BEN FRANCISO AND CHRIS LYNCH
BEN FRANCISCO and CHRIS LYNCH - fellow graduates of Clarion South 2007 - are the proverbial ‘writers-to-watch’. Chris is from Brisbane (by way of a childhood in Papua, New Guinea) where he teaches English; and Ben is an American who lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he manages programs and funding initiatives for non-governmental organisations, foundations, and government agencies. This felicitous collaboration — a first-contact story, which Chris refers to as ‘one of the many fruits of Clarion’ — is a meditation on religion and culture and, perhaps, the true nature of transubstantiation...
* * * *
From the Journal of Mother Rena
24.07.2489
Stark. An apt name tor this isolated planet, hard and bleak like the prospectors who named it. I left the mining camp at first light, glad to see the backs of such men, eager for the company of souls I don’t yet understand. The Walker was expensive. I had little choice but to accept the asking price, for I wouldn’t have got far across the tundra without one. It’s spring here on the southern continent, and bitterly cold, even with the layers beneath my robe.
I’d been trudging for eight hours across drab vegetation when the Suvari found me. I didn’t see them until they rose out of the ground before me, like feathery ghosts. Three of them. They’re shorter than I expected —little more than a metre tall. We’re trained not to compare aliens with the familiar, but it’s hard not to. They look like wingless eagles: bipedal, stocky and muscular, covered in a thick white coat tinged blue at the extremities. Two powerful arms end in splayed, long-fingered hands: three fingers and an opposable thumb. From each digit springs a long, wicked hook, designed for grappling.
I dismounted from the Walker to greet them. The one in the middle seemed to be the leader; a bony pendant hung around her neck, and her three-pointed leather boots were of a finer cut. They wore no clothing, other than the boots. The leader blinked slowly, then opened her mouth, a wide, jagged slash tucked beneath her beak. A tongue flicked out, tasting the steaming air.
‘Much warmth, bloodkin.’ A rich bark, high-pitched and breathy.
‘Much warmth,’ I replied, tripping over the unfamiliar sounds. No matter how good, automated lessons are never the same as speaking with real people.
She stepped forward and offered her mouth to me, like a bird feeding a chick.
‘I give of my blood,’ she said.
‘I drink of your blood,’ I said without hesitation. I leaned down, allowing our mouths to touch. Blood gushed from her mouth into mine. If I hadn’t practised drinking artificial blood on the voyage here, I’m certain I would have gagged. Their blood tasted salty, not very different from my own. I swallowed three more times, then stepped back, licking my lips. I gingerly wiped my chin, praying I was doing it right, that I wouldn’t cause offence. I waited for her to speak again, the fluid pooling uneasily in my stomach.
‘I am Shay,’ she said. ‘You’re the new missionary?’
‘Yes, I’m Mother Rena. Is Father Marcelo still with you?’
Shay’s shoulders hunched and her fingers twitched. That gesture had not been in the database — they are never complete. ‘No,’ Shay said. ‘He left some time ago, with the nomads.’ She paused for a moment and added, ‘Come with us. It’s getting late, and we want to speak with you.’ The three of them pivoted, their knobbly tails swinging round behind them, and I followed them into the fading light.
* * * *
Shay, I learned, is the village shaman, their spiritual leader. She must have spoken a great deal with Father Marcelo, because she mentioned Christ several times in conversation with me and is interested to learn more about the faith. She seems to have appointed herself my personal guide, and I’m glad to have connected with her so soon.
Shortly after we arrived at the village, Shay showed me to my quarters. From the outside, the yurt looked so large that I was worried the Suvari had displaced an entire family on my account. I almost objected that I could make do with something much smaller.
I had to crouch to get through the low door. I was surprised to find at least a dozen Suvari in the single room, lit only by the coals of the central hearth. Some were resting on small mats on the floor; others were gathered in small groups, playing a game with stones and string. The room quieted as we entered, and a dozen beaks swung in my direction.
The Suvari hurried over to me with excitement. It was odd to be surrounded by these creatures, who stood only as tall as my waist. I sat down, pulling back my hood, and one of them reached out to gently claw my greying blond hair. I resisted the urge to pet them, reminding myself that paternalism is the missionary’s deadliest sin. They were filled with curiosity, asking me about everything from my home planet to my journey to Stark. They were particularly curious about my light tan skin, hair, and breasts — all of which marked me as different from Father Marcelo. They seemed confused when I said I looked different because I was female, no doubt because for them gender is a characteristic associated only with the young. I tried to explain that I was a fully grown human, despite my sex, but it only increased their bewilderment. (Interesting that I refer to them as ‘she’ when they should really be ‘it.’ They just seem female.)
Once the excitement died down, I ushered Shay into the corner and asked, ‘Do all of you live here together in one room?’
She clawed at her ear, a Suvari expression of confusion. ‘This is where I live,’ she said. ‘I wanted to welcome you into my hearth-group, as I did with Father Marcelo. But if you prefer to stay with the chieftain’s hearth-group, I will take no offence.’
I was making far too many errors on my first day. ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I would be honoured to be part of your hearth-group. It’s just that among my people —’ I tried to remember the word for privacy, realised that if there was such a word in their language, I had yet to learn it. ‘Sometimes my people prefer to have time alone. We enjoy being with others, but also value time alone, especially when we sleep.’
