Dragonfly Song

by Wendy Orr

  It’s also their business to know what’s going on with the islanders. People tell secrets when they’re worried or in pain, and healers hear them. Women gathering greens in the sunshine sometimes forget who they’re talking to, and say more than they intend. They gossip about mean-spirited neighbours and loving relatives; about a fisher who’s lost his luck or a herder her goats.

  The wise-women’s real wisdom is that they’ll listen to anyone, even the servants. Servants not only spill their masters’ secrets – sometimes their own are worth listening to.

  Yet the wise-women are also the only people the Lady truly trusts. It’s their knowledge that lets her judge exactly what each islander owes the goddess. It’s their wisdom that guides her on the dates for sowing and harvesting.

  Until twelve years ago, the Lady went out into the fields and hills herself. She observed the birds and took what she saw back to the sanctuary to tell the snakes. She danced in the sacred mountain spaces until she felt the goddess speak.

  But the goddess hasn’t spoken to the Lady since the night she sent her baby daughter to be killed. She lives in fear of displeasing the gods again, and goes out only for the ceremonies that demand it. And although she still reads the oracle, she always sends for Kelya before she starts. Her maid is sent out, the door is closed, and voices murmur for an hour or two until finally the Lady goes to the snakes’ cave to read the future.

  Now that Kelya is blind, she relies on the younger wise-women’s sightings, and decides not only what is significant enough to be passed on to the Lady, but the best way to describe it. If a hawk carrying a dead dove is attacked by an eagle, is it more important that the hawk has lost its prey, or that it survived the eagle’s attack? Or is the significance in the death of the dove? The signs are often so clear to Kelya that she can’t help hinting how the oracle might interpret them.

  So there are many reasons why Aissa can never become an apprentice. People aren’t going to share their news with her, and she certainly can’t be a midwife – no woman wants a cursed child delivering her baby. Even her spying skill is useless if she can’t pass on what she’s learned.

  But Aissa’s never dreamed of being an apprentice to anyone, let alone the wise-women. A full belly and not being spat at – those had been her dreams. Now she has food at every meal, even if she eats alone. The constant pain in her stomach disappears. Her arms and legs are filling out and she must even be getting taller, because in just one turning of the moon, her tunic has got shorter. Now it’s a spare, for when her new one is being washed. She’s safe, warm and fed; she’s learning, listening and not being beaten – and as long as she sticks close to the wise-women, no one dares spit at her.

  One cool, cloudy morning, out helping Roula dig up nettle roots for the winter, her hands stinging and her back aching, Aissa is suddenly so full of joy she feels she’s going to burst. Roula stops to stretch and groan, but Aissa throws herself into a cartwheel – awkward at first, then whirling free, over and over down the hill.

  She can’t imagine she could ever ask for more.

  Roula is glad

  to have a servant under her

  though she wishes that Aissa

  could eat in the kitchen

  and that she, Roula,

  wise-women’s apprentice,

  didn’t have to serve food

  to her servant.

  And sometimes

  when she sees Gold-Cat purring

  on Aissa’s chest

  she wonders how a servant

  can have a cat

  when the cats belong to the Lady

  and Roula can’t have one.

  But Kelya says

  to bring the food,

  don’t ask about the cat,

  and Roula knows better

  than to disobey.

  Not because of fear,

  but because Kelya

  is usually right –

  and besides,

  when she brings a meal

  Aissa thanks her

  with hand on heart and light in her eyes,

  as grateful as if Roula

  were the Lady herself.

  Aissa knows

  that Roula doesn’t like her,

  but she likes that Roula

  is kind anyway,

  or at least, not unkind.

  She feels Lyra and Lena watching

  to see what she does wrong

  as if they haven’t decided yet

  what they think of her.

  But now that Kelya doesn’t care

  what the world thinks,

  now that Aissa is finally

  under her protection

  in the wise-women’s chamber,

  the gentleness of her hands

  on Aissa’s face

  sometimes feels

  like the licking of Milli-Cat’s tongue

  on her precious kittens.

  But there’s still fear

  in the pit of her belly

  when she leaves the warm room

  to pass the kitchen

  or the market square.

  She’d thought she’d be glad

  to imagine the rage

  of the twins or Squint-Eye,

  at knowing she’s safe –

  but when she sees

  Half-One pale on a bench

  or Half-Two strutting her hate

  her body doesn’t know it’s safe

  and shivers.

  And now

  on her way back from the servants’ privy –

  the path clear, no one around –

  the servants are all

  in front of the kitchen

  laughing

  at Half-Two in a frenzy,

  furious because

  her sister’s still not quite her sister.

