The Y Chromosome

by Leona Gom

  “Yes,” he said evenly to Travers. “It was called rape. And the doctors were often even forbidden to stop such a pregnancy.”

  “Merde,” Travers said. “Monsters.”

  Daniel pushed his fork into a cube of tomato. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose those who did that were. It was one of the ugliest kinds of power-over.”

  “Merde,” Travers said, shaking her head. “Merde.”

  They continued to eat, the other conversations picking themselves up around the table. Shaw-Ellen put a hand on his thigh, squeezed. When he looked at her, she smiled. He smiled back, put his own hand on her thigh.

  They made love later, outside, on the edge of the clearing, where their new house would be built next spring, in the hot summer grasses, the foxtail that was turning its silkiness brittle, preparing for the long voyage into winter.

  • • •

  IT WAS TWO DAYS later, when they were digging the potatoes, that the bell rang, twice, the danger signal. Daniel straightened, pressed the garden fork automatically into the ground with his foot, and looked over to the houses, but all he could see that was unusual was Highlands outside her house, ringing the bell.

  Shaw-Ellen stood up, holding two potatoes in her left hand. “Strangers!” she exclaimed. “It must be.” She dropped the potatoes into her pail, rubbed her dirty hands lightly together, and squinted toward the houses.

  “Can’t see anyone yet,” she said.

  “Well, I suppose I should go,” Daniel said.

  “I’ll come wait in the longhouse with you.”

  “I don’t think you should. The more people out working the more natural it looks.”

  “All right.” She sounded disappointed.

  “This is all just an excuse,” he said, “so the males won’t have to work as much as you do.”

  She laughed and kicked at his ankle. She looked toward the houses again, and waved; Highlands must have signalled to her.

  “I better go,” he said. He turned and walked down the row to the longhouse.

  Highlands was standing by her house where she had rung the bell, watching him approach. He quickened his step.

  “Who’s coming?” he asked.

  “We don’t know. They’re still up the trail. Cayley saw them from the hill.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know, Daniel,” Highlands said, glancing to her right, at the main road into the farm. “Now please just hurry.”

  He turned and trotted toward the longhouse. Christoph was holding open the door for him. “Come on,” he said. “Montney’s already inside.”

  They went in and closed the door behind them. Montney glanced up at them from across the room. He was almost as tall as Daniel now. “I’m tired of doing this,” he said. “This hiding. I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “It’s a precaution,” Christoph said. “We can’t be too careful. It’s what we’ve always done.”

  “What we’ve always done. Times change. If we were doing what we’ve always done, males wouldn’t be hiding from visitors in the longhouse.”

  Christoph picked up a book lying open on the floor, brushed his hand across the pages, twice, then closed the book and set it on the shelf. “Montney, First Law has let us survive all these years. You’ve no right to challenge it.”

  Daniel leaned back against the wall, pressed his head against the logs. It both amused and saddened him, hearing Montney’s complaints: it must have been how he had sounded once. He stared across the room at the pictures of flowers the children had drawn. A piece of bark began to cut into his scalp.

  He could feel both Christoph and Montney looking at him now, each expecting his support.

  “First Law isn’t so bad, Montney,” he said. “It’s there to protect us. We should be grateful it no longer says, ‘Males must Live in Shame’.”

  “What?” Montney said. “That isn’t part of First Law.”

  “It was once. Your mother told me so.” He had actually forgotten about it, until now. “Wasn’t it?” He turned to his father.

  Christoph looked at him uneasily, hesitated. “Yes. That used to be part of First Law. You can be glad it’s not anymore.”

  “Did you have to learn it that way?” Montney asked.

  “It changed when I was young.”

  “But you did learn it that way.”

  “Yes, but it was changed.”

  “And did you obey it? Until it was changed? Did you live in shame?”

  Christoph shifted uncomfortably on the seat he had taken. “No, I didn’t,” he said. Before Montney could answer he continued, his voice sharp. “And I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say that if I disobeyed that part of First Law, then why shouldn’t we disobey the rest of First Law? How do we know any of it is true and demands our obedience? But the old First Law changed because attitudes had changed; people realized it no longer served a purpose for males to feel shame.”

  His forceful defence surprised Daniel. The argument, he realized, was one Christoph must have had within himself. Intrigued now, Daniel walked over to him while Montney, growing restless and bored with the discussion, wandered over to the window and kept watch.

  “So if First Law can change when attitudes change,” Daniel said, “then First Law might change again. Someday it might no longer say ‘Male must be Hidden.’ Someday it might even no longer say, ‘Before the Change was Chaos, and it was Male.’”

  “No,” his father said firmly. “The first part is history. It will never change.”

  “I suppose so,” Daniel said. His father looked relieved.

  But Daniel couldn’t stop his mind from returning to the argument: for a moment all of First Law had seemed vulnerable, no longer absolute, and he felt himself stand back from it as though it were a building whose bottom boards had begun to crack. If First Law were simply rules of behaviour, to be discarded when they no longer suited the times —

  He stopped himself from finishing the thought, the terrible then waiting at the conclusion of if. He had tasted the freedom outside of First Law, and what had it been but a deceitful fruit, skin over stone? Christoph had been right to refuse that temptation. First Law was necessary. Males could not live Outside. Daniel’s own life, surely, was a testament to that.

