Children of God
Page 1
“A Heartbreaking Tale.”
—The Seattle Times
“Russell’s Children of God continues the gripping tale of Jesuit missionaries on a godless planet begun in The Sparrow.”
—amazon.com
“Children of God, like its predecessor The Sparrow, combines a compelling story with intelligence and careful research.… Russell’s exploration of the psychic rift and its healing is eloquent, illuminating all the dark corners of the mind in great novelistic style.”
—Cleveland Free Times
“In terms of characters, Children of God is even stronger than The Sparrow.… Russell is an anthropologist by training, and her training allows her to be extraordinarily precise about culture.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“Russell’s portrait of courage and endurance [is] both moving and exhilarating.”
—Locus
“Powerful prose and memorable characters … Firmly grounded in science yet informed and illuminated by an inherent spirituality, this sequel to Russell’s highly praised The Sparrow examines the problem of faith under fire with insight and clarity.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Riveting … Near impossible to put down … The story Russell tells is not only incredibly entertaining and imaginative, but intellectually, morally provocative. The speculation of Children of God is painfully truthful, but also, strangely, filled with hope. At the story’s end, the world will witness something of a miracle.”
—BookPage
“Misunderstandings between cultures and people are at the heart of her story. It is, however, the complex figure of Father Sandoz around which a diverse interplanetary cast orbits, and it is the intelligent, emotional and very personal feud between Father Sandoz and his God that provides energy for both books.”
—Publishers Weekly
ALSO BY MARY DORIA RUSSELL
The Sparrow
A Thread of Grace
Dreamers of the Day
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1998 by Mary Doria
Russell Reading group guide copyright © 1999 by The Random House
Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.
Ballantine is a registered trademark and the Ballantine colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Random House Reader’s Circle and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
www.randomhousereaderscircle.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-96702
eISBN: 978-0-307-41474-8
This edition published by arrangement with Villard Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
Photography: Scala/Art Resource
v3.1_r3
FOR
KATE SWEENEY
AND
JENNIFER TUCKER
hermanas de mi alma
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prelude
Chapter 1 - Naples: September 2060
Chapter 2 - Trucha Sai, Rakhat: 2042, Earth-Relative
Chapter 3 - Naples: September 2060
Chapter 4 - Great Southern Forest, Rakhat: 2042, Earth-Relative
Chapter 5 - City of Inbrokar, Rakhat: 2046, Earth-Relative
Chapter 6 - Naples: September 2060
Chapter 7 - City of Inbrokar: 2046, Earth-Relative
Chapter 8 - Inbrokar: During the Reign of Ljaat-sa Kitheri
Chapter 9 - Naples: October—November 2060
Chapter 10 - Pon River, Central Province, Inbrokar: 2046, Earth-Relative
Chapter 11 - Naples: October—December 2060
Chapter 12 - Village of Kashan: 2046, Earth-Relative
Chapter 13 - Naples: December 2060—June 2061
Chapter 14 - Trucha Sai: 2042–2046, Earth-Relative
Chapter 15 - Naples: July 2061
Chapter 16 - Trucha Sai: 2047, Earth-Relative
Chapter 17 - Naples: August 2061
Chapter 18 - Giordano Bruno: 2061–2062 Earth-Relative
Chapter 19 - City of Inbrokar: 2047, Earth-Relative
Chapter 20 - Giordano Bruno: 2063, Earth-Relative
Chapter 21 - N’Jarr Valley, Northern Rakhat: 2078–2085, Earth-Relative
Chapter 22 - Southern Province, Inbrokar: 2047, Earth-Relative
Chapter 23 - Giordano Bruno: 2064, Earth-Relative
Chapter 24 - Trucha Sai: 2047–2061, Earth-Relative
Chapter 25 - Giordano Bruno: 2065, Earth-Relative
Chapter 26 - Great Southern Forest: 2061, Earth-Relative
Chapter 27 - Giordano Bruno: 2066–2069, Earth-Relative
Chapter 28 - Central Inbrokar: 2061, Earth-Relative
Chapter 29 - Giordano Bruno: 2070–2073, Earth-Relative
Chapter 30 - City of Inbrokar: 2072, Earth-Relative
Chapter 31 - N’Jarr Valley: 2072, Earth-Relative
Chapter 32 - Giordano Bruno: October 2078, Earth-Relative
Chapter 33 - Rakhat: October 2078, Earth-Relative
Chapter 34 - Rakhat: Landfall: October 2078, Earth-Relative
Chapter 35 - Pon River Drainage: October 2078, Earth-Relative
Chapter 36 - Central Inbrokar: October 2078, Earth-Relative
Chapter 37 - N’Jarr Valley: October 2078, Earth-Relative
Chapter 38 - On the Road to Inbrokar: November 2078, Earth-Relative
Chapter 39 - N’Jarr Valley: December 2078, Earth-Relative
Acknowledgments
A Reader’ Guide
About the Author
Prelude
SWEATING AND NAUSEATED, FATHER EMILIO SANDOZ SAT ON THE EDGE of his bed with his head in what was left of his hands.
