The Knowledge Stone (7 page)

One day, just after she had made a visit to the privy, he led her behind the shack and told her he needed to check that she was cleaning her body properly after such a visit. Maretta was completely unperturbed by his request. She loved and admired her elder brother; he was like a second father to her – in fact he was more like a father to her than her real father, who was absent all day, every day. So she happily lifted up her clothes and exposed her body to him. At first, his examination was restricted to a perfunctory visual check but soon he began to touch her soft intimate flesh.

In the weeks and months that followed, these examinations were called for periodically and Maretta chattered quite happily to her brother as his hands probed her with increasing thoroughness. Gradually, however, she found herself becoming more reluctant to submit to these examinations. She began to feel that her body should be private and she was sure she was perfectly capable of keeping her whole body clean, including these parts that he insisted in examining. On the other hand, she did not want to offend her brother; after all, he was only doing this for her own good, wasn’t he?

Then came the day when the usual inspection was called for and Maretta was conducted to the familiar spot behind the shack. On this day she was unhappy, now very reluctant to bare her body and she communicated this to her brother in no uncertain terms. Her brother insisted. It was his responsibility to look after her, he said. She should not be so ungrateful. He was very disappointed in her.

Thus rebuked and hanging her head in shame, Maretta complied with his wishes but winced as his hands touched her. This time, the examination was particularly thorough: ‘This is taking a long time,’ she thought, wriggling uncomfortably, ‘I wish he would hurry up.’ Hard on the heels of this thought, there came a sudden blinding flash of revelation that made her lift her head suddenly and look deep into her brother’s eyes. It was in the depth of those eyes that she
saw the truth
.

In an instant, her brother’s face flushed deeply; then he broke away from her accusing gaze and mumbled something incomprehensible before stumbling away. This was the last inspection of her body that Maretta had to endure. More importantly, at that moment Maretta the girl-woman had gained a timeless wisdom about men and women and life.

It was that same wisdom that kept her body motionless on that day in the forest, lying prone upon the soft bed of leaves, pretending to be tangled in the folds of her dress and fully aware of the astounded gaze of her beloved and beautiful Malik.

Maretta was more than happy to leave the next move to Malik. Whatever it was, it would be the right action for the moment, she told herself. Nevertheless she was a little disappointed when the heavy material of her skirt wafted away the intoxicating caress of the cool air on her sensitive skin before moulding itself to the contours of her body.

Within seconds, his strong arm had lifted her to her feet. For a moment they stood close together, looking at each other with new and knowing eyes.

Finally he spoke quietly but with great firmness: ‘Not until we are man and wife. I love you too much for that.’

She understood and loved him all the more, hardly realising that he had just made a proposal of marriage. That night, she had agonised over what had happened in the forest and eventually decided she must set him free. She was not a suitable wife for such an important man. She was a poor serf who would never be anything else. And she wept the night away.

When they met on the following day, she blurted out her decision to part from him but he held her arms gently, looked straight into her eyes and rejected the suggestion with such force that her resolve shattered into delightful submission. From that time her life turned into a whirlwind of preparation, anticipation and joy, all spiced with a tinge of fear.

At the farm, Maretta was delighted with her new home and settled in to become the new and loving wife who worked tirelessly to make everything perfect for her handsome and attentive husband.

‘What very happy days these are,’ she thought as she cleaned the shack and its surrounds until everything was neat and bright.

She was deeply grateful to Young Malik’s father who had welcomed her into the family with open arms. She had become very fond of the old man.

With a woman’s instinct, she knew why her mother-in-law acted at first with stiff formality towards her and she right away began to work hard to forge a friendly, slightly subservient relationship with the older woman. In the event, this proved to be quite easy. Maretta was quick to help with the many chores of a farmer’s wife and this, along with her ready humour and attractive beauty, soon won over the older woman. In fact the quick transition from tension to friendship was due not only to Maretta’s efforts. Young Malik’s mother knew that her beloved son was deeply in love with his new wife, and she was pleased to see him so happy.

