The Steerswoman's Road (85 page)

“The Face People eat their dead,” Rowan said; and suddenly
it seemed perfectly logical.

Mander nodded. “People are just another kind of meat.”

It was three days later that Efraim was formally accepted into
the tribe.

The tribe paused in its travel for one day, and Efraim
removed himself from camp before dawn; he would remain alone on the veldt all
day and return toward evening, symbolically entering the camp for the first
time.

It was traditional that he should offer gifts to the tribe
at this time, and under normal circumstances these would be provided by his
home tribe, if the shift of membership met with his seyoh’s approval. Efraim,
with no home tribe, dug from the veldt two lengths of tanglebrush root,
suitable for converting into swords.

Just before evening meal, with all the tribe gathered around
the temporary fire pit, Efraim addressed the warriors and mertutials. Rowan and
Bel were also present; no one protested, and the steers-woman understood that
she and her companion, although outsiders, were held in very high regard
indeed.

“I am Efraim, Krisson, Damita,” the Face Person began. He
paused, gazing about at the watching faces. “I came from Kriss and Alsander; my
sibling is Evandar.” Another pause. “Kriss came from Lan and Serranys; her
sibling was Halsadyn. Lan came from Risa and Orryn; her siblings were Kara and
Melannys. Risa came from Ren and Larrano—”

Rowan stirred; Bel stilled her with a gesture. “You mustn’t
stand up,” the Outskirter whispered.

Rowan leaned close to Bel’s ear. “To how far back will he recite
his ancestors?”

“All the way to his first, to Damita.”

“I should get my logbook. I should be writing this down.”

Bel turned a glower on her. “No.” Then she became less decided.
“Ask Efraim to repeat it, later. But I don’t think this should be written.”

Efraim had reached the eighth generation previous to his
own. He continued to recite, pausing after each generation, as Rowan listened,
fascinated. Around her, each Outskirter was paying careful attention, some
leaning forward intensely.

By the twenty-fifth generation, Rowan began to notice an increase
in the number of siblings in each generation: one or two children had been
usual before; three to six became more common.

At the thirty-first generation, Efraim recited, “Lena came
from Genna and Klidan; her siblings were Jona and Dess,” and in the pause that
followed, Orranyn stood.

The recitation halted. The two men gazed at each other
across the seated crowd, and Orranyn waited calmly. Efraim’s face revealed that
he knew he ought to have expected this, but had not dared to hope for it.

Rowan asked a question quietly, and Bel replied, “Orranyn is
Damita, as well. His line must branch from this generation, from either Jona
or Dess. From here on, all the way back, his lineage and Efraim’s are the same.”

When Efraim spoke again, Orranyn spoke, as well. They spoke
the same names together: “Genna came from Koa and Dennys; her siblings were
Chirro, Lana, and Tallin.” And the two men continued, each generation a confirmation
of shared heritage. Efraim’s weathered face became tracked with tears, but he
did not suppress them, and so kept his voice clear and steady.

Eight generations further along, far to the back of the
crowd, Quinnan stood. Efraim turned his face of weeping joy to the scout; but
when the reciting continued, Quinnan did not join, but only remained standing.

“Quinnan isn’t of Damita line,” Rowan said to Bel.

“No. But he found the name of a male ancestor as a mate in
Efraim’s line.” Someone who had fathered children by more than one woman, so
that his name would appear as a mate in both lines.

By the steerswoman’s counting, Efraim had reached the forty-first
generation previous to his own. Rowan became amazed at the man’s memory.

She was not surprised when later, at opposite sides of the
crowd, Mander and Chess stood simultaneously. The four Outskirters spoke
together the names of their female ancestors, the ancestors’ mates and
siblings, for twenty more generations.

And at last Rowan heard the names of Damita, Damita’s mate,
their six children. Four voices finished, together: “And Damita was first.”

Efraim looked about him, with eyes blind to everything but
the four standing figures. He swallowed. “I am Efraim,” he said again, his
voice nearly escaping control, “Krisson, Damita.”

Orranyn spoke. “Orranyn, Diason, Damita.”

“Quinnan, Tilson, Sabine,” the scout said.

Mander grinned. “Mander, Chesson, Damita.”

Old Chess managed to grin and glower simultaneously. “Chess.
Simsdotter. Damita.”

