Saint Leibowitz and the Wild Horse Woman

CHAPTER 7

THE WARM CHINOOK FROM THE MOUNTAINS HAD breathed on the snow, and the snow vanished. Chür Høngan skirted the poor farming communities along the bed of the Kensau River as he rode toward the northeast. In Pobla, he had armed himself with a heavy shortbow and quiver of arrows. The cardinal had given him his double-barreled handgun and bought him an unshod stallion from a Nomad trader, but he wanted to avoid trouble with Blacktooth’s people, who in season tilled the irrigated plots of potatoes, corn, wheat, and sunflowers, and who dwelled in fortified lodges of stone and sod and worked the land for its owners, among whom was the Bishop of Denver. They might mistake him for a Nomad outlaw like the ones who had visited Arch Hollow. The soil was poor here, but careful farming had enriched it. Now it was almost planting time and there were men and mules in the fields, so he avoided the rutted roads and kept to the high ground, while leaving a trail that Father Ombroz e’Laiden and the Texark turncoat could easily follow.

There were always Texark agents traveling back and forth from the telegraph terminal southeast of Pobla, so Høngan rode alone until he was well into the short grass of Wilddog cattle country before he stopped to wait for the others. He waited in a draw, concealing his horse and himself some distance from the trail he had left until he heard them passing to the north. Still, he waited. When their voices died away, he left his horse, climbed out of the draw, and listened carefully to the wind from the southwest. He put his ear to the ground briefly, then arose and crept into the space between two boulders where he could not be seen except from the trail directly below. There were distant voices.

“Three horses have come this way, obviously.”

“But not necessarily together. Only one horse is shod.”

“That would be Captain Loyte’s.”

“Hereafter, do not call the renegade ‘Captain’! He sold his rank and honor for the cunt of a Nomad spy.”

The voices were Ol’zark. Høngan nocked an arrow and drew his bow. The first rider appeared, and fell from his horse with the arrow through his throat. Høngan leaped forth and shot the second rider while he was lifting his musket. With the second barrel, he exchanged shots with the third rider, but both men missed. The survivor turned and fled. This war between Nomad and Empire was more than seventy years old, but such battles were few and fought only when the imperial forces invaded the lands of the Mare.

Holy Madness reloaded the pistol and finished the job of killing the wounded, then went for his own mount and captured the other two horses. After searching the saddlebags and finding the proof he needed that the riders were agents, he released the animals and came back to search the bodies for more papers. He stared angrily at the tracks of the turncoat’s horse. Knowing the destination, he had previously not noticed the hoofprints because he had not been tracking.

Mounting again, he rode on with a warm wind still at his back in pursuit of the priest and his guest. His own war with Texark had begun long ago and would never end. This he had sworn in the name of hisancestor, Mad Bear, calling to witness Empty Sky and the Holy Virgin. He followed the tracks through the afternoon and afterward by twilight. There would be no moon until morning. He ate a little jerky, and without building a fire prepared to spend the night listening to the howls and barks of the wilddogs which simpletons called wolves and greatly feared. After he had staked his horse and unfurled his bedroll, Høngan slowly walked a protective circle around the area at a distance of five or six paces and marked his sleeping territory with a trickle of his own urine every few steps. With his sleeping area thus protected, the animals would not usually molest a human sleeper unless they smelled blood or sickness about him. Only once during the night did he sense prowlers. Bursting from his blankets, he leaped to his feet and let out a roar of mock rage. There was a chorus of yelps, and several dark shapes fled by starlight from the downwind border of his realm. Having bellowed the sleep out of his head, he lay with sad thoughts about the corpses he had made that day.

Chür Høngan had killed his first man at twelve, a Texark border patrolman. Ombroz had absolved the boy at the time as he would have absolved any soldier in war, because the trooper had been on the wrong side of the river, in military uniform, and without a traveler’s flag as required by the Treaty of the Sacred Mare. As far as the Wild-dog was concerned—and the priest honored the sense of the horde— no treaty later than Sacred Mare had ever been signed with any secular powers including Texark, and the war against Texark had never become peace, it just had slowed down until it mostly stopped happening; it almost stopped because the only frontier across which the Wilddog faced the Empire was the Nady Ann River to the south, beyond which lay the occupied Jackrabbit country. There might be a time to fight there, but not until the Jackrabbit fought too. To the east, in the tall-grass country, the Grasshopper engaged the enemy when it saw fit, but it asked no help from the Wilddog while there was no Lord of the Three Hordes.

