This is a post-FiN story.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Turning the Wheel

by Mary Morgan

She was coal being burnt, and the ash flame left after. She was water warped into ice and locked in her coldness. She was darkness with no hope of light, for she was the heart of the rock. She knew all this, and knew why she knew it. Because she had set fire to the coal and frozen the water and locked herself in the rock. Her knowing this completed the pain, made it perfect. She had caused it herself, made her choice. What she had lost was always beyond her. It could not be known; she had decided against it, removed herself from it. Now there was only her self.

And her pain.

Part I

Gabrielle took a deep breath. Her head hummed, her heartbeat was loud in her ears. With an effort of will she stood straight, did not waver. She looked down at the man at her feet. All around her, she felt expectation. The warlord's men, tense, over there. The village behind her. All waiting for what she did next. She tightened her hand round the hilt of his sword. To her right, she saw something flutter on the ground. Her flag of the truce he had broken. As she knew that he would. She felt a smile tighten her lips; her size had worked to her advantage again. He must be thinking the world had gone mad, she reflected. That a slip of a woman in just two moves could have downed him and taken his sword. The smile twisted, grew wry. She'd been thinking the same, for more than 11 years now, ever since Japa.

"Kneel," she said. Her voice sounded deeper, less firm than she liked. She could feel her rage build, hot and heady. Focus! Get a grip! She swallowed, shook her head, flicking the roughly cropped hair out of her eyes. "Kneel down," she repeated. Better; the words carried further, reached those who looked on. Good. Time to start the last act of this drama she'd scripted. She smiled wryly again; so much for the bard. This was as creative as she had time or heart to be nowadays.

The man struggled up and knelt, bulky hands fisted, knuckles down in the dirt, keeping him stable. In this posture, he was still almost as tall as she stood. But she'd belted him hard, once her kick had taken him down, let her wrench his sword from his grasp. She'd wanted him shaken, unable to focus, his wits scattered. It seemed she'd succeeded. All the same, she watched him closely, especially those hands, for a sign that he was stupid enough to try to attack her again.

"Look at me," she commanded. She knew he would, for she knew that her voice had that power. Murky brown eyes, blinking wildly, met her own, slithered aside. "You broke the truce." She made her voice louder, shifted her grip on the sword, raised it. It was a little too long and too heavy than she would have liked, but well balanced, too fine a blade for this oaf, she reflected. With negligent ease she angled it close to his neck, looking away from him now, glaring past him, addressing his troops.

"This is your leader?" Gabrielle asked them. She made her voice scornful, wanting them shamed along with the man at her feet. "This man without honour?" She let the sword lean into his neck, felt the skin part under its edge. Yes, a good blade, much too good for the warlord, who now gasped with pain, visibly shuddered as blood seeped through sliced fat and skin, welled around the blade and trickled down his neck. Look at your leader, she invited the men in her head. She tautened her stance, well aware of the tableau they made, the sun setting, its light turning her hair to the colour of fiery gold, flashing off iron, pooling in azure swathes between the indigo folds of her jerkin, casting her shadow over the man at her feet, the huge man who had dwarfed her when standing.

"This man who accepted the terms of the truce? Who pretended to welcome a parley, yet came here to kill me?" Her voice had risen to a raw shout of defiance. Behind her, she heard feet, steadily marching. Good boy, Axel. Lit by the sunset, the bits of armour she'd stolen last night, eked out with odd bits of farm tool and harness, would still look impressive, although it was worn now by shepherds and ploughmen, the village's baker, the blacksmith. They came up and flanked her, facing the raiders, blades drawn, faces set, as she'd schooled them. "Well, let's see if he can at least die with some honour," she yelled, lifting the sword over her head, shifting her balance and then sweeping it down and to the side, letting it cut through the air instead. But she kept her face calm, kept her gaze on the raiders, who were watching their chief.

Who collapsed forwards. She smelled the sharp stink of urine, and flung wide her blade at the last moment. "This is your leader?" the small woman asked once again, now openly mocking.

