WE DEFY OLD STARS
M. C. A. Hogarth

       Sedikit was dying. I could smell the sharp tang of it on his
breath, hear it in the strained hiss that passed between his parched and
parted lips. I wrung the rag, letting the drip of the water displace for
just a moment the sound of the male's distress. This sickness had already
killed Marne's baby, the one that had stolen the last of her wit with its
birth. In that, it claimed two victims, for I sorely missed Marne's humor.
       Daridil stepped into the room, his passage ruffling the woven
grass curtain hung in the door and allowing in the mingled scents of
sun-baked clay and rikka sweat. I did not look at him, knowing what he
would say.
       "Deciding to stay was a mistake."
       I sighed. The sun had seen this argument before, and no doubt
would rise and fall many more times over it yet. "We have passed over this
place dozens of times in our travels, Daridil. You know as well as I do
that this is an unusually dry summer. It will go, as seasons do, and the
rains will come."
       "The rains were one thing. But this... don't you think it's a
sign, Serel? How many more will we lose for breaking our customs?"
       I did look at him then, for his voice had a breathy flutter
better suited to fear than his usual belligerence. Daridil was atypical
for our kind: he'd remained male through both puberties, and it showed in
the adult. Tall and limber, he had the emodo's long fingers and flexible
toes, perfect for complex and delicate work. His wedge-shaped head had a
handsomely blunt end that complemented the triangular ears with their dark
tufts. He was in some ways too perfect to look on, for the family tended
to overlook his mind while praising his body.
       "I don't think the sickness is related to our decision to stay
here, truly," I said to him. "It is coincidence."
       His narrowed eyes told me he didn't believe. He glanced at Sedikit
and tossed his braided mane over his shoulder. "Well, I shall go burn
incense for him. The Trifold is displeased with us."
       "Gods are not cruel," I said.
       "No. But errant children may mistake a cuffing for cruelty if they
don't know better."
       I sighed. "Daridil--"
       "Pray we'll have no more cases of this," Daridil interrupted
me. "Or we will abandon these ill-thought buildings." He lifted his chin
and ducked back out.
       The rustle of rushes brought my eyes back to Sedikit. I finished
wringing out the rag and placed it over his forehead, flinching at the
heat fanning off his skin. We were not meant for heat, we Jokka. Too hot
and our minds burn up and die, and the first to go are our breeders. I
clasped one of the emodo's warm hands in my own, my fingers cooled by the
water, and murmured, "I will not let you die."
       Not only because I loved him, as I loved all our family. But
because I would not release the two brick houses we'd spent so much effort
erecting. Our new life--a life free of the constant indignities and
hardships of travel--must prevail.

#

       "There is a madwoman in the hills," Resa told me. It was glaring
at the herbs it was attempting to grind into paste for the evening meal. I
stood beside the young one, my shadow stretching outward in crisp violet
on the dun ground. There were no clouds in the hard sky, and the heat rose
from the earth in dense waves. No wonder there were no females or males
outside the house.
       "What rumor is this?" I said, crouching beside the eperu child.
       "It's not a rumor," Resa said stubbornly. It stretched its fingers
without releasing the pestle, then resumed its efforts, muscles rippling
beneath its side and shoulder. "We went looking for vegetables. We found a
doused campfire and then we saw her." It licked its lip. "Her fire smelled
like medicine."
       My ears twitched. "Are you sure?"
       "Do I look nose-blind to you?" Resa asked, scowling. "It smelled
like that liquid you have to drink when you're feverish. High, thin and
bitter."
       "A madwoman in the hills with a medicine-scented fire," I said
aloud, affecting a nonchalance that had no relationship with my pounding
heart. Could it be a lore-knower? Would I be so lucky! "A strange tale."
       "It's not a tale," Resa said. "Look for yourself." It pointed to
the northwest. "Those hills."
       "I suppose I will," I said. "Thanks, ba eperu."
       Resa only sniffed and continued its labors.
