by Allen Steele
—Patience. Patience. The chaaz’maha poured water into a glass.—We’ve just arrived. All in good time.
So they sat in silence, speaking to one another only when necessary while sharing the small, tactile sensations that so many overlooked from moment to moment of ordinary human existence. Each was capable of blocking out the others, of course—one thing they’d learned from Sa’Tong was the sort of mental discipline they needed to keep from going mad—so Melissa was considerate enough not to send the occasional squirms and aches of the unborn child within her, just as Walking Star didn’t ruin everyone else’s appetite when Beth brought out their food by broadcasting his low opinion of the redfish stew he’d ordered.
They ate quietly, taking their time, while the tavern gradually filled with its regular customers. One or two at a time, they arrived, the people who came here every night after work: fishermen, shop owners, longshoremen, the people who worked in the processing plant, a school-teacher, a farmer, a mousy girl trying to find a guy who would buy her a drink. Hard-eyed men and women, for the most part, accustomed to living in a small town on the edge of civilization, vaguely dissatisfied with their existence yet not knowing what to do with it except eat, drink, screw, and get through another day without giving in to desperation.
The chaaz’maha knew how they felt. He’d once been just that way himself. Sitting with his back against the wall, hood raised above his head, he watched them with shrouded eyes. During the year he’d spent in The Sanctuary, he’d learned how to search thoughts of others without the irritating cerebral tickle that Walking Star’s less-adept students sometimes caused. So no one in the tavern became aware of what he was doing as he opened his mind to theirs, allowing their stream of consciousness to cascade upon his like cool summer rain:
—Goddamn captain won’t gimme a raise ungrateful sunnabitch like I don’t know the boat better than he does who needs this shit anyway should tie an anchor around his neck kick his ass overboard…
—Wish I were anywhere but here why did I come here tonight all I’m gonna do is drink drink drink till I go home and fall down what the hell I’ll get another brew maybe it’ll be different tonight maybe I’ll get laid or something…
—God I’m lonely god I wish I had someone I loved could really love I mean but all I do is have sex better than nothing but oh god I’m so lonely…
—Who’s the spook over there why’s he looking at me like that is he queer or something and what’s the deal with that hood what’s he trying to hide anyway hey you keep looking at me like that there’s gonna be trouble boy I…
—Good beer good beer like beer love beer oops just farted did anyone notice who cares good beer…
—That must be them Owen wants me to have a word with them thinks they’re weird yeah well they look harmless enough but if he wants me to talk to them I guess I should but hell I got better things to do…
The last came from the stout, thickset young man who’d just walked into the tavern. The chaaz’maha didn’t have to search him to know that he was the chief proctor; the blue shirt he wore, along with an air of quiet authority, was sufficient. The only surprise was that he was no older than the chaaz’maha himself; in his midtwenties, by Gregorian reckoning, he was almost too young for the job.
Pretending nonchalance, the proctor strolled over to their table. “Hi, folks. Understand you’re new in town. Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all. Please do.” Neither Walking Star nor Melissa said anything as the chaaz’maha beckoned him toward an empty chair.
“Thanks.” The proctor sat down, then turned toward Bess and raised a finger. The barmaid was lighting the oil lamps; she nodded, then headed for the bar. “Can I get you anything?” the proctor asked, glancing at the half-empty glasses around the table. “Or are you not drinking?”
“Only water, thank you,” the chaaz’maha replied.
—Not drinking in a bar weird but at least I won’t have to worry about them getting drunk will I? “Just thought I’d ask.”—Go ahead introduce yourself. “I’m Rhea Wolff, the chief proctor. Mr. McKay told me that he had some new guests. We don’t get many visitors, so I thought I might drop by and…well, see if there’s anything I could do for you.”
“Thank you, Constable Wolff…”
“Rhea.” A smile flickered across his face. “We’re informal here in Carlos’s Pizza.”
“Of course.” The chaaz’maha gazed back at him. “No, there’s nothing you can do for us, but my friends and I appreciate the offer nonetheless.”
“Uh-huh.”—Don’t say much do you pal? “So…who are you, anyway?”
