Onda Baia flinched and turned away, but that brought her in sight of the window, and one of the ‘Nanin outside. Moaning softly, Baia sank onto the settle, staring at the floor.
Mariarta went back up the hall. A tschalarera’s greatgranddaughter.... So that was the source of the wind’s strangeness in her life. There was argument about what exactly windbrides were—some kind of demon, the priest said: a diala, others claimed, more mischievous than dangerous. Windbrides rode the storm, blew thatch or tiles off roofs, scattered hay in the fields. She had heard stories before about men who caught and married tschalareras. They made good wives and mothers, but you had to be careful to keep the keyhole stopped (if that was how you had caught one). Otherwise they would escape at the first opportunity.
Still— She thought of the young woman with the bow. Where did she fit into this?....
Mariarta knocked on her father’s door, stepped in with the wine and the cups. Her bab looked pleased; apparently he and the ‘Nanin had driven a bargain he liked.
“Engrazia,” her father said, and the jestér said “Grazie”. Mariarta curtseyed and left. As she shut the door, her father said, “Now perhaps you might consider selling us a pair of your sheep, to better our stock—”
“Ah, you grey-wool people, you’d like that,” the ‘Nanin said, chuckling. “Only if you can better the price we’d get in Ursera, signur mistral—”
Mariarta went to the kitchen to start dinner. Onda Baia was nowhere to be seen. Probably she’s gossiping with Telgia, Mariarta thought. Good riddance....
The street was clear, but nearly everybody in town had gathered where the rough fencing of the lower pasture met the road. Looking at the sheep, Mariarta thought scornfully. Whether a stranger to Tschamut was human or an animal, people would stare. But at the same time, she thought of the way those fleeces had blazed in the sun.... So shortly she ambled down to where everybody else in town stood leaning on the fence, slipping in between old Paol and little Flurin to look down the pasture.
The sheep burned white against the green grass. The herd ram lifted a noble head with a great double curl of horns and chewed with dignity, gazing back at the villagers. Several lambs frisked about in the grass, or wandered after their placid mothers. The ‘Nanin herds sat on boulders near the river, dipping their linen shirts in the river and putting them on again to cool themselves. One of the herds was playing some meandering southern song on a pipe.
The village people muttered about the visitors. Most of the talk was about the whiteness of those sheep, and what price the villagers would ask if they had such to sell. Though who could afford such beasts except wealthy people? Like the dwarves. Talk turned to those hidden mines only the Venetians knew, guarded by terrible creatures tame only to the ‘Nanin. There was no good to be got from dealing with dwarves, everyone agreed.
All the same, no one stopped staring at the sheep.
Mariarta was about leave when she saw Urs leaning there, at the end of the fence, looking unhappy. She knew that look: the other herds had been at him again. Mariarta turned away. Urs saw her, the pained look turning to a scowl, bitter. He turned his attention back to the sheep.
Shortly the murmur of conversation began again. Mariarta stole a sidewise glance. Urs was still gazing at the flock. A lamb, white as a cloud, came gamboling out toward them. Mariarta watched Urs watch the lamb, saw the shadow of a smile steal across his face: the first such expression in days. She should have been glad. But someone beside Urs poked him; laughter rang out. Urs smiled more broadly, glanced over to see if Mariarta was looking. His smile went broader, more cruel. He turned, calling to the lamb. “Ai, Agnete—”
The other herds, at the other end of the fence, snickered.
“One lamb’s just like another, after all,” Urs said. “If I can’t have one, I’ll have another. One that does what I say.” A soft chorus of “baa”ing broke out. Other voices, not just Urs’s, called, “Hoi, lambkins, agnete—”
Mariarta went off home to see about the soup.
Onda Baia was back, since suppertime was close. Mariarta put the iron trivet on the table, eased the soup-pot off its crane, and set the pot down. Her father came in, smiling, jingling the contents of one pocket.
“Did you get a good price, bab?” she said.
He nodded, sat, reached for the bowl she handed him. “Two silver danér.”
