Free The Visitor by Sheri S. Tepper

anything that could conceivably injure her. The endless pain they caused was not physical but emotional, for they redefined her existence from day to day by surrounding her with a torturous unreality. Rashel and Call-Her-Mother sidled along pathways Dismé could not see. They climbed scaffolding of opinion toward a goal she could not even imagine. They spoke together in a language that made no sense to her, though every word of it was a word she knew.
    â€œDon’t you see, Dismé? Are you blind?”
    â€œLook at that! You did it. Can’t you do anything right, Dismé. I’m so ashamed of you.”
    â€œLook at this, Dismé! Do you want to bring the Regime down on us all? This is most offensive!”
    Sometimes they were speaking of a picture she had drawnor a verse she had written in her notebook, or some other private something they had dragged out for collusive deconstruction. Sometimes it was merely some household chore, not completed as they would have had it, or some chance remark by a third party whom they supposed had been speaking of Dismé. Years of this might have worn her into despair, made her believe she was insane or worthless had she not found enough delight in daily life to cushion the constant abrasion.
    Over those same ten years, Rashel cultivated her ambition by building a corps of dear, dear friends. She had determined upon a career in the Department of Inexplicable Arts.
    â€œThat’s where the power is,” she said.
    â€œWill be,” agreed her mother. “If The Art is recovered. Which it hasn’t been, not in a thousand years. Nobody’s had The Art since the Happening.”
    â€œWe know someone who does!”
    â€œHush, Rashel. Be silent.”
    Everyone knew The Art had been lost a thousand years ago, during the Happening. Of every thousand who had lived before the Happening, nine hundred had died during the impact, flood, fire, ashes, and plague. Of every hundred who survived the initial violence, ninety had died of the cold and darkness. Of every ten who survived the cold, nine had died of the monsters. Before the Happening, men had been mighty wizards, capable of miraculous feats. After the Happening, the power of The Art was lost. The Spared, however, had been saved and led to safety by a corps of Angels who had rebelled against God’s tyranny and brought their chosen people to Bastion where their duty was to discover the lost Art once again.
    â€œDefinitely the Inexplicable Arts,” said Rashel, admiring herself in the mirror. “Perhaps I will be the one to restore the Great Art to humanity!” She laughed. “In the meantime, I have an invitation to a BHE soirée!”
    The Office of Personnel Allocation, Department of Ephemeral Arts, Division of Culture, Bureau of Happiness and Enlightenment, often held soirées where unmarriedRegimic men could meet appropriate women. If a man married a non-Regimic woman, he gave up all hope of a successful career in government. Any such liaison betrayed a serious defect of character. Rashel, who had learned to be ultra-Regimic in public no matter what she did privately, had pulled various strings among her dear, dear friends to get an invitation.
    Attending such affairs alone was considered slightly improper for women, so on the day Rashel dragged eighteen-year-old Dismé along, only to park her in a corner as soon as they arrived, which Dismé much preferred in any case. She was quite content to sit there, observing the crowd, until Rashel appeared arm in arm with an elderly man whom she introduced as a long-time friend, bidding Dismé be attentive to his wishes.
    â€œYou’re the lil sisser,” he announced, leering at her. “Rashel’s lil sisser.”
    Dismé forgot to fade into the wall. “No,” she said definitely. “I am not her little sister. I am not related to her at all.”
    He waved his finger at her. “Now, now. Mussn tell