“They’ve got universities on three planets collaborating,” Galbro told Rue in gloomy discontent—partly at the fact that they were taking the Manhu seriously, and partly at being left out. “I can’t imagine what it’s costing.”
“Conscience money,” Rue observed. “Guilt is a powerful thing.”
“It’s not guilt,” Galbro said. “It’s pride, to prove that we’re better than our ancestors—as if we inherited their planet but not what they had to do to get it.”
“You are a cynic, Galbro,” she said.
Though they were banned from participating, both of them had contacts at the university who kept them up to date, and so they were prepared for the report’s conclusions even before it came out.
All the evidence lined up. DNA traces from old bones on Sarona matched Manhu blood samples. Linguistic similarities showed through the haze of poor records on Sarona and imperfectly transmitted grammar and vocabulary on Eleuthera. The chain of documentation from the Radovani Archives told the shameful tale of their persecution and deportation. Science said it: the Manhu were descended from the ancient Atoka of Sarona.
The report’s release revived interest that had grown dormant in the many months it had taken to complete the research. Legislatures passed resolutions honoring the Atoka, money poured in for statues and murals. Documentaries aired until everyone thought they knew the story.
It was then that the repatriation request arrived.
The first meeting the two sides held was in the director’s office at the museum. It was to be an attempt to negotiate a compromise solution and avoid litigation. Rue was invited; Galbro was not.
“Don’t give it all away,” he told her beforehand.
It was more than a year since she had seen Traversed Bridge, except on-screen in interviews, explaining over and over that the Manhu did not really have feathers or owl eyes. Today, dressed in business attire, he looked anxious and ill at ease; but still he had that aura of self-possessedsilence. His lawyer was a young woman with flaming red hair and a sprinkling of cinnamon freckles. She would have looked winningly roguish if only she had been smiling, but she was not. She introduced herself as Caraway Farrow.
The museum’s attorney, Ellery Tate, mirrored his client,the director—a distinguished older man with an air of paternal authority. The director was present, but silent. He had told Rue he wanted her to represent the museum, so he could stay above the controversy.
Tateopened the meeting, speaking in a generous, calming tone.“Thank you all for coming to help find a mutually agreeable solution.”
“We are happy to talk,” Farrow said.
The museum’s first proposal was to create high-resolution replicas of all the Atoka objects for the Manhu to take to Eleuthera. Farrow glanced at Traversed Bridge, then said, “I don’t believe that would be acceptable to my clients.”
“Oh?” Tate said, as if surprised. “We can make replicas that are quite identical to the original, down to the molecular level.”
Traversed Bridge said softly, “A replica would not have a ghost. It would be soulless.”
There was a short silence. Rue could hear the director shifting in his chair. Then Farrow said, “The Manhumight allow you to make replicas for the museum to keep, if youdon’t contest returning the originals.”
Tate looked at Rue. She had to force her voice to sound calm. “That might work for the ethnographic material. But in the case of the Aldry portrait, a replica would not have the same aesthetic qualities.”
Farrow was studying her, frowning. “Why is that?”
“We have tried to replicate it in past,” Rue said. “There is something about the three-dimensional microstructure of the materials that can’t be reproduced. We’re not sure why. The whole effect is flatter, less animate. And the wings don’t appear.”
Traversed Bridge was watching her fixedly. She realized she had just said the same thing as he: the replica was soulless.
“Would it be possible,” Tate said, “to work out some sort of shared custody for the painting? I can imagine an arrangement where the original would be on loan to the Manhu for a period of time, say twenty or fifty years, and then travel back to Sarona for the same amount of time.”
Stony faces greeted this proposal. Rue had told Tate what the Manhu intended to do with the portrait; he was trying to make them admit it.
“Accept that the portrait is the property of the Manhu,” Farrow said, “and we can discuss its future. Until then, there is no point.”
She is a wily one, Rue thought. She saw the trap.
Tate said, “We are prepared to offer you the originals of the other artifacts if you will accept shared custody of the portrait. It’s a reasonable compromise.”
Traversed was already shaking his head.
With a steely gentleness, Tate said, “Please consider the time and expense of defending this claim if it goes to court. You will be trying it in a Saronan court, before a Saronan jury. Aldry is deeply beloved here.”
Traversed Bridge’s face was a wall of resolution. “Would you leave one person suffering in prison for the sake of redeeming a few others? This is not a balance sheet. You can’t weigh souls on a scale and say four make one not matter.”He turned to Rue. “You want us to ask for something that means nothing to you, something easy to give. I’m sorry, we can’t.”
“Ask for anything but Aldry,” Rue said.
“Your people made her up,” he said. “You can remake her.”
No one had anything to answer then, so the meeting was over. They would meet again in court.
How did he craft his case?
He made it on a frame of steel,
He wove the body of sandalwood,
He decorated it with feathers,
He filled it with rushing rivers.
What do we mean by steel, sandalwood, feathers, and rivers?
The frame of steel was justice.
The sandalwood was steadfast.
