Star stuff, p.10
Star Stuff, page 10
He had a million questions. But right now, as friendly as the villagers seemed, he had to put up some safeguards.
The marines were emerging from their shuttles, looking around, and whistling appreciatively. Some of the men were directing those whistles at the native girls. Tom recognized a volatile situation when he saw one.
He approached the gruff soldiers.
"Soldiers!" he barked. "Listen to me. We're going to cordon a section of this beach—outside the village—for your use. You have plenty of battle rations in the shuttles, and you can sleep under the stars tonight. I do not want you interacting with the villagers, not until—"
"Who are you to order us around, squirt?" rumbled one marine. It was the bearded brute with three muscular arms.
"Battle rations?" A towering marine grumbled and stamped his feet. "We don't want no stinkin' battle rations!"
"I say we eat some local treats tonight," said a gaunt marine with a hard, scarred face. He eyed a village girl. His tongue emerged like a serpent from its lair to lick slender lips.
Tom stepped closer to the man. The gaunt marine turned to stare at him. The man's eyes were cold. Dead eyes. A scar rose from his mouth to his forehead. A dueling scar. Some marines enjoyed fencing without visors, then showing off the scars.
"You will not approach the villagers," Tom said, staring steadily into the scarred man's eyes. "If you disobey me, I will have you court martialed. A captain of HOPE has the authority to command a sergeant of the Human Defense Force. Do not forget that, Sergeant."
The gaunt sergeant stared back. A thin smile stretched across those thin lips, making the scar twitch. "Until a military emergency."
Tom allowed his upper lip to peel back in a sneer. "Make sure you don't cause one."
He turned away and marched across the beach. The marines stayed where he left them. This time, he didn't need Winter to back him up. He nodded at his sister as he walked by her. She gave him an approving nod of her own.
"Floribeth." On his way toward the bamboo huts, Tom stopped by the young Filipino officer. "I'm giving you a new job. From now on, you're no longer my helmswoman. You're my top diplomat."
She blinked at him. "Sir! I … I'm no diplomat! I'm shy. I'm awkward. I'm … Oh God, I'm blushing right now, aren't I?"
"You speak the language," Tom said. "The village elder has invited me to dinner tonight. You will join us. Let's get some answers."
* * * * *
Evening fell, both suns sinking below the horizon. The blue and silver moons shone over the ocean, and the villagers lit campfires on the beach, fried fish, and cooked rice in clay pots. One villager brought out a portable radio. He turned it on, a song emerged, and a few children began to sing.
Walking along the beach, Tom recognized the song.
Bahay kubo, kahit munti
ang halaman doon ay sari-sari
singkamas at talong, sigarilyas at mani
sitaw, bataw, patani …
"The siren's song that lured us here," he said softly.
Amor de la Luna walked along the sand toward him. The Bahayan woman smiled, her teeth bright in the moonlight, and took his hand.
"Come, Sir Tom. Dinner is ready. My grandmother is cooking, and she has many questions. Everyone calls her Lola, which means grandmother in our tongue, and she is like a grandmother to the whole village." She turned toward Floribeth next. "Come too, friend."
They approached a bamboo hut. It rose on stilts, and palm fronds formed its roof. Tom climbed a ladder, squeezed through the doorway, and found a cozy abode. A cross hung on the wall, and children were playing with seashells on the rug. A cat purred. Lola stood by a pot, stirring a red stew. She was a slender woman with a white braid, brown skin, and kind eyes. The aroma of her cooking filled the hut, and Tom's mouth watered.
They sat at a bamboo table, and Amor de la Luna served the stew into clay bowls.
"Chicken adobo," the young villager said, filling Tom's bowl to the brim. The stew was thick with meat, vegetables, and spices.
Tom inhaled deeply. "It smells delicious."
Floribeth licked her lips. "Just like my parents used to make." She reached for her spoon, prepared to feast.
Suddenly Lola whipped into action. The elderly woman grabbed a ladle and smacked Floribeth's hand. The ensign pulled her hand back with a yelp. Lola glowered and crossed herself.