“So much!” She handed her aunt a bowl.
“It’s a good price, but they want to make sure their sheep look right for the morning market.”
“I don’t think they need much work,” Mariarta said. “They look like they’re just out of the bath as it is.”
Her father dipped his horn spoon into the soup. “It would be nice to have a pair of them. They have plenty of ewes, and a ram lambling.”
“I saw it,” Mariarta said. It was the one Urs had been watching.
“They won’t sell, though,” her father said. “I couldn’t match what they’ll get in town. Not that we have the money to spare.”
Mariarta filled her own bowl, sighed and sat down.
“You look tired, buobetta.”
Mariarta glanced at him. “Your mother will be back soon,” her bab said.
She had to smile at him. He knew why she was worn out...but he wouldn’t rub her nose in it. “Yes, bab,” she said, “she will.”
Onda Baia scraped her bowl noisily clean, then got up and hurried out, heading for the privy as she always did after the first serving. Mariarta listened for the sound of the back door shutting, and said to her father, “But one thing quickly, bab. Does mumli know I’m the subbiada of a windbride?”
Mariarta’s father stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth: then put it down. “Baia told you that, did she.”
“Is it true?”
He finished his spoonful of soup. “She vanished suddenly, your basatta. It happened between night and morning.” Her bab put his spoon down and broke a piece of bread, dunked it in the soup. “Your basat, though, had just taken the plug out of the keyhole—the one he’d put in the day he found her in his house. No one saw her come. She was just there, one morning, this beautiful woman...so my father told me his father had said.” Mariarta’s bab shook his head, picked up the spoon again. “He knew the old stories, and treated her arrival the way they said he should. She stayed three years. Then—he thought he was acting foolishly, he took the plug out....”
“But the wind,” Mariarta said, and stopped. She felt someone watching her.
“We have problems with it,” her father said, ruefully. “As you’ve seen.”
“Yes, bab,” Mariarta said, as Onda Baia came back in, sat herself heavily on the bench, helping herself to more soup. Mariarta noticed her father watching her. She smiled at him to let him know she was all right. He finished his soup methodically, got up, and went out.
Onda Baia noisily finished her soup and went to her closet upstairs. Mariarta waited for the creaking of the ceiling to tell her that her aunt was in bed. Then she took a long while about the cleaning, until dusk turned to dark. This was usually her mother’s job, putting the kitchen to sleep—smooring the hearthfire, starting the wheat porridge for tomorrow morning. Her father went to bed too, the upstairs floor creaking under him. With the kitchen fire down, only the one tallow-dip burned in its sconce near the table. Shadows dwelt deep in every corner, the pots gleamed only dimly. With the starlight and moonlight outside, it was brighter without than within.
Mariarta finished the chores, moved to the tallow-dip to put it out—then changed her mind, and went out into the street.
She let her eyes get used to the flood of silver light from the stars and the moon at first quarter. No breeze blew; the air was still warm from the day. The river sang softly in its banks. And another sound: voices—
Mariarta went down the street, stopped and listened. The voices were too soft to make out words, but there were two of them, one low and amused, the other higher, insistent. Mariarta walked toward them.
/> She came to the fencing of the pasture by the river. No campfire was lit there. But in the starlight and moonlight she could see the strangers’ sheep as they grazed or dozed on their feet. Darker shapes were there, too: most of them didn’t move. One sat on a stone. Another stood nearby.
“I said no, herdboy. You’ve not enough money for one of these. Not even your mistral did.”
“Please, signur. I have to have one. Just one.”
Urs, and the chief ‘Nanin herd. Mariarta shivered.
“So how much do you have, then?”
“An eighth denér.”
The herder laughed softly. “That wouldn’t buy even one of that lamb’s ears. Go home, boy, and forget this.”
“Please, I’d give anything—”
“If you had anything.”
