Commitment Hour

by James Alan Gardner

  The mayor’s face curdled in exasperation. “What do you want me to say, Steck? Welcome home?”

  Steck only smiled and passed into the hall, squeezing tight under Rashid’s arm. I made to follow, but Teggeree put a fat hand on my chest. “Not you, Fullin.”

  “Fullin?” Steck hissed, turning to stare at me. “Back at the creek, you said you weren’t Fullin.”

  But Teggeree pushed into the hall and closed the door in my face before another word was said. Confused, I gazed at the blank door for several seconds.

  Its paint was cracking. It needed a new coat.

  “Something wrong?” asked a voice behind me. Cappie.

  I turned slowly. She stood two steps down the stairway, leaning against the wooden rail that served as a bannister. With her arms propped back against the railing, her breasts pushed out against the man’s shirt she wore.

  At that moment, I realized there was something about a woman in man’s clothing. Something arresting. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Cappie, of all people, looking desirable. I could hardly believe it.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I said, gazing at her. “Nothing at all.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re being obvious again.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “The past few months you’ve barely looked at me. As soon as I dress like a man, you start drooling. What does that say, Fullin?”

  “Nothing.” With an effort I tore my gaze away from her, turning instead to look at the shadowed fishing boats rocking on the dark lake water. “Bonnakkut was suggesting some ridiculous things about you.”

  “What things?”

  “Stupid lies.” I checked her face for signs of guilt. Nothing. It was a thin soft face, attractive in its way, but at this moment very guarded. Maybe I should have asked outright if anything had gone on between her and Bonnakkut, but I couldn’t ask Cappie anything outright anymore. I turned back to the darkness and mumbled, “Bonnakkut is such a turd.”

  “He’s not that bad,” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was defending him or just contradicting me. Lately she’d got into the habit of disagreeing with me, purely for spite. “What did Bonnakkut say?” she asked.

  I shook my head. Offended as I was at Bonnakkut’s insinuations, I didn’t want to discuss them with Cappie. I didn’t want to discuss anything with her. But I couldn’t help saying, “Leeta claims you volunteered to take over as Mocking Priestess.”

  “Someone has to,” Cappie replied. “Doctor Gorallin found lumps in Leeta’s breasts. Both of them. This is her last solstice.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, in that immediate, automatic tone of voice you always use when you speak of death. But a moment later, I thought about the slow dance in the woods, and said again, “That’s too bad.”

  “So Leeta asked if I’d be her successor,” Cappie continued. “I’m tempted, Fullin, I’m really tempted. Tober Cove needs a priestess, as counterbalance to the Patriarch’s Man. Besides,” she said with a half smile, “the wardrobe suits me. If you think I look good in suspenders, just wait till you see me wear milkweed.”

  I had a vision of Cappie and me on a bed slathered flank-deep in milkweed silk…which could be interesting…if she wore the suspenders too.

  “So you’re going to Commit as a woman?” I asked.

  She grimaced. “I’ve tried to talk about this for months, Fullin, and you’ve just avoided the subject.”

  “You’ve been after me to say what I’ll do. You never mentioned what you want.”

  “Because you never asked!”

  “I figured if you’d made a decision, you’d tell me,” I said. “Why would you keep asking what I intend to do, when you really wanted to tell me what you intend to do?”

  “Men!” Cappie flumped down on the top step and made a show of burying her face in her hands. The too-big sleeves of her father’s shirt dangled around her slim wrists like puffed cuffs. It’s odd how something as simple as dangling sleeves can make you want a woman, when everything else makes you invent excuses to avoid her.

  I sat beside her on the step. “Do you really want to become the next Mocking Priestess?”

  She lifted her head. “We holy acolytes describe the job as just ‘Priestess.’ The ‘Mocking’ part is more of a hobby…when the Patriarch’s Man says something so boneheaded, you can’t help but hit him with a dig.”

  “So you’re going to do it?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  I shrugged. My first reaction had been to oppose the idea. It wasn’t just that the priestess was a figure of ridicule among the men in town. The priestess also had a lot of errands to run—consecrating babies, attending to the dead, telling stories for children, teetering on that uncomfortable wooden stool in the back of the Council Hall while the male Elders held their meetings. Cappie wouldn’t have time to do the chores a wife should do…and despite everything, I still pictured myself married to Cappie after we Committed.

