Hot Sleep: The Worthing Chronicle

by Orson Scott Card

  He still carried his pack, though the food was gone since yesterday — good cloth was far too scarce these days. In the hot gray days of autumn when they first arrived, they had thrown away all the clothing that modesty allowed. Now they knew better. The summer sun burnt, and clothing was the only defense.

  The trees were already getting more open, and shorter. The rich loam of the mountains had given way to more sandy soil, loose and sliding and hard to walk on. He was almost there, following the trickling stream that kept Stipock's City alive.

  It was late afternoon when Billin finally reached the irrigation ditch and the diversion dam. Wix's idea of course, and brilliant, of course, but only a stopgap in their constant losing battle with the sun and the sand. Although they might have had a chance if Stipock weren't so dead set on getting the iron — no. We'd be losing anyway. But now, Billin thought exultantly as he lurched along down the path of the ditch, now we can live better than we did at Heaven City . Just reach out a hand and pick food from the trees. Water everywhere. We have to leave immediately.

  A house (new since he had left, but hardly a surprise, and he noticed that they had built it higher, out of the reach of the sand) and Billin went to the door and knocked.

  No one. Getting on toward dark — wait here or go on down?

  Billin was too hungry to wait, and too eager to tell his news, though his legs were weak enough that he had to think of every step before they would move.

  And then he saw Wix and Dilna coming in from the trees. He stopped and waited until they came up to him.

  "Billin," they said as soon as they were close enough to see who it was, and they rushed up and embraced him and welcomed him home. Yet Billin was not too tired to wonder what Wix and the bitch had been doing in the woods (as if he and everybody didn't know — a miracle Hoom hadn't murdered them both by now, except that the sweet simple–minded ox didn't notice), and he smiled at them as he said, "How's Hoom doing?"

  "Well," Wix said. Was Dilna blushing? Billin doubted it — she wasn't the blushing type. At least Cirith, ugly and foul–tempered as she was, stayed faithful to Billin and loved him desperately.

  "You must be tired," Dilna said, and Billin didn't even have to agree. He just stumbled and Wix caught him before he fell, and then the two of them helped him to the nearest house that might be large enough for him to rest awhile before going on to his own home.

  It was a struggle between hunger (stay awake until the fish is fried) and sleep. Sleep won.

  He woke in his own bed with Cirith leaning over him, smiling.

  "Good morning," Billin said.

  "Stay in bed," Cirith ordered, losing the smile the moment she knew he was looking. "You're too tired and weak to get up."

  "Then bring me something to eat, dammit," Billin said, lying back down.

  "It was so good while you were gone," Cirith grumbled as she brought a bowl from the fire. "No one to complain at me."

  "How did you make it through the weeks?" Billin said. And then as Cirith set the bowl on his bed and made as if to walk away in a huff, he lunged over (spilling stew) and pinched her.

  She whirled on him. "If you're that wide awake, Billin my boy, you'll have no more sympathy from me!" And then she was off to the children's bed room. Billin lay back on his bed and sighed. It was so good to be home.

  He vomited the stew, but was able to eat broth later on in the morning.

  And after noon, Stipock, Wix, and Hoom came to see him.

  "Three out of four," Billin said as they gathered around his bed. "I feel honored."

  "Dilna's pregnant again," Hoom said proudly.

  "How many does that make — three?" Billin asked.

  "No, four, of course — unless it's twins."

  Four of hers, Billin kept himself from saying, but only three of yours. Not my place to tell the fool what everybody else knows.

  "You were gone three and a half months," Stipock said.

  "The days just flew by," Billin said, smiling.

  They waited, and Billin loved watching them as they tried not to seem eager. But he was even more eager than they, and he ended the game and told them.

  "A swift–flowing river, plenty of water even during the heat of the summer. A bay, and there are trees every inch, except where there are thick berry bushes. While I was there I wasn't hungry for a minute — I would have brought you back some of the fruit, but it started spoiling in the heat this side of the mountains, and so I ate it."

