Earthborn (Homecoming)

by Orson Scott Card

  “You’re angry at us because we can’t do anything,” said Akmaro. “But that’s the cause of our grief—we can’t. You might as well be angry at the riverbank because it can’t stop the water from flowing by.”

  “You foolish men of power!” cried Chebeya. “You’re so used to governing with laws and words, soldiers and spies. Now you rage or have your feelings hurt because all your usual tools are useless. They were always useless. Everything always depended on the relationship between each individual person in this kingdom and the Keeper of Earth. Very few of them understand anything about the Keeper’s plan, but they know goodness when they see it, and they know evil—they know what builds and what tears down, what brings happiness and what brings misery. Trust them!”

  “Trust them?” said Motiak. “With Akma leading them to deny the most common decency?”

  “Who are these people that Akma leads? You see them as crowds that flock to him and feel as though they had all betrayed you. But their reasons for following Akma are as individual as they are. Yes, some of them hate all diggers with an unreasoning passion—but they were always around, weren’t they? I don’t think their numbers have increased, not by one; in fact, after the persecutions I think there were fewer who really hated the diggers, because many people learned to feel compassion for them. Akma knows this—he knows that they don’t want to be like the thugs who tormented children. So he tells them that the problem wasn’t their fault, or even the diggers’ fault, it’s just the natural way of things, it can’t be helped, we’re all victims of the way nature works, it’s all the will of the Keeper, we need to give in and move the diggers humanely out of sight so all this ugliness will go away. Most of the people who follow him are just trying to make the problem go away. If they simply let things happen, they think, peace will come again. But they’re ashamed! I see it, why can’t you? They know it’s wrong. But it’s inevitable, so why fight it? Even the king, even the high priest of the Kept can’t do a thing about it!”

  “That’s right,” growled Motiak. “We can’t!”

  “That’s what Akma’s saying to them.”

  “He’s not saying it,” said Motiak. “He’s showing it.”

  “But they don’t want it to be true. Oh, I’m not saying they’re all decent people, or even most of them. There are plenty of them who are looking only for their own advantage. Better invest my time and wealth in making friends with Motiak’s sons. But if they once thought that Akma would fail, they’d be right back with you, pretending to have been among the Kept all along, joking with you about how every family has problems with sons who are coming of age. They don’t care whether the diggers come or go. In fact they miss the lower wages they were able to pay them. The people are not evil, Motiak. A large number of them are decent but they have no hope. Another large portion don’t care that much about decency but they’d be just as happy to have the Kept in charge of things, they don’t much care as long as they can prosper. And you know that the Kept are still a very large core of dedicated believers who love the Keeper’s plan and are striving to save it at great cost to themselves, and with unflinching courage. These three groups, together, are the vast majority of your people. Not perfect, certainly, but good enough to be worth reigning over. Except that Akma’s voice seems to be the only one that’s heard.”

  It was Shedemei who answered her tirade. “Yes, but that’s not for our lack of trying. The king has pleaded, you and your husband have spoken publicly and constantly, Pabul here has searched the law for ways to help and his court has been firm on the side of decency—I’ve even done all that I could do, that would not be coercive.”

  “So it all comes down to Akma and my sons,” said Motiak.

  “No,” said Chebeya. “It all comes down to Akma. Those boys of yours would never be doing this either, Motiak, if it weren’t for Akma.”

  “That was the meaning of the dream the Keeper sent me,” said Akmaro. “It all comes down to Akma, and none of us has the slightest power to reach him. We’ve all tried—well, Pabul couldn’t, because Akma would never let him come close. But the rest of us have tried, and we can’t bend him, and as long as we can’t stop Akma, we can’t waken the decency of the people, so what does it matter?”

  “You’re not suggesting,” said Motiak, “that I arrange the assassination of your own son?”

  “No!” Chebeya cried. “See how you think of power as a matter of weapons, Motiak? And you, Akmaro, it’s words, words, teaching, talking, that’s what power means to you. But this problem is beyond what you can solve with your ordinary tools.”

  “What then?” said Shedemei. “What tools should we use?”

  “No tools at all!” cried Chebeya. “They don’t work!”

  Shedemei extended her open hands. “There I am,” she said, “unarmed, my hands are empty. Fill them! Show me what to do and I’ll do it! So will any of us!”

  “I can’t show you because I don’t know. I can’t give you tools because there are no tools. Don’t you see? What Akma is wrecking—it’s not our plan.”

  “If you’re saying we should just leave it up to the Keeper,” said Akmaro, “then what’s the point of anything? Binaro said it—we’re the Keeper’s hands and mouths in this world.”

  “Yes, when the Keeper needs action or speech, we’re the ones to do it. But that’s not what’s needed now!”

