By goat-cart, it was about half an hour's ride over country roads to the small local store. Bleys found it a strange, small place crowded with things. From Joshua, Bleys had learned mat it both bought and sold; acting as a market for things like the goat cheese that Henry's farm produced, shipping some of it on to Ecumeny, but keeping most of it for resale, locally. It also sold the local people all types of farm equipment and supplies, including the ground meal from which they made their cereal and other dry goods.
"James Breeder," Henry introduced Bleys to the storekeeper, "this is my nephew, who's living with us now. His name is Bleys Ahrens. Bleys, this is Mr. Broeder."
"Honored to make your acquaintance, sir," said Bleys.
Broeder, a short, squat, dark man, frowned slightly. "Pleased to meet you too, Bleys," he said, "as for that 'honored' way of speaking—I don't go much for that."
"I think I told you, Bleys," said Henry, sharply, "we don't use formal speech in our church; and Mr. Broeder is a fellow member."
"May the Lord forgive me," said Bleys, quickly, "I won't forget again, Uncle."
But Broeder had failed to smile; and Bleys, sensitive as a leaf to the lightest breeze, could feel that the store owner still had not accepted him into the community of which he and Henry's family were a part.
Without hesitation, Bleys turned to Henry and leaned close to him, lowering his voice as if to speak confidentially into Henry's ear alone.
"Uncle," he almost whispered, "how does Mr. Broeder keep track of all these things he buys and sells, as well as how much we and other people buy on credit?"
Henry turned his dark eyes slowly and terribly at Bleys; and Bleys felt as if a protecting curtain had been ripped away from between them.
"Bleys," said Henry, icily, "you are to tell the truth at all times!"
Somehow, he had read Bleys' purpose in the tone of his
voice. But now Breeder was smiling and the feeling Bleys got from him was tinged with warmth.
"Well now, there's truth enough in that, Henry," Breeder said, "you've got a sharp understanding, boy. It's not everybody who can keep track of everything that goes into running a store like this."
Bleys felt the success of his flattery; but at the same time fear had shot through Bleys suddenly, like an icy spasm. Henry had become an incalculable quantity to him. He had no idea what might trigger the man to beat him as he had beaten Joshua. Certainly, if a fence rail fell on a goat and strangled it, it was at least partly the goat's fault, and probably the result of the goat trying to push through the fence or do something unusual with it. But Henry had acted as if there was no blame to be attached to anyone but Joshua. So there was no telling what might make him choose to punish..
Bleys told himself that he must find out what was safe to say and do with Henry and what was not. It was not enough, just to say what he thought Henry wanted to hear all the time. He would need to know certainly what his limits were; and what were the lines that should not be crossed, the taboo subjects not to be mentioned. It could have been that using the polite form of address he had been taught since he had first been able to talk to people was enough to cause Henry to turn on him with the strap.
Henry had suddenly become dangerous. But, Bleys told himself, there must be a pattern. There had been a pattern to everything Bleys had ever known. He must talk to Joshua. Joshua would tell him.
At the same time, right now, something inside him shrank from approaching Joshua. Surely undergoing the sort of torture the older boy had endured the night before would have done something to him. Possibly changed him in some way. Bleys could not imagine any result in himself but a violent change, as a result of such an experience. So he could not imagine it otherwise in Joshua.
The business Henry had with the storekeeper turned out brief enough. It was merely disposing of some few wheels of cheese that he had brought along, buying some more of the cereal, and dickering over the cost of a pound of nails, the price of which, it developed, had been raised by a small amount since Henry was in last.
Henry finally got his nails at the old price; but with a flat statement from Broeder that from now on he would have to pay the new and higher price.
Bleys and Henry headed back to the farm. On the way, Henry was silent, evidently busy with his own thoughts. Bleys appreciated his uncle's silence for two reasons. If Henry did not talk to him, there was less chance Bleys might make a mistake in the way he answered, and get himself in trouble as a result.
Secondly, Bleys needed to do some thinking himself. He could not imagine living with someone who would beat him as if he were an animal.
Just what he, himself, would or could do to avoid it happening to him, he did not know. And that frightened him. He spent the morning worrying about it.
Lunch went off as usual. Again, Bleys watched Joshua— more openly now—for any sign of change in the other boy; and found none. Joshua was still his ordinary, quiet-voiced, friendly self. It was as if what had been done to him had not touched him internally—and that Bleys found inconceivable. Bleys could not imagine torture doing anything but destroying the innate pattern of the individual. Bleys had to know; and only Joshua could tell him. He summoned up his nerve and spoke to Henry.
"Uncle," asked Bleys, while they were eating lunch, "I don't know much about goats; and .something might come up where I needed to know about them. After I finish cleaning up here this afternoon, could I go and help Joshua with the goats and their milking?"
Henry looked at him.
"That's a sensible request, Bleys," he said. "Yes, I think you may. Joshua—"
"Yes, Father?" responded Joshua, looking up from his bowl.
"Let Bleys be with you as he says," said Henry. "Afterwards be sure to tell me how quick he was to pick things up; and how useful he might be, if for some reason he had to take care of the goats by himself."
"Yes, Father," said Joshua agreeably.
