Six Moon Dance Part 1

SIX MOON DANCE.

by SHERI S. TEPPER.

1.

On Newholme: Mouche.

"It's all right," Mouche's mother said. "Next time we'll have a girl."

Mouche knew of this because his father told him. "She said it was all right. She said next time ..."

But there had been no next time. Why the inscrutable Hagions decided such things was unknown. Some persons profited in life, producing daughter after daughter; some lost in life, producing son after son; some hung in the balance as Eline and Darbos did, having one son at the Temple, and then a daughter born dead at the Temple, and then no other child.

It was neither a profit nor a great loss, but still, a loss. Even a small loss sustained over time can bleed a family: so theirs bled. Only a s.m.u.tch of blood, a mere nick of a vein, a bit more out than in, this year and then the next, and the one after that, a gradual anemia, more weakening than deadly-the heifer calves sold instead of kept, the ewe lambs sold, the repairs to the water mill deferred, then deferred again. Darbos had taken all he had inherited and added to that what he could borrow as his dowry for a wife who would help him establish a family line, to let him wear the honorable c.o.c.kade, to be known as g'Darbos and be addressed as "Family Man." He had planned to repay the loan with advances against his share of the dowries paid for his own daughters. Instead, he had paid for Eline with the price of the heifer calves, with the ruin of the mill. Her family had profited, and though families lucky enough to have several daughters often gave those daughters a share of the dowry they brought in (a generosity Darbos had rather counted on), Eline's parents had not seen fit to do so. Still, Eline's daughters would have made it all worth while, if there had been daughters.

Their lack made for a life not precisely sad, but not joyous, either. There was no absence of care, certainly. Eline was not a savage. There was no personal blame. Darbos had created the sperm, he was the one responsible, everyone knew that. But then, some receptacles were said to reject the female, so perhaps Eline shared the fault. No matter. Blaming, as the Hags opined, was a futile exercise engaged in only by fools. What one did was bow, bow again, and get on.

So, each New Year at the Temple, while g'Darbos waited outside with the other Family Men, all of them sneaking chaff under their veils and whispering with one another in defiance of propriety, Eline bowed and bowed again. Then she got on, though the getting did not halt the slow leaking away of substance by just so much as it took to feed and clothe one boy, one boy with a boy's appet.i.te and a boy's habit of unceasing growth. As for shoes, well, forget shoes. If he had had sisters, then perhaps Eline would have bought him shoes. In time, she might even have provided the money for him to dower in a wife. If he had had sisters.

"If bought no wife," so the saying went, so forget the wife. More urgent than the need for a wife was the need for daily grain, for a coat against the wind, for fire on the winter's hearth and tight roof against the storm, none of which came free. Eline and Darbos were likely to lose all. After nine barren years, it was unlikely there would be more children, and the couple had themselves to think of. Who can not fatten on daughters must fatten on labor Who can not fatten on daughters must fatten on labor, so it was said, and the little farm would barely fatten two. It would not stretch to three.

On the day Mouche was twelve, when the festive breakfast was over and the new shirt admired and put on, Papa walked with him into the lower pasture where an old stump made a pleasant sun-gather for conversation, and there Papa told Mouche what the choices were. Mouche might be cut, and if he survived it, sold to some wealthy family as a chatron playmate for their children, a safe servant for the daughters, someone to fetch and carry and neaten up. The fee would be large if he lived, but if he died, there would be no fee at all.

Or, an alternative. Madame Genevois-who had a House in Sendoph-had seen Mouche in the marketplace, and she'd made an offer for him. While the fee was less than for a chatron, it would be paid in advance, no matter how he turned out.

Mama had followed them down to the field and she stood leaning on the fence, taking no part in the conversation. It was not a woman's place, after all, to enlighten her son to the facts of life. Still, she was near enough to hear him when he cried: "Trained for a Hunk, Papa? A Hunk?"

