Kage Baker: Noble Mold

We made a neat hole, small but very deep, just behind the trunk and angled slightly under it. There was no way to hide our disturbance of the earth, but fortunately the ground had already been so spaded up and trampled over that our work shouldn’t be that obvious.

“How deep does this have to be?” I panted when we had gone about six feet and I was in the bottom passing spadefuls up to Mendoza.

“Not much deeper; I’d like it buried well below the root ball.” She leaned in and peered.

“Well, how deep is that?” Before she could reply my spade hit something with a metallic clank. We halted. Mendoza giggled nervously.

“Jesus, don’t tell me there’s already buried treasure down there!”

I scraped a little with the spade. “There’s something like a hook,” I said. “And something else.” I got the spade under it and launched it up out of the hole with one good heave. The whole mass fell on the other side of the dirt heap, out of my view. “It looked kind of round,” I remarked.

“It looks kind of like a hat—” Mendoza told me cautiously, bending down and turning it over. Abruptly she yelled and danced back from it. I scrambled up out of the hole to see what was going on.

It was a hat, all right, or what was left of it; one of the hard-cured leather kind Spain had issued to her soldiers in the latter half of the last century. I remembered seeing them on the presidio personnel. Beside the hat, where my spade-toss had dislodged it, was the head that had been wearing it. Only a brown skull now, the eyes blind with black earth. Close to it was the hilt of a sword, the metallic thing I’d hit.

“Oh, gross!” Mendoza wrung her hands.

“Alas, poor Yorick,” was all I could think of to say.

“Oh, God, how disgusting. Is the rest of him down there?”

I peered down into the hole. I could see a jawbone and pieces of what might have been cavalry boots. “Looks like it, I’m afraid.”

“What do you suppose he’s doing down there?” Mendoza fretted, from behind the handkerchief she had clapped over her mouth and nose.

“Not a damn thing nowadays,” I guessed, doing a quick scan of the bones. “Take it easy: no pathogens left. This guy’s been dead a long time.”

“Sixty years, by any chance?” Mendoza’s voice sharpened.

“They must have planted him with the grapevine,” I agreed. In the thoughtful silence that followed I began to snicker. I couldn’t help myself. I leaned back and had myself a nice sprawling guffaw.

“I fail to see what’s so amusing,” observed Mendoza acidly.

“Sorry. Sorry. I was just wondering: do you suppose you could cause a favorable mutation in something by planting a dead Spaniard under it?”

“Of course not, you idiot, not unless his sword was radioactive or something.”

“No, of course not. What about those little wild yeast spores in the bloom on the grapes, though? You think they might be influenced somehow by the close proximity of a gentleman of Old Castile?”

“What are you talking about?” Mendoza took a step closer.

“This isn’t a cancer cure, you know,” I waved my hand at the vinestock, black against the stars. “I found out why the Company is so eager to get hold of your Favorable Mutation, kid. This is the grape that makes Black Elysium.”

“The dessert wine?” Mendoza cried.

“The very expensive dessert wine. The hallucinogenic controlled substance dessert wine. The absinthe of the twenty-fourth century. The one the Company holds the patent on. That stuff. Yeah.”

Stunned silence from my fellow immortal creature. I went on:

“I was just thinking, you know, about all those decadent technocrats sitting around in the Future getting bombed on an elixir produced from…”

“So it gets discovered here, in 1844,” said Mendoza at last. “It isn’t a designed mutation at all. And the wild spores somehow came from…?”

“But nobody else will ever know the truth, because we’re removing every trace of this vine from the knowledge of mortal men, see?” I explained. “Root and branch and all.”

“I’d sure better get that bonus,” Mendoza reflected.

“Don’t push your luck. You aren’t supposed to know.” I took my shovel and clambered back into the hole. “Come on, let’s get the rest of him out of here. The show must go on.”

Two hours later there was a tidy heap of brown bones and rusted steel moldering away in a new hiding place, and a tidy sum in gold plate occupying the former burial site. We filled in the hole, set up the rest of the equipment we’d brought, tested it, camouflaged it, turned it on and hurried away back down the canyon to the mission, taking the Hush Unit with us. I made it in time for Matins.

News travels fast in a small town. By nine there were Indians, and some of the Gente de Razón too, running in from all directions to tell us that the Blessed Virgin had appeared in the Kasmalis’ garden. Even if I hadn’t known already, I would have been tipped off by the fact that old Maria Concepcion did not show up for morning Mass.

By the time we got up there, the bishop and I and all my fellow friars and Mendoza, a cloud of dust hung above the dirt track from all the traffic. The Kasmalis’ tomatoes and corn had been trampled by the milling crowd. People ran everywhere, waving pieces of grapevine; the other plants had been stripped as bare as the special one. The rancheros watched from horseback, or urged their mounts closer across the careful beds of peppers and beans.

Around the one vine the family had formed a tight circle. Some of them watched Emidio and Salvador, who were digging frantically, already about five feet down in the hole; others stared unblinking at the floating image of the Virgin of Guadalupe who smiled upon them from midair above the vine. She was complete in every detail, nicely three-dimensional and accompanied by heavenly music. Actually it was a long tape loop of Ralph Vaughn Williams’s Variations on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, which nobody would recognize because it hadn’t been composed yet.

“Little Father!” One of the wives caught me by my robe. “It’s the Mother of God! She told us to dig up the vine, she said there was treasure buried underneath!”

“Has she told’you anything else?” I inquired, making the Sign of the Cross. My brother friars were falling to their knees in raptures, beginning to sing the Ave Maria; the bishop was sobbing.

“No, not since this morning,” the wife told me. “Only the beautiful music has gone on and on.”

Emidio looked up and noticed me for the first time. He stopped shoveling for a moment, staring at me, and a look of dark speculation crossed his face. Then his shovel was moving again, clearing away the earth, and more earth, and more earth.

At my side, Mendoza turned away her face in disgust. But I was watching the old couple, who stood a little way back from the rest of the family. They clung to each other in mute terror and had no eyes for the smiling Virgin. It was the bottom of the ever-deepening hole they watched, as birds watch a snake.

And I watched them. Old Diego was bent and toothless now, but sixty years ago he’d had teeth, all right; sixty years ago his race hadn’t yet learned never to fight back against its conquerors. Maria Concepcion, what had she been sixty years ago when those vines were planted? Not a dried-up shuffling old thing back then. She might have been a beauty, and maybe a careless beauty.

The old bones and the rusting steel could have told you, sixty years ago. Had he been a handsome young captain with smooth ways, or just a soldier who took what he wanted? Whatever he’d been, or done, he’d wound up buried under that vine, and only Diego and Maria knew he was there. All those years, through the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, he’d been there. Diego never coming to Mass because of a sin he couldn’t confess. Maria never missing Mass, praying for someone.