Ombroz had easily absolved him of that early killing, but gave him pure hell for honoring ancient custom as well. The boy had cut off the cavalryman’s earlobe and ate it as an honor to the slain enemy, as his Bear Spirit uncle had explained was proper. The priest called it something else. He made the boy meditate for an hour a day on the meaning of the Eucharist, and put him through parts of catechism again before he would give him communion. Høngan remembered it in the night with a grin. He never told the priest that while he was eating the earlobe he was crying for his victim. About the men he had just killed today, he could not see what Wooshin had tried to teach him to see. Something about emptiness. The Axe tried and failed to relate it to the Nomad’s Empty Sky. Something about emptiness becoming man. Or was that Christianity mixing in? There were too many ways of looking at things. A century ago, for his great-grand uncles, there had been only the one way. Høngan thought that old way might be a little like Wooshin’s way, but with more feeling and vision. The right way, his own way, was not clear to Høngan, not quite yet.

Before dawn he shook the frost from his blankets and rode on by the faint light of an old crescent moon in the east. Knowing the route the priest would take, he did not need to see their tracks to follow, and within two hours he had found them. Ombroz had rekindled their dung fire and they were drinking hot tea and eating jerky at sunrise. The chaplain hailed him, and the turncoat to whom he had not yet been introduced arose expectantly, but the Nomad went straight to their hobbled horses. He petted one of them, spoke to it gently, then cut the hobbling cord and lifted a front hoof to inspect it. Then he turned to confront them.

“Father, you’ve brought a spy among us!”

“What are you talking about, my son? This is Captain Esitt Loyte, the one Cardinal Brownpony suggested. He is married to a granddaughter of Wetok Enar, your own kin.”

“I don’t care if he married the granddaughter of the devil’s clan. He’s riding a shod horse to let them know he’s here.”

The priest frowned at the former trooper, then arose to stare toward the west.

“Don’t worry, Father. I killed two of them, and the other fled. Here are the papers.” He faced Loyte and drew his gun. The stranger spat in the fire, and said, “You might look at both sides of the horse. But thank you, if you killed my assassins.”

Høngan aimed at his abdomen. “Your assassin is right here.”

“Wait, Bearcub,” barked the priest. “Do as he says. Look at the brand.”

Reluctantly, he lowered the pistol and inspected the stranger’s mount again. “One of Grandmother Wetok’s horses,” he said in surprise. “And you had it shod in Pobla? You damn fool!”

“If they were out to kill me, why should I leave tracks for them?” Esitt Loyte began to explain, but Høngan ignored him, took tools from his bag, and began prying a shoe from a forehoof. “Give me a hand here,” he said to Ombroz.

Soon the nails were pulled and the task was done. He put the horseshoes in his saddlebag. “We’ll have to show them to your mother-in-law,” he said to the stranger.

“Imeant no…”

“Bearcub, he’s an expert in Texark cavalry tactics, and he knows their war plans. They came to kill him.”

“But now he’s useless to us, because they know he’s here.”

“From the tracks of one shod horse? It might be anybody. It might be a Churchman. It might be a trader.”

“Traitor, you mean. Before they died, they spoke his name.”

“Well, it’s done now, and the trail ends here. Loyte is right. They came to kill him. At least they must think he’s useful to us, even if you don’t.” He turned to the young former officer. “Why did you have the pony shod?”

“Before I rode into the mountains, I talked to the liveryman in Pobla and he recommended it. And I have always ridden a shod horse. It’s cavalry—”

“The trail ends here,” the priest repeated. “Bearcub, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Mount up,” said the Nomad, and pointed toward the horizon. “Look at the dust. There’s a migration trail just to the east of us. The herds are moving north. We’ll wait there until drovers come. Then we’ll ride ahead of their cattle for a few hours, and our tracks will vanish.”

“If we do that,” Loyte protested, “we won’t be home before dark.”

“Home?” snorted Høngan.

“The hogans of his wife and her grandmother,” Ombroz said firmly. “But I agree, we’d better do as you say.”

