“Where my mother’s estate used to be,” whispered Martin Silenus’s synthesizer. “In the heart of the heart of the North American Preserve.”
A. Bettik looked up from checking the med-unit’s readouts. “I believe that this was called Illinois in the pre-Big Mistake days,” he said. “The center of that state, I believe. The prairies have returned, I see. Those trees are elms and chestnut … extinct by the twenty-first century here, if I am not mistaken. That river beyond the bluffs flows south-southwest into the Mississippi River. I believe you have … ah … traversed a portion of that river, M. Endymion.”
“Yes,” I said, remembering the flimsy little kayak and the farewell at Hannibal and Aenea’s first kiss.
We waited. The sun rose higher. Wind stirred the grasses. Somewhere beyond the line of trees, a bird protested something as only birds can. I looked at Martin Silenus.
“Boy,” said the old poet’s synthesizer, “if you expect me to die on cue just to save you from a sunburn, fucking forget it. I’m hanging on by my fingernails, but those nails are old and tough and long.”
I smiled and touched his bony shoulder.
“Boy?” whispered the poet.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“You told me years ago that your old grannie—Grandam you called her—had made you memorize the Cantos till they were dribbling out your ears. Was that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you recollect the lines I wrote about this place … as it was back in my day?”
“I can try,” I said. I closed my eyes. I was tempted to touch the Void, to seek the sound of those lessons in Grandam’s voice in place of this struggle to recall them from memory, but instead I did it the hard way, using the mnemonic devices she had taught me to recall distinct passages of verse. Standing there, eyes still closed, I spoke the passages I could recall:
“Fragile twilights fading from fuchsia to purple
above the crepe-paper silhouettes of trees
beyond the southwest sweep of lawn.
Skies as delicate as translucent china,
unscarred by cloud or contrail.
The presymphony hush of first light followed
by the cymbal crash of sunrise.
Oranges and russets igniting to gold,
the long, cool descent to green:
leaf shadow, shade, tendrils of cypress
and weeping willow, the hushed
green velvet of the glade.
“Mother’s estate—our estate—a thousand acres centered in a million more. Lawns the size of small prairies with grass so perfect it beckoned a body to lie on it,
to nap on its soft perfection.
Noble shade trees making sundials of
the Earth,
their shadows circling in stately procession;
now mingling, now contracting to midday,
finally stretching eastward with the dying of the day.
Royal oak.
Giant elms.
Cottonwood and cypress and redwood and bonsai.
Banyan trees lowering new trunks
like smooth-sided columns in a temple
roofed by sky.
Willows lining carefully laid canals and haphazard
streams,
their hanging branches singing ancient dirges to
the wind.”
I stopped. The next part was hazy. I’d never enjoyed those fake-lyrical bits of the Cantos, preferring the battle scenes instead.
I had been touching the old poet’s shoulder as I recited and I had felt it relax as I spoke. I opened my eyes, expecting to see a dead man in the bed.
Martin Silenus gave me a satyr’s grin. “Not bad, not bad,” he rasped. “Not bad for an old hack.” His video glasses turned toward the android and the priest. “See why I chose this boy to finish my Cantos for me? He can’t write worth shit, but he’s got a memory like an elephant’s.”
I was about to ask, What is an elephant, when I glanced over at A. Bettik for no special reason. For one instant, after all my years of knowing the gentle android, I actually saw him. My mouth dropped slack.
“What?” asked Father de Soya, his voice alarmed. Perhaps he thought I was having a heart attack.
“You,” I said to A. Bettik. “You’re the Observer.”
“Yes,” said the android.
“You’re one of them … from them … from the Lions and Tigers and Bears.”
The priest looked from me to A. Bettik to the still-grinning man in the bed and then back at the android.
“I have never appreciated that choice of phrase of M. Aenea’s,” A. Bettik said very quietly. “I have never seen a lion or tiger or bear in the flesh, but I understand that they share a certain fierceness which is alien to … ah … the alien race to which I belong.”
