Текст книги "A Woman of the Iron People"

Автор книги: Eleanor Arnason

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A Woman of the Iron People
by Eleanor Arnason

For the Members of the Aardvarks, the oldest established SF-writing workshop in Minneapolis and/or St. Paul (We also do mysteries and doctoral dissertations.)

Acknowledgments

My thanks to the following people who read this novel in manuscript and gave me advice on changes:

Ruth Berman, John Douglas, David G. Hartwell, Eric M. Heideman, Albert W. Kuhfeld, Mike Levy, Sandra Lindow, and Shoshona Pederson.

Al Kuhfeld designed the wonderful starship and read the novel with an eye for errors in science. The manuscript went through three revisions after he saw it, and he is in no way responsible for any new errors that may have been introduced. Susan Pederson helped me design the culture of the Iron People. Ruth Berman came up with my favorite name for the starship. P. C. Hodgell drew the map.

My special thanks to Bill Gober, who heard me talk about the novel years ago at Minicon. Every year since then he has come up to me at Minicon and loomed over me and said, “Have you finished the novel about the furry people yet?”

Here it is, Bill. I hope it’s worth the wait.

 
The water says:
I remember.
I came first of all.
There was nothing before me.
In the time of rain
rain fell on the water.
In the time of dryness
the water reflected the sky.
I came first of all.
There was nothing before me.
Vapor rose.
It became
the tree of heaven.
Vapor rose.
It became
the bird of the sun.
A seed fell.
The earth began growing.
Animals sprang up.
The vegetation was thick.
Then came the people.
Then came the spirits
and the powerful demons
who live under the earth.
Let me tell you:
I will outlast them.
Even the demons
will disappear in time.
I have no shape.
No one can divide me.
No one can say
what I really am.
 

FROM: The Committee on the First Contact Problem

TO: The Members of the First Interstellar Expedition

The problem, as we see it, divides in three: (1) You may meet people who have a technology more advanced than ours; (2) You may meet people with an equal technology; (3) You may meet people with a less advanced technology.

(We will leave aside, for the time being, the problem of what is meant by “more” and “less” advanced. We will also leave aside the possibility that the aliens may have a technology so different from ours that there is no way to compare the two.)

We think you are most likely to encounter problem number three: the aliens with a less advanced technology. But we’ll discuss all the possibilities, just in case.

The aliens with an equal technology present the least problem. We certainly cannot hurt them, not at a distance of 18.2 light-years. If their technology is more or less the same as ours, they won’t be able to hurt us, either. There is the possibility of considerable gain for both cultures without much risk. You can probably go ahead with confidence.

If you meet aliens with a really advanced technology (with FTL travel, for example) you will have to stop and think.

According to current social theory, any species that is able to travel to the stars is also able to destroy itself, and any species that can destroy itself, will, unless it learns very quickly how to deal with its own less pleasant aspects.

We think it’s unlikely that you will meet a star-faring species that is aggressive, violent, bigoted, or crazy with greed. But all our theories are based on a sample of one, and we may not be as nice as we think we are.

If you meet a species with a superior technology, be cautious. You may want to keep your distance, at least at first. You may not want to tell them where you come from.

If they are decent and peaceful, they will respect your caution. If they do not, remember that your ship has been provided with the means for self-destruction. If necessary, you can wipe the computer system clean and kill everyone onboard.

This capability has been provided with extreme reluctance. (See Appendix D.) It may be evidence that we, as a species, have not outgrown our own terrible past.

The problem when dealing with a more advanced species is self-protection.

(Remember, when we talk about advancement here, we are speaking only about technology.)

The problem when dealing with a less advanced species is karma. We don’t want to hurt them. Our species has done a lot of hurting over time.

Be verycareful if you encounter people whose technology is not equal to ours. Remember all the cultures destroyed over the past seven centuries. Remember all the millions of people who have died on Earth: entire tribes and nations, language groups, religions—vanished, murdered. Remember the other hominids who are no longer with us. Remember Homo sapiens neanderthalensis.

We think we understand the process now. We think we will not do these things again. But we are not certain.

Go very slowly. Think about what you are doing.

Lao Zi and Zhuang Zi remind us of the dangers of action.

The masters of Chan and Zen warn us that when we discriminate, when we divide “good” from “evil” and “high” from “low,” we are moving away from true understanding.

Karl Marx tells us that action is inevitable and that we have to discriminate in order to understand.

You have your choices of sages.

