25

 

“Those are the cow sheds,” Bulion said. “Workshops over there—kilns, smithy, pottery, and so on. We keep them well away from the houses, of course.”

They were riding down into Tharn Valley. It was lush. Even the surrounding hills seemed fertile enough to replace their forest covering as fast as it was cut down. The setting sun spread a roseate glow over fields and pasture and a village much larger than Gwin had envisioned. It made her realize just how big a family of three hundred people really was. Men, women, and children were running out to meet them already, more and more of them, especially children. Barking dogs raced ahead and alongside.

But the houses! She was appalled. She should have known. She must have known—why had she refused to think?

Meanwhile Bulion was keeping up his commentary, bursting with pride as he displayed his life’s work to his much younger bride. Oh, Bulion! She must not—must not—let him view it through her eyes. He was seeing a sprawling, prosperous settlement where he could remember the empty landscape of long ago. She was seeing… no, she would not even think it—squalor.

She was weary beyond words. The day-long ride had exhausted her physically, but the encounter with the Jaulscath had battered her emotions to jelly. Jojo Kawith, that poor, poor woman! She had lived on Brook Road, just a couple of streets from the hostel. She had known people Gwin knew, but they had never met before today. Jojo had lost all her family in the sickness—husband, children, parents. She had not spoken to anyone in months, and she had grabbed with frantic gratitude at the pitiful offer Gwin had brought—a doorstep to sleep on, the absolute minimum of human company, just friends in the distance, always to be seen but never approached or spoken to. All afternoon her tiny, lonely figure had trailed behind the caravan, a constant reminder in the far distance.

Until that meeting, Gwin Solith had not know what loneliness was.

“…original castle even older,” Bulion was saying. “Older than the empire. It was just a heap of ruins, the stones buried in dirt. We’re digging it out, raising the walls again, making a fort. Not as big, but bigger than anything else in the district. Enemies will avoid it and go for easier prey.”

Through her mental fog, Gwin wondered if that was right. A wandering band of professional brigands might see a well-stocked fort manned by farmers as a very desirable refuge for themselves, a prize to seize. Tomorrow she would ask Wraxal’s opinion; he was a soldier.

The vanguard of welcomers was drawing closer now, their shouts of joy already audible. A few youngsters riding bareback were overtaking the runners, to arrive before them and be first to welcome their leader home, healthy and safe.

They were going to meet some surprises, though. Not just their patriarch, restored to health. Not just Gwin herself, an unexpected fiancée, a human scarecrow baked and pummeled by two days’ riding in the summer sun. There was the Cursed Jojo to be explained, and the Cursed Wraxal, and the Cursed Niad.

Gwin must brace for surprises too. Would any be worse than the houses? Zarda houses—she should have guessed that the Tharns would live in Zarda houses. Forty-nine of them, Bulion had said. When Polion married Niad, everyone would pitch in to build another.

Round houses. Huts—wooden posts set in a circle, with white-plastered wicker walls and thatch conical roofs. The floors would be packed dirt, or perhaps flat stones. That was how the Zarda had always made their houses, one room apiece. Fifty houses between sixteen-score people worked out to an average of six or seven per house. Some would hold fewer, some a great many more, and all in one room.

It was three years since his second wife had died. How many children did he still have at home? He had probably told her already, so she must not ask.

Why had she not realized that the Tharns lived in huts? Wosion had tried to warn her and she had not heard. She was not stupid. Love could blind, but she did not think she was as insanely in love with Bulion as all that. Had she known what marriage to him implied, she would probably have made the same decision. Now that she did know, she was not inclined to back out. What distressed her was the sense of meddling, the feeling of having been deceived. Who or what had tricked her—and why?

She hadn’t heard any mysterious voices recently, she thought suspiciously.

The riders arrived in a thunder of hooves. They were all adolescent boys and they paid small heed to Bulion or Gwin. They ganged around Polion and his blonde companion. Polion puffed up like a pigeon as he introduced her.

