Altaica

by Tracy M. Joyce

She looked around to see Āsim. ‘You really can’t handle your grog, can you, girl?’

  ‘I’m fine. My eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark after looking at the fire,’ she mumbled.

  He chuckled. ‘I see. Since you can’t see straight, I’ll just help you to the wagon.’ She tried to shake her arm free of his grip, but could not.

  She sighed and nodded. ‘Fine.’ Crawling into the back of the wagon, she drew her cloak about her, pulled its hood up and a blanket over her. ‘Thanks,’ she said quietly as Āsim turned away. Before he got too far, she called him back. ‘Āsim, why?’ He quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘Why that story? And why change it? Safa didn’t have an eagle, she had a gyrfalcon and I don’t remember the bit about raking his face with her claws.’

  ‘Asha, there are so many similarities between your tale and Safa’s that a blind man could see them. So what if I changed the bird to match yours?’

  ‘You made sure that they recognised the similarities. My hair colour, the bird …’

  ‘Yes, and the scarring of his face. All the tales acknowledge that he came out of that battle permanently scarred. All tales grow in the telling. Asha, change is coming. I’ve felt it for a while, but now with these strangers arriving …’ He shuddered, shaking his head. ‘Change is coming. But our clan has already been changing for a while and not for the better. Umniga knows it and so do you. These young men that Vikram has here, they are all good young lads. Some are from the country, where you and Umniga have visited to teach and keep alive our old ways, but some come from Faros, where they don’t know the tales or the Lore very well. They need something to believe in.’ She stared at him, speechless. ‘Don’t look at me so, girl. How do you think legends are born?’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ELENA HAD GONE to sleep in Curro’s arms, blissful, listening to the wind battering at the timber shutters of the lodge, grateful that they were not still at sea.

  The survivors had been led from the beach down a narrow path amidst sand dunes to a small fishing village. The sand gave way to dirt and the path broadened to a street with a large white cedar in a village square. The buildings were rectangular, lower and longer than their own, with timber cut log walls and gable thatched roofs. The doors of each cottage were in the narrow end walls and were brightly painted as were the timber shutters. The gables protruded deeply over the doors to form a porch. There was a single trading post that was larger than the other buildings and had a shingled roof. Cottages were surrounded with well tended gardens, but there were few flowers—everything had been given over to the growing of food.

  Figures appeared in the windows to close the shutters before the storm hit, and Elena could see their curious yet hostile glances directed at the bedraggled survivors. As they walked the shutters were drawn closed and the welcoming lights flicked out one by one along the street and surrounding slopes. Their attention was directed solely to the largest building that lay at the top of the street. Long, wide and imposing, Elena had heard the fishermen call this the Sastravidya Lodge; of all the buildings she had seen this looked the one most able to imprison them. A lantern hung at the front door, though she found its poor light no comfort at all.

  Isaura was gone, probably dead. She could muster little sorrow for Isaura, though she knew she had done her best. Maybe if Isaura had not wanted Curro or if she’d not been Hill Clan, they could have been friends, she mused. Elena’s pity was for Nicanor and Curro, but she could console Curro and that made her exultant. Now she would not have to worry, she would not have to compete.

  She woke fully as Curro’s arm slipped from around her; she hastily reached out to grab him as he left her.

  ‘It’s all right, go back to sleep. They’ve brought Isa back. I want to see how she is.’

  Isa! Through half-lidded eyes she saw Isaura being carried in the arms of a strong young man following Umniga, who carried a narrow mattress. Nicanor, Lucia, Pio and Curro gathered around as Isaura was laid down on the mattress in a corner, not far from them. Elena wanted to scream; she wished she could, or at least roll over and pretend that this was not happening. Damn it!

  She rose and stood beside Curro, taking his hand and leaning her head on his shoulder. Elena felt indignation well up inside her at the sight of Isaura. She’d clearly been bathed, her hair washed and she was wearing clean clothes. Admittedly, they were old and patched, but they were clean. More special treatment. Gods, does it never end? Then the old woman covered her with an ornate cloak. Elena let go of Curro’s hand and went back to her spot, from where she watched them hover about Isaura. He hasn’t even noticed I’ve gone. Elena turned her attention to Pio, whose expression was full of concern. He’s my nephew, damn it. He never hangs off my every word. She lay down, resentment consuming her, as the storm resumed in earnest.

