A Woman of the Iron People Page 3

  Hisu, the bow master, was too old to go. He sat in his cart and cursed fate.

  Nia, riding close, heard him say, “I should have died years ago.” He was talking loudly to no one she could see. “In my prime, alone. The proper way. Now … O Master of the Herds, what an end! To live surrounded by women!”

  In truth, he looked miserable. He was huddled in a cloak. A wide leather rain hat sheltered his face. His fur, she noticed, was completely gray.

  She waved. He cursed. She rode on.

  At last they reached the Summer Land. Most of the old men returned and settled down as usual at the edge of the camp. But two never came back.

  “Two fools!” said Hua. “Why did they go? They were old. They could behave in a reasonable fashion. Did they? No! They ran off like crazy boys. And now something has gotten them.”

  Nia said nothing.

  The rain stopped. The summer was cool and dry. It became evident to her that she wasn’t pregnant.

  “Don’t worry,” said Ti-antai. “This often happens. You will have a child next year or the year after.”

  Nia made the gesture of acknowledgment. She hadn’t been worried. She was happy as she was. In the day she worked at the forge. In the late afternoon she and Angai went riding or sat by the river and talked. Angai did most of the talking. She was very observant and had sharp things to say about the people in the village. Because of the dry weather, there were only a few bugs in the air. It was pleasant to sit and listen while the sky changed color.

  Her friend was certainly clever, Nia thought. Almost as clever as Anasu.

  That summer there was a scandal in the village. It concerned the bronze smith Nuha and her son.

  He was sixteen; and everyone could see that he had gone through the change. His fur was coarse, his body thick and wide. He acted restless. But he didn’t leave the village. Instead, he stayed inside his mother’s tent or worked with her at her forge.

  The old women grimaced and muttered. Hua said, “This is what happens when a woman has no daughters. She cannot let go of her sons. Look at the way she treats him! She doesn’t send him to learn archery or something else that will be useful to him. She lets him work the bellows and even pour the bronze. Aiya! This is terrible.”

  Nia said nothing. She had always liked Enshi. As a child he had been friendly and talkative, always telling stories and making jokes. Even now he was always polite. He never lost his temper, which was strange in a boy—or a man—of his age.

  He was a poor archer, though. Anasu had told her that.

  “He rides badly, too,” her brother had said. “He won’t last on the plain alone.”

  Fall came. The village made ready to move. Enshi rode off one morning.

  “At last!” Hua said. “Now I can talk to his mother again.”

  He was gone five days. Then he rode back in, looking tired and dirty. The villagers glared. Enshi ignored them. He rode to his mother’s tent and dismounted.

  Nuha, who was short and fat, ran out and hugged her son.

  “Disgusting,” Suhai said. “May the Mother of Mothers teach that woman shame.”

  “Are you cursing the woman?” Nia asked. “If so, I’m going to make the gesture that averts. Who can tell what spirit will hear a curse? Or what it will do about it?”

  “Are you planning to become a shamaness, my foster daughter?”

  “No.”

  Suhai glowered, then made the gesture that averts.

  “Good,” said Nia.

  The next morning, early, the old women went to the shamaness. They stood at the entrance to her tent and complained. Nia heard their shrill voices and went out. The day was bright. The air smelled of wood smoke and leather and the dry summer plain.

  Nia watched the shamaness walk across the village. She wore a robe covered with red embroidery and a big necklace made of bronze. Hu! What an impressive woman!

  The old crones hobbled after her. Nia watched.

  They all stopped at the tent of Nuha.

  “Enshi!” the shamaness cried.

  After a moment Enshi came out. Nia couldn’t see his expression.

  “Have you no sense of what is right?” the shamaness asked loudly.

  Enshi looked down, then up. He mumbled something that Nia couldn’t hear.

  “It’s time you left,” the shamaness said.

  Enshi made the gesture of assent. His shoulders were sagging now. He looked discouraged.

  “Go today. And don’t come back. You have become an embarrassment.”

