Mara and Dann

  There was nothing to be done. The soldiers stood immediately above the boat and barked orders at Han, in their language, which Han translated. ‘They are going to take the young women and the young men.’ Meanwhile, the six guards, strong men, three of them young, not much more than boys, like Dann, stood just behind Han, and for a moment did not know what to do. Then Dann hurled himself forward as the soldiers jumped down to grab the nearest young woman. The other guards joined him, while Han shouted, ‘No, don’t, stupid idiots…’ But there was already a noisy fight on that side of the boat, and other passengers were joining in. Han was knocked down, and disappeared among scuffling, kicking, stamping feet. Her money bags scattered. Mara did not know she was going to do it, but she dived forward, snatched one up, and had returned to her place, so fast, so skilfully, it was as if she had been in a different time, for just a moment – only a second, two, and yet she had time to plan her move, which bag to choose, and how to slide back unnoticed while the bag went into her sack. She was amazed at herself. Now knives were flashing and she heard again the sickening sound of wood hitting bones, hitting flesh. There appeared on the bank a man, a soldier, who was clearly in command, for he shouted orders in that alien language, and then in Mahondi, ‘Stop it, at once.’ The soldiers at once stood back, and then so did the guards. Han, bruised, hurt, crawled on hands and knees to the front of the boat and crouched there, her head in her arms. This new man was a Mahondi. At the first sight of him Mara knew that he was, and the others were not. He was very like the men she remembered from her childhood, and like the Mahondis of Chelops. He was tall. He was strong and broad, because he was a soldier. His face – but at the moment he was angry, and frightening. An order. The soldiers went to the young women, tied their wrists, and lifted them up over the edge of the boat on to the bank. Four young women. When they came to Mara she said, in Mahondi, looking at the commander, ‘There is no need to tie me.’ And she went to the edge and jumped up herself. The three youngest of the guards, including Dann, and four other young men were tied and put up on the bank. Han was still crouching against the side, her arms over her head. The other passengers began poling the boat along, not looking at the soldiers on the bank. Then Mara said to the commander, ‘Quick, take that,’ – pointing to the broken sun trap from the other boat that Dann had rescued. An order. A soldier jumped down and back, with the sun trap. A dull square of tin, on a broken stem, no more than something to be kicked on to the nearest rubbish heap. The commander looked enquiringly at Mara, and she said, ‘It could be valuable.’

  An order. And the soldier who had rescued it put it on his shoulder, holding it by the stalk. He gave a cry, and dropped the trap. Mara took it up and put it in her sack.

  ‘If you say so,’ said the commander and his look at Mara was – but she could not read it. He was not angry now. She thought him sympathetic.

  The company of soldiers and captives stood waiting, while the commander looked them over. The young men were sullen, the girls softly crying. They were standing with the canal behind them, where the boat was creeping slowly along between the banks, and from where now came angry voices, laments, and people wailing the names of the young people who had been kidnapped. Around them was the same savannah they had been travelling through, day after day: the dry, dull grasses of the end of the rainy season, low aromatic bushes, the occasional thorny tree.

  An order. The soldiers divided into two groups, one with the men, one with the women captives. Mara was watching, when the commander said to her, ‘You too.’ And Mara fell in with the women.

  They were walking westwards. Soon some ruins appeared, of stone. Then, later, more ruins, recent ones, of wooden houses where fire had left blackened beams and posts. They walked for about two hours, at an easy pace, the commander coming along behind. When Mara turned to look, she caught him looking at her. They came to a group of low brick buildings, and beyond, more ruins. On a great expanse of red dust some soldiers were marching. The commander gave an order. The soldiers with the young men went off, with Dann, who turned to give Mara such a wild, despairing look that she took a step forward, on her way to joining him, but the soldiers restrained her. Another order. Mara was pushed out of the group of young women, who were marched off by their escort. She was left standing by herself, still staring after Dann.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said the Commander. ‘Now, come with me.’ He led the way into one of the brick houses, if it was a house. She was in a room that had brick walls, a brick floor, a low ceiling, of reeds. There was a trestle table, and some wooden chairs.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, and sat down himself behind the trestle. ‘I am General Shabis. What is your name?’ He was looking intently at her, and she said carefully, ‘My name is Mara.’

  ‘Good. Now. I know a good deal about you, but not enough. You are from the family in Rustam. You were with the Kin in Chelops. You were in trouble with the Goidels, but they let you go. I shall need to hear about Chelops.’

  ‘How do you know I was there?’

  ‘I have an efficient spy service.’ Then, at her look, ‘But you would be amazed at the different versions I’ve heard of you in Chelops.’

  ‘No, perhaps I wouldn’t be.’

  ‘No. I am going to have to hear your whole story.’

  ‘That will take some time.’

  ‘We have plenty of time. Meanwhile, you would probably like to ask a few questions yourself?’

