Chapter 5

I re-read her accounting of our meeting the previous night, shaking my head. “It’s a little disconcerting reading your descriptions. I’m supposed to be the writer, you’re supposed to be the subject.” I was sitting comfortably in her hospital room that next morning, waiting for them to move her downstairs.

“You watch me, I watch you,” she replied, a bit distractedly. She sat up, turned a bit to her right, and began scooting to the edge of her bed.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Getting out of bed.”

I restrained myself from offering to help. If she wanted it, she’d ask. There was obviously no point in trying to talk her out of anything.

“These journals,” I asked. “How long have you been keeping them?”

“About 170 years,” she said offhandedly as she turned further to her right, and hooked her leg over the edge.

I laughed. I loved the deadpan way she said things like that. She was clearly a flake, but the most entertaining flake I’d ever met. She flicked a look at me, smiled, and then concentrated again on her leg. I didn’t know where this relationship was going, but there was no doubt that it would be interesting.

“Well, I can already see how parts of the project might be done,” I said. “I think I can use some of your journal entries directly. Not all of them, since you ramble a bit, but I can definitely see how with a little work and careful editing we can lift parts of your journals straight into the book, maybe weave it in with some of our interview transcripts. Could be tricky, but might work. Do you write these every day?”

She scooted some more, grabbed the rail, and put her foot to the ground. She scratched absently at the stump of her left leg.

“You’d know better than I, but that sounds workable,” she said. “And no, not every day, but frequently, whenever something I deem significant happens, or when something’s troubling me.” She was flexing her toes, testing the floor, wincing slightly at its cold temperature.

“They’re remarkably detailed. Do you have an eidetic memory?”

She shook her head. “No. But I’ve got a good one. Writing helps me remember things, keep my thoughts ordered.” She was rocking back and forth sideways, testing her balance.

“So where are the rest of them?” I asked.

Before answering, she startled me by standing straight up on her one leg, facing away from me. I noticed then just how very thin and tiny she seemed. She couldn’t have been much more than 5′3″, which astonished me because she had such a large presence about her. She didn’t seem to care at all that I could see her backside through the open back of the hospital gown. She looked like she had almost no fat at all on her, which looked very unhealthy. With her back to me like that, I could almost believe her missing forearm was simply bent forward out of my vision, but the left leg was still obviously, tragically, almost completely gone.

She then startled me again by leaning backwards like a ballerina and slowly bending her back into a “U” shape. I could hear it crinkle and pop a little, and then she was staring at me upside-down.

She said, “I have some that I wrote some time ago in a steamer trunk. The rest I mostly destroyed. Except for the web site, which I’m still thinking about doing away with.”

“Okay, that’s three questions I have to ask all at once.”

“Go,” she said, straightening up, the back of her head to me again. Her hand was still on to the bedrail.

“Well, why do you write them if you plan to destroy most of them?”

“Because I write them for me, not for anybody else, and I already told you why I write them: to help me organize my thoughts and memories. Once I’ve done it I don’t need them anymore, most of the time. Besides, most of them are trash, just rambles. Some would be dangerous if someone found them.”

She bent at the knee very deeply, almost touching it to the floor, then lost control and spun around, almost losing her grip. She sat there on the floor in an awkward, strained position facing me, her right arm and shoulder twisted severely. I jumped up, but she shot an angry look my way and I stopped. She was shaking a little, trying to pull herself up. Then her eyes relented.

“All right, this is very uncomfortable. I suppose I could use a hand.” She was sweating, and panting hard.

Marveling at her courage, I helped straighten her up and get her back into bed. It was like picking up a bird. She looked a little defeated, but still determined. I sat back down.

“I need a cigarette,” she complained. “When the hell are they coming to move me out of this damned ICU?”

I ignored her complaints. They were a frequent eruption, not unlike Old Faithful. “Okay, steamer trunk?”

“Those were the first journals I ever kept, diaries of my… of my life then. They contain some very precious memories for me.”

“May I see them?” I asked.

She looked at me gravely. “I’ll have to think about that. I know I told you that very little was off limits but… it’s a tender subject. Can I think about that for a little while? It’s very old stuff to you, but still very close to my heart.”

