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  Moreover, those fems who had come out of the Holdfast most recently – years ago now – had brought news of dreadful carnage there as men struggled with each other over ruinously small food supplies. In the years since, no more fems had escaped.

  Yet Elnoa’s followers chewed tea and discussed their return as if they would find life there much as they had left it.

  To Daya it was all a game, but she did not disdain the plan. On the contrary, she admired Elnoa for knowing a useful illusion when she saw one. Elnoa was far too ungainly and soft to make that crossing ever again. She never talked about her own part in the later stages of the plan, and no one ever asked. Daya did not believe for a moment that Elnoa would give them her substance and wave them goodbye, remaining tamely behind to explain their disappearance to the Mares.

  But what a fine player the great fem was! She read in signs now from one of her leather books of records, leading off the reports of progress on the plan. She listed how many baskets of dried milk and meat she had added to the permanent stocks from trade with the Mares since her last accounting; how many metal knives and spear points, how many light cotton smocks and leather tunics, how many pairs of thick-soled sandals.

  Everyone had a place in the plan. Froya, long-faced and supercilious-looking with her drooping, bruise-colored eyelids, recounted the exploits of her troop of scouts. ‘We walked farther into, the southern section of the desert than ever before,’ she boasted.

  There was a report on a new design of water bottles for the homeward journey. Old Ossa spoke quaveringly of her efforts, aided by others whose eyes were better, to make colored maps of the Holdfast so that each returning free fem would have a good idea of the territory in which she was to rouse the slaves.

  ‘What about fighting practice?’ said Kobba.

  She got an account of their sessions practicing with spears and hatchets. Daya hid a yawn.

  ‘And running?’

  We have a new teacher of running, Elnoa signed. One who came to us just after your wagon left, having at last escaped the Mares who were keeping her among them. Where is Alldera the runner?

  ‘Alldera the crazy,’ muttered old Ossa, and she spat tea juice into her cup which she held up close to her seamed face. ‘She’s out running in the rain again.’

  ‘Or doing witchery,’ someone else said. ‘Who knows what secret magic she learned while she was with the Mares?’

  Another: ‘She still won’t wear sandals as we do. We keep telling her only slaves go barefoot.’

  Elnoa signed firmly, Alldera has a skill – her running. That makes her more useful to the plan barefoot than some others who go shod.

  So the ‘prisoner fern’ had gotten free at last. Daya wondered how she had managed to make enemies here so swiftly.

  ‘If Alldera wanted to be useful,’ Ossa growled, ‘she could have brought her cub here to us.’

  ‘A fem cub,’ someone else sneered. ‘What use would that be?’

  ‘As much as a male,’ retorted another. ‘By the time a boy cub got old enough to fuck, how many here would still be young enough to bear? We’re none of us kits, you know.’

  A free fem with a cub! Daya, astonished, leaned to hear more, but Elnoa moved her hands and Kobba translated, ‘The cub is not in the plan; the runner is.’

  The matter was closed. They began to talk about ‘the clowns’, fems who were to concoct a diversionary ruse to draw off Marish patrols at the outset of the expedition. Kobba pulled back the blankets from a section of the floor so that, using soot from a firebowl, she could sketch maps of the foothill trails.

  Daya did not pay attention. She was intrigued by the bizarre complications that had come with the runner Alldera, and a little put out by the feeling of having missed the camp’s newest sensation.

  Meanwhile, here was Elnoa – bored to death with the others’ plan talk – making furtive signs to her, commenting sarcastically on each speaker, berating Daya for having abandoned her to go tramping the plains. She forgot very easily that this had been at her own order. Finally, during a pause while Kobba rubbed out some error on her map, Elnoa signed broadly to Daya, You have not satisfied our curiosity about life cooking for Kobba’s wagon crew. Surely you had time at least to make up some new stories.

  Well, it was about time. Daya said modestly, ‘I speak only what I know of what I hear. I did hear some strange tales out there. There was one in particular – no, you’ll call me a liar.’

  They flattered her and cajoled her. She loved the coaxing, which was, after all, her due.

