Тим Пауэрс - Bugs and Known Problems

Setting the holy water aside, he prepared himself. Wrapped in a clean handkerchief, he carried wafers purchased from a house in St. Louis, whose proprietor claimed to make the consecration bread in a way acceptable to the Church. Father Avenir doubted it. Over the years, whenever he went back to replenish his supplies, he found the wafers were yellower and contained more seeds, but they would have to do… as would the wine he poured from a small bottle to a willow bark cup.

Fifteen years ago, bright with the potential of his mission, he had set out with French wine and a silver cup, but neither had escaped the rapacity of the first Native tribe to whom he’d preached. Now Avenir used some kind of berry wine he obtained from the tribes in exchange for furs, and he had made the willow bark cup himself.

It didn’t matter. By the words of the consecration, they would become the body and blood of that most powerful act of sacrifice that had redeemed the world.

Continuing, he spread a clean piece of suede on top of a large lichen-covered rock, balanced the offerings on it, donned his cassock and started the holy service.

He didn’t need to open the Bible. He remembered the readings for the day, and as he boomed the holy words in Latin from memory at the wild land, it seemed that the hush deepened, as though the land itself listened. And why not? Hadn’t St. Francis preached to the fish? Not that Avenir was a saint, by any means. He performed the whole service and consumed the flesh and the blood of the Son of God, willing himself to become one with Him, possessed of His strength.

He returned his implements to the pack and folded up the clean suede piece. He pulled out the wooden cross and let it hang proudly on his chest. He ran his fingers through his beard and his tangled hair, as if to make himself presentable, but he was not going to a debutante’s ball. Moses himself wandering through the wilderness had looked no worse. When Jesus was tempted by the devil, he had not fretted over his appearance. What mattered were Father Avenir’s heart and soul.

With the newly blessed water in the bowl, he filled his battered but serviceable old aspergillum. He took his battered old copy of the Holy Bible and pressed it against the black tunic at his chest, then he raised himself to his feet from the bank of the sluggish stream. Prepared and with a strong heart, he looked ahead into the smoke and fumes as another angry geyser blasted not far away.

“I come to pray.” His voice was soft, but the challenge was clear. “Fire demons, you will bow before the word of God.”

He had no doubt the supernatural forces lurking in this raw wound on the landscape would hear him. If they bowed before his faith, he might let them live. Avenir could be generous. Even angels themselves could fall from heaven, and creatures such as these, which manifested the superstitious beliefs of the unconverted, were all part of the universe that God created. If they could be brought to heel and made to give their service to the Holy Word, perhaps they could be useful. Father Avenir had seen countless inexplicable things in these arcane territories. It was not his purpose to question the wonders of the Sundered world, and he didn’t dare question his faith.

Leaving his pack and his fur coat behind where he could retrieve them if he survived this confrontation, or where scavengers could find them if he didn’t, Father Avenir strode ahead, one man alone carrying the strength of God. He walked out into the blistering valley of fire and smoke. He could smell the bitter brimstone in the air and the fumes stung his eyes, but his tears were those of joy and determination. In defiance, he inhaled deeply of the sulphurous fumes, knowing he was about to enter Hell itself.

The tribe had called themselves the Snake People, or in their own language, the Shoshone. They had once been a large tribe with many villages and much trade throughout the mountains, but in recent years, with the growing evil force that had corrupted the magic in the land, many Shoshone had been possessed, their minds stolen away and placed in thrall of the dark controlling force. Many of their villages had been burned to the ground, destroyed by incomprehensibly evil attacks, fiery demons summoned by the black spirit himself.

Now, the Shoshone were scattered and desperate, packing up their possessions and moving from place to place as if hunted. Their strong warriors were forced to form raiding parties to seize food and supplies from settlements even weaker than their own.

Just a few weeks earlier in his wanderings in the wilderness, searching for other children of God, Father Avenir suddenly found himself confronted by two sturdy warriors with long black hair and fierce-looking spears. On horseback, they rode in out of the trees like bandits, confronting the priest. Father Avenir had found himself in many such perilous situations before, but he had his faith as a shield and a calm demeanor, as well as the fact that he had no possessions anyone would want to take, except for some dried meat and old acorns. Father Avenir had smiled a welcome at the dour-faced warriors and said a Latin prayer for them, offering greetings in English, French, and several local Native tongues.

The lead warrior straightened, cocked his chin. “You are a priest? A shaman of the White God?” He sniffed. “And how strong is your God?”

Father Avenir showed all the confidence he could summon. “My God is strong. He created the world and the whole universe.”

The warrior let out a gruff laugh. “All gods say that, but at least our god, Coyote, admits that he sometimes plays tricks on us.”

Father Avenir formed a stern expression as he clutched the cross at his chest. “My God does not play tricks.” Though, really, who but a God with an odd sense of humor would create a child half-white and half-Native, then give him a religion whose leader had been removed from this reality?

The Shoshone warrior gestured with his spear. “I am Cameahwait. Ride behind my companion. We want you to speak with our shaman. The Snake People need strength now. Perhaps you can succeed where our shaman failed.”

The two warriors rode as he walked, and they led him to a small and sparse new village. The people had cut down saplings and built new huts, covering them with tattered old skins. To Father Avenir it looked as if they had salvaged their possessions and moved often from place to place. They built up camp fires in the village and Cameahwait loudly introduced their guest, calling for the women to cook and share their food, which consisted of a few rabbits, squirrels, and trout from the streams.

Father Avenir accepted their hospitality, although the people looked at him with both fear and suspicion. When he made the sign of the cross, the Shoshone flinched as if he were summoning some great magic. But Avenir smiled at them and gestured his blessing. He sat on a log near the cookfire as they brought out food, still not certain why he was here, but as always he welcomed the chance to spread the Word. He had an acceptable familiarity with their language because his mother had been captive among the Shoshone as a young woman, and he knew enough similar words in other tribal tongues that he could patch together ways to explain even the more esoteric concepts.

But the women who served him were not his audience, and the few rambunctious children running among the trees avoided him. Cameahwait and several other warriors from a scattered raiding party also kept their distance.

Father Avenir ate alone until another man emerged from an isolated structure, a wiry man with a weighty presence about him, clumpy, scrabbly hair, and a feral demeanor. He prowled forward, hunched over as if he couldn’t decide whether he was a man or an animal. He wore a loincloth, stained moccasins up to his ankles, and the rich, silvery pelt of a coyote wrapped around his shoulders with the head still intact, lolling to the side. The shaman came forward, his eyes locked on Father Avenir’s, and took a seat immediately across the fire, staring at the priest.