Commitment Hour

by James Alan Gardner

  Half the town got to the meeting before Zephram and me: mostly men and children, the people who could pick up and go as soon as the bells rang. The women came in their own time, after pulling pies out of the oven or running the iron over a few more pleats. Several older ladies never showed up, either because they were still working on last-minute details or because they thought they were—Tober Cove had its share of people who made themselves busy, busy, busy, no matter how little they had to do.

  The interior of the Council Hall was big enough to hold the adult population of the village, but in good weather, meetings were held outside so that people weren’t cramped together. Speakers stood up on the steps where they could be seen; the rest of the crowd filled the square, leaning against the hitching rails or sitting on the grass in the shade of what we called Little Oak. The tree had received its name almost two hundred years ago, back when there was a Big Oak too. Big Oak dropped in its time, getting sectioned into tabletops for half the homes of the village, and now Little Oak had a trunk so thick two men couldn’t join their hands around it…but it was still called Little Oak and would keep that name until the centuries pulled it down.

  That tells you something about Tober Cove.

  Steck and Rashid weren’t in sight. Mayor Teggeree stood at the top of the steps, smiling cheerfully at the crowd as he waited for latecomers to straggle in. Hakoore hunched beside him, glowering at the world, and Leeta leaned against the banister two steps lower down the stairs.

  Since Cappie wasn’t with the priestess, I looked around the square until I spotted her in a huddle with her family. They had oh-so-casually arranged themselves in a protective circle around her, and although I could only see the top of her head, I knew she must have dressed in male clothing again. Otherwise, her sisters and brothers wouldn’t make such an effort to shield her from the village’s eyes.

  Why was she dressed like a man today? Last night it had just been the solstice dance, but now…did she want to shock people? Yes, I could believe that she did. I could believe she got out of bed, ran her fingers through her chopped-off hair, saw the male clothing scattered around the room and said, “Why not? Show the village I don’t give a damn.”

  Either that, or she was dressed that way because she thought I liked it. Moment by moment, you could never tell whether Cappie was going to be defiant or clingy.

  Heaving a sigh, I headed toward her. On the morning after the night before, a gentleman knows his duty: submitting himself to all that awkward “How are you?” “No, how are you?” that women need as confirmation that Something Indeed Took Place.

  Sometimes, it’s a pain knowing how women think.

  Cappie’s sister Olimbarg spotted me first. Olimbarg was fourteen and had a permanent crush on me. This year, the crush disguised itself as haughty annoyance, making her blurt out adolescent insults whenever I came into view. I put up with it because kids will be kids; and the insults didn’t bother me as much as her behavior the previous year. Then, Olimbarg had been a thirteen-year-old boy while I was a nineteen-year-old girl. Picture a pubescent drool-monster getting underfoot every time Cappie and I wanted privacy.

  It didn’t help that Olimbarg was one of those rare people whose female self was almost an exact twin of her male. Now that she had begun filling out with adolescence, there was a little more variation from year to year; but still, when I looked at her face, I sometimes had an uncomfortable jolt, thinking I had a male Olimbarg infatuated with Male-Me.

  “Here comes Fiddle-fingers!” Olimbarg called when she saw me. “Did the gods send you a duck, Fullin? Or did they decide you deserved a skunk?”

  “Happy solstice to you, too,” I told her. I kept it civil, because Cappie’s whole family had turned to look at me. Some smiled; some didn’t. Her father, for example, wore the expression of a man with nerves as taut as bowstrings, skittish for fear someone would notice Cappie wearing his clothes. His name was Nunce, and he dreamed of becoming mayor when Teggeree stepped down. If you ask me, he hadn’t a chipmunk’s chance of getting elected—his strategy for winning public favor was an obsessive concern with appearances, and it made him compulsively dodgy. Nunce had never quite decided how a man with leadership potential should hold his hands. He seldom spoke to any member of his family except in sharp whispers, telling the children, “Stand straighter,” or, “Stop that, people are watching.”

