Hope of Earth

by Piers Anthony

  Wona sighed. “Surely so.”

  Jes faded out. But now she had something to think about. What she had learned distressed her. She was more attractive as a boy than as a woman? But what could she do about it?

  More time passed. Sometimes she was conscious of being picked up and moved, so that her soiled bedding could be changed, and she doubted that Wona had the strength to do that, so it must be Crockson. Someone was cleaning her body and putting her back down. She lacked the strength to protest, so kept her eyes closed and let it happen. She faded in and out.

  Then she woke feeling not as bad. She still lacked the will to move, but thought she could do so if she tried. She heard the others talking.

  “It is awful out there,” Crockson said. “I have heard the reports. Neither priest nor amulet retards the spread or mitigates the intensity of the malady. Physicians are helpless before it; they themselves are dying from it. All through the city, Athenians are abandoning themselves to despair. The space between the walls leading to Piraeus is a scene of desolation. Every man attacked with the malady loses his courage at once, and lies down and dies without any attempt to seek for preservatives. At first friends and relatives lent their aid to tend the sick, but so many of those attendants perished themselves that soon no man would thus expose himself. The most generous spirits, who persisted the longest in helping others, were carried off in the greatest numbers. So the sick ones are left to die alone and unheeded. Sometimes all the inmates of a house are swept away one after another, no man being willing to go near that house. Half-dead sufferers lie unattended around all the springs and reservoirs.”

  “But if you are right,” Wona said, horrified, “aren’t they then giving the plague to the water others must drink?”

  “That is my fear. But I found a clean supply, so that no bad water comes into this house.”

  “That must be why I didn’t get it,” Wona said. “I know of no reason the gods would protect me.”

  “The gods protected no one,” Crockson said. “I understand that bodies are piled up in the temples. I dare not go there to check myself, of course.”

  “Why not?” Wona asked ironically.

  But he answered her seriously. “You know why not! As if the physical suffering isn’t bad enough, those who survive the plague are filled with reckless despair. They have cast away the bonds of law and morality, amidst such uncertainty of every man both for his own life and that of others. Men care not to abstain from wrongdoing, because punishment is not likely to overtake them, and they fear that they will not live long enough to reap any further benefits of life. So they take advantage of that brief interval to snatch what joy they may, however ill-gotten, before the hand of destiny falls upon them. They steal, they kill, they rape—and the women are hardly less loath to participate, so many cannot be raped, being all too eager to experience what they might otherwise never feel. So, for some, it is a weird orgy of despairing pleasure. But I prefer to remain inside, my door barricaded.”

  “And you shared your hoarded food and water with us,” Wona said.

  He laughed, not unkindly. “Jes did not eat much.”

  “If any deserve to live, she does. She hates me for what I did to her brothers, and she had a hundred chances to kill me or leave me to die, but she was true to her word.”

  “That is another reason why she is so precious to me. I see so few truly honest and decent folk. They are like coins of gold.”

  Perhaps the dialogue continued, but Jes faded out again. When she woke, it was another day and this time she felt strong enough to open her eyes.

  Wona was there. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes. Weak, but better.”

  “Can you move your hands? Your feet?”

  Jes understood her concern, and shared it. She moved her hands, then her feet, then her head. “I am whole.”

  “May the gods be praised!”

  Recovery was not swift, but as Jes ate and drank her strength seeped back. In due course she was able to stand and walk, and to attend to her own functions. She had recovered without permanent loss, thanks to the care and protection she had received.

  It was just as well, because Crockson was running out of food. Soon they would have to go out to get more.

  When Jes felt able to walk a distance, and to swing her club, they went out as a tight group. The city was desolate. A stench hung over it. Bodies littered the streets.

  But there was some activity. Men were hauling the bodies away. Crockson recognized one. “He is an indifferent sort, never one to do a favor that promised no swift reward,” he remarked. “Yet not a criminal either. I wonder what he is up to?”

  “Maybe he is being paid to bring in bodies,” Wona suggested.

  “Hail!” Crockson called to the man. “How is it that you risk this grisly contact?”

  “I am recovered from the plague,” the man replied. “When I felt the awful weakness, and knew I was dying, I begged Athene to spare me, and promised I would make a better thing of my future than I had of my past. Athene spared me, so now I am doing public service, knowing I will not get the plague again. Do you wish to help?”

  Crockson looked at the others, then answered. “Yes, as soon as we have found food.”

  “Go to the Temple of Athene. They will give you good food if you help them clean up.”

  So it was that they found themselves, in the ensuing days, hauling bodies out of the temple. Wagons took them to funeral pyres, where the fires raged continuously. They still had to be watchful for maddened or indifferent ruffians, but a kind of macabre order was returning to the city.

  “Where are the vultures?” Wona asked.

  Jes looked around. Wona was right: there should be scavengers throughout the city, but there were none.

  “I think I know,” Crockson said. “They preyed on contaminated bodies, and died themselves.”

  Wona laughed. “Served them right!”

