Parable of the Talents p-2

by Butler, Octavia

  "A couple of times," I said. "Are you sure he's gone?"

  "Yeah. We had a party for him. He'll be a great minister someday. A great minister. He's so spiritual." She sighed.

  Maybe "spiritual" is another word for fantastically good-looking in her circles. Anyway, he was gone. Instead of helping me find Larkin or even seeing me again, he had gone.

  I thanked the server and headed out into the evening to­ward the home of the 88-year-old man where I was still stay­ing. I had left my spare clothing and my sleepsack in his garage. For once, I was traveling light My backpack was half-empty. I walked automatically, not thinking about where I was going. I was wondering whether I could reach Marc again, wondering whether it would do me any good to reach him. What would he do if I showed up in Portland? Run for Seattle? Why had he run, anyway? I wouldn't have hurt him—wouldn't have said or done anything that could damage his lay-minister reputation. Did he run because I mentioned Cougar? Maybe it had been a mistake for me to tell him what happened to us, to Acorn. Maybe I should have told him the same thing I had told the police. "Well, I was walking north on U.S. 101, heading for Eureka, and these guys….."

  Was it so essential for him to be important in CA that he didn't care what vicious things CA was doing, didn't care even what CA did to the only family he had left?

  Then there was a man looming in front of me—a huge man, tall and broad and wearing a CA Center Security uni­form. I stopped just before I would have slammed into him. I jumped back. My impulse was to run like hell. This guy looked scary enough to make anyone run. But the truth was, I was frozen with fear. I couldn't move. I just stared up at him.

  He put a huge hand inside his uniform jacket, and I had a flash of it coming out holding a gun—not that this guy needed a gun to kill me. He was a giant.

  But his hand came out of his jacket holding an enve­lope—a little white paper envelope like the kind mail used to come in. Back when we lived in Robledo my father some­times brought home paper mail from the college in such envelopes.

  "Reverend Duran said to give this to anyone tall and Black and asking for him by name," the giant said. He had a soft, quiet voice that made his appearance less threatening somehow. "Looks like you qualify," he finished.

  I had to make myself reach out and take the envelope.

  The giant stared at me for a moment, then said, "He told me you were his sister."

  I nodded.

  "He said you might be dressed as a man."

  I didn't answer. I couldn't quite form words yet.

  "He said he's sorry. He asked me to tell you that you could get a bed at the Center for as long as you needed one. I'll be around. He's my friend. I'll look out for you."

  "No," I said, getting my voice to work at last. "But thank you." I stood straight, never knowing when I had crouched in my fear. I extended a hand, and the giant took it and shook it "Thank you," I repeated, and he was gone, striding back toward the Center.

  I didn't stop to think. I tucked Marcus's envelope into my blouse and walked on. You didn't stand opening things on dark streets in this part of town. I kept my ears open now, and paid attention to my surroundings. The giant had caught up with me, passed me, and gotten in front of me and I hadn't heard a thing. That kind of inattention was beyond stupid. It was suicidal.

  And yet I had almost relaxed again by the time I was only three blocks from the old man's little house. I was tired, full of food, looking forward to my warm pallet, and eager to see what my brother had written.

  Then, through my preoccupations, I began to hear foot­steps. I swung around just in time to startle and confront the two men who were creeping up behind me. My gun was out of reach in my backpack, but my knife was in my pocket. I grabbed it and flipped it open before these guys could re­cover and clean the street with me. They weren't big, but there were two of them. I put my back against someone's redwood fence, and let them decide how much they wanted what they thought I had. In fact I was carrying not only my gun but enough money to make them happy for days, as well as Marcus's note, and I wasn't eager to give up any of it

  "Just put the pack down, girl," one said. "Put the pack down and back away from it We'll let you go."

  I didn't move. To take my pack off, I would have had to lower my knife and trust these two not to jump me. That I didn't dare do. I didn't answer them. I wasn't interested in talking to them. I hated hearing the one call me "girl." It was what Bankole called me with love. And here was the word in someone else's mouth with contempt.

