The Power

by Naomi Alderman

  Mother Eve says: Let them lock us in. The Almighty will work Her wonders.

  The voice says: Doesn’t Sister Veronica realize that any of you could just open the window and climb down the drainpipe?

  And Allie says in her heart: It is the will of the Almighty that she has not realized it.

  The next morning, Sister Veronica is still at prayer in the chapel. At six, when the other sisters file in for Vigils, she is there, prostrate before the cross, her arms outstretched, her forehead touching the cool stone tile. It is only when they lean forward to touch her arm gently that the women see that the blood has settled in her face. She has been dead for many hours. A heart attack. The kind of thing that could happen at any moment to a woman of her age. And, as the sun rises, they look towards the figure on the cross. And they see that, engraved now into his flesh, traced with scored lines as if carved with a knife, are the fern-like markings of the power. And they know that Sister Veronica was taken in the moment that she witnessed this miracle and so had repented of all her sin.

  The Almighty has returned as promised, and She dwells in human flesh again.

  This day is for rejoicing.

  There are messages from the Holy See, calling for calm and order, but the atmosphere among the girls in the convent is such that no mere message could bring stillness. There is the feeling of a festival in the building; all the ordinary rules seem to have been suspended. The beds go unmade, the girls take what foods they want from the pantry without waiting for mealtimes, there is singing and the playing of music. There is a glitter in the air. By lunchtime, fifteen more girls have asked for the baptism, and by the afternoon they have received it. There are nuns who protest and say they’ll call in the police, but the girls laugh and strike them with their jolts until they run away.

  In the late afternoon, Eve speaks to her congregation. They record it on their cellphones and send it across the world. Mother Eve wears a hood, the better to preserve her humility, for it is not her message she preaches, but the message of the Mother.

  Eve says, ‘Do not be afraid. If you trust, then God will be with you. She has overturned heaven and earth for us.

  ‘They have said to you that man rules over woman as Jesus rules over the Church. But I say unto you that woman rules over man as Mary guided her infant son, with kindness and with love.

  ‘They have said to you that his death wiped away sin. But I say unto you that no one’s sin is wiped away but that they join in the great work of making justice in the world. Much injustice has been done, and it is the will of the Almighty that we gather together to put it right.

  ‘They have said to you that man and woman should live together as husband and wife. But I say unto you that it is more blessed for women to live together, to help one another, to band together and be a comfort one to the next.

  ‘They have said to you that you must be contented with your lot, but I say unto you that there will be a land for us, a new country. There will be a place that God will show us where we will build a new nation, mighty and free.’

  One of the girls says, ‘But we can’t stay here for ever, and where is this new land, and what will happen when they come with the police? This isn’t our place, they’re not going to let us stay here! They’ll take us all to jail!’

  The voice says: Don’t you worry about that. Someone’s coming.

  Eve says, ‘God will send Her salvation. A soldier will come. And you will be damned for your doubt. God will not forget that you did not trust Her in this hour of triumph.’

  The girl starts crying. The cellphone cameras zoom in. The girl is thrown out of the compound by nightfall.

  And back in Jacksonville, someone watches the news on the television. Someone sees the face behind the cowl, half hidden in shadows. Someone thinks to themselves: I know that face.

  Margot

  ‘Look at this.’

  ‘I am looking at it.’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Not all of it.’

  ‘This isn’t some third-world country, Margot.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘This is Wisconsin.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘This is happening in goddamned Wisconsin. This.’

  ‘Try to keep calm, Daniel.’

  ‘They should shoot those girls. Just shoot them. In the head. Bam. End of story.’

  ‘You can’t shoot all the women, Daniel.’

  ‘It’s OK, Margot, we wouldn’t shoot you.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s comforting.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Your daughter. I forgot. She’s … I wouldn’t shoot her.’

  ‘Thanks, Daniel.’

