Children of the Shaman

The last hour seemed the longest. At first, Annat thought that she was seeing a reflection of the oil lamp in the window-pane, its image multiplied as it swung to and fro. Soon there were too many lights, some distant and far, like stars, others so close that they threw a warm glow into the carriage. They had street lamps in Masalyar, kept burning by the householders to make the streets safer. Yuste had told her. And now the story was becoming reality, and Annat was moving into the dream. They would meet their father, and he would take them far away into the north, through the country of bandits and Soul Men.

She clutched the hard wooden body of the Doll to her chest. The Doll had been her mother's, and her mother's mother's; it was old and smooth, though Yuste had made a new dress for it out of green silk when Annat was a little girl. When it had been time to pack, Annat had taken the Doll and her vyel and a few clothes, white blouses, black skirts and black pinafores. The Doxoi had made a law that Wanderers must dress in two colours, black and brown, to remind them of their dirt and shame. White was allowed because it was no colour. Yuste and Malchik both wore brown, but Annat preferred the crow-darkness of black, which made her face look pale and her eyes large.

For some time now, the thin tyres of the steam coach had been rattling over cobblestones, making a tinny melody. There were people in the street outside, the people of Masalyar, but Annat could not see their faces. Yuste unpinned the watch from her blouse to peer at its dial in the dim light.

"Ten of the clock," she said, in her dry voice. "We're late, of course."

Malchik twisted his head towards her, and the light flashed across his glasses.

"How much longer is it?" he asked, sleepily.

Yuste leaned past him towards the window.

"I have no idea where we are," she commented. "The Central Station is quite near the port. We could be on the moon for all I can see."

Malchik gave a croaking laugh. His voice still sounded as though it had recently broken, for all his eighteen years. The old woman looked up from her knitting, sniffed, and raised the needles closer to her face. Annat saw the lines of Yuste's amusement. Her aunt was almost an old woman, thirty-six, and not married yet. Most girls in the village married when they were sixteen, straight from their dolls to the marriage bed. They called Yuste a spinster. When Annat had whispered this to her grandmother, Bubbe had shaken her head. It was not customary for Wanderers to marry so young.

Annat slipped her right thumb into her mouth, hoping that Yuste would not notice. There was a rough callous below the knuckle, she had been sucking it so long. She was not sure that she wanted to meet Tate. What was it that Malchik had whispered to her, last night after they had said their prayers? It had been unlike Malchik to tell her anything; if he wanted to confide in anyone, he chose Yuste or their grandparents. You know he doesn't really want us. If he cared what happened to us, why did he never visit? It's not so far. Annat had never asked herself such questions. She had grown up accepting her father's absence as part of the landscape, like a distant shadow on the horizon. There had been Yuste and Bubbe and Zaide and even Mame, though she had not showed much interest in Annat. That had been the picture of Annat's family, sheltering together on the cliffs like storm-blown petrels.