by Jack Dann
I stammered out an apology, but Shay seemed to take no offence. She went on, ‘We feed them until it is time for them to mate.’
‘And then what happens?’ I asked.
‘We’re not very different from other animals. The female is enveloped in her cocoon, and a young Suvari emerges months later. We elders give of our blood to them until they can feed themselves.’
I jabbed at my ear — the gesture feels surprisingly natural — and said, ‘But then where do the spawn come from?’
She nodded, which was clearly not a sign of assent as it is in many human cultures. ‘From our spores, of course,’ she said. ‘Both the end and beginning of the Lifeblood cycle.’
‘Can you remember?’ I asked. ‘What it was like to be a spawn?’
Again the nod. ‘I was never spawn,’ she said. She gestured toward the pool. ‘We all come from them, but they are not Suvari. The plant’s seed is not the plant.’
‘And the male spawn?’ I asked. ‘What happens to them after they mate?’
‘They don’t live much longer, having fulfilled their purpose. Such is the way of the Lifeblood.’ She paused a moment and added, ‘Out on the tundra, among the nomads, I am told they still drink the blood of the male spawn until the Lifeblood is drained from them. But we no longer practise such savagery here in the village.’
I clicked away and lifted my head, trying to withhold my judgments.
28.07.2489
Tomorrow, I will preside over my first Mass here, and I find myself struggling with the translation. Father Marcelo left no notes or documentation of any kind, so I have no idea what he’s told them or how he’s begun the enculturation process, and I’m left to start from scratch.
Blood (kasali) means everything to these people. I’m tempted to use the word as the translation for any number of concepts. For a race whose only food is blood, how else can you translate ‘daily bread’ except as ‘daily blood’? Given that, is there any reason to include the Body of Christ in the ceremony? Should I translate Holy Spirit as ‘Sacred Lifeblood’?
I’ll keep the Mass simple tomorrow — a few basic prayers, the gospel reading, a homily, then the Eucharist. I’ve been debating what to read for the gospel. I often like to start with Gabriel’s appearance before Mary, but the virgin birth is confusing even for cultures with reproductive cycles similar to our own.
I fell asleep in the middle of the day, and had a nightmare that I was back on Galatea. I was walking through the dark valley, and looked up to see the three crucifixes in the shadows atop the hill. Nails stabbed the gossamer wings of the three lifeless bodies hanging from the crosses.
Haven’t had that dream in years. It must be the stress of a new world, the fear of making the kind of mistake that cannot be undone.
29.07.2489
We held the Mass in the sinkhole in the village centre. It has banked seating around the sides, and is covered with a low roof of leather and bone. Shay says they use the space for village meetings and for special blood-sharing rituals. A good number came to the Mass — a couple of dozen out of the two hundred or so who live here.
I read my translation of Matthew 28, when the women discover that Jesus has risen from the dead. In my homily, I tried to connect Christ’s resurrection to their cyclical philosophy. Christ’s rebirth as a symbol of new beginnings, the possibility of new life springing from death. It was simple and straightforward, but a good beginning point for enculturation.
It was the strangest consecration I’ve ever done —holding up a sausage of actual blood instead of a chalice of wine. I drank first — I’ve got better at biting it open — and then handed it on to Shay. She drank the rest and said, ‘Let the Lifeblood of Christ flow from my mouth to yours.’ She passed it on to the others in the usual manner, a bloody kiss passed from beak to beak. The smaller, younger ones drank last.
Afterwards, I opened the floor for discussion, as is customary in the enculturation process. An elder was the first to speak. ‘The Lifeblood flows,’ she said, the clichés rolling easily from her beak. ‘Christ releases His blood to give life to others, then He returns in a new cycle of the Lifeblood.’
‘Yes,’ said another. ‘Christ gives up His blood that the Lifeblood of the world may flow.’
I was surprised at how engaged they were. I had the impression that some of them were showing off their knowledge.
