Juno of Taris (4 page)

Irian smiled and inclined his head.

For the next hour, people rose to their feet and spoke their thanks and their memories to him. Each of the five Governance Companions spoke.

‘Thank you for your skill with the computers,’ said Lenna. ‘Thank you for always fixing mine with good humour. Thank you for your laughter. Thank you for your expertise.’

Hilto, who looked older than Irian, creaked to his feet. ‘Irian, you have kept the technological heart of this island’s governance in good shape. We will sorely miss your skill and experience.’

Majool stood next. ‘Your service to this island has been greater than most of us realise. I know what you have done and I say to you it was well done. I want you to know that I will search out somebody to undertake what is still to be done.’

Irian stared straight ahead as if he had not heard Majool’s words. I didn’t blame him. They sounded more like a threat than a thanking.

Camnoon, who rarely spoke in the meetings, merely said, ‘My thanks to you, Irian.’

One after the other, people spoke their stories and their memories. Mother got to her feet and thanked him for helping when all three of us were ill with the measles. I couldn’t remember it. I hadn’t known about it.

At last, there was no more to be said. Fisa walked over and hugged him. ‘Yours has been a life well lived,’ she said, and we heard the effort it cost her to speak. ‘You have been a generous and loving man. Our lives are warmer and richer for your presence.’

Irian’s was the last word. He did not rise from the chair and his voice was tired, so very tired. ‘Thank you, my people. Your love sustains me for the final moments of my time here. And it brings joy to my heart to know that my end will signal the beginning for another citizen of Taris. As I leave this life, I will be thinking of the child who is to take my place.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Her parents will be able to make her a model citizen of Taris. I wonder if that is such a good thing. Conformity. Compliance.’ He pushed himself upright, the scraping sound of his chair almost covering the gasp of astonishment – with almost his last breath he had questioned a basic law of Taris. ‘Truly, I do not care any more, but even so, I ask you to guard this treasure well and give her your love.’

The next child to be born would be a girl for that’s how it was with us; two boys followed by two girls.

We stood and sang one of the old songs from Outside as the people of his generation walked with him out of the arena. They would stay with him while he threw the switch that would bring a peaceful end to his life. They would support him if he decided to change his mind. But he wouldn’t; nobody ever had, for on Taris, we made decisions carefully after considered and rational thought.

Our voices faded into silence, and in silence we filed from the arena to walk home through the darkness just as the evening rain began to fall.

‘He didn’t even have children of his own,’ I sobbed, stumbling along the pathway where every few steps a leaf dropped a fat tear on my head.

Dad sighed. ‘His wife died a long time ago. But nobody of his generation had children.’

I knew the story but I asked anyway, hoping that this time I’d get a different version, one that wasn’t as bald as our heads.

‘It was a time of crisis,’ Dad said, the familiar words rolling off his tongue. ‘A thousand times worse than the measles epidemic, they say. They thought Taris would fail. Nobody wanted to bring children into a world that was dying. The people suffered but their hard work saved the island.’

Mother finished the story. ‘But it was too late for the people of Irian’s generation to have children.’

Same old story. Should have saved my breath.

We turned off the path into our own garden, dodging the dripping oleander bush. Inside the house we towelled ourselves dry. ‘It’s easier to dry a bald head,’ Mother said, smiling at me.

But I yearned for hair that held the water, that flew behind me when I ran, that floated around my head when I lay on my back in the sea.

Dad whisked the towel over my damp arms. ‘Try not to make a fuss on Friday, my daughter.’ Friday was shaving day for my learning stratum. I hated Fridays.

Irian.

I didn’t want to think about him. ‘Will you be allowed to have the baby this time?’ I asked, as usual speaking without thought. They didn’t answer. ‘Oh! It isn’t fair!’ I flung my arms around them and hugged them tight.

Mother rested her hand on my head. ‘We have to accept the decisions of the Governance Companions, Juno. You know that.’

‘And we have you,’ Dad said. ‘Don’t grieve, dear girl.’

