Of Fresh Fish and Rotten Eggs
Charrelle squeezes my hand so tightly, she’s cutting off the circulation to my fingers. It’s the first time either of us has visited the cerebral cortex. Our first Knowing Walk. Our Zenzee’s brain is not a particularly handsome organ, just a large ring shape, the surface blue gray with a maze of winding grooves and deep crevices you can get lost in forever if you’re not careful. Thrill seekers are driven to conquer it, daring to hike all the way around, risking shock from the electrical impulses that occasionally flicker too close to the membrane’s surface. There’s not a single person alive who doesn’t know of Clap Ardigan, first woman to circumnavigate the ring. Took her eight whole days, and she didn’t have any of that fancy equipment the hikers use now. No maps. No impulse disruptors. Just rope, intuition, and a death wish.
But no thrill seekers are present today, nor have there been since right after exodus was called and then called off. When Doka established the ERI, their first act was to cut all unnecessary travel to vital organs. No more spelunking in the liver. No more trysts upon the great aperture, our Zenzee’s ever-open maw. Survival games were eliminated across the board, but the complaints were few since life itself had become a game of survival. Doka had petitioned for the Knowing Walks to be suspended, too, but even his best arguments and logic couldn’t sway the Senate to end one of our most sacred, closely guarded rituals. It is here where our ancestors first greet an unborn child, in that liminal space between birth and death. It is a rite of passage for all expectant mothers, one that was practiced by everyone—from the highest-ranking members of the Contour class to the lowest of bowel-scrubbing beastworkers. If there is one place aboard our Zenzee where everyone is treated equally, it is here.
I look down at our map, then back up at the ring. Three of the towering control nodes are visible, the devices that allow navigators to control our Zenzee’s movements. I turn the map so that the nodes printed on the page are in line with the nodes standing tall in front of us. “This way,” I say to Charrelle. “I think.”
“You think?” Charrelle asks, her nose crinkling up. “If this is supposed to be some kind of trust exercise, then I’m not sure we’re going to pass it.”
I grit my teeth and sweeten my demeanor. She was the one who wanted me to be her midwife so badly. She could have picked someone else. Someone who’s been here before and has even the slightest inkling of what to expect. I study the pattern of grooves on the map, then match them to the ones in front of us. “This way, I’m sure of it,” I reply.
That’s all Charrelle needs, and she smiles and nods and takes a few steps, only to promptly lose her balance. Instinct spurs me, and I rush to catch her, the cortex’s surface suddenly slick under my feet. We both fall, though I shield Charrelle from direct impact, and we both go sliding down a deep dark crevice. We stop abruptly, wedged in between the folds of flesh. I cling to Charrelle. Had either of us fallen individually, we would have slipped right into these unforgiving depths, but our bodies—pressed belly to belly—are just wide enough not to sink through.
“Seske! You said you were sure!” Charrelle yells at me.
I take several deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves, trying to bite back my words, my anger, but it’s useless. “Daide’s bells, I’m not sure! I don’t have any clue what I’m doing. Why did you even choose me to be your midwife anyway?”
Charrelle’s lips purse, irritation plastered all over her face, but before she can answer me, a rope ladder falls down beside us. I look up and see Madam Wade, our soothsayer, staring at us, slowly shaking her head. “Should have stuck to the path,” she says.
“Should have marked the path better,” I mutter.
I help Charrelle get a good grip on the ladder, then follow up behind her. Madam Wade assists us the rest of the way, helping us to find our footing. She’s bundled up tight in several layers of day moss, which I could have figured out by smell even if I hadn’t seen her already. Large copper earrings dangle from her lobes, with matching sets in her nose and brows, and her braids sit simply upon her head, tied to no Line, but dyed teal, gold, and fuchsia and adorned with varying numbers of copper beads at their ends. They tell a story, I can feel that in my gut for sure; but what that story is, I have no clue.
“Thank you,” I say to Madam Wade. The last time I saw her, she was reading my first rags during my coming out party. It seems all my encounters with her are destined to be fraught with drama. “I must have strayed off course.”
Charrelle sucks her teeth in disapproval.
