by Mike Resnick
“Let me get this straight,” said Heath. “You've spent six years and God knows how much money trying to find her, and all you want to do is sit down and talk to her?”
“What would you do with her, Mr. Heath?” asked Venzia contemptuously.
“You know what I want to do with her,” replied Heath.
“I'll pay you more for her than Abercrombie will.”
“I doubt it,” said Heath. “Do you know how much Malcolm Abercrombie is worth?”
“All I want is five minutes of her time,” said Venzia. “After that you can sell her to Abercrombie or do anything else you want with her.”
“If she will let you,” I put in.
“One million credits, Mr. Heath,” said Venzia, never taking his eyes off the other man.
“A million credits for just five minutes?” replied Heath.
“That's right.”
“A lot of men have spent considerably more than five minutes with her,” said Heath, “and I'll wager that she never told them what you want to know.”
“They didn't know who she was,” replied Venzia. “I do. They probably never asked her the right question.” He paused. “That is my advantage.”
“Assuming that she answers you at all, how will you know if she's telling you the truth?” persisted Heath.
“I'll know,” said Venzia confidently.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but I truly do not know what you are talking about.”
Heath looked amused. “He's got something very important to ask her, Leonardo.”
“What is it?”
“What lies beyond?” answered Venzia intently. “She is the only person who knows.”
“It may be sacrilegious to know,” I cautioned.
“It would be foolhardy not to, if one has the opportunity,” replied Venzia. “Is there a true religion? At whose altar should I worship? What traits and habits must I forsake? What must I do to assure my arrival in Paradise? Or if there is nothing beyond this life, then at least I will be free to do whatever I choose.”
“You're free now,” pointed out Heath.
“Only because I am ignorant of the consequences of my actions,” said Venzia. “This way I'll know.”
Heath smiled. “A heavenly insurance policy.”
“If you wish.”
“You expect a lot for your money, Mr. Venzia,” said Heath.
“I intend to get it,” said Venzia earnestly.
15.
Venzia spent the night at the chalet, and in the morning it was decided that the three of us would leave Graustark for Far London.
I not only had my work to do, but now that he had lost the Dark Lady again, Venzia was convinced that sooner or later a new painting of her would come up for sale. In the meantime, he would return with us to Far London where he could keep in frequent contact with me, while he monitored likely heroes and daredevils on the video and programmed his computer to sift through the immense number of printed and electronic media available to it.
As for Heath, I don't think he was fully convinced that the Dark Lady was what Venzia and I claimed her to be, but he had no objection whatsoever to accompanying us to Far London, since that was where he would find Malcolm Abercrombie.
Venzia left the chalet an hour ahead of us, since he had to retrieve his snowcart and return it to the rental agency, and we arranged to meet at Heath's ship, since Venzia had come to Graustark on a spaceliner and had no ship of his own.
“It's going to be a little cramped,” observed Venzia, when he had finished carrying his luggage through the entry hatch.
“It wasn't designed to carry three people,” replied Heath.
“I can see that,” said Venzia. He turned to me. “Here,” he said, handing me a square box that was perhaps twelve inches on each side and eight inches deep.
“What is it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I haven't the slightest idea. Tai Chong told me to deliver it to you.”
“A present from Tai Chong?” I mused happily, accepting the box.
“I got the impression that it arrived from Bjornn, and that she was holding it for you,” answered Venzia.
“From Benitarus II,” I corrected him gently. “Bjornn is the race; Benitarus is the planet.”
“Whatever you say,” said Venzia, losing interest. He turned to Heath. “I'm hungry. How do I get something to eat?”
Heath nodded. “Just go into the galley and tell it what you want. It's voice-keyed.”
“Where do I find its menu?”
“It can make anything you ask for, as long as you don't mind soya products.”
“Thanks.” Venzia headed off to the galley, and Heath turned to me.
“Well?” he said.
“Well what, Friend Valentine?”
“What's in the package?”
“I do not know.”
“Aren't you going to open it?”
“I thought I would do so in the privacy of my compartment,” I replied.
“You don't have any privacy in your compartment,” responded Heath with a smile. “You're sharing it with Venzia.”
“Then I shall open it here and now,” I said.
“Excellent idea,” said Heath.
I set the package on a flat surface and stared at it without moving.
“What's the problem?” asked Heath.
“I am afraid,” I replied.
“You think perhaps someone sent you a bomb?” Heath smiled. “Don't worry, Leonardo; my ship's sensors would have identified anything dangerous.”
“It is not a bomb,” I said.
“Then what is it?”
I sighed. “I know what it should be. I do not know what it is.”
“You're not making very much sense, Leonardo,” said Heath. He paused. “Would you like me to open it for you?”
“No,” I said. “I will open it myself.”
“What's all the fuss about?” asked Venzia, carrying his plate in from the galley.
Heath shrugged. “Ask him,” he said, jerking his head toward me.
“I did not mean to disturb either of you,” I apologized.
