She placed Tomaz back amongst the furs and drew out a piece of silk that she’d filched from one of the traders at the great clan meet. ‘See, this comes all the way from the Arab lands, where they have no trees and the sun beats down hot enough to break rocks at noonday.’
‘Thirteen summers old,’ Katchka mumbled, as she pulled her sleeping skins over her, ‘and still she wears her hair unbraided like a child.’
Iwa gave the old woman a hard look but didn’t bother to reply. She’d always liked the traders’ stories about the snowy Lappish wastes, where strange mages communed with dreadful deities who came to them in the shape of birds with wings of fire that burned green across the sky so that night became bright as day. Or the Saxon lands where people talked in strange tongues so that none could understand their gibberish. The traders called them ‘the nemcy’, which in the language of the clans meant ‘the mute’.
But it was the tales of far-flung Byzantium, where the god-emperor sat on a golden throne that could see into the hearts and minds of men that she loved the most and, at the clan meet, she was always careful to seek out any who looked like they had a tale or two to tell.
Now the traders had begun to tell other stories, of the peoples of the fields and the Polish lords who feasted in high halls and fought each other with axes and swords. She’d never had much time for those. Who wants to hear of war and death when there are stories about birds of fire, or veiled women who dance around a golden throne? And anyway, who had ever heard of a land without trees? It was as strange as the Moorish sands or the Lappish snow. The forest extended forever, right to the very ends of the earth, everyone knew that. There was no such thing as the steppe, such things could not exist.
Except that it was harder to hear any of the good stories now. The reach of the Polish lords had surrounded the mountains and the traders could talk of little else. They all spoke the same language and most of the goods the traders bought were from the towns of the Poles, though they paid in Arab coin and sometimes brought things from farther off. Katchka even had a pot decorated in far off Chola, the land that lay at the far edges of the world. She’d kept that for the most dangerous herbs, banewort cut with a silvered blade at the height of the full moon or foxglove from the deepest forest.
Not that Iwa was allowed near it all that often. The light gleamed from the polished bronze so that the figures carved around it shimmered and appeared to dance. It must have been ancient, old as the great oaks by the river, there were so many dents and scrapes but that only added to its power. ‘This is a lucky pot,’ the old woman would mutter to herself as she crushed the herbs into it. ‘But be careful, for I do not think it takes to the touch of strangers. Only those who have earned its trust can use it and it does not give its trust easily.’ Then she’d wipe the side with the hem of her gown before pouring out the mixture. ‘She is not to be used lightly and if you do not show the proper respect. Perhaps some spirit lives in it. I’ve glimpsed something in the light of the noonday sun.’
‘If only the traders could tell some good stories,’ Iwa murmured to herself. She’d always liked the great clan meet, when the traders would paddle their way up the great river. All the clans would gather in their camps along the shore. There were the Fox Cub and the Salmon. From deeper in the forest would come the Bear Claw and the Eagle clan, though they often left early to hunt in the mountains. Her people were the Bison Grass clan. Since the beginning of all things they’d followed the herds through the forest, hunting elk and deer. They had their god, Karnobog, who lived in the body of a dead bison, which the clan would carry through the forest on a giant litter. Sometimes the god would need a new body to live in and a great feast would be had. That was the only time the clan hunted bison.
‘There now,’ Iwa said, as Tomaz reached for the silk. At first she’d hated the child. ‘What do I know about babies?’ she’d pleaded as Katchka handed him over, a tiny pink bundle wrapped in otter skin.
‘His mother died in childbirth same as yours,’ Katchka replied stiffly as she made the sign to ward off evil. Already the runes of protection had been dyed across his forehead and woven into the skins, lest some Boginki would come in the night and swap him for an Odmieńce or one of the other changelings.
But, over the months, the baby had grown on Iwa. Now she whispered a lullaby and saw him giggle. Around her the pictures on the tent shimmered, the sacred runes dyed deep into the fabric. The form of the bison danced amongst the figures of men and the images of flowers and the sacred bison grass.
Then she froze, the song dead on her lips. A shadow moved across the skins as the wind picked up. ‘Something’s wrong,’ she gasped, as she held the baby to her. But all outside was still, even the voices of the hunters had died away.
Painted deep across the fabric of their tent the outline of a thin blade of bison grass shimmered as the wind rippled across the tent, the colours iridescent in the gloom. Then she knew