  Akmaro reached out and took his wife’s hands in his. “You’re saying that we shouldn’t just leave things up to the Keeper. You’re saying we should demand that the Keeper either do something or show us what to do.”

  “The Keeper knows that,” said Shedemei. “She hardly needs us to tell her what should be obvious.”

  “Maybe she needs us to admit that it’s up to her. Maybe she needs us to say that whatever she decides, we will abide by it. Maybe it’s time for Akma’s father to say to the Keeper, Enough. Stop my son.”

  “Do you think I haven’t begged the Keeper for answers?” Akmaro said, offended.

  “Exactly,” said Chebeya. “I’ve heard you, talking to the Keeper, saying, ‘Show me what to do. How can I save my son? How can I bring him back from these terrible things?’ Doesn’t it occur to you that the only reason the Keeper hasn’t stopped Akma up to now is for your sake?”

  “But I want him to stop.”

  “That’s right!” cried Chebeya. “You want him to stop. That’s what you plead for, over and over. I’ve seen the connection between you. Even though it’s rage on his part and agonized frustration on yours, the ties of love between you are stronger than I’ve ever seen between any two people in my life. Think what that means—in all your pleas, you are really asking the Keeper to spare your son.”

  “Your son too,” said Akmaro softly.

  “I’ve shed the same tears as you, Kmadaro,” she said. “I’ve said the same prayers to the Keeper. But it’s time to utter a new prayer. It’s time to say to the Keeper that we value her children more than we value ours. It’s time for you to beg the Keeper of Earth to stop our son. To set the people of Darakemba free from his foul, foul influence.”

  Motiak couldn’t see what her point was. “I just sent Edhadeya to try to warn my boys to be careful—are you saying I should have sent soldiers to assassinate Akma?”

  “No,” said Akmaro, answering for Chebeya so she wouldn’t have to weep in frustration. “No, her point is that anything we might do at this point would be useless. If someone causes harm to any of these boys, they would be martyrs and you would be blamed forever. It’s not in our power—that’s what Chebeya’s saying.”

  “But I thought she was telling you to . . .”

  “Akma has to be stopped, but the only way to stop him, that will actually work, is for everyone to see that he was stopped, not by any power of man or woman, of angel, human, or digger, but by the plain and naked power of the Keeper of Earth. She’s saying that without realizing it, I’ve been begging, demanding that the Keeper find a way to save my son. All that’s left now is for
me to stop that prayer. I think . . . perhaps the Keeper has trusted me with his plan for this nation, and so he won’t do anything without my consent. And without realizing it, up to now I’ve refused to let the Keeper do the only thing that would help at all. We’ve tried everything else, but now it’s time for me to ask the Keeper to do now what was done long ago when Sherem threatened to undo all the teachings of Oykib.”

  “You want the Keeper to strike your son dead?” asked Pabul, incredulous.

  “No I don’t!” cried Akmaro. Chebeya burst into tears. “No I don’t,” Akmaro said softly. “I want my son to live. But more than that, I want the people of this world to live together as children of the Keeper. More than I want to spare the life of my son. It’s time for me to beg the Keeper to do whatever he must do in order to save the people of Darakemba—no matter what it costs.” His eyes, too, spilled over with tears. “It’s happening again, just the way it did before, when I reached out to you, Pabul, you and your brothers, and taught you to love the Keeper and reject your father’s ways. I knew that I had to do that, for the good of my people, for your good, even though I could see that it was tearing my boy apart, making him hate me. I knew I was losing him then. And now I have to consent to it all over again.”

  “Me, too?” asked Motiak in a small voice.

  “No,” said Shedemei. “Your boys will return to their senses once they’re not with Akma anymore. And the peace of this kingdom depends on an orderly succession. Your boys must not die.”

  “But a father praying for the Keeper to strike his son dead . . .,” said Motiak.

  “I will never pray for that,” said Akmaro. “I’m not wise enough to tell the Keeper how to do his work. I’m only wise enough to listen to my wife and stop demanding that the Keeper leave my son alive.”

  “This is unbearable,” murmured Pabul. “Father Akmaro, I wish I had died back in Chelem rather than bring this day upon you.”

  “No one brought this day upon me,” said Akmaro. “Akma brought this day upon himself. The only hope of mercy for this people is for the Keeper to give justice to my son. So that’s what I’m going to ask for.” He rose from the ground, sighing deeply, terribly. “That’s what I’m going to ask for with my whole heart. Justice for my son. I hope that he can bear to look the Keeper in the face.”

  They watched as Akmaro walked away from the clearing, into the trees lining the banks of the Tsidorek. “I don’t know what to hope for,” Motiak said.