“Okay. Web site?”

“I kept a weblog for about a year. I quit around last Christmas.”

“A what?”

“A weblog. You know, a web-based log? An online journal.”

“Thanks, smarty-pants. I know what a weblog is, I keep one myself. I’m just surprised that you’d keep one.”

“Me too. I’d been thinking for some time that the modern world was going to find me sooner or later, and I wanted to test the waters. I made strenuous efforts to hide my identity, but I decided to give it a try as a way to test people’s reactions to me. The result wasn’t entirely what I expected, or entirely to my liking. But it forced me to start confronting some things in myself, and helped me to make some decisions. Maybe you should read it. I’ll give you the address,” she said.

“Maybe I should at that. You surprise me sometimes, my dear.”

“Yes, I do too. But now, how should we begin my story?”

“Usually the best place is the beginning,” I said.

Then the nurses arrived to take her to her new private room, away from the intrusions of the Intensive Care Unit.

Chapter 6

?[Begin Journal entry]?

The new room has somewhat less of the prison cell about it: television, telephone, private bathroom and a door that can be closed. The nurses have yet to become hostile?I must endeavor to avoid antagonizing them.

He arrives a few moments after the nurse and the orderly depart and I motion for him to close the door. He drags a chair over from the corner and settles in, looking relieved. He disliked the lack of privacy in the ICU nearly as much as I. His desire to begin is written clearly in his face and posture.

“So, I’ve got to ask: How many famous people have you met?”

I stifle my urge to laugh. He is serious regarding the question, but not its purpose. I smile at him.

“Fame is poison to me. I learned long ago to avoid the notorious and the powerful. Particularly the powerful.”

“Really? I would think that you might have some encounters to relate after so many years.”

I sigh, allowing myself to smile a bit condescendingly, then ask, “Can you name for me ten famous goatherds from any period in history? Five? Perhaps one?” He remains silent, but I can see my point is understood. “Have I met people you might find fascinating? Certainly. I met Samuel Clemens at a reception after the conclusion of his second world tour. He was charming. We exchanged a dozen words, no more. I could say the same of perhaps five others you might possibly recognize.”

“Okay, let me try something more specific. Why don’t you tell me what your earliest memory is?”

I pause, and think. It feels almost physically difficult to think so far back, and I close my eyes to concentrate.

“Rape,” I finally say. “And a headache.” As I open my eyes, I see he has gone stiff. He suspects me of being deliberately provocative. But there is nothing to do for it but continue.

“I remember the smell of a wood fire, the feel of rough cloth and fur. My head throbbed with pain and somebody was touching me, an old woman. I was lying with my head in her lap and she was bathing me… She was speaking, but it was gibberish to me… no, it was less than gibberish, I did not really understand that what I was hearing was speech. I didn’t understand anything, not that I was in pain, or that there was smoke, or that the one touching me was old or a woman.

“I was Tabula Rasa. It is hard to remember those early days. I understood nothing. What I remember is a jumble of impressions of events. I remember the chief of the clan, a man whose name was Gtochk.” I pause. This is not exactly a pleasant memory, but not for the reasons he expects. “The second thing I have any clear memory of is him taking me.”

He looks disturbed, and I smile a little. People these days are so easily upset by the underlying realities of life. “They were hunters and they had a small farm going as well. They were actually rather wealthy by the standards of the time. They tolerated me, even though I was little more than an idiot in their eyes. I was healthy, and strong, and that had value. Gtochk in particular enjoyed my company, even after it became clear I was barren.”

“You… can’t have children?” he asks.

“No.”

He looks at me sharply, and his mind begins to churn. I grow annoyed, but I try to keep my smile. “It’s not a source of pain for me,” I say, “and not something that makes me delusional.”

He grins. “Sorry.”

I nod. “As you say, I can’t have children of my own,” I continue, “but I have helped to raise many of them, and they have enriched my life in many ways.” I pause, remembering. “One of them in particular was crucial to helping me realize that I was something more than…. Well, more than chattel.” I pause again, feeling a little sad. “It’s always so hard to leave them, though I’ve found ways to minimize the pain of separation my leaving inevitably causes them. Assuming I could keep them alive long enough, anyway.”

