The Grandmothers (17 page)

It has all gone. What has? For one thing, the simplicity of it all. Once - then - it was all easy and pleasant. Now, nothing is. Even if I don’t know why, I can at least say, This happened.

The events which I described earlier were once known to everybody in The Cities. Each child was taught the core tale, and around that all the tales, repeated them, made his or her version of, lets say, The Terrible Horses, or The Wise Ruler who Changed the Law from Revenge to Kindness. Destra has been dead almost as long as I have been alive, and I have been alive as long as she was. In that stretch of time, two long lifetimes, Destra’s creation of storytelling and songmaking as a means of instruction, refinement, something which lifted up our whole population to a height of culture not matched anywhere else that we knew of, this wonderful education began, grew, reached perfection, held it for a while - and then … But what happened I do not know. None of The Twelve did. Simply, Destra’s adopted son, DeRod, destroyed it. Why did he? How often have we all - all The Twelve that is - tried to understand and failed. And it was not possible simply to ask our old friend and playfellow because he ignored us.

The name DeRod means something wonderful in the language of the desert tribes, but we called him Benny, short for Beneficent Whip. I think we soon forgot how ‘Benny’ began. He was one of those chosen when we were still infants to be instructed by Destra herself. She was a wonderful teacher. She taught us good behaviour, how to make decisions, how to think, how to put the welfare of The Cities before anything else. All this by means of tales and songs. She had tutors to teach us the art of numbers, weights, measurements. The instruction took place in Destra’s house, The Big House, the populace called it. It is the largest of the big houses, but not by very much. The Cruel Whip was going to double it in size but Destra silenced him before he could. If she did.

There is a large room, open on one side, where there is a screen of reeds if there is rain or dust, and there we were educated. Thirteen, who always knew we would be a Council of Twelve. DeRod was taught with us. We were equals. There was never a suggestion that as Destra’s child he would be favoured. And there was the girl, Destra’s adopted daughter, DeRod’s sister, Shusha, later my wife who, if DeRod should die or be killed, would be Destra’s only progeny, brought up as if she were in fact Destra’s daughter. I think we all forgot those two were adopted. It was never assumed that DeRod would be ruler after his mother. On the contrary, Destra told us, and from our earliest days, that from one of us a ruler would he chosen, and that The Twelve would be advisers.

And so it went on, a time of such happiness, and I am sure this is no flattering memory, for i: was shared by all The Twelve and we often spoke of it, saying that this was how every child should be educated. And yet none of our children had anything like as good. Perhaps such an education needs someone like Destra to make it work.

When we were all fifteen years old, or near that age, Destra was ill and was carried into our instruction room, which was usually filled with sunlight and the shadows from the great trees that surrounded The Big House, and so it was that day. Destra told us that she would soon die, and now we must choose her successor. She was sitting up, cushions piled behind her, a tiny old woman with her white hair down around her face, her black eyes burning with urgency - like the urgency I feel now - and with fever. It was a surprise and yet not one. We all knew, had always known, that this day must come. We knew that Destra was very old, and that she was ill. And yet we were taken by surprise and were uneasy and afraid for the future.

I remember we stood about in that room, which was as much our home as our own homes were. We stood about looking at each other, not liking that now we would have to make a choice.

Destra sat up there, with a woman on either side of her, watching us, waiting. And still we did not speak out.

