The Margarets (30 page)

“In searching for the solution, the Siblinghood has relied heavily upon on its Gentheran members. The Gentherans have traditionally
been supportive. Now, however, many Gentherans are questioning whether a solution is possible. Also, they complain that the Third Order has kept the work so secret, even from most of the Siblinghood, that no one knows what’s going on.”

“I presume you kept it secret because some evil fate met the First and Second Orders,” I said.

“Evil fate, yes. To our surprise, our plans were betrayed to unexpected adversaries twenty thousand Earth-years ago, and again ten thousand years ago. After each of these failures, we waited until all memory of the events had been lost by the opposing races before we began again. This time we have worked in almost total secrecy, but secrecy loses friends. People are reluctant to trust that things known only to others are worth the effort, and also, they’ve begun wondering if the antihuman feeling on the part of other races may not be well deserved.”

“Weariness and lack of support I can understand,” I said. “But why do they care what others think or feel?”

Gardener shook her head. “If a widespread, mercantile race feels intense enmity toward another, both trade and travel are affected. Those friendly with the enemy are also considered enemies, sometimes to their loss. If humans were hated only by one or two races, as during the other episodes, it wouldn’t be so troublesome, but this time at least three or four other races are involved. The Quaatar. The K’Famir. The Frossian. And the Thongal.”

“Quaatar?” said Sophia. “From what you’ve taught me, they’re not even in contact with humans! They don’t buy bondspeople. Their territory is astronomically remote. How could they be bothered by humans?”

“The Quaatar bother easily. Some time in the remote past, they may have encountered humans under adverse circumstance. Perhaps a Quaatar tried to eat a human and got an upset stomach. That would have been enough. Every sentient race in our galaxy knows how easy it is to anger the Quaatar. We aren’t sure what happened; we only know something happened, for the Quaatar hate humanity with all the viciousness of hundreds of generations, one piled upon another, and they have recently influenced others in the Mercan Combine, notably their congeneric races—Frossians, K’Famir, and Thongal—
to feel the same way. At a psychic level Quaatar, Frossian, and K’Famir interests and opinions have coalesced into a metaphysical force directed against mankind. If they are aware that the Third Order is trying to help humans, they will do whatever they can to thwart us, or kill us.”

I said, “But they don’t remember the last time.”

“No. We waited until they had forgotten, until the records had fallen to dust.”

“But you say ‘if they know.’ You aren’t sure that they know.”

Gardener almost whispered, “We are not sure if they know, or how much they may know. This time we have been diligent in spreading what is called ‘disinformation.’ If they are aware of false stories we have spread, they will intervene by destroying certain refuges and seeking for certain fictional agents. This will tell us that they suspect. If they are aware of the truth, they will pick a different set of targets. By their actions we will see what they know, but at what cost? Our plans will be in ruins. A dilemma, isn’t it?”

Sophia stared at her. “The real refuges and the real people must go unnoticed.”

“Exactly. If they are suspected, they may be harmed.”

“But,” I said, “if you seem to protect them, you draw notice to them.”

“Yes. And that is why we are taking great pains to protect surrogates for both. But, are the vile races fooled, or not?”

I thought on this for a time. “You have taught me, Gardener, that elevated and powerful creatures usually do not carry their own garbage. They tell others to do it, and the word is passed down the chain to underlings. As the command travels farther from those on high, the less secret it becomes. Do we have people who listen for such things?”

Gardener nodded. “Oh yes, we have listeners, Gretamara. Disaffection is not so far advanced among the Gentherans that they have abandoned us. They listen, a great many of them, in many, many places.” She laughed, something she did seldom. “And now, we three are about to be become listeners by doing something we do very rarely, lest we be discovered.”

I looked out the front of the dragonfly ship and saw that it followed a shining road that seemed familiar to me.

“When we arrive at a particular place,” said the Gardener, “I will take a shape that’s not my own. You will hide inside my skirts. You won’t make a sound, you won’t ask a question. When we leave will be time enough for questions, but for now, you will listen. All the pieces of our puzzle are in motion, the time approaches, and we must know what our enemies are planning. We will risk ourselves to see if they will tell us.”

