the collapse of an entire substructure tens of kilometres away. . . . There was no way to tell. Maddus began to mutter indistinctly. Berrin smoothed the other woman’s hair away from her forehead; she scratched her palm on the tip of a pin that protruded from the temple.
The distant clock, half-hidden by the northern horizon, its eastern rim gleaming orange, clanged once. The sun had risen in the sky, though they were still in the shadow of the Hedge Forest. Maddus opened her eyes, looked at Berrin. Her lips twisted and quivered; she said, in a voice that seemed to belong to an old man, “Dark it was, and so deep I thought all the lights would leave forever. Was it the Hand that sent for me?”
Berrin shut her eyes and felt tears gather at their corners.
Maddus spoke on, but her voice now was a young girl’s. “It came through the garden. The steel leaves, the thorns of gold—they didn’t stop it. It took me and . . . oh!” She convulsed suddenly in Berrin’s arms. Her limbs drummed on the ground; the metal fingers of her left hand jetted sparks as they screeched against the old steel. Maddus let out a howl of agony. Berrin tried to restrain her, but Maddus suddenly wrestled herself free and jumped to her feet. Her eyes were open wide, fixed on something that was not there. She pointed at it, spoke a name, whirled, and began to run. Berrin rose to pursue, but after a dozen strides, Maddus threw herself to the ground, clapped her hands over her head, and was still.
Berrin knelt by her side and waited, stroking her back gently. After a time, she drew Maddus up to her feet and led her to what remained of their house. Maddus was now pliant, her face slack and her eyes glazed. Berrin made her sit on a gored cushion, gave her more water and a small amount of food.
An hour or two passed. Maddus regained a measure of awareness. When Berrin offered the gourd, she took it in both hands and drank.
Berrin said, “Maddus?” The other woman looked at her blankly. “What is your name?” said Berrin, smiling, though she knew the answer would break her heart.
“Ah-wh . . . I down’t. . . .” said Maddus, words coming blurred and slow. She screwed up her face in concentration and said, “I am . . . Kaph.”
REDEFINING
Berrin had known she could expect no more, yet she had hoped that the mind of Maddus would survive, more or less intact. But mind is an outgrowth of the body; from a torn and patched-up body, nothing could emerge but a torn and patched-up mind. Maddus was gone; this woman who called herself Kaph had taken her place. Her memories were incoherent fragments, shards of dreams. They would have to be sorted, assembled, integrated. The work of weeks, months, a lifetime.
To give Kaph a focus, a core of action to cling to while she rebuilt her identity, Berrin enrolled her in the repairing of their home. For two days they busied themselves at it. The destroyed wall could be reassembled, but a gaping tear remained. Some of the furniture was salvageable; other pieces could, with patience, be partially repaired. The vegetables in the plot had been uprooted, but not all the plants were dead.
As a final gesture, the Anubine had set off a low-yield sunweapon at ground level, and a crater had been blasted not fifty metres from the house. Through the ruptured skin of the Mechanism could be seen a maze of intersecting pipes, around which glittering cables twisted in double helices. From the depths of the hole, a ratcheting sound could be heard, whirring up and down in frequency, sounding in its upper register like a man’s hoarse whine.
Some fragments had jarred loose in the explosion, and those Berrin decided to scavenge; while Kaph held onto the end of a rope, Berrin lowered herself into the hole and gathered up what she could reach. Some of the pipes were burning hot to the touch; some were so cold Berrin lost a patch of skin to them.
In the evening, Berrin set out her gleanings on the floor of the
The distant clock, half-hidden by the northern horizon, its eastern rim gleaming orange, clanged once. The sun had risen in the sky, though they were still in the shadow of the Hedge Forest. Maddus opened her eyes, looked at Berrin. Her lips twisted and quivered; she said, in a voice that seemed to belong to an old man, “Dark it was, and so deep I thought all the lights would leave forever. Was it the Hand that sent for me?”
Berrin shut her eyes and felt tears gather at their corners.
Maddus spoke on, but her voice now was a young girl’s. “It came through the garden. The steel leaves, the thorns of gold—they didn’t stop it. It took me and . . . oh!” She convulsed suddenly in Berrin’s arms. Her limbs drummed on the ground; the metal fingers of her left hand jetted sparks as they screeched against the old steel. Maddus let out a howl of agony. Berrin tried to restrain her, but Maddus suddenly wrestled herself free and jumped to her feet. Her eyes were open wide, fixed on something that was not there. She pointed at it, spoke a name, whirled, and began to run. Berrin rose to pursue, but after a dozen strides, Maddus threw herself to the ground, clapped her hands over her head, and was still.
Berrin knelt by her side and waited, stroking her back gently. After a time, she drew Maddus up to her feet and led her to what remained of their house. Maddus was now pliant, her face slack and her eyes glazed. Berrin made her sit on a gored cushion, gave her more water and a small amount of food.
An hour or two passed. Maddus regained a measure of awareness. When Berrin offered the gourd, she took it in both hands and drank.
Berrin said, “Maddus?” The other woman looked at her blankly. “What is your name?” said Berrin, smiling, though she knew the answer would break her heart.
“Ah-wh . . . I down’t. . . .” said Maddus, words coming blurred and slow. She screwed up her face in concentration and said, “I am . . . Kaph.”
REDEFINING
Berrin had known she could expect no more, yet she had hoped that the mind of Maddus would survive, more or less intact. But mind is an outgrowth of the body; from a torn and patched-up body, nothing could emerge but a torn and patched-up mind. Maddus was gone; this woman who called herself Kaph had taken her place. Her memories were incoherent fragments, shards of dreams. They would have to be sorted, assembled, integrated. The work of weeks, months, a lifetime.
To give Kaph a focus, a core of action to cling to while she rebuilt her identity, Berrin enrolled her in the repairing of their home. For two days they busied themselves at it. The destroyed wall could be reassembled, but a gaping tear remained. Some of the furniture was salvageable; other pieces could, with patience, be partially repaired. The vegetables in the plot had been uprooted, but not all the plants were dead.
As a final gesture, the Anubine had set off a low-yield sunweapon at ground level, and a crater had been blasted not fifty metres from the house. Through the ruptured skin of the Mechanism could be seen a maze of intersecting pipes, around which glittering cables twisted in double helices. From the depths of the hole, a ratcheting sound could be heard, whirring up and down in frequency, sounding in its upper register like a man’s hoarse whine.
Some fragments had jarred loose in the explosion, and those Berrin decided to scavenge; while Kaph held onto the end of a rope, Berrin lowered herself into the hole and gathered up what she could reach. Some of the pipes were burning hot to the touch; some were so cold Berrin lost a patch of skin to them.
In the evening, Berrin set out her gleanings on the floor of the
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