Heresy

“And is this what you want? For her to end up like Beardancer?”

Onata rarely spoke with any aggression, and even more so with any degree of volume. But as the sentence was uttered, her eyes glittered with emotion; her nostrils flared as she gazed back at her husband, arms outstretched in a pleading gesture.

Arawn sighed, sitting across from her, gazing into the fire between them. His massive shoulders shrugged slightly as he exhaled; for a moment he said nothing.

Onata’s tone softened. Arawn had been hurt terribly by the loss of his only son. But while she loved her husband deeply she felt a mixture of confusion and frustration as to how he could support Silverwolf following in his footsteps; taking the same chances with his only daughter’s life as his son’s seemed wrong, surely as their only surviving child a safer path could be tread than that of the warrior?

The flames shifted slightly as his breath crossed them; he finally lifted his massive black head and looked back at her, speaking softly, snapping a small twig in his massive hands.

“Beardancer chose his path. Would you deny your daughter the same right?”

“I…Arawn, of course not but..”

“But?”

Onata’s tail twitched slightly, slapping softly against the earthen floor of their tent. Arawn waited, watching her and listening. He knew what she was going to say before she said it.

His wife was a good Shu’halo; respected, noble, gracious and gifted with an innate sense of the spirits which guided them and shaped their world. She made the right decisions, and as a younger male he’d been dazzled by her noble bearing and self-control. He’d never looked back, never regretted the choice of marrying her; but as time moved on around them he realised there was a certain rigidity in her thinking. It was a course a product of the decades of tradition that her shamanistic family had embraced; Onata was a shamanistic healer, as was her mother, as was her mother before her. To choose anything else wasn’t shunned so much as so out of place that it wouldn’t have occurred to her to even consider it.

And yet as this moment of tense silence passed between them, their only surviving offspring chased her friends around the fields nearby, wielding a stick before her and charging them playfully. SIlverwolf seemed untouched by the shaman’s gift; no lightning could be wrought from her little hands, and totems had become makeshift target dummies, as Silver and her brother had play-fought with them, thrusting their make-believe weapons at them, parrying and rushing at them as they laughed in the Mulgore sunshine.


“That’s it, little sister, no no…other foot forward or you can lose your balance…” Beardancer laughed as little Silverwolf’s brow furrowed in concentration, hacking and slashing at air as she struggled to hold her stance as her brother had dictated to her.

“You want to be a warrior when you grow up, don’t you?” he laughed, good naturedly as she flung herself at him, trying to tackle him with everything she had. He barely moved; Beardancer was 20 seasons now; grown and strong, well-clad in armour and a respected fighter among the villagers.

“Yes!” she shouted, throwing her arms around him. “Now gimme a Kodo ride!”

“Again?” he sighed with mock exhaustion, but his eyes sparkled.

“Again!”

He knelt down as his sister clambered up upon his back and thrust the stick into the air.

“Earthmother watch over us! To battle!” she shrieked , clutching at his armour as she kicked with her little hooves clanking against his platemail. He galloped around in a small circle as she swung the stick in the air before her, smacking at tents and laughing.

“I think you will be a warrior, little sister..” he laughed, “though I doubt mother would approve.”

Silverwolf pretended to pout and leaned forward, whispering in his ear with a mischevious grin.

“I care not, brother Bear! I am a wolf-warrioress of the Shu’halo! I will hunt with you and bring the hare and boar to the table, and strike our enemies down with ….with….farrr…”

“..ferocious..” he gently offered.

She nodded firmly and thrust the stick in the air again.

“Ferocious wrath!”

He laughed, and the two continued to play until the sun finally bade them go inside.


Onata finally spoke.

“But she’s a girl. A mere girl. Look at her, Arawn, will you say that child of yours, this woman, will face years of battle and blood and not raise a family of her own? Would you encourage her to walk this road? It is a lonely one for her! Think of her future, condemned to age with injuries and danger, with nobody to look after her? No comforting tent? When other females of her age will be raising their children and tending to the feasts she’ll be Earthmother-knows-where, cold and alone and always surrounded by war?”

As the images his wife created crossed his consciousness, you could see their impact reflected upon Arawn’s expression. Images of his daughter bloodied and battle-weary, in strange lands and in treacherous situations played out upon his mind; but even as they did, his own song lingered beside them; the intense pride of victory and purpose; the sense of adrenaline and power, the responsibility….there was always that, too. A warrior served to fight but also to protect. His chest swelled slightly, remembering, for even as Arawn was virtually past his fighting days, nothing of them had ever left his heart.

Whatever Silver wished for herself, if it felt anything as those days had for him, how could he deny her that opportunity?

“We must.. let her choose, wife.” He finally said, smiling gently. “A life lived as an impostor is not a life at all; Beardancer died doing what he loved..”

Arawn’s deep, warm voice broke off them, his eyes shining perhaps a bit too brightly for the memory of his hardworking and dedicated son, so much the warrior as his father, so dedicated to the very end of it all. That he should have fallen to his death in Thousand Needles at the hands of Grimtotems – still so young and strong was a tragedy that neither he nor his small family would ever fully recover from. But Beardancer had died doing what he loved, and what he lived for. Nowhere in Arawn’s tough but noble heart could he find fault with his son’s circumstance, despite the pain it had brought them.

“I know.” Onata said, closing her eyes as tear sluggishly fell down her cheek.

“I know. But if Silver should..”

“Papa? Mother?” Silverwolf had peeked into the tent, an innate sense of ‘I’m interrupting, aren’t I?’ halting the next words that lingered upon her tounge.

Onata straightened up and swallowed, brusquely wiping her face. “Yes, daughter, what is it?”

“Well..its just that..” the young female looked at the floor, drawing circles in the dirt with one hoof.

“Well, Silver? Speak?” Arawn eyed her, the mood changing from sorrow and concern to mild amusement as he saw the faintest pink flush beneath her dove-toned fur.

Their daughter swallowed nervously.

“Its ..well…I was wondering if Belar could come eat with us this night? If its okay, of course…”

“Belar…Belar..” Onata looked back at Arawn with a little smile. “Isn’t that Layla Dawnstrider’s son?”

Silverwolf nodded, her pink face now moving distinctly into crimson territory.

Arawn tried to suppress a smile and coughed gruffly instead.

Onata winked at her husband as she answered her daughter. “I don’t see why not, provided his mother knows. But go now, and clean up, the both of you, supper will be ready soon, the hare is nearly done.”

Silverwolf bowed her head a bit, and backed out of the tent solemnly before the sound of her hoofbeats broke into a run, followed by her yelling “ITS OKAY BELAR THEY SAID YES!!!” as she trotted to her waiting friend.

Onata looked back at Arawn and smiled again. “Perhaps the problem will solve itself, a most natural way…”

Arawn smiled back slightly, then turned his head to gaze out at the sight of his daughter, solemnly comparing Belar’s fighting stick to her own, peering at them, holding them aloft to check their weight and balance.

It didn’t have to be decided today, not today. Not when the hare smelled so good, and the fire was so warm, and she was still so young.

“Perhaps”, Arawn said, and left it at that. "Perhaps."

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"I wrote the story myself. It's about a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it." - Mae West
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