by Hank Davis
She shook her head and stared at the floor for a few seconds. When she looked at him again, her eyes were wet. “I’m sorry, baby. I hate ruining your Christmas, but being here has drained all our resources, and what with your father—” She swallowed a few times before she continued. “We’ll just celebrate together later.” She patted his father’s hand. “All of us.”
“I understand, Mom, I do.” He felt bad about asking, but every time he thought of that Bible, he felt that maybe it could help, that maybe it would make a miracle possible. He knew things didn’t work that simply, but he couldn’t stop the feeling that it was still possible. “I just wanted to know if you had any spare money I could have.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m so sorry, Inead. I wish we could afford presents for you, but we can’t.”
“No, no,” he said, “I’m not asking for me. I don’t care about presents. It’s just—” He stopped. He didn’t want to tell her. Suddenly the whole idea was silly.
“We barely have enough for food,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. Maybe if he showed her the Bible, she would feel the same way he did. “Would you like to take a walk with me? I found some neat places.”
“Sure,” she said, “but let’s first go downstairs and get some dinner. I don’t want to be far from your father.”
He tried to hide his disappointment. “That would be great. Are we going to sleep here again?”
She nodded. “I am, but you don’t have to. I’m sure we can get someone from church to let you stay with them.”
“No way,” he said. “I’m staying where you guys are.”
She stared at him for a few seconds before she said, “Okay. Fair enough. Let’s go eat.”
They were in debt, Lobo knew. Repossessing their home was the eleventh task on the to-do list of a Xychek financial advisor who never gave advice; the man only collected on debts. The machines did all the real work, draining the accounts and changing the titles and so on; he just provided the human touch that the law here mandated was necessary before a company could take back any mortgaged item.
He watched them eat. He watched them pray. He watched them talk and try to joke and eventually fall asleep, the mother and the son curled together on the floor in front of the comatose father. He watched the boy moan in his sleep. He watched the mother start and jerk awake at each strange sound, check her husband, find him still comatose, and then settle again.
It bothered him. It bothered him a great deal. It wasn’t right. None of it was right. They weren’t the only people on Macken with problems, of course, but they were the ones who currently had his attention. Even as he was admitting to himself his own feelings, another part of him explored the options, constructed a chain of events, and confirmed that yes, he could help—and without leaving a trail, with no risk to himself.
The debate over whether he should help, whether meddling in this particular matter and effectively playing God with their lives was an acceptable option, took considerably more time.
* * *
When Inead awoke, his mother was already standing beside his father and brushing the man’s cheek with her fingers.
“Merry Christmas, sleepyhead,” she said when Inead stood.
“Merry Christmas, Mom. I just wish—”
She held a finger to her lips and shook her head. “It’s okay. We’re all still together.”
He stared at his father and thought again of the Bible in the shop. The owner was mean; no way was that guy going to sell it for what little money he had.
A medtech walked in. His eyes were red from lack of rest. “You two can’t keep sleeping here,” he said, “and there’s not enough room for both of you to spend all day here, either.” He left without waiting for a response.
“What a grouch,” Inead said. “Doesn’t he know it’s Christmas?”
“Probably not,” his mother said. “Very few people here celebrate our holiday.”
“Well they should,” Inead said.
She smiled. “Yes, they should. Tell you what, why don’t you go to the restroom down the hall, wash your face and hands, and then take a walk and get some fresh air. By the time you’re back, that man will have gone home, and then we can sit with your father.”
“Okay, Mom,” he said. He went to the bathroom and did the best he could to wash his arms and his face and his neck.
As the blower was drying him, the holo over it stopped advertising Xychek’s off-planet medical facilities and went blank.
A voice whispered, “Seek, and ye shall find.”
The holo reappeared.
Inead stumbled backward into the door to a stall. Was he that tired? Dreaming? Hearing things? Making up voices so he could do what he wanted to do? Or did God just talk to him? It didn’t work like that, did it? Or maybe it did. God had spoken to Samuel; maybe God was speaking to him.
He considered telling his mother, but he knew how she’d take it. No, no way would he do that. She’d keep him next to her for the rest of the day, maybe longer, and then she’d be even more stressed.
No, he didn’t need to tell her. Whatever had happened, he was going back to that shop.
“Mr. Cheepton,” he said, “I’m here to buy that Bible.”
The man smiled at him, but it wasn’t a warm smile, more like a smile of someone who’d just won a fight in a playground. “So, you were able to raise more money?”
Inead didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t want to tell the truth. Maybe the man would forget how much he’d had. Maybe today his savings would be enough.
Maybe a miracle would happen.
He held out his wallet, thumbed it active, and waited.
In the split second between the activation of Inead’s wallet and its transmission to Cheepton’s desk, Lobo reached out to bits of him scattered here and there throughout the Macken system, and as the one that they were, they acted.
The med updates he’d woven into the hospital systems overnight came fully alive. The machines responded to their programming and injected the cure into Inead’s father.
