“But how can we convince anybody if one of us is an idolater? A worshiper of a stone statue? Not a very pretty one, I might add, though that is really irrelevant.
“People will mock us. They’ll say we’re ignorant heathen, superstitious. And we’d be sinning grievously because we’d give people an entirely wrong picture of the Church.”
“Tell them that she is just a symbol,” Chopilotl said, sullenly. His voice rose. “I told you they wouldn’t understand! Besides, it’d be a lie. It’s obvious that this thing is much more to you than just a symbol.”
“Would you throw away your spiral bone?”
“That’s different. It’s a sign of my belief, a badge of my membership. I don’t worship it.”
She flashed white teeth in a sardonic dark face.
“You throw it away, and I’ll abandon my beloved.”
“Nonsense!” he said. “You know I can’t do that! You’re being unreasonable, you bitch.”
“Your face is getting red,” she said. “Where is your loving understanding?”
He breathed deeply and said, “Very well. Bring that thing along.”
He walked away.
She said, “Aren’t you going to help me drag it?”
He stopped and turned. “And be an accessory to blasphemy?”
“If you’ve agreed that it can come with us, then you’re already an accessory.”
She wasn’t stupid—except in that one respect and that was emotional stupidity. Smiling a little, he resumed walking away. On reaching the raft, he told the others what to expect.
“Why do you allow this, brother?” Fleiskaz said. He was a huge red-haired man whose native language was primitive Germanic. This was one of the tongues of central Europe of the second millennium B.C. From it had originated twentieth-century Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, Icelandic, German, Dutch, and English. His nickname had been Wulfaz, meaning Wolf, because he was such a fear-inspiring warrior.
But on the Riverworld, when he’d converted to the Church, he’d renamed himself Fleiskaz. This, in his natal language, meant “a piece of torn flesh.” No one knew why he’d adopted that, but it might have been because he thought of himself as a piece of the good flesh living in an evil body. This piece, torn from the old body, had the potentiality to grow into a complete new body, spiritually speaking, a thoroughly good body.
“Just bear with me,” Hermann said to Fleiskaz. “The whole matter will be settled before we have put fifty meters, between us and the shore.”
They sat around, smoking and talking, watching Chopilotl pull the sled with its stone burden. By the time she had crossed the wide plain, she was scarlet-faced, sweating, and panting. She swore at Hermann, finished by telling him that he would be sleeping by himself for a long time.
“This woman doesn’t set a good example, brother,” Fleiskaz said.
“Be patient, brother,” Hermann said quietly.
The raft was butting into the bank, held from drifting by an anchor, a small boulder at the end of a fish-leather cable. Chopilotl asked those aboard the raft to help her haul the sled onto it. They smiled but did not move. Cursing under her breath, she got it onto the raft. Hermann surprised everybody by helping her scoot it off and rolling it to the middle of the raft.
They up-anchored and shoved off then, waving at the crowd assembled on the bank to wish them bon voyage. A single mast was set forward. The square sail was hoisted, and the braces slanted to drive them toward the middle of The River. Here the current and the wind speeded them, and they set the sail to get the full benefit of the breeze. Brother Fleiskaz was at the rudder.
Chopilotl retired to the tent close to the mast to sulk.
Hermann gently rolled the idol to the starboard edge of the raft. The others looked at him questioningly. Grinning, he held his finger to his lips. Chopilotl was not aware of what was going on, but when the idol was at the edge, its weight tipped the raft slightly. Feeling the tilt, she looked out from the tent. And she screamed.
By then Hermann had the statue upright.
“I am doing this for your good and for the good of the Church!” he shouted at her.