I thought on this for a time. “You have taught me, Gardener, that elevated and powerful creatures usually do not carry their own garbage. They tell others to do it, and the word is passed down the chain to underlings. As the command travels farther from those on high, the less secret it becomes. Do we have people who listen for such things?”
Gardener nodded. “Oh yes, we have listeners, Gretamara. Disaffection is not so far advanced among the Gentherans that they have abandoned us. They listen, a great many of them, in many, many places.” She laughed, something she did seldom. “And now, we three are about to be become listeners by doing something we do very rarely, lest we be discovered.”
I looked out the front of the dragonfly ship and saw that it followed a shining road that seemed familiar to me.
“When we arrive at a particular place,” said the Gardener, “I will take a shape that’s not my own. You will hide inside my skirts. You won’t make a sound, you won’t ask a question. When we leave will be time enough for questions, but for now, you will listen. All the pieces of our puzzle are in motion, the time approaches, and we must know what our enemies are planning. We will risk ourselves to see if they will tell us.”
Sophia had turned quite pale, and I took her hand in mind. “I was here once before with the Gardener,” I said. “Years ago. We will be all right.” She clutched my hand strongly. After a time the ship seemed to stop moving toward the space ahead that was cluttered, scattered, littered with blobs, clusters, clumps, bunches and sprinklings of…somethings.
Slowly we floated nearer, hearing as we did so a great murmur, as of waters washing endlessly against the edges of the galaxies.
The Gardener whispered, “This is the great tree where all mortal created deities roost, all the Gods from every-place, every-race, every-time. Look to your left and down. Those are the Earthian Members. Do you recognize any of them?”
When Sophia did not answer, I said, “I see an old man with an eye patch,” I said. “I forget his name. One of the gods of the people of the north that I read about as a child. And that very strong one with the hammer. That might be Thor.”
“Actually,” the Gardener murmured, “he is Thor, Hercules, Apollo, Gilgamesh, Adonis, Osiris, Krishna, virtually every young male deity known for strength, beauty, and intrepidity, just as my colleague, Mr. Weathereye, is Odin, Jupiter, Jove, Allah, Jehovah, or any other ancient male deity known for wisdom, power, and prescience. And the old woman there, Lady Badness, is Erda, Norn, Moira, Sophia, the wisewoman who can detect the pattern in the weavings of happenstance before mankind hears the shuttle coming.”
“I’m named for her?” asked Sophia.
“For her, yes. And I, Gardener, am also Demeter, Cybele, Freya, Earth Mother, Corn Goddess, a thousand names of female deities wise in the ways of growing things, solicitous of women and children, caretakers of the beasts of the field and the woods. Some of us Members are sizable, for many mortals, including humans, believe in strength, and power, and nurture, and wisdom.”
“What are all those hunched-up things?” asked Sophia.
The Gardener shook her head. “Sophia, those are the gods many humans prefer. They are hunched from ages of sitting on people’s shoulders, whispering encouragement.”
“But they’re tiny!” she said, in disbelief.
“Many humans prefer tiny gods,” said the Gardener. “Tiny gods of limited preoccupations…”
“Limited to what?” I demanded.
“To mankind, of course. And to each believer, particularly. Each human wants god to be his or her best friend, and it’s easier to imagine god being your best friend if he is a tiny little god interested only in a tiny world that’s only a kind of vestibule to an exclusive little heaven.”
“Some of them are yelling,” said Sophia.
“Oh, yes. Those are hellfire gods. Since there is no supernatural hell, they never really send anyone there, but their sources get enormous pleasure, thinking about it.”
“And those,” murmured Sophia. “Off to the side, all together?”
“I know what those are,” I said. “Gardener told me those are dead people whose spirits have been imprisoned here. Some group or other on Earth has deified them or sainted them and claimed they can do miracles, so instead of passing on, humans hold them here, at least until they’re forgotten.”
“Can they do miracles?” asked Sophia wonderingly.
Gardener murmured, “We only know what our Sources know, we can only do what they can do. Many times persons actually heal themselves, or their bodies do it for them, but they prefer to believe one of us did it.”
