the tears come. I’ve cried so many times in front of this man’s warm brown eyes, even if they belonged to someone else. “I’m a Grassgirl. I’m not a soldier. I’m not a leader. I’m lost.”
I feel better just saying it, my kitchen table confession. The Bishop smiles at me as if I were very young. It is a kind smile, the smile of the sort of man who lets a pig sleep in his bed at night, and the memory is so strong and so fierce that my breath catches involuntarily.
How rare these smiles are now.
How long it has been since I have had one all to myself.
“Of course you are, Dolly. You’ve been fighting since you were born. Every day is a fight with you. And you’re more than a soldier. The way you live, the things you feel—you’re more alive than any of us. More human. I’d give ten of my best Belters for one Doloria de la Cruz.” He reaches across the table, clasping my hand.
I don’t want to let go. To me, this man really is the Padre. As I listen to him, the face of the Bishop fades, and the face of the Padre looks over at me across the wooden table. I feel like I am sitting, once again, on a wooden bench at a long wooden table with my Padre. All I care is that this wooden bench feels like home.
That is how I will push on, I tell myself. This man. This Bishop who is not a bishop—a Padre who is not the Padre—a Fortis who is not a Fortis—but who keeps them all alive to me.
He fills me with hope. Hope and feathers.
I guess you could say he’s my silver bird, the only one I have, and the only one I’ve ever seen.
Except in my dreams.
I sit forward in my chair. “Bishop, I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“It’s not just me.” I look at him. “It’s all of us.”
“The Icon Children?”
I nod.
“The five of us.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Five?”
Once again I find myself in the position of telling the Bishop my story, the story of my dreams. As I speak, I reach into my chestpack for the jade figurines. My hand finds the Icon shard first, and I pause for a moment, feeling its calming yet unsettling warmth. For the thousandth time I imagine getting rid of it, but I don’t. I can’t. It has somehow become as much a part of me as the marking on my wrist. I leave it in my pack.
The jades I can share.
Not everything else. Not yet.
When I finish, he picks up one of the jade figurines from his desk. I see that I have placed them between us in a meticulous line, without even realizing it.
Without moving his eyes from the figurine, he slides open his desk drawer.
In his hand I see a carved piece of chipped green stone. Another figurine. Part of the same set, carved by the same hand. The Bishop places it next to mine.
“That can’t be a coincidence.” He looks at me. “More like a sign.”
The Emerald Buddha.
“I don’t believe it.”
The chess piece from my dreams, the one the little jade girl gave me.
“Believe it,” he says. “It used to belong to my brother.”
“Where did he get it? And why?” I ask, wonderingly.
“The Hole, I thought. He was quite a scavenger, my brother. He found you, didn’t he?”
I nod, wordlessly.
“Aside from that, I never knew why he’d sent me this—at least, not until now. I suspect,” he says, smiling, “he sent it for you. Maybe he had a dream, like one of yours. Take it.”
He pushes the carved piece toward me.
“Eastasia,” he says, slowly. “That’s probably what you were dreaming about. That’s what it sounds like, anyway, from how you describe it.”
“It does?”
“Watery fields? You plant rice in water. Those are the fields you’re describing. I think you’re dreaming about rice paddies.”
“Go on,” I say, trying as hard as I can not to let myself believe him. Not to get my hopes up.
“The trees with no tops, that’s the jungle, beneath the canopy. The golden temple on the hill, that probably means it’s not the Americas, but Asia. Eastasia, maybe. Or south of there.”
“And the green on
I feel better just saying it, my kitchen table confession. The Bishop smiles at me as if I were very young. It is a kind smile, the smile of the sort of man who lets a pig sleep in his bed at night, and the memory is so strong and so fierce that my breath catches involuntarily.
How rare these smiles are now.
How long it has been since I have had one all to myself.
“Of course you are, Dolly. You’ve been fighting since you were born. Every day is a fight with you. And you’re more than a soldier. The way you live, the things you feel—you’re more alive than any of us. More human. I’d give ten of my best Belters for one Doloria de la Cruz.” He reaches across the table, clasping my hand.
I don’t want to let go. To me, this man really is the Padre. As I listen to him, the face of the Bishop fades, and the face of the Padre looks over at me across the wooden table. I feel like I am sitting, once again, on a wooden bench at a long wooden table with my Padre. All I care is that this wooden bench feels like home.
That is how I will push on, I tell myself. This man. This Bishop who is not a bishop—a Padre who is not the Padre—a Fortis who is not a Fortis—but who keeps them all alive to me.
He fills me with hope. Hope and feathers.
I guess you could say he’s my silver bird, the only one I have, and the only one I’ve ever seen.
Except in my dreams.
I sit forward in my chair. “Bishop, I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“It’s not just me.” I look at him. “It’s all of us.”
“The Icon Children?”
I nod.
“The five of us.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Five?”
Once again I find myself in the position of telling the Bishop my story, the story of my dreams. As I speak, I reach into my chestpack for the jade figurines. My hand finds the Icon shard first, and I pause for a moment, feeling its calming yet unsettling warmth. For the thousandth time I imagine getting rid of it, but I don’t. I can’t. It has somehow become as much a part of me as the marking on my wrist. I leave it in my pack.
The jades I can share.
Not everything else. Not yet.
When I finish, he picks up one of the jade figurines from his desk. I see that I have placed them between us in a meticulous line, without even realizing it.
Without moving his eyes from the figurine, he slides open his desk drawer.
In his hand I see a carved piece of chipped green stone. Another figurine. Part of the same set, carved by the same hand. The Bishop places it next to mine.
“That can’t be a coincidence.” He looks at me. “More like a sign.”
The Emerald Buddha.
“I don’t believe it.”
The chess piece from my dreams, the one the little jade girl gave me.
“Believe it,” he says. “It used to belong to my brother.”
“Where did he get it? And why?” I ask, wonderingly.
“The Hole, I thought. He was quite a scavenger, my brother. He found you, didn’t he?”
I nod, wordlessly.
“Aside from that, I never knew why he’d sent me this—at least, not until now. I suspect,” he says, smiling, “he sent it for you. Maybe he had a dream, like one of yours. Take it.”
He pushes the carved piece toward me.
“Eastasia,” he says, slowly. “That’s probably what you were dreaming about. That’s what it sounds like, anyway, from how you describe it.”
“It does?”
“Watery fields? You plant rice in water. Those are the fields you’re describing. I think you’re dreaming about rice paddies.”
“Go on,” I say, trying as hard as I can not to let myself believe him. Not to get my hopes up.
“The trees with no tops, that’s the jungle, beneath the canopy. The golden temple on the hill, that probably means it’s not the Americas, but Asia. Eastasia, maybe. Or south of there.”
“And the green on
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