Gift of the Winter King and Other Stories Read online

“No,” I said, and picked up my boot and needle.

  Luya gestured towards Zavier with her knife, as if he wouldn’t realize how rude this was. “Maybe you could have this one.”

  I pushed the needle through the fur and leather, pretending not to hear her.

  “I bet you could have him all to yourself, you know.”

  Now I looked up. Luya must have known she’d gone too far, because she looked coolly away. I hated Luya sometimes; she was certainly in no danger of having to settle for being a second wife.

  Zavier’s eyes flickered back and forth between the two of us. “If you’re talking about marriage, Luya, I’m celibate,” he said. “I don’t get married, nor do I touch women.”

  “Men, then? Are you a shaman?”

  “No, not men either. No one.”

  “Horses?” Luya was trying to get a rise out of Zavier, like she’d gotten out of me, but Zavier refused to be baited.

  “Not women, not men, not horses, not sheep,” Zavier said. “Not chickens. Not ducks. Do I need to deny the rest of your barnyard animals, or do you get the picture?” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye with a conspiratorial smile. Despite myself, I found myself smiling back.

  Luya, however, was shocked. “The Shamans are special; they’re chosen by the Winter King, and not everyone is like that. But to choose not to have children—that’s wrong. What if everyone did that? What then?”

  “Jesus never had children,” Zavier said. “He blesses those who deny themselves for Him.”

  “What if your Adam and Eve had never had children?” Luya said. “What would have happened then?”

  Zavier looked perplexed. Perhaps this was the sort of answer he’d have been prepared for if his clan had sent him, had sent someone with a million ready answers—someone like Luya. “Maybe the Children of Jesus have different sorts of Shamans,” I said. “Perhaps Zavier was chosen by his Jesus.”

  Zavier gave me a look of gratitude and relief. “That’s right,” he said. Then he thought it over and amended, “Well, it’s close, anyway.”

  Luya opened her mouth to answer him, but then her eyes widened, looking at something beyond us, and she stood up. “We are children of the clan,” she said, flicking out her own blue bead. “Don’t lay a hand on us.”

  Zavier and I turned to see three men standing in the clearing. Oneel men—I was certain of it. One was much taller than the others, with dirty brown hair and ice-blue eyes. “He’s no child,” that man said, pointing at Zavier.

  Luya stepped in front of Zavier, her eyes on the tall man. “This man is a guest of the Shong clan. My father has promised his protection.”

  “You are Luya Shong, then.” The man’s eyes flickered appraisingly over Luya’s long legs, her face, the black hair that cascaded to her waist.

  “You must be Stavan Oneel,” Luya said. “I’ve heard of you.”

  I had heard the stories too, of course. Stavan Oneel was a few years older than us, and already known as the best warrior of the Oneel clan.

  “Leave,” Luya said with a jerk of her head. “You can’t touch us, and our shouts will have the village ready for you before you’re halfway there.”

  Stavan inclined his head. “Perhaps you’d best not come here without a protector after first Winter’s night, Luya Shong. Unless you wish to join the Oneel clan.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Luya said, a slight smile on her face. Stavan and the others turned and ran back the way they’d come, disappearing into the brush.

  Luya watched them depart for a long, meditative moment. Then she shrieked, loudly enough to be heard in the village, “Raiders!”

  The Shong men came running moments later, and Luya’s mother Keris hustled the three of us back to where she could keep watch over us. Some of the Shong men formed a war-band to track the Oneel raiders back through the woods. Luya watched them go with a slight shake of her head. “They won’t catch them,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?” Zavier asked.

  “Stavan Oneel is their greatest warrior,” she said. “He’ll be the Oneel clan-leader someday. He won’t be caught by any of our men.” Her voice was slightly breathless. She turned back to Zavier with a look of scorn. “So you didn’t know what the trial was when you agreed to do it? That shows courage, Zavier. Or foolishness.” Her tone made it clear that she thought it was the latter.