  Everyone in the cove expected us to get married. They said we were the perfect couple.

  But when I thought about it, Cappie becoming priestess had its good points too. For one thing, it would be an excuse not to marry her, an excuse the rest of the cove would understand—the priestess wasn’t allowed to take a husband, since that might create a “conflict of interest.” On the other hand, the priestess wasn’t expected to be celibate either; Leeta supposedly had a sex life, judging by the way people occasionally winked when talking about her. With Cappie as the next Mocking Priestess, I could bed her if I wanted (say, when she wore men’s clothing), but never have to tie the unforgiving knot.

  Another good thing about Cappie taking over from Leeta: it would shut Bonnakkut out of her life. The women of the cove would hate to see their oh-so-serene priestess associating with the First Warrior, just as the men would hate their manly First Warrior spending time with a puddinghead priestess. Even if I dumped Cappie, I could be sure the cove would never let her take up with Bonnakkut.

  Then too, if Cappie wanted to be priestess, she’d have to Commit as a woman. That left me the option of Committing as a woman too, an easy way out of any “obligations” people might think I had toward Cappie. I’d often thought about Committing female—if nothing else, I wouldn’t have to work much. Dabble around the house, take care of my son Waggett…and make buckets of money playing violin on weekends. Of course, if I were a woman and Cappie the priestess, she’d think she could lord it over me; but I wouldn’t be the first woman to distance herself from the Mocking Priestess.

  Cappie was still waiting for my answer: did I want her to take over from Leeta. “If it’s what you want,” I said, “it’s okay with me.”

  She looked at me curiously for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you. Very generous.”

  Frankly, I expected more gratitude. Enthusiasm. Showering me with kisses of appreciation for giving her permission. Of course, then I’d shrug her off in annoyance, but I wanted her to make the gesture.

  We sat in silence for several minutes, side by side on the steps. The time was about two in the morning, but I felt too tired to turn and look at the clock on the Council Hall steeple. Would the Elders expect Cappie and me to go back to the marsh when this was all over? Or could we just head for the house we shared on the west side of town?

  Cappie must have been thinking along the same lines. “If they really want us to stay out here all night,” she muttered, “they could at least lend us a deck of cards. Leeta says most council meetings are five minutes of business followed by three hours of poker.”

  “That would be Leeta living up to the ‘mocking’ part of her job.”

  “But why are they taking so long to discuss this?” Cappie growled, glancing at the closed door behind us. “Ask anyone what to do if a Neut comes back from exile, and you’ll get a real short answer.”

  “It’s different if the Neut comes bearing gifts.” I told her how readily Bonnakkut took the Beretta and how he sucked up to Rashid thereafter. I may have ex
aggerated a bit; who said I had to cast Bonnakkut in a favorable light?

  By the time my story was done, Cappie was scowling fiercely. “So they’re in there right now,” she said, “and Rashid is handing out presents to the Elders.”

  “Probably,” I agreed.

  “But the Elders wouldn’t take bribes, would they?” She paused. “Well, Leeta wouldn’t.”

  “Depends what the bribe is,” I answered, in what I hoped was a worldly-wise voice. “Leeta might turn down gold…but suppose Rashid has some high-grade medicine from down south. Vaccines or antibiotics straight from the Spark Lords, something that could save lives for years to come; perhaps even get rid of those lumps in Leeta’s own breasts. And all Rashid wants is to watch the ceremonies tomorrow, then go away. Do you think Leeta would refuse a deal like that?”

  “Leeta wouldn’t take medicine just for herself,” Cappie said, “but for other people…for children…do you think Rashid really brought something like that?”

