Northshore Page 6

  One never raised the hood high enough to see the faces – though every Awakener had probably done it once. Having done it once, no one would do it again. A few years before, she might have waited to verify that each worker did indeed rise up. Now she merely dropped the hood and moved on. Other Awakeners would arrive soon, and she wanted as many of these fresh workers in her own crew as she could get. Too many times lately she had had to take shambling forms directly from the worker pits to the bone pits because some other Awakener hadn’t bothered to put them where they belonged the night before. Of course it was unpleasant to get something barely able to hold itself together to walk the extra few hundred yards, and of course they had to be moved in a barrow sometimes, but that was part of the job. Though, thank Potipur, not a part she would need to do today.

  ‘Thanks be to Viranel,’ she intoned, meditating upon the Tears that were mixed with the blood.

  Long ago, said Scripture, Viranel had revealed the power of Her Tears, shed for the sins of mankind, to the Holy Sorter Thoulia, and in furtherance of that revelation all the Towers and Awakeners had come to be. In class, Pamra had been told that the fungus, brought into a spate of growth by fresh blood and sunlight, grew rapidly throughout the dead bodies, duplicating nerve and muscle cells with tissues of its own, copying and revivifying the structures that were there. Pamra thought there were other things the Tears did as well, but it was better not to ask questions. Undoubtedly, she would be told whatever was important for her to know, in time.

  ‘Anything you do badly reflects on me,’ Ilze had said to her that first day.

  Pamra, half-terrified, had trembled. ‘Yes, Mentor,’ she had murmured.

  ‘Anything you do badly, I have to answer to the Superior. You understand?’

  She had bowed, hands folded, eyes down, only to start at the lash of something around her ankles, a stinging on her bare feet. She was staring down at a whip, coiled serpentlike around her feet, and the shock brought her eyes up to confront the snakelike stare in Ilze’s eyes, covetous and cold.

  ‘And if I have to answer,’ he had whispered, ‘so will you.’

  Pamra had never forgotten. Ilze had never had to answer for anything she had done. She had kept the rules, not asked questions, done what she was told. As she was doing now.

  ‘Drink and rise,’ she said again and again until she had the full hand of workers on their feet. Five was about all one could manage while plowing, though up to ten could be used in carrying stone. She twirled her staff as she led them northwest to the pamet fields, the mirrored facets throwing sparks of light before them. The harnesses and plow lay where the last crew had left them. Driven by the mirrored lights and her murmured chants of command, the workers shambled into the harness and began to plow, slowly, soundlessly, the blind hoods faced in the direction Pamra faced, seeing, if at all, through her eyes.

  When evening came, she led them back, judging the distance carefully so that the power of the last blood she gave them would just last until the workers reached the pits. None of them were ready to be dropped into the bone pits, thank Potipur. A good fresh crew. She would rise early the next few days and attempt to keep them for herself. The thought frayed away, lost in weariness at the thought of any next few days, fatigue wrapping her with an aching sigh. She could not consider tomorrow. She could not even consider the night. Though she felt stronger than in the morning, the mindless evening hours in the Tower seemed more than she could bear.

  She’d been neglecting Delia lately. It was a good time to visit her.

  The gardens of Outskirt Row spilled over their walls, shedding perfume into the evening, fragrant with herbs and warm from the day’s sun, as welcoming a place as it had always been. Delia’s house was at the end of the row.

  Despite the welcoming appearance of the place, Pamra delayed as she went down through the parklands, heavy with nostalgia, last night’s dream and the morning’s resentments all mixed together. Skittering sparks of light fled from her mirrored staff to scramble across the path and the stones. The lights attracted Delia’s attention, and she came to the gate of her garden, waving her cane as though it were a wand held by some good witch to make a welcoming enchantment.

  ‘Pamra! Something told me you would come, so I baked spice cakes …’ No reproach for all the days she had been forgotten. Reproach was not Delia’s way, and Pamra warmed to Delia’s way, as she always had.

  ‘I haven’t had a spice cake in … oh, a thousand years.’ She could not help smiling. This was good Saint Delia, who always remembered things, all of them warm and happy, even when there were few enough of those to choose among. ‘Not since I was a child. A long time ago, Delia.’

