Part 2 (1/2)
The other men in the tribe would expect her to make the presentation at their huts, but Darak and Ennit always waited together outside the birthing hut, in fair weather and foul. This was the first time Ennit had to keep vigil alone; Darak had been confident he'd be back from the Gathering before the birth.
As tradition dictated, she held the babe out to Ennit. ”I bring you Lisula's daughter.”
Only when the man took the newborn was the child acknowledged as his. Ennit immediately stretched out his hands for the squalling babe, cradling her in the crook of his arm with the ease that bespoke many years of practice.
”I accept my daughter, Mother Griane.” He peered down at her. ”She's beautiful.”
Griane smiled. Ennit said that every time. And every time, the same foolish grin softened his homely features. The little shepherd was a treasure. Father and mother both to his children, for the babe would remain with Lisula only until she was weaned. After that, she would live with Ennit and the other children.
Hard enough to be separated from Darak while he attended the Gathering; she could not imagine living apart from him. She shot a quick glance at the lake, but the only coracles she spied belonged to the fishermen.
”He's not due home till the morrow, Griane.”
The telltale heat flooded her cheeks again. Why did her face have to be as transparent as water?
”Let me have the child. She's hungry.”
”Is that it?” With obvious reluctance, Ennit relinquished his daughter, but he couldn't resist drawing his hand across the dark fuzz on her head. ”I was afraid my ugly face scared her.”
”Oh, hush. You're not ugly. You're not handsome, but you're not ugly.”
Ennit laid his hand over his heart. ”Ah, Griane. I always wondered how Darak remained humble in the face of his accomplishments. Now I know.”
”Get back to your sheep before they fall off Eagles Mount.”
”Conn'll mind them. And Trian,” he added as an afterthought.
At fourteen, Conn was already more responsible than his uncle. A strange a.s.sortment of brothers had come out of that womb-Gortin so dour, Ennit dour of face but merry of heart, dreamy Trian. And Pol, of course. A blessing when his spirit had finally flown to the Forever Isles. Neither Mother Netal nor Struath had been able to heal the poor lad after the ram kicked him in the head.
”How is Conn? I've hardly seen him since the lambing began.”
”Tired. Happy. Lambing time's always busy. But the newborns are sweet.” Ennit cast a fond look at his daughter. ”And Keirith?”
”I don't know. He's turned broody again.”
”It's a broody age. G.o.ds, I wouldn't be fourteen again for anything.”
”I wouldn't mind fifteen. Or sixteen.”
”Oh, aye.” He threw back his head and yowled.
Griane punched him. ”I'll give Lisula your love.”
”I'll do that myself. Lisula!”
Startled by his bellow, the babe began to wail again. Griane glared at Ennit and tried to soothe the poor mite.
”I love you, Lisula. As long as the sun rises and sets. As long as the moon waxes and wanes. As long as-”
”As long as you have breath to shout with,” Griane said, ”which will be forever, I'm sure. Now stop scaring the child.”
”I love you, too, you wonderful, silly man.” Lisula's answering shout made Ennit laugh. ”And I can't wait to get out of this stuffy hut and hold you in my arms again.”
”Well, you'll have to wait,” Griane replied. ”Seven days and seven nights. That's the law.”
”It's a stupid law,” Ennit muttered, then continued shouting endearments to Lisula.
Not so stupid, Griane thought. The law decreed that no man should touch or see a woman at the magical times of birthing and bleeding. Magical or not, those were the only times a woman was freed from the endless demands of work and family. The placing of the birthing hut near the fields to ensure the fertility of crops and women alike was only common sense. But the tradition that dictated both the birthing and moon huts be built within sight of the Death Hut . . .
A man surely invented that tradition, thinking to reinforce the endless circle of life, death, and rebirth, but totally oblivious to the feelings of the women who had to walk past the Death Hut to deliver their babes or celebrate their moon flow. She could still remember her rite of pa.s.sage, the women's chanting vying with the raucous croaks of the crows and ravens feasting on poor Giti. Even the spicy tang of the burning herbs had failed to disguise the sweet-rotten stench of his corpse.
Belatedly, she realized Ennit had ceased his shouting. ”What is it?” Then she heard the high, thin voice of a child. They both spun around, searching for the source of the cry. In the fields, women and girls straightened to do the same. In a tribe as small as theirs, everyone looked out for the safety of a child.
”Mam!”
Through the alders that screened the birthing hut from the lake, she glimpsed the small figure racing down the beach.
”Mam! They're coming!”
The children in the fields took up Callie's shout and surged toward the lake. The women dropped their bone spades and hurried after them. Other children, too young to be of help with the planting, scampered down the gentle slope from the village. Their mothers trailed behind, chattering, laughing, and pausing occasionally to dust off a toddler who stumbled and fell.
Peering through the alders, Griane spied the first coracles emerging from the narrow channel between Eagles Mount and Stag's Leap.
He's home.
”Ennit . . .”
”Go.”
She kissed his cheek, then remembered she was still holding the babe. Bethia ducked out of the hut and Griane quickly deposited the child in her arms. ”Tell Lisula I'll be back tonight. And tell Sali-”
”Go, Mother Griane. We can manage.”
Maker bless her. So calm, so capable. She'd make a fine Grain-Mother someday. And here she was, nearly ten years Bethia's senior and as fl.u.s.tered as a girl. It was unseemly. She hurried toward Callie, then abandoned decorum and ran.
”Fa's home!” His cheeks flushed with excitement, Callie seized her hand and pulled her toward the lake.
”You go. I want to change out of these clothes first.”
Callie's face screwed up in a frown as he studied her. She smoothed her untidy braid, rubbed a splotch of blood on the sleeve of her worn doeskin tunic, but there was no help for the patched skirt spattered with faded bloodstains that all the scrubbing in the world couldn't get out. You didn't wear your best clothes to a birthing, after all.
”But you look pretty.”
She pulled him close. Keirith was broody like his father and Faelia was just plain difficult-the G.o.ds only knew who she took after-but her baby had inherited his sweet nature from his uncle Tinnean.
Callie squirmed and pulled away. Her baby was six now, too old to endure his mother's fussing-in public, anyway.
”You go,” she repeated. ”I'll just be a moment.”
Callie rolled his eyes. He'd picked that up from Faelia. She was forever rolling her eyes and blowing out her breath in exasperation. Though never at her father, of course.