“Of course not. We haven’t even had the ritual yet, so how am I going to know that?”
“Then you’re not in love. When you’re with a man and the answer to these three questions is no, things are fine.”
“But … although … I only used sounds, I’ve had conversations with him. And I’ve asked him ‘why’ more than once. I like to talk with him. He uses interesting words and expressions. And he doesn’t call me girl anymore like the other men. He uses my name. And …”
“That’s good.” She caressed her again to calm her. “There should be trust between the ritualist and the assistant. That’s essential to minimize the trauma. Once the ritual is finished, there will be a little remaining feeling, but that’s all. I assure you. Qjem won’t be much different from the elderly man my mother chose for me. You’ll find out. And while it’s true that trust creates care, it’s not bad to hold this feeling for one man in particular, as long as it doesn’t keep you from your obligations as a Ksatrya woman. The rule of three questions. Right?”
Charni hugged her mother harder. She needed to feel her next to her, to feel the sensation of protection and peace that she always managed to inspire.
She was nervous. Why deny it? The ritual would take place the next term.
According to her mother, with a little luck, the spill would be satisfactory and produce a new existence and then finally she’d be a full and complete Ksatrya woman —a very important step. But that was not what worried her, but the fact that her mother had assured her that, no matter how mentally prepared she was, her body would react with pain. No matter how strong the connection with her assistant, it could not be avoided.
She tried not to think about it, to convince herself that a Ksatrya did not fear pain, and yet …
She could not stop crying. She cried from the pain, she cried from the shame of being unable to withstand it. Seated over Qjem, she embraced him as if her life were in him, while her legs did not stop trembling and she felt a terrible panic that the throbbing member inside her would start to move again and tear her apart.
She heard him murmur again. “It’s all right, its over,” he said again and again while he held her tenderly and stroked her head.
Charni felt she could not let him go. And in spite of what she had just experienced, what he had just done, Qjem, as on that day when she put her hand on his back and perceived that strange sensation of protection, was managing little by little to comfort her. His whispers, his caresses, his enormous size surrounding her body …
Finally she managed to relax enough to regain her self-control. Her tears stopped flowing down her cheeks. The fear of pain was still there, waiting, curled up, but with Qjem’s help she had managed to corner it.
With great care, the elderly man separated from her, laid her on the bed, and lay down next to her without stopping to caress her and murmur to her, until aching and tired, Charni fell asleep.
She awoke with a strange pleasurable sensation in her breasts and genitals, like what Nanji had given her during their practice sessions. Then she perceived the weight of the old man on her and his member throbbing inside her again. This time, the mix of her blood and fluids made it less painful. And while Qjem groaned and kept whispering, “Come on Charni, come on, little girl, one more time, papa won’t do you any harm,” she thought as hard as she could about Deva. She recalled her aroma, her flavor, her touch, the sound of her voice, her comforting embrace.
And then all the rest ceased to be important.
Six alarms later, after verifying that the spill of information had not resulted in the production of a new existence (which to Charni’s surprise left her mother not disappointed but strangely sad), she began to do her scheduled turns, which she combined with her classes and special studies. That was how it would be until she was sixteen cycles old, whether or not during that time she had produced an existence.
When school was done, she would probably already have a daughter under her charge to train, either her own or the child of someone else’s close to her. The rest of her life would remain planned like that, with no big surprises.
After she began to take her turn, it only took two sessions to understand why it was so important for the initiation ritual to be assisted by an elderly man. It relaxed her once she knew it. …
Until then she had thought it was a merely practical consideration. The information of an elderly man was valuable, and with it the woman in the ritual was granted the honor of a spilling that might produce a strong man. And while that was true, reality involved something more, much more important, in fact.
On one hand, elderly men assumed they would never see again, so they did not have the same urgency to satisfy their member as a man who could still see, and they did not use all their energy to do so. On the other hand, they felt a certain concern for the girls aspiring to adulthood, which in some way made the act seem more satisfactory … or less painful.
From what Charni had been able to learn asking other women, just as had happened in her own case, the elderly men had treated them with certain fondness —just like mothers who made their daughters do something they did not want to, but in their words and gestures they could perceive care and protection.
Just the opposite happened with men who could see. They were impetuous, at times aggressive, and it did not matter if they placed the woman in an uncomfortable or painful position to make the spilling, and some men even ignored the cries of pain from women who had been so clumsy as to be unprepared and not moisten themselves correctly.
In general there were no murmurs, no caresses, not a simple “thank you for helping me see.” Nothing. No cares, no connection, no worries.
They weren’t all like that, of course. Some were timid, clumsy, or indecisive and Charni had to help them spill. She also discovered that when she imitated the moans that her mother made during a spilling and moved her hips instead of remaining still, she could accelerate the process. Which was appreciated … except by those who were not satisfied with just one spilling.
