White Jenna

by Yolen, Jane;

  “Hare,” Skada agreed. They both relaxed. Slightly.

  By early eve of the next day they had passed the outlying farms of Slipskin, neatly tilled land, well cleared of rocks and roots by generations of farmers. Each acre was gently fuzzed over with green. In one field twenty horses were pastured on blue-green grass.

  “There,” said Catrona, “a man who sells horses. Probably supplies the king. We could borrow one or two and he would never know the difference.”

  Petra shook her head. “We had horses and flocks at my Hame. Believe me, our shepherds knew every beast by name.”

  Catrona snorted. “I know that, child. Just testing.”

  “I will not ride a horse again,” Jenna said. “Once was enough.”

  “I doubt we could get three off him anyway,” Catrona said. “But if we could get one, one of us could ride ahead. We need swiftness whatever the cost.”

  Unhappily, Jenna had to agree.

  “Let me do the talking,” Catrona added. “I have spent much time among men and know what to say.”

  “I have spent no time at all with them,” admitted Petra.

  Jenna said nothing, but her finger strayed to her lips and she was glad that it was still daylight and Skada not there to remind her just what she had—and had not—said to Carum when he had kissed her. Two men she had known: one she had kissed and one she had killed. She knew as little as Petra. “Yes, you speak,” she said to Catrona. “We will wait behind.”

  “But mind you, look fetching,” said Catrona.

  “Fetching?” Jenna asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Men like that.” Catrona threw back her head, laughing loudly.

  Although they weren’t sure what Catrona meant by fetching, both Jenna and Petra managed to smile at the farmer when he opened the dark wood door. He stared at them for a moment, as if unsure of what he was seeing, then called over his shoulder, “Martine, Martine, come quick.”

  “What is it?” a voice called from the room behind him.

  He did not speak again until his wife, a rosy giantess, stood next to him, a full head higher than his own balding crown.

  “There, the big girl, look at ’er. Look, woman.”

  She stared as well.

  “We are Alta’s own,” Catrona began, stopping when she saw that they were paying no attention to her but were rather staring at Jenna. She spoke again, loudly. “My name is Catrona, from Selden Hame. My sisters and I …”

  “By the blessing, Geo, you are right. Who else could it be,” the farmer’s wife said, her cheeks bright red. “Except for the hair, she’s the spit of my poor dead sister.”

  Catrona suddenly understood. “You think Jenna a fosterling from your family? Of all houses, that we should have stopped here.”

  “Naaa, naaa,” the farmer said, shaking his head and sounding remarkably like a penned beast. “She has eleven sisters, and all the same. Not fifty years ago the hillsides would’ve been full of ’em. But we got low on girls ’round here and so now girls is a commodity. You be thinking of staying, I could set you up with good husbands.” He shook his head again. “Well, the niece, maybe, and the little one there. We need breeders, you know. That’s why Martine’s sisters, they all got spoke for early. Good stock. Not a holding this side of the Slip don’t house one of ’em. T’would be harder to miss one than find one, as they say of blackbirds in a flock. It would be …”

  Martine pushed her husband aside and walked past Catrona to Jenna’s side. Together, their relationship was obvious. “She has the Dougal height, the Hiat eyes, remember Geo like you said when we was courtin’, my eyes was dark eyes of a spring. And my sister Ardeen went white afore she was fifteen, and my sister Jarden afore she was twenty. Give your aunt a hug, girl.”

  Jenna did not move, her mind whirling.

  “Her mother was bringing her to us to foster, out in the woods when a cat killed her,” Catrona said. “My own sisters gave yours a decent grave and said the words you like over her. Her fosterer died, or I would tell her of you.”

  “Nonsense!” Martine said, turning from Jenna to speak directly to Catrona. “Her mother died at birth. Lay there bleeding like a pig stuck for market while the mid-wife bore the child away. If your sister fostered her, then …” She stopped a minute and counted on her fingers. “One for my poor dead sister, two for the midwife, and three be your sister. Oh, my Blessed be!” She dropped suddenly to her knees, her hands covering her mouth. “The White One, triple mothered. Of my own flesh and blood. Who could have guessed?”

