by John F. Carr
“Of course,” the Major said, tone neutral. “If you call it that.”
During this exchange, Reverend Castell simply continued to stare at the Major, as if neither he nor I had said anything.
Redirecting his attention to Castell, Lassitre tossed a thumb toward the sky, to indicate a transport in orbit. It would be over us again in a little under four hours, I knew, remembering our own few orbits. “I forgot how isolated you are here, you had no warning, did you?”
“Haven belongs to the Church of New Universal Harmony. My father purchased settlement rights just before he died.” His hand went to his chest for a moment, then dropped. “My people have sacrificed everything Earthly to come here.” Reverend Castell spoke quietly, as if reciting from the Writings. “We’ve no further need of Earthly things. The Harmonies are welcome, but the others—”
“There are families aboard, sir. Men, women and children. Your church didn’t have the funds for a second expedition, so shares were sold. We can’t expect you to like it, but it’s completely legal. And besides, isn’t charity part of your pacifist creed? Or at least basic hospitality?”
Castell took a step back from Major Lassitre. His eyes widened. He took a deep breath, and I winced, expecting a loud sermon to begin. How dare this infidel remind our leader of his own creed’s duties? Instead, though, Reverend Castell let his breath out slowly and said, in a conversational tone, “Was the trip hard on them?”
At once Major Lassitre’s body language relaxed, and he smiled. “Some died, I won’t lie, to you. You’ve been in the transport ships, even converted liners; you know how it can be.”
“Squalid,” Castell said. He, too, smiled, but with no relief there, no shared referents.
For myself, I could not understand our leader’s attitude, his sudden relaxing. Had he conceded the CoDo’s right to usurp his authority on Haven? Had he acceded to their right to rescind all those costly permissions?
Was he faltering?
“You understand, of course,” Castell told the Major, “that we have neither the resources nor the desire to take care of anyone other than our own.”
The Major laughed. “They may take care of you, sir. They’ve brought virtually no supplies and precious little know-how if I’m any judge.” When no one joined in his laughter, he coughed and said, “Yes, well. Fact is, Reverend, there’s nothing we can do. Ours is but to do or die, eh?, Although your chain of command’s a bit shorter than mine, huh?”
And as he laughed again, the zodiac returned and the sergeant reported, with a note of surprise, that the Reverend hadn’t lied, the island was indeed a better place to set up a control point.
The shuttle sloshed back from the wharf and surged to the island, but it was long before the Reverend moved or stopped staring.
Behind us the entire settlement had erupted in a cacophony of discussion and disbelief. Almost four thousand more Harmonies; what news would they bring of Earth? Old friends and new would arrive within a few hours. Excitement roiled among us while we acolytes attempted no calming, feeling only upset ourselves.
“You had not the slightest appreciation of the difficulty in what you asked of me,” Reverend Castell said at last, under his breath. He turned and glared at me a moment, as if angry that I’d eavesdropped.
With a blush I lowered my gaze, but my mind, always the independent part of me, wondered if the Reverend had been subvocalizing a conversation with his dead father. It seemed to me futile to argue with ghosts that haunt only memory.
When Reverend Castell strode away I did not follow as closely as usual. His glare had sent sour notes through me, clashing with our normal attunement.
Later, the other acolytes began asking me what we must do as our numbers swelled fourfold. “Strive for harmony,” I said.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was uncertain exactly what that phrase might mean.
IV
A communal symphony convened. We made music and let it take us into complicated realms of certainty and doubt, where Pythagoras fought with numbers and found the octave and the twelve chromatic semitones, our disciples, from whence came spherical harmony, as from chaos and cacophony a symphony universal evolved.
My fingers manipulated the rhythm sticks automatically and I hummed in tune, even as my mind kicked and screamed at the onslaught now facing us. We’d done fine for an Earth-year or so, and anyone joining us would be interlopers, even if they shared our faith.
