Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (22 page)

—Taelach wisdom

Astounding things happen when one is shoved into a culture technologically superior to one’s raising. The brain accepts, denounces or refuses to acknowledge the existence of that which is different. Rankil, Myrla and Archell experienced all three mindsets to varying degrees during their first moon cycle with the Tekkroon, each discovering their own way of coping. Jefflynn, the Tekkroon’s lead well master, and her gentlewoman Dawn temporarily took the trio into their grotto and then helped Rankil and Myrla settle Hestra into one of the smaller family dwellings carved into a nearby hill. Archell was quite content with his cubicle in the single’s cavern. Serrick, Jefflynn’s twin Autlach brother, maintained quarters just down the corridor and was happy to help Archell with whatever he needed.

No one questioned Rankil and Myrla’s youthful appearance, nor did they pry their minds for answers. The Tekkroon respected privacy and publicly chastised unwarranted invasions. Rankil and Myrla maintained the social image of a happy family but privately they were unsure how to handle their new situation. Each turned away when the other dressed and, even though they shared a common bed, they never exchanged more than a hug or quick kiss on the cheek. They often lay back to back at night, discussing the day’s events, their fear of losing control helping them maintain a comfortable distance.

Their greatest concern, however, remained Kaelan and Jewel. Myrla cried most every evening for them and insisted that a Gretchencliff portraitist draw Kaelan’s and Jewel’s likenesses so that she might share their images with the sisters who worked in the deeper caverns. The picture itself was a simple but realistic line drawing on stretched white hide, but Myrla painstakingly oversaw the portrait’s creation, describing her raisers in such fine detail that their likenesses were uncanny.

For various reasons, most of which Medrabbi, the even-tempered, aging broadback mayor of the Gretchencliff Colony holdings explained in her slow, patient fashion, that little of the clan lands were open to them. They were restricted within the Gretchencliff borders, to the main square during the daylight hours, and to the food and household stores for necessities—practical places such as those. All other areas were forbidden without an approved escort. Medrabbi called it probation. Rankil renamed it boredom. They weren’t allowed to carry anything heavier than children’s eating blades and were denied the opportunity to do more than menial tasks. Myrla, once she had regained her composure enough to think outside of her search, was assigned to assist with the youngest community members in their housing area’s crèche. Rankil and Archell spent long hours shoveling snow or cleaning ice from the external steam outlets of the Tekkroon’s complicated radiant heating system. Like Myrla, they repeatedly inquired about Kaelan and Jewel’s disappearance, but Medrabbi told them little could be done in the way of an above-ground search until the snow melted in the high passes. The avalanche risk was just too great.

Their lives continued in this monitored fashion until Medrabbi called them to attend a mandatory bonfire in the colony’s main square. They were made to stand in full view of the community, all two thousand of the Gretchencliff, excluding those helping to maintain the Tekkroon’s tight boundary lines, watching as they were given status and training assignments.

“All Tekkroons contribute to the clan’s well-being.” Medrabbi glared at the colony’s youngest broadbacks, who grinned brashly back, and then to the wisest members of her elected council, who nodded agreement.

“You have all been observed during your probation, your qualities and natural talents taken into consideration when making your assignments.” Medrabbi took Myrla by the hand.

“Lady Myrla, gentlewomen are the backbone of the Tekkroon, running many of the day-to-day affairs and providing an internal line of defense that has saved us on more than one occasion. I’ve been informed you have the gift of patience and understanding with the children. Those are qualities needed in a teacher, something we never seem to have enough of. You are to report to instructor Perrywinn, supervisor of Gretchencliff primary schooling, at the eighth bell tomorrow morning to begin your training. I am certain of your success.”

Medrabbi then placed Myrla’s hand in Rankil’s. “Young Rankil, you, like your name, were difficult to decipher. There is an abundance of aggression hiding behind your scarred face, a power that must be forged into something positive lest it fester into hatred for those who have wronged you. We’ve seen you playing blade games with your cousin and know your skill level is significant, even with a child’s utensil. Assuming this ability extends to the bow and sword, the master guard commander has suggested you join the ranks of the Powder Barrier, the elite of the Tekkroon forces. Upon completion of your training, special privileges will be provided to you and your young family, the least of which is larger housing.” Medrabbi waved off Rankil’s stuttering thanks and turned a speculative eye on Archell, who shuffled his boots across the saturated sands surrounding the fire circle.

