The Marriages Between Zones 3, 4 and 5. Doris Lessing
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to.’ The grimace on Jarnti’s face was quite enough reward for her brief flare of spite, and she at once felt remorse. ‘Tell him … tell him … ’ but she could not think of anything softening and sweet. ‘Say I left because I was told to go,’ she brought out at last and sped up the road between the cliffs of the escarpment. Turning her head, she saw him trying to lift his on its stiff neck to gaze up into the forbidden mountains. But he could not: he forced it up a little way, and then his face fell forward again.
She rode over the frontier with her shield held before her, and then when she was in the fresh high singing airs of her own country, she threw down the shield, flung herself off the horse, and danced around him, shieldless, laughing so that she could nor stop. And on the peaks that stretched halfway up the sky now, the sunrise was scarlet and purple.
She wanted more than anything to be on the plateau, close under the mountains, but first she wished to make sure of certain facts. So when she had sung and danced herself back to her usual frame of mind, she got back on the horse, and turned off the road that ran to the plateau so that she would make a circle around it from right to left, through the outlying regions of the Zone. These were mostly pastoral, and farming, and she always enjoyed travelling there … but it was some time since she had made such a tour … how long? Prickling at the back of her mind was the knowledge that it had been a very long time. What had happened? How was it she had got slack like this? For she had. Irresponsible. There was no worse word. She was being stung, whipped along by it. Normally, after such a delight of dancing and retrieval of her self to the point where every atom sang and rejoiced, she would have expected to ride, or walk, or run through the long scented grasses of the steppe with nothing at her heels but the pleasures of the day, sunlight, crisp aromatic winds, the lights changing, always changing, on the peaks … but no, it was not so. She had been very wrong. Why? She even jumped down off her horse and stood with her arms around his neck and her face pressed into the slippery heat there, as if the horse’s strength could feed understanding into her. She had been particularly busy? No, she could not believe so. Life had been as it always was, delightful, with the children, her friends, her lovers, the amiable pace of this realm setting the rhythms of the body and the mind into good humour, kindliness … thinking of the smiling, contented faces of her life, she rebelled that there might be something wrong — how could there be!
A man’s voice said, ‘Are you in need of help?’ She turned and saw he was an agriculturalist from one of the communal farms. Young, healthy, with that particular glistening warmth to him that was the mark of well-being and good humour, and which was so singularly lacking in Ben Ata’s realm.
‘No, I am well,’ she said. But he was examining her in doubt. She remembered she still wore the brief white wrapper, now sleeveless and ragged, and that the horse’s hooves were bound in cloth. She pulled the rags off his hooves, and as she did so, he asked, ‘Ah, I see who you are. And how is marriage in Zone Four?’ This was the sort of friendly enquiry that she would normally have expected, but she gave him a quick suspicious glance, which she was categorizing as ‘a Zone Four look.’ But no, of course he meant nothing ‘impertinent’ — a Zone Four word! Oh, she had been very much changed by her day and a half in that low place.
‘You are right, I am Al·Ith. And I had forgotten I was wearing this thing. Tell me, would one of the women of your household lend me a dress of some kind?’
‘Of course. I’ll go now.’
And he ran off to where she could see a group of farmsteads surrounded by flocks and herds.
Meanwhile, she found a small tree, set the horse free to graze, and sat down.
When he came running back, with a garment in his hand, he saw her there, and the horse cropping, but close enough that he could lift his nose often to nuzzle and caress her.
‘What is your horse’s name, Al·Ith?’
‘I haven’t thought of a name good enough for him.’
‘Ah, then, he is a special friend!’
‘Yes, he chose me as a friend almost from the first moment.’
‘Yori,’ he said. ‘Your companion, your friend.’
‘Yes, that is very good!’ And she stroked the horse’s nose and whispered his name, Yori, into his ears.
‘And I, too,’ said the man. Of course I have always known you, but when I saw you, I felt at once that you were of me. My name is Yori, too.’ And he sat down on the grass opposite to her, and rested his arms on his knees, and leaned forward smiling.
And now Al·Ith was altogether thrown into doubt. She smiled, and nodded, but kept silent. If things had been normal, these words were of the sort she would have responded to at once. This man was her kind, and her flesh and his flesh communicated easily, and had from first glance. Sitting there with him among the warm drily scented grasses, the shade from the little tree sifting gently over them, it would have been the easiest thing to put out her hand, to his, and start a delicious hour or two of play. But voices seemed to ring through her, saying No. No! Why? Was she then already pregnant? Oh, she hoped not, for it was not in such a way that she had chosen children in the past. And if she were pregnant, then it was in the order of things and, indeed, required, and prescribed, to allow herself to be bathed and sustained by this man’s particular and individual being, so that the child would be fed by his essences and so that it would hear his words and be nourished. When she had been pregnant — and after what care, and thought, and long careful choices—in the past, she had, as soon as she had been sure, chosen as beneficial influences for her child, several men who, knowing why they were chosen, and for what purpose, co-operated with her in this act of blessing and gracing the foetus. These men had a special place in her heart and in the annals of her Zone. They were Fathers of the children just as much as the Gene-Fathers were. Every child in the Zone had such exactly chosen Mind-Fathers, who were as responsible for it as were the Gene-Fathers. These men formed a group who, with the Gene-Mother, and the women who cared for the child, considered themselves joint-parents, forever available to her, or him, any time they were needed, collectively and individually. If she were indeed pregnant, then she could not begin too soon to choose her child’s good influences.
‘Yori … ’ and the horse pricked up his ears and moved forward, so that the two people both smiled and touched him gently to soothe him, ‘do you think I am pregnant?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Would you know, in the normal run of things?’
‘Yes, I have always done until now.’
‘Are you many times a father?’
‘Twice a Gene-Father — and I expect to be one again in five years’ time when my turn comes around. And seven times a Mind-Father.’
‘Have you always known?’
‘Yes, from the first.’
They looked at each other reflectively, in the way that would have led to play, but there was a barrier between them.
‘If I were myself, it is you I would choose above any man, and I would choose you, too, for a Gene-Father, if a Gene-Child were required of me, but …’
Shadows came racing across the great steppe, the grasses rippled and hummed, the tree above them rustled, Yori the horse lifted his head and whinnied as if letting out into the air thoughts too painful to keep in, and she sat there with tears running down her face.
‘Al·Ith! You are weeping,’ he said, in a low, appalled voice.
‘I know! I have done nothing else these last days. Why? I don’t understand myself! I understand nothing!’ And she put her face in her hands and wept, while Yori the man caressed her hands, and Yori the horse snuffled at her arm.
Waves of understanding passed between her and the man through their hands, their severed flesh mourned because their two bodies knew they should be together, and she said, ‘That is a terrible place down there. Have I been poisoned by it?’
‘Why is it?