Authors: Donna Callea
Chapter 22
Rebekah
Under the Stars
I sit behind David on the sun-cycle, leaning against his back when I’m too tired to remember that I’m his brother, and wonder what monogamous women wear.
Dresses and skirts? Short or to the ground? Pants and shirts like men? Certainly not long robes. At least I hope not. And do all the women have long hair? Will they think I’m a freak?
Why am I suddenly worrying about such inconsequential things as clothes and hair? The important thing is monogamists believe in marriage between one woman and one man. That’s what David and I believe. That’s the way we want to live our lives. That’s why we sailed across two of the Great Lakes with a crew of former Lost Boys.
Still. There’s so much we don’t know. And it doesn’t seem likely we’ll find out what we need to know until we get to wherever it is we’re going.
I like the captain. I trust him. But I wish he were able to tell us more about the settlements. He says he’s never been to one, and has never had a conversation with anyone who has.
None of the Lost Boy sailors have, either.
David and I must be out of our minds.
It’s mid-November. Not cold enough to snow, but cold enough. There was a time, we’re told, when ice and snow covered this part of the continent for the better part of the year. A time when the world was a bigger place. A time when the coasts stretched much, much farther out to sea, and people could fly across the sky, and know things we can’t even imagine now. A time when there were just about as many girl babies born as boy babies.
How bad everyone must have been to make The Designer so mad. Or maybe it doesn’t work that way at all. Maybe things just happen because they happen.
“David,” I say, leaning my face against his neck, “I love you.”
“I love you, too. But don’t forget. We’re brothers. Brothers don’t nuzzle brothers.”
We’ve been riding for several hours.
The Lady May docked in Thunder Bay late last night, and we unloaded the sun-cycles at first light. The captain knows all the right people at port and takes care of them. So no one bothered us.
It seems to me a convoy of sun-cycles ridden by males who certainly look like most people’s idea of Lost Boys—where I’m from, anyway—would cause at least a little stir. But not in Thunder Bay. And we’ve seen no one at all on the road.
We take a brief rest break. The boys don’t even bother looking for trees to pee behind before grabbing sandwiches from Cal, who’s still in charge of feeding everyone. After we eat, David tells the others we’re going to stretch our legs a bit. And I do my business as quickly as I can in a thicket. Before we head back, he gives me a brief but heartfelt hug.
“It’ll be okay, Rebekah. I know it will be okay.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I’m not worried, David.”
But I am. Where are the damn settlements?
Then, before dark, we follow the cycles ahead of us as they turn off the road, and we find ourselves in what looks like a mowed field with a little house at the edge.
This is where we’ll spend the night.
“Welcome to Rosie’s charging station and campground,” Nick tells us after we’ve dismounted.
The sun-cycles all have extra battery packs. But even so, they can only go so far without a charge. I should have realized that. We’re about halfway to Winnipeg.
Everyone gets busy setting up camp, while the captain goes to the house to make arrangements.
Then David follows the others as they line up their cycles for charges, and I help Cal, who’s brought along enough rations for an evening meal.
When David comes back, he’s all excited about Rosie’s set-up for generating power.
“It’s really impressive the way they rigged things up here,” he says. “There’s a medium sized creek out back with a 20-foot waterfall. Next to the falls are parallel sets of feed pipes for a dozen small hydro-turbine generators.”
I listen attentively, because he’s been trained in engineering, after all, and is naturally fascinated by mechanical things. Me, not so much. But the least I can do is feign interest.
“You’ve got to admire the ingenuity of the home-made piping arrangement,” he continues. “There are two supplies—one’s for house current, and the other feeds the chargers. Ten sun-cycles can be charged simultaneously at any time of day. Or two rovers.”
“Wow,” I say. It’s all I can think of to say.
Rosie and her four husbands and their various children don’t come out to greet us. No reason why they should. The campfire is kind of nice, though. And sleeping under the stars with David’s bedroll next to mine will be a welcome change from our cramped berths on the swaying Lady May.
