Commitment Hour

by James Alan Gardner

  It’s hard for me to imagine what it’s like to have a single, unified soul. When you’re just one person, everything that happens in your life can only happen to you; it’s always immediate. With most of us…well, when I was a girl of five, I decided I didn’t like oatmeal. I don’t know why—kids sometimes get attacks of the Stubborns, and then it becomes a matter of honor: no oatmeal would ever pass my lips. I tried to tell Cappie that oatmeal was poison…some complicated tale about the Mishi pirates crossing wheat with poison ivy and getting oats. No doubt I drove poor Zephram to distraction; not to mention, it was all empty pigheadedness after the first few days, just an obstinate refusal to admit I was making a fuss over nothing.

  Then summer solstice came, I turned male, and my old pointless obstinacy seemed like someone else’s problem. I had different areas of stubbornness—that was when I began plink-plink-plinking at my mother’s violin—but fighting about oatmeal just wasn’t worth the headaches. Yes, I could remember that it was important to me only the day before; but I felt as if my sister self had told me it should be important, not that I really believed it myself.

  So I started to eat oatmeal. And by the time I turned female again, it was all a dead issue.

  You see how it works? When you’re two people, some of your extreme rough edges get rounded out. Hates, loves, frights…my male half’s fear of snapping turtles used to be much worse. He used to be paralyzed with terror at the thought of going down to the dock where he saw the girl get bitten. But the next year, I wasn’t so afraid—the fear wasn’t so immediate. I worked up the courage to go to the waterfront now and then; and by the time I turned male again, I could draw on my female experiences of sitting on the docks with nothing bad happening.

  Only one version of me had the truly intense fear. The other could cope…and the first one could learn from the coping.

  The Patriarch never experienced that restful kind of distancing. His fears always clutched him; his resentments stayed hot at the boil, like a kettle that never gets taken off the stove; his loves (if he had any) never got the chance to mellow and rearrange themselves.

  He was a violin that always played the same tune…and his only possible variation was to play louder and louder.

  The Patriarch’s mother made a token effort to expose him to women’s culture: sent him now and then to talk with the priestess, for example. It didn’t work. “He saw the falseness of women’s ways,” Hakoore preached…which probably meant that he felt out of place surrounded by girls and made a fierce nuisance of himself until the priestess told him to leave. He never learned womanly skills like cooking, sewing, and tending the sick: skills aimed at helping other people more than yourself.

  But the most crucial lack in the Patriarch’s life was that he never gave birth. He never felt a life emerge from him, never felt the needy sucking at his breast soften into contentment.

  Zephram tells me there are plenty of good fathers in the South: men who have always been male, but still cherish and keep their children with loving devotion. I hope that’s true. Still, a voice in my mind whispers that Tobers are different. Every father in the village has also been a mother. Every father knows.

  You take bullies like the Warriors Society: even Mintz, the meanest of the bunch. In his last year as female, Mintz wasn’t a model mother, but he gave it a genuine effort. He nursed his son; he changed diapers; he sang self-conscious lullabies when the baby wouldn’t sleep, and screamed at the doctor, “Make him better!” when the boy picked up a case of the sniffles. Mintz Committed as male because he knew he wasn’t cut out for nurturing…but he still cared for his child in a haphazard way. A few times in the previous year, on my way to the marsh for violin practice, I’d met Mintz and his daughter out searching for medicinal herbs—she’d got the idea she wanted to take over as Healer when Gorallin retired. And Mintz, who wouldn’t know a medicinal herb if it cleared up his eczema, was out with his kid to make sure she didn’t drown in a sinkhole and to let her know, “Yes, I believe you’re smart enough to be a doctor.”

  No one, not even Hakoore, could imagine the Patriarch getting his shoes muddy for the sake of a child’s dream. So ask yourself what a man like that might do in a town where everyone else does have a fierce concern for children.

  There’s an old saying that children are “hostages to fate”: dependents who make any parent think twice about stepping out of line. And when the person who draws the line is an angry man who doesn’t give a damn what happens to kids…

  …you’ve got the secret of the Patriarch’s success.

