Moonstar

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JOBE, Book One

David Gerrold

BenBella Books, Inc.

Dallas, Texas

Copyright © 1977, 2014 by David Gerrold

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This book is for Theodore Sturgeon, who showed me how to make it sing.

“I was born—

Whenever a new person comes into the world, the gods, Reethe and Dakka, hold their breaths. They fear the ones who do not know who they are to become, for whenever one of these is born the gods come close to death. These are the persons who, when offered the Choice between Reethe and Dakka, between female and male, are most likely to choose neither; and whenever there is someone who does not accept the gods within herself then the gods die a little. And so the gods hold their breath at every birth. Who will this one be?

Look at her: the infant is an adult going through a process. The child is a lesson that the future one is learning. Cherish not the child so much as the adult she will become. Try to see the person she will be. Start with respect for the moment of her birth. Let her enter this world gently so that she will not be frightened by this new place in which she finds herself. This will set the pattern for a life—if she is born not knowing fear, she will not be frightened later on in life by all the other new things she will encounter. Birth is not a mother's moment—it may seem that way, but it is not her triumph—it is the new person's. We have not met the new one, but it is her needs that predominate.

Think of her: she exists only in present, she has no past and knows no future, she is timeless; she is a tethered link to some wondrous unknown person—messiah or thief, we have no way of knowing—unnumbered years along the path; but at this moment, now, she is only small, defenseless—a victim of events. Birth is her universe, an explosion of her universe; it happens and what is not-self begins to take shape. We must not separate this person from her oneness with the universe too forcefully or she will never feel part of it again, and yet it is all too easy to do just that. She exists only as a moment of sensation, easily terrified because she has no memories against which to measure now.

Every sensation is new—and if it is intense, it will be difficult to assimilate; it will imprint as pain, and all similar sensations ever after will resonate with that memory. There is no way to warn this small core of future-someone's past of what is about to happen. There is no way to prepare her beyond the natural ways of Mother Reethe, but those alone should be enough—if we listen to the guidance that the goddess has given us in our hearts.

Perhaps there should be a better way to come into the world than one that is fraught with so much possible pain and fear and terror, but perhaps there also is no better way for a person to be born than to come from the belly of another. It is the most intimate of all relationships, forging a bond of caring and interdependence between the two that will be as long as life. The new person will need someone to reassure her while she is discovering how best to become herself, to reaffirm that all her options are valid and that all experiments, even the failures, are necessary if learning and discovery are to occur. The birth-mother is entrusted with that mission, and it is not a mission to be taken lightly. We must not accept responsibility for another person's life unless we are also willing to accept the burden of her pain; else we injure not just the adult whose child we hold within our bodies, but the gods as well.

We cherish our small persons because we want to believe that they are parts of us; but let us put aside our own needs for the moment and consider her needs first—let the new one be a person for herself before she has to be a part of someone else's identity. These small innocent ones are gullible—they have an eager willingness to accept what we will do to them. They believe that what they see and hear us do is the way of all the world, the only way; they believe it because they have not yet learned there is an otherwise. Let us not damage them in sureness born of their acceptance, for in truth, we damage our future selves.

So let us learn from our children, and let us not be too certain of our truth—let us always question it, for only in questions is the growth of wisdom. Let us look at birth through the birthling's eyes, and let us orchestrate the moment to alleviate us—let us reward her need. We can see this truth tested every time a child is born and confirmed each time a small one smiles.

Let a mother squat to deliver—not only because this is the easiest position for her, but also because it is the easiest position for the new person to slide down the birth canal. Let the Healer and the other parents keep close, but let it be the new one's bless-father who keeps her hands ready to receive the small one. Let the room be dark and quiet, let the waiting hands be warm and caring and ready to support the small one's back—it will be curved at first; let her straighten it when she is ready, there is no need to rush. And now, as she comes out into the world, let the mother lie down on her back, and let the small one be placed gently on her stomach like a lover, here the two of them can caress each other, meet and rediscover one another through their touchings. They are lovers; they have been for months, but only now do they meet, embracing silently in the dark. Let the small lover be caressed and welcomed into the world. And if this is done properly, then the new person will not be startled or frightened and she will not cry—crying at birth is an ill omen, it speaks of terror and pain: here is one who has been hurt by birth—and she may be hurt by the rest of her life as well. Instead, soft sighs speak of love. Let there be silence now while the birth-mother whispers and gently reassures her little lover who has just begun to learn, so that her learning may be in joy. Let the first sigh be the child's, let her breathe gently; let her lungs taste the air because they want to, not because they must, not because they have been forced. Let the umbilicus remain until the new one has become sure and steady in her breathing, let her keep this link to her mother until she no longer needs it and only then let it be served; there is no need to rush, the small one has plenty of time, a whole lifetime, in which to learn and grow.

And always, let the mother's smile be the brightest light in the room; let the child's sighs be the loudest sound. Let the two of them grow closer for as long as it takes for both to relax. As the mother holds the new person close to her, as the small lover lies softly on her breast, let her feel that she is not an owner, as of an object, but a guide, a teacher, an equal partner in discovery, one who is perhaps farther down the path a bit, but no less an innocent in the eyes of Reethe and Dakka. Let the two, mother and child, be partners in that journey, let neither be beast nor burden; neither belongs to the other, for all of us belong to the gods first.

Leave the new person curled, arms and legs beneath her; let her uncurl her spine when she is ready. Let her stretch when she wants to, tentatively, for she is exploring a space vaster than any she has previously imagined. Let the mother's hands move slowly over her, not just as a massage, but as a caress, a communication of touch, a language of lovers, a reaffirmation of lovers. The mother makes love to this tiny person with her touch, and this is as it should be, for this is the only language this small one knows yet, but she knows it as an expert. The reassuring language of touch, stroke, caress, and gentle warmth. They have been more intimate than any other lovers have ever been or could ever hope to be. One has lived inside the other, and now that intimacy has been transformed into a larger one, an intimacy to be shared with the rest of the world, let the lover who carried soften the other's way into this world by using this familiar language to ease her transition. Let the new person be reassured that this new place is a good one.

And now, let the Watichi offer a gentle prayer—that this new person may travel through the pains of life as she has traveled through birth—with love and support, and that she will come out on the other side as she has come through birth—with a smile. It is a fortunate omen when the new one smiles at birth and a common one too; we can be proud that such is our way that our new ones smile so easily.

Now, let the child be bathed by her bless-father, gently dipped in warm oils, an almost-return to the gentle amniotic world not ten minutes lost, dipped and dipped again, a warm return to the sea of Mother Reethe, until she is relaxed and ready, yes, ready to explore some more of her new place, dipped and raised easily so she learns gently of the weight of herself, dipped and raised so she learns gently of the weight of the rest of the world. Then, finally dressed in warm blankets and returned to her mother, who has also been cleaned and dressed by the circle of well-wishers around her, the new person is again with the person who has given her a first place to grow and who will now help her through some of her future places. Let them smile and rest now, like lovers after their labors of joy. They are now and always will be the most intimate of lovers—the memory never completely fades; just as new person's entrance into the world, we restate the essence of our gods with every life we bear.