“Fine,” said Venzia. “Then open the damned thing and let's get the hell off the planet.”
I turned to Heath. “Perhaps you would prefer to take off first,” I said. “The package can wait.”
“But I can't,” he replied. “You've made such a mystery of it that I'm not moving until you open it.”
I sighed, and began unwrapping the box. I had to borrow a cutting instrument from the galley to complete the task, but finally the lid was ready for removal.
“Go ahead,” urged Heath.
“In a moment,” I said.
I paused, took a deep breath, and finally opened the box— and a cry of relief escaped my lips.
“Are you all right?” asked Heath.
“Yes, Friend Valentine,” I said happily. “Now I am all right.”
He peered into the box.
“What's going on here?” he asked. “It's nothing but dirt.”
“It is from my Pattern Mother,” I answered.
“Why would she send you dirt?” persisted Heath.
“It is soil from the sacred hand of the House of Crsthionn,” I said.
Venzia seemed to lose interest, and took his meal into the compartment that he was sharing with me.
“I assume that's a good thing to receive,” remarked Heath.
“Yes,” I said. “I was afraid that the package might contain something else.”
“Like what?”
“Anything else.” I paused. “Each Bjornn celebrates two holy days, Friend Valentine: the day that his House was created, and the day that his own Pattern was accepted by his House. The first occurred while we were in transit from Acheron; the second will happen, in my case, some thirty-two days from now. Now do you understand?”
“Not really,” answered Heath. “When we have holidays, we exchange presents, not dirt.”
“It is not dirt
,” I explained. “It is consecrated ground, from the birthplace of the First Mother of the House of Crsthionn, she whose offspring first bred true to her Pattern.”
“Like holy water for a Catholic,” commented Heath.
“Holy water is merely symbolic,” I replied. “This is the actual soil.”
“What do you plan to do with it?” asked Heath.
“First I must borrow your cutting instrument again.”
“What for?”
“I must create a flow of my blood, that I may join my flesh with the sacred soil as a sign of my fealty to the House of Crsthionn.”
“Are you sure you're not talking about suicide?” he asked suspiciously.
“No, Friend Valentine,” I replied. “This is a religious ritual.”
“I thought killing yourself was a religious ritual,” said Heath.
“This is a more important one.”
“All right,” he said. “Then what?”
“Then I must cover my body with the soil.”
“I suppose there's a reason,” he said dryly.
“It further symbolizes my union with the First Mother,” I answered. “I must also chant three prayers: one to her, one to the House, and one to the Mother of All Things.”
“And that's all there is to it?”
“Then I will remove the soil, after which we must atomize it.”
“It seems rather counterproductive to get rid of it, if it's so holy,” offered Heath.
“But I will have polluted it by my touch,” I explained. “Therefore, it will no longer be sacred, but profane, and by obliterating it, I will have purified myself for another year.”
“What did your people do before they had atomizers?” asked Heath.
“That was also before we developed space travel, and we returned the soil to the place from which it came. Even today, those of us who remain on Benitarus II usually choose to perform the ritual at the site of the First Mother's birthplace.”
“Do the women of your race also perform this ritual?” Heath asked curiously.
“No,” I said. “Why would anyone who is already pure and sacred require such a ritual?”
“They've got you coming and going, don't they?”
“I do not understand.”
“Never mind.” He paused. “Why were you so worried, Leonardo? What would have happened if the box contained, say, a pair of gloves, or some candy?”
“It would have meant that I was forever denied the sacraments of my race,” I said.
“I thought your Pattern Mother already cast you out.”
“I have been cast out physically. Had she not sent the sacred soil, I would have been cast out spiritually as well. My soul would have been doomed to wander lost and alone for all eternity.”
“Well, at least now I understand your yelp of joy,” said Heath. “Has this particular ceremony got a name?”
“The Celebration of the First Mother,” I replied.
“And you'll get another box of dirt for your birthday?” he asked.
“It is not my birthday,” I replied, “but my Acceptance Day. It is a joyous time.”
“How does it differ from the Celebration of the First Mother?”
“When I am at home, there is an enormous feast.”
“And that's it?” he asked, surprised.
“Vows of House and Family are repeated in an elaborate ceremony, and my fealty to the House is reaffirmed.”
“How is she going to ship that in a box?” he asked with a laugh.
“When a Bjornn male is no longer on Benitarus II, the feast becomes the sole symbol of reaffirmation. My Pattern Mother will send me vegetation grown from her own fields, and my act of eating it will seal the bond between us.”
“It must be a bit of a letdown compared to what you experienced before you left home,” commented Heath.
“It is,” I agreed. “But the individual's happiness is meaningless. The House is all.”
“If you say so.”
“And now may I borrow the cutting instrument, please?” I asked.
He nodded, walked to the galley, and returned with a knife a moment later.
I held my hand over the soil of the First Mother, and then paused before pricking my finger.
“Will the sight of blood distress you, Friend Valentine?” I asked.
