The Ozark trilogy

by Suzette Haden Elgin

  “Be seated, gentlemen,” said the Guardian, as if the remark had not been made. “Anywhere you like, please. There is wine there, and ale for those who prefer it. I thank you for your courtesy in responding so promptly to my invitation, and for taking time from the pressure of your duties to come to my aid.”

  The Farsons glanced at each other, and Sheridan Pike touched his brother’s hand with his fingertips, like moths lighting, spelling out in the ancient alphabet of bones and knuckles the single message-”Beware his eyes.” And Luke Nathaniel Farson spelled back-”And his speech.”

  You could tell a person’s station on Ozark by their speech. There was the formspeech of the Grannys, a carefully artificial register of exaggerated archaic vocabulary and intonation-especially intonation. There was the speech of the ordinary citizen, that had undergone all the normal processes of language change, but whose speakers prided themselves on its roughness and its lack of pretension; they spoke as boones, however crowded they might live. There was the flowing mellifluity of the Reverends, required of them only in the performance of their duties, but often taken up for all purposes as a man grew older in the profession. And then there was the speech of the Magicians of Rank, restricted to those nine, laboriously learned along with the Formalisms & Transformations, intended to force respect by its elegance and elaborate usage, as artificial in its way as the mode of the Grannys. Lewis Motley Wommack the 33rd had spoken only a few dozen words, and they might indicate nothing more than his excellent brain and even more excellent education; on the other hand, there was a suspicious ring to them. The mode of the Magicians of Rank, unlike that of the Grannys, ought not to be easy to assume; most citizens had no contact with a Magician of Rank in all their lives.

  “Gentlemen?” The Guardian of the Castle was waiting, and they took their chairs, with a mild scuffle over who should be at the dividing line between the Travellers and the others, and that dubious honor falling at last to Lincoln Parradyne Smith. Lincoln Parradyne was uncomfortable; the contrast between the self-made King he had at home and the utter elegance of this youth was striking. When he returned to Castle Smith he thought he might try some fine-tuning . . . perhaps convince Delldon Mallard to remove some of the gems from the crowns and settle for less sumptuous robes at least around the Castle and on non-state occasions.

  “I will not waste your time,” said Lewis Motley, “I am well aware that your duties call you, and that your leisure is limited. I call you here only because I have nowhere else to turn, and I have reached the outmost limits of my own endurance in this matter. The task of rendering assistance to me in my quandary is appropriate only to your group; therefore, I have called upon the nine of you for succor. You are the sovereign remedy, so to speak.”

  That settled it, if what came before had not; he was using their register, the speechmode of the Magicians of Rank. It was a subtle declaration-but of what?

  “Your manner of speech, sir-” began Feebus Timothy Traveller, ready to express the displeasure felt by all of them, but Lewis Motley cut them off.

  “The `sir’ is not called for,” he said. “Nor will it ever be-I have no interest in such things. As for my manner of speech”-he smiled again, and looked all round the table-”it is said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

  “And now,” he went on, “if you are all comfortable, I would be pleased to present my problem. It is, as I told you in the invitations, a matter regarding a woman-Responsible of Brightwater.”

  That changed things. A moment before the only emotion in the room had been the chill of disapproval and angered pride; now the nine leaned forward as one man, their pique forgotten. If there was one thing that united them, other than their shared duties and privileges, it was their hatred of the woman he named; perhaps the most difficult task Veritas Truebreed Motley had to deal with, living as he did under her very nose, was hiding that hatred from everyone except her. He knew it was useless to try to fool Responsible, even if he had cared to. The Magicians of Rank were like preybeasts that have caught a scent; they had been nine, now they were one.

  “You are not fond of the daughter of Brightwater,” mused the Guardian, watching them. “That is indeed curious; except for you, Veritas Truebreed, I should have thought you would of had no dealings with her to arouse your emotions. I am astonished, gentlemen, at the way in which one mystery often lies behind another, only to reveal a third and a fourth beyond.”