  “Rashid is a noble,” I replied. “At one point Leeta called him ‘Lord Rashid,’ like she recognized him or his name. If he’s an aristocrat from Feliss, he might have access to the medical supplies that the Sparks give to Governors. Or he might have enough money to afford something just as good as medicine. Seeds for a strain of wheat that can survive a spring snow. OldTech equipment for fishing or farming. Or a refrigeration machine for the perch-packing plant. My foster father said they had refrigeration machines in Feliss, OldTech inventions that ran off sunlight…”

  The Council Hall door swung open. Laughter ho-ho’d its way out to the porch. Cappie gave me a look that made it clear what she thought of people who laughed after taking bribes from Neuts.

  Three seconds later, Teggeree and Rashid swaggered out, the mayor’s arm around Rashid’s shoulders in much the same way that Rashid had walked so long with Steck. Teggeree was saying, “If you really want to keep your identity secret, Lord Rashid, we’d better…”

  The mayor’s voice died away as he saw Cappie and me sitting on the steps.

  “We can keep secrets,” Cappie said coldly.

  “Good,” Rashid smiled. “The council and I have come to an agreement, and it would be better for all concerned—”

  “Better for the prosperity of the cove,” Teggeree put in smugly.

  “Yes,” Rashid continued, “better for everyone if we don’t spread rumors about Neuts and other complicated issues.”

  “Then why not leave, and take Steck with you?” Cappie asked.

  “I’ll leave tomorrow, after I see Master Crow and Mistress Gull,” Rashid replied. “In the meantime, we can disguise Steck—conceal the nature of her gender, at any rate—so we won’t upset the rest of the village. I want you to swear you won’t tell what’s happened here tonight, till after I’m gone.”

  “You have to swear on the Patriarch’s Hand,” Teggeree added.

  Cappie rose to her feet. “Why should I?”

  “Cappie!” That was me, shocked. People didn’t talk like that to our mayor.

  But Cappie gave me a dark look and turned back to glare at Rashid and Teggeree. “I’m only a foolish woman,” she said in precise tones, “but perhaps you might humor me.”

  The mayor’s jaw dropped open. He stared at her, then let go of Rashid and craned his neck toward the open hall door, where Leeta stood amidst the Elders. Leeta took a shy step forward, lowered her eyes, and mumbled toward the ground, “I’ve invited Cappie to become the next Mocking Priestess.”

  “It seems to me,” Cappie said loudly, “that if the council has good reason to permit strangers to observe Commitment Day—the most central event in our lives and the thing that makes us unique from everyone else on Earth—it seems to me if the council has good reason for this decision, there’s no need to keep it secret from other Tobers. If it’s the right thing to do, everyone will agree when you explain. They’ll say, ‘Yes, it’s a good thing you’re allowing a Neut to mingle with our children. It’s a good thing you’ve welcomed a scientist.’ ”

  “Rashid is more than a scientist,” Leeta sighed. “He’s the scientist. King of all other scientists on Earth. He’s the Knowledge-Lord of Spark.”

  SEVEN

  An Oath for the Patriarch’s Man

  Leeta’s news set me back a pace. As far as I knew, we’d never had a Spark Lord within a hundred klicks of Tober Cove. Spark law only allows fourteen Lords at most, and an average generation has just five or six—way too few to visit every little village on Earth. On top of that, the Lords are too busy to worry about peaceful places like our cove, because they spend their lives stopping wars and fighting demons in more complicated parts of the planet. Between battles, they have their hands full with other important work, making medicines, organizing food shipments in time of famine, and leaning on provincial Governors who get too uppity for the good of their people.

  Tober Cove had never had the sort of trouble that warrants a Spark Lord’s attention. It made me wonder what kind of mess we were in, to get the Knowledge-Lord now. But at least I knew why the Elders had welcomed Rashid with open arms. All the stories about the Sparks drive one message home: they get their way in the end, so you might as well give in right off.

  I wasn’t the only one unsettled by a Spark in our midst. Cappie’s stern expression wilted and she whipped away to face out into the dark. Anyone would feel crestfallen to deliver her first homily as Mocking Priestess, then have it swept aside by the intervention of a Lord; still, I fussed that Cappie had just put me into that toss-up situation all men hate. Was I supposed to go over and say comforting there-there’s? Or should I leave her alone till she’d recovered from the disappointment?

