"We could have a little house in the itinerants' quarter, outside the walls," Septemius mused, "for the old one and me. You would be accepted within the walls, no doubt. Their own citizens attend school when they are much older than you. You could go to the schools of Women's Country. There is no doubt work you could do."
"Perhaps not quite yet," Tonia said again, with good cheer. "Remember, Uncle, you are a historian by profession. There are still-things we need to know about the lands outside the walls."
It was a device of theirs, this assignment of profession to him who had none except mountebank and traveler. His nieces made him over in their heads, dressing him up in scholar's robes, like the women at the academy in Abbyville, calling him a historian when he was only a wanderer who had seen what there was left of the world. And he had seen it all, many times over. The towering forests of the northwest, green with ferns and dripping with fog, misty and marvelous as a perilous fairy-land; the rock-shattered coasts with the waves coming in during storm; the farmlands of the interior, hills or plain, with the surrounding fields laid out square-cornered and full of root crops or grain or flax fields so blue they seemed a reflection of the sky. And the cities strung all through there, Women's Country cities. As alike as one dog to another and as different as one dog from another. This place, Marthatown, now, it had its own flavor, partly sea-mist, partly smoke from the ovens where the cured fish hung, partly sheep manure and wool and rawhides, its own particular smell which set it apart from the other cities.
But it was not unlike the others. They all had warehouses where the food from the communal fields and flocks was stored and from which those stores were allotted, so much to each family, so much to the garrison, so much to trade with other towns. In Marthatown they stored wool and hides, grain and dried fish and some root crops. In Susantown they stored apples and smoked meat, flax fiber and linseed oil. Up at Tabithatown they stored dried mushrooms and cut lumber. The town always smelled of sawdust and pitch and rang with the scream of the saw at the watermill. All of them had a market section full of little shops and booths. They all had craftsmen's alleys where the weavers and quilt makers and candle makers and seamsters lived; every city had its candle shops and herb shops and scrap reclamation centers and streets lined with square, courtyarded houses where grandmothers lived with their daughters and granddaughters and baby boys and servitors.
All the cities had a Council Hall where the medical officers worked and the scarce commodities were allocated, drugs and glass, raw and worked metal. They all had plazas with gates that led out to the garrison ground. They all had streets where the provisioners of the garrison worked, and they all had carnivals, though not all at once.
"We did well in Mollyburg," he said, apropos of nothing. "We could live out the winter on what we made there. I think the people here would give us a license for temporary residence."
"Grandpa Bowough would probably like that," said Kostia, clicking her thumbnail across her teeth. "He's been very tired lately."
"Shall I see if we can rent a small house in Wandertown? Hoboville? Journeyburg?"
"Let's think on it," Tonia said. "For a day or two."
Conversing with Kostia and Tonia was like conversing with one person. They picked up each other's words, leaving off in mid-sentence to have the other complete the sense of it. One would ask and the other comment. If one closed one's eyes, it would be impossible to know there were two. So now Septemius Bird nodded at both, willing to wait a few days before making the decision. Things would come as they would, decide or no. Even the towns agreed on that. One said, "Woman proposes, the Lady disposes," another said, "The one sure part of every plan is that it will be set awry."
"When we were here last, you told us, did you not," said Kostia, "that Marthatown was the first town of Women's Country."
Septemius nodded, trying to remember when they had been here last. Four years ago, at least. Typical of himself, he did not say "Yes," but, "So it is believed in all Women's Country. Marthatown beget Susantown, and Susantown beget Melissaville, and so on and so on. Though I believe, personally, that Annville was there before the convulsions along with its power plant and most of its factories."
"Why do they split off? I should think life would be easier if the cities were larger."
Septemius shook his head, gesturing a great wide motion to include the surrounding fields and sea. "Food, fuel, and trade goods, nieces. They grow what they can within an hour or so's travel of the town. They cut wood within the day's travel, too. All the women come behind the walls at night, for fear of bandits. Though the warriors have scoured the land over and over again between wars, there are enough bandits left over, or perhaps they are new ones, to make a nasty slaughter. Some may be foolhardy, but as for me, I prefer being behind walls at night, and I suppose the women are no more fool than I."
"How many of them are there, Uncle? In Marthatown?" asked Tonia.
"Some fourteen or fifteen thousand, perhaps. Many of them are children, and there must be two or three thousand servitors."
"And in the garrison?"
"Four thousand, I should say, including the boys. There were more when I was here last, but their latest war killed six or seven hundred of them. It is middling in size as garrisons go."
"And when their croplands are stretched so far they cannot get behind the walls at night, they will set up a new town?" Tonia asked.
Kostia shook her head. "I should think the woodlands limit them more than croplands do. Crops grow every year, but it takes time to grow trees, and they must have wood to heat their houses."
