Prayers to Broken Stones by Dan Simmons
The echoes lasted several seconds and the silence longer. Then a woman’s voice from higher up called, “That be our Red Bantam Clan. Be welcome, stranger, and know that we already have the word of God here. Join us. Share our fire and preparations for the Holy Day.”
Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob nodded and moved the canoe in to tie up to a rusted girder. The Holy Spirit had not yet spoken to him. He did not know how the Way would be prepared. He did know that within forty-eight hours they would be ready to murder him or to worship him. He would allow neither.
All through the day of Christmas Eve they worked to raise the gift of the Sacred Dish to the rooftop. The stairwells were too small and the elevator shafts too cluttered with rope ladders, pulleys, lift baskets, and vines. Brother supervised the arrangement of block and tackle to raise the Dish the two-hundred-fifty feet to the top of the building. The three flights of stairs above the occupied twenty-fifth floor were perilous even for the cliffdwellers of the Red Bantam Clan. Brother had insisted that they improve the way up the cluttered staircase. “We will be coming up here often once the Holy Beamer connects you with the Word,” he said. “And so will be other Clans of the Rimwall Trading League. The way must be cleared so that the youngest and the eldest of these can easily make the climb.”
Old McCarty, the wrinkled matriarch of the Red Bantam Clan, had shrugged and directed a group of women to carry out repairs in the stairwell while the men raised the Sacred Dish.
By the time the sunset streaked the heavens red, all was in place: the Sacred Dish was firmly affixed atop the highest section of rooftop, the God’s Ear was aimed as carefully as Brother’s skills and his rusty sextant would allow, the Formica altar was set in place below the Dish, and cables ran down to the Clan’s Common Room on the twenty-fifth floor. The generator was in place there and the strongest Clan Hunters had been appointed to take turns on the Lord’s Bike for the sunrise services.
Tara, the elf-faced five-year-old, tugged at Brother’s coat as he was setting away his plastic buckets. “It’s almost dark,” she said. “Will you come with us to see the tree and open presents?”
“Yes,” said Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob. He glanced at the red-dyed bantam tattoo on the back of the child’s hand. “And I will give the sermon.”
The room was very large, the walls were coated with soot from cooking fires, and the rotted carpets had been covered with rush mats. The seventeen members of the Red Bantam Clan gathered around the Holy Tube and the small aluminum Christmas tree near the hearth. Candles glowed. A child’s paper star decorated the top of the tree. Brother looked at the small scattering of crudely wrapped presents under the tree and closed his eyes.
Old McCarty cleared her throat. The tiny bantam tattoo on her forehead glowed redly in the candlelight. “Beloved Clan,” she said, “it is our custom to give thanks to God on this most sacred of nights, and then to open the presents that Santa has brought. But this year our Brother from the Dothan True Church has arrived …” She paused, swallowed as if tasting something bitter, and finished. “Who will now tell us of tomorrow’s celebration and read from the Word of God.”
Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob moved into the open area in front of the tree and set his HK 91 against the table, within easy reach. He took his worn CSN Bible from his pack and set it on top of the Holy Tube. “Brothers and Sisters in Christ,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, when the sun rises and the Way is purified, the Holy Beamer will cast its light into darkness, and once again you will hear the Word and become part of the True Church of Jesus Christ Assuaged. My trip here has not been an easy one. The Enemy was active. Five of my Brothers in Christ died so that I might arrive here.” Brother stopped and looked at the faces in front of him. Old McCarty was frowning, the men were staring with interest or indifference, and many of the women and children were looking at him with an awe bordering on reverence.
“The time of Tribulations has come upon us and been long and heavy,” Brother said at last. “But from this chosen place, the True Word—as spoken by Our Savior through the Eight Evangelists—will be heard again and will spread throughout the land.” He paused again and looked at the faces lit by candlelight. Some of the children’s gazes were drifting to the presents.