  But as Billin described the paradise he had found a hundred miles to the south (or more — who can tell when the distance is covered on foot, scaling cliffs and wasting days hunting for a path through an impassable barrier), he became more and more uneasy. Hoom and Wix kept glancing at Stipock — and Stipock just watched Billin, his face impassive.

  "I tell you," Billin said, determined to fire them with the enthusiasm he felt for the place, "that we could leave the plow behind and live forever there by just gathering. It goes on like that for miles. And the ground is as rich as anything in Heaven City, I swear it, except there's plenty of rain — the mountains must catch all the clouds, keep them from coming to us — and it's warmer than Heaven City, and besides — from the mountains I could see another land across the water, not far — we could build a boat and cross to it, and that other land looks even richer than the one I was in."

  At last Stipock answered, "Very interesting."

  Billin sat up in bed — too abruptly, and his headache immediately punished him for the impetuosity. "The hell it's interesting, Stipock. It's bloody damn perfect, it makes this place look like a desert, which it is, if you had guts enough to admit it. You chose this place — well, fine, you made a mistake, but by damn I've found a place we could get to in two weeks! Two weeks, and our children wouldn't spend half the year crying for food and the other half blistering in the sun and crying out for water!"

  "Relax, Billin," Hoom said. "Stipock didn't mean anything bad. It's just hard to believe a place could be that good —"

  "If you aren't going to believe me," Billin said, "why the hell did you send me?"

  "We believe you," Hoom said. Hoom the peacemaker. Hoom the cuckold. Billin turned away in disgust. What kind of people did he have to deal with? Stipock, who only cared about that damn iron ore which wasn't worth a quart of oxurine, and who always pretended that he was thinking carefully about things when the truth was his mind had been made up about everything a million years ago and he'd never change it come flood or fire. Hoom, so kind that you could almost forget how stupid he was. Wix, always full of bright ideas — the kind of man that could only be trusted by a fellow with an ugly wife (like me, Billin reminded himself). And Dilna? Why the hell was Dilna always involved in decisions? At least she wasn't here now.

  "If you believe me," Billin finally said, "you wouldn't be here, you'd be home packing food and getting ready to go."

  "Sleep awhile," Wix said. "You're still tired. We'll talk tomorrow."

  "What did I do wrong?" Billin shouted, his voice cracking from the weariness still in him. "I'm not a hornet, don't brush me away!"

  "You haven't done anything wrong," Stipock said as he went to the door. But it was Hoom who turned around and said, "I'm glad you're back, Billin. I've missed you."

  After they left Billin was too angry even to quarrel with Cirith, and she went to bed in a huff, worried about Billin's strange behavior. And Billin kept waking in the night — angry, though it took him a few moments after waking to remember what he was angry about. Why were they so reluctant? Did they actually like the desert?

  "No," Cirith said. Billin realized that he had been talking aloud. There was a faint light in the room — early morning.

  "Sorry I woke you," he said.

  "That's fine. They don't like the desert, Billin," she said. "But about a week after you left, I guess they realized you might find something like what you found, and ever since then Stipock has been telling people how good it is to suffer, how it makes us strong."


  "Don't tell me people believe that crap!" Billin's mouth tasted foul. He got out of bed and staggered on aching legs to get a drink.

  "I don't know what people believe," Cirith said.

  Billin looked at her from the table, where he was dipping water from the jar. "What do you believe?"

  "Don't tell me you suddenly, after two years of marriage, want my opinion?"

  "I don't want to have your opinion, I only want to hear it."

  Cirith shrugged. "Stipock's right. It makes us strong."

  "Crap."

  She held up her arm, flexed a large muscle. "Behold," she said. "Strong."

  "So I married an ox," Billin said. "It's still a desert and I found a place where our kids can smile without getting a mouthful of sand."

  He came back to Cirith and sat on the floor beside her stool. She put her arms around him.

