Veronica Melan
The path to the heart. Baal
Not like Alka. Alka is something cozy, familiar, where it smells like rain, where drops knock on a hut made of branches, where pine branches rustle behind the walls. Alka is when you have coffee with cinnamon in the morning and the sun is shining through the window. Alka is light steps along the street, and your fingers touch the leaves of the bushes; Alka is an endless fantasy world - alive, moving and smelling like a fairy tale. Well, you might think that Helga pronounced “Alka” in an abusive manner, with mockery. That's why she's a sister. Harmful and older.- It's all Toshik. He insisted on Alesta - he said it was prettier. That was the only time I succumbed to his persuasion and I still regret it.
Alka looked at her father, met his guilty gaze for a second, after which he quickly lowered his head - he was silent, always silent. He endured all the heels and humiliation, and Alesta desperately wanted him to lose his temper. Suddenly he stood up, raised his voice, hit the table with his fist and said “that’s enough!” - so that everyone around can see that - yes, he is a man, - but, most importantly, he is a HUMAN!
But the father did not get up - he pretended that the conversations did not concern him, that insults were alien to him, that he was not here at all, but somewhere else - behind the wall of his own invisible world.
Alka sighed; The cutlets didn't go down my throat. A row of unfamiliar faces floated on the TV screen - all girls, all dressed in military uniform, and each had such pride in her eyes, as if she had just defended the Temple of Dei with her breasts. The presenter’s voice sounded no less proud from behind the scenes:
– ...The community is proud that this year the number of recruits has almost doubled last year’s number - three thousand graduates of the Themis Military College have entered permanent military service since the beginning of the month. We are proud of you, Women - Women with a capital W. We are calm, knowing that the perimeter of the Wall is guarded by such valiant Warriors, glorious followers of the goddess Bolla who left us...
The TV continued to broadcast; Mother never turned off the military channel - she still listened to it now.
– By the way, Alesta, aren’t you ready for the Campaign yet? Are you still waiting for something?
“I still have three months of combat training ahead of me.”
“You are excellent with a sword, you have excellent grades.” Why additional practice?
This is precisely why Alka hated dinners: because during them they invariably, not on purpose, but extremely obviously insulted her father, and because right now - in the peaceful evening hours - the topic of her Campaign was raised at the table.
Didn’t her mother really understand that Alesta wasn’t ready, that she was simply afraid to go? Of course, Deya seems to be guarding the road to the temple - the temple, which, by the way, is located behind the Wall - but what about ambushes? What if the Wild Ones drag her into the forest? What if they make her their slave, tie her up in one of the huts and take turns abusing her body - taking revenge, beating her, blackening it? Of course, don’t hit her too hard, so she can give birth. Every year - boy after boy. After all, they somehow need to continue their lineage...
Captivity was worse than death. It’s better to go to the Plains, it’s better to be devoured by monsters, it’s better to go beyond the last line.
- I am not ready.
Alka felt that she was angry. He is seriously angry, seriously, with the resentment that remains in the soul for years.
- Not ready? Coward!
- So be it!
“I went there twice, and nothing happened to me!”
- Live and be proud.
- Alesta!
Leaving the table before her mother was considered bad manners, but her fingers lay on the tablecloth and her legs sprung - Alka stood up and threw a crumpled napkin into the plate.
- Willful, huh?! – Vanessa Terentyevna roared. – Started to show arrogance?! But there are not yet twenty-two...
Her face, framed by small, dog-like curls, turned red; Thin eyebrows menacingly moved towards the bridge of the nose.
- Not hungry, thank you.
And Alka hurried into the corridor.
- No, just look! Who is she like, you? - in moments of anger, the mother for some reason forgot that she gave birth to Alka from Deya, and not from Anton Lvovich, and poured red-hot vengeful lava on the latter. - In you? This is all because the name is wrong! If I were Constance, I would be obedient!
Helga clinked her fork busily; the father was silent.
Under the tense, bull-like snoring of the mother, the television filled the room with the pathetic anthem of the Women's Confederation.
(Fox Amoore – Myre)
Alka’s sadness always spilled over into the need to love. To rest your gaze on something good, bright, to fix your eyes on the picture and mentally, at least for a minute, be transported there, to squeeze the plush toys sitting on the blanket-covered sofa. Follow the slanting ray of sunlight stretching across the room, ride along its dust-speckled back, believe that a sunny flower can grow from a light spot on the floor. The heavier my heart became, the more I wanted to believe in a miracle and the more greedily the need to turn myself into something good grew.
Because of the sunset, the room glowed orange - it was saturated with a juicy soft orange light and sparingly splashed it from wall to wall, from window to window. It’s good when the windows are on the ground floor - you can always climb out, wander around the garden, run to a cool pond and dip your hands in it, get lost for a while in the spruce forest growing on the edge.
I didn’t want to go to the spruce forest, nor to the pond. The warm wind shook the honeycombs growing on the windowsill; A barefoot gardener walked around the garden, naked to the waist and dressed in stained blue pants, dragging a hose coiled like snake coils behind him, watering the beds. Sometimes he threw the hose at the berry and began to trim the bushes, slurping his bare heels in the raspberry patch.
The gardener appeared at their house two weeks ago - a young guy with a light, shaggy crown, quiet and undemanding. He ate in the back room, slept in the barn, never raised his head, did not argue, worked from sunset to dawn. A male gardener is a whim of the mother, her way of demonstrating her wealthy status to her neighbors.
“So what, what’s expensive? We can afford..."
Allow a new set of walnut wood, a Catan carpet in the hallway, a service made of the finest glass with gold ornaments, a gardener...
How can you afford a person, because he is not a toy?
“For a mother, all are toys,” an evil thought flashed, and Alka, sitting by the window, buried her sad gaze in her bare, sinewy back.
But he is completely alone - no friends, no neighbor to exchange a word with, no pet to caress. He wakes up alone, works alone, falls asleep alone. They don’t consider him as a person, they don’t ask about his desires, they pay him crumbs - how does he live? Where does he find the strength not to give up, what does he believe in to stay afloat? Maybe in some dream only known to him?
Feeling pity, tenderness and aching longing for someone whose name she was not even allowed to know, Alesta suddenly did the forbidden - she allowed her heart to open and mentally directed a golden shining stream of female love at the boy standing by the bushes - after all, no one sees? Let him feel warmer for a second, let him feel support coming from nowhere, let him feel how a gentle mother’s hand will touch him from the inside - “you’re not alone, son...” - let...
She didn't have time to think about it. The lock clicked behind me, and Vanessa Terentyevna entered the room - Alka’s heart instantly broke into a gallop - after all, she didn’t see, didn’t have time, didn’t notice?! The flow of love was interrupted as if cut off, the breath got stuck in the throat.
And my mother saw it.
Because she approached the sofa with a decisive step, because with her face red with anger she gave her daughter such a slap on the back of the head that she almost tumbled onto the floor; because she stood there for a long time with her lips compressed into a stripe and her evil eyes blazing so fiercely that she almost burned through Alesta’s skull, and with it the stonework of the wall behind her.
“You,” she finally whispered quietly, but no less fiercely, “you... If you break the law again and send Love to some scum, I will personally take you to the Cold Plains and leave you there.” Do you understand me, fool?
A fool who is Alesta, who is not Constance.
- How could you even be born from me? Like this.
The last word sounded like a curse far worse than stupid.
Looking at how the ancestress walked out of the room with a firm, almost soldier’s gait, Alka wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"Really. How?"
I didn’t want to love anymore, I didn’t want to dream either. In general, I didn’t want anything else.
“...if Love as a feeling, as the energy sent, stops being dosed, not only willpower grows in men, but also excessive aggression, a craving for power and control (as well as arbitrariness), a desire to prove their own superiority develops, which inevitably led to will lead to wars and bloodshed. The scale of the disaster is enormous: in childhood - street fights, hooliganism; in adulthood - the development and use of weapons of mass destruction. Men who are completely deprived of female Love become angry, angry and vengeful - the fear of “they don’t love me” subsequently dominates all their actions, forms inappropriate behavior, gives rise to a craving for violence, and turns people with the Y chromosome into animals. Proof of this is the number of “wild” males living in the forests around the Women’s Confederation, who cannot be re-educated, on whose path there is only one obstacle - the Great Confederation Wall, which saves the Themis community from attacks. Dear citizens, residents of the Confederation, be prudent and always follow the rules of “dosing” of sending Love to men, described in the Code of Rules, paragraph 5.15.6, because only in this way will you help maintain calm, prosperity and peace for our great power...”
From a History textbook. College. Grade 11.
Part 1. Taneo
Chapter 1
Alesta
Thick glass divided the room in two: the upper, higher level and bunker-like floor, and the lower, “corral,” flooded with sunlight and electric light. In the pen, completely naked - without a single piece of fabric on their feet or thighs - three young men sat on squat stools. Silent, looking down at the floor, with unnaturally straightened backs - this is how it is. The one on the left, a blue-eyed blond whose hands were shaking so much that they had to be pressed to his knees, was nervous; Alesta saw it. Every now and then he tried to raise his head and look at the women behind the glass, but the law did not allow him: if you make a mistake at the interview, you will end up not in the state, but behind the Wall, in the forest. And no profession, no salary, no wife, no potential children. And, of course, not a drop of female love. The blonde did his best to nip curiosity in the bud and did not raise his head. The other two were less nervous (or so it seemed?) - they sat calmly, holding their hands where most men hold them - on their bare privates.
