“You know nothing of reindeer then? You do not know how to harness and load them?”
Tillu shrugged her shoulders, looked closely at the girl who now spoke so maturely and asked such practical questions. “There are two animals hobbled behind my tent. The herdlord provided them for me. I suppose he will send Joboam to help me when the time comes.” Tillu could not keep the dismay from her voice.
“That one?” Kari gave a hard laugh. “I was glad when he wouldn’t have me. I knew why. He made many fines excuses to my father, saying I was so young, so small yet. As if that…” She paused and stared into her mug for a breath or two. “I didn’t know my father would find Pirtsi instead,” she finished suddenly. She cocked her head, gave Tillu a shrewd look. “I could show you. Now, today. Then, when the time came, you wouldn’t need help. You could send a message that you didn’t need Joboam.” Kari smiled a small smile. “And I could tell my father that I had already taught you, that he need not spare so important a man as Joboam for such a simple task.” There was frank pleasure in the girl’s voice as she spoke of spiting Joboam’s plans.
Tillu lifted her eyes from her own slow appraisal of the flames. She was beginning to have suspicions of Joboam that made her dislike him even more. She was also beginning to have a different opinion of Kari. The girl was shrewd. As oddly as she might behave, she had wits. And how old was she? Sixteen? “When I was her age, I had Kerlew in my arms,” Tillu thought to herself. “And I thought my life belonged to him as surely as Kari believes hers belongs to Owl. We are not so different.” Kari smiled her tight-lipped smile again, a smile of conspiracy that Tillu returned.
REINDEER. THE HERD came first, flowing through the trees like water flowing through a bed of reeds. The males led, most with antlers missing or stubby in velvet. Their shedding coats were patchy but they stepped proudly, eyes alert, moving down the hillside and past her with slow grace. At first the sheer number of the animals cresting the hill and pouring down into her little valley had frightened Tillu. It was her first glimpse of the wealth of the herdfolk. Up until now, she had lived apart from them in her own dell, tending to their hurts but not sharing their lives. Now she was to be swept into it as surely as the moving herd of beasts swept past her. She trembled at their numbers. But the flood of beasts paid her and Kerlew and the two laden harkar no mind.
She gripped the damp rein tighter. Either one of the laden animals could have dragged her off her feet. The second beast was tethered to the first one’s harness, as Kari had taught her. If they decided to follow the herd, there would be nothing she could do about it. She glanced at them, felt sweat break out anew. They carried the new tent Capiam had sent, and all her supplies. If they bolted, she would lose all her herbs and household implements, everything. But the two animals stood placidly, regarding the passing reindeer with calm brown eyes.
She had spent the last two days packing her possessions and learning to manage the animals. Kari had been a good teacher, matter-of-fact and tolerant of Tillu’s nervousness. But Tillu was still not comfortable. It was one thing to watch wild reindeer from a distance, or crouch over a dead one to butcher. It was another thing entirely to stand close to a living animal, to hold a strap fastened to it. The harke whose lead she held shifted its weight. Its large, deeply cloven hooves spread atop the ground. It sneezed, spraying her with warm drops and then shook its head to free the long whiskers on its muzzle from the clinging moisture. Tillu forced herself to stand still as the new antlers, encased in pulpy velvet, swept close to her. When they were grown they would be solid hard brown bone. A brow antler would extend forward and downward over its muzzle to protect the animal’s face; the rest of the antlers would be swept back. She had already known that both females and males grew and shed antlers. But Kari had given her the casual knowledge of one whose life had always interlocked with the herd.
The vajor were coming now, mistrustful of everything as they shepherded their gangly calves along. The calves were an unlikely assembly of knobby joints and long bones, of pinkish muzzles and wide, awe-stricken eyes. One calf halted, to regard Tillu with amazement. “Stand still, Kerlew,” she breathed to her son as the mother watched them with hard eyes. She snorted to her calf, and then nudged it along. They merged back into the flow of grayish-brown animals and Tillu breathed again. She glanced up at the crest of the hill, and felt her trepidation rise. Why did she feel more threatened by the people than she did by the passing animals?
“See, Kerlew, there is Capiam the herdlord, leading the others. Soon we shall join them.” Kari had delivered her message that she needed no help to prepare for the journey. Tillu wondered if it had caused any upset in the village. She had seen nothing of Joboam or Heckram since Carp’s arrival.
“If Capiam is the leader,” Kerlew asked, his piping voice carrying clearly, “why didn’t he come first, leading that big reindeer? A different man is leading the herd.”
“Hush. There is more than one kind of leading. The first man was leading the guide animal. Capiam is leading the people.”
Kerlew fixed her with an unreadable look. “I would rather be lord of the herd than herdlord,” he said. “And someday I shall.” There was no doubt in his voice nor sense in his words. Tillu sighed. She put her arm across his shoulders, but he bucked free of her irritably. She sighed again.
Capiam’s shirt was bright red wool and his cap was gay with tassels. His reindeer wore harness bedecked with colors and metal. He led a string of seven harkar, each heavily burdened. He waved a greeting and gestured to her to join them. She nodded her agreement but stood still, watching the parade of people and laden animals. Behind Capiam came a stout woman, leading a string of five harkar. Behind her came Rolke with a string of seven harkar, and then Kari leading two. Kari waved gaily and called something to her. The reindeer made their own sounds of passage; the clicking of their hooves, the creak and slap of branches as they pushed through the woods, their coughing grunts as they called to their fellows.
Next came men and women Tillu didn’t know, their wealth apparent in their woolen garments and bronze ornaments. Each person led a string of animals, usually six or seven to the adults, and two or three for each child. Tillu smiled at a fat babe atop a lurching harke. The infant’s cheeks were very red, her face grave as she held to the wooden pack frame and rode tall. Tillu’s smile faded as her eyes met the next walker.
Joboam led a string of nine harkar. He met her eyes deliberately, and veered out of the caravan line. Tillu kept her face impassive, but her heartbeat quickened. Kerlew took a quick breath and stepped behind her. Joboam gave no greeting until he was a few steps away. His dark eyes flicked from Tillu to Kerlew.
“Here, boy. Hold the lead while I check those pack animals. The loads look uneven to me. And don’t startle them.”
Kerlew didn’t move. Joboam’s eyes narrowed and his color came up slowly. “Boy…,” he began in a savagely low voice.
“I’ll hold your animals if you must check my work. But Kari showed me how to lead, and was satisfied I could do it.”
“Kari!” The word was full of contempt. He glared at Kerlew. Then, he jerked the harke’s head around and slapped the rein into Tillu’s outstretched hand. The animal shied from Joboam’s sudden movement, nearly dragging Tillu off her feet, but she kept hold of the rein.
“Don’t let him jerk you around,” Joboam commanded her as he moved to her laden animals. He tugged and pushed at the bags and bundles tied to the pack frame, tightening the ties,