One of them clawed at her ear and seemed to be frustrated. ‘But Father Marcelo said that Christ is the Lifeblood.’
They looked at me, hoping for an answer. Inwardly, I cursed Marcelo. I would never have made such a bold translation. There are simply too many cultural nuances to make such a strong assertion so early in the process.
‘Yes,’ I said, not wanting to undermine what they’d already learned from Marcelo. ‘In a way, Christ is the Lifeblood. The Sacred Lifeblood moves through Christ and His works.’
‘And when will Christ be re-born?’ asked another. ‘Will Christ’s next cycle of the Lifeblood begin soon?’
‘It is not so important when,’ I said. ‘What matters is that He will come again.’
I had never mentioned the Second Coming to them, so they must have learned about that from Marcelo as well. He’s left all the signs of a novice missionary in his wake. Anyone with a modicum of experience knows it’s best to wait until much later before mentioning that Christ will return. It creates too many expectations. No one pays attention to the parables if they’re busy preparing for the saviour.
I’ve already received several transmissions from the Archbishop’s office asking about Marcelo. The Church bureaucrats are eager to complete their forms and mark him with some official status. I’ve kept my replies vague. I’ve never met Marcelo, and yet I find myself alternately annoyed and protective of him. He’s quite young and I suspect his errors are mostly the result of youthful rashness. I’ve asked Shay to make inquiries about him among the nomads who pass through the village, trading oils and leather for herbs and tools. At the very least, I need to find out if he’s all right.
05.08.2489
After a long walk on the outskirts of the village (which, I’ve discovered, is the only way I can truly have privacy), I came home to find my hearth-mates facing away from each other in silence. I was quite surprised, having become accustomed to their constant chatter.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked Shay.
‘It’s Hasha,’ Shay said in quiet voice, referring to one of our hearth-mates. ‘She was taken by a harpy, out on the tundra. We’ve lost her.’
It was the first time I’d heard of any villager dying, although the prep program had warned me about predators. I didn’t know Hasha well, but I felt a bit shocked. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, struggling to express condolence in a foreign tongue, then remembered a Suvari adage I’d heard several times before. ‘In the cycle of the Lifeblood, every ending is a new beginning.’
Shay shrieked — loud keening cry — and several of the others did the same. ‘No,’ Shay said, still keening between the words. ‘She never made it to the hot springs. She didn’t spore. Agakhe, death without sporing; Hasha is lost from the Lifeblood, forever.’
There were so many ways that I knew God could bring them comfort. I wanted to tell them that Hasha’s soul would live on, that she was now part of an even greater cycle of the Lifeblood. But I said nothing. A time of grief is among the most dangerous of times to introduce new ideas to a culture.
The hearth was quiet all evening, and we shared no blood. In quiet solidarity, I joined my hearth-mates in fasting, and in grief.
11.08.2489
Shay has heard news of Marcelo from a nomad passing through the village last week. He’s taken up with a nomadic tribe now camping near one of the marshy areas to the northeast. They are likely to stay in that area throughout the summer, since it’s near a set of hot springs used for sporing and mating by both the nomads and the animals they hunt. Apparently Marcelo’s tribe has become known as the tribe led by a strange, dark giant. Th
ey have methods that allow them to hunt more game and to win victory over other tribes in battle. I fear Marcelo may be doing even more harm than I expected, overstepping all the Church’s guidelines. A single misunderstanding can pervert the faith, or destroy a people. I know; the Galateans are testament to that.
I’d never be able to reach him on my own, and Shay is the only Suvari I’ve truly connected with. At first, she was reluctant to go. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ she said. ‘The nomads are savages. The wars between the tribes are ceaseless, and the dangers of the tundra are many.’
She agreed to come only when I pleaded with her as my hearth-mate. The prejudice against the nomadic tribes is considerable here in the village, and I was impressed that Shay was even willing to consider the journey into the tundra.
