Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

  Well, mating is not my worry. Declared males remain single after Perimeter, never to have a spouse to live and work alongside. Never to have children of their own, firstborn girls or boys. Father chose solitude for me the day I was born.

  “I should have taught you this sooner. But” — Father rubs his hands on his knees — “it is hard to speak of, and your body has been slow to change. Regardless,” he sighs, “I tell you now. It is the way of women, even those declared male, we presume.” He tentatively pats my hand.

  I draw back.

  “Frana, your mother, the visionaires,” he adds.

  I pick at my thumbnail. This seems a betrayal. Doesn’t my body know I am declared male? Won’t my amulet restrict this flow as it thwarts every other feminine reflection, thought, and desire?

  “Tiadone, at Perimeter this will remain unnoticed.” He looks at the rafters now, purses his lips as if not wanting to go on, but he does. “If your estrus time has begun, go to the latrine periodically to remove the sponge by the string, squeeze it free of your flow, and reinsert it. And remember, you’ll have private steam pockets for regular cleansing.”

  I grind my heel against the floorboard. He nudges the thing toward me.

  “The sponge will hold several days blood if you are on patrol. Look, I have sewn a pouch to the underside of your pack.” He lifts my bag from the floor and peels back a hidden flap. “Keep the sponge concealed here until your first bleeding.” He quickly slips the strange object inside. “I have placed the sap of the grintso plant along the edge of the flap. You can open and close it repeatedly.” His shaking fingers press it closed, hiding this thing from our sight.

  I sit on my weak hands.

  He coughs and nods, maybe gathering his gumption to finish this horror. “Some women line their undergarments with the fluid from pinoni stems to prevent any escaped flow from absorbing into their skirts. It’s a soft repellant.”

  I stare along the curved edge of the ceiling. A spider dangles from a thread until Mirko flies over and eats it.

  “I’m told chewing the pinoni leaves also quiets the thrumming pain many women feel.”

  The pause is so long I nod to fill the queer space.

  “Now then, do you understand, Tiadone, what to expect eventually?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And you see it is imperative to keep your estrus hidden? You need nothing more to draw attention to your difference at Perimeter.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you will of course bind your breasts when they grow.”

  I nod but bury my chin in my clavicle.

  “Tiadone.” He lifts my face with two fingers. “You are declared male. There is no true shame in your body.”

  I close my eyes. There must be. Look at all I must do to hide it.

  CHAPTER 12

  WHY

  Mirko resettles in my hair coils spread over my kidskin pillow. He shovels his beak into the twists and hums. Still, my breastbone feels as if a boulder balances upon it.

  I kick at my covers. Mirko clicks his beak, climbs out of my hair, and perches beside me. He nips my shoulder. “Ow!” I whisper. Already he has grown to sense I want to speak and pushes me to do so. His round eyes catch the moonlight. He blinks.

  “Fine!” I yank my sleeping tunic and amulet straight. There are only a few hours left for questions that I have secreted away for years.

  I sit up, stirring my sleeping curtain. My bed rests next to Father’s higher one. With mine pulled out from under his, we fill nearly half of our home. At least the arrangement puts me close to the firepit for the last flickers of warmth. I slide apart the bed curtain a sliver.

  “Yes, Tiadone.”

  “Why didn’t you and Mama just leave R’tania when she carried me? She could have birthed in a foreign land, free from the Madronians, their male declarations, and their ekthesis.”

  “Madronian law forbids emigration.”

  “But it’s rumored people have left. Certainly if you wanted — ”

  “We didn’t know whether you would be a boy or girl.”

  Mirko leans into my leg. “But it was possible I’d be a girl. And it’s not as if you already had a boy and my sex wouldn’t have mattered. Like how Ratho’s parents got to keep his little sister.”

  “We prayed you wouldn’t be a girl.”

  Shame hollows my centerself like a sand-filled wind carves a grotto. My parents prayed against my first identity. And they chanced an unanswered prayer.

  Mirko squawks.

  “Well” — I force strength into my wavering voice — “wouldn’t everything have been easier is we had just fled after my birth, after — ”

  “This is our home, Tiadone.”

