The Gate to Women's Country (45 page)

“Stavia didn't do what she did out of any unworthy motive,” he suggested.

“Out of ineptitude,” Morgot suggested bleakly.

“Misplaced nurturing,” Septemius corrected her. “The biggest chink in your female armor. The largest hole in your defences. The one thing you cannot and dare not absolutely guard against, for your nature must remain as it is for all your planning to come to fruition. You dare not change it. Still, it is hard when your own female nature betrays you into believing the ones who abuse you need you or love you or have some natural right to do what they do,”

“There is also misplaced passion,” Morgot said. “When we fix ourselves upon objects unworthy of us.” She sighed, remembering.

“Maybe the selection ought to be working the other way as well,” Septemius sighed. “Maybe you ought to be weeding some of the women out.”

“There are a good number of sterilizations done every year,” Morgot said. “Tubal ligations. Hysterectomies. It should not surprise you to learn that we do just that, does it, Septemius?”

“Little surprises me, madam. I do wonder, though, sometimes….”

“Yes?”

“Whether you ever feel guilty over what you do? You few who do all the doing.”

She sat for a time without answering. At last she shifted in her chair and said, “I'll tell you what we call ourselves,
among
ourselves. That will answer your question.”

“Ah.”

“We call ourselves the Damned Few. And if the Lady has a heaven for the merciful, we are not sure any of us will ever see it.”

O
NE MORNING
Stavia opened her eyes to see Morgot still sitting by the window but wearing different clothes and with the light coming from a new direction. On the windowsill a glazed blue pot held bright flowers in a tight, self-conscious knot. Stavia looked at them with a half-conscious, musing gardener's eye. She had gone into the southlands in the spring when the wild iris bloomed in the dry meadows. These flowers were shaggy asters and bright buttons of chrysanthemums. The pot was her own, from her own room. Beside it was a tiny basket of blue-stained willow, filled with tiny cakes.

“I've been asleep a long time,” she said with a dry mouth.

“We've been giving you various things to keep you asleep, but you're right. It's been a very long time, Stavvy. Corrig sent you the flowers and the cakes. And he says to tell you that the funny white dogs have had puppies.”

“Ah.” Puppies. Stavia had never seen puppies. That would be interesting. “Why was it so long?”

“It seems that bash on the head had caused some bleeding on the brain. And then you already had an infection in those wounds on your back. We've had quite a time bringing that under control. You've used up more than your share of antibiotics, Stavia. Your head is healing clean, however. There'll be a considerable scar, but your hair will cover it when it grows in again.”

“They shave the women's heads,” said Stavia, a bubble of screaming hysteria rising inexorably in her throat. “They… they…”

“Shhh.” Morgot sat on the bed and gathered her up, holding her as softly and firmly as Corrig had done, as Joshua had done. “Shhh, love. We had to shave it all over again, and so it doesn't matter. Shhh, my Stavvy. It's all right.”

Stavia calmed a little, recalling what had gone before. “Back there, with the Holylanders, I kept thinking, that was how it used to be, wasn't it? Before the convulsions. Before Women's Country, that's how it used to be for
women. To be shorn like sheep, and bred whether they wanted to or not, and beaten if they didn't….”

Morgot rocked, murmuring. “No, no. Not that bad as a general rule, I don't think. Love existed, after all. Some men and women have always loved one another. Not all cultures oppressed women. Some did shave heads. Some allowed beating. Other cultures were quite advanced, at least in principle. And we have to remember that many women did not resent their treatment because they'd been reared to expect it. Of course, it was even worse than that for individual women or in certain places. The Council keeps some old books in a locked room under the Council Chambers. I've read some of them. There's a phrase they used to use—‘domestic violence.'”

Stavia raised her eyebrows, questioning.

Morgot responded. “I know. It has a funny sound. Like a wild animal, only partly tamed.”

“What did it mean?”

