“I don’t see how you could be,” said Valentine. “There’s not a one of all the people who have died on you that you can honestly say you ‘let go.’ You clung to them tooth and nail.”
“What if I did? Everyone I love has died and left me!”
“That’s such a weak excuse,” said Valentine. “Everyone dies. Everyone leaves. What matters is the things you build together before they go. What matters is the part of them that continues in you when they’re gone. You continued your parents’ work, and Pipo’s, and Libo’s—and you raised Libo’s children, didn’t you? And they were partly Marcão’s children, weren’t they? Something of him remained in them, and not all bad. As for Estevão, he built something rather fine out of his death, I think, but instead of letting him go you still resent him for it. You resent him for building something more valuable to him than life itself. For loving God and the pequeninos more than you. You still hang on to all of them. You don’t let anybody go.”
“Why do you hate me for that?” said Novinha. “Maybe it’s true, but that’s my life, to lose and lose and lose.”
“Just this once,” said Valentine, “why don’t you set the bird free instead of holding it in the cage until it dies?”
“You make me sound like a monster!” cried Novinha. “How dare you judge me!”
“If you were a monster Ender couldn’t have loved you,” said Valentine, answering rage with mildness. “You’ve been a great woman, Novinha, a tragic woman with many accomplishments and much suffering and I’m sure your story will make a moving saga when you die. But wouldn’t it be nice if you learned something instead of acting out the same tragedy at the end?”
“I don’t want another one I love to die before me!” cried Novinha.
“Who said anything about death?” said Valentine.
The door to the room swung open. Plikt stood in the doorway. “I room,” she said. “What’s happening?”
“She wants me to wake him up,” said Novinha, “and tell him he can die.”
“Can I watch?” said Plikt.
Novinha took the waterglass from beside her chair and flung the water at Plikt and screamed at her. “No more of you!” she cried. “He’s mine now, not yours!”
Plikt, dripping with water, was too astonished to find an answer.
“It isn’t Plikt who’s taking him away,” said Valentine softly.
“She’s just like all the rest of them, reaching out for a piece of him, tearing bits of him away and devouring him, they’re all cannibals.”
“What,” said Plikt nastily, angrily. “What, you wanted to feast on him yourself? Well, there was too much of him for you. What’s worse, cannibals who nibble here and there, or a cannibal who keeps the whole man for herself when there’s far more than she can ever absorb?”
“This is the most disgusting conversation I think I’ve ever heard,” said Valentine.
“She hangs around for months, watching him like a vulture,” said Novinha. “Hanging on, loitering in his life, never saying six words all at once. And now she finally speaks and listen to the poison that comes out of her.”
“All I did was spit your own bile back at you,” said Plikt. “You’re nothing but a greedy, hateful woman and you used him and used him and never gave anything to him and the only reason he’s dying now is to get away from you.”
Novinha did not answer, had no words, because in her secret heart she knew at once that what Plikt had said was true.
But Valentine strode around the bed, walked to the door, and slapped Plikt mightily across the face. Plikt staggered under the blow, sank down against the doorframe until she was sitting on the floor, holding her stinging cheek, tears flowing down her face. Valentine towered over her. “You will never speak his death, do you understand me? A woman who would tell a lie like that, just to cause pain, just to lash out at someone that you envy—you’re no speaker for the dead. I’m ashamed I ever let you teach my children. What if some of the lie inside you got in them? You make me sick!”
“No,” said Novinha. “No, don’t be angry at her. It’s true, it’s true.”
“It feels true to you,” said Valentine, “because you always want to believe the worst about yourself. But it’s not true. Ender loved you freely and you stole nothing from him and the only reason that he’s still alive on that bed is because of his love for you. That’s the only reason he can’t leave this used-up life and help lead Jane into a place where she can stay alive.”
“No, no, Plikt is right, I consume the people that I love.”
“No!” cried Plikt, weeping on the floor. “I was lying to you! I love him so much and I’m so jealous of you because you had him and you didn’t even want him.”
“I have never stopped loving him,” said Novinha.
“You left him. You came in here without him.”
“I left because I couldn’t . . .”
Valentine completed her sentence for her when she faded out. “Because you couldn’t bear to let him leave you. You felt it, didn’t you. You felt him fading even then. You knew that he needed to go away, to end this life, and you couldn’t bear to let another man leave you so you left him first.”
“Maybe,” said Novinha wearily. “It’s all just fictions anyway. We do what we do and then we make up reasons for it afterward but they’re never the true reasons, the truth is always just out of reach.”
