Miro shook his head. He had no words to say aloud.
Now Arrow stepped forward, singing softly. He drew his fingers up and down the trunk, as if tracing exactly the length and width of a single bow. Miro saw how lines appeared, how the naked wood creased, split, crumbled until only the bow remained, perfect and polished and smooth, lying in a long trench in the wood.
Other piggies came forward, drawing shapes on the trunk and singing. They came away with clubs, with bows and arrows, thin-bladed knives, and thousands of strands of thin basketwood. Finally, when half the trunk was dissipated, they all stepped back and sang together. The tree shivered and split into half a dozen long poles. The tree was entirely used up.
Human walked slowly forward and knelt by the poles, his hands gently resting on the nearest one. He tilted back his head and began to sing, a wordless melody that was the saddest sound that Miro had ever heard. The song went on and on, Human's voice alone; only gradually did Miro realize that the other piggies were looking at him, waiting for something.
Finally Mandachuva came to him and spoke softly. “Please,” he said. “It's only right that you should sing for the brother.”
“I don't know how,” said Miro, feeling helpless and afraid.
“He gave his life,” said Mandachuva, “to answer your question.”
To answer my question and then raise a thousand more, Miro said silently. But he walked forward, knelt beside Human, curled his fingers around the same cold smooth pole that Human held, tilted back his head, and let his voice come out. At first weak and hesitant, unsure what melody to sing; but soon he understood the reason for the tuneless song, felt the death of the tree under his hands, and his voice became loud and strong, making agonizing disharmonies with Human's voice that mourned the death of the tree and thanked it for its sacrifice and promised to use its death for the good of the tribe, for the good of the brothers and the wives and the children, so that all would live and thrive and prosper. That was the meaning of the song, and the meaning of the death of the tree, and when the song was finally over Miro bent until his forehead touched the wood and he said the words of extreme unction, the same words he had whispered over Libo's corpse on the hillside five years ago.
Chapter 15
Speaking
HUMAN: Why don't any of the other humans ever come see us?
MIRO: We're the only ones allowed to come through the gate.
HUMAN: Why don't they just climb over the fence?
MIRO: Haven't any of you ever touched the fence? (Human does not answer.) It's very painful to touch the fence. To pass over the fence would be like every part of your body hurting as bad as possible, all at once.
HUMAN: That's stupid. Isn't there grass on both sides?
– Ouanda Quenhatta Figueira Mucumbi, Dialogue Transcripts, 103:0:1970:1:1:5
The sun was only an hour from the horizon when Mayor Bosquinha climbed the stairs to Bishop Peregrino's private office in the Cathedral. Dom and Dona Cristaes were already there, looking grave. Bishop Peregrino, however, looked pleased with himself. He always enjoyed it when all the political and religious leadership of Milagre was gathered under his roof. Never mind that Bosquinha was the one who called the meeting, and then she offered to have it at the Cathedral because she was the one with the skimmer. Peregrino liked the feeling that he was somehow the master of Lusitania Colony. Well, by the end of this meeting it would be plain to them all that no one in this room was the master of anything. Bosquinha greeted them all. She did not sit down in the offered chair, however. Instead she sat before the Bishop's own terminal, logged in, and ran the program she had prepared. In the air above the terminal there appeared several layers of tiny cubes. The highest layer had only a few cubes; most of the layers had many, many more. More than half the layers, starting with the highest, were colored red; the rest were blue.
“Very pretty,” said Bishop Peregrino.
Bosquinha looked over at Dom Cristao. “Do you recognize the model?”
He shook his head. “But I think I know what this meeting is about.”
Dona Crist leaned forward on her chair. «Is there any safe place where we can hide the things we want to keep?»
Bishop Peregrino's expression of detached amusement vanished from his face. “I don't know what this meeting is about.”
Bosquinha turned around on her stool to face him. “I was very young when I was appointed to be Governor of the new Lusitania Colony. It was a great honor to be chosen, a great trust. I had studied government of communities and social systems since my childhood, and I had done well in my short career in Oporto. What the committee apparently overlooked was the fact that I was already suspicious, deceptive, and chauvinistic.”
“These are virtues of yours that we have all come to admire,” said Bishop Peregrino.
Bosquinha smiled. “My chauvinism meant that as soon as Lusitania Colony was mine, I became more loyal to the interests of Lusitania than to the interests of the Hundred Worlds or Starways Congress. My deceptiveness led me to pretend to the committee that on the contrary, I had the best interests of Congress at heart at all times. And my suspicion led me to believe that Congress was not likely to give Lusitania anything remotely like independent and equal status among the Hundred Worlds.”
“Of course not,” said Bishop Peregrino. “We are a colony.”
“We are not a colony,” said Bosquinha. “We are an experiment. I examined our charter and license and all the Congressional Orders pertaining to us, and I discovered that the normal privacy laws did not apply to us. I discovered that the committee had the power of unlimited access to all the memory files of every person and institution on Lusitania.”
The Bishop began to look angry. “Do you mean that the committee has the right to look at the confidential files of the Church?”
“Ah,” said Bosquinha. “A fellow chauvinist.”
“The Church has some rights under the Starways Code.”
“Don't be angry with me.”
“You never told me.”
“If I had told you, you would have protested, and they would have pretended to back down, and then I couldn't have done what I did.”
“Which is?”
“This program. It monitors all ansible-initiated accesses to any files in Lusitania Colony.”
Dom Cristao chuckled. “You're not supposed to do that.”
“I know. As I said, I have many secret vices. But my program never found any major intrusion– oh, a few files each time the piggies killed one of our xenologers, that was to be expected– but nothing major. Until four days ago.”
“When the Speaker for the Dead arrived,” said Bishop Peregrino.
Bosquinha was amused that the Bishop obviously regarded the Speaker's arrival as such a landmark date that he instantly made such a connection. "Three days ago," said Bosquinha, "a nondestructive scan was initiated by ansible. It followed an interesting pattern. " She turned to the terminal and changed the display. Now it showed accesses primarily in high-level areas, and limited to only one region of the display. "It accessed everything to do with the xenologers and xenobiologists of Milagre. It ignored all security routines as if they didn't exist. Everything they discovered, and everything to do with their personal lives. And yes, Bishop Peregrino, I believed at the time and I believe today that this had to do with the Speaker."
“Surely he has no authority with Starways Congress,” said the Bishop.
Dom Cristao nodded wisely. “San Angelo once wrote– in his private journals, which no one but the Children of the Mind ever read–”
The Bishop turned on him with glee. “So the Children of the Mind do have secret writings of San Angelo!”
«Not secret,» said Dona Crist . «Merely boring. Anyone can read the journals, but we're the only ones who bother.»