Jo Clayton - Wild Magic

Ah well, it means I’ll have a pupil to pass my days. I believe I shall enjoy that-and hate it at the same time. I don’t like being used to hone a weapon for the Honey Mother. Ahhh hahhhh.

Chumavayal is honing his own weapon. Poor little Prophet-to-be, he was happy where he was; that’s finished.

The rot is starting, no one sees it yet; things will get much worse before the rains come again.

Chapter 4. The Honcychild And The Caste System

Dancing from foot to foot, the girl thrust her thumbs into her mouth and pulled it into a horrendous grimace, waggled her fingers at Izmit the Silversmith’s Daughter and her coteries of toads who walked sedately away along the lane, pretending to ignore her. Another girl was patting her mouth and hooting.

A moment later they came skipping back to Faan who was huddling, stunned and miserable in an angle of the wall, trying to pull herself together after the nasty verbal attack by girls she hadn’t even spoken to before; it wasn’t what they said so much as the malice and hate she felt in them that had made her so sick.

“‘Loa, Wascra,” the face-maker said; she was all elbows and knees with rusty black hair like a load of fleeces and reddish-bronze skin. “Don’t let that potz play her tricks on you. All the brains she got she sits on, vema vema. I’m Ma’teesee and this’s Dossan; she quiet, but she smart. You’re new, huh?”

Faan nodded; the lump in her throat was still there and her eyes were burning with tears she was fiercely determined wouldn’t fall. “Faan,” she muttered.

“And your da tried to set y’ in his caste, huh?”

Faan ran her tongue over her lips; she thought about trying to explain, but she didn’t understand it herself so she just nodded.

“Si11-1y, huh, Dossy?”

The other girl smiled at Faan, patted her arm. “Das do it all the time,” she said. “They don’t know what it’s like.” Her voice was soft and musical. She was smaller than Maleesee, with curly light brown hair and skin only a few shades darker than Faan’s. “You come to the Wascram class, Faan, you don’t need to fool round with them.”

Ma’teesee danced away. “Vema vema, true it be, no one else’s smart as she.” She giggled. “Le’s buzzit. School’s done, time for fun.”

Faan straightened. “Do you rhyme all the time?”

“Oooooh she said it she said it…” Ma’teesee and Dossan grabbed hands, prisoning her inside their arms, then danced around her, chanting, “Ooooh she said it ooooh she said it…”

Faan giggled, ducked too quickly for them to catch her again, then the three of them went running down Verakay Lane.

“This is where I live,” Faan said and pointed to the Beehouse. “I’ve got to go in.”

Dossan’s eyes went round. “You’re her The snake girl.”

Ma’teesee darted forward, touched Faan’s face, then went running off; Dossan followed more slowly, looking back several times before she vanished around a bend.

Faan gazed down the lane for several minutes longer, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth, then she turned, walked slowly up the steps and rang the bell so Panote would let her in.

Ma’teesee and Dossan were waiting for her when she came out the next morning.

Ma’teesee rushed up the steps and caught hold of

Faan’s wrist. “Say you don’ mind, Faan. Say you’ll be friends. Fada, fada, say it, huh?”

Faan stared at her. “Why?”

“’Cause.”

Dossan giggled. “She told her mum what she did and her mum played pitta pat on her sitter.”

“Huh!” Ma’teesee said indignantly. “I was sorry anyway. Acting like Izmit and her lot.” She spat, grinned as a small black beetle scurried from under the sudden damp.

Faan wrinkled her nose. “Me, I got a scold.” She caught one of Maleesee’s curls and yanked. “That’s for yesterday.”

“Ow.”

They walked down the steps together, joined Dossan, and strolled toward the school.

“How come you got it?” Dossan said. “You din’ do nothing.”

“Reyna said I should pay no mind to idiots like Izmit.”

Ma’teesee nodded. “Diyo,” she said. “Potzhead snerk.”

Dossan touched Faan’s arm and smiled.

“He said I’m gonna meet more’n I like of people like that and I sh’d figure out how to take ’em now.” Faan sighed. “I said I wanted to go Wascram. Can’t. He won’t let me.”

“Sa sa, parents.” Maleesee skipped ahead of them, turned and danced backward. “Can you really call snakes?”

“I don’t think so.”

Dossan primmed her mouth. “You don’t have to tell D.,esee anything, Faan. M’ mum says she so nosy, it’ll get bit off one of these days.”

“I don’t mind. Anyway, it’s all stupid stuff, something I don’t even remember, it happened when I was just a baby.”

Ma’teesee looked disappointed, then she grinned.

“Izmit don’t know it. Got ‘n idea, Fa. I’d do ‘t m’self but they won’t let me in there. There’s this l’il snake lives in our basement, eats mice I. think, I’ll catch it, you put it in her desk. That’d straighten her hair for her.”

“Deeeyoooo0h…” Dossan breathed.

Faan swallowed. The idea terrified her, but she couldn’t back down. “You bring it, I’ll put it,” she said.

Izmit shrieked and went running from the room.

Faan contrived to look blandly innocent; she knew no one had seen her lift the lid on the desk and dump the snake inside.

That didn’t matter. The Head’s Monitor took her out of the class and Manasso Kunin gave her a dozen strokes of the switch.

School Head Manasso Kunin drummed his fingers on the sheets of paper sewn together into a lesson booklet, the writing on them defaced by thick strokes of black ink, crudely written obscenities. “I’m waiting,” he said. He had a scratchy voice, absurdly incongruent with his massive body.

Sweetly humble and the image of remorse, Izmit the Silversmith’s Daughter bowed low. “I am sorry, heshim Kufuat. I offer no excuse.”

Smarmy little… Faan ground her teeth, then struggled to control her face as the Head glared at her.

He turned back to Inuit, his scowl smoothing out as he gave her fifty lines to write. I will remember my duty is to charity for all and obedience to my elders.

Izmit bowed again, all sugary compliance; as she went out, she shot a swift side glance at Faan, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction and triumph.

“You,” the Head snapped at Faan, “what’s-yourname, get that insolent pout off your face.” He knew her name well enough; she’d been here almost every day this month for one reason or another. “This turbulence… this hairpulling and vulgar scratching… it has to stop.”

“Then stop them,” she burst out. Tbars stung her eyes. She knew it was futile to protest, but she couldn’t help it. “You saw what she did. Her friends, they pinch me and mess my stuff, they call me names. And nobody does anything.”

“Be still, fidhil!” He scowled at her, his dark face slick with perspiration. “They have provocation; they were born Fundarim.” He rolled up the pages and dropped them in the wastebasket beside the desk, talking as his hands moved. “You were thrust on them by that…” He scowled at her, his wide mouth twitching into an ugly knot as he reached for the limber switch she’d learned to know too well. He got up and came round the desk. “Hold out your hand.”

Faan squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away; trembling and miserable, she did as he commanded.

“You don’t belong there, Wascra.” His voice was harsh, filled with loathing. He slapped the switch across her palm. “You should stay with your own kind.” Slap. “You will not shout at your elders and your betters.” Slap. “You will show respect.” Slap. “Respect.” Slap. “Izmit only wrote the truth.” Slap. “That unnatural whore who adopted you.” Slap. “His own family threw him out.” Slap. “Do you know what he does?” Slap. He went on, explaining in lip-licking detail precisely how Reyna serviced his clients. Slap. Slap. Slap.