A Wind From the South Read online

  The men around the table nodded nervously.

  Mariarta breathed out. “What I have to do must be done tonight, at sunset: when light and dark have an equal chance. Let prayers be said in the church for our souls. And no, the fight will not be near here,” she said, glancing around at the panicked expressions. “When we’ve gone to such trouble to keep the Bull out of the town, would I bring it down on you? Surely not so soon after we finally solved the problem with the manure stand.”

  No one laughed. Mariarta’s mood swung to sorrow for them. They were all afraid: if she and the silver Bull failed, they had no hope. They would never move the village. They would all go out on the roads, a fate to them more terrible than dying.

  “Tonight,” Mariarta said, “I will take the silver Bull onto the alp. Then...”

  Silence fell. The men left, Paol being the first out of the room.

  Mariarta sat back, cut a piece of bread from her mother’s last-made loaf, slowly growing dry on the table, and waited for sunset.

  ***

  All that afternoon the air above the mountains grew glassy clear, and the southern wind began to blow. The town grew still. Few of the normal smells of the afternoon were about, for when the föhn blew like this, sucking the moisture out of everything, people put out their cooking fires lest a chance spark should land on someone’s barn and light a conflagration. Whirlwinds of dust went by, and at sight of them people hurried inside, slamming the doors.

  But when the sun dipped below the pines on the western ridge of Piz Cavradi, and Mariarta came out into the street, she found the whole village waiting there for her, looking like people going to a most unusual funeral. Mariarta just stood there, taking them all in—old men, young boys, older ones, looking at her with horrified fascination—old women, younger ones, drying their eyes of tears shed in pity for her: the people of Tschamut, whom she meant to save. She could not bear to look at them long, for their dear ordinariness reminded her of what she must now lose forever, whether she lived or died.

  She walked down the street, the wind whipping at the fine linen of the wedding dress. At the pasture gate, the silver bull waited for her, seeming in the early evening half the size of a house, indeed. At the sight of the townspeople it stamped a hoof and let out another of those terrible trumpeting bellows, like an army wanting to charge.

  “Be still,” Mariarta said as she came to the gate. The bull stood quiet, gazing at her.

  Paol opened the gate. Mariarta slipped in next to the silver bull. Its head was easily five feet above hers.

  “Down here,” she said, reaching up to her bride’s garland. Obediently the bull put its head down. Mariarta pulled loose one ribbon spared from the weaving, the last ell of her father’s present. She doubled it and put it through the bull’s nosering, slipping the loose ends of the ribbon through the loop to make the knot. The townspeople stood aside as Mariarta led the bull out through the open gate. The silver shine of it prickled on the skin, making it feel dangerous to be near, like a tall oak when lightning is brewing.

  Mariarta led the bull past her house. All her old troubles now seemed unimportant, with the slow tread of the silver bull shaking the ground behind her, and evening drawing on. The silken ribbons of the garland rustled about Mariarta in the wind as she made for the end of the street.

  There it turned two ways: one into the narrow stony path which was the road to Val Mustair and eastward to Cuera: the other way, upwards along the grassy, cow-poached path that led to Tschamut’s alp. Mariarta stopped there, saying, “No further than this, until the fight is done.”

  Bab Luregn stepped out with a green branch and holy water to bless her. Mariarta considered how holy water had started all this, but kept her peace. Bab Luregn asperged the bull too. It shook its head, and sneezed.

  “Come on,” Mariarta said to him, and led him up the alp track. How many times have I walked this road? she thought as they climbed. For alpagiadas, every year till I grew: and to learn the shooting: and with Urs—

  Behind her, the bull walked easily, its breathing briefly louder than the sound of the wind. It would not be so for long. The wind was rising, for which Mariarta was grateful. The wind was her ally. If only it would not turn fickle—for the föhn’s nature was to gust, and drop away, then treacherously blow twice as hard again.... Clouds were piling above, their leaden-grey lower reaches pouring like water over Piz Curnera and Piz Blas. Mariarta welcomed them, for sudden storms like this were the föhn’s great weapon.

