Earthborn (Homecoming)

by Orson Scott Card

  “If you didn’t think that service to the Keeper is the higher responsibility,” said Didul, “you would long since have joined with Akma out of love for him. But you haven’t. Because you know that love must sometimes take a second place.” He left.

  Edhadeya leaned against the doorpost for a long time, thinking about what he had said. I love Akma, and yet it has never once occurred to me to join with him in rejecting the Keeper. But that isn’t because I love the Keeper more, the way Didul does. It’s because I know what I know, and to be with Akma I would have to lie. I won’t give up my honesty for any man. Nothing as noble in that as Didul’s sacrifice. Unless perhaps my honor is also a way to serve the Keeper.

  NINE

  PERSECUTION

  At first Didul thought that their fears might have been exaggerated. There was no falling off of attendance at the House of the Keeper in Bodika. In fact, the way the story first circulated through the province was rather favorable. Shedemei had been tried for teaching the siblinghood of all people in the eyes of the Keeper, and especially for allowing the children of the poor, the daughters of former slaves, to attend school, to eat, to work alongside the daughters of humans and angels. Therefore when the charges were dismissed against her and even worse charges were brought against her accusers, it was encouraging, wasn’t it?

  Only gradually did the realization seep through the community that in refusing to have the heretics who accused Shedemei put to death, Akmaro had changed the law. The only penalty for offense against the official state religion was now to be turned out of the House of the Keeper. But what kind of penalty was that, for those who didn’t believe anyway? Akmaro had been confirmed as the arbiter of doctrine for the state religion; but the law was now protected by such a feeble penalty that it was hardly a crime to disbelieve.

  What did that mean, actually? Most people had only known one kind of religion, consisting of the official rituals performed by the king’s priests in every city. Those priests had been put out of work thirteen years ago, and replaced by a ragtag group of priests and teachers who, instead of confining themselves to public rituals, insisted on collecting food to help the poor and teaching strange new doctrines about the equality of all people, which was obviously against nature. As most people were quick to say, it’s fine to free the captured digger slaves after they’ve served ten years, it’s fine to say that the children of slaves are born free, but everybody knows that diggers are loathsome and stupid and unfit for civilized company. Educating them for anything beyond menial labor is a waste of money. So the fact that the state religion now kept insisting on defiance of the way the world obviously worked was simply incomprehensible.

  But no one said anything about it, except a few fanatic digger-haters, who spoke in secret. After all, the law was that you didn’t speak against the religion of the king’s priests, right?

  Only now the only penalty that would come to you for speaking against these priests was to be turned out of the House of the Keeper. So that meant it was all right, didn’t it?

  There might be hidden penalties, though. After all, for foreigners to become full citizens, they had to pass through the water, and who could do that besides priests? So did foreigners have to join the Kept, and then later leave? And what if the king only did business with tradesmen who attended the House of the Keeper or sent their children to school at one of the little Kept Houses scattered through the villages and administered by one or two teachers? No, there was no need to open your mouth and get turned out. See how the wind blows.

  That was the majority. It was the fanatics that began to make life problematic for Didul and his priests. It wasn’t enough for them that now their meetings could be open. They had expected that thousands of people would leave the Kept and join them; instead, things were going on pretty much as before. That was intolerable. So they began to do things to help encourage the waverers that it was better for them to stop going to the priests of the Keeper.

  At first it was the word “digger hole” written in excrement on the wall of the House of the Keeper in Bodika. The word was a scatalogical pun: The second word was the coarse term for the anus, while combined with digger it was an exceptionally offensive term for a tunnel in which a community of diggers dwelt. By calling the House of the Keeper by that name, the vandals couldn’t have been more explicit.

  That had been easy enough to clean off. But that was only the beginning of the harassment. Groups of digger-haters—they preferred to call themselves the Unkept—would gather at outdoor rituals and chant obscenities to drown out the voice of the priest. When someone was being brought through the water, they threw dead animals or manure into the river, even though that was a crime. Someone broke into the House of the Keeper and broke everything that could be broken. A fire was started during an early morning gathering of priests; they put it out, but the intention was clear.

  Attendance began to fall off. Several of the teachers in outlying communities got messages—butchered animals on the doorstep, a sack over the head and a beating—and resigned or requested assignment in the city, where there might be safety in numbers. Didul had no choice but to close many of the outlying schools. People began to walk to and from meetings and classes in groups.

  Through it all, Didul went from town to town constantly, protesting to the local authorities. “What can I do?” the commander of the civil guard would say. “The penalty for unbelief is in your hands. Find out who they are and turn them out. That’s the new law.”

  “Beating a teacher isn’t unbelief,” Didul would say. “It’s assault.”

  “But the teacher’s head was covered and she can’t identify who it was. Besides, it was never a good idea to have a woman doing the teaching. And diggers along with people?”

  And Didul would realize that the commander of the civil guard was probably one of the fanatics who hated diggers worst. Most of them were retired soldiers. To them, diggers were all Elemaki—vicious fighters, night-time assassins. Slavery was all they deserved, and now that through some accident they were free, it was abominable to think of these former enemies now having the same rights as citizens.

