Sheri Tepper - Grass

Ignoring the arrival of the two strangers, Rigo went on shouting at Stella, furious that she had not told him she intended to ride, furious at her for having ridden at all without his permission. Though Tony and Marjorie were angry too, angry with both the riders for risking their lives, they felt the conflict had gone on long enough. Marjorie intruded upon the sounds of battle by introducing the brothers to her husband and daughter.

As Rigo turned and offered his hand to Brother Mainoa, his face still suffused with anger, he suddenly remembered his words to Marjorie about this man. The Brother was shortsighted and elderly, rotund and half bald. Rigo was instantly aware that he had made himself ridiculous by his accusations then and that he was not improving matters by his manner now. All he could bring himself to do was to make brusque apologies and go off with Stella still frothing after him like a small, mad animal determined to bite, leaving Marjorie and Tony to make amends.

Mainoa waved her apologies away. “All families have their upsets, Lady Westriding. I understand your husband and daughter rode to hounds yesterday.”

“How did you know?”

“That information spread across Grass within moments of their leaving Klive,” the friar replied. “A servant called a friend on the tell-me. The friend called someone else, who called three others. One of the Brothers came to tell Brother Lourai and me, bringing the news down into the Arbai street we are currently unearthing. Oh yes, Lady Westriding, everyone knows.”

“The two of them have been fighting over it,” she confessed unnecessarily. “Tony and I are afraid for them.”

“As you might well be,” the Brother agreed.

Since Stella had left them, Rillibee had stood looking after her, an expression of wonder on his face. Now he sat down abruptly. “She’s determined to go on?” he asked.

“Rigo is determined to go on. Stella is no less determined, though not for Rigo’s reasons. My husband thinks she should not. The reasons he gives her for not riding are the same reasons I give him for not riding. He says in his case it is different.” She sighed, throwing up her hands.

“It’s all become rather nasty and boring,” said Tony, trying to make light of what had been a very hostile encounter. “Everyone telling each other the same things, and no one listening.”

“I’m told that Rowena, Obermum bon Damfels, is at Commons,” Brother Mainoa remarked. “I hear that Obermun bon Damfels does not seem to know she is gone.”

“You hear everything,” Marjorie said ruefully. “Have you heard what any of it means?”

“As you do, Lady Westriding. As you do.”

“Call me Marjorie, Brother. Please. Father James wants to see you while you are here. He particularly asked to be included.”

Brother Mainoa nodded, smiling. He had wanted very much to talk with either of the Fathers.

When the time came, he spoke to the young priest, quiet young Father James — Rigo’s nephew, Marjorie informed them — and also to Father Sandoval, and to Tony and Marjorie as well. Their luncheon was served on the terrace in the mild airs of spring. Neither Rigo nor Stella joined them. Neither Rigo nor Stella could be found.

“I wanted particularly to speak with you Fathers,” Brother Mainoa confided in his comfortable voice, “because I have a philosophical matter which I am seeking advice upon.”

“Ah?” Father Sandoval acknowledged in a patronizing tone. “You wish an answer from a religious point of view?”

“I do,” said the Brother. “It pertains to creatures which are not human. You may regard the question as hypothetical but nonetheless important.”

Father Sandoval cocked his head. “You mean in a doctrinal sense?”

“Precisely. A matter of no practical relevance whatsoever, but important in a doctrinal sense. To ask my question, I must ask you first to suppose that the foxen here on Grass are sentient beings and that they are troubled by matters of conscience.”

Tony laughed. Marjorie smiled. Father Sandoval seemed only slightly amused. “I can accept that as a ground for ethical argument.”

Brother Mainoa nodded, gratified. “It is a question of original sin.”

“Original sin?” Father James looked as though he was genuinely amused. “Among the foxen?” He looked at Marjorie with a smile, as though reminded of their recent conversation on the same subject. She looked down at her plate. She was still troubled by the things he had said, and was not sure it was a laughing matter.

Brother Mainoa saw this interchange but pretended not to notice. “Remember that you agreed to accept that they are thinking beings, Fathers. Accept it. Regard them as fully sentient. As much as you yourself may be. Now, having done so — do not laugh, sir,” this to Tony — “we are supposing that the idea of original sin oppresses the foxen. They are carnivores. Their bodies require meat. So, they eat meat. They eat the peepers, the larvae of the Hippae.”

“You know!” exclaimed Marjorie. “You know what the peepers really are.”

“I do, madam. Not many know, but I do. And let us suppose the foxen do, as well. They eat them.”

“And the foxen consider this sinful?” Tony asked. “Well, young sir, it is an interesting point. If these were men, you yourself would consider it sinful. If a man or woman kills an unborn child, your faith and Sanctity both consider it murder, do they not? The larvae of the Hippae are not thinking beings. They are as near mindless as makes no matter. However, when they grow great and fat and unable to move, they make their first metamorphosis and emerge as hounds.”

“Ah.” Father Sandoval had already heard of this from Marjorie and he now saw where Mainoa was leading.

“The hounds, some say, are thinking beings. Certainly they are capable of some thought. I believe they are self-aware. Whether they are or not, they undergo a further metamorphosis and become something else…”

“Mounts.” Marjorie nodded. “I have seen them.”

“Of course. And as Lady Westriding knows in her heart, as we all know in our hearts, the Hippae are thinking beings. You and I have discussed this before, have we not? So, when foxen eat the peepers, they are killing the young of a thinking race.”

“But if they know this, why—”

“What else can they eat? The mounts? The Hippae themselves? There are a few other creatures, all of them too fleet or too small to be of any use. The grazers are too huge. No, the foxen eat the peepers because they are available and abundant. There are many more peepers than the world could hold if all of them went through metamorphosis, and history upon Terra tells us what horrors follow upon religious mandates of unlimited reproduction. That is not the point, however. The point is that foxen eat and relish peepers, but let us suppose that in recent years, since being exposed to the thoughts of man, the foxen have acquired pudency. They have learned to feel guilt.”

“They had no guilt until man came?”

“Let us suppose not. Let us suppose that they had reason, but no sense of shame. They have acquired it from men.”

“They must have acquired it from the commoners, then,” said Tony. “I’ve seen little enough among the bons.”

Brother Mainoa laughed. “From the commoners. Surely. Let us say they have learned it from the commoners.”

“Those of our faith,” said Marjorie with a frown, “seem to agree that the original sin of humankind was ah… an amatory one.”

“And the foxen, who have learned of this doctrine from someone, heaven knows who, wonder if it is not as valid to have one that was and is gustatory. Let us suppose they have come to me with this matter. ‘Brother Mainoa,’ they have said, ‘we wish to know if we are guilty of original sin.’