Helga, allowed to conduct the interview for the third time and therefore unusually important and businesslike, stood by the glass, looked down and smiled - her lips, scarlet from the new lipstick, stretched into an unpleasant smile. From the corner where she was sorting and sorting papers, Alya glanced at her from time to time. She looked and didn’t recognize: and you can’t say that sister – power changes people. But this is only the third time; How will Helga change in a year? And for the next one? Over the past month, she has lost the remnants of femininity - she did not accept this quality before, and now even more so: she cut her hair down to her shoulders, began to wear glasses with square lenses, and shoes exclusively with flat soles. I tried to be like my senior colleagues - Tilda Bogdanovna and Ula Valentinovna, who were now sitting to the left of Helga and ceremoniously observing the “initiation” process.
“Initiation as a citizen of the Confederation” - what an importance - Alya winced. Fortunately, the room was dark, and no one saw.
And Helga smiled like a shark.
“Say your name,” she ordered the blond, and he flinched at the sharp sound, amplified by the speakers in the pen. He raised his head uncertainly and immediately received a verbal slap on the head. -Looking into the eyes without permission is prohibited! Keep your head down!
The blonde bowed humbly; Tilda Bogdanovna and Ula Valentinovna nodded favorably - toughness in dealing with the male sex was valued and respected here.
Alya had never heard so much steel in her sister's voice - she missed Helga's first two interviews - she couldn't come to the internship because she had to finish her final exams at college. Dosdala. And now she has completed a full-time internship at the Committee for Admission to the Women’s Confederation of the male population. She was going to take over Helga's position someday - at least that's what her mother insisted on.
“It’s worthy and people will be proud. And with what respect they will treat our family!”
If only Alya had the right to choose...
“T...Timur L. Litetsky,” the blond stuttered.
- Age?
- Eighteen years.
- Education?
- Full higher education. College of Men's Education.
Helga tapped her cheek with her hand; Alya inopportunely remembered brother Savka - one day he too will sit on this chair, undergo an interview. In three years. Just three years later - how quickly time flies. And, I remember, she held him in her arms, played with him and loved him immensely, which infuriated her mother, who yelled that Alesta would “love” Savely from childhood - she would spoil him, turn him into a monster, because isn’t the road paved with good intentions? in hell?
And then Savka was taken away.
She was ten, he was five. And three years later they will see each other again - what has he become? Has it changed much? He has matured, probably grown, stretched out. Did his hair remain blond, as it was in childhood, or did it darken, like hers, Alka’s? Helga dyed her hair blonde - at home they forgot what kind of hair she was born with.
The interviewee Timur, meanwhile, answered questions; “Ursula” - with this single word Alesta mentally united Tilda Bogdanovna and Ula Valentinovna - meticulously examined his appearance. They felt with their eyes, smacked their lips, made obscene comments about the size of the “undergrown” belongings.
- Come on, get up! – Helga commanded, and the frail guy rose from the stool. - Hands down!
Trembling hands hung at his sides.
- The other two, stand up too!
The paddock neighbors obeyed the order.
- Yes, he has a normal penis! - the sister stated with satisfaction, and Alya suddenly felt ashamed for her - well, why use the microphone? Yes, even if they are men, but they are also people, also alive - why humiliate them? Helga, however, felt no shame. “These two, of course, are better, but the blond will also stretch out when he gets up.” The children will have something to do. What do you think, colleagues?
The Ursulas began to whisper; Tilda laughed hoarsely and unpleasantly.
Alesta, with flaming cheeks, buried her face in the papers - it’s good that she is not visible from behind the glass.
– Which one do you like, Alesta?
Helga directed her green eyes at Alya - the question was not idle. This evening the older sister will take one of them to her place - to deflower him - a privilege, so to speak.
I would fall through the ground, but how could I not answer? It’s impossible not to answer, she’s the next one to take this position,” Alya straightened her skirt, came out from behind the tiny table with papers, and approached the window. She needs to keep her face, she needs to conform - the Ursulas are watching. And also the mother - what will she say if her daughter fails before she officially starts work? It will disgrace the family, destroy hopes.
Alesta cleared her throat. She didn’t want to look at the men, but she forced herself.
“This is not how they should be – not downtrodden, not blinkered.” All this was somehow wrong, fundamentally wrong - their timid glances, their stooped shoulders despite their straight spine, the lack of interest in their eyes. Not men - stunted grown flowers instead of proud trees - an echo of bygone times that grandmother talked about.
The men behind the glass were waiting for the verdict on who was more beautiful - she felt sorry for them.
“What if she was like this? Or Helga? And “Ursula” wouldn’t have passed the “beauty” test at all,” this thought amused me.
- Well, little sister, who would you like to have fun with this evening?
“No way.”
Alya didn't want to have fun with anyone at all. And she protected her virginity not because she hoped to meet someone special - she still had to go to the temple, give birth to the Goddess - but because she did not want to see a timid and insecure person next to her in bed, constantly hiding his eyes.
- Average.
She chose at random, didn't look closely.
- Why?
Helga glared from under her glasses with a needle-like gaze.
I had to look at the men - not in detail, but superficially.
- The chest is wider, the hair is thicker.
“And his balls hang lower, they’ll be tighter in his hand.”
Tilda Bogdanovna did not differ in her sense of tact either.
“And I would be on the far right,” the red-haired aunt Ula Valentinovna leaned back with a yawn, and Alya didn’t envy the one on the right—she’ll take it. – I love it when horseradish is thick.
This word continued to sound in Alesta’s head two hours later, when the interview was over and all the questions were: what kind of work do you want to do, what salary do you want to receive, are you ready to start as a gardener? – found your answers.
“I wonder what they call a man’s penis with love, if not horseradish?”
I wanted to go outside, in the sun, to a lemonade stand. I wanted to walk through the park, breathe in the air filled with pine resin, listen to the hubbub on the playground, sit by the lake.
“Maybe Tashka can do it too?”
As soon as Alya pushed the thick door of the Committee Department, went out into the street and turned her face to the warm rays of the sun, “horseradish” was forgotten.
Summer is the time when the wind, intoxicated by the aromas of herbs, climbs under the thin fabric of a white blouse, when it, a mischief-maker, fiddles with lace sleeves and loose curls. The nostrils are tickled by the smell of colorful flowers, lawnmowers crawling out of storage rooms are buzzing on the lawns, housewives in multi-colored hats are watering loose beds.
Lillen was drowned in vegetation, as a ball-goer drowns in fluffy skirts - he smelled the scent of spicy herbs, stroked the gates with delicate leaves, nodded the thousands of heads of the blossoming tulle. The linden trees rustled, the spruce bushes whispered along the alleys, the tiles of the roofs, washed by the rain, glistened in the rays of the sun; pies were wafting from the open windows of the houses through one.
Alesta Lillen loved.
Having grown up on these gentle streets and once led by her mother’s hand, first to kindergarten, then to elementary school, she could hardly imagine that this city had previously been called differently - inhospitably and unprepossessingly - Kurdan. No, the word “Kurdan” did not suit this place at all. Although, earlier, before the arrival of the Confederation, the place itself was different - everything was different: countries, people, customs, life. Then, even before Alka’s birth, when the Women’s Confederation did not reign in all its current splendor, as it does now, there were several countries, according to the history textbook, and they were all ruled by male dictators. And they fought for everything: for fertile lands, for expanding borders, for power, for the reign of peace throughout the world. We fought and achieved nothing. But they destroyed the temples of the Goddesses, of which there once existed eight, and then the Departure took place. The angry celestials left the world, turning almost its entire area into the Cold Plains - they razed people and cities to the ground, turned the soil to stone, and left people without favor and luck. Of the eight, only one remained - Deya - the patroness of women and fertility, whose temple by chance remained untouched - she helped the Alkin ancestors restore peace, and at the same time create the Confederation. And it became warm and cozy, it became light and calm, and in Kurdan’s place, Lillen grew up, drowning in flowers. Alkin Lillen is small and beloved.
“Why did you fight? – Alesta often tried to understand. – Why did they endlessly divide something? Why couldn’t they immediately live in harmony?” And I didn’t understand. Trying to understand the intricacies of history, she re-read school textbooks many times, learned some parts by heart, but the essence - why are wars needed? – I couldn’t catch it. And now I was just glad that they weren’t there. Because the former were enough - if not for them, the land of the Plains would still bloom, and people would live on it, not demons. Demons that everyone feared - even the wild men of the forests. And although the latter knew how to fight and still repaired weapons, no one returned from the Plains alive.
“That’s it,” Alka thought and sighed. - Fools. But everything could have been different.”
But why think about it when it's summer? When bumblebees are buzzing around, when the buds on the fences turn pink, when there are still three whole months left of a free and happy life. And then…
Therefore, there will also be life, only different, new. Life after the Campaign.
Tashka did it.
She had repaid her philosophy loan and was now sitting on a blanket laid out at the very edge of the lake, squinting her green eyes from the sun’s glare running across the water surface and eating ice cream – her favorite, orange.
Alya was licking a waffle cup, chocolate ice cream dripping down the edges; The catamaran splashed its blades across the lake ripples, the tops of the women sitting on it were hot in the afternoon sun. Tashka covered her red and curly head with a pink hat that almost slid down the back of her head, incredibly “not becoming” for her, but about the latter Alesta, as always, remained silent - she was forbidden to comment on her friend’s appearance. Tashka - aka Talia - from an early age believed that she had failed, because Deya, at the moment of creating a daughter for Elsa Gennadievna - Tashka's mother - must have been either in a creative blow, or suffering from a nectar hangover. Otherwise, where would those nasty freckles, copper curls, small green eyes and thin lips come from? Is this harmonious? Thalia didn't think so.
