a narrow bed, a slop pail,
and had one small window that looked down on the exercise courtyard. Over the
wall of the House of Correction rose the ugly tenement blocks of the Ignorant
quarter and beyond, the vague, brooding wasteland of the desert. No matter how
long or how hard she stared, she could make out nothing in the thick, troubled
air of the far side of the great crystal dome.
Within the Hemisphere the air was heavy and
cloying, like tepid water with a little sugar in it. Beyond, in the desert
chaos, the wasteland created by the war, who could tell how the air felt on the
skin? The Elders said it was poisonous, like the breath of a demon, that the
burning sand rasped the skin from the bone, that only evil could survive in it.
Sometimes the erratic desert wind whipped up sandwraiths, twisting plumes of
dark sand that danced high overhead in wider and wider spirals until they were
lost from view.
Deborah stood on tiptoe and rested her chin on the
high window ledge. She stared out,
feeling bored and resentful. Her eyes narrowed to green slits as they always
did when she was thinking deeply. As usual it was about the injustice of it
all. Women must obey men, and all must obey the Elders. It was all in the Book,
they said. If only we had lived by the teachings of the Book, the war would
never have happened, and the desert would not now be swarming with devils and
demons. But had anyone ever seen a devil? And what exactly would happen if a
couple had two daughters instead of one daughter and a son? Or ten sons? Or
none at all? And why was it sacrilegious to want to decide some things for
yourself?
Deborah knew that simply thinking heretical
thoughts made her a suspicious character to be shunned and avoided. Only Hera
would have anything to do with her. With a twinge of guilt, the thought of Hera
flitted moth-like into her head and out again. Hera was her friend, and Deborah
did not wish any harm to come to her, but sometimes you had to take a stand
even if it had uncomfortable consequences. She hoped Hera would understand.
Then she forgot about her.
In the exercise courtyard the boy prisoners were
walking round and round, reading aloud verses from the Book. One of the boys
stood out from the group. He was not shuffling dejectedly like the others; one
hand was stuffed in his pocket, from the other the Book dangled unread. As he
walked, he kicked out at small pebbles, raising up little clouds of grey dust.
Suddenly the boy crouched down, tossing the Book aside to peer at something,
something fragile and fluttering that he held carefully in his cupped hands.
The chanting stumbled to a ragged halt, and in the deafening silence, two supervisors
came running over, their white trousers flapping like drying washing.
Deborah could easily make out the shrill abuse. She
heard the sharp blow that sent the boy sprawling in the dust, the insolent
reply he gave as he was dragged to his feet. She saw the flutter of delicate
wings, a bright splash of colour against the dull stone walls, and the head of
the boy turning to watch. There was a sharp clap, and the insect disappeared
between the paws of a supervisor. The boy shouted shrilly and gave a hefty kick
to the Book that sent it spinning across the yard, its cover torn.
Deborah jumped up and down on the floor clapping
her hands in a wild burst of applause. She hauled herself back up to the window
just in time to see the boy being pushed towards a small staircase, and his
raised face as his eyes searched for the source of the applause. Stretching as
far as she could, Deborah thrust a hand through the bars and waved.
* * * *
The sound of boots tramping purposefully down the corridor outside her cell
made Deborah leap to her feet. The jingle of keys was followed by the grinding
of the heavy lock, and the door swung open.
“Slopping out duty,” the guard bawled. Dark eyes
flashed out of a face that was all bristling black brows and short
square-trimmed beard. He moved aside,
and had one small window that looked down on the exercise courtyard. Over the
wall of the House of Correction rose the ugly tenement blocks of the Ignorant
quarter and beyond, the vague, brooding wasteland of the desert. No matter how
long or how hard she stared, she could make out nothing in the thick, troubled
air of the far side of the great crystal dome.
Within the Hemisphere the air was heavy and
cloying, like tepid water with a little sugar in it. Beyond, in the desert
chaos, the wasteland created by the war, who could tell how the air felt on the
skin? The Elders said it was poisonous, like the breath of a demon, that the
burning sand rasped the skin from the bone, that only evil could survive in it.
Sometimes the erratic desert wind whipped up sandwraiths, twisting plumes of
dark sand that danced high overhead in wider and wider spirals until they were
lost from view.
Deborah stood on tiptoe and rested her chin on the
high window ledge. She stared out,
feeling bored and resentful. Her eyes narrowed to green slits as they always
did when she was thinking deeply. As usual it was about the injustice of it
all. Women must obey men, and all must obey the Elders. It was all in the Book,
they said. If only we had lived by the teachings of the Book, the war would
never have happened, and the desert would not now be swarming with devils and
demons. But had anyone ever seen a devil? And what exactly would happen if a
couple had two daughters instead of one daughter and a son? Or ten sons? Or
none at all? And why was it sacrilegious to want to decide some things for
yourself?
Deborah knew that simply thinking heretical
thoughts made her a suspicious character to be shunned and avoided. Only Hera
would have anything to do with her. With a twinge of guilt, the thought of Hera
flitted moth-like into her head and out again. Hera was her friend, and Deborah
did not wish any harm to come to her, but sometimes you had to take a stand
even if it had uncomfortable consequences. She hoped Hera would understand.
Then she forgot about her.
In the exercise courtyard the boy prisoners were
walking round and round, reading aloud verses from the Book. One of the boys
stood out from the group. He was not shuffling dejectedly like the others; one
hand was stuffed in his pocket, from the other the Book dangled unread. As he
walked, he kicked out at small pebbles, raising up little clouds of grey dust.
Suddenly the boy crouched down, tossing the Book aside to peer at something,
something fragile and fluttering that he held carefully in his cupped hands.
The chanting stumbled to a ragged halt, and in the deafening silence, two supervisors
came running over, their white trousers flapping like drying washing.
Deborah could easily make out the shrill abuse. She
heard the sharp blow that sent the boy sprawling in the dust, the insolent
reply he gave as he was dragged to his feet. She saw the flutter of delicate
wings, a bright splash of colour against the dull stone walls, and the head of
the boy turning to watch. There was a sharp clap, and the insect disappeared
between the paws of a supervisor. The boy shouted shrilly and gave a hefty kick
to the Book that sent it spinning across the yard, its cover torn.
Deborah jumped up and down on the floor clapping
her hands in a wild burst of applause. She hauled herself back up to the window
just in time to see the boy being pushed towards a small staircase, and his
raised face as his eyes searched for the source of the applause. Stretching as
far as she could, Deborah thrust a hand through the bars and waved.
* * * *
The sound of boots tramping purposefully down the corridor outside her cell
made Deborah leap to her feet. The jingle of keys was followed by the grinding
of the heavy lock, and the door swung open.
“Slopping out duty,” the guard bawled. Dark eyes
flashed out of a face that was all bristling black brows and short
square-trimmed beard. He moved aside,
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