Chapter 17
The oats and barley were growing strongly, if sparsely, now that the days were more rapidly lengthening. The warmth of early spring was welcome, although the rains were not so greatly appreciated – not in the town, at any rate. The plum-wine cellar had flooded and Anneke and Berlo had moved in with Lundo, the grumbly grandfather, until it dried out. Giving him something else to grumble about. He wasn’t a tavern, he said, the trappers had been bad enough; and no sooner had they moved out than he was lumbered with a squalling baby. Nonetheless he had been caught crooning to it.
Yaret smiled, remembering this as she stood up and wiped soil from her hands. It was almost time to sow the beans and peas; this patch on the east-side by the barley field should do fine. That would be Lo and Renna’s responsibility. Their grasp of farming knowledge – especially Lo’s – was becoming evident and increasingly useful.
Lo was intent on cultivating spearweed too. While it was nobody’s favourite food, it grew fast and easily. And on the north-side the callanet was already pushing up its feathery spikes. It must thrive on ash. That was fortunate, not just for her – she had dried some for her own use and for Elket – but for the older girls in Obandiro. With the number of young men and women now living in the town since the carts arrived, the inevitable would soon happen without callanet. Better that they should be able to plan for children.
Two of the young men, the trapper brothers, were currently out hunting: for meat, not furs, although Yaret did not expect anything bigger than a rabbit to be brought home. The blind brother was determined to ride out on Wulchak, having regained perhaps a quarter of his sight, and she admired his strength of purpose.
However, they were not dependent on such hunting. A supply of small dead lambs and worn-out sheep was trickling in with spring. And soon Obandiro would have beef as well. Ondro, on his cattle-search, had found the newest arrivals: a cowherd and his teenage son, who had survived the winter alone on a remote farmstead. Now that their supplies of flour had run out they had promised to bring their herd closer to the town.
That made… She counted on her fingers. Twenty-eight inhabitants, including baby Royet. Not a town again by any means, but a respectable size for a village.
But it will be back to twenty-seven soon, she thought, as she walked towards the houses. Ondro came out into the field to meet her.
“The oats are looking healthy,” he observed.
“Not bad, are they? How about your lambs?”
“Another two born today,” said Ondro. “Tomorrow I’ll go up to the hut and spend a couple of weeks there while the lambing’s in full swing.” He had rebuilt his shepherd’s hut sufficiently to make it habitable.
“Alone?”
“I’ll take Shuli. I think it’ll be good for her to help out with the lambing. Teach her a bit of care. And small hands, should be useful. I’d take Dil, too, if he didn’t always have three little followers trailing after him.”
Yaret laughed. “He makes a good big brother for them. I think Paro actually worships Dil.”
“I think Paro actually worships you, because of the wooden leg.”
“It doesn’t take much, does it? To be worshipped, I mean.”
Ondro paused. “Yaret. Stop. Stay here a minute. Don’t go on just yet. I’ve got something that I need to say.” She stopped in the middle of the field, while he seemed to fumble for words. “I don’t worship you, I mean – I mean not exactly worship, that’s the wrong word, but I do respect and like you very much, and I think – I mean, I hope, I hope I could make you happy. I’d certainly try, and it would give the place something more to build on, maybe another family, you know?”
Yaret drew in her breath. She wasn’t totally surprised, yet she was taken by surprise. Unsure of what to say, she waited. The words were pouring out of Ondro now.
“What I mean is, would you marry me? I’d be so glad. We could have the ceremony in the burial ground, I mean the remembrance circle, and I’m going to start rebuilding that end cottage on the Cross-street once the lambing’s over. Brichek says he’ll help and I’m sure Berlo will as well. And we could… start again.”
“Oh, Ondro.”
She saw the hope in his cheerful face collapse. “That’s a no, then.”
“That’s a no. I’m sorry, because I do respect and like you very much as well. You’re a good man, Ondro.” And now she found herself fumbling in her turn, because she did not want to give him false hopes, but she did not want to blight him either. “If things were different… but they’d have to be very different, and I just don’t think that it would work. In any case, I won’t be here much longer. In a few days I’m hoping to go west.”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about it since I got back from the trip up north. The stonemen all marched west to Kelvha and I think there’s going to be a war. Well, I know there’s going to be a war.”
