Raetian Tales 1: A Wind from the South (6 page)

Me. He wants me to press his suit with bab—

And Urs had been her friend. Mariarta didn’t want Urs, or anyone, thinking he could threaten her so. But she had nothing to bribe him with. At the moment, she would have settled for being able to make Urs sink into the ground three fathoms deep, as Songt Margriata’s cowherd had when he tried to tell.

Mariarta turned to the old herd. He sat silent.

Hot with hopeless anger, Mariarta turned back to Urs. She was confused to see him go pale. Then Mariarta realized what Urs saw—the crossbow, spanned, the last quarrel ready in the groove—behind her, buried in the wall of the hut, three other quarrels, each splitting the last. It had apparently just occurred to Urs that there were any number of ravines nearby where a body might never be found. And who would be surprised, when the herdboy had already been missing for a night?  Wolves, werebeasts, anything might have happened to him...

The wind began to whine past her from behind, pushing at the bow in her hands. Mariarta swallowed, feeling the
föhn
-anger swelling in her. “Herdboy,” she said softly, “I have other weapons than words. Dare to say a word to anyone about me, and you’ll pay the price. You’ll never know from behind what stone or tree the shaft will find your heart. Easy enough to tell my
bab
how you caught me alone and tried to force me, how I had to do it. There will be trouble, but not much. And
you’ll
be dead.”

Urs stared, openmouthed. “Go home,” Mariarta said, feeling sudden satisfaction at his fear. “Take your beating. And don’t dare boast again to anyone of how you’re wooing me. I have other wooers you don’t dream of. Go!”

Urs stared at Mariarta a second longer, then ran down the valley  like someone pursued by wolves. Mariarta watched him go, smiling...and the smile faded as she realized that it was not hers but someone else’s.  The words had not been hers, either. Shocked, she took a step forward. “Urs—!”

“Too late,” the old herd said behind her. Mariarta turned, horrified.

“Ridden,” said the old herd. “As I said.”

Mariarta stared at him, tears coming to her eyes.

He held out a hand. Mariarta handed him the crossbow, swallowing. “When should I come again?”

“I think you will not need to,” said the herd. “This next day after Mass-day is the
alpagiada
, and the cows come here. Then we go to Val Surrein until May; after that, to Alp Tgom until July. Too far for you. Come after August, if you will.”

She nodded, uncomfortable. “
Bien onn
, then.”

“Maybe so,” he said, and lumbered into the hut: “maybe so.” The door closed.

Mariarta headed home. The strangeness was past. She was torn between upset and relief over what had happened with Urs. Yet now he would leave her alone. And until the summer began to wane, she would have a long while of remembering today’s exhilaration, thinking about the promise of the autumn. The mountains—possibly even the hunt. Mariarta went off across the stones, the end of the song breathing itself in her mind.

“Sontg Margriata quickly goes

and says goodbye to everything.

‘Farewell to you my good master,

farewell to you my cauldron dear,

farewell to you my good good hearth

where I have always had good sleep—’”

She never noticed the stillness of the wind, a thoughtful, waiting silence.

•

All the herds came together, the next day after Mass-day, to lead the cows out for the
alpagiada
. The cows were in their summer bells, wreaths of greenery around their necks, bunches of white
steilalva
between their horns. Brown Crutscha came out first, taking her place in the lead. All the other cows fell in behind her. Everything was as it should be, until the herds counted their own numbers. The old herd was not among them. Everyone assumed he was at the Surpalits hut. But when they got to Surpalits, one of the herdboys came running back into Tschamut with a message for Mariarta’s bab. Together with the rest of the men in town, Mariarta’s father took a lantern and stick and went to help in the search. It was a long time before they found the body. Quite late, Mariarta’s bab came home to sit heavily by the fire.

“Probably just a misstep on that cliff trail,” he said to her mam. He looked into the fire, shaking his head. “A man gets to be that age, a moment’s carelessness is enough. ...At least it was quick.”

Mariarta, though, remembered what the old herd had said about talking too much. She resolved to be careful in the future about mentioning the wind.

