The Throwaway Wife

THE THROWAWAY WIFE

a novel by G P Sant’Angelo

Bole to Bōg to Bōgincel, Twig, Budde, to Leef—

Is there more of life to tell?

Well, a dab of grief

Submission word count: 2,997

1 Bole

Moon Rising Over Water speaks now

If the doings of the Council are complete, and all find a place to perch or squat, mothers, fathers, big sisters, and babbie wranglers are warned that bawling bubby-henters and mewling ankle-biters will not be tolerated. What? I don’t know, that’s up to you! Carry them outside, give ‘em a pull on a dug. Now you’ve made me forget. What’s that? Ah, you’re right, latter-end blusters. That coughing and foerting should be restrained as best as can be hoped for. What’s that you say, we’an? Ah, what about wee fizzles and foertkins? Erm. use your own judgement, poppet. Mark me, you we’ans—if you go out, except once to the latrine, you stay out, no running in and out. Then, I shall begin that story I promised. A story I have never before tauld and you have never before heard. Many of you know this person. I am called Moon Rising Over Water, or Moon Rising. Dunna call me Moon.

This is a long-ago story of a throwaway wife; what happened to her, what she said about what happened to her, what she did with what happened to her. The braids of this story weave back and forth in time as the people who live in this story recall their yesterdays. Be patient, the little we’ans may need you to explain, that they may better follow on. Forgive, this is not a usual story, and burthens those who listen. Your ears may not wish to hear, nor your heartes contain. I have no respounde but to say, what is a bow, then, if left unstretched?

To know a human-person, it is helpful to know something of the nest that birthed them. In their language, there was no word for ‘throwaway’. In those days, people didn’t throw away much. They had a word for a thing dropped in the midden, but I don’t know it any more. The people, their language, what they saw with their eyes, even what they called themselves, are gone long-time. Think on it, nothing left of them, search the World-entire, the World is reft of them … only this story endures, about a girl who became a wife, who then became another thing.

These people were not our kin, not our grandfathers, not our ancient ones. There is nothing left of them but for these few braids of a tale. The Elders tell in stories brung down to us that we are now in a time of ice; they were too, Tulume’s people—we have more ice. How long-time gone are they from the World? One of your Elders tauld me it would be as long as it would take a pile of stōns we call ‘Wanderers’ to pull themselves away from each other. As long ago in summers as that forest of horn, that is the bison of the Steppe on their migration. When they see Raven, they know it is the time of the Raven Moon, and say, somehow, to each other, ’tis time to ready ourselves. They follow the new green path that sprouts ahead; when the river ice complains, then the Steppe mothers’ thoughts turn to upcountry, where they hope to have their young in peace. That is the number of summers, as best as I can conjure, that have come and gone between us and that people, that throwaway wife.

In some ways, we are like them, but in other ways, not. Like us, they trap and fish with line, net, weir, and spear. They hunted the animal-people of their time, a wonder to see, more in number and more kinds than we, any of us, have ever witnessed or shall ever witness. Of these wonders, more later, save but one—Big Brother Wolf. Larger than the wolf you know, yet similar to the eye, and in the way they hunt, love, and quarrel. All but gone now, some say they can still be heard singing in the Blue Tree mountains, but these are mostly liars or Southerners. Big Brother Wolf is important to this story and to a certain girl.

The people hunted the big plant-eaters mostly with dart and stick, as some of us still use. Unlike us, they didna know bow and arrow. Maybe they got a look at it and thought it so much like a fire-starter or a toy, they wouldn’t believe it could kill anything. I think it may be said of them that, in the main, they were able gatherers and good hunters who respected the animal-people.

Boys and girls at five summers begin tending trap lines. At seven summers, they begin hunting practice with smallish weapons. By ten summers, they are called ‘Hunter’ and taken out for days on long hunts where they are looked after by the Hunt leader and the older hunters. You should know that the girl-hunter in this story took part in all these things, but when the practice or hunt ended, never lingered with the others, but ran to find that one she knew as ‘little one’. Most boys continued hunting all their lives. By seventeen summers, girls continued to hunt but ended long-hunting. It was expected of them, and they expected of themselves, that they should look to meeting with a mate, having pleasurable copulation, eventually dropping some little ones. In so doing, the women launched the band into the tomorrows. A girl or woman hunter who died before eighteen summers was buried as a hunter with her tools and weapons. The change at seventeen summers was met with anticipation and excitement, as well as sadness. Some women continued on long hunts for several summers more. It is known that some women of these people remained hunters their entire lives, even to becoming Hunt-leader.

All are referred to as, and call themselves, ‘this man’ or ‘this woman’. For these people, there are no words for ‘boy’, ‘girl’, ‘child’, ‘baby’, or ‘infant’. These might be referred to as ‘little ones’. Newborns, infants and children are left unnamed. What’s that? Why? These are prone to die. Each time you meet a certain girl in this story, she may be at a different touchstone of her life—at five summers, or eight, or ten, she will be that person she was then. She has ample words and a full-full mind-basket, but always and throughout this story, always a girl. Her name is Tulume, as best as I can reckon, it means, ‘born talking’; she will speak.