Many things had turned out to be more difficult than he’d expected. Losing his mind, for example. Or dying. How can I still be alive? he wondered, not so much with philosophical curiosity as with profound irritation at the physical stamina and sheer bad luck that had conspired to keep him breathing, when all he’d wanted was death. “Something’s got to go,” he whispered, alone in the night. “My sanity or my soul …”
He stood and began to pace, wrecked hands tucked under his armpits to keep the fingers from being jarred as he moved. Unable to drive nightmare images away in the darkness, he touched the lights on with an elbow so he could see clearly the real things in front of him: a bed, linens tangled and sweat-soaked; a wooden chair; a small, plain chest of drawers. Five steps, turn, five steps back. Almost the exact size of the cell on Rakhat—
There was a knock at the door and he heard Brother Edward Behr, whose bedroom was nearby and who was always alert for these midnight walks. “Are you all right, Father?” Edward asked quietly.
Am I all right? Sandoz wanted to cry. Jesus! I’m scared and I’m crippled and everybody I ever loved is dead—
But what Edward Behr heard as he stood in the hallway just beyond Sandoz’s door was, “I’m fine, Ed. Just restless. Everything’s fine.”
Brother Edward sighed, unsurprised. He had cared for Emilio Sandoz, night and day, for almost a year. Tended his ruined body, prayed for him, watching appalled and frightened as the priest fought his way back from utter helplessness to a fragile self-respect. So, even as Edward padded down the hall to check on Sandoz tonight, he suspected that this would be the soft-voiced reply to a pointless question.
“It’s not over, you know,” Brother Edward had war
ned a few days earlier, when Emilio had at long last spoken the unspeakable. “You don’t get over something like that all at once.” And Emilio had agreed that this was true.
Returning to his own bed, Edward punched up the pillow and slid under the covers, listening as the pacing resumed. It’s one thing to know the truth, he thought. To live with it is altogether something else.
IN THE ROOM DIRECTLY BENEATH SANDOZ’S, THE FATHER GENERAL OF THE Society of Jesus had also heard the sudden, gasping cry that announced an arrival of the incubus who ruled Emilio’s nights. Unlike Brother Edward, Vincenzo Giuliani no longer rose to offer Sandoz unwelcomed help, but he could see in memory the initial look of bewildered terror, the silent struggle to regain control.
For months, while presiding over the Society’s inquiry into the failure of the first Jesuit mission to Rakhat, Vincenzo Giuliani had been certain that if Emilio Sandoz were brought to speak of what had happened on that alien world, the matter could be resolved and Emilio would find some peace. The Father General was both administrator and priest; he had believed it was necessary—for the Society of Jesus and for Sandoz himself—to face facts. And so, by methods direct and indirect, by means gentle and brutal, both alone and aided by others, he had taken Emilio Sandoz to the moment when truth could free him.
