Authors: Paul Di Filippo
“No,” I admitted, “I never actually thought about your motives. Tell me why.”
“Because they were all fated to die shortly. Your Maruta, for one, would have perished on her next expedition to Mathspace, her IIM devoured by Mandelbrot Demons. But by radically detourning their lifelines, I saved their potentials. Hosted in me, they continued to add their individual increments to the sum of all that is. The wasteful nature of the dumb cosmos appalls me.”
“But—but you don’t save everyone—”
“How do you know?”
I remained silent then, too ashamed to ask for absolution or favors.
“You realize,” Magister Zawinul said, his shimmering corona wisping out delicately, “the frightened resistance of the Reticulate to the spread of us Singularities is really a last-ditch defense by the forces of entropy. Is that really the side you wish to be on?”
“I—no, of course not. But tell me, what should I do?”
“Go spread the word. And don’t worry—you’ll see Maruta again. Death is not what you believe.”
Back on Silane, Lustron Avouris was as good as his word. I found the administrator to have reproduced, after a decade’s absence, into a half- dozen small segments, none of which had any greater facility with language than their “father” had.
Once I had been vetted by Ess-Cubed and deemed free of Singularity taint, I was awarded a Reticulate Order of Civic Virtue. But the honor was rescinded soon after, once I began preaching my pro-Singularity doctrine. I was both vilified and embraced by different camps, becoming a figure of some notoriety.
My life now consists of journeying from world to world through the instantaneous Indrajal, spreading the gospel of the Singularity’s concern for us, and its plans to remake the universe from one that does not have the best interests of sophonts at its uncaring core to a place where uniqueness is preserved and cherished.
And in every living face I encounter, I try to discern a lover’s lineaments.
My friend Michael Bishop commissioned from me a story about Jesus Christ for his anthology on the same topic,
A Cross of Centuries
. I immediately sat down to write and came up with— surprise! Not “Lignum Crucis,” but rather “Personal Jesus.” Mike bounced it fairly swiftly. While he liked it well enough as a story, he felt it was too tangential to the life and impact of the historical Jesus, the main thread of his project. (When you read the story later in this volume, you can decide for yourself.)
Well, fifteen years of Buddhism, preceded by twenty-five years of agnosticism, all left me possessing little further inspiration for a substitute story. But then in dredging my memories I encountered my twelve-year-old Roman Catholic self and memories of being fascinated by the True Cross, leading to the story that follows.
And I must say that Mike is a good sport for never objecting to the horrid pun embodied in the protagonist’s name.
LIGNUM CRUCIS
How many pilgrims had trodden these cobbles over the past eight hundred years? Woody Payne imagined an endless line of supplicants stretching down the centuries: medieval nobility and peasants, popes and monks; Renaissance tradesmen with their families; Victorian excursionists; Me-Decade Jesus freaks; Eastern Europeans freed from Soviet atheism .…Now he himself stood at the temporary apex of that vast historical cavalcade. What a motley, colorful assortment of worshippers this place had seen, garbed in an array of costumes, speaking scores of languages, with innumerable motives, dreams, and prayers amongst them. Yet all united in one belief, a belief that Woody shared:
That standing in the presence of the largest extant piece of the True Cross would somehow help them.
The line that Woody stood in, snaking through the distant Forgiveness Door, jerked forward, and he roused from his musings to survey again this magical place. The Church of Saint Toribio in Lebanon, despite its name, occupied no parcel of ground in the Middle East. Rather, its roots were sunk in a region of Spain dubbed Liébana, high in the Pyrenees, near a town called Potes and a peak named Viorna.
The church’s founders had selected this remote spot in an era when marauding Moors still roamed, and the first primitive buildings reflected a certain bunker mentality. But by the time construction finished on the present structure in 1256, the relatively peaceful climate allowed the luxury of a sprawling, asymmetrical church, modest yet beautiful in its humble lines. Wheaten-colored stone walls and red- tiled roof harmonized with arched doorways and squat towers. Stained glass was absent entirely, although some fanciful representational carvings substituted. The surrounding forest touched one side, the trees, now leafing out, providing a simple curtain in keeping with the church’s understated elegance.
