Mara and Dann mad-1

by Doris Lessing Little Dorrit

"He wants me to raise an army from the local youngsters. There are a great many, he says, that are dissatisfied and they want the Centre to be the way it once was. This place is like a fortress. He says I was General Dann and I should know about war. Well, I do know, Mara." And she saw his suddenly foolish, proud smile.

  "And we would feed this army by stealing food from the farmers?"

  "But they would benefit, because we would protect them."

  "Protect them from what? This place has a good government, Daulis said so."

  "The government would be on our side. They like the Centre." "So why do the farmers need protection?"

  "Oh, there are raids sometimes. Don't nag at me Mara. I need to know more before I tell you." And he shut the door in her face.

  Mara spent some days in the museums. She was in a place where she could satisfy every hunger she had for knowledge, for information, to find out — learn. Some of the buildings were as good as hours of talking with Shabis. Even a wall, with a few lines of fading words, could tell her at a glance about things she had puzzled over all her life. She felt her brain was expanding. She felt she was soaking up new thoughts with every breath she took. And all the time she was thinking of Dann, with this Felix, whom she hardly saw, because he disliked and distrusted her and knew she was trying to persuade Dann to leave. This ruthless, cold man, with his social smiles and courtly manners, was not stupid. Felissa was stupid, because of a conceit of herself that made it impossible to discuss anything. Any conversation at once returned to Felissa. For instance, Mara asked her about the tombs in the sand that had held old books, old records, the city that had been found when the sands shifted; and Felissa at once said that she knew nothing about it. Mara persisted: she had been told about The City of the Sands.

  "Who told you? It's nonsense. What sands?"

  "Those leather books in the museum. There's a notice saying they were copied from books made of paper made from reeds."

  "If there ever was a sand city I'd know about it. I've made it my business to know everything."

  Now Felissa was meeting her as she came back from her days spent wandering through the things, and peoples, and tales of the ancient world, to clutch her hands, and stroke them, and murmur how happy she was that Dann and Felix were getting on so well, and how wonderful if would be if Mara could soon tell them she was pregnant.

  Dann was silent, was morose, was very far from Mara, who watched him and Felix walking together, back and forth, in the great empty space between the outer fortress wall and the inner building. The good-looking, elegant Felix, and handsome Dann — they made a fine couple. Dann was deferring to Felix, perhaps not in words, but his demeanour was respectful, and the tones of his voice almost obsequious. And she knew only too well the rather foolish inflated look that was getting worse every day.

  If she did not end this now it would be too late.

  One night, when he shut the door between them, she knocked until he opened it. There he stood, the other one, and she heard without surprise, "Mara, I'm going to do it. There's everything here to make something wonderful. And look at me — everything that has happened to me, and my being a soldier, it all fits. Even you must see that." And he turned away, pulling the door to shut it, but she held the door and said, "Dann, I'm leaving tomorrow, by myself if I have to."

  He whirled about, his face ugly with suspicion and with anger. "You can't leave. I won't let you."

  "Your marvellous plans depend on one thing. On me. On my womb." And she tapped her stomach. "And I'm leaving."

  He gripped her two arms and glared into her face.

  "Dann," she said softly, "are you going to make me your prisoner?"

  His hands did not lessen their grip, but they trembled, and she knew her words had reached him.

  "Dann, are you going to rape me?" He furiously shook his head. "Dann, you once told me to remind you that when you were like this in Bilma, you gambled me away in a gambling den. I'm reminding you."

  For a few moments he did not move. Then she saw the other one fade out of his eyes, and from his face, and his grip lessened, and he let her go. He turned away, breathing fast.

  "Oh Mara," he said, and it was Dann himself talking, "I am so tempted to do it. I could you know. I could do it all so well."

  "Well, I'm not stopping you. I couldn't, could I? Tell those two that a prince with his royal blood and a concubine are quite enough to start a dynasty. I'm sure it must have been done. But you mustn't stop me, Dann. I'm going tomorrow morning with or without you."

  He flung himself down on his bed. "Very well. You know I wouldn't make you a prisoner."

  "You wouldn't. But the other Dann would."

