Yarns Without Threads

Extracts from Jo Clayton's Diadem from the Stars

From pp 80:81, 102, 146 and 150:151 of 1977 DAW paperback.

In coda at the end of concluding Chapter 10 of Part I The Fireball:

"Bring the man. He's tied to the burden and must share the spell. Raqat. ..."

The warm-bodied nomad girl, the oldest of the young ones, walked hip-swaying and confident to the place where the thief was sitting. He looked up at her.

"Come with me." She held out her hand and helped him rise, then led him to the others ... Khateyat glanced at him, a slight smile curving her lips in tribute to his coolness. She moved to stand beside him while the others formed a circle around the two of them, each Shemqya one arm's length from the other.

"I have summoned Mowat only twice in my life," Khateyat said, her voice a mere thread of sound. "One of you will be moon dancer. ... "You, thief." She rested her hand on his shoulder. "You must sit very still. There." She pointed to the bare ground beside the diadem, frowning at the covetous glitter in his eyes. "Your role is silence. Do you understand?"

He shrugged and sat down.

Silence settled over the group. Khateyat drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yaqakh-n-sarat. ..." Her voice, a little unsteady at first, soon settled into a smooth calm chant. "Tadetat-b-ptam, Mowat. Come. The white silences. Come. Dance for us in the white silences of the night. Dance for us. Moon-thorn maid, hare speaker, come. Come. Come. Come. . . ." She closed her eyes and began turning, slowly, then faster and faster. The others, still silent, faces strained, lifted heavy arms.

Khateyat's hands darted out and slapped around a pair of wrists. Eyes still shut, she breathed, "Chabyat."

Raqat echoed her. "Chabyat."

Face blank and still, Raqat turned her hands over and placed them palm down on Khateyat's wrists. The circle broke. N'frat knelt beside the hon and lifted the lid. One by one she lifted out the scented oils. Kheprat sank to her knees and began to tap her thighs in a slow insistent rhythm. As the sound broke into the strained silence the other two girls moved to Raqat's sides. Shanat untied the thongs that bound the moon dancer's night braids and spread her long heavy hair over her shoulders. R'prat unlaced the shoulder ties that held Raqat's tunic on and drew the supple leather down to a heavy pool at her feet.

"Hananam senya." N'frat's high sweet voice caught up the rhythm of Kheprat's hands. Shanat pooled her palms and caught the precious drops of oil, then stroked it onto the softly coiling strands of Raqat's hair.

"Nahanam nyebak." R'prat took the pot and poured the oil over Raqat's shoulders and breasts. Then she and Shanat began spreading it over the moon dancer's body, working in time with the monotonous beat of Kheprat's hands. As they finished, N'frat set the pots carefully back in the chest and spent the intervals picking up Kheprat's beat on her own thighs. Khateyat stood, a silver-streaked statue, palms up with Raqat's hands resting heavily on hers. The two girls lifted the moon dancer's feet free of the tumbled tunic, anointing each with a special oil and meticulous care, then, on their knees, they moved to join Kheprat and N'frat.

Khateyat let her arms drop, bent down, and picked up the discarded tunic. Silently she backed away, leaving Raqat standing alone, arms still outstretched.

The moon singer stood like a bronzed statue, her skin gleaming like dark water, golden highlights on the high cheekbones, the points of her shoulders, her full breasts, and the thrust of her generous hips. The thief watched her appreciatively.

"Ger-n-Mowat shanyef." Khateyat's rich full voice broke through the meaty thud-thud-thud. Raqat drew in her breath in a shuddering sigh; she began to sway; highlights rippled like mirrored flames over her glistening body.

Hands beating on thighs, breathed-out chants, tongues clicking, sound working in and around thudding feet, scraping through across hard-packed earth, feet moving up, down, in careful patterns; liquid-gold voice, gold highlights pouring over thrusting, curving planes, and in the background hands slapping on thighs, breath forced between teeth, weaving in-out, golden voice spinning words into silver moon-web.

Hands beat on thighs, faster faster faster faster; feet spun out a pattern over bruised grass, faster faster faster; breathed chant growing urgent, urgent-demanding!

In Part II, Dragonseed tries her Wings, end of Chapter 3 :

She smiled as the two horses began cropping at the tough springy grass, then looked around. The trees provided protection from the direct rays of the double sun, but did nothing to cut the stifling heat. Her sopping abba wasn't cool anymore but was more like a portable steam bath. She plucked disgustedly at the clinging material. "What a mess."

Struggling with the wet ties, she finally managed to wriggle out of the abba. Carrying it upstream, she sloshed it around in the water, then lifted the dripping garment and wrung it out. Above her head a low limb stretched out over the water as if made for a clothes line. She grinned and hung the abba over it. Then she stood up and stretched, feeling gloriously free as the feeble breeze played around her naked body.

When she got back downstream, the horses were still grazing peacefully at the thick clumps of grass. Good, she thought, I won't take the packs off now. We can go farther after we rest a while. Ai-Aschla, I'm tired.

Finding a flattish spot thickly carpeted with grass, she stretched out on her stomach, resting her head on her crossed arms. It felt good to lie flat and let her aching muscles rest She closed her eyes and slid down the long slope into sleep.

End of Chapter 12:

Aleytys slid off the stallion's back, loosened the cinch, and worked the bridle off his sweating head so he could graze in comfort. She patted him and glanced speculatively at the saddle. Better not, she thought. With a smile, she slapped him on the flank, sending him off to eat and drink. Hurriedly she stripped off her clothes and hung them over branch stub to let wind blow the staleness out of them. As she edged down to the rocky pool, the stones felt hot and good under her feet and she heard with quiet delight the shrill kree-kree of the noon-singers. At the water's edge she pulled a handful of grass to scrub with, then walked into the water, yelping and shuddering as rock-warmed feet plunged into the snow-melt of the mountain river. The surface inch or so was sun-warmed but the water below was icy. The cold seared into the whip-marks crossing and recrossing her back. She wedged the wisps of grass in between two water-polished rocks and ducked her head beneath the water.

In Chapter 13:

She patted him on the neck, "Whoa, boy, careful." She slid off his back and looked him over. ... Everything was beginning to fuzz at the edges for her. Her head ached dully and there was a sickening sense of foreboding that kept intruding on her. She pressed her lips together and led the stallion off the road under the trees.

After she stripped him and sent him into the river, she pulled off her own rags and dropped them in a heap on the grass, pinning them under the saddle so a sudden gust of wind wouldn't leave her naked. Walking cautiously over the tough slippery grass, feeling absurdly fragile around the knees, she waded into the river and began scrubbing Mulak's sides with a handful of grass. ...

... she washed her hands and the knife, then lay on the grass and watched Mulak graze. He looked better already. "Mmm, that's nice, isn't it, aziz-mi?" Flipping onto her back with a laugh, she stretched and stretched until she felt her bones Peking. "Ahai, mi-muklis, I'm so tired of running ... and running ..."

The last tip of Horli slid down behind the edge of the world and the sky bloomed purple, red, gold. "I'd better put those filthy rags back on." She shivered as the evening breeze slid over her bare skin. "If I just had time to wash them," she moaned. "Or something else to put on."

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