Time Travel Omnibus, page 795
“It is good to be concerned on that account, my child.” I shut out Mendoza’s transmission so I could concentrate on the elderly mortal woman on the other side of the screen. “To covet worldly things is very sinful indeed, especially for the poor. The Devil himself sent the Yankees with those pans, you may be certain.” But Mendoza had left her credenza and was coming down the arcade in search of me, ten meters, twenty meters, twenty-five . . . “For this, and for your sinful dreams, you must say thirty Paternosters and sixty Ave Marias . . .” Mendoza was coming up the church steps two at a time . . . “Now, recite with me the Act of Contrition—”
“Hey!” Mendoza pulled back the door of the confessional. Her eyes were glowing with happiness. I gave her a stern look and continued the Act of Contrition with my somewhat disconcerted penitent, so Mendoza went out to stride up and down in front of the church in her impatience.
“Don’t you know better than to interrupt me when I’m administering a sacrament?” I snapped when I was finally able to come out to her. “Some Spaniard you are!”
“So report me to the Holy Office. Joseph, this is important. One of my specimens read out with an F-M Class One rating.”
“And?” I put my hands in my sleeves and frowned at her, refusing to come out of the role of offended friar.
“Favorable Mutation, Joseph, don’t you know what that means? It’s a Mission grape with a difference. It’s got Saccharomyces with style and Botrytis in rare bloom. Do you know what happens when a field operative discovers an F-M Class One, Joseph?”
“You get a prize,” I guessed.
“Si Senor!” She did a little dance down the steps and stared up at me in blazing jubilation. I hadn’t seen her this happy since 1554. “I get a Discovery Bonus! Six months of access to a lab for my own personal research projects, with the very finest equipment available! Oh joy, oh rapture. So I need you to help me.”
“What do you need?”
“The Company wants the parent plant I took the specimen from, the whole thing, root and branch. It’s a big vine, must have been planted years ago, so I need you to get me some Indians to dig it up and bring it back here in a carreta. Six months at a Sciences Base, can you imagine?”
“Where did you get the specimen?” I inquired.
She barely thought about it. “Two kilometers south-southeast. Just some Indian family back in the hills, Joseph, with a hut in a clearing and a garden. Kasmali, that was what they called themselves. You know the family? I suppose we’ll have to pay them something for it. You’ll have to arrange that for me, okay?”
I sighed. Once again the kindly padre was going to explain to the Indian why it was necessary to give up yet another of his belongings. Not my favorite role, all things considered.
* * *
But there we were that afternoon, the jolly friar and his haughty cousin, paying a call on the Kasmali family.
They were good parishioners of mine, the old abuela at Mass every day of the week, rain or shine, the rest of the family lined up there every Sunday. That was a lot to expect of our Indians in this day and age. They were prosperous, too, as Indians went: they had three walls of a real adobe house and had patched in the rest with woven brush. They had terraced their tiny hillside garden and were growing all kinds of vegetables on land not fit for grazing. There were a few chickens, there were a few little brown children chasing them, there were a few cotton garments drying on the bushes. And, on the crest of the hill, a little way from the house, there was the vineyard: four old vines, big as trees, with branches spreading out to shade most of an acre of land.
The children saw us coming and vanished into the house without a sound. By the time we reached the top of the winding stony path, they had all come out and were staring at us: the toothless old woman from daily Mass, a toothless old man I did not know, the old son, the two grown grandsons, their wives, and children of assorted ages. The elder of the grandsons came forward to greet us.
“Good evening, little Father.” He looked uneasily at Mendoza. “Good evening, lady.”
“Good evening, Emidio.” I paused and pretended to be catching my breath after the climb, scanning him. He was small, solidly built, with broad and very dark features; he had a stiff black moustache. His wide eyes flickered once more to Mendoza, then back to me. “You have already been introduced to my cousin, I see.”
“Yes, little Father.” He made a slight bow in her direction. “The lady came yesterday and cut some branches off our grapevines. We did not mind, of course.”
“It is very kind of you to permit her to collect these things.” I eyed Mendoza, hoping she’d been tactful with them.