  “You assume a great deal,” said Michael Stepforth Guthrie the 11th, he of Castle Guthrie itself, known planetwide for his skill and for his delight in elaborate mischief. There was no mischief in his voice now.

  “Where there is knowledge, one need not make assumptions,” said Lewis Motley calmly. “Is that not a general maxim, gentlemen?”

  He took the medallion bearing his crest in his fingers, stroking it lightly, smiling at them, that maddening constant smile, and waited; and Michael Stepforth Guthrie spoke again.

  “What is your problem with Responsible of Brightwater?” he asked roughly. “She is Thorn of Guthrie’s daughter. The Mistress of my Castle, Myrrh of Guthrie, is her grandmother. I know her better than anyone here except perhaps Veritas Truebreed, who has the misfortune to share her roof-and I know no reason she should have drawn your notice. She is not even a pleasure to a man’s eye, Lewis Motley . . , and less by far to a man’s ear. What have you, an ocean and two continents away, to do with Responsible of Brightwater?”

  The Guardian’s face hardened, and for a moment they saw not a youth of nineteen but a glimpse of the man he would one day be, when he had more years to his credit.

  “You have said she is no pleasure to the eye or ear of a man,” he said grimly. “I am a good judge of women; I am in full accord with that judgment. She is an awkward, scrawny gawk of a girl; her face is too bony, and her breasts are too small. She runs when she should walk, interferes when she should refrain, and speaks when any decent female would keep silence. But I will take it a step farther than eyes and ears, gentlemen! A large step farther . . . Had I only the sight and sound of that accursed young woman to deal with, I would not have needed you. The distance of which Michael Stepforth speaks would of solved my problem.”

  “And it does not?”

  “She is not bound by distances,” said the Guardian flatly. “Not in space; not in time. So far as I know, unless you nine have the skill to restrain her, she is bound by nothing in this universe but her own whim. And her whim is to make of my life an unspeakable hell.”

  A stir went round the table; they were more than interested, they hung on his words.

  “Explain yourself!” ordered Michael Desirard McDaniels the 17th, Magician of Rank in residence at Castle Farson. “We cannot help with riddles-save those for the Grannys, and do us the favor of plain speech.”

  “And promptly,” said another. “Enough of this dawdling.”

  “Responsible of Brightwater,” said Lewis Motley, “offends the eye and the ear; in my case, she does not scruple to offend the mind as well.”

  “The mind . . . how does she offend your mind?”

  “I thought a long time before I called you,” said Lewis Motley slowly. “It is not pleasant to be telling tales on a female not much more than a child-for a long time I was determined I would not. But she has gone far beyond that limit at which the scruples of ordinary decency and honor apply to her; she no longer merits any of those scruples, and my conscience is clear. To betray evilmonstrous evil-I owe her no hesitation. Not any longer.”

  “What in the world,” breathed Veritas Truebreed, “has she done to you?”

  “Done? Not only done, but does! Every day of my life.”

  “Lewis Motley-”

  “She will not leave me in peace,” he said simply. “As another female might tag after you day and night in the ordinary world, forever after your attention, always there wherever you look, her voice always in your ear, Responsible of Brightwater tags constantly after my mind. I want it stopped.”

&nb
sp; The last four words fell like four stones into a pool of silence. “Well?” demanded the Guardian. “Can you or can you not control her? Do you or do you not command this world of Ozark and all that moves upon it? Is this a simple matter for you, a mere child’s trick-as I have been led to believe-or are you a pack of frauds?”

  The Magicians of Rank were in a state that did not inspire confidence, all trying to speak at once, and their fingers flying under the table like frantic insects. It was a discomfiting sight, and Lewis Motley shoved back his chair from the table and stared at them with frank wonder.

  “Answer me, gentlemen,” he said, and still he did not raise his voice. “I am surprised--I admit that frankly. Your behavior is . . . bewildering.” And he added, “If the people of the six continents could see you now, they would never be in awe of you again, not if you sailed a thousand golden ships with silver sails, not if you SNAPPED from here to the stars and back! They would laugh at you, as they laugh at Lincoln Parradyne’s puppet of a King-and they would be fully justified in their disrespect. Be glad, gentlemen, that there is no one here to see you but myself!”

