Deerskin (43 page)

Since Lissar’s boots had disappeared with the hut and all their other gear, she was grateful there were no late blizzards; she was even more grateful that the game increased almost daily, till she could almost reach out and grab a rabbit or an ootag by the scruff of its neck any time she felt hungry. She and her seven dogs were coming down the mountain as bare of possessions as she and one dog had done a year before: she had her knife, tinder box, and pouch of throwing-stones.

But there was the urgency that she had not felt before. There was no thought of lingering this year, nor any thought of where they were going; she thought they all knew; they were going … the word
home
kept rising in her heart and sitting on her tongue, and yet it was not her home and could not be, not since Ossin had said certain things to her on a balcony during a ball given to honor another woman, the woman he was expected to make his wife.

Perhaps she would return his six dogs—for all that he had told her they were hers; for all that she knew that they believed themselves to be hers. Seven was too many, if she were to go wandering. She and Ash could slip away alone one night. No, but there were Ash’s puppies to consider, for puppies there would be; they would not be able to travel while the puppies were young. Then too, Ossin said he wished to have choice of any pups from the six dogs she had saved; and once he knew that Ash was who she was … Lissar felt she owed him this thing—this one thing she could grant—and he would be doubly pleased with Ash’s puppies sired by Ob. Perhaps she might then keep Ob, for Ash’s company, two dogs would not be too many—although that would also result in more puppies.

As her thoughts wound in such circles, her feet carried her straight on, down and down not much less rapidly than the snow-swollen streams she and the dogs ran beside, and camped near at night. The water’s roar was no louder than the drumming of the blood inside her own veins. She slept less and less, and lay staring at the stars many nights, or listening to the rain drip off the leaves overhead, because she knew Ash would awaken and try to follow her if she moved. The night of the next full Moon she did not sleep at all, although there was nothing left to guard or disappear, except themselves; and the Moonwoman would not take her dogs away from her. This year, when they struck the road for the first time, Lissar did not hesitate; and so they ran on, through the thinning trees, and out into the lowlands, where farmlands began emerging from the wild.

They struck the village where Barley and Ammy lived, and Lissar hesitated outside their door, anxious as she was to go on; and Ammy, as if she had been standing by the window waiting for their arrival, threw open the shutters and called Lissar’s name—Deerskin.

She left the window then, and opened the door; and Lissar soberly lifted the gate-latch, and went up the little stone-flagged path. She noticed Ob looking wistfully at the chickens, though she knew he was too well-mannered to disturb them—at least so long as he was under her eye. Even young spring rabbit grows tedious at last.

“You are going to the yellow city, are you not?” said Ammy, as soon as they were within easy earshot, as if picking up a conversation they had begun last week, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to have Lissar standing in her dooryard again. “Even Barley and I thought of going, for the wedding will be very grand.”

Lissar stood as if suddenly rooted to the scrubbed-smooth stone her feet rested on.

“Did you not know?” pursued Ammy. “Did you go up into the mountains again this winter?”

Lissar nodded dumbly.

“What a silly thing to do, child. Winter is long and lonely enough, even here, where we all know one another—and hard, too. You’re as thin as you were last spring, although your dogs look better than you do. In the yellow city it is probably quite merry, even in the worst of winter, and you hardly know the season at all. Well, perhaps the wedding was not set up till after you left, for it was well into autumn when the news went out. But you’ll want to go back now—for you had become great friends with our prince, had you not?”

This time Lissar shook her head, not so much to deny it, but not knowing whether she wished to acknowledge Ossin as a great friend or not. Would it be more or less possible now to remain in the prince’s kennels with the prince married, to Trivelda, as she supposed? She did not know this either, only that her heart ached, and the words Ossin had last spoken to her pressed on her like stones. Why should the prince not be married? It was nothing to her, because she had made it be nothing.

No. It was not she who had made it nothing, but her father.

She turned away, but Ammy said, “Will you not stay? I know Barley would like to see you again too.”

