The Gate to Women's Country (16 page)

“Not much there, is there?” The servitor who asked was a lean-bellied man with a thin, mobile mouth. “Not since they cut the allotment.”

“No, not much,” Joshua agreed.

“We hear the Council plans to cut it again this year. Not for the garrison, of course. Just for us. Would that be so, do you suppose?”

Joshua shrugged. Servingmen of Council members were often queried as to what was going on, but they, like family members, were encouraged to be closemouthed. “I couldn't say.”

The lean man moved off, and Stavia whispered, “If they cut the grain allotment, people will go hungry this winter. We can't live on dried fruit and fish and what vegetables we can put up, not unless the glass factory can make more jars.”

“So Morgot says,” Joshua agreed. “It's the old question of power, Stavia. They could make more jars if they had more power. With only the one hydroelectric plant, it's a
question of priorities. Glass for windows or jars or lenses. Or drugs to heal people. Or steel for kitchen knives or a million other things. We're doing everything with watermills that we can.”

“Maybe the grain harvest will be better this year.”

“That's always possible.”

“Don't we get more since Myra had the baby?”

Joshua shook his head. “No. Our allotment stays the same. Jerby went away and Myra got pregnant in the same year.”

It didn't seem possible that over a year had passed since Jerby had gone to his warrior father. He had come home at midsummer, and Myra had gotten pregnant. Then at midwinter holiday, Jerby was home again. And so was Chernon, with his demand that she bring him another book because the books he had already had weren't the right ones, and she must give him more because she had already given him so much. She couldn't refuse him, but…. Stavia set that thought aside. And then baby Marcus was born, and it was almost time for midsummer carnival again.

“Myra won't take part in carnival this time, will she?”

“What do you think?” he asked.

Stavia sighed. “She will if Barten wants her. She did last time, big as a melon. It really surprised me that he had the carnival with her. With her pregnant I thought he'd… well, you know.”

“You know why he did?”

She shook her head. “I don't. Well, maybe. Maybe he was showing everybody that he could father offspring.”

“That may have been it,” Joshua replied, shaking his head doubtfully.

“Joshua, any male rabbit can make babies!”

“I know that and you know that, Stavvy, but Barten may be confused about it. He may think it proves something.”

“She will go to carnival with him if he'll have her. Just to keep him from having carnival with someone else.”

“I think so, yes.”

“She shouldn't get pregnant again so soon.”

“That's probably right.” Joshua felt a winter-stored apple. “These would be good with the chicken—applesauce.”

“If we don't have dumplings, I'd like mashed potatoes.”

“We've got potatoes left, but we're short on flour.”

“Who'll do the cooking while you and Morgot and I are gone?”

“Sylvia has invited Myra to stay with her family.”

“Poor Sylvia. Myra probably won't be good company.”

“No. Not very.”

“Joshua. I know I'm not supposed to ask, but I really want to know. What was it like to come back?”

“It was probably the most difficult thing I've ever done,” he said. “Do you want to stop at the tea shop?”

“Could we? Do we have tea-shop chits left? Will you tell me about it? I don't want to pry, if it's none of my business.”

“I won't take it as prying, Stavvy. No. I'll tell you, if you promise not to repeat what I say to anyone else—except Morgot, of course.” They crossed the street and went down a twisting alley which ended in a miniature plaza protected from the wind by high side walls and decked with tables. They occupied one of these, piling basket and shopping bag in an empty chair. When the steaming pot had been delivered, along with a saucer of sweet, jam-filled biscuits, Joshua poured for each of them then leaned on the table, hands curved around the steaming cup. “I came back partly because of the war between Annville and Abbyville.”

“I don't know about that.”

“No reason you should. It was twenty years ago. I was eighteen. I was in the Abbyville garrison, but too young to fight, of course, and when the centuries marched out, I was on the side, watching…. I had a special friend among the warriors. His name was Cornus. We called him Corny. A jokester. A clown. The funniest man I've ever known. He'd keep us laughing half the night, sometimes. I used to wish I had a writer's talent, just to write down some of the things he said.

