The Wisewomans Young Days Ch 01 02

Old Lawa Speaks After Nightfall

How does it go? "The days in a summer are two toes short of a man whose each finger and toe is a man, and a hand on top of that, and a thumb that grows for a thumbless hand of summers, adds a day, and is cut off again." Aren't we lucky to have Yath. I'll tell you a secret: my mother knew no exact way to tell when the next day of the lean sun was, nor did I before Yath was found. If you counted the moons you could be a day or two off. So we used to go to Look-Who's-There Hill and ask casually, as if we were making small talk. Wisewomen in other tribes may be doing the same to this day.

Gather around the fire, all you who aren't asleep yet. The feast of the lean sun is over, the night will be long, and Yath has led the offerlings away. I'm in the mood to speak of things I don't often speak of.

They say the wisewoman teaches you the old ways and Look-Who's-There Hill teaches you the new ways. I never much liked Look-Who's-There Hill even when I could still walk up there, but I'm not as ignorant as you might think when it comes to things considered new and wonderful and never seen before. And I don't just mean all the young people wearing a red screecher's feather. You are like a second fire around this one, and it's common knowledge that three such feathers are traded for hand-and-two good rabbit skins on Look-Who's-There Hill.

Sorry, "seven" good rabbit skins. I know you call it "seven" when talking of trade, and it's very important somehow. Either way, that's a lot of skins for three feathers, isn't it?

Now most old people need no better parable of the folly of the new ways; but I'm not most old people. A wisewoman knows things from long before her own time, and trust me, there's nothing new about this particular folly except the particular bird. Do you know why seeing a white-necked motleytail is considered a lucky omen, and the bird is forbidden? It's because fancy dressers of old very nearly caused it to disappear, before the gods took it under their protection. Go easy on the red screecher, people of times-yet-unsung.

I see some of you are dozing away, but you're about to be very awake. What if I told you I also know what soaken-moss stories are?

Yes, yes, the stories of man-love or woman-love that are the latest new and wonderful thing on Look-Who's-There Hill. Again, I've heard people grumble, and not all of them old people, "Why is nobody telling stories of fruitful love there? What cunning god is behind that? Is it Ayaki, who altogether forbids man-love and woman-love to his own tribe? Is he trying to put our young off having children so his tribe can outbreed all others?"

Please. Stories of love between women and men are harder to tell at a place as clamorous and unforgiving as Look-Who's-There Hill, that's all. Your listeners will take sides, and you'll be shouted down at every turn of the story by either the men or the women. And while no god can forbid fruitful love without becoming a funny god, so many different small prohibitions surround it in different tribes that any interesting story is sure to offend someone at some point. Finally, a story of woman-love or of man-love lets you be lavish with ribald detail without being asked jeeringly a "hundred" times--however many that is--if it's the story of your own coming into this world.

A wisewoman is lucky; she always has good listeners.

Now here's another thing I can guess about soaken-moss stories without having heard a single one myself: while the custom is still new, the most thrilling stories are liked best, but as it grows older, true stories will come to be valued more. For the made-up thrills will repeat themselves and be yawned at, while the gods have a richer imagination than any storyteller.

They say of Orog's tribe that we're good hunters and not much else; Yath has told me that when one of you tried to sit down at the storyteller's stake, people said, "let's go; it'll be about him and a boar." This may well be my last feast of the lean sun before Orog's unfelt wind carries me behind the pine trees, and Yath becomes your new wisewoman. But I can do something yet for our tribe's good standing in times-yet-unsung and times-yet-unlived. You couldn't have mistaken me for a huntress even in my younger days; the one time I've met a boar, I ran into the river and nearly drowned. And the stories I have in me that are worth retelling are not all from timeless times.

I know of two accounts of my youth whispered behind my back; one is completely made-up and the other confused beyond recognition. What better way to put them to rest than to speak of my youth myself. I can see the incredulous question in your heads, those heads of yours that put old things firmly to one side and new things to the other: "is old Lawa really going to tell us a soaken-moss story?"

No. The night will be long, so I'm going to tell you three.

Each picks up where the previous one left off, but they're different kinds of story and I'd like to keep them separate. "Soaken-moss" tells you there's going to be man-love or woman-love in it, but not much else. It's like saying "a fast beast": is it a boar, a marten, or a lynx? A beast that's all three at once would be strange indeed.