Maretta looked forward eagerly to being pregnant. She did not care whether her first baby was a boy or a girl – after all, there would be so many more! However as the months and then the years passed, it became increasingly obvious that the blessing of pregnancy was not being visited upon her. She tolerated all the visits from the physicians and apothecaries; she knew her husband was trying his best to solve their problem and bring the blessing of babies to their family. The remedies they gave her often tasted horrible and some of them made her sick. Some of the ointments and tinctures were also foul-smelling and some were injurious, irritating or even burning her skin. Nevertheless she was always obedient, firstly because it was what Young Malik wanted her to do but also because she was desperate to present him with the son he yearned for.

Then came the day when her husband arrived with the village midwife. Maretta was washing some clothes when she heard a harsh, unfamiliar voice outside the farmhouse door. She had opened the door to find the midwife with her husband. She was a stooped old woman who wore a permanently sour expression and spoke angrily all the time.

Maretta knew the midwife by reputation; she was well-known among the poor serfs of the area, not only for refusing help to them with any birthing problems, even when payment was offered, but for speaking out against them in an attempt to stir the villagers into violent action against their poor neighbours. ‘We don’t need their kind here,’ the midwife would say inflammatorily, ‘they are nothing but a band of thieves, cheats and liars. We should drive them out. Who cares if they live or die?’

At her husband’s bidding, Maretta reluctantly invited the midwife to enter. The interrogation proved to be unkind and unsympathetic. There were many questions, some worryingly embarrassing, but out of loyalty to her husband, Maretta did her best to answer them all to the best of her ability. The physical examination was even worse, ranging over every part of her body and conducted in a far from gentle manner. Finally, it was over.

‘Do I have a problem with my body? Why cannot I make a baby?’ Maretta addressed the midwife’s back as she was packing away her cloths and tools.

‘My answers are for your husband,’ the midwife spoke contemptuously without turning around, ‘not for you.’

Young Malik and the midwife spoke for a long time in the farmyard. Maretta strained to hear what was being said but could only make out an occasional word. After some time, the midwife climbed upon the cart and they left for the village.

Maretta waited with great impatience for the return of her husband. She was desperate to hear what the midwife had told him. Maybe if they followed her advice, everything would be all right. Maybe a baby would grow in her body – twins, even! Maretta felt a great rush of delight within her: ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘maybe it could even be twins. This could be a new start for us.’ She felt a great surge of love for her husband, remembering those far-off days when they were so ecstatically happy, so much in love. ‘Oh, how I wish he would return!’ She strained her eyes into the distance.

Late in the evening, Young Malik finally returned, drunk and aggressive. He barged noisily into the farmhouse, calling loudly for more beer. Maretta opened a flagon and poured some for him. He took it without a word and quaffed it noisily, ignoring her completely. She sat quietly, waiting.

After some time, she spoke: ‘What did she say?’ Her voice flat and expressionless.

For some moments, he did not move. Finally he looked at her and she was shocked and repelled by the look of rejection in his eyes. Still he said nothing.

‘What did she say?’ she repeated. ‘Why can’t I make a baby?’

‘She said she could not find anything wrong,’ Young Malik replied slowly, almost inaudibly.

Maretta was overjoyed. Her optimism had been justified!

‘But that’s wonderful,’ she cried ecstatically. ‘We can try…’

‘No.’ His voice crashed through her words and shattered them. A shocked silence followed.

‘Why not?’ she whispered finally. ‘If there’s nothing wrong…?’

Another silence for several moments. Then: ‘She says you are not good breeding stock.’

The world collapsed in upon Maretta. She felt totally numb, hardly able to draw her next breath. She had no idea how long she existed in that room with these eight words spinning around in her head, incising virtual grooves inside her skull. Eventually, very slowly, she came back to life. She was alone. He had gone from the room, she knew not where. She was left alone with these razor-sharp, devastating words: “She says you are not good breeding stock.”

