Wind Follower. Carole McDonnell
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Her words stabbed my heart. I winced, but if she noticed, she hid it well.
“Daughter,” she said, wiping away her tears. “No woman in Satilo would push Loic out of her bed. I’ve seen the boy’s face. His body too. He’s a beautiful one. Good to look at. Haven’t I seen your eyes light up beneath your veil when a beautiful man walks past you in the marketplace?”
She started dancing—a thing she had not done in many moons—and began singing an old song:
“A rich man’s son is a good catch.
He’ll be a lord for you to wait upon.
A kind-hearted husband is a good find.
His heart is as generous as any woman’s.
If such a husband is found when he’s young,
While he wears his youth cap
Teach him to wait upon you.
And he will nurse you when you are old
And in grandmother’s leggings.”
They both laughed as the song ended. She then held up my betrothal dress for me to see. “Quick! Out of that bath! Let’s see how you look!”
I put on the betrothal raiment and before I could stop her, Mam was holding a mirror up to my face. Unprepared for it, I closed my eyes to my reflection.
“Look at her flinching,” Mam said. “Even though she looks as beautiful as Queen Butterfly in this dress. What’s wrong with your daughter, Nwaha, avoiding mirrors like that?”
“The veil is nearly-transparent,” I said, “and it extends only from my forehead to my neck, not covering my breasts as it should. And there’s no scarf to cover my head. Am I supposed to behave like an Ibeni whore in order to make my husband love me?”
Mam looked at me, staring wide-eyed. It was clear she thought the answer to my question was obvious. “You need no head-covering now. Doreni women don’t wear them. Besides, your husband will cover your head now. But since you’re so pious, I’ll try to repair it.”
The next morning as I took the second purification bath, Mam put the finishing stitches on the dress: she made its neckline even lower. She hid the dress from me until moments before Taer’s valanku arrived; I had to enter the carriage in a betrothal dress which exposed so much of my breasts that even the holy ones would have fled.
I had seen many betrothal processions wind through the city. Whether rich or poor, the betrothed women would be driven through the city streets with foreheads and shoulders so weighted with jewelry their heads could hardly be seen. Such spectacles had always offended me, but perhaps I had only been envious all along, thinking such fortune would never be mine.
My parents sat behind me in the open carriage, Mam praising the Good Maker for all our blessings and fingering the long strand of pearls around my forehead and the gold bracelets on my arms. The sunset-colored stallion—a gift from Taer like the jewels, but to the rest of the world a part of my dowry—pulled the cart on which our two goats bleated contentedly. My future husband’s male servants rode on black stallions behind us, as if we were royalty.
“Look how glum she is!” Mam said at last. “Sitting there as if she’s one of those war criminals she feeds. She isn’t the least grateful her New Father has paid all our debts, and covered her with finery.”
“Such a dowry!” Father said, shaking his head.
Mam leaned back like a queen resting on a throne. “Not that Taer cares about such things. As far as he’s concerned, Satha’s now the most valuable jewel in his household.”
Small though our betrothal procession was, crowds gathered to watch us pass. Our neighbors at the market and our creditors shouted, “Who would have known Nwaha would have received such sudden blessings?”
Father shouted back, “Sudden blessings come from the Good Maker. May His name be magnified.”
Mam, however, seemed to be thinking only of our dead. “Imagine,” she kept saying, “how wonderful this procession would be if all our clan—yes, even the lost, kidnapped, and murdered ones—were following behind us! Waihai! Perhaps they are!” She turned and waved to their spirits just in case. “Imagine it! In our younger days, Satha, we had a hundred times such blessings.”
We wended our way through the city towards Taer’s Golden House, my parents’ faces more carefree than I had seen in years. Mam no longer looked like someone who cried every night about the fate HaZatana had brought her. Such were the blessings of selling one’s daughter into a wealthy marriage.
“Daughter,” she said, suddenly becoming serious, “when you’re settled, remember you owe your good fortune to Ydalle. Other servants have gone on with their lives and forgotten the kindness with which I treated them. But Ydalle always had a loyal heart. Treat her well and reward her. You’re not as shrewd or as subtle as your elders so it’s well to listen to her advice.”
“I will, Mam.”
“As for other servants in the Golden House, choose for yourself those of the lowest place, the rejected ones, the ones who have little power in the house. They’ll be grateful for the kindness, and they’ll never abandon you. But choose only the kind-hearted ones. To lift a powerless ungrateful person to power is to create a proud and jealous enemy. Even so, make them know their place. If you befriend them too much, they’ll forget they’re not your equal.”
From within her gyuilta sash, she retrieved a small pouch—a shaman’s puha. “I know those pearls around your neck and waist are supposed to ensure fertility, but Old Yoran says I should sprinkle you with this. It’s the dust from our ancestral burying place.”
“Old Yoran keeps sepulcher dust from our ancestors at hand?”
She inched forward and held the pouch near my neck. “He traveled long last night to get this.”
“Mam, do not shower me with dead men’s bones.” Before I could finish—at the very moment I was telling her not to—she shook the packet. Powdered bones rained down over me. My flesh crawled.
Once again, my wishes didn’t matter. It angered me. And too: I was afraid. I felt I had received a curse instead of a blessing, that the sprinkled puha had turned my life towards death. “How many mothers have gone to witch doctors,” I shouted at her, “hoping to bless their children with such spells only to open their lives to evil spirits!”
“You’re entering a house without our tribal spirits,” she said, shouting me down. “You need to bring your ancestors with you. Or else, who will protect you and give you children? You’ll be useless to the boy if you don’t have children! You don’t want him to take a second wife because you’re childless, do you? A woman without children can’t expect a marriage contract to protect her.”
“You should have asked the Good Maker to bless me. He’s distant, but even when he destroys, he seeks my good. Unlike these spirits who always want something.”
She gave me a playful pinch that hurt more than expected. “When I was younger, my girl, mothers always pinched their daughters on their wedding day. To prepare them just in case their husbands beat them.”
I was unsure if this was true or merely something cruel spoken to disturb me. It would not be beyond Mam to curse me so that she might later be seen as the heroine who cures me, I thought. I was horrified to hear myself saying, “Mam, what if this boy turns out to be evil and dissolute? If he does beat me, promise you’ll help me appeal to the elders for an annulment.”
A smirk flickered on her face, as if she was glad her cruel comment had troubled my heart. “It is true that kind-hearted men often breed selfish children. But if the boy is truly evil, wouldn’t he use his power to destroy you if you tried to divorce him?”
I stood open-mouthed in front of her, and my obvious worry and distress brought a self-satisfied smile to her