As a result, in late afternoon sunlight—for the weather had been good that day—Bleys found himself out in an enclosed field with Joshua. Joshua had taken seriously the injunction of his father to teach Bleys about the goats. He did so now, conscientiously, telling Bleys the name of each one, and showing him little differences in hair color, action or size, by which that goat could be identified.
"... We have one billy goat to about every ten nannies," Joshua explained. "That's because it's the females that pay their way in milk and cheese and kids. All these goats you see here are variforms, genetically tailored to this world. They're the descendants of a dozen frozen variform embryos shipped out from Old Earth while they were still tiny; then raised to birthing age in the plant in Ecumeny."
He looked at Bleys.
"You understand?"
"Yes," said Bleys.
Joshua went on.
"Because the kids of most goats are deformed when they're born and don't live, we have to buy new embryos every so often to avoid inbreeding. That's awfully expensive, but there's no help for it. Anyway, now we have over forty of the animals; and most of those are good-producing nannies. The billies—the male goats—are good for hides. We get a slightly stronger leather from them; and they're also better for pulling the goat-cart and plowing, and such things like that. We'll use up to a dozen billies to pull the plow. But they're hard to work with. We'll all be glad when Father gets the motor put together; and we can build a motorized vehicle that can pull the plow, the harrow, and other things."
He stopped and looked at Bleys.
Bleys nodded. He understood about the goats not reproducing on most New Worlds, along with many other species of animals; a fact that continued to puzzle biologists. The rest was new to him; but he stored it in his memory.
"Is there some particular question you've got?" Joshua asked. "You're looking at me as if you wanted to ask something. Go ahead. That's the whole point. I can tell you what I know, but I don't know what you need to know, unless you tell me."
Bleys felt as if he were standing on the brink of a clif
f. Nonetheless, everything he knew about people told him that now was the moment for him to speak, and so he spoke.
"It's just—" He hesitated. "Are you all right?"
Joshua looked puzzled.
"All right?" he echoed. "Of course. I haven't been sick for six months or more, not since last winter, and even that was only a bit of an upset stomach I got from something I ate. Though we were all surprised, because neither Will nor Father got sick. What makes you think I might not be all right?"
Joshua had been so open and certain in his answer that Bleys found himself for a moment without the words he needed to say what he wanted to say. He hesitated again.
"It*s just that . . . last night . . ." he said, and ran out of words again.
"Oh!" said Joshua, "you mean the beating Father gave me because that goat got killed? Is that it? You must come from very strange people, Bleys, to be wondering about that. It was nothing—just a beating."
"But—" Bleys still found himself at a loss. "I just didn't understand why your father took it out on you. I mean, it was an accident that the goat got killed, wasn't it?"
"Yes," said Joshua, "but it was my fault for not making sure the fence was secure, so that a loose rail fell or got pushed down and pinned the nanny's neck between that rail and the one below it. So the nanny strangled and we lost a valuable goat; and I was responsible for the fence not being safe. Who else could be responsible but me?"
"But it was an accident," said Bleys.
"No, Bleys," said Joshua seriously, "nothing is ever an accident. God made it happen because I was careless, to show me the results of my carelessness. That's why Father beat me. So I'll remember and never be careless that way again. And I won't."
"But it's so . . . hard on you," said Bleys.
"Hard?" Joshua shook his head. "But the way of God is always hard. It was as hard on Father as it was on me. But it was his God-given duty to see I was punished for being careless."
Bleys became silent. Somehow, according to the thinking of Joshua and his father—and probably of Will as well and all the other members of their church in addition—there was a pattern and meaning to all this that justified what had happened to Joshua.
He remembered the touch of gentleness he thought he had sensed in his uncle; when he had tried to go to Joshua afterwards, and Henry had stopped him in the main room of the house, to send him back to bed. Here, even Joshua was agreeing that what had happened to him was the right thing; and at the same time it was more horrible than Bleys could imagine.
"When I have a family, finally," said Joshua, "I'll have to beat my own son when he deserves punishment. To do otherwise would not be to bring him up in the way of the Lord."
Bleys nodded, hoping that Joshua would take this as a sign that he had understood. But he had not understood. His own newly kindled fear of Henry was still there and he still had to learn what he must do to feel safe in that household.
He was left still uncertain, still insecure. But he stayed with Joshua, learning what Joshua had to tell him about the goats, as they rounded them up and took them in at the end of the afternoon to the bam.
A part of his mind kept searching for an answer. There must be someone from whom he could get information. The pattern had to be there but questioning Henry to find it was unthinkable; and Joshua was evidently so deeply caught up in his faith already, that he could not describe what he took for granted, as he took gravity and the oxygen in the air for granted.
Bleys also considered asking Will. But it struck him that between the younger boy's own terror at the time of Joshua's beating, and Will's youth, plus his immersion in the religious aspect of the household, that Will would not be useful either.
Still, the pattern had to be there.
On the way back to the barn, an idea came to him.
"Who is the—" For one of the few times in his life, Bleys found himself searching for the proper word. He had no idea what these people called the leader of their religious practices. "Who's the pastor of your church?"
