Chapter 50
... I was reminded of a remark of Willa Cather's, that you can't paint sunlight, you can only paint what it does with shadows on a wall. If you examine a life, as Socrates has been so tediously advising us to do for so many centuries, do you really examine a life, or do you examine the shadows it casts on other lives? Entity or relationships? Objective reality or the vanishing point of a multiple perspective exercise? Prism or the rainbows it refracts? And what if you're the wall? What if you never cast a shadow or rainbow of your own, but have only caught those cast by others?
- Wallace Stegner
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The next day passed by in a haze of pain and frustration for Harper. Despite the make-shift splint his friends had fashioned for him, his hand hurt dreadfully. His agony didn't buy him a day off, however, and tasks already awkward because of his blindness were next to impossible. Work in the mine was torture, of course, but even little things were difficult. He couldn't hold his dishes, could hardly feed himself. Simon tried to help, and Twig flitted around like a worried shadow. The little boy was rarely out of reaching distance when they weren't working, and Harper could feel his fear and worry and sadness through his quietness. Twig had been uncharacteristically quiet for far too long, since their stay in the hospital barrack and all the pain and suffering he'd endured there. Harper found he missed the tiny slave's laugh.
As he shuffled blindly through the dinner line, barely clutching his metal dishes with his good hand and listening to Simon's horrible, hacking coughs in front of him, Harper felt very small, very helpless, and very lost and forgotten.
He desperately missed Dylan and wished he were here. He was tired of being strong and brave and just wanted someone to take care of him, like he tried to take care of Twig.
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Dylan shifted around slightly, trying to find a position that allowed him to encourage blood back into his legs. The sound of his chains clinking was strangely reassuring in the dark, empty void. The captain listened until it died into silence again and then returned to his former task: trying to recall the High Guard officer's manual from memory.
He made it to "Proper Greetings for Than Ambassadors" before his stomach growled loudly and painfully and distracted him. When he finally managed to push fantasies of pizza and apple pie and fresh bread out of his mind, he realized he couldn't remember if he was on "Glory and honor to your hive" or "May your mating group always produce healthy grubs." He gave up, letting his head fall back against the stone wall with a sigh. The officer's manual was boring anyway.
"The box" had turned out to be pretty much just that; a small, box-like cell deep in the lowest level of the main building. It was roughly five paces long and if his hands had been free he would have been able to stand in the center and easily touch both walls, probably with his elbows still bent. If he'd had to guess, he'd put it at about three feet wide. When he stood up, he had to hunch over and even then his shoulders and head banged on the rough ceiling. He couldn't stand up straight and he couldn't stretch out to lie down either, leaving him very cramped. He wouldn't quite admit to claustrophobia, but ask him again tomorrow and he might change his mind.
He hadn't suffocated yet and it was uncomfortably cold, so he assumed air was getting in somehow, but light wasn't. For the first time he had an inkling of what it was like for Harper. He'd lost track of all sense of time, and the pitch black, hushed silence was starting to get to him. Every little noise, every movement of air startled him, left him guessing what was out there that he couldn't see. He wondered how Harper had stayed mostly sane during the seven or eight months they'd been prisoners and he'd been trapped in darkness.
Thoughts of his young friend brought a deep welling of grief and guilt surging up inside of him. He cringed as he remembered Harper sobbing on the ground, clutching his broken hand to his chest, punished for something he hadn't even done. Dylan felt like scum for that. He should've known they'd punish Harper instead of him, but no, he'd let his foolish need to protect the universe take over and gave the Nietzscheans an excuse to inflict even more pain on his friend. All things considered, being stuck in a stone box with nothing to do but ponder his stupidity in the dark was the least he deserved. He had it easy.
He just really, really hoped Harper was okay, that the others were watching out for him, and that he wouldn't completely hate him for what had happened if he ever got out of this black tomb.
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The sound of harsh coughing dragged Harper from his sleep. He opened his eyes and turned his head, careful not to disturb his hand. In the two days since it had been re-broken, his hand had settled into a deep, dull ache that only flared to torturous when moved, or touched, or bumped, or breathed on… At this point, Harper would have almost been grateful if someone had offered to just cut the curled, claw-like, useless appendage off, but he didn't say that out loud. No need to give the Ubers any ideas. They were sadistic enough without his help.
