Math. Numbers.

  It was simple and spelled out in black and white below the fold. Humans took nine months to have a child, starting at around Reaha's age. If half were girls and four fifths would be infertile, then to simply sustain population levels required girls Reaha's age to have at least ten children. Ten was possible, but that wasn't the only complication in the math.

  Four fifths were infertile. Roosters were used to harems. It was even covered in the paper. A rooster with twenty hens would either have them laying eggs or not. If he didn't, eat the rooster and try again. The hens that didn't lay get eaten and replaced. Once a successful rooster was found, it was used to test hens by the score.

  This was a very bad model to follow. A state that issued wife-beating rules wouldn't hesitate to push this path for humans. Veiled women specifically.

  She hoped they were too remote for the state to bother with. But hope alone was never enough.

  Myla folded the paper and joined Reaha in the kitchen, washing dishes.

  Sirin, her middle daughter, came to her mother that morning after prayers. Being in the middle meant she was often overlooked. She looked incredibly embarrassed, "Momma, I'm—"

  "It's all right, Child, Reaha and I know. It's something that just happens when women spend lots of time together. Come, I'll walk you through— did we ever have this talk— Oh, Child, I'm so sorry. I think I forgot to tell you." Myla put her arm around the girl. "Nothing to be ashamed of. It's just a part of life. For a few days every month, this will happen. When you're young, it's a little more chaotic, but it'll level out soon and you'll get used to it." She walked her to the bathroom. "In the good old days, we used to have some really good disposable stuff. You girls will never know how good that was. Here, let me get you started." She closed the door.

  There was a passage about banishing menstruating women to the nearest caves for a week. Now that her husband had three women in his house, he was frantic to find that page, but reading the whole book was a bit much to find a lone paragraph. Besides that, it was rarely all that bad on him anyway.

  With Tour the only other boy in the house, they all ate meals at the same time now. It was nice having the full table, everybody quietly talking instead of sneaking meals in their room.

  Myla went to the kitchen, then returned with a big bowl of fresh salad and started putting a portion on everyone's plate.

  "The fig trees are failing again this year," the husband said.

  "Are they all failing?" Myla asked.

  "No, three are ok—"

  "That's about the same as—", Reaha stopped short, "Sorry, Papa." She stared at her plate.

  He looked sternly at her, sitting at his table, dressed in boy's clothes, "Go on, Child."

  She looked up from her plate at her mother first, "Sorry, Papa, but I— We had them last year. There was one on the end, by the old fence— No, that— We just ended up marking the only healthy ones with a cinderblock near the base, on the Mecca side of the tree."

  "I wouldn't have noticed. I'll check tomorrow, but I'd bet it's the same this year," he said.

  "We, we used broken blocks for the ones that seemed to be trying and whole blocks for those that were fine."

  "It just looked like junk to me."

  Reaha picked up her fork and started to eat.

  "Look, Reaha, you girls—" he wanted to say more, he had started to praise them for how well they had held this house together and the harmony they maintained in such tough times, "I'm—" they were all looking at him now, "I'm sorry we can't afford any new clothes and," he dropped his utensil on his plate, "and I'm sorry we have been eating with washed and worn-out plastic forks and spoons and," he pushed the plate to the side, "I wanted more for you girls," he said.

  "This is fine, Papa," Reaha said.

  The rest chimed in too.

  He laughed a little, "I guess I never realized how much I missed figs."

  They returned to quietly eating.

  About every other house was empty, either destroyed or evacuated. The wealthier homes had been abandoned when the metal plumbing first started packing a punishing charge. They tended to have the resources to barter for camels and make a run for another state or country. Whatever happened to them, nobody knew. At first, their homes were left unmolested. But, as the years went by, it all became fair game.

  It was extremely dangerous and the children were forbidden, but they did it anyway. How could they resist? Especially those far from any parental view.

  They chose their steps carefully as they crossed the wooden floor. The wood was fine, the nails were what they had to watch out for. Sylia pointed to a scorch mark, smacked it a few times with a trusted walking stick, then moved past it.

  The floor squeaked with every step. Ashina tested the spot with her stick too.

  They were exploring, rather exciting in its own, dangerous way.

  Most of the best stuff was gone, but every house had its own secret treasures, waiting to be found. They had scored two boxes of Q-tips, sixteen bars of soap, several tubes of toothpaste and bottles of shampoo, and that was just the ground floor.

  The house showed signs of children and they were hoping for some new toys, games, or clothes. They knew that stuff would be upstairs. The nails had burned spots in the floors, some sections had even collapsed, but two children added nearly nothing to such a structure's loads. They just had to be careful and walk softly.

  "Sylia, over here," Ashina said.

  It was a jackpot, if it could be gotten to. She had found a child's room, the paint on the wall screamed girl. An assortment of clothes were on the bed. The bed was a spring style and was putting out a good deal of heat. The clothes dumped on it had burned years ago. Not a rapid fire, but more what one would expect if left on an iron too long. The coils were dangerous beyond the heat, like the nails, they packed a lethal shock. But a fortune in goodies lay beyond it, and both girls knew it.