“What do you mean, you can only do what men can do? Men cannot fly about the universe in dragonfly ships,” said Sophia.
“The Gentherans can,” said the Gardener. “And long ago I melded with Sysarou, Gentheran goddess of Abundance and Joy, just as Mr. Weathereye down there has melded with Ohanja, Gentheran god of Honor, Duty, and Kindness. Gentherans have much the same needs mankind has; they have created similar deities, and we of Earth have melded with all the more accepted ones.”
“You can do that? Meld with the gods of other species?” I asked, astonished.
“If we are similar enough, yes, which is a good thing, for Gentherans remember far, far into the past, and since we have melded with them, we, too, remember far more than do the gods of mere Earthians.”
In the little silence that followed, I thought to myself that even if these gods could do nothing their people couldn’t do, the Gardener, no matter how she disclaimed it, had powers they did not have.
She whispered, “I am looking at that mob of little Earth gods, hoping to find among them a disguise I can use.”
The dragonfly ship came closer. “There,” Gardener said, pointing. “That little female one. Its name is Oh-pity-me. It cannot see the sun for the daylight nor the stars for the darkness, and it is worshipped by a surprising number of people. It is not fierce enough to be interesting to the K’Famirish Members, and they will find it utterly unthreatening. I choose that one. Now, come with me and be very, very still.”
The ship moved and unbecame. The Gardener was a small, dark cloud that hid us within her robes of dripping sorrow. We could see, we could hear, and we could understand everything we saw and heard, including the conversation of the three dark shapes nearest us, each lit by sullen fire.
“These are Dweller, Darkness, and Drinker,” the Gardener spoke without sound. “Dweller in Pain, of the Quaatar. Whirling Cloud of Darkness-Eater of the Dead, of the K’Famir. Flayed One-Drinker of Blood, of the Frossians. Listen!”
Dweller snarled, “Look who is near to us. An Earthian Member. This is not your locus, Member. Yours is over there, among that shabby pile of Earthian trash.”
“I am where I am,” the Gardener whispered. “I am weary of them. They are noisy sometimes. I like it better here.”
“Why, it’s a little weeper,” sneered Darkness. “Not like the rest of them.”
“Not like them, no,” whispered the Gardener. “They want only to go on. I want to end.”
“Soon you may have your wish,” giggled Drinker.
“Oh, if only that could be,” murmured the Gardener. “Can you make it happen?”
“Ah, yes,” chuckled Dweller, emitting a belch of fire. “We intend to make it happen.”
“But Earthians don’t want to die,” the Gardener persisted.
“They’ll try to stop us,” sniffed Darkness. “They and the Gentherans…”
“The Gentherans?”
“Dweller has seen Earthian Members mixing with Gentherans. This means they are plotting together,” said Drinker.
“They’re always plotting,” breathed Gardener. “I want to destroy them, and myself…”
Drinker whirled slowly, a ragged spiral of torn skin, dark with bruises, wet with blood. “We have learned that Gentherans watch intently over certain people…”
“Our Sources hired Thongals,” giggled Darkness. “Very sneak
y Thongals to find out what people the Gentherans are watching over. The Thongals found two of them among our people: one feeding a ghyrm on Cantardene, one feeding the umoxen on Fajnard. They are dead, or will be soon. Perhaps you can find others for us…”
“What are the Earthians and Gentherans plotting to do?” moaned Gardener, in the little god’s weary voice.
Drinker gaped hideously. “Whatever it is, we’ll stop it.”
The three turned toward one another, put their heads together, murmuring. Gardener drew apart. Soon we found ourselves a distance away, the dragonfly around us.
“They suspect,” said the Gardener. “And it seems they have identified some very important people.”
“Are those gods real?” I demanded.
“I am one of them, Gretamara. We exist, but we are not real in the sense that a tree is real or a rock is real. If all the people in the universe were gone, the rock or tree would still be there, but we deities exist only while our people do.”
“My parents believed there is only one god,” I insisted.
