fountains. Dancing young girls in ribbons marched gaily beside their mothers who walked regally behind, their clothing proclaiming the number of children they had borne. Mist was dressed in the green science caste colors, shells and flowers. And Shadow-of-Light-Turning had crowned Mist’s plaited hair with a floral wreath and adorned those arms that had once held a child and given a new immortal soul to the Creator with gems and semi-precious stones. Her mother-in-law’s kindness to her was a new thing. And she felt young again. New birth and change were everywhere.
The parade route followed the river valley, meandering through the hilly cliffs. Visiting Earthers stood atop the ridges or near the ridges with their VID-machines in their hands, giggling and recording the festival as if the people on Mist’s planet were some strange backward civilization. She tried to ignore them.
She reached towards Flowers-in-the-Sun. “The procession of the older mothers is about to start. In ten years you’ll be married with your own children and I won’t be able to come to the Mother-Infant festival anymore. You’ll be all grown up.”
Flowers-in-the-Sun looked at the festival-goers and at the Earthers with their VID-recorders. Her eyes pensively stared out at the passing villagers.
“Mother Mine,” she began, then paused.
“What is it, Daughter Mine?” Mist asked, staring at the tattoo on her daughter’s neck. “The implants have healed, have they not? You aren’t in pain, are you?”
“It’s very loud,” Flowers-in-the-Sun signed. “Everywhere. It hurts my ears. We are a very loud people.”
“By whose standard?” Mist asked, annoyed. “I hear the Earthers are fixing our air, making the world less noisy for you implanted ones. I doubt, though, that the air density can be changed.” She extended her hand towards her daughter. “Coming?”
Flowers-in-the-Sun did not take her mother’s hand. She glanced at her cousin, then turned to her mother. “Perhaps,” she signed, “we should not hold hands.”
“We must hold hands,” Mist answered. “It’s part of the festival. The Mothers and Daughters walk the procession together until we reach the town square. Then we do the responsive dance.”
Flowers-in-the-Sun shrugged. “Mother, look around. The Earthers are watching us. And the girls my age aren’t holding their mothers' hands.”
Mist lifted up her eyes and studied the crowd around her. It was true—very true and very strange– the mothers of older children were definitely not holding their children. They weren’t even walking with them. In fact, the mothers all seemed lost, forgotten, childless as they stood on the edge of the road, their backs against the high walls of the cliff. Their lost eyes watched dejectedly as their children chattered on in animated mouth-talk with other children.
In her new green dress and green marriage scarf, Mist stood in the middle of the road glaring at Flowers-in-the-Sun. “Am I to be like those women?” she asked. “Standing on the sidelines like a childless woman, while your life passes me by?”
She grabbed Flowers-in-the-Sun’s hand and the child stared up guiltily into her mother’s eyes and began walking by her mother’s side. But as her mother marched ahead, she looked behind at her cousin, smiled, and whispered something her mother could not hear.
DAWN OF FLAME
THE WORLD
Hull Tarvish looked backward but once, and that only as he reached the elbow of the road. The sprawling little stone cottage that had been home was visible as he had seen it a thousand times, framed under the cedars. His mother still watched him, and two of his younger brothers stood staring down the Mountainside at him. He raised his hand in farewell, then dropped it as he realized that none of them saw him now; his mother had turned indifferently to the door, and the two youngsters had spied a rabbit. He faced about and strode away, down the slope out of Ozarky.
He passed the place where the great steel road of the Ancients had been, now only two rusty streaks and a row of decayed logs. Beside it was the mossy heap of stones that had been an ancient structure in the days before the Dark Centuries, when Ozarky had been a part of the old state of M’souri. The mountain people still sought out the place for squared stones to use in building, but the tough metal of the steel road itself was too stubborn for their use, and the rails had rusted quietly these three hundred years.
That much Hull Tarvish knew, for they were things still spoken of at night around the fireplace. They had been mighty sorcerers, those Ancients; their steel roads went everywhere, and everywhere were the ruins of their towns, built, it was said, by a magic that lifted weights. Down in the valley, he knew, men were still seeking that magic; once a rider had stayed by night at the Tarvish home, a little man who said that in the far south the secret had been found, but nobody ever heard any more of it.
So Hull whistled to himself, shifted the rag bag on his shoulder, set his bow more comfortably on his mighty back, and trudged on. That was why he himself was seeking the valley; he wanted to see what the world was like. He had been always a restless sort, not at all like the other six Tarvish sons, nor like the three Tarvish daughters. They were true mountainies, the sons great hunters, and the daughters stolid and industrious. Not Hull, however; he was neither lazy like his brothers nor stolid like his sisters, but restless, curious, dreamy. So he whistled his way into the world, and was happy.
At evening he stopped at the Hobel cottage on the edge of the mountains. Away before him stretched the plain, and in the darkening distance was visible the church spire of Norse. That was a village; Hull had never seen a village, or no more of it than this same distant steeple, shaped like a straight white pine. But he had heard all about Norse, because the mountainies occasionally went down there to buy powder and ball for their rifles, those of them who had rifles.
Hull had only a bow. He didn’t see the use of guns; powder and ball cost money, but an arrow did the same work for nothing, and that without scaring all the game a mile away.
Morning he bade goodbye to the Hobels, who thought him, as they always had, a little crazy, and set off. His powerful, brown bare legs flashed under his ragged trousers, his bare feet made a pleasant soosh in the dust of the road, the June sun beat warm on his right cheek. He was happy; there never was a pleasanter world than this, so he grinned and whistled, and spat carefully into the dust, remembering that it was bad luck to spit toward the sun. He was bound for adventure.
Adventure came. Hull had come down to the plain now, where the trees were taller than the scrub of the hill country, and where the occasional farms were broader, well tilled, more prosperous. The trail had become a wagon road, and here it cut and angled between two lines of forest. And unexpectedly a man—no, two men—rose from a log at the roadside and approached Hull. He watched them; one was tall and light-haired as himself, but without his mighty frame, and the other was a head shorter, and dark. Valley people, surely, for the dark one had a stubby pistol at his belt, wooden-stocked like those of the Ancients, and the tall man’s bow was of glittering spring steel.
“Ho, mountainy!” said the dark one. “Where going?”
“Norse,” answered Hull shortly,
“What’s in the bag?”
“My tongue,” snapped the youth.
“Easy,
