Most of the girls sold as brides submitted quite willingly — they were young and impressionable, not to mention they had been told from birth what an honor it was, being purchased by strangers because of one’s appearance. These girls Did Not Know Any Better. But after marrying rich husbands (or being sold as mistresses), they seldom remained in the same state of ignorance; inevitably, they met other women who enjoyed very different circumstances, and they also met men who whispered such words as "Freedom" and "Love" and "Meet me behind the house when everyone else is asleep." As time went on, an unquestioning girl-bride became an established woman-wife who was not so naive and controllable as she once was. The woman’s husband/master/owner would try to control her anyway, at which point he would discover an important truth: These women were very strong.
Not just a little bit strong — they were prodigiously strong, with muscles on muscles on muscles. Men lusted after them for that very reason. But these muscles made the women exceedingly dangerous in bed (which is where the men fervently wanted them). A few men endeavored to deal with the situation by resorting to chains, manacles, and other forms of restraint, not to mention embarking on schemes to crush the women psychologically… but the logistics of this are fraught with complications when your intended victim is muscular in the extreme, not to mention that it takes a certain kind of male to implement such a program with sufficient ruthlessness. Most men who acquired Tye-Tye brides did not want the women as punching bags; they simply desired wives who looked jaw-droppingly gorgeous and who would competently attend to wifely duties without causing undue fuss.
In many cases, husband and wife resolved their differences through awkward nocturnal discussion: there would be a divorce, or an arrangement, or even a reconciliation wherein man and woman decided they could do worse than staying together. But some couples were not so adroit at devising peaceful solutions — some just resorted to violence. Wives dismembered their husbands with greatly exuberant ripping; husbands shot their wives without as much gleeful style, but with equally permanent effect; scenes of domestic horror were played up on the news, and dominated the public consciousness in the form of jokes, catchphrases and urban legends. "So this guy had a Tye-Tye wife…"
Such negative publicity agitated the Tye-Tye marriage brokers and seriously threatened their business. Male customers still lusted after wide-shouldered Tye-Tye brides, but buyers demanded that adequate measures be taken to avoid wifely insubordination. Thus began a lengthy period during which Tye-Tye girls were subjected to more than just classes in etiquette, needlepoint, and power-lifting; they were also brainwashed with potent Pharmaceuticals so they would submit to their eventual masters.
These measures were kept secret from the men who purchased the women, just as the backroom procedures for carving up cows are hidden from those who purchase meat. However, it turns out that husbands can often tell when their wives have been systematically reduced to emotional cripples… and many men prefer to have a partner-in-life who is not a pretty shell wrapped around a festering void of numbness.
The Tye-Tye marriage brokers once again found themselves forced to change tactics. This time, they opted for simplicity — they took hostages.
Lajoolie’s Situation
When Lajoolie’s parents sold her to a Tye-Tye marriage broker, they also sold her brother Xolip. Xolip did not know this; Lajoolie’s parents did not know it either. But a frightening man explained to Lajoolie that little Xolip would be slain in a most brutal fashion if Lajoolie did not conduct herself with acceptable diligence and devotion. If Xolip’s murder did not improve Lajoolie’s attitude, the frightening man would kill Lajoolie’s other brother… then her father… then her mother… then random children off the street, chosen on the basis of youthful beauty and joy-filled radiance.
This man was so frightening, Lajoolie did not doubt he would carry out these threats. If Lajoolie’s new husband ever complained to the marriage brokers about her behavior, young Xolip would suffer a freak playground mishap wherein the boy’s ear-globes were accidentally cut off and mailed to Lajoolie in a box. The same would occur if Uclod died under suspicious circumstances, if Lajoolie were seen sporting with another man, if certain standards of beauty and hygiene were not maintained… in short, if Lajoolie did anything that cast unfavorable light on the marriage agency which sold her to the Unorr family.
"But that is horrible!" I said. "Does Uclod know of this?"
