Raetian Tales 1: A Wind from the South (2 page)

Mariarta sighed and trudged off with the yoke. She made her way down to the water, got out on the stones near the dipping pool, and braced herself to let the bucket fill. As the bucket grew heavier, Mariarta looked westward along the riverbank, upslope, where the sun dipped toward the crest of Giuv in a glory of golden air.

The breath went out of her. Up there by the triangular brown Virgin-shrine on its pole, kneeling on the rocks, was a young man all in black, one she had never seen before. He sang to the shrine with his arms outstretched, and the hair stood up on the back of Mariarta’s neck, for the language he used was not hers, or even Daoitscha...and he had not been there a breath ago.

Mariarta pulled up the bucket and wriggled out of the yoke, staring. She had always thought the stories about
buttatschs
and witches were just things that happened to other people—

She was scared, but Mariarta knew what she had to do. Carefully she picked her way over the stones toward the figure in black, while the eerie singing went on. He stood there silhouetted against the sunset, motionless—until her foot grated on gravel on a stone, and he turned and saw her—

Mariarta’s stomach knotted. She could see no face in this light....if the ghost in fact had one. At least she knew what to do. “All good spirits praise God,” she recited rapidly, “and I do too. The first word and the last are mine. What’s the matter, and what do you need?”

The singing stopped. The black kneeling shape looked at her, expressionless, saying nothing. Very slowly it stood up.

Normally it should have told her right away what it needed done so that it could be put at peace. But it didn’t seem to understand her. Was it a foreign ghost?  That could be a problem—she didn’t know the words in any other language. Nervously, Mariarta began again. “
Tuts buns sperts laudan Diu ed jeu e. Igl empren ed il davos—
”

The dark shape burst out laughing.

Mariarta got furious. “Stop that,” she shouted. “I’m trying to help you!”

The black shape laughed harder. “
Pertgisei,
oh, do excuse me!” And he spoke Romansch after all, though his accent was strange. “
Buobetta,
who do you take me for, one of the
piavel de notg?
”

“Yes,” Mariarta said, annoyed at being called a little girl, “and I’m not afraid of you.”

The sun dropped behind Giuv, and the light changed. Now the black featureless shape was simply that of a man standing in the shadow of the mountain, looking at her with amused dark eyes out of a long, thin face. “That’s good, for I’m not dead, and nothing to be afraid of. Who is it that’s not afraid of me?”

“I am Mariarta Agnete di Alicg,” she said, “daughter of the
mistral
of Tschamut.”

“Ah, well then,” said the young man, “
bien di, misterlessa.
”

Mariarta frowned, for some of her father’s friends thought it was amusing to call her mayoress, too: she was never sure she liked it. But if there was mockery in this man’s tone, it was different from that of her father’s friends. “
Bien onn.
And now I know what you are.”

“Tell me, do.”

“You’re a
scolar!
” And that was exciting. “Let me see your book!”

“You mean a student in the Dark Art?” His laugh was quieter this time. “No, I’m afraid you mistake me again.”

“I heard you, though. You were singing in the Old Language.
Scolars
need the Old Language for their spells, the way priests need it to make Mass.” She clambered over the rocks to get a closer look at him. His black was dusty—the cloth of his breeches and short cloak were patched. He was exactly the picture of the wandering
scolars
, who went from town to town doing odd jobs for lodging and food. In return for their hosts’ kindness, they would look in the black book they all carried, find treasures buried on their hosts’ land, or lift curses. They could heal sick cows, and tame dragons. Of course, all
scolars
had sold their souls to the Devil, but you could still get some good out of them—

The young man was shaking his head. “No, I’ve been with the monks, far away down the valley in Cuera, where the Bishop rules. I sang what you sing at night. But you say
Maria, seies salidada
, and I say
Ave Maria, gratia plena—”

Mariarta smiled to herself.
Scolars
often preferred to do their good secretly, and if he wanted to be secret, she didn’t mind. “It’s suppertime,” she said, burning to get him home, where everyone would see him and be astonished. “Come to our house and dine.”

