The Care and Feeding of Ravenously Hungry Girls

by Anissa Gray

  “Before this journey is over I imagine I’ll be looking at samples of almost everything. I’m the closest thing to a physician we have.”

  Rasa suddenly chuckled. “I can just see Elemak bringing you a semen sample.”

  Shedemei had to laugh, too, at the very idea of asking him. Such an assault on his dignity as leader of the caravan!

  They rode together in silence for a few minutes. Then Rasa spoke. “Will you do it?” she asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Marry Zdorab?”

  “Who?”

  “The librarian, Zdorab.”

  “Marry him,” sighed Shedemei. “I never meant to marry anyone.”

  “Marry him and have his babies.”

  “Oh, I suppose I will,” said Shedemei. “But not if we live under baboon law.”

  “Baboon law!”

  “Like Basilica—with a competition for new mates every year. I’ll take this middle-aged man that I’ve never seen, I’ll let him bed me, I’ll bear his children, I’ll raise them with him—but not if I have to fight to keep him. Not if I have to watch him court Eiadh or Hushidh or Dolya or—or Kokor—every time our marriage contract is about to expire, and then come crawling back to me and ask me to renew his contract for another year only because none of the truly desirable women would have him.”

  Rasa nodded. “I see now what you were trying to say before. It wasn’t about Kokor’s infidelity, it was about the customs we all grew up with.”

  “Exactly,” said Shedemei. “We’re too small a group to keep the old marriage customs of Basilica.”

  “It’s really just a matter of scale, isn’t it,” said Rasa. “In the city when a woman doesn’t renew a man, or when he doesn’t ask, you can avoid each other for a while until the pain wears off. You can find someone else, because there are so many thousands to choose from. But we’ll have exactly sixteen people. Eight men, eight women. It would be unbearable.”

  “Some would want to kill, the way Kokor tried to do,” said Shedemei. “And others would wish to die.”

  “You’re right, you’re right, you’re right,” murmured Rasa, thinking aloud now, it seemed. “But we can’t tell them now. Some of them would turn back—desert or no desert, bandits or no bandits. lifelong monogamy—why, I doubt that Sevet and Kokor have ever been faithful for a whole week. And Meb hadn’t married till now for the good reason that he has no intention of being faithful but lacks my daughters’ ability to behave with complete dishonesty. And now we’re going to tell them that they must remain faithful. No one-year contracts, no chance to change.”

  “They’re not going to like it.”

  “So we won’t tell them until we’re at Volemak’s camp. When it’s far too late for them to turn back.”

  Shedemei could hardly believe she had heard Rasa say such a thing. Still, she answered mildly. “Except it occurs to me,” she said, “that if they want to turn back, perhaps we should let them. They’re free people, aren’t they?”

  Rasa turned fiercely to her. “No, they aren’t,” she said. “They were free until they made the choices that brought them here, but now they’re not free because our colony, our journey can’t succeed without them.”

  “You’re so certain you can hold people to their commitments,” murmured Shedemei. “No one’s ever made them do that before. Can you now?”

  “It’s not just for the sake of the expedition,” said Rasa. “It’s for their own good. The Oversoul has made it clear that Basilica is going to be destroyed—and them with it, if they’re still there when the time comes. We’re saving their lives. But the ones most likely to turn back are also the ones least likely to believe in the visions the Oversoul has shown us. So to save their lives we must—”

  “Deceive them?”

  “Withhold some explanations until later.”

  “Because you know so much better than they do what’s good for them?”

  “Yes,” said Rasa. “Yes, I do.”

  It infuriated Shedemei. All that Rasa had said was true enough, but it didn’t change Shedemei’s conviction that people had the right to choose even their own destruction, if they wanted. Maybe that was another luxury of living in Basilica, having the right to destroy yourself through your own stupidity or shortsightedness, but if so it was a luxury that Shedemei was not yet ready to give up. It was one thing to tell people that faithful monogamy was one of the conditions of staying with the group. Then they could choose whether to stay and obey or leave and live by another rule. But to lie to them until it was too late to choose … it was freedom that was at stake here, and it was freedom that made survival worthwhile. “Aunt Rasa,” said Shedemei, “you are not the Oversoul.”

