The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  • • •

  FATHER NATHANIEL WRAYBURN, MINISTER of a small parish church in Marylebone, contemplated himself solemnly in the looking glass in the sacristy. He had carefully shaved and slicked back his unruly hair, put on his collar and brushed his cassock, all with slow, ceremonious gestures as if he were performing a service—not because he was required to, but because of the solemnity of the occasion. He sighed with relief when he saw that the wrinkles furrowing his desiccated face gave him an air of dignity rather than decrepitude, and that while the body he had usurped was worn out and emaciated, at least he was blessed with bright blue eyes, much revered by mankind and more particularly by womankind. The Heaven you speak of is reflected in your eyes, Father, a member of his flock had declared. She was unaware that the promised Heaven was inhabited by creatures none of which, unfortunately, enjoyed the status of divinity—however much Father Wrayburn liked to toy with the idea that his race embodied the gods whom human beings venerated. But if that were true, they would not be planning to exterminate them, he said to himself with a pained expression. No god would treat his worshippers like that. He finished smoothing down his hair and walked toward the door of the sacristy, hoping the Envoy would be pleased with his appearance.

  “Good evening, Father Wrayburn. Or would you prefer, at last, to be called by the traditional name of your race?”

  The voice came from the doorway, where the figure of a small, skinny man was watching him, hands plunged into his trouser pockets. The Envoy’s chosen appearance startled him, not so much because it lacked manliness but because this was no anonymous individual, but rather someone whom any discerning reader would recognize.

  “I must admit, sir, that after five generations, we descendants of the first colonizers use the Earthling language and Earthling names even amongst ourselves. I fear that when the long-awaited time comes, we will have trouble habituating ourselves once more to speaking in our old, much-loved tongue, despite having conscientiously passed it on to our children, together with the ancient wisdom and knowledge of our race,” the priest replied.

  Father Wrayburn uttered these words with head bowed and his hands composing a triangle above his head, a gesture that may seem absurd to us, but which for his race was a traditional mark of respect. He also spoke in his ancestral tongue, which to any human finding himself in the sacristy would have sounded like a muddled collection of grunts, whistles, and agonized wails, which for fear of wounding your sensibilities I have chosen not to reproduce.

  “I appreciate how difficult it is for human vocal cords to reproduce our language, Father,” the Envoy replied magnanimously. “If it is easier for you, let us communicate in the Earthlings’ tongue, which I shall also use to give my welcoming speech to our brothers.”

  “I am grateful for your understanding, sir,” the priest replied, trying to hide the catch in his voice, and still more his trepidation. He collected himself and approached the Envoy, hand outstretched, not without a hint of embarrassment at that strange and intimate way Earthlings had of greeting each other. “Welcome to Earth, sir.”

  “Thank you, Father,” the Envoy said, abandoning his relaxed posture and walking toward the priest, whose hand he finally clasped in the gloom. “I’m afraid I am still not familiar with earthly customs. Not that it matters now, since there is no longer any reason to try to learn them, is there?”

  The Envoy gazed intently into the priest’s eyes, as though defying him to contradict this affirmation. When he finally let go of the priest’s hand, Father Wrayburn, faintly alarmed by the Envoy’s arrogance, cleared his throat a few times and tried to stick to his plan, in a British spirit of hospitality.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” he said. “They drink it a lot here, and I’m sure your host body will find it quite refreshing.”

  “Certainly, Father.” The Envoy nodded with a grin. “I see no reason not to enjoy the native customs before wiping them out.”

  His words caused a shiver to run down the priest’s spine. The Envoy seemed bent on reminding him continually that everything he knew, everything around him, would, in a matter of days, cease to exist. Yes, the being in front of him was charged with destroying the only world the priest treasured in his memory, and he even had the temerity to despise it without considering that its destruction might be worth lamenting.

  “Follow me,” the priest said, trying not to let his frustration show, since he knew that his role was to help the Envoy in his mission.

  Father Wrayburn guided him to a small table he had placed beside the window overlooking the back courtyard of the church, where a tiny garden flourished thanks to his ministrations. The sun was sinking in the sky, and an orange glow spread over the few plants he had been able to nurture in his spare time. Carried on the evening breeze, their perfume floated into the sacristy. He felt a pang of sadness when he realized his little garden would perish along with the rest of the planet, and with it the sensation of peace he had whenever he worked there, with his gardening gloves and tools, wondering whether that feeling of well-being was the same one humans experienced when they were engaged in the futile activity they referred to as leisure. Attempting to conceal the wave of sorrow sweeping over him, he poured the tea with a deferential smile, while the clock in the corridor chimed merrily.

  “You are right, it is a delicious beverage,” the Envoy said after taking a sip and placing the cup gingerly back on its saucer. “But I’m not sure whether that is due to the drink itself or to the collection of organs the Earthlings possess in order to savor it: nose, tongue, and throat. Now, for instance, I can still feel the warmth it has left as it goes down, and the way it slows as it reaches the intestine.”