"I … forgot we had to say grace," Floribeth said, blushing.
They all said a prayer. And then feasted. The stew tasted as wonderful as it smelled. After months in space, eating nothing but rations, Tom couldn't resist. After his first bowl, he got up and hugged the old woman. She smiled and served him seconds.
Finally, when everyone was full, Tom said, "Lola, we have some questions."
Floribeth translated.
The white-haired woman nodded. "Ask."
Tom wasn't quite sure where to begin. So he simply said, "How are you here? How have you been here for so long?"
Lola said something in her language. Floribeth translated. "He brought us here. The Red Cardinal." She crossed herself.
"Who is the Red Cardinal?" Tom frowned. "Does he live in this village?"
Lola shook her head. "He lives in a great city of black stone. It lies far north on a distant island. We are forbidden from going there."
"How did he bring you here?" Tom said. "To this world? Your ancestors were from Earth, weren't they?"
"The legends speak of it," Lola said. "It happened many years ago. Even elders like me cannot remember life on Earth, nor could the elders of our childhood. Only the Red Cardinal still lives from that era. My ancestors lived in the Philippines, our sacred homeland on Earth. But war came to our peaceful islands. The Spaniards. Then the Americans. Conquerors. The Red Cardinal built a church, and he summoned angels of light. The angels welcomed our ancestors into flying chariots of silver, and we flew among the stars until we found Bahay. We've been here since. And the Red Cardinal still guides us." Lola looked at Floribeth and caressed the younger woman's cheek. "I never imagined one from our homeland would come bless us."
Tom glanced at Floribeth, then back at the old woman.
"We encountered a radio signal broadcast in 1904."
"Five years after our people arrived here," said Lola. "We've loved this song for many generations."
Tom frowned. "So you've been here since 1899. Over three hundred years. And the Red Cardinal … you claim he's still alive?"
Lola nodded. "He's very old."
"Clearly," Tom said.
And I think I'll pay him a visit.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tom was packing a bag, preparing for a trip north, when Amor de la Luna walked toward him across the sand.
He looked at her and froze.
The twin moons gleamed on Amor's hair, painting it silver and gold. The wind billowed her dress around her thighs, music to make the embroidered roses dance. She had told him the fabric was woven from banana leaves, a craft passed through the generations. Her necklace of glass beads shone like the most precious jewels, but her eyes shone brighter. A white orchid was tucked behind her ear, blooming in the night, glowing like a third moon. She filled his nostrils with the scent of wildflowers and cinnamon.
Yes, for a moment, Tom could do little but admire her beauty.
Tom had never taken a wife. Never fathered children. He was married to the Galapagos, his officers used to joke. To marry and father children while exploring the dangerous frontier? It had always seemed irresponsible. For twenty years now, Tom had thought of nothing but his duty. His career. And certainly not of romance.
But now, for just a moment, Tom allowed himself to gaze in wonder.
I've been across the galaxy, he thought. I've seen glimmering nebulae, stellar nurseries that shone with all the colors of light. I've roamed alien forests and sprawling golden deserts under three suns. I've glided across the Orion Arm of the Milky Way, and I've flown among starwhales in the cosmic ocean. But I've never seen a sight more beautiful than a woman. In all the cosmos, there is nothing more fair to a sailor's eyes.
"Sir." Amor came to stand before him on the sand. She lowered her eyes, blushing. She glanced at him from under her lashes, then smiled bashfully and looked at her feet again. "I was hoping you'd stay a little longer."
He placed down the bag he'd been packing. "I'm quite eager to visit this Red Cardinal."
She took a step closer. She stood only a few inches away now. She lowered her head, and her long black hair streamed in the wind. "Sir, my grandmother is very wise. But she's of an older generation. The Red Cardinal is not one of us. I don't worship him like the elders." She glanced up at Tom, finally daring to look into his eyes, and tears flowed down her cheeks. "I fear him."
Tom frowned. "Has he hurt you?"
