Quintessence
Page 30
THAT evening, several dozen gray tamarins arrived at the gate and found it better guarded than they could have expected. The palisade platforms bristled with Spanish soldiers. Thinking it was better to confide in the Spanish than to be massacred by tamarins, Sinclair had told them how to use skink tears and prepare their bullets with wax. He stood on a platform next to Vaughan, watching the tamarins pour from the trees. Several held a tall pole upright while another clambered to the top. Gripping it with the hooks on his feet, the tamarin balanced at its summit and said something to the men on the palisade platform.
"I think he's asking us to open the gate," Sinclair said. "Though we should get someone who can speak their language to know for certain."
Vaughan looked at him in disgusted astonishment. "These creatures can speak?"
"Not much English, but in their own language. They make sounds and sign with their tails."
"I'll teach them a language," Vaughan said. He gestured at one of the Spanish soldiers, who raised his matchlock, aimed, and fired at the tamarin on the pole. A cloud of gunpowder smoke erupted from the weapon, and the tamarin fell to the ground.
The tamarins turned invisible and scattered. Guns fired from several platforms, and tamarins began to drop. Their invisibility didn't hide them from sight, and their ability to turn insubstantial couldn't save them from the wax- coated bullets. They were fast and agile, and several clambered up the palisade and slashed at soldiers with their deadly pincers. The Spanish were well trained and disciplined, however, and their bayonets were treated with wax as well. At the end of the short encounter, only two human soldiers were dead, but eighteen tamarins lay lifeless on the grass. The rest fled into the woods, leaving their dead behind.
PARRIS was glad not to be murdered by gray tamarins, but he wasn't sure the Spanish were much of an improvement. Over the next several days, Tavera and Vaughan busied themselves asking questions from house to house concerning points of religion. They hadn't actually threatened or harmed anyone, but they were accompanied by Spanish soldiers everywhere they went. People were scared.
Parris found Vaughan at the marmoset farm, where the colonists raised marmosets for the quintessence pearls in their bones. The Spanish soldiers gaped at the tiny monkeys leaping in and out through the solid diamond walls of the enclosures, eating the moths imprisoned inside. One Spanish soldier tried to catch a marmoset and was bitten for his troubles, to the amusement of the local crowd.
Another soldier directed Parris to where Vaughan sat on a low wall, examining his ostrich- plume hat through a small pair of spectacles perched on his nose. He meticulously stroked the feather, perfecting its shape.
"You have no right to interrogate people," Parris said.
Vaughan didn't look up from the hat. "Good evening, cousin. It's a plea sure to see you again."
"Why have you been harrying the colonists?"
"I am empowered by the queen to report on how this colony has been run. Asking questions is part of that."
"So talk to Sinclair. He's the governor. He can tell you how things are being run."
A deep rumble of laughter escaped from Vaughan's throat. He raised his eyes and peered at Parris over the spectacles. "Come, now. How can I obtain an impartial evaluation if I only ask the former governor?"
Parris was taken aback by the calm confidence Vaughan displayed. He'd changed. He wore his flamboyant doublet and hose like a second skin, making his surroundings seem ridiculous instead of the other way around. Something had hardened Francis Vaughan, and Parris found himself frightened of the man.
"You make people uncomfortable," Parris said.
"It's not my job to make them comfortable. They don't tell the truth when they're comfortable."
"You take a dim view of human nature, then."
"An accurate one, I fear."
"Most people will tell you the truth, if they're not afraid to tell you something you don't want to hear."
Vaughan lifted a tiny pair of scissors from his breast pocket— mustache trimmers, by the look of them— and snipped some invisible fault from the edge of the feather. "Have you ever judged a heresy trial, Stephen? But of course you haven't. I have had that honor, and I'll tell you something Bishop Bonner told me. Everyone has something to hide. Whatever they tell you the first time, no matter how sincere they seem, they're keeping something back."
"People admit to anything faced with a hot poker. Doesn't make it true."
"Oh, you'd be surprised." Vaughan wagged his head like a tutor with a feckless student. "Rotten deeds hide a rotten core. Old men who fail to speak the prayers, young girls who look away when the host is raised— they fool the weak with their wide- eyed tears, but again and again, the truth is revealed. A Talmud under the floorboards. Books of sorcery or astrology. A Tyndale Bible in a secret drawer."
"I've heard the tales from Spain," Parris said. "Madmen and simpletons tortured for being too ignorant to avoid notice. Pregnant women burned alive along with the innocents they carry."
"Better to die an innocent and wake in the arms of God than to be reared as a heretic."
Parris threw up his arms. He knew he should walk away— this conversation was going nowhere— but Vaughan infuriated him. "By your argument, we should kill all children at birth, before they have a chance to sin."