  Nathan Overholt Traveller was the oldest of the nine; Lewis Motley’s words brought him instantly out of his disarray. He had not been spoken to in that way since he donned the garments of his profession, and he didn’t care for it.

  “That will do!” he declared. “You may be of some importance in this backwater, you may be Guardian of this Castle-whatever that means-but know that we can make you a dead Guardian, without moving from these chairs! Guard your tongue, Guardian; or you will find your tenure short, I promise you.”

  Lewis Motley sighed and pulled his chair back into its proper place.

  “Now that,” he said with satisfaction, “is the sort of thing I expected. Thank you, Nathan Overholt; you have restored some portion of my confidence.”

  Veritas Truebreed cleared his throat. “Lewis Motley Wommack,” he said carefully, “do we understand you to mean that Responsible of Brightwater uses mindspeech with you? Is that your claim, or do we misunderstand? Be careful, now-you realize that it’s a grave charge you are making. That goes beyond mere illegality, for a woman; you charge her with blasphemy. Be certain!”

  “Mindspeech. . .”

  “Well? Is that your claim?”

  “Almost,” said Lewis Motley. “Almost. It would be more accurate to say that she uses it at me than with me . . . I certainly have no means of making reply. And she does not confine herself to speech; she does not scuple to-” He caught himself, and a muscle twitched, suddenly, in his cheek. “I will not speak of that,” he said, with a determination that had all the finality of a Castle gate swinging shut and its bars falling into place. “There are obscenities that a man keeps to himself. Just see that she respects the privacy of my mind; I ask nothing more than that. You can do that?”

  “The problem,” said Nathan Overholt, “was not whether we could; it was a question of whether it was permitted to us . . . whether it was justified. You have answered that question for us.”

  “Good,” said Lewis Motley. “Good!”

  It was clear to the Magicians of Rank that Lewis Motley had no idea what lay behind their temporary confusion, and there was no particular reason why he should have. Mindspeech on this planet was supposed to be confined to them, to a rare and exceptionally talented Magician, and-for some unknown and outrageous reason -to the Mules. A Magician not sufficiently skilled to be a Magician of Rank, but beyond the ordinary, could mindspeak in a clumsy fashion, one or two semantic units at a time, with great and exhausting effort-it was a rare thing. Leaving out those exceptions, the Grannys and the Magicians had empathy to spare, but could go no further. As for Responsible of Brightwater, the news that she could use mindspeech, and his hint that there was more to it even than that, went beyond revelation. It was the Twelve Towers crashing down about their learned heads. He could not know that, but they did, one and all.

  “Perhaps,” suggested Michael Stepforth Guthrie carefully, “it is only your imagination, Lewis Motley. You have been under a great strain lately, and the pressure of your new duties, isolated as you are here, and your brother only a short time in his grave, must be extreme. Please consider once again: are you certain?”

  And then there were nine Magicians of Rank leaping with varying degrees of nimbleness out of the way as the Guardian of Wommack threw the heavy table over into their laps.

  “Months I have lived with that witch prying and poking about in my head!” he shouted. “Months! At first it was only a moment, only a nudge now and then . . , then it was every day . . . soon it will be every hour of every day! Why she leaves me in peace in the nights now I cannot imagine, but I know it will not last . . . And you dare ask me if it is my imagination! Imagination! I may be imagining you, gentlemen, I may be imagining the beat of my own heart, I may be imagining this room and this chair and this tablebut I do not imagine the liberties that Responsible of Brightwater takes with my mind!”

