The Child Goddess

by Louise Marley

  She watched the child struggle for words. “Kburi is for Raimu-ke,” she said after a moment. Isabel held her breath, not wanting to press her. “In kburi—no, under.” She touched it again, reverently.

  Isabel sighed. Somehow, she was not asking the right questions.

  The next day, the Solemnity of St. Joseph, they hiked up the steep hill from the Multiplex to the old cathedral, guided by glimpses of its modest rectangular towers holding their ground among the soaring geometric shapes of more recent architecture. They had to make a complete circuit of the building before they found an unlocked entrance that led into a small chapel. It was chilly inside, but Isabel, used to the marble floors of old churches, had brought coats. She helped Oa to put one on, and she pulled hers over her shoulders as they went down the steps to the main sanctuary.

  Cool sunlight fell through the oculus, the circular window high in the center of the roof, to glow on the cracked white stone of the altar. The north and south transepts were shadowed, the apses illumined only by red and blue tones of light filtered through stained glass. The cathedral was empty except for two people kneeling separately in the east apse, heads bent over their folded hands. Isabel knelt near the altar, with Oa beside her. She looked around at the ancient figures of the saints, of the Virgin, of a graceful Christ with supplicating hands. The sculptor had made those hands slender and long-fingered. They reminded Isabel of Simon.

  She closed her eyes, and tried to imagine how it all must seem to Oa. She doubted her ability to explain the Roman Catholic Church to the child of Virimund, to help her grasp the essence of it, the centuries of tradition and fable and fact and faith all woven together in a grand tapestry that spanned two and a half millennia.

  And if Oa could not understand her world, how would she comprehend Oa’s?

  She tried to pray, but instead she found herself returning again and again to the questions that plagued her. Anchens who could not be persons. A child who had lived an entire century, and yet was still, beyond any doubt, a child. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to concentrate, asking her patroness for guidance, for patience, for a safe journey, for wisdom. She couldn’t clear her mind, and she found no peace.

  She opened her eyes, and nodded to Oa. “I’m ready to go,” she whispered. Oa, patiently waiting beside her, stood up. Isabel restored the kneeler to its position and straightened.

  The two other worshippers were waiting in a side aisle, standing at angles to each other in the awkward way of strangers. One was a middle-aged man, tall and stooped. The other, a woman with gray hair, leaned on a cane. When Isabel and Oa stepped out of the pew, the two moved forward to intercept them.

  “We don’t mean to intrude, Mother,” the man said hesitantly.

  “You are a priest, aren’t you?” the woman asked more boldly. “A Magdalene?”

  “Yes,” Isabel said. She put out her hand. “I’m Isabel Burke.”

  The woman shook her hand. “We want to ask you something.”

  “Is that all right?” the man said anxiously. “We don’t want to be a bother.”

  Isabel smiled. “Of course it’s no bother. What can I do for you?”

  The woman said, “We saw your collar. I thought you must be the one on the news. Would you say Mass for us, Mother Burke? We only have a priest every few weeks, and none since Lent began.”

  Isabel’s smile faded. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. Of course I would say Mass, except the cathedral doesn’t want me to. I couldn’t go against the bishop’s wishes, I’m afraid. Not everyone accepts us—the Magdalenes. Not yet,” she added.

  “But we have another church,” the man said. “St. Teresa’s. It’s across the Sound, a ferry ride of about half an hour. Please, Mother Burke. You just don’t know what it would mean to our congregation.”

  “Are you sure the others in your church would be amenable?”

  The man said, “Yes, I’m sure. I’m positive.”

  Oa moved under Isabel’s hand, stepping closer, as if to encourage her. Isabel stroked her hair. Grace often came from unexpected directions. Her smile returned. “I’ll be delighted to say Mass,” she said.

  “How about this coming Sunday?”

  “Oh, Mother Burke,” the tall man said with enthusiasm. “That’s wonderful. Here—” He handed her a printed card. “That’s my wavephone number. If you’ll call me tonight, we’ll make arrangements to meet your boat.” He gave one to the white-haired woman as well, and both of them bid Isabel a respectful farewell.

  “Come, Oa,” Isabel said softly, pleased and touched. “Let’s walk around the church, and try to see everything.”

