The Y Chromosome

by Leona Gom

  “We shouldn’t watch,” Bowden whispered, but even as she said it her eyes were drawn to them again, to their odd posture, their sounds of pleasure that drifted up through the hot green air.

  At last the one on top stopped her plunging movements and lay limply on the other, who slowly loosened her arms and let them drop to her sides. After a moment the other one rolled over onto her back.

  Delacour gasped, and Bowden felt her go rigid beside her. For an instant she didn’t understand what had alarmed her, and she flicked her eyes, frightened, at Delacour, whose mouth was open in a slight ellipsis of surprise. Bowden looked back at the people on the ground. Then she saw.

  There was something physically wrong with the blonde person. Her breasts were covered with a woolly coat of hair, like an animal’s, and something thick and white seemed to be protruding or oozing from her vagina. Bowden stared at it, horrified.

  She felt Delacour move beside her, but she didn’t look over. “I’m going to get the binoculars,” Delacour whispered. Bowden heard the slither of her body as she pushed herself back.

  And suddenly there was a clatter of stones falling, Delacour saying, “Merde,” under her breath as she grabbed for a hold on the smooth surface, found none, and went thudding onto the ground at the base of the rocks. Bowden spared her only a glance and turned back to the couple, who had leaped up in alarm, looking toward her. She pulled her head down as far as she could, hardly breathing, but she was sure she was still visible, her white pants splayed against the grey stone. When she raised her head again she could see them running, clutching their clothes to them, the blonde one frantically trying to tie her shirt around her waist as she ran. The sight of their panic made Bowden feel guilty and ashamed.

  Delacour had clambered up beside her again, cursing, but by the time she reached the top of the rocks the couple had disappeared into the trees.

  “My God,” she gasped, “did you see that?”

  “That poor person. The driver said some of them might have defects but I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “You know what it made me think? It made me think she looked like a male.”

  “A male?”

  “Well, of course it couldn’t really have been one, but still —”

  “Maybe it was just part of their customs, that some of them try to, I don’t know, add on things to their bodies to make themselves look male.”

  “Mm,” said Delacour. “That’s a reasonable explanation.”

  “I mean, she didn’t really look disabled or anything.”

  “No,” Delacour said. “But I’d sure like to get another look.”

  “Well, we can’t. We’ve frightened them away.”

  “I think we should follow them. That path obviously leads to their farm.”

  “No. They must be Isolists, and we’ve probably already violated some taboo just by watching them.”

  “Out in the open like that, what could they expect?”

  “They could expect nobody to be here.”

  “Well, I still think we should follow them.”

  “It’s the wrong way. We should be heading north, not south —”

  They can give us directions, Bowden. We’re lost.”

  And there was no argument she could make to that. We’re lost — hearing Delacour admit it made her feel even more helpless. “All right,” she sighed. “But you have to promise we’ll just ask directions and then leave.”

  “Yes, yes.” Delacour had already slid down from the rocks and was untying her horse.

  “We can’t bother them,” Bowden persisted.

  “All right. I’m not going to say, ‘Excuse me, would you mind if I looked at you all naked?’” She swung up on her horse, urging it forward even before her right foot found the stirrup. “Hurry up,” she said.

  They wound their way down to the bottom of the ravine, the horses’ hooves scattering pebbles and earth, and then they headed across the meadow to where the path began through the trees. Bowden kept looking behind her, trying to memorize the route so they could find their way back, but Delacour looked only ahead, pressing her horse into a canter across the brief meadow.

  When they reached the path they found it almost impossible to ride on. It was clearly a footpath and not meant for horses, but by going slowly and fending off the thick branches with their arms or flattening themselves on their horses’ backs they were able to proceed without dismounting. The path branched into two at one point, but Delacour barely hesitated before she chose one, as though she had the scent of something she was chasing. Bowden felt more and more apprehensive as they continued, but her protests only simmered, futile, in her throat: We’re getting more lost. We’ve no right to intrude.