Shay clawed at her ear again. ‘Father Marcelo never mentioned this,’ she said. She chattered away with her hearth-mates, and within ten minutes they had partitioned a corner of the yurt for me with a flap of the rough bloodcow leather they use for a multitude of purposes.
‘Will this be all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘This is lovely. Thank you so much for accommodating my strange ways.’ They’d been so kind, and seemed to have so little sense of physical boundaries, that I kissed her on the beak. ‘This is a kind of blood-sharing among my people,’ I explained.
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Let us all share blood as hearth-mates for the evening meal.’ The entire group gathered around the hearth, and a young Suvari fetched blood from the icebox to the rear. Rather than cups, they drink from thin, pliable sacks, shaped like sausages and tied off at one end. They heated them for a couple of minutes in a pot of boiling water and passed them around, waiting for Shay to puncture and suck from her sack before doing the same.
I took the blood sack and attempted to imitate them. My teeth, though, weren’t sharp enough to puncture it, and I fumbled for several minutes as they looked on patiently. Eventually Shay kindly offered to help. She made a small slit in the sausage and passed it back to me. It tasted different from the Suvari blood I’d had earlier, much heavier and harsher, though tempered by the addition of various herbs. My stomach bubbled, bloated with so much liquid. But I appreciated the opportunity to show I was part of the hearth, especially after I’d already created a wall between us.
At the end of the meal, we chewed some grass to cleanse the palate, and then everyone traded Suvari blood between their mouths, an intimate ritual they seem to use as a greeting, a farewell, and on nearly every other occasion. I wonder, is the constant blood-sharing a substitute for sex — their alternative way of building intimacy?
I settled into my makeshift room and logged on to my gopher. I sent a brief note to the Archbishop’s office that I’d arrived safely. For a moment, I felt the urge to send another note. But Kelly has made it clear he has no interest in hearing from me, and I’m certainly not about to get in touch with my family. I feel so rootless, always preparing for the next mission, leaving a piece of me behind in every place but never quite finding a home on any world.
The Suvari are already sleeping. They make a soft sound in their sleep, an odd combination of purring and chirping. I should be tired after such a long day, but I don’t feel sleepy. The inhuman snores keep me awake, reminding me of all the new things I will experience in this unknown place. It’s s familiar feeling, the excitement tinged with loneliness, when you’re alone and far from home and everything is new. What does God have in store for me here?
* * * *
26.07.2489
This morning, Shay showed me around one of the bloodcow farms on the outskirts of the village. At three metres tall, the bloodcows are easily ten times the mass of their keepers. They’re a bit like a buffalo, with a red, woolly coat and two tusks. Their hind legs are significantly shorter than their front legs, which almost makes it appear as if they’re squatting when they’re standing up straight. The Suvari saw off their tusks and keep them in large grassy areas enclosed by stone walls. They were surprisingly docile, despite their ferocious appearance. It’s difficult for me to imagine the little Suvari hunting the wild cousins of these gigantic creatures.
A small Suvari ‘milked’ one of the bloodcows while we were there. She plunged her beak into its neck and sucked for several minutes, then regurgitated the blood into a leather sack sealed with a bony cork. I asked Shay, ‘You take blood from them every day?’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘How long can they live like that, losing blood daily?’
‘Their natural lifespan,’ she said. ‘We feed them well, and take just the right amount of blood from them each day so that their health doesn’t suffer. The Lifeblood flows.’
I’d heard that saying several times in the past three days. ‘And what is the Lifeblood?’
‘The Lifeblood is within all living things,’ she said. ‘It’s what makes the blood flow. The cycle of the Lifeblood guides our destinies, determines the seasons of bloodtaking and bloodgiving, and, in the end, our final bloodletting.’
I lifted my head and made three clicking sounds, my attempt at a Suvari nod. It’s interesting that the Suvari seem to have a nascent pantheistic philosophy. In many ways, their thinking is more sophisticated than most primitive cultures, which tend toward polytheistic mythologies.
Walking back into the village, I noticed a large yurt, the doorway painted with the same designs of concentric red circles as on Shay’s pendant. I asked to go inside, and in the gloom discovered what appeared to be a fish farm: two large, perfectly round pools filled with steaming water. The pools were swarming with what looked like over sized albino tadpoles, but with a stalk sprouting from the front of their bodies and ending in a beak. They weren’t much larger than my hand. Some of the stalks waved blindly in our direction as we approached.
Through the gloom, I searched for Shay’s eyes. ‘Do you feed on these as well — or are they pets?’
Shay jabbed at her ear. ‘Oh, no,’ she answered. ‘These are spawn.’ I’d read of their unique reproductive cycle, but still had trouble picturing it. The spawn are a sort of larval stage for the Suvari, the only time in their life cycle when they have sex — in both senses of the word, I suppose.
I stammered out an apology, but Shay seemed to take no offence. She went on, ‘We feed them until it is time for them to mate.’
‘And then what happens?’ I asked.
‘We’re not very different from other animals. The female is enveloped in her cocoon, and a young Suvari emerges months later. We elders give of our blood to them until they can feed themselves.’
