“People in Pastwatch love and live as human beings,” he answered.
“Not Pastwatch, Hunahpu, our project. The Columbus project. We’re going to succeed. We’re going to assemble our team of three who will go back in time. And when they succeed, all of this will cease to be. Why should we marry and bring a child into the world in order to cause it to disappear in only a few more years?”
“We don’t know that,” said Hunahpu. “The mathematicians are still divided. Maybe all we create by intervening in the past is a fork in time, so that both futures continue to exist.”
“You know that that is the least likely alternative. You know that the machine is being built according to the theory of metatime. Anything sent back in time is lifted out of the causal flow. It can no longer be affected by anything that happens to the timestream that originally brought it into existence, and when it enters the timestream at a different point, it becomes an uncaused causer. When we change the past, this present will disappear.”
“Both theories can explain the way the machine works,” said Hunahpu, “so don’t try to use your superior education in mathematics and time theory against me.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Diko. “Because even if our time continues to exist, I won’t be in it.”
There it was—the unspoken assumption that she would be one of the three who went back in time.
“That’s ludicrous,” he said. “A tall black woman, going to live among the Taino?”
“A tall black woman with a detailed knowledge of events that still lie in the future for the people of the surrounding tribes,” she said. “I think I’ll do well enough.”
“Your parents will never let you go.”
“My parents will do whatever it takes for this mission to succeed,” she answered. “I’m already far more qualified than anyone else. I’m in perfect health. I’ve been studying the languages I’ll need for that aspect of the project—Spanish, Genovese, Latin, two Arawak dialects, one Carib dialet, and the Ciboney language that is still used in Putukam’s village because they think it’s so holy. Who else can match that? And I know the plan, inside and out, and all the thinking that went into it. Who can do better than I to adapt the plan if things don’t go as expected? So I will go, Hunahpu. Mother and Father will fight it for a while, and then they’ll realize that I am the best hope of success, and they’ll send me.”
He said nothing. He knew that it was true.
She laughed at him. “You hypocrite,” she said. “You’ve been doing just what I’ve been doing—you’ve designed the Mesoamerican part of the plan so that only you can possibly do it.”
That too was true. “I’m as natural a choice as you are—more natural, because I’m a Maya.”
“A Maya who’s more than a foot taller than the Mayas and Zapotecs of the period,” she retorted.
“I speak two Mayan dialects, plus Nahuatl, Zapotec, Spanish, Portuguese, and both of the Tarascan dialects that matter. And all your arguments apply to me as well. Plus I know all the technologies we’re going to try to introduce and the detailed personal histories of all the people we have to deal with. There is no choice but me.”
“I know it,” said Diko. “I knew it before you did. You don’t have to persuade me.”
“Oh,” he said.
“You are a hypocrite,” she said, and there was some emotion behind it. “You were all set to go yourself, and yet you expected me to stay behind. You had some foolish notion that we would marry and have a baby, and then I would stay behind on the off chance that there would be a future here while you went back and fulfilled your destiny.”
“No,” he said. “I never really thought of marriage.”
“Then what, Hunahpu? Sneaking off to some sordid little rendezvous? I’m not your Beatrice, Hunahpu. I have work of my own to do. And unlike the Europeans and, apparently, the Indies, I know that to mate with someone without marriage is a repudiation of the community, a refusal to take one’s proper role within the society. I won’t mate like an animal, Hunahpu. When I marry it will be as a human being. And it will not be in this timestream. If I marry at all, it will be in the past, because that’s the only place where I have a future.”
He listened, leaden at heart. “The chance of our both living long enough to meet there is small, Diko.”
“And that, my friend, is why I refuse all your invitations to extend our friendship beyond these walls. There’s no future for us.”
“Is the future, is the past, all that matters to you? Don’t you have just a little bit of room for the present?”
Again the tears flowed down her cheeks. “No,” she said.
He reached up and cleared her cheeks with his thumbs, then streaked his own cheeks with her tears. “I will love no one but you,” he said.
“So you say now,” she said. “But I release you from that promise and I forgive you already for the fact that you will love someone, and you will marry, and if we ever meet there, we will be friends and be glad to see each other and we will not regret for one moment that we did not act foolishly now.”
“We will regret it, Diko. At least I will. I regret it now, and I will regret it then, and always. Because no one that we meet in the past will understand what and who we really are, not the way we understand each other now. No one in the past will have shared our goals or worked as hard to help us achieve them as we’ve done for each other. No one will know you and love you as I do. And even if you’re right, and there’s no future for us, I for one would rather face whatever future I do have with the memory of knowing that we had each other for a while.”
“Then you are a romantic fool, just as Mother always said!”
“She said that?”
“Mother is never wrong,” said Diko. “She also said that I would never have a better friend than you.”
“She was right, then.”
“Be my true friend, Hunahpu,” said Diko. “Never speak of this to me again. Work with me, and when the time comes to go into the past, go with me. Let our marriage be the work we do together, and let our children be the future that we build. Let me come to whatever husband I do have without the memories of another husband or another lover to encumber me. Let me face my future with confidence in your friendship instead of guilt, whether it comes from denying you or accepting you. Will you do that for me?”
