How do you comfort your father?
Pat his shoulder? Murmur sympathetic words? Hold him till he stops crying?
Of all the people in the universe, your father is the one person you can’t touch when he grieves.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, not knowing what to do with my hands.
Eventually he spoke again, no more than a whisper. “It’s a pity Dorr ran away—if we all just walked straight to the center of town and announced that Dorr had killed Bonnakkut to protect Steck and me…maybe Father Ash and Mother Dust would have declared the killing justifiable. Probably the truth about Dorr and me would have come out, and maybe about Dorr and Steck both being Neuts. I don’t know. Without Dorr there, Steck and I couldn’t make the decision for her. We just tried to confuse things, so no one could piece together a clear interpretation. Steck stabbed Bonnakkut a few more times in the belly. I took his gun…”
“What did you do with it?” I asked.
“It’s here. In the root cellar.”
“You have to get rid of it.”
“I know,” he nodded. “Tonight I’ll throw it into the lake.”
“And what if someone sees you? What if Rashid finds out about you and Dorr before then and comes to search the house?”
“How would he find out?”
“Hakoore knows you and Dorr were lovers,” I said. “That means Leeta too. Maybe other people—Tobers know a lot about each other’s business. If Rashid wanders around the feast this afternoon, asking questions…”
“So what should I do?”
“Give me the gun. I’ll get rid of it.”
He looked at me with his reddened eyes. “You wouldn’t keep it for yourself, would you, Fullin?”
“No,” I snapped, “and I’m not going to shoot anyone either, if that’s what bothers you. Just get the gun.”
Stiffly, he forced himself out of the chair and toward the cellar steps. When I was sure he was steady enough to be left alone, I hurried to my old room at the back of the house. There, laid proudly on my bed, was my Chicken Box.
I’ve already mentioned that everyone going to Commit at Birds Home carries a chicken foot, symbolizing the Patriarch’s Hand. In recent years (as the cove succumbed to Hakoore’s “materialism”), the fashion had sprung up for parents to give their children gold-painted boxes reminiscent of the box that contained the real hand. The parents also filled the box with presents, sometimes so many gifts they could barely fit in the requisite chicken foot Supposedly, the presents went to Birds Home for “blessing” by the gods, but really they were just trotted out so neighbors could see the display of wealth.
Zephram had known what was expected of him as father of a Committing child—a box chocked with trinkets that must have been purchased down-peninsula. I didn’t even look at them as I tossed them out on my bed; I was just glad the box was big enough to hold a Beretta.
By the time Zephram returned from the cellar, I had brought the box to the kitchen table. “You’re going to take the gun to Birds Home?” he asked.
I nodded. “My offering.” It was tradition to leave something at Birds Home as an offering to the gods. Usually people left a token of the soul they were giving up. If you were Committing female, you might leave your spear to show that you were setting aside male ways, or if you were going male, you might give a sample of your last menstrual blood. “I don’t know what it means to give the gods a gun,” I told Zephram, “but it will be safer with them than with anyone here.”
“And you’ll make sure no one looks in the box before you get to Birds Home?”
“People will wonder what extravagant Southern gifts you bought me,” I told him, “but there’s no rule I have to show them.”
“Well, then…” He held the pistol cradled in both hands, as if it was as heavy and precious as gold. Last night, I’d only seen the gun by starlight; now, with sun streaming through the kitchen windows, the weapon gleamed with sly eagerness. We stared at it for a moment, then Zephram sighed. “I’ve put the safety on,” he said, “so it won’t go off accidentally. You should make sure it’s still on before you take it out of the box. Do you want me to show you how?”
“I know all about the safety,” I answered. “Steck explained everything to Bonnakkut last night; I watched too. But how do
you
know anything about guns?”
“A merchant friend of mine was a collector. He had nearly a hundred OldTech firearms of various types…only two of which were preserved well enough to fire. What he wouldn’t give for a gun like this….” Zephram shook his head. “But then, he’s probably dead. It’s been twenty years. Twenty years since I’ve seen anyone I used to know down south.”
I looked at him: an old man, tired to the bone. Tober Cove had been hard on him. He’d been trapped up here by snow that first winter, and frozen in place ever since.
“Rashid and Steck will be leaving in a day or so,” I said. “Maybe you’d like to go south with them.”
“Steck told me she’s with Rashid now.”
“Even so…you wouldn’t have to worry about bandits if you traveled with a Spark Lord, and maybe you could use some time away from the cove.”
“I know you, Fullin,” he said with a weak smile.
“You just want to claim my house for your own.”
I smiled back. “That’s it exactly. Never mind that you deserve a vacation after putting up with me for twenty years.”
“Well,” he said. “Well.” He looked around the kitchen with the air of a man who isn’t trying to see anything. “If I decided to go south,” he murmured, “I’d just go. Throw some stuff in the wagon, hitch up the horses, and leave. Pick a sunny afternoon when the sky was clear and I could make a good start before nightfall.” He took a deep breath. “Best choice would be a big summer holiday when Tober farmers weren’t working their fields; that way, no one would see me on the road. Just go, with no good-byes.”
He looked at me with a question in his eyes.
I nodded. “Sure. That’d be nice. No good-byes.”
After a while, my father set the Beretta carefully into the box. I had already put in a towel as padding, so the gun wouldn’t slide around. Zephram picked up the chicken foot lying on the table and moved to put it into the box too; but I stopped him. “Keep it,” I said. “A Commitment Day present for you.”
“Don’t you have to take it to Birds Home?”
“No one checks,” I said, “and the gods will understand.”
“So, a Commitment Day present,” he repeated. “You want me to have a symbol of the Patriarch?”
“It’s the only thing I have to give,” I told him. “Everything else, you bought me.”
He smiled. “I bought you the chicken foot too.” But he took it and patted my hand.
NINETEEN
A Pair of Fleas for Mistress Gull
No one in the town square knew how to behave.
There were two black barrels under Little Oak now, and two bodies on the bier—Dorr and Bonnakkut, side by side but arranged head to toe (partly for the sake of decency, and partly because they fit together better that way on the bier’s narrow surface). Hakoore and Veen stood mutely beside one barrel while Kenna and Ivis stood beside the other. Almost no one had thought to bring two cups with them from home; people had to decide which corpse to toast now, promising to come back for a second toast when they got another cup.
On the other hand, it was Commitment Day—folks had looked forward to this for months. Every kitchen swam with the smells of food for the afternoon feast: pork roasts, crayfish chowder, and wild blueberry pie. Little boys and girls all sported new Blessing outfits made specially for the day…or at least new decorations on old clothes, embroidered or smocked by lamplight over the past few weeks. The day before, a dozen people had asked me, “Fullin, you’ll play a few tunes before you go, won’t you? Good dance tunes?” And I had said yes, because I never imagined Bonnakkut would get killed and Dorr take her own life.
Tober Cove wanted to sing and dance. As I made my way through the square (my fiddle case under one arm and Chicken Box under the other), I felt longing eyes stare at the violin. A child’s voice in the crowd piped up, “Oooo, is he going to play?” That brought a chorus of adult shushes; there’d be no jigs or reels in front of the mourners.
And yet…
It was hard for people to contain themselves. The youngest were puddly with excitement that soon they’d be flying over Mother Lake…and soon too they’d wear another body, start fresh again, find out what had happened to their brother or sister selves over the year. As I passed two teenaged boys, I heard one whisper to another, “I just know I’m going to have breasts. They were starting to come last year. I’m going to have great breasts now,
perfect
ones, and I swear I’ll go into the woods and rub my nipples for hours!”
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.