  Pio held Lucia’s and Nicanor’s hands. Isaura was back, but she was no better. He stifled a sob. Umniga covered her with her cloak, but spun to face Pio when she heard him sniffling.

  ‘No,’ she said, putting her fingers on the sides of his mouth and pulling them into a parody of a smile. He blinked, gulping to hold back his tears, understanding her tone. ‘Hope,’ Umniga told him. She guided him to sit beside Isaura. Pio’s hands still held his flute, which she raised to his lips. Before he could begin she hummed the tune he had played on the boat, which Pio dutifully copied.

  Lucia, confused, was watching Pio with concern and was about to interrupt. Nicanor reached for her hand, drawing her away.

  ‘Come, it will resolve itself one way or another.’

  ‘But, watching him, it’s … She’s giving him hope where there is none. It’s not fair on him.’

  Nicanor nodded, his expression sad. ‘I know, we’ll just be there at the end.’

  Curro watched them leave, knelt down, placed a kiss on Pio’s forehead and a hand on Isaura’s brow, and briefly bowed his head. Only when he rose did he realise that Elena was gone.

  Elena was curled tightly on her side. She felt Curro spoon behind her, brushing the hair gently from her forehead. He kissed her tenderly there, and pulled her into his embrace. She relaxed, but all she could think of was the way the same hand had tenderly rested on Isaura’s brow.

  * * *

  Umniga guessed the time to be nearly midnight. The henna paste had sat for long enough, so she grabbed it and headed for the Sastravidya Lodge.

  Elena tried to listen to the soft breathing of those sleeping around her over the wind and rain battering down outside. Cautiously, she began to slide from under Curro’s arm. He stirred. She waited, utterly still, trying to maintain the slow regular breathing of a sleeper, while her heart was pounding. Elena felt certain that someone must hear her. Nothing. She slid out completely from under his arm. His hand reached out to touch her back, then slid down to the floor. Elena lay curled on her side, waiting. He did not reach out again. Certain he was asleep, she sat up and looked toward where she knew Isaura lay. No one would suspect. It would appear as if she died in her sleep, just as everyone was expecting.

  Peering through the darkness, she wondered if she could make it to Isaura without waking the others. She could barely see. Flashes of lightning through the cracks around the shutters provided brief fractured visions of the room. Most likely, she would stumble over someone and then what excuse could she offer for sneaking around in the dark? Was it worth it? Elena put her head in her hands. What’s wrong with me? She tried to remind herself that Curro was with her; he married her. It didn’t work, or at least not for long. Always there was this nagging doubt. Stop it! He said there was nothing between them; that there never had been. Elena moaned softly, shaking her head. Why can’t I stop?

  Elena lifted her head quickly, certain she heard a noise. She cocked her head, straining to hear it again. Unnerved, she lay back down next to Curro and snuggled into his side.

  Umniga entered the lodge, silently cursing the storm as she struggled to keep a candle alight. By its minimal glow she trod softly, trying not to disturb the sleep
ers. Sitting beside Isaura, she undid the ties of the girl’s wraparound jacket and shirt. Carefully Umniga began to paint.

  * * *

  The candle stub had burned low, so Umniga lit another. It had been hours since she began, but she was nearly finished. The storm had ended, yet she had not noticed. Rubbing her eyes and neck, she tried to ease the tension in her shoulders. Her old knees felt like they would never move again. A hand touched her shoulder and she jerked in fright. It was Pio’s mother.

  Lucia had watched the old woman enter, thinking she was checking on Isaura, and then gone back to sleep. When she woke, the old woman was still there and yet many hours must have passed; the pre-dawn light was filtering through the shutters and she could hear birds chirping nearby. Curious, she had risen and approached Umniga. Lucia could see signs of fatigue—the strain on her face and her obvious discomfort—so she began to massage Umniga’s shoulders. It was then, with her head bent to her task, that she noticed what Umniga had been doing. She stared at Isaura in astonishment and her hands involuntarily stopped massaging.