Ali, however, also had freckles, but not on her cheeks, but scattered on the bridge of her nose. And they turned pale as soon as Alesta left adolescence - they almost dissolved. And Tashka was jealous - not angrily, but with sighs: you got white skin, shiny chestnut hair, brown eyes - not dark, but beautiful, coffee-colored - and plump lips - but what about me? One meter tall with a hat and no breasts. And this is almost twenty-two!
“At twenty-one,” Alesta corrected her. And before she said “at eighteen”, “at sixteen”, “at thirteen”. They knew each other from the first grade of elementary school - as soon as they sat down at a desk together, they walked through life hand in hand - different, but accustomed to each other, learning to get along, because friendship is always valuable. Who, if not a friend, will cover you in front of the teacher, let you cheat, or run away with you from the last lesson to the botanical garden to look at butterflies? Who will sleep with you in the attic under the same blanket, listen to your dreams in the morning, braid your hair and help steal cookies from the kitchen cabinet? Who will explain the philosophy, laugh at it, support you if you suddenly lose heart, and come eat ice cream with you by the lake? That's right, Thalia. And even though she was always jealous of Alka’s lips so much that sometimes she jokingly tried to kiss her, for which she also jokingly received a pencil case in the forehead several times, but she was a friend. Hereby.
- Were you pretty today?
Alesta did not ask “who” - and it was so clear. After each interview, Tashka aggressively elicited details: the height of the men, the color of their eyes and hair, the size of their chests, the length of the “brynka,” as well as the names and positions assigned to them. Alka did not try to hide the information: firstly, it was not secret, and secondly, if Tashka became assertive (and she always became assertive as soon as the conversation concerned men), it was easier to give up without a fight.
- Normal. Ordinary,” and she described the appearance.
– And you didn’t choose anyone?
“No, of course,” Alka winced, “why should I choose?”
“Well, Helga will probably take one away again.” For auditions.
- Yes, let him lead at least everyone.
The friend noisily sucked in the melted top layer of ice cream, smacked her lips and looked at Alesta.
– Aren’t you interested in trying what it’s like – in bed with a man – before the Campaign? After all, you will give birth to a virgin.
- Well, it's old-fashioned.
“Is it fashionable to lie in bed with…” Alesta couldn’t find the right word for a while, “a slave?”
- Well, they are not exactly slaves...
- Slaves. They obey your every word.
– How should it be, Alka? They obey because it is necessary, because it is right, because otherwise it would be as before.
This was not the first time they talked about this—probably the hundredth, even the thousandth. And every time Tashka was on the side of the Confederation, and Alya acted as a dissenter. A certain individual who is unable to understand the reason for the established rules - a fighter for justice. Although, for what kind of justice, if, it seems, everything is fair?
She could not go to the Goddess - refuse. And choose a husband. To live with a quiet man who obeys her every word, give birth to a boy (after all, only boys are born from men - the curse of Heaven), then send him to an orphanage and pursue a career. And she could go to the Goddess later - let’s say, at thirty or even forty - Deya was supportive at any age. But what about the mother, who will either pretend to have a heart attack or have a real one if Alya refuses to get ready for the hike?
“After all, girls are born only from Deya! Don’t you want to give birth to a daughter, gain respect in society, reinforce your own status?”
Daughter Alesta wanted it. And she didn’t care about respect and status. I wanted romance, I wanted love, I wanted everything to be as my grandmother told me.
– Are you expecting a big feeling? – Tashka read Alina’s thoughts – now she was looking at the second catamaran, which had joined the first on the lake; the sun slowly described an arc and leaned towards the wall. “Your grandmother lived in other times—this doesn’t happen now.”
Alya was silent.
– Now there are no strong men – we don’t allow them. Because the line is too thin, because if you love them as before, wars will begin.
- Maybe they won’t start.
– Do you want to see if history comes full circle? He'll come in.
“But we only give them a few minutes a day.” This is not enough!
Tashka again touched on a “live” topic.
- Not a little! Just. Do you want to develop their willpower, straighten their back? As soon as they feel that you are soft and bending, they will begin to suck from you, demand, press.
– You are becoming like my mother.
– Who said that your mother is wrong?
Alka, despite the warm and almost windless day, suddenly didn’t want to sit on the shore. I didn’t want to go home, no, but to go somewhere where I could be alone - wander, dream, reflect. And maybe then there will be answers to all the questions - to the main question: why is she - Alka - not like that? Why can’t he live like everyone else? why every day I feel like something is scratching my soul, giving it no rest. Why doesn’t he want to go to Deya, why doesn’t he want to obey the rules? Why why why…
- I'll go, Tash.
- Hey, what are you doing?
– Nothing, I’m tired after the interview.
And, feeling her friend’s confused gaze on herself, “Did I say something wrong?” – Alesta rose from the blanket.
* * *
“We built new houses. Without men.
We paved the roads. Without men.
We have taken infrastructure to a new level. Without men.
We have built new cities. And again without them.
We have learned to live in a world without fighting, alcoholism, drugs and violence.
We are the best part of this planet, independent of survival, as long as Deya is with us - may God bless her deeds. Long live Deya! Eternal, merciful to her daughters and generous with the fruits of the earth and the womb..."
From a textbook on Religion. College, 4th grade.
Alya dreamed of loving - openly, honestly, to the extent that her heart desired - and that was the only pipe dream of all her small and big dreams.
Not fair.
Why were women allowed to love everything - home, family, animals, children (girls) - but not men? Women, by the way, forced to love everything around, since scientists believed that if the Source of Love, located in the female chest in the interweaving of energy channels, is inactive, then Love turns into Anger - the opposite type of energy. And that means Love must, must flow. At least somewhere, otherwise, if she is not released, she will destroy everything.
But what rules can be written, where exactly flow of love? Why did they decide that it was possible to selectively direct energy to any object? But what about your own desire, craving, need to love what you love, and not what you order?
Alya was toiling.
She loved her family and her city, but was burdened by the imposed selectivity.
Yes, women have a Source of Love - it has been proven. Men also have a Source of Love - one that helps women become more feminine - modern society has abandoned it without hesitation - they say, it doesn’t matter to us to be feminine. But what is really important is not to allow men to develop their will, because it is a woman’s Love that cultivates in a man faith in himself, faith in his own strength - Masculinity. And excessive Masculinity leads to wars and aggression, and, therefore, Love will have to be dosed. Give husbands half an hour of Love a day, unmarried men fifteen minutes. And they set up special houses where these poor fellows go, receive their portion of affection, and become temporarily happy.
And do they?
Alya didn’t understand how you could “caress” someone to order? Is it really possible for someone to “love” here and “not to love” here? It's like switching the position of a switch - the light is on, the light is off?
Alesta knew from history books about “how” and “when” women’s Love became a bargaining chip, but she still couldn’t accept this fact. Not even with logic - with the heart. From time immemorial, women have been – not inferior, no – different. With a different role, different goals in society, never before have they stood in the hierarchy above men - this is wrong. And for such words, Alya would have been fined, as Grandma Agafya once was, who was explaining her own opinion to her then-little granddaughter:
“Here is my father, your great-grandfather,” he was a romantic. He knew how to conquer, you know? He knew how to woo a woman, insist, make her his. He knew how to be soft where necessary and tough when required. What did the Confederacy do to us? You will grow up, granddaughter, you will see everything.
Alka has grown up. And I saw that everything seemed to be correct, but the thought about my great-grandfather and his ability to win a woman was firmly lodged in my memory - just like a fairy-tale story that I wanted to believe.
But life is already planned - there is no life. Because there is a mother and her desire to see her daughter in an administrative position. Helga has already been placed there, and then Alesta will be placed there. Afterwards, they herd both of them to the temple of Dei, they will meet the already pregnant women on the threshold, and nine months later they will happily begin to raise their granddaughters - new citizens of the Great Women's Power.
I wanted to spit.
And I still didn’t want to let go of my childhood.
“Childhood, Alechka,” said the grandmother, “is serenity.” This is when your brain is not clouded by fear, guilt and resentment. Anger is not born out of love, Alenka, not at all - out of guilt. That’s why the men in the forest are wild, because they are guilty.
- And what are they to blame for, grandma?
- The fact is that no one loved them. And that means they were not worthy, that means they were bad. Guilt ruins everything, not love. So love whatever you want, Alushka, but don’t accumulate guilt, don’t live for others.
But it's June. And in three months there is a birthday and a hike. Otherwise mother, otherwise disappointments, otherwise Alka is bad.
“Don’t hoard,” my grandmother taught.
I taught you correctly. But the feeling of guilt grew.
* * *
– Just imagine, Alka didn’t like anyone again.
- Don't call her Alka.
- Why, if she is Alka?
- She is Alesta!
Mother sat decorously at the head of the table, Helga's back was to the TV, father huddled at the edge. He always ate with his head down, was silent during conversations, and did not read newspapers - he was forbidden. He read them at night, quietly, when Vanessa Terentyevna, having completed her evening exercise with the sequential application of five moisturizing masks to her face, floated from the bathroom to the bedroom, turned off the night light and after a few minutes began to snore. Then the modest Anton Lvovich - in his wife’s address simply “Toshik” - went downstairs, retired to the pantry and, in the light of a dim light bulb, sorted through periodicals: newspapers yellowed with time and old magazines left over from his grandfather. Several times he tried to subscribe to the new “Science and Technology”, but his wife only pursed her lips sternly, and “Toshik” sighed inaudibly. Alka wanted to give him a gift for his next birthday - sign up for himself and secretly put “Science and Technology” in the pantry, but his mother, having learned about this, would have made both of them crazy. I had to suffer - the father without gifts, the daughter without the opportunity to give them.
