Fiction by Linda Nagata
Goddesses (Part 6)
(ix)
Rajban was up early. Michael found her in the kitchen when he woke, peeking into cabinets with all the stealth and caution of a kid looking for treasure but expecting to find a tiger. "Good morning," Michael said. She jumped, and the cabinet door banged shut. Her hands were already soiled with the gray dirt of the courtyard. Michael sighed. She certainly had an affinity for gardening.
Ignoring her fright, he beckoned to her to come to the sink, where he showed her how to slide her hands under the soap dispenser. The sensor popped a spray of soap onto her palm. She lathered it, carefully imitating Michael's every gesture. Water came from the tap in a tepid spray, like a stolen column of soft rain. Michael dried his hands, Rajban dried hers, then together they made a breakfast of papayas, bread, and yoghurt.
#
After they ate, Rajban disappeared into the garden, while Michael readied himself for work. Last of all, he picked up his shades. The Terrace glyph waited for him, surrounded by a pink query circle. He linked through. "Anybody there?"
No one answered. He left the link open, confident someone would check back before long. Next he put a call through to Muthaye, but she didn't pick up either. A moment later, the house announced a visitor at the door.
"Ooh, company," Ryan said, as the line to the Terrace went green.
Etsuko sounded puzzled. "Who is that?"
"No I.D.," Ryan muttered. "Pupils dilated, skin temperature slightly elevated. He's nervous."
"Or angry," Etsuko said. "Be careful, Michael."
"Hey," Michael said as the house repeated its announcement, this time in Hindi. "Good morning and all that. Back again, huh?"
"Been waiting all morning for your shades to activate," Ryan agreed. "You have to understand – your life is so much more interesting than ours. Now hurry up. Go find out what he wants before my next appointment."
Michael summoned an image of the visitor into his shades. "So I guess it's not Muthaye at the door?"
"No, mate. No such luck. A local gentleman, I should think. Looks a little stiff, if you ask me."
Etsuko snorted. "By your standards, Ryan, anyone could look stiff."
Rajban slipped in through the french doors. Michael sighed to see that her hands were dirty again. Some of the dirt had gotten on her face. Still, she looked at Michael with eyes that were brighter, fuller than they had been only yesterday. Then she looked at the door... hoping it was Muthaye too? Come back to visit her as promised.
"Say," Ryan said. "Maybe she knows the guy."
"Right." After all, someone had to be looking for Rajban, regardless of what Muthaye said. A brother, perhaps? Someone who cared. Michael slipped the shades off and handed them to Rajban, motioning that she should put them on. Tentatively, she obeyed. For several seconds she stared at the scene, while her mouth twisted in a small hard knot. Then she yanked the shades off, shoved them into Michael's hands, and ran for the courtyard.
Ryan said, "Women react that way to me too, from time to time."
No one laughed.
Michael stared after Rajban, dread gnawing like a rat at his chest. Despite Muthaye's words, he had envisioned only a happy reunion for her. What would his role become, if her family demanded her back, and she refused to go?
Stop guessing.
He slipped the shades back on and went to the front door. "Hark. Open it."
The stranger in the alcove was tall and lean, like a slice taken off a fuller man, then smoked until it hardened. His black hair was neatly cut and combed. His dark eyes were stern. They remained fixed on Michael through a slow, formal bow. "Namaste."
"Namaste," Michael murmured, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. There was something about this man that set him on edge. The intense stare, perhaps. The unsmiling face. The stiffness of his carriage. Smoked and hardened.
"I am Mr. Gharia," the stranger said, in lilting but well-pronounced English. "And you, I have been told, are Mr. Fielding. I have come to inquire about the woman."
Michael felt stubborness descend into his spine, a quiet, steely resistance learned from the heros of a hundred old cowboy movies. "Have you?"
Vaguely, he was aware of Etsuko muttering, "Gharia? Which Gharia? There are dozens in the census, approximate height and age...."
Mr. Gharia apparently had a stubborness of his own. He raised his chin, and though his head came barely to Michael's shoulder, he seemed tall. "It is improper for this woman to be residing within your house."
Michael had never taken well to instructions on propriety. Remembering the look of fear and distaste on Rajban's face as she fled to the courtyard, he ventured a guess, and dressed it up as certainty, "This is not your woman."
