The Returning (27 page)

“I thought you weren't going to wager with me again.”

“I'm not,” she said, confused.

On the way back to the house, he told her a story. “We've been here for fourteen generations, but before we came, there were tribes here. They lived in great, flat-roofed houses and grew rice in these fields. Then we came up from the south and killed them or pushed them northward, and took their land and made it ours. Was that fair? So much time has passed that most people have forgotten that we are thieves too, forgotten fighting and war.”

“Then they are only Uplanders by accident, for they really come from the South.”

“Yes, that is one way of holding it to the light.”

That made her think of Cam Attling, not one nor the other thing now. She wondered if some part of the dark soldier's blood held to his own race, so that he could not but follow them.

“This is no ordinary marriage. You will join North and South and make it one thing.”

Graceful thought,
He is right
. And did not know what to feel about that.

 

GRACEFUL SAT AT Stepmother's feet, leaning against her legs.

“It is ages away, Moppet, and anything could happen.”

“I wish it would.” A fall from a horse, an assassin's night-strike. Graceful thought she'd far rather marry Attling's black-eyed oldest. “I do though—wish anything on him.”

“My pretty maid.” Stepmother stroked her hair. “You will become used to the idea. Your father is right in this.”

Graceful tied the tassels hanging from her sleeve in knots. “I think he is too.”

Stepmother took Graceful's face between her smooth palms. “You say you think he is right, yet you behave as if he has done you a great wrong.”

That was it, thought Graceful. “Yes.” She put her hand over Stepmother's hand and pressed it to her cheek. “I wish I could say things the way you do. Yes, he is and he has.”

“Moppet,” said Stepmother, and leaned to drop a kiss on her head. “Why don't you tell him?”

In the hall with the household, spinning flax, Graceful thought,
Why don't I?
She determined to speak when Father came in. But when he did, scraping the snow off his boot soles and letting in great gusts of cold air, she felt strangely shy. She thought to say it over dinner, but the same thing happened. It was harder than she had realized, to make up a quarrel. She followed him out to the barn that evening, to look at the filly she had won all those years ago.

“Should you not be abed?” he said.

She followed him the next morning on his rounds of barn and pens.

“Have you been let off your work today, Daughter?”

“No.”

She watched him help Garrad and Isla with the milking, stood at his elbow while he looked over the fowls, stood at the barn door while he and Garrad talked long about trimming the horses' hooves. Then he was heading back to the house, and the words were still stuck in her throat. He hung up his scarf and hat, his coat.

“Well, Daughter?” He sat on the bench in the entry, to take off his boots. “What is it? What's on Graceful's mind?”

“Father?” she said. “That wager you offered . . .”

He set his hands on his knees and looked at her. Graceful put out her hand. Father took it.

“Ah.” Smiling, he shook her hand, and that was the bet sealed.

I
T WAS WINTER, the coldest Pin had ever known—even Old Mattow could not, he had said, remember colder. Snow lay heavy on the world and the air was sharp as blades to breathe.

“Edord,” said Mam downstairs. She spoke lower so that all Pin heard, from her spot at the window, was
mumfle mumfle.
The door opened, its shadow blue on the snow, then Edord ran out with a bundle of red in his hands. He tied it to the gatepost and ran back across the yard, slapping his arms and going, “Brr, brrr, brrrr!”

On the gatepost the red cloth was a banner, shouting, with its color and its proud streaming in the wind,
Pin is a woman today.
Pin groaned and wrapped her arms around the unrelenting ache in her belly.

All the short day she stayed there, huddled on the chest at the window, wrapped in a blanket. Every now and then Mam came. “Up with you. Lying about does make it worse.”

Privately Pin disagreed, and she stayed where she was. “I don't want this every month.”

“You do have it, like it or nay.” Mam did not show her caring in words, she showed it in deeds. Each time she checked on Pin, she brought something with her: a warm brick to replace the cooled one, which she took away to reheat; another tea for the pain; little plates of food—sugared slices of apple, a fresh crust of bread with soft cheese, chicken soup.

Mistress Keystone came down the driveway with her younger daughter, and Pin's best friend, Nariet. The door opened to them, Mam saying, “Here, do you come in. Tea?”

“When's the day then?” asked Mistress Keystone.

“Tomorrow,” said Mam. Their voices floated up from the doorstep. “Tomorrow, for she's having a bit of a time with it.”

The banner was doing its work well. Da and Mam Mattow came, Millmans, Sanderlins, Mansors, Farmer. It seemed that all Kayforl slogged through the drifted snow at the gate to ask, “Is it tomorrow then?” And Mam saying over and over, “Aye. She's having a bit of a time with it.”

The snow was completely trampled away the length of the drive and the mud turned soft under so much traffic. Pin combed her fingers through her hair, drawing it in a black shroud over her face. No one had ever taken scissors to it, but they would tomorrow.

Dark came, underlit by the snow. Mam came too, shooing her into bed. Pin listened to her talking with Da, on the other side of the wall.

“I was never like that.”

“Oh,” said Da. “I do remember my mam being laid up two days of every month.”

“Aye. It does take each of us differently.”

 

“MY SCISSORS,” SAID Mam. “Do you fetch them for me.” She was rootling around in the clothes press. “Bless all the great gods, it must be here somewhere.”

“Mam, I'm tired of winter.”

“It's just your time. You'll feel fine again in a day or two.”

“I do want to go outside.”

“We will be—Oh! Look!” Mam had a piece of cloth from the press, was stretching it all ways and up to the light to look at it. “I wore this, and my sister. Your grandmam did stitch this. Look, not at all faded, well, only a little.”