Lissar shook her head again, firmly this time, and spoke at last: “There are too many of us to house and feed this year—and I do not like how Ob and Pur eye your chickens. It has been a long winter—they may have forgotten their manners. We are better off away from farmland. Perhaps”—she hesitated—“we’ll meet in the yellow city, when you come for the wedding.”

Ammy was smiling at her. “You have been on your old mountain too long if you think anyone will be able to find anyone else in the crowds that the city will host for this wedding. But perhaps you will come back here for a little quiet space afterwards. I do not believe any dog that travels with you would stoop to eat a chicken if you told him nay.

“We are far enough out here you know that our countryside is not much hunted; you could provide us with an autumn’s game and spend next winter here; we’ve missed having a hunting-master, there has been no one willing to settle in so dull a place since Barley and I were children. But I do not like seeing you look so thin and pale. Spend the winter here; I will teach you to spin. Our weaver is forever complaining that she has not enough work.”

Lissar forgot the wedding for a moment, and smiled. “I thank you. I will remember it. For your barn is by far the most comfortable I have slept in.” And my winter home has disappeared, she thought. My home. For the king’s city is no home for me. Not now. Not ever. How could she have thought otherwise? “Perhaps you will see me again sooner than you think.” She wished she could push the voice, the directional hum, away from her, as she might slap at a fly; for so long as it buzzed at her, she had to go to the yellow city whether she would or not. She would go, then, but she would also leave.

“Good!” said Ammy, and made no further move to stop them, but watched with her curiously bright eyes as they walked back up to the road again. Lissar felt Ammy’s eyes as she dropped the latch back in place. She lifted a hand in greeting and farewell, and turned away; and she and the dogs picked up the slow, long-striding trot they used to cover distance.

There was more activity on the road this year; she heard the word “wedding” once too often, and struck out across the fields, her skein of pale and brindle-marked dogs stretching out behind her. This year she knew her way, for she had hunted all over this country, and need not keep to the road even for its direction; and the word she heard now, more than once, as they trotted through dawns and twilights, was “Moonwoman.”

She did not herself understand the urgency; it was as if her feet hurt—not if she kept on for too long, but if she stopped. She kept one eye always on Ash, and half an eye on Harefoot, whose leg seemed perfectly sound no matter how she bolted ahead or circled around the rest of them. It became a habit, this watchfulness, like checking between the dogs’ toes for incipient sores; like running her fingers down the long vivid scar on Ash’s side and belly. But there was no heat, no swelling, no tenderness; Ash, Lissar thought, was amused, but she had never been averse to extra attention, and if Lissar’s desire now was to stroke a perfectly healthy side several times a day, then that was all right with Ash. But as they passed through the last days in what had become not a journey to the city but a flight to the city, the dogs caught Lissar’s restlessness, and seemed as little able as she to settle down to rest for more than an hour or two.

And so they came to a water-cistern at a crossroads after a night of no sleep, just as Ash and Lissar had done the year before, a crossroads at the outskirts of the city, not far from the city gates, where it had become inescapably evident that farms had given way to shops, warehouses, inns and barracks—the water-cistern where Lissar had met Lilac, leading two couple of the king’s horses. And they stopped again to drink. Lissar was refreshing her face with handsful of the cold water when she heard, “Moonwoman,” but she paid it no heed, for she never paid that name any heed.

Till a hand gripped her elbow, spinning her around; and it was Lilac herself, and she threw her arms around Lissar. “I am so glad you have come back! I have missed you so much. No one would say where you had gone or why—why could not you have sent me just one word? —No, no, I will not scold you, I am too glad to see you, and Ossin was cross and gloomy and silent for weeks after you disappeared, so I knew you must have left, somehow, about him, which made your just vanishing like that a little more—oh, I don’t know, acceptable, except that I did not accept it at all … I mean, I have spent so much time wondering what had become of you, but that’s all … I just told myself, well, that’s the way you’d expect the Moonwoman to behave.…” Lilac’s voice suddenly went very high, and her voice broke on the last word.

Lissar found there were tears in her eyes. She blinked. Not knowing what else to say, how to explain, she struck on her usual protest, and said, “But I’m not the Moonwoman.”

