Moonstar (6 page)

She kicked lightly up and moved her arms to bring her back toward the shore, but the next wave pulled her farther again, just a little bit more than the last. Still unafraid, she kicked again, only now noticing that there was a current. The next ebb of the tide pulled her even harder and farther away from the shore.

Jobe was till unconcerned. Although not an excellent swimmer, she was competent; all island children were. She struck off toward the shore, stroking hard with her arms and flailing with her legs—she seemed to make good progress too, but the water was receding faster than she was approaching. She found herself even farther out.

She started swimming hard again—and realized abruptly that she was making no headway at all. She would tire long before she could reach the shore.

Abruptly, she was scared.

“Oh, no—I don't want to die now! Mama!” The moment was painfully clear—it was that imperative frozen slice in which all the world crystallizes into a perfectly understood image. Jobe perceived it as accurately and brightly delineated as if she were a camera. She was going to die. She was going to drown. She was being pulled out to sea—she could fight it, flailing helplessly against the current, and she would drown even faster. She would tire and the water would fill her lungs, and the pain would be unbelievable—of course, there would be pain—and the cold darkness would creep in around the edges, her struggles would slow into ballet-movements and death would fade her into puzzled oblivion.

And in that same moment, she was thinking of the pain it would bring to her family. Oh, Mama, no!” And also the terrible recriminations that would be focused on Potto—

“Potto! Help!”

But what could Potto do? Could she swim out here? Then she would be caught in the riptide too—and both of them would drown.

Potto could get the boat.

And with that thought, she stopped swimming, and resumed treading water. Even in the throes of sudden panic, the mind still insists on working logically, and homes unerringly on the best possible solution.

“Potto! Help! Potto!” Jobe yelled as hard as she could. She could barely see the spit anymore, she was being swept out to sea too fast. She yelled and waved her arms.

Then, her mind still churning, she realized that her only hope was to stay afloat until Potto could reach her. She arched her back, forced herself to relax, and floated on top of the water, moving her arms gently but steadily to keep her head toward the shore.

“It's just a matter of time,” she told herself. “As long as I can stay afloat, Potto can reach me.” Her fear was beginning to subside now—she hadn't swallowed any water, she was still alive, all she had to do was float. Potto would come and get her. She stroked the water a little faster so she would not get too far away. She kicked lightly too. The situation was under control, she told herself; she started counting now, counting her strokes. Potto would be here before she hit one hundred. Let's see, Potto should have pushed the catamaran into the water now and should even be past the breakers. She should be just starting the little motor that was mounted at the stern between the two pontoons, specifically for emergencies or moving against wind. Both cases applied here, Jobe was being pulled westward; she stroked a little harder—not too hard though, don't want to get tired. If I've been swept too far out, she thought, it'll take Potto a little longer. She resumed counting. Maybe she would have to count to two hundred.

At three hundred, she stopped counting, puzzled. Where was Potto?

She stopped floating, let her feet sink below her till she was treading water again, then turned and looked at the shore—

—her feet touched bottom then and she was only chest high in the water. Dazed, and not quite understanding, she began walking toward the beach, fighting the push and tug of the waves. Potto was cleaning fish way up on the spit; the catamaran was high and dry beside her. She looked up, saw Jobe coming out of the water and waved.

It was the floating, Jobe realized. By floating, she had raised herself above the current. Instinctively, she had done the right thing, and it had brought her back to shore.

But she was tired now—exhausted. The surge of adrenalin had faded, leaving only a drained feeling. Although the water was only at her waist, she could barely fight it anymore—she was sobbing and the tears were running down her cheeks, even saltier than the sea. “Potto. . .!” she wailed, and the older child looked up curiously, then came running, sensing from Jobe's tone that something was wrong.

Jobe managed to stay on her feet, wavering, until Potto was close enough to catch her—then collapsed into her sister's arms.

“What's the matter, Jobe? Little Jobe?”

“Where were you?” Jobe wailed. “You didn't come and save me! I was caught by the undertow! I called for help, but you didn't come!”

