No. Not the Patriarch’s Man. Not the old snake’s disciple.
And if I Committed female, Hakoore couldn’t claim me. His threat to make my life hell if I became a woman gave me chills, but at least I wouldn’t have to spend more sessions with him and the hand. Unfortunately, Committing female meant facing all the promises my sister self made to Cappie…including that promise to become the next Mocking Priestess.
Male or female: Patriarch’s Man or Mocking Priestess.
The gods were conspiring to give me a future in theology.
When I reached town the streets lay empty, though the sun hung well above the horizon. What other evidence could you want that Commitment Day was a holiday? Cows needed milking and chickens clucked for feed, but other chores would wait till tomorrow. The perch boats wouldn’t go out. The blacksmith’s forge would stay cold. Water ran down the races at our sawmill and grist mill, but the wheels were locked, frozen for the day.
Even the women, cooking late into the night for the afternoon’s feast, would take it easy for an hour now; their preparations were mostly over, and their men were home to watch the children. Fathers were eager to tend the children on Commitment Day—one last lump-in-the-throat chance to see the boys and girls before they became girls and boys.
Thinking about that made me walk faster toward Zephram’s house. Waggett would take his first trip to Birds Home today. When he came back—when she came back—how long would it take her to notice how things had changed in her diapers? Over the years, I’d laughed at parents lurking near their children so they’d be present for the moment of discovery…but I fully intended to do the same with Waggett, to catch that look of surprise and curiosity on her face when she saw she’d been transformed.
Outsiders sometimes worried children would be traumatized by the change: former boys wailing that they’d lost something, former girls shocked by the sudden dangly addition. Not so. The reaction was always fascination and delight…or rather, fascination followed by delight as inquisitive fingers discovered interesting sensations when the new architecture was poked and prodded.
Outsiders worried about that too: parents smiling fondly as they watched their children play with themselves. Frankly, outsiders worried too much.
I could smell bacon frying even before I opened Zephram’s kitchen door. I could hear it too: not a hot sizzle, but the soft whish of summer rain falling through birch trees. Zephram stood at the stove making dramatic gestures with his spatula, all to impress Waggett who sat giggling at the table. The boy’s expression didn’t change when he saw me—no cry of “Da-da!” even though he’d spent the night without me. Oh, well. I’d left after Waggett was asleep, and had changed him during the night, so he probably didn’t realize I’d been gone.
That’s what I told myself anyway.
“So the great vigil’s over,” Zephram croaked cheerfully. He always croaked these days until he had his first cup of dandelion tea. It was his only sign of age—over sixty and he still had all his hair, with no gray to mar the curly dark brown. Perhaps he’d grown a little rounder, perhaps he walked a little slower…but to me, that wasn’t aging, that was just becoming even more Zephram-like than he’d been before.
“How did it go in the marsh?” he asked.
“More interesting than I expected.” I laid my violin on the sideboard and gave my knuckles a discreet rub. “How were things with you two?”
“Waggett went the whole night without changing,” Zephram answered proudly. “The boy has a bladder of steel.”
I ruffled Waggett’s hair affectionately. Finally, he deigned to smile at me and try to grab my hands. “Bahkah!” he said…which may have been his version of bladder, daddy, or bacon. For that matter, it may have been his version of Let’s play a violin duet—Waggett invented his own words and the onus was on grownups to figure them out. I picked him up, kissed him on the forehead…then remembered that the last time I’d played with my son, Female-Me had sidled in to take over my body. Women love playing with babies, and who can blame them? But I didn’t want to do anything that might encourage her to come back. My sister self had caused enough trouble already.
Reluctantly I eased Waggett back into his chair. To turn my thoughts a different direction, I asked Zephram, “You ever know someone in the cove named Steck?”
His back was to me. I saw it go rigid.
“Steck?” he croaked. “Where’d you hear that name?” He didn’t turn around…as if the bacon would take advantage of his inattention and jump out of the pan.
