On the tip of his tongue hovered words such as ‘then you must love me after all,’ but this calmly explanatory mode seemed to forbid it. Melancholy settled on him. It had enclosed her. The reason was, simply, that whenever a natural spring of vitality flourished in either of them, it was instantly suppressed by the natural disposition of the other.
Melancholy took them to the couch in fellow-feeling, made them love each other with many whispers of condolence for their unfortunate linking, caused sympathy to flow from one to the other, made their sexual play — if that could possibly be the word for such sorrowful exchanges — so unlike their previous encounters that neither could recognize the other in them, and culminated in groans and cries from both of them that were nothing less than expostulations at the mismanagement of absolutely everything.
But Al·Ith had noted in herself, and with dismay, the sharp — as if with an ambiguous wound — pleasures she felt in being ground and pounded into these ecstasies of submission to fate. She had not known anything like it before, and could not believe that she could ever want them again.
Meanwhile, it rained. They lay in each other’s arms listening to squelches and wallows of rain, and both marvelled at the infinite possibilities of variation there were that neither had expected of themselves.
Still under heavy rain they rose and bathed, and dressed, and returned themselves — she this time using the bright orange dress in a quite desperate attempt to bring some sunlight into this marriage of theirs — to the central room.
They were as close and connubial as any Order could have wished.
But there was also the edge of asperity in both voices that goes so ineluctably with this marriage mood.
She wished to get at the truth of this martial Zone of his.
Do you mean to say — her questions began, while he sat with his chin in his hand, elbow on the table, with the air of one admitting to everything because he was forced to, but nevertheless preserving inner independence.
‘Do you mean to say that those singlets of yours you make such a great thing about are all a fake? They don’t do anything at all? They can’t repel weapons?’
‘They are very good at keeping off the rain.’
‘Do you actually mean to say that these hideous grey round buildings you’ve got all over Zone Four don’t make death rays? That’s a fake, too?’
‘Everyone believes we’ve got them. It comes to the same thing.’
‘Ben Ata, sometimes I can’t believe my ears!’
‘Why are you in such a fuss about it? For one thing, building one of those death ray fortresses is a major undertaking. We have so little stone. It has to be carted right across Zone Four, sometimes. I don’t know how often I’ve had the army pestering for a campaign, and I’ve got them building a couple of death ray fortresses instead. They were the best idea I’ve ever had!’
‘Do you mean to say it was your idea?’
‘Well … I heard about something of the sort.’
‘Who from? When?’
‘A man came through here once, and he mentioned them. All sorts of ideas like that.’
‘What man? From Zone Five?’
‘Zone Five! They didn’t so much as know about spears till they saw ours. Even so they like catapults best. No. A man came through. That was in my father’s time. I was a boy. I listened. He said he had come from — where was it? Not Zone Five. Was it Zone Six perhaps?’
‘I know a little about Zone Six. It can’t have been from there.’
‘A long way, I am sure of that. He talked of a place where they had weapons we hadn’t even imagined. They can use the air itself to make weapons of.’
‘But if they can use air to make weapons, they can use it to make things that are useful?’
‘He said nothing about that. It is a place somewhere. A planet. It is an evil race. They kill and torture each other all the time, for the sake of it … no, Al·Ith, I’m not taking that look from you! We are not like that in Zone Four — not anywhere near it. But I thought it all over, and that is when we spread the rumours about our invulnerable vests and our deadly rays.’
‘They don’t seem to impress Zone Five much.’
‘Anyway, that isn’t the point. I’ve told you it keeps a lot of men busy.’
‘Weil,’ she summed up, ‘this is how it seems to me. Nine-tenths of your country’s wealth goes into the the preparations for war. Apart from the actual growers of food, and the merchants for food and household goods, everyone is in the employ of the army, in some capacity. Yet you have not in living memory had a war. When you do have a war, I have only to make a list of the supposed reasons for it, and you admit to their inadequacy. Even these wars were in previous generations. Your skirmishes on the borders of Zone Five are because if you have two fighting forces in close connection both will, by their nature, attack, and will similarly accuse the other. The standard of living of your people is very low —’ here he groaned, admitting it — ‘but, Ben Ata, all this goes on under the Law. Under the Providers. All for each and each for all. So what has gone wrong?’ She noted that in this somewhat hectoring analysis, she felt not an inkling of the rush of nearness to understanding she had felt yesterday. You put one person with another person, call it love, she was thinking, and then make do with the lowest common denominator.
He yawned.
‘It’s much too early to go to bed, you know,’ she said. ‘It can’t be even late afternoon yet—if we were able to see where the day had reached in this downpour.’ For it was still pelting down.
‘Very well. Al·Ith, I want you to picture your affairs to me, just as you have ours to me.’
She was hesitating because it occurred to her to wonder why she had not actually made such an analysis — for while such a way of thinking did not conduce to intimations of a higher kind, they were certainly useful for clearing the mind.
‘Now come on. Al·Ith, you are ready enough to criticize me.’
‘Yes, I was just … very well. The economy of our country does not rely on any single commodity. We produce many varieties of grains, vegetables, and fruits …’
‘But so do we,’ he said.