Sophia had turned quite pale, and I took her hand in mind. “I was here once before with the Gardener,” I said. “Years ago. We will be all right.” She clutched my hand strongly. After a time the ship seemed to stop moving toward the space ahead that was cluttered, scattered, littered with blobs, clusters, clumps, bunches and sprinklings of…somethings.

Slowly we floated nearer, hearing as we did so a great murmur, as of waters washing endlessly against the edges of the galaxies.

The Gardener whispered, “This is the great tree where all mortal created deities roost, all the Gods from every-place, every-race, every-time. Look to your left and down. Those are the Earthian Members. Do you recognize any of them?”

When Sophia did not answer, I said, “I see an old man with an eye patch,” I said. “I forget his name. One of the gods of the people of the north that I read about as a child. And that very strong one with the hammer. That might be Thor.”

“Actually,” the Gardener murmured, “he is Thor, Hercules, Apollo, Gilgamesh, Adonis, Osiris, Krishna, virtually every young male deity known for strength, beauty, and intrepidity, just as my colleague, Mr. Weathereye, is Odin, Jupiter, Jove, Allah, Jehovah, or any other ancient male deity known for wisdom, power, and prescience. And the old woman there, Lady Badness, is Erda, Norn, Moira, Sophia, the wisewoman who can detect the pattern in the weavings of happenstance before mankind hears the shuttle coming.”

“I’m named for her?” asked Sophia.

“For her, yes. And I, Gardener, am also Demeter, Cybele, Freya, Earth Mother, Corn Goddess, a thousand names of female deities wise in the ways of growing things, solicitous of women and children, caretakers of the beasts of the field and the woods. Some of us Members
are sizable, for many mortals, including humans, believe in strength, and power, and nurture, and wisdom.”

“What are all those hunched-up things?” asked Sophia.

The Gardener shook her head. “Sophia, those are the gods many humans prefer. They are hunched from ages of sitting on people’s shoulders, whispering encouragement.”

“But they’re
tiny
!” she said, in disbelief.

“Many humans prefer tiny gods,” said the Gardener. “Tiny gods of limited preoccupations…”

“Limited to what?” I demanded.

“To mankind, of course. And to each believer, particularly. Each human wants god to be his or her best friend, and it’s easier to imagine god being your best friend if he is a tiny little god interested only in a tiny world that’s only a kind of vestibule to an exclusive little heaven.”

“Some of them are yelling,” said Sophia.

“Oh, yes. Those are hellfire gods. Since there is no supernatural hell, they never really send anyone there, but their sources get enormous pleasure, thinking about it.”

“And those,” murmured Sophia. “Off to the side, all together?”

“I know what those are,” I said. “Gardener told me those are dead people whose spirits have been imprisoned here. Some group or other on Earth has deified them or sainted them and claimed they can do miracles, so instead of passing on, humans hold them here, at least until they’re forgotten.”

“Can they do miracles?” asked Sophia wonderingly.

Gardener murmured, “We only know what our Sources know, we can only do what they can do. Many times persons actually heal themselves, or their bodies do it for them, but they prefer to believe one of us did it.”

“What do you mean, you can only do what men can do? Men cannot fly about the universe in dragonfly ships,” said Sophia.

“The Gentherans can,” said the Gardener. “And long ago I melded with Sysarou, Gentheran goddess of Abundance and Joy, just as Mr. Weathereye down there has melded with Ohanja, Gentheran god of Honor, Duty, and Kindness. Gentherans have much the same needs
mankind has; they have created similar deities, and we of Earth have melded with all the more accepted ones.”

“You can do that? Meld with the gods of other species?” I asked, astonished.

“If we are similar enough, yes, which is a good thing, for Gentherans remember far, far into the past, and since we have melded with them, we, too, remember far more than do the gods of mere Earthians.”

In the little silence that followed, I thought to myself that even if these gods could do nothing their people couldn’t do, the Gardener, no matter how she disclaimed it, had powers they did not have.

She whispered, “I am looking at that mob of little Earth gods, hoping to find among them a disguise I can use.”

The dragonfly ship came closer. “There,” Gardener said, pointing. “That little female one. Its name is Oh-pity-me. It cannot see the sun for the daylight nor the stars for the darkness, and it is worshipped by a surprising number of people. It is not fierce enough to be interesting to the K’Famirish Members, and they will find it utterly unthreatening. I choose that one. Now, come with me and be very, very still.”

