by Neal Asher
“Come with me,” said Scarface, and led Beck down corridors he remembered from what he considered the most grey and miserable time of his life. As an orphan he had not been given any choices. As one of the Trindar Becks he had fled before they broke his will. Scarface led him into an area to one side of the entrance hall. He wanted to go straight ahead and down as he was impelled to do, but the pressure wasn’t so bad now he was inside the church and he could handle a detour or two. He immediately recognised the door he was brought before. Often he had stood outside it shivering with fear and anger. Scarface knocked and opened the door.
“We have one here who claims he is summoned,” Scarface said.
“Sirus Beck,” said Morage, looking up from the paperwork on his desk. Beck stepped past scarface into the office and the door was closed behind him. He walked to the desk, pulled out a chair and sat.
“I did not give you leave to sit.”
“I don’t really care.”
Morage glared at him. He has not changed so much, thought Beck. After ten years his beard was greyer and his red robes faded, but the man’s eyes were still the malicious focus of his face. Morage enjoyed power—enjoyed meting out punishments.
“I could have you beaten and hung from the walls.”
“You would do that to a Baptiser?”
Beck tried not to smile. He knew enough about Church structure and doctrine to know that, as a summoned Baptiser, he was the province of the Wife of Ovens only, not the Inquisition of the Church. Should Morage seek to exert authority over him he risked his own drowning jar. Thinking on this, Beck’s gaze strayed to the corner of the room where a spherical glass jar a metre in diameter contained the remains of Morage’s predecessor. The man was naked, his wrists tied to his ankles, his head lodged between his knees, his skin bluish and his eyes sunken away—the preservative he had been drowned in not being sufficient to prevent all decay. Baptiser or not, it wouldn’t do to push Morage too far. Beck stood.
“I think it best I see the Wife,” he said.
Morage sat back. “What proof do we have that you are summoned?” He’s starting to play, though Beck. I should have been more circumspect, “You know the proof as well as I.”
“Yes, but perhaps before you are brought to the chamber I should hold you for a while. It would be easy for a potential assassin to claim to be summoned…”
Beck felt a sudden surge of anger and fear. Petty—that was Morage. Beck rested a hand on the butt of his holstered gun and leant across the desk.
“A lot of years have passed, Morage, but I haven’t forgotten you,” he said. Morage glanced at the gun. He obviously had not seen it until then, and just as obviously the doorman would be in for a beating for not relieving Beck of this weapon. Morage tried to sneer as he waved his hand at Beck.
“Go to the Wife,” he said. “I have no time for this.” Beck went, the anger and fear slewing away as he was once again on course, and being replaced by faint amusement in that the gun made it even more likely he was an assassin. Even then he could feel the presence of the Gurnard in his emotions. In a moment he was on a main corridor leading into the centre of the church where the Wife of Ovens tended her fires. Already he could feel the increase in warmth and smell from flames of marsh gas. And as he walked the impetus took hold of him, drove him. He was vaguely aware that he was accompanied as the corridor he followed dropped down into the earth by sections of stairway, each marked by decorous drowning jars. At the end of the corridor he entered the huge central chamber, hot from the mouths of the ovens set in the walls. At the centre of this room, on a pedestal of heather wood decorated with sheep skulls, rested a wide glass pot, big enough to bathe in, and containing water the colour of bilge from an iron boat. Beck ran across the crumbling floor and thrust his hand into the pot. Something moved there. Spines entered his fingers and fire travelled up his arm. He vaguely noted two of the Clergy moving quickly forward to prevent him spilling the pot as he pulled away.
“He will have visions,” somebody said.
