The Actors: A Hwarhath Historical Romance h-8 Read online

  "What happened to Leweli?" Ahl asked again.

  "The mother I mentioned told her daughter to pretend pregnancy. The daughter told Leweli what was going on. By this time Leweli was pregnant; and it turns out she is one of those women who can't bear to lose a child. She knew if she stayed in her mother's house and had the child delivered by midwives, it would

  die. She came to me."

  "She is alive," Ahl said.

  "As is her daughter," said the witch. "A fine healthy child, though she has a definite southern look, which I don't find attractive."

  "Where?" asked Ahl.

  "In the marshes," said the witch after a pause. "I'm not happy about this. The air here breeds too many diseases. As you know, I can foretell the future. The child is important. I knew it the moment I saw Leweli's distended belly. I want the two of them in a place that's safe."

  "What can I do?" asked Ahl after a moment.

  "Take them to Helwar."

  "How?"

  "My vision does not see."

  AHL LEFT, taking a different route, since she wanted time to think. The day grew hotter. She started panting and remembered an inn at the marsh's edge. With luck it was still in business. She made a detour and found the building, standing in the shade of a good-sized atchul tree.

  Secondary roots hung from the tree's branches, forming a greenish-white curtain.

  A few had reached the ground and burrowed down, becoming runners that would in time, at a safe distance from the parent tree, send up shoots. This is the atchul's preferred way to grow, though it also flowers and can produce seeds. In youth -- and this atchul was comparatively young, though larger than usual – it is surrounded by a veil of roots, none thick, most ending in midair.

  In middle age the roots increase in size; many dig into the earth; instead of a veil of white filaments, they become a sturdy net. Outside the net, beyond the shadow of their mother, daughter trees rise, stretching out their branches, producing their own curtains or veils.

  As the tree reaches old age the roots thicken even further, weighing the branches, pulling them toward the ground. Now the tree stands within a cage made of itself. In this cage, in time, it dies.

  The tree is fairly common in the southern marshes, though rare elsewhere. Because of its behavior it has several nicknames: the Veil Tree, for obvious reasons, and the Sewing Tree, because of the way it grows, roots descending, then rising as another tree, then re-descending, as if it were stitching its family into the soil, generation after generation.

  Finally it is called the Mother Tree, because it reminds people of their mothers: large formidable women who sew or figure their accounts in rooms where gauzy curtains hang and billow.

  Ahl pushed through the veil of roots and saw the inn clearly. It was more run-down than she remembered, but a cart stood at the entrance. Brightly painted in a foreign style, it must belong to travelers. Ahl dismounted and led her animal into the courtyard.

  Two tsina stood there, old and bony. One was apparently lame as well. A man stood next to it, examining a forefoot. Something there, in the horny pads or the fissures between the three broad toes, disturbed him. He groaned softly, released the foot -- the tsin put it down gingerly --looked up and greeted Ahl in a courteous, despondent tone.

  Not her concern. She returned the greeting, tied her animal and went inside.

  A man sat there. Like the man outside, he was a foreigner with uncut fur. But the man in the courtyard had been middle-aged, while this fellow was barely more than an boy, slender and graceful, though not --it was obvious to Ahl -- entirely sober at the moment. He lounged on a bench, his back against the rough

  trunk of the atchul, which formed one wall of the room. The other walls were plastered and white rather than gray, though almost as rough as the atchul.

  The innkeeper was female and a true daughter of Sorg: tall, thin, white and black. Ahl got beer from her. "Is there another place to be?" "There is only the patio," the innkeeper said, her tone apologetic. Anything would be better than sharing a room with an unrelated man. Ahl went out, finding an area paved with

  stone, shaded by the atchul's leaves and curtained by its roots.

  Hah! Better! There was even a breeze that stirred the hot air, bringing the aroma of summer vegetation to her nostrils.

  She sat down, tasted the beer -- it was cool in her mouth and pleasant on her tongue -- then thought about her current situation.

