When they landed that night she gave Mara a supply of the dried leaf and repeated that she should tell no one she was pregnant. There was no opportunity to tell Dann, because they were in a room with others. Next day Mara asked Sasha if she had a medicine for someone who slept badly, and offered a coin. Sasha took the coin, and gave Mara bark to put in water. She said, ‘Plenty of people sleep badly these days.’ As she watched Mara give Dann the water the bark had been soaked in to drink, her eyes were sad. Mara thought, If I asked her she might tell me a story worse than mine. Perhaps that’s why we are frightened to talk to each other; we are afraid of what we might hear.
Next morning, as they were walking down to the boat, apart from the others, Mara told Dann she was pregnant, and asked if they might get off this boat so she could rest for a few days. He said, so low she could hardly hear it, that there was someone after him. ‘He was in the town where we changed boats. I saw him.’ Mara held him back, because he was already hastening to join the others, and said, ‘Dann, sometimes you imagine things. Are you sure?’ He seemed to shrink and become little in her grip and he said in little Dann’s voice, ‘He was the bad one, Mara.’ But she held fast, gripping his two arms and said, ‘Dann, don’t do that.’ And, amazingly, he heard, straightened, shed little Dann, and looked straight at her, and said, ‘Mara, there were a lot of things that happened in the Towers you don’t know about.’ And now he tried to smile, trusting her. ‘I’ll tell you – some time. I hate thinking about that time.’
‘You do think about it, when you are asleep.’
‘I know,’ he said, and pulled himself away and went ahead of her to the boat. If he heard her saying she was pregnant, he hadn’t taken it in.
Mara suffered through the long, hot, damp days, the dazzle in her eyes being the worst torment; but Sasha supported her with herbs to chew, and bits of dry bread, and encouragement. ‘This is the worst part of being pregnant,’ she said. ‘Soon you’ll feel well – you’ll see.’ Mara could not be more than six weeks pregnant: a period had been scant, had started and stopped and started; another had been late, but she did not expect them to be regular – how could they be, when she had scarcely been a female at all, until a year ago? She wished she could let Meryx know, and kept seeing his bitter, miserable face on the night he had believed she had slept with Juba. If he knew – well, she could imagine how he would look: he would stand differently, taller; and a shrinking and diffidence, almost an apology, that was always in his face, his smile – all that would go. She imagined standing beside him, pregnant, her hand in his, telling the Kin this news, and how he would smile as they all rushed to congratulate him. How far away he seemed – and was; how out of reach – and he was; and yet her thoughts flew to him a hundred times a day and to all of them, in their illusory safe place.
Day after day she sat at touching distance behind Dann, watched his lean muscled arms pulling the oar, saw how his cheeks lost the fullness they had got from the Kin’s good food. All day, with the sickness beating up in waves, with Sasha beside her, whispering, ‘Don’t be sick. Don’t let them see.’ How she hated this endless, gliding journey up the middle of the river that reflected blue sky, and sometimes slow, white clouds, and along its edges the reeds and bamboos and palm trees, while among the reflections often appeared the dark shape of a dragon, or the white grin as it propped its jaws open so that the little birds could clean its mouth. How she longed to stop, simply to stop moving; and then on the twentieth morning of this journey Dann woke feverish, and had to agree to stay behind when the boat went on. Now the faces of the people they had been with day and night for what seemed now to be a long time were those of friends, and Mara thought that without Sasha she could not go on. Without Sasha – well, she would have been reported to the authorities by now, and kept to wait for the arrival of the next slaver. She and Dann took a room in a little town, and both of them slept, and slept, he sleeping away his fever, she the nausea of movement. But she had to get up often to sponge off Dann’s sweats, and hold water to his lips, making him drink, though it was bitter with Sasha’s herbs.
In his sleep he muttered, ‘We must go on, Mara. He’ll catch up with me.’ ‘Who, Dann, who?’ Once he replied, ‘Kulik,’ but there were other names she did not know.
Mara became well quicker than Dann did, and trusting that it was true that the people in this town were friendly, as the innkeeper said, she went out into streets – rather, lanes – of mud-brick houses, and wandered through the town ignoring the people she met, and being ignored. She had seen from the room windows large buildings some distance from this town, and now she walked there, watching the low grass for snakes, and gratefully smelling the aromatic bushes that brushed against her. The clean, medicinal smell so appealed to her that she chewed some of the little leaves, not able to believe they were poisonous, and their effect was to make her hungry. The buildings were tall, six or seven levels, and of stone. There was no surface stone anywhere near, so there must be a quarry somewhere. When she reached the buildings she saw they were old, and it had been a long time since they had had roofs. No sign of a roof, or rafters, no fallen beams, just walls. There were signs of old fires, old scorch marks that had eaten into the stone so one might think the stones were black, and new fires, the ghosts of aromatic bushes that had burned where they stood inside the walls, each a little cloud of pale twigs and stems.