However, remember that—according to Marx—the goal of socialism is mindfulaction, history made conscious, people who know what they are doing.

Remember, also, that categories are not fixed. “Good” and “evil” change their meaning. “High” and “low” are relative. The distinctions—the discriminations—you take with you on your journey may not be useful when you arrive.

Good luck.

Copies of this memo have been input to the Open Access Information System (OASIS), the Archives of the Alliance of Human Communities (ANKH), and the Archives of the Fifth, Sixth, and Eighth Internationals.

Appendix A: On the possible meaning(s) of “more” and “less” advanced.

Appendix B: Why we think you are more likely to meet people with a less advanced technology.

Appendix C: Minority report on the dangers of cultural chauvinism.

Appendix D: Minority report on the dangers of fear.

Appendix E: Minority report on the relevance of Daoist and Buddhist concepts.

Appendix F: Minority report on the relevance of Karl Marx.

Appendix G: Dao De Jing.(Complete)

Appendix H: The German Ideology.(Selections)

Part One

Anasu

Her mother had been a metal worker, a follower of the Mistress of the Forge. But she died young, one spring in the mating season. This sometimes happened. A woman left the village and never returned.

The old crones said, “A crazy man got her. Hu! The lot of women is difficult!”

In any case, Nia and her brother were alone. Suhai, who was one of her mother’s sisters, took them in. She was a large gruff woman with a pelt so dark that it looked more black than brown.

Besides taking them, she took their mother’s belongings: the tent, the cart, the six bowhorn geldings, and all the tools of iron, bronze, and stone.

“A just payment,” Suhai told them. “You will cost me a lot in the winters to come. I have children of my own to care for, too.”

Her brother Anasu, who was eight then, said, “You have always been a grasping person.”

Suhai glowered. “Go outside. I don’t want to look at you.”

Anasu made the gesture of assent, then stood. The flap of the tent was up. She could see her brother clearly. He was slender and graceful. His pelt was reddish brown. It shone like copper in the sunlight. He wore that day—she thought she remembered later—a kilt of dark blue cloth, high boots, and a belt with a silver buckle.

Anasu left. Nia looked at Suhai, sitting hunched by the fire, which was out.

“Thank the Mother of Mothers I have no sons. Well, I intend to do that which is right. I’ll raise him, though I don’t expect to enjoy a moment. You, Nia, will be less trouble, I am sure. The women of our family have always been even-tempered.”

Nia made no reply.

Things turned out as Suhai had expected. She got no pleasure from raising Anasu, though he was clever and dexterous. No lad his age did better embroidery. He was good with a bow. He was good-humored, too, except around Suhai. The two of them always quarreled.

Nia stayed out of the quarrels. She was, she discovered, a timid person. Good for little, she told herself. She could not help Anasu, though she felt closer to him than to anyone; and she could not stand up to Suhai. Always and always she did what her aunt wanted.

Like all the people in the world, her people followed the herds. In the spring they went north to the Summer Land: a wide, flat plain. There were many small lakes and shallow rivers. On days when Suhai let her go free, she and Anasu built fish traps out of the branches of a bush that grew at the edges of the rivers. The branches were thin and flexible. They could be woven around one another, then tied with pieces of stringbark.

They put the traps into a river. Then they sat on the bank and talked till a thrashing in the water told them a fish was caught.

When he was in a dreamy mood, Anasu talked of flying. The large clouds of summer looked habitable to him.

“Not the thunderclouds, of course, but the others. I don’t think they’d be good for herding. They have too many hills. But I could take my bow up there. We know there is water. Maybe there are fish.”

She listened, not saying much. Anasu was two years older than she was. He always had more to say.

In fall the village went south: the herd first, guided by the adult men. Then came the carts, the women and children, and the very old men. Hisu, the bow master, was one of these.

The Winter Land was a rolling plain dotted with trees. In the south were stony hills. Beyond the hills was an enormous body of water.

“Our salt comes from there,” Anasu told her. “Some of the men, the really adventurous ones, stay here alone in the summer. Hisu told me this. He did it when he was young. He waited till the herd was gone, then crossed the hills. On the other side are smaller hills, made of sand, and then the water. It stretches to the horizon, Hisu said, like the plain in the Summer Land; and it tastes salty. Anyway, he made pans out of wood. There is no wood nearby, he said. He had to bring it from the hills of stone. Hu! What a lot of work! Anyway, he filled the pans with water. When the water dried, there was salt in the pans.” He looked at her, excited by this bit of information and wanting her to be excited, too.

