A Journey of the Heart

  "I doubt it's the night sky she comes to see," I said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "She comes to see if you're all right. It's something mothers do."

  "Oh," she whispered.

  I smiled at her. "What else does Namet like?"

  "I can't think of anything else."

  "Well," I said, "you'll think of something, but it will pop into your head when you're not trying to think of something."

  She chuckled. "You're probably right."

  While she went to retrieve the arrow I'd shot, I tried to come up with something for us to do that would keep us outdoors a while. I was in no hurry to return to Merin's house. It felt too empty.

  "We could go swimming," I suggested when she returned.

  "All right," she said.

  After our swim we lay in the sun on the riverbank until we were dry enough to put our clothes on. Once we were dressed, Maara was content to stay where we were. She sat cross-legged in the grass, gazing off into the distance, lost in her own thoughts. I lay on my stomach and watched the river go by.

  At last Maara broke the silence. "I have a gift for you," she said.

  I turned to her, surprised. "You do?"

  "A very small thing," she said. "But it's a gift you gave to me, in a way, and I want to share it with you."

  I didn't understand. I had never given her a gift. And what gift could she have for me? Only an hour before she had never heard of our custom of gift-giving on midsummer's day.

  "When Namet took me into the place of ritual," Maara said, "she made me a child again. She has a power in her eyes. When she looked at me, she saw the child, and I became the child."

  I nodded that I understood. I too had felt the power of Namet's eyes.

  "She touched me as a mother touches her child, and I understood that it was Namet, but at the same time there seemed to be another pair of hands that I remembered. Namet put her arms around me, and there was also another pair of arms. I felt her heartbeat and remembered the beating of another heart. She brought back to me the mother who gave me birth at the same time that she became my mother."

  While Maara spoke, I kept very still. I had forgotten all about the gift she'd promised me. It was gift enough that she would share these things with me.

  "For a long time," she said, "there were two women with me, and I was in two different places, and I was both a child and a woman. The child heard strange words she understood and smelled food cooking on the hearth and waited to be called to supper. She ate her fill and was put to bed, and her mother's voice lulled her to sleep. Her mother told the child a story that the woman remembers."

  Deep in the heart of the forest, a little man lives. You may see the feather in his hat sticking out from behind the trunk of a forest oak, but if you look behind the tree he will be gone. You may hear him call his dogs to the hunt, and you may hear the voices of the pack baying in the night, but they will run past you unseen like the wind. You may wake in your own bed in the middle of the night to hear the softest footfall, and in the morning you may find a single leaf lying on your new-swept floor.

  Deep in the heart of the forest, a little man lives. Ask him his name. He has none. Offer him bread. He eats none. Pour him good ale from the pantry keg. He will pour it out upon the floor. Water from the spring he drinks, and on his table you will find venison and quail. He lives in a house of twigs, the gift of trees that never knew the ax. He lives in a house of grass that never knew the scythe. He lives in dens dug by badgers under the roots of trees. He lives in the open air.

  Deep in the heart of the forest, a little man lives. Go out singing to sow a field, and from the hedgerow you will hear him sing. Go out dancing to tend your flock, and you will see his shadow dancing by your side. Go out into the rain, and where the water pools, gaze at his reflection gazing back at you. Deep in the heart, a little man lives.

  Maara looked at me. I met her eyes. They asked me if I would accept her gift. I couldn't answer her. I could find no words that wouldn't break the spell.

  "I wish I had a better gift for you," she whispered.

  When I opened my mouth to speak, she silenced me with a wave of her hand.

  "When you found me in the oak grove," she said, "I know you were afraid. You could have told the Lady what you saw, and she would have broken the tie between us and set you free if you had wanted it. Instead you brought me Namet, and Namet brought my mother back to me, and my mother gave me back that story. It's just a small thing, but it's all I have of my own."

  "I wish I had a better gift for you too," I told her, "but this is all I have."

  And I took her hand in both of mine and kissed it.

  We walked back to Merin's house in silence. I was still wrapped in the power of her gift. Someday I would tell her how beautiful it was, but at that moment no words of mine could be enough.

  When we'd had our supper, Maara sent me off to bed. She waited up for Namet.

  After Sparrow left that morning, I moved my bed from the bower back into the companions' loft, and I lay where I could watch Maara sitting alone by the cold hearth in the great hall. She'd had no time to find a gift for Namet, but if she had thought of anything like the gift she'd given me, Namet would be delighted.

  I fell into a heavy sleep. I may have slept for an hour or more. When I woke, the last of the long twilight was fading. Maara was still sitting by the hearth. I was about to close my eyes again when she stood up, and I saw Namet approach her.

  They spoke a few words to each other. Although the murmur of their voices reached me, I couldn't hear what they said. Namet took something from around her neck, a token of some kind, and placed it around Maara's neck, and Maara took it in her hand and admired it. Namet turned to go, but Maara reached for Namet's hand, took it in both of hers, and brought it to her lips. When she let it go, Namet stood quite still for a moment. Then she took Maara into her arms.