  And with that remark, Shedemei urged her camel to move faster, leaving Rasa behind her. Not that Shedemei had nothing more she could have said. But she was too angry to stay there; the idea of quarreling with Aunt Rasa was unbearable. Shedemei hated to argue with anyone. It always set her to brooding for days. And she had enough to brood about as it was.

  Zdorab. What kind of man becomes an archivist for a power-hungry killer like Gaballufix? What kind of man lets a boy like Nafai manipulate him into betraying his trust, giving up the precious Index, and then follows the thief right out of the city? What kind of man then lets Nafai wrestle him into submission and extract an oath from him to go out into the desert and never see Basilica again?

  Shedemei knew exactly what kind of man: a tedious stupid weakling. A shy dull-witted coward who will formally ask my permission before each of his studious attempts to impregnate me. A man who will neither take nor give joy in our marriage. A man who will wish he had married any one of the other women here rather than me, but who will stay with me only because he knows that none of them would have him.

  Zdorab, my husband-to-be. I can’t wait to meet you.

  The tents went up more smoothly their third night in the desert. Everyone knew well now which jobs they had to do—and which they could avoid. Rasa noticed with contempt that both Meb and Obring managed to spend more than half their time “helping” their wives do jobs that were already childishly easy—they had to be, or neither Dolya nor Kokor would have done them. Not that Dol wasn’t willing to work sometimes, but as long as Kokor and Sevet weren’t doing much that was worthwhile, she would not put herself beneath them. After all, Dol had been a starring actress when Kokor and Sevet were still chirping out their little children’s songs. Rasa knew how Dol’s mind worked. Status first, then human decency.

  But at least decency was on her list! Who are these people I have raised and taught? The ones who are too selfish to endure threaten our peace, and yet some of the others are so compliant with the Oversoul that I fear even more for them.

  I am not in charge of their lives now, Rasa reminded herself. I am in charge of getting the tent lines taut enough that it won’t collapse in the first wind.

  “It will collapse in a bad wind, no matter what you do,” said Elemak. “So you don’t have to make it strong enough to withstand a hurricane.”

  “Just a sandstorm?” Rasa felt a drop of sweat slip into her eye and sting, just as he spoke. She tried to wipe it away with her sleeve, but her arm was sweatier than her face, even under the light muslin.

  “It’s sweaty close work, no matter what the weather outside,” said Elemak. “Let me.”

  He held the guyline tight while she cinched the knot into place. She well knew that he could just as easily have done the knot himself, without help holding the line. She saw at once what he was doing, making sure she learned her job, showing confidence in her, and letting her feel a sense of accomplishment when the tent held up. “You’re good at this,” she said.

  “There’s nothing hard about tying knots, once you learn them.”

  She smiled. “Ah, yes, knots. Is that what you’re tying together here?”

  He smiled back—and she could see that he did appreciate her praise. “Among other things, Lady Rasa.”

  “You are a l
eader of men,” said Rasa. “I say this not as your stepmother, or even as your sister-in-law, but as a woman who has had some occasion of leadership herself. Even the lazy ones are ashamed to be too obvious about it.” She did not mention that so far he had only succeeded in centering authority in himself—that no one had internalized anything yet, so that when he wasn’t around, nothing happened. Perhaps that was all he had ever needed to learn about leadership during his years leading caravans. But if he meant to rule over this expedition (and Rasa was not such a fool as to think Elemak had any intention of allowing his father to have more than titular authority) he would have to learn how to do much more than make people dependent on him. The essence of leadership, my dear young ruler, is to make people independent and yet persuade them to follow you freely. Then they will obey the principles you’ve taught them even when your back is turned. But she could not say this to him aloud; he wasn’t able yet to hear such counsel. So instead she continued to praise him, hoping to build his confidence until he could hear wise counsel. “And I’ve heard less argument and complaint from my daughters than I ever heard back when their lives were easy.”