  The darkness above her grew. Behind her, the heavy tread of the silver bull began to sound dreadfully loud in the confined path between the overhanging ridges. So many times she had come this way with Urs. How different it had looked then: sun on the pines, the clean wind blowing, steilalva blossoming between the stones. All changed now, with the lowering cloud, and the thunder-mutter in the clouds above, like the building roar of something dark—

  From behind her came an answering bellow. Mariarta turned in time to see the sudden rage in the silver bull’s eyes. She jumped out of its way. Up the narrowing track it leapt, bellowing. Mariarta scrambled after.

  She came out at the top of the track where it met the bottom of the withered alp. It was more terrible than ever in this odd light, with the sunset reflecting underneath the heavy black clouds, making them look like the ceiling of Hell. All around, like skeletal sentinels, the dead pines stood; the rotted turf, once so green, now squelched underfoot like bog. The silver bull ramped across the black ground, bellowing in rage, clods of thrown-up mud and shattered stone flying everywhere.

  “Stop it!” Mariarta shouted above the rising wind. The bull came down from one last bound and stared at her, head hanging, a furious look of frustrated power.

  “You’ll get your chance,” Mariarta said. She had visited this spot last night, wanting to make sure of the ground in the dark. Now she went to what was left of the great lightning-shattered boulder in the middle of the field. She saw the silver bull’s glance follow her uncomfortably.

  “I know,” Mariarta said. “Not much longer now.” She put her back against the stone, closed her eyes. God, she said, mortal’s daughter or tschalarera’s, or whatever I might be, hear me: help me now!

  Laughter came down the wind, stronger than usual, crueler. And you, she thought, who have followed me for so long: this is your work. As you asked, I give you this deed. Be with me!

  The wind rose. Mariarta opened her eyes, gasped for breath. Her chest seemed suddenly tight to bursting, as if the wind were inside her, coming from her, trying to get out.

  She drew on that breath as best she could, and whistled for her quarry.

  At first the sound was lost in the rising howl of the wind. Then, as before, it grew, carried outward and hurled in echo against the surrounding peaks—but this time the sound got deeper. Thunder crashed in response. The silver bull waited, burning white in the growing darkness, only its eyes going shadowy.

  At the screeward end of the alp, where not even the pines had ever managed to grow, black cloud poured down the mountain-ridge. It puddled at the bottom of the slope, unnaturally dark. Mariarta’s heart turned with fear and joy at the sight of it. The puddle of cloud seethed, grew, crouched into itself. Two sparks of red fire glared from it, glowing, growing.

  The silver bull lowered its head, narrowed its eyes, scraping the dead turf with its forefoot. The blackness began to hunch up, now; wisps of cloud reached out to either side, twisted and spiraled, solidified to horns. The shape grew darker, reared into solidity, the massive shoulders, the huge terrible hooves: a great black Bull, half as big as a house. But no bigger. Mariarta sank back against the stone, exhausted already, but burning with fierce satisfaction and joy. We have a chance—

  The same joy lived in the silver bull’s eyes, dark though they had gone now, burning dark against the brilliance of the silver-white hide and the horns like smooth-curved lightning. It lifted its head and bellowed, a cry of gladness at the beginning of the end of captivity. />
  The black Bull pawed the ground too, lowered its head and bellowed with hate and rage. For the first time Mariarta clearly heard Urs’s voice trapped in the monster’s bellow—the sound of part of a human soul, not the good part, trapped in hell all these years, hating itself and everyone else. The Bull’s eyes went to Mariarta; the fires in them burned with the rage of the frustrated murderer. It reared, ran at her.

  The silver bull charged in between them, catching the black one in the flanks, bowling it over sideways. They were well matched as to size. The black Bull scrabbled to get up, pushing itself away as the silver one tried to trample it, missed, came down and drove a pit an ell deep into the ground. The black Bull swung its horns up, missed as the silver bull managed to pull its forefeet free of the mire, danced away, ran at it again—

  Lightning began to strike the crests surrounding the alp. The Bulls stood apart from one another, making small rushes, each testing the other’s nerve. Mariarta gulped in hope and fear, for the black Bull’s movements had something nervous about them, for all its fury when it charged. A moment more they stood glaring, black Bull with its burning eyes, blazing white Bull with its dark ones. Then the black Bull charged again, and the silver Bull met it headfirst, the way chamois butt, skull to skull. Thunder crashed among the mountain crests as they met; both staggered away, shaking their heads. The silver Bull recovered first, and leapt at the black one, not to headbutt this time. It thundered past it, the black Bull spinning to follow, and the burning white horns went down to gore. One horn came up black with blood that smoked.