Nia made the gesture that meant she heard and understood.

Anasu made the gesture that meant “if that’s the way you feel about it.” Then he said, “I think I’ll gather salt when I’m a man.”

There was something hard in her throat. She never liked to think of growing up.

The years went by. When she was ten, Suhai began to teach her how to work iron. This made her happy, she told Anasu.

“You ought to have started a year ago or maybe two years back. Suhai is always grudging and slow.”

“Nonetheless, I am happy,” Nia said. “Suhai is good at what she does.”

“In the smithy, maybe. Elsewhere, no.”

Anasu grew tall. His body began to thicken. Suhai really hated him now.

“I have never liked men. Even when I was full of the spring lust, I still thought they were awful. I’m tired of coming home and finding you in my tent.”

Anasu, who was fourteen by this time, made the gesture of assent. He gathered his belongings—the kilts, the boots, the one long cloak for winter—and left. His bow was in its case over one shoulder, and his knife hung from his belt.

Nia stood up, shaking. “Enough is enough, old woman. I won’t tolerate you any longer. I’m going, too.”

“Very well.” Suhai sat down by the fire. Dinner was cooking in a big pot. She pulled out a hunk of meat and ate it.

Nia began to pack.

She walked out of the tent, feeling proud. For the first time she could remember, she had done something important on her own. What next? She didn’t know. She stopped and looked around. It was late summer. The day was hot and still. Smoke rose straight up from the village’s cooking fires. In the distance the yellow plain shimmered. She had no idea at all of what to do.

“Nia?”

It was Ti-antai, her cousin: a plump woman with dark brown fur.

“Anasu told me he has left my mother.”

Nia made the gesture of affirmation. “So have I.”

“That terrible woman! She will end by driving everyone away. My grandmother told me once, Suhai ought to have been a man. She is too quarrelsome to be a woman. Come stay with me, for the time being anyway.”

Nia made the gesture of agreement.

She stayed with Ti-antai on the trip south. Then, when they reached the Winter Land, she moved in with Hua, an ancient woman whose children had all died. Her tent was empty, and she needed help at her forge.

“A good exchange. You help. You keep me company. I will teach you the secrets of gold and silver. I know them, you know. There was a time when I was the best smith in the village. I’m not so bad these days, either. My hands have gotten a little stiff, of course, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be. But what is, after all? In any case, I will teach you how to inlay silver into iron. And gold, too. Move in whenever you like.”

Anasu traded his best piece of embroidery for two pieces of leather. From these he made a tent, a small one. He lived by himself at the edge of the village. That winter Nia saw him little.

In the spring, on the trip north, he rode near Hua’s cart and helped with the bowhorns. One of them was a young male, strong but reluctant to pull.

By this time Anasu was full grown. He was quieter than he used to be, though still good-tempered.

One morning, midway through the trip, Nia woke a little earlier than usual. She got up and went outside. They were camped next to a river. Mist drifted on the water. The sun was just beginning to show above a range of hills in the east. She went to the cart. The back panel was fastened with hinges and chains. It could be let down, so that loading and unloading could be done more easily, and it could be fastened halfway down, making a flat place. Anasu slept on it. He had thrown off his cloak sometime in the night. He lay on his back, one arm over his face, shielding his eyes. All at once Nia saw her brother clearly. He was large and solid. He looked shaggy, rough, a little unfamiliar. The change was coming. She felt a terrible grief.

He woke and stretched. “Hu! Am I stiff!”

She thought of hugging him, but decided no. She would have to explain why she did it. Instead, she went to start the fire and make breakfast.

That summer Nia tried to spend more time with Anasu. But he was restless, silent. He liked to hunt and fish alone. When he was in the village, he worked at making arrows or on finishing a large piece of embroidery. It showed a man with large curving horns: the Master of the Herds. On either side of him were bowhorn does. Above him was the sun and a pair of birds.

“Don’t bother him,” Ti-antai said. “He is getting ready for the change. If you want to do something for him, work on his parting gifts.”

Nia made the gesture of assent.

The summer was rainy and unusually short. The sun was still pretty far to the north when the birds began to leave.

“A bad winter,” Hua said. “I’ll ask the tanner what she wants in exchange for a good fur cloak. Now, we’d better start packing.”

Just before they left the Summer Land, the sky cleared. For two days it was bright and warm. Anasu came to her then. “Let’s go catch fish.”

