The Horsemasters (26 page)

Mait said diffidently, “Are you Ronan’s cousin?”

Without answering, Nel looked toward Ronan. Following her lead, the boys also looked to their chief. Ronan said, “Nel is my cousin.” The smile was gone from his face. He was looking at Nel and not at the boys. He said, “And she is my wife.”

Chapter Eighteen

The subject of Nel was discussed with varying degrees of enthusiasm in all the tents of the Tribe of the Wolf that night.

Berta and Tora were delighted to have another woman who worshipped the Mother added to the tribe. “It is not that I do not like Fara and Beki and Yoli and the others,” Berta confided to her sister as they worked together to clean away the remains of the evening meal. “But their ways are not our ways. It is good that this Nel has come.”

“Sa,” Tora agreed placidly. The sisters were alone in Berta’s tent, where both their families had eaten dinner. Berta’s baby began to fuss, and Tora, seeing that Berta was still occupied, went over to the infant, picked her up and began to nurse her. The baby, as accustomed to her aunt’s milk as she was to her mother’s, fell instantly silent.

“The married men are meeting this night,” Berta said, as she finished scouring the pottery vessels in which she had served the venison stew.

“Sa,” Tora said again. “So Asok told me.”

“What does Asok think of the horse-calling rite?” Berta asked her sister.

Tora shrugged one shoulder carefully, so as not to disturb the nursing baby. “Asok was reared in the worship of the Mother, so the horse-calling is not strange to him. But he has been listening to Heno and the other men who follow Sky God, and I am thinking that he likes what he hears.”

Berta finished with the pottery and put it away in its proper place. She turned to look at Tora. “Poor Ronan,” she said. “It is in my heart almost to feel sorry for him. Some of the men will be angry no matter which way he moves on this.”

“We shall see how clever a chief he really is,” Tora said, and both women glanced at each other, their brown eyes brimming with secret amusement.

* * * *

Fara and Crim were not so pleased with the advent of Nel. They had eaten dinner alone in their hut, as Eken was spending the week in the moon hut.

“I had so hoped that he would marry Eken,” Fara sighed. “She was hoping also; that is why she refused to wed any of the other men.”

“I know,” Crim said. He was very fond of his sister-by-marriage. “What did she say when you told her?”

“She did not say much. But she looked…stricken.”

“Well, there is certainly no lack of men for her to wed in the Tribe of the Wolf!” Crim said bracingly.

“I know. But she had set her heart on Ronan. He should not have done this to her.”

“He did nothing to encourage her,” Crim pointed out fairly. “The wishing was all on Eken’s side.”

“He should have told us he was married,” Fara said. “Then Eken would not have hoped.”

“He wasn’t married,” Crim said. “I thought the same as you, and so I asked him why he had never mentioned his wife. He said he and Nel had spoken the words of binding only a half-a-moon ago.”

“Then he should have told us he planned to marry.”

Crim shrugged. “He had not seen Nel for three years, Fara. He probably did not know what would happen between them.” He added, as Fara made a discontented face, “You surely did not think a man like Ronan would live forever without a woman.”

“Of course I didn’t,” Fara said irritably. “That is why I was sure he would marry Eken.”

“Well, Eken will just have to marry someone else,” Crim replied. “Either Dai or Okal would take her in a moment, and they are both brave, well-looking young men.”

“They are not Ronan,” Fara grumbled.

“Neither am I,” pointed out her husband, “and you seem to be content.”

“Oh…” Fara looked at him, and then she smiled. “But Eken cannot marry you either.”

“That is so,” Crim said. “Poor girl.”

His wife pretended to throw a cookpot at him, and, laughing, he ducked out of the tent to go to the married men’s meeting.

* * * *

Bror had been in Ronan’s hut many times, but he entered this time with unusual reluctance. There was a woman in Ronan’s hut now, a woman in Ronan’s life. Bror’s heart was sore as he thought that things between them would never again be the same.

Bror had to duck his head to get under the hut door, and as he straightened he scanned the hut swiftly, searching for the intruder. His tensed muscles relaxed as he realized she was not there. Ronan glanced up from the leather pack strap he was repairing, smiled, and said, “Sit down, Bror,” gesturing to Bror’s accustomed place at the barely smoldering hearthplace, As Bror advanced, he continued to scan the room for signs of the new occupant.