“Leeta,” I replied, picking the first person who came into my head. Given my oath, I couldn’t tell Zephram the truth. “Leeta roped me in for a solstice ceremony last night. She mentioned that she once had an apprentice named Steck.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to anyone on vigil.”
“The Mocking Priestess stands outside the rules.”
“How do I get her job?” He poked the bacon sharply with his spatula.
“So you did know a Steck?”
He sighed…the way people sigh when they’re trying to decide whether to admit to something they’d rather keep hidden. “Yes,” he finally said, “I knew Steck.”
“Steck who Committed as Neut?” I asked.
“Leeta was chatty, wasn’t she?”
I waited.
“Steck was here the first year I was,” Zephram said at last. “Fall, winter, and spring.”
“And that summer, Steck went Neut.”
“She did.”
“So Steck was a girl that last year?”
“I wouldn’t use the world ‘girl,’ ” he replied distantly. “I know the cove considers you a boy or girl until you Commit permanently. But Steck was twenty; to me, she was a woman.”
“Oh.” By which I meant Uh-oh.
That was all either of us said for a while. The bacon continued to hiss like summer rain.
“I blame myself,” Zephram said.
Breakfast was on the table now, the slabs of bacon beautifully browned. My foster father never burned food, no matter how much weighed on his mind.
“What do you blame yourself for?” I asked.
“Steck turning…” He stopped, as if he couldn’t say the word. Suddenly, he blurted, “You call them Neuts, but they aren’t neuter. Neuter means sexless, and they’re perfectly hermaphroditic. They can even have children: father them or mother them, both ways work.”
“How do you know about Neuts?”
“Steck wasn’t the first of her kind—you know that. I met another down in Feliss City, almost forty years ago. A manwoman named Qwan. Qwan missed Tober Cove a little, but still thought getting exiled was the best thing that ever happened to her. Or him.”
“It,” I said pointedly.
“Qwan wasn’t an It. Qwan was a contented father of three, and just as good a mother. And don’t make faces like you’re going to be sick,” Zephram snapped. “Half the people in this village have been both mothers and fathers.”
“Not at the same time.”
“Neither was Qwan: married to a woman for ten years, widowed, then married to a man. Both marriages were happy, believe me.”
“And you told that to Steck?”
Zephram sighed. “Yes. I told that to Steck.”
“You are to blame.”
“So I said.” He poked at his bacon with a fork…probably just to shift his attention to something that wasn’t accusing him. “I told Steck about the bad parts too. Qwan had two happy marriages, but she sometimes ran into trouble walking down the street. Boys shouted insults…mothers pulled their children out of the way…there were a few close calls with drunks…I told Steck about those things too, but she must have thought it would be different for her. And Steck could never resist a melodramatic gesture. She was the sort of person who had crazy impulses, thought about them a long time, then surrendered to them anyway.”
Zephram’s tone of voice suggested he wasn’t just thinking of Steck’s decision to Commit Ne
ut. “What kind of impulses?” I asked.
“Well…me.” He kept his eyes on the bacon. “She was a stunning twenty-year-old beauty, while I was a middle-aged outsider, half-dead with grief. What could she possibly see in such a shattered wreck of a man? Most folks in the cove thought it was my money. I thought so too for a while—it was a motive I could understand. Then I wondered if she just wanted to shock people…or if she looked on me as a charity case, with herself as Sister of Pity, bringing me back to life with fleshly mercy. But I’ve had twenty years to think about Steck, and I’ve rejected all the easy answers. She met a withdrawn, far-from-enticing stranger and the idea just popped into her mind: ‘Wouldn’t he be unlikely!’ I imagine she wrestled with the notion for weeks. In time, she succumbed to the idea…and I succumbed to her.”