  ‘Not all that long. No. Scarcely yesterday. Only a conjunction of the moons or two, nothing to mention.’ Delia laughed, but the cough turned into a hacking convulsion that left her weak, wiping her eyes and shaking her head. ‘Oh, me, me. My days are surely few before I am carried to the west and put into the Sorters’ hands. Tsk.’

  Pamra made a gesture, her revulsion scarcely concealed. ‘You mustn’t say things like that.’

  ‘Oh, Pamra, child! All us ordinary people talk like that. You know it. Only you Awakeners never talk of going into the west. Do you worry so that we have no faith? That we will not be taken into Potipur’s arms?’

  ‘It isn’t … it isn’t that, Delia. I have no doubt about your being Sorted Out and received by Potipur. Among us it’s just accounted bad manners to talk of it with … people close to us.’

  ‘But, child, we’re not among you Awakeners. There’s just you and me, and haven’t we always said honest things to one another?’

  ‘Of course we have,’ Pamra took the old woman’s hand in her own, feeling the fragile flesh give way between the slender bones. Delia’s wrists were like a flame-bird’s legs, like a reed stem. ‘And when all the family turned away from me because I decided to be an Awakener, only Delia stayed my friend.’

  She smiled into the old face, reaching out to touch the tiny, leaf-shaped blue birthmark on Delia’s chin as she had when she was a little one. ‘Wiggle the leaf, Deely. Make it move!’ She had been only two or three, but she could remember saying that.

  ‘Well, I hope more than any friend, child. You were more like my own child, and you stayed my child, stubborn though you were. And angry, sometimes. I remember how excited you were about the Candy Tree. And how furious you got when Prender told you it didn’t really exist. You were seven. Lots older than the others were when they found out. Ah, you flew at her with your little fists, hitting and screaming at her that she lied, she lied. You cried for hours.’

  Pamra protested. ‘But it was you told me about the Candy Tree, Delia. Of course I believed you. You made such a story of it. And sure enough, in the morning the seeds were always there. So good. I can taste them yet. And how hard it was to save even one as “seed” for the next year’s tree! I tried so hard to stay awake and see the tree grow, even though you said it wouldn’t grow at all if I did. And then Prender … well, I didn’t like her much anyhow, and she was calling you a liar.’

  ‘Oh, child. Now, you know that isn’t true. It wasn’t a lie. It was just a kind of story. A pious myth. To make children behave well. And they get such fun out of it.’

  ‘Well, I got more fun out of the myth than I ever did eating the candy after I knew you had put it there. Especially since it was Prender who told me.’

  ‘Prender wasn’t supposed to tell you. She was supposed to let you believe as long as you could. We always let the little ones believe as long as they can; they get such pleasure out of it. She probably wouldn’t have told you if it hadn’t been for jealousy in the family. You two didn’t get along then and most likely never will. I’ve told Prender a hundred times, “We eat the crops the workers grow! Why should we turn our backs on the Awakeners?” Ah, well, but you know your oldest sister.’

  ‘I know her well enough.’ Pamra was grimly certain about this. ‘The whole family. Rejecting me because
of what I chose to do.’

  ‘Oh, child. They just doubt sometimes, that’s all. Don’t you ever doubt? Are you always sure Awakening is for the best?’

  ‘Delia! What do you expect me to say? That’s the kind of question Mother would have asked! And you know how everyone felt about that! Of course Awakening is for the best.’

  ‘I know you believe so, child. But lots of people don’t, truly. It doesn’t make them bad. Perhaps you know something they don’t. It’s better when all the people know, Pamra. It’s better not to be alone.’ She sighed. ‘I wish you’d forgive your mama, Pammy. What she did wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘It was bad enough! Deserting me and Papa that way!’

  ‘She had her reasons, Pammy. She was pregnant, sick, frightened.’

  ‘That’s no excuse! How could she give up an eternity of blessedness in Potipur’s arms for no more reason than that!’

  ‘Perhaps … perhaps because she doubted she’d be Sorted Out, child. We all have our little sins.’

