Zeck Morgan sat attentively on the front row of the
little sanctuary of the Church of the Pure Christ in Eden, North Carolina. He
did not fidget, though he had two itches, one on his foot and one on his
eyebrow. He knew the eyebrow itch was from a fly that had landed there. The
foot itch, too, probably, though he did not look down to see whether anything
was crawling there.
He did not
look out the windows at the falling snow. He did not glance to left or right,
not even to glare at the parents of the crying baby in the row behind him-it
was for others to judge whether it was more important for the parents to stay
and hear the sermon, or leave and preserve the stillness of the meeting.
Zeck was the
minister’s son, and he knew his duty.
Reverend Habit
Morgan stood at the small pulpit-really an old dictionary stand picked up at a
library sale. No doubt the dictionary that had once rested on it had been
replaced by a computer, just one more sign of the degradation of the human
race, to worship the False God of Tamed Lightning. “They think because
they have pulled the lightning from the sky and contained it in their machines
they are gods now, or the friends of gods. Do they not know that the only thing
written by lightning is fire? Yea, I say unto you, it is the fire of hell, and
the gods they have befriended are devils!”
It had been
one of Father’s best sermons. He gave it when Zeck was three, but Zeck had not
forgotten a word of it. Zeck did not forget a word of anything. As soon as he
knew what words were, he remembered them.
But he did not
tell Father that he remembered. Because when Mother realized that he could
repeat whole sermons word for word, she told him, very quietly but very
intensely, “This is a great gift that God has given you, Zeck. But you
must not show it to anyone, because some might think it comes from Satan.”
“Does it?”
Zeck had asked. “Come from Satan?”
“Satan
does not give good gifts,” said Mother. “So it comes from God.”
“Then why
would anyone think it comes from Satan?”
Her forehead
frowned, though her lips kept their smile. Her lips always smiled when she knew
anyone was looking. It was her duty as the minister’s wife to show that the
pure Christian life made one happy.
“Some
people are looking so hard to find Satan,” she finally said, “that
they see him even where he isn’t.”
Naturally,
Zeck remembered this conversation word for word. So it was there in his mind
when he was four, and Father said, “There are those who will tell you that
a thing is from God, when it’s really from the devil.”
“Why,
Father?”
“They are
deceived,” said Father, “by their own desire. They wish the world
were a better place, so they pretend that polluted things are pure, so they
don’t have to fear them.”
Ever since
then, Zeck had balanced these two conversations, for he knew that Mother was
warning him about Father, and Father was warning him about Mother.
It was
impossible to choose between them. He did not want to choose.
Still… he
never let Father see his perfect memory. It was not a lie, however. If Father
ever asked him to repeat a conversation or a sermon or anything at all, Zeck
would do it, and honestly, showing that he knew it word for word. But Father
did not ask anybody anything, except when he asked God.
Which he had
just done. Standing there at the pulpit, glaring out at the congregation,
Father said, “What about Santa Claus! Saint Nick! Is he the same thing as
‘Old Nick’? Does he have anything to do with Christ? Is our worship pure, when
we have this ‘Old Saint Nick’ in our hearts? Is he really jolly? Does he laugh
because he knows he is leading our children down to hell?”
He glared
around the congregation as if waiting for an answer. And finally someone gave
the only answer that was appropriate for this point in the sermon:
“Brother Habit, we don’t know. Would you ask God and tell us what he
says?”
Whereupon
Father roared out, “God in heaven! Thou knowest our question! Tell us
thine answer! We thy children ask thee for bread, O Father! Do not give us a
stone!”
Then he
gripped the pulpit- the dictionary stand, which trembled under his hands- and
continued glaring upward. Zeck knew that when Father looked upward like that,
he did not see the roof beams or the ceiling above them. He was staring into
heaven, demanding that all those hurrying angels get out of his way so his gaze
could penetrate all the way to God and demand his attention, because it was his
right. Ask and it shall be given, God had promised. Knock and it shall be
opened! Well, Habit Morgan was knocking and asking, and it was time for God to
open and give. God could not break his word- at least not when Habit Morgan was
holding him to it.
But God took
his own sweet time. Which was why Zeck was sitting there on the front row, with
Mother and his three younger siblings beside him, all perched on chairs so
wobbly they showed the slightest trace of movement. The other children were
young, and their fidgets were forgiven. Zeck was determined to be pure, and his
wobbly chair might have been made of stone for all the movement it made.
When Father
stared into heaven this long it was a test. Maybe it was a test given by God,
or maybe Father had already received his answer- received it perhaps the night
before when he was writing this sermon- and so the test was from him. Either
way, Zeck would pass this test as he passed all the tests laid before him.
The long
minutes dragged. One itch would fade, only to be replaced by another. Father
still stared into heaven. Zeck ignored the sweat trickling down his neck.
And behind
him, somewhere among the seventy-three members of the congregation who had come
today (Zeck hadn’t counted them, he had only glanced, but as usual he
immediately knew how many there were), someone shifted in his seat. Someone
coughed. It was the moment Father- or God- had been waiting for.
Father’s voice
was only a whisper, but it carried through the room. “How can I hear the
voice of the Holy Spirit when I am surrounded by impurity?”
Zeck thought
of quoting back to him his own sermon, given two years ago, when Zeck was only
just barely four. “Do you think that God cannot make his voice heard no
matter what other noise is going on around you? If you are pure, then all the
tumult of the world is silence compared to the voice of God.” But Zeck
knew that to quote this now would bring down the rod of chastisement. Father
was not really asking a question. He was pointing out what everyone knew: that
in all this congregation, only Habit Morgan was really, truly pure. That’s why
God’s answers came to him, and only to him.
“Saint
Nick is a mask!” roared Father. “Saint Nick is the false beard and
the false laugh worn by the drunken servants of the God of frivolity. Dionysus
is his name! Bacchus! Revelry and debauchery! Greed and covetousness are the
gifts he instills in the hearts of our children! O God, save us from the Satan
of Santa! Keep our children’s eyes averted from his malicious, predatory gaze!
Do not seat our children upon his lap to whisper their coveting into his stony
ear! He is an idol of idolatry! God knows what spirit animates these idols and
makes them laugh their ho, ho, whoredoms and abominations and braying
jackassery!”
Father was in
fine form. And now that he was bellowing the words of God, striding back and
forth across the front of the sanctuary, Zeck could scratch the occasional
itch, as long as he kept his gaze locked on Father’s face.
For an hour
Father went on, telling stories of children who put their faith in Santa Claus,
and parents who lied to their children about Saint Nick and taught their
children that all the stories of Christmas were myths- including the story of
the Christ child. Telling stories of children who became atheists when Santa
did not bring them the gifts they coveted most.
“Satan is
a liar every time! When Santa puts a lie on the lips of parents, the seed of
that lie is planted in the hearts of their children and when that seed comes to
flower and bears fruit, the fruit of that lie is faithlessness. You do not
deserve the trust of your children when you lie for Satan!”
Then his voice
fell to a whisper. “Jolly old Saint Nicholas,” he hissed. “Lean
your ear this way. Don’t you tell a single soul what I’m going to say.”
Then his voice roared out again. “Yes, your children whisper their secret
desires to Satan and he will answer their prayers, not with the presents they
seek, and certainly not with the presence of God Immanuel! No, he will answer
their prayers with the ashes of sin in their mouths, with the poison of atheism
and unbelief in the plasma of their blood. He will drive out the hemoglobin and
replace it with hellish lust!”
And so on. And
so on.
In Zeck’s
mind, the clock that kept perfect time went round the full forty minutes of the
sermon. Father never repeated himself once, and yet he also never strayed from
the single message. God’s message was always brief, Father said, but it took
him many words to translate the pure wisdom of the Lord’s language into the
poor English that mere mortals could understand.
And Father’s
sermons never ran over. He wrapped them up right in time. He was not a man who
talked just to hear himself talk. He labored his labor and then he was done.
At the end of
the sermon, there was a hymn and then Father called upon old Brother Verlin and
told him that God had seen him today and made his heart pure enough to pray.
Verlin rose to his feet weeping and could hardly get out the words of the
prayer of blessing on the congregation, he was so moved at being chosen for the
first time since he confessed selling an old car of his for nearly twice what
it was worth, because the buyer had tempted him by offering even more for it.
His sin was forgiven, more or less. That’s what it meant, for Brother Habit to
call on him to pray.
Then it was
done. Zeck leapt to his feet and ran to his father and hugged him, as he always
did, for it felt to him when such a sermon ended that some dust of light from
heaven must linger still on Father’s clothing, and if Zeck could embrace him
tightly enough, it might rub off on him, so that he could begin to become pure.
Because heaven knew he was not pure now.
Father loved
him at such times. Father’s hands were gentle on his hair, his shoulder, his
back; there was no willow rod to draw blood out of his shirt.
“Look,
son,” said Father. “We have a stranger here in the House of the
Lord.”
Zeck pulled
free to look at the door. Others had noticed the man, too, and stood looking at
him, silent until Habit Morgan declared him to be friend or foe. The stranger
wore a uniform, but it wasn’t one that Zeck had seen before- not the sheriff or
a deputy, not a fireman, not the state police.
“Welcome
to the Church of the Pure Christ,” said Father. “I’m sorry you didn’t
arrive for the sermon.”
“I
listened from outside,” said the man. “I didn’t want to
interrupt.”
“Then you
did well,” said Father, “for you heard the word of God, and yet you
listened with humility.”
“Are you
Reverend Habit Morgan?” asked the man.
“I
am,” said Father, “except we have no titles among us except Brother
and Sister. ‘Reverend’ suggests that I’m a certified minister, a hireling. No
one certified me but God, for only God can teach his pure doctrine, and only
God can name his ministers. Nor am I hired, for the servants of God are all
equal in his sight, and must all obey the admonition of God to Adam, to earn
his bread by the sweat of his face. I farm a plot of ground. I also drive a
truck for United Parcel Service.”
“Forgive
me for using an unwelcome title,” said the man. “In my ignorance, I
meant only respect.”
But Zeck was a
keen observer of human beings, and it seemed to him that the man had already
known how Father felt about the title “reverend,” and he had used it
deliberately.
This was
wrong. This was a pollution of the sanctuary. Zeck ran from Father to stand a
few feet in front of the man.
“If you
tell the truth right now,” Zeck said boldly, fearing nothing that this man
could do to him, “God will forgive you for your lie and the sanctuary will
be purified again.”
The
congregation gasped. Not in surprise or dismay; they assumed that it was God
speaking through him at times like this, though Zeck never claimed any such
thing. He denied that God ever spoke through him, and beyond that he could not
control what they believed.
“What lie
was that?” asked the man, amused.
“You know
all about us,” said Zeck. “You’ve studied our beliefs. You’ve studied
everything about Father. You know that it’s an offense to call him ‘reverend.’
You did it on purpose, and now you’re lying to pretend you meant respect.”
“You’re
correct,” said the man, still amused. “But what possible difference
does it make?”
“It must
have made a difference to you,” said Zeck, “or you wouldn’t have
bothered to lie.”
By now Father
stood behind him, and his hand on Zeck’s head told him he had said enough and
it was Father’s turn now.
“Out of
the mouths of babes,” said Father to the stranger. “You’ve come to us
with a lie on your lips, one which even a child could detect. Why are you here,
and who sent you?”
“I was
sent by the International Fleet, and my purpose is to test this boy to see if
he is qualified to attend Battle School.”
“We are
Christians, sir,” said Father. “God will protect us if that is his
will. We will lift no hand against our enemy.”
“I’m not
here to argue theology,” said the stranger. “I’m here to carry out
the law. There are no exemptions because of the religion of the parents.”
“What
about for the religion of the child?” asked Father.
“Children
have no religion,” said the stranger. “That’s why we take them young-
before they have been fully indoctrinated in any ideology.”
“So you
can indoctrinate them in yours,” said Father.
“Exactly,”
said the man.
Then the man
reached out to Zeck. “Come with me, Zechariah Morgan. We’ve set up the
examination in your parents’ house.”
Zeck turned
his back on the man.
“He does
not choose to take your test,” said Father.
“And
yet,” said the man, “he will take it, one way or another.”
The
congregation murmured at that.
The man from
the International Fleet looked around at them. “Our responsibility in the
International Fleet is to protect the human race from the Formic invaders. We
protect the whole human race- even those who don’t wish to be protected- and we
draw upon the most brilliant minds of the human race and train them for
command- even those who do not wish to be trained. What if this boy were the
most brilliant of all, the commander that would lead us to victory where no
other could succeed? Should everyone else in the human race die, just so you in
this congregation can remain… pure?”
