The Secret Under My Skin

by Janet Mcnaughton

  I look at her in amazement. “Didn’t you always live here?”

  “No. William brought me here when we were married, about ten years ago.”

  Ten years! I thought Erica and the Master had been married forever. They must have been quite old when they married. That explains why they have no children. I’d wondered. Erica would make a good mother. But where was Erica before? I don’t know how to ask. My thoughts occupy me until we stop in front of a house, no bigger than those around it, but conspicuously well kept. The empty flower beds form a carefully laid-out garden.

  “Here we are,” she says. “This is the First Weaver’s house. Now just relax. I’m sure everyone will like you.”

  Everyone? When the door opens, a wave of noisy chatter floods out. A woman wearing the dark blue headscarf of a weaver takes our coats and ushers us into a main room lit only by oil lamps. I see no signs of advanced technology. About twenty women of every possible age circle the room. Some are seated on cushions on the floor. A girl about Marrella’s age holds a baby. Many have pieces of cloth. A few are making things with long sticks and yam. They dress differently, but every one wears a blue headscarf. When they see us, silence falls. Whether out of respect for Erica or hostility to me, I cannot say.

  The woman who crosses the room to greet Erica must be the First Weaver. She is about Erica’s age, I guess, and heavy, but she carries herself like a queen. “Welcome, Erica Townsend, your presence honors my home.” She greets Erica formally but her eyes shine with laughter and her voice is warm, as if this formality is a kind of joke between them.

  “We welcome you,” all the women in the room echo together.

  “I thank you, Clara Linegar,” Erica responds. “Thank you all.” Then she puts her arm around me and propels me forward slightly. “I’ve brought someone I’m sure you will all wish to meet. This is Blay Raytee.” I bum with embarrassment. The women’s faces are blank, closed. Why would they wish to meet me? “Blay has been helping your bio-indicator,” Erica adds. The effect is immediate. The women smile. Two move apart to indicate I should sit between them and a big cushion is produced for me to sit on. “Go ahead,” Erica whispers and I realize she has helped these women to accept me. Erica takes her place in a chair beside Clara Linegar, the First Weaver.

  “Well, that’s everyone,” Clara says. “Who’s going to chair tonight?” A thin, older woman raises her hand. “Good, Madonna,” Clara says. Turning to Erica she adds, “When Donna chairs, we know we’ll get our tea before midnight.” Everyone laughs. The tension in my shoulders eases. These women are so relaxed and friendly. A woman beside the baby holds a cloth to her face and pulls it down suddenly, to the baby’s delight.

  The woman named Donna clears her throat loudly.

  “Attention, please. As Clara said, I’ve no wish to be here all night. Has everyone signed the book?”

  “Oh, I forgot,” the girl with the baby says. A bound book is passed to her as several women argue good-naturedly about who should hold the baby.

  “If we could proceed,” Donna says. Her tone is mock stem but the women quickly fall silent. “How many have brought pieces to be critiqued?” About ten women raise their hands. “That’s a night’s work. I’ll take you in the order you signed up and we’ll see how far we get. Some of you may have to save your work over for next meeting.”

  “Next meeting is canceled because of the investiture,” Clara notes.

  “So it is,” Donna says. Several women smile at me.

  Donna continues. “And Clara’s presenting the cloth for the robe tonight, of course. We’ll do that last. All the more reason to get at it. Who’s first?” She consults the book. “Merna Bursey, what have you got for us tonight?”

  A pale young woman holds up her cloth. “This is a new pattern for me, the M’s and O’s weave?” she says, making her statement into a question. “I’m looking for some feedback. There might be something wrong with the tension.”

  The cloth goes from hand to hand around the room.

  Some women pass it with no comment, while others, especially the older women, spread the sample on their knees or hold it to the light, reading it as carefully as I would read a book, commenting on the technical aspects of the weaving. While Merna’s cloth is examined she makes notes and some others do too. When the cloth has made its way around the circle Merna thanks them.

