8
The Gathering
A man has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it; and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification. So I contend that…honest, fervent politics are religion; that whatsoever a man will labour for earnestly and in some measure unselfishly is religion.
—David Herbert Lawrence, Letters, vol. 1
Bonneville, New Utah
When Zia and Michael arrived, the house was the pandemonium of hand-waving, room-changing, orders-bellowing, and petty officiousness that accompanies any gaggle of minor officials unaccustomed to holding either real respect or real authority. Asach and The Lads had retreated to the roof: Asach to avoid being observed; The Lads to avoid being dragooned. They might have been a TCM detail, but they were locals, and it didn’t take long to grow fond of Mena’s cooking. They had no particular love for these foul-smelling, book-touting zealots from Maxroy’s Purchase, and they didn’t much like what they were hearing down below. This lot was outright bragging that they’d “tithe the last tenth” and put this “band of mammon-grubbing pilgrims out on the street.”
So, much mirth was suppressed when Michael burst into the compound, and confronted the assessors with the black-frock-clad Zia, who was the last word in officiousness. Accounts ledgers, sealed TCM security certificates, and perfect Anglic diction were laid on with a spatula. Then, in the good-cop counter to Zia’s bad-cop berating, Mena and Lena appeared with mountains of food, topped off with genuine Mormon bush tea. It was lights out in short order; then in what seemed barely five minutes rousted to another mountain of breakfast, and slightly confused by their sense of well-being, the True Church tithe team was on its way. The Lads’ joy at one pulled-over at the expense of the MPs quite overwhelmed any sense of obligation they might have felt toward their brethren-in-faith, and they cheerfully volunteered to head off as escorts to whatever hinterland Asach might next direct.
Their second shock came when they headed downstairs later that morning, after the tithe-collectors had finally departed. Michael stood, not triumphant, but stooped, crushed and crumpled, face sallow, patrician demeanor evaporated. Zia’s hand wrapped that of a small, hooded girl with purple bruises marbling her face. Both their faces were wet with tears. But the worst was Ollie, slumped at the little stone table, face in hands, shoulders wracked, sobbing like an infant, while Zia explained to Michael.
“They came on the SunRail. The overnight. They left right after we did. Right after the MPs let them go.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“My niece. Ollie’s niece. He couldn’t leave her. Her father’s a TCM pig—” she spat, then looked sharply at the Lads. “Sorry. I don’t mean you or the rest of Ollie’s contract security boys. I mean MPs, you know? A private, joined up on the Purchase. One of those MP fundies who—you know? Just look at her.”
Their eyes widened in horror, and they nodded.
The wiry one suddenly blurted: “Where’s Deela?”
Zia looked at him. Tried to remember him. There were so many. All of them sweet on little Deela, with her sweet little smile and her emerald-green eyes. The light of Ollie’s eye.
“With the boys. Ollie came ahead on the SunRail when he heard, because—”
And now Michael blurted: “Where are Deela and the boys?”
Ollie shot from the bench, sobbing and pulling something from his shirt, shoving it forward, half lurching, half falling into Michael’s face. The Lads crowded around. They couldn’t make out the image. A dark glade. Something butchered. Something hanging, butchered, but with much too much red.
And Ollie shouted: “That’s Hugo. Look what they’ve done to my Hugo!”
And Zia’s voice joined in, sounding very far away. “We don’t know. That’s why they came ahead. We don’t know. Except, of course, poor Hugo.”
Michael sagged; suddenly looked old. “That’s it, then. They know.” Then he looked up, wild-eyed.
“You can’t stay here! They’ll know! They’ll come here, and they’ll know, and we’ll all—”
But somehow, all at once, Zia and Ollie and Marul were ringed: by Nejme, and Mena, and Lena; by the house staff; by the Lads, who stepped into the circle. Suddenly, Michael stood on the outside, and everyone else was on the inside, ringed around their own.
Asach reached out, gently, and took the image from Ollie’s quavering hand. Examined it carefully. Rubbed a finger over one portion several times, enlarging the detail. Looked at it thoughtfully, dispassionately.