His face grows deeply concerned, and he interrupts me again. “Keep them… alive?” he says.

I stifle an urge to anger, because I can see what he is thinking. He is wondering if I am some sort of monster, and I find it difficult to be patient with this.

“Please do not look at me like I am a deluded psychopath. My God, I would never hurt a child!”

I stop. He looks a bit hurt. I realize that I was starting to rant, and that is not appropriate. “I apologize,” I say. “Please give me a moment to think. This is… a bit more difficult to endure than I thought.” I think some more, and mutter to myself, “Damn it, I need a cigarette.” He smiles at me, and stays silent, but I am still a bit annoyed. “This is not some romantic fantasy I am sharing with you. I just have to remind myself how happily unaware you Americans can be these days. It’s…” I pause again. I must get this right, or I will sound like I am merely berating him. Finally, I think of how I may explain myself better to him.

“Allow me to attempt to put this into perspective for you. I would like you to imagine it is late spring. Morning comes before the sun is above the horizon. Usually the adults rise first; however, in short order the children are up as well. Breakfast, if it exists at all, is simple? bread, fruit or nuts, dried meat if there is any about and perhaps the milk of goats or cows, if you have any. Regardless, it is a quick meal for there is work to do. Always.

“The men head out to their chores, be it in the fields with a plow or other tools, or into the wilds to hunt, or to the shore to fish. Occasionally a few women may go out to help them, but usually not. The men’s work is always some iteration of a backbreaking struggle to wrest the essentials of life from the world around them, and back home, the women and children are just as busy. Any child who can walk and carry is put into service, perhaps to gather fuel such as fallen branches or animal dung, or to help gather fruits or nuts or bugs or small animals to eat. Perhaps to tend to livestock or to whatever garden plot that may exist, if you’re fortunate enough to have either one of those. There is wood to be moved, water to be hauled, feed to be poured, and bread to be baked. There are always things requiring mending: clothes, tools, dwellings, or weapons. Perhaps some of the older men remain behind to handle the heavier work while the women do finer tasks, but all are hard at work long before most modern peoples would have stirred from their beds.

“It is springtime, and the easiest, most pleasant part of your year. Most of your existence is given over to preparing for the coming winter. Food must be stored, and the work of getting that done is absolutely essential for your tribe’s survival. Women are often ingenious, and bend all sorts of knowledge to the task of taking what is in hand today and storing against need for tomorrow, but it is all labor intensive. Drying, smoking, salting?assuming you happen to have salt?mashing, cooking, preserving; depending on what you have on hand, you may have a few options that make your task more effective, but none of them are particularly easy.

“Midday is usually a respite. Perhaps a midday meal, often the only substantial meal you will take that day, is prepared. It depends on the nature of the village or clan whether the men will return to eat, or if they took whatever food they might need with them so as to remain at their own tasks.

“Afternoon progresses and it is time to finish what tasks must be completed before nightfall. There is a constant bustle to get things organized for the evening, see to it that the animals are secured and that none of the children have wandered off, sort through whatever has been gathered, and see that it is properly stored. If the men are hunting or fishing there will be the day’s catch to be properly dealt with, and whatever was gathered fresh for the day must be prepared.

“Evening is the only regular moment of respite, and it is brief by comparison to the day. A meal may be taken. Perhaps it is large if times are good, but more likely simply adequate. Sometimes, in bad times, it will be desperately sparse. As darkness closes in perhaps there will be rituals to whatever spirits your people believe in, perhaps storytelling or singing. The hope is always essentially the same though: “Dear Lord, please keep the monsters at bay.” When it is time for sleep it settles quickly, the reward for a hard day’s work. There may be lovemaking; probably your greatest pleasure if your man is any good at it.

“If you are 15 years or older, you are most likely pregnant, if you haven’t got a child already.” I pause. He grins a little, and I can see he is amused, but catches my meaning, so I go on.