  The priest smiled as he watched the Envoy rubbing his stomach with wondrous delight, like a child discovering a new toy. The excessive care with which he handled the cup, as though it were a test tube, and dabbed his mouth with the napkin betrayed how unpracticed the Envoy was at operating the body he had replicated, an affected daintiness that would only fade with years of experience.

  “They are good bodies,” said the priest, sincere in his praise. “Limited in their perception of the world due to their rudimentary senses, and yet able to enjoy intensely the small amount of pleasure they derive from it. And Ceylon tea is delicious. Moreover, it can be drunk safely now. Up until a few years ago, when the sewage still flowed directly into the Thames, one of these innocent-looking teacups could carry typhus, hepatitis, or cholera. It is quite unpleasant, I assure you, when the body we inhabit falls ill.”

  The Envoy nodded absentmindedly and glanced slowly about the room, contemplating its chalices and missals and the wardrobe with its chasubles and cassocks.

  “Notwithstanding your sufferings, you have certainly managed to occupy a respectable position in earthly society,” he concluded after his scrutiny, gesturing vaguely at the tiny sacristy. “You are the minister of an Anglican church and that is the official religion of England and Wales, or is the information stored in my host’s head incorrect?”

  “Indeed, sir, it is not,” the priest confirmed, unsure whether the Envoy’s remark was disapproving or congratulatory.

  Then he remembered the day of his “human” birth, as told to him by his parents, who had lived under the guise of lowly shopkeepers in Marylebone. A week after his mother gave birth (with the aid of a midwife as nonhuman as they, who informed the neighbors the child was stillborn), his father heard that a young priest had arrived at the neighborhood church. He instantly decided that this was the ideal host body for the newborn larva hidden away in their attic bedroom. He contrived to lure the priest to his house under the pretext that his mother was dying. “What do you think, my love? He is young and strong and holds a position in society that would suit us very well,” he asked his wife, much to the alarm of the priest who asked to what they were referring. “Nothing you need to worry about,” she had told him, urging him to follow her up to the bedroom, where her mother-in-law was allegedly dying. But of
course, the person waiting for the priest there was he himself, in his original larval form, eager to meet the body he would reside in during his time on Earth. The young priest scarcely had time to raise his eyebrows at the unexpected and terrifying spectacle before he felt the knife plunged to the hilt in his back. After putting his blood to good use, they buried him in the garden, and less than an hour later, once he had familiarized himself with the workings of his new body, the newborn Father Wrayburn took up his post in the church. He supplied the extraterrestrial colony with a fresh meeting place, as his father had requested, but without neglecting his duties as a priest. He was particularly proud of that, for it was not an easy job, and he resolved to convey as much to the Envoy, taking advantage of one of his pregnant silences.

  “However, I confess the situation has become complicated of late,” he explained in a cautionary tone as he poured the Envoy another cup of tea. “Our biggest challenge derives from a crisis of faith: the Bible, the book of their beliefs, is becoming increasingly difficult to interpret literally due to its lack of historical rigor.”

  “Is that so?” The Envoy smiled with an air of tedium as he raised his cup to his lips.

  “Yes. The Bible claims the world is scarcely six thousand years old, something any geologist is able to disprove. However, it is the theory of evolution elaborated by a human named Darwin that has undermined the very heart of the Christian doctrine by secularizing the act of Creation.”

  The Envoy gazed at him in silence, a supercilious smile playing over his lips. After a moment’s hesitation, the priest continued. “The theologians in our church try to appear more receptive to scientific advances, and some even demand the reinterpretation of biblical texts, but it is no good: the harm has already been done. The increasing secularization of society is a reality we must accept. Each day, new forms of leisure entice our flocks. Do you know what a bicycle is? Well, even that ridiculous object has become our adversary. On Sundays, people prefer taking a ride into the country to coming to hear my sermons.”

  The Envoy placed his cup on the saucer as though it weighed a ton and tilted his head, amused at the priest’s consternation.

  “You feel as strongly about it as a real priest would,” he remarked, with a look of studied surprise.

  “Isn’t that what I am?” replied the other man, immediately regretting his boldness. “What I mean is . . . Well, this is the only world I know, sir. Except for the fact that my ancestors weren’t born on this planet, I could consider myself an Earthling.” His smile froze when he noticed the Envoy’s stern expression. He took a moment to choose his next words judiciously, while his palms started to sweat. When he finally spoke, it was in a tone close to reverence. “Perhaps it is hard for you to appreciate our situation, sir, but we have endured a terrible, agonizing wait that has forced us to mingle with them to the point where we have difficulty continuing to be . . . extraterrestrials.”

  “Extraterrestrials . . .” The Envoy smiled.

  “That is how they refer to us . . .” the priest began explaining politely.

  “I am aware of that.” The Envoy’s irritated tone banished any trace of indulgence he might have previously shown, as though the idiotic vicissitudes of humans had suddenly ceased to amuse him, together with anything else the priest might have to say about them. “And I must confess the arrogance of this race never ceases to amaze me.”