"If they cling to the True Faith, they need fear nothing."
Parris tried to object, but Vaughan waved a hand to cut him off . "If I were you, I wouldn't worry so much about other people's sins," he said.
Parris narrowed his eyes. "What are you saying?"
"You have heard of the Term of Grace?"
"I heard."
"Don't expect special treatment for family members."
"Trust me, I don't."
"I am empowered to root out heresy. No matter where I find it."
Parris plucked the ostrich feather out of Vaughan's hand and threw it on the ground. "Don't threaten me."
The assault on his feather finally broke through Vaughan's oily calm. He jumped up from the wall and focused burning eyes on him. It occurred to Parris that a short man communicated power better by staying seated. Roused to his feet, Vaughan just looked like a pouting child. Vaughan must have realized it, too, because he smiled, sighed, and sat down again. He lifted the feather gently from the ground and set it back into his hat.
Parris wanted to punch him, but resisted. He turned to leave, but a soldier blocked his way.
"I'm not finished with you," Vaughan said. "Answer me this. The colony is rich. Why has Sinclair not yet sent a ship with gold and spices back home?"
"No treasures sent would make it home. They're only spices and gold while they remain here. Halfway back, they turn into rocks or sand or seawater."
"Surely your Society is working on that problem."
Parris raised his eyebrows. Vaughan knew about the Society already. "We don't have a solution. There may not be one."
Vaughan leaned in close and snarled. "Liar. You're all heathens who refuse to support your rightful queen."
"Trust me. Since any of us would die if we attempted to return, we are very interested in finding a solution to the problem."
"Die? Why would you die?"
Parris smiled. He could tell that Vaughan really didn't know. With special relish, he explained how most of their food was made from sand, and their water was really transformed salt water. "We bring in some meat from hunting, but we haven't grown many natural crops. All of our bodies are full of sand and salt. If any of us returns, we're dead men."
Vaughan's eyes were wide, and he looked as though he had something
caught in his throat. "But . . . we've been eating the same food. You've poisoned us!"
Parris shrugged. "Welcome to Horizon."
CATHERINE walked through the streets with Matthew, careful to stand an appropriate distance apart and remain in view of others. Accusations of sin and scandal were all too easy to earn these days, and there was a sense that Tavera and his spies were a
lways watching.
The presence of so many Spanish had changed the settlement. The palisade wall had been extended to accommodate nearly twice as many people inside. A new Spanish quarter had sprung up in days with barracks for the men and a stable for their horses. Spanish soldiers were everywhere in the colony, buying, trading, and asking questions, but few of them spoke English very well, which made for daily misunderstandings.
The church had transformed, too, in preparation for Catholic worship. A giant crucifix was cast in gold and hung on the wall. Tavera and his priests distributed pamphlets announcing the Term of Grace and requiring English Bibles or any other items of Protestant worship to be surrendered.
Bishop Marcheford had disappeared almost as soon as the Spanish arrived. No one knew quite when or how he had left, not even Matthew, but most assumed he was back in the forest pursuing his work evangelizing the tamarins. Matthew feared for his life and thought it a foolish pursuit, though Catherine could tell he was also proud of his father for defying Tavera. Stories spread through the colony and grew with the telling, of Marcheford living naked with the savages, of crowds of tamarins coming to hear him speak. Most people found the idea of evangelizing them bizarre, if not sacrilegious, but Catherine had always known that the tamarins were people. God had created them. Surely they needed to be reconciled to him as much as any human.
"Christ came as a human being, not a tamarin," Matthew said. "How can his death atone for them?"
"Christ came as a Jew," Catherine said. "How can his death atone for Englishmen?"
Matthew didn't answer, but his face formed that look he had when he was considering a new thought: he furled his eyebrows, sucked in his lips, and looked off to one side. He got that look more and more often these days. A year ago, he would have dismissed her argument and shown her how it was wrong without even considering it. Horizon was changing him.
They walked toward the church. Father had called an emergency meeting of the Quintessence Society to discuss the Spanish threat.
"How are your experiments with the double void box coming?" she asked.
"No revelations yet," he said. "Anything that relies on quintessence for its life or form either dies or loses its power when it's closed inside the box. It confirms our understanding that quintessence is conferred from the outside, not stored within. Even the quintessence pearls we get from the animals go dark inside the box and lose their power. That means they don't produce quintessence themselves; they funnel it from an outside source. We think it comes from the stars, but that's just what Aristotle thought. We have no data to support the theory."
"And if you could find something that kept its quintessence abilities while inside the box?"
