The Gate to Women's Country

  "I couldn't see any more than that. Just this silver thing, like a wheel, and the men screamin', and not a sound otherwise." Besset took another pull at the beer, his hand trembling.

  "Damn," said Stephen, disgustedly.

  "Wait, I'm not done yet. So I went away about half a mile and hid out in this kind of gully there was down there, and waited until morning. Long about first light, here went the wagon out of there and that, still three people in it, no sign of anybody else, but it wasn't no wagoneer. Least they wasn't dressed like wagoneer people. It was a servitor and a woman and a girl from Women's Country. I couldn't see who, but it was Women's Country people. And somethin' else. I swear there was nothin' in that wagon but them. No bodies, nothin'. But when I went over where they'd been camped, all there was there was ashes from one campfire and that's all. Challer's head was gone. So were the rest of 'em, gone."

  There was a lengthy silence, during which Chernon made himself small and inconspicuous, hoping they would not notice him again. He did not know what to think about what he had heard. It occurred to him that Michael might prefer that he hadn't heard it. The Commanders didn't even look at him, however, and he thought they had forgotten he was there. So, probably Besset wasn't even telling the truth, and that's why Michael didn't seem surprised. Besset was lying, or had been drunk, or had been eating mushrooms the way some of the Gypsies did to make them see visions. Maybe. Though, if he was telling the truth or something like the truth, it could mean the women had some kind of weapon nobody knew about. Or some kind of power nobody knew about.

  Chernon wanted to believe it was some kind of power they had, something he could learn about and use. Later, when he listened outside the officers' quarters window, however, he learned that Stephen and Michael thought it must be a weapon.

  "That's probably it," Michael rumbled. "The thing they're hiding. The thing the women know that they're not talking about. Something left over from old preconvulsion times, most likely. Isn't that like them! Tell us we have to do without any preconvulsion stuff and then use it themselves! Hypocrites! We need to find out about that. We'll get this war with Susantown out of the way, then we'll concentrate on finding out what this is. Maybe send out some of the younger men. Maybe fix some of them up like itinerants...."

  "How?"

  "Oh, teach 'em to do some kind of act. Acrobats or something. Juggling, maybe. We've got a few young ones who are good at that."

  Chernon had not stayed under the window to hear any more. If they sent anyone, he wanted to be that one.

  FALL CAME with chilly winds and the leaves turning gold when the word swept through Women's Country like another kind of wind. The evil intentions of the Susantown garrison had been confirmed. War was declared.

  Every woman and child in the town was on the wall when the garrison marched out, staring down at the parade ground where the warriors assembled, banners flying, armor glittering like ten thousand sun-shattered mirrors, throwing shards of glory into their eyes. Barten was not wearing the device Myra had sewn for him, but he pointed to his pack when he saw her, indicating to her that he had it. Stavia thought he was very pale.

  "He thought he had another year to make up his mind," she surprised herself by saying to Morgot. "Then, all of a sudden, he didn't have any time at all."

  "Barten?" her mother asked. "That's true, Stavia. I spoke to Michael during carnival this summer, and he told me Barten did seem quite surprised when he was told he was a year older than he thought."

  The warrior drum and bugle-men began their blammety blam, ta-ra ta-ra; the ranks wheeled into an endless line and began the march, di-da-rum di-da-rum di-da-rum. Before it seemed possible they could be gone, there was only the flutter of guidons down the road and a haze of dust to the east, showing which way they went. Then the wagons pulled out, full of food and blankets and extra boots, driven by old one-eyed, lack-armed, lost-footed warriors who hadn't died while the glory was still around them as they probably wished they had done.

  The women's band struck up, "Gone Away, Oh, Gone Away," and Stavia found herself singing.

  "Where's my lovely warrior gone, the one who made me sigh, He's gone to fight for pretty girls, for Mom and apple pie. Gone away, oh gone away, I'll never see him more, he's found another lover on some far distant shore."

  Though Susantown wasn't some far-distant shore but merely sixty miles east, and the warriors wouldn't go more than half that distance, probably, before meeting the Susantown garrison coming west. Perhaps there would be a treaty and no one would be killed.

  One of the Council members came up to Morgot and asked a question.

  "Bandits?" Morgot said. "Yes. I did speak to the garrison Commanders about that, Councilor."

  The Councilor, an elderly woman whom Stavia had met half a dozen times but never really come to know at all well, mumbled something which Stavia could not hear.

  Morgot answered, softly but clearly. "Oh, we all agree that's likely, ma'am, but there's no proof as yet." Then she turned, letting Stavia surprise a look on both their faces, a shut-in, secret look which she had seen before on her mother's face, though rarely. Not for the first time, she felt the wheels of Women's Country turning beneath the city, turning silently, without her help.

  As on that night on the road from Susantown.

