“Some women are like that. You know what I heard? I heard some men are like that, too. Do you believe that?”
“Not like sex?”
“Can’t do it or something.”
“Oh well, sure. That’s physiological. Or sometimes psychological. There’s stuff about it in one of my medical books.”
“Can I read it?”
“If you want to. It’s kind of dull, though. All about hormones and the prostate gland.”
“Oh. I thought it was about penises.”
“Well it is. Except the penis is just a protrusion of everything else, you know. It doesn’t exist independently.”
“Except to warriors.”
“What do you mean?”
“They must think it exists independently.” Beneda pointed at the barren field below them. “Look at that great thing they have out at the end of the parade ground. It’s four times as high as the Warrior and Son statues. It’s like a tower!”
“They call it a victory monument,” objected Stavia, really looking at the pillar for the first time. It did look rather like a phallus.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Stavvy. It’s even got a prepuce.”
Stavia yawned. “I don’t care if it’s got an epididymis or what it is. All I care is that studies will be over for a whole month and we get to have carnival, and the boys will be home. I miss Jerby.”
“What’s Myra going to do?”
“Oh, she’ll probably go ahead and have a liaison with Barten,” Stavia said in a disapproving voice. “She’s decided all that business between Barten and Tally was probably Tally’s fault, if you can believe that. According to Myra, Tally seduced Barten and offered to come out to the Gypsy camp. Every time Barten does something dishonorable, Myra puts frosting on it and eats it. She is so dumb. Morgot just shakes her head and hopes a liaison will help Myra get him out of her system.”
“You make it sound like an infection!”
“I was quoting Morgot. Well, it is how Myra acts, all feverish and delirious. She’s talking about having a baby by him, just because he’s so good-looking.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” said Beneda, doubtfully. “Is there?”
“She’s physically mature enough, so I guess not. There ought to be something wrong with it, though, you know what I mean?”
“Because he’s the way he is?”
“Well, don’t you think so? I mean, some of the warriors are perfectly honorable, aren’t they? Some of them are smart, too. But Barten isn’t. So, it doesn’t seem right he should get to father a baby when he’s that way.”
“Except he’s so good-looking. If you’re going to raise a child, wouldn’t you rather it was good-looking?”
“I guess. But suppose it’s a daughter, and it grows up to be like him?”
“Yech. A crowing hen! Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Beneda spread her right hand above her head like a comb and flapped the left arm like a wing.
“That’s what I thought. Since Myra’s thinking of it, though, Morgot’s got her on all kinds of dietary supplements.” She twiddled her fingers, then stretched, like a cat. “Myra will do what she wants, regardless.”
Beneda put down the book she had been pretending to study and said, “Stavvy, talking about chickens reminded me. Mom asked me to go to market to pick up some eggs for the house.”
“Go ahead,” Stavia said idly. “I’ll wait for you here.”
“Come on with me.”
“I don’t want to. You go on. You always get to talking and take an hour when it should only take ten minutes. If I wait for you here, I won’t be impatient.”
“What will you do here by yourself?”
“Read.” She looked at the scattered books around them. “Preconvulsion societies. I’ll read your anthropology book, then quiz you on it.”
“It’s dull. All about islands and tropical places and Laplanders.”
“What are Laplanders?”
“You want to read it, you find out.” Beneda stood up and brushed herself off. “I’ll be back.”
She went off, looking not too displeased to be going alone. Beneda liked to talk to people in the market and Stavia didn’t. But then Beneda’s mother wasn’t on the Council and Stavia’s was. Beneda could say anything that came into her head—and usually did—and no one thought anything of it, but if Stavia said, “It looks like rain,” everyone wondered if it had significance because of something Morgot had said at home. As though Morgot ever said anything at home! She was as closemouthed as a vinegar shaker.
Left behind, Stavia picked up the red book Beneda had been reading. Preconvulsion societies. Tropical island tribes. Tribes based on trade. Migratory tribes—the Laplanders.
Stavia read, entering the world of the Laplanders in their padded coats and tall boots (not unlike the winter wear in Women’s Country), picking the most docile reindeer to breed so they could lead their great herds from pasture to pasture without losing them. She could almost smell the huge rivers of animals moving north and south with the seasons, almost hear the lowing of the beasts, feel the bite of the snow, the weight of felted coats and boots, the tug of the leashed bull being led along so that all that river of beasts would follow. She lost herself in the words, becoming one of the migrants, feeling it….
When Beneda came back, Stavia was sitting on the wall, the book open in her lap, tears running down her face.
“Stavvy! What happened?”
“Reindeer,” she said, half strangled by her own teary laughter,
“What do you mean ‘reindeer’?”
“Just… we don’t have them anymore.”
Beneda’s mouth dropped open. “Stavvy, honestly. There’s lots of things we don’t have anymore. We don’t have… clothes-drying machines and mechanical transportation and furnaces that heat your whole house, and cotton and silk and… and cows and horses and… and all kinds of other animals and birds and—oh, lots of things.”
“I miss them.”
“You’ve never had them!”
“Yes, but I know about them. That makes it different.”
“You’re weird.” Beneda threw her arms around Stavia and squeezed tight, half laughing. “I love you best, Stavvy, because you’re weird! Will you always be my best friend?”
Stavia laughed at herself, drying her eyes
