envious. So I tried hard not to mind. Oh, no-one was better than her at repeating back the semenal texts of the Holy Strictures word for word, or at adapting the lyrical phrases and gentle rhythms of the Doppelbook into daily life. And not only that, but Ana was fast. ‘Working, sir,’ she said. ‘That little kitty should have been working!’ I was relieved for so clever-clever Ana had got only half the answer! I had my chance to shine brightly in the eyes of lovely Bobander, so quick as a shot I had my hand up in the air again. He nodded towards me and I was so honoured and nervous I almost forgot my answer. Almost, but not quite: ‘And praying,’ I said, ‘She should have been praying very hard in silence as she worked!’ He smiled on me and I felt warm from head to toe. Then he said to us all, ‘Good girlies. Yes. Praying and working with all the other little kittens of the House. But no! Not this little kitten! This little kitten was watching and prowling and thinking about pretty-this and funny-that and when will I have my dab of cream to lick off my whiskers?’ Here Bobander did a very funny impression of the kitten looking sharply left and right, then licking lap-lap-lap so quick and kitteny we all laughed aloud.
His gaze became stern because some of us had giggled overlong, and the end of the story was coming, and he needed our full attention. ‘And then, GodFather’s (BBHCM) Angel of Righteousness descended upon her!’ Bobander acted out the shock of the Curious Kitty with wide eyes and stiff hands held up in front of his face, like a creature blinded with fright. ‘The Angel descended upon her and he slit her gut from throat to arsehole!’ Slash-slash went Bobander’s hands. ‘And the Angel spread her innards out for her old enemy the Rat to take to feed to his children, for this is the punishment for the curious.’ And the girls who had laughed too long looked down at their shoes in shame and fear. ‘This,’ he said solemnly, ‘is the fate of those curious girlies so taken with pretty and funny, with this and that, that and this, that they fail in their duty.’
There were other cat stories too that Bobander invented for us and told as we gathered around the heater with its friendly stink of kerosene, and the raindrops marking their paths down the window, so cosy inside. After a while there were so many cat stories we came to call them the Naughty Kitty Tales: Cheeky and Saucy, Wayward and Waggish were my favourites. He was a great orator, so good that some girls had bad dreams after his stories. They tried to hide it, but we others heard them weeping or crying out in their beds. Especially Nickeline. She was the most soft-headed of all the stupidest girlies in Oblation. In the morning we dutifully reported her and she was punished in Supervised Peer Slapping and Kicking so that she would remember with her body if her mind was too flighty to retain the lesson. We were so well taught by Bobander that after he was taken by death a memorial to Truth was erected in his honour at the South Gate which we all visit each Sorrow and Penitence month.
I know I should not waste my energies on concern for Pearl, for my duty lies with the work I do in the gardens, with my training with the girlie-guards, and the prayers I must repeat silently always to keep distractions of the world and the mind at bay that I may one day be worthy to perform the act of sacrifice, that is, to make sacred my own life. But I love Pearl dearly. We are different: I am careful; she is not. I am pious; she lacks a natural impulse towards devotion. But I can help her for she is the sister of my soul.
I remember saying to her then, as our House mother stood in the doorway dripping cake mix onto the floor of highly polished concrete, buffed daily to a high gloss by careforcers, ‘Pearl, hush. MaOblat is a woman of virtue, our guide and mother.’ Pearl rolled her eyes at me and gave me a quick kiss, flicking my ear with the tip of her tongue. ‘Behave!’ I hissed. And ducked my head so that she would not see my smile. Just a small smile. I could not help it.
We knew what to do. We had watched Fifteens’ processions since the age of Minus-Ten from Attainment, which is when girlies become more or less sentient. We took off the sleeping-dresslesses we wore at night to keep us warm, drew our masks down over our faces, put on our high heels and tightly knotted broad-belts, and in the pure state of available nakedness made our way through the mild drizzle, two by two across the yard in a crocodile towards the sealed Orchid Nursery and the altar with its Plea Box, to Beseech. I could feel the heat of the boys’ and Men’s scrutiny of my body from the males’ apartments that surrounded our corp-yard, for I had learned my lessons in Attracting the Gaze and I felt so proud of my power to draw their eyes to my form. Pride again, I said to myself. Remember who you are: a palliation vehicle for the desire of Men, and if you are very, very lucky, in due course a vessel for a Seed-Bearer, a womanidol. You have a function to fulfill. No more or less. But then, I found even that made my heart swell … with pride.
PEARL
2.
I have never been certain, or at least I cannot remember having been so. I know what it’s for though, certainty. It’s to give you a sense of purpose of course. It’s to direct your energy towards an end that is of benefit not only to the female body corporate and thereby the rest of the State, but ultimately to Civilisation itself. Is this not right, is this not good? Yes it is. I know this to be so for it is what I have always known because I was taught well, so that even if I did not always attend to my lessons as I should, those drills still worked into my brain carrying their messages, and the messages settled there like – what? I have been told, and it is true, that a child’s brain is an empty bucket and must be filled with information and knowledge of duties. This is how it is. Yet now an image comes to mind of silt caking the bottom of that bucket, bright green slime lining its sides.
And another image comes to meet it from some odd corner of my mind, based on pictures I have seen, I suppose, in the Museum of Iniquities. Behind my eyes I invent a street filled with energetic people talking to each other, Men and (wo)Men both, engaged in daily commerce, buying and selling, and conversing together about their work and their plans as if no-one was watching them, as if it was perfectly legal and correct. And there are children too. In dreams I walk down this street in this town although I know this dream world is haraamasur. I know. It is a corruption of reality, of righteousness, of the truth of how things are and must be. Isn’t it? Yes, of course it is.
Oh, here in my mind, something has gone wrong, wrong, wrong. Some poison – no, worse – some entity – no, entities plural, masses plural, have entered my mind bearing poisonous notions that breed and spread like a green disease, so that now there is a great deal more material in my head than what was gifted me by my teachers. My mind still retains all my lessons, all the wisdom of the Men of Right-Sight, but they are getting rammed by the new notions, battered and cut by my mind’s new population, my toxic invaders, my demons.
My demons debate among themselves the value of my learning, posing daring questions about the wisdoms achieved through effortful study, and I listen to them, and they lead me into temptation. They lead me into transgression. I follow, willingly.
MICA
3.
As we made our way through the gentle rain towards the Plea Box, an occasional Craftsman or Scholar would come down from his apartment and avail himself of one of us, or even a Man from one of the Ecumenical Houses, Trojan, Gabriel, Usama or Caedmon. But more often it was a gamey young boy for, having just awoken, their needs were strongest. I looked over at Pearl. She was walking purposefully, as if by her demeanour she could avoid the glances of boys and Men and also their touch. As if she was exempt! Yes, Pearl is a proud one. Even worse than me. But her conceits take strange turns – taking pride in things that would cause me only shame. My closest friend, yet a conundrum as convoluted as the infolded female forms we had studied in The Labial Mystery as Metaphor for Life.
I watched with interest the coupling of one young Man with Galena, who had obligingly leant over and placed her hands on her