“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
Kelven twisted his feet free of the stikpad, and pushed off towards the hatch.
Meredith Saldana watched him manoeuvre through the open oval without touching the rim. Commander Solanki seemed to be a very
tense man. But then I’d probably be the same in his place, the admiral thought. He held up the flek with a sense of foreboding,
then slotted it into his couch player to find out exactly what he was up against.
Horst was always glad to get back to the homestead and greet his scampish charges; after all, when all was said and done,
they were only children. And profoundly shocked children at that. They should never be left on their own, and if he had his
way they never would. Practicality dictated otherwise, of course, and there had never yet been any major disaster while he
was roaming the savannah for meat and foraging the other homesteads. To some extent he had grown blasÉ about his trips. But
this time, after encountering the possessed out at the Soeberg homestead, he had forced the return pace, stopping only to
kill a danderil, his mind host to a whole coven of thoughts along the theme of what if.
When he topped a small rise six hundred metres away and saw the familiar wood cabin with the children sporting around outside
he felt an eddy of relief. Thank you, Lord, he said silently.
He slowed down for the last length, giving Jay a respite. Sweat made her blue blouse cling to her skinny frame. The heat was
becoming a serious problem. It seemed to have banished the hardy chikrows back into the jungle. Even the danderil he’d shot
had been sheltering in the shade of one of the savannah’s scarce trees.
Horst blinked up at the unforgiving sky. Surely they don’t mean to burn this world to cinders? They have form now, stolen
bodies; and all the physical needs, urges, and failings which go with them.
He squinted at the northern horizon. There seemed to be an effete pink haze above the jungle, dusting the sharp seam between
sky and land, like the flush of dawn refracted over a deep ocean. The harder he tried to focus upon it, the more insubstantial
it became.
He couldn’t believe it was a natural meteorological
rara avis
. More an omen. His humour, already tainted by the Soeberg homestead, sank further.
Too much is happening at once. Whatever polluted destiny they are manufacturing, it is reaching its zenith.
They were a hundred metres from the cabin when the children spotted them. A scrum of small bodies came run-
ning over the grass, Danny in the lead. Both of the homestead’s dogs chased around them, barking loudly.
“Freya’s here,” the boy yelled out at the top of his voice. “Freya’s here, Father. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Then they were all clinging to him, shouting jubilantly and smiling up with enthusiasm as he laughed and patted them and hugged
them. For a moment he revelled in the contact, the hero returning. A knight protector and Santa Claus rolled into one. They
expected so much of him.
“What did you find in the cabins, Father?”
“You were quick today.”
“Please, Father, tell Barnaby to give my reading tutor block back.”
“Was there any more chocolate?”
“Did you find any shoes for me?”
“You promised to look for some story fleks.”
With his escort swirling round and chattering happily, Horst led the horse over to the cabin. Russ and Mills had slithered
off its back to talk with their friends.
“When did Freya arrive?” Horst asked Danny. He remembered the dark-haired girl from Aberdale, Freya Chester, about eight or
nine, whose parents had brought a large variety of fruit trees with them. Kerry Chester’s grove had always been one of the
better maintained plots around the village.
“About ten minutes ago,” the boy said. “It’s great, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It certainly is.” Remarkable, in fact. He was surprised she had survived this long. Most of the children had turned
up during the first fortnight while they were still camping in a glade a kilometre away from Aberdale. Five of them walking
from Schuster. They had said a woman was with them for most of the journey—Horst suspected it was Ingrid Veenkamp. Several
others, the youngest ones, he had found himself as they wandered aimlessly through the jungle. He and Jay made a regular circuit
of the area round the village in the hope of finding still more. And for every one they did save he suffered the images of
ten more
lost in the ferocious undergrowth, stalked by sayce and slowly starving to death.
