"Dane, where is your mind?" Freda is standing in front of me, her blue eyes piercing right through my thoughts. "You're in my way. I want to see what else is in this apartment. Didn't you see me standing right here?"
I turn sideways, and she slips past me without even the barest of touches. It's like she's trying to avoid me. Could she sense what I was thinking? I am an idiot.
"You're right," she says. "Beds!"
Only a few more yards in, she's pulled back a thick, heavy curtain to reveal two smallish bunks carved right into the rock. They're barely long enough for me to fit, and only two feet high. I come up beside Freda to see better, and the glowing moss lights up the room enough for me to see into the shadows of these tiny cubbyholes. Each has a thin mattress that looks about as soft as granite.
"You can have the top one, husband," Freda says with a wry smile. She crouches and pushes down on the pad in the lower bunk. "Ooh! It's really soft. It must be filled with—I don't know. Not straw, that's for sure."
"Not much straw down here, I'm guessing," I mutter.
Freda stands and examines the curtain. "It's heavy, almost like it's woven of metal threads. I bet it blocks out all the light."
She flits another few feet to her left, to a second curtain. This room is like a narrow hallway, with the door at one end and these little, curtain-blocked rooms at the other. I'm almost too tired to wonder what's behind this curtain.
"Oh, this is odd," Freda says as she pulls back the second one. "Look here, Dane. There's a spout coming out of the wall. And a hole in the floor over here."
I lean into her body gently, pretending it's the only way I can see, but the opening is plenty wide for us both to peer in. It's a tiny room, about big enough for me to stand in alone. Two spouts, one above the other, emerge from the wall on the right. The hole Freda mentioned is a small dark spot on the floor opposite the spouts.
Freda is still puzzling this out when I laugh. Without waiting for her to scold me, I point to a small knob next to the lower spout. When I reach out and draw it toward me, it slides a panel within the spout, and right away a thin stream of water flows out, splashes to the floor, and disappears down the hole.
Freda looks briefly perplexed, and I can't stop from laughing. It feels good to laugh. I let that feeling wash over me. We're here together. Things could be worse. We're out of the Radiation, we're not being eaten by mutant beasts, and we're warm and dry. I laugh again and let my arm slip around Freda's back as I lean forward to close the spout.
She seems not to notice my arm, or perhaps she doesn't mind.
Freda has recovered herself. "That will be handy. I was wondering if I'd get a chance to wash up at all." She pulls away from me and turns left, where there's another curtain covering the very end of the apartment. It's entirely covered by images of all kinds. I hadn't noticed it was a curtain; at first it looked like an extension of the mural.
Together we study the little pictures. Freda points out things that are familiar, at least in a way.
"That's a mountain, isn't it?"
"Could be," I reply. It might be a mountain, unnaturally straight and pointy. It's more like a tall, gray hat with cake-icing on the top. Four of these stand next to each other, like the identical teeth of a giant saw.
"And this must be... trees?"
"Those green sheep?" For that's what they resemble: a child's version of sheep, done in green. The only thing that marks them as trees, possibly, is the brown legs that stick out from under them. Otherwise, they're like lumpy, green clouds. Again, they're all the same shape, and they stand next to each other in seemingly random positions on the curtain.
"Here are some animals, I think. Maybe a deer. It's got antlers, see? And this looks a bit like a horse, but it has a very long neck. This one—I think I've seen a drawing like this before," Freda says, but she sounds unsure.
I study the strange creature. Bigger than all the others, and gray like the stone of the mountains, it has enormous ears, a tiny tail, and a nose that looks like it's dangling a snake from its mouth. I've seen this, too, in a book I used to look at when Chiliss was teaching me to read.
"E is for elephant," I whisper.
"What?"
"E. I mean, elephant. That's the name of that animal. I'm not sure if they ever actually existed, but there's a drawing. In a book about the alphabet."
"Oh, yes, I remember."
