Commitment Hour

by James Alan Gardner

  Typical Tober thinking. I remember embarrassing Zephram terribly when I was a fifteen-year-old girl about to become a boy. “One thing I’m going to do,” I announced at the breakfast table Commitment Day morning, “I am definitely going to learn not to come after only, like, two seconds. Don’t you think boys ought to learn that? It can’t be difficult; I’m sure it just can’t be that difficult.”

  And parents were excited too…wistful, yes, because the quiet times of baking bread together were going to change into spear practice with the Junior Warriors, but as the old saying goes, “You aren’t losing a daughter, you’re gaining a son.”

  I’m told that means something different down-peninsula.

  Everywhere I went, people would catch sight of me, smile and open their mouths as if to shout, “Happy Commitment!”…then they’d remember the corpses a stone’s throw away and speak the words softly enough not to disturb the bereaved: “Uh, Happy Commitment, Fullin.” A few would nod at my violin and say, “I hope you don’t intend to leave that as a gift to the gods in Birds Home. Whether you Commit male or female, we’ll always be glad to hear you play.”

  “No,” I told them all, “I’m just taking it to get blessed.” And they nodded, still worried. As I mentioned earlier, a person Committing female might leave her spear with the gods to show she would no longer be male; but a spear’s too big to hide in a Chicken Box. When someone headed for Birds Home with spear in hand, it was traditional to say you were taking it to be blessed. Sometimes the words were even true—the person would come home male, with spear still in hand. But most people in the square seemed to think I intended to leave my violin with the gods.

  The opposite was true. I was carrying my instrument because I didn’t want to abandon it. After my night in the marsh, I’d left the violin at Zephram’s for the morning. If I didn’t bring it with me now, I’d have to go back for it when I returned from Birds Home…and I didn’t want to do that. I doubted that I’d ever enter that old house again.

  When people asked me where my father was, I always waved vaguely at another part of the crowd and said, “Talking to someone over there.”

  In time, I made my way to the waterfront. The atmosphere was more bubbly there—out of sight of Little Oak and its two black barrels. Kids sat on the docks and dabbled their feet in the chilly water, snapping turtles be damned. Mothers stood nearby chatting with each other, occasionally shouting an unnecessary, “Don’t fall in!” to their children. Fathers pretended to talk about the repairs they needed to make on their perch boats, but were actually watching the children too…probably trying to memorize the look of a smile or the sound of a giggle, because it would never be quite the same again.

  Cappie sat on the beach with her sister Olimbarg, my son Waggett safely between them and playing in the sand. They all looked up as I approached.

  “How’s Zephram?” Cappie asked.

  The old reflex to lie twitched in my brain; but I crouched in front of her and said in a low voice, “He’s leaving the cove. Probably on the road already. Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “He’s leaving?”

  That came from Olimbarg, who seemed to find the idea incomprehensible. Cappie only nodded, as if she’d expected something like this. Maybe she knew about Zephram and Dorr; Leeta might have told her, priestess to apprentice. But all Cappie said was, “I’ll miss him.”

  “Yeah.” I gave Waggett a small pat on the knee. He was too young to understand the conversation, but there’d soon come a time when he wanted to see his grandfather. Then what would I tell him? “Olimbarg,” I said, “are you going to look after Waggett on the trip up to Birds Home?”

  “Not my job,” she answered in her snotty kid sister way. “I’m only fourteen.” Traditionally, the chore of tending first-time infants went to nineteen-year-olds when they rode with Master Crow. We twenty-year-olds, Cappie and I, flew separately with Mistress Gull.

  “Just keep an eye on him,” I said. “He knows you. And if he asks about me or his grandfather…”

  I found I didn’t know how to finish my sentence. She put on a bratty “I’m waiting” expression.

  Then someone yelled, “Master Crow!” and pointed to the sky.

