Ingathering - The Complete People Stories

by Zenna Henderson

  “I dreamed last night.” Dorcas thrust the statement defiantly into the drowsy silence. “I dreamed about the Home.”

  My sudden astonished movement was covered by Martha’s horrified “Oh, Dorcas!”

  “What’s wrong with the Home?” Dorcas cried, her cheeks scarlet. “There was a Home! There was! There was! Why shouldn’t we talk about it?”

  I listened avidly. This couldn’t be just coincidence— a Group and now the Home. There must be some connection… I pressed closer against the rough rock.

  “But it’s bad!” Esther cried. “You’ll be punished! We can’t talk about the Home!”

  “Why not?” Joel asked as though it had just occurred to him, as things do just occur to you when you’re thirteen. He sat up slowly. “Why can’t we?”

  There was a short tense silence.

  “I’ve dreamed, too,” Matt said. “I’ve dreamed of the Home —and it’s good, it’s good!”

  “Who hasn’t dreamed?” Miriam asked. “We all have, haven’t we? Even our parents. I can tell by Mother’s eyes when she has.”

  “Did you ever ask how come we aren’t supposed to talk about it?” Joel asked. “I mean and ever get any answer except that it’s bad.”

  “I think it had something to do with a long time ago,” Matt said. “Something about when the Group first came—”

  “I don’t think it’s just dreams,” Miriam declared, “because I don’t have to be asleep. I think it’s remembering.”

  “Remembering?” asked Dorcas. “How can we remember something we never knew?”

  “I don’t know,” Miriam admitted, “but I’ll bet it is.”

  “I remember,” volunteered Talitha, who never volunteered anything.

  “Hush!” whispered Abie, the second-grade next-to-youngest who always whispered.

  “I remember,” Talitha went on stubbornly. “I remember a dress that was too little so the mother just stretched the skirt till it was long enough and it stayed stretched. ‘Nen she pulled the waist out big enough and the little girl put it on and flew away.”

  “Hoh!” Timmy scoffed. “I remember better than that” His face stilled and his eyes widened. “The ship was so tall it was like a mountain and the people went in the high high door and they didn’t have a ladder. ‘Nen there were stars, big burning ones—not squinchy little ones like ours.”

  “It went too fast!” That was Abie! Talking eagerly! “When the air came it made the ship hot and the little baby died before all the little boats left the ship.” He scrunched down suddenly, leaning against Talitha and whimpering.

  “You see!” Miriam lifted her chin triumphantly. “We’ve all dreamed—I mean remembered!”

  “I guess so,” said Matt. “I remember. It’s lifting, Talitha, not flying. You go and go as high as you like, as far as you want to and don’t ever have to touch the ground—at all!” He pounded his fist into the gravelly red soil beside him.

  “And you can dance in the air, too,” Miriam sighed. “Freer than a bird, lighter than—”

  Esther scrambled to her feet, white-faced and panic-stricken. “Stop! Stop! It’s evil! It’s bad! I’ll tell Father! We can’t dream—or lift—or dance! It’s bad, it’s bad! You’ll die for it! You’ll die for it!”

  Joel jumped to his feet and grabbed Esther’s arm.

  “Can we die any deader?” he cried, shaking her brutally. “You call this being alive?” He hunched down apprehensively and shambled a few scuffling steps across the clearing.

  ~ * ~

  I fled blindly back to school, trying to wink away my tears without admitting I was crying, crying for these poor kids who were groping so hopelessly for something they knew they should have. Why was it so rigorously denied them? Surely, if they were what I thought them… And they could be! They could be!

  I grabbed the bell rope and pulled hard. Reluctantly the bell moved and rolled.

  One o’clock, it clanged. One o’clock!

  I watched the children returning with slow uneager shuffling steps.

  ~ * ~

  That night I started a letter:

  “Dear Karen,

  “Yep, ‘sme after all these years. And, oh, Karen! I’ve found some more! Some more of the People! Remember how much you wished you knew if any other Groups besides yours had survived the Crossing? How you worried about them and wanted to find them if they had? Well, I’ve found a whole Group! But it’s a sick unhappy group. Your heart would break to see them. If you could come and start them on the right path again…”

  I put my pen down. I looked at the lines I had written and then crumpled the paper slowly. This was my Group. I had found them. Sure, I’d tell Karen—but later. Later, after —well, after I had tried to start them on the right path—at least the children.

  After all I knew a little of their potentialities. Hadn’t Karen briefed me in those unguarded magical hours in the old dorm, drawn to me as I was to her by some mutual sympathy that seemed stronger than the usual roommate attachment, telling me things no outsider had a right to hear? And if, when I finally told her and turned the Group over to her, if it could be a joyous gift, then I could feel that I had repaid her a little for the wonder world she had opened for me.

  “Yes,” I thought ruefully, “and there’s nothing like a large portion of ignorance to give one a large portion of confidence.” But I did want to try—desperately. Maybe if I could break prison for someone else, then perhaps my own bars… I dropped the paper in the wastebasket.