Mr. Gharia looked taken aback at this discourteous response; perhaps a little confused, but by his reply Michael knew that his guess had been correct. "I am a friend of the family, sir."
When Michael didn't respond to this, Gharia's tone rose. "Sir, a widow deserves respect. This woman must be returned immediately to her family."
A widow. So her husband was dead. Muthaye had said he'd left home a full year ago. Michael had assumed he'd gone for treatment, yet now he was dead. Did Rajban know? Had anyone bothered to tell her? Thinking about it, Michael felt an anger as cool, as austere, as shadows under desert rock. "This woman has no family."
"Sir, you are mistaken."
"The family that she had cast her out like useless rubbish."
"I have come to inquire about her, to be sure she is the woman being sought."
"She is not that woman," Michael said. "She is a different woman altogether."
"Sir–"
"You would not have me put her on display, would you? Now sir, good day." He stepped back, allowing the door to close.
Gharia saw what he was about. "It doesn't matter who she is!" he said quickly. "Any Hindu woman must be shamed to be kept as a whore. It is intolerable! It–" The door sealed, cutting off Gharia's tirade with the abruptness of a toggled switch.
"Christ," Michael muttered.
"Nice show," Ryan agreed, but his voice was somber. "Michael, this isn't a game you want to play. Etsuko's I.D.'ed this Gharia fellow. He's a religious activist–"
Michael's palm sliced through the air. "I don't care who he is! The Indian constitution promises equal rights for women."
"It's a piece of paper, Michael." Etsuko's voice was softly sad. "In a far off city. Women like Rajban are subject to an older law."
"Not anymore. Muthaye said she would come up with a shelter for Rajban by today. If the bastards can't find her, they can't hurt her."
But if they did find her? Rajban was already a woman ruined, simply by being inside Michael's house.
He jumped as the lights flashed, and a soft alarm bonged through the residence. Locks clicked. The air-conditioning system huffed into silence. "Perimeter intrusion," the house informed him. "Michael Fielding, you will remain secured inside this residence pending arrival of Global Shear security. Arrival estimated at three minutes fifty seconds." It was the same feminine voice the house always used, yet it didn't sound like the house anymore.
"Where is Rajban?" Michael shouted.
"Identify the person in question?"
This was definitely not his house. "Rajban. A girl. She's been... she's stayed here for a day or so–"
Ryan's voice cut in: "The courtyard, Michael."
Michael dashed for the courtyard doors. His hand hit the latch, but it would not move. He tried to force it, but the door held.
Through the glass, he saw Rajban crouched on the path beside a freshly worked bed of earth, the little hoe in one hand. She gazed up at the courtyard wall. Michael looked, to see Gharia leaning over the top. It was eight feet of smooth concrete, but somehow he had climbed it, and from the Shastri courtyard, too. Now he leaned on his chest, the breast of his shirt smudged with dirt, his dark brows pulled together in an angry scowl. Michael had only a glimpse of him, before he dropped away out of sight.
Again Michael tried the latch, slamming it with all his weight while the house instructed him to "Stay away from all doors and windows. Retreat at once to the interior–"
"Who the hell am I talking to?" Michael interrupted.
"Easy," Ryan muttered. "Cool under fire, boy. You know the chant."
The house answered at the same time: "This is Security Chief Sankar. Mr. Fielding, please step away from the door. You must remove yourself from this exposed position immediately–"
Rajban had seen him. She was running toward him now. She threw herself on the door latch, while Michael tried again to force it from the inside. It would not budge. Rajban stared at him through the glass, her dark eyes wide, confusion and terror swimming in her unshed tears.
"Sankar!" Michael shouted. "Unlock this door. Let her inside now–"
"Mr. Fielding, please remain calm. The door will not open until the situation is secure. Be assured, we will be on-site momentarily."
Michael bit his lip, swearing silently to himself. "Is Gharia still out there, then? He's after this girl, you know. Not me."
"Negative, sir. Raman Gharia has fled the scene. He is presently being tracked by a vigil craft–"
The drone aircraft that watched the house. Of course. The security AI must have seen Gharia climbing the Shastri wall....
