Free Commitment Hour by James Alan Gardner Page A

the dark, I couldn’t see more than the OldTech radio antenna on Patriarch Hill, but I could smell the village with all the fondness of home. Wharf odors predominated—fresh perch, salted perch, and the rotting pile of junk fish waiting to be minced for fertilizer—but the air also carried fragrances from the farms that ringed the edge of town: sheep, cattle, hundreds of chickens, and the sweet perfume of clover.
    Above all that ran one more smell, usually tamped down on summer evenings, but thick tonight because it was solstice: woodsmoke, coming from every chimney. Tomorrow was Commitment Day. Cook stoves would burn all night long, roasting meat and baking bread, warming potatoes and simmering white bean/crayfish chowder, all in preparation for the great feast that celebrated…well, that celebrated me. And Cappie, of course. We two had reached the age of Commitment. For one day, we were the cove’s official darlings.
    The door of the Council Hall opened and someone stepped onto the wide cement area at the top of the steps. Lamplight spilled from inside the hall, silhouetting the figure: a man’s clothes, but not a man’s body.
    “That’s Cappie,” Bonnakkut said from behind me.
    I nodded.
    “Hard to decide,” Bonnakkut went on softly, “whether I’d rather see her Commit as man or woman. If she decides to be a man, she’ll make one hell of a warrior. Strong as a bull, but fast…she could win half the sports trophies at Wiretown Fall Fair.”
    I knew that; Cappie’s muscles had got me out of several down-peninsula scrapes, in the years when she was male and people were jealous of my talent. Still, I wondered why Bonnakkut had chosen this moment to rhapsodize about her prowess.
    “On the other hand,” Bonnakkut said, “if she decides to be a woman…well, I like her as a woman, just fine.”
    I stared at him. He smirked back. “Cappie’s mine,” I said.
    “You’re sure of that?”
    “What do you mean?”
    Bonnakkut kept smirking. “Maybe I just mean that tomorrow is Commitment Day. If you both Commit female…you and Cappie can still be good friends, as the saying goes, but she’ll be looking for a man. Maybe that’s all I mean.”
    “And maybe it isn’t?”
    “Nearly every weekend, you go down-peninsula to play your little fiddle,” Bonnakkut said. “Maybe Cappie likes company when you’re gone.”
    I would have punched him in the mouth if I hadn’t been afraid of hurting my fingers. Bonnakkut’s gun didn’t scare me, and neither did his huge arms and shoulders…but a violinist has to think of his hands first, no matter how badly he’d like to thrash someone. I could only say, “You’ve always been a lying asshole, Bonnakkut. It’s nice when you provide new proof.”
    Then, before he got ideas about retaliation, I hopped in front of Rashid to get that violet light between me and Bonnakkut’s anger.

    When Cappie caught sight of us coming up the beach, she called into the Council Hall and several more people joined her on the steps. In the darkness, all I could see were silhouettes—silhouettes with the tousled hair and skewed clothing of folks just roused from their beds. The women of Tober Cove might spend much of Commitment Eve cooking, but the men (especially the Elders) slept like slugs, wisely saving their energy for the next day.
    Though I could only see the Elders’ silhouettes, I could still recognize Mayor Teggeree: a balloon of a man as wide as a door and as heavy as a prize heifer. Perhaps there’s some secret law of the Spark Lords that all mayors have to be fat; in my travels down-peninsula I’ve never met a mayor who didn’t bulge at the seams, even in perverse towns where women held the office.
    Another person came out to the steps, this one holding an oil lantern. Teggeree snatched the lantern and held it above his head…as if it would help him see better, instead of interfering with his night vision. He stood for some time, the lantern glow lighting his squint