"Where did you learn that word?" said Mama, spinning around and glaring at him. "We do not talk filth in this family...."

"Shh, shh," said Darbos, tears in the corners of his eyes. "The word is the right word, Madam. When we are driven to this dirty end, let us not quibble about calling it what it is."

At which point Mama grew very angry and went swiftly away toward the house. Papa followed her a little way, and Mouche heard him saying, "Oh, I know he's only a boy, Eline, but I've grown fond of him...."

Mouche had seen Hunks, of course-who had not?- riding through the marketplace, their faces barely veiled behind gauzy stuff, their clothing all aglitter with gold lace and gems, their hats full of plumes, the swords they fenced with sparkling like rippled water. Even through the veils one could see their hair was curled and flowing upon their shoulders, not bound back as a common man would need it to be, out of the way of the work. Their shirts were open, too, and in the gap their skin glowed and their muscles throbbed. Hunks did not work. They smiled, they dimpled, they complimented, they dueled and rode and wrestled, they talked of wonderful things that ordinary people knew little or nothing of. Poetry. And theater. And wine.

Mouche wondered if they talked of the sea, which is what Mouche talked of, to himself when there was no one else by to speak to, or to Papa, when Papa was in the mood. Not to Mama. Mama did not understand such things, even though it was she who had given him the book of sea stories, and she who had told him about going to Gilesmarsh when she was a girl, and how the sh.o.r.e had looked and smelled, and how the little boats came in full of the fishes that swam there, and how the ships sailed out and away into wonderful places. The seamen didn't even wear veils, except in port. Mama didn't mention that, but the book did. Of course, out at sea, there were no women to be tempted and corrupted by the sight of wanton hairs sprouting on a male face, so veils weren't really needed.

Mouche's dream of going to sea when he was old enough was not pure foolishness. The books were full of stories about boys who ran away to sea and ships that took them, sometimes with no apprenticeship fee. Poor as Mouche's family was, he knew it would have to be without a fee. He would have to have something else to recommend him, like knowing things about ropes and nets and repairs and suchlike. He asked his teacher if he could get Mouche a book about all that-which he did, and followed it with others when Mouche was through with the first one. Mouche practiced knots in his bed at night, and learned all the words for the parts of the ship and the pieces of the rigging and how it all worked. "Seaman Mouche," he said to himself on the edge of sleep. "Captain Mouche." And he dreamed.

But now it seemed he was not to go to sea. Not even without a fee. He was to be a Hunk. Hunks did not go to sea, did not pull at nets, did not look out to far horizons and distant ports, did not smell of fish. They smelled of perfume. They pranced like ponies. And they f.u.c.ked, of course. Everyone knew that. That's what they were for. Though they did not father, they f.u.c.ked.

Some very wealthy women were known to have several of them. When a woman accepted a dowry from some man she did not know-might never have seen, might grow to detest-thereby making him the sole begetter of her future children, it was her right to include in the contract a provision that after five or seven or ten years, whether she had any daughters or not, she was to have at least one Hunk. This was common knowledge. It was also common knowledge that many of the best-trained Hunks came from House Genevois in Sendoph. Polite people didn't call them Hunks, of course, Mama was right about that. They called them "Consorts," but it meant the same thing.

"Consort Mouche," he said to himself, seeing how it sounded. It sounded dirty, no matter what word he used. It sounded like a teacher saying, "Take your hands out of your pants. What do you think you're doing? Practicing to be a Consort?"

