Raetian Tales 1: A Wind from the South (25 page)

After a while Mariarta managed to look at where Flisch had fallen. Not much path was left, only a couple of feet right next to the cliff-slope: what wasn’t there any more had been covered by one of those snow- bridges which wet snow can form with time over even the widest gaps. “We’d better use a stick from now on,” she said. “Here—” She unfastened her climbing-stick from Catsch’s packs, handed it to Flisch.

He got up, still red in the face, and started walking again, testing the snow with the stick. Mariarta got Catsch’s reins back in order and followed slowly. She was surprised when Flisch stopped and threw the stick at a boulder.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

Flisch stood there with his back to her for only a second, then wheeled on her. “Won’t you leave me
anything?
  You save my life,
twice
now, damn you!—then you make me out to be a hero in front of half of Chur when, when it happened otherwise:  won’t you leave me any pride at all?”

Mariarta glared. “I saved your life, yes, but that was for Turté’s sake, not yours!  Why did you follow me, then, and threaten me?”

“I never threatened you—”

“With all your talk of men in the inn, and your sly looks, you did!  What do you want of me?  What harm have I ever done you?”

They walked along in silence for a while. Finally Flisch said angrily, “I want my honor back!  I don’t want my life being saved by women!”

Mariarta’s hand itched on the crossbow stock. “One can take it, then, if you like...”

Flisch gaped at her. “I didn’t—  I mean—”

“You don’t know
what
you mean. I wish I did, for then I could be shut of you, one way or another.”

“I don’t know,” Flisch said.

“This is all your fault,” Mariarta muttered. “I wish you’d never climbed the Lucomagno that night.”

“I wish I hadn’t, too,” Flisch said. He started to go around a boulder that lay in their path, stopped and poked the snow with Mariarta’s stick before going around. At last he said, “Sievi told me that you and Turté had been getting friendly—”

“Precisely that: friendly!  I talk to her, I don’t pinch her, I don’t shout words at her that sound like I think her a slut: that will make a woman feel friendly indeed!  Are you completely an idiot, Flisch?”

“But I thought you were a man.”

“Oho. So what was the plan then?  Find me in the mountains, put a bolt into me?  An accident: could happen to anyone. Eh, Flisch?”

He swore, and fell silent.

“So you followed me,” Mariarta said, as they topped the saddle between the last spur of Pratsch and the Maran height above Arosa. “How did you find out, finally?”

Flisch laughed. “I saw you pee. Once, I thought you were doing something else. But the second time, before Vaz, I was sure.”

Mariarta’s eyes narrowed. To be betrayed by something so small!  “At least then you realized that I was not after Turté.”

“No, but that made it worse.” They edged around a thin part of the path, sloping downward from the saddle. “A man saving my life, that was hard, but it happens. A woman, though—”

“And someone you had been hating until then. ...Ah well. You’re a fool, Flisch, if you think a life saved is honor lost.”

“But a woman can’t—”

“Oh, shut up,” Mariarta said as they made the bottom of the slope, turning the last curve of the path: it ended in snow-covered scree. “Where your soul would be now except for me I don’t know, but it would be seeing more clearly, I’ll wager that much.”

She stood there, breathing hard. The valley of Arosa lay beneath them, an empty bowl, white with snow; nothing to break the pristine view but the roof of one hut, half-buried, visible only by the outline of its eaves. Near the hut lay a dark oblong lake, not frozen yet. Across the white valley-bowl were pine woods; above them, the great mountain Whitehorn. The valleys at its feet were hidden in mist and drifting cloud.

“I don’t care who you’re angry at,” Mariarta said, “yourself for being fooled, or Turté for being friendly, or me for not being what you thought I was; I just wish you’d stop. If I start thinking you’ll betray me, I’ll probably kill you. But that’s what I get for my folly in risking myself to do you a good turn.” She started down the slope, not looking behind.