The chaaz’maha gestured to the others. “My companions are Melissa Sanchez and Joseph Walking Star Cassidy. I am the chaaz’maha.”
Wolff blinked.—What did he say what the hell what kind of name is that? “Chas…chas…I’m sorry, but I don’t…”
“Chaaz’maha.” He repeated it slowly, drawing out the syllables. “It’s a hjadd word. Roughly translated, it means ‘spiritual teacher.’ Which is what I am…or rather, what I have become.”
—What kind of nut is this guy oh boy… “Uh-huh, I see.” Wolff’s expression remained neutral, trying to hide thoughts that the chaaz’maha could read as easily as if the proctor had written them on a piece of paper. “And…um, so what was your name before you became a hjadd?”
The chaaz’maha smiled. “I’m afraid you’ve misinterpreted what I just said. As you can clearly see, I’m not a hjadd, nor do I believe I am. See?” He reached up to lower the hood of his robe, revealing his face for the first time since he’d walked into the tavern. “I’m human, just as much as you are. As for my previous name…” He shrugged. “No longer important. I don’t use it anymore. I am the chaaz’maha. That’s all that matters.”
—This guy is missing a few pints from his keg what the hell is that on his forehead?
Before Wolff could give voice to his next question, the chaaz’maha tapped a finger against the tattoo on his brow. “This is the hjadd symbol for chaaz’maha. It’s customary for teachers of Sa’Tong to wear it so that anyone who meets them will know who they are.”
—How did he know I was going to ask that this guy is really giving me the creeps…“Uh-huh, I see.” The chief proctor peered more closely at the tattoo. “Nice, very nice indeed. You think I could get one just like it?”
The chaaz’maha shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. Not unless you become a disciple of Sa’Tong and learn to adhere to its codicils, and even then you couldn’t become a chaaz’maha…”
“It’s difficult to explain,” Walking Star said, speaking for the first time. “You’ll just have to trust him when he says that he is who he says he is.”
—Yeah right anything you say big guy. “I see,” Wolff said slowly, patronizing him. “So…um…let me get this straight. You call yourself the chaaz’maha, and you…”
“I don’t claim to be a teacher of Sa’Tong.” The chaaz’maha shook his head again. “I am a teacher of Sa’Tong.”
—How the hell does he know what I’m about to say this is really weird man…“Pardon. Didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offense taken.” The chaaz’maha smiled. “And before you ask…Sa’Tong is a system of spiritual beliefs practiced by most of the intelligent races of the galaxy. The hjadd are but one race that has adopted it. Its book, the Sa’Tong-tas, was recently given to me by Jasahajahd Taf Sa-Fhadda, the cultural ambassador of the hjadd, with the intent of spreading its wisdom to humankind. I have undertaken the task of doing so…in other words, to become the chaaz’maha for the human race.” He paused. “Do you understand now, Rhea?”
As he spoke, the chaaz’maha became aware that conversation around them had died, as all the tavern’s patrons turned their attention toward him. A cacophony of thoughts flooded his awareness, some so distracting that they threatened to overwhelm him. He wasn’t prepared for that, so he moved his left hand beneath the table to surreptitiously rub his thumb against the nail
of his index finger, something that Walking Star had taught him to do as a way of blocking out unwelcome distractions. One by one, the unspoken voices of everyone else in the tavern faded away, until the only thoughts he heard were those of Rhea Wolff.
—Understand no not really but dunno this guy somehow I don’t think he’s such a nut after all what if he’s telling the truth no that can’t be he’s obviously…
“This is difficult for you, I know,” the chaaz’maha went on. “A lot to take in all at once. But you have to trust me when I tell you that I’m not crazy, that what I’ve said is the truth, and that my companions and I mean you no harm. I am a teacher, and I have come here to teach. No more, no less.”
The proctor didn’t respond. Looking away from the chaaz’maha, he seemed to notice for the first time that the room had gone quiet. Even Bess, who’d just then returned to the table with a pint of ale in hand, stopped what she was doing to listen to what the stranger had to say. Shifting his gaze toward her, the chaaz’maha opened his mind to hers.