“Yes,”
said Father. And the congregation echoed him. “Yes. Yes.”
“We are
the leaven in the loaf,” said Father. “We are the salt that must keep
its savor, lest the whole earth be destroyed. It is our purity that will
persuade God to preserve this wicked generation, not your violence.”
The man
laughed. “Your purity against our violence.” His hand lashed out and
he seized Zeck by the collar of his shirt and dragged him sharply backward,
toward him. Before anyone could do more than shout in protest, he had torn
Zeck’s shirt from his body and then whirled him around to show his scarred
back, with the freshest wounds still bright red, and the newest of all still
beading with blood from this sudden movement. “What about your violence?
We don’t raise our hands against children.”
“Don’t
you?” said Father. “To spare the rod is to spoil the child- God has
told us how to make our children pure from the moment they achieve
accountability until they have mastered their own discipline. I strike my son’s
body to teach his spirit to embrace the pure love of Christ. You will teach him
to hate his enemies, so that it no longer matters whether his body is living or
dead, for his soul will be polluted and God will spit him out of his
mouth.”
The man threw
Zeck’s shirt in Father’s face. “Come back to your house and you’ll find us
there with your son, doing what the law requires.”
Zeck tore away
from the man’s grip. The man was holding him very tightly, but Zeck had a great
advantage: He didn’t care how much it hurt to pull himself free. “I will
not go with you,” said Zeck.
The man
touched a small electronic patch on his belt and immediately the door burst
open and a dozen armed men filed in.
“I will
place your father under arrest,” said the man from the fleet. “And
your mother. And anyone in this congregation who resists me.”
Mother came forward
then, pushing her way past Father and several others. “Then you know
nothing about us,” said Mother. “We have no intention of resisting
you. When a Roman demands a cloak from us, we give unto him our coat
also.” She pushed the two older girls toward the man. “Test them all.
Test the youngest, too, if you can. She doesn’t speak yet, but no doubt you
have your ways.”
“We’ll be
back for them, even though the two youngest are illegal. But not till they come
of age.”
“You can
steal our son’s body,” said Mother. “But you can never steal his
heart. Train him all you want. Teach him whatever you want. His heart is pure.
He will recite your words back to you but he will never, never believe them. He
belongs to the Pure Christ, not to the human race.”
Zeck held
himself still, so he could not shudder as his body wanted to. Mother’s boldness
was rare, and always chancy. How would Father react to this? It was his place
to speak, to act, to protect the family and the church.
2
ENDER’S STOCKING
Peter Wiggin was supposed to spend the day at the
Greensboro Public Library, working on a term paper, but he had lost interest in
the project. It was two days before Christmas, a holiday that always depressed
him. “Don’t get me any gifts,” he said to his parents last year.
“Put the money into mutual funds and give it to me when I graduate.”
“Christmas
drives the American economy,” Father said. “We have to do our
part.”
“It’s not
up to you what other people do and don’t give you.”
Peter resented
the contempt in her tone. “And stroking his stocking and crying over it,
that’s supposed to make anything better?”
“You
really are a piece of work, Peter,” she said, pushing past him.
He followed
her into the kitchen. “I bet they hang up stockings for them up in Battle
School and fill them with little toy spaceships that make cool shooting
noises.”
“I’m sure
the Muslim and Hindu students will appreciate getting Christmas
stockings,” said Mother.
“Whatever
they do for Christmas, Mother, Ender isn’t going to be missing us.”
“Just
because you wouldn’t miss us doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”
He rolled his
eyes. “Of course I’d miss you.”
Mother said
nothing.
“I’m a
perfectly normal kid. So’s Ender. He’ll be busy. He’s getting along fine. He’s
adapting. People adapt. To anything.”
She turned
slowly, reached across and touched his chest, then hooked a finger through the
neckline of his shirt and drew him close. “You never adapt,” she
whispered, “to losing a child.”
“It’s not
like he’s dead,” said Peter.
“It’s
exactly like he’s dead,” said Mother. “I will never again see the boy
who left here. I’ll never see him at age seven or nine or eleven. I’ll have no
memories of him at those ages, only what I can imagine. That’s what the parents
of dead children have. So until you actually know something about what you’re
talking about, Peter- human feelings, for instance- why don’t you just shut
up?”
“Merry
Christmas to you too,” said Peter. He left the room.
His own
bedroom, when he entered it, felt strange to him. Alien. Bare. There was
nothing there that expressed a personality. That had been a conscious decision
on his part- anything individual that he put on display would give Valentine an
advantage in their endless dueling. But at this moment, with Mother’s
accusation of his inhumanity still ringing in his ears, his bedroom looked so
sterile that he hated the person who would choose to live in it.
So he wandered
back into the living room and reached into the box of Christmas stockings and
pulled out the whole stack. Mother had cross-stitched their names and an iconic
picture on each stocking. His own was a spaceship. Ender’s stocking had a steam
locomotive. But it was Ender in space, the little twit, while Peter was stuck
on land with the locomotives.
Peter thrust
his hand down into Ender’s stocking and started making it talk like a hand
puppet. “I’m Mommy’s bestest boy and I’ve been very very good.”
There was
something in the toe of the stocking. Peter reached deeper into the sock, found
it, and pulled it out. It was just a five-dollar piece- a nickel, as people had
taken to calling them, though it was supposedly ten times the value of that
long disused coin.
“So
you’ve taken to stealing things out of other people’s stockings?” said
Mother from the doorway.
Peter felt as
embarrassed as if he had been caught in an actual crime. “The toe was
heavy,” he said. “I was seeing what it was.”
“It
wasn’t yours, whatever it was,” said Mother cheerily.
“I wasn’t
going to keep it,” said Peter. Though of course he would have done exactly
that, on the assumption that it had been forgotten and would never be missed.
But that was
the stocking she had been holding and weeping over. She knew perfectly well the
nickel was there.
“You
still put stuff in his stocking every year,” he said, incredulous.
“Santa
fills the stockings,” said Mother. “It has nothing to do with
me.”
Peter shook
his head. “Oh, Mother.”
“It has
nothing to do with you,” said Mother. “Mind your business.”
“This is
morbid,” said Peter. “Grieving for your hero-boy as if he were dead.
He’s fine. He’s not going to die, he’s in the most sterile, oversupervised
school in the universe, and after he wins the war he’s going to come home amid
cheers and confetti and give you a big hug.”
“Put back
the five dollars,” said Mother.
“I
will.”
“While
I’m watching.”
That stung.
“Don’t you trust me, Mother?” asked Peter. He spoke in a
sarcastically aggrieved voice, to hide the fact that he really was hurt.
“Not
where Ender is concerned,” said Mother. “Or me, for that matter. The
coin is Ender’s. It shouldn’t have anybody’s fingerprints on it but his.”
“And
Santa’s,” said Peter.
“And
Santa’s.”
He dropped the
coin down into the sock.
“Now put
it away.”
“You
realize you’re making it more and more tempting to set this thing on
fire,” said Peter.
“And you
wonder why I don’t trust you.”
“And you
wonder why I’m hostile and untrustworthy.”
“Doesn’t
it make you just the tiniest bit uncomfortable that I have to wait until I’m
sure you’re not going to be home before I can allow myself to miss my little
boy?”
3
THE DEVIL’S QUESTIONS
Zeck got into a hovercar with the man. There was one
soldier driving; the rest of the soldiers got into a different vehicle, a
larger one that looked dangerous.
“I’m
Captain Bridegan,” the soldier said.
“I don’t
care what your name is,” said Zeck.
Captain
Bridegan said nothing. Zeck said nothing.
They got to
Zeck’s house. The door was standing open. A woman was waiting inside, with
papers spread out on the kitchen table, along with a pile of blocks and other
paraphernalia, including a small machine. She must have noticed Zeck looking at
it because she touched it and explained, “It’s a recorder. So other people
can hear our session and evaluate it later.”
Captured
lightning, thought Zeck. Just another device used by Satan to snare the souls
of men.
“My
name,” she said, “is Agnes O’Toole.”
“He
doesn’t care,” said Bridegan.
Zeck extended
his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Agnes O’Toole.” Didn’t Bridegan
understand the obligation of kindness and courtesy that all men owed to all
women, since women’s destiny was to go down into the valley of the shadow of
death in order to bring more souls into the world to become purified so they
could serve God? What tragic ignorance.
“I’ll
wait out here,” said Bridegan. “If that’s all right with Zeck,
here.”
He seemed to
be waiting for an answer.
“I don’t
care what you do,” said Zeck, not bothering to look at him. He was a man
of violence, as he had already proven, and so he was hopelessly impure. He had
no authority in the eyes of God, and yet he had seized Zeck by the shoulders as
if he had a right. Only Father had a duty to purify Zeck’s flesh; no other had
a right to touch him. “His father beats him,” said Bridegan. And then
he left.
Agnes looked
at him with raised eyebrows, but Zeck saw no need to explain. They had known
about the chastisement of the impure flesh before they came- how else would
Bridegan have known to take off his shirt and show the marks? Bridegan and
Agnes obviously wanted to use these scars somehow. As if they thought Zeck
wanted to be comforted and protected.
From Father?
From the instrument chosen by God to raise Zeck to manhood? As well might a man
raise his puny hand to prevent God from working his will in the world.
Agnes began
the test. Whenever the questions dealt with something Zeck knew about, he
answered forthrightly, as his father had commanded him. But half the questions
were about things completely outside Zeck’s experience. Maybe they were about
things on the vids, which Zeck had never watched in his life; maybe they were
things from the nets, which Zeck only knew about because they were damnable
webs made of lightning, laid before the feet of foolish souls to snare them and
drag them down to hell.
Agnes
manipulated the blocks and then had him answer questions about them. Zeck saw
at once what the purpose of the test was. So he reached over and took the
blocks from her. Then he manipulated them to show each and every example drawn
on two dimensions on the paper. Except one. “You can’t make this one with
these blocks,” he said.
She put the
blocks away.
The next test
was entitled “Worldview Diagnostics: Fundamentalist Christian
Edition.” Since she covered this title almost instantly, it was obvious
Zeck wasn’t supposed to know what he was being tested on.
She began with
questions about the creation and Adam and Eve.
Zeck
interrupted her, quoting Father. “The book of Genesis represents the best job
that Moses could do, explaining evolution to people who didn’t even know the
Earth was round.”
“You
believe in evolution? Then what about Adam as the first man?”
“The name
‘Adam’ means ‘many,'” said Zeck. “There were many males in that troop
of primates, when God chose one of them and touched him with his Spirit and put
the soul of a man inside. It was Adam who first had language and named the
other primates, the ones that looked like him but were not human because God
had not given them human souls. Thus it says, ‘And Adam gave names to all
cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but for
Adam there was not found an help meet for him.’ What Moses originally wrote was
much simpler: ‘Adam named all the beasts that were not in the image of God.
None of them could speak to him, so he was utterly alone.'”
“You know
what God originally wrote?” asked Agnes.
“You
think we’re fundamentalists,” said Zeck. “But we’re not. We’re
Puritans. We know that God can only teach us what we’re prepared to understand.
The Bible was written by men and women of earlier times, and it holds only as
much as they were capable of understanding. We have a greater knowledge of
science, and so God can clarify and tell us more. He would be an unloving Father
if he insisted on telling us only as much as humans could understand back in
the infancy of our species.”
She leaned
back in her chair. “So then why does your father call electricity
‘lightning’?”
“Aren’t
they the same thing?” asked Zeck, trying to hide his contempt.
“Well,
yes, of course, but-“
“So
Father calls it ‘lightning’ to emphasize how dangerous it is, and how
ephemeral,” said Zeck. “Your word ‘electricity’ is a lie, convincing
you that because it runs through wires and shifts the on-off state of
semiconductors, the lightning has been tamed and no longer poses a danger. But
God says that it is in your machines that lightning is at its most dangerous,
for lightning that strikes you out of the sky can only harm your body, while
the lightning that has tamed you and trained you through the machines can steal
your soul.”
“So God
speaks to your father,” said Agnes.
“As he
speaks to all men and women who purify themselves enough to hear his
voice.”
“Has God
ever spoken to you?”
Zeck shook his
head. “I’m not yet pure.”
“And
that’s why your father whips you.”
“My
father is God’s instrument in the purification of his children.”
“And you
trust your father always to do God’s will?”
“My
father is the purest man on Earth right now.”
“Yet you
have never trusted him enough to let him know you have a word-for-word
memory.”
Her words
struck him like a blow. She was absolutely right. Zeck had heeded Mother and
never let Father see his unnatural ability. And why? Not because Zeck was afraid.
Because Mother was afraid. He had taken her faithlessness inside himself as if
it were his own, and so Father could not purify him. Could never purify him,
because he had been deceiving Father for all these years.
