Anne Bishop - The Voice

Dear Readers,

Some stories haunt you until you write them. That’s what happened to me a few years ago when the first sentence of this story wouldn’t let me go until I wrote the rest of it. “The Voice” was my introduction to the city of Vision, one of the landscapes of Ephemera. I’m pleased to be able to share it with you now.

Travel lightly,

Anne Bishop

They called her The Voice because she had none. Fat, mute, and dimwitted, she was an orphan the village supported, providing her with a house and caretakers. And she was always included in village life. Oh, she wasn’t invited into people’s homes—everyone went to The Voice’s house when a visit was required—but every time someone had a “moody day,” as my mother had called them, every time something happened that was less than pleasant, a special little cake was made. The “moody” person took the treat to The Voice’s house, waited until she took her special seat in the visitors’ room, then handed her the food.

She never refused a moody cake. Never. She would smile at the children when they handed her the treats, and sometimes she smiled at the adults. She never smiled at the village Elders, but she also never refused their offerings when they came to visit. You always knew that she didn’t refuse because that was part of the ritual—you stayed and watched her eat what you had brought, and when you left, you felt better. The moody day was gone and you went back to your ordinary life.

I never considered the oddity of an orphan having a visitors’ room that bore a resemblance to the audience chamber in the Elders’ Hall. I never wondered why having a moody day required making a treat that was given away. And I never wondered why an adult provided escort and oversaw the visit until a child was considered trustworthy enough to take the treat to The Voice and not eat it herself. I never felt anything but a smug pity for the girl—and being just ten years older than me, she was barely more than a girl at the time—who always wore these strange hoods that covered her head and neck and was provided with simple smocks and trousers as covering for her body because, despite being young, there was no need for her to dress in pretty clothes that would attract a male eye, as the other girls were doing.

So I lived quite happily—and innocently—in the village that supported The Voice until the summer I turned ten years old. That was when I had my first glimpse of the truth.

It had been a hot summer, and there had been little rain. Men were wearing their summer garb—sleeveless tunics and lightweight pants that were hemmed above the knee. Some of the younger men—the bachelors in the village who were looking for a wife—were even bold enough to cut off their trousers to midthigh length, which delighted the older women; mortified the older, knobby-kneed men; and scandalized the village Elders. It wasn’t until women began fainting on a daily basis while doing housework in the heat that the Elders were forced to revise their strict dress code for our female population and permit short sleeves on the tunics and trousers that were hemmed just below the knee. The Elders reasoned that it was simply too hot for strenuous activity, so the sight of female limbs would not excite male flesh.

The number of women who became pregnant during that summer—and the number of bachelors who were required to make a hasty contract of marriage—showed everyone how embarrassingly incorrect the Elders’ reasoning had been. And, according to the whispers of a few sharp tongues, it also proved how old the Elders really were.

But those were insignificant things to a ten-year-old girl who was relishing the feel of air on her arms and legs when she was outside playing with friends.

That’s where we were when I had the first glimpse of the truth—outside in the shade of a big tree, lazily tossing a ball between the three of us: Kobbi (who was Named Kobrah), Tahnee, and me, Nalah. Then The Voice plodded by, her tunic sleeves and trousers full length, of course, since the sight of her fat limbs would offend the eye. And then the boys came, with a glint in their eyes that made the three of us huddle together like sheep scenting a pack of wild dogs and instinctively knowing that separation from the flock meant death.

The boys weren’t interested in teasing us that day, not when The Voice, looking back and recognizing danger, began lumbering toward the nearest house, no doubt hoping to be rescued.

They moved too fast, surrounded her too quickly.

“Aren’t you hot?” they taunted The Voice. “Aren’t you hot, hot, hot? We’ll help you cool off.”

They grabbed at her, pushed at her, and she kept turning, kept trying to move, no different from some poor, dumb beast. Until one of them grabbed her hood and pulled it off, exposing her neck for the first time in our young memories.

The boys scrambled away from her, silent and staring. Then she turned and looked at us girls. Looked into my eyes.

I didn’t see a poor, dumb beast. There was intelligence in those eyes, as maimed as her body. And there was anger in those eyes, now unsheathed for everyone to see.

Some adults finally noticed us and realized something was wrong. The murmur of concerned voices changed into a hornets’ buzz of anger when the adults realized what we had seen—and why. The Voice was solicitously returned to her house, the boys were marched to the Elders’ Hall to have their punishment decided, and we three girls were escorted to our homes, where our escorts held whispered conversations with our mothers.

I spent the rest of that afternoon in solitude, keeping my mind carefully blank while I watched the play of light and shadow on my bedroom wall. But my mind would not remain blank. Thoughts seeped up and got tangled in the shifting patterns of leaves on the white plaster wall.

The Voice had not been born mute. Had the injuries that had healed into those horrific scars happened at the same time she lost her parents? Was there a time when she had been called by another name? Even if her voice had been damaged and could not be repaired, the healers could sew better than the best seamstress and took pride in the health of the whole village. Why had they patched her up so badly?

The pattern on the wall changed, and another thought drifted through my mind as the words spoken by the teachers each school day seemed to swell until I could think of nothing else—until I could hear the threat under the words that were intended as thanksgiving: Honor your parents. Give thanks for them every day. Without them you are orphaned, and an orphan’s life is one of sorrow.

The Voice was cared for by the whole village. She had a house.

But it’s one of the oldest houses in the village. Is she the first who lived there? If you ask your mother or grandmother, will they admit that another mute orphan had lived there before?

Everyone brought her food and treats; even little children, helped by parents, presented her with treats.

Did she ever truly want them?

Why does she have those scars?

I didn’t have an answer. Didn’t want an answer. I hurt for myself, and I hurt for The Voice.

An hour before dinner, I emerged from my room. My mother studied my face carefully, then said, “I’ll make you a moody cake. You take it to The Voice. You’ll feel better.”

“No,” I said, my voice rough, as if something were eating away at my throat. “I’ll make it.”

Mother studied me a little longer, then nodded. “Very well. You’re old enough.”

So I made the little moody cake while Mother went into the garden and made no comment about her dinner preparations being delayed (it was considered bad luck to prepare other food while a moody cake was being made). And if a few tears fell into the mixture, I didn’t think it would spoil the taste.