A Cup of Normal (19 page)

“Is this where the lord lives, Favor?” the man asks as we approach our house.

“No. We live here. The menders,” I say.

We walk past the house and I have to slow because the man has turned to better see it. I wait, and wish he would ask me another question so that I can hear his voice, so that I can tell him more of what I know, of all the things I have learned. So I can learn in turn, from him.

He glances at me. “Menders.” It is not a question, so I do not answer. We begin walking again. It is only a short while before the hill rises enough and the estate comes into view. White and smooth, with roofs made of glittering copper, jade and gold, it is beautiful.

“Ah,” he exhales. “The lord’s house.”

And even though it is not a question, I speak. “Yes. The lord has lived here for hundreds of years.”

“The same lord?” His surprise sends a thrill through my body. He does not have this knowledge. I trip over my thoughts in my haste to give it to him.

“No. There are many lords. Each a son of a son of the first lord. All have lived in this estate. Menders have served them all.”

“And how have the menders served?”

My thrill at speaking to him chills into fear. We are not to speak of our work. Not to speak of the thread, the spinning, the fabric. Not to speak of the babies in the cocoons.

“We do as he asks,” I finally say.

“I see,” the man says. He does not say more, and I fight with fear and hope that he will.

Finally, we are at the door to the estate. It is much like the gate, and I know how to open it, and do so, the smooth metal latch fitting easily in my hand, the door swinging inward at the lightest touch.

We step into the estate. It is cool here, and clever lights tucked away in hollows of the wall, give the illusion of warmth. I do not walk farther than the entry hall, but the man steps past me, over to the curtains that hang at the large windows to our right. He holds the silver box near the curtain, pressing a button upon it, and I feel a strange tingle tighten my belly. It is as if another mender is touching me, whispering my name, asking to know me. Then the sensation is gone and the man gently rubs the edge of the curtain between his fingers. He lets the curtain drop, and looks over at the rug that stretches from the doorway to the end of the hallway.

“Lovely,” he says.

I look at the rug and agree. The colors variegate from deep orange to pale peach. It is like a sunset spilled upon the floor.

The man kneels with his back toward me and holds his box to the rug. The tingle comes over me again, stronger, and I cannot help but take a step toward him, toward the call from the box in his hand. Then the tingle is gone, and I am left confused. The man runs his fingers over the rug’s fine, but common, fibers.

“Ah,” he says, and I can feel his disappointment.

As he stands, I hear two sets of footsteps approaching. For a moment, I pray it is Bind. Bind who will touch me, who will share in my knowing. I fasten my gaze on my feet, fold my hands. The lord and Work walk into the room.

“Favor,” the lord says in his soft, lilting voice. “What have you done?”

It is a question. I am compelled to answer. “This is a traveler who asked if there were food and shelter. He walked through the south gate. I brought him here.” At each word I wait for the lord to strike. The silence in the room is so heavy, it hurts. I wonder if this is what Bind endures in the cell.

“A traveler,” the lord says. “Where do you hail from?”

The man steps up, and holds his hand out in a curious manner. I can not resist looking, watching as his hand and the lord’s hand meet. The world feels folded wrong again. In all my years, in all the lords I have served, I have never seen them touch or be touched.

I dart a look to Work, who stands stolidly behind the lord. Work gives me a steady, flat gaze, and I wonder how he can not show his shock at the event.

“Jonathan Alceste, my lord. It is an honor to finally meet one of the esteemed Ceive family,” the man, Jonathan, says.

“Why are you in my private estate, Mr. Alceste?”

“I beg your indulgence.” He bows his head. “I come with what may be of great news to you.”

“I do not care to hear news from a stranger.”

“Please, Lord Ceive. If you would give me even one night. I have traveled the deep forest for three weeks on foot. The nearest navigable waterway was more than the research craft could endure, even with the technology at the Interplanetary Historical Institution’s disposal.”

“Enough.” The lord’s voice is quiet, cold as night.

