Priest and Pariahs

by J. Alan Veerkamp

“For being a stupid asshole. Arbor’s had people making fun of him his whole life. How did you expect him to react?” Mac couldn’t help but sigh in defeat. He really liked Arbor and wanted nothing more than for him to find his place on the Santa Claus. But if he didn’t learn to control these kind of reactions and stop being so hypersensitive, it would only egg the guys on and make him the very outcast he was afraid of becoming.

  HOURS LATER, ARBOR could still picture Priest’s expression before he marched out of the Mess Hall. A man couldn’t fake the way his face sagged, the remorse he saw in Priest’s eyes. Worse, Arbor was the victim and, for some strange reason, he felt horrible for making Priest feel that way. The other night with Priest had been so much fun, but becoming attached to the first man you fuck after a period of nothing was something he’d like to avoid.

  Arbor sat in his quarters, staring at the space where Mr. Wiggles should have rested. He knew Mac was right. It was an adolescent stunt performed by adults who should know better and he should just roll with it. Why couldn’t he?

  What a stupid question. He knew perfectly well why.

  His mother had made Mr. Wiggles after the first time he’d been called a freak and actually believed it. The artist commune in which he grew up was supposed to be a tolerant community, a safe place for one and all. A shame no one informed the other children.

  Working for several nights, she crafted the doll out of a series of fresh socks she had knitted. She hadn’t even bothered using the threadbare ones that were too worn to wear. This monkey was special. Stuffing him with natural fibers, she put a center of cloves and cinnamon in the body. It was supposed to be a naturalist method of repelling insects. Arbor didn’t care. He loved it and even had new sticks put in over the years when the scent faded.

  Mr. Wiggles was a sign of her unending love and acceptance and made life easier when being different was hard. And life for Arbor had never been easy. Normally, when the days were difficult, he would hold onto Mr. Wiggles, breathe in the spicy scent, and remember his mother’s support.

  With him gone, he only had one other option.

  “Mrs. Claus, I’d like a private connection to Alpha Centauri.”

  “Communication link will be established in one minute, thirty-eight seconds.”

  Such a short time to wait, given the distance, but each second held on like forever when your life was crumbling.

  “Link established, Mr. Kittering.”

  Arbor climbed into the chair facing the screen. “Com link me to Mariah Kittering, Nine Muses Art Collective, District Gamma-Seven.”

  An anxious flutter rose in Arbor’s chest as the monitor over his desk came to life. Lines of code scrolled down, giving a hurried status report as the connection was established. With a sharp flicker, the screen changed to the image of an older woman sporting a series of long, graying dreadlocks, swirled into a pile atop her head. Creases marked the corners of her eyes and mouth, giving away her age, but it was the harsh line between her eyebrows that caused Arbor concern.

  “Ma? Are you okay?”

  She looked agitated and flustered. “Arbor? Can you hear me?” With a clumsy hand, she kept touching random controls on the screen. “Am I using this thing correctly?”

  “Ma, stop touching things. Everything’s working fine.” Her image kept turning colors as she huffed and continued trying to adjust settings. “Ma! Stop already!”

  With an angry huff, Mariah dropped her hands to her sides in defeat. Arbor tapped a few icons in the corner of the screen and her image stabilized.

  “It’s a travesty that there’s some technology we can’t do without. If I didn’t need this contraption to communicate, I’d have burned it on the last Sabbat.”

  “Please. No more images of you dancing naked in the firelight with the clan. I’m still permanently scarred and haven't found a reliable method to give me amnesia to cope with the trauma.”

  “I'll have you know you were conceived during one of those firelight dances.”

  Arbor shuddered. “Stop telling me things like that.”

  Mariah chuckled, her laugh sultry and alive. “Of course, my darling boy. How are you doing? You look tired. Have you been sleeping?”

  “It’s been a rough night.”

  “Is the time stamp on this thing right? It’s awfully late. What’s happened that’s so bad you’d call on me at this hour?”