  Merhit was asking her to oppose her own mother, as well as all the other senior women of her lineage. No woman did this lightly. Many women -- most women -- would never do it.

  But it was wrong to make a contract with the intention of breaking it, and even more wrong to break a contract made solid by children; and to break the contract in such a way!

  No one would question the right of senior women to examine newborn children and decide, "This one should be kept. This one should not."

  The job had to be done. A decent self-respecting family, one such as Sorg had always been, could not allow any of its members to die slowly. Nor could a decent family let children who had come out badly continue to live. What future did they have? How could they be happy or useful? The children who were killed held no grudge, as was known by the behavior of their ghosts.

  The ghosts of adults are almost always resentful and dangerous. Hungry and angry, they haunt the living, looking for revenge or restitution. But the ghosts of newborn children cause no trouble. They appear in the houses where they were born and died, as if they don't know where else to go, causing no rouble,

  merely lingering. In time they grow dim and transparent. Finally they vanish. No one is the worse for them. This proves no wrong has been done. The children have lingered out of ignorance and confusion, not because they were angry or felt they had been dealt with unjustly.

  The job of judging fitness to live was necessary. But it was the kind of decision that could not be left to the mothers who had borne the children; young women as a group were unsuited to this kind of work; and men were obviously utterly unfit. Beyond question the job was best done by matriarchs full of experience. They judged, then made sure the children -- the ones not kept --

  died without pain.

  The children were not always sickly. In times of famine Sorg women had killed healthy children. A great loss, but unavoidable. In addition, Ahl had heard of families who used infanticide to control the number of males and females in each

  generation. If times were difficult and violent, it made sense to have sons. In good times, one wanted daughters. As far as Ahl knew, the Sorg had never done this. Always confident and proud, they trusted in the Goddess and their own ability to turn any healthy child to a good use, providing the rains fell and

  crops rose from the soil.

  Maybe she would be justified in opposing the matriarchs of Sorg in this case, though the idea made her queasy. But how could she get Leweli and the child away? By ship, of course. But a ship that belonged to Sorg would not take them; and what story could she tell to foreign sailors? Two women alone were certain to look odd. Why weren't they traveling with kin?

  The innkeeper came out. "Those men are quarreling."

  "Hah?"

  "Quietly, and in a language I don't understand. Nonetheless, it's a quarrel. I didn't want to stay."

  Ahl tilted her head in agreement. It was the worst kind of discourtesy for men to argue in front of unrelated women.

  "They're actors. Something happened to split their company. These two are all that's left. For some reason they don't want to go home, though it's difficult to see what else they can do."

  "Actors are often men of irregular behavior." Ahl said. This was a way of saying the men might be in trouble with their families. A terrible idea, but such things happen, and happened more often in the period of this story. It was the age called the Unraveling. An apparently endless war raged to the north of Sorg, on the continent's Great Central Plain. For a while it had seemed that the great warleader Eh Manhata would
bring peace by defeating all rival armies. But Manhata had died a year before; and the war continued with increased savagery.

  The innkeeper sat down and drank from the cup she carried. "I've thought they might be criminals or outcasts, though they're both very civil, and the older man has been through here before, causing no trouble.

  "I saw him act the last time. He had a company of five, and they did the death of some hero. I forget which one, but he had a red robe and died impressively, after a lot of talk -- about honor, mostly, as I remember. When the talk stopped, he gave a yell, and crash! Down he went! The men of Sorg are usually quieter when they die. What is there to talk about, anyway, in these

  situations?"

  Ahl could think of no comment, though she'd enjoyed the few plays she had seen. She finished her beer and went to get her tsin, going around the outside of the inn, so as to avoid the quarreling men. When she looked closely, she saw the

  cart was shabby, its carving worn, its paint chipped and faded.

  She got home at dusk. Great tall clouds were blowing in from the southwest, lightning flickered around their tops.

