For what seemed a long time, the priest said nothing. Then Lester Mon Dama shook his head. “You should be thankful that you’re still alive. It’s . . . miraculous . . . that you escaped.”
She nodded.
“In the Spirit of Gaia, Susan . . . how may I help you?”
“I need a favor. I need you to go to the North Epsilon office district for me, to the Clark Shuttle Service building. I need to get a message to someone there.”
“This message cannot be delivered via phone?”
“No.” She hesitated. “I’m afraid that this assassin . . . he might trace the call. Those two E-Tech Security men . . . they probably saw my desk calendar, passed on that information to the killer.”
Lester pursed his lips. “Even if that is so, it would seem unlikely that this assassin could be capable of operating telesurveillance on everyone—”
“These assassins are killing people with high-tech weapons,” Susan reiterated. “The freelancers claim they’re using virgin technology. If that’s true, then who knows what they’re really capable of.”
The priest shrugged. “Could you not call from a public place—”
“No. They could trace it. I don’t want to leave them any leads. I know that I probably sound paranoid. But I’m . . . very afraid.”
“All right, Susan. Under the circumstances, I can certainly understand your extreme caution.” He shook his head in wonder. “Two brushes with death! Twice you escaped the Conversion of Souls. It could be claimed that you had been spared by the Gaian Spirit itself!”
Susan said nothing. She had come here to elicit the help of a man who had once befriended her. His religion meant nothing to her. Hopefully, Lester Mon Dama would keep in mind that Susan Quint was not a worshiper.
“Of course,” Lester continued breezily, “a bodily existence such as yours does not suggest the simplistic rejoinder that spiritual intervention saved your life.” He smiled warmly, in a way that suggested they shared some deep confidence with one another. “The roots, after all, remain beyond the touch of us mortals. And in life—within the human sphere—we must cherish those things which grant us our strength. Doubtlessly, your special experiences have taught you this.”
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She had no idea what he was talking about.
For a moment, Lester seemed to gaze at her with unrestrained intensity. Then his face drifted into a weary smile. “I’m sorry, Susan. I’m . . . not making much sense, am I?”
“Not really.” She cleared her throat. “And as I said, I’m not even a member of the Church anymore.”
“Of course.”
“But what did you mean about my special experiences?”
He hesitated. “I was referring to the demise of your parents. I guess I was trying to say that children—like yourself—who lose their parents at an early age . . . children in those circumstances tend to be more . . . survival-oriented.”
“I suppose we do,” she answered uneasily, hoping that this was the end of any discussion about her parents.
He changed the subject. “Susan—this message you want me to deliver. This person at Clark Shuttle Service will be able to help you with your predicament?”
She hesitated. “Not exactly. You see, I’m supposed to meet this person . . . tonight. But the killers will certainly know about our rendezvous. They may be watching his offices and home, waiting for me to show up. I can’t risk contacting him, even to cancel.
“That’s why I need you to get a message to this man, postponing our rendezvous. No one will be suspicious of a priest going to his office. You probably know as well as I that many Church people regularly solicit in North Epsilon.”
Lester Mon Dama’s cheeks lifted into a delicate smile. “We prefer the term ‘supplication’ for our fundraising activities. But tell me, Susan—this rendezvous—is it of vital importance? Please correct me if I’m wrong—or tell me it’s none of my business, if you prefer—but it sounds as if you’re asking me to break a date for you.”
She sighed. “Yes, it’s a date. But you must understand that this is a high-end matchup, not just an ordinary night out. I’ve never scored at this level before. This man is being groomed to be the next head of his corporation. I’ve spent years working toward such a goal. At this stage, I can’t afford any setbacks.”
The priest stared at her.
She swallowed, continuing rapidly. “I was thinking that if you went to this man, and explained that you were my priest and that I was involved in a deeply personal matter that required that I be out of circulation for several weeks . . . well, the Church still remains a very important institution—”
“—And because I’m a priest, my explanation would carry greater weight. Your status with this man would not be jeopardized.”
“Exactly.”
Lester gave a noncommittal shrug. “Susan . . . I realize now that you didn’t come here for advice. But I feel bound to speak frankly. I think that you should contact your aunt Inez, work things out with her. Give her a second chance.
“And as a practical matter, in terms of breaking a date, I would suspect that your aunt, being an Irryan councilor, would be better suited to smoothing out your prospective relationship with this Shuttle Service man.”
She shook her head vigorously. “No. You don’t understand! Aunt Inez didn’t believe me! And even if she changed her mind . . . things just wouldn’t be the same between us.”
The priest frowned. “Susan, people make mistakes. And most often, given the opportunity, they will go out of their way to correct those mistakes. I do not know your aunt personally, but I’ve always found her political strains to be calming and laden with intelligence. She has always struck me as a woman of great compassion.”
Susan felt herself becoming angry. I shouldn’t have come here. This was a mistake. Priests have a distorted view of the world.
She raised her chin. “So you won’t help me?”
He favored her with a soothing smile.