No, shouted Hunahpu silently. Because that isn’t necessary, we don’t have to do that, we can be happy now and still be happy in the future and you’re wrong, completely wrong about this.
Except that if she believed that marriage or an affair would make her unhappy then it would make her unhappy, and so she was right—for herself—and loving him would be a bad thing—for her. So . . . did he love her or merely want to own her? Was it her happiness he cared about or satisfaction of his own needs?
“Yes,” said Hunahpu. “I’ll do that for you.”
It was then, and only then, that she kissed him, leaned down to him and kissed him on the lips, not briefly but not with passion either. With love, simple love, a single kiss, and then she left, and left him desolate.
8
_____
Dark Futures
Father Talavera had listened to all the eloquent, methodical, sometimes impassioned arguments, but he had known from the start that he had to make the final decision about Colón by himself. How many years had they listened to Colón—and harangued him, too—so that all were weary of the same conversations endlessly repeated? For so many years, since the Queen first asked him to lead the examination of Colón’s claims, nothing had changed. Maldonado still seemed to regard Colón’s very existence as an affront, while Deza seemed almost infatuated with the Genovese. The others still lined up behind one or the other, or, like Talavera himself, remained neutral. Or rather, they seemed neutral. They merely wavered like grass, dancing in whatever wind was blowing. How many times had each one come to him privately and spent long minutes—sometimes hours—explaining their views, whic
h always amounted to the same thing: They agreed with everybody.
I alone am truly neutral, thought Talavera. I alone am swayed by no argument whatsoever. I alone can listen to Maldonado bring forth sentences from ancient, long-forgotten writings in languages so obscure that quite possibly no one ever spoke them except the original writer himself—I alone can listen to him and hear only the voice of a man who is determined not to allow the slightest new idea to disrupt his own perfect understanding of the world. I alone can listen to Deza eloquizing about Colón’s brilliance in finding truths so long overlooked by scholars and hear only the voice of a man who yearned to be a knight-errant from the romances, championing a cause which is noble only because he champions it.
I alone am neutral, thought Talavera, because I alone understand the utter stupidity of the entire conversation. Which of these ancients they all quote with such certainty was lifted by the hand of God to see the Earth from an appropriate vantage point? Which of them was given calipers by the hand of God to make an accurate measurement of the diameter of the Earth? No one knew anything. The only serious attempt at measurement, more than a thousand years before, could have been disastrously flawed by the tiniest inconsistency in the original observations. All the argument in the world could not change the fact that if you build the foundation of your logic upon guesswork, then your conclusions will be guesswork also.
Of course Talavera could never say this to anyone else. He had not risen to his position of trust by freely expressing his skepticism about the wisdom of the ancients. On the contrary: All who knew him were sure that he was utterly orthodox. He had labored hard to make sure they had that opinion of him. And in a sense they were right. He simply defined orthodoxy quite differently from them.
Talavera did not put his faith in Aristotle or Ptolemy. He already knew what the examination of Colón was demonstrating in such agonizing detail: that for every ancient authority there was a contradictory authority just as ancient and (he suspected) just as ignorant. Let the other scholars claim that God had whispered to Plato as he wrote the Symposium; Talavera knew better. Aristotle was clever but his wise sayings were no likelier to be true than the opinions of other clever men.
Talavera put his faith in only one person: Jesus Christ. His were the only words that Talavera cared about, Christ’s cause the only cause that stirred his soul. Every other cause, every other idea, every other plan or party or faction or individual, was to be judged in light of how it would either help or hinder the cause of Christ. Talavera had realized early in his rise within the Church that the monarchs of Castile and Aragon were good for the cause of Christ, and so he enlisted himself in their camp. They found him to be a valuable servant because he was deft at marshaling the resources of the Church in their support.
His technique was simple: See what the monarchs want and need in order to further their effort to make of Spain a Christian kingdom, driving the unbeliever from any power or influence, and then interpret all the pertinent texts to show how scripture, Church tradition, and all the ancient writers were united in supporting the course that the monarchs had already determined to pursue. The funny thing—or, when he was in another mood, the sad thing—was that no one ever caught on to his method. When he invariably brought in scholarship that would support the cause of Christ and the monarchs of Spain, everyone assumed that this meant that the course the monarchs were pursuing was the right one, not that Talavera had been clever about manipulating the texts. It was as if they did not realize the texts could be manipulated.
And yet they all manipulated and interpreted and transformed the ancient writings. Certainly Maldonado did it to defend his own elaborate preconceptions, and Deza just as much to attack them. But none of them seemed to know that this was what they were doing. They thought they were discovering truth.
