Butler, Octavia - Wild Seed

“What did he do?”

Anyanwu told him, told him everything, and ended with the same falsely calm question. “Why did you bring me a man without telling me what he could do?”

“Call Margaret,” Doro said, ignoring her question. Margaret was the daughter who had married Joseph.

“Why?”

“Because when I brought Joseph here, he couldn’t do anything. Not anything. He was just good breeding stock with the potential to father useful children. He must have had a transition in spite of his age, and he must have had it here.”

“I would have known. I’m called here whenever anyone is sick. And there were no signs that he was approaching transition.”

“Get Margaret. Let’s talk to her.”

Anyanwu did not want to call the girl. Margaret had suffered more than anyone over the killings, had lost both the beautiful, worthless husband she had loved, and the younger brother she had adored. She had not even a child to console her. Joseph had not managed to make her pregnant. In the month since his and Stephen’s death, the girl had become gaunt and solemn. She had always been a lively girl who talked too much and laughed and kept people around her amused. Now, she hardly spoke at all. She was literally sick with grief. Recently, Helen had taken to sleeping with her and following her around during the day, helping her with her work or merely keeping her company. Anyanwu had watched this warily at first, thinking that Margaret might resent Helen as the cause of Joseph’s trouble—Margaret was not in the most rational of moods—but this was clearly not the case. “She’s getting better,” Helen told Anyanwu confidentially. “She was by herself too much before.” The little girl possessed an interesting combination of ruthlessness, kindness, and keen perception. Anyanwu hoped desperately Doro would never notice her. But the older girl was painfully vulnerable. And now, Doro meant to tear open wounds that had only just begun to heal.

“Let her alone for a while, Doro. This has hurt her more than it’s hurt anyone else.”

“Call her, Anyanwu, or I will.”

Loathing him, Anyanwu went to find Margaret. The girl did not work in the fields as some of Anyanwu’s children did, thus she was nearby. She was in the washhouse sweating and ironing a dress. Helen was with her, sprinkling and rolling other clothing.

“Leave that for a while,” Anyanwu told Margaret. “Come in with me.”

“What is it?” Margaret asked. She put one iron down to heat and, without thinking, picked up another.

“Doro,” Anyanwu said softly.

Margaret froze, holding the heavy iron motionless and upright in the air. Anyanwu took it from her hand and put it down on the bricks of the hearth far from the fire. She moved the other two irons away from where they were heating.

“Don’t try to iron anything,” she told Helen. “I have enough of a bill for cloth now.”

Helen said nothing, only watched as Anyanwu led Margaret away.

Outside the washhouse, Margaret began to tremble. “What does he want with me? Why can’t he leave us alone?”

“He will never leave us alone,” Anyanwu said flatly.

Margaret blinked, looked at Anyanwu. “What shall I do?”

“Answer his questions—all of them, even if they are personal and offensive. Answer and tell him the truth.”

“He scares me.”

“Good. There is very much to fear. Answer him and obey him. Leave any criticizing or disagreeing with him to me.”

There was silence until just before they reached the house. Then Margaret said, “We’re your weakness, aren’t we? You could outrun him for a hundred more years if not for us.”

“I’ve never been content without my own around me,” Anyanwu said. She met the girl’s light brown eyes. “Why do you think I have all these children? I could have husbands and wives and lovers into the next century and never have a child. Why should I have so many except that I want them and love them? If they were burdens too heavy for me, they would not be here. You would not be here.”

“But … he uses us to make you obey. I know he does.”

“He does. That’s his way.” She touched the smooth, red-brown skin of the girl’s face. “Nneka, none of this should concern you. Go and tell him what he wants to hear, then forget about him. I have endured him before. I will survive.”

“You’ll survive until the world ends,” said the girl solemnly. “You and him.” She shook her head.

They went into the house together and to the library where they found Doro sitting at Anyanwu’s desk looking through her records.

“For God’s sake!” Anyanwu said with disgust.

He looked up. “You’re a better businesswoman than I thought with your views against slavery,” he said.

To her amazement, the praise reached her. She was not pleased that he had gone snooping through her things, but she was abruptly less annoyed. She went to the desk and stood over him silently until he smiled, got up, and took his armchair again. Margaret took another chair and sat waiting.

“Did you tell her?” Doro asked Anyanwu.

Anyanwu shook her head.

He faced Margaret. “We think Joseph may have undergone transition while he was here. Did he show any signs of it?”

Margaret had been watching Doro’s new face, but as he said the word transition, she looked away, studied the pattern of the oriental rug.

“Tell me about it,” said Doro quietly.

“How could he have?” demanded Anyanwu. “There was no sign!”

“He knew what was happening,” Margaret whispered. “I knew too because I saw it happen to … to Stephen. It took much longer with Stephen though. For Joe it came almost all at once. He was feeling bad for a week, maybe a little more, but nobody noticed except me. He made me promise not to tell anyone. Then one night when he’d been here for about a month, he went through the worst of it. I thought he would die, but he begged me not to leave him alone or tell anyone.”

“Why?” Anyanwu demanded. “I could have helped you with him. You’re not strong. He must have hurt you.”

Margaret nodded. “He did. But … he was afraid of you. He thought you would tell Doro.”

“It wouldn’t have made much sense for her not to,” Doro said.

Margaret continued to stare at the rug.

“Finish,” Doro ordered.

She wet her lips. “He was afraid. He said you … you killed his brother when his brother’s transition ended.”

There was silence. Anyanwu looked from Margaret to Doro. “Did you do it?” she asked frowning.

“Yes. I thought that might be the trouble.”

“But his brother! Why, Doro!”

“His brother went mad during transition. He was … like a lesser version of Nweke. In his pain and confusion he killed the man who was helping him. I reached him before he could accidentally kill himself, and I took him. I got five children by his body before I had to give it up.”

“Couldn’t you have helped him?” Anyanwu asked. “Wouldn’t he have come back to his senses if you had given him time?”

“He attacked me, Anyanwu. Salvageable people don’t do that.”

“But …”

“He was mad. He would have attacked anyone who approached him. He would have wiped out his family if I hadn’t been there.” Doro leaned back and wet his lips, and Anyanwu remembered what he had done to his own family so long ago. He had told her that terrible story. “I’m not a healer,” he said softly. “I save life in the only way I can.”

“I had not thought you bothered to save it at all,” Anyanwu said bitterly.

He looked at her. “Your son is dead,” he said. “I’m sorry. He would have been a fine man. I would never have brought Joseph here if I had known they would be dangerous to each other.”