  The gods came from the north—Master Crow visible long before Mistress Gull, because he was so much bigger. Master Crow had room for almost three hundred children, far more than any generation Tober Cove had produced. Mistress Gull, small and white and delicate, could only carry a maximum of twenty. This year, she would just transport Cappie and me…plus the Gifts of Blood and Bone taken from the babies of our village. Doctor Gorallin had already left the Gifts in a metal carrying-chest at the end of the main dock.

  All the bells in the Council Hall steeple began to peal in jangly clatter—no matter how many bodies lay under Little Oak, the arrival of the gods meant clanging and prattle and excited shouts as people moved from the square to the waterfront. Children old enough to outrun their parents crowded onto the beach and the docks; younger kids were turned over to the care of older siblings, or other designated babysitters. As I was still trying to persuade Olimbarg to take Waggett, a cheerful nineteen-year-old farmboy named Urgho came up to volunteer. “Let me, Fullin,” Urgho said. “Good practice for when I have one of my own.”

  I didn’t know the farm country Tobers as well as I knew people who lived right in the village, but Urgho and I had been friendly enough in Elemarchy School. He was right too—this year, he would come back pregnant from Birds Home, and a little practice with kids wouldn’t hurt. I bent down beside my son and said, “Do you know Urgho, Waggett? This is Urgho.”

  Urgho crouched on his haunches and gave my boy a friendly smile. “Remember me, Waggett? You and your dad’s friend Cappie came out to our farm last spring. Remember when you saw the sheep?”

  I vaguely recalled Cappie telling me she’d gone to some farm to buy wool from the spring shearing…but Waggett clearly had a much more vivid memory of the event. “Baaaaaaa!” he called out immediately. “Baaaaaaa!” He giggled at his own voice. “Baaaaaaaaaa!”

  Urgho winked at me as he lifted the boy into his arms. Waggett kept baa-ing happily, unafraid of being taken away by a stranger.

  The gods flew toward us, unhurried. Master Crow left a drifting trail of white behind him—he was so holy that even in the heat of a summer’s day, his breath turned to steamy cloud. Mistress Gull, always more demure, simply flew without leaving a mark…in contrast with real gulls, who left plenty of marks, all over the waterfront.

  For a moment, I glanced at Beacon Point, checking if Rashid and Steck were up there watching. They weren’t in sight, but I could imagine them on the grass in front of the old lighthouse, maybe staring at the gods through an OldTech telescope.

  Rashid would be talking about airplanes and trying to identify what kind he was looking at. I wondered whether my mother had got muck-mired in that same mindset…or if, perhaps, she could still look up at the sky and think, “gods,” not, “aircraft.”

  Steck had wanted to be priestess once. She must still have some tiny bit of faith. Or was I just trying to believe good things about my mother?

  Master Crow—or perhaps I should say Master Crow’s airplane disguise—sped over Mother Lake in a long low glide that suddenly ploughed up a furrow of water as he skimmed down onto the surface. Unlike mortal crows, the god always landed on the lake: he had special feet shaped like skis which could buoy him up, no matter how many children he held. He came to a stop perhaps two hundred paces from shore.

  I don’t want you thinking he was an OldTech seaplane like you see in books. For one thing, he was much, much bigger than any antique seaplane; my father had once toured a partly preserved seaplane in a Feliss museum, and Zephram assured me it was tiny compared to Master Crow. Furthermore, Master Crow looked more birdlike than a common OldTech plane—he had a sharp black beak, and sly shiny eyes in place of the windows that OldTech pilots peered out.

  Master Crow didn’t need a pilot. He was a
god, guided by his own wisdom, flying by divine power. Even on solstice days crackling with thunder, he speared his way safely through the storm.

  Mistress Gull, smaller and quieter but no less strong, splish-splashed her way to a landing two minutes after Master Crow. She rode low on the waves, like a real gall—pristine white in the sunshine, as calmly beautiful as a new mother sleeping. Looking at Mistress Gull, I suddenly wanted to hold Cappie’s hand; but after our talk in the Patriarch’s Hall, I was sure Cappie wouldn’t want to hold mine.

