“Ned’s Point, where I just got on, where else? We’re Ashkenazi,” he told Connie.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“We’re the flavor of Eastern European Jewry. Freud, Marx, Trotsky, Singer, Aleichem, Reich, Luxembourg, Wassermann, Vittova–all these were Ashkenazi!”

“They build kenners,” Luciente said. “We were just visiting the planners.”

“Look, I don’t understand,” Connie said. “If workers in a factory, say the kenner factory, want to make more kenners and the planners decide to give them less stuff, who wins?”

“We argue,” the man said. “How else?”

“There’s no final authority, Connie,” Luciente said.

“There’s got to be. Who finally says yes or no?”

“We argue till we close to agree. We just continue. Oh, it’s disgusting sometimes. It bottoms you.”

“After a big political fight, we guest each other,” the man said. “The winners have to feed the losers and give presents. Have you been to a town meeting?”

When Connie shook her head he clucked and shook a finger at Luciente. “You must take per. How will person learn about us?”

“Fasure,” Luciente said sourly. “I’m trying! Grasp, political decisions–like whether to raise or lower population–go a different route. We talk locally and then choose a rep to speak our posit on area hookup. Then we all sit in holi simulcast and the rep from each group speaks their village posit. Then we go back into local meeting to fuse our final word. Then the reps argue once more before everybody. Then we vote.”

“You must spend an awful lot of time in meetings.”

“Shalom. I get off here,” the old man said. “Make per bring you to Ned’s Point. I’m Rebekah and I live by the east side of the shul.”

Luciente waved goodbye. “How can people control their lives without spending a lot of time in meetings?”

“Don’t you get sick of each other?”

“Staling usually has a reason. But you can always leave, wander awhile, or find a new village.”

“All right, suppose I don’t want to go to meetings.”

“Who could force you? People would ask why you no longer care. Friends might suggest you take a retreat or talk to a healer. If your mems felt you’d cut them off, they might ask you to leave. If too many in a village cut off, the neighboring villages send for a team of involvers.”

“Years ago I was living in Chicago. I got involved that way. Meetings, meetings, meetings! My life was so busy, my head was boiling! I felt such hope. It was after my husband Martнn … He got killed. I was young and naпve and it was supposed to be a War on Poverty … . But it was just the same political machine and us stupid poor people, us … idiots who thought we were running things for a change. We ended up right back where we were. They gave some paying jobs to so‑called neighborhood leaders. All those meetings. I ended up with nothing but feeling sore and ripped off.”

“You lose until you win–that’s a saying those who changed our world left us. Poor people didget together.” Luciente rose and made ready to get out as the dipper settled into the grass. She spoke to her kenner. “Locate Sappho.”

“Sappho is located in tent near mill,” the kenner said.

They walked the river path to the south end of the village, where a big tent had been set up. The rain slowed to a fine drizzle and the wind came fresh down the stream. The river was eddying at the turn of the tide, not quite flowing in or out. On a cot under a low roof of canvas, the old woman Sappho lay. She wore deerskin leggings and tunic, large on her and aged, though beautifully decorated with quillwork in soft colors. Gaunter than ever, her face seemed to draw back from the beak of her Indian nose. Her lips were thinned almost away. The skull stood out through the scant hair, pressing the withered skin of her forehead and cheeks. Sappho’s black eyes were dull and Connie was not sure she could see, but still she turned her head from side to side to follow conversations, the heavy head turning wearily on the tiny neck like a seed head on a dried stalk.

“Sappho, here I am, Luciente, come to be with you. I’ve brought the woman from the past.”

“Luciente, child of earth and fire like a good pot. The other I do not know. Leave it.”

“Does she want me to leave?” Connie whispered.

“No, no,” Luciente said in her normal loud voice. “Person only wants not to be made to remember who you are.”

“Has Swallow come? Where is my child?” Her thin voice scratched the ear.

Squatting near the cot, Jackrabbit spoke to his kenner. Then he answered her. “Bolivar is in a floater forty minutes distant. Person is hurrying, Sappho.”

“I go with the tide. Swallow should hasten.”

“Bolivar, hurry up! This is Jackrabbit. Sappho wishes to die soon. Can’t you push yourself?”

“Ram it, my love, I’m coming faster than I can already!” The male voice sounded irritated. “You tell Sappho to wait. Person has no patience. I’m in heavy turbulence. I’m bucking the wind, and I have to keep climbing. Are you so sick of my sleek body you want me to scatter it all over the Berkshires?”

“Swallow is always late.” Sappho smiled into the ceiling of the tent. “Swallow believes nothing will happen without per.”

A young woman with a heart‑shaped ivory face and long straight brown hair to her buttocks moved forward suddenly from her position kneeling by the cot. Laying her cheek against Sappho’s scarcely moving chest, she began to weep.

“Louise‑Michel?”

“No, no, it’s Aspen! Can’t you recognize me?”

“Aspen? But I remember Louise‑Michel and so many I loved … . Aspen, do not weep on me. I want to go out with the waters, quietly.”

“Don’t die! Wait. If you love me, wait!”

A flick of temper crossed Sappho’s face. “If you love me, cut off your hair. Yes, I’ll be buried with your hair.”

Aspen rose and said more composedly, “I’ll go at once and cut it.” She trotted off.

“Why did you do that, you witch?” Jackrabbit said. “That was mean.”

“Person was bothering me. It’s my dying.” Sappho lay breathing hoarsely. “Besides, will make per feel better. You’ll see.”

“Who was Louise‑Michel?” Jackrabbit asked.

“Second lover. Good friend. Person had long hair too, but person was strong … . Died diving accident … . I should not have taken a pillowfriend so late. It was vanity. Had little to give … . Same with Swallow. Too late to put in for another child … . Vanity.”

“Not true,” Jackrabbit said. “The power in you has stayed strong. Bolivar has much of you inside that I love.”

“I have made some good tales, no?”

“They will outlive you many generations,” White Oak said from the foot of the cot.

“Luciente!” Connie tugged at her elbow. “If she’s dying, why is she out in the rain?”

“But Sappho is under a tent. Person wants to die beside the river.”

“But why isn’t there a doctor? If she was in a hospital, she might not die, Luciente. She might live longer.”

“But why not die?” Luciente stared at her, with incomprehension on her broad peasant face. “Sappho is eighty‑two. A good time to give back.”

“You’re just going to let her lie here in the chilly air until she dies?”

“But why not?” Luciente scowled with confusion. “Everybody gives back. We all carry our death at the core–if you don’t know that, your life is hollow, no? This is a good death. I hope Swallow gets–Now Sappho’s got me doing that. Person’s so wicked and mischievous; Sappho insists today on using Bolivar’s childhood name.”

“Auntie Sappho!” A little kid was tugging at her slack hand. “I come to say goodbye.”

“Who is it?” Sappho’s eyes were shut and she did not open them. “What chipmunk nibbles at my hand?”

“It’s me–Luna. Won’t you tell us stories anymore?”

“Never! Somebody else. But not like me!” A light spasm shook her and left her with her mouth slightly opened.

“In hundreds, in thousands of children your stories have made strong patterns,” White Oak said. “Your stories have altered our dreams.”