Mother Lauria leaned forward a little, to emphasize what she was saying.
“Nothing you will learn is of the slightest importance, save for this: you will learn to change the way you think about yourselves, and about other women.”
The difference is in the way you think about yourselves… Magda thought soberly that the Guild Mother was right. Magda herself had grown up to take it for granted that she would earn her own living, had gone to the Empire Intelligence school on Alpha, had been taught to defend herself in both armed and unarmed combat. And in the Terran Zone she had had no special restrictions of dress or language.
Yet I am as much a slave to custom and convention as any village girl in the Kilghard Hills… Was it Lady Rohana who had spoken, once, about women who think themselves free and weight themselves with invisible chains?
Men too suffer in chains of custom and convention; perhaps the woman who most needs freedom is the hidden woman within every man… Magda did not know where the thought had come from; it was not her own, it was as if someone had spoken it clearly within the room, and yet no one was speaking except Mother Lauria; but Magda lost track of what the Guild Mother was saying She blinked, expecting to see again the form of the woman in gray and silver, the evening sky, divine compassion in her eyes… but no, there was no trace of it; her eyes opened on grayness in which strange faces moved, men and women, and before her in the gray waste a tall white tower gleamed… an emmasca, a woman who had been subjected to the neutering operation. “What am I then, a banshee?”
Before the angry look in the older woman’s eyes, Magda said meekly, “I don’t know; I thought—I had been told—that a neuter, an emmasca, was made so because she refused to think of herself as a woman.”
Camilla reached for Magda’s hand and gave it a little squeeze. Her voice was still stern, admonishing, but she gave Magda a secret smile as she said, “Why, that is true; I began by refusing to accept myself as a woman. Womanhood had been made so hideous to me, so hateful, that I was willing to accept mutilation rather than see myself as a female. Some day, perhaps, you will know why. But that is not important now. What is important is that here, in the Guild House, I learned to think of myself as a woman, and to be proud of it—to rejoice in my womanhood, even though—even though there is, in this emmasca body of mine, very little that is female.”
She was still holding Magda’s hand. Self-consciously, the younger woman drew it away. Camilla turned to Doria and asked “What do you think is the difference between men and women?”
Doria said defiantly, very determined not to be caught out again, “I say there is no difference at all!”
This answer provoked a perfect storm of jeers and laughter, with a few obscene remarks, about the politest of which was “When did you father your first child, Doria?”
“You just said the physical difference wasn’t important.” protested Doria, “Camilla cut Margali to pieces for saying the difference was a physical one, and if the physical one makes no difference—‘’
Quickly a voice—a man’s or woman’s, Magda could not tell—said, “There is an intruder; someone has strayed here, perhaps in a dream! Lock your barriers!”
And suddenly the grayness was gone, and Camilla snapped, “Margali, have you gone to sleep here among us? I asked you a question!‘’
Magda blinked, in disorientation, wondering if she was going mad. She said “I am sorry; my mind was—was wandering.” It was indeed, she thought, but wandering where? “I am afraid I did not hear what you asked me, oath-sister.”
“What, do you think, is the most important difference between men and women?”
Magda did not know whether Keitha or Doria had answered this question; she had no idea how long her mind had been drifting in the gray wasteland. The faces she had seen there, the image of the woman who must, she realized, be a thought form of the Goddess Avarra, were still half-lingering in her mind. She said, trying to gather her scattered thoughts, “I think it is only a woman’s body that makes the difference.” This was the enlightened Terran answer, and Magda was quite sure that it was the right one; that the only difference was the limited physical one. “Women are subject to pregnancy and menstruation, they are somewhat smaller and slighter as a general rule, they do not suffer so much from cold, their—” she stopped, it was doubtful if they would understand what she meant if she said their center of gravity was lower. “Their bodies are different, and that is the main difference.”
“Rubbish,” Camilla said harshly. She made a gesture indicating her spare, sexless body, arms muscled like a man’s.
“I never said—nor did Camilla say—that the difference was not important,” said Mother Lauria, “and it would take someone far more stupid than you, to believe that there is no difference. The difference is there, and not insignificant. Keitha, have you any idea?”
Keitha said slowly, “Maybe the difference is in the way they think. The way they—and we—are taught to think. Men think of women as property, and women think—” she frowned, and said as if discovering something, “I don’t know what women think. I don’t even know what I think.”
Mother Lauria smiled. She said, “You have come very close to it. Perhaps the most important difference between men and women is in the way society thinks about them; the different things that are expected of them. But there is no really right answer, Keitha. You, and Margali and Doria too, you have all said a part of the truth.” Stiffly she rose to her feet. “I think it is enough for tonight. And I heard the bell in the hall telling us that the Sisterhood have finished. I told the girls in the kitchen to bring us some cakes and something to drink. But let us go into the Music Room for that—it is getting a little chilly in here.”
A little chilly—that struck Magda as a masterpiece of understatement; her own fingers were blue with cold, and she felt that the cold of the stone floor seeped up through her legs and buttocks, even through the thick mat. Hugging the blanket round her, she rose and went after the others.