“Well, he was killed in the battle. I knew he was wounded, the moment it happened, though he was miles away. I could feel his pain, and I knew when he died because the pain stopped. You're not asking about that, Stavvy. I can see you biting your lips. Morgot told you not to ask, but I'll tell you. It's something some of us servitors
have. We call it the long-feel or the time-feel. Not all of us have it, not even most. But some of us do.”

“Just servitors?” she whispered. “Not warriors?”

“Let's put it this way. I don't know of anyone who has this—this whatever it is—who stays in the garrison. If the rank and file notice it, and sometimes it's hard not to let them notice, they don't like it. And the officers don't trust it. Well, at any rate, Cornus' death weighed on me. I hadn't thought to ask before, but I asked then what the war was about. Why had we gone to battle with Annville? And the officers told me something about the Abbyville garrison having insulted our garrison, or our town, or maybe our garrison monument.”

“Insulted how?”

“I don't know. There was some talk about some of our men being ambushed and killed, but nothing sure. So far as I could tell, no woman's life was ever in danger. Abbyville wasn't in danger, and neither was Annville. But we went to war, and a lot of the garrison got killed.”

“And that made you decide to come back?”

“No, not just that. You know, in garrison you spend about a quarter of your time doing drill or mock battle, then some time is spent on maintenance of equipment and grounds, but most of it goes to games. In Abbyville it wasn't body-ball, the way it is here. Battle-ball was our game. Every century had a team, then the winning centuries played off against each other. Twelve men to a team, goals at each end of the field with a gate at the center, the idea is to get the ball through the gate and the opposing guards and into the goal.”

“I know more or less what it is.”

“Well, it was just like war. People didn't usually get killed playing battle-ball, but they did get hurt, and the winning team had all kind of honor and recognition. Let me tell you, if you were a great battle-ball player and a war came along, depend on it, your Commander would put you right in the rear of the battle—or find something else for you to do entirely. No Commander wanted his star players wounded or killed. And at the end of the year, when it came down to two teams, there wasn't a man in garrison who didn't wear the colors of one or the other team. And there'd be drinking and fights. It was just like war, all over again, only more so because the
men cared more about how it came out. I mean, wars didn't happen that often, but there was the battle-ball series every year!”

“Did you play it?”

“Play it? Hell, Stavia, I was a star gatesman. I was so good my centurion put me on messenger duty just so I wouldn't get hurt in arms practice. I was good at the game because I always knew just who was going to do what, and where the ball was coming from. I just knew….”

She stared at him, trying to understand.

“Don't you see, Stavia? When all the games were played, nothing had changed. If my team won or lost, nothing was better or worse. If I won, I got ribbons to wear and everybody drank to me and we all got drunk. If I lost, nobody drank to me but we still all got drunk. Either way, nothing was different. The sun came up the next day, same as always. The river went on running. The rain came down, just like always. Night came, stars came out, men went up on the armory roof courting, women made assignations, babies were born, little boys came to their warrior fathers, and nothing changed. Corny died and nothing changed. Oh, he got a hero's burial. They gave his honors to one of the boys to carry when his century paraded. The trumpets cried and people wept, the whole thing, but he was dead. It wasn't until they put me on messenger duty I really figured it all out, but once I'd figured that out, I came back to Women's Country.”

“Did they hiss at you?”

“Oh yes. They did indeed. They hissed and somebody threw rocks, but I just kept walking. Then, after I got here, I moped around for about a month while they were testing me to see what I might be good at. They said there was an opening here, so I chose to come to Marthatown.”

“And you began to study?”

“That's right. Began at the beginning, as they say. In the servitors' school. All warriors learn is how to read and write and sing and do a bit of arithmetic. Servitors have to start over. Though we do have it a little easier than you women. Since we get a late start, we're allowed to specialize.”

“And you specialized in medicine.”

