by Gayle Greeno
Where to begin? How to build a connection from the here and now to the past? How to show Maize she was still wanted and needed—not only for the past stored in her head, but to actively involve her in the process of discovery? Could Maize discern implications of the past in the present? Or was it too much to hope?
But Parse burst in, no gainsaying him. “We’re immersed in a project, Doyce and I, or rather, she’s writing it and I’m helping with research. A Bicentennial History of the Seekers Veritas, isn’t it a grand idea?”
“Wasn’t a Seeker very long,” Maize sounded dubious, the chair slowing as if they’d both run down simultaneously. “Spent longer at other things. Only four years of my life, not much to tell. You’ve both served longer than I, and if I added your ages together I’d guess it would come out, barely over half my years. Think you’ll play Sixteen Questions, test the old lady’s memory? Just like the eumedicos- ‘Who’s the Monitor? What did you have for dinner last night?’ I asked one what he’d eaten last night and he couldn’t remember!” Something, something had made her pull back, distance herself, whether she misered her thoughts, her memories, or whether she honestly doubted she had anything of value to share.
Khar, half-curled, half-crammed beside Maize, flicked her tail, offered them a key to the locked memories. “Ask about her ghatta.”
“It hurts to lose any of the ghatti,” and memories of Chak, P‘wa, and poor, desperate little N’oor crowded her head, “but to lose yours so early, in the prime of life, your shared beginnings. What was she like?”
The tarnished silver frame now rested against Maize’s rib cage, near her heart. “My An‘g? My An’g.” And despite the fact that Doyce had mentally spoken the name when she’d read the records, she’d not realized it was pronounced with such a soft sound, more the “g” in “angel,” rather than the hard “g” in “angle.”
“You needed to hear it with love from her own lips.”
“So much beauty, so much beneficence, so truly clever but always so frail. Her body never thrived, though her brain was so incisive. I worked in the infirmary as much as I could in hopes I’d learn something that might help her.” A wavering hand thrust the portrait in their direction. Rescuing it, Doyce studied the small oil portrait of An’g. A thin, triangular face with large, almost translucent pink-white ears, slanted eyes the color of citrine. Snowy white with a gray cap and tail and the hint of three gray patches on her lower back.
“Beautiful,” she breathed, blinking unshed tears, and remained lost in those prescient citrine eyes, almost jealous at sharing the image with Parse. Why hadn’t she ever had Khar’s portrait painted?
“Because my stripes would dizzy the artist. And you’d be cross if any were missing or misplaced.”
Somehow mollified by their silent homage, Maize snatched the picture back, fingertips caressing the frame. “Aye, the best part of me and for too short a time. After that, somehow didn’t matter that I married, had children, created another life for myself far longer than the one I’d shared with An‘g. Everything was pleasant, nice, but nothing ever quite lived up to that brief time. And after losing An’g, even losing my own child and grandchild didn’t seem any worse, any more painful than that. Horrified some when I said that, but it’s truth. Perspective, I guess. Different perspective, dif ferent values after that. Even makes living here palatable enough. I guess.” She returned the picture to the nightstand.
“But I think I know what you came for, not to hear-an old woman’s maunderings about her long-dead Bondmate, but to hear about Magnus deWit. Only thing that makes sense. Am I right?”
Parse bounced on the bed, boils either forgotten or truly painless. “Oh, yes, yes! If you could-anything, please! He died shortly after you left the Seekers Veritas. I’ve been reading some of his old correspondence, piecing the story together. But to hear anything he might have told you about it, even so long after the fact, could be priceless in evaluating the situation.”
Caught in the grip of his enthusiasm, Parse managed to come to a halt while Doyce tried to gauge her reaction. Maize had been absolutely correct—no, they weren’t here to discuss her life, but to hear what she remembered about another’s life. Not exactly flattering, viewing Maize as the vessel carrying that information.
“Might consider it, oh, might consider seeing what’s stored in this old brain of mine. But tit for tat, you know.” Maize turned shrewd, weighing their need, their willingness and intentions. “Might be what you can do for me,” she wheedled, “if ye be willing.”
