“Well, we’ll have a chance to be a family on Grass, Stella. There won’t be anyone else around.” Not that Stella ever wanted to do what anyone else did. Not that isolation would change her.
Stella had clenched her jaw at that, threatening angrily not to come to Grass at all. For weeks before they left, Marjorie had been sure that Stella would approach her with the suggestion that she stay behind with the Brouers.
“Mother, I want to stay here in Sanctity with the Brouers. They’d like to have me stay.”
What would she have said? “Stella, that’s fine. I don’t want to go either. Neither does your father. I don’t feel right about leaving my poor people in St. Magdalen’s. Rigo doesn’t want to leave his clubs and his committees and his nights on the town with Eugenie on his arm. We’re going because we think we must, to save all of mankind. But there’s no real reason you have to go. Stay here and die of the plague, Stella. You and Elaine and her whole perfect family. I don’t care anymore.”
And she had repented her anger, confessed her anger — though not mentioning several other sins which weighed even more heavily — received absolution for it, only to feel it again. And now they were on Grass, and Marjorie still felt anger, still repented, still confessed, still wondered what she would do with Stella, who was as sulky and rebellious and unloving here as she had been at home.
“Why, Father?” she had asked. “Why is she like this? Why is Rigo like this?”
“You know why anyone… The church teaches…” His gentle old voice had begun one of its learned and inflexible perorations.
She had interrupted. “Sin. Even original sin. I know what it teaches. It teaches that a sin committed by people thousands of years ago descends to me. Through my cells. Through my DNA. Mixed in there, somehow, along with my heart and my lungs and my brain, and infected my daughter…”
He had cocked his head. “Marjorie, I’ve never thought that original sin is conveyed in the cells.”
“Where else does it come from? What else is there? The soul comes with the body, doesn’t it, Father? Sin comes with sex, doesn’t it? It isn’t just our souls in bed with each other, is it?”
Sanctity would say yes, the souls were in bed together. Sanctity said marriages lasted forever. Especially in heaven. Which wasn’t what Old Catholics believed. Thank God. When she was dead at least that would be over.
She had wept then, feeling it was all her own fault, somehow. Father Sandoval had patted her shoulder, unable to offer comfort, unable or unwilling to make her feel less guilty. Nothing had done that, not even all the work at St. Magdalen’s, which was supposed to be an expiation.
Marjorie left Stella’s room, shutting the door quietly behind her, her mind moving in old, familiar patterns. Perhaps when Stella was older, middle-aged, they could be friends. Stella would marry someone. She would separate herself from them, by distance, by time. She would have children. In time, they might be friends.
The thought made her pale, gasp, made her bend over the sick pain that struck her. There might be no time for any of that. All the sulkiness, the lack of joy — there might be no time for it to work itself out. There might not be time for Stella. There was no proof they were protected here on Grass. There was only the assumption, the hope. And the children couldn’t share even that. They couldn’t be told the real reasons for the assignment. Too dangerous. So said Sanctity, and Marjorie concurred. Tony might forget himself. Stella might rebel. Either might say something undiplomatic to one of the bons and the fate of humanity could hang upon that saying. Assuming. Assuming there was any truth to the rumor. Assuming there was really no plague here on Grass.
She sat frozen then, waiting for the morning to come, using the rote of prayer to calm herself.
As soon as light showed clearly above the grasses, Marjorie went down to the cavern where the horses were stabled. She needed to feel them, smell them, be assured of their familiar reality, their uncomplicated loyalty and affection. They did not throw her love back in her face; they repaid a little attention a thousand times over. She went from stall to stall, petting and stroking, handing out bits of sweet cookie she had saved for them, stopping at last at Quixote’s stall to peer in at him where he pawed the earth again and again, a nervous, begging gesture. She put her arms around him.
