by Sharon Shinn
“You just don’t like the Manadavvi,” Micah said. “It doesn’t trouble you if they are unhappy.”
She was surprised into a laugh. “How insightful,” she said. “I am one of the common people, you know. I have their interests more at heart.”
“Well, and there are more of them,” Micah said lightly. “So we should all be watching out for their interests.”
She wasn’t sure he meant it, but it sounded good, anyway. “Have you had other crises?” she asked. “What about weather? As I came across the Galilee, I flew through a rainstorm. Have there been problems?”
“The Galilee? Just south of Castelana?” he asked. She nodded, and he continued, “It never stops raining there. I have been there—I’ve sent my angels over—the clouds lift for a day or two, then they come piling back. Sometimes they don’t lift at all. I’m worried about flooding down on the southern plains—all those croplands…”
They discussed storm systems for another twenty minutes, during which Alleya grew increasingly uneasy. In Bethel, the weather had stabilized during the past three months (since she had become Archangel, she thought, though she did not say it aloud), and she had not gotten many reports of exceptional turmoil in the other provinces. But here Micah was calmly telling her of the continuing gales sweeping from Breven to the river on an almost regular basis, of small towns given up and two mines abandoned because the wet ground gave way.
“But I was not aware that problems were so severe,” she broke in. “I thought—things have been calm enough in Bethel…”
Micah shrugged. “It no longer seems so bad. This has been the way of things for, oh, ten or twelve months now. So now, instead of a northern desert and a southern farmland, we have northern farmland and a southern marsh. We will adjust.”
Alleya was a little distraught. “But—Micah, don’t you see?—the change in the weather is only part of the problem. What’s alarming is that the angels cannot stop it. Does Jovah not hear our prayers asking for the storms to cease? If Jovah had decreed that it was time for Samaria to be remade—desert into farmland, as you say, farmland into swamp—I would abide by his commands. But to lose the ability to whisper in his ear—”
“Maybe he has made his decree,” Micah interrupted. “Maybe he has not told us so, but he has decided to change our world. How do you know this is not what he wants?”
She stared back at him, for the thought had literally never crossed her mind. Could Micah be right? Every muscle in her body tensed in denial. “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I don’t believe it. Because I hear him—he hears me. If he truly wanted to flood us all, he would not respond when any one of us prayed.”
Micah shrugged, then gave her a quick smile. “I bend more than you do, angela,” he said. “I take what the god sends, and I deal with the events handed to me. I don’t fight what I cannot control. Tell me how to turn back the rains, and I will. But if Jovah has made up his mind, I do not see that we can reverse his decision.”
She was quiet for a long time, wondering if Micah spoke the truth, wondering if Jovah indeed had drawn so far away from his people that he would not care that their world turned upside down. “I suppose we could ask him,” she said very softly. “I suppose—perhaps the oracles could put the question to him.”
“He answers the oracles in roundabout ways,” Micah responded. “I have never gotten a reply that made much sense to me when I went to Job. But there would be no harm in asking. You have other questions to put to the god, I know.”
That caused Alleya to look at him sharply. “I? What do I have to ask him?”
Now Micah was smiling broadly, seeming without effort to put aside the solemnness of the last exchange. “Why, who will sing beside you at the Gloria, of course,” he said. “That is coming up in a few short months, you know.”
“Who will sing—but all the angels, of course.”
Micah laughed, genuinely amused. “Alleya, you must have been to dozens of Glorias in your life! You know they are always led by the angelica—or the angelico, in your case—your husband, dear girl.”
“My husband!” she exclaimed. “But I don’t have—I don’t even—” She felt her cheeks heat and her words tangle, so she fell abruptly silent.
“Exactly my point! You must know that Jovah always picks the one the Archangel will marry. The Archangel goes to his oracle and asks the god to make his selection, always a mortal, of course—”
“I realize that,” she snapped. “I just didn’t—This is impossible. In the next four months? To find a husband? There is too much else to do.”
Now Micah was sobering; his mood changes seemed to be instant and complete. “As far as I know, this is one tradition the god has never forsaken,” he said. “If you expect him to hear you at the Gloria, you need to sing it with your chosen angelico at your side. It will not be so bad—they say the god always chooses for you a mate ideally suited. But it must be done soon, Alleya. You should go to Job while you are here.”
“It is proving to be a strange journey, all in all,” she murmured.
“What?”
“Nothing. I had intended to go to Luminaux first. But maybe you’re right. Maybe I should travel to Mount Egypt and ask Job these difficult questions.”
Micah rose to his feet and Alleya followed suit. He was smiling again. “Well, they say the god always hears you,” he said. “Perhaps this time he will give you answers you like.”
So Alleya spent the night in Cedar Hills instead of traveling on to Luminaux that evening as she had intended. She found, to her surprise, that she missed the sound of constant singing in the angel hold, especially when she woke late in the night and found sleep difficult to recapture. She was not eager to fly to Mount Egypt and ask Job to seek a husband for her. The dry, withered, formal man did not seem to her to be an ideal matchmaker. Still, he was the senior oracle; she owed him some honor.