They broke, first one then another, then twos and threes. Running blindly, stumbling on stones as they crossed the rough fields from which the villagers gleaned their sparse crops. Soon only a handful remained — older men, better armed, grasping their swords with something like purpose. She moved swiftly. Leaving the huge man sprawling behind her, she strode to confront them. A sword's length away she demanded, "Who will be first?" letting out more of it now, more of the rage that sustained her, knowing it darkened her eyes and turned her voice cold as the night. One stuck his weapon forwards, perhaps more out of surprise than to answer the challenge. With one graceful movement, she swept it aside with her blade, aware as it arced through the air, twisting hilt down with the weight of the hand which still gripped its hilt. She grinned full in their faces, through the fountaining blood, and asked, "And who's next?" then laughed as they staggered away, turning and running in panic.

Then she swooped forwards, grabbed the maimed arm, bound a scarf that she tore from the wounded man's neck tightly round it. Look at it, Gabrielle. Look at the damage you've done. Face this truth. She made herself stare at the stump: the bone was sheered through, gleaming incongruously white, and already the pace of the blood loss was slowing. She closed her eyes just a moment. At least it's not on their heads, she thought to herself, aware of the villagers clustered behind her. And no one is dead. And that band of raiders is broken. Is that such a bad day of fighting?

She opened her eyes, looked at the stump once again. Beyond it, the man's face was chalky, his breathing shallow with shock. Poor bastard. She swallowed down sickness, smelling blood, aware that some had spattered on her. "Anyone, give me something to wrap this," she said, and reached behind her, feeling cloth pressed into her grasp. "I hope someone is guarding that raider," she added, trying for lightness. But her voice was still raspy; she dared not turn round. What might they see in her face? "Come on," she told them, "let's get them inside. Four of you, stay here on guard." The threat was over, she felt it, but they needed to see they'd played a part in all this. She wrestled her rage back into its kennel and stood, risked looking at them, ventured a smile. "Well done," she told them, and almost cried with relief when they did not run from her, when some even summoned an answering smile.

---

Gabrielle stared out through the window of the inn. Flat lands stretched away till they met low rolling hills to the west. Beyond that was forest, many weeks deep, so Alse had told her. Then mountains. Then, much further west, the sea. Gabrielle wondered if that was the ultimate sea, the one supposed to rim the edge of the world. If it's flat, that is. Something she doubted. How can it be? If it were, why would a ship disappear over the horizon bit by bit? Hull first, mast-top last?

She sighed. Which way should she go? She considered. North would take her into tundra, she reckoned. Sparse land roamed by nomads, folk with little need of her services, even if she felt a kinship with its spare barrenness. South? South would take her home. To Greece. For a moment homesickness rose fiercely inside her. She smelled thyme on a hot mountain side, saw the wine dark waters lap at rocky coves far beneath, saw a pale mare with a dark rider astride her picking their way down a steep, narrow track. Tears prickled her eyes and she forced them back, swallowed the longing. No, not south. Too many memories.

She would go on as she had been then, keep moving northwards and westwards. Towards the mountains and eventually the sea. Something pulled her that way, something dark and cold. She would leave tomorrow; things were settled here now. She could move on. She had to keep moving. Staying too long let memories rise to the surface, and they were always worse at this time of year. Springtime. When everything should be beginning. On the trail, senses aware only of what was around her, she could find something like peace.

She studied the mug she held, sipped at the cider inside it. Twenty four hours ago, she had taken a man's hand. She had changed his life forever. Gabrielle had spent the previous night with the herb wife, Alse, helping to tend him. When that was done, unable to sleep, she had watched over him. Unexpectedly, it had been a tranquil time. She had looked out at the stars and words had drifted into her head, which were still there in the morning. She jotted them into the notebook she still carried. It was almost full now, though she never read what she had written afterwards. Just writing words down seemed to help her.

And Alse had helped as well. "He made his choices," she had said. Gabrielle had merely looked back at her, over their patient, her victim. "You weren't responsible for him being there at that time, in that place. You just stopped him being here now, looting the village, enslaving us all." Then Alse had smiled, brown eyes kindly. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Gabrielle."

