Alis

17
For a long time she stood without moving. It was too much to take in, this sudden release from horror. Though she had promised herself that she would not weep again, the shock brought on tears. When she had finished weeping and dried her eyes, she did not know what to do: she was no ordinary bride with a joyful path laid out for her. Could it be true that she need not lie with him? Surely that could not be. But she would not think of that now. For tonight at least, she was safe. There was some good where she had expected none, relief instead of dread. She drew strength from it, and not knowing what else to do, went down the stairs.
He was sitting again at the wooden table with two tankards before him. He looked up when she came in. “Come and drink now.”
She did as she was bidden, aware suddenly that she was hungry, too, though she had not thought she would ever want to eat again. Tentatively, not sure of her position, she asked, “Is there any food in the house?”
“Yes, yes. Martha will have prepared food for us, and there will be cheese in the store cupboard.”
He spoke wearily, as if he did not care. In her newfound relief, she could feel something like concern for him. And a kind of pride, too. After all, she was a wife now. Her mother had not despised the traditional work of the household although she was an Elder and a scholar of the Book. “Are you not hungry? Shall I prepare something?”
He looked up. “Yes, if you please. Do so.”
If she had hoped for gratitude she was disappointed. He spoke formally, distantly, much as if she were a servant who had requested instructions. Nevertheless it was a relief to have something to do.
In the kitchen larder she found a whole roast fowl under a muslin cover, and as he had said there was bread and cheese: simple, wholesome food, and the fowl a little luxury to celebrate this marriage that neither of them wanted. She suspected her mother’s hand in that. Placing portions of the bird on the red earthenware platters, she swallowed down the tears that would rise despite all her efforts: the thought of her mother was like scalding water on tender skin.
He pronounced the blessing and they ate in silence. When they had done and all was tidy again, she returned to the table to sit opposite him. Now she would raise the subject that had preoccupied her during their sad meal. Hesitating, for she feared his answer, she said, “Will Martha not think it strange that I lie in the little chamber and not . . . ?” She could not bring herself to say “with you.”
He shook his head. “In such cases it is common enough. She will assume that I summon you to me, or come to you myself when . . .” He broke off.
“Such cases? What does that mean?”
He was not looking at her. With his forefinger he was tracing a precise, small circle on the table over and over; he followed it with his eyes.
At last he said, “There have always been marriages made, not by mutual consent or for the high companionship that should exist between husband and wife, but for . . . other reasons.” He stopped a moment, as if the subject pained him, and then went on.
“You know this yourself. Sometimes parents choose and insist, even though the Book rules otherwise, saying that marriage is no marriage where there is no consent.”
She stared at him, unable to believe what he had just said. Then she burst out, “But if the Book forbids, how could I . . . how can we . . . ? Did I consent?”
“Wait, Alis. Do not interrupt. Let me finish.”
He spoke sharply—he was again the Minister to whom she must defer. In the dry, reasonable tones she had heard so often when he and her mother had argued about some Community matter, he went on. “You say you did not consent to our marriage, but you came back from wherever you went, did you not? You took your part in the ceremony. You are sitting here now—the door is not locked; the windows are not barred.”
Bitterly she said, “It was not true consent. What else could I do?” “You could have stayed away.” His hesitation made her wonder whether he knew that she had been to the city. Its ragged towers and stinking alleyways rose in her imagination. She thought of Joel and Edge. Perhaps they would succeed in crossing the sea to the new life she might have shared with them, or maybe the deep would swallow them up. She could have gone with them. She could not explain this to him.
He said softly, “You chose this.”
She was silent for a while. She saw that he was right but her spirit rebelled.
“Then it is the same with you. You said that you had no more choice than I. But you also chose. You could have said no after all.”
His finger was again tracing circles on the wood of the table. “You are right, Alis. I, too, had a choice.”
“Then why?”
He was silent so long she thought he had forgotten her, but at last he said, “The reformers dominate the Great Council these days, and the Great Council decided that all Ministers should be married. When I would not choose a wife, they sent the Bookseers. You know how this is done?”