Reverend Castell let the Chosen pulse with rhythm and song for only a few rondeaux verses before appearing in the town square himself, in fresh robes bleached white. In the orange of Haven’s day he seemed covered in fiery blood. Raising his hands, he commanded silence. His gaze scanned us, and he shook his head, his face showing disgust.
“My efforts,” he said. Then he glanced down for an instant and started again. “Our efforts to live in harmony with all forces of the universe have been blessed until today. Many have been injured, and most of us continue to marvel at the sheer harshness of Haven’s environment, but we’re still here. We have not thrived, but we have gotten by.
“Now the CoDominium has followed us, and its decay is spread even unto our crisp air and unsullied waters. This is cause for resentment, perhaps, but such negative feelings create disharmony, which shall, if indulged, prove our nemesis.
“We must welcome not only other Harmonies, but also the pitiable families transported here by the CoDominium. They purchased a share in our world and no doubt harbor dreams of better lives. They are more akin to the Chosen than most others from that rotting planet whose name is a synonym for dirt.
“Haven was the name of Tycho Brahe’s island where he brought together the best astronomers of his time to form Uraniborg, the Heavenly Castle, an estate of science and truth, a refuge from idiocy and Earthly corruptions, and Haven is our planet’s name, chosen and bestowed by my father, and a haven it shall ever be, to all those who must be clean of Earth.”
The Chosen murmured amongst themselves and milled about, and Reverend Castell glanced at me and smiled, perhaps in atonement for the earlier scowl. “They’re big enough” he told me in a soft voice. “They can accommodate even this latest of added burdens.”
I nodded and returned his smile, squaring my shoulders. If such was Reverend Castell’s new course for Haven, then such would I support, for I trusted him to sense the resonance, the harmonics.
The fact that we had no choice may have helped us be gracious in our first greetings when, a few hours later, the first dumps of miners arrived.
Those of us with boats helped ferry people ashore, while the rest of us either got on with urgent tasks or stood gaping up as shuttle after shuttle arrived. I figured there were five shuttles in all, working in a chain. They soon had the new arrivals on the ground.
Our women comforted the newcomers’ wives and children, while our men harmonized with old friends and amazed colonists who’d expected a more settled world.
Some of the Chosen were eager for news from Earth, others contented themselves with the festive atmosphere that was developing as tours of our town and fields were given. It was as if we had visitors.
Visitors, however, soon depart, whereas this overwhelming number of people were here to stay.
To escape the confusion and conflicting feelings of giddiness and horror, I clapped hands outside Reverend Castell’s house and was bid enter. Stepping down the four steps, I got on my hands and knees and crawled in through the curtain.
He sat in the dim light of a single wick-lamp, holding but not reading a copy of the Writings. “Kev”, he asked, “have you completed your circuit?”
I remembered my five-sleep walk, the people I’d visited, and the vermin I’d dropped on my run toward the lake, then forced myself toward peace, in order to better remember my tour. “Yes, Reverend, all the outlying farms are well. Some vermin and one possible raid from the outcasts are the only discords.”
He nodded as if not really interested. “
Can we increase our harvests by a factor of ten or more?”
Blood drained from my face. With all the confusion, I hadn’t given thought to starving.
Reverend Castell blinked, and I saw tears flowing. “Maybe they’ve brought extra seed-grain, or implements, despite what the officer said.”
I sat heavily, unbidden, on a pallet by the door as the truth sank home like an arrow in my heart: Even if the new arrivals took to farming in a trice, there was not enough seed-grain to allow planting.
They must spread through the Shangri-La Valley,” Reverend Castell said. “How ironic that name’s become. I wonder if the first surveyors foresaw this planet’s strife?”
Not fully understanding his references, I remained silent.
“Muskylopes, perhaps,” he said. “Or spiny boars when we spot them. But we cannot slay them unthinkingly, as we did the American bison and so many other species.”
I let him chatter to himself for a few moments, then said, “Reverend, you’ve always taught me that a note gains its power when it acts in concert with other notes according to the laws of harmony.”
He glanced up at me, surprise on his face. A smile blossomed. “You are a good soul,” he told me.