  Umniga patted her hand and gestured for her to sit. Still staring in disbelief, she sat like an automaton. Umniga chuckled, pleased at her reaction. Cheekily, she waved her hands in front of Lucia’s face to attract her attention. Lucia blushed, but determined to make amends, she proceeded to introduce herself as Pio had instructed her.

  Immediately on finishing her speech, Lucia again found herself staring again at her sleeping friend. Isaura’s torso was covered in a henna tattoo of a tree—a weeping willow. The myriad roots of the tree covered her womb, her pubis and disappeared between her legs. The trunk extended to her breast bone, where divergent branches ranged over and around her breasts to the base of her throat and over her shoulders, with the tips of the branches ending on her upper arms. Leafy willow fronds hung gracefully from the branches. The upper ones entwined with the circular pattern Umniga had drawn earlier around Isaura’s neck.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Lucia whispered.

  Umniga smiled as she put the finishing touches on the tattoos. The willow fronds on Isaura’s upper arms were drawn longer, until they merged with the pattern around her wrists. Finally satisfied, Umniga put down her brush. To bind the wrists, neck and ankles with the sacred symbols was not unusual; the tree, though, was a rare practice. She had only been told what it should look like when she was an apprentice; she had not drawn it before. She had endeavoured to make it as detailed as possible and it felt correct. As she had drawn, she had hummed Pio’s tune and stopped thinking about the details of her painting. Instead, she felt how the pattern worked. The ‘whole’ had disappeared as she immersed herself in the small details; she was proud of her work.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Umniga repeated Lucia’s word. It was clear by her tone what it had meant.

  Lucia, still awestruck, was inexplicably almost moved to tears. She asked, ‘Why?’ in Umniga’s tongue.

  Umniga smiled sadly, sighing, wishing Lucia had the knowledge to understand. ‘There is still hope, but we must be quick.’

  * * *

  Asha’s party attracted a lot of attention when it finally reached Parlan. Guards from Faros were an unusual sight in the countryside. They were directed to the lodge, where they met Umniga.

  After one look at Asha, a wave of fury coursed through Umniga.

  ‘Who did this?’ she spat. Gently, she examined Asha’s neck. ‘There’s more, isn’t there?’

  Asha said nothing.

  Instead, Vikram replied in a subdued tone, ‘Her head, ribs, some bruises.’

  ‘And where were you?’ Umniga yelled, pushing him. ‘Shahjahan?’ Silence. ‘No, or you wouldn’t be here with him. Who?’

  ‘Ratilal.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Umniga fumed. ‘I’ll damn well kill him for this.’ The words that poured forth from her mouth as she pounded the ground before them astonished both Vikram and Asha.

  After several minutes, Vikram began to smile. He glanced sideways at Asha, who remained rigidly straight-faced.

  ‘Wipe that smile off your face, young man. What are you laughing for?’

  Vikram shook his head, unable to form words.

  ‘Are you finished now?’ a gruff voice said.

  ‘Āsim?’ Umniga rolled her eyes. ‘Wonderful! Will one of you please explain? Vikram?’

  By the end of the tale she was calmer, having heard about Shahjahan’s care of Asha and knowing that Ratilal had been punished. Though she felt execution would have been far more appropriate than whipping. She held Asha’s face in her hands and said slowly and clearly, ‘You did well, child.’ Then she inspected the provisions they had brought. ‘Excellent,’ she muttered. ‘It’s about time the old goat got his head out from up his arse and acted like a leader.’ She looked at Vikram. ‘Well, you’re in charge. They all stink, need to wash, need new clothes. We’ve kept them confined, except for the boy.’

  ‘Boy?’

  ‘You’ll see. Anyway, now you’re here you can sort that lot out.’ She waved her hand airily. ‘I need Asha now. Come on.’ She took Asha’s hand and led her into the lodge.

  The noise outside and the arrival of soldiers had caused a flurry of anxiety inside the lodge. Asha and Umniga were the object of hopeful, nervous eyes. Several women approached them timidly, begging in their strange language. Umniga scowled and brushed them aside.

  Asha wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘You were right about the smell. Why didn’t you let them bathe?’

  ‘I’ve had enough to do without looking after that lot. Besides, it was hard enough to get clean clothes for the girl, let alone the rest of them. They’d stink just as bad if they put their own clothes back on. Come on, we’ve more work to do yet. Let Vikram sort them out.’