  ‘And Potipur is merciful,’ Pamra grated, teeth tight together. ‘Delia, stop this. I didn’t come here to argue with you!’ Remembering, suddenly, why it was she had not come more often. Delia always pressed her for forgiveness. And it always evoked this old guilt. This old pain.

  ‘All right, all right, child. We won’t fight over it. I wish you’d forgive her because you’d be happier so. But you won’t. And that’s that. It doesn’t change I-love-you.’

  ‘No,’ she said, softening enough to put her arm around the old woman. ‘No, Delia. It doesn’t change I-love-you.’

  They sat beneath the flowering puncon tree, the sky beginning to flush with sunset. ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Pamra. I prayed you would, because your old Delia wants your help to break a rule. Just a little bit.’

  Pamra’s mouth twitched. Because she could not imagine Delia breaking any rule at all, it took a moment for the enormity of the woman’s request to sink in. ‘You want to what?’

  ‘I want to go back east, to the village I was born in, to see my sister. She’s old. I want to see her.’

  For a moment she did not believe she had heard. Then she believed and was appalled at the fury of anger that took her. Anger. At Delia. She choked on it. ‘By the three, Delia! You want to get us both whipped? Or used? That’s no small rule breaking. That’s a major infraction – the major infraction. No one crosses town lines eastward. No one!’

  ‘Oh, well, child, sometimes people do, you know. They just lie about it a lot. I heard that someone on the other side of Baristown went to Wilforn and stayed for the Conjunction festival and then came back, all in one piece and in his right mind.’

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ she demanded, feeling her face grow white and stiff. ‘Honestly, Delia. Of all the things I’m sworn to uphold, the direction of life is one of – is the most important.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean, why? Because it’s Potipur’s commandment, that’s why. The World River moves west, the moons move west, the sun moves west, we move – all west, in the direction of life. To go east is antilife, against the Three. It’s evil, in and of itself! Blasphemous! It’s like those foul same-sex lovers who refuse to propagate in accordance with Potipur’s will, like those rotten celibates the Laughers keep rooting out. If you want to visit your sister, you’ll have to go west to Shabber, and keep on going until you come to it.’

  ‘But it’s only to Wilforn,’ Delia whispered forlornly. ‘Not more than a day or so walk east from here, even for an old woman like me. If I go west, love, I won’t live to get there. How long do they figure it takes to come all the way around? Twelve years if you walk, isn’t it? Six or seven years on a Riverboat. Something like that? I don’t have twelve years, Pammy. Not even six.’

  Pamra shook her head angrily. This wasn’t fair. Not when she was so tired. Oh, Delia. What could she do? Travelers did go all the way around the world, traveling west, some on boats on the River tide. Some afoot. Pilgrims did it afoot, making Potipur’s Round. They carried messages and told kin of kin, and walking it did take about twelve years, more or less, and Delia was right. She couldn’t survive such a trip. She fought to be calm, forced herself into quiet.

  ‘Now, let’s talk it over. If it’s so important you go back, how come you ever left there? You never told me you had a sister there.’

  ‘I came from there when I was about your age, following my curiosity. Oh, Pamra, truth to tell I was following a man. He wanted to see somewhere else. So we came here, and he wanted just to go on and on, but I didn’t. I’d had enough of him by then, and your grandma gave me a job doing the garden in this place, and time went by. Your papa was only a child then, and he needed me.

  ‘When he was grown, I could have gone on around west until I had come home again, but I delayed and dillied, and by the time I thought of it again, there was you. You, with your mama gone and that family of yours gnawing at you because you looked like her …’ She fell silent, stroking the little blue birthmark at her jawline. Then she shook herself and went on. ‘It’s just that lately I’ve been thinking of my sister. Wanting to see her. Wanting to say, “Well, Miri, how has it been with you?”‘ She stood up, clapped her hands as she tried to smile.

  ‘It’s not important. Not at all. Not important enough to worry my girl. Now, have another cake. After all, I baked them for my own Pammy.’

