Chapter 2: The Return of the Wanderers to the Hearth

ASTIAH

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Now they have become so ubiquitous that they follow me, even into my dreams. I find it hard to fall asleep at night and harder to wake in the morning.

“Astiah!” I awaken abruptly with my hearth daughter, Hanasorsha, tugging on my night clothes. “Wake up!”

I try to push her off me, but she clings to me like a climbing vine. This child loves me more than even my birth children. “What?” I mumble, with my eyes still closed.

“You have to get up and get ready for The Return! They’re coming.”

She’s a sweet child, covered with freckles and the youngest at our hearth. The Annual Return is an exciting event for her. Today, her father, hearth brothers, and some Others will return bearing gifts. Since she sees her father only occasionally, she considers him an extraordinary presence. Men, other than her hearth brothers, are exciting and mysterious. I remember being her age, waiting impatiently for the tenth new moon every year, the signal of the coming celebration. I waited at the edge of the known hearth for the first sounds of their arrival.

I sigh, turn over, and drag the blanket over my head.

“Go away.” Six weeks have passed since Solis’ revelation about the Drakdarekam, the dragon slayers. Nothing I have said has persuaded Granye that we should go look for them. I can’t make her understand my desperation to escape the strictures of hearth society. Every day, something in me dies a little.

Hanasorsha tears the blanket away from my head and presses her nose against mine. “PLLLEEEAASSSE, Astiah, you have to get up!”

When I smell the sweetness of her skin and feel her warm breath on my cheek, I sit up and bundle her into my arms.

She giggles with delight. “Will you braid my hair?”

“Of course,” I say. My braiding is a favorite among little girls. I braid tight, elaborate designs I practiced on the manes and tails of horses as a child.

“You’re the best braider ever.”

I stand, wrap myself in my morning coat and slide my feet into fur-lined shoes. Cool weather begins to settle this time of year. Something stirs in me before the snows arrive. We could be away before the snow if Granye listened to reason. Hanasorsha takes my hand, satisfied she has rousted me from bed. She will probably be my shadow all day until her father and brothers arrive tonight, and I become as uninteresting as a muddy ewe in her eyes.

##

Sorsha looks up from stirring a hearth pot as I enter. “Hanasorsha! Didn’t I tell you to leave Astiah alone?”

Hanasorsha glances down and her feet and says almost too quietly to hear, “Yes…”

Sorsha looks at me and smiles. “I’m sorry, Astiah. I know you needed some sleep.”

“It’s alright. She’s excited. I remember how I felt.” My favorite part was always the staged performances that follow the men’s arrival and the feast. My favorite part, aside from the late-night coupling for men and women of age.

Sorsha says, “Since you’re up, could you collect the rams and take them to the hearth center? I offered three for the feast.” I take a heavy crust of bread from the table and bite off a piece.

“At least sit down, Astiah. You don’t have to eat like a nomad.”

I sit, butter another piece of bread. “Which ones?”

“You choose.”

I’m sorry for the rams. They, like all males in our society, are superfluous. When a hearth mother has a child, she always hopes for a girl. A girl will stay at hearth. A girl will contribute to the hearth. A girl can have children. Boys will leave the hearth and wander. It is what I have always wanted to do. We celebrate the birth of girls with more vigor than boys. The boys, like the rams, just become a mouth to feed until they reach an age where they become an inconvenience. There is the rare boy who wishes to stay at hearth when he comes of age, but these boys won’t be thought of as serious mates. They are eccentric but hopefully accepted. It is equally odd for girls to wish to join the Others. No mother wants that for her child.

I say, “The two brown ones and the fat one I think.”

Sorsha lets out a small laugh. “The fat one has only himself to blame.”

Hanasorsha dashes out the door and shouts to her hearth siblings in the yard, “Astiah is awake! She’s going to braid my hair.”

Sorsha and I both laugh. Our daughter’s enthusiasm is hard to resist.

##

It took me longer to catch the rams than I hoped. In the end, my son Sarvastiah helped to hobble them and walk them to the hearth center. A good boy, thorough and careful, he’s always been good at handling animals. I wonder how he will adjust to living among the Others. He’s always been a planner. His inclination is to deliberate before he acts could be dangerous as a nomad’s life is full of unexpected risks. He leaves on the next Return. I can’t prepare him for the life I’ve only dreamt of. I both envy him and fear for him.

We leave the rams at the butcher’s yard and walk the short distance to the hearth center to see how preparations are progressing. It’s only a moment before Sarvastiah spots a pack of his friends. I nod and he runs to join them.

