The Fifth Sacred Thing (37 page)

Now she waited in a place Bird had described, the strip of sand with the rotting pier at the southern end of the mountains, where the land leveled off into rolling dunes. It might be days, he had said, maybe longer, before the Web sent a boat to cruise the pickup site. They traded, he’d been told, with some of the groups inland from here, but the pickups came irregularly. Certainly she had seen no one else here. While she had conserved her food, gathering nuts from the woods and living off the land as much as possible, she couldn’t wait forever. She had a sudden picture of herself, old as Maya, still waiting, never knowing when to give up and turn back and go home.

Suddenly she wished, more than anything, that she were home. In the city now the gondolas would be filled with people laughing and singing, on their way to the beaches, where they would plunge into the cold, cold waters of winter to cleanse themselves of the faults of the year, ignoring for this one night the threat of toxins. The sea dikes would be alight with fires, and as dark fell the gondolas would come alive with the flames of candles, carrying the Yule fire back to the hearths. Then later there would be food: roast wild pig brought down to the City by the Wild Boar People, exiles banished for antisocial behavior who were allowed back at this time of year to sell their wares at market. For the vegetarians, plates would be piled high with tofu and sweet potatoes and bowls would brim with red chile.

In Black Dragon House, the
altares
for the dead had been taken down
before Madrone left. The family
altar
was rearranged to feature a nativity scene, in which a statue of the Venus of Willendorf, ample and fertile, stood next to a golden ball that represented the sun, reborn on the Solstice out of the womb of Mother Night. Madrone had helped Sage collect figurines and small stuffed animals to witness the central scene: plastic dinosaurs, carved wooden dogs playing instruments, small painted angels from Germany, a wind-up Godzilla devouring Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz
, a set of clay snakes made long ago by a child.

Tonight at home they were all together, keeping vigil all night long, baking the Solstice bread that filled the house with its fragrance, singing and drumming and telling stories. At dawn they would climb the hills, ringing bells and beating drums, to chant and dance as the sun rose. They were not lonely.

Maybe she should have waited until after the holidays. But once she had made up her mind, delay had become unbearable. No, she couldn’t have gone through the celebrations, knowing all along that each thing she did might be for the last time.

She shivered. Her fire was going well, and she placed a fat log on top and waited as it caught. The sun was almost down. Really, there ought to be a battery of ritual drummers here to raise power. Alone in the silence, with only the power she could raise with an act of will, she stripped quickly and walked into the waves. The water burned cold on her legs and thighs. She waded in gingerly up to her breast and, bracing herself against the pull of the tide, splashed her face and the crown of her head and the nape of her neck. Let it go, sickness and despair and hurt and loss, anger and humiliation and all the pain of the year. Wash it away, take it with the turning of the tide, the turning of the wheel.

Light played around her, silver and gold and purple. She sang the old Yoruba chant to Yemaya, the Sea Goddess:

Three more days went by before the boat came. It appeared on the horizon, its patched sails looking like a collection of rags on sticks. Windspinners and solar panels dangled at odd angles, but it moved at a fast pace through the water, swooping into the bay and pulling up by the dock. The slender boat was about thirty feet long, trailing a small dinghy which a dark figure hauled to the side. With a graceful leap, the sailor swung into it and began rowing toward shore.

Madrone stood up and waved her arms in a wide circle above her head. She felt a rush of anticipation, mixed with fear. At last it was really beginning,
this work—after the next few moments there would be no backing out, no last chance to change her mind and go home.

The hull scraped on the sand. Madrone ran to grab the painter and haul it up. Before she could touch the rope, a laser rifle stared into her eyes.

“You move, and I fry your eyes like eggs on a griddle.”

The voice was deep and resonant but clearly a woman’s. Madrone took a step back. She was shocked but not really frightened; it seemed too strange to her, unreal to be actually facing a real weapon in hostile hands. She stifled an impulse to laugh.

“Now, who the Jesus are you?” the woman asked. Her skin shone dark like the waves at night, her hair was braided close to her head and studded with gold beads, her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. Blue pants and a shirt of some soft material hugged the contours of her body. Each slight motion set muscles rippling beneath the cloth.

“My name is Madrone. I’m a healer from the North. Bird sent me.”

The woman regarded her for a long moment, without lowering the gun.

“If that’s true,” she said at last, “then you can tell me my name.”

Gracias a la Diosa
, Bird had prepared her well.

“Isis,” Madrone said.

“Haul me in,” Isis said, sitting back as Madrone grabbed the rope and began to pull the heavy load. But in an instant the woman leaped out and dragged the boat up on the beach as if it were weightless.

She must be incredibly strong, Madrone thought, as the woman stuck out her hand in greeting. Madrone clasped it. She felt a sudden surge of raw attraction, like an electrical charge, exciting and disconcerting.

