December 11, 2017

PodCastle 500: Maiden, Mother, Crone

37 minutes

* Authors : Ann Leckie and Rachel Swirsky

* Narrator : Wilson Fowlie

* Hosts : Dave Thompson and Anna Schwind

* Audio Producer : Pria Wood

Maiden, Mother, Crone

By Ann Leckie and Rachel Swirsky

The mule nipped at Marjan’s hand as she burdened it with her packs. She pushed its nose away, careful not to hurt it. She needed the mule to be well. Her life — and her unborn child’s — depended on it.

She led the mule outside the stable and carefully latched the door behind them. She didn’t want the other animals to suffer from the cold. Bad enough she was stealing the mule. She didn’t want Iresna and Gavek to lose anything else.

She mounted and kicked the lazy mule into motion. Its hooves crunched slowly across the snow, step after step, into the endless night. Marjan could have walked faster, but didn’t have enough endurance for the long descent through the icy mountains.

Her whole body felt tight and tense. Her belly cramped. Relax, she told herself. She couldn’t allow herself to start the ride so weak and weary.

She stared into the dark, wishing for a thicker moon to strengthen the light. Dense clouds obscured the needle-pricks of the stars. The air smelled crisp and vacant. New, wet flakes tumbled across Marjan’s cheeks, and she realized it was snowing. She pulled her hands into the sleeves of the too-large furs she’d stolen from Iresna’s chests.

The snow came faster and harder, whipping little pains of ice. Wind hissed and howled. This wasn’t just winter’s cold, she realized with increasing dread. It was a storm, a powerful one.

Her stomach cramped with fear. She twisted to look behind, but she couldn’t tell how far they’d come through the cold and the dark. She thought about turning back to the stables and sheltering there, but she couldn’t. Gavek and Iresna would find her. They’d want to know why she’d fled. Afterward, they’d watch her. She’d never find another occasion to slip away — not before the baby was born.

Her stomach cramped again. Cold and fear and pain — she moaned. The sound came back to her on the driving wind. As she heard it, she realized that just as this wind was not an ordinary winter wind, her pain was not an ordinary winter pain.

She cursed. It was too early.

The mule plodded onward, step after heavy step. Marjan trembled against its neck, terrified of the next contraction. What would she do? She was alone. There was no help for her. Ever since her mother abandoned her as an infant, leaving her with a stranger, her life had always been like this — one moment of desperate isolation after another, with no one familiar to turn to. The Mark burned on Marjan’s hip like the brand it was, the only spot of heat in the cold.

Marked on the

arm, a witch can cast harm.

Marked on the face, she’s a healing embrace.

Marked on the heart, and love is her art.

Marked on the thigh, and let out a sigh —

She may do it all, but it all goes awry.

The old rhyme was all Marjan had been able to think of the day before as she went with her brother-in-law, Gavek, and her mother-in-law, Iresna, to the mortuary hut and consigned her husband’s body to its eternal rest.

Vatska had died while working with Gavek to fix the roof. Marjan watched them out the window as they labored, two big men with thick beards and thick arms. She felt grateful for them both, but particularly for her enormous, gentle Vatska. She’d just turned back inside when a rope broke from the pulley and Vatska fell. The ice cracked.

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