The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn) (32 page)

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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

BOOK: The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn)
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They showed their teeth to Epona.
You are empty
, she told them silently.
The spirit is gone
;
you cannot harm me
. She held her head high and walked past.
Epona ducked her head to follow the men through the tent flap. It took a few moments for her eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom within, but then what she saw reminded her very forcibly that she was now in another world, with an alien culture. Her ears and her nose reaffirmed the fact.
The interior of the tent was lined with rugs that appeared to be made of woven wool, though the Scythians did not wear woven wool on their bodies; only felt and leather. Piles of rugs and hides served for furniture, with the exception of small carved chests and a curious stoollike device that emitted the odor of some burning weed.
The tent was cluttered with objects, so that one had to pick one’s way between wooden and pottery bowls, stone lamps, leather purses and cases, sacks of fur, flasks, jugs, wooden serving dishes on little feet, copper censers, drums, and stringed musical instruments. The tent of Kolaxais might have been a packrat’s nest, though opulent with vivid color and thick with the smells of its inhabitants.
The Scythians
, Epona thought to herself,
have no sense of proportion, of symmetry
. Nothing was arranged for artistic effect, as in the lodges of the Kelti; nothing was arranged at all. Like their language, their lifestyle seemed discordant to her. Even the brilliant colors with which they dyed their felts clashed with one another.
Everything was permeated with the scent of wood burned with weeds, and the overriding, nauseous odor of fermented mares’ milk and rancid butter.
On the pile of rugs that served him as bed and seat was a man so old he might have been a preserved corpse. Only the black eyes glaring from the recesses of his eye sockets burned with the great fire of life. His face was a mass of wrinkles, seam folded upon seam, all individuality altered by the crumpled
skin. Thin strands of white hair escaped the felt hood pulled down over his ears, and the hands resting on his folded knees looked like the claws of a bird.
Epona heard Kazhak take a swift indraft of breath, as if surprised by the appearance of the ancient sitting crosslegged on the rugs. “Prince of Horses,” he murmured respectfully, bowing down. The other Scythians bowed as well, but Epona did not.
She realized she was looking at Kolaxais, the great prince of that tribe of Scythians which considered itself royal, destined to rule over all other nomads. She had seen his horses spread out across the Sea of Grass. She could now see the dazzling amount of gold on his person, the fine gold plates worked into a kind of tunic, the massive neckring and other jewels he wore. But she was not impressed, as Rigantona would have been impressed. Kolaxais possessed the things that could be counted and carried, but he was old and wizened and she did not sense an aura of real power, not anymore. A diminished man sat before her, looking out at the world with frightened eyes. Yet strong men like Kazhak bowed down to him. No Kelt would.
Kolaxais was not alone in his tent. Crowding its inward sloping, circular walls were numerous other men, less richly attired, but each with his personal treasure of gold or amber prominently displayed, though the clothes on his body were worn and stained from long seasons in the saddle.
Closest to Kolaxais were two very strange figures. They were men, but they were not dressed as men dress. They wore long skirts of red felt, covered by fur tunics, and on their heads were small, round felt caps, from which hung what appeared to be the entire tails of white horses. More of these long hair pendants were attached to the tunics and to the skirts, so the wearers looked more like white haystacks than human beings.
Their faces were painted with fierce designs, giving an impression of extremely slanted eyes and hollow cheeks. Long fangs were drawn at the sides of the mouth, outlined in red ocher. Snarl lines of charcoal streaked the skin.
Each man held a drum that he pounded monotonously, with no rhythm that Epona recognized. The other men, talking among themselves, shouted over the drums as if they were accustomed to doing so.
Kazhak rose from his bow and addressed Kolaxais. “Kazhak sees you still keep the shamans close,” he said, gesturing toward the men in the horsehair tassels. He did not sound pleased. As if his words were a signal the two shamans began beating their drums louder, glaring at him as they did so and mumbling incantations.
Kolaxais did not signal them to be silent. Instead, he raised an old man’s whispery voice in a valiant effort to be heard through the din, and said to Kazhak, “Shamans keep Kolaxais alive.”
Kazhak grunted. “Shamans keep Kolaxais off his horses, closed in his tent. Prince should be under open sky, where men belong.”
Kolaxais cut his eyes toward the chanting shamans. “Demons are in the open air,” he said tremulously. “Only shamans can protect me from them. Demons made me sick; shamans keep them from killing me altogether.”
