The Child Goddess by Louise Marley Page A

people lived in ships, or in rooms like this, with floors that were slick and objects that were made by machines. And except for the spider machine, Oa had seen nothing like a forest spider, or any creatures at all, since she left the world of Mother Ocean.
    “Isabel is making shahto?” she breathed, daring to ask a question.
    Isabel seemed to think for a time before she answered. “I don’t know your word,” she said finally. “I live in a house, with other women priests, and with girls who want to be priests.”
    “Oh,” Oa said, in imitation.
    Isabel squeezed her fingers gently. “I’m going to tell you all about my house, Oa. But suppose we get you back into your bed first, and I will sit beside you while you fall asleep.”
    Oa’s breast filled with gratitude. It was almost as if Isabel were an anchen. She must not think that, must not allow herself to hope. One day Isabel would understand, and then everything could change. But it would be so easy . . . and it had been so long . . .
    *
    WHEN OA SLEPT at last, Isabel still sat beside the bed, her legs crossed at the ankles, her back against the wall, pondering. She watched the child’s slender chest rise and fall, long lashes fluttering gently as she dreamed. What did Oa of Virimund dream, Isabel wondered. Of the shahto made by her father? Of the forest spiders that, in her mind, had given their name to the medicator? Or would she dream of something she longed for, something she yearned to have or to do? Isabel’s heart ached with pity.
    She had worked with many children in Australia, and among the refugees from the east who crowded into Italy. Some were starving, or orphaned, or abused. They could be withdrawn, frightened, clinging, rebellious. But Oa mystified her, with her flashes of intelligence, of laughter, her retreats into silence, her refusal to speak of herself in the first person. And Isabel sensed that Oa was keeping some deep secret, something of desperate importance, at least to her. Isabel had framed her questions carefully, trying not to provoke the fearful reaction she had seen before. What, she wondered, did the child mean by the word “anchen” ? She struggled with it as she went to her own bed, yawning. When her eyes closed, she still had no answer.
    She woke late the next morning, and hurried to set out the crucifix, arrange her foam pad, light her candle. Just as she was kneeling, ready to begin her devotions, she heard Oa’s soft step at her door. She glanced over her shoulder.
    “Oa? Would you like to come in?”
    The child’s hair was tangled from sleep, and she had pulled Isabel’s black sweater on over her pajamas. She stepped inside the small room, and stood looking at the little crucifix.
    “You can touch that, if you like,” Isabel said. She held it out. Oa took it in her hand, frowning over the carved figure on the cross, tracing the thorny crown with one dark finger.
    When she handed it back to Isabel, she said, “Raimu?”
    “Raimu?” Isabel repeated. “I don’t know that word, Oa.”
    Oa took another step, and then knelt beside Isabel, with a nod to the crucifix and the burning candle. “Raimu,” she repeated. She shrugged, and spread her hands.
    Isabel smiled at her. “Perhaps later you can make me understand, Oa. Right now I’m going to say my prayers. Thank you for joining me.”
    She turned to the cross and the candle, and began, speaking slowly and clearly, hoping the child could understand some of the words.

    SAINT MARY OF MAGDALA,
    PATRONESS OF THOSE WHO ASK . . .

    Isabel paused at the end of her devotions, eyes closed, searching in the silence for the source of her inspiration. It was not there, or she couldn’t find it. She sighed, and snuffed out the candle. “We had better get you dressed, Oa,” she said. “I think they’re coming today to fix the medicator.” She rose to replace the crucifix and the kneeler. As she turned to the door, she glanced up at the little camera in the corner, its