“What does that have to do with us?”
“It has everything to do with us.” She began to walk through the newly sprouting field back to the streets, which were no longer still and ashen. There were signs of rebuilding work in the market and elsewhere, now that all the guardians had been removed and buried.
On the burial day everyone had stood in a circle and sung the Memorial Song that they had been composing slowly through the winter evenings, accompanied by Elket’s lutine. Too many undirected, helpless tears had been shed over the winter, Yaret thought: but the ritual gave their grief a shape if not a meaning.
Dil and the other young children had made up their own words to say over the mass graves. Even Bidi, who had arrived in the carts and was only four, took her part.
“Have a happy time, and have nice dreams, and lots of dogs to play with,” Bidi had carefully announced, and then helped their dog wave its thin paw. It would have made Gramma smile, thought Yaret.
But although their remains were safely underground, the dead still stood there at her shoulders, urging her to action. Or something did.
“If war is coming,” she told Ondro now, “I don’t want it to come here. I don’t want the stonemen here ever again. And I think the best way to prevent that is to join in the fight against them, whether with Kelvha or someone else. I know I can’t really make any difference: but I feel that if there is to be a war against the stonemen, Obandiro ought to be represented.”
“But that would be dangerous!”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It can’t be as dangerous as having the stonemen return here.”
“Well… I suppose you’re right. But I’d rather you didn’t go. If anyone goes off to fight, then I should be the one to do it, really,” said Ondro mournfully.
She looked at him with compassion. “Do you want to go to battle?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. But I’m the only man in the town who’s not too old or too young, or blind or burnt, or doesn’t have small children.”
“That’s why you’re needed here, Ondro. Your strength and fitness are far more useful here than they could be on the battlefield.”
“It’s true I’ve never touched a sword.” He sounded both relieved and rueful.
“Whereas I have, and I’ve travelled west many times before; I know where I’m going. I just need to get the others to agree. I intend to tell them my plan at council tonight. But I wanted you to hear it first, so that you wouldn’t think I’m leaving because of you.”
By now they had crossed the Dondel brook and were walking up towards the market place. The sound of hammering rang through the spring-scented air.
“When will you set out?” asked Ondro.
“In two or three days, if the weather holds.”
“All right. Then since I’m moving up to my hut tomorrow, I’ll say my goodbye now.” Once more he halted, turning round to face her. “I’ll come to this evening’s council but I can’t say it there. So. Yaret. I wish you all good speed and good luck and I just hope to the stars that there is no war, or that you get through it and come back home safely. You have to, you know, for the sake of all these children.”
“They don’t need me any more,” she said, somewhat ruefully. “They’ve got more important people than me now – people like Anneke and Ziya. And I think Habiya will become important to them too.” Habiya, Bidi’s grandmother from the carts, was already proving both patient and practical.
“You’re still important to them. You rescued them, the first four, and they won’t forget it. So don’t you forget it either.”
“You did some rescuing yourself, Ondro.”
He shook his head. “Not much. I’d wait for you, if I thought it would do any good.”
Yaret bit her lip. Would it do any good? It wasn’t impossible… yet she didn’t think so. Things would have to be very different. But maybe they would be very different.
“There will be other women, other chances,” she said at last.
“Not for me.”
“You don’t know that for sure. Everything changes, all the time.”
“And not always for the worse. That’s your favourite saying, isn’t it? But some things don’t change. Some feelings.” He looked at her with unusual solemnity, and then he turned and walked away.
Yaret had to sit down on the nearest wall. Such a good man, she thought. So strong and able in so many ways, and not a fool at all. Well, he can’t be a fool if he chooses me, can he?
Although she tried to laugh at herself, she felt a little shaky. Overwhelmed. It was no light thing to be so wanted; albeit by a man without much choice.
Have I made the right choice? I have just taken a fork in the road, she thought, without even pausing to consider it deeply. Before I’ve even taken one step west. Before I even know if I can go.
She was not sure what she would do, if too many people opposed her at the evening council. She might have to give way to them. But to her surprise, when it came to it there was no opposition.
All the town was there. The two new families from the carts had taken to holding their own council every other evening in the market square; and the grandfather and the trappers were often absent also – the grandfather seeing it as irrelevant, and the two brothers being busy with their snares. But this evening they all came.