A row of spare clothes hung on the right wall, all neatly arranged on pegs that had been hammered into the saplings that formed the hut’s frame. Bror recognized Ronan’s familiar garments, but hanging in company with them today were a smaller fur vest and a deerskin shirt and trousers. Beneath the clothes, Ronan’s reindeerskin boots stood in solitary splendor. Bror thought, that girl will have to make herself a fur tunic and some boots if she wants to stay here for the winter.

Standing along the right wall near the clothing pegs were two pottery jars for water and a small stack of wood and kindling to make the fire. Ronan’s weapons were propped in the corner as usual, and near them was the heap of deerskins on which Nigak made his bed.

Three long flat table-stones lined the back wall. On them were arranged a familiar assortment of items: sinew, spearheads and arrowheads, leather thongs of differing sizes, eating utensils, a basketful of red berries, a basketful of dried tea, and an extra stone lamp.

Two neatly rolled sleeping skins were lying along the left wall of the hut, and another neat pile of scraped leather waiting to be cut into whatever shape Ronan needed. The empty drying rack was on the left wall as well.

The hearthplace was in the center of the hut, under the hole that had been left for the smoke. The floor around the hearthplace was covered with reindeerskin rugs.

Ronan’s wife, Bror thought as he took his place, had not brought much to her new home.

“So,” Ronan said. He put down the leather strap. “What were the problems?”

Bror found himself smiling. “You are so sure I had problems?”

“If you didn’t, I will pass the leadership to you right now.”

Bror laughed. “Most of the problems I managed to solve all right. There are two, however, that require your attention.”

“Two,” Ronan said, encouraged. “That is not so bad.”

“Wait until you hear them,” Bror said.

Ronan raised his brows, “I am waiting.”

“The men from the tribes of the Goddess are demanding to celebrate a ceremony called the horse-calling rites,” Bror began. He saw Ronan’s face immediately grow wary, and he nodded ruefully. They both knew how explosive the word rite could be in this religiously diversified tribe of theirs. Bror continued, “The tribes of the plain hunt the horse to live, and the purpose of this particular rite is to insure the increase of the horse-herds.”

“Mmm,” said Ronan suspiciously. “What does it entail?”

“The young unmarried men of the tribe impersonate stallions. Each night the young women (both married and unmarried) wrap their nakedness in a horseskin and go to the ceremonial dancing place. After the stallion dance is over, each of the women approaches the horseman of her choice, offers him food, and invites him to walk in the forest with her. You can guess what happens next.”

Ronan groaned.

“According to the men of the Goddess, this rite represents the women of the tribe mating with a stallion. This, of course, pleases Horse God, and he sends more foals to the herds as well as making certain the herds come into the hunting grounds of the tribe.”

“Do they really mate?” Ronan asked. “Or is it just ceremonial?”

Bror said, “With all those young stallions heated up from a dance? What do you think?”

There was a line, thin and deep as a knife cut, between Ronan’s eyebrows. “This was proposed by the men of the Goddess?” he asked.

“The unmarried men of the Goddess—backed up, I might add, by the unmarried men of Sky God. It is a good ritual, they told me with grave faces, because the Tribe of the Wolf also hunts the horse.”

“And the married men don’t like it.”

“The married men will not stand for it. Heno has been quite eloquent on the subject.”

“I can imagine,” Ronan muttered. “What did you tell them?”

Bror replied promptly, “I told them all that we must wait for your return, that you would decide.”

Ronan said, “What do you think, Bror? Are they serious?”

“They are serious—all of them. It is the old story, Ronan. Not enough women for too many men.”

Ronan grunted. “I am almost afraid to ask you what the next problem is.”

“The hunting has not been good these last weeks. We have lost our luck with the reindeer; some one of us must have offended them.”

“Who is accusing whom?” Ronan asked resignedly.

“The usual. Cree is accusing the men of Sky God of a lack of reverence. He says they kill female reindeer, and that is why the Mother is angry and has taken away the herds.” Bror ran a hand through the curly black hair that hung down across his broad forehead. “On the other hand, Heno is accusing the men of the Goddess of not practicing proper sexual taboos. He says that they are sleeping with their wives before they hunt, and that is why the reindeer have gone away.”

“Heno was expelled from his tribe for sleeping with his wife before a hunt,” Ronan said ironically.

“That is how he knows how powerful the taboo is. So he says.”