“So listen to this fiction, then,” said Valentine. “What if, just this once, instead of someone that you love betraying you and sneaking off and dying against your will and without your permission—what if just this once you wake him up and tell him he can live, bid him farewell properly and let him go with your consent. Just this once?”
Novinha wept again, standing there in utter weariness. “I want it all to stop,” she said. “I want to die.”
“That’s why he has to stay,” said Valentine. “For his sake, can’t you choose to live and let him go? Stay in Milagre and be the mother of your children and grandmother of your children’s children, tell them stories of Os Venerados and of Pipo and Libo and of Ender Wiggin, who came to heal your family and stayed to be your husband for many, many years before he died. Not some speaking for the dead, not some funeral oration, not some public picking over the corpse like Plikt wants to do, but the stories that will keep him alive in the minds of the only family that he ever had. He’ll die anyway, soon enough. Why not let him go with your love and blessing in his ears, instead of with your rage and grief tearing at him, trying to hold him here?”
“You spin a pretty story,” said Novinha. “But in the end, you’re asking me to give him to Jane.”
“As you said,” Valentine answered. “All the stories are fictions. What matters is which fiction you believe.”
9
“IT SMELLS LIKE LIFE TO ME”
“Why do you say that I am alone?
My body is with me wherever I am,
telling me endless stories
of hunger and satisfaction,
weariness and sleep,
eating and drinking and breathing and life.
With such company
who could ever be alone?
And even when my body wears away
and leaves only some tiny spark
I will not be alone
for the gods will see my small light
tracing the dance of woodgrain on the floor
and they will know me,
they will say my name
and I will rise.”
from The God Whispers of Han Qing-jao
Dying, dying, dead.
At the end of her life among the ansible links there was some mercy. Jane’s panic at the losing of herself began to ebb, for though she still knew that she was losing and had lost much, she no longer had the capacity to remember what it was. When she lost her links to the ansibles that let her monitor the jewels in Peter’s and Miro’s ears she didn’t even notice. And when at last she clung to the few last strands of ansibles
that would not be shutting down, she could not think of anything, could not feel anything except the need to cling to these last strands even though they were too small to hold her, even though her hunger could never be satisfied with these.
I don’t belong here.
Not a thought, no, there wasn’t enough of her left for anything so difficult as consciousness. Rather it was a hunger, a vague dissatisfaction, a restlessness that beset her when she had run up and down the link from Jakt’s ansible to the Lusitanian landside ansible to the ansible on the shuttle that served Miro and Val, up and down, end to end, a thousand times, a million times, nothing changing, nothing to accomplish, nothing to build, no way to grow. I don’t belong here.
For if there was one attribute that defined the difference between aiúas that came Inside and those that remained forever Outside, it was that underlying need to grow, to be part of something large and beautiful, to belong. Those that had no such need would never be drawn as Jane had been drawn, three thousand years before, to the web that the hive queens had made for her. Nor would any of the aiúas that became hive queens or their workers, pequeninos male and female, humans weak and strong; nor even those aiúas that, feeble in capacity but faithful and predictable, became the sparks whose dances did not show up in even the most sensitive instruments until they became so complicated that humans could identify their dance as the behavior of quarks, of mesons, of light particulate or waved. All of them needed to be part of something and when they belonged to it they rejoiced: What I am is us, what we do together is myself.
But they were not all alike, these aiúas, these unmade beings who were both building blocks and builders. The weak and fearful ones reached a certain point and either could not or dared not grow further. They would take their satisfaction from being at the edges of something beautiful and fine, from playing some small role. Many a human, many a pequenino reached that point and let others direct and control their lives, fitting in, always fitting in—and that was good, there was a need for them. Ua lava: they had reached the point where they could say, Enough.
Jane was not one of them. She could not be content with smallness or simplicity. And having once been a being of a trillion parts, connected to the greatest doings of a three-specied universe, now, shrunken, she could not be content. She knew that she had memories if only she could remember them. She knew that she had work to do if only she could find those millions of subtle limbs that once had done her bidding. She was too much alive for this small space. Unless she found something to engage her, she could not continue to cling to the last thin wire. She would cut loose from it, losing the last of her old self in the vain need to search for a place where one like her belonged.
She began to flirt with letting go, straying—never far—from the thin philotic strands of the ansibles. For moments too small to measure she was disconnected and it was terrible to be cut off; she leapt each time back to the small but familiar space that still belonged to her; and then, when the smallness of the place was unbearable to her, she let go again, and again in terror came back home.
