The Gate to Women's Country Read Free Page B

Morgot said she would if she tried. Now she merely took off her boiled wool mittens and dabbled her fingers in the water, pretending there were fishes in the fountain. The water came from high up in the mountains where the snow lay deep almost all year long, and there were fishes up there, people said. The hatchers were putting more of them in every year. Trout-fishes. And some other kind Stavia couldn’t remember.
    â€œThere could be fishes,” she told Beneda.
    â€œThere are fishes in the big marsh, too,” said Beneda. “Teacher Linda told me.”
    â€œVain hope,” sniffed Sylvia, overhearing her. “They’ve been telling us there are fishes in the marsh for twenty years now, but nobody’s caught any. Still too contaminated.”
    â€œIt might take several more decades before they’ve multiplied enough to be harvestable,” Morgot said. “But there are some new things living there. When I was by there last, I saw a crawfish.”
    â€œA crawfish!”
    â€œI’m pretty sure it was a crawfish. I’ve seen them in some of the other marshes. With armor on the outside. With lots of legs and two bigger claws in front?”
    â€œA crawfish,” Sylvia marveled. “My grandmother used to tell me a funny story about one of her grandmother line eating crawfishes.”
    â€œThe thing I saw didn’t look good to eat,” Morgot remarked, making a face. “Very hard on the outside, it was.”
    â€œI think the meat’s inside.”
    Deliberately, Morgot rinsed the cup from the overflow spout and set it down. The fountain attendant came forward politely to take it, replacing it with a clean one. “Condolences, matron.”
    â€œThank you, servitor. We can always hope, can’t we?”
    â€œCertainly one can, matron. I will pray to the Lady for your son.” The man turned away and busied himself with his cups. He was very old, perhaps seventy or more, a grandsir with white hair and a little tuft of beard. He winked at Stavia, and she smiled at him. Stavia liked grandsirs. They had interesting stories to tell about garrison country and warrior sagas and how the warriors lived.
    â€œBest get along,” said Morgot, looking at the sun. The dial above the fountain said almost noon. She picked Jerby up once more.
    â€œI want to walk!” he announced, struggling in her arms. “I’m not a baby.”
    â€œOf course you aren’t,” she said lamely, putting him down once more. “You’re a big boy going to join his warrior father.”
    His thickly clad little form led them down the long hill and into the ceremonial plaza. Once there, Morgot knelt to wipe Jerby’s face with a handkerchief and set the ear-flaps of his hat straight. She gave Myra a look, then Stavia. “Stavia, don’t disgrace me,” she said.
    Stavia shivered. It felt as though Morgot had slapped her, even though she knew that wasn’t what her mother meant. Disgrace Mother? On an occasion like this? Of course not! Never! She wouldn’t be able to stand the shame of doing something like that. She reached down inside herself and gave herself a shake, waking up that other part of her, making it come forward to take over—that other Stavia who could remember lines and get up on stage without dying of embarrassment. Real Stavia, observer Stavia, who was often embarrassed and stuttery and worried about appearing wicked or stupid, watched the whole thing as from a shocked dream state, feeling it all, but not making a single move. It was the first time she could remember purposely making her everyday self step aside, though it had happened occasionally before, in emergencies, all by itself.
    â€œMorgot! What an unkind thing to say to the child!” Sylvia objected. “Even now!”
    â€œStavia knows what I mean,” Morgot replied. “She knows I want no tantrums.”
    Observer Stavia reflected gloomily that