by Jack Dann
‘Oh, really?’ he interrupted. ‘Did you bring Christ’s love to the Galateans?’
It shouldn’t have, but it surprised me to hear him mention Galatea. He was barely a child when it happened. I turned away. ‘I’m glad to see you know your history,’ I said. ‘I was very young then. And I failed precisely because at that time the Church had no clear guidelines for enculturation. You would do well to learn from my mistakes rather than repeat them. Come back to the village with me. I’ll send a report that you were lost in the tundra with your gopher damaged. There’s no reason you can’t continue in the priesthood.’
He set aside his food, and seemed thoughtful for the first time since I’d met him. ‘I’m not sure the priesthood is for me,’ he said. ‘When I was an orphaned boy, a homeless refugee, it was a priest who took me in and raised me. Father Keenan. He was more concerned with feeding the poor than with preaching the Gospel. That’s the kind of priest I wanted to be. To help people. But I’m not sure there’s room for that in the Church any more. It’s become more bureaucratic than ever, more concerned with paperwork than with people.’
‘There’s a reason for the paperwork,’ I said. ‘Helping people is fine, but we must be careful how we help people, to ensure that we don’t do more harm than good. Have you considered that the hunting methods you’re teaching them can be used just as easily for war? Do you want that on your head?’
‘You have the mentality of a paternalist,’ he said. ‘I give them knowledge. The choice is theirs what to do with it.’
I let him have the last word.
31.08.2489
So much has happened. Marcelo was not the most charming host, but he agreed that Shay and I should stay in the camp for a few days before we began the long journey back to the village. Shay was reluctant to stay among ‘savages’, but she recognised we were both in need of rest.
Our first few days with the nomads were uneventful, but on the fourth day everyone was bustling about, gathering around a steaming pool sunk into the ground in the middle of the camp. Some of them were carrying big leather sacks, creatures bulging and squirming within. I finally got a glimpse inside one and saw that the bags were filled with the Suvari spawn. Shay nervously huddled into herself, like a bird in the cold. ‘Today must be mating day,’ she said.
At midday, the entire tribe gathered around the pool. Shay and I sat together behind Marcelo. Near our side of the pool, several Suvari dumped out sackfuls of female spawn. I looked at them more closely than I had before. They were about the size of toads — and looked much like four-legged tadpoles, just lacking pigmentation of any kind. They were quite distinctive from their adult counterparts, yet I could see the faint suggestion of one within the other — their legs and arms especially. White and clawless, their tiny fingers looked disconcertingly human. The females splashed into the water and were remarkably still. Their stalks swayed slightly from side to side above the surface, small beaks opening and closing.
An elder stepped to the edge of the pool and addressed the crowd. ‘The Lifeblood flows,’ she announced.
‘The Lifeblood flows,’ the tribe chorused.
‘I give of my blood,’ the elder said. She knelt before the pool and bowed low, blood gushing from her beak into the water. The female spawn wriggled towards the dispersing blood.
‘We give of our blood,’ responded the tribe. By twos and threes, they stepped forward, knelt, and added their blood to the pool. Soon the steaming water was pink. Even Marcelo pulled out his knife and made a show of cutting his hand and dripping blood into the pool.
Shay and I remained seated. Shay seemed disturbed by the ritual, and I wondered how it differed from mating ceremonies in the village. There was an uncomfortable moment when the elder looked at us, but she seemed to accept our non-participation readily enough.
When all were seated again, another group of Suvari upended out the male spawn by the sackful. They looked much like the females, but smaller and with longer tails. And much more active. The moment they landed in the water, they swarmed toward the females, splashing over and around each other, the larger ones shoving and kicking the smaller ones aside. There was something mindless about it — a violent, seething mass surging through the bloody water.
A large male was the first to arrive on our side of the pool. He wriggled up to one of the females, gripped her like a frog, and plunged his stalk into the open stalk curling back to meet him, her beak biting into the base of his neck.
More and more males reached our side and plunged their stalks into the females. The intercourse itself was surprisingly fast and quiet — no grunts of orgasm, no thrusting or gyrating. I try to remind myself to set aside my anthrocentrisms. The small creatures are not even whole organisms — with only one set of genes they’re more like sperm and eggs than infants.
Mere moments after each male and female released each other, the female began exuding a thin, slimy film, which spread out over her body like a second skin. A few of the adults were carefully picking up these crystallising females in nets and placing them in protective woven cases. The post-coital males underwent no such transformation, just twitched aimlessly in the water. Not far from us, a Suvari reached into the pool and snatched one up in her claws. She held it up to her beak, sucking blood from the creature’s stalk as if from a straw. It didn’t struggle. Other claws reached into the pool to grab the spent males. Shay shuddered and looked away, her claws digging into my leg. I was about to tell her we could leave if she wished, when Marcelo shoved a bloodied male in her face. ‘Don’t you want to try the tastiest delicacy of the tundra, villager?’
Shay shrieked — a loud, keening cry, the same as when we lost Hasha.
‘You’re even more of a child than I thought,’ I said, pushing him away from her. ‘Leave her be.’
