Prayers to Broken Stones

by Dan Simmons

  The Shrike moved out to the center of the arena slowly, lurching along like a sharp-edged sculpture learning how to walk. Its head lifted, the fighting beak snapped, and the red eyes searched the crowd as if seeking future victims.

  Suddenly the stillness was broken as the hundreds of spectators began booing and jeering and throwing small items. Through it all the Shrike stood motionless and mute, seemingly unaware of the barrage of noise and missiles. Only once—when a large melon flew from the stands and headed straight for the Shrike’s head—only then did it condescend to move. But how it moved! The Shrike leaped twenty feet to one side with a jump so incredibly fast that the terrible creature was invisible for a second. The crowd hushed in awe.

  Then the trumpets sounded again, a tall wooden door opened, and the first contestant of the Late Games entered. It was a rock giant much like the one that had chased Dobby when they were crossing the Mountains of Mist. But this one was bigger—at least twelve feet tall—and it looked to be made of solid muscle.

  “I hope he doesn’t beat the Shrike and take the prize before Raul gets to fight,” said Dobby. Gernisavien flashed the sorcerer-ape a disapproving glance.

  It was over in twenty seconds. One moment the two opponents stood facing each other in the torchlight and an instant later the Shrike was back in the center of the ring and the rock giant was lying in various parts of the arena. Some of the pieces were still twitching.

  There were four more contestants. Two were obvious suicides—whom the crowd booed loudly—one was a drunken lizard soldier with a high-powered crossbow, and the last was a fierce mutant with body armor of his own and a battle-axe twice as tall as Gernisavien. None of them lasted a minute.

  Then the trumpets sounded again and Raul cantered into the arena. Gernisavien watched through her fingers as the handsome centaur, upper body oiled and glistening, moved toward the waiting Shrike. Raul was carrying only his hunting spear and a light shield. No—wait—there was a small bottle hanging from a thong around his neck.

  “What’s that?” asked Gernisavien, her voice sounding lost and quavery even to herself.

  Dobby did not take his eyes off the arena as he answered. “A chemical I found in the Man Ruins. May the gods grant that I mixed it right.”

  Down in the arena the Shrike began its attack.

  Dear Whitney,

  Yes—you’re right—this part of the country is the seventh circle of desolation. Sometimes I walk down the street (my “home” here is on a hill, if you can call furnished rooms in a rotting old brick house a home) and catch a glimpse of the Missouri River and remember those great days we had out on the Cape during spring break of our senior year. Remember the time we went riding along the beach and a thunderstorm came boiling in from the Bay and Pomegranate got so spooked? (And we had to … ahem … wait it out in the boathouse?)

  Glad to hear that you enjoy working in the Senator’s office. Do all you Wellesley girls ascend directly into jobs like that or do most end up at Katie Gibbs School for Future Secretaries? (Sorry about that—someone stuck in the Meerschaum Pipe Capital of the World as I am shouldn’t throw stones … or stow thrones for that matter. Did you know that every corncob pipe in the western hemisphere comes from this town? I’ve got two inches of white soot on my windowsill and on the hood of my car to prove it!)

  No—I don’t get into St. Louis very much. It’s about a fifty mile trip and the Volvo has been sitting by the curb for over a month. The head gasket is shot and it takes about ten years to get a part sent out here. I was lucky even to find a garage with metric tools. I did take the bus into the Big City three weeks ago. Went right after school Friday and got home Sunday evening in time to get depressed and to do my lesson plans. Ended up not seeing much except three movies and a lot of bookstores. Finally took a tour of the Gateway Arch. (No—I will not bore you with the details.) The best part of the weekend was enjoying the amenities of a good hotel for two nights.

  To answer your question—I’m not totally sorry that I came out West to go to grad school in St. Louis. It was a good program (who can beat an 11-month Masters program?) but I hadn’t anticipated that I’d be too poor to escape this goddamn state without teaching here for a year. Even that might have been OK if I could have found a position in Webster Groves or University City … but the Meerschaum Pipe Capital of the World? This place—and the people—are straight out of Deliverance.

  Still—it’s only a year, and if I get a job with Hovane Acad or the Experimental School (have you seen Fentworth recently?), this year could be invaluable background experience.

