by Yolen, Jane;
“You also taught me that in the Book of Light it is written that: To kill is not to cure. Surely that means killing a bound man.”
“Do not quote the Book to me like some petty priestess,” Catrona said. “The Book also says: A stroke may save a limb. Like any maunderings of holy writ, the Book can say whatever you want it to say.” She was shaking with anger. “Jenna, you must think. Think. We need these men. We need this army. We need this king. I would not have you marry him to get his followers. But Piet was right. There was another, a better, way. And the Bear will be killed eventually—by this angry crowd, as like as not. If you had done it then, coldly and with great flourish, it would have fed the tale.”
“I am no story,” Jenna cried. “I am no tale. I am real. I feel. I hurt. I bleed. I cannot just kill without conscience.”
“A warrior has no conscience until after the war is done,” Catrona said.
Jenna put her face in her hands and wept.
Catrona turned away.
The moon rose, pale and thin, over the ruined Hame, climbing until it crowned the kitchen chimney. Jenna stood alone while throughout the encampment the arguments raged.
“You were right,” came a voice from behind her.
Turning slowly, she saw Skada.
“And you were wrong,” Skada said.
“How can I be both?”
“You should not have killed him, but you could have done it with words that would have still made them believe.”
“What words?” Jenna asked.
“You might have said: The Bull has bowed down, he need not die by my hand.”
Jenna nodded. “And I could have said the moon is black, but I did not.”
Nodding back, Skada laughed. “No, you did not. And now, my dear Anna, who is both dark”—she pointed to herself—“and light”—she pointed to Jenna—“you are in a fix.”
“We are in a fix,” Jenna amended.
“So now it is we! At last you are including me, sharing the burden, parceling out the guilt.” Skada’s mouth twisted with amusement.
“How can you laugh at such a time?”
“Jenna, there is always time to laugh. And part of you is laughing already, which is why I can. I am not other than you. I am you.”
“Well, I do not feel like laughing,” Jenna said miserably.
“Well, I do,” said Skada. She put back her head and let out a delighted roar of laughter.
Unable to help herself, Jenna did the same.
“There,” Skada said, “feel better?”
“Not really.”
“Not at all?” Skada grinned.
“You are impossible,” Jenna said, shaking her head.
Imitating her, Skada shook her own head. “No, I am not impossible. I am hungry. Let us find something to eat.”
Arm in arm, they walked toward the kitchen.
Jareth stopped them halfway. He tried to talk with his hands, painstakingly spelling out his concerns. His frantic fingers wove complicated messages, but all Jenna could read was a warning.
“The cat …” Jenna said.
“The bull …” Skada added.
Jareth’s eyes pleaded with them, his throat straining with the effort to speak.
“We will be careful,” Jenna promised. “Do not worry. You have warned us well.” When they were away from him, Jenna whispered, “I would cut that collar from his neck and let him speak.”
“Whatever the consequences?” Skada asked.
“Whatever the consequences.” Jenna’s face was tight with anger. “How can Alta’s magic be good when it punishes Her followers and Her enemies equally? Ten Hames gone. Jareth silenced. We are made murderers and monsters in Her name.”
“And heroes,” Skada said.
Jenna turned suddenly to face Skada. “Look around, sister. Look with care. Do you see any heroes here?”
They looked together. By the kitchen’s chimney stood the king, a cup in his hand. He was staring sullenly into it as if he read some unhappy future there. By his side towered two guards in dirt brown tunics and torn trews. One was polishing his blade with his sleeve. Around the fires that blossomed throughout the compound were groups of men drinking and telling stories. Near the gate, a small fire illuminated the smudged faces of Petra and the boys. She was describing something with her hands. In a far corner, where the ruins of a staircase still acended five steps into the air, sat Piet. On one side of him was Catrona, on the other Karri. They were both whispering into his ears. Smiling, he stretched his arms out and enfolded them both in his embrace. They stood together and walked off down the road in the moonlight.
