The Gate to Women's Country (4 page)

“Yes,” she said. “I'm going to be all right.” She was going to be all right. Almost everyone went through this. Everyone was all right. But now that Dawid was really gone, now that he wouldn't be coming home anymore, she was remembering things she hadn't really thought of in years—not memories of Dawid so much as memories of Chernon, of Beneda, of her own family. “Things not so much lost as unremembered,” she murmured to herself. Things from childhood.

F
OR SEVERAL DAYS AFTER JERBY HAD BEEN TAKEN
to his warrior father, Morgot had grieved a lot. Young Stavia was very aware of it, not so much because she was alert to her mother's moods, though she was, but because she had wanted to ask Morgot about the boy in the plaza. Chernon. Stavia didn't want to remind Morgot of anything to do with that day while Morgot was still grieving so much. Each time Stavia had delayed asking, she had congratulated herself on being sensitive and compassionate, giving herself little love pats, contrasting her own behavior with that of Myra, who never tried to be sensitive about anything. Stavia kept assuring herself she was behaving in a properly adult manner. That business about the tantrums still rankled, and she was trying to get over it.

A week went by while Morgot moped and Stavia watched. Then they were in the kitchen one night, and Stavia realized that Morgot hadn't cried all day.

She kept her voice carefully casual as she said, “Sylvia's son, Chernon, came up to me in the plaza, Mother. He asked me who I was, and he told me who he was. Why hasn't he ever come home on holidays?”

Morgot stepped back from the iron-topped brick stove, the long fork dangling from her hand as she pushed hair back from her forehead with her wrist. In the pan, bits of chicken sputtered in a spoonful of fat. Morgot put down the fork and dumped a bowl of vegetables into the pan, covering it with a high-domed lid, before turning to give Stavia a long, measuring look. It was an expression she
had whenever she was deciding whether something should be said or not said, and there was no hurrying it. The pan sizzled and hissed. Morgot uncovered it and stirred, saying, “Sylvia thought it was best. When Chernon was about nine or ten, he came home for carnival and said some ugly, terrible things to Sylvia. Things no boy of that age could possibly have thought up.”

“But you said boys do that. You said that's just warriors' ritual, Mother.”

“Yes, there is some ritual insult that goes on, though most warriors are honorable enough not to suggest it and some boys are courteous enough not to be part of it. This stuff was far worse than that, Stavia. Sick, perverted filth. We learned that one of the warriors had instructed Chernon to make these vile accusations and demands of Sylvia. The warrior's name was Vinsas, and the things he wanted Chernon to say were… degenerate. Very personal, and utterly mad. Sylvia was taken totally by surprise. Hearing them from a child, her own child… well, it was unnerving. Disgusting.

“It turned out that Vinsas had told the boy he had to come back to the garrison and swear he had followed instructions on threat of cruel punishment.”

“Well then, Chernon didn't mean it.”

“We knew that, love. It wasn't Chernon's fault. But Chernon was being used in a very unhealthy way, don't you see? These weren't things a ten-year-old boy should even think of, and yet by the rules and discipline of the garrison, he was obliged to obey a senior warrior. It was unfair to Chernon to put him in that position.” She lifted the pan onto the tiled table and left it there, steam escaping gently from around the lid.

“What happened?”

“Sylvia suggested that since the warrior was obviously mad, Chernon just put him off by saying, yes, he'd told Sylvia and she didn't respond. Somehow, Chernon didn't feel he could do that. His visit turned into an interminable argument about what he could and couldn't say, about what the warrior would want to know, and what Chernon would have to tell him. It was almost as though Chernon himself had been infected by this madness and was using it to whip himself up into a kind of prurient tantrum.” Morgot frowned. “I was there once when
Chernon was doing this crazy thing. It was like hysteria. Sylvia asked my advice. I told her there were only two things she could do: speak to the Commander of Vinsas's century—Michael as it happened—or refuse to have Chernon come home thereafter. She couldn't go on with every carnival becoming a frenzy of frantic, ugly confrontation with her own son. So, she spoke to Michael, and he chose to do nothing.”

“I thought he was nicer than that.”

Morgot considered this, wrinkling her forehead. “No. Charming on occasion, yes. Sometimes witty and sometimes sexy, but I don't think anyone could call Michael ‘nice.' Well, at any rate, Sylvia sent word that Chernon should go to his aunt's house during carnival. Sylvia has a sister, Erica, who lives over in Weaver's Street. Chernon has been going there for carnival ever since. Since Vinsas has no obsession about Erica, he now lets Chernon alone. I took the trouble to find that out from Michael, though he was snippy about it.” She stirred the mixed grains in the other pot. “This seems to be done. As soon as I've cut some bread, I think we can call the family.”

“Poor Chernon.”

“Why did he speak to you?” Morgot wanted to know.

“I don't know.” Stavia was honestly puzzled by the whole thing. “I really don't know.”

“Perhaps he misses his mother,” Morgot said, her mouth shaking a little, the way it sometimes did when she was thinking about the boys, down there in the garrison.

“Are you going to have any more babies?” Stavia asked, assessing her mother's mood to be one which allowed exchange of confidences.

Morgot shook her head in time with her slicing knife. “I don't think so, love. Five of you is enough. Three boys. It's been seven, eight years since we gave Byram to his warrior father. I'd forgotten how much it hurts.”

Myra came into the kitchen, walking in a new slithery way she'd been practicing a lot lately. “Don't have any more boys. Have a girl.
A
baby sister for me.”

“Now that's an idea.” Morgot laughed. “If one could just be sure it would be a girl!”

Maybe Morgot would try for another girl, but not this coming carnival, Stavia could tell. Morgot might decide
sometime to have another baby—she was only thirty-five—but it wouldn't be soon.