  To warm them up she told a quick story of Little Fist, a free fem whom she had invented years ago, now the subject of a hundred anecdotes. Shrunken to tiny size by a bolt of plains lightning, Little Fist had wild adventures wandering the Grasslands in her tiny cloak, sneaking into the Mares’ camps, encountering ghosts and demons from the past in the Ancients’ ruins.

  Today Daya told how Little Fist was hunted remorselessly by a vicious sharu fifty times her size, and how she had pinned its tail to its nose with a cactus spine so that it ran in circles till it died. Then Little Fist did a victory dance on her tiny cloak –

  ‘Enough tiny-headed nonsense. Tell a tale about the Holdfast,’ Emla drawled. ‘Something we haven’t already heard, if possible.’

  Her bitchiness did not matter. A story lay ready for them in Daya’s mind, clearly and wholly visible now like a white stone at the bottom of a bowl of water. With a nod at Emla she began.

  ‘The free fems return across the mountains, and they stop on the edge of the Holdfast and see that something strange has happened there: earth and sky are bound in great stillness. The clouds hang in the sky without changing shape, and far away they can see that the sea itself lies still, neither advancing nor retreating along the shore.

  ‘Elnoa signs for a brave volunteer to go down into the lower hills and find out what has happened. One fem goes, spear on her shoulder, hatchet in her hand.

  ‘For a long time she meets no one. Her legs seem to carry her no further toward the sea. The river beside the road she follows does not move between its banks.

  ‘Suddenly she sees a figure ahead of her on the road. Drawing near with great effort, she comes upon an old fem in a ragged smock trying to lift a huge wheel of white stone that has fallen on its side, blocking the way. The old fem straightens, wipes her wrinkled face with the hem of her smock, and says to the free fem, “Come help me raise this stone, for I must roll it down to the sea.”

  ‘The free fem looks at the old fem, all scarred and dirty with the sweat and dust of labor, and she says, “Tell me what has happened here, why the Holdfast is so empty and still.”

  “‘Help me,” the old fem says.

  ‘The free fem gets angry, she thumps the butt of her spear on the ground and cries, “I have come home to conquer, not to work!”

  ‘At this, the old fem shrinks away to nothing and vanishes, and the free fem thinks, very well, I have vanquished some evil phantom that would have bewitched me.

  ‘But she finds that the white wheel has grown so huge that she cannot climb up over it or even walk around it, and she is forced to return to where the others wait. So Elnoa signs for another volunteer, and another free fem goes, spear balanced on her shoulder, hatchet in her hand.

  ‘She walks beside the still river and under the still sky, and she seems to make little headway. Then she sees the old fem before her, bent and straining to lift the wheel of white stone. The old fem calls to her, “Come and help me raise this stone on its edge so that I can roll it down to the sea.”

  ‘The second free fem says, “First you tell me what’s happened here, why the Holdfast lies so still and empty.”

  ‘“Help me!” the old fem commands her.

  ‘“I won’t!” the second free fem cries, raising her hatchet to the old fem. “I haven’t come home to follow anyone’s orders, I’ve come to give orders – so get out of my way!”

  ‘At this the old fem shrinks away to nothing and disappear
s, but the second free fem finds that the white wheel has swollen so big that she can’t climb over it or walk around it to continue on her way; so she has to come back too.

  ‘The third volunteer is a fern named Semda, who walks and walks till she comes upon the old fem and her stone wheel, and the old fem looks up at her and calls, “Come and help me raise this stone on its edge so I can roll it down to the sea.”

  ‘Semda looks at her and thinks, if I had not had the luck and the strength to run away from the Holdfast, I would have withered early like this old fern. And she says, “I’ll do what I can.” To her amazement, she no sooner sets her hand to the stone than up it springs to stand on its edge in the middle of the road.

  ‘“Now, help me roll it down to the sea,” says the old fern.

  ‘That’s a long way, Semda thinks. But she looks at the old fem and thinks also, I was not here to be beaten, but how many blows has she taken? So she says, “I’ll try.”

