Mara and Dann. Doris Lessing
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protected, safe, and she wanted never to move away from those kind arms. Then he gently released her and, squatting in front of her, as he had before, asked, ‘What is your name?’ And as she told him, she saw his face change into a weariness and disappointment with her that made her want to clutch him and say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry’ – but she did not know what for. He put his face close, so that she could see a little mesh of red veins in his eyes and the grime in the pores of his face, and he said, ‘Mara. I told you: Mara. I’ve just told you.’ And now she did remember that, yes, it was one of the things he had been telling her during the time she couldn’t listen. He had told her to forget her name, her real name, and that now she was called Mara. ‘Mara,’ she repeated, obedient, feeling that the sound had nothing to do with her. ‘Again,’ he said, stern, and she knew he did not believe she would remember, because she hadn’t, until now. ‘Mara. My name is Mara.’ ‘Good – and this child here…?’ But she could not remember what he had said. He saw from her desperate face that she did not know. ‘His name is Dann now. He must forget his name.’ And he went to the door, very stiff and slow, and there he turned and looked at her, a long look, and she said, ‘Mara. I’m Mara.’ He went out and this time the rock door was not slid back. Outside she could see the dark of the night and the dark shapes of people. Now she let her brother go loose and he woke. ‘That was a good man,’ she told him. ‘He is our friend. He is helping us. The one you are frightened of, he’s the bad one. Do you understand? They are brothers.’ He was staring up at her, trying to understand: she was taller, because he was three years younger, four years old, and he was her little brother whom she had protected and cared for since he was born. She said it all again. This one was good. The other was bad. And her name was Mara now and he must forget her real name. And his name was…a moment’s panic: had she forgotten it? No. ‘Your name is Dann.’ ‘No it isn’t, that’s not my name.’ ‘Yes, it is. You must forget your real name, it’s dangerous.’ And her voice shook, she heard it become a sob, and the little boy put up his hand to stroke her face. This made her want to howl and weep, because she felt he had come back to her, her beloved little brother, after a horrible time when some sort of changeling had been attached to her. She did not know if he had understood, but now he said, ‘Poor Mara,’ and she clutched him and kissed him, and they were crying and clutching when two people came in, in the clothes of the Rock People, but they were not Rock People. They had bundles of the brown tunics under their arms and they took two, one for her and one for Dann. She hated the feel of the tunic, slippery and thin, going down over her head, and the little boy said, ‘Do I have to wear this?’
Now the man said, ‘Quick, we must hurry,’ and hustled them to the door. The candle was left burning; then he remembered, took it up and held it high, looking around the room to see what had been forgotten.
The little girl who was now Mara looked back too, so as to remember the room, or what she could, for she was already anxious because of what she was forgetting.
As for the little boy, he would remember later only the warmth and safety of his sister’s body, as he pressed himself into it. ‘Are we going home now?’ he asked, and she was thinking, Of course we are; because all this time she had been thinking, We’ll go home and the bad people will have gone and then…Yet that man had been telling her, yes, he had been telling her – while he squatted in front of her, talking and talking, and she had not been able to hear because of her longing for a drink – they were not going home. This was the first time the little girl really understood that they were not going back to their home. Outside, in the darkness, she looked up to see how the stars had moved. Her father had taught her how to look at stars. She was trying to find the ones that were called The Seven Friends. And they were her friends, her stars. She had said to her father, ‘But there are eight – no, nine,’ and he had called her Little Bright Eyes. Where was her father? Her mother? She was just going to pull at the elbow of the tall man who had come in with the clothes, and ask, when she understood that she had been told and had not heard properly. She did not dare ask again. She saw four of the people go off quietly, quickly, hardly to be seen in the brown clothes. Two were left: the man and a woman. She could hear by how they breathed, too loud, that they were tired and wanted to rest and sleep – yes, sleep…And as she drowsed off, standing there, she felt herself shaken awake and in her turn shook her brother, who was limp and heavy in her grasp. ‘Can you walk?’ asked the woman. ‘Good,’ said the man while she hesitated, and he said, ‘Then come on.’ Around them were other rock houses. They were all empty, she could see, while being hurried past. Why was the village empty? How could they, the People, just go into a rock house and walk through a rock village without guards?
‘Where are they?’ she whispered up at the woman, and heard the whisper, ‘They’ve all gone north.’
Soon they stopped. High in the sky above her she saw the head of a cart bird turning and tilting to look down at them to see who they were. She was terrified of these tall birds, with their sharp beaks and great feet and claws that could rip somebody to pieces. But it was harnessed to a cart and she was expected to climb in. The cart was used on the fields, and was a flimsy thing that rattled about and only carried light loads. She could not manage it and was lifted in, and then Dann was beside her, and the whole cart creaked and seemed to want to settle to the earth as the two big people got in. The cart bird stood waiting. The slave who looked after the cart bird, who they called the cart bird man, sat just behind the bird, making it start and stop with a whistle she had often heard them make. The man and the woman wanted the cart to go forward and kept saying, ‘Go, go,’ but the bird did not move. Mara whispered, ‘It needs a whistle.’ ‘What whistle?’ ‘Like this.’ Mara had not meant her little piping whistle to make the bird go, but that is what happened. The cart was rushing forward and the great feet of the cart bird were going down hard into the dust and lifting up and scattering dust back over them all. Where were they going? Mara was afraid that these two people who were trying to help them did not know, but they were saying to each other loudly, because of all the noise, ‘There’s the big hill,’ ‘That’s the black rock they described,’ ‘I think that must be the dead tree.’ Weren’t they supposed to be keeping quiet because of enemies? Anyone near could hear the rattling of the cart, though the wheels were running quietly through the dust. The little boy was crying. She knew he felt sick, because she did. And then Mara fell off to sleep and kept waking to see the cart bird’s great head jerking along against the stars…And then, suddenly, the cart stopped. The cart bird had stopped because it was tired. It fell to its knees and its beak was open, and it tried to get up but couldn’t, and sank back into the dust.
‘We are there anyway,’ the man told the children; and the two big people lifted the children out of the cart, and were tugging them off away from the cart when Mara said, ‘Wait, the cart bird.’ And then, seeing these people did not know much about cart birds, she said, ‘If the bird is left tied to the cart and can’t move it will die.’
‘She’s right,’ said the man, and the woman said, ‘Thank you for telling us.’
Now the two moved to where the rope from the cart was tied to the harness on the bird; but they did not know how to untie it. The man took out a knife and cut all the lines. The bird staggered up and to the side of the track, where it fell again, and sat moving its head around, and opening and shutting its beak. It was so thirsty: Mara could feel the dryness of its mouth in her own.
Now they were walking along a path, the kind the Rock People used: not straight and wide, like the real roads, but going through the bushes and grasses anyhow it could, and looping around rocky places. It was soft underfoot, this path: it was only dust. Several times she had to stop herself tripping, because her feet dragged in the dust drifts and she was pulling her brother along. The woman said something, and the man came back and picked up the child, who let out a wail, but stopped himself in time to prevent that hand over his mouth. They were trying to talk quietly, but the little girl thought, Our breathing is so loud, anyone near could hear it, and we are all too tired to walk carefully. Once or twice she drifted off to sleep as she walked, and came to herself at the tug of the woman’s hand. Now it was light, Mara could see her face: it was a nice face, but so tired, and around her mouth was the greyish scum of being thirsty. The light was still grey, and across the great stretch of country from that reddening sky came that cold breath that says