  “Come sit down,” his father said.

  Daniel nodded. Yes. He would listen to his father, his friend, and sit down.

  “They’re coming,” Montney said suddenly. “Two of them. On horses.” He dropped himself quickly to the floor, pulled out the loose piece of plaster, and peered through.

  It took Daniel a minute to realize what he was talking about, to remember why they were here. Then he followed Christoph to where Montney was crouching and knelt beside them, their faces squashing together as they squinted through the crack.

  It was Bowden Daniel recognized first, her red hair like fire in the sun. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He clenched his hand, hard, on the log he was leaning against.

  “It’s them,” he whispered. Delacour. Fear tightened his ribs like a tourniquet.

  “Who?” Christoph and Montney demanded together, their breaths pushing at his face.

  “The ones from University,” Daniel said, his voice still a harsh whisper. “Delacour. And Bowden.”

  He watched them ride closer. His heart had begun to pound wildly. What had they come for, what awful message did they bring? He had thought it was over, that they were safe, that Highlands had settled everything — Christoph’s hand clamped on his shoulder, whether to reassure or restrain him Daniel didn’t know.

  Highlands had come out to meet them. It was, Daniel realized, the exact scene he had, breathless and sweaty and frightened, witnessed here before; it was how everything had begun, with them seeing him in the woods with Shaw-Ellen and following him here. And now they were back.

>   “I can’t watch,” he said, rolling himself to the side and facing the back of the longhouse. “Tell me what they do.” He raised his hands to his face, pressed so hard against his cheeks and temples his fingers hurt. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he could still see them clearly, burned onto his retina, Bowden with her circle of brilliant hair, and Delacour, sitting tall and straight on her horse, with her hard blue eyes like rubstones that could cut through the logs, see him crouched here, cowering, at her mercy, again.

  “They’re dismounting,” Montney said. “Now they’re just standing and talking to Highlands. Now … the red-haired one is tying her horse to the poplar. And the other one is just standing there, talking to Highlands. The red-haired one is taking the other horse and tying it.”

  “You should look,” Christoph said. “It might be important. You should be prepared.”

  Daniel took a deep breath, nodded.

  “Huallen’s come out now,” Montney said. “And the four of them are talking….” Suddenly he gasped. “Mother’s pointing to the longhouse! She’s pointing to us!” His voice cracked with terror. “To us! She’s giving us to them!” He pushed himself back from the wall, from what he saw, as though that would change it, and he looked wildly around the room, a cornered animal in a den with one entrance, and that one discovered.

  “It’s all right,” Christoph said, but his voice was afraid, too. “Highlands knows what she’s doing.” He turned to look through the crack again.

  “They’ll find us,” Montney cried. “They’ll find us!”

  “She’s sending Huallen,” Christoph said. “It’s all right. It’s only Huallen.”

  They sat, afraid to move, waiting for the door to open. The fear-smell of their sweat filled the room. Daniel tried to fix his eyes on the wall across from him, but his vision kept blurring and losing its focus. He closed his eyes, forced his breath in, out, in, out.

  At last there was a knock at the door, and then Huallen, not waiting for an answer, opened it and stuck her head inside.

  “What do they want?” Christoph demanded.

  “Why did Mother tell them we were here?” Montney whispered, pressing himself against the wall.

  “I don’t know,” Huallen said. “She just told me to come and get Daniel.”

  “Just Daniel,” Montney breathed. He looked over at his cousin, guilty relief on his face. “Just you,” he said.

  Daniel stood up. “Just me,” he said numbly.

  “What do they want with him?” Christoph asked, standing up, too.

  “I don’t know,” Huallen said. “Highlands only said for me to bring him.”

  Daniel walked to the door. He fixed his eyes on the trees, on the distant horizon.

  “Daniel —” Christoph stepped to the door, put his hand on Daniel’s arm. “This isn’t your fault,” he said quietly.

  Daniel set his hand on his father’s, turned to face him. “Of course it is,” he said, just as quietly.

  He took the two steps to the ground, feeling the way the second board gave a little, as though he would need to remember it.

  “You look so pale,” Huallen said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be all right,” he said.

  He could see them now in front of him, Delacour with her back to him talking to Highlands, Bowden bending down to brush at something on her leg. As she straightened up she saw him, and she lifted her hand in a hesitant wave. She looked nervous, tired.

  He made himself lift his arm, limply, to acknowledge her. She reached out to Delacour, touched her on the arm, and she turned toward him.

  She was smiling. Daniel — he could see her lips making the sound of his name. She reached her hand out toward him.

  It was all he could do to make himself keep walking, toward that outstretched hand, the smile. The farm seemed to be gathering itself around him like a snare, every step pulling the wire tighter.

  It wasn’t until he was only a few metres from her that he saw the child, held against her chest in a tight holder the same colour as her shirt.

