“Maybe the selection ought to be working the other way as well,” Septemius sighed. “Maybe you ought to be weeding some of the women out.”
“There are a good number of sterilizations done every year,” Morgot said. “Tubal ligations. Hysterectomies. It should not surprise you to learn that we do just that, does it, Septemius?”
“Little surprises me, madam. I do wonder, though, sometimes….”
“Yes?”
“Whether you ever feel guilty over what you do? You few who do all the doing.”
She sat for a time without answering. At last she shifted in her chair and said, “I’ll tell you what we call ourselves, among ourselves. That will answer your question.”
“Ah.”
“We call ourselves the Damned Few. And if the Lady has a heaven for the merciful, we are not sure any of us will ever see it.”
ONE MORNING Stavia opened her eyes to see Morgot still sitting by the window but wearing different clothes and with the light coming from a new direction. On the windowsill a glazed blue pot held bright flowers in a tight, self-conscious knot. Stavia looked at them with a half-conscious, musing gardener’s eye. She had gone into the southlands in the spring when the wild iris bloomed in the dry meadows. These flowers were shaggy asters and bright buttons of chrysanthemums. The pot was her own, from her own room. Beside it was a tiny basket of blue-stained willow, filled with tiny cakes.
“I’ve been asleep a long time,” she said with a dry mouth.
“We’ve been giving you various things to keep you asleep, but you’re right. It’s been a very long time, Stavvy. Corrig sent you the flowers and the cakes. And he says to tell you that the funny white dogs have had puppies.”
“Ah.” Puppies. Stavia had never seen puppies. That would be interesting. “Why was it so long?”
“It seems that bash on the head had caused some bleeding on the brain. And then you already had an infection in those wounds on your back. We’ve had quite a time bringing that under control. You’ve used up more than your share of antibiotics, Stavia. Your head is healing clean, however. There’ll be a considerable scar, but your hair will cover it when it grows in again.”
“They shave the women’s heads,” said Stavia, a bubble of screaming hysteria rising inexorably in her throat. “They… they…”
“Shhh.” Morgot sat on the bed and gathered her up, holding her as softly and firmly as Corrig had done, as Joshua had done. “Shhh, love. We had to shave it all over again, and so it doesn’t matter. Shhh, my Stavvy. It’s all right.”
Stavia calmed a little, recalling what had gone before. “Back there, with the Holylanders, I kept thinking, that was how it used to be, wasn’t it? Before the convulsions. Before Women’s Country, that’s how it used to be for women. To be shorn like sheep, and bred whether they wanted to or not, and beaten if they didn’t….”
Morgot rocked, murmuring. “No, no. Not that bad as a general rule, I don’t think. Love existed, after all. Some men and women have always loved one another. Not all cultures oppressed women. Some did shave heads. Some allowed beating. Other cultures were quite advanced, at least in principle. And we have to remember that many women did not resent their treatment because they’d been reared to expect it. Of course, it was even worse than that for individual women or in certain places. The Council keeps some old books in a locked room under the Council Chambers. I’ve read some of them. There’s a phrase they used to use—‘domestic violence.’”
Stavia raised her eyebrows, questioning.
Morgot responded. “I know. It has a funny sound. Like a wild animal, only partly tamed.”
“What did it mean?”
“When a woman’s husband beat her, sometimes to death, it was called ‘domestic violence.’” She paused, breathing heavily. “In some parts of the world, they cut off women’s external genitalia when they reached puberty—not the breasts, though they might have done if they hadn’t been needed to feed babies. Compared to ancient times, you got away virtually unscathed. Your hair will grow back. Your back will heal.” Her voice was shrill. She was talking just to make noise, to distract them both. Why was she crying?
“Morgot….”
“Yes, Stavvy.”
“I was trying to be nice to him. Trying to make it up to him. I felt guilty over what I’d done before. I was so stupid. As though making another mistake could correct the first one. I was so dumb.”
“Yes. All of us are. From time to time.” Morgot rocked to and fro. “All of us. We would be fools not to admit it. We try and we try, but we betray ourselves.”
“Sometimes I wanted him so! So terribly! And other times I almost hated him. Did hate him!”
“I know.” Morgot fell silent lost in memories, then shook her head impatiently, wearied of that. “While you were sleeping, you kept mumbling about reindeer. Over and over. I couldn’t figure out what you meant.”
“It was in Beneda’s book about the Laplanders. Chernon stole it from her. He had it with him. All about how they selected the bulls that were herdable and castrated the others….”
“Oh. So that was the book Chernon had. The Laplanders selected the bulls that didn’t fight. They selected the bulls that didn’t try to own the cows. They selected the bulls that were cooperative and gentle. They castrated the rest. We’re kinder than that. We don’t castrate anyone. We let our warrior bulls believe they father sons.”
“It’s hard to accept that it’s that important to them.”
Morgot looked at her pityingly. “Remember Chernon and his knife, Stavia. Then look at the monument on the parade ground. Then think of the Holylanders. And believe. That’s been your problem all along, child. You saw. You had the proper information. You fed the proper language back to your teachers, but you didn’t understand! You couldn’t believe.” She sighed. “No, we don’t let the warriors know they don’t impregnate us. It’s better so.”
“And all