“You took the form of an android centuries ago,” I said, still staring in a deepening understanding that was as sharp and painful as a blow to the head. “You were there for all the central events … the rise of the Hegemony, the discovery of the Time Tombs on Hyperion, the Fall of the Farcasters … good Christ, you were there for most of the last Shrike Pilgrimage.”
A. Bettik bowed his bald head slightly. “If one is to observe, M. Endymion, one must be in the proper place to observe.”
I leaned over Martin Silenus’s bed, ready to shake him alive for an answer if he had already died. “Did you know this, old man?”
“Not before he left with you, Raul,” said the poet. “Not until I read your narrative through the Void and realized …”
I took two steps back in the soft, high grass. “I was such an idiot,” I said. “I saw nothing. I understood nothing. I was a fool.”
“No,” said Father de Soya. “You were in love.”
I advanced on A. Bettik as if I was ready to throttle him if he did not answer immediately and honestly. Perhaps I would have. “You’re the father,” I said. “You lied about not knowing where Aenea disappeared to for almost two years. You’re the father of the child … of the next messiah.”
“No,” said the android calmly. The Observer. The Observer with one arm, the friend who almost died with us a score of times. “No,” he said again. “I am not Aenea’s husband. I am not the father.”
“Please,” I said, my hands shaking, “do not lie to me.” Knowing that he would not lie. Had never lied.
A. Bettik looked me in the eye. “I am not the father,” he said. “There is no father now. There was never another messiah. There is no child.”
Dead. They’re both dead … her child, her husband—whoever, whatever he was—Aenea herself. My dear girl. My darling girl. Nothing left. Ashes. Somehow, even as I had dedicated myself to finding the child, to pleading with the Observer father to allow me to be this child’s friend and bodyguard and disciple as I had been Aenea’s, to using that newfound hope as a means of escaping the Schrödinger box, I had known deep in my heart that there was no child of my darling’s alive in the universe … I would have heard that soul’s music echoing across the Void like a Bach fugue … no child. Everything was ashes.
I turned to Father de Soya now, ready to touch the cylinder holding Aenea’s remains, ready to accept the fact of her being gone forever with the first touch of cold steel against my fingertips. I would go off alone to find a place to spread her ashes. Walk from Illinois to Arizona if I had to. Or perhaps just to where Hannibal had been … where we first kissed. Perhaps that is where she was happiest while we were here.
“Where is the canister?” I said, my voice thick.
“I did not bring it,” said the priest.
“Where is it?” I said. I was not angry, just very, very tired. “I’ll walk back to the tower to get it.”
Father Federico de Soya took a breath and shook his head. “I left it in the treeship, Raul. I did not forget it. I left it there on purpose.”
I stared at him, more puzzled than angry. Then I realized that he—and A. Bettik, and even the old poet in the bed—had turned th
eir heads toward the bluffs above the river.
It was as if a cloud had passed over but then an especially bright ray of light had illuminated the grass for a moment. The two figures were motionless for long seconds, but then the shorter of the two forms began walking briskly toward us, breaking into a run.
The taller figure was more recognizable at this distance, of course—sunlight on its chrome carapace, the red eyes visibly glinting even at this distance, the gleam of thorns and spikes and razor fingers—but I had no time to waste looking at the motionless Shrike. It had done its job. It had farcast itself and the person with it forward through time as easily as I had learned to ’cast through space.
Aenea ran the last thirty meters. She looked younger—less worn by worry and events—her hair was almost blond in the sun and had been hastily tied back. She was younger, I realized, frozen in my place as she ran up to our small party on the hill. She was twenty, four years older than when I had left her in Hannibal but almost three years younger than when I saw her last.
Aenea kissed A. Bettik, hugged Father de Soya, leaned into the bed to kiss the old poet with great gentleness, and then turned to me.
I was still frozen in place.
