The Dark Citadel (The Green Woman) (3 page)

* * * *

Deborah’s green eyes flashed at the girls who sniggered behind their hands
at the sight of her penitence veil. How she hated them! Sitting there like a
flock of chickens waiting to be trussed and shoved into the oven. How could
they be so indifferent to the colourless life that was in store for them?

Matron was droning on about some futile ritual in
the futile daily routine of young wives, and suddenly Deborah couldn’t resist
the temptation to provoke a confrontation. She got to her feet and Matron
raised an eyebrow.

“I know it’s got nothing to do with techniques for
getting oil stains out of carpets, but I have a question relating to
ritual and social organisation
.”

Matron gave a wary nod of the head. “Go on.”

“I heard my parents talking last night about a
population cull. It sounds horribly sinister. Could you explain what it means?”

“There is a mortal sickness among the Ignorants
from consuming stolen nutrition.” Matron’s voice hissed through thin lips.
“Does that answer your question?”

“Not really. I was referring to the edict, the one
that says we have to murder their babies.”

 
The
class held its breath as Matron’s face turned scarlet then white as fury
drained the blood from it. When she found her voice, the temperature in the
room fell to several degrees below zero.

“There is no such edict. The Ignorant women
systematically defy the law and produce more than two children. A certain
number of them are being sterilised. It is for their own good as well as the
good of the community.”

“Sterilised? But I heard that—”

“Young girls should not eavesdrop on their elders’
conversations. You all know the law; each girl must bear and bring up two
children, a boy and a girl. No more. No less. Some of you, those with the
surname Deodata, have been brought up by your biological parents because your
sibling is male. Others are called Givenchild because you were given to a woman
who had a second son, so he could be given to a woman who had produced a second
daughter. A few of you,” she fixed Deborah with a baleful stare, “were taken
away from criminals to be brought up by good citizens.”

 
“But
the Ignorants—”

“The Ignorants break the Family Law! They are idle
and thieving, and young girls who understand nothing of social policy should
refrain from criticism.”

Deborah bit her tongue to stop the angry retort
escaping. They called her
Serpentspawn
,
the green witch’s daughter. The punishment for heresy was stoning, and she had
seen no mercy in the steely eyes of the principal.

Hera’s long,
fine
fingers delicately crumbled soya curd into a bowl and sprinkled onto it
the salty concoction of the midday vitamins. Her dark-lashed grey eyes were
troubled, and she frowned as she always did when she was perplexed.

“Why do you do it, Deborah?” she asked. “Why do you
say those things?”

Deborah shrugged and her lower lip jutted in a
petulant expression. “Because somebody has to.”

The slight girl squeezed her friend’s arm. Hera
smiled but unease still showed in her eyes. “One day you’ll get into serious
trouble. You know the Elders won’t tolerate criticism. You shouldn’t repeat
those terrible stories about the Ignorant babies. They won’t stand for it.”

“But they’re not stories, Hera. It’s the truth! My givenmother
works at the House of Births in the Ignorant sector. She took the trolley of
injections round to the birth wards herself. I heard her telling the neighbour.
Something about deformed babies. But it seemed like just a pretext. It sounded
like all the Ignorant babies were going to be…they were going to…you know!”
Deborah was shaking now, her green eyes flashing with anger.

Hera squeezed her arm tighter, her own grey eyes
wide with concern and fear. “At least Matron gave you an explanation. She could
have turned you straight in to the principal for insolence.”

“But she was lying,” Deborah shouted. “There may
well be a programme to sterilise the Ignorant women, but what my givenmother
was delivering to the birth wards wasn’t free tickets for the next
entertainments at the arena. It was a batch of lethal injections.”

Hera glanced around, afraid they would be
overheard, but the other girls in their class were huddled together at the
other side of the refectory, as if unwilling to sit too close to Deborah the
troublemaker and her friend.

“She could have got the wrong end of the stick.”
Hera looked hopeful. “Your givenmother wasn’t at the front of the queue when
the Wise God was handing out the brains, was she?”

Deborah turned on her, eyes flashing angry sparks.
“Exactly! Holy Mother of us all, Hera, if someone as stupid as Goodwife Fatima
knows what’s going on, it isn’t because she worked it out for herself, it’s
because she was told. There’s no secret, they really don’t see anything
shameful in killing newborn babies.”

Hera bit her lip and hung her head. “It’s
grotesque,” she murmured. “How could they do it?”