  The black Bull screamed, lowered its own head and charged. For a few moments the two Bulls ramped about the field, charges being missed, or started and broken off. One moment the silver bull stood still, panting for breath, and the black one ran at it; the silver one moved not quite quickly enough, and one of those black horns caught it, sicklewise and slashing, in the right side. The silver Bull crashed down, bellowing—

  Mariarta stood there horrified. She had been using the word battle so casually, all this while: but it had never seriously occurred to her that the silver Bull could be hurt. It was on the side of good, wasn’t it? And it had to win—the stranger at the inn had said so. Now the silver Bull struggled to its feet, but the black Bull stood over it, reared and stamped with both forefeet. Desperately the silver Bull twisted away, but not far enough: the black Bull’s hooves came down on one of its legs—

  The scream was awful to hear. The silver Bull managed to scramble up, three-legged now, limping, bleeding burning crimson. The black Bull tossed its head, bellowing evil joy, then charged again. The silver Bull wheeled, meeting it horns down. Again they hit head on head, and both staggered away—

  Mariarta scrabbled at the base of the stone. The stranger’s words were with her again. The silver Bull will vanquish the black, and the alp will be healed. A pause. If you find the right girl—

  The black Bull rose again. On three legs the silver-white Bull ran at it, hit it broadside, knocked it over. But the white one could not keep this up much longer. The wind screamed around them, lightning struck the ridges above them as the black Bull got up. The silver bull was watching it, fighting for breath, its eyes beginning to show the shadow of fear—

  The lightning was striking among the dead pines. Fires were starting, fanned by the awful wind. Silhouetted against them, the black Bull reared, struck at the white one. The white Bull backed, limping, its head down, threatening as best it could. Twice more the black bull charged at it, and was held off by the flourish of the white-blazing horns: it backed away, shaking its head, as if they pained it. The third time it charged, the silver-white Bull tried to sidestep and came down hard on the bad leg. It collapsed. Roaring triumph, the black Bull reared—

  Mariarta, kneeling by the stone, horrified, screamed “NO!” The föhn got into the scream, into her chest, tore her open, leapt away. The look of delighted fury in the black Bull’s burning eyes suddenly gave place to shock as the ground cracked open beneath its hind feet, and it slipped into the sudden crevasse. Mariarta hoped it might fall right out of sight, but its scrabbling forefeet stopped it, found their purchase, began to haul it out—

  Mariarta stood up, the wind pouring past her, howling in her ears. The silver bull was trying to get to its feet. The black Bull reared over it one more time, bellowing in triumph, and reared, hooves and horns all angled downward, ready to pierce and crush.

  Mariarta’s crossbow bolt took it in the eye. The eye’s light splashed and went out. The black Bull shook its head desperately, screamed, plunged downward. The silver bull half-lifted itself, bracing with its forelegs, and swung its head up, bellowing as well. The right-hand horn, gleaming like a spear, buried itself an ell deep in the black Bull’s chest. They crashed together in a heap.

  Lightning whipped the crests of Piz Cavradi and Piz Paradis, and a crash of thunder brought the avalanche down on Piz Alpetta. Mariarta hardly cared—her bones were still burning with the awful rush of power that had come flooding into her with the bolt into the monster’s eye. She staggered toward where the two bulls lay. Almost she fell into the crevasse her scream, or the föhn, had made. She picked her way around it as her vision began to clear. The wind was dropping.

