Coming of Age in Karhide

by Ursula K. Le Guin

  said the Farmwife, perhaps only partly understanding, gazing only at the set, still face on the pillow. She was trembling a little. "You're cold, dema," Hamid said gently and respectfully. "You should get dressed." "Is he warm enough? Was he chilled, in the boat? I can have the fire laid--" "No. He's warm enough. It's you I speak of, dema." She glanced at him a little wildly, as if seeing him that moment. "Yes," she said. "Thank you." "I'll come back in a little while," he said, laid his hand on his heart, and quietly went out, closing the massive door behind him. He went across to the kitchen wing anddemanded food and drink for a starving man, a thirsty man leg-cramped fromcrouching in a damned boat all night. He was not shy, and was used to theauthority of his calling. It had been a long journey overland from the city, and then poling through the marshes, with Broad Isle the only hospitable placeto stop among the endless channels, and the sun beating down all day, and thenthe long dreamlike discomfort of the night. He made much of his hunger andtravail to amuse his hosts and to divert them, too, from asking questionsabout how the Husbandman did and would do. He did not want to tell them 'more than the man's wife knew. But they, discreet or knowing or respectful, askedno direct questions of him. Though their concern for Farre was plain, theyasked only, by various indirections, if he was sure to live, and seemedsatisfied by that assurance. In some faces Hamid thought he saw a glimpse ofsomething beyond satisfaction: a brooding acceptance in one; an almostconniving intelligence in another. One young fellow blurted out, "Then will hebe--" and shut his mouth, under the joined stares of five or six older people. They were a trapmouthed lot, the Sandry Islanders. All that were not activelyyoung looked old: seamed,weather beaten, brown skin wrinkled and silvery, hands gnarled, hair thick, coarse, and dry. Only their eyes were quick, observant. And some of them had eyes of an unusual color, like amber; Pask, his wife Dyadi, and several others, as well as Farre himself. The first timeHamid had seen Farre, before the coma deepened, he had been struck by thestrong features and those light, clear eyes. They all spoke a strong dialect, but Hamid had grown up not far inland from the marshes, and anyhow had an earfor dialects. By the end of his large and satisfying breakfast he wasglottal-stopping with the best of them. He returned to the great bedroom witha well-loaded tray. As he bad expected, the Farmwife, dressed and shod, wassitting close beside the bed, her hand lying lightly on her husband's hand. She looked up at Hamid politely but as an intruder: please be quiet, don'tinterrupt us, make him be well and go away... . Hamid had no particular eyefor beauty in women, perhaps having seen beauty too often at too short adistance, where it dissolves; but he responded to a woman's health, to thefirm sweet flesh, the quiver and vigor of full life. And she was fully alive. She was as tender and powerful as a red-deer doe, as unconsciously splendid. He wondered if there were fawns, and then saw the child standing behind herchair. The room, its shutters closed, was all shadow with a spatter anddappling of broken light across the islands of heavy furniture, the footboardof the bed, the folds of the coverlet, the child's face and dark eyes. "Hamiddem," the Farmwife said--despite her absorption in her husbandshe had caught his name, then, with the desperate keen hearing of thesickroom, where every word carries hope or doom--"I still cannot see himbreathe." "Lay your ear against his chest," he said, in a tone deliberatelylouder than her whisper. "You'll hear the heart beat, and feel the lungsexpand. Though slowly, as I said. Dema, I brought this for you. Now you'll sithere, see, at this table. A little more light, a shutter open, so. It won'tdisturb him, not at all. Light is good. You are to sit here and eat breakfast. Along with your daughter, who must be hungry, too." She introduced the child, Idi, a girl of five or six, who clapped her hand on her heart and whispered"Give-you-good-day-dema" all in one glottal-stopped word before she shrankback behind her mother: It is pleasant to be a physician and be obeyed, Hamidreflected, as the Farm-wife and her child, large and little images of eachother in their shirts and full trousers and silken braided hair, sat at thetable where he had put the tray down and meekly ate the breakfast he had