  “They aren’t animals,” he would say.

  “Of course not,” the civil guardian would answer. “The law declares them citizens. It’s just not a good idea to try to teach them together with people, that’s all. Train them for the kind of work they’re suited for.”

  As the Unkept learned that the local authorities usually did little to protect the Kept, they grew bolder. Gangs of brash young men would accost old earth people, or earth children, or priests and teachers going about their business. There would be pushing, shoving, a few well-placed punches or kicks.

  “And you tell us not to defend ourselves?” asked the parents gathered in a meeting in one of the outlying towns with a large digger population. Most of them were not the descendants of slaves, but rather original inhabitants who had been there as long as any angel bloodline—and a good deal longer than any humans. “Why are you teaching us this religion, then? To make us weak? We’ve never been unsafe in this city before. We were known, we were full citizens, but the more you preach that we’re supposed to be equal, the less equally we’re treated!”

  Didul eloquently pointed out that it was a symptom of their helplessness that they were now blaming their friends for provoking their enemies. “The ones who do the beating, the shouting, the breaking, those are the enemy. And if you start to arm yourselves you’ll play into their hands. Then they can shout to everyone, Look, the diggers are arming themselves! Elemaki spies in our midst!”

  “But we were once full citizens and—”

  “You were never full citizens. If you were, where are the digger judges in this town? Where are the digger soldiers in the army? The centuries of war with the Elemaki have robbed you of full citizenship. That’s why Akmaro came back from the land of Nafai with the teachings of Binaro that the Keeper wants no more difference to be made among his children. That’s why you mu
st have courage—the courage to endure the blow. Stay in groups by all means. But don’t arm yourselves—if you do, it will be the army you face soon enough, and not these thugs.”

  He persuaded them; or at least wore them down enough to end the argument. But it was getting harder and harder to keep control. He sent letters every week, to Akmaro, to Motiak, to Pabul, to anyone that he thought might be able to help. He even wrote to Khideo once, pleading for him to speak out against this violence. “You have great prestige among those who hate the earth people,” he said in his letter. “If you openly condemn those who beat up defenseless children, perhaps you will shame some of them into stopping. Perhaps some of the civil guard will begin to enforce the law and protect the Kept from their persecutors.” But there was no answer from Khideo. And as for Motiak, his answer was to send messengers to the civil guardians, informing them that it was their responsibility to enforce the laws with perfect equality. The civil guard in every town insisted that they were already doing this. Back came the answers: We’re helpless. There are no witnesses. No one sees anything. Are you sure some of these complaints aren’t trumped up in an attempt to win sympathy?

  As for Akmaro, while he offered comfort, he could do little else. The problem was the same everywhere; and in the land of Khideo, he had to withdraw the priests and teachers entirely. He wrote: “I know you blame me for this, Didul, even though you are too courteous to say so. I blame myself. But I also have to remember, and I hope you will remember, that the alternative was to take upon myself, and to give to you and the other chief priests in the Houses of the Keeper, the power to kill in order to stifle dissent. That is the very opposite of what the Keeper wants from us. Fear will never turn people into the Keeper’s children. Only love will do that. And love can only be taught, persuaded, encouraged, earned, won by kindness, by gentleness, even by meekness when enemies harm you. Our enemies may be filled with hate, but there are surely many among them who are sickened when they beat a child, when six of them kick a priest with a bag over her head, when they reduce people to tears in the street. Those will eventually reject these actions and repent of them and when they seek forgiveness, there you will be, no weapons in your hands, no hatred in your heart.” And so on and so on. It was all true, Didul knew it. But he also remembered that he had been a willing persecutor himself for many months, beating and humiliating children without feeling anything but pride and hate and rage and amusement. A lot of harm could be done waiting for mercy to come to the hearts of the enemy. And some were like Didul’s father. He never learned mercy. The very helplessness of his victims filled him with more lust to inflict pain. He liked the screaming.

  Luet arrived in Bodika on the day of the worst incident so far. Three boys, two of them angels and one a digger, were attacked on their way to a Kept school on the outskirts of the city. The wings of the angels were savagely, irreparably torn: not just shredded, an injury which in the young could be healed; instead a huge ragged patch had been ripped out of their wings. It would never heal. These children would never fly again. And the digger child was even worse off. Every bone in his legs and arms was broken, and his head had been kicked so often that he had not regained consciousness. All three children were being cared for in the school. The parents were gathered, and many friends—including many who were not among the Kept, but were outraged by the crime. There were prayers, begging the Keeper to heal the children, to keep them from hating their enemies; and to soften the hearts of their enemies and teach them remorse, compassion, mercy.

  The Keeper doesn’t work that way, thought Didul. The Keeper doesn’t make people nice. The Keeper only teaches them what goodness and decency are, and then rejoices with those who believe and obey. The husbands who are kind to their wives; the children who respect their parents; the spouses who are true to the covenant of marriage; the Keeper is glad of these, but sends no plague to afflict those who beat their wives, who scoff at their parents, who couple whenever and wherever they choose, regardless of the loyal spouse at home, grieving. That is the thing that I can’t get them to understand—the Keeper will not change the world. He requires us to change it for him. Instead of prayers, you should be out talking, talking, talking to everyone.

