About Sisterland by Martina Devlin

outburst like yours before. Perhaps it’s because you’re closer to nature, as you say. I rarely go into the countryside. We have everything we need here in Harmony.” Then, unable to help herself, she asked, “Is nature really such an extraordinary force?”
    “Yes. But nature’s been stripped out of the tamed patches of land near Harmony. I saw those timid spaces as we approached the city. Nature is gone from this place, too, with its squashed buildings, and low skies, and those buzzing trains no man is allowed on. If you could only stand under a high blue sky, looking towards a horizon with no beginning and no end, then you’d be conscious of something so powerful that nothing else would matter. You might feel insignificant. But you’d also know happiness.”
    Constance’s pulse raced. She struggled for self-control. “Harmony’s an aesthetically designed city. Our buildings and streets are pleasing to the eye.”
    He made a gesture of impatience. “No building can match a forest with treetops that pierce the clouds.”
    “We have clouds in Harmony.”
    “Nothing but clouds! Is the sky never blue?”
    “Not really. But cloud patterns can be fascinating. I love to watch banks of them form into shapes.”
    The man’s teeth showed: the suspicion of a smile, gone before it was fully formed. “If clouds move you, then my forest will grip you by the heart, and never let go.” He started towards her, unsteady because of his blindfold, and she stretched out a hand to guide him. Sitting beside her on the pop-up, he spoke of his home, and the words tumbling from his mouth captivated her. She curved her mind towards his description of the sudden drama of shooting stars, and the tranquillity of moonlight reflected on glass sheets of water. Of the rapture let loose by spongy turf underfoot, and footsteps crunching over virgin snow. Of the sense of responsibility he felt for a line of saplings stretching their branches towards the light. Of the protective swell that overcame him at the brittleness of their bark beneath his hand – which she imagined, with an itching in her palm, that she could feel. As he spoke, and she listened, their heartbeats synchronised to the same pace.
    A bell rang inside the cube. “ Your two hours are up ,” said an automated voice.
    It was more than an interruption. It was an intrusion.
    Rapidly, she pulled on her pumps. “I have to leave,” she whispered. “I don’t even know your name.”
    “I don’t know yours, either.”
    A clatter at the door told them it was being unlocked.
    “It seems wrong not to know,” said Constance.
    He put his mouth to her ear. “I’m Harper.”
    “I’m Constance. I can return tomorrow . . . if you like.”
    He nodded.

Chapter 8

    In the respite room, the surfeit of images shared by Harper left Constance breathless. His forest world had been summoned to life with a vibrancy lacking in Harmony. A pulse of longing stirred in her for a kinship as intense as his relationship with the earth. Cocooned in the city, Constance never thought about the land, and what grew in it, or lived on it, or hovered above it. The land seemed an irrelevance: society was what mattered. Yet societies were artificial, after all. The history she’d learned told her they rose and fell, whereas the land continued.
    The Mating Mother took her by the elbows and scrutinised her, eyelids twitching as she circumnavigated the outer reaches of Constance’s mind. Constance managed to keep her from encroaching any closer.
    “You’re changed. You must have mated well, top girl! Shower, relax. You’re free to stay tonight in the Tower, or go home if you prefer.”
    Constance thought about Harper upstairs, or wherever he was now in matingplace. He must be somewhere under this roof. Some quality in this man made her receptive to him. It mystified her, but she acknowledged that it was so. “I’d like to stay.”
    “Then stay you shall. We have cubicles attached to the respite room.