Pathways - Jeri Taylor [180]
That night, she sat at the table with her parents, who apparently couldn’t decide which shocked them most: her misbehavior with Toscat, or her self-induced hairstyle. She could see her father struggling with feelings of outrage, shame, and compassion.
“I thought I’d taught you there are ways to achieve your goals,” said Benaren aloud, genuinely trying to understand his daughter’s aberrant behavior. Kes was grateful that her parents, at least, avoided the slothful temptation to speak only telepathically. “If you approach someone with courtesy and reasonableness, if you treat them politely, with respect—you’re a lot more likely to get what you want.”
“I tried that. He was stubborn and insufferable.”
“So you succumbed immediately—and brought yourself to his level.”
Kes dropped her eyes. It was a fact, she’d lost control in an instant. Her father’s chastisement rang true. “You’re right. But I honestly believe that the outcome would have been the same no matter how self-possessed I was. He just wasn’t going to tell me about the ancient records.”
“He’s under no compunction to do so,” offered her mother. “There are rules which govern a society. Here, the Elders decide those rules, and it isn’t up to a child to question them.”
Kes’s head snapped toward her mother. “Why not? Why isn’t it all right for anyone to question authority? Even a child. If the authority is valid, it should stand up to examination.”
She saw her mother and father exchange a glance, but she couldn’t read what was communicated there. She thought, however, that she detected a hint of pride.
“Tell me this,” continued Benaren, “what made you do that to your hair? Did it have anything to do with Toscat?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Kes, and at this point that was true. Surely the fact that the Elder had touched her hair wasn’t reason enough to cut it off, even though it had seemed so at the time. “I think I just wanted to be different.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw a twist of a smile appear on her mother’s lips, then as quickly disappear. “It will grow,” said Martis philosophically, and that was the end of the discussion of her hair.
A month later, Kes stood in the middle of the Assembly floor. Her hair was somewhat neater than it had been after her impromptu styling, as her mother had sat her down and trimmed the uneven parts so it looked purposeful, rather than as though she’d been attacked by someone with a dull knife. She was wearing a new outfit, one Daggin’s sister had made for her. It consisted of soft leggings and a tunic over that, and Kes was more comfortable in it than she’d ever been in any clothing. There was an ease to the outfit, a freedom of movement, that she found liberating. But there, on the floor of the Assembly, she was an oddly incongruous sight.
She was nervous about what she planned to do, but she’d discussed it with Daggin and the others in the farming group, and they all agreed it was a necessary step—and that Kes was unquestionably the one to take it.
“Citizens of Ocampa,” she called out in a clear, confident voice. “Please listen to me. I want to let you know of something extraordinary that’s happening in our society. There are records—written records—that tell of our past. We could all know the circumstances which brought us to live here, beneath the surface. We could learn about the Caretaker, and why he put us here, and why he provides for us. We could know these things—but our Elders won’t give us access to those records. They insist the writings are for their eyes only, and they withhold these ancient truths from the public. Is this fair? Do they have that right? Shouldn’t we all