His voice was soothing, organlike. “We came here because it was a place we’d never been. And not too long after we got here, you were tired.”
For an instant she felt an overwhelming sorrow, transmitted into her mind from the other, an irreconcilable grief, shut off as quickly as it came, becoming merely calm, a loving tranquillity that she had learned to depend upon utterly.
The silent voice went on calmly: “What was it you told me at the time? There were peaceful things you wanted to do. Look at trees, as I recall. And you wanted to plant an English garden. You wanted to sit in a rocking chair and play with kittens and watch horses in the meadow.”
“There weren’t any cats here on Panubi. Or any horses either.”
“The ones upriver arranged to provide some for you.”
“True. I remember that. But after I’d planted my garden, after I’d patted the horses and rocked awhile, why didn’t we leave then?”
He didn’t answer. He knew the answer, but it did not bear speaking of. Above them in the night came a quiet humming, a purposeful, directional noise.
“Flier,” he said, to distract her.
She nodded. “Headed upriver. Someone from Tolerance. Someone from the Council … no, it must be from Boarmus. It’s probably headed for Thrasis. We’ll dock there in the morning and find out.”
“And you’re still going to do it, in Thrasis?”
“If you and your great-grandchildren will help me. I can’t do it alone.”
“You always have my help. Forever.”
“Then I’m going to do it. I’m going to accomplish that much, at least. I will not let this be a total failure!”
“They, upriver, won’t like it.”
“They, upriver, will be presented with a fait accompli. When they let me settle among them, I never agreed to do everything their way. Some things, yes. Not everything. Their way doesn’t work with mankind. They should know that, but they have this stubbornness.”
“The pot calls the kettle….”
“Oh, hush.”
They fell silent, listening to the water, each occupied with memories spreading over galactic distances, over eons of time. Very softly he touched her. Very quietly she folded into his embrace. For a brief time thereafter, neither of them was old.
Noon in Thrasis. In the Towers of the Daughters of the Prophet, the woman Haifazh sat at her loom in the House of Restitution, as she had done every day for the past half year. Her hands moved, the shuttle flew, her feet moved, the loom clacked; around her scores of other looms clacked and rustled. From the floor below came the muted thwack and murmur of women beating soaked fye stems to separate the core fibers from the rotted skins. From the rooms alongside came the scrape and hum of the spinners as they combed the fibers and turned them into thread. Though the earpieces of her basket helmet were padded to exclude as much sound as possible, and though the blinders on each side prevented her seeing anything except the loom directly before her, Haifazh could tell from the light in the windows that noon had come. Both sides of the wide embrasures were lit; there were no shadows. Time had come for peeing, nursing babies, maybe a little talk. Dawn and dusk were food times. Dark was rest time. Every possible hour of daylight in this place was dedicated to making restitution for having offended her owner.
She braced herself for the cane that would soon descend on her basket helmet. The old women who used the canes were as hungry and tired as she. Sometimes they let their fatigue and hunger get the better of them. Sometimes they made a punishment out of the announcement that noon had come.
The cane knocked on her helmet, not too hard. Thank the prophet for all mercies, she muttered, forgetting for the moment that she did not believe in the mercies of the prophet. At one time she had believed, or had, at least, not disbelieved. Not now. Not here. Not in this place.
First to the latrines, to relieve herself. She had been cut while in labor with Shira, and sewn up after, as all the women in Thrasis were cut and sewn, first as children of seven and again when a baby was born. Peeing was still painful, but not—she reminded herself—as bad as sex would have been. The first time she’d had that experience, she’d been fifteen; her new owner had been so impatient he’d neglected to gag her, so she’d been punished twice, once by his maladroit maleness, once later by the whip, because she had screamed when it happened.
She went to the bucket for her water ration, as little as possible, otherwise she might wet herself at the loom during the afternoon. Then to the place against the wall below the windows, where the babies waited. She cuddled Shira to her breast and felt her nipple tugged into the little mouth. Shira never cried, thank the prophet (forgetting again). Girl babies who cried were often gagged.
The woman to her left was someone new.
Haifazh leaned forward. “I’m Haifazh,” she introduced herself softly, eyes down. Talking while nursing was discouraged. Talking at other times was forbidden, though they all did it at night, on their pallets along the walls, when darkness hid them and the old women had fallen asleep.
“Bulerah,” the woman next to her murmured.
“What’re you in for?” she asked.
“Bearing a daughter,” the woman answered.
“Ah.”
“And you.”
“The same.”
It wasn’t the same. She wasn’t in for bearing a daughter, not exactly. Haifazh’s owner hadn’t minded having a girl child, so he said. He had plenty of sons and healthy girl children were a good cash crop, much in demand by the story weavers. Little fingers could tie the tightest knots, take the smallest stitches, and girl children ate less than grown women, much less if one starved them as they approached adulthood. No, it wasn’t having a girl child
