The day Nokia Valupak became a woman, she was almost shot by an arrogant groundhog.
She had awoken, as she usually did, in a hammock in her childhood home. It was almost evening: the sun was low in the summer sky, just a few days after the solstice. The day had been hot, but a breeze had sprung up in the late afternoon, and by the time Nokia was fully awake, the heat was out of the air, and it remained only in the warmth of the rooftiles outside her window.
A church steeple can be a stiflingly hot place to sleep, as Nokia well knew, but her parents had devised and installed vents in the steeple, cleverly hidden from prying groundhog eyes. She and her parents hung like bats in their hammocks, and when evening came, they crept down their rope ladders, refreshed and eager for whatever the night might bring.
On this day, however, Nokia realized that she had passed from childhood to adulthood somehow in her sleep. The stain of blood was not more than a few drops, but Nokia had been told to expect it and taught to recognize the signs. For every young woman, it was a matter of much celebration, and she was looking forward to taking her place as an adult, and living in her own kip, finding her own living.
Not to say that she did not love her parents. Of course she did, and she thought she might love them even more as an independent adult than she had as a child with no rights of her own.
From this day on, she was responsible for herself. She couldn’t wait to tell her parents and the rest of her family. She was far from being the first of her friends to come of age, and had, in fact, begun to wonder if there was something wrong with her. That was past now. She gathered up her kip and her hammock, swung out on the roof, and went to find her parents.
They were not far away: the sun had not yet set, and they were breaking fast further down the steeple, on a small platform that was sheltered from the wind and from the sight of people on the ground.
Her father’s hand was draped over a limestone gargoyle, as if it were a favorite pet. Each had a bit of bread and some fruit, left outside no doubt by one of the vicars for them to take. They had saved some for her, as they always did. Nokia felt a brief pang at the thought that from now on she would have to find her own breakfast, or hope that some groundhog would notice her and provide.
“Good wakening!” she greeted them as she did every day. Another pang, as she knew this would be the last such greeting she gave them. She sat down beside them on the platform, giving the gargoyle a playful pat. Her church, her gargoyles – and such lovely, fantastical gargoyles – but not for much longer. Through breakfast, though.
She must give her parents the news, but not now, she thought. After breakfast. For this one last meal, she wanted to be a child.
As she took her place, she looked out over the rooftops and experienced an odd feeling of vertigo. It was almost as if there was someone behind her, just outside her vision. It was a dizzying feeling, and she shook her head a bit to clear it. Then she realized that the person behind her was herself, or another self. Was this what an angel was? She turned her head a little each way, as if she could catch a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of the invisible person behind her. She didn’t really believe she would see anyone: there was no one there, and yet there was someone there. The feeling was eerie, and not particularly reassuring, but it faded as she sat down and took a bite out of an apple.
She ate slowly, savoring the last meal of her childhood. Her mother looked at her quizzically.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she asked.
Nokia shook her head. It was too soon! She wasn’t ready to tell them that she had left childhood behind. “I just had the weirdest feeling,” she said. “Like there were two of me, almost in one body. I was behind me, but I wasn’t me.”
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” said her father, smiling and clapping his hands together. “Time to chase those dreamwebs out of your head.”
“It didn’t feel like a dream,” she said. “It just started now.” She turned to her mother. “Have you ever felt anything like that?”
Her mother had an odd look on her face. “Not in the longest time,” she said. “I put it out of my head, and I suggest that you do the same.”
