Shoethai, assistant in the Office of Acceptable Doctrine, sat in the dining room of the port facility waiting for a ship to unload. Elder Brother Noazee Fuasoi had explained that the ship carried a very important cargo, and he had sent Shoethai to receive it.
Shoethai’s automatic response had been unvoiced. “Why me?” Even now he studiously avoided looking at himself in the window, where his reflected image was superimposed over the ship in question like a hovering and misshapen ghost. The face was sufficiently grotesque to have made several staff people at the port pretend they hadn’t seen him, including two of the waiters in this dining room.
Shoethai was so accustomed to his appearance and to the way people reacted to it that he no longer showed his hurt and outrage, though the emotions seethed below the surface, more malevolently violent with every passing day. Elder Fuasoi could have sent someone else. Yavi, or Fumo. Either of them. They didn’t look like much but they didn’t look like monsters, either. The question was eternal. “Why me?”
Back in Sanctity, very occasionally some well-meaning idiot had tried to comfort Shoethai by saying something like, “Still, you’re glad to be alive, aren’t you? You’d rather be alive than dead, wouldn’t you?” Which just went to show how stupid and unfeeling they were, mouthing cliches at him that way. No, he would not rather be alive. Yes, he would rather be dead, except he was afraid of dying. Best yet would be if he’d never lived at all, if they’d let his father kill him when he tried to. Father, at least, had cared about him and wanted what was best for him. What was best was never to have been born or, if that wasn’t possible, never to have lived past a few weeks when he was still too little to know anything. What would have been absolute best was never to have looked at this face, conscious that it was his own.
Still, the Elder Brother hadn’t sent Fumo or Yavi. The Elder Brother had sent Shoethai, and that meant something. It meant that Fumo or Yavi weren’t supposed to know about this shipment. If Fumo and Yavi weren’t supposed to know, then Elder Brother Jhamlees Zoe didn’t know, and Sanctity didn’t know either. And that meant it was something that only Shoethai and Fuasoi knew about, only those two.
“Do you know what Moldies are?” the Elder Brother had asked him one day, out of nothing, while Shoethai was cleaning the Elder Brother’s office.
“It’s martyrs of something,” Shoethai had said.
“Martyrs of the Last Days,” the Elder Brother had said. “A group of men who are dedicated to hastening the end. Have you ever read the Book of Ends?”
Shoethai merely stood there, mouth open, shaking his head. Of course he hadn’t read any Moldy books. You could get yourself terminated by Sanctity for reading Moldy books.
The Elder Brother had read his mind. “I know. It’s among the forbidden volumes. Still, I think you’d be interested in reading it, Shoethai. I’ll grant a dispensation for you. Take the book with you when you leave, but don’t let anyone else see it. Particularly, don’t let Jhamlees Zoe see it.”
It wasn’t even a reader. It was an old-style book, with pages. Elder Fuasoi laid it out on the desk and just left it there, an old brown thing with the words Book of Ends in gold across the front. Shoethai had hidden the book in the deep pocket of his robe, had read it only when he was alone — which was most of the time. By now he had it almost memorized and frequently quoted sections of it to himself.
“Garbed in light, we will dwell in the house of light,” he recited to himself now as he sucked his tea through the gaps in his teeth. After the end of mankind would come the New Creation. In the New Creation he would no longer wear this face and this body. In the New Creation he would no longer be deformed. He would dart like a spear, clothed only in radiance, beautiful as an angel. Elder Fuasoi had taken particular notice of this, reading the proper section from the book and pointing to the illustrations, but Shoethai had believed it from the moment he read it for himself. It was as though it had been written just for him. Fair was fair. If people didn’t have a fair try in this life, they would in the next one.
“Let the changes come,” he whispered, inhaling another sip of tea. “Let the New Creation manifest itself.” The manager of the dining room had brought the tea after a furious whispering match with his two waiters. Shoethai prayed silently that the waiters would be among the first to be cleansed away, most painfully. Of course it would be painful. Elder Fuasoi had already told him that. Elder Fuasoi had seen the plague. Elder Fuasoi had actually spent almost a year in a plague camp. Elder Fuasoi was a Moldy. He said nobody could see the plague and be anything else.
Once Elder Fuasoi confessed that he was actually a Moldy, Shoethai had become a willing and dedicated convert even though they were the only Moldies on Grass and Jhamlees Zoe would have them both killed if he found out. Doing what the Moldies needed doing didn’t need more than two. Two, Elder Fuasoi had told him, would be more than enough.
“Bless me, O Creator,” Shoethai mused silently as he stared through his own image at the scurrying figures around the ship, “for I will cleanse thy house of ugliness.” Ugliness itself was a sin against Creation. The Elder Brother had even hinted that the Creator had given Shoethai this face in order to make explicit to Shoethai a certain knowledge, the knowledge of the absolute depravity and unworthiness of man, printing that message on Shoethai’s flesh for everyone to see. Elder Fuasoi said that what Shoethai appeared to be on the outside, all mankind actually was on the inside. What Shoethai looked like, mankind actually was. Misshapen. Deformed. A freak of Creation. Intelligence should not exist in such stinking, fallible flesh. Flesh was all right for animals, but not for intelligent beings, and mankind was an experiment that hadn’t worked out. For the few who helped clean up the mess, there would be divine rewards. And for the others there would be a final end which would leave the universe cleansed and purified and ready to start over.
Below him, he saw ground vehicles moving from the ship toward the port building. The shipment would be in one of them. Brother Shoethai decided to stay where he was for a time. Let the crowd clear away before he went down to the cargo office. There was no hurry. Once Elder Fuasoi had the shipment and distributed it, everyone on the planet would die, but it would take some time. The virus didn’t work for a long time, sometimes-There was no hurry. An hour more or less would make little difference. Shoethai giggled as he sipped at his tea. Then, seeing what the giggle did to his reflection in the window, he stopped and turned slightly away so that he would not be able to see himself anymore.
In his office at the Friary, Elder Brother Noazee Fuasoi leaned on his desk, choking down the pain from his belly. The second stomach and gut transplant hadn’t worked any better than the first one, even though the office had scoured the penitents for as close a tissue match as possible. That was the best the doctors could do here on Grass, and even then they’d objected that the donor hadn’t made a free gift of his body prior to getting fatally wounded in the head by (so Elder Fuasoi had informed them) an unfortunate fall from the towers. There were no facilities for cloning body systems on Grass, and while Elder Brother Noazee Fuasoi of Sanctity had sufficient clout to go back to Sanctity and wait while they cloned a gut for him, Jorny Shales the Moldy hadn’t wanted to take the time.