The small woman smiled wryly at that memory and took a long draught of the cider. She was thirsty. She had worked hard all day, reinforcing what she had already told the villagers about better defences and training techniques for their militia, then, because it had been bothering her since she arrived, suggesting ways of improving the local irrigation system. Some of what she said might stick. At least she had tired herself out with honest work; perhaps she would sleep tonight. There was just one thing left to do, check on the warlord. She hadn't liked the way they found excuses to stop her visiting his cell. She'd see what was up in the morning.

Gabrielle drank from her mug again, then looked round. The inn had almost filled up, mostly with folk from the village, but with travellers too. Her smile this time was gentler. Breaking that band had freed up the trails again, surprisingly quickly. There was even a bard, a slight, grey haired man with tired eyes. She wondered if he would be any good, and found herself hoping so. She missed hearing stories, almost as much as she missed telling her own.

"Won't you sit nearer the front?" It was Alse again. Something in Gabrielle wanted her to go away; something else welcomed her. Gabrielle had been breathing the scent of Alse's herbs all day. Of Alse as well. The other woman had taken her blood-stained clothes to clean them, lent her some of her own, kept from when she was a child she'd explained, when Gabrielle had wondered at their almost fitting her.

"I'm more comfortable here." Gabrielle paused, confused, aware she must sound rude. She only really wanted to be left alone, but this was her last night in the village, and they had not deserved her surliness. She budged slightly up on the settle to make room for the other woman. "Sit with me for a minute."

Alse studied her steadily, then pointed at the mug. "Let me get you another, first."

She nodded, watched the tall woman walk to the bar. How old was Alse, she wondered. It was difficult to say. The herb wife's red hair was thickly peppered with grey and her face seamed with lines, but she carried herself lightly, moved like a young woman. And now, as she turned back towards her, carrying two brimming mugs, her face broke into a grin which made her look like a girl.

Gabrielle could not help herself. She grinned back. Her face felt stiff, but somewhere inside her a pressure eased, and something buried down deep ached with relief.

"That's better," Alse said, relaxing onto the hard wooden bench. "So, you're off tomorrow then?"

Gabrielle felt surprised, then defensive. "How did you know?"

"Saw you cleaning and mending the harness for that nag of yours. What do you call it?"

"Plato." Gabrielle grinned again, into her mug this time. She knew what everyone thought about Plato. Poor old plug. He was headstrong and stubborn and mean, but there it was. He was hers. She couldn't abandon him now.

"He's the best groomed fleabag I have ever seen, that's for sure." Alse laughed, a quiet chuckle but one which warmed the smaller woman. "Come over and let us thank you properly," she said when she had finished.

Gabrielle stiffened. "I didn't do much. You people did most of it." She broke off and frowned out of the window, wishing she were out there, under the moon and the stars.

"Gabrielle, give them this. They want you to know how they feel."

Alse was looking at her. She could feel her eyes on her back. Gabrielle took in a deep breath and straightened herself, turned round and nodded, once, with decision. Alse was right. She owed them the opportunity to finish this appropriately. No loose ends to be regretted after she had left.

She rose and walked up to the bar. Mattox, the head man, greeted her there. A huge bull of a farmer, he towered above her, awkward and shy. She smiled reassurance, shaking her hair out of her eyes. Leaning forwards, Mattox put huge hands on her shoulders, kissing first one cheek then the other. "We thank you," he said simply, "and we bless you."

Eyes prickling again, Gabrielle thanked him, looked at the villagers gathered around, beaming at her. "You did it really," she told them. "I only showed you the way." Inside, she sighed. They didn't believe her, of course, but just thought her modest. She could tell from the worshipful smiles.

Beside her, Mattox cleared his throat nervously. She sighed again. She'd hoped she had escaped this part at least. "We're a poor village," he said, "but ask for anything we have that you want, and it's yours."

