“When we were here last, you told us, did you not,” said Kostia, “that Marthatown was the first town of Women’s Country.”
Septemius nodded, trying to remember when they had been here last. Four years ago, at least. Typical of himself, he did not say “Yes,” but, “So it is believed in all Women’s Country. Marthatown begat Susantown, and Susantown begat Melissaville, and so on and so on. Though I believe, personally, that Annville was there before the convulsions along with its power plant and most of its factories.”
“Why do they split off? I should think life would be easier if the cities were larger.”
Septemius shook his head, gesturing a great wide motion to include the surrounding fields and sea. “Food, fuel, and trade goods, nieces. They grow what they can within an hour or so’s travel of the town. They cut wood within the day’s travel, too. All the women come behind the walls at night, for fear of bandits. Though the warriors have scoured the land over and over again between wars, there are enough bandits left over—or perhaps they are new ones—to make a nasty slaughter. Some may be fool- hardy, but as for me, I prefer being behind walls at night, and I suppose the women are no more fool than I.”
“How many of them are there, Uncle? In Marthatown?” asked Tonia.
“Some fourteen or fifteen thousand, perhaps. Many of them are children, and there must be two or three thousand servitors.”
“And in the garrison?”
“Four thousand, I should say, including the boys. There were more when I was here last, but their latest war killed six or seven hundred of them. It is middling in size as garrisons go.”
“And when their croplands are stretched so far they cannot get behind the walls at night, they will set up a new town?” Tonia asked.
Kostia shook her head. “I should think the woodlands limit them more than croplands do. Crops grow every year, but it takes time to grow trees, and they must have wood to heat their houses.”
“There was a time people heated with electricity,” Septemius said. “My own grandmother told me. Now there is only one place in all Women’s County to make electricity, and they use it all up on making glass and medicine and one thing and another.” He sighed, thinking of the wonders which once had been made with electricity. Septemius was a great one for wonders. “They’re prolific in Women’s Country,” he went on. “Scarce a woman among them has fewer than three or four. When they have expanded as far as they can, they must set up a new town. I saw it done, once, far northwest of here, in the forest country. Women and warriors marching out to set up a new wall and a new garrison.”
“There is still space then?”
“They’re pushing at the desolations. Some of the new towns are close to the edge. There is much empty land, true, but little of it is good for farming.”
“We came through a stretch of that,” Kostia nodded. “As we came north to the road from Susantown. All brush and gray trees and land the color of a donkey’s hide.”
“They’ll have trouble finding more space very soon, I should say.” He returned to his own room, settling down before the table to spread his journals out and his day’s notes, preparing to enter the one in the other. Behind him a sigh.
“Septemius?”
“Father?”
“That was a kind young woman at the quarantine.”
“She certainly seemed to be.”
“She said I was to have eggs.”
“I seem to remember her mentioning eggs.”
“And cream. I’d like a nog, Septemius. Could I have a nog?”
“And what is a nog, Father?”
“Oh, before your time, Septemius. The yolk and white of egg whipped up, separately, you understand, and then the yolk mixed with sugar and cream and flavoring and oh, brandy, I think, Septemius, then the white folded in to make it fluffy and soft, like a coverlet.”
“That would blanket your gullet right enough, old man.”
“Most gently, Septemius. Most gently.”
There was no further word, merely a quiet snore from the corner, a bubbling rasp beneath it, like something sharp sawing away at the old man’s lungs. Septemius pulled one of the books toward him and opened it, searching for the word nog, which led him to eggnog, which led in turn to searches for the words brandy and rum. Lost arts, whatever they had been. Gone, along with nutmeg and cloves. Along with pepper and turmeric. All the spices were merely words now. Chocolate was a word. And coffee. Septemius would have given his back teeth for a taste of some of those. Now how had the old man known about brandy? From his own father, perhaps, or his grandfather? Brandy led to distilled which led to still, and he perused the picture of the device with interest. If they had wine, why could they not have brandy?
Likely because the women’s Councils forbade it, and Septemius Bird was too old a coyote to arbitrarily question the actions of a Council. Likely they had reason. Septemius had seen men drunk enough on mild beer, and if brandy were stronger than that….
He began to enter today’s notes in his journal, making a marginal notation about nog. The old dictionary, among his most prized possessions, had said it could be flavored with wine. Wine was available. If the cream and eggs were truly forthcoming, tomorrow he would make a nog for old Bowough.
REHEARSAL:
CASSANDRA I
