Sundry Days

by Donna Callea

  “But it’s frowned upon and considered immoral. It’s not a good thing for families,” Tom points out.

  “Well, what David and Rebekah have done is not a good thing for our family,” counters Simon.

  He’s right. But maybe it’s good for them. That’s all we can hope.

  “I don’t think David and Rebekah meant to hurt us,” I say to Simon. “They just feel an unusual and overwhelming need to be only with each other sexually. That’s not going to happen to you. When you come of age you’ll probably be first on every 18-year-old woman’s list to become a husband. You’ve inherited the good looks and fine characteristics of all your fathers.”

  Simon rolls his eyes, embarrassed at the praise, but pleased. He’s nothing like David.

  I worry about him, though, more each year. And Ethan and baby Aaron, too. The way things are going, none of them may ever have wives. The female birth rate is becoming steadily worse. I think our species is headed for extinction. How else to explain what’s happening? I just pray that if we’re all fated to fade away, we do it as painlessly as possible.

  “So, what does Dora write?” Tom asks me, trying to change the subject.

  I open her letter and read silently for a bit, before I can find a passage to read out loud.

  She thanks us all for taking care of Rebekah. I clear my throat. She says to tell you, John, and Danny, that you’ve fathered a wonderful girl. And that, in her opinion, David is a very fine young man.

  “I’m optimistic,” she writes, “that they are our future.”

