The Wind From a Burning Woman: Six Stories of Science Fiction (10 page)

I recognized that the tactic of open revelation was worthless. There are numerous levels of bigotry, and I was at the very bottom of any list.

My next strategy was to find some way to disrupt the Cathedral from top to bottom. Even bigots, when reduced to a mob, can be swayed by the presence of one obviously ordained and capable. I spent two days skulking through the walls. There had to be a basic flaw in so fragile a structure as the church, and, although I wasnt contemplating total destruction, I wanted something spectacular, unavoidable.

While I thought, hanging from the bottom of the second scaffold, above the community of pure flesh, the Bishops deep gravelly voice roared over the noise of the crowd. I opened my eyes and looked down. The masked troops were holding a bowed figure, and the Bishop was intoning over its head, Know all who hear me now, this young bastard of flesh and stone-

Corvus, I told myself. Finally caught. I shut one eye, but the other refused to close out the scene.

-has violated all we hold sacred and shall atone for his crimes on this spot, tomorrow at this time. Kronos! Mark the wheels progress. The elected Kronos, a spindly old man with dirty gray hair down to his buttocks, took a piece of charcoal and marked an X on the huge bulkhead chart, behind which the wheel groaned and sighed in its circuit.

The crowd was enthusiastic. I saw Psalo pushing through the people.

What crime? he called out. .

Violation of the lower level! the head of the masked troops declared.

That merits a whipping and an escort upstairs. Psalo said. I detect a more sinister crime here. What is it?

The Bishop looked Psalo down coldly. He tried to rape my daughter, Constantia.

Psalo could say nothing to that. The penalty was castration and death. All the pure humans accepted such laws. There was no other recourse.

I mused, watching Corvus being led to the dungeons. The future that I desired at that moment startled me with its clarity. I wanted that part of my heritage that had been denied to me-to be at peace with myself, to be surrounded by those who accepted me, by those no better than 1. In time that would happen, as the Giant had said. But would I ever see it? What Corvus, in his own lusty way, was trying to do was equalize the levels, to bring stone into flesh until no one could define the divisions.

Well, my plans beyond that point were very hazy. They were less plans than glowing feelings, imaginings of happiness and children playing in the forest and fields beyond the island, as the world knitted itself together under the gaze of Gods heir. My children, playing in the forest. A touch of truth came to me. I had wished to be Corvus when he topped Constantia.

So I now had two tasks that could be merged, if I was clever. I had to distract the Bishop and his troops, and I had to rescue Corvus, fellow revolutionary.

I spent that night in feverish misery in my room. At dawn I went to the Giant and asked his advice. He looked me over coldly and said, We waste our time if we try. to knock sense into them. But we have no better calling than to waste our time, do we?

What shall I do?

Enlighten them.

I stomped my claw on the floor. They are bricks! Try enlightening bricks!

He smiled his sad, narrow smile. Enlighten them, he said.

I left the Giants chamber in a rage. I did not have access to the great wheels board of time; so I couldnt know exactly when the execution would take place. But I guessed-from memories of a grumbling stomach-that it would be in the early afternoon. I traveled from one end of the nave to the other and, likewise, the transepts. I nearly exhausted myself. Then, crossing an empty aisle, I picked up a piece of colored glass and examined it, puzzled. Many of the boys on all levels carried these shards with them, and the girls used them as jewelry-against the wishes of their elders, who held that bright objects bred more beasts in the mind. Where did they get them?

In one of the books I had perused years

before, I had seen brightly colored pictures of the Cathedral windows. Enlighten them, the Giant had said.

Psalos request to let light into the Cathedral came to mind.

Along the peak of the nave, in a tunnel running its length, I found the ties that held the pulleys of the canvases over the windows. The best windows, I decided, would be the huge ones of the north and south transepts. Then I made a diagram in the dust, trying to decide what season it was and from which direction the sunlight would come: pure speculation, of course, but at this moment I was in a fever of brilliance. All the windows had to be clear. I could not decide which was best.

I was ready by early afternoon, just after sext prayers in the upper nave. I had cut the major ropes and weakened the clamps by prying them from the walls with a pick stolen from the armory. I walked along a ledge, took an almost vertical shaft through the wall to the lower floor, and waited.

Constantia was watching from a wooden balcony, the Bishops special box for executions. She had a terrified, fascinated look on her face. And Corvus was on the dais across the nave, right in the center of the cross of the transepts. Torches illuminated him and his executioners, three men and one old woman.

I knew the procedure. The old woman would castrate him first; then the men would remove his head. He was dressed in the condemneds red robe, to hide any blood. Blood excitement among the impressionable was the last thing the Bishop wanted. Troops waited around the dais to sprinkle scented water in order to hide the loathsome smell.

I didnt have much time. It would take minutes, at the least, for -the system of ropes and pulleys to clear and allow the canvases to fall. I went to my station and cut the remaining ties. Then, as the Cathedral filled with a hollow creaking sound, I followed the shaft back to my viewing post.

