Other Earths Part 7

"You mean that for three days she lay between . . ." The woman on the porch steps moved, and the tufts caught in her dress floated away over the gra.s.s. "I'm surprised the child is alive." Her voice was not frightened. There was another word for it, perhaps angry, or tired, or-the inchworm stretched and hunched up to the next step.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Mrs. Mad'r."

But already she was climbing the porch steps, and Miss Martin was behind her, bending to pick up the handkerchief, and the hand on her shoulder belonged to the woman on the porch, who was wearing a turban on her head, like Imre when he hid in the Turkish camp, and whose voice was neither tired nor angry as she said, "Drink this." And the pillow smelled like gra.s.s.

In one corner of the room was a spider. Her grandmother had kept a spider in one corner of the apartment, because spiderwebs caught good fortune. A house with a spider would always have good fortune in it.

"I'm glad you're awake," said Mrs. Mada'r. "Will you take some broth?"

It tasted like her grandmother's mushroom soup. The mushrooms were gathered by moonlight . . .

"No, child. I want you to pay attention. Can you tell me your name?"

The spider let itself down from its web and dangled in the corner. A crack ran across the ceiling, from the spiderweb to the window.

"Do you remember the train ride? Being in the airplane? Leaving Budapest?"

Outside the window she could see a tree. One of its branches tapped against the gla.s.s.

"Listen, then. I'm going to tell you a story. This happened long ago, on the sh.o.r.es of the Volga, a great river. Along the sh.o.r.es of this river grew groves of oak and alder, birch and willow. And among those groves lived the Daughters of the Moon."

Harsfa's Story "I wish we were dead," said Ha'rsfa. She sat on a rock covered with moss and shaded by an oak tree. The river was green under the tree's shadow, and it flowed so slowly that she could see its branches and leaves reflected. In a hundred years, those reflections would not have changed. The oak tree would still be there.

"Hush," said Ny'rfa, applying another wet leaf to H'rsfa's forehead. "When you move, it begins bleeding again. And who would lead our sisters, if we were-" The words hovered in the air between them, like a dragonfly. Dead, like Tlgy. Tolgy of the light foot, like foam floating on the water. Tlgy of the wise words, as slow as the river and as filled with shining things: silver fish, stones with veins of crystal, laughter. Tolgy, the eldest and best. Lying at the center of the village with blood on her tunic, as though she were covered with leaves.

Awkwardly, because Ny'rfa was still holding the leaf, Ha'rsfa wiped her cheeks with one hand. "Where would we lead them? We've never known anywhere but here." Her fingers were pale green with blood and tears. "Why can't things be the way they were before?"

Ny'rfa sat down beside her. "Hold this now."

Ha'rsfa held the leaf to her temple. "Do you remember the milk?" Left by the villagers in hollow stones. When their mother was shining in the sky like a silver egg, all of the sisters would leave the forest to drink and dance in the pastures, among the silent sheep. Sometimes the villagers left wool, which the sisters spun on wooden spindles and wove into winter coats. In return they left walnuts and baskets woven from willow branches.

Ny'rfa stared at the river. Was she also thinking of its permanence, its peace? "All I remember now is the village burning. The screams, Ha'rsfa. And the blood. And the swords of the Hors.e.m.e.n." She sat so still that H'rsfa was afraid she had been injured and was bearing the pain in silence. But when H'rsfa touched her hand where it lay clenched on the moss, she said, "Tlgy wasn't the only one. I saw Boro'ka fallen, and Ibolya didn't come back with us. There, I said if you moved, it would bleed again."

"I wish we had stayed in the forest! If we hadn't been picking flax in the meadow and smelled the burning-"

Ny'rfa put a hand on her shoulder. "I told you, you must stay still."

"Tlgy was wrong to lead us into the battle. The villagers could have fought the Hors.e.m.e.n alone. They would have lost just the same. They're not warriors, any more than we are."

"H'rsfa, you don't mean that. How could we abandon them? Think of what they have given us, and some of them-are our children. Here, cry on my shoulder if you have to."