Arrogant, she thought. And so condescending. She rose from the chair. “I have to go now. Thank you for listening to me. I trust that you will keep my visit here in strictest confidence—”
He raised his arm. “Susan, please. I understand your anger. But you must listen to your own words. What you’re saying to me makes very little sense.”
She clenched her teeth. “Don’t tell me about making sense! In a lot of different ways, being a priest doesn’t make much sense! So don’t sit here in judgment—”
“Please sit down,” he pleaded. “And just listen to me for a few more minutes. If you’re willing to do that, then you have my word as a priest of the Trust that I will deliver this message for you, and with no further ‘judgment.’”
She sat down, still fuming.
He sighed. “Susan, I remember when you were a young girl, running around in your parents’ parish following sacrament. You always had so much energy, so much... lifeforce.” He hesitated. “And I’m not speaking strictly in religious terms here, either. What I mean is, you were a very active little girl; demanding, but not rude; opportunistic, but not selfish. You couldn’t know it at the time, but many in your parish were in awe of your parents, for being blessed with such a child.
“After their death, we didn’t see much of you—your father’s elder brother took you into his family, and they were not members of the Church.” Lester gave a sad smile. “In all fairness, I don’t believe anyone could blame them for wanting to get you as far away as possible from the influences of the Trust. But even though we didn’t see you any longer, you were well remembered.”
“Of course I was,” Susan cracked bitterly. “Everyone was bound to remember the poor little girl whose parents killed themselves so they could be immediately entombed on Earth.”
“True,” Lester admitted. “Their demise naturally brought out the most profound sympathies in people. But, Susan—and I tell you this truthfully—you were deeply missed by many, myself included.”
Lester nodded with understanding. “I know, Susan, I know. That sort of pain is no easy thing. And probably it will never go away, at least not completely. But I think it’s important that you remember those feelings.
“You dealt with your parents’ deaths remarkably well, considering the fact that you were eleven years old and had no siblings.” He hesitated. “I always suspected that you would be able to handle your loss . . . more easily, perhaps, than most other children would have been capable of handling it.”
He shook his head. “Susan, I have not seen nor heard from you in fifteen years, not since the day your aunt and uncle removed you from our influence. And suddenly, today, here you are in front of me again—a grown woman, and a remarkably beautiful one at that. But Susan, and I say this to you with all my heart, perhaps you have dealt too well with that terrible loss.”
She clenched her hands together on her lap. No matter what you say, I won’t cry. I don’t want to feel those feelings—not ever again!
“I’m not speaking to you as a pyschplan counselor, Susan, nor as a priest. I’m speaking as one human being to another. And I say to you that right now you are making very little sense.
“You are worried about breaking a date. You are worried about how a certain man, whom I gather you as yet share no real relationship with, will react to your failing to spend an evening in his company. In almost the same breath, you claim that a pair of vicious killers want you dead.
“I would say, Susan—and I’m putting this as gently as possible—that you have your priorities confused. Your life is more important than the repercussions of a broken engagement.”
Susan rubbed a tear from her cheek.
The priest stared at her for a moment, and then he unsealed the protective cover from one of his telephonic directories and began thumbing through the book, absently glancing at large advertisements competing for attention on the fragile, preservative-treated pages. For a time, he seemed completely lost in thought. Then:
“Frankly, Susan, I don’t know exactly how I’d react if I were faced with your particular dilemma. I can certainly understand a reluctance to return to your aunt, given your strong feelings that she betrayed you.” He shrugged. “Maybe such feelings will lessen over time. Given that, perhaps an alternate course of action would be for you to stay out of sight, at least temporarily.” Lester paused. “You could seek sanctuary within the Church.”
An awful feeling rose within her, a hopeless despair. And that phrase: Seek sanctuary. The words seemed to carry an emotional charge totally out of proportion to their simple phonetics, touching some delicate nerve deep inside her, triggering a long-buried set of memories. Susan heard her mother’s voice, that soft lilting tone that she had learned—much later in life—to equate with religious fanaticism.
The Trust demands our constant obedience, young lady. And someday, Susan, our duty will be rewarded and the glorious Earth will be ours forever, and we will dwell within the Gaian Spirit. Never forget that the Earth is the place of all beginnings, our true homeland, the very roots of our passion.
Susan found herself lowering her head, as she had been forced to do as a child when mother recited the prayers of the Trust.
Blessed are the rootmakers, for they maintain the sands of time. Blessed are the dustmakers, for they surround the roots and give them strength. Blessed are the rainmakers, for they pour from the heavens and deliver the dust unto the place of all beginnings.
“I am a child of Gaia,” Susan whispered in response.
We are all the children of Gaia. On Earth dwells our eternal spirit. The path of our mortal journeys leads forever downward, to the roots, to the soil from which life sprang. Do you understand, Susan?
“Yes, Mother.”
“Susan?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“Susan! It’s Lester Mon Dama. Susan, wake up!”
She raised her eyes and stared across the desk at the priest, seeing him as he was many years ago: the long straight hair thicker and darker, the trimmed beard free of gray and white speckles, the Lester Mon Dama of Susan’s childhood.