And, of course, whenever she began to perceive pleasure in any way, she thought about Deva or went over the lesson from class in her mind. She did not want to leave open the possibility of falling in love. Although … who would want to fall in love with a man just because at some moment his spilling could have provided pleasure? They did not talk, and when they did, nothing they said made sense. They were not interested in her, what she thought, what she felt, and in general they had nothing in common with her. With so many women in her world who were tender, affectionate, understanding, fun, or strong, like Deva —despite being smaller, she still defended Charni with all the conclusiveness needed at any moment— who in their right mind would exchange them for a man?
No. Men were a bother, a routine that she had to put up with and little more. Now she knew beyond any doubt that her older sister had truly gone crazy and that she herself did not have that kind of information inside her.
She did not need to worry. Above all because of the existence that was finally developing inside her. Within three cycles she was going to be an adult —to the joy of her mother, the queen.
Producing an existence had its good and bad aspects. The bad things were an imbalance in her urine; pain in her legs, chest and back; and sudden changes in her mood that not only affected her but also the women around her, no matter how hard Charni tried to keep this from happening.
The good things were that once her state was confirmed, she no longer had to do her turn and would not have to resume them until she had produced the existence inside her and her bleeds had returned to normal. In all, almost a cycle without any obligation to satisfy the member of any man.
With a little luck, when her turns started again, she would repeat what she had done with the last men she had been with before her production, and, once she had achieved a successful spilling, she would be retired from taking turns again.
But it was still early to think about this, of course. Besides, her mother
had told her that the first production was the most difficult and since her body was not yet fully developed, there was a high risk of complications from the process, which could be disastrous for her. In fact, she might become one of those woman who wound up exercising the noble but extremely difficult role of peacemaker due to a production that had destroyed her from inside. So it was best not to plan too far ahead.
Charni submitted herself to her mother’s advice without spending too much time thinking about it. She preferred to invest her time in classes, being with Deva, or caring for her younger sister as practice in case she produced a girl. Now that she had time without extra studies, she wanted to take advantage of it.
When she arrived home one particular day, she ran into commotion. She perceived a good number of women weeping and mumbling. Something terrible must have happened for them to use the language of tears among themselves.
“How could it have happened?” her mother asked seriously and with a hint of worry.
“He fooled us, Kesha. He was more cunning than we thought possible in a man.”
“I told you to be careful, not to trust him, that you should not stop perceiving him for a moment. Then how was it possible?”
“We can’t explain it ourselves, Kesha,” a second woman whimpered. “Everything indicated that he would have trouble moving and it would still be a long time before he recovered his strength. It was as if … as if he knew we were perceiving him all the time. And then …”
“We lowered our guard,” her mother said. “I understand. I’m also at fault because I believed that he knew as little about us as the rest of the men. I believed he was only interested in fooling other men. But it has been textured that he perceived our intentions. Tell me, how is Jano?”
“Bad, Kesha. Very bad. We don’t know if she’ll recover from this. Maybe, with time, physically perhaps, but mentally …”
“I understand. She has been broken as a Ksatrya.”
“Kesha, you have to do something,” another one interrupted, pleading and decided at the same time. “No man perceived the aggression and it is textured that he had them fooled, all the men. Who would believe that …”
“Obviously you ought to learn to ask questions before reaching your own twisted conclusions.” The voice of Qjem was heard loud and clear in the hall.
The brief silence that followed was as heavy as it was sharp. The intrusion of the elderly man had caught the women unprepared. It was rare to fail to hear a man approaching. As incredible as it seemed, Qjem had learned to move like a woman. By himself? Charni thought that was highly improbable. But what woman would teach him something that could be used against them?
“I’m sorry to interrupt your meeting,” the old man continued, “but it seemed the right thing to do after Lain told me what had happened.”
Lain. She finally showed her winning hand. She had jumped the chain of command, although surely she had a good excuse and witnesses to say that she could not have avoided it. And by doing so, she had taken the power of reaction away from the queen, who now could only improvise, and haste rarely turned out well. Patience and premeditation were crucial to reducing risks to their minimum.
“Well, and now that I have your attention, I want to make something clear. I don’t know what you take me for, but I’m not that stupid or arrogant to refuse to take the word of a woman who has suffered such a major aggression. I am not a monster and men are not monsters. Chaid Khasat will not get away with it this time. He will have the punishment he deserves this very afternoon. The next time, come and talk to me instead of huddling together like scheming rats. I’m in charge here. I protect you and I impart justice. Don’t forget it.”
All the women remained silent until well after the elderly man had left.
Charni had never perceived Qjem so upset. He was angry, very angry. It was … as if they had gravely injured his pride. Curse Lain for whatever she must have told him to be like that.
“It seems my reign has come to its end.” Her mother broke the silence.
“No, Kesha,” the voice of a woman could be heard over the heartfelt denials of the other woman. “You heard the old man. He’ll do justice. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself.”