—Oh my god who is this guy look at his eyes can’t believe how beautiful they are wonder what he’s like in bed no forget it Bess he’s taken wonder if I can talk to him maybe he really is a teacher…
“All right,” Wolff said at last, “I believe you…or at least the part about not wanting to do any harm.” He didn’t notice that Bess’s hand trembled as she placed the ale on the table before him, or that she lingered for a second longer than necessary, bending over to let the chaaz’maha have a good look at her breasts. “Just so you know that I’ve got a low tolerance for troublemakers, and our jail is a lot less comfortable than the upstairs rooms.”
The chaaz’maha paid no attention to Bess or her clumsy attempt to interest him sexually. “You’ll have no trouble from us, Rhea. We appreciate your desire to maintain the peace.” He paused, then added, “Perhaps you’d like to read the Sa’Tong-tas yourself. It may give you a better idea of who we are.”
Wolff hesitated.—Great just what I need another missionary oh what the hell take it be polite can’t do any harm maybe worth a laugh right? “Sure. I’d like to see it.”
The chaaz’maha pulled out a pad, and the proctor did the same; it took only a few seconds to download the Sa’Tong-tas into Wolff’s comp. The version that the chaaz’maha gave him wasn’t identical to the one he’d received from Taf; pads didn’t have sufficient power or memory to emulate the hjadd AI within the original Sa’Tong-tas, and he’d learned that it was incompatible with the operating systems of human-made comps. So he and Walking Star had spent most of the previous year transcribing the Sa’Tong, including the Codicils and the various Poems of Wisdom and Peace, into Anglo text that could be read easily by their fellow humans, with the pad itself translating it into other languages.
“If you like what you read,” he said once they’d disconnected the pads, “feel free to pass it along to others.”
“I’ll do that.”—Like hell. Wolff folded his pad and tucked it in his pocket. “So…how long do you think you’ll be staying?”—Not long I hope you guys are really strange.
“Perhaps just a few days. As I said, you’ll have no trouble from us.” The chaaz’maha glanced at his companions; without a word, the three of them stood up as one, pushing back their chairs to leave the table. “Pleasure to meet you, Rhea. I hope we’ll have a chance to talk again soon.”
He blocked his mind from the proctor’s thoughts, not wanting to hear more, but as he turned away from Wolff, he found Bess still hovering nearby. She hastily glanced away, but it wasn’t hard to miss the blush that appeared on her face. The chaaz’maha didn’t hesitate; stepping closer to her, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a colonial.
“This is for you,” he said, offering the coin to her. “Thank you for your hospitality. I assume the cost of our meal will be added to our bill, yes?”
“Yeah…yes, of course.” Flustered, Bess accepted the tip. “You…you can pay up in the…the morning.”
“Thank you.” He smiled, then moved a little closer. “Hate is not a substitute for love,” he whispered, his voice so soft that only she could hear it. “If you can’t love the one you’re with, then don’t hate him instead. Just find another who’ll be willing to accept your gift.”
Her eyes widened.—God oh god oh god how does he know like he’s looked into my soul and I dunno I need to talk to him I really need to talk to him…
“I’ll be around,” he added. “Come see me anytime you want.”
And then he walked away, with Melissa and Walking Star falling in behind him. No one stood in their way as they strolled through the crowded tavern, but nonetheless a tide of confused and conflicting thoughts swept them from the room. Smiling to himself, the chaaz’maha reached up to raise his hood. If he’d sought to make an impression, then…
—I know him I know him I’ve heard that voice before back in Liberty the Sa’Tong-tas he told me about it I know him!
From somewhere in the crowd, one thought came through as clearly as if it had been a shout from across the room. The chaaz’maha stopped, and for a second he had an impulse to turn and look back. He restrained himself, though, and instead continued to walk toward the door.
He recognized the individual to whom those thoughts belonged. But it would have to be up to him if they’d ever meet again.