  Part 2

  ~~~

  "Yet all is not lost. Human beings, while capable of the worst, are also capable of rising above themselves, choosing again what is good, and making a new start."

  — Pope Francis

  Chapter 39

  Rebekah

  Who Knows

  In New Eden almost everyone refers to The Designer as She. Or Holy One.

  I like the idea of a female Designer. But really, if that’s the case, what is She thinking? What is She up to, making girls so rare? And who or what is The Designer—or Holy One—anyway? Maybe just an idea that we’ve all thought up because we need to believe in something.

  I suppose it makes sense that somewhere, somehow, some unfathomable cosmic entity got everything started and maybe still takes an interest in us. Or maybe not. I don’t think we’re all here by accident.

  But how is anyone supposed to know?

  David prays. He says he prayed continuously when I had appendicitis and could have died. He credits The Designer with saving me. I’m glad praying helped David get through that time. I don’t know if it helped me. It could be that I’m alive now because The Designer heard David’s prayers. Who knows?

  I’ve prayed, too. For David. For Willa when we left Eden Falls.

  But neither David or I are inclined to be religious. Not if being religious means following a certain set of beliefs or adhering to specific traditions or feeling compelled to worship publicly with others.

  Religion is something we’ve never discussed much. Except how offensively patriarchal it was in Eden Falls. Religion was not a big deal in the Coalition. At least, it wasn’t in our family. David’s father Tom liked to tell us about his Jewish roots, especially during the Easter-Esther Festival—which was a personally memorable event for me since it gave me the excuse to start posing as a boy. But there was certainly nothing spiritual about that.

  I remember there was a section on religions of the ancient world in my history curriculum, when I was home-schooled. Uncle Seth was my teacher for that. He’s a storyteller himself—he writes novels—and was very animated when we got to the part about Greek mythology. So many gods and goddesses. So many imaginative plots. But it seemed strange to me that such an advanced ancient civilization would base its religion on what were clearly made-up stories.

  Then there’s the Bible, in which The Designer is referred to as God—the one and only God—who created man in his own masculine image in the Garden of Eden. As a kind of afterthought, he made a woman from the man’s rib. In the second part of the book, the New Testament, God—out of love for the world—sent his son Jesus to Earth to bring everyone the promise of eternal life. And then, somehow, Jesus also turned out to be God. I don’t understand. But I’ve never read the Bible myself, only heard some of the stories from Uncle Seth.

  It was after The Great Flood that people began thinking of God as The Designer, which is really just another job title. Maybe with all the terrible things that were happening, it was reassuring to envision a cosmic designer in charge of everything past, present and future.

  Of course, in Eden Falls, The Designer was not reassuring at all, and was most definitely a he. The Righteous Ones were very obsessed with the concept of a punitive, hard-hearted, masculine deity who didn’t think much of women. They created him in their own image, I think. And they insisted that everyone go along with their vision.

  “I don’t like being told what to believe or what to do.” That’s the first thing I tell the wine traders—Zora and Abraham, Miriam and Edward—when we meet them in Winnipeg.

  “Who does?” says Zora. She’s very old. Her silvery white hair falls in a long, thick braid down her back. There are laugh-lines etched around her eyes even when she’s not laughing. And she wears a shapeless, softly woven purple dress—randomly decorated with embroidered flowers—that reaches her sandaled feet.

  Despite my best efforts to be objective this time, I like her immediately.

  “You can believe whatever you want, or not believe at all. I don’t think the Holy One minds,” says Zora’s husband, Abraham. “She stays pretty busy in New Eden—keeping us out of mischief, listening to our selfish little prayers, laughing at our nonsense. At least, that’s what I think she does. Who knows?”

  David and I look at each other. What kind of people are these?

  They knew we were looking for them. They found us, before we could find them, and sat down and talked with us in the lobby of the Birch and Bay—a place they’d never before frequented in Winnipeg.

  Miriam, who looks much younger than Zora and wears pants, leather boots, and a yellow embroidered smock, tells us straight away that they’d heard about us—a young couple who only ever want to have sex with each other.

  She says it that way. And the others all kind of chuckle. But not as if they’re making fun of us. More like we’re all in on the same joke.

  “We want to join a monogamist settlement,” David tells them. “We had a very bad experience in Eden Falls. So we want to make sure we’ll be a good fit this time. Rebekah and I left home because we love each other—because we only want to be together. Not just for sex, but for everything. We’re monogamists.”

  “Monogamists. What a big word,” says Zora smiling. She’s still got all her teeth, and I think to myself that she’s really beautiful. “Yes, you can be monogamists in New Eden. That’s what most of us are.” She reaches for Abraham’s gnarled hand, and gives him a little shoulder shove.”

  “Most of you?” I ask.

  “Well, the children aren’t monogamists. The little demons. They can’t be, can they, until they find mates to love, and that can take some time. And some never do. Some also make mistakes choosing at first. Not everyone is as lucky as you two,” quips Zora.

  But what about the boys? What about all the extra boys?

  “How do you work it out with the boys?” asks David. “All the extra boys? What do you do with them?”

  “We don’t do anything with them,” says Miriam.

  “We don’t kill them or eat them or cut out their testicles, if that’s what you’re thinking,” pipes up Zora. She thinks it’s funny. They all do. But David and I don’t laugh.

  “You’ll see if you come with us,” says Abraham.

  That’s not good enough.

  “So you have pleasure women like everywhere else,” I conclude. “And women who have multiple husbands, in addition to monogamist couples.”<
br />
  “No,” says Miriam patiently. “Just couples. We don’t have many rules, but we do insist on pair-bonding when it comes to sex. All the children are taught this. If they can’t comply when they’re older, they’re sent packing. But that doesn’t happen very often.”

  “You’ll understand more if you become part of our community,” says Abraham. “Some things we can’t discuss with outsiders.”

  “We don’t like unhappy surprises,” I say.

  “I don’t think you’d be unhappy in New Eden,” he replies. “It’s a very peaceable place.”

  It must be that they recruit single women they think would be a good fit when they come to Winnipeg or travel to other places. There can’t be many couples like David and me. We’ve always been an aberration.

  We ask them more pointed questions, but only get evasive answers. They tell us that there are several other monogamist communities spread throughout the northwest, between Thunder Bay and Winnipeg, and beyond. New Eden is the oldest.

  “With the notable exception of Eden Falls, you’d probably find any one of them a good place to be,” says Abraham. “Of course, we consider our little corner of the world the most blessed. But that’s to be expected.”

  Finally, Edward, who’s maybe middle-aged and has a neatly-trimmed brown beard, asks us if we know anything about growing grapes, tending vineyards, making wine.

  “If you join us, you’d have to work, you know,” he says. “In your free time, of course. When you’re not busy having sex with each other.”

  He’s teasing us. I blush. I never blush.

  But then I relax. David, too. These people are not like Jacob. They’re not like anyone we’ve ever met. We’re skeptical, of course, but also—for some reason—inclined to trust them.