  She did not speak of it again while Pamra sat in the garden in the glow of evening, smelling the kindly smells of the growing things, hearing the cries of the fishermen on their way home from the long jetties, sitting quiet as the sun fell lower to touch the horizon in blazes of crimson and orange and streaks of crushed berry color, bright and bruised at once. It should have been a time of contentment, of quiet, but too many memories had been jostled awake in Pamra. She kept the calm smile on her face, kept her voice low and peaceful not to distress old Delia, but it was a quiet surface over a turmoil of remembering.

  Mama. Lovely as a dream and as fragile. Pretty as a soap bubble, and as useless. What did one remember about her? Softness and singing, sadness and tears, and at last – at last the unforgivable thing.

  And Papa. Winning that second mention when he was young, very young, enough to set Grandma talking of his great future as though it were real. But there was no future. No other awards. No other mentions at all for Fulder Don. Not a second, not a fifth. And even that fact was blamed on Mama, somehow made out to be Mama’s fault – in turn to become Pamra’s fault, who so resembled lovely Mama.

  And saintly Delia had been there through it all, the substitute mother, the kindly one, the only one who did not turn away when Pamra made her choice and went to the Awakeners’ Tower. She squeezed Delia’s hand now in remembrance of that. If it hadn’t been for Delia … Well, there must be a way to repay her now, a way to solve this problem.

  ‘Delia, I’m not promising anything, but I’ll ask around. Honestly I will. I’ll have to sound out a few people, find out who to ask, but maybe there’ll be a way we can send a message or something.’ She surprised in the old woman’s face an expression of longing – no, more passionate than mere longing, a fanatic desire, an impassioned pleading with fear in it. ‘Delia, why does it matter so?’

  The old woman sighed. ‘I wronged her, Pamra. My own sister. I wronged her with him, the one I followed away. He was hers, my sister’s man, and he turned from her to me. He told me if he couldn’t have me, he would not have her, he’d go to the west without either. And oh, I followed him, foolish as it was, and then did not care enough to follow him farther when he went on. I must ask her to forgive me. It must be done, Pamra child. It must be done. Otherwise … I may die unforgiven, and it may be Potipur will not take me up. I’m so old, child. There isn’t time to do anything but just go to her and ask …’

  The old woman sat there, head bowed, grieving over a wrong done forty or fifty years ago. Pamra shook her head. Even though it was dangerous for ordinary mortals to die unforgiven, it was silly for Delia
to be upset like this.

  ‘If you did a little wrong when you were young, you’ve made up for it a hundred times since. If there is any person within twelve days’ travel who will be Sorted Out to receive Potipur’s kiss, it will be you, Delia, so stop this grieving. I’ll figure something out for you.’

  She felt better for having said it. It was all true. Delia was one of Potipur’s own. If reaching Delia’s sister was important to the old woman, Pamra would do what she could, and she told Delia so again, and yet again as she left after taking a last breath of the clean garden air.

  The water in the ritual cleaning trough was chilled by evening, holding little of the day’s warmth as she dipped her hands, sprinkled her face and feet. She leapt away from the trough as black wings swept by, buffeting onto the step where a great flier fixed her with a calculating eye, clacking its huge serrated beak softly together. She leaned against the wall to let her heart stop pounding. It was only one of the Servants of Abricor. They seldom landed on the Tower steps, though they clustered thickly around their aerie on the Tower top and in the bone pits, always silent, never making a sound. She dried her hands on the towel by the door, aware suddenly that the door was open.

  ‘Pamra.’ It was Ilze in the doorway. She realized he had been there, watching her. ‘Pamra? Come on, you’ll miss your meal. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Senior. I’ve been down in town. Visiting my old Delia. She’s half-stuffed me on spice cakes. I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘Spice cakes don’t build blood.’ He sounded irritated. ‘Come on. I’ve arranged something for you.’

  The hall was busy, echoing with feet and the clatter of plates. From the men’s refectory there was a bass rumble of voices, a harsh shout of laughter, quickly repressed. The women’s tables were half-empty, only a few tardy diners plying their spoons, breaking their bread. Ilze waited with her at the service hatch, then drew her away to an empty table. ‘I’ve got you on recruitment tomorrow.’