She looked away. "No. He brought us here to this paradise. He protects us. But … I've heard stories. Of village girls who went to serve him in his cathedral. Who never came back home." She clasped his hand. Her grip was warm and firm. "Please don't go."
Tom allowed himself a small smile. "I'll be well protected. I'll have my sister with me."
They both turned and looked east along the beach. The marines were camped there, a full company. Winter stood on a crate, a bottle in hand, singing a drinking song. She was already swaying. A few soldiers lay passed out in the sand, empty bottles rolling around them. Two others were boxing while a ring of spectators cheered.
These are not proper soldiers, Tom thought. These are criminals, outcasts, gone crazy on New Siberia. Most were exiled there for terrible crimes. A chill ran down his spine. And I brought them here. To this paradise. I brought serpents into the garden of Eden.
His president had ordered it. His president had been a soldier for most of her life. His president had made a mistake.
Amor placed a hand on Tom's cheek, and she gently guided his face toward hers. "Sir, please stay with us longer. At least for tonight. You must learn about us Bahayans before you visit the Red Cardinal. He will tell you one story. First you must hear our tale."
Her damp eyes gazed into his, and his resolve melted.
"I'll stay for the night," he said.
She held his hand. "Will you walk with me?"
They walked along the beach, leaving the village behind. The twin moons lit their way, gleaming across the soft waves. The seashells strewn across the shore all came alight like countless jewels. The rainforest rustled, full of silver fireflies. The waves, swaying trees, and chirping insects formed a symphony.
But most intoxicating was the warmth of Amor's hand in his. His hand, warmed by her touch, felt more alive than the rest of his body, indeed than this entire breathing world.
Calm yourself, Tom, he thought. You're old enough to be her father. Besides, you decided long ago to focus on your work, not on women.
Amor looked up at him, eyes soft with concern. "You're troubled, sir. There's a heavy burden on your shoulders. Pain in your eyes."
"We are broken travelers," Tom said, gazing ahead at the moonlit beach. "We carry with us pain and anger and fear. We washed up in paradise. We found the most beautiful world we've ever seen. And I worry that we'll break it."
Amor smiled sadly and caressed his cheek. "Have you ever heard the tale of Miguel and the thousand colors of the night?"
Tom shook his head. "No. Tell me this tale."
They continued walking along the beach, hand in hand. She spoke softly, telling him the tale.
* * * * *
Long ago, when the sun was young and the moons were new, lived a man called Miguel Baltazar. He was among the First Children, those who flew to Bahay in the silver chariots, leaving Earth to the songs of myth. He was a wandering soul who refused to live in any village or farm. He roamed the rainforests, climbed the mountains, rowed down the rivers, and explored the new world. For twenty years and a day, Miguel traveled across Bahay, mapping her tallest islands and deepest seas.
After exploring the last of Bahay's ten thousand islands, Miguel became restless. A single world was not enough for a man with such wanderlust. Not a man who had flown in a silver chariot between two worlds! So Miguel raised his eyes toward the night sky, and he dreamed of the stars.
But the silver chariots, the starfaring vessels of the Santelmos, were gone. The Bahayans had reed boats, rickshaws, and wheelbarrows. They were masters of water, land, and forest. But nothing they could build could fly into the heavens. And the Red Cardinal hid in his cathedral, sharing none of this arcane lore. For years, Miguel tried to forget the stars, but he could not ignore their song.
So Miguel traveled deep into the rainforest, deeper than any soul had ever explored. There, in a court of fireflies and stone columns, he came before Tala, a goddess of trees and stars. She was beautiful, her hair like molten gold, her eyes like emeralds, and butterflies formed her crown of splendorous colors.
"Goddess Tala!" said Miguel. "I've explored the land and oceans, and now I seek to rise to the stars. As you are the lady of the forest, I wish to become the lord of the sky. How may I claim my dominion?"
The goddess looked upon him, wisdom and sadness in her eyes.
"You must weave a cloak of many patches," she told him. "And each patch must be another color of the night sky. Once you've captured the thousand colors of the night, drape the cloak around yourself, and you will rise to the stars and rule them all."