It was midafternoon before Holy Madness was satisfied that the woolly Nomad cattle that were following them in the distant cloud of dust would erase their tracks. They changed direction then, left the cattle trail, and resumed a northeastward course.

Ombroz was still trying to make peace. “If the cardinal’s plan succeeds,” he said, “the Hannegan will have to stop these incursions into Wilddog and Grasshopper lands, at least for many years. The hordes by then will be stronger under a single king.”

Høngan was silent for a time. They both knew that the Grasshopper lands, the tall-grass prairie lands, lying to the east, would bear the brunt of any invasion. Those of Blacktooth’s people who had remained herdsmen there had become the most warlike of the hordes, because they had to be. They faced Hannegan’s armies, and the slow encroachment of farmers onto the more arable eastern fringe. And yet the Wilddog was closest to the Church in Valana, and to possible allies beyond the mountains. There was friction between the hordes, made worse by Nomadic outlaws who had departed from the matrilineal system and attracted young runaways from the conquered Jackrabbit south of the Nady Ann.

“There is the more immediate problem of paying for the goods,” Høngan said to the priest at last.

“Don’t worry about that,” put in the trooper. “His Eminence controls considerable wealth.”

“Yes, the Half-Breed owns many cattle,” said Høngan acidly.

“There are other forms of wealth than cattle,” said Captain Loyte, “and how dare you call him ‘Half-Breed,’ anyway? Aren’t you a Christian, after all?”

The priest laughed. “Go easy, Loyte, my son. The Bearcub is just practicing his tribal accent, so to speak. After all, how would ‘The Most Eminent Lord Elia Cardinal Brownpony, Deacon of Saint Masie’s’ sound in the mouth of the son of Granduncle Brokenfoot, Lord of the Three Hordes.”

“My father is lord of nothing, yet,” Chür Høngan grumbled, his sour mood persisting.

“See how churlish he turns as he gets closer to home?” said Ombroz.

“Not only is he lord of nothing,” Holy Madness went on, “I’m only his son, not his nephew.”

“You know that makes no difference,” said the priest. “In no way can that old office be inherited, in the motherline or otherwise. The old women have their eye on you, Holy Madness. When the old women look for the Qæsach dri Vørdar, they look for a magical leader, not a somebody’s nephew or son.”

“I don’t like this talk, teacher,” said Høngan. “I love and respect my father. Talk of inheritance is talk of death. And there hasn’t been a Qæsach Vørdar since Mad Bear. After seventy years, who knows how these modern women will think.”

Ombroz chuckled at the word “modern.”

“Granduncle Brokenfoot is going to live a long time,” said the former Texark officer. “I saw him only three months ago when he came to visit my brothers-in-law.”

“The turncoat has a degree in medicine too,” said the Nomad.

The officer shot him a resentful look. “Wasn’t it Magic Madman here who claimed he saw the Night Hag, Father?”

“Damn it, old priest! Did you have to tell him that?”

Father Ombroz glanced quickly at both of them. “Stop spoiling for a quarrel, you two. Or else give me your weapons, and get off your horses and fight. Right here, right now.”

“Trial by combat?” Høngan snickered. “Yes, Blacktooth told me the Church used to do that. Why didn’t you teach me that, Father? You neglected the part of the catechism about the Lord of Armies, but here you are now inviting us to submit to the judgment of God in a fistfight? And I was not looking for one. I just wanted to know, of our Texark adviser here, what other kind of wealth does the Half-Breed have besides cattle? If the turncoat says there is such a thing.”

“God damn your mouth!” said the officer, and shifted his weight hard to the left stirrup, causing his horse to stop.

Chür Høngan looked at him for a moment, shrugged, and dismounted. Ombroz spoke quickly. “1 have to warn you, Captain, Holy Madness has been practicing combat with an expert—a former headsman to the Hannegan. You may know of him.”

“Do you mean that yellow-skinned genny? Woo Shin? Listen, if you fear traitors, fear him. I wouldn’t wonder if Filpeo Harq didn’t send him to kill the cardinal. He has a cadre of hired assassins, you know. They are all clever infiltrators.”

“The Axe is not a genny, you citizen,” said the Nomad, using the word “citizen” as an insult. “Where he comes from, you look like a genny. And he hates Filpeo Harq almost as much as I hate him, city boy.”

