Because of the small size of the planet’s moons, tidal effects are negligible; for a variety of reasons, this tends to aggravate the planet’s tendency toward massive storms. The seas of Satlin are not always quiet ones, hurricanes often span hundred-kilometer wave fronts—the larger scours have stretched as much as five hundred kilometers from edge to edge. The shallowness of the Satlik atmosphere tends to compress storms downward, making them grow sidewise in compensation and increasing their strength correspondingly; but however damaging the storms are to specific localities, they are an ecological necessity, helping to maintain a weather balance, making the unshielded areas of Satlin less forbidding and uninhabitable and increasing the overall livability of the planet. Following a hurricane, for instance, the humidity of the Satlik atmosphere is generally several points higher. Without such aid the atmosphere would tend to go so dry as to be unbreathable. Even so, it is common in Satlik buildings to have a small indoor pond, or several bowls of water; although these are often presented as decorative devices, their primary function is to provide local evaporation of water; they are primitive, but effective, humidifiers.
Although air travel on Satlin is limited to experimental craft, intra-orbital shuttles are not uncommon; launched from mountain catapults, these craft do not have to fight thick atmosphere or heavy gravity to reach orbital velocity, and are able to make efficient use of their fuel. The Satlik people have only recently begun to redevelop their orbital industries; progress in many areas had been badly interrupted by the Devastation, the above-mentioned plague. In summation, Satlin is a young world, rugged and severe; although seemingly pleasant in its current development, the system is actually artificial and quite fragile and could easily be disrupted. (Note: rigorous political authority is a necessary insurance here, one that is demanded by the Satlik.) The Satlik bio-circle has very little margin. Overall mean viability: 74%. Stability: 21 degrees/180 degrees.
Jobe decided that she would be a male when she grew up—because Dardis wanted to be a male, and so did Yuki, and Olin too. Those three wanted to choose for Dakka at their time of blush—all four were blood-close siblings; decisions always echoed and re-echoed off each other, so it was easily assumed by Jobe that she would choose for Dakka too.
Of course, she tossed the faces, but she didn’t heed their answers, the coins just smiled with knowing eyes. The Oracle consulted always spoke with different answers, but the message never varied, one form or another of, “The right-minded one moves with the winds and travels with the tides. She allows their strength to direct her sails, and so she joins their flows. Her goals, therefore, will not be against the holy flows of the world; to seek such goals would waste her precious energy, and ultimately tire the seeker.”
By the time that Jobe was old enough to understand what the Oracle had meant, it was too late. She’d moved with the flows already, or been moved unknowing by them.
Choice comes to us in many forms—but it is the all-important Choice between Reethe the Mother and Dakka the Son and Lover that shapes most of us and our attitudes toward our world. But—and this is the most important of all to know: choice, even the all-important one, is not merely a decision between options; it is a moment of spirituality, when the individual must be in tune with the essences of Reethe and Dakka to understand the correct option for her. Choice is a process of discovery of the correct option. That is why we toss the faces—those three Reethe-and Dakka-colored coins, one side a smile, the other a frown—whenever we are faced with a choice of importance. We need to consult the oracles of our essential spirit, for guidance, for meditation and for understanding of which is the proper way.
Each person must discover for herself who she is going to be. Even if we see with the clarity of a sun-bleached day what must be the proper choice for a person, we cannot force her into it, we must not, for it is only when a person accepts her discovery and her choice as her own that she can live with it. A wrong choice accepted is still correct—far more correct than a proper choice forced.
Discovery must be accepted as part of oneself before it can become choice. If a person is to discover her proper path, she must be allowed to explore all of the paths possible. And this is true of every choice that life presents, even down to the matter of which flowers to place on the table before dinner.
Our lives revolve around this principle, a spirituality derived from the gods of our world; thus it is that the one they pity the most is the one who searches and searches and still cannot discover her way—they pity this one even more than the one who has not choice at all.
“Potto used to tease me unmercifully. Whenever we played Big Dog-Little Dog, I was always paired with her. She was very good, and I wasn’t—I was her handicap. I used to drop the melon a lot. Once, on the Tangle, I did manage to grab the melon and score, but it was a lucky accident. Potto was always very impatient with me. She chided even my one victory by pointing out that if I could do that more often, they would let me play more often.
“To tell the truth, I couldn’t see much value in pursuing an activity in which my contributions were continually denigrated. Potto used to pull at my kilt and say, ‘You are going to be a mother, the way you play. You will never be a Dakkarik. Look at that pretty little slit—it’s going to stay that way. I am ready to fill it, any time you want.’
“Potto was only three years older than I at the time, but the gap was one of understanding, not of age. I did not know what she was saying, but I did know that she was making fun of me and I would run crying to the nearest parent.
“Potto was chastised so often for picking on me that it was a wonder she did not take me out behind the rocks and drown me. I probably deserved it. If Potto was a merciless bully, then I was a spoiled little tattletale.