“Because our leaders are grotesque,” Deborah hissed
angrily. “Now, will you believe me?”

“I believe you,” Hera whispered, “but there’s
nothing we can do about it.”

“If everybody says that—”

“Shh! Matron’s just come in.”

The tall woman had floated silently through the
door and was standing with military stiffness at the back of the refectory
observing the scene. Even with the length of the room between them, and only
daring the briefest of furtive glances, Hera could make out the thin-lipped
expression of disapproval on Matron’s face. She knew Matron despised the
givenchildren in general, and as the givendaughter of a packer at the
pharmaceutical plant, Hera’s social rank was about as low as they came.

But it was obvious Matron did more than simply
despise Deborah. There was an open hostility in her attitude that gave Hera
cold shivers. She didn’t know what Deborah had done to provoke such intense
dislike, but in Providence, a low caste girl who had no friends and powerful
enemies was destined for an even bleaker destiny than most.

“I wonder what she’s plotting, the devil.” Deborah
glared after the retreating figure of Matron. “Whatever it is, I know I won’t
like it.”

School was
torture
for Deborah. She hated the dim, dismal monotony of it, the endless
prayers, and the insipid lessons about obedience and household rituals. This
wasn’t learning. The Book, that was all they ever got, morning, noon, and
bloody night! The only book Providence possessed, the fountain of all truth,
all wisdom. The people needed no other, the Elders said. Books were knowledge,
and knowledge was evil. It was knowledge and the quest for ultimate knowledge
that had brought about the downfall of the world.

Deborah felt a great void inside yearning to be
filled. There were so many things she wanted to know, like what the desert was
really like, how far it stretched, and what lay beyond. She wanted to know what
would happen if people had ambitions and dreams, if they were allowed to create
things and choose their own destinies.

The principal’s remarks to her in the morning and
Fatima’s revolting behaviour had filled Deborah’s head with thoughts about her
parents. She wanted to know the real story about what happened to them, not the
ugly lies invented by the Elders. But Matron’s voice droned on, like the
buzzing of a bluebottle in a dusty room. Deborah let her concentration wander
idly through the window and the brown air outside. It lingered awhile at the
crystal barrier of the protecting Hemisphere before floating beyond, sounding
the sand-filled sky, listening for the voice of her mother.

Her gaze was drawn further and further, through the
coils of wind-tormented dust, into a barren landscape of rocky pinnacles and
bottomless chasms. She heard the howling of erratic winds, the cry of unknown
creatures. She held her breath, afraid the slightest movement would muddy the
picture.

Then she heard it, echoing among the broken rocks
of the desert, the voice she knew in her heart to be her mother’s. The voice
called her name, not in anguish, not in fear, but in triumph.

Deborah’s heart leapt with excitement. She was on
the point of following its wild arc and bounding to her feet when another voice
pulled her back to earth with a brutal jolt. Matron was making an announcement.
Her dry, expressionless voice had taken on a new edge, almost as if she was
enjoying herself.

“…an exceptional honour for the class.” The corners
of her mouth twisted into what passed for a smile. Deborah felt cold in the pit
of her stomach. “The Elders, in their wisdom, have decided to bring forward the
date of the marriage ceremony. The girls of this year will be married in two
weeks time, rather than at the end of sixth month as programmed.”

As an excited whispering swept through the
classroom, Matron’s cold eyes turned from one face to another, finally resting
for a triumphant instant on Deborah’s white, angry features. She raised an
amused eyebrow at Deborah’s efforts to prevent her facial expressions revealing
her inner turmoil and resumed her announcement.

“I am sure each of you will be excited to know the
identity of her betrothed.” Her lips twitched in a cold smile for Deborah’s
benefit as she unfolded a sheet of paper containing a list of names. “Starting
with social group one.” She beamed at the rich girls sitting at the front of
the class. “Amina Deodata your betrothed is Ariel Aaronson.”

A murmur of congratulation and envy rippled through
the class; only the most important families had such a surname. Amina must be
marrying the son of one of the city leaders, perhaps even a government
minister. Matron ploughed her way through the list, sinking in order of
importance, until only a handful of girls remained to hear their fate.

“And last of all, social group six, the least
fortunate among you.” Matron flashed her steely smile around the room, and a
few girls hung their heads in shame. Matron stared intently at Deborah, and the
smile became a diabolical grin. “Deborah Givenchild, you are to marry Hector
Deodato, the executioner’s son.”