According to Lajoolie, he did not. Customers were not told how marriage brokers kept their "employees" in line, and of course, the women themselves were forbidden to speak of it. Lajoolie would not tell Uclod the truth, even if she swore him to secrecy: he would be outraged, for he was a decent-hearted person, even if he came from a family of criminals who thought purchasing him a wife was a nice birthday present. In the long run, the little orange man might also start asking himself, "Does my wife care for me at all, or is she only pretending to like me for fear of injury to her loved ones?" This would hurt the little man’s feelings and undermine his faith in the Marital Partnership.
Lajoolie assured me she did like Uclod; she liked him a great deal, and thought she was very lucky. For one thing, Uclod turned out to be in a similar position to Lajoolie herself: his criminal Grandma Yulai had told him he had to agree to the marriage or else. It was a tradition in the Unorr family that older generations ruled the younger in matters of marital choice. If junior Unorrs did not obey their elders when it came to accepting a spouse, the youngsters were deemed too disloyal to be trusted in anything else. They immediately found themselves out on the street… or possibly under the street, if one was being paved nearby.
So it was not Uclod’s fault that Lajoolie was in this dire situation; indeed, she could readily understand if Uclod resented her, regarding her as an undesired stranger foisted upon him when he would have preferred to make his own choice. But Uclod had been the soul of kindness since their recent wedding — he treated Lajoolie as an equal, he included her in everything he did, and he seemed to like having her around.
In return, Lajoolie played the role that had been drilled into her through constant lessons in wifely deportment. Deference. Meekness. Modesty. A type of retiring femininity wherein she pretended to be small and demure, even though she was big and powerful.
This is why, for example, she spoke in false high-pitched tones. All Tye-Tyes had low voices — they were large people with large throats, and vocal cords like the strings of a bass viol. But the marriage brokers had decided a Tye-Tye’s natural voice was apt to remind small men (like Uclod) that the woman was a brawny behemoth who could easily cause grievous bodily harm. Therefore, Lajoolie feigned a falsetto, as well as missish helplessness and delicately modest submission.
"Does Uclod enjoy such displays of quivering frailty?" I asked.
"All men do," she replied. "That’s what I was taught."
"Why should you believe the teachings of awful people who threaten your kin? And anyone who says, ‘All men enjoy this,’ is certainly incorrect, for men are changeable ones who do not like anything all the time. In my experience, men get sudden ideas in their heads: that it is weak or unmanly to accept certain types of attention, even if they were happy with identical behavior two days ago. To your great astonishment, what they loved yesterday is the absolute worst thing you can do today… and they look upon you with disgust or pity, as if you are some loathsome insect who turns their stomach."
Lajoolie stiffened a bit in my arms. "Uclod isn’t like that," she said.
"Perhaps he is not like that yet," I told her. "Someday, however, he will be in a terrible mood because of nothing in particular, and he will glare at you and snap, ‘Why do you always talk like that, so goddamnedartificial? You could drive a man crazy!’ Or perhaps he will not say anything at all… but he will think it, and every word that comes out of your mouth will make him angrier. You will not understand why he glares so hatefully, and you will ask, ‘What is wrong?’ but he will wince at the sound of your voice.
There will be nothing you can say to make him love you again, since it is your very voice he despises; but you speak to him anyway because you are crazed and unhappy, and you think there must be words to make it all better again, if you can only say them in exactly the right way. You know you are only making it worse, but you cannot help yourself…"
All this time I had been holding Lajoolie in the dark. My one arm was wrapped around her back and my other was holding her hand, a position most suitable for giving comfort to a person who has recently been moved to tears. Now she let go of my hand; a moment later, I felt her arms curl around me, pulling me in until my cheek lightly pressed against her shoulder. "All men aren’t like that, either," she said softly. "Most of them try to be decent. The man who used you and killed your sister — he was the exception, Oar, you know that."
"He was an utter fucking bastard," I whispered. "And even though he’s been dead for years, he still makes me feel most sad."