The first one is rather tame; it's a story of yearning and mystery that I'll call "Why Young Lawa Couldn't Have What She Wanted". The second is rather like the stories men tell of their first hunt; I'll call it "What Young Lawa Could Have and What Good It Did Her". The third one is called "How Young Lawa Awakened the Dreaded One", but it's a soaken-moss story as well, indeed the most soaken of them all.

Yes, I know that these days, "awakening the dreaded one" has a funny meaning. It's you who may forget I'm the reason we don't dread him anymore.

And here I swear on the carved fang that everything in all three stories is true save for one thing, the name of the girl that I will call Pinky.

For of course "Pinky" is an old woman like myself now. I have no qualms about speaking of things we old people like to pretend we didn't do when we were young; indeed, as you'll see, "Pinky" once spread a lie about me, a lie that was that much crueler for being flattering; and on another occasion, as you'll also see, her not telling me the truth was nearly the death of me. But I will protect her name since there may or may not be daughters and sons of hers around this fire, or among those asleep and pretending to be asleep.

Why Young Lawa Couldn't Have What She Wanted

"Pinky" was what, in our time, we called a second-summer girl; a second-summer boy would either hit you or flirt with you if you called him that. These days you say "a twenty-one" for both girls and boys; "pinky" now sounds like an old and awkward word even to me, but back then it had all the freshness of times-yet-unsung.

The girl was a summer older than me; indeed, she still is, though she's long been neglecting her summer-marks as older women are wont to do. Thus when my mother summer-marked my last toe, and I was out of offer-age, that girl already had a double summer-mark on the pinky of her left hand. Hence the name.

However, our story of yearning and mystery begins a summer earlier, when not-yet-Pinky--though I'm still going to call her that--came out of offer-age, and threw off her chest-cloth.

And I thought then, "Orog have mercy on me! Her breasts are so immodest and yet so gracefully shaped. They are like two wide trickles of the slowest honey, like two eggs on their sides, their tips almost touching. And I must wait for many more moons before I can lay loving hands on them. I thought I knew my desires; I used to feel nothing but gentle contempt for freshly bared bosoms. And here I am, pining for the most wretched girl ever born into this tribe!"

I used to think myself lucky to be the wisewoman's daughter. No other offerling could listen in on the conversations of so many grown women, who came to see my mother and waited outside our day-hut every day. They were women who'd given birth and nursed children; their large weary breasts seemed proud in their refusal to please idle eyes. Occasionally the women would say to each other things like, "ah, such-and-such is a clever-tongued girl, I worry I might strangle her"; and I'd hope with all my heart I was right in suspecting this did not mean the girl spoke brashly to her elders. I waited patiently for the day I'd shed the offerling's cloth and be a girl myself. Other people's mothers could teach me so much, and not only about the tricks and thrills of woman-love. For unlike my mother, they were women of this world and of times-yet-unsung, both of which I longed to embrace, feeling that I knew too much about gods and herbs and criss-curses, and not enough about really anything else.

This isn't to say I did not get on well with most of my fellow offerlings. They did call me "the wisewench" but were lighthearted about it, and I did my best to show that I was, like them, of this world and of times-yet-unlived.

But while Pinky was still an offerling, I found her insufferable. She was foolish and forgetful in all things except two, telling lies and withholding the truth--both of which she did seemingly for no benefit other than her enjoying it. She didn't hold grudges, I granted her that, but would thoughtlessly say the most hurtful things. She was awfully fond of ribald gossip, and somehow managed to make it sound boring. And most annoyingly of all, she would moan and complain on her every moon-day, without really looking indisposed. My mother even told her off once for laughing loudly while she had sacred moon-blood on her leg. Because of Pinky, that day we all got a long lecture on the meaning of being the moon's vessel.

"But I need to laugh to forget the pain," Pinky whimpered in a very lying voice. I was especially furious with her, for three reasons. First, I'd heard that same lecture many times before; secondly, my mother's tediousness reflected badly on me; and thirdly, the moon saved some of its sharpest thorns for my own womb. On my moon-days, I could barely walk, but I wouldn't dream of making a fuss about it.

