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Authors: Maureen F. McHugh
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monkeys.”
I smile back, he’s teasing me. I’m learning to understand when he teases. “I have some difficult news for you, Akhmim. I think you are a mere human being.”
His smile vanishes. He shakes his head. “Hariba,” he says. He’s about to talk like a father.
I stop him with a gesture. My head still hurts.
The train whispers in, sounding like wind. Oh, the lights. I sit down, shading my eyes, and he stands in front of me. I can feel him looking down at me. I look up and smile, or maybe grimace. He smiles back, looking worried. There is a family of Gypsies at the other end of the car, wild and homeless and dirty. We are like them, I realize.
At the Moussin of the White Falcon we get off. Funny that we are going into a cemetery to live. But only for a while, I think. Somehow I will find a way we can leave, if I live. We’ll go north, across the sea, up to the continent, where we’ll be strangers. I take him through the streets and stop in front of a row of death houses, like Ayesha’s family’s, but an inn.
“There are inns here?” Akhmim asks.
“Of course,” I say. “People come from the country to visit their families. People live in the Nekropolis, we have stores and everything.”
I give Akhmim money and tell him to rent us a place for the night. “Tell them your wife is sick,” I whisper. I’m afraid.
“I don’t have any credit. If they take my identification, they’ll know,” he says.
“This is the Nekropolis,” I say. “They don’t use credit. Go on. Here you are a man.”
He frowns at me, but takes the money. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, bargaining, pointing at me. Just pay, I think, even though we have very little money. I just want to lie down, to sleep. And finally he comes out and takes me by the hand and leads me to our place. A tiny room of rough whitewashed walls: a bed, a chair, a pitcher of water, and two glasses.
“I have something for your head,” he says. “The man gave it to me.” He smiles ruefully. “He thinks you’re pregnant.”
My hand shakes when I hold it out. He puts the white pills in my hand and pours a glass of water for me. “I’ll leave you here,” he says. “I’ll go back. I won’t tell anyone that I know where you are.”
“Then I’ll die,” I say. “I don’t want to argue, Akhmim, just stay until tomorrow.” Then it will be too late. “I need you to take care of me, so I can get better and we can live.”
“What can I do? I can’t live,” he says in anguish. “I can’t get work!”
“You can sell funeral wreaths. I’ll make them.”
He looks torn. It is one thing to think how you will act, another to be in the situation and do it. And I know, seeing his face, that he really is human because his problem is a very human problem. Safety or freedom.
“We will talk about it tomorrow,” I say. “My head is aching.”
“Because you’re jessed,” he says. “It’s dangerous. What if we don’t make enough money? What if they catch us?”
“That’s life,” I say. I’ll go to prison. He’ll be sent back to the mistress. Punished. Maybe made to be conscript labor. Maybe they will put him down, like an animal.
“Is it worth the pain?” he asks in a small voice.
I don’t know, but I can’t say that. “Not when you have the pain,” I say, “but afterward it is.”
“Your poor head.” He strokes my forehead. His hand is cool and soothing.
“Yes,” I say. “Change causes pain.”
Is it worth dying for?
2
Ties
In the beginning there was paradise, and then I was sent out into the world of men.
The first and last lesson they teach us is that we aren’t human. But we know it. Humans are rigid and harni bend. Humans have only one shape. I’m bent around Hariba. Hariba is full of sharp angles and unexpected soft places. She thinks that no one gets in, but for a harni, Hariba is…is…in the crèche we would have said that Hariba is half-open. There is space there, empty. That is what
I smile back, he’s teasing me. I’m learning to understand when he teases. “I have some difficult news for you, Akhmim. I think you are a mere human being.”
His smile vanishes. He shakes his head. “Hariba,” he says. He’s about to talk like a father.
I stop him with a gesture. My head still hurts.
The train whispers in, sounding like wind. Oh, the lights. I sit down, shading my eyes, and he stands in front of me. I can feel him looking down at me. I look up and smile, or maybe grimace. He smiles back, looking worried. There is a family of Gypsies at the other end of the car, wild and homeless and dirty. We are like them, I realize.
At the Moussin of the White Falcon we get off. Funny that we are going into a cemetery to live. But only for a while, I think. Somehow I will find a way we can leave, if I live. We’ll go north, across the sea, up to the continent, where we’ll be strangers. I take him through the streets and stop in front of a row of death houses, like Ayesha’s family’s, but an inn.
“There are inns here?” Akhmim asks.
“Of course,” I say. “People come from the country to visit their families. People live in the Nekropolis, we have stores and everything.”
I give Akhmim money and tell him to rent us a place for the night. “Tell them your wife is sick,” I whisper. I’m afraid.
“I don’t have any credit. If they take my identification, they’ll know,” he says.
“This is the Nekropolis,” I say. “They don’t use credit. Go on. Here you are a man.”
He frowns at me, but takes the money. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, bargaining, pointing at me. Just pay, I think, even though we have very little money. I just want to lie down, to sleep. And finally he comes out and takes me by the hand and leads me to our place. A tiny room of rough whitewashed walls: a bed, a chair, a pitcher of water, and two glasses.
“I have something for your head,” he says. “The man gave it to me.” He smiles ruefully. “He thinks you’re pregnant.”
My hand shakes when I hold it out. He puts the white pills in my hand and pours a glass of water for me. “I’ll leave you here,” he says. “I’ll go back. I won’t tell anyone that I know where you are.”
“Then I’ll die,” I say. “I don’t want to argue, Akhmim, just stay until tomorrow.” Then it will be too late. “I need you to take care of me, so I can get better and we can live.”
“What can I do? I can’t live,” he says in anguish. “I can’t get work!”
“You can sell funeral wreaths. I’ll make them.”
He looks torn. It is one thing to think how you will act, another to be in the situation and do it. And I know, seeing his face, that he really is human because his problem is a very human problem. Safety or freedom.
“We will talk about it tomorrow,” I say. “My head is aching.”
“Because you’re jessed,” he says. “It’s dangerous. What if we don’t make enough money? What if they catch us?”
“That’s life,” I say. I’ll go to prison. He’ll be sent back to the mistress. Punished. Maybe made to be conscript labor. Maybe they will put him down, like an animal.
“Is it worth the pain?” he asks in a small voice.
I don’t know, but I can’t say that. “Not when you have the pain,” I say, “but afterward it is.”
“Your poor head.” He strokes my forehead. His hand is cool and soothing.
“Yes,” I say. “Change causes pain.”
Is it worth dying for?
2
Ties
In the beginning there was paradise, and then I was sent out into the world of men.
The first and last lesson they teach us is that we aren’t human. But we know it. Humans are rigid and harni bend. Humans have only one shape. I’m bent around Hariba. Hariba is full of sharp angles and unexpected soft places. She thinks that no one gets in, but for a harni, Hariba is…is…in the crèche we would have said that Hariba is half-open. There is space there, empty. That is what
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