There’s nobody in the town but Hoots, all rolling around on stools. It looks like the only mounts here are those that came out to meet us.
I know . . . I just know it’s because the Sams and Sues are all in prison, like they said it was when they rescued Merry Mary. Only these are let out because they needed them. And they all have bits and reins and are held in tight.
Everybody, the guards and Little Master, too, has to dismount, and we’re led into a burrow with a long, long entrance way. I’m the only mount that comes along, and that’s because Little Master said so. Here’s another test, crawling down the entrance way. I never did like how it felt inside a burrow, especially the entrance, but this is the worst. Who but a Hoot could stand it? When I wanted to do hard things, this isn’t what I had in mind. I would much rather cause a landslide.
Little Master walks . . . walks and not wobbling . . . down the hall in front of me. (My father found him a pair of red, human-being baby shoes. Till now nobody ever did see a Hoot with shoes.) They brought him a stool just his size, but he refused it and walked in by himself. He even has his chin in and his chest out just like me—not when I’m crawling down a burrow, though.
The entrance way finally opens out to a wide room. It’s even bigger than the dining lodge up at the village. Wider, that is, but not as tall. When I stand up, my head touches the ceiling. There’s a batch of guards in hats. They’re in a half-circle around one special Hoot. That’s got to be him, The Munificent, Magnanimous Master, The-Present-Ruler-Of-Us-All.
He isn’t wearing anything special. I guess you’re supposed to be able to tell like they always can when they see Little Master. He doesn’t have any kind of hat nor even any hairdo. Just nice whites. It’s a lot like democracy.
He says, “Dear child . . . of the seven. I bare my neck.” And he leans his head back, inviting the leap-and-choke. “How should we do? Say or sing it. Do. And let me see your neck.”
But Little Master says, “No.” Just plain no.
“Then it will have to be as it seems to be.”
Little Master says just plain, “Yes.”
I can’t believe how dignified he is, and sure of himself.
Then he and The-Present-Ruler-Of-Us-All leave the big room. Just the two of them. Little Master doesn’t even look back at me. He keeps his ears stiff—at attention. They go into a cubby at the far end of the hall. I’m glad I’m not supposed to go in there with them. As it is, I’m having a hard time even though it’s a wide room. When Little Master was here, I didn’t notice how short of breath I was starting to be, but now I do. I’m worried about him, but I’m beginning to worry about myself more. I don’t care how elegant it is, and it is, and I don’t care how many portraits of us line the walls, and they do, and in silver frames, every single one of them. I don’t care about the plant stands and the plants or the soft white rugs. I shut my eyes and try to pretend I’m outside with a big blue sky above me, but even with my eyes shut I feel worse and worse. I start to shake and sweat, and my fingers feel stiff. I think I’m going to throw up, but that scares me all the more.
Maybe they can tell . . . or smell. . . . Anyway, they finally let me crawl out . . . make me . . . two guards prod me from behind with a pole set on low as if they don’t know I can’t wait to get out of there. I didn’t say a word. I was willing to stay . . . sort of willing, if I had to. I knew this was one of the really hard things I needed to do, only this kind of hard thing isn’t like the others. It’s as if your body just won’t do it even if your brains want it to. Your body would rather throw up. As soon as I’m out of there, I do.
I don’t have much of a chance to catch my breath outside in the nice fresh air—I’m breathing these big, gaspy breaths—when they put a dog collar around my neck (pretty tight, too) and lead me off, past another batch of white wires, to a big building practically all made of white wires. They sizzle and spit as we go in, even though we don’t touch them. I guess this is what a prison is. I did wonder.
Before they shut me in, they take off my boots and check my feet for Wild feet, which would have big calluses and ground-in dirt, but my feet are soft and clean.
I know how to be Tame and well brought up. I don’t say a single word all through it. They check my mouth tattoo. They don’t have any expression on their faces, but how could they not be pleased—about my tattoo and everything else about me? When they check my mouth (and the rest of me), they write down that I’m thirteen. I saw. (I can read their numbers just as well as ours even though it looks all scratchy.) I sure popped from eleven to thirteen in a hurry.
They’ve put me in a stall by myself, but from what I could see on the way in, most of the others of us are in stalls of four or even more. There is another person alone, though, right across from me. A nothing sort of Sue. For sure a nothing. I’m getting good at telling types. She tried to talk to me when they first shut me in, but I wouldn’t.
If this really is prison, I like it. A lot. They know us well enough to make us a really good place. They always try to make things nice for us. There’s one of those glowy strips all along one side of the ceiling. (You can look right at those and it never hurts your eyes. Hoots’ eyes are more sensitive than ours, so they need them like this even more than we do.) There’s a soft bed with a soft green cover. There’s a folding table. There’s a toilet at the back. No window, but on one wall there’s a great big picture of an arena, flags flying. All colors. It’s more exciting than a window could ever be—unless it looked out right over an arena just as big as this one, and it was the same breezy sunny day with clouds in the background.
I sit on the one and only chair (it has a green cushion that matches the bed cover) and admire everything. I wish I could be in that arena right now with the flags flapping. I think how civilized it all is and how fun and exciting. After that I look at my legs and think how nice they are, even with the scars, and then I think about how I’m growing.
I wish there was a mirror.
I tense my leg muscles. That Sue across from me will see my good legs. Hers are neither Tennessee nor Seattle.
“Hey,” the nothing says . . . again. “Hey, hi.” But who wants to talk to a nothing?
“Won’t you talk? Or can’t you? I know lots can’t. Just give me some sign.”
I turn my back and feel for my mustache. No doubt about it, it’s coming along.
“I have a book.”
I don’t answer. I’m having a good-enough time without one.
“Stories from a long time ago. It’s got airplanes and trains. I’ll give it to you. I’ve read it so often I know it by heart.”
I wouldn’t mind reading about trains and airplanes. I hardly know what they are, but what I’m worrying about now is, is she going to have a good view of every single thing I do? There’s only a yard or so of hallway between her white wires and mine. Even if I was at the farthest wall and she at her farthest wall, I’d still only be maybe ten yards away, at the most.
Well, it depends on how long I’m going to be here—I mean, about whether I’ll let her give me her book or not.
“Lots with as many scars as you have can’t talk, but they can whistle or hum tunes that mean things.”
Nobody ever taught me the whistle talk, but even if I knew it, I wouldn’t whistle for her. She doesn’t matter. I can say whatever I feel like. Lies or anything. But I could shock her the most with the truth. I could say, “I saved my Hoot host’s life and my own father poled me. My father! Top-to-bottom. And my Hoot is . . . .” But I wouldn’t tell her who he really is. She can tell all she needs to know about me just by looking. After all, I have my shiny red shorts, my silks, and my silver surcingle. Maybe not the best hairdo, but pretty good. Close as she is, she can’t see that half of it is false.
This is a good time to study the etched leaping Sams on the sides of the bit, so I do that. (I took my bit and headstall off right away.) I wonder if she can see those leaping Sams on the sides from where she is?
But it’s suc
h a nice, civilized, cushiony chair I fall asleep. Except I still have that collar around my neck with the lead rope attached. The collar is thick stiff leather, and it rubs on my neck and half-wakes me up off and on, but I’m so tired I just go back to sleep.
Another reason to have a mirror is, I could see how rubbed I’m getting.
I have no way of knowing time. The light doesn’t change. I don’t know long I slept. It seemed long, but it could have been ten minutes. I go drink. Nice cold water right in my stall like there’s supposed to be—hot water, too.