They made traps and set them in the river. Then they sat on the bank. Already the leaves on the bushes were starting to turn yellow. The sun was hot. A river lizard sat on a nearby rock. Head up, it watched them carefully. Under its chin was a bag of skin, orange in color. Once or twice, it inflated this and croaked.

Anasu picked up a twig and broke it into pieces. “I’m getting more and more irritable. There are days, Nia, when I can barely stand people. I think—the next one that comes near me I will hit.”

The change, Nia thought.

“I decided to tell you this. I want you to know, if I leave suddenly or get violent, it is because I cannot keep control any longer.”

“We all know this.”

He made the gesture of disagreement suddenly, violently. “You cannot know. My bones are on fire. It’s like a fire in a peat bog that never goes out. I have never felt worse than this, even when our mother died.” He stood up. “I’m not going to stay here, Nia. Good-bye.”

He walked away. Nia sat awhile looking at the river. A fish thrashed in the water where they had set one of their traps. She waded out to get it.

On the trip south she barely saw him. Once or twice, through the dust, she got a glimpse of a young man riding. It might have been him. One evening he came to their tent. His fur was rough and dull. His clothes were dirty. He sat down across from them and helped himself to dinner. Old Hua, who was usually talkative, said nothing.

At last Nia said, “How are you?”

He looked at her blankly. His eyes were not pure yellow, she noticed. There was orange around the pupils. She hadn’t remembered that.

He made the gesture that meant neither good nor bad. Then he went back to eating. After he was done, he left.

“Finish up your gifts,” old Hua said.

She did. The last one was a buckle made of iron, covered with silver. It showed a bowhorn fighting a killer of the mountains.

“Not bad,” said Hua. “You will do me proud someday.”

Nia made the gesture that meant a polite or modest refusal to agree.

“You have too little self-respect,” Hua said.

The trip ended. The people set up their tents next to the Brown River. North of them there was a stone ridge. Its lower slopes were forested. To the south, across the river, was the plain: rolling, tree-dotted, late summer yellow. The herd was pastured there.

There was no sign of Anasu. Nia felt uneasy.

“He will come,” Ti-antai said. “No man leaves without his parting gifts—unless, of course, the change drives him crazy. But that rarely happens.”

“You are not always a comfort, cousin.”

At first the weather was dry. Then it began to rain. Every day there were a few drops at least. Most days it rained or drizzled for hours. The air was cold. Hua said her bones ached. Nonetheless, she kept busy.

One afternoon they were both at the forge. Nia worked the bellows for Hua, who was making a long knife: a parting gift for Gersu, the tanner’s son, who was a little younger than Anasu.

When the hammering was done and the blade was in cold water, Nia set down the bellows. She rubbed her neck.

“Nia.” It was Anasu. His voice sounded hesitant.

Nia looked around. He stood nearby, holding his bowhorn’s reins. He looked worse than ever: shaggy, muddy, confused.

“Anasu?”

“I—” He stopped for a moment. “I have come for the gifts. I am going across the river.”

She made the gesture of acknowledgment, then the gesture of regret.

“You stay here,” Hua said. “No one will bother you. We’ll pack everything.”

They went inside. Hua put wood on the fire, then set a pan of milk to heat.

Nia got out the new saddlebags the tanner had made, then the cloth she had gotten from Blind Angai, the weaver, in return for a new pot. She or Hua or Ti-antai had made most of the rest of the things. She laid them out one by one: the new knife, the kettle, the brass needles, the awl, and the long-handled comb, the kind that men used to comb the hair on their backs.

What else? She was having trouble thinking.

“The new belt, ninny!” Hua was packing food: dried meat, dried berries, bread.

At last they were done. Hua poured the milk into a cup. They took the saddlebags to Anasu. It had begun to rain a little. He was standing where they’d left him, looking nervous. His bowhorn, sensing the nervousness, kept moving, turning its head, flicking its ears, tugging at the reins.

Just as they reached Anasu, he yanked the reins and shouted, “Keep still, you!”

The bowhorn bellowed and reared. Anasu pulled it down. He grabbed the saddlebags from Nia. A moment later he was astride the bowhorn. He bent and slapped the beast on one shoulder. The bowhorn began to run.

“Anasu!” Nia cried.

He was gone.

“Men!” said Hua. “They always make a spectacle. And here I am with this cup of milk. I meant to give it to him. Well, it will do me as much good.” She took a swallow.

Nia made a groaning sound, then doubled her hand and began to beat one thigh.