The whole affair was set on a sloping cobbled plaza, acreage now aswarm with vendors and pilgrims, monks and priest and nuns, racing children and doddering elderly. Balloons and religious icons, hot snacks and holy water changed hands. A string quartet on a decorated stage played Bach’s sacred music. The church’s bells tolled solemnly at intervals. A clutch of amiable policemen circulated, their presence hardly necessary in this devout, well-regulated crowd.
Meanwhile, the April sun poured down its benison. It was the sixteenth of the month: a Sunday. That conjunction defined Saint Toribio’s Jubilee Year, an especially propitious time to visit the Lignum Crucis. Woody had planned his whole European trip around this day. Chartres, Lourdes, Santiago de Compostela—all the other sites he had wanted to visit had been aligned on his itinerary to ensure his arrival now.
He coveted a moment of grace, an epiphanic instant to redeem and transfigure his life. And this place, he believed, offered the most potent possibilities.
Nothing in Woody’s life currently discomfited him. His health was fine. He had a fairly satisfying job, his own home, and access to many of the amusements offered by modern American culture: sports, film, music. He attended church regularly. (St. Jude’s, where Father James Tierney presided.) His parents, still alive and hale, exhibited all the signs of continuing so for many years.
But, at age thirty-three, Woody felt a persistent unease. His life struck him as circumscribed and unfulfilled. He had no romantic partner or any immediate prospects. High callings had eluded him; boyhood dreams of glory had faded; life stretched ahead as a long vista of unchanging days till the grave. A voice inside him demanded more, that he do something to tap and channel the limitlessness of God’s creation.
Thus, this pilgrimage.
With the help of a pretty travel agent—whom he had failed to ask for a date—he had composed this itinerary culminating at Saint Toribio in Lebanon.
The procession shuffled forward, and Woody, parch-mouthed, wished that he had bought a bottle of water before joining it. However, the stooped woman in front of him turned and, smiling, offered Woody a swig from
her
bottle. He accepted gratefully, and the line lurched forward.
At length, Woody passed through the Forgiveness Door and stood inside the church. Buttery light melted through the high windows, filling the capacious interior with a welcoming radiance. The unadorned stone pillars running in parallel rows led the eye upward to the cross-ribbed vaults. The air was infused with a sempiternal scent of incense and lost days. Murmurs from hundreds of souls made a muted cacophony that the vaults easily absorbed.
Inside the church the pilgrims had diffused—some to the apse containing the ancient wooden statue of Saint Toribio, others to the side chapel that held the True Cross, where they bunched eagerly outside the entrance.
Woody hesitated before heading toward them. Now that he was nearly in the presence of the True Cross, his hoped-for miracle awaited him. Or did it? What if he offered himself before the relic and received nothing? Where did such an outcome leave him: hopeless, with his life irrefutably barren? Or could he survive this disappointment and resume his old existence with only a mild pang?
Praying fervently, he walked toward the side chapel.
This piece of the True Cross allegedly derived from the left branch of the instrument of the Lord’s torture. Discovered by Saint Elena, the mother of Emperor Constantine, it had come under the care of Saint Toribio during his sojourn in Jerusalem. Fearing for the relic’s safety, he spirited it away to this mountain fastness in Spain, where millions had since venerated it. Nowadays it was plated in gold, but the darkened nail hole remained exposed.