"Obviously, he affected you deeply," Lajoolie answered with the ghost of a chuckle. "Do you realize you actually used a contraction? You said, ‘even though he’s been dead.’ "
I jerked away from her in horror. Then I started to scream. I screamed and I screamed and I screamed and I screamed; then I screamed some more.
Contractions
Here is why I screamed.
My own native tongue has contractions similar to those in English — inelegant short forms created by jamming words together. In the highest literature of my people, you can tell that characters are not well-bred when they use such figures of speech. Cultured persons always speak correctly; it is only the uncultured who treat the language with slovenly lack of enunciation.
This distinction impressed itself deeply on my mother. When my sister and I used contractions — which we did occasionally through carelessness or rebellion — our mother would chide us and say that good clever pretty girls should not speak sloppily. She herself never used contractions… until one day when I was twelve years old and Mother had a slip of the tongue.
You can imagine how Eel and I teased her about it. Mother hotly denied she said any such thing: "You girls must have dirt in your ears if you cannot hear what I say!" We had to go wash thoroughly, then do a number of unpleasant chores that were completely unnecessary, since all chores in our village were handled by automatic devices.
In a day or two, Mother slipped again — another contraction. This time Eel and I prudently did not point it out; but we caught each other’s eye and indulged in a moment of sisterly acknowledgment. We did not have dirt in our ears. It was our mother who had grown lax.
Such slips soon became a common occurrence… increasing to several times a day… then almost every time our mother spoke. Once in a while, when we did not feel like good clever pretty girls — when we felt like defiant clever pretty girls — we would use contractions ourselves, right to Mother’s face, just waiting for her to berate us. We were eager to cry back at her, "You use words like that all the time!"
Alas, our mother had ceased to notice; or more accurately, she had ceased to care. Her brain was becoming Tired. Indifference to enunciation was an early sign.
When we realized that, my sister and I swore an oath to the Hallowed Ones: we would never use a contraction again. We would speak with utmost precision, never letting ourselves get carried away with excitement or emotion. It soon became fierce superstition — that our brains would never grow Tired as long as we avoided untidy speech. Deprived of contractions, Senility had no chink through which it might enter our heads.
From that day to this, I had kept my oath. I had kept myself safe. I had never said the fatal words.
Now the spell was broken.
Or perhaps it was I who was broken. That is why I screamed.
18: WHEREIN I AM BRIEFLY UNCONSCIOUS
A Short Tussle
I remember Lajoolie holding me in the dark. I also remember fighting her, lashing out as I screamed and screamed. Under other circumstances it might have been an Interesting Struggle, revealing which of us was stronger. The blackness, however, proved the deciding factor — with no food in years and no light for photosynthesis, I rapidly exhausted the last of my energy reserves.
My only warning was a wash of dizziness, strong enough to cut straight through my frenzy. I attempted to say, "I am sorry, Lajoolie," but I do not think the words came out. Then my muscles went limp, and so did my mind.
Awakening
When I regained consciousness, the room was much brighter. The brightness came from dozens of glow-wands laid upon my body; someone had opened my jacket and stacked the wands on my chest, with more wands stuffed down my sleeves and others arranged along both sides of my legs. It was warm where they touched me — the pleasant heat of stones that have been baking under a summer sun.
I closed my eyes and basked. This light was not nearly so filling as the illumination in an Ancestral Tower — the towers were filled with many healthful energies far beyond the visible spectrum — but the glow-wands provided sufficient sustenance that I felt alive again… and I would get up very soon, after I had soaked in a bit more nutrition.
Someone said, "Did she move?"
The voice belonged to Sergeant Aarhus. When Festina and Captain Kapoor had headed in opposite directions, I could not remember whom Aarhus had followed. It dawned on me perhaps he had not gone with either party; perhaps he had remained unseen in the blackness, listening to Lajoolie and me speak. Was that not the behavior one expected of a zealous Security mook? Hiding in the dark. Keeping us under Covert Surveillance.
