Gene Wolfe: Exodus from the Long Sun

“I’m trying to get you some food,” Maytera Mint told them.

“We could help, couldn’t we, Dahlia? Help pass it out, or anything you want done.”

“That’s good of you. Very good. Do either of you have an igniter?”

They shook their heads.

“Then you might look for one, ask other people. I set a little boy to gathering fuel a moment ago. If we could build a few fires, that would help a great deal.”

“All this burned.” The old man made an unfocused gesture with his free hand. “Should be coals yet.” His wife confirmed, “Bound to be, snow or no snow.” “I smell smoke.” Sniffing, he struggled to stand, and Maytera Mint helped him up. “I’ll have a look,” he said.

Here I am, Maytera Mockorange. I am the sibyl I dreamed of becoming, moving among sufferers and helping them, though I have so little help to give.

She visualized Maytera Mockorange’s severe features. The girl who would soon assume the new name Mint had yearned for renunciation and pictured herself walking through the whorl she would give up like a blessing; Maytera Mockorange had warned her of missed meals and meager food, of hard beds and hard thankless work. Of year after year of loneliness.

They had both been right.

Maytera Mint fell to her knees with folded hands and bowed head. “O Great Pas, O Mothering Echidna, you have given me my heart’s desire.” A feeling she had never known thrilled her: her body alone knelt in the snow; her spirit was kneeling among violets, baby’s breath, and lily-of-the-valley, in a bower of roses. “I have won life’s battle. I am complete. End my life today, if that is your pleasure. I shall rush into the arms of Hierax exulting.”

“We tried, Maytera.”

It had been a woman’s voice to her left, and its words had not been addressed to her. To another sibyl then? Maytera Mint got to her feet.

“Cold,” the woman was saying, “and there’s not a scrap of flesh on her poor bones.”

Three — no, four people. Two fat people sitting in the snow, with a starved face between the round, ruddy ones. The figure in black bending over them was the sibyl, clearly. What had been that young one’s name? “Maytera? Maytera Maple? Is that you?”

“No, sib.” She straightened up, turning her head farther than seemed possible, eyes glowing in a tarnished metal face. “It’s me, sib. It’s Maggie.”

“It — it — I — oh, sib! Moly!” And they were hugging and dancing as they had on the Palatine. “Sib, sib, SIB!”

Another distant boom.

“Moly! Oh, oh, Moly! May I call you Maytera Marble, just once? I’ve missed you so!”

“Be quick. I’m about to become an abandoned woman.”

“You, Moly?”

“Yes. I am.” Maytera Marble’s voice was firm as granite. “And don’t call me Moly, please. It’s not my name. It never was. My name’s Magnesia. Call me Maggie. Or Marble, if it makes you happy. My husband will — never mind. Have you met my granddaughter, sib? This is she, but I don’t think she’ll talk right now. You must excuse her.”

“Mucor?” Maytera Mint knelt beside the emaciated girl. “Our calde described you to me, and I’m an old friend of your grandmother’s.”

“Wake up.” Mucor’s pinched face grinned without meaning. “Break it.” There was no hint of intelligence in her stare. She said nothing further, and the silence of the snow closed about them until the fat woman ended it by saying, “This’s my husband, General. Shrike’s his name.”

“Scleroderma! Scleroderma, I didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, I knew you right off. I said that’s General Mint and I held her horse when she charged them on Cage Street, I did, and if you’d gone like you ought to you’d know her too.”

The fat man tugged the brim of his hat.

“I went up to the Calde’s Palace to see Maytera, only she wasn’t home and half the wall down, so I’ve been taking care of her granddaughter ever since, poor little thing. Did those bad women carry you off, Maytera? That’s what I heard.”

“You’d better call me Maggie,” Maytera Marble said, and pulled her habit over her head.

“Maytera!”

“I am not a sibyl any more,” the slender, shining figure declared. “I have become an abandoned woman, as I warned you I would.” She dropped the voluminous black gown over Mucor’s head, and pulled it down around her. “Put your arms into the sleeves, dear. It’s easy, they’re wide.”

“There was a old man that helped me with her,” Scleroderma explained, “but he went to fight, then the bad women came and we had to scoot.”

If it had not been for the shock of seeing Maytera Marble nude, Maytera Mint would have smiled.

“I think it means he’s dead, but I hope not. Aren’t you cold, Maytera?”

“Not a bit.” Maytera Marble straightened up. “This is much cooler and more comfortable, though I’m sure I’ll miss my pockets.” She turned to Maytera Mint. “I’ve been consorting with other abandoned women, a dozen at least. I’m afraid it’s rubbed off.”

Maytera Mint swallowed and coughed, wanting to bat the snowflakes away, to sit down with a mug of hot tea, to awaken and find that this little pewter-colored creature was not the elderly sibyl she had thought she knew. “Did they capture—”

With nimble fingers, Maytera Marble wound the long top of Maytera Mint’s blue-striped stocking cap about her neck like a scarf. “This way, dear, then you won’t be so cold, that’s what it’s for. You tuck the end in your coat.” She tucked it. “And the tassel keeps it from coming out. See?”

“These women!” Maytera Mint had spoken more loudly than she had intended, but she continued with the same vehemence, telling herself, I am a general after all. “Are you referring to enemy troopers or Willet’s spies?”

“No, no, no. Dear Chenille, who’s really quite a nice girl in her way, and the calde’s wife. She’s no better than she ought to be if you know what I mean. And the women our thieves brought. They were more interesting than the poor women, though the poor women were interesting too. But the thieves’ women didn’t mind taking their clothes off, or not very much. Dear Chenille actually enjoys it, I’d say. Her figure’s prettier than her face, so I find it understandable.” Scleroderma said, “So’s yours, Maytera,” and her husband nodded enthusiastically.

Another explosion punctuated the sentence. Cocking her head, Maytera Mint decided it had been nearer than the last; there had been something portentous about the sound.

“…Cognizance told us,” Scleroderma finished.

Maytera Mint asked, “Did you say His Cognizance?” Then, before anyone could answer, put her finger to her lips.

The stammering popping reports seemed to come from above her head. They were followed after an interval by the remote crash of shells.

“What is it, General?” Scleroderma asked.

“I heard guns. A battery of light pieces. You don’t often hear the shots, just the whine of the shells and the explosions. These are near, so they may be ours.”

Maytera Marble took Mucor’s hand and got her to her feet. “Will you excuse us? I want to take her to the fire.”

“Fire?” Maytera Mint looked around.

“Right over there. I just saw it. Come along, darling.”

Scleroderma and Shrike were getting to their feet as well, not swiftly but with so much effort, scrambling, and grunting that they gave the impression of frantic action.

The messenger should be here by now, Maytera Mint told herself, and stepped in front of Scleroderma. “You said His Cognizance was here? You must tell me before you go. But before you do, have you seen a mounted trooper leading another horse?”