“Ollie,” Asach said, “do you hire Saurons for your security details?”
He stopped blubbing with one breath, suddenly sober, suddenly back on the job.
“No!”
“How about Tanith? Hire any Tanith Jungle Boys?”
He was already shaking his head. “No! No offworlders! Only locals! Only lads from wards I know!”
Asach looked up from the image, slowly. “Only, feathery thing, a tamarisk. But there’s no tracks. No limbs that’d hold that weight. That’s why they—that’s why his weight is borne by the trunk. It took somebody strong as an ox to get that boy up that tree.”
And then Asach was looking at Michael. “And then there’s the method.”
Asach looked at Zia and Ollie. Then down at Marul. “I’m sorry. But you’ve already seen it. I think you should know. And I suppose they’ll tell you anyway, once they’ve figured it out for themselves. Or not. Which would say a lot in itself.”
Back to Michael. “It’s a nasty death. It’s a nasty death, because it’s meant to send a signal. Question is, who was the signal for?”
Michael was pale, on the verge of fainting.
And then to Ollie. But clearly, the boy’s father already knew. Asach handed him back the image, and pulled Michael aside, out of Mena’s hearing. “It’s called reverse kosher, for some pinch-minded, sadistic reason I don’t care to pursue right now. You can tell by the bleeding. First he was pinned to the tree. Then he was gutted. Then his throat was cut. It isn’t pretty, and depending on what bastard does it, it can be very slow.”
And very, very slowly, Asach looked Michael full in the face. “So, tell me, Michael. Who on New Utah pays hired goons? From offworld? From the nether regions of Hell?”
He cowered.
“See, I don’t think sending these folks away will make much difference now. Do you?”
He shuddered, as if a spell had lifted. He shook his head. “No.”
“Michael, I think it’s time to start spilling your guts to your dear, old friend. Because these people,” Asach waved a hand to take in the assembled behind them, “desperately need our help.”
He nodded.
“OK, so, do you believe me now?”
He nodded.
“Evidence of things seen, or unseen?”
He shuddered again. “Seen. Unseen. Both.”
“So, who was this message intended for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Michael?!”
“I DON’T know.”
“Then let’s try it a different way. Michael, where is your mother?”
Nothing.
“Michael, where is Lillith Van Zandt?”
Nothing.
“Michael, is Lillith Van Zandt here on New Utah?”
He nodded, slowly.
“Well, then, old friend, I think it is time to spill.”
They trundled poor Marul off to bed, in the company of Mena, Lena, half the household, and The Lads, who swore on their mother’s heads that they would trade watch to ensure that no harm came to her during the night.
Asach, Zia, Ollie, Michael, Nejme, and later Mena, lullabies complete, huddled around a table in the kitchen, with Lena on the periphery tending refills. And oh, did Michael spill. It had all been the opal meerschaum trade, he said. Lillith wanted in on the action; the TCM had a lock; and good son Michael had been dispatched to ooze his way around the margins and insin
uate himself.
He’d insinuated as far at Bonneville. He’d sniffed and sniffed, and found that the TCM seemed to hold a bunch of warehouses there. Officially, they were tithe-houses, secured for the annual collection. Michael wasn’t so sure. Seemed to be a lot of to-and-fro, especially this past year, and well before the collection and debtor’s assizes.
So he’d gone to Bonneville. Bought the house. With Lillith’s money, not his. Found a staff. Settled in. Put it about a bit, quietly, that he’d broker. It was Nejme, really. Nejme and Mena. People came, spoke with them. It trickled in. Never much. Never much from one seller. No really big chunks. Bits and pieces, packed in sand, direct from wherever it came from. But nice quality. Even a few pieces of black—old family pieces, you know? It trickled in.
“What did they want for it?”
“Excuse me?”
“The meerschaum. What did they want? Selenium?”
Michael looked confused. So did everyone.
“Selenium?
“Vitamins? Fertilizer?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. No barter. Strictly cash.”
“Crowns?”