Edging into the massed worshippers, Woody noticed the odor of many anxious, excited bodies, a scent that floated above the churchly musk. The crowd circulated forward slowly, as the people nearest the relic yielded to those behind. As he shuffled ahead, Woody intuited the carved ceiling of the chapel, a large hanging light fixture, and the larger reliquary containing the Lignum Crucis. Now only half the original distance separated him from the object of his veneration. He sought to calm his mind, to open his heart and soul for the descent of some celestial leavening—
Shouting. Improbably, someone was shouting harshly. Shouting strange words: an ancient invocation, anathema to this place.
A swarthy mustached man wearing a bulky jacket had bulled past a rope barrier and onto the raised, off-limits area of the reliquary. For one timeless moment, the man stood alone there, shouting, shouting—
“
Allahu akhbar! Allahu akhbar—
”
Several men rushed the terrorist, and women screamed, stampeding. The woman who had shared water with Woody went down as if under a juggernaut.
His mind blank, Woody stood transfixed.
And the universe exploded.
Steve Dresser ran the Grafton Center, a school for children suffering from autism and other learning disabilities. He found it hard to hire and retain teachers and aides for the demanding, frustrating, low-paying work. He hurried to land any skilled workers he could and then did all he could to retain them. Still, he had his doubts about bringing this particular teacher back onboard.
Dresser supposed that if the fellow was willing to exert himself to handle the job, he deserved a chance. If he failed, Dresser could dismiss him gently later, and he would still have his permanent disability stipend.
A knock sounded on the office door, and Dresser called, “C’mon in.”
Dresser hardly recognized his former employee. He walked with a cane. His face had been hollowed and sharpened with pain—grief— bafflement. One side of his skull, near his temple, bore a slight hairless depression. His gaze, once mild and lackadaisical, now had a piercing intensity.
Dresser stood and shook his hand. “Woody, have a seat. How’re you doing?”
Woody Payne sat down, his cane across his lap. A small St. Jude medal pinned to his sweater vest caught Dresser’s eye.
Woody fixed his old boss with a forthright look. “Just fine, Steve. I had my last scheduled surgery six months ago. Nothing but physical therapy from here on out. The doctors say I might be able to shuck the cane, eventually. I’m down to four meds, and I gave up my afternoon naps last week. I’m almost ready for a triathlon.”
Dresser smiled. “Hey, no Iron Man just yet. Take things slow, right?”
Woody’s own smile contained complex depths. “That’s just what I can’t do. If this experience has taught me anything, it’s that life’s too short to procrastinate. I need to make the most of the time given to me.”
“And this job’s what you want, even in light of your bmsh with death? I mean, it’s important, but it’s hardly saving the world.”
Woody leaned forward. “Saving the world isn’t in the cards for me. I realize that now. I couldn’t save anyone at Saint Toribio—not even myself. It was only chance or divine intervention that spared us survivors. I know some people change radically after undergoing something like that. But I just want to pick up the pieces of my old life, go back to what I was good at—but more intensely. I can’t just sit around the house. I need to get back to my kids.”
“Okay—I guess. You can have your old class back on Monday. There are a few new faces, but you’ll recognize most. They remember you. The higher-functioning ones have been asking for Mister Payne for months.”
With the aid of his cane Woody rose. “I really appreciate this, Steve. I won’t let you down.”
Dresser accompanied Woody to the door. “One last thing, Woody—”
Woody fingered the depression in his skull. “No need to be embarrassed. You’re wondering about my mental abilities, right? Never fear. I’ve got some shrapnel up here. The docs didn’t want to operate to remove it—too tricky. Said it was fine where it was. All the tests agreed: nothing but a splinter. You know those clumsy carpenters who shoot themselves in the head with a nail gun and survive? That’s me! Still the same old Woody.”
Dresser touched his shoulder. “Okay, then. Welcome back.”
The classroom smelled of chalk, paste, and pencil shavings, as well as of vomit and urine. The children, ranging in age from five to twelve, often had accidents. Most were boys. Many could perform none of the traditional classroom activities. Others could do some. A few could do more. Being with these children, tending to their needs, pushing them to fulfill their potential, required a special kind of person.