“Mmm,” Madam Wade says. Her smooth, brown skin catches a flash of bluish light. A frown lands upon her lips. “Storm’s coming. We’d better get inside,” she says. And in the distance, I see an arc of lightning jump from the tip of one control node tower to another. The navigators must be getting ready to adjust the Zenzee’s course.
Charrelle and I don’t waste time, following on Madam Wade’s heels, no desire at all to get caught up in a brain storm. We enter her lair, the entrance marked by a large copper grommet inset into the cortex, revealing matte black tissue beneath. Inside, the floors and walls are covered with exposed synapses, their ends glowing faintly like distant stars. I restrain my desire to touch them. Even with impulse disruptors in place, I get the feeling that they would shock me something good.
Madam Wade lays hands upon Charrelle’s still-flat stomach, then looks at me. “Seske. You’re here to serve as midwife?” The surprise in her voice doesn’t faze me. I’d prepared long and hard for what I’d say to her.
“I am. I have been through the birthing process, as is requisite.” My words come out too mechanical, but if I can get through this inquisition, we can start focusing on uniting the ancestors with our unborn child, which I’m much more prepared to handle. “I am ready to support Charrelle as best I can.”
Madam Wade is well within her right to challenge that my pregnancy wasn’t valid since it involved a giant alien egg that had wrecked my womb before I’d deposited it into another Zenzee. She could also mention that my gestation had lasted mere days, and that my belly had swelled up to the size of a bog melon over the course of only a few hours. Part of me wishes she would reject me as midwife so I wouldn’t have to deal with the memories, the hurt, the phantom pains, but I’d already promised Doka, and as much as he irritates me sometimes, I don’t want to let him down. Or myself down. I know I can do this.
Madam Wade stares at me for what feels like quite a long time, and I can feel Charrelle fidgeting. Or is that me?
“Very well. Let us conjure the ancestors,” she says with an exasperated sigh.
She walks to the synapse at the center of the room, the largest of them all, but also the dimmest. Around the perimeter of the divot, she lights a series of candles. Then from one of the tall shelves lining the far wall, she hems and haws over hundreds of neatly arranged burlap sacks. Finally, she chooses one and unties the drawstring. Inside are bones. Small bones that look almost like phalli. Nearly uniform in size and shape. Fifty or so if I had to guess. Madam Wade sprinkles them onto the synapse and spreads them out so none are touching, taking care that they don’t tumble down the fist-sized holes in the divot.
“Shoes off,” she commands Charrelle, then has her sit on a stool and thoroughly cleanses her feet with petal water, taking care to work between each toe and under all the nails. She then escorts Charrelle’s to the center of the synapse divot, which is free of bones. “We will see if the ancestors sit with your child.”
Charrelle trembles there, looking like not much more than a child herself. I don’t know how to best comfort her, so I press closer so I can hold her hand at least, but Madam Wade swats me away.
“You’ll confuse the ancestors,” she whispers harshly at me. So I step back and watch.
Charrelle holds her arms straight down at her sides, staring at the small bones scattered around her bare feet. For a long time, nothing happens, but then a low hum fills the room. The floor beneath Charrelle vibrates, the synapse building
up tension, as if it wants to fire but there are too many disrupters here holding it at bay. One of the bones twitches, then turns slowly, the pointy end facing away from Charrelle. Charrelle lets out an audible whimper. Another bone turns away, and another.
Madam Wade lets out an undignified harrumph as over a quarter of the bones rearrange themselves, poking out like the petals of a flower.
“What? What is it?” I ask.
Madam Wade shakes her head. “The ancestors have spoken. They will not sit with this child. They offer no protection or guidance.”
Charrelle’s legs tremble weakly, then she keels over, landing in the bones. She begins to heave. I run over to her and throw my arm over her back as she sobs. Madam Wade doesn’t stop me. Tiny bone pieces press hard into my knees, cutting at my skin, but I don’t care. I am here to comfort Charrelle, so I ignore my own pain.
“You’re sure?” I say to Madam Wade. “Can’t we try again? Different ancestors?”
“It is unfortunate, but not uncommon among first pregnancies,” Madam Wade says with a shrug, then tugs at the length of one of her braids, coming to the beaded end and twisting them as though it’s a nervous habit. “I suggest that Charrelle visit the spirit wall more often during her next. Twice a day at least. It will help build favor with the ancestors.”
