Jack Chalker - Twilight at the Well of Souls

“But why?” Yua wanted to know. “Why is it so? This system looks ripe for revolution.” She struggled with the last concept, which had no equivalent in the Awbrian language. The word came out something like “changing the way things work,” but it made the point.

The elder sighed. “My child, you do not yet know or understand. When your first Time is done you will understand that this way is the only way. Now go. I release you from work until your first Time and clan induction. After that, things will be clearer to you. After that you may want to kill yourself.” Her eyes narrowed. “And remember, if there is any chance that you might, even accidentally, betray what you now know, you will have an even easier, and more sudden, out.”

With that threat the interview was over. The old woman settled back, took up a small box filled with some fine white powder and form-fitted to her bill, inhaled deeply, and seemed to sink into some kind of pleasant oblivion. Dhutu gestured and they went out, down to the next level.

The women stayed in spartan quarters on several levels, divided according to guild—carpentry, farming, artisan, etc.—with the bottom-most level left for those without guild or classification. It looked much like the others, a barren hall with straw pillows for sleeping, an ingenious plumbing system where outer waterfalls were tapped and brought through the thick trunk and then back out again, and toilet facilities, open to all, flushed in the same manner by the force of a trickle of running water in a trough. But unlike the trough for washing, bathing, and the like, the toilet outlet went to an area below the lowest level, where a natural system filtered it out. The fecal matter of the Awbrians helped nourish the tree, so it was a clever system, but it made the level just above one nasty stinking place —and that, of course, was the level for unskilled and non-guild workers, her level.

“You’ll get used to the stench,” Dhutu assured her. “After a while here you don’t even notice it any more. We all started in a level like this. Most of your sisters will be very young and not yet apprenticed to guilds —or very, very stupid. You understand.”

Yua nodded less than enthusiastically. “Dhutu, there’s something I’m still puzzled about. This thing about my ‘Time.’ At first I misunderstood you, thinking you were talking about time in general. But you’re not. The ancient one above referred to it. What does it mean?”

Dhutu hesitated a moment. “Best you experience it. It is hard to describe. It is just your Time, that’s all. You’ll see. Then you will not need it explained.”

That wasn’t satisfactory, but despite all her pressing, that was all she was going to get.

The next few days passed slowly, but she was allowed some freedom to see the kind of work that went on in making a life tree ready and was given some introduction to the type of life they lived here. The different kinds of trees for different purposes interested her. Only some of the trees were life trees, huge with hollow interiors able to support colonies of Awbrians; some grew specific fruits; others offered nothing on their own but had flat branches with depressions in them in which the mulch, mixed from chewed bark, straw, insects, and lots of other stuff and molded together by saliva from glands only the females possessed, was deposited and then the mess seeded expertly, fertilized, and tended lovingly until a crop of some kind of vegetable or even straw was raised.

She grew more puzzled, too, at Obie’s grand design. Something, she felt certain, had gone wrong. She was to organize and lead an army, or as much of one as possible, rallying others along the way to her cause, finally linking up in some place called Glathriel with forces raised by Marquoz and Mavra Chang, wherever and whatever they were now. But even if she knew where that was, and where she was, the Awbrian system made it all but impossible for her to do what was required. And she couldn’t really see what sort of skills the Awbrians possessed, anyway. Perhaps she had become the wrong thing, she feared. Or, possibly, Obie did need the Awbrians for some reason, some balance of forces—there was the omnivorous character and the flying, for example—perhaps he forgot in his encoding of her to specify sex. Perhaps she should have been an Awbri male. It would make more sense.

Time was running out, too. In a very short while the flood of people into the Well World would begin —if it hadn’t already. The Well World’s population was due to double, even in Awbri. In some cases the system would break down completely. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, when Olympian Entries outnumber the Awbrian population the revolution would come automatically and she would then be in a position to rally and lead them. Perhaps. She could only hope and wait, impatiently.

Several times she thought of escape, but that seemed a dead end. She alone would not rally anything; each hex was like a separate alien planet anyway, and she had no idea where on the world she was.

But it was maddening all the same, made even more so by this totally degrading existence.

A week after she arrived she started having odd feelings, strange dreams she couldn’t quite relate to any reality, and hot and cold flushes. She was afraid she had become ill, but the others assured her what she was experiencing was normal, natural. She was approaching her Time.

And, one morning, she awoke to it in full. She felt an enormous ache, an absolute need to be satisfied, like a drug addict too long without her drug. It was a craving beyond reason, beyond belief. Her entire body ached with longing and she could not think at all, couldn’t get control of herself. Her entire being wanted, needed, desired only one thing, and nothing else would matter until she got it. The elders knew, too, and made the arrangements, and soon she was up on the upper-level quarters, in the quarters of the males, and they in turn gave her what she wanted, needed, craved. She had no idea how many of them there were, nor how long it took, nor, afterward, could she even remember anything of the experience except the tremendous, ultimate pleasures it brought and the fact that she would have done anything, anything at all, for them.

Later she learned it had lasted for two days and nights—about average, they told her. And it recurred about every six weeks except during pregnancy—the hormones pregnancy triggered made an individual docile and somewhat dreamy, increasing more so as term neared.

She felt even more degraded, not merely from the experience but because of her own uncontrollable passions. She had had sex before, as an Olympian, but it had been nothing like this. Nothing. This was in and of itself a drug, a feeling so pleasurably intense and so total that the memory remained as a pleasing ache and her mind kept anticipating her next Time even as her intellect feared and abhorred it.

And this, she realized, was the trap. This is what they meant, why there had been no revolution nor was there a likelihood of one, and why the men were so secure in their position. The women could rebel, all right—and the men would simply wait for the Time to bring the rebels crawling, begging, so much in heat they’d probably kill their best friend if that friend tried to stop them. Here was a cruel biological control on this society, and an absolute one. The female reproductive system, it seemed, was very chintzy with its eggs, and even with this system pregnancy was usual only once in every two or three years. Conditions, both for male and female, had to be absolutely perfect to produce young.

About the only positive thing was that all the women now called her “sister” and she received far better treatment from everyone in the clan, even from the very few males she ran across. She was one of them now.