  Leaving her alone finally won out. If I tried to comfort her and she pushed me away, I’d be embarrassed in front of important people.

  “All right,” I said, pretending to ignore Cappie’s sulk, “we’ll swear not to tell anybody about tonight…at least till Lord Rashid leaves the cove.”

  “Then let’s finish this,” yawned one of the Elders—Vaygon the Seedster. “We’re losing sleep here.”

  People chuckled. Vaygon had a reputation for sleeping twenty-two hours a day. Any time you ventured into the seed storehouse, you’d find him sprawled across burlap bags of wheat and corn, snoring as loud as a sow. Someone (maybe his wife Veen) had spread the rumor it was good luck to have Vaygon sleep on your seed. People would bring all kinds of unlikely things for him to use as pillows—sacks of potatoes, vines of hops, even bundles of cuttings from apple trees—all in the hope that a night under Vaygon’s head would make the plants flourish. A normal man might find it a challenge to sleep on apple branches, but Vaygon was a master at his trade. If we didn’t let him get back to bed, some poor farmer’s strawberry crop might come up sour next year.

  Elders at the back of the crowd murmured, then parted to let someone shuffle through: old Hakoore, the Patriarch’s Man. He was three-quarters blind and sickly with arthritis, but still a rattlesnake, spitting venom at the slightest deviation from the Patriarch’s Law. I wondered what Hakoore thought about giving permission for a Neut to return to the cove…but the Patriarch’s authority had come straight from the High Lord of Spark, so the Patriarch’s successors could hardly oppose Spark now.

  Hakoore had his arms wrapped around a golden box the size of a newborn baby: a tawdry sort of box, scratched and tarnished and dented. Even in its prime, the box couldn’t have been much to look at. Its surface was only imitation gold, maybe imitation brass, and the four sides were embossed with indistinct reliefs of stiff men and women in pleated robes. Down-peninsula, I’d seen better looking window planters; but the box still held the greatest treasure in all Tober Cove. As Hakoore opened the lid, even Rashid leaned over to get a better look of what lay inside.

  The box held a human hand—said to be the Patriarch’ s hand, doused with salt and herbs to keep it from crumbling to dust a hundred and fifty years after its owner’s death. As children, Cappie and I made up stories ab
out the hand: that it crawled out of its box at night and strangled you if you said bad things about the Patriarch; or that the original hand had rotted years ago, and a succession of Patriarch’s Men kept replacing it with hands chopped off thieves or Neuts. I could list a dozen such tales…but you know the stories children whisper to each other on blustery afternoons when there’s thunder in the distance.

  The hand was a central part of Tober life. Couples getting married had to kiss it to seal their vows; newborn babies got it laid across their chests as a blessing, and it was laid there again at their funerals. The hand would even play a sideways role in the Commitment festivities; when Mistress Gull came to take Cappie and me away to Birds Home, we each had to carry a chicken foot, symbolizing the hand, symbolizing the Patriarch.

  Hakoore thrust the box toward me. I reached inside to touch the hand with my fingertips; the skin felt like paper. My foster father always said he cringed to see Tobers touch “that dirty old thing.” He worried about us contracting an illness…although I doubted anyone could get sick from contact with the Patriarch, the pure antithesis of Master Disease.

  “Swear,” Hakoore hissed. Hakoore always hissed, and seldom more than a few words at a time. Some folks claimed he had a festering growth in his throat; others said he just spoke that way to make your skin crawl.

  I shrugged to show I wasn’t intimidated, then said, “I swear I’ll conceal the true identities of Lord Rashid and Steck until they’ve left the cove. Okay?”

  “Fine by me,” Rashid answered.

  “The girl must swear too.” Hakoore got a lot of hissing into that sentence—even the words without S’s.

  “Do you really want a Mocking Priestess to touch your precious relic?” Cappie asked. “Aren’t you afraid I might contaminate the hand…say, with common sense?”

  “Oh, boy,” I muttered under my breath. A few Elders groaned stronger oaths; some glared at me, as if I were responsible for what she said. I tried to look innocent, the picture of a reasonable man, and said, “Cappie, aren’t you taking this priestess thing too far?”