“One would think…” he snarled to himself in a litany that was repeated every time his gut pained him, “one would think the Creator could grant surcease to those of us doing His work.”
“Pardon, Your Emminence?” said Yavi Foosh from his own desk by the window. “Pardon?”
“Nothing,” snarled the Elder. “I’ve got a pain, that’s all Probably something I ate.”
Though it wasn’t anything he had eaten. It was flesh, that was all. Fallible flesh. Full of stinks and pains and rot. Full of weakness and foolish, ugly appetites and dirty excretions. There would be no flesh in the next creation, not for those who had cleaned up this one. Elder Fuasoi gripped the edge of the desk and sweated, thinking of other times and places as he waited for the cramp to pass.
He had never really been aware of pain until the camp. His name had been Jorny then, a boy of fifteen dragged into the camp with his uncle Shales. One day he had been living with Uncle Shales in the fishing town, going to school, fishing off the pier, going out in the boat when the weather was right, writing love notes to Gerandra Andraws, cute little Gerry with the perky little bottom, wondering if he was old enough to really do something about her. The next day he had been there in the camp, crowded with fifteen other men and boys in one room with no school, no girls, no fishing, and no Uncle Shales.
The people in the camp either had the disease or were close family members of people with the disease. Uncle Shales was dying, they told him. Jorny had to stay in the camp until they found out whether he was going to die, too.
He wanted to see Uncle Shales, but they wouldn’t let him. He sneaked around until he found what building Uncle was in and where his bed was, and then he got up close to the wall, around back. Uncle Shales would open the window a little bit and they’d talk, at night. Uncle Shales told Jorny not to be afraid. Everything that happened, happened for the best, he said. Jorny sat crouched under the window, tears running down his face, trying to keep Uncle from hearing him cry. Then one night Uncle didn’t answer him and the window wasn’t open, so Jorny waited until everyone was asleep and sneaked in. He couldn’t find Uncle Shales. In the bed where Uncle had been was only this thing, this kind of monster, partly bandages, with one eye peering out and a round, raw hole where its mouth ought to be, leaking all over the place and stinking.
Later, when he asked, they told him Uncle had died. He thought they’d let him go then, but they didn’t. They kept looking all over him for sores, like the sores most of the people in the camp had.
Then one day there was a Moldy preaching in the camp. Preaching how it was near the end of the time for man. How it was time for man to depart, for he was only rotten flesh and decaying bone. How it was time to leave the universe clean for the next generation. How those who died now would rise again in the New Creation, clad in light, beautiful as the dawn.
Jorny knew then what had happened to Uncle Shales. He had shed his flesh so he could come back, dressed all in light, like an angel.
Jorny cried, the first time he’d let himself cry out loud, right there in the dusty street of the camp, half-hidden behind one of the scruffy trees. He had waited until the Moldy was finished and had gone up to him and said who he was and that his uncle had died and he wanted to get out of the camp. The man had patted him on the shoulder and said he could get him out, that Jorny could become a Moldy right then, without even having a toothbrush. He got in a truck with the man and they looked him all over to see if he had any sores on him, and when they saw he didn’t they hid him under some stuff while they smuggled him out to a place where there were lots of people and other kids and nobody had sores on them anywhere. Not that they’d really had to smuggle him. The camp commander had been paid off, the Moldy said. Paid off to let the Moldy preach and bring comfort to the dying.
That night Jorny slept. Whenever he thought about Uncle, he made himself stop thinking. At first he thought maybe he should have gone home to say goodbye to the people he’d known, but then after a while he figured most of them were dead and it didn’t matter. They were all dead and ready to be reborn. The Moldies pointed out people who were already transformed. Before the sun went down, sometimes you could see them, slanting down from the clouds, golden beams of fiery light. Later on, Jorny figured out that was just stories, just sunlight, but it didn’t matter. Later on he realized who that monster on the corner bed had been, too, but by that time he had it all figured out.
When he was seventeen, the Moldies had sent him to Sanctity as an acolyte with instructions to study and work and rise in the hierarchy. He had become a member of the Office of Acceptable Doctrine. It was the Moldies, paying people off, that got Sanctity to send him to Grass. It was time for Grass to join the other homes of man, the Moldies said. Time for Grass to be cleansed.
And now he was here, ready to spread the plague which had killed everything he had cared about. If Uncle Shales had deserved the plague, then there were none who did not deserve it. If Uncle Shales had died, then everybody ought to die.
He opened his eyes, surprised to find them wet, feeling the cramping in his belly wane to its usual dull, wallowing ache. Standing across the desk from him was his superior in Sanctity, Elder Brother Jhamlees Zoe.
“You don’t look well, Fuasoi.”
“No, Elder Brother. A bit of pain is all.”
“Have you seen the doctors in the town recently?”
“Not for several weeks, Elder Brother.”
“What have they said is wrong?”
“The systems transplant isn’t doing as well as they’d like.”
“Perhaps it’s time to ship you back to Sanctity.”
“Oh, no, Elder Brother. Much too much work here.”
Elder Brother Jhamlees fretted, moving his hands, scratching his infinitesimal nose, rising on his toes, then down again. “Fuasoi?”
“Yes, Elder Brother?”
“You haven’t heard of there being any… sickness around, have you?”
Fuasoi stared at him in disbelief. Sickness? Was the man crazy? Of course there was sickness around. “What does the Elder Brother refer to?”
“Oh, any serious sickness. Any. ah…well. Urn. Any, ah…plague?”
“Sanctity teaches us that there is no plague,” said Brother Fuasoi firmly. “Surely the Eider Brother is not questioning Sanctity’s teaching?”
“Not at all. I was thinking more of… something contagious, you know, that might threaten the Friary. Still, good to know there’s nothing. Nothing. Take care of yourself, Fuasoi. Let me know if you’d like to go back…” And he was out the door, hurrying away down the corridor.
Well, well, thought Fuasoi. I wonder what occasioned that?
“Shoethai’s here,” said Yavi, interrupting his thoughts. “I can hear him coming down the hall.” He got up and went to the door, opening it slightly and turning to peer inquiringly back at his superior.
“Let him come in,” Fuasoi said, nodding. The pain in his belly had passed. The other pain, the one that brought him awake in the night, sweating and weeping, that one would pass when everything was all over. He patted his forehead with a throwaway and stared at the door. “I want to speak to him privately.”
Yavi shrugged and went out, passing Shoethai in the door.
“Your Eminence.” Shoethai fell to his knees.
“Get up,” Fuasoi directed impatiently. “Did you get it?”
Shoethai nodded wearily, rising to put the small package on the desk. “Once I found somebody to look for it. Mostly they try to pretend I’m not there.”
