was the living Lindahne earth, hiding hurts, growing sweet herbs from bitter soil, vibrant with will. Lit with beauty. So had his true country ever been to him, beside him, part of him, and always out of reach – beyond his possession. Pain and yearning melted together in his chest and coiled around his heart. Across just a little air, across a yawning gulf, he saw her mouth part with his name.

  “Paither, please...”

  She knew, and did not know, what she really asked for. When he leaned to her he saw one tear on her lashes, which enlarged as he came closer, sparkling.

  Their lips met over the opening of the lamp. Mejalna’s hair fell forward and singed against the hot glasswork. The rising red heat burned along the underside of Paither’s chin. Her mouth was cool and soft.

  She gave a small gasp and pulled back her hair. Their eyes met and skittered away; she tried to laugh. He took the lamp firmly between both hands and put it aside.

  “We’re Defiers,” Mejalna said.

  “Not I.”

  “You’re the royal heir.”

  “Not yet.”

  “We’re Lindahnes who –”

  “Not here.”

  “I suppose,” she demanded, really laughing now, “Samalas and his old rules don’t matter, either?”

  “I’m not interested in Samalas at the moment.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her again. She nestled against him, warm and trusting. They paused. The sad tune of the Feimenna pipers floated in, haunting the air, as if unmourned ancients, long forgotten, had gathered to sing their lost songs once more. Her fingers, wrapped on the hard splint, rested gently on his bare arm. She slid her hand up. The white tips above the bandages touched his blue mark; then she raised her good hand to his face, caressing his disfigured cheek as if she had the power to heal. He felt it as a pledge of faith. Gratitude and desire welled up in him like tears.

  His grip tightened. He reached under her cloud of hair and bent her down to the blankets; she fell back willingly, trusting him to take her weight on his strong arms.

  The soft alien earth of Feimenna yielded to them. It was scarcely the first time he had been in exile; scarcely the first time he had been an outcast and stranger. But now he was no longer alone.

  Mejalna awoke just before morning, before the birds had begun their singing. Still in darkness and half-dreaming, she knew nonetheless that she was beside him, curved into his body. The damp air had chilled her nose and chin. His breath warmed her neck; his arm was folded protectively around her breasts.

  They had been at ease together. They might almost have been lovers for years, knowing each other’s desires as well as they knew their own. She stared forward, thinking of her once-betrothed, remembering the well-intended awkwardness that had passed as love between them.

  Truly there was no knowing the goddess. The Mother had chosen this crisis of time, of all times, to teach her joy. And she had thought she knew it; she might have gone her whole lifetime without learning better. Somehow she must find a moment to make an offering today, to give thanks.

  The darkness was paling into light. Slowly the tent and its sparse furnishings came up into sight, showing grey. She turned gently, moving his arm down with her hands. His breathing broke for a moment but he slept on. His face seemed flawless to her, because it was his and therefore right, even the scar, even the tugged-down corner of his mouth. Rumpled hair fell over his forehead in a curtain of gold; the new rough beard showed on his chin. Blond down, too, covered his chest and loins. The bruises from the river were fading. His arms and shoulders were red-tinged from the sun. “How perfect you are,” she burst out, which would have astounded and amused him if he had heard it. He awoke to passionate kisses.

  They didn’t have long to themselves; the Feimennas were soon up and breaking camp. They emerged a little self-consciously; guarded as they had been, it would be known that Paither had never gone to his own tent. If the Feimennas thought anything of it, however, they concealed it. “We break fast a little way along,” Nhy said as soon as he saw them. “We are short of horses. You must double up, please.”

  Mejalna eyed the tall horse dubiously. The Feimennas used no saddles; a mere blanket was tossed across. Paither, who had been riding half-trained horses all his life, and who could direct one with the pressure of his knees and thigh, whistled her over. “You may have to hold me on,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I can manage that easily enough.” They were brought out front to ride beside Nhy. Paither could have enjoyed his company, if he had only been with him willingly. Nhy was reticent on many subjects but expansive on others. He would explain nothing of the Great Cult or where they were going, but cheerfully told them of many Feimenna customs.

  “To save is everything,” he said. “Knowledge is wisdom, it is what every generation will give the next. It is foolish to set knowledge aside or let it to die. So we learn, we teach. We –” he paused. When their language failed him he would wait, patiently; soon the word would come to him. “Preserve. That is right? To show you: you see I to speak with you. That is because, in the long times before, someone of our people learned to do your speech and taught it to others. We to not let that skill fade away.”