How do I act? she asked herself suddenly. What rules apply here? Everyone she knew in her ordinary life was part of too-familiar context, a history. They knew her already, or at least her reputation. They knew her family and her Council and her patients and her history. She was accountable to them all. Here she could be anyone, do anything. There were no expectations; there was no one to disappoint. For just a moment, she savored the possibilities.

“You alone here?”

Madrone nodded.

“No traders been by?”

“Not in the last few days.”

“Well, all right then. I’ll try again next week. Climb aboard.”

Isis rowed them out to the ship. Madrone climbed the rope ladder and hoisted herself over the rail.

“You do any sailing?” Isis asked.

“I grew up sailing the Bay.”

“You know what I mean if I say, ‘Ease the jib halyard’?”

“Yeah.”

“ ‘Make fast the sheet’?”

“You’ll have to show me how she’s rigged, but I really do know how to sail.”

“Okay, then, sailor, let’s make sail.”

By nightfall, they were far out to sea. Isis brewed sage tea on a small stove in her compact but complete cabin. A bed nestled under the curving bow, and padded benches along the walls appeared to fold out into other beds. A table folded down, and a sink and cooler completed the galley. They dined on the last of Madrone’s rice and Isis’ fresh-caught sea bass, which Madrone ate with some uneasiness. It tasted delicious, but she couldn’t help but think of Nita’s repeated warnings about toxins in ocean fish. When they were finished, Isis carefully cleared away the dishes, washing them and setting them on shelves behind rails. She pulled out a bottle of wine.

“You like wine?” she asked. “This is an excellent Cabernet. I raided it myself from the storehouse of the Chief Steward of Long Beach.”

“We don’t get much wine in the City,” Madrone said. “We’re still rehabilitating most of the old vineyard land—it got so toxed out from pesticides—but I’ve always enjoyed it when I could get it.”

“You’ll like this,” Isis assured her, pouring out two ruby glasses full.

They sat facing each other, a little awkwardly. There were a thousand things Madrone wanted to ask, but she didn’t know how to begin.

“So you’re a healer,” Isis said. “What does that mean? What exactly do you do?”

“A lot of things,” Madrone said. “I deliver babies and teach women how to stay healthy and eat right when they’re pregnant. I treat diseases, either with medicines, if we have them, or with herbs, or with
ch’i
, with energy.”

“And people have to pay you for help?”

Madrone shook her head. “No. Nobody in the North pays for medical care. It’s free to all. The City pays me a stipend, as it does for most healers. Some of us put in for hours worked instead, but frankly, if I charged for my hours, the City couldn’t afford me.” It was the standard joke in the Council, but Isis looked blank. “I mean, keeping track of the hours is too much trouble.”

“What about drugs?” Isis asked. “Who pays for the boosters?”

“Immunoboosters? We don’t have them. The Stewards took all that with them when we rebelled. We’ve had to develop alternatives.”

“And they work? You really get along without the Stewards’ drugs?”

“Yes and no,” Madrone said. “We’ve had bad epidemics. We get through each one, but we keep losing people. I’d like to examine some boosters, find
out how they work. If we could come up with something similar, it might save a lot of lives.”

“I can get you some,” Isis said.

“Really?”

“No problem. Honey, I am one hot pirate. You want something, I can get it for you.”

“How did you become a pirate?” Madrone asked.

“I was a runner. Bred, raised, and trained for it. So the first chance I got, I ran—off.” She laughed. “Stole my sweetstick’s boat. He fell overboard.” She winked.

I didn’t hear that, Madrone thought, or she didn’t mean what she seemed to mean by it. “What’s a runner?”

“A racer. See?” Isis extended her leg and hiked her loose trousers up to the top of her thigh. The leg was like a sculpture, each separate muscle delineated, hard, perfectly formed. Madrone had a sudden urge to run her fingers over the dark velvet of Isis’ skin and feel the steel strength ripple under her hands. “I was the pride of the Valley, once.”

The pirate swiveled in her chair, propping her legs against the opposite wall so that her pants slid down and left them bare to view.

“More wine?”

Madrone felt a slight glow, but she nodded. The wine tasted astringent on her tongue but rich in the back of her throat.

“How much of a healer are you?” Isis asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Can you free me from the drugs?”

“What drugs? I don’t understand?”

“Those of us who are bred for runners, we’re raised on certain hormones and steroids. That’s how we develop strength and speed. But you got to keep on them, otherwise you kind of fall apart. That’s why most of us are afraid to leave.”

“But you did.”

“I did. But I spend half my godforsaken life raiding pharmacies. I’m not free.”

Something else was teasing at Madrone.

“You keep saying ‘bred for it.’ What do you mean?”

“I mean, bred. You know, engineered. They give our mamas a contract. All the Stewardships have their own teams of racers, their own training farms and breeding contracts. It’s an industry. So is the gambling.”