  Daniel drums his fingers on the desk, and she thinks, as she finds herself thinking quite often, I could kill you for that. It’s become a constant low-level hum in her. A thought she comes back to like a smooth stone in her pocket to rub her thumb across. There it is. Death.

  ‘It’s not OK to talk about shooting young women.’

  ‘Yeah. I know. Yeah. Just …’

  He gestures at the screen. They’re watching a video of six girls demonstrating their power on one another. They stare into the camera. They say, ‘We dedicate this to the Goddess’; they’ve learned that from some other video, somewhere on the web. They shock one another to the point that one of them faints. Another is bleeding from the nose and ears. This ‘Goddess’ is some kind of internet meme, stoked by the existence of the power, by anonymous forums and by the imaginations of young people, which are now what they have always been and ever shall be. There is a symbol; it is a hand like the hand of Fatima, the palm containing an eye, the shock-tendrils extending from the eye like extra limbs, like the branches of a tree. There are spray-painted versions of this symbol appearing now on walls and railway sidings and motorway bridges – high, out-of-the-way places. Some of the internet message boards are encouraging the girls to get together to do terrible things; the FBI is trying to close them down, but as soon as one goes another springs up to take its place.

  Margot watches the girls on the screen playing with their power. Screaming as they take a hit. Laughing as they deliver one.

  ‘How’s Jos?’ says Daniel at last.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  She’s not fine. She’s having trouble with this power. No one knows enough to explain what’s happening to her. She can’t control the power inside her, and it’s getting worse.

  Margot watches the girls on the screen in Wisconsin. One of them has a tattooed hand of the Goddess in the centre of her palm. Her friend shrieks as she applies the power, but it’s not clear to Margot whether she’s crying out with fear, pain or with delight.

  ‘And we’re joined in the studio today by Mayor Margot Cleary. Some of you might remember Mayor Cleary as a leader who acted swiftly and decisively after the outbreak, probably saving many lives.’

  ‘And she’s here with her daughter, Jocelyn. How are you doing there, Jocelyn?’

  Jos shifts uneasily in her chair. These seats look comfortable, but they’re actually hard. There’s something sharp digging into her. The pause goes on a moment too long.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, now, you have an interesting story, don’t you, Jocelyn? You’ve been having some trouble?’

  Margot puts a hand on Jos’s knee. ‘Like a lot of young women,’ she says, ‘my daughter Jocelyn recently started experiencing the development of the power.’

  ‘We have some footage of that, don’t we, Kristen?’

  ‘Here’s the press conference on your front lawn. I believe you put a boy in the hospital, didn’t you, Jocelyn?’

  They cut to the footage of the day Margot was called home. There’s Margot, standing on the steps of the Mayor’s Residence, tucking her hair behind her ears in that way that makes her look nervous even when she’s not. In the footage she puts an arm around Jos and reads from her prepared statement.

  ‘My daughter was involved in a brief altercation,’ she says. ‘Our tho
ughts are with Laurie Vincens and his family. We are grateful that the damage he sustained does not seem to have been serious. This is the kind of accident which is befalling many young women today. Jocelyn and I hope that everyone will remain calm and allow our family to move on from this incident.’

  ‘Wow, that seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it, Kristen?’

  ‘Sure does, Tom. How did it feel, Jocelyn, when you hurt that kid?’

  Jos has been preparing for this with her mom for more than a week now. She knows what to say. Her mouth is dry. She’s a trouper; she does it anyway.

  ‘It was scary,’ she says. ‘I hadn’t learned how to control it. I was worried I could have really hurt him. I wished … I wished someone had shown me how to use it properly. How to control it.’

  There are tears starting in Jos’s eyes. They hadn’t rehearsed that, but it’s great. The producer zooms right in, angling camera three to catch the glisten. It’s perfect. She’s so young and fresh and beautiful and sad.

  ‘Sounds really frightening. And you think it would have helped if –’

  Margot steps in again. She’s also looking good. Glossy, sleek hair. Subtle tones of cream and brown on her eyelids. Nothing too showy. She could be that lady on your block who takes great care of herself, swims and does yoga. Aspirational.