Maretta sat for some time in the apparent stillness of assessment and interpretation. Then came a burst of incredulous understanding, like the explosion of a rocket in the sky. She recognised with complete certainty that the midwife’s words were part of a vendetta against her and against her unfortunate people. Now she spoke aloud, quietly and without expression:

‘She examined me and could find nothing wrong. So she decided to poison my marriage because I am a poor serf.’ Tears filled her eyes, part rage, part grief.

In the following days and weeks, Maretta tried to speak to her husband about the real meaning of the midwife’s assessments and comments but he refused point-blank to engage in any conversation. Despite her best efforts, she could not penetrate the wall of dislike that was now his attitude towards her. As time passed, his demeanour deteriorated further to become constantly withdrawn and even more bad-tempered. It became the norm for him to be very drunk every evening.

From the farmhouse next door, Young Malik’s father continued to be kind to her in a gentle, absent-minded sort of way but his mother withdrew her goodwill, firmly taking sides with her son.

‘I knew it would never come out for the best; I told you you should never marry below your class.’ However these words were not spoken in triumph because Young Malik’s mother knew that her son was now very unhappy.

As the situation deteriorated further, Maretta became deeply depressed. Left all alone every day, she started to seek solace in the beer which in the past she had brewed for Young Malik with so much love. Soon she spent much of her days in varying degrees of alcoholic haze and in consequence become slovenly and uncaring in her habits. Her face became set in a vacuous, ugly scowl. Young Malik hardly noticed. As they sat at the table together, he bolted down the food she prepared for him and never raised his eyes to look at her.

Imprisoned in her world of unhappiness and alcohol, Maretta was vaguely aware of changes at the farm. The one she resented most was being compelled to move from her home into the farmhouse next door. Why did she need to move? She was perfectly happy where she was. She knew that both of Malik’s parents had gone, died, she thought: ‘I wonder what happened to them?’ She sometimes puzzled about that but could not remember.

She also knew that all the farm workers had gone – again, she didn’t know why and she didn’t care; after all, it was her husband’s business. On one occasion she had asked Malik about it but, as usual, he had just ignored her. Also, she remembered that Malik had bought a little boy to work on the farm – that was years ago. He was sent to live in the barn and she knew he was still there because she had to prepare food and drink for him. She had absolutely no interest in this boy and usually could not remember his name. All these thoughts constantly swirled around in Maretta’s addled brain.

Then one evening, one of her unfocussed reveries was rudely interrupted as the farmhouse door crashed open, heralding her husband’s usual drunken arrival. Normally he was taciturn and did not speak.

However this evening was a rare event. As he entered, he asked her a question: ‘Do you want this?’ He grated these words as he pushed a small ragged child across the room.

‘What is it?’ Maretta, half asleep and absorbed in drinking beer in her favourite chair by the fire, could not be bothered to raise her eyes.

‘It’s a child that came with a market deal I did this afternoon,’ the man replied, ‘you’ve been nagging me for a servant.’

Maretta could not remember any conversation on this matter. Nevertheless, her interest was slightly aroused and she stirred herself, squinting across the room blearily: ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ she enquired.

‘It’s a skinny little girl,’ he answered disinterestedly. ‘Do you want it or not?

Maretta heaved herself out of the chair and seized the child rather roughly by the arm, pulling her closer to the light of the fire where she peered closely at her face, then lifted her clothes to inspect the small pathetic body below: ‘Goodness, it’s really skinny – and it’s absolutely filthy, too! Couldn’t you get a cleaner one than this?’

These comments infuriated Old Malik.

‘Look,’ he snarled in reply, ‘I told you it was skinny. Have it or not as you want. What’s all this about dirty? If it’s dirty – wash it. What’s wrong with you?’ So saying, he left the farmhouse in his usual bad humour, slamming the door loudly.

There was complete silence for some minutes. The child did not move and waited with frightened eyes fixed on Maretta. Sighing wearily, the woman rose unsteadily to her feet and fetched a small wooden tub from a cupboard in the corner of the room. After some water had been poured into the tub, the cowed, feather-light girl was lifted into the water; in the same movement, the dirty, ragged dress that was her only garment was stripped from her and thrown aside.