"Pastor?" Joshua turned to stare at him, switching his attention off the goat he had just driven back in with the rest of the herd as they mobbed their way toward the stable.
"Whoever's in charge of your religious services," said Bleys. His mind hesitated over the word priest and a strong instinct made him reject it. "The religious leader at your church."
"Oh, you mean the Teacher," said Joshua. "Yes, he lives about two miles from here, right next to the church itself. His name's Gregg—it was something longer than that, but none of us could pronounce it properly, so he shortened it to Gregg."
"I see," said Bleys, nodding.
They took the goats the rest of the way into the barn and saw each of them stalled, each in its proper place. That night, just as they were finishing dinner, Bleys spoke to Henry.
"Uncle," he said, "do you think it would be a good idea if I talked to the Teacher of your church? I need to learn from him."
Henry put down his spoon and looked at Bleys. His eyes were once more the fierce eyes Bleys had first seen on meeting him at the spaceship terminal.
"I am a Member of the Church; and I belong to God, myself. What questions do you need answered that I can't answer for you?"
Bleys thought swiftly.
"I want to understand—all about your church," he answered.
Henry's gaze lost its terrifying intensity.
"I see," he said. "If it's all about the church, then indeed you should talk to the Teacher. Understand me, Bleys—and my sons have heard this before but it will do them no harm to hear it again—"
Joshua and Will's spoons went down flat on the table.
"—As I just said, I belong to God—and He is all I require. There are no lack of those, even in our Church, who would go forth to proselyte, or missionary, and strive to convert people from other churches. But I have never done this, nor would I. For I need only God. I have no need for other worshipers about me to warm my faith. If it should happen that I stood alone in what I believe, that would not change me—nor should it, any Godly man or woman."
He paused to look directly from Joshua to Will.
"Children may need counsel or guidance in their search of the Lord, while growing up," he said, "but when my two sons become men I will expect them to choose for themselves; and if their choice is a different church than mine, I will be sad to see them go, but honor their going. For God is always there and no one need be helped to Him. Those with faith will find Him where they look for Him. Those without faith must do without a Lord."
He stopped speaking and Bleys found that, with the other two boys, he had actually been holding his breath.
"Therefore," Henry looked back at Bleys and his voice gentled, "you should indeed speak to the Teacher. You have been with us now through three church-days, Bleys; and not once yet have you asked to come with us to Service. Talk to Gregg and decide how you wish. No decision you ever make about God will alter by so much as a hair the way any of us feel or act toward you."
He paused.
"His name is Albert Gregg; and his house is just down the road from ours, here," he said. "It is too late tonight, but tomorrow after lunch, Will can take over the cleanup from the meal, and you can go down and see him. He's always at home there; and if he isn't, there'll be a message tacked to the door to say where he is. Yes, Bleys, you must thank God you thought of that."
Chapter 8
The next day after lunch, Bleys walked down the road in the direction that, ironically, led back toward Ecumeny. The rain had let up for some days now, it was already hot and the road was getting dry and even a little dusty. The summer was beginning to move toward them.
"You can't miss it," Will had said, "it's a little brown house next to the church. The Teacher said it wouldn't be right to paint his house the same color as the church. But there's no trees in the way; and anyway, if you did miss it, you couldn't miss the church, because its steeple is higher than the tops of the trees in any direction."
>
Bleys spent the walk wondering how he would go about questioning the Teacher. He had never been more aware that he was completely out of his depth. He had not realized it before; but all the men and women he had known until now had a pattern of behavior and attitude that came from a very different life than this, but one with which Bleys had been familiar since birth. Here the imperatives were all different. People would
not be responding to the stimuli that he had been able to use when trying to get anything from them, back when he had been with his mother.
The church steeple showed itself, and shortly after that both the church and the small brown house beside it came into view. Bleys walked up the road to them; and in a short distance saw them clearly, since house and church alike did not sit back far from the road, being separated from each other only by what evidently was some sort of parking lot.
The small, brown house had a tiny porch on it and behind the porch a door. Bleys mounted to the door and knocked on it.
There was no answer. He looked at the door but there was no message fixed to it. He tried knocking at the door a little harder.
This time, after a moment, he heard shuffling steps inside and the door was opened. What he took at first to be a rather small man, even shorter than Bleys himself, peered out, looked at him and smiled.
"Ah," he said, "you must be Henry's new nephew. Come on in."
He stood aside, opening the door wider for Bleys to enter a dark little hall. The door was shut behind Bleys and his host shuffled ahead of him down the hall and through a door to the left into what seemed to be a sort of parlor or sitting room, although it too was tiny. Bleys saw that the man was almost bent double, so that he had to crane his head back on his neck to look up and see who he was talking to.
In the room, he took one of the chairs that was apparently adjusted to him; because once he was fitted into it he was able to look straight across at Bleys, whom he waved into an opposing chair. Both chairs were fairly small, but overstuffed and comfortable, if a little in need of dusting. Bleys' last few days at Henry's house had made him unusually conscious of cleanliness; and he was conscious of the fact that not only was the house far from being as clean as Henry's was kept, but the man himself smelled a little musty, as if he had not bathed recently. But Gregg smiled at him.