The coughing came again and Harper realized with deep concern that Simon sounded extremely weak tonight. Bracing himself for the pain he knew would come, he sat up. Gently, he slid out from under the blanket and tucked it back around Twig who was sleeping next to him, whispering for the boy to go back to sleep. With Dylan still gone, Twig and Simon had taken to sharing his pile of straw at night. To keep an eye on their friend, they said. Twig he believed. He could hardly scoot over without feeling the child's small hand clutching his shirt or arm. Harper didn't know if he was trying to act as his guide in Dylan's absence, or making sure he didn't go and leave him, too, but whatever it was Harper didn't mind. He was feeling more than a little lost himself these days. With Simon the engineer suspected true kindness and a desire to help, but he also thought the man was using worry for Harper as an excuse to hide how truly sick he was, and that he lacked the strength to even climb into his bunk anymore. Whatever the reason, Harper didn't complain. He hated the thought of lying there at night, blind and alone. But that didn't stop him from worrying about what that implied about Simon's failing health.
Which was why he dragged himself from the slight warmth of his blanket and crawled over to Simon's side, reaching carefully with his good hand through the darkness until he felt the other man's skeletal form.
"Simon?" he whispered. "You okay?"
The muffled coughing continued for a long time before Simon was able to answer. Harper was shocked by the wispiness of his friend's voice when it came.
"You should go back to sleep, Seamus."
Harper shook his head. A strange chill crept through him as he realized what the others had known and he'd always suspected, but tried to hide from. He reached out and found Simon's hand.
"You're not okay, are you?" he asked brokenly.
"No, Seamus, I'm not," Simon admitted quietly, calmly. "I believe I'm dying."
"But it's just a cough!" Harper whispered desperately, slipping into denial again. "Just a cough…"
Simon squeezed his right hand weakly. "Seamus, it's much more than a cough. I can feel it inside me, in my bones, in my lungs, stealing my breath and my strength – my life."
"You were better yesterday! You said so yourself!"
The Wayist sounded sad when he spoke. "I lied to you. I'm sorry, and I pray God and you can forgive me for that, but I didn't want to cause you more pain than you were already in. I realize now I should have just told you that I'm not going to get better, my time is almost up."
Agony that had nothing to do with his broken hand filled him, and Harper closed his eyes, knowing it was true. His friend's voice was getting softer and slower with every word he spoke. He was too weak even to try and hush his coughs now.
"Don't grieve for me, Seamus," Simon continued warmly after a moment. "I'm not afraid to die. The Divine has set a plan for my life and I've followed it. This is only the next step in that plan, and with death, I'll regain my freedom."
"I don't want you to die," Harper whispered in a tiny voice, not caring if he sounded like a six year old. He remembered how Simon had been the first one to show them any kindness, any compassion, in this horrible place. How the man had taken his blindness and other handicaps in stride and always been there for him, helping however he could, giving so freely of what he had, in a place where he hadn't had anything to begin with. Even after he'd become so sick, Simon wouldn't stop helping. It was Simon who had introduced them to the rest of their small circle of friends, had stuck up for him many times, had comforted him when his thoughts turned too dark… He didn't want to lose him.
"Maybe…" Harper hesitated, his continued anger and pain arguing with his care for his friend. He swallowed and forced the words out. "We can ask Marcus for medicine," he said, pushing the fact that Marcus had crushed his hand not three days earlier aside. "He helped me once, gave me medicine when I needed it. Maybe he can get some for you, then you won't have to die!" He started to climb to his feet, intent on finding a way to attract their guard's attention even though it was night and there were no guards around, but Simon clutched his good hand desperately and wouldn't let him rise.
"Stop, Seamus. Stay with me, please. You won't find him at this hour, and it wouldn't matter if you did."
Reluctantly, Harper obeyed. "But why? You're the one who told me to look beyond the obvious, try to see the whole picture. Why won't you even try?"
Simon's voice was a faint whisper by now, barely there. "Because he already offered, Seamus, and I refused."
"What!" Harper cried. "Why?" he demanded again, the catch in his throat turning his words from a yell to a sob.
