Women Up to No Good by Pat Murphy

Author:Pat Murphy [Murphy, Pat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
Publisher: Untreed Reads Publishing
Published: 2013-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Dragon’s Gate

My name is Alita, which means “girl to be trusted.” My mother calls me Al. If anyone asks, I tell them it’s short for Alonzo, a solid masculine name. At fifteen years of age, I can pass for a boy on the verge of manhood. I dress in men’s clothing, preferring tunic and breeches to petticoats and skirts.

My mother plays the harp and sings ballads; I am a storyteller. I know common folk stories (rife with bawdy asides and comic characters), heroic tales favored by the nobility (usually involving handsome princes, beautiful princesses, and courtly love), and morality tales (favored by the clergy, but not by many others). I know how a story should go.

The story that I tell you now is unruly and difficult. It refuses to conform to any of the traditional forms. This story wanders like sheep without a shepherd. It involves a prince and a dragon, but not until later. There will be magic and wishes and…well, I’ll get to all that presently.

I begin my story in the mountain town of Nabakhri, where shepherds and weavers gather each fall. The shepherds come down from the mountains to sell their wool; the weavers come up from the lowlands to buy. My mother and I come to the festival to entertain the lot of them.

Twilight was falling when my mother and I reached the town. We had been traveling for two days, beginning our journey in the warm valley where the Alsi River ran. There, people grew rice and millet and wore bright colorful clothing. In Nabakhri, people grew barley and potatoes, herded goats and sheep, and wore heavy woolen clothing.

The trail that led to town was steep, better suited for goats than for our pony. The evening breeze blew from the great glacier that filled the valley to the west of Nabakhri. Our pony’s breath made clouds in the cold, crisp air.

At the edge of town, we waited for a flock of sheep to cross the main path. The sheep bleated in protest as dogs nipped at their heels. One of the shepherds, an older man in a ragged cloak, glanced at us. He smiled as he noted my mother’s harp, slung on the side of our pony’s pack. “Musicians!” he said. “Are you looking for an inn?”

I nodded. After the long summer alone m the mountains, shepherds are eager for music and good company.

“The inns in the center of the village are full,” he said. “Try Sarasri’s place. West side of the village, overlooking the glacier. Good food, good drink.”

Someone shouted from the direction in which the man’s flock was disappearing. The man lifted a hand in farewell and hurried after his sheep.

Sarasri’s was a sprawling, ramshackle inn on the edge of town. We hitched the pony by the open door to the tavern, where the air was rich with the scent of lamb stew and fried bread. The barmaid called for Sarasri, the innkeeper.

Sarasri, a stout, round-faced woman, hurried from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron.

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