“Oh, I believe there is One,” the Gardener agreed. “A being larger than any mortal god; a being that encompasses the universe without being dependent upon it, preexistent and postexistent, a being so vast only a fool could claim to know its purposes, One who sets all into motion, then waits…”
“Why did it create the K’Famir?” I interrupted angrily.
“I did not say ‘create.’ The K’Famir are not a creation, they are a consequence, as are we all, Gretamara. Health or disease, pleasure or pain, joy or grief, all are consequences of the creation of life: All are possible. If no room is left for the possible, it is not life, it is mere repetition. Within our race, we encompass the scale from great good to absolute evil; we have had great leaders and philanthropists, and we have had serial torturers and killers. These last, mankind has regarded with sick fascination, trying to understand them as human beings. They should not try, for they are not human beings. Body shapes are only that, a shape, but when evil inhabits us, it is the same evil that inhabits the K’Famir. If you believe all humans have a capacity for good, then you must identify those who have none as something other than human. Only death ends them.
“The One god does not meddle in its creation, but we mortal gods often pretend it is our business to do so. We cannot move a straw upon a mortal world, but we can move ourselves from place to place…”
I asked, “How did we get here if you cannot move a straw?”
The Gardener smiled. “Where is here? Did I move you? Or did I merely whisper in your ear to see what I see? Now I shall whisper again, and what wonder! You will somehow be moved to Chottem, to Bray, to the house of Stentor d’Lorn, to find whatever secrets it holds and whatever darkness it hides.”
I Am Margaret, at a Birthday Party on Tercis
On the day of the birthday party, we loaded the food into the wagon and drove across the bridge toward Billy Ray’s farm.
“How many of ’em this year?” Jimmy Joe asked me.
I sighed. “The only ones left at home are Benny Paul, Sue Elaine, Trish, and the two little ones, plus Mayleen and Billy Ray.”
“Humph,” said Jimmy Joe. “Seven of them and six of us. Thirteen. Suppose that’s an omen? I suppose their contribution to the festivities is hamburgers? Someday I must taste one.”
When Mayleen and Maybelle were little, I had mentioned that hamburgers were an old Earth tradition for summer gatherings. I had never tasted a hamburger on Earth, nor had I at Mayleen’s, even though she provided “hamburgers” at every birthday party.
This year would be no different, I saw as we approached, for Billy Ray was lighting the fire, using lots of coal oil. Mayleen, standing among billows of ugly, smelly black smoke, slapped the meat patties on the grill. They both came over to help us unload the food we’d brought from home, leaving the smoke and the flames to sort it out between them. Later, we each took one of the resultant “hamburgers,” covered it with a bun, then lost it over where Uncle Billy Ray’s dogs waited with their tongues out.
Maybelle had made salads; I’d brought fried chicken and two birthday cakes. The two little ones ate like starving creatures and went to sleep under the picnic table, icing all over their faces. As soon as the food was gone, Benny Paul pulled Til away, and Jeff followed them, his feet dragging. Trish and Sue Elaine sneaked off after. I watched the departure with some anxiety. The hangdog look on Jeff ’s face did not bode at all well.
Billy Ray started his usual after-food tirade. It seemed Joe Bob, the oldest boy, had threatened to call the placement people and get Benny Paul sent to some other Walled-Off. “Got no right to do that,” Billy Ray shouted. “There’s nuthin wrong with Benny Paul!”
Except killing the Conovers’ prize bull out of meanness. Except pimping his sister, Trish. Plus many other barbarisms I only suspected.
“You gotta go speak to Joe Bob,” he said to me. “Get him to tell ’em there’s nothing wrong with Benny Paul.”
I said. “I wouldn’t feel right getting involved in a family argument, Billy Ray. That’s between you and him.” I got up and went over to the picnic table to pour a glass of berryade.
I heard Maybelle say, “Please don’t get Mother involved.”
“I just said…”
“We know what you just said,” James interrupted very quietly. “Just please don’t fuss Grandma over it.”
