about the Hippae retaliating.”
“Marjorie!” Rigo tried to sit upright.
“Now, now.” Rigo was pushed into a recumbent position once more. “You aren’t to worry. They’ll get everyone out.”
They couldn’t get Marjorie out. She hadn’t been there. Not Marjorie, nor Tony, nor Father Sandoval. Nor the two Brothers from the Arbai city, according to Tony’s note; they hadn’t been there either. All of them had gone away together. With Sylvan. At least according to the challenge delivered by bon Haunser for the Hippae, they had gone away with Sylvan.
Rigo groaned, trying to recall what had happened. The last clear memory was of that damned bon Haunser saying something about Marjorie and Sylvan. Sylvan who had gone away with her.
And with Tony, he reminded himself, and with a priest and two Brothers. Hardly a tete-a-tete. No, Marjorie had never had tete-a-tetes. Marjorie had never been unfaithful. Marjorie had never been guilty of any of the things he had accused her of. She had never refused him. Always let him come into her room, into her bed, whenever he’d wanted to. And now Marjorie was — Well, where was she?
“Is there any news of my wife?” he asked as the moment of clarity passed into a morass of threatened pain, great pain somewhere, being held back by a slender dike, a thin wall, a tissue which was fragile and beginning to leak.
“Hush,” said the woman. “You can talk later.” She fiddled with a dial, looking narrowly at Rigo’s face as Rigo felt himself being irresistibly sent into sleep once more, to dream of Marjorie alone with Sylvan.
Marjorie was alone with Sylvan.
Brother Mainoa and Rillibee Chime were asleep. Rillibee had climbed to the top of a tall tree and had then come down again to tell them there was no way through the swamp forest to Commons. Not on the ground. Through the trees the way would be a little slow, but he could get there, he said, if there was any reason to go. Then he had lain down beside Brother Mainoa and fallen into recurrent dreams. From time to time Marjorie could hear his voice, raised in wordless ejaculations, wonder or complaint, perhaps both.
There were no foxen nearby. For a time, earlier, all of the humans had crouched in a house, arms folded protectively around their heads while the foxen disputed something among themselves. The dispute washed over them like waves of fire. After a time, they felt noticed by the foxen, and then there was a sense of departure. Almost as though one of them had said to another, ‘’Oh, we’re killing the little human creatures. We’d better go farther away.” Brother Mainoa had seemed wearier than ever after they left, weighed down by some great burden of care.
“They won’t tell me,” he cried. “They know, but they won’t tell me.”
Marjorie could guess what it was they wouldn’t tell. The foxen knew all about the plague, she was sure of it. They knew, but they wouldn’t tell. And poor old Mainoa was so tired and distraught, she could not suggest that he try to talk to them more.
Tony and Father James had gone to explore the Tree City. Marjorie had thought Sylvan was going with them. She found he hadn’t only when the others were well gone, too long gone for her to join them.
Sylvan had planned to remain behind. Now that Marjorie was away from her family, away from this husband she spoke of as though he were a barrier — now that she was away from that, he wanted to talk of love again. She would probably tell him to go away. He would tell her he had nowhere to go, and he would be charming. So he told himself. So he had been telling himself for some time.
Surprisingly, she didn’t tell him to go away. Instead, she looked at him with a detachment he found almost chilling. “I find you very attractive. Sylvan. I found Rigo attractive, too, before we were married. It was only afterward that I found out we didn’t fit together at all. I wonder if it would be like that with you.”
What was there to say to that? “I don’t know,” he said haltingly. “I really don’t know.”
“He has never once allowed me inside his masculine skin,” she said with a rueful smile. “He doesn’t notice what I am, but only what I am not, which is whatever he may be wanting at any particular time. Eugenie does far better than I. He expects very little from her, and that helps. Then too, she is soft for him, like clay. She takes his impress and accepts it, like a reverse image, suiting herself to him.” She frowned, thinking. “I tried that, at first. It didn’t work at all. I cannot be that to him. I could have been something else, a friend perhaps, but that didn’t fit his notion of what a wife should be, so we are not very good friends, Rigo and I.” She turned to Sylvan, fixing him with a resolute glare. “I will never love anyone who is not first my friend, Sylvan. I wonder if you could be my friend.”