It sounded like teasing on the school ground, Fenarde saying, "Mouche can't ever get married. Mouche will have to be a Hunky-monkey." Which was very dirty talk indeed. All the girls stood and giggled and twitched their bottoms at Mouche and said, "You can be my my Hunky-monkey, Mouche. Hunky-monkey, Mouche. I'll I'll put you in my contract." And then they started kissing Mouche and touching him on his behind. Such evil behavior got the girls a talking to about courtesy and treating males respectfully, because they were not as resilient as girls and their minds weren't as flexible, and Fenarde got a mouthful of ashes from the schoolroom hearth for starting the whole thing. Mouche merely got a brief lecture. Though the teacher was patient, he didn't have much time to waste on boys. put you in my contract." And then they started kissing Mouche and touching him on his behind. Such evil behavior got the girls a talking to about courtesy and treating males respectfully, because they were not as resilient as girls and their minds weren't as flexible, and Fenarde got a mouthful of ashes from the schoolroom hearth for starting the whole thing. Mouche merely got a brief lecture. Though the teacher was patient, he didn't have much time to waste on boys.

"Girls always talk that way," he said. "They have no masculine modesty. You must behave demurely and simply ignore it, pretend not to hear it. When they pinch you or rub up against you, get away from them as soon as possible. And take no notice! That's the proper way to behave, and it's time you learned it." Though how you could feel those intrusive hands on you and take no notice, the teacher did not say.

The night after Papa had told him about House Genevois, Mouche heard a tap at his door, so soft and so late he almost thought he had dreamed it until Papa slipped in and sat on the edge of his cot.

"My boy," he said, "a man's life is never easy. We are the weaker s.e.x, as everyone knows, though sometimes at the end of a long, hard day loading hay I think our weakness is more a matter of fable than reality. Still, this is the world we live in, and we must live, as the Hags say, either with it or against it. I've come to say some things to you that I didn't want to say with your mama there." He stroked Mouche's hair away from his forehead, looking at him sadly.

"Yes, Papa."

"This decision is much against my inclination, Mouche. You were to be the son of g'Darbos, our unique line. I had such plans for you, for us...." His voice trailed off sadly, and he stared out the small window at two of the littler moons just rising above the horizon to join a third, bigger one in the sky. "But seemingly it is not to be. There will be no g'Darbos lineage, no immortality of the family, no descendants to remember me and honor the name. Even so, I would not make this decision lightly; I had to find out what kind of life we'd be sending you to. I didn't tell your Mama, but when I was last in Sendoph, I went into House Genevois, by the back door, and when I explained myself, I was allowed to talk to some of the ... young men."

Mouche wriggled uncomfortably.

"I found out, for example, that they eat very well indeed. Far better than we do. I found out that the maximum contract for a Hu-a Consort is about twenty years, beginning as soon as schooling is completed, somewhere between the eighteenth and twenty-fourth year. The standard contract for men from House Genevois provides one third the original payment set aside for your retirement, plus one third of the downpayment on your contract, plus half the payments to House Genevois every year of service, all invested at interest to provide you an annuity. All Consorts receive wages from their patronesses, plus tips, many of them, and even after they're retired, ex-Consorts can freelance for additional profit. There are ex-Consorts in the city who are almost as well respected as Family Men."

"But it isn't the sea," said Mouche, feeling tears, blinking rapidly to keep them from running over. "If I go to sea and make my fortune, I could send you money."

"No, Mouche. It isn't the sea, but it's now, when we have need, not years from now when it's too late. If you can set aside your dream of the sea, being a Consort has few drawbacks. Well, there's the possibility of being killed or scarred in a duel, but any farmer might be killed or scarred. The men I spoke with said Consort dueling can be avoided by a fast tongue and a ready wit, neither of which can help farmers avoid accidents. And, so far as I can tell, the shame that attaches to the candidate's family goes away after a time. One grows used to saying, 'My son? Oh, he's gone to work for a contractor in the city.' " Papa sighed, having put the best face on it he could.

"How much will you get for me, Papa?"

"I won't get it. Your Mama will. It's twenty gold vobati, my boy, after deducting your annuity share, but Mama has agreed to use it on the farm. That's the only way I'd give permission for her to sell you, you being my eldest." Eldest sons, as everyone knew, were exempt from sale unless the father agreed, though younger ones, being supernumerary, could be sold by their mothers-if she could find a buyer-as soon as they turned seven. Su-pernumes were miners and haulers and sailors; they were the ones who worked as farmhands or wood cutters or ran away to become Wilderneers.