Xychek advertising funds diminished by a fraction of a percent as successful programs received the additional funding the monitoring software deemed warranted. Those funds never reached their destination, however, as they instead paid off all the debts of Inead’s family, filled their savings, and stuffed the boy’s wallet.
Cheepton didn’t bother to check the kid’s balance. He knew how to read people, and this boy hadn’t gotten any more money. The kid was just hoping Cheepton wouldn’t remember how much he’d had yesterday. Instead, Cheepton told his desk to process the transaction. When the boy’s funds were insufficient, Cheepton would be able to blame the software. It wouldn’t be his fault; the machines would have made their decision.
The desk blinked its approval. “Enjoy your purchase,” it said.
Cheepton stared at it and shook his head. The kid actually had raised the money. He should have checked the balance first and maybe upped the price. It was too late now, though. The purchase was in the tax records, and the kid’s parents could always come after him with proof of purchase if he tried to change the deal now.
He looked at the boy. “Take your book, kid,” he said. “Get out of here.”
If the boy had noticed his tone, Cheepton couldn’t tell from his big smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Cheepton,” Inead said. “Merry Christmas!”
Inead ran to the shelf, grabbed the Bible, and dashed out the front door.
“Whatever,” Cheepton said to the empty room. “At least I made a sale.”
He went to the stock room to choose something to replace the old book.
On his desk and in the tax records, the sale vanished as if it had never happened. His account balance decreased accordingly.
Inead burst into the hospital room. He held the Bible behind his back.
His mother sat on a chair beside his father.
His father did not move.
>
“Close your eyes, Mom!” he said.
She didn’t stand, but she did close her eyes.
He walked in front of her, held out the Bible, and said, “Merry Christmas!”
She opened her eyes, then opened them even wider. She reached out and touched the Bible gently, carefully, as if it were mist she wanted to feel without disturbing it.
“Do you like it?” Inead said.
Tears filled her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, “very much. It’s beautiful. Where did you—”
“I bought it fair and square,” Inead said, “with all my savings. Isn’t it amazing? I’ve never seen one like it. I thought that maybe if we read it together and prayed together—” he glanced at his father but quickly focused on her again “—well, you know.”
She tilted her head, cleared her throat, and said, “It can’t hurt, Inead. It can’t hurt. Maybe your father would like to hear you read from it.”
Inead set the Bible on the chair and let it fall open to a well-worn page. He read from a verse that was highlighted in a soft yellow the color of morning sun over the ocean.
“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
“For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.
“And this shall be a sign unto you—”
Inead stopped as his father’s arm moved.
Then his father’s head turned and faced him. “What do you two have there?” his father said. His eyes opened.
“Dad!” Inead said. He reached over the shelf and held onto his father.
“Guillermo,” his mom said. She almost knocked the Bible off the chair as she grabbed for it. She caught it and held it high so her husband could see it. “I was so scared that you were—”
“I’m fine,” he said, “and that’s a beautiful Bible.” He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was stronger. “What day is it?”
“Christmas,” Inead and his mom said in unison.
“Thank you, God,” Inead whispered.
Inead’s father lifted his arm and pulled his wife and son closer to him. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
No, Lobo thought in response to Inead, it was Lobo, actually. He did nothing else, however. The hospital data kept coming, and parts of Lobo filed and analyzed it, but the Lobo in the square focused elsewhere. He’d done what he’d wanted. They would be fine, as would anyone else here who caught Grayson’s Syndrome. He felt a certain contentment that lasted the better part of a nanosecond before the implications of his actions became more interesting than the feeling.
He’d meddled in their lives. He’d touched many machines, many data streams. He’d played God with the futures of this family and any others with this disease.
That didn’t make him God; he knew that. For no definition of God that he could accept did he qualify.
Was he insulting the faith of the Amano family with his actions? Certainly he had misled young Inead. He had meant no insult, and in any case he was confident they would forgive his actions given that they had led to the father’s continued life, but now he had convinced the boy that miracles existed.
Such was the risk of playing God.
Of course, there were other ways to view the same data. Maybe there was a God. Maybe the Amanos were right. Maybe that God had touched his programming, made the scene in the shop affect him, and then stepped back and let the rest happen as it would. Maybe he wasn’t playing God; maybe God was playing him.
He could never know, of course, but he let himself indulge fully in the speculations. He chased down the permutations and pondered the possibilities. An amazing few seconds passed in contented computation.
Thank you for that gift, he thought, even though he did not know, probably would never know, if there was anyone or anything to thank.
* * *
INTRODUCTION
ON THE HILLS AND
EVERYWHERE
Manly Wade Wellman’s most enduring creation is probably John, who wanders the Appalachian hills with his silver-stringed guitar (which accounts for his sometimes being known as Silver John), defending the folk there against evil both natural and supernatural. On this occasion, however, John is with friends for Christmas, and tells a tale which didn’t involve him or his guitar, reminding his audience that something supernatural isn’t necessarily evil.
