Week 7

August 15

There’s a woman in the court who used to be a nurse in the war. She’s about eighty years old and she shakes her head in pity at my scars and piercing. Every day. When I first got here, I thought that she was reminded, either of the terrible wounds that must have inflicted my scars (the stories are far more hair raising than the reality) or that my appearance in general reminded her of the war between the worlds of Summer and Winter. But every day she mutters, “Woe is the world and the people in it!” 

She does this over and over, and has for so long that I hear other people repeating it. Adora does a particularly good impression, when she sees me dressed up as a peasant. The old woman is a joke, and not because she is in a constant state of worry over the world and the amount of woe it is participating in at the moment -- it’s because she spends every minute of every day listing the things that bring woe to the world and the people in it. War, famine, murder, theft, politics. If it’s horrible, then she can go on about it for hours, punctuated, of course with her exclamations. Needless to say, she is quite avoided at court, and can be found in the corners, muttering and wringing her hands. I used to seek her out, perhaps to comfort her, I’m not certain. Now it’s too depressing and frustrating to do so because I realized that distressed is her preferred state of mind.

She reminds me of a nanny I had when I was around six or seven. I liked her because she fussed over me and gave me lots of attention. My mother was forever taking in strays, so the house was always full of strangers -- adults and children. Often the children had siblings, and I didn’t yet, so I felt both invaded upon and isolated during that time. But the nanny would give my a syrupy medicine every day that would make me cough, then she’d pat my back and massage my head and sing to me. I wouldn’t mind that I was coughing, because I liked being coddled. At first, even my mother and father would make special trips to visit me because I was ill. 

Then when I didn’t get better, the nanny got fired and I stopped taking the medicine that made me cough and I got a new nanny who wasn’t one for hugs and didn’t like me because I lived more in my head, than in the real world. When I did get sick for real, my mother would come into my room and rub my head for a while and tell me stories about when she was young. Stories full of blood and gore and triumph. It got so that I liked being sick and played the sickly kid until I got old enough to realize that the attention I got from it had waned. 

August 16

All of the male courtiers have these ridiculous nicknames that are supposed to make them more attractive. The one who flirts with me the most outrageously, is Wanderlust. He’s short, dark, and tan, like the Summerfolk tend to be. He is not in his prime, physically. He has a potbelly and scars on his head from a duel in his youth. He keep his head shaved, showing off the scars to impressive advantage, and he refuses to state his age. He could be younger than me, or older, and I can’t tell which is the case. His entire persona is one of jaded youthfulness, and he can switch from bully to jester to seducer in the middle of a sentence.

He is my most ardent pursuer, despite his wife and two children, and I find him nearly irresistible. It could be because he pays attention to me. Being here, I am both wildy visible and almost nonexistent at the same time. Everyone knows that a Winterian is in the middle of the courtyard, but no one acknowledges her presence. I am the proverbial elephant in the room, and it is a lonely position. 

So, when a man, physically unappealing and certainly unavailable goes out of his way to catch my attention and to make me laugh -- I am drawn to him. Though I don’t wish to be and though I know nothing can or will ever come of it.

August 17

Some days, I wish I could anyone other than me. But other days…

My mother is coming to visit! I can’t believe it! Another Winterian braving the closeness of the Summer sun, here to support me and to exibit and reinforce the ferocity of Winter! All Summerians kneel in anticipation of the terror that will overcome you when you face the horror that is my mother’s face! Ha! Ha! Ha!

Heehee… 

I can’t wait to see her. I wish more of my family were visiting with her. I miss Karen most of all. But a Winterian in Summer is quite remarkable, two is going to be historic. Before me, Winterians hadn’t stepped a friendly foot onto Summer soil in over a thousand years. And it’s been six hundred years since Winter last invaded Summer and were driven out. The fighting has all taken place in spaceships, between the planets, not on them. So mother coming is an event, and the planning is left partly to me, since I know what Winterians like. It’s going to be scary. My nerves jitter with an anticipatory fury.

August 18

So here’s bit of gossip for Summerfolk to wrap their mouths around: Wanderlust succeeded in seducing one of our ladies. Most of the courtiers flirt, but the marrieds don’t actually follow through.  I’m quite disappointed in him. When I look at him I just see his short, bristly mustache, and his potbelly. When he speak, all I hear is “smarmy, smarmy blah-blah”. 

So I’m looking around for a new crush. Hopefully one who is single or at least has the morals of a penguin rather than an alley cat. I’ve narrowed down a short list of possibilites of courtiers who were actually here today. I can’t make it a final list because there may be some guys who weren’t here today that I would seriously consider.