“Not at all. The lady speaks our language very well.”
“That is only courtesy, my son. Now, I must tell you that one of your vines has taken her fancy, for its extraordinary fruit and certain virtues in the leaves. We have come back here today, therefore, to ask you what you will accept for that near vine at the bottom of the terrace.”
The rest of the family stood like statues, even the children. Emidio moved his hands in a helpless gesture and said, “The lady must of course accept our gift.”
“No, no,” said Mendoza. “We’ll pay you. How much do you want for it?” I winced.
“She must accept the gift, please, Father.” Emidio’s smile was wretched.
“Of course she shall,” I agreed. “And, Emidio, I have a gift I have been meaning to give you since the feast of San Juan. Two little pigs, a boar and a sow, so they may increase. When you bring down the vine for us you may collect them.”
The wives lifted up their heads at that. This was a good deal. Emidio spread out his hands again. “Of course, little Father. Tomorrow.”
“Well, that was easy,” Mendoza remarked as we picked our way down the hill through the chaparral. “You’re so good with mortals, Joseph. You just have to treat Indians like children, I guess, huh?”
“No, you don’t,” I sighed. “But it’s what they expect you to do, so they play along.” There was more to it than that, of course, but something else was bothering me. I had picked up something more than the usual stifled resentment when I had voiced my request: someone in the family had been badly frightened for a second. Why? “You didn’t do anything to, like, scare those people when you were there before, did you, Mendoza? Didn’t threaten them or anything, did you?”
“Heavens, no.” She stopped to examine a weed. “I was quite polite. They weren’t comfortable around me, actually, but then mortals never are. Look at this! I’ve never seen this blooming so late in the year, have you?”
“Nice.” I glanced at it. I don’t know from plants. I know a lot about mortals, though.
So I was surprised as hell next day when Emidio and his brother appeared at the Mission, trundling a cart full of swaying leaves into the open space by the fountain. I went out to greet them and Mendoza was behind me like a shadow. She must have been prowling her room, listening for the squeak of wheels.
“This is very good, my sons, I am proud of you—” I was saying heartily, when Mendoza transmitted a blast of subvocal fury.
Damn it, Joseph, this is wrong! These are just clippings, they haven’t brought the whole vine!
“—but I perceive there has been a misunderstanding,” I continued. “My cousin requested the vine itself, with its roots, that she may replant it. You have brought only cut branches, apparently.” The Indians exchanged glances.
“Please forgive us, little Father. We did not understand.” They set down the traces and Emidio reached into the back. “We did bring all the grapes that were ripe. Maybe it was these the lady wanted?” And he proffered a big woven dish of grapes. I looked close and noticed they did have a funny look to them, a bloom on the skin so heavy it was almost . . . furry?
“No,” said Mendoza, in clearest Chumash. “Not just the grapes. I want the vine. The whole plant. You need to dig it up, roots and all, and bring it here. Do you understand now?”
“Oh,” said Emidio. “We’re very sorry. We didn’t understand.”
“But you understand now?” she demanded.
“I am certain they do,” I said smoothly. “What remarkable grapes these are, my sons, and what a beautiful basket! Come in and rest in the shade, my sons, and have a cool drink. Then we will go catch one of the little pigs I promised you.”
By the time we got back, Mendoza had vanished; the grapes and the vine cuttings were gone too. The brothers trudged away up the hill with their cart and one squealing shoat, his legs bound with twine. Pig Number Two remained in the Mission pen, to be paid on delivery of the vine. I figured if the wives got that message they’d see to it the job got done.
Mendoza came out when they were gone. She looked paler than usual. She handed me a sheet of paper from her credenza. “This is a Priority Order,” she told me. “I sent them the codes on the grapes and clippings anyway, but it’s not enough.”
I read the memo. She wasn’t kidding; it was a first-class trans-departmental Priority Gold telling me I was to do everything in my power to facilitate, expedite and et cetera. “What have we got here, anyway, cancer cures from grapes?” I speculated.
