she looked. This time directly at me; again, she didn’t approach me. I regretted my casual clothing. Only a tunic, deerskin leggings, undergarment, and breechcloth. Nothing to show my hunting skills, no rich gyuilta, nothing to make her want me. Yet, I reasoned, would I want a girl who accepted me only because I was dressed richly?
What did Sicma the great Ibeni poet say of Queen White Star? “Her beauty illumines the face of all who see her, and in the gates of the city all women shine through her glory.” But not for me Queen White Star. Not for me the flamboyant First Queen Butterfly, not for me the gentle Doreni Queen Sweet-as-Jasmine. None were as beautiful as the daughter of Monua. No, none of the three wives of King Jaguar, or any of his eleven daughters could match the girl’s beauty, regal bearing and exquisite willfulness.
Her refusal to speak only made me want her more, but before I could call out to her again Father exited the shop.
“Loic?” He raised his hands questioningly. “Why are you harassing Monua’s daughter? She’s not your servant. I thought you had ridden home.”
I pointed at the door to Nwaha’s shop and gestured to Father to follow me inside.
When I stood in front of Nwaha, I said, “Father, Monua’s daughter pleases me well. Get her for me to wife.”
My father’s eyes narrowed in surprise, then closed and opened again, angry. But Nwaha said nothing, did nothing. It was Monua who acted. She stood up in such haste the bamboo stool on which she sat fell to the ground. A second later, her hand was gripping the long shaft of a vialka. Jobara! That lance was indeed a graceful weapon. The Angleni have now outlawed it, but Layo, layo—truly, truly—how sharp and graceful that weapon was!
She pointed it at my throat and shouted at my father. “Treads Lightly, have you and this son of yours come here to mock our poverty?”
I had not thought that my sudden request would be considered an insult, but the vialka’s blunted edge skating across my flesh—and pressing deep enough to cut—made me realize otherwise.
“I know full well that my daughter is dark and past marriageable age,” Monua said. “Unattractive she may be, but I’ll not allow the son of a rich man to use her as if she were a slave.”
Such a defense of her daughter! More insult than praise, such a champion no woman needs. The anger the vendors had kindled within me still burned and when I heard Monua’s words, it burned hotter. Heldek and Pantan had trained the young princes and the dukes as well as me in warfare. Embarrassed though I was that a woman was pushing a vialka into my throat, and able as I was to turn it away, doing so meant insubordination toward an elder. I grasped the vialka’s tip with my palm, but restrained myself from turning it on my hostess.
All the while Nwaha continued sitting there, weak and pitiful. Father kept glaring at me, as if I—and not Monua—was in the wrong. How, I thought, can Nwaha sit there and let his wife fight his battles? Even battles she had created in her own mind? How can Father endure a friend such as this?
When it seemed my neck was about to break from being long held in such an uncomfortable and dangerous position, Father placed his hand on the lance and gently pushed its tip downward. “Loic meant no disrespect, Nwaha,” he said. “He’s young and easily tossed by the wind’s whims. Even so, all in the city of Satilo, all in the Jefra region, and the outlying suburbs of Rega know him to be an honorable youth.”
How surprised my heart was that Father defended me!
“His name means ‘Full of Light’,” he continued. “And he is. If he says he wants to marry your daughter, she has found a place in his heart. He’ll treat her well and honor her always as the gatekeeper of his heart.”
“As some second-status wife to cover his thighs!” Monua shouted, glowering at me.
Again, Father defended me. “Not so, Monua,” he said. “Do not insult my son.”
“Should I give my beloved Satha to one who has no manners?” she asked. No, she wasn’t one to keep her mouth shut. “Do you want the joy of my life to spend heartbroken nights lying in the women’s quarters listening to her husband tumble with other more-beloved wives?” She was a blunt one!
Father answered, “I promise he will marry only one wife, whatever good or evil comes.”
In those days, a father’s promise would bind his son forever. To break such a promise was to invite death and grief. His insulted soul would return from the dead to haunt or kill the disrespectful child. Yet, his promise seemed a blessing to me. I could not imagine holding any other woman in my bosom.
Monua’s suspicious eyes continued staring at me. “How could he want someone he’s only just met?” she asked.
I saw her mind then, saw that she was like one standing in the middle of a bridge, not knowing whether to go forward or step back. I searched my heart for the right words to help her cross that bridge.
About that time, her husband found his mouth. “Satha is already twenty-four, my friend. Wouldn’t your son rather marry some little girl his age, someone he can grow old with, rather than a woman of unmarriageable age? Consider too that Satha is not of his tribe. Nor is she rich. What can we give you for such—?”
“I don’t want some little girl,” I shouted, rubbing my neck. Now that I was free from any threat of Monua’s weapon I, too, found my mouth. “I want Satha.”
“And you rich boys always get what you want, don’t you?” Monua said, her eyes scorning me. I saw some ugly thing in her soul, and feared the prospect of such a “New Mother.” What if Satha tya Monua turned out to be a “true daughter of her mother?”
Yet, I ached to free Satha from her parents, yearned to caress her in my bed. Already she had begun to fill my future. In my mind, no future event excluded her. No feast, no journey, no riverwalk. How could I live without her if she had so enmeshed herself into my future life?
“A child who receives all he wishes is not a true son,” I said to Monua. “I am Taer’s true son, the hope of his old age, the honor of my dead mother. Just as Satha is the honor of her mother. I do not waste my time on foolish wishes as others do.”
“Mentura—untried boasting,” she answered, as if she, a woman, were a warrior or a man my equal. “Your son makes speeches to his elders?”
“Perhaps you should not insult someone you hardly know!” I snapped back. Yes, I did this, even though we were guests in her house. Father lifted his left hand, as if to strike me.
He had struck me only once before, on the day I told him I intended to kill Okiak. Seeing his raised hand again, I feared he would not allow Satha to marry me. Terrified at losing what I had not yet won, I clasped my hands together, and knelt on the floor pleading, “Father, forgive me. I spoke rashly.”
Monua shook her head several times. “You’re lucky you did this in our house. If the elders knew of this.... “Her voice faded with the vague threat. “Before the war, children would have been stoned for less. But the war has made us all tired of bloodshed. The poor have always had to suffer humiliations. Never did I dream I would become one of them.” I sensed that three thousand quixas would have suited her “humiliation” quite nicely.
“Your son’s mind is mad with love,” Nwaha apologized for me. “Young men are rash when they’re infatuated.”
His
