Earthborn (Homecoming) (50 page)

He saw himself sitting on a hillside watching Father teach the Pabulogi. He felt the rage inside his boyish heart, heard himself vowing revenge. But on whom? Now he could see what he had not seen then: What he was raging at was not the Pabulogi at all, and not even his father for teaching them. No, the betrayal that stung him to the heart was against all of them and none of them—it was against the Keeper of Earth for daring to save the people without using Akma as his instrument.

And what was that secret inner watcher saying then? Nothing. Nothing at all. It had withdrawn. It was silent within him while his heart was filled with rage at not having been chosen.

I drove it away. I was empty then.

But no, not completely empty, for now he could sense it like the softest possible sound, the tiniest possible mark, the dimmest possible star that could still be seen at all. The watcher was still there, and it was quietly saying, It was not your time, it was not your time, be patient, the plan is larger than you, I needed others this time, your time will come. . . .

So the watcher was there, but had no effect on him, because his own rage drowned it out.

And now, looking inside himself, he realized that the watcher was still inside him, still speaking, like a voice behind the voice of his mind, offering perpetual commentary on every conscious thought but always fleeing from consciousness itself whenever he tried to seize the elusive wisdom. Even now he could only remember the comment that had just passed, not hear the one that was happening right now.

Now you know me, the watcher had just said. You knew me all along, but now you know that you know me.

Yes, said Akma silently in reply. You are the Keeper of Earth, and you have been part of me all along. You have been like a spark kept alive inside me no matter how I tried to put that fire out, no matter how often I denied you, there you were.

“Their pleas will be answered,” the messenger was saying, “whether you choose to destroy yourself or not.” And with that the message ended. The bright arm reached out to point to him. The finger crackled and hissed and a terrible pain touched every nerve in his body at once, he was entirely on fire, and in that moment of exquisite agony he could remember what the watcher, what the Keeper, had just . . . finished . . . saying. . . .

Now you know me, Akma. And now I’m gone.

Until that moment, Akma could not have imagined a more terrible pain than the suffering of his body as the messenger’s bolt of power touched all his nerves at once. But now that pain had ended and Akma’s body lay crumpled on the ground, and he understood that the pain of his body was nothing, it hadn’t even touched him, it was almost a pleasure compared to . . .

Compared to perfect solitude.

He was connected to nothing. He had no name because there was no one to know him, no place because he was connected to nothing, no power because there was nothing on which he could act. Yet he knew that once he had had these things and now they were torn from him; he was lost and would never be anything or anyone again; he was lost because
no one knew him
. Where is the one who watches? Where is the one who knows me? Where is the one who names me? I only just found him inside me, didn’t I? How could he have left me now?

There was no pain compared to this loss. He wouldn’t mind being restored to the agonized body he had been connected to only a few moments ago, because it was better to feel that pain, with the watcher judging him, than to feel this utter lack of pain, with no one watching him. When I felt the pain I was part of something; now I am part of nothing.

Didn’t I want this? To be only myself, responsible to no one, uncommanded, uncontrolled, unexpected, free? I didn’t know what it meant till now, to owe nothing to anyone, to have no duty because I had no
power to act. I didn’t realize that utter independence was the most terrible punishment.

All my life the Keeper was inside me, judging me. But now the judging is over. I was not fit to be part of the Keeper’s world.

As he knew this, the reasons for his knowledge began to come into his mind. Images that he had refused to imagine before now came to him with perfect reality. An old digger woman being set upon and beaten by human men, tall and terrifying; and because Akma was inside her, all her memories flooded over him and he knew all the meanings of this moment. When his comprehension of the old woman’s suffering was complete, he suddenly passed into the mind of one of the thugs, and now he was no longer a thug, but a man, sickened by his own action yet still hot-blooded from violence, not daring to voice his own self-contempt because then he would be shamed in front of . . .

And in that moment Akma was inside the man whose admiration the thug had treasured, and saw his sense of pride and power at having set in motion the dark events that terrorized the Kept. He was hungry for power, and loved having it now, for now they would have to think of
him
when they wanted something done, they would respect him. . . .

And now the “they” in the plotter’s mind took on a shape, several shapes, rich old men who had once been influential in the kingdom but now were only important in Darakemba, for the kingdom had outgrown their petty reach. When Aronha is king, he’ll know that my influence is valuable. I can accomplish the things that are too dark for him to do with his own hands. I will not be despised, when the new king comes.

It took no further explanation for Akma to understand, for wasn’t he the one who captured the hearts and minds of the sons of Motiak, who united them against the policies of his own father and the king? The certainty in his mind was unassailable: This old
woman would not have been beaten if I had not deliberately given others cause to think that they would gain some advantage through cruelty to the Kept. The chain of cause was long, but it was not false, and the worst thing was that Akma knew that he had known it all along, that in his hatred and envy of the Keeper’s power he had, in fact, longed for violent and cruel action and, instead of doing it with his own hands, had flung his power out into the world and caused other hands to do what he wanted done.