"There was a time people heated with electricity," Septemius said. "My own grandmother told me. Now there is only one place in all Women's County to make electricity, and they use it all up on making glass and medicine and one thing and another." He sighed, thinking of the wonders which once had been made with electricity. Septemius was a great one for wonders. "They're prolific in Women's Country," he went on. "Scarce a woman among them has fewer than three or four. When they have expanded as far as they can, they must set up a new town. I saw it done, once, far northwest of here, in the forest country. Women and warriors marching out to set up a new wall and a new garrison."
"There is still space then?"
"They're pushing at the desolations. Some of the new towns are close to the edge. There is much empty land, true, but little of it is good for farming."
"We came through a stretch of that," Kostia nodded. "As we came north to the road from Susantown. All brush and gray trees and land the color of a donkey's hide."
"They'll have trouble finding more space very soon, I should say." He returned to his own room, settling down before the table to spread his journals out and his day's notes, preparing to enter the one in the other. Behind him a sigh.
"Septemius?"
"Father?"
"That was a kind young woman at the quarantine."
"She certainly seemed to be."
"She said I was to have eggs."
"I seem to remember her mentioning eggs."
"And cream. I'd like a nog, Septemius. Could I have a nog?"
"And what is a nog, Father?"
"Oh, before your time, Septemius. The yolk and white of egg whipped up, separately, you understand, and then the yolk mixed with sugar and cream and flavoring and oh, brandy, I think, Septemius, then the white folded in to make it fluffy and soft, like a coverlet."
"That would blanket your gullet right enough, old man."
"Most gently, Septemius. Most gently."
There was no further word, merely a quiet snore from the corner, a bubbling rasp beneath it, like something sharp sawing away at the old man's lungs. Septemius pulled one of the books toward him and opened it, searching for the word nog, which led him to eggnog, which led in turn to searches for the words brandy and rum. Lost arts, whatever they had been. Gone, along with nutmeg and cloves. Along with pepper and turmeric. All the spices were merely words now. Chocolate was a word. And coffee.
Septemius would have given his back teeth for a taste of some of those. Now how had the old man known about brandy? From his own father, perhaps, or his grandfather? Brandy led to distilled which led to still, and he perused the picture of the device with interest. If they had wine, why could they not have brandy?
Likely because the women's Councils forbade it, and Septemius Bird was too old a coyote to arbitrarily question the actions of a Council. Likely they had reason. Septemius had seen men drunk enough on mild beer, and if brandy were stronger than that....
He began to enter today's notes in his journal, making a marginal notation about nog. The old dictionary, among his most prized possessions, had said it could be flavored with wine. Wine was available. If the cream and eggs were truly forthcoming, tomorrow he would make a nog for old Bowough.
REHEARSAL:
CASSANDRA I have seen the land laid waste and burned with brands, and desolation bled from fiery wombs.
POLYXENA So have we all, sister. Look around you. See what is lost. You may weep for the walls of Troy, I would weep for the dances I will not step again. You weep for the dead. I would weep for honey cakes. You may weep for Troy's children slain. I would weep for the wine spilt from the jar, never drunk. Oh, I pray the Gods had given me power to strike those warriors down! I would have used it well!
HECUBA Polyxena! How can you? To shed your tears for cakes!
POLYXENA What tears? The dead have no tears. I can not weep. I could cry, then I would cry for cakes, sweet cakes, gay dances, and bright flowing wine. You grieve your losses and I'll grieve for mine.
CASSANDRA (Shaking her head and crying) No one hears me! I have seen blood, not this blood here today. I have seen bodies broken, but not these! I see a desolation yet to come! In time! At the end of time.
ANDROMACHE She's at it still, I see.
HECUBA (Motioning toward her head) Poor thing.
CASSANDRA (Weeping) Apollo said you wouldn't believe me.
HECUBA (Cuddling her) Well old Apollo can go scratch himself, of course Mother believes her little girl....
EPTEMIUS AND HIS PEOPLE were in the street when they saw Stavia next, she coming along the walk with her marketing bag on her shoulder, brow furrowed with concentration over something or other, so she almost bumped them before hearing Kostia and Tonia's greeting, a vibrating "hello, Medic," which hung on the air like the reverberation of a gong.
"Ahum," she said conversationally, trying to remember where she was and who these were. "The magician's troupe!"
"Madam," he bowed. Bowough nodded, mistily, hardly seeing her. Though he had slept very well, it was one of his mostly off days, one of those times when he wandered more in memory than in reality. Kostia and Tonia reached out to take her hands, ostentatiously not seeing the warning glance Septemius gave them. Kostia and Tonia always found out about people. Septemius did not know how they did it, but it seemed to work better when they touched the person in question.
"Stavia," they murmured in unison. "Well met."
She remembered them now, and, remembering also she had not told them her name, she regarded them with some alarm.
"May we return your courtesy of last evening by offering you a cup of tea?" Septemius, his usual florid manner banked like coals kept for the morning, hands finger-tipped together.
