The Fifth Sacred Thing (31 page)

“You mean it was all for nothing?” Bird said quietly. “All that pain? That I could just as well have cooperated for all the good it did?”

“No, I don’t mean that. Resistance to violence is never useless. You did well, if only for the example you provided, of choice. But not just for that. Certainly, information is important. Information is power. I just mean that no information is useful unless the mind is prepared to receive it. And now you understand our strategy.”

“What do you mean?”

Lily was silent as she poured out another round of tea. She looked at each of them closely, as if judging what she should say. Then she spoke.

“After the Uprising, we found ourselves caught in a dilemma. We knew that war was responsible for shaping the world into all the forms we wanted to change—and yet there we were, surrounded by hostile enemies who might, at any moment, attack and destroy us. This was the dilemma that every peaceful culture has faced for the last five thousand years, at least. And this was our one advantage—that we had history behind us. We had seen all possible solutions played out, from resistance to retreat to acquiescence, and we knew none of them worked. That saved us a great deal of time. We didn’t have to waste our energies stockpiling weapons or drilling troops; we could jump right to the heart of the matter, which was magic.”

“In what sense?” Madrone asked.

Lily nodded at Maya. “You remember that Dion Fortune quote you’ve always been so fond of? That magic is the art of changing consciousness at will? You can look at a war as a massing of arms and materiel and troops, but you can also see it as something else—as a delicate web of interwoven choices made by human beings, made out of a certain consciousness. The decision to order an attack, the choice to obey or disobey an order, to fire or not to fire a weapon. Armies and, indeed, any culture that supports them must convince the people that all the decisions are made already, and they have no choice. But that is never true. So, mad as it may seem, this is the terrain upon which we base our defense of this city—the landscape of consciousness.”

“I don’t understand,” Bird said. He set his cup down and looked at the woman, wondering suddenly if she were wise or simply crazy.

“Look at it this way. You went to the power plant, and I’m sure you used
your magic to get in. Am I right? Spells of invisibility and protection, charms to neutralize the electronic security systems, rituals for power. And all so you could stand before the men who controlled it, with guns, and force them to take actions they didn’t want to take.”

“That about describes it,” Bird said.

“And you probably thought you were great magicians.”

“Not for long.”

“But consider this—how much greater would have been the magic if those men you fought could have themselves simply chosen to close the plant?”

“It would have taken more magic than I’ve got to have reached those particular men,” Bird said. “I don’t know. Sure, we would have been better off. Maybe Cleis and Tom and Zorah would still be alive. But I don’t know whether manipulating their minds is really an ethical improvement over simple force.”

“I’m not talking about manipulation. I’m speaking about vision. Expanding the parameters of possibility.”

“I would have had to expand my own parameters pretty damn far to believe for a moment that the consciousness of those guys could change that much.”

“Consciousness is the most stubborn substance in the cosmos, and the most fluid. It can be rigid as concrete, and it can change in an instant. A song can change it, or a story, or a fragrance wafting by on the wind.”

“You mean if I’d sung the right song to those guys, or said the magic words, they would have changed just like that?”

“Who is to say? I have heard that you are a fine musician.”

“I was once. Not anymore.”

“Then you have denied the gift that perhaps was meant to be your true weapon. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“I haven’t denied it. It was taken from me.”

“No. A gift like that cannot be taken.”

“It can be destroyed.”

“No. If you think so, it is because you have not yet truly learned to use it. And when you do, who knows? It may prove to be a weapon more powerful than all their bombs and rifles.”

“It doesn’t sound very practical to me, Lily,” Bird said. “I’m sorry to say so. But I’ve seen it, down there. You haven’t.”

“Bird, child, like your grandmother we Nine are of another era. We have stood, eye to gun barrel, with the greatest military machine the world has ever produced. The forces of the Stewards are nothing but the last vestiges of its power. We are not naive about armies and military power. On the contrary.

“But I ask you, what is practical? Would it have been practical for us to
devote our scarce resources and human energies to building weapons and recruiting a standing army, when we needed every scrap of earth and drop of water and the power of every human hand for survival, for healing the earth’s wounds? War is the great waster, as much in the preparations for it as in the waging of it. We learned that, at least, from the last century, as that same military drained the country and destroyed our true wealth. But we have nothing left to waste. We would have traded an uncertain future for sure misery and still not have been able to withstand the armed might of the Stewards.”

“And where does that leave us, when armies come marching up the peninsula?” Maya asked.

“It leaves us with what we have built of this city and this watershed, which is in itself a possibility not counted on by those who would attack us. That is where our hope lies. We are what we wanted to become,” Lily said.

“But can we preserve what we are?” Maya asked.

“To wage war, one must believe in an enemy. If we refuse to be enemies, how can they fight us?” Lily said.

“Easily,” Bird said. “They can walk right over us.”

“I don’t deny it’s a gamble. None of us, even the strongest Dreamers, knows what will happen. Only that there is hope but no certainty. We must continue to
listen
,” Lily said. “And heal. You must heal, Bird. You’ve been to war. You’ve spilled blood, and you’ve suffered. You need cleansing.”

“I’m sure I do.”

“Do you have a power place you can go to?”

“I did ten years ago,” Bird said. “This time of year, you’d need skis to get anywhere near it. And I have to admit I’m not quite up to skis.”

“I’m glad you admit there’s something you’re not up to,” Madrone murmured.

“Go somewhere,” Lily said.

“Where I need to go, where I’m promised to go, is back. Back to the South.”

Lily closed her eyes,
listening
deeply to an inner voice. Golden motes of dust swarmed in the late-afternoon sun.

