Revolt on War World

V

"A song always has more notes" is also what he told me a month ago when my baby died, and I wondered cynically if it were generic advice.

After three exhausting days my wife, Bren, had birthed a son, but the baby lived barely a moment. Looking up at me, one of the midwives shook her head, eyes wide.

My heart sank, and then my knees weakened. I sat on a stone covered by muskylope hide, gasping as if I'd run kilometers.

Concern for Bren shot through me then, as I caught a glimpse of the blood-smeared belly, still swollen as she struggled with the afterbirth. Standing, I rushed to her side. Her face was agony incarnate and incarnadine, her silken tresses lay matted, her eyes, when they opened, wandered dull and glazed.

"I'm here, Bren-love," I told her, grasping her hand, which squeezed mine hard enough to grind knuckles.

"Take," she said, "the baby," her neck's tendons taut, "to Reverend Castell," and she groaned, fought for control, and added, in a breathless whisper of pain, "blessing."

My throat was too choked by love and sorrow to answer, so I nodded. Leaning down, I kissed her salty cheek, then gathered the still bundle in my arms and trudged across the town square.

I passed the acolytes' quarters on my way, and heard a droning from within. For an instant I regretted ever having left the warm community of bachelor acolytes, but I knew it was a strident disharmony. Besides, marriage was a rock-solid foundation for the soul, and in truth my love for Bren often threatened to overwhelm even my love for Harmony and all things Harmonious.

Spits of snow sent icy darts into my eyes, into my lungs. Haven's winter, although just beginning, featured blizzards to humble even our Russian taiga couple, Iban and Svetalma, who had taught us how to skin muskylopes and who often told tales of snow piled up to the sky.

At Reverend Castell's house I dropped to my knees. Hugging the still-warm bundle to me with my elbows, I clapped thrice and heard a faint, "Enter."

I crawled on threes, holding the bundle against my heart with my weak arm, the left. As my head thrust past the many curtains hung against the chill I said, "Reverend, our baby's dead. And with that the truth came home to me, and my tears flowed in a gush that blinded me like a bucketful of riverwater.

Reverend Castell came to me, stood me upright, and took the bundle. He sang it a short dirge, rocking it as if soothing a living infant to sleep, and then he placed it on a small corner altar, where candles already burned.

Coming back to me, Reverend Castell hugged me and said, "A song always has more notes, and your song is just begun. Our infant mortality rate is exceeding forty-nine percent, so such sacrifices carry little of the discord of surprise, Kev. We must bear the dead on life's shoulders." He squeezed tight, then let go and said, "Return to your wife, comfort her."

It was good advice, giving me something to think of other than my own misery, and the cold air outside revived me.

Only when I passed one of the midwives on her way to Castell's house did I falter. I knew she would take the tiny corpse and bury it in some unguessed farmer's fallow field, after doctors pronounced it pure. Looking down at the ground, I hated its insatiable hunger for babies' bones. A year had aged me ten.

When I got back, the strain was still evident on Bren's face, too, and seeking to soothe her I tried to stroke her forehead. She snarled at me, almost biting my quickly withdrawn hand, then fell into heavy sleep.

"She must rest, but stay by her side, sing her gentle songs," a midwife said, packing shiny things into a leather bag.

It was bad for Bren, I knew. Just looking at her threatened to begin my tears anew, for the effort and loss on her face, even as she slept, was awful in such a young woman. Worse, strain remained on her face even days later, after she was up and around.

We talked nothing of the lost child at first, then talked of nothing but the lost child in the weeks following. Neither silence nor words did much good, but my love for Bren deepened.

Still, I could not remove all of the guilt and bitterness she felt. Of Earth-lowland stock, she could not risk another pregnancy, so we took simpler pleasure in more complicated ways and hoped no baby resulted from some fluke. And of course all the while we each secretly prayed for that fluke, because we none of us ever believe that the worst is yet to come.

So quickly we grew older.

Such were my thoughts as Reverend Castell and I followed Rollie Tate down to the lake shore. On the way we gathered the other acolytes with double-claps at appropriate houses. As we walked, we heard howls of furious celebration and shouts of dissension and anger. It seemed our humanity was lessened in the acid-bath of sheer numbers.

Following the scampering Tate, we passed a few merchants, some actually squatting in the street beneath makeshift awnings, others hawking wares from collapsible wheeled carts. Dice flung from hands better suited to prayer than rough work clattered against stone walls, rolled across once-clean sidewalks. We also saw a group of miners buying a pair of donkeys, looking like prospectors from histories of Alaska and California, outfitted with Kennicott equipment and preparing to trek into Haven's wilderness seeking who knew what forms of personal wealth.

Near the lake we neared a group of men, some ship officers, others dressed in relative finery, especially for Haven standards. A boat bobbed behind them, its operator a bored fat man, who yawned repeatedly and chewed some kind of cud between yawns.