  *

  OA GAZED WITH wonder at the multitude of images above her head, some set in colored glass, some carved of white stone. They made a circuit of the church, following the smoke-stained walls. She followed Isabel into an alcove that was as dark and narrow as a cave. Its walls had once been gold, but were now dingy and cracked. At its innermost end stood a painted statue of a woman holding a chubby baby. Oa tipped her head back to look up into the woman’s delicate face.

  “This is the Blessed Mother,” Isabel said. “Holding the Christ child.”

  Christ child. Child. Was this an anchen?

  “What is your word for mother, Oa?”

  “Mamah.”

  “Mamah. Yes. It’s almost universal, that word,” Isabel said. Oa turned to her. “The child . . . ?”

  “The Christ child?”

  “The Christ child . . . is an anchen?” She held her breath, awaiting the answer.

  Isabel touched Oa’s hair again. Oa’s mamah had touched her hair like that, before she knew. “No,” Isabel said gently. “No, Oa, the Christ child was not an anchen. He grew to be a man, though he didn’t live long. Not as long as you, not even as long as I.”

  “Why?”

  Isabel’s eyes were bright in the dimness of the alcove. “Christ died young. He died for His people.”

  Oa looked back at the figures. The Mother cradled the Child securely in her arm, and the Child looked down on Oa with eyes that seemed to know everything. The toes of the Mother were worn away, as if many hands had touched them. The foot of the kburi was the same, its rough base of piled stones rubbed smooth from the stroking of the anchens.

  “It’s a beautiful statue, isn’t it?” Isabel asked. “And very old, I think.”

  “Toes are gone,” Oa said.

  “Yes. It happens a lot. People touch the statues, or the icons, and they rub away the paint, sometimes brass or even marble, if they touch it enough times.” She turned in a circle, taking in the pattern of stars set into the ceiling, the empty candle sconces. “Once, there might have been a hundred candles burning here. I suppose there is no one to take care of them now, to take away the burned ones and put fresh ones out.”

  “Is not kburi?” Oa said.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “But, Isabel . . .” Oa struggled for words. “People pray to the Ma—the Mother?”

  “Yes, in a way.”

  “And the Child?”

  “Yes.” Isabel looked back at the statue, and her face softened.

  “Many of us are moved by images of the Blessed Mother and the Child. It’s a perfect model of love. It helps us to focus on God.”

  Child. Oa frowned, staring at the statue, struggling with the ideas.

  “What is it, Oa? What are you thinking of?”

  Oa bit her lip. “The child—Christ child. People are praying to Christ child.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is not kburi, but is like kburi.”

  “Is it, Oa?”

  Oa nodded. “Anchens pray to Raimu-ke. People pray to Christ child.”

  “I don’t know how to say Raimu-ke in English, Oa.”

  Oa tugged on the ends of her hair. “Raimu-ke was an anchen.”

  “Yes—a child, then.”

  “Raimu-ke is like Christ child. Raimu-ke died . . . for anchens.”

  Isabel took Oa’s ha
nd in a warm grip. “Ah. You see, Oa. Anchens and people are not so different. People pray. Anchens pray. And we love. The capacity to love makes us very like each other.”

  Oa wanted to protest, to assure Isabel it wasn’t true. She had tried to make her understand, but she didn’t know enough words. Isabel didn’t comprehend the crime it was to be an anchen, the offense to the ancestors. When she reached Virimund, when she met the others, would she understand then? It was tempting to let her think they were truly alike. To let Isabel think Oa was a person. To let Isabel love Oa.

  Isabel put her arms around Oa, and Oa let her cheek rest against Isabel’s shoulder. She wished the moment could last forever. She wished she could believe it were all true.

  *

  JIN-LI WATCHED THE little group emerge beneath the awning of the guest suites, Oa skipping at Isabel’s side, Isabel carrying a large black case. Simon, with an armful of coats, walked slightly behind. Jin-Li held the door of the car for them, and then climbed in to sit beside Simon, facing Isabel and Oa. The car backed and turned, heading to the western exit of the Multiplex, and out onto the throughway that led to the ferry terminal.

  Oa gazed at Jin-Li from under lowered eyelids. Jin-Li smiled at her. “Hello, Oa. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Hello.” The girl tugged at the ends of her long braids.