  "Which never happened," Stavia reminded herself. "Which never happened." For a long time after that night, she had caught herself imagining what might be going on. Men with tattoos from different garrisons, all together, almost as if they'd been selected to make up some kind of inter-garrison team. For what? She had driven herself crazy wondering for what, finally deciding that if she couldn't talk about it, it was better to pretend the thing had never occurred at all. The actor part of her was able to do this easily. To the actor part, none of it had happened. The observer, however, found this selective memory difficult.

  With all the men over twenty-five gone except for a few armorers and cooks, the younger warriors and boys left behind were more or less free to wander about the garrison territory as they liked, and Stavia found Chernon waiting for her on the armory roof the next time she and Beneda went to the wall. Her heart slowed, then hammered, and she felt terrified.

  "Benny, let me talk to Stavvy alone, will you?"

  "Stavia's too young for assignations, brother," said Beneda, pretending that she had not brought Stavia to the wall at his request.

  "I'm not talking assignations, now get lost, will you?"

  Beneda flounced off, pretending to be annoyed. All her hopes for Chernon revolved around Stavia's influence on him. Or so, at least, she thought.

  "Stavvy." His eyes were so clear. The skin on the hand he reached up to her was as clean and soft as a child's.

  She wanted him to touch her. Hold her. "I've missed you," she faltered. "I wish you hadn't gotten mad at me."

  "I... I wasn't mad at you. Not really. I know what you were trying to do, Stavvy, and that's why I came today. I have to explain, you know?"

  "Let her know you 're not going to do what she wants you to, boy, " Michael had said. "Make it clear that she's not that important to you. Then she'll break her neck trying to become that important. Women are like that. "

  "Stavia's pretty... well, she's independent, " Chernon had objected.

  "I don't care how independent, " Michael had laughed. "They're all the same. "

  "You have to explain what?" asked Stavia, trembling.

  "The fifteens have to choose in a few months. I have to explain to you why I'm going to stay with the garrison."

  Stavia heard him without real surprise. Well, there it was. What was the point of standing here listening to anything else. She might as well leave now, go home, get her grieving over with. Morgot said one had to do that, over and over. No sense drawing it out.

  "Stavvy!" There was something withdrawn in her face which frightened him. Michael could be wrong. He could be. He didn't know everything. Michael couldn't get Morgot to talk, so he didn't know everything. "S
tavvy!"

  "Yes."

  "Don't look like that." He temporized, trying to make it sound less bare and incontrovertible. Michael would not have played it this way, but Chernon thought it necessary. "Don't you see, if it wasn't for the war, I could have done it? But I can't do it now! Not with the war. Not with so many probably getting killed, not with men coming back wounded who'll need our help. I've got ten years left to make up my mind, Stavvy. I can return to Women's County later. After the war, when everything's settled down."

  "I don't understand what it is you can't do."

  "I can't let my friends down," he said in a dedicated voice, as though he were taking the oath of a defender. "Not now."

  "But you think you will later?"

  "Well... I wouldn't even then, Stavvy, except for the books. There are so many things I want to find out. Things you know. I know I have to come to Women's Country to do that. But I can't be selfish, either."

  "I see." Her tone made it clear she did not.

  "You don't see. But I hope you will. And respect me for it."

  "We respect the warriors," she answered formally, a faint far ringing in her voice, like a knell. "Are you going to do that terrible thing to your mother? Tell her she's insulted your manhood?"

  The question caught him off guard. With a good deal of anticipatory satisfaction, he had planned to do exactly that. "N-n-no," he stuttered. "It's not obligatory. I wouldn't do that."

  "Well, that's something."

  "But you will go on bringing me books, please. Please, Stavvy. I can't make it without. I really can't!" His eyes were full of tears, his lips trembled. He really couldn't. He meant it.

  Though every part of her longed to tell him yes, she shook her head. She didn't know. She would have to ask someone. Maybe Joshua.

  "I don't know," she said. "I'm not sure. I'm not sure the war should make any difference. There are always wars."

  THE GHOST of Polyxena appears on the battlement," called the director. "Slowly, she descends the stairs."

  Councilwoman Stavia, in her character as Iphigenia, with the doll representing Astyanax cuddled in her arms, turned and looked up the stepladder that was doing duty as a battlement. The woman playing Polyxena was crouched at the top. For a moment Stavia couldn't remember the line, then just as the prompter began, she recalled it.

  IPHIGENIA So, you have come at last, Polyxena. Please take this child from me.

  POLYXENA I am not fond of children. Girls perhaps, who have some hope of life, but not of boys. Boys play with death as though it were a game, cutting their teeth on daggers. No. I am not fond of children.

  IPHIGENIA Be fond of this one. It is your brother's child.

  POLYXENA Hector's son? Well, and so they killed him, too.

  Stavia tried the next speech, but something caught her just below the ribs, as though a knife had been inserted. "Well, so, they killed him, too," she said, repeating Polyxena's line. She heard her voice with dismay, a rising, unconscious keening.

  The director gave her a look, then called the rehearsal to a halt, waiting until the others got out of earshot before asking, "What is it, Stavia?"

  "It's just... just that line is the same thing my sister said a long time ago. Lately I've been all muddled up. Too many memories." She tried to laugh, unsuccessfully.

