The class begins to perk up, eager to leave.

Priest­ess Matreya
Very well, very well! I hear you shuf­fling about. You are dis­missed. Pleased do not leave your tablets lying around the class­room. Bring them up to your own rooms to study. We will have a test next Dahad’s Day.

Gil gets up and stretches his legs as the other kids fil­ter out­side and stomp up or down the rick­ety wooden stair­case. Kiddu gets up too, and stretches her arms high over her head. Gil notices two of the native boys ogling. He glares at the back of their heads.

Priest­ess Matreya
Gil, would you come here for a moment?

She is star­ing at his shoul­der.

Gil
Yes, Priest­ess?
Priest­ess Matreya
Have you given any more thought to what you’d like to do after this year is over?

Gil had sus­pected this was why she asked him to walk with her. They had three weeks of reli­gious school left, and the priest­ess hadn’t missed an oppor­tu­nity to bad­ger him about his future.

Gil
I don’t know.
Priest­ess Matreya
Have you given any more thought to join­ing the priest­hood?
Gil
No, not really, hon­estly.
Priest­ess Matreya
So I sup­pose you’ll just con­tinue on to Savant Puzurish’s Impe­r­ial School of Magic and Phi­los­o­phy?

Gil nods, though he doesn’t think she sees the ges­ture.

Priest­ess Matreya
Shame, shame. I’ve always said a boy with your intel­lect would be wasted—wasted!—with the Empire. The priest­hood is your call­ing, Gil.
Gil
Yeah, well. Sorry.

The elderly priest­ess heaves a big, exag­ger­ated sigh.

Priest­ess Matreya
The times, they are a-changin’, yes they are. Why, I still remem­ber when I first came to this con­ti­nent with all the other colonists. That was years before you were born. Years before your father and mother were born, probably—whoever they are, Lord Eye­nki bless them. We helped dig the canals. Built this Tem­ple from the ground. Started the orphan­age that raised you and that one over there—

She tilts her head towards Kiddu. The girl is still wait­ing for him in the door­way, blankly chew­ing on one of her dread­locks.

Priest­ess Matreya
In those days the Empire sup­ported us priests and priest­esses. And the peo­ple too. I used to go down­stairs to the sac­ri­fi­cial altar and find a whole feast cook­ing on the coals. Nowa­days I have to beg the Empire for money just to keep this build­ing run­ning. The Empire’s closed down our orphan­age. Next year they’ll close down our school. Nobody comes in to wor­ship. Nobody leaves any sac­ri­fices, except for some stale scraps of bread. I tell you, Gil, it seems like the only peo­ple who actu­ally care about the Gods today are these damn natives!

 

Gil
Maybe you should talk to the natives about hir­ing you as a priest­ess.
Priest­ess Matreya
P’tah! They’d sooner stone me to death for blas­phemy. Imag­ine that! Me, a priest­ess of Lord Eye­nki, accused of blas­phemy! It still bog­gles my mind how these sav­ages can pre­sume to know blas­phemy from their elbows. Now, don’t get me wrong—we have some won­der­ful native stu­dents in our class, nicely inte­grated on our side and all. But if you ask me, those natives on the other side of the Wall have lived in this damned desert for so long that they’ve for­got­ten that there are Gods other than the Sun God.
Kiddu
At least the natives don’t eat beasts…
Priest­ess Matreya
Beasts? Kiddu, why do you always go on about that non­sense? Do I have to remind you yet again that eat­ing ani­mals is allowed in the Code of Eye­nki?

Kiddu con­tin­ues chew­ing on her dread­lock as she con­sid­ers the ques­tion.

Kiddu
Yeah, but who actu­ally gives a shit any­more what the Code—
Priest­ess Matreya
KIDDU! You will watch your lan­guage while you are still in my class­room! Is that under­stood?

Kiddu cov­ers her mouth, eyes still wide. Then she starts gig­gling.

Priest­ess Matreya
Don’t think I won’t throw you out before you grad­u­ate!

Gil steps away from the priest­ess and steers a still-laughing Kiddu away into the hall­way.

Gil
Come on, we’d bet­ter go study for that test…

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