  brought. He was charmed to see that between them they left not a crumb. When Makali rose her face had lost the knotted look, and her dark eyes, though still large and still concerned, were tranquil. She has a peacefulheart, he thought. At the same moment his physician's eye caught the signs; she was pregnant, probably about three months along. She whispered to thechild, who trotted away. She came back to the chair at the bedside, which hehad already relinquished. "I am going to examine and dress his wound," Hamidsaid. "Will you watch, dema, or come back?" "Watch," she said. "Good," hesaid. Taking off his coat, he asked her to have hot water sent in from thekitchen. "We have it piped," she said, and went to a door in the farthestshadowy corner. He had not expected such an amenity. Yet he knew that some ofthese island farms were very ancient places of civilization, drawing for theircomfort and provision on inexhaustible sun, wind, and tide, settled in a wayof life as immemorial as that of their plow-lands and pastures, as full andsecure. Not the show-wealth of the city, but the deep richness of the land, was in the steaming pitcher she brought him, and in the woman who broughtit. "You don't need it boiling?" she asked, and he said, "This is what Iwant." She was quick and steady, relieved to have a duty, to be of use. Whenhe bared the great sword-wound across her husband's abdomen he glanced up ather to see how she took it. Compressed lips, a steady gaze. "This," he said, his fingers above the long, dark, unhealed gash, "looks the worst; but this, here, is the worst. That is superficial, a mere slash as the sword withdrew. But here, it went in, and deep." He probed the wound. There was no shrinkingor quiver in the man's body; he lay insensible. "The sword withdrew," Hamidwent on, "as the swordsman died. Your husband killed him even as he struck. And took the sword from him. When his men came around him he was holding it inhis left hand and his own sword in his right, though he could not rise fromhis knees... . Both those swords came here with us... . There, you see? That was a deep thrust. And a wide blade. That was nearly a deathblow. But notquite, not quite. Though to be sure, it took its toll." He looked up ather openly, hoping she would meet his eyes, hoping to receive from her theglance of acceptance, intelligence, recognition that he had seen in this faceand that among Sandry's people. But her eyes were on the purple and lividwound, and her face was simply intent. "Was it wise to move him, carry him sofar?" she asked, not questioning his judgment, but in wonder. "The Doctor said it would do him no harm," Hamid said. "And it has done none. The fever isgone, as it has been for nine days now." She nodded, for she had felt how coolFarre's skin was. "The inflammation of the wound is, if anything, less than itwas two days ago. The pulse and breath are strong and steady. This was theplace for him to be, dema." "Yes," she said. "Thank you. Thank you, Hamiddem." Her clear eyes looked into his for a moment before returning to thewound, the motionless, muscular body, the silent face, the closedeyelids. Surely, Hamid thought, surely if it were true she'd know it! Shecouldn't have married the man not knowing! But she says nothing. So it's nottrue, it's only a story... . But this thought, which gave him a tremendousrelief for a moment, gave way to another: She knows and is hiding from theknowledge. Shutting the shadow into the locked room. Closing her ears in casethe word is spoken. He found he had taken a deep breath and was holding it. He wished the Farmwife were older, tougher, that she loved her farmer less. Hewished he knew what the truth was, and that he need not be the one to speakit. But on an utterly unexpected impulse, he spoke: "It is not death," hesaid, very low, almost pleading. She merely nodded, watching. When he reachedfor a clean cloth, she had it ready to his hand. As a physician, he asked herof her pregnancy. She was well, all was well. He ordered her to walk daily, tobe two hours out of the sickroom in the open air. He wished he might go withher, for he liked her and it would have been a pleasure to walk beside her, watching her go along tall and lithe and robust. But if she was to leaveFarre's side for two hours, he was to replace her there: that was simplyunderstood. He obeyed her implicit orders as she obeyed his explicit ones. His own freedom was considerable, for she s