  Zavier met her eyes, even though his cheeks reddened. “If God wants me to survive your trial, He will give me whatever strength I need.”

  Luya stepped closer to him, so that her body touched his. He fell back a step. “Madri left something out,” she said. “The children of the clan face the Winter King naked on first Winter’s night.” She twitched Zavier’s brown robe, grasping the cloth at the hip, and I saw him flinch away slightly as her hand brushed his body. “Naked we come from our mothers,” Luya said, “and naked the Winter King tests our strength and our worth.”

  ***

  “BLLL - ESSS - ED,” I said. “Blessed.”

  “That’s right.” Zavier leaned against one of the broad old trees by the riverbank, holding his book in his lap; I peered down at the words, sounding them out as he pointed.

  “Are,” I read. That was a short one. “T-he—”

  “The,” Zavier said.

  “The. Mmm. Eeek. Blessed. Are. The. Meek.”

  “That’s right.”

  I looked up from the book. “This is an awful lot of trouble to go to just for a story that never changes,” I said. “What good is a story that tells itself, anyway?”

  Zavier set aside the book and I picked up some mending. I’d done a fine job on my boots once I’d sat down and done it, and as a result my mother had given me the rest of the family’s boots to mend. “First of all,” Zavier said, “it gets easier with practice, just like anything else. A month or two of practice and you’ll read effortlessly. It’ll be something to work on over the winter, when it’s too cold to go outside much and you don’t have a lot of chores.”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t sure I believed that it would ever be effortless. After a moment, he continued.

  “There are lots of reasons that writing is useful,” he said. “For instance—well, this book, the Bible, it’s the stories that the Children of Jesus tell to understand our faith better, the way you tell the story about the Gift of the Winter King.”

  “Couldn’t you just tell the stories, like we do?”

  “Yes, and we do,” he said. “There are plenty of Brothers in my order who are better storytellers than I am.” He smiled ruefully. “But if a hundred years pass and no one tells a story, the story is lost, isn’t it? Or if there’s only one person who knows a story, and that person dies suddenly? But if it’s written down, people can pick it up—even generations later—and the story can be told again.”

  There was a story, told sometimes, about how generations ago the Shaman of the Shonsen clan died before he passed his knowledge on to an apprentice. The most important stories were told often enough that everyone still knew them, but other stories—especially some of the very old ones—were lost forever. I nodded; it could be a terrible thing.

  “But you could lose a book,” I said. “What if you lost the book where you’d written all your stories?”

  “Sometimes that happens,” Zavier said. “The most important stories are copied into many books.”

  “Our most important stories are told to many people,” I said. Then I shrugged. “But I can see that having both a storyteller and a book would be useful.”

  “Also,” Zavier said. “Writing—well, say Merik wants to send a message to the clan-leader of the Oneels. Would that ever happen?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “If they stole a wife, and he wanted to ransom her, for instance.”

  “If there was a person in both clans who could read and write, you could send a written message.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Written messages mean that there are fewer opportunities for misunderstand
ing. Say Merik offered him a ransom—what sort of ransom would he offer?”

  “It depends . . . .Say, two calves.”

  “Right. So, he promises two calves. Then later the clan-leader says that Merik promised him three calves—does that ever happen?”

  I thought about it. “It’s not supposed to, but the Oneels do things like that a lot. That’s why our clans don’t get along.”

  “If it’s all written down, Merik can show him the paper, and then nobody can claim they were cheated.” He paused. “Of course, there are a hundred other ways to cheat people—give them a sick calf, say. But writing takes care of some of the most obvious.”

  I thought about this. “But couldn’t the Oneels just write a new paper?”

  “No, everybody’s handwriting looks different.” Zavier explained to me about writing letters and then making your sign, a mark that’s unique to you.

  “I see,” I said. I reached for the book. “Teach me more,” I said. “You’re right. This would be useful.”

  Still, I had to admit that the main reason I liked the idea was that with writing, I could tell stories without speaking. I could talk to Zavier now more easily than to anyone, even Luya. But in front of the rest of the clan—my throat closed up and my tongue felt stupid.

