The year the women had tried proposing that subject be indicated in Langlish by simply repeating it had been the year they almost lost the Caucus. That had caught some man’s eye as he was looking over the conference transcripts or watching the tapes, and suddenly he had paid attention instead of just skimming. Two hours later there’d been a woodshedder at Hashihawa Household, with three senior males calling in a half dozen of their women to discuss the matter.
“Let’s see now . . . if we compare this to Panglish, and we consider a simple sentence such as ‘the men canceled the annual Caucus’ and we use this new rule, all of the following will be grammatical, right?” they’d begun. “ ‘The men the men canceled the Caucus.’ ‘Canceled the Caucus the men the men.’ ‘The Caucus canceled the men the men.’ ‘Canceled the men the men the Caucus.’ ‘The Caucus the men the men canceled.’ Have we got that straight?”
And there had been menace in their eyes. Are you trying to be funny? their eyes had demanded.
“So, we could have a sentence like this one: ‘The women who had abundantly demonstrated that they hadn’t the faintest idea what they were doing and were only behaving like idiots the women who had abundantly demonstrated that they hadn’t the faintest idea what they were doing and were only behaving like idiots regretted it.’ Is that right, ladies? We are expected to seriously believe that this proposal took two hours’ time? For women of the Lines? Trained linguists? And that it was passed?”
The Hashihawa women, badly scared, had introduced on the spot two subrules limiting the length of the duplicated subject noun phrase and specifying that any subject longer than three words would require the repetition of only its final three words. And had explained courteously that the subrules had—with inexcusable sloppiness—simply been taken for granted by the women, which accounted for their absence from the tapes and transcripts. And had maintained staunch innocence while the men, obviously suspicious and justifiably so, set up one trick question after another. Requiring mental gymnastics that would have been a challenge even if the proposal had been real, so that a background of data and discussion would have existed for them to use as a basis for those gymnastics.
It had been awful, and a very near thing. They had managed to leave the men convinced that this was no more than typical female nonsense and excess, not worth worrying about no matter how deplorable in terms of wasted time. But they would be watching more carefully from then on; the women had slipped badly, and had drawn attention to themselves. Something new had to be done, or they would lose it all.
Nazareth’s solution had provided the men with material for months of jokes at the women’s expense, but it had solved the problem. Certainly, if you were developing a language to express the perceptions of women, and had brought it along to a point where it was at last roughly stable, you would want to find those last weak spots in its structure and vocabulary that needed shoring up and adjusting. And what better diagnostic probe could there be for finding areas where the perceptions of women were difficult to express than the monumentally male King James Bible, in the old unrevised version? With its kings and masters and battles and rods and staffs and foreskins and so on? The men had agreed with that judgment, struggling to appear at least minimally serious; they had choked their laughter back long enough to agree that if there were areas of Langlish not yet adequate for expressing women’s perceptions, translating the King James Bible into the language would unquestionably locate those areas.
“The whole King James? All of it?” the men had demanded, half strangling. “You’re proposing to translate the whole goddamn thing into Langlish?” And the women had assured them that only the whole thing would suffice, and that it was expected that it would take quite some time.
“Oh my god, I should think so!” the men had moaned, giving up the attempt at courteous consideration, pounding one another on the back and roaring with laughter, and the Caucus had been safe for another century. Nazareth had dutifully submitted to the men a conference resolution in which it was unanimously agreed that the Langlish word for Langlish should be Láadan; for the women, this would mean an end at last to always having to guard their speech against an accidental saying of that word. The men had been unsurprised, and had declared themselves ready to be presented any day now with the Láadan name for Langlish, agreed upon unanimously by the women at the Caucus in plenary session. By acclamation, perhaps.
“I think if we were to do that,” Nazareth had said, frowning a little, “there would be a demand for a roll call vote.” And then she had sat smiling vaguely through the usual incantations about the impossibility of ever understanding women, quite content.