“If you’re lucky, you got pregnant late last summer or during the fall so the child will be born soon. Winter is when most babies die, or are stillborn. The older and stronger the child is when winter comes, the better his chances. Either way, you hope that you will live through the birth. Most of the time you will?only about one in five dies in childbirth, so your odds aren’t too bad. If you’re lucky, your mother or one of her sisters is still around to help you through it. Otherwise you’ll have to depend on friends, which is always dodgy because they’ve got problems of their own, and the men are virtually useless at least until the child can walk. The best men are kind and supportive, but they still can’t do much besides offer you emotional support; you’re needed to feed the child, and can’t be running around helping them hunt or pull a plow.

“If your man breaks an arm or a leg and survives, he is likely to be crippled for life and dependent on other men to help provide for you. If he dies from a fall, or an infection he gets from a wound or is attacked by an animal, you now must look to his brothers to help provide for you, if he has any. Or you must again look to friends, and hope you have good ones. You might have to be traded off to another clan if no one has the means to take you in.

“If you are strong, and lucky, you will probably birth six to nine children before you die, with only one or two stillborn, and only one or two that die before they’re old enough to mate. Again, if you are lucky, you will live long enough to see grandchildren, and spend your last days helping your daughters cope. You will hope none of them die in childbirth, although if you have two or three daughters you know there’s a good chance that will happen to at least one of them.”

I pause again. He looks at me soberly. Good.

“You must understand something: Death in these days is a constant companion. Throughout the years babies are born, and babies are buried. Children can die of many things?hunger, cold, infection, the occasional animal attack or war, or sometimes from mysterious ailments no one understands, for there is no modern medicine. Many do not reach puberty. Those who do fare only slightly better. Once past puberty life is often just a span of thirty years or so. Hard living breaks bodies, and a man or woman of thirty would seem far older to modern eyes. In a relative sense they are older, really, as most are facing the end of their days by 45 or so if something does not cut them down sooner. Some live far longer, of course, but this is quite rare, and those few who do reach astonishing spans such as 50, 60, or 70 are generally revered for they are so rare and so wise. Burying the dead is a regular part of life and death is not so much a specter as an accepted fate, surcease to the struggle of carrying on from day to day.

“Of course, random events can break up the rhythms of life, forcing people out of their accustomed routines. Such random events might be a war, an earthquake, a fire, or an occasional celebration.

“Life was not all toil and drudgery, but the vast balance was. That made the bright spots that much the better, while placing the darkness in some kind of proper perspective.”

To my surprise, I find myself feeling a bit sentimental. I squash the urge, for it is a pointless self-indulgence. He is looking at me now, quite seriously.

He finds his voice, and says, “Okay. I get it. But, um, didn’t you just say that you couldn’t…?”

“No, I couldn’t. So in my case a poor harvest in the fall would mean I was probably not there come spring. When times became particularly hard it usually meant I was on my way out, either driven away or sold for whatever value I might bring.” I smile a little sourly, remembering things I have not thought about in a very long time. “In fact, when I’d find myself in a new clan, I’d usually have trouble with the women, since they saw me as a stranger and a rival. Once they knew I couldn’t have children, they often didn’t trust me around their own. In their eyes I was often just competition for their men’s affections and a draw on their resources. Sometimes I’d try to help the men with their tasks, sometimes the women, but it usually took a while to be accepted, and sometimes I simply wasn’t.”

I stop then, and suddenly feel a wave of exhaustion. This surprises me slightly, but I have been surprising myself quite a bit these last few days. “I do believe I have just fairly thoroughly described most of the first thousand years of my life.” I laugh a bit at myself.

He watches me with narrowed eyes, thinking. I am not sure what else to say to him at the moment. Finally, he stands and stretches before saying, “Well, okay. I guess I’d like to think about this a little bit, and maybe get some lunch.”

“Certainly,” I hesitate a moment, but there is no harm in asking. “I know I told you I would not ask you to shop for me, but…”

“Cigarettes, right?” He grins at me. “What’s your preferred poison?”

“Camels, please. Filtered, I suppose. Oh, and a lighter. I have some cash here in my purse…” I say, reaching for it.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll be back in an hour or so, if that’s okay?”