  What if there really are males?

  In the poem, the squirrel, shot, for amusement, falling from the tree.

  She felt a sudden terror. Her eyes flickered to her pack, where her stunner was. She remembered how easy it had been to use it. Quickly she looked away, repelled by what had entered her mind, a breaking of law, using the weapon against another person. Not another person, she assured herself: a male. The male will get you.

  She took a deep breath. Stop being absurd, she told herself angrily; I’m no longer a child, to be frightening myself with ghost stories. There are no males. She forced herself to laugh, but not loud enough for Delacour to hear. A thin branch wiped its leaves along her teeth.

  The forest, which was mostly spruce and pine now, lightened up ahead, and they could see the flicker of unobstructed sun through the final rows of trees. Then suddenly, amazingly, they were in the open, a wheat field with the grain turning a thick gold, and beyond that a fenced pasture with cows and horses, then another hectare or two of what looked like a vegetable garden. Windbreaks separated the fields like dark green seams, and at the south end of the wheat field was the farm itself, about a dozen buildings sewn so smoothly into the folds of the landscape they looked as though they had been there forever. Only two or three of the buildings were painted, but in dull browns or greens to blend them even more into the surrounding forests and hills, like embroidery whose purpose is not to ornament but to complement. A windmill turned lazily in the wind beside the sunsavers and the generator at the east corner of the farm.

  To Bowden, the scene, unrolling abruptly after the day of seeing nothing but wilderness, recalled to her with striking vividness the farm of her childhood. Whoever these people are, she thought, they cannot be that much unlike us. Delacour simply sat and looked around her, too, her eager rush through the forest calmed by the sight of the farm, so ordinary and still in the afternoon sunlight.

  A bell rang suddenly somewhere at one of the buildings, and it startled them out of their reverie.

  “Well,” Delacour said, pressing her horse lightly forward. “I suppose we should go find someone.”

  They moved slowly along the edge of the field, trying not to let the horses trample the wheat or snatch a mouthful as they passed. As they neared the main buildings, of which Bowden could now count about eight that looked like dwellings and another ten or so that were storage sheds or barns, she expected a dog to come rushing out at them, and she tightened her hold on the reins, but there was no sign of any animals around the houses. Their narrow path suddenly joined a larger trail, perhaps the main one into the farm, although even it would hardly be wide enough to accommodate the harvesters bringing in their machines. It was possible, she supposed, that they did the harvesting themselves, using only horses; it was hard to know how much self-sufficiency they had, how much they needed the outside world.

  The horses, picking up the familiar smells of other horses, tipped their ears forward and nickered, quickening their pace.

  They were only a few yards from the first buildings now. At the side of one of the outbuildings, a barn perhaps, Bowden noticed something hanging, long and pale, and as she looked m
ore closely she realized with shock it was a slaughtered animal, a pig probably, the blood dripping into a pail from the huge red slit that ran the length of its body.

  “Meat eaters!” she whispered to Delacour. It shouldn’t repulse her; she knew there were people in the city, too, who would eat meat, but, still, the sight of the bloody carcass sent a chill of foreboding through her.

  And then there were the people, four of them, coming out of their houses with a deliberate casualness. Bowden was sure they’d known someone was coming.

  “Hello,” Delacour said, in her hearty, confident voice. “We’re sure glad to see you. We seem to have gotten rather hopelessly lost.”

  The tallest person of the four, her grey-streaked hair pulled straight back off her broad forehead with a piece of twine, stepped forward and put her hand on the bridle of Delacour’s horse. Her other hand reached up and picked a dead leaf from the corner of its eye. “Nice horse,” she said. A scar stood out palely on her sun-browned cheek, making her look even more unwelcoming.