  31. The Lady

  When I thought about how Maara and I had spent our first summer in Merin's house, I wished that we could be as carefree now as we'd been then, though of course only I had been truly free of care. This year I had new responsibilities.

  It was the task of the apprentices to teach the new girls their duties as companions. I tried to be both as kind and as demanding with them as Sparrow had been with me. Although they could be exasperating, I enjoyed teaching them. In them I saw myself as I had been the year before, and it reassured me to see how far I had come since then.

  I spent time with the other apprentices too, mindful of the Lady's charge to find new friends among them.

  I also spent many hours practicing with the bow. I never again that summer made a shot as perfect as the one I made on midsummer's day, but I was steadily improving, and each day I grew stronger.

  I was beginning to come to terms with the choice Maara had made for me. Perhaps I finally saw the wisdom in it. While I could never have held my own against even as poor a swordswoman as Taia was, I believed that I might become as skillful with the bow as any archer in Merin's house. I hoped in secret that someday I would surpass them all.

  As Sparrow said she would, the Lady found an opportunity to speak to me. She chose a day when I went out alone to practice with the bow. Maara had set stakes into the ground all over the hillside, to teach me to judge distance. When I made a shot that sank into the ground inches from one of the stakes, I heard a voice behind me.

  "Well done," it said.

  I turned to see the Lady standing there.

  "Are you making progress?"

  "I think so."

  "Good."

  Her eyes wandered over the hillside, taking in the broken ground around the stakes, as well as the evidence of many arrows that had gone astray. It must have been obvious to her how much time I spent there.

  When she had finished her examination of the place, she turned back to me and said, "Come sit with me a while."

  I walked with her up the hill. We took shelter from the sun in the shadow of
the earthworks.

  "So your warrior is an archer too," she said.

  Although I had never seen Maara draw a bow, she must be a fine archer, or she couldn't have taught me so well.

  "Yes," I said.

  The Lady watched her hands as she carefully smoothed the wrinkles from the skirt of her gown. "Someone has mentioned to me," she said, "that your warrior has forbidden you to touch a sword."

  "No," I said. "That's not true."

  "Have I been misinformed?"

  "Forbidden is too strong a word."

  "So she intends to teach you the sword as well?"

  Then I had to admit that Maara intended to do no such thing.

  The Lady looked puzzled. "Why not?"

  "I believe it's her opinion that I shouldn't waste my time on a weapon I can never master."

  "Master?" she said. "What does mastery have to do with war?"

  I didn't understand her question, but the Lady wasn't waiting for an answer. She gazed past me into the distance with such a look of concentration on her face that I almost glanced over my shoulder to see what she was looking at.

  "When I first set foot upon the battlefield," she said, "I was not much older than you are now, but I was the daughter of my house, and it was my responsibility to lead our warriors into battle. How could I shelter safe inside the walls while others died?"

  The Lady gazed up at the earthworks and the palisades that crowned the hilltop. "My mother's archers stood on the walls and rained arrows down upon the enemy. They did a lot of damage, but in the end it was the courage of our warriors who went out and fought them hand to hand that won the day for us."

  She had put into my mind a picture of the battlefield. I saw the archers on the walls and the warriors on the ground advancing on the enemy behind a wall of painted shields. I remembered how my mother had described the din of battle -- the war cries and screams of pain, the clash of sword on shield, the shouting, the confusion, the roaring in the ears that comes from fear. I imagined myself there. Would I be the archer on the wall who after the battle is joined can be of no further use, but must watch her friends fight the enemy face to face and hand to hand?

  The Lady turned her eyes to me again. "Your warrior may not know what will be expected of you when you inherit your mother's place," she said. "You too will have warriors to command someday. What will you do then?"

  I had no answer for her.

  The Lady leaned toward me. Her eyes held mine. "I believe you still covet your mother's sword."

  I looked away before she could read the answer in my eyes, but she knew what was in my mind.

  "If you like," she said, "I will speak to your warrior on your behalf. Perhaps I can make her see that when your mother's sword comes to you, it would be well if you could use it."

  For a moment I was tempted. Vivid in my memory was the day my mother claimed that sword. For nine days, while we mourned her death, my grandmother's place remained empty. On the tenth day, my mother took her mother's sword down from the wall. Then she took her mother's place at the head of the table, and by doing so unchallenged, she took the place of leadership. It seemed as if I were remembering myself taking the sword from the wall, as if I were remembering the future.

  But an unseen force was pulling me in another direction. As much as I wanted to be worthy to inherit the weapon that was the symbol of my house, something new had begun to stir in me. Every time I had taken up a sword, I felt a sense of hopelessness, but the bow had given me hope, and it was my warrior who had given me the bow. Allowing the Lady to question Maara's decision on my behalf would be a mistake. It would be a betrayal of the trust between us.

  "I need no one to speak for me," I told the Lady. "I can speak to her myself."

  "Certainly you can, but will you speak to her of this? Somehow I doubt that you will."

  "There's no need," I said. "She and I have spoken already, and I'm satisfied that she has made the right decision."

  "You're as stubborn as your mother."