Sir Romance-a-lot: Fast talking and kinda cute. His top lip curls up when he speaks or sings, revealing his teeth. He’s slim, with a supremely attractive amount of confidence.

Marquis de Happy: Comfortably plump with a big smile and a grace that belies his size. He has a really nice laugh along with the ability to be quiet for long periods of time.

The Scottish Lover: Sexily shy with a centuries-old lilt to his voice, speaking or singing. Soulful eyes, but a little unwashed.

August 19

It is exactly a week until my mother comes to visit. Preparations include getting her room ready, which we’ve done by removing all of the furniture and fabrics and replacing them with slabs of marble for sleeping or sitting on. The genius of this is that it is nigh impossible for anyone to hide in her room and spy on her. It’ll be uncomfortable, but Adora has devised some cushions and blankets that look exactly like marble, as long as nobody looks too closely. I’ve assured Adora that my mother is too tough to use them, but I thought it was a sweet gesture.

I’ve also been filling Stan in on some of my mother’s favorite foods. He turns such a cute shade of green when I describe the entrails, but Todd thinks I’m hilarious. Todd has been assigned to be my mother’s page, and unfortunately, I can not assign a maid I trust, since Adora is the only one I trust. But my mother will be careful.

Amongst other things, one of the things I look forward to most, is having someone else here in Summer who will understand exactly how lonely and frightening it is to be here by one’s lonesome. Perhaps if my mother goes home and tells the King and Queen how precarious Winter’s (okay, my) position here is, maybe they’ll move to solidify their treaty with Summer by sending more Winterians to live over here. And perhaps my husband will send some Summerians to live in Winter.

Integration is key to not lonely making the truce work, but also to my sanity. I need some Winter people here so that I will not feel so vulnerable and alone…. 

August 20

There’s this university in Summer that is dedicated entirely to the arts. Writing, painting, sculpture, etc. The only “art” you learn in a Winter school is the art of warfare, and that you learn from elementary school on up. Winter has artists, of course, but they are not taught their art in some sissy school. Artists fight to produce artwork, Winter artwork is often carved from the bloody remains of our victims. (Of course, these remains are mostly made of gummy bears and red syrup, but it’s the principle of the thing.) No self-respecting Winterian would ever refer to themselves as an “artist”.

We have butcher and bakers and architects, and some of those people may further the beauty that is Winter, but it’s more of a communal thing. No artist works only for himself. He either contributes to the beauty of his city, state, planet -- or he dies trying. Everyone in Winter is an artist. But nobody needs to title themselves that way.

It astonishes me that here in Summer, people have this tendency to worship themselves. They call it “independence” but it just seems like so much unwashed navel-gazing, pretentious bullshit that would not be stood for in Winter. You’d either get beaten half to death, or you’d have to say goodbye to your family and start over as a completely different person.

August 21

I keep trying to not count the days until my mother arrives because I want the actual day to take me by surprise.  FIVE days! 

Adora and I spent the day creating vicious Winter nightgowns out of Summer silks and linens. Large amounts of starch create the pointy edges that wee need, but the fabrics are so much cooler. I can not imagine my mother sleeping in the nude.

Before I left home, my mother sat down and had a long talk with me. It was not the usual talk brides-to-be get because there is no way my marriage will ever be consummated. Rather, she looked deep into my eyes, with her fiercest, soul-piercing gaze and made me promise to keep my emotions in control. She pressed upon me the importance of this. I was a rather emotional child, and “It is time to behave like an adult,” she said. “All of your joy, fear, and everything in between, youj must channel into sharp points in your psyche. Those things must show in your voice, in your movements, in the slightest flare of your nostrils, as utter contempt for any sign of weakness in anyone else.”

Then she was quiet for a moment. She faced away from me and closed her eyes. She took in a deep breath. Then she turned to me, and her voice trembled. Her eyes held such fear for me that I wondered if someone had suddenly appears behind me and was poised with a dagger to kill me. Then my mother said, “You must take in now strays. Show no compassion. Your life depends on this.”

I’ve considered lying to my mother. She’ll only be here for a couple of weeks, after all. She never needs to know about Adora or Stan or Todd. But if I can confess my sins to anyone, shouldn’t it be my mother? It certainly can’t be my husband. And perhaps she can give me advice on how to quell the empathy I feel when I see a fellow human in danger -- even a Summer one.

If all else fails, I can blame her. She took in strays throughout my entire childhood -- this was training for me to help whatever souls in need that I saw. But blaming her won’t keep me alive and if someone killed her during her visit because I showed signs of weakness before she arrived --