Still, twenty vobati was a large sum of money. More than he could make as a seaman in a long, long time. "Is it as much a daughter would bring in?" Mouche whispered.

"Not if she were a healthy, good-looking and intelligent girl, but it isn't bad. It's enough to guarantee Mama and Papa food for their age."

Mouche took a deep breath and tried to be brave. He would have had to be brave to be a seaman, so let him be brave anyhow. "I would rather be a Consort than a playmate, Papa."

"I thought you might," said Papa with a weepy smile.

Papa had a tender heart. He was always shedding a tear for this thing or that thing. Every time the earth shook and the great fire mounts of the scarp belched into the sky, Papa worried about the people in the way of it. Not Mama, who just snorted that people who built in the path of pyroclastic flow must eat ashes and like it, and with all the old lava about, one could not mistake where that was likely to be.

Papa went on, "Tell you true, Mouche-but if you tell your Mama, I'll say you lie-many a time when the work is hard and the sun is hot, and I'm covered with bites from jiggers and fleas, and my back hurts from loading hay ... well, I've thought what it would be like, being a Hunk. Warm baths, boy. And veils light enough to really see through. It would be fun to see the city rather than mere shadows of it. And there's wine. We had wine at our wedding, your mama and me. They tell me one gets to like it." He sighed again, lost in his own foundered dream, then came to himself with a start.

"Well, words enough! If you are agreeable, we will go to Sendoph tomorrow, for the interview."

Considering the choices, Mouche agreed. It was Papa who took him. Mama could not lower herself to go into House Genevois as a seller rather than a buyer. That would be shameful indeed.

Sendoph was as Sendoph always was, noisy and smelly and full of invisible people everywhere one looked. Though the city had sewers, they were always clogging up, particularly in the dry season when the streams were low, and the irregular cobbles magnified the sound of every hoof and every wooden or iron-rimmed wheel to make clattering canyons between the tall houses and under the overhanging balconies. The drivers were all supernumes who had to work at whatever was available, and they could not see clearly through their veils. The vendors were equally handicapped. Veils, as the men often said, were the very devil. They could not go without, however, or they'd be thought loose or promiscuous or, worse, disrespectful of women. There were always many Haggers standing about, servants of the Hags, who were servants of the Hagions, the G.o.ddesses, and they were swift to punish bad behavior.

The town was split in two by ancient lava tubes, now eroded into troughs, that guided the northward flow of the River Giles. Genevois House stood on the street nearest west and parallel to the river, its proud western facade decked with tall shuttered windows and bronze double doors graven with images of dueling men. The south side, along Bridge Street all the way to Brewer's Bridge, was less imposing, merely a line of grilled windows interrupted in the middle by one stout provisioner's gate opening into the service courtyard. The east side, on the bank of the river itself, showed only a blank wall bracketed at each end by a stubby tower of ornamental brickwork around fretted windows set with colored gla.s.s. This wall was pierced by an ancient gate through which a rotting tongue of wharf was thrust into the river, a tongue all slimed with filth and ribboned with long festoons of algae. Parts of House Genevois plus the courtyard walls, the wharf, and the bronze doors, dated back to the lost settlement, the colony from Thor that had vanished, along with its ship, long before the second settlers arrived.

The door where Mouche and his papa were admitted was an inconspicuous entrance off Bridge Street, near the front corner. Inside was the parlor of the welcome suite, where Madame Genevois kept them waiting a good hour. Through the closed door Mouche and Papa could hear her voice, now from here, then from there, admonishing, encouraging. When she came into the interview room at last, her sleeves were turned up to her elbows and her forehead was beaded with perspiration. She rolled the sleeves down and b.u.t.toned them, took a linen handkerchief from the cache-box on her worktable, and patted her forehead dry.

