The sky is alive today, vibrant. A sea of grays and whites and deep purple-blues is blowing by overhead, reaching down in all directions to meet the equally vast sea of green. The wind-driven waves rolling through the long tundra grass have their foam marked by bright poppies and pinks and saxifrages, and the air is cool, fresh, sweet, and carries just a hint of the smell of the ocean, many kilometers to the east. I once again thank the spirits that I won that lottery of birth, and was born here.
I have been waiting for maybe half an hour, waiting for an audience with the Chief of a neighboring clan, waiting to begin a dance I know as intimately as the dance of the clouds and the grass, the delicate, well choreographed dance of Sebiestor politics. My queue.
“Seida?” the young man calls.
“Yes?” I reply, looking up from where I am seated outside of the vukjii of Ledo Valruur, Chief of the North-Of-Winter clan.
“Chief Valruur would like to introduce you to his family.” he says.
I stand and smooth my sleeves, my skirt, and in general, spend the few moments fussing over such things which diplomacy demands I spend fussing over them. “I would be delighted.”
I follow him inside the vukjii and try to tame my hair, a mess from the nonstop wind outside, and my eyes take a moment to adapt. Within the vukjii, which is the name for a mobile standing-place, the slope-sided, long, narrow tent found in every Clan camp which marks the office and hall of the Clan's Chief and his or her advisers. Inside are two dozen or so people, all of them the Chief's relatives.
Chief Valruur himself is a short, broad man, unusually wide in both shoulder and hip for a Sebiestor. He has long blonde hair, combed straight back, and his vest hangs open, to show his myriad marks, his intricate rank mark, and a physique that many men half his age would be proud to have. He smiles at me and walks over quickly to take my hand and shake it, energetically. I return the gesture, and we stand, clasping hands, both of his and both of mine, as we talk.
“Kyllsa!” he calls, happily. “It has been, oh, six, seven years?”
I smile brightly back at him. “It has.” Our happiness upon seeing one another is not all forced. We were actually engaged to be married, and would have been, had several of the other Clans not made their displeasure known with regard to our impending union. Our marriage would have greatly strengthened the bonds between the North-Of-Winter and my own clan, the Late-Rise, which were already the two largest clans in the region. Our marriage would have given us a lock in the local Tribal council, as we both held very high-status ranks within our respective Clans, so backroom deals, threats, and agreements were made, and our marriage was called off; much to our regret, but, our profit. “How is your wife?”, I ask after a short pause.
He does not answer right away. Instead, for a long moment, we both take one another in, remembering those days when we were both still so young. Our marriage was not solely political, you see. “She is well. She is visiting her aunt, with the Star-Fire.”
“And your children?” I ask, and with this question, the dance begins.
He sighs, a sorrowful, deep sigh. “My youngest daughter, Ljuka, has married into the Late-Rise. However, her house is simple, and they have no snowmachine, no trailer. She is pregnant, and when the Winter Move comes, she and her husband will have to pull their house on a litter.... poor girl. Pregnant, and exerting herself so, during our move?! I cannot afford to purchase her one, not just now, when I have just had to...”
I smile warmly and squeeze his hand. “She can have my snowmachine, Uncle,” I say reassuringly. “I have a small house, as you know, and Tarkja, my cousin, she and her husband will help me move, or their daugher...”
This visit was not purely to “meet his family.” We both know that, and we both know the other one knows. Of course, I cannot say “I am in line to become Chief of the Late-Rise, I would like your support in the Council.” He knows that, and he knows that is why I am here, but tradition demands we do not ask favors.
To outright ask would be rude. We never ask. We offer help, instead. Both of us are financially well off enough that a snowmachine, while a large purchase, is within our means. But, if one buys one for themselves, they miss the wonderful opportunity to buy one for someone else.
“Oh, Kyllsa...” he says, shaking his head. “You and I are both growing old. I cannot expect you to walk either; you have a bad hip, and your back... no. I will take my son, and head to White Point. Maybe we can trade a...”
“I insist. Please,” I say, emphatically, waving my hand. “I am not old. I am quite in my prime, and my hip is doing wonderfully. Never better.”
You see, if he is too eager to take what is offered, he may lose face, he is seen as incapable of supporting his family. No, no, that will not do. He must be able to do so, and the greater the hardship he would endure, the better. I must endure hardship too, for the gesture to be genuine, of course, but less than the person I am helping. This is the dance.
“Hmm...” he replies, knitting his thick eyebrows in thought. “We should have a cup of kaff'ak.”
“I would love a cup,” I say, quite truthfully.
We chat, we eat and drink, I play with his grandchildren, and the night wears on. After several hours of a rather wonderful visit – always carefully dancing the dance, of course – he accepts my offer.
“And let me know, Kyllsa, if I can do anything to repay you,” he says, shaking my hands again as I prepare to head back to my Clan's camp. “I will do whatever I can.”
I bow deeply, as expected when parting company from someone of a higher status than me. “Oh, you need not worry,” I say, doing my best to hide my smile. “You would do the same for me.”
He told me so the moment he mentioned his daughter's troubles.
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Topic: The Oldest Dance (Read 1290 times)