About Sisterland (21 page)

Sistercentral stood on a hill overlooking the city. By a quirk of design, it was visible to Harmony but Harmony was not visible to it. Scientists had worked with architects to position massive optical crystals at either end of Sistercentral’s perimeters – bending the light, so that the city vanished from view. This illusion allowed the building’s occupants to believe Sistercentral stood independent of the urban sprawl surrounding it. And nobody seemed to think that odd.

Constance walked up a sloping path, through grounds decorated with statues. Her favourite was a tightrope walker, except beneath the woman’s feet lay nothing. The tightrope existed only in her mind. Belief allowed her to walk in mid-air.

Constance tried not to feel intimidated as she walked through the entrance, beneath lettering chiselled into stone:

SISTERLAND PRIZES OBEDIENCE

Scrutineers in Sistercentral livery, a tortoiseshell-patterned one-piece, stopped her in the doorway. She explained that she had urgent business with the Shaper Mother, who was meeting the Nine. Inscrutable, they told her she was not listed on their scanner, and could not be admitted.

“My permission was only just uploaded from Shaperhaus – perhaps it isn’t showing yet,” she said.

Courteous, they agreed this was a possibility, but she was obliged to wait while they investigated. Voice recognition compared her voice with a sample on record, and they allowed her into the foyer. Constance sat on a marble bench, breathing in the twilight scent of foxgloves, and observed the arrivals and departures. People looked important, or abstracted, or solemn. Nobody, however, looked happy.

Fifteen minutes passed, and Constance was beginning to think her bluff had been called by Patience. She was no pushover. But it had been important to Constance to try. She wanted to be there in person, explaining Honour’s words on her behalf – it was essential that the memory-keeper’s final message for Sisterland was understood.

“Those torches are something else,” a passing comment sang out.

Overhearing it, Constance grasped why she felt so strongly about Honour’s interchange. The memory-keeper had passed the torch to her.

Unable to settle, she walked about the circular foyer. As her heels tapped over the tiles, she realised they were shaped into the image of a gigantic, babyfused woman – hands resting on the orb of her belly. The child inside was also depicted, not side-on, but facing out: eyes open, challenging.

“You like our mosaic?” A scrutineer had noticed Constance studying it.

“It’s striking. I was in Sistercentral once before, but never noticed it.”

“You don’t, when there’s a lot of footfall. Its proper title is
The Coming
. But we call it
Lemme Out
. Impatient-looking gal, if you ask me.”

“Is the baby meant to be anyone in particular?”

“Beloved, of course. She’s the baby.”

Constance looked again. Of course – her identity was signalled by a pearlised coating overlaying the mosaic.

“She commissioned it before she discontinued,” the scrutineer went on. “Approved the design, but didn’t live to see it carried out.”

“Your authorisation has come through, sister.” Another scrutineer broke in on their conversation.

“Thank you,” said Constance, relieved. “Where can I find the Shaper Mother?”

“Eighth floor, turn right, then it’s first on the left. Running Woman conference room.”

“Running woman?”

The scrutineer mimed slow-motion running.

No wiser, Constance set off. Everything was built deliberately on a mammoth scale. The steps were high, straining her hams to climb them, and the corridors stretched apparently endlessly into the distance, echoing to the sound of purposeful footsteps. This was not a building designed to encourage loitering. Every door was marked with a stick woman, the sort Constance used to draw in girlplace. Each was engaged in a different activity: sleeping, kneeling, digging, dancing, sleeping. Constance kept walking until she found herself outside a door on which a stick woman was running. She rapped, and out peeked Modesty’s head with its shiny black ponytail stub.

“Patience messaged to say you were on your way,” said Modesty. “Come in, the mother’s waiting for your interchange.”