He rose to his
feet.
“Where
are you going?” asked Agnes.
“To
Father.”
“To tell
him about your phenomenal memory?” she asked pleasantly.
Zeck had no
reason to tell her anything, and so he didn’t.
Bridegan was
waiting in the other room, blocking the door. “No sir,” he said.
“You’re going nowhere.”
Zeck went back
into the kitchen and sat back down at the table. “You’re taking me into
space, aren’t you,” he said.
“Yes,
Zeck,” she said. “You are one of the best we’ve ever tested.”
“I’ll go
with you. But I’ll never fight for you,” he said. “Taking me is a
waste of time.”
“Never is
a long time,” she said.
“You
think that if you take me far enough from Earth, I’ll forget about God.”
“Not
forget,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll transform your
understanding.”
“Don’t
you understand how dangerous I am?” said Zeck.
“We’re
actually counting on that,” she said.
“Not
dangerous as a soldier,” he said. “If I go with you, it will be as a
teacher. I’ll help the other children in your Battle School see that God does
not want them to kill their enemies.”
“Oh,
we’re not worried about you converting the other kids,” said Agnes.
“You
should be,” said Zeck. “The word of God has power unto salvation, and
no power on earth or in hell can stand against it.”
She shook her
head. “I might worry,” she said. “If you were pure. But you’re
not. So what power will you have to convert anybody?” She piled up the
test booklets and stuffed them in the briefcase with the blocks and the
recorder. “I have it on tape,” she said loudly, for Bridegan to hear.
“He said, ‘I’ll go with you.'”
Bridegan came
into the kitchen. “Welcome to Battle School, soldier.”
Zeck did not
answer. He was still reeling from what she had said. How can I convert anyone,
when I’m still impure myself?
“I have
to talk to Father,” said Zeck.
“Not a
chance,” said Agnes. “It’s the impure Zechariah Morgan that we want.
Not the pure one who confessed everything to his father. Besides, we don’t have
time to wait for another set of lash wounds to heal.”
Bridegan
laughed harshly. “If that bastard raises his hand against this boy one
more time, I’ll blast it off.” Zeck whirled on him, filled with rage.
“Then what would that make you?”
Bridegan only
kept on laughing. “It would make me what I’ve always been- a bloody-minded
soldier. My job is defending the helpless against the cruel. That’s what we’re
doing, fighting the Formics- and it’s what I’d be doing if I took off your
father’s hands up to the elbows.”
In reply, Zeck
recited from the book of Daniel. “‘A stone was cut out without hands,
which smote the image upon his feet that were of iron and clay, and brake them
in pieces.”
“Without
hands. A neat trick,” said Bridegan.
“And the
stone that smote the image became a great mountain, and filled the whole
earth,'” said Zeck.
“He’s got
the whole King James version by heart,” said Agnes.
“And in
the days of these kings,” recited Zeck, “‘shall the God of heaven set
up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed: and the kingdom shall not be left
to other people, but it shall break in pieces and consume all these kingdoms,
and it shall stand for ever.”
“They’re
going to love him up in Battle School,” said Bridegan.
So Zeck spent
that Christmas in space, heading up to the station that housed Battle School.
He did nothing to cause disturbance, obeyed every order he was given. When his
launch group first went into the Battle Room, Zeck learned to fly just like all
the others. He even pointed his weapon at targets that were assigned.
It took quite
a while before anyone noticed that Zeck never actually hit anybody with his
weapon. In every battle, he was zero for zero. Statistically, he was the worst
soldier in the history of the school. In vain did the teachers point out that
it was just a game.
“‘Neither
shall they learn war any more,” quoted Zeck in return. “I will not
offend God by learning war.” They could take him into space, they could
make him wear the uniform, they could force him into the Battle Room, but they
couldn’t make him shoot.
It took many
months, and they still wouldn’t send him home, but at least they left him
alone. He belonged to an army, he practiced with them, but on every battle
report, he was listed with zero effectiveness. There was no soldier in the
school prouder of his record.
4
SINTERKLAAS EVE
Dink Meeker watched as Ender Wiggin came through the door
into Rat Army’s barracks. As usual, Rosen was near the entrance, and he
immediately launched into his “I Rose de Nose, Jewboy extraordinaire”
routine. It was how Rosen wrapped himself in the military reputation of Israel,
even though Rosen wasn’t Israeli and he also wasn’t a particularly good
commander.
Not a bad one,
either. Rat Army was in second place in the standings. But how much of that was
Rosen, and how much was the fact that Rosen relied so heavily on Dink’s toon-
which Dink had trained?
Dink was the
better commander, and he knew it- he had been offered Rat Army and Rosen only
got it when Dink turned down the promotion. Nobody knew that, of course, except
Dink and Colonel Graff and whatever other teachers might have known. There was
no reason to tell it- it would only weaken Rosen and also make Dink look like a
braggart or a fool, depending on whether people believed his claim. So he made
no claim.
This was
Rosen’s show. Let him write the script.
“That’s
the great Ender Wiggin?” asked Flip. His name was short for Filippus, and,
like Dink, he was Dutch. He was also very young and had yet to do anything
impressive. It had to gall a young kid like Flip that Ender Wiggin had been placed
into the Battle Room early and then rose to the very top of the standings
almost instantly.
“I told
you,” said Dink, “he’s number one because his commander wouldn’t let
him shoot his weapon. So when he finally did it- disobeying his commander, I might
add- he got this incredible kill ratio. It’s a fluke of how they keep the
stats.”
“Kuso,”
said Flip. “If Ender’s such a big nothing, why did you go out of your way
to get him in your toon?”
So somebody
had overheard Dink ask Rosen to assign Ender to his toon, and word had spread.
“Because I needed somebody smaller than you,” said Dink.
“And
you’ve been watching him. I’ve seen you. Watching him.”
It was easy to
forget sometimes that every kid in this place was brilliant. Observant. Clear
memory and sharp analytical skills. Even the ones who were still too timid to
have done much of anything. Not a good place for doing anything surreptitious.
“,”
said Dink. “I think he’s got something.”
“What’s
he got that I don’t got?”
“Command
of English grammar,” said Dink.
“Everybody
talks like that,” said Flip.
“Everybody’s
a sheep,” said Dink. “I’m getting out of here.” Moments later,
Dink pushed past Rosen and Ender and left the room.
He didn’t want
to talk to Ender right away. Because this genius kid probably remembered the
first time they met. In a bathroom, right after Ender was put in Salamander
Army’s uniform, his first day in the game. Dink had seen how small he was and
said something like, “He’s so small he could walk between my legs without
touching my balls.” It didn’t mean anything, and one of his friends had
immediately said, “Cause you got none, Dink, that’s why,” so it’s not
like Dink had scored any points.
But it was a
stupid thing to say, which was fine; you could be stupid around new kids.
Except it had been Ender Wiggin, and Dink now knew that this kid was something
else, someone important, and he deserved better. Dink wanted to be the guy who
knew right away what Ender Wiggin was. Instead, he’d been the idiot who made a
stupid joke about how short Ender was.
Short? Ender
was small because he was young. It was a mark of brilliance, to be brought to
Battle School a year younger than other kids. And then he was advanced to
Salamander Army while all the rest of his launch group were still in basic. So
he was really under age. And therefore small. So what kind of idiot would mock
the kid for being smarter than anybody else?
Oh, suck it
up, oomay, he told himself. What does it matter what Wiggin thinks of you? Your
job is to train him. To make up for the weeks he wasted in Bonzo Madrid’s
stupid Salamander Army and help this kid become what he’s supposed to become.
Not that
Wiggin had really wasted the time. The kid had been running practice sessions
for launchies and other rejects during free time, and Dink had come and
watched. Wiggin was doing new things. Moves that Dink had never seen before.
They had possibilities. So Dink was going to use those techniques in his toon.
Give Wiggin a chance to see his ideas played out in combat in the Battle Room.
I’m not Bonzo.
I’m not Rosen. Having a soldier under me who’s better than I am, smarter, more
inventive, doesn’t threaten me. I learn from everybody. I help everybody. It’s
about the only way I can be rebellious in this place- they chose us for our
ambition and they prod us to be competitive. So I don’t compete. I cooperate.
Dink was
sitting in the game room, watching the other players- he had beaten all the
games in the room, so he had nothing left to prove- when Wiggin found him. If Wiggin
remembered Dink’s first dumb joke about his height, Wiggin didn’t show it.
Instead, Dink let him know which of Rosen’s rules and orders he had to obey,
and which he didn’t. He also let him know that Dink wouldn’t be playing power
games with him- he was going to get Ender into the battles from the start,
pushing him, giving him a chance to learn and grow.
Wiggin clearly
understood what Dink was doing for him. He left, satisfied.
There’s my
contribution to the survival of the human race, thought Dink. I’m not what
great commanders are made of. But I know a great commander when I see one, and
I can help get him ready. That’s good enough for me. I can take this stupid,
ineffective school and accomplish something that actually might help us win
this war. Something real.
Not this
stupid make-believe. Battle School! It was children’s games, but structured by
adults in order to manipulate the children. But what did it have to do with the
real war? You rise to the top of the standings, you beat everybody, and then
what? Did you kill a single Bugger? Save a single human life? No. You just go
on to the next school and start over as nothing again. Was there any evidence
that Battle School accomplished anything?
Sure, the
graduates ended up filling important positions throughout the fleet. But then,
Battle School only admits kids that are brilliant in the first place, so they
would have been command material already. Was there any evidence that Battle
School made a difference?
I could have
been home in Holland, walking by the North Sea. Watching it pound against the
shore, trying to wash over and sweep away the dikes, the islands, and cover the
land with ocean, as it used to be, before humans started their foolish
terraforming experiment.
Dink
remembered reading- back on Earth, when he could read what he wanted- the silly
claim that the Great Wall of China was the only human artifact that could be
seen from space. In fact the claim wasn’t even true- at least not from
geosynchronous orbit or higher. The wall didn’t even cast enough of a shadow to
be seen.
No, the human
artifact that could be seen from space, that showed up in picture after picture
without exciting any comment at all, was Holland. It should have been nothing
but barrier islands with wide saltwater sounds behind them. Instead, because
the Dutch built their dikes and pumped out the salt water and purified the
soil, it was land. Lush, green land- visible from space.
But nobody
recognized it as a human artifact. It was just land. It grew plants and fed
dairy cattle and held houses and highways, just like any other land. But we did
it. We Dutch. And when the sea levels rose, we raised our dikes higher and made
them thicker and stronger, and nobody thought, Wow, look at the Dutch, they
created the largest human artifact on Earth, and they’re still making it, a
thousand years later.
I could have
been home in Holland until they were actually ready to have me do something
real. As real as the land behind the dikes.
Free time was
over. Dink went to practice. Then he ate with the rest of Rat Army- complete
with the ritual of pretending that all their food was rat food. Dink noticed
how Wiggin observed and seemed to enjoy the game- but didn’t take part. He
stayed aloof, watching.
That’s
something else we have in common.
Something
else? Why had he thought of it that way? What was the first thing they had in
common, that made it so standing aloof was something else?
Oh, that’s
right. I almost forgot. We’re the smartest kids in the room.
Dink silently
laughed at himself with perfect scorn. Right, I’m not competitive. I know I’m
not the best- but without even thinking about it, I assume that I’m therefore
second best. What an eemo.
Dink went to
the library and studied awhile. He hoped that Petra would come by, but she
didn’t. Instead of talking to her- the only other kid he knew who shared his
contempt for the system- he actually finished his assignments. It was history,
so it mattered that he do well.
He got back to
the barracks a little early. Maybe he’d sleep. Maybe play some game on his
desk. Maybe there’d be somebody in a talkative mood and Dink would have a
conversation. No plans. He refused to care.
Flip was
there, too. Already getting undressed for bed. But instead of putting his shoes
in his locker with the rest of his uniform and his flash suit and the few other
possessions a kid could have in Battle School, he had set his shoes down on the
floor near the foot of his bed, toes out.
There was
something familiar about it.
Flip looked at
him and smiled wanly and rolled his eyes. Then he swung up onto his bed and
started reading something on his desk, scrolling through what must be homework,
because now and then he’d run his finger across some section of the text to
highlight it.
The shoes.
This was December fifth. It was Sinterklaas Eve. Flip was Dutch, so of course
he had set out his shoes.
Tonight,
Sinterklaas- Sint Nikolaas, patron saint of children- would come from his home
in Spain, with Black Peter carrying his bag of presents, and listen through the
chimneys of the houses throughout Holland, checking to see if children were
quarreling or disobedient. If the children were good, then they would knock on
the door and, when it was opened, fling candy into the house. Children would rush
out the door and find presents left in baskets- or in their shoes, left by the
front door.