“I didn't hear you call—” Abruptly Potto realized what Jobe was saying and grabbed her tightly. “Are you all right?”

Jobe sniffled, sobbed, honked through her nose—“Nooo. . .!” she wailed, and buried her head against Potto's broad chest, smearing the carefully drawn stripes. There would be smudges on her cheeks too.

Potto was caught by surprise, and not sure what was best to do—but what was best was her instinctive reaction. She held on to Jobe until Jobe stopped crying, held on to her and stroked her hair and her back, placed her strong hand against the back of Jobe's neck, placed her soft palm against Jobe's cheek and, although it was something she never would have believed she could have done, she whispered, “Jobie, little Jobie, let it all out, that's a good one—I love you. If anything had happened to you, I couldn't have endured it. But it's all right now, it's all right.” And then, even more surprising—to both of them: “Little Jobie, you're my favorite, did you know that?”

Jobe looked up through bleary red eyes. “Huh—?” she honked.

“Uh huh, you.” And she kissed her on the nose.

“But you're always picking on me—!” She sniffed and put her head against Potto again.

“If I meant it, I wouldn't do it. It's just my way.”

“But it hurts.”

Now it was Potto's turn to cry—a tiny glistening at the corners of her eyes and a wavering in her voice. “Oh, Jobe, I wouldn't hurt you for anything.”

For a while, they just held on to each other, Jobe crying because of her fear; Potto crying because of Jobe's hurt.

At last, it was the heat, the drying, gritty heat, that pulled them apart—they were getting sticky against each other.

“Come on back to the boat. You can wipe your nose.”

“All right.” Jobe was still sniffling.

Potto put an arm around her and pulled her close, but the sun was too hot and the sand was too soft, it was difficult to walk that way. Instead, she held little Jobe's hand and led her back to the catamaran.

Her fear slightly calmed, Jobe began to relate in more detail what had happened, what she had been thinking, how she felt. Potto murmured sympathetically, but she was more concerned for Jobe's state of mind than in knowing exactly what happened. “There weren't any stingfish, were there?”

Jobe shook her head, annoyed at the interruption, and kept on talking—almost giddily now. This was rehearsal for the all-important retellings when they got home, and again at dinner, and later again to her friends. It was important that she get it right. Jobe was exhausted, but her mind was racing. She was reexamining the incident already, studying it to see if any element of it could be made more exciting, or conversely, if any element of it made her seem foolish.

“I wasn't out too far—was I? I didn't think I was, Potto. I'm always very careful about that. Aren't I, Potto?”

They were back at the boat and Potto was studying Jobe thoughtfully. “You're talking too much again,” Potto only said, “turn around, I'll put some oil on you.”

Jobe complied; taking Potto's gentle orders was something she understood. And needed. She felt Potto's large hands moving warmly across her back and down to her buttocks and legs. Potto's fingers were both stronger and gentler than she had ever realized before. Jobe was enjoying the attention. Potto's hands were slowing . . .

“Don't stop, I like it.”

“I'm all through.”

Jobe turned to face her. “Do my front too.”

Potto hesitated, then decided to humor her. She poured some more of the coconut oil into her hand and spread it quickly on Jobe's chest.

While Potto had been touching Jobe and spreading oil on her backside, was she struck with recognition of Jobe's approaching puberty? Jobe was skinny, undeveloped—yet the stretching of her body spoke, and that was sign enough. Did Potto recognize within herself the pleasures that she gave to Jobe? When Jobe had said, “Don't stop,” did Potto know that Jobe had felt it too; was she embarrassed? Was that why she hesitated now?

The threshold of the blush is highly sensual, the body grows attuned to mysteries of touch and magic. All the nerves become the messengers of sparkling and unspoken joys. The most intense experiences will breed intense emotions—and though Jobe didn't understand the why of all her feelings, she still knew she needed something from her sister, the most intense and gentle strokes that were possible from Potto. Jobe knew—if only via instinct—the form of those attentions had to be physical and sensual. She needed something visceral to allay her trembling fears. But what was merely sensual for Jobe was something sexual for Potto.