  “How are you?” Jin-Li asked.

  “Oa is fine, thank you.” It was curious, Jin-Li thought. Even after all these weeks, and Oa’s much improved English, the girl spoke of herself in the third person.

  “We’re looking forward to the ferry ride, aren’t we, Oa?” Isabel asked.

  Oa nodded. “Yes. Oa likes the ferry,” she said. Her white smile flashed at Jin-Li. “Oa sees a whale!”

  Jin-Li laughed. They were lovely together, the dark-skinned child, the slender bald woman. Jin-Li turned to include Simon Edwards in the moment, and the laugh died.

  He was gazing at Isabel with a look of such longing that Jin-Li felt guilty to have seen it.

  Jin-Li had welcomed Isabel’s invitation, had looked forward to the day trip, the congenial company, to the fresh salt air and the new experience of a Catholic religious service. The discovery that Simon Edwards was in love with Isabel Burke was a surprise.

  *

  THE TOWERING PINES and full-branched spruces of Bainbridge Island almost swallowed the tiny Church of St. Teresa of Calcutta. The church itself was only a foambrick square with a cross painted in white above its doorway. A few homely icons hung on the interior walls. In place of pews, a dozen rows of plastic chairs ranged around the altar, which was a simple table draped in white cloth, set on a little raised dais.

  Jin-Li followed Isabel and Oa and Simon into the church. A tall man with bent shoulders took Isabel’s case from her hands and led her off to the back of the building, leaving Simon, Oa, and Jin-Li standing uncertainly in the austere space. Oa looked longingly after Isabel.

  “It’s all right,” Simon told her. “She’ll be back soon.”

  “Isabel says Mass now?” Oa asked.

  “Soon.” Simon glanced over the girl’s head at Jin-Li. “Are you a Catholic, Longshoreman Chung?”

  “Please, Dr. Edwards, call me Jin-Li. And no. I’m not. I don’t practice any religion.”

  “No,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes straying over the simple adornments of the church. “No, I don’t either. But for Isabel . . .”

  “Isabel is a priest,” Oa told them firmly, in her lilting accent. “Isabel is a priest of Saint Mary Magdalene.” Her great dark eyes sought Jin-Li’s. “Mary Magdalene was a person.”

  Jin-Li nodded gravely. “Yes. I know something about her.”

  Oa spread her small hand in a gesture to take in the room, the plastic chairs, the plain altar, the icons. “Not Mary Magdalene’s church,” she said. “Te-re-sa’s church.”

  “That’s right.”

  Oa tugged on her braids and grinned up at Jin-Li. Jin-Li grinned back, charmed by her.

  People began to appear, coming into the church in little groups of three and four. Jin-Li was startled to see, after fifteen minutes or so, that the church was full. At least seventy-five people had gathered, sitting quietly, standing against the walls, some chatting, some with their heads bowed and eyes closed. Simon watched the door at the far end of the room, waiting, like the others, for Isabel.

  When she appeared at last, someone rang a small bell, and everyone came to their feet. Isabel’s bare head gleamed above a white linen robe. A gold-embroidered alb draped her slender shoulders. Her wooden cross hung on her breast, as always, and she held a covered dish in one hand, a stoppered bottle in the other. She radiated power, a quiet and benevolent strength. The tall man walked behind her with two candlesticks.

  “My friends,” Isabel said in a clear, carrying voice. “It’s good to see you, and very good for us to be here together on this lovely morning.” She stepped up to the altar, including every corner of the room in the radiance of her smile, and she lifted her hand in the old, old cruciform gesture. “I greet you all in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  Jin-Li saw the hands moving in the sign of the cross, saw tears glisten in more than one eye, and understood that this was a moment of profound importance to these people. Even without understanding the ritual, the faith and hope and intensity of the worshippers was impressive to see.

  Spring sunshine poured in through the windows. The ceremony went forward, Isabel chanting the words of the old rite, the assembly responding, kneeling, standing, singing hymn verses from memory. Before the communion procession began, Isabel quoted, “I leave you my peace. My peace I give you.” People turned to each other to shake hands, some to embrace.