  The storm broke after dark. Thunder woke Ahl. She lay in bed, listening to wind and rain. This was the way summer ended in her country. The season for safe ocean travel was almost gone. The task she had been given would become more difficult with every day that passed.

  SHE WENT to Sorg Harbor the next morning. This was not a harbor town like the ones she had visited in the south: rows of houses climbing over hills; steep streets paved with stone; marketplaces, also paved; and gar dens, mostly private; but the people of the far south were not clutching, nor did they live

  in fear of thieves. It was a habit for them to share their gardens with passersby. Not everything, but something. Vines grew on the tops of walls. Potsof flowers stood by doors. Trees were left untrimmed, so their branches stretched over the street, dropping seeds in spring and leaves in autumn. In one

  town Ahl had walked through clouds of floating gauze. In another the streets had been carpeted with leaves as orange as fire. In a third there had been flowers, tiny and purple, dotting pale gray paving stones. Looking up, she had seen a flowering tree.

  The Sorg preferred living on the farms established by their ancestors, and they saw no reason to make the stays of foreign visitors comfortable. Their harbor town consisted of storage barns. Here and there it was possible to find an inn, though most foreign sailors and merchants stayed on their ships, which were more pleasant and less expensive. The streets were unpaved and badly rutted. Unused ground was either bare or full of weeds.

  The harbor itself was a wide bay. Five docks extended into it. Two were for local fishing boats, empty at present: the boats were at work far out on the ocean.

  It was the other docks that interested Ahl. Five deep-bellied freighters were tied along them. Shading her eyes, she surveyed each deck. All the sailors were black and white: members of her lineage or of closely allied families.

  This was bad news, but it might not be the only news. Ahl reined her tsin at one of the taverns along the waterfront. These were the only structures in town that looked welcoming and pleasant. They were a kind of building that used to be common along the south coast. A wooden framework is anchored in large ceramic

  pots. Vines grow out of the pots and over the frame, creating an arbor open on one side. The taverns all looked toward the harbor. What else would interest sailors?

  Inside were benches and more pots, these with narrow mouths. Beerflies whirred around them or crawled on their lips. Ahl dipped beer into a cup, paid for it and sat down.

  "Where are you from?" asked a black and white sailor.

  "Sorg."

  "You need a haircut, then."

  "I've been traveling. I'll find a barber now that I'm home."

  The sailors went back to their conversation, which was about ships, as are all conversations in a harbor town. A Batanin women's ship had left the day before,

  early enough so the storm wouldn't have caught it close to shore; and there was a Taig ship outside the harbor, waiting for high water.

  "It will be men," a male sailor added. Obviously he was Sorg or he wouldn't have been sitting with Sorg women, even in an arbor with an open front. "The Taig women don't travel. The ocean is dangerous, they say, and uncomfortable."

  The other sailors -- all women -- grinned, tilting their heads in mocking agreement. The Taig women were right, of course, but there was more to the ocean than danger and discomfort. Let the Taig be timid, if they wished. The women of Sorg would sail, having confidence in their new ships and their family's traditional courage and strength.

  No other foreign ships were expected.

  Ahl drank her beer and left, riding home thoughtfully.

  "Where have you been?" her mother asked.

  "At Sorg Harbor."

  "You are turning into a restless woman, and you still need to get a haircut."

  "You're right that I've become restless," Ahl said. "I think I'll pay another visit to the marshes."

  "Better that than the ocean," her mother said. "But I expect you to settle down soon."

  The next day Ahl took her questions to the marsh witch and found Leweli visiting. Her cousin's fur -- like her own -- had not been cut recently, though for a different reason. The marsh was full of bugs, Leweli said. She wanted as much protection as she could get. "And Merhit, in spite of all her skills, is

  not a barber."

  The fur had grown to its full length and was as gray as fog. The baby nursing at Leweli's upper left breast was the same color, though dappled.

  "I've never seen anything like this before," Leweli said, sounding worried.

