“But they're dying without ever being alive–”
“They are what they are,” said Ender. “They decide what changes they'll make, not you, not from your blindly human perspective, trying to make them have full and happy lives, just like us.”
“You're right,” said Ela. “Of course, you're right, I'm sorry.” To Ela, the piggies weren't people, they were strange alien fauna, and Ela was used to discovering that other animals had inhuman life patterns. But Ender could see that Ouanda was still upset. She had made the raman transition: She thought of piggies as us instead of them. She accepted the strange behavior that she knew about, even the murder of her father, as within an acceptable range of alienness. This meant she was actually more tolerant and accepting of the piggies than Ela could possibly be; yet it also made her more vulnerable to the discovery of cruel, bestial behaviors among her friends.
Ender noticed, too, that after years of association with the piggies, Ouanda had one of their habits: At a moment of extreme anxiety, her whole body became rigid. So he reminded her of her humanity by taking her shoulder in a fatherly gesture, drawing her close under his arm.
At his touch Ouanda melted a little, laughed nervously, her voice low. “Do you know what I keep thinking?” she said. “That the little mothers have all their children and die unbaptized.”
“If Bishop Peregrino converts them,” said Ender, “maybe they'll let us sprinkle the inside of the mothertree and say the words.”
“Don't mock me,” Ouanda whispered.
“I wasn't. For now, though, we'll ask them to change enough that we can live with them, and no more. We'll change ourselves only enough that they can bear to live with us. Agree to that, or the fence goes up again, because then we truly would be a threat to their survival.”
Ela nodded her agreement, but Ouanda had gone rigid again. Ender's fingers suddenly dug harshly into Ouanda's shoulder. Frightened, she nodded her agreement. He relaxed his grip. “I'm sorry,” he said. “But they are what they are. If you want, they are what God made them. So don't try to remake them in your own image.”
He returned to the mothertree. Shouter and Human were waiting.
“Please excuse the interruption,” said Ender.
“It's all right,” said Human. “I told her what you were doing.”
Ender felt himself sink inside. “What did you tell her we were doing?”
“I said that they wanted to do something to the little mothers that would make us all more like humans, but you said they never could do that or you'd put back the fence. I told her that you said we must remain Little Ones, and you must remain humans.”
Ender smiled. His translation was strictly true, but he had the sense not to get into specifics. It was conceivable that the wives might actually want the little mothers to survive childbirth, without realizing how vast the consequences of such a simple-seeming, humanitarian change might be. Human was an excellent diplomat; he told the truth and yet avoided the whole issue.
“Well,” said Ender. “Now that we've all met each other, it's time to begin serious talking.”
Ender sat down on the bare earth. Shouter squatted on the ground directly opposite him. She sang a few words.
“She says you must teach us everything you know, take us out to the stars, bring us the hive queen and give her the lightstick that this new human brought with you, or in the dark of night she'll send all the brothers of this forest to kill all the humans in your sleep and hang you high above the ground so you get no third life at all.” Seeing the humans' alarm, Human reached out his hand and touched Ender's chest. “No, no, you must understand. That means nothing. That's the way we always begin when we're talking to another tribe. Do you think we're crazy? We'd never kill you! You gave us amaranth, pottery, the Hive Queen and the Hegemon.”
“Tell her to withdraw that threat or we'll never give her anything else.”
“I told you, Speaker, it doesn't mean–”
“She said the words, and I won't talk to her as long as those words stand.”
Human spoke to her.
Shouter jumped to her feet and walked all the way around the mothertree, her hands raised high, singing loudly.
Human leaned to Ender. “She's complaining to the great mother and to all the wives that you're a brother who doesn't know his place. She's saying that you're rude and impossible to deal with.”
Ender nodded. “Yes, that's exactly right. Now we're getting somewhere.”
Again Shouter squatted across from Ender. She spoke in Males' Language.
“She says she'll never kill any human or let any of the brothers or wives kill any of you. She says for you to remember that you're twice as tall as any of us and you know everything and we know nothing. Now has she humiliated herself enough that you'll talk to her?”
Shouter watched him, glumly waiting for his response.
“Yes,” said Ender. “Now we can begin.”
Novinha knelt on the floor beside Miro's bed. Quim and Olhado stood behind her. Dom Crist o was putting Quara and Grego to bed in their room. The sound of his off-tune lullaby was barely audible behind the tortured sound of Miro's breathing.
Miro's eyes opened.
“Miro,” said Novinha.
Miro groaned.
“Miro, you're home in bed. You went over the fence while it was on. Now Dr. Navio says that your brain has been damaged. We don't know whether the damage is permanent or not. You may be partially paralyzed. But you're alive, Miro, and Navio says that he can do many things to help you compensate for what you may have lost. Do you understand? I'm telling you the truth. It may be very bad for a while, but it's worth trying.”
He moaned softly. But it was not a sound of pain. It was as if he were trying to talk, and couldn't.
“Can you move your jaw, Miro?” asked Quim.
Slowly Miro's mouth opened and closed.
Olhado held his hand a meter above Miro's head and moved it. “Can you make your eyes follow the movement of my hand?”
Miro's eyes followed. Novinha squeezed Miro's hand. “Did you feel me squeeze your hand?”
Miro moaned again.
“Close your mouth for no,” said Quim, “and open your mouth for yes.”
Miro closed his mouth and said, “Mm.”
Novinha could not help herself; despite her encouraging words, this was the most terrible thing that had happened to any of her children. She had thought when Lauro lost his eyes and became Olhado– she hated the nickname, but now used it herself– that nothing worse could happen. But Miro, paralyzed, helpless, so he couldn't even feel the touch of her hand, that could not be borne. She had felt one kind of grief when Pipo died, and another kind when Libo died, and a terrible regret at Marc o's death. She even remembered the aching emptiness she felt as she watched them lower her mother and father into the ground. But there was no pain worse than to watch her child suffer and be unable to help.
She stood up to leave. For his sake, she would do her crying silently, and in another room.
“Mm. Mm. Mm.”
“He doesn't want you to go,” said Quim.
“I'll stay if you want,” said Novinha. “But you should sleep again. Navio said that the more you sleep for a while–”
“Mm. Mm. Mm.”
“Doesn't want to sleep, either,” said Quim.
Novinha stifled her immediate response, to snap at Quim and tell him that she could hear his answers perfectly well for herself. This was no time for quarreling. Besides, it was Quim who had worked out the system that Miro was using to communicate. He had a right to take pride in it, to pretend that he was Miro's voice. It was his way of affirming that he was part of the family. That he was not quitting because of what he learned in the praqa today. It was his way of forgiving her, so she held her tongue.