I nod and he departs. I review what we have discussed, and now more memories begin flashing through my mind. The orderly finds me staring into space as he delivers my lunch tray. I barely remember to thank him, and as I begin eating I will my mind out of the past for now, and confront my current issues yet again.

It is the circumstance more than anything else that sets me so on edge. I could bemoan my fate, but to what purpose? It is bad enough to rail against the doctors and nurses whose only offense is to believe their years of training and experience render them competent to care for me. Self-pity would constitute an obscenity beyond description.

After finishing the ridiculous hospital lunch, I reach over and pry open the case Mitch has had refilled for me. I try not to let the hospital staff see me eat from it, although they know about it. After eating my fill, I feel much better. I then look around the room; I hate being immobilized like this. I spot a wheelchair, and manage to hook it with my foot to bring it closer.

It is simple enough to master once I understand I can lock the wheels so they roll together, and I make my way out to the lounge. I spot a four-footed metal cane sitting in the hallway outside, and snatch it. When I reach the lounge, I find that using it for balance I can do a fair job of hopping across the room. I stare out the window, contemplating, and I must confess to a certain grim amusement at the expressions I elicit when some unsuspecting nurse or doctor comes into the lounge and encounters me.

Dr. Omar wishes he had kept me in the ICU despite the near mutiny of the nurses, an amusing confluence of interests as they had been more eager to see me gone than had I to be gone. But even here, in this more relaxed ward, they insist on treating me as if I might at any moment collapse like the proverbial house of cards.

For so long I dreaded the revelation of my nature, that I might find myself the victim of some nefarious plot to deprive me of freedom and make of me a laboratory specimen. Fate being a fickle and perverse bitch I should have understood I would face something far more insidious: simple disbelief. Never mind a suite full of trauma surgeons had seen my spleen and large sections of my bowel removed, my pelvis fractured, ribs broken, lung punctured, skull fractured and all the other myriad insults to the human form that are the aftermath of such events; nay, let that be set aside for there must have been a mistake. How else to explain that I am up and about a mere six days after awakening? It is an affected response, of course, but no less irritating for that.

The ends of my severed limbs ache. I find the stump of my leg itches more each day, and I scratch at it a bit. Events are unfolding that I cannot long hope to conceal. For three days now I have been feasting, the diet of combat rations giving way to an array of cheeses and sweet meats and wine. And mineral supplements, an endless river of them. Mitch was more helpful in that regard, and the hospital staff more pliant, once I managed not to die as a result of the first box of rations. I feel delightful if one is willing to forgive the missing limbs, or my uncomfortable thinness. But I know what is coming and I wish to be quit of this place before it becomes too apparent. I would avoid all the poking and prodding and expressions of incredulity. Let them chew on what they have.

A friendly laugh barks out behind me. “You really are insane, aren’t you?”

I turn to find him grinning at me, and at the scandalized young woman who has been so desperate not to stare at me for the past ten minutes. I give him my best smile.

“No, just a sideshow freak: Stumpette, The One Legged Ballerina.” I turn on my one foot for him and he laughs.

“Man, you’re something.” He pulls my chair from where I left it against the wall and wheels it over, gesturing for me to sit.

“Did you manage to pick up…?” but I know he has for I can smell it.

“Sure thing. Want to take a stroll outside?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

He wheels me by the nurses’ station, and they merely nod at us as we pass. I snatch a blanket off a cart just before we reach the elevator and after a pair of minutes we are outside in the cool sunshine of midday. He wheels me over to one of the low tables set on the patio and digs inside his jacket, producing a new pack of Camels, which he graciously unwraps for me. I fish out a cigarette and take the proffered lighter, drawing hot smoke deep into my lungs, the flavor of it coursing through me as I exhale slowly through my mouth and nose.

Life is good once more.

“Nasty habit,” he says.

“Quite.” I fix my eyes upon his and smile. He is watching the cigarette smoke curling about me with a mixture of longing and dread?a reformed smoker. Fortunately the light breeze spares him. “I take it you have questions?”