Tulume, this woman speaks now

At five summers, I ran with others of my age to attend to the traps. At each trap, we might find an animal-person. Those that are dead, fine, we say ‘thank you’, then into a basket or hide bag. Those we find still alive, we say, ‘Your pain will be gone because I will kill you soon-soon, thank you much-much’. Then we twist the little head or use a club, maybe. The Elders and Older ones teach by showing how to reset and repair traps. This is an everyday chore beginning at first light. The trapped, still living, animal-people must not be left to suffer. Elders and Older ones watch over us to discourage thieves of meat and killers of little ones. We may carry spear, club, and knife, but we little ones are also very good at screaming, which confuses and upsets predators. Sometimes, a little one will spy a ripe berry bush and scream, which confuses everyone. I tried to bring little one along, but everyone complained she is too small. I could carry her.

Once, I brought shame on myself when I tauld my family, ‘This daughter wishes to be heard. I don’t understand little one. She is different from other little ones; they won’t play with her, they don’t like her, and they’re afraid of her. Her words can be, at times, clear as a spring you can see straight down to the bottom, other times she's afeard and it's all a myx and a muddle. Understood, they hate her, or not, they hate her! They say there is something wrong with our family that we produced one such as she and set her upon them. Why is little one doing this to us?’ Mother said to me, ‘Little one, she watches the animal-people and human-people, Sun, Stars, and Moon. She sees what is there; others miss, this occupies all her mind’s activities.’ Unmoved, I said, ‘How can that be?’ Father added, ‘I don’t know how, we see the plom, little one sees the buried stōn within.’ Elder sister touched her fingertips to my face and said to me, ‘Tulume, little one sees the known World in ways like no other, sees what is there plainly but missed by us. She does this again and again, but we don’t notice because we fail to hear her. My sister, hear me. When little one was a wee thing, we went to River. I watched birds in a copse of oak and thought out loud, “How full of wonder the song of the he-bird, so beautiful he sings it thrice”. Time passed, I had forgotten what I had said. As I bathed little one she wore that keen look, you know the one?

Tulume: Lämmer-gyre, looking for the bones of a thing.

Elder sister: Absolut. Then she pointed up to the oaks and said, “This is mine, go away, this is mine, go away, this is mine, go away”, you see?’ I said to Elder sister, ‘I have heard you.’

Mother: Little one has a mind basket beyond our reckoning. Warp and weft, willow, reed, or vine, laid at the beginning. Coiling, plaiting, randing all accomplished. Rived, bevelled, butted, notched, upset, slewed: nothing to do with manufactory, that is the way she walked into the known World.

Tulume: And of Tulume, what of this woman?

Mother: We would like to think, Da and Mum, that we are knapping our three. You, each of you, came to us complete. You have a mind basket that is not for others' use; it is your own.

Tulume: Is every one different?

Mother: When I was young, I thought everyone was the same, like me. Little one thinks that way just now. Later, I thought all were completely different. At the moment I reckon there are cynds.

Tulume: If World affords little one more summers she will lay down more roots, push out shoots, she will grow?

Mother: If more rivening and slewing is to come, I reckon it will be so.

Tulume: I have heard you.

A fish has two, a frog three, my hearte has four chambers and, conveniently, I have four clōs to me, one to fit each closet, all neat and primpit. If you have six chambers and twelve clōs cynn, they're going to have to double up. If they won't cooperate, the metaphor won't work and I canna help you. When we stay at a staying camp for some moons, we call that our campingashām, that is our hām. But that is a long word, so sometimes we knap it to camphām or campung, even whittle it to a nub—camp. Why? Because we're lazy.

I am happy when Elder sister has her turn to watch over us. We can talk about things only we two know. I practice to walk like her, to pitch my voice as she does, to toss my hair like she, and place my hand over my mouth when I laugh, which I ordinarily don’t do. I reckon she pretends to not notice, and, in this way, I love her more. I pretend to not notice her, pretending to not notice me, pretending to be like her. It’s complicated.

A story of my Elder sister when I was chin high to Ranny. There was a wandering trader who walked the known World and seasonally returned to our band, byrdened under the weight of fettles and fardels, laden with many things to trade. He entered each hūshold to spread out his wares, but preferred those housen of influence. It was said he had great wealthe, wealthe not in stored food, but wealthe of another cynd, in things which canna be eaten. So, this man traded things which canna be eaten for other things which canna be eaten, and in his mind, that was wealthe. And this was a person who travelled all the known World? It made no sense to me. To this woman, unwise and untravelled, what was of value was what he saw out there. This man, scuttling across the known World, struggling under his weighty cumber-somes, not so much riche as over-burthened. I badgered my big sister to ask him about the places he had seen, what the animal-people and human-people are like there, and whether there are any trees there, because it is well known that trees are very particular about where they sit themselves. My sister asked permission to enter the hūs, approached the trader and asked if he might tell a little something of his travels. The trader, looking her up and down, one hand caressing his goods, said to her,

‘What might you have to make you bend over?’