  So you want to hear more about my students? What can you say about a bunch of bucolic fourth graders? I’ve already told you about some of the antics of Crazy Donald. If this podunk district had any real special ed or remedial programs he’d be in them all. Instead, I throw a lassoo on him and try to keep him from hurting anyone. So let’s see, who does that leave to tell you about?

  Monica—our resident nine-year-old sexpot. She has her eye on me but she’ll settle for Craig Stears in the sixth grade if I’m not available.

  Sara—a real sweet kid. A curly-haired, heart-faced little cutie. I like Sara. Her mother died last year and I think she needs an extra dose of affection.

  Brad—Brad’s the class moron. Dumber than Donald, if that’s possible. He’s been retained twice. (Yes … this district does flunk kids … and spank them.) Not a discipline problem, Brad’s just a big, dumb cluck in bib overalls and a bowl haircut.

  Teresa—Here’s a girl after your own heart, Whit. A horse nut! Has a gelding which she enters in shows around here and in Illinois. But I’m afraid Teresa’s into the Cowgirl Mystique. Probably wouldn’t know an English riding saddle if she sat on it. The kid wears cowboy boots to school every day and keeps a currycomb in her desk.

  And then there’s Chuck & Orville(!) & William-call- me-Bill & Theresa (another one) & Bobby Lee & Alice & Alice’s twin sister Agnes & etc. & etc …

  Oh, I mentioned Terry Bester last time, but I do want to tell you more about him. He’s a homely little kid—all overbite and receding chin. His hair hangs in his eyes and his mother must trim it with hedgeclippers. He wears the same filthy plaid shirt every day of the year and his boots have holes in them and one heel gone. (Get the picture? This kid’s straight out of Tobacco Road!)

  Still—Terry’s my favorite. On the first day of school I was making some point and waving my arm around in my usual, histrionic fashion and Terry (who sits right up front, unlike most of the other boys) made a dive for the floor. I started to get mad at him for clowning around and then noticed his face. The kid was scared to death! Obviously he was getting the shit beat out of him at home and had ducked out of habit.

  Terry seems determined to fit every poor-kid stereotype. He even drags around this homemade shoeshine box and makes a few quarters shining these hillbillies’ boots down at the Dew Drop Inn and Berringer’s Bar & Grill where his old man hangs out.

  Anyway, to make a long story short, the little guy has been spending a lot of time with me. He often shows up at the back porch here about five-thirty or six o’clock. Frequently I invite him to stay for dinner—although when I tell him I’m busy and I have to write or something, he doesn’t seem to resent it and he’s back the next night. Sometimes when I’m reading I forget he’s there until ten or eleven o’clock. His parents don’t seem to care where he is or when he gets home. When I got back from my weekend in St. Louis, there was ’ol Terry sitting on my back steps with that absurd shoeshine kit. For all I know he’d been sitting there since Friday night.

  Last weekend he calmly mentioned something that made my hair stand on end. He said that last year when he was in third grade “Ma and the Old Man got in a terrible fight.” Finally Ma locked the front door when the drunken father stepped out onto the porch to scream at the neighbors or something. The guy just got madder and madder when he couldn’t get back in and started shouting that he was going to kill them all. Terry says that he was hugg
ing his six-year-old sister, his Ma was crying and screaming, and then the Old Man kicked in the door. He proceeded to hit Terry’s mother in the mouth and drag the two kids out to his pickup truck. He drove them up Sawmill Road (in nearby Boone National Forest) and finally jerked the children out of the cab and pulled his shotgun off the rack. (Everybody carries guns in their pickups here, Whit. I’ve been thinking of getting a gun rack for the Volvo!)

  You can imagine Terry telling me all of this. Every once in a while he’d pause to brush the hair out of his eyes, but his voice was as calm as if he were telling me the plot of a TV show he’d seen once.

  So the father drags eight-year-old Terry and his little sister into the trees and tells them to get down on their knees and pray to God for forgiveness because he’s got to shoot them. Terry says that the old drunk was waving the double-barreled shotgun at them and that his little sister, Cindy, just “went and wet her panties, then and there.” Instead of shooting, Terry’s father just lurched off into the woods and stood there cussing at the sky for several minutes. Then he stuck the kids back in the pickup and drove them home. The mother never filed charges.