- He is not your father! – the mother pressed if Alka tried to object to anything. – He is Savka’s father. And just a man who is considered my husband in our family. And you were born from Deya, and don’t forget this! Pray.
Dinner continued.
Having finished chewing the salad, the mother took a couple of cutlets from the stewpan, generously poured sauce over them and thoughtfully, immersed in memories, looked at Alesta.
“But I wanted to call you Constance.” I really wanted it.
Alka almost choked on Constance? For some reason this cumbersome and clumsy name reminded her of a rusty locomotive lying in a scrap heap in a torn heap of metal. Monumental, heavy and completely inflexible.
Not like Alka. Alka is something cozy, familiar, where it smells like rain, where drops knock on a hut made of branches, where pine branches rustle behind the walls. Alka is when you have coffee with cinnamon in the morning and the sun is shining through the window. Alka is light steps along the street, and your fingers touch the leaves of the bushes; Alka is an endless fantasy world - alive, moving and smelling like a fairy tale. Well, you might think that Helga pronounced “Alka” in an abusive manner, with mockery. That's why she's a sister. Harmful and older.
- It's all Toshik. He insisted on Alesta - he said it was prettier. That was the only time I succumbed to his persuasion and I still regret it.
Alka looked at her father, met his guilty gaze for a second, after which he quickly lowered his head - he was silent, always silent. He endured all the heels and humiliation, and Alesta desperately wanted him to lose his temper. Suddenly he stood up, raised his voice, hit the table with his fist and said “that’s enough!” - so that everyone around can see that - yes, he is a man, - but, most importantly, he is a HUMAN!
But the father did not get up - he pretended that the conversations did not concern him, that insults were alien to him, that he was not here at all, but somewhere else - behind the wall of his own invisible world.
Alka sighed; The cutlets didn't go down my throat. A row of unfamiliar faces floated on the TV screen - all girls, all dressed in military uniform, and each had such pride in her eyes, as if she had just defended the Temple of Dei with her breasts. The presenter’s voice sounded no less proud from behind the scenes:
– ...The community is proud that this year the number of recruits has almost doubled last year’s number - three thousand graduates of the Themis Military College have entered permanent military service since the beginning of the month. We are proud of you, Women - Women with a capital W. We are calm, knowing that the perimeter of the Wall is guarded by such valiant Warriors, glorious followers of the goddess Bolla who left us...
The TV continued to broadcast; Mother never turned off the military channel - she still listened to it now.
– By the way, Alesta, aren’t you ready for the Campaign yet? Are you still waiting for something?
“I still have three months of combat training ahead of me.”
“You are excellent with a sword, you have excellent grades.” Why additional practice?
This is precisely why Alka hated dinners: because during them they invariably, not on purpose, but extremely obviously insulted her father, and because right now - in the peaceful evening hours - the topic of her Campaign was raised at the table.
Didn’t her mother really understand that Alesta wasn’t ready, that she was simply afraid to go? Of course, Deya seems to be guarding the road to the temple - the temple, which, by the way, is located behind the Wall - but what about ambushes? What if the Wild Ones drag her into the forest? What if they make her their slave, tie her up in one of the huts and take turns abusing her body - taking revenge, beating her, blackening it? Of course, don’t hit her too hard, so she can give birth. Every year - boy after boy. After all, they somehow need to continue their lineage...
Captivity was worse than death. It’s better to go to the Plains, it’s better to be devoured by monsters, it’s better to go beyond the last line.
- I am not ready.
Alka felt that she was angry. He is seriously angry, seriously, with the resentment that remains in the soul for years.
- Not ready? Coward!
- So be it!
“I went there twice, and nothing happened to me!”
- Live and be proud.
- Alesta!
Leaving the table before her mother was considered bad manners, but her fingers lay on the tablecloth and her legs sprung - Alka stood up and threw a crumpled napkin into the plate.
- Willful, huh?! – Vanessa Terentyevna roared. – Started to show arrogance?! But there are not yet twenty-two...
Her face, framed by small, dog-like curls, turned red; Thin eyebrows menacingly moved towards the bridge of the nose.
- Not hungry, thank you.
And Alka hurried into the corridor.
- No, just look! Who is she like, you? - in moments of anger, the mother for some reason forgot that she gave birth to Alka from Deya, and not from Anton Lvovich, and poured red-hot vengeful lava on the latter. - In you? This is all because the name is wrong! If I were Constance, I would be obedient!
Helga clinked her fork busily; the father was silent.
Under the tense, bull-like snoring of the mother, the television filled the room with the pathetic anthem of the Women's Confederation.
(Fox Amoore – Myre)
Alka’s sadness always spilled over into the need to love. To rest your gaze on something good, bright, to fix your eyes on the picture and mentally, at least for a minute, be transported there, to squeeze the plush toys sitting on the blanket-covered sofa. Follow the slanting ray of sunlight stretching across the room, ride along its dust-speckled back, believe that a sunny flower can grow from a light spot on the floor. The heavier my heart became, the more I wanted to believe in a miracle and the more greedily the need to turn myself into something good grew.
Because of the sunset, the room glowed orange - it was saturated with a juicy soft orange light and sparingly splashed it from wall to wall, from window to window. It’s good when the windows are on the ground floor - you can always climb out, wander around the garden, run to a cool pond and dip your hands in it, get lost for a while in the spruce forest growing on the edge.
I didn’t want to go to the spruce forest, nor to the pond. The warm wind shook the honeycombs growing on the windowsill; A barefoot gardener walked around the garden, naked to the waist and dressed in stained blue pants, dragging a hose coiled like snake coils behind him, watering the beds. Sometimes he threw the hose at the berry and began to trim the bushes, slurping his bare heels in the raspberry patch.
The gardener appeared at their house two weeks ago - a young guy with a light, shaggy crown, quiet and undemanding. He ate in the back room, slept in the barn, never raised his head, did not argue, worked from sunset to dawn. A male gardener is a whim of the mother, her way of demonstrating her wealthy status to her neighbors.
“So what, what’s expensive? We can afford..."
Allow a new set of walnut wood, a Catan carpet in the hallway, a service made of the finest glass with gold ornaments, a gardener...
Veronica Melan
The path to the heart. Baal
“...if Love as a feeling, as the energy sent, stops being dosed, not only willpower grows in men, but also excessive aggression, a craving for power and control (as well as arbitrariness), a desire to prove their own superiority develops, which inevitably led to will lead to wars and bloodshed. The scale of the disaster is enormous: in childhood - street fights, hooliganism; in adulthood - the development and use of weapons of mass destruction. Men who are completely deprived of female Love become angry, angry and vengeful - the fear of “they don’t love me” subsequently dominates all their actions, forms inappropriate behavior, gives rise to a craving for violence, and turns people with the Y chromosome into animals. Proof of this is the number of “wild” males living in the forests around the Women’s Confederation, who cannot be re-educated, on whose path there is only one obstacle - the Great Confederation Wall, which saves the Themis community from attacks. Dear citizens, residents of the Confederation, be prudent and always follow the rules of “dosing” of sending Love to men, described in the Code of Rules, paragraph 5.15.6, because only in this way will you help maintain calm, prosperity and peace for our great power...”
From a History textbook. College. Grade 11.
Part 1. Taneo
Alesta
Thick glass divided the room in two: the upper, higher level and bunker-like floor, and the lower, “corral,” flooded with sunlight and electric light. In the pen, completely naked - without a single piece of fabric on their feet or thighs - three young men sat on squat stools. Silent, looking down at the floor, with unnaturally straightened backs - this is how it is. The one on the left, a blue-eyed blond whose hands were shaking so much that they had to be pressed to his knees, was nervous; Alesta saw it. Every now and then he tried to raise his head and look at the women behind the glass, but the law did not allow him: if you make a mistake at the interview, you will end up not in the state, but behind the Wall, in the forest. And no profession, no salary, no wife, no potential children. And, of course, not a drop of female love. The blonde did his best to nip curiosity in the bud and did not raise his head. The other two were less nervous (or so it seemed?) - they sat calmly, holding their hands where most men hold them - on their bare privates.
Helga, allowed to conduct the interview for the third time and therefore unusually important and businesslike, stood by the glass, looked down and smiled - her lips, scarlet from the new lipstick, stretched into an unpleasant smile. From the corner where she was sorting and sorting papers, Alya glanced at her from time to time. She looked and didn’t recognize: and you can’t say that sister – power changes people. But this is only the third time; How will Helga change in a year? And for the next one? Over the past month, she has lost the remnants of femininity - she did not accept this quality before, and now even more so: she cut her hair down to her shoulders, began to wear glasses with square lenses, and shoes exclusively with flat soles. I tried to be like my senior colleagues - Tilda Bogdanovna and Ula Valentinovna, who were now sitting to the left of Helga and ceremoniously observing the “initiation” process.
“Initiation as a citizen of the Confederation” - what an importance - Alya winced. Fortunately, the room was dark, and no one saw.
And Helga smiled like a shark.
“Say your name,” she ordered the blond, and he flinched at the sharp sound, amplified by the speakers in the pen. He raised his head uncertainly and immediately received a verbal slap on the head. -Looking into the eyes without permission is prohibited! Keep your head down!
