Skin (30 page)

‘Oh, I'd prefer him,' burst Ianna, ‘he is handsome as a king.'

‘There are many you'd prefer,' said Cah. ‘But none who'd take you.'

Ianna made a face.

‘Bebin?' I pressed.

‘I am pleased to marry Uaine, as you know, Ailia,' she answered gently. ‘I will come
to Cookmother every day and tend her well. But I suspect that it is not
my
certainty
you are questioning.'

I stirred the boiling liquid. She was right. My heart was not resolved to leave the
kitchen and I did not know how to make it so.

‘Cease,' called Ianna. There was a clack as the last length of twine sent the warp
weights knocking against the loom frame. ‘Look!' She reached up to unhook the cloth
from the upper pole, ‘I have tied off my final loop. Now we have a wedding cloth
to dye.'

I stood by the well trough at sunfall, scrubbing the last stains of blue dye from
my hands. Dogs drifted around the quiet street. Blackbirds keened. My last day in
Cad.

I did not notice Heka approaching until she was right beside me. I nodded a greeting.
I had not seen her since before the rains. She had gained a small amount of weight,
braided her hair, and washed the dirt from her moss-coloured dress. But although
the corners of her face were softened, the pall of anger around her was not.

‘It is said you are to leave Cad. And Bebin to marry.' She appeared sober and clear-minded,
and for this she made me more nervous.

‘How have you heard it?'

‘Cah,' she answered. ‘She is not afraid to companion me.'

Cah is not well supplied in companions, I thought to say, but did not. Heka was like
green wood in a fire. ‘She has told you true,' I said, ‘I leave tomorrow.'

‘My friend Cah,' she continued, shifting on her feet, ‘thinks it well that I come
into the Tribequeen's kitchen when you and Bebin are gone.'

‘It is not for Cah to determine.' I dried my hands on my skirt. ‘You know it is impossible.'

‘Why?' Her eyes darkened. ‘Do I not deserve for a few seasons what you have enjoyed
for all the summers of your life? Or do you prefer to see me cast to the fringes
over winter?'

‘I do not. But Fraid would never bring you into her service,' I said.

‘Why not?'

‘Because you are…' I paused, struggling myself to name the nature of her breach.

‘What?' Her lip curled into a snarl. ‘Too impure?'

‘Perhaps.' I sighed, suddenly sorry for her. She had not chosen whatever had befallen
her. ‘We have spoken on this before, Heka. I told you then I had no power to help
you.'

‘But you are marked to be the Kendra now.' She savoured the observation. ‘Fraid will
heed your influence if you speak well of me.'

In truth, I wished Heka no further ill, but the thought of her lying in my bed was
horrifying. I shook my head as I gathered up my brushes and soap. ‘I cannot recommend
you to Fraid. There are others who await the places before you.'

She trailed one hand over the surface of the trough water. We both watched the ripples
that rolled out from her black nails. ‘Your mother would not have thought well of
such coldness in a daughter.'

The early night air became solid in my chest. ‘What do you know of my mother?'

Heka stood very still. ‘It was her way to look after those in need.'

A crow's cry halved the sky.

I could scarcely speak for the violence of my heart. ‘Heka, if you have true knowledge
of my mother, you must tell me now.'

‘Hah!' She leaned closer, her breath sour. ‘Knowledge is a heat that makes the metal
more pliant.'

I took hold of her sinewy forearm, steadying myself against the
wild hope that surged
within me. ‘I beg you, tell me.'

‘Secure me a place—your place—in the Tribequeen's kitchen and I will consider telling
you my knowledge.'

I clutched her arm tighter. My voice was thin. ‘Tell me now.'

She peered at me. Unglazed by ale, her eyes were green and sharp. ‘When it suits
me to tell you, you shall know.' She pulled free from my grasp and turned away.

‘Heka—'

She spun around.

‘Why did you not speak of this before?'

‘You did not have the teeth to help me before. And besides,' she said, her face hardening,
ugly again, ‘I liked to watch you flounder in your skinlessness. To be without hope
of finding it.'

Gradually the floating truths began to make a whole. ‘You know my skin,' I whispered.

‘Yes,' she breathed.

I was as abject before her as a hatchling fallen. ‘Will you give it to me?'

‘Speak to Cookmother,' she said, ‘and speak of this to no one, or you shall learn
nothing more.'

I walked back to the kitchen formless, as if my body had dissolved into the night
air around me.

The Mothers had answered me.

I would learn of my skin.

My sisters were gathering and feeding the yardstock when I returned. Cookmother was
alone, sitting by the fire.

I placed my hands on her rounded shoulders. ‘Will you take some elder water if I
warm it?'

‘With thanks, I will not.' She did not look up, but the tendons of her neck softened
beneath my touch.

I could not tell her what I had just heard or why my fingers were trembling on her
shoulders. But, by the Mothers, I would not leave Cad without healing what was torn
between us. ‘May I speak?' I asked without lifting my hands.