  ~ * ~

  But it was several weeks before I could bring myself to let the children know I knew about them. It was such an impossible situation, even if it was true—and if it wasn’t, what kind of lunacy would they suspect me of?

  When I finally set my teeth and swore a swear to myself that I’d do something definite, my hands shook and my breath was a flutter in my dry throat.

  “Today—” I said with an effort, “today is Friday.” Which gem of wisdom the children received with charitable silence. “We’ve been working hard all week, so let’s have fun today.” This stirred the children—half with pleasure, half with apprehension. They, poor kids, found my “fun” much harder than any kind of work I could give them. But some of them were acquiring a taste for it. Martha had even learned to skip!

  “First, monitors pass the composition paper.” Esther and Abie scuffled hurriedly around with the paper, and the pencil sharpener got a thorough workout. At least the kids didn’t differ from others in their pleasure in grinding their pencils away at the slightest excuse.

  “Now,” I gulped, “we’re going to write.” Which obvious asininity was passed over with forbearance, though Miriam looked at me wonderingly before she bent her head and let her hair shadow her face.

  “Today I want you all to write about the same thing. Here is our subject.”

  Gratefully I turned my back on the children’s waiting eyes and printed slowly:

  I REMEMBER THE HOME

  I heard the sudden intake of breath that worked itself downward from Miriam to Talitha and then the rapid whisper that informed Abie and Martha. I heard Esther’s muffled cry and I turned slowly around and leaned against the desk.

  “There are so many beautiful things to remember about the Home,” I said into the strained silence. “So many wonderful things. And even the sad memories are better than forgetting, because the Home was good. Tell me what you remember about the Home.”

  “We can’t.” Joel and Matt were on their feet simultaneously.

  “Why can’t we?” Dorcas cried. “Why can’t we?”

  “It’s bad!” Esther cried. “It’s evil!”

  “It ain’t either!” Abie shrilled, astonishingly. “It ain’t either!”

  “We shouldn’t.” Miriam’s trembling hands brushed her heavy hair upward. “It’s forbidden.”

  “Sit down,” I said gently. “The day I arrived at Bendo Mr. Diemus told me to teach you what I had to teach you. I have to teach you that remembering the Hom
e is good.”

  “Then why don’t the grownups think so?” Matt asked slowly. “They tell us not to talk about it. We shouldn’t disobey our parents.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “And I would never ask your children to go against your parents’ wishes, unless I felt that it is very important. If you’d rather they didn’t know about it at first, keep it as our secret. Mr. Diemus told me not to bother them with explanations or reasons. I’ll make it right with your parents when the time comes.” I paused to swallow and blink away a vision of me leaving town in a cloud of dust, barely ahead of a posse of irate parents. “Now, everyone, busy,” I said briskly. “I Remember the Home.”

  There was a moment heavy with decision and I held my breath, wondering which way the balance would dip. And then—surely it must have been because they wanted so to speak and affirm the wonder of what had been that they capitulated so easily. Heads bent and pencils scurried. And Martha sat, her head bowed on her desk with sorrow.

  “I don’t know enough words,” she mourned. “How do you write toolas?”

  And Abie laboriously erased a hole through his paper and licked his pencil again.

  “Why don’t you and Abie make some pictures?” I suggested. “Make a little story with pictures and we can staple them together like a real book.”

  I looked over the silent busy group and let myself relax, feeling weakness flood into my knees. I scrubbed the dampness from my palms with Kleenex and sat back in my chair. Slowly I became conscious of a new atmosphere in my classroom. An intolerable strain was gone, an unconscious holding back of the children, a wariness, a watchfulness, a guilty feeling of desiring what was forbidden.

  A prayer of thanksgiving began to well up inside me. It changed hastily to a plea for mercy as I began to visualize what might happen to me when the parents found out what I was doing. How long must this containment and denial have gone on? This concealment and this carefully nourished fear? From what Karen had told me it must be well over fifty years—long enough to mark indelibly three generations.

  And here I was with my fine little hatchet trying to set a little world afire! On which very mixed metaphor I stiffened my weak knees and got up from my chair. I walked unnoticed up and down the aisles, stepping aside as Joel went blindly to the shelf for more paper, leaning over Miriam to marvel that she had taken out her Crayolas and part of her writing was with colors, part with pencil—and the colors spoke to something in me that the pencil couldn’t reach, though I’d never seen the forms the colors took.

  ~ * ~

  The children had gone home, happy and excited, chattering and laughing, until they reached the edge of the school grounds. There, smiles died and laughter stopped and faces and feet grew heavy again. All but Esther’s. Hers had never been light. I sighed and turned to the papers. Here was Abie’s little book. I thumbed through it and drew a deep breath and went back through it slowly again.

  A second grader drawing this? Six pages—six finished adult-looking pages. Crayolas achieving effects I’d never seen before—pictures that told a story loudly and clearly.

  Stars blazing in a black sky, with the slender needle of a ship, like a mote in the darkness.

