West of January (6 page)

Armpits or not, I was determined that I would not be sent away any time soon. I was terrified at the prospect. Anubyl had gone out into the grasslands and survived, learned his archery and other skills. He had grown to manhood and then proved it by winning women and fortune. But he was big and I was a midget, or so I thought.

Yet the waiting was torture also. I dreaded my coming ordeal, but simultaneously almost hoped for it, for then I would be free to go off alone to a tree-filled hollow somewhere and make a bow and learn to use it. I would shadow the family’s progress from water hole to water hole until I was ready. Then I would gain my revenge!

Somebody laughed, and I almost cut myself. It was my sister Rilana, watching my antics.

“Come and help me then, if you think it is so funny.”

She shook her head and knelt down at a safe distance. “What you are doing is not proper,” she said smugly.

“Easy for you to say! How are you going to feel when he drags you into a tent and pushes bits of himself inside you?” I was still weak on the theory of intercourse.

She smirked. “Rantarath says it feels wonderful. She always asks him for more, she says. Jalinan says he does it better than Father did.”

“Dungpiles!”

“What do you know? Perhaps you should cut something else off with that knife. You obviously have no other plans for it.”

I felt sudden terror. “You won’t tell him I have a knife?”

She considered. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I’ll—I’ll cut your breasts off! Except you haven’t got any!”

“Yes, I do.” She smoothed her woolen dress to show the bumps. “Anubyl says they are growing nicely. He felt them. He says I am going to be next after Thola, as soon as he gets all the others bearing.”

“He killed our father! He beat our mother to death! And you want him lying on you, kissing you, rubbing on you?” I felt sick at the thought.

Rilana tossed her hair. “Yes. I shall please him greatly and make lots of daughters for him and be the best of all his women.”

Where this argument might have led, I cannot guess. It ended there, though. The wind changed. We heard the noise simultaneously, and I suppose my eyes widened at the same moment as hers did—a distant squealing and rattling, the sound of an angel’s chariot.

Rilana was about to run, but I jumped and caught her arm. She was taller than me, but I was stronger.

“You stay here and herd!” I said.

“Why? It’s your turn. I want to go and see the angel.”

“I am going to the angel!” Hope blazed within me. Here was a solution that I had not thought of and certainly had not expected. “You stay here!”

“Will not!”

I punched her and she yelped. “I am going to the angel!” I insisted. “Angels stop violence! So I am going to tell them what Anubyl did to Father and what he did to Mother. The angel will punish him!”

—2—

I
RACED BETWEEN THE WOOLLIES
like a dispossessed dasher, not even waiting to conceal my illegal knife. When I reached the other side of the herd, I stopped, balked already. Below me was the camp and beyond that the pond. It was a poor one, a slimy puddle in a wide expanse of white dried mud, flanked by a tangle of crisp brown undergrowth and the stark silver skeletons of trees. Against that drab decay, our five tents shimmered in the sun’s glare, a line of brilliantly colored prisms. The angel’s chariot stood on the far ridge, dark against the sky.

It was a strange, dirty violet color, with one red sail and one dark blue. Even as I watched, the red sail vanished, and then the blue did the same, more slowly.

But already Anubyl was almost there, thumping along the skyline on his horse. I was too late.

Smoke was billowing up from the campfire. The women flustered around, preparing to serve the honored guest, and children romped in wild excitement. Herders were streaming in from all directions.

I sank down behind a small boulder, stuffing the knife into my pouch and pondering. Confrontation would have to wait, obviously.

Anubyl slid expertly from his saddle and led the horse forward. He shook hands with the angel. The two of them started down the slope, angling to avoid the prickly thicket and the pond, heading for the camp. This would be an exciting moment for the usurper, his first chance to play host to an angel, and he would be hard on his women if they did not provide good hospitality. Unlike my father, Anubyl was not above hitting them when they displeased him, although now he used fists or his belt, not a club.

Angel and herdmaster reached the camp. Amby was fussing around with cushions and rugs. The mare was given into the care of Todish, who strutted off proudly with her. Talana was spitting dasher steaks by the fire.

