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Miss Giddy teaches them music, literature, poetry. She is there to keep the captive Wives sane, to occupy their minds and distract them from the fear, the horror, the pain of their gilded cage and the unreasonable expectations heaped on their slender shoulders. They're all beautiful girls, all clean and dressed well, never a hair out of place. They're all bright, creative in their way; many have musical talent. Those that don't learn to keep the beat or tend the instruments. Furiosa sings--but no one calls her Furiosa. She doesn't want him to have any of her names, wants to hold onto that one fragment of herself and keep it from him. But in so doing, she allows him, inadvertently, to name her on his own behalf. He calls her Feisty.
Feisty sings. She has a fierce alto voice with a rough edge to it, like a serrated blade. She favors dark torch songs and glorified battle cries, and she is not soothing, but she's good. More than song, though, she favors poetry. Her favorite is The Woman at the Washington Zoo. She sleeps less than the others, active at night padding barefoot around the Vault, circling the water. It's on one of these wanderings that she first finds the crack in the wall.
The whole chamber is carved of rock, torn right out of the Butte, and most of the walls are solid and sturdy, but every now and again you'll run into a small crevasse or a pit worn in softer stone. Normally, you don't see light through these cracks late at night. She pauses when she sees it the first time, dismisses it as a trick of her mind, circles the chamber, and then comes back to it. The widest part is at floor level, and she stretches out on her belly to peer through. There's not enough breadth there to get her hand through, or even a couple fingers, but she can see what looks like a room beyond. The wooden leg of some kind of furniture. The flicker of lamplight.
She's not sure if anyone is there, or whether she wants them to notice her if there is anyone there. But it's late, and no one else is awake, and at last she starts to whistle. Not a tune, but the sound of birdsong, chirps like a bee-eater, warbling like a yellow robin. The coo of an olive dove. She doesn't expect a response. She is about to be surprised.
Feisty sings. She has a fierce alto voice with a rough edge to it, like a serrated blade. She favors dark torch songs and glorified battle cries, and she is not soothing, but she's good. More than song, though, she favors poetry. Her favorite is The Woman at the Washington Zoo. She sleeps less than the others, active at night padding barefoot around the Vault, circling the water. It's on one of these wanderings that she first finds the crack in the wall.
The whole chamber is carved of rock, torn right out of the Butte, and most of the walls are solid and sturdy, but every now and again you'll run into a small crevasse or a pit worn in softer stone. Normally, you don't see light through these cracks late at night. She pauses when she sees it the first time, dismisses it as a trick of her mind, circles the chamber, and then comes back to it. The widest part is at floor level, and she stretches out on her belly to peer through. There's not enough breadth there to get her hand through, or even a couple fingers, but she can see what looks like a room beyond. The wooden leg of some kind of furniture. The flicker of lamplight.
She's not sure if anyone is there, or whether she wants them to notice her if there is anyone there. But it's late, and no one else is awake, and at last she starts to whistle. Not a tune, but the sound of birdsong, chirps like a bee-eater, warbling like a yellow robin. The coo of an olive dove. She doesn't expect a response. She is about to be surprised.