Asimov's SF, March 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  —

  We're not supposed to have favorites. Former Grandma let things go too far. We may have to see to it that Rosalia keeps the proper distance, but, for now, we'll let her sneak around to find out what's happening. We asked others of us to go see, but no one else wanted to do it.

  Rosalia came back and told us there are two men and neither of them is Ruthson. She said they don't look to be our kind.

  —

  I let the men see me as I leave the copse. “You're just the one we're looking for,” they say.

  They're not going to care that our group is split. All they want is me out of the way and one night with us. There's no bargain to be struck here and they're not going to be willing to wait.

  Since they're not of us, and won't be staying, even if they beat me up, the group will still be my responsibility.

  I say, “They're all yours."

  They're suspicious. They look at me—assessing. No doubt taking in how small I am, how thin and stringy. Taking in how large they are.

  “Smart man,” they say.

  Without a word, they head off towards the house we're hiding in. They've already found out which it is.

  They're whistling that song: “Next to my yellow-haired girl, how good, how good it feels....” I follow. They don't care. I'm as helpless as they know I am.

  But surely they're not going to rush in and just ... without even saying, Hello. I can just see it: tea first. If we have any left. Our best cups. Two big guys with tattoos.

  They know none of us would dare call the police.

  I look in the high little window in the front door. Just as I thought—though actually I didn't really think it: Tea time! And with my apples. My walnuts. How did the women convince those men to do that?

  But the women down here in town are not our youngest ones. The men may back down when they see just five middle-aged women and five children. They'll be angry and they could take their anger out on me.

  —

  We own nothing worth stealing. Our memories are our only treasures. There's only one reason men would come to us.

  We invite them in. Sit them down. It has to be on the floor, we have no chairs. All of us come, each one holding a toddler. We serve things Our Big Man took a lot of trouble getting for us.

  —

  But here, coming up behind me, is Ruthson, the man the women talked of before.

  We don't greet each other.

  It doesn't usually happen like this. We always say the words of challenge and then shake our secret brother-to-brother handshake. (The women don't know it nor even of it.) The other will proclaim his worth as a father and I'll say, “If it can come to be.” All this in a language so old and foreign, we hardly know what it means anymore.

  He's a big red headed man. The kind of man Our Boy will become later on.

  He says, “I'll come in with you, if you'll form a coalition."

  “I accept, but when this is over, I want to leave. Beat me up, but not my legs and feet. I want to be able to walk away."

  “Will do."

  —

  Even though I'm a small man, Ruthson and I prevail, no problem. All of us men are always in good shape. We know we're going to have to fight sooner or later if we ever want to be able to take up the rear of a group and keep it, so we spend a lot of time during our roaming years learning how to fight. You'd think, if they know about our way of life, they'd know that, but then they were only expecting one man.

  We went to the edge of the copse to have our fight—out of sight of the townspeople and our women. We had to keep remembering this wasn't our kind of fight. We had to forget our rules: No killing, no maiming. They fought any way they wanted, kick to the groin, punch to the Adam's apple....

  But when they start getting in trouble—almost right away—one of them says, “It isn't worth it. Those cunts are all too skinny and too old. Did you see the one with her hair in a bun? She had a nose on her. And she hardly had any knockers at all. You get a choice here, nose or knockers."

  They're talking about Rosalia.

  I leap towards them, but Ruthson grabs me. “Let them go."

  They turn and jump on their motorcycles.

  Ruthson, still holding me, says, “Calm down. It's over."

  Of course the motorcycles won't start. I forgot about the spark plugs. They try several times, then get off and turn to us. This is different, not just a little free sex with a bunch of women who won't go to the police. Now they're going to really fight. They take out switchblades. I only have my paring knife. Ruthson picks up a stone.

  But I yell, “Hold it! If you kill me you'll never find out where your spark plugs are."

