Venus of Dreams (16 page)

"Why would she wonder about that?"

"It's my studies, I guess. She says some men don't like it if you know too much because they think you're putting yourself above them."

"But you have to know about farming and managing a commune. That probably is more important than what we do. We just wander around fixing things and having kids we hardly ever see until we're too old, and then they stick us in a hostel somewhere so we can sit around jawing about old times and training apprentices." He sounded bitter. "I don't know. I've met men from a couple of other Nomarchies—they have real homes they can go back to someday."

"I haven't just been learning about farming," she said. "It's other things. I started taking lessons over the band when I was little, and then a Linker came to see us and told me the lessons would be paid for if I kept doing well, so I've been studying ever since." She had not kept a tone of pride out of her voice.

"Lessons?"

"Prep lessons, the ones they teach in schools."

He let go of her arm and halted. "Can you read?"

She nodded.

"But what for?"

She shouldn't have spoken, but it was too late now. "I just wanted to learn everything I could. I can't explain it."

"You must know enough by now."

"That's just it. There's always something new, something that makes what you learned before seem different. It's like a puzzle you try to fit together, but there's always more pieces to find. It makes me happy."

"You sound like you're talking about a lover." He began to lead her down the street once more. "What are you going to do with it?"

"It doesn't matter. I don't care if I ever do anything with it."

"I think you do care." He shook his head. "Well, you are a surprise."

"You probably think it's useless."

"No, Iris. I don't think that. But wanting something you can't have—nothing good comes of it. That Linker might not have done you a favor by letting you have your lessons. Push too hard and you just bring trouble—and to other people besides yourself. It's better to take what comes."

They were in front of her house. "We're here. You don't have to come inside if you don't want to," she said, though she still clung to the hope that he would stay. "I'll understand."

"Oh, Iris." He gripped her elbows. "You're still a woman. That stuff inside your head isn't going to change that. You want me to stay, come to your room—I can see it. I'll show you something better than all that learning, believe me."

He didn't understand after all; her learning was only something to be pushed aside. She wanted him in spite of it, but some of the joy had gone out of anticipating the encounter.

She led him inside to meet the others.

Lips touched her forehead. Iris stirred and reached out with her arms.

"Have to go," Jon said. "I'll be back before supper." He had already put on his work clothes; she gazed at his back as he left the room, remembering the feel of his muscles under her hands.

She sat up, yawning. Her nights had become long sessions of lovemaking punctuated by periods of dreamless sleep. Jon had been in the house for over a week. She couldn't sleep when he was with her; she could not rest or concentrate when he was absent and thoughts of him kept intruding on her mind. She would recall his hands on her breasts or his tongue probing her slit and she would ache, longing for night.

She glanced at her keyboard, screen, and band guiltily as she climbed out of bed. She had been neglecting her lessons. One night, she had punched up an essay she had written, wanting to read part of it to Jon, to share that part of herself with him. The essay concerned an early period of Plains history; she had thought he might be interested in that. Jon had listened for a moment, looking bored before he began to fondle her again, and had led her back to bed. She had not been able to explain how that had hurt her.

She was falling behind; she would lose her allotment. She would have a hard time making up the work, and Jon had already mentioned that he might be able to stay with her for an extra week or two. That possibility tore at her; she wanted him to stay, but feared what might happen if he did. What did she matter to Jon? He would go on to another town and another woman; he would not be there to console her at the loss of her dream. She closed her eyes, seeing the bracelet on his wrist, the identity band that carried his codes and the record of his accounts, the band that all travelers wore and that was the symbol of his freedom from the bonds that held her.

She would never be chosen for a school. That dream, so wild and impossible that she had shared it with no one except Alexandra Lenas, would die at last. She feared that Jon was only the first of the men who would silence her questions with kisses and fog her mind with caresses. She would look at the Parasol's reflected light in the sky and think of the world she would never see, a world whose people would shed the past and be free.