  The director sighed. "You're tired, that's all. I'm making you all do it over too many times. My fault. I don't know what I want until I see it, and you all do it over and over until I see it. We've been at it long enough for today. Get some rest. Tomorrow we'll try again."

  TAVIA HAD JUST TURNED THIRTEEN when heralds had come from the battlefield to bring word that the armies of Marthatown and Susantown were arranging themselves for honorable battle. The herald had entered Women's Country through the Battlefield Gate after much blatting of trumpets and thunder of drums, and a deputation of the Council had gone down to the plaza to hear the word.

  From a space on the second level of the colonnade, Stavia had seen Morgot come into the plaza from the east, where the Council Chambers were, her hastily donned ceremonial robe swaying around her and the dark blue matron's veil blowing in the light wind. Even at that distance, Stavia could see the whiteness of Morgot's eyes, so pale that they appeared to look blindly at the world. How strange, to appear so blind and see so much.

  "But, I look like that, too," Stavia told herself. "I have eyes just like that."

  Chernon told her he liked her eyes, but Stavia wasn't sure she liked them herself. "Cassandra eyes," her drama teacher had called them when she asked if Stavia wanted to play the part of the luckless prophetess.

  "It's a small part, but it would give you some performance experience. Then next year, perhaps you'll be ready for the part of Iphigenia."

  "Just because of my eyes?" Stavia objected.

  "No. Not just because of your eyes. Because you seem to understand what the play is about."

  That had come as a surprise to Stavia, though she hadn't said anything to contradict it. There was no question what the play was about. It was about... well, it was about what it was about. Troy. The women.

  "I'll do Cassandra, if you want me to."

  "Suit yourself, Stavia." Her teacher had seemed somewhat disappointed, as though she had expected some other response. "There are never enough parts to go around."

  Morgot had said performance experience was important.

  "When you are grown, you may be asked to serve on the Council," she told Stavia. "Half of what we do is performance. Ritual. Observances. If we are seen to be in control, the people are calm and life moves smoothly. Nothing upsets the citizenry more than to believe its administrators are uncertain or faltering. Doing nothing with an appearance of calm may be more important than doing the right thing in a frantic manner. Learn to perform, Stavia. I have."

  So now in the plaza, Morgot moved calmly. She seemed to feel Stavia's eyes upon her, for she turned, searching the colonnades, lifting her hand in a gesture of recognition. Stavia lifted her own in response, then dropped it again as the trumpet blatted once more and the herald stood forward to deliver his message. The armies had met one another halfway between the two cities. The garrisons were arrayed so, facing one another. Challenges had been uttered. Single combat had taken place. This one of Marthatown was wounded. That one of Susantown was dead. Single combat did not satisfy the garrison of Susantown. The rituals of combat were proceeding.

  Soon the general battle would commence. The safety of the Marthatown women was assured. Susantown garrison would have no opportunity to attack Marthatown.

  The head of the Council replied, an old voice, but strong, tolling among the plaza walls. "Honor of the city... protection of the women... protection of the children... glory awaiting..." Morgot stepped forward to present the honor ribbons which the women of the city had prepared. Oh, they glowed, those honors. Ribbons of purple for single combat. Ribbons of crimson for wounds suffered. Ribbons of gold for meritorious conduct in the face of the enemy. The herald bowed. The Councilwomen bowed. The Battle Gate opened wide and the herald departed, honors bearers behind him, musicians behind them, blametty blam, ta-ra ta-ra.

  Morgot turned and looked up once more, finding Stavia among the watchers, beckoning. Meet me. Stavia went down the steps among the cluck and mutter of the crowd. Women, girls, little boys, no serving men. Serving men were never present when garrison matters were under review. Never when warriors were present, in order to show the warriors proper respect. Though the herald was not, strictly speaking, a warrior. There were a number of men beyond the wall who were not, strictly speaking, warriors.

  "Morgot, what about the musicians? And the cooks?"

  Morgot turned a tired face on her, the lines around her eyes seeming deeper than usual, and the pale, slightly protuberant orbs touched with a pinkness, an irritation, as though she had not been sleeping well or had been weeping. "What musicians, daughter?"

  "The ones with the trumpets and drums. They aren't warriors, are they?"


  "They are in one sense, in that they chose to remain outside the wall. They aren't in that they've made themselves useful in some noncombatant way, and are thus likely to have a long and unthreatened life. Why do you ask?"

  Stavia hesitated.

  Morgot sighed. "You're thinking about Chernon. What has he told you?"

  "That he will stay. That he can't let his fellows down now, because of the war."

  Morgot looked stricken. "Because of... Oh, Lady! Poor Sylvia. Oh, Stavia, he really said that? But there are always wars."

  "He says perhaps later. He still has time."

  "But if Chernon... Habby is fifteen, you know, next month. He's the same age as Chernon, almost exactly. Sylvia and I got pregnant at the same time. My second, her first. Lady, if Chernon is influenced in that way, perhaps Habby could be, too."