“Of that I have no doubt. The chemistry is complex enough,” said someone with an accent he did not know. He looked around as the fire hit his neck and branded the side of his face. The Wife of Ovens stood there in her robes and ceremonial apron. Next to her stood a creature with black skin, white hair, and blue eyes, and the strangest clothing. As he fell, Beck thought that the visions had already begun. On Earth sheep eat grass and gurnards are the most unassuming of fish. In Nuremar, the day before a Baptiser’s arrival at the church, a family was massacred by sheep, and in a hundred churches people prostrated themselves before pots of dirty water. Erlin considered these facts, recorded them, and made no comment. In a church of the Fish it was best to make no comments about anything—to remain the detached observer. When first she was shown to her room she thanked her escort and smiled, ignoring the threat of the empty drowning jar in the corner. She was here to observe and to study, not to judge.
“So anyone could be chosen to be a Baptiser?” she asked.
The Wife of Ovens, in her voluminous robes draped with a thousand amulets, and her thick hide ceremonial apron, nodded sagely and smiled her satisfaction. Erlin thought she looked precisely like a female Buddha; hugely fat, bald, and smug.
“Yes child, even you could be chosen.”
Erlin turned away for a moment in an attempt to keep her expression serious. Here, the Wife was very old—seventy years solstan. Erlin, being a member of the human Polity and a citizen of Earth, had access to technology of a civilization that now spanned one tenth of the galaxy. She was two hundred and thirty years old and was determined to live forever, barring accidents.
“Yet it would seem,” she said, “that no Northerners or island people are chosen.” The Wife showed a touch of annoyance. “That is so, but they could be chosen at any time.” Erlin nodded, her expression showing nothing but gratitude at having things so clearly explained to her. Of course she could have pushed it. She could have mentioned that in the entire history of this church no-one had been chosen who had not spent some time living in this building, eating the food, drinking the water. The same rule applied to every church of the Fish. Erlin irradiated her food and drink before ingesting it. She had no wish to get religion.
“So, please tell me again what now happens with this Sirus Beck.”
“Sirus Beck will carry out the task charged to him by our Lord. He will carry the Holy Fish to the mountains of the Waters of Change. There he will baptise the Fish in each spring as in the birth. The Fish, meanwhile, will be reborn here in the new year, two days before the drinking of the Eucharist.”
“Does anyone travel with him to the Waters of Change?”
“No, this is not allowed.”
“What about the sheep?”
“The sheep will not attack a Baptiser.”
There, thought Erlin, another dead giveaway. I’ll have to get a sample of that new year’s Eucharist. Loaded, sure to be. No coincidence either that the springs called the Waters of Change feed into every damned river on this continent. Erlin wondered how the Clergy got past the fact that each of the hundred or so churches had its own fish and its own new year.
Sirus Beck saw the grey shapes of Gurnards in deep pools and in rivers and streams blunt-nosed against the current. He felt their power—the power of God in them, and he hated it, hated that he could not resist it. He saw sheep upon the hill feeding on bloody human flesh and the box moon opened and spilt writhing worms across the land. He saw his world and every part of it he saw was loaded with deep significance. The tangled branches of heather trees spelled out the glyphs of a secret language. A sugar dog defecating behind a rock was a sign from God, its every pant a holistic representation of the turning of the world. There was glory and there was terror. Beck, in some deeply buried and logical part of himself, thought it all too ridiculous. If this was holiness he wanted none of it. If there was a God then he should mind his own business. The resentment of that thought gave him pain, and the
pain woke him. This is the most comfortable bed I have ever slept in, thought Beck. The mattress was soft. He was between clean sheets and heavy scented blankets were layered above him. He was warm and dry and he did not want to move, until something prodded him to move and he felt a stinging in his fingers. This is how it will be, he realised. For the rest of his life this prodding would move him on as soon as he got comfortable. Like every Baptiser before him he would die an old man trying to get to that one last spring. It was one of the inconsistencies that had destroyed his faith—that the Gurnard was reborn even before it died.
“You are awake,” said the Wife of Ovens.
Beck opened his eyes and gazed at the bulky shape standing at the foot of his bed. She smiled at him beatifically. He wanted to strangle her, but even a Baptiser would not get away with that. He glanced to one side of her, at the slim dark-skinned woman he had seen earlier. What was she? Some freak from the islands brought to entertain the Wife? Her clothes, he noted, were very clean and looked expensive. In fact he did not recognise the grey and orange material of her coverall. He sat up.