In three minutes the canvases were drooping. I saw Corvus look up, his eyes glazed. The Bishop was with his daughter in the box. He pulled her back into the shadows. In another two minutes the canvases fell onto the upper scaffold with a hideous crash. Their weight was too great for the ends of the structure, and it collapsed, allowing the canvas to cascade to the floor, many yards below. At first the illumination was dim and bluish, filtered perhaps by a passing cloud. Then, from one end of the Cathedral to the other, a burst of light threw my smoky world into clarity. The glory of thousands of pieces of colored glass, hidden for decades and hardly touched by childish vandals, fell upon upper and lower levels at once. `A cry from the crowds nearly tossed me from my post. I slid quickly to the lower level and hid, afraid of what I had done. This was more than simple sunlight. Like the blossoming of flowers, the transept windows fixed all who saw them.

Eyes accustomed to orangey dark, to smoke and haze and shadow, cannot stare into such glory without drastic effect. I shielded my own face and tried to find a convenient exit.

But the population was increasing. As the light brightened and more faces rose to be locked, phototropic, the splendor unhinged some people. From their minds poured contents too wondrous to be accurately cataloged. The monsters thus released were not violent, however, and most of the visions were not monstrous.

The upper and lower naves shimmered with reflected glories, with dream figures and children clothed in baubles of light. Saints and prodigies dominated. A thousand newly created youngsters squatted on the bright floor and began to tell of marvels, of cities in the East, and of times as they had once been. Clowns dressed in fire entertained from the tops of the market stalls. Animals unknown to the Cathedral cavorted between the dwellings, giving friendly advice. Abstract things, glowing balls in nets of gold and ribbons of silk, sang and floated around the upper reaches. The Cathedral became a great vessel of all its citizens bright dreams.

Slowly, from the lower nave, people of pure flesh climbed to the scaffold and walked the upper nave to see what they couldnt from below. From my hideaway I watched the masked troops of the Bishop carrying his litter up narrow stairs. Constantia walked behind, stumbling, her eyes shut in the new brightness.

All tried to cover their eyes, but none succeeded for long.

I wept. Almost blind with tears. I made my way still higher and looked down on the roiling crowds. I saw Corvus, his hands still wrapped in restraining ropes, being led by the old woman. Constantia saw him, too, and they regarded each other like strangers, then joined hands as best they could. She borrowed a knife from one of her fathers soldiers and cut his ropes away. Around them the brightest dreams of all began to swirl, pure white and blood-red and seagreen, coalescing into visions of all the children they would innocently have.

I gave them a few hours to regain their senses-and to regain my own. Then I stood on the Bishops abandoned podium and shouted over the heads of those on the lowest level.

The time has come! I cried. We must all unite right now; we must unite-

At first they ignored me. I was quite eloquent, but their excitement was still too great. So I waited some more, began to speak again, and was shouted down. Bits of fruit and vegetables arced up. Freak! they screamed, and drove me away.

I crept along the stone stairs, found the narrow crack, and hid in it, burying my beak in my paws, wondering what had gone wrong. It took a surprisingly long time for me to realize that, in my case, it was less the stigma of stone than the ugliness of my shape that doomed my quest for leadership. This knowledge was painful.

I had, however, paved the way for the stone Christ. He will surely be able to take His place now, I told myself. So I maneuvered along the crevice until I came to the hidden chamber and the yellow glow. All was quiet within. I met first the stone monster, who looked me over suspiciously with glazed gray eyes. Youre back, he said. Overcome by his wit, I leered, nodded, and asked that I be presented to the Christ.

Hes sleeping.

Important tidings, I said.

What?

I bring glad tidings.

Then let me see them.

His eyes only.

Out of the gloomy corner came the Christ, looking much older now, almost like a prophet. What is it? He asked.

I have prepared the way for you, I said. Simon called Peter and told me I was the heir to his legacy, that I should go before you-

The stone Christ shook his head. You believe I am the fount from which all blessings flow?

I nodded, uncertain.

What have you done out there?

Let in the light, I said.

He shook His head slowly. You seem a wise enough creature. You know about Mortdieu.

Yes.

Then you should know that I barely have enough power to keep myself together, to heal myself, much less to minister to those out there. He gestured beyond the walls. My own source has gone away. He said mournfully. Im operating on reserves, and those none too vast.

He wants you to go away and stop bothering us, the monster explained.

They have their light out there, the Christ said. Theyll play with that for a while, get tired of it, go back to what they had before. Is there room for you in that?

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. No room, I said. Im too ugly.

You are too ugly, and Im too famous. He said. Id have to come from their midst, anonymous, and thats clearly impossible. No, leave them alone for a while. Theyll make me over again, perhaps, or, better still, forget about me. About us. We dont have any place there.

I was stunned. I sat down hard on the stone floor, and the Christ patted me on my head as He walked by. Go back to your hiding place; live as well as you can, he said. Our time is over.