  Enshi made the gesture of assent a second time. Then he turned and went into his mother’s tent.

  The shamaness left. But the old women sat down and waited.

  Nia went to the forge and worked alone. Late in the afternoon Hua came.

  “He is gone,” she said. “We told him we would curse him if he ever came back.”

  “Is that so?” Nia said. She straightened up and rubbed her neck. “How I ache today.”

  The village went south. The weather remained dry. The herd kicked up a cloud of dust that went most of the way to the sky. Day after day they saw the cloud in front of them. It was dark brown in color. Nia thought, Anasu is there, riding in the dust. And Enshi, too, the poor buffoon.

  They reached the Winter Land. Usually they camped to the north of the herd. But this year they went south and east to the Great Rush Lake. Now they were at the eastern edge of their pasturage. Across the lake was the land of the Amber People. They pitched their tents. The shamaness went to visit the Amber People. Angai went with her, also nine other women. They all led pack animals, laden with gifts.

  They were gone thirty days. The weather remained dry, though Hua kept saying that rain was coming. She could feel it in her bones.

  When they returned, they brought gifts from the Amber People: amber, of course, colored shells, and copper.

  “Hu! What an experience,” Angai said. “We had to go around the lake. On the far side are marshes. Beyond the marshes is a river. It is wide and deep. We had to cross it. That was dangerous. Animals live in it. They are like river lizards. But larger. Much larger. They will eat anything, my mother says.”

  “Hu!” said Nia. “Tell me more.”

  “We made rafts. That’s how we got across the river. I didn’t see any of the animals. They are called divers or killers of the deep water.”

  “Aiya!” said Nia.

  “On the far side of the river is the land of the Amber People.” Angai paused and frowned. “They are the same height as we are, but broader; and a lot of them are fat. Their fur is dark. Their shamaness is huge. She wears a hat made of feathers. I could barely understand them. They talk so strangely. They are very hospitable, though. And they drink a kind of beer I’ve never had before. Nia, I heard a story there I don’t believe. But they swear it is true.”

  Angai paused to drink a little milk. Nia waited.

  “They say to the east of them are a people who stay in one place. They never move.”

  Nia made the gesture of astonishment.

  “They live in houses made of wood. The houses can’t be folded or taken apart. They are solid like boxes.

  “They live next to a forest, the Amber People say. And their men live in the forest. They don’t herd animals the way men ought to. Instead they hunt and catch fish. The women don’t think much of them. They say, all men are savage and nasty.”

  “The Amber People say this?”

  “No! No! The people who never move. In fact, the Amber People say, some of the women refuse to mate with men.”

  Nia scratched her head. “How can that be?”

  “When the spring lust comes, they go out in pairs, two women together. They mate with one another.”

  For a moment Nia sat quietly and stared at the fire. “How do they produce children?”

  “The usual way. The Amber People say, few of the women mate only with women. Most of them want children. They mate with men until they have as many children as they want.”

>   Nia scratched her head again. “This is a very strange story.”

  “Yes. I’d like to go and visit those people.”

  “They are perverts!” Hua said. “And the Amber People are liars. No such people exist. Houses of wood! What a crazy idea!”

  Angai looked angry.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Nia said. “This story makes me uneasy.”

  The winter was cold. At night, in the northern sky, lights shone. They were green and white and yellow.

  “The winter fire,” said Hua. “Up north it fills the sky. We don’t often see it down here.”

  Ti-antai said, “It is bad luck.”

  Snow fell. There was a coughing sickness in the village. A number of people died. Most were old women or very young children.

  Suhai got the sickness. For a while, in the dark time after the solstice, everyone thought she would die. In the end she recovered, though slowly. All the rest of the winter she stayed in her tent. Nia and Ti-antai looked after her. It was hard for Nia to go and see her, hunched by the fire. Her fur was more gray than brown. She looked bony and unhappy.

  Why, Nia wondered, did her throat contract at the sight of the old woman? She didn’t even like her foster mother.