“Yes, I’m awake, and soon I have to be moving.”
“Of course. That is how it must be,” said the Wife.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
The Wife gestured with one pudgy beringed hand. “This, Baptiser, is Erlin Tazer Three Indomial.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“It is the kind of name they give people from Earth.”
“Funny.”
“I must prepare the way for you. Dress yourself, Baptiser, then come at once to the tank room. The Gurnard awaits.”
The Wife swept out of the room, gesturing for the purported Earther to go with her. To Beck it looked as if Erlin wanted to say or do something else, but she went with the Wife. That was always the safest move. Beck got out of bed and washed himself with the water and soap provided, before inspecting the well-made travelling clothes that had also been provided. It would not do for a Baptiser to be seen in the clothes of a common tramp. Beck was glad to see that his belongings, other than his clothes, had not been discarded. He still retained his pack and his gun. Opening the weapon to check it over, he saw that all three shells were in place in their chambers. He would be safe from sheep yet. As he dressed there came a sharp knock at the door and the woman, Erlin, quickly stepped into the room. She had some strange instrument in her hand. Holding a pair of sheep-hide trousers before his genitals he glared at her.
“I’m a doctor,” she said quickly. “I need a blood sample.” Beck eyed the instrument.
“Then give one yourself,” he said.
“Please, it’s very important.”
“Yeah, you’re right, my blood is.”
She stepped toward him and he quickly stepped back.
“I bet the Wife of Ovens doesn’t know you’re here,” he said, and it was a threat. Erlin frowned at him then pocketed the instrument she had been holding. Beck peered with curiosity at the pocket she had put it in, at the cloth, the way it sealed, at the rest of her coverall. It was like nothing he had ever seen before. So was she.
“Are you really from Earth?”
“Yes.”
“Turn around.”
She looked askance at him. He nodded down at the trousers he was holding.
“I am a doctor you know.”
“That gives you no rights to my body, now turn around or get out.” Erlin turned and Beck finished dressing himself.
“Now why should you want a blood sample?” he asked.
Erlin was indecisive. “They say you were an acolyte, but that you ran away, that you are a heretic and unbeliever.”
“They say right,” said Beck with some viciousness.
“How does it feel then to come back as a Baptiser?”
“It feels like Hell.”
“How do you reconcile your—”
There came a rapping on the door before it was suddenly opened. Morage stepped into the room with a sneering grin on his face. Behind him came two priests obviously selected for their size rather than their piety.
“The Wife of Ovens awaits you, Sirus Beck. It would be better if you followed your calling willingly.” It was a mild dig. Morage’s attention was on Erlin rather than Beck. Beck stooped and took up his pack. He caught Erlin by the arm. “The Wife awaits the both of us, as it happens.” He led Erlin past Morage and his two thugs.
“Wait,” said Morage, angry, but unsure.
Beck turned and addressed the two thugs. “I am a Baptiser. Do you seek to delay me?” When this elicited no response he hurried Erlin down the corridor.
“Damnit, stop. Stop them,” Morage hissed, but the two thugs were too confused and scared to take any precipitate action.
“I never did like that one,” said Erlin, once Morage was out of sight. “Something sneaky about him.”
“Morage is a thief and a sadist. He strips the acolytes of their personal effects when they join the Church and he has been responsible for the deaths of many.”
“The Wife allows this?”
“He would have taken you for religious counselling. You would have been stripped of your belongings and part of your skin before the Wife found out. She would have forgiven him his fervour. Why are you here, Earther?”
“I can look after myself,” said Erlin, avoiding his question.
“Then do so!” he snapped, and left her as he took the most direct route to the tank room. They sang hymns while Sirus took up the small carry-pot containing his unwelcome companion for the rest of his life. The tempo of the singing changed as he walked to the door and he knew, that once the door was closed, the rest of the day would be spent in sermonising, for most of the Clergy anyway. There was one there, crouched coughing up blood in a corner, who would not make it through the day, let alone to the new year’s Eucharist. Not that the foul water of the new Gurnard would have saved him. Something had died inside him, too deeply imbedded to be ejected as was usual, and the smell of death was on his breath.