  Even when there was a story that I wanted to tell.

  ***

  THE DAYS GREW shorter and colder. Zavier became more and more reluctant to leave the shelter of the cave each morning, or the warmth of the fire in the evening, but on one of the afternoons before the snow came he took me out to the woods to show me how to make paper. The plant that paper came from grew wild; Zavier and I stripped the stems and ground the fibers like corn. We mixed the pulp with water and spread it to dry on a piece of cloth stretched tight. When we were done, we had a single sheet of paper. It was a lot of work. I hoped Zavier would be around in the spring to help me.

  Zavier told me to keep the paper to practice my letters; Luya watched as I put it next to my bed. “You’re lucky, Zavier,” she said, as we sat together in the firelight after dinner. “It looks like this first Winter’s night will be a warm one.”

  “We’re all lucky,” I said. “It’s not just Zavier who’s facing the trial this year.”

  “Yes, but we have nothing to fear,” Luya said. “We are strong. We are the Children of the Winter King.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked at Zavier. “You don’t look very strong to me, Zavier.”

  “My faith makes me strong,” Zavier said, meeting Luya’s eyes. He wasn’t afraid of her anymore; I envied him. “Jesus gave me the strength to come here. Do you know how far I had to walk? Farther than you’ll ever travel in your life, Luya. He gave me strength to come here even though I knew someone might kill me on sight. He gives me strength to face the trial even though, you’re right—I’m not as strong as you. Winters where I come from aren’t as cold as they are here. But if God wants me to live, He will give me strength to make it through the night. And I die, I will die doing His will.”

  Luya looked at Zavier steadily. “You speak the truth,” she said finally. “I know you, Zavier, and you’re a weak fool. It must have been a great power who brought you here.”

  Despite Luya’s insult, Zavier looked as pleased as he had when I had finally admitted that writing might be useful. “Exactly,” he said.

  “I will think on this,” Luya said, and stalked off to bed.

  ***

  THE SNOW CAME two weeks before first Winter’s night. First just a little bit, ankle-deep with the last of the autumn crops poking out through. Then the next day, a real snowstorm. Zavier sat with me near the mouth of the cave, watching the flakes spinning down like feathers. The Trial was actually harder if it hadn’t snowed, unless it was an exceptionally warm year, but Zavier looked bleak. “I just realized that I’m never going to see Baltimore again,” he said, when I asked him why he was sad. “Even if I make it through the trial, I don’t think I’m ever going home.”

  “You’ll like the snow,” I said. “Once it stops, we’ll show you.”

  It stopped the next day, leaving heaps so deep I sank in well past my knees. We all pulled on our furs and our (now mended) boots—we loaned Zavier some warmer clothing, since he hadn’t brought anything really adequate—and went outside. Merik packed a snowball and threw it at Luya, who shrieked and ducked behind a tree, quickly making a snowball to throw back at him.

  “I’ve never seen so much snow,” Zavier said. “It snows in Baltimore every year, but not like this.”

  “I’ll teach you to slide,” I said, and grabbed his hand. We kept part of the riverbank clear just for sledding each winter; I pulled Zavier to the top, then tucked myself into a ball and slid down, holding my cloak around me so that the snow wouldn’t get inside. Once we’d smoothed down a chute, I showed Zavier how to sit and pushed him off. He screamed like he thought he was about to die, but held on tightly to his cloak and came to a rest at the edge of the river. I ran down the hill to help him back up to the top of the hill.

  “See?” I said. “Wasn’t that fun?”

  “You have a unique idea of ‘fun,’ Madri,” Zavier said, but he was grinning and let me pull him back up to go again. He was shivering in the sharp afternoon wind, though, even with the clothes we’d given him. I looked at him sadly. I feared that I would be making paper by myself in the spring.

  ***

  FIRST WINTER’S NIGHT began with feasting. For all his talk about his faith, Zavier was frightened, but I could hardly blame him. He was far less accustomed to the cold than the rest of us facing the trial, and we were all frightened, except for Luya.