  ‘That day started me thinking, Kristen, about how we can really help these girls. The advice right now is just for them not to use their power at all.’

  ‘We don’t want them just letting off lightning bolts in the street, now, do we?’

  ‘Certainly not, Tom. But my three-point plan is this.’ That’s right. Assertive. Effective. Short sentences. A numbered list. Just like on BuzzFeed.

  ‘One: set up safe spaces for the girls to practise their power together. A trial at first in my metropolitan area and, if it’s popular, state wide. Two: identify girls who have good control to help the younger ones learn to keep their power in check. Three: zero tolerance of usage outside these safe spaces.’

  There’s a pause. They’ve talked this through in advance. The audience listening at home will need time to adjust to what they’ve just heard.

  ‘So, if I understand what you’re proposing, Mayor Cleary, you’d like to use public money to teach girls how to use their power more effectively?’

  ‘More safely, Kristen. And I’m really here to gauge interest. In times like these, we should probably remember what the Bible says: the highest among us aren’t always the wisest, and the older generation isn’t always the best to judge what’s right.’ She smiles. Quoting the Bible – a winning strategy. ‘Anyway, I think it’s the job of government to come up with interesting ideas, don’t you?’

  ‘Are you suggesting some kind of training camp for these girls?’

  ‘Now, Tom, you know that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just this: we don’t let young people drive a car without getting their licence, do we? You wouldn’t want the guy rewiring your house to have no training. That’s all I’m saying: let the girls teach the girls.’

  ‘But how do we know what they’ll teach them?’ Tom’s sounding a little high-pitched now, a little afraid. ‘This all sounds very dangerous to me. Instead of teaching them how to use it, we should be trying to cure it. That’s my bottom line.’

  Kristen smiles directly into the camera. ‘But no one has a cure, do they, Tom? Says in the Wall Street Journal this morning that a multinational group of scientists is certain now that the power is caused by an environmental build-up of nerve agent that was released during the Second World War. It’s changed the human genome. All girls born from now on will have the power – all of them. And they’ll keep it throughout life, just like the older women do if it’s woken up in them. It’s too late now to try to cure it; we need new ideas.’

  Tom tries to say something else, but Kristen just carries on: ‘I think this is a great idea, Mayor Cleary. If you want my endorsement, I’m right behind this plan.

  ‘And now the weather on the ones.’

  Email from: throwawayaddress29457902@gmail.com

  Email to: Jocelyn.feinburgcleary@gmail.com

  Saw you on the news today. You’re having trouble with your power. You want to know why? You want to know if anyone else is having trouble, too? You don’t know the half of it, sister. This rabbit hole goes all the way down. Your gender-bending confusion is just the start of it. We need to put men and women back where they belong.

  Check out www.urbandoxspeaks.com if you want to know the truth.

  ‘How fucking dare you?’

  ‘There was no movement in your office, Daniel. No one was willing to listen.’

  ‘So you do this? National TV? Promising to roll the thing out state wide? If you remember, Margot, I am the Governor of this state and you are just the Mayor of your metropolitan area. You went on national TV to talk about rolling it out state wide?’

  ‘There’s no law against it.’

  ‘No law? No fucking law? How about, do you care about any of the agreements we have in place? How about, no one’s going to find you the fucking funding for this thing if you make this number of enemies in one morning’s work? How about, I will personally make it my mission to block any proposal you put forward. I have powerful friends in this town, Margot, and if you think you can just railroad over the work we’ve done so you can become some kind of celebrity …’

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘I will not fucking calm down. It’s not just your tactics, Margot, not just fucking going to the press, it’s this whole cock-eyed plan. You’re going to use public money to train basically terrorist operatives to use their weapons more effectively?’

  ‘They’re not terrorists, they’re girls.’