  Ruthson will stay while I go into the woods to get them. He's a good and willing man. I was hoping for someone just like him to take over the group. I like how he held me back after the men said those things about Rosalia. He was right.

  But what to do? If I don't give them back those men will stay here and make more trouble, but even if I give them back they may attack us again. Why not?

  And I'm still angry about what they said about Rosalia. Are their noses so perfect? Are they so handsome? Foolish thoughts, and over and over and over, as I scrabble under the fallen tree for the plugs and wires. And when I bring back the plugs are they going to be happy? Thank me? I don't think so.

  Of course it'll take them some time to install them. We should get out of the way or we'll get run over on purpose. I wonder if we can get away fast enough.

  When I come back to the edge of the copse, one of the men is lying on his back, relaxed. The other sits smoking, leaning against his motorcycle. Both have their helmets on. It's a wonder they didn't have them on for our fight. Obviously they didn't take us seriously.

  Three women are standing across the field. Rosalia, wearing my shawl, is one of them. (She's the shortest. We're two of a kind.) It's a thrill to see her. Especially wearing that shawl. It's always been a sign between us, though I couldn't say exactly what it means.

  I wonder if those men will try to run down the women. They're angry enough to try it. It's my job to keep them safe. But nothing will happen until I get there with the plugs. I walk slowly. I motion for the women to leave. They don't.

  Ruthson is ready. You can tell by the way he's standing. And he still holds the rock. I'm sure he's thinking the group is already his. I as much as said so. He'll do anything to defend it, as will I.

  I hand over the spark plugs. I even help install them.

  And they do just what I expected—though I was hoping they'd come after us—they rev up, spew out great gobs of dirt, and head for the women. Ruthson and I chase after, but there's no hope of catching them. Ruthson throws the stone, but misses.

  Our women scatter.

  One of the men drives right over Rosalia.

  —

  We know that tides will come in higher than ever, landslides will cover the roads and carry away houses, trees will crash down, stars will fall.

  —

  Thank goodness the ground is muddy and soft. Even so her leg is clearly broken. I turn and think to run after the men, but it's hopeless. I kneel beside Rosalia. She's making a little mewing sound with every breath. I touch her shoulder. I don't say, “Are you in pain?” or, “What can I do to help?” I say what I've been wanting to say all this time. “Come with me."

  Of course she doesn't answer and I can see that she's in pain. Or maybe that look on her face isn't pain but shock.

  I apologize right away for asking such a thing.

  The other two women run up to us. Thank goodness they didn't hear what I said.

  —

  We are thought to be helpless without Our Big Man, but that's not so. The tea we served those motorcycle riders will have an effect, though not in time. Maybe an hour from now. A bad case of diarrhea. We were hoping to hold them off till then. We didn't realize Ruthson and Janeson would form a coalition and fight right then.

  Janeson will have to set Rosalia's leg an
d we'll have to make the plaster cast. We don't go to doctors.

  We bring him out some rags and pieces of wood for a splint. We give Rosalia some herbs to chew on.

  Janeson covers his mouth with his hand. He's trying to hold back tears. We've always been worried about the way he and Rosalia are with each other, but of course that'll be over soon. We hope Ruthson won't play favorites, though we can't accuse Janeson of that. He tried his best to be fair. Even leaned over backwards so that sometimes Rosalia got less than the rest of us. We've all loved him. We hope Ruthson will be as sweet.

  We help Janeson get Rosalia up on to his back. She's a skinny little thing, probably even lighter than poor Former Grandma. Rosalia rests her cheek next to his and hugs him. That's perfectly all right. Any of us would have done the same.

  There's all this mud all over both of them and no water turned on in the house. We'll have to go out to the canal yet again today. Our little ones can help. They'll like that.

  We have to be ready, also, for when Ruthson beats up Janeson. Perhaps we should make them have their fight up in the mountains with the rest of our group so Janeson can be healed and rest a bit while Ruthson takes over down here.