"I have that already, Mattox," Gabrielle said. She included the whole room in her speech. "I have your friendship."

Back in her seat, shaking slightly, she felt Alse settle beside her. "You don't like being called a hero, do you?" When the smaller woman said nothing, the herb wife let the silence go on.

After a while, Gabrielle said, "They don't need heroes. They need to count on themselves." She felt Alse nod, but the silence extended itself further. Her voice tense and breathy, she found she was speaking again. "I'm not a hero. No one's a hero. No one." She heard anger in the words as she spoke them, and hurt. They made her voice quieter. Now she couldn't stop speaking. "Bards call them heroes, and people believe what they hear, but none of it's true. It's faith which makes heroes. Then whoever gets called one can't let down that faith. Till it kills her." Her voice was trembling.

"Have something to drink." Alse handed her a cup, full of something clear and colourless. Gabrielle smelt water and drank it, tasting coolness and darkness and earth, and it soothed her. Alse turned towards her, cupped her cheek, caught her tears with her thumb. "You've the most beautiful eyes," Alse murmured. "Deep and grey-green like the sea. But so sad."

Gabrielle leaned into the palm, craving the contact, the press of rough skin. She let herself want it, and more. It's been so long. She heard the tall woman draw in a breath, get ready to speak, but there was a stir from the direction of the inn's hearth. The bard had stood up and with a surprisingly deep and rich voice was asking for their attention.

He wasn't too bad, Gabrielle thought, several tales later. She had liked the story about the ice princess and the farmer's youngest son, and the tale of the hunt for the Red Hind had at least kept her attention. Too much action, though. Not enough about who and why. At the back of her mind, old reflexes were filing his stories away, choosing better beginnings and ends, better words and word orders, surer ways to involve the people who listened.

"What do you think?" Alse asked her, while the bard paused to drink ale. Caught unawares, the smaller woman told her, watched Alse's eyes gleam shrewdly as she listened. "Gabrielle," she began, as the bard started again. At the fourth word, Gabrielle stiffened, felt her heart thump. Her world shrank to a pinprick, impossibly heavy and hot. She stood up and made for the door, blindly plunged into the darkness.

When she came to herself, she was kneeling, head down. Like the warlord. This will always defeat me. She could have howled with despair. From the ache in her sides, she guessed she'd been retching. Her face felt like ice, but warm arms were wrapped round her, hugging her tight. "I've got you," somebody said, plunging slivers into her heart. She groaned. Now the arms rocked her and the woman told her, "It's okay, sweetheart. Let it all out." But she couldn't. There was too much feeling inside her. It might drown the world in its darkness. Instead she gathered herself, pulled away slightly.

Alse loosened her grip, but did not entirely let go as Gabrielle struggled up. Instead she rose with her, kept a light contact that told Gabrielle she wasn't alone. "Don't ask me to go, love," she whispered. "You need me."

Gabrielle felt the heat in the body behind her. She closed her eyes, then turned in a heartbeat, pulling Alse's head down, kissing her deeply. Sensation filled her. She drank in the taste of the herb wife, the smell of her skin and the weight of her body. She tightened her grip and probed deeper, trying to pull Alse inside herself, hands digging in deep to keep hold of flesh slick with fresh sweat. Muscles strained and she welcomed their burning, wrestled still closer. Perhaps now. Perhaps Alse. I could love Alse.

But no. Just the thought was enough, just the knowledge of who it was not. That stopped her cold. With a sob she tore herself free. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm so sorry."

She stumbled away, but Alse was there. The herb wife had stepped round to face her again. "No, I'm sorry," she said, and stared into her face. What did she see there, Gabrielle wondered, in the light of the moon. Someone who's really a corpse? Using the tips of her fingers, not touching her skin, Alse swept back her hair and looked closer. "Who was she?" she asked. Gabrielle did not answer. "That hero he's singing about back there?"

Gabrielle could not say the name. Her body felt empty, no more than a husk. "My soulmate," she answered. Her throat swelled, making just drawing breath an ordeal.

