Moonstar (14 page)

And yet as Jobe became more familiar with the new ideas, she began to explore them, tentatively probing—as if testing a soreness in her body. She flirted with them, titillated by their wrongness, wondering if indeed they were so wrong; a lot of others didn't think so. There were counterarguments to what she felt, she knew, and if she would just consider, for example—too much of anything, especially sex, the vehicle of love, only cheapened its value. To save one's love made it something rare and precious, didn't it?—a gift for someone of special worth. Jobe tested that thought cautiously—as if trying on a festive gown, not sure yet of its fit or comfort. Did this new perception add to her map of an already troubled territory? Did it make the terrain she traveled more precise or muddier?

For instance, had she really loved dear Potto? Of course—but that had been a childish experiment. She had loved Potto as her sister; but that was not the love the words described, or was it? Well, then, how about Nyad—her first bedmate here at Option? Well, yes—but again, that might not have been the kind of love the romantic tradition spoke of either. That had been mostly a set of fumbling first attempts—tender ones because both of the participants had been scared as much of their own feelings as each other's. But, nonetheless, that love was something less than a love of “high and noble feeling.” She and Nyad had both been in early blush—and at that age, sexuality is almost always confused with love. The fact that it had not lasted, that they had drifted apart, proved that. If it had been true, she would still be with Nyad now. Nyad was Rethrik now; Jobe would have been Dakka to her Reethe instead of still undecided—and scared that her indecision was pushing her toward Reethe when it was Dakka that she craved, but feared to seize the moment—

Oh, there was something else—the Erdik disapproved of certain . . . ways of making love. In fact, even blush itself disturbed them. Children don't have feelings, nor do they feel sexual—they must not express those kinds of things. Two Dakkarik or two Rethrik did not express affection for each other, not on Erd; it was forbidden—and the ambisexuality of blush reminded them too much of that taboo; they flushed with embarrassment in its presence. But that was the way it was on Erd; therefore that was the way they believed it had to be. They were a strange and wild people, so primitive—Jobe felt it with discomfort, to have so many prohibitions against the manners of affection and so few against rejection and distaste—as if the only emotions that should be freely given were the ones of pain and sorrow. A sad and violent people, what do they do for joy? she wondered.

Then, on the other hand, still arguing within her head, she thought, I might be wrong. The Erdik span the stars in mighty vessels. Is that my fear? Am I hiding from the future like an unhealthy reactionary?

She didn't like that idea either, but the alternative was to believe that she might be incapable of being part of the important new styles that the Erdik brought, were still continually bringing. Jobe did not mind the new styles of clothing, in fact she rather like them—they were imitative and derivative, but they were neither more beautiful nor more ridiculous than any other styles she had known. But the new styles of ideas were something else again. They did not seem to fit as easily, and they could not always be cut and stitched to match the wearer, coming as they did from a culture where the shapes of people's souls were so different.

No one likes to think the flows of knowledge are passing her by; but still—Jobe felt a little know of skepticism unthawed within herself. When a person has to ask what ways are now in style, then there is something wrong—not with the person, but the style. Grandmere Thoma used to say that style was good taste; let the form follow the function. Style grows from role, it cannot be grafted on. Or so Grandmere had said, and Jobe did still believe. Perhaps that was why she now felt so uncomfortable with this forced imprinting of the Erdik ways onto her culture. She could not easily accept the changes.

But she tried. She wished she could be part of them. Because she was lonely—and everyone else seemed not to be, and perhaps even a wrong happiness might be preferable to righteous loneliness.

She thought.

Coming back to love now—she always kept coming back to love—it had been defined once, so well she had thought it would never need to be defined again. Love is what I'm feeling when I feel I'm in love. My lover's happiness is the source of mine. But this new kind of love the Erdik spoke of, it had so little to do with love the way the Satlik knew it; Erdik love seemed not sharing, but possession, in both senses of the word.

They used it as a reaffirmation of identity, so they could not be casual about it, could not think of it as something to be shared so much as consumed. They could not lose themselves within its larger experience as a function of the Tau, but rather took it inside themselves as if they were the large experience instead—as if the Tau were something separate from them. It was said—by those who'd tasted it—their kind of love was a more savage, violent thrill. Their love was simultaneously dark and sacred—a profanity within itself.

