The Chrysalids

‘Keep on going,’ he said.

I got up and turned round, but one of them had an arrow trained on me. He gave a shake of his head to urge me on. So I did what I was told, kept on going — for a few yards, until the trees hid me; then I doubled back under cover.

Just what they were expecting. But they didn’t shoot me; they just beat me up and slung me back among the undergrowth. I remember flying through the air, but I don’t remember landing….

15

I was being dragged along. There were hands under my shoulders. Small branches were whipping back and slapping me in the face.

‘Sh—!’ whispered a voice behind me.

‘Give me a minute. I’ll be all right,’ I whispered back.

The dragging stopped. I lay pulling myself together for a moment, and then rolled over. A woman, a young woman, was sitting back on her heels, looking at me.

The sun was low now, and it was dim under the trees. I could not see her well. There was dark hair hanging down on each side of a sunburnt face, and the glint of dark eyes regarding me earnestly. The bodice of her dress was ragged, a nondescript tawny colour, with stains on it. There were no sleeves, but what struck me most was that it bore no cross. I had never before been face to face with a woman who wore no protective cross stitched to her dress. It looked queer, almost indecent. We faced one another for some seconds.

‘You don’t know me, David,’ she said sadly.

Until then I had not. It was the way she said ‘David’ that suddenly told me.

‘Sophie!’ I said, ‘Oh, Sophie…!’

She smiled.

‘Dear David,’ she said. ‘Have they hurt you badly, David?’

I tried moving my arms and legs. They were stiff and they ached in several places, so did my body and my head. I felt some blood caked on my left cheek, but there seemed to be nothing broken. I started to get up, but she stretched out a hand and put it on my arm.

‘No, not yet. Wait a little, till it’s dark.’ She went on looking at me. ‘I saw them bring you in. You and the little girl, and the other girl — who is she, David?’

That brought me fully round, with a jolt. Frantically I sought for Rosalind and Petra, and could not reach them. Michael felt my panic and came in steadyingly. Relieved, too.

‘Thank goodness for that. We’ve been worried stiff about you. Take it easy. They’re all right, both of them tired out and exhausted; they’re asleep.’

‘Is Rosalind—?’

‘She’s all right, I tell you. What’s been happening to you?’

I told him. The whole exchange only took a few seconds, but long enough for Sophie to be regarding me curiously.

‘Who is she, David?’ she repeated.

I explained that Rosalind was my cousin. She watched me as I spoke, and then nodded slowly.

‘He wants her, doesn’t he?’ she asked.

‘That’s what he said,’ I admitted, grimly.

‘She could give him babies?’ she persisted.

‘What are you trying to do to me?’ I asked her.

‘So you’re in love with her?’ she went on.

A word again…. When the minds have learnt to mingle, when no thought is wholly one’s own, and each has taken too much of the other ever to be entirely himself alone; when one has reached the beginning of seeing with a single eye, loving with a single heart, enjoying with a single joy; when there can be moments of identity and nothing is separate save bodies that long for one another…. When there is that, where is the word? There is only the inadequacy of the word that exists.

‘We love one another,’ I said.

Sophie nodded. She picked up a few twigs, and watched her brown fingers break them. She said:

‘He’s gone away — where the fighting is. She’s safe just now.’

‘She’s asleep,’ I told her. ‘They’re both asleep.’

Her eyes came back to mine, puzzled.

‘How do you know?’

I told her briefly, as simply as I could. She went on breaking twigs as she listened. Then she nodded.

‘I remember. My mother said there was something… something about the way you sometimes seemed to understand her before she spoke. Was that it?’

‘I think so. I think your mother had a little of it, without knowing she had it,’ I said.

‘It must be a very wonderful thing to have,’ she said, half wistfully. ‘Like more eyes, inside you.’

‘Something like,’ I admitted. ‘It’s difficult to explain. But it isn’t all wonderful. It can hurt a lot sometimes.’

‘To be any kind of deviant is to be hurt — always,’ she said. She continued to sit back on her heels, looking at her hands in her lap, seeing nothing.

‘If she were to give him children, he wouldn’t want me any more,’ she said at last.

There was still enough light to catch a glistening on her cheeks.

‘Sophie dear,’ I said. ‘Are you in love with him — with this spider-man?’

‘Oh, don’t call him that — please — we can’t any of us help being what we are. His name’s Gordon. He’s kind to me, David. He’s fond of me. You’ve got to have as little as I have to know how much that means. You’ve never known loneliness. You can’t understand the awful emptiness that’s waiting all round us here. I’d have given him babies gladly, if I could…. I — oh, why do they do that to us? Why didn’t they kill me? It would have been kinder than this…’

She sat without a sound. The tears squeezed out from under the closed lids and ran down her face. I took her hand between my own.

I remembered watching. The man with his arm linked in the woman’s, the small figure on top of the pack- horse waving back to me as they disappeared into the trees. Myself desolate, a kiss still damp on my cheek, a lock tied with a yellow ribbon in my hand. I looked at her now, and my heart ached.

‘Sophie,’ I said. ‘Sophie, darling. It’s not going to happen. Do you understand? It won’t happen. Rosalind will never let it happen. I know that.’

She opened her eyes again, and looked at me through the brimming tears.

‘You can’t know a thing like that about another person. You’re just trying to—’

‘I’m not, Sophie. I do know. You and I could only know very little about one another. But with Rosalind it is different: it’s part of what thinking-together means.’

She regarded me doubtfully.

‘Is that really true? I don’t understand—’

‘How should you? But it is true. I could feel what she was feeling about the spi— about that man.’

She went on looking at me, a trifle uneasily.

‘You can’t see what I think?’ she inquired, with a touch of anxiety.

‘No more than you can tell what I think,’ I assured her. ‘It isn’t a kind of spying. It’s more as if you could just talk all your thoughts, if you liked — and not talk them if you wanted them private.’

It was more difficult trying to explain it to her than it had been to Uncle Axel, but I kept on struggling to simplify it into words until I suddenly became aware that the light had gone, and I was talking to a figure I could scarcely see. I broke off.

‘Is it dark enough now?’

‘Yes. It’ll be safe if we go carefully,’ she told me. ‘Can you walk all right? It isn’t far.’