  The Magicians of Rank, back against the walls and the door, began to feel almost warm toward this arrogant stripling, for all that he had shown them less deference than he had shown their Mules. If what he said was true, and by his words it surely must be-if he had been mad they would have known at once, his mind was harried and fretful and fractious, but it was sound-if it was true, then at last they had their chance to revenge themselves! Even with one another, whatever it was she used to bind their lips held; they could not speak of the experiences they had shared. But they knew, every one of them knew, and for the opportunity to pay her back as she should be paid there was almost nothing they would not have offered.

  Lewis Motley was breathing hard, and staring round him like a Mule stallion with a threatened herd. When the Magicians of Rank began moving toward him, speaking to him with the voices they used for the ill and the frantic, he had only one thing to say to them.

  “Can you make her stop it?”

  He had no interest in anything else they might be able to do, to him or for him.

  “Can you?”

  They were grinning at one another in a way that lacked dignity, but had enough of malice and sheer unfettered glee to make up for it. For a man to use mindspeech, unless he were a Magician, was illegal. For a woman to do so . . .

  It would take all of them, and for once in their lives they would have to work together. But it was allowed. Her offense was monstrous.

  “Yes, Lewis Motley,” they said, “we certainly can.”

  They were nine ecstatic Magicians of Rank, and they could already taste the sweetness of revenge in their mouths.

  Chapter 18

  Shandra of Clark was out of breath; first, there’d been dropping the eggshells into the batter for that morning’s cornbread and having to make a whole new batch, and the cook down on her for that; and then there’d been tripping over somebody’s small boy as had no business being in the staff hallway down the side of the Castle . . . and then going back for another pot of tea to replace the one she’d half spilled on Miss Responsible’s tray, and the cook down on her for that. She was determined this time to get up the stairs and down the corridor, and the tea delivered with no further mishaps.

  “Keep on as you’ve been, Shandra of Clark,” she muttered to herself as she went along, “and you’ll spend the rest of your life stuck in the back kitchen of this Castle peeling things and taking dressdowns from the rest of the staff, see if you don’t.” That wasn’t her plan for her life; she intended to work her way out of the kitchen and into the affections of a certain young man with good prospects-but first she had to get out of the kitchen.

  Responsible’s door . . . there! She stopped, balancing the tray carefully on one hand, and smoothed her hair down, and then she knocked softly three times.

  “Your tea, miss, and good morning with it,” she said, hoping she sounded more agreeable than she felt. The cook had been really mad at her, and considering it was two dozen squawker eggs wasted, that was reasonable.
>
  She waited for an answer, and passed her time admiring the door. If ever she did have a house of her own, she wanted just such a door. Boards of ironwood, set vertical, and the top arched to a high peak, and then the whole thing painted a proper blue. And the doorknob had set in its center a Brightwater crest-she wouldn’t have that one, of course-in glorious bright colors you could near see in the dark. And the horseshoe nailed above the door was a dainty thing of silver, no rough and (admit it!) rusty iron such as she had over her own door on the Castle’s top floor. Time she polished that, for sure.

  “Miss Responsible?”

  She knocked again, and frowned. Miss Responsible was an early riser, saving always that day after the Granny’d potioned her, and lately she’d been up so early that several times she’d come down after her own tea and caught the staff just coming into the kitchen. Shandra fancied having her own house to run, but she didn’t envy Responsible of Brightwater the managing of this great hulk of a Castle, thank you, not one bit she didn’t.

  She knocked sharper, and then clucked her tongue, irritated. Now she’d be getting it in the kitchen for being gone too long right in the middle of making breakfast!

  If it’d been some doors, she’d of opened it-not looked in, of course, but just opened it a crack-and called right into the room. But nothing would have brought her to that at this door, or either of the Granny’s, nor the Magician of Rank’s either. Warded doors she’d keep her hands off of unless invited, now and forevermore, and she had no intentions of having Miss Responsible do . . . something. She wasn’t sure just what Miss Responsible could do, but she gathered it wouldn’t necessarily be pleasant, and she had no desire to test it out. It was said Miss Responsible was right clever with Charms and Spells.

  There being nothing else to do, she took the tray back to the kitchen one more time, and told the others that Responsible of Brightwater wasn’t answering her door this morning.