Waterborn

line, a proud fine horse, dun with fierce red stripes the color of dried blood on his neck.

'Henyi, give your brother a rest. He needs the finest of our horses.'

Both brothers turned at the new voice.

'Hello, Mother,' they said, nearly in unison.

'Henyi, the chickens need feed. See to it, please.'

Perkar lowered his head, ostensibly to tighten the packs on the mare. In fact, he was avoiding his mother's troubled gaze.

'There is no need to do this, Masati,' she said.

Perkar grimaced, worked harder at the packs. 'It is bad luck to call a man his childhood name when he seeks Piraku.'

She snorted, and Perkar looked at her for the first time. Her auburn hair was bound in three tight braids, and she wore her tall felt hat, the one that signified her marriage to Sherye. A hawk feather fluttered from the top tassel. She was dressed to send her son off to war.

'You seek Piraku too far away, son. It can be found much closer to home.'

'I can't find it here.'

'Because you are foolish; for no other reason.'

'Father said…' Perkar began, but she cut him short with a humorless little laugh.

'Oh, I heard the two of you last night, heads full of woti and silliness. Talking about grand adventures and sword fights. But tonight, Perkar, your father will come to me. He will come to me, and he will not weep, but he will lay his head against my breast. He will not sleep.'

Perkar heaved a deep sigh. 'I cannot live with him forever. He knows that.'

'The Kapaka is a reckless man, and he chooses reckless companions. Your father knows that, too.'

Perkar answered that with a shrug only. His mother watched him tighten the already tight packs.

'They will be here soon, Mother. It will be unseemly if you are standing close enough to nurse me. They will think me less a man than they already do.'

'The tower man will announce their coming. Plenty of time for me to move up onto the porch.'

He nodded reluctantly. He was beginning to feel silly checking the packs. He drew his sword out, wiped it with a cleaning rag. The morning sun glinted from it.

'Four generations, but my son is the one to be ruined by her,' his mother muttered.

'I don't want to talk about this,' Perkar said, and his tone was stringent enough that she actually winced.

'Well. Well,' she said.

He put the sword away, looked up to the tower man. He was gazing impassively off toward the road.

'Listen, Perkar. You men run about seeking Piraku, finding it, stealing it. Killing each other for it. My only Piraku is you, you and your brother. Do you understand that? If both of you die before me, I will have nothing. Do you see? So you must take care of yourself.' Her voice trembled a bit; Perkar had never seen her cry—or even come this close.

'Here,' she said. She was offering him something; a little wooden charm. 'This is from the oak tree you were named for,' she confided. 'Right near where I buried your caul. Tuck it away somewhere, where the other men won't see it.'

'Mother…'

'Son. Each of them will have something like this. They will just hide it, as you will. No man leaves without something from his mother.'

'I have much more than this from you,' he said softly.

'I'm glad you believe so,' she answered.

'Kapakapane,' the tower man shouted. The king is coming.

'Hurry, Mother.'

She turned and walked quickly up to the big porch. She was very small, his mother, as fine as a little bird. Now he had to fight back tears.

Be a man, he thought to himself. But everyone seemed to think being a man meant something different. Women, for instance, seemed to have very confused ideas about it.

Out at the gate, there was a clatter of hooves, growing louder.

 

 

The Kapaka wasted no time setting off. The men praised each others' horses; Perkar grinned from ear to ear when the Kapaka spoke of Mang. Mang, at least, was his. During all of this Ngangata—the halfling—was silent. He sat impassively astride a coal-black mare, an ugly creature, thick of leg. Perkar suspected that the horse, like Ngangata himself, was half wild. Still, he was too excited to think much on the half Alwa and his rudeness. The morning fairly gleamed, honey light dribbled over a fresh green landscape, birds sang. The cattle watched them impassively as they made their way out across the pastures, following the road off and away from his father's holdings. His one moment of sadness, early on that ride, was the glimpse of the tree line that hid the Stream, the goddess that he loved. They did not cross her, however, but passed on west. They did stop at the pasture shrine and offer tallow to the old forest spirit; Perkar was pleased at the precise and fine manner in which the Kapaka made his offering. That even such an important man as he took the time to honor the ties forged by his ancestors.

His companions were the same five who had come to the damakuta before. Apad—the dark-haired man his own age— seemed the most talkative of the lot. He rode a double arm's length from him.

'We shall have fine lands like these, my friend,' he told Perkar.

'Our grandchildren, perhaps,' Perkar answered. 'My father says that it takes many years and much hard work to create such beautiful pastures. In my grandfather's day, they say, this was mostly burned stumps and weeds.'

'Just so,' Apad gave back cheerfully. 'This land is like a worn shoe; there is nothing better to wear. But we shall make our own shoes.' Perkar was wondering if Apad were joking about his name, which meant simply 'shoe,' but decided not to ask. People were often sensitive about their names.

'How I shall work!' Apad went on. 'I will bet all of you now—bet you a fine steer—that I will clear more of my land in my lifetime than any of you!'

Eruka tossed back his straw-blond hair and glanced back over his shoulder at them. 'Apad bets you a steer he doesn't even own.'

'Yet,' Apad said, waggling a finger at his friend.

'Hmm,' Eruka replied.

'Eruka fears to take me up on the bet,' Apad confided to Perkar—loudly.

Eruka shrugged. 'Clearing land is hard work. I'll be happy enough to clear what I need.'

'Or have your wife clear it,' Apad said, an exaggerated sneer that was plainly meant good-naturedly—as opposed to as a deadly insult.

The Kapaka—up ahead with Ngangata and Atti, the older man with the thick red braids—cleared his throat. 'It's a fine thing to plan,' he cautioned. 'Remember only that the Forest Lord may or may not give his word.'

'Of course, of course,' Apad replied. He winked at Perkar.

'You, Atti, will you take my bet?'

The braided man turned only slightly in his saddle. He had a habit of gazing all about him, all of the time—he never settled on looking at a single thing. 'A useless sort of bet,' he replied. 'If we judge how much we have cleared by the end of our lives, what use will the winner have for a steer?'

'Well, fine, we can change the wager a bit. Let us say, then, whichever of us has the most pasture by the age of fifty.'

Atti snorted. 'That gives you many more years of chopping trees than I would have. Thirty to my ten. I might still win, though, against your soft valley hands.'

Apad hooted. 'We shall see, wild man from the hills! Will you use a broken stone to chop those trees, like your Alwat friends?'

Perkar saw the frown cross Atti's face before he turned forward again. Ngangata—had the jab actually been