“My Quixote,” she told him. “Good horse. Wonderful horse.” She laid her face against his ebony muzzle, feeling the warm breath in her ear, for that instant forgetting Stella’s sulks and Rigo’s unfaithfulness and the Hippae and the hounds and the monsters that haunted her, the one called fox here, the one called plague elsewhere. “Let’s go out, out into the meadows.”
She did not bother to saddle him. This morning was not a time for schooling. This morning there would be only herself and Quixote, a togetherness more intimate than any other she knew. She wanted nothing between herself and his skin. She wanted to be able to reassure him with every muscle she had and take back his strength into herself. She lay along his neck as they went down from the cavern, along the curving way which led to the arena. The path went down along a winding defile, then up, topping a rise.
As they approached the rise, the horse’s skin quivered. He shook, silently, without even a whicker of protest, as though something deep within his great human-friend heart told him his only chance for continued life lay in making no sound. Only the breath came out of him like life leaving him Marjorie felt it, as she always felt the least movement he made She slid from his back in one fluid motion. Without going to the top of the rise, she knew what she would see there. Her stomach was in her throat, full of hot bile. She trembled as though half frozen. Still, one had to see. One had to know.
She pulled on the stallion’s shoulder. He had been trained to lie down, and he did it now, almost gladly, as though his legs would barely hold him. She stroked him once, for his comfort — or her own — then crawled on shivering arms and legs away, up the rise a little to one side of the path so that she could look down through the fringing grasses without being seen.
And they were there. Three of them, just as there had been three horses when she and Tony and Rigo had ridden here. Three Hippae doing dressage exercises, walking, trotting, cantering, changing feet to cross the arena on long diagonals. They did everything she had done with Octavo, did it casually, offhandedly, with a practiced ease, concluding with the three animals side by side, facing away from her, the saber tips of their neck barbs pointing at her like a glittering abatis, as threatening as drawn blades. Then they turned and looked up at the place where she was hidden, their dark eyes gleaming red in the light of dawn, soundless.
Amusement, she thought at first. A kind of mime. These Hippae had seen the humans and their horses and were amused at what these little off-world beasts had been doing with their human riders. She held the thought only fleetingly, only for a moment, trying to cling to it but unable to do so. They knew she was there. They knew she was watching. Perhaps they had timed this little exercise to coincide with her arrival…
It wasn’t amusement. Nothing in that red-eyed glare was amused. She did not stay to confront what it really was. She fled from the ridge as one in fear for her life, down to where the stallion lay as though he had been felled, urged him onto his trembling legs, and then half lay on his back as they first staggered then ran away, back to Opal Hill, back to human country, to add another horror to those she already knew.
What she had seen in those red eyes was mockery — mockery and something deeper. Something abiding and unforgiving. Malice.
James Jellico took himself home for lunch, as he often did. knowing his wife, Jandra, would be interested in the morning’s happenings. Jellico’s wife had no legs, and though she walked well enough on the elegant artificials he had obtained for her (a little bribery at the port, a little looking the other way when he was or, customs duty), she said it pained her to use the legs. There were implants one could use for the pain, but Jandra. who often said she didn’t like people fooling about with her head, preferred for the most part to wheel about the house in the half- person she had used since she was a child. About the house and the poultry yard as well. A third of the Jellys’ income came from homely Terran geese and ducks along with Semling szizz birds and fat, delicious wingless things from the planet Shame which Jandra called puggys.
He found his wife by the goose pen feeding greens to the geese, they gabbling and snatching grass fronds from one another and she humming to herself, as she did when content. “Ho, Jelly,” she greeted him “I’ve about decided to kill that one for dinner. She’s so smug it serves her right.”
The indicated goose succeeded in dragging the disputed shred of greens out of another’s beak and swallowing it, at the same time tipping her head to one side to get a good one-eyed goose-look at jelly. There was something in that cold, single-eyed stare, something in the line of beak and neck that shook him with a feeling which was at first deja vu and then horrified recognition.
“That girl,” he blurted. “She looked at me like that!” Then he had to tell her all about the girl and Ducky Johns