Then she did. ‘Just because DeRod is my son, it does not mean he should be chosen. Nor should Shusha, just because she is my daughter. You must choose the best one, the one you all agree would be best. You must have made your choice. You must have discussed it.’ Well, we hadn’t much. That was the trouble. The trouble was perhaps, we had been discussing it too long, expecting it. We knew our qualities and our deficiencies. Some of us were out of the question as rulers. Shusha was one. This was not because she was a girl - five of us were female. She said herself it wouldn’t suit her. She was a smiling, modest, careful girl, who liked looking after the house animals and tending plants. Later she became responsible for agriculture and the welfare of children. Others had long ago judged themselves to be unsuitable, and so we had not considered them. The others had been discussed, DeRod too. We told him that if he could cure his tendency to sulk and to go off in little fits of petulance, he would do well. I think we were all a little bit in love with DeRod. There was nothing much about him to dislike ever. Perhaps he was too eager to please, always, to fall in, to agree. He was such a beautiful child, and then as beautiful a youth. He was tall and slight, with dark eyes that compelled, and brooded, and with a gleam in them that we joked was because of his desert inheritance: Destra had those eyes too. When we discussed him as a possible Ruler we always joked that he would be all right with us to keep an eye on him, I would say now that five or perhaps six of us would have done well as Ruler. I know that there were those who thought that I would. There was a time, being young and conceited, when I would agree with them - but I know better now. Well I did have some of the qualities. I thought easily m terms of how to govern well, looking at The Cities as a whole; I knew how to manage people, bringing out their good qualities, never demeaning them. I knew the Story of our people better than anyone: that is why later they made me Chief Official Memory. But they didn’t choose me. Nor any of the other good ones - and believe me, I have often imagined one or another in DeRod’s place, and wondered. We chose EnRod. This was, perhaps, a foregone conclusion. So I think now, looking back. He was after all Destra’s heir, in the line Rod, EnRod, Cruel Whip, Destra. There is pleasure in that, a fitness, a pattern, as if you are guarding some inherent order. We chose him though we knew Destra was sincere in saying we must choose the best. We knew absolutely how she would judge the best: she had been telling us for all those years. She had told us tales often about tribes and peoples who, on the death of a ruler chose a successor by vote, sometimes passing over elder sons, more than once choosing a daughter when there were sons. No, we could not blame Destra, for us choosing DeRod. And in fact he was surprised, and we realised he had not expected we would settle for him. He was so pleased. And we took such pleasure in his pleasure. When we said, almost unanimously, ‘DeRod’, he seemed to shine and swell, he stretched out his arms in a movement like a bird about to fly. He then made some little dance steps, first because he had to, and then in jest, laughing at himself and at his pleasure. His eyes were full of tears. He embraced us then, one by one, and as it were as a group. For a few moments we were standing in a sort of heap, with our arms around each other, hugging and laughing, and DeRod there in the middle shouting in triumph. Then he pushed his way out, ran to his mother in that quick wonderfully graceful way he had, and kissed her hand. And then it was we remembered Destra, and that she had been waiting for us to choose. We would have gone to kiss her hand but it was too late. She was already being carried off. ! rein ember she was breathing heavily, a harsh and awful noise. She did not make any sign towards us though we were waiting for one.

I remember how we all stood about, waiting, feeling most terribly let down. Feeling perhaps, too, that Destra’s refusal to acknowledge us then meant she was disappointed, or even angry. In the end DeRod clapped his hands, jumped about in the way he had, as if he were younger than he was, and said he could command a banquet. A funny way of putting it we thought, not Destra’s style at all. And a big banquet there was, and DeRod announced as Destra’s heir. We drank the wine that by now was being grown by us in The Cities, and we all got drunk and - were as happy as I can remember. I would like to be able to say I felt foreboding, or uneasiness. If I had, at the very beginning, by then I had suppressed them. DeRod was so delightful with us that day of the banquet, so simple, and, we could see, grateful. It was a day that marked the end of our instruction: fifteen years of learning and listening and taking in, of pre paring ourselves. And now this was it, when Destra died we would begin to use what we had learned.

And now I must wrench myself away from these pleasant memories and decide what I should do. I have at least begun by making a record - an over-simple, very short one, but a record - of the beginnings of The Twelve. I can fill it all out later if there’s time … and perhaps there isn’t: I had not expected Koon, or Eleven, to die. And why not? He was as old as I am. I would like to have the time to write down the wealth of tales and stories that seem to have been lost. How could they have been lost? I have lived now for nearly a hundred years. For at least half that time die tales and songs were on everybody’s lips. And yet now only old people - my son can be described as old - remember them.

