One man at Arpad’s left toward the back of the circle stood and said, “My grandfather three times removed, Nobuss McCarthy, was a shippeen of this Ship, Moskalenka. He named to his son all his debts, and his son to his son, and so to me, and he named among the men who cast him forth from the Ship one Oscar Margolin. A debt was judged against him in this village and the debt was never paid.”
“Do you acknowledge this debt, or do you have a counter-debt to charge?” the leader asked.
Arpad said, “My father was cast out, too. Doesn’t that make it even?”
The leader looked at Arpad and shook his head slowly. His manner said plainly that no weaseling was allowed and that this was definitely weaseling, and he had hoped for better.
Arpad said, “I don’t know. I suppose he must have been an ancestor of mine.” He couldn’t help adding, “But I don’t know anything about it.”
The leader raised his eyebrows and gave his head a last little shake. He said, “Do you acknowledge the debt?”
“I guess. Yes.”
The leader said, “McCarthy, what will you settle for.”
McCarthy looked at Arpad. Arpad waited without knowing what he waited for, and was frightened.
“Oh.” McCarthy shrugged. “I guess that knife of his will cover it.”
The leader held out his hand to Arpad for the knife. Arpad undid the snap and handed it over. The leader examined the knife closely. He sighed.
Then he said, “It’s worth more than that debt, McCarthy. Are you prepared to take on another debt of your own?”
“For that knife? Yes.”
“All right. Go ahead, take the knife. But I’ll mind the boy’s interests until he can mind them for himself. I’ll see to it that you pay the debt back.”
McCarthy said, “Well, maybe we can let the knife go.”
“No, take it.”
McCarthy reluctantly came forward and took the knife. Arpad had unbuckled the sheath and gave that to him, too. McCarthy looked at the sheath in one hand, knife in the other, seemingly not sure whether to be happy or not. Finally he smiled ruefully and returned to his seat, showing the knife to his interested neighbors, each one of them making his own assessment.
The leader said, “Well, now that is settled. Now, Arpad, tell us about your Ship and why you came to leave.”
So Arpad told his story. He had never told it before—people on New Albion and in Moskalenka had always known who and what he was, and though their ideas of him had been different, in both cases they had been definite. He was no more practiced in explanation than the village leader, so his account was halting and often broken into by requests for clarification. But soon enough he warmed to the telling, encouraged by their willingness to hear and care.
Arpad’s father had been a Planetary Agent for the Universal Heirs of Man. With noble intent he had gone to New Albion determined to do good works to them, to dispense largesse and knowledge of a better way of life. It was to be a temporary thing, several years spent in honorable puttering until he decided what he really wanted to do in life.
But he had let his head get away from him. From improving the lot of the colonists, he had passed to improving the breed. But since he was noble about things, he’d married the girl.
Twenty years before, he would have been as abruptly and thoroughly disinherited as McCarthy’s ancestor had been for his earlier-day transgression. But things had changed. People were more generous nowadays, if not that generous: “It’s one thing to help the little people, but you’ve lost your sense of proportion, Henry. Marriage?” If it was no longer against the rules, it was still a breach of propriety, the social equivalent of marrying a Negro, an Untouchable, or a Christian in times past.
Margolin was not actually Expelled, but in the interests of all his stay on New Albion was indefinitely extended. His family and friends were saved the embarrassment of his company. Henry Margolin was not Expelled, but he was left to sit on New Albion until his premature death.
At that point his associates decided they just might have treated poor Henry a bit shabbily. By that time a few more people belonged to the Universal Heirs of Man, and Henry was beginning to look a bit less shocking and a bit more romantic. They owed him something.
They accordingly proceeded to repair to New Albion, remove young Arpad from the altogether unsuitable care of his mother, and return with him to the Ship. That Arpad’s mother resisted the idea, was, of course, to be expected from one of her background. New Albion was not the most advanced of the Colonies. That Arpad himself resisted only served to demonstrate how badly his father had served him and how much he was in need of a proper education and exposure to a finer way of living.
