Skin by Ilka Tampke Page A

the kitchen hearth, nibbling
on fresh cherries of sheep’s cheese. I fed a morsel to the fawn, lying in my lap,
and he nudged my hand for another. He was growing strong and lively on his food.
It would be hard to let this one go.
    The striking of our doorbell startled us all.
    ‘Who comes now?’ grumbled Cookmother. ‘I tell you, I am not going to a birthing tonight.
You go, Ailia—feign that I am not here.’
    Smiling, I set down the fawn and went to the door. Outside stood a strangemaid, who
had turned away and was staring out to the night sky. She had some height but carried
it weakly and her skirts were torn and filthy. ‘Tidings,’ I said to her bent back.
    When she turned I almost gasped at the sight of her. She was perhaps only five or
six summers my elder, but looked much older, as if life-robbed by some means. Her
face was little more than skin draped thinly over the skull beneath it: a wide forehead
and a wasted chin. But behind the defeated flesh were the bones of a face that might
once have been beautiful. Her hair was unbraided and stiff with dirt, her mouth fixed
in a grimace. Festival time brought many wanderers from the outlying settlements,
searching for food or work. But seldom had I seen such a wretch as this even at the
furthermost fringes.
    She looked at me from eyes sunk deep in her skull. ‘I am looking for the maiden Ailia.’
    It was a shock to hear her speak my name. ‘I am she. What business do you have with
me?’
    She took a step toward me, staring. Her stance was unsteady and she seemed to struggle
to make clear sight of me. But despite all this, there was a force in her that set
my heart pounding. ‘You are she,’ she muttered. Her gaze steadied on my face. We
both stood trapped in this reckoning of one another.
    I reached down to restrain Neha, but her ears were folded back and she nosed at the
woman’s hand. ‘What do you seek?’ I asked again.
    ‘The townspeople tell me you’re a favourite of the Tribequeen.’ Her voice was rasping,
too loud in the quiet night. ‘I need work and a bed to sleep. Will you ask the queen
for a place in your kitchen?’
    I laughed. ‘I’m sorry, strangemaid, but I have no power to refer you. My own place
is held by threads!’ My words were true, yet even if they weren’t, I would never
commend this maiden. ‘Besides—there is no room.’ I lied to soften the refusal.
    ‘There must be room.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘I can do whatever needs to be done.’
    The weave of her tattered shawl was unfamiliar; she had travelled far and I knew,
as she would also have known, that there was always need for tenacious workers in
the Tribequeen’s hutgroup. Perhaps Cookmother would hear my petition if I made it.
The scent of stale beer and piss rose from her skirts. ‘No,’ I said. ‘There is no
room.’ I fought a stab of shame at another lie.
    She shrank back. ‘Where else might I ask then?’
    ‘Perhaps the warriors,’ I stammered. ‘Orgilos has not long since lost a daughter
to fosterage.’ I clucked repeatedly at Neha, who, unfathomably, had settled at the
woman’s feet and would not come.
    ‘The hound, at least, accepts me.’ She stooped to rub Neha’s head. ‘You know your
own skin,’ she cooed.
    ‘You are skin to the dog?’ I asked. I had not yet met one of this totem.
    ‘Ay.’ She straightened.
    Where was the dog’s strength in this sorry maiden? I bade her farewell but she would
not turn away. Her eyes dropped to the golden fish pin at my breast.
    ‘Take it,’ I said, tugging it free from my cloak. ‘You can trade it for food and
shelter for a few days.’
    ‘How kind,’ she sneered, closing her fingers around it. Her nails were ragged and
rimmed with dirt. As I turned away she grasped my wrist. ‘Do you not even ask my
name?’
    ‘What is your name?’ I whispered.
    ‘I am Heka.’ Her nails dug into my skin. ‘Of Caer Hod.’
    It was an outlying hilltown of Durotriga, known for the purity of its chalk and