“Kolaxais was not sick; was just slight failing that comes with age.” Kazhak snorted, then continued, “But shamans took advantage, did things to make you feel worse.”
“We had this argument before,” Kolaxais replied, “You were wrong then; you are wrong now. You yelled with anger, rode away, did not stay with Kolaxais. But shamans stayed. Shamans have been my only friends and allies.”
“They feed on you as jackals feed on carrion!” Kazhak cried, unable to control himself any longer. The watching tribesmen muttered and swayed toward him. Dasadas and Aksinya moved closer to his back, fingering their swords, then seemed to soften like wax and edge away, unwilling to risk the anger of their people.
Epona put one hand on the hilt of her knife and took a long step forward, until her shoulder pressed against the shoulder of Kazhak. She gazed at Kolaxais and his shamans with an impassive warrior’s face.
Wrinkles hid any astonishment Kolaxais might have felt, as paint disguised the expressions of the shamans, but one of the priests missed a beat of his drum.
Epona had removed her hood and her hair was ruddy gold in the light of the stone lamps used for illumination. There was no mistaking her gender, nor her absolute readiness to fight beside Kazhak if necessary.
The massed Scythians broke into a gabble of conversation and some of them reached for their own weapons, the bronze daggers thrust through their belts and the swords—bronze and a light-colored, obviously inferior iron—they had dropped at the entrance to the tent.
The shamans glared and the beat of the drums increased in tempo, urging action, urging punishment for Kazhak, who dared to make such an accusation.
Epona bared her teeth at them and lifted her knife, ready for battle.
E
pona and her behavior were so surprising to Kolaxais that he briefly forgot the shamans hovering over him. The atmosphere in the tent crackled with menace; yet here was this yellow-haired woman, with a knife in her hand and the unmistakable gleam of battle in her eye, ready to fight beside Kazhak against hopeless odds. In the long experience of Kolaxais, such a situation in a Scythian tent was without precedent.
He made a chopping motion with his hand, demanding silence, with all the vigor Kazhak remembered from earlier days. “Who is this woman?” Kolaxais wanted to know. The unusual strength of his voice did not go unnoticed by the shamans, who reluctantly silenced their drums, nor by the other Scythians, who waited with drawn weapons to see what would happen next.
In accordance with the battle style she had learned as a child, Epona tossed the knife from one hand to the other, demonstrating her dexterity to intimidate her opponents.
The eyes of the Scythians followed the flashing iron with disbelief.
Kazhak raised his voice. “This is Kelti woman,” he said. “This is woman of exceptional power.”
“Woman
of power?” Kolaxais’ eyes squinted out of their network of wrinkles; then he hawked and spat, to show his contempt. The shamans sneered openly. “How can a woman have any power?” Kolaxais asked.
“This Kelti woman can do magic,” Kazhak said carefully, weighing each word before it escaped his mouth and watching Kolaxais for any change of expression. “More magic than you have seen before. She can make a dead horse alive. She can change the weather. Kazhak has brought you this great treasure.”
Epona darted an angry glance at him but he was unaware of it. He was boasting more blatantly than a Kelt, claiming abilities she did not possess and could never hope to demonstrate. Who could make the dead alive again after their transition? If these Scythians were angry now, they would be furious when they discovered the truth.
Kazhak had put her in a bad situation; this was certainly an inauspicious beginning for a new life with a new tribe.
The shamans were staring at her. One of them held up a long finger with a very dirty fingernail and pointed it at her. “Women have no power,” he said. “This is a trick, Kolaxais. Kazhak is not to be trusted or believed.”
Dasadas spoke up, his voice low at first, almost as if he were afraid of being heard, but getting stronger after Epona turned around and looked at him. “Kazhak speaks the truth,” he said. “Dasadas has seen this woman do great magic. She saved a poisoned horse, a horse that would be rotting on the plains right now if she had not turned death aside. Dasadas knows horses; Dasadas has seen horses die. Dasadas tells Kolaxais: This woman can save horses that should be dead.”
One of the shamans bent over to buzz-buzz in Kolaxais’ ear. As the prince listened he seemed to shrink inside his clothes, his brief flash of vitality withering away. He shook his head in assent to the shaman’s words.