“Only my own,” he replied easily.
I cut through the flesh, and allowed my blood to trickle onto the sacred soil.
"Purple?" said Heath, frowning.
“Not all blood is red,” I replied.
“Do you want a bandage or something?”
“The flow will stop shortly,” I assured him, and indeed it did a moment later.
“I suppose you'll want to do the next part in the dryshower,” suggested Heath.
“Yes, if you do not mind.”
“As a matter of fact, I insist,” he replied. “I hate messes.”
I thanked him, waited for the ship to leave Graustark and set off on its voyage for Far London, and then completed the Celebration of the First Mother in the privacy of the dryshower.
I had hoped that during the trip Venzia would tell us still more about the Dark Lady, but it turned out that he had already told us everything he knew. This did not, however, keep him from speaking about her incessantly, for he was totally obsessed with meeting her and learning the answer to his question.
Heath remained skeptical. He would join in each discussion, make pertinent observations, and speak of the Dark Lady as if she were precisely what Venzia believed her to be— and yet, between the end of one conversation and the beginning of the next, he would somehow once again become convinced that she was actually an alien, or, at best, a normal woman with the supernormal power of telepathy.
As for myself, I was so relieved that my Pattern Mother had not condemned my soul to eternal exile that even my status as an outcast who could never again return to his home world became bearable. To keep my mind from dwelling on my predicament, I concentrated on our quest for the Dark Lady, trying to force all thoughts of House and Family from my mind.
When the others were asleep, I attempted to capture her likeness again, though once more my meager artistic abilities failed me. One day I even tried to draw her as a Bjornn, her pale skin Patternless, her trappings black, her features perfect, her eyes sad, the Deity Herself set to ink and paper... yet when I was done she did not look like the Mother of All Things, but only like a Bjornn female with Patternless skin and perfect features. Somehow I knew then that the Dark Lady, whatever her origin and whatever her quest, came only for Men and not for the Bjornn.
I wrote another letter to my Pattern Mother, thanking her for her gift and telling her what I had learned, but I knew that she would not reply. I also wrote my Pattern Mate, formally divorcing her (though the separation was automatic with my banishment), and wishing her good fortune with the next mate who would be chosen for her. As sorry as I felt for myself, it was nothing compared to the regret I felt for my Pattern Mate, whose life, through no doing of her own, was to be recast at this late date. It could be years before the House found and approved the perfect complementary Pattern, and she would continue to be barren until that day arrived. (Or, worse still, the House in its wisdom could decide that she had wasted enough of her youth and young adulthood, and might pair her with a Pattern that did not properly complement her own. If they did so, sooner or later she might well produce a child with a Pattern that was not acceptable to the House, and thus would be forced to suffer not one but two outcasts in her blameless life.)
It was with such somber thoughts as these on my mind that I sought once again to control my emotions and direct my thoughts back to the Dark Lady. Heath was asleep, but Venzia, who had been quietly reading a book from the computer's electronic library, noticed my agitation and the lightening of my hue.
“Are you all right, Leonardo?” he asked.
“Yes, Friend Reuben,” I replied.
“Are you sure? You look
distressed.”
“I am better now.”
“If you say so,” he said with a shrug. He paused. “Do you mind if I ask you a question about your friend Mr. Heath?”
“No, Friend Reuben.”
“Does he really intend to rob Abercrombie?”
“I am quite certain of it, Friend Reuben.”
“Too bad.”
“I agree,” I said. “Robbery is contrary to moral and civil law.”
Venzia smiled. “I meant that we could use him in our search for the Dark Lady, and if he tries to rob Abercrombie he's likely to end up in jail. I understand that Abercrombie's got a state-of-the-art security system in that mansion of his.”
“I think Friend Valentine might surprise both you and Mr. Abercrombie,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said Venzia, dismissing the subject. “I wonder why he remains so skeptical?”
“Possibly because he did not see her under the same circumstances that you did,” I suggested.
“Neither did you,” he pointed out, “but you seem to have no problem accepting her as she is.”
“That is true,” I agreed.
“He has the same facts at his disposal that you do,” said Venzia, puzzled. “Why can't he come to the same conclusion?”
“Perhaps it is because he has always relied upon his own powers, and has no need for a belief in someone greater than himself.”
“And you do?”
“I was raised to believe in and rely upon people greater than myself,” I answered.
“I wonder... ” mused Venzia.
“About what, Friend Reuben?”
“Almost every man she's ever taken up with was totally self-reliant. I wonder what they believed in?”
“I suppose we shall have to ask the next one,” I replied.
“If we can get to him in time,” said Venzia with a grimace.
“You make her sound like a murderer,” I said, “and yet we both know she is not.”
“I don't care what she is. I'm only interested in what she knows.”
I thought of her face again.
“I think that I am more interested in what she wants,” I replied.
“What she wants?” he repeated. “Hell, what she wants is death.”
“I do not think so, Friend Reuben.”
“Why not?”