Neveryona by Delany Samuel R

Author:Delany, Samuel R. [Delany, Samuel R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780575119246
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2011-09-28T20:00:00+00:00

To wake with straw tickling her cheek and ankle and the smell of damp thatch and babies and last night’s cooking, the pallet below the straw hard under one shoulder and water dripping somewhere from the torrents that had poured loud enough to wake her just before sunrise (Pryn did not open her eyes), was to realize that, before she’d started these adventurings, she’d spent most of her life in such a shack. It was to realize that whenever these adventurings were through, no matter how far away they deposited her, unless life for her went very differently from what she or anyone else might expect, she was likely to spend most of her life to come in such a shack – however better insulated she might make it.

A clay top moved on a clay jar. A woman whispered. A man’s bare feet crunched the floor mats. He said, answering a question Pryn hadn’t heard: ‘Well, it was time to get up. Who sleeps when there’s work to do?’

Pryn rolled over, stretched her feet onto the floor, rubbing her hands’ heels on her eyes.

The woman spoke now. ‘I just thought they might like to sleep a little more, that’s all. Especially the girl you brought in last night, since she’s … you know.’

Pryn let her hands stay over her eyes.

‘Sleep instead of work?’ The man laughed. ‘Now, who would want to do that – except, well, let’s see … a few I could name!’ His next laugh was louder. ‘Besides, the girl’s not sick. She’s only having a baby! You get her to help you with the chores. See, she’s awake at least. Not like this other lazy good-for-nothing.’

Fingering the corners of her eyes, Pryn looked up.

Squatting naked, with her knees wide and her great belly between them, Bragan was doing something at the fire.

Tratsin was bending over her with his hand on her shoulder, the sides of his narrow buttocks hollow, the ligaments standing out at the backs of his hairy knees. ‘Now don’t be afraid to ask her to help you. She’s a good girl – like you!’

At which point a baby cried.

Like a man reminded of a pressing duty, Tratsin lunged for his loin-rag, winding it about his hips, tucking it in on itself here and there, getting it between his legs, while making for the door. Bragan got even busier poking up the coals under the pot and blowing them to brightness.

The cry ran out of breath; in the pause, Pryn pictured the tiny chest filling itself mightily. She looked around, thinking to go to the baby herself. But Gutryd came in through the back door-hanging. The brush of hemlock twigs on the bottom to keep out insects swung in over the mat. Gutryd’s dress was bunched down around her waist, and her hair was wet. She seized the child’s basket up from the corner, to shake it back and forth. The next cry was notably quieter, with, somewhere in it, a movement toward relief.

At the

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