Wizards’ Worlds (29 page)

She brushed it from her body and then she knelt by the pool, troubling its mirror-smooth
surface to wash the sand from her hand, her arms, her face, splashing the water over
her body. The wind blew steadily and, after she had retrieved the robe she had discarded,
she went on, past the rocks which rimmed the pool site.

So she came to the sea and for the first time looked out onto that part of the outside
world which she had heard spoken of but had never seen. The play of the waves as they
crashed in shore and broke, leaving that which had formed them to drain away, enchanted
her. She ventured out upon the water-smoothed sand. The wind, so much stronger here,
whipped her robe and tugged at her hair. She flung her arms wide to welcome the wind
which had none of the marsh scent.

It was good to be so in the open. Tursla settled down on the sand to watch the breaking
waves, singing softly to herself in wordless sounds which were not meant to evoke
any answer but which were an attempt to match the music of wind and wave.

She saw shells in the sand and picked them up in wonder and delight. Like and yet
unlike they were, for, seeing them closely, she could perceive that each had some
small difference to set it apart from its kind. Not unlike those of her own species—each
with some part of him or her which was only his or hers.

At last she reluctantly turned her face from the sea to the Tormarsh. The sun was
already westering. For the first time Tursla wondered if any had sought her and what
she must say when she returned which might cloak this thing which had happened to
her.

Slowly she dropped her harvest of shells. There was no need to advertise her visit
to a place which custom forbade any desire to see. But that was no reason why she
might not come this way again. No rule of Volt said definitely that the sea was forbidden
to those who followed his ancient rules of living.

Tursla found the marsh oddly confining as she passed swiftly along the trail toward
the House island. So as she went she plucked certain leaves which were for dyeing,
glad that fortune favored her in that several plants were of the Corfil—a rarity much
prized as it produced a scarlet dye which was mainly used for the curtains of Volt’s
own shrine, thus was always eagerly sought.

As Tursla came along the westward road she had her skirt upheld into a bag, a goodly
harvest in that. But one moved out to intercept her before she gained Kelva’s House.

“So, moth-sister—you have thought to return to us? Did the winged ones tire of you
so soon, night walker?”

Tursla tensed. Of all those she wished the least to meet Affric was the one. He leaned
now on his spear, his eyes regarding her mockingly. There was a belt with a fringe
of wak-lizard teeth about his middle, attesting to both his
courage and skill. For only a man with both nearly super-normal reflex and cunning
dared hunt those great lizards.

“Fair day to you, Affric.” She did not warm her words. He flouted custom in his familiar
greeting. The very fact he did so was disturbing.

“Fair day—” he repeated. “And what of the night, moth-sister? Others danced with the
moon.”

She was more than startled. For any Torman to speak of the Calling, and to such as
her who had not named any man before Volt for a choosing!

He laughed. “Send me no spears from your eyes, moth-sister. Only daughters of Volt—true
daughters—need make a man watch his tongue by custom.” He took a step nearer. “No,
you did not seek the moon last night, so then whom
did
you seek, moth-sister?” There was an ugly set to his mouth.

She did not make any answer. To do so would be indeed lessening herself in the eyes
of all. For there were those who listened, if from a distance. What Affric said and
did was a raw affront.

Tursla looked away and walked forward. He would not dare, she was sure, attempt to
stop her. And he did not. But the fact that he could publicly address her in that
manner was frightening. Also not one of those listening had spoken up in rebuke. It
was almost as if this had been deliberately arranged to insult her. Her hands tightened
on her improvised bag of leaves. Why—?

None stood before the door of Kelva’s House and she walked head high, back straight,
from the day into the dusk.

“Back at last, are you, then?” Parua, who tended the store cupboards and served as
eyes for Mafra, regarded her sourly. “What have you there which needed to be cropped
by night? A night when your duty lay elsewhere?”

Tursla shook out the leaves to fall upon a mat.

“Parua—do you really think that such as I should
dance for the Shining One’s favor?” she asked in a voice from which she was able
to keep all emotion.