Sandoz had fought them every step of the way: no priest, no matter how desperate, wishes to undermine another’s faith. But Vincenzo Giuliani had been serenely confident that he could analyze error and correct it, understand failure and forgive it, hear sin and absolve it.
What he had been unprepared for was innocence.
“Do you know what I thought, just before I was used the first time? I am in God’s hands,” Emilio had said, when his resistance finally shattered on a golden August afternoon. “I loved God and I trusted in His love. Amusing, isn’t it. I laid down all my defenses. I had nothing between me and what happened but the love of God. And I was raped. I was naked before God and I was raped.”
What is it in humans that makes us so eager to believe ill of one another? Giuliani asked himself that night. What makes us so hungry for it? Failed idealism, he suspected. We disappoint ourselves and then look around for other failures to convince ourselves: it’s not just me.
Emilio Sandoz was not sinless; indeed, he held himself guilty of a great deal, and yet … “If I was led by God to love God, step by step, as it seemed, if I accept that the beauty and the rapture were real and true, then the rest of it was God’s will too and that, gentlemen, is cause for bitterness,” Sandoz had told them. “But if I am simply a deluded ape who took a lot of old folktales far too seriously, then I brought all this on myself and my companions. The problem with atheism, I find, under these circumstances, is that I have no one to despise but myself. If, however, I choose to believe that God is vicious, then at least I have the solace of hating God.”
If Sandoz is deluded, thought Vincenzo Giuliani as the pacing above him went on and on, what am I? And if he is not, what is God?
Naples
September 2060
CELESTINA GIULIANI LEARNED THE WORD “SLANDER” AT HER COUSIN’S baptism. That is what she remembered about the party, mostly, aside from the man who cried.
The church was nice, and she liked the singing, but the baby got to wear Celestina’s dress, which wasn’t fair. No one had asked Celestina’s permission, even though she wasn’t supposed to take things without asking. Mamma explained that all the Giuliani babies wore this dress when they were baptized and pointed out the hem where Celestina’s name was embroidered. “See, cara? There is your name and your papa’s and Auntie Carmella’s and your cousins’—Roberto, Anamaria, Stefano. Now it’s the new baby’s turn.”
Celestina was not in a mood to be reasoned with. That baby looks like Grandpa in a bride dress, she decided grumpily.
Bored with the ceremony, Celestina began to swing her arms, head down, watching her skirt swirl from side to side for a while, sneaking a look now and then at the man with the machines on his hands, standing by himself in the corner. “He’s a priest—like Grandpa Giuliani’s American cousin Don Vincenzo,” Mamma had explained to her before they left for the church that morning. “He’s been sick a long time, and his hands don’t work very well, so he uses machines to help his fingers move. Don’t stare, carissima.”
Celestina didn’t stare. She did, however, peek fairly often.
The man wasn’t paying attention to the baby like everyone else and one time when she peeked, he saw her. The machines were scary, but the man wasn’t. Most grown-ups smiled with their faces but their eyes told you they wanted you to go and play. The man with the machines didn’t smile, but his eyes did.
The baby fussed and fussed, and then Celestina smelled the caca. “Mamma!” she cried, horrified. “That baby—”
“Hush, cara!” her mother whispered loudly, and all the grown-ups laughed, even Don Vincenzo, who wore a long black dress like the man with the machines and was pouring water on the baby.
Finally, it was over and they all left the dark church and walked out into the sunshine. “But Mamma, the baby went!” Celestina insisted, as they came down the stairs and waited for the chauffeur to bring the car around. “Right in my dress! It’ll be all dirty!”
“Celestina,” her mother reproved, “you yourself once did such things! The baby wears diapers, just as you did.”
Celestina’s mouth dropped open. All around her, grown-ups were laughing, except for the man with the machines, who stopped next to her and dropped to her level, his face a mirror of her own stunned outrage. “This is slander!” she cried, repeating what he had whispered to her.
