Forbidden Sanctuary (10 page)

"And what was their answer?"

"Oh, there were many parts to it, like the structure of the government and the size of the nation. But the centerpiece was this: to create a religion. And the centerpiece of the religion was the Ship."

"But isn't—wasn't—?"

"Isn't the Ship proof of the truth of your religion? No, it is only proof of the genius of the Ancients. I don't pretend to understand how it works, but I do know there is nothing miraculous about it—nothing to compare, for example, with a resurrection from the dead. But we will come to that another night.

"You see, they wanted it to
appear
miraculous. So they destroyed all documents concerning the theory of timeless travel and the construction of the Ship. They cloaked their work in mystical terminology, and taught their successors how to copy what they had done, but not how to understand it. Instead of using what they had learned to add to the material well-being of their nation, they used it to transform its spirit.

"They gave Numos a central symbol, a ceaseless quest that would provide a focus for all the work and thoughts of its people. They were lucky, I think, in a couple of points. Enough of the Ships returned from the black void that they have not come to symbolize utter futility. And the crews never have discovered other intelligent life—because that would end the quest, and with it the value of the symbol."

(Tenon-by-the-hearth had circled his hand slowly in understanding, finally getting used to this strange perspective on his world, starting the slow transformation that would lead him far from his mindless orthodoxy. Tenon-in-the-cold-alien-air, product of the transformation, thought: the Voyages are too important to Numos, though. The Council will simply redefine the goal, and the Voyages will continue, more meaningless than ever. But that has nothing to do with me anymore. Tenon shivered, and tried to walk faster.)

Argal's eyes had gleamed in the firelight, pleased at Tenon's understanding. "Do you see?" he exclaimed. "It is an artificial religion, designed to provide stability and meaning to a civilization. As such it has been successful and, in some ways, I grant, admirable.
But it is not the truth.
A civilization, it seems, can be based on a lie, but now we know the truth, and the truth will destroy this civilization like a rock shattering a hollow, decayed fossil."

Tenon noticed one of the young peasants writing down Argal's words, and he started to realize that this was the beginning of something immense, that he was hearing words that would be remembered in a thousand generations the way the acts of the Ancients were remembered in his. But still there were doubts. "If a lie is so powerful," he asked, "how will the truth destroy it?"

"Its time has come," Argal responded. "The lie is not what it once was. The crews still go off every twenty cycles to meet their fate, but there is confusion and fear beneath their brave façades. The priestesses still carry out the prescribed rituals, but there is boredom behind their gestures. The Council still rules, but the people feel free to grumble at their edicts. The entire planet is ready to listen, ready to believe. And that is precisely why Chitlan chose this moment to appear in our midst. We will be victorious, and there is not a power in the Universe that can stop us."

And how often had Tenon heard those words spoken—by different hearths, to other new believers? Yet they never failed to thrill him. Often he lacked Argal's utter certainty in the final triumph, but he never lacked faith in him, or in Chitlan.

A cold wind cut through him, as he realized again that Argal was gone. He was on his own; he had left those hearths behind forever.

There were dwellings all around him now, but no sign of what he was looking for.
Pray, he must pray.
His legs must continue to move, he must fight off the tears....

And eventually he saw it—sharply etched against the planet's bright half-moon, just as he had imagined it. Angela's words echoed in his mind:
they put Him to death on a cross.
And she herself had worn a tiny gold cross around her neck. Symbol of her faith.

O, lucky people, who could display their symbols so openly! He rushed over the banks of snow to the building with the cross, joy and anticipation warming his frigid body. Across the walk, up the short flight of stairs...

And the door was locked. Tenon stared at it in disbelief. That could not be. Then he reasoned: not everyone on the planet was a follower of Jesus. Perhaps there were still people who wanted to harm them. Of course they would lock their place of worship in that case. But certainly their chief priest or priestess would be inside—asleep, most likely, but eager to help a believer in trouble.

He pounded on the door. No one came. He pounded again. His hands, already cut and raw from the wire of the fence, ached with the effort, but the door remained locked. Finally he gave up and started to walk around the building, looking for other entrances. They were all locked. There were windows, of course. He could break a window and get inside. But that would be desecration. That would not be allowed.

He came around to the front again and sat on the steps, exhausted and fearful. Perhaps someone would open it up in the morning. But how long would it be until morning? He could not survive much longer without shelter. How much worse a death that would be—frozen on the very steps of their temple, his goal reached but meaningless.

That could not happen. He struggled to think things through. It was clear that he had to get indoors. There were plenty of dwellings. Most of them were probably occupied. What he needed was one occupied by a follower of Jesus. But how would he know?

He would have to take a chance. Which one?

The one nearest the temple, obviously. Would someone who was not a follower of Jesus want to live next to one of His temples?

Tenon got up and walked across a short pathway to the nearest dwelling. It was in darkness, like the temple. He stood in front of the door for a long time, summoning his courage.
It has to be done,
he told himself. There was no other way. He knocked.

And knocked. And after an eternity a light appeared behind the door. He saw the shadow of a person through the small, curtained glass panes and heard a brief, gruff sentence. There was nothing he could say, so he knocked some more.