  In another family, Nunce’s constant fretting would have produced a pack of rebellious brats, going out of their way to make themselves embarrassments. Fortunately, Cappie’s mother Jewel had a counterbalancing talent for making children civilized. She was a big blond woman, tall and wide, proud possessor of a cheerful no-nonsense approach to dealing with everyone except her husband. Jewel fiercely believed Nunce was an important man, a thinker and philosopher. I can’t tell you what his philosophy might have been—he never shared it with the village. Rumor suggested that Nunce was writing a book which would explain everything in the world so easily a child could understand it…but most Tobers believed the rumor had been started by Nunce and Jewel themselves. I’d visited their house almost daily since I was born, and had never seen anything that looked like a manuscript.

  “Happy solstice,” Nunce said as he fidgeted to keep Cappie out of public view. “Did you have a pleasant vigil?”

  “A gripping one,” I replied. “Just thought I’d check how Cappie was doing.”

  “Fine,” came a tentative answer from behind Nunce’s back. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine. Just fine.”

  I’d been trying for an ambiguous tone of voice—not post-love creamy, but not a hard-edged “Sorry, babe, the dew has dried” either…something cozy enough for Cappie’s peace of mind, but detached enough for mine.

  Okay: it’s a lot to expect from three words.

  Cappie stuck her head over her father’s shoulder; she must have been standing on tiptoe. Her expression was balanced right on the divide between happiness and fury, ready to swoop down the slope in either direction if I gave her cause. “Your note said you went back to vigil.”

  “Good thing I did,” I replied. “Hakoore came to see me.”

  “Leeta said he might.”

  “Really?” I asked. “How would Leeta know?”

  “The Patriarch’s Man discusses lots of things with the priestess.”

  That surprised me. I couldn’t imagine Hakoore discussing anything with anyone. “Did Leeta tell you why Hakoore wanted me?”

  Cappie nodded. “But you told him you couldn’t, right? That you had other plans?”

  “I said no as clearly as I could,” I assured her…which wasn’t really what she was asking, but I hoped sounded like an answer anyway. Thank heavens women seldom resort to direct questions. “I refuse to be anyone’s disciple.”

  “You’d be Leeta’s disciple,” she said. “Unless you intend to weasel out on what we agreed last night.”

  “I’m not a weasel!” I snapped.

  She pushed her father out of the way so she could confront me face to face. “Look me in the eye, Fullin, and tell me you’ll keep your promise.”

  “Um…” Looking her in the eye was tough for more than the usual reasons: the male clothes were even more interesting on her in full daylight. They made her look excruciatingly feminine—the slight definition of her breasts under that white shirt, the short-cropped hair framing her delicate face. At that moment, I wished I had more visceral memories of our lovemaking the night before…something juicier than the secondhand recollections of what my body had done while my sister self was in charge. “At this moment,” I said with all sincerity, “I’m tempted to reopen negotiations. If you go male, I’ll never see you look like this again.”

  She stared back, her eyes judging me. “What, Fullin?” she finally asked. “Are you actually feeling something, or are you just horny again?”

  “Oh, please!” Olimbarg moaned. She thrust herself between Cappie and me, planting a hand on each of our chests and pushing us both back. �
�No one wants to hear this!”

  On the contrary, Cappie’s whole family was listening with avid interest. Her mother wore a hopeful smile; her younger brothers and sisters had their hands over their mouths to stifle giggles, but were crowding close to make sure they didn’t miss a word; even her father was paying attention, temporarily forgetting he wanted to hide his daughter from the neighbors. Cappie, however, took advantage of the distraction and stepped clear of everyone: Olimbarg, me, the rest of her family.

  “Look,” she said, to them as much as to me. “The meeting’s ready to start. We’ll talk later, okay? Okay, Fullin? We’ll really talk?”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll talk. We will.”

  If the Patriarch’s Hand had been fastened on me at that second, I don’t know if it would have taken my words as truth or crushed me for lying. Part of me had suddenly decided to want Cappie again. A different part would rather kiss a snapping turtle than “really talk” with her.

