White Jenna

by Yolen, Jane;

  Jenna heard one of the boys gasp and start forward.

  “No!” she cried. “Let him waste his breath in boasts. Do not crowd him. His sword has a long reach.”

  “A very long reach,” the Bear agreed. “And after I dispose of the pups, I will teach the bitch a lesson. A lesson you will long remember. At least as long as you live.” He laughed again. “Which will not be that long after all.”

  “Anna …” It was Sandor.

  “No. After this is over I will tell you a story that Ca—that Longbow told me. About a cat and a mouse. For now, I would have you remember the Grenna and how they rule.”

  “What be your meaning—oh!” Someone had obviously elbowed Sandor in the side. Probably Jareth. Jareth would have understood first.

  The boys fanned out in a wide circle, none higher or lower, none nearer or farther, under Jareth’s silent tutelage. Just like the Grenna’s circle.

  Then another sound reached Jenna, though she never took her eyes from the Bear. She suspected from the sound and the slight widening of his eyes that the tangle of men in the center of the field had at last unknotted itself. Or the circle of swords had dispatched several warriors. She could tell that the number of men around the Bear had doubled and guessed that none of them had arrows left, or he would have been dead by now.

  “Follow Jareth’s lead,” she cautioned to them. “Do not get within the Bear’s sword range.”

  “Come, little puppies; come, little snuffling hounds,” the Bear taunted. “One of you must make the first move. One of you must be brave enough to show the others how to die.” He kept turning, keeping them off guard, bringing his sword from left to right. “Which shall it be? You, with the pretty green band round your throat? Or you, with the long stalks for legs? Or shall it be Alta’s slut, whose white braid I shall cut off and hang upon my helm?” He continued turning, addressing them all, but Jenna’s warning kept them far enough away so that even when he thrust forward, they were out of his reach.

  “Let him tire,” Jenna said. “Do not let his sword take more of us.”

  “I do not tire,” he said. “I will outlast you all.”

  If she hoped to tempt him into making a false move, he was too smart an old warrior for that. He continued circling Iluna’s body, never losing his footing, never stumbling over her corpse, occasionally kicking at it as if to underscore his ability to kill them all, one at a time.

  Jenna began to feel his rhythm. Catrona had taught her that: how to watch for an animal’s particular rhythm in the woods. What the pace? Catrona had cautioned them. What the pattern? It had been a constant lesson in the woods, the only way to be sure a hunt would end successfully. And this was just another hunt, Jenna thought. Hunting the Bear.

  What was the Bear’s pattern then? He moved feint, feint, feint, thrust; feint, feint, thrust. But always, right before the thrust, there was the slightest of movements, a hitching of his right arm that signaled the forward cut of the sword. She watched another few minutes to be sure, all the while cautioning the men to wait. The waiting was clearly wearing on them, but it would wear on the Bear as well.

  When his back was momentarily turned to her, she bent swiftly and removed the knife from her boot. Across the circle, several men watched her. One man’s eyebrows went up. It signaled the Bear, but he did not quite know what it meant. As he turned toward Jenna, more alert than he had been before, he saw the knife and smiled, guessing what she meant to do. He hitched his shoulder. But fooling him, she flung her sword point first, as they used to do in the game of wands at the Hame.

  The Bear startled for a moment and beat the sword away with his and was back at attention in seconds. But at the same moment, Jareth, alert to Jenna’s every move, flung his sword as well. He had never played at wands and did not understand the balance of a sword, how to compensate for the heavy braided hilt. Instead of going point first, the sword flipped and struck the Bear in the chest with the grip. He grabbed it with his left hand, laughing.

  But at the same moment Jenna flung herself through the air. Before he could bring either sword up, she was on top of him, sinking the knife point between his eyes. He fell backward with Jenna on top. When she twisted the knife a half turn to the right, she felt the grinding against the bone. His right hand still clenching the sword came up behind her, as much a reflex as a stroke. One of the boys at her back gasped loudly and she hoped he had not been caught on the blade.