“Ah, a winnolla is a precious addition to any clan. We have so few that the artistic-minded elders from every colony were scrambling to take you under their direction. But there was only one real choice for you.” Medrabbi motioned to a tree of a gentlewoman seated on a folding stool which groaned under her weight. An obvious figure of respect, she dominated those around her, both in height and air of dignity.

“Maestro Lisajohn, the Bowriver colony’s music master, has won the battle for your talents.” Medrabbi was the only one who maintained steady contact with Lisajohn’s penetrating gaze. “You are to move your belongings to her students’ grotto. Music, verse and the presentation of such are to be your only concerns from this moment on.”

“Archell will do his very best.” The Autlach grinned in a manner Rankil had rarely seen. It was happiness, the purest of bliss. He had survived every impossibility to get to this point, the beatings and names now nothing more than an inconvenience on the road to this higher place.

“Very best?” Lisajohn was musical even in speech. “Young man, I expect NO less than excellence from you. You are winnolla, are you not? I have it on good authority that you are, but if you feel unworthy of the title and task—”

Archell’s jaw tightened. There was but one true way to prove his worthiness to his new taskmistress so he breathed deep, held his head high, and let music flow from the depths of his gut. No sound rose above his pure, sweet melody, no noise would have dared pierce such perfection. Even fussing babes, including Hestra in Dawn’s arms, quieted to the sound. Archell’s voice rose from its depths to a falsetto within a single verse, the full range of his talent placed before the entire colony. The final note lingered in the silence, a tone so pure it resonated in every heart present. Archell returned Lisajohn’s gaze when he was through, searching for some response on her unemotional face.

“Not bad.” Lisajohn cocked the head topping the crisp folds of her collar. “Not good, but not bad. Your phrasing was atrocious, your tone too pure given the song’s subject matter.” She waved her hand to dismiss the faults as frivolous. “But those are common mistakes of the untrained. We shall discuss how to correct these errors in due time.” A smile flashed across her complacent mouth. “We shall also begin placing your various tunes into a readable form. Mother knows a winnolla’s tunes are the ones that seem to survive the ages.” With a snort and a physical shift on her bowing seat, she motioned those around her to assist her to her feet, then, leaning on a crutch, gestured Archell to follow.

“Continue, Medrabbi. We shall be out of your hair very soon. Gather whatever you have accumulated on your short stay here, apprentice Archell, and we shall depart.”

“You are welcome to stay,” said Medrabbi with a bow. “There is no music scheduled this evening but I am sure our musicians—”

“I’ll have to refuse the invitation.” The gigantic maestro tucked her fold stool under her free arm. “ ’Tis a twenty-minute cart ride to the Bowriver Square, and my escort is waiting. Good evening to you all and my apologies. I did not anticipate my presence would interrupt your business.” And Lisajohn departed the square in a flourish of fabric, an anxious Archell close on her heels.

“Join us anytime, Lisajohn, you, too, Archell. Your interruptions are always welcomed. It was well worth it to hear that song.” Medrabbi, like many in the community, had been noticeably moved by the Autlach’s lyrics. “There is only one other order of business on my agenda, broadback elders’ business. Unless there are other matters to discuss, we shall adjourn to the interior round for that undertaking.” After several minor difficulties were brought to light and their solutions delegated to the proper authority, Medrabbi dismissed the crowd. Dawn, Hestra still cradled in her arms, her own two daughters trailing behind, ushered Myrla away from the square. Someone caught Rankil by the shoulders as she joined the flow toward the housing areas.

“Not so fast.” Medrabbi’s almond-shaped eyes forecaste the importance of the remaining evening. “There is more to becoming a Tekkroon for you. Much more.”

