Richard Russo - Ship of Fools

At that time, the downsiders began negotiations reasonably enough—they asked that all the work be shared equally by those on all levels. This request was of course refused. So the downsiders threatened to cease all work. In response, we (and I’m afraid I must include myself, whether or not I agreed with the actions taken; I was a part of the upper-level society, no matter how much of an outsider I was to most of them) simply cut off all the food and water conduits to the lower levels, secured the ag rooms so they could not get at our food, and shut down their recycling systems.

They held out for six days. Arne Gronvold tried to restore all the lifelines for them, and when he was unsuccessful he tried to cut off all of ours. That, too, failed. When the insurrection was over, Arne was banished for life to the lower levels.

So I understood why the downsiders would want to leave, and I understood why the upper levels would never agree. And Pär was asking me to risk sharing Arne Gronvold’s fate.

He was asking too much.

ASwe neared Antioch, the exploration party was formed. We numbered thirteen.

I would go as the captain’s representative. Nikos had to stay with the ship—there was no question of that; he feared losing all authority if he were to leave, and I was the only one he trusted to provide him with an accurate report of what we would find.

Besides me, there was a science team of three, and an armed military squad of six. A woman named Sari Mandapat was chosen to be the representative for the downsiders, and Andrew Thornton was selected to represent the upper levels after Michel Tournier backed out, claiming illness; Tournier’s real illness was fear. The ship’s crew would have no representative—they did not need one, nor did they care.

Last, Father Veronica was to go as the Church’s representative. I did not know her well, but I had spoken with her on occasion, and had heard some of her sermons. I admired her. She was intelligent, and she was sincere. And she was a believer.

The bishop, I was certain, did not believe. But the three priests did , and none more than Father Veronica. The strange thing, though, was that she was not a fanatic. I didn’t understand her.

I understand hypocrites, like the bishop, and I understand fanatics, or at least I can more easily predict their behavior, which is much the same thing, as far as I am concerned. But I admit I did not know what to make of true believers like Father Veronica. Her belief, her faith , was both profound and real. Her faith disturbed me.

I wanted to talk with her before we made landfall, so I went to the cathedral. When I entered, the cathedral was huge and empty and silent. The only light came from candles burning in clusters along both aisles flanking the main nave, and there were flickering shadows everywhere. I could barely make out the arched vaulting high above me. At the far end, behind the apse, was the enormous stained-glass window that formed a section of the outer hull. With only the darkness of space behind it, the window was lifeless and indistinct. I had never been able to make out the images in the glass, although I felt certain there was something more than abstraction in it.

I’d never spent much time in the cathedral. I had attended a few sermons, services on holy days as required, the occasional wedding, funeral Masses, but at those times all I did was sit on a pew and struggle to stay awake. I registered little of my surroundings, and never paid them much attention. But that day, with the cathedral so empty, I was curious.

I walked slowly along the right aisle. The vaulting, while still quite high, was lower than that looming above the central section of the cathedral. There was a series of stained-glass windows, each illuminated by some diffuse source embedded in the interior walls behind them. Between the windows were tiny alcoves; in each alcove was a kneeling pad and a cluster of candles. The candles, few of which were alight, were in small colored-glass containers, the flames glowing softly within them. The mood created was a strange combination of serenity and disquiet.

I stopped and looked up at one astonishing stained-glass window. It depicted an enormous two-headed monster ripping itself out of the belly of a man, one of the heads in the process of devouring a child with its massive jaws and teeth. I was amazed at how detailed and gruesome it was. The monster’s body was that of a muscular scaled reptile with short, thick legs, taloned feet, and a long and powerful tail. The two heads had doglike features and blazing red eyes. Although the monster was ripping its way out of the man, it was more than twice the man’s size. The one head held the child in its teeth, and the other stared out and down—with the bright red eyes glowering at me, it looked disturbingly alive.

I was still staring at the images, trying to make sense of them, when a voice broke my concentration.

“Horrifying, isn’t it?”

Startled, I turned to see Father Veronica standing at the end of one of the pews. She was looking at me, then turned to gaze up at the stained-glass window.

She was not what I would call a beautiful woman, but I would use the word “handsome.” Nearly as tall as I, with dark ash-brown hair that hung halfway down her back, she was wearing a black cassock with white collar, and her hands were hidden within the dark folds of material.

“Yes,” I said. “What is it supposed to represent?”

“I can give you the official Church version, or I can give you my own.”

“How about both?”

She smiled then, a smile that cut my breath short for a moment, and nodded. “All right.” She walked toward me and stood at my side, and we both looked up at the window.

“If you were to ask the bishop,” she began, “or the other priests, they would tell you that the two-headed monster represents Satan, the Fallen Angel, cast out of Heaven for defying God. Satan, the manifestation of Evil, will do anything to work his way into the souls and hearts of men and women, only to destroy them from within, as represented by this picture, for no other reason than because we are God’s children, and this is Satan’s way of seeking his revenge upon God.”

“And if I were to ask you ?”

She shrugged. “It is heresy, perhaps, but I do not believe in Satan as a real being, an external force or manifestation.” She held her hand out toward the images above us. “That monster is coming from within. I believe that creature is nothing more than the dark and terrible aspect of our own souls.” She paused, gazing steadily at the stained glass. “We all have the potential to be good, to do good, and that potential is nearly limitless.” She smiled gently. “That potential is rarely fulfilled, but most of us do well enough.” Then the smile was gone. “We also have a similar potential for evil, to deliberately do harm to ourselves and others. If we give in to that aspect of our souls, if we let evil rule our minds and our hearts, it will not only destroy us, as it is doing here, it will destroy the innocents around us as well—the child being devoured by the creature’s second head.”

“You believe that potential is in all of us?” I asked.

“For both good and evil, yes.”

“Even in you?”

She nodded. “Yes, even in me. I am no less human than you are.”

We were silent for a while, and I continued to gaze at the stained glass. Father Veronica’s interpretation of the images resonated far more with me than did the Church’s. Eventually I turned to face her.

“We’ll be making landfall together,” I said.

“Yes, and I’m looking forward to it. So many years…” Her gaze became unfocused… or focused on something distant and unseen. “Open skies, a visible horizon in the distance, the sun or moons or clouds hanging above, maybe a wind blowing through the trees. Free-flowing water, rain pouring from the sky, the black night shattered by electrical discharges… I miss all that.”