  Then she stared down into the Bear’s face, watching as the eyes below her glazed over. There was something horribly, hauntingly familiar about the feel of the knife in the bone and the man’s dying eyes staring up at her. She could not recall where she had seen such a thing before.

  “For Catrona!” she whispered into his slackening mouth. “For Iluna. For all the women you have killed.” She could feel his body under hers tremble slightly, stiffen, then relax. He made no answer except to exhale a sour sigh through his rigid lips.

  Jenna stood slowly, her hands bloody. Even more slowly she wiped them on her vest. When she turned away, she was shaking uncontrollably, as if she had caught a sudden fever. Jareth put his arms around her, trying to hold her still, but she could not stop shivering.

  And then she heard a strange, thin cry that built up to a high, unrelenting pitch.

  “Scillia!” Jenna whispered, turning back, all her trembling ended by the demands of that cry. “You poor little babe. You are mine, now.”

  She unstrapped the child from Iluna’s back and held her tightly, but the babe would not be comforted. Her cranky crying—that strange, tearless sobbing—continued.

  “Let her cry,” Jenna said. “She has lost both mother and home in one short day. If she cannot cry for that, she will cry for nothing all the rest of her life.”

  “She be just hungry,” Sandor said sensibly.

  “Or wet,” someone else commented.

  Jenna ignored them, bouncing the swaddled infant in her left arm and leading them all across the field, past the dying and the dead.

  As she walked, she made careful note of their faces. It was the New Steading boys, mostly, who had died upon that lea in their bright clothes and with their untried swords, still sheathed. There were few familiar faces among the dead. But somehow that made her all the sadder, that these boys had died strangers to her, without a word of comfort. She had promised herself not to cry for death, but she could not help it, though she wept silently that no one should hear, tears streaming from her eyes. Seeing Jenna’s tears, the baby stopped her own crying and, fascinated, reached out her hand to touch a tear and trace its path. Jenna kissed that tiny hand.

  None of the dead men on the field was Carum. Jenna made quite sure of that before heading toward the ring of swordsmen, now relaxed and waiting. As she approached, one came out to speak with her. She recognized him at once, Gileas with the scarred eye.

  He put a hand to his forehead, a sketchy kind of salute.

  “Anna, you must come quickly. It is the king. He’s dying.”

  “And his brother?” she asked quietly, suddenly aware of the other bodies within the circle of men. “Carum Longbow. What of him?”

  “Took!” Gileas answered. “Took like a good many of ’em. They blew a victory on their bloody horns, took what they could, and were fast away, leaving whatever of their men was dead and whichever was still fighting behind. Took!”

  Took! Her mind could not quite hold it. She repeated it to herself over and over and still did not grasp it. Took!

  He guided her to Gorum who lay against Piet’s knees. There was a smudge of old blood around his mouth. He was not smiling. How Jenna longed to see that wolfish smile now.

  “Pike,” she whispered, realizing how easy forgiveness could come. She knelt by his side. The babe in her arms cooed and reached for the king.

  Still unsmiling, Gorum lifted his hand and touched the child’s outstretched fingers.

  “Jenna,” he said, his voice a shadow. “You must find him. Find Carum. Bring him to me. I
must tell him. He will soon be king.”

  Jenna looked up, startled. “No one has told him?”

  Piet shook his head.

  “Told me what?” The old fire returned to his voice, then trailed off.

  “That Carum …”

  Piet put a finger to his lips.

  “That Carum … is still fighting. Bravely. Well. Not just with the bow, but the sword, too.”

  “I was wrong, then. He will make a fine king.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

  “You are the king,” Jenna whispered, “as long as you are alive. And you are not dead yet. You will live long. I know.”

  “You are a prophecy, girl, not a prophet. I am dead already. A king …” He coughed and fresh blood frothed at his mouth. He swallowed it down painfully. “A king knows even more than a girl. That is why I am the king.” This time he managed to smile. “You will make a fine queen, Jenna. I was right about that though wrong about the other.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Hush, dinna waste breath,” Piet cautioned.