“Next, what?” I blurt out, but Madam Wade is already shoving a glass jar into my hands. Inside swims a small throttle fish, only slightly bigger than my thumb. It gestures rudely at me, then swims to the other side, pretending not to see me.
“This is why it is important to choose a proper midwife,” Madam Wade says to Charrelle. “Someone who’s already been through this. I have neither the time nor patience to explain the process to both of you.”
“Please, she’s scared,” I say. “Don’t use my own inexperience to punish her. What do we do with this fish? Offer it as sacrifice to the spirit wall?”
“It is too late for prayers. The fetus must be removed,” Madam Wade says, mustering up the smallest bit of compassion.
“Charrelle is not sending our child to the wall,” I say, balking at the audacity of such a suggestion. “Especially just because some old bones say to do so!”
Madam laughs. “The wall is not meant for those with whom the ancestors do not sit. But the throttle fish will smooth over your grief. It will take the fetus for you, merge with it. It will become something of the child you would have had. After you are done here, place it back in the jar and keep it in there one month. When it is done molting, you can say your goodbyes and let it free into the swamp of your choosing.”
“What?” Charrelle and I say, incredulous. And then it all hits me. Is that why the throttle fish are so well cared for? Is that why they attract so many visitors? Why the throttle fish look so human?
I shake my head, not wanting to believe it. “You can’t be serious! This is barbarous. This is not who we are as a people.” But even as the words escape my mouth, I do not believe them. I know exactly what our people are capable of.
Madam has truly lost all her patience now. She pushes Charrelle onto her back and spreads her knees apart. “Open the jar,” she orders me, then to Charrelle, “Don’t fight it. It’ll only make things worse.”
Charrelle looks to me, panic in her eyes. She blinks and giant tears roll down her cheeks. “Seske,” she whispers.
“Charrelle,” I say, offering her my hand. She takes it and squeezes tight. I know this is scary for her, scary for both of us, but I also know that having a shunned child will bring shame upon our family. Our Line would effectively end with us. Everything we’ve all worked for would slowly crumble. I stare Charrelle in the eyes, realizing that even though the road ahead would be rough, so much possibility grows within her. “Do you want to do this?” I ask her.
“Doka would—”
“Forget about Doka. Forget about everyone. Do you want to do this?” I squeeze her hand back.
She thinks for a long moment, then shakes her head.
“Then we’re not doing this. I don’t care what the ancestors say. This is our child, and we will not harm it.” I pull Charrelle into my arms. She buries her face into my chest.
Madam harrumphs again, then gathers her bones back up and places them into the sack. “If you need to mull on it a couple days, you may. Don’t wait too long, though. The ancestors may renounce your entire womb. I’ve had one client who waited too long. Her next four pregnancies, the ancestors completely turned their backs to her. I’ve never seen the bones spin away so quickly.” Then, as to emphasize the point, Madam shoos us both away.
I spend the rest of the evening comforting Charrelle. I send for my will-mother. We’re not supposed to have favorite parents. We’re especially not supposed to favor the mother who had carried us in her womb, but I’d always felt a deeper connection with Meme. She glances at the jar when she comes into the bedroom, then looks sadly at Charrelle.
“I didn’t know who else to call,” I tell my mother.
“It happens,” Meme says. “It’s best not to worry over it for too long. I can help. I promise to be gentle.”
Charrelle seizes up against me. I feel every single muscle in her body tense. I tighten my grip around her.
“No, no. We’re not doing that.”
“I understand your hesitation. I had the same feelings when I went through this. And it’s true that some children are born without a single favor from the ancestors. Some of them even go on to lead perfectly normal lives. But the stigma will always follow them. They have to work so, so much harder to even gain an ounce of respect, and it’s always a precarious thing. So much of life comes down to our Lines.”
“But all that, it doesn’t matter so much anymore,” I say. “Not with all the work Doka’s put into making things more equal.”