pent most of the day in the

  sickroom, and there was no use his being there, too, little use his beingthere at all; in fact: Farre needed nothing from him or her or anyone, asidefrom the little nourishment he took. Twice a day, with infinite patience, shecontrived to feed him ten or a dozen sips of Dr. Saker's rich brew of meat andherbs and medicines, which Hamid concocted and strained daily in the kitchenwith the cooks' interested aid. Aside from those two half hours, and once aday the bed-jar for a few drops of urine, there was nothing to be done. Nochafing or sores developed on Farre's skin. He lay unmoving, showing nodiscomfort. His eyes never opened. Once or twice, she said, in the night, hehad moved a little, shuddered. Hamid had not seen him make any movement fordays. Surely, if there was any truth in the old book Dr. Saker had shown himand in Pask's unwilling and enigmatic hints of confirmation, Makali wouldknow? But she said never a word, and it was too late now for him to ask. Hehad lost his chance. And if he could not speak to her, he would not go behindher back, asking the others if there was any truth in this tale. Of course there isn't, he told his conscience. A myth, a rumor, a folktale of the 'OldIslanders'... and the word of an ignorant man, a saddler... . Superstition! What do I see when I look at my patient? A deep coma. Adeep, restorative coma. Unusual, yes, but not abnormal, not uncanny. Perhapssuch a coma, a very long vegetative period of recovery, common to theseislanders, an inbred people, would be the origin of the myth, muchexaggerated, made fanciful... . They were a healthy lot, and though heoffered his services he had little to do once he had reset a boy's badlysplinted arm and scraped out an old fellow's leg abscesses. Sometimes littleIdi tagged after him. Clearly she adored her father and missed his company. She never asked, "Will he get well," but Hamid had seen her crouched at thebedside, quite still, her cheek against Farre's unresponding hand. Touched bythe child's dignity, Hamid asked her what games she and her father had played. She thought a long time before she said, "He would tell me what he was doingand sometimes I could help." Evidently she had simply followed Farre in hisdaily round of farmwork and management. Hamid provided only an unsatisfactory, frivolous substitute. She would listen to his tales of the court and city fora while, not very interested, and soon would run off to her own small, seriousduties. Hamid grew restive under the burden of being useless. He found walking soothed him, and went almost daily on a favorite circuit: down to thequay and along the dunes to the southeast end of the island, from which hefirst saw the open sea, free at last of the whispering green levels ofthe reedbeds. Then up the steepest slope on Sandry, a low hill of worn graniteand sparse earth, for the view of sea and tidal dams, island fields andgreen marshes from its summit, where a cluster of windmills caught the seawind with slender vanes. Then down the slope past the trees, the Old Grove, tothe farmhouse. There were a couple of dozen houses in sight from Sandry Hill, but 'the farmhouse' was the only one so called, as its owner was calledthe Husbandman, or Farmer Sandry, or simply Sandry if he was away from theisland. And nothing would keep an Islander away from his island but his dutyto the crown. Rooted folk, Hamid thought wryly, standing in the lane near theOld Grove to look at the trees. Elsewhere on the island, indeed on all theislands, there were no trees to speak of. Scrub willows down along thestreams, a few orchards of wind-dwarfed, straggling apples. But here in theGrove were great trees, some with mighty trunks, surely hundreds of years old, and none of them less than eight or ten times a man's height. They did notcrowd together but grew widely spaced, each spreading its limbs and crownbroadly. In the spacious aisles under them grew a few shrubs and ferns and athin, soft, pleasant grass. Their shade was beautiful on these hot summer dayswhen the sun glared off the sea and the channels and the sea wind scarcelystirred the fiery air. But Hamid did not go under the trees. He stood in thelane, looking at that shade under the heavy foliage. Not far from the lane he could see in the grove a sunny gap where an old tree had come down, perishingin a winter gale maybe a century ago, for nothing was left of the fallen trunkbut a grassy hummock a few yards long. No sapling had sprung up or been