“When a woman's husband beat her, sometimes to death, it was called ‘domestic violence.'” She paused, breathing heavily. “In some parts of the world, they cut off women's external genitalia when they reached puberty—not the breasts, though they might have done if they hadn't been needed to feed babies. Compared to ancient times, you got away virtually unscathed. Your hair will grow back. Your back will heal.” Her voice was shrill. She was talking just to make noise, to distract them both. Why was she crying?

“Morgot….”

“Yes, Stavvy.”

“I was trying to be nice to him. Trying to make it up to him. I felt guilty over what I'd done before. I was so stupid. As though making another mistake could correct the first one. I was so dumb.”

“Yes. All of us are. From time to time.” Morgot rocked to and fro. “All of us. We would be fools not to admit it. We try and we try, but we betray ourselves.”

“Sometimes I wanted him so! So terribly! And other times I almost hated him. Did hate him!”

“I know.” Morgot fell silent lost in memories, then shook her head impatiently, wearied of that. “While you were sleeping, you kept mumbling about reindeer. Over and over. I couldn't figure out what you meant.”

“It was in Beneda's book about the Laplanders. Chernon stole it from her. He had it with him. All about how they selected the bulls that were herdable and castrated the others….”

“Oh. So that was the book Chernon had. The Laplanders selected the bulls that didn't fight. They selected the bulls that didn't try to own the cows. They selected the bulls that were cooperative and gentle. They castrated the rest. We're kinder than that. We don't castrate anyone. We let our warrior bulls believe they father sons.”

“It's hard to accept that it's that important to them.”

Morgot looked at her pityingly. “Remember Chernon and his knife, Stavia. Then look at the monument on the parade ground. Then think of the Holylanders. And believe. That's been your problem all along, child. You saw. You had the proper information. You fed the proper language back to your teachers, but you didn't understand! You couldn't believe.” She sighed. “No, we don't let the warriors know they don't impregnate us. It's better so.”

“And all the children that are born, all of them are fathered by… by servitors?”

“Joshua is your father, Stavvy. He's Habby and Byram and Jerby's father as well. And, of course, since there is only about one fertile servitor to every three fertile women, and since there's only one of Joshua's quality for every twenty, he's also fathered children for other women here in Marthatown and in other cities. I am at considerable pains to make myself take pride in that fact. It does not come naturally.”

“Does Myra know?”

“Of course not. As a matter of fact, Myra was born before I knew. That pregnancy was by artificial insemination, of course. Later, after I was on the Council and had been told, I took the trouble to find out who he was. Not anyone I'd ever met, and, as it later turned out, not a satisfactory sire. Almost none of his boy children return. We've stopped using him.” She might have been discussing the breeding of sheep or the crossing of grain. Her voice was as unemotional as a wind on a distant ridge, her light eyes fixed on something Stavia could not see. “I believe, however, that he was Chernon's father as well.”

“How many of the women know?”

“Very few, actually. The women on the Council, of course. Very few others. We put clues here and there, for those with the wits to see them. Most women don't know anything about it. We can't risk telling the ones who talk too much. Or the ones who drink a lot during carnival. Or those who are still young and silly. Who fall in love with warriors….”

“How have you kept it a secret? How can you?”

“We medical officers work very hard, Stavia. It's all in our hands. Who bears, who doesn't. And when. And by whom. Haven't you noticed that almost all of the Council members are medically trained? Most of the women don't know what we're really doing. A very few figure it out for themselves. Some are told, but not usually when they're as young as you.”

“But you're telling me.”

“When I found out you were pregnant, I told the Council they had to allow me to tell you. I told them I would resign otherwise. They fussed about it, but in the end they said to tell you the truth and demand your oath to be quiet about it, just as we all do when we're told. You had given your oath once before, and kept it, so I knew we could risk your doing it again.”

“And if I didn't?”

“You would never leave this room, Stavia. Because you've broken the ordinances and endangered us all.” And those strange light eyes were fixed on her now, filled with so much pain Stavia could hardly bear it.

“You would let them kill me, wouldn't you?” she said.