“That is right. Get the grief out of you.”

Nia kept hitting her thigh.

As Hua had predicted, it was a bad winter. It was cold, and there was a lot of snow. Nia wondered how Anasu was doing. She prayed to the Master of the Herds, asking him to protect her brother.

At the time of the solstice Gersu went crazy and had to be driven out of the village. Afterward, his mother took his gifts across the river. She hung them from the branches of a big tree. Maybe he would find them and take them. Most likely, not.

“He always had a bad look in his eyes,” said Hua.

Nia made the gesture of agreement.

Spring came early. The plain turned pale blue. The bushes along the river put out yellow blossoms. Nia felt almost happy.

“You see,” said Hua. “We get over everything.”

“No. I don’t believe that.”

“You will see.”

The mating season came. Ti-antai, who had just finished weaning her last child, felt the spring lust and left. Nia moved into her tent and took care of the children.

Ten days later Ti-antai returned. She looked rumpled and relaxed. “Well, that’s over.” She stretched and yawned.

“Did you see Anasu?”

“Of course not. Nia, what’s wrong with you? He must be far to the south with the other young men. I didn’t get down there.” Ti-antai rolled a blanket into a pillow, then lay down. She yawned again. “I got a big fellow, half a day’s ride from here. He does good carving. He gave me a salt horn full of salt. Hu! Do I need to sleep!”

None of the women had met Anasu, but none of them had gotten very far south. They had all mated with older men, who had their territories close to the village.

“Don’t worry,” said Hua. “In a year or two or three someone will meet him and tell you.”

Nia made the gesture that meant she understood. As she made the gesture, she thought—there was something wrong. Something out of balance. Why were people so often lonely?

They went north to the Summer Land. Once settled there Nia looked around for new friends. She had spent too much time with Anasu. She had relied on him too much.

She picked the younger Angai to be her friend. Angai was the daughter of the shamaness. She was a thin, clever girl, often sarcastic. But she knew many interesting things: the uses of plants, the meaning of flights of birds. Like Nia, she was lonely.

“I have many skills,” she told Nia. “But not the skill of friendship. How terrible!”

Nia looked at her. Was she being sarcastic? Yes. Her mouth was twisted down at one corner, a sign that she didn’t really mean what she had said.

At midsummer, at the festival, they got drunk together and fell asleep in one another’s arms.

In the late summer Nia made a necklace for Angai. Every link was a bird made of silver.

“Wonderful!” Angai said. She hugged Nia, then put the necklace on. “Everyone in the village will envy me!”

“You think too much of other people’s opinions.”

Angai looked irritated, then said, “That may be.”

For a day or two after that Angai was standoffish. Then she came to Hua’s forge and brought a gift. It was a salve that made any burn stop hurting.

“It’s my mother’s own recipe. I made it this time. My mother says it’s good.”

Nia took the jar. “Thank you.”

“Can we stop fighting now?”

Nia laughed. “Yes.”

The fall was dry, and the trip south was easy, almost pleasant. Nia and Angai kept together. Sometimes Angai rode in Hua’s cart. Sometimes Nia rode beside the cart of the shamaness. She never got into it, of course. It was full of magic.

One day they rode off, away from the caravan. They let their bowhorns run. When the beasts began to tire, they stopped. The land was flat and empty. They saw nothing except the yellow plain and the blue-green sky. Somewhere close by a groundbird sang: whistle-click-whistle.

“Hu!” said Nia. She rubbed her bowhorn’s neck.

“There are times,” Angai said, “when I get tired of people. I think, I would like to be a man and live by myself.”

“You have a lot of strange ideas.”

Angai made the gesture of agreement. “It comes of living with my mother. Let’s spend the night out here, away from everyone.”

“Why?”

Angai made the gesture of uncertainty.

“That is not much of a reason,” Nia said. “And I have no desire to do the things that men do.”

Late in the afternoon they rode back to the caravan. It was still moving. The carts and the animals threw up clouds of dust. As they came near Nia could hear the sound of voices: women and children shouting. For a moment the noise made her angry. She wanted to turn back, into the silence of the plain.

She didn’t. Instead, she rode on, looking for Hua’s cart.

When they reached the Winter Land, Ti-antai fell sick. Blood came out of her, and she miscarried. The shamaness held a ceremony of purification and a ceremony to avert any further bad occurrences. After that Ti-antai grew better, but very slowly. She was sick well into the winter.

