She ached, burned, to free this world’s women . . . to show them that they were as human as men. In her mind, in the dark hours, she made all the speeches, wrote all the lectures, proved over and over and over again to an audience of shadows what she could never say.
In the daytime, Brun forced herself to walk on the gritty paths, toughening her feet as well as her legs, whenever exercise was permitted. She walked in all weathers, even when frost and snow numbed her to the knees before she was halfway to the first trees. The twins weighed her down—but she thought of them like the heavy packs in training. Additional strength would come from lugging them around . . . she would be stronger sooner, and more able to escape. Twice a day she walked the length of the orchard and back . . . soon she could walk farther, in the lengthening days that must mean a warmer season was coming. She even welcomed the hard work of mopping and cleaning, as she felt herself growing stronger. In the evenings, in her room, she attempted the exercises that had once come so easily. At first she worried that they would notice, and forbid them, but no one commented. Other women too, she discovered, did exercises to tighten their slack bellies, to recover flexibility.
In the darkest times, she practiced the swift movements of unarmed combat . . . only two or three strokes each time, in case of observation, but a little every day. She matched hands and feet against each other, the quietest way she could think to achieve the hardening she needed for a killing stroke.
The showings, where proven breeders were displayed for men who might choose them next time, were less humiliation than she’d expected, and more worrying. In the showings, she did her best to look exhausted, weak, helpless, broken. It wasn’t hard to look tired . . . she pushed herself to shaky exhaustion every day. But she could feel the muscle building on her legs again, in her arms, in her abdomen. Would they believe that came from carrying the babies? From walking in the orchard? From the simple exercises the others did?
But they could not expect what she intended to do with the muscles she built with such effort. Eyes squeezed shut, she reminded herself which basic moves would build the strength and speed she needed for killing.
The other women did not so much avoid her as ignore her. When the babies were wriggling happily on quilts on the floor, they exclaimed over the strength and vigor of her boys as they did over the qualities of their own. The staff gave her directions—which chores to do—in much the same tone as anyone else. The speaking women naturally talked most to each other; the muted women had a private language of gesture, and a public one of broader gestures and elaborate lipspeaking and hisses. The speaking women would include the mutes if one of the muted women made the effort to get their attention. Some even befriended one—for cooperative baby care made friendships useful for both. But Brun could not enter into the lipspeaking of the other muted women. Occasionally, if she were alone with another woman, and faced her directly, she could make herself understood with a combination of gesture and mouthing—if the topic was something obvious. Where is the sewing basket? or What is that? They were willing to show her where things were, or how to do a chore. But she had no topics in common with them, except babies, and she did not care that much about the babies, any of them. They were all—hers and the others’—proof of what she hated. And she knew they saw her as a dangerous person . . . tamed by muting, but potentially a source of soul-killing deviancy. Her lack of interest in the babies was another proof, to them, of her unnatural, immoral upbringing.
The babies were moving from creeping to rocking on their hands and knees when a new mother arrived at the nursery. She was very young, and had a slightly dazed expression. The other women spoke to her in short, simple sentences, a little louder than usual. Brun wondered if she’d been drugged, though she had seen no evidence that women were given drugs. On the third day, she approached Brun. “You’re the yellow-hair from the stars?” She had the usual soft voice, but a little hesitancy in it.
Brun nodded. Up close, she decided that it wasn’t drugs, but some innate problem, that gave the girl that odd expression and halting speech . . . and the social unawareness that let her approach the unapproachable.
“You traveled with another girl—more my size—and two brats?”
Brun nodded again.
“She said you was nice. She liked you. She said.”
Brun looked hard at the girl. She had to be talking about Hazel. Where had she seen Hazel?
“She’s doin’ fine. I just thought you’d like to know.” The girl smiled past Brun’s shoulder, and wandered off, leaving Brun tethered to the twins.
Hazel was all right. A surge of relief swept through her. When that girl had left wherever Hazel was, to go to maternity—or was Hazel in maternity? Brun shook her head; she could not keep track of time. It was hot, or it was cold, daylight or dark; that was all she knew. But Hazel was all right, less time ago than Brun knew for sure. If only she knew where.
Several days passed before the girl sat down beside her again to nurse her baby.
“They call her Patience now,” the girl said. “It’s a good name for her ’cause she never makes trouble. She’s real quiet and works hard. Prima says they’ll be able to marry her as a third wife for sure, maybe even a second, even though she can’t sew good. They been trainin’ her for market girl, and she goes there by herself now.” A wistful note in that soft voice—had this girl wanted to go to market? By now Brun was sure the girl was retarded; no one would let her go out alone for other reasons than the restrictions on women. “But she doesn’t have your yellow hair,” the girl said, staring at it with frank admiration. “And she won’t talk about the stars, ’cause Prima said not to.”
Brun could have strangled her, for having a voice and not saying what Brun really needed to know. She picked up a twin and removed from his mouth the pebble he’d put there. She could not feel any affection for them, but she wasn’t about to let a child—any child—choke to death.
“She don’t look big enough to have babies, though,” the girl said, petting her own child. “And her blood’s not regular yet. The master says—”
“Hush, you!” One of the women in charge came by and tapped the girl on the head. “You’re not here to gossip about what your master says. You want your tongue pulled?”
The girl’s mouth snapped shut, and she clambered out of the chair, holding her baby to her.
The woman shook her head at Brun. “She’s simple, she is. Can’t remember from day to day what the rules are, poor thing. We have to keep an eye on her, so’s she doesn’t get herself in trouble. If she gets in the habit of talking about her master here, even to you, she might do it back at her house and then they’d have to punish her. Best nip it in the bud.” She patted Brun’s head, almost affectionately. “That is pretty hair, though. Might win you a chance at wifing, when you’ve borne your three. Just you give me a nod, if the girl starts talking about men’s doings again, like a good girl, eh?” Brun nodded. As long as they’d let the girl talk to her.
The girl avoided Brun for days. But late one evening, she slipped into Brun’s room.
“She don’t scare me,” she said, clearly untruthfully. “I’m from Ranger Bowie’s house; he’s the only one can mute me. They can’t. And he wouldn’t, long as I don’t argue or nothing. Telling you about Patience isn’t arguing. It’s explaining. Explaining is fine as long as it’s not men.”
Brun smiled, a smile that seemed to crack her face. How long had it been since she last smiled?
“I wish they hadn’t muted you,” the girl said. “I’d sure like to know what it’s like out there . . . Patience, she won’t tell me about it.” She stopped, listening, then crept closer. “I wisht I had your hair,” she said, and put out a hand to stroke it. Then she turned and vanished into the dark corridor.