  The next piece is brought forward. The vocabulary is strange to me: “floats,” “weft,” “huckaback,” “warp,” and “hettles.” Understanding none of it, I am free to observe. Even the women who have little to say listen carefully.

  Some nod or shake their heads in response to the ideas of others but no one interrupts. Finally, it is time to bring out the cloth for the investiture robe. While Clara disappears into a back room, the women buzz with excitement. One leans over to me. “It’s been decades since we’ve made an investiture robe for a girl, my dear. You can’t imagine what a delight this has been. Clara wove it, of course, but many of us had a hand in producing the yam.”

  “A year’s worth of linen and cotton fiber went into it,” another adds with a note of pride. “We only spin wool here so that was our complete allotment of trade goods. No girl in her right mind will marry this year unless she can borrow a dress made before.”

  “Now, Helen, don’t be talking. If the bio-indicator hears she’ll think us ungrateful.”

  Helen looks so appalled, I quickly say, “No, no, the bio-indicator appreciates your work.” The women beam at me.

  When Clara returns with a heavy bolt of cloth, the room falls silent. She sets the bolt down and flips it, unfolding her best work with deliberate carelessness. The women murmur as fine white cloth spills onto her spotless floor. A few touch it with reverential fingertips. “I’m glad to show you this tonight,” Clara says. “Tomorrow, it’s off to the seamstress.”

  “Almost a crime to cut such beautiful cloth,” Donna says.

  Clara smiles. “Cloth is woven to be cut. That’s the way of it.” Then she raises her voice slightly to include everyone. “This is an overshot weave, a cotton-linen blend with a small amount of fine lamb’s wool in the warp. Woven on my five-shaft loom with yam contributed by many of you. The pattern is a new design, created by senior weavers at special meetings held last spring after our new bio-indicator was chosen. And the name of the pattern is . . .”

  “Marrella splendens,” the women say together, laughing.

  The cloth is white, but when the light hits it in the right way I can see the pattern woven into it, a repeated pattern of tiny crab-like creatures with pronged plates and delicate legs. Marrella splendens. So much thought and work has gone into the making of this cloth. I wonder if Marrella will appreciate that.

  “Well done, Clara,” Donna says. “It’s even more beautiful than we imagined. I’m sure no one has any criticism.” When a brief silence confirms this Donna adds, “Then we can have our tea.” The formal part of the meeting breaks up and some women go to congratulate Clara. Others disappear, returning with plates of food. For the first time I remember why I thought I was coming here and I am disappointed. Erica said there were things I should learn. We were so careful to travel in secret. Surely this cannot be all.

  But it seems to be. The women bring plates and cups and pots of tea. They pass food around and chat. A good-natured argument breaks out over one piece of weaving. A plate is thrust into my hands but I am so wracked with disappointment the cake tastes like sawdust. The baby begins to cry and his mother takes him home. Gradually, in twos and threes, the women leave until only Donna, Clara, Erica, and I remain. Donna and Clara collect the dirty plates. I wait for Erica to tell me it’s time for us to leave as well.

  But suddenly everyone is very serious. Four chairs are drawn together and I am invited to sit. Clara says, “Erica tells us we can trust you, child, and I’m glad. We need someone who can travel between the Master’s house and Kildevil without being noticed. You must speak to no one about what you hear tonight, not even the
bio-indicator. Do you understand?” I nod, almost afraid to speak in my eagerness to show how well I will keep their secrets. “Good,” Clara says.

  “Now, Erica, we’ll tell you the news. Something unusual is happening in St. Pearl. The Commission is building a new fortification on Signal Hill. We don’t know why. There’s also news from within the Commission . . .” she hesitates, glances at me, then continues. “Even small freedoms we have won appear to be more than the Commission can tolerate.”

  “But I thought General Ryan favored reform.” Erica sounds alarmed.

  “So he does,” Donna says. “And the troops are on his side if our information is correct. But the Commission may be more powerful than we supposed. Erica, the others need your guidance. You must talk with them soon. Without you, they don’t know what to do.”

