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Page 11.
Chapter 6. Holy Mother Warned
 By the time the Holy Mother's caravan arrived at Graniston 1, I had not yet found a single clue as to who among us was about to murder her. I even entertained the idea that perhaps the late Triber Shan (Brother Gaunt, and before that a.k.a. Timony) had lost his mind. Maybe there was even some other agenda about which I knew nothing. But I had to conclude in the end that Timony would not have given his life for a trivial cause. Whatever its nature and importance, his cause certainly embraced all of us, including me.
I stood in a high window of the Dome as her caravan came along the road. The ancient trackways were of poured stone almost like ribbed glass, smoother than concrete, almost like marble, but purposely pitted to make them not slippery during damp weather. Marching in front, in back, and alongside were over 100 of her own soldiers in their colorful red and white jumpsuits with combat helmets and web gear, plus pike-like rifles slung over their shoulders. In addition to folding aim-lenses, range finders, and other sophisticated gear, each helmet had a red and white plume on top. There was a fresh breeze, and the plumes ruffled merrily. Each of the men and women marching in that parade of course also had a small O2 canister slung on a rear crossbelt, and a very fine breathing tube running to the flesh between their nostrils.
Every available free hand was out waving little pennants, and a band played Gods of Mars and Mars the Divine as the cavalcade of vehicles crawled slowly around the mountain and came up the slight grade through Graniston Cargo. Among the variously shaped vehicles were three white boxy train cars on selftracks. Golden tassels hung from the corners, and black scripts with holy sayings were painted on their sides. Each of the cars was towed by a hydroburner, and the first of these tractors had on its roof a shrine with electric candles.
The Holy Mother's cars and trucks rocked in dignified heaviness from side to side as if emphasizing their own elephantine gravity. Several of the Temple trumpeters, wearing yellow caps and long robes, stood atop the gateway parapets blowing long horns whose deep tones echoed out over the valleys. Wind spinners had been put on the walls to turn prayer wheels, tinkle bells, and churn rattles. With much holy din to drive off evil spirits, the Holy Mother entered our Dome complex for the first time in her reign.
The Council and authorities both Temple and Civil stood by in their best attire. A welcome mat was unrolled to her doorway, and minutes later she appeared smiling and waving dignifiedly. I had never seen a Holy Mother, particularly since all photos and icons of religious personalities are forbidden, so I was surprised that she was even a human woman.
She had a name, too: Holy Mother and Popessa Gina-Paulina XXIII.
Her Holiness was a small person with a wizened face and white hair tied up in a bun under a ceremonial crown. This crown, made of white silk embroidered with thick cords of gold thread in the Horizon symbol, was shaped like a Godpod and had four fins pointing to the ground (for the elements of air, water, fire, and ground) and a rocket or spire pointing heavenward. A small gold tassel hung from each fin, and flounced when she turned her head to bless the crowd. She wore a voluminous dress of the same white silk and gold brocade, inset with colorful panels showing the saints and angels as well as heavenly Gods. Her dress is sometimes called a Pantheon, for 'all Gods,' and her undergarments are the Holy Pantaloons. The latter have no embroidery, but plenty of inked script with prayers and well-wishes.
I was trembling, to be truthful, for I expected to hear a gunshot any time. I looked fearfully up at the parapets, and I think even the Abbot saw me craning my neck. His look at me was so dark and suspicious that I felt chills race under my robes.
How to reach her without arousing any more notice or suspicion—that was the predicament that racked my mind. She would be housed in her own truck under heavy guard from her Swat Guards, as they were called in another long-lost ancient tradition. Speaking of tradition, a visit by the Holy Mother or Popess is an event accompanied by endless speeches and ceremonies too tedious to mention, for the margins of this book are too small to contain them. Somehow, all of it is very pompous and traditional and beautiful and even heart-stirring. Her travels about the Red Planet are probably the one unifying element in our planetary culture, since she reaches not only the Free Domers of the mid-range but also the Royal Domers of the high range, and there is even one Tribal Circus down in the Pisano Range where she holds court among the unwashed once every decade. So everyone, literally, is included in the blessings she carries throughout the world. I could understand how she would be an obstacle to a unified government declared by a tyrant like Balesso. The goodness of this woman was manifest, and I determined more than ever to save her. I would even throw my own life away if must be.
Then I came up with a plan, or rather, one fell in my lap, literally.