There, standing on the pebbles beside Major Lassitre, was a tall, clean-shaven man with cropped gray hair and dew-lapped eyes glinting like coal pushed too far into a snowman's face. Tate approached the tall man and did a bow that incorporated a curtsey and other, subtler obeisance. "The bearded guy," Tate said.

Noticing us, Lassitre said, with some disgust, "He insisted on being the last to the ground." When Castell ignored him in favor of staring at the tall man, Lassitre stepped back a pace or so and fell silent. He watched with some amusement, his eyes glittering even as he shivered now and then.

Tate took a position behind the tall man, who stepped up to Castell and said, "Reverend, I'm Julian Anders, and I've led my people here to join yours."

Reverend Castell locked gazes with the man. I saw neither flinch and thought, There's iron in them both. Castell said, "You served under me, on Earth. One of my ministers, but I can't quite place where you served-"

"I'm a leader now, in my own right. When you took the first Chosen away, I rose to ascension by popular acclaim." He grinned. "I represent those strong enough to be left behind. We've come to Haven to bulk your enterprise and bulwark your fragile community against its own cowardice and weakness. He gazed across the landscape, eyes squinted, and added, "You'll be glad to have me here, from the looks of things."

"Haven neither needs nor wants a second-in-command, Mister Anders," Castell said. He glanced at the military men, his gaze lingering on Lassitre, who affected not to notice.

"You're just lucky, I guess," Anders said, half his mouth curling upward. He looked around, sniffed the chill air, and added, "A trait I don't seem to share at the moment. I thought things would be, well, further along by the time we arrived. Have you forsaken all practicalities for constant prayer?"

The mockery and the veiled insult to our settlement caused several of us acolytes to bristle. Our bodies tensed. After all, we'd accomplished more than could reasonably have been expected, considering Haven's inhospitality and our own naivet? upon first arriving. And least of all did we expect to be insulted by one calling himself a Harmony, a so-called colonist who'd brought virtually nothing in the way of supplies or expertise. Here was arrant hubris indeed.

I looked at Reverend Castell, past the big black beard, past the bushy eyebrows, past the straight nose and wind-bronzed skin. I looked into his eyes, and I don't know what I saw, but a shiver descended my spine at the cold, hard glitter of it.

Unexpectedly, Julian Anders walked forward, brushing past Castell and carting the acolytes. "Let's find a warmer place to palaver.

Castell did not hurry after him, as a few of the younger acolytes did. Instead, he turned slowly and glared at the man's back. Charles Castell had a glare to melt glaciers, a glare to freeze volcanoes, a glare with all the charisma of creation itself concentrated in it. That glare could bless or curse, it could wound or cure. It only worked, however, if one saw it, and the reverend never looked back as he strode into our town.

"What must we do?" I asked the Reverend Castell.

He did not acknowledge me, but started walking back to town at that robotic pace, his eyes unblinking, that shuddersome glitter colder than even before, as if he'd ingested part of Haven's glacial heart.

"Yes, this site is nicely chosen, Castell," Anders said, leaning back against a pile of muskylope hides his aide, Tate, had gathered without permission from around the commons room in the acolyte quarters.

In the room's center a fire-pit full of coals radiated heat, while along its edges teapots heated water and small cauldrons simmered acorn-squash stew. A few blood-red heartfruits sizzled on hot, flat stones, and one culinary acolyte had a stuffed clownfruit baking, sans nose.

Lifting a silver flask, Anders took a pull, then smacked his lips and said, "Ambrosia, this brandy. Truly a balm for the soul. So, Castell, you can at least suggest a spot for our soul-troopers to bivouac."

Reverend Castell, standing by the door, frowned. "Our fields are vital to survival. We can spare no cultivated land. In fact, we need more."

"Oh, no doubt. But face it, old man, we need accommodations. Major?"

Lassitre glanced at Anders, brows raised but mouth tight.

Anders smiled at him as if reproving a child. "Major, you've given the situation thought. I saw you with your maps before we shuttled down.

Along the river that runs east," he began.

Anders cut him off. "Major, I don't intend trudging through manured fields right now." He pursed his lips. "This town square we just saw, now that shows promise. We could expand the town-"

"Our buildings are all occupied," Reverend Castell said.

"Oh, these rabbit holes shall be demolished, of course. A dignified community requires real buildings. It cannot cower in neolithic bunkers. Major, your engineering programs can no doubt draw us up some suitable places.

"Places, yes. Not palaces, however. In fact, nothing as good as these." He gestured around us. I caught Major Lassitre's disgusted and helpless glance at Reverend Castell. "You'll have to fit yourselves in here, Anders, or go off somewhere and fend for yourselves."

Laughing, Anders took another swig of his brandy. "Reverend Castell, does the major speak for you as well? Is this an example of Haven's charity?"

"There'll be precious little of that," Major Lassitre said. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to see to my groundcrew." As he walked to the door and got to his hands and knees to leave, Anders said, "My, he's certainly taking a more active interest in command these last few days."

