"She's not wet. That's the 'I'm getting a little hungry' one," she said. "I'll leave you to tell Angelica no about Long Island again while I feed her."
Jared nodded; some mothers thought nothing of nursing in public, but Martha didn't work that way. The carriage slowed as it went uphill to the farmhouse proper, amid its cluster of outbuildings and barns and the great greenhouses. The heavy timber frame of a new barn was going up, with people pulling on ropes and shouting.
"You might consider the Long Island idea again," she went on.
"Not you too! We don't have the people to spare, and besides-there are the locals."
"Only a few hundred on the whole island," she said with ruthless practicality. "That's scarcely an impediment. And the climate and soil are a lot better for agriculture. Not this year or next, I grant you, but Dr. Coleman says that with the birthrate the way it is since the Event, our population's going to double in the next thirty-eight years or less. Not counting immigration."
"Immigration?" Jared said, raising his eyebrows. "I wouldn't have thought so, from what we saw this morning."
"Oh, I was thinking of Swindapa's people," Martha said, rocking the infant to try to calm its growing volume of complaint. "They seem compatible enough. Odd, but compatible, and eager to learn."
Now, there's a thought, Jared mused. He made a mental note of it. More people would be so useful, but not if they caused too much trouble.
He looked east for a moment. "It all depends," he said.
"And we can talk about the university… again. Never too early to start planning."
"Jesus Christ."
"It's the only way the Spear Mark will listen to you. A lot of them, ah, the Grandmothers sort of… well, irritate them," Swindapa had said. "They always have. And the Grandmothers treat them like bad little children."
Which leaves me out here in the woods, buck nekkid with mosquitoes biting me, Marian Alston thought, gripping her spear. Well, not quite. I get to wear this knife, too. What was that remark I made last spring, about the bare-assed spear-chuckers of England?
"Goddam Paleolithic rituals," Alston whispered, barely moving her lips.
Literally Paleolithic. The Arnsteins thought this probably went right back before agriculture, two or three thousand years. She gritted her teeth against the chill that raised goose bumps down her dew-slick ebony skin. She was crouched in a clump of tall ferns, with the crown of a hundred-foot beech tree overhead. Most of the trees about her were oaks, though, huge and gnarled and shaggy. Water dripped down from the fresh green of the leaves and the ferns, splashing on her. Dammit, hypothermia and pneumonia are not what I need. She was covered with the juices of crushed plants, too, that were supposed to kill her scent. They certainly itched. The forest was more open than she'd have expected, kept that way by the shading crowns of the big trees and by periodic forest fires that swept away the undergrowth. It was eerily quiet, only a few birdcalls and the buzz of insects.
She breathed deeply, forcing thought out of her mind as Sensei Hishiba had taught. The discomfort did not vanish, but bit by bit it became simply another sensation, cramping and cold and hunger flowing without feedback across the surface of her perceptions. Slowly everything faded but her surroundings, rustle of growth, drip of water on the deep soft layer of rotting leaves, the faint cool scents of decay and growth. Outlines grew sharp, down to the feathery moss that coated the gnarled oak bark.
And… a rustle. Faint. A footfall, a small sharp clomp. She let her eyes drift closed, focusing. Inch by fractional inch the spear went back and her body shifted balance without moving, feet digging into the softness of the forest floor, pressing until wet clay oozed up between her toes.
The eyelids drifted up again. Alston made no attempt to focus them, let movement and color flow by and through. Her heart sped, not in excitement but in natural preparation for movement. She took a long, slow breath-
– and lunged.
The movement was too shocking-sudden for the buck to do more than begin a leap sideways. The long sharp steel thudded into its flank, behind the left shoulder; she followed through, shoving and twisting as the wood jerked in her hands. A moment later the deer pulled free and staggered off sideways, head down. Blood pumped from its flanks and mouth and nostrils, spattered her with thick gobbets; it staggered sideways, tripped, went down by the hindquarters. For an instant its forelegs struggled to lift it, while she waited, panting. Then it laid down its head, kicked, voided, and died.
She leaned on the spear, panting, so exhausted that her knees began to buckle. Takes it out of you. When you focused like that, there was nothing held back.
"Time's a-wastin'," she said, laying down the spear and kneeling beside the dead animal. Sorry, she thought, touching the soft neck. It was necessary.
The sun had fallen, and the air was growing cooler despite the great fire in the ancient pit at their backs and the smaller blazes around the edge of the clearing. "It's a new thing," one of the men grumbled. "A foreigner…"
Swindapa glared at him. Pelanatorn hushed him with a gesture. "Not the first," he said. "Let the forest spirits decide. If she brings her deer, well enough."
A younger man's voice called out, cracking with excitement. "It is the hour!"
Swindapa stood with the others beside the high-leaping fire, beating time on the ground with her spear, listening to the thudding rhythm and the slapping of palms on drumheads that matched it. Sweat ran down her face under the overshadowing tanned mask of a deer, down her flanks beneath its hide. Around her stood the ranks of the Spear Mark, their heads bearing the likeness of deer and boar, aurochs and wolf and bear, the bronze or Eagle People steel of their spears glinting reddish. She strained her eyes into the spark-shot darkness, knowing it was useless-the trees came close here, and nothing was visible under their branches. Wind ghosted out of them, cool and green on her hot skin, smelling of green and damp earth.
The chant broke, but the drums continued under it like a giant's heartbeat, echoing back from the forest edge.
"Terge ahwan!" someone shouted.
That was in the Old Tongue; The hunter comes. The rest of them took it up, making a new chant in the flame-shot darkness. The crowd parted for Marian. The bloody hide of her kill was draped around her flanks, and the open eyes of the head stared out from above hers. The butchered quarters and organs dragged behind her on a travois of poles bound with sinew.
A man in breechclout and leggings stood forth. Gold bands shone around the tusks of his boar mask and on the haft of the ceremonial mace in his hand. He held it up to bar her way.
"Shm' u-ahwa?" he asked. Who comes?
"Na-ahawun't'ngamo sssgama nwn'tu," Marian replied, her voice loud and firm. One who brings meat for the people. She stood tall and let the travois fall, holding out her spear so that the bloodied head could be seen.
"Na-terge ahwan!" the boar-man shouted. It is a hunter who comes!
The crowd shouted it out together: "Na-terge ahwan!"
Swindapa felt her heart swell. Marian was doing everything perfectly-even the difficult sounds of the Old Tongue, the hunter's language, that nobody really spoke anymore. Helpers came forward to take the meat away for preparation, and to throw buckets of water over the initiate-part of the ceremony, more comfortable, and preparation for what must follow. Sleek wetness glistened in the firelight, like a statue of living onyx.