Potto was caught by surprise, and not sure what was best to do—but what was best was her instinctive reaction. She held on to Jobe until Jobe stopped crying, held on to her and stroked her hair and her back, placed her strong hand against the back of Jobe’s neck, placed her soft palm against Jobe’s cheek and, although it was something she never would have believed she could have done, she whispered, “Jobie, little Jobie, let it all out, that’s a good one—I love you. If anything had happened to you, I couldn’t have endured it. But it’s all right now, it’s all right.” And then, even more surprising—to both of them: “Little Jobie, you’re my favorite, did you know that?”
Jobe looked up through bleary red eyes. “Huh—?” she honked.
“Uh huh, you.” And she kissed her on the nose.
“But you’re always picking on me—!” She sniffed and put her head against Potto again.
“If I meant it, I wouldn’t do it. It’s just my way.”
“But it hurts.”
Now it was Potto’s turn to cry—a tiny glistening at the corners of her eyes and a wavering in her voice. “Oh, Jobe, I wouldn’t hurt you for anything.”
For a while, they just held on to each other, Jobe crying because of her fear; Potto crying because of Jobe’s hurt.
At last, it was the heat, the drying, gritty heat, that pulled them apart—they were getting sticky against each other.
“Come on back to the boat. You can wipe your nose.”
“All right.” Jobe was still sniffling.
Potto put an arm around her and pulled her close, but the sun was too hot and the sand was too soft, it was difficult to walk that way. Instead, she held little Jobe’s hand and led her back to the catamaran.
Her fear slightly calmed, Jobe began to relate in more detail what had happened, what she had been thinking, how she felt. Potto murmured sympathetically, but she was more concerned for Jobe’s state of mind than in knowing exactly what happened. “There weren’t any stingfish, were there?”
Jobe shook her head, annoyed at the interruption, and kept on talking—almost giddily now. This was rehearsal for the all-important retellings when they got home, and again at dinner, and later again to her friends. It was important that she get it right. Jobe was exhausted, but her mind was racing. She was reexamining the incident already, studying it to see if any element of it could be made more exciting, or conversely, if any element of it made her seem foolish.
“I wasn’t out too far—was I? I didn’t think I was, Potto. I’m always very careful about that. Aren’t I, Potto?”
They were back at the boat and Potto was studying Jobe thoughtfully. “You’re talking too much again,” Potto only said, “turn around, I’ll put some oil on you.”
Jobe complied; taking Potto’s gentle orders was something she understood. And needed. She felt Potto’s large hands moving warmly across her back and down to her buttocks and legs. Potto’s fingers were both stronger and gentler than she had ever realized before. Jobe was enjoying the attention. Potto’s hands were slowing . . .
“Don’t stop, I like it.”
“I’m all through.”
Jobe turned to face her. “Do my front too.”
Potto hesitated, then decided to humor her. She poured some more of the coconut oil into her hand and spread it quickly on Jobe’s chest.
While Potto had been touching Jobe and spreading oil on her backside, was she struck with recognition of Jobe’s approaching puberty? Jobe was skinny, undeveloped—yet the stretching of her body spoke, and that was sign enough. Did Potto recognize within herself the pleasures that she gave to Jobe? When Jobe had said, “Don’t stop,” did Potto know that Jobe had felt it too; was she embarrassed? Was that why she hesitated now?
The threshold of the blush is highly sensual, the body grows attuned to mysteries of touch and magic. All the nerves become the messengers of sparkling and unspoken joys. The most intense experiences will breed intense emotions—and though Jobe didn’t understand the why of all her feelings, she still knew she needed something from her sister, the most intense and gentle strokes that were possible from Potto. Jobe knew—if only via instinct—the form of those attentions had to be physical and sensual. She needed something visceral to allay her trembling fears. But what was merely sensual for Jobe was something sexual for Potto.
And yet, perhaps Jobe knew that too.
As Potto touched her—was she trying not to think of her the way she had been thinking? Jobe was learning something new here. As she studied Potto, she was seeing not her sister, but the adult that she would be; the hands of change were on her.