“What do you mean? You are woman grown. It is your duty to bring forth children—if
you can!”

“If I can—you yourself say that, Mother-one. Have I not heard otherwise all my life?
That I am one who is not true Tor-born, and therefore I must not give life to a child
because of the strangeness which is a part of me?”

“We grow too few—” Parua began.

“So thus the clan will welcome even the flawed? But that is not custom, Parua. And
when custom is broke it must be done openly before Volt’s shrine, with all his People
assenting.”

“If we grow few enough,” Parua countered, “Volt will have none here to raise his name.
There are to be changes, even in custom. There will be a Calling, a Great Calling.
So it has been decided.”

Tursla was astounded. Great Callings she had heard talked of; the last had been years
ago when the Torfolk had allowed their stronghold to be invaded for a short time by
strangers. It was then that the war leader of the outside lands had been prisoner
here—together with her who, it was whispered, had been Koris’ chosen lady. There had
come no great ill from that, save that it had reached them later that, even as they
had closed the marsh, so was now the outer world closed to them in turn. But even
then there had been two minds about the right and the wrong of what they did.

It was true that births grew fewer each year. She had heard that Mafra and one or
two of the other Clan Mothers speculated as to the reason for that. Perhaps even that
their race was too old, had taken mates only among themselves too long so that their
blood thinned, their creative powers were dimming. Thus it might be a fact that they
would try to force her to their purposes. For it would only be by force that she would
come to a Choosing—there was no Torman she had ever looked upon with favor. And now,
she was not
conscious she was pressing her hands against her breast; even less was she a daughter
of Volt!

“So, moth-one,” Parua continued, looking at her, Tursla thought, slyly and near maliciously,
“your body being Tor-born, that might well serve Volt’s purposes. Consider that.”

Tursla turned quickly toward that wall alcove which was Mafra’s. The Clan Mother seldom
left her private niche nowadays. She had hands whose skill had outrun her vanished
sight, and, by touch, alone, she made those useful to her people, shaping small pots
to be fired, or spinning fibers more smoothly than any of her house descendants could.

Now Tursla saw that those hands lay strangely still, loosely clasped in the old woman’s
lap. Her head was held up, just slightly a-tip as if she listened. As the girl stood
hesitantly before her, uncertain if she dared break into that trancelike state, Mafra
spoke:

“Fair day, moth-child. Fair be your going, fair be your coming, firm your steps upon
the crossing places, full your hands with good labor, your heart with warmth, your
mind with thoughts which will serve you.”

Tursla sank to her knees. That was no common greeting! It was—it was that given to
any clan daughter who knew she was at last with child! But—why—

Mafra raised one hand, stretched it forth. Tursla quickly bent her head to kiss those
long, age-thinned fingers.

“Clan Mother—I am not—not as you have welcomed me,” she said hurriedly.

“You are filled,” Mafra said. “Not all filling is with a life which will separate
itself in time from yours and become all in all to itself. There is life within you
now and, in due time, it will come forth. If it does so in a different fashion, then
that is the will of Volt, or of what power stood behind him when he came to lead our
people up out of savagery. It shall be with you as with the Filled. So shall it
be said in this House and Clan. And if it is said so among those who are your own,
then it will be the same elsewhere among the Folk.”

“But, Clan Mother, if my body does not contain a life they will understand, and the
time passes when I should bear the fruit which House and Clan need, then will there
not be a reckoning? What can be said then for one who had misled House and Clan?”

“There will be no misleading. There is set before you a task, that you shall do by
virtue of the life you hold. What will follow from that will lead the two roads of
which I told you—one this way—” Her hand swept to the right. “One that way.” She indicated
the left. “I cannot foresee past that choice which shall be yours. But I think what
you will choose shall be of wisdom. Parua—” she raised her voice and the other woman
came near, going to her knees as did Tursla.

“Parua, this Tursla, moth-daughter, is Filled and so let House and Clan be guarded
according to custom.”

“But she—there was no Choosing, no moon dance,” Parua protested.