So, still canny enough to remember how the game was played. What was the bargaining chip to be? Hardly money, Doyce thought. Her own chapter, or perhaps An’g’s own chapter in the book? A promise to visit again? But she’d already promised herself that Maize would be receiving more visits from Seekers and their ghatti Bondmates. Her service, however brief, no longer overlooked.
Per’la rolled peridot eyes, swished her tail ribbon. “It’s not much to ask, you know. An expedition, just a little expedition. Fresh air, sunshine, new vistas and remembered scenes.”
“Hardly too much to ask,” Khar chimed in. “And merrily we’ll roll along.”
Merrily we’ll roll along is a pain in the fan-danny! Doyce inwardly fumed as she heaved and shoved the wheeled chair across grass overdue for mowing, dips and hollows lying in wait to trap the wheels. Naturally their goal was the far end of the Seeker burial grounds, several acres distant from Headquarters where the earlier graves lay. Parse’s assistance was minimal, not that she’d expected much, but just when she relied on him to brace himself, help push the chair over a rut, one crutch or the other would sink into the lawn, bringing him to a screeching halt until he could extricate himself.
Per’la nosed at one of the punctures. “It looks like moles attacked the lawn.”
“I know. Even managed to burrow a bit back there. Have him nail pie tins to the bottom of his crutches, give him a broader base. Not a bad idea, actually,” Khar considered, sat, and scratched.
“Leftward, sharp now,” Maize commanded and Doyce, sweaty and tired, pushed her scabbard out of the way and complied. The wheeled chair resembled an oversized version of a baby’s carriage, front wheels slightly smaller than the rear ones, the front pair incapable of independent action, their axle anchored straight across, not set on a floating pivot. What they did with frequency was jam. Cornering was not its strong point either unless she tilted the chair, shifted her weight, practically lifting one rear wheel clear while she swiveled the chair on the other. Surely Parse, with his love of puzzles, could create something superior to this overgrown wicker perambulator with its unwieldy wheels. Perambulation was hardly an apt description for such grueling labor.
“Over there! I can see it! Shame they haven’t mowed more recently.” An imperious arm now pointed right, and Doyce sighed, heaved her weight in that direction. Her shoulders ached—and her back. Impossible to put her whole body into the effort with her belly constantly in the way. “Now! Stop here!” At last Maize called a halt.
Not sure how she’d haul herself up, but not particularly caring, Doyce flung herself on the grass, Parse collapsing beside her. Joy and rapture, now she’d have to pull him up as well! She peered at the small white stone, its incised lettering blurred by moss and lichen, an old wreath from the Annual Remembrance Day dried and faded at its base. “An’g—Beloved Bond of Maize Bartolotti. 146-150 AL” Parse stretched to retrieve the flowers Maize clutched in one shaking hand, the other crushing a handkerchief. Levering himself across the grass with his good leg, he arranged the flowers at the stone’s base, saluted respectfully.
“Wasn’t what you think it was like, back then, not a bit of it. Don’t know if you can credit what it meant to be a Seeker back then.” Maize’s voice cracked and she bit her lip. “Oh, I wouldn’t say you’ve got it easy now, but things are more regulated, regimented, almost a regular job rather than a vocation.”
The words stung. “Hardly a job,” Doyce protested. “It’s still a vocation, a ca
lling. One you’re called to with no warning, no say in the matter, but to serve and serve your best. There’s no backing out when you’re Chosen. You don’t ‘choose’ to be a Seeker, study for it, pass some examination.” She certainly hadn’t-already convinced she’d been a failure at everything she’d tried. Her failure as a eumedico, unable to accept the necessary lie that the emedicos’ vaunted mindtrance truly let them “see” the illnesses within their patients. Her failure as a wife and mother—bereft by husband’s and infant daughter’s deaths at the hands of her stepson, Vesey. Naturally she’d expected to fail at being a Seeker Veritas.
“Except for the examination we subject you to before we choose you,” Khar corrected, bringing her back to the present. “Fail our test and you’re free to become anything you want, except a Seeker. You are glad you passed, aren’t you?”
“Yes, love. And in eternal training, according to you, ” she ’spoke back.
“It was all so silly, you know, ultimately childish.” Maize shook her head, staring off into the distance before twisting to look behind her at Headquarters. “They didn’t even have a real Headquarters then, not while Crolius was Seeker General. Oh, had the idea for it, wanted and needed it, but Seekers were leery about settling in one place. Most they had was a stone house they’d built a few years before, someplace for the records, a place for the Seeker General to hold meetings and off duty Seekers to gather.”