  “Yes, but we could have crossed the desert and gone to Randan, or escaped to C’shah even. There you could have read the Oracles of the Creator in open air. And found other books — who knows, maybe whole libraries free to every person, not just the priesthood.” I drop my voice. “If you had, I wouldn’t be leaving for Perimeter in the morning.” Because truthfully, who really knows if declared males can serve? Perimeter is so different than the work of a visionaire.

  Mirko hums and rubs his eye ridge on my knee. I stroke his feathered back and try to breathe evenly. In the moon shaft, Father throws his arm across his eyes.

  “Why don’t we just run now? Couldn’t we try? The Madronian Empire doesn’t reach everywhere,” I beg.

  “Now, Tiadone? When Mirko must be returned to the Cliffs after your patrol? It is impossible. His life would be endangered if we left before then.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “You must raise him and then return him to his clan. This is your duty for his service. Think of it! What greater dangers would we have without rapion assisting our boys in Patrol and enabling visions in our girls? And you know if he was returned to the Cliffs now, he would be attacked by the grown males.”

  “Then why didn’t you go before I even received Mirko?”

  He rubs his beard into his shoulder. “Tiadone, I will try to explain.” His voice catches. “The Madronians took so much when they conquered: our religion, our books and libraries, most of our customs, our firstborn daughters. But they did leave us our language and ancestral homes. It was their way to gain our submission and trust.” His sigh is sour. I turn my head for a fresh breath. “Aside from speech, my home and wife were all I had left. You know both sets of your grandparents were killed in the Madronian invasion. And then by your birth, I lost your mother.”

  I completely turn away. Mirko moans.

  With a jagged breath, Father continues. “I could not face a wasteland alone with a newborn babe.” He chokes. “And still today, I am not able to separate from the Cliffs of the Rapion. Nor will I be able to after Mirko’s return.”

  I sit up quickly, and Mirko flaps to stay on my bed. “But apart from ceremonies, the Cliffs are prohibited anyway, Father!” At the thought, my head aches, but I smash down my fear to stay in the argument. “And since the Madronians ban all grown rapion from the village, you most likely won’t ever see your bird again!”

  “But I am still close to her,” he whispers. “Even though I haven’t seen her, I almost feel my Nuncia at times.”

  I want to yell: nothing will come of it! And: I am your child! My face burns. Because you didn’t want to leave a place, or because of a feeling that Nuncia may be close, you kept us here and plan to stay?

  The sharp words cling with talons on my tongue. I ball my sheet in my fists. Your twining was over, Father! It is a crooked excuse that you couldn’t and won’t leave the Cliffs. There might be other lands that twine, where rapion and people coexist their entire lives. We could travel and find one!

  Father breaks my thoughts. “This is the best I can do,” he says. “Your mother would approve.” He slides the bed curtain closed between us.

  Mirko brushes his head against my cheek. My father places the Cliffs and his ancestral home before me?

  Th
e next morning, the village drumbeat rolls up from the valley, instructing the Initiates to report to service. The distant drummer’s mallet clods my temple. Thump, thump, thump.

  On the front porch, I squint at the early sun and breathe in the sharp pine scent. Father’s gear by the wash basin, the lavender bush, the yellow straw flowers lining the front path, our small home — they’ll all be here when I return.

  Right now, it’s as if our disagreement the night before never happened. Father closes the door behind us and hands me the javelin he has carved, the first weapon for young men on patrol. Among the curves and coils he has cut, a Signico flies above a house like ours. Father has trained me for years with a simple shaft. I am honored to receive this embellished weapon. “It is beautiful,” I whisper.

  He smiles and pinches my poncho closed at the neck. Then he pats my pack slung over my shoulders, tightens the hip knot of my amulet.

  My anger still simmers, but I can’t leave my father with bitterness between us. Like I’m banking a fire, I push the heat down and cover it.

  I’ll report to Perimeter and try. Just as I tried when Mirko was born, and the Creator Spirit twined us. What else can I do? Who knows how I will be enabled? Doubt slurps the words right out of my mind.

