happened to their women?” she asked, taking his boots and following quickly behind him.
“They killed them all, of course. Not purposely, however. The Wheel Clan do not believe in having many children, you see. At least, that is what they believed in the old days. ‘The fewer children, the more precious, the less likely for children to starve or to become lost.’ That’s what they used to say. Land and resources, land and resources. That’s all the Wheel Clan think of.”
He stopped at the main entrance door and waited as she pushed his feet into his boots. “The pharma they give their women prevent unnecessary unwanted children. It makes the mothers sickly. Some die. Thus, they kill their women.”
She tapped his left knee and stood up. He stamped both feet several times. “Also, one woman has two husbands. That solves two problems, you see. And not everyone can marry.”
“I don’t think I like the Wheel Clan.”
“Little Spider, you have nothing to fear. Nor does Ktwala, with you around. Aren’t you our own Little Spider who catches everyone in her web? Do you think the Wheel Clan could ever deceive you? Just try to look ugly. Which will be very hard for you to do. But you can manage. I’ve seen you in your foul moods. You look quite ugly then.”
Maharai felt a little—but not entirely—better.
They exited the longhouse to find Ktwala still excited and Chief Iden still wearing that worried frown. Solemnly and with great pomp, Jion took the clan’s spyglass and climbed the tower stairs. When he descended he declared, even more solemnly. “It is the Wheel Clan!”
Ktwala pulled her father’s wringing hands apart. “Oh, Father, Father, they will repair our tower and teach us their tower science! Oh, Jion, do you think they will help us? Shall we visit them or they us? But to which of the longhouses shall we go? The one in the middle of the orchard, where men plough? Or the other on the edge of it? But…should we visit when they are burying their dead?”
“Why visit them if they will steal our women?” Maharai asked, not at all pleased with where the day was heading.
No one listened to her. Whenever the Iden Clan encountered other longhouses—even solitary tent-dwellers or the night-tossed—hospitality abounded. They joyfully took in all they met and their clan had almost doubled in size since the day, sixteen years ago, when internal war broke out inside their longhouse. The brightness of this particular day, however, outshone all others, because today they had happened upon a Wheel Clan longhouse.
True to the old man’s words, by the time the sun reached high, a procession of pale-skinned men approached. Their leader was tall and dressed in a tan tunic. He wore a brown leather half-cloak like the other warriors, but unlike the others, he also wore a flowing brown woolen mantle with a pattern that reminded her of the Macaw clan markings on the Iden longhouse. He had straight, dark red hair cut short, and a graying beard, much redder and brighter than the hair on his head. He walked simply, as any other man would, without pomp and arrogance and he winked and smiled shyly at her as her father used to do.
Three boys stood beside the king. One, a honey-skinned boy dressed in black, had abundant loosely-curled black hair that tumbled over his forehead as if swept by a windstorm. He limped as he walked. Strange that he carries a staff strapped to his back instead of walking with it, Maharai thought. Another child, white as a summer cloud, walked with the lame boy. This child had a girlish face and also wore black. The child must be a boy; it is wearing boy’s clothing. He wore something perched on his nose that covered his eyes, a piece of wood in which glass crystals were affixed. The third boy did not wear black like the other two. He walked like one who owned all the corralled fields. He had gold-red hair and slanted eyes that seemed to wish to own her as well.
Indeed, the eyes of the Wheel Clan men roamed the bodies of all the women. Gidea and Tolika seemed especially prized. However, the Wheel Clan chief kept his gaze on Ktwala, who shyly looked at him in return. The older girls and women had followed Jion’s advice and wore hemp dresses.
“We little ones should have ‘covered up’ as well,” Maharai whispered to her mother, holding her hands before her breasts which were decorated with beads and shells. She tugged at her mother’s dress. “And even though you are ‘covered up’ that chief is still looking at you.”
Her mother pinched her arm, told her to be quiet, and kept grinning like a young girl at the Wheel Clan Chief.
After the Iden hospitality dance, the lame honey-skinned boy removed the long staff from his back. With it, he drew a spoked wheel on the ground, then spoke to Jion in a strange Peacock Clan dialect. Studier to studier they spoke and both the lame boy and the pale ghost kept their gaze focused on Old Jion’s lips. Then, after long conversing, the honey-skinned boy bowed low and turned to Chief Iden.
“I am Psal, Chief Studier and Firstborn son of King Nahas;” he said, surprising Maharai by speaking the Iden language as if born to it. “And this: Netophah, his son, Heir of all Wheel Clan lands. And this: Ephan, Studier and Adopted Son of King Nahas. And this: Nahas, Chief of the Nahas longhouse, King of all the Peoples of the Wheel.”
The red-haired chief who had been smiling at Ktwala stepped forward. “I am honored that the night brought you to our fields, Great Chief Iden.” He did not pronounce the words as well as the honey-skinned studier. “And you too, Ktwala, Chief’s Daughter.”
“If you speak our language,” Maharai asked Nahas, “why didn’t you just speak to begin with?”
Her mother pulled her aside, pinched her surreptitiously, and said, “Enough, little troublemaker.”
Maharai felt like kicking Ktwala. “Do you want to be stolen, Mother?” she whispered.
Ktwala walked back to the Wheel Clan, bowed. “Great King,” she said, “we’re happy when others speak our tongue, even if they speak it badly.”
“Only our studiers fully understand your language,” the king said. “The wrong word, the wrong gesture, can cause true meaning to be missed.”
“I would not have the King of the Wheel Clan misunderstand my heart’s meaning.”
Annoyed with her mother, Maharai approached the pale one. “Are you a boy or a girl? Or are you this clan’s guardian spirit? Why are you so white?”
“You ask too many questions,” the honey-skinned boy shouted at her. “It’s rude.”
She retorted, “And why do you smell like that? Like old men. Like herbs and pharma. Are you sick?”
A blush covered the face of the honey-skinned studier; the large loose curls cascading over his forehead could not hide the shamed eyes.
I have hurt his heart, Maharai thought. I should not have. Not knowing how to retract her question, she turned to Nahas: “Where are your women? Why aren’t they here? Old Jion says a Wheel Clan chief can have many wives. Is that why you’re here? To steal our women. We won’t let you, you know! These sons of yours? Why don’t they look like you, or like each other?”
“My children are peace children, Girlie,” the king said. “Born from marriage alliances. Different tribes, different mothers, different alliances.”
Her mother pushed her aside. “Great King, be assured, we will touch nothing in your orchards or fenced fields.”
“All