This had been a big town, laid out in a regular way, streets intersecting each other in squares. They had been paved with big blocks of stone, and there were grooves in the stone made by wheels. The buildings were full of birds that had their nests anywhere there was a ledge or a hole. Creepers had reached high up the walls, thin green fingers clutching the stone. When had people lived here? She asked at the inn and they said that no one knew: before the trees went, they said. Once there had been great forests here, but that was so long ago you could hardly find an old tree trunk or a bit of dry wood, not for several days’ walking distance. A rain forest it had been – so it was said. Well there was not enough rain these days even to keep the palms happy. Along this river in the dry season the trees were watered by teams of townspeople who made themselves responsible for them. The trees provided all kinds of food, and fibre for weaving, and a kind of milk, which was welcome now that it was getting difficult to keep the domesticated animals alive. Mara went to see these animals. There was a small version of the milk beasts down south, no higher than Mara’s waist, and she thought of Mishka and Mishkita and wondered what they would have thought of these small copies of their kind. There were animals with horns and great udders, that stood to Mara’s shoulders. They were fed on palm leaves. There were very tall animals, with great feet like floats and long necks called Khamels, which had been imported from the north at a time when North had been all sand and stone, because they needed so little to live on. And when was that? Oh, hundreds of years, perhaps thousands, no one knew now. Mara asked if skimmers were known here and the reply was that there used to be plenty, at least once a week, but now hardly ever. It was the river that everyone relied on, and that was not likely to disappear. This river led into a larger one, believed to be the main one, and there had always been rivers here, though it was known they had sometimes changed course.
Rain forest, thought Mara, going to stand in the deserted town, gazing at ancient wheelmarks in streets that had been empty for hundreds – or thousands? – of years. A rain forest…what could that mean? She shut her eyes to imagine it, and heard the sounds of water running and splashing off oars. What could it have been like, to wander in a forest that held rain in its branches, was always wet, and little streams ran everywhere?
She went to the river, saw the rolling glitter, and felt her stomach turn over, for it remembered the movement of the boat. Soon she would have to get on a boat again and face days – how long? – of that heat, the movement, the glitter in her eyes…She heard Sasha’s whisper, Don’t let anyone know you are pregnant, and she closed her eyes to conquer the nausea. When
she opened them in front of her stood a vision, a beautiful young woman in a pink dress, with her hair braided and shining, and she was smiling at her. It was Kira, who said, ‘I’m not surprised to see you: anyone sensible would leave.’
And she took Mara by the hand and led her to a mud house larger than the others, of two storeys, and into a large, cool room full of coloured things – cushions, hangings, embroideries, bright pots and jars. Mara sank into a reed chair, thankful to be able to keep still, and Kira clapped her hands and a servant came in, who was told to bring drinks. She was a black girl, and her hair was as intricately done as Kira’s.
‘And now tell me everything,’ Kira said, fanning herself, clicking and turning and displaying the fan, of scarlet birds’ feathers, just as Ida did. Her pink dress billowed about her to the floor.
When Mara had finished her tale, she asked Kira, ‘If you had known what the journey was going to be like, would you have left?’
Now, this directness was not at all Kira’s style, for she evaded it, pouting, and laughing, and flirting her fan – as she had always done; but at last, faced by Mara’s seriousness, she sighed and said, ‘No. I would not. That boat nearly killed me.’
‘And are you sorry you left your baby?’
‘Ida’s baby.’
‘I want to know.’
Another sigh, not petulant or staged. ‘Mara, if I had brought that baby with me it would have died on the boat. What baby could survive that? – so hot, the insects, not enough to eat…’
Here the servant brought milk from the palm trees and fruit.
‘Is there enough food here?’
‘Plenty. And my husband is a trader.’
‘Your husband! I didn’t think husbands were your style.’
‘They aren’t. But there are different kinds of marriage here. He wants a full marriage, he thinks I am a marvel.’ And she laughed, all her lovely teeth on show. Then she leaned forward and whispered, ‘If he knew I had been a slave in Chelops…I wouldn’t let him touch me until I had a legal security here.’ Aloud she said, ‘I love him and he’s good to me.’ On this a big black man came in. He had heard what she said and was pleased. He shone with pleasure in his handsome blackness. His hair was a great black bush. He stood with his hand on Kira’s shoulder and looked at Mara, and he did not think she was a marvel, as Mara could see.
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘She’s my cousin. From Chelops. She was married to the son of the chief man.’
This man nodded, smiled politely, squeezed Kira’s shoulder and went out.
‘He’s jealous,’ said Mara.
‘Of men and of women. But I don’t get up to any of that here, he’d kill me. Of course I never went in for it much – girls. That was just to pass the time.’ On she chattered, and did not ask Mara another question, because she had created her vision of the life in Chelops and had no intention of letting it be challenged.
One thing was clear. She was lonely and desperate to talk. Not to exchange talk, but to talk. Mara tried to stop the flow, several times, and then the servant came in to say that the innkeeper wanted her.