  ‘You wanna bet? You think there won’t be some terrorists in amongst them? You’ve seen what’s happened in the Middle East, in India and Asia. You’ve seen it on the TV. You wanna bet your little scheme won’t end up drawing in some fucking jihadis?’

  ‘You done?’

  ‘Am I –’

  ‘Are you done? Because I have work to get on with now so if you’re finished –’

  ‘No, I’m not fucking done.’

  But he is. Even as he stands in Margot’s office spitting on to the fine furnishings and the shaved-glass awards for municipal excellence, phone calls are being made, emails are being sent, tweets are being posted and forum posts composed. ‘Did you hear that lady on the morning show today? Where can I sign my girls up for that thing? I mean, seriously, I have three girls, fourteen, sixteen and nineteen, and they are tearing each other apart. They need someplace to go. They got to let off steam.’

  Before the week is over, Margot’s received over one and a half million dollars in donations for her girls’ camps – some cheques from worried parents, all the way up to anonymous gifts from Wall Street billionaires. There are people who want to invest in her scheme now. It’s going to be a public-private initiative, a model of how government and business can work hand in glove.

  Before a month is done, she’s found spots for the first test centres in the metropolitan area: old schools shut down when the boys and girls were segregated, places with good-size gymnasiums and outdoor space. Six other state representatives arrive for informational visits so she can show them what she’s planning.

  And before three months are out, people are beginning to say, ‘You know, why doesn’t that Margot Cleary run for something a little more ambitious? Get her in. Let’s have a meeting.’

  Tunde

  In a dark basement in a town in rural Moldova, a thirteen-year-old girl with a faint moustache on her upper lip brings stale bread and old, oily fish to a group of women huddled on dirty mattresses. She has been coming here for weeks. She is young and slow-witted. She is the daughter of the man who drives the bread truck. He keeps lookout sometimes for the men who own this house and the women who are kept here. They pay him a little for the stale bread.

  The women have tried asking the girl for things in the past.
A cellphone – couldn’t she bring them a telephone somehow? Some paper, to write a note – could she post something for them? Just one stamp and a paper? When their families hear what’s happened to them, they’ll be able to pay her. Please. The girl has always looked down and shaken her head fiercely, blinking her moist, stupid eyes. The women think the girl may be deaf. Or she has been told to be deaf. Things have happened already to these women to make them wish they could be deaf and blind.

  The bread-truck man’s daughter empties their bucket of slops into the drain in the yard, rinses it out with the hose and returns it to them clean, apart from a few flecks of shit under the rim. The smell will be better in here for an hour or two at least.

  The girl turns to leave. When she’s gone, they’ll be in darkness again.

  ‘Leave us a light,’ one of the women says. ‘Don’t you have a candle? A little light for us?’

  The girl turns towards the door. Looks up the stairs to the ground floor. No one is there.

  She takes the hand of the woman who spoke. Turns it palm upward. And in the centre of the palm, this thirteen-year-old girl makes a little twist with the thing that has just woken in her collarbone. The woman on the mattress – five and twenty, and thought she was going to a good secretarial job in Berlin – gasps and shudders; her shoulders squirm and her eyes go wide. And the hand that holds the mattress flickers with a momentary silver light.

  They wait in the dark. They practise. They have to be certain they can do it all in one go, that no one will have time to reach for his gun. They pass the thing from hand to hand in the dark and marvel at it. Some of them had been held captive for so long they never heard a word of this thing; for the others, it wasn’t more than a strange rumour, a curiosity. They believe God has sent a miracle to save them, as He rescued the Children of Israel from slavery. From the narrow places, they cried out. In the dark, they were sent light. They weep.

  One of the overseers comes to unshackle the woman who thought she was going as a secretary to Berlin before she was thrown down on a concrete floor and shown, over and over again, what her job really was. He has the keys in his hand. They fall on him all at once, and he cannot make a sound and blood gushes from his eyes and ears. They unlock one another’s bonds with his bundle of keys.