  ‘This is the one?’ Asha dropped to her knees beside Isaura. ‘How long has she been like this?’

  Umniga shrugged, her disappointment clear. ‘Too long.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Travelling.’

  ‘Spirit walking?’ Asha was astonished.

  ‘Well, she hasn’t got in a cart and driven off! Gods, girl, how hard did you hit your head?’

  ‘How? She has a guardian?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Now, you understand.’

  ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘Of course it is—she’s done it.’

  ‘You looked for her?’

  ‘Of course, but wherever she is, trust me, it’s not nearby and her trail was fading.’

  Asha plopped on her behind, staring at the girl dismally. ‘All our efforts … What are we going to do?’

  ‘What we can—the Ritual of Samara.’

  Asha gaped at her. ‘But it’s only been performed once. Centuries ago. Do you know how?’

  ‘Girl, we are all taught how. It’s part of our training … We just haven’t had to do it before.’ Asha nodded dumbly. ‘Now, I need your help with the rest of the tattoos. We’ll need to get more supplies from the wagon.’

  At this point, Vikram entered, accompanied by Āsim and some of the guards. A commotion broke out amongst those nearest the door. The women shied away. Those with children gathered them and huddled near their husbands. Vikram dropped a bundle of clothes and a bar of soap on the floor and pointed to the nearest male, who made no move toward it. He signalled to Āsim to bring the man forward. His wife began wailing and clinging to him, trying to prevent Āsim taking him; the man shook his head, resisting.

  ‘Enough, Āsim. They’re too scared to think.’

  Curro stood up and proceeded to move forward. Elena made to grab his arm, but Lucia put her hand out, bidding her to stop. Nicanor joined him. Together, they moved forward to investigate. Vikram watched these two men step forward, obviously the only ones, he thought, with any form of courage. He smiled and nudged the pile with his toe.

  Curro picked up the bundle and turned with a grin to the others. ‘It’
s just soap and clothes. Come on, unless you’ve gotten used to smelling like you fell in the cess pit at the back of Standon’s tavern.’ He and Nicanor made to leave the building. Vikram raised his hand, stopping them briefly. He made sure everyone saw his gestures. He held up one finger and pointed to the men. Then he held up two fingers and pointed to the women. He repeated the gesture. Surely they would understand.

  ‘Men first. Ladies second,’ Nicanor said loudly as he and Curro departed.

  Āsim made them stand in plain sight of those inside. Daniel and Jaime followed promptly. They waited a few minutes for the others to gain the courage to step outside. Slowly the remaining men emerged.

  Deo was leaning against the wagon, peering into its contents. He whistled and one of his grandsons came running, with Pio straggling along behind. Hoisting his grandson up, he indicated the pile of clothes. ‘See if those silly buggers in Faros put anything in for a boy. We’ll make sure he gets first pick.’ Pio reached his side and eyed the wagon curiously. The boy rummaged around and held up a plain coarse shirt. Deo gauged it for size and nodded, before it was dropped into Pio’s hands. Pio was now on tiptoes trying to see in, but the wagon was far too tall. A jacket was raised. ‘Not unless you want Pio to look like a pansy,’ Deo said. Pants? No, too big. Skirt? Pio shook his head—definitely not.

  A heavy hand landed on Deo’s shoulder. ‘Just what do you think you are doing, old man?’ Āsim demanded. ‘This is the clan lord’s property.’

  Deo jumped in fright. ‘Just making sure the boy gets some decent clothing.’ Pio had rushed to Nicanor, but still held the shirt tightly.

  ‘Out!’ Vikram directed the boy in the wagon. He jumped down and stood behind his grandfather.

  Deo stiffened. ‘We were simply looking for something for the boy. All we could find was that shirt. Didn’t they tell you there were children in this lot?’

  ‘Enough.’ Vikram gestured to Āsim, who promptly climbed into the wagon.

  ‘You’ve made a bloody mess,’ Āsim grumbled. He quickly sorted out the detritus left in the boy’s wake. He emerged with child-sized pants and a jacket. He leaned down, holding them out for Pio. With Deo’s encouragement, Pio walked up bravely and accepted the clothes.