       I resisted the urge to check on Sedikit again and strolled past
the tethered rikka toward the northwestern hills. The land we had chosen
for our settlement was beautiful when the sun wasn't baking it to char. We
were near a deep pool and a stand of scattered trees, close enough to sit
under their leaves but far enough to take advantage of other passing
families on the main thoroughfare south. It wasn't a new idea, putting
down roots: several other tribes had done so. They had chosen that course
because of infirm members, or to remain near someone they'd buried. We had
chosen it because I had convinced Daridil that there was some value in
remaining in place. Because I was convinced that the constant travel
shortened the lives of all our family, and our anadi, our females,
especially. The anadi had the most fragile constitutions of all our
sexes... even the burden of pregnancy often consumed their minds. So the
concept of an anadi in the hills seemed outlandish. Females did not walk
alone--
       The point of a spear nudged my back and I halted.
       "Mean me no harm and I will treat you the same," said a trembling
but determined voice.
       "I bear you no ill will," I said.
       The pressure at my lower spine eased. I looked over my shoulder
and found Resa's mysterious anadi there, looking like no anadi I'd ever
seen. She was thin with barely any breast, and wore clothing without
showing signs of discomfort at the heat. I could not decide whether to
think of her as anadi--soft, frail and feminine--or eperu like myself, a
hunter, a neuter, a hardened creature suited to the climate.
       Something in my expression softened hers. She chuckled. "Am I
confusing you?"
       "I admit I didn't believe when I heard there was a female in the
hills," I said. "You don't look like any female I've seen."
       "That's because all the females you've seen have been pampered
breeders. I am a fighter."
       "Born eperu?" I asked. It was impolite to ask of a stranger, but
my curiosity had me in its teeth.
       "Born anadi," she said. "Turned eperu at first puberty, then back
female at second."
       Perhaps it explained her endurance and her physique, though I'd
known plenty of anadi who had been eperu and none of them looked like this
creature. Most of us Turned; our first puberty was more likely to see us
from one sex to another than our second, but the second still held
potential. Why we were all given these experiences of another sex, why
sometimes we blended the best, or worst, of their attributes into our
final form, I did not understand... but I felt for the stranger. I had
been eperu, then emodo, and eperu again; never the weakest sex. "I see," I
said. Then blushed pale at the ears. "I apologize for my curiosity. It's a
weakness. I'm Serel of family Nudet."
       "It is no trouble, Serel... for I'll have some questions from you,
if you're done. I'm Kediil. What are you doing down there? Are you
actually planning to stay in those houses all year?"
       "Gods willing," I said.
       Kediil shook her head in amazement. She had truly marvelous
skin... sukul we call it, moon-shell white. Her hair had been messily
braided into an eperu style, but its color, a luminous silver-gilt over
white, made the mess seem affected, beautiful. Even the smudges of brown
soil and the pallor of a few bruises and scratches did not mar her
appearance much.
       "I have never heard of such a thing," she said. "Why?"
       "Because the travel is hard on the breeders," I said.
       "Ah," Kediil nodded. "Of course." And then we stared at one
another, hers a look of great amusement and mine the embarrassed pause of
someone who has realized the incongruity of its observation.
       "Ah!" Kediil laughed. "I'm done teasing you with your
preconceptions. Come sit by my fire and have something to drink. It's been
long days since I've had company."
       I followed her over the next rise, where she'd set up a small camp
beneath a single, drooping tree. The anadi patted its trunk as she passed
it, then dropped beside her fire and gently poked it back to life with a
stick. The ceramic pot over it did indeed smell of heat-calming medicine;
she did not pour from it, but from a small pouch. I accepted the
petal-tinted water.
       "You know some of the way of plants?" I asked, sitting across from
her and attempting to be casual.
       "I know all of the way of plants," she said, glancing at me. "All
that a lore knower should, at least."
       So she had been taught by the lore knower of her family, a
teaching traditionally given only to other neuters. "They thought you
would stay eperu?"
       Her ears flattened, but she gave the single dip of assent with her
chin.
       "My sorrow, Kediil."
       "Why?" she asked with a flick of her tail. She grinned. "I am
living a life I enjoy."
       I rested my hands on my knees. "Do you offer your services to
those in need?" When she looked up at me with lifted brow, I said, "I will
not overlook aid whatever the shape it comes in."
       "Then you have need of it," she said. "What's wrong?"
       I took a deep breath. "There is a fever in the family. It has
taken one of the babies, and now has settled on a male. His breath is
sharp and comes hard to him. I think he'll die soon."
       Kediil frowned. "There are many sicknesses with similar symptoms.
I would have to see him."