Billy Ray gave him a nasty look. “This is my place, and I’ll fuss who I damned well please, Jimmy Joe. You all don’t like it, you can leave.” He got up and stamped off to the house before I got back with my glass full.
Glory was peeking through the branches, waiting for the usual sequence to play itself out. Since Billy Ray had stomped off mad as soon as he’d stuffed himself with food, it was about time for Mayleen to do likewise.
“Don’t see why Mother ought to be left out of family things,” said Mayleen in a nasty voice. “It’s her fault, all these Mackey twins. It’s bad enough being pregnant all the time without having two babies to bury or take care of at the end of it.”
Maybelle said sharply, “Mayleen, I know Papa talked to you just like he did to me. You didn’t have to get pregnant all the time.”
“That’s my business! And I don’t thank you for butting in!” She got up and stamped back to the house.
James looked at his watch, the little muscles at the corners of his jaw jumping around like water on a hot skillet. He walked off and came back with Jeff, who looked relieved to be going.
“New record for the shortest time,” said James, as we drove off. “Total elapsed time, arrival to departure, including the unpacking of and setting out of food and the collecting of leftovers, one and one-quarter hours, not counting travel. Half an hour shorter than last year. Keep workin’ at it, we’ll get it down to where we can just drop off the food and turn the wagon around in the driveway.”
Since our teatime had been cut short, when we got to Maybelle’s, I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Outside, Jeff was giving Glory the ringroot bracelet he’d carved for her birthday.
“What was Benny Paul up to?” Glory asked him when she gave him a thank-you hug.
“Him and Trish,” he said, making a face. “They were going to do a sex show for us, and Til said we’d get to…take part.”
“Jeff, you’ve got to stay away from him.”
“We’re brothers, Glory.”
“You’ll be roommates in another Walled-Off if you’re not careful! Billy Ray said Joe Bob threatened to call the Placement Board about Benny Paul, and if Til’s been part of his nastiness, Til may have to go, too.”
The shock on Jeff’s face as he went by the kitchen door told me he’d never thought of that. The look on my face, mirrored in the door, said I’d never thought of it, either. I stood there, dazed, wondering what other important things I’d missed.
I certainly wasn’t missing anything about Falija, for by this time, she was staying at my house most of the tim
e. Glory came up to see her and said her living with me was a good thing, to keep her away from the boys.
“But I like Jeff,” said Falija.
Both of us froze. I thought I had misheard, or maybe Glory was playing a trick on me, but Glory was staring at Falija, as surprised as I.
She said, “You’re talking!”
“Umm,” said Falija. “Yes. But it’s not quite right.”
“It sounds perfectly fine to me. How long…”
“Oh, a while. I practice at night when everyone’s asleep.”
Well, there was no nonsense about my being asleep this time! Fully awake, I’d heard it with my own ears. I heard more of it after Glory left, so it was no trick of hers. I had to believe it. By late summer, Falija was talking a lot, though only to Glory and me, and she was walking on her hind legs whenever she couldn’t be seen.
“It’s a good thing nobody else sees her,” Glory said. “It’s getting harder and harder to believe she’s just a cat.” She looked up to find my eyes fixed on her, but I forbade myself to ask the question. Glory shrugged, as though to say, “Either you believe me or you don’t, and so far, you haven’t.”
James came home from work one night, shaking his head. “Grandma, where’d you tell me Billy Ray’s oldest girl went?”
“You mean Ella May? She joined the Siblinghood a long time ago, when she was only about fourteen. Why?”
“I just wondered if we ought to let her know…”
“Know what?”
“Her twin sister, the one who moved up to Repentance last year…”
“Janine Ruth.” Somehow, I knew what was coming. Ella May’s twin was Mayleen all over again. “She hurt somebody.”
He nodded. “Placement Board sent her to Hostility. I thought somebody ought to tell the family…”
“James, if you don’t want to be blamed for causing it, you forget you ever heard about it.”
He thought about it for a moment. “You’re right, Grandma. They’d figure someway it was my fault, or Maybelle’s.”
The Margarets Page 30