The blonde bowed humbly; Tilda Bogdanovna and Ula Valentinovna nodded favorably - toughness in dealing with the male sex was valued and respected here.
Alya had never heard so much steel in her sister's voice - she missed Helga's first two interviews - she couldn't come to the internship because she had to finish her final exams at college. Dosdala. And now she has completed a full-time internship at the Committee for Admission to the Women’s Confederation of the male population. She was going to take over Helga's position someday - at least that's what her mother insisted on.
“It’s worthy and people will be proud. And with what respect they will treat our family!”
If only Alya had the right to choose...
“T...Timur L. Litetsky,” the blond stuttered.
- Age?
- Eighteen years.
- Education?
- Full higher education. College of Men's Education.
Helga tapped her cheek with her hand; Alya inopportunely remembered brother Savka - one day he too will sit on this chair, undergo an interview. In three years. Just three years later - how quickly time flies. And, I remember, she held him in her arms, played with him and loved him immensely, which infuriated her mother, who yelled that Alesta would “love” Savely from childhood - she would spoil him, turn him into a monster, because isn’t the road paved with good intentions? in hell?
And then Savka was taken away.
She was ten, he was five. And three years later they will see each other again - what has he become? Has it changed much? He has matured, probably grown, stretched out. Did his hair remain blond, as it was in childhood, or did it darken, like hers, Alka’s? Helga dyed her hair blonde - at home they forgot what kind of hair she was born with.
The interviewee Timur, meanwhile, answered questions; “Ursula” - with this single word Alesta mentally united Tilda Bogdanovna and Ula Valentinovna - meticulously examined his appearance. They felt with their eyes, smacked their lips, made obscene comments about the size of the “undergrown” belongings.
- Come on, get up! – Helga commanded, and the frail guy rose from the stool. - Hands down!
Trembling hands hung at his sides.
- The other two, stand up too!
The paddock neighbors obeyed the order.
- Yes, he has a normal penis! - the sister stated with satisfaction, and Alya suddenly felt ashamed for her - well, why use the microphone? Yes, even if they are men, but they are also people, also alive - why humiliate them? Helga, however, felt no shame. “These two, of course, are better, but the blond will also stretch out when he gets up.” The children will have something to do. What do you think, colleagues?
The Ursulas began to whisper; Tilda laughed hoarsely and unpleasantly.
Alesta, with flaming cheeks, buried her face in the papers - it’s good that she is not visible from behind the glass.
– Which one do you like, Alesta?
Helga directed her green eyes at Alya - the question was not idle. This evening the older sister will take one of them to her place - to deflower him - a privilege, so to speak.
I would fall through the ground, but how could I not answer? It’s impossible not to answer, she’s the next one to take this position,” Alya straightened her skirt, came out from behind the tiny table with papers, and approached the window. She needs to keep her face, she needs to conform - the Ursulas are watching. And also the mother - what will she say if her daughter fails before she officially starts work? It will disgrace the family, destroy hopes.
Alesta cleared her throat. She didn’t want to look at the men, but she forced herself.
“This is not how they should be – not downtrodden, not blinkered.” All this was somehow wrong, fundamentally wrong - their timid glances, their stooped shoulders despite their straight spine, the lack of interest in their eyes. Not men - stunted grown flowers instead of proud trees - an echo of bygone times that grandmother talked about.
The men behind the glass were waiting for the verdict on who was more beautiful - she felt sorry for them.
“What if she was like this? Or Helga? And “Ursula” wouldn’t have passed the “beauty” test at all,” this thought amused me.
- Well, little sister, who would you like to have fun with this evening?
“No way.”
Alya didn't want to have fun with anyone at all. And she protected her virginity not because she hoped to meet someone special - she still had to go to the temple, give birth to the Goddess - but because she did not want to see a timid and insecure person next to her in bed, constantly hiding his eyes.
- Average.
She chose at random, didn't look closely.
- Why?
Helga glared from under her glasses with a needle-like gaze.
I had to look at the men - not in detail, but superficially.
- The chest is wider, the hair is thicker.
“And his balls hang lower, they’ll be tighter in his hand.”
Tilda Bogdanovna did not differ in her sense of tact either.
“And I would be on the far right,” the red-haired aunt Ula Valentinovna leaned back with a yawn, and Alya didn’t envy the one on the right—she’ll take it. – I love it when horseradish is thick.
This word continued to sound in Alesta’s head two hours later, when the interview was over and all the questions were: what kind of work do you want to do, what salary do you want to receive, are you ready to start as a gardener? – found your answers.
“I wonder what they call a man’s penis with love, if not horseradish?”
I wanted to go outside, in the sun, to a lemonade stand. I wanted to walk through the park, breathe in the air filled with pine resin, listen to the hubbub on the playground, sit by the lake.
In her world, loving a man is not a sin, but a crime against the laws established by the Women's Confederation. Having grown up on her grandmother’s stories about the “old” world - the one where men and women once formed a harmonious whole - Alesta is at a crossroads: should she give in to her mother, who is ruling her daughter’s fate with an imperious hand in favor of the social order and external well-being, or should she look for the lost truth? Should we believe textbooks that claim that female Love can only make a “narcissistic egoist” out of a man, or trust the intuition that whispers the opposite? There are no women in his world. Not because they don't exist, but because he chooses not to see them. Born with only half a soul, Baal Regnoscyros is sure that he is doomed to loneliness - he is not human, he is half-demon, and therefore flawed. When one who longs to love and one who does not believe that he is worthy of love come together, sparks flare up that can burn a new pattern on the canvas of fate.
Alesta
Thick glass divided the room in two: the upper, higher level and bunker-like floor, and the lower, “corral,” flooded with sunlight and electric light. In the pen, completely naked - without a single piece of fabric on their feet or thighs - three young men sat on squat stools. Silent, looking down at the floor, with unnaturally straightened backs - this is how it is. The one on the left, a blue-eyed blond whose hands were shaking so much that they had to be pressed to his knees, was nervous; Alesta saw it. Every now and then he tried to raise his head and look at the women behind the glass, but the law did not allow him: if you make a mistake at the interview, you will end up not in the state, but behind the Wall, in the forest. And no profession, no salary, no wife, no potential children. And, of course, not a drop of female love. The blonde did his best to nip curiosity in the bud and did not raise his head. The other two were less nervous (or so it seemed?) - they sat calmly, holding their hands where most men hold them - on their bare privates.
Helga, allowed to conduct the interview for the third time and therefore unusually important and businesslike, stood by the glass, looked down and smiled - her lips, scarlet from the new lipstick, stretched into an unpleasant smile. From the corner where she was sorting and sorting papers, Alya glanced at her from time to time. She looked and didn’t recognize: and you can’t say that sister – power changes people. But this is only the third time; How will Helga change in a year? And for the next one? Over the past month, she has lost the remnants of femininity - she did not accept this quality before, and now even more so: she cut her hair down to her shoulders, began to wear glasses with square lenses, and shoes exclusively with flat soles. I tried to be like my senior colleagues - Tilda Bogdanovna and Ula Valentinovna, who were now sitting to the left of Helga and ceremoniously observing the “initiation” process.
“Initiation as a citizen of the Confederation” - what an importance - Alya winced. Fortunately, the room was dark, and no one saw.
And Helga smiled like a shark.
“Say your name,” she ordered the blond, and he flinched at the sharp sound, amplified by the speakers in the pen. He raised his head uncertainly and immediately received a verbal slap on the head. -Looking into the eyes without permission is prohibited! Keep your head down!
The blonde bowed humbly; Tilda Bogdanovna and Ula Valentinovna nodded favorably - toughness in dealing with the male sex was valued and respected here.
Alya had never heard so much steel in her sister's voice - she missed Helga's first two interviews - she couldn't come to the internship because she had to finish her final exams at college. Dosdala. And now she has completed a full-time internship at the Committee for Admission to the Women’s Confederation of the male population. She was going to take over Helga's position someday - at least that's what her mother insisted on.
“It’s worthy and people will be proud. And with what respect they will treat our family!”
If only Alya had the right to choose...
“T...Timur L. Litetsky,” the blond stuttered.
- Age?
- Eighteen years.
- Education?
- Full higher education. College of Men's Education.
Helga tapped her cheek with her hand; Alya inopportunely remembered brother Savka - one day he too will sit on this chair, undergo an interview. In three years. Just three years later - how quickly time flies. And, I remember, she held him in her arms, played with him and loved him immensely, which infuriated her mother, who yelled that Alesta would “love” Savely from childhood - she would spoil him, turn him into a monster, because isn’t the road paved with good intentions? in hell?
And then Savka was taken away.
She was ten, he was five. And three years later they will see each other again - what has he become? Has it changed much? He has matured, probably grown, stretched out. Did his hair remain blond, as it was in childhood, or did it darken, like hers, Alka’s? Helga dyed her hair blonde - at home they forgot what kind of hair she was born with.
The interviewee Timur, meanwhile, answered questions; “Ursula” - with this single word Alesta mentally united Tilda Bogdanovna and Ula Valentinovna - meticulously examined his appearance. They felt with their eyes, smacked their lips, made obscene comments about the size of the “undergrown” belongings.
- Come on, get up! – Helga commanded, and the frail guy rose from the stool. - Hands down!
Trembling hands hung at his sides.
- The other two, stand up too!
The paddock neighbors obeyed the order.