“What does a hero look like?” Skada asked quietly. “Polished helm, fresh tunic, clean hair, and a mouth full of white teeth?”
“Not … not like this anyway,” Jenna answered.
Skada shook her head. It was as if a breeze blew across Jenna’s face. “You are wrong, sister. We are all heroes here.”
THE TALE:
There was once a tyrant of whom it was prophesied that he would be overthrown only when a hero who was not born of womankind, who neither rode nor walked, who bore neither pike nor sword, could conquer him.
Long reigned the tyrant and many were the men, women, and children who were swept away by the bloody winds of his wrath.
One day, in a small village, a child was born, ripped from her dead mother’s womb by the midwife’s knife, lifted out through the stomach, though not from the canal. She was put to suck at the teat of a she goat, raised with the goat’s own kids.
As the child grew, so did the kids, one male and one female. And they played together as if they were all in the same family. They played butt-head and climb-hill and leap-o’er-me and other games beside. And the girl grew tall and beautiful despite her poor beginnings.
The years went by, and still the tyrant reigned. But he grew old and sour. He even longed for death. But the prophecy held true and there was no hero, not even the greatest swordsman, who could kill him—though many tried.
One day, the girl and her goats came into the capital city. As was her wont, she rode atop first one, then the other, her feet dragging along the ground.
The tyrant was out walking and saw the girl who, though astride, was not riding, for her feet were on the ground. He stopped her and asked, “Child, how was it you were born?”
“I was not born but taken from my dead mother.”
“Ah,” said the tyrant. “And how is it you ride?”
“I do not ride, for this is my brother. And this is my sister. It is but a game we play.”
“Ah,” said the tyrant. “You must marry me, for you are my destiny.”
So they were wed and he died, smiling, on his wedding night, conquered by love. So the prophecy was true. And the sages say surely a hero is not easily known for who could tell that a girl astride two goats could be a hero when many men with swords were not.
THE STORY:
“Jenna!” Carum found them as they stood.
Jenna turned and Skada, in perfect unison, turned with her.
Carum stared, first at one, then the other. “It is true, then. Not twins, but sister light and sister dark. I never dared credit it.”
“It is true,” they said together.
“All the time?”
“You spoke to me before alone,” Jenna said.
“The moon,” Skada added. “Or a good fire. And then I will appear.”
Carum’s face looked troubled, but he did not speak.
“Or a candle by the bed.” Skada laughed. “Do not make your forehead like a pool rippled by a stone, Carum. Blow out the candle, and I am gone.”
“I would not have you gone, sister,” Jenna said, reaching out for Skada’s hand.
“There are times when you will,” Skada said in a low voice. “And times when you will not.” She spoke softly to Carum. “I know her mind and I know her heart, for they are mine as well. Walk into the trees, young prince, where the branches overlace the forest floo
r. No moon can pierce that canopy nor can a dark sister appear by her light sister’s side there.”
“But you will still know …”
She shrugged. “Jenna is what she is. You loved her before. And kissed her knowing.”
“I did not know.”
“I am what I am,” Jenna said. “And you did, too, know.”
He shook his head unhappily, but at last admitted, “I knew. And I did not know.”
And knowing? Skada left the question unasked but he heard it anyway.
“Come into the woods, Jenna,” he whispered. “That we may talk. Alone.”
Jenna looked at Skada who nodded. Jenna nodded back, slowly. Then the three walked across the road, the moonlight bright overhead. When they reached the treeline, Skada began to tremble like a leaf in a breeze though the night was warm. There was a steady peep-peep of frogs from a nearby pond. Skada smiled tremulously as they walked into the woods and flickered like a shadow for a moment more, then was gone.
“Skada …” Jenna said, turning.
Carum’s hand was on her forearm. “Don’t go back,” he begged. “Don’t bring her back. Not right now.”
They moved deeper into the dark, just the two of them. But they did not touch again.