14.08.2489
Our third day of travel. I’m slowly getting used to the cold. Even with a hood and scarf I have to breathe hard and rub my nose to get the circulation flowing in my face. (I can only imagine the temperature in deep winter. Thank God I have nearly two years to adjust before I have to face it.)
The tundra is beautiful. There is little snow; somehow I thought there would be more. The distant horizon splits the world into two solid sheets. The rocks and mud are covered in a patchwork of lichen and herbs, a dozen shades of green and grey. At nightfall, the sky deepens into carbon black. We’re so far out, here on Stark, that I recognise only one constellation, St. Helcio’s Cross.
This morning I saw a pink flower! The first bright colour I’ve seen on the tundra. I exclaimed when I saw it, and made Shay stop and let me dismount from the guntha. She seemed bemused by my happiness. I picked the tiny star —ashuyar —and tucked the sprig into the fur above one of Shay’s stubby ears. She wiggled her ear — whether in irritation or pleasure I’m not sure — but seemed to accept my gift in good humour, patting my leg the way she often does.
These past few days, I’ve spent more time with Shay than I have with any individual — of any species — in years. She’s so curious and eager to learn — she chatters quite a bit, as nearly all the Suvari do — but she’s perceptive enough to respect my need for privacy, even if she doesn’t fully understand it. She refers to it as my ‘alone time’, which sounds so childlike that I find it quite endearing.
Last night, after we’d put up the tent and were getting ready for bed, she picked some lint out of my hair and asked, ‘Don’t your people ever groom each other?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not usually, not in the way your people do. We each groom ourselves separately.’
‘And you don’t blood-share either?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Is it always alone-time among your people?’ she asked. ‘Do you have no form of coming together with one another?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We do many things together. We —’ I searched for the word for eat, realised that the only word in their language had the connotation of a wild animal devouring prey. ‘We eat together, but not in the manner of animals, in a civilised way, like blood-sharing. And we play and work together, as you do. We do this.’ I leaned over and kissed her on the beak. ‘And we have sex.’
Shay nodded — which, I have learned, is a kind of patronising smile, almost like a pat on the head. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Younglings have sex. But what do the adults do?’ I’ve tried to explain human reproduction several times to Shay. All advanced animal life on Stark reproduces as they do, with sexual intercourse taking place in the first phase of development. It’s difficult for them to imagine any other way.
‘In any case,’ I said. ‘There are many things we do together.’ I paused a moment and asked, ‘Could we groom each other tonight?’
Shay clicked her assent and began picking through my long hair. Then she turned her back to me and I cleaned out her feathery fur. It felt good to be touched by another, to be cared for in that way.
As I write this, it occurs to me that Shay and I are becoming friends. It feels good to have one, after so long without.
26.08.2489
I found Marcelo today, after two weeks wandering the tundra. Thank God — the wind has been unrelenting the past few days, and I was becoming short with Shay, upsetting us both. I’m relieved Marcelo’s still alive, but my fears about him have been confirmed. He’s headstrong and immature, given a Mission on his own much too soon after ordination.
Shay led us to them, catching Suvari scent on the wind on the morning of the fifteenth day. Shortly after, an enormous beast crested the hill to our left, no more than ten metres away, thundering down and almost crushing us beneath its muddy footpads. It was similar in form to the bloodcow, except larger, with massive, curved tusks. Staggering out of the way, I saw a Suvari spreadeagled face-first against its side. Her claws gripped the shaggy red-brown fur, footspurs biting into its flank.
As the wild animal galloped past us, the little figure unhooked a coil of rope from her shoulder and adroitly lassoed one of the tusks. She leapt from the beast, rolling across the mud, and sprang up at once, barking excitedly. Her avian feet were bare, and I had the feeling I was looking at a naked savage. Two ropes trailing behind the animal snapped taut. It stumbled and abruptly veered left, disappearing back over the hill. The hunter glanced at us, then ran after the beast. Shay and I followed.