Miguel was filled with happiness. He danced around and kissed the goddess, and he left the rainforest, chin raised high. There was new purpose to his life.
For a thousand nights, Miguel gazed at the sky, and he saw new colors. He began to assemble his cloak of many patches.
For the first patch, he captured the color of a starless, moonless night. He swam to the depths of the ocean, and he battled an octopus the size of a sailing ship. He defeated the beast and dragged it to shore. There he harvested the octopus's ink, the darkest color in nature. With the ink, Miguel dyed his first patch. A humble square of cloth the color of a starless, moonless night.
For another patch, Miguel needed to capture the color of Asul Mata, our blue moon. He traveled to another ocean halfway around the world. For many days, he dived deep underwater, battling the armored sharks of the ocean trenches. Finally he found a rare mollusk whose dye was as blue as the moon. And he dyed his second patch, the dark blue color of a night with one moon.
For a third patch, Miguel wanted to capture the color of Pilat Mata, our silver moon. He traveled along the equator, and he trekked deep into the swamplands. For a year, he battled the reptilian men who lived there. Finally Miguel reached the center of the swamp where grew a rare silver flower. Its petals shone like the silver moon. Miguel plucked the flower, and from its petals he wove a third patch. A patch the color of starlight.
There were many other colors to capture for his cloak. The color of a monsoon night when lightning flashes among gray clouds. The color of the stars over paddies rich with harvest. The color of both moons close together, and the color of the moons behind thin clouds. The color of the horizon just before dawn. The color of the heavens just after sunset. The color of the galaxy's spiral arm trailing above the sea. The color of children's curiosity and lovers' dreams.
For many years, Miguel traveled the world, collecting dyes from animals, flowers, precious gemstones, and priceless jewels. Patch after patch, slowly collecting the thousand colors of the night. His back became crooked, so he traveled with a cane. His eyesight grew dim, so he took thick glasses to examine new colors. He beard grew long and white, and his family forgot him, but slowly his cloak was taking shape. It billowed across his back, woven of hundreds of colors, a tapestry of the heavens.
Finally, after twenty years and two days, Miguel ground a sorcerer's stone into pale gray powder with sparkles of cobalt. And he dyed the final patch.
His cloak was complete.
Miguel wrapped the cloak of a thousand colors around his bent, frail body. He raised his chin and cried out to the goddess, "I've completed your task! I've conquered the thousand colors of night! Make me lord of the stars."
Nothing happened.
Miguel remained below, the stars out of reach.
In despair, he ripped off his cloak. And he noticed that the oldest patches, those he had collected twenty years ago, were fading and frayed. The octopus ink, once as black as a starless, moonless sky, was now a brittle gray. The silver flower petals, which had once shone like the Pilat Mata, had faded to an eggshell color. Hundreds of the patches had lost their original hues.
In his grief, Miguel burned the cloak in a great fire. All its thousand colors rose from it in smoldering little scraps like butterflies. Miguel knelt alone in the forest, a naked old man, and his long white beard was his only cloak. All his loved ones were gone, all his dreams had faded, and Miguel cursed the sky.
"I tried to grab you all!" he cried to the stars. "And I was left with none."
They say that even today, centuries later, Miguel is still wandering the wilderness, an old man with a bent back and long white beard. Sometimes children throw stones at him and mock him, and sometimes travelers pity him, feed him, and offer him a bed for the night. And the old man smiles without teeth, and in payment for their kindness, he tells them about the thousand colors of the night.
* * * * *
Amor de la Luna finished her tale. Tears shone on her cheeks, reflecting the twin moons. Tom dried them with a gentle touch.
"It's a beautiful tale," he said.
She smiled at him, fresh tears falling like tiny jewels. "Do you know why I told you this tale?"
Tom nodded. His voice was barely a whisper. "I do."
She pulled from her pocket a crystal the size of an egg. She turned it in her hands, and its facades shone with many colors.
"This is what our elders call a problem stone," she said. "Hold it to your eyes. Then turn it."