Potto’s chest was swelling with first blush; the muscles of adulthood were beginning to appear. The more perceptive of their aunts had recognized that Potto would go Dakka, and indeed, the signs were there already. Instead of softening with an extra layer of tissue, fatty, blood-infused, the onset of first blush, that moment when the coin awaits its final stamping, Potto had already passed beyond into the onset of her option. She had broadened in her neck and shoulders, subtly so, but it was there. And her stomach too had tightened, turning hard she had lost her soft pink fleshiness, she looked instead to have a mound of muscle, firm with tone. Tiny curlicues of hair were beginning to appear upon it.
Curious, Jobe reached and touched. She realized that what she did was something very wrong, a breaking of the boundaries, the unseen ones that held you back. But, yet—as she waited, as she touched, knowing certain that her sister would most surely pull away, Potto didn’t.
She stood there, hesitating, to see if she’d continue—or withdraw. Jobe’s hand remained where she had placed it. Her touch was brave and probing, moist with wonder at the feeling. What she touched was hard where she herself was soft. Strange, how very strange. Potto moved her along Jobe’s sides, pausing at her waist, then sliding down her hips.
Jobe stared at Potto’s stomach, it was tense, as was her own. “You’ll be going soon,” she said. “Won’t you, Potto?”
Potto nodded. “I guess so. That’s what they’re saying. It’s not decided. I don’t know. But even if I do go away, it won’t be for long. Just long enough to choose.”
“You’ve already chosen, haven’t you?”
“No—” she said. “I don’t think so. I mean, I thought I knew—but I’ve started thinking about what it might be like to be a mother. I mean . . .” she hesitated. “You only get to choose once. I want to be sure; I still have time.” She added, “Porro will have to choose too, you know. We’ve been talking.” And then, in a lower tone, she confided, “We’ve even slept together to grow closer than sisters—to help each other make her choice.”
“What’s it like?”
“Sleeping together?”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s—it’s nice.”
“No, I mean—what do you do?”
“You know. You’ve seen pictures like everybody else.”
Jobe shrugged. “It’s not the same.” She could visualize a man and a woman making love—but she could not visualize a specific man and woman. More important, she could not visualize anyone she knew actually participating in sex. What did Potto and Porro do when they slept together? The question would have been indiscreet, had it not been for Jobe’s incorrigible innocence and naiveté.
“We do what feels good. We touch. All over.”
“Like I’m touching you?”
“Kind of.” Potto pulled away then, embarrassed. “The touching is nice, Jobe, but it isn’t all. There’s also sharing.” And then, softer, “Being touched back is even nicer—that’s an even bigger kind of sharing. Put on your kilt. Let’s go home.”
“OK.”
“You’ll find out what it’s like yourself, Jobe. You’re almost old enough.”
“OK,” Jobe said. She had put the matter out of her mind for now. She was still a child enough to be mercurial in her attention, fleeting insectlike from moment to moment; but insectlike, she would return to pollinate a subject that intrigue
d her, until an answer grew to fruition—and more and more this business of bodies and what people did with them was becoming very important. But for the moment all her surface questions had been answered, and the deeper ones could lie unspoken for a while longer. Germinating.
They pushed the boat into the water and Jobe hopped onto the canvas frame, then pulled Potto aboard too. “I think you’ll choose for Dakka,” she said unexpectedly.
“I will choose what I will choose,” Potto answered. Then, realizing she’d been too brusque, she added, “If I choose for Dakka, you can be one of my wives.”
“I’m going to choose for Dakka too,” Jobe said. It was a reflex statement. If Kaspe, Olin and Potto were all going to be males, then so would Jobe.
Potto seemed genuinely disappointed. “Oh no,” she said. “You’ll make a much better female.”
Jobe shrugged, not fully understanding all the ramifications of gender. “Well, that’s all right. Even if I do choose for Dakka. I’ll still sleep with you. If you want.”
Potto grinned at Jobe’s innocence. “I’ll be too busy sleeping with my wives.” She grinned. But she leaned over and kissed her. “I’m glad you’re all right. If you had drowned, I’d have missed you.”