Unsure that he’d understood what I meant I blushed but forced myself to say, “I mean, we can’t abandon our Writings now,” and gestured half-heartedly at the book he held. “I must tell you, there’s already unrest spreading. Some of the newcomers describe themselves as service merchants. They have harlots, and gambling is on their every word, in their every thought. I have even scented alcohol on the breaths of some of our own who perhaps shared a secular communion with less-strict brothers in Harmony.”
It felt worse than a toothache to presume to tell Reverend Castell anything so crass, and I fidgeted and finally stood to excuse myself, preferring to let him think in solitude than risk being exposed to another of his rantings. Before I could move, however, someone poked his head through the curtain into the room and said, “Castell? That you?”
Aghast at such effrontery, I looked at the reverend, who appeared as amazed as I by such a breach of town etiquette.
“I am he,” the reverend said, standing. He placed the Writings on a stone shelf and folded his hands in front of his belt-line.
The man had curly brown hair and a dentist smile. He brushed off the dust from the short tunnel, then stretched up to touch the roofing. “Quaint,” he said, more or less ignoring us as he surveyed the room’s contents. He bent and brushed more dust from his trousers’ knees.
Finally he said, “Oh, I’m Julian Anders’ secretary, Rollie Tate, and I was asked to bring you to see him right away, so can we get going?”
His words shot through me like high voltage. Reverend Castell said, “Am I to understand that Anders is a Harmony?”
The little man nodded enthusiastically. “Sure what else? He’s our leader, he brought us all to this dump. Now can we get a move on? Reverend Anders doesn’t like waiting.”
My expression must have betrayed my inner turmoil, because Reverend Castell stepped forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. He leaned close and whispered, “A song always has more notes.”
He meant that the notes left unsounded are as important as those we sing, a quotation intended to soothe me. Did he also mean we should have seen this coming?
V
“A song always has more notes” is also what he told me a month ago when my baby died, and I wondered cynically if it were generic advice.
After three exhausting days my wife, Bren, had birthed a son but the baby lived barely a moment. Looking up at me, one of the midwives shook her head, eyes wide.
My heart sank, and then my knees weakened. I sat on a stone covered by muskylope hide, gasping as if I’d run kilometers.
Concern for Bren shot through me then, as I caught a glimpse of the blood-smeared belly, still swollen as she struggled with the afterbirth. Standing, I rushed to her side. Her face was agony incarnate and incarnadine, her silken tresses lay matted, her eyes, when they opened, wandered dull and glazed.
“I’m here, Bren-love,” I told her, grasping her hand, which squeezed mine hard enough to grind knuckles.
“Take,” she said, “the baby,” her neck’s tendons taut, “to Reverend Castell,” and she groaned, fought for control, and added, in a breathless whisper of pain, “blessing.”
My throat was too choked by love and sorrow to answer, so I nodded. Leaning down, I kissed her cheek, then gathered the still bundle in my arms and trudged across the town square.
I passed the acolytes’ quarters on my way, and heard a droning from within. For an instant I regretted ever having left the warm community of bachelor acolytes, but I knew it was a strident disharmony. Besides, marriage was a rock-solid foundation for the soul, and in truth my love for Bren often threatened to overwhelm even my love for Harmony and all things Harmonious.
Spits of snow sent icy darts into my eyes, into my lungs. Haven’s winter, although just beginning, featured blizzards to humble even our Russian taiga couple, Iban and Svetalma, who had taught us how to skin muskylopes and who often told tales of snow piled up to the sky.
At Reverend Castell’s house I dropped to my knees. Hugging the still-warm bundle to me with my elbows, I clapped thrice and heard a faint, “Enter.”
I crawled on threes, holding the bundle against my heart with my weak arm, the left. As my head thrust past the many curtains hung against the chill I said, “Reverend, our baby’s dead.” And with that the truth came home to me, and my tears flowed in a gush that blinded me like a bucketful of riverwater.