And the first news was from Dil.
“Yaret wants to go away and fight the stonemen,” he announced to everybody.
“Thanks, Ondro,” she said wryly.
“I passed it on, because people needed time to think about it,” Ondro answered.
“But where will you go?” Elket asked her.
“I believe the stonemen are planning an attack on Kelvha, probably striking at the outer provinces first – the least well defended. So I’ll go to Gostard, where I’m known, and see what’s happening there.”
“I should go instead,” said Brichek, the younger trapper.
“No; your leg’s not healed yet. Yaret’s the best person,” put in Shuli. “She’s been west before and she’s fought stonemen. And I agree that somebody from Obandiro ought to go and fight to represent us. I’d like to go with her but I know she won’t let me.”
“You’re right there,” Yaret said.
Nobody tried to tell her how dangerous it would be. They had all lived too close to danger for too long, she thought, to worry about that. On the contrary, everyone agreed that someone ought to go and fight. Only Ziya made any objection to it being Yaret, on the basis of her gender.
“A woman’s place is to protect,” said Ziya, who had become more assertive lately. “To heal. It’s not a woman’s job to fight. Nor kill. We have enough of that from men. Women shouldn’t be doing it too.”
“I hope by fighting to protect those who can’t,” said Yaret. “If somebody attacked Paro and your other children, what would you do?”
“I’d fight them like a bear,” said Ziya. “Only not like a bear, because I’m not strong enough. So I would lose. And then I’d be dead and my fighting wouldn’t have helped anyone, least of all my children. I would have been better off hiding them to start with, or negotiating with the attackers.”
“Have you tried negotiating with stonemen?”
Ziya shrugged. “Have you? And how much did fighting back help any of the people in Obandiro?”
“And you’ve got a wooden leg,” added the grandfather. “How much use do you think you’re really going to be?”
“Some,” said Yaret firmly. “At least the leg’s impervious to blows.” She noticed with dismay that the smallest ones had started to look solemn and even tearful at the mention of stonemen and fighting. Paro took a great sniff, apparently resolving not to cry.
“You could kick the stonemen really hard,” said Dil, who had also noticed Paro’s trembling lip. “And go hopping into battle.” He demonstrated. Paro did not laugh, but at least he did not burst into tears.
“Indeed I could,” said Yaret. “Although I think that I’d prefer to ride. I plan to take Poda, because I suspect she’s used to conflict.”
“You won’t take the donkeys?”
“Not on this trip.” She saw Dil relax a little.
“You’ll need a lot of gear,” said Charo. “I’ll help you sort it out.” She knew from his manner that he felt he ought to ride out with her. But she did not think he actually wanted to, and she would certainly not encourage him to do so. So she merely nodded.
Frali put up her hand. “Who will look after the town while you’re away?”
“Everybody,” said Yaret. “You all know what to do if stonemen come. But I don’t think they will, not for a long time anyway. They’ve all marched to the west. That’s why I’m going there.”
“But,” said eight year old Korli, “but, but, what if other people come here?”
“I hope they will. And I hope you’ll make them welcome.”
“But what if a lot of people come?”
“From where?” said Yaret, somewhat sadly.
“But,” said Korli, “but, but, what happens if those Riders of the Vonn come here?”
“I’ve told them most of the story,” explained Dil.
“It’s not very likely they’ll come here,” said Yaret. “But if they do, then you can make them doubly welcome.”
“But,” said Korli, “but, how can we tell if they’re real? There are some bad men out there.”
“There certainly are,” said the grumbly grandfather. “You never know who you’re letting in. Could be anybody.”
I sometimes wish I hadn’t let you in, thought Yaret. But since Korli was looking genuinely anxious, she thought for a moment and then said,
“That’s easy. If somebody rides into town claiming to be one of the Vonn, just ask them if they know Rothir the dwarf.”
“How will that help?” demanded Korli. “Because Dil said he’s not a dwarf at all. Is he?”
“No, he’s not. He’s quite tall really. But, Korli, you stand there: and just imagine you’re guarding the south-gate. Now, I’m a stranger who comes riding up the road.” Korli jumped off his seat and took up a fist-fighter’s stance while she walked towards him. “Clippety clop, clippety clop.”
