The Handmaids Tale | Page 7

used to be.
I walk to the corner and wait. Iused to be bad at waiting. They al so
serve who only stand and wait, said Aunt Lydia. She made us
memorize it. She also said, Not all of you will make it through. S ome
of you will fall on dry ground or thorns. Some of you are
shallow-rooted. She had a moleon her chin that went up and down
while she talked. She said, Think of yourselves as seeds, and ri ght
then her voice was wheedling, conspiratorial, like the voices of those
women who used to teach ballet classes to children, and who wou ld
say, Arms up inthe air now; let's pretend we're trees. I stand on th e
corner, pretending I am a tree.
A shape, red with white wings around the face, a shape like mine, a
nondescript woman in red carrying a basket, comes along the brick
sidewalk towards me. She reaches meand we peer at each other's
faces, looking down the white tunnels of cloth that enclose u s. She is
the right one.
"Blessed be the fruit," she says to me, the accepted greeting am ong
us.
"May the Lord open," I answer, the accepted response. We turn and
walk together past the large houses, towards the central part of t own.
We aren't allowed to go there except in twos. This is supposed to be
for our protection, though the notion is absurd: we are well prote cted
already. The truth is that she is my spy, as I am hers. If either of u s
slips through the net because of something that happens on one of
our daily walks, the other will be accountable.
This woman has been my partner for two weeks. I don't know what

happened to the one before. On a certain day she simply wasn't th
ere
anymore, and this one was there in her place. It isn't the sort of t hing
you ask questions about, because the answers are not usually an swers
you want to know. Anyway there wouldn't be an answer. This one is a little plumper than I am. Her eyes are brown. Her nam e
is Ofglen, and that's about all I know about her. She walks demu rely,
head down, red-gloved hands clasped in from, with short little s teps
like a trained pig's, onits hind legs. During these walks she ha s never
said anything that was not strictly orthodox, but then, neithe r have I.
She may be a real believer, a Handmaid in more than name. I can't
take the risk.
"The war is going well, I hear," she says.
"Praise be," I reply.
"We've been sent good weather."
"Which I receive with joy."
"They've defeated more of the rebels, since yesterday."
"Praise be," I say. I don't ask her how she knows, "What were they ?"
"Baptists. They had a stronghold in the Blue Hills. They smoke d
them out."
"Praise be."
Sometimes I wish she would just shut up and let me walk in peace .
But I'm ravenous for news, any kind of news; even if it's false n ews, it
must mean something.
We reach the first barrier, which is like the barriers blocking off roadworks, or dug-up sewers: a wooden crisscross painted in yello w
and black stripes, a red hexagon which means Stop. Near the gate way
there are some lanterns, not lit because it isn't night. Above us , I
know, there are floodlights, attached to the telephone poles, for use
in emergencies, and there are men with machine guns in the
pillboxes on either side of the road. I don't see the floodligh ts and the
pillboxes, because of the wings around my face. I just know the y are

there.
Behind the barrier, waiting for us at the narrow gateway, there are
two men, in the green uniforms of the Guardians of the Faith, with
the crests on their shoulders and berets: two swords, crossed, abo
ve a
white triangle. The Guardians aren't real soldiers. They're used f or
routine policing and other menial functions, digging up the
Commander's Wife's garden, for instance, and they're either st upid or
older or disabled or very young, apart from the ones that are Eyes
incognito.
These two are very young: one mustache is still sparse, one face is
still blotchy. Their youth is touching, but I know I can't be d eceived
by it. The young ones are often the most dangerous, the most fanatical, the jumpiest with their guns. They haven't yet le arned
about existence through time. You have to go slowly with them.
Last week they shot a woman, right about here. She was a Martha.
She was fumbling in her robe, for her pass, and they thought she was
hunting for a bomb. They thought she was a man in disguise. The re
have been such incidents.
Rita and Cora knew the woman. I heard them talking about it, in th e
kitchen.
Doing their job, said Cora. Keeping us safe.
Nothing safer than dead,