I could barely hold my stomach down. My foster father and a Neut? But of course, Steck hadn’t been Neut back then: just a normal girl, a good-looking one if Zephram could be believed. Then again, by the time you’re sixty, every woman you’ve slept with must turn beautiful in memory. Beautiful, or else hideous; when you’re sixty, why waste your memories on anyone in between?
“So you and Steck were…” I let my voice trail off rather than say a word that would make me cringe.
“Lovers?” Zephram finished for me. “Depends on your definition. I was a needer rather than a lover. I needed someone in the nights, and I needed someone in the days too. Steck saved me from smothering under grief. As for what was in it for her—I don’t know if she loved me or needed me, but some impulse made her claim me.” He suddenly picked up his knife and briskly chopped his bacon into pieces. “Let me tell you about meeting Steck,” he said.
And he did.
The Silence of Mistress Snow settles over the village with the first snowfall every winter. By tradition, no one speaks a word from the first sight or touch of a snowflake until dawn the next day. This isn’t the Patriarch’s Law—Leeta thinks it goes way back to monkey times, when the coming of snow stopped our ancestors jabbering in the trees and reduced them to watching the world coat up with white. There’s something about the quiet of snow, especially when it comes after sunset and descends like a million ghosts slipping from the skirts of Mistress Night: you have to hold your breath. You stand silent in the open doorway, with no thought of how hard winter will be, no worry whether you’ve put up enough preserves or stored enough hay for the cattle. What’s done is done; you’re ready or you’re not, and either way, the snow is too beautiful to care.
So Tober Cove falls silent when the snow arrives, as mute as an initiate in prayer. Even the children understand. Parents hug them to show it’s all right, but keep a finger to their lips until they get the idea. Chores get set aside to let the hush settle in deeper; many people sit on their front steps or in their windows, with no lamps cheapening the blackness.
Then, around midnight, the Council Hall bell rings once: the Cold Chime, rung by Mistress Snow herself. Sure, it might be the mayor who pulls the bell-rope, but it’s Mistress Snow who carries the sound through the village, her fingers so fuzzed with frost that they muffle the tone. The chime signals people in town to make their Visits…Visits which are promises, sealed by Mistress Snow, that you’ll help another household through the winter.
A Visit is simple. You get a small piece of burnable wood and carry it to someone else’s home. Every front door is open, if only by a crack. You walk in without a word, add your stick to the fire, then go, closing the door tight behind you. The closed door shows that this house has been placed under your protection—others who might come by should Visit elsewhere, looking for a door that’s still open to the wind. One by one, the doors are closed; and so the people of Tober Cove silently promise that no one will face the winter alone.
You don’t break promises made to Mistress Snow.
Zephram had lived in our town almost a month by the time snow came. He couldn’t say why he hadn’t left while there was still time before winter. “I’m bad with explanations,” he told me. “Now and then I believe I understand why things happen…but then I always think better of it.”
People had seen the snow coming long before it arrived: a bundle of bleak clouds advancing across Mother Lake from the northwest. The clouds had the feathery gray look of mourning doves, and they closed off the afternoon as they drew in. Every perch boat came back to harbor early. Down at the Elemarchy School, the teacher let her children out at two o’clock so they could scurry home to help with last-minute chores.
Zephram happened to be near the docks when the boats started to come in—”All right,” he admitted, “I was sitting half-numb on the pier, watching the clouds choke the sky”—but he fought off his gloom and roused himself to help unload the day’s catch. That’s when he heard about the Silence of Mistress Snow, and the other Tober traditions associated with winter’s coming. The men were divided on what Zephram himself should do at midnight: whether he should make a Visit of his own or keep shut behind a closed door. Both sides of the discussion meant well. Some thought it would be good for Zephram to participate in community traditions, while others said it would be easier on him not to get involved. After all, if Zephram made a formal Visit at midnight, he was committing himself to stay in the cove until spring. Was that what he wanted? The trip down-peninsula wasn’t easy in winter, but a few sleighs made the journey every year—supposedly to buy supplies, really just for something to do once the harbor froze. Zephram could catch a ride down to Ohna Sound any time he wanted…but not if he promised Mistress Snow to see someone else through the hard cold season.