- Yes, he has a normal penis! - the sister stated with satisfaction, and Alya suddenly felt ashamed for her - well, why use the microphone? Yes, even if they are men, but they are also people, also alive - why humiliate them? Helga, however, felt no shame. “These two, of course, are better, but the blond will also stretch out when he gets up.” The children will have something to do. What do you think, colleagues?
The Ursulas began to whisper; Tilda laughed hoarsely and unpleasantly.
Alesta, with flaming cheeks, buried her face in the papers - it’s good that she is not visible from behind the glass.
– Which one do you like, Alesta?
Helga directed her green eyes at Alya - the question was not idle. This evening the older sister will take one of them to her place - to deflower him - a privilege, so to speak.
I would fall through the ground, but how could I not answer? It’s impossible not to answer, she’s the next one to take this position,” Alya straightened her skirt, came out from behind the tiny table with papers, and approached the window. She needs to keep her face, she needs to conform - the Ursulas are watching. And also the mother - what will she say if her daughter fails before she officially starts work? It will disgrace the family, destroy hopes.
Alesta cleared her throat. She didn’t want to look at the men, but she forced herself.
“This is not how they should be – not downtrodden, not blinkered.” All this was somehow wrong, fundamentally wrong - their timid glances, their stooped shoulders despite their straight spine, the lack of interest in their eyes. Not men - stunted grown flowers instead of proud trees - an echo of bygone times that grandmother talked about.
The men behind the glass were waiting for the verdict on who was more beautiful - she felt sorry for them.
“What if she was like this? Or Helga? And “Ursula” wouldn’t have passed the “beauty” test at all,” this thought amused me.
- Well, little sister, who would you like to have fun with this evening?
“No way.”
Alya didn't want to have fun with anyone at all. And she protected her virginity not because she hoped to meet someone special - she still had to go to the temple, give birth to the Goddess - but because she did not want to see a timid and insecure person next to her in bed, constantly hiding his eyes.
- Average.
She chose at random, didn't look closely.
- Why?
Helga glared from under her glasses with a needle-like gaze.
I had to look at the men - not in detail, but superficially.
- The chest is wider, the hair is thicker.
“And his balls hang lower, they’ll be tighter in his hand.”
Tilda Bogdanovna did not differ in her sense of tact either.
“And I would be on the far right,” the red-haired aunt Ula Valentinovna leaned back with a yawn, and Alya didn’t envy the one on the right—she’ll take it. – I love it when horseradish is thick.
This word continued to sound in Alesta’s head two hours later, when the interview was over and all the questions were: what kind of work do you want to do, what salary do you want to receive, are you ready to start as a gardener? – found your answers.
“I wonder what they call a man’s penis with love, if not horseradish?”
I wanted to go outside, in the sun, to a lemonade stand. I wanted to walk through the park, breathe in the air filled with pine resin, listen to the hubbub on the playground, sit by the lake.
“Maybe Tashka can do it too?”
As soon as Alya pushed the thick door of the Committee Department, went out into the street and turned her face to the warm rays of the sun, “horseradish” was forgotten.
Summer is the time when the wind, intoxicated by the aromas of herbs, climbs under the thin fabric of a white blouse, when it, a mischief-maker, fiddles with lace sleeves and loose curls. The nostrils are tickled by the smell of colorful flowers, lawnmowers crawling out of storage rooms are buzzing on the lawns, housewives in multi-colored hats are watering loose beds.
Lillen was drowned in vegetation, as a ball-goer drowns in fluffy skirts - he smelled the scent of spicy herbs, stroked the gates with delicate leaves, nodded the thousands of heads of the blossoming tulle. The linden trees rustled, the spruce bushes whispered along the alleys, the tiles of the roofs, washed by the rain, glistened in the rays of the sun; pies were wafting from the open windows of the houses through one.
Alesta Lillen loved.
Having grown up on these gentle streets and once led by her mother’s hand, first to kindergarten, then to elementary school, she could hardly imagine that this city had previously been called differently - inhospitably and unprepossessingly - Kurdan. No, the word “Kurdan” did not suit this place at all. Although, earlier, before the arrival of the Confederation, the place itself was different - everything was different: countries, people, customs, life. Then, even before Alka’s birth, when the Women’s Confederation did not reign in all its current splendor, as it does now, there were several countries, according to the history textbook, and they were all ruled by male dictators. And they fought for everything: for fertile lands, for expanding borders, for power, for the reign of peace throughout the world. We fought and achieved nothing. But they destroyed the temples of the Goddesses, of which there once existed eight, and then the Departure took place. The angry celestials left the world, turning almost its entire area into the Cold Plains - they razed people and cities to the ground, turned the soil to stone, and left people without favor and luck. Of the eight, only one remained - Deya - the patroness of women and fertility, whose temple by chance remained untouched - she helped the Alkin ancestors restore peace, and at the same time create the Confederation. And it became warm and cozy, it became light and calm, and in Kurdan’s place, Lillen grew up, drowning in flowers. Alkin Lillen is small and beloved.
“Why did you fight? – Alesta often tried to understand. – Why did they endlessly divide something? Why couldn’t they immediately live in harmony?” And I didn’t understand. Trying to understand the intricacies of history, she re-read school textbooks many times, learned some parts by heart, but the essence - why are wars needed? – I couldn’t catch it. And now I was just glad that they weren’t there. Because the former were enough - if not for them, the land of the Plains would still bloom, and people would live on it, not demons. Demons that everyone feared - even the wild men of the forests. And although the latter knew how to fight and still repaired weapons, no one returned from the Plains alive.
“That’s it,” Alka thought and sighed. - Fools. But everything could have been different.”
But why think about it when it's summer? When bumblebees are buzzing around, when the buds on the fences turn pink, when there are still three whole months left of a free and happy life. And then…
Therefore, there will also be life, only different, new. Life after the Campaign.
Tashka did it.
She had repaid her philosophy loan and was now sitting on a blanket laid out at the very edge of the lake, squinting her green eyes from the sun’s glare running across the water surface and eating ice cream – her favorite, orange.
Alya was licking a waffle cup, chocolate ice cream dripping down the edges; The catamaran splashed its blades across the lake ripples, the tops of the women sitting on it were hot in the afternoon sun. Tashka covered her red and curly head with a pink hat that almost slid down the back of her head, incredibly “not becoming” for her, but about the latter Alesta, as always, remained silent - she was forbidden to comment on her friend’s appearance. Tashka - aka Talia - from an early age believed that she had failed, because Deya, at the moment of creating a daughter for Elsa Gennadievna - Tashka's mother - must have been either in a creative blow, or suffering from a nectar hangover. Otherwise, where would those nasty freckles, copper curls, small green eyes and thin lips come from? Is this harmonious? Thalia didn't think so.
Ali, however, also had freckles, but not on her cheeks, but scattered on the bridge of her nose. And they turned pale as soon as Alesta left adolescence - they almost dissolved. And Tashka was jealous - not angrily, but with sighs: you got white skin, shiny chestnut hair, brown eyes - not dark, but beautiful, coffee-colored - and plump lips - but what about me? One meter tall with a hat and no breasts. And this is almost twenty-two!
“At twenty-one,” Alesta corrected her. And before she said “at eighteen”, “at sixteen”, “at thirteen”. They knew each other from the first grade of elementary school - as soon as they sat down at a desk together, they walked through life hand in hand - different, but accustomed to each other, learning to get along, because friendship is always valuable. Who, if not a friend, will cover you in front of the teacher, let you cheat, or run away with you from the last lesson to the botanical garden to look at butterflies? Who will sleep with you in the attic under the same blanket, listen to your dreams in the morning, braid your hair and help steal cookies from the kitchen cabinet? Who will explain the philosophy, laugh at it, support you if you suddenly lose heart, and come eat ice cream with you by the lake? That's right, Thalia. And even though she was always jealous of Alka’s lips so much that sometimes she jokingly tried to kiss her, for which she also jokingly received a pencil case in the forehead several times, but she was a friend. Hereby.
- Were you pretty today?
Alesta did not ask “who” - and it was so clear. After each interview, Tashka aggressively elicited details: the height of the men, the color of their eyes and hair, the size of their chests, the length of the “brynka,” as well as the names and positions assigned to them. Alka did not try to hide the information: firstly, it was not secret, and secondly, if Tashka became assertive (and she always became assertive as soon as the conversation concerned men), it was easier to give up without a fight.
- Normal. Ordinary,” and she described the appearance.
– And you didn’t choose anyone?
“No, of course,” Alka winced, “why should I choose?”
“Well, Helga will probably take one away again.” For auditions.
- Yes, let him lead at least everyone.
The friend noisily sucked in the melted top layer of ice cream, smacked her lips and looked at Alesta.
– Aren’t you interested in trying what it’s like – in bed with a man – before the Campaign? After all, you will give birth to a virgin.
- Well, it's old-fashioned.
“Is it fashionable to lie in bed with…” Alesta couldn’t find the right word for a while, “a slave?”
- Well, they are not exactly slaves...
- Slaves. They obey your every word.
– How should it be, Alka? They obey because it is necessary, because it is right, because otherwise it would be as before.
This was not the first time they talked about this—probably the hundredth, even the thousandth. And every time Tashka was on the side of the Confederation, and Alya acted as a dissenter. A certain individual who is unable to understand the reason for the established rules - a fighter for justice. Although, for what kind of justice, if, it seems, everything is fair?
