Mara and Dann mad-1

by Doris Lessing Little Dorrit

  She wanted to say, Oh no, no, no, it would be you I'd ask but the consciousness of her ugliness, which would not leave her, kept her silent. He said, with the little humorous smile that was characteristic, "How would you feel if you were me? It is my father who will be father to the new babies. Not me. No one expects anything of me."

  And now she did go to him, put her hands on his upper arms, daring herself to do it, and said, stumbling over it, "Meryx, I haven't begun my flow yet."

  "Sweet Mara," said Meryx. "Well, we'll see. Let's see how my father does."

  And with that they went out to deal with the new difficulties.

  Every dry season dust blew across the plain and the dry, dead bushes bounced and whirled about the air with the dust devils; but this season was worse than anybody remembered. The milk beasts had always stayed out during the dry months, led daily to water, and food was brought to them. But hardy as they were, used to eating unnourishing grass and thorny scrub, used to heat and dust, this year they stood together in their family groups with their backs to the blowing dust and bleated their protests. It had been decided to bring them into the big empty sheds until it rained. "There is one thing we aren't short of," said Meryx, " — empty buildings." But these animals had never been confined before. They were herded into the sheds, and complained at finding a roof over them, but then saw that the great doors stood open and they could go in and out. Soon it was evident they were pleased about the shade they could escape into any time they wanted. It was lucky these beasts were used to drinking so little, with the water so low in the streams and reservoirs.

  But the milk beasts' plight was a small problem compared to what had happened the week before when traders from the River Towns came as usual with their dried fish, dried meat, river fruits and vegetables, bales of cotton cloth, to exchange for ganja and poppy. While a casual glance around the great storehouses showed everything was normal, when the slaves came to pull out last year's crops, leaving this year's to mature, most of them were gone. Now these storehouses, housing the most precious commodity of Chelops, were heavily guarded, day and night, by Juba's most trusted militia. They were all Mahondis, because Juba had to keep control of what controlled the Hadrons.

  Not to tell the Hadrons would be foolish, and besides by now their spies would have informed them. They had to trust Juba: everything depended on that. Yet to confess the extent of the loss must be to throw doubt on his competence. The ruling Hadrons were suspicious anyway, jumpy and ready to see plots everywhere. They knew of course about the discontent among the younger Hadrons and feared above everything they would lay their hands on the country's main source of wealth.

  Juba had thought, and thought again, and consulted Dromas and Meryx, and then Mara. It was she who suggested that Juba should see the chief Hadron, and ask that the guards on the storehouses should be half Mahondi, half Hadron. This meant that any future thefts must be the responsibility of both. Juba agreed, for he had come to the same conclusion, though the plan meant the easily suborned Hadron slaves might steal the drugs.

  Juba said that the chief Hadron, an old man called Lord Karam, was intelligent, even if half the time he was drug-sodden. Juba went to see Karam, taking Meryx. Mara had hoped to go too, but the men said, You keep out of sight, Mara.

  Karam was alone in his great throne room. He sat not on the throne but on the floor, on a cushion. He was not befuddled as he sometimes was when Juba came for a talk. That he was alone meant that he, like Juba, did not want the crisis to be generally known — yet. The first thing he said was that if Juba knew who the culprit was then he or she should be executed, as an example, according to law. Juba said that his spies believed a Hadron was responsible.

  "Are you suggesting a Mahondi wouldn't steal?" asked the old man, smiling, dry — dangerous.

  "No," said Juba. "But my guards are spied on, every minute they are on duty, and the spies are spied on. But we found a tunnel into one warehouse, the biggest, very cleverly constructed and concealed. And in another there was a place in the roof, very hard to see." And now Juba had to challenge Karam directly. "My spies tell me that your nephew Meson is selling poppy and ganja."

  And now a long silence. Then Karam said, "To whom?" "That we don't know." Juba did know, but knew that Karam must know too.

  Karam thought for some time, his eyes hooded. Then he said, "It would be best if the extent of the losses were kept quiet."

  "I agree."

  "There will be no execution. My nephew will be given a warning."

  Juba had to stop himself protesting: this was weakness, and he believed it was not the time for it. He dared to say, "Lord Karam, is a warning enough?" But what he was suggesting, not saying, was that Meson was the leader of the rebellious young Hadrons.

  "It depends on the warning," said Karam.

  Meryx told Mara that this was where the two men looked at each other, long and seriously. "I felt a lot was being said, but not in words. They respect each other — Karam and my father. Juba says that all of Hadron would have collapsed long ago if Karam had been stupid or weak."

  The next thing that happened was that Karam's nephew Meson was arrested for brawling, with half a dozen of his friends, and they were given prison sentences, with hard labour. Short sentences, but it was as if they were not Hadrons at all, but common criminals.

  Then the Hadrons announced that from now on all the milk, and the products of the milk, from all the milk beasts, would go to them and that included the beasts belonging to the Mahondis. Juba and Meryx went back to Lord Karam and said that there were pregnant women again, among the Mahondis, and it was in the interests of everybody, including Hadrons, that they should be well nourished. It was agreed that the pregnant women should have a ration of milk, but it wasn't very much.