How many times Talavera had wished to speak to them with utter scorn. Here is the only truth that matters, he wanted to say: Spain is at war, purifying Iberia as a Christian land. The King has conducted this war deftly and patiently, and he will win, driving the last Moors from Iberia. The Queen is now setting into motion what England wisely did years ago: the expulsion of the Jews from her kingdom. (Not that the Jews were dangerous by intent—Talavera had no sympathy with Torquemada’s fanatical belief in the evil plots of the Jews. No, the Jews had to be expelled because as long as the weaker Christians could look around them and see unbelievers prospering, see them marrying and having children and living normal and decent lives, they would not be firm in their faith that only in Christ is there happiness. The Jews had to go, just as the Moors had to go.)
And what had Colón to do with this? Sailing west. So what? Even if he was right, what would it accomplish? Convert the heathen in a far-off land when Spain itself was not yet unified in its Christianity? That would be marvelous and well worth the effort—as long as it didn’t interfere in any way with the war against the Moors. So, while the others argued about the size of the Earth and the passability of the Ocean Sea, Talavera was always weighing far more important matters. What would the news of this expedition do to the prestige of the Crown? What would it cost and how would the diversion of such funds affect the war? Would supporting Colón cause Aragon and Castile to draw closer together or farther apart? What do the King and Queen actually want to do? If Colón were sent away, where would he go next and what would he do?
Until today, the answers had all been clear enough. The King did not intend to spend one peso on anything but the war against the Moors, while the Queen very much wanted to support Colón’s expedition. That meant that any decision at all would be divisive. In the delicate balance between King and Queen, between Aragon and Castile, any decision on Colón’s expedition would cause one of them to think that power had drifted dangerously in the other direction, and suspicion and envy would increase.
Therefore, regardless of all the arguments, Talavera was determined that no verdict would be reached until the situation changed. It was easy enough at first, but as the years passed and it became clear that Colón had nothing new to offer, it became harder and harder to keep the issue alive. Fortunately, Colón was the only other person involved in the process who seemed to understand it. Or if he didn’t understand it, at least he cooperated with Talavera to this degree: He kept hinting that he knew more than he was telling. Veiled references to information he learned while in Lisbon or Madeira, mentions of proofs that had not yet been brought forward, this was what allowed Talavera to keep the examination open.
When Maldonado (and Deza, for opposite reasons) wanted him to force Colón to lay these great secrets on the table, to settle things once and for all, Talavera always agreed that it would be a great help if Colón would do so, but one must understand that anything Colón learned in Portugal must have been learned under sacred oath. If it was just a matter of fear of Portuguese reprisals, then no doubt Colón would tell, for he was a brave man and not afraid of anything King John might do. But if it was a matter of honor, then how could they insist that he break his oath and tell? That would be the same as asking Colón to damn himself to hell for all eternity, just to satisfy their curiosity. Therefore they must listen carefully to all that Colón said, hoping that, clever scholars that they were, they could determine just what it was he could not tell them openly.
And, by the grace of God, Colón himself played along. Surely the others had all taken him aside, at one time or another, trying to pry from him the secrets that he would not tell. And in all these long years, Colón had never given a hint of what his secret information was. Just as important, he had also never given a hint that there was no secret information.
For a long time Talavera had not studied the arguments—he had grasped those at the start and nothing important had been added in years. No, what Talavera studied was Colón himself. At first he had assumed that Colón was just another courtier on the make, but that impression was quickly dispelled. Colón was absolutely, fanatically determined to sail west, and could not be distracted
by any other sort of preferment. Gradually, though, Talavera had come to see that this voyage west was not an end in itself. Colón had dreams. Not of personal wealth or fame, but rather dreams of power. Colón wanted to accomplish something, and this westward voyage was the foundation of it. And what was it that Colón wanted to do? Talavera had puzzled about this for months, for years.
Today, at last, the answer had come. Departing from his usual scholarly bludgeoning, Maldonado had remarked, rather testily, that it was selfish of Colón to try to distract the monarchs from their war with the Moors, and Colón had suddenly erupted in anger. “A war with the Moors? For what, to drive them from Granada, from a small corner of this dry peninsula? With the wealth of the East we could drive the Turk from Constantinople, and from there it is only a short step to Armageddon and the liberation of the Holy Land! And you tell me that I must not do this, because it might interfere with the war against Granada? You might as well tell a matador that he cannot kill the bull because it might interfere with the effort to stomp on a mouse!”
At once Colón had regretted his remarks, and was quick to reassure everyone that he had nothing but the greatest enthusiasm for the great war against Granada. “Forgive me for letting my passion rule my mouth,” said Colón. “Never for a moment have I wished for anything but the victory of the Christian armies over the infidel in Granada.”
Talavera had immediately forgiven him and forbidden anyone to repeat Colón’s remarks. “We know that what you said was in zeal for the cause of Christ, wishing that we could accomplish even more victory against Granada, not less.”
Colón himself seemed relieved indeed to hear Talavera’s words. It could have been the death of his petition right on the spot, if his remarks had been taken as disloyalty—and the personal consequences could have been severe as well. The others had also nodded wisely. They had no wish to denounce Colón. For one thing, it would hardly redound to their credit if it had taken them this many years to discover that Colón was a traitor!
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