  She shut the door, and in her room assembled the clothes she had brought with her, put them neatly in her old sack, and lay down on her bed to keep a vigil. She was afraid to sleep. After a night of quite dreadful anxiety, the door opened and Dann stood there with his sack.

  They embraced, quickly and quietly let themselves out of their rooms, went down the long empty passages, into the central hall, and then out of the big building, through the empty space between the walls, and found the big gate locked. Dann took up a stone and hit the lock and it fell into pieces.

  20

  It was only just light. They were walking east, returning to Leta. There had been no need even to discuss if this was what they should do. It was cold, and they were bundled in their old grey blankets. The sky was low and grey. Here they were, Mara and Dann, with scarcely more between them than they had had when they first set out far away down in the south. They saw the tears running down their faces, and then they were in each other's arms, comforting, stroking, holding hot cheeks together; and this passion of protectiveness became a very different passion and their lips were together in a way that had never happened before. They kissed, like lovers, and clung, like lovers, and what they felt announced how dangerous and powerful a thing this love was. They staggered apart, and now Dann's gaze at Mara, and Mara's at Dann, were wild and almost angry, because of their situation. Then Dann stood with his arms up in the air and howled, "Oh, Mara," and Mara stood, eyes shut, rocking slightly, in her grief, arms tight across her chest, and she was gasping, "Dann, oh Dann, oh Dann." Then both were silent, and turned away from each other, to recover. On the same impulse they set off again, but with a distance between them, and they were both thinking that if they had stayed with the two in the Centre this was what they could have had, a passionate love that was approved, permitted, encouraged. They were in a pit of loss and longing.

  Dann said, "Why Mara, why are brothers and sisters not allowed to love each other? Why not?"

  "They make too many defective children. I saw why in the Museum. There was a whole room about it."

  Her voice was stopped by grief and he was crying, and so they walked, well apart from each other, stumbling, and sobbing; and then Dann began swearing, cursing his way out of his misery, and Mara, seeing what anger was doing for him, began cursing and swearing too, the worst words she knew; and the two went faster now, fuelled by anger, swearing at each other and at the world, until they saw the Alb settlement in front of them. A doleful singing was coming from there, the saddest chant imaginable. Soon they could hear the words.

  The Ice comes The Ice goes We go As the Ice flows.

  They arrived at Donna's door, knocked; she came out, and said at once, "If you've come for Leta, she left not more than an hour ago."

  She was staring past them at a crowd of Albs dancing and singing, their robes flying in a chilly wind. To the two Mahondis it really was like seeing an assembly of prancing, whirling ghosts.

  "Where was she going?"

  "To find you. But who else she hoped to find — that's another thing. But she could never fit in here. She's seen the world and the Albs here live as if no one but themselves exists."

  "You mean, you don't fit in either?"

  "No, I don't. They don't accept those born here who then spend time outside. Like me. They see it as trea
chery. As a criticism of them. They are small-minded people. They have only one thought, that their grandchildren or great-grandchildren will return to Yerrup when the ice melts. And it is going at last, so it is said."

  The Ice will go Then we shall go

  Where the Ice has been Will be fresh and green.

  So chanted the dancers.

  "We have been singing that or something like it for — well, they say it is fifteen thousand years. Who knows how long? The first refugees from the ice made a rule that these songs should be taught to every child and sung every day. They say there was a time when the songs spread all over Ifrik and became children's games. And they didn't even know what ice was."

  When the Ice has gone We'll build our homes Where wait for us Our forebears' bones

  "Poor fools," said Donna. And then, "I'm going to miss Leta. Though she left partly to save me trouble." She sounded so sad Mara put her arms around her. "You are good people," Donna said. "Sometimes I don't know how I shall stand it, this eternal wailing about a life that was lived thousands of years ago. Or what will happen in another thousand. And now, you'd better hurry. I don't like to think of Leta alone. She's gone on the road north of the Centre. And, by the way, is it as sad a place as they say?"

  "Sad and old and falling to pieces."

  "Once it was the pride of the North Lands. Everyone took their education there." "You too?"