And Flip had
set his shoes out on Sinterklaas Eve.
For some
reason, Dink found his eyes clouding with tears. This was stupid. Yes, he
missed home- missed his father’s house near the strand. But Sinterklaas was for
little children, not for him. Not for a child in Battle School.
But Battle
School is nothing, right? I should be home. And if I were home, I’d be helping
to make Sinterklaas Day for the younger children. If there had been any younger
children in our house.
Without really
deciding to do it, Dink took out his desk and started to write.
His shoes will
sit and gather moss
Without a gift
from Sinterklaas
For when a
soldier cannot cross
The battle
room without a loss
Then why
should Sinterklaas equip
A kid who
cannot fly with zip
But crawls
instead just like a drip
Of rain on
glass, not like a ship
That flies
through space: I speak of Flip.
It wasn’t a
great poem, of course, but the whole idea of Sinterklaas poems was that they
made fun of the recipient of the gift without giving offense. The lamer the
poem, the more it made fun of the giver of the gift rather than the target of
the rhyme. Flip still got teased about the fact that when he first was assigned
to Rat Army, a couple of times he had bad launches from the wall of Battle Room
and ended up floating like a feather across the room, a perfect target for the
enemy.
Dink would
have written the verse in Dutch, but it was a dying language, and Dink didn’t
know if he spoke it well enough to actually use it for poem-writing. Nor was he
sure Flip could read a Dutch poem, not if there were any unusual words in it.
Netherlands was just too close to Britain. The BBC had made the Dutch
bilingual; the European Community had made them mostly anglophone.
The poem was
done, but there was no way to extrude printed paper from a desk. Ah well, the
night was young. Dink put it in the print queue and got up from bed to wander
the corridors, desk tucked under his arm. He’d pick up the poem before the
printer room closed, and he’d also search for something that might serve as a
gift.
In the end he
found no gift, but he did add two lines to the poem: If Piet gives you a gift
today, You’ll find it on your breakfast tray.
It’s not as if
there were a lot of things available to the kids in Battle School. Their only
games were in their desks or in the game room; their only sport was in the
Battle Room. Desks and uniforms; what else did they need to own?
This bit of
paper, thought Dink. That’s what he’ll have in the morning.
It was dark in
the barracks, and most kids were asleep, though a few still worked on their
desks, or played some stupid game. Didn’t they know the teachers did
psychological analysis on them based on the games they played? Maybe they just
didn’t care. Dink sometimes didn’t care either, and played. But not tonight.
Tonight he was seriously pissed off. And he didn’t even know why.
Yes he did.
Flip was getting something from Sinterklaas- and Dink wasn’t. He should have.
Dad would have made sure he got something from Black Piet’s bag. Dink would
have hunted all over the house for it on Sinterklaas morning until he finally
found it in some perverse hiding place.
I’m homesick.
That’s all. Isn’t that what the stupid counselor told him? You’re homesick- get
over it. The other kids do, said the counselor.
But they
don’t, thought Dink. They just hide it. From each other, from themselves.
The remarkable
thing about Flip was that tonight he didn’t hide it.
Flip was
already asleep. Dink folded the paper and slipped it into one of the shoes.
Stupid greedy
kid. Leaving out both shoes.
But of course
that wasn’t it at all. If he had left only one shoe, that would have been proof
positive of what he was doing. Someone might have guessed and then Flip would
have been mocked mercilessly for being so homesick and childish. So… both
shoes. Deniability. Not Sinterklaas Day at all- I just left my shoes by the
side of my bed.
Dink crawled into
his own bed and lay there for a little while, filled with a deep and
unaccountable sadness. It wasn’t homesickness, not really. It was the fact that
Dink was no longer the child; now he was the one who helped Sinterklaas do his
job. Of course the old saint couldn’t get from Spain to Battle School, not in
the ship he used. Somebody had to help him out.
Dink was
being, not the child, but the dad. He would never be the child again.
5
SINTERKLAAS DAY
Zeck saw the shoes. He saw Dink put something into the
shoe in the darkness, when most kids were asleep. But it meant nothing to him,
except that these two Dutch boys were doing something weird.
Zeck wasn’t in
Dink’s toon. He wasn’t really in any toon. Because nobody wanted him, and it
wouldn’t matter if they had. Zeck didn’t play.
Which made it
all the more remarkable that Rat Army was in second place- they won their
battles with one less active soldier than anybody else.
At first Rosen
had threatened him and tried to take away privileges- even meals- but Zeck
simply ignored him, like he ignored other kids who shoved him and jostled him
in the corridors. What did he care? Their physical brutality, mild as it might
be, showed what kind of people they were- the impurity of their souls- because
they rejoiced in violence.
Genesis,
chapter six, verse thirteen: “And God said unto Noah, The end of all flesh
is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence through them; and,
behold, I will destroy them with the earth.”
Didn’t they
understand that it was the violence of the human race that had caused God to
send the Buggers to attack the Earth? This became obvious to Zeck as he was
forced to watch the vids of the Scouring of China. What could the Buggers
represent, except the destroying angel? A flood the first time, and now fire,
just as was prophesied.
So the proper
response was to forswear violence and become peaceful, rejecting war. Instead,
they sacrificed their children to the idolatrous god of war, taking them from
their families and thrusting them up here into the hot metal arms of Moloch,
where they would be trained to give themselves over entirely to violence.
Jostle me all
you want. It will purify me and make you filthier.
Now, though,
nobody bothered with Zeck. He was ignored. Not pointedly- if he asked a
question, people answered. Scornfully, perhaps, but what was that to Zeck?
Scorn was merely pity mingled with hate, and hate was pride mixed with fear.
They feared him because he was different, and so they hated him, and so their
pity- the touch of godliness that remained in them- was turned to scorn. A
virtue made filthy by pride.
By morning he
had forgotten all about Flip’s shoes and the paper that Dink had put into one
of them the night before.
But then he saw
Dink step out of the food line with a full tray, and walk back to hand the tray
to Flip.
Flip smiled,
then laughed and rolled his eyes.
Zeck
remembered the shoes then. He walked over and looked at the tray.
It was
pancakes this morning, and on the top pancake, everything had been cut away
except a big letter “F.” Apparently, this had some significance to
the two Dutch boys that completely escaped Zeck. But then, a lot of things
escaped him. His father had kept him sheltered from the world, and so he did
not know many of the things most of the other children knew. He was proud of
his ignorance. It was a mark of his purity.
This time,
though, there was something about this that seemed wrong to him. As if the
letter “F” in the pancake was some kind of conspiracy. What did it
stand for? A bad word in Common? That was too easy, and besides, they weren’t
laughing like that- it wasn’t wicked laughter. It was… sad laughter.
Sad laughter.
It was hard to make sense of it, but Zeck knew that he was right. The F was
funny, but it also made them sad.
He asked one
of the other boys. “What’s with the F Dink carved into Flip’s
pancake?”
The other kid
shrugged. “They’re Dutch,” he said, as if that accounted for any
weirdness about them.
Zeck took that
solitary clue- which he had already known, of course- and took it to his desk
immediately after breakfast. He searched first for “Netherlands F.”
Nothing that made sense. Then a few more combinations, but it was “Dutch
shoes” that brought him to Sinterklaas Day, December sixth, and all the
customs associated with it.
He didn’t go
to class. He went to Flip’s tidily made bed and unmade it till he found, under
the sheet and next to the mattress, Dink’s poem.
Zeck memorized
it, put it back, and remade the bed- for it would be wrong to put Flip at risk
of getting a demerit that he did not deserve. Then he went to Colonel Graff’s
office.
“I don’t
remember sending for you,” said Colonel Graff.
“You
didn’t,” said Zeck.
“If you
have a problem, take it to your counselor. Who’s assigned to you?” But
Zeck knew at once that it wasn’t that Graff couldn’t remember the counselor’s
name- he simply had no idea who Zeck was.
“I’m Zeck
Morgan,” he said. “I’m a spectator in Rat Army.”
“Oh,”
said Graff, nodding. “You. Have you reconsidered your vow of
nonviolence?”
“No
sir,” said Zeck. “I’m here to ask you a question.”
“And you
couldn’t have asked somebody else?”
“Everybody
else was busy,” said Zeck. Immediately he repented of the remark, because
of course he hadn’t even tried anybody else, and he only said this in order to
hurt Graff’s feelings by implying he was useless and had no work to do.
“That was wrong of me to say that,” said Zeck, “and I ask your
forgiveness.”
“What’s
your question,” said Graff impatiently, looking away.
“When you
informed me that nonviolence was not an option here, you said it was because my
motive is religious, and there is no religion in Battle School.”
“No open
observance of religion,” said Graff. “Or we’d have classes constantly
being interrupted by Muslims praying and every seventh day- not the same
seventh day, mind you- we’d have Christians and Muslims and Jews celebrating
one Sabbath or another. Not to mention the Macumba ritual of sacrificing
chickens. Icons and statues of saints and little Buddhas and ancestral shrines
and all kinds of other things would clutter up the place. So it’s all banned.
Period. So please get to class before I have to give you a demerit.”
“That was
not my question,” said Zeck. “I would not have come here to ask you a
question whose answer you had already told me.”
“Then why
did you bring up- Never mind, what’s your question?”
“If
religious observance is banned, then why does Battle School tolerate the
commemoration of the day of Saint Nicholas?”
“We
don’t,” said Graff.
“And yet
you did,” said Zeck.
“No we
didn’t.”
“It was
commemorated.”
“Would
you please get to the point? Are you lodging a complaint? Did one of the
teachers make some remark?”
“Filippus
Rietveld put out his shoes for Saint Nicholas. Dink Meeker put a Sinterklaas
poem in the shoe and then gave Flip a pancake carved with the initial ‘F’ An
edible initial is a traditional treat on Sinterklaas Day. Which is today,
December sixth.”
Graff sat down
and leaned back in his chair. “A Sinterklaas poem?”
Zeck recited
it.
Graff smiled
and chuckled a little.
“So you
think it’s funny when they have their religious observance, but my religious
observance is banned.”
“It was a
poem in a shoe. I give you permission to write all the poems you want and
insert them into people’s wearing apparel.”
“Poems in
shoes are not my religious observance. Mine is to contribute a small part to
peace on Earth.”
“You’re
not even on Earth.”
“I would
be, if I hadn’t been kidnapped and enslaved to the service of Mammon,”
said Zeck mildly.
You’ve been
here almost a year, thought Graff, and you’re still singing the same tune.
Doesn’t peer pressure have any effect on you?
“If these
Dutch Christians have their Saint Nicholas Day, then the Muslims should have
Ramadan and the Jews should have the Feast of Tabernacles and I should be able
to live the gospel of love and peace.”
“Why are
you even bothering with this?” said Graff. “The only thing I can do
is punish them for a rather sweet gesture. It will make people hate you
more.”
“You mean
you intend to tell them who reported them?”
“No,
Zeck. I know how you operate. You’ll tell them yourself, so they’ll be angry
and people will persecute you and that will make you feel more purified.”
For a man who
didn’t recognize him when he came in, Graff certainly knew a lot about him. His
face wasn’t known, but his ideas were. Zeck’s persistence in his faith was
making an impression.
“If
Battle School bans my religion because it forbids all religion, then all
religion should be forbidden, sir.”
“I know
that,” said Graff. “I also know you’re an insufferable twit.”
“I
believe that remark falls under the topic of ‘The commander’s responsibility to
build morale,’ is that correct, sir?” asked Zeck.
“And that
remark falls under the category of ‘You won’t get out of Battle School by being
a smartass,'” said Graff.
“Better a
smartass than an insufferable twit, sir,” said Zeck.
“Get out
of my office.”
An hour later,
Flip and Dink had been called in and reprimanded and the poem confiscated.
“Aren’t
you going to take his shoes, sir?” asked Dink. “And I’m sure we can
recover his initial when he shits it out. I’ll reshape it for you so there’s no
mistaking it, sir.”
Graff said
nothing, except to send them back to class. He knew that word of this would
circulate throughout Battle School. But if he hadn’t done it, then Zeck would
have made sure that word of how this “religious observance” had been
tolerated would spread, and then there really would be a nightmare of kids
demanding their holidays.
It was
inevitable. The two recusants, Zeck and Dink, both of whom refused to cooperate
with the program here, were bound to become allies. Not that they knew they
were allied. But in fact they were- they were deliberately stressing the system
in order to try to make it collapse.