  Elemak grimaced. “You know as well as I do that half of them would rather head back to Basilica this moment. I’m not sure that I’m not one of them.”

  “But we’re not going back,” said Rasa.

  “I imagine it would be rather anticlimactic, returning to Moozh’s city after he sent us away in such glory.”

  “Anticlimactic and dangerous,” said Rasa.

  “Well, Nafai has been cleared of the charge of killing my beloved half-brother Gaballufix.”

  “He’s been cleared of nothing,” said Rasa. “Nor, for that matter, have you, son of my husband.”

  “Me!” His face became hard and a little flushed. Not good, that he showed his emotion so easily. Not what a leader needed.

  “I just want you to realize that returning to Basilica is out of the question.”

  “Be assured, Lady Rasa, that if I wanted to return to Basilica before seeing my father again, I would do so. And may yet do so after I see him.”

  She nodded slightly. “I’m glad that it cools off in the desert at night. So that we can bear the brutal heat of day, knowing the night will be gentle.”

  Elemak smiled. “I arranged it just for you, Lady Rasa.”

  “Shedemei and I were talking today,” said Rasa.

  “I know”

  “About a very serious matter,” said Rasa. “Something that could easily tear our colony apart. Sex, of course.”

  Elemak was instantly alert. “Yes?” he asked—but his voice was calm.

  “In particular,” said Rasa, “the matter of marriage.”

  “Everyone is paired up well enough for now,” said Elemak. “None of the men are sleeping unsatisfied, which is better than the way it is with most of my caravans. As for you and Hushidh and Shedemei, you’ll soon be with your husbands, or the men who will be their husbands.”

  “But for some it is not the coupling itself they desire, but rather the chase.”

  “I know,” said Elemak. “But the choices are limited.”

  “And yet some are still choosing, even though their choice seems to be made.”

  She could see how he stiffened his back and his neck, pretending to be calm, refusing to lean toward her and ask her the question in his heart. He worries about Eiadh, his bride, his beloved. She had not realized he was so perceptive about her, that he would already worry.

  “They must be held faithful to their spouses,” said Rasa.

  Elemak nodded. “I can’t say that I’ve had the problem—on my caravans, the men are alone until we reach cities, and then it’s whores for most of them.”

  “And for you?” said Rasa.

  “I’m married now,” said Elemak. “To a young wife. A good wife.”

  “A good wife for a young man,” said Rasa.

  A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “No one is young forever,” he said.

  “But will she be a good wife in five years? In ten?”

  He looked at her strangely. “How should I know?”

  “But you must think about it, Elya. What kind of wife will she be in fifty years?”

  He looked dumbfounded. He had not thought ahead on this issue, and did not even know how to pretend he had thought ahead, it took him so much by surprise.

  “Because what Shedemei was pointing out—confirming my own thoughts on the matter—is that there’s no chance that we can continue the marriage customs of Basilica out here in the desert. Basilica was very large, and we will be but sixteen souls. Eight couples. When you abandon Eiadh for another, whom will she marry then?” Of course, Rasa knew—and knew that Elemak also knew—that it was far more likely that it would be Eiadh deciding not to renew her marriage contract with Elemak, and not the other way around. But the question was still the same—whom would Eiadh marry?

  “And children,” said Rasa. “There’ll be children—but no schools to send them to. They’ll stay with their mothers, and another man—other men—will rear them.”

  She could see that her account of the future was getting to him. She knew exactly what would worry him most, and Lady Rasa wasn’t ashamed to use that knowledge. After all, the things she was warning him about were true.

  “So you see, Elemak, that as long as we’re just sixteen souls who must stay together in order to survive in the desert, marriage must be permanent.”

  Elemak did not look at her. But his thoughts were visible on his face as he sank down on the carpet that had been spread to make a floor for the tent, covering the sandy soil.

