The Ender Quintet (Omnibus)

by Card, Orson Scott

  The old ones left. Father knelt beside Qing-jao and spoke to her face to face. “You must understand, Qing-jao, that we are not really testing you. Nothing that you do of your own free will can make the slightest difference in what happens here. We are really testing the gods, to see if they are determined to speak to you. If they are, they’ll find a way, and we’ll see it, and you’ll come out of this room as one of the godspoken. If they aren’t, then you’ll come out of here free of their voices for all time. I can’t tell you which outcome I pray for, since I don’t know myself.”

  “Father,” said Qing-jao, “what if you’re ashamed of me?” The very thought made her feel a tingling in her hands, as if there were dirt on them, as if she needed to wash them.

  “I will not be ashamed of you either way.”

  Then he clapped his hands. One of the old ones came back in, bearing a heavy basin. He set it down before Qing-jao.

  “Thrust in your hands,” said Father.

  The basin was filled with thick black grease. Qing-jao shuddered. “I can’t put my hands in there.”

  Father reached out, took her by the forearms, and forced her hands down into the muck. Qing-jao cried out—her father had never used force with her before. And when he let go of her arms, her hands were covered with clammy slime. She gasped at the filthiness of her hands; it was hard to breathe, looking at them like that, smelling them.

  The old one picked up the basin and carried it out.

  “Where can I wash, Father?” Qing-jao whimpered.

  “You can’t wash,” said Father. “You can never wash again.”

  And because Qing-jao was a child, she believed him, not guessing that his words were part of the test. She watched Father leave the room. She heard the door latch behind him. She was alone.

  At first she simply held her hands out in front of her, making sure they didn’t touch any part of her clothing. She searched desperately for somewhere to wash, but there was no water, nor even a cloth. The room was far from bare—there were chairs, tables, statues, large stone jars—but all the surfaces were hard and well-polished and so clean that she couldn’t bear to touch them. Yet the filthiness of her hands was unendurable. She had to get them clean.

  “Father!” she called out. “Come and wash my hands!” Surely he could hear her. Surely he was somewhere near, waiting for the outcome of her test. He must hear her—but he didn’t come.

  The only cloth in the room was the gown she was wearing. She could wipe on that, only then she would be wearing the grease; it might get on other parts of her body. The solution, of course, was to take it off—but how could she do that without touching her filthy hands to some other part of herself?

  She tried. First she carefully scraped off as much of the grease as she could on the smooth arms of a statue. Forgive me, she said to the statue, in case it belonged to a god. I will come and clean you after; I’ll clean you with my own gown.

  Then she reached back over her shoulders and gathered the cloth on her back, pulling up on the gown to draw it over her head. Her greasy fingers slipped on the silk; she could feel the slime cold on her bare back as it penetrated the silk. I’ll clean it after, she thought.

  At last she got a firm enough grasp of the fabric that she could pull off the gown. It slid over her head, but even before it was completely off, she knew that things were worse than ever, for some of the grease was in her long hair, and that hair had fallen onto her face, and now she had filth not just on her hands but also on her back, in her hair, on her face.

  Still she tried. She got the gown the rest of the way off, then carefully wiped her hands on one small part of the fabric. Then she wiped her face on another. But it was no good. Some of the grease clung to her no matter what she did. Her face felt as if the silk of her gown had only smeared the grease around instead of lifting it away. She had never been so hopelessly grimy in her life. It was unbearable, and yet she couldn’t get rid of it.

  “Father! Come take me away! I don’t want to be godspoken!” He didn’t come. She began to cry.

  The trouble with crying was that it didn’t work. The more she cried, the filthier she felt. The desperate need to be clean overpowered even her weeping. So with tears streaming down her face, she began to search desperately for some way to get the grease off her hands. Again she tried the silk of her gown, but within a little while she was wiping her hands on the walls, sidling around the room, smearing them with grease. She rubbed her palms on the wall so rapidly that heat built up and the grease melted. She did it again and again until her hands were red, until some of the softened scabs on her palms had worn away or been torn off by invisible snags in the wooden walls.

  When her palms and fingers hurt badly enough that she couldn’t feel the slime on them, she wiped her face with them, gouged at her face with her fingernails to scrape away the grease there. Then, hands dirty again, she once more rubbed them on the walls.

  Finally, exhausted, she fell to the floor and wept at the pain in her hands, at her helplessness to get clean. Her eyes were shut with weeping. Tears streaked down her cheeks. She rubbed at her eyes, at her cheeks—and felt how slimy the tears made her skin, how filthy she was. She knew what this surely meant: The gods had judged her and found her unclean. She wasn’t worthy to live. If she couldn’t get clean, she had to blot herself out. That would satisfy them. That would ease the agony of it. All she had to do was find a way to die. To stop breathing. Father would be sorry he didn’t come when she called to him, but she couldn’t help that. She was under the power of the gods now, and they had judged her unworthy to be among the living. After all, what right did she have to breathe when the gate of Mother’s lips had stopped letting the air pass through, in or out, for all these many years?

