Anasu
Her mother had been a metal worker, a follower of the Mistress of the Forge. But she died young, one spring in the mating season. This sometimes happened. A woman left the village and never returned.
The old crones said, “A crazy man got her. Hu! The lot of women is difficult!”
In any case, Nia and her brother were alone. Suhai, who was one of her mother’s sisters, took them in. She was a large gruff woman with a pelt so dark that it looked more black than brown.
Besides taking them, she took their mother’s belongings: the tent, the cart, the six bowhorn geldings, and all the tools of iron, bronze, and stone.
“A just payment,” Suhai told them. “You will cost me a lot in the winters to come. I have children of my own to care for, too.”
Her brother Anasu, who was eight then, said, “You have always been a grasping person.”
Suhai glowered. “Go outside. I don’t want to look at you.”
Anasu made the gesture of assent, then stood. The flap of the tent was up. She could see her brother clearly. He was slender and graceful. His pelt was reddish brown. It shone like copper in the sunlight. He wore that day—she thought she remembered later—a kilt of dark blue cloth, high boots, and a belt with a silver buckle.
Anasu left. Nia looked at Suhai, sitting hunched by the fire, which was out.
“Thank the Mother of Mothers I have no sons. Well, I intend to do that which is right. I’ll raise him, though I don’t expect to enjoy a moment. You, Nia, will be less trouble, I am sure. The women of our family have always been even-tempered.”
Nia made no reply.
Things turned out as Suhai had expected. She got no pleasure from raising Anasu, though he was clever and dexterous. No lad his age did better embroidery. He was good with a bow. He was good-humored, too, except around Suhai. The two of them always quarreled.
Nia stayed out of the quarrels. She was, she discovered, a timid person. Good for little, she told herself. She could not help Anasu, though she felt closer to him than to anyone; and she could not stand up to Suhai. Always and always she did what her aunt wanted.
Like all the people in the world, her people followed the herds. In the spring they went north to the Summer Land: a wide, flat plain. There were many small lakes and shallow rivers. On days when Suhai let her go free, she and Anasu built fish traps out of the branches of a bush that grew at the edges of the rivers. The branches were thin and flexible. They could be woven around one another, then tied with pieces of stringbark.
They put the traps into a river. Then they sat on the bank and talked till a thrashing in the water told them a fish was caught.
When he was in a dreamy mood, Anasu talked of flying. The large clouds of summer looked habitable to him.
“Not the thunderclouds, of course, but the others. I don’t think they’d be good for herding. They have too many hills. But I could take my bow up there. We know there is water. Maybe there are fish.”
She listened, not saying much. Anasu was two years older than she was. He always had more to say.
In fall the village went south: the herd first, guided by the adult men. Then came the carts, the women and children, and the very old men. Hisu, the bow master, was one of these.
The Winter Land was a rolling plain dotted with trees. In the south were stony hills. Beyond the hills was an enormous body of water.
“Our salt comes from there,” Anasu told her. “Some of the men, the really adventurous ones, stay here alone in the summer. Hisu told me this. He did it when he was young. He waited till the herd was gone, then crossed the hills. On the other side are smaller hills, made of sand, and then the water. It stretches to the horizon, Hisu said, like the plain in the Summer Land; and it tastes salty. Anyway, he made pans out of wood. There is no wood nearby, he said. He had to bring it from the hills of stone. Hu! What a lot of work! Anyway, he filled the pans with water. When the water dried, there was salt in the pans.” He looked at her, excited by this bit of information and wanting her to be excited, too.
Nia made the gesture that meant she heard and understood.
Anasu made the gesture that meant “if that’s the way you feel about it.” Then he said, “I think I’ll gather salt when I’m a man.”
There was something hard in her throat. She never liked to think of growing up.
The years went by. When she was ten, Suhai began to teach her how to work iron. This made her happy, she told Anasu.
“You ought to have started a year ago or maybe two years back. Suhai is always grudging and slow.”
“Nonetheless, I am happy,” Nia said. “Suhai is good at what she does.”
“In the smithy, maybe. Elsewhere, no.”
Anasu grew tall. His body began to thicken. Suhai really hated him now.
“I have never liked men. Even when I was full of the spring lust, I still thought they were awful. I’m tired of coming home and finding you in my tent.”
Anasu, who was fourteen by this time, made the gesture of assent. He gathered his belongings—the kilts, the boots, the one long cloak for winter—and left. His bow was in its case over one shoulder, and his knife hung from his belt.
Nia stood up, shaking. “Enough is enough, old woman. I won’t tolerate you any longer. I’m going, too.”
“Very well.” Suhai sat down by the fire. Dinner was cooking in a big pot. She pulled out a hunk of meat and ate it.
Nia began to pack.
She walked out of the tent, feeling proud. For the first time she could remember, she had done something important on her own. What next? She didn’t know. She stopped and looked around. It was late summer. The day was hot and still. Smoke rose straight up from the village’s cooking fires. In the distance the yellow plain shimmered. She had no idea at all of what to do.
“Nia?”
It was Ti-antai, her cousin: a plump woman with dark brown fur.
“Anasu told me he has left my mother.”
Nia made the gesture of affirmation. “So have I.”
“That terrible woman! She will end by driving everyone away. My grandmother told me once, Suhai ought to have been a man. She is too quarrelsome to be a woman. Come stay with me, for the time being anyway.”
Nia made the gesture of agreement.
She stayed with Ti-antai on the trip south. Then, when they reached the Winter Land, she moved in with Hua, an ancient woman whose children had all died. Her tent was empty, and she needed help at her forge.
“A good exchange. You help. You keep me company. I will teach you the secrets of gold and silver. I know them, you know. There was a time when I was the best smith in the village. I’m not so bad these days, either. My hands have gotten a little stiff, of course, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be. But what is, after all? In any case, I will teach you how to inlay silver into iron. And gold, too. Move in whenever you like.”
Anasu traded his best piece of embroidery for two pieces of leather. From these he made a tent, a small one. He lived by himself at the edge of the village. That winter Nia saw him little.
In the spring, on the trip north, he rode near Hua’s cart and helped with the bowhorns. One of them was a young male, strong but reluctant to pull.
By this time Anasu was full grown. He was quieter than he used to be, though still good-tempered.
One morning, midway through the trip, Nia woke a little earlier than usual. She got up and went outside. They were camped next to a river. Mist drifted on the water. The sun was just beginning to show above a range of hills in the east. She went to the cart. The back panel was fastened with hinges and chains. It could be let down, so that loading and unloading could be done more easily, and it could be fastened halfway down, making a flat place. Anasu slept on it. He had thrown off his cloak sometime in the night. He lay on his back, one arm over his face, shielding his eyes. All at once Nia saw her brother clearly. He was large and solid. He looked shaggy, rough, a little unfamiliar. The change was coming. She felt a terrible grief.