Soon does not mean tomorrow.
The collective settled, retreating to allow him to think on his own.
"Most women find a way to bear it without joining a crazy order," Sullha said. "Some go numb. Like my mother. Some get bitter. Some get angry, and the anger keeps them sharp for a while, and then it wears them down, and then they go numb too, just a little later than those who gave up on life from the start. The Sacred Mothers found another path."
Sullha drew in a slow breath. "The First Mother offers them a story. She tells her followers that they are not the victims ofthe work. They are the sacred vessels. The boys are an offering to Mortdh. They are not trapped here, they are the heart of a sacred undertaking. They are not powerless. They are chosen."
It all made sense. The collective had seen the same twisting of the truth in the training camps and later in the soldiers' barracks.
"And once a woman accepts that story," Sullha continued, “she does not suffer anymore. The despair, anger, and grief lift, and she's at peace. That's why they hum, to show how happy they are to serve. They smile at their babies, and when it's time for the boys to leave at thirteen, they watch their sons go and weep with joy because they have been called to their Sacred Work. They cry for their own glory."
"What do members of the order think about the rest of you?"
"We are misguided, lost, pitiable. We are to be encouraged to join them and find our way to the light of Mortdh."
Yaaf wondered if his mother had joined the order. He hoped that she had because it meant that she had not suffered before becoming sick. That she found some joy no matter how misguided it was.
Number Eight didn't share his opinion. He was angry because he wanted to take his mother out of the compound and now it wasn't possible.
She couldn't be told anything.
The collective folded around Number Eight, helping him absorb the anger. He was going to transcend it as they had transcended everything else.
"Yaaf," Sullha said softly.
He returned his gaze to her.
She looked worried. "Were you thinking about Number Eight?"
He nodded.
"I'm sorry. I hate being the bearer of bad news."
"It's not your fault. You did what I asked you to do, and Number Eight will understand."
"She still hums," Sullha said quietly. "It's the first thing I noticed about her, but I doubt it's any of the tunes she used to hum to her son when he was little. Now she hums all the time to advertise that she's happy and at peace. She wants the other women to know that so they will be tempted to join the order."
Yaaf felt Number Eight let go of the anger and move to sadness.
As hard as it was to admit, it would have been easier if the humming had stopped altogether. A broken woman could be put together again with enough care. A transformed woman was a different story.
There was no coming back from that.
It was like the Eight's transcendence. Now that they had experienced it, they were not willing to give it up. It had become part of them. It was who they were.
22
SULLHA
Yaaf retreated into himself.
Sullha had noticed the pattern. It was subtle, just a small delay in response, an unfocusing of his eyes. She suspected that he conducted internal debates in those moments, not much different than what she did when she was deciding on what to share with him and what she should keep to herself for one reason or another.
Mostly, it wasn't to keep things from him but to protect his feelings or hers.
Now he was looking out across the play yard at Tomek, who had abandoned the climbing frame and was constructing an elaborate structure in the sandbox with the girl he'd been arguing with earlier.
Upon closer observation, she realized that Yaaf wasn't really looking at the children but somewhere beyond them, meaning either the tall concrete wall or nothing at all.