“You don’t need to know and neither do I,” said Mendoza flatly. “But the Company means business now, Joseph. We must get that vine.”
“We’ll get it tomorrow,” I told her. “Trust me.”
Next day, same hour, the brothers came with hopeful smiles and a big muddy mess of a vine trailing out of their cart. Such relief! Such heartfelt praise and thanks the kindly friar showered on his obedient sons in Christ! Mendoza heard their arrival and came tearing out into the courtyard, only to pull up short with an expression of baffled rage.
THAT’S NOT THE VINE! she transmitted, with such intensity I thought for a second we were having an earthquake.
“. . . And yet, my sons, I am afraid we have not understood each other once again,” I went on wearily. “It appears that, although you have brought us a whole vine, you have not brought the particular vine that was specifically asked for by my cousin.”
“We are so sorry,” replied Emidio, averting his eyes from Mendoza. “How stupid we were! But, Father, this is a very good vine. It’s in much better condition than the other one and bears much prettier grapes. Also, it was very difficult to dig it all up and we have brought it a long way. Maybe the lady will be satisfied with this vine instead?”
Mendoza was shaking her head, not trusting herself to speak, although the air around her was wavering like a mirage. Hastily I said:
“My dearest sons, I am sure it is an excellent vine, and we would not take it from your family. You must understand that it is the other vine we want, the very one you brought cuttings from yesterday. That vine and no other, and all of that vine. Now, you have clearly worked very hard and in good faith, so I will certainly send you home with your other pig, but you must come back tomorrow with the right vine.”
The brothers looked at each other and I picked up a flash of despair from them, and some weird kind of fear too. “Yes, little Father,” they replied.
But on the next day they didn’t come at all.
Mendoza paced the arcade until nine in the evening, alarming the other friars. Finally I went out to her and braced myself for the blast.
“You know, you lost yourself two perfectly good pigs,” she informed me through gritted teeth. “Damned lying Indians.”
I shook my head. “Something’s wrong here, Mendoza.”
“You bet something’s wrong! You’ve got a three-day delay on a Priority Gold.”
“But there’s some reason we’re not getting. Something is missing from this picture . . .”
“We never should have tried to bargain with them, you know that? They offered it as a gift in the first place. We should have just taken it. Now they know it’s really worth something! I’ll go up there with a spade and dig the damned vine up myself, if I have to.”
“No! You can’t do that, not now. They’ll know who took it, don’t you see?”
“One more crime against the helpless Indians laid at the door of Spain. As if it mattered any more!” Mendoza turned on her heel to stare at me. Down at the other end of the arcade one of my brother friars put his head out in discreet inquiry.
It does matter! I dropped to a subvocal hiss. It matters to them and it matters to me! I call them my beloved sons, but they know I’ve got the power to go up there and confiscate anything they have on any excuse at all because that’s how it’s always been done! Only I don’t. They know Father Rubio won’t do that to them. I’ve built up a cover identity as a kindly, honorable guy because I’ve got to live with these people for the next thirty years! You’ll get your damn specimen and go away again into the sagebrush, but I’ve got a character to maintain!
My God, she sneered, He wants his little Indians to love him.
Company policy, baby. It’s easier to deal with mortals when they trust you. Something you used to understand. So just you try screwing with my cover identity! Just you try it and see what happens.
She widened her eyes at that, too furious for words, and I saw her knuckles go white; little chips of whitewash began falling from the walls. We both looked up at them and cooled down in a hurry.
Sony. But I mean what I say Mendoza. We handle this my way.
She threw her hands up in the air. What are you going to do, then, smart guy? You have to do something.
Day four of the Priority Gold, and Company Directive 081244-A anxiously inquired why no progress on previous transdepartmental request for facilitation?
Situation Report follows, I responded. Please stand by. Then I put on my walking sandals and set off up the canyon alone.
Before I had toiled more than halfway, though, I met Emidio coming in my direction. He didn’t try to avoid me, but as he approached he looked down the canyon past me in the direction of the Mission. “Good morning, little Father,” he called.
“Good morning, my son.”
“Is your cousin lady with you?” He dropped his voice as he drew close.
