Arthur of the North was in the middle of a meeting, attempting to wind things up and getting nowhere fast. Concerns had been raised about James the Strong’s flagrant abuse of membership, and Arthur of the North, as usual, was arguing on behalf of his son.

  James the Strong was his Achilles heel. Arthur of the North chose not to see past his son’s glazed look of arrogance and ignorance, and as his son stomped and annoyed folk, Arthur made excuses.

  The library had had enough.

  The Settlers were not big on meetings; on account of the women’s “a penis is only the beginning” placard incident, rarely did more than two meet. Today was different: Arthur of the North was staring at the Librarian and a reader.? They were not budging.

  “He stomps about like he owns the place, like he lives here, pays the rent, and feeds us,” said the Librarian.

  “I can assure you he doesn’t feed me,” muttered the reader.

  “This place is not the place for stomping,” muttered the Librarian, who lived for silence.

  Arthur of the North thought of his large son. He was handsome in an apelike way, with massive hands, long hair, a full set of teeth, and a voice that purred. He could read a shopping list and have women sighing.

  “But he’s a giant,” said Arthur of the North. “He can’t help it; his tiptoeing makes the noise of a bass drum.”

  “That man has never tiptoed,” said the reader.?“

  And what about the balance for overdue books?” said the Librarian. “He laughed in my face the last time I mentioned it.”

  Arthur of the North pulled out his payment book. “How much?”

  “It is not for you to pay; he’s a grown man,” muttered the Librarian.

  The reader tutted.

  “And where is this giant now? Why is he not here instead of you?”

  Arthur of the North said nothing.

  “Strutting I suppose,” said the reader.

  “Women welcome his strutting,” muttered Arthur of the North. “I have never seen them so happy.”

  “What would a woman know?” said the Librarian.

  The reader nodded.

  Arthur of the North thought of his mother and sighed. She knew every pickling thing, and she knew it before anyone else.

  “Some women dream of your son’s seed and what it would produce,” she’d said, “and it’s gone to his head. He will soon be uncontrollable.”? “I think he’s mending ropes,” muttered Arthur of the North, “for the next Arrival Day.”

  “But that’s six months from now,” said the Librarian.

  Arthur of the North sighed. “Apparently, there is a lot of drying involved.”

  The reader threw a look at the Librarian.?“Yes, well, waiting, it seems, is all you do with that son of yours,” said the reader.

  He stopped.

  A woman crashed through the library entrance.?The reader caught a glimpse of a skirt and, with a sharp intake of breath, swore.? The Librarian, embracing his authority, stood and was about to shout, then caught the look in Aggie’s eye.? The two men turned to Arthur; his face fell.

  “Let’s call it a day,” said the Librarian.

  “Yes,” muttered the reader.

  Without a word, Arthur of the North followed Aggie back to his mother for the laying of hemp on the dead’s eyes.

  Arthur of the North, now a man in his sixties, had long forgotten how to cry. His face was a blank mask, despite his heart breaking; coming to terms with a life without his mother with something he dreaded.? For sixty years, he had lived under the strong arm of his mother. Now, he had to do it not only alone but with James the Strong chipping at his heels and bollocking everything up.

  He went through the cremation preparations and, with the help of Aggie, organized the raising of Wife-ie’s obelisk to catch the morning sun.? Aggie had nowhere to go; the women viewed her as a “two-faced suck-up” who couldn’t be trusted with a hemp teabag let alone to help with the nurturing of things.

  They, with a healthy suspicion for Wife-ie and all who belonged to her, slammed the door in Aggie’s face.

  “Go lick some other pickling arse,” shouted one.

  “Yeah!” shouted another.

  It was the treaties that did it, and of course the hemp.? Every time the baby quota was full, Wife-ie created more treaties, calling them “a mere box-ticking exercise.

  ”?In the good ol’ days, Wife-ie approached at hemp-picking time when the women, high and happy, didn’t even see the small print let alone read it. Several treaties later, the quotas had changed, expanded, and finally been rubbed out, along with most of the women’s rights, until the day hemp-nurturing was taken from the women.

  Wife-ie approached with her usual smugness, asking a bunch of hempless and sober women to sign the latest treaty.? The treaty was anything but a box-ticking exercise; it was an enslavement contract.

  “We’re buggered,” said the woman who looked like a horse.

  The women demanded a viewing of all treaties.

  “Burnt,” said Wife-ie. “Security—you can never trust these Aliens.”

  What the Aliens had to do with treaties, the women had no idea, but they knew Wife-ie was lying: she was meticulous when it came to papers and reading. Her burning a treaty was as believable as her having a heart.

  “You’re a woman like us,” they said. “You should be on our side.”

  Wife-ie, as immovable as her soon-to-be-erected obelisk, threw them a cold look.?“Think of your sons,” she said. “The less you have, the more for them.”

  Aggie and Arthur of the North sat by Wife-ie’s body, prepared and cleaned for “the burning,” as a fire was building outside.

  “Never settle for one partner, that’s what Mother said. Now look at me—alone.” He turned to Aggie. “How will I know a good decision from a bad one?”

  “What about your advisers?” said Aggie.

  “Them—they want my son tossed to the Aliens.” He looked at Aggie. “He has no offspring; his seed is as barren as the planet we left. In fact, some want to send him there.”

  Aggie said nothing; she had yet to meet this James the Strong.

  James the Strong loved hanging out in the nurturing shed to bathe and dance with the women before sex. In fact, he had turned baby-making back to the good old days when it was fun; however, there was no offspring.? Wife-ie called it early menopause, something celebrated by women and never mentioned by men.

  “James the Strong’s long hair’s a dead giveaway,” said Wife-ie, and no one argued.

  Fertile men were bald by the time they were thirty and wore wigs, which everyone knew but rarely mentioned; wig was a dirty word in the city.

  No baby made James the Strong depressed and angry, leading to stomping in the library, which didn’t have one book let alone a leaflet about infertility.

  “All the others have ’em,” he said to his father, “even those pickling Foreigners. What do I have? A poxy four-legged creature to toss a stick at.”

  His father told him to calm down. “All that stomping will make you limp,” he lied. He, like most men, had no idea about infertility.

  “Maybe he just needs to try a more fertile woman,” said Aggie with absolutely no faith in what she said.

  Arthur of the North patted her knee and thanked her for her kindness.?Then Aggie did the only thing she knew how to do—stroke—and for the first time, it led to more than a coughing fit.

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