Aenea walked closer and stood on tiptoe as she always had when she wanted to kiss me on the cheek.
She kissed me gently on the lips. “I’m sorry, Raul,” she whispered. “I’m sorry this had to be so hard on you. On everyone.”
So hard on me. She stood there with the full foresight of the torture to come in Castel Sant’Angelo, with the Nemes-things circling her naked body like carrion birds, with the images of the rising flames …
She touched my cheek again. “Raul, my dear. I’m here. This is me. For the next one year, eleven months, one week, and six hours, I’ll be with you. And I will never mention the amount of time again. We have infinite time. We’ll always be together. And our child will be there with you as well.”
Our child. Not a messiah born of necessity. Not a marriage with an Observer. Our child. Our human, fallible, falling-down-and-crying child.
“Raul?” said Aenea, touching my cheek with her work-callused fingers.
“Hello, kiddo,” I said. And I took her in my arms.
35
artin Silenus died late on the next day, several hours after Aenea and I were wed. Father de Soya performed the wedding service, of course, just as he later performed the funeral service just before sunset. The priest said that he was glad that he had J brought along his vestments and missal.
We buried the old poet on one of the grassy bluffs above the river, where the view of the prairie and distant forests seemed most lovely. As far as we could tell, his mother’s house would have been set somewhere nearby. A. Bettik, Aenea, and I had dug the grave deep since there were wild animals about—we had heard wolves howl the night before—and then carried heavy stones to the site to cover the earth. On the simple headstone, Aenea marked the dates of the old poet’s birth and death—four months short of a full thousand years—carved his name in deep script, and in the space below, added only—OUR POET.
The Shrike had been standing on that grassy bluff where it had arrived with Aenea, and it had not moved during our wedding service that day, nor during the beautiful evening when the old poet died, nor during the sunset funeral service when we buried Martin Silenus not twenty meters from where the thing stood like a silver-spiked and thorn-shrouded sentinel, but as we moved away from the grave, the Shrike walked slowly forward until it stood over the grave, its head bowed, its four arms hanging limply, the last of the sky’s dying glow reflected in its smooth carapace and red-jeweled eyes. It did not move again.
Father de Soya and Ket Rosteen urged us to spend another night in one of the tower rooms, but Aenea and I had other plans. We had liberated some camping gear from the Consul’s ship, an inflatable raft, a hunting rifle, plenty of freeze-dried food if we were unsuccessful hunting, and managed to get it all in two very heavy backpacks. Now we stood at the edge of the city slab and looked out at the twilight world of grass and woods and deepening sky. The old poet’s cairn was clearly visible against the fading sunset.
“It will be dark soon,” fussed Father de Soya.
“We have a lantern.” Aenea grinned.
“There are wild animals out there,” said the priest. “That howl we heard last night … God knows what predators are just waking up.”
“This is Earth,” I said. “Anything short of a grizzly bear I can handle with the rifle.”
“What if there are grizzly bears?” persisted the Jesuit. “Besides, you’ll get lost out there. There are no roads or cities. No bridges. How will you cross the rivers …”
“Federico,” said Aenea, setting her hand firmly but gently on the priest’s forearm. “It’s our wedding night.”
“Oh,” said the priest. He hugged her quickly, shook my hand, and stepped back.
“May I make a suggestion, M. Aenea, M. Endymion?” said A. Bettik diffidently.
I looked up from sliding the sheath knife onto my belt. “Are you going to tell us what you folks on the other side of the Void Which Binds have planned for Earth in the years to come?” I said. “Or for finally saying hello to the human race in person?”
The android looked embarrassed. “Ah … no,” he said. “The suggestion was actually more in the line of a modest wedding present.” He handed both of us the leather case.
I recognized it at once. So did Aenea. We got down on our hands and knees to take the hawking mat out and unroll it on the grass.
