what would have been the point of that? And if others had come into our winter grounds, then surely I’d have found signs of them in my wanderings.
Young men must die.
But not my son! Every mother thinks that: ‘not my son!’ Some mothers have sons to spare. My sister Sorné has five sons, and never lost one. I had only one, and he’d gone.
If young men didn’t die there’d be too many. If some didn’t die People would grow dangerous, subject to the violent spirit of youth. Young men must die, just as young Animals must die when we hunt them. If there weren’t so much death we’d all perish, and not be able to come back. I’d always known that young men must die. But not my son!
In Dark Moon, after Bakar was lost, the world grew strange around me. I began to see things that had been hidden – small movements out of the corner of my eye, shadows of other presences. Sometimes I stretched my hand out into the dark, full of longing – for what I didn’t know – but whatever it was slipped from under my touch. In every breath I took I heard an echo. The more I strained to hear, the faster it faded away. The chat and clatter of my family grated on me. I couldn’t listen – I couldn’t watch – I couldn’t answer the call I heard so clearly in my dreams. I had to get away from other People. Something new was happening to me. But I never thought – I was only an old woman – the wife of my husband – the mother of my children – what was I, after all? I never – not yet – not then – I never thought, ‘Go-Between’.
Alaia said:
When Bakar didn’t come back, my mother kept going away, often for several nights. She never brought back food or firewood. She grew haggard, and would hardly speak to us. We all mourned Bakar. But my mother made it difficult for us. I felt guilty because I ate and slept. She made me feel I oughtn’t to gather food, or scrape hides, or prepare the winter house, or even talk to my father or husband or sister, because Bakar wasn’t there. She made me feel as if I oughtn’t to be alive.
I felt as if I didn’t have a mother any more. I was afraid of dying. I was pleased – of course I was pleased – that I was carrying Amets’ baby. The first Year we were together I didn’t get pregnant. I was glad when at last I did, but as the winter drew on, and my belly grew bigger, I began to dream about dying. I knew that if I’d been the one to die, not Bakar, I’d have been like a stone that sinks with scarcely a ripple. Every young mother dreams about death, and sometimes it turns out to be true. I wanted my mother to care about me. I’ve known some women whose mothers never left them alone when they were pregnant, always giving advice and bringing in special foods. You remember when Itsaso left her family and went away with her man’s People after the Gathering because she couldn’t stand her mother fussing over her? Haizea and I never had a problem like that. But when I was waiting for Esti, and my mother was mourning Bakar, I was angry that she didn’t seem to care at all about me, or my baby. I even thought that if I died giving birth she’d be sorry she’d neglected me.
But I didn’t die, and after Esti was born everything else began to happen. Once I had Esti I didn’t feel sorry for myself any more. Now, when I think about my feelings that winter, I feel ashamed.
One day in Dark Moon we’d been sitting in the house all morning, close to the fire, while gusts of rain flung themselves against our turf walls. We were passing round a hunk of dried boar meat, slicing off bits with our knives and chewing them slowly. Sometimes, when the meat came round to him, Amets would slice off a particularly meaty bit and toss it over to me. There are some good things about being pregnant! We had plenty of food, so there was no need to go out before the weather cleared. It was about midday when my mother stood up abruptly, took down her foxfur cloak and pulled it tight round her shoulders. Then she lifted the skins that hung down over the doorway and stepped outside.
‘Where’s she going now?’
I shrugged. I could no more answer Amets’ question than he could. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘it’ll be dark soon. Shouldn’t you stop her?’
‘Stop her?’ He was outraged. ‘Alaia, you’re speaking of your mother! Have you no respect?’
‘But you could!’
‘I? Why would I interfere? For what reason?’
‘The weather … If she stays out she could die!’
‘True,’ said my father. He stared into the fire, still absentmindedly rolling twine against his thigh. A log fell sideways, and small flames began to crackle. My father sighed. He hadn’t mentioned his son’s name since Bakar left us. Perhaps he’d been certain from the beginning that my brother’s name had already left this world. And yet my father wasn’t known among our People for understanding hidden things. He liked everything to be clear and plain. But I knew him, and I privately thought he noticed more than my mother did. My father had never gone to look for his son. He’d never referred to Bakar’s absence. Bakar was a grown man. Soon he’d have married and left our family anyway. He was free to go where he wished and also, if that’s where his path led, free to die without asking permission.
It worried me that my father would let my mother go just as easily. But when my father withdrew from the talk and stared into the fire like that, there was nothing more I could say. I met Haizea’s eyes and saw fear in them. She was only a child. I put my arm round her. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going away and nor is Amets. And you know our father will never leave us.’
Haizea whispered, ‘He might not be able to help it, one day.’
It was true that our father was getting old. He was older than our mother. I knew what Haizea was thinking. Even as I put my arm round my little sister I felt the baby kicking inside me. My baby was reminding me that I couldn’t make promises either because I mightn’t be able to keep them. There’s always danger, and mine was growing very close.
Suddenly I jumped to my feet. I shouted at my father: ‘My mother has no right to do this! Just because Bakar’s gone’ – I was so angry I would name him as if he were a living man – ‘she’s no right to inflict her misery on us! We’re all sorry! We all miss him! You must be angry with her, Father! You should be! Oh yes, you should be! She makes it seem like you don’t care. That you’ve not lost your son. Oh no, you’re not to have lost your son, and I haven’t lost my brother, and Haizea hasn’t lost hers! None of the rest of us is supposed to feel anything! She makes it seem like we don’t care, just because we go on living. She ought to care about us! Supposing I die – because I might – I might easily – where’s my mother going to be when I need her? And Haizea needs her? She won’t care about us! Or about you either! If she came back and you were dead, and I was dead, she wouldn’t care! She—’
My father dropped his twine. He stood up and struck me hard across the face.
I fell back on the piled-up furs, my hand to my cheek.
Amets looked at my father, and at me. He stood up, and reached for his cloak. ‘I’m going to check the traps,’ he muttered, and turned to the door.
‘Let me come with you!’
We all froze. Amets looked at my father. Surely he’d interfere in this! Haizea realised what she’d done almost before the words were out. She clasped her hands over her mouth in horror. Then she flung herself on the bed, sobbing as if her heart would break. Neither of the men moved. It was I that knelt beside her and put my arm round her. ‘Sweetheart, it’s all right. No one will punish you. If mother had been here it would