  Delacour responded as though she thought the reach for the bridle was an invitation to dismount. She swung her leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. “They are, aren’t they?” she said, patting her horse’s neck cheerfully. “They’re from the Trail Company. In the Peace. We’ve just rented them for a few days.”

  “Where are you from?” The tall person flicked her eyes to Bowden, who, afraid to seem unfriendly, swung herself down reluctantly from her horse and moved over beside Delacour. On the ground, she felt the farm suddenly loom over her, giant and threatening. The person who had spoken was even taller than Delacour, who towered over most people.

  “We’re from Leth,” Delacour said. “We’re just on holiday. This is Bowden. And my name’s Delacour.” She widened her smile and held out her hand.

  The person ignored her gesture but moved a step toward her; Bowden tensed, forced herself not to step back. The person reached up her hands, placed them on Delacour’s shoulders, and dipped her head sideways, all the time not smiling, looking Delacour straight in the eye. Then she did the same with Bowden, who tried not to wince as the large hands, perhaps the same ones that had gutted the pig, descended on her shoulders. The three other people moved forward, too, and methodically, formally, without speaking, repeated the action. Bowden had to stop herself from laughing nervously, and she only stood there, wishing she knew what response was expected of her. She tried to unhook the inane smile that seemed to be caught on her teeth.

  When they were finished, the tall person said, “I am Highlands. I speak for my people.” The other three moved several steps back and lowered their eyes.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Highlands,” Delacour said, determinedly conversational, but Bowden could tell the greeting ritual had non-plussed her. She was turning the button on her shirt as though it were the lid of a bottle she was trying to unscrew.

  “If you follow this main trail,” Highlands said, pointing to where it entered the forest behind them, “it will take you to Fairview. You can make it in daylight if you leave now.”

  It was clearly a dismissal, and Bowden moved eagerly to her horse, “Thank you” ready on her lips, but Delacour, not moving, spoke first, cutting her off. “That’s a relief,” she said. “I’m sure we’ll have no trouble now.”

  “This main trail,” Highlands said, pointing again. “It branches off twice to the west and once to the east, but if you head mostly north you’ll meet the main road from the Peace.” She lowered her arm and then stood with her hands clasped in front of her and her legs slightly apart, a posture that seemed consciously symmetrical.

  “Good,” Delacour said. She patted her horse’s neck again, fiddled with the reins.

  Hurry up, Bowden thought.

  “When we were coming in,” Delacour said, scratching casually at her cheek, “we saw two of your people in the forest. I think we frightened them, and we’re very sorry. Could we talk to them, do you think, and apologize?”

  Bowden felt like punching Delacour in the side.

  Highlands looked at them both, steadily, without speaking. One of the people behind her took off her shoe and emptied out a pebble; in the stillness it sounded as loud as a boulder when it hit the ground. A horse neighed in the distance, and Bowden’s horse jerked up its head, pointing its ears at the sound and grunting back a message of its own.

  “None of my people said anything.” Highlands glanced at the horse, as though she were responding to it.

  “We just wanted to say we’re sorry,” Delacour persisted. “One of the people, I know, was blonde.”

  Highlands was silent again. Even Delacour was nervous now, her gaze faltering. She rubbed her right foot on the ground as though the sole were itchy.

  “Bluesky is blonde,” Highlands said finally. “It might have been her.” She turned to the house to her right and said, not raising her voice, “Bluesky. Come here for a moment.”

  A young person stepped to the door of the house, so quickly it was obvious she had been standing there listening. It was possible she was the one they had seen in the woods, Bowden thought, but she seemed more slender, taller perhaps. Bowden tried not to stare at her chest and groin, both covered with a loose denim overall.

  “Were you just in the woods, Bluesky?” Highlands asked.

  The person called Bluesky glanced nervously up at them. Then she nodded and looked down as though she might be ashamed, her hair falling over her face like a hood.

  “These people think they saw you,” Highlands said. “They want to apologize if they frightened you.”

