Soldier at the Door (9 page)

Hycymum huddled in closer, nearly crowding Mahrree off the bed.

“Viddrow told Kanthi to secretly make a copy of their lines,” she whispered. “Kanthi questioned why, since all of it would be compiled and she’d not only have their records but the records of everyone else. This was before paper was being produced so cheaply, so all they had was expensive parchment, and they didn’t have much silver to their names. But he insisted. ‘Copy the records, and tell no one about them.’ They hadn’t been married very long, and Kanthi wasn’t about to doubt her new husband. So she made a copy and secured it in her collection of recipes.”

Mahrree gasped. “Where are they now? Do you have our family lines? You know who our first father and mother were?” Chills of delight ran up her arms.

“Yes, I do!” Hycymum whispered. “And what a blessing that was, considering what happened. Great grandfather Viddrow never believed the fire that destroyed all the records was an accident. In the dream he saw the fire, knew all records would be destroyed, and it was all because of a design fashioned by men who wanted to control the population, in many different ways. My great grandmother told me this when I was just a child, before she showed me the copy kept in my mother’s recipe book.”

“I knew it!” Mahrree whispered back, clapping her hands. “Ev
erything that was destroyed was intended to keep us in the dark! So we forget who our parents are, where we came from, what we once were.”

Almost immediately, her enthusiasm faltered. Maybe her mood shifts were a result of The Drink, but she reflected on the fire with a new feeling of poignancy, feeling as if it had just happened. She closed her eyes in distress remembering all that was lost.

The additional writings of the guides not yet included in The Writings. Scientific surveys of surrounding lands. Theories of past civilizations. Evidence of natural phenomena not witnessed by anyone alive. Maps. Stories.

All the important writings of the day in one secured stone vault, and engulfed by one mysterious fire. An
intentional
fire.

Her heart ached.

Fortunately her mother broke into her thoughts before she thought too much more. She already felt dehydrated from too much weeping.

“Mahrree, did you know that your great-great-great—” She
paused to count on her fingers, shrugged, then said, “A grandmother long ago had thirteen children? Her mother before her had nine. Kanthi and Viddrow had seven. Your father’s line was prolific too! He knew that his great-great—” Again she hesitated, lost in the greats. “Well, one his grandmothers had at least eight. Expecting didn’t destroy those women. Losing babies didn’t mean they were defective or deformed. Yes, some women struggled to have only one. And some mothers died in birthing. But rarely. And no one—no matter what that silly Administrator claimed in his report—went crazy from having babies!”

Mahrree blinked in surprise.

“Yes, I read it!” Hycymum proclaimed proudly. “Or tried to. Most of it. The important parts. But you see, no one
remembers
anymore. But,” she leaned conspiratorially towards her daughter, “
we do!
”

Mahrree squeezed her mother’s arm. “I knew it! Do you think anyone else still has their family histories?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hycymum confessed. “Such a document would be too dangerous to discuss. I
like to believe others may have been warned too. When you’re feeling better, though, I want you to make a copy to keep safe. Add our names, and the names of your children.”

“Of course!” Mahrree beamed. “My recipe book could use a few additions.”

“And Mahrree,” her mother said somberly, “I hope you understand when I say this—I don’t think you should tell Perrin. Not that I don’t trust him, but . . . I don’t think his position as corporal will allow him to keep such a family secret.”

Mahrree stifled a smirk at ‘corporal’ and nodded.

“I’ve seen that already,” she said sadly. “And Mother? Thank you, for everything today. And for trusting me.”

Oh, the secrets women keep, she thought to herself. If only we had the power to
organize
them.

“I’m just glad I actually helped,” Hycymum
said, sounding as if she’d passed her first math exam in thirty years. “You know, being a mother is so much easier when your babies are small.”

Mahrree groaned. “Oh, you did
not
just say that . . . Really? I’ve been thinking nothing could be more difficult than two small children!”

Hycymum shook her head. “My poor daughter, I’ll never unde
rstand how someone as bright as you can be so dim.”

---

Mahrree’s recovery from the effects of The Drink was really quite simple. She reminded herself how blessed she was, how adorable her two babies were, that she had a caring mother and a wonderful husband, and once she put her mind to it she could get over her deep sense of loss and easily move on.

Except her heart didn’t believe a word of it.

So Mahrree spent the next several weeks living in a pit of hopelessness.

She half-heartedly nursed her son, vaguely watched her daug
hter, and stared at her house from her bed or from the sofa.

Without any comment, mothers and grandmothers—most of them Hycymum’s friends—came in each day and straightened up Jaytsy’s messes, took her for walks, or cradled Peto while Mahrree napped. This service had been given to them as well. They knew the pain.

They also knew that in a few weeks the heavy sorrow would start to lighten, Mahrree would begin to sit up more often, watch her children more carefully, and begin to smile again.

In the meantime, the women took turns in her home until Perrin returned each evening. They would touch him on the arm, tell him what was cooking for dinner, and inform him who would come the next day. Hycymum came in daily to brush her daughter’s hair, do the washing, and add herbs to the dinners.

But Perrin was at a complete loss.

“No one told me this would happen,” he said resentfully to Tabbit when she came over with loaves of bread four days after Mahrree took The Drink. “I’ve already received two letters from my mother telling me to wait. Wait for
what
, Auntie? This has destroyed Mahrree!”

She lay on the sofa, staring at nothing, not noticing the conve
rsation between her husband and his great aunt in the eating area. She only hazily watched Jaytsy tearing paper that might have been important, while Peto slept in the cradle.