Nothing else important happened, except that Nia found she could get along with Suhai. They took to visiting each other—not often, but once in a while. Suhai was getting old. There were gray hairs in her pelt. Her broad shoulders sagged. She complained of the winter cold and her children’s ingratitude.

“They never visit me. After all the years of care they leave me alone. Is this in balance? Is this usual and right?”

Nia said nothing.

“Well?” Suhai asked.

“I will not criticize their behavior. The proverbs say, don’t speak badly of kinfolk or anyone else you travel with. The proverbs also say, don’t intervene in other people’s quarrels.”

“Hu! I raised a wise woman, did I?”

Nia didn’t answer.

Suhai got up, moving stiffly. “I’m not going to listen to a child spit out wisdom like the fish in the old story that spit out pieces of gold. It’s unnatural. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, foster mother. I will visit you in a day or two.”

Spring came. It was early again. Nia began to feel restless. At night she was troubled by dreams. Often, in the dreams, she saw her brother or other young men, even crazy Gersu.

When she was up, she was usually tired. She found it difficult to concentrate on anything. She began to make mistakes at the forge.

“Can’t you do anything the right way?” Hua asked.

Nia stared at her, bemused.

“Well, that’s an answer of a kind. But not a good kind,” Hua said.

Finally she picked up a knife blade that was still hot. She burnt her hand badly. Hua took care of the burn, then said, “Enough. Get out. Don’t come back until you are able to work.”

Angai gave her a potion that reduced the pain. She slept a lot. Her dreams were fragmentary, unclear, disturbing. Always, it seemed, Anasu was in them.

At length her hand stopped hurting. Now, though, it seemed her body was full of eerie sensations: itches and tingles. Often she felt hot, though it was still early spring. The weather wasn’t especially warm.

She went to visit Ti-antai.

“The spring lust,” her cousin said. “I can see it in your face. Well, you’re old enough. Pack your bag now. Food and a gift for the man. Something useful. Cloth or a knife. You’ll be ready to go in a day or two.”

She packed. That night she didn’t sleep at all. Her body itched and burned. In the morning she went out. The touch of the wind made her shiver. Time to go, she thought. She got her favorite bowhorn and saddled it. After that she went to get her saddlebag.

“Take care,” Hua said.

For a moment she didn’t realize who the old woman was. Then she remembered. “Yes.” She went out, mounted, and rode away.

She forded the river. The water was shallow. There was a little mist. On the far side was a tree. A couple of rags hung from the branches. There was a knife driven into the wood. The blade and hilt were rusted. She glanced at all this, then forgot it and rode onto the plain.

At midafternoon she came to the edge of the herd. The first animal she saw was a huge male. One horn was broken. The long shaggy hair that covered his neck and chest was silver-brown. He bellowed, then lowered his head, as if about to charge. Then he lifted his head and shook it. A moment later he trotted away.

Good, she thought. She was in no mood for a confrontation.

She rode on. Soon she came upon other animals: yearlings and two-year-olds. They were too old to be mothered and too young to stand their ground against the big males, the guardians of the herd. This time of year they stayed at the edges of the herd, well away from the does and their new fawns. They didn’t like it at the edges. Often the yearlings would try to go in and find their mothers. But the big males would drive them away.

Nia stopped at dusk. She found a tree and tethered her bowhorn. Then she built a fire. The night was cold. She had forgotten her cloak. She stayed up and kept the fire going.

In the morning, at sunrise, the man appeared, He looked to be thirty or thirty-five, broad-shouldered, heavy. His pelt was dark brown. He wore a yellow tunic, high boots, a necklace of silver and bronze.

He reined his bowhorn and looked at her a moment. His gaze was steady and calculating. Then he dismounted. She stepped back, all at once uneasy.

“I thought you looked pretty young,” he said. “Is this going to be a lot of trouble?”

“I don’t know.”

His fur was thick and glossy. He had an interesting scar: a streak of white that went down his right arm from the shoulder to the inside of the elbow.

“Who are you?” Nia asked.

He looked irritated. “Inani. Do you mind not talking? Talking makes me edgy.”

She made the gesture of assent. He moved closer, then reached out and touched her. She shivered. Gently he put one arm around her. What happened next was not entirely clear to her.

When they were done, Nia got up and rebuilt the fire. She heated milk. Inani dozed with his back against the tree. From time to time he started awake. He glanced around, then relaxed and dozed off again. At last he woke completely. Nia gave him a cup. They sat on opposite sides of the fire and drank.