nets.
'It's all right,' she called, a reassurance for them both. 'It's me.
The woman yesterday.'
But of course there was no other woman in the grave. There
hadn't been since dusk. Miri was with Musa in their tent, and
reunited by the blanket on their bed, her narrow, knuckled
backbone pressed against his hip. Instead there was a shuffling
and contented darkness in the hole. Here were the small, wet
sounds that Marta had heard before. She couldn't place the
sounds - they were too moist and feathery to be a woman, no
matter how tiny.
She stepped too close. She knocked a loose stone in. That's
all it took. There was a startled screech and then a gust of flapping,
muscled wind as the pit made instant shapes from shadows and
flung its contents in the air. It sounded like a hundred husbands
shaking out their clothes. Damp bodies hurtled from the grave
into the night, as headlong and as vengeful as demons hurled
out of a nightmare and driven forwards by the seven winds of
hell.
Marta screamed loudly enough for her new neighbours to
hear, and to hear the echo, too. She dropped heavily on to her
knees. Her face was wetly, firmly struck a dozen times. Her chest
and shoulders took six or seven blows. She was assaulted by
wings and beaks and smells. Then - almost before her scream
had ended - they were gone, crying curses at her as they fled.
She did not know what birds they were at first. She was too
shaken. Her heart was beating faster than their wings. One of
the birds had snagged its claws inside the loose weave of her
cloak, and was hanging at her thigh, upside down, thrashing and
spiralling. Marta, her panic equalling the bird's, beat at it but
could not knock it away. Once she had caught her breath again
and steadied herself, she held its wings and feet and pulled it free.
Her hands were shaking. It was a heavy, barrel-breasted bird,
with a mottled throat and muddy-coloured underwings. A scrub
fowl of some kind. She knelt on the cold ground for a few
moments, panting, warming her hands in the bird's breast
feathers. She would not let it go. This was a gift. The evening
meal, to mark the end of her first day of fasting. She held its
feathers to her cheeks and lips for a few moments. It was softer
than any cloth. But she understood this was no time or place for
childishness. She broke its wings to stop it struggling. She ought,
47
she knew, to slaughter it according to the rules by draining out
the blood. But there wasn't any knife - or priest - to hand.
Instead, she put her thumb against its neck and snapped its
vertebrae.
There was a second unearned gift as well. Once the morning
light had lifted high enough for her to see inside the grave, she
found what the birds had gathered for. When Miri had dug the
grave for Musa, she'd gone beyond the biscuit and the stones,
and cut across the underground water-seep which drained what
little moisture sank into the scarp. During the night, the grave
had formed a perfect cistern; cool, straight-sided, and impossible
for antelope or goats to raid and empty. The water was dark
brown and little more than ankle-deep, but it made the forty
days ahead seem almost comfortable.
Marta was not thirsty but she knew she ought to drink before
the sun appeared and her quarantine began in earnest. She lay
down on the ground, with her chin resting on the outer rim of
the grave, and reached down to the water. Luckily, she was a
tall woman and her arms were long enough to touch the bottom.
At once a few black ticks alighted on her wrists. The water tasted
rich and soupy, earth-warm, not appetizing but cruelly beneficial
like herbal medicine. It tasted fertile. What would Thaniel think
if he could see her spread out across earth, immodest as a girl?
She was not scooping water on her own for long. The blond,
summoned by her involuntary scream and by the hubbub of the
birds, was soon lying at her side, toasting his good luck and
drinking
'It's all right,' she called, a reassurance for them both. 'It's me.
The woman yesterday.'
But of course there was no other woman in the grave. There
hadn't been since dusk. Miri was with Musa in their tent, and
reunited by the blanket on their bed, her narrow, knuckled
backbone pressed against his hip. Instead there was a shuffling
and contented darkness in the hole. Here were the small, wet
sounds that Marta had heard before. She couldn't place the
sounds - they were too moist and feathery to be a woman, no
matter how tiny.
She stepped too close. She knocked a loose stone in. That's
all it took. There was a startled screech and then a gust of flapping,
muscled wind as the pit made instant shapes from shadows and
flung its contents in the air. It sounded like a hundred husbands
shaking out their clothes. Damp bodies hurtled from the grave
into the night, as headlong and as vengeful as demons hurled
out of a nightmare and driven forwards by the seven winds of
hell.
Marta screamed loudly enough for her new neighbours to
hear, and to hear the echo, too. She dropped heavily on to her
knees. Her face was wetly, firmly struck a dozen times. Her chest
and shoulders took six or seven blows. She was assaulted by
wings and beaks and smells. Then - almost before her scream
had ended - they were gone, crying curses at her as they fled.
She did not know what birds they were at first. She was too
shaken. Her heart was beating faster than their wings. One of
the birds had snagged its claws inside the loose weave of her
cloak, and was hanging at her thigh, upside down, thrashing and
spiralling. Marta, her panic equalling the bird's, beat at it but
could not knock it away. Once she had caught her breath again
and steadied herself, she held its wings and feet and pulled it free.
Her hands were shaking. It was a heavy, barrel-breasted bird,
with a mottled throat and muddy-coloured underwings. A scrub
fowl of some kind. She knelt on the cold ground for a few
moments, panting, warming her hands in the bird's breast
feathers. She would not let it go. This was a gift. The evening
meal, to mark the end of her first day of fasting. She held its
feathers to her cheeks and lips for a few moments. It was softer
than any cloth. But she understood this was no time or place for
childishness. She broke its wings to stop it struggling. She ought,
47
she knew, to slaughter it according to the rules by draining out
the blood. But there wasn't any knife - or priest - to hand.
Instead, she put her thumb against its neck and snapped its
vertebrae.
There was a second unearned gift as well. Once the morning
light had lifted high enough for her to see inside the grave, she
found what the birds had gathered for. When Miri had dug the
grave for Musa, she'd gone beyond the biscuit and the stones,
and cut across the underground water-seep which drained what
little moisture sank into the scarp. During the night, the grave
had formed a perfect cistern; cool, straight-sided, and impossible
for antelope or goats to raid and empty. The water was dark
brown and little more than ankle-deep, but it made the forty
days ahead seem almost comfortable.
Marta was not thirsty but she knew she ought to drink before
the sun appeared and her quarantine began in earnest. She lay
down on the ground, with her chin resting on the outer rim of
the grave, and reached down to the water. Luckily, she was a
tall woman and her arms were long enough to touch the bottom.
At once a few black ticks alighted on her wrists. The water tasted
rich and soupy, earth-warm, not appetizing but cruelly beneficial
like herbal medicine. It tasted fertile. What would Thaniel think
if he could see her spread out across earth, immodest as a girl?
She was not scooping water on her own for long. The blond,
summoned by her involuntary scream and by the hubbub of the
birds, was soon lying at her side, toasting his good luck and
drinking
Similar Books