  “Daniel,” she said. She stepped forward until she stood in front of him, close enough to touch. “How have you been?”

  He couldn’t speak, only stared at the tiny white head, the tiny white legs that hung from the holder.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “It’s your child.”

  Your child.

  Finally he pulled his eyes away, forced himself to look up at Delacour. Her face was blurry, distorted, as though there were pieces missing.

  “Is it a male?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” said Delacour. She reached her hand up, laid it on the child’s back.

  “I thought …” His tongue felt too large and clumsy to form words, to translate the emotions twisting through him. “I thought you were going to stop it.”

  Delacour rubbed her hand up and down the child’s back. Its legs responded in two sharp convulsive kicks, a beached swimmer still dreaming of water.

  “I didn’t,” she said.

  She reached to the sides of the holder and began unbuttoning it. When the flap fell forward she cradled the child in one hand and lowered it slowly from her chest. “See?” she said.

  He looked at the baby’s face, small and winced with sleep, the tiny fist of mouth, the eyes, which he was suddenly terrified to see open, blue and accusatory. His child, a male child, born into the world outside of the farms, an innocent monster. He lay there in the air between them.

  Daniel felt such an unexpected surge of yearning and protectiveness that his breath caught painfully in his throat. He wanted to reach out for the child, but he could only stand there, his arms hanging like heavy weights at his side.

  “Daniel.” Highlands stepped forward, stood in front of him. He took a step back. Her face was blotted out by the sun. “Delacour wants to talk to you alone. I think you should.” Her voice was uninflected, every syllable hitting his ear with equal weight, nothing betraying what she was feeling.

  He nodded. What did it matter, whether he talked to Delacour or not? The worst that could happen had already happened.

  Unexpectedly, Highlands reached up and put her hand on his shoulder. She didn’t smile, her face still impassive, but the gesture felt to Daniel like a reconnection to the real world. He took a deep breath.

  “All right,” he said, looking past Highlands at Delacour, who had pulled the child toward her again and was buttoning him into her holder. “We can go down to the stream.”

  He turned and began walking, fast, past the houses, to the woods, feeling on his back the eyes of the others. Behind him he heard Delacour almost trotting to keep up, but he didn’t slow down or look behind him. As he passed the woodpile, Mitchell, who was chopping today, let the axe fall with an ineffectual thunk into her log as she stared at them, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  When he was behind the woodpile and screened from the houses he made himself slow his pace. What was the point of trying to evade Delacour now? He had to face what she had done, what he had done.

  She panted up alongside him.

  “I’m still here,” she said cheerfully.

  “I know,” he said.

  They reached the woods and made their way down toward the stream. A rabbit suddenly bolted in front of them, and Delacour stepped back, startled. “What was that?” she said.

  “Just a rabbit.” Her fright gave him a grim nudge of satisfaction. This was his land; here, at least, was a place where he knew more than she did.

  She rubbed her hand up and down the baby’s back. “Just a rabbit,” she told the child.

  They came to the bank, and Daniel led her down the easiest incline. He felt obliged to offer her his hand, since the baby affected her balance, but when she didn’t take it he was relieved.

  “Ah,” she said, when she got to the bottom, “it is l
ovely here.” She thrust her arms out from her sides, took a deep breath. The child dangling in its holder gave a loud hiccup.

  Daniel walked over to the water, seated himself on a large, flat rock, and looked out over the rattling water. Delacour came and sat beside him. She was a tug of blue in the corner of his vision, but he fixed his gaze on a rock in the stream around which the water opened, a split seam. The shadows of the trees on the ground and water moved and shifted, like pieces of rotting cloth.

  “You wanted to talk to me,” he said at last, trying to keep his voice neutral. It occurred to him that for the first time since he’d known her they were truly equal, nothing anymore between them of fear or coercion. It was a kind of freedom, he thought wryly, kicking with the flat of his foot at a large root imbedded in the creek bed in front of him.

  “I’ve thought about you,” she said, her voice light, casual. “I’ve wondered how you were.”

  “You thought about me.” He gave a harsh laugh. “Do you expect me to be pleased? That you come here to show me the baby as though it’s something to celebrate, to prove you could deceive us after all? You know what it means for all of us. You know what kind of a life you’re dooming this child to. My God, what kind of game is this for you?”

  A slight, impervious smile set on her lips as she listened. She might as well have been the rock in the stream against which his words spilled, broke. “It’s no game. I just wanted to see you. And bring the baby. You’ve the right to see him.”

  “How generous of you.” He picked up a small rock, sent it skimming across the water. His wrist hurt from the twist of the throw. “How many other people know about him in Leth?”

  “Only Bowden.”

  It surprised him. “You birthed him yourself?”

  “Yes. It felt as though it took weeks. Bowden was almost going to give up and take me to Hospital. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.”

  “How could you keep it a secret from the others? Couldn’t they see you were pregnant?”

  “A teacher’s-robe is a perfect garment in which to conceal oneself. I could probably have continued to work until the very end and no one would have noticed. You know yourself that unless you give someone a reason to be suspicious she will assume things are as they seem. But I took a study-leave for the last two months, anyway.”