“From my own efenburu,” Vaintè said bitterly. “That is a weight that I can never put down.”
“The fault is not yours,” Malsas‹ said. “There are Daughters of Death in my efenburu as well. This is a disease that eats us all.”
“This is a disease that may have a cure. I dare not speak more of it now; we could be overheard. But I will say that I see a possibility of hope.”
“You are first to me in all things,” Malsas‹ said, sincerity strong in every motion. “Do this, cure this disease, and none will be higher.”
Enge had not meant to acknowledge her efenselè, the gesture had been done unconsciously, yet even as she had done it she had realized her mistake. Vaintè would not have been pleased by it at any time. But now, with the Eistaa present, it might be considered an insult. Enge had not intended it so. It had been a mistake but not a deliberate one.
The line had halted before the barred gate, waiting for it to open, waiting for release. Release into prison, but for all of them it was a freedom. Here they were one, here they were free to believe the truth — and more important — speak the truth.
When she was with the other Daughters of Life, Enge no longer felt bound by her pledge not to speak to other Yilanè of her beliefs — for they all shared the same beliefs here. When Inegban* had come to Alpèasak the city’s unwelcome burden of believers had come as well. There were so many of them that this compound had been grown, walled and guarded so that their intellectual poison did not spread. What they spoke of between themselves, behind these walls, was of no importance to the rulers outside. Just as long as these treasonous thoughts stayed behind the sharp thorns of the wall.
Efenate hurried up to Enge, her slight form quivering with news. “It is Peleinè,” she said. “She is talking to us, answering our questions.”
“I will join you,” Enge said, the stiffness of her body scarcely concealing her troubled thoughts. Ugunenapsa’s teaching had always been clear to her, a beam of sunshine in the dark jungle of worry. But her teachings were not always seen that way by others, were open to interpretations and discussion. That was only right, for Ugunenapsa had taught about the freedom of the power of the mind to understand everything, not just the power of life and death. Although Enge agreed with this freedom, she was still disturbed by some of the interpretations of Ugunenapsa’s words, and of all the interpretations Peleinè’s disturbed her most of all.
Peleinè stood on the raised root of the large tree so that all those gathered around could understand what she was saying. Enge stopped at the edge of the crowd, settling back like the others onto her tail to listen. Peleinè was speaking in the new manner of discussion that had become so popular, using questions and answers to tell them what she wanted them to know.
“Ugunenapsa, the fargi still wet from the sea asked, Ugunenapsa, what makes me different from the squid in the sea? Then Ugunenapsa answered, the difference is, my daughter, that you can know of death, while the squid in the sea know only life.
“But knowing of death, how can I then know of life? The answer that Ugunenapsa then spoke was so simple and so clear that had it been spoken at the egg of time it would still ring clear tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow. The answer was that which sustains us, for knowing of death we know the limits of life, therefore we live when others would die. That is the strength of our belief, that is the belief that is our strength.
“Then the fargi, wet from the sea in her simplicity, asked what of the squid I eat, do I not bring it death? And she was answered, no, the squid brings you life with its flesh and since it knows not of death it cannot die.”
There was a murmur of appreciation at this from the listeners, and Enge herself was moved by the clarity and beauty of the thought and for the moment forgot all reservations she may have had about the speaker. Eager in her desire for knowledge, one of the Yilanè cried out from the listening crowd.
“Wise Peleinè, what if the squid were so large that it threatened your life, and its taste was so horrible that it could not be eaten? What would you do then? Would you stand and be eaten, or would you kill even though you knew that you could not eat?”
Peleinè acknowledged the difficulty of the problem. “Here is where we must study Ugunenapsa’s thoughts closely. She spoke of the thing within us that cannot be seen, that enables us to speak and separates us from the unthinking beasts. To preserve this unseen thing is worthwhile, therefore killing the squid to preserve the unseen thing is worth doing. We are the Daughters of Life and must preserve life.”
“What if the squid could talk, what then?” someone called out, and since this was the question closest to all of them they were silent and attentive. When Peleinè spoke they all listened.
“For Ugunenapsa there was no answer for she knew of no talking squid.” Peleinè made her answer more explicit. “Nor were there talking ustuzou. Therefore we must seek in Ugunenapsa’s words for her true intent. Does speaking alone signify the knowledge of life and death? Or can an ustuzou speak, yet know not of death? If that is true, then to save our lives we might kill that ustuzou that speaks, for we know that we know of the difference, yet we know not if the ustuzou is aware. This is a decision that we must make.”
“But we cannot decide,” Enge called out, much disturbed. “We cannot decide unless we know, for if we do not know for certain then we violate all that Ugunenapsa taught.”
Peleinè turned in her direction and signed agreement yet worry. “Enge speaks the truth, but speaks the problem as well. We must consider the reservation that there is only the possibility that the ustuzou may know of life and death. This must be balanced against the fact that we surely do know of life and death. On one hand a doubt, on the other a certainty. Since life is the thing that we value the highest I say we must hold to the certainty and reject the doubt. There can be no other way.”
There were more questions, but Enge did not hear them, did not want to hear them. She could not escape her deep-felt belief that Peleinè was wrong, yet could not see her way clearly to expressing this certainty. She must ponder on it. She sought a quiet place away from the others and turned all of her attention inwards.
So wrapped was she in her thoughts that she did not notice the guards who went through the crowds seeking out a work party. Did not hear the little cries of distress when their teacher, Peleinè, was one of those selected, as though she were no different from the others. The working parties were chosen, leashed together, led away.
Those with Peleinè were not bound as were the others because they were taken away in smaller groups for different work. None of them noticed that in the end Peleinè was left alone. The guards were sent away as well by a Yilanè of authority who led Peleinè by a long route around the city to a door which opened for her. Peleinè went in unhappily, for this had happened before and she was still not sure within herself if what she was doing was correct. But until she decided she could make no protest, could not refuse to be here. Reluctantly she entered and closed the door behind her. There was only one other Yilanè present in the room.
“Now we will talk,” Vaintè said.
Peleinè stood with her head bowed, staring unseeingly at her hands as she nervously laced and unlaced her thumbs. “I feel that what I am doing is wrong,” she said finally. “I should not be here. I should not talk to you.”
“You have no cause to feel that way. I merely want to hear what you have to say. Is it not a duty of a Daughter of Life to speak to others about her beliefs, to bring enlightenment to them?”
“It is. Are you then enlightened, Vaintè? Do you now call me a Daughter of Life instead of a Daughter of Death because you believe as I do?”