The Memory of Earth by Orson Scott Card Page A

yourself, Madam,” he answered. Or rather, that was how he
meant
to answer. He even
began
to answer that way, but in the middle of the sentence the enormity of her having struck him that way, the shock and hurt of it, the sheer humiliation of his mother hitting him reduced him to tears. “I’m sorry,” he said. Though what he really wanted to say was How dare you, I’m too old for that, I hate you. It was impossible to say such harsh things, however, when he was crying like a baby. Nafai hated it, how tears had always come so easily to him, and it wasn’t getting any better as he got older.
    “Maybe next time you’ll remember to speak to me with proper respect,” she said. But she, too, was unable to maintain her sharp tone, for even as she spoke he felt her arm around him as she sat beside him, comforted him.
    She could not possibly understand that the way she nestled his head to her shoulder only added to the humiliation and confirmed him in his decision to regard her as an enemy. If she had the power to make him cry because of his love for her, then there was only onepossible solution for him: to cease loving her. This was the last time she would ever be able to do this to him.
    “You’re bleeding,” she said.
    “It’s nothing,” he said.
    “Let me stanch it—here, with a clean handkerchief, not that horrible rag you carry in your pocket, you absurd little boy.”
    That’s all I’ll ever be in this house, isn’t it? An absurd little boy. He pulled away from her, refused to let the handkerchief touch his chin. But she persisted, and dabbed at the wound, and the white cloth came away surprisingly bloody—so he took it from her hand and pressed it against the wound. “Deep, I guess,” he said.
    “If you hadn’t moved your head back, my nails wouldn’t have caught your chin like that.”
    If you hadn’t slapped me, your nails would have been in your
lap
. But he held his tongue.
    “I can see that you’re taking our family’s situation very much to heart, Nafai, but your values are a little twisted. What does the ridicule of the satirists matter? Everyone knows that every great figure in the history of Basilica was darted at one time or another, and usually for the very thing that made her—or him—great. We can bear that. What matters is that Father’s vision was a very clear warning from the Oversoul, with immediate implications for our city’s course of action over the next few days and weeks and months. The embarrassment will pass. And among the women in this city who really count, Father is viewed as quite a remarkable man—their respect for him is growing. So try to control your embarrassment at your father’s having come to the center of attention. All children in their early teens are excruciatingly sensitive to embarrassment, but in time you will learn that criticism and ridicule are not always bad. To earn the enmity of evil people can speak very well of you.”
    He could hardly believe she thought so little of him as to think he needed such a lecture as this one. Did she really believe that it was
embarrassment
he feared? If she had listened instead of lecturing, he might have told her about Elemak’s warning about danger to Father, about his secret visit to Gaballufix’s house. But it was clear that in her eyes he was still nothing but a child. She wouldn’t take his warning seriously. Indeed, she’d probably give him another lecture about not letting fears and worries take possession of your mind, but instead to concentrate on his studies and let adults worry about the
real
problems in the world.
    In her mind, I’m still six years old and I always will be. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’ll not speak to you that way again.” In fact, I doubt that I’ll ever say anything serious or important to you again as long as you live.
    “I accept your apology, Nafai, as I hope you’ll accept mine for having struck you in my anger.”
    “Of course, Mother.” I’ll accept your