Well, I won’t
let you, dear genius children. Because nobody gives a rat’s ass about
Sinterklaas Day, or about Christian nonviolence. When you go to war- which is
where you’ve gone, believe it or not, Dink and Zeckthen childish things are put
away. In the face of a threat to the survival of the species, all these
planetside trivialities are put aside until the crisis passes.
And it has not
passed, whatever you little twits might think about it.
6
HOLY WAR
Dink left Graff’s office seething. “If they can’t
see the difference between praying eight times a day and putting a poem in a
shoe once a year…”
“It was a
great poem,” said Flip.
“It was
dumb,” said Dink.
“Wasn’t
that the point? It was a great dumb poem. I just feel bad I didn’t write one
for you.”
“I didn’t
put out my shoes.”
Flip sighed.
“I’m sorry I did that. I was just feeling homesick. I didn’t think anybody
would do anything about it.”
“Sorry.”
“We’re
both so very very sorry,” said Flip. “Except that we’re not sorry at
all.”
“No,
we’re not,” said Dink.
“In fact,
it’s kind of fun to get in trouble for keeping Sinterklaas Day. Imagine what
would happen if we celebrated Christmas.”
“Well,”
said Dink, “we’ve still got nineteen days.”
“Right,”
said Flip.
By the time
they got back to Rat Army barracks, it was obvious that the story was already
known. Everybody fell silent when Dink and Flip stood in the doorway.
“Stupid,”
said Rosen.
“Thanks,”
said Dink. “That means so much, coming from you.”
“Since
when did you get religion?” Rosen demanded. “Why make some kind of
holy war out of it?”
“It
wasn’t religious,” said Dink. “It was Dutch.”
“Well,
eemo, you be Rat Army now, not Dutch.”
“In three
months I won’t be in Rat Army,” said Dink. “But I’ll be Dutch until I
die.”
“Nations
don’t matter up here,” said one of the other boys.
“Religions
neither,” said another.
“Well
it’s obvious religion does matter,” said Flip, “or we wouldn’t have
been called in and reprimanded for cutting a pancake into an ‘F’ and writing a
funny poem and sticking it in a shoe.”
Dink looked
down the long corridor, which curved upward toward the end. Zeck, who slept at
the very back of the barracks, couldn’t even be seen from the door.
“He’s not
here,” said Rosen.
“Who?”
“Zeck,”
said Rosen. “He came in and told us what he’d done, and then he
left.”
“Anybody
know where he goes when he takes off by himself?” asked Dink.
“Why?”
said Rosen. “You planning to slap him around a little? I can’t allow
that.”
“I want
to talk to him,” said Dink.
“Oh,
talk,” said Rosen.
“When I
say talk, I mean talk,” said Dink.
“I don’t
want to talk to him,” said Flip. “Stupid prig.”
“He just
wants to get out of Battle School,” said Dink.
“If we
put it to a vote,” said one of the other boys, “he’d be gone in a
second. What a waste of space.”
“A
vote,” said Flip. “What a military idea.”
“Go stick
your finger in a dike,” the boy answered.
“So now
we’re anti-Dutch,” said Dink.
“They
can’t help it if they still believe in Santa Claus,” said an American kid.
“Sinterklaas,”
said Dink. “Lives in Spain, not the North Pole. Has a friend who carries
his bag- Black Piet.”
“Friend?”
said a kid from South Africa. “Black Piet sounds like a slave to me.”
Rosen sighed.
“It’s a relief when Christians are fighting each other instead of
slaughtering Jews.”
That was when
Ender Wiggin joined the discussion for the first time. “Isn’t this exactly
what the rules are supposed to prevent? People sniping at each other because of
religion or nationality?”
“And yet
we’re doing it anyway,” said the American kid.
“Aren’t
we up here to save the human race?” asked Dink. “Humans have
religions and nationalities. And customs. Why can’t we be humans too?”
Wiggin didn’t
answer.
“Makes no
sense for us to live like Buggers,” said Dink. “They don’t celebrate
Sinterklaas Day, either.”
“Part of
being human,” said Wiggin, “is to massacre each other from time to
time. So maybe till we beat the Formics we should try not to be so very very
human.”
“And
maybe,” said Dink, “soldiers fight for what they care about, and what
they care about is their families and their traditions and their faith and
their nation- the very stuff they don’t allow us to have here.”
“Maybe we
fight so we can get back home and find all that stuff still there, waiting for
us,” said Wiggin.
“Maybe
none of us are fighting at all,” said Flip. “It’s not like anything
we do here is real.”
“I’ll
tell you what’s real,” said Dink. “I was Sinterklaas’s helper last
night.” Then he grinned.
“So
you’re finally admitting you’re an elf,” said the American kid, grinning
back.
“How many
Dutch kids are there in Battle School?” said Dink. “Sinterklaas is
definitely a minority cultural icon, right? Nothing like Santa Claus,
right?”
Rosen kicked
Dink lightly on the shin. “What do you think you’re doing, Dink?”
“Santa
Claus isn’t a religious figure, either. Nobody prays to Santa Claus. It’s an
American thing.”
“Canadian
too,” said another kid.
“Anglophone
Canadian,” said another. “Papa Nõel for some of us.”
“Father
Christmas,” said a Brit.
“See? Not
Christian, national,” said Dink. “It’s one thing to stifle religious
expression. But to try to erase nationality- the whole fleet is thick with
national loyalties. They don’t make Dutch admirals pretend not to be Dutch.
They wouldn’t stand for it.”
“There
aren’t any Dutch admirals,” said the Brit.
It wasn’t that
Dink let idiotic comments like this make him angry. He didn’t want to hit
anybody. He didn’t want to raise his voice. But still, there was this deep
defiance that could not be ignored. He had to do something that other people
wouldn’t like. Even though he knew it would cause trouble and accomplish
nothing at all, he was going to do it, and it was going to start right now.
“They
were able to stifle our Dutch holiday because there are so few of us,”
said Dink. “But it’s time for us to insist on expressing our national
cultures like any other soldiers in the International Fleet. Christmas is a
holy day for Christians, but Santa Claus is a secular figure. Nobody prays to
Saint Nicholas.”
“Little
kids do,” said the American, but he was laughing.
“Santa
Claus, Father Christmas, Papa Noel, Sinterklaas, they may have begun with a
Christian feast day, but they’re national now, and people with no religion at
all still celebrate the holiday. It’s the day of gift-giving, right? December
twenty-fifth, whether you’re a believing Christian or not. They can keep us
from being religious, but they can’t stop us from giving gifts on Santa Claus
day.”
Some of them
were laughing. Some were thinking.
“You’re
going to get in such deep doodoo,” said one.
“,”
said Dink. “But then, that’s where I live all the time anyway.”
“Don’t even
try it.”
Dink looked up
to see who had spoken so angrily. Zeck.
“I think
we already know where you stand,” said Dink. “In the name of Christ I
forbid you to bring Satan into this place.”
All the smiles
disappeared. Everyone fell silent.
“You know,
don’t you, Zeck,” said Dink, “that you just guaranteed that I’ll have
support for my little Santa Claus movement.”
Zeck seemed
genuinely frightened. But not of Dink. “Don’t bring this curse down on
your own heads.”
“I don’t
believe in curses, I only believe in blessings,” said Dink. “And I
sure as hell don’t believe I’ll be cursed because I give presents to people in
the name of Santa Claus.”
Zeck glanced
around and seemed to be trying to calm himself. “Religious observances are
forbidden for everybody.”
“And yet
you observe your religion all the time,” said Dink. “Every time you
don’t fire your weapon in the Battle Room, you’re doing it. So if you oppose
our little Santa Claus revolution, eemo, then we want to see you firing that
gun and taking people out. Otherwise you’re a flaming hypocrite. A fraud. A
pious fake. A liar.” Dink was in his face now. Close enough to make some
of the other kids uncomfortable.
“Back
off, Dink,” one of them muttered. Who? Wiggin, of course. Great, a
peacemaker. Again, Dink felt defiance swell up inside him.
“What are
you going to do?” said Zeck softly. “Hit me? I’m three years younger
than you.”
“No,”
said Dink. “I’m going to bless you.”
He set his
hand in the air just over Zeck’s head. As Dink expected, Zeck stood there
without flinching. That was what Zeck was best at: taking whatever anybody
dished out without even trying to get away.
“I bless
you with the spirit of Santa Claus,” said Dink. “I bless you with
compassion and generosity. With the irresistible impulse to make other people
happy. And you know what else? I bless you with the humility to realize that
you aren’t any better than the rest of us in the eyes of God.”
“You know
nothing about God,” said Zeck.
“I know
more than you do,” said Dink. “Because I’m not filled with
hate.”
“Neither
am I,” said Zeck.
“No,”
murmured another boy. “You’re filled with kuso.”
“Toguro,”
said another, laughing.
“I bless
you,” said Dink, “with love. Believe me, Zeck, it’ll be such a shock
to you, when you finally feel it, that it might just kill you. Then you can go
talk to God yourself and find out where you screwed up.”
Dink turned
around and faced the bulk of Rat Army. “I don’t know about you, but I’m
playing Santa Claus this year. We don’t own anything up here, so gift-giving
isn’t exactly easy. Can’t get on the nets and order stuff to be shipped up
here, all gift-wrapped. But gifts don’t have to be toys and stuff. What I gave
Flip here, the gift that got us in so much trouble, was a poem.”
“Oh how
sweet,” said the Brit. “A love poem?”
In answer,
Flip recited it. Blushing, of course, because the joke was on him. But also
loving it- because the joke was on him.
Dink could see
that a lot of them thought it was cool to have a toon leader write a satirical
poem about one of his soldiers. It really was a gift.
“And just
to prove that we aren’t celebrating actual Christmas,” said Dink,
“let’s just give each other whatever gifts we think of on any day at all
in December. It can be Hanukkah. It can be… hell, it can be Sinterklaas Day,
can’t it? The day is still young.”
“If Dink
would give us all a gift,” intoned the Jamaican kid, “that would give
our hearts a lift.”
“Oh how
sweet,” said the Brit.
“Crazy
Tom thinks everything’s sweet,” said the Canadian, “except for Tom’s
own mold-covered feet.” Most of them laughed.
“Was that
supposed to be a present?” said Crazy Tom. “Father Christmas is doing
a substandard job this year.”
“It would
be pleasant to get a present,” said Wiggin. Everybody laughed a little.
Wiggin went on, “It would be better to get a letter.”
Only a few
people chuckled at that. Then they were all quiet.
“That’s
the only gift I want,” said Wiggin softly. “A letter from home. If
you can give me that, I’m with you.”
“I
can’t,” said Dink, now just as serious as Wiggin. “They’ve cut us off
from everything. The best I can do is this: At home you know your family’s
doing Santa stuff. Hanging up stockings, right? You’re American, right?”
Wiggin nodded.
“Hang up
your stocking this year, Wiggin, and you’ll get something in it.”
“Coal,”
said Crazy Tom, the Brit.
“I don’t
know what it is yet,” said Dink, “but it’ll be there.”
“It won’t
really be from them,” said Wiggin.
“No, it
won’t,” said Dink. “It’ll be from Santa Claus.” He grinned.
Wiggin shook
his head. “Don’t do it, Dink,” he said. “It’s not worth the
trouble it’ll cause.”
“What
trouble? It’ll build morale.”
“We’re
here to study war,” said Wiggin.
Zeck
whispered: “Study war no more.”
“Are you
still here, Zeck?” said Dink, then pointedly turned his back on him.
“We’re here to build an army, Wiggin. A group of men who work together as
one. Not a bunch of kids hammered down by teachers who think they can erase ten
thousand years of human history and culture by making a rule.”
Wiggin looked
away and said, sadly, “Do what you want, Dink.”
“I always
do,” answered Dink.
“The only
gift that God respects,” said Zeck, “is a broken heart and a contrite
spirit.”
A lot of kids
groaned at that, but Dink gave Zeck one last look. “And when were you ever
contrite?”
“Contrition,”
said Zeck, “is a gift I give to God, not to you.” Only then did Zeck
walk away, back toward his bed, where he’d be hidden behind the curvature of
the barracks room.
7
STOCKINGS
Rat Army was only a small percentage of the population of
Battle School, but word spread quickly. The other armies began picking it up as
a joke. Someone would pick up some scrap of leftover food and drop it on
someone else’s meal tray, saying, “There you are, from Santa with
love.” And everybody at the table would laugh.
But even as a
joke, it was a gift, wasn’t it? Santa Claus was giving gifts all over Battle
School within days.
It was more
than just gifts. It was stockings. Nobody could say who started it, but after a
while it seemed that the giving of every gift was accompanied by a stocking.