Why must he do this? Mariarta thought, as Urs kept pleading. Unless the other boys had shamed him into trying to get this lamb when he couldn’t get “the other”—
“You said all your ewes bear twin lambs twice a year,” Urs was saying. “If it’s true, you’ll have plenty more! Just one—for kindness—” He was stammering now, almost crying. “I saw it—I can’t help it—want it so much, so much, the pretty thing—”
Mariarta turned to leave, her insides twisting with sorrow.
“‘If it’s true’,” the ‘Nanin chief said. “You’d make me out a liar, boy?” But the voice was amused. “Maybe there’s something in what you say. But what you have is too small to think of as a price. And a price there must be.”
Urs said nothing.
“Down on your knees, then,” said the chief herder. “Tell your beads once over, so I can hear. Then the lamb is yours.”
There was no telling whether Urs had his beads with him, but he could count. He said the padernostras and salidamarias in frantic haste, and the ‘Nanin herder listened in silence. That silence somehow smiled.
“There, then,” said the chief herder. “Take the ramling, boy. It’s weaned off milk. I’ll tell your mistral when we leave this morning that I gave you the lamb.”
Mariarta saw Urs’s black shape run across the grass to fetch the lamb. The other black shape didn’t move. It was looking at her.
She hurried away. Not until she was home in her bed did Mariarta feel safe again. Sleep did not long elude her.
In her dreams, the wind roared like a beast.
***
The herds left early. When Mariarta came down to restart the fire, just before dawn, she found a scrap of parchment under the front door, with her father’s name written on it. She gave it to him when he came into the kitchen for his bowl of porridge; he spread it out on the table with one hand, puzzling the letters out.
Then he frowned and started eating “Odd, this. They left Urs one of their lamblings. Says here he paid for it. What with?”
“It can’t have been money,” Mariarta said softly. “He had little.”
Her father pushed the scrap away. “I don’t like it. Dealing with the little people in cash, that’s one thing. But doing deals with ‘Nanin in anything but money...isn’t wise. The debt has a way of increasing.” But then her bab sighed. “Never mind. He’s just a poor boy. Why would anyone bother doing him harm?”
The rest of the village heard the news, and went to the lower pasture to see the lamb. Urs was the center of attention, and proud; but the lamb seemed to be the chief cause of his joy. It really was beautiful and loving, rubbing against Urs like a cat, bouncing away to graze, then running back to him like a child to its mother. He would carry it in his arms, petting it and talking to it, until it squirmed to be let down to graze. Always it would come running back to him, gazing at him with those odd light eyes, adoring.
The herdboys were singing a different song this morning, as Mariarta heard when she came to look at the lamb. When they had dared Urs into this, they had foreseen nothing but his failure and embarrassment. Now they were abusing one another about the sudden improvement in his status—for Urs had taken a jump upward in the village’s pecking order. When the lamb grew up, it would be in demand to be bred to others’ ewes. Now Urs stood to make enough money or goods to become, eventually, a moderately well-to-do man. Mariarta heard the other herdboys asking each other bitterly why they’d been so stupid as to taunt Urs into this—
“Because you’re idiots,” Mariarta said. The herdboys glowered at her. “You’re all just a great mass of spite. Can’t you even have the grace to be glad for Urs, that some good came out of your badness?”
“Baa,” said one or two of the herdboys.
Urs was running across the pasture, and the lamb frisked after him, bleating delightedly. Urs stopped, and it danced around him, burning white in the sunshine. Urs saw Mariarta watching him.
He paused—then bent to pick up the lamb, cuddling it, and turned his back on her.
Mariarta started back to the house. “Baa,” said the herdboys to her retreating back.
She went about her chores that day, and that week, and the week after that, feeling ever more heartsore. Suddenly all the others seemed artlessly eager to tell her how Urs and the lamb were getting on. No one had ever seen a pet like it; it even came when called. Alvaun, Urs called it, “silver-white”, a name for sun on snow. The buds of horns were beginning: its fleece was growing so fast, it would need to be shorn soon—that would be a pretty penny in Urs’s pocket too. Suddenly the village girls found Urs worth courting. They followed him around whenever they were free; Mariarta heard their chatter, admiring and envious, go by the house often. She took to staying inside, once her morning’s expedition to the high alp was over.
