Xenocide

“Que dia chato, meu filho.”

That was one voice that would never change. And the attitude was unchanging as well: What a rotten day, my son. Pious and snide at the same time– and mocking himself for both points of view.

“Hi, Quim.”

“Father Estevao now, I'm afraid.” Quim had adopted the full regalia of a priest, robes and all; now he gathered them under himself and sat on the worn-down grass in front of Miro.

“You look the part,” said Miro. Quim had matured well. As a kid he had looked pinched and pious. Experience with the real world instead of theological theory had given him lines and creases, but the face that resulted had compassion in it. And strength. “Sorry I made a scene at mass.”

“Did you?” asked Miro. “I wasn't there. Or rather, I was at mass– I just wasn't at the cathedral.”

“Communion for the ramen?”

“For the children of God. The church already had a vocabulary to deal with strangers. We didn't have to wait for Demosthenes.”

“Well, you don't have to be smug about it, Quim. You didn't invent the terms.”

“Let's not fight.”

“Then let's not butt into other people's meditations.”

“A noble sentiment. Except that you have chosen to rest in the shade of a friend of mine, with whom I need to have a conversation. I thought it was more polite to talk to you first, before I start beating on Rooter with sticks.”

“This is Rooter?”

“Say hi. I know he was looking forward to your return.”

“I never knew him.”

“But he knew all about you. I don't think you realize, Miro, what a hero you are among the pequeninos. They know what you did for them, and what it cost you.”

“And do they know what it's probably going to cost us all, in the end?”

“In the end we'll all stand before the judgment bar of God. If a whole planetful of souls is taken there at once, then the only worry is to make sure no one goes unchristened whose soul might have been welcomed among the saints.”

“So you don't even care?”

“I care, of course,” said Quim. “But let's say that there's a longer view, in which life and death are less important matters than choosing what kind of life and what kind of death we have.”

“You really do believe all this, don't you,” said Miro.

“Depending on what you mean by 'all this,' yes, I do.”

“I mean all of it. A living God, a resurrected Christ, miracles, visions, baptism, transubstantiation.”

“Yes.”

“Miracles. Healing.”

“Yes.”

“Like at the shrine to Grandfather and Grandmother.”

“Many healings have been reported there.”

“Do you believe in them?”

“Miro, I don't know– some of them might have been hysterical. Some might have been a placebo effect. Some purported healings might have been spontaneous remissions or natural recoveries.”

“But some were real.”

“Might have been.”

“You believe that miracles are possible.”

“Yes.”

“But you don't think any of them actually happen.”

“Miro, I believe that they do happen. I just don't know if people accurately perceive which events are miracles and which are not. There are no doubt many miracles claimed which were not miracles at all. There are also probably many miracles that no one recognized when they occurred.”

“What about me, Quim?”

“What about you?”

“Why no miracle for me?”

Quirn ducked his head, pulled at the short grass in front of him. It was a habit when he was a child, trying to avoid a hard question; it was the way he responded when their supposed father, Marcao, was on a drunken rampage.

“What is it, Quim? Are miracles only for other people?”

“Part of the miracle is that no one knows why it happens.”

“What a weasel you are, Quim.”

Quim flushed. “You want to know why you don't get a miraculous healing? Because you don't have faith, Miro.”

“What about the man who said, Yes Master, I believe– forgive my unbelief?”

“Are you that man? Have you even asked for a healing?”

“I'm asking now,” said Miro. And then, unbidden, tears came to his eyes. “O God,” he whispered. “I'm so ashamed.”

“Of what?” asked Quim. “Of having asked God for help? Of crying in front of your brother? Of your sins? Of your doubts?”

Miro shook his head. He didn't know. These questions were all too hard. Then he realized that he did know the answer. He held out his arms from his sides. “Of this body,” he said.

Quirn reached out and took his arms near the shoulder, drew them toward him, his hands sliding down Miro's arms until he was clasping Miro's wrists. “This is my body which is given for you, he told us. The way you gave your body for the pequeninos. For the little ones.”

“Yeah, Quim, but he got his body back, right?”

“He died, too.”

“Is that how I get healed? Find a way to die?”

“Don't be an ass,” said Quim. “Christ didn't kill himself. That was Judas's ploy.”

Miro's anger exploded. “All those people who get their colds cured, who get their migraines miraculously taken from them– are you telling me they deserve more from God than I do?”

“Maybe it isn't based on what you deserve. Maybe it's based on what you need.”

Miro lunged forward, seizing the front of Quim's robe between his halfspastic fingers. “I need my body back!”

“Maybe,” said Quim.

“What do you mean maybe, you simpering smug asshole!”

“I mean,” said Quim mildly, “that while you certainly want your body back, it may be that God, in his great wisdom, knows that for you to become the best man you can be, you need to spend a certain amount of time as a cripple.”

“How much time?” Miro demanded.

“Certainly no longer than the rest of your life.”

Miro grunted in disgust and released Quim's robe.

“Maybe less,” said Quim. “I hope so.”

“Hope,” said Miro contemptuously.

“Along with faith and pure love, it's one of the great virtues. You should try it.”

“I saw Ouanda.”

“She's been trying to speak to you since you arrived.”

“She's old and fat. She's had a bunch of babies and lived thirty years and some guy she married has plowed her up one side and down the other all that time. I'd rather have visited her grave!”

“How generous of you.”

“You know what I mean! Leaving Lusitania was a good idea, but thirty years wasn't long enough.”

“You'd rather come back to a world where no one knows you.”

“No one knows me here, either.”

“Maybe not. But we love you, Miro.”

“You love what I used to be.”

“You're the same man, Miro. You just have a different body.”

Miro struggled to his feet, leaning against Rooter for support as he got up. “Talk to your tree friend, Quim. You've got nothing to say that I want to hear.”

“So you think,” said Quim.

“You know what's worse than an asshole, Quim?”

“Sure,” said Quim. “A hostile, bitter, self-pitying, abusive, miserable, useless asshole who has far too high an opinion of the importance of his own suffering.”

It was more than Miro could bear. He screamed in fury and threw himself at Quim, knocking him to the ground. Of course Miro lost his own balance and fell on top of his brother, then got tangled in Quim's robes. But that was all right; Miro wasn't trying to get up, he was trying to beat some pain into Quim, as if by doing that he would remove some from himself.

After only a few blows, though, Miro stopped hitting Quim and collapsed in tears, weeping on his brother's chest. After a moment he felt Quim's arms around him. Heard Quim's soft voice, intoning a prayer.

“Pai Nosso, que estas no ceu.” From there, however, the incantation stopped and the words turned new and therefore real. “O teu filho esta com dor, o meu irmao precisa a resurreicao da alma, ele merece o refresco da esperanca.”

Hearing Quim give voice to Miro's pain, to his outrageous demands, made Miro ashamed again. Why should Miro imagine that he deserved new hope? How could he dare to demand that Quim pray for a miracle for him, for his body to be made whole? It was unfair, Miro knew, to put Quim's faith on the line for a self-pitying unbeliever like him.