The Elder gestured with his fingers to give the package to him. When he had it, he opened it carefully, revealing a fist-sized packet within.
“Is that it?” Shoethai begged, wanting to be reassured once more.
“That’s it-” His superior smiled, content at last that the work could go forward and his own pain would end. “Plague virus. Packed especially for Grass.”
Brothers Mainoa and Lourai arrived at Opal Hill just in time to interrupt an altercation. When Persun Pollut announced the arrival of an aircar bearing the Green Brothers, Marjorie was for the moment shocked into inaction. She had forgotten they were coming. After the momentary pause, however, she went out to bring them in, hoping their arrival would put an end, however temporary, to the discord between Rigo and Stella.
Ignoring the arrival of the two strangers, Rigo went on shouting at Stella, furious that she had not told him she intended to ride, furious at her for having ridden at all without his permission. Though Tony and Marjorie were angry too, angry with both the riders for risking their lives, they felt the conflict had gone on long enough. Marjorie intruded upon the sounds of battle by introducing the brothers to her husband and daughter.
As Rigo turned and offered his hand to Brother Mainoa, his face still suffused with anger, he suddenly remembered his words to Marjorie about this man. The Brother was shortsighted and elderly, rotund and half bald. Rigo was instantly aware that he had made himself ridiculous by his accusations then and that he was not improving matters by his manner now. All he could bring himself to do was to make brusque apologies and go off with Stella still frothing after him like a small, mad animal determined to bite, leaving Marjorie and Tony to make amends.
Mainoa waved her apologies away. “All families have their upsets, Lady Westriding. I understand your husband and daughter rode to hounds yesterday.”
“How did you know?”
“That information spread across Grass within moments of their leaving Klive,” the friar replied. “A servant called a friend on the tell-me. The friend called someone else, who called three others. One of the Brothers came to tell Brother Lourai and me, bringing the news down into the Arbai street we are currently unearthing. Oh yes, Lady Westriding, everyone knows.”
“The two of them have been fighting over it,” she confessed unnecessarily. “Tony and I are afraid for them.”
“As you might well be,” the Brother agreed.
Since Stella had left them, Rillibee had stood looking after her, an expression of wonder on his face. Now he sat down abruptly. “She’s determined to go on?” he asked.
“Rigo is determined to go on. Stella is no less determined, though not for Rigo’s reasons. My husband thinks she should not. The reasons he gives her for not riding are the same reasons I give him for not riding. He says in his case it is different.” She sighed, throwing up her hands.
“It’s all become rather nasty and boring,” said Tony, trying to make light of what had been a very hostile encounter. “Everyone telling each other the same things, and no one listening.”
“I’m told that Rowena, Obermum bon Damfels, is at Commons,” Brother Mainoa remarked. “I hear that Obermun bon Damfels does not seem to know she is gone.”
“You hear everything,” Marjorie said ruefully. “Have you heard what any of it means?”
“As you do, Lady Westriding. As you do.”
“Call me Marjorie, Brother. Please. Father James wants to see you while you are here. He particularly asked to be included.”
Brother Mainoa nodded, smiling. He had wanted very much to talk with either of the Fathers.
When the time came, he spoke to the young priest, quiet young Father James — Rigo’s nephew, Marjorie informed them — and also to Father Sandoval, and to Tony and Marjorie as well. Their luncheon was served on the terrace in the mild airs of spring. Neither Rigo nor Stella joined them. Neither Rigo nor Stella could be found.
“I wanted particularly to speak with you Fathers,” Brother Mainoa confided in his comfortable voice, “because I have a philosophical matter which I am seeking advice upon.”
“Ah?” Father Sandoval acknowledged in a patronizing tone. “You wish an answer from a religious point of view?”
“I do,” said the Brother. “It pertains to creatures which are not human. You may regard the question as hypothetical but nonetheless important.”
Father Sandoval cocked his head. “You mean in a doctrinal sense?”
“Precisely. A matter of no practical relevance whatsoever, but important in a doctrinal sense. To ask my question, I must ask you first to suppose that the foxen here on Grass are sentient beings and that they are troubled by matters of conscience.”
Tony laughed. Marjorie smiled. Father Sandoval seemed only slightly amused. “I can accept that as a ground for ethical argument.”
Brother Mainoa nodded, gratified. “It is a question of original sin.”
“Original sin?” Father James looked as though he was genuinely amused. “Among the foxen?” He looked at Marjorie with a smile, as though reminded of their recent conversation on the same subject. She looked down at her plate. She was still troubled by the things he had said, and was not sure it was a laughing matter.
Brother Mainoa saw this interchange but pretended not to notice. “Remember that you agreed to accept that they are thinking beings, Fathers. Accept it. Regard them as fully sentient. As much as you yourself may be. Now, having done so — do not laugh, sir,” this to Tony — “we are supposing that the idea of original sin oppresses the foxen. They are carnivores. Their bodies require meat. So, they eat meat. They eat the peepers, the larvae of the Hippae.”
“You know!” exclaimed Marjorie. “You know what the peepers really are.”
“I do, madam. Not many know, but I do. And let us suppose the foxen do, as well. They eat them.”
“And the foxen consider this sinful?” Tony asked. “Well, young sir, it is an interesting point. If these were men, you yourself would consider it sinful. If a man or woman kills an unborn child, your faith and Sanctity both consider it murder, do they not? The larvae of the Hippae are not thinking beings. They are as near mindless as makes no matter. However, when they grow great and fat and unable to move, they make their first metamorphosis and emerge as hounds.”
“Ah.” Father Sandoval had already heard of this from Marjorie and he now saw where Mainoa was leading.
“The hounds, some say, are thinking beings. Certainly they are capable of some thought. I believe they are self-aware. Whether they are or not, they undergo a further metamorphosis and become something else…”
“Mounts.” Marjorie nodded. “I have seen them.”
“Of course. And as Lady Westriding knows in her heart, as we all know in our hearts, the Hippae are thinking beings. You and I have discussed this before, have we not? So, when foxen eat the peepers, they are killing the young of a thinking race.”
“But if they know this, why—”
“What else can they eat? The mounts? The Hippae themselves? There are a few other creatures, all of them too fleet or too small to be of any use. The grazers are too huge. No, the foxen eat the peepers because they are available and abundant. There are many more peepers than the world could hold if all of them went through metamorphosis, and history upon Terra tells us what horrors follow upon religious mandates of unlimited reproduction. That is not the point, however. The point is that foxen eat and relish peepers, but let us suppose that in recent years, since being exposed to the thoughts of man, the foxen have acquired pudency. They have learned to feel guilt.”