  “Keep the Oracles within, Tiadone.”

  “Yes, Father.” It will be a year before I can read our sacred book. It is one more loss.

  “Play the Madronian game. They will make everything harsh and hard, but you are strong,” he reminds me, or maybe himself. Distracted, he searches the sky. My rapion leaps among the encrusted branches of our twisted pinyon pine. “Come down, Mirko,” Father calls.

  “Mirko,” I scold. He releases his hold and dives to my shoulder.

  “That is not usual,” Father says under his breath, “that he moves so far from you. Keep him close at all times. Others will notice if you don’t. There is enough to draw attention already, and we don’t want them to have cause to doubt you further.” His eyes graze my amulet one more time.

  “I will try.” I rub my cheek on Mirko’s feathered leg while he plucks my hair.

  Father clears his throat. “So, I believe you’re ready. Keep the watch well, Tiadone. I have no doubt that you will succeed.”

  Really? The vibrations in my stomach shake out to my hands and feet. I clutch my javelin to still the ground tremor within me. “Yes, I will succeed.”

  “There you and Mirko are, Tiadone!” Frana bustles over the crest of our hill, her layered skirts gathered in her plump fists, her flushed cheeks puffing. “I didn’t want to miss your Sending, dear. I heard the drums.”

  “Yes, it’s time,” I manage to eke out.

  “Let’s take a look at you then.” Shielding her eyes, she walks past Father and around me. Her hare bracelet jangles her nervousness while her goatskin shoes scuff over the porch. “Very fine,” she announces. A false grin slides on and off my face. “Now here’s a medicinal sack for you,” she says. “I’ll just tuck it in.” She reaches around and slips her gift into my pack.

  “Thank you for your kindness, Mistress,” I manage.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. You know the herbs and ointments.” I nod. Her voice wavers. “All right. I just saw Ratho making his way out. You’ll be sure to catch him in no time. Well, then. There you are.” She winks at Mirko, who grins back at her. “You’ll be back and receiving your Labor Assignment before you know, dear. What is it that interests you again? Leather working, butchering, goat tending?”

  I wrinkle my nose, Father raises his brow, and Frana goes on quickly. “Well, we’ll see what the priest assigns when you return. Let all forbid a soldiering position.” We thumb our chins and spit to the left.

  Frana adds, “For now, may Patrol fly fast and protection hover its wings over you and Mirko. Your father and your ancestral home will be waiting for your return.” She squeezes his hand.

  “Yes, we’ll be right here,” Father says.

  “I’ll come back after my service passes.” My voice cracks.

  “Of course you will,” says Frana.

  Thump, thump, thump. None of us moves. With slanted eye ridge, Mirko whimpers. A small cloud whisks over the sun, and I shiver.

  “Go well,” Father says.

  “Go well,” repeats Frana.

  “Stay well,” I whisper. Mirko clambers to the top of my pack as Frana smothers me in a hug. Her cries stop her words, and finally she lets me go.

  Father steps close. He drags his fingers down his cheeks and makes the blessing hand gesture on my forehead. His fingers mark the pattern with his tears. “Go, Tiadone. Grow to manhood. Protect the village, and thereby our people.” He wraps me in his arms. I squeeze him tightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “This is my best effort.” He pries me off and steps back. “Go. You have a day’s journey ahead.”

  My feet refuse.

  To help me one last time, he takes Frana’s hand, and leads her inside our home. “Go, Tiadone,” he says, and slowly shuts the door.

  Mirko nudges my neck and hums. I inch backward one small step at a time.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE TREK

  Along the copper ridge, my boots kick up orange dust. It coats the inside of my mouth and nose, after half a day’s walk. Mirko flies a distance over the sand and scrub, then returns, only to fly ahead again. By the far copse of rintell trees, Ratho hurriedly walks, and Thae is only a smudge.

  Even though we’ve imagined reporting together our entire lives, Ratho’s refused to wait for me. Fine. I’ll report to Perimeter by myself. Stepping around a prickle plant, I lean into the gust.