“I would!”
“Well then, let us set about it!” She smiled at him, a humorless bowing of the lips. “First I must find my child. I have no choice but to do that, or kill myself trying. You can help me. If we accomplish that, then there is another task awaiting us. People are dying everywhere. We must try to find a solution. So, if you love me, let us talk with one another of what we have to do, but not of ourselves. We will be careful not to touch one another. Gradually, if we are successful and do not die, our natures will emerge and we may understand one another. Perhaps we could become friends.”
“But… but—”
She shook her head at him warningly. “If you’re unwilling to do that, then you could show the love you claim to have by leaving me alone. I apologize for dragging you along with us, but I needed you to guide us. The apology is all I can offer. Until we find Stella, I can’t spare the time for anything more, not even for argument.”
She leaned on the railing, her hair falling forward around her face, a golden veil, masking her from him. Sometimes for a few moments she forgot Stella, only to remember her again with a spasm of intimate agony. Like backward childbirth. As though she were trying to take the child back, encompass it once again. Keep it safe. Suck it up into her womb once more. As obscene as it was impossible, despite the pain she felt. Still, it would do no more good to scream or cry or thrash about now than it would have done when she bore the child. It would do no good to grieve. It would do no good to try to distract herself with Sylvan either, though the thought had crossed her mind. She had wondered whether it would be the same with him as with Rigo. Whether it would be the same with all men as with Rigo. Awful, to live out one’s life and never know! But no. As she had begun, so let her go on. At least she would not have to reproach herself later for that! “Stella,” she said aloud, reminding herself.
Sylvan was abruptly angry at himself. If Stella had died, he wouldn’t have expected Marjorie to be interested in lovemaking. Why had he thought she could be interested with Stella gone?
Lost in their separate worlds, neither was given the opportunity to reconcile them. Tony’s voice called from among the glowing alleys. When he came closer they sensed that he and Father James were accompanied by First, by Him. In Marjorie’s mind, the name announced itself. For Sylvan’s benefit she said, “It’s Brother Mainoa’s friend.
“I see,” he said, annoyed. He could barely detect the creatures. He could not hear them. He could not have an hour alone with Marjorie. He could not, seemingly, accomplish anything he desired.
“I think he’s trying to tell me he’s found Stella.” Tony cried. “I can’t be sure. Where’s Brother Mainoa?”
“Here.” The old man leaned from the door of a neighboring house. “Here, Tony. Ah…” He fell silent, one hand stretched toward the foxen like an antenna, feeling for meaning. “Yes,” he said. “Your daughter. They’ve found her.”
“Oh, God,” she cried. It was a prayer. “Is she — ?”
“Alive,” he confirmed. “Alive but either asleep or unconscious. They haven’t disturbed her.”
“Shall we get the horses?”
“They suggest, if you have no objection, that they will take you.” Even in this extremity she remained concerned about the horses. “Will we be coming back here?”
Quiet, then Brother Mainoa gesturing. “Yes.” He clutched at some passing pain in his side, shaking his head. “In fact, I think I’ll stay here now, if you don’t mind. You don’t need me for this.”
Father James, with a troubled look at Mainoa, chose to stay with him. The others crept apprehensively upon foxen backs and were carried away through the trees, along walkways and branches, moving away from the tree city into darkness, over moving water, under stars, coming at last to the edge of the forest. Foxen backs were wider than horse’s backs — wider, muscled differently. There seemed to be no limit, no edges to those backs. It was not so much a matter of riding as of being carried, like children sitting upon a slowly rocking table. The message was clear “We won’t let you fall.” After a time, they relaxed and let themselves be transported.