“But Myrla,” objected Rankil, attempting to turn back. “I should really see she—”

Jefflynn appeared at her elbow, grasping her arm and helping pull her toward an open door set into the hillside. “She’s staying with Dawn tonight.” Many more jovial faces and helping hands, all broadback, assisted Jefflynn and Medrabbi in shoving Rankil through the doorway and into the middle of a large cavern housing rows of tables and benches. A dozen or more heavy lanterns blazed inside.

“I think she’s clueless to all of this, Medrabbi.” Jefflynn took a seat on the edge of the mayor’s cushioned bench.

“Quite possible, seeing her only exposure has been through the Serpents.” Medrabbi bellowed for kegs and mugs to be brought from a side storeroom then called the round to order by pounding the table. Rankil stood before her. “Now youngster,” she chuckled. “Do you know why we’re here?”

“Just look at her,” howled someone at a nearby table. “Babe, she is. You sure she’s old enough for the Recognition? Looks to me she should still be tugging the bottle.”

“The winnolla is old enough,” said Medrabbi between draws from her mug. “He’s past the Recognition. That’s why I let Lisajohn take him tonight.” She stared hard at Rankil until she dropped her gaze. “But Rankil still seems a might tender at times. She’s still growing height-wise, but it’s not uncommon for one of us to grow until she is nineteen or twenty.” Her head tilted while she scrutinized one of the Gretchencliff’s newest residents.

“Someone bring her a bench and a cup before she passes out from the stress.” Then Medrabbi regarded her with a little more kindness in her tone. “You were obviously raised Aut, my girl. Your accent is far too defined for Taelach to have been your first tongue.” Medrabbi reached forward and flipped up the edge of Rankil’s tunic, revealing the marks dimpling her lower back and abdomen. “You’re too young to have been flogged for a crime, and no clan I know of punishes on both the front and back. If maturity comes through hardship and survival, Rankil, I believe it’s safe to state you’re the eldest here. Besides, we’ve all seen you with that woman and baby of yours. You’re very protective of them.”

“I love them.” Rankil’s voice cracked just when she intended to sound the most mature. “Please don’t take them from me. They’re all I have left, all I’ve ever really had.”

“We wouldn’t dream of such cruelty,” Medrabbi said swiftly as to dismiss the notion. “They should remain with you. But I demand honesty of you at this moment. How old are you?”

Rankil glanced at the Gretchencliff mayor and then to Jefflynn who nodded at her to provide the truth. “I’m sixteen, if you please.” Then she stammered to add, “I’ll be seventeen this next summer.”

“Twelve or thirteen is grown for a woman in the Aut world.” Jefflynn nudged Medrabbi in the ribs. “And as you said, she has had a difficult existence.”

“I know. I know.” Medrabbi tugged at her battlebraid and looked to the others, seeking their opinions. “Others know more of you than I so this is beyond me alone. We’ll put it to a vote. Sixteen will require extra guidance on our parts, instruction as to what is expected”—Medrabbi pointed straight to Jefflynn— “insight as to what is required socially and otherwise.”

“The other youths mustn’t know of this exception to the rules,” called out the broadback raiser of a youth Rankil’s age. “Keeping one of the hormonal snots in line is hard enough without them all thinking they’re grown.”

“We all think we’re grown at that age,” laughed Medrabbi. “But I think it may be true in this case. Rankil’s age will remain a closely guarded secret. Rise before me child Rankil, and we shall tally the vote. All in favor—” Medrabbi never got to the opposed as every occupant of the room rose to her feet. “Child Rankil is no more. Welcome to the Tekkroon and Gretchencliff, Broadback Rankil!”

Our world has changed.
Archell had said earlier that day. He was right, thought Rankil as hoots of approval filled the room. It had changed for the better.

“The acceptance is noted in the clan records.” Medrabbi thrust a filled mug in Rankil’s hand and encouraged her to drink of the sweet ale common to the Tekkroon. “The Recognition is the oldest of Tekkroon ceremonies.” The smell of burning pilta began to waft through the room. “A girl becomes a broadback woman with this ritual, capable of taking the responsibilities of battle, hard work and”—the Gretchencliff mayor peered at Rankil—“demonstrating love to the gentlewoman of her choice.”

“Enough talk, Medrabbi.” Jefflynn forced Rankil back to her bench. “Get on with it. Who has the shears?”