  By the time Mistress Gull settled comfortably, Master Crow had already sent out his “chick”: a boat with a hull of black rubber, as if an OldTech cart-tire had been stretched big enough to hold twenty children. The boat moved quickly over the waves, giving off a smoke that smelled like hot asphalt. Kids always curled up their noses at the stench; ten-year-old boys made fart jokes, and when they couldn’t think of actual jokes, made fart sounds with their armpits. (To ten-year-old boys, any notable odor reminds them of farts.)

  Children began to line up on the main dock, with the older teenagers maintaining order and safety. This was a point of pride for our generation: the adults remained back of the line of sand where the beach began, while we “youngsters” took care ourselves. We needed no final sermon from Hakoore…no muddled good wishes from Leeta. Of course, the parents looked on with a keen watchfulness—just as I refused to take my eyes off Urgho and Waggett—but this was the children’s responsibility. Our moment.

  I say “our”…but Cappie and I remained on the sand while the others organized themselves on the dock. We were not adults yet, but we were not Master Crow’s passengers either. We would never ride between his black wings again.

  “How are you doing?” Cappie suddenly asked.

  I looked at her; she’d been watching me. After so many years, growing up together, she knew me so well she could almost read my mind.

  “It’s strange not being out there with them.”

  “Yeah.” Her eyes met mine for an instant, then turned quickly back to the dock. “Waggett looks happy enough with Urgho.”

  “Waggett’s a happy boy.”

  “Do you wonder what he’ll be like as a girl?”

  “Of course.”

  “He’ll be happy,” she said. A moment’s silence…then: “Whatever happens between us, Fullin, will you let me visit him once in a while? I’ve watched him grow up this far…”

  “It’s a small village,” I told her. “He’ll always be just around the corner.” I gave a tentative smile. “You can visit Waggett and I’ll visit Pona.”

  She nodded. We continued watching our child.

  It took the black boat four round-trips to carry all the children to Master Crow. Waggett and Urgho went with the second group. I sighed with relief as they climbed the steps from water level and vanished into Master Crow’s interior. It was always hushed inside there, where the feathery padding on seats and walls soaked up the edges of sound. I could picture the older teenagers patiently buckling seat belts around the smaller children, just as it had been done for generation after generation back through the centuries.

  As the last boatload left the dock, I felt Cappie tense beside me. Mistress Gull had lowered her own chick—smaller than Master Crow’s but similar. A boat of white rubber.

  My stomach was full of butterflies. The lake was calm, but I suddenly worried that the rocking of the boat might make me sick.

  “Well,” Cappie said, “shall we?”

  She stood. In one hand, she carried her spear (“just taking it to be blessed”). Under the other arm, she lugged her Chicken Box…bigger than mine and intentionally so. Nunce didn’t want his daughter to be shown up by an outsider’s child. I lifted my own load—Chicken Box, violin—and we waddled together to the end of the dock.

  People shouted, “Happy Commitment!” after us. I imagined I could hear Zephram among them, but I knew it wasn’t true.

  Cappie emptied her arms before boarding the boat, then I passed her all our baggage: spear, violin, and the two Chicken Boxes. The butterflies in my stomach took an extra flurry as I handed her the box holding the gun, but she stowed it under a seat without comment and turned back to me for the final piece of our load—the metal case containing blood and bone.

  “Careful,” she said.

  I gave her a wounded look…but then, Cappie was just being a mother, concerned for her child’s welfare. In a sense, Cappie’s baby was inside the case: the Gift that would let Pona live a normal girl/boy childhood. I care about Pona too, I wanted to say; I’ve changed Pona’s diapers on occasion.

  Rare occasions. Too rare.

  Was that thought just sentimentality, or was I becoming female again? I couldn’t tell, and maybe it didn’t matter. Carefully, I passed Cappie the case and waited for her to stow it securely.

  When I was ready to board the boat, she held out her hand to help me. I took it.

  Mistress Gull’s boat made the same smelly fumes as Master Crow’s, but to me the odor was more nostalgic than unpleasant. (Fullin the near-adult: finally past the, “Ooo, fart!” stage.) Water rocked gently beneath us as we slipped away from the dock. The sun sparkled. A light breeze played with Cappie’s hair; even cut short like a man’s, her hair was lush and silky. I thought of her as priestess, dancing the solstice dance with daisies curled around her ears…

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Cappie asked.