Finally the herds took the cows off Surpalits, over to Val Surrein. Soon after that, Mariarta went to the old hut. The herds had naturally taken all the cheesemaking equipment, the copper cauldrons and cheese-harps—but one thing Mariarta knew would still be there. She pried up the loose stone by the hut’s hearth, reached into the hole beneath. There, wrapped in its rags, was the good crossbow. She bundled it into a basket, covered it with new-picked herbs, and took it home, hiding it under the straw mattress of her bed. Then she began to wait. All Mariarta had wanted, once upon a time, was to be able to shoot. Now she could; now she realized that her life was going to be about more than just that. What more, she had no idea. But she would find out.

It was a lonely time for Mariarta after that: some weeks during which no one her own age would speak to her. Especially she missed Urs’s company, but her father seemed glad they had stopped being together, and she dared not complain of it to him.

Her mother was not there to help. Word had come that her widowed sister in Tgierns, past Selva, was sick with a growth, and needed someone to nurse her until she died, which it was thought would happen within the month. Off Mariarta’s mother went, in haste, leaving Mariarta to manage the house. At any other time, the responsibility would have pleased her: but heartsore as she was over her estrangement from Urs, it seemed only another annoyance. She took up her duties, though, and did them well...until one morning when the world turned itself upside down.

Mariarta was walking out to fetch water when a sound she had never heard before made her look down the street. The sound was of small bells, a high, soft tinkling: not the bells of any of Tschamut’s goats or cows. Mariarta put the yoke down, staring as the sheep came up the rise in the village street.

Tschamuts sheep, like all sheep in this part of the world, were grey. But these sheep were white, with black faces. In the sunlight their fleeces burned astonishingly bright. Their light eyes and the curve of their mouths gave them a merrier look than that of the more prosaic Tschamuts sheep. The first few of them trotted past Mariarta. From down the street she heard a call.

The shepherds were coming. Onda Baia stood in the doorway to look out at the passing sheep: she saw the eight men walking up the street, too, and gasped. They were dressed much as herds elsewhere, in breeches and gaiters, soft shoes and tunics: but the clothes were surprisingly fine—light-woven linen instead of wool, glove-leather for the breeches instead of rough hide. Their packs were of leather too, instead of rough sacking. The men were dark-complected, only partly from the sun: their features were odd, finer than usual. And the men were small. No one of them was even as tall as Mariarta, but they were strong-looking. Their hair was shining black, except for one man’s, a dark brown-red; on all of them it waved or curled. Dark eyes glittered in the dark faces of the strangers, and teeth flashed white as they smiled at the villagers who came out to stare at them.

“Venetians,” Mariarta breathed.

“Dwarves!” said Onda Baia, crossing herself, and plunged back into the kitchen. “Fadri, Cilgia,
‘Nanin
are here—!”

This once, Mariarta didn’t think her aunt was overreacting. Venetians were uncanny. Stories were told about their great riches, their wiles, and the secret places in the mountains where they mined their wealth. That the Venetians would go willingly into those mountains, or cross them from the South as easily as they did, meant something was unnatural about them—for everybody knew the powers left over from the ancient days were stronger in the mountain depths than anywhere else. But at the same time, the
‘Nanin
were known everywhere as the greatest traders of the world. There was nowhere they would not go for the sake of rare and precious wares that would add to the power of their city that ruled the seas. That said, Mariarta wondered what brought them here in the guise of shepherds.
Though how sure am I of the truth of all those old stories?
  she thought.
Vaniescha is a great land as well as a city, the books say. Can
everyone
in it be rich from a secret mine or a dragon’s hoard?  Why shouldn’t there be plain fields on the other side of the mountains, and shepherds in them like ours?...

Still, Mariarta swallowed hard when she saw one of the Venetians coming toward her. There was nothing ugly about the man—but she took a step back as he got close.

Smiling, he bowed.
“Bien di, misterlessa.
”

She might be unnerved, but her manners were still in place. “
Bien onn, jestér,
” Mariarta said, dropping a curtsey. “And
beinvegni
here among us. What brings you to Tschamut?”

He gestured at the flock. “Market is tomorrow in Ursera, as you know,
misterlessa
. If the
mistral
will permit, we would graze our flock on your lower slopes for a night, and be away early in the morning. We will be glad to pay—”

“Not in gems or gold, I hope,” Mariarta’s father said behind her. She stepped aside. “We could hardly make change.”

