Moonstar

by David Gerrold

  Thoma said, “Kaspe, Olin, you may begin serving the gelatins.” Then, to the decision at hand, “When do you plan to start, Vialla?”

  Vialla raised her hands to protest, “Oh, please no—I have too many other things to do. The winter harvest will be poor enough as it is—”

  Thoma shrugged apologetically. “As you wish. It was a good idea. Perhaps you will have more time after one of the children drowns.”

  Vialla flushed. “You are too persuasive, Mamma,” she said affectionately. “You’re right, though. Nothing gets done unless someone is willing to accept responsibility for it. Perhaps we can share the responsibility for implementation.”

  “If I can get computer time, I can run an analysis of the permanent current patterns to find the best places to put the buoys,” Anvar put in.

  Thoma looked sidewise at her. “You don’t ever stop, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nagging us to get a computer of our own. Besides, if you’d look in the commonbook, you’d see that Grand-Uncle Kossar charted the permanent currents twenty years ago.” Anvar ignored the latter half of her statement. “If we did get a computer,” she said, “we could rent out time to the other families in the South Reach—perhaps enough to offset most of the investment.”

  “I have never denied that a computer would be a good investment,” Kuvig said, startling the others with her premature entrance into the discussion. Usually, she sat back and waited. “I would be particularly interested in one that can generate its own programs. We pay far too much for our software as it is. Timesharing with fourteen other circles gives us access for only our most important processing. But what I most wonder about is whether or not we have the skill yet to make optimum use of the computer’s potential—the answers are only as good as the questions asked.” She hesitated, shifted her mental gears and added, “I would be willing to undertake the investment expense if it were known that we would have members of this circle who were capable, ones who were educated to the knowledge necessary.”

  Most of the adults fell silent at that.

  “Perhaps,” Kuvig added, “we should consider it seriously for a change. We are no longer a wild frontier settlement. We have not been for some time. It is time that this family began to learn some gentility—and that includes you, Kaspe. Get down from that chandelier.”

  “I think we are genteel enough,” replied Hojanna. “Kaspe, you heard your grandpere.” This time, Kaspe complied.

  “I would like some of my offspring, at least, to have had the benefits of a full education. The Circle at Option is a first step.”

  “An important one,” agreed Vialla, who had done the study of it for the family—at Kuvig’s request. “But what we are talking about here has nothing to do with the college.”

  “It has everything to do with the college,” Kuvig replied. “If either Porro or Potto ever expects to be accepted in polite society, then they must have some experience with it. Option is a good place to learn.”

  Grandmere Thoma said slowly, “The children have always been raised at home, and have always made their Choice here or among their playmates.”

  “And some of those choices have been wrong,” said Grandmere Kirstegaarde.

  At that, there was silence. The family did not like to refer to Fellip, who had chosen incorrectly and returned to the sea out of sorrow. But Kirstegaarde added, “Fellip was forced into a bad decision because someone”—and here, she avoided looking directly at Kuvig, but the words were like knives—“someone wanted another daughter. Fellip wanted Dakka, but someone”—and she paused again—“insisted that we follow . . . let me see, what was it that time? Geneticism?”

  Kuvig was rigid. She looked at the wife. “Kirstegaarde, there are times when you make it very difficult to love you. Do you not think I have tortured myself for that mistake a thousand times over? Do you not think that I still cry for my lost son? We gave Fellip a Dakkarik wake so that she might live in the sea as a male, but I have never forgiven myself for being so insensitive and everyone in the family knows it. How many times must you reopen the wound?” And then, in a softer tone, she added, “That is why I encourage the freedom of choice now—so that we will never have another Fellip—that is why I want Porro and Potto to go to Option.” Kuvig lowered her hands to her lap and fell silent.

  Kirstegaarde opened her mouth to speak, but Thoma turned on her and took her by the arm. “Kirstegaarde,” she said softly, “why must you always use that terrible memory as a weapon? The rest of us have forgiven, or at least learned to accept, and we bear our sorrows in common—but why must you continue to sidetrack every meeting of decisions with that terrible look of accusation and blame? Why must you trouble Kuvig with it?

