Read Online Naamah's Curse by Jacqueline Carey - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline Carey
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with one gnarled finger, her eyes sharp and inquisitive. “Who are you?
What
are you? And why in the world are you
here
?”
My hostess glanced back and forth between us, perplexity on her kind face. A boy toddler wobbled over to clutch at her coat; another child, a young girl, sidled up behind her, peeking out at me.
“I am Moirin,” I said politely. “Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn. And as to what that means and why I am here, I fear it is a very long story.”
“Oh, good.” The old woman doubled over and coughed deep in her chest, then straightened to the best of her abilities, dark eyes glinting at me in her wrinkled face. She yawned widely, covering her mouth to hide it. “And after I’ve finished my morning nap, you can tell it to me.” She turned to hobble away, offering one last comment over her shoulder. “And take your time about it, because it’s going to be a long winter.”
EIGHT
S o it came to pass that I wintered amongst a Tatar tribe.
It wasn’t my intention to stay with them, but from the beginning, it was obvious that the weather gave me little choice. Once winter arrived in earnest, even the hardy, nomadic Tatars with all their knowledge of surviving on the plains settled in for the duration.
On that first morning, I sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the
ger
, feeling awkward at my unintentional imposition, trying to stay out of the way while I waited for the old woman to finish her nap. My pregnant hostess brought me a bowl of hot, stewed meat to eat. I accepted it gratefully. When I had finished, the little girl—her daughter, I guessed—approached me shyly at her mother’s urging. With gestures, she showed me I was meant to wipe the bowl clean with my fingers, gathering the last of the juices. She bobbed her head in cautious approval when I obeyed.
The boy tending to my horses entered the
ger
along with a blast of cold air, staggering under the weight of my packs and gear. He darted back out before I could even thank him.
My hostess bustled around, scouring dishes and stirring pots. When I offered with gestures to assist her, she smiled and shook her head. She pointed across the
ger
to the pallet where the old woman was now snoring deeply, made a circling gesture with one finger that indicated time passing, then mimed two mouths talking with both hands.
“I understand,” I said. “We will speak when she awakes. I only wanted to help in the meantime.”
She pointed firmly at the carpeted floor and said something in a stern tone. Although she couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve years older than me, it sounded for all the world like a mother’s reprimand.
I sat, chastened.
My hostess smiled and went about her business.
Lulled by the warmth of the
ger
and the hot stew in my belly, I felt the weight of my exhaustion settle over me. Although I’d no intention of falling asleep amongst these strangers, hospitable though they seemed, my head grew heavy, my chin sinking to my chest. I fell into a light doze.
I awoke to find the family gathering around a low table for a mid-day meal of more stewed meat.
The old woman glanced over and gave a creaking laugh. “Aha! The slumbering forest spirit is awake.” She beckoned to me. “Come, come, eat,” she said, adding something in the Tatar tongue.
My hostess rose with ungainly grace to fill another bowl for me.
“Thank you.” I accepted it with a bow, then took a seat at the table at her insistent gesture. “You’re very kind. Grandmother, will you thank her for me?”
“She knows.” The old woman’s mouth worked as she chewed. “You’ve been bobbing up and down like a courtier since you came through the door. So! Begin your story, will you?”
I paused, the spoon halfway to my mouth.
My hostess spoke gently to the old woman, who sighed. “Oh, fine! My granddaughter says eat first, talk later.”
They waited patiently for me to finish. There were six of them present: my hostess and
What
are you? And why in the world are you
here
?”
My hostess glanced back and forth between us, perplexity on her kind face. A boy toddler wobbled over to clutch at her coat; another child, a young girl, sidled up behind her, peeking out at me.
“I am Moirin,” I said politely. “Moirin mac Fainche of the Maghuin Dhonn. And as to what that means and why I am here, I fear it is a very long story.”
“Oh, good.” The old woman doubled over and coughed deep in her chest, then straightened to the best of her abilities, dark eyes glinting at me in her wrinkled face. She yawned widely, covering her mouth to hide it. “And after I’ve finished my morning nap, you can tell it to me.” She turned to hobble away, offering one last comment over her shoulder. “And take your time about it, because it’s going to be a long winter.”
EIGHT
S o it came to pass that I wintered amongst a Tatar tribe.
It wasn’t my intention to stay with them, but from the beginning, it was obvious that the weather gave me little choice. Once winter arrived in earnest, even the hardy, nomadic Tatars with all their knowledge of surviving on the plains settled in for the duration.
On that first morning, I sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the
ger
, feeling awkward at my unintentional imposition, trying to stay out of the way while I waited for the old woman to finish her nap. My pregnant hostess brought me a bowl of hot, stewed meat to eat. I accepted it gratefully. When I had finished, the little girl—her daughter, I guessed—approached me shyly at her mother’s urging. With gestures, she showed me I was meant to wipe the bowl clean with my fingers, gathering the last of the juices. She bobbed her head in cautious approval when I obeyed.
The boy tending to my horses entered the
ger
along with a blast of cold air, staggering under the weight of my packs and gear. He darted back out before I could even thank him.
My hostess bustled around, scouring dishes and stirring pots. When I offered with gestures to assist her, she smiled and shook her head. She pointed across the
ger
to the pallet where the old woman was now snoring deeply, made a circling gesture with one finger that indicated time passing, then mimed two mouths talking with both hands.
“I understand,” I said. “We will speak when she awakes. I only wanted to help in the meantime.”
She pointed firmly at the carpeted floor and said something in a stern tone. Although she couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve years older than me, it sounded for all the world like a mother’s reprimand.
I sat, chastened.
My hostess smiled and went about her business.
Lulled by the warmth of the
ger
and the hot stew in my belly, I felt the weight of my exhaustion settle over me. Although I’d no intention of falling asleep amongst these strangers, hospitable though they seemed, my head grew heavy, my chin sinking to my chest. I fell into a light doze.
I awoke to find the family gathering around a low table for a mid-day meal of more stewed meat.
The old woman glanced over and gave a creaking laugh. “Aha! The slumbering forest spirit is awake.” She beckoned to me. “Come, come, eat,” she said, adding something in the Tatar tongue.
My hostess rose with ungainly grace to fill another bowl for me.
“Thank you.” I accepted it with a bow, then took a seat at the table at her insistent gesture. “You’re very kind. Grandmother, will you thank her for me?”
“She knows.” The old woman’s mouth worked as she chewed. “You’ve been bobbing up and down like a courtier since you came through the door. So! Begin your story, will you?”
I paused, the spoon halfway to my mouth.
My hostess spoke gently to the old woman, who sighed. “Oh, fine! My granddaughter says eat first, talk later.”
They waited patiently for me to finish. There were six of them present: my hostess and
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