Chernon was having his own induction into Holyland society and was not available to give permission. The wounds on her back became infected.
Two days later, made stupid and slow by pain and fever, Stavia tried to get away. Cappy was asleep. She had almost reached the woods when he woke and saw her. In his frustration, he picked up the only weapon at hand and went after her, bringing the edge of the shovel down upon her head with a solid, chunking sound. Intent upon her escape, Stavia had not even heard him coming up behind her and she felt the blow only as a silent, hideous explosion which dropped her into darkness.
When Chernon returned and saw her, he exploded in fury and would have killed Cappy if they had not held him back. He was very angry, but he did not cry.
REHEARSAL:
IPHIGENIA You see, it’s as we’ve tried to tell you, Great Achilles. Women are no good to you dead.
ACHILLES Then I… I, too….
IPHIGENIA Are but a ghost. Your killing and raping done. Your battles over. A wanderer among the shades, like us.
ACHILLES But I—I am an immortal! The poets say I am. Destined to walk among the Gods!
IPHIGENIA Are the Gods then dead?
ACHILLES They live!
IPHIGENIA And when you lived, you walked among them.
ACHILLES I did?
POLYXENA We all did.
ACHILLES What did the poets mean?
IPHIGENIA That you would be immortal while you lived, and may still be well remembered now you’re dead. Men like to think well of themselves…
POLYXENA… and the poets help them do it.
ACHILLES (Weeps)
POLYXENA He cries like a child. Poor boy.
“Stop,” called the director. “Stavia, when you do the next line, ‘Did the men cry?’ bend over and touch his face.
“Touch his face?” asked Stavia. “Achilles?”
“Yes. Touch his face to see if the tears are real. And then again, right at the end, lay your face alongside his when you say the last line.”
“Right,” said Stavia, bending, reaching out a hand to touch Joshua’s face.
IPHIGENIA (To Polyxena) Tell me. Did the men cry when they slit your throat?
Stavia’s hand was wet and she looked at it in amazement, and at the tears coursing down Joshua’s face as he looked at her.
“No, no they did not,” Polyxena cried.
“They didn’t cry when they were slitting mine, either,” Stavia said, through the rasping dryness memory had made of her throat.
MORGOT WAS IN A COUNCIL MEETING WHEN ONE of the women came to tell her there was a servitor waiting. If it had been Joshua, the woman would have said so, and Morgot bit down an expression of annoyance at being disturbed only to swallow it when she saw that it was Corrig, white-faced and trembling.
“What?” she asked. “Who? Stavia?”
“Yes, ma’am. Joshua felt it, too. Both of us, just a few minutes ago.”
“Hurt? Badly hurt?” Morgot fought down a shriek. “Dead?”
“Not dead. No. Joshua says we should go at once. I think so, too.”
“How far?”
“We can’t tell. A long way. Too far to locate with any certainty from here.”
“You’ll need a wagon to carry… tools and things.”
“Joshua says we’ll get Septemius Bird to take us. Septemius knows something, Joshua thinks. Joshua is on his way to Septemius now.”
“Do you want help?”
“Yes, ma’am. Joshua said to ask you if the Councilwomen would approve Jeremiah and the two new men.”
“Councilwoman Jessie’s Jeremiah? Councilwoman Carol’s men?”
He nodded, seeing her puzzlement. “Joshua says they can see up close clearer than any of us.”
“Go get them,” she said. “I’ll fix it with the women.”
“Morgot,” he said, forgetting himself. “Ma’am.”
“Yes, Corrig.”
“Joshua said to be sure and tell you it’s all part of the other thing.”
“The garrison? Is something going to happen right away, Corrig?”
“Not right away, ma’am. But be careful.”
STAVIA WAS THE WINTER PRINCESS. SHE HAD A SHEAF of grain in one hand and a knife in the other. The Council was sending her out to find the deer. “Cow,” they had said, pointing to the picture in the book. “This is a cow deer.” It had antlers which curved like the new moon, one point coming forward over the animal’s brow and the other extending back in an enormous, weighty curve laden with branches and juttings of horn. “About this big,” they said, indicating something which would be about the height of a donkey. The cows had white fur down their chests, muzzles spattered with foam, and long, grasping tongues. Perhaps they told her this or perhaps she had read it somewhere else.
She did not know why they were sending her. Surely one of the others would be better fitted for the job. They already knew what cows were and how they should be handled. Why pick on her, a stranger? She asked them this.
“Your dowry,” they said. “The cows will be your dowry.” Why she needed a dowry, or even what one was, she couldn’t remember. There was a sense of urgency about it all, however, something she could not merely ignore. Urgency and inevitability. It had to be done.
Somehow, she had lost her own clothes. They lent her boots and a heavy, quilted coat and a cap with earflaps which tied under her chin. She was naked under the coat. She could feel the cold at her crotch, a wind blowing there. It wouldn’t be so cold if she could only get her legs together, but something prevented that.
It was better simply to ignore the cold at her crotch and go out into the snow. Someone had pointed out the way she should go, over there, where the fold in the hills opened up and the trees showed dark against the snowfield. Someone else had pointed out the tracks the cows had left, a cloven, vaguely triangular mark….
“She may die,” a woman said.
Whoever it was who was speaking tied the bandage more securely on her