“You make reckless claims for this woman,” he said to Kazhak. Then he hesitated, and once more the shaman whispered to him. The old man began speaking as if his words were an echo of the words hissed in his ear. “Tsaygas says no woman can do magic. Is known fact, no argument. Tsaygas says he will test this woman and show how she has fooled you. Kazhak … Kolaxais is ashamed for you.”
“No one needs to be ashamed for Kazhak. This woman can do magic. In the western mountains her kind are shamans; we have seen them do more magic than we have ever seen done here.” His voice rang with defiance.
Epona saw how Kolaxais’ hands trembled on his knees; she heard the man’s breath rattling in his chest. He was not only old, he was ill, and very frightened. Kazhak’s words were frightening him.
“Do not make shamans angry,” he said in a whispery voice.
“If shamans are angry, Kazhak has as much power on his side in the strength of this magic person,” the Scythian replied, gesturing toward Epona.
“We will test her,” one of the shamans said. “We will see. We think you are … mistaken, Kazhak, and she has no power, but if she does have the
taltos,
we will see if it is black or white. If white, you are … fortunate to have her on your side. If black …” The man shrugged, rolling his eyes. “But of course, she cannot do magic,” he reiterated. He bared his teeth unpleasantly.
It was the turn of the second shaman to lean over Kolaxais, murmuring instructions, and the prince dutifully repeated, “Is no need for arguments between us, Kazhak, until your claim is tested. But surely you have brought back great treasure for your
han,
after such a long journey. Is there much …” His voice faded away and his rheumy eyes drifted shut. The shaman nudged him and he spoke too loudly, as one awakened from a sudden doze. “Did you bring much gold for us? Good heads? Bring in your real treasure, Kazhak; let us see what new glory you bring to your father’s tent.”
The time of physical danger seemed to have passed. Epona
could feel the men in the tent relaxing a little, and she saw Kazhak shift position, holding both his weaponless hands so they were plainly visible. Following his lead, she was the last to put her knife away.
Kazhak had never looked directly at her during this crisis, but he had watched her on the periphery of his vision. He had seen the knife in her hand; in his service. He had thought he was past being astonished by the Kelti, but there seemed no limit to their ability to do the unexpected. None of the women waiting in the wagons he owned would have fought for him. None of them would have dared any of the things Epona dared.
It was hard to believe he had ever possessed such a woman, though when she stood beside him, knife in her hand, he felt more desire for her than he had ever experienced.
But this was not the time to think of a female body. This was the time to tell the story of his expedition, to speak of his lost brothers, to talk of the horses they had not brought back with them and of the swords they had.
The other Scythians listened without comment until Kazhak recounted his defeat at the hands of the numerically superior Cimmerians, describing the way the enemy had destroyed good horses to get at their riders, stringing ropes through grass to cause the Scythian mounts to stumble and then hacking them to death on the ground.
“Savages!” one of the listeners cried, and the others joined noisily in his condemnation of wanton horsekillers.
“You left with many horses. You returned with few. You have diminished the holdings of your prince, the great
han
Kolaxais,” one of the shamans accused Kazhak.
Kolaxais roused himself enough to ask, “Did you bring much gold? Shamans need gold to fight demons …” His voice faded.
“Kazhak brought back real weapons to fight real men,” the Scyth replied, signaling Aksinya to bring in the Kelti swords.
Epona had seen the horsemen pretend indifference to the weapons while in her village, but now they all hefted them
admiringly, praising their perfect balance and sharp edge, running their hands lustfully over the decorated hilts.
One man held up a rug of woven wool and slashed at it with a sword. The rug divided into two sections.
There was a gasp of admiration.
Another Scyth offered a wooden shield, hide covered, and the sword bit through both shield and covering, narrowly missing amputating the arm of the man who held it.
“Is better than iron of Assyrians,” someone said aloud, and there was general agreement.
“Never break,” Kazhak boasted. “And Kelti make many more things with iron; everything others make of bronze. Great metal-workers in western mountains.”
Kolaxais waved a skeletal hand. “Scythian gold can hire great metalworkers to copy these swords. Other people have good smiths; we can force them to provide all iron swords we need. Someday we use swords just like these to hack down Cimmerian horsekillers.” A spark of his old spirit gleamed briefly in his eyes, and his tribesmen cheered and beat on each other’s shoulders with their fists.
Epona smiled inwardly.