  Her husband went down more slowly, as if he had been pole-axed, and buried his face in his hands.

  Jenna rolled her eyes up and sighed. She heard Petra’s quick intake of breath and priestess voice behind her.

  Mothered Three,

  Blessed be.

  “Stop that,” she hissed back at the girl.

  From her knees, Martine heard only the rhyme. She put her hands up, palms together, and cried out, “Yes, yes, that’s it. Oh, White One, what can we do? What can we say?”

  “As for what you can do,” Catrona said quickly, “you can give us three good horses, for we are on a great mission of mercy and it would not do for the White One to walk. And as for what you can say, you can say yes to us and no to any man who asks.”

  “Yes, yes,” Martine cried again, and when her husband did not answer fast enough, she elbowed him.

  He rose, still not looking again at Jenna, and mumbled, “Yes, yes, I can give you three. And they will be good. Anyone says Geo Hosfetter gives not good horses is …” He sidled out of the door still talking. They could hear his footsteps going away at a run.

  “I will go and help him choose,” said Catrona.

  “Let the White One stay a moment more,” begged Martine. “She is my own flesh, my own blood. Let her tell me her own tale. I have tea. I have cakes.” She gestured in toward the neat, well-lit kitchen.

  Jenna opened her mouth to accept and Petra whispered by her ear, “Dark sisters will be there. Let me talk.” Jenna closed her mouth and looked stern.

  “The White One does not break bread with any. She fasts on this mission and has taken a vow of silence until it is done. I am Her priestess and Her mouth.”

  Jenna rolled her eyes up again, but kept silent.

  “Of course, of course,” Martine said, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Better that you tell Her all you know so She may weigh its significance.”

  “Of course, of course,” Martine said again. “What shall I tell? That my sister, the White One’s mother, was tall and red-haired and made, we all thought, like the rest of us for easy birthing. But something was twisted up there. She died giving the child life. And then that wicked midwife stole the babe away, afore any of us got to see it. We knew the child was a girl because she told her own daughter she was taking it to one of the … you know … Homes.”

  “Hames,” Petra corrected automatically.

  “The closest one. Up the road and into the mountains, it was.”

  “Selden Hame,” Petra prompted.

  But the woman could only tell the story in her own meandering way. “Selling the babe, most likely. Some midwives be like that, you know.” Suddenly afraid she might have offended them, she added quickly, “Not that you Alters buy children. Not that.”

  “We reap the hillsides; we do not pay the sowers,” said Petra.

  “I meant that. Yes, I did.” Martine’s hands wrangled with one another.

  “And the father?”

  “Died not a year later. Heart broken. Lost wife and child all to once. And crazed. Saw Alter women everywhere, he did. On the farm. At the hearth. In his bed. Two at a time. Double crazed he was.” She shook her head. “Poor man.”

  “Poor man,” Petra echoed, her voice soothingly soft.

  Jenna bit her lip. Her mother. Her father. She tried to credit it and could not. Her mother had not lived under such a cozy, thatched roof, dying with her thighs covered in blood. Her mothers—and th
ere were many of them—lived in Selden Hame. And they would not die in blood if she could help it. She turned abruptly and left Martine of the wrangling hands to Petra’s comforting. Striding quickly across the farmyard, she headed toward the barn.

  The sky above was a steely blue, and a bright pink sat on the horizon behind the barn and the fields. Once the sun slipped below the world’s rim, there would be another hour before dark. And then there would be a moon. With the moon, the dark sisters Skada and Katri would reappear. Petra had been right to warn her about going into the candle-lit kitchen. Hearthlight and candlelight could also call the sisters out. No need to frighten these poor, silly strangers. Strangers! Jenna tried to force herself to think of them as her aunt and uncle. No, there was no blood between them. None at all. It was a mistake, that was all. But a mistake that was bringing them three horses. Horses! She never wanted to ride one of those broad-beamed, hard-on-the-rear, teeth-rattling beasts again.