And yet, perhaps Jobe knew that too.

As Potto touched her—was she trying not to think of her the way she had been thinking? Jobe was learning something new here. As she studied Potto, she was seeing not her sister, but the adult that she would be; the hands of change were on her.

Potto's chest was swelling with first blush; the muscles of adulthood were beginning to appear. The more perceptive of their aunts had recognized that Potto would go Dakka, and indeed, the signs were there already. Instead of softening with an extra layer of tissue, fatty, blood-infused, the onset of first blush, that moment when the coin awaits its final stamping, Potto had already passed beyond into the onset of her option. She had broadened in her neck and shoulders, subtly so, but it was there. And her stomach too had tightened, turning hard she had lost her soft pink fleshiness, she looked instead to have a mound of muscle, firm with tone. Tiny curlicues of hair were beginning to appear upon it.

Curious, Jobe reached and touched. She realized that what she did was something very wrong, a breaking of the boundaries, the unseen ones that held you back. But, yet—as she waited, as she touched, knowing certain that her sister would most surely pull away, Potto didn't.

She stood there, hesitating, to see if she'd continue—or withdraw. Jobe's hand remained where she had placed it. Her touch was brave and probing, moist with wonder at the feeling. What she touched was hard where she herself was soft. Strange, how very strange. Potto moved her along Jobe's sides, pausing at her waist, then sliding down her hips.

Jobe stared at Potto's stomach, it was tense, as was her own. “You'll be going soon,” she said. “Won't you, Potto?”

Potto nodded. “I guess so. That's what they're saying. It's not decided. I don't know. But even if I do go away, it won't be for long. Just long enough to choose.”

“You've already chosen, haven't you?”

“No—” she said. “I don't think so. I mean, I thought I knew—but I've started thinking about what it might be like to be a mother. I mean . . .” she hesitated. “You only get to choose once. I want to be sure; I still have time.” She added, “Porro will have to choose too, you know. We've been talking.” And then, in a lower tone, she confided, “We've even slept together to grow closer than sisters—to help each other make her choice.”

“What's it like?”

“Sleeping together?”

“Uh huh.”

“It's—it's nice.”

“No, I mean—what do you do?”

“You know. You've seen pictures like everybody else.”

Jobe shrugged. “It's not the same.” She could visualize a man and a woman making love—but she could not visualize a specific man and woman. More important, she could not visualize anyone she knew actually participating in sex. What did Potto and Porro do when they slept together? The question would have been indiscreet, had it not been for Jobe's incorrigible innocence and naiveté.

“We do what feels good. We touch. All over.”

“Like I'm touching you?”

“Kind of.” Potto pulled away then, embarrassed. “The touching is nice, Jobe, but it isn't all. There's also sharing.” And then, softer, “Being touched back is even nicer—that's an even bigger kind of sharing. Put on your kilt. Let's go home.”

“OK.”

“You'll find out what it's like yourself, Jobe. You're almost old enough.”

“OK,” Jobe said. She had put the matter out of her mind for now. She was still a child enough to be mercurial in her attention, fleeting insectlike from moment to moment; but insectlike, she would return to pollinate a subject that intrigued her, until an answer grew to fruition—and more and more this business of bodies and what people did with them was becoming very important. But for the moment all her surface questions had been answered, and the deeper ones could lie unspoken for a while longer. Germinating.

They pushed the boat into the water and Jobe hopped onto the canvas frame, then pulled Potto aboard too. “I think you'll choose for Dakka,” she said unexpectedly.

“I will choose what I will choose,” Potto answered. Then, realizing she'd been too brusque, she added, “If I choose for Dakka, you can be one of my wives.”

“I'm going to choose for Dakka too,” Jobe said. It was a reflex statement. If Kaspe, Olin and Potto were all going to be males, then so would Jobe.