The man silences. Work and I wait, though I can barely contain these new words: research, technology, institution, interplanetary. I can only taste the barest hint of what they may mean, and they seem familiar to me, like a pattern in fabric I once knew, long ago. The need for more of these words is overpowering. I lean toward the man to touch him.

Work’s eyes flash in warning, and I fight my need, staying my hand.

“Work,” the lord says, “take Favor to where she belongs. Finish the task I have set you to. Mr. Alceste,” he says with obvious anger, “follow me silently.”

As is the way, we obey the words of the lord. But the other words, the words from Jonathan the stranger are gestating inside me. I ache to know their meaning. My fingers rub and rub again against the pattern of my own palm that I know too well. I walk behind Work, and see the anger in his back. It is only once we reach the door to the house that Work speaks.

“Drink, Favor. You will need your strength.” It is all he says before he walks away, off to the east, toward the holding house where fabric is stored before it is shipped into the world.

I duck into the house and am struck with the smallness of it, the salted mulberry scent of it, the darkness, the sameness.

Follow and Spin are where I left them. They are too consumed by the rhythms of their tasks to look up. I walk through the wooden blinds and fill a cup with salty water and boiled mulberry leaves from the kettle that rests above the small fire pit in our sleeping chamber. I drink slowly, refill my cup and refill it again, thinking I will never fill myself.

I set the cup on the floor and walk to my cot, my belly distended with the weight of the water. I lie down, and though I do not want to sleep, the water and mulberry lull me and I doze.

Follow’s voice wakes me: “Put him here, Work. We will need the space to mend.”

I am up from my cot and moving across the floor. Vaguely, I realize it is now dark outside and our lanterns have been lit to ease the blackness within the house.

Something is wrong. Work is here, here at night, when he should be at the estate tending the lord. Then I see who Work is laying gently on the wooden floor: Bind.

I walk over and kneel beside him, my lover, my mate. Bind is thin, all his color drained. His long hair, once smooth and gold as birthing thread, is tangled and ripped twine. The wetness from the wounds in his scalp pours down his thin face. His eyes are open, but I know he can not see me.

“Where was he, Work?” I ask. Follow, always sensible, is pouring more water into the kettle, brewing the restorative mulberry leaf.

Work shifts his weight. He is uncomfortable with my question. I look up at him.

“Tell me you did not do this,” I say.

Even in the low light I can see the anger that colors his face. “If you knew, Favor, what I have done. What I do every night so that this —” he points at Bind’s stilled form, “— would never happen, you would not accuse me so.”

Work’s anger, so strong in the room, clears my thoughts. “Was he in the cell?”

Work nods. “Keep him here, Favor. Mend him. If you want him to stay alive, don’t let him out of this house until that which you have seen is gone. The lord told me it will be gone in the morning.” Work pauses. “There is much I must do tonight.” He walks out the door, and across the yard to the estate and the night duties I have never understood.

I cradle Bind’s head in my lap and gently brush my fingertips through his hair, over his scalp, his face, his eyes and lips. I have no honey and blessings for him. But I don’t need either for a mending. The threads of me flow from my fingertips, healing his wounds. It is a slow, dream-like process. I mend while Follow helps Bind sip, then drink the water. I know Spin is there too, touching Bind to give him comfort, safety, and the knowing of us beside him. We can learn of his pain, absorb the knowledge of it, but we do not. It is the one privacy we can give to each other. We alone choose who to share our pain with.

Bind shifts his feet, moves his fingers, then his arms. He rolls his head to one side and blinks. When he looks up at me, I know he can see me again.

“Favor?”

“Who else?” I smile. Between Follow, Spin, and I, we help Bind to his feet and then to the bed chambers. We bring him to my cot so that I can lay with him and further heal his wounds.

Bind says nothing during this. He allows us to take him where we will, as if we are his lords and he our mender.

The other women go to their cots and I lay on my side next to Bind. My cot is narrow and we rest, pressed body to body, against each other.

He looks at my face for a long, long moment, and his hand slides down to my flat belly. He does not ask of the baby. He does not have to. This close, just Bind and I, there is nothing I can hide.