This startles me, but I don't show it. The only way Freda could know E for elephant was if she was shown books. Books are forbidden to all but two women in Southshaw: The First Wife—and only after she's named First Wife, and only if Semper allows it—and the nursemaid of Semper-son, so that the child may have someone to teach him his letters.
If Freda has seen this picture before, it means her parents could be exiled for disobeying Laws.
"And here is a boat. But it's the strangest boat I've ever seen."
I wonder if she has seen the picture of B is for Baboon. As First Wife, Freda is now legally allowed that privilege. Have other families taught their daughters to read? I doubt Suzee Lummon could have learned letters, or would have had any interest in it.
The image of "Fobrasse" on a honey colored envelope pops into my head. Did my mother know that Freda would be able to read the name?
I watch Freda examine the curtain, lean in close to it and study the picture of the boat. I can almost hear her powerful mind working. It suddenly seems stupid to me that reading is forbidden to women. But what I think hardly matters now. Darius has seen to that. I push those thoughts from my mind and focus on the picture of the boat.
"It's huge," I blurt.
"Yes. See, those are tiny people on it. Hundreds of them!"
The boat is white, with dots all along the side, floating in blue water. Beside it, giant fish leap from the water in graceful arcs. "What is that?" I point at what looks like a square pond on the top of this giant boat.
"I don't know. It looks like a place for swimming," Freda says. "But why would they want a swimming place on a boat?" She looks at me in total wonder, and I realize I must have a similarly perplexed look on my own face. We stare at each other for a moment, then both laugh at the ridiculous notion of building a pond in a boat floating on a lake.
There are other things on the curtain, too, and on the side wall that we hadn't seen. Silver and white shapes that seem to be floating in the air, drawing a white line behind them. Or in front of them. It's difficult to tell. Colorful wagons of strange shapes, most of them covered, all in lines. Rows upon rows of them, disappearing into the distance. Buildings so tall they challenge the height of the pointy-topped mountains. People sitting at tables with strange boxes in front of them. People holding little boxes to the sides of their heads.
"Is this... technology?" Freda asks this after a long time, her voice hushed and reverent.
"Yes, I think so," I reply. Words from Truths float in and out of my thoughts. "All these things from before the War. Technology. These things all led to the invention of the Bomb. But they don't look so dangerous, do they?"
"No, not at all. These people all look like they're enjoying technology."
I noticed that, too. Even as I laugh at these silly pictures, I've been growing uncomfortable. All these little boxes and strange devices, all this technology. All this pursuit of knowledge. Devilry brought forth to create the destruction of mankind. And these ghost-people seem to revere it. Almost worship it.
"Dane," Freda says, pulling my thoughts back to this strange cave. "I don't think I want to look at these pictures anymore."
"Right," I say, and I reach out and pull the curtain aside. I know those images will stay in my head when I try to sleep, and even in my dreams. Were some of those little boxes weapons? Did the silver things drawing white lines have anything to do with the War? Do the ghost-people even know about the War? Or the Bomb?
The curtain flows to the side to reveal one more room, bigger than the others and filled by a stone bed. It's just long enough for me to
stretch out, and just wide enough for two people to lie cozily side by side.
"Oh!" Freda yelps as if surprised. I don't know what she expected, but I'd already deduced that a family with two adults and two children would need four sleeping spots.
"I had forgotten," Freda says with a yawn, "just how tired I was." Stretching her arms into the air, she groans and then begins twisting left and right, stretching out her back. "I feel like I've not slept since Easter."
"You know," I say, trying to speak slowly, "Baddock taught me how to massage pain out of tired muscles." I stand still because I don't want to scare her away. "I... I could help."
When she turns her odd violet-colored face to me, her hair sways in pale blue and yellow-silver. The moss behind me is glowing fiercely, and the cave has warmed. She half-grins with blue-shadowed teeth and narrows her eyes.
"Why, husband," Freda coos, "are you saying you'd like to put your hands on my body?"
