Though far too modest to be considered a church, the mission was the largest structure Solly had ever seen. Larger than the biggest hut—and the Forerunner ruins that capped the opposite ridge. A fresh crack, caused by a recent quake, had already been patched.
Each side of the triangle represented one aspect of God. It was well known that the supreme being was omnipotent, omnipresent, and omniscient.
Solly had noticed that God's attributes didn't extend to Brother Parly, whose knowledge was limited to what his eye saw, mostly from the top of the hill, and what his parishioners told him, usually in private.
The family entered via the north side of the mission and paused to genuflect in front of the Devil's altar. The purpose of the display was to remind the parishioners of the fact that the Devil's work can be found anywhere—even in a church.
The altar, and what it held, had been a source of fascination for Solly. Was there some sort of relationship between the green board with silver tracings and the spiral-shaped piece of metal? And if so, what? He'd spent hours on the puzzle and never managed to solve it.
Brother Parly said real churches had larger, more complex displays, up to and including real live mechanical aliens. The possibility of such a thing caused Solly's hearts to beat a little faster. To complete the great pilgrimage and see such wonders was Solly's fondest wish. Not that such an adventure was likely, given both his propensity for trouble and the fact that God knew what he was thinking.
Solly rose with the rest of the family, bowed in the prescribed manner, and nearly fainted when a horrible thought entered his mind. What if punishment had already been levied? Was that why God had taken his grandmother? As punishment for his transgressions? Such things happened all the time, according to Brother Parly's sermons.
Solly swallowed the lump in his throat and followed his sister into the prayer chamber. It was a spartan place, empty of furnishings except for the backless wooden benches on which parishioners sat during Brother Parly's interminable sermons, and the Zid cross, a symbol so familiar to some of the humans that they erroneously assumed a connection with Christianity—a rather happy coincidence that helped win converts.
A curtain concealed one corner of the chamber. Witnesses, if any, waited within. Solly wondered who, if anyone, would testify against him.
Brother Parly was waiting, as were four of the village elders. All were male, and, taken together, they constituted the village council. The monk stood. His belly gave a mighty testament to his flock's hard work, and his voice was a much-played instrument of instruction. "Elder Raswa, Father Raswa, Mother Raswa, Sister Raswa, and Brother Raswa, welcome to our mission. You know Elders Tobo, Worwa, Gorly, and Denu? Yes, of course you do. Please be seated."
The Raswa family took seats on the first row of benches while Parly sat in his customary high-backed chair with elders to either side. A long, somewhat flowery prayer was said, God was asked to monitor the proceedings, and Elder Tobo fell asleep. No one seemed to mind.
"So," Brother Parly said, hands clasped in front of his paunch, "serious allegations have been brought to my attention. Our task is to hear those allegations, consider their merits, and determine a suitable level of punishment."
Those elders who were awake mumbled their agreement and stared at the family in question. The fact that Brother Parly's words seemed to assume his guilt wasn't lost on Solly. His gills started to flutter, and he struggled to control them.
"That being said," Parly continued solemnly, "the Lord's witness can now be heard."
The curtain swished open as if the person concealed within couldn't wait to emerge. Her name was Mother Orlono. She shared her father's coarse face, broad shoulders, and enormous feet. Her eye, which never seemed to rest, was hard and malignant.
Solly felt his hearts sink. The Orlonos worked the land just east of his family's fields. Father Orlono was nice, but ineffectual. Even now he sat head down, staring at the floor. Mother Orlono had worn her most ragged dress in a transparent attempt to impress the council with her clan's righteous poverty. Her words, like the process itself, had been formulated by the founder. "I come in the name of God."
Parly nodded dutifully. "Welcome. Being that you are known to those present, please bear witness."
Mother Orlono bowed submissively and turned toward the benches. Her arm rose until a thick, stubby finger pointed straight at Solly. "Brother Solly meets with the Devil at the end of each day. After they come together, all manner of hammering, screeching, and grinding can be heard."