  —

  Ruthson and I do as Grandma says, fight up in the hills, and he does as I asked, saves my legs.

  MaryEllenson hid and watched our fight, though he's not supposed to. I didn't tell on him. I did the same when I was around his age and I got myself kicked out of my group for it.

  MaryEllenson is worried about Ruthson, and rightly so, but I tell him to stay young for a while. I tell him I wish I'd stayed in my group longer. But he doesn't want to go backwards into being Our Boy. It's hard to do after forming a coalition with a Big Man as he did with me, and even harder after looking after our group all by himself up here in the mountains. He may go off for his roaming two or three years early just as I had to, though with me, it wasn't of my own choosing.

  They give me a few days to recover, but now Rosalia is down in town and I'm stuck here and, after they send me away, I won't be allowed to communicate with any of them.

  Normally they would give me a bundle of helpful things, but I'm leaving secretly, before they do. There would be nice things to show me how they've felt about me. Now that I'm not part of the group they can give me all sorts of things. There might even be that shawl Rosalia knit. But I'm going to break our rules and leave before they can give me anything. It's because of her I'm sneaking away.

  But ... and it's so hard to believe ... I'm free! Actually free! I can do anything I want, go anywhere, or never roam again, never fight again, live as I please....

  Except I don't want to live without Rosalia. I'm going down to see if I can sneak in and find out how she's getting along with her broken leg. If there's anything blooming on the way, I'll pick a bouquet. It's early, but lower there might be flowers. She loves daisies and lupine and wild sunflowers.

  I make it as I did before—in one day. Thank goodness Ruthson saved my legs. He must now sleep in the garage where I slept. I hope he's tired enough not to mind the bugs and dust. It was cold there, too.

  I wait till dark. Before she was hurt, Rosalia was in with three others, but they probably moved her to her own room because of her leg. I wish I could have been here helping. They wouldn't have let me near her, but I could have found some special treats. If I couldn't find wild flowers, I would have bought some—or begged or stolen. I'd have brought her butter, tomatoes, apricots.... I wonder if I can find a way to give her what she needs once we get off by ourselves.

  That is, if she'll come.

  That is, if we can get away.

  Odd to think she wouldn't be calling me Uncle anymore. If we're pretending to be man and wife, she'd better not.

  Soon the candles are lit and I look in the windows. Rosalia is in a room alone just as I was hoping. That's the one room that had a dusty old bed left in it. Her leg is in an old-fashioned plaster cast. It's bulky and looks heavy. That might be a problem.

  I try to raise the window but it's locked. I tap. Rosalia sees me. At first she doesn't recognize me. I must look a fright. Ruthson knew I needed to look badly beaten so as to prove that I'd been through a real fight to try to keep my group. He concentrated on my face, but he knew how to hit so I didn't lose any teeth or break my jaw. All of us men are careful about not doing any real harm at our inaugural fight. Still, it's been hard to eat. I try to smile, but it hurts too much.

  Then she sees it's me. She probably recognizes my rag of a blue shirt that she's often darned and sewn buttons back on.

  To get to the window, she has to move her leg with her hands. It falls off the side of the bed, bringing her down with it. She drags it to the window and lets me in.

  We stand there hugging for a long time. As if we might never get another chance.

  “Will you come?"

  “Of course."

  I would have to fight again if Ruthson catches us, and this time he wouldn't be so kind, nor would he need to follow our conventions.

  —

  We know that small things, one at a time, a little here, a little there, could end a life such as ours even though other herd creatures serve as good examples.

  —

  I lift Rosalia back onto the bed.

  I don't think I can carry her very far with this cast but I'm going to try.

  I look for something to put things in to start packing up what Rosalia wants to bring but before I find anything, Grandma comes in.

  She's so shocked at seeing me she drops the tea she's bringing. Good it was one of our tin cups.

  She gives a squeak and waves her arms as if to erase me, then whispers, “Go. Get out the window. Fast. This is not to be even thought about. If you leave right now, I'll not tell the others."

