The Fortress by S. A. Jones

Author:S. A. Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Erewhon

III

ETTËVY

Work. History. Sex. Justice.

Of the four pillars of Vaik society it was work that spoke to Jonathon. Justice was an abstraction for which he had no use. Sex, like food and wine, was a sensory pleasure that came easily to him. And what was history but dust and footnotes? But work; work he understood.

Unlike many of his friends he did not play at work. He didn’t sit on a board or a charity committee, didn’t attend fundraisers or openings and consider himself gainfully employed. Work contained him. Without it he would trickle away to nothing. It was this fear of dissolving that eventually got him out of bed after The Great Hall.

He remained in his quarters for some time after Laliya’s court. When the chime signalled the start of another day, he did not stir. He didn’t join the men in the dining hall or the bathhouse. Blue masjythra brought trays of food to his room at regular intervals, and no one seemed to care that he wasn’t in the shaenet with Daidd. Every time he heard footsteps on the zigzag path during labouring hours he expected Mandalay to sweep into his room and command him back to his plot. Perhaps there was even some part of him waiting for an audience with The Woman, where she would reveal what she’d meant when she said that Jonathon would judge.

When it became clear that no one was coming, he got out of bed and took down the new masjythra that had materialised on the peg. It was longer and heavier than his old one. He slipped it over his head, remaining still as the tiny metallic squares worked their cartography, heat radiating from the mesh. He took the zigzag path to the entrance and made his way to the shaenet. The fields were bare now and resting, while the trees yellowed. In the distance work assignments repaired walls and pavements. All wore the longer masjythra.

In his absence the rampaging ivy had been cut back and the holes in the wall papered over with fresh cement. He unlatched the gate, which had somehow escaped the repairs and still creaked, and stepped into the shaenet. The sharp lime and heady wood-smoke scent enveloped him. He stood at the garden’s edge and breathed it in. When he’d first seen the shaenet it was lush, overgrown. Now it wore an air of repose. Most of the plots were sparse, their shrubs pruned and bound. Dead and dying plants had been uprooted and the soil mulched. Overhead, the boughs of the ancient trees were stripping themselves bare. The sky that had barely peeked through the canopy a few weeks back now loomed large and silver. The men were raking up the fallen leaves and carting them to the mulching stations near the shed.

As Jonathon made his way to his plot, a man he knew by sight stopped his barrow and shook his hand. Word of his return carried from plot to plot. The men stood as he passed.

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