“They had no guilt until man came?”
“Let us suppose not. Let us suppose that they had reason, but no sense of shame. They have acquired it from men.”
“They must have acquired it from the commoners, then,” said Tony. “I’ve seen little enough among the bons.”
Brother Mainoa laughed. “From the commoners. Surely. Let us say they have learned it from the commoners.”
“Those of our faith,” said Marjorie with a frown, “seem to agree that the original sin of humankind was ah… an amatory one.”
“And the foxen, who have learned of this doctrine from someone, heaven knows who, wonder if it is not as valid to have one that was and is gustatory. Let us suppose they have come to me with this matter. ‘Brother Mainoa,’ they have said, ‘we wish to know if we are guilty of original sin.’
“Well, I have told them I do not understand the doctrine of original sin, that it is not a doctrine Sanctity has ever concerned itself about. ‘I know someone who knows, however.’ I have told them. ‘Father Sandoval, being an Old Catholic, should know all about it,’ and so they want to discuss the matter.”
“Discuss the matter?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking. Let us postulate that they have found some way to communicate.”
Father Sandoval’s brow creased and he sat back in his chair, fingertips of his hands pressed together to make a cage, staring at it for a time as though it held his thoughts captive. “I would tell them,” he said after a considerable pause, “that their sense of guilt does not arise from original sin at all. It is not their first parents who have committed the sin, if it is a sin, but they themselves.”
“Does this make a difference?”
“Oh, yes. A sin that they themselves have committed, if it is a sin, can be remedied by their own penitence and forgiven by God. If they are penitent. If they believe in God.”
If God believes in them, amended Marjorie, silently. If God did not know the names of his human viruses, would he care about foxen?
Brother Mainoa shifted the utensils before him, frowning in concentration. “But suppose it had been a sin of their…their ancestors.”
“It is not simply a matter of who committed the sin, whether the creatures themselves or their ancestors or their associates with or without their connivance or acquiescence. We would have to ask how God sees it. In order to have been the equivalent of original sin, then it would be necessary to determine whether the foxen had ever existed in a state of divine grace. Was there a time when they were sinless? Did they fall from grace as our religion teaches us that our first parents fell?”
Brother Mainoa nodded. “Let us suppose they did not. Let us suppose things have always been this way, so far back as anyone can remember.”
“No legend of a former time. No scripture?”
“None.”
Father Sandoval grimaced, drawing his upper lip back and ticking his thumbnail against his teeth. “Then it is possible that there is no sin.”
“Not even if, in this latter day, these reasoning beings are beset by conscience over something they have always done?”
Father Sandoval shrugged and smiled, raising his hands as though to heaven. “Brother, let us suppose that we think they may be guilty of original sin. First we must establish whether their salvation is possible — that is, whether any divine mechanism exists to remove their sense of sin by forgiving them. They cannot be truly penitent for something they did not do, and therefore penitence is useless to them. They must rely upon a supernatural force to redeem them from a sin committed long ago or by someone else. Among Old Catholics, that redemption was offered by our Savior. We are granted immortality through Him. Among you Sanctified, redemption is offered by your organization. You are granted immortality through it.”
“The Sanctified believe in the same Savior,” Brother Mainoa remarked. “They once called themselves His saints.”
“Well, perhaps. If so, it is no longer any significant part of Sanctity’s belief, but I will not argue that point with you. This is no time to discuss the types of immortality and what our expectations may be. My church teaches that those pious men and women who lived prior to the human life and sacrifice of the Savior were redeemed by that sacrifice despite the fact that they lived and died long before it was made. So, I suppose, might these foxen have been saved by that same sacrifice despite the fact that they lived and died in another world. I would not say, here and now, that this is impossible. However, it is a question for the full authority of the church to decide. No mere priest should attempt to answer such a question.”
“Ah.” Brother Mainoa grinned widely, shaking his head to indicate amazed amusement. “It is an interesting point, is it not. It is with such conjecture I while away the time while I am digging and cataloguing.”
Seeing the slightly angry expression on Father Sandoval’s face, Marjorie turned to the younger Brother in an effort to change the direction of their conversation. “And you, Brother Lourai. Do you also consider such philosophical and ethical points?”
Rillibee Chime looked up from his salad, peering deeply into Father Sandoval’s eyes, seeming to see more there than the old priest was comfortable with.
“No,” he said. “My people sinned against no one, and I have never had any chance to be guilty. I think of other things. I think of trees. I remember my parents and how they died. I think of the name they gave me. I wonder why I am here.”
“Is that all?” She smiled.
“No,” he replied, surprising both her and himself. “I wonder what your daughter’s name means, and whether I will see her again.”
“Well,” said Mainoa, lifting his brows and patting his younger colleague on the arm. “He’s young yet. I thought of such things too, long ago.”
A brooding silence fell. Marjorie persisted in moving the conversation away from these troublesome areas. “Brother Mainoa, do you know of an animal here on Grass which looks something like a bat?” She described the creature she had seen in the caverns, dwelling upon its most noteworthy feature, the fringing teeth.
“Not only know it,” the friar answered, “but been bitten by it. Most people have, at least once. It’s a bloodsucker. It comes out of the dusk and hits you right here—” he clamped a work-roughened hand on the back of his neck, just at the base of his skull, “and tries to sink those teeth into you. Since our headbones get in the way, they don’t do much damage to humans. Evidently the Grassian animals have a notch in the skull right there. Miserable-looking things, aren’t they?”
Marjorie nodded.
“Where did you see them?”
She explained, telling the story of the cavern once more. Rillibee and Father James were interested, even though Brother Mainoa was quite unsurprised.
“Then you undoubtedly saw dead ones, also. Their bodies lie around the Hippae caverns like leaves on a forest floor in a Terran fall. I do know about them. I’m among the few who’ve sneaked up on a cavern and gotten away afterward.” He gave her a look which told her that he guessed more of her reasons for going into the grasses than she wanted him to.
“Gotten away?” she repeated faintly.
“I would say it’s a rare thing to get away, Lady Westriding. If you’d been smelled or spotted, they’d have had you.” He had fallen into his colloquial, avuncular manner.
“I was riding. On a horse.”
“Still, I find it amazing. Well, if your horse got you out of there quickly, you may have outrun ’em. Or maybe the wind was just right and you simply weren’t noticed. Or maybe the smell of the horse confused them just long enough. You took your life between your teeth, Lady.” He gave her a concentrated, percipient look. “I’d suggest you not do it again. Certainly not during the lapse.”
“I… I had already decided that.” She cast her eyes down, embarrassed at Tony’s scowl of agreement. Could the man read her mind?