  “It doesn’t matter, and don’t you go being a silly nursemaid now,” the king said. “I need to tell her.” He tried to sit a little straighter, slumped back into Piet’s arms. “I was wrong. We had not the might to go against Kalas. Not yet. Not ever. Remember the story of the mouse and the cat that mother … did he tell you? I don’t think I have the breath for it now.”

  “He told me.”

  His voice was barely audible. “Remember …”

  “I will remember.”

  “You really are the end,” he whispered. “At least, you are mine.” His eyes closed.

  “I killed the Bear,” Jenna whispered, sure she was talking to a dead man.

  “Of course,” the king said, eyes still closed. “It was written.” He did not move again.

  They sat for many minutes, Piet cradling the king in his arms. No one spoke, though every now and then a cough shattered the stillness. The baby slept with a bubbling stillness and Jenna carefully set the sleeping child by Gorum’s side.

  Piet looked up. “Gone,” he admitted at last.

  Gone. The word reverberated in Jenna’s head. The king was gone. Carum was gone. One dead, the other missing. Both gone. She was about to speak when Sandor shouted.

  “Hold! An army. Through the trees.”

  “Hold, indeed,” Jenna said. “Those are women. The sisters of M’dorah. Do you not see Petra in the lead?”

  “Women, bah!” a boy’s voice called out. Others echoed him.

  “Shut that silly trap of yourn,” Piet said. “Have ye never seen a girl fight? I have. Side by side, I have. And they are the best of us. Certainly better than thee, boy. And the Anna here, is the best of all. Hasn’t she just done the Bear? What has thee to squawk about now?”

  “Nowt.” The boy looked down. The ones who cheered him originally were silent.

  “Welcome them, then,” Piet said. “Raise yer bloody voices and call them in. Girls like that.”

  They set up a cry, compounded of grief and welcome, and waved their arms, a strange ululating that brought the sisters of M’dorah across the blood-soaked field to their midst.

  They buried their own men in one common grave, the men of Kalas’ army in another. The king and Iluna had separate graves. Above the king’s they set a marker with his name and a crown carved by Sandor, who had some skill. He carved a marker for Iluna’s as well, the goddess sign copied from the ring Petra was wearing.

  The sisters of M’dorah were good nurses, binding up the wounds of those for whom binding would make a difference, the men who could still ride. The others that Piet determined could stand to travel, he insisted be sent back to New Steading. He had the men build makeshift sleds from the tree limbs, cushioned by blanket strips. These the horses could pull. Three of the older women, who were not warriors anyway, volunteered to guide the horses down the road and report on what had happened.

  “The babes go, too,” Jenna said. “If this is indeed an ending, then one of the things that ends here is our bringing children into any fray.”

  “But it has always been done,” Maltia protested.

  All around her the women nodded vigorously. “Always,” they murmured.

  “It says in the Book that: A foolish loyalty can be the greater danger. This I was reminded of by the one who anointed me. Surely you would not disagree?”

  There were many looks passed between the women and not all of them, Jenna was sure, signaled an easy agreement.

  “One can be as foolishly loyal to past customs as to people,” Petra said.

  “Yes.” Jenna’s voice was firm. “And this custom ends here. Today. We will, I am sure, sing of it in the future.” She handed little Scillia to the True Speaker. The child whimpered as she went from hand to hand. “But I shall return and take this child for my own.”

  “She belongs to us, Anna,” Maltia said. “She belongs to M’dorah.”

  “M’dorah is no more,” Jenna reminded her gently. “When I took her from Iluna’s care, my hands were still red from the blood of Iluna’s killer. She is mine, little Scillia. I will love her well.”

  “I will keep her until ye return,” Maltia said. “And then ye can tell me, without the wind of battle in thy mouth, how well it is ye love her.”

  Jenna nodded.