I turned to go. When I reached the crevice, I heard His voice behind, saying, Do you play bridge? If you do, find another. We need four to a table.

I clambered up the crack, through the walls, and along the arches over the revelry. Not only was I not going to be pope-after an appointment by St. Peter himself! but I couldnt persuade someone much more qualified than I to take the leadership.

I returned to the copper Giant. He was lost in meditation. About his feet were scattered scraps of paper with detailed drawings of parts of the Cathedral. I waited patiently until he saw me. He turned to me, chin in hand, and looked me over.

Why so sad?

I shook my head. Only he could read my features and recognize my moods.

Did you take my advice below? I heard a commotion.

Mea maxima culpa, I said.

And . . . ?

I slowly, hesitantly, made my report, concluding with the refusal of the stone Christ. The Giant listened closely, without interrupting. When I was done, he stood, towering over me, and pointed with his ruler through an open portal.

Do you see that out. there? he asked. The ruler swept over the forests beyond the island, to the far, green horizon. I said that I did and waited for him to continue. He seemed to be lost in thought again.

Once there was a city where trees now grow. One of the finest cities in the world, he said. It was called Paris, and it was old even then. It was famous for a peculiar kind of thought and a peculiar kind of passion. Artists came by the thousands, and whores, and philosophers, and academics. And when God died, all the academics and whores and artists couldnt hold the fabric of the world together. How do you expect us to succeed now?

Us? Expectations should not determine whether one acts or not, should they?

The Giant laughed and tapped my head with the ruler. An age ago, before I was born or repaired the Cathedral, the Christ and what He represented stood tall in the city of thought, much as this spire rises over the forest. But everything grows old. Maybe weve been given a sign, and we just have to learn how to interpret it correctly. He shook his head.

I leered to show I was puzzled.

Instead of Gods death, were faced with another process entirely. We have long bathed in Gods milk, in His rules and creativity. Maybe Mortdieu is really a sign that we have been weaned. We must forage for ourselves, remake the world without help. What do you think of that?

I was too tired to really judge the merits of what he was saying, but I had never known the Giant to be wrong before. Okay. So?

The stone Christ indicates His charge is running down. If God weans us from the old ways, we cant expect His Son to replace the nipple, can we?

No...

He hunkered next to me, his face bright. I wondered who would really stand forth. Its obvious. He wont. So, little one, whos the next choice?

Me? I asked, meekly. The giant looked me over almost pityingly.

No, he said after a time. I am the next. Were weaned! He did a little dance, startling my beak up out of my paws. I blinked. He grabbed my vestigial wingtips and pulled me upright. Tell me more.

About what?

Tell me all thats going on below, and whatever else you know.

Im trying to figure out what youre saying, I protested, trembling a bit.

Dense as stone! Grinning, he bent over me. Then the grin went away and he tried to look stern. Its a grave responsibility. We must remake the world ourselves now. We must coordinate our thoughts, our dreams. Chaos wont do. What an opportunity, to be the architect of an entire universe! He waved the ruler at the ceiling. To build the very skies! The last world was a training ground, full of harsh rules and strictures. Now weve been told were ready to leave that behind, move on to something more mature. Did I teach you any of the rules of architecture? I mean, the aesthetics. The need for harmony, interaction, utility, beauty-within-science?

Some, I said.

Good. I dont think making the universe anew will require any better rules. No doubt well need to experiment, and perhaps one or more of our great spires will topple. But now we work for ourselves, to our own glory, and the greater glory of the God who made us! No, ugly friend?

Like many histories, mine must begin with the small, the tightly focused, and expand into the large. But, unlike most historians. I dont have the luxury of time. Indeed, my story isnt even concluded yet.

Soon the legions of Viollet-le-Duc will begin their campaigns. Most have been schooled pretty thoroughly. Kidnapped from below, brought up in the heights, taught as I was. Well begin returning them, one by one.

I teach off and on, write off and on, observe all the time.

The next step will be the biggest. I havent any idea how were going to do it.

But, as the Giant puts it, Long ago the roof fell in. Now we must push it up again, strengthen it, repair the beams. At this point he smiles to the pupils. Not just repair them. Replace them! Now we are the beams. Flesh and stone become something much stronger.

Ah, but then some dolt will raise a hand and inquire, What if our arms get tired holding up the sky?

Our task will not soon be over.

<>

* * * *

SCATTERSHOT

The teddy bear spoke excellent mandarin. It was about fifty centimeters tall, plump, with close-set eyes above a nose unusually long for the generally pug breed. It paced around me, muttering to itself.

I rolled over and felt barbs down my back and sides. My arms were reluctant to move. There was something about my will to get up and the way my muscles reacted that was out-of-kilter; the nerves werent conveying properly. So it was, I thought, with my eyes and the small black-and-white beast they claimed to see: a derangement of phosphene patterns, cross-tied with childhood memories and snatches of linguistics courses ten years past.