  I don't know whether or not I was being stupid. I know I was scared to death and I was angry. I tried to stoke the anger.

  I saw that one of them had a knife too. It was an old steak knife, but it was a knife—made for cutting meat.

  The one with the knife lunged at me. An instant later, the other lunged too—one to cut, one to grab.

  I dropped to the ground and stabbed upward into the belly of the knife-wielder. As I jerked my knife free, not looking, not wanting to see what I had done, I rammed my body backward against the legs of the other man—or against where his legs should have been. I only hit one of them— enough to trip him, but he seemed to recover without falling. Then he did fall. He toppled like a tree as I scrambled to my feet

  They were both down, one curled around his belly wound, groaning, and the other making no sound at all ex­cept his rasping breathing. The steak knife stuck out of him just below the breastbone.

  Shit

  I fell to my knees, my body a flaming mass of agony, from other people's knife wounds. I twisted away from mem both, crawled away from them on all fours, dripping tears at the terrible, terrible pain. I dragged myself around a comer and sat there on the broken concrete for a long time. I was shaking with the pain, gasping with it until at last, it began to ease. I got up before it was altogether gone. I went to the old man's garage as quickly as I could. The pain was gone by the time I got there, and the anger had long since gone. There was nothing left but the fear. I got my things together as fast as I could, stuffed them into my pack, and headed out of town. Maybe I didn't have to leave. Maybe the tramp who had been living in the old man's garage would never be con­nected with the two dead or soon-to-be dead men on the street nearby. Maybe.

  But I would not risk a collar.

  So I ran.

  So I run. I had to check the tree before I headed for Port­land, and I'm going to stop at Georgetown. Then I'll take an inland route and avoid Eureka. Meanwhile, here are the words my brother left me:

  "Lauren, I'm sorry I hit you—really sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you too much. It's just that I couldn't stand to lose everything again. I just couldn't. That keeps happening to me. Mom and Dad, the Durans, and even Acorn, where I thought maybe I could stay. And I couldn't see how anyone connected with Christian America could do what you say has been done. I could barely stand to hear you say it. I knew it was just wrong. It had to be.

  "And I was right. The people who do the kind of thing you described are a splinter group. Jarret has disclaimed all connection with them. They call themselves Jarret's Crusaders, but they he. They're extremists who believe that reeducating heathen adults and placing their young children in Christian American homes is the only way to restore order and greatness. If Acorn was attacked, these are the likely attackers. I've talked to my friends in CA, and they say it isn't safe to probe too deeply into what the Crusaders are doing. The Crusaders are a kind of secret society, ab­solutely dedicated, and ruthless. They're courageous people. Misguided, but courageous. I've been told they really do find good homes for the children they rescue. That's what they call it—rescuing the children. They take them into their own homes if necessary and raise them as their children or they find others to raise them. Problem is, they're a nation­wide group. They send the kids out of their home areas— often out of their home states. They're serious about raising these kids as good Christian Americans. They believe it would be a sin against God and a crime against America to let them be reunited with t
heir heathen parents.

  "I've heard all this second- or third-hand from at least half a dozen people. I don't know how much of it is true. I don't know where Larkin is, and don't have any idea how to find out. I'm sorry about that, sorry about Bankole, sorry about everything.

  "You probably won't like this, Lauren, but I think that if you really want to find your daughter, you should join us— join Christian America. Your cult has failed. Your god of change couldn't save you. Why not come back to where you belong? If Mom and Dad were alive, they would join. They would want you to be part of a good Christian organization that's trying to put the country back together again. I know you're smart and strong and too stubborn for your own good. If you can also be patient and join us in our work, you'll have the only chance possible of getting information about your daughter.

  "I have to warn you, though, the movement won't let you preach. They agree with Saint Paul in that: 'Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach nor to usurp authority over the man but to be in si­lence.' But don't worry. There's plenty of other more suit­able work for women to do to serve the movement

  "Some of our people have relatives or friends who are Crusaders. Join us, work hard, keep your eyes and ears open, and maybe you'll learn things that will help you find your daughter—and help you into a good, decent life as a Christian American woman.