  “Good morning, friends!” Mayor Teggeree called from the top of the steps. “You have other things to do, so I won’t waste your valuable time. Permit me to announce that we’ll have a dignitary among us today: Knowledge-Lord Rashid of Spark!”

  Rashid emerged from the interior of the council hall, while the assembled village favored him with gasps, chatter and hasty applause. Under the noise, I whispered to Cappie, “Didn’t he want to keep his presence a secret?”

  “Absolutely,” she whispered back. “And I’m sure he thought he could blend right in with us Tobers…except that he’s a complete stranger wearing bright green armor.”

  Cappie had a point: Rashid carried his helmet under his arm, but he still wore the rest of his green plastic suit. The glossy shell reflected the sun like an emerald mirror, flashing glints in all directions as he stepped forward. In the full light of day, it was obvious the armor was far finer than anything owned by even the greatest nobles down-peninsula. If Feliss nobles wore armor at all, it was only a steel breastplate that went over a chain mail tunic. Rashid wouldn’t fool anyone by claiming to be some visiting Southern Duke—the only people in the world who might encase themselves in OldTech plastic were the Spark Lords.

  And Master Disease, some upstart voice whispered inside my head. But I refused to feel sheepish about my mistaken assumption—Rashid’s tear gas had hickoried my brain, so how could I be expected to think clearly?

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Rashid said warmly, “boys and girls—or vice versa—I’m delighted to come here for your Commitment Day and would like to thank your Council of Elders for graciously inviting me.”

  Cappie made an outraged choking sound. Her mother patted her on the back and asked if she had a tickle in her throat.

  “I’m especially pleased to be here,” Rashid went on, “because it’s a Knowledge-Lord’s duty to learn as much as I can about every society on our planet; and frankly Tober Cove has a pretty interesting one, don’t you think?”

  Many people smiled, but Cappie only snorted. Her mother placed a hand on Cappie’s forehead and offered her a barley sugar.

  “Now I’m just here to observe,” Rashid was saying, “and I don’t want special treatment. A lot of places I go, people start talking the way they think lords talk, using big words, rolling their Rs, quoting obscure old poets…”

  Cappie took the barley sugar, popped it into her mouth, and ground her teeth against it.

  “But I don’t hold with such top-lofty behavior,” the Spark Lord said, “and neither should you. Just do what you’d do on any other Commitment Day, without putting on a show for me. I know you don’t get many Spark Lords here—as far as I can tell, you’ve never had a Spark visit, although your Patriarch came to see us long ago—so some of you might want to chat with me…shake my hand…have me kiss your baby…something you can drop into conversation the next time you go to Wiretown.”

  I heard a crunch as Cappie bit clean through the barley sugar; and just for the record, Jewel’s homemade candy was only a hair softer than quartz. Zephram called it “barely sugar”—he liked it enormously.

  “Don’t worry,” Rashid said, “I’m happy to give everyone a few minutes. But that’s not what Commitment Day is about, is it? It’s not about catering to lords, it’s about your children going to meet Master Crow and Mistress Gull. That’s worth celebrating and I don’t want to get in the way.”

  Cappie gripped my arm and made a show of digging in her fingernails…as if she were desperate enough to kill Rashid or herself any second now. I just shrugged. She might mistrust him, but everyone else in the crowd clearly took him at face value. Why shouldn’t they? From birth, we’d been taught to revere the Sparks as our protectors, our line of defense against the scheming traitors who sold out to the star demons four hundred years ago. If Cappie and I had met Lord Rashid under different circumstances: without Steck, for example…

  My mother…

  Where was Steck anyway?

  “That’s all I have to say,” Rashid finished. “I wish everyone a good celebration and thank you for giving me such a…robust welcome so far.”

  Mayor Teggeree surged forward with his hands high in zealous applause. The rest of the village joined enthusiastically—most of them anyway. Neither Leeta nor Hakoore put much energy into their clapping, although Leeta at least had the grace to wear an expression of determined courtesy. Hakoore didn’t so much as smile, and his ovation was restricted to three constipated claps.