  “We can’t survive the quarreling,” she said, “the hurt feelings—we’ll be too close to each other all the time. They must be told. Your spouse now is your spouse forever.”

  Elemak lay back on the carpet. “Why would they listen to me on such a subject?” he said. “They’ll think I’m saying that in order to try to keep Eiadh for myself. I happen to know that others have already looked with longing, expecting to court her when we’ve had our few years of marriage.”

  “So you must persuade them to accept the reasons for lifelong monogamous marriage—so they’ll understand that it isn’t a self-serving plan on your part.”

  “Persuade them?” Elemak hooted once, a single bitter laugh. “I doubt I could persuade Eiadh.”

  She could see that he regretted at once having said that last remark. It confessed too much. “Perhaps then persuasion isn’t the term I want. They must be helped to understand that this is a law we must obey in order to keep this family from coming apart in an emotional and physical bloodbath, as surely as we must keep quiet during each traveling day.”

  Elemak sat up and leaned toward her, his eyes alight with—what, anger? Fear? Hurt? Is there something more to this than I understand? Rasa wondered.

  “Lady Rasa,” said Elemak, “is this law you want important enough to kill for?”

  “Kill? Killing is the very thing that I most fear. It’s what we must avoid.”

  “This is the desert, and when we reach Father’s encampment it will still be the desert, and in the desert there is only one punishment for crime of any kind. Death.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Rasa.

  “Whether you cut off his head or abandon him in the desert, it’s all the same—out here exile is death.”

  “But I wouldn’t dream of having a penalty so severe as that.”

  “Think about it, Lady Rasa. Where would we imprison somebody as we journey day to day? Who could spare the time to keep someone under guard? There’s always flogging, of course, but then we would have to deal with an injured person and we couldn’t travel safely anymore.”

  “What about withdrawing a privilege? Taking something away? Like a fine, the way they did it in Basilica.”

  “What do you take away, Lady Rasa? What privileges do any of us have? If we take away something the lawbreaker really needs—his shoes? his camel?—then we in
jure him anyway, and have to travel slower and put the whole group at risk. And if it isn’t something he needs, but merely treasures, then you fill him with resentment and you have one more person you have to deal with but can’t trust. No, Lady Rasa, if shame isn’t strong enough to keep a man from breaking a law, then the only punishment that means anything is death. The lawbreaker will never break the law again, and everybody else knows you’re serious. And any punishment short of death has the opposite result—the lawbreaker will simply do it again, and no one else will respect the law. That’s why I say, before you decide that this should be the law during our travels, perhaps you ought to consider, is it worth killing for?”

  “But no one will believe you’d kill anyway, would they?”

  “You think not?” said Elemak. “I can tell you from experience that the hardest thing about punishing a man on a journey like that is telling his widow and his orphaned children why you didn’t bring him home.”

  “Oh, Elemak, I never dreamed ...”

  “No one does. But the men of the desert know. And when you abandon a man instead of killing him outright, you don’t give him any chance, either—no camel, no horse, not even any water. In fact, you tie him up so he can’t even move, so the animals will get him quickly—because if he lives long enough, bandits might find him, and then he’ll die far more cruelly, and in the process of dying, he’ll tell the bandits where you are, and how many you are, and how many you leave on watch, and where all your valuables are stored. He’ll tell other things, too—the pet name he calls his woman, the nicknames of the guards, so the bandits’ll know what to say in the darkness to confuse your party, to put them off their guard. He’ll tell them—”

  “Stop it!” cried Rasa. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

  “You think that life in the desert is a matter of heat and cold, of camels and tents, of voiding your bowel in the sand and sleeping on rugs instead of on a bed. But I tell you that what Father and you and Nafai, bless his heart, what you’ve all chosen for us—”

  “What the Oversoul has chosen!”

  “—is the hardest life imaginable, a dangerous and brutal world where death is breathing into the hair on the back of your head, and where you have to be ready to kill in order to maintain order.”