The following morning, the chaaz’maha and his small entourage began making themselves visible in the community. They didn’t linger in their rooms all day, but instead left the Laughing Sailor shortly after breakfast and set out to walk around town. Although they wore their robes, no longer did they keep their hoods raised; Walking Star advised the chaaz’maha that continuing to hide their faces would only cause suspicion, and that was the last thing they wanted to do. So everyone they encountered saw the hjadd symbol tattooed on the chaaz’maha’s forehead, and that added to his mystique.
They made their way to the row of shops near the waterfront, where they found a grocery that sold homemade chocolate ice cream. Overjoyed, Melissa bought a couple of pints, even though the chaaz’maha laughingly reminded her that she probably wouldn’t be able to eat one before the other melted. She responded by buying three spoons as well; the three of them sat on a bench overlooking the wharf, with the chaaz’maha and Walking Star sharing one carton while Melissa gorged herself on the other.
Once they were done, they continued their stroll, stopping now and then to see what few sights Carlos’s Pizza had to offer: the processing plant, the school, the meetinghouse and the town hall next door, the various boat builders and nautical supply shops that catered to the local fishermen. They could have been no more than tourists who’d found an unlikely spot for a vacation, except that the locals were even more curious about them than they were about the village. Wherever they went, people stopped what they were doing to stare at them…or, more precisely, at the chaaz’maha. Carlos’s Pizza was a small town, after all, and news traveled fast; rumors had circulated about the stranger staying at the Laughing Sailor who claimed to be a hjadd holy man, and even if the description wasn’t wholly accurate, it was enough to rouse interest.
The chaaz’maha wasn’t surprised. In fact, he was pleased. He wanted the townspeople to see him, meet him, talk to him. Even though he rarely had any direct questions—most of the time, he received innocuous queries like where are you from? and how did you get here? and how long will you be staying?—he found them in their minds nonetheless. Who are you? Why are you here? Are you really what you say you are?
Having made that initial sojourn, the three of them returned to the inn. Melissa was tired, so after lunch—once again, she ate heartily, feeding both herself and the baby inside her—she went upstairs to take a nap, while the chaaz’maha and his tall, silent companion went out on the front porch, where they took seats in the bamboo rocking chairs overlooking the street. And there they waited to see who would come to see them.
They didn’t have long to wait. Not surprisingly, their first visito
r was Bess. She’d apparently decided not to put on the low-cut dress that McKay insisted that she wear for the titillation of his customers, but instead a more demure outfit that she saved for special occasions. As Walking Star sat quietly nearby, she and the chaaz’maha spoke for a little more than an hour, keeping their voices low so that her boss couldn’t overhear them from inside. When they were done, the chaaz’maha downloaded a copy of the Sa’Tong-tas into the battered pad Bess had brought with her, then she left, going home to rest awhile before returning for work. Only the chaaz’maha knew that it would be her last night at the Laughing Sailor; she was already planning to tell McKay that he’d have to find another serving wench, and then burn that damn dress.
A little while later, someone else arrived, a tough-looking sailor who served as second mate on a fishing schooner. Upon searching him, the chaaz’maha recognized this person as the same individual who’d been idly contemplating lashing his captain to an anchor and throwing him overboard. The sailor was just as aggressive that afternoon as he’d been the previous evening; there was a lot of pent-up hostility deep inside, and he’d come to the inn with the half-formed notion of finding the weirdo who claimed to be a holy guy and picking a fight with him. As he stomped up the front steps, Walking Star rose from his chair to stand beside the chaaz’maha, his arms folded across his chest; that intimidated the sailor just enough to give the chaaz’maha a chance to start talking. Their conversation was a little longer than the one he’d had with Bess, but in the end, the sailor had come to see, albeit reluctantly, that violence wasn’t only futile but in fact was ultimately self-destructive, and if he really wanted to show his captain that he knew what he was doing, he’d concentrate more on doing his job and less on thinking about ways to murder him. The sailor didn’t own a pad, but he said that he’d come back later once he borrowed one from a friend; humbled, he shook the chaaz’maha’s hand, then ambled away, feeling oddly at peace with himself.