Her father, if he noticed, said nothing. Twice during that time he called the village council together, once about the everlasting Selvese demand for a share of the Tschamuts alp, once regarding Nal Asturin’s manure stand, which was getting out of hand again. Each time he told Mariarta to come sit in the meeting, quietly, listening to what he said and did. During the first meeting, when Paol glanced at her, her father said, “A girl who writes and reads Daoitscha and Latin and the home-tongue has better things to listen to than street gossip. Here, Mariarta, write what we say.” And he pushed the quill, inkpot and old scraped parchment to her. Hot with pleasure at the praise, Mariarta wrote everything they said, until her head and hand ached.
Word got out, of course. The other children began calling her misterlessa to her face. Mariarta let the mockery pass. Urs might have his lamb, but never had there been a girl in the mistral’s counsels. Afterwards, Mariarta wondered whether her father had done this to give the village something to talk about besides Urs. Whatever his intention, Mariarta was grateful. The nights of taking notes, and afternoons of transcribing them in more detail, interested her so that she had no time to spare for thinking about Urs.
Not that the subject didn’t come up. The third council meeting, called to discuss the Selvese’s response to Tschamut’s latest refusal of their offer, slid away toward its end into gossip, the six men mulling over old feuds, new problems: Paol’s lower field and its bad drainage, Mudest’s maltreatment of his wife—getting worse, even after he had been taken out and beaten for it just last month—and Urs’s lamb.
“Growing on well enough,” Paol grunted. Mariarta put her head down, kept scribbling.
“Well enough, aye,” Flurin said, “but the problem is the boy.”
“He’s not neglecting his work, is he,” Mariarta’s bab said.
“Oh, no. Doing it better than usual, if anything. But he spends every other minute of his time with that lamb. Washing it, brushing it, talking to it. Finding it the choicest bits of greenery, bringing them to it in its stall. He sleeps with it, apparently.”
Paol said easily, “The usual thing. The boy’s realized how valuable it is. Wants to make sure it grows up.” His voice lowered to a growl. “I can understand why. Some of the other boys—”
“Jealous,” Flurin said.
“Aye. Heard a few plots being hatched about spiriting the lamb of
f somewhere to throw a scare into Urs. Something else, nastier, about leading it onto high ground, having it come to grief.” Paol poured himself another cup. “I beat the boys I caught plotting—told them you would know who was responsible if anything happened to the beast. So now you know.”
“Yes, well,” Mariarta’s father said, “never mind it now. What are we going to do about poor Nonna? This is the second time this month that Mudest’s blacked her eyes—”
Mariarta wrote. Next morning, after her father was off on his rounds, she went to Paol’s barn, where Urs kept the lamb until it was time to take it to pasture in the morning.
She was shaking all over. At first it had seemed simpler to let Urs be angry at her. But the longer this went on, the worse it would get. If she didn’t do something soon, there would never be any chance of getting things back the way they were—
—but then what? Mariarta moaned softly to herself. Urs would surely want her to let him woo her. Her father would not permit it, lamb or no lamb. It would all start again.
But she couldn’t bear him being angry at her—
So now she made her way to Paol’s barn. Urs was there: she heard bumping inside the stall, rustles of sweet hay being put in a manger. And the voice. “Alvaun,” it said, “my little Alvaun, my honey, my sweetheart, eat up, sweetheart.”
Mariarta opened the barn door.
It took her eyes a while to get used to the dimness. Urs had just straightened after arranging the new-cut grass and hay. The lamb, shining in the dimness, was eating from its manger. Urs stared at Mariarta.
“I wondered when you would come,” he said. “Come on and look. He doesn’t bite.”
“I know that,” she said, and went to pretend to look.
“Everybody else came a long time ago,” Urs said. It was hard to tell whether his voice meant to be matter-of-fact, or wistful.
“I’ve been busy,” Mariarta said.