Reverend Castell came to me, stood me upright, taking the bundle. He sang it a short dirge, rocking it as if soothing a living infant to sleep, and then he placed it on a small corner altar, where candles already burned.
Coming back to me, Reverend Castell hugged me and said, “A song always has more notes, and your song is just begun. Our infant mortality rate is exceeding forty-nine percent so such sacrifices carry little of the discord of surprise, Kev. We must bear the dead on life’s shoulders. He squeezed tight, then let go and said, “Return to your wife, comfort her.”
It was good advice, giving me something to think of other than my own misery, and the cold air outside revived me.
Only when I passed one of the midwives on her way to Castell’s house did I falter. I knew she would take the tiny corpse and bury it in some unknown farmer’s fallow field, after doctors pronounced it pure. Looking down at the ground, I hated its insatiable hunger for babies’ bones. The last two years had aged me ten.
When I got back, the strain was still evident on Bren’s face, too, and seeking to soothe her I tried to stroke her forehead. She snarled at me, almost biting my quickly withdrawn hand, then fell into heavy sleep.
“She must rest, but stay by her side, sing her gentle songs,” a midwife said, packing shiny things into a leather bag.
It was bad for Bren, I knew. Just looking at her threatened to begin my tears anew, for the effort and loss on her face, even as she slept, was awful in such a young woman. Worse, strain remained on her face even days later, after she was up and around.
We talked nothing of the lost child at first, then talked of nothing but the lost child in the weeks following. Neither silence nor words did much good, but my love for Bren deepened.
Still, I could not remove all of the guilt and bitterness she felt. Of Earth-lowland stock, she could not risk another pregnancy so we took simpler pleasure in more complicated ways and hoped no baby resulted from some fluke. And of course all the while we each secretly prayed for that fluke, because none of us ever believe that the worst is yet to come.
So quickly we grew older.
Such were my thoughts as Reverend Castell and I followed Rollie Tate down to the lake shore. On the way we gathered the other acolytes with double-claps at appropriate houses. As we walked, we heard howls of furious celebration and shouts of dissension and anger. It seemed our humanity was lessen
ed in the acid-bath of numbers.
Following the scampering Tate, we passed a few merchants, some actually squatting in the street beneath makeshift awnings, others hawking homemade wares from collapsible wheeled carts. Dice flung from hands better suited to prayer than rough work clattered against stone walls, rolled across once-clean sidewalks.
We also saw a group of miners buying a pair of muskylopes, looking like prospectors from histories of Alaska and California. They were outfitted with Kennicott-stamped equipment and preparing to trek into Haven’s wilderness seeking who knew what forms of personal wealth.
Near the lake we neared a group of men, some ship officers, others dressed in relative finery, especially for Haven standards. A boat bobbed behind them, its operator a bored fat man who yawned repeatedly and chewed some kind of cud between yawns.
There, standing on the pebbles beside Major Lassitre, was a tall, clean-shaven man with cropped gray hair and dew-lapped eyes glinting like coal pushed too far into a snowman’s face. Tate approached the tall man and did a bow that incorporated a curtsy and other, subtler obeisance. “The bearded guy,” Tate said.
Noticing us, Lassitre said, with some disgust, “He insisted on being the last to the ground.” When Castell ignored him in favor of staring at the tall man, Lassitre stepped back a pace or so and fell silent. He watched with some amusement, his eyes glittering even as he shivered now and then.
Tate took a position behind the tall man, who stepped up to Castell and said, “Reverend, I’m Julian Anders, and I’ve led my people here to join yours.”
Reverend Castell locked gazes with the man. I saw neither flinch and thought, There’s iron in them both. Castell said, “You served under me, on Earth. One of my ministers, but I can’t quite place where you served—”
“I’m a leader now, in my own right. When you took the first Chosen away, I rose to ascension by popular acclaim.” He grinned. “I represent those strong enough to be left behind. We’ve come to Haven to bulk your enterprise and bulwark your fragile community against its own cowardice and weakness. He gazed across the landscape, eyes squinted, and added, “You’ll be glad to have me here from the looks of things.”