And then the pain erupted: the old feelings of her parents’ suicide, the agonies that she had vowed, long ago, never again to allow full release.
“I don’t know what to do!” she cried, and a congestion of endless sobs overwhelmed her. Lester came to his feet and Susan hurled herself into his embrace, holding onto him as if he were the only real thing in the universe.
“Help me,” she wailed. “I can’t do this again!”
“It’s all right,” murmured the priest. “You can survive it. You’re a strong person, stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
“No! Not again! I can’t!”
“Shhh.” Large strong hands patted her gently. “It’s all right, Susan. Everything will be all right.”
For a time she stood there in his arms, quietly sobbing. Eventually the cascade of tears slowed, reaching some fundamental threshold where conscious choice again became an option. Enough. Her decision ended the tears; it was as if a switch inside her snapped shut, closeting the pain, injecting a wall between Susan Quint and her emotions, a translucent barrier protecting the present from the past.
She stared over Lester’s shoulder at his scarred office walls, suddenly alive with the priest’s ancient collection of preserved telephonic covers. She wiped her wet face across Lester’s shirt sleeve and pulled away from him. A lone tear trickled along the edge of her mouth and she smeared it onto her lip.
Lester Mon Dama favored her with a warm smile.
“Why do you keep these old communication books?” she asked. Somehow, it seemed important to know the answer.
The priest answered carefully, his words infinitely solemn. “Bell of Pennsylvania, Pacific Bell—these are things that once were. Representations of time before time. They serve to constantly remind me that I have been preceded by another existence. I guess I feel a little more secure realizing that these very useful tools were around long before I was born, long before the Apocalypse, long before there was such a thing as the Church of the Trust.
“Ultimately, however, I suppose that these covers remain fetishes, and as such, unexplainable.” He chuckled. “In fact, if I could explain them, I suppose I’d have no need for them.”
One of Susan’s psychplan counselors had once intimated that antique collecting was a refined form of pain relief: If you surrounded yourself with enough historical symbols, then your own internalized suffering was repressed, effectively diminished. Maybe Lester also suffered from deep childhood pain.
He handed her a slice of tissues from his desk. Susan dabbed at her still-wet cheeks. “All these things,” she said, “make you feel as if you . . . belong.”
Lester pushed aside some of the clutter and sat down on the edge of his desk. “Perhaps they do.” His fingers toyed with the smooth spine of the directory. “Or perhaps they simply remind me that the world was once a much simpler place. More secure.”
They were silent for a moment. And Susan found herself wondering if Lester Mon Dama had, like many of the other priests of the Trust, taken a vow of chastity.
“Susan,” he began slowly, “maybe I have a real alternative for you—at least a temporary answer to your troubles.”
She forced a smile. “You have my attention.”
“Have you ever been to Earth?”
“No,” she said warily.
“The Church maintains several facilities down on the surface. Nothing like we had in the old days, of course. The Great Trauma wiped out most of our bases. But E-Tech permits us to maintain a few cloisters, places where our brethren can go when they need to reinvigorate.
“At any rate, I’ve been planning a trip down to our facility on Lake Ontario for some time now. As a priest, I am permitted to take along any number of my parish; in fact, the bish
ops’ conclave encourages priests to recruit visitors. There are usually many empty bedrooms within the cloisters. Surprisingly, most of our flock have no great desire to set foot on the planet.”
“At least when they’re alive,” Susan muttered.
Lester stared at her, his eyes impelling silence.
She sighed loudly. “I’m sorry. I’ve dwelt on my pain enough for one day. But still . . . I don’t know if I want to travel to Earth. And I’m not a member of the Church.”
“That is a problem with an easy solution. You recall the sacrament of misk?”
“Of course.”
“I could reinitiate you into the Trust; a simple private ceremony. That would satisfy the requirements for taking you to the Ontario Cloister.”
“How long would I have to stay down there?”
“A transit shuttle arrives every other day. You could leave whenever you desired.”
“How long are you planning to stay?” She was surprised to feel herself blushing slightly as she asked the question. Her interest in Lester was becoming more personal, and she was having trouble consciously admitting the presence of those feelings.
Steady, Susan. He’s a priest of the Trust. And even if he didn’t take a vow of chastity, nothing’s going to happen between us.
Nevertheless, the feelings remained.
If Lester was aware of her reddening face, he did not let on. “I hope to stay at the Ontario Cloister for at least four or five days, perhaps longer.” His face erupted into a guilty smile. “Even a priest deserves a vacation from time to time.”
“I’d be . . . fairly safe down there,” she offered, trying to convince herself.
“Away from the Colonies, away from all the danger. Believe me, Susan, there’s an openness down there, a spaciousness that many visitors find infinitely soothing. A great many of our brethren later claim that they felt a sense of inner peace on the planet that they had never known in the Colonies. And the Church still enjoys a certain degree of transport freedom. We have our own private shuttles. And E-Tech pays little attention to standard passports. I am absolutely certain that your departure from the Colonies could be handled with total discretion.”
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