Sephtis

23. Returning to the village.

It is a beautiful dawn. Kavah stands with me at the forest edge, looking across the moat at the village. Everyone is awake and about, preparing for the first day in the sun, the first day of the harvest. I smell their cooking fires, and know they are eating grains sweetened with honey and berries. Someone opens the gates in the wall. I glimpse children wandering outside drinking cupfuls of milk fresh from the goats as they play in this new, unfamiliar light, their pale white bodies almost blinding. The woman stand in the shadows cast by the houses, binding up their long hair in strips of hemp for coolness. Their voices carry across to me on the cool, still morning air. Then the men appear, making jokes about the slowness of the women, and they all climb into their canoes and paddle across to the harvest fields, their bodies are glistening from the animal fat mixture they rubbed over themselves to protect their skin from the harsh sun rays that are soon to come. Still laughing and jesting, they walk in a procession around the wheat-fields, their sickles flashing in their hands.

Kavah pushes close to me, and I turn to press my forehead against his, my arms around his neck. My right hand hurts, Amitz's teeth have punctured it in two places, and my little finger and the two next to it are crushed and bruised. Kavah licks my hand softly then backs away.

"I am sorry I brought strife to your family," I say quietly.

He whines, a high, plaintive sound. I imagine that thoughts pass between us, that I know his feelings as keenly as he knows mine, and then I wonder at my arrogance. I stand up to go to the kings house. Kavah runs back at me, licks my face, and is gone.

My canoe is where I left it, hidden in the tall yellowing grass. With great difficulty I paddle across the moat, holding my injured hand against my chest.

In Droug's house it is cold and dark. The village is silent, for all have gone across to the wheat-fields, save this man. It seems many a moon since I have last seen him. I sit by his furs and touch his cheek, his eyes open, and he looks at me as if he does not know me. He stares at my tattered dress, my injured hand, and my ragged hair and unwashed face, and he asks "Did the wolves get your hair?"

I smile and sign, "That, and my heart."

He grunts, and shuts his eyes again. His hair is grayer than before, and he looks old. He reeks of herbal potions and poultices. Near his furs there is a cup, half filled with a foul smelling liquid, made from poppy-seeds. I offer him a sip, but he just shakes his head.

I pour water from a pitcher into a wooden bowl, strip off the remains of my clothing and wash all over. I am covered in scratches, and my knees, shoulders, and elbows are grazed from sliding down into the den. My skin is no longer fair and white, instead it is a pale brown, like cured hide. I wash my hair, and when I am dry I put on one of my old dresses, kept in a wooden box in my room at the top of the stairs, it is a dress from my past. How I love this dress, it is saffron-colored, and the arrows stitched into the waist are of blue thread. Also from the chest I take a red, linen girdle which I wrap about my waist and a blue leather head band, a symbol of the kings house. My few possessions have remained untouched, wrapped within the fox fur, and I am grateful. My lyre too, is there. I stroke it lightly with my injured hand, and think of the howling rituals with the wolves.

Before I tie the headband, I attempt to tidy my short hair with a bone comb that Droug had given me, back when I was his child. Finally I cut a strip of smooth hind, and bind up the wounds Amitz gave me.

For awhile I stand in the place that had been my home, stand there with my skin and hair washed clean of my forbidden life, wearing the yellow dress beloved by me, and a headband that marks me as a member of this house, and this village. Yet, I feel lost. I am between two worlds, and know not where I belong.

Droug sleeps, and I mourn for him, for the terrible calamity that has befallen him, for the lie that puts the blame on me, and severs me from his people. Him too, I loved. I go outside, get a sickle from the storage house, and paddle my canoe across the moat to the other side. The fields shine golden in the morning sunlight. I look at the bent backs of the harvesters, and I feel more solitary, more alien than ever. The people look up at me briefly, then return to their work once more.

I walk to the farthermost side of the field, near where the wolves and I played what feels a lifetime ago. Though my hand hurts, the reaping work is good for me. It bring me close to the earth again, the the rhythms and reasons of a peoples life. I sing quietly while I work, and to my surprise, those working near me begin to sing as well, and our tools move to the rhythm of our song.

The sun rises high, and hot, and soon sweat runs down our faces and backs. The children are running to an fro, bringing us bladders of much needed, cool water. Once we have drunk we tip the rest over our selves, and begin working again.

After a time I am too tired to sing, and work. My back is aching, and the strip I used to bind my hand is slippery with blood, my body is fighting to heal this wound, but it cannot when I don't give chance for the flesh to be still, and to knit. I hold the sickle in my other hand, but my work is now slow and clumsy. Midday comes, time for us to rest, and I am glad to sit amidst the cut wheat, unwrapping my hand, letting the sun dry it, giving it rest to heal.

"What? Worn out so soon? we have barely started yet." Says a voice that causes my heart to miss a beat. I flush and hide my hand between my knees. Eleutheros sits to my right, so close that I call smell his sweat, feel the heat from his body, see the red that blisters across his shoulders and back.

"I am not worn out," I sign one handed, looking at my feet. One of the bindings about my boot has come undone, my shoe almost falling off. I cannot tie it up again, for that would me showing him my hand, and I do not desire his pity. But he takes my wrist, making me show him my injured hand. I dare not look up at him. Suddenly I am ashamed of my hair, or what is left of it, and will it to grow again. Perhaps he might not notice, I nervously smooth it down against my neck with my good hand.

"I like it short," he says. "It must make it easier for running through the forest thickets, and for reaping the wheat." He pauses before adding, "please speak to me wolf-woman, there is no one about us, and I shall not tell."

"It is." I say lowly, trying to pull my hand free.

He holds it more firmly and speaks, sounding amused."So you had a tumble with a wolf, I thought you said they were your friends."

"They are," I say, "they are just a little rough sometimes in play, that is all."

"Rough? This is a nasty bite. Why has it not healed yet?"

"Warriors do worse. And I have not yet been still enough for it to heal."

He says nothing to this, but takes a water skin that he has tied to his belt, and pours it on my hand. The water is cool and soothing on my skin and flesh.

"You cannot work like this. Why have you not let Horiki bind it for you?" He asks me, almost angrily.

"I have not seen him. Besides there is no need, I can bind it myself." I retort.

He shakes his head. "Here, let me do it for you this time." He takes the strip of hide from where I dropped it, and pours water over it to clean it, washing out the worst of the dirt and blood. Then he spreads it across his thigh. His hands are fined boned, his fingers slender and strong, he takes my hand and places it, palm upwards on his thigh, and gently wraps it in the wet hide. His touch is firm, but it does not hurt.