  "Oh no, not me. My grandparents' generation was the last. They were educated, you may say, above their needs. That was a great time though. The Centre ruled all the North — and ruled well, for autocrats. But now there is an administration that rules in the name of the Centre, and most people don't know the Centre is an old dog with no teeth."

  They said goodbye, and the two set off westwards again. They heard Donna call after them, "Remember me. If there's a place for me where you're going, I'll come running."

  When the wall of the Centre appeared they began a wide detour northwards. They were walking slowly, as if they were very tired, or even ill, Mara thought, watching how Dann stumbled along, stopped, went on. And she had to force her dragging feet. She was so sad, and knew he was too. She wanted to put her arms around him, her little brother, as she would have done before the scene at the Centre, but was afraid. He stopped walking, so did she, and they stood side by side. Without looking at her, he took her hand. She felt the strength of that hand, of his life, and thought, We'll soon be all right. He'll feel better, and so will I. Meanwhile she was so heavy with grief she could have lain down and... but where? Pools and marshes surrounded them and mud oozed around their feet.

  He said, "Do you know, I'm sorry for those two. Poor old Felix and Felissa. For years and years they've been dreaming of their little prince and little princess, and then what did they get? Us." He was trying to sound humorous, but failed.

  "Their dream came to an end, with us."

  They were standing very close, just linked, and very cold under their capes. A cold wind blew from the north. Was blowing, they knew, off mountains of ice.

  "And what about our dream, Mara? We couldn't get more north than this. This is north of north, the northern edge of the Ifrik North Lands."

  They looked around them, and saw the interminable, grey, wet marshes, dark water, pale rushes and reeds, a low, dark, hurrying sky. Harsh cries of birds, the dismal sounds of frogs, like the voices of the marsh itself. And the wind, the cold, cold wind that whined over the waters.

  "This is what we have been travelling to reach, Mara."

  "No, it isn't."

  "It's what I am feeling now."

  She dared to put her hand around his wrist, warm and tight, and he cried out, "There's that too. Now I feel like an orphan. Now I really am alone."

  She did not take her hand away but kept it there, consoling and close, though she felt as bereft as he did.

  "Do you think those two will send someone after us? To get us back?"

  "No," she said. "We were such a disappointment to them — no, I don't. Do you know what I think will happen? They'll die soon, of broken hearts. They've got nothing to live for now."

  "Why do I feel so afraid then?" He was looking around again. There was nothing: in all that endless grey and black marsh and water — nothing, not a soul.

  "I know. I am afraid too. It is because there is nowhere to hide." "Not unless we pretend we are water rats."

  He was trying to sound brave, and to make her laugh, but instead their eyes met and what they both saw was only grief.

  "We must go on," said Mara. "Daulis said so. And there's Leta."

  They went slowly on through that day looking ahead for Leta, and behind them for possible pursuers, and actually joked that if they ever did reach safety it would be hard to lose the habit of looking over their shoulders. Above them the clouds were hurrying westwards, as if to remind them to walk faster. The big mountain at first did not change, but at last it was towering over them, with its cold white snowcap, and there was a track going off with a sign saying, The White Bird Inn. The bird was no poetic fancy, for tall, slim, white birds stood about in dark water, their reflections making two birds of every one of them, and flew about over the marshes, letting out cries that the two could not help hearing as warnings. It was dusk when they reached the inn, which was not much more than a large house. They had scarcely knocked when the door opened and a man emerged who took them by the arms and hurried them to the back of the inn. "I'm sorry," he said, "but you mustn't be seen. There's someone after you." The two heard this as if there was nothing else they could have heard: their feelings of apprehension had deepened with every hour of walking. "I didn't like the look of him," said the innkeeper. "He was in the uniform of the border guards, but that's a trick we've seen before. There's many in that guards' uniform the guards would slit the throats of if they caught them."

  "Did he have a scar?"

  "A nasty one."

  "Then we know who he is."

  "He said he was looking for runaway slaves." And now this new friend — he was that, they could see — examined them closely, first Dann, then Mara, waiting.

  "We haven't committed any crime," said Dann.

  "Then I'll ask no questions," said the innkeeper. And they both heard what he had not in fact said: And hear no lies. "There's a price on our heads. From Charad." "That's a long way off."