  ‘She finds that the wheel rolls true with the two of them pushing it, and as they walk the old fem says, “Waiting is more tiring than working,” and Semda says to the old fern, “Why are you doing this job alone, an old weak fem like yourself?”

  ‘“Because it is my job and always has been my job and always will be my job,” answers the old fern.

  “‘Under the orders of what master?” says Semda.

  ‘“Under no orders, I mark out the time,” says the old fern, and Semda realizes that this is Moonwoman herself. In fear and shock she jumps back from the white stone wheel, which immediately tumbles into the river. The old fem falls in with it. But when Semda runs to look she sees the stone wheel floating on top of the water; and the old fern, standing on the floating stone, shouts to her, “Jump on!”

  ‘The water is flowing very fast, and Semda is frightened, but she jumps and the old fem catches her. They go whirling down the river so fast that Semda can hardly breathe, but the old fem is laughing and shouts to her, “I thought the right one would never come. When we reach the coast, jump off again. You will find a ferry boat beached there. Go strike its side with your hatchet, and you’ll have your reward.”

  ‘Semda soon smells the sea, and she leaps onto the shore at the river’s mouth. There is nothing to be seen on the coast but saltgrass and sand and, canted on its side, the great bleached hulk of one of the coastal ferry boats.

  ‘The old fem is still riding the stone wheel, which is shooting out to sea. “Use your hatchet!” she calls.

  ‘Semda walks up to the silent wreck and taps on the wooden wall. Nothing happens. She takes a strong swing and chops right through. A whole section of the hull breaks away, and out of the opening fems come walking, rubbing their eyes, yawning and looking around in astonishment. Moonwoman had hidden them there while she killed the masters.

  ‘Among these fems Semda sees a lover whom she thought dead and others whom she knows were once lovers of her free companions – lovers long ago given up for dead. She embraces her own lover, and their hands are very soft on one another, and the ocean begins to roar to the beach and the bright moon rises, round and white as a polished stone, to float in the sky.’

  They gave Daya a tribute of spellbound silence, and then Elnoa leaned forward and threw sweet-smelling powder on the fire. They all drew together into a tighter group, leaning toward the smoke. The hemp plant, called ‘manna’ on the other side of the mountains, grew here too, though in less abundance. Daya did not care for manna, which produced in her a languorous slowing of the senses. When she took manna she could not concentrate to tell stories.

  A new person entered the wagon. She sprinkled people with water as she tossed back her rain-wet hair from her face. She was a stranger to Daya and not pretty. Her eyes were small and the bridge of her nose was flattened so that the nostrils seemed by contrast to flare like the nostrils of a horse. She looked to Daya like the kind of fem who liked to fight. Such spirit could be attractive to Daya.

  The newcomer glanced at Daya and did not bother to hide her contempt. Daya faced that contempt all the time, a prejudice against those who had been the favorites of their masters, coddled for their manners and their looks.

  The newcomer sniffed the air of the wagon and withdrew into the rain without a word.

  Daya guessed, ‘Was that her? Alldera the runner?’

  Kobba was already leaning over the fire, breathing in the drug fumes, and did not reply. But old Ossa, who clearly disliked the runner, circled Daya’s arm with her bony hand and hissed, ‘That’s her. She’s just as stand-offish as when she came, would you believe it? That was at the beginning of last Cool Season, a little after the wagons had left. Roona’s wagon had no sooner gone than it was back again. This fem had come to them while they were trading at Red Sand Camp, and Roona thought they had better bring her back fast so she could tell us things about the Mares she’d lived with.’

  Ossa hooted. ‘A lot of good that was! Alldera hardly talks about the Mares. She’s scared we’ll see how sorry she is that she left them. The only thing she told us was that she’d borne a cub and left it with the Mares – can you imagine? There was a to-do over that, I can tell you.

  ‘She never even brought her horses to the wagon with her, the ones she’d ridden from Stone Dancing to Red Sand. Said they weren’t hers, left them in Red Sand. She never stopped to think Roona’s crew might like a feast of fresh horsemeat for a change instead of dried sharu.’

  ‘She won’t get herself liked that way,’ Daya said guardedly.

