Filter House

by Nisi Shawl

  So what was to prevent her from describing them to the police when they set her and Kevin free?

  But of course the kidnappers had never been going to do that, since there was nobody except Aunt Rutha and Uncle Donald at the cabin, no secret heir. No prince in disguise.

  Only Leora knew that, though. She had thought.

  She had thought she could wait till they got there, but no telling what these white men had in mind.

  As soon as Farmer stopped driving, she’d have to sing.

  The black-and-purple sedan’s motor made more noise than the Cadillac. Of course it was older. The island looked empty for a Friday night. Then they reached the mainland, and she saw all the traffic lights flashing yellow. No reds. That late. Or early; early Saturday morning.

  And when would the kidnappers stop the car? Where? Would she even have time to open her mouth before they shot her?

  Kevin snuggled up against her on her right, both arms wrapped around hers at the elbow. In the regular flare of streetlamps Leora saw him staring up at her, worry and trust tugging him back and forth in nervous twitches. If she saved his life he was truly hers. That’s what she’d heard the Hindoos would say.

  The thin man had stuck a gun under her left ribs. On Kevin’s far side the sweatered man crowded against the fogged-up window, flicking some switch on the gun he held. Tense or bored? Both, she decided. Wait for a change in that, then.

  The lights came less often. Fewer of them; they must be near the rail yards now. Maybe here—Leora discovered she’d been holding her breath and let it go. The sweatered man stopped fiddling with his gun, but only to light himself a cigarette.

  “Put that thing out,” the thin man told him. “Filthy habit.” He reached past her and snatched it away to stub it in the ashtray. A sudden sharp left. Lights ahead, low and steady. “Get the toll ready, Farmer,” the thin man ordered. He jabbed the gun harder into Leora’s side, a silent reminder to keep quiet.

  They sailed through the toll booth and onto the Ambassador Bridge almost without a pause. Golden lights hanging on either side swooped their shadows across her eyes. They passed under its two signs, the red letters first facing forward, then backward.

  Slaves had crossed all along here. In winter the water froze, and they walked to freedom. In the darkness, on the ice, they ran over the river to the land they’d been so long dreaming of…. Leora loved that freedom, the kind that came only in your sleep.

  And then they were in Canada. The gun switch clicked so fast it sounded like a bent fan blade hitting its frame. A low roof lit from beneath by blue-white fluorescents chopped the horizon in half. Customs check. Farmer pulled up to a booth. The man inside raised his eyes from his magazine, frowned, and waved them toward the parking lot.

  The clicking stopped. “Shit,” swore the thin man.

  “Should I go where he’s pointing at—or maybe I oughta make a run for it—”

  “See those cop cars waiting up ahead? Think you can outrace them?”

  The kidnappers continued to quarrel as Farmer veered off the road into a parking place. He left the engine idling, but they weren’t going anywhere for a while. Not before they got a thorough inspection.

  She smiled down at the boy beside her. This would be her best bet. Big Momma had taught her, and it was not a sin—especially in self-defense. And if it worked she would light a second candle. She opened her mouth to sing the lullaby until they shut their eyes, every mother’s son.

  Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry,

  Go to sleepy little baby;

  When you wake, you shall have,

  All the pretty little horses.

  Blacks and bays, dapple grays,

  All the pretty little horses.

  Way down yonder, in the meadow,

  Lies a poor little lamby;

  Bees and butterflies, flutterin round his eyes,

  Poor little thing is crying, “Mammy.”

  Go to sleep, don’t you cry,

  Rest your head upon the clover;

  In your dreams, you shall ride,

  While your mammy’s watching over.

  Blacks and bays, dapple grays,

  All the pretty little horses;

  All the pretty little horses.

  Shiomah’s Land

  I guess I’ll never really know for sure whether my mother meant to throw herself to her death beneath the wheels of a god’s carriage. She certainly had something in mind, for she kissed my forehead before she left me, first brushing my dark, unruly locks aside. Then she told me to stay still, and ran off towards the road. It looked to me as though she slipped, though she was actress enough to do that on purpose.

  Perhaps she only meant to be maimed, slightly. Stories were told of mortals who had been restored after such accidents and given handsome gifts as well: metals, or strange fabrics. She may have been aiming for these riches.

  I didn’t try to stop her, confident that she must know what she was doing. I was very proud of my mother; was she not the greatest glee-woman walking? She taught me all I knew.

  Of course, anyone who has passed a Fertility Trial is exceptional, but the thrilling tale my mother told of hers convinced me that she was without match. Apparently she agreed with me, for when she was fit for travel we spent very little time with my father and his people.

  I must have been about nine or so when we heard that my father’s people had sent someone out to look for us. Or for me, to be more specific. They had been content to leave me in my mother’s care at first, but I was now big enough to work strongly in the fields. Naturally, we decided to flee.

  We took a raft a long way down a river, singing our way to Kimp Sinn, the city. It was said that the walls of Kimp Sinn were lined with foodholes, that one could see the gods on every corner. In a manner of speaking, these marvels were quite true.