As the outer iron-scaled doors of the church closed behind him, Beck lengthened his stride. It wasn’t so bad really. The pot was not too heavy and wherever he went people would give him food and lodging for free. Some would resent it and others would make him welcome, but no one would dare refuse. He gazed at the hills, and at the mountains beyond, and strode on into his new life. Hanging at his left side, under his left arm, the Gurnard swirled in its opaque water reminding him that it was not his life. There were no more choices.
The church was out of sight and he was following a narrow path through a forest of heather trees sprung up through ground covered with blanket fungus, when a familiar voice called to him.
“May I join you for a little way, Sirus Beck?”
Erlin came toward him through the trees, her boots sinking into the blanket fungus. She had come prepared, carrying a large pack and wearing a rain cape. There also appeared to be some kind of weapon holstered at her hip. She was regarding the pot hanging at his side, not even trying to hide her fascination.
“You realise that if the Inquisition find out you are with me you’ll end up in a drowning jar?” he asked.
“Yes, I realise that, but I don’t know why.”
Beck continued walking and Erlin fell in at his side.
“Neither do I,” said Beck. “But then the Church has many rules that make no sense.”
“Yet here you are, a Baptiser, carrying a Holy Gurnard to the Waters of Change.”
“If I had a choice this pot would be smashed on the ground and I would be going my own way.” And even as he said it he felt a stab of pain in his guts. It was dangerous even to think like that. There was a long silence between them, which Erlin eventually broke.
“You wanted to know why I wanted a blood sample?” she said.
“Yes, I did.”
“I have an interest in parasites, and I have come here to study them.” Beck looked at her. The only parasites he knew anything about were sheep ticks. Erlin
went on, “There is a parasite here with a very strange life-cycle. Its eggs hatch out in the mountain springs.”
“I don’t see the relevance.”
“Well, parasites have all sorts of strange strategies for survival, breeding…sometimes they use more than one host, though I don’t think this one does. There’s one on earth that actually gets into an ant, makes the ant climb to the top of a blade of grass and there cling on until a passing sheep eats it. The sheep is its next host you see—”
“On Earth sheep eat ants?”
“No, grass.”
Beck snorted his disbelief. “If you’re not going to tell me why you want a blood sample, just say so. I don’t need this bullshit. I had enough of it in the Church.”
“No, really, I’m not lying.”
Just then there came a coughing snort from the shade of the heather trees. This was followed by a low moan and a raspy panting. Erlin pulled her weapon from its holster and looked around carefully. Beck glanced with idle curiosity at little flashing red lights on the gun. After a moment he said, “No need to worry yet. That’s only a sugar dog. Save your worrying for when we get beyond the trees. It’s flockland there.” To himself he muttered, “Grass indeed.”
The sugar dog came out of the trees far to their right, paralleling their course. Erlin stared at it in fascination, took a device from one of her pockets and pointed it at the creature.
“What are you doing?”
“Recording images of it.”
Beck studied the glinting little device she held. It was just the kind of thing Morage would like to steal. How it must burn him that she had escaped him.
“Why?” he asked her.
“I’ve never seen one before. It looks like a cross between a bloodhound and a bull frog.” The words were familiar to Beck, but not in that combination. Bull he knew as a word for untruth, just as he knew of the little black frogs that lived in the southern swamps, that ‘hound’ was another word for dog, and that ‘blood’ was red in his veins and green in the translucent flesh of sugar dogs. So much was different about Earth. Perhaps if he had not been so wrapped up in his own concerns he would have been fascinated by this. Perhaps she hadn’t been lying about the sheep. The sugar dog huffed and wuffled through the leaves near them as they followed the trail, then it moved away to the West. In the distance, on the faces of the hills, flocks of sheep could be seen hunting, but they were no danger to sugar dogs. Sugar dogs were as poisonous as the plants they ate.