Jenna had never talked so long and so intensely with anyone before. They rehearsed their entire lives to one another. Jenna told Carum about growing up in a Hame, and he in turn spoke movingly about life in the Garunian court. She remembered stories and songs which she shared with him; he parceled out tales from the Continent which had been reshaped by four hundred years in the Dales. They spoke about everything except the future. It was as if the past had to be dealt with thoroughly, first; and all the time they had not known each other accounted for. In the beginning they spoke hesitantly, offering each piece of the past as a gift that might be refused. But soon the words came tumbling too quickly; they interrupted each other over and over as one past overlapped the other.
“That happened to me, too,” Jenna said as a memory of Carum’s triggered her own.
“It was that way with me,” Carum said, prodded by one of Jenna’s tales.
It was as if their lives were suddenly braided together, there in the darkling woods so far from home.
In the middle of one of Carum’s stories about his father, a man who had not let kingship intrude upon his own hearth, there was a sudden great, horrible shouting from the ruins of the Hame, and the loud stampede of horses. Jenna and Carum stood as one, though they could make nothing of the words or the cries.
“Something awful …” Jenna began.
“… has happened,” Carum concluded, grabbing for her hand and yanking her to her feet. They ran quickly toward the sound.
Once they were on the road, the moon, almost down beyond the line of trees beyond the Hame, lent them Skada’s faint presence.
“What is it?” Jenna called to her dark sister as they ran.
“I know no more than you,” Skada answered, her voice a shadow.
Racing through the broken gates, they headed toward the angry boil of men centered by the hearth. Carum plowed a path through them, with Jenna and Skada in his wake.
“Is it the king?” Carum cried.
There were a number of answers, none of them clear.
“The Bear!” someone called.
“Got loose,” said another.
“The bastard. He done ’er.”
“Gone. Gone to tell.” It was the first man.
“No, Henk’s got ’em.”
“B’aint true. Got his horse. Got the king, too.”
“Nah.”
“The king!” Carum grabbed the man’s shoulder who had mentioned his brother. “Did he hurt him? Did he hurt Pike? Did he hurt the king?”
“Not he,” the man said, shaking his head so fiercely long black hair covered his right eye. “Look!” He pointed.
The men moved apart and Jenna could see that the king and Petra were bending over something, but in the shadowy dark she could not tell what held them so. Then she saw it was Piet, sitting on the ground by the broken stair, cradling a body in his arms. When Jenna went over and spoke his name, he looked up. His mouth, with its uneven teeth, opened and closed like a fish; his sky-colored eyes were clouded over.
Jenna knelt on one side, Carum the other. In the darkened corner, Skada was gone. Putting her hand out to touch the body Piet held, Jenna was unable to say the name.
It was Carum who whispered it. “Catrona.”
Catrona opened her eyes and tried to smile up at Jenna. There was blood on her tunic and blood trickling down her right arm. “We were so busy … we did not hear … did not see … I missed the thread, Jenna.”
“What does she mean—missed the thread?” Carum asked.
“She taught me the Eye-Mind Game,” Jenna whispered, remembering. “A game to train the senses. There was a thread. I saw it. She did not. It was all so long ago.”
“Jenna … the thread …” Catrona struggled.
“Hush, girl, hush,” Piet whispered. “Talking takes yer breath.”
Jenna picked up Catrona’s right hand and it lay in hers boneless and still. She remembered when Catrona had first shown her how to thrust, with a sword that was much too heavy for her because Jenna had been too stubborn to set it down. Your hand is your strength, Catrona had said, but it is the heart that strikes the blow.
“What happened,” Jenna whispered.
The king explained. “The Bear—who should have been dead by your hand—worked himself loose. He strangled the guards. Took their swords. When he went for a horse, he came upon Piet and his blanket companion, away from the rest. He thrust Catrona from behind, nearly skewering Piet as well. Then he was gone. Others have gone after him. I doubt they’ll find him in the dark.” He recited the facts as if reading them, little emotion in his voice.
Jenna stared at the ground. Should have been dead by your hand. He was right and there was no apology strong enough. She shook her head.
