Robert Silverberg - The Feast of St. Dionysus

—How long have you felt this way, Captain?

—I don’t know. Since they died. Since I took off for Earth. Since I entered Earth’s atmosphere. I don’t know. Maybe it started earlier. Maybe it was always like this.

—What are the usual symptoms of the disturbance?

—Not wanting to see anybody. Not wanting to talk to anybody. Not wanting to be with anybody. Especially myself. I’m so goddamned sick of my own company.

—And what are your plans now?

—Just to live quietly and grope my way back to normal.

—Would you say it was the length of the voyage that upset you most, or the amount of time you had to spend in solitude on the homeward leg, or your distress over the deaths of—

—Look, how would I know?

—Who’d know better?

—Hey, I don’t believe in either of you, you know? You’re figments. Go away. Vanish.

—We understand you’re putting in for retirement and a maximum disability pension, Captain.

—Where’d you hear that? It’s a stinking lie. I’m going to be okay before long. I’ll be back on active duty before Christmas, you got that?

—Of course, Captain.

—Go. Disappear. Who needs you?

—John, John, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t let it get you like this.

—I couldn’t even find the bodies. I wanted to look for them, but it was all sand everywhere, sand, dust, the craters, confusion, no signal, no landmarks, no way, Claire, no way.

The images were breaking up, dwindling, going. He saw scattered glints of light slowly whirling overhead, the kaleidoscope of the heavens, the whole astronomical psychedelia swaying and cavorting, and then the sky calmed, and then only Claire’s face remained, Claire and the minute red disc of Mars. The events of the nineteen months contracted to a single star-bright point of time, and became as nothing, and were gone. Silence and darkness enveloped him. Lying tense and rigid on the desert floor, he stared up defiantly at Mars, and closed his eyes, and wiped the red disc from the screen of his mind, and slowly, gradually, reluctantly, he surrendered himself to sleep.

Voices woke him. Male voices, quiet and deep, discussing him in an indistinct buzz. He hovered a moment on the border between dream and reality, uncertain of his perceptions and unsure of his proper response; then his military reflexes took over and he snapped into instant wakefulness, blinking his eyes open, sitting up in one quick move, rising to a standing position in the next, poising his body to defend itself.

He took stock. Sunrise was maybe half an hour away; the tips of the mountains to the west were stained with early pinkness. Thin mist shrouded the low-lying land. Three men stood just beyond the place where he had mounted his beacon. The shortest one was as tall as he, and they were desert-tanned, heavy-set, strong and capable-looking. They wore their hair long and their beards full; they were oddly dressed, shepherd-style, in loose belted robes of light green muslin or linen. Although their expressions were open and friendly and they did not seem to be armed, Oxenshuer was troubled by awareness of his vulnerability in this emptiness, and he found menace in their presence. Their intrusion on his isolation angered him. He stared at them warily, rocking on the balls of his feet.

One, bigger than the others, a massive thick-cheeked blue-eyed man, said, “Easy. Easy, now. You look all ready to fight.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Just came to find out if you were okay. You lost?”

Oxenshuer indicated his neat camp, his backpack, his bedroll. “Do I seem lost?”

“You’re a long way from anywhere,” said the man closest to Oxenshuer, one with shaggy yellow hair and a cast in one eye.

“Am I? I thought it was just a short hike from the road.”

The three men began to laugh. “You don’t know where the hell you are, do you?” said the squint-eyed one. And the third one, dark-bearded, hawk-featured, said, “Look over thataway.” He pointed behind Oxenshuer, to the north. Slowly, half anticipating trickery, Oxenshuer turned. Last night, in the moonlit darkness, the land had seemed level and empty in that direction, but now he beheld two steeply rising mesas a few hundred meters apart, and in the opening between them he saw a low wooden palisade, and behind the palisade the flat-roofed tops of buildings were visible, tinted orange-pink by the spreading touch of dawn. A settlement out here? But the map showed nothing, and, from the looks of it, that was a town of some two or three thousand people. He wondered if he had somehow been transported by magic during the night to some deeper part of the desert. But no: there was his solar still, there was the mesquite patch; there were last night’s prickly pears. Frowning, Oxenshuer said, “What is that place in there?”

“The City of the Word of God,” said the hawk-faced one calmly.

“You’re lucky,” said the squint-eyed one. “You’ve been brought to us almost in time for the Feast of St. Dionysus. When all men are made one. When every ill is healed.”

Oxenshuer understood. Religious fanatics. A secret retreat in the desert. The state was full of apocalyptic cults, more and more of them now that the end of the century was only about ten years away and millennial fears were mounting. He scowled. He had a native Easterner’s innate distaste for Californian irrationality. Reaching into the reservoir of his own decaying Catholicism, he said thinly, “Don’t you mean St. Dionysius? With an I? Dionysus was the Greek god of wine.”

“Dionysus,” said the big blue-eyed man. “Dionysius is somebody else, some Frenchman. We’ve heard of him. Dionysus is who we mean.” He put forth his hand. “My name’s Matt, Mr. Oxenshuer. If you stay for the Feast, I’ll stand brother to you. How’s that?”

The sound of his name jolted him. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Heard of you? Well, not exactly. We looked in your wallet.”

“We ought to go now,” said the squint-eyed one. “Don’t want to miss breakfast.”

“Thanks,” Oxenshuer said, “but I think I’ll pass up the invitation. I came out here to get away from people for a little while.”

“So did we,” Matt said.

“You’ve been called,” said Squint-eye hoarsely. “Don’t you realize that, man? You’ve been called to our city. It wasn’t any accident you came here.”

“No?”

“There aren’t any accidents,” said Hawk-face. “Not ever. Not in the breast of Jesus, not ever a one. What’s written is written. You were called, Mr. Oxenshuer. Can you say no?” He put his hand lightly on Oxenshuer’s arm. “Come to our city. Come to the Feast. Look, why do you want to be afraid?”

“I’m not afraid. I’m just looking to be alone.”

“We’ll let you be alone, if that’s what you want,” Hawk-face told him. “Won’t we, Matt? Won’t we, Will? But you can’t say no to our city. To our saint. To Jesus. Come along, now. Will, you carry his pack. Let him walk into the city without a burden.” Hawk-face’s sharp, forbidding features were softened by the glow of his fervor. His dark eyes gleamed. A strange, persuasive warmth leaped from him to Oxenshuer. “You won’t say no. You won’t. Come sing with us. Come to the Feast. Well?”

“Well?” Matt asked also.

“To lay down your burden,” said squint-eyed Will. “To join the singing. Well? Well?”

“I’ll go with you,” Oxenshuer said at length. “But I’ll carry my own pack.”

They moved to one side and waited in silence while he assembled his belongings. In ten minutes everything was in order. Kneeling, adjusting the straps of his pack, he nodded and looked up. The early sun was full on the city now, and its rooftops were bright with a golden radiance. Light seemed to stream upward from them; the entire desert appeared to blaze in that luminous flow.