  “That someone learned it from a Mendale,” Paither said. “But after the Mendales were gone, yo
ur people didn’t need it.”

  “Yes, until then I had need of it, yesterday.” Nhy smiled. “You see? Only a few save this particular knowledge, others save other things. My sister saves certain tales. That man behind you there, is one of those who to save the healing knowledges. He knows the herb cure for a sickness that has not to struck us for ten generations. But if it to do return, we to ready, because he has saved it.”

  Mejalna, riding in a silent cloud of happiness, settled further back into Paither’s arms. She had no concerns beyond the sharp jolt of the horse’s spine. She felt giddy, foolish, childish: undisciplined, Samalas would say, and of no use. Well, he would be right; she’d have to get a hold on herself... later.

  Paither was also aware of joy, which leaped up like a flame at each breeze of her love, but his thoughts were clear, concentrated on their predicament. For a time he had told himself he had no right to a personal devotion; he had thought he couldn’t afford such distractions. It turned out the opposite was true. While he had held himself back, his vague suppressed longings had constantly knocked, demanding attention. With this new surety and loving possession his mind and will were suddenly freed.

  The forest track loomed up grey, came clear in darts of sun, and disappeared in cloud behind. The constant fog was normal weather; the growth around them was thick and moist. Paither made polite conversation with the Feimenna, while questions and worries buzzed in his head. Had Samalas yet despaired of them? How could they win the trust of these new people, and their help? If the Valtah could be crossed once, surely it could be crossed twice... but no, they’d been delivered from it, and to pretend otherwise was to mock the goddess’s blessing. My sister, he thought, connecting the idea to nothing in particular. My sister.

  “Do you realize,” he said into Mejalna’s ear, “that if Dalleena my mother had been able to fulfill her plans, she might have come ashore here – and have been safe?”

  “And then you would have been raised here.” She saw the complete vision in an instant. “And when you became a man, you would have tried to return to Lindahne.”

  “If I’d been raised here I’d have been a better boatman.” Without his own awareness, his hand stroked her hip. She felt his chest rise in a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder what the goddess has really been intending.”

  He had spoken it aloud. Nhy’s eyes, glowing red like an animal’s caught by torchlight, darted sideways to him. For a long time they rode in silence.

  Chapter 22

  “F

  ond of dancing, little mistress?” The farmer held out an inviting hand to the madwoman. His eyes rested with frank admiration on her firedust hair. She gave him a

  dazzling smile.

  “Better leave her be,” said the grey-haired woman beside her, put

  ting a restraining hand on the girl’s robe. “She’s not right in her head,

  it’ll only excite her.”

  “So I hear. Are you keeping her to work, Atti?”

  “I let her do what she’s a mind to, that’s all. She’s willing to work.

  Found her down by the millstream near half a moon ago, and that

  hungry. The gods know where she came from, and no more sense in

  her than a hen. But she’s not bad company for me.”

  “That true, little mistress?” The farmer looked down into her face,

  but her smile had grown fixed and vacant. He asked Atti, “What are

  you going to do with her?”

  “Keep her, if she wants to stay on.” The music beat faster. Revelers

  swirled by. “She made a good clay pot for me in no time at all, and I

  never even had to show her how to use the wheel. She had pottery

  training somewhere, that’s certain. Though sometimes she sounds

  nobleborn.”

  Another farmer, an older man with a peppered beard, gave a

  snort. “They’ve no call,” he said suddenly, eyes on the festivities, “to

  have such a big marrying, when we should all be mourning the poor

  queen.”

  “That’s just your way all over, Jadla. Always forgetting what it was

  to be young.”

  He looked around in indignation. “I remember.”

  “Yes, but this girl,” insisted the first farmer. “Doesn’t she talk?” “Sometimes, but precious little meaning comes out of her.” As if stirred by this, the madwoman suddenly said, “Burning,”

  very clearly, and stopped. The young farmer glanced behind him and

  saw the wall torches. “Well, that’s true enough.What’s your name,

  little mistress?”

  The madwoman said, “No one.”

  “Ah, she never answers that,” said Atti.

  “Here they come,” Jadla said in disgust. The dancers had formed

  a chain and were snaking past them. The madwoman’s eyes brightened. Without warning she slipped from Atti’s side.

  “Told you she wanted to dance,” the young man laughed. “Don’t

  worry. I’ll see her back safe.” He caught up with her and drew her

  into the line; Atti could hear her sweet laugh over the music. “She was wrapped in a Nialian robe when I found her.” Jadla, lifting his ale to his mouth, paused. Their eyes met. They

  were both of the War generation.

