Motherlines (14 page)
Authors: Suzy McKee Charnas
Tags: #Dystopian, #General, #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic
Even the best wagons leaked in a night of hard rain. Spreading damp blankets to dry on the porch rails was not suited to a pet, but it was work Elnoa appreciated having done. The sun was out this morning. Elnoa sat in her wide chair, one of her ledgers spread open on her lap. Emla stood behind, pinning her hair up, preparing her for a massage.
A fem came to the porch steps: Alldera, wrapped in her grimy blanket, steaming odorously in the sunshine. Her hair hung lank. Dirt outlined the nails of the hand that clutched the blanket. Her light-colored eyes seemed to have retreated into darkened sockets, and there was a half-healed scab on her broad lower lip. She looked old.
Why does this coarse creature keep intruding on my life? Daya asked in silent irritation. She moved away a little down the porch.
Alldera said in a flat tone, ‘I want to go out with one of the wagon crews.’
Lips pursing like a tea bud, Elnoa shut the leather book, opened it again to shake straight the limp pages, and put it aside. She beckoned Alldera to join her on the porch.
Drink and inactivity have ruined you, she signed. Hauling is hard work.
Daya heard Alldera respond, ‘I know the Mares. I could help the wagon crew bargain with them.’
The inner bark of certain foothill pines, baked underground for a day, became a sweet and crackly candy. Daya brought some of these crisp, sticky sheets out on a tray. Elnoa took some. Alldera shook her head.
Elnoa signed, Some people would object that you might run away from the crew to live with the Mares again. She slipped her smock from her shoulders, and Emla began the massage with her oil-shiny hands.
With a jerk of her head Alldera indicated the fems at work at the tea-drying fires. ‘I don’t think they’d miss me.’
Patiently Elnoa signed, We are both free and few. Everyone is worth something here. Take some sweet.
Daya extended the tray again but Alldera ignored it. She moved her body uncomfortably, as if her injuries still pained her. Suddenly she burst out in a low but intense tone, ‘I’m rotting here. I need something to do, work to keep my head thinking.’
Elnoa tilted her chin, stretching the line of her neck under Emla’s hand. She signed, You have sometimes expressed a strong dislike of the way we do things.
Alldera did not speak. At least she was learning when to keep still, Daya noted. She hoped Elnoa would grant the runner’s request to go out with a crew. She did not want Alldera around forever, a living reminder of her own disastrous miscalculation.
Elnoa signed, Maybe you can still learn to fit in here despite your strange background. I will see what my crew captains say. Come back and we will talk about this. Daya heard her suck on the sweet fragments stuck to her teeth – a revolting habit.
Alldera returned to her place across the yard and sat down again slowly.
Exasperated, Daya slapped another blanket over the railing. She knew the signs. Elnoa was in a playful mood; she would keep Alldera begging, never refusing, never agreeing. Perhaps she was taking vengeance for the runner’s criticisms of her. Daya could see the complacent smile on Elnoa’s face as the big fem leader leaned back and let the weight of her shoulders rest against Emla’s oiled palms.
Later, when both had gone in, Daya crossed the yard. She knelt near Alldera and began pulling twigs and branches out from under the wagon, selecting fuel for cooking the day’s meals.
Softly she said, ‘Elnoa isn’t going to let you go with a wagon. Hard work isn’t what you need anyway. Go to Fedeka the dye-maker, she’s healed people hurt worse than you are. You’ve heard of her? She travels across the plains gathering plants, getting her supplies from wagons that she meets out there. You’ve crossed that country with the Mares, you can find your way. After the rains Fedeka moves south to avoid the colder weather. She should be down near the wells of Royo Camp soon.’
‘You think I should run away?’ Alldera’s tone was neutral, unreadable, and she did not look up.
‘Lots of fems have gone to Fedeka for help. That’s not running away; and you can slip off easily. No one watches you any more.’
Alldera did not answer.
Daya left her in a damp cloud of tea pungence and smoke. It was the runner’s mistake if she chose to ignore such a good suggestion. She and Alldera were quits now; the runner no longer mattered.