The crowd of runners drew closer and again youths were in the forefront. They were cheering and laughing, but Gwin was unhappily reminded of the killer mobs of Daling, harrying the Cursed. The horses were forced to a halt. Bulion was suggesting she dismount. The crowd swallowed her. Introductions and more introductions. Names, names, names. Tharns by the score, heavy, solid, dark-haired people. A leavening of in-laws, of course—most of them Zarda stock also, but a smattering of Kuolians and even blonds. Explanations. Smiling faces. Names. Familiar faces. Names. Strangers’ faces. Names. Strong arms hugging her. Horny, farmer hands gripping hers. Trudging awkwardly in riding boots along the rutted road, borne by a torrent of laughter and congratulations. Young, old, big men, big women, many carrying babies, and above all children. She was waist-deep in yelling children. These were her people now.

 

She was within the compound, within a hodge-podge of circular houses. She was filthy and sticky and sore, but she must not show weakness—for Bulion’s sake and her own pride. Pigs and chickens scampered underfoot. Dogs barked hysterically. Bulion had disappeared, and strangers milled all around her.

Then a comforting Dalingian-sort-of voice said, “We have met before, Gwin Saj.”

An individual person solidified out of the fog of people. She was about Gwin’s own age, short and slight, clutching a sleeping baby, steadying a toddler at her side. Her face was faintly familiar, an oddly round face to go with such a frail physique, but a face with a kindly smile, a gleam of intelligence, a hint of fire.

“We have? I’m sorry, I—”

“My name was Shupy. Here they call me Shupyim, and you will be Gwinim very soon, I think. I used to work at the Phoenix Street Hostel.”

Gwin made a huge effort to collect her wits, and failed totally. “I’m sorry. I don’t remem—”

Shupyim laughed. “Oh, no! We never met formally. It was when Carp Saj was courting you. I saw you a few times. You would not have noticed me. I am very sorry to hear… but you don’t want to be reminded. Will you honor me by staying at my house tonight?”

Gwin felt like the legendary drowning man clasping the mythical straw. Here was someone who thought as she did, or who could still think that way when necessary, perhaps.

“But Bulion—”

Shupyim laughed again, adjusting the load of her baby in her arm. “You are not married yet? You must not sleep under his roof until then, Gwin Saj. Oh, how you would shock them! We do have a guest house, but there is a visitor staying in it now, a man. You will be very welcome at my house.”

The close-packed onlookers were smiling and nodding approval.

“That is very kind of you, Shupyim. But won’t your husband…”

“You have met him, too. He went to Daling, that wicked place! It is fortunate that I trust him, yes?”

“You frighten him to death, you mean!” said a man, and everyone laughed.

“I will tell him how you have been pestering me, Konion.”

Konion howled in mock terror, and again everyone laughed. It was all family in-group humor. In a few years, Gwin would be one of them and would understand the taunts.

“Come!” Shupyim said, turning to lead the way. “My husband is Jukion Tharn, Gwin Saj. You know him?”

“Of course I did! The big one!”

The little woman beamed proudly. “The biggest Tharn of them all!”

Following her through the throng, Gwin said: “He came to my rescue. A man accosted me, and Jukion knocked him down!”

Shupyim frowned dangerously. “He did?”

“I was very grateful!”

“That’s all right, then.” Shupyim did not look as if it were all right. She looked as if she preferred to keep her oversize husband under better control than that. The adult onlookers were fading away. Even the dogs sniffing at Gwin’s heels were starting to lose interest, but the children still stared. Her head pounded and her bones ached. Right around this house, left around that… why did they have no proper streets? Smells of cooking, chickens, and children. In a few years, would Gwin be like this woman?—rough, homespun dress, baby at breast, toddlers at her heel? It did not sound like Gwin Solith, but in a few days she would become Gwinim Tharn. Gwinim would be different.

She saw now that there was a sort of order to the houses. They were grouped in clusters of five or six, doors facing inward to a sort of communal court of muddy turf. Shupyim headed for one black opening in a rough white plaster wall. Two benches flanked it. A stream of terrified chickens came streaming out, cackling loudly.