After the fish were unloaded, Zephram went to ask Leeta whether he should or shouldn’t make a Visit when the snow came. That shows how much Zephram already knew about being a Tober—a true outsider might have gone to Hakoore and received a flat no. Leeta, on the other hand, gave a typical Mocking Priestess answer: Zephram had to decide for himself. If he wanted to remain an outsider, he could stay home, keep his door shut, Visit no one. If he wanted to be part of the community, he had to leave his door open and choose someone to help.
That was Leeta, all right: “You have a completely free choice, and never mind that there’s only one decision a decent person would make.”
Zephram said the snow arrived around sunset—not that anyone could see the sun with the sky smothered by those gray-feather clouds. I could imagine the way the snow sifted down that evening, bleaching away the world’s color. Gray and gray, white and white. No sound from any house—even the sheep and cattle subdued as they huddled in barns that were tautly insulated with hay.
Night nestled down into hours of muted blackness. Zephram’s house, called the Guest Home back then, had always been quiet—it stood apart from the rest of the village, separated by a big stand of trees—but on Mistress Snow’s night, the normal quiet turned to thick granite silence. No dogs barked. No hammers tapped and no saws rasped, now that people had set aside their usual carpentry work. Many couples choose Mistress Snow’s arrival as a time to make love…but even that goes slow and silent, voiceless as an iced-in pond.
Zephram sat alone in darkness; and as the snow on the window thickened flake by flake, he too thought of making love. The silence of snow was not a tradition in the South, but people still felt it and held each other as winter floated in. Zephram thought about his fresh-lost Anne, how they had watched and loved many snowfalls together. What would she want him to choose tonight? An open door or a closed one?
Easy question.
When the chime rang, he pulled on his boots and went out into the snow. Behind him, his door was propped open with a block of pristine pinewood he’d always intended to whittle into a bust of Anne. (Even as he told me this story, he still had that block, untouched, sitting on his work table amidst the shavings of owls and beavers that actually did get carved.)
Zephram cleared out of the house fast because he was shy of meeting whoever visited him. He had no doubt that someone would come; on the docks that afternoon, severa
l men had dropped hints they wouldn’t let an ignorant city-gent freeze to death. Most Tobers wouldn’t mind lending Zephram a little help and a lot of advice—telling your neighbors what they ought to be doing has always been the cove’s chief pastime in winter—but Zephram didn’t want to see people coming to give what he regarded as charity.
(In that, he showed he was an outsider. No Tober thinks of our silent Visits as charity: it’s something you do because the alternative is just too mean.)
Once Zephram was clear of the house, he slowed his pace. Snow still fell, but not much; the air was damp and windless, with the kind of cold that freshens rather than chills you. The night was fine for walking…and Zephram took his time, letting the native Tobers go about their Visits without him. He had no one special he wanted to claim as his responsibility, no person or family he was closer to than any other. Instead, he intended to give the real villagers first choice of whom to support, then take the house left over. He had some idea that people would resent him intruding, or become annoyed if he “adopted” the family they wanted to claim themselves. Zephram thought it more polite to let the others sort themselves out. It meant, of course, that he would end up visiting someone unpopular, or perhaps a family so needy no one else dared commit to their well-being; but Zephram could afford both unpopularity and expense.
Or so he thought.
He ambled quietly along the edge of the forest for perhaps twenty minutes—ample time, he thought, for the rest of Tober Cove to settle who was going where. Then he aimed his feet toward the Council Hall steeple: the center of the village and a natural place to start looking for an open door. Most of the houses he passed were dark already, all lamps extinguished and the hearths damped down. People in the cove almost never stayed up to midnight, so they were quick to do their business and get back to bed…though not necessarily to sleep. In time, however, Zephram found one house still lit, with three stubby candles on a stand outside the open door.
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