‘Not to anything like the same extent.’
‘Go on.’
‘We have many different kinds of animals, and use their milk and meat and their hides and their wool …’ And, as he was going to interrupt her again, said, ‘It is a question of degree, Ben Ata. A half of our population produces these things. A quarter are artisans, using gold, silver, iron, copper, brass, and many precious stones. A quarter are merchants, suppliers, traders, and tellers of stories, keepers of Memory, makers of pictures and statues, and travelling singers. None of our wealth goes into war. There are no weapons in our country. You will not find anything beyond a knife or an axe for household use or the use of a herdsman, in any home in our country.’
‘And what if you are attacked by a wild animal? If an eagle takes a lamb?’
‘The animals are our friends,’ she said, and saw the incredulity on his face. Also, he found her account lacking in any drama.
‘And where has all this got you? Except where we are, in trouble … or so you say we are —’
‘Is your birth rate falling or is it not?’
‘It is. All right, things are unhealthy. I admit it. And now Al·Ith, in this paradise of yours, I want to know what are the men doing?’
‘They are not making war!’
‘What do they do with themselves all day?’
‘Exactly what every one of us does — whatever it is their work is.’
‘It seems to me that with women ruling there is nothing a man can do but—’
‘Make love, you were going to say.’
‘Something of the sort.’
‘And bake, and farm, and herd, grow, and trade and mine and smelt and make artefacts and everything there is to do with the different ways of feeding children, mentally and emotionally, and the keeping of archives and maintaining Memory and makin
g songs and tales and … Ben Ata, you look as if I had insulted you.’
‘All that is women’s work.’
‘How is it possible that They expect us to understand each other? If you were set down in the middle of our land you would not understand anything that was going on. Do you know that as soon as I cross into your land I cease to be my real self? Everything I say comes out distorted and different. Or if I manage to be as I am, then it is so hard, that in itself makes everything different. Sometimes I sit here, with you and I think of how I am, at home, with Kunzor, say, and I can’t—’
‘Kunzor being your husband?’
She was silent, helpless at the utter impossibility of saying anything that could keep in it the substance of truth.
‘Well then, out with it! He is, isn’t he? Oh, you can’t fool me.’
‘But didn’t I tell you myself that Kunzor is the name of one of the men I am with?’
But he kept on his face the look of a man who has with penetration discerned the truth. His stance, arms folded, knees set apart, feet planted, announced that he was not in the least undermined or intimidated.
Yet she could see that he was in fact really trying to understand: she would be wrong to allow herself to be held off from him by his automatic defensiveness. Something she could respect, and from the most real part of her, was at work in him.
Again, automatically, he jeered: ‘And this Kunzor of yours, of course he is a finer fellow than me in every way possible …’
She did not respond to this, but said, ‘If we were not meant to understand each other, what are we doing here at all?’
From within deep thought, thought that was being protected, in fact, by his derisiveness, the stances of what he had always considered ‘strength’, he said, or breathed out, slowly, ‘But what is it … I must understand … what? We have to understand … what …’ He lapsed into silence, eyes fixed on a cup on the table. And she realized, with what delight and relief, that he was in fact operating from within that part of him which meant that he was open and ready for understandings to come into him — as she had been, in the Council Chamber. She sat absolutely still, subduing her breathing, and not allowing her eyes to rest too long on his face for fear of disturbing him.
His own breathing was slower, slower, he was stilled, his eyes fixed on the cup had no sight in them — he was deep within himself. ‘What …’ he breathed. ‘There is something … we have to … they want us to … here we are soldiers … soldiers with no war … you are … you are … what are you? What are we … what are we for … that’s it, that’s it …’
Like someone in sleep, he brought out these words, slow, toneless, each one only a summary, a brief note or abstract, as it were of long processes of inner thought.
The slow rain soaked down, they were inside a bright shell drowned in water, they were inside a hush of wet sound. Neither moved. He breathed now hardly at all. She waited. A long time later he came to himself, saw her there, seemed surprised, glanced around at the cool spaces of this meeting place of theirs, remembered everything, and at once restored face, eyes, and body to alert disbelief.
He did not know what had just happened. Yet she could see on his face a maturity that spoke for the deep processes that had been accomplished in him.
She did not now feel helpless in the face of a diminishing of herself she could not control or direct: she was sustained and comforted, knowing that despite everything, they were in fact achieving what they should … and, speaking from the highest of intentions, from out of her best understanding of what was needed, she now destroyed this precious mood of mutual benefiting.
What she said was this: ‘Ben Ata, I wonder if it would be possible for me to see Dabeeb — you know, Jarnti’s wife.’
He stiffened and stared. This was so violent a reaction that all she could do was to acknowledge that she was back on that level where she could not expect to understand him.
‘You see, we — I mean, in our Zone — we are going to have a festival of songs and tales …’
His face was working with suspicion. His eyes were red, and glared.
‘What is the matter?’
‘Oh, you are a witch all right. Don’t pretend you are anything else.’