I look at the stall across from me. She’s asleep now. Sprawled on the cot. Her shoes are off, and I can see her feet are not Wild feet any more than mine are. They’re clean and soft. Smaller than any Seattle’s, Sam or Sue. And narrow. I kind of like how they look. Her hairdo, too, it’s not much of one, but nice. I think Merry Mary had one like that, two braids wound around to the back of her head, and a butterfly pin. This nothing has a butterfly pin that reminds me of my mom’s. I wonder what she thinks of my hair? We fixed it up as best we could. It has a nice shape to it, lacquered, with painted half-circles at my temples.
She’s wearing a silky kind of top. (Not as nice as my silks, though. Mine are yellow and purple with two white stripes. Hers are just plain blue.) I can see everything about her breasts. That top is so soft I can even see the little dip where her belly button is. Up at the village everybody wore thicker things.
Breasts make me think about what it means to be a human being . . . what my father asked but didn’t give me any answers to. Was he thinking Wild or Tame? And do Wilds have the same kind of breasts as Tames? (Us Seattles usually have big ones.) Makes me wonder, what about penises?
My father would say we’re all human beings. But it’s as if he thinks we also have to do something about it. I don’t know what that is.
But right now I think being a real human is being right here in a nice, cool prison and eating fresh-baked dry cakes and drinking milk for breakfast. If this is breakfast. It feels like it. I don’t even know how those dry cakes got here. And there’s oranges. Two of them. I haven’t had those lately. What it means to be a civilized human being . . . that’s the real question, and, prison or not, this is it. The only bad thing about it is her.
When I slept she could have been watching me like I watched her. There’s no way to keep her from it. All I have on are these short, short shorts, and my shirt is silky, too. Mostly what she’d see about me is muscles.
I guess I must be rattling around with my food, because she wakes and sees me watching her. I turn away too late, but when I turn back, she’s still staring.
She says, “I wish you’d talk.” And then I see tears in her eyes. They just pop out and drip down her cheeks, and she doesn’t wipe at them. She doesn’t even lick them when they get to her lips. You’d think they’d tickle. I should say something. I do feel sorry for her, but I feel frozen. All stiff and odd, as if—being so close to her like this, and getting watched, and the toilet right behind—I have to keep my dignity.
Then she says, “I’m going to give you this book anyway. I’m sorry about your scars. I know you can’t talk. I don’t mind. Really. You don’t have to try for me.”
She puts the book outside her stall and shoves it as far towards my stall as she can. I could reach it but I don’t.
I’m thinking how Merry Mary never said anything about being a real human being. What she always said was: Be fair, and honest, and kind, and polite, and I’ve mostly always tried. She said, especially a Seattle should be that way, because not everybody can be as strong or as big or as important as us Seattles, but right now I’m not being a single one of those things she said to be.
I don’t know what my father meant because I couldn’t not be human if I tried, except I do know I’m not being the way a Seattle should be. Especially to another Sam or Sue who isn’t lucky enough to be one.
“Did they hurt you? Your neck is all red under your collar.”
But the way she looks at me . . . I’m still feeling all stiff and funny.
“My Sue name is Mistaken. I was a mistake. Hoots call me Missy.”
Even though I could see she was a mistake the minute I saw her, I don’t like that she has to be named that. I finally do shake my head. A couple of big, slow nos.
“But my mother named me Lily.”
I say, “Lily.” Except it comes out like my father would have said it. “Li. . . .” Long wait, then, “Ly.” I don’t know if I meant to do that or if it happened by itself. My mouth does feel odd after a whole day with that bit.
“You can talk.”
But I don’t want to risk any more words. I’m getting to be like my father. Besides, I might yodel by mistake.
She’s looking at me, squinting as if I need to be thought about. “Are you a Wild or a Tame? I can’t tell for sure. You’re dressed Tame, but there’s things Wild about you, too. Just nod if you’re a Wild?”
I don’t know what to answer. I suppose I’ve gotten to be a little bit Wild, even though I never wanted to be. But how do you nod half a nod?
“I know you’re special. I know you’re not just anybody.”
Everybody who knows anything at all can see that.