“No, my son. We are alone.”
“I need to speak with you, little Father, about the grapevine.” He cleared his throat. “I know the lady must be very angry, and I am sorry. I don’t mean to make you angry too, little Father, because I know she is your cousin—”
“I understand, my son, believe me. And I am not angry.”
“Well then.” He drew a deep breath. “This is the matter. The grapevines do not belong to me, nor to my father. They belong to our grandfather Diego. And he will not let us dig up the vine the lady wants.”
“Why will he not?”
“He won’t tell us. He just refuses. Don’t be stupid, we told him. Father Rubio has been good to us, he has treated us fairly. Look at the fine pigs he has given us, we said. He just sits in the sun and rocks himself, and refuses us. And our grandmother came and touched his feet and cried, though she didn’t say anything, but he wouldn’t even look at her.”
“I see.”
“We have said everything we could say to him, but he will not let us dig up that vine. We tried to fool the lady twice by pretending to make mistakes (and that was a sin, little Father, and I’m sorry), but it didn’t work. Somehow she knew. Then our grandfather—” he paused in obvious embarrassment. “I don’t know how to say this, little Father—you know the old people are superstitious and still believe foolish things—1 think he somehow has the idea that your cousin lady is a nunasis. Please don’t take this the wrong way—”
“No, no, go on—”
“We have an old story about a spirit who walks on the mountains and wears a hat like hers, you see, throwing a shadow cold as death. I know it’s stupid. Even so, Grandfather won’t let us dig up that vine. Now, you might say, our grandfather is only an old man and a little bit crazy now, and we’re strong, so he can be put aside as though he were a little baby; but if we did that, we would be breaking the commandment about honoring the old people. It seems to us that would be a worse sin than the white lady not getting what she wanted. What do you think, little Father?”
Boy, oh, boy. “This is very hard, my son,” I said, and I meant it. “But you are right.”
Emidio studied me in silence for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. “Thank you,” he said at last. After another pause he added, “Is there anything we can do that will make the lady happy? She’ll be angry with you, now.”
I found myself laughing. “She will make my life a Purgatory, I can tell you,” I said. “But I will offer it up for my sins. Go home, Emidio, and don’t worry. Perhaps God will send a miracle.”
I wasn’t laughing when I got back to the Mission, though, and when Mendoza came looking for me she saw my failure right away.
“No dice, huh?” She squinted evilly. “Well. This is no longer a matter of me and my poor little bonus now, Joseph. The Company wants that vine. I suggest you think of something fast or there are liable to be some dead Indians around here soon, pardon my indelicate phrasing.”
“I’m working on it,” I told her.
And I was. I went to the big leatherbound books that held the Mission records. I sat down in a corner of the scriptorium and went over them in minute detail.
1789—here was the baptism of Diego Kasmali, age given as thirty years. 1790, marriage to Maria Conception, age not given. 1791 through 1810, a whole string of baptisms of little Kasmalis: Agustin, Xavier, Pablo, Juan Bautista, Maria, Dolores, Guadalupe, Dieguito, Marta, Tomas, Luisa, Bartolomeo. First Communion for Xavier Kasmali, 1796. One after the other, a string of little funerals: Agustin age two days, Pablo age three months six days, Juan Bautista age six days, Maria age two years . . . too sad to go on down the list, but not unusual. Confirmation for Xavier Kasmali, 1802. Xavier Kasmali married to Juana Catalina of the Dos Pueblos rancheria, age 18 years, 1812. Baptism of Emidio Kasmali, 1813. Baptism of Salvador Kasmali, 1814. Funeral of Juana Catalina, 1814. First Communions, Confirmations, Marriages, Baptisms, Extreme Unctions . . . not a sacrament missed. Really good Catholics.
Why the old, old woman was at Mass every single day of the year, rain or shine, though she was propped like a bundle of sticks in the shadows at the back of the church. Maria Conception, wife of Diego Kasmali. But Diego never, ever at Mass. Why not? On a desperate hunch I went to my transmitter and typed in a request for something unusual.
