born.
Most of the dream dancers chided her for her climbing performance. Some frowned, but a few girls stood back, eyes aglow with admiration.
Two, a pair of twin sisters named Dove and Fawn Blossom, made hard faces. “She thinks she can do anything,” Dove said.
Her larger sister, Fawn, spat toward Father Mountain. “Stillshadow thinks your eyes are so wide. But look at the old woman’s face now! Did you see
this
trouble, Nameless?”
She hushed her voice as Stillshadow shuffled forward to face the girl. T’Cori gazed up at the old medicine woman. Despite Fawn’s words, T’Cori’s face gleamed with perspiration and joy. Would today be her naming day? Perhaps Stillshadow would even call her daughter! The thought thrilled her, for T’Cori loved Stillshadow with her whole heart.
The dream dancer extended her hand, palm up. “This is not a thing for women,” she said, voice thin with fury.
“But—”
“No!” The single word was very nearly a scream. “Look at me, girl! Feel my fire. What do you see?”
The happy expression on T’Cori’s face flattened, died. Never had T’Cori felt such anger from her mentor, and she fought the urge to turn, to run away. Instead, she crossed her eyes slightly, blurring her visual field. Instantly, Stillshadow’s
num
-fire appeared, spiked and burning red, the solid masses churning within proclaiming both age and anger. “I—I am sorry,” she began, but Stillshadow cut her off.
“Everything under the sky has its place, and that place is good. Do not seek to change what you do not understand. You have entertained your sisters and shamed the young hunters. Do you think that you make them stronger, braver, wiser by doing such things?”
“But, Mother—” she said, and then stopped herself. Only the medicine woman’s actual daughters were allowed to address her so.
The flat of Stillshadow’s palm cracked across the nameless girl’s cheek. Pain, bright and sharp, flared suddenly. Worse by far than the pain were the shame and humiliation, coming so soon after a moment of victory.
The crone’s face was set in stone. “Now I see why Great Mother denies you a name. There is none so low that you would not shame it.”
Tears started from T’Cori’s worshipful eyes. The crone’s hand reached out again, and the girl flinched. But instead of striking her, the wrinkled palm turned upward, and Stillshadow merely said: “The skin.”
The girl handed her the deerhide that she had taken from the top of the baobab tree, by rights the mark of her victory.
Stillshadow handed the skin to Raven. “Burn it,” she said. The old woman’s daughter, tall and graceful, her hair more beautifully braided than any other Ibandi woman’s, took the striped prize in her hands, bowed slightly, and without a backward glance walked toward the fire.
T’Cori tried to turn away, but Stillshadow’s hand fell on her shoulder. “And, girl,” the dream dancer said, voice flat and cold, “don’t call me mother.”
The nameless one sobbed as the crowd dispersed. Their initial amusement had transformed into shame, embarrassment and anger at the entire business. Even the young dream dancers who had cheered now echoed Stillshadow’s mood, sneering, unwilling or unable to remember that just moments ago their delight had been as great as hers.
Of all the mockery that Frog endured, beyond a doubt his sister Little Brook’s was the worst. “You beat your brothers but lose to a
girl
?” she asked, her voice like a sharp stone. “Just wait for the next time Uncle tells you to obey me. You won’t finish your chores until the moon sets.” Anger and shame sat in his belly like a stone, like a bad nut that he could not pass. His head knew that the emotions would eventually fade, but his heart said,
This is always. They will never let you forget.
That night, Stillshadow tossed and turned, struggling to find her way to the world of dreams. She regretted humiliating the nameless one.
Most of the dream dancers chided her for her climbing performance. Some frowned, but a few girls stood back, eyes aglow with admiration.
Two, a pair of twin sisters named Dove and Fawn Blossom, made hard faces. “She thinks she can do anything,” Dove said.
Her larger sister, Fawn, spat toward Father Mountain. “Stillshadow thinks your eyes are so wide. But look at the old woman’s face now! Did you see
this
trouble, Nameless?”
She hushed her voice as Stillshadow shuffled forward to face the girl. T’Cori gazed up at the old medicine woman. Despite Fawn’s words, T’Cori’s face gleamed with perspiration and joy. Would today be her naming day? Perhaps Stillshadow would even call her daughter! The thought thrilled her, for T’Cori loved Stillshadow with her whole heart.
The dream dancer extended her hand, palm up. “This is not a thing for women,” she said, voice thin with fury.
“But—”
“No!” The single word was very nearly a scream. “Look at me, girl! Feel my fire. What do you see?”
The happy expression on T’Cori’s face flattened, died. Never had T’Cori felt such anger from her mentor, and she fought the urge to turn, to run away. Instead, she crossed her eyes slightly, blurring her visual field. Instantly, Stillshadow’s
num
-fire appeared, spiked and burning red, the solid masses churning within proclaiming both age and anger. “I—I am sorry,” she began, but Stillshadow cut her off.
“Everything under the sky has its place, and that place is good. Do not seek to change what you do not understand. You have entertained your sisters and shamed the young hunters. Do you think that you make them stronger, braver, wiser by doing such things?”
“But, Mother—” she said, and then stopped herself. Only the medicine woman’s actual daughters were allowed to address her so.
The flat of Stillshadow’s palm cracked across the nameless girl’s cheek. Pain, bright and sharp, flared suddenly. Worse by far than the pain were the shame and humiliation, coming so soon after a moment of victory.
The crone’s face was set in stone. “Now I see why Great Mother denies you a name. There is none so low that you would not shame it.”
Tears started from T’Cori’s worshipful eyes. The crone’s hand reached out again, and the girl flinched. But instead of striking her, the wrinkled palm turned upward, and Stillshadow merely said: “The skin.”
The girl handed her the deerhide that she had taken from the top of the baobab tree, by rights the mark of her victory.
Stillshadow handed the skin to Raven. “Burn it,” she said. The old woman’s daughter, tall and graceful, her hair more beautifully braided than any other Ibandi woman’s, took the striped prize in her hands, bowed slightly, and without a backward glance walked toward the fire.
T’Cori tried to turn away, but Stillshadow’s hand fell on her shoulder. “And, girl,” the dream dancer said, voice flat and cold, “don’t call me mother.”
The nameless one sobbed as the crowd dispersed. Their initial amusement had transformed into shame, embarrassment and anger at the entire business. Even the young dream dancers who had cheered now echoed Stillshadow’s mood, sneering, unwilling or unable to remember that just moments ago their delight had been as great as hers.
Of all the mockery that Frog endured, beyond a doubt his sister Little Brook’s was the worst. “You beat your brothers but lose to a
girl
?” she asked, her voice like a sharp stone. “Just wait for the next time Uncle tells you to obey me. You won’t finish your chores until the moon sets.” Anger and shame sat in his belly like a stone, like a bad nut that he could not pass. His head knew that the emotions would eventually fade, but his heart said,
This is always. They will never let you forget.
That night, Stillshadow tossed and turned, struggling to find her way to the world of dreams. She regretted humiliating the nameless one.
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