“Dhu.”

“Those are the two problems I could not deal with,” Bror said.

Ronan said, “If I understand you correctly, we have one situation which pits the unwed men against the married men, and another situation which pits the men of Sky God against the men of the Goddess.”

“Sa.”

Ronan said wearily, “I sometimes wonder if it will ever end, Bror.”

A new voice, low-pitched yet unmistakably feminine, said, “What don’t you think will ever end?” Bror’s head snapped around in time to see Ronan’s wife coming in the door, two deer bladders filled with water in her hands. Nigak entered on her heels. She smiled at Bror and went to pour the water into the pottery containers along the right wall. Then she sat herself beside Ronan, as naturally, Bror thought with a resentment he tried to conceal, as if she belonged there. Nigak curled up in his accustomed place in the corner.

“It’s the same old tale,” Ronan answered her. “The customs of the Goddess seem always to be coming in conflict with the customs of Sky God.” Briefly he recounted what he had just learned from Bror.

Nel made a sympathetic sound and turned to look at Bror. “What do the women say about this?” she asked.

“About what?” He knew he sounded abrupt, but he could not help himself. Ever since Eda, he was afraid to be around women.

“About the horse-calling ceremony,” Nel said patiently.

Bror shook his head and looked desperately toward Ronan.

Ronan took pity on him. “I am thinking that this ceremony sounds somewhat like the Red Deer’s ceremony of the fires, Nel,” he said.

The long green eyes turned away from Bror. Nel answered her husband slowly, “The fires is more than a prayer to the Mother for good hunting and the fertility of the herds, Ronan. It is for the life of the tribe as well.” She turned her disconcerting gaze back to Bror and asked, “Why do only the unmarried men play the stallions?”

Bror addressed his answer to Ronan. “That was my own question. The only answer I got was the usual, ‘It was that way from the beginning.’“

There was the sound of feet approaching the hut and a man appeared in the low doorway. It was Heno. “Ronan,” he said loudly, “the married men of the tribe wish to speak to you.”

Ronan arose without haste, went to the open door and ducked his head to go outside. Sitting in silence within, both Bror and Nel could hear his voice very clearly. “I have been speaking with Bror and he has told me of the differences within the tribe,” he said. “I will deal with them tomorrow morning in the hearing of everyone.”

“Has Bror told you that the married men of the Goddess are in agreement with the married men of Sky God over this business of the horse-calling?” a nasal-sounding voice asked in tones that were not quite insolent but certainly verging on it.

“He has told me, Cree,” Ronan replied.

“Then you must understand…”

“You understand, Cree,” Ronan interrupted with cool authority. “I will deal with this tomorrow, after I have had a chance to reflect. Not tonight. Now you may return to your wives, all of you.”

There was the sound of feet. The men were going, Bror thought thankfully. Then came a voice Bror recognized as Heno’s. “Remember, Ronan, now you also are a married man. How would you like to see your pretty new wife mating with Bror?”

There was a charged silence, and then the sound of feet moving hastily away. It was not until the men’s steps had completely died away that Ronan came back into the tent, his face pale with anger under its dark summer burn. Bror could not bring himself to look at Nel, but clenched his big hands into fists and said to Ronan, “I told you it was serious.”

“So you did.” A beat of silence, then Ronan added quietly, “I am sorry you had to hear that.”

At first Bror assumed that Ronan was speaking to his wife, but then he saw that the chief’s dark gaze was fixed on him. He went hot and then cold. He stood up. “It is growing dark. Good night, Ronan.” He flicked his eyes in the girl’s direction, mumbled something he hoped sounded polite, and fled.

There was silence in the tent for quite a while. Then Nel said softly, “Poor man.”

“Sa,” Ronan sighed. “He is a good man, minnow.” He sighed again. “That, of course, is why he suffers.”

It was growing darker in the tent, and Ronan reached for the stone lamp that stood upon a rock at a little distance from the hearthplace. The lamp was similar to those Nel had seen all her life, an open vessel hollowed out of soapstone and filled with animal fat, which melted as the flame heated it. However, instead of the moss the Red Deer tribe used for a wick, this lamp used a long stringlike piece of plant, which was pleated into a sawtooth shape and then floated along the edge of the vessel. The string, Nel found, was very efficient; for more light, you lengthened the wick, for less light you shortened it.