“A monstrous calumny!” he confirmed indignantly, standing again, and if Celestina did not understand any of the words, she knew that he was taking her side against the grown-ups who were laughing.
They all went to Auntie Carmella’s house after that. Celestina ate biscotti and got Uncle Paolo to push her on the swing and had soda, which was a treat because it wouldn’t make her bones strong, so she could only have it at parties. She considered playing with her cousins, but no one was her age, and Anamaria always wanted to be the mamma and Celestina had to be the baby, and that was boring. So she tried dancing in the middle of the kitchen until Gramma told her she was pretty and Mamma told her to go visit the guinea pigs.
When she got cranky, Mamma took her to the back bedroom, and sat with her, humming for a while. Celestina was almost asleep when her mother reached for a tissue and blew her nose.
“Mamma? Why didn’t Papa come today?”
“He was busy, cara,” Gina Giuliani told her daughter. “Go to sleep.”
THE GOOD-BYES WOKE HER: COUSINS AND AUNTS AND UNCLES AND grandparents and family friends, calling out ciaos and buona fortunas to the new baby and his parents. Celestina got up and took herself to the potty, which reminded her of slander, and then moved toward the loggia, wondering if she would get to take some balloons home. Stefano was making a fuss, yelling and crying. “I know, I know,” Auntie Carmella was saying. “It’s hard to say good-bye to everyone after such a nice time, but the party’s ending now.” Uncle Paolo simply scooped Stefano up, smiling but brooking no nonsense.
Amused by the tantrum and indulgent, none of the adults noticed Celestina standing in the doorway. Her mother was helping Auntie Carmella clear up the dishes. Her grandparents were out in the yard saying good-bye to the guests. Everyone else was paying attention to Stefano, screaming and struggling manfully, but helpless in the arms of his father, who carried him off, apologizing for the noise. Only Celestina noticed Don Vincenzo’s face change. That was when she looked at the man with the machines on his hands and saw that he was crying.
Celestina had seen her mother cry, but she didn’t know that men cried, too. It frightened her because it was strange, and because she was hungry, and because she liked the man who took her side, and because he didn’t cry like anyone else she knew—eyes open, tears slipping down a still face.
Car
doors slammed and Celestina heard the crunch of tires on gravel, just as her mother looked up from the table. Gina’s own smile faded when she followed her daughter’s gaze. Glancing in the direction of the two priests, Gina spoke to her sister-in-law in a low voice. Nodding, Carmella went to Don Vincenzo’s side on her way to the kitchen with a stack of dishes. “The bedroom at the end of the hall, perhaps?” she suggested. “No one will disturb you there.”
Celestina ducked out of the way as Don Vincenzo took the crying man by the arm, steering him through the loggia doorway and toward Carmella’s room. “It was like that?” Celestina heard Don Vincenzo ask as they passed her. “They were amused when you struggled?”
Celestina followed them, embroidered anklets making whispers of her footsteps, and peeped through the little space where the door wasn’t quite closed. The man with the machines was sitting in a chair in the corner. Don Vincenzo stood nearby, not saying anything, looking out the window toward Cece’s pen. That’s mean, Celestina thought. Don Vincenzo is mean! She hated it when she cried and no one paid attention because they said she was being silly.
The man saw her as she stepped into the bedroom, and he wiped his face on his sleeves. “What’s the matter?” she asked, coming closer. “Why are you crying?”
Don Vincenzo started to say something, but the man shook his head and said, “It’s nothing, cara. Only: I was remembering something—something bad that happened to me.”
“What happened?”
“Some … men hurt me. It was a long time ago,” he assured her as her eyes grew round, afraid the bad men were still in the house. “It was when you were very small, but sometimes I remember it.”
“Did anyone kiss you?”
“Mi scuzi?” He blinked when she said it, and Don Vincenzo stood very straight for a moment.
“To make it better?” she said.
The man with the machines smiled with very soft eyes. “No, cara. No one kissed it better.”
“I could.”