In the distance I see Granye and Helia lifting garlands onto an arch at the entryway to the central hearth. When I stand under the arch, I can smell the woody scent of lavender, rosemary, and sweet pesyps. Granye and her hearth grow, harvest, and dry herbs, flowers, seeds, and roots. I admire the generosity of their extravagant gift.

A few hearth minders raise a frame for a rough curtain around the stage. There’s an air of excitement everywhere.

“Can I help?” I shout up to Helia, who perches on a pile of crates.

“Yes, please, can you lift that end up to me?”

I lift the garland and drag it forward.

“Good morning!” Granye calls as she ties down the garland at the other end.

“Morning!” I reply.

Helia climbs down and we walk to where Granye is still working.

Granye and Helia have always been friends. It’s no secret that they are each other’s favorites in their hearth. We try within our hearth to treat every hearth companion equally, but it’s natural to favor one more than another. Granye and Helia’s friendship is accepted within their hearth but frowned upon by society at large. We prize acceptance and cooperation, but sometimes more in theory than practice.

I help Granye climb down. We decide to sit and have a cup of tea at the main hearth.

“Are you ready for tonight?” Helia asks.

“Mostly,” I reply, “I have to pick some flowers when I get home and braid the girls’ hair.” Tonight we will dress in long embroidered jackets and tuck grass and flowers into our elaborate braids.

“Will you perform tonight?” Granye asks.

“Yes, it will be Sarvastiah’s last time as a child.”

“He’s so like his father…” Helia says.

“Is he? I don’t see it.”

“An actor…”

“Don’t tease…,” I say. She’s right though, Sarvastiah’s father is a talented actor, as is his son.

Sarvastiah may join one of these troupes of actors who travel among the hearths and perform professionally. Together with traveling storytellers, they carry the knowledge of our history and our mythology in stories and songs. Unlike our hearth’s informal plays that we all know and perform at the Return feast, these performances require lengthy study. We respect players for their knowledge. When they come to town, we offer them food, clothing and valuable gifts for their service. These troupes travel with Observers who spend hours studying the natural world, making maps and recording their discoveries to be shared with every hearth. They allow us to identify patterns in the skies, to know which plants are edible, to understand changes in weather, and offer a wider picture of society. As a child, I anticipated their arrival almost as much as I did the Return. Having Sarvastiah join them would be a source of pride for me.

During the Return, we perform our own plays. It’s a rare opportunity for men to play the male roles, instead of using boys with wool beards or women dressed as men. When I was younger, men’s unfamiliar deep voices, real beards and hairy arms fascinated me.

One of these traveling male performers is responsible for trapping me at the hearth. My mother warned me about the dangers of love, but not actors.

“It’ll be hard for you to see him go,” Helia says.

Fengranye, Granye’s youngest son, will leave next year, so I can at least hope they may travel together.

“I’ll still have Anaastiah and her hearth siblings…,” but I can feel a sense of melancholy rise in me. Two Returns ago, Granye’s oldest son left the hearth. When he returned, he had become a man . “Was it hard for you when Gorgranye left?”

“Don’t use his baby name. It’s just Gor now. It’s been an adjustment.” She thinks for a minute and sips her root tea. “I think he was ready. He had grown restless.”

I identify with his restlessness, but I’ve never been able to escape.

Granye says, “He was always a good hunter. He travels with good men. They care for each other. It’s the most you can hope for.”

Helia sighs. “I worry about him. I wish he’d communicate more. Last year, we received only one message, and it didn’t say much.”

The matter of communication is a source of pain for most mothers. All women possess the ability to send images to women they are close to. We can show our hearth companions a picture of where we are and can connect with them over long distances. Exceptional women can send more complete messages, including words and concepts. And some rare women can send messages to women they don’t know. They are the most revered. Most of us believe this skill is natural but it’s possible it can be learned.

Men lack this ability, and so we think of them as slightly inferior. Our boys and our lovers have minds that are like dark hearths to us. Their strength and stamina are useful, but they can’t communicate fully. We can only speculate about what they are feeling. We don't know where they are.

Once they leave the hearth, we don’t know where our sons and fathers are. Some send letters, but the delivery system is unpredictable. Nomads pass letters to other nomads who are heading in the general direction of the desired hearth. When one group of nomads meets another, they will exchange letters to keep the letters moving in the proper direction. The result is that letters may take days or many moons to arrive. In rare cases, they may travel with women who can communicate, and that’s what most mothers hope for.