       I paused then, realized exactly what I did. Jokka do not travel
alone. Breeders do not wander without family. This anadi could be mad, or
have done wrong to be cast out... and bringing her home would win me no
favor from Daridil. Particularly since we had no lore knower, the lack of
which he never ceased to remind me. It would have been my task, had Ikeser
not died beneath the claws of an eightclaws before it could teach me.
       "You're worried that bringing me to your home would be a poor
idea," she guessed into my silence.
       I blushed again, but met her eyes. "Yes."
       "It would be," she said. "I have been in and out of the tents of
the Jokka these many days I have been free. I have learned more than any
lore knower I've met, for I've collected the wisdom of several score I've
met in passing. Yet no Jokkad will come close to me. They fear that their
anadi will take my madness and follow me into the wild." She laughed. "As
if a life of hardship, of solitude is welcome to most!"
       "And yet to you it is welcome," I said. "What are you to enjoy
it?"
       Kediil's head twisted, a gesture torn between sorrow and
self-consciousness. She ran her finger over her toes, through the hair
that grew to cover them. She'd clipped the ruffs very close. Said she, "I
don't know, ke eperu."
       I stood, brushed the dirt off my loin-skirts. "I will take you
back with me, if you care to come, ke Kediil."
       She looked up at me and smiled, faintly. "Where there is
suffering, I care to heal."

#

       The heat had driven the entire family to shelter; their fear of
sickness into the house that had not seen the death of Marne's baby, nor
now witnessed the decline of Sedikit. I led Kediil inside, watched her as
she studied the walls and the door with its curtain. The building had only
one room, and this one was smaller than the other where the family
huddled. We were only a twice-handful: three males, three females, one
neuter and three children... the travel had not been kind to us. And why
do the Jokka roam? "Because the Jokka have always roamed." So Darisil
said.
       Into the sepia shadows went Kediil, to sit by Sedikit's bedside
and touch him without any visible fear. She peeled back his lips to
examine his gums, stared into his eyes, brushed his forehead, his nose,
his sides. "How long has he been sick? Has he eaten? Has he passed waste?
Has he vomited? How is his speech when he speaks?" And on and on the
questions went. I answered as well as I could. When she'd learned all she
deemed necessary, she stood and stretched.
       "He may yet live. Bring me a mortar and pestle."
       I did so. Throughout the rest of the afternoon and well into the
evening, I aided her in the mixture of her medicinals, studying her
actions without understanding them. What Kediil knew far surpassed
anything I'd ever seen Ikeser do.
       "A knife," she said.
       I paused.
       She bared her teeth at me. "A knife," she repeated.
       She slathered the knife I brought her in one of the many pastes
she'd made, then turned to Sedikit and poised it over the side of his
neck.
       When her muscles tensed, I snatched her wrist before she could
plunge, almost knocking over the stool to reach her. "What are you doing!"
       "His sickness has overwhelmed his body. We must release some of it
so he has a chance to finish the fight," she said. Her pupils were vast in
the shadows. "Let me do what I must!"
       Sedikit's breath hissed below us. His pulse fluttered against his
neck too quickly. I released her hand, but I feared anyway.
       "Be ready with the bandage," she said, and sliced.
       The ordure of decay and infection surged from the wound, following
the pus. No blood, save for that which dripped from his skin... I wondered
at her skill, to avoid the great vessels in the neck. When she asked, I
gave her the bandage and she painted it with yet another poultice before
closing the wound and opening the other side. She chose a few more
locations on the body--behind his knees and beneath his arms--and then set
the knife aside. She checked his forehead and nodded.
       I set my hand on Sedikit's head and gaped. "He's cooler!"
       "The disease had much advanced," she said as she washed her hands.
The cool fragrance of one of her herbs floated from the bowl beneath her
fingers, and the sound of the water falling sounded sweetly with the eased
breathing of the male. "Earlier I could have treated it with draughts and
diet, but so far along there was no choice but to open him." She canted
her head. "I will give you the recipe for the draughts, in case anyone
else falls ill. You must give them the regimen immediately, or it will do
as it has done to this emodo, and you will have to ply the knife."
       "I don't think I could," I said, still staggered. The glow beneath
Sedikit's skin had re-kindled; even his sleep was easier. "Where did you
learn that?"
       "Accident," Kediil said with a lopsided smile. "An injury on an
already sick male. It does not work for all diseases, but if it will you
will be able to feel it with your fingers. There will be lumps... hardened
ones, if you have waited too long."