  I've obeyed her and Former Grandma all of my adult life, but now I won't. Before she can yell I hold her mouth shut. Rosalia's clothes are neatly piled on the floor next to the bed. I gag Grandma with one of Rosalia's stockings. I tie her hands behind her with the ribbon that had tied back Rosalia's hair. I tie her feet with the other stocking. Then I lift Rosalia off the bed and prop her and her leg against the wall. I lift Grandma up on the bed. With that cast, Rosalia is much heavier than Grandma.

  And all the time Rosalia looks at me, wide-eyed. I hope it's not with horror, though it could be—or that I'm crazy, which I am.

  I manage to get Rosalia and her leg out the window. I manage to carry her all the way to the copse in the field before I collapse. Even just that far is almost more than I can handle.

  We hug again.

  “Are you still with me? I'll take you back if you want me to."

  “I want to go with you, but how can we? You can't."

  “Stay here, I'll find some kind of wheels. I'll steal a car, a burro. Something."

  “Uncle, please. The others ... the town's people will be after you if you do and we'll be after you, too."

  “Don't call me Uncle, call me....” But I don't know what.

  She says, “My love."

  Such a shocking thing to say.

  We stare at each other, both of us appalled. But it's true, this is what we've come to. Exclusive love. The most outrageous thing our kind can do. Except our love has been there right from the beginning. It's for her that I wanted to become part of the group in the first place.

  How can I leave my love here by herself under these trees, helpless, while I go for some sort of transportation? And then we have no food or water and, and I just realize it, Rosalia hasn't much on. She's in her nightgown. What have I gotten her into?

  “I'm sorry."

  “I don't want anyone but you."

  I lift her and take her farther into bushes to hide her.

  “Marry me."

  She starts to laugh. Here, half naked, broken leg, cold, no doubt wishing for that cup of tea she never got, she laughs. It's what I always liked about her.

  “I'll find us a mule. Or what about a wheelbarrow?"

&n
bsp; That makes her laugh even more.

  —

  We find Rosalia gone out the window and Grandma in a shocking situation. We mustn't put up with any such behavior. Though we have loved Janeson, and he has been a perfect mate to all of us, self-centered love can't be tolerated. He knows we can't let this go. How can he put Rosalia in such a position? And she must have consented. They're both at fault. And such likeable people. It's a shame.

  And when I come back with an old rusty gardening cart she laughs all the more. Says, “It's better than nothing."

  “Or is it?"

  I also stole some clothes off a line. Boys jeans and a shirt. I'll have to cut the pants leg to fit it over the cast. All I have is my paring knife for cutting it.

  Our women never dress in anything but skirts. This will help to hide her.

  Rosalia laughs at herself in these clothes. I say I like her in them. It's true, I do.

  She says they came looking for her with flashlights, but she held as still as a fawn and they didn't find her. They called and warned and begged her, for her own sake, to come back, but she kept silent. They decided we had already left the woods.

  We'd like to wait and find something to eat, but we start out on the little road that goes beside the canal. Thank goodness there's a pretty good moon. I worry the road may be too bumpy for somebody with a broken leg, and I don't have any of those secret-woman-herbs for pain, but if she's hurting, she doesn't mention it. Instead she says, “I'm so happy.” I don't say how I feel, which is worried, but I'm happy that she's happy.

  We don't rest till morning.

  —

  We have a meeting about them. We can't agree. We seem to no longer be “we,” but a group of “I"s. If we go after them, who to send? Who would carry the ritual sickle? Our group is so split it's impossible to consult with all of us at the same time.

  We see doubt on our faces, as if, Let them go, they're old, what harm can they do?

  Grandma is supposed to be the final word, but even she (and even after the way Janeson treated her), can't seem to decide what to do. Perhaps she will leave us and carry the ritual sickle herself. But how can she do what needs to be done to someone we've loved?