The travel leader frowned. “The Amber People kept going on and on about this spirit. This Trickster. They told us the hairless people are not the problem. The Trickster is the problem. He is the one who is making changes in the sky.”
“Have the hairless people paid a visit there?” asked Nia. She pointed east.
The travel leader made the gesture that meant “no.” “I’m not certain they believed us when we told them about the hairless people and the boat that was able to fly. Maybe they thought we were liars, like the Trickster.”
“Aiya!” said Nia. She took them across the river, then went back.
By this time the forest along the river had finished changing color. The trees were orange and yellow. The reeds in the marshes were red. Flocks of birds went overhead like clouds.
Nia began to worry about food. She was running out. Winter was coming. She made fish traps and set them in the river. Then she went into the forest, cut wood, and made a smoking rack. That was the safest way to preserve fish and meat. The smoke would hide the food aroma. The animals in the forest would not come looking for something to eat.
She made traps to set in the forest. Then she made a bow. It was the weak kind that people in the east used. But she did not have the materials to make a bow the right way out of layers of horn, and she wasn’t a bow maker.
How could men survive alone? A woman needed an entire village full of people with different kinds of knowledge.
“Well,” she told herself. “I know it is possible. I lived on my own before—except for Enshi, and he wasn’t all that much help. I can do it again.”
She gathered food. Clouds came out of the west, gray and solid-looking. They dropped rain on her. The rain was cold and heavy. Leaves came off the trees. They lay on the ground in the forest and floated past on the river. Red. Yellow. Orange. Pink. Purple.
The flocks of birds became less frequent. The bugs were almost gone.
Day and night she tended the smoking fire. Gray smoke twisted up into the gray sky. No animals came out of the forest to find out if she had anything edible. In this she was lucky. This was the time of year when every kind of thing looked for food—though not with desperation. Desperation would come later with the snow.
One afternoon Nia was in front of the tent, cleaning a groundbird. She cut the belly open and reached in, pulling out the guts. One of her bowhorns whistled: a sign of warning. She looked up. A rider was approaching, coming up the trail along the river. Nia stood up, holding the bloody guts. They were still attached to the bird, and when she stood she lifted the bird off the ground. For a moment it dangled at the end of a rope of guts. Then the rope broke. The bird fell. The rider reined his animal.
He was big and broad through the shoulders. His fur gleamed, even though the sky was dark and gray. His tunic was yellow, covered with embroidery. He wore gold bracelets and a gold fish-pendant that hung from a necklace of amber beads. “I heard the old crossing-woman was gone. The new one looks as if she belongs to the Iron People. She doesn’t speak much and tells nothing about herself.”
“Who can have told you this, Inzara?”
“The man whose gift is salt.” Inzara dismounted. “Why don’t you finish what you are doing, then wash your hands?”
He led his animal in back of the tent. She cleaned the bird and washed her hands in the river.
Inzara returned, carrying his saddlebags.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the Winter Land, protecting your territory?”
“My brothers will take care of it for me. It doesn’t matter this time of year, anyway.”
She spitted the bird and set it up over the cooking fire. Inzara crouched down. Aiya! He was big, even resting on his heels.
“It’s pretty obvious the world is changing. There is a new star in the sky and a new moon. A while back a young man came out of the village. I stopped him and spoke with him before I sent him on his way. He told me people had come from the far west, carrying their provisions in baskets and bringing a crazy story. Visitors came to them riding on a bird made out of metal. The visitors had no hair. The people from the west wanted advice. But my people were busy. They have been quarreling and performing ceremonies ever since they came to the Ropemaker’s island. The guardian of the tower was dead. The tower itself was damaged.”
“We did not touch the tower,” said Nia.
“Birds or the wind,” said Inzara. “In any case, the clans have been accusing one another of bad thoughts and magic. This is what the young man said. I could explain what really happened, but who listens to men about such things?” He paused. “I thought the world is changing, and it is obvious who is behind all the changes. The people without hair, the oracle, and Nia.
“The man who brings the salt came. He told me about the new woman at the river crossing. I thought, that is almost certainly Nia. How many strange women can there be, wandering around the plain?”
“That’s good thinking, but why did you bother? I don’t think I’m responsible for any of the changes, and if I am, there is nothing I can do about them now.”
“Are the hairless people responsible?” asked Inzara.
“Maybe. I think so.”
“And you are friends with them.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me where you will be in the spring.”
Nia looked up, surprised. “Why?”
“You have a lot of luck—more than any woman I’ve ever heard of. I’m not certain what kind of luck it is. At times it seems more bad than good. But it is certainly powerful, and there is no question about my luck. It is always good.
“If you had a child, and I was the father—or Ara—or Tzoon, think of the luck the child would have! Think of the power!”
Nia felt even more surprised. Her mouth hung open. Her hands stayed where they were, on her thighs.
He went on. “We have talked it over, the three of us. If you are interested, we will draw straws. The one who gets the long straw will go to meet you. This area would be good. There aren’t likely to be any other men around. Or women. It’s easy to get distracted in the time for mating, and this is something that ought to be done the right way. Carefully.”
“No,” said Nia.
Inzara made the gesture of inquiry.
“I have done too many strange things already, and I’m getting old. I don’t think I want any more children.”
“You have children already? Are there any daughters? How old are they?”
Nia made the gesture that meant “stop it” or “shut up.”
“Why?” asked Inzara.
“This is crazy. Men don’t pick the women they mate with. Men don’t care who their children are or what the children are like.”
“What do you know about men? What does any woman know? You sit in your villages! You chatter! You gossip! You tell one another what men are like. How can you possibly understand anything about us? Have you ever spent a winter alone on the plain?”
“Yes,” said Nia.
He barked, then made the gesture of apology. “I was forgetting who you were.” He paused and frowned. Then he spoke again. His voice was deep and even. He didn’t sound the least bit crazy. “Tell me where you will be, Nia. Do you really want to mate with whatever man comes along? He might be a little man. He might be old or crazy. Who knows how the child will turn out?”
Nia looked at the bird cooking above the fire. The skin was turning brown. Liquid fat covered it and it shone. She turned the bird, then looked at Inzara. “I told you, I don’t want any more children. Also, I am tired of doing things in new and unusual ways. I want to be ordinary for a while.”
Inzara made the gesture that meant “that isn’t likely to happen.”