And Satlik love was—what?

Jobe's problem was that she knew so little of love in any form that she did not know which was right—if either.

Historically, it is believed that Lono and Rurik lived together for more than a year (Holy Calendar) in their home village. The more naturalistic tellings of the tale tend to concentrate on this section of the story because of the opportunities afforded for tangential morality plays: the conflicts between the lovers' families, the conflict between the young lovers and the unfeeling villagers, the final judgments before the Synod, and of course, the relationship of Rurik and her father.

Sometimes the myth is told with both the lovers Rethrik, but the Dakkarik version is believed to be the more accurate, as the events are more consistent with the attitudes of the Unchosen in those early days. We sometimes forget that same-Choice affection was rarely expressed in those times, and, in fact, was something that an unchosen felt she dare not even admit within herself for fear of being shown as a deviate or worse, wrong-chosen. Now that we know more of the wider spectrum of human Choice, we can only pity those who felt they had to live in fear. Today, we see an opposite extreme: many young Satlik who identify with Erdik brashness, aggressiveness and strength, see the emulation of Lono and Rurik as a way to express their disaffection with the older traditions of the home and family. They show their own “Erdiki” by flaunting their affections for all to see. In point of fact, the Erdik disapprove of these kinds of behavior, but this incongruence seems not to trouble the younglings at all; it is still Erdiki to “pair off” rather than join circles. It is, perhaps all a matter of interpretation, and like other fashions in thought, this one too may prove a temporary one. All that is proved is that every myth moves into each new age with a message specific to that age. Even though Lono and Rurik lived three hundred years ago, their age still speaks to ours.

Then, too, there was disapproval of the way they loved. There were those who could not see the content of their feelings, only the expression, and they felt it necessary to be appalled as loudly as they could. Perhaps the truth of what they felt for one another is not shown by how beautiful it was before or after Choice was made, but by how much it had to endure to be expressed.

Rurik's family, of course, tried to separate the two. Lono's family, appealing for understanding, provided them with a dome on the far end of their island, a place where they could be together, yet apart from all the others of their village. The villagers themselves were split unevenly by events—and not always along the lines of Choice. Yes, it was mostly chosen who supported them, and mostly it was Unchosen who did not understand the bond they had between them and would not betray; but there were also many chosen who felt the two were wrong, and there were many Unchosen who thought the two were victims of their situation and were trying to solve their problems the best way that they could. Perhaps the issue wasn't Choice at all so much as it was the challenge to parental prerogatives. Many of the hasty and impulsive villagers sided with Rurik's father; harsh words and harsher actions followed. The lovers were ridiculed and ostracized. “Which one is the male?” “Who tops who in bed?” And, cruelest of all, “Show us your children!”

The announcement of Lono and Rurik's intention to sacrament their love before the Synod became the focus of the hostility; almost immediately there were threats of legal action, if not against them specifically, then against same-Choice relationships in general. “Such relationships make a mockery of marriage—and of love as well. There ought to be a law—to protect our children from such things! They're a threat to our society.” Perhaps they were—they saw through its hypocrisy. There were other threats against them, more specific ones, and they began to live in fear.

Eventually, the Synod was forced to make a ruling on the acceptability of their marriage contract. Kaunilla the Prophet, known to many as a voice of reason, often appears as a character in this part of the telling, although there is no historical basis for believing that she actually took part, any more than there is reason to believe in her fabled debate with the demon. Whether or not Kaunilla actually participated and spoke on behalf of the two, the speeches ascribed to her are as powerful and persuasive as any she ever gave in real life that we have actual evidence of. Whether or not Kaunilla truly was speaker in the case, there was someone there with her sharpness of mind to speak for Lono and Rurik.