       "I don't know how to thank you," I said. "Your knowledge is
without price."
       Kediil found a full smile for me then, but did not answer.
       "Serel, you've missed supper--"
       Kediil and I both looked up when Darisil stepped through the
curtain, his body following his words. Despite the warning, I moved in
front of Kediil too late.
       "The rumor is true!" the male said, eyes widening. His gaze found
the knife and the bowls and he snarled. "Out! Both of you!"
       I thought it wise to obey, if only because an altercation would
disturb Sedikit's sleep. I flicked my ear toward the door and Kediil left
before me, dropping bags of herbs back in the pouches at her thin belt.
       Outside half the family waited to see what Darisil had been
shouting about. Our more spectacular fights had always been viewed as good
entertainment, though the family never believed we would remain at odds.
One day we would surprise them.
       I stood in front of Kediil, waiting to see exactly what part of
the situation irritated Darisil the most.
       "Are you trying to get us killed?"
       That was not what I'd expected. He prowled to and fro before us,
so angry his claws showed at the tips of his fingers. The starlight picked
them out well enough, though the gathering dusk is one of the hardest
times for us to see. "The gods are angry enough with us. They gave us the
dry season. They killed Marne's baby and are taking Sedikit. Now you bring
this abomination into our home? Are you trying to get us cursed?"
       I glanced over my shoulder at Kediil, uneasy. "She is no
abomination," I said. "Only another Jokkad like us."
       "An anadi who looks half-eperu and has no family? Who wanders
wild? I had the stories from the children. Are you mad to bring her here,
Serel?"
       The family looked disturbed and frightened. I hated when Darisil
resorted to such tactics... though sometimes, I thought he actually
believed his own rhetoric. I straightened and lifted my chin. "She healed
Sedikit."
       "She took a knife to him!"
       "To help his body fight its disease. He is better! Look yourself
if you doubt me!"
       "Serel... hasn't it occurred to you that if the gods are cuffing
us for our disobedience, stopping their hand will only make them angrier?"
       I stared at him. "You don't truly believe this is the work of the
Trinity, do you?"
       "Trifold."
       "Whatever!" I said, exasperated. "Bad luck! Coincidence! We will
weather it as we've weathered everything."
       "Will we?" he asked. He glanced from me to Kediil, then said to
the watchers, "Come. It is past time to rest." And he led them into the
house, leaving me in the deepening dark with my peculiar half-eperu anadi
and her magic potions. I turned to her, chagrined, finding her expression
resigned and her eyes darker than the starlight would have them.
       "An old story," I guessed.
       "The oldest," she answered, her voice soft. "That which is
different is threatening."
       I touched her wrist. "I would have thought to offer you something
for your work... truly, I would have liked you to stay, if your wandering
feet could have been stilled."
       Her brows lifted. "And invite the displeasure of the gods?"
       "I have never been much for religion," I said. "And I have always
been more interested in the mind beneath a body."
       She tilted her head, cupped my shoulders in her hands. "And that
is why you want so much to stay in one place, is it? Because you sorrow to
see the breeders lose their minds to exertion, toil and heat. You must
know that staying in one place will bring its own hardships?"
       "Of course," I said. "But a new danger may be an easier one." I
smiled. "We make of life what we can."
       Kediil searched my eyes--an unmistakable examination, her own gaze
unblinking and bright. Her eyes had a beautiful color, a green-blue that
suggested deep water. She withdrew her hands and took a deep breath. The
packets she handed to me were fragrant with the scent of life.
       "I would like to have stayed and mixed these properly, but they
will do some good as long as they're ground. They should help."
       She turned then and walked away. I fingered the packets, breathing
their clean, sharp fragrance, then called, "You could visit. I could meet
you in the hills, tell you how our grand experiment goes... this settled
life."
       Kediil grinned. "Perhaps in a year your children will see my fire
in these parts again."
       "I look forward to it," I said, and she left.
       For a long time I stood there with the herbs in my hand. Thinking
of how old the stars were that gave light to my eyes, how many Jokka had
stood beneath the purple sky with the heat of the summer on their skins
and the weight of tradition on their shoulders.
       I thought how nice it was to be one of those who did not feel the
burden.
       With the packets in my hand, I went to tend to Sedikit.