The chaos of the mating ceremony changed tenor, and it took me a moment before I realised that something was wrong. One of the Suvari next to me slumped forward, a primitive arrow sticking out of her back. The blood was starkly red against her white down.
‘Marcelo!’ I flung myself to the ground, shielding Shay with my body. Marcelo was already darting into the fray, bone dagger drawn. An invading Suvari was slitting the throats of the females in their fragile cocoons. Marcelo confronted the invader — his size an overwhelming advantage — and cut her down. I lost track of him after that — my focus was on Shay, who was visibly shaking. I led her to a tent on the other side of the clearing, far from the raiders. We peered from behind the tent’s flap, watching the spears and claws fly.
The fighting ended as abruptly as it had begun, and the raiders melted back into the tundra. They’d killed three adults, and left behind four of their own, but, thanks to Marcelo, only two of the females had been killed.
I found him lying on the edge of the camp, a bone spear in his side. I knelt beside him. He was in obvious pain, but trying not to show it; the wound wasn’t life-threatening. My limited medical training and first-aid kit was enough to remove the spear, and I staunched the wound with my scarf.
‘We need to get you to the mining station as soon as possible,’ I said.
‘My place is here,’ he said.
‘They can’t treat this kind of wound here. You need professional medical attention.’
‘No, I’ll be —’
‘You don’t know what was on that bone. The wound is likely to get infected, and you know it. You can ride the guntha, and Shay and I will take turns leading.’
I could see he wanted to argue, but, for all his bravado, he knew I was right. He said nothing, nodding reluctantly.
05.09.2489
The trip back to the village is much slower with Marcelo wounded. He’s not a pleasant patient, either —constantly moaning and complaining, yet also unwilling to accept much assistance from Shay or me. Today I was replacing his bandages, and he fidgeted so much that the wound partially re-opened. For a moment I had the urge to lick the blood away. I’ve spent too much time with the Suvari.
/> I couldn’t help but look at his chest. His black skin was chalky and chapped from the cold, but his muscles were toned and healthy. He looked from my eyes to his torso, following my gaze. He smiled as if he were a package that couldn’t be resisted. I adjusted my robe with a smirk. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I said. ‘Your chest is only inviting in comparison to the asexual blood-sucking aliens.’
He laughed gently, but I could tell he felt hurt. Sometimes I can be too harsh. ‘It must have been a long time for you, too,’ I said. ‘A long time since you’ve even seen another human.’
‘Months,’ he said. ‘More than a Suvari year.’ He shrugged. ‘But I always knew the life of a missionary was lonely.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Out here we don’t even get to benefit from the wonderful reforms of Vatican IV.’
‘But we could,’ he said. He ran his finger gently along the back of my hand, the only part of my body within easy reach. I let him continue for several minutes before I moved closer to him.
I couldn’t help but feel flattered, being pursued by a man who could be my son. It’s so strange, the things we do when we feel lonely.
He was surprisingly gentle for a man so young. I thought it would be disappointing, a quick anti-climax. Perhaps his injury forced him to slow down. At some point —I didn’t even notice when — Shay came back into the tent and quietly, casually watched us, as if we were two children playing an endearing game. I must be getting accustomed to the lack of privacy, because I barely noticed the intrusion.
18.09.2489
It’s good to be back in the village. It almost feels like home. I took Marcelo to the miners’ camp, where he finally got proper treatment for his injury — which had become infected, after all. He’s spending most of his time here in the village while he gets his follow-up treatment, but he’s staying in a different hearth. We’ve spoken little since that night in the tent — many averted gazes and brief, empty conversations. The other day, he passed by the sinkhole while we were having Mass, and he gave me a look of utter contempt.
Tensions between the villagers and the nomads have worsened. Almost none of the tribes trade with us any more, and last week a group of nomads raided the bloodfarm during the night. They completely drained three bloodcows, leaving their carcasses behind, the hides creased with the bloody marks of wires, and the beaten earth pierced by stakes. The culture of the village is already changing as a result, with a rotating guard established for the bloodfarm at all hours of day and night.
I confronted Marcelo. ‘Do you see what your knowledge has reaped? You need to stop this before it gets out of hand.’
‘I don’t even know which tribe did this,’ Marcelo said. ‘Besides, the village had it coming. Wealth that isn’t shared is bound to be taken.’
‘So I suppose they got the wire from a local hardware supplier?’
‘The nomad tribes trade with each other,’ he said. ‘I don’t control everything they do.’
‘You need to take responsibility for the consequences of your actions, Marcelo,’ I said. ‘You’ve invited genocide.’
He sneered at me. ‘What do you think the villagers were doing to the “savages” before I arrived? The same thing that “civilised” people have always done. I’ve just given the nomads the means to take care of themselves.’
‘I’ve seen no evidence of persecution by the villagers.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
I ignored the comment. I have no interest in any more debates with the child.
23.10.2489
I vomited again this morning. I hope I haven’t picked up something from the Suvari — or even worse, brought something to them. I need to do some tests.
Shay brought me some herbs, which she said would make me feel better. As she boiled them in water for me, I asked her, ‘Shay, is there any reason why the nomads attack, other than for food? Do they feel the village has persecuted them in some way?’
