Earthborn (Homecoming) (30 page)

“It’s true,” Luet affirmed.

Edhadeya launched into a reminiscence, her voice soft and sweet with memory. “She left our house as soon as Father freed all the slaves of long service. I wasn’t surprised she went. She told me that she dreamed of having a house of her own. Though I had hoped she’d stay with us as a free employee. She was good to me. She was my friend, really, more than a servant. I wish she hadn’t left me.”

Shedemei’s voice sounded like the cawing of a crow when she answered. “She didn’t leave, Edhadeya. The queen discharged her. Too old. Useless. And a cheapening influence on you.”

“Never!”

“Oh, Voozhum remembered the words. Memorized them on the spot.”

Edhadeya refused to be misconstrued. “I meant she was never a bad influence on me! She taught me. To see beyond myself, to—I don’t know all she taught me. It’s too deep inside my heart.”

Shedemei’s expression softened, and she took Edhadeya’s hand—to Edhadeya’s momentary startlement, since strangers were supposed to ask permission before touching any part of a royal child’s person. “I’m glad you know how to value her,” said Shedemei.

“And I’m glad to see she’s here,” said Edhadeya. Chebeya was relieved that Edhadeya, far from protesting at Shedemei’s liberty, merely clasped her own hand over the teacher’s. “In a good house, at the waning
of her life. I hope her duties are light, but still real. She has too much pride not to be earning her own way.”

Shedemei chuckled dryly. “Her duties are light enough, I think. But as real as mine. Since they’re the same as mine.”

Luet gasped, then covered her mouth in astonishment. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Chebeya spoke up, to cover her daughter’s embarrassment. “She’s a teacher, then?”

“Among the earth people,” said Shedemei, “she was always accounted wise, a keeper of the ancient tales. She was quite famous among the slaves. They would have her arbitrate their quarrels and bless their babies and pray for the sick. She had a special fondness for the One-Who-Was-Never-Buried.”

Edhadeya nodded. “Yes, the one you were named after.”

Shedemei seemed amused at this. “Yes, that one. I think you generally refer to her as ‘Zdorab’s wife.’”

“Out of respect,” said Chebeya, “we try to avoid vain repetition of the names of the Original Women.”

“And is it out of respect that the men speak of them this way?” asked Shedemei.

Luet laughed. “No. The men can’t even remember the women’s names.”

“Then it’s unfortunate, isn’t it,” said Shedemei, “that you never mention their names to remind them.”

“We were speaking of Voozhum,” said Edhadeya. “If she teaches your students here half as well as she taught me, then whatever tuition they pay is well rewarded.”

“And do I have your permission to quote the king’s daughter when I advertise the school?” asked Shedemei.

Chebeya wouldn’t stand for this. “None of us have insisted on the traditional respect for our place in society, Shedemei, but your sarcasm would have been insulting to anyone, not just the king’s daughter.”

“Does Edhadeya need you to protect her from a sharp-tongued schoolmaster?” asked Shedemei. “Is that why you came here, to make sure that I had good manners?”

“I’m sorry,” said Edhadeya. “I must have said something that gave you offense. Please forgive me.”

Shedemei looked at her and smiled. “Well, there you are. Apologizing even though you have no idea what you did that caused my temper to flare. That’s what Voozhum teaches. Some say it’s the slave mentality, but she says that the Keeper taught her to speak to all people as if they were her master, and to serve all people as if she were their servant. That way her master could not demand from her anything that she didn’t already give freely to everyone.”

“It sounds to me,” said Chebeya to Edhadeya, “as if your former servant is wise indeed.”

“It is often said, not just in my school but among all the earth people,” said Shedemei, “that the daughter of Motiak was very lucky to have spent her childhood in the company of Voozhum. What most people don’t suppose is that you were wise enough to value her. I’m glad to learn that their assumption about you is wrong.”

Edhadeya smiled and bowed her head at what was obviously this harsh woman’s best effort at peacemaking. “Does she remember me?” asked Edhadeya.

“I don’t know,” said Shedemei. “She doesn’t speak much of her days in captivity, and no one here would be rude enough to ask.”

So much for peacemaking. The words struck Edhadeya like a slap. Chebeya was about to suggest that they had taken enough of Shedemei’s precious time when the schoolmaster said, “Come on, then. Do you want to see the school or not?”