Now I must confess to something shameful I did in my anger. I caught a meadow mouse and offered it to one of the unnameable gods. Not the Dreaded One yet; I would never have dared awaken him then, and you need more than a meadow mouse for that anyway. But there are lesser unnameable gods who can bring bad times upon a tribe, and this was exactly what I asked for. I reasoned that since my mother already thought Pinky was no good, when the bad times struck I could easily convince her to convince the hunt-leader to make Pinky the great offering to Orog.

It's when you think you're not very likely to succeed, but just might, that you're tempted to do the evillest things. Thankfully, being but a wisewench, I had no chance to succeed whatsoever. The mouse was of the wrong color.

And then came the summer when I was still a toe mark short of bare-chested freedom, while Pinky's twin beauties were already basking in the sun and the gazes of boys, men, and some of the women I'd hoped someday to seduce. Instead, I found myself madly desiring the breasts of a girl I otherwise despised. Perhaps that was my punishment for the dark offering.

If it was, it came not from Orog but from the unnameable god: a light slap of his deadly hand for my fumbling the rite. Orog would wait until I was the wisewoman to speak to me in a dream and demand my atonement. But all I knew then was that Orog himself was once overcome with lust for Esidwe, the virginal goddess of the lone hunt, and sent his three fastest winds after her--only for her to outrun the first two and trap the third.

We had an ancient carved figurine of Esidwe in our night-hut, surrounded by every kind of appeasing charm. The figurine's breasts had the same rare and perfect shape as Pinky's. Only the teats were different; small and sharp, they made you think at once of Esidwe's unyielding purity. Pinky's teats were as large as those of a woman with child. The contradiction almost seemed like a dangerous mockery of the swift and cunning goddess, who understandably already didn't favor the tribe of Orog. Indeed, that's why it's forbidden to wander off on your own during a hunt. But that uneasy thought only strengthened my desire for Pinky. I told myself, "she'd make a fine goddess of lies and nuisances."

When you've offended the gods in your thoughts, there are words to say and rites to perform; but what do you do when you've offended yourself? For ever more often, my thoughts drifted from Pinky's breasts to the rest of her, which I was supposed to despise. I began to find her stupid face rather pretty. I realized I enjoyed hearing her annoying voice. And her boring boyish belly, still not made any rounder by boar lard, let alone man-seed, now seemed so tender, so vulnerable, that I wondered if maybe the trifling moon-thorns Pinky's womb received really were wounding it terribly every time. And from there, there was no stopping my thoughts. There was no un-imagining Pinky without her bottomwrap, no un-admitting that I was curious if her love-hair looked as I pictured it. Orog! The humiliation of knowing she'd laugh and make inane jibes the whole time, but if right there and then the gods gave me a choice: kneel to sweeten a good woman's loins, or Pinky's, I would choose badly and not regret it.

I also couldn't tell if it was the fog of my desire, or if Pinky had really become quieter, smarter, even a little demure now that she was a girl. I tried talking to her a few times, but would stammer, my heart pounding, as I tried desperately to avoid looking where I wanted to look. Or rather, where I'd intensely despise myself for looking. I was fully in love with Pinky by then, as I realize now, but I dismissed the thought at the time since this didn't feel like anything I'd heard about being in love, especially with a girl. It felt like a sad and ugly secret weighing me down. Small wonder Pinky found me boring, despite not shunning the company of offerlings altogether as some first-summer girls did.

I grew thinner and talked little. My mother thought it was only the aching impatience common to all offerlings in the winter of their final summer. If only! I came close to making up a dream where I was told bad times were coming and I must be offered to Orog.

But at last came the day of the fat sun, and I was a girl. I could light fires. I could eat boar lard. I could yield to temptations. My breasts were free. I was free.

I used to think that when the day came, I'd light a fire that reached up to the clouds, eat all the boar lard in this world, and lie down on Look-Who's-There Hill to be straddled by a good woman from every tribe. Instead, I only wanted one thing, or rather a pair of things. The criss-curse was broken; I thought I'd been punished enough. Now that I could have what I wanted, I wanted it so much, I wasn't sure I'd even wanted it before. And Pinky only mattered in that only she could give it to me. Whether Pinky had really changed for the better, and whether I was in love with her, were questions for later. I had my entire life to answer them. Right there and then, I had to lay my hands on her breasts, so my eyes could finally rest.