She could not go to the Goddess - refuse. And choose a husband. To live with a quiet man who obeys her every word, give birth to a boy (after all, only boys are born from men - the curse of Heaven), then send him to an orphanage and pursue a career. And she could go to the Goddess later - let’s say, at thirty or even forty - Deya was supportive at any age. But what about the mother, who will either pretend to have a heart attack or have a real one if Alya refuses to get ready for the hike?
“After all, girls are born only from Deya! Don’t you want to give birth to a daughter, gain respect in society, reinforce your own status?”
Daughter Alesta wanted it. And she didn’t care about respect and status. I wanted romance, I wanted love, I wanted everything to be as my grandmother told me.
– Are you expecting a big feeling? – Tashka read Alina’s thoughts – now she was looking at the second catamaran, which had joined the first on the lake; the sun slowly described an arc and leaned towards the wall. “Your grandmother lived in other times—this doesn’t happen now.”
Alya was silent.
– Now there are no strong men – we don’t allow them. Because the line is too thin, because if you love them as before, wars will begin.
- Maybe they won’t start.
– Do you want to see if history comes full circle? He'll come in.
“But we only give them a few minutes a day.” This is not enough!
Tashka again touched on a “live” topic.
- Not a little! Just. Do you want to develop their willpower, straighten their back? As soon as they feel that you are soft and bending, they will begin to suck from you, demand, press.
– You are becoming like my mother.
– Who said that your mother is wrong?
Alka, despite the warm and almost windless day, suddenly didn’t want to sit on the shore. I didn’t want to go home, no, but to go somewhere where I could be alone - wander, dream, reflect. And maybe then there will be answers to all the questions - to the main question: why is she - Alka - not like that? Why can’t he live like everyone else? why every day I feel like something is scratching my soul, giving it no rest. Why doesn’t he want to go to Deya, why doesn’t he want to obey the rules? Why why why…
- I'll go, Tash.
- Hey, what are you doing?
– Nothing, I’m tired after the interview.
And, feeling her friend’s confused gaze on herself, “Did I say something wrong?” – Alesta rose from the blanket.
* * *
“We built new houses. Without men.
We paved the roads. Without men.
We have taken infrastructure to a new level. Without men.
We have built new cities. And again without them.
We have learned to live in a world without fighting, alcoholism, drugs and violence.
We are the best part of this planet, independent of survival, as long as Deya is with us - may God bless her deeds. Long live Deya! Eternal, merciful to her daughters and generous with the fruits of the earth and the womb..."
From a textbook on Religion. College, 4th grade.
Alya dreamed of loving - openly, honestly, to the extent that her heart desired - and that was the only pipe dream of all her small and big dreams.
Not fair.
Why were women allowed to love everything - home, family, animals, children (girls) - but not men? Women, by the way, were forced to love everything around them, since scientists believed that if the Source of Love, located in the female breast in the interweaving of energy channels, is inactive, then Love turns into Anger - the opposite type of energy. And that means Love must, must flow. At least somewhere, otherwise, if she is not released, she will destroy everything.
But what rules can you prescribe where exactly love should flow? Why did they decide that it was possible to selectively direct energy to any object? But what about your own desire, craving, need to love what you love, and not what you order?
Alya was toiling.
She loved her family and her city, but was burdened by the imposed selectivity.
Yes, women have a Source of Love - it has been proven. Men also have a Source of Love - one that helps women become more feminine - modern society has abandoned it without hesitation - they say, it doesn’t matter to us to be feminine. But what is really important is not to allow men to develop their will, because it is a woman’s Love that cultivates in a man faith in himself, faith in his own strength - Masculinity. And excessive Masculinity leads to wars and aggression, and, therefore, Love will have to be dosed. Give husbands half an hour of Love a day, unmarried men fifteen minutes. And they set up special houses where these poor fellows go, receive their portion of affection, and become temporarily happy.
And do they?
Alya didn’t understand how you could “caress” someone to order? Is it really possible for someone to “love” here and “not to love” here? It's like switching the position of a switch - the light is on, the light is off?
Alesta knew from history books about “how” and “when” women’s Love became a bargaining chip, but she still couldn’t accept this fact. Not even with logic - with the heart. From time immemorial, women have been – not inferior, no – different. With a different role, different goals in society, never before have they stood in the hierarchy above men - this is wrong. And for such words, Alya would have been fined, as Grandma Agafya once was, who was explaining her own opinion to her then-little granddaughter:
“Here is my father, your great-grandfather,” he was a romantic. He knew how to conquer, you know? He knew how to woo a woman, insist, make her his. He knew how to be soft where necessary and tough when required. What did the Confederacy do to us? You will grow up, granddaughter, you will see everything.
Alka has grown up. And I saw that everything seemed to be correct, but the thought about my great-grandfather and his ability to win a woman was firmly lodged in my memory - just like a fairy-tale story that I wanted to believe.
But life is already planned - there is no life. Because there is a mother and her desire to see her daughter in an administrative position. Helga has already been placed there, and then Alesta will be placed there. Afterwards, they herd both of them to the temple of Dei, they will meet the already pregnant women on the threshold, and nine months later they will happily begin to raise their granddaughters - new citizens of the Great Women's Power.
I wanted to spit.
And I still didn’t want to let go of my childhood.
“Childhood, Alechka,” said the grandmother, “is serenity.” This is when your brain is not clouded by fear, guilt and resentment. Anger is not born out of love, Alenka, not at all - out of guilt. That’s why the men in the forest are wild, because they are guilty.
- And what are they to blame for, grandma?
- The fact is that no one loved them. And that means they were not worthy, that means they were bad. Guilt ruins everything, not love. So love whatever you want, Alushka, but don’t accumulate guilt, don’t live for others.
But it's June. And in three months there is a birthday and a hike. Otherwise mother, otherwise disappointments, otherwise Alka is bad.
“Don’t hoard,” my grandmother taught.
I taught you correctly. But the feeling of guilt grew.
* * *
– Just imagine, Alka didn’t like anyone again.
- Don't call her Alka.
- Why, if she is Alka?
- She is Alesta!
Mother sat decorously at the head of the table, Helga's back was to the TV, father huddled at the edge. He always ate with his head down, was silent during conversations, and did not read newspapers - he was forbidden. He read them at night, quietly, when Vanessa Terentyevna, having completed her evening exercise with the sequential application of five moisturizing masks to her face, floated from the bathroom to the bedroom, turned off the night light and after a few minutes began to snore. Then the modest Anton Lvovich - in his wife’s address simply “Toshik” - went downstairs, retired to the pantry and, in the light of a dim light bulb, sorted through periodicals: newspapers yellowed with time and old magazines left over from his grandfather. Several times he tried to subscribe to the new “Science and Technology”, but his wife only pursed her lips sternly, and “Toshik” sighed inaudibly. Alka wanted to give him a gift for his next birthday - sign up for himself and secretly put “Science and Technology” in the pantry, but his mother, having learned about this, would have made both of them crazy. I had to suffer - the father without gifts, the daughter without the opportunity to give them.
- He is not your father! – the mother pressed if Alka tried to object to anything. – He is Savka’s father. And just a man who is considered my husband in our family. And you were born from Deya, and don’t forget this! Pray.
Dinner continued.
Having finished chewing the salad, the mother took a couple of cutlets from the stewpan, generously poured sauce over them and thoughtfully, immersed in memories, looked at Alesta.
“But I wanted to call you Constance.” I really wanted it.
Alka almost choked on Constance? For some reason this cumbersome and clumsy name reminded her of a rusty locomotive lying in a scrap heap in a torn heap of metal. Monumental, heavy and completely inflexible.
Not like Alka. Alka is something cozy, familiar, where it smells like rain, where drops knock on a hut made of branches, where pine branches rustle behind the walls. Alka is when you have coffee with cinnamon in the morning and the sun is shining through the window. Alka is light steps along the street, and your fingers touch the leaves of the bushes; Alka is an endless fantasy world - alive, moving and smelling like a fairy tale. Well, you might think that Helga pronounced “Alka” in an abusive manner, with mockery. That's why she's a sister. Harmful and older.
- It's all Toshik. He insisted on Alesta - he said it was prettier. That was the only time I succumbed to his persuasion and I still regret it.
Alka looked at her father, met his guilty gaze for a second, after which he quickly lowered his head - he was silent, always silent. He endured all the heels and humiliation, and Alesta desperately wanted him to lose his temper. Suddenly he stood up, raised his voice, hit the table with his fist and said “that’s enough!” - so that everyone around can see that - yes, he is a man, - but, most importantly, he is a HUMAN!
But the father did not get up - he pretended that the conversations did not concern him, that insults were alien to him, that he was not here at all, but somewhere else - behind the wall of his own invisible world.
Alka sighed; The cutlets didn't go down my throat. A row of unfamiliar faces floated on the TV screen - all girls, all dressed in military uniform, and each had such pride in her eyes, as if she had just defended the Temple of Dei with her breasts. The presenter’s voice sounded no less proud from behind the scenes:
– ...The community is proud that this year the number of recruits has almost doubled last year’s number - three thousand graduates of the Themis Military College have entered permanent military service since the beginning of the month. We are proud of you, Women - Women with a capital W. We are calm, knowing that the perimeter of the Wall is guarded by such valiant Warriors, glorious followers of the goddess Bolla who left us...
The TV continued to broadcast; Mother never turned off the military channel - she still listened to it now.
– By the way, Alesta, aren’t you ready for the Campaign yet? Are you still waiting for something?
“I still have three months of combat training ahead of me.”
“You are excellent with a sword, you have excellent grades.” Why additional practice?
