8
The Gathering
A man has no religion who has not slowly and painfully gathered one together, adding to it, shaping it; and one's religion is never complete and final, it seems, but must always be undergoing modification. So I contend that…honest, fervent politics are religion; that whatsoever a man will labour for earnestly and in some measure unselfishly is religion.
—David Herbert Lawrence, Letters, vol. 1
Bonneville, New Utah
When Zia and Michael arrived, the house was the pandemonium of hand-waving, room-changing, orders-bellowing, and petty officiousness that accompanies any gaggle of minor officials unaccustomed to holding either real respect or real authority. Asach and The Lads had retreated to the roof: Asach to avoid being observed; The Lads to avoid being dragooned. They might have been a TCM detail, but they were locals, and it didn’t take long to grow fond of Mena’s cooking. They had no particular love for these foul-smelling, book-touting zealots from Maxroy’s Purchase, and they didn’t much like what they were hearing down below. This lot was outright bragging that they’d “tithe the last tenth” and put this “band of mammon-grubbing pilgrims out on the street.”
So, much mirth was suppressed when Michael burst into the compound, and confronted the assessors with the black-frock-clad Zia, who was the last word in officiousness. Accounts ledgers, sealed TCM security certificates, and perfect Anglic diction were laid on with a spatula. Then, in the good-cop counter to Zia’s bad-cop berating, Mena and Lena appeared with mountains of food, topped off with genuine Mormon bush tea. It was lights out in short order; then in what seemed barely five minutes rousted to another mountain of breakfast, and slightly confused by their sense of well-being, the True Church tithe team was on its way. The Lads’ joy at one pulled-over at the expense of the MPs quite overwhelmed any sense of obligation they might have felt toward their brethren-in-faith, and they cheerfully volunteered to head off as escorts to whatever hinterland Asach might next direct.
Their second shock came when they headed downstairs later that morning, after the tithe-collectors had finally departed. Michael stood, not triumphant, but stooped, crushed and crumpled, face sallow, patrician demeanor evaporated. Zia’s hand wrapped that of a small, hooded girl with purple bruises marbling her face. Both their faces were wet with tears. But the worst was Ollie, slumped at the little stone table, face in hands, shoulders wracked, sobbing like an infant, while Zia explained to Michael.
“They came on the SunRail. The overnight. They left right after we did. Right after the MPs let them go.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“My niece. Ollie’s niece. He couldn’t leave her. Her father’s a TCM pig—” she spat, then looked sharply at the Lads. “Sorry. I don’t mean you or the rest of Ollie’s contract security boys. I mean MPs, you know? A private, joined up on the Purchase. One of those MP fundies who—you know? Just look at her.”
Their eyes widened in horror, and they nodded.
The wiry one suddenly blurted: “Where’s Deela?”
Zia looked at him. Tried to remember him. There were so many. All of them sweet on little Deela, with her sweet little smile and her emerald-green eyes. The light of Ollie’s eye.
“With the boys. Ollie came ahead on the SunRail when he heard, because—”
And now Michael blurted: “Where are Deela and the boys?”
Ollie shot from the bench, sobbing and pulling something from his shirt, shoving it forward, half lurching, half falling into Michael’s face. The Lads crowded around. They couldn’t make out the image. A dark glade. Something butchered. Something hanging, butchered, but with much too much red.
And Ollie shouted: “That’s Hugo. Look what they’ve done to my Hugo!”
And Zia’s voice joined in, sounding very far away. “We don’t know. That’s why they came ahead. We don’t know. Except, of course, poor Hugo.”
Michael sagged; suddenly looked old. “That’s it, then. They know.” Then he looked up, wild-eyed.
“You can’t stay here! They’ll know! They’ll come here, and they’ll know, and we’ll all—”
But somehow, all at once, Zia and Ollie and Marul were ringed: by Nejme, and Mena, and Lena; by the house staff; by the Lads, who stepped into the circle. Suddenly, Michael stood on the outside, and everyone else was on the inside, ringed around their own.
Asach reached out, gently, and took the image from Ollie’s quavering hand. Examined it carefully. Rubbed a finger over one portion several times, enlarging the detail. Looked at it thoughtfully, dispassionately.
“Ollie,” Asach said, “do you hire Saurons for your security details?”
He stopped blubbing with one breath, suddenly sober, suddenly back on the job.
“No!”
“How about Tanith? Hire any Tanith Jungle Boys?”
He was already shaking his head. “No! No offworlders! Only locals! Only lads from wards I know!”
Asach looked up from the image, slowly. “Only, feathery thing, a tamarisk. But there’s no tracks. No limbs that’d hold that weight. That’s why they—that’s why his weight is borne by the trunk. It took somebody strong as an ox to get that boy up that tree.”
And then Asach was looking at Michael. “And then there’s the method.”
Asach looked at Zia and Ollie. Then down at Marul. “I’m sorry. But you’ve already seen it. I think you should know. And I suppose they’ll tell you anyway, once they’ve figured it out for themselves. Or not. Which would say a lot in itself.”
Back to Michael. “It’s a nasty death. It’s a nasty death, because it’s meant to send a signal. Question is, who was the signal for?”
Michael was pale, on the verge of fainting.
And then to Ollie. But clearly, the boy’s father already knew. Asach handed him back the image, and pulled Michael aside, out of Mena’s hearing. “It’s called reverse kosher, for some pinch-minded, sadistic reason I don’t care to pursue right now. You can tell by the bleeding. First he was pinned to the tree. Then he was gutted. Then his throat was cut. It isn’t pretty, and depending on what bastard does it, it can be very slow.”
And very, very slowly, Asach looked Michael full in the face. “So, tell me, Michael. Who on New Utah pays hired goons? From offworld? From the nether regions of Hell?”
He cowered.
“See, I don’t think sending these folks away will make much difference now. Do you?”
He shuddered, as if a spell had lifted. He shook his head. “No.”
“Michael, I think it’s time to start spilling your guts to your dear, old friend. Because these people,” Asach waved a hand to take in the assembled behind them, “desperately need our help.”
He nodded.
“OK, so, do you believe me now?”
He nodded.
“Evidence of things seen, or unseen?”
He shuddered again. “Seen. Unseen. Both.”
“So, who was this message intended for?”
“I don’t know.”
“Michael?!”
“I DON’T know.”
“Then let’s try it a different way. Michael, where is your mother?”
Nothing.
“Michael, where is Lillith Van Zandt?”
Nothing.
“Michael, is Lillith Van Zandt here on New Utah?”
He nodded, slowly.
“Well, then, old friend, I think it is time to spill.”
They trundled poor Marul off to bed, in the company of Mena, Lena, half the household, and The Lads, who swore on their mother’s heads that they would trade watch to ensure that no harm came to her during the night.