The Dome set aside so much acreage each year (a Martian year being somewhat over 600 sols) for fallow land. That helps the ground replenish itself as natural and hydroponic nutrients slowly filled it as a sponge soaks up water. The custom was for the Holy Mother's portable temple to be erected on this land, which happened this year to be a beautiful overlook onto sweeping plains a mile below and miles away. It was a breathtaking view, even though a wall of dusty brown Storm Season clouds hovered on the horizon. First her technicians erected a transparent portable dome of geodesic glass triangles. Under this they installed a throne area with canopy overhead, the most sumptuous part of the display. Central to it was a very ancient chair that had been repaired so many times that little of the original was left except its steel frame. There was one piece of writing preserved under glass on a plaque on the back of the chair, and this plaque said simply and enigmatically Property of NASA. Books have been written about what this might mean. Clearly it was the throne of an important person, perhaps a long-ago Holy Mother named NASA. Centuries of patching and decorating had resulted in a wonderful melange of brocade, corduroy, silk, tartan, and every other imaginable beautiful texture, so that when the Holy Mother sat in state, she looked like a doll amid a violently beautiful explosion of color, a swirl of texture, whose baseline was hundreds of feet of the finest rose-red silk from the ecclesiastical factories in her Holy City. Shot throughout this huge bow of dark red were reeds of spun glass and an organ was built into it, whose 46 silver pipes protruded behind and above the throne.
The second glorious thing was the Main Altar that they set up in the center of the dome. She could then descend from the throne at the right moment and walk across 300 feet of rich carpet to perform the ceremonies of sacrifice, redemption, and renewal as well as the auguries of spilled wine and strewn wheat.
Finally, I should comment that they brought with them sixty ornate gilded torchieres on matching twirled posts, each as tall as a tall person, and these were set in a rectangular sacred perimeter so that the throne was at the center of this sacred space at one end, and the altar at the center of the other half. People came from hundreds of miles around and camped in the mountains nearby, and they filled the temporary dome to overflowing. There must have been 15,000 people in the area during the high ceremonies. The ceremonies themselves were so intricate and involved so much symbolism that I doubt anyone fully understood all of it, maybe not even the Holy Mother. Overall, it seemed to be a plea for blessings, food, water, oxygen, safety from radiation, fertility, all the stuff that kept life on Mars going.
I was assigned to be part of a ceremony in which she blessed the Four Elements and wished us an abundance of each in good proportion. Four of us were chosen—a nun from Buenos Ares to sit holding a tray of earth; myself to sit holding a bowl of fire; a fireman from Fair Belair in the Martian Alps, holding a glass cube filled with water that shone like amber as candle light under the dome rippled through it; and finally, a school teacher from the Debussy Lamėr, holding a globe of unspoiled air from 50,000 feet above Olympus Mons. We were to sit in a row before the main altar, the four of us, and Her Holiness would at some point walk by and bless each of us and what we held. I managed to get the program master to switch things around, citing certain propitious omens and what not, so that I had the ground and the girl held the flame. She wasn't very bright, actually (no pun intended), and it was easy for me to quietly observe why they stuck her in a cloister. During one practice she nodded off, and her lovely blond hair caught fire like a handful of sparklers going off, so she dropped the sacred flame and stood there hitting herself on the head until her hair went out, and then she cried. Finally, the fireman gave her a fire-proof hat that resembled a boat, and actually looked quite ceremonial, so it all came together.
The actual ceremony ground on and on, but was quite beautiful. It was evening, and a wind made the sixty torches flicker so that a magic-seeming light filled the glass dome. The soldiers' plumes ruffled as they stood at parade rest with their tall pikes. The organ in the throne boomed, and in a field nearby, the brass band pumped out a lively march. At other points in the ceremony, choirs came in from many domes to sing hymns. The sacred music, though, was the best. Allegedly based on a secular dance music of centuries ago, this was of course the famous Rockenrole, usually performed loud and fast and dancy, some of which happened during the ceremonies, or the same songs could be performed soft and slow and dreamy, which also happened. Thus, one heard Lui Lui slow and Lui Lui fast. One heard Shanana and Blue Moon, to name just a few of the many sacred songs. Some sacred music involved audience participation, as Doom! Doom! Out Go The Lights. In this piece, a chorale of monks sings the main lyrics; then a priest calls out "Doom! Doom!"; and the responsorium from the people at large is to cover their heads with their arms, close their eyes, and yell "Out go the lights!" It is said to be a very ancient demon-chasing ritual, but I often shudder as I wonder if it is a prophecy for Mars and the common doom of humanity.
Finally, as the night wore on, and the girl next to me kept yawning, poor thing, Her Holiness approached for the Blessing of the Elements. Preceding her were bearded priests in elaborate golden gowns, waving censers in which incense burned, and poured out fragrant and smoky. Acolytes carried various symbols and a book of holy scripture. Then came Popessa Gina-Paulina XXIII, holding up her hand in blessing. This again was a very precise choreography, involving the index and middle finger pointing straight up while she held her thumb over the two smaller, bent end fingers. She muttered sacred words while pointing her blessing-hand gun-like at each of us and over what we held. In her other hand, she clutched a shiny object resembling a large, unevenly shaped brass coin just big enough to fit flat in her palm, with her fingertips curled over the edges. I noticed on its surface a faint representation of Mars in low relief.
When she hovered over me, I looked up into her shriveled face, which glowed from dozens of flickering candles being held by little boys and girls in white garments. As I looked up into her face, I saw her eyes widen and the stream of prayers briefly interrupted.
I had written in the sand: "Danger—see me."
She touched my forehead briefly and then moved on, ever the greatest diplomat and show-person.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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