A general snigger, rapidly stifled, was heard
before Deborah leapt to her feet, an unruly lock of red hair dancing before her
blazing eyes.

“I am not,” she shouted. “I refuse. Lock me up if
you want, but I won’t marry that scrawny pervert!”

“Silence!”

“I won’t be silent! Everyone knows he’s not right
in the head. His body’s crooked and his mind’s warped. I won’t marry him and
that’s final.”

“Is that so?”

Silence fell and heads turned to see Principal
Anastasias standing in the doorway. He said something to one of the guards of
his escort who nodded and disappeared back down the corridor.

“Is that so?” he repeated in his unctuous voice and
glided regally into the classroom.

“It is,” Deborah repeated defiantly. “I won’t marry
him, you can’t make me. Holy Mother, so help me, but I’ll kill myself first!”

The principal’s lip curled with distaste as he
pointed at Deborah. “Silence, harlot! How dare you? Only the Wise God is holy,
a mother is an instrument, a vessel, nothing more. Guards! Take this
Serpentspawn to the House of Correction and wash out the blasphemous filth from
her mouth. The authorities have been alerted to her imminent arrival. Like her
whore of a mother, she has chosen to defy the authority of the Elders and the
teachings of the Book. She will be suitably punished.”

Deborah wrenched her arm free of the guard’s grasp
and marched up to the principal. “I’d rather be a whore than a slave to that
stinking pack of lies of a Book.” She was so exalted she barely felt the blow
that sent her crashing to the floor. She raised her head and, catching Hera’s
eye, shot her a broad, unrepentant grin. “I’ve always said the Book was a pile
of shite, haven’t I? Tell them, Hera! It’s no secret.”

Principal Anastasias turned his icy stare from
Deborah to Hera. “The Cells of Reflection for that one. She will see what it
means to befriend a whore’s daughter.”

As the guards pulled her to the door, Hera’s face
turned a sickly shade betraying the shock and humiliation she felt.

“Be brave, Hera, the Mother will watch over you,”
Deborah called out. “You’ve done nothing wrong and nor have I.”

This last statement was directed at the principal.
Hera sighed and dared a last look filled with reproach at her friend. Deborah’s
head was held high in defiance, pleased to have been able to use her friend’s
punishment to chalk up another small victory for herself. She caught a last
fleeting glimpse of Hera’s stricken face before the guards pushed her out of
sight and was almost submerged by a wave of remorse for her gentle friend. But
the principal’s patience was at an end, and in a white fury he slapped Deborah
viciously in the face.
   

“Get out of my sight, impudent witch’s get!”

Deborah didn’t care—remorse faded as fury and
loathing returned. She detached herself from her body and retreated into her
thoughts with the pictures that flashed into her head. She was learning to hold
onto them, to contemplate them for longer. One day she would walk into one of
them and never come back.

* * * *

There were degrees of incarceration within Providence, and the House of
Correction, where Deborah was headed, was a reasonably mild one. Deborah’s
father was in the most feared, the One-Gated House, the prison of no hope, no
return, the antechamber of death. It was rumoured the prisoners were fed
starvation rations, and there was not even a visiting doctor when they fell
ill.

Her father had been there since Deborah was small,
so young she hardly remembered him. Only the memory of his eyes, big, blue, and
russet-lashed remained, and his smile. As they took him away, his voice had
been calm and tender, telling her to be brave, that one day they would be
together again. One day, Deborah promised herself, she would find him and
release him, and they would run away again to join her mother.

That was how Deborah comforted herself as the Black
Boys jostled her unceremoniously out onto the street and pushed her in the
direction of the Ignorant quarter and the House of Correction. At first she
held her head high, defying the cold looks of the rare passersby, listening
impassively as her name was whispered in disapproval. When the first catcalls
started she shouted back, “Miserable bastards,” and got a belt round the head
for her pains. She stumbled and almost fell, raising a roar of laughter from
the grinning roadside audience. Her cheeks flaming with humiliation, she felt
the pricking of tears welling up in her eyes. She gulped desperately to hold
them back, but soon she walked through a watery blur.

Mother,
she sobbed to
herself.
Why did you never come back for
me?

It was only as they reached the grim prison
entrance that fear leapt out of the shadows and dried her tears, a fear that
drummed in her ears and parched her throat. She perceived rather than saw the
darkness that was more than shadow that besieged the building. She felt the
terror lurking in every dark window and doorway, and knew with certainty that
no walls, no matter how thick, would keep it out.