“Bearcub, why do you do that? Captain Loyte’s on our side. He knows his business. Try not to be an asshole, my son.”

“All right, tell the bastard to stop patronizing me.” Høngan turned to remount. Loyte was not appeased, and struck him across the back with his riding whip.

Høngan whirled, grabbed the wrist that came toward him with the whip a second time, and kicked the captain in the stomach with his pointed boot.

For some minutes of semi-consciousness, it appeared that the blow might be fatal. But the priest at last revived him, and insisted that they spend the night on the spot to let Loyte recover. Ombroz prayed at them lengthily and angrily, praising God’s mercy for allowing them an undeserved time to repent. Høngan groaned at him sleepily. Loyte whimpered and swore. On the following day, Chür Høngan pulled the officer out of his blanket by the front of his jacket and dragged him to his feet. “Now listen well, pigfucker. If you’re a captain in our army, I’m your colonel. You say ‘sir’ and salute.”

He pushed the former trooper down on his rump; the jolt brought forth a yelp of pain as Loyte grabbed his stomach again.

“No, you listen to me!” Ombroz grabbed his bearcub by the arm and pulled him quickly out of earshot. “I’ve never seen you this brutal! Why? Establishing your seniority is one thing, but you may have ruptured his gut. You’ve made an enemy for life out of pure bad temper.”

“No, I haven’t. He’s already everybody’s enemy. A criminal to his own tribe is no friend to any man. He is what he is, and he must know his place.”

“You don’t mean that. His place is the same as yours, before God.”

“Before God, of course. But his place in the ranks of a fighting force under a war sharf is what concerns me, and he has to know that his rank is low. He cannot be trusted.”

“You know this because of your great insight into character,” Ombroz said ironically. “Greater insight than that of the cardinal, who recommended him to us in the first place. I believe him when he says the agents that followed were sent not just to track him, but to kill him. And in any case, he would be living with the Wetok clan, whether he rode with us or not. They have accepted him. He wintered with them.”

“Have you seen me quarrel with anybody else lately?”

“No, Holy Madness. And I hope you’re wrong about this man. He knows too much about us for you to drive him away.”

“No danger. He has nowhere to go. We leave him with his wife’s people, no matter what the eminent cardinal said. I still want to know how he knows that Brownpony can find his part of the price of the weapons which he promised. And where do the weapons come from?”

“Elia worked hard for Pope Linus, Bearcub, and Pope Linus rewarded him well. I know that Elia owns estates on the west coast, and up in the Oregon country, but he may not need to use his own wealth. Trust him. If you pay the traders sixhundred cattle, the cardinal will arrange for somebody to pay the other two-thirds of the price. As the most powerful state on the continent, Texark has many enemies and few allies. Many of those enemies would be glad to help arm the hordes. You are being ungrateful.”

“Not at all. I like Brownpony. I know it’s his influence more than his wealth that matters. And I trust his best intentions. That doesn’t mean I trust the outcome of his intentions. If he’s wealthy, fine. But how does Loyte know?”

“He probably doesn’t. He was patronizing you. Nomad or citizen, each feels superior to the other. Nomas et civis—it’s a story old as Genesis. But as for the money, there are states west of the divide which would like to see the Hannegans’ empire stop where it is, or be driven back eastward. There is too much talk in Texark about uniting the continent, and their embassies report this talk home. One or more of them may be giving you the weapons for nothing.”

“Six hundred cattle are not nothing.”

“They are next to nothing. Cardinal Brownpony told me the real price of the merchandise. It’s more like six thousand cattle.”

“If we get the weapons at all. If the traders don’t deliver defective junk.”

“What puts you in this awful mood, Holy Madness? I half-expected you to call Loyte a grass-eater.”

Høngan laughed. “In my mother’s house, that word is still used. So at home, I might use it on him.”

“You know, you have a certain political ugliness about you, Holy Madness, that you did not learn from me.”

“Oh, but I did!”

“No, you didn’t!”

“Are you going to try to whip me too, O Teacher?”

“I have done that.”

“When I was ten and you were younger. You taught me not to hit clergy, but you’re not—” The Nomad stopped. He saw the change in Ombroz’s face, shook his head, sorry, and walked back to his horse.