I pulled away. ‘It isn’t fair,’ I repeated, whispering in case somehow the wrong person could hear.

‘We were given our chance,’ said Mother. She filled the kettle and set it on the cooking hob. ‘Come, let’s have a hot drink. We need something to cheer us.’

She took the mugs from the shelf, then she murmured, ‘Our son would have been five by now.’ The age I had been when it all happened.

Six years ago, but the memories were sharp for all of us. First, the news had come of Oran’s death. My beloved aunt, dead from an accident. Then Mother, thirteen weeks pregnant, lost the baby.

‘I think permission will be given to Jov and Sina this time,’ she said, preparing me for disappointment, preparing herself. ‘This will be the last time we put our names forward. They believe we’re too old.’

Too old at thirty-three?

It wasn’t that I especially wanted a sister, but they yearned for another child and I knew what it was to yearn. My hand stole to my head and rubbed at the bristles which were all any of us would ever have in the way of hair.

Dad took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Put the cocoa in the mugs, Juno. And let’s have a biscuit.’

And so we had our supper, tidied up and went to bed. Irian wandered through my dreams. I knew that death had not brought him peace.

The mood of the people was subdued the next day. Nobody passed on news as we walked to our morning occupations. Irian filled our minds.

At school, Justa asked us to stand in silence for a minute of remembrance. I concentrated hard all morning on my work, for it kept uneasy thoughts out of my head. Justa was pleased.

At break, Marba marshalled us into a group and led us down to the tamarind trees. The experiment. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten about it – I just didn’t want to remember.

‘Well?’ he demanded, eyes sparkling. ‘Did anyone pick up anything?’

Silvern sat up straight, took a deep breath, and opened her mouth to speak, but Marba said, ‘Only facts, please Silvern. No speculation.’

She deflated. Ha, Silvern! Serves you right.

One by one, my classmates shook their heads.

I did the same.

‘Damn,’ Marba said. ‘It should be possible. And with all our minds working on it we …’

Silvern broke in. ‘Forget it, Marba. I’m not going to do it again. It’s dumb.’

They glared at each other, but Shallym said, ‘I agree with Silvern.’

Well, she would. She always did.

‘Me too,’ said Jidda, then Wenda, Dreeda and Rynd.

I tried to keep all expression from my face, but I was deeply relieved. Marba couldn’t work against so many of us.

He shrugged. ‘All right. If that’s your decision at the moment. I’ll ask you again in a month or two.’

Silvern turned her back on him, and Shallym asked her, ‘Have you decided who you’re going to ask to your birthday celebration yet?’

I lay down on the grass. Not me, that was certain.

That afternoon during the recreation hour, the community gathered at the memorial ground for the scattering of Irian’s ashes. We climbed the mountain, stopping below the mist. I looked up, trying to see through it. The path wound upwards to where the Atmopherics Centre lay hidden in the mist. Now Oban too would spend much of his time in the mist.

Mother tapped my shoulder. ‘Be respectful, Juno,’ she whispered.

I pulled my eyes away and listened as Fisa began to speak. She gave us Irian’s place in our history. ‘Irian was of the same family as Ibis who sacrificed herself to save the island,’ she said, telling the story we’d heard many times before. She told how Ibis was in charge of the quarantine ship anchored outside Taris when the island had only been settled a few years. She told of the rogue virus, arriving with the last of the ships to call with supplies for Taris. She told of how Ibis had isolated herself and died alone rather than risk contaminating others. ‘Irian, too, was brave. He cared for others no matter what risk there was to himself. When life no longer gave him joy, he chose to end it, so another may live.’

‘Long live Taris!’ Tendrils of mist reached down to soak up the cry. ‘May Irian’s journey bring him peace.’

I remembered my dreams and as we sang the joyful songs to celebrate his life, I kept my mind turned to whatever might remain of him and I wished him peace.