  “Kuvig was the father and I was the mother.” But that was no answer. Fellip had been dead for sixteen years—and still Kirstegaarde carried her sorrow with her. Perhaps her sorrow had poisoned her mind, for she was unable to see anything except through the filters of her blame.

  The others looked uncomfortable. Suko said quickly, “I think that dinner has ended now. Let us excuse the children to their games while we retire to the commonroom. I shall brew some tea and Thoma will shred some herbs for smoke. There is speaking to be done tonight.”

  Kuvig nodded. She had been struck full force again with Kirstegaarde’s blame, and all present knew that she would be crying again in the middle of the night. She would do no further speaking tonight. Vialla and perhaps Hojanna would have to speak her positions instead. Hojanna was already herding the younger children out. Porro and Potto began clearing the table. Suko and Thoma began laying out the pipes and cups.

  The family decision had been postponed until the family could again be a family. First they would drink, then they would smoke—then they would perform the rituals that would remind them of the love that made them a family in the first place. The pearl of contention that Kirstegaarde carried within her always must be expelled into the sea—or at least buried for a while—before the family could again be a true circle. Only then might the decision-making process continue.

  In the end, it was decided that Porro and Potto would attend the Circle at Option, there to study computing as well as other forms of island management. They would also be allowed to live at Option for their full moment of Choice.

  At the end of the evening, the joybuds in the flower piece had opened. All but one of them was pink tinged with white, shading to deep purple at their centers. The one exception was colored bright scarlet, and Jobe shivered when she saw it, wondering what it portended, and wondering, too, whose flower it was.

  “I remember my dolls vividly—in some ways, they were my closest childhood companions. There was Rhinga and Dhola and Gahoostawik—Gahoostawik was my favorite, she had been with me longer than I could remember; she was probably my first real doll. Hojanna said she was the first of my dolls that I had named myself. Once a year, shortly before my birthday, Gahoostawik would always disappear for a few days, returning only just in time for the inevitable party—but always dressed up with a new coat of paint and new hair; if she needed it, and always a new set of clothes to match the new ones I received. I guess I always regarded her as a special kind of sibling, closer than a twin. Gahoostawik grew up with me, part of me, but separate, like a little alter ego, as if I could sometimes view myself from a slightly removed perspective. All of us had our own special dolls that we kept protected from the others. Some dolls were not for sharing—as if even the touch of another child would contaminate them with an alien identity.

  “Later on, there were other dolls—Wallan, Bargle, Arlie and T’stanawan—but Gahoostawik remained the one at the center of the circle. I guess I was the spoiled brat of the family; every time we had a holiday, a festive or just a visit from a distant relative, I received another doll. Part of it, I guess, was that they had to give me something to play with so I wouldn’t bother the adults while they talked—but part of it, I think, was the game we always played while w
e tried to make a name for the new doll.

  “Every doll had to have a name that fit her personality—and sometimes the search would go on for several triads with a variety of names being tried on for size until we found one that seemed to fit. It confused my family no end to hear me call a doll by one name on one day and then by another on the next. You could almost hear Grandpere Suko cringe every time I got a new doll—‘Oh, no; here we go again.’ And then, you could always hear her long sigh of relief when the name was finally settled. ‘Well, thank Reethe for that.’