  Kimp Sinn is on an island in the sea. It is reached (unless you are a god) by a long, waltzing causeway. I still can remember the feeling of exhilaration we shared as my mother and I walked through the blue and white sky, gulls screaming around us.

  In the city we found that many people had arrived there before us and were already well entrenched. The plenteous foodholes, which produced more than enough food for all, were controlled by certain individuals and groups. If no one could give them something of value in return for it, the food they could not eat was dumped into the sea. The gulls love Kimp Sinn. Their droppings white-wash the walls.

  And as for seeing the gods on every corner, that was almost right, for everywhere there were glowing colored squares busy with flickering images of the gods. Some of them were said to reside upon the mountains of the island. Once in a great while one of their little silver carriages would roll down the hollow god road.…

  Not many considered our “songs, dances, plays, and fooleries” as worth watching above a moment, much less offering goods for the privilege. Not when they could watch the god shows for nothing. That first evening my mother traded her horn earrings for some dairy and ceery for us, some sweet for me, and a little smooth for herself. We had to trade again to get a roof space to sleep on.

  The next day we learned to catch and kill rats. There were two foodholes in Kimp Sinn that operated only when a ratskin had been dropped in. The generous caretakers of these places inserted the ratskins for one, taking only part of the food for themselves. Thus we made our way in a place where our work meant nothing.

  We were waiting for one of the ships that Kimp Sinn’s natives boasted sometimes came calling to the port. None came for a long time. They told us it was because of storms, though the sea was calm as far as any could see. My mother believed them, she said, “for the sea is very big, Teekoige.” At last a ship came, but it was going North, back toward my father’s home.

  As we waited for a Southern voyager, passing the days on the pier and the streets, hunting for rats and trading away our trinkets, I became aware of a secret interaction between my mother and a man named Obelk, one of those who took our ratskins. I
got the feeling that he wished her to do something that she would rather not. It must have been something awful, or she would have told me about it, I am sure.

  My mother cut off and traded her hair. I remember how heavy and dark it was, like sweet or sorghum.

  One day Obelk refused to trade with us. The others did the same, at his foodhole and the other where ratskins were accepted. We could not even get fresh water.

  So I know my mother was in a desperate state as we walked alongside the god road. But I do not know what was in her mind. I did not see her expression as she died.

  She was thrown high into the air, then came thudding down in the road behind the slowing carriage. I ran screaming to her, but just as I reached her I was seized in a cold grip and lifted from her side. I stopped my screaming then, too frightened to breathe. I was carried to the carriage; up to a window in the wall, a window covered with glass.

  Behind the glass I saw a beautiful round white face, appearing to me like a full moon in the night. The moon smiled and said something I couldn’t hear through the glass. The cold grip deposited me in a sort of bin at the back of the carriage, shutting the lid on me and plunging me into total darkness. I felt the carriage move.

  I finished crying for my mother. I knew that she must be dead. After the movement had stopped I was taken from the bin by the cold grip, which I saw belonged to a tall, shiny man, astonishingly costumed all in metal. For some reason I could not fathom, I fell instantly asleep.

  When I awoke I was alone, and I felt far away from death, my mother, silver carriages, rats, Kimp Sinn, gulls, the moon, and myself. I know now this was the result of the chemicals with which I had been treated. I lay there then not knowing this and not caring. I finally got up because I had to pee. Hunkering over the slit, I noticed that my locks no longer fell over my shoulders. Feeling with my hand I found that an outrageously short fuzz was all I had covering my head. Also, I was naked (something that had not sunk in while I squatted peeing). I looked around for my clothes, but they were not in sight.

  There was a mirror on one wall. At first I did not realize what it was, because I was unaccustomed to such large, clear mirrors. It showed me not only my bony face but my pitiful brown nakedness, the pale sea-colored walls behind me, the slit, the foodhole, and the bedmat from which I had just risen. It acted like a mirror, so I believed it was one. But suddenly it was no longer a mirror; it glowed like the god images on the walls of Kimp Sinn. Like a growing jewel, a picture of the moonface appeared, framed with lavender hair. I looked away.

  “Teekoige!” called the picture’s voice. My name, I thought, but I did not respond. “Teekoige? Teekoige!” The image faded.

  I turned to the foodhole. It gave me some bean and veg and some nice flavored water. I did some stretches, automatically at first. As my body warmed up, my thoughts began to cohere. I went over recent events. My mother’s death maintained its distance. It was like something I had been sad about a long time ago.

  One heard of those who had been actually taken up by the gods. These rare individuals were never again seen by mortal eyes.

  In a little while the square called me again. I ignored it. Then it threatened to shut off the foodhole and the sluice for the slit until I “learned to mind my manners.” This provoked me into answering that I did not need to use my manners to deal with a talking picture square. After a brief silence the light dimmed out and the mirror returned again.

  Shortly, it began to move, opening inward like a door. I snatched up the sheet from the bedmat to wrap myself in it. I need not have bothered, though; my visitor was also naked. Her skin and hair shining, the god who had killed my mother (but it must have been a very long time ago) said hello to me, half frowning, half smiling.