“Whatever. Crowns, local, credits, scrip. TCM tithe credits are favorite here. Sort of cuts out the middleman.”
Everyone nodded.
“And the other end?”
“There was no other end. I only worked here.”
“So you still have it all?”
“No.” He looked over at the grim-faced woman in the conservative black dress. “That’s where Zia comes in.” He re-told the story: the meeting; the Bonneville warehouse; the twenty-two kilos, sold, supposedly, fair-and-square, to a TCM contract buyer from something called Orcutt Land and Mining. The promissory voucher for full, one-to-one tithe credit. The notice of the impending auditor descent, and the subpoena to the debtor’s assizes. His hideously expensive, panic-driven flight to Saint George. Zia’s deal for salvation.
Asach thought for awhile in the exhausted quiet. Looked over at the plump, tough little woman with the pinched, grim face cowled by her severe, black frock and bonnet.
“And, you had in mind—?”
Zia felt nothing. Business was business. Hugo was dead.
“The warehouses,” she said. “I had in mind the warehouses. The warehouses for Orcutt Land and Mining.”
Ollie started. “Zia, No!”
She shrugged. ‘What does it matter now? Hugo is dead.”
“But Deela! And—”
“What does it matter? If they have them, if they want them, they are gone now too, no matter what we do.”
She turned back to Asach. “I know when the warehouses will make delivery to the TCM in Saint George.”
Michael jumped in. “But how can you? That’s what you never explained. How can you know when? I’m telling you, there isn’t enough product out there! There isn’t—”
“There will be. Very soon now, it’s coming.”
“But how do you know”
Zia glowered at him, her face pinched, and hard. She detested him. Detested his patrician manners; detested his phony Bonneville whites, detested his caviling clinging to his Mama’s purse. She barely, just barely, refrained from name-calling.
“I know, because we all know. Anyone from here. Anyone from Bonneville. Don’t we?”
She scanned the table. Nejme, Mena, Lena: they met her gaze briefly, then averted their eyes. But everyone nodded, slightly.
Asach knew too, of course, albeit in a different way, and from the other end. Had been briefed that much. Knew that a neutron star, in an eccentric orbit, opened a tramline—an Alderson point—from New Utah to Maxroy’s Purchase on a roughly 21-year cycle. Knew that the True Church had, every twenty years or so, briefly registered some mining company or other on Maxroy’s Purchase, and used its books to mask illicit shipments of fertilizer, vitamins, medical supplies—and in return pull in prime opal meerschaum. In between those decades, the price would climb and climb. The end game speculation was the stuff of dreams for small players.
And now, the Jackson Delegation was more-or-less hanging around, awaiting Asach’s report; awaiting the opening of the tramline, ready to offer free trade in fertilizer, in exchange for the munificent benefits of Empire membership. Munificent for some. Not so very munificent at all, if you had neither planetary government nor space travel. In which case, you enjoyed all the benefits of being colonized, as on Makassar.
But this seemed a different conversation. This was not a question of TCM stockpiles waiting to ship out. This seemed a question of TCM warehouses expecting goods in. And everybody here seemed in on it.
Asach took a stab in the dark. “So, what you mean is, you know when the opal meerschaum will start coming in?”
Zia nodded.
“As in, in to Orcutt Land and Mining?”
Zia nodded again.
“And that is—how?”
Zia did not answer. Shifted her glower to Nejme, who still did not meet her eyes.
Finally, Mena spoke. “It’s just a bit—embarrassing.”
“Ma, there’s nothing wrong with it, you know! That’s just a superstition. There’s nothing wrong—”
“No, nothing wrong at all,” affirmed Nejme. “Which is why we all agreed, together, to work with Michael.”
All three of them raised their eyes to the Eye above the doorway.
“We call them tangiwai—His tears.” Nejme nodded. Mena continued. “They come from the Gatherings. We pick them up—pilgrims pick them—on the way too and from the Gatherings. They are just—souvenirs—you know? To show that you have been?”
