Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (5 page)

“Yes?”

“You’ve seen Taelachs before?”

“A few, though not in many passes and never under pleasant conditions. But they’re around. They keep to themselves most of the time. Can’t say as I blame them, either.” Terry brought a cook pot to the table, placed Rankil’s beans in it, then took a seat next to Rankil who stared in wonderment as her grandmother began to help. “Now, you know there are men and there are women. You have enough brothers to know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Rankil slowed her work to listen.

“All right, Taelachs are all women. I’ve heard they pair off just the same as Autlach married couples, but—” Terry’s mouth thinned as she considered the best manner to explain. “I don’t quite understand it myself, but that’s the way things work for them.”

“If there’s not men then who tells them what to do?”

“Taelachs do it all for themselves,” Terry said, with a hint of envy in her voice.

“For themselves?” Rankil delighted at the idea of autonomy. “But Archell said there were short-haired ones with women and children in their arms.”

Granny tossed a handful of broken beans in the pot. “Well,” she shrugged. “Like I said, some do wear their hair short, broadbacks I believe.”

Rankil’s confusion ran deeper than her voice could ever register. “But there aren’t any Taelach men?”

“Some say broadbacks are somewhere in between, but I don’t think it’s true. They’re just strong—strong women and tall, too, usually a little taller than the long-haired Taelachs, but then again most Taelachs are taller than Autlachs.”

Like me,
thought Rankil.

“Broadbacks are fighters, warriors even, but they’re definitely women.” Terry filled the pot with water to keep the beans fresh. “Like I said, Taelachs keep to themselves. I wish I could tell you more. Just keep your eyes open. They do come around on occasion.”

Rankil’s face brightened at the prospect of seeing one of her own. “They do?” She marveled at how easy their conversation flowed. It felt like talking to Archell when no one else was around. “How do you know?”

Terry set the cutting board on the table and handed Rankil a large slicing knife. “There are round roots in the bottom of the sling. Let’s cut them to dry. We’ll let them cure today then spread them on the porch tomorrow morning. It gets full sun and will keep them out of the dirt.” She took a second knife and began to separate the long white tubers into paper-thin slices. Dried, round root made for hearty winter eating and proved excellent in stew. “Now, to answer your question. How do you think I’ve gotten along by myself all this time, blind as I am?”

“Danston called you stubborn.” Rankil’s slices were thin but not as even as her steady-handed elder’s.

“Yes.” Terry smiled. “I am stubborn, but, whatever your father thinks about me, I’ve needed help since long before you came. Know who’s been helping me?”

Rankil startled and the knife slipped from her hand, just missing her fingertip. “But you said you hadn’t seen a Taelach in a long while.”

Terry pointed to her shrunken orbits. “No, I haven’t
seen
them, but they’ve been helping me. They leave spices and fresh meat from time to time. That’s where I got the cloth. They left it for me as a thank you for some cakes I gave them a while back.”

They sliced all the roots and stacked them on the cutting board. Rankil’s young mind danced with excitement while they worked. “How often do they visit?”

“Oh,” said Granny in an almost teasing fashion, “they ring the smoker shed bell once or twice a moon cycle. That should be any day now.” Terry crinkled her nose. “Sure you don’t want a bath?”

Rankil’s tattered appearance had never been bothersome until now, but then again, she’d never known any other way to be. “Yes. Yes, Granny Terry, I think I do.” She took a soapstone and rag Terry offered and rushed for the creek below the house.

The water pool was tepid in the summer heat, and Rankil stripped and waded in, scrubbing from top to bottom, her toes giving an occasional kick to ward off the curious fish. She’d never been given the opportunity to take a real bath and enjoyed the thorough soak, playing among flowering water grasses, floating about in her clean state until her fingers shriveled. Finally swayed by Granny Terry’s calls to have her hair trimmed, she emerged from the pool, shook off the worst of the water, and walked back to the house with her clothing in hand. Granny pushed her into a chair so she could loosen the dripping braid Rankil had been unable to remove.