“What have you seen, Favor?” he asks, his voice soft and safe. “What have you known that has brought a change in you?”

“There is a stranger. Jonathan. A man. Tall, thin, old. His voice —” I pause, remembering. I touch Bind’s lips with my own and feel Bind fill with the knowledge of my experience. He wraps his arms around me, holds me closer. And in exchange for my knowledge, I share his pain.

It is this way between us, between mates. We join for babies, but I do not want to carry another child so soon. Bind pulls the knowledge from me in a sweet rising desire and I do not want to turn him away. We share the stranger’s words, his voice, the wild taste of freedom, the certain knowledge of something beyond our gate. Something we both want. A world. Freedom.

Bind stays tangled with me, and I with him. Thread by thread, I feel the chrysalis of the child begin within me, sweet as honey and blessings. This child, I do not want to lose. This child I want to keep safe from the lord’s needs.

It is not yet morning when Bind whispers, “I will find the man. Speak with him. Perhaps he will take us. Both of us,” his hand slips down to my belly and the child who grows there, “all of us, away.”

“I will go with you.”

He looks surprised at this, his brown eyes wide. “You do not understand, Favor —”

“What do I not understand? Pain? I have birthed a thousand babies, and never seen one live. I understand pain. Do you think I can not feel your wild hope? The wanting to run through the gates and never stop?” I touch his face gently even though I am still angry. “We will find the stranger. We will ask for knowledge together.”

Bind leans into the soothing touch of my hand and I realize how tired he is, how thin. He does not have enough strength even to fight me.

We rise, silently. Favor and Spin open their eyes and watch us walk from the room. They do not care where we are going, do not ask, though the fear of our decision is so thick on the air, they can not ignore what we are planning. I hear them turn in their cots, feel them draw their awareness away.

We step outside the house.

“Where are you going in the night?” Work’s voice is so close, I jump and press my hands over my belly.

Work shifts his weight, and behind him I see the tall pale form of the stranger. “Favor, Bind,” Jonathan says, “come with Work and me. Quickly, before dawn.”

“Work?” I ask. I do not understand. The world is folding again, turning inside out. Where is the lord? Why is Work not tending him?

Bind backs away, his hand on my arm, ready to run. But where can we run? What gate is left open for menders?

I tug out of Bind’s hold and walk up to Work. “Explain this to me.” I stretch my fingers toward his lips. “Let me know.”

Work’s eyes narrow and his hard features flush with guilt. “You do not want to know it all, Favor.”

“I have lived it all. Let me touch you Work, or I will go to the lord and let him decide my actions tonight.” Even that small declaration of my own will is as frightening as when the gate swung open. But I stand strong.

Work looks over my shoulder at Bind. I do not look back, do not want to see if my mate agrees with my choice.

Finally, Work nods.

I lean toward Work and press my fingers against his lips. I ease closer to him, slowly. My fingers slide down to his chest. The images Work carries, his knowledge, is so foreign I wonder that I did not sense it in him before. Work trembles at my touch. I lean fully against him, my lips pressing against his so that we can know, can experience each other’s knowledge.

I see a strange room that can only be within the estate, feel Work’s fear of it, then his hunger to understand it. In the room are words, recorded words. More words than I can understand, concepts that leave me dizzy. Of planets, of technology. First contact.

Work tries to pull away from me when I cross that concept, and I dig my fingers deeper into him, needing to know and drawing the knowledge from him with my lips.

First contact. Interspecies integration. Cultural impact. The creations were simple, safe. Blankets. Blankets woven of threads that held information. Threads programmed to adapt, to self-repair, to absorb a culture and send that information back to the givers.

Hundreds of years ago, just blankets. Hundreds of years ago, contact was lost. But the threads adapted, absorbed the new culture, and became more than just blankets. The threads became us.

I pull away from Work so quickly it hurts.

“How long have you known?” My voice is rough.

Work rubs his hand over his face, as if trying to ease what he too has seen from me, the birthing again and again of babies, the pots, the fires.

“Years. I did not understand. None of it made sense. The historian was the missing piece.”

Historian. I now know what Jonathan is.