Micah had taken pains to make her visit pleasant, and so she left the next morning feeling relatively refreshed. She had never been sure Micah liked her, and she still was not sure, but perhaps it was just as he said. He accepted whatever was sent his way, be it storm, scandal or Archangel, and he dealt with each as best he could.
The skies were cloudy but dropped no rain as she completed the short flight to Mount Egypt, where she arrived close to noon. Like Sinai, Egypt was hollowed out of a deep tunnel in a fairly steep mountain range; and like Sinai, it was eternally lit, serenely quiet and meticulously maintained. Unlike Sinai, however, Egypt was alive with whispering activity, for Alleya was sure she counted a dozen acolytes scurrying about their tasks as she was ushered from the public reception area to the private chambers.
The inner sanctum of Mount Egypt was laid out much like the one in Bethel, down to the glowing blue glass plate set into the far wall. Job was standing before it, as if he had just now risen to welcome her; the pale phosphorescent light behind him outlined his frail body with an odd, almost liquid glow.
“Angela,” he greeted her, moving forward to take her hand. His fingers felt as light as cat’s bones. He seemed indescribably old. Alleya had a brief moment of panic as she thought he could easily die—any day now—and Samaria would be down to one oracle. As the Eyrie was down to one music machine. Truly, it seemed everything in her world was falling apart at once.
He was still speaking. “An unlooked-for pleasure to see you,” he said. “I hope it is not trouble that brings you to my door.”
“Not exactly,” she said. “Or at least, no new trouble.”
He ushered her to a low sofa pushed against one wall, and they both sat. “So,” he said, “you think I may have new answers.”
She made an indecisive motion with her hands. “I was just at Cedar Hills, discussing things with Micah. Apparently weather patterns in Jordana are worse than I had realized—whole tracts of land, even small towns, have been abandoned to flooding and other disasters. I expressed shock that the god no longer hears the angels when they as
k him to divert the rain. Micah, on the other hand, suggested that the god has decided to change the face of Samaria. And I wanted to know—Is there a way you could find out? Could you ask Jovah? Because if he is deliberately sending storm and flood to Samaria, I do not want to keep praying for sun.”
Job pondered a moment, his wrinkled face showing no expression except contemplation. “Well, Micah,” he said at last, on something like a sigh. “He does not trouble to look for hard explanations.”
Which was rather an enigmatic reply. “Then you do not believe that is what Jovah intends?” Alleya asked. “Because my heart says such a thing is not possible. But my heart has been wrong before.”
“After six centuries of graciousness, it seems unlikely that Jovah would abandon us now,” Job said. “How could we have offended him? We sing the Gloria every year. The priests travel the country, blessing all newborn babies and giving them the Kiss of the god.” He automatically touched his hand to the crystal node embedded high in his right arm. Such a Kiss Alleya also wore, as did everyone on Samaria who had been dedicated to the god. Jovah continued: “The angels pray daily, asking for his attentions. We live as we have always lived.”
“Things have changed,” she said softly. “The cities. The factories. This new—what do they call it—electricity? It is a strange, alien power, and perhaps Jovah does not like it. Perhaps this is his way of showing his displeasure with our new devotion to science.”
“It is a possibility,” Job acknowledged.
“The Librera teaches us that technology destroyed our ancestors,” Alleya went on. “Perhaps it is not technology itself that destroyed them, but Jovah’s anger with their technology.”
“It is hard to know,” he said.
“Well, couldn’t you ask him?” Alleya said with a touch of impatience. “Ask why he has sent so much rain. Ask if he is angry with us, and why. If he tells us he is appalled at our new science, then—”
“Then you will convince the Manadavvi and the Jansai and the Luminauzi to give it up?” Job asked. She could not tell if it was sarcasm in his voice or just weariness. “I doubt anyone would be equal to that task, angela.”
It was true; the whole country would rise in revolt if she attempted to turn them away from the giddy glimpse of the future. “Ask him, anyway,” she said. “For we should know.”
He hesitated, and she suddenly remembered Micah’s words: The god answers the oracles in roundabout ways. It seemed fairly clear that Job was reluctant to carry out this task. “If you can,” she added. “I do not know how such a question is worded, or what you are allowed to ask.”
He rose abruptly to his feet. “Come. We will see what he will tell us. These days Jovah has been less communicative than usual, and his replies are not always easy to decipher. But perhaps—”
He did not finish the sentence. She followed him to the radiant screen of the interface, no doubt feeling an inappropriate little thrill at the thought of actually watching an oracle speak to the god. Job seated himself in a sturdy wheeled chair before the screen and carefully played his fingers over the hieroglyphs on the keyboard. Symbols appeared in cobalt letters across the screen as he typed. When he was done, he tapped a square green key on the left margin of the keyboard. The letters disappeared.
She knew she should not interrupt him, for this was holy work, but she couldn’t stop herself. “What did you ask him? What did you say?”
“I asked him if he had decided, in his wisdom, to send Samaria many rainstorms this year.”
“And he said?”
“He has not replied yet.”
But within seconds, the screen flickered and new letters formed. Job read them over slowly, seeming to translate them with difficulty. A frown gathered his wrinkles more tightly around his eyes.