“Fortunately, we both outgrew the worst of ourselves, although every so often that terrible child I used to be still rises up again and insists on having her way. Well, why not? She’s earned it.”
Jobe’s body was stretching. The slightly oily plumpness of her babyhood was melting into the wiry skinniness of first youth, the innocence before the blush. She was becoming a bright child, too intelligent in some ways, mostly the things she could learn from books; oddly naive in others, the things she needed to learn from people. Sometimes introspective and studious, sometimes deliberate, sometimes impulsive—she was the child that no one would dare to predict a future for (because none of them recognized yet the adult she was to become), yet all agreed she was destined for some kind of greatness. Or the gallows. She had that kind of selfishness.
A drying heat had crept out of the west, pushed by a wind too sluggish to deserve a name; it lay upon the islands for a triad and the only relief was under the palms, or high up on the sides of Ty-Grambly, “The Grumbler,” where cold streams bubbled from the rock. Ty-Grambly was not an active volcano; instead she got her name from the sounds the winds made as they swept across her broken cone.
Potto decided to defy the heat and go fishing. Porro had netting to finish and declined to accompany her. Neither Kaspe nor Olin were available, so Potto asked Jobe. Potto was nearly fifteen, Jobe had just turned twelve. Both were brown as beans from the winter sun; the eclipses had been shortened to minimize the changing seasons.
Surprisingly, Jobe said yes. On this particular morning, they went out in one of the smaller catamarans, tacking before a southeast wind around the reef to the northern spur—a tiny, nameless spit of land on the lee side of the crescent, opposite Ty-Grambly’s bay.
The waves slapped at the pontoons, the water occasionally splashing up over them. Potto had begun the cruise in one of her taunting moods, but by now Jobe was old enough to know how to cope with her better. She remarked only that Potto was exhibiting toxic behavior and should know better than that; she was probably taking years off her life with every insult. After a while, Potto saw that she wasn’t getting any reaction out of Jobe except moral self-righteousness, which was a bore, so she stopped; it had become an unproductive game. Teasing
Jobe was no longer a way to get her to react—which had been Potto’s real motives, if unsensed, all along. Potto would not have realized it herself, but she was jealous of Porro’s closeness with Jobe, the way they played together, and she wanted some of it for herself. She was not jealous of Jobe for being close to her twin-sibling; she knew no one could ever be closer than herself; she was jealous of Porro for being so close to Jobe, who was one of the (although no one ever came right out and said it) “special” children in the family. Perhaps she was special because she was Hojanna’s; no matter, she was favored.
They beached the craft on a secluded bank. Potto jumped eagerly to the hot sand, stretching and turning in the sun. She was tall for her age—almost as tall as an Erdik child, some had said—and getting taller every day. Grandpere Kuvig liked to joke that she could watch Potto grow. “Leave her out in the sun, water her roots well and we’ll have a new flagpole.” She had become lean and rangy, and had recently stopped wearing kilts, preferring a skimpier loin cloth instead. Anvar had poked Potto once, chiding her for her exhibitionism, but Potto had only shrugged. “All the ones are retying their skirts,” she said.
Potto had also begun wearing makeup—another affectation that Anvar chided. This day, she had painted three small red V-stripes on her sternum. Jobe, in imitation, had painted similar stripes, two black and one white, on her chest. She wouldn’t admit it, of course, but she wanted to earn Potto’s respect so much that she would have done anything for her. But it was obvious—it always is with children—and Potto was basking in the admiration, the first real positive attention she had ever received from Jobe, after so many years of it being directed toward Porro. Which may have been why she asked her to come fishing. They had packed some cold vinegar-ice and dried seaweed and sesame seeds and cucumbers and pickles; they would make their own sushi with the fish they caught.
Years ago, when the family had been making more use of the northern spit, it being a convenient place to catch small fish, they had built a trap, an elongated channel of rocks and nets leading out into the current of the open sea. The channel narrowed gradually and forced the fish to exit into a large holding pool. The mouth of the channel was too narrow for the fish to find easily, so once in the pool they were usually there to stay. Once or twice a week, someone would have to come up to the pool and either catch some of the fish or release them.
Grand-Uncle Kossar had built the pool, but died before ever tasting a fish from it. The family had finished it and in earlier days had often used the spit as a site for picnics or late-night festives, but Suko didn’t like to depend on Uncle Kossar’s pool as a staple source because she felt it was too far from the main part of the island. She preferred to hang nets offshore.
After Potto and Jobe had netted several fish and put them in cages to be towed back home—they would not be killed until just before eating—Jobe pulled off her kilt and dived into the surf.
“Don’t go too far out,” called Potto. “There are undertows.”
“I know it,” Jobe called back, annoyed. “Don’t be an old grandmere.” She felt a twinge of anger that Potto felt a need to remind her—as if she were still some kind of a child. But this was one of her weaknesses—whenever she felt she had to prove herself, she did something stupid and reckless to prove that she was not only as good, but better. Being poor at athletics had forced her to become a foolhardy child to make up for it. She had been remarkably lucky, so far. Satlin was not fabled as a kindly planet.