“This is impossible,” said Terry between tugs on the messed plait. “It’s so matted it’ll never come undone. I’m going to have to cut above it, shorter than I wanted.” She drew her sharpest knife and held Rankil’s head firm. “Don’t move. I want the cut to be even.”

Rankil winced as Terry removed the braid at the base of her neck. The lifted weight felt strange. Terry trimmed around the sides of her face and ears, using her hands to judge the length. After a few more quick strokes of the blade she stepped back and produced a palm-sized reflecting board from her pocket, which she held out for Rankil’s use.

“Take a look.”

“No, ma’am.”

Terry sat next to her. “Why not?”

“Danston told me never to look cause I’m so ugly I’d break a board.”

“Now, Rankil.” The old woman was once again angry. Rankil flinched at her tone. “I’m not mad with you. I’m furious with
them
for leading you to believe such a thing. How could you know you might break it if you never try?”

“Boards are hard to come by.”

Now the old woman seemed mad at her, too. “Think, girl, can I really make use of one?”

Rankil peered at Terry’s face. “I guess not,” she whispered.

“Then what does it matter if it breaks? Look!” Terry forced Rankil’s face to the reflector. Rankil opened one eye. Nothing shattered or cracked, so she ventured to open the other.

Terry placed the board fully in her hands. “Tell me what you see.”

“I . . . I see . . . I see so much, Granny Terry, so very much.” Rankil watched the bitter twist of her mouth flatten then curl into a small smile. “I see sky-colored eyes that are shaped like Meelsa’s dark ones and the little hump that’s in Danston’s nose—his pointy chin, too. Why did they call me ugly when I look so much like them?”

“They put down what they didn’t understand. Tell me what else you see.”

Rankil moved the reflector about until she had viewed her entire head. “My ears stick out like Sallnox’s, and I have Tessa’s skinny neck.”

Terry shook her head. “Don’t tell me the other faces you see. I want to know about Rankil. Tell me something about her. Is she as pleasant looking as I think?”

Rankil bit her lip to keep back the deluge of questions, but they spilled forth anyway, expressing the thousand ideas in her head. “What am I, Granny? What is a Taelach? Do all Taelachs look like I do? Should I wear my hair short? Grow it back long? Where do I fit in?” Rankil stared in the reflecting board again, surprised at the suddenly older face peering back. It wasn’t the distorted image she’d seen when drawing water from the compound’s central well. There was something behind it, a substance she’d never seen before. She wasn’t the stupid waste they said she was. The world was clearer to her now, as clear as the slim-jawed face looking back.

Terry took the reflector and ran her hands over Rankil’s face. “Let me tell you what I see. Before me is Rankil, an amazing young woman. She is growing strong and tall. She should be proud of who she is.”

Rankil tensed but didn’t pull away. “And who is that, Granny Terry?”

Pleased, Terry traced the line of Rankil’s small smile then dropped her hand. “Time in general will tell you, as will time with your people.”

“My people?”

“Yes.” Granny Terry’s voice became stern. “You’re caught between two very different worlds, one which detests the other. You know the Autlach and need to know the Taelach. They’ll find you here. They’ll teach you, and in the end you will leave here to become one of them.”

“But I just got here.” Rankil’s slender hand clutched Terry, her long fingers easily wrapping the older woman’s wrist. “I couldn’t possibly go.”

Terry broke the grasp and ran the comb through Rankil’s layered cut, satisfied when she found it free of knots. “Yes, child, eventually you’ll leave. You’ll have to for your own safety but, hopefully, that’s some time away, and we can enjoy the time in between.” She brushed the stray hairs from the table then passed Rankil the rush sweeper. “Clean it up for me. I’d be picking hair for days if you weren’t here.”

“You’d have no hair to sweep if I weren’t here.” Rankil tossed the brittle, matted braid out the door.

“I swear I never heard a full sentence out of you before today. You’re the sweet little smart mouth when you wish to be.” Terry went to the trunk and once again pulled out the piece of rich green fabric. “So, Rankil, you’re long overdue for some finery. Today, after we finish working in the garden, we’ll begin making you knee skirts and leggings. They’re the wear of Taelach youth and what you should have as well, but first things first. Come to the table. It’s time for the midday sup.” She brought out sweet jam and cheese to accompany the bread already on the table.