  She first thought of using her gown, thought of stuffing it into her mouth to block her breath, or tying it around her throat to choke herself—but it was too filthy to handle, too covered with grease. She would have to find another way.

  Qing-jao walked to the wall, pressed against it. Sturdy wood. She leaned back and flung her head against the wood. Pain flashed through her head when it struck; stunned, she dropped to a sitting position on the floor. Her head ached inside. The room swung slowly around and around her. For a moment she forgot the filthiness of her hands.

  But the relief didn’t last long. She could see on the wall a slightly duller place where the grease from her forehead broke up the shiny polished surface. The gods spoke inside her, insisted she was as filthy as ever. A little pain wouldn’t make up for her unworthiness.

  Again she struck her head against the wall. This time, however, there was nowhere near as much pain. Again, again—and now she realized that against her will, her body was recoiling from the blow, refusing to inflict so much pain on herself. This helped her understand why the gods found her so unworthy—she was too weak to make her body obey. Well, she wasn’t helpless. She could fool her body into submission.

  She selected the tallest of the statues, which stood perhaps three meters high. It was a bronze casting of a man in mid-stride, holding a sword above his head. There were enough angles and bends and projections that she could climb. Her hands kept slipping, but she persevered until she balanced on the statue’s shoulders, holding onto its headdress with one hand and the sword with the other.

  For a moment, touching the sword, she thought of trying to cut her throat on it—that would stop her breath, wouldn’t it? But the blade was only a pretend blade. It wasn’t sharp, and she couldn’t get her neck to it at the right angle. So she went back to her original plan.

  She took several deep breaths, then clasped her hands behind her back and toppled forward. She would land on her head; that would end her filthiness.

  As the floor rushed upward, however, she lost control of herself. She screamed; she felt her hands tear free of each other behind her back and rush forward to try to break her fall. Too late, she thought with grim satisfaction, and then her head struck the floor and everything went
black.

  Qing-jao awoke with a dull ache in her arm and a sharp pain in her head whenever she moved—but she was alive. When she could bear to open her eyes she saw that the room was darker. Was it night outside? How long had she slept? She couldn’t bear to move her left arm, the one with the pain; she could see an ugly red bruise at the elbow and she thought she must have broken it inside when she fell.

  She also saw that her hands were still smeared with grease, and felt her unbearable dirtiness: the gods’ judgment against her. She shouldn’t have tried to kill herself after all. The gods wouldn’t allow her to escape their judgment so easily.

  What can I do? she pleaded. How can I be clean before you, O Gods? Li Qing-jao, my ancestor-of-the-heart, show me how to make myself worthy to receive the kind judgment of the gods!

  What came at once to her mind was Li Qing-jao’s love song “Separation.” It was one of the first that Father had given her to memorize when she was only three years old, only a short time before he and Mother told her that Mother was going to die. It was exactly appropriate now, too, for wasn’t she separated from the goodwill of the gods? Didn’t she need to be reconciled with them so they could receive her as one of the truly godspoken ones?

  someone’s sent

  a loving note

  in lines of returning geese

  and as the moon fills

  my western chamber

  as petals dance

  over the flowing stream

  again I think of you

  the two of us

  living a sadness

  apart

  a hurt that can’t be removed

  yet when my gaze comes down

  my heart stays up

  The moon filling the western chamber told her that it was really a god, not an ordinary man-lover who was being pined for in this poem—references to the west always meant that the gods were involved. Li Qing-jao had answered the prayer of little Han Qing-jao, and sent this poem to tell her how to cure the hurt that couldn’t be removed—the filthiness of her flesh.

  What is the loving note? thought Qing-jao. Lines of returning geese—but there are no geese in this room. Petals dancing over a flowing stream—but there are no petals, there is no stream here.

  “Yet when my gaze comes down, my heart stays up.” That was the clue, that was the answer, she knew it. Slowly, carefully Qing-jao rolled over onto her belly. Once when she tried to put weight on her left hand, her elbow buckled and an exquisite pain almost made her lose consciousness again. At last she knelt, her head bowed, leaning on her right hand. Gazing down. The poem promised that this would let her heart stay up.

  She felt no better—still filthy, still in pain. Looking down showed her nothing but the polished boards of the floor, the grain of the wood making rippling lines reaching from between her knees outward to the very edge of the room.

  Lines. Lines of woodgrain, lines of geese. And couldn’t the woodgrain also be seen as a flowing stream? She must follow these lines like the geese; she must dance over these flowing streams like a petal. That was what the promise meant: When her gaze came down, her heart would stay up.

  She found one particular line in the woodgrain, a line of darkness like a river rippling through the lighter wood around it, and knew at once that this was the stream she was supposed to follow. She dared not touch it with her finger—filthy, unworthy finger. It had to be followed lightly, the way a goose touched the air, the way a petal touched the stream. Only her eyes could follow the line.