At the end of a fortnight it was obvious that the messy, hot, damp glade was totally impractical as a permanent site. By that
time he had over twenty children to look after. It was Jay who suggested they try a homestead cabin, and four days later they
were safely installed. Only five more children had turned up since then, all of them in a dreadful state as they tramped down
the overgrown track between Ab-erdale and the savannah. Dispossessed urchins, totally unable to fend for themselves, sleeping
in the jungle and stealing food from the village when they could, which wasn’t anything like often enough. The last had been
Eustice, two weeks ago when Horst skirted the jungle on a hunting trip; a skeleton with skin, her clothes reduced to tattered
grey rags. She couldn’t walk, if the Alsatian hadn’t scented her and raised the alarm she would have been dead inside of a
day. As it was, he had nearly lost her.
“Where is Freya?” Horst asked Danny.
“Inside, Father, having a rest. I said she could use your bed.”
“Good lad. You did the right thing.”
Horst let Jay and some of the girls lead the horse over to the water trough, and detailed a group of boys to remove the danderil
carcass he’d secured to its back. Inside the cabin it was degrees cooler than the air outside, the thick double layer of mayope
planks which made up the walls and ceiling proving an efficient insulator. He said a cheery hello to a bunch of children sitting
around the table who were using a reading tutor block, and went into his own room.
The curtains were drawn, casting a rich yellow light throughout the room. There was a small figure lying on the bed wearing
a long navy-blue dress, legs tucked up. She didn’t appear starved, or even hungry. Her dress was as clean as though it had
just been washed.
“Hello, Freya,” Horst said softly. Then he looked at her
fully, and even more of the savannah’s warmth was drained from his skin.
Freya raised her head lazily, brushing her shoulder-length hair from her face. “Father Horst, thank you so much for taking
me in. It’s so kind of you.”
Horst’s muscles froze the welcoming smile on his face. She was one of them! A possessed. Below the healthy deeply tanned skin
lay a wizened sickly child, the dark dress hid a stained adult’s T-shirt. The two images overlapped each other, jumping in
and out of focus. They were enormously difficult to distinguish, obscured by a covering veil which she drew over his mind
as well as his eyes. Reality was repugnant, he didn’t want to see, didn’t want truth. A headache ignited three centimetres
behind his temple.
“All are welcome here, Freya,” he said with immense effort. “You must have had a terrible time these last weeks.”
“I did, it was horrible. Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t speak to me. I hid in the jungle for ages and ages. There were berries and
things to eat. But they were always cold. And I sometimes heard a sayce. It was really scary.”
“Well, there are no sayce around here, and we have plenty of hot food.” He walked along the side of the bed towards the dresser
below the window, every footfall magnified to a strident thump in the still room. The noise of the children outside had perished.
There was just the two of them now.
“Father?” she called.
“What do you want here?” he whispered tightly, his back towards her. He was afraid to pull the curtains open, afraid there
might be nothing outside.
“It is a kindness.” Her voice was deepening, becoming a morbid atonality. “There is no place for you on this world any more.
Not as you are. You must change, become as us. The children will come to you one at a time when you call. They trust you.”
“A trust that will never be betrayed.” He turned round, Bible in hand. The leather-bound book his mother had given him when
he became a novice; it even had a little inscription she had written in the cover, the black ink fading to a watery blue down
the decades.
Freya gave him a slightly surprised look, then sneered. “Oh, poor Father! Do you need your crutch so badly? Or do you hide
from true life behind your belief?”
“Holy Father, Lord of Heaven and the mortal world, in humility and obedience, I do ask Your aid in this act of sanctification,
through Jesus Christ who walked among us to know our failings, grant me Your blessing in my task,” Horst incanted. It was
so long ago since he had read the litany in the Unified prayer-book; and never before had he spoken the words, not in an age
of science and universal knowledge, living in an arcology of crumbling concrete and gleaming composite. Even the Church questioned
their need: they were a relic of the days when faith and paganism were still as one. But now they shone like the sun in his
mind.
Freya’s contempt descended into shock. “What?” She flung her legs off the bed.
“My Lord God, look upon Your servant Freya Chester, fallen to this unclean spirit, and permit her cleansing; in the name of
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” Horst made the sign of the cross above the furious little girl.