  "Just look at it, will you? All those new clothes on the floor, the boxes in the closet. I'm going to try for it," Ashina said.

  Sylia smacked the wall with her stick, reminding her sister of the hundreds of nail burns she would have to hug to get past the mattress. She tugged her sister by the arm and nudged her out of the room. They went down the hall about ten steps, then stopped.

  Sylia started breaking holes in the wall. It was simple drywall on wooden studs. Time consuming, but it crumbled easily with smacks from their sticks. One of the studs with burns near the nails was encouraged to fall into the room, just on the other side of the hazard.

  Ashina kissed her silent accomplice then raided the loot. Four decks of cards, eighteen books, shirts, dresses, skirts, shoes, sandals, seven jigsaw puzzles, and a fortune in old socks and underwear.

  They had more than they could carry and weren't anywhere near plundering the whole house. Ashina wanted to do a complete ransacking and pile everything by a safe spot on the ground floor.

  It was a reasonable idea. They found a dozen sheets that were perfect for tying into bags as they broke their way into the remaining rooms. Soap, shampoo, towels and adult clothes were most of what they found. Worthless, from children's view, they nonetheless bagged them and stacked them near the door for easy retrieval.

  That was the point where they realized their problem. It wasn't roaming a house that could burst into flames, crumble around them, or shock them to death, the true problem was getting the bounty home. Getting it past their mom without getting caught or punished would be their greatest feat, roaming the house was child's play.

  They returned empty handed instead, much to Ashina's anguish. They looked around home for places to hide the goods, but their house was small and the number of eyes huge. When they realized the futility of it, both girls got depressed as they rested up for their night chores at the garden. Perhaps the most painful thing either had encountered in their short lives was the torment of such a fortune in toys and clothes that neither could play with or wear.

  Myla ran from the house and yanked the sack from the girl's hand. "Didn't I tell you about how dangerous it was to go into those homes?" She shook the girl, "Didn't I tell you!"

  Sylia let go of the sled stacked with the rest of it.

  "What is wrong with you? You could have gotten killed!"

  Sylia pulled some books from the sack and handed them to her mom.

  Myla was taken aback, but still fuming. She looked at the titles. "Look, Child," she thought of the hand-slapping incident, "I have to punish you. I have to, you know that. Promise me, promise me you'll never do that again."

  Sylia pulled some adult clothes from the sack.

  Myla yanked them from the girl's hands, tossed them onto the ground and stamped on them. "I get it, Child, you got stuff for us. But I bet there's something in there for you too. I'm not stupid. Neither are you. You thought if you started with something I wanted—" She knelt on the clothes to better stare into the child's eyes, "You hide the you behind that silence, you think that keeps you safe. It won't protect you from dangers like this. You have to let me know that I'm getting through to you. That you can never do this again."

  Sylia nodded.

  "Never."

  She nodded again.

  Myla looked at the girl. "You get nothing from this. You can't play a single game here. You can't wear a single stitch or hear a single story read aloud." She put her hand on the girl's cheek. "You get nothing from this. Nothing. Now, go inside."

  Myla checked everything on the sled. Nothing dangerous, everything useful. She dusted off the stamped garments, then drug it all inside.

  "Everyone," the mother said, "nobody is allowed to play with Sylia for the next week. She's being punished."

  Tour walked up to Sylia, then pushed her until she fell to the floor.

  Myla grabbed the boy by the wrist. "I am punishing her, not you. You just can't play with her." She pushed him to the ground, gently by comparison, "You, young man, do not ever shove your sister."

  He pouted, but didn't get up.

  The three girls weren't paying attention anyway, they were ripping through the stuff, making claims and bartering with 'first grabs'. "Ashina, that doesn't even fit you. Let your sister have it."

  Ashina's hair smelled of apple as they weeded the garden, late that night. "I'm sorry, Sylia," she said.

  Sylia shrugged and ripped another weed out of the ground.

  "I didn't— We can—"

  Sylia smiled briefly, shrugged, then continued.

  "It's so unfair of her. We should—"

  Sylia hugged her, shook a no, then went back to work. They had two more sections to check and weed before they could go home.

  "I think it's unfair she makes you do all the dishes and clear the table every night. I— I'll volunteer to help you tomorrow—"

  Sylia shook a no.

  "But I was the one who g—"

  Sylia hugged her, then shook no again.

  "It isn't fair."

  Ashina played her new game with Sirin after their mother read them a story from one of the books. As she moved her piece around the board, she could hear the dishes clank from the kitchen. "Momma, can't Sylia play after she's done—"

  "No, she's being punished."

  "For how long, Momma?" Ashina asked.

  "Until I say."

  "But, Momma, She didn't mean any harm—"

  "Not until I say, Child."

  "But—"

  "You can help her scrape the cesspool tomorrow."

  That, she understood. She actually felt better about being punished, but was wise enough to shut up and go back to the game. She liked her sister, but she liked her new clothes too.