  So she began to trace the line, follow it carefully to the wall. A couple of times she moved so quickly that she lost the line, forgot which one it was; but soon she found it again, or thought she did, and followed it to the wall. Was it good enough? Were the gods satisfied?

  Almost, but not quite—she couldn’t be sure that when her gaze slipped from the line she had returned to the right one. Petals didn’t skip from stream to stream. She had to follow the right one, along its entire length. This time she started at the wall and bowed very low, so her eyes wouldn’t be distracted even by the movement of her own right hand. She inched her way along, never letting herself so much as blink, even when her eyes burned. She knew that if she lost the grain she was following she’d have to go back and start over. It had to be done perfectly or it would lose all its power to cleanse her.

  It took forever. She did blink, but not haphazardly, by accident. When her eyes burned too much, she would bow down until her left eye was directly over the grain. Then she would close the other eye for a moment. Her right eye relieved, she would open it, then put that eye directly over the line in the wood and close the left. This way she was able to make it halfway across the room until the board ended, butting up against another.

  She wasn’t sure whether that was good enough, whether it was enough to finish the board or if she needed to find another woodgrain line to follow. She made as if to get up, testing the gods, to see if they were satisfied. She half-rose, felt nothing; she stood, and still she was at ease.

  Ah! They were satisfied, they were pleased with her. Now the grease on her skin felt like nothing more than a little oil. There was no need for washing, not at this moment, for she had found another way to cleanse herself, another way for the gods to discipline her. Slowly she lay back on the floor, smiling, weeping softly in joy. Li Qing-jao, my ancestor-of-the-heart, thank you for showing me the way. Now I have been joined to the gods; the separation is over. Mother, I am again connected to you, clean and worthy. White Tiger of the West, I am now pure enough to touch your fur and leave no mark of filthiness.

  Then hands touched her—Father’s hands, picking her up. Drops of water fell onto her face, the bare skin of her body—Father’s tears. “You’re alive,” he said. “My godspoken one, my beloved, my daughter, my life, Gloriously Bright, you shine on.”

  Later she would learn that Father had had to be tied and gagged during her test, that when she climbed the statue and made as if to press her throat against the sword he flung himself forward with such force that his chair fell and his head struck the floor. This was regarded as a great mercy, since it meant he didn’t see her terrible fall from the statue. He wept for her all the time she lay unconscious. And then, when she rose to her knees and began to trace the woodgrains on the floor, he was the one who realized what it meant. “Look,” he whispered. “The gods have given her a task. The gods are speaking to her.”

  The others were slow to recognize it, because they had never seen anyone trace woodgrain lines before. It wasn’t in the Catalogue of Voices of the Gods: Door-Waiting, Counting-to-Multiples-of-Five, Object-Counting, Checking-for-Accidental-Murders, Fingernail-Tearing, Skin-Scraping, Pulling-Out-of-Hair, Gnawing-at-Stone, Bugging-Out-of-Eyes—all these were known to be penances that the gods demanded, rituals of obedience that cleansed the soul of the godspoken so that the gods could fill their minds with wisdom. No one had ever seen Woodgrain-Tracing. Yet Father saw what she was doing, named the ritual, and added it to the Catalogue of Voices. It would forever bear her name, Han Qing-jao, as the first to be commanded by the gods to perform this rite. It made her very special.

  So did her unusual resourcefulness in trying to find ways to cleanse her hands and, later, kill herself. Many had tried scraping their hands on walls, of course, and most attempted to wipe on clothes. But rubbing her hands to build up the heat of friction, that was regarded as rare and clever. And while head-beating was common, climbing a statue and jumping off and landing on her head was very rare. And none who had done it before had been strong enough to keep their hands behind their back so long. The temple was all abuzz with it, and word soon spread to all the temples in Path.

  It was a great honor to Han Fei-tzu, of course, that his daughter was so powerfully possessed by the gods. And the story of his near-madness when she was trying to destroy herself spread just as quickly and touched many hearts. “He may be the greatest of the godspoken,” they said of him, “but he loves his daughter more than life.” This made
them love him as much as they already revered him.

  It was then that people began whispering about the possible godhood of Han Fei-tzu. “He is great and strong enough that the gods will listen to him,” said the people who favored him. “Yet he is so affectionate that he will always love the people of the planet Path, and try to do good for us. Isn’t this what the god of a world ought to be?” Of course it was impossible to decide now—a man could not be chosen to be god of a village, let alone of a whole world, until he died. How could you judge what sort of god he’d be, until his whole life, from beginning to end, was known?

  These whispers came to Qing-jao’s ears many times as she grew older, and the knowledge that her father might well be chosen god of Path became one of the beacons of her life. But at the time, and forever in her memory, she remembered that his hands were the ones that carried her bruised and twisted body to the bed of healing, his eyes were the ones that dropped warm tears onto her cold skin, his voice was the one that whispered in the beautiful passionate tones of the old language, “My beloved, my Gloriously Bright, never take your light from my life. Whatever happens, never harm yourself or I will surely die.”

  4

  JANE