The Shaper Mother sat beside a rotund metal object from which heat was emanating. The room looked like somebody’s parlour from PS times. A hand-knotted striped rug lay on the floor, while the mother sat in a floral-printed armchair with a high back and a matching footstool, on which she rested feet shod in midnight-blue velvet shoes with silver stitching. A midnight shawl, also edged in silver, was draped round her shoulders, covering her tunic. Armchairs were distributed about the room, each with its accompanying footstool.

Constance was nonplussed by the surroundings – there wasn’t even a table at which delegates could sit to conduct discussions.

“Welcome, sweet child. How do you like our pot-bellied stove? There’s one in every conference room. Lends snugness. Come and enjoy the comfort for yourself.”

Constance approached, the mother’s scent enveloping her. She must dose herself in it at regular intervals.

“You don’t like my perfume? Never mind. Though how anyone could object to bergamot and lemongrass is beyond me. Now, put your hand on the stove – careful, mind. See how cosy it feels? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every oneser and twoser in Sisterland had one? But they take up space, unfortunately.”

“I have my report ready for you, mother.”

“I commend your initiative. Such a shame about  Honour 
discontinuing last night. But at least she interchanged with you first. I hope she didn’t waste time talking about that poet she associated you with. I’ve never understood poets. Such impractical creatures.” The Shaper Mother flexed her long fingers. Hers were graceful hands, but no longer young, and the fingers cracked in the stretch. “So, was Honour still lucid?”

“Her memory was clear. She spoke with love, and in detail, about her childhood. The bakery wasn’t just a business to her, but a home. She talked about her parents, too – especially her father. I believe they had a particular bond.”

The mother’s tawny eyes flared. “Upload your interchange.” She extended an arm displaying the sig on her inner wrist.

Constance tapped a code onto her own sig, before repeating the sequence of numbers on the mother’s. She touched her sig to the mother’s, they flashed and locked together.

During the transfer, Constance could feel Honour’s essence in the room with them. The memory-keeper’s image shimmered before her.

“You may wait outside.”

At the sound of the voice, Constance’s chin jolted off her chest – she must have nodded off. How unlike herself the Shaper Mother sounded. There was an odd note in her voice – you might almost call it wounded. She was cradling her head in her hands, face hidden.

Outside in the corridor, Constance walked up and down, l
ooking at the pictograms, until Modesty summoned her inside.

“You’ve certainly rattled the mother.” She waved her sig. “Your interchange is in here. I’m taking it to the Nine.”

“You can do an interchange?”

“Not exactly. This is a carrier interchange – I’m not allowed to absorb it. Just a vehicle, me. Feels like a sizzler, though.”

This time, there was no magnanimous offer to sit by the stove. “Your report has implications. I can only presume that winding down towards discontinuation clouded Honour’s memory, and cluttered her thought processes. Presumably, you arrived at the same conclusion.”

“No, mother.”

Perspiration glistened on the mother’s face. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes, mother.”

“You don’t believe this to be a faulty memory?”

“I believe it to be one of the truest memories ever shared by a memory-keeper.”

The Shaper Mother slid a narrow look over Constance. When she spoke again, her earlier friendliness was back. “You’re babyfused. Sometimes, it can lead to realities becoming scrambled. Let me put my hands on you, sweet child, and see what I can sense.”

Constance did not want this intuitive woman raking over her being, although she could not prevent her if she insisted. “Forgive me, mother, but I’m anxious about any outside disturbance affecting my babyfusion. The defusion risk is particularly high in the early weeks.”

“Very well. We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched. Yours is the most challenging role in Sisterland, but also the most gratifying. Sources bear not just children, but responsibility for the State’s continuation.” The mother’s expression grew remote. “And speaking of the State, memory-keepers serve Sisterland in a particularly important way. You’re privileged to be one of the last people to talk to Honour 19. Let me share a secret with you, Constance. I idolised her as a girl. Her dedication to the cause was inspirational. We’re determined to hold a public memorial service for her. Such women don’t pass this way often. Perhaps the synchronised release of a general moe to mark the occasion will be approved. An N might be appropriate. Nostalgia isn’t as appreciated as it ought to be – sales are low, I’m told. Now, where were we?”