Alongside the visitor, Anubyl seemed enormous. His beard was thicker now and he had meat over his bones. Already his fourth set of breeches strained to contain him. He had discarded all weapons, even his knife, as a courtesy to the angel.

The newcomer was elderly, red-faced, and portly, with sparse white hair plastered to his scalp with sweat. His fringed leather shirt hung outside his belt and protruded far out in front of him. He was fanning himself with a leather hat. I stared at him in dismay. His trousers were tattered. He had
jowls.
How could this shabby old man distribute punishment to the lean young herdman towering over him?

But everyone had always spoken with awe of the angels’ powers—although those had never really been explained to me—and I managed to convince myself that he was no older than Aunt Amby. She was still the boss among the women, although Anubyl thought he had appointed Jalinan the senior. Moreover I could see that Anubyl was being very respectful to the pudgy little visitor. With the wisdom of true age to guide me now, I know that my youthful inexperience had been deceived by his baldness and large belly. He was not old, barely middle-aged.

The two men settled on the cushions before the center tent, Jalinan’s, and were hidden from my view. Rantarath came forward, kneeling to offer a bowl of water, towels, and the crude soap we made from woollie fat and wood ash. The unoccupied members of the family, the herders and toddlers, formed themselves into a wide half-circle beyond the fire, to sit and stare unblinkingly.

I crouched behind my cover, my heart thumping furiously. I had to plan my move carefully for I was in clear view of the children. If they gave me away to Anubyl, he would certainly intercept me. What was needed was good stalking technique, but stalking was something I had always been good at and lately had been practicing assiduously. I dropped to my belly and began to wriggle.

It was not a pleasant journey. The grass was patchy, and any bare rock or even a pebble would blister. There were also cactuses. I did not recall noticing such problems when I was small, and of course I did not understand why things should be different now. By the time I reached the cover of the old wives’ tent at the near end of the line, the angel had almost completed his meal. With few exceptions, the whole family was facing in roughly my direction. I eased across the gap between the first tent and the next as slowly as grass grows. There was no outcry, so no one had seen me. The women were still busy, and probably nervous about the coming moment of decision.

“I find your advice strange, sir,” Anubyl was saying. “Why not continue westward to this ocean before turning north?”

“Because there are a thousand herds between you and the ocean.” That had to be the angel’s voice, of course. It was higher-pitched, and it had a curious soft lilt to it. My skin shivered with excitement at being close enough to hear an angel speak.

“And they are going north?”

“I hope so.” The angel sounded exaggeratedly patient, as if he was repeating something he had said before. “We have been telling them for long enough. They certainly can’t go west. Any who go south will be trapped. There is no way out to the south.”

“How far north?” Anubyl was angry.

“The beaches extend into the fringes of Tuesday—about as far north as woollies like to go. The problem is that you have all these others ahead of you, and they will have cropped the grass. You may have to go very far north to find good grazing. I admit that you will have trouble. The woollies will become very sluggish, but that is better than having them starve.”

There was silence, and then Anubyl’s harsher voice said petulantly, “I have scouted good water holes to the south—several of them.”

There was more silence before the angel spoke again, still patient. “You have many fine women, I see. How many are with child?”

“Two, at least, the old wives say. My first crop!”

“I congratulate you. But if you go south, Herdmaster, the babes will die before they walk.”

“You croak a hard call, sir.”

“And all your woollies, also.”

Anubyl grunted. He did not want to hear that hard call. “More tripe, sir? Some curd? You will not try the roo-brain mash?”

“I am so full I could not eat a flea’s earlobe, Herdmaster. Your women are most outstanding cooks, even among the herdfolk, whose food is spoken of with awe throughout all Vernier.”

“You are kind. They have other abilities, sir, also.” I heard a handclap and guessed that Anubyl was gesturing to his women to line up for inspection. “I offer you rest from your travels and the enjoyment of whichever companion may please you.”