"This is my time. The few medicines he would be able to offer me would do no good, the generous gift would be wasted on me. He's as trapped in this system as we are and his resources limited. Those very same medicines that would be useless to me, only prolonging the inevitable, might save the life of some other poor soul."
"You deserve to live as much as anyone, Simon," Harper protested softly.
"The time or manner of our death isn't up to any of us," Simon explained gently. "But," he added, "it's really not that bad. I'm tired, Seamus. Tired of being a slave, and I'm ready to go. I'm ready to be free again." For the first time, Harper heard the deep longing and weariness in his friend's voice. Simon never complained, always bore his life in the slave camp with patience and long-suffering, but Harper suddenly realized that he was as human as the rest of them, and he ached to have it end just as much as they did – to be free.
The engineer drew in a small breath and hung his head. "But…I'll miss you."
He could almost hear the sad smile on Simon's face at his words. "I'll miss you, too, my friend." He suddenly felt a soft hand on his emaciated chest just above his heart, pressing lightly. "But I'll stay with you here. As long as you and Twig and Dylan and the others are alive to remember me, I'm not really dead. I'll live in you, because you're my friends. And you will live, Seamus. I know it; I can feel it as deeply as I can feel the sickness in myself. There are too many people who care about you and have cared about you; their love protects you. You're a good person with much yet to do. I don't think you will spend your life in this camp as a slave. Hold on to your faith, and your hope, and don't give up yet, please?"
He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to tell his friend he was afraid his faith was already shattered beyond repair, his hope of release and freedom dead. So he simply said nothing, but for the first time since that night in their cell on Felix's ship when he'd accepted his lost sight, Harper felt warm tears leak from the corners of his eyes and trickle down his hollow cheeks.
The killing coughs returned, gripping Simon cruelly, and Harper could only listen helplessly, hearing his friend's strength and life ebb away right in front of him. He was startled when, after a few minutes, he felt a small form climb silently into his lap, mindful of his crushed hand. He could tell Twig was crying softly as well, completely aware of what was happening around him. The little boy snuggled as close as Harper's chains would allow him, seeking comfort, and Harper let him, needing that solace as much as Twig did. Harper unconsciously moved his body to rock him slightly, but never let go of Simon's hand.
The coughs gradually died off but Simon's breathing remained harsh and labored. "Seamus?" the Wayist said after a moment, obviously struggling.
"What, Simon?" Harper choked out, really crying now. It was as if a dam had burst in his heart and tears he'd been holding inside for months were breaking out.
"I want you to have something." Simon suddenly withdrew his hand from Harper's grip. A second later, Harper felt an odd object pressed into his palm. It felt fragile and he moved his fingers carefully as he explored it, realizing almost instantly what it was.
"Your glasses? Why? They won't do me any good, and you still need them!"
"Seamus," Simon breathed patiently, weakly. "I don't need them anymore. I want you to have them to remember me by, but more importantly, I want you to keep them so you don't give up hope. Keep them and maybe someday your friends will find a way to fix your eyes and you'll see again. You never know, you might actually need them."
"Thanks," he mumbled. Not having anywhere else to put them that they couldn't get broken, and wanting to keep his one good hand free, Harper hesitantly stuck them on his face. It felt weird, feeling the pressure of glasses on his nose and ears, but seeing nothing.
"Twig?" he heard Simon say next after another torturous bout of coughing. The young slave sniffed loudly before he answered in a wobbly voice.
"Yeah?"
"I need you to do something for me? I need you to look after Seamus, here? Can you do that? He gets himself into too much trouble"
Twig's head nodded against Harper's chest and he sucked in a deep breath.
"Don't worry about me," Simon rasped, his voice almost gone. "Remember what I told you about Heaven?" Twig nodded again, hiccupping from his sobs. "Then you know I'll be fine. Be a good boy, okay?"
Twig tried to say something but couldn't get the words past his sobs, so instead he just nodded for a third time.
That last comment seemed to have completely sapped Simon's remaining strength. He fell silent as the lung-tearing coughs returned, and even after the bout passed he didn't speak again. Harper held his hand tightly, the only comfort he could offer, and rocked Twig slowly, his own tears falling down to mingle with the little boy's. After a while, he realized that Simon no longer responded to his grip. He listened carefully but the sound of the man's labored breathing was absent.