Efraim looked at each, one by one. They were his family.

From his seat, Kammeryn spoke up. “Efraim is a warrior.
Whose band will be his?”

Orranyn did not hesitate. “Mine.”

And Kammeryn rose to stand beside the new tribe member. “This
is Efraim, Krisson, Damita, a warrior of Orranyn’s band, and our tribe-mate.”
Then he threw one hand in the air, and the people gave a single great shout of
joy and surged to their feet, with glad laughter and cries of welcome. Those
nearby came to Efraim to touch him, take his hand, or embrace him.

When Mander approached, Efraim wrapped him in a bear hug
that caused the healer to laugh in pain. “Ho, don’t break the arm!”

Chess received a look of amazement, and the comment “You are
so old!”

“Ha. I’ll get plenty older yet.”

To Orranyn, Efraim said, as he looked up at the chief’s
great height, “I will serve you well.”

“I know it,” Orranyn replied, and offered his hand.

Standing at the edge of the crowd, with her good comrades beside
her, Rowan suddenly felt sad and solitary. Her people, her true family, were
her fellow steerswomen; but steerswomen traveled far, alone. Meetings were
rare. Nevertheless, each chance encounter between steerswomen was like a
homecoming, with these same joyful greetings and embraces. She missed her
sisters.

She had not realized that she had leaned back against
Fletcher as she thought; and he had wrapped his long arms around her. “You
should have been here when they took me in,” he said, from over her head. “Took
all of about five seconds. ‘Fletcher, Susannason,’ I said. ‘I came from Susanna
and Davis,’ I said. ‘Susanna came from Luisa and Grennalyn,’ which is a good
Outskirter name, for all the good it did me. That was it. Everyone sat around,
waiting for the rest.”

In the center of the crowd, Quinnan had reached Efraim’s
side and asked him a question; Efraim replied, and they were soon deep in what
appeared, from their gestures, to be a discussion of the techniques of moving
in hiding.

“And one day,” Fletcher continued, “I’ll just be a name in
someone’s line.” He rocked a bit in place, musing, Rowan rocking with him. “Some
poor fool will have to memorize me.”

“Some fool or fools,” Averryl amended.

Fletcher stopped in surprise. “Now, there’s an idea. With
some hard work, a little luck, and good timing, I could show up in twenty
different lines.”

The steerswoman interrupted his dreams of glory. “Please
wait until I leave the Outskirts to begin your campaign.”

He leaned down to her ear. “Ha. What you don’t know won’t
hurt you.

She played along. “But what I discover could prove to be
your undoing,” she said archly, then elbowed him in the stomach.

* * *

The next day, Rowan asked Efraim to repeat his line to her, so that
she might copy it into her logbook. The steerswoman found it first necessary
to explain to Efraim what writing was. She showed him examples and then
explained that only persons who could read would be able to discern the names
of his ancestors; and among Outskirters, only Fletcher and Bel had that skill.
Then she pointed out that the book itself would ultimately return to the Inner
Lands, where only steers-women in research would study it.

He agreed; Bel remained disapproving, purely on principle.

But between time spent traveling, Efraim’s new duties, and
the impossibility of Rowan writing and walking simultaneously, it took several
days for her to complete the written list of Efraim’s line. During his
dictation, Efraim was subject to not a few jibes from his new tribe-mates;
generally, Outskirters only spoke their full lines when joining the tribe as a
new member, as a new adult, or when comparing lineage with a person with whom
they wished to have children. Seizing this explanation, Fletcher made a great
pretense of jealousy, fooling no one but entertaining many.

“‘And Damita was first,’” Rowan finished one morning over
breakfast. She paused, then continued writing: Chanly, Gena, Alace, Sabine ...

Bel had been reading over Rowan’s shoulder as she worked. “What’s
that?” The Outskirter’s literacy was still tenuous.

“The line names. Those that I’ve heard.”

“There are only ten or so in this tribe,” Bel pointed out. “You’d
have to ask every new Outskirter you meet for his or her line. It would take
forever to get them all.”

Rowan sighed. “Yes.”

Efraim was interested. “The line names?”

“Yes,” Rowan said. “The names of all the first ancestors.”

“The foremothers.” Efraim nodded and composed himself. “Alace,
Amanda, Belinn, Bemadie—”

Rowan sat an instant with her jaw dropped, then dipped her
pen, rushing to keep pace.