“I had to learn something that would change things. I
became a medical assistant, and met Morgot, and ended up in her house. Because of Corny.”

“Returners don't have to learn a craft, do they? Or an art?”

“Oh, we can, if we like. I have an art, you know? One of the mysteries.” He made a comic face.

“I've never heard of it.”

“It's mostly a servitors' study,” he grimaced, “though not entirely. And please don't repeat what I've said. I shouldn't have mentioned it.” Though the look in his eye told her he had mentioned it just to see what she would say, and do.

M
ORGOT
, J
OSHUA, AND
S
TAVIA
started out early the following morning in the donkey cart, the four little animals pulling strongly as they trotted eastward toward the hills. Joshua drove. Morgot lay in the bottom of the cart on a folded quilt, her head propped on their sack of provisions, her eyes shut. She had been getting up at least half the time with baby Marcus, changing him and bringing him to Myra to be fed. Now she lay in the gently jostling wagon bed, rocked to sleep as in a cradle, catching up on many interrupted nights. Stavia read until her eyes got tired, then slumped on the wagon seat, staring out at the changing scenery. The nearer hills were softly green, some bright with early grain, others dotted with low, dark shrubs, like crouching bears. Behind them the wooded mountains folded, ridge and valley, and over all the sky spread in eastward banners of streaming cloud. The previous day's chill wind had given way to warmth. Wildflowers bloomed along the road, splashing flares of gold and white and orange. Stavia sat up and began to notice their surroundings.

“How far are we going?”

“Two days' travel. About halfway to Susantown.”

“What's there? At halfway?”

“A hotel for travelers. It's halfway between Mollyburg and Abbyville, too. Kind of a crossroads.”

“We're meeting someone?”

“Morgot is meeting someone,” he said softly. “Something to do with a trade agreement. Grain supplies, I think.”

“She's been really worried about the allotments. I guess the harvest wasn't good last year.”

“Well, actually, it was about the same as usual.”

“Then why was our ration cut?”

“Because there are more of us. There were about two hundred babies born in Marthatown last year, and the year before that.”

“People must have died to balance it out!”

“Not many. No contagious diseases this year. No raids or battles.”

“What's Morgot going to do?”

“I think there's some move afoot to trade Marthatown's dried fish for inland grain.”

The road began to coil up into the hills. Morgot drove while Joshua and Stavia walked beside the cart to save the animals. Not far down the slope from the road a reforestation crew was working in a cleared area, dropping feathery tree seedlings into shovel slits, pressing them closed. Morgot called out to them and walked down, inspecting the soft tufts of new growth among the stumpy roots of old trees. At the edge of the clearing something moved and fled with a flash of white.

“A deer?” Morgot asked, incredulously.

“We've seen several,” the crew leader told her.

“I thought the project released them far north of here.”

“They did, Morgot. But it's been ten years.”

“That long!”

“They could even be wild ones. Survivors from before the convulsion.”

Stavia was still gazing at the place in the forest the thing had vanished. A brown flow of incredible grace and speed. Deer. She had seen pictures, of course, but they had not been seen in the wild for generations. After the convulsion, a few deer had been found in a park or zoo somewhere north, and a breeding program had been started with annual releases into the wild. But, to think of actually seeing one! They were certainly different-looking from sheep or donkeys, or even from those pictured reindeer in Beneda's book.

They went on, over the first range of hills. A strangeness at the edge of the landscape caught Stavia's eye. Below them, to the south, was a place where the green of
field and tree ended and a carpet of black and gray extended to the south and east, losing itself
in
distances. “Look at that! What is that?”

“A bleak devastation,” remarked Morgot from the back of the wagon, sitting up to get a look at it. “You haven't seen one before, have you? There are only a few them up here in and around Women's Country, but if you went far enough south of the sheep camps past Emmaburg, there wouldn't be room to drive a wagon between them. Down there, south and east of the mountains, there's nothing but bleak desolations, as far as you can travel. The whole continent is gone. Here, use my glasses.”