This is precisely why Alka hated dinners: because during them they invariably, not on purpose, but extremely obviously insulted her father, and because right now - in the peaceful evening hours - the topic of her Campaign was raised at the table.
Didn’t her mother really understand that Alesta wasn’t ready, that she was simply afraid to go? Of course, Deya seems to be guarding the road to the temple - the temple, which, by the way, is located behind the Wall - but what about ambushes? What if the Wild Ones drag her into the forest? What if they make her their slave, tie her up in one of the huts and take turns abusing her body - taking revenge, beating her, blackening it? Of course, don’t hit her too hard, so she can give birth. Every year - boy after boy. After all, they somehow need to continue their lineage...
Captivity was worse than death. It’s better to go to the Plains, it’s better to be devoured by monsters, it’s better to go beyond the last line.
- I am not ready.
Alka felt that she was angry. He is seriously angry, seriously, with the resentment that remains in the soul for years.
- Not ready? Coward!
- So be it!
“I went there twice, and nothing happened to me!”
- Live and be proud.
- Alesta!
Leaving the table before her mother was considered bad manners, but her fingers lay on the tablecloth and her legs sprung - Alka stood up and threw a crumpled napkin into the plate.
- Willful, huh?! – Vanessa Terentyevna roared. – Started to show arrogance?! But there are not yet twenty-two...
Her face, framed by small, dog-like curls, turned red; Thin eyebrows menacingly moved towards the bridge of the nose.
- Not hungry, thank you.
And Alka hurried into the corridor.
- No, just look! Who is she like, you? - in moments of anger, the mother for some reason forgot that she gave birth to Alka from Deya, and not from Anton Lvovich, and poured red-hot vengeful lava on the latter. - In you? This is all because the name is wrong! If I were Constance, I would be obedient!
Helga clinked her fork busily; the father was silent.
Under the tense, bull-like snoring of the mother, the television filled the room with the pathetic anthem of the Women's Confederation.
(Fox Amoore – Myre)
Alka’s sadness always spilled over into the need to love. To rest your gaze on something good, bright, to fix your eyes on the picture and mentally, at least for a minute, be transported there, to squeeze the plush toys sitting on the blanket-covered sofa. Follow the slanting ray of sunlight stretching across the room, ride along its dust-speckled back, believe that a sunny flower can grow from a light spot on the floor. The heavier my heart became, the more I wanted to believe in a miracle and the more greedily the need to turn myself into something good grew.
Because of the sunset, the room glowed orange - it was saturated with a juicy soft orange light and sparingly splashed it from wall to wall, from window to window. It’s good when the windows are on the ground floor - you can always climb out, wander around the garden, run to a cool pond and dip your hands in it, get lost for a while in the spruce forest growing on the edge.
I didn’t want to go to the spruce forest, nor to the pond. The warm wind shook the honeycombs growing on the windowsill; A barefoot gardener walked around the garden, naked to the waist and dressed in stained blue pants, dragging a hose coiled like snake coils behind him, watering the beds. Sometimes he threw the hose at the berry and began to trim the bushes, slurping his bare heels in the raspberry patch.
The gardener appeared at their house two weeks ago - a young guy with a light, shaggy crown, quiet and undemanding. He ate in the back room, slept in the barn, never raised his head, did not argue, worked from sunset to dawn. A male gardener is a whim of the mother, her way of demonstrating her wealthy status to her neighbors.
“So what, what’s expensive? We can afford..."
Allow a new set of walnut wood, a Catan carpet in the hallway, a service made of the finest glass with gold ornaments, a gardener...
How can you afford a person, because he is not a toy?
“For a mother, all are toys,” an evil thought flashed, and Alka, sitting by the window, buried her sad gaze in her bare, sinewy back.
But he is completely alone - no friends, no neighbor to exchange a word with, no pet to caress. He wakes up alone, works alone, falls asleep alone. They don’t consider him as a person, they don’t ask about his desires, they pay him crumbs - how does he live? Where does he find the strength not to give up, what does he believe in to stay afloat? Maybe in some dream only known to him?
Feeling pity, tenderness and aching longing for someone whose name she was not even allowed to know, Alesta suddenly did the forbidden - she allowed her heart to open and mentally directed a golden shining stream of female love at the boy standing by the bushes - after all, no one sees? Let him feel warmer for a second, let him feel support coming from nowhere, let him feel how a gentle mother’s hand will touch him from the inside - “you’re not alone, son...” - let...
She didn't have time to think about it. The lock clicked behind me, and Vanessa Terentyevna entered the room - Alka’s heart instantly broke into a gallop - after all, she didn’t see, didn’t have time, didn’t notice?! The flow of love was interrupted as if cut off, the breath got stuck in the throat.
And my mother saw it.
Because she approached the sofa with a decisive step, because with her face red with anger she gave her daughter such a slap on the back of the head that she almost tumbled onto the floor; because she stood there for a long time with her lips compressed into a stripe and her evil eyes blazing so fiercely that she almost burned through Alesta’s skull, and with it the stonework of the wall behind her.
“You,” she finally whispered quietly, but no less fiercely, “you... If you break the law again and send Love to some scum, I will personally take you to the Cold Plains and leave you there.” Do you understand me, fool?
A fool who is Alesta, who is not Constance.
- How could you even be born from me? Like this.
The last word sounded like a curse far worse than stupid.
Looking at how the ancestress walked out of the room with a firm, almost soldier’s gait, Alka wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"Really. How?"
I didn’t want to love anymore, I didn’t want to dream either. In general, I didn’t want anything else.
* * *
Upstairs there was a smell of boards, shavings, dry cabinets and blankets folded in the corner. Alya took refuge in one of these, climbing onto a creaky sofa, and now lay looking at the distant stars winking behind the open attic window.
The open doors smelled of mown grass and mud from the pond; the garden had fallen asleep, the gardener had long since disappeared into the barn, the parents had long been snoring in their own bedroom. Even Helga, who immediately after dinner went to her own apartment to “tumble around” with the blond, was probably already asleep too.
Only Alka was awake. Alka and a bunch of crickets in the dewy grass.
Her eyes didn’t close, but before her mind’s eye stood the Temple of Dei—it stood the way Alesta had imagined it: white stone, with columns, with a wide marble staircase at the entrance, smelling of candles and wax from the inside. In fact, the Temple could have turned out to be completely different - no one had ever described it or for some reason drawn it - for example, dark vaulted or brick with towers - but Alka always thought it was snow-white. What will happen there, inside – the servants? Will the Goddess herself come out to meet her? How will the process of placing a child in the womb take place? It hurts? It is unknown, but books on religion called this process a “sacred sacrament” and were forbidden to describe it.
Well, okay. It didn’t hurt, and I wanted to know how, and even go there. You just have to, you have to: first through the main gate with a pass, where she will be escorted by hundreds of praying townswomen - a ritual; – then along the edge of the forest; then several kilometers along the sacred highway - on one side there are possible ambushes of the “wild”, on the other - the Cold Plains; then uphill. They say it’s not far up the mountain - it’s easiest there...
Soon she will see everything for herself.
Thoughts about the Temple brought nothing but melancholy. Alka wrapped herself tightly in a thin blanket and turned to the wall, closing her eyes. Why did she decide to sleep in the attic - because it’s always drafty and fresh here? Because mother never comes up here? Because it still smells like grandma in here?
Grandma lived in the attic for the last two years - her mother “moved her” here. Agafya’s legs hurt, and therefore she rarely (almost never) went downstairs - Alka carried food to the attic. But if Agafya still resisted like an old woman and, leaning her trembling wrinkled hands on the shaky railing, went downstairs, quarrels invariably fell upon the family. They always argued about the same thing - education and the system.
“Come to your senses already, you damned one,” the grandmother yelled at Vanessa, “what are you doing?” I, of course, was a fool when I believed in the Confederation - I raised you, a selfish person, and then also helped Helga - but I came to my senses! Look around, Vanessa, don't you see what the world has become? What are we doing, what, godless people, are we doing?
And every time Vanessa jumped up so that her face turned purple:
- Out of my mind, old woman! I didn’t put you in a nursing home only out of love...
- Out of what love? You forgot what it is! I forgot! She silenced everyone in the house, took up arbitrariness, and became arrogant. Who did I raise? Who did you raise?
- Yes, I have a salary...
- Forget about your salary - it’s all about money, but about money! What have you become - a pompous matron! I also made Helga a copy of mine. But I won’t give Alka! I won’t let her be made a fool - don’t spoil my second granddaughter!
Sometimes Alka thought that her mother hated her because of Agafya - because of her grandmother’s strong love for her youngest, because of the opportunity to tell her “how the world really works.” You won't stop feeding your mother, will you? You won’t forbid Alka from carrying food upstairs, will you?
So Alesta lived between two fires. I often sat in the attic, listened to stories from the distant and young life of Agafya, learned history from my grandmother’s words - not the one written in textbooks, but the other - the real one - and was torn in trying to understand where there was harmony - where men were free, or where they are “slaves”? That’s why in college I began to study “male psychology” in depth and decided to write my final dissertation on the topic: “The Nature of Women’s Love. Its properties, biochemical structure and possibilities of influence.”
I wrote something about what was “good” and what was “bad,” despite hundreds of books I had read, but I couldn’t fully understand it inside – I just felt that harmony should be somewhere in the middle, not in the extremes.
And the attic gradually brought on sleep; The cicadas died down outside the window, the wind stroked the leaves of the bushes, and a fish splashed in the pond. The attic smelled like grandma.