  “It’s an honor to have you with us, my lord,” Teggeree boomed out when the applause eased. “And while the Council of Elders has already welcomed you…” (he didn’t mention that it happened in the middle of the night) “…I want to make sure you receive the full offer of hospitality you deserve.”

  Cappie inhaled sharply. “He wouldn’t!”

  But the mayor was already gesturing into the crowd. “Father Ash? Mother Dust? Are you willing to come up here?”

  Heads nodded approval all around as people near the stairway nudged back to form an open space. Into that space, Bonnakkut and the other members of the Warriors Society helped two people as thin as skeletons: Father Ash and Mother Dust, the oldest man and woman in Tober Cove. Their names were ceremonial titles, given when their predecessors died; I had known them by other names before, but it was disrespectful to use those names now. When this Mother or Father died, the next oldest in town would rise to the position, losing whatever human name he or she might have and becoming what we called a Doorkeeper to the Gods.

  As Father Ash and Mother Dust moved to the bottom of the stairs, everyone in the crowd knelt. You did that when the Mother and Father came together—going down on your knees wasn’t just a tradition, it was an automatic response. No matter how foul-tempered or foolish the two might be as human beings, Father Ash and Mother Dust commanded respect.

  They were the true masters of Tober Cove. Outsiders might think the mayor and Council of Elders spoke for the town, but they were only in charge of mundane matters: setting the price of fish and collecting taxes to pay the schoolmaster. Hakoore kept the town true to the Patriarch’s Law and Leeta stood for woman’s wisdom, but neither Patriarch’s Man nor Mocking Priestess had final word over what went on in the cove.

  That right belonged to Father Ash and Mother Dust. They almost never took a stand…but when the mayor said one thing, Hakoore said another, and Leeta said a third, Father Ash and Mother Dust were there to adjudicate between the squabbling children. Zephram called them figureheads, but he was wrong—they were our spiritual leaders, raised by venerability above Hakoore’s legalistic theology and Leeta’s milkweed dances. Father Ash and Mother Dust were the tiny nuggets of holiness that remained after you got past the rules and rites of religion.

  “Father…Mother…” Teggeree called from his knees. “I beg you to extend the hospitality of Tober Cove to Lord Rashid.”

  “And to my Bozzle, of course,” Rashid said offhandedly.

  Steck stepped out of the Council Hall doorway, sliding in behind Ras
hid like a shadow. I doubt if most people in the crowd even noticed—everyone knew Spark Lords had such aides to handle secretarial chores and other menial details. The town’s concentration was centered on Rashid, Father Ash and Mother Dust. Perhaps Cappie and I were the only ones to give the Bozzle a second glance.

  Overnight, Steck had become female…at least to outward appearance. The beard was gone and the carelessly shaggy hair had been trimmed into the practical style worn by many farm wives: efficiently short but feminine, in a hearty way that fit Steck’s broad-shouldered physique. I wondered if the mayor’s wife had done the haircutting. Certainly, she had donated the clothes Steck now wore—I recognized the long but billowy dress of forest green, and the lighter green overshirt with enough of a V neckline to show a hint of cleavage. As a forty-year-old woman, Steck actually had a remarkable body…

  …then it struck me I was ogling a Neut, not to mention my mother. I shuddered with a sudden case of the icks.

  Get over it, I told myself. Pretend Rashid’s Bozzle is just some Southern woman, not worth a second thought. I had sworn I would keep Steck’s secret, and besides, I didn’t want to remind the town of my scandalous parentage. It wouldn’t hurt to think of Steck as a woman, at least for a day.

  She looked enough like a woman, didn’t she? The face was not one hundred percent female, but it would pass. In a way, seeing that ambiguous face made me want to know what Steck looked like when she was my mother. She wouldn’t have been the same, I knew that. Except for flukes like Olimbarg, people’s male and female selves seldom resembled each other more than brother and sister; Neuts were supposed to be different again. There was little chance anyone would recognize Steck as a Neut they’d seen briefly twenty years ago…especially now, when all the people had turned their attention to Rashid.