When Nazareth had first suggested the plan, a horrified woman from Verdi Household, already worn out with the lengthy discussion that had come before, had cried, “But Nazareth! The King James! You could spend hours on a single verse, Nazareth—it will take forever!”
“I do hope so,” Nazareth answered, her hands folded quietly in her lap and her eyes downcast to hide their expression. “I certainly do hope so.”
And hours had been spent on single verses, ever since. It had been impressed upon the men that the women could not possibly be comfortable with a translated verse, be it ever so flawless in its grammar and ever so magnificent in its style, if they had to worry that the translation had somehow caused a theological wrinkle; this required endless multiple sessions. Women, groaned the men, and their pathological religiosity! And the women admitted it, and expressed their regret, and were told that no one held it against women if they behaved in a way characteristic of women. The women had been properly grateful for the understanding the men showed of the matter, and for their forebearance; and they had been properly grateful to Nazareth Chornyak Adiness for preserving their Caucus, perhaps unto the very end of time. All those begats. . . .
CHAPTER 13
“The human brain has a hard time handling sentences when they’re embedded inside one another. We can manage ‘The man the woman spoke to left the room’ without much trouble; that’s just one embedding. But make that ‘The man the woman the child kissed spoke to left the room’ and our minds begin to gasp for clarification. And with each additional sentence embedded inside a sentence embedded inside a sentence it gets more impossible to understand. Now that’s a handy thing to know, because it has applications well beyond the construction of sentences.
“I knew that a single plan, standing all alone, was sure to be noticed and interfered with eventually by those who had the power to interfere, no matter how carefully it was camouflaged. But suppose you took the plan that really mattered, and you embedded it inside a plan that was embedded inside a plan that was itself embedded inside a plan? And suppose you made each of the other plans as you worked your way out toward the edges less and less worth interfering with?
“It was obvious to me that there could be no better way of protecting the real plan from all harm; and that the more useless layers of planning there were to be stripped away before you got to the real plan, the better. Furthermore, the more frivolous the plans on the outside seemed to be, the more the whole structure would look like something that was more trouble to interfere with than it was worth. It took a certain amount of ingenuity to keep it all going, and a tremendous amount of help from other women. Sometimes I wish I had not had to burden them so heavily; other times, I am sure they welcomed the burden because it represented doing something, taking action instead of just sitting around and letting things happen. But I have never yet had any reason to regret making this my method of choice. . . .”
(from the diaries of Nazareth Chornyak Adiness)
***
Father Dorien Pelure sat at the head of the long table; he was well aware of the dramatic note provided by the rays of late afternoon sunlight falling through the narrow window behind his head, and he was taking full advantage of it. It was the sort of thing that appealed to the uncomplicated minds of women, and Dorien never overlooked any such detail. During his first year a
s Abbot here he had kept a scrupulous calendar, noting precisely where that ray of light fell throughout each and every day for the entire year, so that he could schedule his appointments accordingly. He had moved the table, and moved the chair, checking and rechecking in a large mirror set before him, until he knew the one perfect spot for them in terms of putting the light to use, and he had put tiny dots of permanent black on the floor to mark where each leg should go. So that there could be no mistake. He did nothing carelessly.
The meeting with Fathers Claude and Agar had been set for three o’clock, while the light was golden and hearty and clear; then he had scheduled Sister Miriam to join them at four sharp, when the slant of light would make it seem that he had first the finger of the Holy Spirit at his shoulder and then, as the minutes went by, an unmistakable halo round his head. It would impress the sister, and amuse the other priests.