She said nothing but did not protest it.

‘You know, more than any other, how much I have wanted to learn,' I began. ‘You have
been my teacher when I could not be taught. I have wondered lifelong of the Isle.
And now, even beyond the laws of skin, I am called to it.'

Her shoulders stiffened beneath my fingers. Still she did not speak.

‘Durotriga is under threat, Cookmother. I have heard it clearly spoken at Mai Cad.
By some mystery it is thought I could be part of its protection. I want to do what
is right by the tribes, by Llwyd and Fraid. But more than anything, I want to do
what is right by you.' I stepped closer that my belly felt the warmth of her back.
‘You have birthed me with your teaching, with your care.' I closed my eyes. ‘You
are my mother.'

She remained silent but reached up for my hand.

My questions spilled over. ‘Why have you pushed me from this path?' I asked. ‘You
have warned me from the forest so harshly. Are you so fearful for me? Do you not
believe that I have the journeywoman's strength?'

She turned to face me, crushing both of my hands so firmly in hers that I winced.
‘I know you have the strength, Lamb. I have always known it. Oh, I am a stupid old
woman and only now do I see it. Fetch some elder water, after all. You will need
drink for what I must tell you.'

I poured us both tea and sat beside her at the fire.

She took a long draw, holding her cup in both hands. The hot
steam unsettled her
chest and for several moments she was bent in a spasm of coughing. When she straightened,
her breath was rasping. ‘I fear for you, Ailia, because I, myself, have walked with
the Mothers.'

I stared at her face, unable to speak. She was my constant, the one thing that had
been unchanging. ‘You are a journeywoman?' I finally breathed.

‘I was,' she said. ‘I trained at the temple. I walked once with the Mothers.' Her
face darkened. ‘But they cast me from their place against my will.'

I shifted closer and pressed my temple to hers, marvelling at the unlived greatness
of her. She was a kitchen servant but had possessed the power for so much more. She
must have wondered of it every day. I drew back my head. ‘Why did you cease to be
journeywoman when you returned?'

‘I was too angry. I lost something to the Mothers that they would not give back.'

‘Could you not retrieve it? Could you not journey again?'

‘I tried with all my strength, but I could not pass back.' She looked to me. ‘Then
I found you, laid down on the step like a flower—I am selfish.' Her face twitched.
She was unpractised with tenderness. ‘I wanted to keep you safe—'

All I was sure of began to unravel. ‘What was it, Cookma?' I asked. ‘What did you
lose?'

But her face reddened with tears and her breath started to heave. She shook her head,
nose streaming, too grief-stricken to speak any further.

As I tightened my arms around her, it struck me that I had never seen her cry.

As her sobs subsided, I asked her a final time. ‘What should I do, Cookmother, with
my call to the Glass Isle?'

‘Go,' she whispered, crushing my hand. ‘Go.'

That night I told Cookmother and my worksisters that I had asked Heka into the kitchen.
There were protests and questions and I parried them all, arguing and appealing,
until Cookmother agreed to suggest her to Fraid, and I knew it would be so. It was
a physical pain not to tell them I had learned of one who knew my skin. But Heka's
way was as vengeful as an angered wasp. If I breached her terms, she would give me
nothing.

Dawn came late on the morning of my departure. But it mattered little, for I had
lain awake for hours. Never had I been so aware of the sounds of my kitchen home:
the whispering embers, scuttling mice, and the murmurs and grunts of bodies asleep.
I could think of nothing but Heka's words and the promises they ignited. With knowledge
of my skin, I could journey to Taliesin. I could become what the sword foretold.
I could, in truth, become Kendra.

When the light finally seeped under our doorway, I was glad for the distraction of
the morning. The first hours of the day were the busiest in the kitchen and my leaving
day would be no exception.

I visited Mael, who gave me currant cakes for my journey, then dressed Fraid, finished
hemming ribbon for Bebin's dress, and helped salt a late-season calf for drying.
But as the hour of my departure neared, I ceased my work and hurried to the fringes
in search of she who knew my skin.

It was the time of day when men and women of able body were all at work, but Heka
was lying on her side by a peat fire with others of her fringe kin, gnawing on bread
torn from a loaf on the ground.

At the sight of me, she staggered to her feet, ale-addled once more,
and pulled me
a few paces away. Her companions whistled at the tidy robes of a Tribequeen's attendant.

‘It is done,' I told her directly. ‘Cookmother awaits you when I am gone.'

‘Well done.' Her face creased into a smile. Her gums were crimson with infection.
I could easily soothe them with comfrey, I found myself thinking, but her comfort
was not my concern.

‘Cah will instruct you,' I explained. ‘You know her already. Ianna is gifted at weaving
but little else—though don't tell her I said so. And Cookmother—' I paused. ‘Cookmother
is not well.'