  “Do you think?” she asked.

  He nodded, slowly, as if something puzzling had been made clear.

  “The touch of the goddess,” he said. “I remember.”

  The woman with no name considered herself to be well. The idea of madness had no reality to her; she was vague and calm, and felt herself to be waiting. She had memories of Scayna, a poor confused girl, a snarling ranfox with its paw caught in a trap. Somehow this crippled creature had been freed, and was gone.

  She brought the bucket up from the well and hauled it along the path to the little stone house. From the doorway Atti was watching her.

  The woman with no name poured the water onto the dry dirt of the overgrown garden. The sun had lowered; dusk was coming in. In the time before, someone had told the Scayna-creature that they used to sing at Sunset, all in their yellow robes, arms locked.

  So she sang, wordlessly, splashing out the water. Her mortal ears had never heard the tune; she knew it nonetheless. An answering note sounded beyond the trees.

  She put down the bucket and listened, cocking her head like a bird’s. One far-off voice, true and happy.

  Atti saw the madwoman, whose actions had been rational all that day, revert to strangeness. With her eyes fixed on some distant point she walked straight ahead, arms stiff at her sides, back rigid. She marched through the garden rows and beyond. Her yellow robe, which Atti had freshly washed for her, caught on the growth, but she kept on without notice; a strip of material ripped and dragged in the earth behind her.

  “Here,” Atti shouted. “Come back, girl, I can’t chase after you. Girl! Mistress! Whoever you are, you’d better come back!” She paused for breath. Ah well, there she goes. I can’t be chasing her. Poor little thing. Ah no, she’ll be going right up the Hill if she keeps on that direction... “May the gods have mercy on her,” she said out loud. The Mendales certainly wouldn’t.

  “Why don’t you just let it grow in? You’re going to cut your own throat that way,” Mejalna scolded from the blankets. The Feimennas were amused at Paither’s shaving; all they had had to offer was a sharp knife. Paither continued scraping at his skin.

  “No, I’m almost done... They’re moving us too far inland. I don’t like it.”

  “I can’t make out what this Great Cult is about.”

  “How could you, when our friend Nhy refuses to say anything about it? Hand me that towel.”

  “Well, he said we’d be there soon.”

  “Yes, and then what do they intend to do with us? I won’t be handed about like a prize horse. Samalas will be watching for us, and anything could be happening in Lindahne. Or in Mendale.”

  S
he leaned over to rub his bare back, knowing he was thinking of Nichos and Pillyn, and of the queen. “What do you want to do? Could we slip off?”

  “We’d have to steal horses. We wouldn’t get far on foot.”

  “I suppose in all this fog we’d only get lost.”

  “No, the Valtah’s always south of us, we could strike for it by the sun.” He flinched; his hand had slipped. Bright blood droplets appeared on his chin.

  Mejalna crossed the tent to get a rag to use for a bandage. He watched her go. They were both naked. “Here.” She came back and dabbed at his chin. Her nipples were rose-colored, standing erect. Her red-gold hair, softly tousled, brushed across her mouth; she tossed it back. “Then should we try it?”

  “No. At least not yet. We might make it to the Valtah – I wonder how hard they’d pursue us – but once there what would we do? How would we get across? We came to grief just trying to get downstream, and we’d have no chance to build a boat this time.”

  “Well, what then?”

  He put down the knife and water cup and reached for her. “Somehow I’m going to get them to help us. We’ll go to this Great Cult, we’ll see what they want of us. Then, when they’re convinced we mean no harm, I’ll ask them for a guide across the Valtah. If Nhy is so keen on learning things, maybe he’d like to learn about Lindahne. I just hope we can be on our way quickly. Name of Nialia, you are so lovely. But I’m hardly the first man to tell you that.”

  “You’re the first I’ve wanted to hear it from, Paither-relas.”

  The Feimennas, who were making the trip at an easy pace, would not rouse them for another hour. They went back to bed.

  Temhas son of Boessus and of Meyna, brother of Pillyn, uncle of Paither, passed safely through the checkpoints in the foothills on nothing more than natural guile. He found the Mendale soldiers in Lindahne itself more troublesome. He had no specific place to settle himself; they considered – no doubt correctly, from their point of view – that all wanderers were possible rebels. Eventually, he heard of horse farms on the Second and Third Hills, where they needed workers. He turned to the Second. The Third was the Hill of his childhood and lost family; he had no wish to see what ruin had come to his father’s old estate.