  “Hello, Teekoige, then, if you will have no graven image,” she addressed me.

  “Hello—” I replied, with a heavy pause.

  She took her cue. “Amma.”

  “Hello, Amma, midam,” I said, happy that my mother had taught me something of the ways of the gods. Amma is worshipped for her effect upon moods, storms, accidents, and sudden changes. I curtsied deeply.

  “I am sorry about your mother, Teekoige,” she said, as if that took care of everything. For her it did. For me it only brought the realization that my mother may not have been entirely responsible for her own death.

  Amma immediately wanted to know why I “would not speak with her over the vee,” gesturing to the mirror. I could not answer her, so she continued. “Why did you manipulate me into coming here? Are you planning to kill me?” she asked with a friendly sneer. “No, of course not; we both know that that is impossible. Why?”

  “I will do what you want me to do, midam,” I replied slowly, “but I had no idea I should have treated that trick as though it were a real god. Such a thought never occurred in my head.” I had a lot to learn.

  Amma, however, seemed well pleased with my answer. My ignorance was exactly what she wished for, “for I shall not have to unteach you a lot of tiresome misconceptions, like those city-bred mortals.

  “My dear girl,” she went on, “you are absolutely perfect. Except for that horrible name.” She clasped her hands together above her breasts, her nipples glowing like large rosy pearls. “You must have a stage name, something more mellifluous and resonant. Shiomah, that is it. Amma’s Shiomah.”

  Amma was a merry god, though capricious. Her form was always that of a beautiful, slightly plump woman with hair and skin of varying colors. She used also to remove part of the weight of her hair so that it floated up shimmering behind her head as she walked or glided along. She never cheapened her elegance with so much as a ring. This was a marked divergence from universal custom; even bioservs wore shorts or tunics or something.

  Amma created and recorded adventures and dramas that were highly popular among the gods. She had nothing to do with the pictures that moved on the corners of Kimp Sinn. Those, she told me, were Nyglu’s idea, produced by machines.

  Machines are the gods’ power. Machines give them their lives and their beauty. Amma showed me large and small machines, simple and complicated ones. Some are inside the gods, some embedded deep within the world, some fly constantly around the sky. Carriages, vees, foodholes, and servs are all machines. Machines speak and listen and reproduce and repair. They are toys and tools and objects of desire.

  Amma knew me inside out with the help of these machines. Silver circles embedded in her hand allowed her to instruct them as to her wishes. They gave her all my secrets as I slept. They whispered to me through my dreams, teaching me things I would not remember until I needed to know them. I wore a ring in my ear that spoke her commands to me when she herself was elsewhere.

  She controlled me in many ways; at first through my awe and also, I later realized, by using the words and intonations of my mother. After a while I just wanted to please her, and for a very long time she did not even have to threaten me with the punishments she held in readiness.

  I controlled nothing, directly. I could not even cause a door to open until Amma ordered a serv to accompany me everywhere, operating its fellow machines for me. Even over this I had less than absolute power. It did nothing that conflicted with its basic paradigms, and often, at first, I gave it impossible instructions.

  “Go drown yourself,” I told it one day, in a foul mood after my sixth failure at forming a difficult construction in the Creative Mode (the gods’ most difficult language). I knew perfectly well that the serv was operable under water, but I thought that it would at least try to obey me. Instead it put itself on standby, locking in place and emitting a distressed, hiccuping click. Some device must have alerted Amma, for she came into my room almost immediately, with another serv that deactivated and removed my companion.

  “You must not deliberately incapacitate my machines, Shiomah,” she said, calm but stern. Her eyebrows lowered into a lovely frown. “This particular episode does not stem from ignorance, does it?” I shook my head, chagrined. “If this continu
es, you will be denied all service.”

  I glanced around my quarters. They were pleasant: sand-colored, papery-feeling walls, russet and amber appointments, wide windows from which to see the sea. Still, it was no place in which to be involuntarily confined. But I did manage to confound my serv on one other occasion, though not exactly intentionally. It was just that I couldn’t understand why I didn’t miss my mother more, and I thought perhaps if I had something tangible to mourn.…

  This time two units came; one to attend to the damaged serv, the other to accompany me to Amma’s tower. I followed it up, a heavy lump of apprehension inside my chest refusing to respond to the lift of the glide-way.

  A rain the color of peridots curtained the entrance to my mistress’s apartment. I stepped through. As sometimes happened, the rain failed to cease falling, and I was drenched.

  The sun was at its zenith, and the iris of the tower’s ceiling had contracted to a slit. Below its short overhang, a long window curved continuously, circled by blue sky. Amma sat with her pale green legs curled beneath her, bent forward to look at a display board set in the floor. Raising her face to me, she seemed about to laugh at my wetness, but then a deliberate lack of expression smoothed away the beginnings of her dimples. I took a towel from a knob on the wall behind me and dried myself as I went to sit before her.