The wind was flowing into the valley over the saddle they had climbed. On it as he followed her, Mariarta could catch Flisch’s anger and confusion, but all irresolute.
Maybe that had been the problem in the pass. He couldn’t decide what to do, and so bore the brunt of the Ride’s anger. If he had opened to them, and not panicked, everything would have been fine. Possibly he knows it. He thinks himself a coward...

Mariarta walked into the heart of the valley. The going was surprisingly easy, the ground fairly even, as she made her way to the hut.

Its eaves were thick with huge icicles. Mariarta was careful to avoid them as she came to the door, which faced the northeastward opening of the valley.
Odd, that,
  she thought, as Flisch joined her.
If I had built this, I would have had the door face the lake: it must look fine in summer...

“Strange way to have this facing,” Flisch said, as Mariarta climbed the two steps to the porch that shielded the door.

“I was thinking that.” Mariarta pushed at the door. It swung inward into darkness.

“The wind, maybe. You wouldn’t want it blowing straight in.”

“Yes, the wind...” The hut had a fireplace, with a crane. The windows, one to each wall except the one with the door, were shuttered tight. The usual narrow
sennen
’s pallets were stacked one above another, three of them, near a bench. Over by the granite hearthstone was a pile of kindling; in the corner near it, some bigger wood.

“It’s too late to do anything else today,” Flisch said. “I’ll go to those pines and get some deadwood.”

“Mind the edge of the lake,” Mariarta called after him.

Flisch’s footsteps crunched away. Mariarta chose some kindling.
What am I worrying about?
  she thought.
If he should fall into the lake and freeze, there’s my problem solved.
Then Mariarta frowned. Where were these cruel thoughts coming from?  They had become frequent since Flisch appeared.

She concentrated on getting a fire going. There were no pots here, but she had a small one of her own, among Catsch’s baggage. She went out for the donkey, hauled him up the steps. A ring was set in the far wall, on the side of the fireplace away from the beds. Mariarta tethered Catsch to it and put some grain on the floor for him.

After a while, satisfied with the fire, Mariarta went outside to look for Flisch. Dark was falling fast; the haze in the air was thickening to gray fog. The mountains were nearly invisible.
Hurry up,
  Mariarta thought,
you’re going to lose your way!
  But then, wouldn’t that solve her problems too?  Many a hunter was killed by being caught out in the cold—

Mariarta shook her head.
What’s the matter with me?
  she thought....but her hands still itched for the bow—  “I am not going to kill anyone,” she whispered, “least of all this poor fool. Be still and let me be!”

A breath of laughter, as if heard down the wind. Mariarta peered around the corner of the house, westward toward the pines.
I’m getting closer to her. Her thoughts are getting stronger in me—

Flisch loomed up, a dark indistinct figure. “Plenty of deadwood there,” he said, brushing past her into the hut. “Come in and shut the door: why are you wasting the warmth?”

Mariarta went in after him.

•

They ate a hunter’s meal of soup made from dry meat and barley, drank water melted from snow; then talked, somewhat unwillingly.

“That slope on the northwest side of the lake,” Flisch said, “it looks gentle enough. We can climb that way, then circle the whole place at that level. Whitehorn’s spurs come to about that height, too—we can look a good way up the valleys without actually having to climb them.”

“The problem is,” Mariarta said, “heaven knows what we should do if we find the story to be the truth.”

“Gold for me,” Flisch said cheerfully. “You can have the magic cowbell if you want it. The enchanted maiden, or whatever she is, I don’t want her, and she’s no good to you.”

Mariarta had other ideas. “But what happens if neither of us passes this test of questions the dwarf is supposed to give us?  Or what if he only wants one of us, not the other?”

“If that happens, we’ll choose for it. The other one waits to see what happens. And if we don’t pass—we leave, I guess. At least we’ll be able to tell people the story is true.”

“You hope we’ll leave. I hope this isn’t like missing the white one when you shoot at it.” Mariarta had another bite of meat. “What
did
you see, back there at Vaz?”

Flisch stared. “I told you, the white one. Did you think I was making that up?”

“Yes.”

