“Tamer’s Tale” by JunoMagic

7. Anger

The weather turned. Storm winds blew away the last lingering blossoms of the roses and tore the kites from the hands of playing children.

The garden was prepared for the coming winter, but there was still work to do in the kitchen, drying herbs and fruits, pickling cucumbers and sousing cabbages. Later there would be wool to spin and blankets and socks to mend as the days grew shorter.

The wizard seemed to ignore her. He spent his days in the good room, reading and writing, or walking the island of Himling, talking to sheep and shepherds alike, or visiting the fishermen. He listened to the old men’s tales, and stroked the planks of their boats in reverence, or played seemingly absent-minded with the nets hung out to dry. When he bid them farewell, he did so as courteously as though they were lords, and not lowly fishers on a lost little island. And when he left, she was sure he always left something behind: whispered words of good fortune, fair winds, and plentiful fish.

But he did not speak to her, at least not beyond wishing her a good morning and bidding her good night, thanking her for a meal, or similar innocuous phrases.

Sometimes she did not reply but only looked at him, daring him to look at her, at Tamer the woman, not Tamer the girl, not Tamer the housekeeper. Sometimes an angry spark leapt up in his dark eyes then. Sometimes he turned and left the room. And sometimes, it seemed to her, as if a veil lifted briefly from his eyes, to reveal loneliness and longing.

As the weeks went by, anger began to rise in her.

She knew that he would leave again in spring. She knew as surely as the stone of Himring was straight that he would never return in her lifetime. She knew that she would marry Jehan ere the next midsummer dance would be called. She did not need a gift of seeing to see the lines of her life spread out before her. Tamer, the Boatwright’s wife; Tamer, the wizard’s housekeeper; Tamer, the mother. Nor to see the paths she would tread, paths from the hill of Himring down to the fishing village of Himling and back. Or how her days would be spent, long days of helping in the craft shop, tending the garden, cooking meals, spinning and weaving and mending. Children, there would be, and kittens and sheep. Hens to chase and eggs to find. Her steps would follow a well-trodden path, a path taken by her mother, by her mother’s mother, and oh so many women before them.

She was not bitter about that; she did not rebel against the fate she foresaw for herself.

This was the way life was for a woman on the island of Himling.

But there was a fire beginning to burn in her heart.

A fire.

Desire!

Desire to hear a voice of steel and silk murmur into her ear: not tales of dragons, Elves and hobbits, but her name, Tamer, Tamer, Tamer!

Desire to feel hands on her body that wielded sword and staff and flame: caressing her, Tamer, Tamer, Tamer!

Desire to be for a time not the woman of Himling, not the wizard’s housekeeper, not the would-be wife and mother, but Tamer, Tamer, and only Tamer!

To know herself and see that knowledge reflected in his eyes: that she was!
And that she was Tamer!

But he would not look at her although she felt the weight of his gaze on her countless times a day. The simmering anger and burning desire that made her eyes blaze like sapphires and kept her awake night after night were coming to a boil at last.

When he thanked her politely for the evening meal and would not meet her eyes again, but turned once more for the good room and the books and the silence, she ran after him.

What possessed her she could not say, but she reached for his arm in the doorway, stopping him, forcing him to turn around and look at her.

His eyes were smouldering coals that would have made anyone but the most foolhardy man back down and take a step back. But she was not a man. She was a woman in love, and her eyes flashed blue lightning—she did not draw back.

“You look at me,” she said. “I can feel your gaze on my body. Yet you don’t talk to me. Yet you turn away. Why? Is the woman of Himling, the housekeeper, the drudge, is Tamer not good enough to look her in the eye?”

“You don’t know what you are asking!” His voice was cold and sharp as a blade.

“A wizard has no wife,” she said. “I know that. A wizard’s wife is a widow. I know that.”

“You,” he hissed, “you have no idea what you are talking about!”

He inhaled sharply and wanted to turn away once more. But again she held onto him and did not let him go.

“Then tell me,” she demanded. “Or am I not deserving of an answer?”

“You don’t know who I am,” he said. His eyes were on fire, his hands hovering as if he wanted to shake her, but he did not dare to touch her. “You don’t know what I am!”

She met his gaze squarely. Her voice was firm when she retorted, “I am nothing. I know that. I mean nothing to the world, will change no destiny. Yet I am. I am Tamer. —Are you never lonely?”

Seven heavy heartbeats he was silent. She held his gaze, and as she looked into the fiery depths of his dark eyes, their blaze diminished, leaving behind eyes that were almost human, dark, tired and sad, and, indeed, lonely.

“Then why not?” she asked.

But he only shook his head and turned away. This time, she let him pass.

oooOooo

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