  Spring came at last. It was cold and rainy. Hua’s hands became so stiff that she could not work at the forge. “This place is full of bad luck,” she cried.

  “I think you are right,” Nia said.

  The trees put out leaves, pale blue in color. Among the dry reeds in the lake, flowers blossomed. They were yellow and orange. Other flowers, tiny and white, appeared at the edge of the plain. Nia began to feel restless. The spring lust, she thought. She began to assemble supplies.

  “Why don’t I feel the lust?” asked Angai.

  “You are younger than I am.” Nia crouched and stared at the things she had made in the winter: long knives and needles, brooches, files and awls. What was the right gift?

  “I’m half a year younger,” Angai said. “That isn’t much.”

  “Why do you ask me? What do I know? Ask your mother.”

  Angai left. She was angry, Nia realized. Too bad. She reached out and picked up a knife. It had a good blade, made of iron that had been folded and refolded. That would do, she thought. And needles and a brooch, also—maybe—leather from the tanner.

  She stood up. Now, food for the trip.

  That night she dreamt of Anasu and of riding on the plain. She woke, feeling more restless than before. She pulled up the tent flap and fastened it. Sunlight came in. The air was still and mild. It smelled of the new vegetation. She thought, I will go today, before the lust gets any stronger. I will ride until I forget this terrible winter. She turned and looked at Hua.

  “I know,” the old woman said. “I sometimes wish I still felt the lust. Then I think, I must be crazy to want a thing like that. In any case, go.”

  She packed her saddlebags and went to find her favorite bowhorn. By noon she was on her way. Her bowhorn was restless and wanted to run. She let it. After a while it slowed, then stopped. Nia looked around. She was alone. On every side, the plain rolled to the horizon. She took a deep breath, then let it out. Her bowhorn flicked its ears.

  Where did she want to go? Not west, she decided. The herd was there and the full-grown men. No. She would go south, toward the hills where the young men were. She glanced at the sun and then at her shadow. Then she turned her bowhorn south.

  She traveled for three days. The weather remained clear. She met no people, nor anything, except for birds and the small animals that lived on the plain. Slowly the lust grew stronger. It felt almost pleasant. She began to wonder what kind of man she would meet this year.

  The fourth day was cloudy and windy. At noon she reached the southern hills. They were low, with many outcroppings of stone. There were trees on the hills. One kind was in blossom. Here and there on the blue slopes were patches of yellow. She found an animal trail that went along a stream. It led east into the hills. She followed the trail, feeling a bit uneasy. She wasn’t used to places where the sky was narrow.

  “O Mother of Mothers, take care of me,” she whispered.

  Overhead the branches moved. Leaves rustled—a loud noise, unlike the soft whish of vegetation moving on the plain.

  She prayed to the Mistress of the Forge. “Bring me safely home, o holy one.”

  Late in the afternoon she met a man. He was on top of a small hill, sitting on a boulder. There were no trees nearby, only bushes with small blue-green leaves. His bowhorn grazed on one of these.

  Nia reined her animal. Her heart began to beat quickly.

  “I thought I saw a woman. What a surprise! Nia, is it you?”

  She looked at him. He was dark brown, and his eyes were gray. A very strange color. “Enshi?” His tunic was ragged, she noticed. He looked thin.

  “How is my mother? And what are you doing here? The women never get this far south.”

  She opened her mouth to answer. Enshi stood up, then jumped off the boulder. “Let’s talk later. There is a scent coming from you, Nia. I can’t tell you what it does to me.” He held out a hand. “Come on.”

  His dark fur gleamed in the sunlight. She realized, all at once, that he was handsome. She dismounted and tethered her bowhorn, then got her cloak.

  They went into the bushes and mated there. The ground was stony. The leaves had a fresh spring smell. As for Enshi, he was a little awkward, but perfectly adequate.

  When they were done, he rolled over on his back. “Is that what it’s like? I expected more. Still…” He looked at her. His gray eyes were half-shut. He reached out and touched her gently. “What soft fur!” He made a low ruh noise in the back of his throat, then shut his eyes completely and went to sleep.