"What happened to her?" Alse asked. When Gabrielle said nothing, her face flushed, and she said in almost a whisper, "Did she die?"

Did she die? Would it have hurt less if it had been that simple? How could she explain? In the end, the small woman simply nodded. Her face felt damp. How long had she been crying?

"Oh, Gabrielle." Alse's eyes filled with tears of her own. "You can't go on like this, dearest. With the best half of you locked away in her grave."

Gabrielle looked away, at the stars high above. For once she was glad of their steel-pointed glitter. Unbidden, her own voice echoed in her memory: That's what happens to the things you love...

They were silent for a time. Alse said, "I've never been in love before. Trust me to leave it too late."

Gabrielle flinched. I should tell her something, about what's inside me. Poor Alse! I owe her that. She swallowed her tears and said, carefully, through a throat which felt like broken glass, "It isn't just that she's never there, when I want to talk to her, when I simply want to touch her. Hold her. Which I do, every day, though it happened years ago. It's the other loss, the loss of what we had when we were together. What came into existence because we were together. Our shared life and all it held." She wanted to say more. To say that it was not Alse, that it had nothing to do with the herb wife, but lay entirely in her, in the dark emptiness which filled her. But her voice gave out and she could only stand and fight not to weep again, aware that Alse seemed to be doing the same.

When they were calmer, Alse said, "Come back inside?" and as Gabrielle's face told her, "No," added, "Share my bed at least. Just don't be alone."

But Gabrielle couldn't. She could not risk it. Not that memory, of nights lying spooned by a long, loving body. She shook her head, turned and walked off to her room at the back of the inn. There, just before dawn, she fell asleep.

---

There it is again. That look. Intrigued, a little suspicious, Gabrielle told Mattox once more, "I just want to talk to the guy. You can come with me." After all, she'd put the warlord in this predicament. She had a responsibility to know exactly what was happening to him.

Mattox stared at his feet. He looked ashamed as well as shifty, she realised, and her suspicions grew sharper. When he still didn't answer, she turned, strode away purposefully, throwing, "I know the way," over her shoulder. Other villagers stood and gaped, showing similar dismay. She caught sight of Alse, coming out of her cottage door, her face grave and thoughtful. That calmed her a little. She trusted Alse.

And, it seemed, with reason. The room was large, not well lit, but clean. The man looked fine, though he was chained, and flinched when he saw her. His bed had a mattress and blanket, his clothes had been cleaned. Then why? He surged to his feet, came as close as he could. "Get them to move me," he rasped. "They can't keep me here. Not with that monster."

Gabrielle felt her brows rise. "What monster?" He looked beyond her and she turned, seeing a corner buried in shadows. She saw straw, heard it rustle, then something muttered. The shadows rose, the mutters grew louder. Not mutters, rather a grunting. Behind her she felt the warlord shrink back, muttering something she suspected was a charm to ward off evil.

"Show her," another voice said. Flanked by Mattox and Alse, a man had come in. She'd seen him just twice; the village's priest. Tall, thin, he had spent the past days in his shrine, praying, telling those who came to him they should face the truth of their helplessness, that their efforts were useless, that they should pray too. "Show her our shame," he told Alse. The herb wife slipped by, intent on the dark corner, crooning softly. Gabrielle heard bits of words only, echoes of cradle songs, endearments for children. Then Alse was swallowed by shadows.

The room held its breath. Gabrielle felt her skin prickle, hairs rise in the nape of her neck. She clenched her fists, held herself steady. Something was coming. Every instinct told her so. Something important to her. Alse stepped into the light, hugging close something which looked like a bundle, long sticks wrapped in rags, but a bundle which was moaning. "Who's that?" Gabrielle asked, her mouth suddenly gone dry.

"What, not who. It's a thing," the priest hissed, "not a person. Something cursed by the gods." He paused, stared at her coldly, lips pursed to hold back more words. She could guess what they would be, had he the courage to speak them.