"He's gone, Twig," Harper said softly, his voice cracking.
"His eyes are still open," Twig whispered, breathing deeply as his body tried to regain control of his crying.
Harper shuddered, glad he couldn't see his friend's flat, lifeless eyes staring at him. "He's still gone, Twig. His body's here, but he isn't. He just didn't have time to close them before he left. We'll have to do it for him."
He tried to shift around so he could reach that far with his chained hands and not move the broken one too much, but before he could do anything else, Twig slid quietly from his lap, sniffling heavily as he wiped his nose on the back of his sleeves.
"I can do it. I know how."
"Thanks," Harper muttered, lowering his head at the thought that this boy who was only eleven knew how to close the eyes of the dead.
Barely a minute later, Twig was back in his lap, crying softly into his shirt again. Awkwardly, Harper patted him on the back as his own thoughts whirled.
He felt like he should do something, say something. Before, whenever a slave had died, Simon had been there to say words over him, send him on his way and all that. Now, it was Simon's turn and it just seemed wrong that there was no one to say anything for him. Almost unconsciously, Harper found himself dredging up long buried, kind of painful memories; his mother murmuring words over their food, his Nana sitting all the cousins down to hear them recite payers in a long dead language…
Without thought, words slipped from his tongue. "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."
He paused for a moment, the words feeling odd in his mouth, yet strangely familiar. Then, just as he'd done at his nana's feet, he started over, in English this time. "Hail, Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen."
"Amen," Twig echoed quietly, sadly. Harper wasn't exactly sure if it was the appropriate prayer for the occasion, but it was the only one he could remember so he hoped it would count. Deciding he'd better finish it off properly, he brought his right hand up hesitantly and awkwardly crossed himself, something he knew he hadn't done for at least ten years.
"Bye, Simon," he whispered softly. "We'll miss you."
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With great fear in his steps, Alfred timidly approached the small, metal craft. He'd watched it for two days as he ran errands for his master in town. He'd seen the minimal crew come and go, picked out the one he assumed to be the captain. But in all that time he'd seen no Nietzscheans deal with them, or even give the dumpy ship a second glance. That fact had sealed his decision.
Heart thumping madly, he stepped up to the airlock, praying he could soon be rid of his dangerous burden.
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Captain Alistair "Patch" Parkington flipped the Miss Kitty to autopilot and pushed his chair back with a tired sigh of satisfaction. He ran a hand through his grizzled, gray hair and beard and smiled to himself, readjusting the leather eye-patch that had given him his nickname over his dead right eye. It was always nerve racking when he made these runs to Rellim. The planet's reputation as a ship-killer left very few pilots and captains willing to take the risk, which was okay by him as less competition meant more profit for those who actually did make it through, but it always put him and his crew on edge until they were safely back out among the stars. It was even more deeply satisfying to know that he could successfully make a run with one eye that most other pilots feared to try with two.
Of course, this run had been more profitable than expected, Patch thought with a grin, making the trip highly worthwhile. He reached a big, beefy hand into his vest pocket and pulled out the bag of jingling credits and piece of paper the timid, little man had offered him. Such a lot of money just to deliver one short message. He could just as easily take the money and toss the accompanying paper out the airlock, but his curiosity was piqued. He wanted to know what was so important about one little letter. Deliver this to the commanding officer of the Andromeda Ascendant the jumpy man had insisted, repeating over and over that it must get to the Andromeda. No one sent letters anymore, actual written on paper letters, least of all to High Guard Warships. He wanted to know why.
Resisting the urge to crack the fancy wax seal and see for himself, Patch returned the folded paper to his pocket. He had a pick-up to reach in two days, but after that he decided it might be a nice time to check up on an old friend. Beka Valentine at the helm of a Galaxy Class Warship was a sight he might quite like to see. Would be killing two birds with one stone, anyway. This mystery message was just an excuse to do something he should have done a long time ago.
Mind made up, Patch patted his vest pocket as if sealing the deal and then wandered back to the galley to see if he couldn't find enough food to fix himself a sandwich.