Lena nodded enthusiastically. “And they’re stony cool, you know? Elthazar found a big, flat chunk once, and carved it into a fire screen. Carried it all the way back, and carved it into a fire screen. It’s really beautiful at night. You light the fire, and—”
Nejme glared. “Now that’s going too far! You should treat tangiwai with respect. Just because—”
“Oh, like selling them to offworlders and carving pipes is more respectful?”
“That’s different.”
“Different how? Different because—”
Mena spoke, softly. “Different, because people need the money.” She turned to Asach.
“It is hard to come by cash, you know? For the tithe? And so of course in the end most of them keep the littlest pieces, but sell the best to a broker.”
“Like Michael.”
She smiled, softly. “Yes, like Michael. None of us would do it, you know. Take the stone in exchange for money. Not from another islander. It would just—in the end—it makes trouble, you know? People get jealous? And we don’t deal with the TCM if we can help it.” Her face suddenly clouded, saddened. “It’s too dangerous for us. They hate us. Anyway,” she brightened, “somebody from outside. Somebody—”
“Like Michael.”
“Yes, High Church, like Michael, or Muslim—somebody like that, is better. Even Mormon LDS—Sixers, I mean, not True Church. Just not TCM. We weren’t brokers, before, but Michael—”
“needed someone he could trust to run a House, ” finished Nejme.
Asach nodded, doodling idly with one finger on the table. Didn’t look up.
“Michael?”
He jumped.
“Michael, why were you messing about with middlemen in the dark of the night?”
He squirmed, uncomfortable, but did not reply.
“Michael, if Lillith Van Zandt wanted to horn in on the opal meerschaum trade, why another wholesaler? Why not deal direct?”
He squirmed again. “Well, we couldn’t, really. And anyway, like I said, I didn’t know—”
“Didn’t know what? Didn’t know something that, by the sound of it, at least half the children on this planet know? Oh, please, Michael. That’s not like you at all.”
He bridled. “Now look here, Asach, I’ve been completely frank with you. I don’t know—”
“Frank, yes, but completely? I think not. There’s more
. Isn’t there Michael? More? Something more that Lillith Van Zandt wants to know.”
“Well, the source, of course. She wants the source.”
“Why? Why would she bother? Sounds like it gets trotted right up to her front door. Well, your front door, anyway.”
“I don’t know.” He was really whinging now. Asach hated it when he whinged. There wasn’t much to Michael but charm, and when that evaporated, what remained got under the skin. “She just said I had to. Had to deal with Orcutt. Had to follow Orcutt to the source.”
“The source of what?”
“Well, I just thought the meerschaum. Why not? I mean, there’s a market for it. I just thought she wanted to corner the market.”
“Oh good grief, Michael. Whatever for? Can you honestly see your mother bothering to corner the market in etched pipes and fireplace screens?”
But, again, just: “I don’t know.”
Exasperated, Zia interrupted. “Well, maybe Collie Orcutt knows.”
Michael looked blank. Asach looked interested. Nejme looked up. Mena froze. Lena began to speak, but Mena waved her down.
“Who?”
“Collie Orcutt? The previous owner? Went bust, oh, eight, ten years ago? TCM took his paper?”
“His paper?”
“His paper. His claim.”
Nejme filled in: “The mining rights to his land.”
“Oh, more than that, in his case. He was way, way in. Had a vision? Had a vision, of a united Church, here in Bonneville? But thought he was beyond the tithe. Way out there, in The Barrens, where they never go. Thought wrong. Borrowed from the wrong people, at the wrong time, at the wrong rates. True Church Militant got it all. Well, most of it. Mining, minerals, water: left him with a chunk of barrens and a solar well. Took in haulpaks and chewed up a couple of mountains. Made a fortune. That’s about when I was hired, clerking in the Bonneville warehouses. Then they dumped it all. Some consortium bought the claim. It’s still filed in Saint George and Pitchfork River. TCM still uses the warehouses, though. I’ve never met the current owners.”
“Yes,” said Lena, glaring at the ceiling, “Collie Orcutt got the wrong end of the Stick, as we say around here.”
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