The cave has definitely warmed. When Freda glides toward me, with swaying hips and Kitta-like strut, it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the apartment. I'm rooted to the floor, afraid to step back or leap to her. I don't know how I should act, what she wants of me now. I am terrified that she might stop walking like that, looking at me like that.
She halts just inches from me. The top of her head is level with my nose, and she looks up into my eyes. She takes both my hands in hers, the warmth and softness of her skin soaking through me.
"I don't know," she says. "Are these the type of hands that could wipe away my aches?"
"Uh huh."
That's it? That's all I can think of to say? She wants me to say something romantic, something dashing and suave. I should tell her that... what? Words fumble through my mind, but none of them make any sense. My heart seems either to be beating harder than ever before, or not at all. I can't tell. What does it matter anyway? All I could manage was a dumb grunt. She's probably already thinking I'm a fool, already trying to figure out how to back away from me without hurting my feelings, already—
"Good," she whispers, and before I realize it she's pulled me to her, wrapped my arms around her waist. She is pressing into me, and I feel all of her curves and pointy parts all up and down my body. And I know she can feel all of my parts as well. This shirt and these pants—as thick as they are, they can't hide the things I would like them to.
Her lips are on mine now, and everything else is forgotten. The gentle moistness of her kiss fills me. I close my eyes, tilt my head down to hers, feel the side of her nose against mine. I let my arms wrap around her and squeeze, let her feel the strength of my embrace. The kiss lasts not nearly long enough, and Freda pulls away.
I don't want her to pull back, and I hold tight for a moment, until her press becomes insistent. I don't want to anger her, don't want to hurt her. But I don't want to stop feeling her against me, either.
She's gazing into my eyes, deep and searching. She looks happy. I try to look as happy as I feel. My hands rest on her hips, and hers on mine. Slowly, her bluish grin widens and her hands begin to rise up my sides. They slide under the thick, heavy wool of my shirt and lift it as they climb, slow as a sunrise. It tickles in the most pleasant, exciting way, and I feel my skin rippling under her touch.
She does not hurry, and she does not take her gaze from mine. One minute or a hundred, I don't care, as long as she keeps doing this. The shirt slips over her hands and rests on her wrists, and still she lifts. Her hands reach my ribs, and there they leave my body. I ready a protest until I notice she's grabbed the shirt material and is pulling upward. I raise my arms and allow her to pull my shirt all the way off and drop it on the floor.
I don't feel embarrassed. I don't feel any need to turn away, or to hide my skinny, scrawny weakness from her. I feel strong. I feel desired.
As my hands slip off her waist and upward, lifting her shirt, I widen my grin and keep my gaze locked to hers. My rough hands catch and scratch at her soft, feminine skin, but she doesn't seem to mind. Slowly, as slowly as the moon drifting across the sky, I slide my hands up her side, lifting the thick, scratchy wool. I'm breathing fast, and whatever chill I felt in my nakedness disappears as the blue glow of the moss brightens.
My hands reach her ribs, and the fabric slips down over my wrists. Instead of lifting the cloth up, though, I allow my hands to slide together to gently cup her breasts and press against them, gathering in their heavenly lusciousness.
Freda closes her eyes and gasps. As I caress, she trembles. My whole body prickles, and every bit of tiredness I felt even moments ago has fled. My blood feels like oil scorched in a hot pan, and the only thing in the whole world that exists right now is cradled in my palms.
"Hey! Ow! Watch it!" There's a crash and a harsh voice from the far end of the room. Startled, I accidentally push Freda so hard she tumbles onto the bed with a thud. I stumble a few steps backward and into the water-room where I slip and thump to the wet floor.
"What in the name of—" It's my own voice that shouts this out. I don't know who or what has just burst into our apartment, but I know whoever it is has reached the end of their life. I clamber to my feet and stagger back into the blue glow of the long, skinny apartment.