Granye says, “But that isn’t his fault.” She sounds defensive. I sense there’s an undercurrent of disagreement about Gor, but Granye hasn’t ever mentioned it. I don’t like to probe; it’s too personal. “To be fair Helia, Gor was never one to say much.” Granye adds.

Helia nods. She stands and gestures to our teacups. “More?”

We both shake our heads and she heads for the steaming pot and greets a neighbor pouring, filling a few cups.

I lean forward. “Have you thought more about what I said?”

“Astiah, I have no wish to leave the hearth. My life here is good.”

“Yes, but we could set out with the Others when they leave. We could search for the Drakdare.”

“Astiah, we’ve been over this. I’m not interested in searching for dragon slayers that may or may not exist.” She lifts her bag from under her chair and pulls out a small hand loom. Making fabric requires hours of our time. Every hearth minder learns to weave, knit, and dye at an early age. We weave patches on small looms for the neverending holes in our children’s clothers. She focuses on her weaving .

“But, Solis said…”

“I know what Solis said.” Her voice rises slightly in irritation.

I can’t help pushing.

She looks up from her patch. “It isn’t my business. Find someone else to go with you. I’ve said no already.”

I can’t get through to her premonition I have that it’s her journey. I’m only meant to follow. I noted the way Solis looked at her, probed her. I don’t think she’s dangerous, but there is something unnerving about Solis. She may possess the ability to read the intentions of another. “Did you see the spear in the corner when we were at her grange?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Do you think she used it to kill dragons?”

“Yes.” After a pause, she says, “The point seemed designed to pierce dragon skin.”

For a moment I hope I’ve drawn her in. “Do you think you throw it at the dragon? Or stab the dragon’s heart.”

Granye sets down her handloom and looks up at me. “I don’t know, and I don’t plan to find out.”

It infuriates me that I can’t draw her in.

“Find out what?” Helia says as she returns carrying a steaming pitcher. She fills our cups, although we declined more tea.

“Nothing,” Granye replies. She glares at me, willing me to drop the topic. Then she says, “Will you couple tonight?”

“It’s unlikely. I don’t want to risk having a baby at this point.”

Helia laughs and rolls her eyes. We all reach an age where the idea of more children doesn’t seem desirable. Children are never unwanted in our society. Mothers rarely abandon their children, when they do a hearth raises them as a special child who receives extra love and support.

There are ways to end a pregnancy. Most women are more likely to give a child up for adoption knowing they will be loved. When I was pregnant the first time I considered adoption and decided I could raise one child, and then move on. Sarvastiah’s father made coupling so pleasurable that I bore him a son.

##

We hear them before we see them. They carry large hollow sticks which they beat against each other. They rehearse this percussive song all year, which they play in repetition as they approach the hearth. Boys and small children run out to meet them, and hearth minders relieve them of their burdens, except their sticks. We bring the horses and pack animals to the stables, where the older girls groom, water, and feed them.

When Others arrive hearthside, they carry supplies they have accumulated from far away. We are grateful for their nomadic ways, which supplement our food stores and introduce us to treasures from unknown lands. Every father brings a gift for his children. For amorous men, this means carrying a heavier pack during the last miles of the journey to the hearth.

The men, although tired, march with lively steps to the central hearth where we wait. We place garlands of woodland grass around their necks and offer them cups full of twig tea. Sarvastiah’s father has aged this year, or perhaps I hadn’t looked carefully at him last time.

After the children have gone to bed, the men will bathe in our hot springs and join us in our beds. Throughout the feast, couples quietly reunite, or agree to unite for the first time by mutual consent. I make a sport of guessing who will end up sleeping at whose hearth, although I have made several bad guesses.

All around me, older children run to their fathers. The younger ones hang back, shy or uncertain about which man to run to. My heart leaps at the thrill of seeing them all together. Gor’s beard has grown long. He looks more like a grown man every year. Granye goes to embrace him, and they hold each other for a long moment.

The Hearth Keeper steps up to the stage. She shouts to be heard, “We welcome the Others. You are welcome at our hearth. Please come to our fire and drink our tea.”

The men all bow graciously.

The Feast of the Return has begun.

Maybe I don’t want to sleep alone tonight. I can’t shake this sense of foreboding, a shadow across my heart. Not only my restlessness, but my intuition, tells me that the dragons in our valley threaten our way of life.

This is what I’ve been trying to tell Granye. In my troubled dreams, there are many dragons in the valley, and our all hearths lie in ruins.

##