  She blames Aissa

  but can’t touch her,

  so she’s thrashing Pigeon-Toe,

  screaming that the floor’s not clean,

  lashing out with feet and hands.

  The little boy’s cries

  go to Aissa’s heart,

  and white rage rises

  from her belly

  to her burning eyes.

  No time for fear,

  she shoves through the crowd –

  servants or townfolk, she doesn’t care –

  grabbing raging Half-Two

  by the shoulders,

  so they both fall backwards

  with the twin on top

  and Pigeon-Toe free,

  running as fast as he can

  away from the fight.

  The crowd laughing harder,

  shouting and jeering

  as Half-Two scrambles up,

  sees her attacker,

  howls in horror

  and jumps with both feet

  at Aissa’s belly.

  Aissa rolls

  just in time –

  but Half-Two swoops

  and yanks her upright

  by her hair –

  Aissa has grown,

  but Half-Two is still bigger.

  Time goes slow;

  Aissa can hear the whistle

  of the twin’s raging breath

  above the shouts of the crowd,

  the barking of dogs;

  can see Half-Two’s fist

  pulling back for power,

  flying towards her

  like a charging ram,

  and knows that at last

  Half-Two is triumphant.

  Time slower still,

  waiting for the pain

  that doesn’t come

  as Roula bellows, ‘Stop!’,

  grabbing Half-Two’s arm

  so the punch never lands

  and Aissa’s hair is let go,

  her head so loose

  it might fall off.

  The crowd disappears

  as if they were never there,

  and a guard arrives,

  asking Roula

  if sh
e needs some help.

  Roula doesn’t say

  he could have come sooner

  but looks at him hard

  till he stares at the ground,

  and she says loud,

  ‘In case you’ve forgotten,

  I am Roula,

  daughter of the wise-woman Lena,

  apprentice to the wise-women

  who care for you

  when you’re ill –

  as your sister is now;

  who advise you

  in times of trouble –

  and I advise you now:

  this girl is the server

  to the wise-women and me,

  under their protection

  and mine.’

  That night

  Roula tells the story

  and the wise-women smile.

  Roula was right

  to protect Aissa, they say,

  and Aissa was right

  to follow her heart

  and protect someone smaller.

  Aissa hadn’t known

  she was strong enough

  to do it

  or that someone could care enough

  to do it for her –

  or that both those things

  could feel so good.

  And in the next days

  though little Pigeon-Toe

  runs from Aissa

  and Roula

  as well as Half-Two,

  Aissa becomes

  not so much Roula’s servant

  but an almost-apprentice

  as if Roula is teaching her

  all that she can.

  Winter comes with its icy winds and running noses, and a frightened young swineherd comes to the Hall.

  ‘My dada fell from a rock yesterday,’ he tells Lyra. ‘His leg’s broke, and now he’s raging as if the gods are after him.’

  Cold or not, the wise-women still visit anyone who needs them. Lyra packs a basket with herbs and cloths, checking she has everything she might need.

  Roula and Lena are out seeing a family of coughing fishers. ‘You can carry the basket,’ Lyra says.

  It’s the first time Aissa’s been allowed on a house call. She tries not to grin as they leave the coolroom.

  She wonders if the boy’s father could be the swineherd whose boar Luki tried to leap, but the boy turns east at the ancient oak and leads them on a rough trail through the hills. It’s well past noon when they reach a round stone house with a thatched roof, a sty with a sow and four half-grown piglets, and a stone wall encircling it all.

  Dogs erupt into barking, teeth bared at the visitors till the boy calls them off. He lifts the gate and the dogs let them pass, watching balefully, as if they think Lyra and Aissa are just waiting for a chance to steal a piglet.

  In the house that smells

  of smoke and pig,

  the swineherd rages nonsense,

  forehead burning,

  leg red-swollen,

  the fleece he lies on soaked with sweat.

  The mother has three small

  runny-nosed boys

  and a round belly ready

  to give birth,

  a dozing grandfather

  and a sad-eyed aunt with a lump in her neck

  as if she’s swallowed an eagle’s egg.

  The farm remote enough

  they don’t know that Aissa

  is the bad-luck child,

  and they’re all too ill

  or worried

  to notice that she doesn’t speak.

  Lyra has herbs for the fever,

  poultice for the leg,

  cloths to strap it

  straight to a board.

  She feels the mother’s belly

  with encouraging words,

  and the aunt’s throat

  with a promise to return

  with herbs for the lump.

  The mother offers hot soup:

  a bowl for Lyra

  and one for Aissa

  to drink like anyone else.

  The day is darkening

  as they leave;

  the sad-eyed aunt

  pokes a pine branch into the fire

  and gives it to Aissa

  when it starts to smoulder,

  in case they are still in the hills

  at dark.