Curiosity won out over offended feelings, especially since Edhadeya seemed none the worse for wear. They followed Shedemei as she pointed out the different classrooms, the library—with an astonishing number of books for a new school—the kitchen, the sleeping
quarters for the girls who boarded there. “Of course, all of Rasa’s girl students were in residence,” said Shedemei. “They were so close they were like family. They called her Aunt Rasa, and she called them her nieces. Her own daughters were treated no differently from the others.”

“Forgive my asking,” said Chebeya, “but where is this sort of detail about Rasa’s house written down?”

Shedemei said nothing, simply led them on to a cell-like bedroom. “Some of my teachers think this is rather an ascetic room; to others, it is the most luxurious place they’ve ever slept. It doesn’t matter—if they work for me and board with me, this is the kind of room they sleep in.”

“Which teacher sleeps in this one?” asked Luet.

“Me,” said Shedemei.

“I must say,” said Chebeya, “that this school could not be more perfectly modeled on my husband’s teachings if he had drawn up the constitutions himself.”

Shedemei smiled coldly. “But he never
has
drawn up constitutions for a girls’ school, has he?”

“No,” said Chebeya, feeling as though she were confessing some horrible crime.

By now they had wound their way through the connected houses until they were on the opposite side of the courtyard, near the place where Voozhum had gone inside. Not surprisingly, they found her teaching in a room on the ground floor.

“Would you like to go in and listen for a little while?” whispered Shedemei.

“Not if it would disturb her,” said Edhadeya.

“She won’t hear you, and her vision’s none too good, either,” said Shedemei. “I doubt she’ll recognize you from the opposite end of the room.”

“Then yes, please.” Edhadeya turned to the others. “You don’t mind, do you?”

They didn’t, and so Shedemei led them in and offered them stools that were no different from the ones the students sat on. Only Voozhum herself had a chair
with a back and arms, which no one could begrudge her, feeble as she was.

She was teaching a group of older girls, though they could hardly be advanced students, since the school itself was so new.

“So Emeezem asked Oykib, ‘What virtue does the Keeper of Earth value most? Is it the tallness of Ancient Ones?’—for that was what they called the middle people when they first returned to Earth—’or is it the wings of the skymeat?’—for that was the terrible name for the sky people that Emeezem had not yet learned she must not use—’or is it the devoted worship we give to the gods?’ Well, what do you think Oykib told her?”

Chebeya listened to several of the girls reject all virtues that only one of the sentient species would possess, and thought, This is no more than mere indoctrination. But then the proposals became more universal and, occasionally, more subtle. Hopefulness. Intelligence. Comprehension of truth. Nobility. Each proposal led to a consideration of the particular virtue, and whether it might be used against the laws of the Keeper. Much of the discussion showed that today was something of an examination; they had discussed these virtues before, had thought about them and argued about them. A criminal might hope to evade punishment. Intelligence can be used to undermine and destroy a virtuous man. Just because someone comprehends the truth doesn’t mean he values it or will uphold it; liars have to comprehend the truth in order to defend their lie. A noble woman might sacrifice all she has in an unworthy cause, if nobility is not accompanied by wisdom.

“Wisdom, then,” said a girl. “For isn’t that the virtue of knowing what the Keeper’s will would be?”

“Is it?” answered Voozhum mildly.

Of course, all this conversation was very loud, partly because Voozhum’s deafness no doubt required it, and partly because the girls had the normal exuberance of youth. Chebeya, though, had never seen such exuberance
used inside a classroom. And while she had seen teachers try to get their students to discuss issues, it had never worked until now. She tried to think why, and then realized—it’s because the girls know that Voozhum does not expect them to guess the answer in her mind, but rather to defend and attack the ideas they themselves bring out. And because she treats their answers with respect. No, she treats
them
with respect, as if their ideas were worthy of consideration.

And they
were
worthy of consideration. More than once Chebeya wanted to speak up and join in, and she could feel Luet and Edhadeya grow restless on either side of her—no doubt for the same reason.

Finally Edhadeya
did
speak up. “Isn’t that the very point that Spokoyro rejected in his dialogue with the Khrugi?”

