Seed- The Gene Awakens

by Jane Baskin

  So when Ania-te saw, in her mind’s eye, the rotting corpses of her twin sister – the other part of herself – and her relatives … up on pikes along a road … her ancient cache of hatreds burst forth in a roaring river. In her rooms, she wept. Screamed. Scratched herself, viciously. Pulled at her hair until it hung in strings. Inconsolable.

  Her sons, trying to help. But: had never seen Mother like this. Had never known the suffering she had only hinted at. Father, wrapping her in bear hugs to keep her from harming herself. Ilia-te calling for physicians. Who came, who gave her medicines for calming, who eventually put her to sleep so that she could do her raging in dreams.

  Father and sons, sitting before a fire in the anteroom. Not speaking. What to say?

  Finally Che: “Will Mother be all right?”

  Father: “Unknown. Thank all the gods, you two were born in freedom. You have no idea … what we went through.”

  But of course … they did. Especially Che. Who could hear his mother’s thoughts as she hummed to herself in the kitchens. As she sometimes stared wordless into a fire. Saw the pictures in her head. Didn’t even know what they were when he was small. Once he understood … oh.

  Gwildan: had stirred a hornet’s nest. Freedom, respect: these things well established in the North. “Peasantry” discarded centuries ago. Ordinary folk, given land shares, representation in government. All this enshrined into law after the hideous peasant rebellion in the South – and its even more hideous aftermath. Nothern lords abandoning the practice of hoarding wealth, sharing the gell profits with all who helped in its cultivation.

  Lord Agin, the resident lord of Cha-ning at the time: “This is for the best. We cannot afford a rebellion like what’s going on in the South. And for what? We’re rich enough, by all the gods. This way, we won’t have to watch our backs.” The other two northern provinces, quickly following suit. Made sense, so they believed.

  The North: one of the few places in the universe, where humans understood the word “enough.”

  But word of this bizarre social evolution: spreading southward. Resulting in a relatively constant trickle of newcomers, the ones who survived escape. Making up a sizeable portion of the far northern population, now. And these: still raw. Still dealing with festering wounds.

  Now: people buzzing in corners, in small groups. Even in the munitions factory: whispering as they worked.

  Che and Colwen: worrying over their mother. Worrying over their troubled family. Worrying over those who were lost; who had probably died horribly. Feeling quite alone in the world. Wondering what they should do.

  Wondering what they should do.

  For people cannot observe such intensity – as was happening to their mother, as was happening to so many villagers who had lost so many – without wanting to take action. What sort of action? Irrelevant. Just an itch inside the belly. An urge to move. A desperate need to metabolize all the terrible feelings inside of them with some kind of active response. To turn feelings into deeds, and thereby soften the sting of helplessness.

  Che: the first to give voice to the idea. “We should go south. We should help.” Maybe I can use this – whatever it is – to help.

  This terrible notion: then spreading like a brush fire. Right about the time Gwildan announced that he was well, and would be returning to the rebellion, as soon as the first snows began to melt. In early spring.

  He: strong again. Well fed, a little less skinny. Well practiced, in daily rounds with the best soldiers and hand-to-hand fighters.

  And requesting weapons.

  Clan leaders, village leaders. Not knowing what to do.

  And even if the request were granted … how to transport? One man could not drive a convoy, especially through the jungle. There were motorized transports, of course. There were roads, of course. But these: well patrolled by spies from both North and South. Agents of the South, collecting tolls – and identification – where the roads emerged into their territory.

  Che: “We should send a convoy with him.”

  Dar-agan, softly: “I understand, Che. I know you want to help, but … ”

  “I want to fight.” This, loud, strong. Like a small bomb in the room.

  Dar-agan, looking at his feet. What to say? The young man’s relatives had been killed, viciously. Their bodies mutilated, left to rot in the sun.

  Nayan: “Che has a point, Father. We could split the convoy up, get through the jungle. I don’t see any other way to get the weapons to the rebels.”

  Father, sounding sad. “You too then, Nayan?”

  “There are a lot of us who want to help. And Noar and I have made this jungle crossing before. We know some ways to get through.” Noar, nodding.

  Dar-agan, a heavy sigh. How he had become addicted to peace! The villagers who chose to become soldiers, only called into action during raiding season. The rest of the year, patrolling; with little to do. The way they liked it. The way he liked it. Even in raids: few casulaties. Most of the raiders, simply chased off.

  But this … would be blood. The lords of the South, whipped into fury by their own intransigent beliefs. Belief, mind-set: way more powerful than any reality.

  Southern soldiers, carefully selected from the strongest peasants’ offspring. Taken as soon as they could be weaned. Raised in groups … very carefully. To forget – never to know – their origins; their parents. To disdain their people. To despise them as did the lords. To become soldiers.

  To become an entire social class unto themselves.

  Paid beyond their wildest dreams. Given practically free roam of the castles and mansions. Given all the food and females they could possibly desire. Treated – not exactly as equals, but as honored experts.

  Experts in killing. Lords: finding ways to deflect peasant rage against the aristocracy and turn it against their brothers. How the mind scientists of Sauran City would be intrigued!