  "I don't know what else to tell you. I'm enclosing a few hundred in hard currency. I wish I could give you more. I wish I could help you more. I do wish you well, whatever you decide to do, and again, I'm sorry. Marc."

  And that was that. There wasn't a word about his going to Portland—no explanation, no good-bye. No address. Had he, in fact, gone to Portland? I thought about that and de­cided he had—or at least the server who told me he had be­lieved what she was saying.

  But why did my brother not mention where he was going—or even that he was going—in his letter? Did he think I wouldn't find out? Or was he just signaling me in a cold, deliberate way that he wanted no further contact with me. Was he saying, in effect, "You're my sister and I have a duty to help you. So here's some advice and some money. Too bad about your troubles, but I can't do any more. I've got to get on with my life."

  Well, the money I could use. As far as the advice was con­cerned, my first impulse was to curse it, and to curse my brother for giving it. Then, for a moment, I wondered whether I could join the enemy and find my child. Perhaps I could.

  Then I remembered the man I had seen at the Center—the one whom I had last seen acting as one of our "teachers" at Acorn, and raping Adela Ortiz. Perhaps he was the father of the child she would soon be having. Marc might be able to convince himself that the Crusaders are outcast extremists, but I know better. Whether CA chooses to admit it or not, they and the Crusaders have members in common. How many? What are the real connections? What does Jarret really think about the Crusaders? Does he control them? If he doesn't like what they're doing, he should make some ef­fort to stop them. He shouldn't want them to make their in­sanity part of his political image.

  On the other hand, one way to make people afraid of you is to have a crazy side—a side of yourself or your organiza­tion that's dangerous and unpredictable—willing to do any damned thing.

  Is that what's going on? I don't know and my brother doesn't want to know.

  Chapter 19

  □ □ □

  From EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

  All religions are ultimately cargo cults.

  Adherents perform required rituals, follow specific rules, and expect to be supernaturally gifted with desired rewards—long life, honor, wisdom, children, good health, wealth, victory over opponents, immortality after death, any desired rewards.

  Earthseed offers its own rewards—room for small groups of people to begin new lives and new ways of life with new opportunities, new wealth, new concepts of wealth, new challenges to grow and to learn and to decide what to become.

  Earthseed is the dawning adulthood of the human species. It offers the only true immortality. It enables the seeds of the Earth to become the seeds of new life, new communities on new earths. The Destiny of Earthseed is to take root among the stars, and there, again, to grow, to learn, and to fly.

  I BEGAN CREATING secret Dreamask scenarios when I was 12. By then, I was very much the timid, careful daughter of Kayce and Madison Alexander. I knew that even though I was al­lowed to use Dreamasks with strict Christian American sce­narios—like the old "Asha Vere" stories—no one would be likely to approve my creating new, uncensored scenarios. I knew this because back when I was nine, I began making up plain, linear installment stories to amuse myself and my few friends at Christian America School. It was fun. My friends liked it until we all got into trouble. Then some teacher eavesdropped, realized what I was doing, and punished me for lying. My friends were punished for not reporting my lies. We had to memorize whole chapters of Exodus, Psalms, Proverbs, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel. Until we had memorized and been tested on every single assigned chapter, we were al­lowed no free time—no recess or lunch breaks. We were kept an hour late every day. We were monitored even in the bath­room to make sure we weren't indulging in more wicked­ness—like stealing a minute or two "from God."

  It didn't matter that I had said from the beginning that my stories were only made up. I never tried to convince anyone that they were true. And it didn't matter that the Dreamask scenarios we were all allowed to experience were equally imaginary. It was as though my teachers believed that all the possible stories had already been created, and it was a sin to make more—or at least it was a sin for me to make more.