  “Lem is working on a new encryption code. When it’s ready I will send a copy to you with Blay. It must be carried by hand to the communications center so its origin cannot be traced. Then we can communicate for a few weeks if we vary the points of transmission.”

  The other women look relieved. “Wonderful,” Clara says. She turns to me. “Erica is probably the most important strategist in the whole prefecture.”

  Erica smiles sadly. “I hoped when I came here those skills could be set aside. I sometimes wonder why I survived the technocaust or even if I did. I seem to spend my life just dealing with the aftereffects.”

  Donna grips Erica’s wrist with her strong hand. “The technocaust was staged to make sure we would always believe that science and technology are evil. Instead, it brought us all together. When our principles forced us to protect the techies from violence, we learned that their knowledge can be used to protect the earth. If we succeed now, the technocaust will no longer be just a shameful slaughter. It will be remembered as a force for great change.”

  “And if we succeed, imagine,” Clara says. Her eyes shine.

  She turns to me. “Democracy. These many years we’ve preserved the idea in Weavers’ Guilds across the continent. Like a flame passed from one generation of women to the next. When the degradation of the environment drew us to the brink of chaos, the forms of freedom were cast aside like a ripped garment. But all through the Dark Times, we remembered. We structure our groups on democratic lines. We teach our daughters the rules that will enable us, one day, to govern ourselves again. And now it seems the time draws near. Erica, do not lose heart.”

  Even I am drawn by the passion of Clara’s words. The worry disappears from Erica’s face. “Clara, your faith never wavers. When you speak of freedom, I can believe it will be ours. But it’s late. We must get home.”

  “You will not travel alone,” Donna says, rising also. “My young fellow will see you safe.”

  Erica tries to protest, but the other women will not hear her. “We believe you traveled here unseen, but who can say? Carson knows he’s needed. I’ll just fetch him.”

  I wonder if Carson is a common name for boys in Kildevil. I would like to ask Donna’s last name but then I remember what Carson Walsh would suffer if his secret were known. A few moments later I see Donna through the window returning with a young man. Even in the dark I know Carson Walsh, hunter of moose. At least this gives me a few seconds to compose myself.

  “Carson,” his mother says, “this young lady’s been helping our bio-indicator.”

  He is guarded, but not surprised. He must have known he would be meeting me. We both do a good job of hiding our feelings. “Put your hood up,” Erica tells me as we leave. “People here are faithful to the cause but it’s best if we are not seen.”

  Carson is dressed in ordinary clothes tonight but anyone would know him by the way he carries himself. He reminds me of the fish hawk—what was the Master’s name for it, the osprey?—the way he glides silently, seeming never to touch the ground. We do not speak walking back through the village but Erica relaxes a little on the path. “Thank you, Carson,” she says, “for giving up your night’s rest to see us home.”

  “It’s little enough to do for you,” he replies. His words are nothing, but somehow he manages to convey his gratitude. He knows what Erica and the other women are doing.

  “When is the next shipment of cloth going down the coast?” Erica asks.

  “In two days. I was over watching the boys pack the first of the crates tonight.”

  “And will you go with them?”

  Carson raises his hands in a gesture of frustration. “I should get that bull moose first, missus. He’s devilish clever or I’m losing my skill. The way this hunt is going, anyone would think I’d violated a taboo.” He gives me a self-mocking smile. I’m glad the night hides my shock.

  Erica notices none of this. “Well, moose or no, I think you should take that trip. Your mother will say the same, I believe.”

  “Then the moose gets some breathing space,” Carson says. I remember what Erica said about carrying the encryption code by hand and realize that Carson is what I am about to become—a messenger for those who are trying to do the impossible.