  At this, the Envoy’s eyes narrowed, as though he were preparing to pray. Father Wrayburn realized that he was aware of the colony beginning to gather inside the church.

  “Our brothers are arriving,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

  “Yes, I can sense the excited thrum of their minds, Father.”

  “And with good reason,” explained the priest, who hastened to defend his brothers, despite his unease at the Envoy’s attitude. “We have been waiting too long for the Envoy to come. Since the sixteenth century in Earth time, to be precise, when our ancestors first arrived on Earth.”

  “And you consider that a long time?” the Envoy inquired.

  The priest could not tell from his expression whether the Envoy’s words concealed true interest or a veiled threat, though he feared it was the latter. In any event, he was unable to stop himself from continuing his reproaches, even though he was careful to voice them in a tone of extreme deference.

  “I do, sir. We are the fifth generation, as I said before,” he declared solemnly. “And as I’m sure you will easily appreciate, our ancestors’ planet is almost mythical to us. My father died without his life on Earth ever having made sense, as did my grandfather before him . . . However, we are blessed,” he hastened to add, “for we are going to achieve their dream of meeting the Envoy and welcoming our true race.”

  The Envoy simply smiled disdainfully, as though the colony’s sufferings and joys were a matter of indifference to him. At this, the priest threw all caution to the winds.

  “My ancestor killed and adopted the appearance of a man who wore a ruff!” he exclaimed, as though that accessory humans draped around their necks in olden times illustrated better than anything their lengthy wait. “Since then, we have infiltrated their world, procreating discreetly amongst ourselves in order to survive, and above all watching over the war machines our ancestors buried underground.”

  “Father Wrayburn,” the Envoy interjected in a conciliatory tone, “I assure you there is no need for you to continue listing all your grievances. I am well aware of the excellent job you have been doing in our colony here on Earth, as I have personally been in charge of evaluating the various reports on the conditions of the planet, which you have sent us so punctually. And rest assured,” he added, fixing the priest with a menacing gaze, “had I not been satisfied with your work, I would have recommended to the Council that we exterminate the colony and send new explorers.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the priest was quick to reply, alarmed by the Envoy’s last words. “We always gather here in my church at the appointed time, joining our minds to send our transmission through the Cosmos. It is our duty, sir, and so it has been done.” He paused, as though considering whether it was opportune or even wise to go on. Finally, after fingering his teacup nervously, he added, “However, I confess we nurtured a secret hope that a response from our mother planet might one day be forthcoming. Yet it never was. Still, we continued to do our duty, sending reports about the planet we were monitoring to a world that, regardless of its silence, we were forced to assume still existed and was receiving the bottles we launched as requested into the ocean of the universe. Surely you will agree that is an act of faith.”

  “As you know, explorers are volunteers. They accept their lot, with all its consequences, for the good of the race,” the Envoy retorted, attempting to dampen the priest’s bitterness. “And it is their responsibility to raise the awareness of their descendants to prevent them from building up the resentment I perceive so clearly in you, but which I shall overlook, given that, as you point out, you belong to the fifth generation.”

  “I appreciate your indulgence,” the priest replied submissively, deciding he had gone far enough, both with his complaints and in revealing so clearly his feelings toward the humans. It would be very dangerous to continue irritating the Envoy, and through him the Council and the emperor. Who was he, after all? A mere fifth-generation volunteer, a nobody. And so, he resumed in the humblest of voices: “I did not mean to give that impression, sir. But in our most recent messages we also informed you of our delicate situation. We are perishing, as you must know. It is difficult for us to procreate, and we die younger and younger. Something in the air on this planet affects us, yet we can’t find out what that is because, as you understand, we lack the necessary expertise.”

  “I appreciate your frustration,” the Envoy cut in with a weary gesture that made it clear he intended to end the discussion there. “But it is naïve of you to imagine that the difficulties experienced by a colony would concern our mother planet. What do a few lives matter
compared to the fate of an entire race? Besides, you know that a process of selection dictates where we go. The most favorable planets have preference, and Earth was never among them.”

  “Then the situation must be terrible if Earth is now considered the best option,” the priest reflected bitterly. “Are there really no other more favorable planets to which our race can move?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the Envoy acknowledged somewhat ruefully. “We have exhausted their resources at an increasingly rapid pace. Our continual evolution makes that almost inevitable.”

  “Well, even so, the important thing is that you have arrived in the nick of time,” the priest said in a conciliatory tone. “And I do not refer only to saving our colony. Earthling science is progressing by leaps and bounds. A few hundred years more, and conquering this planet would have been much more difficult.”

  “You exaggerate, Father. From what I have seen, the Earthlings’ so-called Industrial Revolution is lamentable. I have no doubt we will crush them with ease,” the Envoy declared emphatically. “In any case, my arrival was delayed, as you are probably aware.”

  “Yes, our colony received your signal sixty-eight years ago,” the priest confirmed, “when I was only a few months old. But then suddenly it vanished. No one ever knew why. We were surprised when we picked it up again, and in London.”