This is what the Keeper does, to accomplish his good works: casts his influence out into the world and gives people encouragement for their good impulses. The watcher that was present in me is present in every living soul; no one is alone; everyone is touched by those gentle words of affirmation when they do what the Keeper asks: Well done, my good child, my faithful friend, my willing servant. My own power was but a small part of what the Keeper has, a dim shadow of his influence—but instead of using it to make other people a bit more happy, a bit more free, I used it to kindle the avarice and envy in some hearts, who then fanned the flames of violence in others. I was inside their hearts when they struck, and my voice, even though they didn’t know it was my voice, was saying, Break, tear, hurt, destroy. She is not part of the world that we are building; drive her out. Those I used as my hands in this dirty business were also responsible for their own actions, but that does not absolve me. For those who do good, do it with the Keeper inside them, urging them on, praising them for their kindness—yet the Keeper does not make them do it. The good works are their own, and also they are the Keeper’s. So also were the cruelties of these dark-hearted men their own, and yet mine as well. Mine.

No sooner had he understood his own role in the beating of that one old woman than a new cruelty came into his mind, a child who cried out in hunger and had nothing to eat because his father had lost his
income in the boycott; Akma saw through the child’s eyes, and then through the father’s, feeling his shame and despair at being unable to give his child relief, and then Akma was the mother in her impotent rage and her complaints against the Keeper and the Kept for having brought this down upon them, and again he followed the chain of suffering and evil—the merchants who once had bought the father’s goods, who now refused to buy, some out of fear of reprisal, some out of a personal bias against diggers that now had become respectable—no, patriotic!—because Akma had stood before a crowd and told them that they must all obey the law and
not
boycott
anybody
and the audience had laughed because they understood what Akma wanted. . . .

He wanted the child to weep and the father’s pride to break and the mother’s loyalty to the Kept to burn out in helpless fury. He wanted this because he had to punish the Keeper for
not choosing him
back when he was a child desperate to save his little sister from the lash.

Over and over, time after time, scene after scene, he saw all the pain he had caused. How long did it last? It could have been a single minute; it could have been a dozen lifetimes. How could he measure it, having no connection to reality, no sense of time? He saw it all, however long it took; and yet each moment of it was also eternal, because his understanding was so complete.

If he could have made a sound, it would have been an endless scream. It was unbearable to be alone; and worst of all was that in his solitude he had to be with himself, with all his loathsome, contemptible actions.

Long before the parade of crimes was over, Akma was finished. He no longer saw himself leading the parade of conquering soldiers sweeping through the Elemaki lands. He could not bear the thought of anyone ever seeing him again, for now he knew what he truly was and could never hide it from himself or anyone
else again. The shame was too great. He no longer wished to be restored to all the things that he had lost. Now all he wanted was to be blotted out. Don’t make me face anyone again. Don’t make me face myself. Don’t make me face even you, Keeper. I can’t bear to exist.

Yet each time that he thought he had reached bottom and could suffer no more deeply than at
this
moment, another image would spring into his mind, another person whose suffering he had caused, and . . . yes . . . he
could
feel more shame and pain than he had felt only a moment ago, when it had already seemed infinite and unbearable.

Shedemei made her way through the quiet house, where so many people quietly came and went, carrying out their tasks. She saw four young men and recognized them as the sons of Motiak; they didn’t recognize her, of course, since all they had seen on the road was unwatchable brightness in a human shape. And in a way she didn’t recognize them either, for the strutting, laughing, boastful boys that she had first met were gone; and also gone were the cowering, terrified children who trembled before her and winced at every word she spoke—spoke, of course, into a tiny microphone so that the translation equipment could amplify and distort her voice to make it as painful as possible.

What she saw now were four humans who actually had some hint of manhood about them. It was clear from their ravaged faces that they had shed many tears, but they were making no show of grief and remorse now. Instead, as people came to them—many of them diggers, though most were not—they received them graciously. “All we hope for now is that the Keeper will decide to spare Akma’s life, so that he can join us in going about trying to undo the terrible harm we caused. Yes, I know that you forgive me; you’re more generous than I deserve, but I accept your forgiveness and I vow to you that for the rest of
my life I will do all that I can to earn what you’ve given me freely. But for now we wait and watch with Akma’s family. The Keeper struck him down because loyal and obedient Kept like you pleaded for relief. The Keeper hears you. We beg you to plead again with him for the life and forgiveness of our friend.” Their words were not always so clear, but the meaning was the same: We will try to undo the harm we caused; we beg you to plead with the Keeper to save our friend.

Shedemei had no particular wish to speak to them—she knew from the Oversoul that they were sincere, that their true natures had once again emerged, wiser now, with painful memories, but committed to lives of decency. What business did she have with them, then? It was Akma that she came to see.

Chebeya met her at the door to Akma’s bedchamber. The room was small and sparse—Akmaro and Chebeya really did live modestly. “Shedemei,” Chebeya said. “I’m so glad you got word and came. We were a day’s walk from the capital when word reached us that the Keeper had struck down our boy. We got home only a few hours before Motiak’s boys brought him here. We kept expecting to pass you on the road.”

“I went another way,” said Shedemei. “I had some botanical specimens to tend to, among other things.” She knelt beside Akma’s inert body. He certainly did look dead.

Brain activity? asked Shedemei silently.

Well, what is the feeling?

I’m certainly not going to tell his parents
that.

No prognosis.

It certainly makes me suspect that Sherem didn’t just die of a stroke in the midst of his argument with Oykib.

was
a stroke. It was just a convenient one. For all we know, the Keeper can make people keel over whenever she wants.>

Good thing that
people
don’t have powers like that. I have enough of a temper that my path would be strewn with corpses all the day long.

Sighing, Shedemei arose from the floor. “He’s completely stable. But it’s impossible to predict when or whether he will awaken.”