The Evening and the Morning and the Night by Octavia E Butler

Author:Octavia E Butler [Butler, Octavia E]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781561465385
Google: Pl1QAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 1561465380
Publisher: Pulphouse Pub
Published: 1991-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

“Good. No one will close him away from himself. No one will tie him or cage him.” Her hand wandered to her own face again, nails biting in slightly.

“No,” I said softly, catching the hand. “I want you to be safe, too.”

The mouth moved. I think it smiled. “Son?” she said.

He understood her, took her hand.

“Clay,” she said. Lynn and Alan in clay. “Bea?”

“Of course,” Beatrice said. “Do you have an impression?”

“No!” It was the fastest that Naomi had answered anything. Then, almost childlike, she whispered. “Yes.”

Beatrice laughed. “Touch them again if you like, Naomi. They don’t mind.”

We didn’t. Alan closed his eyes, trusting her gentleness in a way I could not. I had no trouble accepting her touch, even so near my eyes, but I did not delude myself about her. Her gentleness could turn in an instant. Naomi’s fingers twitched near Alan’s eyes, and I spoke up at once, out of fear for him.

“Just touch him, Naomi. Only touch.”

She froze, made an interrogative sound.

“She’s all right,” Alan said.

“I know,” I said, not believing it. He would be all right, though, as long as someone watched her very carefully, nipped any dangerous impulses in the bud.

“Son!” she said, happily possessive. When she let him go, she demanded clay, wouldn’t touch her old-woman sculpture again. Beatrice got new clay for her, leaving us to soothe her and ease her impatience. Alan began to recognize signs of impending destructive behavior. Twice he caught her hands and said no. She struggled against him until I spoke to her. As Beatrice returned, it happened again, and Beatrice said, “No, Naomi.” Obediently Naomi let her hands fall to her sides.

“What is it?” Alan demanded later when we had left Naomi safely, totally focused on her new work—clay sculptures of us. “Does she only listen to women or something?”

Beatrice took us back to the sitting room, sat us both down, but did not sit down herself. She went to a window and stared out.

“Naomi only obeys certain women,” she said. “And she’s sometimes slow to obey. She’s worse than most—probably because of the damage she managed to do to herself before I got her.” Beatrice faced us, stood biting her lip and frowning. “I haven’t had to give this particular speech for a while,” she said. “Most DGDs have the sense not to marry each other and produce children. I hope you two aren’t planning to have any—in spite of our need.” She took a deep breath. “It’s a pheromone. A scent. And it’s sex-linked. Men who inherit the disease from their fathers have no trace of the scent. They also tend to have an easier time with the disease. But they’re useless to use as staff here. Men who inherit from their mothers have as much of the scent as men get. They can be useful here because the DGDs can at least be made to notice them. The same for women who inherit from their mothers but not their fathers. It’s only when

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