  ‘Yes. Were you expecting me and Dann to come on that boat?’

  ‘We were expecting you round about now, yes. We always keep an eye on the boats. Well, there aren’t many of them, only one every week or so.’

  ‘And you always kidnap the girls for breeding and the boys for soldiers?’

  ‘Both for soldiers. And believe me, they are better off with us than they would be with the Hennes. At least we educate ours.’

  At this she leaned forward and said, breathless, ‘And me? You’ll teach me?’

  At this he smiled, and then he laughed, and said, ‘Well Mara, you’d think I’d promised you a fine marriage.’

  ‘I want to learn,’ she said.

  ‘What do you want to learn?’

  ‘Everything,’ she said, and he laughed again.

  ‘Very well. But meanwhile, I’m going to tell you about what you’ll find here. You do know, I suppose, that you are in Charad – the country of Charad – and that there are two people here, different from each other – very different: one the Hennes, and the other, the Agre – us. We fight each other. The war has been going on for years. It is a stalemate. I and my opposite number, General Izrak, are trying to make a truce. But they are very difficult people. When you think you’ve agreed on something then – nothing.’

  ‘They’ve probably forgotten,’ said Mara.

  ‘Ah, I see you know them. But first of all – what was that thing you were making such a fuss about on the boat?’

  Mara told him. Then she said, ‘Don’t all the boats have them?’

  ‘No. It’s the first I’ve seen.’

  ‘That boat that is stuck on the sandbank. The one that was attacked. It had one. It’s the one we’ve got.’

  ‘The Hennes did that. And you don’t know how it works?’

  ‘The old woman knew – Han. At least she knew how to make it work. But it looked to me as if she is going to die. She said it was very old. There are hardly any left. One less, now.’ And her eyes filled with tears because she was thinking of the senselessness of it. If Han died then there was a bit of knowledge – gone.

  ‘These things happen,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, they do. And then something is gone for ever.’

  He was affected by her reproach to the extent that he got up, walked about, then made himself sit down.

  ‘I’m sorry. But my soldiers weren’t expecting resistance. There never is. I don’t remember anyone being hurt – badly hurt – before. And it was Dann who began it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mus
tn’t worry about him.’

  ‘I know enough about people who fight – the soldiers will punish Dann because he fought them.’

  ‘No they won’t, because I’ve given orders. And now, begin your story.’

  Mara began at the beginning, with what she remembered of her childhood, her father and mother, her lessons, told him what she knew of the feuds and changes of power, and then how she and Dann were saved. Shabis sat listening, watching her face. She had reached how Dann had come back for her to the Rock Village, when her voice seemed to her to be floating away, and Shabis said, ‘Enough. You must eat.’

  A servant brought food. It was good food. Shabis watched her, while pretending not to, working at something on the trestle – what was it? He was writing, on pieces of fine, soft, white leather. She had not seen anything like that since she was a little girl – and she could not stop looking.

  ‘What’s the matter, don’t you like the food?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m not used to eating so well.’ For this was better and finer than even the Chelops food.

  ‘In the army we get the best of everything.’

  She was thinking that he did not like what he was saying. And did not mind her knowing it. This captor of hers, was he going to be a friend? Was she safe? She did like him. He was what she had been happiest with in her life. He was a fine man, and now that it was not angry, his face was kind and, she was pretty sure, to be trusted. Probably Dann would look something like Shabis, when he was older.

  When she had eaten, the servant took her into a room where she washed and used a lavatory unlike any she had seen. It had a lever which sent water rushing through channels below. She thought, Well, first of all you have to have water.

  On an impulse she took off the old slave’s robe she had been wearing day after day for weeks, and put on the top and trousers Meryx had given her. It smelled of him, and she had to fight down homesickness. When she went back Shabis said, ‘You look like a soldier.’

  She told him this is what the men of Chelops wore.

  ‘Do you have a dress?’

  ‘It didn’t seem the right thing, a dress.’

  ‘No. You’re right.’

  He studied her. ‘Do you always wear your hair like that?’

  Her hair was now long enough to be held behind her head in a leather clasp. Like his: his hair was the length of hers and in a clasp. And like poor Dann’s. Black, straight, shining hair, all three of them. Long-fingered hands. Long, quick feet. And the deep, dark Mahondi eyes.

  She began her tale again. When she reached the Kin in Chelops he kept stopping her, wanting more detail, about how they lived; how they managed to keep some kind of independence, although slaves, about the Hadrons, and then, the drought. She knew he had got the essential point when he asked, ‘And you think they can’t see their situation because they’ve lived too comfortably for too long?’

  ‘Perhaps not everyone who lives comfortably is so blind?’

  ‘I can hardly remember what peace was like. I was very young when the war began – fifteen. Then I was in the army. But before the war it was a good life. Perhaps we too were blind? I don’t know.’