“Yes, someone must go there. But not you. That road is not for you now.”

“That remains to be seen,” Bird said.

“It has been foreseen.”

“They asked for a healer,” Madrone said. “Maybe we can find somebody from the Healers’ Council. There’s a lot we’d like to know about their biotechnology.”

“Ah, Madrone.” Lily turned and gave her a searching look, then smiled. “What do you dream these days?”

Madrone sat silent, reluctant to answer the question. “In my dreams, I do what I should be doing awake,” she said finally. “I take care of people.”

“And do they get better? In waking life?”

“Apparently so.”

“Cheater,” Maya said. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I can’t control my dreams.”

“The hell you can’t.”

“Leave the girl alone, Maya,” Lily said. “As Bird has said, these diseases are attacks. Well, how do you think we work? She’s already a healer; now she’s becoming a Dreamer.”

“She shouldn’t be working at all,” Maya said. “She should be regaining her health.”

“But she is deeply entwined with the city’s group soul. To regain her health, she must help us all regain our health.”

“She needs to learn to take care of herself,” Maya said.

“Would you please stop discussing me in the third person?” Madrone interrupted. “I’m right here, lucid and fully functional.”

“Notice what you dream, Madrone,” Lily said. “The road to the South may be for you.”

“The hell it will,” Bird said. “If you think I’m not strong enough to go, look at her. She can barely climb a hill without gasping.”

Madrone gave him what he called her “fuck you” look, but respect for Lily’s presence kept her silent. I’ll end up going out of stubbornness, she thought, because I resent Bird’s attempts to protect me, even though the thought of going terrifies me. I’ll end up going to prove I’m not afraid, when I am. But no, it’s not even thinkable. I’m needed here.

“This all should be discussed in full Council,” Maya said, rising to her feet.

“Of course,” Lily agreed.

“But we wanted to consult you first,” Bird said.

“Naturally.” Lily smiled. “What else is Defense Council for? And if you’re smart, you’ll have a private word with the Water Council first. Cress would be good. Don’t tell him I suggested it.”

“Thank you, Lily,” Bird said. “Please give our respects to the others of the Nine.”

“Given and received,” Lily said.

11

I
n late October, or Ancestor Moon as some liked to call it, Black Dragon House became a shrine to the dead. Over the years Halloween, now called by its original Celtic name of Samhain, had merged with the Mexican Day of the Dead,
El Día de los Muertos
, celebrated on November 2. Now the holiday season extended for weeks. Families set up
altares
in memory of loved ones. Children sucked on sugar skulls and played with toy skeletons. Dancers, musicians, and artists prepared the most elaborate Pagan rituals of the year, while the Sisters next door celebrated masses for All Souls and All Saints. On the final night, half the city turned out in skeleton masks to parade through the streets.

Bird flatly refused to attend any public gatherings. “You all go ahead,” he said. “I’m just not ready. I’ll be fine by myself.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Madrone said. “We can celebrate at home this year.”

“You don’t have to for my sake.”

“Maybe we want to,” Holybear said. “Maybe we’re grateful you’re back among the living, not ranked with the Beloved Dead.”

They prepared the house for their private celebration. Up in the ritual room, votive candles burned continuously before old photos. Sage and Nita cut banners out of thin colored paper and tacked them along ceiling beams and table edges. Holybear raided the garden for marigolds, the flower traditionally used for offerings to the ancestors.

Maya made an
altar
for Johanna and Rio that commandeered one corner of the living room. In Johanna’s favorite chair, she placed a stack of needlepoint pillows and a rainbow-colored knitted afghan. On Rio’s she folded the stained sleeping bag he’d carried on so many trips. On the table between them she placed books, along with the brightly painted skeletons she had bought in Mexico long ago—a female skeleton addressing a group of children for Johanna, a male skeleton carrying a basket of food for Rio. And candles, votive candles in glass jars with inscriptions to High John the Conqueror and the Seven African Powers, the orishas. And shells, small cowrie shells on a basketry plate for reading oracles, large cowries for abundance, conch shells with
their openings carved for blowing, beach shells and rocks from the coast. Along the table’s edge, redwood boughs and pine cones surrounded big mugs that would once have held coffee but now held the substitute brewed from grains.

“One more epidemic, one more round of deaths,” Maya sighed, “and the living are going to be crowded out of the house between Samhain and Yule. As it is, there’s no free horizontal surface to set down so much as a teacup.”

Madrone set up a small
altar
for Sandy next to the door of the room that was now Bird’s. She covered a low table with red cloth, and beside his picture she placed a collection of herbs and tinctures, his flute, a bowl of rice, his poetry books, and his stained gardening gloves. She stood a vase of chrysanthemums between a carved statue of the Irish Goddess Brigid, for his Celtic great-grandmother, and a small statue of the Goddess of Compassion, Kuan Yin, to honor his ancestors from China. Then she sat in the hallway and cried. After a while she heard Bird’s heavy footsteps clumping up the stairs. He came and sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulder, not saying anything, just sharing her grief. She felt comforted to have him there. These were the good moments, when they could just be together, without arguing, without worrying about what was going to come. Finally she stopped crying, and he kissed her.

“Did you set up an
altar
for me when I was gone?” he asked.

“I tried. Maya would never let me. She said it was bad magic; it was wishing you dead. We had terrible fights about it.”

“What would you have put on it?”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “Your guitar, of course. I tried to set it up on top of the piano. I had a miniature windsurfing board and a pair of skis and candles and flowers.”

His silence intensified so deeply that if she hadn’t been touching him she would have believed he had disappeared.