Then I think about her looks and how she’s probably what my sister will be like, lumpy nose, too-high forehead, pale eyes—I can’t see what color, they’re just too pale. Maybe kind of greenish or just plain gray. My sister might be exactly like this.
“I wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t. . . .” Why am I talking like my father? That won’t keep my voice yodeling all over anyway. “ . . . wouldn’t like being . . . called Mistaken.”
“I’m used to it. Besides, it’s always Missy. And besides, it’s true. And kind of funny. But I like being Lily. Though I guess I don’t look much like a lily. Maybe dandelion. . . . No, there’s a raggedy kind of aster that always looks as if it’s lost half its petals . . . Engleman Aster. That’s like me. Call me Engleman.”
She laughs—as if being a nothing doesn’t matter that much.
“I have a sister. She’s. . . .” (I almost say, a nothing.) “She’s . . . like you.”
“How do you know? I could have a dozen sisters and not know about a single one, and I haven’t seen my mother since they took me away.”
“I haven’t seen my mother, either—not since I was taken, but I was supposed to see her, except I’m here instead.”
“Well, what are you, Wild or Tame? And thank you. For talking. I haven’t talked to any of us for a long time, except our stall cleaner.”
I’m not sure I want to talk to a stall cleaner. Except I’m talking to Lily.
“I’m a Tame.” I lean towards the bars and pull my upper lip up to show my brand under it. “But I was with the Wilds for a while. They know things like mothers and sisters. They would even know about your mother and sisters.”
“Could be brothers,” she says, and laughs again. It sure doesn’t take much to make her laugh. She’s looking at me in that steady-on way again. “I have some cream for your neck. Can you reach through?”
“Do you ever know what time it is in here?”
“They don’t want us to know things like that. Sometimes Blue Bob, that stall cleaner, tells me, but then more time goes by and I lose track again.”
Just as she’s about to give me that cream, along comes a Sam with a bad limp. Very bad! His leg kind of drags behind him in a twisted way. I can’t look. I don’t want to think about it. A completely useless Sam. Not only that, but a completely useless Seattle Sam! He’s leaning over so much he’s not up to his regular height at all, but you can see he was a big one.
He’s cleaning with a vacuum thing. He can hardly even do that. He uses it partly as a cane. That book is still lying in the hallway between us. “Book,” he says, not quite as badly as my father would have said it, picks it up, and reads the title out loud. “When Our Land Was Our Land.” He starts to hand it to her, says, “L . . . Lily. Lily.” Twice for no reason even th
ough he can’t say Ls very well.
“It’s for him.”
“Ah, the mount . . . the mount of His Excellent Excellency, The-Ruler-Of-Us-All.”
“Lily goes, “Oh . . . oh . . . ,” and covers her mouth with her hand—as well she should.
The crippled Seattle gives me this long, long stare. (I’m getting tired of being stared at all the time.) Then he nods and says, “I know that face.” He speaks slowly, but clearer than my father. “I know that face.” When you can’t talk that well, you shouldn’t keep repeating things. “ . . . that same face, but older and sadder.” (He should have said, I know that nose.) “5584, guards’ mounts. My friend. My partner. Always. I was 5585. We were as if hitched together. Always the two of us out in front because we were the biggest and looked so much alike.”
He reaches right in and grabs me by the wrist. (I was standing so close because I was about to reach for the cream and the book. I do want them.)
“Heron’s child! I’d know you anywhere!”
I snatch my hand back. He pulls his away, too, just as fast, backs off, and hunches over more than ever.
I turn my back so fast I trip on my dangling lead rope and give my neck a real jerk. How could this absolutely, absolutely lame, useless Sam grab for my wrist like that?
Lily reaches out and calls him. “Blue Bob. Bob.”
“It’s all right.”
“It’s not! He. . . . You stuck-up nothing! What’s your name? I want to know so as not to call you by mistake.”
That Bob says, again, “It’s all right. He didn’t mean to.”
The Mount Page 15
