The first thing that Leona did after Mateo, Ramses, and Alyssa departed for
their mission was to look into the requirements for becoming a certified
facilitatrix. She found a training program with good reviews, gathered all
of the necessary literature, and spoke with a few professionals about
starting the process. Leona is a very intelligent, experienced individual,
who will have no problem completing the coursework, but in the midst of all
this, she realized that even the limited training may be a waste of time.
Can a Berarian mother name her child after a facilitatrix? This kind of
information is not freely available online, so she has finally set up an
appointment with a faith consultant.
Nearly every religion in this reality has them. They are usually members of
the religion themselves, but not always. They do not serve as leaders within
their respectives faiths, because it is only their responsibility to guide
prospective converts. It’s part of the law that anyone wishing to convert
should have all the facts they need to make an informed decision. A special
subset of these faith experts specialize in children who have just reached
the age of choice, and it is one of these that was the only one available at
such short notice. They’ve met at a park, next to a lone bench. “Hello, I’m
Rostam Gibson. You are Leona Delaney.”
“Umm...yes, I am.” She didn’t give a name when she called to set an
appointment.
“Don’t worry, I heard about the bounty, but I have no interest in it. It’s
not high lawful. And to let you know, everything we talk about here is
completely confidential.”
“I appreciate that. What is high lawful?”
“High law refers to the moral and ethical standards to which we must all
adhere, whether any given state, organization, or individual ascribes to
them. Berarians believe that there is a right, and a wrong. We don’t think
we know what that moral code is, or that anyone knows, but we’re certain
that a just lifestyle exists, and is possible to attain in the future. That
is what we are working towards.”
“I see.”
“You’re not a hopeful convert,” he deduces, “yet you came here for answers.
Berar is one of the least complex faiths. We don’t ask weird things of our
believers, like praying to a ghost once a week. A lot of what I do is
helping people write school papers about us, but something tells me that
you’re here for a different reason.”
“When you say this is confidential, does that extend to anything I tell you
about someone else?”
“It doesn’t matter what, or who, you talk about, I can’t repeat it. It
wouldn’t be high lawful.”
She smiles. “I have a friend. She’s pregnant.”
“I see where this is going. She doesn’t like her doctor’s name.”
“You’ve seen this before.”
He nods. “Yes. Some are...more devout than others. I told you that we don’t
ask weird things of our believers, but the naming thing is kind of the one
exception. I’m the only Rostam Gibson in the world, and it’s only because
I’m Berarian, and my deliverer was from Iran. People ask me whether there is
some kind of database, where they can search for a doctor with the name that
they’re looking for. However, this goes against the spirit of the practice.
You’re not supposed to choose the name. Fate is.”
“What does that have to do with high law?” Leona questions.
“It doesn’t, really. Our founder’s mother was on a sinking ship when she
went into labor. She ended up on a lifeboat that was literally broken in
half, and barely able to stay on the surface, with one man, and two coats.
The water was freezing, and so was the air. He gave his own coat up to
protect the baby that he had just delivered into this world. He died, and
she named her son after him. This honor was just something that was
important to our founder, so when he came up with his new religion, he chose
to deliberately put it into the rules. It’s not entirely random and
pointless, though. No, there is nothing immoral about not naming your child
after its deliverer. What it does is serve as a small reminder that...some
laws are immutable; the high laws. And some of them we just decide we’re
going to follow, and that’s what makes a healthy society. Because the fact
is, no law—high, or otherwise—matters if we don’t agree.”
“That’s...fascinating.”
“That’s why so many students write papers on us,” he begins. “They’re
looking for answers, and not to speak ill of other faiths, but...our answers
are better, because they make sense.”
“I bet they do. Even the baby naming one has a logic to it.”
He smiles mildly, and nods.
Leona takes a little bit of time to go back over the lie she made up to
explain why Arcadia would feel compelled to name her baby Delaney. “We’re
triplets; Arcadia, Nerakali, and me. We were separated at birth, and didn’t
find each other until less than a year ago. I was raised by our birth
parents, but Nerakali was raised by a now estranged uncle, and Arcadia by a
family friend. That’s why she has a different last name. Our third sister
died recently, and Arcadia wanted to honor her by naming her child Nerakali.
Unfortunately, it’s a unique name, so when Arcadia learned that she had to
give this honor to her baby’s deliverer—”
“Wait, when she found out?” Rostman echoes, confused. “Why would she not
already know that?”
“I can’t explain why Berar is her religion of record, though not technically
her religion.”
He’s suspicious, but it looks like he’s going to respect the confidentiality
claim.
“When she found out this part, we made a plan to technically name the baby
after my unmarried name, which is the same as Nerakali’s, but really be
named after Nerakali herself. I was going to learn to become a
facilitatrix, but...”
Now he’s smiling sadly.
“But that’s not going to work, is it? It doesn’t matter if I’m the one who
facilitates the birth, it will always be a bad faith move.”
“Yes,” he says compassionately.
This sucks. Arcadia is going to be heartbroken, but she’ll be able to get
through it. Trina McIver told them, Leona Delaney is alive. Or she was,
anyway. Naming their child after her would have been a very nice gesture,
but it’s not meant to be, and that’s okay. “Welp, just to be clear, if a
masculine name has a feminine form, it’s okay to choose that one instead,
right?”
“That’s all right, it doesn’t have to be exact,” he confirms. “If someone
were to ask, she would just have to be able to explain that it’s a close
linguistic variant.”
“I appreciate your guidance,” Leona says, standing up, “and your
discretion.”
“Call me anytime.”
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