I jabbed at my ear — the gesture feels surprisingly natural — and said, ‘But then where do the spawn come from?’
She nodded, which was clearly not a sign of assent as it is in many human cultures. ‘From our spores, of course,’ she said. ‘Both the end and beginning of the Lifeblood cycle.’
‘Can you remember?’ I asked. ‘What it was like to be a spawn?’
Again the nod. ‘I was never spawn,’ she said. She gestured toward the pool. ‘We all come from them, but they are not Suvari. The plant’s seed is not the plant.’
‘And the male spawn?’ I asked. ‘What happens to them after they mate?’
‘They don’t live much longer, having fulfilled their purpose. Such is the way of the Lifeblood.’ She paused a moment and added, ‘Out on the tundra, among the nomads, I am told they still drink the blood of the male spawn until the Lifeblood is drained from them. But we no longer practise such savagery here in the village.’
I clicked away and lifted my head, trying to withhold my judgments.
* * * *
28.07.2489
Tomorrow, I will preside over my first Mass here, and I find myself struggling with the translation. Father Marcelo left no notes or documentation of any kind, so I have no idea what he’s told them or how he’s begun the enculturation process, and I’m left to start from scratch.
Blood (kasali) means everything to these people. I’m tempted to use the word as the translation for any number of concepts. For a race whose only food is blood, how else can you translate ‘daily bread’ except as ‘daily blood’? Given that, is there any reason to include the Body of Christ in the ceremony? Should I translate Holy Spirit as ‘Sacred Lifeblood’?
I’ll keep the Mass simple tomorrow — a few basic prayers, the gospel reading, a homily, then the Eucharist. I’ve been debating what to read for the gospel. I often like to start with Gabriel’s appearance before Mary, but the virgin birth is confusing even for cultures with reproductive cycles similar to our own.
I fell asleep in the middle of the day, and had a nightmare that I was back on Galatea. I was walking through the dark valley, and looked up to see the three crucifixes in the shadows atop the hill. Nails stabbed the gossamer wings of the three lifeless bodies hanging from the crosses.
Haven’t had that dream in years. It must be the stress of a new world, the fear of making the kind of mistake that cannot be undone.
* * * *
29.07.2489
We held the Mass in the sinkhole in the village centre. It has banked seating around the sides, and is covered with a low roof of leather and bone. Shay says they use the space for village meetings and for special blood-sharing rituals. A good number came to the Mass — a couple of dozen out of the two hundred or so who live here.
I read my translation of Matthew 28, when the women discover that Jesus has risen from the dead. In my homily, I tried to connect Christ’s resurrection to their cyclical philosophy. Christ’s rebirth as a symbol of new beginnings, the possibility of new life springing from death. It was simple and straightforward, but a good beginning point for enculturation.
It was the strangest consecration I’ve ever done —holding up a sausage of actual blood instead of a chalice of wine. I drank first — I’ve got better at biting it open — and then handed it on to Shay. She drank the rest and said, ‘Let the Lifeblood of Christ flow from my mouth to yours.’ She passed it on to the others in the usual manner, a bloody kiss passed from beak to beak. The smaller, younger ones drank last.
Afterwards, I opened the floor for discussion, as is customary in the enculturation process. An elder was the first to speak. ‘The Lifeblood flows,’ she said, the clichés rolling easily from her beak. ‘Christ releases His blood to give life to others, then He returns in a new cycle of the Lifeblood.’
‘Yes,’ said another. ‘Christ gives up His blood that the Lifeblood of the world may flow.’
I was surprised at how engaged they were. I had the impression that some of them were showing off their knowledge.
One of them clawed at her ear and seemed to be frustrated. ‘But Father Marcelo said that Christ is the Lifeblood.’
They looked at me, hoping for an answer. Inwardly, I cursed Marcelo. I would never have made such a bold translation. There are simply too many cultural nuances to make such a strong assertion so early in the process.
‘Yes,’ I said, not wanting to undermine what they’d already learned from Marcelo. ‘In a way, Christ is the Lifeblood. The Sacred Lifeblood moves through Christ and His works.’
‘And when will Christ be re-born?’ asked another. ‘Will Christ’s next cycle of the Lifeblood begin soon?’
‘It is not so important when,’ I said. ‘What matters is that He will come again.’
I had never mentioned the Second Coming to them, so they must have learned about that from Marcelo as well. He’s left all the signs of a novice missionary in his wake. Anyone with a modicum of experience knows it’s best to wait until much later before mentioning that Christ will return. It creates too many expectations. No one pays attention to the parables if they’re busy preparing for the saviour.
I’ve already received several transmissions from the Archbishop’s office asking about Marcelo. The Church bureaucrats are eager to complete their forms and mark him with some official status. I’ve kept my replies vague. I’ve never met Marcelo, and yet I find myself alternately annoyed and protective of him. He’s quite young and I suspect his errors are mostly the result of youthful rashness. I’ve asked Shay to make inquiries about him among the nomads who pass through the village, trading oils and leather for herbs and tools. At the very least, I need to find out if he’s all right.
* * * *
05.08.2489
After a long walk on the outskirts of the village (which, I’ve discovered, is the only way I can truly have privacy), I came home to find my hearth-mates facing away from each other in silence. I was quite surprised, having become accustomed to their constant chatter.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked Shay.