  The rest of the Patriarch’s story you can fill in yourself. Or you could see it in the paintings on the walls of the Patriarch’s Hall. The Patriarch taking the oath of office as mayor (after a campaign of bribery and intimidation had eliminated other contenders). The Patriarch posing with his cadre of hand-chosen warriors (stupid teenaged boys who liked seeing fear in adult eyes). The Patriarch being blessed by Father Ash and Mother Dust (while somewhere not shown in the picture, warriors held the Father’s and Mother’s families in “protective custody”).

  But those things are all Male History: public events, with public reactions recorded and private consequences ignored. The facts of Male History are only important if you want to know the exact number of people the Patriarch killed in his efforts to gain power and keep it

  Numbers like that must have been of great interest to the Patriarch himself. He was that kind of man.

  “Sounds like you detest him,” Rashid observed.

  “That’s what it sounds like,” I agreed.

  “And all Tober women feel the same way?”

  “Fullin’s opinion is stronger than most,” Steck answered, “but the majority of women have similar feelings. Not that they usually waste the time to think about it.”

  “And the men?” Rashid asked. “Men who were also women for half of their youths?”

  “They say it isn’t worth getting excited about. The laws aren’t so bad, so why tear them down?” Steck grimaced. “And in a way, the men are right. You know what the Patriarch really did to Tober society? In the long run, nothing. He seized power, he ran the place for thirty years, and he laid down laws about the proper ‘roles’ for each gender…but the instant he died, our village waffled back to comfortable ground. Fullin,” Steck turned to me, “has Tober Cove burned anyone since the Patriarch died?”

  “No.”

  Steck turned back to Rashid. “See? People swear oaths on the Patriarch’s Hand now instead of Master Stone, and Hakoore is called the Patriarch’s Man instead of the older title of “priest”…but how much more of the Patriarch’s heritage is left? Take the Council of Elders. Before the Patriarch, both men and women sat on the council; afterward, it was men only plus the priestess. But in Tober Cove, that has less effect than you might think. People who are attracted to politics know they have to Commit male, so they do. Same thing with laws like Only men can work the perch boats. If you like fishing, you Commit male; if you like cooking, you Commit female.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Rashid said, his brow furrowing. “When I think of laws that dictate men have to do this, women have to do that, my natural reaction is to ask, ‘What if a woman wants to be a warrior? What if a man sets his sights on caring for children?’ But in Tober Cove, you just decide what you want to do in life and base your gender choice on that. Of course, if you want to be a warrior and you want to be a woman too…”

  “The Mocking Priestess has a saying,” I told him. “You can get what you want most in life; not even the gods can guarantee you get your second choice too.”

  Footsteps clunked on the floor outside. A moment later Teggeree entered, walking uncomfortably in city-bought boots rather than moccasins. As far as I knew, he had only worn the boots once before, back when Governor Niome of Feliss had made a “diplomatic visit” (two hours of diffident talk about trade, followed by three days of enthusiastic hunting and looking at our fall leaves). Still, our mayor managed to r
etain his dignity, even in those unaccustomed shoes; he moved with slow composure, like a boat taking its time as it entered an unfamiliar harbor.

  “Any news?” Rashid asked. “Witnesses to the murder?”

  Teggeree sighed. “One man has arrived, claiming to have evidence…” The mayor glanced at me. “It’s Embrun.”

  “Wouldn’t you know,” I grimaced.

  Embrun was a strange case, even for Tober Cove. His female half got kicked in the head by a horse when she was five, and had never been right afterward—moody and slow, subject to falling fits at least once a month. Her problems were bad enough to drag down her brother soul too; he had a normal brain, but only got to use it every other year. Other children went to school each fall, and learned their lessons whether they were boys or girls…but poor Embrun could only make progress in class when he was male, so each year he fell farther behind the kids his age. After a while, he stopped trying. Embrun became the cove’s hard luck case, even after he Committed male and shed the weight of his ill-fated sister self. He was forever dropping in just before supper to see if you had any errands you’d pay him to run, but could always find a conflicting commitment when someone offered him a real full-time job.