“Stop it, you old fool. You think I fear that, your blind faith?” Her control over her form was slipping. The healthy clean
image flickered on and off like a faulty light, exposing the frail malnourished child underneath.
“I beseech You to grant me Your strength, O Lord; so that her soul may be saved from damnation.”
The Bible burst into flames. Horst groaned as the heat gnawed at his hand. He dropped it to the floor where it sputtered close
to the leg of the bed. His hand was agony, as though it was dipped in boiling oil.
Freya’s face was screwed up in determination, great rubberlike folds of skin distorting her pretty features almost beyond
recognition. “Fuck you, priest.” The obscenity seemed ludicrous coming from a child. “I’ll burn your mind out of your skull.
I’ll cook your brain in its own blood.” Her possessed shape shimmered again. The lame Freya below was choking.
Horst clutched at his crucifix with his good hand. “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I order you, servant of Lucifer,
to be gone from this girl. Return to the formless nothing where you belong.”
Freya let out a piercing shriek. “How did you know!”
“Begone from this world. There is no place in the sight of God for those who would dwell in Evil.”
“How, priest?” Her head turned from side to side, neck muscles straining as though she was fighting some invisible force.
“Tell me…”
Heat was building along Horst’s spine. He was sweating profusely, frightened she really would burn him. It was like the worst
case of sunburn he had ever known, as though his skin was splitting open. His clothes would catch fire soon, he was sure.
He thrust the crucifix towards the girl. “Freya Chester, come forth, come into the light and the glory of our Lord.”
And Freya Chester was solidly before him, thin sunken face racked by pain, spittle on her chin. Her mouth was working, struggling
around complex words. Terror pounced from her black eyes.
“Come, Freya!” Horst shouted jubilantly. “Come forth, there is nothing to fear. The Lord awaits.”
“Father.” Her voice was tragically frail. She coughed, spewing out a meagre spray of saliva and stomach juices. “Father, help.”
“In God we trust, to deliver us from evil. We seek Your justice, knowing we are not worthy. We drink of Your blood, and eat
of Your flesh so we may share in Your glory. Yet we are but the dust from which You made us. Guide us from our errors, Lord,
for in ignorance and sin we know not what we do. And we ask for Your holy protection.”
For one last supremely lucid moment the demon possessor returned. Freya glared at him with a ferocity which withered his resolution
by its sheer malice.
“I won’t forget you,” she ground out between her curled lips. “Never in all eternity will I forget you, priest.”
Unseen hands scrabbled at his throat, tiny fingers, like an infant’s. Blood emerged from the grazes sharp nails left around
his Adam’s apple. He held the crucifix on high, defiant that Christ’s symbol would triumph.
Freya let out a last bellow of rage. Then the demon spirit was gone in a blast of noxious arctic air which blew Horst backwards.
Neatly stacked piles of food packets went tumbling over, the bedlinen took flight, loose articles stampeded off the dresser
and table. There was a bang like a castle door slamming in the face of an invading army.
Freya, the real Freya, all crusty sores, ragged clothes, and bony famined figure, was stretched out on the bed, emitting quiet
gurgles from her chapped mouth. She started to cry.
Horst clambered to his feet, hanging on to the edge of the bed for support. He drew a gasping breath, his body aching inside
and out, as though he had swum an ocean.
Jay and a troop of frantic children rushed in, shouting in a confused babble.
“It’s all right,” he told them, dabbing at the scratch marks on his throat. “Everything’s all right now.”
When Jay awoke the next morning she was surprised to see she had overslept. She hardly ever did that, the few minutes alone
to herself at the start of each morning were among the most precious of the day. But it had to be dawn. A pale tinge of hoary
light was creeping into the cabin’s main room around the reed blinds. The other children were all still sound asleep. She
quickly pulled on her shorts, boots, and an adult-sized shirt she had altered to something approximating her own size, and
slipped quietly out of the door. Thirty seconds later she ran back in shouting for Father Horst at the top of her voice.
Far above the lonely savannah cabin, the long vivid contrails of thirteen starship fusion drives formed a cosmic mandala across
the black pre-dawn sky.