Shay gave a patronising nod. ‘The nomads always claim they’re being persecuted,’ she said. ‘I began to understand things better when we visited them. They don’t have the advantages we have here in the village. They haven’t learned the true ways of the Lifeblood. That is why they seek unfair trades, and when they do not get their way, they steal by trickery or, worse, by violence.’
I weighed her words, trying to separate the prejudices from the realities, if ever it’s possible to do that. I looked down at the steaming pot of water, the herbs giving off an odd, tangy aroma, a bit like tamarind. ‘For these herbs here,’ I said, ‘what would you ask in exchange for these?’
‘There is little trade now,’ she said. ‘But a few months ago we would have traded this for, perhaps, a dozen sheets of leather.’
In my head, I estimated that much leather would require the hides of at least four of the wild creatures we’d seen on the tundra. ‘That seems quite a drain on the blood,’ I said, ‘for a handful of herbs.’
‘You sound like a nomad! These herbs take a full year to grow, and they cure many maladies. The trade is more than fair.’
I lifted my head and clicked, but for the first time felt slightly alienated from Shay. Though she travelled with me on the tundra, her perceptions have never expanded beyond this tiny village.
27.10.2489
I’m a fool. I honestly thought I was too old to conceive.
I’m awash with uncertainties. The life of a missionary on a foreign world — that’s no way to raise a child. She would have no peers, no sense of her own culture. And yet I have no family left, and feel the urge to start my own. Stark feels as much like home as anywhere I’ve lived, and the Suvari are a kind, good people. Shay would make an excellent godmother.
I considered simply not telling him at all, but decided he had a right to know. I asked him to take a walk with me on the outskirts of the village, for privacy. ‘Really?’ was all he could say after I told him. ‘Really?’ he repeated several times, as if the answer might change if he kept asking the question.
Eventually, he made sense. ‘So,’ he said, ‘do you want me to … What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I’d prefer that you did nothing. I just thought you should know.’
Marcelo raised his head and made clicking sounds — no doubt out of reflex, for we were alone and had been talking in Standard. We both laughed. It was a moment of mutual relief.
‘So what’s next for you?’ I asked.
‘I’m nearly better,’ he said. ‘I’ll most likely leave within the fortnight. Return to life with the nomads.’ He paused and added, ‘You’ll be staying here?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘For some time, I think.’
‘I’d like to visit once in a while,’ he said. ‘To spend time with … your family.’
‘Yes. That would be fine.’
It’s strange, but I think I could be happy.
03.05.2490
The nomads raided again today. This time we lost more than bloodcows. Three villagers were killed — one of them a hearth-mate.
I wonder where Marcelo is, and if he knows. I have to believe that the raiding tribes have not been his, that for all his bravado he would never participate in an attack on this village, on me — on our coming child. I suggested to Shay this morning that we contact him, to see if he could help negotiate a truce, but she simply ignored me. I fear it’s too late. This afternoon I noticed some villagers practicing shooting arrows at a large leather target. Too large to be Suvari, too small to be bloodcow.
Is Stark any place to raise a son?
11.05.2490
I caught Shay looking at me quietly today after Mass. I’ve come to know her moods well. ‘What?’ I asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to miss you.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said.
She gave me that patronising nod of hers. ‘Even your young are tall and wise. Will your successor be even taller?’
I was tired of her q
uestions, tired of explaining to her that I was not a walking chrysalis, that a new being was not about to crack me open and emerge from the hollow shell of my dead body. ‘No, Shay,’ I said. ‘He’ll be smaller than you.’
Several other Suvari were eavesdropping on our conversation. They were all looking at my swollen belly, their eyes dancing with excitement. ‘The Lifeblood flows,’ one of them said reverently.
They huddled around me, touching my hair and my belly. Shay placed her hand on my stomach and sang: ‘Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.’
I stared at her.
‘He will save us after you’re gone. He will find a way to stop the nomads. Won’t He, Rena?’
14.05.2490
I can’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Nightmares wake me. They’re not about Galatea any more, only Stark. Shay and the others are by my side day and night. They are kind, but the way people are kind to the terminally ill.
Do I leave? Would they even let me go? Do I attempt to escape, unseen in the night? I imagine such devastation if I did — a village on the brink of war, losing its saviour. I feel more at home here than any other place, but what will become of my boy if I stay? Even if he survives the rising violence of this world, I fear what it might do to him, to be raised as an alien, to be treated as a God. I fear what they will do to me, when I break all their natural laws by surviving the birth.
Useless questions, all of them; I’m too close to term now. The gopher sits before me, messages unopened for weeks. I’ve stopped wearing my collar. I no longer deserve that honour, and perhaps I never did.
Between sleep and tears and attacks, I pray, my arms wrapped around my swollen belly. But I don’t think my prayers will be answered out here, on this cold world.
This is my blood, this time. My blood.
AFTERWORD
‘This is My Blood’ was born after some all-night brainstorming during Clarion South 2007, a six-week boot camp for speculative fiction writers held in Brisbane. It is the first collaboration for both of us, and we very much enjoyed the experience of playing off each other’s strengths.