By the time they had made camp for a second night under the stars, they met a messenger from the Wilddog Horde’s royal tribe. He was riding south with bad news. Granduncle Brokenfoot had suffered a stroke, had lost the use of his left leg, and was composing his death song. It was therefore deemed wise for the grandmothers and shamans to begin considering other candidates for the ancient office of the one Qæsach dri Vørdar.

The following day, they arrived at the hogans of Grandmother Wetok Enar’s clan. The old woman was weak and ailing, so it was Loyte’s wife Potear Wetok who, unaccompanied by her grandmother, bade them welcome. Her husband dismounted and went to embrace her, but she pushed him away; his “learning about our horses,” the Nomad euphemism for the breaking in of a new groom by the mothers of his new family, was not yet finished. She bowed to Father Ombroz and Chür Høngan, and invited them into the hogan of her grandmother. Out of politeness, they followed her, although both were in haste to return to Høngan’s family.

“Chür , have you heard the bad news?” asked the lovely granddaughter. “I hope I’m not the one who has to tell you.”

“We met a messenger. I know about my father.” He handed her a leather pouch containing the horseshoes. “Your husband will explain these, but later.” She looked at the pouch curiously, but left it inside the door-flap unopened as she ushered them into the hogan.

The old woman sat in a leather slingchair hung between two posts sunk in the hard dirt floor. She tried to rise, but Høngan waved her back. Nevertheless, she signed her respect for Høngan and Ombroz by making the kokai, striking her forehead with her knuckles, and bowing her head while placing her hand against her scalp palm out ward toward each of them. This politeness seemed excessive, and she did not repeat it toward Esitt Loyte. Her son-in-law she ignored; whether this was normal groom-hazing (“teaching him about our horses”) or real contempt was hard to say.

“What the Night Hag has foolishly done to your father grieves me greatly, Høngan Ösle Chür .” The utterance was fraught with portent. Ombroz noticed that Høngan was actually fidgeting before her. To attribute Brokenfoot’s illness to the Night Hag and call it foolish meant that he had been this Weejus woman’s choice for Qæsach Vørdar, and her reversal of Chür ’s name, with the matronymic placed last, meant that the rank of Brokenfoot’s son had risen in her eyes, for whatever reason. But Høngan Ösle was a diminutive for the historical Høngan Os, who lost a war and half of his people to Hannegan II.

“Will you drink blood with us tonight?” the old woman asked. “We celebrate the birth of twin colts by Potear’s best mare. And they are healthy, too—a rare and wonderful event.”

“Toast the Virgin for us, Grandmother,” said Father Ombroz. “My apologies for the haste, but Granduncle Brokenfoot needs us.”

“Yes, he will want to see his son, and from you he will want last anointing. Go then with Christ and the Lady.”

The two of them rode on, leaving Esitt Loyte behind with his bride and in-laws.

“The captain still has much to learn about the Wetok horses,” Ombroz said wryly when they were out of earshot.

Høngan laughed. “He will learn quite a bit in a hurry when Potear shows that old Weejus the horseshoes.”

The mountains had all but disappeared in a dust haze to the west when Holy Madness suddenly announced that Brokenfoot had become irascible in his illness, and that his old wife had found it necessary to appoint another as temporary head of the family.

“How do you know this?” the priest scoffed. “A vision?”

“That vision.” Høngan pointed toward the east. Carefully he raised himself in the saddle, and soon was standing on the back of his horse.

“My old eyes can’t see anything but emptiness. What is it?”

“There is someone there, I think my uncle. It’s miles away, still!

He moves its arms and dances a message. They see our dust.”

“Ah, the Nomad semaphore language. I should have learned it when I was younger. It always amazes me.”

“It gives us an advantage over their Texark warriors.”

When the hogans of the Little Bear clan hove into view on the horizon, a small cloud of dust appeared and soon a rider approached them. It was Brokenfoot’s wife’s brother, Red Buzzard, who was the nominal leader of the clan, who nevertheless deferred to his sister’s husband because she willed it so. Now during the husband’s illness, the brother resumed his rightful role. He was a thin, serious man, nearly sixty, with livid patches of skin which might have marked him as a genny except among the Nomads, where the cosmetic defect was highly regarded as a mark of Empty Sky. He spoke seriously to Holy Madness about Brokenfoot’s condition, which was disabling but apparently not getting worse at the moment.