  Arbor’s whole body deflated as he exhaled. “Do you ever think you’re ruining your last chance to make something of yourself?”

  “You know I don’t believe in last chances. Nature always reclaims itself at some point. Tell me what’s happened.”

  “The crew played a practical joke on me. I got really angry, and made an ass of myself. In the process, I upset some people. I guess I just needed to hear a friendly voice that isn’t on board.”

  Mariah’s smile was warm and succoring. “I would have thought you’d curl up with Mr. Wiggles and ignore it all.”

  “That’s the problem. They stole Mr. Wiggles and are holding him for ransom.”

  “Oh, Arbor.” Mariah snickered before drawing a motherly sympathy across her face. “That’s so awful.”

  Arbor dropped his head into his hands. “Crap. Even you think I’m being ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous? No. But I do think you’re making too much of it. You’ll survive this, just like everything else. I named you Arbor to impart a spirit of the tree’s renewing strength and endurance.”

  “Too bad you got more of a stump.”

  The unhappy look on Mariah’s face found no humor in Arbor’s self-recrimination. “Shame on you, Arbor. You’ve always been too hard on yourself.”

  “The world is always hard on me.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. You could come back and be an artist here in the commune, instead of dealing in all that unnatural technology. It could be easier here for you.”

  A sudden flash of annoyance spilled into Arbor’s voice. “Ma, the commune is where I got my first taste of how shitty the world can be. Remember?”

  “Those little boys were awful, but what can you expect from the offspring of experimental performance artists?”

  “At least I have something I do here that I enjoy. Even if I’m a strange minority.”

  “You are not strange. You are as nature intended.”

  Arbor hated it whenever she said that. It was a stock answer from the naturalist community. It supposedly nullified every argument surrounding his condition. It always put his spine on edge and brought out the worst in him.

  “I didn’t have to be. You could have fixed it. You knew about the achondroplasia before I was born.”

  Mariah’s brow quirked in distaste. “I was only scanned because my parents insisted on it after I was drawn into the hospital due to an accident. When the doctors told me they could correct the condition, they kept referring to you as ‘the fetus’ in this cold way that made you sound like a science experiment. Those sterile people kept saying how they could fix you. They wanted to change my baby who could live perfectly healthy without their intervention. All in the name of vanity.” She shook her head in undeniable refusal. “Why in Great Mother’s graces would I consent to such a travesty? I refused then and still hold my position, even now with everything that’s happened.”

  “I’m so glad you could find your moral center at my expense.” Arbor knew how nasty it sounded, but he couldn’t restrain his need to lash out.

  Mariah frowned. “You’re hardly sick, Arbor, and your life isn’t in jeopardy. It’s merely inconvenient.”

  “Inconvenient?” Arbor growled in outrage. “Do you have any idea how hard my life has been? To be regarded as some kind of medical throwback or carnival sideshow attraction?”

  “You struggle too hard to be normal, Arbor. Normal is highly overrated.”

  “I’d love to agree with you, but I’ve never known what that’s like.”

  Mariah straightened in her chair, reinforcing her position as head of the household. �
��Oh, stop whining, Arbor. I’ve never treated you as anything but perfect in my eyes and I’ve always done everything in my power to make you believe that.”

  “Except for the one thing you could have done before I was born.”

  This wasn’t a new argument, but it held new fuel since all the events before and after prison. The whole struggle for acceptance on the ship had worn his already thin skin. If he wanted to get a rise out of his mother, he succeeded. Her volume rose, scolding him through the hidden speakers.

  “I have watched you make more than one mistake in your life and blame me for it. I am growing tired of being your scapegoat. Nature is blessed in the variety it generates. Stop hating yourself for being different. You are responsible for only yourself and your own choices. You didn’t end up in prison for being a dwarf.” She struck her hand down on the table as an exclamation point. “You ended up in prison because you were angry over what happened with that sad excuse of a lover you fawned over.”