When they returned to the Ship, they found Arpad a place in a dormitory with twenty other youngsters. They arranged for a tutor and scheduled his life, and rested content, more than satisfied that they had done their duty by Henry and his issue. Now it was up to Arpad to take advantage of the multitude of opportunities that Providence, in their persons, had presented to him. If Arpad failed, that was Arpad’s fault.
And, of course, Arpad failed. He lacked any background in the ways of the Ship beyond stories from his father that had swelled his head and given him illusions of superiority without telling him much that could be of real use after his kidnap. He knew much of the once-played game of Saluji, but it had taken him a full year to learn to satisfy Ship notions of propriety, a year of pain and humiliation.
After the first moment he lacked sponsorship. He lacked friends and he never discovered the way to make them. His fault—ask anybody. Most important, as a Mudeater he encountered hate and contempt in quantities that he could not cope with, hate and contempt that found easy confirmation in his flaws, lacks, and inabilities. People like Churchward were unlikely to discard their laboriously constructed pictures of the proper ordering of the universe for the sake of one scruffy little boy.
So, given the opportunity to decamp, an opportunity that could not be eternally denied, Arpad had split in search of a life more closely resembling the one he had formerly had. He was a beggar who had rejected the society of kings to seek out more comfortable company. Churchward had not been surprised.
And Arpad’s search had brought him here.
When he was done, the leader, obviously speaking for every Bill in the house, said, “It’s just as I thought. The people of the Ships have no sense of fitness or decency. They treated you shamefully.”
He put his hands on Arpad’s shoulders. “You have come to the right place. It is well that you did not land by accident in the next village. Those Ralphs have a less secure grip of these things. We will feed you and house you and treat you as one of our own.” He kissed Arpad on the cheek. “My name is Yoder Steckmesser.”
And all the Bills nodded and called assent. One by one they filed up and made Arpad a present of their names, acknowledging thereby that he was people and not a Ralph, someone they could and would stand in a relation of owed-and-ower with. The Bill that Arpad knew best was named Henry Heineman. He remembered that one and Yoder Steckmesser and Jorma McCarthy. The other names passed in a blur, and Arpad couldn’t help but wonder when it was clear that he couldn’t hold the names in mind whether or not he was committing a breach. The one thing he was sure of when all the men had taken their places again was that none of them had been named Bill. Or Ralph.
Then Yoder Steckmesser motioned for Henry Heineman to stand. The bald man was smiling. He seemed relieved and pleased.
“Come here, Henry,” Steckmesser said. “Henry, you need a son, don’t you?”
Henry nodded. There were nods, grins, and remarks made around the circle. Apparently it was a well-recognized fact that Henry needed a son.
“Well, we have a well-formed, intelligent boy here without any debts.” He turned to Arpad. “Henry Heineman is an unlucky man. His ancestors have left him burdened with debts, the weight of years, and his father has only added to the burden. His father has been a loose and flighty man. Henry has no son
to follow him. He will have to wander the world forever after death under the pain of his unpaid debts. Unless he has a son to lighten his weight. Now, if you are willing, you can be his son. His name and your true father’s name are the same, and that is a lucky sign. It is a good sign for the future. Will you take him for a father?”
Arpad said, “Yes.”
“Henry?”
“Oh, yes,” Henry said. His eyes filled with tears. He grabbed Arpad and kissed him heartily.
Then his wife was called within the Council Hut. When she heard that her hopes were fulfilled, that she had a new son, she smiled and cried at the same time, and held him with a grip so tight that he needed to fight for breath.
They didn’t delay. They had an adoption ceremony on the spot. The other women in the village came flooding into the hut with food and poteen. Everybody kissed everybody. Congratulations were lavished on Arpad—and on Henry Heineman. Arpad’s claim on Jorma McCarthy was used to cancel one of Henry’s obligations. Then everybody settled down to eat and drink. The party went on for hours.