  The cesspool was punishment. Sylia woke her sister early so they could rake it before the sun was up. It helped, but it was still punishing. Two raked much faster than one, but two weren't strong enough to drag the sled to the garden. Reaha joined them for that. Reaha's punishment was for being the oldest.

  By the end of the second week, the girls were allowed to play with Sylia, and she was allowed to listen during story time, but she was still being punished.

  "Momma," Ashina said.

  "What is it, Child?" Myla plucked the healthy leaves as they worked on the harvest.

  "Momma, I, I was the one who talked Sylia into going with me to the house. I, didn't mean to get her in trouble. Can, can you stop punishing her now."

  Myla stopped picking. It suddenly made sense. One day, all on their own, a few dozen forks and spoons appeared in the kitchen. They weren't plastic and they weren't quite fancy enough to have been found in the house, but they were glazed pottery and well made nonetheless. She was learning the workings of that little girl's mind. "How many days between when you got the stuff and she brought it home?"

  "I don't remember, Momma, a few, maybe?"

  A few. That would have been long enough. "She's being punished for something else, now."

  "But, Momma, she's a good—"

  "I know she is, that's not the point. Those homes are not safe, both of you were told that. Hassen died three years ago, doing what you two did. I was tempted to make all of you watch while I burned it, but that would have been purely wasteful. When I tell you not to do something, I mean it."

  "But—"

  "Not another word. You two went into their kitchen—"

  "No, Momma, I promise, we didn't even open that door. It smelled just going by it."

  That proved it. Sylia made the utensils and, realizing she would get in trouble for it anyway, just rolled it into Ashina's heist and took the blame for it all. She was a smart child that probably didn't care about any of the toys or loot. She probably went along to make sure Ashina didn't get herself hurt. "Listen, right now, your father thinks that Sylia foolishly risked her life, which he's ok with, for some useful but otherwise worthless crap. If he thought his own daughter did such a thing—"

  "Oh, Momma, please don't tell him."

  "I won't, this time. But, if it happens again—"

  "Oh, it won't, Momma, it won't."

  Sylia got no clothes or toys from their little adventure. Yet, even punished, she got everything she had wanted.

  Chapter 8

  Dusk still flickered with filaments of green, but by the last harvest of the year, the night sky faded to a pale blue, and the marginal figs lost the 'acne' from their leaves. This was the first year of surplus. Surplus was an overly generous word, but it wasn't rationing. They still nursed potato eyes, just to be safe.

  Sirin and Reaha, with both brothers gone, had settled into the boys' bigger room.

  Winter passed with extra games and lots of books to be read by lamp, and a silent little girl was, at long last, allowed out of extra chores and her punishment lifted.

  Spring seemed to have come all too soon.

  Sons started to trickle home. Depending on which campaign, they told entirely different tales.

  War was a difficult thing to wage without metal. For thousands of years, metal swords to metal shields had played a vital role in every war, until this one. It required a rethink of nearly everything.

  Metal implements, like axes and picks, had been used in the first waves. The thought behind it was that the wooden handles would protect the users from shocks. Which it did. However, the faster they were swung through the air, the harder they fought to keep the blows on course. Land a single blow, even grazing, and it packed not only the physical but the electrical damage as well.

  But the opposing side had thought along the same lines. The same force that gave metal its lethal charge also tended to make them magnetically attract, more so when swung. Once attached, they didn't easily release. With axes and picks stuck together in unwieldy lumps, battlefields degenerated into a nightmare of brutal bludgeoning. Simple clubs and spears prevailed. Bows and stone arrows were quickly reinvented.

  The first few battles were crushing losses. Projecting power outside one's home state was difficult in the best of times. Those that diverted the river did so from their homeland where reinforcements and supplies were readily at hand.

  Most of the losses were from the injured being so far away from aid.

  It didn't look good for her eldest son.

  They had plowed into war with raw anger and emotion. Emotion alone didn't win wars, and regrouping was taking time.

  The first few campaigns were disastrous. But one boy with a shattered arm and hence, of no military use to them anymore, returned from the more recent campaigns. His stories were difficult to believe, sounding more mythical than fact, but they listened anyway. The boy could tell an entertaining yarn.

  War, beyond the stories and rumors, seemed remote and far away. Like it was only a story. What was real was the needs of the garden. With the figs showing signs of recovery last year, they took a chance on corn, wheat, and a little rice. They had an innovative plan. They planted the staples as usual, but, just as they started to sprout, they planted the leafy stuff that had been keeping them alive in the same lines in the dirt. The theory was sound. If the corn took off and looked normal, they would 'weed' out the under crop. If it started showing lots of deformities, they would 'weed' the over crop out instead.

  Either way, the workload on everyone had just doubled by this experiment, but it was the only way to try without risking starvation.

  "It's my turn to do the dishes," Ashina said, taking the plate from Sylia's hand, "Momma's not punishing you anymore."

  Sylia picked up the towel and stood to her side. She would stop washing, not helping.

  After dishes and dusk, the two went for their gardening chores.

  It was a long walk to carry a two-liter bottle of water, but swapping it every so often made it comfortable enough.

 

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