No
,
Kolaxais, she thought. You will never find metalworkers to unravel the secrets Goibban alone possesses. I spent my childhood watching him work, and I know. The technique for developing the exact heat, the way to control the carbon in the metal, the patient folding. The knowledge of these things is a gift from the spirits and not to be bought with stolen gold.
Then she reminded herself that these people were now her kin. She should want the best for them; she should desire their accomplishments to be the equal of any other people’s.
But the spirit within did not urge her to tell what she knew of Goibban’s techniques for working iron. She pressed her lips together and said nothing.
It was obvious that Kolaxais and the other Scythians were not totally pleased with the results of the expedition Kazhak had led, and the final appraisal of Kazhak’s success or failure might well depend upon how much Epona proved to be worth to the nomads. Watching the shamans, Epona was aware they
were already disposed against her, as they would be disposed against anything of Kazhak’s. They had sucked the spirit out of the old man and controlled his husk, and they would resent anyone and anything that got in their way. As long as Kolaxais was so totally in their power, they ruled his people.
The power of the priests. Yet Kernunnos, with all his power, had never actually attempted to rule the tribe or dictate tribal policy; his gifts were for the benefit of the tribe, not its subjugation. No Kelti would allow anyone, even a priest, such ascendancy.
How strange it is
, Epona thought suddenly,
to be thinking kindly of Kemunnos! It must be the influence of this place
,
so different from anything I have known
,
and these people
.
My people now
.
My people
.
Kolaxais seemed very tired. He slumped even lower on his pile of rugs and the shamans fussed over him, muttering and making signs. The interview was at an end. In their own time, the shamans would examine the Kelti woman and make a determination as to her gifts and her value, but until then she and Kazhak were dismissed.
Kazhak was confronted with yet another problem. He had thought originally to put Epona into one of his tents with his other women; one more pair of hands to carry dried dungcakes to the hearth for cooking; one more strong back to bear burdens. But somewhere along the way he had realized this was impossible. He could not put the Kelti woman in with his wives.
He went with some reluctance to the tent now occupied by Talia, his senior wife, and Gala, his second choice, and demanded that it be relinquished to the new woman. The tent must be Epona’s, and hers alone. He was quite aware of the resentment this might cause, but it did not matter. Women were always busy hating somebody. Besides, he was confident Epona could take care of herself.
He took her to her new home and demonstrated it with pride. “Is good tent, almost as big as Kazhak’s own. Women will take it down, set it up when necessary. You will live here
very good all winter, is it so?” He smiled engagingly, willing her to be pleased.
Epona looked around. The small space was, if anything, more packed and cluttered than the tent of Kolaxais. It did not seem possible there might be room for one human being, yet she had seen two women and a scramble of children emerge from this tent and disappear into another one.
“I would rather sleep under the stars, with my head on the neck of my horse,” she told Kazhak.
His eyebrows did their familiar upward wriggle. “Man sleep with horse, woman sleep in tent,” he said. He saw her face setting itself in stubborn lines. “Is warm in tent,” he added as an incentive.
“I don’t mind the cold; I am used to it.”
“Cold of mountains is not like cold on Sea of Grass.”
Her eyes glinted. “Are you ordering me to sleep in the tent?”
Kazhak hesitated, examining his knowledge of the character of this woman. It might be best not to order her to do anything. He widened his smile. “No no, is not order. Would please Kazhak, make Kazhak very proud, but is not order.”
Epona relaxed a little. “Very well, then, I will sleep in your tent. But you have to take some of these things out of it; I don’t want all these boxes and bags and …” She waved her hand helplessly, at a loss for words to describe the jumble of mixed Scythian loot and household articles.
Kazhak could not be seen helping a woman unload a tent; he had enough problems already. He went to one of his other women, the youngest and most obedient, and ordered her to assist the Kelti woman. It was a blatant break with tradition, asking a woman who was senior to another to serve her, but it was the least undesirable option. Ro-An would make no trouble.
Epona was on her knees in the tent, holding up a small stone lamp and trying to sort through a pile of dirty furs, when she heard a timid voice at her shoulder. Glancing around, she got her first look at a Scythian woman’s uncovered face.
Like many of her people, this one was dark of eye and
possessed high cheekbones and a strongly chiseled nose. Her mouth was small and soft, however, and her chin melted back into the folds of her clothing. She gave the impression of a fawn glimpsed at the edge of a clearing.

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