‘Dysentery,’ she said, and walked out.

At the time, I knew little of the ins and outs of copulation. Later, I got the joke, and so loved her more. About that trader:

New fisher: The knife broke.

Counsellour: What knife?

New fisher: The knives you tauld us we should trade for.

Counsellour: I tauld you?

New fisher: Yes.

Counsellour: You're certain?

New fisher: I'm certain.

Counsellour: What were you doing?

New fisher: Shrieving meat.

Counsellour: What cynd of meat?

New fisher: Meat meat.

Counsellour: What person?

New fisher: Hairy one horn.

Counsellour: You have your answer, their bones are solid, you broke it on bone.

New fisher: Didna.

Counsellour: Did.

New fisher: Didna, I cut to the bone, maybe bone-tether, that's all.

Counsellour: You used it to heave then; you sure I tauld you to trade?

New fisher: Yes, no, I didn't.

Counsellour: But are you sure?

New fisher: Sure of what, erm, yes, it's not good stōn, it looks like good stōn, but it's not good stōn.

Counsellour: Are you telling stories now?

New fisher: No, it's broke.

Counsellour: Things breake.

New fisher: We'll, yes, but ...

Counsellour: ... You see?

New fisher: See what?

Counsellour: You see.

New fisher: I ...

Counsellour: ... You took a very long time to make a fuss.

New fisher: Not one sun!

Shaman came around and was looking on. The Counsellour conferred with Shaman, then returned to New fisher.

Counsellour: Shaman has one too.

New fisher: Oh, Shaman?

Counsellour: Says the blade stands tight.

New fisher: Hmm, blade, she holds whole? But it's the wrong cynd of stōn. It looks like good stōn, but it's not good stōn.

Counsellour: You said that already.

New fisher: Still true. Knapper says this is the wrong cynd of stōn, Carver too, and Hunt-lead ...

Counsellour: ... They said that?

New fisher: Yes, I just tauld you.

Counsellour: Don't be cheeky.

New fisher: Counsellour, I listen to you, and listen to you, and listen again. Why do I know less than I did at the beginning when I’ve reached the end?

Hunt-leader enters with Trader in tow.

Hunt-leader: This is ravenstōn, not black glass stōn.

Trader: Oh?

Hunt-leader: Absolut.

Trader: Ah, and that's bad?

New fisher: Well, she's gone and broke.

Trader: What cynd of meat were you cutting?

New fisher: Is there an echo in this camp? You traded one of these foul thingies to Shaman?

Trader: Gratis.

New fisher: This is bad stōn, you traded bad stōn.

Trader: But look at the handle.

New fisher: What about the handle?

Trader: It's a beautiful handle, don't you think so?

New fisher: Well, yes, but no ...

Trader: ... The person who carved that did well, right?

New fisher: Erm, well, yes, but ...

Trader: ... It is a beautiful piece of work by an expert, and you beshit that carver?

New fisher: Well, no, the blade.

Hunt-leader: This is rotten stōn.

Trader: Nice handle.

Hunt-leader: Don't jape me, you knew it was guilla stōn.

Trader: No.

Hunt-leader: You knew it was swike.

Trader: No.

Hunt-leader: You knew it would shiver to spelt.

Trader: No.

Hunt-leader: Show me one of your knives.

Trader: What have you to trade?

Hunt-leader: This day you shall have your reward this day, this day your reward you shall have. Deliver the knife.

The trader pulls one knife from his fardel, buffs the blade in his lap-crutch, then presents it to Hunt-leader—blade first. Hunt-leader jumps back.

Hunt-leader: Handle first!

Hunt-leader snuffles the blade.

Hunt-leader: You smidged and furbished it to make it shine.

Trader: No

New fisher: Trader, I just saw you buff it. You think us noddylings?

Hunt-leader gestures to a young hunter

.

Hunt-leader: Five, lend me your black glass blade for a moment.

Hunt-leader taps the blade on Trader's pate.

Hunt-leader: Hear the ring, how she sings out? Always the same true-song?

Handing back the Hunter’s knife, Hunt-leader takes up the trader's knife, as if weighing it in his hand, then holds it aloft.

Hunt-leader: Here is yours.

Hunt-leader hits the trader on the bonce, thrice.

Hunt-leader: Now, where's that ring, where’s that song gone to?

Trader: I …

Many had gathered. Trader looks ’round for comfort, but Counsellour and Shaman have left separately.

Hunt-leader: ... Why did you bother putting handles on rotten stōn? Why did you bother putting handles on rotten stōn? Why did you bother putting handles on rotten stōn?

Trader: I thought it should, at least look nice.

All within earshot laughed out loud, and word got out quick-quick, the entire campingashām now laughing. Trader was kicked in the ers-end and thrown from the campingashām, his knives following on. More laughing.