It activated at first tap, hovering a meter above the ground. We piled and lashed our packs on the back, set the rifle in place, and still had room for the both of us—if I sat cross-legged and Aenea sat in the cusp of my arms and legs, her back against my chest.
“This should get us across the rivers and above the beasties,” said Aenea. “And we’re not going far tonight to find a campsite. Just across the river there, just out of earshot.”
“Out of earshot?” said the Jesuit. “But why stay so close if we can’t hear you if you call? What if you cried out for help and … oh.” He reddened.
Aenea hugged him. She shook Ket Rosteen’s hand and said, “In two weeks, I would be obliged if you would let Rachel and the others ’cast down or take the Consul’s ship down if they want to look around. We’ll meet them at Uncle Martin’s grave at high noon. They’re welcome to stay until sunset. In two years, anyone who can ’cast here on his or her own is welcome to explore to their heart’s content,” she said. “But they can only stay one month, no longer. And no permanent structures allowed. No buildings. No cities. No roads. No fences. Two years …” She grinned at me. “Some years down the road, the Lions and Tigers and Bears and I have made some interesting plans for this world. But for these two years, it’s ours … Raul’s and mine. So please. True Voice of the Tree, please post a big KEEP OUT sign on your way up to your treeship, would you?”
“We will do so,” said the Templar. He went back into the tower to ready his ergs for takeoff.
We settled onto the mat. My arms were around Aenea. I had no intention of letting her go for a very long time. One Earth year, eleven months, one week, and six hours can be an eternity if you allow it to be so. A day can be so. An hour.
Father de Soya gave us his benediction and said, “Is there anything I can do for you in the coming months? Any supplies you want sent down to Old Earth?”
I shook my head. “No thanks, Father. With our camping gear, ship’s medkit, inflatable raft, and this rifle, we should be all set. I wasn’t a hunting guide on Hyperion for nothing.”
“There is one thing,” Aenea said and I caught the slight twitch of muscle at the corner of her mouth that had always warned me that mischief was imminent.
“Anything,” said Father de Soya.
“If you can come back in about a year,” said Aenea, “I may have use for a good midwife. That should give you time to read up on the subject.”
Father de
Soya blanched, started to speak, thought better of it, and nodded grimly.
Aenea laughed and touched his hand. “Just kidding,” she said. “The Dorje Phamo and Dem Loa have already agreed to freecast here if needed.” She looked back at me. “And they will be needed.”
Father de Soya let out a breath, set his strong hand on Aenea’s head in a final benediction, and walked slowly up onto the city slab and then up the ramp to the tower. We watched him blend with the shadows.
“What’s going to happen to his Church?” I said softly to Aenea.
She shook her head. “Whatever happens, it has a chance at a fresh start … to rediscover its soul.” She smiled over her shoulder at me. “And so do we.”
I felt my heart pounding with nervousness, but I spoke anyway. “Kiddo?”
Aenea turned her cheek against my chest and looked up at me.
“Boy or girl?” I said. “I never asked.”
“What?” said Aenea, confused.
“The reason you’ll need the Thunderbolt Sow and Dem Loa in a year or so?” I said, my voice thick. “Will it be a boy or girl?”
“Ahhh,” said Aenea, understanding me now. She turned her face away again, settled back against me, and set the curve of her skull under my jawline. I could feel the words through bone conduction as she spoke next. “I don’t know, Raul. I really don’t. This is one part of my life I’ve always avoided peeking at. Everything that happens next will be new. Oh … I know from glimpses of things beyond this that we will have a healthy child and that leaving the baby … and you … will be the hardest thing I ever do … much harder than when I have to let myself be caught in St. Peter’s Basilica and go to the Pax inquisitors. But I also know from those glimpses of myself after this period—when I am with you again on T’ien Shan, in my future and your past, and suffering because I am unable to tell you any of this—that I also will he consoled by the fact that in this future our baby is well and that you will be raising him or her. And I know that you will never let the child forget who I was or how much I loved the two of you.”