“She was sent out by my wisdom, Parua, do you question that?” Mafra’s tone was chill.
“Into the night she went with my blessing. What she sought—and found—was by the will
of Volt as revealed to me in foresight. She has returned, filled. I recognize it so,
and, by my Volt-given gift, I proclaim that now.”

Parua’s mouth opened again as if she would protest and then it closed. Clan Mother
had spoken, she had said that Tursla was Filled. And, if she who had the farsight
for her own said this, then no one dared question the truth of it. Parua bowed her
head submissively and kissed the hand held out to her. She backed away, her gaze still
on Tursla, and the girl sensed that she might have to admit openly Mafra’s judgment
was right, but her own reservations were still stubbornly alive.

“Clan Mother,” the girl said quickly, as soon as she
was sure Parua must be beyond hearing the murmur of a voice she held to the edge
of a whisper, “I do not know what is expected of me.”

“This much I can tell you, moth-child. There will soon come one whom Unnanna will
summon—not with voice or message—but by the Calling itself. He has such blood ties
that this calling can catch and hold him as one snared in a net. But the purpose for
which they would bring him—” There was a new note in Mafra’s voice. “That is, in the
end, death. If his blood is spilt upon the ground before Volt’s shrine, that blood
shall call aloud. And
its
calling will bring the forces of the outer world upon us with fire and steel. Volt’s
people will die and Tormarsh shall be a barren and cursed place.

“We count our children as the fruit of all of us together. No one claims any child
as his or hers alone. But this is not the way of the Outside. There they hold not
to House Clans, but are split into smaller gatherings. There a child has but two on
which to call in trouble—she who gave him birth and he who filled her at some time
of choosing. This seems strange and wrong to us, a breaking up of the bonds which
are our strength. But it is their way of life.

“However, this different way also gives other bonds which we do not understand. Strange
indeed are these bonds. Let anyone there raise hand against a child—and the mother-one
and he who filled her will take up the hunt with the fury of a wak-lizard who sights
man. The one whom Unnanna would summon for her purposes is son to a man who is perhaps
the greatest threat the Outside can raise against us. I fear for our people, moth-child.

“It is true that we grow fewer, that only a hand-finger count of children may be born
after any choosing. But that is our sorrow and perhaps the will of life itself. To
bring in blood-giving—no.”

“And my part in this, Clan Mother?” Tursla asked. “Do you wish me to stand against
Unnanna then? But even
though you have named me Filled, who would listen to my words? She is a Clan Mother,
and, since you go no more to the moon dance, it is she who leads.”

“That is so. No, I lay no task on you, moth-daughter. When the time comes for you
to do as you must, you yourself will know it, for that knowledge will be inside you.
Give me now your hands.”

Marfa held out both of her own palm up, and Tursla placed hers thereupon, palm down.
Again, just as it had been when she and Xactol had communed with one another, there
was a feeling of quickening within her, a stirring of energy she longed to use but
did not yet know how to put to any testing.

“So—” Mafra’s voice was but a whisper, as if this were a very secret thing. “I knew
that you were from elsewhere at your birthing, but this is indeed a strange thing.”

“Why did this happen to
me
, Clan Mother?” Tursla voiced her old protest.

“Why do many things happen—those for which we can see no meaning or root? Somewhere
there is a master pattern of which we must all be a part.”

“So did
she
say also—”

“She? Ah, think of her, picture her in your mind, moth-child!” There was an eagerness
in Mafra now. “See her for me!” she ordered.

Obediently Tursla pictured the spinning pillar of sand, and she who had been formed
by that.

“Indeed you have been Filled, moth-child,” sighed Mafra after a long moment. “Filled
with such knowledge that perhaps you alone in this world can begin to comprehend.
I wish we might talk of this and of your learning, but that cannot be. For it was
not meant for me to gain any other than I have. Do not share it, moth-daughter, even
if you are so moved. A basket woven to hold loquth seeds, no matter how skillfully
made, cannot carry water which is intended to fill a fired clay jar. Go you now and
rest. And
live after the manner of the Filled until the time comes and you know it.”