for as long as it takes for a hawk to wing across the sky. At last, he said, “It is I who should tell you when not to speak. Not you who should tell me.”
“Why do you insist on speaking about Krika when I do not wish his name to fall from your lips? And don’t call my desires ‘whims!’ Don’t presume to think you know my soul so well that you can judge my desires!”
“I knew your soul once,” he said wistfully, “and what I didn’t know you told me.”
“’Once’ is a time and times ago. ‘Once’ no longer exists for me.” I pointed at the blacksmith’s shop. “As for the sword, will you allow the comrades in our armory to help me make it or not?”
He turned his face toward the ground. Since Krika’s death, he had tried often to rekindle our old closeness. I understood his heart, yet I could not forgive him. I chided myself for this because in most matters he was so good a father. Thinking to make the mood between us lighter, yet not wanting to actually apologize, I said, “King Jaguar will smile when he sees the sword I’ll make.”
Laughter was always ready on Father’s lips. “He’ll smile when it breaks in your hand. But go ahead. Buy what advice you can from the blacksmith.”
In those days, I often knew the thoughts of those around me and I suddenly saw his thoughts. An eighteen-year-old boy who is petted and worshiped by all the women of his clan: why should he listen to an old man of forty-five? How can he understand that his father is powerless against the spirits?
It was not “thought-reading” as the Angleni called it. Nor was some demon responsible for it. Knowing another’s thoughts seemed nothing more than a natural extension of understanding and insight. What else could Father have been thinking?
When I returned from the blacksmith’s shop, he was speaking with a horse dealer. Collecting and breeding horses had become his chief occupation since the war ended. Yes, let me praise my father! He was noble and good and his victories helped stall many Angleni invasions. His vialka broke the backs of many an Angleni general.
He stood examining the back of a painted stallion with red, black, and bay coloring that mirrored the sunset.
When he saw me, he pointed in the direction of two Theseni women some forty paces away near the tent of a seller of exotic vegetables. “The one in the half-veil reminds me of Monua,” he said. “The one who lies in the bosom of my old friend Nwaha. She has Monua’s fierce stride. A walk I can never forget.”
“Perhaps fate has conspired to bring two old friends together again,” I said, walking to his side.
“If that is indeed Monua, the other woman—the one in the virgin’s full veil—might be her daughter.”
He looked past the wagon masters, past the fabric merchants, past the makers of candles and the carvers of wood. “Nwaha should be nearby. Yet I see him nowhere.”
“Perhaps your friend is dead, Father. Friends die. Didn’t you say he lingered in the old region long after the other townsmen had fled? Didn’t the Angleni kill most of the men in the Kluna clan?”
Sorrow swept across his face. “Yes, because of their dark skin. The Angleni killed the Kluna, rather than imprison or enslave them as they did the Ibeni and our people.” He wiped a tear from his face. “How I loved my youth spent among the Kluna! How sad it is to think so lovely and kind and good a people are now gone from the world!”
Seeing his grief, I regretted the words I had spoken earlier. “Father, take heart. Look. She doesn’t wear the widow’s fringe. Perhaps your friend is yet alive.”
“What did the blacksmith say?” He asked, his mind obviously on the women.
“That his son could bring all the steel and skill I need to our Golden House.”
“He can teach you, this blacksmith’s son? How old is he? About Krika’s age?”
“He’soldenough,”Isnapped,annoyedthatonceagainhehadmentioned Krika. Feeling immediately ashamed, I tugged on his braid, which was so long it reached his waist. “Father, if you’re going to stare at the women, you might as well speak to them. But be sure that the woman is indeed your old friend, or be prepared to receive a hard slap for your mistake.”
He grinned, and gave me a sidelong glance. “Since when did you become an expert on Theseni women?”
“My aunts have told me that Theseni women don’t like strangers speaking to them on the street, as Ibeni women do. Nor are they as joyous or free-thinking as our Doreni women.”
He grinned. “They have taught you well. Nevertheless, it is time, perhaps, that men and not your aunts or your Little Mother teach you about women.”
“True, I’m smothered daily by women. Yet, it is a good way to learn their habits, don’t you think so?”
He took a deep but determined breath and glanced at the women. “Perhaps. But come now. Let’s see if my face gets slapped.” He raised his right hand and signaled the women.
With that small signal, my life changed.
When the older woman turned to look at us, she nudged the younger one, but the younger one seemed to lack all etiquette and all sense of daughterly submissiveness. She turned, took a brief glimpse at us, then walked in the other direction towards the booksellers’ tent. The older woman tugged at the young one’s sleeve, but in vain. The young one merely hastened her steps.
Intrigued, I watched her. Her refusal to follow her mother spoke of a fierce beautiful will. Perhaps, I thought, it is this very independence of mind that causes her to wear plain sandals instead of the fashionable shoes Satilo women wear but are always complaining about.
A wind came from nowhere and blew her veil sideways, revealing her face. Although she was some distance away, I could see how beautiful she was. Then another wind blew—yes, although the day had been as still as summer clouds—and that gust threw her gyuilta from her shoulders, causing me to see how closely her simple cotton kaba hugged her svelte figure.
In the old days, before the Angleni forced their own customs and dress upon us, all tribes and both sexes wore the gyuilta. An unmarried girl could make a gyuilta sing. Whether it was a long one with elaborate fringes and beadwork, or a short one for riding; whether silk, linen, cotton, wool, buckskin, leather, or lowly hemp; whether worn as a scarf to protect against the sand, or as a shawl to shield the face from snow—how that cloak could turn men’s gazes!
I must have been handsome in my younger days. Or perhaps it was merely my father’s wealth. For many, many girls—oh, girls without number—would let their gyuiltas fall from their shoulders as I passed, allowing them to trail along the ground for me to retrieve. Such flirtations fascinated me, but my heart never leapt for any of those girls, pretty though they were. No, not until I saw Monua’s daughter did my heart leap. As an Ibeni poet has said, “My heart leaped then, for love had leaped into my eyes.” It was my first taste of love, and after such a small sip I was intoxicated, speechless, wanting nothing more but to devour her.
Father had noticed the girl’s behavior too, for he said, “The young one must be her daughter. They share the same fierce walk.”
“But the daughter’s is gentler,” I said. “Less aggressive. She has a better figure too. Thin in the right places. Round in the right places.”
Father’s
