The Overseer is busy with a mistake made by the Seamstress with the gnarled, age-spotted hands; she hisses as the trembling old woman unpicks a seam under her slit-eyed gaze.
At last, the Overseer straightens. She turns and surveys the room. And she sees that Maryaâs place is empty.
âSsssahhhh,â the Overseer breathes, and I see a flicker of somethingâis it fear?âin her eyes. In a flash she is at the door, flinging it open and calling for the guards, and then from outside there is shouting, and the rush of feet and paws in the passageway, and then . . .
Silence.
For a long time, nothing happens.
Maryaâs seat remains empty. I hide my rope beneath a pile of scraps under my bench. We are taken out for our stretches, our meager meal, our sleep; we come back and stitch. The old Seamstresses make more mistakes. Their hands shakeand their eyes run with tears, and the Overseer hisses at them with increasing urgency. The tension in the air gets thicker and darker. They pass me more scraps of silk, more than I can use. I keep my head down and wonder what happened to Marya. She has been gone for a long time. She must have gotten away. My rope, finished, is coiled on my lap.
T HE SOUND OF footsteps and curt orders is heard outside. The door flies open and several guards rush in, their naked tails waving behind them. The Overseer slithers up, hissing her displeasure. A lesson, she is told.
The Overseer wrings her scaly hands. âStand silently,â she orders.
We Seamstresses set down our work and get to our feet. I hide my rope on my bench under the dress that I am hemming. A knot of tension tightens in my chest. Where are they taking us? The Seamstress beside me, Oldest, puts her gnarled hands on the table to push herself up, and I steady her with a hand on her arm. She leans against me as we are ushered out the door.
Two pig-snouted guards are waiting in the passageway. Four more guards with twitching furry ears join us as we come out into the courtyard, blinking at the light. The sky overhead is grayâis it always gray? I wonderâand I shiver as I walk beside the shuffling old Seamstresses. The guards lead us across the courtyardâpast the post, its chains and manacles clanking against the woodâto the high wall thatsurrounds the fortress and the courtyard.
The wall is what they have brought us to see.
It is the height of two tall men, I would guess, and covered with gray brambles about the thickness of my arm. The brambles are studded with thorns as long and sharp as daggers.
Halfway up the wall, impaled on thorns that are crusted with dried blood, is Maryaâs body. It looks like a giant rag doll. Its back is to us; its head lolls to the side; its arms and legs are splayed and pierced by the bloody thorns. Marya was stabbed by the thorns as she climbed the wall. And she was left there to die.
The guards say nothing. The Overseer stands with her mouth slightly open, and I see her forked tongue testing the air, as if she can taste the smell of blood. The other Seamstresses glance quickly at Maryaâs body and then stare down at the cobblestones.
I canât pull my eyes away. My arms and legs feel cold as lead. My heart trembles in my chest.
The arm of the body twitches. I blink and hold my breath. The air is still and heavy, and then I hear, faintly, a moan. A bead of bloodâfresh bloodâtrickles down Maryaâs impaled foot, gathers at her toe, and then drops, splattering on the cobblestones.
I turn to the Overseer. âSheâs still alive,â I gasp.
The Overseerâs slitted eyes glance aside at me, but she does not speak.
I dare to reach out and touch the Overseerâs sleeve. âWemust get her down from there,â I say, more loudly.
âItâs a lesson,â the Overseer says. âShe stays.â
â No ,â I say wildly, and make a move toward the wall, but the Overseer grips my arm and snakes her other arm
Roger Penrose, Brian Aldiss