  Arbor slapped the screen, spinning it out of position, and ended the connection. He couldn’t listen to any more of it. Sharp gasps hissed through his teeth as tears perched at the edges of his eyes.

  What the hell was he doing? His mother was absolutely correct, and he knew it. He was healthy and sane and understood her values. Being a dwarf was the result of nature’s random number generator—the lottery no one would want to win—and accepting the fact had never been easy. Some days were easier than others, but today was not easy. Considering how many times they’d had this argument in one form or another, it was amazing the woman still took his com. Arbor wasn’t sure that he had the same level of compassion inside himself.

  With his nerves so frayed, Arbor knew better than to com her back. It would just drag the two of them into the same circular conversation. She would start trying to make amends, and he would target her naturalist ethics. This was why they couldn’t talk too often. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he ever saw her cry because of him.

  Arbor squared the monitor and settled in his chair. Touching a pad on the edge of the panel, a holographic keyboard appeared on the desk, scaling itself to the size of his hands.

  Dear Ma

  I’m so sorry if I upset you. There are things I haven’t told you about Arthur and being in prison that have made me touchier than normal. You’re right. I’ve spent a lot of time wanting others to like me. I just haven’t convinced myself they can like me in spite of being a dwarf.

  Being on the Santa Claus could be good for me, if I could only figure out how to fit in. I just wish I was better at that and less of a social reject.

  Even so, none of this is your fault. It never has been. You’re the one person in all the universe who knew how to make me feel loved. So don’t listen to me when I’m being a brat.

  I’ll check in again soon when I’m having a calmer day. You deserve better than this.

  Love, Arbor

  Arbor sniffed as he rubbed the wetness along his eye. With a deep breath, he drew strength from the knowledge he loved his mother and pressed the send-message command.

  Being upset always weathered him, so Arbor decided a shower might make him feel better.

  PRIEST'S BOOTS STRUMMED a rapid beat on the floor as he rushed back to his quarters. Off-ship personal coms weren’t very common for him, so he wasn’t going to miss out on the rare occurrence. His hand was still touching the access panel as he pushed between the doors of his room.

  He jumped into the chair like an excited child and activated the screen.

  “Hi, Dad!”

  “Morning, Eugene!”

  Priest winced. “Not so loud. No one calls me that around here. I don’t want that to change.”

  “It’s your given name, boy. You should wear it proudly.” Larry Jones was a tall, forthright man, and the knowledge his son rejected being named after his elderly grandfather was no small source of friction between them. Priest kicked himself under the table for starting up a problem so soon. Why couldn’t his mother have called instead?

  “It never really fit me and kids made fun of me all the time because of it. But I don’t want to talk about that. How are you guys doing?”

  “I’m doing all right.” His father’s voice dropped a notch. “Your mama’s been better.”

  A sharp pinch in Priest’s chest extinguished his excitement. “What’s going on?”

  “She had an accident driving one of the seeders. Wasn’t taking her meds and she passed out in the field and crashed into a silo. She was hurt pretty bad.” Priest opened his mouth, but Larry held up his hand to interrupt. “Doctors are fixing her up, but there’s some leftover nerve damage that isn’t healing correctly. Motor skills in her right hand and leg don’t quite work like they're supposed to. She won’t be able to drive any of the machines anymore, so that’s one less hand to get the crop out on time.”

  “Are you gonna make it?” The idea of the family farm in distress worried him. Growing up on the farm, Priest knew the long hours and endless work involved in being successful. Their livelihood was entwined in each season’s crop.

  “We’re putting in a lot of extra hours, but we think so. It’ll be close. It’s next harvest we’re a little worried about.”

  Priest let out a relieved breath. “Sounds like you have time to hire someone on to cover.”

  His father looked away from the screen as his mouth grew tight. An extended silence filled the room as he hesitated to speak. Priest waited patiently to hear what could be so difficult to say.