But before we stretch out, as far away from the others as we reasonably can, the captain comes over to us.
“I need to speak with you two. Privately,” he says.
The others probably figure he’s going to give us an evaluation and let us know if we can continue to sail with him. So they don’t pay much attention.
We walk over to the charging station, where there’s light coming from Rosie’s windows.
“We’ll be in Winnipeg by tomorrow night,” the captain says.
“But not us. Not David and me,” I point out.
“When will we get to the settlements?” asks David.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought,” says the captain, “and I can’t just point you in the direction of a settlement, any settlement, and let you sink or swim. In any case, no one knows exactly where these places are except the miscreants who live there. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be right. I can’t believe I let Elizabeth get me into this.”
“What? What do you mean it wouldn’t be right? That’s what you promised to do. We have to get to a settlement,” I say, panic rising in my bound-up chest.
“And you will. But these monogamist settlements are not all alike. I don’t know much about them. I’ve told you that. But I do know that some are no doubt better, and safer for you, than others. I really don’t thing any of them castrate boys or kill babies. That’s just what the Coalition wants folks to think. But strange things probably do go on—strange practices you may not like. And what makes you think they’d all welcome you? Some might be thrilled to have you. Others might turn you away without a second glance. There are maybe five or six farming communes run by the monogamist out here. From what I’ve heard, each one is like a little town. Each one is different. Do you want to end up in the wrong town?”
“So what do we do?”
“You come to Winnipeg with the rest of us. There’s a woman I know there who’s had dealings with some of the so-called monogamists. She runs the place where we’ll be staying. I’ll get her to talk to you two. She’ll at least know which settlements you should avoid. And I can find out how to get you to one that’s probably okay. You’ve waited this long, you can wait until we’re ready to head back to Thunder Bay. Now get some sleep.”
What choice do we have?
“The captain is probably right,” whispers David after we crawl into our bedrolls.
“Yeah. And we’ll get to see Winnipeg. Maybe you can go to one of those places where they give you a pill and attach something to your penis and you can have the best wet dream of your life.”
“What do you know about wet dreams?”
“You forget that I’ve received a very comprehensive pre-marital education regarding male anatomical quirks.”
“And what kind of quirks do you have?”
“Only one. Of all the men in the world—or at least in the Coalition—there’s only one I love. And his is the only penis I ever want inside me.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
“And if anyone in Winnipeg offers you a pill, you better just say no.”
“Awww,” he says. “Really?”
I punch him in the ribs, and he grabs my hand.
We’re both scared, I think. But it helps to pretend we’re not.
The binding around my breasts is really starting to hurt. My head itches. My feet are freezing. My bottom is sore from being on the cycle all day. I haven’t bathed, really bathed, in way too long. And if I don’t fall asleep soon, I’ll probably start to cry.
I look up at the sky, dotted with a million stars. Then I turn and look at David, who’s looking at me.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“Me too.”
I close my eyes and dream that I can fly.
Chapter 23
David
The Birch and Bay
Winnipeg is all lit up. We can see the glow from miles away, as we approach on our sun-cycles, riding silently in the pitch dark. Then, as we get closer, the glow turns into twinkling lights that look like a thousands stars, all packed tight in one place.
It’s not a big city. Not bigger than Buffalo or Pittsburgh or Grand Rapids, from what the boys have said. But it’s certainly well powered. And from the looks of it, people here don’t go to bed early.
Before we enter the city, our convoy of sun-cycles pulls over, and the captain distributes pay envelopes filled with Coalition bills. Winnipeg doesn’t have its own currency. Coalition money is good there, we’re told. And it’s needed to pay, in advance, for lodging. I’m surprised when Rebekah and I are also handed envelopes. But I suppose it would look odd if we were left out.
The Birch and Bay, where the captain and his crew always stay, is a solid, three-story building with a lobby and dining hall on the first floor. Not fancy or plush. But it seems well-kept and comfortable.