Rolled up, hidden inside something else, but always a stocking. Nobody hung the
stocking up in hopes of getting it filled, of course. It was the other way around-
the stockings were being given as part of the gift.
And the
recipient of the stocking found a way to wear it, whether it fit or not.
Dangling from a sleeve. On a foot, but not matched with the other sock. Inside
a flash suit. Sticking out of a pocket. Just for a day, the sock was worn, and
then it was given back. It was the stocking more than the words now that said,
This is from Santa Claus.
The stockings
were needed, because what were the gifts? A few were poems, written on paper.
Some of them were food scraps. As the days passed, however, more and more of
the gifts took the form of favors. Tutoring. Extra practice time in the Battle
Room. A bed that was already made when somebody came back from the showers.
Showing somebody how to get to a hidden level in one of the video games.
Even when it
wasn’t a tangible gift, there was the stocking to make it real.
Father was
right, thought Zeck. The parents of these children put the lie of Santa in
their hearts, and now it bears fruits. Liars, all of them, giving gifts as
homage to the Father of Lies. Zeck could hear his father’s voice in his memory:
“He will answer their prayers with the ashes of sin in their mouths, with
the poison of atheism and unbelief in the plasma of their blood.” These
children were not believers- not in Christ, and not in Santa Claus. They knew
they served a lie. If only they could see that when you do charity in the name
of Satan it turns to sin. The devil cannot do good.
Zeck tried to
go see Colonel Graff, but he was stopped by a Marine in the corridor. “Do
you have an appointment with the commandant of Battle School?”
“No,
sir,” said Zeck.
“Then
whatever you have to say, say it to your counselor. Or one of the
teachers.”
The teachers
were no help. Few of them would talk to him anymore. They’d say, “Is this
about algebra? No? Then tell it to somebody else, Zeck.” The words of
Christ had long since worn out their welcome in this place.
The counselor
did listen- or at least sat in a room with him while he talked. But it came to
nothing.
“So what
you’re telling me is that the other students are being kind to each other, and
you want it stopped.”
“They’re
doing it in the name of Santa Claus.”
“What,
exactly, has anyone done to you- in the name of Santa Claus?”
“Nothing
to me, personally, but-“
“So
you’re complaining because they’re being kind to other people and not to
you?”
“Because
it’s in the name of-“
“Santa
Claus, I see. Do you believe in Santa Claus, Zeck?”
“What do
you mean?”
“Believe
in Santa Claus. Do you think there’s really a jolly fat guy in a red suit who
brings gifts?”
“No.”
“So Santa
Claus isn’t part of your religion.”
“That’s
exactly my point. It’s part of their religion.”
“I’ve
asked. They say it isn’t religion at all. That Santa Claus is merely a cultural
figure shared by many of the cultures of Earth.”
“It’s
part of Christmas,” insisted Zeck.
“And you
don’t believe in Christmas.”
“Not the
way most people celebrate it, no.”
“What do
you believe in?”
“I
believe Jesus Christ was born, probably not in December at all anyway, and he
grew up to be the Savior of the world.”
“No Santa
Claus.”
“No.”
“So Santa
Claus isn’t part of Christmas.”
“Of
course he’s part of Christmas,” said Zeck. “For most people.”
“Just not
for you.”
Zeck nodded.
“All
right, I’ll talk about this to my superiors,” said the counselor. “Do
you want to know what I think? I think they’re going to tell me it’s just a
fad, and they’re going to let it run itself out.”
“In other
words, they’re going to let them keep doing it as long as they want.”
“They’re
children, Zeck. Not many of them are as tenacious as you. They’ll lose interest
in it and it will go away. Have patience. Patience isn’t against your religion,
is it?”
“I refuse
to take offense at your sarcasm.”
“I wasn’t
being sarcastic.”
“I can
see that you also are a true son to the Father of Lies.” And Zeck got up
and left.
“I’m glad
you didn’t take offense,” the counselor called after him.
There would be
no recourse to authority, obviously. Not directly, anyway.
Instead, Zeck
went to several of the Arab students, pointing out that the authorities were
allowing a Christian custom to be openly practiced. From the first few, he
heard the standard litany: “Islam has renounced rivalry between religions.
What they do is their business.”
But Zeck was
finally able to get a rise out of a Pakistani kid in Bee Army. Not that Ahmed
said anything positive. In fact, he looked completely uninterested, even
hostile. Yet Zeck knew that he had struck a nerve. “They say Santa Claus
isn’t religious. He’s national. But in your country, is there any difference?
Is Muhammad-“
Ahmed held up
one hand and looked away. “It is not for you to say the prophet’s
name.”
“I’m not
comparing him to Santa Claus, of course,” said Zeck. Though in fact Zeck
had heard his father call Muhammad “Satan’s imitation of a prophet,”
which would make Santa and Muhammad pretty well parallel.
“You have
said enough,” said Ahmed. “I’m done with you.”
Zeck knew that
Ahmed had gotten along well enough in Battle School. Their home countries were
powerless to insist on religious privileges, so the children in Battle School
had been granted exemptions from the obligations of Muslims to pray. But what
would he do now that the Christians were getting their Santa Claus? Pakistan
had been formed as a Muslim country. There was no distinction between what was
national and what was Muslim.
It apparently
took Ahmed two days to organize things, especially because it was impossible to
ascertain at any given time which earthside time zone they were in- or directly
above- and therefore what times they should pray. They couldn’t even find out
what time it was in Mecca and use that schedule.
So Ahmed and
other Muslim students apparently worked it out so that they would pray during
times when they were not in class, and would continue to use the exemption for
those students who were in an actual battle at a prayer time.
The result was
a demonstration of piety at breakfast. At first it seemed only a half-dozen
Muslims were involved, the students prostrating themselves and facing- not
Mecca, which would have been impossible- but to portside, which faced the sun.
But once the
praying began, other Muslim students took note and at first a few, then more
and more, joined in the praying. Zeck sat at the table, eating without
conversation with his supposed comrades in Rat Army. He pretended not to notice
or care, but he was delighted. Because Dink grasped the meaning almost at once.
The prayer was a Muslim response to Dink’s Santa Claus campaign. There was no
way the commandant could ignore this.
“So maybe
it’s a good thing,” Dink murmured to Flip, who was sitting next to him.
Zeck knew it
was not a good thing. Muslims had renounced terrorism many years ago, after the
disastrous Sunni-Shiite war, and had even reconciled with Israel and made
common economic cause. But everyone knew how much resentment still seethed
within the Muslim world, with many Muslims believing they were treated unfairly
by the Hegemony. Everyone knew of the imams and ayatollahs who claimed, loudly,
that what was needed was not a secular Hegemony, but a Caliph to unify the
world in worship of God. “When we live by Sharia, God will protect us from
these monsters. When God sends a warning, we are wise to listen. Instead, we do
the opposite, and God will not protect us when we are in rebellion against
him.”
It was
language Zeck understood. Apart from their religious delusions, they had the
courage of their faith. They were not afraid to speak up. And they had numbers
enough to force people to listen to them. They would be heard by those who had
long since stopped even pretending to listen to Zeck.
The next
prayer time was at the end of lunch. The Muslims had spread the word, and all those
who intended to pray lingered in the mess hall. Zeck had already heard that the
same thing happened in the commanders’ mess at breakfast, but now most of the
Muslim commanders had come into the main mess hall to join their soldiers in
prayer.
Colonel Graff
came into the mess hall just before the announced time of prayer.
“Religious
observance in Battle School is forbidden,” he said loudly. “Muslims
have been granted an exemption from the requirement of daily prayers. So any
Muslim student who insists on a public display of religious rituals will be
disciplined, and any commanders or toon leaders who take part will immediately
and permanently lose their rank.”
Graff had
already turned to leave when Ahmed called out, “What about Santa
Claus?”
“As far
as I know,” said Graff, “there is no religious ritual associated with
Santa Claus, and Santa Claus has not been sighted here in Battle School.”
“Double
standard!” shouted Ahmed, and several others echoed him.
Graff ignored
him and left the mess hall.
The door had
not closed when two dozen Marines came through the door and stationed
themselves around the room.
When the time
for prayer came, Ahmed and several others immediately prostrated themselves.
Marines came to them, forced them to their feet, and handcuffed them. The
Marine lieutenant looked around the room. “Anyone else?”
One more
soldier lay down to pray; he was also handcuffed. No one else defied them. Five
Muslims were taken from the room. Not roughly, but not all that gently, either.
Zeck turned
his attention back to his food.
“This
makes you happy, doesn’t it?” whispered Dink. Zeck turned a blank face
toward him.
“You did
this,” said Dink softly.
“I’m a
Christian. I don’t tell Muslims when to pray.” Zeck regretted speaking as
soon as he finished. He should have remained silent.
“You’re
not a good liar, Zeck,” said Dink. And now he was talking loud enough that
the rest of the table could hear. “Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s one of
your best points- you’re used to telling the truth, so you never learned the
skill of telling lies.”
“I don’t
lie,” said Zeck.
“Your
words were literally true, I’m sure. Our Muslim friends did not consult you on
the timetable. But as an answer to my accusation that you did this, it was such
a pathetically obvious lie. A dodge. If you really had nothing to do with it,
you wouldn’t have needed a dodge. You answered like someone with something to
hide.”
This time Zeck
said nothing.
“You
think this will help your chances of getting out of Battle School. Maybe you
even think it will disrupt Battle School and hurt the war effort- which makes
you a traitor, from one point of view, or a hero of Christianity, from another.
But you won’t stop this war, and you won’t hurt Battle School in the long run.
You want to know what you really accomplished? Someday this war will end. If we
win, then we’ll all go home. The kids in this school are the brightest military
minds of our generation. They’ll be running things in country after country.
Ahmed- someday he’ll be Pakistan. And you just guaranteed that he will hate the
idea of trying to live with non-Muslims in peace. In other words, you just
started a war thirty or forty years from now.”
“Or
ten,” said Wiggin.
“Ahmed
will still be pretty young in ten years,” said Flip, chuckling a little.
Zeck hadn’t
thought of what this might lead to back on Earth. But what did Dink know? He
couldn’t predict the future. “I didn’t start promoting Santa Claus,”
said Zeck, meeting Dink’s gaze.
“No, you
just reported a little private joke between two Dutch kids and made a big deal
out of it,” said Dink.
8
PEACE
The Santa Claus thing was over. Dink didn’t imagine that
he controlled it anymore- it had grown way past him now. But when the Muslim
kids were arrested in the mess hall, it stopped being a game. It stopped being
just a way to tweak the nose of authority. There were real consequences, and as
Zeck had pointed out, they were more Dink’s fault than anyone else’s.
So Dink asked
all his friends to ask everybody they knew to stop doing the stocking thing. To
stop giving gifts that had anything to do with Santa Claus.
And, within a
day, it stopped.
He thought
that would be the end of it.
But it wasn’t
the end. Because of Zeck.
Nothing Zeck
did, of course. Zeck was Zeck, completely unchanged. Zeck didn’t do anything in
practice except fly around, and he didn’t do anything in battle except take up
space. But he went to class, he did his schoolwork, he turned in his
assignments.
And everybody
ignored him. They always had. But not like this.
Before, they
had ignored him in a kind of tolerant, almost grudgingly respectful way: He’s
an idiot, but at least he’s consistent.
Now they
ignored him in a pointed way. They didn’t even bother teasing him or jostling
him. He just didn’t exist. If he tried to speak to anybody, they turned away.
Dink saw it, and it made him feel bad. But Zeck had brought it on himself. It’s
one thing to be an outsider because you’re different. It’s another thing to get
other people in trouble for your own selfish reasons. And that’s what Zeck had
done. He didn’t care about the no-religion rule- he violated it all the time
himself. He just used Dink’s Sinterklaas present to Flip as a means of making a
lame point with the commandant.
So I was
childish too, thought Dink. I knew when to stop. He didn’t.
Not my fault.
And yet Dink
couldn’t stop observing him. Just glances. Just… noticing. He had read a little
bit about primate behavior, as part of the theory of group loyalties. He knew
how chimps and baboons that were shut out of their troop behaved, what happened
to them. Depression. Self-destruction. Before, Zeck had seemed to thrive on
isolation. Now that the isolation was complete, he wasn’t thriving anymore.
He looked drawn.
He would start walking in some direction and then just stop. Then go again, but
slowly. He didn’t eat much. Things weren’t going well for him.
And if there
was one thing Dink knew, it was that the counselors and teachers weren’t worth
a bucket of hog snot when it came to actually helping a kid with real problems.
They had their agenda- what they wanted to make each kid do. But if it was
clear the kid wouldn’t do it, then they lost interest. The way they had lost
interest in Dink. Even if Zeck asked for help, they wouldn’t give it. And Zeck
wouldn’t ask.