The house was pleasantly cool, but dim and heavily scented by food and wood smoke and people. Babies lived here, her nose said, and adults too. Probably the chickens as well. Insects buzzed overhead. There were no windows, but light came in through the doorway and under the eaves, for the walls did not quite reach the roof. There was an open hearth in the center, a ring of beds around the walls, a loom, no other furniture. They must sit on the floor to eat. Pots and pans, bags of spare clothes, nets of vegetables, bundles of herbs, all dangled from the rafters, out of reach of vermin. It was primitive, and yet its simplicity was oddly appealing. Life in such a house would be far removed from the convoluted politics of Daling. Food and sleep and love were all that would matter here.

No, there was one other thing—a bucket of water with a rag draped over it. It caught her whole attention, more welcome than a seven-course banquet.

“Strip and wash, Gwin Saj,” Shupyim said, laying her baby carefully on one of the beds. “I will find you fresh clothes.”

“I brought some, but I don’t know where the horses went.” And had anyone remembered Jojo, the Jaulscath?

“They would not be right for here. Don’t worry about the Old Man… I mean Bulion Saj. He will find you soon enough. You must be wearied by your journey.”

Ignoring the uncovered doorway and the stares of the two toddlers, Gwin pulled off her dirty, sweaty clothes. She knelt by the bucket and took up the wash cloth. The water was cold, but gratifying. Simple pleasures were immensely satisfying. Every cool wipe seemed to remove as much care as dust. She bent her head to rinse her hair. The children watched in attentive silence. She wondered when Jukion would come home.

Shupyim wielded a long hook to pull a bag down from the rafters. She began to rummage in it, humming happily to herself. She chuckled. “Your courtship seems to have been even briefer than mine was, Gwin Saj.”

“Just call me Gwin. Or Gwinim? I must get used to that! Yes, it was surprising.”

“So was mine. He was so big, so handsome—and so innocent! I think we both decided within a few minutes. I have never regretted it, Gwin. I am loved as much as any woman can ever hope for.”

“Thank you. Your words comfort me.”

“They are simple people. If there is good in you, they will make you one of themselves.”

An odd expression! Gwin wondered how one knew if one had good in oneself. Something in her had brought her here, but was it goodness?

“The life is sometimes hard.” Shupyim dropped smock and skirt beside Gwin and replaced the bag overhead. “But that makes it satisfying, yes? To live well and bring forth life, is this not what the fates decree? To accept what is given and make the best of it.”

“You are a philosopher!” Gwin pulled on the clothes, relishing their rough caress.

Jukion’s wife laughed. “Just a lover and a mother! I have no time to be more.”

“It is enough.”

Shupyim looked her visitor up and down thoughtfully. “For me it is. I would not have expected you to be satisfied with it. You need a comb… here, let me.” She began squeezing water from Gwin’s hair, and then tried to braid it in Zarda style. It was too short. She tutted crossly.

“Thank you. Why should I want more than you do?”

“I don’t know. You are educated.”

“Does that make me less than you?”

“Perhaps in some ways it does. And greater in other ways, of course. The light is going. I will guide you to the Old Man’s house, for he will expect you to eat with him.” Shupyim chuckled. “Do not expect to be unchaperoned, though!”

That sounded ominously like a warning. The senior sons and nephews would want to vet the newcomer. If they did not, then their wives certainly would.

“Who keeps house for him?”

“Herim does, since Gaylim married, in the spring. But she is only fourteen, so she gets help from the neighbors. Not that she will admit it, of course.”

A sigh escaped before Gwin could prevent it. “And how many others?”

“Two. Jilion and Nosion. They are younger.” Shupyim patted Gwin’s shoulder comfortingly. “But Zarda children are very well trained—they know when to be asleep.” That was a clear hint that Gwin must sleep soundly in this house, Jukion’s house. “Come! I will take you.”

“I know the way,” said a new voice. Gwin jumped. A dark figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the twilight. “I’ll guide her,” he said cheerfully.

“Tibal Frainith! How did you get here?”

“I walked, I think. My feet are certainly sore enough.”

“But…?” Gwin peered at Shupyim. As far as she could make out, her hostess was as surprised as she was. “What are you doing here?”

“Aha!” said the Shoolscath. “I came to dance at your wedding, of course.”