"Sometimes," said Mrs. Mada'r, putting a damp cloth on her forehead, "when the Daughters of the Moon danced in the pastures, one found a shepherd sleeping among his sheep. If he was handsome in the way of the village people, with black lashes fluttering against his cheeks like wings, she would wake him and lead him into the forest, where she would lie with him on a bed of ferns and mosses. If a child was born with skin that was paler than the brown skin of the villagers, with hair as green as leaves and eyes like the pools of the forest, which reflect the leaves above, it was left at the edge of the village. The villagers would care for it, because it was considered fortunate to have a grandchild of the Moon. There, it would grow to become a poet or perhaps a prophet, which were much the same thing in those days. But it could never sew, or fish, or hunt, because the touch of needle or hook or knife would burn it like fire." She felt a hand on her cheek. "Are you more comfortable now?"

"Let me wash your face a little. Is that better? We have to go back to the cave. Our sisters need us to be strong for them, Ha'rsfa. As Tolgy would have been."

Ha'rsfa dried her face with the edge of her tunic, leaving streaks like gra.s.s stains on the fabric, and stood. "I think I'm ready."

Suddenly, Ny'rfa screamed. H'rsfa saw a flash, like a fish leaping from the water-no, a sword at her sister's throat. Then H'rsfa felt her own throat burning like fire from the touch of a knife. They were surrounded by Hors.e.m.e.n.

The Hors.e.m.e.n wore leather boots to the knees and leather tunics. Their coa.r.s.e black hair was tied back with strips of leather. They smelled of sweat and horses. One, whose hair was braided with red wool, tied strips of leather around her wrists. He touched the wound on her head and then her hair, with a look of wonder. Then he led her, stumbling after Ny'rfa, through the forest.

The village also smelled of horses and blood. Women in tunics of red wool were taking what remained from the burned houses: sacks of grain, carved bowls, beds stuffed with straw. They stared at Ny'rfa and Ha'rsfa, and one made a sign over her forehead. A child playing with a wooden spoon began to cry and hid his head in her skirts.

There was blood on the earth, churned by the hooves of the horses. Ha'rsfa felt her stomach turn. Would she be sick, right here before the Hors.e.m.e.n? The man with red wool braided into his hair touched her arm. He tapped himself on the chest and said, "Magyar." How could Ny'rfa walk before her so calmly, like the river, so straight, like a fir in the Northern Mountains? Then she noticed that Ny'rfa's hands were clenched so tightly that the nails must be leaving new moons on her palms. What had he said, that his name was Magyar? Afraid, she pulled away from him.

At the center of the village, horses tied to what had once been doorposts stamped and snorted. Hors.e.m.e.n cleaned their swords, or ate bread and dried meat, or played with bones that were marked with red lines. They shook the bones in their hands, then let them fall to the earth. Each fall of the bones was followed by laughter and exchange: knives, horsehair bridles, a ring. By a burned wall sat the villagers, their wrists and ankles bound with leather strips. They looked at Ny'rfa and H'rsfa with frightened eyes. How many of them were left? she wondered. Here and there, she saw a face that was paler than the others, hair that was tinged with green. She and her sisters had never known the villagers well. Perhaps, she thought, we should have known them better.

On a carved stool sat a man with a ragged scar across his face, from his left eye to the right corner of his mouth, like lightning. Magyar gestured toward Ny'rfa and H'rsfa, then spoke in the Hors.e.m.e.n's language. The bones stopped clicking and the Hors.e.m.e.n stared at them.

"They are brothers, Hunyor and Magyar." Ha'rsfa turned. The man who had spoken was shorter than she was, balding and dressed in a frayed yellow tunic. "Do not be surprised. I speak many languages: Attic, Phrygian, barbaroi."

"You are not one of these Hors.e.m.e.n," said Ny'rfa.

The man chuckled and thumped his chest. "I am Demas. Father was merchant, captured by barbaroi. I was small boy." He held out his hand at his waist, to show how small.