“I wouldn't ‘let.'” Morgot answered. “There would be nothing I could do. I might choose to go with you, but…. Oh, Stavvy, we've taken so long, worked so hard, sacrificed so much—our lovers, our sons….”

“You have my oath,” Stavia said quickly, without thinking about it, needing to get the words out if only to bring Morgot's pain to an end. Later this would seem strange and bewildering. Now, in this soft bed, with whatever drugs they had given her, it felt right. Dreamlike, but right. “On my citizenship in Women's Country, I swear. But why did they let you tell me?”

“They felt that since you had been forced and were carrying a warrior's child, you should have the right to know the truth in order to make a choice whether to
abort or not. That was over a month ago, however, and we're afraid to do it now, even if you want to. It's this infection…. we're not really sure we have it stopped. I'd love to know what they beat you with. Something dipped in dung no doubt….”

“Why does carrying a warrior's child make a difference?”

“One chance in twenty of a son returning if a warrior is his father. One chance in five if a servitor fathers him. Roughly. Given Chernon's heritage, probably less than that.”

The dizziness came again, and understanding with it. Yes. She knew that. She had known that for a long, long time, without even realizing that she knew it. She had symbolized it, somewhere in that sick grayness, without realizing what it was she was doing. “We're selecting, aren't we?” she said. “And we'll keep doing it, on and on, and the years will go by, and eventually, all our sons will come home, is that it? No more penis worshipers? No more trumpets and drums and games? What will we do then, Morgot?”

“We won't have any more wars,” Morgot said, holding her tightly. “Theoretically. No wars at all.”

“Morgot…?”

“Yes, Stavvy?”

“Am I still not allowed to ask about… about that time?”

“Not until or unless you're asked to serve on the Council, Stavvy. Despite what you've been through, you don't know anything at all. Remember that. Nothing at all. You didn't hint to Chernon, did you? You didn't tell him…?”

“You had my oath,” she said sleepily. “I didn't say anything at all. He said things to me….”

“Well, don't worry about any of that. It will all be taken care of.”

“B
ENEDA WANTS
to visit you,” said Joshua. “She and Sylvia.”

Stavia's reply was a wordless cry of anguish.

“I know,” said Joshua. “But I think you should.”

“I'm supposed to make small talk with Chernon's
mother? His sister?” she cried in protest. “What have they been told?”

“Just that Chernon sneaked off to meet you in the south, and that he left you there, and you were subsequently injured. In an accident. A fall, we told them, on a rocky slope. They think the servitor who was with you rescued you. I wasn't specific about who.”

“They'll want to talk about Chernon. You know they will!”

“Oh yes, Stavvy. Yes they will. And you can tell them that the blow on your head gave you amnesia. You don't remember anything at all about your exploration.”

“I don't remember anything?”

“No. You don't remember, for example, what Chernon said about the conspiracy. You don't remember telling Septemius about it. Because if you don't remember, then no one will worry about your knowing….”

“Ah. I see.” She thought about it and did see. No one must know that she knew, that any of them knew. She didn't have to make anything up. She could just say she didn't remember, didn't remember. She could just lie to Beneda her friend. Lie to her.

“All right,” said the actor Stavia. “Let them come.”

B
ENEDA AND SYLVIA CAME
, and came again. They talked, among other things, of Stavia's baby. Chernon's baby. How wonderful that Stavia was having Chernon's baby. Beneda bubbled and giggled, as though she had planned it, as though she had prayed for it. Stavia smiled, when she could, and said she didn't remember.

Of course, Stavia's child could be a girl. A daughter, sharing some of the qualities of Beneda and herself, perhaps. Someone to be company. While Stavia gained strength over the slow weeks, she eased herself with this thought. Corrig was gentle with her, bringing her flowers and books, rubbing the marks on her back with ointment, tempting her to eat when she did not much seem to care. One night she found herself clinging to him, crying as she had not cried since she was a child, with him rocking her to and fro as Morgot once had done.