"Well, if Gharia's gone, then you can open the door. Sankar?"
A helicopter swept in, no more than fifty feet above the wall. Rajban looked up at it, and screamed. Michael could not hear her through the sound-proofed glass, but he could see the terror on her face. She pressed herself against the door, covering her head with the new sari Muthaye had given her while her clothing licked and shuddered in the rotor wash. First one man, then a second, descended from the helicopter, sliding down a cable to land in the courtyard garden.
"This probably qualifies as overkill," Ryan muttered.
"Sankar!" Michael shouted. "What the hell are you doing?"
No answer.
The helicopter pulled away. The two men on the ground were anonymous in their helmets and shimmering gray coveralls. The first one pulled a weapon from a thigh holster and trained it on Rajban. The second sprinted toward the wall where Gharia had appeared. Crashing through the half-dead plants, he launched himself at the concrete face, and to Michael's amazement, he actually reached the top, pulling himself up to gaze over the side, in a weird echo of Gharia's own posture. He stayed there only long enough to drop something over the wall – Oh, Mrs. Shastri was going to love this – then he slipped back down into the garden, landing in a crouch. A weapon had appeared in his hands, too.
"Net gun," Ryan said. "Launches a sticky entangler. Non-lethal, unless it scares you to death. Michael, I had no idea you were this well protected."
"They're bored," Michael growled.
"Do say."
"Explosives negative," Sankar informed him, through the voice of the house.
Now both net guns were trained on Rajban.
"Leave her alone," Michael warned. "Sankar, I swear–"
"Situation clear," Sankar announced.
The man by the wall stood up, sliding his weapon back into its holster. The other did the same. He slipped his visor up, revealing a delighted grin. Michael recognized Sankar's handsome face. "Quite an adventure, eh, Mr. Fielding?"
The door lock clicked. Michael slammed the latch down, yanking the door open, so that Rajban half fell into the living room. He started to reach for her, to help her up, but she scuttled away with a little moan of terror. He turned to Sankar, ready to vent his fury, but he found the security chief praising his man for a job well-done.
"Absolutely by the book!" Sankar was saying in a suitably masculine voice, quite a jolt after the feminine voice of the house. With his gaze, Sankar took in Michael too. "Mr. Fielding. This has turned out to be a minor incident, but we had no way of knowing that when the perimeter alarm sounded. It is essential that you remain inside in such situations, away from doors and windows. If explosives had come over the wall–"
"Then Rajban would have been killed," Michael said softly. "All I asked was that you unlock the door to let her in."
Rajban had gone to hide behind the sofa. Michael could hear her softly weeping. Sankar frowned at the noise, as if it did not fit into any scenario he had ever practiced. "This woman, she is not the housekeeper registered in our security files. Have you changed employees?"
"No. She's not an employee. She's a guest."
"A guest? All guests should be registered, Mr. Fielding. Without a profile, we have no way of discriminating friend from enemy." He said this matter-of-factly, without a hint of judgment. Well, Sankar was a modern man, educated in California, Michael recalled. What the boss did was the boss's business, no doubt.
Michael sighed, letting the edge of his anger slip away. "You're right," he conceded. Global Shear security protocol was strict and effective. "So take her profile now. She's a waif, just a little girl, without home or family. And that's all she is, Mr. Sankar. I want you to put that in your profile too."
(x)
Rajban plunged her hoe into the hard earth of the garden bed, prying up chunks of clay. Grief sat in her stomach like heavy black mud, but it was not grief for her husband. It was for herself. Now she was widowed. She had no home. She would have no sons.
Brother-in-law had sent her away.
So why had Gharia come after her?
She hacked at the earth, and thought about it. Gharia had been a frequent guest at Brother-in-law's table, where they discussed the foreign issue, and the influence of non-believers. At times they would grow very angry, but when the talk lapsed, Gharia's eyes often found their rest on Rajban's backside as she worked in the kitchen with Mother-in-law.
Mother-in-law would notice the direction of Gharia's gaze, and her words to Rajban would be angry.
Rajban remembered these things as she crumbled each chunk of clay in her hands. She picked up the hoe again and dug deeper. The soil here was bad. There were no worms in it. No tiny bugs. It looked as sterile as the soil in Brother-in-law's courtyard. Even the weeds were yellow.