“They don’t like to be spied upon?” Tony asked.
“They won’t tolerate it. That’s why so little’s known about ’em. That’s why so few people that wander off into the grasses ever come home. I can tell you, though. Hippae lay eggs sometime during the winter or early spring. I’ve seen the eggs in the backs of caverns in late spring and I know they weren’t there in the fall. When the sun gets enough warmth in it, the migerers move the eggs into the sun and shift ’em around until the heat hatches ’em. About the same time, some of the peepers and some of the hounds, those that are grown enough, come back to the caverns and change themselves into something new. The Hippae guard ’em while they’re doing it. That’s why the lapse.”
“The bons don’t know,” Marjorie said, a statement rather than a question.
“Right, they don’t know. Don’t know, won’t be told, don’t want to hear. Taboo for ’em.”
“I do have something you may not know,” she said, getting up to fetch the trip recorder and punching up the pattern she had walked over in the cavern. “I have been told that the thunderous noise we sometimes hear is Hippae, dancing. Well, this seems to be what the dancing produces.”
Brother Mainoa stared at it, at first in confusion, then in disbelief.
Marjorie smiled. Good. For all his knowing looks, he wasn’t omniscient, then.
It was Rillibee who said, almost casually, “It looks like the words in the Arbai books, doesn’t it, Brother?”
“The spherical peepers!” Marjorie exclaimed, remembering suddenly where she had seen the rotund peepers and heraldric hounds, carved on the housefronts of the Arbai city. The twining design did look like the words in the Arbai books — or like the vines carved on the housefronts. She mentioned this, occasioning a deep and thoughtful silence from everyone.
Though the conversation later turned to other things, including whether there was or was not unexplained death upon Grass (for Marjorie and Tony remained aware of their duty) the pattern on Marjorie’s recorder was in all their minds. Brother Mainoa, particularly, wanted very much to show it to a friend — so he said as he departed — and Marjorie let him borrow the recorder, believing he meant some friend among the Green Brothers.
It was only after he was gone that she began to wonder how it was that Brother Mainoa had seen the caverns of the Hippae and had escaped to tell them about it.
When Rigo left for the Hunt on the following day, the last Hunt to be held at Klive, Stella, who had been thinking much of Sylvan, demanded to go with him.
“You said you wouldn’t risk the children,” Marjorie reminded him. “Rigo, you promised.” She would not cry. She would not shout. She would merely remind him. Still, the tears hung unshed in her eyes.
He had forgotten he had wanted tears, and tears over the children would never have satisfied him in any case. “I wouldn’t have,” he explained in his most reasonable voice. “I would never have ordered any of you to ride. But she wants to. That’s a different matter.”
“She could die, Rigo.”
“Any of us could die,” he said calmly, gesturing to convey a hostile universe which plotted death against them all. “But Stella won’t.
According to Stavenger bon Damfels, she rode brilliantly.” He said the word as though it had been an accolade. “Stavenger urged me to bring her again.”
“Stavenger,” Marjorie said quietly, the name seething on her tongue. “The man who beat Rowena half to death and attempted to starve her. The man who hasn’t figured out yet that she is gone. That Stavenger. Why would you risk Stella’s life on Stavenger’s say-so?”
“Oh, Mother,” Stella said in a voice very much like her father’s in its obdurate reasonableness. “Stop it! I’m going, and that’s that.”
Marjorie stood on the terrace steps and watched them go, staring into the sky until the car became merely a dot and vanished. As she was about to go in, Persun Pollut came up behind her. “Lady…”
“Yes, Persun.”
“You have had a message on the tell-me. Sylvan bon Damfels asks if you will be attending the Hunt, I told him you would not. He says he wishes to visit you here, this afternoon.”
“He may have word of Rowena,” Marjorie said sadly, still staring at the empty sky where they had gone. “Bring him to my study when he arrives.”
When he came, he did have some word of Rowena. As Marjorie commiserated and exclaimed, he told her that the wounds to Rowena’s flesh were healing. The wounds to her mind were more troublesome. Finding Dimity had become an obsession with her. She could not admit that the girl was gone forever, or if not, that finding her might be more heartbreaking than considering her dead.
None of which was what Sylvan had really come to say. He soon left the subject of Rowena and Dimity, which he found painful, and began to talk of something else. It had been so long since Marjorie had been the object of anyone’s overt romantic intentions that he had managed to get out most of what he had planned to say, however allusively and poetically, before she realized the tenor of his words.
“Sylvan,” she begged, suddenly terrified. “Don’t.”
“I must,” he whispered. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you. The moment I first took you into my arms on the dance floor. You must have known. You must have felt—”
She shook her head, forbidding him to say anything more. “If you say anything else, Sylvan, I will have to forbid you this house. I am not free to listen to you. I have a family.”
“So? What difference does that make?”
“To you, none perhaps. To me, all the difference.”
grass • 242
“Is it your religion? Those priest persons you have with you? Do they guard you for Rigo?”
“Father Sandoval? Father James? Of course not, Sylvan. They help me guard myself!” She turned away from him. exasperated. “How can I explain to you? You have none of the same ideas. And you are so young. It would be a sin!”
“Because I am young?”
“No. Not for that reason. But because I am married to someone else, it would be a sin.”
He looked puzzled. “Not on Grass.”
“Have you no sacrament of marriage upon Grass?”
He shrugged. “It is not marriages the bons need but children. Proper children, of course, though the fiction will often do as well as the fact. There’s many a bon with commoner blood, though the Obermuns would deny it. Well, look at it yourself! Why should Rowena have a lonely bed all spring and all fall while Stavenger hunts, or recovers from hunting, or sweats thinking of hunting again? I have no doubt Shevlok is Stavenger’s son, but I have some doubts about myself.”
“Have you no sins upon Grass? Nothing that you feel is wrong to do?”
He stared at her, as though trying to see past her surface to the mystery she confronted him with. “It would be wrong to kill another bon, I suppose. Or to force a woman if she weren’t willing, or hurt a child. Or to take something from some other estancia. But no one would see it as wrong for us to be lovers.”
She regarded him almost with fear. His eyes glowed with fervor, his hands reached out to her. Her fleeting desire to take those hands filled her with panic. So she had once longed to take Rigo’s hands. How could she convince someone who had so little in common with her when her own self was conspiring against her? “You say you love me, Sylvan.”
“I do.”
“And by this you mean more, I presume, than mere lust. You are not telling me only that you want my body.” She flushed, saying this, a thing she had never said, not even to Rigo. It was only possible to say it if she walked away from him, to the window where she stood looking out.
“Of course not,” he blurted, stung.