And what did he think we might do if left to our own devices? I asked myself. Did he fear we would damage a ship that was already broken? But perhaps Aarhus did not care so much about Lajoolie and me as he wished to guard baby Starbiter. The Zarett might provide our only way to call for help; therefore, the sergeant had posted himself to protect the child.
When I passed out, it must have been Aarhus who obtained these glow-wands. The sergeant would know where such items were stored; he would also be familiar enough with Royal Hemlock to find his way in the dark. I could imagine him staggering desperately through the blackness, mumbling to himself, "I must save Oar. I must save Oar. She is too beautiful to die."
I found myself wondering dreamily if Aarhus had fallen in love with me. After all, I was far more attractive than opaque human women… and far more charming as well, for I was not a mousy little thing eternally fretting about conformance with the dictates of society. Perhaps the sergeant sensed in me a Tempestuous Beauty who could never be Tamed.
Which is quite enough to make some men fall in love.
For a while.
Until something in the male head goes click and suddenly you are Just Too Much Trouble.
A shudder passed through me and I clenched my face in chagrin. All my life I had been most adept at devising delightful fantasies, pleasant reveries of Love and Romance. Why could I not do that now? As soon as I began inventing a tale of Aarhus in love with me, why did something in my brain bring the fantasy to a crashing halt: Foolish Oar, real love is not so carefree or so sweet?
Was this what it meant to have a Tired Brain? To find oneself unable to spin rosy dreams? To be constantly burdened by It is not so easy and You must not ignore certain facts ?
Most frightened, appalled, and desperate, I opened my eyes.
Quite Well Again
"Behold!" I said. I sat up and threw my arms wide, attempting to seem like a person not at all tormented by doubts. "Rejoice, for I have recovered! I am quite well again."
My motion sent several glow-wands tumbling off my body. Sergeant Aarhus rushed over to put them in place again. Sometime since I had fallen unconscious, he had removed his ostentatious mook-armor. Now he was wearing an olive-colored coverall, emblazoned with insignia patches I did not bother to read. My attention was more focused on the fact that he had rolled up his sleeves, revealing nicely muscled arms all covered with yellowish hair.
Though men of my
own species do not have hair on their arms, I am not so prejudiced as to disdain extra epidermal embellishment. In the course of my relations with humans, I have discovered that hairy arms can be excellently cushy.
Before I could remark upon the sergeant’s pleasant pelt, Lajoolie knelt beside me. "Are you sure you’re all right? Why don’t you lie back down?"
"I do not need to," I told her. "And if I sit up, I can absorb light through my back as well as my front."
To do that, I had to take off my jacket completely As I did so, Aarhus averted his eyes; and for a moment, I felt a pang of concern, wondering if he was turning away because he did not like the way I looked when I was not covered by clothes. I told myself this could not possibly be — more likely, he suffered from overdelicate modesty, whereby he considered it rude to stare at my unclad flesh. Such a quality would soon vex me if he did not Get Over It… but in the short run, I decided to regard it as endearing.
"How are you all?" I asked in hearty bright tones. "Are you as well as I am? What has been happening since I began my perfectly normal nap?"
"Nothing much," Aarhus replied, still looking at the wall rather than me. "You’ve only been out for an hour. No one’s come by with any news, and Nimbus is still locked like a rock around his kid."
He jabbed a thumb at the chair where Nimbus had been sitting. The cloud man was still there, enclosing his daughter in the same quartz-like form as before. "Have you not even poked him," I inquired, "to see if he reacts?"
"No," Aarhus answered. "No poking unless the captain or admiral okays it."
"Hmph!" I said, thinking the sergeant’s attitude most mulish. I was halfway tempted to poke the cloud man in sheer defiance… but such antics would be most childish, and perhaps would make Aarhus think less of me. The notion of having him love me still played in the back of my mind; and although the rest of my mind derided this notion as a foolish dream idyllan Infantile Whim — I still found myself desirous of his good favor.
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