He bowed to her.
“Bien engraziament,”
he said, and picked up his satchel from the ground.

Mariarta hurried to get the bucket and yoke, but the deep voice behind her said, “Ah no: let me carry that for my hostess.” The
scolar
hoisted the yoke onto his shoulder as if it was nothing, and went on up the path.

They came to the street. “This way,” Mariarta shouted, running off to the right: “this is where I live!” If everyone in the street turned to look at her in surprise, that was exactly what Mariarta wanted. And they all saw the
scolar
following her, and everybody stared at the stranger. And why shouldn’t they?  Mariarta thought proudly. Twice, maybe three times a year, someone came through the village who people there didn’t know. And this was
her
stranger—

“Here!” Mariarta cried as they came to the house, and the
scolar
gazed at the gold letters over the doors, still flushed faintly with the rose light in the west.
Quei che vegn da cor va a cor
, said the curves and swirls of the letters Mariarta’s father had carved twenty years ago when he married her mother.

The
scolar
smiled. “‘What comes from the heart, goes to the heart,’” he said. “May it be so.” And he walked around to the kitchen door.

Mariarta went after him in time to see her mother, in the doorway, looking with surprise at the young man who put the yoke and bucket down. Mariarta remembered her manners. “Mam,” she shouted, “here is someone who God has sent to dine with us!”

“‘Whom’,” her mother said. “Don’t screech, Mati. Young sir, come into the kitchen and warm your outsides, and take a glass of
vinars
to warm the rest. Mati, fetch your father.”

Off Mariarta ran across the kitchen and into the low-ceilinged frontway. There across the stone floor the cattle looked over the half-doors of their big dim-lit shed, the left-hand side of the bottom of the house. Stairs led to the hall with the storage-presses, and the bedrooms, but Mariarta knew her father would be in the big warm room at the right-hand back of the house, the
solér
. She ran to its carved door and knocked.

Only silence answered. This was a game Bab had been playing with her, ever since he taught her about knocking. Mariarta would burst in before he gave her leave, and he would scold; and the next time her bab would wait longer. Now she waited, and danced from foot to foot in an ecstasy of impatience, clenching her fists and making faces with the unbearableness of it.

“
S’avonza!”
he finally said. Mariarta pulled the door-hook and pushed the heavy door open. Her father was sitting behind his big wooden table to the right of the door, near the shiny black fireplace-stove. One window-shutter on the far side of the room was open, letting in some of the sunset light that managed to slide  between their house and dil Curtgin’s. The parchments on his table crackled in the breeze from the window, and her father put down his knife and pen. “Well?”

“There’s a man here!” Mariarta said.

Her father nodded. “So the whole town knows by now, since I heard you tell them so. Mariarta, when a
mistral’s
daughter has important news, she does not run about in the street bawling it to the five winds, like a bullock out of its shed.” He frowned, and Mariarta got subdued and unhappy. But then her bab made an absurd cow-face at her, and bawled “Owwwwwww’oooh!  Owwwwwww’oooh!”, so exactly like a bullock that Mariarta laughed. “That’s how you sounded.” her bab said. “Once, I forgive you.  Don’t do it again. We’ll have more important visitors some day.”

“When?”

“Who knows?  Meanwhile, we’ll ask this young man for his news after dinner. Your mother will want help. But help me first, though,” he said as Mariarta started for the door. “Go see Stiafen Cadieli, and Old Gian at the mill, and Flep and Clau. Tell them the councilors should come here after the guest’s fed, to talk to him. Go on now, or you’ll be late to help your mam.”

“But I want to
see
him—!”

Her bab frowned. “You have seen him. You will again, later. Go on.”

She knew that tone of voice. Mariarta ran out.

At the end of the street was the mill, close to where the dirt road sloped down near the river. This early in the season the stones were still. Old Gion himself was by the barn-shed, leaning over the half door with another man and looking in.