Hunyor rose and spoke in a voice as rough as bark. So close to him, she could see that he resembled Magyar; they both had broad foreheads and noses that curved like the beaks of hawks.

Demas replied, gesturing toward the clouds above, the forest around them. "Hunyor asks, are women with hair like leaves ghosts? I say, they are spirits of trees, daughters of Forest G.o.ddess. My father taught me: dryads, hamadryads."

"Can you ask them what will happen to the villagers?"

Demas' face wrinkled in an anxious smile. He shook his head, as though unsure what Ny'rfa had asked him. She pointed to the villagers. "Those people."

Demas spread his hands, as though the answer were evident. "Slaves."

"What about our sisters?" asked H'rsfa. It was the first time she had spoken, and the sound of her voice frightened her. So many Hors.e.m.e.n staring, and Magyar staring at her with an intensity she did not understand. "Women like us, with hair like leaves."

"Ha'rsfa, you're bleeding again," said Ny'rfa. She raised her bound hands, but Magyar was there already. He tore a strip from the edge of his tunic, wet it from the waterskin at his waist, and cleaned Ha'rsfa's wound, holding her chin to keep her face steady. His eyes, she noticed, were brown, and ringed with black lashes. She swayed for a moment, but when he reached out to steady her, she held on to Ny'rfa.

"Hunyor says two are dead. He says, if you are daughters of Forest G.o.ddess, then show him." Demas looked up at Ny'rfa, anxiously. "You can show him?"

What was the penalty, Ha'rsfa wondered, for failing to prove that one was a spirit of the trees? She looked at Hunyor's face, as expressionless as a rock. Then she looked at Magyar and saw the answer in his eyes. There was only one penalty among the Hors.e.m.e.n.

"If only our brother were here," she whispered to Ny'rfa before she swayed and fell.

"Try to sit up," said Mrs. Mad'r. "Let me move the pillow. There." She felt the blankets being arranged around her. "Would you like me to open the window?" She heard the sash being raised, but she did not turn her head to look. A breeze blew through the open window. It smelled of rain.

"Once, the Moon looked down upon the hills of Anatolia and saw a shepherd lying in a meadow. She loved him, but the love of the Moon is dangerous to mortals, so she poured a potion made of the meadow poppies into his eyes so he would sleep for thirty years. Each of those years, she bore him a daughter, and when that daughter was weaned she placed her in a willow basket, which she set floating on the river Volga. The first of those baskets was found by women washing clothes on the riverbank, who took the child and raised her in their village. She was called Tlgy, which in English means Oak. Did you learn English in school? Did you understand Anne Martin, when she spoke to you?"

She nodded, still without looking at Mrs. Mad'r.

"Would you like something to drink?"

She nodded again, and Mrs. Mada'r poured water from a pitcher into a cup. Both were made of a thick, green gla.s.s with bubbles in it.

"The Daughters of the Moon grow quickly. When the second of those baskets floated down the river, Tolgy carried her sister Bor'ka into the forest, where she raised her among the groves of oak and alder, birch and willow, with foxes and owls for companions. And so with all the Daughters of the Moon. But after thirty years the shepherd woke, to find that his friends no longer remembered him, that he had lost the shining woman who came to him in dreams, and that he could no longer sleep. He spent the rest of his life consulting doctors and magicians, drinking medicines and potions, anything that would allow him to sleep again. But he died with his eyes open. The year after the shepherd she had loved woke, the Moon bore a son, the White Stag, and when the stag was weaned, she set him down on the bank of the Volga, where he was raised by his sisters. But being a stag, it was his nature to roam, and he often left to wander the slopes of the Northern Mountains. Yes? I thought you said something. Perhaps you're wondering what happened to Ny'rfa and Ha'rsfa. Well, I'll tell you."

Ha'rsfa lay in Ny'rfa's arms. No, they were Magyar's, and Ny'rfa was standing beside her, looking up at the sky.

"Oh, Mother," she heard Ny'rfa whisper, "if your arms tightened around us as you lowered us into the baskets, if one tear of yours mingled with the river before you sent us floating away from you to live among the trees of the forest, help me now."

