past her, hurrying her into what she wanted to do, to aim, shoot, strike—
The bolt leapt again. She had not even aimed.
It split the first one.
“Again,” the old herd said.
Mariarta strung the bow, aimed. Her excitement made her shake. The wind roared in her ears, an incoherent sound of exultation. The quarrel leapt away.
It struck a finger’s breadth from the other two.
“Slower,” said the old herd. “Again.”
Mariarta strung the bow, nocked up, lifted it, fired. The fourth quarrel splintered the first two as it drove into them.
The old herd nodded. His mouth moved, but Mariarta couldn’t make out what he was saying for the roaring of the air in her ears, the thunder of her racing heartbeat. This was what it was about. To fire, to be one with the firing, to strike. What would it feel like, she thought, to shoot something live? Would I feel the blood leap the way I feel the wood shake, even from here? Mariarta spanned the bow, stood upright, felt the shot happening already in the rush of air pouring past her. She let the quarrel go, almost without looking. It split the fourth. The pieces fell to the ground.
Mariarta strung the bow, set the last quarrel in it, then began to walk back toward the hut. The old herd was already settling into his seat by the doorstep.
She stood before him, breathing hard. The old herd shook his head.
“Little more teaching you need from me,” he said. “She’s come to finish the job.” He looked away. “Hard to be ridden so, mistral’ s daughter. Beware she doesn’t take more of you than you can give.”
Mariarta stared at him in a mixture of astonishment and fear. “How do you know her?”
“I know of her.” The old herd turned away. “Don’t ask.”
“What do you mean—ridden?”
“You know. You hear her speak.”
Mariarta felt those cool eyes looking at her from what seemed a great distance—but could become quite close. “I hear the wind—”
The old herd nodded. “Some do. Some hear voices in water. Or see pictures in fire, or stone. It’s all the same. Their advice, their commands.”
“Do you hear them too?”
The old herd looked at her. “Too much talking about them— brings them. Sometimes they don’t care to be brought.”
Mariarta fell silent. Then she saw the movement by the corner of the hut.
It was Urs. He was disheveled, smiling at the sight of her and her bow. It was such a smile as she had never seen on him. It reminded her of Reiskeipf.
“Look at this, then,” Urs said. “What a thing to find on our alp.”
Mariarta stared at him, astonished and indignant. “You couldn’t have followed me up! I would have seen!”
“I didn’t follow you up,” Urs said, grinning that wicked grin. “I came yesterday, and didn’t come down.”
She was shocked at his recklessness. “You’re going to get beaten again, worse this time. Staying out all night, I bet Paol thinks the wolves got you—”
“He wouldn’t care,” Urs said, quite calmly. “It doesn’t matter anyway. ‘Oh what a fair maiden we have here—the master herder must hear of this’—”
Mariarta flushed hot with anger. It had never before occurred to her that in his following her, Urs wasn’t just after her company. Now that he knew what she was doing, he wanted to make Mariarta do something he wanted by threatening to tell—who? Probably her father. Mariarta could imagine what his reaction would be. And what did Urs want?
Me. He wants me to press his suit with bab—
And Urs had been her friend. Mariarta didn’t want Urs, or anyone, thinking he could threaten her so. But she had nothing to bribe him with. At the moment, she would have settled for being able to make Urs sink into the ground three fathoms deep, as Songt Margriata’s cowherd had when he tried to tell.
Mariarta turned to the old herd. He sat silent.
Hot with hopeless anger, Mariarta turned back to Urs. She was confused to see him go pale. Then Mariarta realized what
The bolt leapt again. She had not even aimed.
It split the first one.
“Again,” the old herd said.
Mariarta strung the bow, aimed. Her excitement made her shake. The wind roared in her ears, an incoherent sound of exultation. The quarrel leapt away.
It struck a finger’s breadth from the other two.
“Slower,” said the old herd. “Again.”
Mariarta strung the bow, nocked up, lifted it, fired. The fourth quarrel splintered the first two as it drove into them.
The old herd nodded. His mouth moved, but Mariarta couldn’t make out what he was saying for the roaring of the air in her ears, the thunder of her racing heartbeat. This was what it was about. To fire, to be one with the firing, to strike. What would it feel like, she thought, to shoot something live? Would I feel the blood leap the way I feel the wood shake, even from here? Mariarta spanned the bow, stood upright, felt the shot happening already in the rush of air pouring past her. She let the quarrel go, almost without looking. It split the fourth. The pieces fell to the ground.
Mariarta strung the bow, set the last quarrel in it, then began to walk back toward the hut. The old herd was already settling into his seat by the doorstep.
She stood before him, breathing hard. The old herd shook his head.
“Little more teaching you need from me,” he said. “She’s come to finish the job.” He looked away. “Hard to be ridden so, mistral’ s daughter. Beware she doesn’t take more of you than you can give.”
Mariarta stared at him in a mixture of astonishment and fear. “How do you know her?”
“I know of her.” The old herd turned away. “Don’t ask.”
“What do you mean—ridden?”
“You know. You hear her speak.”
Mariarta felt those cool eyes looking at her from what seemed a great distance—but could become quite close. “I hear the wind—”
The old herd nodded. “Some do. Some hear voices in water. Or see pictures in fire, or stone. It’s all the same. Their advice, their commands.”
“Do you hear them too?”
The old herd looked at her. “Too much talking about them— brings them. Sometimes they don’t care to be brought.”
Mariarta fell silent. Then she saw the movement by the corner of the hut.
It was Urs. He was disheveled, smiling at the sight of her and her bow. It was such a smile as she had never seen on him. It reminded her of Reiskeipf.
“Look at this, then,” Urs said. “What a thing to find on our alp.”
Mariarta stared at him, astonished and indignant. “You couldn’t have followed me up! I would have seen!”
“I didn’t follow you up,” Urs said, grinning that wicked grin. “I came yesterday, and didn’t come down.”
She was shocked at his recklessness. “You’re going to get beaten again, worse this time. Staying out all night, I bet Paol thinks the wolves got you—”
“He wouldn’t care,” Urs said, quite calmly. “It doesn’t matter anyway. ‘Oh what a fair maiden we have here—the master herder must hear of this’—”
Mariarta flushed hot with anger. It had never before occurred to her that in his following her, Urs wasn’t just after her company. Now that he knew what she was doing, he wanted to make Mariarta do something he wanted by threatening to tell—who? Probably her father. Mariarta could imagine what his reaction would be. And what did Urs want?
Me. He wants me to press his suit with bab—
And Urs had been her friend. Mariarta didn’t want Urs, or anyone, thinking he could threaten her so. But she had nothing to bribe him with. At the moment, she would have settled for being able to make Urs sink into the ground three fathoms deep, as Songt Margriata’s cowherd had when he tried to tell.
Mariarta turned to the old herd. He sat silent.
Hot with hopeless anger, Mariarta turned back to Urs. She was confused to see him go pale. Then Mariarta realized what
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