We stared at him. Blankly. For a painfully long silence.
"Oh sure," he finally muttered. "You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."
FOUR
A Dance for Mistress Night
Leeta said, "You shouldn't be here, Steck."
The Neut, Steck, shrugged. "I'm here anyway."
"You shouldn't be." Leeta took a few shuffling steps forward, the milkweed pods on her belt clacking against each other. I looked away, embarrassed. A dress decorated with weeds was all very well when Leeta and I were alone in the forest; as soon as outsiders arrived, she looked pathetically shabby. It didn't matter that the outsiders were a Neut and Master Disease. Visitors like that must have seen city women dressed in finery, with their hair just so, and their bodies tall and elegant. Now to have these outsiders see me in the company of dumpy little Leeta, all milkweed and daisies hanging haphazardly around her ears… I was mortified.
Leeta showed none of the shame I felt. She pointed a pudgy finger at the Neut and said, "Don't you remember what I taught you, Steck? I taught you to ask questions, I know I did. What good will thisdo? That's the first question, that's always the first question. And What harm will it do? That's the second. Did you ask those questions, Steck? You didn't, I know you didn't. Because if you asked those questions, you'd see why you should have stayed away."
"Steck is here as my assistant," the knight said, stepping more clearly into the light of the campfire. With a flick of his hand, he twisted off his helmet and shook out his hair — thick coal-black hair, as long as a woman's. He had a droopy pencil mustache and heavy-lidded eyes: a foreign face but human, not crawling with maggots and sores like Master Disease's should be. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't Master Disease after all; but a scientist was almost as bad, and he'd admitted to that.
For a moment, the knight waited in the firelight, as if he thought we might recognize him now that the helmet was off. Then he shrugged and spoke again. "My name is Rashid and Steck is my Bozzle. Do you know that word?"
"Of course," I answered. Even children knew a "Bozzle" was the aide of someone important: a mayor or a noble, maybe even a Grandee like a Governor or a Spark Lord. Did Rashid think we were bumpkins, not to know such a thing? Or maybe he was hinting he was special enough to rate a Bozzle; I guessed he might be an Earl or a Duke from Feliss Province. He should have known that didn't matter up here — Tober Cove held a charter of independence from the Sparks themselves, and within our boundaries, even a day-old Tober baby was worth more than a thousand Dukes.
"We all know what a Bozzle is," Leeta replied. "Do you think that makes a difference?" She didn't spare a glance in Rashid's direction; she kept her gaze glued on the Neut, not in a stern way, but soft and pleading. "Coming here will just stir up trouble, Steck… you know that. What good can you do after all these years? Leave before it's too late."
The Neut stared back, saying nothing. It was one of those moments when you know unspoken undercurrents are flowing all around and you don't understand a turd of what's really going on. You want to shout, "I deserve an explanation!" But sometimes, when you see faces like Leeta begging and Steck gazing back as dark as lake water at midnight… sometimes you decide you don't care about their stupid problems anyway.
Rashid, however, wasn't the kind who stayed out of other people's staring matches. "Look," he butted in, "there's no reason for Steck to leave, because nothing is going to happen. I'm a scientist and I've come to observe your Commitment Day ceremonies. That's all. Nothing sinister, nothing intrusive — I just want to watch. Steck is here, first as my Bozzle, and second because she can help explain your customs."
"Don't call a Neut 'she,' " I muttered. "A Neut is an 'It.' And if Steck is supposed to explain Tober customs, why not start with our custom of killing Neuts on sight?"
" 'A custom more honor'd in the breach than the observance,' " Rashid replied. He looked around at us expectantly, then exploded, "Oh come on, that was from Hamlet! Everyone knows Hamlet!"
"What I know," I said, "is that every man in the cove will try to kill your Neut if It comes to our village. A few women may try too," I added, thinking of Cappie.
"Barbaric," he muttered. "Just because someone is different—"
"Neuts choose to be different," I interrupted. "They know Tober law, but they Commit as Neut anyway. The Patriarch said that choosing Neut is no different than choosing to be a thief or a killer. But Neuts get off easy compared to other criminals. No whippings, no chains, no execution… they just get sent away and told not to come back."
"How generous!" Steck hissed. "Driven down-peninsula to cities we don't understand, where we're despised as freaks. Shunned by friends, separated from my lover and child—"
"Steck, shush!" I'd never heard Leeta raise her voice so sharply. Mostly I thought of our priestess as a mumbly, self-effacing woman; but now she rounded on Rashid and poked a finger into his green plastic chest-plate. "You say you don't want to interfere, Mister Rashid, Lord Rashid, whoever you are… but you're interfering right now. At this very moment, I'm supposed to be dancing a dance for the solstice. I'm supposed to be doing some good for the world instead of wasting time with outsiders who are only going to upset everybody!"
"A solstice dance!" Rashid said, wrapping his gauntleted hands eagerly around hers. "Wonderful! Steck, step back, give them room. Yes, I should have noticed — the milkweed, the daisies, whatever that young man has in his hair… very nice, very vegetal. A 'romping through the groves' motif. Neo-paganism can be so charming, don't you think, Steck? Such a homespun, agrarian feel to it. I assume this dance celebrates your instinctual attunement to the ebb and flow of the seasons? Or is there some other purpose?"
I said, "No," at the same time Leeta and Steck said, "Yes."
"Really," I insisted, "we shouldn't talk about this, should we, Leeta? The women's religion must have some prohibition against sharing secrets with outsiders."
"No," Leeta replied. "Secret handshakes only appeal to men."
And she proceeded to tell Rashid the complete story of Mistress Night and Master Day, and how Earth would burn up if she didn't dance to shift the balance from light back to dark. Rashid produced a notebook from a compartment on the belt of his armor and scribbled excitedly; now and then he would murmur "Charming!" or "Delightful!" in a voice that was far too amused. Steck just made it worse by offering background commentary, speaking with condescension about Master Wind's dalliance with each year's Mistress Leaf, or Mistress Night's continuing misadventures that always begin with someone saying, "If you want that pretty stone, you'll have to do me a favor…"
I wanted to crawl into the campfire and burn to ash. It's bad enough to hear your priestess claim she's personally responsible for the solstice. Then to have a mealy-mouthed Neut give such sneering versions of the good old stories…
Listen: everyone knows it's not hard to make the gods sound ridiculous. It just takes sarcasm, exaggeration, and a determination to be vulgar. Instead of saying, "Mistress Leaf donned her brightest finery in a vain attempt to rekindle Master Wind's passion," you say, "Mistress Leaf tarted herself up like a red-powdered whore and still Master Wind stayed as limp as lettuce."
But that's kid's stuff. You do it as a thirteen-year-old girl, when you want to show the boys how daring you can be. After a while, as with most things at thirteen, the memory of how you behaved makes you squirm; even if you know that seasons come from a tilting planet whirling around the sun, the old stories still mean something to you. Why not confide in Mistress Night when you can't understand why love gets so screwed up? She's not wise, but she never breaks secrets. And when you're out on the perch boats, how can you not talk to Master Wind a dozen times a day… respectfully, of course, because he has a temper, but if you ask nicely, he might give more breeze, or less, or another half an hour before he lets the storm break open.