  ‘She doesn’t like any of us. She’s young all over, never a thought for anybody but herself. Staying so long with the Mares made her too good for us. We don’t measure up.’

  ‘Who says so?’ Kobba snarled. She took a breath of smoke. ‘Arrogant cunt!’

  A few of the fems cheered her sleepily. Most were dozing among the deep colored cushions, their faces gilded by the light from the fire bowls. Daya had to shake her head to dislodge the shimmering waves of color and distortion that the manna poured into her. Kobba’s words seemed to be rocking the wagon.

  ‘The Mares are strong, but we’re stronger. They live on their horses; they travel only where this barren country gives them food for their beasts. We live on foot, go where we like, make the Grasslands support us. We each came over the borderlands. You have to be tough to do that, and they know it. They’re scared of us. They know if we ever gave them a fight for their water and grass and herds, they’d lose it all. But we don’t want what they have.’

  Then Kobba rocked to her knees and pushed among the pillows so that she could stretch out behind Elnoa and enclose her bulk in her arms. Elnoa shifted to lie against Kobba. Her face half hidden in the fall of Kobba’s heavy hair, she gargled in tongueless sounds.

  Kobba mumbled above her drooping head, ‘She wants Daya too.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Daya murmured. She moved Emla’s slack body inside so that she could curl up and pillow her own head on one of Elnoa’s enormous thighs.

  When the rains stopped and the Cool Season began, the trade wagons were ready to resume their journeys out onto the plains. This time it was Emla’s turn to travel, and Daya saw to it that everyone knew Emla was leaving with one of the crews by order of Elnoa.

  Daya hung about all day when the last wagon was being packed for its journey. The crew stacked it full of chests of wooden tools, ornaments, and great odorous piles of tea brick. There were boxes of small goods, too, utilitarian items like buckles and fine glazed beads. Holdfastish products, Daya thought approvingly, for the wild, ignorant Mares.

  It was the wagoneers’ custom to travel all the way west to the Great Salty River during the cool weather while there was water to drink in the slowly drying rain pools along the way. Then they would trade tea for salt from the Mares of Salt Wind Camp. Turning, they would work slowly back eastward trading tea, salt and other goods in the camps on the way back for meat, milk, leather and metal. As the Dusty Season advanced the camps of the Mares homed to their wells and so were easily found.<
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  ‘Daya, you can still come with us if you want to.’ Kobba looked up from her tally during a pause while the crew was busy picking up and recoiling some rope that had dropped out of a wicker chest. ‘Your cooking kept my crew happy on our last trip.’

  ‘Come along, Daya!’ shouted Kenoma. ‘I’ll keep you warm. It’ll be like old times.’

  Times, a year or so back, best forgotten, Daya thought. Yet she would go if she could. With longing she pictured the huge, high-clouded sky of the Cool Season, the broad golden land patched with shade and bright sunlight. Kobba was a good boss, scrupulous about rations and work loads. She did not permit much fighting. There were others along besides Kenoma to choose for protector and bedmate. Tempting—only Daya was not really in a position to go. She was not about to give up this time in camp with Elnoa that she had intrigued all Rainy Season to obtain.

  Watching Emla helping to buckle the hauling harness to the wagon, she began to feel quite cheerful. The masseur’s fortunes at Elnoa’s side had sunk while Daya’s, carefully tended, had risen. Emla’s turn would come again if Daya meddled too much in camp affairs and Elnoa sent her travelling again. Daya intended to hold her place this time.

  While the crew drew the oiled cover over the wagon frame, Kobba had her final consultation with Elnoa. Daya made herself busy on the porch of Elnoa’s wagon to watch and listen. Kobba wanted Alldera to be added to her crew. She said it would do the runner good to take orders with others instead of leading them out running as she had been doing. ‘She must sweat with the rest of us.’

  She is out running now, Elnoa signed. Your crew will do better without her discontent. I will keep her busy here.

  Daya had heard Alldera say that the tea camp sometimes seemed just like a big femhold with Elnoa as master. Did Elnoa know that? If not, there might be a profit, sometime, to be made out of the runner’s imprudent statement.