After much deliberation, the Synod ruled that Lono and Rurik could not be held at fault for they were not the cause of the situation, they were the victims. It was Rurik's father who caused the original harm; had Rurik's right of Choice not been tampered with, Rurik and Lono would have been able to determine their own futures and accomplish a fruitful marriage. Therefore, sidestepping the specific issue of their present shape, the Synod ruled that the actions of the lovers were based on past intentions that had been originally noble in their purpose. The Synod then affirmed the right of every child to her own Choice—and condemned the actions of Rurik's father, who had sentenced the lovers to a life of barrenness—never to know the happiness of their own children—because of her unthinking actions. It is said that this was the hardest moment of them all, with both Lono and Rurik deep in tears at the embarrassment of Rurik's father. The Synod declared that although Rurik's parents had been well-meaning—that much they would allow—the youngster's rights had been compromised, and in reparation they must be allowed to make their way the best they could. This was a special case, of course—the Synod wasn't ready to extend that right to other same-Choice lovers. But even so, the decision was not popular; the village would accept the ruling—they had to, under law—but not without a great deal of reluctance born of prejudice.

There was a confrontation between Rurik and her father—there had to be. And whether it occurred or not, the myth demands its enaction for its truth. Rurik must declare her selfness to her parent. “Even if the Synod had ruled against us, I could not and would not stop from loving Lono. Love is not so easily controlled—or have you forgotten your own youth? We cannot be parted any more than we can give up our arms or legs or hearts. Nor will I renounce the inherent Rethriki of my soul. I must stay with the one Dakkarik who means the most to me, no matter what the thoughts or words that come from others who don't know.”

It is said that Rurik's father did not speak at all when Rurik told her this—and so the scene is always played. She neither accepts nor rejects her child's declaration, and finally, in desperation, seeking some response, Rurik asks—nay, demands, “Why will you not let me love?” Her plea has echoed ever since, not just as a single cry of anguish, but as the cry of all children everywhere against all parents who would guide with splints instead of supports.

In the most famous tellings of all, Rurik's declaration is so strong that her father finally breaks down and cries and begs forgiveness—which Rurik is appalled to find she cannot give. “I love you,” she says, “I always will. But I will never forgive you.” But in other, earlier versions, the father refused to recognize the error of her ways. She is generally played as strong-minded, dominant, intolerant; in such a version, the scene is always strained and uncomfortable, and particularly hard to watch. She does not break and cry, but neither does she dominate. In either version, though, the essence of the moment is the transference of personal strength from the father to the child. The assumption of maturity becomes an almost visible passing from one to the other. The father becomes the child when the child becomes the adult.

As the seasons turned to autumn, life in their home village slowly became tolerable for Lono and Rurik—despite the ruling of the Synod; the case had become too controversial and emotions still were running all too high. Winter was the worst—Lono and Rurik were refused food from the commonstore. When they presented themselves and demanded their fair share, they were denied. “You do not share your seed with us, we cannot share our fruit with you.” They would have starved had not Lono's mother smuggled them as much of her own share as she could; but Lono's mother died on the equinox and winter still had many weeks to endure. Finally, Rurik's father presented herself before them one darkday with a large basket of supplies. Although they had to accept the food—Rurik would not let Lono go hungry on her account—Rurik was still unable to forgive her father. Her parent felt broken and betrayed.

The last days of winter are sometimes called “The Time of Sea-Siege,” a direct reference to the cold, near-starvation of Lono and Rurik. With little food and no fuel except their own wastes, they kept warm only by huddling together. Often they were sick, too weak even to cast their nets for fish. Those long and freezing nights were the hardest test their love would ever have to endure—they could have ended their exile in a moment by each accepting marriages with local Rethrik blushlings—but they would not betray each other; this was the forge on which their final maturity was tempered; for in those storm-tossed weeks they realized the context in which they lived and what they must do in order to master it. With the coming of the spring, Lono and Rurik withdrew from the community. They composed an homage to Reethe the Mother of the Sea and began work on an endeavor apart from any decided by the village—the construction of a trimaran larger and sturdier than any of those used in local waters; this was not tiny vessel for local gadabouts, this craft was destined for farther shores. They loaded it with dried fish wrapped in bamboo, curds and pickled vegetables, smoked meats, and jars of jellied fruit and rinds that they had prepared and secretly withheld from the new year's commonstore. Then, burning their old dome as a symbolic refutation of their ties to this hostile island, they sailed off into the west.