  Would the other boys going to serve at the other Mesas be as prejudiced against Mirko as Ratho? Who knows? But it sure wouldn’t ache as much.

  A rattling sidewinder and the occasional wind whirl fill the quiet. Ahead, the enormous Eastern Mesa sweeps up from the sand. I aim for the northeast craggy corner.

  With each lonesome step in the wide wilderness, anger bubbles free in my centerself. This is my father’s choice. Not mine. Would my mother have chosen this for me? Would she have stood by while I was declared male? Or would she have convinced Father that the three of us should run before the amulet took full effect?

  My vexing empties me further. Maybe my mother, too, would not have wanted to leave our home and the Cliffs just to provide an easier life for me. I kick a rock and send it spinning. “Maybe, as a newborn, I should have been left to die on the Scree,” I mumble.

  Flapping to my shoulder, Mirko hisses a rebuke then hums in my ear. I touch my head to his breast.

  My glance skitters over the open vista. Beyond the rocky desert and the distant humped dunes are other lands. Countries we could have run to, free from the Madronians. We might have found a haven.

  I squint at the hazy horizon. Like Father said, I can’t run now and endanger Mirko, but could I ever hope to journey and find my way on my own? What would another society think of a declared male?

  A grain of sand flings into my eye. “Ouch!”

  Mirko chitters concern. I tear up and rub at the granule, which blurs everything. My stumble over a clump of scrub makes Mirko fly upward. “Verities!” I hiss but regain my footing, and my rapion alights on me again. The sand washes out of my eye with one more swipe.

  I’m a fool! Who am I to even consider traveling alone? If my father couldn’t, certainly I can’t. It is enough to try to live successfully here. And right now that means facing the Mesa. Enough. I straighten my poncho and amulet.

  Mirko hums and nudges peace into me. I take a deep breath. Peace even if Ratho speeds ahead faster whenever I gain on him. The festering flea bot. He will miss me, eventually. I know it.

  The sun passes out of its zenith. The wind whisks my eyes dry.

  Creator Spirit, protect me in the Mesa as possibly the first declared male to patrol. My mind turns. Do you hear me?

  CHAPTER 14

  WELCOME

  After hiking all day, through dusk and an hour or more of darkness,
finally I reach the glow of the fire that teased me for so long. I nudge my heavy feet toward a group of boys gathered around the warmth, and they turn to look at me.

  Coming into the firelight, I don’t recognize any of them from my village. All seem just a tad older than me; a few with chin stubble, one with broad shoulders. Each wears the dull issue clothing of Perimeter Defense, the color of sand. Signicos, looking so large compared to Mirko, peck and preen at their sides, barely glancing at us. Most of the rapion are as tall as a goat already, the females slightly smaller, even with their spotted crests. Full-grown, they are too large to ride on their partners’ shoulders now.

  While gawking at the height of the shadowed sandstone looming behind them, I bump into a light-skinned boy. “Watch it!” he growls.

  “Sorry,” I rasp.

  Mirko rumbles, and everyone freezes. Throughout my life, I have been nervous before new people as I waited to see how they reacted to my amulet, my declaration. Now, Mirko’s song draws at least half of the attention. Whispers weave behind dirty hands.

  Bugling, Mirko stretches his wings and then flaps above my head. The other rapion hunker beside their bearers. Thankfully, no rapion challenge us. At least physically. Only the fire cracks and snaps a response. Sparks glint upward.

  I clear my tight throat. “Hello.” I squirm my heels in the sandy dirt but make a greeting hand gesture by placing my thumbs together. No one returns it to me as Mirko lands on my pack.

  Finally, a female rapion bursts through the air and circles me and Mirko. My rapion dives off and joins the fully grown beauty above the fire. Her bronze feathers glisten in the light as Mirko’s song pulses with the flames.

  “Hello.” A tall boy with a face of freckles steps into the circle. He assesses me and counts me a male, as his eyes don’t narrow in the least nor does he step back, thank the Verities. “Welcome to Perimeter Patrol,” he begins, but is quickly sidetracked. “He is amazing!” He tilts back his head to watch Mirko.