  “We want you to come home to the family business.”

  Priest shook his head. “Get David to help. He likes farming.”

  “Your brother David’s been working here for the last nine months. You’d know that if you kept in touch better.”

  Priest cringed at the statement. It was only a matter of time before his father started wielding guilt as his weapon of choice, at which he was viciously adept. Steeling himself to weather the blows would take a miracle.

  “I can’t, Dad. I have my life here.”

  Larry sat up tall, the tilt of his head and body the one he used when lording over his children. “It’s time you grew up and stopped hopping around the cluster and helped out with what matters. The farms are growing fast as the governments transition off synthesized rations. Almost too fast. You can run all the equipment and make a fine life for yourself here.”

  “But I don’t want to be a farmer. I never did.”

  Larry’s eyes grew cold. “You think you’re too good for us?”

  “No! I never said that. I never thought that. But I wanted more than that.”

  “Like what?” Larry scoffed. “How many crazy schemes have blown up in your face as you work to make yourself rich? Are you any closer yet? Still hoping to become a celebrity?”

  Every word Larry said made Priest feel like little Eugene all over again. “I was never happy there, Dad. You know that. After the Civil War, you couldn’t expect me to go back to a regular life.”

  “There comes a time when a man has to cast aside his wild ways and settle down and do what’s right.”

  A surge of anger filled Priest. He hadn’t spoken with his father in months and now he was proselytizing the virtues of a life of farming without once asking if Priest wanted such a life. Even this com was more of a request—or command—of what he wanted, not Priest.

  “But it’s only right if it’s what you want, right, Dad?” Priest shook his head as he held his temper in check. “I need something else in my life. I was never good being grounded on Alpha Centauri. I like being head pilot on the Santa Claus.”

  Larry’s face twisted in displeasure. “Head pilot? It’s a cargo freighter, boy. You need to stop making it sound bigger than it really is. That was always your problem. Tall tales and reckless dreams. You’ve spent a lot of time carousing around on that ship, visiting worlds and partying it up. Any partners yet? At least for more than a night, Eugene?”

  The cheap tactic nearly made Priest laugh out
loud. Larry Jones never asked a question during an argument if he didn’t already know the answer. It wasn’t as if Priest didn’t want a permanent partner. He had yet to find one unique enough to keep him interested.

  Priest tried to maintain a respectful tone even as he wished to do otherwise. “You don’t understand. I don’t know exactly what I want, but it’s not something ordinary. Not something standard. I know deep down I’ll never be happy on the farm. So, I’m sorry, but I’m not coming back to it.”

  “I can’t say I’m not disappointed in you, Eugene.”

  Priest shrugged, not even wanting to look his father in the eye. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve said that to me.”

  “Probably won’t be the last either if you keep on like this.”

  Priest closed his eyes to take the sting out of the last comment. “So glad you commed, Dad. You started up the ‘Eugene the Worthless Son’ song and dance faster than usual. Tell Mom I love her.”

  He disconnected.

  Rolling forward, he held his head in his hands as the air escaped his lungs through his clenched jaw. He knew his father was being harsher than normal. His mother was hurt and the old man was probably blaming himself for everything.

  But taking out his anger on him wasn’t fair. He might have been traveling the cluster, but Priest never forgot his family. Priest would give anything to make his father proud of him, but nothing short of doing whatever the man said would ever be enough. The quintessential patriarch, he was used to being followed and crushed out opposition.

  It wasn’t to say he was an evil man. Priest loved his father, and the lack of approval ate at him. If only he could go back to how their relationship functioned before. There were so many good memories growing up, living back on the farm almost sounded like a good idea. Almost.

  From the first time Larry Jones taught his son to drive while sitting in his lap and manning the controls his feet couldn’t reach, little Eugene learned to like thrills and excitement. It didn’t take long to flourish into a need to escape the routine, common life on the family farm. A taste for the good life was only a step away.