“Your colleague in brown is assigned to the stables?” asked Bear.
“He is a brother of the soil, which includes the stables, the barns, the farms, the tillage of the earth, the animals, the use of their manure on the land, the wagons and carts, the maintenance of roads, the building of walls. The green brethren are the planters and tenders of trees, pastures, and crop land. Red stoles are our healers. One of our many educational arms is the college of healing. Gray robes with hoods and black bands are architects and planners who see that we have irrigation channels and drinking water and that our refuse is properly disposed of so we don’t generate illnesses. Black robes are scholars and teachers. Helmed men are among our warriors. Those who are leather clad or those with leather aprons are craftsmen of one kind or another: potters, woodworkers, carpenters, masons. Scholars and craftsmen wear an insignia on the left shoulder that tells what they do. Only our singers wear unadorned white. The abbot and prior and other members of the council wear gold.
“Now, are you ready for a night’s rest?”
Xulai nodded, heaving a great sigh of relief. She wanted nothing more than to sleep, preferably for a long time, and she could see from the expression on Precious Wind’s face that she agreed. There was something she needed to talk with Precious Wind about, but . . . she could do it later. Bear led the menfolk off in another direction while Xulai and the women followed Sister Tomea, finding the route of corridors, gates, and cloisters almost familiar.
Xulai had thought of reading something—there were books on the shelves of their sitting room—but when she entered the room she staggered, overcome by weariness so deep and punishing that it was like a sudden sickness. Without a word, Oldwife and Precious Wind led her into the bedroom, where Oldwife helped her undress, pulled a nightgown over her head, and tucked the covers under her chin.
“Oldwife, is my face dirty?” Xulai murmured.
“Would I have let you go to dinner with a dirty face? Why would you ask that?”
“Ever since I’ve been here, it’s like people don’t look directly at me. They sort of stare over my shoulder.”
Oldwife tucked the blanket more closely. “You’re just tired. Go to sleep now.”
Fat black-and-white Bothercat came to curl near her shoulder; spotted Vexcat stretched along her side, the unvarying rhythm of their purring floating her even deeper into stillness.
The older women left the room, shutting the door behind them. From Xulai’s cloak pocket a small black nose appeared, whiskers twitched, a head emerged. It was not a very large creature, but it was most certainly a good deal larger than a chipmunk.
Xulai dreamed. She had become a tree, a tiny one, roots clipped, limbs clipped, wired into a strange, lopsided shape and planted in a shallow bowl. She was very happy in her bowl, but something had happened to it. It was cracked.
“Broken,” someone said firmly. “It cannot be mended again.”
Xulai felt for the crack with one of her roots. The sensation was like feeling for a loose tooth with her tongue, feeling around the break, the hole, fascinated by the rough underside of the tooth and the tenuous fragility of its connection to her. Her root pressed into the fault. Under the increased pressure the bowl cracked wide; a piece of it fell outward. Her root went sliding after it, searching for something. Soil. Deep soil.
She found it. Ecstasy came as energy flowed upward from the earth. She sensed more of it waiting in every direction. There was room for her roots to move, to ramify. There were no boundaries. She flexed her limbs and the wires around them loosened the tiniest bit. She put out a bud and slightly extended a leaf.
“Enough,” said someone into her ear, stronger than a chipmunk voice, more forceful. “Enough for now.”
She wanted to argue, but it was too much trouble. It had been such a long, long day . . . trip . . . life . . . time.
Xulai woke in the morning with the memory of her dream quite clear. It stayed with her as she sat up, waking the cats, who had been curled against her side. Yawning, she fumbled her way to the washbasin, trying to hold on to the dream as she washed her face, combed her hair, still half-dreaming as she put on the clothes she had worn the evening before.
Oldwife’s bed was empty. She had risen early, as she always did: up with the chickens, as she herself said, and to bed with them also. Before leaving the room, Xulai thrust her hand into the pocket of her cloak, which was hanging on a hook beside the door, and stood very still, eyes wide with shock. Very slowly, she withdrew her hand and stepped back. A nose emerged, whiskers, two black eyes considerably larger than chipmunk eyes, two small round ears, then a body that came out a bit at a time and kept on coming. Front legs, a long, brown belly, back legs, a long, long tail. On the bed, the cats sat up, ears pricked, and watched very carefully, without moving.
“Cookies and grain did very well for chipmunk,” the creature said. “I will need meat. Or fish. I can also make do with eggs.”
“What?” she asked. “I mean, who?”
“Suit yourself.” The creature nodded. “I’d suggest a name that’s not species dependent. It’ll save you changing it every little while.”
“Species?”
“This one? I’m sure it’s the weasel family. Perhaps mink, or ferret, or perhaps a young fisher. Ah, yes, that has a certain resonance. A young one, not fully grown. Don’t worry about it now, just remember the eggs.”
The creature disappeared into the pocket of the cloak once more,