  The Secret Under My Skin

  When I wake the next morning, the sun is already up. Marrella’s bed is empty. I dress in a panic and rush downstairs, but Erica greets me with a smile. “I reset your panel from the main control so you could sleep in. Marrella and William did the observation set this morning. They’re preparing for her investiture ceremony now, but they’re getting along well enough to work alone. After you’ve eaten, we’ll take a basket up the ski slope. Later, you can take Marrella’s measurements to Kildevil.” I nod, remembering the encryption code. Now my work is to help Erica.

  After breakfast, I clear the table while she fills the basket for Lem. When I raise my arm to the cupboard, the scanner beeps. “That’s the strangest thing,” Erica says.

  “Why do you think it does that?” I ask her. Since last night I’ve wondered if Erica was a techie. Why else would she have suffered in the technocaust?

  But she shrugs. “I have no idea. Ask Lem.” She picks up the basket. “Ready?”

  I can hardly wait to go outside so we can talk. There are so many things I want to know.

  “Erica, why does the Commission tolerate the Weavers’ Guilds?”

  “The Commission always encouraged the Weavers’ Guilds because the weavers mistrusted technology. In the technocaust, the Commission tried to use those feelings to stir up hate against the techies, but the weavers are too humane. They remember the history of the Dark Times, when violence ruled. Instead of hurting techies, the Guilds became an important part of the underground. The Commission might regret the power the weavers have now, but they cannot be harmed. Like the bio-indicators, they command too much respect.”

  Talking about the technocaust makes me wonder about Erica’s past again. But how can I ask? It would be like asking me to talk about Hilary. And then I realize that’s where I should begin. “When I was little, on the street, someone looked after me,” I say. “Another kid, but she was older than me. Her name was Hilary . . .” And, for the first time, I speak of the one person I know loved me. My Hilary. I tell Erica how she cared for me, how she stole everything we needed, how she sang to me and taught me to read. Finally, choking on the words, I tell her how Hilary died, going willingly to the death squad so I could remain hidden. Erica puts her arms around me as I sob the words out, then holds me for a long time while I cry. When I stop I feel as if the blackness inside me has finally been opened to the light.

  “I knew there was something,” she says when we begin to walk again. “I thought you’d tell me when you trusted me enough.”

  I sniff and dry my eyes. “Until last night I assumed you’d never understand. I thought you’d always lived here, safe.”

  “Well, now you know I didn’t. I came to Terra Nova in the technocaust, looking for the Beothuks. I didn’t get past St. Pearl, though. The cell I was to contact had been infiltrated by Commission spies. When I went to the safe house, soldiers were waiting for me. I spent almost a
year in Markland.”

  “Did you know Lem Howell’s wife?”

  She shakes her head. “The technocaust lasted about three years, Blay. Michelle was taken near the beginning when most people thought the Commission was telling the truth. She died about a year later. Governments didn’t come after people like me until near the end.”

  “But if you weren’t a techie, why did they want you?”

  “When it was almost over, governments like the Commission realized they couldn’t stay in power simply by controlling the future. The official version of what happened in the technocaust is, as you know, very different from the truth. I suddenly became an enemy of the state, just as dangerous as any techie, and not nearly as necessary.”

  “But what were you?”

  “A historian at a university. If people like me told the truth, everyone would know that the degradation of the environment goes back centuries. I know about the growing hole in the ozone layer, the gradual rise in the earth’s temperature. I’ve seen the treaties signed at the end of the twentieth century, supposedly to limit CFCS and CO2 emissions. I saw how those people, our ancestors, refused to take responsibility for the future, for our lives and the world we would live in.” She sighs. “And I know what the world was like when there was democracy. Near the end of the technocaust, history was, outlawed. Libraries and archives were destroyed, and I ran. I left Toronto Prefecture with the help of friends, made contact with the resistance, and tried to find the Beothuks.”

  “But you never did.”

  Erica smiles. “But you see, there’s more to the story. Near the end of the technocaust there were raids on Markland. Some of us were rescued one night by a band of Beothuks.” Her voice grows happy with the memory. “They were led by a handsome captain, fearless and daring. We fell in love. And married.”