The clouds shifted above them, gray and white, like floating mountains. Then something flashed in the sky, and Ny'rfa shrieked, a high, piercing sound. The Hors.e.m.e.n covered their ears, and even Hunyor stepped back, startled, kicking the stool so that it toppled onto its side. Something shrieked in response and hurled itself from the sky, like lightning. A falcon, as gray and white as the clouds, perched on Ny'rfa's shoulder. It turned its head, glaring at the Hors.e.m.e.n.

Ny'rfa glared at them as fiercely, but H'rsfa saw that her hands were trembling. The falcon had dug its claws into her shoulder, and a stain was spreading from her shoulder down the front of her tunic. Instinctively, wanting to help, she reached her hands, aching now from the leather that bound them, toward her sister. But there was another way.

"Let me stand," she whispered to Magyar, and gestured as well as she could so he would understand. More gently than she had expected, he helped her to her feet, keeping one arm around her. "Oh, Mother," she whispered, "let me show what you gave your daughters when you mingled your blood with that of a mortal."

She held her hands over the mud, and so low that the Hors.e.m.e.n heard it only because they had been still since the falcon's scream, she made the sound of wind blowing through the meadow: "Shhhhhhh . . ."

Green stems rose from the mud, developed leaves, flowered. Magyar bent down to touch the gra.s.ses that were spreading around them, the small blue flowers of flax. Then he spoke to Hunyor, and Hunyor answered. Magyar spoke again, pointing to the falcon on Ny'r-fa's shoulder.

Ha'rsfa turned to Demas. "What are they saying?"

Demas stroked the gra.s.ses with wonder and said, "Magyar wants to have you for wife. He says Hunyor should take your sister. He says it is lucky, marrying daughters of G.o.ddess. Many tribes of barbaroi are coming from mountains to north. With luck, this tribe will win battles, find land."

"Many tribes?" said Ny'rfa. The falcon clutched her shoulder more tightly, glaring at Ha'rsfa with golden eyes. "Oh, my sisters, what will happen to you when those other tribes come?" She raised her hands to her face. For the first time, Ha'rsfa realized, she looked defeated. The falcon sprang into the air and flapped its wings.

H'rsfa thought of her sisters, binding their wounds in the cave by the riverbank, waiting for her and Ny'rfa to return. They were not warriors. Suddenly she said, "Let our sisters come here! Demas, tell Hunyor there are many daughters of the G.o.ddess, twenty-five, maybe twenty-six more. Tell him we will bring him luck, we will call birds from the air, make his crops grow. Tell him, oh, tell him anything!"

"H'rsfa, no!" said Ny'rfa. "How can we live with these barbarians?"

But Demas had already spoken. H'rsfa could feel Magyar's arm tighten around her. Hunyor stood silent while the Hors.e.m.e.n waited for his decision. H'rsfa heard the falcon shriek high above them. She looked up and watched him circle once over the village, then fly off toward the west.

Hunyor walked to Ny'rfa and stood before her, then held out his hands. Slowly, reluctantly, she put her hands in his. He spoke, a single word, then untied the leather from her wrists. Ny'rfa pointed to the villagers. "Them too," she said. "Untie them too."

Magyar clutched Ha'rsfa's shoulder and shouted with triumph. He turned to Demas and said- "This is your tribe," Demas translated. "This is your home." And through her tears, H'rsfa saw that the Hors.e.m.e.n were untying the villagers' hands.

"So Ny'rfa and H'rsfa married Hunyor and Magyar. They learned the language of their husbands, and took names in that language. Ny'rfa became Tunde, and Ha'rsfa became Csilla. Be careful, you'll spill your water. Is your name Tnde, then?"

She shook her head.

"Csilla? Welcome to my house, Csilla. You've been very brave, like a Daughter of the Moon."

Csilla put the cup on the table beside the bed. "What happened then?" Her voice sounded hoa.r.s.e, like a rusted lock.