"Well, Family Man; well, Mouche," she said. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but we have a new fencing master who is inclined to be too rigorous with the beginners and too lax with the advanced cla.s.s. It is easier to bully novices than it is to test competent swordsmen, but I have told him I will not tolerate it. He is paid to exert himself, and exert himself he shall." She patted her forehead once again, saying in a matter-of-fact voice: "Take off your clothes, boy, and let me look at you."

Papa had warned Mouche about this, but he still turned red from embarra.s.sment. He took everything off but his crotcher and his sandals, which seemed to make him bare enough for her purposes when she came poking at him, like a farmer judging a pig.

"Your hands and feet are in terrible condition," she said. "Your hair is marvelous in color and fairly good in shape. Your eyes and face are good. The leg and back muscles are all wrong, of course. Farm work does not create a balanced body."

"As Madame says," Papa murmured, while Mouche shifted from foot to foot and tried to figure out what to do with his hands.

Madame jerked her head, a quick nod. "Well, all in all, I will stick to my bargain. The hands and feet will be soaked and scrubbed and brought into good appearance. The muscles will yield to proper exercise. A score ten vobati, I said, did I not? A score for the wife, ten in keeping for the boy."

"As Madame recalls," Papa murmured again.

"And is his mother prepared to leave him now?"

Papa looked up then, his eyes filling. He had not planned on this, and Mouche pitied him even more than he pitied himself.

"Can I not have time to say good-bye, Madame?" he begged.

"If your mother allows, of course, boy. Take two days. Be here first thing in the morning on fifthday. First thing, now."

She unb.u.t.toned her wrists and rolled up her sleeves once more, giving him a look that was almost kindly as he struggled into his clothes.

"You're coming into good hands, Mouche. We honor our annuities, which some Houses only claim to provide. We don't sell to s.a.d.i.s.ts. And you won't hate the life. You'll miss Mama and Papa, yes, but you'll get on." She turned away, then back, to add, "No pets, boy. You know that."

"Yes, Madame." He gulped a little. He no longer had a pet, though the thought of Duster could still make him cry.

She asked, almost as an afterthought, "Can you read, Mouche?"

"Yes, Madame." The village school wasn't much, but he had gone every evening after ch.o.r.es, for five long years. That was when he was expected to be the heir, of course. Heirs went to school, though supernumes often didn't. Mouche could read and print a good hand and do his numbers well enough not to mistake four vibela for a vobati.

"Good. That will shorten your training by a good deal."

Then she was gone from them, and they too were gone from her, and soon they were alone and Papa had dropped his veil and the dust of the road was puffing up between their toes as they walked the long way south, on the west side of River Giles, to the tributary stream that tumbled down from the western terraces through their own farm. All the long valley of the Giles was farmland. On the east, where the grain and pasture farmers held the land, ancient lava tubes lay side by side, lined up north and south like straws in a broom, their tops worn away, their sides rasped into mere welts by the windblown soil, each tube eastward a bit higher than the last, making a shallow flight that climbed all the way to the Ratback Range at the foot of the scarp. On the west, where the g'Darbos farm was, the terraces stepped steeply up to the mountains, and the fields were small and flinty, good for olives and grapes.

"Why are girls worth so much, Papa?" asked Mouche, who had always known they were but had never wondered over the whys of it until now.

"Because they are more capable than men," said Papa.

"Why are they?"

"It's their hormones. They have hormones that change, day to day, so that for some parts of every month they are emotional and for some parts they are coldly logical, and for some parts they are intuitive, and they may bring all these various sensitivities to meet any problem. We poor fellows, Mouche, we have hormones that are pretty much the same all the time. We push along steadily enough, often in a fine frenzy, but we haven't the flexibility of women."

"But why is that, Papa?"