  In a few days Jes’s strength had largely returned. She knew it would take time for her to achieve her former health, but she could manage well enough for now.

  She reconsidered what she had heard during her illness, and found that it no longer bothered her. What did it matter that Crockson, like many Greek men, preferred to associate with boys rather than women? He was not forcing his way on anyone else. She had encountered such boys elsewhere, on occasion, and understood that they valued their associations with wealthy elder benefactors, and often remained friendly with them long after passing on into manhood and founding their own families. There was no force, only agreement. And Crockson had been extremely good to her despite knowing that there could never be the kind of association he had craved. If he had taken her at first for a boy—well, that was a misunderstanding she had invited by her masquerade. He had never reproved her for deceiving him. Thus he was indeed being generous in the manner of a friend, and she respected that.

  Should she say anything to him? It would be easy to avoid the subject, but not entirely honest. So she broached it, when there was opportunity for a private dialogue. “I was extremely ill, and I know you cared for me, so that I survived instead of dying or becoming maimed.”

  “I am glad you recovered.”

  “I heard what you said to Wona. About boys. Now I understand why you offered me a permanent position.”

  He looked as if expecting a blow. “I wish you had not.”

  “I would consider it an honor to be your friend.”

  He stared at her. “You are not revolted?”

  “I was disturbed by the notion that I might be more attractive as a boy than as a woman. That you might have seen me as such. But I learned better, as I pondered your generosity to us. We all are as we are, and there is no fault in that. I thank you for increasing my understanding.”

  “Oh, Jes, you have gladdened me immensely. I very much want to be your friend.”

  “Then we are friends. There is no need to speak of this again.”

  “No need,” he agreed,
visibly relieved.

  The next day Jes decided to go back to work at the looms. Wona had been working on them, when the burden of Jes’s care ameliorated. For the time being Crockson had no other workers; they had either succumbed to the plague, or were caring for sick relatives. There was a considerable backlog of weaving to be done.

  The siege lifted. It was rumored that the Spartans were afraid that the plague would spread to them. It was now possible to leave Athens.

  “You must go,” Crockson said before she could bring the matter up. “Wona has escaped so far, but the plague is not over; others fall prey to it daily, in no pattern I can ascertain. If she gets it—her constitution is not as robust as yours—”

  “Yes,” Jes agreed. “We must go to a city that doesn’t have the plague. But we can’t leave yet. Neither of us has worked in a fortnight, and we owe you silver.”

  “Consider it a loan. And take this.” He proffered the same little bag of coins he had before.

  “But we couldn’t possibly—”

  “When Wona marries a rich man, she can send you with repayment,” he said, pressing the bag into her hand.

  “But I might not get the money, or might not survive to return it to you. You are likely to lose it despite my best intentions.”

  “Please. It is a thing I need to do for you. For what might have been, had it been possible.”

  She considered that, understanding. “With that understanding, I can accept your generosity. I think, considering what you have done for us, I owe you my life, and would have repaid you as you desire, had it been possible.”

  “I very much appreciate the sentiment.”

  “Do you have advice about our destination?”

  “Calydon, on the Gulf of Corinth. It is a member of the Delian League, and far from Euboea.”

  He understood her need perfectly. “And Athens is on the route back from there to my home.”

  “I hope to see you again, before long,” he said.

  “Would you take it amiss if I kissed you?”

  He looked uneasy. “I prefer to remember you as I once thought you were.”

  Jes nodded. The magic would be absent, because he knew she was not a boy. “Another time, perhaps.”

  They made preparations for their renewed journey. Wona donned reasonably nonprovocative apparel, and Jes assumed her masculine form, complete with the two bows and their arrows, and a club and dagger that showed. They would be traveling through some hostile territory, and of course any territory could be dangerous for a woman alone.

  But the morning of their start, Wona felt bad. She was blinking and rubbing her eyes. “Oh, no,” Jes muttered.

  Crockson took one experienced look. “The plague,” he said, confirming it. “She did not escape it.”

  “But I can’t get the plague,” Wona protested. “It will ruin my looks.”

  “Not if you are well cared for,” Crockson said. “And you shall be. We’ll put you in the back room.”

  “But you have already taken much trouble tô take care of me,” Jes protested. “I should care for her on my own.”

  “Making those dangerous trips alone? Leaving her alone? That won’t be practical or safe.”

  Jes knew it was so. So they put Wona in the back room, and began the siege of her illness. Now Jes saw how it was from the perspective of the caregiver. Sometimes when Wona felt awful, she did not look that bad, while at other times she looked far worse than she seemed to feel. Much of the time she was unconscious or delirious, and sometimes she unknowingly said things she never would have uttered when in control. Jes found some of them wickedly fascinating. Wona had evidently had a lurid history before marrying Sam, and she liked to make men react Her sexuality was merely a tool she used to achieve her objectives. Wona had explained that before, but her confidences of delirium suggested how cynical the process was. Jes wished she herself had such ability.