  So should I. And here I am dressing wounds and comforting children who by all reasonable standards have no reason to be comforted. Yet still he comforted them, assured them that their suffering would not be in vain, that the sight of their torn wings would cause many outraged people to rally to the defense of the Kept. And instead of telling the people to stop praying, he joined with them, because he knew that it comforted them. Especially the parents of the little earth boy who would probably not live through the night. “At least, being unconscious, his broken bones cause him no pain.” Did I really say that? thought Didul. Did I really mouth such stupidity? The boy was in a coma because his brain was damaged, and I actually said it was merciful because he felt no pain?

  That was where Didul was and what he was doing when Luet came through the door of the school, with Shedemei right behind her. His first thought was, What an absurd time for a visit! Then, of course, he realized that they weren’t here on a social call. They came to help.

  “Father is distraught because he can’t do anything for you,” said Luet, greeting him with a sisterly embrace. “Shedemei has been teaching Edhadeya and me some medicine she learned in her home country—there’s a lot of washing and herbs and stinking liquids, but the wounds don’t get infected. When I decided to come here and teach it to you and your people, Shedemei insisted on coming with me. You won’t believe it, Didul. She left Edhadeya in charge of her school in her absence. ‘Let them dare to attack Rasaro’s House with the king’s own daughter in charge of it,’ that’s what she said, and then she packed up her medicines and came along with me.”

  “It’s a terrible time,” said Didul. “I doubt that there’s any medicine that will help these children.”

  Luet’s face grew grim and angry when she saw the ruined wings of the angel boys. “The Keeper will never send her true child into the world when we still do things like this.” She embraced the boys. “We have something that will make the aching go away for a while. And we can wash the wounds so they don’t infect. It will sting very badly for a few seconds. Can you bear it?”

  Yes, they could; yes, they did. Didul watched with admiration as she went skillfully about her work. This was something real. Better than empty words of comfort. He started trying to say this to her, and she scoffed at him. “Do you think words are nothing? Medicine won’t stop these terrible things from happening. Words might.”

  Didul didn’t bother to argue with her. “In the meantime, teach me. Tell me what you’re doing and why.”

  While they worked on the angels, Shedemei was checking over the earth boy. “Let me have some time alone with him,” she said.

  “Go ahead,” said Didul.

  “I mean alone. Alone.”

  Didul ushered the family, the friends, the neighbors out of the school. Then he came back, only to find Shedemei glaring at him and Luet. “Do words mean nothing to you? What do you think alone means? Two friends? Two injured angel boys?”

  “You expect us to take them out?” asked Luet.

  Shedemei looked them over. “They can stay. Now get out, both of you.”

  They left; Didul was angry but tried not to show it. “What is she doing that we can’t see?”

  Luet shook her head. “She did that once before. A little girl who had been hit in the eye. I thought we were going to have to lose it. She sent me and Edhadeya out of the room, and when we came back, there was a patch over the eye. She never explained what she did, but when the patch came off, the eye was fine. So . . . when she says to go out, I go out.”

  The others had sorted themselves into knots of conversation. Some were going home. Luet walked to the shade of a tree. “Didul, Father is beside himself. I’ve never seen the king so angry, either. He’s had to be restrained from bringing home the army. Mo
nush came out of retirement to argue with him. What enemy would the army attack? It was an awful scene, both of them yelling. Of course the king knew that Monush was right all along, but . . . they feel so helpless. No one has ever defied the law like this.”

  “Was it really the threat of death for heresy that kept public order all these years?”

  “No. Father says . . . but he’s written to you, hasn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes. The removal of the death penalty freed them to do little things. Ugly things like the shouting and the vile words and all that. But when nothing happened to them, they started pushing farther and harder, doing worse things, daring each other.”

  “It makes sense to me, anyway,” she said.

  “But what I don’t know is—where does it stop? The law against beating and maiming children, that’s still in force, with dire enough penalties. And yet these beasts did it anyway. The civil guard is out questioning people—no doubt about it, this sickened even them, especially the damage to the angel boys, you can bet they didn’t care much about one less digger, the scum—but the questioning is a joke because they already know who did it, or at least they know who would know, but they don’t dare reveal what they know because that would be the same as confessing that they’ve known all along and could have stopped it at any time and—I’m so angry! I’m supposed to be committed to being a man of peace, Luet, but I want to kill someone, I want to hurt them for what they did to these children, and the most terrible thing is that I know how it feels to hurt people and after all these years I finally want to do it again” And then words failed him and to his own surprise he burst into tears and a moment later found himself sitting on the grass under the tree, Luet’s arms around him as he cried out his frustration of the past few weeks.

  “Of course you feel like that,” she murmured. “There’s nothing wrong in feeling it. You’re still human. The passion for revenge is built into us. The need to protect our young. But look at you, Didul—you’re feeling that desire to protect the little ones, not for members of your own species, but for children of two others. That’s good, isn’t it? To tame your animal impulses in the service of the Keeper?”