She was hungry after the supper she had not been able to eat; the cakes were short and crisp, decorated with nuts and dried fruit, and she ate several of them hungrily, and drank a huge mug of the hot spiced cider they had brought for those women who did not drink wine. Her mind was still full of the discussion; a form, she knew, of simple therapy, forcing people to think, to protest, to break up old habits of thought. But she hoped all the sessions would not be like this. She felt intensely uncomfortable, her mind still picking over the questions and the many answers that had been given. Why had she chosen to be an Amazon? What is the difference between men and women? She was still testing and re-formulating answers, things she might have said, and that, she supposed, was the reason for the discussion. She heard one of the women say to another “It’s an intelligent group,” and the listener reply skeptically, “I’m not so sure of that.”
“Oh, they’ll learn,” the first replied, “We did.”
Doria’s eyes were still red when Magda joined her. “I certainly made a fool of myself, didn’t I?”
“Oh, that’s what they intended you to feel,” Magda said lightly. “Cheer up, you didn’t sound any sillier than I did.”
“But I grew up here, I should have known better,” said Doria, threatening to dissolve into tears again. One of the younger girls—Magda recognized her as one of Doria’s roommates— came and wound her arms around Doria, saying comforting things to her, and led her away. Magda raised her eyes and found Keitha looking at her with a faint ironic smile.
“Trial by fire,” Keitha murmured, “Do you think we survived, fellow victim?”
Magda laughed. “Considering that their whole objective was to put us on the defensive, I think so,” she said. “It’s likely to get worse before it gets better.”
“Are all the sessions like that, I wonder?” Keitha asked aloud, and a woman who had not been present at the session— she had been introduced to Magda as Mansela, the house midwife and healer—came up and smiled at them both. S
he said “No, of course not; the next session I will conduct, at which time I will instruct you all in the female mysteries, supposing that some of you may have had mothers who were too shy to speak of such things to their daughters.”
“At least I will not be so completely ignorant at that,” Keitha said, “I have delivered children on my husband’s estates, and I was thought to have some skill as a midwife.”
“Oh indeed?” said Marisela, interested. She was a pretty woman, dressed, not in the Amazon boots and breeches, but in ordinary women’s clothes, a tartan skirt and shawl, over a full-sleeved tunic and bodice. “Then there will be no question of teaching you a trade; perhaps they will send you to Arilinn Guild House when your half-year is finished, to learn the midwife’s art and some of the special skills which the women in the Towers have taught us. If you have even a trace of laran, it will be very welcome. What about you, Margali? Have you any of the skills of a healer or midwife?”
“None,” confessed Magda. “I can bind a wound on the trail, or bandage a cut or scratch, but nothing more.” But as Marisela drew Keitha away, and the two sat down to talk together, Magda thought of the word she had used. Laran, the Darkovan term embracing telepathy, clairvoyance, and all the psychic arts. Rohana had tested her, during the winter she spent at Ardais, and told her that she herself had some trace of it.
Was that how she had come to see the curious visions she had seen? Had she been, unwittingly, spying on the meeting of the Sisterhood, with the laran she did not really understand and did not know how to control? It seemed, for a moment, that around Marisela’s slender shoulders she could almost see the gray mantle of Avarra… she wrenched her thoughts back to the music room and began inspecting some of the instruments. Some were familiar; her mother, who had spent her life studying Darkovan folk music, had played several of them. She recognized some rryls, both a small hand-held one and another tall one played standing before it; they were something like harps. Other instruments she would have classified as lutes, dulcimers and guitars, though there were no reed or brass instruments visible. There were a few others so alien she could not even imagine how they would be played.
“Do you play an instrument, Margali?” Rafaella asked, almost in a friendly way.
“I am sorry; I did not inherit even a little of my mother’s gift for music,” she said. “I love to listen, but I have no talent.”
The couple who had been embracing under the blanket in the armory were snuggled together in a corner now, the taller girl leaning on her friend’s shoulder, the other’s hand just barely touching her breast. Magda turned her eyes away, feeling uncomfortable. In public, like this? Well, it was, after all, their home, and they were young, not more than sixteen or so. Caresses as simple as this, exchanged in public by young people—if they had been boy and girl, instead of two young girls—would not have turned an eyebrow in the Terran Zone. Suddenly, with intense loneliness, she wished she were there.
She wondered if Jaelle were wishing the same thing. Everything that seems so strange to me here, she thought, is dear and familiar to her. She wondered if Jaelle felt equally alienated from everything she knew.
“Are you feeling homesick, Margali?” asked Camilla, behind her, and put her arm around Margali’s waist.
“A little, maybe,” Magda said.
“Don’t be angry with me for speaking to you so roughly, oath-sister; it is part of the training, to make you think.” She followed Magda’s eyes to the girls embracing in the corner.
“Thank the Goddess for that! Janetta has been moping so since Gwennis left, I was beginning to be afraid she would throw herself out the window! At least, now, she seems to be comforted.”
Magda did not know what to say. Fortunately, before she had to answer, Doria grabbed her elbow.
“Come and help me take the cups back to the kitchen, Margali, and put away the cakes that are left over. Irmelin is sulking because we did not eat them all up—do you want another one?”
