I didn't know the farm country Tobers as well as I knew people who lived right in the village, but Urgho and I had been friendly enough in Elemarchy School. He was right too — this year, he would come back pregnant from Birds Home, and a little practice with kids wouldn't hurt. I bent down beside my son and said, "Do you know Urgho, Waggett? This is Urgho."
Urgho crouched on his haunches and gave my boy a friendly smile. "Remember me, Waggett? You and your dad's friend Cappie came out to our farm last spring. Remember when you saw the sheep?"
I vaguely recalled Cappie telling me she'd gone to some farm to buy wool from the spring shearing… but Waggett clearly had a much more vivid memory of the event. "Baaaaaaa!" he called out immediately. "Baaaaaaa!" He giggled at his own voice. "Baaaaaaaaaa!"
Urgho winked at me as he lifted the boy into his arms. Waggett kept baa-ing happily, unafraid of being taken away by a stranger.
The gods flew toward us, unhurried. Master Crow left a drifting trail of white behind him — he was so holy that even in the heat of a summer's day, his breath turned to steamy cloud. Mistress Gull, always more demure, simply flew without leaving a mark… in contrast with real gulls, who left plenty of marks, all over the waterfront.
For a moment, I glanced at Beacon Point, checking if Rashid and Steck were up there watching. They weren't in sight, but I could imagine them on the grass in front of the old lighthouse, maybe staring at the gods through an OldTech telescope.
Rashid would be talking about airplanes and trying to identify what kind he was looking at. I wondered whether my mother had got muck-mired in that same mindset… or if, perhaps, she could still look up at the sky and think, "gods," not, "aircraft."
Steck had wanted to be priestess once. She must still have some tiny bit of faith. Or was I just trying to believe good things about my mother?
Master Crow — or perhaps I should say Master Crow's airplane disguise — sped over Mother Lake in a long low glide that suddenly ploughed up a furrow of water as he skimmed down onto the surface. Unlike mortal crows, the god always landed on the lake: he had special feet shaped like skis which could buoy him up, no matter how many children he held. He came to a stop perhaps two hundred paces from shore.
I don't want you thinking he was an OldTech seaplane like you see in books. For one thing, he was much, much bigger than any antique seaplane; my father had once toured a partly preserved seaplane in a Feliss museum, and Zephram assured me it was tiny compared to Master Crow. Furthermore, Master Crow looked more birdlike than a common OldTech plane — he had a sharp black beak, and sly shiny eyes in place of the windows that OldTech pilots peered out.
Master Crow didn't need a pilot. He was a god, guided by his own wisdom, flying by divine power. Even on solstice days crackling with thunder, he speared his way safely through the storm.
Mistress Gull, smaller and quieter but no less strong, splish-splashed her way to a landing two minutes after Master Crow. She rode low on the waves, like a real gull — pristine white in the sunshine, as calmly beautiful as a new mother sleeping. Looking at Mistress Gull, I suddenly wanted to hold Cappie's hand; but after our talk in the Patriarch's Hall, I was sure Cappie wouldn't want to hold mine.
By the time Mistress Gull settled comfortably, Master Crow had already sent out his "chick": a boat with a hull of black rubber, as if an OldTech cart-tire had been stretched big enough to hold twenty children. The boat moved quickly over the waves, giving off a smoke that smelled like hot asphalt. Kids always curled up their noses at the stench; ten-year-old boys made fart jokes, and when they couldn't think of actual jokes, made fart sounds with their armpits. (To ten-year-old boys, any notable odor reminds them of farts.)
Children began to line up on the main dock, with the older teenagers maintaining order and safety. This was a point of pride for our generation: the adults remained back of the line of sand where the beach began, while we "youngsters" took care ourselves. We needed no final sermon from Hakoore… no muddled good wishes from Leeta. Of course, the parents looked on with a keen watchfulness — just as I refused to take my eyes off Urgho and Waggett — but this was the children's responsibility. Our moment.
I say "our"… but Cappie and I remained on the sand while the others organized themselves on the dock. We were not adults yet, but we were not Master Crow's passengers either. We would never ride between his black wings again.
"How are you doing?" Cappie suddenly asked.
I looked at her; she'd been watching me. After so many years, growing up together, she knew me so well she could almost read my mind.
"It's strange not being out there with them."
"Yeah." Her eyes met mine for an instant, then turned quickly back to the dock. "Waggett looks happy enough with Urgho."
"Waggett's a happy boy."
"Do you wonder what he'll be like as a girl?"
"Of course."
"He'll be happy," she said. A moment's silence… then: "Whatever happens between us, Fullin, will you let me visit him once in a while? I've watched him grow up this far…"
"It's a small village," I told her. "He'll always be just around the corner." I gave a tentative smile. "You can visit Waggett and I'll visit Pona."
She nodded. We continued watching our child.
It took the black boat four round-trips to carry all the children to Master Crow. Waggett and Urgho went with the second group. I sighed with relief as they climbed the steps from water level and vanished into Master Crow's interior. It was always hushed inside there, where the feathery padding on seats and walls soaked up the edges of sound. I could picture the older teenagers patiently buckling seat belts around the smaller children, just as it had been done for generation after generation back through the centuries.
As the last boatload left the dock, I felt Cappie tense beside me. Mistress Gull had lowered her own chick — smaller than Master Crow's but similar. A boat of white rubber.
My stomach was full of butterflies. The lake was calm, but I suddenly worried that the rocking of the boat might make me sick.
"Well," Cappie said, "shall we?"
She stood. In one hand, she carried her spear ("just taking it to be blessed"). Under the other arm, she lugged her Chicken Box… bigger than mine and intentionally so. Nunce didn't want his daughter to be shown up by an outsider's child. I lifted my own load — Chicken Box, violin — and we waddled together to the end of the dock.
People shouted, "Happy Commitment!" after us. I imagined I could hear Zephram among them, but I knew it wasn't true.
Cappie emptied her arms before boarding the boat, then I passed her all our baggage: spear, violin, and the two Chicken Boxes. The butterflies in my stomach took an extra flurry as I handed her the box holding the gun, but she stowed it under a seat without comment and turned back to me for the final piece of our load — the metal case containing blood and bone.
"Careful," she said.
I gave her a wounded look… but then, Cappie was just being a mother, concerned for her child's welfare. In a sense, Cappie's baby was inside the case: the Gift that would let Pona live a normal girl/boy childhood. I care about Pona too, I wanted to say; I've changed Pona's diapers on occasion.
Rare occasions. Too rare.
Was that thought just sentimentality, or was I becoming female again? I couldn't tell, and maybe it didn't matter. Carefully, I passed Cappie the case and waited for her to stow it securely.
When I was ready to board the boat, she held out her hand to help me. I took it.