Earthborn (Homecoming)

by Orson Scott Card

  Long before the parade of crimes was over, Akma was finished. He no longer saw himself leading the parade of conquering soldiers sweeping through the Elemaki lands. He could not bear the thought of anyone ever seeing him again, for now he knew what he truly was and could never hide it from himself or anyone else again. The shame was too great. He no longer wished to be restored to all the things that he had lost. Now all he wanted was to be blotted out. Don’t make me face anyone again. Don’t make me face myself. Don’t make me face even you, Keeper. I can’t bear to exist.

  Yet each time that he thought he had reached bottom and could suffer no more deeply than at this moment, another image would spring into his mind, another person whose suffering he had caused, and . . . yes . . . he could feel more shame and pain than he had felt only a moment ago, when it had already seemed infinite and unbearable.

  Shedemei made her way through the quiet house, where so many people quietly came and went, carrying out their tasks. She saw four young men and recognized them as the sons of Motiak; they didn’t recognize her, of course, since all they had seen on the road was unwatchable brightness in a human shape. And in a way she didn’t recognize them either, for the strutting, laughing, boastful boys that she had first met were gone; and also gone were the cowering, terrified children who trembled before her and winced at every word she spoke—spoke, of course, into a tiny microphone so that the translation equipment could amplify and distort her voice to make it as painful as possible.

  What she saw now were four humans who actually had some hint of manhood about them. It was clear from their ravaged faces that they had shed many tears, but they were making no show of grief and remorse now. Instead, as people came to them—many of them diggers, though most were not—they received them graciously. “All we hope for now is that the Keeper will decide to spare Akma’s life, so that he can join us in going about trying to undo the terrible harm we caused. Yes, I know that you forgive me; you’re more generous than I deserve, but I accept your forgiveness and I vow to you that for the rest of my life I will do all that I can to earn what you’ve given me freely. But for now we wait and watch with Akma’s family. The Keeper struck him down because loyal and obedient Kept like you pleaded for relief. The Keeper hears you. We beg you to plead again with him for the life and forgiveness of our friend.” Their words were not always so clear, but the meaning was the same: We will try to undo the harm we caused; we beg you to plead with the Keeper to save our friend.

  Shedemei had no particular wish to speak to them—she knew from the Oversoul that they were sincere, that their true natures had once again emerged, wiser now, with painful memories, but committed to lives of decency. What business did she have with them, then? It was Akma that she came to see.

  Chebeya met her at the door to Akma’s bedchamber. The room was small and sparse—Akmaro and Chebeya really did live modestly. “Shedemei,” Chebeya said. “I’m so glad you got word and came. We were a day’s walk from the capital when word reached us that the Keeper had struck down our boy. We got home only a few hours before Motiak’s boys brought him here. We kept expecting to pass you on the road.”

  “I went another way,” said Shedemei. “I had some botanical specimens to tend to, among other things.” She knelt beside Akma’s inert body. He certainly did look dead.

 

  Brain activity? asked Shedemei silently.

 

  Well, what is the feeling?

 

  I’m certainly not going to tell his parents that.

 

  No prognosis.

 

  It certainly makes me suspect that Sherem didn’t just die of a stroke in the midst of his argument with Oykib.

 

  Good thing that people don’t have powers like that. I have enough of a temper that my path would be strewn with corpses all the day long.

 

  Sighing, Shedemei arose from the floor. “He’s completely stable. But it’s impossible to predict when or whether he will awaken.”

  “But he’s not dying,” said Chebeya.

  “You’re the raveler,” said Shedemei. “Is he still bound to this world?”

  Chebeya put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. “No. He’s connected to nothing. It’s as if he isn’t there, as if there isn’t anyone at all.” Then she did break down and cry, clinging to Akmaro.

  “Well, his body isn’t dead and it isn’t deteriorating, either,” said Shedemei, knowing she sounded brusque but unable to think of any gentler way to say what needed saying. “It’s in the hands of the Keeper now.”

  Chebeya nodded.

  “Thank you, Shedemei,” said Akmaro. “We didn’t think that it was something that you could heal, but we had to be sure. You . . . rumor has it that you can sometimes do remarkable things.”

  “Nothing as remarkable as what the Keeper can do.”

  She embraced them both and went her way, back to her students. All the way home, she argued with the Oversoul about what this all meant, what they should have done differently, what might be going on with Akma, if anything.

  I wonder, said Shedemei silently, whether the Keeper simply gave him the same dream she gave me—showed him her plan for the world, possessed him with her love, and he was so filled with hate that the experience consumed him.

 

  Don’t you sometimes wish that we were like ordinary people, without any unusual sources of information? We might be hearing about these events as nothing more than gossip about famous people.