‘It’s Hasha,’ Shay said in quiet voice, referring to one of our hearth-mates. ‘She was taken by a harpy, out on the tundra. We’ve lost her.’
It was the first time I’d heard of any villager dying, although the prep program had warned me about predators. I didn’t know Hasha well, but I felt a bit shocked. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, struggling to express condolence in a foreign tongue, then remembered a Suvari adage I’d heard several times before. ‘In the cycle of the Lifeblood, every ending is a new beginning.’
Shay shrieked — loud keening cry — and several of the others did the same. ‘No,’ Shay said, still keening between the words. ‘She never made it to the hot springs. She didn’t spore. Agakhe, death without sporing; Hasha is lost from the Lifeblood, forever.’
There were so many ways that I knew God could bring them comfort. I wanted to tell them that Hasha’s soul would live on, that she was now part of an even greater cycle of the Lifeblood. But I said nothing. A time of grief is among the most dangerous of times to introduce new ideas to a culture.
The hearth was quiet all evening, and we shared no blood. In quiet solidarity, I joined my hearth-mates in fasting, and in grief.
* * * *
11.08.2489
Shay has heard news of Marcelo from a nomad passing through the village last week. He’s taken up with a nomadic tribe now camping near one of the marshy areas to the northeast. They are likely to stay in that area throughout the summer, since it’s near a set of hot springs used for sporing and mating by both the nomads and the animals they hunt. Apparently Marcelo’s tribe has become known as the tribe led by a strange, dark giant. They have methods that allow them to hunt more game and to win victory over other tribes in battle. I fear Marcelo may be doing even more harm than I expected, overstepping all the Church’s guidelines. A single misunderstanding can pervert the faith, or destroy a people. I know; the Galateans are testament to that.
I’d never be able to reach him on my own, and Shay is the only Suvari I’ve truly connected with. At first, she was reluctant to go. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ she said. ‘The nomads are savages. The wars between the tribes are ceaseless, and the dangers of the tundra are many.’
She agreed to come only when I pleaded with her as my hearth-mate. The prejudice against the nomadic tribes is considerable here in the village, and I was impressed that Shay was even willing to consider the journey into the tundra.
* * * *
14.08.2489
Our third day of travel. I’m slowly getting used to the cold. Even with a hood and scarf I have to breathe hard and rub my nose to get the circulation flowing in my face. (I can only imagine the temperature in deep winter. Thank God I have nearly two years to adjust before I have to face it.)
The tundra is beautiful. There is little snow; somehow I thought there would be more. The distant horizon splits the world into two solid sheets. The rocks and mud are covered in a patchwork of lichen and herbs, a dozen shades of green and grey. At nightfall, the sky deepens into carbon black. We’re so far out, here on Stark, that I recognise only one constellation, St. Helcio’s Cross.
This morning I saw a pink flower! The first bright colour I’ve seen on the tundra. I exclaimed when I saw it, and made Shay stop and let me dismount from the guntha. She seemed bemused by my happiness. I picked the tiny star —ashuyar —and tucked the sprig into the fur above one of Shay’s stubby ears. She wiggled her ear — whether in irritation or pleasure I’m not sure — but seemed to accept my gift in good humour, patting my leg the way she often does.
These past few days, I’ve spent more time with Shay than I have with any individual — of any species — in years. She’s so curious and eager to learn — she chatters quite a bit, as nearly all the Suvari do — but she’s perceptive enough to respect my need for privacy, even if she doesn’t fully understand it. She refers to it as my ‘alone time’, which sounds so childlike that I find it quite endearing.
Last night, after we’d put up the tent and were getting ready for bed, she picked some lint out of my hair and asked, ‘Don’t your people ever groom each other?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not usually, not in the way your people do. We each groom ourselves separately.’
‘And you don’t blood-share either?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Is it always alone-time among your people?’ she asked. ‘Do you have no form of coming together with one another?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We do many things together. We —’ I searched for the word for eat, realised that the only word in their language had the connotation of a wild animal devouring prey. ‘We eat together, but not in the manner of animals, in a civilised way, like blood-sharing. And we play and work together, as you do. We do this.’ I leaned over and kissed her on the beak. ‘And we have sex.’
Shay nodded — which, I have learned, is a kind of patronising smile, almost like a pat on the head. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Younglings have sex. But what do the adults do?’ I’ve tried to explain human reproduction several times to Shay. All advanced animal life on Stark reproduces as they do, with sexual intercourse taking place in the first phase of development. It’s difficult for them to imagine any other way.
‘In any case,’ I said. ‘There are many things we do together.’ I paused a moment and asked, ‘Could we groom each other tonight?’
Shay clicked her assent and began picking through my long hair. Then she turned her back to me and I cleaned out her feathery fur. It felt good to be touched by another, to be cared for in that way.
As I write this, it occurs to me that Shay and I are becoming friends. It feels good to have one, after so long without.
* * * *
26.08.2489
I found Marcelo today, after two weeks wandering the tundra. Thank God — the wind has been unrelenting the past few days, and I was becoming short with Shay, upsetting us both. I’m relieved Marcelo’s still alive, but my fears about him have been confirmed. He’s headstrong and immature, given a Mission on his own much too soon after ordination.