“Taelach preserves are the sweetest I’ve ever tasted. Too sweet for me, but I wager you’ll like them.”

She placed Rankil at the head of the small dining table, making her the recipient of a precious gift—a belly-filling meal served with a healthy side of attention. Terry cooed over Rankil for the remainder of the day, acknowledging her thoughts, cherishing her presence. They worked outside until the heat became unbearable then retreated to the shade of the porch, deep in conversation as they began assembling Rankil’s first new set of clothing. It felt strange to be wanted, like shedding a long-rotted skin. Rankil needn’t run anymore and slept safe in her own private loft among the fresh straw, tucked in a soft pallet made just for her. Tisph’s hands couldn’t reach her. Her father’s belt and fist were far away. Rankil was loved, safe, warm and looking forward to someday meeting her own. She’d finally reached a place above the fear and prejudice, a place for learning and exploration of her own identity. Rankil was home.

Opportunity is chance come knocking. Open the door.

—Granny Terry

“Damn!” Kaelan’s arrow had barely grazed her quarry’s front flank. The deer stumbled then darted away, leaving a droplet trail of blood to show its flight path. Muttering more curses, Kaelan snatched her reins and mounted her skittish nassie. Her adopted daughter Myrla jumped onto her own mount, kicking and whistling until the gentle beast began moving.

“Don’t worry.” Myrla said as they tracked. “It can’t run far bleeding like that. You wait, it’ll be on the spit before we know it.”

“I’m not concerned.” Kaelan shouldered her bow and clicked her tongue for their mounts to quicken their pace. “But you have a lot to learn about hunting, daughter. An animal runs all the farther when wounded. It’s running for its life—and toward the foothills. We’ll follow from a distance until it gets tired then I want you to take it down.”

“Me?” Myrla’s plaits bounced as she rode up beside Kaelan. “You’re letting me?”

“You’ll be fourteen this fall. That’s old enough to hunt. Besides, you’ve become a fair shot with a bow. Time you were put to the test.”

Myrla pulled a little taller on her nassie. How proud she felt, all but fourteen and on her first hunt. Under Kaelan’s guidance she took the lead, tracking the deer to a nearby thicket. “Must have hurt it worse than we thought,” she whispered as they crept toward the thicket. Arrow in place, bow drawn, she pushed deeper, Kaelan holding back so she could act alone. The clan’s evening meal was up to her.

Whisssph—thud.
Her arrow landed true, straight in the heart. The deer fell where it had stood, quivering before growing still. Myrla cheered and danced in a circle. Kaelan joined the celebration for a moment then held up a hand for her to cease.

“You know what to do next, don’t you?”

Myrla’s upper lip curled. “Gut it?”

Kaelan frowned at her. “Before that.”

The girl blinked good-naturedly. “Why, Kaelan,” she laughed. “You thank the Mother Maker, of course. She’s the one who put the deer here to begin with. I knew that.” Myrla dropped to one knee and spoke the appropriate prayer.

“Much better.” Kaelan tied a rope to the animal’s front legs and suspended it from a nearby tree. “Now, in answer to your question. Clan rule. You kill it—you clean it.”

“Ugh!” Despite Myrla’s objections, she knew she must do the chore. Kaelan showed her how to rig up the deer so it would bleed the best and demonstrated how to open the belly to remove the entrails. “Separate and rinse everything with water from the flask then put it all in the lined sling. Careful not to nick the intestine. It’ll ruin the best of the sweetmeats. Good girl! You’re quite handy with a knife. Jewel will be proud.”

Myrla smiled as she gazed up at her raiser. “We caught this one early. Do we have to go back right now? It’s pretty in the lowlands. There’re more trees.”

“These aren’t the lowlands, but I suppose it’s lower than you’ve ever been.” Kaelan sliced off a portion of leg meat then hefted the carcass onto one of the nassies. “And, no, we’re not going back yet. We’ve other business.”