  She went on. There was another break, when the servant brought in a drink made of milk, and bread, about the time the sun went down. She was thinking about Dann, afraid he would try to run away – or fight, or despair.

  She dared to plead, ‘I am so worried about Dann.’

  ‘Don’t be. He’s going to have special training. He would make a good officer.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s my job to know.’

  ‘Because he is a Mahondi?’

  ‘Partly. But you do know there are very few of us left now? The real Mahondis?’

  ‘How should I know? I know nothing. I have been taught nothing. I don’t know how to read or write.’

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll decide what you are to learn. And I’ve already ordered someone to come and teach you Charad. It is spoken all over northern Ifrik. It is the one language everyone speaks.’

  ‘Until today I never thought about people speaking different languages. I’ve always heard Mahondi…but I never had to think about it.’

  ‘Once everyone did speak Mahondi, all over Ifrik. That was when we ruled Ifrik. It was the only language. But then Charad came into the North. Now everyone speaks Charad and a few still speak Mahondi.’

  ‘I’ll never forget how frightened I was when I heard people talking but I didn’t understand what they said.’

  ‘You’ll understand it soon. Now go on with your story.’

  But she did not finish that night, because he wanted to know about everyone she had met in the River Towns: the inns and the innkeepers; how people looked, how they talked, what they ate; about Goidel and the easy style of that government. She hesitated before telling him about the gaol, the two women, and what they did for her, but suspected that he knew something already. And so she did tell him, and even how hurt she felt because Meryx did not know. She could see from his face that he was sorry for her and, which she liked as much, that he was sorry for Meryx.

  ‘That’s very hard,’ he said. ‘It really is. Poor man.’ Then he hesitated, but said, ‘You didn’t know there had been an uprising in Chelops?’

  ‘No.’ And her heart sank, thinking first of Meryx, then of the new babies.

  ‘There was a boat through here a week ago. The stories of travellers are not necessarily reliable, but it is clear that there was an uprising. And that is about it.’

  ‘Who rose up?’

  ‘They said, slaves.’

  ‘Well it can’t be the Kin, so it must have been the ordinary slaves.’

  ‘Can you remember the names of the people you met in the River Towns?’

  But it was no good, she was thinking of Chelops. And so he told her to go to bed and they would start again in the morning.

  She stumbled into bed and was asleep without seeing the room she was shown; and when she opened her eyes in the morning she thought she was back on the hill near the Rock Village, looking at the pictures cut into the walls, or painted on the plaster. Then she thought, But these are different people, very different. They are tall and thin and built light, not at all like the ones she had been studying all her childhood. And the animals – yes, here were the water dragons again, and the lizards, but also all kinds of animals she had never seen. The carving was fine and precise, though the stone was so old all the edges of the carving had blunted. Once the rock carver must have used knives so delicate and fine that nothing like that was known now, and he – she? – had held in their minds images of what they carved as bright and clear as life; and those lines and shapes had travelled down into long, thin, agile fingers – here those hands and fingers were, on the rock face – on to the rock face. You could see the muscles on a leg, long clever eyes, the nails on hands and feet. Once these pictures had been tinted. There were tiny smears of pigment, red, green, yellow…There was a sound in the room behind her and she had whirled around, was across the room, and standing over the servant from last night, who was just about to slide the bag of coins she had snatched yesterday into his pocket. Mara brought down the side of her hand hard on his wrist and he dropped the bag and howled. He began to plead and gibber in Charad, while he smiled and fawned. In her own language, he knew only the words ‘sorry,’ ‘please’ and ‘princess.’ ‘Get out,’ she said, in Mahondi.

  He ran out holding his wrist and whimpering.

  She sat on the edge of the narrow board bed she had slept on, under a single thin cover. It was hot, but not the wet heat of the River Towns. This was a large room. The lower parts of the wall were very old, with the incised pictures on them; and above these, though irregularly, for ruins do not make for evenness, the walls continued up to a roof of reeds. The upper walls were of mud mixed with straw. The floor, from the past, was of coloured, shining, tiny stones, set in patterns. Between the lower walls and the floor, and what rose up above them – how many years? Th
ousands? Those old people, what would they have said to these lumpy, crude, upper walls where tiny shreds of straw glinted? Ruined cities. Cities of all kinds. What was it, why was it, this law that beautiful cities had to fall into ruins? Well, she knew one answer, because she had seen what had happened to the Rock Village: drought. But was it always drought? On the walls of old ruins, on the beams of the fallen buildings she had seen coming here were marks of fire. But fires swept across a country year after year, and the people protected their homes. If they did not keep a watch day and night through the dry season, then fire could consume everything in the time it took for a strong wind to change direction. But people did keep watch. So fires could be too strong, or people too lazy? Drought. Fires. Water? That was not something easy to imagine.