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made of wood. The streets were paved once, but the wagon tracks are worn down to chunky dirt,
colored black from ground-up garbage. The street leads down a hill overlooking a sea of colors.
The white and green of the Matties, everywhere. Faded blues and browns. He realizes he's seeing
stretches of canvas tents. Banners. Then the wagon is among the colors, and it is a bazaar of goods
merchants peddling their provisions in hundreds of stalls. The place, Maggie says, is called the Chine.
Jarrod has never seen this many people together. For a moment he feels panic rising, but it is controllable,
and he does so. He wants to spend time here, look around at what the hucksters and mongers have to
offer, but Maggie drives on. People glance up at them, and some stare at his strange garb. Maybe it's
better to keep moving, he thinks.
At a place where the Chine turns a corner, there is a clear dirt patch that forms a kind of makeshift
square. A man is chained to an iron post that stands in the Chine square's center. He is wearing only
soiled rags now, but they are the remains of what was once a green and orange religious habit. He is
chained in such a way that he must stay on his knees in the dust of the square, while his arms are pulled
behind him and to the stake. His chest has been flayed open, probably with a studded whip, Jarrod
reckons, for leather alone is brutal, but cannot cut so deeply. The man is old, and his face and bald head
are burned bright red from the sun.
"Chomskyite," Maggie said. "Heretics. They don't believe in oversight committees."
"A Mattie's a Mattie," Jarrod replies. "But even a Mattie. Let me give that man some water."
"No."
They pass on.
Near the capitol is a row of ancient houses, and Maggie is challenged again before being allowed to drive
up the street these houses line. Again, she shows the guard her device of feathers and metal.
"What is that?" Jarrod asks.
"Clan fetish of your mother's people. All the town guard know it."
Maggie calls the mare to stop in front of one of the houses. There are hitching posts on the lawn, and she
ties a rein to one of these.
"Well," she says. "Let's pay a call."
They walk to the front door and Maggie knocks with her bony knuckles. So this is how to announce
yourself at a house.
A young woman opens the door. She is wearing a brown habit with green piping on the sleeves. Her
short hair is dyed red, the color of maple leaves in autumn, and her skin is as pale as roots.
"Greetings from the Mother," she says in a hushed voice.
"Tell Tatum James Old Maggie's come from Shelton to see her," says Maggie loudly. At least it seems
loud to Jarrod after the other woman's soft speech.
"A moment," the woman says, and closes the door. They wait longer than a moment. Finally, she returns.
"Follow me," she says. Maggie steps inside. Jarrod makes to follow her, but he feels the young woman's
hand upon his arm. Her touch is exceedingly firm. "Only her," the woman says.
"He's with me," says Maggie.
"He is not cleared through."
"Listen, dear," Maggie says, pulling the woman's hand from Jarrod's arm. "He's got a binding to me and
will not be a bother. On my woman's word, he's to come along."
The young woman considers. She doesn't look at Jarrod again, but turns and motions Maggie to follow
her. When she does, Jarrod is allowed to follow.
They go down a long hallway, past several rooms that are filled with furniture, cloth, tapestries. They like
clutter, Jarrod thinks. Into a large room with several cushioned couches, and an old wind-up gramophone
on a buffet. It is playing a song that is like nothing Jarrod has ever heard before. Although he knows that
the technology once existed for such a thing, he cannot imagine what instruments were used to record
this sound.
On one of the couches, drinking from a silver goblet, sits his mother. She sets her goblet on a table next
to the couch and rises when they enter. She smiles at Maggie. Then she looks at Jarrod. They both gaze
at each other for a long time.
"Is this?" she says. Her voice is dry and deep, like leaves.
"Phillip. He's called Jarrod these days."
His mother gasps, puts a hand to her mouth. There is a trace of tears in her eyes, but no tears fall. "Sit
down," she says. "Sit down."
They sit on a couch that is across from her.
She has a broad face, but with strong features. Her skin is as white as her attendant's, and her hair is
cropped in the same manner, but undyed. It is the same color as Jarrod's, the color of forest leafmeal.
She likewise wears a simple shift, but hers is vermilion, and the piping is gold. It is gathered in front by
hooks and eyelets, but not buttoned to the top, as the attendant's is. There is something strange, and
Jarrod realizes she has somehow blackened her eyelashes and there is a faint mica sheen to her skin.
"Phillip," she says to him.
"My name is Jarrod," he says, but without heat.
"You've grown into a man."
"Yes."
"I'm so glad to see you. Do you want something to drink? To eat? Barbara, get them a glass of wine."
The attendant goes soundlessly from the room. Jarrod is about to say that he requires nothing, but
Maggie pats him on the leg.
"It'll be good," she says. "You've never tasted anything like it, my boy."
Jarrod sits back and waits. There is nothing else to do.
"Questions. You'll have very many questions," says his mother.
But he doesn't. Nothing but idle curiosity about things that it will do him no good to know. "I'm not
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