What am I to do? In the past, when in doubt I took myself to the house of one of The Twelve, or asked them to visit me here. I have decided to visit the place where only days ago we buried Eleven. ‘We’? Mourners who had no knowledge of him, or of us, mourners who weep and wail for money.

I stood for a long time at the edge of the great Fall of water, where I have been so often, for the pleasure of watching how the water bounded or crept or frolicked from the top of the Fall to the bottom, its antics measured and ordered by our clever Nine - the water engineer. And then, the pleasure of deciding whether to climb up its course to the top where it gushed over natural rocks, and then over the hill and through the buildings and squares of our public life, or down to see how the water fled into channels for the irrigation of the market gardens. This Fall was created early in Destra’s Rule, over steps like a giant’s stair, so that when I was born the Fall was already a wonder known to everyone and visited by travellers, some of whom had come to The Cities for the purpose. It was much later that The Twelve made a great pool at the foot of the Fall, where the waters crashed down but soon spread out into a great wash always in movement because of the cascade, but so shallow the smallest child could paddle in it. This pool, Shusha’s inspiration, was for children, who had to be under six years old; and for small children a more delightful place has never been The charming ripples from the Fall were of course waves to them, the spray that greened the low bushes around the pool was part of their fun, a mere breath of freshness on the hands and faces of adults, but for the little ones a source of delight because of the way the breezes blew this way and that, unexpectedly dousing them, so that they screamed with delight. This was one of my favourite places. Was.

This morning I stood a long time, remembering that it was on this spot I encountered DeRod for the second time after we had chosen him and celebrated with the banquet. The first was when I married his sister Shusha (Seven), because Destra was recently dead it was a simple ceremony, and that suited us both. DeRod surprised us. I thought he was in mourning, but perhaps … he was all courtesy, formally officiating, kindly, pleasant, but distant. This was our friend DeRod, whom we had known all our lives. Both Shusha and I made excuses for him. We confessed that we could not remember a particular closeness to his mother that could justify a real grief. And this although he was always saying, ‘My mother and I …’We …’, meaning Destra and him, ‘I and Destra …’. No. The fact was, Shusha said, putting into words what I had only felt until then, he was not a loving person. He was affectionate, yes, in a pretty playful way that suited him, as a child. ‘He never loved me,’ I remember Shusha saying then, ‘What? What do you mean?’ i think he is a really cold person,’ she said, to my discomfort, and I seem to remember I put it down to brother and sister rivalry. What a fool I was.

Destra did not die for a year after the day we those him. During that time we did not see him. This day, by the Fall, when I came on him standing there watching the waters, it was some four years after his accession. During that time he did not come to the meetings of The Twelve, was pleasant if he met us in the streets, but was always in a hurry, ignored the usual invitations to suppers or family reunions. When we did meet there was always between us the familiarity of our childhood knowledge of each other, and that was why The Twelve were confused when we asked ourselves and each other, Why? What is it?

What was he doing? Reports came from The Big House, mostly from servants. He played with his zither for hours. A girl from the town, not one of us, or from any of the leading families, was his companion. He often visited the army and took part in its exercises.

We simply got on with our job, which was to do as well as we could for The Cities. Those early years after Destra’s death, building on what she had created, were as successful as any in our history. None of it was owed to DeRod. He was simply not available to us.

I remember when I caught sight of him on that day, standing by the Fall, the rush of old affection I felt for him. There he was, the old DeRod, as handsome as ever. How potent a spell good looks do impose. I don’t think I ever thought of that as a weakness until I was forced to think about DeRod’s effect on us. Seeing him there, brooding, moody, apparently deep in thought, I forgot that for four years every thought of him caused me - caused us all - pain.

And it was from the old ease with him that I walked up to him and embraced him, while he, after a moment, frowning with shock, turned and embraced me. ‘DeRod,’ complained, ‘why do we never see you?’ Now I was close I could have a good look. He was a man, no longer a boy.

He nodded and said with a frown, ‘But I hear you are all doing very well without me.’