Late, late in the night, the end of a long, long day for Arpad, he and his new parents were escorted with torches through the village to their home. He had tried some of the poteen, only a little, and his mind was fuzzy and he wanted to sleep. He accepted one last round of slaps on the shoulder and kisses.
When they were inside and it was suddenly much quieter, Sara, Arpad’s new mother, pointed at the old man asleep on his pallet, cover tightly held under his chin like a dreaming three-year-old.
“What about the old man?”
Heineman said, “Oh, no. It’s too late to think of it tonight. Wait until morning, and then Yoder will give me a hand.”
“Another debt?”
“No, I went out with him on Welcome.” Heineman put an arm around Arpad’s shoulder and pulled him in to the standard uncomfortably close distance. “Don’t be so cold, boy. Arpad, Arpad.” He savored the name.
“You know, I never thought I’d have a son your age who didn’t even know how to walk normally. You’re a good boy, though. I couldn’t have asked for better. You’ll learn.”
He was burbling and bursting. He was happy.
Arpad was simply sleepy.
In the morning when he awoke, Sara immediately rose from the fire and brought him breakfast. She bent and kissed him. She was so eager to please. It was such a difference from the Ship. They cared about him.
The old man lay silently on his mat, the cool bright morning sunshine lapping through the door and bathing his ankles. He wriggled his dirty withered toes.
Arpad’s new father was nowhere in sight. The day seemed well under way, and Arpad wondered if he should have been up earlier. But the night had worn so late and he had been so very tired. He didn’t remember everything. He reviewed the names he did remember: Jorma McCarthy, Yoder Steckmesser.
His new mother went out for water, pot on her head. As Arpad ate, he could catch occasional glimpses of children playing tag around the mushrooms, yelling and calling. He wondered who he would find of his age. Friends?
He hurried to finish. He hurried so fast that he couldn’t even say what he ate. Just as he finished his last bite, his father entered the hut. Heineman’s short breeches were stained with dirt, and he was sweaty and tired.
“Ah, good morning, Arpad,” he said, and came over and gave him a hug. “I thought you’d sleep forever.”
Sara returned with her water. “All done already?”
Heineman nodded and said, “I can use a drink. As cool a day as it is, that’s hot work.”
Sara got him a cup and drew water from her pot.
“Ah,” he said, drinking deep. “That’s good. Yoder will be here in a few minutes and he’ll help me finish.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Arpad asked.
“Don’t fash yourself. Have some more breakfast. We need to get some weight on your frame. We’ll be back in no time. We’re just going to bury the old man.”
Startled, Arpad shot a look at the old man. He got an alert bright-eyed look in return.
“But he isn’t dead,” Arpad said.
“Of course he is,” Heineman said. “Ask anybody. Since we adopted you last night.”
Arpad looked at the old man again. The old man didn’t say anything, but he nodded agreement.
Yoder Steckmesser cleared his throat at the door to announce his arrival. “Hello there, Arpad. How are you today?”
“All right, I guess,” Arpad said.
“Grab the other end there,” Heineman said.
He reached down and picked up the head end of the old man’s pallet. Steckmesser reached down to take the other corners.
“Oh, wait,” said Sara. “Save the coverlet. Arpad can use it.” And she smiled at her son.
With the coverlet removed and folded, Heineman and the village leader lifted the mat and the old man, maneuvered for clear passage through the door, and carried him out. The old man said nothing. He lay quietly, not objecting, passively accepting. He did seem to take pleasure in observing. His bright bird-eyes moved and sparkled.
As they disappeared into the street, Arpad stood and looked after them.
“Would you like some more breakfast, Arpad?…son?” Sara asked.
Arpad shook his head.
“Run along, then,” Sara said. “The children are playing. Don’t contract any debts, now.”
