“A good thing,” said Nia. “If you are going to be the next shamaness.”
“Of course I am,” said Hua. “Who else is there?” She was counting combs now. She laid them out, big ones and little ones, made of wood and horn and metal.
Nia realized her entire skin was itching. The feeling was especially bad between her shoulder blades and along her spine. “Keep some of those out. It’s a long time since I’ve had a grooming done the proper way—by a friend or a female relative.”
“All right,” said Hua. She put two of the combs aside: one of ordinary size and a big one with wide gaps between the teeth.
Nia made a satisfied noise. “It will be something to remember when I am out on the plain.”
“Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Hua. Her voice sounded sharp and high.
“No.”
“Why not? Has someone been giving you trouble? You aren’t worried about Anhar, are you? Hasn’t Angai told you that you can stay?”
Nia laid a tunic on the floor. It had long sleeves. She folded them in over the body of the tunic, smoothing the fabric. It was fine and soft, a gift from people living in the distant south.
“When I lived in the Iron Hills, I was with you and Anasu and Enshi. When I lived in the east, I was at the edge of the village, as far out as a man. I’m not used to being with a lot of people. I no longer know how to live in a village.”
“You never really knew,” said Angai through the curtain. “You always acted as if you were alone.”
Nia felt surprised. She made the gesture that asked “is that really true?” But Angai couldn’t see, of course.
Hua said, “My mother wants to know if you are certain.”
“Yes.” The curtain fluttered. Angai must have brushed against it. “I know you better than anyone, Nia. You are like a rock! You are like an arrow! You are what you are, and nothing can change you. You go where you go, and nothing can make you turn. You have never been an ordinary person.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Nia.
Hua said, “I wanted you to stay with us. I wanted to hear your stories.”
“I’m not going away forever. But I need time alone.”
Angai said, “This is the right decision. I’d like Nia to stay. But I’ve seen the way the people of the village look at her. She makes them uneasy. If she goes, they will settle down after a while. Then—I think—she will be able to come back. But if she stays now, they will get angry. Too much has happened. They have seen too much that is new. If she stays now, they will drive her off.”
Hua made the gesture of regret.
They kept working until the sky began to darken. Angai came out from behind the curtain. They ate dinner. Angai combed Nia’s fur. Aiya! It felt good! Especially when Angai combed the thick fur on her back. She leaned against the comb—the big one—and groaned with pleasure.
When that was done, they talked for a while. Nothing important was said. Angai described the trail that she wanted to follow going south and the place she wanted to spend the winter. Nia asked a question now and then. Hua listened in silence.
At last they went to sleep. Nia kept waking. The tent door was open. But there was little wind. The air in the tent was motionless and warm. She looked out the door. There were stars above the tents of her former neighbors. So many! So thick and bright!
They got up at dawn and began to load the wagon. Anasu brought the wagon-pullers in: six fine bowhorn geldings. They hitched them up. The sky was clear. The day was going to be hot. Nia could feel it.
Angai said, “I’d like you to go back out and get an animal for Nia. White Spot or Sturdy or Broken Horn, whichever you find.”
“Why does she need one?” asked Anasu. “I thought she was going to ride in the wagon.”
“She is leaving us,” Hua said.
“Why?”
“She wants to be alone.”
“Aiya! What a family I have!” He turned his bowhorn and rode away.
Nia asked, “Is he angry?”
“Maybe a little,” Hua said. “It has not been easy having you for a mother, even though Angai has protected us.”
Nia made the gesture of apology.
“It could have been worse,” Hua said. “We could have had Anhar for a mother. Or Ti-antai. A malicious woman. A woman who is a coward.”
“Is that what you think about Ti-antai?”
“Maybe she isn’t a coward,” Hua said. “Maybe she has a little mind. She never thinks about anything except her children and their children and the neighbors.”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Not for me,” said Hua. “I am going to be a shamaness.”
“Then you can help me now,” said Angai. “I have many boxes full of magical objects, and they have to go into the wagon. Nia isn’t going to touch them. I know that.”
Hua grimaced and made the gesture of assent.
After the magic was loaded, they took down the tent. Nia helped. They loaded it into the wagon. By noon they were ready to go, and so was the rest of the village. Nia looked around. There wasn’t a tent anywhere in sight. Instead there were wagons and bowhorns, women lifting boxes, children running. A few wagons had begun to move. A cloud of dust hung in midair to the west of the village.
Anasu came back, leading a bowhorn: a large young gelding. There was a large white mark in the middle of its chest. The mark was curved like a bow. The grip was at the bottom. The two arms of the bow rose up on either side. The mark reminded Nia of other things as welclass="underline" the emblem for “pot,” the emblem for “boat,” and the Great Moon when it was thin. If Angai had the animal, it must be lucky—though it worried Nia to look at the mark and see so many things.
“It’s five years old,” said Angai. “There is no better traveler in the herd. Be careful, though. Sometimes, not often, it gets a little edgy.”
“I have nothing to give in return,” said Nia.
“You told me about the hairless people. You gave me good advice.”
Nia made the gesture that meant “it was nothing.”
“It is enough,” said Angai.
Hua held out a pair of saddlebags. “This is for you. I’ve put in everything you ought to have. My mother—the friend of the shamaness—cannot go out onto the plain with nothing.”
Nia took the bags and fastened them to her animal. There was a peculiar feeling in her chest.
Anasu twisted around and unfastened the cloak that lay behind his saddle. “This is for you also. A parting gift, though I have never heard of a boy giving one to his mother.”
“The gift the boy gives is his life on the plain,” said Angai. “He watches the herd. He guides it and guards it. That is enough. That balances the gifts his kinfolk give.”
A true shamaness! thought Nia. She always had an answer. She was always ready to teach and explain.
She took the cloak. It was made of gray wool tufted on one side, so that it seemed like the pelt of an animal. Two brooches were fastened to it, large and made of silver. One was in the shape of a bowhorn lying down, its legs folded. The other was in the shape of a killer of the plain. A silver chain went between the brooches.
Anasu said, “It’s a good cloak. You won’t have to worry about rain as long as you have it. And you won’t be cold even in the winter.”
She fastened the cloak on top of the saddlebags, then mounted and looked at the three of them: the boy on his bowhorn, Angai and Hua standing in the middle of a patch of vegetation. Her hand felt numb. She could not move it. There were no words in her throat or mind.
“Always the same!” her friend told her. “There are things that you have never been able to say.”
“I have never liked the moment of parting.” She made the gesture of gratitude and the gesture of farewell, then turned her animal and rode away.