"The Daughters of the Moon married Hors.e.m.e.n, except for Ibolya, who became a healer, collecting and studying the plants of the countries they traveled through. They traveled west, following the falcon's flight, which the Hors.e.m.e.n had taken for an omen. Finally, they settled in the lands about the river Danube. Their children played with the children of the tribe, and those children's pale faces, their hair as green as the leaves of the forest, were seen as signs of luck, the blessing of the Forest G.o.ddess. But they could not touch metal, and they would not eat meat. So the tribesmen called them the Tnde'r, after Tnde who had married Hunyor, which means the Fairy Folk, and always regarded them as different from themselves."

A sparrow was singing in the linden tree outside the window. Csilla could identify the tree by its heart-shaped leaves. Her father had taught her the shapes of all the leaves . . . But she did not want to think about her father.

Sunlight had dried the rain. The linden was in flower, and its scent filled the room. She was sitting up in bed, leaning against the pillows, listening to the sparrow. How cool the pillows were, how clear the sunlight.

She whistled, a tune like the sparrow's song, and it stopped to listen to her, then hopped down to the windowsill, and onto the table, and onto the finger she held out for it.

"Like Tunde," said Mrs. Mada'r, standing in the doorway. The sparrow, startled, whistled and flew out the window. "Do you think you can eat some cuc.u.mber salad?"

Csilla nodded.

"I made it with just a bit of sour cream."

"My grandmother always said it was best with sour cream," said Csilla.

"Well, I'm glad to hear I made it like your grandmother! Here, take these." Mrs. Mad'r handed her a napkin folded around two slices of brown bread, a wooden bowl filled with cuc.u.mber salad, and a wooden spoon. She sat down beside the bed in a carved wooden chair.

When Csilla had eaten the cuc.u.mber salad and both slices of bread, Mrs. Mad'r said, "Can you talk about it now?"

Csilla shook the breadcrumbs from her napkin onto the table and whistled. The sparrow flew through the window and landed on the table. He picked up as many of the crumbs as he could, tilted his head to look at her, then flew off again.

"He'll be back," said Mrs. Mada'r. "I think he has a family. There's a nest in the linden tree, and several days ago I saw brown heads poking out of it. I think there's a Mrs. Sparrow and some young sparrows waiting for him." She paused, then said, "Csilla-"

"My father sent me away! And I had to lie in the bottom of a car, and that woman only let me out at night, and I thought I was going to die. And then on the airplane and in the train I wished I had died. I wish I were dead now." Csilla covered her face with her hands. The tears that she had not cried, not since her father had told her, "You have to leave Budapest-as quickly as possible, Csillike," came now. She shook with them, violently, like a tree in a storm. Then, suddenly, she felt a wave of nausea, and the bread and cuc.u.mber salad were no longer sitting quietly in her stomach- "That's all right," said Mrs. Mada'r. "I can wash the blanket. But you have to stay quiet, very quiet for a while. You're still sick from the metal in the car. Helga tried to protect you as well as she could with blankets, but remember that you breathed in metal for three days. It will be a while before you feel well again." She took the blanket from the bed and put it in a heap on the floor.

"I could have helped him!" said Csilla, wiping her mouth with the napkin, ashamed of herself. "I was helping him. Why did he have to send me away?"

She could feel Mrs. Mada'r's hand on her arm. "I'm sure he sent you away because he loved you."

Csilla turned to look at her, furious. "How do you know! You don't know anything about him, or me! Who are you, anyway? Who are all of you, you and Helga and that woman who brought me here, who squeaks like a mouse?"

Mrs. Mada'r reached up and unwrapped the turban around her head. Her hair fell down around her. Green as leaves.

"Oh," said Csilla. For a moment, she could not speak. Then she said, "Not even my grandmother's hair was as green as yours, and my father says she had more Tunde'r blood in her than anyone in Hungary. That's where it comes from, doesn't it? From the Daughters of the Moon?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Mad'r. "My hair and yours, although you don't have quite as much of the Tunder blood as your grandmother. Your mother was not one of the Tunder, was she?"

"No," said Csilla. "She died when I was only a baby. And then my grandmother died last year, and now Papa . . ."