Slowly Arpad went outside, ducking under the overhanging thatch, into the gentle sunshine. Heineman and Steckmesser carried their burden along at a right good pace. Nobody found their progress strange. The children continued to play. The old man did raise himself on an elbow, the better to see where they were going.
Arpad trailed along behind them as they passed through the village and out into the valley bowl along a well-trod path. They carried the old man to the foot of the hill that Arpad had descended the evening before. Only the evening before. There they came to a cluster of round little grass-covered mounds.
Beside the mounds there was a new hole, freshly dug, and beside it a pile of friendly brown dirt still unfaded by the sun. They set the old man down there and conferred about the hole. Then Arpad’s new father hopped down into the hole and dug it out a little deeper.
Arpad hung back. He didn’t come close but watched at a separating distance.
He watched as Heineman stepped out of the hole again. The men picked up the pallet again and straddled the hole, then carefully lowered the old man into the grave. The grave was shallow and rounded and when the old man was sitting in it on his pallet, his head was still above the ground. A bit of pallet trailed over the edge of the hole onto the ground. Steckmesser tried to push it down into the hole, but it refused to fold until the-old man cooperated by pulling it into the hole with him and then reseating himself.
Then Heineman and Steckmesser seized shovels and began to fill the hole. Arpad watched for a moment, and then turned away. He couldn’t continue to watch.
He turned up the hill, walking the angle of the slope. When he reached the crest of the hill, he looked back again. He expected the village to look very different from the way it had the evening before, but except for the light it was the same. Mushrooms inches high springing up in a little verdant bowl after a rain. Children like elfin dolls playing.
But then there was a difference. He hadn’t seen the mounds last night. And there were two men shoveling dirt around a bright-eyed old man’s shoulders.
He wished he knew what to do. He didn’t understand these people any more than he had understood the Ship when he was first brought there, kicking and screaming. Could he grow used to this? If he had thought of the Ship as a place whose ways were not his ways, then what of this place?
He felt agitated and uncertain. He began to walk aimlessly through the grass, trying to think. Not happy. Not as happy as he had been yesterday when he had hoped to find the life he had left behind. His mind was a tangle.
And then in panic and horror he began to run.
He galloped. What he was running from, he wasn’t sure, but he ran until he could run no farther. There he fell on his face in the grass and panted.
He wanted to lie there forever. He wanted never to get up again. This quietness was what he most desired.
But after a time of lying quietly under the moving sky, listening to the brush of the breeze, something stung his ankle. He sat up.
Where was he? What was he to do?
He was hungry.
And so he made up his mind.
It was night before he found the camp again, guided by a sense of direction that did not fail him. He was traveling slowly then, hungrier, leg-weary.
He came over a gentle hill and there the camp was. It was across the valley, on the far side of the slowly moving river, marked by the great fire glow.
Arpad went to ground on his side of the river. He wormed his way to a place from which he could see the camp clearly. The scoutship still in place. The people, the others, the familiar strangers, were asleep. He marked the movements of the guards. He couldn’t recognize them at this distance. He did recognize Churchward as he left the fire and prowled out into the darkness.
Then Arpad remembered what Churchward had said about never passing him in the night, and the idea came to him. He smiled to himself and made a determination.
After a time he moved upstream until he was out of range, out of sight, and there he found a quiet place to cross. The water was shallow and cold and pulled at him to follow it away, but he ignored it. He knew where he was going.
He moved with infinite care back toward the camp. He circled wide, moving from one bit of shelter to another. He moved slowly and he kept a constant eye open for Churchward, the creature of night.
When he saw him, Arpad was about to cross from the shelter of a scrub tree to a dry gully. The motion was from an unexpected direction, and Arpad caught just a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Cold fear exploded in his stomach. Heart pounding, he froze to the ground, hoping he hadn’t been seen, wishing there were some way to be invisible, praying. Praying. Like a bad odor on the wind, Churchward passed him by and cruised on out of sight, bent on his own games, and never saw him at all.
Farewell to Yesterday's Tomorrow Page 8