“Yeah, but first…” he looks about a little uncomfortably, as we are not alone, but I sink into the chair, snuggling a bit from the cold, though the hospital has a nice windbreak with heat lamps set up for those who insist on smoking. I am intent upon enjoying my first real pleasure since this entire farce began, and I do not much care at the moment what others might think.

Looking a bit uncomfortable, he continues. “I need you to know that I like to think I’m doing the job you hired me to do, but I don’t take joy in dredging up uncomfortable issues for you. I need you to let me know any time you think we need to stop.”

“When I told you I wouldn’t lie to you or hide things, it was for my benefit not yours. There is little in my deep past that causes me undue pain, but much of it involves events I have not thought about for a very long time. If I occasionally become distraught, please simply indulge me and know that the responsibility is not yours. You are not an intruder here.”

“Okay, I’ve been thinking about what you told me. I get the basic idea, but most people would have a hard time dismissing ten centuries so quickly.”

“I wouldn’t. But I suppose you’re right.”

“So what we should try to do is talk about anything important that happened to you.”

I smile. “I’m not sure that’s a question. I also confess that I am not sure what to tell you exactly. I suppose that’s one reason I hired you.”

He chuckles again. “All right then, I’d like to learn more about the first people you were with. You really had no memory before these hunters and farmers and the chief you spoke of? You couldn’t even speak?”

“I remember nothing before it. I learned to speak, but slowly, and I was never certain I was being told the truth about where I came from. Supposedly I was captured in a raid on a band of wanderers, and perhaps struck on the head. It made sense then, but now… how can I know? In any case I was not the creature you see before you.” I pause, remembering. “I am a very different person now.”

He waits, watching me.

“It’s hard to remember the first few years at all,” I continue after taking a few more drags on my cigarette. This is much nicer with nicotine to soothe the jagged edges. “There were castes within the clan. There was the chief and his woman, and their children at the top, and their mates joined those. There was no hard and fast rule about the woman joining the man’s clan; it was simply worked out informally when the match was made. So there were men in the clan who were not blood relatives of the chief and they formed somewhat of a second tier of power beneath the core family.

“Under that were the… the…” I grasp for the word, and finally remember it. “Orjan. That was the term we used. They called us orjan, meaning, well…” I think about it. “Captives who were outside the clan but among them. We were slaves, more or less, but not in the formal sense that you might think of it. But we had no mates, no family connections, and were kept and protected because we had value of some sort.”

I stab out my cigarette and fish out another as he looks on. I light it and spend a moment or two simply enjoying it before I continue.

“At the bottom of them, there was me. The stupid, strange one.”

He frowns a bit, and says, “But you said earlier that the chief…”

“He liked me, yes. That didn’t count for much though, and I’m certain that by rights they should have simply turned me out. But I was very healthy. I had all my teeth?quite unusual. I doubt I could ever tolerate visiting a dentist. The act of having my teeth examined has so many negative connotations… Anyhow, they had goats and dogs and I was allowed to sleep with them. In the winter they tolerated me in the lodge house, most of the time. It was easier if there was an unattached man available, but even then they could be quite dismissive of me.”

“So the chief, he enjoyed… he took advantage of your presence, but he wouldn’t let you stay with the family?”

“It wasn’t so much him, as the women. I was strange. Wrong in the head. And I couldn’t have babies of my own. They didn’t like me near their men and they didn’t trust me near their children. They would argue with Gtochk about me sometimes, but he found me amusing, and occasionally enjoyable, and was stubborn about it.”

I sigh a bit. Talking of this is more difficult than I had imagined. It is not the memories themselves, for they have no power to harm me. It is the simple act of speaking them aloud to this man that unnerves me, and reminds me of how very weak I was then.

“So you said there were celebrations occasionally?” he asks, prodding me onward.

“Oh yes. Those could be very good times. You’d spent most of your life looking at the same people, the same places, and a gathering meant seeing new people. Maybe some matches were made and there were new faces, or maybe somebody you despise leaves, which is almost better. But there could be problems, too.” I look at him, waiting for him to ask, but he is just watching me. He is becoming good at that. Still, my patience far outstrips his.