  By their ability to turn a man one hundred eighty degrees from where he started, and make him their own. By their ability to fill him with a lust for blood, for power in war, for the mean subjugation of his enemies. By their ability to enslave not his body, but his mind.

  The southern lords’ soldiers: more than deadly. Vicious. War to them: sport.

  Exactly the type of soldiers, Dar-agan prayed his sons and his neighbors … would never have to face in anything more than a springtime raid.

  Dar-agan, a heavy sigh. “Whatever the case, there’ll be no heading south until the thaw. Even the city roads are impassable. And the cold is just beginning. The snow is here, yes. But the cold … you know what it’ll be like.”

  But … the young. Feeling things so intensely. Che and Colwen, feeling the loss of relatives they had never known. Because of their parents’ suffering. Because of all the feelings their mother had stuffed away, had stored like a hot coal in her belly, that now overwhelmed her.

  Noar and Nayan, feeling it along with them. Best of friends, the brothers. Walking in each others’ boots.

  And scores of young villagers, the same.

  Nayan, out on his balcony one evening. Contemplating. Should they go? Should they stick their noses into someone else’s fight? Looking down at the garden: shocked to find Zoren-te there, wrapped in a fur cloak. Standing at the tunnel entrance, not moving. Came down from his balcony, joined her.

  She: startled by his noiseless entry. His weirdness: just suddenly there. Whirled to face him. “What – what are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  An irritated sniff. “It’s a public place, isn’t it?”

  Nayan, a sigh. She is so difficult. “Yes, it is. But it’s also viciously cold. In another few weeks, you’ll have to breathe through wool, or your lungs will freeze.

  “I have a winter cloak. I can breathe through the ruff.”

  “This is also a place of bad memories … for you. And – for me as well. So I repeat my question, I’m curious. Why here?”

  “Why not here?”
>
  “Zoren, please answer my question.” She’s such a child.

  A sigh. “I don’t know who I am any more.”

  Nayan, confused. Not used to that particular type of mystery. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “Of course. As we both know, I’m an idiot. What do you mean?”

  Finally. “With … that man … here. He’s everything I’ve been raised to despise. But I don’t despise him. I can’t. So I suppose I’m a traitor to my family. I make weapons for my family’s enemies. And I do it with relish. It … makes me happy. But what does that make me?”

  Suddenly Nayan, putting his hands on her shoulders – despite her attempt to move away – and steering her to one of the garden benches. “Make sure you double your cloak under you, so your ass doesn’t freeze.”

  “Thank you for your concern for my ass.”

  “My honor. You told me, some time ago, that you and your father disagree on … southern social customs. You said that your disagreements … may even have made you closer.”

  “I love my father so much. He’s not a beast. He’s the product of his own upbringing, but he’s not a beast.”

  “No one said he was.”

  “They don’t have to say it. Everyone here thinks southern lords are animals. And my father, as the strongest among them … they must think he’s the worst of all.”

  A pause. Then: “You seem to care a lot what people think.”

  Facing him, angry. “What else is there? What people think … that makes community, does it not? What people think of you, that’s your standing in the community, is it not?”

  “You don’t want to be a pariah.”

  “Who does?”

  Another pause. “What do people think of you … at your home?”

  “My relatives … they think I’m crazy. My sisters and brothers, my mother … they say the most awful things about me. To me. Most people agree with them. Certainly aristocrats. But … a few other people, they like the way I am.”

  Nayan, remembering his own adolescent rebellion. Mild, by most standards. But hers: prolonged. Maybe too radical? Easy to get lost in such rebellion. “Tell me, do you really believe in the freedom of ordinary people?”

  Silence. Then: “I was in love with a peasant man. He was my only lover. I was seventeen, he was twenty. A chief in the munitions factory. He taught me so much. And we talked. Hours on end, in hidden places around the castle. He was so intelligent … he had learned how to read, I forget where. We fell in love. I gave myself to him, then I was caught. By my mother. I could tell, my father didn’t want to do it … but my mother said she’d do it herself if he didn’t. So he ordered my beloved be shot.”

  What to say? “That’s a terrible story. I’m sorry.”

  “I forgave my father.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he had the good grace to be sorry. He begged my forgiveness. We talked … he said that someday, things would have to change.”

  “Did you talk to your mother?”

  “I did not. I never talk to her. I hate her.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve been luckier than you, when it comes to parents.”

  “Your mother is a goddess. I wish I had a mother like that.”

  “As I said, I’m lucky. I’ll share her with you, if you want.” A smile.

  Amazingly, she smiled back.

  A quick, small smile. As if she forgot, for a moment. Where she was. Who she was. How she had come to be there.

  Nayan, noticing how pretty she was when she smiled. This time, not surprised.

  11.Love and Dirt

  The brothers: due for their shift at the munitions factory. Packing up to leave. Then the four: Nayan and Noar, Che and Colwen, heading across the snowy meadow on ganthas, bound for the forest.

  Zoren-te, heading out just after them. Had been talking to Gwildan; this put her behind her time. The brothers, seeing her crossing the bridge. Stopped. Waited for her.

  When she joined them, a strange look on her face. Surprise?

  “You didn’t need to wait for me.”