  After the feast, we lined up on the icy riverbank; Zavier stood between me and Luya. The Shaman faced us. Our Shaman was an old man, thin and stooped, but he told stories as well as Luya. “Long ago,” he said, “there were no clans and there were no Children of the Winter King. All the world lived together in one huge village. Then the Winter King came to separate light from dark.”

  We recited with him: “Separate light from dark, water from snow, strong from weak. The Winter King came to bring order.” Zavier didn’t speak, though I was sure he knew the words by now.

  The Shaman spoke. “The Winter King brings cold to make us strong.”

  The rest of us said: “As long as the Children of the Winter King accept His rule and His gifts, we shall always endure.”

  “Go, then,” the Shaman said. “Prove yourselves worthy.”

  Luya stepped forward first. Unlike the rest of us, she had come out barefoot, wearing only a fur cloak; now she simply threw the cloak back and dropped it to the snow at her feet. Rather than pulling her hair forward to cover what she could, she shook it back, baring her body. Her skin was pale in the winter moonlight that reflected off the snow. I could see Zavier trying not to stare at her, and I could tell that Luya saw him, too. She laughed, throwing her head back so that her dark hair brushed the curve of her hips.

  The rest of us undressed. I pulled off my boots reluctantly. All this work to mend them, and maybe now I wasn’t even going to get to wear them again. I wondered who would get my boots, if I didn’t survive the night, and shook my head. It was bad luck to think about failing.

  Zavier pulled off his robe. It was the first time I’d seen more of his body than his feet, face, and hands. The skin of his belly sagged a bit, like he used to weigh more back before he walked all the way from Baltimore. His skin was as pale as the white of an egg, as if the sun had never touched anything but his face; I could see blue veins running like thread under his skin.

  The Shaman gathered up our clothing. “May you be acceptable to the Winter King,” he said. “I will see you in the morning.” The Shong clan—the adults and those who were still children—turned their backs on us and went into their caves.

  Luya clasped my arm. “Shall we warm each other, Madri?”

  I looked at Zavier. “Zavier, come with us. We’ll keep each other warm until morning.”

  Zavie
r’s teeth were already rattling. “I can’t touch a woman. Not a naked woman, not when I have no clothes on.”

  Luya laughed mockingly. “Are you so full of lust that you think you’ll be making a baby tonight? Go ask the boys to keep you warm, then.”

  “God will protect me,” Zavier said.

  “Come on, Zavier,” I said. I should have shown him earlier how to dig down into the snow to stay warm. “You can sit with us.”

  Zavier looked torn. Then—”All right,” he said, and followed Luya and me into the woods.

  Luya and I dug down into the snow near the cliff. “Won’t sitting in the snow make us colder?” Zavier asked, crouching down and wrapping his arms around his knees.

  “No,” I said. I was shivering too much to explain further. Luya didn’t even look cold, of course. There was an overhang in the rock, and Luya and I quickly built up walls of packed snow. When we were done, Luya crawled inside and I followed her. Luya held out her arms, and I nestled down where she could curl herself around me. “Come on,” I said to Zavier, and he crawled in. There was just enough space that he could sit without touching either me or Luya.

  Zavier and I were both too cold to talk for several minutes. Then Luya’s body heat warmed our shelter a little, and my shivering eased. It would be a long night, but at least I could believe now that I’d live till morning.

  “Madri,” Zavier said when his teeth had stopped rattling too much to speak, “if I don’t make it through the night, I want you to have my book.”

  I could feel Luya’s chin go up against my back. “Don’t say things like that,” I said. “It’s bad luck.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Time passed. I could hear Zavier whispering something. “What are you saying?” Luya asked sharply.

  “I’m praying,” Zavier said. “I’m saying the Rosary.” He shifted. “We recite certain prayers many times. It’s supposed to be a good thing to do, but mainly . . . I find it comforting.”