Страница 16 из 90
Water lapped on the shore and a chill wind sprang upon us again, from the water.
Standing again, Castell sca
When it was my turn, I held his gaze proudly, but my knees shook and sweat trickled down my spine. I was forced to look away, even though I was sure of my harmony with the reverend and his goals.
"Sacrifice," he yelled then, in a tone of revelation. His voice lashed out, struck us numb. "We have offered a few of our Chosen, that the remainders be the stronger." He pointed at the spot where the missing supplies had once been, as if accusing, then flattened his hand to swat away imagined pests. "We must not despise them, nor hold a grudge. Instead, we must wish them well and forget them. They are no longer of us but were once a part, like hair that's been cut, like fingernail clippings.
That last phrase came out of him in a lower register that imparted ripples to the flesh at the nape of my neck, but before I could dwell on the meaning of both words and tones of voice, he began smiling again. He clapped his hands thrice, signal for attention. Into the silence he sang a lament, then gestured for us to join in its repetition.
We created a layered hum and, at the end of nine minutes, as timed by a subcutaneous digital timekeeper under the skin of Castell's left wrist, the digits of which glowed a blue when scratched, we all felt better, as if losing the twenty-three had lessened our burden.
Reverend Castell then strode to a crate, bent, and tore off its top planks with his bare hands. A cheer arose, and we fell to opening our supplies and sorting them.
Children helped carry what they could, or fetched tools, while adults worked at whatever tasks best suited them. In use is ownership, and we sought to mesh our wills with the limitations of our tools. Some began setting up the incubators, to begin accelerated growth of embryos so that we might have beasts of burden to labor and breed, and freshwater fishes to feed us in later years.
Those people, specially trained and aware that their expensive equipment was the only of its kind to be had, did their jobs with the reverent concentration of monks. Others, of a more common ilk, joined in the chorus of work any way they could, remaining at the beck and call of more focused workers.
"Work well," Reverend Castell enjoined. "If no more should manage to follow us, then we shall have to suffice, and what we are shall be the future of this world, and of the greater Harmony."
His references to the outside possibility of other Harmonies scraping up the funds and begging or bribing the permission to emigrate from Earth to Haven fell like spattered acid, and in truth I'd heard him, during the months of travel, vent much bitterness about the many indecisive souls we believers had left behind. It galled him, for one thing, that they could remain behind, yet still call themselves Harmonies.
Some of us found likely places to begin plowing and harrowing fields to receive hybrid seeds. Exactly which Earth species would thrive, we did not know, so many small plots were rendered arable. Some set up an irrigation system, deploying the skeletal water wheels. Some of us dug holes in the ground, which was hard and rocky only centimeters beneath the tangled roots of grass.
My body warmed and my muscles, after fourteen months of nothing more strenuous than isometrics, cramped and throbbed deliciously. Also, I panted constantly, but savored the pains of hard work, knowing that each jolt of discomfort was a harmonic burden balancing the accomplishments of our faith. I viewed my visible puffs of exertion as misty prayers that would disperse on the many winds to eventually travel everywhere on Haven.
At one point that day I helped to demolish the shack by the wharf. We found a few bottles of spirits, and gave them to the doctors. We also found tri-pictures of naked people doing things with each other, which upset one of our coworkers.
Reverend Castell came over and looked through the tri-pix, then smiled and said, "These, too, may prove valuable, as we seek to populate this world." He gave them to the doctor, who somberly closed them into a medicine case. The upset man stood with face red and muscles bulging in his cheeks, but said nothing against Castell's decision.
We all got back to work, I drawing shovel duty.
From green wood that smelled of pine but proved harder and less knotty, from mud mixed with stickyleaf straw, and from oilcloths brought with us as wrappings around some of the supplies, we fashioned sunken cabins. Only about a quarter of each structure stood above ground, and the walls were lined with supply crate planks, stones, and unopened supplies.
We used the many flat stones to fashion an oven and even shelves and along the perimeters of each living space, and left a central hole in the roofing, to vent smoke. Some used big flat stones for roofing. Others used the pinelike boughs from the nearby trees to weave a kind of thatching.
Entrances were small, and often required crawling; they were easy to defend against any predators we might still encounter. Drainage was accomplished with lined, sunken furrows set under the stone or wood floors.
"These structures are based on those still to be found on the islands off Scotland's northern coast," Reverend Castell told us, "and they are in harmony with their surroundings and so can last as long as the stones themselves. Those in Scarabrae are over eight thousand years old and still quite comfortable."
His words inspired us, and gave us a sense of heritage, of being in tune with longer songs. He wandered from project to task to chore, advising and often pitching in to lend a hand.
His strength thrilled me, and I hoped to be as big and powerful as he, for I'd not yet begun filling out. Sixteen and scrawny doesn't last long in healthy lads, but at the time it seems forever.
"In times to come a city shall be raised on this site," he said, speaking less like a prophet than a professor. "This place is made for settlement, and we, in harmony, have come to fulfill its promise."
He happened to be near me as he said this and, without ceasing to shovel, I took a breath and dared to ask, "Reverend, do you see visions, hear angels? How is it you know about this place?"
He smiled down at me and said, "I studied Ekistics at university, it's the science of settlements." And then, in a quieter voice, he added, "I wish I'd paid stricter attention." And then he was walking away, to cheer and laugh and revel in the hard work of making a permanent encampment around which to begin our sojourn into future greatness, more intricate harmonies.
I bent and lifted more dirt, tossing it up onto the pile I'd made. The surface of the ground was at my chest now, and I knew I should go only a little deeper before begi
Ice, gritty like sand, which Castell called permafrost when I asked, and tendrils of some kind of fungus, too, made root shapes into what little loam there was, then spread flat where the rocky dirt layer began. It was like a vein of decay, maybe a motherlode, undermining the seasonal grasses above. It was as if the best of Haven floated upon the worst.
It occurred to me that my hole mirrored a grave at the moment, and that put me in mind of the Reverend Garner "Bill" Castell, our leader's father. Had the son studied Ekistics in preparation for his father's grand vision of a promised land where his church might exist in freedom and liberty? If so, then what had distracted him from the stricter attention he wished he had paid?
Shaking my head, I started widening my pit, trying to slant the walls the way Reverend Castell had shown us.
We worked for several hours, then broke off to rest and eat.