A deathly silence fell upon the room.

“I’m sorry,” Edhadeya said. “I know I had no right to speak.”

Chebeya looked for Shedemei to say something to ease the awful tension in the room, but the schoolmaster seemed completely content with the situation.

It was Voozhum who spoke up. “It’s not you, child. It’s what you said.”

One of the girls—an earth person, it happened—explained more. “We were waiting for you to tell us the story of . . . of Spokoyro and the Khrugi. We’ve never heard it. They must have been humans. And not ancient ones. And men.”

“Is that forbidden here?” asked Chebeya.

“Not forbidden,” said the girl, looking confused. “It’s just—the school was only started a little while ago, and this is a class in the moral philosophers of the earth people, so . . .”

“I’m sorry,” said Edhadeya. “I spoke in ignorance. My example was irrelevant.”

Voozhum spoke up again, her old voice cracking often, but loud in the way deaf people’s voices often are. “These girls haven’t had a classical education,” she said. “But you have. You are most fortunate, my child.
These girls must make do with such poor offerings as I can give them.”

Edhadeya laughed scornfully, then immediately thought better of it; but it was too late.

“I know that laugh,” said Voozhum.

“I laughed because I knew you were making fun of me,” said Edhadeya. “And besides, I also ‘made do’ with your ‘poor offerings.’ ”

“I understand that my teaching cheapened you,” said Voozhum.

“You never heard that from me. And I never heard it myself until today.”

“I’ve never spoken to you as a free woman,” said Voozhum.

“And I’ve never spoken to you except as an impertinent child.”

Finally the girls in the classroom understood who it was who was visiting with them that day, for they all had heard that Voozhum once was the personal chamberservant to the daughter of the king. “Edhadeya,” they whispered.

“My young mistress,” said Voozhum, “now a lady. You were often rude, but never impertinent. Tell us now, please. What is the virtue that the Keeper most values?”

“I don’t know what Oykib said, because this story isn’t known among the humans,” said Edhadeya.

“Good,” said Voozhum. “Then you won’t be remembering or guessing, you’ll be thinking.”

“I think the virtue that the Keeper most admires is to love as the Keeper loves.”

“And how is this? How does the Keeper love?”

“The love of the Keeper,” said Edhadeya, obviously searching, obviously thinking of ideas that she had never considered all that seriously before. “The love of the Keeper is the love of the mother who punishes her child for naughtiness, but then embraces the same child to comfort her tears.”

Edhadeya waited for the onslaught of contrary opinions that had greeted earlier suggestions, but she
was met only by silence. “Please,” she said, “just because I’m the daughter of the king doesn’t mean you can’t disagree with me the way you disagreed with each other a moment ago.”

Still, not a word, though there was no shuffling or embarrassed looking away, either.

“Perhaps they do not disagree,” said Voozhum. “Perhaps they hope you will teach them more of this idea.”

Edhadeya immediately rose to the challenge. “I think the Keeper wants us to see the world as she sees it. To pretend that
we
are the Keeper, and then to try to create wherever we can a small island where all the other virtues can be shared among good people.”

There was a murmur among the girls. “Words of a true dreamer,” one of them whispered.

“And I think,” said Edhadeya, “that if that really is the virtue most favored by the Keeper, then you have created a virtuous classroom here, Voozhum.”

“Long ago,” said Voozhum, “when I lived in chains, sometimes chains of iron, but always chains of stone on my heart, there was a room where I could go and someone knew my virtues and listened to my thoughts as if I were truly alive and a creature of light instead of a worm of mud and darkness.”

Edhadeya burst into tears. “I was never that good to you, Uss-Uss.”

“You always were. Does my little girl still remember how I held her when she cried?”

Edhadeya ran to her and embraced her. The girls watched in awe as both Edhadeya and Voozhum wept, each in her fashion.

Chebeya leaned across Edhadeya’s empty stool to whisper to Shedemei, “This is what you hoped for, isn’t it?”

Shedemei whispered back, “I think it’s a good lesson, don’t you?”

And indeed it was, to see the daughter of the king embracing an old digger woman, both of them crying
for joy, crying for remembrance of lost times, of ancient love.

“And what did Oykib say?” whispered Chebeya to Shedemei.