  There were four of the women pregnant — with Kira, five.

  Mara was sent to the courtyard by Juba, who jested, though not with much conviction, that he was afraid of going himself, in case there would be other demands on him, and it had taken his recent experiences as a stud to make him feel old.

  Kira was in her sixth month. She was not enjoying herself, was peevish, complaining and sat sighing and shifting her big body about. She and the four pregnant ones sat together, patronising the others, and demanding — and getting — special treats. Candace would come out to them, with a little dried fruit, or some broth, and Ida cooked them sweets, and this though there was talk of rationing because the crops had failed. The shade was less in the courtyard, and the women kept moving themselves out of the way of shafts of hot sun, for the leafy canopy was thinning. Candace arranged for a light cloth to be stretched across part of the courtyard.

  Mara told them that Juba said they should offer to work with the milk beasts. As they began to complain and protest, she explained how little milk there was going to be. Then she waited for them to get the point. They did, but were wondering about this excessive caution. Usually there would be jokes: "Take a little swig when no one is looking" — that sort of thing. Mara said, "Do your best not to be noticed. And when the traders come from the River Towns we'll make sure we buy plenty of dried milk."

  The young women looked at her with dislike, and not concealing it. Who was this Mara, who was always with Juba, with Meryx, with Orphne, who in such a short time had become so trusted a member of the Kin that she could give them orders? This cold, nervous, ugly woman, with her flat, bony body — well, yes, it did look better than it had, not that any of them had ever seen it, for she was always covered up... perhaps she had a scar or an infirmity she wanted to keep hidden? And her hair — it was growing out, she was less of a freak, but who did she think she was?

  Mara knew how much she was disliked. And she thought with quiet bitterness, Why? I'm no threat to them. They're so soft and lovely and well fed and they have never felt that they have dust so deep in their skin it will never wash away.

  Now the women competed to work with the milk beasts, and they milked them, and stole a little when th
ey could, and often stood with their arms around the hairy, dusty necks whispering endearments, not minding that their bright, clean dresses had to be shaken free of dust. They took the beasts little treats of a wisp of hay or a bit of green stuff, or bread. Candace complained that they were all in a trance of dreams and imaginings, and she ordered them to attend some lessons she was arranging. And no, she said, the three new women who demanded Juba's attentions would have to wait until the five babies were born and everyone could see how these pregnancies turned out.

  It was Larissa who gave the lessons, which were tales "from long ago, no one knows how long," and they were from a medical textbook found in ancient records.

  The first tale was about a woman called Mam Bova, who hated her husband, tried to seduce a handsome youth, who rejected her, so she took poison and died.

  The listening young women in their shaded courtyard, lolling about in their charming dresses, smiled sarcastically, for they knew why they had to listen: it was not only Kira who was sick with love, they were all falling subject to it as if a sweet poison were in the air.

  The next tale was about a beautiful, powerful woman called Ankrena, who similarly hated her husband, left him for a handsome soldier, and committed suicide by throwing herself under a machine described in a note to the tale as "running on parallel rails, but this vehicle lacked freedom of movement and was soon superseded by ancient versions of the skimmer."

  Then Larissa told a story about one Mam Bedfly, who was a young slave girl, in love with a sailor from across the sea (notes about sea, oceans, ships and so on were incomprehensible); but the point was, feeling abandoned, she killed herself.

  Larissa then laughed at the sceptical, disapproving faces she saw all around her, stood up and said, "I'll give you another dose tomorrow."

  Next morning the courtyard was crowded to hear Larissa's warnings.

  The first was an old myth about a girl called Jull and a boy called Rom, from different clans, and they fell in love and killed themselves because the clans disapproved. This tale provoked much more discussion than yesterday's, for someone said, "Like Mahondis and Hadrons," and they shuddered at the idea of being in love with an ugly Hadron.

  The second was about a young girl who wanted to marry a handsome young man instead of an old rich man her father had chosen; but instead of killing herself she was imprisoned for ever in a temple.

  "What was a temple?"

  "It was a place where they kept their God."

  "What was God?"

  "An invisible being who controlled their lives." This caused a good deal of merriment.

  The last tale was of a famous singer called Toski who befriended a young man escaping from the police because he was intriguing against an unjust king. In exchange for the promise of freedom for the young hero, Toski slept with the Chief of Police; but he betrayed her, and the famous singer killed herself.

  This tale they took more seriously than the others. All knew about the young Hadrons who were waiting to rule this country, some of whom were currently in prison as a punishment, and that all the talk among the younger Hadrons not in prison was of assassinations, coups and uprisings.

  The salutary tales did not seem to have much effect, for the three young women — by now four — who wanted babies, said they were going to insist on their rights. This time it was Juba himself who said, "Wait until the rains, and the other babies are born."

  When Mara's flow began, she went to inform Candace, as she had been told to do, and found her in the big communal room where they all met, looking at a great map filling all of one wall. Mara had not known it was there: it was usually covered by a curtain. Mara quickly said what she had to, and then ran to the map, feeling she was being given food long denied. Candace had her hand on the cord that pulled the curtain across, and as Mara stood staring, said to her, "Aren't you supposed to be in the fields with Meryx?"