“Carla, Carmen, Chanly, Corrinn,” Efraim continued. A few
people nearby turned puzzled glances and shifted closer to listen. “Debba,
Damita, Dian, Dollore—” When the list was finished, Rowan had in her possession
the names of one hundred and twelve women, each the first of the line that bore
her name.

Bel leaned toward Efraim, fascinated. “I’ve never heard
that.”

“It is ancient lore. We learn it with our lines.”

“Will you teach it to me?”

“Bel,” the steerswoman said, “look at this.”

The Outskirter puzzled over the writing, her finger
following the air over the wet ink. She paused, and smiled. “There’s my line:
Chanly.”

“But can you see how it’s organized?”

Bel shook her head.

“This list,” Rowan said, “is in nearly perfect alphabetical
order.”

Bel traced along the list, singing under her breath a little
tune Rowan had taught her, the one Inner Landers used to remind themselves of
the correct order of letters. “Yes ... I see it.”

Rowan sat back, thinking. “When we first arrived in this
tribe, Kester told me that at one time Outskirters wrote. I had decided that he
was mistaken, or boasting.” Kester was dead; Rowan resolved to ask other
mertutials, at the next opportunity.

Bel’s fingers had stopped. “What’s that one?”

“Lessa. It’s the only one out of sequence, in among the M’s.”
She looked at Efraim, speculatively. “Is it always said that way? ‘Marta,
Maryan, Lessa, Mourah?’ It seems more logical that Lessa begin with a different
sound.” She demonstrated: “Mmm ...”

He repeated the noise, held it, and the name evolved. “Malessa,”
he said then, definitely. “There was a man of my old tribe, whose grandmother
was brought from another tribe. He was of Lessa line, but always he said it ‘Malessa.’
He grew angry when we disagreed.”

Rowan dipped her pen, then wrote the new name in the cramped
margin above the old. Then she crossed it out. “It’s still wrong ...” With her
eyes narrowed in thought, she wrote: Melessa, then crossed out again, rewrote
it. “Melissa,” she said. “That’s a common name in the Inner Lands.” She scanned
the list again. Some of the names were already acceptable Inner Lands names;
some became recognizable with slight alteration; others remained entirely
strange. “Chanly ...” Rowan mused. “I wonder what that used to be ...”

Bel was not pleased. “‘Used to be’?”

“Yes.” Rowan looked up at her companion and indicated the
book with the blunt end of her pen. “Outskirters once wrote, perhaps a thousand
years ago. And people’s names from that time, given the natural alterations
from being handed down orally across the centuries—those names are not much
different from Inner Lands names. Long ago, your people and mine were one. You
came from the Inner Lands.”

Bel was definite. “No.”

Rowan tapped the book. “Here’s the proof. Writing isn’t
useful in the Outskirts; you need paper, you accumulate books. That’s useless
baggage to a wandering people. You keep books when you have a place to keep
them, a home.”

“We’ve always been in the Outskirts.”

“The Outskirts were once much closer to the Inner Lands.”
Efraim spoke up. “We are the first people.”

“Outskirters were the first human beings,” Bel confirmed. “And
how do you know that?”

Bel became even more annoyed at this doubting of her people’s
truths. She said, using the phrase Efraim had used, “It is ancient lore.”

Rowan was too interested in the facts at hand to be
concerned about insulting her friend. “Lore changes,” she said, “across years,
from mouth to ear, the way the names of your foremothers altered.” She thought
a moment. It was Outskirter lore that had provided her these clues; perhaps
Outskirter lore could provide yet more. “How do you believe humankind originated?”

Bel was suspicious. “There are different legends. They don’t
agree, but they all say something true, in different ways.”

“Legends such as?”

Bel thought. “The gods became lonely and created the first
humans as company. But the humans wanted to be equal to the gods, so the gods
turned against them.”

Rowan smiled. “Fletcher would recognize that one; it’s not
much different from the Christer version. A legend from the Inner Lands. Tell
another.”

Bel was reluctant to cooperate in the undermining of her culture’s
beliefs. “Across time, some animals grew more intelligent, and eventually
changed into people.”

“I’ve heard that one, as well. Bel, think of the wood gnomes.”