“What has he said?” Alleya demanded.
“He says, ‘I do not send the storms.”’
“He does not—” Alleya’s face contracted into a matching frown. “Well, but he sends the storms away. Ask him that. Perhaps the rain clouds gather of their own accord, but Jovah can scatter them.”
Again the interplay of mortal words and divine ones. Job nodded. “Yes, he says he can disperse a storm if he is asked to do so.”
“But—” Alleya experienced a spasm of frustration. If this was always what it was like to communicate with the god, no wonder the oracles dedicated their lives to the job. It appeared to take forever to get a simple question answered. “But lately he has been asked to disperse many storms, and he has not. Has he chosen to ignore the prayers of the angels?”
The god said he answered the prayers when the prayers were put to him in such a way that he could answer.
“What does that mean?” she asked the oracle.
“I have no idea.”
“Does he mean he answers the prayers of certain angels?”
The god said he answered prayers whenever he understood them.
“This makes very little sense to me,” Alleya said nervously. “Do you know what he means?”
“Sometimes it is hard to tell exactly what the god intends to say.”
“Does he wish us to accept the rain?” she said. “Ask him that. Does he want to see Samaria flooded?”
No, the god said. He had no desire for flood.
“Then how can we phrase our prayers so that he will hear them and understand?” Alleya asked.
Job typed in the question and then sat a long time, staring at the reply. Alleya waited maybe a minute before she demanded, “Well? What does he advise?”
Job lifted his hands from the keyboard in a gesture of resignation. “He tells us to ask the son of Jeremiah.”
“Who?”
“The son of Jeremiah.”
“Which Jeremiah? There must be dozens.”
Job turned his head to look at her. Even his eyes appeared faded almost to the point of transparency. She felt another wash of fear. “He does not amplify. Just ‘the son of Jeremiah,’ no ‘Jeremiah, son of Efram’ or ‘Jeremiah of upper Gaza.’ In the past, such vague references often have referred to a great figure from the past, but—I can think of no historical Jeremiahs so significant that Jovah would expect us to recognize them simply by their names.”
“Can you ask the god to identify this man a little more closely? What is this son’s name?”
Job requested more information from the god, but he shook his head when the answer came back. “He just says it again. The son of Jeremiah. Perhaps he does not know the name.”
“Perhaps there is no one. Perhaps it means nothing.”
“We should ask him something else. Maybe he will give us a more helpful answer.”
Alleya smiled briefly. “All right. This question of technology. Is he angry at us for our development of science?”
“But if he says he is not sending the storms, he could not be using them to punish us for science.”
“Ask him, anyway.”
She was not sure how Job phrased the question, but Jovah’s reply was somewhat baffling. “Science is not evil if you can control it,” the god said.
“Doesn’t sound like he’s angry,” Alleya observed. “Ask him how we can control what we create with science.”
The instant the letters flickered on the screen, Job sat back in his chair with a little exclamation of annoyance. Alleya had never seen him display even that much emotion before. “What?” she asked, though she thought she could guess.
Job pointed at the screen and read: “‘Ask the son of Jeremiah.’”
“Let’s change the subject completely,” Alleya said. “Micah sent me here with another question to ask the god.”
“As you see, he is not being particularly helpful today,” Job said a little grimly. “But I am happy to do whatever I can for you.”
Normally she would have been shy about such a question, but the last few interchanges had thrown this whole matter into a different light. Now it was not a personal issue. “Micah says I must have an angelico to sing beside me
at the Gloria,” she said. “And that Jovah will choose him. Ask him if he has such a man in mind for me.”
Job gave her another quick, sideways glance as if, under different circumstances, he would have liked to discuss that a little more minutely. But now he merely nodded, spelled out his question and pressed the square key on the left.
“Who should be angelico to the Archangel Alleluia?” he murmured as he watched the letters disappear.
When the blue text re-formed on the screen, even Alleya was familiar enough with the shape of the symbols to know what the answer was. “The son of Jeremiah,” she said softly. “Holy one, I believe the god has no answers for us today.”
Job wheeled slowly around to face her. Hard to tell from that solemn face, but his mood seemed both baffled and grave. “Or we must look everywhere to find this man,” he said. “For he has every answer we need.”
She left Mount Egypt later than she wished, because Job insisted on feeding her, and the acolytes served very reverently. It was a quick flight to Luminaux, but once she arrived in the Blue City, everything seemed to slow down. Well, at least that was the case at the Edori quarters where no one seemed familiar with the concept of haste. As she approached the camp, she was greeted pleasantly by a group of young mothers who appeared to be taking a dozen children into the city for an afternoon of recreation.
“I’m looking for someone—not an Edori man, but a friend of an Edori man—and I thought someone here could help me,” she said.
“What is his name?” one of the women asked.
“I don’t know his name. His friend’s name is Noah.”
“Oh! Noah! He’s not here, but he should be back tonight sometime. Although maybe not till late. Well, sometimes he doesn’t come back at all, but tomorrow, then.”
“Is there somewhere I could look for him? Does he work in the city?”
The women exchanged frowning glances. “He did have a job in the city but I think it’s finished,” another one said. “Did he get another job? I think so.”