He stared, offended. “Who would lie about a thing like that?  It could be the death of you, saying you’d seen it when you hadn’t.”

Mariarta stared back. “But then you let drop that line about it turning into a woman—”

He smiled, malice in his eyes. “Yes. You should have seen your face. But that was just me joking. The white one—” Flisch looked sober. “I saw it there, all right. It went into the trees, like I told you. I followed it. Got good and lost there...I had to sleep under the trees that night.”

Mariarta sat silent, considering the mystery.
Something to do with the statue?...
“Was it big?”

Flisch shook his head. “The usual doe size. Maybe two years.”

Mariarta breathed out. It suddenly all seemed too much for her. Her legs ached, she was weary, she was trapped with someone she didn’t trust, about to spend a night waiting for a morning when they would go out looking for a magic that might make them rich or kill them—no telling which. But this had been her idea....

“Never mind,” she said, settling herself on the far side of the fireplace. “Better wrap up in that blanket of yours. The fire won’t last until dawn.”

“Ah, well, what a pity,” Flisch said. “But there are other ways to keep warm.”

Mariarta reached over from where she sat, laid her crossbow in her lap. It was spanned, and armed.

“A lot of times,” Mariarta said, “you get a warm afternoon in the rocks, the sun shining, and you’re lying there, waiting for the chamois. You drowse off. But your ears aren’t asleep. A tiny sound comes—a pebble falling, a hoof on the stone—”

Flisch threw himself sideways. Mariarta stared in horror at the bolt that sprouted from beside where his ear was now, where his eye had been a second ago. The bolt was still quivering.

“I sleep lightly,” she said, shaking as she reached for another bolt, and restrung the crossbow. “Good night, Flisch.”

He folded his arms and began, ostentatiously, to snore. Later on, when his breathing evened and the snores became genuine, Mariarta leaned back against the wall, and slept too...lightly.

•

Dawn came, and three hours later the sun came over the mountains, forcing its way in through the cracks of the closed shutters in beams that danced with dust like sparks of gold. Mariarta was shocked to find she had slept so long. Flisch, like Catsch, was still sleeping hard.

Mariarta slipped out quietly to take care of morning business. The sun shone blindingly from the snow. The sky was bitterly blue, the wind blowing from the south, though not a
föhn
wind. Snow was blowing in great misty plumes from the southern peaks, making a light haze in the upper air; closer to the ground, the wind carried a storm of stinging glitter with it.
Not the best day for exploring. But damned if I’m going to sit in the hut all day with Flisch....

Mariarta went in and untied Catsch from his wall-ring. Flisch was knuckling his eyes at the brightness. “We’ll be blinded by noon—”

“Don’t you have eyeblinders?” Mariarta said, surprised.

“Yes, but—”

“Just complaining... I see.” She rooted around in her pack for the long band of thin linen she used to shield her eyes, put some more dried meat in her pockets. Then she hauled Catsch out the door, tied him on the porch, and put down more grain for him. Quickly, before Flisch came out, Mariarta dug into Catsch’s pack for the skin-wrapped statue, tucking it in the small bag she wore on her back.
Should we find her, no harm in having something for her to know me by— 

Flisch came out while she was still fastening her backsack, and went hurriedly around the side of the hut. When he returned, he said, “The sky is that bad blue...there’s more snow coming.”

“We’d better get our looking done early, then.”

Mariarta got her stick and bandaged her eyes with the linen band. It was thinly enough woven that a few turns of it around her head left her still able in this brightness to see shapes, as if through a thin fog. Flisch went through his bag, producing a similar cloth. With the firewood, the night before, he had brought a long narrow branch with the smaller branches stripped off it. This he took as his own walking stick, not much of a weight-bearer, but strong enough to test the snow.

They set out northwestward, passing through some old wind-crabbed pines, and began climbing the snowy rocks. The Whitehorn mountain towered on their right: they would come to the level of its two main spurs, then work back to their left again, across the feet of Whitehorn, toward the mountain to its own left.