The Worthing Saga

by Orson Scott Card

  “Hypocrites, I said to them,” said Jason. “You dare to rob mankind of all its pain, yet treasure your own agonies. Who Watches you?”

  “Who Watches you?” cried Jason.

  No one, they answered. If we ever forgot our own pain, how could we care enough to protect them from theirs?

  “Did you ever think that however much they railed against the universe or fate or God or whatever else, that they might not thank you for stealing from them all that makes them human?”

  And they saw in Jason's mind the things he treasured most, the memories that were strongest, and they were all the times of fear and hunger, pain and grief. And they looked into their own hearts, and saw what memories had endured through all the ages of time, and they were memories of struggle and accomplishment, sacrifices like Mercy when he floated the stone and gave a perfect offering of himself, agonies like Elijah Worthing when he watched his wife cast herself upon the flames, even cruel Adam Worthing with his terror that his uncle would find him and punish him—again—these had lasted, while the simple contentment had not; They saw that this was what had made them good, even in their own eyes; and because they had left the rest of man no evils to overcome, they had robbed them of the hope of greatness, of the possibility of joy.

  Full agreement did not come at once. It came only gradually, over the weeks and months. But finally, because they could see themselves through Jason's eyes, they decided that mankind was dead as long as they Watched, that men and women would only become human again with the possibility of pain.

  “But how can we live?” they asked, “knowing of all the suffering that will come, knowing we can stop it, and yet withholding ourselves? That is more suffering than we can bear; we have loved them all too long and well.”

  And so they decided not to live. They decided to finish what Mercy had begun, the perfect offering. Only two people in the world refused.

  “You people are crazy,” Jason said. “I wanted you to stop controlling everything, I didn't ask you to kill yourselves.”

  Some kinds of life are not worth living, they answered mildly. You're too uncompassionate to understand.

  And as for Justice, she refused to stay because she wasn't worthy to die in Mercy's cause. It would be giving her more value than she was worth.

  But you'll have to live among the people in their suffering, they said. It will destroy you, surely, to see their grief and yet not save them.

  Perhaps, said Justice. But that is the price that Justice pays; that will balance me with Mercy, in the end.

  So Jason and Justice took a starship to the only world outside of Worthing that Justice had ever known, as behind them the world of Worthing tipped inward toward its sun and spiraled down to die in fire.

  Justice heard the deaths of a hundred million souls and bore it; felt the horror of the Day of Pain in Flat Harbor, and bore it; felt Lared's hatred as he learned of her power and that she yet did nothing, and bore it.

  But now, lying on her bed, it was Sala's grief that struck too deep, Sala's suffering that she could not bear. She gave that moment to Lared as he watched, let him see her from the inside even at the moment of her pain.

  “You see,” said Jason, “she is not like me. She isn't uncompassionate, after all. There's more of Mercy in her than she thought.”

  12. The Day of Justice

  Lared and Jason stood at Justice's bedside, and for the first time Lared did not fear her and did not hate her; for the first time he understood what lay behind her choice, and though he thought that it was wrong, he realized it was not Justice's fault.

  “How could they decide wisely,” Lared whispered, “when they only had your mind to judge by?”

  Jason shrugged. “I didn't lie to them. I only showed them the way things seemed to me. Remember, Lared—they didn't just take my word for it. It was only when they saw that they were taking away from others what they would not willingly give up themselves, that what mankind was missing then was the only thing that was worth remembering about the time before—”

  “That's fine,” Lared said, “if you stand above mankind in a tower, looking down. But here, Jason, when you have the power to heal, and do not heal, I call that evil.”

  “But I don't have that power,” Jason said.

  At that moment someone screamed downstairs. Screamed in pain, again and again. It's Clany, thought Lared. But Clany's dead.

  “Sala!” he shouted, and flew down the stairs, Jason after him.

  Father was braving the flames to pull Sala from the hearthfire. There was no part of her that was not afire. Lared did not hesitate, but plunged his hands into the fire and together he and Father pulled her out. The pain of his own burnt flesh was excruciating, but Lared hardly noticed, for Sala writhed in his arms, screaming over and over, “Justice! Justice! Now! Now!”

  “She was in the fire already when I woke!” Father said frantically.

  Mother kept reaching frantically for her daughter, but shied away each time before she touched the charred flesh, lest she somehow add to Sala's pain.

  Lared thought for a moment that her eyes were closed, but then realized that they were not. “She has no eyes!” he cried. And then he looked at the foot of the stairs and saw Justice standing there, her face a mask of anguish.

  “Now! Now! Now!” cried Sala.

  “How is she alive?” cried Father.

  “God in heaven, not three days!” cried Mother. “Not like Clany, let her die now, not three days.”

  And then Father and Mother were pushed aside, and Justice seized Sala, tore her from Lared's arms, and gave a wail so terrible that Lared could not stop himself from crying out at the pain of hearing it.

  Then silence.

  Not even Sala crying.

  She is dead, thought Lared.

  But then, as he watched, Sala blinked her eyes, and they were bright again, not the empty sockets Lared had seen a moment ago. As he watched, he saw the burnt skin flake from her body, leaving a pale, smooth, perfect layer of unburnt, untouched, unscarred flesh.

  Sala smiled and laughed, threw her arms around Justice and clung to her. Lared looked down at his own arms, and they were healed, then reached out to Father and touched the bud of fingers blossoming on the stump where once his arm had grown in only a few minutes the arm was whole, as strong as ever.

  Justice sat on the floor, Sala in her arms, weeping bitterly.

  “At last,” Jason murmured.

  Justice looked up at him.

  “You're human after all,” Jason said.

  You are good, Lared said to her silently. I was wrong. You are so good that you could not stop yourself, with the test that Sala set for you. There is more mercy in you than you thought.

  Justice nodded.

  “You didn't fail,” Jason said aloud to her. “You passed. And he leaned down and kissed her forehead. ”You wouldn't be my daughter if you had made any other choice.

  For the small village of Flat Harbor, the Day of Pain was over. It would not be as it was before. Justice played no tricks on memory, and death itself she would not hinder, but the pain was at an end in Flat Harbor, and would be as long as she lived.

  It was a spring day, and the snow was gone; The men and women were out among the hedges and the fields, replanting bushes that the snow had moved, harrowing the stubbled fields, getting ready for the plow.

  The last of the logs were bound together in a raft, to be floated down the river to Star Haven, where they would fetch a good price, especially the great mast tree in the middle of the raft. Jason and the tinker stepped aboard. The raft shifted slightly, but did not rock for long. It was sturdy, and the tent they had pitched already in the middle of the raft would make a pleasant house for the two-week river journey. The tinker had his pots and pans, his tin and all his tools carefully arranged with floats in case the raft broke up—he could not afford to lose all that. Jason carried only one thing with him, a small iron-bound chest. He opened it only once, to be sure all nine closely wri
tten sheets of parchment were neatly rolled and stacked lightly within.

  “Ready?” asked the tinker.

  “Not quite yet,” said Jason.

  They waited for a moment, and then Lared came running onto the bank, carrying a hastily packed bag over his shoulder and shouting, “Wait! Wait for me!” When he saw that they were still against the shore he stopped and grinned foolishly. “Got room for one more?”

  “If you promise not to eat much,” said Jason.

  “I decided not to stay here. Father's arm is whole, and they don't need me much, they never did, and I thought you might need someone along who can read and write...”

  “Just get aboard, Lared.”

  Lared stepped carefully into the boat and set down his bag beside the iron chest. “Will they use a printing press and make a real book of this?”

  “If they don't, they won't get paid,” said Jason, and he and the tinker poled the raft away from shore.

  “It's a good thing to know they'll all be safe,” Lared said, looking back at the villagers in the fields and hedges.

  “I hope you don't think that you'll be safe with me,” said Jason. “I may be getting along in years, but I intend to live. I intend to sleep as little as possible, for one thing. And I hope you remember how many things there are that I cannot do.”

  Lared smiled and opened his bag to reveal four cheeses and a smoked shoulder. “It's going to be a terrible life, I know,” he said. He cut off a strip of meat and gave it to Jason. “Still, I'll take my chances.”

  Tales of Capitol

  To Jay A. Parry,

  who has read everything

  and made it better

  No child can be understood without knowing the parents; no revolution can be understood without knowing the ancien régime; no colony can be understood without knowing the mother country; no new world can be understood without knowing the old world that went before.

  Here are tales from the world of Capitol, the society built of plastic, steel, and somec, all of it supposedly eternal, all of it doomed to crumble. These stories will show you why—and how—Abner Doon set out to hasten the day of destruction.

  13. Skipping Stones

  Bergen Bishop wanted to be an artist.

  Because he said so when he was seven, he was promptly given pencils, paper, charcoal, watercolors, oils, canvas, a palette, an exquisite assortment of brushes, and an instructor who came and taught him once a week. In short, he was given all the paraphernalia money can buy.

  The instructor was smart enough to know that when one hopes to make a living teaching the children of the rich, one learns when to be honest and when to lie. Thus, the words the child has talent has often passed his lips before. But this time he meant them, and it was difficult to find a way to make the lying words now express the truth.

  “The boy has talent!” he declared. “The boy has talent!”

  “No one supposed that he hadn't,” the boy's mother said, a bit surprised at how effusive the teacher was. The father said nothing, just wondered if the instructor thought he'll get a bonus for declaring it with such fervor.

  “That boy has talent. Potential. Great potential,” the teacher said (again), and Bergen's mother, finally grown weary of the effusion of praise, said, “My dear fellow, we don't mind a bit if he has talent. He may keep it. Now come again next Tuesday. Thank you.”

  Yet despite his parents' unconcern, Bergen applied himself to learning to paint with some vigor. In a short time he had acquired technique well beyond his years.

  He was a good-tempered boy with a strong sense of justice. Many young men of his class on the planet Crove used their serving-men as whipping boys. After all, since brothers were out of fashion one had to have someone to pick on. And the serving-men (who were boys the same age as their masters) learned very early that if they defended themselves, they would soon face far worse than their youthful master could mete out.

  Bergen, however, was not unfair. Because he was unquarrelsome, he and his serving-man, Dal Vouls, never had harsh words or blows. And because he was fair, when Dal shyly mentioned that he too would like to learn to paint, Bergen immediately shared his equipment and his instructor.

  The instructor didn't mind teaching the two boys at once Dal was obedient and quiet and didn't ask questions. But he was too aware of the possibilities for added income not to mention to Bergen's father that it was customary to give an added stipend when there were two pupils instead of one.

  “Dal, have you been wasting the instructor's time?” Locken Bishop asked his son's serving-man.

  Dal remained silent, too afraid to speak quickly. Bergen answered. “It was my idea. To have him taught. It doesn't take the teacher any longer.”

  The teacher's gunning me for more. You've got to learn the value of money, Bergen. Either you take the lessons alone, or you take them not at all.

  Even so, Bergen forced the teacher (“I'll see you're fired and blackballed throughout the city. Throughout the world!”) to let Dal sit quietly to one side, just watching. Dal didn't set pencil to paper in the sessions, however.

  When he was nine, Bergen tired of painting and dismissed the teacher. He took up riding this time, years before most children did, but this time he insisted and his father purchased two horses; and so Dal rode with Bergen.

  It's too easy to depict childhood as an idyll. Certainly there were some frustrations, some times when Dal and Bergen didn't see eye to eye. But those times were buried in an avalanche of other memories, so that they were soon forgotten. The rides took them far from Bergen's father's house, but there was no direction in which they could ride and leave his father's land and return home the same day.

  And because Bergen was able to forget for hours at a time that he was heir and Dal was only a contracted serving-man, they became friends. Together they poured hot wax on the stairway, which nearly killed Bergen's sister when she slipped on it— and Bergen stoically took the full blame, since he would be confined to his room and Dal, if caught, would be beaten and dismissed. Together they hid in the bushes and watched as a couple who had ridden nude on horseback copulated in the gravel on the edge of a cliff—they marveled for days at the thought that this was what Bergen's parents did behind closed doors. Together they swam in every untrustworthy water hole on the estate and started fires in every likely corner, saving each other's lives so often they lost track of who was ahead.

  And then, when Bergen was fourteen, he remembered that he had painted as a boy. An uncle visited and said, “And this is Bergen, the boy who paints.”

  “His painting was just a childish whim,” Bergen's mother said. “He outgrew it.”

  Bergen was not accustomed to getting angry with his mother. But at fourteen, few boys are able to accept the word childish without wrath. Bergen immediately said, “Did I, Mother? Then why is it that I still paint?”

  “Where?” she said, disbelieving.

  “In my room.”

  “Show me some of your work then, little artist.” The word little was infuriating.

  “I burn them. They aren't yet representative of my best work.”

  At that his mother and the uncle laughed uproariously, and Bergen stomped off to his room, Dal a shadow behind him.

  “Where the hell is it!” he said angrily, hunting through the cupboard where the art supplies had been.

  Dal coughed. “Bergen, sir,” he said (at twelve Bergen had halfway come of age, and it was the law that he had to be called sir by anyone under contract to him or his father), “I thought you weren't using your painting stuff anymore. I've got it.”

  Bergen turned in amazement. “I wasn't using it. But I didn't know you were.”

  “I'm sorry, sir. But I didn't get much chance to try while the instructor was coming. I've been using the materials ever since.”

  “Did you use them up?”

  “There was a good supply. There's no more paper, but there's plenty of canvas. I'll get it.”

  He went and got it, brou
ght it into the big house in two trips, being careful to use the back stairways so Bergen's parents wouldn't see. “I didn't think you'd mind,” Dal said, when it was all brought back.

  Bergen looked puzzled. “Of course I don't mind. It's just the old biddy's taken it into her he ad that I'm still a child. I'm going to paint again. I don't know why I ever quit. I've always wanted to be an artist.”

  And he set up the easel at the window, so he could see the yard below, dotted with the graceful whip trees of Crove that rose fifty meters straight up into the air—and then, in a storm, lay over completely on the ground, so that no farmer of the Plains could ever be free of the worry of having a whip tree crash against his house in the wind. He began with an undercoat of green and blue, and Dal watched. Bergen hesitated now and then, but—it came back quickly, and, in fact, the long separation from art had done him no harm. His eyes was truer. His colors were deeper. But still—an amateur.

  “Perhaps if there were more magenta in the sky under the clouds,” Dal offered;

  Bergen turned to him coldly. “I'm not through with the sky.”

  “Sorry.”

  And Bergen painted on. Everything went well enough, except he couldn't seem to get the whip trees right. They kept looking so brown and solid, which wasn't right at all. And when he tried to draw them bent, they were awkward, not true to life. Finally he swore and threw the brush out the window, leapt to his feet and stormed away.

  Dal walked to the painting and said, “Bergen, sir, it isn't bad. Not at all. It's good. Just the whip trees.”

  “I know about the damned whip trees,” Bergen snarled, furious at his failure to be perfect in his first attempt in years. And he turned to see Dal taking swipes at the canvas, quick strokes with a slender brush. And then Dal turned around, and said, “Perhaps like that, sir.”

  Bergen walked up to the canvas. The whip trees were there, by far the most lifelike, most dynamic, most beautiful thing in the painting. Bergen looked at them—how effortless they seemed, how effortlessly Dal had stroked them into the painting. This was not how it should be. It was Bergen who was going to be the artist, not Dal. It was not just or right or fair that Dal should be able to paint whip trees.