Parse rolled onto his stomach, chin cupped in hands, grass stem bobbing from his mouth. “You don’t mean the old stone guest house? Doyce, the guest house where you and Jenret are living.”
She’d presumed it was old, but had no inkling it was that old. Had Matthias Vandersma ever stayed there? No, silly thought, it was built well after his time.
But Maize continued, implacable once she’d begun, and Doyce feared she’d missed something. “Changes, changes were coming, and people don’t always get along with changes. Think they want something new and different, yet in their hearts they want things just as they’ve always been. You see, Crolius and V’row had already been making changes, had a vision of the way they thought things ought to be. Not easy having visions, ideas nobody else has thought of yet.” She began to tick off points on her fingers.
“Formalized training for newly chosen Seekers, not just serving a ‘catch as catch can’ apprenticeship, riding circuit with a seasoned Seeker. Drew up formal circuits, schedules so Seekers would know when and where they’d work and for how long, and be entitled to time off. Not wear themselves out young for the good of others. Convinced the Monitor and the High Conciliators that Seekers were an essential service, deserved to be paid, not live hand to mouth like mendicants, dependent on others’ largesse for food or clothing, shelter or transport. ’
“But to Magnus’s and Ru‘wah’s minds, all this organization, this formal structure, meant the Seekers were becoming soft, losing their purpose, their goal of serving all without fear or favor when it came to the truth. No, Magnus and Ru’wah weren’t alone in mistrusting these changes; others did as well, though not as many as Magnus might have liked, but enough, enough.”
Maize looked through them, straining to recapture another era. “Even in my day things were more open, more candid communion amongst Seekers and ghatti-as if we were all a part of one big happy family. Rare to say ‘Mindwalk if ye will.’ Who needed privacy? We were all part of the same family, and in Crolius’s and Magnus’s time it was an even smaller, closer-knit family. They’d experienced some of the fears, the taunts people threw their way when it came to believing, to trusting an animal to read the truth in their minds. Nothing like what Matthias Vandersma suffered at the beginning, but there was still worry-probably still is.” Clearly, Maize hadn’t forgotten, was perceptive enough not to assume all doubt would fade with time. Skeptics, the fearful, always existed.
“Now in any family there’s generally a bit of grumpiness, arguments, and feuds. But the resentments of the traditionalists, Magnus and his cohorts, turned to backbiting, and then worse-to an open contempt for the changes Crolius was so painstakingly instituting, easing into place. He realized he couldn’t change things overnight.
“It all sounds so petty now, and perhaps it was even then. The few times Magnus spoke of it in his old age he’d bluster, sound defiant and yet almost embarrassed, shamed somehow. It’s said that Ru’wah died of shame, of having ad-_ hered to the truth so rigidly he blinded himself to the greater Truth.
“All in all, the cha pot boiled over when old Henryk Vandersma came visiting, promised Crolius the money to build a Headquarters worthy of the Seekers, but only if he’d guarantee a statue of his nephew received pride of place in the central plaza.”
“Henryk Vandersma?” The name rang a bell, but she couldn’t think where or how she’d heard it. “Nephew?” The statue in front of Headquarters was of Matthias Vandersma and Kharm.
“Yes, Henryk. ‘Frog-belly pale,’ Magnus called him, ‘whiter than a winding sheet and with pinky-red eyes.’ Even after all those years, Magnus acted uneasy when he described Henryk, Matthias’s uncle, though Henryk was seven years younger than Matthias. Henryk had commissioned architectural renderings of how he envisioned the new building, what it should be constructed of. He loved that mottled rose-gray granite, and it came from the quarries he owned. Once the Plumbs had stopped exploding for good, apparently he’d gotten rich from all the major building going on.”
“Mottled rose-gray granite,” Parse echoed dreamily.
“Mottled is right!” Maize snapped. “Like a rash according to Magnus! The building plans, the materials to be used, the statue-it was the final straw for him. Well, I’ll tell you, that ’rash’ itched him worst of all!” Despite herself she began to giggle, immediately sobered.
