Raetian Tales 1: A Wind from the South Read Free Page A

Mariarta pulled the door-hook and pushed the heavy door open. Her father was sitting behind his big wooden table to the right of the door, near the shiny black fireplace-stove. One window-shutter on the far side of the room was open, letting in some of the sunset light that managed to slide  between their house and dil Curtgin’s. The parchments on his table crackled in the breeze from the window, and her father put down his knife and pen. “Well?”
    “There’s a man here!” Mariarta said.
    Her father nodded. “So the whole town knows by now, since I heard you tell them so. Mariarta, when a mistral’s daughter has important news, she does not run about in the street bawling it to the five winds, like a bullock out of its shed.” He frowned, and Mariarta got subdued and unhappy. But then her bab made an absurd cow-face at her, and bawled “Owwwwwww’oooh!  Owwwwwww’oooh!”, so exactly like a bullock that Mariarta laughed. “That’s how you sounded.” her bab said. “Once, I forgive you.  Don’t do it again. We’ll have more important visitors some day.”
    “When?”
    “Who knows?  Meanwhile, we’ll ask this young man for his news after dinner. Your mother will want help. But help me first, though,” he said as Mariarta started for the door. “Go see Stiafen Cadieli, and Old Gian at the mill, and Flep and Clau. Tell them the councilors should come here after the guest’s fed, to talk to him. Go on now, or you’ll be late to help your mam.”
    “But I want to see him—!”
    Her bab frowned. “You have seen him. You will again, later. Go on.”
    She knew that tone of voice. Mariarta ran out.
    At the end of the street was the mill, close to where the dirt road sloped down near the river. This early in the season the stones were still. Old Gion himself was by the barn-shed, leaning over the half door with another man and looking in.
    Mariarta climbed on the half-door beside them and looked into the shed. The other man was Flep, so that was another part of her errand done. “Bab asks me to tell you both to come to him tonight,” she said. “There’s a guest, a scolar —”
    “Hmm, well,” Gion said. “Tell your bab we’ll come. But what do you think, Flep?  What’s her problem?”
    From inside the shed came a mighty bellow. A wickedly horned head with one horn broken off short swung into the light, tossing the hay of her stable-bedding into the air. Mariarta looked at the golden-brown cow with delight. Old Crutscha was queen-cow of the Tschamuts herd, the pride of the town—for every year she beat off any other pugniera that was brought against her. The Selvese muttered and tried to buy in fighting cows who would give them the advantage, but it did them no good. It was always Crutscha who led the town’s herd, fighting any rebellious cow into submission, helping defend the herd against the wolves that got into the pastures. Bulls were no use for this: they were too testy, and too rare to be risked. Herd leadership needed a crafty cow, fiery in battle but thoughtful and wise—a pugniera who would give the town a good name at the cattle-fights in the summer. Everybody in town doted on Crutscha, and brought her treats in her winter quarters. But lately she had not been well, and her bawling could be heard constantly.
    Flep shook his head. “She’s had nothing but the best. Beer in the mash, hot milk—  She’s just tempery. It’ll pass.”
    “A week she’s been like this,” Gion said. “It’s not good for a pugniera to be tempery. She gets in the habit, shortly she’s no better than a bull—”
    Crutscha bellowed, the small leaden stable-bell around her neck jangling. From behind them came an answering sound—a deeper ringing, more mellow.
    It was Urs the stableboy, walking past with one of the big pasture-bells on its embroidered strap. He had just been polishing it, to judge by its shine. Urs was ringing the bell hard, like someone about to go out for the chalandamarz , the