She spoke to the garden. “Then, if you love me, you will say nothing further about it. You must accept what I tell you. I am married to Rigo It does not matter if that marriage is happy or unhappy. It doesn’t matter that you and I might be happier together than either of us might be with others. None of that matters, and you must not speak of it! My marriage is a fact in my religion, and that fact can’t be changed. I will be your friend. I cannot be your lover. If you want religious explanations, ask Father Sandoval to explain it If I were even to converse with you about it, it would be an occasion of sin.”
“What can I do?” he begged. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. Go home. Forget you came here. Forget you said anything, as I will try to do.”
He rose, unwillingly, reluctantly, far more stirred to passion by her refusal than he would have been by her consent. He could not let her go. “I will be your friend,” he cried. “And you must be mine. This business of the plague, we must not forget that. You need me to help you with that!”
She turned back to him, her arms crossed protectively across her breasts. “Yes, we need you, Sylvan. If you will. But not if you talk about this other thing.” Her throat was dry. She longed to comfort him, he seemed so distraught, but she did not dare touch him or even smile at him.
“Very well, then. I will not talk about this other thing.” He made a wide, two-handed gesture, as though casting everything away, though he gave up nothing. If talking of love was not the way to Marjorie’s affection, he would try to find some other way. He would not give up courting her. He did not understand Marjorie’s religion, but he would learn about it. Obviously it tolerated many things it did not allow. Otherwise that proud, harsh man, her husband, would not be able to keep his mistress almost upon his wife’s doorstep!
He stayed, for a time, sitting a good distance from her, discussing the things she needed to know. He promised to do everything he could to find out whether there was any unusual disease upon Grass. He let nothing happen to disturb her again, controlling their conversation with a courtly charm, seeing her gradually relax, lower her defenses, become the woman he had danced with. When he left her, he felt his eyes grow wet, wondering what she thought of him, amazed that it mattered to him that much. He was no youngster to worry what a woman thought! And yet… and yet he did.
She, looking after him, was more stirred than she had been in years, wishing with all her heart that he had never come, that he had never spoken, or that she had met him before she had met Roderigo Yrarier.
It was an evil thought. She went to the chapel and prayed. Over the years, prayer had comforted her. It did not do so now, though she knelt for most of an hour, seeking peace. The light over the altar glowed red Once she had thought of it as a holy eye, seeing her, but she did not think it saw her now. She had been God’s child once. Now she was only a thinking virus, a thing beset by longings with no appeasement allowed. “How long has it been since I laughed at something?” she asked herself. “How long since we have had any fun at all, as a family?” She could remember both, and it had been long, too long ago, when Stella was still a child, before Rigo had Eugenie.
She went outside. The afternoon had grown chill. From the northeast came the muted roar of an aircar. She hurried toward the graveled court where it would land, stood there shivering and looking up. She needed Rigo, needed Stella, needed family, needed to belong to someone, be held by someone. She would make them offer her something, make them show some affection. She would beg it, demand it!
The car came slowly closer, from a speck to a ball, from a ball to an ornament, one of the ornaments her family had used to hang upon trees at Christmas time, bulging with rococo extravagance.
It landed. The door opened and the servant who had piloted it got out and went away, without looking at her. Rigo came out, facing the car, turning slowly until he saw her, He did not move then, just stood there, his face still and empty. There was an endless moment during which nothing moved at all, a moment in which a first dreadful suspicion hardened into certainty,
“Stella!” she cried, her voice shrilling into the wind.
Rigo made a hopeless gesture but said nothing. He did not move toward her. She knew he was too ashamed to do so, that he knew there was nothing he could ever say which would help at all.
“Brother Mainoa,” she insisted, pounding her fist on the kitchen table where she found Father James and her son having an evening snack together. “Brother Mainoa knows something! He’s been out in the grass. He’s seen. Things. If the Hippae have taken Stella, he’s the only one who can possibly help us.”
“Where is your husband?” the priest asked. “Marjorie, where is Uncle Rigo?”
“I don’t know,” she said, turning wild eyes upon him. “He came into the house.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“That she was gone. Vanished. She never returned. Like Janetta. Like the bon Damfels girl. Gone.” She gulped for air, as though she could not possibly get enough into her lungs. “He won’t be any use. He’s like them. Like Stavenger and like the Obermun bon Haunser. I’ve been thinking who to ask. Not any of the bons. They don’t do anything about it when their own children get carried off; they wouldn’t do anything for mine. Not anyone from Commons. They don’t know anything about it. Not villagers. They’re frightened to death of the grass. I wish you could have seen Sebastian Mechanic’s face when he was telling me about the thundering in the night. But someone told him! Who do you suppose? I asked. He says Brother Mainoa. It always comes back to Brother Mainoa!”
“Do you want to go there now, Marjorie?”
“Now. Yes.”
“Have you checked to be sure he’s there?”
“No.” She sobbed helplessly. “He has to be there.”
The priest nodded at Tony, then toward the tell-me link in the corner of the kitchen, before rising to fold Marjorie in his arms. He was no taller than she, and slighter, but he gave her enough support that he could urge her into a chair and make her sit there until she grew quieter. Tony muttered in the corner once, then again before snapping off the link and turning back to them.
“He’s there. Him and the other one, I told him what happened. He says he’d come to you but he doesn’t have a car. You can come to him, or I’ll go get him and bring him here.”
“I’ll go.” She jumped up, staring wildly around herself. “I was wicked, Father James. I resented her. God has taken her away because of—”
“Marjorie!” he shouted, shaking her. “Stop that! Is God so unjust that he would punish your daughter because of something you did? You won’t help Stella by having fits of guilt. Stop it.”
She gulped again, visibly taking hold of herself. “Yes. Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry. You’re right. Tony, grab whatever food you can put together in five minutes. You and Father James will be hungry. I must get my coat.”
She ran out and they heard her footsteps clattering along the hallway, stumbling at first, then slowing into a firm, rapid walk as she took better control of herself. She returned in moments and did not break down again during the flight.
In the Arbai city, Brother Lourai took them to the home he and Mainoa occupied, one of the excavated houses made weathertight, with a stove in one corner and a few pieces of furniture that fit human bodies. Brother Lourai conducted them there through a downpour of rain, and Brother Mainoa refused to let Marjorie talk until she had shed her wet cloak and was settled with a steaming cup before her. Then, unable to contain herself a moment longer, she poured out the story of Stella’s disappearance.
“Why did you come to me?” he asked.
“You know why,” she answered, like a challenge. “You may have fooled everyone else with that business about theoretical discussions and postulating what the foxen think, but I think that was real, at least partly. I think you know things the rest of us don’t know. About the Hippae, maybe. About the foxen. About what goes on out there in the grasses.”