  "Not if he can get us to the border with Bilma. He has accomplices there." "It's a long way from here to the border." He was thinking hard, and on their behalf, they could see. "I've done my best to put him off. He's been several times in the last week or so." "Why should be come here?"

  The man laughed and there was pride in it: the pride of a lifetime was in his face. "This is the only inn between here and for miles beyond the Centre going east, and for miles west, and that's only a farm that puts up travellers. Everyone comes to me for news. He would have to come here. Roads meet here. I sent him south, but that road ends in water, and he came back. The road ahead west ends in the sea — you'll find your friends along there. I told him that along that road he would find only well-defended farms, and that genuine guards patrol there, and if they saw him in their uniform that would be the end for him. There are no guards, but he's not to know that. I sent him off into the marshes on the marsh tracks, saying he might find you there. I thought he might fall into a quick-marsh and drown. I know when I'm looking at a man the world would be better without. But he was back, all right. He knows there's a track up the mountain but I told him the hut up there was swept away by an avalanche. I hope he believed me. Your friend Leta is up there. Daulis told me to look after her. I wanted her to stay here till he came, or you did, but she was anxious to see snow. I told her that if she'd seen as much of it as I have she wouldn't be in any hurry to see more. She'll be pleased to see you. If you don't mind my saying so, I don't think she's suited to rough travelling." He stopped, and Mara finished for him, "Not like us."

  "No, not like you. Daulis told me you two could look after yourselves. I c
an see he was right. But be careful, be on your guard." He went inside, came out with two heavy cloaks, twice the weight of the ones they had brought for cold, thinking they were thick enough to keep off any cold they could meet with, and handed them a bag of food. "There's some matches. Try not to need a fire. You can melt snow for water over a candle — I've put one in. There'll be a moon in a few minutes." And as they thanked him and moved off, they heard, "Be careful, you two." And then, when they had gone a few paces, "Don't come down too soon. Give that fellow a chance to get away. Keep a watch. It's three hours to the hut."

  "It sounds to me as if this path up the mountain is the only place left for Kulik to look for us."

  "Yes, and our friend the innkeeper knows that." But Dann was alive again, danger was invigorating him. And she felt better too, leaving the dank weight of the water-filled marshes behind.

  The way led up through boulders of all sizes, which seemed in the dim light like crouching enemies; but the moon came up and showed the track, and struck little flashes of light off the boulders: crystals, embedded in the rock. A mist was gathering below them, and soon they were leaving behind a sea of white, lit by the moon, and they could see their shadows down there, like long fingers pointing to the east, moving with them. It was cold. Without the innkeeper's cloaks they would have done badly. Up they went, until they saw ahead a large hut, with beyond it the white of the snow that lay over the summit of the mountain. They were in a white world, the mist shining below, and above them snow and the big white moon shining on it. They ran past the hut to gather a little snow and taste it and marvel at it, for they had never seen the stuff before. The edges of the snowcap were little white fringes and lacy crusts on grass that crunched under their feet, and sent the cold striking up into their legs. Down they went to the hut, and knocked, afraid of what they might see, but when the door opened it was Leta and she was alone. They shut the door against the cold and embraced, the three of them tight against each other. They could see she had been frightened, alone, and how glad she was to see them. If she had known, she had said, she would never have come up, but she thought she would just touch the snow, and taste it, and then go down, but the dark came."I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm not like you. I don't know how to judge dangers — or distances." Inside the hut it was not much warmer than it was out. Leta had lit a floor candle, a little one, and had melted some snow to drink. They huddled on the floor inside layers of wool. Leta had a cloak from the innkeeper too. Even so they were clenched, trying not to shiver, and they ate the food, and huddled close, talking late, about the Centre, and what Mara and Dann had been offered. Dann was making a ridiculous story out of the old people's plans, and their long wait for their royal children, and the more he talked the funnier it got, until his eyes met Mara's and he faltered and stopped. "The truth is," he said, seriously, "if Mara and I had been different people, perhaps it could have worked. After all, everyone seems to think the Centre is a wonderful place, and they would believe what they heard."