 

  Neither have I, said Shedemei silently, realizing for the first time that she truly was satisfied with her life and glad of the part that the Keeper had given her in the plan of life. With that thought she suddenly laughed out loud, earning her strange looks from a couple of children passing by. She made a face at them; they shrieked and ran away, but soon stopped running and resumed their laughter and chattering. That’s the plan, thought Shedemei. The Keeper only wants us to live with the simplicity and innocence of these little ones. Why is it so hard?

  At last Akma’s entire life had been unwound before his eyes, every bit of harm that he had caused had been remembered. And the complete memory remained with him, every bit of it, none of it fading into merciful forgetfulness. He understood many things now that he had not understood before, but he could not bear to understand them. He knew that his guilt for the pain suffered by the Kept who were beaten, by the earth people who were driven from their homes, was slight indeed compared to the guilt of having induced so many men and women to do things that drove the Keeper almost completely out of their hearts. To cause a good man pain was a terrible thing; to persuade a man to do evil was far worse.

  When the Keeper had first left him, he had longed for his return. Now, though, having seen the terrible consequences of his pride, he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone looking at him again, least of all the Keeper of Earth. The only relief he could hope for was to be extinguished, and that was what he longed for. He could not bear to return
to the world that he had befouled so badly; he could not bear to stay as he was, utterly alone. If he could only find some road leading to obliteration, he would run to it, hurl himself into oblivion.

  One of his memories was that terrible last meeting with his father and mother and the king—he had, of course, felt the anguish of these good people who, even as they faced the likelihood of his destroying all that they had tried to create, still worried more about him than about themselves. Yet as a part of that memory, there was something. His father had . . . said something. . . .

  And there it was, the words flowing back into his mind as if his father were only just now speaking them. “When you are at the point of despair, my son, when you see destruction as the only desirable choice, then remember this: The Keeper loves us. Loves us all. Values each life, each mind, each heart. All are precious to him. Even yours.”

  Impossible. His life had been devoted to undoing the Keeper’s work. How could the Keeper possibly love him?

  “His love for you is the one constant, Akma. He knows that you have believed in him all along. He knows that you have rebelled against him because you thought you knew how to shape this world more wisely than he. He knows that you have lied to everyone, over and over again, including yourself, especially yourself—and I tell you again that even knowing all of this, if you will only turn to him, he will bring you back.”

  Could it be the truth? That even now, the Keeper might bring him back? Free him of this terrible exile? Accept him once again, and dwell within him, and whisper to him constantly?

  But even if it is true, he thought, do I want to? Shamed in front of the world, guilty of innumerable crimes, won’t returning to such a life be more than I can stand?

  At once there came to his mind an image of himself, humiliated, smeared by his enemies, returning bravely to his people.

  No, that’s a false image. Then I was innocent, made naked and filthy by others. Now I’m far more filthy and my nakedness is far more shameful, and it was done entirely by myself.

  Yet the courage to return, that was still the same, even if the shame had a far different cause. I must return, if only so that others can see me, not strutting in my glory, but filthy in my shame. I owe it to all those that I have hurt. I would only injure them again if, like a coward, I hid my shame from them.

  Oh, Keeper of Earth, he cried out in his solitude. I beg you to have mercy on me. I have poisoned myself with bitterness, I am bound by chains of death that I forged myself and I can’t find my way out without your help.

  In the instant that he made this plea for help, this recognition of his desperate helplessness, he felt the watcher return to him. It was a simple thing, so easy, so minute an action, as if the Keeper had been poised on the very verge of his heart, ready to touch him the moment he asked. And at this touch, the vast omnipresent memory of all his crimes suddenly was gone. He knew that he had committed them, but they no longer stared him in the face wherever he looked. It was the lifting of a terrible burden; he had never felt so light, so free. And now, even though he still had not regained the use of his body, his solitude was over. He was named, he was known, he was part of something larger than himself, and instead of feeling resentful and wanting to break anything that he could not control, he found himself filled with joy, for now his existence had a meaning. He had a future, because he was part of a world that had a future, and instead of wanting to decide for himself and determine that future for everyone else, he knew that he would be glad just to touch some small part of it. To marry and give happiness to his wife. To have a child and give it the same love that his parents had given him. To have a friend and ease his burden now and then. To have a skill or a secret and teach it to a student whose life might be changed a little by what he learned. Why had he dreamed of leading armies, which would accomplish nothing, when he could do these miraculous small things and change the world?