  It also occurred to her that if Wona died, the family problem would be solved. Feeling guilt for the thought, she did everything she could to ensure that the woman survived.

  The disease wended its course, and though Wona was extremely ill, it became apparent that she was not suffering any permanent damage. She would recover and be as lovely as before.

  But after the stages of the illness passed, Wona remained quite weak. It took her a long time to recover strength. “That is the way of it, with some,” Crockson said. “They look well, but their resources are slight. It may be months before she is back to normal.”

  “Months!” Jes exclaimed. “I have been away from home too long already!”

  He shrugged. “Do you wish to remain at home all your life?”

  That set her back. “Yes and no. Our family stays together. We try to marry outside, and bring our spouses in to the family. So I want to bring a husband in to the family.”

  “Then you should be looking for a man to bring in.”

  That was a difficult point. She knew her prospects in that respect were so slight as to be not worth pursuing. “First I have to get Wona placed.”

  “But while she is recuperating she does not need constant attention. You could go out to search for your own man.”

  She laughed bitterly. “What point? I am not man-finding material.”

  “I think you are. You simply haven’t looked well enough.”

  “How should I look?”

  “What do you most want to do or be, in your life?”

  “A sailor. On a trieres. I love the ships. I love seeing new shores. I love the water. But—”

  “But they don’t take women. So sail as a man.” She had a tacit understanding with Crockson: neither betrayed the secret of the other, so she could change identities at the shop. He would even check to make sure her details were correct.

  “I can fool most people when afoot and on my own, but how long could I do it on a ship? The moment I had to urinate—”

  “You would do that on land. The ships put in to shore twice a day.”

  “Or swim—”

  “Few sailors swim. The water’s too cold.”

  “Or when asleep, if my clothing should—”

  “Not if you garb yourself carefully.”

  “Or when there is contact with a man, as there sometimes is in close quarters. There are so many ways—”

  “And if you are found out, what then? Will they execute you?”

  “Rape me, more likely.”

  “In the presence of the captain or an officer? That seems unlikely.”

  “The captain would curse me and put me off the ship without my pay.”

  “And meanwhile, you will have had your adventure. And have met two hundred healthy men, one of whom you might find worthwhile. And there will always be another ship.”

  She reconsidered. “You make it sound possible.”

  “Possible, if dangerous,” he agreed. “If your ship saw battle, you might be killed or injured, and injury could betray your nature when they stripped you for care. But maybe you would get through without discovery, if you were careful. If you prepared well.”

  “How could I prepare?”

  “Go down to Piraeus and study the ships. Learn their ways. Then you will know how to avoid mistakes, at such time as you board one.”

  She nodded. “That might be.”

  So on her next day off from work, with Wona resting comfortably, she assumed her male guise and walked down to the port city. Now that the siege was gone, most of the campers had departed and the road was clear. Traveling alone, she was able to walk swiftly, getting good exercise. She was glad of it, because she had not yet recovered her full strength either, and this should help.

  The port city was in constant activity. There were ships coming in and departing every day. Because it was war time, and the ships were on constant patrol, some were damaged and were being repaired. She was even able to go aboard one as it lay in dry dock, awaiting the attention of the overworked repair crew. It was fascinating. She was able to step more than thirt
y paces along its curving main deck. She saw the covered places for oarsmen, their stools on three levels beside the holes for the great long oars. The highest was actually a special kind of outrigger; the oarsmen on that file were called thranitai. What phenomenal coordination was required to ensure that no oars banged into each other! No one person would be able to see all the oarsmen at once; there were a hundred and seventy of them, allayed along the length of both sides of the ship. How did they coordinate? It was a detail that hadn’t occurred to her, before actually looking at this layout.

  Then she heard someone coming, and quickly got off the ship. She didn’t want to answer any awkward questions.

  When she returned, Crockson was grim. “Perikles has got the plague.”

  “But surely there are others to govern Athens,” she said.

  “Not the way he does. He is largely responsible for the building of the Parthenon and other temples on the Acropolis. He pledged extra funds from the treasury to the goddess Athene. He has been very good for the city.”

  “But isn’t he as unscrupulous as any other politician?”

  Crockson nodded. “Politics is not child’s play. Thirteen years ago, when he was facing vociferous criticism for his policies, such as the massive building program, he used a device to eliminate his chief opponent.”

  “He had him killed?”

  “Not physically. Politically. He arranged for an ostracism.”

  “A what?”

  “The people meet in the Agora once a year and take a vote to determine if anyone is becoming too powerful, and is in a position to establish a tyranny. If a majority conclude that the danger exists, they meet again two months later. This time each person brings an ostrakon, a potsherd, along, on which hedías scratched the name of the person he wishes to get rid of. The man with the most votes gets ostracized, and is exiled for ten years. That time, Perikles’s opponent was exiled. He didn’t deserve it; it was a political ploy. But he had no choice; he had to go. So Perikles is not a man to fool with. But that is exactly the kind of man we need in power today. Now that he is ill—if he doesn’t recover, Athens will be in bad trouble.”