They had been severe with him. As they properly should have been. Forty-five minutes of interrogation. Was he absolutely positive that this nun was the right one? She was still young—could he be sure she had the necessary firmness of purpose? The ability to deal uncompromisingly with women older and more experienced than herself, and to keep them properly in submission? Was he certain of her dedication? Of her devotion? Of her virtuousness? And even if he was, was he certain of her intelligence, due allowance being made for her gender? Had she the proper skill of voice? Was she pleasant looking, but not beautiful, since beauty would make her task more difficult, causing the women she supervised to be jealous of her? Was she sufficiently learned? And so on, and so on. He had answered all the questions patiently, knowing they were wholly appropriate, and had let them wear themselves out and fall silent for lack of anything else to ask.
“You will be satisfied with her, I promise you,” he told them then. “I’ve chosen her very carefully—she is exactly right.”
“I still wish,” fretted Father Agar, him of the cavernous cheeks and temples and the incongruous little pot belly straining against his robes, “that the task could have been given to a priest. I would feel so much more secure, so much more confident, if a man’s strong hands were at the helm of this project!”
Father Dorien nodded, and shrugged his elegant shoulders, but he said nothing; they had been over this again and again, and there was no point in doing it yet one more time. A man could not do what must be done; it had to be a woman. He reassured them again: “You will be satisfied with her.” And then he lifted the heavy silver bell and rang it three times—once for the Father, once for the Son, once for the Holy Spirit—to call Sister Miriam Rose, of the convent of Saint Gertrude of the Lambs, into the room.
The door opened soundlessly and closed the same way, and the nun stood in front of it, her hands properly hidden away in the sleeves of her habit, her eyes cast down, her face serene, waiting. The priests stared at her, noting that she was tall for a woman, and too thin; unlike Father Agar, she had no round belly spoiling her Gothic lines. Her hair was hidden entirely by the wimple and coif, but the black of her lashes and the clear ivory of her skin hinted that the hair was also black; the perfect oval of her face was the classic oval of the traditional Madonna. Father Dorien knew what the others were thinking—that he had misled them, that this woman was too beautiful to work successfully in the supervision of other women, that he had made a mistake.
“Good afternoon, Sister Miriam,” he greeted her, tilting his head just the slightest fraction so that the halo would backlight him but not blur her sight. “You may speak to us now.”
She raised her eyes first—they were a brilliant dark blue, almost a violet—and then her chin, so that she stood absolutely straight before them. None of the hunching into herself that was so often a problem with these religious.
“Good afternoon, Fathers,” she answered. “I am here as you instructed me; please tell me how I may serve you.”
Father Dorien kept his face expressionless, but he risked a swift side glance at his colleagues. Ah yes . . . they were both leaning toward the nun with their lips parted and their eyes alert, and they had forgotten all their reservations. It was the woman’s magnificent voice. A voice that Father Dorien was confident had been given to her by God, specifically to enable her to serve his purposes in this project. As he had anticipated, she had only had to speak one sentence to put an end to their objections. He had heard that voice many hundreds of times, because he was her confessor, but it never ceased to be something he marveled over. It was not just a voice, it was a musical instrument, and she was a virtuoso in its use.
“Be seated, please, Sister,” said Dorien. “We will need you here quite some time; we do not wish you to stand.” No doubt both Claude and Agar would have a good deal to say to him about that later; it was not customary to allow a nun to sit in the presence of priests, no matter how long the time, unless she was ill, or aged, or an Abbess. Sister Miriam was none of those, and caution about setting precedents is forever necessary with female religious. Anything a priest does risks being dubbed a tradition; let him do it twice, and the term will be “hallowed tradition.” It required constant vigilance.
But Dorien knew this woman, and he knew what he was about. If they’d sat there and talked to her, and listened to her answers, the combination of her voice and her height would have emasculated Claude and Agar, and he was by no means sure he was himself immune; before it was over, they would have been hanging on her every word, looking up at her with respectful attention . . . it wouldn’t have done at all. And so he had made provisons in advance. The seat he directed her to with a gracious flicker of his hand was a low wooden stool. She would not be particularly comfortable, she would lose the advantage of her height, and she would be obliged either to tilt her head up to look at the priests or to keep her eyes modestly lowered. It was just the thing, and Fathers Agar and Claude could be glad they’d had his prior knowledge to safeguard them.