  But by the time I reached puberty, except for the pornog­raphy I managed to find, most of the scenarios I was per­mitted were tired, dull, boring things. Characters were always being shown the error of their ways, suffering for their sins, and then returning to God. Boys fought for Chris­tian America. They went to war against heathens, or went out as missionaries in dangerous, wicked, foreign jungles and deserts. Girls, on the other hand, were always cooking, cleaning, sewing, crying, praying, taking care of babies or old people, and going to church. Asha Vere was unusual be­cause she did interesting things. She saved people. She made them return to God. She was one of the few. In fact as a Black and a woman, she was the only one.

  A very old woman—she was in her nineties and lived in one of the nursing homes that Christian America had set up for elderly members—once told me that Asha Vere was my generation's Nancy Drew. It was years before I found out who Nancy Drew was.

  Anyway, I wrote scenarios—had to write them down with a stylus in my notebook since even outside of Christian Amer­ica, no one was going to trust a kid to work with a scenario recorder. At least our notebooks had a lot of memory and I could code them to erase the scenarios if someone else tried to get into them. Or I thought I could.

  I wrote about having different parents—parents who cared about me and didn't wish always that I were another person, the sainted Kamaria. I didn't know at this time that I was adopted. All I had was the usual child's suspicion that I might be, and that somewhere, somehow, I might have beau­tiful, powerful "real" parents who would come for me some­day.

  I wrote about having four brothers and three sisters. The idea of eight children appealed to me. I didn't think you could be lonely in such a big family. My brothers and sisters and I had huge parties on holidays and birthdays and we were always having adventures, and I had a handsome boyfriend who was crazy about me, and the girls at school were all jealous.

  Instead of living in shabby, patched-together old Seattle with its missile-strike scars, we lived in a big corporate town. We were important and had plenty of money. We spent our time speeding around in fast cars or making flashy scientific discoveries in laboratories or catching gangs of spies, em­bezzlers, and saboteurs. Since this was a Mask, I could live the adventures as any of my brothers or sisters or as either of our parents. That meant I could "experie
nce" being a boy or an adult. But since it wasn't like a real Dreamask experi­ence, I had no sensation guidance beyond research and my imagination. I watched other people, tried to make myself feel what it might be like to drive a car or fire a gun or be an older brother who worked in the South Pacific as a deep-sea miner or an older sister who was an architect in Antarc­tica or a father who was CEO of a major corporation or a mother who was a molecular biologist. The father was a big, godlike man who was rich and smart and ... not there most of the time. I had the hardest time being him. Research didn't help much. He was more of a shell than the others. What should a father be like inside, in his thoughts and feel­ings? I wasn't sure. Not like Madison, for sure. Like the fa­thers of my occasional friends? 1 saw my friends' fathers now and then, but I didn't know them. Like the minister, maybe—stern and sure of himself and usually surrounded by a lot of deferential men and smiling women, some of whom were rumored to sleep with him even though they had husbands and he had a wife. But how did he feel? What did he believe? What did he want? What scared him?

  I read a lot. I watched people and 1 eavesdropped. I got a lot of the ideas from kids whose parents let them have non-religious Masks and books—bad books, we called them. In short, I tried to do what my biological mother hated, but couldn't help doing. I tried to feel what other people felt and know them—really know them.

  It was all nonsense, of course. Harmless nonsense. But when I was caught at it, it was suddenly all but criminal.

  There was a theft in my Christian American History class. Someone stole a small personal phone that the teacher had left on her desk. We were all searched and our belongings collected and thoroughly examined. Someone examined my notebook too thoroughly, in spite of my self-destruct codes, and found my scenario.

  I had to attend special religion classes for delinquents and get counseling. I had to confess my sins before our local church. 1 had to memorize a dozen or so more chapters of the Bible. While I was working off my punishment, I began to hear whispers that I was, indeed, adopted, and that I was the daughter not of rich, important, beautiful people but of the worst heathen devils—murderers, thieves, and perverters of God's word. The kids started it. There were plenty of kids around who were known to be adopted, so it was com­monplace to ridicule them and make up lies about how evil their real parents were. And if you weren't adopted, and someone got mad at you, they might call you a heathen bas­tard whether you were or not.