“Listen to what is written,” Brother said and opened the Bible. “Revelation 13: 16, 17—‘And he causes all, small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a MARK in their right hand, or in their foreheads: and that no man might buy or sell, save that he has the MARK, or the name of the beast, or the numbers of a man: and his number is six hundred, threescore and six.’ ”
There was a slight stirring in the crowd. Brother turned the page and read aloud again without once glancing down at the text. “ ‘Revelation 14:9–11,’ ” he said. “ ‘If any many worship the beast and his image, and receive his mark in his forehead, or in his hand, the same shall drink the wine of the wrath of God; and he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of the holy angels, and in the presence of the Lamb: and the smoke of their torments ascendeth up for ever and ever: and they rest no day on night, who worship the beast and image, and whosoever receiveth the mark of his name.’ ”
Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob closed his eyes and smiled. “But I read to you also from John 3: 16, 17,” he said. “I find no pleasure in the death of the wicked. Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and you shall be saved.” Brother opened his eyes and said, “Amen.”
“Amen,” said Old McCarty. “Let’s see what Santa brought us this year.”
Conversation and laughter resumed. Tara cuddled next to Brother as the Clan gathered around the tree. “I’m afraid you won’t have a present,” said Tara. Tears filled her eyes. “Santa brought the presents on the second Sunday of Advent. I guess he didn’t know you were coming.’
“It doesn’t matter,” said Brother. “The tree and presents are pagan customs. There is no Santa Claus.”
The girl blinked but her nine-year-old brother Sear chimed in, “He’s right, Tarie. Uncle Lou and the hunters get this stuff when they make the November voyage to the warehouse. They keep it hidden up on the twenty-seventh floor. “I’ve seen it.”
Tara blinked again and said in a small voice, “Santa brought me this doll that I just got. Sometimes he comes back on Christmas Eve to bring us canned fruit. Maybe he’ll bring you something if he does. You can share my doll ’til then if you want.”
Brother shook his head.
“Hey, look!” cried Sean. “There is an extra present.” He scrambled under the tree and came up with a blue-wrapped box. “I bet it’s extra ’cause Uncle Henry died last month an’ they forgot not to put it out.”
Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob started to return the present to its place but the Holy Spirit spoke to him then and he began to tremble violently. A hush fell on the group and the Clan watched as Brother calmed himself, tore off the wrapping, lifted a leather sheath from the box, and exposed a long blade to the light.
“Wow!” breathed Sean. He grabbed a yellowed pamphlet from the box and read aloud. “ ‘Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of a Christian Survival Network LINAL M-20 Survival Knife. Each LINAL M-20 is a whopping twelve inches long and yet is so perfectly balanced that it cuts and thrusts like an ex … exten … extension of your own hand. The LINAL M-20 blade is crafted entirely of 420 mo … molecular stainless steel and is tough enough to split wood or shatter bone. In the pom … pommel … of your LINAL M-20 is a precision RX-360 Liquid Damped Compass. Unscrew the compass and you will find a complete Survival Network Kit including a packet of waterproof wrapped matches, half-a-dozen fishing hooks, sinkers, nylon test fishing line, a sewing needle kit, an 18-inch cable saw capable of cutting down a small tree, and, of course, a copy of the CSN Miniaturized Bible.’ ” The boy shook his head and exhaled. “Wow,” he said again.
Old McCarty also shook her head and looked at Lou, the eldest of the hunters. “I don’t remember that being in the Warehouse load,” she said sharply. The hunter s
Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob slipped the knife in its sheath and the sheath in his belt. He listened as the last whispers of the Holy Spirit faded away. He smiled at the group. “I will go now to the rooftop to prepare the Way,” he said softly. “In the morning we will gather to hear the Word.”
He had turned to go when he felt Tara’s small hand tugging at his pantleg. “Will you come and tuck us in first?” she asked.
Brother glanced at Rita, the girl’s mother. The young woman took her children’s hands and nodded shyly. Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob followed them toward the dark hallway.
The children’s bedroom had been a book storage room for the publishing company that had once had offices on the floor. While the children slipped into their bedrolls, Brother looked at the shelves of rotting books, each one marked with the small red bantam emblem.
Rita kissed her children goodnight and stepped into the hall.