Parly nodded encouragingly. "Please comment on the significance of such noises."
The question was a setup, and Mother Orlono's answer was ready. "The rotes command that we listen for the hammers, shapers, and grinders. 'For they work the Devil's will, and once loosed to their evil tasks, enslave those who would take them up.' For reasons unknown to me, Solly Raswa has chosen to violate our tenets. Those who doubt my claim can examine his plow."
Mother Orlono stopped at that point, as if confident that the necessary information had been imparted and punishment could now be rendered. And, had Solly's grandfather not been present and in possession of certain facts regarding the supposedly celibate monk, her accusation might have been accepted as proof.
Parly, who felt the full weight of the oldster's stare, cleared his throat. "Yes, well, thank you. These are serious allegations indeed. Lever, pick, shovel, hoe, plow, hammer, saw, axe, chisel, awl, drill, trowel, knife, and broom. These, plus a few more granted by special dispensation, are the tools of God. To invent others, or to change the ones we have, constitutes a crime against God. However, every tale has at least two sides. I sent for the instrument in question—and suggest that the elders have a look."
The elders were excited by the prospect of viewing the Devil's work firsthand—and even went so far as to wake Father Tobo for the outing. Solly, the second lowest-ranking individual present, was one of the last to exit the building. The clouds had parted for once, and rays of sunshine broke through. An omen, perhaps? There was no way to tell.
The plow stood on blocks. Like all Zid plows, it was what xenoanthropologists referred to as a "walking plow," meaning that it was designed to be pulled by a nonsentient organism, and guided by its owner.
While the handles and other gear associated with walking plows varied according to individual physiology, the "bottoms,' ' or working parts, tended to be somewhat similar. The Zid plow, with its chisel-shaped blade, was very common to Class I nonindustrialized worlds.
Of course, Parly, who had been raised on a farm, and the elders, who had farmed their entire lives, didn't know that. They knew what Zid plows were supposed to look like, though, and were quick to spot the changes Solly had made. The traditional chisel-shaped bottom had been replaced by a carefully sculpted wedge. Their consternation was evident.
"Look at that thing! What's it for?"
"It's the Devil's work—sure enough!"
"The lad's crazy—that's what I say."
Solly was mortified by the negative comments and welcomed the sound of his grandfather's familiar voice.
"Crazy? I don't think so. Let's consider the facts. The previous design lifted the soil and didn't turn it. An excellent strategy, since the surface material protected the soil from erosion." This was safe territory—so the elders nodded in unison.
"Hear, hear."
"Raswa speaks the truth."
"Thank you," Grandfather Raswa said gently. "I'm glad we're in agreement. That being the case, let's see if we can agree on something else. The great one sent us the cold. Why? Because by reducing the quality of our harvests he could illustrate the benefits of husbandry."
There was much head-nodding and "hear-near" ing as the other elders agreed. After all, Brother Parly had said as much during his most recent sermon, and that made it true. Grandfather Raswa understood the importance of consensus—and waited for the ensuing silence.
"Your female folk feed leftovers into their vegetable gardens and till them
by hand. Tell me, which are more productive, their gardens or your fields?"
The fertility of one's fields was a matter of familial pride and the subject of much debate. That being the case, none of the elders was willing to cede the point. Still, they knew full well that the vegetable gardens were more productive, and wondered where the old geezer was headed. The communal fields were far too large to be enriched with table scraps or tilled by hand. The senior Raswa gestured to the plow.
"All my grandson did was to enlarge the chisel—and change the way it's shaped. The plow remains a God-given plow. In fact, the inspiration for this small but meaningful change was nothing less than the shape of the mission itself. Imagine how the structure would look lying on its side, and you'll see what I mean. The new blade simply does what our female folk do. It lifts the soil, breaks it into smaller pieces, and moves material to one side. The residue, like table scraps, is folded into the earth."