  planted to replace the old tree; only a wild rose, rejoicing in the light, flowered thornily over the ruin of its stump: Hamid walked on, gazing aheadat the house he now knew so well, the massive slate roofs, the shutteredwin-dow of the room where Makali was sitting beside her husband, waiting forhim to wake. "Makali, Makali," he said under his breath, grieving for her, angry with her, angry with himself, sorry for himself, listening to the soundof her name. The room was dark to his still sun-bedazzled eyes, but he wentto his patient with a certain decisiveness, almost abruptness, and turned backthe sheet. He palpated, auscultated, took the pulse. "His breathing has beenharsh," Makali murmured. "He's dehydrated. Needs water." She rose to fetch the little silver bowl and spoon she used to feed him his soup and water, butHamid shook his head. The picture in Dr. Saker's ancient book was vivid in hismind, a woodcut, showing exactly what must be done--what must be done, thatis, if one believed this myth, which he did not, nor did Makali, or she wouldsurely have said something by now! And yet, there was nothing else to be done. Farre's face was sunken, his hair came loose at a touch. He was dying, veryslowly, of thirst. "The bed must be tipped; so that his head is high, hisfeet low," Hamid said authoritatively. "The easiest way will be to take offthe footboard. Tebra will give me a hand." She went out and returned with theyardman, Tebra, and with him Hamid briskly set about the business. They gotthe bed fixed at such a slant that he had to put a webbing strap round Farre'schest to keep him from sliding quite down. He asked Makali for a waterproofsheet or cape. Then, fetching a deep copper basin from the kitchen, he filledit with cold water. He spread the sheet of oilskin she had brought underFarre's legs and feet, and propped the basin in an overturned footstool sothat it held steady as he laid Farre's feet in the water. "It must be keptfull enough that his soles touch the water," he said to Makali. "It will keephim cool," she said, asking, uncertain. Hamid did not answer. Her troubled, frightened look enraged him. He left the room without saying more. When he returned in the evening she said, "His breathing is much easier." No doubt, Hamid thought, auscultating, now that he breathes once a minute. "Hamiddem," she said, "there is ... something I noticed " "Yes:" She heard his ironic, hostile tone, as he did. Both winced. But she was started, had begunto speak, could only go on. "His ..." She started again. "It seemed ..." She drew the sheet down farther, exposing Farre's genitals. The penis layalmost indistinguishable from the testicles and the brown, grained skin of theinner groin, as if it had sunk into them, as if all were returning to anindistinguishable unity, a featureless solidity. "Yes," Hamid said, expressionless, shocked in spite of himself. "The ... the process isfollowing ... what is said to be its course." She looked at him across her husband's body. "But-- Can't you--?" He stood silent a while. "It seems that-- My information is that in these cases--a very grave shock to thesystem, to the body,"--he paused, trying to find words--"such as an injury ora great loss, a grief--but in this case, an injury, an almost fatal wound-- Awound that almost certainly would have been fatal, had not it inaugurated the... the process in question, the inherited capacity ... propensity ..." She stood still, still gazing straight at him, so that all the big wordsshrank to nothing in his mouth. He stooped and with his deft, professionalgentleness opened Farre's closed eyelid. "Look!" he said. She too stooped tolook, to see the blind eye exposed, without pupil, iris, or white, a polished, featureless, brown bead. When her indrawn breath was repeated and againrepeated in a dragging sob, Hamid burst out at last, "But you knew, surely! You knew when you married him." "Knew," said her dreadful indrawn voice. The hair stood up on Hamid's arms and scalp. He could not look at her. He loweredthe eyelid, thin and stiff as a dry leaf. She turned away and walked slowlyacross the long room into the shadows. "They laugh about it," said the deep, dry voice he had never heard, out of the shadows. "On the land, in the city, people laugh about it, don't they. They talk about the wooden men, theblockheads, the Old Islanders. They don't laugh about it here. When he marriedme--" She turned to face Hamid, s
