The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(96)
“Good evening, Father Wrayburn. Or would you prefer, at last, to be called by the traditional name of your race?”
The voice came from the doorway, where the figure of a small, skinny man was watching him, hands plunged into his trouser pockets. The Envoy’s chosen appearance startled him, not so much because it lacked manliness but because this was no anonymous individual, but rather someone whom any discerning reader would recognize.
“I must admit, sir, that after five generations, we descendants of the first colonizers use the Earthling language and Earthling names even amongst ourselves. I fear that when the long-awaited time comes, we will have trouble habituating ourselves once more to speaking in our old, much-loved tongue, despite having conscientiously passed it on to our children, together with the ancient wisdom and knowledge of our race,” the priest replied.
Father Wrayburn uttered these words with head bowed and his hands composing a triangle above his head, a gesture that may seem absurd to us, but which for his race was a traditional mark of respect. He also spoke in his ancestral tongue, which to any human finding himself in the sacristy would have sounded like a muddled collection of grunts, whistles, and agonized wails, which for fear of wounding your sensibilities I have chosen not to reproduce.
“I appreciate how difficult it is for human vocal cords to reproduce our language, Father,” the Envoy replied magnanimously. “If it is easier for you, let us communicate in the Earthlings’ tongue, which I shall also use to give my welcoming speech to our brothers.”
“I am grateful for your understanding, sir,” the priest replied, trying to hide the catch in his voice, and still more his trepidation. He collected himself and approached the Envoy, hand outstretched, not without a hint of embarrassment at that strange and intimate way Earthlings had of greeting each other. “Welcome to Earth, sir.”
“Thank you, Father,” the Envoy said, abandoning his relaxed posture and walking toward the priest, whose hand he finally clasped in the gloom. “I’m afraid I am still not familiar with earthly customs. Not that it matters now, since there is no longer any reason to try to learn them, is there?”
The Envoy gazed intently into the priest’s eyes, as though defying him to contradict this affirmation. When he finally let go of the priest’s hand, Father Wrayburn, faintly alarmed by the Envoy’s arrogance, cleared his throat a few times and tried to stick to his plan, in a British spirit of hospitality.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” he said. “They drink it a lot here, and I’m sure your host body will find it quite refreshing.”
“Certainly, Father.” The Envoy nodded with a grin. “I see no reason not to enjoy the native customs before wiping them out.”
His words caused a shiver to run down the priest’s spine. The Envoy seemed bent on reminding him continually that everything he knew, everything around him, would, in a matter of days, cease to exist. Yes, the being in front of him was charged with destroying the only world the priest treasured in his memory, and he even had the temerity to despise it without considering that its destruction might be worth lamenting.
“Follow me,” the priest said, trying not to let his frustration show, since he knew that his role was to help the Envoy in his mission.
Father Wrayburn guided him to a small table he had placed beside the window overlooking the back courtyard of the church, where a tiny garden flourished thanks to his ministrations. The sun was sinking in the sky, and an orange glow spread over the few plants he had been able to nurture in his spare time. Carried on the evening breeze, their perfume floated into the sacristy. He felt a pang of sadness when he realized his little garden would perish along with the rest of the planet, and with it the sensation of peace he had whenever he worked there, with his gardening gloves and tools, wondering whether that feeling of well-being was the same one humans experienced when they were engaged in the futile activity they referred to as leisure. Attempting to conceal the wave of sorrow sweeping over him, he poured the tea with a deferential smile, while the clock in the corridor chimed merrily.
“You are right, it is a delicious beverage,” the Envoy said after taking a sip and placing the cup gingerly back on its saucer. “But I’m not sure whether that is due to the drink itself or to the collection of organs the Earthlings possess in order to savor it: nose, tongue, and throat. Now, for instance, I can still feel the warmth it has left as it goes down, and the way it slows as it reaches the intestine.”
The priest smiled as he watched the Envoy rubbing his stomach with wondrous delight, like a child discovering a new toy. The excessive care with which he handled the cup, as though it were a test tube, and dabbed his mouth with the napkin betrayed how unpracticed the Envoy was at operating the body he had replicated, an affected daintiness that would only fade with years of experience.
“They are good bodies,” said the priest, sincere in his praise. “Limited in their perception of the world due to their rudimentary senses, and yet able to enjoy intensely the small amount of pleasure they derive from it. And Ceylon tea is delicious. Moreover, it can be drunk safely now. Up until a few years ago, when the sewage still flowed directly into the Thames, one of these innocent-looking teacups could carry typhus, hepatitis, or cholera. It is quite unpleasant, I assure you, when the body we inhabit falls ill.”
The Envoy nodded absentmindedly and glanced slowly about the room, contemplating its chalices and missals and the wardrobe with its chasubles and cassocks.