  I’ve seen Mr. Bester around town. He reminds me of whatshisname in the movie version of To Kill A Mockingbird. You know, the racist farmer that Boo Radley kills. Wait a minute, I’ll look it up. (Bob Ewell!)

  So you can see why I’m allowing Terry to spend so much time with me. He needs a positive male role model around … as well as a sensitive adult to talk to and learn from. I’d consider adopting Terry if that were possible.

  So now you know a little bit of how the other half lives. That’s one reason why this year’s been so important even if it has been sheer purgatory. Part of me can’t wait to get back to you and the sea and a real city where people speak correctly and where you can walk into a drugstore and order a frappe without being stared at. But part of me knows how important this year is—both for me and the kids I’m touching by being here. Just the oral tradition of the story that I’m telling them is something they would never get otherwise.

  Well, I’m out of paper and it’s almost one a.m. School tomorrow. Give my best to your family, Whit, and tell the Senator to keep up the good work. With any luck (and the head gasket willing) you’ll be seeing me sometime in mid-June.

  Take care. Please write. It’s lonely out here in the Missouri woods.

  Love, Paul

  The great Sky Galleon moved between high banks of stratocumulus that caught the last pink rays of sunset. Raul, Dobby, and Gernisavien stood on the deck and watched the great orb of the sun slowly sink into the layer of clouds beneath them. From time to time, Captain Kokus would bellow orders to the chimp-sailors who scampered through the rigging and sails far above the deck. Occasionally the captain turned and murmured quiet orders to the mate, who spoke into the metal speaking tube. Gernisavien could sense the fine adjustments to the hidden tanks of anti-gravity fluid.

  Eventually the light faded except for the first twinkling of stars and the two minor moons hurtling above the cloud layer. Unseen sailors lit lantern running lights hanging from mast tops and spars. The climbing cloud towers lost the last of their glow and Dobby suggested that the three go below to prepare for the Spring Solstice party.

  And what a party it was! The long Captain’s Table was heaped with fine foods and rare wines. There was succulent roast bison from the Northern Steppes, swordfish from South Bay, and icy bellfruit from the far-off Equatorial Archipelago. The thirty guests—even the two dour Druids—ate and laughed as they never had before. The wine glasses continued to be refilled by the ship’s stewards and soon the toasts began to flow as quickly as the wine. At one point Dobby rose to toast Captain Kokus and his splendid ship. Dobby referred to the grizzled old skysailor as a “fine fellow anthropoid” but stumbled a bit over the phrase and had to start again to general laughter. Captain Kokus returned the compliment by toasting the intrepid trio and praising Raul for his courageous victory at the Carvnal Death Games. Nothing was said about the Galleon’s undignified departure from the city mooring tower with two squads of lizard soldiers in hot pursuit of the last three passengers. The diners applauded and cheered.

  Then it was time for the Solstice Ball to begin. The table was cleared, the tablecloth was furled, and then the table itself was broken into pieces and carried away. Guests stood around on the broad curve of the lowest deck and accepted refills once more. Then the ship’s orchestra filed in and began their preparations.

  When all was in readiness, Captain Kokus clapped his hands and there was a silence.

  “Once again I formally welcome you all aboard the Benevolent Zephyr,” rumbled the Captain, “and extend to you all the best wishes of the Solstice season. And now … let the dancing begin!”

  And with a final clap of his hands the lantern light dimmed, the orchestra began playing, and great wooden louvers on the belly of the ship swung down so that nothing stood between the passengers and the depths of sky beneath them except crystal floor. There was a general oohing and ahhing and everyone took an involuntary step backward. Immediately this was followed by a burst of laughter and applause and then the dancing began.

  On sped the great, graceful Sky Galleon into the aerial rivers of the night. Seen from above there would have been only the glow of the running lanterns and the only sound was the sigh and slap of wind in the sails and occasional calls of “All’s Well!” from the lookout in the crow’s nest. But seen from below, the ship blazed with light and echoed to tunes so ancient that they were said to have come from legendary Old Earth. Forest nymphs and demimen danced and pirouetted five thousand feet above the night-shrouded hills. At one point sober Gernisavien found herself in the undignified position of dancing with a centaur—lifted high in Raul’s strong arms as his hooves tapped their own rhythm on the unscratchable crystal floor.