Shay led us to them, catching Suvari scent on the wind on the morning of the fifteenth day. Shortly after, an enormous beast crested the hill to our left, no more than ten metres away, thundering down and almost crushing us beneath its muddy footpads. It was similar in form to the bloodcow, except larger, with massive, curved tusks. Staggering out of the way, I saw a Suvari spread-eagled face-first against its side. Her claws gripped the shaggy red-brown fur, footspurs biting into its flank.
As the wild animal galloped past us, the little figure unhooked a coil of rope from her shoulder and adroitly lassoed one of the tusks. She leapt from the beast, rolling across the mud, and sprang up at once, barking excitedly. Her avian feet were bare, and I had the feeling I was looking at a naked savage. Two ropes trailing behind the animal snapped taut. It stumbled and abruptly veered left, disappearing back over the hill. The hunter glanced at us, then ran after the beast. Shay and I followed.
We reached the top of the hill and looked down on an unfamiliar scene. Everything I’ve read and learnt about the Suvari nomads says they hunt alone, ambushing the widely scattered, and mostly solitary, wild cousins of the bloodcows, and gorging on their blood. They then return to their camp or cave to blood-share with the other members of the tribe. In this way, both the young and the unsuccessful hunters are fed, and the animal lives to see another day.
The scene before us was completely different. The fallen creature was bellowing beneath a swarm of Suvari. They tied down its legs with rope and stakes of polished bone. It kicked wildly, knocking a Suvari to the ground. She lay motionless, a heap of bedraggled fur.
A fit, dark-skinned man with a tangle of black hair barked orders in the midst of the chaos. Father Marcelo. He was dressed lightly in bloodcow leather, coils of rope slung over his back, a bloody dagger in his left hand. The ropes were actually wire; they were of human origin, not Suvari. He spoke confidently in the nomadic dialect I’ve only just begun to learn. But I immediately recognised a lazy human accent; he pronounced the diphthongs as if they were distinct vowels, and mixed up the three pitches that are essential to many words.
He didn’t seem surprised to see me. He eyed my white collar and black robe and shouted in Standard, ‘The Church’s new lackey, I presume?’
‘I’m Mother Rena,’ I said, walking down the hill to greet him. ‘Should I report that you’re too busy rolling about in blood to continue your ministry?’
He shook my hand and wiped some of the blood away from his face. ‘Put whatever you like in your reports,’ he said. Then, in the nomadic dialect, he shouted, ‘Take all the blood you can. We need to be moving by sundown.’
A couple of hunters stooped to drink from their dead comrade, then left her where she lay. I glanced at Shay in shock; she averted her eyes.
I didn’t get the chance to speak to Marcelo again until the evening, back at the nomadic camp. He’d begrudgingly invited us to join them. I sat between him and Shay at the evening meal. In contrast to the villagers, the nomads drank their blood directly from the animals they’d killed that afternoon. Shay seemed quite uncomfortable throughout the meal. She only drank a bit of blood from the carcass, then set it aside as if it were rotten meat.
Marcelo’s canines were surprisingly sharp — I wonder if he’s filed them down. He plunged his teeth into the meat and sucked out the blood as easily as if he were Suvari. Then he ate some of the meat itself, which he offered to share with me.
‘Is it safe to eat raw?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘As safe as anything.’
The meat tasted terrible and its texture was tough, but my stomach was happy to have something solid in it. ‘So?’ I asked him as I chewed on the grisly food. ‘Why haven’t you made a single report for nearly a year?’
‘My gopher broke,’ he said with meat in his mouth. ‘And I saw no need to go all the way to the mining station just to get it fixed.’
‘Marcelo,’ I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. ‘You need to give me a reason. Give me a reason I can put in my report, so you don’t have to lose your collar for nothing.’
‘Well, Mother Rena,’ he said, removing my hand, ‘there is no reason. Take all my collars and put them to good use. I’ve no interest in playing the white man, converting alien savages.’
‘That’s not the way of the New Catholic Church, and you know it. This isn’t the twenty-first century. The Doctrine of Enculturation calls for the Church to learn from other cultures just as much as we teach.’
He laughed in a patronising way quite inappropriate for a boy barely half my age. ‘I’m so tired of the Church patting itself on the back for the progress it made three centuries ago. Pope Marie II is an anachronism, and so is the enculturation process. These nomads don’t have the luxuries of your villager friends. They struggle for food to survive another hard day on the tundra. We need to help them live, not fret about how to translate a book written twenty-five centuries ago on a planet hundreds of light years away.’
I controlled my breathing, resisting the urge to raise my voice. I was conscious that Shay was beside me, unable to understand our words but intently focused on our body language. ‘There is wisdom in the enculturation process that you don’t yet understand. It provides us a framework for sharing the truths of different cultures, for welcoming a planet into the community of worlds. For three centuries, missionaries like us have been the emissaries of Christ’s love across the stars —’
‘Oh, really?’ he interrupted. ‘Did you bring Christ’s love to the Galateans?’