“What you forget nowadays, discount, is that remnants of different social classes still existed. The technicians who came over on the ships, who monitored all the mechanical devices now forbidden us. Some said it was their fault the Plumbs had begun exploding, though they’d done their best to figure out why it was happening, how to stop it. Then there were the artists, the folk who’d paid for the expedition to this new world-a world of raw materials waiting to be carved, sculpted, molded. Folk forced to abandon their creative dreams, their artistic visions, just to survive. And, of course, Magnus was descended from temperamental artists, while Crolius was pure logic, technician-stock all the way. Talk about the twain never meeting!”
Doyce shifted, intent, envisioning what it must have been like with two such headstrong people, each convinced that he, and he alone, had the right of it. For a moment it seemed all too much like her relationship with Jenret. “If Magnus didn’t like the marble, I’ll wager he hated the architectural plans as well.”
“Right you are, my girl.” Maize beamed at her. “The plans were unaesthetic, horrid, ugly, and he made no bones about using those words, and worse, to describe them. Lady bless, he didn’t even approve of the Bethel-said the love of our Lady didn’t translate into natural artistic talent. Well, I know my spirits soar when I go in there, and it’s not just from being nearer to our- Lady.” The Bethel was beautiful, and so was Headquarters, Doyce thought as she caught a glimpse of its cupola beyond Maize. Homey, right, somehow. “And strangely enough, Magnus disliked the idea of the statue even more. ‘We are Matthias Vandersma’s and Kharm’s living memorial, the Seekers Veritas, not some cold, bronze-cast statue that can never capture what the two were truly like,’ he told me time and again.”
Restive, Parse prodded, “So what happened? Headquarters got built, no doubt about that.”
Maize fixed him with a gimlet stare. “Lad, you’ve muddled your dates, or worse yet, never bothered to notice. Cornerstone says 135 AL, 135 years After Landing. They didn’t break ground until the year I was born! Didn’t complete it till ten years later. We’d almost outgrown it before it was finished, so the wings were added twenty years after that.”
“What happened? What took so long?” Parse sat up, his chew
ed grass stem dropping onto Per’la’s head. “I’ll bet Magnus had something to do with it,” he concluded triumphantly.
“Aye, that he did. You see, Henryk Vandersma had left gold to pay for the building. Magnus had Ru‘wah eavesdrop on Crolius and Henryk, find out where the gold was stored. At least that’s what Crolius and V’row had to assume when it vanished without a trace.”
“Magnus took it? Like a common criminal?” Parse exploded in outrage. “Seekers Veritas don’t steal!”
“Parse, that’s not the worst of it,” Doyce broke in. “Don’t you understand? Magnus and Ru’wah purposely listened in on a conversation they had no right or permission to hear!”
“Well, Maize said things were more casual back then, people not always bothering to give permission, say, ‘Mindwalk if ye will.’ ”
But Per’la took Parse in hand before Doyce could argue. “It’s one thing to join in a casual conversation amongst Seekers without permission. But never, never, do we purposely eavesdrop, listen to what isn’t meant for our ears or minds to hear. It’s wrong, as if you hid and listened to Doyce and Jenret talking privately.”
“All right, I’m sorry.” Scarcely chastened, he dangled a fresh grass stem tantalizingly near Per’la, tried to restore her good humor. “But I still think stealing is just as bad.”
“Well, Magnus and Ru’wah didn’t consider it stealing, simply liberating the gold from going to an unworthy cause. And never did they admit they’d taken it as the years went by.”
“Crolius and V’row never pressed them about it? Never did a formal Truth Seeking?” Too obvious, and Doyce had a feeling she’d missed something, but what? “You mean Crolius let his dreams go up in smoke, gave up just like that? How did Henryk take the loss of his gold?”
“An‘g could never figure that out either, why Crolius and V’row were so forbearing. Had all she could do not to probe Magnus’s mind for the answers. What she did gather was that Ru‘wah had also told Magnus something else, something beyond the gold’s location that gave Magnus a hold over Crolius. Sort of a tit for tat, ‘You accuse me of taking the gold, and I’ll tell the world that ...’ ” Maize trailed off, face wrinkled with the same perplexity she’d undoubtedly exhibited on first hearing the story. “All I know is that Henryk didn’t make a fuss, either.”