“Who goes there?” yelled Korli.
“Ah, hallo there, sentry. This looks like a nice town. I’m a Rider of the Vonn and I think I’d like to stay here. Now, what do you ask me?”
“Do you know Rothir the Dwarf?” shouted Korli at the top of his voice.
“Rothir? Yes, I know Rothir,” said Yaret. “Now you say, tell me about him.”
“Tell me about him!” shouted Korli.
Yaret scratched her head. “Well, for a start, he’s obviously a dwarf,” she said.
“No, he’s not! He’s not! You don’t know him at all! You’re an enemy spy!” And Korli charged at her legs. As she caught him and swung him up and round in the air, all the other children laughed, even Paro – although he looked completely baffled.
So that turned out all right. The children wouldn’t feel her leaving as a loss, now that they had so many others to look after them.
Two days later she was ready to set out, having said only brief, unsentimental farewells. She did not want to make too much of this journey, in case she were to come crawling back a fortnight later with her tail between her legs. It was not out of the question.
Charo helped her load up Poda. Clothes, food, weapons – her sword, her bow and as many arrows as she’d been able to knap stone heads for. Without a working forge, she’d scoured the eastern fields for flints, and used the stone-chipping skills she’d learnt three years ago from the father of her one-time lover, Dalko.
She had chosen not to think of Dalko for the last few months. She thought more often of his father, Colne the fletcher, who had painstakingly taught her the old craft of knapping – while Dalko, looking on, had laughed at her for wasting time in learning it.
It had annoyed her. But forget it now. No room for unwanted memories any more than sentimental ones. Yet she had kept room in her pack for her one-string gourd, wrapped in a woollen pouch made from the last of the slightly blood-stained samples.
“If you’re not back in a year, I’ll come after you,” said Charo as he strapped up her bags.
She found she could not speak. A year? But that too was not out of the question.
Charo added, “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be careful. We’ll keep practising our archery and keep lookouts and we’ll defend the town if need be.”
“I hope it needn’t be. The stones should give you some protection against darkburns, at least.” For the stones that she had gathered from the stonemen – eight in all – were mostly distributed around the town: four were placed strategically by the main roads at the town’s margins, one was at the Dondel Bridge, and one was in the cellar at the inn. The remaining two she kept herself. Although there was no certainty about how well they would keep darkburns away, or how long they would work for, it made her feel a little better to know that the town had some defence.
As she mounted the laden Poda, Charo said, “Just wait a minute.” Then he beckoned down the Cross-street. All the children, and teenagers too, and Anneke, appeared flowing in a stream from the house where they’d set up the school after fitting the new roof. They arrayed themselves along the road.
Charo waved at them and they began to sing. It was the Journeying Song, that strange wistful mixture of sadness and anticipation; and Yaret paused to listen.
Then, while they were still singing, she nudged at Poda’s flanks and rode on slowly past them, turning only once to wave as she left the edge of town. It was a good way to go, she thought. It saved any more farewells.
The singing voices drifted after her as she set out on the track leading west. After fording the Dondel upstream from the bridge, she turned to look again. She could no longer see anyone. But the remnant of voices still hung in the air like the thinnest wisp of smoke.
So this was it. It hurt to be leaving now, as it had never hurt to leave her grandparents on her annual journey. Perhaps the old couple stood at her shoulders with all the other dead.
You too, Grandda. The only people who have loved me, she reflected, other than the parents that I never knew. Just those few fleeting images I have of my father walking alongside me, so high up. My mother who left no memories at all. Yet I have been assured that she loved me... Which Dalko never did. Everything was a laugh with him: it was refreshing until it became wearisome, and then painful. When he said he loved me, that was just another joke.
I will not marry an insincere man, she thought, or one whom I cannot respect. I can respect Ondro. Maybe I could grow to love him, if. If. So many ifs.
If I even make anything of this journey. Where will it lead? What am I doing? How do the Vonn manage this – the travelling into unknown risk, the heading off to battle? I am like a child with a toy sword pretending to be a soldier. Although I told Ondro that I knew what I was doing, I have no idea.
Just making it up as I go along… Charo assured me that it didn’t show. But it’s true none the less.
I leave behind a trail of my errors and omissions, she thought. I hope this journey doesn’t prove to be the biggest one of all.