No matter.
She would use the magic soil. With love and prayers, its influence could be worked into the ground.
A winged shadow drifted slowly over Rajban's hands. She paused in her work, squinting against the noon sun. There! She spied it again: A tiny plane the color of the sky. It was very hard to see, yet if she looked long enough, she could always find it floating above the house.
The door latch clicked. "Rajban?"
Rajban smiled shyly when she saw the kind woman, Muthaye, looking out between the glass doors. "Namaste," she murmured softly. "You came back."
"Namaste," Muthaye echoed. "Will you come inside? The sun is high, and it is very hot."
Rajban obeyed. She stood on stiff legs, taking a moment to brush the soil from her sari.
Inside, she was startled to discover other women. They were four, sitting in a half-circle on the carpet. They were not fine women, like Muthaye. Their saris were worn and their faces lined. All of them were older than Rajban. She felt sure they were all mothers, and she felt ashamed.
Twice in her first year of marriage she had thought herself pregnant, but her hopes were shattered by a late, painful, and heavy flow of blood – as if a baby had been started and then had died.
Rajban remembered the midwife who had come to visit on the day she arrived in her husband's household. This midwife had not looked like the village health aides Rajban had seen at her father's farm. This one was young and finely dressed, and she wore an eye veil, like Michael. "She will make your womb healthy," Mother-in-law declared. "So healthy you will bear only sons." Rajban had bit her lips to keep from wailing in pain as cold, gloved hands groped inside her. She had not felt healthy afterwards. Her abdomen and her crotch had ached for days – and she had never conceived a baby. Or maybe... she had conceived only girls?
Muthaye had joined the circle of women. Now she smiled at Rajban. "Please won't you sit?" She patted a spot at her side that would close the circle. Rajban did as she was asked, though she would have been happier to disappear into the kitchen. She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap while Muthaye told a story that did not sound like it could be true.
"My mother was an illiterate country woman," Muthaye began. Her gaze sought Rajban. "That means she was like you. She could not read or write or speak any language but the one she was born to. At fourteen she was married to a young man only a little more educated than she, the third son of a cruel and selfish family. It was a great struggle for my grandfather to gather the large dowry demanded by her husband's family. Still, he paid it, though he was forced to mortgage his land. Several months later there came a terrible storm. The land was flooded, the household of my mother's husband was destroyed, and along with many others in the village, he died of disease. When afterwards my mother gave birth to a daughter, she was driven out of the family. She returned to her father's house, but he refused to receive her, so she went without food and shelter, and her baby girl died.
"My mother became angry.
"She remembered that in the year of her marriage, she had met an agent from the women's cooperative. She went to that agent now, and was given a job sewing embroidered scarves. She earned enough to feed herself, but she wanted more. With the help of the women's cooperative, she taught herself to read. She received a small loan – only $200 – but it was enough to buy books and start her own lending library. When the loan was paid back she took out another, and eventually she started a school just for girls. In time she married again–"
There was a murmur of surprise from the circle.
"–the son of a long-time member of the women's cooperative. No dowry was paid–"
Again, a whisper of astonishment arose from the gathered women.
"–for dowry is evil and illegal. She still runs her school, and through it she has earned more money for her family than she might have ever brought as dowry. She is middle-class, Rajban. Yet when she was fifteen, she was just like you."
Rajban stared down at the lines of dirt that lay across her palms, knowing it wasn't true. "She had a baby."
Muthaye's tone became more strict: "It is not unexpected that a husband dying of AIDS gave you his disease instead of a child. That does not mean you will never have a child – or another husband."
"My brother-in-law will not allow it."
"You do not belong to him anymore."
Rajban considered this. She turned it over and over in her mind, wondering if it was true. At the same time, she listened to the other women talk about themselves. These women were all learning to read. Three of them had businesses. One made sandals. Another drove a zip. The last cleaned houses. The fourth member of their group was building a fruit stand. All of them had started their businesses with small loans from Muthaye.
"Not from me," Muthaye corrected. "These are loans from the Southern Banking Association."