The connection between the mission's architecture and the wedge-shaped plow bottom was entirely fanciful, but the elders didn't know that, and Solly marveled at how gullible they were. Would the lie take Grandfather to hell? If the oldster was scared, Solly saw no sign of it.
Elder Worwa was stunned. "Would you look at that? Raswa is right!"
Sensing that victory lay within his grasp, Grandfather Raswa made what he hoped would be the final and telling argument. "Look at my family's fields. Solly used the old blade on one, and the new blade on the other. Guess which is which."
The elders looked out over the valley and, knowing it as they did, had no difficulty locating the plots assigned to the Raswa clan. Neither patch looked as good as it should have for that time of year; the long winter had seen to that, but the southern parcel was at least twenty percent farther along than its northern neighbor.
The calculation seemed obvious. Approve the innocuous change, and use it themselves, or forgo a serious increase in productivity—a sacrifice that would be made even more onerous by the fact that as harvests shrank, tithes remained constant. The stockpiles had kept them even so far—but wouldn't last forever.
Elder Gorly, his back bent by a lifetime's hard work, put their thoughts into words. "Solly acted as an instrument of God, bringing new life to our fields and food to our families. We owe him a debt of gratitude."
The other elders mumbled their agreement, fingered the wedge-shaped plow bottom, and marveled at the difference it made. A smile rippled the length of Grandfather Raswa's lips, and Solly felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
Brother Parly, never at a loss for words, felt the need to reassert his authority. “Thank you, Elder Gorly. I agree with the judgment rendered by the council—and hereby dismiss the charges brought against Solly Raswa."
"However," the monk said, his face growing stern, "our approval should not be construed as explicit or implicit approval for unrestrained tinkering. The Raswas would be well advised to fill Solly's days with good, honest work and to monitor the manner in which his evenings are spent. Do I make myself clear?"
"Very clear," Solly's father said, speaking for the first time. "It shall be as you say."
"Excellent," Parly responded, allowing an expression of benevolence to steal over his face. "All is as it should be. Let us pray."
The regional underpriest had walked the same route for more than ten years. His eye knew each nuance of the land, his ears knew the sounds the birds made, and his feet knew every dip in the road. It narrowed at the point where two great ridges came together, and became little more than a trail.
The Harmony River roared below, splashed against rocky walls, and threw mist into the air. Mist that turned to a thin coating of ice—no small danger where the pilgrims were concerned. His name was Crono, and he paused to check his flock. The vast majority of the pilgrims were either very young or extremely old, since the rest of the population was needed on the land.
This year's crop was better than expected. Yes, those from poor villages, with small to nonexistent stockpiles of food, were overly lean, but the rest seemed hardy enough. There were more than fifty of them, each burdened with a fifty-kol bag of grain, all destined for the Holy City's hungry silos.
The Church had a large hierarchy, so even though his flock would bring close to eight tol worth of grain in from the countryside, it would require countless columns to meet the overall need. But it was written that "from many drops a mighty river will flow," a quotation that suited the moment and sent a smile down Crono's lips.
The priest stood to one side and urged his flock to be careful as they made their way along the length of mist-slicked path and around the lake beyond. Harmony, like dozens of communities visited during the pilgrimage, would be expected to house the pilgrims in huts maintained for that purpose, add one kol to the weight of each bag, and provide each traveler with two meals.
It was a marvelous system that enabled the Church to monitor activities in the hinterlands, exercise control over the vast network of resident monks, and move food all at the same time. Crono took pride in the system—and dreaded the day when they would force him to retire.
The priest waited until everyone had passed through the gap, urged the stragglers to greater speed, and hurried to the front of the column. He had a long, lean body, legs like tree trunks, and heavily muscled arms. Female eyes watched the priest stride by. There had been hundreds of attempts to seduce him over the years, but none had succeeded. Crono was proud of that—and determined to defend his virtue.