We reached the top of the hill and looked down on an unfamiliar scene. Everything I’ve read and learnt about the Suvari nomads says they hunt alone, ambushing the widely scattered, and mostly solitary, wild cousins of the bloodcows, and gorging on their blood. They then return to their camp or cave to blood-share with the other members of the tribe. In this way, both the young and the unsuccessful hunters are fed, and the animal lives to see another day.
The scene before us was completely different. The fallen creature was bellowing beneath a swarm of Suvari. They tied down its legs with rope and stakes of polished bone. It kicked wildly, knocking a Suvari to the ground. She lay motionless, a heap of bedraggled fur.
A fit, dark-skinned man with a tangle of black hair barked orders in the midst of the chaos. Father Marcelo. He was dressed lightly in bloodcow leather, coils of rope slung over his back, a bloody dagger in his left hand. The ropes were actually wire; they were of human origin, not Suvari. He spoke confidently in the nomadic dialect I’ve only just begun to learn. But I immediately recognised a lazy human accent; he pronounced the diphthongs as if they were distinct vowels, and mixed up the three pitches that are essential to many words.
He didn’t seem surprised to see me. He eyed my white collar and black robe and shouted in Standard, ‘The Church’s new lackey, I presume?’
‘I’m Mother Rena,’ I said, walking down the hill to greet him. ‘Should I report that you’re too busy rolling about in blood to continue your ministry?’
He shook my hand and wiped some of the blood away from his face. ‘Put whatever you like in your reports,’ he said. Then, in the nomadic dialect, he shouted, ‘Take all the blood you can. We need to be moving by sundown.’
A couple of hunters stooped to drink from their dead comrade, then left her where she lay. I glanced at Shay in shock; she averted her eyes.
I didn’t get the chance to speak to Marcelo again until the evening, back at the nomadic camp. He’d begrudgingly invited us to join them. I sat between him and Shay at the evening meal. In contrast to the villagers, the nomads drank their blood directly from the animals they’d killed that afternoon. Shay seemed quite uncomfortable throughout the meal. She only drank a bit of blood from the carcass, then set it aside as if it were rotten meat.
Marcelo’s canines were surprisingly sharp — I wonder if he’s filed them down. He plunged his teeth into the meat and sucked out the blood as easily as if he were Suvari. Then he ate some of the meat itself, which he offered to share with me.
‘Is it safe to eat raw?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘As safe as anything.’
The meat tasted terrible and its texture was tough, but my stomach was happy to have s
omething solid in it. ‘So?’ I asked him as I chewed on the grisly food. ‘Why haven’t you made a single report for nearly a year?’
‘My gopher broke,’ he said with meat in his mouth. ‘And I saw no need to go all the way to the mining station just to get it fixed.’
‘Marcelo,’ I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. ‘You need to give me a reason. Give me a reason I can put in my report, so you don’t have to lose your collar for nothing.’
‘Well, Mother Rena,’ he said, removing my hand, ‘there is no reason. Take all my collars and put them to good use. I’ve no interest in playing the white man, converting alien savages.’
‘That’s not the way of the New Catholic Church, and you know it. This isn’t the twenty-first century. The Doctrine of Enculturation calls for the Church to learn from other cultures just as much as we teach.’
He laughed in a patronising way quite inappropriate for a boy barely half my age. ‘I’m so tired of the Church patting itself on the back for the progress it made three centuries ago. Pope Marie II is an anachronism, and so is the enculturation process. These nomads don’t have the luxuries of your villager friends. They struggle for food to survive another hard day on the tundra. We need to help them live, not fret about how to translate a book written twenty-five centuries ago on a planet hundreds of light years away.’
I controlled my breathing, resisting the urge to raise my voice. I was conscious that Shay was beside me, unable to understand our words but intently focused on our body language. ‘There is wisdom in the enculturation process that you don’t yet understand. It provides us a framework for sharing the truths of different cultures, for welcoming a planet into the community of worlds. For three centuries, missionaries like us have been the emissaries of Christ’s love across the stars —’