Rebekah looks hopeful.
If I’m not mistaken, all during the last leg of the trip here, she’s been praying to The Designer for a hot bath and a clean bed. We’ve been told in advance that everyone doubles up here, since rooms are limited. So that was good news.
There’s a wide stone hearth in front of a fireplace, and some men, dressed ruggedly, are lounging in overstuffed chairs.
“Waiting for their appointments,” Billy tells me with a nudge and wink, as we line up to register, even though I didn’t ask.
Rebekah and I sign in as Rob Fine and David Fine, pay for two nights, and are given a room on the second floor. Then the clerk, an older man who looks kind of bored, asks us if we want to schedule any other services.
“Like what?” asks Rebekah before I can elbow her.
“New to Winnipeg, huh?” he says. Then he gives us each a paper, listing what’s available on the third floor and how much it costs in Coalition dollars.
“Don’t wait too long,” he says, “or you won’t be able to get an appointment.”
The boys from The Lady May evidently aren’t taking any chances. They look giddy with anticipation as we all take the stairs to our rooms. Most have scheduled appointments for later tonight or the next day. And they compare notes about who or what they’re getting, and when.
Rebekah’s getting a bath as soon as we get to our room. That’s all she cares about right now. She was delighted to learn that each room has a private bathroom with hot running water. And, like our shipmates, she’s giddy with anticipation. Me too, I have to admit.
I want to take her to bed as soon as she strips off all her clothes. It’s been forever since we’ve had sex. But she’s having none of that, not right now. She wriggles out of my arms.
“Look at me,” she says, as if I could look at anything else. “I haven’t been clean since Kitchener. You either, David. We’re both going to be thoroughly bathed before we do anything at all.”
Okay. There’s no way I can win this discussion. And the bathtub looks big enough for two.
Once we get in, we shower off first with a hand-held nozzle, soaping up head to toe and rinsing off two or three times each, until Rebekah declares us thoroughly sanitized. I’m harder than a rock now, and I poke her in the back a few times. But she’s not taking the hint. Not yet. She has an agenda. She’s been planning how this is going to go for miles and miles on the road to Winnipeg.
After rinsing out the tub, she begins to fill it with water that’s still pleasingly hot. Then she instructs me to sit down, and she straddles me.
Ahh.
It’s over too quick. But then she sits between my legs, leans her back against my chest, and I put my arms around her as we soak.
“I’m glad the captain said we had to come here first. It wouldn’t have been good to show up at a settlement all grungy from the road,” she says.
“You think the monogamists will like us better clean?” I tease her. “What if they themselves are grungy all the time? Grungier than we were? What if that’s their lifestyle? You’ll have to adapt to having sex when we’re not quite so pristine. Who knows? Maybe they don’t take baths at all.”
“Very funny.” But then I can tell she’s thinking that just might be a possibility. There’s so much we don’t know.
When the water cools and we start to wrinkle, we get out and dry off with nice big towels. Rebekah throws our dirty underwear and socks in the tub, scrubs them a bit, and hangs them over the tub. No way they’ll be dry by morning. But at least they’ll be semi-clean, she says.
We go to bed naked. The clean sheets are evidently an aphrodisiac for Rebekah, because she’s energized and anxious to try out all sorts of positions.
When we’re both thoroughly spent, she asks me to rub her back and breasts.
The bindings have left indentations that, despite everything we’ve done tonight, have still not gone away.
Poor Rebekah. It must hurt to be wrapped up so tight all the time. To have to pretend you’re a boy when you’re actually a beautiful girl with full, lovely breasts.
I kiss her skin, flushed and sweet smelling, and then gently massage her, front and back.
“Mmmm. Feels so good, David. You make me feel so good.
I don’t stop until she falls asleep.
Look at me, I think to myself, as I settle next to her, my fingers on her hip, kneading of their own accord.
I’ve become a massage therapist after all. Grandma Gardener would be proud.