  “It’s not our business to hope now,” said Shedemei. “Akmaro and Chebeya finally found the courage to face what they had to face. Now I need to get back to the city and see whether I can do the same in my own small way.”

  They all knew better than to ask her what it was that she intended to do.

  “I’ll go with you,” said Pabul.

  “No,” said Shedemei sharply. “Stay here. Akmaro will need you. Chebeya will need you. I don’t need you.” She was not to be disobeyed. She set off down the road, not even taking a waterjar with her.

  “Will she be all right?” asked Motiak. “Should I have some of my spies keep an eye on her?”

  “She’ll be fine,” said Chebeya. “I don’t think she wants company. Or observers, either.”

  It was dark when the launch flew silently above the water of the Tsidorek and stopped to rest in the air a single step away from the riverbank. Shedemei took that step and entered the small craft—small compared to the Basilica, that is; huge compared to any other vehicle on Earth. Once she was secure inside, the launch took off without any command from her; the Oversoul knew what was needed, and took her to a garden she maintained in a hidden valley high above the settled land of Darakemba. As she traveled, the Oversoul spoke to her.

 

  “That’s right.”

 

  “You couldn’t block Nafai and Issib back on Harmony when you had your full powers. Akma has a powerful will; he would resist you. I think he’d probably enjoy it.”

 

  “It’s not my plan that matters now,” said Shedemei. “It never was. We were as proud and as stupid as Akma was, back when we tried to provoke the Keeper by interfering with Monush’s rescue. What we didn’t understand is that the Keeper lets us interfere and tries to work around us. We really can’t affect her. She wants this society, this nation of Darakemba to succeed. But if the people choose to ignore her and make something ugly out of their chance at something beautiful, well, so be it. She’ll find somebody else.”

 

  “Maybe the Keeper is waiting to see what these children of Harmony decide, right here, right now, before she can give you the instructions you came for.”

 

  “She cares about them, yes. But she sees the whole picture, the sweep of time. To save a dozen or a thousand or a million people now, at the cost of the happiness of billions of fives over millions of years—she won’t do it. She takes the long view.”

 

  “I don’t know. How can I know? We were wasting our time by trying to thwart her. But if Chebeya’s right—and how can I tell how much truth a raveler knows?—if she’s right, then the Keeper can be influenced, not by rebels but by her most loyal friends. So Akmaro may have been blocking her just as Chebeya said, and the things he’s telling the Keeper now—maybe the logjam will be broken.”

 

  “Either that or not. How can I know?”

 

  “I think that it’s possible that when it comes time to break the impasse, the Keeper may have use for me.”

 

  “Someone will have a dream. That’s how the Keeper works. You’ll see the dream, you’ll tell me, and we’ll figure out if there’s something in it that the Keeper wants me to do.”

 

  “I haven’t had a true dream since I saw myself as a gardener in the sky. That came true long ago, and I don’t expect to have another dream.”

 

  “Yes, well, I’d like to think the Keeper had something to say to me, of course. I’m as vain as the next person.”

 

  “It doesn’t work that way. I’m not tired yet.”

  She left the launch and wandered in the cold night air in her garden, routinely noticing the growth of the plants, the relative preponderance of one species over another, the amount of brachiation, the size of the foliage. The Oversoul entered her observations into the ship’s computer as notes. They had long since stopped commenting on the irony that a computer program designed to govern a world was now acting as scribe for a lone biologist.

  The Oversoul began to talk to her.

  “Didn’t you notice that about four hundred years ago?”

 

  “Forty million years you waited on Harmony, and now you’re impatient?”

 

  “You were running things, you mean. If something was planned, it was because you were doing the planning. And then people started having dreams that didn’t come from you. Made you a little uneasy, didn’t it?”

  of probabilities.>

  “That’s how it is for us all the time.”

 

  “Whatever the Keeper does, she does it faster than light, she does it no matter how far away a person is. It suggests such enormous power. Such knowledge, such . . . wisdom. And yet she is so delicate, intervening so little, really. Giving us such freedom. Respecting our choices. Listening to us. Listening to needs and desires we don’t even know we have.”

 

  “Organic, then? With very powerful tools?”

 

  “Or perhaps she found it and loved it and decided she wanted to help. On her own, unassigned, unrequested.”

 

  “Now you’re a critic.”

 

  “That’s the difference between life and art, of course. Life has no frames, no curtains, no beginnings and no endings.”

 

  “I mean my own life. I mean what I do. And the Keeper gives a meaning to the larger scene. That’s enough meaning for me. I don’t need to have somebody make an epic out of my life. I lived. Strange things happened. Now and then I made a little difference in other people’s lives. You know what? It may be that the thing I’m proudest of in all my life is restoring the brain of that damaged little boy in Bodika.”