Despite
knowing how futile it was, Dink tried anyway. He went to Graff and tried to
explain what was happening to Zeck.
“Interesting
theory,” said Graff. “He’s being shunned, you think.”
“I know.”
“But not
by you?”
“I’ve
tried to talk to him a couple of times, he shuts me out.”
“So he’s
shunning you.”
“But
everybody else is shunning him.”
“Dink,”
said Graff, “ego to absolvo.”
“Whatever
you might think,” said Dink, “that wasn’t Dutch.”
“It was
Latin. From the Catholic confessional. I absolve you of your sin.”
“I’m not
Catholic.”
“I’m not
a priest.”
“You
don’t have the power to absolve anybody from anything.”
“But it
was worth a try. Go back to your barracks, Dink. Zeck is not your
problem.”
“Why
don’t you just send him back home?” asked Dink. “He’s never going to
be anything in this army. He’s a Christian, not a soldier. Why can’t you let
him go home and be a Christian?”
Graff leaned
back in his chair. “Okay, I know what you’re going to say,” said
Dink.
“You
do?”
“The same
thing everybody always says. If I let him do it, then I have to let everybody
else do it.”
“Really?”
“If
Zeck’s noncompliance or whatever it is gets him sent home, then pretty soon
you’ll have a lot more kids being noncompliant. So they can go home, too.”
“Would
you be one of those?” asked Graff.
“I think
your school is a waste of time,” said Dink. “But I believe in the
war. I’m not a pacifist, I’m just anti-incompetence.”
“But you
see, I wasn’t going to make that argument,” said Graff. “Because I
already know the answer. If the only way a kid can go home is acting like Zeck
and being treated like Zeck, there’s not a kid in this school who’d do
it.”
“You
don’t know that.”
“But I
do,” said Graff. “Remember, you were all tested and observed. Not
just for logic, memory, spatial relationships, verbal ability, but also
character attributes. Quick decision-making. Ability to grasp the whole of a
situation. The ability to get along well with other people.”
“So how
the hell did Zeck get here in the first place?”
“Zeck is
brilliant at getting along with people,” said Graff. “When he wants
to.”
Dink didn’t
believe it.
“Zeck can
handle even megalomaniacal sociopaths and keep them from harming other people.
He’s a natural peacemaker in a human community, Dink. It’s his best gift.”
“That’s
just kuso,” said Dink. “Everybody hated him right from the
start.”
“Because
he wanted you to. He’s getting exactly what he wants, right now. Including you
coming here to talk to me. All exactly what he wants.”
“I don’t
think so,” said Dink.
“That’s
because you don’t know the thing that I was debating with myself about telling
you.”
“So tell
me.”
“No,”
said Graff. “The side arguing for discretion won, and I won’t tell.”
Dink ignored
the obfuscation. Graff wanted him to beg. Instead, Dink thought about what
Graff had said about Zeck’s abilities. Had Zeck somehow been playing him? Him
and everybody else?
“Why?”
asked Dink. “Why would he deliberately alienate everybody?”
“Because
nobody hated him enough,” said Graff. “He needed to be so hated that
we gave up on him and sent him home.”
“I think
you give him credit for more plans than he actually has,” said Dink.
“He didn’t know what would happen.”
“I didn’t
say his plan was conscious. He just wants to go home. He believes he has to go
home.”
“Why?”
“I can’t
tell you.”
“Why
not?”
“Because
I can’t trust you.”
“If I say
I won’t repeat a story, I won’t repeat it.”
“Oh, I
know you can be discreet. I just don’t think I can trust you to do the job that
needs doing.”
“And what
job is that?”
“Healing
Zeck Morgan.”
“I tried.
He won’t let me near him.”
“I
know,” said Graff. “So the thing you want to know, I’m going to tell
to someone else. Someone who is also discreet. Someone who can heal him.”
Dink thought
about that for a few moments.
“Ender
Wiggin.”
“That’s
your nominee?” asked Graff.
“No,”
said Dink. “He’s yours. You think he can do anything.”
Graff smiled a
little Mona Lisa smile, if Mona Lisa had been a pudgy colonel.
“I hope
he can,” said Dink. “Should I send him to you?”
“I’ll bet
you,” said Graff, “that Ender never needs to come to me at all.”
“He’ll
just know what to do without being told.”
“He’ll
act like Ender Wiggin, and in the process he’ll find out what he needs to know
from Zeck himself.”
“Wiggin
doesn’t talk to Zeck either.”
“You mean
that you haven’t seen him talk to Zeck.”
Dink nodded.
“Okay, that’s what I mean.”
“Give him
time,” said Graff.
Dink got up
from his chair.
“I
haven’t dismissed you, soldier.”
Dink stopped
and saluted. “Permission to leave your office and return to my barracks to
continue feeling like a complete shit, sir.”
“Denied,”
said Graff. “Oh, you can feel like whatever you want, that’s not my
business. But your effort on behalf of Zeck has been duly noted.”
“I didn’t
come here for a commendation.”
“And
you’re not getting one. All you’re getting from this is my good opinion of your
character. It’s not easily won, but once won, my good opinion is hard to lose.
It’s a burden you’ll have to carry with you for some time. Learn to live with
it. Now get out of here, soldier.”
9
WIGGIN
Zeck came upon Wiggin at one of the elevator wells. It
wasn’t one much used by students- it was out of the normal lanes of traffic,
and mostly teachers used it, when it was used at all. Zeck used it precisely
for that reason. He could wait in line at the busier elevators for a long time,
but somehow he never got to the front of the line until everyone else had gone.
That was usually fine with Zeck, but at mealtime, when everyone was headed for
the same destination, it was the difference between a hot meal with a lot of
choices and a colder one with almost no choices left.
So there was
Wiggin, sitting with his back to the wall, gripping his left leg so tightly
that his head rested on his own knee. He was obviously in pain.
Zeck almost
walked past him. What did he owe any of these people?
Then he
remembered the Samaritan who stopped for the injured man- and the priest and
the Levite who didn’t. “Something wrong?” asked Zeck.
“Thinking
about something and didn’t watch where I was stepping,” said Wiggin
through gritted teeth. “Bruise? Broken skin?”
“Twisted
ankle,” said Wiggin.
“Swollen?”
“I don’t
know yet,” said Wiggin. “When I move it, it throbs.”
“Bring
your other leg up so I can compare ankles.”
Wiggin did.
Zeck pulled his shoes and socks off, despite the way Wiggin winced when he
moved his left foot. The bare ankles looked exactly alike, as far as he could
tell. “Doesn’t look swollen.”
“Good,”
said Wiggin. “Then I guess I’m okay.” He reached out and grabbed
Zeck’s upper arm and began to pull himself up.
“I’m not
a fire pole,” said Zeck. “Let me help you up instead of just grabbing
my arm.”
“Sure,
sorry,” said Wiggin.
In a moment,
Wiggin was up and wincing as he tried to walk off the injury. “Owie owie
owie,” he breathed, in a parody of a suffering toddler. Then he gave Zeck
a tiny smile. “Thanks.”
“Don’t
mention it,” said Zeck. “Now what did you want to talk to me
about?”
Wiggin smiled
a little more broadly. “I don’t know,” he said. No attempt to deny
that this whole thing had been staged to have an opportunity to talk. “I
just know that whatever your plan is, it’s working too well or it isn’t working
at all.”
“I don’t
have a plan,” said Zeck. “I just want to go home.”
“We all
want to go home,” said Wiggin. “But we also want other things. Honor.
Victory. Save the world. Prove you can do something hard. You don’t care about
anything except getting out of here, no matter what it costs.”
“That’s
right.”
“So, why?
And don’t tell me you’re homesick. We all cried for mommy and daddy our first
few nights here, and then we stopped. If there’s anybody here tough enough to
take a little homesickness, it’s you.”
“So now
you’re my counselor? Forget it, Wiggin.”
“What are
you afraid of?” asked Wiggin.
“Nothing,”
said Zeck.
“Kuso,”
said Wiggin.
“Now I’m
supposed to pour out my heart to you, is that it? Because you asked what I was
afraid of, and that shows me how insightful you are, and I tell you all my
deepest fears, and you make me feel better, and then we’re lifelong friends and
I decide to become a good soldier to please you.”
“You
don’t eat,” said Wiggin. “Humans can’t live in the kind of isolation
you’re living in. I think you’re going to die. If your body doesn’t die, your
soul will.”
“Forgive
me for pointing out the obvious, but you don’t believe in souls.”
“Forgive
me for pointing out the obvious,” said Wiggin, “but you don’t know
squat about what I believe. I have religious parents too.”
“Having
religious parents says nothing about what you believe.”
“But
nobody here is religious without religious parents,” said Wiggin.
“Come on, how old were you when they took you? Six? Seven?”
“I hear
you were five.”
“And now
we’re so much older. You’re eight now?”
“Almost
nine.”
“But
we’re so mature.”
“They
picked us because we have a mental age much higher than the norm.”
“I have
religious parents,” said Wiggin. “Unfortunately not the same
religion, which caused a little conflict. For instance, my mother doesn’t
believe in infant baptism and my father does, so my father thinks I’m baptized
and my mother doesn’t.”
Zeck winced a
little at the idea. “You can’t have a strong marriage when the parents
don’t share the same faith.”
“Well, my
parents do their best,” said Wiggin. “And I bet your parents don’t
agree on everything.”
Zeck shrugged.
“I bet
they don’t agree on you.”
Zeck turned
away. “This is completely none of your business.”
“I bet
your mother was glad you went into space. To get you away from your father.
That’s how much they disagree on religion.”
Zeck turned
around to face him, furious now. “What did those bunducks tell you about
me? They have no right.”
“Nobody
told me anything,” said Wiggin. “It’s you, oomay. Back when people
were still talking to you, when you first came into Rat Army, it was always,
Your father this, your father that.”
“You only
just joined Rat yourself.”
“People
talk outside their armies,” said Wiggin. “And I listen. Always your
father. Like your father was some kind of prophet. And I thought, I bet his
mother’s glad he isn’t under his father’s influence anymore.”
“My
mother wants me to respect my father.”
“She just
doesn’t want you to live with him. He beat you, didn’t he?”
Zeck shoved
Wiggin. Before he even thought of doing it, there was his hand, shoving the kid
away.
“Come
on,” said Wiggin. “You shower. People see the scars. I’ve seen the
scars.”
“It was
purification. There’s no way a pagan like you would understand that.”
“Purification
of what?” asked Wiggin. “You were the perfect son.”
“Graff’s
been feeding you information from their observation of me, hasn’t he! That’s illegal!”
“Come on,
Zeck. I know you. If you decide something’s right, then that’s the thing you’ll
do, no matter what it costs you. You believe in your father. Whatever he says,
you’ll do. So what have you done wrong that makes it so you need all this purification?”
Zeck didn’t
answer. He just closed down. Refused to listen. He let his mind go off
somewhere else. To the place where it always went when Father purified him. So
he wouldn’t scream. So he wouldn’t feel anything at all.
“There it
is,” said Wiggin. “That’s the Zeck he made you into. The Zeck who
isn’t really here. Doesn’t really exist.”
Zeck heard him
without hearing.
“And
that’s why you have to get home,” said Wiggin. “Because without you
there, he’ll have to find somebody else to purify, won’t he? Do you have a
brother? A sister? Some other kid in the congregation?”
“He never
touched any other kid,” murmured Zeck. “I’m the impure one.”
“Oh, I
know. It’s your mother, isn’t it? Do you think he’ll try to purify your
mother?”
At Wiggin’s
cue, Zeck started thinking about his mother. And not just any picture of her.
It was his mother saying to him, “Satan does not give good gifts. So your
good gift comes from God.”
And then
Father, saying, “There are those who will tell you that a thing is from
God, when it’s really from the devil.”
Zeck had asked
him why.
“They are
deceived by their own desire,” Father had said. “They wish the world
were a better place, so they pretend that polluted things are pure, so they
don’t have to fear them.”
He couldn’t
let Father know what Mother had said, because it was so impure of her. Can’t
let Father know.
If he whips
Mother I’ll kill him.
The thought
struck him with such force he gasped and stumbled against the wall.
If he whips
Mother I’ll kill him.
Wiggin was
still there, talking. “Zeck, what’s wrong?” Wiggin touched him.
Touched his arm. The forearm.
Zeck couldn’t
help himself. He yanked his arm away, but that wasn’t enough. He lashed out
with his right leg and kicked Wiggin in the shin. Then shoved him backward.
