Even so, the kind lady agreed.
I do not hurt for amusement now, though, Finister protested. I hurt for revenge — revenge for myself, or for other people who have been injured by the strong.
Then you do know the rightness of the law.
I do not recognize the rightness of any law! Laws are tools of government, tools of the strong to oppress the weak!
There is no law that cannot be twisted against its original purpose, the kind lady agreed, no law that the powerful cannot corrupt to misuse — but that corruption can be purged, the twists unwound. Without the law, everyone is a victim sooner or later. If we defend the law, it will protect the weak more often than not.
A dozen answers sprang to mind but somehow none seemed adequate, for the kind lady was presenting ideas Fin-ister had not heard before. She wondered how Mama and Papa had missed this thought.
Unwilling to argue when she suddenly doubted all the old answers, she asked instead, Are you my mother?
Not the mother who bore you, no, the kind lady answered, only your guardian while we search your life for this little while, search for the hurts that were done you.
Why should we do that? Finister demanded, though she knew she had little choice—she recognized power when she saw it and could tell this woman had it, had far more power than she did.
Suddenly she saw the point of her law.
We must right the wrongs that were done you, the kind lady said, insofar as we may.
How can we do that?
Simply by seeing them with an adult's eyes and judging them with an adult's knowledge, the kind lady answered, and the tableau before them suddenly blurred into a whorl of colors, whirling, then steadying to show Finister herself, little Finny at seven, telling Mama how the big girls had pulled her hair and pinched her—without using their hands, of course. Mama, looking sad, uncovered Finny's guilt and lectured her on the need for taking orders from the big girls.
"The older you grow, the more people you can order," Papa agreed.
"I give orders to Rhea, and Rhea gives orders to Orma. Orma gives orders to Umi, Umi gives orders to Agnes, and so on down the line," Mama told her. "Any of them can give orders to you and I expect you to obey them. Do you understand?"
"Yes'm," Finny muttered, still tracing circles with her toe. Inside, a rebellious voice shouted, it's not fair!
But the kind lady was watching and said, You are Chief Agent now. Do you still find it unfair?
Fair or not, it is the way of the world, Finny said bitterly. It is better to be the one who gives orders than to be the ones who have to take them.
Then you found nothing wrong with the system, only with your place in it?
Oh, I saw fault enough! Finny retorted. Wouldn't it be wonderful if no one had to take orders from anyone! But if they did, nothing would ever be done — there would be no way to coordinate groups.
It is government, the kind lady said.
Of course it is. Finny smiled, secure in her knowledge— the kind lady obviously wasn't the omniscient being she pretended to be. I have known this paradox for a long time, that only by government within SPITE will we manage to destroy the government of Gramarye. But when we have done that, SPITE's government will wither away.
Then Papa was patting her shoulder and saying, "Don't worry, little one. When you grow big, you can give orders, too. For a year, you'll even be the oldest girl in the house and able to give orders to any of the other girls!"
Do you truly think SPITE s chain of command will wither away? the kind lady asked. Before you answer, tell me — do you still work to abolish government because you believe it to be right and admire your leaders, or because you wish to please Mama?
Before Finny could answer, the scene dissolved into a whirlpool of colors again. When it steadied, she was little Finny once more, stringing beans and trying to do it exactly as Uma had said—but it was Mama sitting beside her, not Uma, Mama smiling and saying, 'That's very good, Finny. Break them up into sections an inch long, now. . . . No, you don't need to measure them, just make them about an inch— that one won't make three, so just break it in half. Yes, very good."
But that wasn't how it happened! Finny cried inside. It was Uma, not Mama, and she found a dozen faults with the way I was doing it! Then Mama came and told me Uma was right, that I was doing it wrong!
No more, the kind lady's voice said. The past may be set in stone, but your view of it is not. Were you doing the task as well as an eight-year-old could?
Well, yes, but that still wasn't anywhere nearly as well as a fifteen-year-old could. Finny stopped, amazed at her own words. Then anger began to grow, anger at Uma for her faultfinding and at Mama for hers.
A dozen vignettes of memory followed—washing dishes, darning a sock, practice stitches on a sampler, her first effort at baking tea cakes, tending the four-year-old, and every time, Mama or one of the older girls scolded or criticized or corrected. Finally Finny cried inside, Enough! I can't do it perfectly, you know! I'm only human — and only a child!
Then she waited, quaking, for Mama's severe scowl, Mama's tongue-lashing, Mama's anger.. ..
Instead, the kind lady's voice said, True. You were only a child — and only human. They should have applauded your accomplishments, then told you the largest ways in which you could improve.
But would I ever have learned to do things right?
Over the years? Yes. Of course you would have.
Then the vignettes happened again, only this time Mama supervised Finny herself and only encouraged, then gave advice to better her work. Little Finny glowed with the approval, felt happiness flowering within her, even though she knew this wasn't what had really happened. Still, she knew it was what should have happened, knew that she was a far better person than she had believed at the time, and that was what mattered.
Then the rainbow whirled her away again and she was sitting in the schoolroom, listening to Mama talk about all the horrible things the King and Queen did, such as taking people's money and making laws to keep them from doing what they wanted and starting wars. She told them about SPITE, even though Finister was sure the two lessons had been a year or more apart—SPITE, the selfless and virtuous organization that spanned all the colonized planets and all of civilized time trying to save the people from the tyranny of VETO.
Then the kind lady was there, asking, Do you still believe the anarchists of SPITE are virtuous and selfless?
Finny thought of her superiors in the organization whom she had originally admired but who had ordered her to warm their beds, then of the luxuries each had acquired, even the sumptuous quarters of the Chief Agent, of the mission on which she had been assigned to steal some famous paintings from a castle, famous paintings that were not sold but stayed in the house of one of the senior officers. . . . No. Then, before the lady could say anything else. But I most certainly do not believe that the totalitarian or royalists are any better!
Nor do I, the kind lady agreed. When ideals wane, self-interest rises. Let me show you pages from books you have not been allowed to see.
There they were, peasants struggling to guide plows through black earth. Their feet were bound in rags, their tunics were of rough cloth frequently patched, their plows clumsy, heavy constructs of timber and cast iron, their oxen fat and muscular but the people scrawny and malnourished. Their growth was stunted, their faces haggard with weariness, the sores of vitamin deficiencies abundant on their skin.
Finister felt vindication—this was how the peasants lived under the Kings!