“You want to find your daughter.”
“Of course I want to find my daughter.”
“Even if she is like the other girl. Janetta bon Maukerden. Even if your daughter is like that?”
“Damn it,” Tony interjected angrily. “Did you have to bring that up?”
Brother Mainoa gave him a long, measuring look. “Of course I did, young man. I don’t know where your sister is. I know the Hippae took her. I wasn’t at your reception, but I’ve heard about Janetta bon Maukerden showing up. I’ve talked with Jandra Jellico on the tell-me. I’ve heard what happens when the Hippae take young women, and you’ve seen it for yourself. Before we all risk our lives on something hideously dangerous, it’s best to know that we really want to, wouldn’t you say?”
“Hush, Tony,” said Father James to the angry boy. “The man is right.”
Rillibee/Lourai got up from his place by the wall and refilled their teacups. “They had Janetta for a long time. They’ve only had Stella since today.” He sounded more concerned than Marjorie had expected, in the light of Brother Mainoa’s comments.
Brother Mainoa nodded. “My colleague is right. There is hope that if we find Stella — assuming that is soon — she might not be… very different than she was when she vanished.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” Father James said tiredly. “Even if we knew she would be like that other girl, if we have any chance of success we must still try to find her. Not if it means certain destruction, however. I will not allow that, Marjorie, so set the idea aside. We must have some hope of succeeding.”
“You’ve been out there, haven’t you?” Marjorie demanded of Brother Mainoa once more. “You’ve seen things and the Hippae haven’t killed you.”
“I had protection,” Brother Mainoa said. “Protection to go alone into the grass and look at things. I have no idea whether we can obtain protection to go into the grasses and look for someone. It might be better to let me try it alone.”
She shook her head. No. Not alone. She herself had to go. “Now, at once!”
“No. Not at once,” he cut her off. “Soon, but not at once. Since we returned from Opal Hill, Brother Lourai and I have been trying to make sense of that design you showed us. Many volumes of Arbai books have already been filed with the tell-me computers at Commons. They have a link with the network on Semling. Brother Lourai and I have been feeding in the designs carved on the doors and the houses. Within hours we may have some… some indication that there are correlations.”
“Is that more important than Stella’s life?” Marjorie was incredulous.
“It could be the key to Stella’s life,” he said patiently. “If the design in the Hippae cavern has meaning, if it seems they comprehend that meaning, perhaps it gives us a way to reach them. Wait here. It may be only an hour or two.”
It was less than an hour before the report came, peeping out of the tell-me into a portable link-reader that Brother Lourai had ready. When all the information had been recorded, Brother Mainoa pocketed the device and got hurriedly to his feet, summoning the others with a gesture. “I’ve skimmed over it. We won’t take time to study it now. Remember that we can see nothing helpful from the air. We must go on foot. And we must start from where Stella started. The bon Damfels estancia.” He turned toward the door, leaving his other papers on the table behind him.
“Not on foot,” Marjorie contradicted him as she put her still-damp cloak around her. “No, Brother Mainoa. We can do better than that. We’ll go on horseback.”
Rigo had gone first into the house for a drink. After a few glasses of the excellent brandy Roald Few had provided, Rigo had gone to look for his family, not finding Marjorie or Tony or even Father James when he went down to the priests’ house. Father Sandoval told him they had gone.
’To the Arbai dig, I think I heard Father James say. Marjorie thinks there may be some help there.”
“Help for what?” Rigo snarled, angered that he had not been asked to go along.
“To find Stella,” the old priest said. “For what other reason?”
“Does she think I have no interest in that?” Rigo demanded. “Doesn’t she think I care?”
Father Sandoval struggled to find something that would calm Rigo’s anger. “I haven’t talked to Marjorie, Rigo. I know only what Father James told me.”
Rigo snarled again wordlessly and left the old priest while he, Rigo, wandered aimlessly in the garden, cursing to himself. When his feet brought him to Eugenie’s house, he went in, telling himself he would stay only for a short time. He wanted to be in his own room when Marjorie returned. Still, Marjorie had gone some distance, so there was no hurry. He began to unburden himself to Eugenie, telling her many things to which she murmured sympathetically without paying any attention at all.
She poured him another drink, and then several more. Rigo grew at first angrier, then sad and maudlin. He wept, and she comforted him. They found their way into the summer bedroom. Neither of them heard the aircar return in the middle hours of the night.
Father James, who had done some show riding in his youth, saddled Millefiori, the most spirited of the mares, while Marjorie, who had already saddled Don Quixote for herself and El Dia Octavo for Tony, urged Brothers Mainoa and Lourai to help her with Her Majesty and Blue Star. These two were graceful and elegant mares with habits of calm good sense. “You’ll ride these two, Brothers. All you need to do is sit on top and relax. The horses will do the rest.”
Brothers Mainoa and Lourai looked at one another in embarrassed surmise. Rillibee had ridden something a few times in his childhood, ridden at a slow walk, with someone leading the horse or donkey or whatever it had been. Brother Mainoa could not remember ever having touched a riding animal of any kind before. Marjorie had no time to reassure them. She was busy at the top of a short stepladder, putting a saddle on the great draft horse, Irish Lass.
“Who’s going to ride that?” Rillibee/Lourai asked.
“Irish Lass will carry most of our supplies. And Stella can ride her, when we find Stella.”
When we find her, Father James thought quietly to himself. If. If we find her. He had not gone back to the house he shared with Father Sandoval. He had not told the older priest he was going on this wild venture. It would be easier to ask forgiveness later than to seek permission now, permission which he would not receive.
“I have to go out into the grass for a while before we leave,” Brother Mainoa said. “Something I need to do if we want to get where we’re going.”
Marjorie stared at him, eager to be off and yet aware of what dangers lay out there. “Is it necessary?”
“If we’re going to get to bon Damfels in one piece, yes.” She gestured, biting her lip. “Hurry. If you can.” Then she stood looking after him into the darkness, wondering what he was up to.
Tony came into the stables with a pile of things which he set down on the floor, announcing, “These have to be sorted out. There’s food and some equipment. I have to make another trip/’
“Father James?” Marjorie indicated the pile. “Is there anything that we need that Tony hasn’t found?” She leaned wearily against the flank of the huge horse, asking Tony, “Did you tell your father where we’re going?”
“I didn’t find Father,” Tony reported. “I went through the house.”
“Leave him a message on the tell-me,” Marjorie said, relieved that Rigo was not shouting at them, telling them they could not go. He was probably with Eugenie, but it wouldn’t be appropriate for Tony to seek him there. “Leave him a note, Tony. Tell him we’ve gone looking for Stella, that we’ve taken the horses.”