We left the mountain as the final note died away. I found my grandparents and walked with them. They weren’t old. Not really. Not as old as Irian or the other Governance Companions. Bazin, Dad’s father, dropped a hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, chicken child. We’ve all got a few good years left yet.’

I leaned my head against him. ‘I don’t want you to die. Any of you. Ever.’

The four of them laughed and told me I’d be glad to see them go when the time came. ‘For we intend to become old and cranky,’ said Leebar.

Then, like the others, we turned our words to Irian, speaking our memories and laughing at some of his deeds.

Nobody mentioned what he’d said about conformity, but it was the thing uppermost in my mind. I hated it when an old person chose death, I hated conformity and I hated compliance.

I opened my mouth to speak of it, but Grif tapped a finger on my head. ‘Save your breath to cool your porridge, my child.’

She could be altogether too clever at guessing what I was about to blurt out. I looked up at her and mouthed the words, ‘You don’t conform!’

She smiled the quirky smile that meant she agreed with me, but that we would not speak of the matter.

That evening, as the community walked home from the various manual tasks of our lives, it was as if Irian had never lived. None of the news that passed from mouth to mouth was about him.

I
n the morning, we did not speak of Irian. My parents’ thoughts were on the task ahead of them for they were going to the Governance Office to put their case forward to be allowed to have the next baby.

I wanted to speak – how I wanted to! But I held onto the words tumbling in my head:
It’s not fair!
You should be allowed! Why is it up to the Governance
Companions to decide anyway? And by the way, tell
them to let us grow our hair while you’re asking for
things.

My parents walked ahead, leaving me to my seething thoughts. They stopped to talk to Aspa and I almost bumped into them.

He hesitated, then said, ‘Have you heard? Lerick and Mersat are putting their names forward too.’

We hadn’t heard. I managed to wait until Aspa strode off up the path to the Techno Centre before I hissed, ‘Why? They’re so young. They can wait.’

My parents just smiled and passed on the news to the next person we met. I couldn’t stand it. I hugged them, wished them luck and ran ahead of them to take the path to the school. Halfway up, I caught up with Paz. He put out a hand to slow me down. ‘Whoa, Juno! Are you in such a hurry to get to school? Shaving day. Remember?’

I pulled a face. I’d actually forgotten – must be the first time in history that I’d done so. Paz tucked his arm through mine. ‘You know, I reckon Nixie is pretty skilful.’

I wriggled my shoulders. What did I care if he was the best head-shaver ever? He shaved my head and that was what mattered.

But Paz chuckled. ‘Think about it, Juno – how many cuts do you have on your skull?’

‘None … oh! I see what you mean.’ I hung my head. Truly, I tried to behave. Each shaving day, I vowed to be good, to be compliant, to sit still while Nixie ran the shaver over my skull. But something within me always rebelled and I would jerk my head and cry my protests. I sighed. ‘I try. I do try.’

I switched my thoughts and repeated the news of the day to Paz. ‘Yeah. Heard it. Boring.’

I pulled my arm away. The matter of who could have the baby might bore him, but his family already had two children. I walked into the schoolroom by myself. What would it be like to have a sister? Not great, if she turned out to be like Silvern, who appeared beside me like a puff of bad magic to say, ‘They won’t be given permission. The Governance Companions will be too worried she’d turn out like you.’

I felt as if she’d punched me in the stomach. Was it my fault they’d been denied so long?

She observed the effect of her words and smirked. Justa came in, took one look at my face, and then another at Silvern’s. ‘Silvern, please remind us – what are the values we on Taris strive to embody?’

‘Intelligence, conformity and compliance,’ Silvern recited, smugness oozing from every pore.

‘And?’ asked Justa, her eyebrows raised.

Silvern shot a killing glance at me. ‘Kindness,’ she mumbled.

Neither of them said any more, but I wasn’t comforted. Silvern’s words had done their damage. Why hadn’t my parents said anything? Why hadn’t they told me? I did so many things wrong but probably the worst was the fuss I made every shaving day.