“You may speak, Sister,” he added.
“It is my privilege to obey,” she murmured, correct in every way, and she took her place on the low stool and waited for them to tell her what they wanted of her, her eyes safely on her feet.
“Sister Miriam,” said Father Dorien gravely, “we call you here today to give you a holy charge—a mission for the Church and for the glory of God. We charge you to keep secret, even unto death, every word that we say to you here this day, and we ask your pledge in the name of the Blessed Virgin. You may speak.”
“I swear,” answered Sister Miriam, without raising her eyes, “in the name of the Blessed Virgin, Holy Mother of God, that I will guard the secret of this meeting and the words spoken here today, even unto death. It is my privilege to obey.”
Dorien looked at his two brother priests, with raised eyebrows, posing the question. Well? Will she do? It was a silent question, but clear, and they nodded. So far, so good; a dutiful religious, seemingly well suited for a difficult job. Despite her irritating attractiveness, about which perhaps something could be done.
“Sister Miriam,” Father Dorien went on, “we are about to speak to you of a perversion of faith—it may be, although we cannot yet be sure, an actual heresy. Let your mind be pure, whatever your ears must hear, Sister; guard your soul. You may speak.”
“It is my privilege to obey,” she said.
“You will have heard, even within the convent, the gossip about the religious fad that has been spreading across the country—the so-called ‘Thursday Night Devotionals’ movement originating in the houses of the linguists. Specifically, in the dwellings of their women. It’s like any fad—its hold on the female masses is fierce right now, but it will not last long. We applaud the wisdom of our Protestant colleagues in making no move to interfere; they are right that the more freely the flame is allowed to burn, the more swiftly it burns itself out. However, with the usual naiveté of Protestants, they are missing a number of important points. We do not propose to miss those points.” He paused, and made a gesture of permission; then he realized that with her eye
s downcast she couldn’t have seen it, and he added, “You may speak.”
“I am listening, Father. It is my privilege.”
“Sister Miriam, look at me,” he directed, and admired the grace with which she obeyed. “I will tell you what our Protestant brothers, in their carelessness, have overlooked. Listen most carefully; again, guard your soul! You may speak.”
“It is my privilege to obey,” she murmured.
“First,” he stated, “only shameful theological ignorance would let this fervor be wasted; one does not let such opportunities pass. Since the Protestants have no interest in gathering in these souls in the service of their churches while the women are still in the grip of the fashion, we will be only too happy to do that for Holy Mother Church. You will begin that task for us, Sister Miriam. These women are meeting all over the country, always in the chapels of hospitals or in private homes; they have chosen Thursday nights for their effusions, and that’s very convenient. It is a proper fad, Sister. Uniform to a fault. Always in chapels; always on Thursday nights. Very easily managed. You will attend some of these meetings locally, Sister, to become familiar with their form. You may speak.”
“It is my privilege to obey.”
Do they ever find it monotonous, saying that, he wondered? He supposed they did it so automatically they weren’t even aware of it, after a while. Unfortunate that it wasn’t a single word.
“Then in about two weeks,” he went on, “you will be sent to a retreat house in the Ozark hills, where nuns from all over the world will join you at the direction of the Church. You will shape these nuns—who have been carefully selected, Sister, for this role—as a holy task force; you will of course have a priest in residence nearby to assist you. The sisters are to go back to their convents at the end of their session with you and attend all the Thursday Night Devotionals held in their areas—as many as possible. Your function and theirs is to seize this sudden religious fervor, passing fad though it may be, and win it for Holy Mother Church. We can make good use of that fervor, and we are confident that you and the other nuns will be able to devise ways to keep it from burning itself out. It’s a matter of timing; it is a force without direction or control, that must be caught and turned while it is at its most powerful. You will simply use its momentum for the purposes of the Church.”
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