"It's our genetics, boy. All a Family Man has to do is one act, taking only a few moments if the mama is willing and a little longer if she is not." Papa flushed. "So our hormones are what might be called simple-minded. They equip us to do that thing that thing, and that's all. Used to be men attached a lot of importance to that thing that thing, though it's something every mouse can do just as well. Women, though, they have to bear, and birth, and suckle, and-except among the monied folk-they also have to work alongside the Family Man in the business, tending and rearing. They have to work and plan, morn till night. So, their hormones are more complex, as they have to be."

"And men get in more trouble, too." Mouche was quoting his teacher.

"Well, yes, sometimes, in some men, our fine frenzy begets a l.u.s.tful or murderous violence, and we tend to become contentious over little or nothing. But, as the Hags teach, 'If you would have breathing s.p.a.ce, stay out of one another's face,' which is one reason we wear veils, not to threaten one another, so we may stay out of trouble and under control."

"I thought it was so the women couldn't see us."

"The reason reason they mustn't see us, Mouche, is that we must not tempt females, or stir their insatiable l.u.s.ts, for that leads to disorder and mis-mothering. We are the weaker s.e.x, my boy. It is why we must bid high for wives to take us, to show we have learned discipline and self-control." they mustn't see us, Mouche, is that we must not tempt females, or stir their insatiable l.u.s.ts, for that leads to disorder and mis-mothering. We are the weaker s.e.x, my boy. It is why we must bid high for wives to take us, to show we have learned discipline and self-control."

"Darn ol' hormones," sulked Mouche. "Girls get all the luck."

"Well, hormones aren't the only reason," Papa comforted him. "Women are also valuable because they're fewer than men. Only one girl is born alive for every two boys, as we know to our sorrow."

"Then not every man may have a wife, may he, Papa?" Mouche knew this was so, but at this juncture, he thought it wise to have the information verified. "Even if he has a dowry?"

"Only about half, my boy. The oldest sons, usually. The younger ones must keep hand-maids." Which was an old joke among men, one Mouche already understood. Papa wiped his face with the tail of his veil and went on, "Once, long ago, I heard a story teller's tale about the world from which our people originally came, that was Old Earth, where men were fewer than women...."

"That's impossible."

"The storyteller said it was because many males died young, in wars and gang fights and in dangerous explorations. Anyhow, in his tale, men were worth much more than women. Women sought men as chickens seek grain, gathering around them. A man could father children on several women, if he liked, without even dowering for them."

"Fairy stories," said Mouche. "That's what that is. Who would want a woman you didn't dower for?" Everyone knew what such women would be like. Old or ugly or both. And probably infertile. And sickly. And certainly stupid, if they didn't even bother to get a good dowry first. Or even maybe invisible. "Are there more invisible men than there are women?" he asked, the words slipping out before he thought.

Papa stopped in his tracks, and his hand went back to slap, though it did not descend on Mouche's evil mouth. "Which only a fool would say," Papa grated instead, thrusting his head forward in warning. "You're too old to tell stories of invisible people or see such fairies and bug-a-boos as babies do, Mouche. You could be blue-bodied for it." Mouche ducked his head and flushed, not having to ask what blue-bodying was. When a supernume was incorrigible and his father or master or boss or commander could do nothing with him, he was dyed blue all over and cast naked into the streets for the dogs to bite and the flies to crawl upon, and no man might feed him or help him or employ him thereafter. People who died foolishly were said to be "independent as a blue body."

Papa hadn't finished with him. "Such talk could bring the Questioner down on us! Do you want Newholme to end up like Roquamb III? Do you?"

Stung, Mouche cried, "I don't know how it ended up, Papa. I don't know anything about the Questioner."

"Well, boy, let me tell you, you'd be sorry if words of yours reached her her ears! As for Roquamb III, well, ears! As for Roquamb III, well, she she took care of those poor souls. Imagine what that would be like. The whole world dying around you, and you knowing it was your fault!" Papa glared at him for a moment, then started down the road again, leaving Mouche thoroughly confused and not much enlightened. He'd been told something about the Questioner at school, but at the moment, Mouche couldn't remember what. took care of those poor souls. Imagine what that would be like. The whole world dying around you, and you knowing it was your fault!" Papa glared at him for a moment, then started down the road again, leaving Mouche thoroughly confused and not much enlightened. He'd been told something about the Questioner at school, but at the moment, Mouche couldn't remember what.