Magda laughed and took another of the crisp little cookies. She helped Doria and Keitha gather up plates and cups, brush crumbs from the table and throw them into the fireplace. Rafaella was running her hands over the surface of the large rryl and Byrna called out “Sing for us, Rafi! We haven’t had music for a long time!”
“Not tonight,” Rafaella said. “I am too hoarse, after eating all those cakes! Another time; and besides, it is late, and I have to work tomorrow!” She covered the harp and went out of the room. Doria and Magda took the rest of the cups to the kitchen, and turned up the stairs. Just ahead of them, she saw Janetta and her friend, still clinging to one another, so mutually absorbed that they stumbled on the stairs and had to steady each other. Byrna behind Magda, sighed, watching them go off, arms still round one another, toward their room.
“Heigh-ho; there are two who will not sleep alone tonight,” she said as the door closed behind them, “I almost envy them.” Another deep sigh as she clasped her hands over the weight of her child. “What a she-donkey I am—what would I do with a lover now if I had one? I am so tired of this—
With a clumsy impulse to comfort, Magda hugged her. “But you’re not really alone, you have your baby—
“I’m just so tired, I want it to be over,” said Byrna, and her voice caught in a sob, “I can’t stand dragging around like this any longer—
“There, there, don’t cry—it won’t be long now,” Magda said, patting her shoulder gently. She led the sobbing woman to her own room, helped her off with her shoes—for Byrna was now so clumsy in the waist that she could not reach her feet— helped her into her nightgown and tucked her into bed. She kissed her on the forehead, but did not know what to say. Finally she said, “It can’t be good for your baby, to cry like this. Think of how good you’ll feel when it is all over,” and as she looked up, she saw Marisela on the doorstep.
“How are you feeling, Byrna? No signs yet?” she asked, and Magda, feeling superfluous, went away. Some of the women were still clustered in the hall; they exchanged goodnights, and went toward their own rooms, but Camilla lingered a moment.
“Are you lonely, oath-sister?” she asked gently, in an undertone. “Would you come tonight and share my bed?”
Magda was stiff with astonishment; for a moment she did not believe what she was hearing. It took an effort not to pull away from Camilla’s hand. She reminded herself that she was in a strange place and it was for her to adapt to their customs, not the other way round, Camilla had certainly meant no offense. She tried to turn it off lightly by a laugh.
“No, thank you, I think not ” I’ve had some weird proposals, but this… Camilla’s touch was not unpleasant, but Magda wished she could free herself from it without distressing the other woman or sounding unfriendly.
Camilla murmured “No? But I have not yet been welcomed back among you, oath-sister—” Her fingertips were just lightly touching Magda, but Magda was very aware of the touch and it embarrassed her. She was aware that some of the women still in the hallway were looking at them; but she was anxious to keep from offending Camilla, who had done nothing offensive by her own codes. She tried gently to free herself from the other’s touch and murmured very softly “I am not a lover of women, Camilla. But I thank you and I am glad to be your friend.”
The other woman laughed, unoffended. “Is that all?” she said, and, smiling, released Magda. “I thought you might be lonely, that is all; and we are oath-bound, and there is no other close to you in this house, with Jaelle away from us.” She leaned forward and kissed Magda gently. “We are all lonely and unhappy when first we come here, however glad we are not to be where we were before. It will pass, breda.” She used the intimate inflection, which could make the word mean darling or beloved, and that embarrassed Magda more than the kiss. “Good night; sleep well, my dear.”
Alone in her own bed, she thought about the evening. She knew intellectually that the raising of unanswered, and unanswerable questions, the deliberate arousing of emotions never fully faced,
was taking its toll. She could not sleep, but lay awake, restlessly going over and over the questions and the many answers in her mind. Doria’s tears, the two young girls embracing, Byrna’s outburst, Camilla’s kiss on her lips—all spun together in fatigued, almost feverish images. What was she doing here among all these women? She was a free woman, a Terran, a trained agent, she need not wrestle with all these questions so important to the women enslaved by Darkover’s barbarian society.
Invisible chains. … it was as if a voice had whispered it in her mind. Where was Jaelle now? Lying in Peter’s arms, in the Terran Zone. Mother Lauria had asked if she would find it too difficult to live without a lover. No, that was not what she wanted…
And then, abruptly, the image of the Goddess Avarra drifted before her eyes again, her compassionate face, her hands outstretched as if to touch Magda’s. Through all the unanswered questions and the turmoil in her heart, Magda suddenly felt a great peace and contentment washing outward through her mind.
She slept, still pondering; what is the difference between man and woman? What makes a Comhi-letziis? She slept, and in her dream she knew the answer, but when she woke she had forgotten it again.
* * *
CHAPTER SIX
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Yes, certainly, you could pass within the Dry Towns as a native,” Jaelle said, studying the face of the tall, thin man before her, his beaked nose, high forehead, the shock of silver-gilt hair above it, “Fair hair is not common in the Domains, but most Dry-Towners are light-haired and pale-skinned. Your main problem would be the—the interlocking of customs and family relationships. You would have to have a very good story to cover what you were doing; it would be safer to pose as a man of the Domains, a trader.”