I made her a necklace of rare three-colored flowers that my mother grew outside our night-hut. I took Pinky by her freshly summer-marked hand and she followed, curious. I brought her to the whispering-trees. I kissed her on the cheek and said she had such fine and shapely breasts, Orog himself must enjoy blowing gentle winds over them. I kissed her on the ear and said we were probably going to have another hot summer, since the sun must be delighted whenever Pinky's breasts shone with healthy sweat. I kissed the corner of her eye and said the grass, and the earth, and the sand on the riverbank yearned that she'd lie down on her belly, so they might touch the unreachable naked beauty she carried above her heart.

I expected a giggle, a compliment in return, something small that would let me continue; but Pinky gave me a patronizing kiss on the temple and said, "You can't have them, Lawa."

A moment ago, the whole world was mine; and here I was, running away embarrassed. Then I regretted running away, and told myself this misery must not continue into my girlhood. But what was I to do? Fortunately there was the feast of the fat sun to look forward to. It wasn't bad. I lit a small fire of my own and ate a lot of boar lard. I caught Pinky looking at me, and she looked away. She wasn't wearing my necklace.

But she wore it the next day. "The whispering-trees?" I asked, trying to sound at ease, and she put her hand in mine. Hers was broader and fleshier, but it stayed limp in my grasp the entire way.

I spoke more boldly this time. Not of gentle winds but of wet kisses and fever-hot caresses, of rubbing love like oil of the biting-root into her firm but not unyielding chest. Pinky listened eagerly. She watched me watch her honeydrop-shaped breasts move up and down as she breathed. She didn't mind me breathing on them. Her teats became two shameless little giants. She straightened her bottomwrap a little too often. I was afraid people under other trees would look over and notice what my words were doing to her, while a small part of me wished they'd notice.

Then she said, "You can't have them, Lawa," and this time it was she who ran away.

I went to Look-Who's-There Hill to see what was there. I did my best to dress up like a girl of this world and of times-yet-unsung. It seemed I didn't succeed, for as soon as I wandered off on my own, I was asked if I was a "whore". I had no idea what the word meant, but didn't want to seem ignorant. I knew that wisewomen in other tribes could be very young, and were sometimes known by different and older names. So I said, "no, my mother is." There was such an uproar of laughter that our boys came over to see what was going on. I asked them, "what's a whore?" and instead of answering, they picked a fight with the ones who were laughing. On our way home I picked up some shaggyleaf and chill-stinger, and soothed the boys' bruises. At least this was a distraction; as bad as my second day of freedom was going, I knew the third would be even worse.

Yet on the third day, Pinky wore my necklace again, even though the flowers were already dry and faded. This time, upon seeing me, she headed for the whispering trees and I followed. But she walked past the trees, looked over her shoulder, smiled at me, and broke into a run.

I thought to myself, "Esidwe's legs must have such otherworldly strength." I realized how much ample breasts impeded running when nothing held them--for Pinky had Esidwe's breasts but nothing like her legs. If I were Orog, this girl I was lusting after wouldn't outrun the fattest and most bored wind I commanded. And even without being Orog, I had it much easier than her. When I caught up to Pinky, she tripped me and laughed as I fell. No one had done that to me since before I had any toe marks, but now the brief touch of her foot on my shin felt as wonderful as a caress.

I rolled over on my back, and Pinky stood before and above me, tall and brightly sweaty like the waterfall where the river skirts Look-Who's-There Hill. This was not how I'd dreamt of looking at her breasts from below, but I was thankful even for this much. They were rising and falling fast, and had never seemed so unreachable.

"Tell me, wisewench," she said, "if I was as light as you, would you chase me past the skull on a spear, beyond Orog's land and into Sasapa's?"

"No, because you'd just say 'you can't have them, Lawa' again."

"Of course I would." Pinky walked around me and lay down, her head next to mine but her feet pointing the opposite way. Our hot cheeks touched, and her hair tickled my neck and left shoulder. We lay silently for a while, watching the circling birds and a lone cloud, and turning our heads every now and then to plant soft noiseless kisses on each other's upside-down face, not caring where our lips landed. Then Pinky spoke.