She crossed the room and sat down at her screen. She smelled of sex; Jon's odor still clung to her. She could not even study when he was away from the house; he had robbed her of the power to concentrate. Even now, she saw his face, and remembered.

She folded her arms, knowing she had to make a decision. She had to make sure that Jon didn't stay the extra week. There were plenty of arguments she could use. Lilia was finally expecting her first child; Iris would have to help care for it. Jon would be spending credit instead of earning it if he took off time to stay here. She could even flatter him, tell him that she feared becoming too strongly attached to him.

She stood up. The matter was settled. She felt a pang, wishing that Jon had been less of a man and had never awakened her feelings; it would be hard for her to repress them.

Eight

The spring of 537 promised to be hot and sticky. The women sat in the common room, fanning themselves as they gazed at the image of Bart Jennifers on the screen.

The Counselor had not come to Lincoln that year in person, and that breach of custom had caused talk. Some remembered Jon's story, and whispered that the murder must have frightened Bart, and wondered which Counselor had died in Spencer. Several townsfolk had learned that Bart had not been seen in other towns, either.

Iris watched the friendly, bearded face of Bart Jennifers. He sat in a straight-backed chair, his hands folded over his pudgy stomach. He nodded in an oddly mechanical way as Angharad spoke of her plans. "I've been thinking of having another child," she said to the Counselor. "Maybe in a couple of years, when Lilia's child is older. Eric will be leaving us soon, and I don't want to wait too much longer—I'm thirty-one now."

"Were you planning on a son or a daughter?" the Counselor asked.

Angharad shrugged. "I hadn't really decided."

"You already have a daughter," Bart said. "Is Iris sure there won't be any dispute about which of two daughters would take over from you?"

"It's up to Angharad," Iris said. "I wouldn't go against her wishes, or anyone else's."

Angharad folded her arms. "Maybe when Iris is older and puts some of her foolishness behind her, I'll feel better about leaving things to her. As things are now, I might prefer to have Lilia take over in the future." Iris bowed her head. "And Lilia has a daughter now," Angharad continued. "The farm is the most important thing. My feelings as a mother are not going to make me do anything that isn't in the commune's interest."

Iris looked up. Her mother had often said such things in front of the Counselor, as if trying to shame Iris into obedience. Lilia adjusted her blouse as her daughter Sylvie nursed at one breast; she watched Iris with apologetic brown eyes. Iris forced a smile; she did not hold anything against Lilia, who often protested in her gentle voice when she felt that Angharad was being cruel to Iris.

"At this point, you could choose either a son or a daughter," Bart said. "The Nomarchies have had to take some of our Plainsmen from us for work elsewhere." He motioned with one hand. Iris narrowed her eyes. The Counselor seemed unlike himself. Usually he had anecdotes to offer, examples of how other people might have settled a particular problem; his responses today had been terse.

"Iris." She sat up straight as Bart uttered her name. "You're fifteen now. I see you're still pursuing your studies."

She nodded. "At least until summer." She had completed most of her work, but the extra labor had taken its toll, and she was often too tired to do more than review what she had studied earlier. "I don't know if I'll have the lessons paid for later," she added, thinking Bart might know something about that.

"We'll see, we'll see," the Counselor responded. "You're getting on toward the time when you'll be thinking of a child of your own. You and your mother should probably discuss which of you has a child in the next few years. You could wait, of course, but you might prefer not to."

Angharad rested her chin on one hand. "If it's that way, then of course Iris should give birth. We must think of the line's future. Maybe having a child would bring my daughter around."

"She's hardly going to have a child," Constance said, "if she doesn't have a man."

Iris sighed. She had known that the session would get around to that.

"What's this?" Bart leaned forward.

"I don't know what's the matter with her," Angharad said. "Last fall, on the night of her ceremony, she was with a fine young man, from a good family—his lineage goes back almost as far as my own. Not only was he good-looking, but I have no reason to think that he wasn't a good lover as well. He stayed here two weeks and didn't even look at another woman, but ever since, she's been avoiding men altogether." She frowned. "I've talked to her, and she admits he pleased her, but she doesn't even look at anyone else."