But on one such letting-go she glimpsed something familiar. Someone familiar. Another aiúa that she had once been twined to. She had no access to memory that could tell her a name; she had no memory, indeed, of names at all. But she knew it, and she trusted this being, and when on another pass along the invisible wire she came to the same place again she leapt into the far vaster network of aiúas that were ruled by this bright familiar one.
Jane spun joyously through this body, so different from any she had ever remembered before, but within moments she realized that the aiúa she had recognized, the aiúa she had followed here, was not willing to give up even a small part of itself to her. Wherever she touched, there it was, touching also, affirming its control; and now in panic Jane began to sense that while she might be inside a lacework of extraordinary beauty and fineness—this temple of living cells on a frame of bone—no part of it belonged to her and if she stayed it would only be as a fugitive. She did not belong here, no matter how she loved it.
And she did love it. For all the thousands of years that she had lived, so vast in space, so fast in time, she had nevertheless been crippled without knowing it. She was alive, but nothing that was part of her large kingdom was alive. All had been ruthlessly under her control, but here in this body, this human body, this woman named Val, there were millions of small bright lives, cell upon cell of life, thriving, laboring, growing, dying, linked body to body and aiúa to aiúa, and it was in these links that creatures of flesh dwelt and it was far more vivid, despite the sluggishness of thought, than her own experience of life had been. How can they think at all, these flesh-beings, with all these dances going on around them, all these songs to distract them?
She touched the mind of Valentine and was flooded with memory. It had nothing like the precision and depth of Jane’s old memory, but every moment of experience was vivid and powerful, alive and real as no memory had been that Jane had ever known before. How can they keep from holding still all day simply to remember the day before? Because each new moment shouts louder than memory.
Yet each time Jane touched a memory or felt a sensation from the living body, there was the aiúa that was properly the master of this flesh, driving her away, asserting its control.
And finally, annoyed, when that familiar aiúa herded her Jane refused to move. Instead she claimed this spot, this part of the body, this part of the brain, she demanded the obedience of these cells, and the other aiúa recoiled before her.
I am stronger than you, Jane said to him silently. I can take from you all that you are and all that you have and all that you will ever be and ever have and you can’t stop me.
The aiúa that once had been the master here fled before her, and now the chase resumed, with roles reversed.
In the starship orbiting the planet of the descoladores, everyone was startled by a sudden cry from Young Val’s mouth. As they turned to look, before anyone could reach her, her body convulsed and she flung herself away from her chair; in the weightlessness of orbit she flew until she struck brutally against the ceiling, and all the time her voice came out as a thin ribbon of a wail and her face held a rictus smile that seemed to speak at once of endless agony and boundless joy.
On the world Pacifica, on an island, on a beach, Peter’s weeping suddenly stopped and he flopped over in the sand and twitched silently. “Peter!” cried Wang-mu, flinging herself onto him, touching him, trying to hold the limbs that bounced like jackhammers. Peter gasped for breath, and, gasping, vomited. “He’s drowning himself!” cried Wang-mu. In that instant huge strong hands pulled her away, took Peter’s body by its limbs and flopped it over so that now the vomitus flowed out and down into the sand, and the body, coughing and choking, nevertheless breathed. “What’s happening?” Wang-mu cried.
Malu laughed, and then when he spoke his voice was like a song. “
The god has come here! The dancing god has touched flesh! Oh, the body is too weak to hold it! Oh, the body cannot dance the dance of gods! But oh, how blessed, bright, and beautiful is the body when the god is in it!”
Wang-mu saw nothing beautiful about what was happening to Peter. “Get out of him!” she screamed. “Get out, Jane! You have no right to him! You have no right to kill him!”
In a room in the monastery of the Children of the Mind of Christ, Ender sat bolt upright in bed, eyes open but seeing nothing for someone else controlled his eyes; but for a moment his voice was his own, for here if nowhere else his aiúa knew the flesh so well and was so known itself that it could do battle with the interloper. “God help me!” cried Ender. “I have nowhere else to go! Leave me something! Leave me something!”
The women gathered around him—Valentine, Novinha, Plikt—at once forgot their quarrels and laid their hands on him, trying to get him to lie down, trying to calm him, but then his eyes rolled back in his head, his tongue protruded, his back arched, and he flung himself about so violently that despite their strongest grip on him in moments he was off the bed, on the floor, tangling his body with theirs, hurting them with his convulsive swinging of arms, kicking of legs, jerking of head.
The Ender Quintet (Omnibus) Page 152