  The vastly green cloud-shrouded arc of the earth against the blackness. A pink tinge of beginning friction along the ship’s belly. I put my finger to the glow. I could almost feel the heat.

  Inside the ship, suffering and pain, heroic striving, crumpled bodies and seared faces. A baby dead in its mother’s arms. Then a swarm of tinier needles erupting from the womb of the ship. And the last shriek of incandescence as the ship volatilized against the thickening drag of the air.

  I leaned my head on my hands and closed my eyes. All this, all this in the memory of an eight-year-old? All this in the feelings of an eight-year-old? Because Abie knew—he knew how this felt. He knew the heat and strivings and the dying and fleeing. No wonder Abie whispered and leaned. Racial memory was truly a two-sided coin.

  I felt a pang of misgivings. Maybe I was wrong to let him remember so vividly. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him…

  I turned to Martha’s papers. They were delicate, almost spidery drawings of some fuzzy little animal (toolas?) that apparently built a hanging hammocky nest and gathered fruit in a huge leaf basket and had a bird for a friend. A truly out-of-this-world bird. Much of her story escaped me because first graders—if anyone at all—produce symbolic art and, since her frame of reference and mine were so different, there was much that I couldn’t interpret. But her whole booklet was joyous and light.

  And now, the stories…

  ~ * ~

  I lifted my head and blinked into the twilight. I had finished all the papers except Esther’s. It was her cramped writing, swimming in darkness, that made me realize that the day was gone and that I was shivering in a shadowy room with the fire in the old-fashioned heater gone out.

  Slowly I shuffled the papers into my desk drawer, hesitated and took out Esther’s. I would finish at home. I shrugged into my coat and wandered home, my thoughts intent on the papers I had read. And suddenly I wanted to cry —to cry for the wonders that had been and were no more. For the heritage of attainment and achievement these children had but couldn’t use. For the dream-come-true of what they were capable of doing but weren’t permitted to do. For the homesick yearning that filled every line they had written —these unhappy exiles, three generations removed from any physical knowledge of the Home.

  I stopped on the bridge and leaned against the railing in the half dark. Suddenly I felt a welling homesickness. That was what the world should be like—what it could be like if only—if only…

  But my tears for the Home were as hidden as the emotions of Mrs. Diemus when she looked up uncuriously as I came through the kitchen door.

  “Good evening,” she said. “I’ve kept your supper warm.”

  “Thank you.” I shivered convulsively. “It is getting cold.”

  ~ * ~

  I sat on the edge of my bed that night, letting the memory of the kids’ papers wash over me, trying to fill in around the bits and snippets that they had told of the Home. And then I began to wonder. All of them who wrote about the actual Home had been so happy with their memories. From Timmy and his “Shinny ship as high as a montin and faster than two jets,” and Dorcas’ wandering tenses as though yesterday and today were one: “The flowers were like lights. At night it isn’t dark becas they shine so bright and when the moon came up the breeos sing and the music was so you can see it like rain falling around only happyer”; up to Miriam’s wistful “On Gathering Day there was a big party. Everybody came dressed in beautiful clothes with flahmen in the girls’ hair. Flahmen are flowers but they’re good to eat. And if a girl felt her heart sing for a boy they ate a flahmen together and started two-ing.”

  Then, if all these memories were so happy, why the rigid suppression of them by grownups? Why the pall of unhappiness over everyone? You can’t mourn forever for a wrecked ship. Why a hidey hole for disobedient children? Why the misery and frustration when, if they could do half of what I didn’t fully understand from Joel and Matt’s highly technical papers, they could make Bendo an Eden?

  I reached for Esther’s paper. I had put it on the bottom on purpose. I dreaded reading it. She had sat with her head buried on her arms on her desk most of the time the others were writing busily. At widely separated intervals she had scribbled a line or two as though she were doing something shameful. She, of all the children, had seemed to find no relief in her remembering.

  I smoothed the paper on my lap.

  “I remember,” she had written. “We were thursty. There was water in the creek we were hiding in the grass. We could not drink. They would shoot us. Three days the sun was hot She screamed for water and ran to the creek. They shot The water got red.”

  Blistered spots marked the tears on the paper. “They found a baby under a bush. The man hit it with the wood part of his gun. He hit it and hit it and hit it. I hit scorpins like that.
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  “They caught us and put us in a pen. They built a fire all around us. ‘Fly’ they said ‘fly and save yourselfs.’ We flew because it hurt. They shot us.”

  “Monsters,” they yelled, “evil monsters. People can’t fly. People can’t move things. People are the same. You aren’t people. Die, die, die.”

  Then blackly, traced and retraced until the paper split: “If anyone finds out we are not of earth we will die.”

  “Keep your feet on the ground.”

  Bleakly I laid the paper aside. So there was the answer, putting Karen’s bits and snippets together with these. The shipwrecked ones finding savages on the desert island. A remnant surviving by learning caution, supression, and denial. Another generation that pinned the evil label on the Home to insure continued immunity for their children, and now, a generation that questioned and wondered—and rebelled.