“You’d have gotten yelled at too.”
“Yeah.”
“Grandpere Kuvig was born the same day that the Bundt Circle was opened for settlement. She was born to Kossar’s sibling, Pola, when they lived at Strille on Weeping Crescent, under the Tartch umbrella, northeast of Nona. When she was nine, Suko’s mother married into the circle, bringing eight-year old Suko with her. The Lagin Shield was already nine years growing then, and those who sailed the Lagin waters, mapping and surveying for its eventual colonization, were reporting back that there was already visible dimming of the Godheart at the zenith, and its mean temperature was failing too.
“When blush came to Kuvig just a few years later, she chose for Dakka; there had been some expectation that she and Suko would be lovers and that Suko would be Rethrik, but Suko had met Thoma—who had already chosen Reethe, so Suko chose for Dakka too. There was some question then about Suko’s right to have Thoma marry into the circle, so Suko married out and Kuvig followed. If Suko’s lover could not marry in, then neither would a mate of Kuvig be allowed to. There was another reason, too—the family had been planning to become a mercantile, and Kuvig and Suko did not feel at ease with such a style of life. They felt more comfortable fishing, growing fruits and vegetables, tending orchards, vineyards, stands of incense, lumber and bamboo. They preferred to grow and build and turn their labors for themselves rather than rent them out to others of no skill. As a mercantile, they would be servants of the highest bidders; and if perhaps there was no work for them, then there would be no money either. Kuvig did not mind a little mercantilism, but she believed a family should be self-supporting. So she and Suko married out and, with Thoma, sailed west into the Bundt.
“The Lagin Shield had been finished, but it would take more than a year for it to stabilize. During that time, they scouted several islands, eventually selecting one that they named Kossarlin in honor of their uncle Kossar, but they did not register their settlement as an open port, wanting neither colonization nor mercantiles on their dock step. When the circle opened, they settled on the eastern side of Kossarlin. Later on, another family leased a section of the western side. Kuvig then sailed back to Wardy, in the Bundt, and married Kirstegaarde, whom she had met when they had lived there. Once the household dome was raised she brought her out to live in Lagin.
“They had children. Suko and Thomas had Layne and Neffe and Kiva, who died at birth. Kuvig and Kirstegaarde had Davi and Dorin and Fellip. Then Kirstegaarde could have no more children, and so Kuvig brought Vialla into the circle and together they had Sola, William, Yasper, and Hojanna. Kirstegaarde resented Vialla’s usurpation of her place in Kuvig’s bed, and she was always slightly sour in her soul thereafter, but she did not marry out as was her right. Instead she busied herself with the running of the household and the organization of the planting and harvesting schedules, and the bookkeeping; later, when a terminal was rented, she handled most of the programming for the time we purchased. Thoma had been raised for two years by a Watichi, and so she took it on herself to teach the children all the legends of the Pilgrimage and the discovery of Satlin as promised by the Savior. She taught us of the gods, and of the prophets, and the days of The Before and The Beginning. We all learned our songs and stories from her. She taught us we were Satlik. Vialla was content to be a mother—she helped out with the children, regardless who the parents were. She taught the secular lessons—how to read and count and sail; how to cook and store and train; how to gauge the winds and read the sea. Later, she gave birth to Dida, and Toki, who died of fever when she was three.
“Layne and Neffe went Rethrik and married out. Marro, who was Dakka, married in. Davi went for Reethe and married Anyo. They built a dome far down the beach and kept mostly to themselves, until one winter when they disappeared without farewells. Dorin went for Dakka and stayed on. Fellip died. Sola came down with Virulent Fever during blush and ended up a deviate, without a Choice at all. She left the island as soon as she was able, believing herself to be a great embarrassment to the family; she became a nomad because there is no home for deviates. William chose for Reethe, married someone from the western-side and moved away. Yasper died.