Mariarta climbed on the half-door beside them and looked into the shed. The other man was Flep, so that was another part of her errand done. “Bab asks me to tell you both to come to him tonight,” she said. “There’s a guest, a
scolar
—”

“Hmm, well,” Gion said. “Tell your bab we’ll come. But what do you think, Flep?  What’s her problem?”

From inside the shed came a mighty bellow. A wickedly horned head with one horn broken off short swung into the light, tossing the hay of her stable-bedding into the air. Mariarta looked at the golden-brown cow with delight. Old Crutscha was queen-cow of the Tschamuts herd, the pride of the town—for every year she beat off any other
pugniera
that was brought against her. The Selvese muttered and tried to buy in fighting cows who would give them the advantage, but it did them no good. It was always Crutscha who led the town’s herd, fighting any rebellious cow into submission, helping defend the herd against the wolves that got into the pastures. Bulls were no use for this: they were too testy, and too rare to be risked. Herd leadership needed a crafty cow, fiery in battle but thoughtful and wise—a
pugniera
who would give the town a good name at the cattle-fights in the summer. Everybody in town doted on Crutscha, and brought her treats in her winter quarters. But lately she had not been well, and her bawling could be heard constantly.

Flep shook his head. “She’s had nothing but the best. Beer in the mash, hot milk—  She’s just tempery. It’ll pass.”

“A week she’s been like this,” Gion said. “It’s not good for a
pugniera
to be tempery. She gets in the habit, shortly she’s no better than a bull—”

Crutscha bellowed, the small leaden stable-bell around her neck jangling. From behind them came an answering sound—a deeper ringing, more mellow.

It was Urs the stableboy, walking past with one of the big pasture-bells on its embroidered strap. He had just been polishing it, to judge by its shine. Urs was ringing the bell hard, like someone about to go out for the
chalandamarz
, the spring race that the boys do, ringing the bells to wake the grass. Urs caught Mariarta’s eye, grinning. He was skinny and dark-haired, and his eyes always glittered as if a joke was waiting to come out. Mariarta grinned back at him: he was one of her particular friends.

At the same moment Crutscha bellowed louder than ever, hitting the half-door with one horn, so that Mariarta almost fell off it. Then Crutscha put her head over the door and reached out toward Urs, sticking her tongue out as if she wanted to lick the bell.

“Is that it,” Gion said then. “Here, Urs, bring it over. That’s it, Flep. She wants to be in the pasture, the good creature.”

He opened the half door. “Come here then, you beast, come on,” he said, and put the bell on Crutscha. She mooed, a much more cheerful sound, shaking her head so the bell rang loud in the small space. Then she turned straight to her manger. Shortly no sound was to be heard but satisfied crunching, and the bong, bong of the bell as she moved.

“That’s her made happy,” Gion said. “But the grass up there must be ready now. We’ll ask the
mistral
about taking them up, eh Mati?”

“I’ll tell bab she’s eating again,” Mariarta said, and went back up the track to the street.

Urs went with her. “Is it really a
scolar?
” he whispered. “Did you see his book?”

“A
mistral
’s daughter doesn’t babble news,” she said proudly. Urs made a face at her, as he always did when he thought she was acting important. She grimaced. “I didn’t see it. But he has a bag he wears on his back. I bet it’s in there.”

“Maybe he has gold,” Urs said, awed by the thought.

Mariarta looked at him scornfully. “You
orob
, you know
scolars
are always poor. It’s other people they always give the gold to.”

“Are you really going to look in the bag?” Urs said, as they stopped by the mill. “You won’t do it. You’ll be afraid your father will catch you.” His eyes glittered, wicked and cheerful. “And there’s probably a spell on the bag—monsters will come out and hack you up so fine the hens’ll be able to peck you up.”

“I’m not afraid,” Mariarta hissed at him. She ran off, feeling furious. Urs always teased her until she itched with anger, as if the
föhn
was blowing, and he made her do things to show she was brave. Then she would get in trouble with her bab or mam.  
Orob!
  she thought again.

But she was going to look inside that bag.