Kage Baker: Noble Mold

“Good morning, my son.”

“Is your cousin lady with you?” He dropped his voice as he drew close.

“No, my son. We are alone.”

“I need to speak with you, little Father, about the grapevine.” He cleared his throat. “I know the lady must be very angry, and I am sorry. I don’t mean to make you angry too, little Father, because I know she is your cousin—”

“I understand, my son, believe me. And I am not angry.”

“Well then.” He drew a deep breath. “This is the matter. The grapevines do not belong to me, nor to my father. They belong to our grandfather Diego. And he will not let us dig up the vine the lady wants.”

“Why will he not?”

“He won’t tell us. He just refuses. Don’t be stupid, we told him. Father Rubio has been good to us, he has treated us fairly. Look at the fine pigs he has given us, we said. He just sits in the sun and rocks himself, and refuses us. And our grandmother came and touched his feet and cried, though she didn’t say anything, but he wouldn’t even look at her.”

“I see.”

“We have said everything we could say to him, but he will not let us dig up that vine. We tried to fool the lady twice by pretending to make mistakes (and that was a sin, little Father, and I’m sorry), but it didn’t work. Somehow she knew. Then our grandfather—” he paused in obvious embarrassment. “I don’t know how to say this, little Father—you know the old people are superstitious and still believe foolish things—I think he somehow has the idea that your cousin lady is a nunasis. Please don’t take this the wrong way—”

“No, no, go on—”

“We have an old story about one who walks on the hills and wears a hat like hers, you see. I know it’s stupid. Even so, he won’t let us dig up that vine. Now, you might say, our grandfather is only an old man and a little bit crazy now, and we’re strong, so he can be put aside as though he were a little baby; but if we did that we would be breaking the commandment about honoring the old people. It seems to us that would be a worse sin than the white lady not getting what she wanted. What do you think, little Father?”

Boy oh boy. “This is very hard, my son,” I said, and I meant it. “But you are right.”

Emidio studied me in silence for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. “Thank you,” he said at last. After another pause he added, “Is there anything we can do that will make the lady happy? She’ll be angry with you, now.”

I found myself laughing. “She will make my life a Purgatory, I can tell you,” I said. “But I will offer it up for my sins. Go home, Emidio, and don’t worry. Perhaps God will send a miracle.”

I wasn’t laughing when I got back to the mission, though, and when Mendoza came looking for me she saw my failure right away.

“No dice, huh?” She squinted evilly. “Well. This is no longer a matter of me and my poor little bonus now, Joseph. The Company Wants That Vine. I suggest you think of something fast or there are liable to be some dead Indians around here soon, pardon my indelicate phrasing.”

“I’m working on it,” I told her.

And I was. I went to the big leather-bound books that held the mission records. I sat down in a corner of the scriptorium and went over them in minute detail.

In 1789, there was the baptism of Diego Kasmali, age given as thirty years. In 1790, marriage to Maria Concepción, age not given. From 1791 through 1810, a whole string of baptisms of little Kasmalis: Agustin, Xavier, Pablo, Juan Bautista, María, Dolores, Guadalupe, Dieguito, Marta, Tomás, Luisa, Bartolomeo. First communion for Xavier Kasmali, 1796. One after the other, a string of little funerals: Agustin age two days, Pablo age three months six days, Juan Bautista age six days, Maria age two years… too sad to go on down the list, but not unusual. Confirmation for Xavier Kasmali, 1802. Xavier Kasmali married to Juana Catalina of the Dos Pueblos rancheria, age 18 years, 1812. Baptism of Emidio Kasmali, 1813. Baptism of Salvador Kasmali, 1814. Funeral of Juana Catalina, 1814. First Communions, Confirmations, Marriages, Baptisms, Last Rites… not a sacrament missed. Really good Catholics.

Why, there was the old, old woman, at Mass every single day of the year, rain or shine, though she was propped like a bundle of sticks in the shadows at the back of the church. Maria Concepcion, wife of Diego Kasmali. But Diego never, ever at Mass. Why not? On a desperate hunch I went to my transmitter and typed in a request for something unusual.

The reply came back: Query: first please resolution Priority Gold Status?

Request relates Priority, I replied. Resolving now. Requisition Sim ParaN Phenom re: Priority resolution?

That gave them pause. They verified and counterverified my authority, they re-scanned the original orders and mulled over their implications. At least, I guessed they were doing that, as the blue screen flickered. Feeling I had them on the run, I pushed for a little extra, just for my own satisfaction: Helpful Priority specify mutation. What? Why?

Pause while they verified me again, then the bright letters crawled onscreen in a slow response:

Patent Black Elysium.

I fell back laughing, though it wasn’t exactly funny. The rest of the message followed in a rapid burst: S-P Requisition approved. Specify Tech support?

I told them what I needed.

Estimate resolution time Priority Gold?

1 told them how long it would take.

Expecting full specimen consign & report then, was the reply, and they signed off.

“Why don’t they ever put convenient handles on these things?” grumbled Mendoza. She had one end of the transport trunk and a shovel; I had the other end of the trunk and the other shovel. It was long after midnight and we were struggling up the rocky defile that led to the Kasmali residence.

“Too much T-Field drag,” I explained.

“Well, you would think that an all-powerful cabal of scientists and businessmen, with advance knowledge of every event in recorded history and infinite time in which to take every possible advantage of said events, and every possible technological resource at their command, and unlimited wealth—” Mendoza shifted the trunk again and we went on—“you’d think they could devise something as simple as a recessed handle.”

“They tried it. The recess cuts down on the available transport space inside,” I told her.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. I was part of a test shipment. Damn thing got me right in the third cervical vertebra.”

“I might have known there’d be a reason.”

“The Company has a reason for everything, Mendoza.”

We came within earshot of the house, so conversation ended. There were three big dogs in the yard before the door. One slept undisturbed, but two put up their heads and began to growl. We set down the trunk: I opened it and from the close-packed contents managed to prise out the Hush Unit. The bigger of the dogs got to his feet, preparing to bark.

I switched on the unit. Good dog, what a sleepy doggie, he fell over with a woof and did not move again. The other dog dropped his head on his paws. Dog Number Three would not wake at all now, nor would any of the occupants of the house, not while the Hush Field was being generated.

I carried the unit up to the house and left it by the dogs, Mendoza dragging the trunk after me. We removed the box of golden altar vessels and set off up the hill with it.

The amazing mutated vine was pretty sorry-looking now, with most of its branches clipped off in the attempt to appease Mendoza. I hoped to God their well-meaning efforts hadn’t killed it. Mendoza must have been thinking the same thing, but she just shrugged grimly. We began to dig.