  "It's common among the island folk," said Ahl. "Baby spots they call the condition. The spots usually fade, though now and then a person remains dappled. I have seen old grandmothers with spots and venerable men as well."

  Her cousin frowned, looking at the child, who had finished eating and gone to sleep. "I hope they fade. Though I don't suppose it will matter, if she spends her life in a marsh."

  "She won't," Merhit said firmly.

  At this point Ahl explained her problem. How could she take Leweli and the baby south, if there were no ships in port except those belonging to relatives? "I could make up a story, explaining why we need to go south. But I have never been

  a good liar."

  "This is true," said Leweli.

  "And you know that any Sorg captain would check the story with my mother."

  "You will have to go in disguise," said the witch. "How fortunate that both of you have uncut fur. You can pass as foreigners."

  "Until we open our mouths and Sorg voices come out," Ahl said. "In any case, it's too late in the season. I don't think any of our family's ships will be going out again."

  The witch frowned and was silent for a while. Finally she said, "The Taig ship will be leaving. Go with them."

  "Two women and a child, traveling alone? How likely are they to take us?"

  "This plan is doomed," said Leweli. "I'll have to stay here with you, Merhit."

  "First of all, the marsh is unhealthy," the witch replied. "Secondly, I have visitors. Sooner or later you will be discovered. Imagine the trouble we'll be in then. Finally, I know the child belongs with her father's kin. I have seen

  that."

  No way to argue with a witch who's had a vision. Ahl was silent. Leweli placed the baby in a basket lined with vegetation. The tiny hands were closed. Ahl couldn't see the bare skin of the palms. But the soles of the feet were visible and dark gray. So were the four nipples, emerging from the fog-gray fur like buds. Even the dappling seemed lovely to Ahl, since it reminded her of the Helwar and Ki.

  "Tell me everything that has happened to you since you left my house two days ago," Merhit said finally. "Maybe there's something that will help me find a path out."

  Ahl complied. After she finished Leweli said, "Would the actors take us north with them? It sounds as if the
y're in trouble already; they might not mind a bit more trouble, especially if we paid them."

  Ahl realized she hadn't thought about money. "Do we have any?"

  "I do," Merhit said. "So does your mother."

  "Are you suggesting that I rob my mother?" Ahl asked, horrified.

  "One thing at a time," said Merhit. "I want to answer Leweli first. You shouldn't go north. There's a war on, as you ought to remember, and it has gotten so bad that even women aren't entirely safe. I've heard stories of bandits --" She paused, apparently unwilling to continue. "The child belongs in the south."

  The child opened her eyes, revealing sea-gray irises. It was a southern color. Leweli had blue eyes, as did Ahl and Merhit and almost all the Sorg.

  "Have you named her?" Ahl asked, remembering Ki's gray eyes.

  "Not yet. When I need to call her something, it's Darling or Dapple. A real name will come later, if she lives."

  "I'm going to meet with the actors," Merhit said. Moving quickly, as witches do when they have made up their minds, she saddled her tsin and rode off. This was

  not the animal we know in modern times, descended from chargers used by warriors on the Great Central Plain. Instead this was a swamp tsin: short, stocky, thick-legged and broad-footed. Its coat was greenish-tan with pale, thin, vertical stripes which enabled it to blend with the marsh reeds. No breed of tsina is better over dubious ground. No breed is harder to find if it doesn't want finding.

  Ahl knew all of this, of course, and paid no attention to the tsin. Instead she settled down to admire the baby and talk with her cousin.

  Admiring a baby takes time, if it's done properly; and talking about one's family takes even longer. The afternoon passed without notice. All at once the light was slanting, and the witch rode back in view.

  "Well?" asked Ahl.

  Merhit dismounted, groaned and robbed her behind. "It's just as I thought. I know the actor. He's been here often, though his former tours were luckier. What the innkeeper told you is true. His company has split apart, and he is left with one companion. They don't want to go back north. 'War is bad for every kind of