  Jin-Li watched Isabel’s eyes meet Simon’s over the simple altar, and understood that Isabel Burke loved Simon Edwards as much as he loved her.

  “Peace be with you,” said a voice on Jin-Li’s right. Jin-Li turned to shake the proferred hand, and then another. Isabel and Simon broke their contact, and the Mass continued.

  Later, when farewells had been said, thanks offered and accepted, and Isabel had stowed her things back in her case, they all strolled down to the ferry dock in cool afternoon sunshine. Jin-Li noticed the distance Isabel and Simon kept between them. By the time they boarded the ferry, a chill breeze had sprung up, and to Oa’s disappointment, they abandoned the open deck to sit inside, sheltered from the wind. She had not seen the hoped-for whale.

  Simon took her off to be consoled with a sweet. Isabel, pulling the collar of her long black coat high around her chin, shivered a little. “Cold,” she murmured. “I forgot my hat.”

  “You’re tired, I think,” Jin-Li said. “Wouldn’t you like something hot to drink?”

  “Thank you, Jin-Li. Maybe a little later.”

  “It was a lovely service, Isabel,” Jin-Li murmured.

  “Did you think so?” Isabel smiled, but there was sadness in it, and regret.

  “Didn’t you like saying Mass?” Jin-Li ventured.

  “I did,” Isabel answered slowly. “I do. It’s just that . . .” Her voice trailed off. Jin-Li waited in silence. Isabel glanced up, and met Jin-Li’s eyes. She laughed a little. “You’re a very good listener, Jin-Li Chung. You would have made a wonderful priest.”

  “Except that I have no faith,” Jin-Li said lightly.

  Isabel’s eyes darkened, and she turned them back to the view of the gray waters of Puget Sound, choppy now in the rising wind. Jin-Li waited, but when Isabel spoke again, it was on a new subject.

  “I’ve never been to space,” she said. “Another world. I find I’m a little anxious about it.”

  “I was on Irustan,” Jin-Li offered. “Of course, I spent the journey in twilight sleep, but I loved being offworld. When I was young, all I wanted was to travel, to go everywhere, see everything. I longed to be an archivist.”

  “So you became a longshoreman.”

  “It was the only way I could find out of H
ong Kong.”

  Isabel’s unusual eyes seemed alight from within. “And what did you think of Irustan?”

  “It was wonderful. And terrible.” Jin-Li gave the priest a rueful smile. “I could have stayed forever.”

  19

  ISABEL SAID A sunrise Easter Mass at St. Teresa of Calcutta in early April. They were to leave for Virimund on the Octave of Easter. Isabel’s gear was packed, a dozen cartons, valises, and padded equipment carriers. Simon’s portable lab was assembled and ready to stow. Isabel had catalogued and recorded all the information she had on the Sikassa, with files waiting for the archivist who would be assigned to them. She and Oa grew restless, waiting.

  Three days before their departure, a hydro worker at the Virimund power plant became ill. Simon hurried to the World Health offices, but the Port Forceman had already expired by the time he reached the r-wave center and contacted the power park. The medicator had been ineffective, and the medtech on Virimund was baffled. Simon spent an entire day sending instructions and receiving information, struggling to identify the cause of the worker’s illness.

  With Simon occupied, Isabel cast about for a way to fill the time, and to quell her rising anxiety about the journey. When Jin-Li offered to take her and Oa to the expansion worlds exhibit, she accepted with gratitude. The weather had grown cooler after Easter, and a light rain showered the cityscape. The driver dropped them off directly in front of the Old Space Needle, but Isabel’s scalp was wet by the time they reached the entrance and bought their tickets.

  Oa loved the nautilus slidewalk, prancing from one side to the other as it bore them up to the gallery level. Isabel and Jin-Li smiled at each other above her dark head.

  “Happy,” Jin-Li said quietly.

  “She lives in the moment,” Isabel murmured. “I suppose we all should do the same.”

  “Try, anyway,” the longshoreman said.

  “Indeed.”

  On the gallery level a thin stream of people strolled around the external corridor, a few admiring the mist-shrouded view, others sampling the exhibits. Jin-Li led the way, stopping before one of the entrances and extending a hand with a slight smile. “Welcome to Irustan.”