Finally the door opened a crack—still locked with a chain—and a face appeared.

They looked at each other through the crack, and Tenon dimly realized that the man was as frightened as he was.

With his trembling hands Tenon tried to form a cross. "Jesus," he whispered, hoping it sounded right on his alien tongue. "Jesus."

The man kept looking at him, and the chain remained in place, and suddenly Tenon could take no more, and the tears came streaming out of his eyes. "Jesus," he moaned as he felt his legs giving way, and then he heard the chain move, and the door swung open, and he fell forward into warmth and light.

Chapter 8

Father Gardner, in pajamas and ratty bathrobe, looked relieved and grateful. "Thanks, Al, I didn't know—I wouldn't have—"

"Of course, Ed. This is serious business. Who'd you steal that bathrobe from?"

He smiled and led Bernardi down to the kitchen.

The alien was sitting against the radiator, a blanket around his shoulders, his bandaged hands clasping a cup of tea. He stared at the two men as they stood in the doorway.

"His hands were kind of cut up," Gardner said. "I did what I could."

"He looks frightened," Bernardi noted. "And human."

"He likes tea," Gardner remarked.

Bernardi walked over to the huddled figure. "Tenon?" he asked.

The alien put down his cup and moved his hand quickly in a circle.

"I think that means he agrees with you," Gardner said from across the room.

Bernardi pointed to himself. "Al Bernardi." Then he put out his hand.

Tenon grasped it with both of his. "Albernardi," he repeated. Then he withdrew his hands, formed them into a cross, and pointed inquiringly at Bernardi.

Bernardi nodded vigorously, thought for a moment, and spun his hand in a circle.

Tenon's eyes lit up and he too spun his hand.

"It's the latest dance," Bernardi said to Gardner.

"I'm glad you're both having a good time," Gardner replied. "But what are we going to do with him, Al?"

Bernardi looked down at Tenon and considered. "Well, I guess he's escaped from the ship, probably because they found out about his religion. So presumably they'll want him back. But do we want to let them take him?"

"He can't stay here," Gardner interjected hurriedly. "I've got a parish to run. I can't—"

Bernardi waved him silent. He walked over and leaned back against the sink. Tenon's eyes followed him. Did he understand what they were talking about?

"If we send him back, Ed, they'll kill him."

"But if we keep him, we're liable to get arrested or something. Why do we have to make that decision?"

Bernardi thought for a moment and nodded slowly. "You're right. So let's call the Vatican." He fished in his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. There was a wall phone next to the door. He went over to it and punched in a bunch of numbers. "What time do you figure it is in Rome?" he asked as the connection was made. Father Gardner shrugged helplessly.

Collingwood answered in Italian. He sounded sleepy.

"Anthony, it's Bernardi. From America. We have a complication."

"What's that?" The voice was instantly alert.

"Our friend from the ship has escaped. He's sitting with us in the rectory kitchen at Most Precious Blood."

"How the hell did he manage that?"

"Beats me. It also beats me how he ended up here, but he did. So now what?"

There was a long silence as the problem crossed the ocean. "If we hold onto him," Collingwood said finally, "it will probably force everything out into the open. Clement will have to take a stand."

"That's pretty risky, though."

"True, but if we give him back we're just washing our hands of the whole business."

"So you say keep him?"

Another silence. "Can you do it?"

Bernardi considered. "We'll have to go into hiding, I suppose. I might—"

"Don't tell me," Collingwood interrupted. "I don't want to know. Let's keep the Vatican as clean in this as possible."

"Fine by me. But look—if I'm out hiding with him on my own, I'm going to stay hiding until I get the message otherwise. From the Pope."

"Right. Until Clement gives the word."

Bernardi smiled. "Hey, Tony? I'm a little surprised at you. Isn't your neck sticking out a bit far on this?"

There was a slight pause. "I've been known to consider the good of the Church, Al," Collingwood replied.

"Well, I approve. See you who knows when."

"Right. Good luck, then."

"Thanks. I'll need it."

Bernardi hung up. The adrenaline was pumping already. He felt great.

"You're going to take him?" Gardner asked.

"Sure. Wanna come along?"

"No thanks. Where will you go?"

"You don't want to know."

"That's true."

Bernardi looked over at Tenon, whose eyes were fixed on them. His mug of tea was empty. "You think he's warm enough to take a trip?"

"I guess so. I'll lend him a coat. Are you going back to the residence first?"

"No, I think we'll just disappear into the night."

"They won't like you taking their car."

Bernardi laughed. "We all have to make sacrifices. Get that coat, will you? People may already be looking for him."

* * *

Car.
That's what Albernardi called it. His vocabulary was increasing. Grammar was the hard part, though. He had heard them talking about that on the ship. Only Ergentil seemed to have any idea how to put the words together.

But now he knew this was a
car,
and he blessed it, because it was taking him far from the ship. He was streaking through the night, warm and secure, with a friend by his side. It was unbelievable, but he had succeeded. For the first time in a long while he began to relax. The hum of the
car
was so nice. He closed his eyes and listened to the hum.