  The Lady's voice was light, but her eyes flashed dark and angry.

  My own anger loosened my tongue. "If I were apprenticed to any other warrior here, would you question how she was teaching me?"

  "And impudent as well," the Lady said, "which your mother never was."

  "I mean no disrespect, but it's Maara's place to decide these things for me, and if there are things she doesn't understand about our ways, it is her mother's place to teach her."

  The Lady was silent for a long time. She kept her eyes on mine. They made me uncomfortable, but I refused to be the first to look away.

  "I will admit that Namet surprised me," the Lady said at last. "She sees something in your warrior that others have missed. She seems to share your high opinion of her. I've known Namet almost all my life. I respect her, and I must take seriously her opinion."

  The Lady looked away from me and frowned. "I hesitate to say this to you," she said, "but you're no longer a child, and you have an understanding beyond your years. Namet is wise. This house depends upon her wisdom. She is also powerful, and I trust her power to see and understand things that I cannot. But you should also be aware that she can be as blind as anyone to the faults of those she loves."

  As are all mothers blind to their children's faults, I thought to myself.

  "Will we see your mother in the spring?" the Lady said.

  She had changed the subject so abruptly that it took me a moment to understand what she was asking me.

  "Next spring my sister will come of age," I told her. "If nothing prevents her, my mother will bring her here."

  "I'm looking forward to seeing her again," the Lady said. "Aren't you?"

  I nodded, but to be truthful, I hadn't thought much about it. While I'd had a moment of missing her when Sparrow spoke about seeing her own mother, another part of me was apprehensive. I had grown up so much since I had been in Merin's house. I was afraid my mother's presence might make me feel like a child again.

  "Your mother will be looking forward to seeing what her daughter has achieved since she saw her last," the Lady said.

  Before I understood her meaning, she got to her feet. "I know you doubt my good intentions, but I want what's best for you. I want your mother to be pleased when she sees what you've accomplished here. I want her to be pleased with you, and I want her to be pleased with me for the care I've taken of you. Your warrior may still have enemies here, but I am not one of them, nor am I your enemy. I wish you would believe that and have a little trust in me."

  And she turned on her heel and left me there.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon by myself, trying to understand my feelings. The Lady's last words to me had left me feeling guilty, but I didn't know what I was guilty of. I had done nothing more than affirm my right to choose my own teacher. While I had been angry, I didn't think I had been disrespectful. I still believed it was the Lady who had been disrespectful, both of me and of my warrior, but for some reason I didn't understand, I had wanted to run after her and tell her I was sorry.

  That evening after supper I asked Maara to go for a walk with me.

  "What happened?" she said, when we were on our way down the hill and out of earshot of the others who were enjoying an evening stroll.

  "The Lady spoke to me today," I told her.

  Maara nodded. She didn't seem surprised.

  "She offered to speak with you on my behalf," I said. "She objects to the way you're teaching me."

  "What does she object to?"

  "Someone told her you'd forbidden me to touch a sword."

  "Someone?"

  I hadn't stopped to wonder who had spoken to the Lady about me.

  "She didn't tell me who, and I didn't think to ask."

  "Just as well you didn't," Maara said. "She wouldn't have told you."

  "The Lady has no right to interfere with the way you're teaching me."

  "No, but she must have her reasons, and I'd like to know what they are."

  I th
ought about it for a minute. "She said she didn't want my mother to be displeased."

  "Your mother's displeasure shouldn't concern the Lady. You became Merin's responsibility when your mother chose to foster you here."

  "My mother and the Lady are shield friends," I said. "They trained together here when they were young, and they have been fast friends ever since."

  "I see."

  We had reached the river, and we sat down on the riverbank. Maara slipped her boots off, rolled up her trouser legs, and dangled her feet in the water. I sat cross-legged beside her.

  "Tell me everything," she said. "Tell me everything you can remember of what the Lady said to you."

  I told her everything but one. I left out what the Lady had said about Namet. It felt wrong to me to say such a thing to someone Namet loved.

  When I finished, Maara smiled at me. "So the Lady offered you your heart's desire."

  "She offered me what I thought I wanted, but I must have changed my mind."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know."

  "What if we give the Lady what she wants? Would you like to put away your bow and take up the sword again?"

  My heart fell.

  "Don't worry," she said gently. "I won't let anyone take that from you."

  I didn't need to ask her what she meant. She wasn't talking about the bow. She was talking about hope.

  "When I told you not to practice with the sword," Maara said, "it was because I wanted you to let go of it. I wanted you to give yourself every chance to feel the power that comes from having a true belief in yourself. It will take time, but mastery of the bow is something you can achieve. You believe that, don't you?"

  I nodded.

  "I might have convinced you with words alone, but I wanted you to come to this knowledge through your own experience. Now you understand, and now I think it will do no harm for you to practice swordplay with the others. In fact, in light of what the Lady said to you, I think it would be wise."

  I wasn't so sure of that. It felt too much like giving in.

  "Wouldn't that be admitting she's right?" I said.

  "In a way, she is right."