10
Verbal Contracts
Faith has to do with things that are not seen, and hope with things that are not at hand.
—Saint Thomas Aquinas
The Barrens, New Utah
For all of Mena’s warnings, Collie Orcutt didn’t seem the least concerned or interested in the status of Asach Quinn’s beliefs. In fact, he wasn’t particularly bothered about Asach’s identity. “Get in,” was all he’d said. Asach got in.
The girl in the front seat was another matter. About nineteen, twenty years old, Asach guessed. It was refreshing to see someone her age not in a cowled bonnet and long, black dress. Asach attempted conversation, but the girl just stared resolutely ahead. “Don’t mind her,” said Orcutt, “her position goes to her head.”
He looked old as the hills. Older. Ages were always hard, on other planets. Differences in sun, wind, and work aged human skin more, or less, than one expected. Spacers were more predictable, but even then. It just depended on how much exposure, and to what kind of radiation, they’d had.
But in Orcutt’s case, Asach had the sense that he really was old. Wiry, fit, agile, strong, but old. There was little else think about, as they went boiling overland. Asach had lost all sense of direction.
“Took a big chance, just waitin’ out there like that.”
Asach shrugged. “I had water, and patience.”
“What would you have done, if nobody’d shown up to getcha?”
“Somebody would have. Somebody always does.” Asach stared out the window. Collie laughed.
“Well, you’ve got faith. I like that.”
Suddenly, the girl swiveled. Her eyes were still downcast, but she was at least facing Asach’s direction. “And what about Hope? Charity?”
Asach tried to sound kind, but circumspect. “That’s what I’m here to talk about, I guess.”
Orcutt snorted. “We’ve heard that before.”
They sank back into silence. For all the days already spent on the road, this leg seemed to last forever.
As they finally bounced into a packed-earth courtyard, sun low on the horizon, the evening chill dropped like a dusting of invisible snow. Asach groaned inwardly, and stretched. Too many nights sleeping rough. Too many days like this. Asach hoped for a comfortable bed, although looking at the state of the place, did not expect one.
“I’m going up to the barn,” the girl said, without looking back.
“Sure, sugar. Say g’night to Agamemnon,” and then, to Asach, “her horse. That girl will marry that beast one day.”
Asach turned for the door. “Just a minute,” said Orcutt. He gripped Asach’s upper arm; steered a new direction, pointed. “You see that?”
The evening glow suffused each little clump of dead bunch grass, glittering in ranks marching off to the distance. A pinky stain marked the stub of a mined-out mountain at their end. “Last one ‘o y’all to come here claimed that crap would be our salvation. Lies though and through.”
“I know,” Asach said.
Collie dropped the arm, looked critically at Asach’s face. “Mena said you was comin’. Didn’t say why.”
Asach thought again about the answer to this inevitable question. Had thought all day. But there and then, locked in Collie Orcutt’s gaze, decided not to lie. Not to tell the truth, precisely, but not to lie. “I’ve come to find the source.”
Orcutt did not respond. Asach tried again, mentally reaching for the catechism. Found a universal line. “In His Gaze, we are all pilgrims, we are all Seers, and all islands are One.”
Collie took in the cloak; the open, guileless face. Decided.
“We’ll, you’ve come dressed for it.” Then, in a bellow that carried all the way up to the barn, “Laurel, better get back down here. Got a pilgrim wants to Gather.”
In the end, Asach was grateful indeed for Mena’s insistent preparation. Laurel was neither patient, nor kind, but all business. “What are His Numbers”
Asach rattled that off without problem.
“What are His Tenets?”
Thankfully, that was short as well.
“Can you say His Creed?”
Asach struggled a moment with this. A mental picture formed of a chant-and-response, but the details were fuzzy. “Not alone. I—”
But Asach was saved by Laurel’s impetuousness. “That’s right,” she said, nodding, “you can only say the creed together with your island. Or at another gathering, if you are a traveler.”
Asach was getting a sense that there were Gatherings and gatherings, but the distinctions remained unclear.
“Can you sing the Hymn?”
Asach winged this one. “I don’t know the tune. I’ve never heard it sung.”
Laurel jumped on this. “Well, of course not, if you’ve never Gathered. But can you say it?”
Asach was out to sea now. “It’s hard, without—”
“Oh, never mind. You’ll learn it on the way, with everyone else. It’s just that any child can say—” She stopped. “Wait a minute. Are you a convert?”
Asach looked back blankly, not wishing to outright lie. Thankfully, Laurel persisted. “You weren’t born to Him?”
Grateful for the out, Asach pounced. “That’s right. I was not born to Him.”
But now, Laurel became suspicious, her eyes downcast again. “I warn you. If we find out that you are a TCM spy, you’ll be abandoned on the high plains where no-one will come to get you.”
Asach had no need to circumnavigate this. “I swear by the stars above that I am not a member of the TCM, or the True Church, nor am I a spy for either of them. Think on it. My name is Quinn.”
Laurel looked up sharply. The name meant nothing to her, but Asach’s patent sincerity did. “OK. Name his Gatherings.”
Asach felt like a graduate student wilting under oral examination. “I—I don’t know them all. Only the New Utah ones. That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, do those, then. You need to know them all, but do those.”
“OK. Um…” These were a little easier, since they rounded off in twenty-year increments. “Um, 2960, that’s when you—I mean He, first came to New Utah. I mean Heaven.”
Laurel was nodding, obviously bored.
“Then, 2980, that’s the First Gathering—” and suddenly, this began to make sense—”that is, the first Gathering here on New Utah—Heaven—which is the sixth overall.”
Laurel was still nodding. “And?”
“And…and…and His Earthly Eye was revealed!” Asach still had no idea what that meant, but it satisfied Laurel.
“Then, 3000—that’s the second here, seventh overall; 3020—that’s the third here, eighth overall; and 3040—that’s the fourth, or ninth overall.”
“And?”
“Oh, yes, and—and—and what was the Revelation? I mean, I realize that I should know, but—”
Laurel was clearly exasperated. “Well how could you know? It hasn’t happened yet?”
“But it’s already 3048, so—” But Asach stopped, as Laurel glared. Stupid! It was a liturgical calendar. It didn’t use Standard Years.
But clearly this wasn’t the first time Laurel had heard that particular error. She forged on. “So, what’s your number?”
Asach was growing weary of this interrogation, and peevishly nearly answered “Scorpio,” when the childish chatter at the windmill came to mind. Asach frantically counted back, trying to allow the correct slippage for the lag between calendars, and took a calculated guess. “Two.”