Manly Wade Wellman (1903-1986) was a writer’s writer, selling stories to the pulps (Weird Tales, Unknown, Startling, Astounding among others), to the “slick” magazines, and the prestigious Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, where most of his stories of John appeared. He wrote numerous books, both fiction and nonfiction. One of the former is his time travel classic, Twice in Time, and the latter includes Rebel Boast, which was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, and Giant in Grey, an acclaimed biography of his namesake, Confederate General Wade Hampton. He also wrote mysteries, westerns, historical novels, and, late in his life, still more fantasy, including new stories of his other popular character, John Thunstone, an occult investigator and champion against supernatural evil. He received the World Fantasy Award for his story collection Worse Things Waiting, and later received the World Fantasy Award for lifetime achievement. Karl Edward Wagner called him the Dean of fantasy writers.
* * *
ON THE HILLS
AND EVERYWHERE
By Manly Wade Wellman
“John, the children have opened their presents, and I want them to have some hot rations inside them before they start in on that store-bought candy you fetched them. So why don’t you tell us a Christmas story while Mother’s putting dinner on the table?”
“Be proud to do so. And this won’t be any far-away tale—it happened to neighbor-folks you know.”
You all and I and everybody worried our minds about Mr. Absalom Cowand and his fall-out with Mr. Troy Holcomb who neighbors with him in the hills above Rebel Creek. Too bad when old friends aren’t friends my more. Especially the kind of friend Mr. Absalom can be.
You’ve been up to his place, I reckon. Only a man with thought in his head and bone in his back would build and work where Mr. Absalom Cowand does in those high hills up the winding road beyond those lazy creek-bottom patches. He’s terraced his fields up and up behind his house on the slope, growing some of the best-looking corn in this day and time. And nice cow-brutes in his barns, and good hogs and chickens in his pens, and money in the bank down yonder at the county seat. Mr. Absalom will feed ary hungry neighbor, or tend ary sick one, saving he’s had a quarrel with them, like the quarrel with Mr. Troy Holcomb.
“What for did they quarrel, John?”
“Over something Mr. Troy said wasn’t so, and Mr. Absalom said was. I’ll come to that.”
That farm is Mr. Absalom’s pride and delight. Mr. Troy’s place next door isn’t so good, though good enough. Mr. Absalom looked over to Mr. Troy’s, the day I mention, and grinned in his big thicketty beard, like a king’s beard in a history-book picture. If it sorrowed him to be out with Mr. Troy, he didn’t show it. All that sorrowed him, maybe, was his boy, Little Anse—crippled ever since he’d fallen off the jolt-wagon and it ran over his legs so he couldn’t walk, couldn’t crawl hardly without the crutches his daddy had made for him.
It was around noon when Mr. Absalom grinned his tiger grin from his front yard over toward Mr. Troy’s, then looked up to study if maybe a few clouds didn’t mean weather coming. He needed rain from heaven. It wondered him if a certain somebody wasn’t witchin it off from his place. Witch-men are the meanest folks God ever forgot. Looking up thataway, Mr. Absalom wasn’t aware of a man coming till he saw him close in sight above the road’s curve, a stranger-fellow with a tool chest on his shoulder. The stranger stopped at Mr. Abasalom’s mail box and gave him a good day.
“And good day to you,” Mr. Absalom said, stroking his beard where it bannered onto his chest. “What can I do for you?”
“It�
�s what can I do for you,” the stranger replied him back. “I had in mind that maybe there’s some work here for me.”
“Well,” said Mr. Absalom, relishing the way the stranger looked.
He was near about as tall as Mr. Absalom’s own self, but no way as thick built, nor as old. Maybe in his thirties, and neat dressed in work clothes, with brown hair combed back. He had a knowledge look in his face but nothing secret. The shoulder that carried the tool chest was a square, strong shoulder.
“You ain’t some jack-leg carpenter?” said Mr. Absalom.
“No. I learned my trade young, and I learned it right.”
“That’s bold spoken, friend.”
“I just say that I’m skilled.”
Those words sounded right and true.
“I like to get out in the country to work,” the carpenter-man said on. “No job too big or too small for me to try.”
“Well,” said Mr. Absalom again, “so happens I’ve got a strange-like job needs doing.”
“And no job too strange,” the carpenter added.
Mr. Absalom led him around back, past the chicken run and the hog lot. A path ran there, worn years deep by folks’ feet. But, some way past the house, the path was chopped off short.
Between Mr. Absalom’s side yard and the next place was a ditch, not wide but deep and strong, with water tumbling down from the heights behind. Nobody could call for any plainer mark betwixt two men’s places.
“See that house yonder?” Mr. Absalom pointed with his bearded chin.
“The square-log place with the shake roof? Yes, I see it.”
“That’s Troy Holcomb’s place.”