  Che: “We know. But we wanted to.”

  More surprise. “Thank you.” A small smile. Quick, like the other night in the garden. Uncertain.

  Nayan, acutely aware of this. She cares so much what people think of her. Maybe because she was so despised by her family.

  Silent on the ride outward. Her conversation with Gwildan, still bouncing around her head. The first time she had been alone with him. She: approaching him over breakfast. A moment’s hesitation, then boldly sitting down at his table.

  Gwildan, surprised. Taken aback? Normally a man of easy words, now not knowing what to say.

  Zoren-te, a slight smile. “Mr. … Gwildan. I don’t know your family name.”

  “I know your name.”

  “Yes, of course. I – uh, I wanted to talk to you.”

  “About what, My Lady?”

  “Please don’t call me that. I suppose I’ve acclimated to northern ways. I prefer to be called just by my given name.”

  “As you wish.” He, studying her for a moment.

  Oh! That gaze. Zoren-te, feeling as though looking into his eyes was like falling down a well.

  “Well, Zoren-te, (still using the formal of her name) I’m aware of your somewhat – unusual – views. I knew Gylan.”

  A startle. “Did you?”

  “I knew him, and I knew his family. Although he belonged to Vel, he often traveled the munitions factories in other provinces. You taught him well – or he taught you. He was at my lord’s factory in Seith, for almost two months.”

  “We taught each other. And … I loved him.”

  “So I heard.”

  What did he mean by that? Zoren-te, straightening. Defensive? Was it a slur on her young love? Implying she had debased herself in some way? Boldly: “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

  “I mean no offense, if that’s what you think. I heard you were very good friends. He mentioned that you often talked … a lot. That you studied the engineering of firearms. That you had ideas … different … from most of those of your station. Later I heard that you were discovered in his arms, and he was shot for it.”

  A strange moment, then. Zoren-te, her eyes becoming wet. A single tear, moving down her cheek. Gwildan, watching in silence.

  Gwildan: “He was a fine young man. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  Sitting in silence for a while. Only the one tear shed for her lost love. Composed herself. Then: “I’ve never known hunger. I’ve never known abuse, except for being dragged here by Nayan’s idiot brother. Maybe because I haven’t suffered much – that’s why I can’t stand to see other people suffering. When I was five, I saw a soldier whipping a peasant. The man was tied between two posts, and they had taken his shirt off. His back was bloody, and he was hanging, almost unconscious. The soldier whipping him was smiling, a big smile from ear to ear. Blood splattered on his face, and he licked it off.

  “My father discovered me. He was horrified, and took me away. Later he talked to me about it. I couldn’t stop crying for the poor man being whipped. I asked him over and over why it happened, and all he could say is, he didn’t know.”

  “You had compassion at an early age.”

  “I never could stand seeing the animals abused, either. When I was sixteen, I stopped a whipping. There was a whole box of whips behind the soldier doing the job. I took one, walked in front of him, and whipped him in the face. My mother screamed at me. I screamed back. We almost came to blows, but for my father coming between us.”

  “Tell me, Zoren-te: are you glad you were kidnapped?”

  “No, because it was abusive. I wasn’t harmed, but I wasn’t given a choice, either. For a long time I was furious. But then I talked to people, then more people. Then they got the idea for a munitions factory … I’ve been here since before winter started. I can hon
estly say, I’ve been more at peace here than I’ve ever known. I still want to kill Noar, though.”

  “Of course.” A smile.

  That begat another smile, from the normally irritable Zoren-te.

  Now, almost at the factory. Nayan, holding his gantha back, waiting for Zoren-te. Almost in a whisper: “You seem very pensive.”

  “Just memories.”

  “Memories?”

  “I was talking to Gwildan. It brought up some memories.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of … the South.”

  This time the shift: only one week. Winter: settling into its worst. Snow so deep … hard going, even for ganthas. The factory itself: warm enough, thanks to dozens of fireboxes. But the temp shelters: unable to stay warm through the night.

  One week: all anyone could take.

  Especially with all the talk of war in the South. Made people – especially young people – irritable, edgy.

  Except for Zoren-te. She, more quiet, self-contained than usual. Conferring here and there with Luisa-te, otherwise keeping to herself. Often eating by herself, in her workroom. Sleeping in a tiny temp all by herself, waking with her extremities red from the cold.

  Nayan, noticing one morning. “Your fingers are red.”

  “Better than white.”

  “You should sleep with someone.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  For an instant, surprise. For both of them. Then Nayan, flushing. “I didn’t mean … all gods, Zoren. I meant with someone like Luisa. Or even one of the guard dogs.”

  Zoren, at first irritated. Then amused at his discomfiture. “I’ll take the dog. He’s fuzzier. Besides, your friend will be hijacking Luisa as soon as possible.”

  Nayan, still flushed. “Uh … yes, he’d like that, I’m sure.”

  Nayan, deeply embarrassed – huh? Why? Certain it was her fault. The two going in opposite directions … quickly.

  At his own table, with the brothers. Che, regarding him with curiosity. “What did she say to you, Nayan? You’re all red in the face.”

  Noar: “Or what did he say to her?”