I belong. I belong to John and Jane; I belong to Hickory and Dickory and every Obin. And yet for all that, for all the connection I feel—for all the connection I have—there are times when I feel alone, and I have the sensation of drifting and not connecting at all. Maybe that’s just what you do when you’re this age; you have your stretches of alienation. Maybe to find yourself you’ve got to feel like you’re unplugged. Maybe everyone goes through this.
What I knew, though, there at the grave, my grave, was that I was having one of those moments.
I had been here before, to this grave. First when my mother was buried, and then, a few years later, when Jane brought me here to say good-bye to both my mother and father. All the people who know me have gone away, I said to her. All of my people are gone. And then she came over to me and asked me to live with her and John, in a new place. Asked me to let her and John be my new people.
I touched the jade elephant at my neck and smiled, thinking of Jane.
Who am I? Who are my people? Who do I belong to? Questions with easy answers and no answers. I belong to my family and to the Obin and sometimes to no one at all. I am a daughter and goddess and girl who sometimes just doesn’t know who she is or what she wants. My brain rattles around my head with this stuff and gives me a headache. I wish I were alone here. I’m glad John’s with me. I want to see my new friend Gretchen and make sarcastic comments until we burst out laughing. I want to go to my stateroom on the Magellan, turn off the light, hug my dog, and cry. I want to leave this stupid cemetery. I don’t ever want to leave it because I know I’m never coming back to it. This is my last time with my people, the ones who are already gone.
Sometimes I don’t know if my life is complicated, or if it’s that I just think too much about things.
I knelt at the grave, thought some more, and tried to find a way to say a last good-bye to my mother and father and to keep them with me, to stay and to go, to be the daughter and goddess and girl who doesn’t know what she wants, all at once, and to belong to everyone and keep myself.
It took a while.
EIGHT
“You seem sad,” Hickory said, as we took the shuttle back to Phoenix Station. Dickory sat next to Hickory, impassive as ever.
“I am sad,” I said. “I miss my mother and father.” I glanced over to John, who was sitting in the front of the shuttle with the pilot, Lieutenant Cloud. “And I think all this moving and leaving and going is getting to me a little bit. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” Hickory said. “This journey has been stressful for us, too.”
“Oh, good,” I said, turning back to the two of them. “Misery loves company.”
“If you would like we would be happy to try to cheer you up,” Hickory said.
“Really,” I said. This was a new tactic. “How would you do that?”
“We could tell you a story,” Hickory said.
“What story?” I asked.
“One that Dickory and I have been working on,” Hickory said.
“You’ve been writing?” I said. I didn’t bother to keep the incredulousness out of my voice.
“Is it that surprising?” Hickory said.
“Absolutely,” I said. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“The Obin don’t have stories of their own,” Hickory said. “We learned about them through you, when you had us read to you.”
I was puzzled for a minute, and then I remembered: When I was younger I asked Hickory and Dickory to read bedtime stories to me. It was a failed experiment, to say the least; even with their consciousness machines on, neither of them could tell a story to save their lives. The beats were all wrong—they didn’t know how to read the emotions in the story is the best way I can put it. They could read the words, all right. They just couldn’t tell the story.
“So you’ve been reading stories since then,” I said.
“Sometimes,” Hickory said. “Fairy tales and myths. We are most interested in myths, because they are stories of gods and creation. Dickory and I have decided to make a creation myth for the Obin, so we have a story of our own.”
“And this is the story you want to tell me,” I said.
“If you think it would cheer you up,” Hickory said.
“Well, is it a happy creation myth?” I asked.
“It is for us,” Hickory said. “You should know you play a part in it.”
“Well, then,” I said. “I definitely want to hear it now.”
Hickory conferred with Dickory quickly, in their own language. “We will tell you the short version,” Hickory said.
“There’s a long version?” I said. “I’m really intrigued.”
“The remainder of the shuttle ride will not be long enough for the long version,” Hickory said. “Unless we then went back down to Phoenix. And then back up. And then back down again.”
“The short version it is,” I said.
“Very well,” Hickory said, and began. “Once upon a time—”
“Really?” I said. “‘Once upon a time’?”
“What is wrong with ‘once upon a time’?” Hickory asked. “Many of your stories and myths start that way. We thought it would be appropriate.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” I said. “It’s just a little old-fashioned.”
“We will change it if you like,” Hickory said.
“No,” I said. “I’m sorry, Hickory, I interrupted you. Please start again.”