“We have coin of various kinds,” said the
‘Nanin
. “
Solidi
of the Pope,
thaleren
of Swabia,
danér
of the Bishops of Cuera—”

“I’m certain we can come to some arrangement,” her father said. “Have your people put the sheep in the near pasture for the moment. Come in and take a glass,
signur
—”

Mariarta followed them into the kitchen. Her father’s mind was much on coin money, since Reiskeipf would be soon demanding the season’s grass-penny. Well, he would get a few more pence from these travelers—

Mariarta went to the wine-cask with a pitcher. Onda Baia was peering out the window into the street, where one of the dark men was going by; Baia drew back hastily, crossing herself.

“Onda,” Mariarta said, reaching to the plate-press for two stoneware cups, “they’re just
jastérs
, after all.”

Her aunt wheeled about, looking frightened and angry. “Just strangers, you
would
say, you and your father both. But it’s no surprise you’re so friendly with uncanny folk, seeing what’s in your blood—” She turned away.

Normally Mariarta would have let this pass. But an odd mood was on her. The hair stood up on the back of her neck; a breath of breeze chilled her there. “You said that once before,” she said, stepping toward her aunt, “and now you’ll tell me what you mean.”

Odd to see how her aunt took a step back, as Mariarta had from the
‘Nanin
. “Oh, come now,” Onda Baia said, “you must have heard by now. Your great-grandfather on your father’s side brought the wrong bride home; it’s the talk of three villages. Out the keyhole the curst
tschalarera
went three years after he married her, leaving your
basat
alone, with their son your
tat
a babe in his arms. Ever after, child and man, the poor creature would go wild when the bad wind blew.” She would not say the
föhn
’s name. “And when your
tat
married, and your
bab
was born, he was just the same. And now you—” She eyed Mariarta. “Too friendly with any
jestér
to come along, too fond of being in the heights—”

Mariarta flushed hot. “Be still,” she whispered. The breeze coming in the door blew abruptly stronger. “My doings are my business. And if my
basat
married a windbride, what’s it to you?  At least he managed to marry.” Her aunt’s mouth fell open as the wind whipped her graying hair around her temples. “Don’t dare say a word to anyone,” Mariarta said. And hearing a word the breeze whispered in her ear, she added: “Else I’ll have a word with
bab
about where his sausages have been going.”

Onda Baia flinched and turned away, but that brought her in sight of the window, and one of the
‘Nanin
outside. Moaning softly, Baia sank onto the settle, staring at the floor.

Mariarta went back up the hall.
A
tschalarera
’s greatgranddaughter....
So that was the source of the wind’s strangeness in her life. There was argument about what exactly windbrides were—some kind of demon, the priest said: a
diala
, others claimed, more mischievous than dangerous. Windbrides rode the storm, blew thatch or tiles off roofs, scattered hay in the fields. She had heard stories before about men who caught and married
tschalareras
. They made good wives and mothers, but you had to be careful to keep the keyhole stopped (if that was how you had caught one). Otherwise they would escape at the first opportunity.

Still—
  She thought of the young woman with the bow. Where did she fit into this?....

Mariarta knocked on her father’s door, stepped in with the wine and the cups. Her bab looked pleased; apparently he and the
‘Nanin
had driven a bargain he liked.

“
Engrazia
,” her father said, and the
jestér
said “
Grazie
”. Mariarta curtseyed and left. As she shut the door, her father said, “Now  perhaps you might consider selling us a pair of your sheep, to better our stock—”

“Ah, you grey-wool people, you’d like that,” the
‘Nanin
said, chuckling.  “Only if you can better the price we’d get in Ursera,
signur mistral
—”

Mariarta went to the kitchen to start dinner. Onda Baia was nowhere to be seen.
Probably she’s  gossiping with Telgia
, Mariarta thought.
Good riddance....