She thought, Oh no, it’s Dann, he must have said something – what has he said? – and she apologised to Kira, who said, ‘I’ll come and visit you and Dann,’ and she ran through the heavy yellow sunlight to the inn where the innkeeper was waiting, with a man he introduced as Chombi. She found him frightening. He was very tall, thin and his skin was of an ugly white colour she had never seen before. His hair was like Mahondi hair, but there was this unhealthy white skin – repulsive.
‘Your brother is making a noise,’ he said.
‘He’s my husband, not my brother,’ said Mara.
The trouble was, Dann might or might not remember to lie. She ran into their room and found Dann crouched by the head of the bed, panting. He had dreamed, that was clear. She made him lie down, gave him more medicine, and said, ‘Dann, I’ve told them we’re married. Will you remember that?’ She repeated it until he said yes, he would, and dropped off back to sleep.
Mara sat at the low window and watched the river glide past a hundred yards away, and saw the moon paths swaying on the water. Even that little movement made her feel sick.
Chombi came to enquire after Dann. She said he had the river sickness, the one insects give you, but he was getting better. Chombi was full of suspicion and hostility. He enquired after her health too. He had heard she was sick, when she arrived. Mara said she had the river sickness, but not badly, and was better now.
While Kira had talked, and talked, Mara had been able to make a picture of this place.
The region of the River Towns was governed by the Goidel people, who had their headquarters in the next town up the river, called Goidel. Each river town had its local representative, and this town’s government man – Kira called him The Spy – was the tall, white, thin man, Chombi. Kira had seen Mara’s nausea – but only when she actually asked to be shown a place where she could be sick – and said that Mara must not be ill. If Dann was ill, and she was too, that would be seen as the possible beginnings of an epidemic and both would be taken to Goidel into an isolation hospital. More than anything, this region feared epidemics, for there had been several recently, and many had died, mostly children. Mara had been afraid to tell Kira she was pregnant, but when she had to be sick again Kira said, ‘And you’d better not tell them you are pregnant either, because they’ll take you for breeding. But if you can make them believe that Dann is your husband, it will be all right. They don’t take women away from husbands.’
Mara, then, could be neither ill nor pregnant, and what was she to do? It seemed to her she had no choice, except to go on with the journey and hope for the best. Choice: were there people who had choices? Kira, for instance. If she stayed in Chelops, probably the Kin themselves would have been delighted to lose her to the Hadrons, because she was such a nuisance. If she had kept the baby then Ida would have made her life a misery. If she had brought the baby with her it would almost certainly have died on the river.
Mara could decide to make the slow, difficult – and sickening – journey back to Chelops, and tell Meryx, Look, I’m pregnant, you are like your father, a maker of children. But the Hadrons would take her the moment the baby was born. And she would still be in that situation which both she and Kira knew: Chelops could not last for long.
Why was Kira so clear-headed about this, unlike the rest of the Kin? She was an orphan, had been taken into the Kin as a child, from an inferior branch of the Mahondis. She had never felt part of the Kin, had always seen herself as an outsider; and was able to see the Kin from an outsider’s view, had never been lulled into complacency.
There was a hard end to this run of thoughts: Kira would probably survive, having run away and left her child, when the Kin, and the Hadrons – and Kira’s baby – might easily not survive.
And what was Mara to do now?
She listened to Dann muttering or shouting in his sleep, hushed him, told him, Dann, be quiet – and he woke apparently himself, demanding to leave at once.
‘Have you remembered I am pregnant?’ she whispered. ‘And that I am your wife?’
‘Up North it will be better,’ he said, and slipped back into fever, shaking and sweating again. Kira came to sit with him while Mara slept. Mara knew that Dann was good-looking, but she had not thought of him as someone immediately attractive – in spite of Felice – but it seemed Kira liked Dann very much, and she helped Mara change the slave’s robe for a clean one, and she exclaimed over his scars, and the weals around his middle, and sighed and said that perhaps she would come with them when they left. This was such a boring little place. After all, this was only a minor river. It would join the main river about ten days’ from here, and on that one you could travel right up to the edge of the country that the Khamels came from. But up there they spoke a different language and Kira didn’t think she could be bothered with that.
‘I thought the same language was spoken
everywhere,’ said Mara, and Kira laughed at her and said that Mara’s trouble was – and it had been Kira’s – that she had believed Hadron to be most of Ifrik, instead of just a little place, and that since all of southern Ifrik spoke one language, they had thought it must be the same everywhere.
It seemed that Kira’s presence was calming the suspicions of the tall, white spy, for he kept away until she left, and then said he had noticed Mara was not in health, and he had a duty to tell his superiors so. ‘I am perfectly well,’ said Mara. This man, whom she thought was like a worm or the white belly of a lizard, and who she hated touching her, then took her wrist and felt her pulse, put a thin, bony thumb on her neck pulse, bent to look into her mouth and check her teeth, and lifted an eyelid. Mara knew that he was checking on more than her present health. He would report on her physical condition to the superiors in Goidel.