The loans were for a few hundred dollars at a time, enough to buy the tools and supplies that would let them work. Together, the women ensured that each one of them made their weekly payments. If any failed to do so, all would lose their credit. This was the "microcredit program" administered by Muthaye. Three of the women in this lending circle had been involved for several years. One for only a few months.
"A lending circle should have five women," Muthaye explained. "The fifth lady of this group has moved away to join her son in Bangalore, so there is a place for you here. I have told you the story of my mother. This can be your story too."
Rajban bowed her head. Her heart fluttered, like a bird, seeking to escape its cage for the peaceful serenity of the sun-seared sky. She stared at her hands and whispered, "I don't know how."
One of the older women patted her mud-stained hand. She asked if Rajban could sew or cook. If she could keep a house clean or carry a heavy weight. Rajban didn't know how to answer. Her mother had raised her to do the things women do. All these things she had done, but surely no one would pay her to do them?
"Is there anything you are so good at?" Muthaye asked. "Is there a kind of work that blossoms like a flower in your hands?"
Rajban caught her breath. She glanced out at the garden. "I have a bag of magic soil that makes a garden strong and happy."
This brought a shower of laughter from the women. But why? Hadn't Rajban believed all their tales? And yet they laughed. Their kindly faces had all become the face of her Mother-in-law, laughing, laughing, and endlessly scolding her, Stupid girl!
She felt a touch on her hand, and the vision vanished, but even Muthaye's warm eyes could not chase away the pain.
"Magic is the comfort of old-fashioned women," Muthaye told her. "A modern woman has no need of it. Think on what we've talked about. Think of a business you might like to do. Think hard, for you must be settled before the AIDS treatment can begin."
(xi)
Word of the morning's misadventures got around quickly. It was still early when Michael stepped from a zip into the shade of the portico at Global Shear's district headquarters. The five story office cube was newly-built, situated halfway up a shallow, rocky rise dividing two of the original villages. A temple occupied the high ground, while a pig farmer kept his animals in a dusty pen on one side of the landscaped grounds. Laborers shacks made up the rest of the neighborhood.
A nervous community-relations officer greeted Michael even before he entered the building. "Shall we issue a public statement, Mr. Fielding?"
"Not unless someone asks."
"There have been several inquiries about the helicopter."
"Then state the truth. Intruder alarms went off and security responded. Play it down though, and add that we're reviewing our procedures to see if our response might be tempered in the future."
"Yes sir."
Glass doors slipped open, and Michael stepped into the air-conditioned paradise of the public lobby. The receptionist looked up, and smiled. "An exciting morning, Mr. Fielding! That helicopter raid must have shaken the dust off anyone still doubting our diligence."
"So I hear."
He met more compliments on the elevator ride to the fifth floor, but the tenor changed when he entered his corner office, where Karen Hampton waited for him, her image resident in an active wall screen. "A most interesting report appeared in my queue this morning. Talk to me, Michael. What the hell is going on?"
Michael sat down in the chair behind his desk, swiveling to face her. Nothing to do but tell the truth. He explained the situation, but she did not look relieved.
"Michael. I can't believe you've involved yourself with this girl. Do I have to remind you that trust is the most important asset we are building in Four Villages? I don't give a damn how innocent your actions are, stop for a minute and ask yourself how this must look to those people whom you are there to serve – not to exploit. If you can't find her a shelter, than buy her one. For the sake of your reputation and the company's good name, rent this young woman her own house and then stay far away from her."
"What if Gharia comes after her?"
"This isn't our business–"
"Karen, it might be. I've checked the census figures, and there's a growing imbalance in the sex ratio here. There are far fewer young women than men. Rajban may be a widow, and she may be ill, but Gharia's not exactly a kid. She could still be the best prospect he has."
"If that's so, why did her family get rid of her, instead of marrying her off?"
"I don't know. Maybe they didn't want to pay a dowry. Maybe they don't give a damn. Maybe they're strict Hindus and don't believe in remarriage for women."
"Listen to yourself! There are cultural complexities here that you haven't begun to grasp. This is not why you're in Four Villages."
"We're here to build a stable, diverse, and functional economy, and that can't exist where there is slavery. I won't send Rajban back into slavery."
"I'm not asking you to do that. Just get her out of your house. I want you in this job, Michael. I really do. Show me my confidence is not misplaced."
#