  “Because I was small for my age, I spent a lot of time running with the younger siblings; most of my friends were at least a year younger than I—it made me feel like a leader. I suppose I felt a little out of place with them because of the perceived age difference—even six months can be a lot to a child—but not as out of place as I felt with those who were supposed to be my peers. Many of the latter seemed to be too much in a hurry to grow up, they used to talk of Choice long before they were even near the age of blush. They would wonder aloud whether it was best to have a penis or vagina and they would relate all the information and misinformation they had heard about the various advantages and disadvantages of each. ‘You have to squat to pee if you choose Reethe—’ ‘But you can’t have babies if you go for Dakka—’ ‘Reethe will make you top-heavy—’ ‘And Dakka makes you swell and dangle—’

  “Those who had reached blush were like explorers going on ahead, but something about the territory changed them. Even as they sparkled with their newfound knowledge, even as they glowed, they grew separated from their childish pasts. And they became reluctant to send back any but the tersest and most obscure of messages about what lay ahead for the rest of us—even though they claimed they were being quite coherent; it was just the lack of common experience that made it hard to understand what they were speaking of—they used words we’d never heard before. ‘When you get there, you’ll know,’ was the easiest answer for them to give, and consequently the thought of blush became as terrifying as it was intriguing.

  “We used to imitate them a lot, not really knowing if it was in homage or hostility. We mocked them, yet we envied them, exaggerated all the things they did that seemed extreme or false. We used to paint ourselves with adult faces or try on adult clothes—we giggled with pretended blush. We posed and postured and tried to see ourselves as wither Dakkarik or Rethrik. We made great games out of each decision. Dardis would dance around, laughing and pointing, saying ‘Today, Jobe will be a birth-mother; Olin, you’re a father. You will be for Dakka, Kaspe, and I will be for Reethe—’ And then we’d all break up in laughter, for it was known by all of us that Dardis wanted Dakka; that was all she ever spoke of. To hear her make a claim for Reethe was outrageous at the least. And when the joke was over, she would say, ‘All right, I guess I’ll be a Dakkarik instead—’ That’s when the game would usually end before beginning, because all the good parts had been taken by all the older and more dominant children. Sensing the injustice of having to be what others had decided I must be, instead of being allowed to choose my own role as they had, I would complain. It wasn’t fair that I should have the baby’s part, especially when I was not the youngest playing; so I’d complain, I was good at that, insisting that I be allowed to be a Dakkarik like the others once in a while too. Like always. (And if it had been reversed, I’d have wanted to be Rethrik; it was neither Dakka nor Reethe I wanted, but acceptance.) Except one time when well-intentioned Kirstegaarde told them to let me play as Dakka, the game just didn’t work; I was too smug at having won, they were too resentful. Which is why I was excluded from the games a lot—which is also why I kept getting dolls, so I would at least be happy playing alone. At least my dolls could not argue back. They always had to follow my lead, I rarely needed consideration for their roles—which is probably why most of those around me were far better integrated socially, and also far more conscious of impending Choice and its inherent roles.

  “It was after Dardis died and returned to the sea—one darkday she heard the huuru call and by the next dawning she was dead—that Kaspe and Olin began to talk seriously of blush. Without Dardis to guide the game and influence their Choices, they seemed ill at ease and at a loss for motivation; but as the shock grew into numbness and feeling began to return—too strong to be denied for long—they began to consider their respective Choices on their own; and as they did, I too began to realize that the moment I had always thought to be distant and unspecified was in actuality looming up at me within a measurable time.

  “Potto and Porro were already off at Option, and Grandpere was making plans to send the three of us as well, so sure was she that Option was a proper course and would insure a life of inner happiness and peace—except that Kaspe abruptly fell in love with Toko from the Outland Islands and moved off suddenly to settle with her and three others in a brand-new circle. The surprise was that she chose for Reethe—or perhaps it was not such a surprise at all. Toko was already Dakkarik; they loved each other very much, and Kaspe knew that if she chose for Dakka, then the two of them would have to marry other wives into their circle and would not as often have the chance to make love with each other. So she chose for Reethe so she could hold her Toko close at night and bear her children and be her lover all the time, even though to all the rest of us her soul seemed mostly Dakka—but such is love and Reethe and Dakka live in all of us and either may express herself in love, and often they take turns It’s said a person isn’t whole until she has been both and accepted both within herself. I think that such was the case with Kaspe. Toko loved her all the more for her decision; they were very close because they understood each other.