  “Picturing you taking over from Leeta.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” It surprised me too. I’d told her the truth as if it was an easy thing—as if my habit for lying had fallen asleep with the gentle motion of the boat. “So how long have you and she been discussing that you’d…”

  “Just a few days. Leeta only got the bad news from Doctor Gorallin last week.”

  “And you’ll still have time to learn everything?”

  Cappie shrugged. “Leeta thinks so. There aren’t that many rituals. Last rites, birth-naming, solstices and equinox…” She paused. “If you have the urge to be priestess instead of me, you could pick it up easily…provided you decide it isn’t a ridiculous Anti-Patriarch heresy after all.”

  “It is a ridiculous Anti-Patriarch heresy,” I told her. “That’s its charm.”

  She smiled—a smile that neither believed nor disbelieved me. A “summer day on the lake” smile.

  The boat docked at a small landing stage that extended from one of Mistress Gull’s feet: “pontoons” as Nunce called them. Cappie scrambled up and we began to unload, beginning with the case that contained the blood-gifts. When I handed it to Cappie, she went straight up the steps into Mistress Gull—no leaving it on the landing stage where a sudden wave might tip it into the lake.

  While she was gone, I simply waited: smelling the wet rubber of the boat, watching the sun dance on the water…

  Something moved. Something under the surface.

  Working on the perch boats, I’d seen fish brush the surface many times. The biggest were muskies—as long as your arm or even your leg.

  The thing I’d just glimpsed was bigger…a huge dark shadow.

  I held my breath. The sunlight on the water made it hard to see anything below. Like any fishing village, Tober Cove had its share of campfire tales about monsters lurking in the deeps—giant snakes or squid or octopi. “Myths,” my father had said. “Maybe in the ocean but not Mother Lake.” And yet…

  Cappie’s spear was in the boat. I reached for it slowly and eased it into attack position, ready to stab down into the water if I saw another hint of motion.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cappie asked. She’d come back out to Mistress Gull’s doorway. “If you spear a hole in that rubber, you’re going to regret it.”

  “There’s something in the water,” I answered in a strained voice. “Something big.”

  “Probably just a school of fish,” she said. “When they’re all swimming together, they can look like one big creature.” But as she came down the
steps she kept her gaze trained on the lake. “Let’s just get the stuff on board and…shit!”

  I snapped my head up. She was staring wide-eyed at the shadowed patch of water between Mistress Gull’s pontoons.

  “See something?” I whispered.

  She held her hand out. “Give me the spear.”

  “Are you sure…”

  “I’m not a helpless woman, Fullin! Give me the damned spear.”

  Reluctantly, I placed the spear shaft into her outstretched hand. She immediately swung the tip of the weapon into position for a downward jab.

  “Now you handle our gear,” she said. “Get everything inside Mistress Gull.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Stand guard. Whatever it is, maybe it’s only curious about Mistress Gull. If it’s just having a look, I won’t provoke it. But if it decides to attack…”

  She readjusted her grip on the spear handle.

  Trying not to make noise, I leaned over the side of the boat and laid our remaining cargo on the landing stage: the Chicken Boxes and my violin case. As I clambered out myself, I glanced back toward the land. All of Tober Cove had clustered on the beach, shading their eyes and peering at us, no doubt wondering what we were up to. If they got worried enough, a few fishermen might venture out in a boat to ask what was wrong…but that was a last resort. People past the age of Commitment were forbidden to approach Mistress Gull, for fear of scaring her off forever.

  Holding my violin case by the handle, I wrestled with the Chicken Boxes until I had one under each arm. Cappie remained as still as a cat watching a mouse, spear at the ready. Now that I was on the landing stage, I could see what she was looking at: a dark blob as big as a man below the surface of the water. In the shadows beneath Mistress Gull, the blob was greener than the water itself.