She said he’d gone out to the west field.”
“To guard against the other marauders who may come.” The steady rasping noise outside penetrated the light weave of the summer walls and hung in the air. Lady brushed back a strand of gray hair and composed her features to something like sternness. “I have work to do now, darling.”
“Would you leave the light?”
Blossom knew better than to burn oil to no purpose—even this oil, which had been extracted from the Plant. She was only seeing how far she could go. “Yes,” Lady conceded (for it was not just any night), “but keep it very low.”
Before she lowered the curtain that partitioned Blossom’s bed from the rest of the commonroom, she asked if Blossom had said her prayers.
“Oh,
Mother!”
Lady lowered the curtain without either condoning or reproaching her daughter’s ambiguous protest. Her husband, certainly, would have seen it as an impiety—and punishable.
Lady could not help being pleased that Blossom was not
so
impressionable (and if the girl had a fault, it was that) to be led too fervently or too fearfully to adopt her father’s fierce, unreasoning Calvinism. If one had to behave like an infidel, Lady believed, it was sheer hypocrisy to pass oneself off as a Christian. Indeed, she very much doubted whether the god to whom her husband prayed existed. If he did, why pray to him? He had made His choice some eons ago. He was like the old Aztec gods who had demanded blood sacrifice on their stone altars. A jealous, vengeful god; a god for primitives; a bloody god. What was the scripture Anderson had chosen last Sunday? One of the minor prophets. Lady shuffled through the pages of her husband’s great Bible. There it was, in Nahum: “God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth; the Lord revengeth, and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.” Ah, that was God all over!
When the curtain was down, Blossom crawled out of bed and obediently said her prayers. Gradually the rote formulas gave way to her own requests—first, for impersonal benefactions (that the harvest be good, that the next marauders be luckier and escape), then for more delicate favors (that her hair might grow faster so that she could set it in curls again, that her breasts would fill out just a little more, though they were already quite full for her age—for which she gave thanks). At last, snuggling back in bed, these formal requests gave way to mere wishful thinking, and she longed for the things which were no longer or which were yet to be.
When she fell asleep, the machinery outside was still grinding on.
A noise woke her, something woke her. There was still a little light from the lamp. “What is it?” she asked sleepily.
Her brother Neil was standing at the foot of her bed. His face was strangely vacant. His mouth was open: his chin hung slack. He seemed to see her, but she could not interpret the expression in his eyes.
“What is it?” she asked again, more sharply.
He did not reply. He did not move. He was wearing the pants he had worn all that day and there was blood on them.
“Go away, Neil. What did you want to wake me up for?”
His lips moved, as though in sleep, and his right hand made several gestures, emphasizing the unspoken words of his dream. Blossom pulled her thin cover up to her chin and sat up in bed. She screamed, having only meant to tell him to go away a little louder, so he would hear her.
Lady slept lightly, and Blossom did not have to scream more than once. “Are you having nightmares, my—Neil! What are you doing here? Neil?”
“He won’t say anything, Mother. He just stands there and he won’t answer me.”
Lady grabbed her oldest son—now that Jimmie was dead, her
only
son—by the shoulder and shook him roughly. The right hand made more emphatic gestures, but the eyes seemed to stare less raptly now. “Huh?” he mumbled.
“Neil, you go to Greta now, do you hear?
“To guard against the other marauders who may come.” The steady rasping noise outside penetrated the light weave of the summer walls and hung in the air. Lady brushed back a strand of gray hair and composed her features to something like sternness. “I have work to do now, darling.”
“Would you leave the light?”
Blossom knew better than to burn oil to no purpose—even this oil, which had been extracted from the Plant. She was only seeing how far she could go. “Yes,” Lady conceded (for it was not just any night), “but keep it very low.”
Before she lowered the curtain that partitioned Blossom’s bed from the rest of the commonroom, she asked if Blossom had said her prayers.
“Oh,
Mother!”
Lady lowered the curtain without either condoning or reproaching her daughter’s ambiguous protest. Her husband, certainly, would have seen it as an impiety—and punishable.
Lady could not help being pleased that Blossom was not
so
impressionable (and if the girl had a fault, it was that) to be led too fervently or too fearfully to adopt her father’s fierce, unreasoning Calvinism. If one had to behave like an infidel, Lady believed, it was sheer hypocrisy to pass oneself off as a Christian. Indeed, she very much doubted whether the god to whom her husband prayed existed. If he did, why pray to him? He had made His choice some eons ago. He was like the old Aztec gods who had demanded blood sacrifice on their stone altars. A jealous, vengeful god; a god for primitives; a bloody god. What was the scripture Anderson had chosen last Sunday? One of the minor prophets. Lady shuffled through the pages of her husband’s great Bible. There it was, in Nahum: “God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth; the Lord revengeth, and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.” Ah, that was God all over!
When the curtain was down, Blossom crawled out of bed and obediently said her prayers. Gradually the rote formulas gave way to her own requests—first, for impersonal benefactions (that the harvest be good, that the next marauders be luckier and escape), then for more delicate favors (that her hair might grow faster so that she could set it in curls again, that her breasts would fill out just a little more, though they were already quite full for her age—for which she gave thanks). At last, snuggling back in bed, these formal requests gave way to mere wishful thinking, and she longed for the things which were no longer or which were yet to be.
When she fell asleep, the machinery outside was still grinding on.
A noise woke her, something woke her. There was still a little light from the lamp. “What is it?” she asked sleepily.
Her brother Neil was standing at the foot of her bed. His face was strangely vacant. His mouth was open: his chin hung slack. He seemed to see her, but she could not interpret the expression in his eyes.
“What is it?” she asked again, more sharply.
He did not reply. He did not move. He was wearing the pants he had worn all that day and there was blood on them.
“Go away, Neil. What did you want to wake me up for?”
His lips moved, as though in sleep, and his right hand made several gestures, emphasizing the unspoken words of his dream. Blossom pulled her thin cover up to her chin and sat up in bed. She screamed, having only meant to tell him to go away a little louder, so he would hear her.
Lady slept lightly, and Blossom did not have to scream more than once. “Are you having nightmares, my—Neil! What are you doing here? Neil?”
“He won’t say anything, Mother. He just stands there and he won’t answer me.”
Lady grabbed her oldest son—now that Jimmie was dead, her
only
son—by the shoulder and shook him roughly. The right hand made more emphatic gestures, but the eyes seemed to stare less raptly now. “Huh?” he mumbled.
“Neil, you go to Greta now, do you hear?
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