It shouldn’t have, but it surprised me to hear him mention Galatea. He was barely a child when it happened. I turned away. ‘I’m glad to see you know your history,’ I said. ‘I was very young then. And I failed precisely because at that time the Church had no clear guidelines for enculturation. You would do well to learn from my mistakes rather than repeat them. Come back to the village with me. I’ll send a report that you were lost in the tundra with your gopher damaged. There’s no reason you can’t continue in the priesthood.’
He set aside his food, and seemed thoughtful for the first time since I’d met him. ‘I’m not sure the priesthood is for me,’ he said. ‘When I was an orphaned boy, a homeless refugee, it was a priest who took me in and raised me. Father Keenan. He was more concerned with feeding the poor than with preaching the Gospel. That’s the kind of priest I wanted to be. To help people. But I’m not sure there’s room for that in the Church any more. It’s become more bureaucratic than ever, more concerned with paperwork than with people.’
‘There’s a reason for the paperwork,’ I said. ‘Helping people is fine, but we must be careful how we help people, to ensure that we don’t do more harm than good. Have you considered that the hunting methods you’re teaching them can be used just as easily for war? Do you want that on your head?’
‘You have the mentality of a paternalist,’ he said. ‘I give them knowledge. The choice is theirs what to do with it.’
I let him have the last word.
* * * *
31.08.2489
So much has happened. Marcelo was not the most charming host, but he agreed that Shay and I should stay in the camp for a few days before we began the long journey back to the village. Shay was reluctant to stay among ‘savages’, but she recognised we were both in need of rest.
Our first few days with the nomads were uneventful, but on the fourth day everyone was bustling about, gathering around a steaming pool sunk into the ground in the middle of the camp. Some of them were carrying big leather sacks, creatures bulging and squirming within. I finally got a glimpse inside one and saw that the bags were filled with the Suvari spawn. Shay nervously huddled into herself, like a bird in the cold. ‘Today must be mating day,’ she said.
At midday, the entire tribe gathered around the pool. Shay and I sat together behind Marcelo. Near our side of the pool, several Suvari dumped out sackfuls of female spawn. I looked at them more closely than I had before. They were about the size of toads — and looked much like four-legged tadpoles, just lacking pigmentation of any kind. They were quite distinctive from their adult counterparts, yet I could see the faint suggestion of one within the other — their legs and arms especially. White and clawless, their tiny fingers looked disconcertingly human. The females splashed into the water and were remarkably still. Their stalks swayed slightly from side to side above the surface, small beaks opening and closing.
An elder stepped to the edge of the pool and addressed the crowd. ‘The Lifeblood flows,’ she announced.
‘The Lifeblood flows,’ the tribe chorused.
‘I give of my blood,’ the elder said. She knelt before the pool and bowed low, blood gushing from her beak into the water. The female spawn wriggled towards the dispersing blood.
‘We give of our blood,’ responded the tribe. By twos and threes, they stepped forward, knelt, and added their blood to the pool. Soon the steaming water was pink. Even Marcelo pulled out his knife and made a show of cutting his hand and dripping blood into the pool.
Shay and I remained seated. Shay seemed disturbed by the ritual, and I wondered how it differed from mating ceremonies in the village. There was an uncomfortable moment when the elder looked at us, but she seemed to accept our non-participation readily enough.
When all were seated again, another group of Suvari upended out the male spawn by the sackful. They looked much like the females, but smaller and with longer tails. And much more active. The moment they landed in the water, they swarmed toward the females, splashing over and around each other, the larger ones shoving and kicking the smaller ones aside. There was something mindless about it — a violent, seething mass surging through the bloody water.
A large male was the first to arrive on our side of the pool. He wriggled up to one of the females, gripped her like a frog, and plunged his stalk into the open stalk curling back to meet him, her beak biting into the base of his neck.
More and more males reached our side and plunged their stalks into the females. The intercourse itself was surprisingly fast and quiet — no grunts of orgasm, no thrusting or gyrating. I try to remind myself to set aside my anthrocentrisms. The small creatures are not even whole organisms — with only one set of genes they’re more like sperm and eggs than infants.
Mere moments after each male and female released each other, the female began exuding a thin, slimy film, which spread out over her body like a second skin. A few of the adults were carefully picking up these crystallising females in nets and placing them in protective woven cases. The post-coital males underwent no such transformation, just twitched aimlessly in the water. Not far from us, a Suvari reached into the pool and snatched one up in her claws. She held it up to her beak, sucking blood from the creature’s stalk as if from a straw. It didn’t struggle. Other claws reached into the pool to grab the spent males. Shay shuddered and looked away, her claws digging into my leg. I was about to tell her we could leave if she wished, when Marcelo shoved a bloodied male in her face. ‘Don’t you want to try the tastiest delicacy of the tundra, villager?’
Shay shrieked — a loud, keening cry, the same as when we lost Hasha.
‘You’re even more of a child than I thought,’ I said, pushing him away from her. ‘Leave her be.’
The chaos of the mating ceremony changed tenor, and it took me a moment before I realised that something was wrong. One of the Suvari next to me slumped forward, a primitive arrow sticking out of her back. The blood was starkly red against her white down.