  I could just bet Embrun had evidence to report about the murder. He’d ask Rashid how much such information was worth, but if the Spark Lord actually shelled out some crowns, Embrun would only have useless things to tell: some story about an indistinct figure seen in the distance, or vague rustling sounds he heard near the time of Bonnakkut’s death. Embrun wouldn’t trump up a tale to implicate someone specific—he was never deliberately vicious—but he would try to make himself seem like an important witness, especially if someone would pay him to talk.

  “Let’s see this man by all means!” Rashid said. “I’d love to wrap up this murder investigation before Master Crow and Mistress Gull arrive.”

  Teggeree gave me another look. I could tell he wanted me to warn the Spark Lord about Embrun—Teggeree couldn’t do it himself because it was indelicate for a mayor to accuse a voting citizen of being a conniving opportunist. Before I could speak, however, Cappie quietly appeared in the doorway—slim, almost frail, as she stood beside Teggeree’s great bulk.

  “Can we talk now?” she asked quietly.

  Her words stirred up the urge to run away, but her fragility made me want to wrap my arms around her, to protect her from the world and herself. I realized I was male again—changed in the heartbeat of seeing her. Or maybe changed long before and I just hadn’t noticed: the boundary between my two selves was blurrier than I’d once imagined.

  Steck looked quickly between Cappie and me, then said, “Yes…you two stay here and talk. Rashid and I can question this Embrun on our own.”

  Embrun had only been a toddler when Steck left the cove. She didn’t know what he’d become.

  Teggeree gave me one more look, a glance that might have been pleading in someone less self-composed. But Rashid moved toward the door and gestured for the mayor to take the lead. “Show us to this witness, if you don’t mind, Your Worship. Embrun, did you say? I suppose he’s a reliable sort?”

  The mayor cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should tell you about our Embrun,” he murmured.

  Teggeree continued to talk as Rashid and Steck followed him out of the hall. Cappie and I were alone.

  She had changed back into women’s clothes: a simple summer dress, styled for loose-fitting comfort and coolness. Maybe Cappie’s family had prevailed on her not to scandalize the village; maybe she’d had enough of me “being obvious” as I ogled her in men’s clothing.

  Or maybe, I thought to myself, her female body has a male soul inside and he’s hiding under a feminine masquerade.

  The thought made me sick—not that it might be true, but that I had a mind which found it so easy to imagine Cappie was trying to deceive people. What was wrong with me?

  She took a step into the room, then stopped and suddenly looked around: at the paintings, the dusty mementos, the jars of cremated heretics. “Someone should burn this place,” she muttered.

  “It’s a memorial to the Patriarch!” I said, shocked. “Even if you don’t like some of the things he did, you have to respect the history.”

  “Do I?” She lifted one of the jars of ashes and shook it. The feathery gray flakes inside flew around like snow. “Rashid’s going to be disappointed when he talks to Embrun.”

  I was glad for the change of topic—partly because I had no urge to argue about the Patriarch, partly because it meant Cappie was afraid of coming to the point, just like I was.

  “Rashid is only investigating the murder out of duty,” I told her. “The mystery he really wants to solve is Tober Cove. Master Crow and Mistress Gull. How it all works. You know what I mean?”

  She nodded. “Maybe the Patriarch had a point when he started burning scientists.” She shook the jar again. “Since Rashid arrived, I’ve been seeing the cove through outsider eyes, and it all looks so…clumsy. Like we’ve made everything up and are just pretending to believe what we say. About the gods and Birds Home, about everything. I’m afraid he’ll see through it somehow, have a mundane explanation for the things that make us special.”

  “Rashid won’t explain away anything,” I said to Cappie. “Before the Patriarch, other scientists came to the cove. They blustered about, got in everyone’s way, and still went home mumbling.”