He decided to talk about something else during the rest of the trip, something with no danger to it. The dust puffing up between his toes gave him inspiration.

"Why do we have to walk everywhere, Papa? Or go behind a horse? Why don't we have engines? Like in the books?"

"Interstellar travel is very expensive," said Papa, grateful for the change of subject. "Our ancestors on our Moth-erworld saved up for centuries to send off our settlement, and the settlers had to pick and choose carefully what they would bring with them. They brought just enough rations to keep them until the first crops could be harvested. They brought seed and fertilized stock ova and an omni-uterus to grow the first calves and foals and piglets and lambs, and an incubator to hatch the first chickens.

"Our population was small and our first generations tended flocks and herds and planted crops and cut wood and quarried stone, and the next generation built up the towns, and searched for metal ores and rare biologicals to build up our trade. Then came sawmills along the river, and then the first smelter and the little railroad that runs from the mines to Naibah, and so on. Now we are almost ready to become industrial."

"It sure seems slow," mumbled Mouche.

"Well, it's been slower for us than for some, partly because we have so few women, and partly because Newholme has no coal or oil. We hadn't exactly counted on that. Every other planet that's had life for millions of years has had fossil fiiels, but not Newholme."

"I know," Mouche muttered. He really did know all this; he'd learned it in school. Sometimes he thought it would be easier if the schools didn't talk about life on Old Earth or on the older settled worlds where people had replicators and transporters and all the robotic industries to support them. If he didn't know there were any such things as transporters and replicators, walking to Sendoph or working in the garden wouldn't seem so hard. It would just be natural.

That night was a good supper, better than any they'd had in a long time. The next day, too, as though Papa could not let him go without stuffing him first. Like a goose, Mouche thought. Off to the market, but fattened, first. Between these unexpectedly lavish meals, he had time to say good-bye to most everything that mattered. The pigs. The geese. The milk cow and her calf. With the money paid for Mouche, the family could get by without selling the heifer calf, and when she grew, they would have more milk to sell. With the money paid for Mouche, the mill could be repaired, and there'd be money coming in from grinding the neighbor's grain and pressing their grapes and olives. With the money paid for Mouche....

It was only fair, he told himself, desperately trying to be reasonable and not to cry. If he'd been a girl, he'd have brought in a great dowry to Eline and Darbos. Just as the money paid for Eline had gone to her family, so money paid for a daughter would go to this family. But that would be honorable, which this was not. Buying a Hunk was honorable enough, it was only selling one that wasn't. Still, getting a good bid for a girl was just good sense. Why should getting a good bid for a boy be different?

Mouche said farewell to pasture and woodlot and barn, farewell to the cat and her kittens, allowed the freedom of the loft and a ration of milk in return for ridding the granary of the Newholmian equivalent of mice. And finally he went to Duster's grave and knelt down to say goodbye, dropping more than a few tears on old Duster who had been his best and only friend, who had died in such a terrible way. He could have had one of Duster's pups from the neighbors-Old Duster had been an a.s.siduous visitor next door-but there had been no food to feed another dog, said Mama. Well. Duster had left a numerous family behind. He was g'Duster, for sure, and long remembered.

Then it was farewell to Mama on the last evening and a long night listening to Papa cry in the night, and very early on the morning of the fifth, before it was light, he and red-eyed Papa were on the road once more, back to Sendoph, Mouche carrying only a little bag with his books inside, and Duster's collar, and the picture of a sailing ship he had drawn at school. Papa didn't have to put his veils on until they were far down the road, and he spent most of the time until then wiping his eyes.

When they came to House Genevois, Mouche asked, in a kind of panic, "Can we walk down to the river, Papa?"