  A storm came up before the party ended and the captain had the lights turned down so that the company could look past their feet at the lightning that rippled through the stormclouds far below. After a hushed moment, the orchestra began playing the Solstice Hymn and Gernisavien, much to her surprise, discovered herself singing the sentimental old ballad along with the others. Tears welled up in her eyes.

  Then it was to bed, with revelers stumbling along the suddenly pitching corridors. Even the throes of an aerial storm could not prevent most of the tired passengers from dropping off to sleep. Dobby lay sprawled on his back, his purple beret on the pillow beside him, his great, smiling, simian mouth opened wide to release mighty snores. Gernisavien had found her bunk too large so she slept curled up in an open drawer which swung out slightly and then slid back to the ship’s even rockings. Only Raul could not sleep, and after checking in on his friends he went above deck. There he stood huddled against the cold breeze and watched the first, false light of dawn touch the boiling cloudtops.

  Raul was thinking grim thoughts. He knew that if they were not intercepted by the Wizard’s flying machines, it was only a few more days’ journey to South Bay. From there it would be a four or five day trek overland to the supposed Farcaster Site. They were already much too close to the Wizard’s Stronghold. The odds were poor that the three friends would live out the week. Raul tapped at the dagger on his belt and watched the new day begin.

  Mr. Kennan stood on the asphalt playground with fourth graders running and playing all around him and smiled up at the pleasant spring day. His army jacket, so frequently commented upon by the children, was not needed on such a warm day, but he wore it loosely along with his sports-car cap. Occasionally he would grin just for the hell of it and rub at his beard. It was a beautiful day!

  The children’s spirits reflected the promise of summer all around them. The little playground that had been such a grim exercise yard through the long months of winter now seemed to be the most pleasant of places. Discarded jackets and sweaters littered the ground as children swung from the monkey bars, ran to the bordering alley and back, or played kickball near the brick cliff o
f the school building. Donald and Orville were engrossed in floating some tiny stick in a mud puddle, and even Terry entered into the spirit of the day by galloping around with Bill and Brad. Kennan overheard the boy say to Brad, “You be Dobby ’n I’ll be Raul an’ we’ll be fightin’ the ratspiders.” Bill began to protest as the three boys ran toward the far end of the playground and Kennan knew that he was resisting becoming a female neo-cat, even for the ten minutes left of the recess.

  Kennan breathed deeply and smiled once again. Life seemed to be flowing again after months of frozen solitude. Who would have dreamed that Missouri (hadn’t it been part of the Confederacy?… or wanted to be …) could have such chill, gray, endless winters? There had been five snow days when school had to be cancelled. After two such snow days followed by a weekend, Kennan had realized with a shock that he had not spoken to anyone for four days. Would they have come looking for him if he had died? Would they have found him in his furnished room, propped up at the jerry-rigged writing desk surrounded by his manuscripts and shelves of silent paperbacks?

  Kennan smiled at the conceit now, but it had been a grim thought during the darkest days of winter. The kickball eluded a fielder and rolled to where Kennan was standing amid his inevitable flock of adoring girls. He made a production of scooping up the ball and throwing it to the shouting catcher. The throw went wide and bounced off the basement window of the art room.

  Kennan turned away to survey the apple blossoms filling the tree in a nearby yard. New grass was growing up in the centerline of the alley. He could smell the river flowing by only four blocks away. Thirteen days of school left! He viewed the end of the year with self-conscious sadness mixed with unalloyed elation. He couldn’t wait to be away—his car, newly resurrected, packed with his few cartons of books and possessions, and the summer sunlight warm on his arm as he headed east on Interstate 70. Kennan imagined his leisurely escape from the Midwest—the seemingly endless barrier of cornfields passed, the surge of traffic on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the contraction of distance between cities, the familiar exit signs in Massachusetts, the smell of the sea … Still, this had been his first class. He would never forget these children and they would never forget him. He imagined them sharing with their children and grandchildren the long, epic tale he had forged for them. During the past weeks he had even toyed with the idea of another year in Missouri.