  As Akma realized this, there suddenly flooded into him a clear understanding of all the cords of love that bound him. Everyone who cared for him, who wanted his happiness; everyone that he had ever loved or helped in any way. They were now as present and clear in his mind as, only a few moments ago, his crimes had been. Father. Mother. Luet. Edhadeya. Each one, bound to him by a thousand memories. Mon. Bego. Aronha. Ominer. Khimin. Where once his crimes against them had harrowed up his soul, now their love for him and his for them filled him with joy. Didul and Pabul and their brothers, who once had stood before him in pain because he denied them the forgiveness that they craved from him, now dwelt in his mind because of their love for his father and mother and sister, for the kingdom and the Kept and the world of the Keeper, and most particularly they loved him, they longed for his happiness, they yearned to do anything that was in their power to heal him. How could he have turned them away for so long? These were not the boys who hated him. These were sons of the Keeper, his brothers.

  And others, and others; many of those whose pain he had caused now caused him joy solely by wanting him to be joyful. And behind them, within them, shining like light out of their eyes, out of their whole bodies, was the Keeper, wearing all their faces, touching him with all their hands. I know you, he said to them all. You were inside my heart from the earliest moment of my childhood. Your love was with me all along.

  His mouth was flooded with the taste of a perfect white fruit, and his body was filled with it, shone with it. He, too, was as bright and shining now as all the others. As exquisite and bitter as his pain had been a moment ago, exactly that exquisite and sweet was his present joy.

  Then, in a moment, the overwhelming awareness of how he was loved slipped away. It was replaced by the almost forgotten feeling of his own body, stiff and painful—but so sweet, the tang of it, the sharpness of his returning senses. There was light against his eyelids. Something moved; a shadow passed across him, and then light again. He was not alone. And he was alive.

  Chebeya cried out, a soft sharp O of happiness. Those who had been dozing awoke; Akmaro, who had been talking with Didul and Luet, strode at once to Chebeya’s side.

  “His eyes moved under the eyelids,” she said.

  They both knelt, touched his hand. “Akma,” said Akmaro. “Akma, come home to us, my son.”

  His eyes opened then. He blinked against the light. He turned his head, ever so slightly, and looked at them. “Father,” he whispered. “Mother. Forgive me.”

  “Already,” said Chebeya.

  “Before you asked,” said Akmaro.

  “I have so much to do.” Then he closed his eyes again and slept, this time a natural sleep, a healing sleep. His father and mother knelt over him, held his hands, stroked his face, wept for joy. The Keeper had been merciful and brought their son back home to them again.

  THIRTEEN

  FORGIVENESS

  Shedemei was out of sorts. The merchant who supplied her with fresh food from the countryside had raised his prices again. Of course she could afford it, since she had the Oversoul’s knowledge of the location of mineral deposits throughout the gornaya. It took no great effort to fly to a high peak, put on breathing gear, blast some ice into water, chip away at the exposed rock, take a bushel basket of gold ore from the mountain, have it refined in a remote place far from Darakemba, and come back with enough wealth to sustain the school for another year or two.

  The trouble was that her goals had changed. The school was no longer just a ploy to allow her to be close to the center of action in Darakemba. The action was over—or, rather, had gone into hiatus—and yet she was still there and not at all interested in resuming her life sealed in a suspended animation chamber on the Basilica, coming out only now and then to tend her plants. Her school had become real and important to her, and she wanted to get it on a sound financial footing so that someone could keep it going after she left. Yet every time she was about to get the income just about to the level of the expenses, somebody would raise a price or some new need would become apparent, and back she would go, dipping into her res
erves of gold.

  It was hard to remember the woman she had once been. In the city of Basilica, she had shut out the rest of the world, refusing most human contact and keeping what she had on a businesslike level as much as possible. At the time she thought it was because she loved science so much—and she did enjoy her work, so it wasn’t an entire lie. But what really locked her door against the world was fear. Not fear of physical danger, really, but fear of messiness, fear of untidy entanglements perpetually unresolved. The Oversoul—no, ultimately it was the Keeper of Earth—had forced her out of her laboratory and into the chaos of human life. But she and Zdorab had somehow managed to create an island of neatness, in which they pretended to know exactly what was expected of them both and satisfied those expectations perfectly.

  Now she was surrounded by perpetual chaos, children coming and going, teachers whose lives began somewhere outside her life so that they could never be wholly known, questions forever unanswered, needs forever inadequately met . . . it was the thing she had feared the most, and now that she was living in it, she couldn’t understand why. This was life. This was what the Keeper surrounded herself with. Perpetual irresolution. A picture never framed, a series of chords that never returned to the tonic for more than a fleeting moment. Shedemei could hardly imagine living any other way.

  Yet today she was out of sorts, likely to snap at anyone who crossed her path; she knew that the students always passed the word when such a mood was on her. “Thunderstorms,” they would say, as if Shedemei was as unavoidable as the weather. The teachers would get the word as well, and they would wait to bring Shedemei their latest problems and requests. Let the weather clear first. And that was fine with Shedemei. Let the teachers decide whether it was really important enough to be worth braving the lion in her den.

  So it rather surprised her—and peeved her, too—when someone knocked on the door of her tiny office. “Come in,” she said.