They were on the sidewalk before a teahouse, just half a block from the Well of Surcease. Inside the windows they could see women and servitors gathered around the tables. There were a few itinerants there as well. "Why not?" She smiled. "Actually, I was coming to see you later today. I have some medicine for your father."
"Medicine?" They went into the teahouse and took a table near the wall. The servitor set five cups before them, tip-tap, tip-tap-tap, and Septemius smiled. An omen.
"Something that may help his chest. I'd forgotten we had it, until Morgot, the chief medical officer, my mother, reminded me. An oil made from the eucalyptus trees, useful in boiling water to make a cleansing vapor for the lungs." Stavia nodded her thanks to the servitor who brought them the steaming pot of the tea she had suggested. "Put a kettle of it on the stove in your room and pull his bed nearby, with a sheet over his head and the spout so he breathes it."
"Ah. Something you have not used yourself?"
Stavia flushed. "As you can no doubt tell, Septemius Bird, I am newly assigned to the quarantine house, my first medical post after seven years at the medical academy in Abbyville and a two-year internship there. The quarantine house is a junior post, given to new graduates. I am told that in preconvulsion times, medical training would begin where I have already left off, and the extent of my ignorance oppresses me. So, we do what we can with herbary since our production of pharmaceuticals is so limited, but Abbyville taught little herbary and I have still very much to learn. Learning must come bit by piece, catch as catch can, on the job. If this stuff does your father good, I will be glad to learn of that."
"I see." And he did see. Ah, these girls of Women's Country! Often given their first postings at seventeen or eighteen, expected to continue their education meantime as well as having babies every year or two. And, of course, to take part in the arts and crafts of the community. "Your science is medicine then."
"Yes. My art is drama, and my craft is gardening. Is your work a science, a craft, or an art, Septemius Bird?"
"My magic? If it has no science, it fails, Stavia. If it has no craft, it bores, and if it has no art, it offends."
"You are fortunate to wrap everything up so neatly," she said, a pinch at the corner of her lips betraying that she meant more than the words said.
"It must be difficult to be a talented young woman in Women's Country," he replied sympathetically. "I don't know how you can get everything done."
"Oh, if it were only just Women's Country," she burst out, then, horrified, put her fingers over her mouth. "Forgive me."
"Would it help to talk about it?" he asked.
"To an itinerant?" she blurted, surprise making her sound rude, even to herself. "Why would I?"
"Because," said Kostia placidly, "he is a very wise man...
"An outsider," said Tonia, "who has been everywhere there is to be...
"And has seen bits and pieces of everything...
"And can be objective about things...
"Which others of us are unlikely to be."
Stavia flushed. "I didn't mean to be offensive."
"I took no offense," Septemius assured her. "My nieces are partly right. I make no claim to wisdom, but I am a fairly objective observer. My family has been in this business for generations, you know? Even before the convulsion, I am told, there were Birds traveling the wider world with carnivals and traveling shows. It came down at last to Bowough Bird and his Dancing Dogs, my father's troupe of mountebanks, and then to me. I am the last male of my line, but these two vixens may continue the work of the Birds, if they choose." He was talking to cover the awkwardness, to get a distance from it. He should not have suggested she confide in him. It had slipped out from habit, from being so much with Kostia and Tonia, from trying so hard to remedy the confusion of chaotic generations with a sneaky discipline of his own. Musing on this, he went on, "If there is art in our work, it comes from understanding human nature. There are several old words which were once used to describe what we magicians do. One such is legerdemain, meaning 'deftness of hand,' but the hand can only misdirect when the mind understands what is to be misdirected...." He allowed his voice to trail off into his teacup.
Old Bowough said, "This is a very good tea, miss. Kind of you to suggest it."
"Kind of you to have offered it," said Stavia, giving him a close look. The tea had brought color to his face and a gleam into his eyes. He was older than she had first thought. Ninety, perhaps. A great age for a man in these times, but she did not like the crepitant sound of his breathing. Septemius himself looked well into his fifties, while yet hale and athletic in all his movements. The mother of the girls must have been younger. She became conscious that
she was staring. "I was searching for a family resemblance," she murmured self-consciously. "But the girls do not look much like you, Septemius."
He shook his head. "Their mother was not related to me genetically. She was a foster child of my mother, the daughter of an old friend. We were reared together. She married late, you are aware of the custom of marriage?, and died in childbirth."
"Yes, I know of the custom," she said, being careful not to show on her face what she thought of such barbarism. "You should have brought her into a city of Women's Country," Stavia murmured, aghast at the thought of any woman dying in childbirth.
"Uncle Septemius would have done," said Kostia.
"He has high regard for your sciences," said Tonia.
"But our father would not permit it."
"More fool your father, then," Stavia blurted, outraged.
There was a strained silence, broken, strangely, by Bowough. "He was a fool, yes. We have a saying, we travelers: 'For a man's business, go to your troupe leader; for a woman's business, go to Women's Country. For a fool's business, go to the warriors."
Sheri Tepper - Gate To Women's Country Page 19