‘Marcelo!’ I flung myself to the ground, shielding Shay with my body. Marcelo was already darting into the fray, bone dagger drawn. An invading Suvari was slitting the throats of the females in their fragile cocoons. Marcelo confronted the invader — his size an overwhelming advantage — and cut her down. I lost track of him after that — my focus was on Shay, who was visibly shaking. I led her to a tent on the other side of the clearing, far from the raiders. We peered from behind the tent’s flap, watching the spears and claws fly.
The fighting ended as abruptly as it had begun, and the raiders melted back into the tundra. They’d killed three adults, and left behind four of their own, but, thanks to Marcelo, only two of the females had been killed.
I found him lying on the edge of the camp, a bone spear in his side. I knelt beside him. He was in obvious pain, but trying not to show it; the wound wasn’t life-threatening. My limited medical training and first-aid kit was enough to remove the spear, and I staunched the wound with my scarf.
‘We need to get you to the mining station as soon as possible,’ I said.
‘My place is here,’ he said.
‘They can’t treat this kind of wound here. You need professional medical attention.’
‘No, I’ll be —’
‘You don’t know what was on that bone. The wound is likely to get infected, and you know it. You can ride the guntha, and Shay and I will take turns leading.’
I could see he wanted to argue, but, for all his bravado, he knew I was right. He said nothing, nodding reluctantly.
* * * *
05.09.2489
The trip back to the village is much slower with Marcelo wounded. He’s not a pleasant patient, either —constantly moaning and complaining, yet also unwilling to accept much assistance from Shay or me. Today I was replacing his bandages, and he fidgeted so much that the wound partially re-opened. For a moment I had the urge to lick the blood away. I’ve spent too much time with the Suvari.
I couldn’t help but look at his chest. His black skin was chalky and chapped from the cold, but his muscles were toned and healthy. He looked from my eyes to his torso, following my gaze. He smiled as if he were a package that couldn’t be resisted. I adjusted my robe with a smirk. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I said. ‘Your chest is only inviting in comparison to the asexual blood-sucking aliens.’
He laughed gently, but I could tell he felt hurt. Sometimes I can be too harsh. ‘It must have been a long time for you, too,’ I said. ‘A long time since you’ve even seen another human.’
‘Months,’ he said. ‘More than a Suvari year.’ He shrugged. ‘But I always knew the life of a missionary was lonely.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Out here we don’t even get to benefit from the wonderful reforms of Vatican IV.’
‘But we could,’ he said. He ran his finger gently along the back of my hand, the only part of my body within easy reach. I let him continue for several minutes before I moved closer to him.
I couldn’t help but feel flattered, being pursued by a man who could be my son. It’s so strange, the things we do when we feel lonely.
He was surprisingly gentle for a man so young. I thought it would be disappointing, a quick anti-climax. Perhaps his injury forced him to slow down. At some point —I didn’t even notice when — Shay came back into the tent and quietly, casually watched us, as if we were two children playing an endearing game. I must be getting accustomed to the lack of privacy, because I barely noticed the intrusion.
* * * *
18.09.2489
It’s good to be back in the village. It almost feels like home. I took Marcelo to the miners’ camp, where he finally got proper treatment for his injury — which had become infected, after all. He’s spending most of his time here in the village while he gets his follow-up treatment, but he’s staying in a different hearth. We’ve spoken little since that night in the tent — many averted gazes and brief, empty conversations. The other day, he passed by the sinkhole while we were having Mass, and he gave me a look of utter contempt.
Tensions between the villagers and the nomads have worsened. Almost none of the tribes trade with us any more, and last week a group of nomads raided the bloodfarm during the night. They completely drained three bloodcows, leaving their carcasses behind, the hides creased with the bloody marks of wires, and the beaten earth pierced by stakes. The culture of the village is already changing as a result, with a rotating guard established for the bloodfarm at all hours of day and night.
I confronted Marcelo. ‘Do you see what your knowledge has reaped? You need to stop this before it gets out of hand.’
‘I don’t even know which tribe did this,’ Marcelo said. ‘Besides, the village had it coming. Wealth that isn’t shared is bound to be taken.’
‘So I suppose they got the wire from a local hardware supplier?’
‘The nomad tribes trade with each other,’ he said. ‘I don’t control everything they do.’
‘You need to take responsibility for the consequences of your actions, Marcelo,’ I said. ‘You’ve invited genocide.’
He sneered at me. ‘What do you think the villagers were doing to the “savages” before I arrived? The same thing that “civilised” people have always done. I’ve just given the nomads the means to take care of themselves.’
‘I’ve seen no evidence of persecution by the villagers.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
I ignored the comment. I have no interest in any more debates with the child.
* * * *
23.10.2489
I vomited again this morning. I hope I haven’t picked up something from the Suvari — or even worse, brought something to them. I need to do some tests.
Shay brought me some herbs, which she said would make me feel better. As she boiled them in water for me, I asked her, ‘Shay, is there any reason why the nomads attack, other than for food? Do they feel the village has persecuted them in some way?’
Shay gave a patronising nod. ‘The nomads always claim they’re being persecuted,’ she said. ‘I began to understand things better when we visited them. They don’t have the advantages we have here in the village. They haven’t learned the true ways of the Lifeblood. That is why they seek unfair trades, and when they do not get their way, they steal by trickery or, worse, by violence.’
