Richard Russo - Ship of Fools

My helmet filled with a babble of voices, but I tuned it all out; in the periphery of my vision there was chaotic activity, people scrambling all around the room.

“Eric,” I said, forgetting he couldn’t hear me.

The smile was gone, but his face was suffused with peace. He continued to shake and jerk under me. I knew he was dying, and he was dying quickly. Casterman himself knew he was dying, and he seemed to welcome it.

The flow of blood had slowed, but didn’t cease; it was finding new pathways around my gloves, which could not seal the gaping wound.

Then there were people all around me, hands pressing pieces of fabric and rubber patches into the blood. It was all so pointless, I wanted to knock the hands and arms away; but I kept my own hands on his neck, although I knew that was just as pointless.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see Father Veronica kneeling beside me. She didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything but look at me and squeeze my shoulder.

I turned back to Casterman. His mouth opened, lips and jaw moving silently; I’m sure he was trying to speak. A rolling shudder worked its way through him; then something happened to his eyes—they locked hard on something far beyond me. They stayed that way for several long moments, then shifted away, life leaving them, and he went still.

The light from above continued to shine.

Iwas one of eight pallbearers at Casterman’s funeral. The Mass was to be given by the bishop, with Father Veronica assisting. The cathedral was packed, every pew full and several rows of people standing in the back. Like Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, or Easter Mass.

We carried the casket down the central aisle; it was large and heavy, burnished copper decorated with folds of rich black cloth and garlands of white ag-room flowers. The scent from the flowers was heavy and cloying. The casket had always seemed a strange part of the ritual to me, but as I gripped one of the handles I thought I understood it a little more. It was one of half a dozen reusable caskets of different sizes. After the funeral, Casterman’s body would be removed from the casket, interred in a much smaller, cramped metal canister, then expulsed from the ship into deep space. Cremation had become more common in recent years as the supply of canisters dwindled and the material to manufacture replacements became more difficult to obtain, but the Church still frowned on it, particularly for its own.

We carried the casket to the front of the cathedral, up two steps, and set it on the catafalque. Then we walked over to the pew on the side that had been reserved for us.

Nikos was one of the other pallbearers; he sat beside me, then leaned into my shoulder and whispered.

“You still think staying was the right decision?”

I didn’t answer. I had not stopped asking that question of myself since I knelt beside Casterman with his blood and life flowing all around me. I did not need Nikos to ask me the same damn question.

Bishop Soldano stood at the pulpit and spoke, his voice little more than a drone. I didn’t listen to him. I hardly even saw him. What I saw much more vividly were Casterman’s eyes and mouth, both open to me, yet beyond help or understanding.

“Sorry,” Nikos said quietly. “That wasn’t fair.”

I still didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure where I stood with Nikos; I wasn’t even sure I knew where I wanted to stand with him. We’d managed an uneasy truce of sorts since our talk in the Wasteland, but I couldn’t say that we had made any progress restoring our old relationship. Maybe that was just as well.

I looked at Father Veronica standing motionless behind the bishop, her expression steady and unblinking and ultimately impossible to decipher. I found no comfort in it.

Nikos put his hand on my shoulder, a surprising gesture for him. “It’ll be all right.”

I didn’t look at him. I stared forward, wondering if I could stand to remain through the entire Mass.

“SHEcan’t see us,” Taggart said.

“No kidding. Her eyes are closed,” I pointed out to him.

He sighed. “Even if they weren’t, she still couldn’t see us.”

I was looking at the old woman through a large observation window of one-way glass. There were also three concealed cameras in the room, and their images were displayed on monitors above the window. The old woman was sleeping on a bed in one of the med center rooms, curled in a fetal position, mouth slightly open.

“She always sleeps like that,” Taggart said. “As if she’s holding herself together.”

The old woman had been aboard the Argonos for five days now. She was still hooked up to IVs, and monitoring strips were taped across her forehead and arms. Every time she’d been given solid food, she’d refused to eat. On the other hand, she drank all the juices offered to her, and appeared to plead for more.

“She whimpers when she sleeps,” Taggart added. “Sometimes she cries out. When she’s awake she speaks gibberish. She doesn’t appear to understand a word we say to her.”

“Are you sure it’s not just another language?”

“Of course we’re not sure. We’ve tried as many languages as we can find speakers on this ship, which isn’t that many, to be honest. Some languages have been lost over the centuries. Toller’s been dredging up old texts in any language he can find, and he reads a few lines to her to see if we get some reaction. So far… nothing.” Taggart shrugged. “Whatever she’s speaking doesn’t sound like another language to anyone who’s heard her.”

“Maybe it’s alien language,” I suggested half seriously.

“Yes, and maybe it’s just gibberish. Think about it. She’s been through extreme deprivations—social, nutritional, psychological, maybe even sensory. And for an unknown period of time. Years, most likely. I would guess that would turn most people’s minds into mush.”

“That’s what you think has happened to her?” I asked.

“That’s what I think. Severe psychological trauma. You should talk to Dr. G. about it. That’s her area of expertise.”

I don’t know why I was giving Taggart such a hard time about his evaluation of the old woman. I agreed with his assessment, but I hoped that, given time, the woman would become more secure and comfortable here on the Argonos , her mind would come back to her, and we might actually begin to communicate. I told Taggart as much, but he didn’t respond, and I realized he was annoyed with me.

“Physically, how is she doing?” I asked.

“All right. Getting better slowly. Remarkably strong heart. She was terribly undernourished, but her lytes showed she wasn’t too badly mal nourished, if you see the distinction.”

“I do. That glop she was living on must have been well-formulated.”

Taggart nodded.

“I’ll check in with you once a day or so. You’ll let me know if there are any major changes?”

“I will.”

I started to leave, and had just opened the door when Taggart said, “Bartolomeo?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think she’s ever going to get better. Mentally. I don’t think she’s ever going to recover from what she’s been through.”

I took another glance at the woman, who was still holding herself tightly, and I remembered the way she’d wept as I held her. “Let’s hope you’re wrong.”

THEdwarf and I roamed one of the lowest levels of the ship, quietly drunk. Pär smiled crookedly and cast furtive, sidelong glances at me; my limp had become more pronounced and almost out of control—occasionally I crashed against the corridor wall, cursing, and rebounded, losing my balance. The motorized exoskeleton caused the problem, exaggerating each slight misstep or drunken shift of balance.