  We tell them about our training, our experience. And they tell us we’d be welcome additions to New Eden, which is mostly self-sufficient. They grow their own food—vegetables, some grains, legumes and fruits—and make most of what they need. They bring their wine—the best in the world, according to Edward—to Winnipeg in the fall and spring. But if they had to, they could pretty much do without what the city has to offer.

  They trade for supplies of sea sponges—which I find reassuring—tools, boots, some pharmaceuticals, spices. Things like that. And I imagine they also probably go back home each time with a good-natured young pleasure woman or two. Every year there are fewer, Dora says. Which is probably just the result of how things are. But who knows?

  Dora comes and meets the New Edeners, too. She likes them. Not that Dora’s opinion should matter much to me. But it does.

  So we go with them. We leave letters for our family at the Birch and Bay, knowing the captain will try to deliver them if he can.

  New Eden is maybe a week’s journey from Winnipeg. We leave our sun-cycle behind and walk alongside the wagon. Zora and Abraham take turns driving, but both are more than fit enough to walk. There is plenty of food, and at night we make a fire, eat, talk and sing—evidently singing is nearly as popular as sex in New Eden, and some of the songs are very bawdy—and then we sleep (and do other things) under the stars. Even old Abraham and Zora.

  Nothing, however, prepares us for what we see when we arrive.

  It’s not the settlement. That was described to us accurately enough.

  New Eden is a bustling place. Vineyards line the hillsides and border large communal gardens. There are pastures and enclosures for the animals. And in the town itself, workshops and other buildings are arranged along the main street, beyond which are houses.

  They’re mostly small, unimposing single-story dwellings, built close together. And there’s a river with a falls nearby, sufficient for generating hydro power.

  There are maybe 400 or so people who call New Eden home. And we certainly don’t see them all. Not at first, not for a while.

  What we do see, though, is hard to believe. Impossible to believe.

  It first hits us when Miriam takes us on a short hike. She wants to introduce us to her daughter, whose job is tending little ones while their parents work.

  “You should see the little ones,” says Miriam. “They’re very cute.”

  And also naked.

  We hear them before we see them. It’s a hot day, and they’re splashing and playing in a secluded, shallow pond—supervised by Miriam’s daughter, Lily, and another adolescent girl.

  At first, David’s eyes—and mine, too, I suppose—focus only on Lily.

  She’s 16, Miriam tells us. And her breasts, small but clearly there, are completely bare. Below, she wears a short, thin, wet skirt that clings to her thighs and behind.

  The other girl is also naked from the waist up, but she’s facing the other way.

  Miriam waves to Lily, then takes off her boots, rolls up her pants and wades into the water. David and I just stand there staring.

  After a while, Lily and the other girl, whose name we learn is Shayla, herd their charges out of the water and onto the grass. They spread out blankets in the shade of some large trees, and announce that it’s naptime.

  There’s some stomping around, some protesting. And after blinking several times, I begin to count.

  Seven little penises attached to seven little bodies. Six little bodies with no penises attached.

  How can this be?

  Where did all these little girls come from?

  “David, are you seeing this?” I demand.

  Mostly he’s just seeing Lily’s breasts, I think. And Shayla’s, too, though she younger and not as developed.

  “David,” I snap, giving him a shove. “Look! Almost half of these children are girls!”

  “How can this be?” I ask Miriam.

  “It just is,” she says.

  “Where did they come from?”

  “They came from here,” she replies, as if I’ve asked a stupid question.

  Then she proceeds to introduce us to Lily and Shayla, as David tries his best to avert his eyes.

  But neither girl is self-conscious at all.

  All I can do is stand there, dumfounded, amazed, speechless, as I try to process what we’re seeing. David, too, once he gets over Lily’s bare breasts.

  It’s not possible.

  Everyone in the known world is worrying about the female birthrate. Every year, girls get rarer. No one can figure out how to change that. It’s a monumental problem for our species. Everywhere.

  But not in New Eden.

  Here, there are as many—or nearly as many—little girls as boys, women as men.

  Why?

  How?

  No one knows. That’s what we’re told.

  “It’s just happened, over the last several generations,” says Zora. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Yes. Wonderful. But also preposterous. Why here, in the middle of nowhere, would things be different?

  Zora just shrugs and smiles.

  David and I are given a room in Zora and Abraham’s house. They have a spare room because their children— a boy and girl—are long gone and married with children and even grandchildren of their own. Zora and Abraham have taken on the task of helping us get acclimated here.

  I know what they think. I know what they all must think here. I know who they thank for their good fortune.

  But to me, it seems too improbable, too unimaginable, to be true.

  Am I supposed to believe that The Designer—the Holy One—actually exists, and has decided to give humanity another chance, starting with New Eden?

  Maybe there’s a more logical explanation. But what it is, I can’t fathom. And, as we were promised, we’re allowed to come to our own conclusions about everything here—except the sanctity of sex. Which they take seriously, but also consider laugh-out-loud funny most of the time.

  Shortly after we arrive, the community has a welcoming ceremony for David and me, and officially declares us a couple.

  It’s important to them. To us, too, if I’m honest.

  We stand together in their
Gathering Place—that’s what they call it—and face a large crowd of jolly New Edeners, who ply us with questions. These people are not in any way like the ones we encountered in Eden Falls.

  “Rebekah, why do you love this man?” someone shouts out, and several others join in with a chorus of “Yes, why?”

  “I don’t know,” I respond honestly. They seem to like that answer.

  “Have you coupled…had sex…joined bodies...copulated…given semen…received semen…engaged in coital pleasure…boinked?”

  It seems a kind of game to them, taking turns voicing an endless stream of words and phrases that all mean the same thing, and to which everyone already knows the answer.

  “Yes… yes… yes…,” we say, nodding, feeling a little foolish.

  “Why?” asks a man who’s seated so far back, I can’t see him. “Why did you do that, David? Why did you join your body with Rebekah’s?”

  “Because I love her?” he answers hopefully.

  “Ah. And what’s love?”

  “I don’t know,” David admits, which—again—turns out to be the correct answer.

  Then we’re both asked more seriously, by Cynthia—a woman as old as Zora, who comes forward to face us—if we’re prepared to be with each other, and only each other, lovingly and sexually, for the rest of our lives.

  “None of us is perfect,” says Cynthia, who’s in charge of this part of the ceremony. “Sometimes our bodies and our minds try to trick us into believing we want or we need union with someone who isn’t our beloved. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” we both acknowledge.

  I can’t imagine ever loving or wanting a man who isn’t David. But I do realize that she’s right. We’re all animals with urges after all.

  “Do you promise to be faithful to each other, to love each other, and to be sexual in mind and body only with each other for as long as you live?” asks Cynthia solemnly.

  “Yes,” we respond, just as solemnly.

  Again, it’s the right answer. There’s loud, boisterous cheering from the crowd.