"Dear me," Bart said, folding his hands again. "Is this some sort of infatuation, then, a fixation, perhaps?"

"No," Iris said.

"You'd better be frank with me, young lady."

"It isn't. I don't love him that way." She stared straight at the screen, knowing she spoke the truth and hoping Bart would see that.

"I know that some young women your age can develop such fixations. It isn't healthy. I could recommend that you talk to another Counselor, perhaps a woman who would understand the problem." Angharad glared at her daughter, obviously angry at the suggestion that Iris might need the help of a specialist; they had always solved their own problems before. "But I think," the Counselor finished, "that the surest cure is another man's attentions."

"It isn't a fixation," Iris said. "It's just that I haven't met anyone else I want to make love to, that's all. I'm sure I will." She could not tell him the real reason. She wanted her mind clear and undistracted; no one could understand what that desire had cost her, when her body often seemed ready to turn against her. Angharad would have been gratified to know how normal Iris actually was, how often she had to push thoughts of men and their bodies from her mind.

"We'll see," Bart said. "If things haven't changed in a year or so, maybe we'll call in someone for Iris to talk to. Well, it's been very nice talking to you, especially nice to see Wenda still going strong." The old woman smiled in satisfaction. "I hope we'll get a chance to speak again. You're a fine commune. There is some chance I may be transferred to another post, though."

"Nice to talk to you, Bart," Angharad answered. "Best of luck, whatever happens. I'm sure our little problem will resolve itself soon."

The image of the Counselor faded. "A specialist," Angharad muttered. "You'd better damned well not need one. No one in our family ever has, as far as I know. Even my grandmother Gwen, with her problems, didn't—" Angharad bit her lip; she almost never mentioned Gwen.

"It wasn't Bart," Iris said.

"What are you talking about?"

"It wasn't Bart, Angharad. I think we were only talking to an image. It wouldn't be hard to do. The cyberminds could send a hologram that looks just like him and responds to questions the way he would, but it didn't sound like Bart somehow, so I guess they didn't have time to do it right. I think Bart's dead. He must have died last year, in Spencer. That's why he didn't come here."

"You idiot." Angharad jumped to her feet. "I had to speak to a woman in Spencer just last month. She didn't say anything about that ridiculous story. In fact, she'd spoken to Bart over her own screen just the day before."

"It doesn't matter. Maybe she really doesn't know what happened. Maybe only a few people were witnesses. Maybe every call or message going in and out of Spencer is being monitored. I've had to learn a little about cybernetics—I know what can be done."

"Don't you dare spread your suspicions around town! What do you think would happen to us if you did?" Angharad glanced fearfully around the room; from the nervous looks on the faces of the women, Iris guessed that even Constance and Wenda would not tell anyone else what she had said. "You cursed girl. Why did you have to learn all that stuff? What good is it?"

Iris shrank back in her seat.

"She thinks she's better than we are," Constance said. "She's even passed some of her nonsense on to my son." She glared at Eric. "Letting him think he can be a shopkeeper, teaching him figures." Eric's hands became fists; his knuckles were white.

"This business has gone too far," Angharad continued. "I don't care what that Linker told you—it was a mistake for her to offer you lessons. I should have protested then. All your learning has done is make it impossible for you to act like a woman."

"Do you think everyone does things the way we do?" Iris burst out. "In some places, women my age treat men only as friends. Sometimes, they even have a bond with only one man." Sheryl gasped; Wenda shook her head. "And in schools, the students are discouraged from sex, at least until they're older—they think it distracts them from their work. They even prolong the time before puberty so that they can—"

"I won't listen to this!" Angharad cried. "You think that because you know some useless facts, you can act any way you like. Where would the world be without us? We feed most of it, don't we? Mother of God, we ran the world before those fine folks in Amman and Tashkent even knew what a computer was."