“Men’s justice can never compare to that of a woman’s,” she replied sharply. “Many cycles ago, something similar happened. I was just a girl, but I sensed the disappointment of the other women. Justice only went as far as to cut off the attacker’s member. But since he could no longer see with it, what kind of punishment was that? It’s as if you’ve lost the sense of smell, so they decide to cut off your nose. Yes, it still has skin, so you can still feel with it, but you can’t smell, curse it. What kind of justice is it to take a member that isn’t good for anything?
“No. Chaid Khasat deserves to have his arms and legs cut off in exchange for all the blows and kicks he’s given to women, and to have his tongue torn out for all the cunning lies he’s spread with it. His existence should be reduced to a pathetic mumbling stump laying in his own urine and feces. I could have accepted it if they had shut him up in a tiny room without special care or visits except to be able to spit or throw excrement at him as an entertainment for our girls and a warning to men who think they can do the same things and get away with it.
“And yet, I know that none of this is going to happen because men think he can still be a man whose job in this world is to serve as the last line of defense against a possible invasion. They probably think they have him restrained, subjugated, perhaps even under their control, so he can fulfill this function and little more. But he will still be useful, still strong enough to hit us and still perceive himself as a man. And he does not deserve to keep that distinction.
“For that reason, and given the small margin of time that we have been left,” she left out Lain’s name but her tone made it implicit “I will take the responsibility and will abandon my position as other women have had the honor to do before me. Go and prepare yourselves to name my successor: this will be my last order as queen. And Charni, for your own good, you’ll have to be the one who oversees my renunciation.”
The women understood the emphatic meaning of these words and that the decision could not be appealed. They came to their queen and embraced her, caressed her, kissed her, and wept while they wrote words of support and thanks. They told her how she had always been just and how much they would miss her, although they would have to overcome her loss quickly.
Charni, on the other hand, remained anchored in place like a man, without the strength to move or react. For all that her mother had prepared her during cycles and cycles for this eventuality, she found it hard to accept that it was actually happening.
No. No. Why had Lain been so cruel? Why did Charni have to be the one to betray the queen and make sure she left her position? Why did she have so little time to prepare herself mentally? Why? Why?
It hardly mattered what was implicit in the position, and what was the least that could be expected of a queen: to be responsible and just to maintain the well-being of all Ksatrya women. Why? Why?
Why would her mother have to die?
“Do you think I like this, I’m enjoying it? Well, you’re wrong. I like this as little as you do.”
Qjem’s powerful voice echoed from each wall, each corner, each heart of the women present who, in absolute silence, listened to the elderly man’s irate sermon.
The old queen Kesha was probably not far from him, probably on her knees, although Qjem would not be aware that the position of queen had been transferred to another woman.
The speech had been spit out with rancor and rage. Above all rage. Charni knew the old man and had been intimate with him to the point of having him as her assistant, so she had a vague idea of how he must be feeling. Frustrated. Forced by the circumstances. But the law was the law and Ksatrya women knew that well.
And although he felt that he was striking terror in all the women around him, the old leader did not know that he was present at
the final public ovation by Ksatrya women for their former queen and the highest honor that she could have aspired to. To die for all of them. For the good of all of them. For their safety.
“Still,” Qjem continued, “I must do what I am obliged to. I cannot consent in any way that one of you may think you can go around me and even less that you can do it and not suffer the consequences. No one, absolutely no one, can take justice into her own hands. No one. I dictated the sentence and it was carried out. Kesha had no right to decide if it was enough. And this goes for all of you. Be clear on that.”
Qjem paused. No woman broke the silence. The ritual of sacrifice had turned very solemn. For a long time, no man had dedicated such passion to an execution speech. Without a doubt, Kesha would be remembered for more than one cycle —not only for being the queen who had lasted for more than three cycles (no fewer than nine) but because she had gravely injured a man’s pride, and he seemed to be truly lamenting having to apply justice.
Charni felt a knot in her throat growing and pressing on her chest. Maybe a Ksatrya woman should not feel pride, but at that moment, without a doubt, she felt special for being Kesha’s daughter, and she felt that her mother was even prouder. She was the best of all the women there.
She recalled how her mother had made sure everything was in order at home, as if it were just another day, then said goodbye to her youngest daughter just the same as she would have done in any other situation. Then, accompanied by Charni, she had gone to where Chaid Khasat was being treated to stop the bleeding between his legs and treat his wound. Once she was sure no man was nearby, she asked the assistants to hold him while she cut his throat so he would not shout, sunk the knife into his stomach to weaken him, and finally, sliced open his belly so his entrails would spill out and there would be no possible way to save his life.
Then, very calmly, she asked the other women to beat her savagely so men would think no one had helped her and Khasat had tried to defend himself. Then she ordered them to leave, and after saying goodbye to Charni, she asked her to go to Qjem and report her crime. No hint of doubt could be cast on her daughter. No one would be punished except herself. As a queen, this was her duty. Although she might be tortured or beaten, she would name no one except herself.
Terra Nova: An Anthology of Contemporary Spanish Science Fiction Page 6