“Will you be up on the roof all night?” Tara asked Brother. The child was hugging her new cloth doll to her in the tumble of rags that made up her bed.
“Yes,” said Brother, stepping back into the room.
“Then you’ll see Santa and his reindeer land when he comes back,” she said excitedly.
Brother started to speak and then stopped. He smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I imagine I will.”
“But you said …” began Sean.
“Anyone up on the roof tonight would see Santa Claus and his reindeer,” Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob said firmly.
“Now let’s say our prayers,” said the children’s mother.
Tara, with eyes still wide, nodded and looked down. “God bless Mommy, and Old ’Em, and the ghosts of Daddy and Uncle Henry,” she said.
“Amen,” said Sean.
“No,” said Brother. “There is a new prayer.”
“Tell us,” said both children.
“Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,” he said, “Bless the beds that we lay on.” He waited while the two repeated the rhyme and then he went on. “Jim and Tammy, Jan and Paul,” he said, “Find the demons, smite them all.”
The children recited flawlessly and Tara said, “Will you really see Santa?”
“Yes,” said Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob. “And goodnight.”
Brother looked in on the Clan before going to the roof. A small group had been huddled near the tree, murmuring, listening to Old McCarty, but the hunters scattered under Brother’s gaze and went to their bedrolls. The matriarch stood and returned Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob’s stare for a long moment but then she too looked down and moved away, just an old woman shuffling off to bed.
On the rooftop, Brother kneeled at the Formica altar and prayed loudly for several minutes. Finally he stood and removed all of his clothing. It was very cold. Moonlight reflected off his pale flesh and the curve of the Sacred Dish. Brother took out the plastic buckets and set them beneath the four corners of the altar. Then he removed the long knife from its sheath, held it high in both hands until the steel caught the cold light, and clamped it between his teeth.
Brother moved silently across the rooftop until he blended into the shadows near the head of the stairwell. He knelt there, at first feeling the rooftop gravel against his bare knee and tasting the cold steel in his mouth; then feeling nothing but the rising exaltation.
It did not take long. First came the gentle noises from the stairwell, then the shadowy figure emerged from the darkness, and finally came the soft voice. “Brother Jimmy-Joe?”
So it was not to be the old woman, thought Brother. So be it.
“Brother Jimmy-Joe?” The small figure moved toward the altar. Moonlight touched the dark braid of the doll’s hair. “Santa?”
Brother Jimmy-Joe Billy-Bob said a silent prayer, removed the blade from his teeth, and moved forward softly and swiftly to celebrate the coming day.
Introduction to
“Remembering Siri”
I’m interested in how few writers cross the osmotic boundaries between science fiction and horror, between genre and what those in genre call mainstream. Or, rather, I should say that I’m fascinated with how many cross and do not return.
Part of it, I think, is the vast difference in states of mind between dreaming the dark dreams of horror and constructing the rational structures of SF, or between tripping the literary light fantastic and being shackled by the gravity of “serious” fiction. It is hard to do both—painful to the psyche to allow one hemisphere to become dominant while bludgeoning the other into submission. Perhaps that’s why readership of SF and horror, genre and New Yorker fiction overlap less than one would think.
Whatever the reason, it’s a pity that more writers feel constrained—sometimes by limitations of talent or interest but more frequently by market considerations and the simple fact that they find success in one field—to stay in one genre.
Of course, the exceptions are always interesting. George R.R. Martin moves easily between genres and expectations, rarely repeating, always surprising. Dean Koontz left SF just as he was becoming a star there—possibly because he sensed his destiny lay in becoming a supernova elsewhere. Edward Bryant took a “sabbatical” from SF a few years ago and has been producing world-class horror ever since. Kurt Vonnegut and Ursula K. LeGuin “graduated” from SF to mainstream acceptance. (To Vonnegut’s credit for honesty if nothing else, he allows as to how he gets nostalgic every once in a while, opens the lowest desk drawer where he keeps his old pulp SF efforts, and then urinates into it.) Doris Lessing, Margaret Atwood and others write their most memorable fiction in SF, but they deny any association with the field. Neither lady mentions urinating into desk drawers, but one suspects that they would feel a certain pressure on their respective bladders if forced to accept a Hugo or Nebula.