Gabrielle focused on Alse. The herb wife was smoothing hanks of thick, dirty hair, murmuring softly. "Shh, now, shh," she repeated over and over, but the small animal noises continued. Gabrielle moved closer, squatted down, tried to see the face under the tangle. "Alse?" she asked, and leaned closer.

"No, don't get too close. She might bite." Alse looked up. Her brown eyes were moist and she blinked them.

"Let her," the warlord snarled from his bed. The women ignored him.

"She? Alse, what's going on? What happened to her?" Gabrielle clasped her hands in her lap to keep from reaching out, rocked back on her heels, waited.

It was Mattox who answered. "She was born this way. Came into this world squalling and kicking, like we all do, but she stopped that way. Eats, sleeps, screams, stares at nothing for days, kicks and bites anyone near her, except Alse, and that's it." He sounded beaten, exhausted.

"She was born here? Where are her parents?" Gabrielle was bewildered by the strength of her feelings, by her need to know.

"Dead," the priest answered. She thought she heard satisfaction in his voice, had to stamp down her anger. "The boy mocked the gods, and the girl disobeyed her parents to lie with him. Both paid the price."

"The boy? The girl?"

Alse replied, "He was born wild, I suppose. Wilful, violent, selfish. Always in trouble. He died months before the birth. Just 14, he was, The girl died during it. Yes, they were both far too young." Then her voice changed, "There now, that's better." Gabrielle realised the moaning had stopped, that Alse was sweeping back the lank strands of hair. The girl's eyes were shut tight, her face pinched and bony. Red scratches stood out on the sallow skin of her cheeks.

"Who did that to her?" Gabrielle asked sharply, her anger turning cold. She looked down. The girl's arms were bare too, and she drew in her breath at the wounds which oozed there, puffy and choked with puss.

"She does it to herself, Gabrielle. Tears at her skin, then tears the scabs off before she can heal." Alse sighed, rocked the girl quietly, kissing her head.

Gabrielle tried to imagine what it must be like, to be the girl, to be trapped in such mute isolation and pain. She could not. "All the time? She's like this all the time?" she asked weakly.

Alse shook her head. "Mostly she just roams around, or sits and stares. She eats when I feed her, sleeps now and then. She never seems to come to harm. But then she has these, these...I don't know what to call them. Fits of self-loathing, almost, as if she cannot stand to be inside her own skin."

"How long? How old is she?"

Mattox answered. "Ten now, very nearly eleven." He paused. "She's my sister's daughter, even looks a little like her."

Behind them, the warlord sniggered. Mattox's face darkened and he swung round abruptly.

"Mattox!" Gabrielle kept her voice firm, steady. "Not in front of her." He backed down.

Gabrielle looked back at the child. Eleven years of living like this. She felt an immense sadness. "What's her name?"

"She's an animal. A soulless thing. She doesn't have a name," the priest declaimed behind her. Neither woman responded.

"She's a lost soul, I think," Alse said. She lifted her head, met Gabrielle's gaze. She said slowly, deliberately, "When she finds herself, perhaps then she'll know her name."

Gabrielle took a breath, took another. She looked at the girl, who now raised her head, opened her eyes. Just for a second, before the girl dropped her head again, their gazes met. Gabrielle froze. The room turned dark all around her. She could feel her skin tighten, grow cold. Words rose to her lips by themselves. "Let me have her."

In the silence, the war lord sniggered again. "Oh, let her. Do."

"You have to be mad," Mattox replied, sounding confused.

The priest, mean-mouthed, held his peace.

Gabrielle said, "Last night you offered me whatever I wanted. Give me this."

"Yes." Alse nodded. She looked past Gabrielle, at the two men. "It's the right thing to do, Mattox. I can feel it. It's her best hope." Then she fixed her gaze on Gabrielle and watched her steadily.

Gabrielle, feeling light-headed, shut her eyes. Behind her closed lids, she could still see the girl's, staring back. This would happen, she knew it. She could feel the mark of destiny on the moment. When the priest said, "So be it," she only sighed.

» Continued in Part II of IV