  “None of the other scientists were Spark Lords,” Cappie replied. She turned the jar upside down and watched for a moment as the ashes filtered down like sand in an hourglass. “You know the Sparks have dealings with people or things off-planet. Rashid has more resources than any normal scientist.”

  “Still, what can he find? The way we change sex really is the work of the gods. Right?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Right, Cappie?” I repeated.

  After a pause, she sighed. “Fullin, you are the one who should become priestess. And Patriarch’s Man, for that matter. You have more faith than I do. Or you ask fewer questions.”

  “You think Rashid might find something?”

  “I think you were raised by a Southerner, Fullin. A kind-hearted Southerner who didn’t want to step on Tober toes, and bent over backward never to cast doubt on our gods.”

  “And you were raised by your father,” I replied, “who has all kinds of strange notions that he calls philosophy.”

  “True.” Abruptly, she set the jar of ashes back on its shelf. “This isn’t what I want to talk about.”

  “Oh.” I felt my scalp prickle with dread at what might happen in the next few minutes. “Okay,” I told her. “Talk.”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she lowered her eyes and suddenly reached out to finger the sleeve of the Patriarch’s coat of many colors. The dyes had faded over the years, and the cloth seemed as thin as a spider-web.

  “I just want the truth,” Cappie said softly. “Soon I have to make the most important decision of my life, and I need to know the truth. No holding back. If you don’t love me…I don’t know, maybe it’ll be a relief to hear you say it. Probably not, but still. Being hurt and angry will go away little by little. But if you let me Commit without telling me the truth…that’s wrong, Fullin, you know it’s wrong. I don’t deserve that from you.”

  I let out my breath slowly. She was right—a gentleman can’t leave a lady hanging forever. “Okay,” I said. “The truth. The absolute truth. As I understand it.”

  Her hand tightened into a fist, crushing the fabric of the coat’s sleeve.

  “The truth,” I said hurriedly, “is that my female half loves you. Loves your male half anyway. Loves you for real. Last night when we . . . that was her. Me. You know what I mean. Steck says that in the time leading up to Commitment Hour, the gods send our other selves to take over for…well, haven’t you been possessed by your male half in the past twenty-four hours?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “When?”

 
“You’re the one who’s talking, Fullin.”

  “Okay. I guess we’ll get to that. Later.” I couldn’t meet her gaze; but when I looked away, there was nothing to see but that painting of the Patriarch, poised with his burning torch. “So my female half…me…even if I became Mocking Priestess and couldn’t marry you, my female half would like to stay with you forever.”

  “There’s a way that can be arranged,” Cappie said.

  “How?”

  She shook her head. “Later. Tell me what your male half thinks. What you think. Of me.”

  “I think…” Feeling suffocated, I had to take a deep breath. “It hasn’t been a good year for us. And men are ambitious, they want to make something of themselves…”

  “They want to play violin down-peninsula and fuck any woman who makes herself available.”

  I couldn’t answer that. By the strict definition of sexual intercourse, I had never actually cheated on her…but rationales like that sound good in your own head, then wilt like old spinach when exposed to air.

  “If you want me to tell the truth,” I said, “don’t make it hard for me to speak it. I’m just saying that as male…as a man, I’m not sure what I want. For one thing, I don’t know about becoming priestess: I look at Leeta and ask if she’s what I want to be for the rest of my life. To be perfectly honest, she’s a little ridiculous with the milkweeds and the bear claws…and her whole point of view—as if dancing in the forest could affect the rotation of the Earth. I believe in the gods, you know I do, but those priestess rituals…what can I say? Not that I want to be Hakoore’s disciple either.”

  “Forget that, Fullin.” Cappie suddenly leaned in close. “All I need to know is whether you want to belong to me. Can you let yourself be mine? Male or female, that’s the thing I never feel from you. I know when you want to bed me. I know when you’re glad for my company. I know how you’re happy to live with someone who’ll do most of the chores, because you’ve convinced me it’s important you have time to play your music. But are you ready to be mine? Whether or not we can be married. You say you love me…or at least your female half does. But can you give yourself to me? Can you let yourself go without hiding behind anything?”