Lilith’s Castle. Gill Alderman

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СКАЧАТЬ open her mouth but the bit, and Aza’s hands on the reins, prevented her; a thick, bubbling sound shook her throat. She thought she would be stifled.

      ‘You must be shown to the men. You must explain how you bewitched the Horse,’ said the shaman and jerked her forward. Like a stubborn, unbroken horse, she dug her feet into the ground and pulled against the bridle.

      ‘Proud mare!’ Aza cried. ‘Must I drag you?’

      The bit cut into Gry’s tongue and the straps grew tighter; but she did not move, only tried to breathe and struggled to stand her ground. Aza jerked the reins again and raised a hand. There was nothing in it but she felt the sting of an invisible whip. She whimpered and, lowering her head, let the shaman lead her.

      They came to Garsting village, Gry and the shaman. Evening had already taken possession of it and dulled the grassy house-mounds and the tracks that wound between them to a uniform leaden hue, the colour of concealment and secrecy. The place was blanketed with the acrid smell of smoke from newly-lit fires and the empty drying-racks looked like skeletons. Aza turned towards the Meeting House, where the men of the village met to hold council and drink and smoke their short clay pipes, and Gry, perforce, turned with him. The shaman ducked into the low entrance-tunnel and dragged her in after him.

      When they met at the brook with their washing, or for cheese-making or the berry-picking, the women used to talk about this House of Men. None of them had been in it because none of them was allowed; there were many stories:

      ‘The puvushi rise up through the floor and dance on the hearth when the men are drunk.’

      ‘A puvush seduced old Heron, they say!’

      ‘They keep a spirit-bear, chained up. It tells them who will die and who will go to the Fiery Pit and who to the Palace of Shadows.’

      ‘Women aren’t allowed there because, once, a girl – Huçul her name was – crept into the House when it was empty and the men out with the Herd. She hid herself behind a vat of kumiz and waited to see what she would see and hear when they returned. Things she would rather not have seen, such as the man from Rudring who had dishonoured her mother. Things she would rather not have heard, such as the name of the man who had killed her father and the name of the bridegroom the men had chosen for her.

      ‘It was dusty in behind the vat and Huçul sneezed. She was discovered at once and done for, because the men rushed up and caught her. They accused her of wishing to be a man and, setting her on one of the wildest stallions, tied her there. Then they all yelled like demons and let the horse go – they watched him gallop off into the deep Plains.’

      ‘What happened next?’ Gry had asked that question, while the other women stared at the storyteller and sighed and clucked in sympathy and sorrow.

      ‘When the Herd was rounded up, next spring, Huçul was still astride the horse, which was madder still and had to be killed. (My Konik loosed the arrow.) The girl was dead and wasted and all her clothing had blown to wisps and rags. Only the ropes held, good as they ever were. The men untied them and coiled them up.

      ‘Huçul was buried beside the Nargil in puvush-haunted ground, without rites. Don’t walk there at dusk, nor in the early morning! Her fate has made her bitter and she is jealous of young women.’

      Aza pulled Gry out of the tunnel and kicked her to make her stand up. The men were in the House. Perhaps Aza had called them together before he captured her. She recognised Battak, Klepper; her brothers; Leal Straightarrow, Oshac.

      There was a spirit-bear. Its skin lay on the floor by the fire and Heron, the historian of the Ima, was seated on it.

      The House was full of smoke, from the fire and from the pipes of the men who were looking fixedly at her, boring holes in her spirit and consuming her with their eyes.

      Heron shifted on the bear’s skin and spoke to Aza.

      ‘What have you brought us, Shaman? Is it a young mare from the Far Plains? Is it a horse to break?’

      ‘This?’ answered Aza, leading Gry by the head. ‘What is this? You are right to ask me, Heron. I have brought it here for the men to consider and, when they have considered it and debated its purpose, to decide what shall be done with it. I shall only tell you that it was once a woman of the Ima.’

      Gry stared at the double circle of men as she walked and they stared back, each one letting his gaze rest on her feet, her skirts, her milk-drenched back and shoulders, her untidy head with its shameful binding; and her fettered mouth. She would not look down, though Oshac grimaced at her and Battak made the gesture with his left forefinger which meant ‘this woman is not worthy of respect.’ Leal sat next to Battak; at last, she turned her head away. He stood up and she watched him out of the corner of her eye, sidelong. He was a little taller and heavier than the rest, but dressed as were they all in the double apron, soft boots, and belt of silver discs, his dark hair clotted with horse-grease mixed with pine-oil and red ochre. She had liked him for his height. It gave him distinction and made him more like a man of the South and less of a squat Plainsman. He had been very close to her father.

      ‘Whatever she has done – or is supposed to have done –’ said Leal, glaring angrily at Aza, ‘does not gives you the right to lead her like a slave.’

      ‘I know what she did: my knowledge gives me every right,’ Aza answered.

      ‘But let her go – she won’t dare run away. How can she defend her actions if she cannot speak?’

      ‘For what she has done, there is no defence. But, as you will. Her freedom is over: she can only stand and listen to the debate.’ The shaman pulled the end of the rein and the bridle slipped from Gry’s head and fell into a rope of plaited grass and then into a bunch of hay which scattered on the floor. Aza bent and gathered it up. He dropped it into the fire, and no one moved, or spoke, until it had flared and burned away. Now, it was time for Aza to leave. He must pay his debt to Mother Earth and he bowed swiftly to Heron and was gone. Gry stood alone before the men.

      In the silence, Heron drew deeply on his pipe and Leal, without venturing to look again in Gry’s direction, sat down. The smoke from the historian’s pipe drifted towards Gry and she smelled its thick sweetness and breathed it in. Nandje, pulling on his pipe, had once told her where the tobacco came from and now, that name rose to the forefront of her mind: Wathen Fields. But Heron was speaking:

       Heron’s Story: How We Began

      In the beginning was Sky and Earth, our Father and Mother. Then came the Stars and Water, the birds, fish and animals, the horse and the Red Horse among them. Aagi, the first Man, was born of a chance union between our moist Mother and the Red Horse; and the first woman, who was made to serve and delight Aagi, came afterwards when Earth fell in love with the bright star-warrior, Bail, whose Sword hangs in the sky on clear nights. She was called Hemmel, which means Earth-star; those mushrooms the women gather at the end of summer and cook in milk are also called hemmel because they shine in the dark like stars.

      Aagi and Hemmel lived together under the open sky. She bore Ima, and Panch who went away and bred with the forest folk and so come the Southron peoples. Ima met a fair spirit-bear walking by the River Nargil and so came Orso, the same who went to the Altaish where he bred with dwarves and therefore come the Westrons. It is in memory of Orso and his mother than we honour the Bear. Ketch, the brother of Orso, got Lo, and Cabal who made the first Ima house. There are fifty generations between Cabal and Gutta, the grandfather of Nandje, He Who Bestrode the Red Horse, Nandje the son of Nandje, lately Imandi. Nandje the First married Yuega СКАЧАТЬ