The street was clear, but nearly everybody in town had gathered  where the rough fencing of the lower pasture met the road.
Looking at the sheep,
  Mariarta thought scornfully. Whether a stranger to Tschamut was human or an animal, people would stare. But at the same time, she thought of the way those fleeces had blazed in the sun.... So shortly she ambled down to where everybody else in town stood leaning on the fence, slipping in between old Paol and little Flurin to look down the pasture.

The sheep burned white against the green grass. The herd ram lifted a noble head with a great double curl of horns and chewed with dignity, gazing back at the villagers. Several lambs frisked about in the grass, or wandered after their placid mothers. The
‘Nanin
herds sat on boulders near the river, dipping their linen shirts in the river and putting them on again to cool themselves. One of the herds was playing some meandering southern song on a pipe.

The village people muttered about the visitors. Most of the talk was about the whiteness of those sheep, and what price the villagers would ask if
they
had such to sell. Though who could afford such beasts except wealthy people?  Like the dwarves. Talk turned to those hidden mines only the Venetians knew, guarded by terrible creatures tame only to the
‘Nanin
. There was no good to be got from dealing with dwarves, everyone agreed.

All the same, no one stopped staring at the sheep.

Mariarta was about leave when she saw Urs leaning there, at the end of the fence, looking unhappy. She knew that look: the other herds had been at him again. Mariarta turned away. Urs saw her, the pained look turning to a scowl, bitter. He turned his attention back to the sheep.

Shortly the murmur of conversation began again. Mariarta stole a sidewise glance. Urs was still gazing at the flock. A lamb, white as a cloud, came gamboling out toward them. Mariarta watched Urs watch the lamb, saw the shadow of a smile steal across his face: the first such expression in days. She should have been glad. But someone beside Urs poked him; laughter rang out. Urs smiled more broadly, glanced over to see if Mariarta was looking. His smile went broader, more cruel. He turned, calling to the lamb. “Ai, Agnete—”

The other herds, at the other end of the fence, snickered.

 “One lamb’s just like another, after all,” Urs said. “If I can’t have one, I’ll have another. One that does what
I
say.” A soft chorus of “baa”ing broke out. Other voices, not just Urs’s, called, “Hoi, lambkins,
agnete
—”

Mariarta went off home to see about the soup.

Onda Baia was back, since suppertime was close. Mariarta put the iron trivet on the table, eased the soup-pot off its crane, and set the pot down. Her father came in, smiling, jingling the contents of one pocket.

“Did you get a good price,
bab?”
she said.

He nodded, sat, reached for the bowl she handed him. “Two silver
danér
.”

“So much!” She handed her aunt a bowl.

“It’s a good price, but they want to make sure their sheep look right for the morning market.”

“I don’t think they need much work,” Mariarta said. “They look like they’re just out of the bath as it is.”

Her father dipped his horn spoon into the soup. “It would be nice to have a pair of them. They have plenty of ewes, and a ram lambling.”

“I saw it,” Mariarta said. It was the one Urs had been watching.

“They won’t sell, though,” her father said. “I couldn’t match what they’ll get in town. Not that we have the money to spare.”

Mariarta filled her own bowl, sighed and sat down.

“You look tired,
buobetta.
”

Mariarta glanced at him. “Your mother will be back soon,” her
bab
said.

She had to smile at him. He knew why she was worn out...but he wouldn’t rub her nose in it. “Yes,
bab
,” she said, “she will.”

Onda Baia scraped her bowl noisily clean, then got up and hurried out, heading for the privy as she always did after the first serving. Mariarta listened for the sound of the back door shutting, and said to her father, “But one thing quickly,
bab
. Does mumli know I’m the
subbiada
of a windbride?”

Mariarta’s father stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth: then put it down. “Baia told you that, did she.”

“Is it true?”

He finished his spoonful of soup. “She vanished suddenly, your
basatta.
It happened between night and morning.” Her bab put his spoon down and broke a piece of bread, dunked it in the soup. “Your
basat
, though, had just taken the plug out of the keyhole—the one he’d put in the day he found her in his house. No one saw her come. She was just there, one morning, this beautiful woman...so my father told me
his
father had said.” Mariarta’s
bab
shook his head, picked up the spoon again. “He knew the old stories, and treated her arrival the way they said he should. She stayed three years. Then—he thought he was acting foolishly, he took the plug out....”