The feathers were eloquence.
The rivers were compassion.
And what scale was used to judge?
What ruler can measure the past?
Rue Savenga was, at heart, an uneventful person. She had always tried to do the right thing within her safe, unremarkable life. She had never considered herself the kind of person to take a courageous stand. That was the realm of ideologues and fanatics.
Now, she found herself thrust into an event that forced her to ask where her basic boundaries were. What line couldn’t she cross? How far would she go to defend her core beliefs?
What were her core beliefs?
The wanton destruction of art, she found, was where she drew her line. It was an act so heinous she could not stand by and let it happen. So when the museum’s attorney asked if she would testify in court, she agreed. She was willing to fight to save Aldry from the flames, even if her own reputation burned instead.
The trial was held in downtown Orofino, in a tall, imposing courthouse where monumental sculpture, marble, and mural dwarfed all who entered, in order to strike them with respect for law. When Rue arrived, there were two groups assembled in the park facing the courthouse, shouting at each other. Public interest was so high that the trial was to be broadcast, and opinion was split. Half of Sarona saw Rue as the defender of their heritage, and would execrate her if she lost. The other half saw her as the defender of long-ago injustice.They would execrate her if she won.
The courtroom’s airwas busy with hushed conversations when she entered. It was a tall and cylindricalspace with a skylight above and stylized, treelike pilasters of polished stone lining the walls. A large circular table stood in the sunken center, surrounded by tiers of seats crowded with press and other witnesses. Rue took her place on the side of the table reserved for the museum’s representatives and their witnesses; on the other side sat those testifying for the Manhu. The judge and clerk sat in the neutral spaces between, facing each other. Rue knew two of the expert witnesses she was facing—magisters fr
om the university who could establish the Manhu-Atoka connection. She nodded to them without smiling.
The aim of Saronan law was to reach a resolution, not necessarily a victory for one side. Each side argued its case, the judge proposed solutions, and if no agreement could be reached, the jury imposed a compromise. But this trial was to be conducted with only a judge, not a jury. Rue had no idea what the calculations had been on either side; perhaps it had something to do with the impossibility of finding a jury whose mind was not already made up.
The judge called on Caraway Farrow to begin the proceedings by stating the case of the Manhu. She did it succinctly: the artworks had been illegally seized by Saronans in the act of suppressing an Atoka religious observance. The Atoka had suffered grievous harm as a result. Now, the return of the items was a vital step toward righting injustice and reviving Manhu cultural practices.
The case that Farrow presented was logical and unflinching. An ethnologist told how the art had been looted, and a historian gave the story of the Atoka genocide and exile to Radovani. A geneticist and a linguist established the Atoka-Manhu connection.
“And do they still speak the Atoka language and practice Atoka culture?” Farrow asked the linguist.
“No,” the magister replied. “But there are old people who remember enough of what they were told as children to reconstruct some of it. Now they are very interested in reviving the language and culture. Our records will be valuable in the effort.”
Last, Farrow produced a power of attorney from the Whispering Kindom, designating Traversed Bridge as their representative on Sarona.
Tate challenged none of it, except to establish that there was nothing in the evidence that precluded a different remnant of the Atoka turning up in future, with contrary demands. He also extracted an admission that the Whispering Kindom was not the only kin group among the Manhu, and that the others had not expressed their desires. Farrow asked Traversed Bridge to address this last objection, as court procedure allowed.
“If there is any difference, we can work it out among ourselves,” he said softly, staring at the table. “We should have that right.”
It occurred to Rue that he had not looked at her once during the whole presentation.
The court recessed for lunch, and reporters scrambled out to record their summaries in the hallway. Rue and Tate left by a back door to avoid them. She had a feeling of dread.
When the trial resumed, it was the museum’s turn. Ellery Tate spoke in an avuncular, easygoing manner. Rue knew it to be an act, but it was an effective one. He gave the argument they had crafted together. “We maintain that this is not a simple case of stolen goods,” he said as if it ought to be obvious to all. “The portrait of Aldry, and its tragic story, is the patrimony of two separate cultures—that of Sarona and of the Manhu. In fact, it has played a more vital role in Saronan history than on Eleuthera, and it has an ongoing role as part of our process of remembrance and acknowledgment of the painful past. Sarona needs this artwork. We seek only to share it with the Manhu.”
Tate called on Rue to give a presentation about the role the Aldry portrait had played in Saronanart, history, and literature. It was her expertise, and it was easy to demonstrate Aldry’s centrality. “We have constructed our own cultural identity around this image and its story,” she concluded. Looking straight at Traversed Bridge, she added, “We love and honor her, because we also are her descendants.”
For a second, he raised his eyes and met hers.
In a low voice, Tate asked, “Magister Savenga, what will the museum do with the portrait if our request is granted?”
“We will keep it in trust for future generations,” she said. “However, we will be willing to loan it to Eleuthera, if that can be done safely. We want to assure that it is preserved and seen by all who wish to see it, forever.”