  "Billin, I believe you and I want to go to that place. But I don't think Stipock will ever give up on his iron. He wants to make carts that move without pulling or pushing them. He wants to make a mill that doesn't need a stream. He thinks he can do it with iron."

  "And I think he's crazy," Billin said.

  "I thought you loved Stipock."

  "Like a brother," Billin said. "Like a stupid, bull–headed, lovable, cold–as–a–fish brother. It's morning and I'm already sick of today."

  "Let me make it better," she said, and he let her; and even though he was still a wreck from the exertions of the last month, it was wonderful.

  "I take it all back," he said afterward. "That place wasn't perfect. It needed you."

  "You hurt my thumb," she said, and then it was time to fix breakfast for little Dern, while Blessin pumped away on Cirith's breast. Billin tried getting out of bed, but he couldn't manage it. "Maybe this afternoon," he said.

  But that afternoon he slept again, and as the sun set he woke to find Hoom beside his bed.

  "Hello, Hoom. How long have you been waiting there?"

  "Not long."

  "Good."

  Long pause. Billin decided that whatever Hoom had come to say must not be very pleasant, or he would have said it by now.

  "Say it," Billin urged.

  "We've talked about it —"

  "We meaning the four Wardens of Stipock City —"

  Hoom sat up rigidly. "How can you call us that?"

  "You came to tell me," Billin said. "So tell me. You four have talked about it and you decided — or rather, Stipock decided and the three of you chirped back what he wanted to hear — and now you want to warn me not to tell people about what I found in the south."

  "You don't have to see it that ugly unless you really want to."

  "I should cover my eyes? I see what is."

  Hoom smiled. "Does anybody see what is?"

  "Least of all you, even when it's in front of your face."

  "Sometimes," Hoom answered mildly (he doesn't understand, Billin thought contemptuously), "only the blind pretend to see. If you insist on telling people about what you say you found — what you believe you found — you'll only hurt yourself. No, that's not true — you'll hurt them, too, because they'll want so badly to believe in a place like that."

  "Of course they'll want to believe it."

  "For your own sake, then," Hoom said. And he left.

  Billin felt better than he had since coming back — but even so, he would have stayed in bed if anger hadn't pulled him up and into his clothes and out the door of the house.

  "Where are you going?" Cirith snapped as she saw him leaving.

  "Visiting."

  "At this time of night nobody wants to see you," she said.

  "Mind your kitchen, woman," Billin answered. She kept grumbling after he left.

  He went first to Serret's and Rebo's house. They were busy with putting children to bed (they had been twinned twice since coming to Stipock City ), but they greeted Billin kindly.

  "Glad to see you up and about already," Serret said, and Rebo smiled and took off her apron (in tatters, Billin noticed, like all the cloth), bringing him a stool to sit on.

  He immediately began telling them what he had found on his journey. They listened politely, smiled, nodded, answered his questions, asked a few (though not many). After a half hour of this Billin realized to his fury that they weren't excited about it. And why not? Their children were worse off than most, with bloated bellies that even Stipock said were a sign of a lack of food.

  "You don't believe me, do you?" Billin abruptly asked, even while Rebo cooed softly about how wonderful his description of the rainfall sounded.

  "Well, of course we believe you," Serret answered. Billin wasn't fooled. He took his leave quickly, went to another house.

  It was late, and the lights were blown out in most of the houses when Billin finally gave up and came home. Cirith was waiting for him. She looked worried when he finally came to the door.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  Billin nodded, then shook his head. "Not one of them," he said, and she understood, and for once there was no banter, no complaint, she just came to him and held him and in his weariness and frustration he cried. The tears turned to anger quickly enough.

  "How did they do it?" Billin demanded, pulling away from her and tossing a chair across the room. One of the children woke at the noise, cried out.

  "Shhh," Cirith said, heading for the children's room.