Pin took the scarf and held it over her hair. It was too long, covered all of her hair, and no one had theirs stitched with flowers. “I don't like it.”

“Pah. It looks very well.”

“I don't want to.” She screwed it up and threw it. Mam clipped her ear for her cheek.

“You do behave more two than twelve. Do you get your da in. We've to go, and I've had enough of you today.”

Pin had wanted to go outside, but now she was there, all she wanted was to sit by the fire. Her stomach griped at her, so painfully that she found walking difficult. She stood at the top of the terraces and bellowed at Da through the funnel of her cupped hands.

 

THEY CLAMBERED UP the drive to the road, Mam and Pin in front (with the little bit of lace pinned to her hair like all the village girls wore, not Grandmam's old-fashioned headscarf), slipping and flailing in the snow, and Da and the twins behind.

The twins were funny with her now she was become a woman. It made her funny with them, Hughar especially. When Nariet had got hers, he had called her stinky girl until she cried. It was not something Pin would have thought she could ever miss, but just now she wished Hughar would call her any name he liked, so long as he stopped being so wary of her.

On the road, Da walked with Pin and Mam. “Just till we do reach the shrine.” The woods in the valley were thinner now, cut by the Uplanders to make their houses and farms—where the camp had been was now a village. A small village, true, but no more a camp: a score of flat-roofed, rendered houses, paddocks fenced with earth walls, and a few shanties on the edge of it.

“Could be north of Dorn-Lannet, just from looking at it,” said Mam. “It does look so like to Lodden.”

Da touched his finger to the side of his nose. “Reminds her of when she was a girl and growing up in the north, Miss Pin. A sure sign your mam is getting old.”

Pin laughed for the first time since her blood had started. She wanted to walk with Da, but this was a woman's time and woman's thing. She tucked her arm into Mam's and felt better.

The shrine yard was full of people, mostly children.
And all for me!
thought Pin. She held tight to Mam's arm.

“Never say Pin Attling's gone shy!” That was Mistress Keystone. Nariet could not be far away.

“Like I did say, it's been a hard one for her.” Mam patted Pin's hand, then loosed it.

“That'll ease when you have children,” said Mistress Keystone.

Children?
“I don't want to.” Pin burst into tears. “I don't want to be a woman.”

Quite heartlessly, all those around her laughed.

The men were leaning on the fence, the Uplanders all smoking, and the women were bustling about lighting the fires and lamps, setting tables up in the anteroom, setting out the food they'd made (and what a contest that was) and their best plate that they'd brought it on (even worse!). One table was covered with a red cloth and three little pots were set out on it: salt for cleansing, ashes for the death of her girlhood, honey that was for being a woman.

Pin slouched off, hands clasped to her aching, aching belly. Nariet Keystone caught her about the waist. “My mam did say you had come.”

Pin felt better with Nariet about to distract her.

Both girls squinted up at the sky, which was heavy with cloud. “Midday's a way off yet.” Pin kicked up a fountain of snow.

The tables had thick cloths over them, long hems lying on the floor. The women put their chairs under the tables and folded the cloth around them and were warm. When Pin was very small, she and the other small children would crawl under the tables in among people legs, table legs. It was dark and warm, stuffy and smelly. Pin was twelve now, not four, but she decided that she wanted to sit under the tables. So they pushed the little ones out, squalling, and folded themselves into the cramped space.

“Phew,” said Nariet.

“Hot.”

“Aye. And close.”

They crawled out again. Mam was talking about how like to Lodden the Uplander village was. “And they're using the shrine on Mount Maay, that was full of ghosts.”

“Mount Maay,” said Mistress Keystone, almost sadly. “It was always Hollen Hill before.”

“Things do change.” Old Mam Mattow set her basket down. Her husband was Headman since Da Palfreyman had passed on, so she must lead today's ceremony. “Do you have it all with you?”

“Aye, aye,” said Mam. “And the water is heating.”

Pin had gone quiet, because if she spoke she would cry with the ache in her gut, and in her mind. She took Nariet by the wrist. “Let's go outside.”

They fought with snowballs, until Farrow Gorlance joined in. He always put stones in his. Once he had struck Samlin Pacenot on the brow and Samlin had lain like a corpse for two days.

Mam was always telling her she could lose time just by thinking about it, but all morning Pin was aware of the sun's slow crawl up the sky, behind the heavy cover of cloud. Still, when Mam came to get her at midday she was startled.

Nariet laughed at her ruthlessly. “
Mistress
Pin.”

Mam took her through the anteroom, the shrine proper, and then the little room at the back where boys were made men and girls were made women. There was a big wooden bathtub, the water in it steaming and smelling of herbs she knew and herbs strange to her.

“Off with that lot.” The women stripped her, cackling. Mam took the bloodstained cloth and put it aside. Pin was hot with embarrassment. Her hair was bound out of the way and she was scrubbed with a mix of salt, ashes, and honey. Hot (
scalding
, thought Pin) water was sloshed over her so that she felt she must wash away. Then she was made to soak in the tub. That did help her aching belly.

“Drink this down, my dear.” Old Mam Mattow's hands shook, but she would not let Pin hold the cup, only drink from it.

Then she was dried and dressed. The heat of the bath, the herbal drink, had made her sleepy. Until Mam brought out her shears.

“Mam, I don't want to cut my hair.”

“By all the great gods, what has got into you today? Come here.” Mam turned Pin and,
snick!
“It's only a lock, here.”