At the old tea-camp site, screened by trees near the spring, Daya took leaf fragments from the pouch at her belt and chewed them. She undressed and anointed herself with the leaf saliva. Shivering slightly in the evening chill, she smeared her nipples, the insides of her thighs, and her vulva, making them fragrant.
She did not do this for Elnoa. For some time Elnoa had not sent for her. She slept these nights with Tua, but she did not sweeten herself for Tua either. They bedded together only because each of them was partnerless. She prepared so elaborately to make love because she knew she excelled in this preparation, and she was proud of her skill at it.
Then she lay down in her blankets under the shelter of the abandoned wagon. She had not trysted here since going trading – two years or more? Too long. She looked out at the clouds piled deep into the darkening sky, preparing new assaults on the mountains. Good. When making love she liked the drumming of distant rain and the drama of far thunder. She enjoyed seeing her companion’s eyes glinting greedily in the flash of the lightning. Let the rest of them keep to the stuffy wagons, descending to the floor to make love while others peered down at them from the sleeping platforms above. Though that was exciting in its own way, to know people were heating themselves on your own heat …
Tua stood above her in the twilight, and Daya raised up on one elbow to greet her and draw her down.
‘Listen,’ Tua said eagerly, ‘what do you think I just heard – Alldera’s left camp!’
Daya caught at her hand. ‘Come here, I’m ready for you.’
‘Imagine!’ Tua breathed, holding back still. ‘Bet she’s gone back to the Mares. What’s Elnoa going to say? What will Kobba do when she finds out?’
‘She’ll have a cub.’ Daya was vexed. ‘Lie down with me.’
‘But this is important! Aren’t you excited?’
‘Yes I am; and this is what’s important.’ She drew Tua’s mouth to her breast, and the two of them sank down. With the ease of long practice, Daya slid her knee between Tua’s legs, and she lay back with a sigh of anticipation as Tua rolled on her with good, warm weight.
Daya had never known the rains to last so late into the start of the Cool Season. A Generation Feast was always held shortly before the first wagon was scheduled to leave on its trade journey. This year the feast began in a rainstorm. Daya and those assigned to help her prepare food worked all day sheltered by awnings, cursing the leaks and the muddy footing.
Daya chose and combined the ingredients of the stew kettles, then left the tending of the cooking to her subordinates. She reserved for herself the oversight of the little covered pots that steamed all day over small fires. Each pot was filled with a fertility douche concocted to a formula of Fedeka the dyer’s.
By evening the rain had stopped. Satiated with food and hot beer, the fems assembled quietly in the yard. Kobba stood on the porch at Elnoa’s right hand. Tonight she spoke to them not in Elnoa’s voice but in her own, that clanged like iron bars over the crackling from the fires and the desultory dripping of rainwater.
‘We gather tonight, ferns,’ she said, ‘to try once more to find a starter that will make new life in us. The Mares conceive without men, and so will we – but we won’t turn to beasts to do it.
‘Now, you may say – some say it every year – why do we want cubs at all? Once we made them for our masters, just like we made cloth or food or furnishings – for their use. And if the cubs weren’t perfect, the men killed us for it. Even at best, with so much breeding it was awful for us. All of you remember old fems so torn from cubbings that they went raw-legged and stinking because they couldn’t hold their piss. I myself have wondered, if cubs don’t come to us in the course of things, why run after all that pain again?
‘I’ll tell you a story, friends.
‘Back in the Holdfast I worked in the mines. The ore was crushed by machines that the Ancients had stored away in stacks underground. The pieces were big, they could tear loose under a miner’s foot and smash the people lower down. We had to be strong and lightfooted. You see my hands, my feet? No calluses, no scars. We miners were given shoes and gloves so we wouldn’t slice ourselves on wire and jagged edges or get acid burns. That’s how valuable we were. I went through a dozen pair of palm pads a month.