  “Because of that, Olin, who had been closest to Kaspe, decided not to go to Option. She and Kaspe had planned to choose for Dakka and then to start a circle of their own. Now, it seemed to Olin, Kaspe had made a selfish Choice and left no room for Olin in it. Olin sensed she could not fit in Kaspe’s new circle and went looking for a circle of her own. As for me—I was happy with my dolls still. Perhaps I was afraid of blush, so afraid I tried to pretend it wasn’t there, hiding in the curtain of tomorrow. As I grew closer to that time, I withdrew more and more into the world of my doll-friends, as if trying to retreat back into the safety of my infancy. I’m sure the family worried, but none of them spoke of it to me; they must have hoped that when the time came and all my juices started flowing properly, biology would take care of the matter that psychology wouldn’t.

  “Sola was the one who gently broke the pattern that was forming—she was smart enough to know how to put some doors and windows into them. Sola visited our island as often as she could—we were one of the few places she felt welcome; she was always careful not to come too often, though; she knew the discomfort that her presence caused to certain members of the circle, and she did not want to put a strain on her relationship—even though Grandpere Suko and Grandmere Thoma had both said quite firmly and quite loudly that as long as they were the heads of this family, Sola would always be welcome at our table—and that as long as this family existed to honor their memories then that long also would Sola be welcome on our island—and that as long as any who heard these words still lived, then the obligation still was on them to honor them as holy trusts. All of which was pretty binding, even in a family as unorthodox as ours—we were radical in what we thought and old-fashioned in the way we lived. Those few who had been grumbling loudly muted their grumbling down to a mutter, or at least an occasional look of distaste, and the subject was never discussed again—and never in the presence of the grandperes. Grandpere Kuvig had been far terser. She said if there was someone in the circle who did not like our Sola, she could always marry out. And that was that—it made me proud to know how strong our family ties could be. Besides, I loved Aunt Sola very much. “I guess she was my favorite aunt. She used to tell me stories of sea goblins, flying dragons, wild winds and distant mountain castles. There were always two brave friends who went to seek them, sometimes the
y had to battle, other times they used their wits, but always in their struggles side by side they’d discover how much they loved each other—mostly as friends, but sometimes as lovers; in the latter cases they would choose for Reethe and Dakka and live happily golden atolls in the sky. Those were favorite kinds of stories and I wished for a friend like that, just one, who’d share my dreams, and then we’d make our Choices and be lovers after that. I’d beg Sola for her stories every time she came.

  “She often told them with my dolls as characters, dressing them appropriately—a kind of impromptu puppet show, it was a private game for just the two of us. She had a graceful way of doing it; so gentle was her manner that she was the one adult whom I’d allow to hold Gahoostawik. She would pretend to talk to each doll—with sincerity and deep respect, not patronizing as another adult might do, but as if she recognized the life within each one. I guess she knew that life had come from me and to mock it would be to mock the one who’d given it. Sola was the only one who recognized my dolls as friends and treated them as such; which was why we shared so much, we shared the secrets of my dolls—she asked each one if she had any stories to tell today. I remember, once, I’d giggled and said, ‘Of course not—they don’t go anywhere without me.’ And Sola had looked at me sternly and said, ‘How do you know what they do at night, after you’re asleep?’ And I thought about it for a while, unable to think of an answer, and never questioned it again. Who knew where they went? Sola did—she asked them; she never told me everything, but she shared some of the things they said. Each doll would whisper in her ear—sometimes reporting I’d been good or bad as well. It scared me to think that dolls were also spying on me, but Sola reassured me that they spoke with love, and when they said that I’d been bad, they took great care to add that I’d not been very bad. But finally, after all of this, she’d look at me and say, ‘Do you know what these dolls have all been doing? Such adventures!’ And I—with eyes as large as moondrops—would look at her and say, ‘No, what?’ And then Sola would tell me how Gahoostawik had gone out the night before to ride the Stingfish King, and I would laugh and say, ‘Oh, no—Gahoostawik’s a coward, just like me. She wouldn’t do a thing like that.’