“I did,” the boy replied. “I already did that.”
“Water bottles,” said the priest. “First aid supplies.”
“I’ll get them.”
The boy turned and left, the priest following him, calling, “Dry clothes in something waterproof.”
“Do you have everything you need?” Marjorie asked Brother Lourai.
He shrugged, elaborately, as though to ask who knew what was needed. “We each brought a change of clothes and boots. Brother Mainoa raided our dry stores to bring what food he could. We could use something to cook in or heat water in.”
“There.” She pointed at a miniature cooker in the pile. “And over there are the saddlebags. Before we came to Grass, Rigo and I thought we might be taking extended rides. We brought camping gear, as we would have done for endurance rides at home.”
“Home. Where was your home?”
“Lesser Britain. And then, later, Old Spain. After Rigo and I were married.”
“Old Spain?” Rillibee asked.
“The southwestern province of Western Europe.”
“Are there many Old Catholics there?”
“Many. More than anywhere else. Sanctity has not had good luck with converts in Spain.”
“Where I lived, only a long time before, there were Old Catholics.”
“Where was that?”
“In New Spain, the Middle American Provinces, Joshua, my father, said our province was once called Mexico.”
“Your father was Old Catholic? But you are one of the Sanctified.”
He shook his head no. “I am whatever Joshua was. But I don’t know what he was. He wasn’t Old Catholic, I know that.” He leaned against the horse she had told him to ride, imitating her stance, stroking the animal as she did hers, feeling the stiff, glossy hair slide beneath his fingers. “He loved trees. Miriam loved trees, too.” Tears came and he blinked them away. He had seen no trees on this place, except for the small copse near the dig. There had been no trees at Sanctity. Sometimes he thought if he could only see trees, then he would not feel so alone.
Tony and Father James returned with more supplies. Brother Mainoa, looking pensive, came in to help them sort the supplies into the saddlebags, including the two hamper-sized containers that Irish Lass was to carry. When they were done, they stood looking at one another as though reluctant to take the next, inevitable step. It was Brother Mainoa who broke the silence.
“I’ll lead if I may, Lady Westriding. For a little while. After that, it shouldn’t be necessary. If you’ll tell me how to steer?”
Marjorie explained the use of reins and legs and rode out beside him to make sure he understood. Within moments they had left the garden trail and were pushing through tall grass, each barely able to see the nearest rider. Then, almost before they had had a chance to be annoyed by the lash of the thick growth, they came through the tough stems into lower grass and turned purposefully toward the northeast. They rode silently except for Brother Mainoa’s occasional querulous, “Tell me again what I do to get farther right?” And then, after he had been told two or three times, he did not ask again. They rode for some time in silence except for the soft plop of hooves and the rustle of the grass.
Marjorie, riding alongside Brother Mainoa, thought she heard him speak and leaned closer to whisper, “What was that. Brother?” She heard the same sound again. A snore. He was riding asleep while Blue Star went placidly along the sides of starlit hills and down winding shadowed vales as though she were on her way home, her ears forward as if hearing someone there calling her name.
Rigo woke with gritty eyes and a sour taste in his mouth. For a moment he did not remember where he was; then, seeing the flash of a flick bird across the tall windows and hearing a grass peeper call repeatedly from the grass garden, he remembered Grass. It was the soft, rose-colored curtains blowing in the morning wind that told him he was in Eugenie’s room rather than in his own bedroom adjoining Marjorie’s. The bed beside him was empty.
Eugenie came in like the head of a small tray-bearing comet, billowing hair and silken draperies in a turbulent tail behind her. “The girl doesn’t get here until later, Rigo, so I made you coffee my own self.” She plumped his pillow, sat beside him on the bed, and leaned prettily forward to pour. The cups were pink, curved like the petals of a flower. The cream was steaming.
“Where did you get cream?” he asked. “I haven’t had cream since we’ve been here.”
“Never you mind.” She pouted, flushing with pleasure at his pleasure. “I have my ways.”
“No, really, Eugenie. Where did you get it?”
“Sebastian brings it to me. His wife has a cow.”
“He never said a word to me about—”
“You didn’t ask, that’s all.” She stirred his cup and handed it to him.
“You flirted with him.”
She didn’t deny it, merely smiled through her lashes at him. sipping at her own cup.
He started to say something about flirting, about Stella’s flirting, and the memory came back. The cup dropped from his hand and rolled across the thick carpet and he struggled to get out of the clinging sheets.
“Rigo!” It was a protest.
“I forgot about Stella,” he cried. “I forgot!”
“You didn’t forget,” she told him. “You told me, last night.”
“Oh, damn you, Eugenie. That’s not what I meant.” He went away from her into the bathroom. She heard water running as she sat staring into her cup, not drinking anymore. If he only hadn’t remembered. For a little while.
He went straight to the kitchen, then to Marjorie’s room, and then Tony’s. Only after finding all three places empty did he think of the tell-me. There he found a message, brief but complete: Tony and his mother had gone. They had taken the horses. They had gone to find Stella. Rigo howled, half in anger, half in pain, making the crystal ornaments complain in icy voices. Where would Marjorie have gone? Tony hadn’t said, but there was only one logical starting point for a search. Bon Damfels’ place.
He flushed, remembering how he had left bon Damfels’ place the day before, begging, pleading with them to help him find his daughter, while Stavenger, at first frostily cold and then heated with anger, had accused him of undisciplined, un-Huntly behavior; while Stavenger and Dimoth and Gustave told him to go home and mourn Stella in private and quit shouting about her; while bon Haunser and bon Damfels aunts and cousins pointed derisive fingers at him. Despite all that, the people of Klive were not at a Hunt today, and he would return to Klive.
In the garage, he found both aircars partially disassembled, with Sebastian hovering over a case of new parts.
“What in the name of God… ?”
“Your driver said the stabilizer was malfunctioning yesterday,” Sebastian said, startled. “We’ve had trouble with both of them, and since there is no Hunt today…”
Rigo bit back a roar of outrage. “Is there any other vehicle here? Or in the village?”
“No, sir. I can have this one reassembled in an hour or two. If you must travel before then, perhaps someone from Commons…”
Persun Pollut called his father, but Hime Pollut was out of his shop. No one knew when he would return. Roald Few was not available. Three other persons who Persun called were at the port — a long-awaited shipment had come in. Persun made exaggerated swoops with his eyebrows, indicating annoyance.
As for Rigo, while hours passed, he seethed, barely able to contain his frustration at Marjorie’s passing slowly, slowly away to someplace where he might never find her.