‘But, Ben Ata, it seems to me that we may find out what we want to know — or at any rate get some inkling, by listening to old songs. Stories. Not the ones that everyone sings all the time. Ones that have … fallen out of … use … and —’ But he had got up violently, and was leaning over her, gripping her shoulders, his face six inches from hers.
‘So you want to interview Dabeeb!’
‘Any of the women. But I’ve met Dabeeb.’
‘I can tell you this, I’m not going to share one of those orgies of yours, everyone having each other.’
‘Ben Ata, I don’t know what has happened, but you are off again on some wrong track …’
‘So I am! What happens when a group of you and your Fathers get together? I can imagine!’
‘You are imagining something you’ve experienced yourself, Ben Ata, something like what happens when your soldiers invade some wretched village and …’ but she saw there was no point in going on. She shrugged. Stung by her contempt, for it was that, he straightened himself, and strode to the arched door which led out to the hill at the foot of which lay the army camp. He shouted into the rain, again, again, again … an answering shout, the sounds of feet running through water, then Ben Ata shouting, ‘Tell Dabeeb to come here. At once.’
And he turned there, arms folded, leaning his weight back on the archway, smiling triumphantly at her.
‘Well, I want to speak to Dabeeb, and I am glad she is coming. But I’ve got no idea why you are behaving like this.’
‘Perhaps you fancy having Dabeeb yourself? Who knows what you and your filthy lot get up to.’
‘Having. Having. What is this word of yours, having. How can one have another person. No wonder you can’t —’ but she had been going to say, ‘No wonder you can’t make love when you think in terms of having—’ but of course had to check it.
‘You had better get the shield to protect her, or something like that,’ she said. ‘She won’t be able to stand up to the air in here.’
‘Thank you so much. It had occurred to me, you know. How do you suppose all these arrangements were made here?’
And he indicated the devices for the protection of the people who had worked, or who still worked in here from time to time — in this case, large clasps or brooches, which were for fastening at throat level.
Soon the sound of squelching feet, and Dabeeb appeared, wrapped in a vast dark cloak, one of her husband’s old army cloaks. She stood in the entrance, not looking at Ben Ata, but very closely, and shrewdly at Al·Ith, who smiled at her. She accepted from Ben Ata the brooch — which was of a yellow dull substance, very heavy — and pinned this at the opening of her dress at the throat, and stepped lightly in, dropping the wet cloak outside the arch on the floor of the portico.
She still did not look at Ben Ata, but was waiting for Al·Ith. Who had suddenly understood what was the probable cause for all the drama. Dabeeb had not looked at Ben Ata. In this awful place, with the antagonisms inseparable from being with — from sex, as they put it — this probably meant they had had each other. She had had him, or he had had her — however these barbarians saw it — but she was not disposed at this particular time even to wonder.
Seeing Dabeeb, the neat, handsome, capable matron, with her air of shrewd humour, standing there waiting for direction, Al·Ith decided to make as much as she could of the situation.
‘Please sit down, Dabeeb,’ she said, nodding at the chair Ben Ata had left empty. And now Dabeeb did glance at Ben Ata. The real danger of this situation — as she had momentarily seen it — had not been enough to allow her to raise her eyes to him, but now that she needed an order, a direction, she did look towards her lord.
But he had left it all to Al·Ith, and stood like a sentinel,
watching the scene.
Dabeeb sat.
‘In our country we are going to have a great festival of songs and of stories. We have them often, but this one will be different.’
Already Dabeeb was alert and on guard: the eyes of the two women had engaged, and Dabeeb’s were warning. Al·Ith very slightly nodded, saying, ‘I understand, don’t be afraid.’ Ben Ata did not catch this minutest of nods, but he had seen that he had been mistaken. The sight of these two women, sitting opposite each other, both ready to catch from each other the best they could, did not fail to soothe him, and at the same time to disturb him. Their instant understanding made him feel left out, shut out.
He exaggerated his sarcastic look and soldierly straightness.
‘We want to try and find out if there are songs which perhaps we have forgotten or half forgotten that can tell us things.’
‘I see, my lady.’
Again the two pairs of eyes searched each other.
‘But there is no need to be afraid …’ here Al·Ith paused a moment, and then continued, ‘if you don’t remember any. That is why I asked Ben Ata if you would come up to talk to me. You really mustn’t worry …’ here Al·Ith paused again, and waited until Dabeeb had, in her turn, given the very slightest of nods, ‘about it. It is just an impulse I had. A whim!’ And she put on the look of one who was subject to whims and to having them indulged — a bit fatuous, self-congratulatory.
‘I see, my lady.’
‘I wish you would call me by my name.’
‘It is hard to remember.’ This was in an apologetic voice, almost a plea.
‘We have all kinds of songs, but for instance only the other day listening to some children some of us realized that parts of songs might have been forgotten, or changed — or something like that. And perhaps it is like that with you.’
‘Perhaps it is.’
‘There is a song I believe I heard the other day when I was here. The beat is like this —’ And Al·Ith rested the heel of her hand on the table’s edge and tapped with her fingers: