"Que dia chato, meu filho."
That was one voice that would never change. And the attitude was unchanging as well: What a rotten day, my son. Pious and snide at the same time— and mocking himself for both points of view.
"Hi, Quim."
"Father Estevao now, I'm afraid." Quim had adopted the full regalia of a priest, robes and all; now he gathered them under himself and sat on the worn-down grass in front of Miro.
"You look the part," said Miro. Quim had matured well. As a kid he had looked pinched and pious. Experience with the real world instead of theological theory had given him lines and creases, but the face that resulted had compassion in it. And strength. "Sorry I made a scene at mass."
"Did you?" asked Miro. "I wasn't there. Or rather, I was at mass— I just wasn't at the cathedral."
"Communion for the raman?"
"For the children of God. The church already had a vocabulary to deal with strangers. We didn't have to wait for Demosthenes."
"Well, you don't have to be smug about it, Quim. You didn't invent the terms."
"Let's not fight."
"Then let's not butt into other people's meditations."
"A noble sentiment. Except that you have chosen to rest in the shade of a friend of mine, with whom I need to have a conversation. I thought it was more polite to talk to you first, before I start beating on Rooter with sticks."
"This is Rooter?"
"Say hi. I know he was looking forward to your return."
"I never knew him."
"But he knew all about you. I don't think you realise, Miro, what a hero you are among the pequeninos. They know what you did for them, and what it cost you."
"And do they know what it's probably going to cost us all, in the end?"
"In the end we'll all stand before the judgement bar of God. If a whole planetful of souls is taken there at once, then the only worry is to make sure no one goes unchristened whose soul might have been welcomed among the saints."
"So you don't even care?"
"I care, of course," said Quim. "But let's say that there's a longer view, in which life and death are less important matters than choosing what kind of life and what kind of death we have."
"You really do believe all this, don't you," said Miro.
"Depending on what you mean by 'all this,' yes, I do."
"I mean all of it. A living God, a resurrected Christ, miracles, visions, baptism, transubstantiation."
"Yes."
"Miracles. Healing."
"Yes."
"Like at the shrine to Grandfather and Grandmother."
"Many healings have been reported there."
"Do you believe in them?"
"Miro, I don't know— some of them might have been hysterical. Some might have been a placebo effect. Some purported healings might have been spontaneous remissions or natural recoveries."
"But some were real."
"Might have been."
"You believe that miracles are possible."
"Yes."
"But you don't think any of them actually happen."
"Miro, I believe that they do happen. I just don't know if people accurately perceive which events are miracles and which are not. There are no doubt many miracles claimed which were not miracles at all. There are also probably many miracles that no one recognised when they occurred."
"What about me, Quim?"
"What about you?"
"Why no miracle for me?"
Quim ducked his head, pulled at the short grass in front of him. It was a habit when he was a child, trying to avoid a hard question; it was the way he responded when their supposed father, Marcão, was on a drunken rampage.
"What is it, Quim? Are miracles only for other people?"
"Part of the miracle is that no one knows why it happens."
"What a weasel you are, Quim."
Quim flushed. "You want to know why you don't get a miraculous healing? Because you don't have faith, Miro."
"What about the man who said, Yes Master, I believe— forgive my unbelief?"
"Are you that man? Have you even asked for a healing?"
"I'm asking now," said Miro. And then, unbidden, tears came to his eyes. "O God," he whispered. "I'm so ashamed."
"Of what?" asked Quim. "Of having asked God for help? Of crying in front of your brother? Of your sins? Of your doubts?"
Miro shook his head. He didn't know. These questions were all too hard. Then he realised that he did know the answer. He held out his arms from his sides. "Of this body," he said.
Quim reached out and took his arms near the shoulder, drew them toward him, his hands sliding down Miro's arms until he was clasping Miro's wrists. "This is my body which is given for you, he told us. The way you gave your body for the pequeninos. For the little ones."
"Yeah, Quim, but he got his body back, right?"
"He died, too."
"Is that how I get healed? Find a way to die?"
"Don't be an ass," said Quim. "Christ didn't kill himself. That was Judas's ploy."
Miro's anger exploded. "All those people who get their colds cured, who get their migraines miraculously taken from them— are you telling me they deserve more from God than I do?"
"Maybe it isn't based on what you deserve. Maybe it's based on what you need."
Miro lunged forward, seizing the front of Quim's robe between his half spastic fingers. "I need my body back!"
"Maybe," said Quim.
"What do you mean maybe, you simpering smug asshole!"
"I mean," said Quim mildly, "that while you certainly want your body back, it may be that God, in his great wisdom, knows that for you to become the best man you can be, you need to spend a certain amount of time as a cripple."
"How much time?" Miro demanded.
"Certainly no longer than the rest of your life."
Miro grunted in disgust and released Quim's robe.
"Maybe less," said Quim. "I hope so."
"Hope," said Miro contemptuously.
"Along with faith and pure love, it's one of the great virtues. You should try it."
"I saw Ouanda."
"She's been trying to speak to you since you arrived."
"She's old and fat. She's had a bunch of babies and lived thirty years and some guy she married has ploughed her up one side and down the other all that time. I'd rather have visited her grave!"
"How generous of you."
"You know what I mean! Leaving Lusitania was a good idea, but thirty years wasn't long enough."
"You'd rather come back to a world where no one knows you."
"No one knows me here, either."
"Maybe not. But we love you, Miro."
"You love what I used to be."
"You're the same man, Miro. You just have a different body."
Miro struggled to his feet, leaning against Rooter for support as he got up. "Talk to your tree friend, Quim. You've got nothing to say that I want to hear."
"So you think," said Quim.
"You know what's worse than an asshole, Quim?"
"Sure," said Quim. "A hostile, bitter, self-pitying, abusive, miserable, useless asshole who has far too high an opinion of the importance of his own suffering."
It was more than Miro could bear. He screamed in fury and threw himself at Quim, knocking him to the ground. Of course Miro lost his own balance and fell on top of his brother, then got tangled in Quim's robes. But that was all right; Miro wasn't trying to get up, he was trying to beat some pain into Quim, as if by doing that he would remove some from himself.
After only a few blows, though, Miro stopped hitting Quim and collapsed in tears, weeping on his brother's chest. After a moment he felt Quim's arms around him. Heard Quim's soft voice, intoning a prayer.
"Pai Nosso, que estas no ceu." From there, however, the incantation stopped and the words turned new and therefore real. "O teu filho esta com dor, o meu irmao precisa a resurreicao da alma, ele merece o refresco da esperanca."
&
nbsp; Hearing Quim give voice to Miro's pain, to his outrageous demands, made Miro ashamed again. Why should Miro imagine that he deserved new hope? How could he dare to demand that Quim pray for a miracle for him, for his body to be made whole? It was unfair, Miro knew, to put Quim's faith on the line for a self-pitying unbeliever like him.
But the prayer went on. "Ele deu tudo aos pequeninos, e tu nos disseste, Salvador, que qualquer coisa que fazemos a estes pequeninos, fazemos a ti."
Miro wanted to interrupt. If I gave all to the pequeninos, I did it for them, not for myself. But Quim's words held him silent: You told us, Savior, that whatever we do to these little ones, we do to you. It was as if Quim were demanding that God hold up his end of a bargain. It was a strange sort of relationship that Quim must have with God, as if he had a right to call God to account.
"Ele nao ‚ como Jã, perfeito na coracão."
No, I'm not as perfect as Job. But I've lost everything, just as Job did. Another man fathered my children on the woman who should have been my wife. Others have accomplished my accomplishments. And where Job had boils, I have this lurching half-paralysis— would Job trade with me?
"Restabelece ele como restabeleceste Jã. Em nome do Pai, e do Filho, e do Espirito Santo. Amem." Restore him as you restored Job.
Miro felt his brother's arms release him, and as if it were those arms, not gravity, that held him on his brother's chest, Miro rose up at once and stood looking down on his brother. A bruise was growing on Quim's cheek. His lip was bleeding.
"I hurt you," said Miro. "I'm sorry."
"Yes," said Quim. "You did hurt me. And I hurt you. It's a popular pastime here. Help me up."
For a moment, just one fleeting moment, Miro forgot that he was crippled, that he could barely maintain his balance himself. For just that moment he began to reach out a hand to his brother. But then he staggered as his balance slipped, and he remembered. "I can't," he said.
"Oh, shut up about being crippled and give me a hand."
So Miro positioned his legs far apart and bent down over his brother. His younger brother, who now was nearly three decades his senior, and older still in wisdom and compassion. Miro reached out his hand. Quim gripped it, and with Miro's help rose up from the ground. The effort was exhausting for Miro; he hadn't the strength for this, and Quim wasn't faking it, he was relying on Miro to lift him. They ended up facing each other, shoulder to shoulder, hands still together.
"You're a good priest," said Miro.
"Yeah," said Quim. "And if I ever need a sparring partner, you'll get a call."
"Will God answer your prayer?"
"Of course. God answers all prayers."
It took only a moment for Miro to realise what Quim meant. "I mean, will he say yes."
"Ah. That's the part I'm never sure about. Tell me later if he did."
Quim walked— rather stiffly, limping— to the tree. He bent over and picked up a couple of talking sticks from the ground.
"What are you talking to Rooter about?"
"He sent word that I need to talk to him. There's some kind of heresy in one of the forests a long way from here."
"You convert them and then they go crazy, huh?" said Miro.
"No, actually," said Quim. "This is a group that I never preached to. The father trees all talk to each other, so the ideas of Christianity are already everywhere in the world. As usual, heresy seems to spread faster than truth. And Rooter's feeling guilty because it's based on a speculation of his."
"I guess that's a serious business for you," said Miro.
Quim winced. "Not just for me."
"I'm sorry. I meant, for the church. For believers."
"Nothing so parochial as that, Miro. These pequeninos have come up with a really interesting heresy. Once, not long ago, Rooter speculated that, just as Christ came to human beings, the Holy Ghost might someday come to the pequeninos. It's a gross misinterpretation of the Holy Trinity, but this one forest took it quite seriously."
"Sounds pretty parochial to me."
"Me too. Till Rooter told me the specifics. You see, they're convinced that the descolada virus is the incarnation of the Holy Ghost. It makes a perverse kind of sense— since the Holy Ghost has always dwelt everywhere, in all God's creations, it's appropriate for its incarnation to be the descolada virus, which also penetrates into every part of every living thing."
"They worship the virus?"
"Oh, yes. After all, didn't you scientists discover that the pequeninos were created, as sentient beings, by the descolada virus? So the virus is endued with the creative power, which means it has a divine nature."
"I guess there's as much literal evidence for that as for the incarnation of God in Christ."
"No, there's a lot more. But if that were all, Miro, I'd regard it as a church matter. Complicated, difficult, but— as you said— parochial."
"So what is it?"
"The descolada is the second baptism. By fire. Only the pequeninos can endure that baptism, and it carries them into the third life. They are clearly closer to God than humans, who have been denied the third life."
"The mythology of superiority. We could expect that, I guess," said Miro.
"Most communities attempting to survive under irresistible pressure from a dominant culture develop a myth that allows them to believe they are somehow a special people. Chosen. Favoured by the gods. Gypsies, Jews— plenty of historical precedents.
"Try this one, Senhor Zenador. Since the pequeninos are the ones chosen by the Holy Ghost, it's their mission to spread this second baptism to every tongue and every people."
"Spread the descolada?"
"To every world. Sort of a portable judgement day. They arrive, the descolada spreads, adapts, kills— and everybody goes to meet their Maker."
"God help us."
"So we hope."
Then Miro made a connection with something he had learned only the day before. "Quim, the buggers are building a ship for the pequeninos."
"So Ender told me. And when I confronted Father Daymaker about it—"
"He's a pequenino?"
"One of Human's children. He said, 'Of course,' as if everyone knew about it. Maybe that's what he thought— that if the pequeninos know it, then it's known. He also told me that this heretic group is angling to try to get command of the ship."
"Why?"
"So they can take it to an inhabited world, of course. Instead of finding an uninhabited planet to terraform and colonise."
Card, Orson Scott - Ender's Saga 3 - Xenocide Page 22