Jobe paddled languidly in the surf, letting the waves rock her, enjoying the sensation of just being naked in the water. She rode easily with the waves, bobbing like a cork up and down with every crest and trough of the tide. She moved farther and farther out—not really wanting to swim, content just to tread water—till only the tips of her toes were barely touching the sand beneath. She tried to dig her toes into its soft, almost puddinglike surface; she was on the edge of a shelf where the sands dropped away into empty fathoms. She tried to kick against the bottom again, but the ebb of a wave pulled her seaward just far enough so that to touch bottom she would have to submerge.
She kicked lightly up and moved her arms to bring her back toward the shore, but the next wave pulled her farther again, just a little bit more than the last. Still unafraid, she kicked again, only now noticing that there was a current. The next ebb of the tide pulled her even harder and farther away from the shore.
Jobe was till unconcerned. Although not an excellent swimmer, she was competent; all island children were. She struck off toward the shore, stroking hard with her arms and flailing with her legs—she seemed to make good progress too, but the water was receding faster than she was approaching. She found herself even farther out.
She started swimming hard again—and realized abruptly that she was making no headway at all. She would tire long before she could reach the shore.
Abruptly, she was scared.
“Oh, no—I don’t want to die now! Mama!” The moment was painfully clear—it was that imperative frozen slice in which all the world crystallizes into a perfectly understood image. Jobe perceived it as accurately and brightly delineated as if she were a camera. She was going to die. She was going to drown. She was being pulled out to sea—she could fight it, flailing helplessly against the current, and she would drown even faster. She would tire and the water would fill her lungs, and the pain would be unbelievable—of course, there would be pain—and the cold darkness would creep in around the edges, her struggles would slow into ballet-movements and death would fade her into puzzled oblivion.
And in that same moment, she was thinking of the pain it would bring to her family. Oh, Mama, no!” And also the terrible recriminations that would be focused on Potto—
“Potto! Help!”
But what could Potto do? Could she swim out here? Then she would be caught in the riptide too—and both of them would drown.
Potto could get the boat.
And with that thought, she stopped swimming, and resumed treading water. Even in the throes of sudden panic, the mind still insists on working logically, and homes unerringly on the best possible solution.
“Potto! Help! Potto!” Jobe yelled as hard as she could. She could barely see the spit anymore, she was being swept out to sea too fast. She yelled and waved her arms.
Then, her mind still churning, she realized that her only hope was to stay afloat until Potto could reach her. She arched her back, forced herself to relax, and floated on top of the water, moving her arms gently but steadily to keep her head toward the shore.
“It’s just a matter of time,” she told herself. “As long as I can stay afloat, Potto can reach me.” Her fear was beginning to subside now—she hadn’t swallowed any water, she was still alive, all she had to do was float. Potto would come and get her. She stroked the water a little faster so she would not get too far away. She kicked lightly too. The situation was under control, she told herself; she started counting now, counting her strokes. Potto would be here before she hit one hundred. Let’s see, Potto should have pushed the catamaran into the water now and should even be past the breakers. She should be just starting the little motor that was mounted at the stern between the two pontoons, specifically for emergencies or moving against wind. Both cases applied here, Jobe was being pulled westward; she stroked a little harder—not too hard though, don’t want to get tired. If I’ve been swept too far out, she thought, it’ll take Potto a little longer. She resumed counting. Maybe she would have to count to two hundred.
At three hundred, she stopped counting, puzzled. Where was Potto?
She stopped floating, let her feet sink below her till she was treading water again, then turned and looked at the shore—
—her feet touched bottom then and she was only chest high in the water. Dazed, and not quite understanding, she began walking toward the beach, fighting the push and tug of the waves. Potto was cleaning fish way up on the spit; the catamaran was high and dry beside her. She looked up, saw Jobe coming out o
f the water and waved.
It was the floating, Jobe realized. By floating, she had raised herself above the current. Instinctively, she had done the right thing, and it had brought her back to shore.
But she was tired now—exhausted. The surge of adrenalin had faded, leaving only a drained feeling. Although the water was only at her waist, she could barely fight it anymore—she was sobbing and the tears were running down her cheeks, even saltier than the sea. “Potto. . .!” she wailed, and the older child looked up curiously, then came running, sensing from Jobe’s tone that something was wrong.
Jobe managed to stay on her feet, wavering, until Potto was close enough to catch her—then collapsed into her sister’s arms.
“What’s the matter, Jobe? Little Jobe?”
“Where were you?” Jobe wailed. “You didn’t come and save me! I was caught by the undertow! I called for help, but you didn’t come!”
“I didn’t hear you call—” Abruptly Potto realized what Jobe was saying and grabbed her tightly. “Are you all right?”
Jobe sniffled, sobbed, honked through her nose—“Nooo. . .!” she wailed, and buried her head against Potto’s broad chest, smearing the carefully drawn stripes. There would be smudges on her cheeks too.
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