"Ursula K. LeGuin - A Woman's Liberation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Le Guin Ursula K)

allowed. In the winter one of the grandfathers-poor old broken men, not strong
people like the grandmothers-would "sing the word." That is what we called
reciting the Arkamye. Every night, always, some of the people were teaching
and others were learning the sacred verses. On winter nights one of these old
worthless bondsmen kept alive by the grandmothers' charity would begin to sing
the word. Then even the pups would be still to listen to that story.
The friend of my heart was Walsu. She was bigger than I, and was my defender
when there were fights and quarrels among the young or when older pups called
me "Blackie" and "Bossie. " I was small but had a fierce temper. Together,
Walsu and I did not get bothered much. Then Walsu was sent out the gate. Her
mother had been bred and was now stuffed big, so that she needed help in the
fields to make her quota. Gede must be hand harvested. Every day as a new
section of the bearing stalk comes ripe it has to be picked, and so gede
pickers go through the same field over and over for twenty or thirty days, and
then move on to a later planting. Walsu. went with her mother to help her pick
her rows. When her mother fell ill, Walsu. took her place, and with help from
other hands she kept up her mother's quota. She was then six years old by
owner's count, which gave all assets the same birthday, new year's day at the
beginning of spring. She might have truly been seven. Her mother remained ill
both before birthing and after, and Walsu took her place in the gede field all
that time. She never afterward came back to play, only in the evenings to eat
and sleep. I saw her then and we could talk. She was proud of her work. I
envied her and longed to go through the gate. I followed her to it and looked
through it at the world. Now the walls of the compound seemed very close.
I told my grandmother Dosse that I wanted to go to work in the fields.
"You're too young."
"I'll be seven at the new year."
"Your mother made me promise not to let you go out."
Next time my mother visited the compound, I said, "Grandmother won't let me go
out. I want to go work with Walsu. "
"Never," my mother said. "You were born for better than that."
"What for?"

"You'll see."
She smiled at me. I knew she meant the House, where she worked. She had told
me often of the wonderful things in the House, things that shone and were
colored brightly, things that were thin and delicate, clean things. It was
quiet in the House, she said. My mother herself wore a beautiful red scarf,
her voice was soft, and her clothing and body were always clean and fresh.
"When will I see?"
I teased her until she said, "All right! I'll ask my lady."
"Ask her what?"
All I knew of my-lady was that she too was delicate and clean, and that my
mother belonged to her in some particular way, of which she was proud. I knew
my-lady had given my mother the red scarf.
"I'll ask her if you can come begin training at the House."
My mother said "the House" in a way that made me see it as a great sacred
place like the place in our prayer: May I enter in the clear house, in the
rooms of peace.
I was so excited I began to dance and sing, "I'm going to the House, to the