  Bluesky nodded again, not looking up. Her fingers picked at the door frame. Bowden wondered for a moment if perhaps only the leader was permitted to speak. But they might think the same about her, she thought wryly.

  “She accepts your apology,” Highlands said. She ran her hand down the neck of Delacour’s horse.

  “Well,” Delacour said, lamely. “Good.”

  “You’d better leave now if you want to make it back in light,” Highlands said.

  Even Delacour couldn’t pretend not to understand this time, so she produced a hearty smile of agreement and said, “Well. We’ll be going, then.”

  “Yes,” Bowden said, determined to say something at last, so they wouldn’t think her mute or forbidden to speak. “We won’t bother you any longer.” She swung herself into the saddle and pulled her horse into a half turn before Delacour had even mounted. “Thank you for your help.” From this height Highlands looked much less formidable.

  Highlands took several steps back, gave a formal bow, which was matched by the others behind her, then turned and walked away across the yard. The others vanished into their houses as though they had only been pictures painted onto doors, which now swung shut, and then Highlands, too, was gone, behind the building from which the slaughtered pig hung.

  “Well,” Delacour sighed, planting her foot in the stirrup, “I guess we’re going.”

  “About time.” Bowden pulled her horse around and led the way along the trail, into the forest. She resisted the urge to look behind her, to see if Delacour was really following, to see if the people had come back out of the houses to watch them go. She felt their eyes on her back, tangible as a hand. Only when she was well into the forest did she relax, rub her sweaty hands on her thighs, and pull back slightly on the reins to allow Delacour to catch up.

  They rode abreast for a while, not speaking.

  “That Highlands, the leader,” Bowden said at last, “she was rather impressive, wasn’t she?”

  Delacour gave a little laugh. “She was, yes. I’d hate to make her angry.”

  “I think we probably did.”

  “No,” Delacour said thoughtfully, “not angry. She was too careful for that.” She began combing her fingers through her horse’s mane. “The person who came to the doorway, Bluesky, do you think she was the on
e we saw in the woods?”

  “She might have been. I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t, either.”

  “Well, it’s just something we’ll never know. A mystery.”

  “I hate mysteries.”

  “I’m glad we’re away. They obviously didn’t want us there.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “It’s none of our business.”

  “Ah, yes,” Delacour said, smiling. “That’s what makes it so interesting.”

  And so they rode on, keeping to the directions Highlands had given them. Just as the sun was lingering on the horizon, turning the leaves and trees golden, as though they were lit from within, and they decided they would have to camp, they came around a bend and there was Fairview, so they stayed at the house the Trail Company had arranged.

  And the next day, and the next, they rode back to the Peace, a sadness on them now because the trip was ending and it had, after all, been enjoyable.

  In the Peace Bowden phoned Hospital in Leth and found that Jesse-Lee had died the day before.

  At the funeral four days later, when they did the remembering, Delacour only shook her head when it came her turn, and Bowden had to do it for her, telling about the time Jesse-Lee broke her arm and splinted it herself, something that was really only Delacour’s memory. At the cemetery Delacour hung back, her eyes averted, when the others went up to the grave to say their last goodbyes. For the next two weeks she brought home twice as much work as usual, mortaring the books and vidspools into an impervious wall around her desk. If she cried, she was careful not to let Bowden see.

  5

  DANIEL

  IT WAS THE DREAM again about being found out: In this one he was walking toward his apartment and suddenly a wind caught his clothes and somehow pulled them off and he was standing, naked, while the students around him pointed and screamed, and his legs strained and strained to run but could barely move —

  He sat up, flailing at the bedclothes, covered in sweat. Slowly he willed his heart back to its normal beat, and then he got up and went to the bathroom and rubbed himself dry with a towel. He didn’t turn on the light, but the illumination from outside trickled through the curtains, filling his apartment with a grainy grey. It was one of the hardest things he’d had to get used to, a room that was never dark, even now, at night in the middle of September.