Finally he shifts and asks, “So, how long were you with these folks?”

“I’m not sure. The chief was dark haired when I first showed up, and rather gray when I left. Ten years? Perhaps fifteen.”

“What made you decide to leave?”

I laugh. “I didn’t decide to leave. They got rid of me.”

“Why?”

I light another cigarette, taking my time about it. I know how this looks to him, as if I am stalling, but perhaps I am for I find myself feeling a little unsettled. Although compared to so much else this seems rather trivial, I do not like this memory. Still, I made a promise.

“We were at a gathering, actually. My clan and two others. It was late in the spring. There were a lot of people there. There was this girl, perhaps seventeen, and she had a baby with her, maybe two months old. I noticed her because she was complaining about carrying him around and she kept putting him down. She would leave him under a tree in the shade, or by a tent, something like that. Never for long, but she was doing that all day.

“When we were getting ready to leave for home that day I was carrying two baskets loaded with cloth the women had traded for. I went to fetch them, and there he was, all bundled up and sound asleep on top of one of my baskets.

“I didn’t even think about it. I just drew the cover over the basket, picked it up, and we were off down the road. I couldn’t believe it was that simple. I wanted to be like the other women… to be treated like the other women. I was so happy… I just had no idea what I had done.

“Maybe an hour or two down the road he started crying. I tried to quiet him, but everybody noticed. The women went berserk, beating me with their fists, kicking me, demanding to know where I’d gotten him. The men were quieter, but a lot more worried, and Gtochk’s face was ashen. He would not look at me. This kind of thing could lead to a war between the clans.

“The oldest son and his mate took me and the baby and we headed back to the meeting ground. We ran into five men and the girl from the other clan not far down the trail. They’d been chasing us, and they were in a pretty ugly mood. The son explained what had happened and told them they could have me if they wanted, but they weren’t interested. They just took the baby and went home.”

He looks at me with a bit of consternation. “I guess you got off pretty light, huh?”

“Perhaps,” I sigh, and I take out another cigarette, lighting it from the stub of the one before. “We caught up to our clan where they’d set up camp for the night. I was stripped and tied to a tree, and the son beat me with a leather strap until I was too exhausted to scream anymore.”

His eyes widen, and I smile at him gently. “It was a long time ago,” I say, “and I’ve been through worse. Don’t feel troubled. But anyway, they left me tied there for the night. The next morning they cut me loose and let me get dressed, but they wouldn’t let me eat or go near anyone. That night, they bound me again, though I was spared another beating.

“I got lucky. A family from one of the cattle herd clans happened by eventually, and one of the youngest sons took a liking to me at first sight. They traded me for a knife and a cured hide, which I suppose was a fairly high price. Of course they never mentioned I was barren, so I started off there on a pretty sour note, once the truth came out.”

He watches me silently for a long time, waiting to see if I am truly finished. I emphasize the point by putting out my cigarette and not lighting another.

“So in all the time you were there, there was never a clue as to where you’d really come from? Just that you thought they took you in a raid.”

“Yes. I never saw my old clan again, and the herders really didn’t care. For that matter I didn’t care until much, much later. No one had any reason to care. I couldn’t have children and as such was less than nothing.”

He looks uncomfortable. “I don’t understand why that is so important. I guess it was a very sexist time, huh? Women weren’t valued unless…?” his voice trailed off.

“I’m not sure I’d put it that way, no. Life is rarely so simple, and it’s not as if men had easier lives in general. What you need to understand, I suppose, is that being unable to have a child simply put me in an awkward position. In small clans and tribes, even if a man takes you as his woman he will usually be done with you when he realizes you won’t be giving him children. I had no siblings, no parents; so, no mate meant no connection to any family. No connection to family meant I was expendable. So as a rule, for a very long time, I was simply sport and labor. Still, it was a life.”

“A very hard life.”

“For everyone. I’m cold. Let’s go back inside.”

?[End Journal entry]?

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Methuselah’s Daughter, A Novel

Posted on April 5th, 2007 by Zsallia
Filed under: The Novel