‘It was always damp down there. We worked by lamplight. The rust cough ate out everyone’s voice in the end. But I didn’t stay till the end.
‘Everytime I came up from the mines I smelled that good clean smell coming east on the wind. I knew our side of the borderlands because I’d been marched up and down in the scrubby trees there with a search gang, looking for new mining sites. When the time came, I ran west laughing.
‘A man came after me, one of those drug-mad Rovers that used to guard the old men’s lives and their goods and chase down runaway fems for them. I hid. I jumped out when he passed me and I broke his neck. I rammed his chin up so hard I almost tore the head off his body. I’d never thought to do anything with my strength before but beat on the metal heaps and on any fems who bothered me. I never saw how easy it would have been to smash the life out of those men that stood around telling me what to do all my life.
‘I see now. But it may be a long time before I get home, and by then my best strength will be gone. By then there may be only twenty of us going back, not fifty. We’d be weak.
‘Unless we have some cubs. We can’t let our numbers drop or age cut us down. We should go home a conquering army, or why go home at all? If we find the men all dead, that’s all right too – we should have young fems there with us to help us break the men’s bones and their buildings and trample everything of theirs and bury them in a foot of sea salt, so our cubs will know what their freedom is. If Moonwoman wills it, nothing will be left to show that men ever lived in the world, but our cubs will be there to show that we did.’
The response was a collective sigh from the assembled fems and the sounds of a few sobs and snuffles. Kobba’s voice, hoarse with emotion at the end, moved them this way every time.
Then the fems came in pairs – except Kobba, who came alone, for herself and Elnoa – and to each pair Daya gave two pots of douche and a syringe to take into one of the wagons. The syringe was to draw the douche and use it in the partner’s body. The fems’ faces were bright with hope that this time one of the douches would work.
Daya did not believe this would ever happen, but she was pleased to be the dispenser of Fedeka’s mixtures on these welcome days of feasting, love, and hopes. At least Fedeka knew the plants of the plains so well that the douches were sure to be safe. Free fems no longer poisoned themselves in their efforts to conceive, as in the past.
Personally, Daya had no particular wish to become bloated with pregnancy ever again, whether from a man or one of Fedeka’s brews. She did like the warm flooding of her body. It was a feeling that no man with his imperceptible squirtings of lukewarm stuff had ever induced. She even enjoyed the feel of the syringe itself. Early on in the Holdfast she had seen that a pet’s life included a lot more fucking than the life of an ordinary labor fern; she had made herself enjoy, and had later come to crave, the sensations of penetration.
There were those, she knew, who found her desire to be entered perverse. She could only be sorry for them, wretches whose experience had been limited to monthly battering by men pressed to do their copulatory duty in the Holdfast breeding rooms. Men who liked the bodies of fems were rare in the Holdfast.
In Tua she had found a friend who knew how to serve her tastes without open disgust. When the others were all gone, Daya and Tua found a corner for themselves in one of the wagons. Daya lay with her upper body hugged between Tua’s legs while Tua worked the syringe pipe slower or faster, at a deeper or shallower angle, whatever pleased Daya, until Daya lifted her hips from the rumpled bedding and rode the flooding instrument to her climax.
The syringe, filled from Tua’s bowl, was pressed into Daya’s hand. She turned, gathering the body’s heavy center in her arms and gliding her cheek up Tua’s soft inner thigh.
Before dawn she was wakened by obscure discomfort. It was not, as she had thought at first, something bad in her gut. The sensation was of a burning in her lower belly and vagina.
The wagon was full of the sounds of sleepers. On the floor a fem gasped her way laboriously toward orgasm – probably old Ossa, who always went back for a second round of douche. If no one could be induced to lie with her, she would manage by herself, fingering her own body to its climax.
The burning feeling flickered out. Daya settled herself in her bedding, which was still damp from the douche.
By morning she was feverish. She curled, moaning around her pain. She felt people handling her, trying to straighten out her limbs, washing out her vagina and lifting her onto a pile of soft blankets at the back of Elnoa’s wagon.
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