Skin by Ilka Tampke Page B

the
strength of its learning. How had she fallen so far through its web?
    ‘Is it true that you are without skin?’ Still she gripped my arm.
    What did she care of it? ‘Let go my arm.’
    ‘Answer me.’
    ‘Yes.’
    She nodded slowly, her eyes not leaving mine. ‘It is your greatest suffering, is
it not?’
    Now my heart thumped as though she were an adder before me. There was something in
her that reached inside me and grabbed hold of the truth. ‘Yes,’ I whispered.
    The trace of a smile twitched in her mouth. ‘Stupid bitch.’ She released her grip.
‘You will regret not helping me.’
    I recoiled in shock. Name-calling was punishable by law of the journeymen. I could
have told Cookmother, even Llwyd, and had her brought to justice. I said nothing.
    She turned and hobbled into the darkness.
    Neha returned to my side.
    ‘What did she want?’ Bebin joined me at the doorway.
    ‘To come into the kitchen.’
    ‘Her?’ said Bebin. ‘Look how she staggers in her step. She’s rotten with drink.’
    I peered after her. Indeed she was nothing more than a wobbling drunkard and I was
right to deny her.

Freedom in love precedes all other freedoms.
    I SAT ON a stool outside the kitchen in the morning’s first light, feeding the fawn
milk from a jug. He was surer on his legs each day and starting to gambol around
the kitchen garden. When he’d emptied the jug, he bounded away on milk-drunk legs,
the early sun making a bright aureole of his downy coat. I laughed at the pride I
felt at his growth.
    Neha ambled out of the kitchen. ‘Greetings doggess.’ I fondled the loose skin of
her cheek. She sat beside me, echoing my love of the little buck.
    A crunch on the ground made us both look up. Next to the stable, across the courtyard,
was the strangemaid from last night, Heka, watching me.
    Neha’s tail thumped on the ground. Why did she not growl?
    ‘Be gone!’ I called, rising to stand. ‘What business do you have here?’
    She held my eye before turning away.
    A few moments later, Cah emerged from the same passageway, carrying a bucket.
    ‘Did you speak to the rough girl?’ I asked as she passed me.
    ‘Yes,’ Cah sneered. ‘I gave her some milk.’

    ‘What is sweeter than mead?’
    My eyes were closed against the brilliance of the day.
    We lay on our backs on the grass, weary and river-soaked from my second lesson in
the water. As the sun baked us dry, Taliesin tested me with a series of riddles.
    ‘Sweeter than mead?’ I mused. ‘A kiss?’
    ‘Wrong!’ I heard the smile in his voice.
    ‘Then what?’
    ‘Conversation.’
    ‘Ah yes.’
    It had been almost impossible to find my escape today. Cookmother’s eyes had narrowed
with suspicion at my third day of harvesting. I knew I could not sustain these lies
much longer. But Taliesin was worthy of the risk. His temper was buoyant and I left
the subject of the Kendra untouched.
    ‘What is swifter than wind?’ he asked.
    ‘A warrior?’ I ventured.
    ‘Wrong again. The answer is thought.’
    I rolled onto my side to face him. ‘Ask me another.’
    ‘What is lighter than a spark?’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘The mind of a woman between two men.’
    ‘True enough!’ I smiled.
    ‘What is blacker than the raven?’
    ‘Is it death?’
    ‘Your first correct answer.’ He lay with his forearms crossed over his face, shielding
his eyes from the sun. I stared at the swell of his mouth, pressed against his upturned
shoulder. Would that I could be that mouth. That shoulder.
    ‘What is whiter than snow?’
    ‘Life…?’ I murmured, my thoughts dissolving as I watched his lips form the words.
    ‘Of course not!’
    ‘What then?’ I said, surprised at his vehemence. ‘What is whiter than snow?’
    ‘Truth.’
    ‘Truth,’ I repeated, propping up on my elbows to look over the river.
    ‘There is no greater power,’ he said, his eyes still covered.
    I agreed with his words, but I was flooded with confusion. For was it not he who
had caused me to