“And has Traversed Bridge told you what the Manhu wish to do with it?”
“Yes. He said they wish to destroy it.”
For a second, the courtroom was utterly silent. Then there was a stir, till the judge called for order.
Tate turned to the judge. “Sir, we submit thatthe Manhuseek to make an irrevocable choice. Their planprecludes any possibility of compromise. Once they destroy it, we can never go back. Sarona values this artwork, the Manhu don’t. It is…”
“That’s not true,” Traversed Bridge interrupted, looking at him for the first time.
“Are you saying Magister Savengais lying?”
“No. She is right. We want to destroy it, in keeping with our tradition. That doesn’t mean we don’t value it. We value it in a different way than you—not as a piece of property but as a living ancestor whose desires must be respected. We want to honor her wishes.”
“We cannot call her to testify,” Tate said.
“I must do that for her,” Traversed Bridge said.
“That is hearsay.”
“I would not lie.”
“You may be mistaken.”
“I am not.” He turned to Rue, addressing her directly. “I am sorry to cause you pain. But that is the only way for us to be free of our pain. It has been building for generations. It is our parents’ pain, our grandparents’, clear back to Even Glancing. We carry it around with us, always. We must do this to free not just her, but ourselves.”
Rue leaned forward across the table, speaking directly back to him. “But here’s the thing, Traversed Bridge. This is not an ordinary object. At some point, great art ceases to be bound to the culture that produced it. It transcends ethnicity and identity and becomes part of the patrimony of the human race. It belongs to all of us because of its universal message, the way it makes us better.” She paused, drawing breath. “Yes, it has a ghost. The ghost speaks to all of us, not in words but in our instinct toward beauty and goodness. We are better for having seen it. If it burns, something pure will pass from the world. Do you really want that?”
Their eyes locked together. Traversed Bridge looked as if he was in a vise, and it was tightening. At last he looked down.
“Do you wish to change your request?” the judge asked him.
Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I have to do this,” he whispered.
“Then the court will recess for half an hour,” the judge declared.
Tate was optimistic during the recess, but Rue felt no sense of satisfaction. No matter what happened, someone would be harmed. Far fewer would be harmed if the museum won; but that was like weighing souls on a scale.
When the trial resumed, the judge surprised everyone by announcing that he would give his decision, skipping the usual negotiation of compromise. “Mr. Tate is correct, the Manhu request precludes compromise,” he said. “What they seek is an irrevocable right, and they have already rejected anything short of that.”
Rue’s heart leapt. The judge went on, “However, all the eloquent arguments that have been advanced here do not alter one fact: the portrait is a piece of property, and that is the law that must apply. The museum received stolen property. It was done in ignorance that the true owners survived, but the law is still the same. The Manhu are the owners of the property, and it must be returned to them.”
The courtroom erupted into noise: jubilant noise on one side, agonized protest on the other.
Tate looked staggered. “I had no idea he would decide the case on such narrow legal grounds,” he said to Rue. “We can appeal.”
Rue knew that her director would not want that. He wanted to get this controversy behind him as quickly as possible. She might be able to persuade him, but …
“No,” she said. “The law is our cultural heritage, and we have to respect it.”
Across the table, Caraway Farrow was hugging Traversed Bridge in joy; but he did not look joyful. His eyes were once again downcast, avoiding Rue’s. He looked exhausted.
I need to reconcile myself, Rue thought. I need to stop caring.
But not yet.
How did she travel?
They would have sen
t her by lightbeam,
Fast as a flash,
But the light did not want to take her.
“I’m afraid to be shaped in your memory,” it said,
“Your sorrows and your exile.”
You cannot argue with light.
The artifacts could not be sent to Eleuthera by lightbeam, because what would emerge at the other end would be mere replicas of the originals, robbed of their ghosts. The fastest express ship that could be chartered would cost a fortune and take almost sixty years; but a Saronancapitalist pledged the money, and it was settled.
Rue oversaw construction of the capsule in which the artifacts would make their voyage. In the six months it took, crowds thronged the museum to see Aldry one last time. It was like a funeral. Anendless procession passed by her in heartbroken silence.
On the day she came off display, Rue watched the gloved art handlers lower her into the cushioned case where she would be sealed in a nitrogen atmosphere to prevent aging. Rue wanted Aldry to arrive as perfect as she set out.
“Shall we close it up?” an art handler asked.
Rue looked one last time at that young, mysterious face. The expression hadn’t changed. Rue wanted to remember it, since memory was all she would have.
“Yes, close it up,” she said, and turned away. She would never see Aldry again, she thought.
But she was mistaken.
When she comes back the sky will brighten,
Old men will play at cards,
Teachers will review their lessons,
Cooks will stir broth in their kitchens,
Ghosts will not cry in the night.
We will be free of the past.
What good is the past?
Rue was a vigorous ninety-five years old when she realized that fifty years were almost up, and if she were to take the lightbeam to Eleuthera, she could arrive there in time to meet the ship carrying the artifacts.
Exile's End Page 3