  The other two babies were handed to the sisters, with many whispers of farewell. Then the women embraced, not once but many times. Strapping the children onto their backs, Maltia and the other two women took up the horses’ reins and started to guide the line of roped horses and their sleds down the road to New Steading.

  “Mount up!” Piet called when they were nearly out of sight.

  “We do not know how to ride,” a woman cried out.

  “You will learn on the way,” Jenna promised cheerily, “even as I did.”

  “Horses!” a rosy-cheeked young woman said, and spat. “They be an abomination.”

  “But a necessary and quick one,” Petra said. “If the Anna can learn to ride, anyone can.” She smiled.

  After several missteps and one disastrous hard fall suffered by an older woman with a chunky face and a determined mouth, the sisters were finally mounted.

  “Which way now?” Jenna asked Piet.

  “Farther north. They rode off that way and, I suspect, to Kalas’ holdings. With prisoners—especially the young prince—they will not be staying in the old king’s palace. Too many of his supporters live there yet. Besides, Kalas always had the biggest dungeons.”

  Jenna digested that information, then asked, “And they will not return here to end what they so foully began?”

  Piet smiled sourly. “They believe it already ended. And so it seemed to me, girl. The Bear slew the king. They carried off Prince Longbow and another double dozen of our fighters. They trust the Bear to finish the rest and that he will follow.”

  “Do you truly believe that?” Jenna asked.

  “I bet my life upon it,” said Piet.

  “You just have,” Jenna answered. “And mine as well.” She turned and signaled them all to follow and they rode, three abreast, toward the north.

  THE TALE:

  There was once a nest of seven mice who lived behind the kitchen wall. They had been warned by their Mam before she disappeared that when they were old enough to go out of the nest, they had to go with great care and all together, not one at a time.

  “For if you go one after one,” she said, “the great cat who lives by the stove will eat you up. It will catch you if It can.”

  Now the little mice listened to her, but that was all she said. And so how could they be afraid of an It they had never seen? One by one, when they were old enough they crept out of the hole. And one by one they disappeared into It’s mouth. Until at last there was only the smallest mouse left, named Little Bit.

  Little Bit’s turn came on a bright spring day. But he had heard the sound of It’s teeth and claws outside the hole. And though Little
Bit was small, he was cunning. He peeked out of the hole and sure enough there was the monstrous It, snoring by the stove, with one eye open.

  “This needs a plan,” he told himself. So he searched throughout the hole and all along the inside of the boards, until he came up with enough materials to complete his plan. He worked for many days, well into the evening, for plans take patience and time. But at last he was done. He looked at his handiwork: an army of twenty mice made from sticks and gray cotton, with raisins for eyes and string for tails. He tied them one to another and the last he tied to his own tail with a special knot.

  “All home free!” he cried as loud as he could, to alert the cat. “Come on, boys!” Then he ran out of the hole hauling those toy mice behind him, lumpity, bumpity, over the floor.

  Well, It was up in a single jump, certain of the fine meal ahead. And It picked off the mice from the back end first: one, two, three … but they were all stuck together. Their tails tangled in It’s claws. It howled in anger and stuffed two in It’s mouth. Phew! Phwat! Psssaw!

  Little Bit ran free, as the knot slipped loose from his tail. When he got to the kitchen door, he stopped for a moment, singing out:

  “I am just a Little Bit,

  But I made a fool of It.

  Greedy guts and greedy paws

  Makes a tangle out of claws.”

  Then he ran out into the spring meadow to look for his Mam.

  THE MYTH:

  At last Great Alta shook her hair and a gift fell out of it onto the land below. The gift was a Babe in whose right hand was a star of purest silver. Her left hand was hid behind her.

  “The star is yours, though you were not born with it. And in your left hand is a star of gold. Whichever you choose shall shine brightest of all. The star will be both your guide and your grief. It will be your light and your loss. It will be your close companion.”

  The child tossed the silver star into the night sky. It glittered there and shone down on the roads throughout all the land.

  At this the child smiled and brought her left hand to the front. She opened it. There was no star there.