Wiggin fell against the wall, then to the floor. He looked helpless. Zeck was
so filled with rage at him that he couldn’t contain it. It was all the weeks of
isolation. It was all his fear for his mother. She really wasn’t pure. He
should hate her for it. But he loved her. That made him evil. That made him
deserve all the purification Father ever gave him- because he loved someone as
impure as Mother.
And for some
reason, with all of this rage and fear, Zeck threw himself down on Wiggin and
pummeled him in the chest and stomach.
“Stop
it!” cried Wiggin, trying to turn away from him. “What do you think
you’re doing, purifying me?”
Zeck stopped
and looked at his own hands. Looked at Wiggin’s body, lying there helpless. The
very helplessness of him, his wormlike, fetal pose, infuriated Zeck. He knew
from class what this was. It was blood lust. It was the animal fever that took
a soldier over and made him strong beyond his strength.
It was what
Father must have felt, purifying him. The smaller body, helpless, complete
subject to his will. It filled a certain kind of man with rage that had to tear
into its prey. That had to inflict pain, break the skin, draw blood and tears
and screaming from the victim.
It was
something dark and evil. If anything was from Satan, this was.
“I
thought you were a pacifist,” said Wiggin softly.
Zeck could
hear his father going on and on about peace, how the servants of God did not go
to war.
“‘Beat
your swords into ploughshares,” murmured Zeck, echoing his father quoting
Micah and Isaiah, as he did all the time.
“Bible
quotations,” said Wiggin, uncurling himself. Now he lay flat on the
ground. Completely open to any blows Zeck might try to land. But the rage was
dissipating now. Zeck didn’t want to hit him. Or rather, he wanted to hit him,
but not more than he wanted not to hit him.
“Try this
one,” said Wiggin. “‘Think not that I am come to send peace on earth:
I came not to send peace, but a sword.’ “
“Don’t
argue scripture with me,” said Zeck. “I know them all.”
“But you
only believe in the ones your father liked. Why do you think your father always
quoted the ones about hating war and rejecting violence, when he beat you the
way he did? Sounds like he was trying to talk himself out of what he found in
his own heart.”
“You
don’t know my father.” Zeck hissed out the words through a tight throat.
He could hit this kid again. He could. But he wouldn’t. At least he wouldn’t if
the kid would just shut up.
“I know
what I just saw,” said Wiggin. “That rage. You weren’t pulling your
punches. That hurt.”
“Sorry,”
said Zeck. “But shut up now, please.”
“Oh, just
because it hurt doesn’t mean I’m afraid of you. You know one of the reasons I
was glad to leave home? Because my brother threatened to kill me, and even
though I know he probably didn’t mean it, my guts didn’t know that. My guts
churned all the time. With fear. Because my brother liked to hurt me. I don’t
think that’s your father, though. I think your father hated what he did to you.
And that’s why he preached peace.”
“He
preached peace because that’s what Christ preached,” said Zeck. He meant
to say it with fervor and intensity. But the words sounded lame even as he said
them.
“‘The
Lord is my strength and song,” quoted Wiggin. “‘And he is become my
salvation.”
“Exodus
fifteen,” said Zeck. “It’s Moses. Old Testament. It doesn’t
apply.”
“‘He is
my God, and I will prepare him an habitation; my father’s God, and I will exalt
him.”
“What are
you doing with the King James version anyway?” said Zeck. “Did you
learn these scriptures just to argue with me?”
“Yes,”
said Wiggin. “You know the next verse.”
“‘The
Lord is a man of war,'” said Zeck. “‘Jehovah is his name.'”
“The King
James version just says ‘the Lord,’ ” said Wiggin.
“But
that’s what it means when the Bible puts it in small caps like that. They’re
just avoiding putting down the name of God.”
“The Lord
is a man of war,” said Wiggin. “But if your dad quoted that, then
he’d have no reason to try to control this bloodlust thing. This berzerker
rage. He’d kill you. So it’s really a good thing, isn’t it, that he ignored
Jesus and Moses talking about how God is about war and peace. Because he loved
you so much that he’d build half his religion up like a wall to keep him from
killing you.”
“Stay out
of my family,” whispered Zeck.
“He loved
you,” said Wiggin. “But you were right to be afraid of him.”
“Don’t
make me hurt you,” said Zeck.
“I’m not
worried about you,” said Wiggin. “You’re twice the man your father
is. Now that you’ve seen the violence inside you, you can control it. You won’t
hit me for telling you the truth.”
“Nothing
that you’ve said is true.”
“Zeck,”
said Wiggin. “It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about
his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these
little ones.’ Did your father quote that very much?”
He wanted to
kill Wiggin. He also wanted to cry. He didn’t do either. “He quoted it all
the time.”
“And then
he took you out and made all those scars on your back.”
“I wasn’t
pure.”
“No, he
wasn’t pure. He wasn’t.”
“Some
people are looking so hard to find Satan that they see him even where he
isn’t!” cried Zeck.
“I don’t
remember that from the Bible.”
It wasn’t the
Bible. It was Mother. He couldn’t say that.
“I’m not
sure what you’re saying,” said Wiggin. “That I’m finding Satan where
he isn’t? I don’t think so. I think a man who whips a little kid and then
blames the kid for it, I think that’s exactly where Satan lives.”
The urge to
cry was apparently going to win. Zeck could hardly get the words out. “I
have to go home.”
“And do
what?” asked Wiggin. “Stand between your mother and father until your
father finally loses control and kills you?”
“If
that’s what it takes!”
“You know
my biggest fear?” said Wiggin.
“I don’t
care about your fear,” said Zeck.
“As much
as I hate my brother, what I’m afraid of is that I’m just like him.”
“I don’t
hate my father.”
“You’re
terrified of him,” said Wiggin, “and you should be. But I think what you’re
really planning to do when you go home is kill the old son of a bitch.”
“No I’m
not!” cried Zeck. The rage filled him again, and he couldn’t stop himself
from lashing out, but at least he aimed his blows at the wall and the floor,
not at Wiggin. So it hurt only Zeck’s own hands and arms and elbows. Only
himself.
“If he
laid one hand on your mother-” said Wiggin.
“I’ll
kill him!” Then Zeck hurled himself backward, threw himself to the floor
away from Wiggin and beat on the floor and kept beating on it till the skin of
the palm of his left hand broke open and bled. And even then, he only stopped
because Wiggin took hold of his wrist. Held it and then put something in his
palm and closed Zeck’s fist around it.
“You’ve
done enough bleeding,” said Wiggin. “In my opinion, anyway.”
“You
haven’t done anything wrong,” said Wiggin, “except try to get home to
protect your mother. Because you know your father is crazy and dangerous.”
“Just
like me,” said Zeck.
“No,”
said Wiggin. “The opposite of you. Because you controlled it. You stopped
yourself from beating the little kid. Even when he deliberately provoked you.
Your father couldn’t stop himself from beating you- even when you did
absolutely nothing wrong at all. You are not alike.”
“The
rage,” said Zeck.
“One of
the soldierly virtues,” said Wiggin. “Turn it on the Buggers instead
of on yourself or your father. And especially instead of me.”
“I don’t
believe in war.”
“Not many
soldiers do,” said Wiggin. “You could get killed doing that stuff.
But you train to fight well, so that when a war does come, you can win and come
home and find everything safe.”
“There’s
nothing safe at home.”
“I bet
that things are fine at home,” said Wiggin. “Because, see, with you
not there, your mother doesn’t have any reason to stay with your father, does
she? So I think she’s not going to put up with any more crap from him. Don’t
you think so? She can’t be weak. If she were weak, she could never have produced
somebody as tough as you. You couldn’t have gotten your toughness from your
father- he doesn’t have much, if he can’t even keep himself from doing what he
did. So your toughness comes from her, right? She’ll leave him if he raises his
hand against her. She doesn’t have to stay to look out for you anymore.”
It was as much
the tone of Wiggin’s voice as the words he said that calmed him. Zeck pulled
his body together, rolled himself up into a sitting position. “I keep
expecting to see some teacher rush down the corridor demanding to know what’s
going on.”
“I don’t
think so,” said Wiggin. “I think they know exactly what’s going on-
probably watching it on a holo somewhere- and maybe they’re keeping any other
kids from coming along here to see. But they’re going to let us work it out on
our own.”
“Work
what out?” said Zeck. “I got no quarrel with you.”
“You had
a quarrel with everybody who stood between you and going home.”
“I still
hate this place. I want to get out of here.”
“Welcome
to the club,” said Wiggin. “Look, we’re missing lunch. You can do
what you want, but I’m going to go eat.”
“You
still planning to limp on that left ankle?”
“Yes,”
said Wiggin. “After you kicked me? I won’t have to act.”
“Chest
okay? I didn’t break any ribs, did I?”
“You sure
have an inflated opinion of your own strength,” said Wiggin.
Then he
stepped into the elevator and held the bar as it drifted upward, carrying him
along with it.
Zeck sat there
awhile longer, looking at nothing, thinking about what just happened. He wasn’t
sure if anything had been decided. Zeck still hated Battle School. And
everybody in Battle School hated him. And now he hated his father and didn’t
believe in his father’s phony pacifism. Wiggin had pretty much convinced him
that his father was no prophet. Hell, Zeck had known it all along. But
believing in his father’s spirituality was the only way he could keep himself
from hating him and fearing him. The only way he could bear it. Now he didn’t
have to bear it anymore. Wiggin was right. Mother was free, now that she didn’t
have to look out for Zeck.
He unclenched
his fist and saw what Wiggin had stuffed into it to stanch the bleeding. One of
his socks, covered in blood.
10
GRACE
Dink saw how Wiggin walked with his food tray and knew
something was wrong. And it wasn’t just because his tray was double-loaded. Who
was he getting lunch for? Didn’t matter- what mattered was that Wiggin was in
pain. Dink pulled out the chair beside him.
“What
happened?” he asked as soon as Wiggin sat down.
“Got
lunch for Zeck,” said Wiggin.
“I mean
what happened to you,” said Dink.
“Happened?”
Wiggin’s voice was all innocence, but his eyes, lasering in at Dink’s eyes,
were telling him to back off.
“Suit
yourself,” said Dink. “Keep your dandruff to yourself for all I
care.”
The
conversation at the table flowed around them after that. Dink joined in now and
then, but he noticed that Wiggin just ate, and that he was careful about how he
breathed. Something had injured his chest. Broken rib? No, more likely a
bruise. And he’d been favoring one leg when he walked. Trying not to show it,
but favoring it all the same. And he was saving lunch for Zeck. They’d had a
fight. The pacifist and the genius? Fighting each other? That was stupid. But
what else could it have been? Who else but a pacifist would attack somebody as
little as Wiggin?
Half the
soldiers were gone from the table by the time Zeck came in. The food line had
already closed down, but Wiggin saw him and stood up and waved him over. He was
slow raising his hand to wave, though, what with his chest hurting and all.
Zeck
approached. “Got lunch for you,” said Wiggin, stepping away from his
chair so that Zeck could sit in it.
The other kids
at the table were obviously poising themselves to leave if Zeck sat down there.
“No, I’m
not hungry,” said Zeck.
Had he been
crying? No. And what was with his hand? He kept it in a fist, but Dink could
see that it had been injured. That there had been blood.
“I just
wanted to give you something,” said Zeck.
He laid a
stocking down on the table beside Wiggin’s tray.
“Sorry
it’s wet,” said Zeck. “I had to wash it.”
“Toguro,”
said Wiggin. “Now sit and eat.” He almost pushed Zeck down into the
chair.
It was the
stocking that did it. Wiggin had given Zeck a gift- a Santa Claus gift, of all
things- and Zeck had accepted it. Now Wiggin stood with his hands on Zeck’s
shoulders, staring at each of the other Rat Army soldiers in turn, as if he was
daring them to stand up and go.
Dink knew that
if he got up, the others would too. But he didn’t get up, and the others
stayed.
“So I’ve
got this poem,” said Dink. “It really sucks, but sometimes you just
gotta say it to get it out of your system.”
“We’ve
just eaten, Dink,” said Flip. “Couldn’t you wait till our food is
digested?”
“No, this
will be good for you,” said Dink. “Your food’s turning to shit right
now, and this will help.”
That got him a
laugh, which bought him enough time to finish coming up with the rhymes he
needed.
“What do
you do with Zeck?
You want to
break his neck.
But I warn you
not to try
Cause Zeck’s
too stubborn to die.”
As poems go,
it was pretty weak. But as a symbol of Dink’s decision that Zeck should be
given another chance, well, it did the job. Between Wiggin’s stocking and
Dink’s poem, Zeck had returned to his previous status: barely tolerated.
Dink looked up
at Wiggin, who was still standing behind Zeck- who now seemed to be eating with
some appetite.