The pilgrims had become accustomed to the chink, chink, chink sound that Crono's staff made as it hit the ground, and knew when he was approaching from behind. They also knew that any attempt to shirk, to lighten the weight of their sacks, or to victimize other members of the procession would bring a quick flurry of expertly delivered blows. Still, everyone knew the underpriest was fair, and took three steps for each of theirs.
The fields were more tan than the beautiful green they should have been, and patches of unmelted slush marked the places where the seldom seen sun failed to reach.
On the other hand, the huts, which were laid out according to the God-inspired grid, were well maintained and, in at least three or four cases, as large as the law permitted. One of these, the Orlow residence, held special interest for the priest. He came abreast of a reliable male, issued the necessary instructions, and left the column.
The ensuing session would be somewhat tedious, and more than a little distorted by Mother Orlow's lack of objectivity, but interesting nonetheless. In a drol, two at most, he would hear the latest news, receive some input regarding Brother Parly's performance, and ingest the best sweet cakes west of the Righteous Mountain Range. Other opinions, harvested during the evening meal, would complete the picture. A farmer waved, and Crono waved back. Life was hard—but undeniably good.
The monk's hut was small and carefully spartan. The furnishings consisted of a table, two chairs, and a cot. The fire, carefully banked to maximize the heat it generated, crackled and jumped.
Breakfast was something of a tradition, not to mention a trial, since neither male enjoyed the other's company. Crono saw Parly as soft, self-indulgent, and morally weak. Parly regarded Crono as hard, unnecessarily strict, and self-righteous.
Making the occasion even less appealing, especially from Parly's perspective, was the thin, watery gruel mat Crono favored, rather than the considerably heartier fare to which the monk had accustomed himself. Still, Parly mused to himself, the verse-spouting maniac will be gone soon, and a mid-morning snack will set me right.
Crono emptied his bowl, used a crust of bread to wipe it clean, and popped the morsel in his mouth. Parly had already completed his meal, and hurried the prayer. "Thank you, God, for the bounty placed before us. May we grow stronger in mind, body, and soul."
"Words to live by," Crono said comfortably, as if hearing them for the very first time. "Words to live by. So, tell me, Brother Parly—how does the valley fare?"
Parly was well aware of the fact that Cr
ono had spies within his flock, and had gone to considerable lengths to uncover their identities and curry favor with them. A prudent activity that paid consistent dividends. He stretched his feet toward the fire. They were huge and difficult to warm. He picked his words with care.
"The gift of eternal winter has done much to sharpen our sense of appreciation for seasons gone by.... Still, we make do, and with rare exceptions, five in God's harmony."
"Yes, you do," Crono said agreeably, and meant it too, for in spite of his weaknesses, Parly was more competent than many, and, with the exception of his rather obvious gluttony, a good example to his flock. A little fear did wonders, however—and would provide the monk with something to meditate on. "Realizing that even the most remote members of our order must deal with difficult questions. The Raswa plow being an excellent example."
Parly's eye slid sideways, then back toward the fire. Damn Mother Orlow anyway .... Crono was far too intelligent to believe everything the old hag said, but exceedingly conservative, and capable of righteous excess. "Yes, a delicate matter, that. Still, all's well that ends well."
Crono stared into the flames. "And the lad? How is he?" Parly paid close attention. The priest was up to something ... but what? "Solly is well behaved—but a curious sort, forever asking questions."
Crono looked up from the fire. His eye was hard as stone. "A bright lad, then ... full of mischief."
Parly didn't think of Solly as mischievous—the youngster was far too serious for that—but nodded anyway. "A bright lad, yes."
"Bright enough to be a monk?"
The question startled Parly, partly because it was so completely unexpected, and partly because the idea should have been his. Smart young males, those with incipient leadership potential, were routinely removed from the villages and channeled into monasteries, where they could be formed, shaped, and if necessary, eliminated. "Spiritual culling," as it was sometimes called, ensured social stability. "Yes, bright enough to be a monk. I should have thought of it."
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