They had been standing there with their arms around each other, and Lissar’s neck was wet with the shorter Lilac’s tears. Lilac stirred at this, and backed half an arm’s length away, bending back so she could look into Lissar’s face. “Aren’t you?” she said. She looked down at the dogs then, and Lissar could see her looking for the one shaggy one, and then anxiously counting, coming up with the right number, and then looking again. Ash turned toward her, her right side exposed, and Lilac’s eyes widened. “Gods, what was that?”

“A rather large toro,” said Lissar.

“A toro? You’re mad. You don’t tackle a full-grown toro alone with a few dogs.”

“It wasn’t my idea; it was Ash’s; and she would not be called off. I might have found it under other circumstances reassuring that not all of Ash’s ideas are good ones, but in this case …”

Lilac knelt by Ash’s side, which was the signal for seven dogs to try to lick her face, and, unheedingly bumping dog noses away with her other hand, ran her fingers over the scar, just as Lissar herself so often did; Lissar could have sworn that when Ash raised her eyes to meet Lissar’s her look was ironic. If a dog can have a sense of humor, as Ash manifestly did, could she not also have a sense of irony? Lissar knew that at heart she believed that a good dog was capable of almost anything: Ossin would understand because he agreed.

She thought of the days and nights when the puppies were only babies, and wished she had thought to ask if he believed a dog capable of irony, for she would not have another opportunity.

“I think you are lucky to be alive,” said Lilac.

There was a little pause during which the friends thought of the many things they might say to each other and the many things they wished to say to each other. Lissar found that she wished so badly to tell Lilac everything—everything she knew, including that Ossin had said that he loved her and wanted her to be his wife, and everything she remembered, including the first winter she and Ash had spent alone on the mountain, and everything she … could neither remember nor not remember, but only feel in her heart and bones and blood and the golden guarded space behind her navel, like how it was she came to leave her old life—that she could not speak at all. There was a noise in her ears not unlike the roaring of the demons at the gates of her own mind, before she had learned what monsters they guarded. The demons roared no longer, but she dared not tell her friend of the monsters; and the despair that rose in her then was the same that had driven her from Ossin last autumn, and her tears spilled over, and she stood in a silence she could not break, and thought, it is no use; I should not have come back. I should go, now, right away, away from here. What I owe Ossin does not matter, Ash’s puppies do not matter; nothing matters so much as that I must take myself away from this place where I have friends who love me, because I cannot tell them who I really am.

Lilac, seeing this, thought only that she wept for Ash, for the memory of seeing her when the blow had just been dealt, when fear of her dying would have squeezed Lissar’s heart to a stop; for she had some good guess, as a friend will, of what these two meant to each other, though she had no guess of why. And she knew too that Lissar could not speak, though she again guessed only that it was to do with Ash: and she cast around for something to break the silence. Anything would do. “What … you must have had to sew it together. What did you use?”

“Flax thread,” said Lissar. “It was … awful. But she didn’t mind when I pulled them out; O-Ossin,” she said, stumbling over the name, “had told me that they don’t hurt coming out, but I didn’t believe it: I had been there when Jobe stitched up Genther’s side, after he was struck by a boar.” But her tears fell only faster.

“And her hair came out with the stitches,” said Lilac, watching her friend’s face worriedly, guessing now that there was some great trouble that was not healed like Ash’s side. “An interesting side effect. She really is a fleethound now, you know. She even looks like one of ours—of Ossin’s. I see the ones that people from Fragge or Dula bring, fleethounds, and your Ash looks like she was bred here.”

There was another pause, and Lissar’s tears stopped falling. “Yes,” she said at last. She opened her mouth to say more, but knew she could not, and closed it again.

Lilac smiled a little. “I’ve been sorry, occasionally, that your tongue doesn’t run on wheels, as mine does. It gives me more room, of course, and I dislike anyone talking over me! But I would know your history several times over by now, if you were a talker, and I can listen, I just think silence is wasteful when there is someone to talk to. I guess …” She looked into Lissar’s face and saw the unhealed trouble there, and realized that she believed her friend would tell her of it if she could; and wished there were some better way to show her sympathy than only in not pressing her about it.