I weighed her words, trying to separate the prejudices from the realities, if ever it’s possible to do that. I looked down at the steaming pot of water, the herbs giving off an odd, tangy aroma, a bit like tamarind. ‘For these herbs here,’ I said, ‘what would you ask in exchange for these?’
‘There is little trade now,’ she said. ‘But a few months ago we would have traded this for, perhaps, a dozen sheets of leather.’
In my head, I estimated that much leather would require the hides of at least four of the wild creatures we’d seen on the tundra. ‘That seems quite a drain on the blood,’ I said, ‘for a handful of herbs.’
‘You sound like a nomad! These herbs take a full year to grow, and they cure many maladies. The trade is more than fair.’
I lifted my head and clicked, but for the first time felt slightly alienated from Shay. Though she travelled with me on the tundra, her perceptions have never expanded beyond this tiny village.
* * * *
27.10.2489
I’m a fool. I honestly thought I was too old to conceive.
I’m awash with uncertainties. The life of a missionary on a foreign world — that’s no way to raise a child. She would have no peers, no sense of her own culture. And yet I have no family left, and feel the urge to start my own. Stark feels as much like home as anywhere I’ve lived, and the Suvari are a kind, good people. Shay would make an excellent godmother.
I considered simply not telling him at all, but decided he had a right to know. I asked him to take a walk with me on the outskirts of the village, for privacy. ‘Really?’ was all he could say after I told him. ‘Really?’ he repeated several times, as if the answer might change if he kept asking the question.
Eventually, he made sense. ‘So,’ he said, ‘do you want me to ... What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I’d prefer that you did nothing. I just thought you should know.’
Marcelo raised his head and made clicking sounds — no doubt out of reflex, for we were alone and had been talking in Standard. We both laughed. It was a moment of mutual relief.
‘So what’s next for you?’ I asked.
‘I’m nearly better,’ he said. ‘I’ll most likely leave within the fortnight. Return to life with the nomads.’ He paused and added, ‘You’ll be staying here?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘For some time, I think.’
‘I’d like to visit once in a while,’ he said. ‘To spend time with ... your family.’
‘Yes. That would be fine.’
It’s strange, but I think I could be happy.
* * * *
03.05.2490
The nomads raided again today. This time we lost more than bloodcows. Three villagers were killed — one of them a hearth-mate.
I wonder where Marcelo is, and if he knows. I have to believe that the raiding tribes have not been his, that for all his bravado he would never participate in an attack on this village, on me — on our coming child. I suggested to Shay this morning that we contact him, to see if he could help negotiate a truce, but she simply ignored me. I fear it’s too late. This afternoon I noticed some villagers practicing shooting arrows at a large leather target. Too large to be Suvari, too small to be bloodcow.
Is Stark any place to raise a son?
* * * *
11.05.2490
I caught Shay looking at me quietly today after Mass. I’ve come to know her moods well. ‘What?’ I asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to miss you.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said.
She gave me that patronising nod of hers. ‘Even your young are tall and wise. Will your successor be even taller?’
I was tired of her questions, tired of explaining to her that I was not a walking chrysalis, that a new being was not about to crack me open and emerge from the hollow shell of my dead body. ‘No, Shay,’ I said. ‘He’ll be smaller than you.’
Several other Suvari were eavesdropping on our conversation. They were all looking at my swollen belly, their eyes dancing with excitement. ‘The Lifeblood flows,’ one of them said reverently.
They huddled around me, touching my hair and my belly. Shay placed her hand on my stomach and sang: ‘Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ will come again.’
I stared at her.
‘He will save us after you’re gone. He will find a way to stop the nomads. Won’t He, Rena?’
* * * *
14.05.2490
I can’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Nightmares wake me. They’re not about Galatea any more, only Stark. Shay and the others are by my side day and night. They are kind, but the way people are kind to the terminally ill.
Do I leave? Would they even let me go? Do I attempt to escape, unseen in the night? I imagine such devastation if I did — a village on the brink of war, losing its saviour. I feel more at home here than any other place, but what will become of my boy if I stay? Even if he survives the rising violence of this world, I fear what it might do to him, to be raised as an alien, to be treated as a God. I fear what they will do to me, when I break all their natural laws by surviving the birth.
Useless questions, all of them; I’m too close to term now. The gopher sits before me, messages unopened for weeks. I’ve stopped wearing my collar. I no longer deserve that honour, and perhaps I never did.
Between sleep and tears and attacks, I pray, my arms wrapped around my swollen belly. But I don’t think my prayers will be answered out here, on this cold world.
This is my blood, this time. My blood.
* * * *
AFTERWORD
‘This is My Blood’ was born after some all-night brainstorming during Clarion South 2007, a six-week boot camp for speculative fiction writers held in Brisbane. It is the first collaboration for both of us, and we very much enjoyed the experience of playing off each other’s strengths.
The strange life cycle of the Suvari is not our invention; it is common in fungi and plants like ferns and mosses. We wondered how such a life cycle would affect the culture of sentient beings, and ended up exploring first contact in the context of our shared Catholic upbringing and similar sleep patterns.
— Ben Francisco and Chris Lynch