  Just as she thought of them, from behind the barn came Catrona leading three sleek mares, two reddish brown and one almost pure white. The farmer strode behind her looking, somehow, relieved. When Catrona spotted Jenna, she grinned, then quickly composed her mouth into a more respectful expression.

  “Do these meet your approval, White One?” she asked Jenna.

  Jenna nodded. The snow-colored mare threw her head back and whinnied.

  “The white is yours, Anna,” said Catrona. “The man insists on it.” She held out the reins. “And he takes no coin for them.”

  Jenna drew in a deep breath, willing herself to like the horse. Reaching for the reins, she pulled on them gently and the horse took a few steps toward her. She patted it on the neck and the horse nuzzled her ear. Jenna smiled tentatively.

  “See, White One,” Geo Hosfetter said, still not looking directly at her, “the horse knows that she is yours.” He bobbed his head twice. “Her name is …”

  “Her old name does not matter,” Petra said suddenly from behind Jenna. “She shall have a new one. For, as you know, it says in the prophecy:

  The White One, the Anna,

  Shall ride, shall ride,

  And sisters with Her

  Side by side.

  The horse She sits on

  All astride,

  It will be called … DUTY!”

  “Oh, yes, oh yes,” Martine said, hurrying up to them, “I know that. Duty, that’s the name. Of course. Duty.”

  “Duty!” Jenna said, laughing, once they had ridden away from the farm. “What kind of a name is Duty?”

  “And where did you learn that prophecy? I never heard it,” Catrona said.

  “It was the best I could do at the moment’s spur,” Petra admitted. “I apologize for that sixth line. It was a bit … well … shaky.”

  “You mean you made it up?” Catrona shook her head.

  Petra, nodding vigorously, smiled.

  “It is a special trick of hers,” Jenna said. “She was famous for it at Nill’s Hame. Prophecies and poetry on the moment. But, Petra—Duty!”

  “Never mind,” Petra answered. “They will tell their neighbors and the story will grow and grow. By the time you hear it again, you will be mounted on Beauty or on Booty and the tale will add that the White One, Blessed be, rode off, pockets ajingle with coin or followed by one hundred men all crying out with love.”

  “Or they will call the horse Dirty, which she will surely be, for we will have little time to keep her clean.” Jenna pulled on her right braid. “So why did you get me a white horse, Catrona?”

  “He insisted on it. ‘The white one for the White One,’ he said. ‘And a pair of matched bays for her servants.’”

  “Servants!” Petra shouted. At her voice the little bay mare startled and tried to bolt and it took a mighty sawing on the reins to control her. When the horse was steady again, Petra shrugged ruefully at her friends.

  “I would not trust that horse in a fight,” Jenna said.

  “But she should run like the wind,” Catrona pointed out. “Look at her legs. And as they say in the Dales, The gift horse is the swifter.”

  “Then let her show us her heels,” said Jenna. “We have no more time for talking.”

  Catrona nodded.

  They kicked their mounts into trots.

  They were just through the town of Selden, with its neat little houses lining the cobbled lanes, and starting over the new bridge, when the partial moon rose. By its light, Skada and Katri reappeared, riding double-behind their light sisters.

  Jenna knew Skada was there by the familiar breath behind her; the horse knew sooner because of the added weight. It slowed its pace to accommodate the second body but did not flinch.

  “Fine horse,” Skada whispered in Jenna’s ear.

  Turning her head slightly, Jenna said, “What do you know about horses, fine or otherwise?”

  “I may know little, but at least I am not set against them for no reason.”

  “No reason!” Jenna said. “Ask my bottom and ask my thighs about reasons.” But she said no more and focused her attention on the long bridge as they clattered across.

  Once they were on the other side, Catrona signaled them to stop. They dismounted and left the horses to graze on the roadside grass.

  “Why did we stop?” Petra asked. In the moonlight her face had a carved look. Her hair, which had been tightly braided and crowned, had shaken loose of its pins and the plaits now fell down along her spine. There were dark circles under her eyes, but Jenna could not tell if they were from weariness or sorrow. She put her arm around the girl’s shoulder and Skada, like a parenthesis, closed her in from the other side.