“Grand-Uncle Kossar decided then that she was tired of being a mercantile and came to Lagin to live with her family-sons. She brought Frijkin and Wene with her. Dorin married Rue, who gave birth to twins, Porro and Potto. Marro and Marne (who came from the western-side) had Yuki and Olin. When Aunt William returned, she brought Dardis with her. Hojanna chose for Reethe and married Frijkin, who fathered me, then died with Wene in the great scour; their boat was smashed upon the rocks of Hard Landing. Hojanna married Kinam from the western-side, but would mother no more children after me. I was born and Uncle Kossar died. All of this is recorded in the files at Authority. Had it not been for Kirstegaarde’s diligent programming of the terms of each person’s marriage contract, we would not know what share of what belonged to whom. When Anvar married in, she had not even finished blush, but she became a fine young Dakkarik whose interest in computers became an interest in Kirstegaarde, and they slept together for a while. Dardis died. Porro chose for Reethe and went to live at Strille on Weeping Crescent, under the Tartch umbrella. Her new family owned a fine plantation and hired mercantiles to work their fields.”
The evening meal was a time of gathering. It was intended as a joyous regrouping, a time when family bonds could be strengthened, food and intimacy could be shared. But it didn’t always work out that way.
It was the duty of the younger children to set the glasses and chopsticks on the table. It was a special prize to be allowed to heat the wine. The children who were nearing blush were entrusted with the responsibilities of arranging a centerpiece to reflect the mood of the season, the day, the moment and the special feelings of the family. Tonight, it was a flower piece—a surprisingly stark one; there were black leaves framing white hope-flowers, with purple joybuds all around—all unopened like mass-presents—omens of future decisions.
Several of the adults eyed the flower piece thoughtfully as they seated themselves on their mats. Jobe stood apart shyly for a moment, then seated herself next to Potto, a gesture that did not go unnoticed. Potto wrinkled her nose in annoyance—part of the blush-game she sometimes felt she had to play; “I’m too old to play with children anymore”—and made a rude sound. Jobe pretended not to notice, but after a moment, she got up and moved around the table and sat next to Hojanna, her birth-mother. Suko, without looking up, said, “Potto, you will see me later.”
“Yes, Grandpere.”
Kuvig cleared her throat then and all fell silent for her invocation.
“We are the descendants of animals,” Kuvig intoned. “We are animals ourselves, and we must never forget that we cannot be human
until first we have fulfilled our basic animal needs. To know the laws of Reethe and Dakka does not exempt us from them. At some point we were killer apes, and at some point we were aquatic ones. At some point we were prairie dwellers, and all of these things have shaped us into the kind of creatures we are now. Such is what the scientists say. Yet, there is no evidence of this world that any of these suppositions may be true. We have not pasts here. We are the children of Pilgrims.
Kuvig continued. “Perhaps they both are. If we are the children of apes, then today we will resolve no longer to be apes, but something nobler—we fancy ourselves to be human; we must make such a label a proud one. And if we are the children of Pilgrims, then we must do no less than live up to that heritage too. So let us sit together and eat together in joy. There is much that we have to share, and there is much that we have to learn. And perhaps also, there are Choices to be made. May we do so with love.”
She bowed her head for a moment of silent meditation to indicate that she was finished, then looked up again.
It had been a lengthy speech for her, and some of the younger children—not really understanding what she was saying—had grown restless. But the older ones and all of the adults too, were still with quiet attention. Kuvig’s statement had been a declaration of intent. Something that had been simmering too long was going to be brought out and settled. Tonight. And because of that, not a word was spoken of the subject during the meal. And would not be spoken until Kuvig herself began. Such was the usual pattern, but tonight was not to be that way.
The younger children took their usual advantage of the parental damping of conversation to dominate the evening with their own chatter. The main subject, of course, was Jobe’s narrow escape.
“We ought to consider doing something about that northern spit,” Kirstegaarde remarked. “What would you have us do?” asked Suko, in that quiet way she had.
Kirstegaarde didn’t answer immediately. The answer was not obvious.
“We might,” suggested Vialla, “teach the children to swim better, and post some warning buoys.”
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