“I know. And while that’s true for a lot of people, your family is under so much scrutiny as it is. I’ve heard the whispers about those trying to unseat Doka. The threats are real. You know that I am on your side, but I’m afraid another setback at such a tender moment would undo all of his work.” Meme puts her hand on the jar’s lid and leaves it resting there. “We’ll tell Doka it was a false pregnancy. That Charrelle ate some underfermented eggs and got a bad case of intestinal lice. We’ve all been there.” She smiles warmly, but despite her sweet and calm demeanor, I get the gut-churning feeling that my mother won’t take no for an answer. Having my trust in my favorite parent turn so quickly comes as a shock, but I can’t let her see it affect me.
I nod and return her wan grin. “Can Charrelle and I have a moment?” I whisper to my mother. “So I can light some candles and calm her down first?”
Meme kisses me on the forehead. “Of course, dear. I’ll go get some towels and hot water ready.”
And then she’s gone. Charrelle is laid back on the bed, nearly despondent. “Come on, Charrelle, get up. We’re getting out of here.”
“What?” she mutters.
“I promised Doka I’d take care of you, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make it so. I’ll pray ten times a day to the ancestors if I have to, but they are going to sit with this child.”
I stuff Charrelle’s belongings into a bag, then hook my arm around hers and help her to the window.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
I heave a sigh. “Somewhere safe.”
Charrelle smiles at me, and for the first time since we left Madam Wade’s lair, I see the light shining behind her eyes.
“What is it?” I ask her.
“You wanted to know why I chose you to be my midwife. This. This is why. I know we don’t always get along the greatest, but I trust you with my life and with that of our child.”
I smile back. Maybe choosing her to join with our family Line hadn’t been such a mistake after all. And it warms me to hear “our child.”
I want to say something kind in return, but I hear Meme’s footsteps coming down the hall. No time for mushy sentiments. I push Charrelle out the
window. “Move it. We’ve got to hurry.”
Doka
Of Bloated Chambers and Starving Thrones
The Senate chamber is packed. Every single chair on the floor is filled, and advisors and community counselors are spilling into the observation galleys up above, but the proceedings have yet to start. I press through the crowd to the front of the room, making eye contact with my allies and offering them plaintive smiles in line with this desperate situation. I’d taken heed of the words Baradonna had spoken to me, way back in the bile ducts: Trust is such a fragile thing. It’s grown and sown, not commanded and demanded. Though my power as Matris has been impeded, I haven’t let that slow me down. Instead of feeling defeated, I’ve entrenched myself deeper into the daily proceedings of the Senate and have logged more hours among them than any other Matris in recent history. I may not be able to make unilateral decrees, but by holding a slim majority of followers, I’ve been able to press through some of the most contentious policies that have made true symbiosis with our Zenzee a real possibility.
And there’s a slim minority who is not happy at all about that.
I catch Tesaryn Wen scowling at me from the officer’s well. The bowed table where the Senate leadership sits is stretched between us like a barrier. She’s ever the politician, though, and quickly eases her face into a look of delight.
“Matris Kaleigh!” she says, arms outstretched to greet me in a hug as I round the table to take my seat. I don’t want to go anywhere near her, but to shirk away from such a kind, innocent-seeming gesture would only brew more doubt in the minds of all those watching. I let her envelop me into her prickly embrace. “We were so worried you wouldn’t be able to make it. I didn’t realize I’d given Kallum the wrong time until after he’d left. We were about to page you, but thankfully that guard of yours showed up just in time.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I mumble. A few hours, my ass. It was one thing to sabotage my reign, but to do it through my own husband was particularly cruel. It didn’t help that Kallum had his sights firmly set on securing a seat for himself in the Senate. He’d been born with the requisite matriline and a girl’s body to match, but his heart and mind had always pulled him toward boyhood, then later, toward manhood. We were best friends through all of it, and I sat in the first row, smiling ear to ear during his bud and capping ceremony. I’d witnessed several ceremonies just like it, so I thought I knew what to expect—a celebration of life, of change, of new names, and finally, the releasing of ties to the family’s matriline, since as a man, he’d no longer be allowed to retain it. And Kallum’s ceremony had gone beautifully and without incident . . . right up to the point he was supposed to renounce claim to his Lines. He’d locked eyes with me, and suddenly there was something in my heart that I suppose had always been there, hidden in the shadows or buried like a seed. Kallum refused to relinquish his Line and all the rights and privileges that came with it, and instead ran back up the aisle as the ushers chased after him, bidding him to come back, as if he’d stolen something.
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