On her way back to the gardener's shed, she walked past the tumbled walls of an older building. An earlier temple, one of the sisters had explained, suggesting Maia ask Mother Kalor if she wanted to know more. First Maia had explored the ruins by herself, and been struck to find an eroded bas-relief, still faintly visible under clinging fingers of ivy. The easiest figure to recognize was a fierce, protecting dragon, a favorite symbol for the planetary spirit-deity, its wings outstretched above a scene of tumult. Jets of flame seemed to spear from its open jaws toward a hovering wheel-shape, defaced almost to nothing. Looking nearer, Maia had found that the "fire" consisted of thin lines originating from the dragon's teeth.
Digging underneath the metaphorical beast, she had discovered, half-buried in the loam, a fierce battle of demons — one group bearing horns on their heads and the other beards — locked in hand-to-hand struggle so savage that, even muted by age, the sculpture made Maia shiver.
Later on, she had learned that it was an ancient work, from a time soon after the Enemy came and nearly smashed hominid culture on Stratos. And no, Mother Kalor explained when asked, those demon horns were allegorical. The real foe had none.
On closely inspecting the crumbly, sandstone faces, they had found that only half of the defending figures were bearded. Nevertheless, Maia asked, "Were they heretics?"
"Those who built this temple? I hardly think so. There are Perkinites and others inland, of course. But to my knowledge, Grange Head has always been orthodox."
Mother Kalor offered free use of the temple archives, and Maia was tempted. Had she been here for any other reason, she might have let curiosity lead her. But there seemed little point, nor energy to spare amid the tedium of grief and recovery. Anyway, Maia had made herself a vow — to be practical from now on, and live from day to day.
Upon reaching the shed, she removed her smock and handed the pruning shears back to the chief gardener, who sat at a table tending seedlings. The elderly nun's beneficent smile showed what peace could be attained down this life path. The gentle path called the Refuge of Lysos.
The priestess-mother hadn't seemed hurt by Maia's refusal of novice's robes. She took it as a tribute to the temple's ministrations that Maia was ready to set forth once more. "Your place is in the thick of things," Kalor had said. "I'm sure fate and the world have a role for you."
The kindness and gentleness she had received here lifted Maia's heart. I'll always remember this place. It was like folding a memento, to put away in an attic. She might take the memory out to look at, from time to time, but never to wear again.
In other days she had felt one special reaction, on encountering some new idea, or person, or thing. She had always savored telling her twin about it. That fine anticipation had been far richer than simply remembering for its own sake. But from now on, whatever good things Maia found in the world, she must learn to esteem them all by herself. That naked fact continued to form a void deep within, despite a gradual deadening of her pain. Though lessening with time, the faint sense of loss would remain with her for as long as she lived, and she would call it childhood.
Consider the nightmares of children. Or your own fears, walking down some darkened lane. Do you invent ghosts? Beasts of prey? Or do most dire phantoms take the form of men, lurking in shadows with vile intent? For adults and infants, women and men, fear usually comes in male raiment.
Oh, often so does rescue. Our faction never claimed all men were brutes. To the contrary, history tells of marvelous human beings who happened to be male. But consider how much time and energy those good men spent just countering the bad ones. Cancel out both sides and what is left? More trouble than the good is worth.
That was the rationale behind early parthenogenesis experiments on Herlandia — attempting to cull masculinity from the human process entirely. Attempts that failed. The need for a male component seems deeply woven through the chemistry of mammalian reproduction. Even our most advanced techniques cannot safely overcome it.
Herlandia was a disappointment, but we learn from setbacks. If we must include men in our new world, let us design things so they will get in the way as little as possible.
— from Forging Destiny, by Lysos
5
The voice, reading aloud, was among the most soothing Maia had ever heard.
" '. . . And so, now that you've left the coastal mountains far behind, the grassy plains of Long Valley roll by your window like purple-crested crinolines, starched for show. A vast sea of low, unmoving waves. From your hurtling chariot, your gaze reaches across the prairie ocean, seeking anything to break the undulating monotony, making what it can of any post or protuberance that might imaginatively be called topography.
"And you seek not in vain! For, far beyond this glorious expanse of blandness, you glimpse sequestered columns of wind-sculpted stone, green-crested rock monoliths, giving the eye something faraway to cling to. These are the distant Needle Towers, testaments to the power and persistence of natural erosion which carved them long before the arrival of humans on Stratos. . . .'" Already half-stupefied by the thrumming magnetic rails and the dusty sameness of the prairie, Maia listened to the other occupant of the baggage car orate from a volume with finely chased leather bindings. Though the air was parched, her companion never seemed to run dry.
" 'According to recent reports, the elders who rule Long Valley have ordained that male sanctuaries be built on several far-off Needles, breaking a tradition of seasonal banishment which started with the first Perkinite settlements. . . .'"
The hitchhiker called her book a "travel guide." Its apparent aim? To describe what the reader was seeing, while she was seeing it. But Tizbe Beller spent more time with her nose between the pages, making excited pronouncements, than actually looking through the grimy window at a succession of dreary farms and ranches. Does someone actually make a living writing such things? Maia wondered. Her companion proclaimed this one a masterpiece of its genre. Clearly, Tizbe came from a different background than Lamatia Clan, which gave its summer kids little exposure to the fine arts.
" '. . . Currently, all men of virile years are banished from the valley each hot quarter, and kept away until the end of rut season. . ."
Maia's fellow traveler lay atop a pile of coarse gunny-sacks, her blonde hair tied in a simple bun. Tizbe's clothing, ragged-looking from a distance, proved on closer inspection to be soft and well-made, clashing with the girl's claim of utter poverty. As Maia's assistant, she was supposed to pay for her passage by helping sling freight all the way to Holly Lock. So far, Maia was unimpressed.
Don't be hasty to judge, she thought. Mother Kalor wouldn't approve.
Before departing Grange Head, Maia had given the orthodox priestess a letter to deliver to any young woman passing through who resembled her. After all, Church doctrine held that miracles were possible, even in a world guided by chance and molecular affinities.
"Must you go inland, child?" Mother Kalor had asked. "Long Valley is Perkinite country. They're a lock-kneed, fanatical bunch of smugs, and don't much care for men or vars."
"Maybe so," Maia had replied. "But they hire vars for all sorts of jobs."
"Jobs they won't do themselves."
"I can't turn down steady work," Maia had answered, ending all argument. One thing for certain, if Leie ever did show up, she'd dish out hell if Maia hadn't been busy during their separation, using the time profitably.
What luck that a railroad clan was just then looking for someone with a knack for figures. The work didn't involve differential calculus, only simple accounting, but Maia had been pleased to find some part of her education useful. Leie, too, would have been a cinch, with her love of machines. If only . . .