“She’ll come out of it, Perrin, I promise. I’ve seen it happen
dozens of times before. Eventually, her heart will come to terms—”

“Why didn’t anyone warn us?” he snapped at her.

“What good would that have done, Perrin?” Tabbit said, remarkably composed considering the commander of the fort was threatening to explode.

Then again, when you’ve changed someone’s soiled cloths as a baby, that tends to lend you a bit of authority over them, no matter what their position later in life.

“No man
really
wants to know,” she told him evenly. “Certainly not the Administrators or anyone else in authority. Women don’t fight battles, or hold positions of power, or even challenge the Administrators. We’re not a threat, but barely an asset. So what happens to us is irrelevant.”

“Well, I don’t feel that way!” he said, softening slightly.

“No, Perrin, you don’t, for which I thank the Creator. Neither does Hogal, nor did Cephas, and neither does your father. Your birthing was quite difficult on Joriana—more than two days, because you were an enormous baby! Relf was quite distressed to see how much your mother suffered with you, so he convinced her to take The Drink early so as to not risk another expecting. He, too, was stunned and angry at how deeply The Drink affected her. I know because I was there. Your grandmother had already passed and I knew Joriana would need my help.”

Perrin rubbed his forehead. “I never knew that.”

Tabbit kissed his elbow, as high as she could reach on him. “Perrin, individually men care enormously about their wives. But collectively, a world ruled by men sees women as mere support for their efforts, and a surplus at that. And
surplus
support is, as I think the army would put it, expendable.”

He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Auntie Tabbit,” he whispered. “I don’t see it that way.” He looked at his very still wife. “Here I’ve been upholding the Administrators’ doctrine, their
noble
and
proven
explanations as to why women can’t have more than two children, but really, what would have been wrong with her trying to have three or even four? Why is it someone else’s decision as to how many children we have? She wanted more, you know. We could have handled it—”

“Perrin,
Perrin
,” Tabbit tried to quiet him, but he was as easy to calm as a cornered rattle snake.

“The house is big enough! I earn enough!” he plowed on, but he knew the argument was as useless as pushing the rain back into the clouds. Still, he felt the need to shake his fist at the darkened sky.

“Grandpy Neeks never wanted to get married. There’s two children we could have had in his stead,” his voice wavered as the rationale struck him, far too late. “And Gizzada,” his voice turned into an anguished mumble. “Likely will never marry. Two more children. Could have been six,” he whispered. “Or seven.”

Tabbit
hugged his arm.

“I never understood why couples risked punishment to have a third child,” he said quietly. “I thought it was selfish. But now I see they were willing to defy even the government to do what their hearts told them was right.”

Tabbit leaned against his arm. “Please, Perrin—you have to let this go. There’s nothing that can be done now. You of all people shouldn’t say such things!”

“Even my mother knew this would happen,” he spat, mome
ntarily full of venom again. “Do you women keep secrets about everything?!”

“Actually, we do,” Tabbit smiled sadly. “But we’re not purpos
ely secretive. It’s just that men don’t care about what we discuss, or worry about what we go through. As long as we keep your clothes clean and your food cooked, whatever else goes on in our world can stay in our world, well beyond your concern. You know what I mean,” she added gently when she saw the hurt look in his eyes.

Perrin squinted, surprised and unsure of what to do with her evaluation. “So that’s true for all women?”

Tabbit shrugged and nodded.

Her nephew groaned quietly. “I can’t help
but think
I
took her to have it done.”

“You didn’t do this to her! You were
saving
her,” she assured him. “They keep records, you know. The midwives report who’s had a baby, and when they’ve taken The Drink. If you hadn’t brought her in, they would have come to force you to obey the law.
Especially
someone with a name like yours. Be the example to the village and all that.”

“Just last season I broke the laws, over and over, by going into the forest to save her and our children,” he whispered as he watched her prone form. “Then, five moons later, I break her instead.”

“What else could you have done, Perrin?”

I could have
tried
, he thought despondently. I could have argued that the population is likely decreasing, since many don’t have children, and we
could have
—

“Nothing!” his aunt cut into his pointless planning.

She’s right, he concluded glumly. Any appeal would have gone through Dr. Brisack, who
supposedly
proved that women couldn’t safely birth more than twice. And any inquiry would have drawn the personalized attention of Gadiman—or worse, Nicko Mal.

While Perrin was confident Mal remembered him only sporad
ically, why give the paranoid man reasons to stay up all night stewing about his ideas?

“Now, Perrin,” Tabbit said soothingly, “what you
can
do is help her recover. Sit with her. Kiss her. Talk to her. Love your babies. Give them the attention she can’t give them. And just wait.”

There really was nothing else he could do, he realized that night as he sat next to her. His anger wasn’t constructive or restorative. He had to somehow let it go so that he could reach her.

She dimly asked about the fort, and he tried to answer her cheerfully, but she didn’t seem to really hear him.

The damage was done, Perrin understood, but that didn’t mean it would destroy her forever. His back was permanently scarred with a jagged slash, but he felt as strong as before again. Maybe, som
ehow, she could recover too. There would always be a scar, but she could still be strong again. He had to focus on bringing back the woman he fell in love with.

For now she was merely
a shell.

So each evening he sat awkwardly next to Mahrree as she di
stantly asked about the soldiers, and he wondered how to wipe away the shadows that covered her. He bounced his children, read reports from Idumea, watched neighbors go to the night’s entertainment, and waited.