Free The Fire Seer by Amy Raby Page B

script. She picked up the tablet, replaced it on the shelf, and took down a new one, equally unintelligible.
    Here in Mohenjo Temple lay the history of her people. Not the stories she’d been told over the years, the lies and distortions. The real history, the words her ancestors had written down in their true language. It astonished her that these writings had been preserved. Until she’d come here, she’d had no idea they even existed. If she worked hard, if she was patient, she would one day be able to read the words of the men and women who had walked in the presence of the Mothers.
    One season into her training, life wasn’t as miserable as before. After speaking to the instructor after class, she’d been placed in an additional, special class for initiates who needed to learn to read and write. It was a lot of extra work, but she didn’t mind. All the other students in the special class were farmer caste, like her, and while none of them were her age—the nearest was a boy two years older—she now sat with them at meal times, and didn’t feel quite so lonely. It encouraged her to see the other farmers’ progress at reading and writing. Others had trod this path before her and been successful; that gave her hope.
    The door to the library swung open.
    Taya froze. She couldn’t see the door from where she was sitting, but she was fairly certain Mandir isu Sarrum had seen her come in. For someone who acted as if he had no interest in her, Mandir watched her awfully closely.
    She heard the footsteps of several people entering the library.
    “What’s that smell?” came Mandir’s voice.
    “Musty old clay?” said another boy.
    “It smells like zebu shit,” said Mandir.
    The boys rounded the corner and came upon Taya with her tablet.
    “Oh, it’s the farmer girl! No wonder,” said Mandir. The other boys laughed.
    Taya, not the least bit fooled by this farce, stood and gathered her things. She would flee to her room, the one place Mandir could not follow.
    “What’s this?” said Mandir, grabbing the tablet.
    “It’s not mine,” said Taya quickly, terrified he would damage it. “It’s the library’s.”
    “What are you doing with it? You can’t read that.”
    “Neither can you,” snapped Taya.
    Mandir raised his eyebrows, held up the tablet and intoned, “ Ipulma mummu apsu immallik, sukkallum la magiru —”
    “You’re just saying the words,” said Taya. “You don’t know what they mean.”
    “Sure I do,” said Mandir. “It says, ‘Once there was a farmer woman who grew banana trees. She was contracted in marriage to a farmer man, but when she came to the marriage bed and removed her veil, he said, “ Bantu kasu annasi , woman! How can I sleep with you, when your face is like a wrinkled monkey’s ass, and you smell like zebu shit?” I shall have to—’ Wait a minute, I’m not finished.”
    Taya, flushing with anger and humiliation, tried to hurry around the boys, toward the library door, but Mandir moved to block her path, and the other boys, snickering, surrounded her.
    “Did I say you could leave?” said Mandir. “I’m still reading. ‘I shall have to hold my nose, turn you over, and fuck you from behind so I don’t have to—’”
    “Shut up!” cried Taya, trembling with rage, and fear, too, because they had her trapped, and no one else was around. “That’s not what it says.”
    “How do you know?” said Mandir.
    “Get out of my way,” said Taya.
    Mandir folded his arms. “You’ll go when I say you can.”
    Hating herself for giving in, but knowing that Mandir responded to only one thing, total capitulation, she said, “Please. I need to study.”
    Mandir looked thoughtful, as if considering this request. He turned to one of the other boys. “Sukal, what’s the banana girl studying?”
    Sukal snatched a tablet out of her satchel. It was the one on which she practiced her letters, scrawling them in her large, clumsy script. Sukal laughed and handed it to