"It depends. If it just stored quintessence for a while, and then dissipated, that wouldn't help us. Some things seem to do that, in fact. What we need is a source, something that doesn't run out, something that enables other things to keep their quintessence abilities in the box, even though they usually don't. If we had that, the problem would be solved. We could bring it back to England with us, and its quintessence would keep our bodies from transforming."
"If only you could put a star in your box."
He grinned. "If only."
To his credit, Matthew had never scolded her for the disastrous experiment with Master Sinclair, nor even brought the subject up at all. She was all too aware that he had been proven right, and she was grateful not to have to hear him say so. Still, she didn't want it to hang between them, a taboo subject never to be breached.
"I owe you an apology," she said.
"I was thinking I owed you one."
She stopped walking. "What?"
"You were right. If we had a chance to bring someone back from the dead, we had to try. If it were someone I loved"— he glanced at her and swallowed—"that's what I would want."
"But look what happened! Maybe we weren't meant to try." Her voice broke, and she fought to keep from crying.
"I told you your brother was better off dead. I was an ass."
He was so earnest, she laughed through her tears. "You were."
"I'm serious."
"I can tell."
"Life is precious. If there's a way for life to be restored, then it's from God. He gave it to us to find."
"We tried. We failed."
"Then we should keep trying. These men who came with your cousin: they're killers. I can see it in their faces. If we could bring people back from the dead, men like that would have no power over us."
"We can't, though. So we have to do what they say." A worry struck her. "You are going to Mass tomorrow, right?"
"I'm not planning on it."
"But you must!"
"Not until the ten days are up," Matthew said.
"I don't think it works like that. They'll be taking names. Anyone they notice now will be the first to go when the Term of Grace is over."
Matthew rubbed his face with his hands. "How can I go to a Papist Mass?"
"You have to. And you have to look when the host is raised, and say the prayers, and everything. You know they'll be watching."
A slow smile spread across Matthew's face. "I bet they'd be surprised if the wine really did turn into blood."
She gasped. "Matthew, don't you even think about it."
"This is our colony," he said. "Not theirs. We built it and worked for it and wrung out its secrets. We shouldn't just let them take it."
"These are serious men. Killers— you said it yourself. They'd sooner rip out your tongue than let you speak against them."
"I'm not planning on speaking against them."
"Be careful, Matthew."
"Don't worry."
When they reached the church to meet the other Society members, they found the doors locked and a sign posted: NO UNAUTHORIZED GATHERINGS, BY ORDER OF THE GOVERNOR.
"The fools," Matthew said. "Don't they know we're what keeps this colony alive?"
She smiled at his casual arrogance. "Apparently not."
"We can't just let this happen. We have to fight back."
Chapter Twenty-seven
ON Sunday, a bell tolled through the settlement, calling everyone to Mass. Soldiers went from house to house, dragging out anyone who hoped to stay inside unnoticed. Catherine meekly followed her parents, who needed no such encouragement. Father had said they should play the part, attend the service, bide their time.
As they reached the door to the church, Matthew ran up behind her, breathless, and whispered in her ear: "I found it." His hair was matted, and he had dark rings under his eyes, but he seemed bursting with energy.
"You mean—"
"Yes." He grinned. She wanted to ask more. Had he really found a way to keep quintessence alive in the double box? Did that mean it was possible to go home? How had he done it? They passed into the church, where a Spanish acolyte glared at them and held out a bowl of water. Eyeing the soldiers on either side, Catherine kept her questions to herself and followed her father's example, dipping her hand in the water and making the sign of the cross.
The church had been redecorated. The sparkling diamond roof was as beautiful as ever, but now the lectern had been moved to one side to make room for an altar draped with an elaborate cloth. The cloth was threaded with gold, and would have been impressive in other circumstances, but next to the gold and diamond surroundings it seemed drab. On the altar stood a crucifix and a single flickering candle. Tavera must have brought all these things with him from England.
Tavera himself, now draped in a blue chasuble lined with black, walked in solemn procession to the altar followed by a server, placed the chalice on it, and crossed himself. "Introibo ad altare Dei, ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam."
Without moving her head, Catherine darted glances at the other colonists. Most of them stared gravely ahead, afraid to call attention to themselves. Soldiers lined the walls, watching.
Tavera bowed low. "Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michae
li Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae . . ."
Catherine felt the tension growing in the mostly Protestant group as the service progressed toward the celebration of the Eucharist. Making the sign of the cross was one thing; giving reverence to bread and wine supposed to be the actual body and blood of Christ was something else. To most of the people in the room it was sacrilege, but she guessed the soldiers had been told to watch for dissenters. Vaughan stood with the soldiers, and she saw him staring at her with greed on his face. Her gaze snapped back to the front.