  The bulls lay still, their bodies twisted. The black one’s own force had driven the silver Bull’s horn into its heart. But the silver one’s middle was trampled nearly flat by the other’s hooves, and its bones were broken by the black Bull’s weight. For a moment all their three eyes were fixed on Mariarta. She wept, for all the eyes were Urs’s. Mariarta went to her knees beside them, put a hand on each huge head. Each body shuddered with final breaths. Was it the light changing?—or was the white of the silver bull darkening down, the burning darkness of the black one paling? It was the light, perhaps. The sun lay behind Piz Cavradi, and the lowering clouds, just beginning to break, cast a premature twilight over everything. For the last few breaths, both bulls seemed black enough. Then there seemed to be only one bull, dark, but with horns showing pale white, and the light in the closing eyes was at peace.

  The eyes closed. The last light went out of horns, body, everything: the shape darkened further, the colors leaching out of it, cooling like ash, graying. After a while, feeling cold, Mariarta found it was not beast’s flesh she leaned against, but stone. An outcropping of the nearby Platta hill, it seemed, an old worn grey rock shaped strangely like a bull: an oddly benevolent, sleeping shape. Mariarta wiped her eyes, feeling cold and wet, seeing the sodden ground beneath her. Water: where was that coming from? She got to her feet, leaning on the great stone, and saw the cracks in the stony bull’s once-gored side—saw the cold, clear spring-rills flowing down the slope of the alp, strengthening by the moment.

  The wind was almost gone: the quiet was deafening. The last of the clouds were drifting away. Mariarta stood by the stone, looking at the alp. Its haunted feeling was gone. Water chuckled softly from the new spring; in one of the trees furthest downslope, a blackbird tried a note, then another.

  Mariarta went back to the other stone, where she had hidden her crossbow and some clothes: her father’s legacy of pragmatism, that, though she had been none too sure she would survive to use them. Mariarta took off the wedding dress and shift, hurriedly putting on the breeches, shirt and hunting-coat that her mother had made her. The dress was too fine to leave, and the shift she might need later: those she put into her bag. But the bride’s garland she tossed onto the broken ground, with a wry look.

  The townspeople would be here soon. They would find the stone and the spring, hear Mariarta’s story, and take her home to—what?

  They thought me half a witch before. Who among them will believe otherwise, now? And even if they could tolerate her—what remained for her in Tschamut? Her life would become a round of housework, every day the same, trapped in that house with Onda Baia until she died: trapped alone in it afterwards....

  No, there were other possibilities more interesting. No one would be surp
rised if I were never to be found again. Even I thought I would die.

  Let it be so, then. I’ve seen a little of the world: I will go see more of it. Maybe I’ll die indeed...but I will have lived first.

  Mariarta smiled at the discarded garland. She knew these mountains well enough not to be seen, whichever way she chose to go. She gazed southward. The trail past the far peak of Piz Paradis— Then eastward over the knuckles of the mountains, past Tgiern Sogn Gions, where no one knew her by sight, and she would travel faster than the news of what had happened. With her hunter’s coat, hat and bow, she looked enough like one of the young chamois hunters who traveled in those heights. She had a little coin money, enough to keep her until she could shoot chamois to sell in the markets. The market at Mustér that she had never seen: perhaps even the great market at Chur, where the prince-Bishop reigned under the ibex banner...

  She shouldered her bag. The clouds were drifting eastward. In the west, behind Piz Cavradi, the sunset was burning golden-clear, fading now to the dark blue above it, with here and there a star. Its color brought to mind the color of that sunset by the Rein, the shape silhouetted against it, the strange song it sang; and her feeling then that there was magic in the world, that nothing would ever be the same. Mariarta wiped her last tears on her sleeve. She had been right. Now, perhaps, she would find out what voice spoke in her ear—and what it wanted with her.

  She turned, making her way off Tschamut’s alp, onto the tiny track that led to the trail around the base of Piz Hiern: and the south wind blew warm around her.

  ***

  The townspeople came up the mountain as soon as they thought it safe, wondering at the flow of water that passed them. On the alp they found the great sleeping stone shape of a bull, with the miraculous spring gushing from its side. This their priest blessed, seeing from the signs that God had worked a miracle, killing the demon-bull by the sacrifice of an innocent maiden and the silver Bull’s great strength.