The ship moved and unbecame. The Gardener was a small, dark cloud that hid us within her robes of dripping sorrow. We could see, we could hear, and we could understand everything we saw and heard, including the conversation of the three dark shapes nearest us, each lit by sullen fire.

“These are Dweller, Darkness, and Drinker,” the Gardener spoke without sound. “Dweller in Pain, of the Quaatar. Whirling Cloud of Darkness-Eater of the Dead, of the K’Famir. Flayed One-Drinker of Blood, of the Frossians. Listen!”

Dweller snarled, “Look who is near to us. An Earthian Member. This is not your locus, Member. Yours is over there, among that shabby pile of Earthian trash.”

“I am where I am,” the Gardener whispered. “I am weary of them. They are noisy sometimes. I like it better here.”

“Why, it’s a little weeper,” sneered Darkness. “Not like the rest of them.”

“Not like them, no,” whispered the Gardener. “They want only to go on. I want to end.”

“Soon you may have your wish,” giggled Drinker.

“Oh, if only that could be,” murmured the Gardener. “Can you make it happen?”

“Ah, yes,” chuckled Dweller, emitting a belch of fire. “We intend to make it happen.”

“But Earthians don’t want to die,” the Gardener persisted.

“They’ll try to stop us,” sniffed Darkness. “They and the Gentherans…”

“The Gentherans?”

“Dweller has seen Earthian Members mixing with Gentherans. This means they are plotting together,” said Drinker.

“They’re always plotting,” breathed Gardener. “I want to destroy them, and myself…”

Drinker whirled slowly, a ragged spiral of torn skin, dark with bruises, wet with blood. “We have learned that Gentherans watch intently over certain people…”

“Our Sources hired Thongals,” giggled Darkness. “Very sneaky Thongals to find out what people the Gentherans are watching over. The Thongals found two of them among our people: one feeding a ghyrm on Cantardene, one feeding the umoxen on Fajnard. They are dead, or will be soon. Perhaps you can find others for us…”

“What are the Earthians and Gentherans plotting to do?” moaned Gardener, in the little god’s weary voice.

Drinker gaped hideously. “Whatever it is, we’ll stop it.”

The three turned toward one another, put their heads together, murmuring. Gardener drew apart. Soon we found ourselves a distance away, the dragonfly around us.

“They suspect,” said the Gardener. “And it seems they have identified some very important people.”

“Are those gods real?” I demanded.

“I am one of them, Gretamara. We exist, but we are not real in the sense that a tree is real or a rock is real. If all the people in the universe were gone, the rock or tree would still be there, but we deities exist only while our people do.”

“My parents believed there is only one god,” I insisted.

“Oh, I believe there is One,” the Gardener agreed. “A being larger than any mortal god; a being that encompasses the universe without
being dependent upon it, preexistent and postexistent, a being so vast only a fool could claim to know its purposes, One who sets all into motion, then waits…”

“Why did it create the K’Famir?” I interrupted angrily.

“I did not say ‘create.’ The K’Famir are not a creation, they are a consequence, as are we all, Gretamara. Health or disease, pleasure or pain, joy or grief, all are consequences of the creation of life: All are possible. If no room is left for the possible, it is not life, it is mere repetition. Within our race, we encompass the scale from great good to absolute evil; we have had great leaders and philanthropists, and we have had serial torturers and killers. These last, mankind has regarded with sick fascination, trying to understand them as human beings. They should not try, for they are not human beings. Body shapes are only that, a shape, but when evil inhabits us, it is the same evil that inhabits the K’Famir. If you believe all humans have a capacity for good, then you must identify those who have none as something other than human. Only death ends them.

“The One god does not meddle in its creation, but we mortal gods often pretend it is our business to do so. We cannot move a straw upon a mortal world, but we can move ourselves from place to place…”

I asked, “How did we get here if you cannot move a straw?”

The Gardener smiled. “Where is here? Did I move you? Or did I merely whisper in your ear to see what I see? Now I shall whisper again, and what wonder! You will somehow be moved to Chottem, to Bray, to the house of Stentor d’Lorn, to find whatever secrets it holds and whatever darkness it hides.”