  “Horses, like humans, need to rest,” Jenna reminded her. “It would not do to kill them on the very first day.”

  “Nor ourselves,” Catrona said, stretching. “It has been a long time since I have ridden a horse. Those are not muscles I exercise regularly.” She bent over and put her palms on the ground and Katri did the same.

  “My horse is not tired,” said Petra.

  “He carries one. Ours will have to carry two through a night of strong moonlight,” Skada said. “Unfortunately no one has ever trained horses to call up their shadows.”

  “Are there horses where you come from?” Petra asked.

  “We have what you have,” said Katri. “But we leave it behind to come here.”

  Catrona rubbed her horse’s nose and the horse responded by nuzzling her. “We will go another few hours and then sleep.” She held the horse’s head between her hands and blew gently into its nostrils. “This rest is just for breathing.”

  “And for bottoms,” Jenna and Skada said together.

  Petra laughed, but Catrona and Katri stared up at the sky.

  “Look,” Katri said. “See how the moon sits on the Old Hanging Man’s brow.”

  They looked. The cliffs, with their wild jut of stone, seemed crowned with the moon. A shred of cloud was just beginning to cross the moon’s spotty face.

  “I think it will cloud over soon,” Catrona said.

  “That will be for the good,” added Katri.

  “But then you and Skada …” Jenna began.

  “… will be gone,” Catrona finished. “But since we are just riding, not fighting, the horses will have an easier time of it.”

  “As will we,” Skada said.

  “No sore bottoms.” Jenna laughed.

  “No sore …” Skada started to say, but just then the cloud covered the moon and she was gone.

  “Mount up,” called Catrona, vaulting onto her horse’s back.

  Jenna and Petra had slightly more trouble climbing back on theirs. Finally Jenna held the bay’s reins while Petra got on. Then she caught her own horse and handed its reins to Petra.

  “Steady her,” Jenna said.

  “Talking to your servant?” asked Petra.

  “Please,” said Jenna.

  “Duty awaits,” Petra joked. “So, Jenna, go to your Duty!”

  “Enough,” Jen
na said. When she was up at last, the reins gathered back in her own hands, Jenna looked down the road. Catrona was already around the first bend, Petra halfway there. Jenna kicked her heels into Duty’s white sides, and the horse started bouncing along. Gritting her teeth, Jenna kicked harder. This time the horse took off at a gallop, sending clouds of dust behind them, obscuring even the dark silhouette of the Old Hanging Man.

  THE SONG:

  Ballad of the Twelve Sisters

  There were twelve sisters by a lake,

  Rosemary, bayberry, thistle and thorn,

  A handsome sailor one did take,

  And that day a child was born.

  A handsome sailor one did wed,

  Rosemary, bayberry, thistle and thorn,

  The other sisters wished her dead

  On the day the child was born.

  “Oh, sister, give me your right hand,”

  Rosemary, bayberry, thistle and thorn,

  Eleven to the one demand

  On the day the child was born.

  They laid her down upon the hill,

  Rosemary, bayberry, thistle and thorn,

  And took her babe against her will

  On the day the child was born.

  They left her on the cold hillside,

  Rosemary, bayberry, thistle and thorn,

  Convinced that her new babe had died

  On the day the child was born.

  She wept red tears, and she wept gray,

  Rosemary, bayberry, thistle and thorn,

  Till she had wept her life away,

  On the day her child was born.

  The sailor’s heart it broke in two,

  Rosemary, bayberry, thistle and thorn,

  The sisters all their act did rue

  From the day the child was born.

  And from their graves grew rose and briar,

  Rosemary, bayberry, thistle and thorn,

  Twined till they could grow no higher,

  From the day the child was born.

  THE STORY:

  “I am sorry,” Jenna said. “I have acted foully since we left the Hame. It is as if my tongue and my mind have no connection. I cannot think what makes me act this way.”

  They had stopped for the night, scarcely a hundred feet off the road, in a small clearing only slightly larger than a room. There was a rug-sized meadow with great oaks overarching it, branches laced together like a cozy roof. Still, Catrona would not let them light a fire for fear of alerting any passersby.