  "Not on your life!" Billin retorted. "I want to know how they did it! How did those damn self appointed gods get everybody to answer the same way — 'Yes, Billin, so glad you had a good time there, Billin, we're so pleased that your journey was successful, now get the hell out and let us get some sleep, Billin' —"

  Cirith came to him and took his arms and dug her fingers into them. "You must promise me," she said, "that you won't do anything to them."

  "What do you mean? What could I do to them?"

  "Promise you won't. Promise you won't quarrel with them, please, Billin."

  "What do you think I could do? Hoom's the murderer around here, Wix is the adulterer, all I do is talk and now nobody's listening."

  "Promise me, and then I'll tell you."

  "Tell me what?" Billin asked, suspiciously.

  "What they did."

  Billin looked at her carefully. "I promise. What did they do?"

  "I didn't want to tell you before you went out because you wouldn't have believed me and if you'd known you would have gotten so angry —"

  "Get to it, Cirith, dammit, tell me what you know!" Billin paced to the window. "They told everybody for the last two days, while you mostly slept, they told them that you had been badly hurt in a fall and it damaged your mind —"

  "I cut my hand, the bastards, where do they think my mind is?"

  "I know that, but they told the others that you invented a dream place, a place where everything is perfect, but that it doesn't exist —"

  Billin roared with rage. The child in the bedroom cried louder, and another cry joined in. "Do they say I'm a liar! They dare to call me a liar!"

  "No, no, no," Cirith said. "They only say that you were hurt. They say that you really believe what you say, that your mind isn't working right — Stipock had a name for it, he called it ‘hallucinations', I think —"

  "Stipock has a name for everything —"

  "Billin, you can't fight it, the more you say you know what you saw, the crazier they'll think you are —"

  "Cirith!" Billin said, striding to her, looking her in the eye, "do you believe them? Or do you believe me?"

  She looked at him for a long time, but then she looked away. "I don't know," she finally said.

  This time Billin did not roar, because this time his anger dissipated in despair. "If you don't believe me, Cirith —"

  "I do believe you, I do, Billin, I want to believe you so much, but that's it — what you tell about is so perfect, how can I trust it? It makes everything here so terrible, and Stipock says that this is the best place —"

&nbs
p; "He says that because of the iron —"

  "I know, I know, please go to bed now, Billin, you're tired —"

  "I can't sleep."

  But he did, and woke in the morning still filled with despair. Because sometime in the night he had wakened after dreaming of the place he had been to. The dream had seemed so real. He had tasted the fruits again, and swum again in the bay, and drunk from the cold river and lain in the grass growing thickly on the riverbanks. He had felt the rain cover him again, beating warm and fresh on his skin, making him clean.

  And he wondered if it had been a dream before.

  And, once he wondered, he knew that it had. How could it be real? He closed his eyes and tried to picture the place, tried to imagine the taste of the berries. But all he could taste was the dust that always hung in the air; all he could see when he closed his eyes was red.

  So he didn't speak of it anymore, not for weeks.

  It was time for the rains to come. The rains didn't come.

  "Don't worry," Stipock said. "These things vary by as much as two or three weeks."

  After six weeks the rains still hadn't come; but the winds came on schedule. Last year the winds had been cooling, drying out the soaking earth (for that short time of rain and then wind, the colony had been bearable); this year the winds were hot and dry, the breath of dying, and after four days of dust and sand whipping into ears and eyes and noses and mouths, burning the skin of those caught outside, drying out or silting up every barrel of water, every cistern, filling every ditch, tearing leaves off the trees, after four days of that one of Serret's and Rebo's younger twins died.

  They buried him in the sand during one of the brief lulls in the wind.

  The next morning the dessicated body was in the open, the skin flayed away. The wind, by one of those cruel freaks of nature, had blown the baby so that it jammed its parents' front door closed. Serret swore as he shoved the door open that morning — screamed and wept when he found what had closed it so tightly.

  They burned the body at noon. The wind kept putting the fire out.

  And the next day two more babies died, and Wevin, Weerit's wife, died when her baby tried to come four months early.