the skinsong was sung, the one who
listened could remain silent, declining the bond. Or they could sing their skinsong
in return. It was in the blending of songs that the singers knew if they were favoured
to marry. If the harmonies shifted the soul, the bond was true.
Bebin had sung me hers, once, in friendship and, of course, I had heard Cookmother’s
many times. But I would never hear one from a tribesman in betrothal. Because they
would know that I could not return it.
I kissed Bebin’s cheek and wished her happiness.
Ruther and Uaine returned mid-morning to prepare for their departure. They would
take some of Fraid’s best horses and many of her dogs and hides.
I found cause to pass Ruther many times in the stables and storehouses until eventually
he pulled me into one of the grain huts, pulling the door closed behind us. ‘How
can a man prepare for travel,’ he said, kissing my throat, ‘with such a bird flying
past?’ He loosened his belt. ‘Must I show you once more, my feeling for you?’
I took a strange pleasure in luring him from his task, testing this new power I held.
My back was pressed hard against the storehouse wall when the door swung open and
Bebin stepped in. She stopped when she saw us, then turned and left.
I found her in the Great House, straightening the skins that covered the benches.
‘May I speak, Ailia?’ she said, as I joined her.
‘Of course.’
‘Think on your intention with Ruther. The union of man and woman is a life-giving
act. It summons magic in one way or another—use it cleverly.’
I fondled the tattered edge of a boar skin, shamed by her wisdom.
‘But Ailia—’
I looked up.
‘Do not think I am displeased that you are favoured so.’ She smiled her quiet smile.
I glanced at her sideways. ‘You are still not impressed by him?’
‘No, no, he is a fine man indeed,’ she protested. ‘I hear he even employs a history-keeper
to travel with him and sing praise-songs as he walks into new townships, like a king
into battle.’
We both spluttered with laughter at the arrogance of it.
Smoothing my fingers over the animal skins, I marvelled, as always, at the variation
between them: the soft, patchy pelts of the cattle, the spiked shiny bristles of
the boar, and the deep lustrous fur of the reindeer, in which I buried my whole hand.
Each held its own beauty and worth.
The sun had just begun its descent when a small group gathered at the southern gateway
to farewell Ruther and Uaine.
Ruther’s last kiss was sweet but I was relieved as I watched him ride away. I could
return to the kitchen’s steady rhythm and settle my thoughts.
Cookmother busied all of us with harvesting early berries from the Tribequeen’s gardens,
but when I could not even sort the green from the rosy without error, she took pity
on me and went to fetch a delivery of medicine. ‘You are useless to me here, sex-drunk
and giddy,’ she said, handing me a muslin-wrapped bundle and a small bottle of honey.
‘Take these to Dun’s farm. Tell the woman there to heat the powders and honey with
sheep’s milk, drink it, and rub a little on the chest. Throw what remains on the
ground to the south of the house. Tell her there’s enough within for four days.’
I committed these instructions to memory and called Neha to my heel.
‘Keep clear of the Oldforest,’ said Cookmother as I packed the bundle into a basket
and checked for my knife.
‘Yes, Cookmother,’ I droned in response to the warning I had heard a thousand times.
To the east of Caer Cad lay a forest that was forbidden by lawsong to all but the
journeypeople and their highest initiates to enter. To get to Dun’s farm I had to
walk the river path until it met the Oldforest, then along the track that skirted
its western edge.
Late sun warmed my shoulders as I walked upstream past the last of the farmhouses.
Neha bounded beside me, barking at the insects that hummed near the water. The river
spirits were restless and the very
listened could remain silent, declining the bond. Or they could sing their skinsong
in return. It was in the blending of songs that the singers knew if they were favoured
to marry. If the harmonies shifted the soul, the bond was true.
Bebin had sung me hers, once, in friendship and, of course, I had heard Cookmother’s
many times. But I would never hear one from a tribesman in betrothal. Because they
would know that I could not return it.
I kissed Bebin’s cheek and wished her happiness.
Ruther and Uaine returned mid-morning to prepare for their departure. They would
take some of Fraid’s best horses and many of her dogs and hides.
I found cause to pass Ruther many times in the stables and storehouses until eventually
he pulled me into one of the grain huts, pulling the door closed behind us. ‘How
can a man prepare for travel,’ he said, kissing my throat, ‘with such a bird flying
past?’ He loosened his belt. ‘Must I show you once more, my feeling for you?’
I took a strange pleasure in luring him from his task, testing this new power I held.
My back was pressed hard against the storehouse wall when the door swung open and
Bebin stepped in. She stopped when she saw us, then turned and left.
I found her in the Great House, straightening the skins that covered the benches.
‘May I speak, Ailia?’ she said, as I joined her.
‘Of course.’
‘Think on your intention with Ruther. The union of man and woman is a life-giving
act. It summons magic in one way or another—use it cleverly.’
I fondled the tattered edge of a boar skin, shamed by her wisdom.
‘But Ailia—’
I looked up.
‘Do not think I am displeased that you are favoured so.’ She smiled her quiet smile.
I glanced at her sideways. ‘You are still not impressed by him?’
‘No, no, he is a fine man indeed,’ she protested. ‘I hear he even employs a history-keeper
to travel with him and sing praise-songs as he walks into new townships, like a king
into battle.’
We both spluttered with laughter at the arrogance of it.
Smoothing my fingers over the animal skins, I marvelled, as always, at the variation
between them: the soft, patchy pelts of the cattle, the spiked shiny bristles of
the boar, and the deep lustrous fur of the reindeer, in which I buried my whole hand.
Each held its own beauty and worth.
The sun had just begun its descent when a small group gathered at the southern gateway
to farewell Ruther and Uaine.
Ruther’s last kiss was sweet but I was relieved as I watched him ride away. I could
return to the kitchen’s steady rhythm and settle my thoughts.
Cookmother busied all of us with harvesting early berries from the Tribequeen’s gardens,
but when I could not even sort the green from the rosy without error, she took pity
on me and went to fetch a delivery of medicine. ‘You are useless to me here, sex-drunk
and giddy,’ she said, handing me a muslin-wrapped bundle and a small bottle of honey.
‘Take these to Dun’s farm. Tell the woman there to heat the powders and honey with
sheep’s milk, drink it, and rub a little on the chest. Throw what remains on the
ground to the south of the house. Tell her there’s enough within for four days.’
I committed these instructions to memory and called Neha to my heel.
‘Keep clear of the Oldforest,’ said Cookmother as I packed the bundle into a basket
and checked for my knife.
‘Yes, Cookmother,’ I droned in response to the warning I had heard a thousand times.
To the east of Caer Cad lay a forest that was forbidden by lawsong to all but the
journeypeople and their highest initiates to enter. To get to Dun’s farm I had to
walk the river path until it met the Oldforest, then along the track that skirted
its western edge.
Late sun warmed my shoulders as I walked upstream past the last of the farmhouses.
Neha bounded beside me, barking at the insects that hummed near the water. The river
spirits were restless and the very
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