High Tales: The Collected Short Fiction by Andre Norton

Author:Andre Norton [Norton, Andre]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Jerry eBooks
Published: 2020-04-21T21:00:00+00:00

1979

SAND SISTER

1

The moment of birth came in the early dawning when the mists of Tormarsh night still curled thick and rank about the walls of Kelva’s hall.

This in itself was an ill thing, for, as all well knew, a child who is to have the foresight and the forereach must come into the world at that time: the last moment of one day and the first of the next; while under a full moon of the Shining One is indeed the best time to welcome a new Voice among the People.

Also this was no lusty child who entered the world crying a demand for life and the fullness thereof. Rather the wrinkled skin on its undersized body was dusky, and it lay across the two hands of the healer limply. Nor did it seek to draw a breath. But because all children were necessary for the Tor-folk and each new life was a barrier against the twilight of their kind, they labored to save this one.

The healer set lips upon the cold flaccid ones of the baby and strove to breathe air into its lungs. They warmed it and nursed it, until at last it cried feebly—not to welcome life but to protest that it must receive it. At the sound of that cry Mafra’s head inclined to one side as she listened to that plaint which was more like the cry of a luckless bird trapped in a net than that of any true child of Tor.

Though her eyes were long since blind to what the Folk could see, being covered with a film which no light could hope now to pierce, Mafra had the other sight. When they brought the child to her for the blessing of the Clan and House Mother, she did not hold out her hands to receive the small body. Rather she shook her head and spoke:

“Not of the kindred is this one. The spirit who was chosen to fill this body came not. What you have drawn to life in it is—”

She fell silent then. While the women who had brought the child drew away from the Healer, now staring at the baby she held as if the wrap cloth of the clan birthing enfolded some slimy thing out of the encroaching bog land.

Mafra turned her head slowly so that her blind eyes faced each for the space of a breath.

“Let no one think of the Dark Death for this one.” She spoke sharply.

“The body is blood of our blood, bone of our bone. This much I also say to you: what now dwells within that body we must bind to us, for there is a strength indwelling in it which the child must learn to use for herself.

Then when she uses it for those she favors it will be both a mighty tool and a weapon.”

“But you have not named her, Clan Mother. How can she dwell in the clan house if she bears not our name freely given?” ventured then the boldest of those who had faced Mafra.

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