“With Honour, mother.” 

“A memory-keeper who always put Sisterland first. She met our founder, you know: that far-sighted woman who devised the Nine principle of consensual government. When she was a young girl, Honour was taken to hear the great Beloved speak in public. It was the Midsummer Address – I expect you learned it off by heart in girlplace. Yes? Me too. Those words give me goose bumps, still. ‘
Our hands will shape Sisterland. Our vision, our will. Destiny is ours to create.
’ Afterwards, Beloved walked among the crowd. She stopped by Honour and spoke directly to her. ‘Will you play your part, little sister?’ she asked. ‘Can Sisterland count on you?’ It changed Honour’s life. She devoted herself entirely to Sisterland.” 

“Honour said Sisterland had gone terribly wrong. She said we needed to forgive men. And hope that men might forgive us, in their turn.”

“Constance, in fairness to Honour, we ought to set aside one throwaway remark from a sister on the verge of discontinuing. A sister who could have been misunderstood by a trainee co-keeper. She’d never do anything to unravel Sisterland’s legacy. I
expect she was a little muddled.”

Constance broke free of those persuasive eyes. She owed it to Honour to stand her ground. The truth might not be the most solid piece of earth under her feet, but it was the position she chose.

“Truth is never absolute,” said the Shaper Mother, reading her resistance. “You could call it a question of perspective.”

Modesty interrupted – a welcome respite for Constance. “Greetings from the Nine. They request a meeting with the Shaper Mother and her trainee co-keeper. Didn’t sound much like a request to me.”

Instantly, the mother was businesslike. “When?”

“At once.”

Constance gulped. Sisterland’s executive elite – a group she had only glimpsed in the distance at public events – wanted to meet her.

The Shaper Mother unhooked her skin. Her face seemed naked to Constance without its high-gloss coating. “Leave your skin here, Constance. It’s disrespectful to wear it before the Nine.” She pointed to a wooden bowl.

Constance fumbled to unlatch it, all fingers and thumbs. “Why should they want to see me?”

“About Honour 19, I suppose. They won’t like what they learned.”

“That’s hardly my fault!”

The Shaper Mother pursed her lips. “You interchanged that corrosive memory, Constance. It’s yours now. Have you any idea how that contaminates you? The problem is, it contaminates Sisterland, too.” With a sweep of her arm, she threw aside her shawl. Now she stood before Constance and Modesty, her uniform matching theirs. “Let’s see what the Nine says about it.” 

Chapter 18

The Shaper Mother sailed from the room, with Modesty jogging along in her slipstream. On her short legs, Modesty always appeared to move at a trot, her ponytail bouncing. Constance, stunned at being defined as contaminated, brought up the rear. She was led up two levels, into a cavernous space. Even the Tower’s readying room was pokey by comparison. A sunburst chandelier was suspended from the ceiling, rainbows dancing from the tips of its lustres. Constance was dazzled by the glittering ball, and it took her eyes a few moments to adjust.

When they did, she saw white marble everywhere, on the walls as well as the floor. A series of niches were carved into the walls, in each of which stood an icon. Some were painted, some plain. There were statues of the Greek goddess Hera, the Roman goddess Venus, the Hindu goddess Shakti, and more whom Constance didn’t recognise. A rough-hewn, goggle-eyed wooden shape with an exaggerated vulva, to which the figure pointed, caught her attention.

“That’s a Sheela-na-gig,” said Modesty. “Celtic goddess of fertility. She’s several thousand years old. Not a thing of beauty. But a compelling sister, you have to admit.” 

The Shaper Mother put her finger to her lips. Relenting, she murmured, “These figures are conduits: agents for dynamic creative power. They are metaphors for womanhood.”

Sisterhaus attendants, hands folded in front, stood against the walls. At the far corner of the room, a stand held a profusion of lilies.