There's another thud and click that sounds like the door closing and being latched from the outside. "I was going! You oaf. No need to be rude!" A woman with her back to me is shouting at the closed door.
Anger blazes inside me even stronger than the passion that boiled moments ago, and I hurry forward to give this interloper the kind of welcome she deserves. How dare she come in unannounced? What right does she have to intrude on the wedding night of a man and his new wife?
As I begin to shout out my rage, she spins. Her long, black hair whips around, covering her face. She's not tall, but she's sturdy and fast, and as I rush forward I see she's ready for a fight. She crouches, her hands before her, ready to pounce at me. But of course I never intended actually to attack, just—I don't know what. I stop short a few feet from her, where I judge I'm just out of her reach if she should want to strike out.
But she doesn't need to hit me. When I see the intense, deep brown eyes, the rounded cheeks and dark brow, the long scar on her forearm... I stagger and crash against the wall as surely as if she'd roundhouse kicked me with the force of a hundred Baddocks.
"You!" She spits the word.
"You're alive," I say.
"Still a genius, I see," she growls.
The last few days flash through my mind, or the parts that included Lupay. Seeing her at the lake. Carrying her from the well. Watching the ghosts carry her away from Baddock and his men. Searching for her face in the crowd at the Wifing and knowing she was dead.
"But... you're not dead?"
"I think we've established that already." She hasn't risen from her defensive crouch. She still looks ready to spring at me with deadly precision. I am very glad that she does not have any of her little knives.
"I saw them carry you off, that night. I had come to untie you." I'm rambling, dumping words out of my mouth like pebbles from a big bucket. I am not sure if I'm making sense or not, but I let the stony words clatter out. "I thought Baddock was going to hurt you, maybe kill you, and I went to stop him, but he was already knocked out and they had you and I chased you through the woods to the road but they were too fast, and... I just... couldn't catch up." This rant seems to ease the tension in her body, but she doesn't relax fully. "Lupay. I'm sorry."
At this, she stands up and squares her shoulders to me, drops her hands to her sides. She still looks mad, still glares at me as if she hopes I will burst into flames. I almost feel like I will. My face is flushed hot, and I wonder if I look like a boiled sausage in this strange, purple-blue light.
"So, what happened to your friends?" Each word is quick and curt, sharp in the edges. And filled with edges.
"My friends?"
"Your people. The ones you rode with. The ones that dragged me behind that stupid, smelly horse."
>
She means Baddock's gang. "Those aren't my friends."
"No? They knew you. They treated you pretty good."
"They're not my friends." Not even my countrymen any more, I think. "Baddock—their leader—he would kill me if he found me now."
"Hmph." She grunts and scowls.
"He never saw the gho—the Subterrans who carried you off. He thinks I knocked him out and set you free. He thinks I'm in lo—anyway, what did they do with you?"
Immediately I regret the question. Not because of her reaction because she shows none. But what if they did unspeakable things to her? What if they were worse than Baddock would have been?
"What did they do to you? You're as captive as I am," she says. I think there's a hint of mockery in her tone.
"Not so much what they've done, but what my own people have done."
Lupay perks up and puts an unasked question in her expression.
"They've kicked us out of Southshaw. We're exiled, which is as good as dead."
"You don't look any more dead than I am," she says.
"Hmm."
"Why?"
"It's a long story."
She looks left, looks right, glances back at the door which I assume is locked again. "We got time."
"Look, it's complicated," I begin.
"What, a stupid Tawtrukk girl like me can't understand? Too complicated for the country folk?" She snorts derision. "You didn't even know what a frig was."
Despite her anger, the hurled insult elates me. She remembers! So she has thought about me since we were split up. And she remembers what we said, at least some of it. I smile at her, stifle a laugh.
"OK, you win," I say. "I'll tell you the whole thing. Everything that happened since the gho—the Subterrans carried you away. But," I add, putting up my finger as a warning, "you need to tell me your story, too."
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