She nodded her head. She knew that decisions could be made by opening the Book at random and finding guidance in the text on the page. He went on, “It is a way of finding out what the Maker wishes, though the texts are not always easy to interpret. But in this case there was no doubt: three times the Bookseers let the pages fall open, and three times the signs were unmistakable. I could not but think that the Maker had spoken.”
He got up and crossed to the cabinet with its shelves of leather-bound books. Carefully, he removed the largest volume and brought it across to the table.
“See.” He had opened the book and was running his finger down the page. When he stopped, she leaned forward to read the text: Who is the girl at the gate?
He said quietly, “I was coming up the cart track from Master Amos’s when the Bookseers rode into Freeborne. You were swinging on the gate at the entrance to the long field. We all saw you.”
He turned the pages of the Book slowly and then stopped. At the top of the page she read the words: The Elder has one daughter; she is the chosen one.
She shuddered. It seemed as though her path had been laid out long ago. Had she ever had a choice?
He found the last text: All life is sacred.
She frowned. “What has that got to do with me? It is just a saying.”
He gave a bitter laugh. “I thought so, too. I rejoiced for a moment, thinking that I was saved. For the three readings must agree or it is not binding. But look at the initials.”
She saw at once: Alis. Horror clutched at her throat. It was like being trapped in some dark place. Galin had closed the book.
“You see how it was. Your parents could have refused; I could have refused. But had we done so, there would have been no place for us anywhere in the Communities of the Book. We three, and you, too, would have been outcasts.”
He paused, with a brooding look on his dark face, as if his thoughts troubled him. “Besides, we would not defy the Maker, and in any case the Maker is not to be defied. No doubt whatever He willed would have come about.”
She considered this. If it was indeed the Maker’s will that she should marry this man, she had certainly meant to defy it. But here she was, married to Galin after all.
“What is the point of our being able to defy Him, if He always prevails?”
He smiled grimly. “Perhaps our defiance is part of His will.”
“But then, in truth, there are no choices. If we obey, it is His will, and also if we disobey? Whatever we do, He has willed it?” She gave him no time to speak but rushed on. “But what is the point of being alive at all? We are just—”
His face darkened. He said sharply, “Cease, Alis. There is blasphemy in what you say. And it is dangerous to think such things.”
She had never truly considered any of this before. The Maker had been a remote authority, interpreted for her by others. Now her mind was full of questions.
“But I don’t understand. How can it make sense? Is everything we do, every tiny thing, His will? Whether I drink ale or not? Whether I walk down to the stream or not? Whether I dabble my hands in the water or sit on the stones in the sun? And when I speak—if I choose this word or that—is He choosing for me? I am His puppet then and—”
He was on his feet, breathing heavily, his fists clenched. “Cease, Alis, I command you. Such words must not be spoken.”
She was silent, afraid. What had she done? She had blasphemed. Would he whip her? Would he make her stand before the Community in the prayer house and confess? Gazing up at him in dread, she thought she would rather die than endure such shame.
He seated himself again, still breathing like one who has run a race, but his face, which before had been flushed with rage, was now livid, the great sweatdrops standing on his forehead.
“Alis, you are the Minister’s wife. You, of all people, must not say such things.”
She saw that she had frightened him. She longed to ask if he, too, had such ideas, but she did not dare. Husbands and wives were supposed to be equal but he was her senior by many years, and he was the Minister, too. He might think it his duty to punish her. She was afraid of him.
He did not seem disposed to punish, however. He looked exhausted. “Go to bed, Alis.”
She stood up and then hesitated. Should she not bid him good night? But he looked up and said vehemently, “Go!” and she went.
Only later, as she lay in her narrow bed, did it come to her that he had not commanded her to her knees to beg forgiveness of the Maker for her wicked words. Nor had they knelt together to say the evening prayer.
She heard him come up the stairs slowly, as if his feet dragged with weariness. She tensed. Was he to be trusted? But the footsteps did not come along the passage. She heard the door of the other room open and close. There were noises from beyond the wall, and then silence. He was lying between the wedding sheets. Perhaps he was staring up into the darkness as she was. She could not imagine his thoughts. Now she must try to sleep. She must not think of Luke. That was done with. He was dead and the worms fed upon his flesh.
She put her hands over her mouth so that the man she had married could not hear the sound of her agony.