Wind Follower. Carole McDonnell
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have felt dirtier. “How old are you anyway? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Old enough.”
“Rich enough is more like it. Led by your heart, are you? Believe in a ‘destined one’ probably?” He chuckled. “Alibayeh! Marry her, then. You might as well start your household now. One young man I know—not Doreni, but very rich—already has four wives.”
A Theseni vendor near us interrupted him. A good thing, too, for my anger was already kindled against the Ibeni. “I’ve been listening to your conversation.” He unwrapped his long cotton turban, and scratched his nearly bald skull. “But you’ve picked the wrong one there. That one is too virtuous to be any fun. And bookish. She’s always in the bookseller’s shop, looking for writings by the old scribes. That’s why she wears that old gyuilta, so men won’t take a second look. She doesn’t want to marry at all. Sometimes I seeher in the cool of the evening, after she’s finished her chores, reading. On holy days, she visits the houses of the poor, the old, and the blind, and she reads to them.” He grew suddenly silent, and his eyes seemed to be looking at some inner memory. I suddenly knew—in the way I knew many things—he was thinking of his old days. “But few saints have such a body, one obviously made for sin. Try to woo her if you can, but perhaps it’s best she grow old unmarried. Who wants a holy one in his bed?”
We Doreni were generally tan-colored, with brown, auburn or black hair. Satha’s family, being Theseni, was a rich deep black. I wondered if he thought my mind was like his, for Theseni men judged by such matters.
Both men shared a laugh that turned my stomach. How lucky it was I had decided to make a sword instead of buying one! If the sword had been in my hand, I would have rammed them through. I choked down my anger; they were older than I. One wrong word to either and I would have faced the Council of Elders and Beloved Women as Krika had. Yes, even though I was a rich man’s son, the son of the king’s First Captain.
I walked from the marketplace towards Nwaha’s shop, and my heart ached because such words had been spoken against the girl who had found lodging in my heart. I wanted to clothe her bare arms with jeweled bracelets and give her golden nose-rings and silver anklets and, at the same time, shower her with praise and tell her how beautiful and how good and worthy she was. My heart reasoned that if I bathed her with worshipful love all the snide judgments poured on her would fall like broken chains about her ankles.
Near Nwaha’s house, I saw her in the garden, pulling ground tubers.
How, I asked myself, will I make Monua’s daughter speak with me? I was Doreni, I reasoned; I didn’t have to follow Theseni etiquette. Moreover, the law of hospitality triumphed over all customs, as mercy often triumphed over justice. The thought occurred to me that I lived on the edge of the city and could be deemed a stranger. I, therefore, had the right to ask even an unmarried Theseni woman for water from her well.
“Satha! Tya Monua!” I called out.
She looked up in the direction of my voice.
The other vendors had closed their shops and no one would have seen her if she had spoken to me. But she didn’t walk toward me. She returned to her work pulling tubers in the dark garden.
I called again. “Satha, are you so aloof you won’t talk to the son of your father’s friend?”
Again she looked. This time directly at me; again, she didn’t approach me. I regretted my casual clothing. Only a tunic, deerskin leggings, undergarment, and breechcloth. Nothing to show my hunting skills, no rich gyuilta, nothing to make her want me. Yet, I reasoned, would I want a girl who accepted me only because I was dressed richly?
What did Sicma the great Ibeni poet say of Queen White Star? “Her beauty illumines the face of all who see her, and in the gates of the city all women shine through her glory.” But not for me Queen White Star. Not for me the flamboyant First Queen Butterfly, not for me the gentle Doreni Queen Sweet-as-Jasmine. None were as beautiful as the daughter of Monua. No, none of the three wives of King Jaguar, or any of his eleven daughters could match the girl’s beauty, regal bearing and exquisite willfulness.
Her refusal to speak only made me want her more, but before I could call out to her again Father exited the shop.
“Loic?” He raised his hands questioningly. “Why are you harassing Monua’s daughter? She’s not your servant. I thought you had ridden home.”
I pointed at the door to Nwaha’s shop and gestured to Father to follow me inside.
When I stood in front of Nwaha, I said, “Father, Monua’s daughter pleases me well. Get her for me to wife.”
My father’s eyes narrowed in surprise, then closed and opened again, angry. But Nwaha said nothing, did nothing. It was Monua who acted. She stood up in such haste the bamboo stool on which she sat fell to the ground. A second later, her hand was gripping the long shaft of a vialka. Jobara! That lance was indeed a graceful weapon. The Angleni have now outlawed it, but Layo, layo—truly, truly—how sharp and graceful that weapon was!
She pointed it at my throat and shouted at my father. “Treads Lightly, have you and this son of yours come here to mock our poverty?”
I had not thought that my sudden request would be considered an insult, but the vialka’s blunted edge skating across my flesh—and pressing deep enough to cut—made me realize otherwise.
“I know full well that my daughter is dark and past marriageable age,” Monua said. “Unattractive she may be, but I’ll not allow the son of a rich man to use her as if she were a slave.”
Such a defense of her daughter! More insult than praise, such a champion no woman needs. The anger the vendors had kindled within me still burned and when I heard Monua’s words, it burned hotter. Heldek and Pantan had trained the young princes and the dukes as well as me in warfare. Embarrassed though I was that a woman was pushing a vialka into my throat, and able as I was to turn it away, doing so meant insubordination toward an elder. I grasped the vialka’s tip with my palm, but restrained myself from turning it on my hostess.
All the while Nwaha continued sitting there, weak and pitiful. Father kept glaring at me, as if I—and not Monua—was in the wrong. How, I thought, can Nwaha sit there and let his wife fight his battles? Even battles she had created in her own mind? How can Father endure a friend such as this?
When it seemed my neck was about to break from being long held in such an uncomfortable and dangerous position, Father placed his hand on the lance and gently pushed its tip downward. “Loic meant no disrespect, Nwaha,” he said. “He’s young and easily tossed by the wind’s whims. Even so, all in the city of Satilo, all in the Jefra region, and the outlying suburbs of Rega know him to be an honorable youth.”
How surprised my heart was that Father defended me!
“His name means ‘Full of Light’,” he continued. “And he is. If he says he wants to marry your daughter, she has found a place in his heart. He’ll treat her well and honor her always as the gatekeeper of his heart.”
“As some second-status wife to cover his thighs!” Monua shouted, glowering at me.
Again, Father defended me. “Not so, Monua,” he said. “Do not insult my son.”
“Should I give my beloved Satha to one who has no manners?” she asked. No, she wasn’t one to keep her mouth shut. “Do you want the joy of my life to spend heartbroken nights lying in the women’s quarters listening to her husband tumble with other more-beloved wives?” She was a blunt one!
Father answered, “I promise he will marry only one wife, whatever good or evil comes.”
In those days, a father’s promise would bind his son forever. To break such a promise was to invite death and grief. His insulted soul would return from the dead to haunt or kill the disrespectful child. Yet, his promise seemed a blessing to me. I could not imagine holding any other woman in my bosom.
Monua’s suspicious eyes continued staring at me. “How could he want someone he’s only just met?”