The mocking tones stopped the major for an instant. "I was cashiered from the CoDo Marines because I happened to be caught in some political power moves. Bad timing's my only crime. And at least, Anders, I don't make grandiose claims based on ignorance and incompetence."

Pressing the attack, Reverend Castell told Anders, "Your presence I cannot dispute, but your behavior among my people I must condemn. Haven belongs to the Church of New Universal Harmony."

"Precisely," Anders said. "And the church neither begins nor ends with you, Castell. Leadership's not an inherited quality."

For an instant there was silence. Major Lassitre left the room. The acolytes tensed, offended by Anders. Others in the room, from Tate and the other newcomers to more of the Chosen, watched without comment as the two leaders stared at each other across the pit of glowing coals.

That's when Reverend Castell's eyes rolled back into his head. I saw it and got ready to catch him, thinking perhaps the heat or the strain afflicted him, but he neither swayed nor buckled.

Standing, he stepped over the rim and entered the fire-pit, his bare feet crunching down on glowing coals. I gasped along with the other acolytes, and no one else in the room made a move or a sound. All gazes fixed upon Reverend Castell; his mouth bore a hint of a smile.

He walked out onto the coals in the fire-pit and stood at its center.

Whisps of lazy smoke rose up from the hem of his robe, and I thought I saw small hairs on his legs withering, puffing into nothing. Then his garments burst into flame, and he raised his arms.

I cried out, terrified. Tears coursed down my cheeks. There were shouts of alarm and warning, and a few people stood and backed away from the pillar of fire. Raising my hand, I blocked the heat coming off Reverend Castell, and as I did so I glanced at Anders and saw the look of utter awe on his face.

Reverend Castell's beard and hair flashed, then crisped. His clothes and hair fell from him in ashes that wafted lazy on stray currents of rising air. With that final burst of flame, the light dimmed again, revealing the man at the heart of the fire. He stood naked, hairless, his body luminous in the faint glow of tallow lamps. It was as if he'd been reborn. He opened his eyes and glared again at Anders, and this time the interloper quailed.

"Peace is ours to offer," Reverend Castell said. His voice boomed. His eyes flashed. Every soul in that room felt stinging heat and electric thrills. "In concert is harmony's power found, and in harmony all shall thrive." Raising a hand, Reverend Castell pointed at Julian Anders. His fingers traced a staff in the air, then added eight symbolic notes in a scale.

Anders gaped. His flask lay dropped, leaking brandy onto his lap. He quivered. His eyes remained wide, but a new look came upon his features. And then he laughed.

In the silence it was a strident sound, and no one joined in. A sharp edge of hysteria cut the laugh short.

With an inhalation of breath that seemed to go on forever, Reverend Castell stood so straight and tall that he seemed to grow before our eyes, and in an even, singsong tone that broke each word into its component syllables, he said,

"Anger is the enemy, "Act with thought, "Strike no false note, "Harmonize with all forces, "Resonate with all events, "Sing with all beings, "Be still "as the silence "at the heart "of the song."

With that he pitched forward, sprawling amidst hot coals.

Ashes swirled, confusing sight for a time. Sparks flew and some people swatted at their garments in terror.

Moving forward, I circled the pit and leaned inward. By stretching I reached the reverend's right hand and grasped it.

Leaning back, I pulled, dragging him through the embers.

Other acolytes helped by pulling on me, until another could snare the reverend's other hand. Intense heat had my, eyes watering. I gasped for breath and inhaled ash and smoke.

When Reverend Castell's head came up above the fire-pit's clay lip, he shouted, "Help me, please."

A woman standing near grabbed a tea pot and hurled its water at Castell's face, raising blisters.

He shrieked and then bellowed, "Help me, damn you."

It was then that I noticed his eyes. They were staring upward, through the hole in the roof. His gaze followed the smoke and ash upwards, and I shuddered, because I knew then that he was demanding help not from us, but from his father.

A doctor rushed in and at once applied a salve to Reverend Castell's blistered face, which looked small now without the beard. After a quick examination, the doctor said, "He's not burned, not even his feet. The water boiled and blistered him, but the coals and flames did nothing."

Anders stood and left the room, taking Tate and several newcomers with him. I noticed a few of the Chosen following, too, as people crawled from the room on hands and knees in a childlike herd.

We would soon discover that Anders kept going when he left the meeting, taking eight hundred souls with him into Haven's wilderness, each carrying as much as possible in the way of provisions and equipment. The loss, echoing the first desertion when we Chosen first arrived, affected us little as the remaining three thousand or so integrated themselves to our ways in the warm glow left by Reverend Castell's flaming renewal of our faith in him, his cause. Whether planned or inspired, the gesture worked, for a while, to weave us back into organized, orchestrated harmony.

Flopping back, I rested until my breathing evened. I found myself gazing upward through the smoke-hole. I could see only Haven's wind-scoured sky.