  Mara said, "Candace, when may I begin my lessons?"

  "What is it you want to know?"

  "Everything." Then Mara managed a laugh, in response to Candace's dry little smile, and said, "Well, I could begin with numbers. Counting."

  "But Mara, you know as much as any of us. You come here to report to us that there are so many sacks of grain or ganja or poppy." "Is that really all any of you know?" "We know all we need to know."

  "But when I say ten thousand sacks of grain, it is because there are ten thousand. That is my limit, or the limit of the sacks, not the limit of numbers. Or we say, 'in the old times,' or 'ten thousand years ago,' or — yesterday I heard Meryx say, 'twenty thousand years ago.' But that's what we know, or imagine, but not how far back things really went. What do we know of then — and how do we know it?"

  Candace sat down and nodded at Mara to sit. What Mara was seeing was Candace's hands: long, clever hands, but they were restless. Mara thought, She is impatient, but controlling it. She is trying to be patient with me.

  "Long ago there were civilisations so far in advance of us that we cannot begin to imagine what they were." "How do we know?"

  "About five thousand years ago there was a terrible storm in a desert that everyone thought had always been a desert, just piles of sand, and the storm shifted the sand and exposed a city. It was very big. The city had been made to keep chronicles — records — books."

  "We had books when we were children."

  "Not of leather, not skins. Of paper. Quite like the stuff we make our shoes of... the indoor shoes. And on them printing." "Our books had writing."

  "Printing. Techniques we don't have. The city was a kind of Memory. Histories. Stories of all kinds, from every part of the world. The scholars of then — that was a time of peace — trained hundreds of young people to be Memories: not just to remember, but to write things down. They decided to preserve the histories of all the world."

  "The world," said Mara, desperate.

  "The world. Some wrote it all down, but others were trained to remember. And that is where all our knowledge comes from — those old libraries. But it was just as well the Memories were trained, because when the books were exposed to the air they crumbled into dust and soon there weren't many left. But there are collections of them, or there used to be, in the stone graves where they used to bury people. The graves are cool and dry and the old books and records kept well."

  "Why are we stupid compared with them?"

  "We aren't," said Candace. "We are as clever as we need to be for our lives. For the level of living we have now."

  "And we are the same as those old people that had all that knowledge?"

  "Yes, we think so. One of the old records said that. Human beings are the same, but we become different according to how we have to live."

  "I feel so stupid," said Mara.

  "You aren't stupid. You came from a Rock Village and didn't know anything but how to keep alive, and now you know everything we know. Mara, if we said to you, 'Take charge of the food supplies,' or 'Run the militia,' or 'Manage the ganja and the poppy,' you could do it. You've learned what we know."

  "Do we have Memories here with all that knowledge in their heads?"

  Candace smiled. It was the smile that made Mara feel like a small child. "No. We are very unimportant people. What we know has filtered down from those old Memories who kept all the knowledge there was in their heads — but only a little has reached us. But because we know that it is important to preserve the past, we train people to be Memories, when we can."

  "Are you training me to be a Memory?"

  "Yes. But to understand what we have to tell you, you have to know first about practical things. It is no good telling you about different kinds of society or culture when you don't know what you are living in. And now you do. Besides, we need good people to help us run things — we are so short of them. You must see that."

  "When are you going to start teaching me?"

  "It seems to me you have made a start. You know the history of the Mahondis, right back to the beginning when we came down f
rom the North, three thousand years ago."

  "Are we the descendants of the old Memories?"

  "Yes, we are."

  "The world," said Mara. "Tell me about the world."

  At this point Meryx came in and said, "Mara, I was looking for you."

  Walking around the edge of a building that held the stores of poppy, Mara came face to face with Kulik. There was no doubt of it. She was wearing Meryx's clothes and the little cap into which she had bundled her hair. He stared at her: he was doubtful too. Last time he had seen her she had been a boy, half grown. She did not look much like she had in the Rock Village. But he did stare, and turned to stare again. He had got a job, pretending he was a Hadron, in their militia. They weren't going to ask too many questions, being as short of people as they were. And now Mara saw him every day, as she went about with Meryx or with Juba. She had been afraid of him as a child and she was afraid now. She told Meryx who he was, and said he was cruel and dangerous. Meryx said that fitted him perfectly to be a member of the Hadron militia. It was time for the rainy season to start.

  "I seem to have spent my life watching the skies for rain," said Mara, and Meryx said, "I know what you mean." But he didn't. Around Mara's heart lay a heaviness, a foreboding, for she could not keep the thought out of her mind, It is not going to last. She fought this with, They say there have been droughts before: I might be wrong. I'll say yes to Meryx and we'll have a child and then...

  It did not rain. It was time to scatter the poppy seed and the ganja, but the earth was hard, and the wind blew away the seed. The ganja self-seeded and did better.

  Kira gave birth, and it was at once clear that what she had wanted was not a baby, but Juba, for she took the infant to Ida and said, "I don't want it." Ida was transformed. She took into her house a woman from the fields who had wanted a child and failed, and the two women spent all their days watching over the infant.