And even the next carnival was a long time away. There would be weeks of studies first. Stavia was doing drama in her Arts division, where the current project was to learn about
Iphigenia at Ilium
, the traditional play that the Council put on every year before summer carnival. All the drama students had to learn how to make costumes and do makeup and build sets, in addition to learning the part of at least one character in the play. Since the play wasn't very long, Stavia had decided it was really easier just to memorize the whole thing. Then in Sciences division she'd be studying physiology, which she was good at, and in Crafts division there'd be some kind of practical gardening project which would be fun. There was always a new section of the Women's Country Ordinances to memorize or an old one to review. And in addition to all that, because she had turned ten, women's studies would start this year: management, administration, sexual skills. Plus special electives in any outstanding talent areas. Stavia mentioned this in puzzlement, wondering what she would choose.

“So far as I can see, Stavvy, you have no talent area.” Myra picked into the dish of stewed dried fruit to pull out a chunk of apple between two fingers. Morgot slapped her fingers away.

“She's very good in biological sciences,” Morgot corrected, spooning the hot grain into a bowl. “Her potential as a physician is high.”

“Oh, doctoring,” poohed Myra. “Dull.”

“We can't all be great choreographers,” said Morgot, mentioning Myra's current ambition. “Or even weavers.”

Myra flushed angrily. The director at the weaving shop had threatened to drop Myra from the junior staff for lack of application. All Myra wanted to do was dance, and she had no patience for anything else. She started to say something, then thought better of it.

Morgot observed this reaction and went on calmly, “Stavia will do very well with the talents she has. Myra, will you tell Joshua that supper's ready, please?”

“He knows when we eat,” Myra said sarcastically.

“Myra!” Morgot turned on her, a face full of furious embarrassment. “That was unbearably rude!”

Myra had the grace to flush again, and the sense to keep quiet. When she had left the room, Stavia asked, in wonderment, “Why would she say something like that?”

“Your sister's getting rather focused on a particular young warrior. Joshua tells me they've been exchanging notes from the wall walk. I expect they'll have an assignation next carnival.”

“Why does that make her be rude about Joshua?”

“The young warrior is probably rude about Joshua—or rather about all the men who have returned. You know the warriors' attitude toward servitors.”

“I know they've got this sort of sneeriness, but I didn't know it was communicable.” Score one off Myra, she thought.

Morgot's mouth quirked a little. “Well, seemingly it is. Though the course of the disease is usually brief. Perhaps Myra will get over it.” She put the tallow lamp in the center of the table, adjusting the wick to minimize the smoke. The soft colors of the glazed tiles gleamed in the lamplight, bringing highlights from the glaze of the soft clay plates and cups, the oiled wood of the spoons and two-tined forks. “Napkins, Stavvy.”

Stavia reached them down from the shelf beside the window, each in its own carved ring. Joshua had whittled the rings himself—a dancing lamb for Myra; an owl for Morgot; a wreath of flowers and herbs for Stavia; and a funny goat for Joshua himself. At the back of the shelf were three other rings: a curled-up fish, a crowing rooster, a grasshopper. They belonged to Habby, and Byram, and Jerby. No one used them now except during carnival time when the boys were home.

Joshua joined them for supper, taking his place at the foot of the table with a sigh. “I was glad to see evening come. Everyone in Marthatown either cut themselves or fell down and broke something today. The hospital hasn't had this much business in months! On top of everything we had returnees.”

“Returnees?”

“Among many other crises, yes. Two of them. One of whom was beaten rather badly, I'm afraid.”

Morgot put down the fork she had raised halfway to her mouth. “That's not allowed!”

“Oh, the boy said the attack wasn't sanctioned by the officers. Just some of his peers, he said, acting out their hostility at him.”

“Nonetheless….”

“You should probably mention it to the Council.” He nodded in a particular, meaningful way which Stavia had always interpreted as a reminder to Morgot of something she was in danger of forgetting. A kind of “My dear, not before the children” expression.

“You're quite right,” Morgot agreed. “Is he staying in Marthatown or moving on?”

“He's chosen to move on. In about a week, I think. He'll be well enough then to move to Susantown.”

“I don't blame them for beating up on him,” Myra said. “You wouldn't catch my warrior friend acting like that!”

“Myra,” Morgot said in a dangerously quiet voice. “Let us suppose it had been Jerby.”

Myra flushed, started to say something, then subsided, looking both rebellious and confused. “It isn't the same. Jerby's only five!”

“He's only five now. Do you mean you would not be glad to see him if he returned at fifteen? Think of Habby. He's almost fifteen. Do you mean you would enjoy seeing him beaten by those who chose otherwise?”

“Well, I wouldn't expect him to act like a baby anymore!” she said unreasonably, her face red.

Morgot shook her head, staring at the girl until she dropped her eyes. “I'll mention the attack to the Council, Joshua. They meet tomorrow night, so it's fortuitous timing. More vegetables, Stavia?”

“Please.”

“Myra, more vegetables?”

“I'm getting too fat,” she mumbled.

“Where did you get that idea?”

“Oh, I just think I am.”

“Well, greens will hardly make you any fatter. It will make your skin smooth and your hair shiny, however, which young warriors are said to admire. More?”

“Winter food is boring. Cabbage is particularly boring.”

“Yes, it is. It is also just about the only leaf vegetable we
can keep all winter. When the town finishes work on the new sunpits this summer, we should be able to have fresh things a little oftener. Do you want more or don't you?”

“A little, I guess.”

Joshua shared “the look” with Morgot once more, and the conversation became suddenly very general and amusing, the way it did when Joshua or Morgot didn't want to talk about something in particular.