tepping into the shaft of warm twilight from

  the one unshuttered window so that her clothing glimmered white. "When Farreof Sandry, Farre Older courted me and married me, on the Broad Isle where Ilived, the people there said don't do it to me, and the people here said don'tdo it to him. Marry your own kind, marry in your own kind. But what did wecare for that? He didn't care and I didn't care. I didn't believe! I wouldn't believe! But I came here-- Those trees, the Grove, the older trees--you'vebeen there, you've seen them. Do you know they have names?" She stopped, andthe dragging, gasping, indrawn sob began again. She took hold of a chair backand stood racking it back and forth: "He took me there. 'That ismy grandfather,'" she said in a hoarse, jeering gasp. "'That's Alta, mymother's grandmother. Dorandem has stood four hundred years.'" Her voice failed. "We don't laugh about it," Hamid said. "It is a tale--something thatmight be true--a mystery. Who they are, the ... the olders, what makes themchange ... how it happens... . Dr. Saker sent me here not only to be ofuse but to learn. To verify ... the process." "The process," Makalisaid. She came back to the bedside, facing him across it, across the stiffbody, the log in the bed. "What am I carrying here?" she asked, soft andhoarse, her hands on her belly. "A child," Hamid said, without hesitating andclearly. "What kind of child?" "Does it matter?" She said nothing. "His child, your child, as your daughter is. Do you know what kind of childIdi is?" After a while Makali said softly, "Like me. She does not have theamber eyes." "Would you care less for her if she did?" "No," she said. She stood silent. She looked down at her husband, then toward the windows, then straight at Harold. "You came to learn," she said. "Yes. And to givewhat help I can give." She nodded. "Thank you," she said. He laid his hand a moment on his heart. She sat down in her usual place beside the bed with adeep, very quiet breath, too quiet to be a sigh. Hamid opened his mouth. "He's blind, deaf, without feeling. He doesn't know if you're there or notthere. He's a log, a block, you need not keep this vigil!" All these wordssaid themselves aloud in his mind, but he did not speak one of them. He closedhis mouth and stood silent. "How long?" she asked in her usual softvoice. "I don't know. That change ... came quickly. Maybe not longnow." She nodded. She laid her hand on her husband's hand, her light warmtouch on the hard bones under hard skin, the long, strong, motionless fingers. "Once," she said, "he showed me the stump of one of the olders, one that felldown a long time ago." Hamid nodded, thinking of the sunny clearing in thegrove, the wild rose. "It had broken right across in a great storm, the trunkhad been rotten. It was old, ancient, they weren't sure even who ... thename ... hundreds of years old. The roots were still in the ground but thetrunk was rotten. So it broke right across in the gale. But the stump wasstill there in the ground. And you could see. He showed me." After a pause shesaid, "You could see the bones. The leg bones. In the trunk of the tree. Likepieces of ivory. Inside it. Broken off with it." After another silence, shesaid, "So they do die. Finally." Hamid nodded. Silence again. Though helistened and watched almost automatically, Hamid did not see Farre's chestrise or fall. "You may go whenever you like, Hamiddem," she said gently. "I'mall right now. Thank you." He went to his room. On the table, under the lampwhen he lighted it, lay some leaves. He had picked them up from the border ofthe lane that went by the grove, the grove of the older trees. A few dryleaves, a twig What their blossom was, their fruit, he did not know. It wassummer, between the flower and the seed. And he dared not take a branch, atwig, a leaf from the living tree. When he joined the people of the farm forsupper, old Pask was there. "Doctor-dem," the saddler said in his rumblingbass, "is he turning?" "Yes," Hamid said. "So you're giving himwater?" "Yes." "You must give him water, dema," the old man said, relentless. "She doesn't know. She's not his kind. She doesn't know his needs." "But she bears his seed," said Hamid, grinning suddenly, fiercely, atthe old man. Pask did not smile or make any sign, his stiff face impassive. He said, "Yes. The girl's not, but the other may be older." And he turned away. Next morning after he had sent Makali out for her walk, Hamid studied