So Tony and Marjorie had determined to make a party of it. At the last minute, however, Father Sandoval had asked if he and Father James could go along, and so there were four of them in the over-ornamented aircar piloted by Tony with reasonable proficiency, considering he had flown the thing only a dozen times. As they approached the ruin, a misty rain began to fall, fading all the colors of the landscape into indistinct grays. When they landed they were met by two of the green-clad Brothers, an old fat one with interested eyes and a young skinny one with a tight cap of brown, curly hair, and a sad, drawn expression. When the old one saw Father Sandoval, he blinked as though he recognized—what? A colleague? An age-mate? Someone who might be expected to be sympathetic? Or antagonistic?
“Religious?” asked Brother Mainoa. “Are you, sir, a religious?” He reached a hand toward the priest’s collar, turning it into a palm-up gesture of supplication. “You and the other gentleman?”
Father bent his thin shoulders and cocked his head, nodding, as though to ask why this minion of Sanctity should care, perhaps slightly offended.
“We are Old Catholics,” Father acknowledged. “This is Father James. I am Father Sandoval.”
“Look at them, Brother Lourai!” demanded Brother Mainoa. “Old Catholics. Now there are ones who chose their life. Not like us.” He winked at the older priest, cocking his head to a similar angle. “Brother Lourai and I, we were given, Father. Given to celibacy. Given to silence. Given to boredom. We had nothing at all to say about it. And when we couldn’t tolerate what we were given to, why, then we were sent here, for punishment.”
“I had heard something of that,” admitted Father Sandoval, not unsympathetically. “His Excellency the ambassador told me something of the kind.”
“I ask you to keep it in mind, Father. As we progress. With your tour…” He bobbed his head, chuckled, then turned and led them away. The rain had stopped. All around them the velvet turf was jeweled with droplets. Mainoa’s feet made dark tracks across the gemmed surface.
Father Sandoval looked questioningly at Marjorie. She shrugged. Who knew what the old man meant? He seemed to be amused by the idea of digging up an Arbai city as punishment, though she might have misunderstood. Only Father Sandoval had been introduced by name, but perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps the guides already knew who she was, who Tony was. As for them, the old one was Mainoa, no doubt, and he had called the other one Brother Lourai. Enough to begin with. She gestured the priest forward and followed him, Tony trailing behind her, his head swiveling as he tried to see everything at once.
The ruin was set in an area of violet grass, like soft fur upon the soil. Dug into this were sprawling trenches reached by a flight of stairs made out of ebon stems, the stout bundles staked into position, their tops flat, their stems rubbing together beneath the weight of feet to make a sound like a reprimand.
“Take off your shoes,” they seemed to say. “This is death’s ground. Show respect.”
It was as though the visitors heard the words. Almost, Tony knelt to take off his shoes, feeling his knees bend, coming to himself with a start, shamefaced. Father Sandoval crossed himself with an expression of alert surprise and anger. Father James reached out as though to catch himself from falling. Marjorie looked bemused, wondering. She had heard voices!
Brother Mainoa looked at them and chuckled. “You heard that? I hear it, too, and so does Brother Lourai here. Elder Brother Fuasoi doesn’t hear it, or says he doesn’t. You’re angry, Father? Thinking somebody’s playing tricks? I cut those grass bundles myself, Father Sandoval. No trickery to it. I just walked out into the prairie until I found a stand of grass thick enough, then I cut them and bundled them and put them down there with strips across the top to hold them flat. And I hear voices when people step on them, and you hear things when you step on them, but others don’t. Keep that in mind, Fathers, ma’am, young sir.”