Chapter 20
SULLHA
Sullha had been waiting for this shift.
The rotations in the kitchen were posted four weeks in advance, and changing a slot required asking Hillah, who was in charge of managing the kitchen rotation, to rearrange the schedule.
Sullha requested that her own shift be moved to Monday to accommodate Tomek's class schedule. Thankfully, Hillah hadn't asked what exactly needed to be accommodated about a schedule that was the same every day of the week and had just done as Sullha had requested.
Tying her apron strings behind her back, Sullha joined the other servers and listened until someone said Vinnah's name to find out who she was.
Naturally, she'd seen the woman before, and she even remembered thinking that she was a little odd. She wasn't old, mid-thirties to early forties, but her hair was already graying. Some people were just unlucky that way. But her face was smooth and wrinkle-free, so she was lucky in another way.
She was humming softly, and Sullha almost missed it. It was a tune she hadn't heard before, which could be a good conversation starter. She could ask her what song she was humming. It wasn't happy or sad, just kind of pleasant.
Sullha picked up two trays.
"Hello, Vinnah."
Vinnah looked up, her face registering surprise at being addressed by name by someone she vaguely knew.
"Hello," she said hesitantly.
"I'm Sullha. We shared a laundry shift a few months back."
That was a safe bet because everyone did laundry shifts at least once a week. It might even have been true that she'd met the woman during one of those, but she didn't remember it, and neither did Vinnah.
"That's right. Good memory."
"I never forget a face." Sullha balanced two trays and lifted them with the ease of long practice.
They walked together toward the dining tables.
Two dozen women were already seated, and Sullha caught fragments of conversations.
A new shipment of fabric had arrived. Someone's daughter had begun her first cycle.
Someone's son was approaching thirteen, and she was shedding tears, but not because she was sad he would be taken away.
She was happy because her sacred task of producing warriors for Mortdh's army was being fulfilled.
She was proud, and she was also excited about the extra allowance mothers of departing sons were allotted.
Sullha didn't look at her face.
She set down her trays and began distributing bowls. Stew over rice, a piece of flatbread, and an egg. Hearty meals that she'd eaten more times than she could count.
Vinnah was setting down bowls at the next table, smiling and humming as if she didn't have a care in the world.
Sullha had a sinking feeling that Vinnah was one of those who rejoiced at having fulfilled her sacred duty.
Come to think of it, the humming should have clued her in. Then again, it could mean nothing. There were a great many ways to survive in the enclosure, and humming was not, by itself, evidence of anything.
But she also knew that the humming was probably exactly what she feared it was.
When she returned to the tray station, Vinnah was already there.
"How is your day going?" Sullha asked.
"Blessed." Vinnah smiled.
The word reinforced and amplified Sullha's assumption.
"I'm glad," she said. She kept her face neutral. "Mine has been busy. My son had a stomachache and was up half the night, and he didn't want to go to class today. I had to sit with him during the first one."
"How old is he?"
"Five."
"Beautiful age."
"It is."
"You have him for a long time still. Enjoy him."
The words had been delivered with a smile, with none of the sadness that usually accompanied the prospect of the boys being taken away forever.
Sullha kept her face schooled.
"Yes," she said. "A long time still."
They picked up the next round of trays.
The kitchen was hot, and the air smelled of onions and animal fat and something burning at the back of one of the stoves. One of the cooks swore and pulled a pan off the heat. The pan hissed.
Sullha balanced her trays and walked out toward the dining tables again.
"Do you have children?" she asked Vinnah casually, while they walked.
Vinnah's expression brightened. "I have a son. He is all grown now. He's a warrior for Mortdh."
Vinnah had said it with pride.
A warrior for Mortdh. That was a term used by those calling themselves Sacred Mothers.
Sullha set down her trays at the third table and began distributing bowls, and as she worked, she thought about Number Eight.
She did not know him. Yaaf had told her that Number Eight was the most volatile of their team, the one whose moods were the most unstable. He had said this matter-of-factly, but Sullha had heard the protectiveness underneath it. The care.
She imagined Number Eight as a boy of thirteen, marched out of the only home he had ever known with his mother's humming still in his ears. She had imagined him as a big, tough warrior asking Number One to find his mother.
He would be so disappointed.
Setting down the last bowl on her tray, she walked back to the station.
She had to confirm before she delivered the bad news. She did not actually need to do that because she already knew, but just in case she was wrong, she had to give Vinnah another chance.
Sullha picked up her last two trays and fell in step with Vinnah.
"You must be so proud of your son." She kept her voice low.
"Oh, I am. There is no greater glory for a woman than to deliver warriors for Mortdh's holy army. I'm just so grateful that my womb was blessed with a male child."
"Praise be to Mortdh," Sullha said.
Vinnah's whole face transformed. The peaceful expression she'd been wearing brightened into ecstasy, and her eyes shone with the kind of fervor that Sullha had only seen on the faces of the Sacred Mothers.
"Praise be to Mortdh," Vinnah answered. "Blessed be his name."
Sullha kept the beatific smile she'd plastered on.
"You said that like a holy sister," Vinnah whispered. "Did you join a circle recently?"
"I—I am still finding my way."
"I would gladly guide you if you need help. You can join my circle. Our Venerable Mother is most welcoming and wise."
The Venerable Mother. The one who guided the new recruits into what they called the Sacred Work.
"Thank you, Vinnah."
"It is the work."
Sullha picked up her trays and walked to the last table.
Her hands were steady despite the disappointment.
She'd retreated into the place she went when she needed to handle bad news, the cold flat place where she filed information and made plans and did not feel anything until later, when she was alone, when the feeling could come without endangering her or anyone else.
She set down the last bowl and walked back to the tray station.
The lunch service was over. The serving women were drifting toward the table where they would eat their own meal.
Vinnah caught Sullha's eye and patted the bench beside her in invitation.
Sullha sat.
She filled a bowl from the leftover pot even though she had no desire to eat, but she made herself take one bite after another.
"You are quiet," Vinnah said.
Sullha affected a smile. "I didn't sleep well because of my son's stomachache, and I suddenly feel very tired."
"I can make you some chamomile tea."
"Thank you, but I'd rather stick to water. It will pass."
"All right."
They ate in silence. Vinnah ate with small, efficient bites. Her humming had returned, very softly, the small private tune that meant nothing to Sullha and everything to Number Eight.
She looked at the small mole under Vinnah's left eye, the dark hair shot with gray, the hairline wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, the kind of lines a woman earned by smiling.
Vinnah's face was the face of a woman who had been overjoyed to give her son to her god's holy war and hadn't questioned her misguided faith.
She was a Sacred Mother, and she wore her role with pride and devotion.
Sullha wondered if Vinnah had ever been different, before she'd stopped resisting and accepted the story she was told. There had to have been a moment. Sacred Mothers were not born. They were made.
Perhaps she had been different back when she'd hummed to her son. Perhaps having seen him taken away had broken her, and she'd found salvation in the arms of the Sacred Mothers.
The girl Vinnah had been might have hummed to her son because it was the only thing she had left to give him.
She might have hummed because it was a piece of her that had not yet been quashed.
She might have hummed because she'd loved him, fiercely, and had not known how to express the love except through the small, shared melody between a mother and the boy in her lap.
That girl was gone.
The woman who had replaced her had continued the melody, but it meant something different now. It was a peaceful tune, not a private one. She no longer hummed only when she thought no one was listening. She hummed all the time. The humming had become a sign of her transformation.