Harlan Ellison simply refused ever to be nailed down to a genre—even while he revolutionized them. We all have heard the stories where Ellison suffers the ten-millionth reporter or critic or TV personality who is demanding to know what descriptive word comes before “writer” in this case. Sci-fi? Fantasy? Horror?
“What’s wrong with just … writer?” Ellison says softly in his most cordial cobra hiss.
Well, what’s wrong with it is that the semiliterate have feeble but tidy little minds filled with tidy little boxes, and no matter how much one struggles, the newspaper article (or review, or radio intro, or TV superimposed title) will read something akin to—“SCI-FI GUY SAYS HIS SCI-FI STUFF NOT SCI-FI.”
And the next step is for someone to stand up at a convention (sorry, a Con), grab the microphone, and shout—“How come you’re always saying in interviews and stuff that you’re not just a science fiction writer? I’m proud to be associated with science fiction!” (Or horror. Or fantasy. Or … fill in the blank.)
The crowd roars, righteousness fills the air, hostility lies just under the surface as if you’re a black at a Huey Newton rally who’s been caught “passing”—revealed as an oreo, or a Jew in the Warsaw ghetto who’s been caught helping the Nazis with the railroad timetables, or—worse yet, a Dead Head at a Grateful D. concert who’s been found listening to Mozart on his Walkman.
I mean, you are at this guy’s convention. (Sorry, “Con.”)
How do you explain to the guy gripping the mike that there are a thousand pressures forcing a writer down narrower and narrower alleys—agents trying to make you marketable and pulling their hair out because you insist on staying a jump ahead of a readership, publishers trying to shape you into a commodity, editors trying to get you to Chrissakes be consistent for once, booksellers complaining because your new SF novel just came out and it looks silly racked with your World Fantasy Award winning novel (which is really about Calcutta and has no fantasy in it), which, in turn, is next to your Sci-Fi opus and your fat horror novel (it is horror, isn’t it? There wasn’t any blood or holograms or demon-eyed kids on the cover …) and now … NOW!… this new book has come out … this thing … and it looks, oh sweet Christ, it looks ?
How do you explain that every modifier before writer becomes another nail in the coffin of your hopes of writing what you want? What you care about?
So you look at the guy with the mike and you stare down the irate booksellers and you put your editor on hold, and you think—I can explain. I can tell them that the one wonderful thing about being a writer is the freedom to explore all venues, the luxury … no, the responsibility … to work with the dreams the Muse sends you, to shape them to the best of your ability and to send them along whether a guaranteed readership is waiting or not; I can explain the compulsion to write a good book whether the cover artist knows what to do with it or not, explain the honor involved in trying new things despite the fact that the manager at the local B. Dalton’s has racked your most recent novel in OCCULT NON-FICTION and asked … no, ordered the distributor not to send any more books written by this obvious schizophrenic. I can explain all that. I can take every single reader, every defensive SF chauvinist and horror fan and snooty New York reviewer and sparrowfart reader of “serious fiction,” and show them what being a writer means!
And then you look out at the guy with the mike, and you think—Nahhh. And you say, “My next book’ll be SF.”
The next story is SF. I loved writing it. I loved returning to this universe when I finally used “Remembering Siri” as a starting point to write the 1,500 or so pages of HYPERION and THE FALL OF HYPERION.
Oh, and the seed crystal for this tale was the thought one night, while dozing off, What if Romeo and Juliet had lived?
You know—Romeo and Juliet? By that sci-fi/fantasy/ horror hack who wrote sit-coms and historical soap operas in his spare time?
Watch for the allusions. And the illusions.
Remembering Siri
I climb the steep hill to Siri’s tomb on the day the islands return to the shallow seas of the Equatorial Archipelago. The day is perfect and I hate it for being so. The sky is as tranquil as tales of Old Earth’s seas, the shallows are dappled with ultramarine tints, and a warm breeze blows in from the sea to ripple the russet willowgrass on the hillside near me.