“Your hospitality has already put me more in your debt…”

The speeches became formal, the angel complimenting his host and politely declining, the herdman insisting. This must be a ritual, I thought, like the speech Jalinan’s brother had made when he offered her to my father. But the second of the voices had changed, meaning that the two men had moved. Hoping my heart would not jump right out of my throat—where it had no right to be—I rose to my feet. Then I dashed through between tents to deliver my accusation.

I almost ran into Anubyl, but he had his back to me. I dodged around him and past the angel also, seeking safety on his far side. The two of them were standing, studying the four younger women, who were likewise standing—in a line, blushing, excited, all greatly hoping to be chosen for this honor. The three old wives stood behind them, watching with interest. Nine sets of eyes turned to stare at me in shock or horror.

“That man killed my father!” I shouted. My voice came out much more shrilly than I had expected. At the same moment I registered with astonishment that this pudgy angel man beside me was barely taller than myself.

Anubyl roared and began to move.

The angel stopped him with a gesture, and everyone froze.

The pink, baggy, sweaty face studied me without expression. “What’s your name, lad?”

I blurted out my name as Anubyl began to move again.

“Truce, Herdmaster!” the angel snapped, and Anubyl stopped once more, quivering with fury.

“And who was your father?”

“Er…” I did not know my father’s name. I croaked and fell silent, choked by conflicting rage and terror and embarrassment.

The angel’s white eyebrows dropped in a frown. “Was he herdmaster? Is that who you mean?”

“Yes, sir.” Certainly! Who else?

The angel glanced toward Anubyl. “I just had to be sure, you understand? The coloring?”

“Of course, sir! Now you will permit me to teach a few manners?” The young man’s eyes had blood in them—my blood.

“Also, he beat my mother to death!” I squealed.

The angel looked back at me and shrugged. “That is not my business, either, young Knobil. Did you think it would be?”

“Sir…angels prevent violence—don’t they?”

“Not that sort of violence. And if Herdmaster Anubyl wants to beat you also—did you think an angel truce would save you from that?”

I had no words left. My plan had failed, utterly, and I had not considered that possibility. I began to tremble more violently even than Anubyl, although for other reasons.

The angel turned back to him. “Perhaps it does. I have never heard of the truce being carried that far, I admit, but I suppose violence is violence—”

“With respect, I disagree! This is a family matter.” Anubyl showed his teeth and began to edge around the angel to get his hands on me. Violence he wanted.

The little man moved slightly, blocking him. “He expected to be safe while I was here, Herdmaster. It was ignorance, but perhaps we should not disappoint his ideals?” He shrugged, seeing that his audience was not supportive. “Oh, well… These so beautiful damsels? You were about to introduce me to that one.”

Anubyl shot me a murderous glare and then turned to describe Oapia’s virtues and skills. The angel glanced briefly at me. I was not too stupid to read the message in his eye—I had been given a reprieve, but not for long.

With a sob, I turned and ran between the tents and began racing up the hill. At the crest I paused for a moment to look back. I was just in time to see the angel following Oapia to her tent. The rest of my family had not moved—women standing, children sitting, all staring up at me. Anubyl was already running, not toward me, but in the direction of the horses. His bow and his sword were there, also.

Ahead of me, empty ridges marched outward to reach the sky. On my right was the herd, with very few herders tending it.

About three woollies out of five owned a dasher, so the odds were against me. I was lucky, else this tale would have ended right here. I would have been ripped to fragments.

The underside of a woollie, I discovered, was cramped, smelly, and unbearably hot. The great shaggy feet shuffled on either side of me, and I had barely room to move, my back pressed against the monstrous belly, which rumbled and bubbled continuously. A calf-length pagne was not designed for crawling on hands and knees. The heat and the stench made my head spin.

In theory I could remain there as long as I could stay awake. I had food, for the rear nipple dangled in my face. In practice, of course, the heat was deadly, and I quickly rubbed my knees raw, for I had no way of avoiding rocks and cactuses as the woollie blundered ahead, continuously grinding grass. I had not known that woollies avoided eating cactus, but that one did. It was a humiliating refuge, a mobile torture chamber, and a very fitting prison for a coward.