“Some of our drovers are already back from the south,” Red Buzzard said to Ombroz, “including our Bear Spirit men. They are with him now, Father. But of course he wants to see you.”

Ombroz started to tell him about the Pope, but Red Buzzard already knew. Even in Cardinal Brownpony’s absence from Valana, his Secretariat was constantly sending and receiving messengers from the people of the Plains. When they came to the Little Bear village, the children and younger women came out to greet and be hugged by Høngan and their priest.

“Will you stay with us after you see your father?” asked his mother. “Or must you ride on to Grasshopper country?”

Holy Madness hesitated. He had not told her before. “I think Kuhaly has divorced me.” He glanced at Ombroz, who had married them, but the priest was looking away. “She said she would send for me if she wants me. Even if she does, I may not go.”

His mother’s face melted. “They blame you for having no daughters?”

“Perhaps. Also for being away too much of the time. Her brothers complain. I’ve done too little for the family. They say I am too attached to you. You know the word for that.”

“I was afraid it would be so when you married Grasshopper. Our drovers told us they had to fight Grasshopper drovers again this winter, to get pasturage.”

“Anyone killed?”

“Among ours, only wounded. Among theirs, I don’t know. It was an exchange of shots and arrows. Now, come and see your father.”

The Little Bear family shamans left the hogan while Father Ombroz administered the last anointing to his oldest convert. The priest knew they were embarrassed that some of their practices could not be reconciled with the religion he taught, and that they had accepted baptism themselves because Brokenfoot wished it so. When the old man died, their embarrassment (and envy?) might turn into hostility.

But the whole family knew that when he, Ombroz, had been forced to choose between them and his Order, when a new superior general of that Order, nominated by Archbishop Benefez, and therefore by Filpeo Harq, had called him back to New Rome, he had refused to go. He had been expelled and placed under interdict—measures which he ignored. Still, the punishment hurt him more than he cared to admit. He knew the Weejus women would be his allies in any quarrel with the Bear Spirit shamans, but he wanted to avoid the quarrel, and so far, so did they. Under his teaching, most of this Nomad family had become Christians, while he himself over the years had become a Nomad.

Ombroz was not the first teacher of the Order of Saint Ignatz to watch a favorite student whom he had taught to think for himself begin thinking otherwise than the priest had foreseen. That night he sighed heavily as he watched Chür Høngan dance the dance of the dying with the shamans in the dim and smoky light of the dung fire in front of Brokenfoot’s hogan.

The drums seemed to say: “Gruesome go, gruesome go, gruesome Mama go….”

The dance was to placate Black Wind, Empty Sky’s frightful counterpart, and to fend off the Night Hag. For a time he went wandering through the village, visiting similar fires and speaking to old “parishioners.” A minority were really Christian, but most he had baptized, and most accepted him as belonging to the shaman class. Among the unbaptized, his wisdom voice was still deemed worth hearing, when he sang in council.

Before the conquest, such villages had not existed. But more and more the Plains were dotted with hogans of stone and sod resembling those of the farmers, and located beside intermittent creeks and waterholes. Here the children and the elderly stayed for the winter, while the drovers moved their woolly cattle according to the seasons or best grazing and for protection from the worst of the howling blizzards which in the dead of winter swept down the Plains from the Arctic over the lands of the Great Mare and on into the conquered province which had belonged to the Jackrabbit Horde. Long ago the Jackrabbit had held the lightly forested land with deciduous trees to the southeast, land now claimed by the Texark Imperium. The Jackrabbit had rented pasturage there, partially sheltered from the icy blasts, to the Grasshopper and the Wilddog in the winter months, and they were well paid for this in cattle and horses. As a consequence, the Jackrabbit people were the least migratory of the hordes even before the war; and only a minority fled from the south after the conquest to form the Jackrabbit diaspora in the poor farming regions, neighbors to some of the impoverished ex-Grasshopper families who like Blacktooth’s had fled toward the mountains across the short-grass country of the Wilddog.

He could not get away from the drums. Now they seemed to say, “Freedom come, freedom come, freedom maiden come….”

After visiting nearly every dwelling, Father Ombroz went back to Brokenfoot’s hogan. He stood near the fire watching the dance for a time; then, after a pause to catch the beat, he laughed aloud and joined the dance himself, bringing an amused cheer from his Bearcub.