  Nia pulled the cloak up so it covered both of them. She looked at the bowhorns, then at the sky. The sun was gone, but the clouds were still shining, white and pale gold. She felt drowsy and happy.

  Enshi the Joker! She had never imagined mating with him. For one thing she’d thought he was dead. Who would have thought he could have survived the bitter winter?

  Enshi woke at twilight. He glanced at her. “It wasn’t a dream. If the spirits are responsible for this, I thank them.” He grabbed her. They mated again. Afterward they went down into the nearest valley and made camp. The night was windy and cold. Ragged clouds filled the sky. The fire flickered. Enshi talked.

  “What are you doing this far south? Why didn’t one of the big men get you, before you got to Enshi?”

  She thought for a moment. “I wanted to get down here. I wanted to find my brother Anasu.” She stopped, feeling surprised. Was that right? Had she come to find Anasu?

  “You did?” Enshi stared at her. “Why?”

  Nia scratched her head. “I don’t know. Do you know where he is?”

  Enshi made the gesture of affirmation. “I get my salt from him. I used to, anyway. The winter was hard, and I don’t think I have anything left to give him.”

  Nia opened her mouth.

  Enshi looked at her. His eyes were half-closed. He looked thoughtful, almost clever. “You want me to tell you where he is. I won’t. If you came this far to see him, then you’re likely to go farther and leave me here alone, feeling stupid. I don’t intend to let go of you, Nia. Not until the time for mating is over.”

  “You certainly are talkative,” Nia said.

  Enshi made the gesture of agreement. “Remember, I’ve had no one to talk to all winter.”

  “Will you tell me where Anasu is when the time for mating is over?”

  “Yes.”

  Nia made the gesture that meant “so be it.”

  “Now,” Enshi said, “tell me about my mother. Is she well? Does she still grieve for me?”

  She spent eight days with Enshi. The weather remained cold and windy. Now and then rain fell. It wasn’t heavy. The trees above their camp protected them; and they kept a good fire going. They mated often.

  Every
morning Enshi went out hunting. In the afternoon he came back with leaves and roots and the tender shoots of spring plants. Twice he brought back game: a winter-thin groundbird and a builder of mounds. The builder of mounds was small, but fat. Or at least it was not thin.

  “He did better than I did this winter,” Enshi said.

  Nia skinned the animal, gutted and spitted it. They sat side by side and watched it cook.

  “Hu! What a smell! I used to dream about the smell of cooking meat. I’d wake up and find nothing except snow. What a disappointment! There were times when the weather was bad, and I couldn’t travel. I’d begin to look at my bowhorn and think about him as a roast. But I thought, no, Enshi. You’ll die without an animal to ride. Then I prayed to the spirits; and the weather would break. I’d go down to the edge of the herd and look for a bowhorn that was too weak to run from me and kill it. The meat was always stringy, with no fat at all. Well, those days are over. Why think about them?”

  Nia turned the spit. While the other side of the animal was cooking, they mated.

  The next day Nia made a fish trap and set it in the stream at the bottom of the valley. That evening they ate fish stuffed with herbs.

  “What a fine cook you are,” Enshi said. “Almost as good as my mother.”

  Nia felt irritated. It seemed to her that Enshi was always talking about his mother. It wasn’t right. A boy who was properly brought up talked about himself or about the old men who taught him how to be a man. He didn’t go on and on about his mother.

  “What is Anasu like these days?” she asked.

  Enshi made the gesture that meant “who can say?” “I’ve met him two times. The first time I tried to talk with him, he said, ‘I don’t want a conversation, Enshi. What do you have that you are willing to give me?’ He wouldn’t say anything else. I got out one of my mother’s bronze cups and set it on the ground. He got out a bag of salt, then waved me back. When I was far enough away, he came and took the cup, then put down his bag. That was it. He left. I picked up the salt. The second time I met him, he said nothing at all.” Enshi paused a moment, then went on. “He’s friendlier than the other men. He never makes faces or waves weapons at me.”