  The boy goes

  to see them on their way,

  but he is young –

  Lyra sends him back,

  and the dogs with him.

  Then Lyra turns across the hills,

  not the way they came:

  ‘It’s a little further,’ she says,

  ‘But we’ll meet a trail,

  then the road from the fishers –

  safer in the dark.’

  The hills are rugged

  but there will still be light

  for a little longer,

  and Aissa,

  twirling her branch to keep its fire,

  feels a strange sort of joy,

  a song inside her

  though she can’t quite hear the words,

  so that Lyra stops in her telling

  of herbs and illness

  and smiles.

  ‘Happiness in the hills,’ she says,

  ‘is a gift from the goddess.

  Every wise-woman feels it.’

  Then,

  over the next hill,

  where sharp-scented bushes

  grow grey and thick,

  terror strikes –

  swooping on Aissa

  like a fox on a mouse,

  knocking out her breath

  like a punch from a twin.

  She wants to fall to the ground,

  to crawl under

  a grey-green bush

  but she’s frozen,

  still as stone.

  Lyra staring all around,

  grabbing the torch in defiance

  of whatever might come –

  but nothing is there,

  nothing but

  a house on the hill,

  long deserted,

  roof missing

  stone walls crumbling.

  ‘Ah,’ says Lyra, slowly guessing.

  ‘The farm the raiders burned –

  and this the place, maybe,

  where you lay that night.’

  She lays the pine torch across a rock,

  and hugs Aissa,

  tight as a mother.

  ‘I will ask Kelya what to do

  to cleanse this place,

  and you.’

  She takes Aissa’s hand

  and they go on,

  making it safely home

  before night falls.

  In the morning

  the wise-women send Aissa

  alone

  to gather seaweed and mussel shells

  for the egg-lump in

  the sad aunt’s throat.

  Aissa has seen

  the pile of dried seaweed in the stores

  and she knows they want her

  out of the way

  while they talk about

  her terror on the hill.

  And if it means

  the goddess doesn’t want her

  even to serve,

  then Aissa will be

  nothing

  again.

  Climbing down to the beach –

  the far path

  where the fishers don’t go –

  she finds mussel shells first:

  ‘Not the mussels, just the shells,’

  said Lyra,

  ‘they don’t have to be perfect

  to be useful:

  we’ll crush and burn them

  into a powder.’

  But Aissa chooses the freshest

  long-haired kelp

  and bright green seaweed,

  laying them clean and pure

  on top of her shells –

  carefully, carefully,

  doing everything right
r />   to please the goddess

  and the wise-women.

  The salt sea air blows through her fears

  so when she climbs the cliffs again

  Aissa stops at the shrine

  to offer the goddess

  a bright whorled shell.

  Lost in her prayer,

  she doesn’t hear

  Nasta’s mother

  come up from behind

  pushing her hard

  towards the edge,

  knocking her down

  and spilling her basket.

  ‘Next time,’

  Nasta’s mother snarls,

  ‘I’ll push you right off.

  This shrine is for fishers;

  you might serve the wise-women

  but you’re still a slave.’

  With a final spit

  Nasta’s mother stomps away,

  and Aissa, trembling,

  picks herself up,

  packs up her basket

  and replaces

  her shell on the shrine.

  Now she hardly ever

  gets spat at,

  she hates it more.

  That night Kelya gives her

  bitter herbs to drink

  before she sleeps.

  Aissa dreams of her home

  with Mama and Dada,

  the house on the hill

  when it had a roof

  and life.

  She dreams of the bush –

  the sharp-scented, grey-green bush –

  where Mama hid her,

  saying, ‘Stay quiet,

  still as stone till I come back.’

  When she wakes,

  blind Kelya looks in her eyes

  and sees her dream.

  ‘You must go back once more,’

  she says.

  ‘It should be me to take you there

  as I did before,

  but I can’t walk so far.

  Cut a lock of my hair,

  and know I go with you.’

  Aissa wonders

  how she can ever be brave enough

  to go alone

  and what it is she must do,

  but Lyra

  and Lena and Roula,

  are ready

  with baskets of herbs and wine

  and the mussel shells

  ground and burned for the sad-eyed aunt.

  They bathe at the Source,

  come steaming out

  into the bright cool day,

  to follow the creek

  across the hills

  just as Kelya carried the baby

  twelve years ago.

  At the ruined house

  Lena and Roula

  scatter herbs to cleanse.

  Lyra pours wine for the goddess

  and Aissa offers tears

  for dead Dada,

  Gaggie, Poppa and Brown Dog,

  and for stolen Mama,

  Tattie and Zufi.

  Her tears are still flowing

  when Lyra leads her

  to the fear-soaked bush

  for another offering