Free Moonstar by David Gerrold

Kirstegaarde.
    At that, there was silence. The family did not like to refer to Fellip, who had chosen incorrectly and returned to the sea out of sorrow. But Kirstegaarde added, “Fellip was forced into a bad decision because someone”—and here, she avoided looking directly at Kuvig, but the words were like knives—“someone wanted another daughter. Fellip wanted Dakka, but someone”—and she paused again—“insisted that we follow . . . let me see, what was it that time? Geneticism?”
    Kuvig was rigid. She looked at the wife. “Kirstegaarde, there are times when you make it very difficult to love you. Do you not think I have tortured myself for that mistake a thousand times over? Do you not think that I still cry for my lost son? We gave Fellip a Dakkarik wake so that she might live in the sea as a male, but I have never forgiven myself for being so insensitive and everyone in the family knows it. How many times must you reopen the wound?” And then, in a softer tone, she added, “That is why I encourage the freedom of choice now—so that we will never have another Fellip—that is why I want Porro and Potto to go to Option.” Kuvig lowered her hands to her lap and fell silent.
    Kirstegaarde opened her mouth to speak, but Thoma turned on her and took her by the arm. “Kirstegaarde,” she said softly, “why must you always use that terrible memory as a weapon? The rest of us have forgiven, or at least learned to accept, and we bear our sorrows in common—but why must you continue to sidetrack every meeting of decisions with that terrible look of accusation and blame? Why must you trouble Kuvig with it?
    â€œKuvig was the father and I was the mother.” But that was no answer. Fellip had been dead for sixteen years—and still Kirstegaarde carried her sorrow with her. Perhaps her sorrow had poisoned her mind, for she was unable to see anything except through the filters of her blame.
    The others looked uncomfortable. Suko said quickly, “I think that dinner has ended now. Let us excuse the children to their games while we retire to the commonroom. I shall brew some tea and Thoma will shred some herbs for smoke. There is speaking to be done tonight.”
    Kuvig nodded. She had been struck full force again with Kirstegaarde’s blame, and all present knew that she would be crying again in the middle of the night. She would do no further speaking tonight. Vialla and perhaps Hojanna would have to speak her positions instead. Hojanna was already herding the younger children out. Porro and Potto began clearing the table. Suko and Thoma began laying out the pipes and cups.
    The family decision had been postponed until the family could again be a family. First they would drink, then they would smoke—then they would perform the rituals that would remind them of the love that made them a family in the first place. The pearl of contention that Kirstegaarde carried within her always must be expelled into the sea—or at least buried for a while—before the family could again be a true circle. Only then might the decision-making process continue.
    In the end, it was decided that Porro and Potto would attend the Circle at Option, there to study computing as well as other forms of island management. They would also be allowed to live at Option for their full moment of Choice.
    At the end of the evening, the joybuds in the flower piece had opened. All but one of them was pink tinged with white, shading to deep purple at their centers. The one exception was colored bright scarlet, and Jobe shivered when she saw it, wondering what it portended, and wondering, too, whose flower it was.
    â€œI remember my dolls vividly—in some ways, they were my closest childhood companions. There was Rhinga and Dhola and Gahoostawik—Gahoostawik was my favorite, she had been with me longer than I could remember; she was probably my first real