“What good are you to me, White Jenna? You have caused the death of three good fighters. No one will follow you now.” His voice was low so that only those bending over could hear.
Catrona struggled to sit up, away from Piet’s arms. “No, she is the one. On the slant. Listen to the priestess. On … the … slant.” She fell back, exhausted by the effort.
“Oh, Catrona, my catkin, don’t ye be going,” Piet cried. He began to weep soundlessly.
“I will not let her die,” Jenna said.
Piet stared up at her, fighting to control his sobs. “Ye is too late, girl. She are dead already.”
“Do not sew the shroud before there is a corpse? Catrona said suddenly. “Do they not say that in the Dales?” She coughed and bright red blood frothed from her mouth.
“I will take her to Alta’s grove. She will not die there,” Jenna said. “Alta said I could bring one back. It will be Catrona.” She slipped her arms under Catrona’s body, trying to wrest her from Piet’s grasp.
The movement caused Catrona to gasp and another frothing of blood bubbled out of her mouth. She swallowed it down. “Let me die here, Jenna, in Piet’s arms. There are no shadows in Alta’s grove. No shadows. I would not live forever without Katri. That is no life.” She smiled and looked up into Piet’s face. “You are alright, my Piet. For a man.”
“I’ve always loved ye alone, girl. Ever since that first time. Your first. And mine. We were children then. I thought to find ye when the king was on the throne. To grow old with ye, my girl. To grow old …” He bent his back and whispered into her ear. She smiled again and closed her eyes. For a moment Piet did not move, just sat with his mouth against Catrona’s ear. Then he put his cheek against hers. No one else moved.
At last he sat back up. “That’s it, then. That’s the end of it.” His eyes were dry but there was a dark furrow across his brow.
Petra bent over Catrona’s body, putting her palm on Catrona’s forehead. She recited in a calm, low voice:
“In the name of Alta’s cave,
The dark and lonely grave
And all who swing twixt
Light and light,
Great Alta
Take this woman,
Take this warrior,
Take this sister
Into your sight.
Wrap her in your hair
And cradled there
Let her be a babe again.”
The men were silent until she finished the prayer, and then a low murmur of voices began: angry, passionate sounds. A few cursed Jenna out loud, calling her a “bloodless bitch” and “Kalas’ helpmeet.”
Petra turned slowly from Catrona’s body and stared around at them. She raised her hands for silence and they were, unaccountably, still. “Fools,” she cried. “You are all fools. Do you not see what this means. Catrona herself said it. You must read this death on the slant.”
An anonymous voice called out, “What do you mean?”
“Who has died here? Catrona. A warrior of the Hames. Also known as Cat. Cat! So the Cat has been slain, and all because the Anna chose not to slay the Bear first.”
“But it be the wrong Cat!” the man with the scarred eye said, pushing his way to the front of the pack of men.
“And how do you know which Cat Alta meant?” Petra asked. “Or which Cat the Garuns’ own prophecy named?”
“But I thought …” he began.
“You must not think on prophecy. When it comes, you just know.” Petra’s face was alive with her feelings. She raised her voice. “Catrona … Cat herself reminded us before she died. She said: She is the one. The one who made the Hound and the Bull and now the Cat bow low.”
“No!” Jenna cried, slamming her fist on the ground. “Catrona’s death was not written.” But her protest was swallowed up in the rising swell of the men’s shouts.
“The Anna! The Anna! The Anna!” The chorus was loud and Petra, hands above her head, fists clenched, was leading it. “THE ANNA! THE ANNA! THE ANNA!”
No! Jenna thought. Not for this. Do not accept me for this. But the shouts went on.
“Men in mobs—so unpredictable. So easily swayed,” whispered the king. He grinned and put his hands under Jenna’s elbows and pulled her up to stand by his side. “One minute you are a villain, the next a saint. You need not be a king’s bride, now, child. You are the Anna. They have said so. The Anna for now.”