Free Naamah's Curse by Jacqueline Carey Page B

The Tatars lived closer to nature than any folk I’d encountered save my own. I continued to be surprised and pleased by their acceptance. Although I understood there was some lingering debate as to whether or not I was a forest spirit from the distant mountains, it was generally agreed that it was a
good
thing if it were true. From time to time, I caught sidelong glances from some of the bolder young men in the camp, suggesting a tryst would be welcome.
    But my
diadh-anam
disapproved, and the bright lady was silent. It seemed Naamah’s gift had gone dormant for the winter.
    Life held other pleasures. Living in the
ger
, I came to value Batu’s quiet strength, his obvious love for his wife and children. I treasured Checheg’s steady kindness and guidance. Their eldest son, Temur, spent a good deal of time blushing in my presence, but that was to be expected at his age, and he was a good-hearted lad.
    Their daughter, Sarangerel, was a delight, bright and lively. Having adopted me on that first day, my small friend staked a relentless claim on me. Under her mother’s indulgent gaze, Sarangerel followed me around the
ger
, tugging at the hem of my coat, her little brother, Mongke, toddling in her wake, babbling nonsense words. Among other things, she insisted on teaching me a complicated Tatar game in which both players made a fist with their right hands, then shot out several fingers and uttered competing rhymes based on the total number showing.
    “Nine!” she would say in triumph, waiting for me to respond.
    “Mine?” I would hazard.
    Sarangerel would shake her head in mock disappointment, and rattle off a string of better rhymes. I never won a single game, but it improved my skills with the Tatar language considerably. And she was unstinting with her affection, always eager to climb into my lap and rub her cheek against mine, while her little brother pulled jealously on my sleeve until I made room for both of them.
    It soothed that part of me that yearned for human contact in a way I had never known before, filled with tender innocence. Growing up in isolation, I’d had precious little contact with children.
    I liked it.
    I liked the simplicity and purity of it. In a strange way, it was a relief to develop a complex set of relationships in which carnal desire played no part. It occurred to me that this had happened seldom in my life since I came of age, and there was probably a lesson to be learned there.
    And then a month into my stay, Checheg went into labor.
    I had been expecting it; we all had. Day by day, we had waited and wondered. How could we not, her belly as swollen as it was? Still, it came as a shock.
    For one thing, the men abandoned us.
    For another, I was left in charge.
    “What?” I said in dismay. “Batu, I do not know what to do!”
    Batu jiggled young Mongke in his arms, not meeting my eyes. His eldest son, Temur, lurked behind him, peering at me. “You are a woman, are you not? This is women’s business. Grandmother will help you. After all, she has done it many times before; and so has Checheg, three times. Men do not belong here.” He gave me a furtive glance. “We will return after the child is born,” he said firmly, exiting the
ger
and closing the brightly painted door behind him.
    “Eh?” The old woman rose from her pallet and tottered in my direction, cupping one ear. “Ready to pop, is she?”
    “Aye.” I blew out my breath, trying to remember what Raphael had taught me. I had assisted him with a difficult birth once, although I’d come in at the end of the process. “Sarangerel, you will bring a bucket of water, please?”
    “Yes, Moirin!” She dashed away.
    One thing about the Tatars, they were not much for bathing, at least not in the dead of winter. I had not seen anything resembling soap in the
ger
; but I had a dwindling ball of soap in my battered canvas satchel. As soon as the water was warming on the stove, I scrubbed my hands and arms thoroughly, raising a