Orson Scott Card - A War of Gifts

Orson Scott Card

A War of Gifts

An Ender Story

To Tom Ruby,

who has keptthe faith

in and out ofBattle School

1 SAINT NICK

Zeck Morgan sat attentively on the front row of thelittle sanctuary of the Church of the Pure Christ in Eden, North Carolina. Hedid not fidget, though he had two itches, one on his foot and one on hiseyebrow. He knew the eyebrow itch was from a fly that had landed there. Thefoot itch, too, probably, though he did not look down to see whether anythingwas crawling there.

He did notlook out the windows at the falling snow. He did not glance to left or right,not even to glare at the parents of the crying baby in the row behind him-itwas for others to judge whether it was more important for the parents to stayand hear the sermon, or leave and preserve the stillness of the meeting.

Zeck was theminister's son, and he knew his duty.

Reverend HabitMorgan stood at the small pulpit-really an old dictionary stand picked up at alibrary sale. No doubt the dictionary that had once rested on it had beenreplaced by a computer, just one more sign of the degradation of the humanrace, to worship the False God of Tamed Lightning. "They think becausethey have pulled the lightning from the sky and contained it in their machinesthey are gods now, or the friends of gods. Do they not know that the only thingwritten by lightning is fire? Yea, I say unto you, it is the fire of hell, andthe gods they have befriended are devils!"

It had beenone of Father's best sermons. He gave it when Zeck was three, but Zeck had notforgotten a word of it. Zeck did not forget a word of anything. As soon as heknew what words were, he remembered them.

But he did nottell Father that he remembered. Because when Mother realized that he couldrepeat whole sermons word for word, she told him, very quietly but veryintensely, "This is a great gift that God has given you, Zeck. But youmust not show it to anyone, because some might think it comes from Satan."

"Does it?"Zeck had asked. "Come from Satan?"

"Satandoes not give good gifts," said Mother. "So it comes from God."

"Then whywould anyone think it comes from Satan?"

Her foreheadfrowned, though her lips kept their smile. Her lips always smiled when she knewanyone was looking. It was her duty as the minister's wife to show that thepure Christian life made one happy.

"Somepeople are looking so hard to find Satan," she finally said, "thatthey see him even where he isn't."

Naturally,Zeck remembered this conversation word for word. So it was there in his mindwhen he was four, and Father said, "There are those who will tell you thata thing is from God, when it's really from the devil."

"Why,Father?"

"They aredeceived," said Father, "by their own desire. They wish the worldwere a better place, so they pretend that polluted things are pure, so theydon't have to fear them."

Ever sincethen, Zeck had balanced these two conversations, for he knew that Mother waswarning him about Father, and Father was warning him about Mother.

It wasimpossible to choose between them. He did not want to choose.

Still henever let Father see his perfect memory. It was not a lie, however. If Fatherever asked him to repeat a conversation or a sermon or anything at all, Zeckwould do it, and honestly, showing that he knew it word for word. But Fatherdid not ask anybody anything, except when he asked God.

Which he hadjust done. Standing there at the pulpit, glaring out at the congregation,Father said, "What about Santa Claus! Saint Nick! Is he the same thing as'Old Nick'? Does he have anything to do with Christ? Is our worship pure, whenwe have this 'Old Saint Nick' in our hearts? Is he really jolly? Does he laughbecause he knows he is leading our children down to hell?"

He glaredaround the congregation as if waiting for an answer. And finally someone gavethe only answer that was appropriate for this point in the sermon:"Brother Habit, we don't know. Would you ask God and tell us what hesays?"

WhereuponFather roared out, "God in heaven! Thou knowest our question! Tell usthine answer! We thy children ask thee for bread, O Father! Do not give us astone!"

Then hegripped the pulpit- the dictionary stand, which trembled under his hands- andcontinued glaring upward. Zeck knew that when Father looked upward like that,he did not see the roof beams or the ceiling above them. He was staring intoheaven, demanding that all those hurrying angels get out of his way so his gazecould penetrate all the way to God and demand his attention, because it was hisright. Ask and it shall be given, God had promised. Knock and it shall beopened! Well, Habit Morgan was knocking and asking, and it was time for God toopen and give. God could not break his word- at least not when Habit Morgan washolding him to it.

But God tookhis own sweet time. Which was why Zeck was sitting there on the front row, withMother and his three younger siblings beside him, all perched on chairs sowobbly they showed the slightest trace of movement. The other children wereyoung, and their fidgets were forgiven. Zeck was determined to be pure, and hiswobbly chair might have been made of stone for all the movement it made.

When Fatherstared into heaven this long it was a test. Maybe it was a test given by God,or maybe Father had already received his answer- received it perhaps the nightbefore when he was writing this sermon- and so the test was from him. Eitherway, Zeck would pass this test as he passed all the tests laid before him.

The longminutes dragged. One itch would fade, only to be replaced by another. Fatherstill stared into heaven. Zeck ignored the sweat trickling down his neck.

And behindhim, somewhere among the seventy-three members of the congregation who had cometoday (Zeck hadn't counted them, he had only glanced, but as usual heimmediately knew how many there were), someone shifted in his seat. Someonecoughed. It was the moment Father- or God- had been waiting for.

Father's voicewas only a whisper, but it carried through the room. "How can I hear thevoice of the Holy Spirit when I am surrounded by impurity?"

Zeck thoughtof quoting back to him his own sermon, given two years ago, when Zeck was onlyjust barely four. "Do you think that God cannot make his voice heard nomatter what other noise is going on around you? If you are pure, then all thetumult of the world is silence compared to the voice of God." But Zeckknew that to quote this now would bring down the rod of chastisement. Fatherwas not really asking a question. He was pointing out what everyone knew: thatin all this congregation, only Habit Morgan was really, truly pure. That's whyGod's answers came to him, and only to him.

"SaintNick is a mask!" roared Father. "Saint Nick is the false beard andthe false laugh worn by the drunken servants of the God of frivolity. Dionysusis his name! Bacchus! Revelry and debauchery! Greed and covetousness are thegifts he instills in the hearts of our children! O God, save us from the Satanof Santa! Keep our children's eyes averted from his malicious, predatory gaze!Do not seat our children upon his lap to whisper their coveting into his stonyear! He is an idol of idolatry! God knows what spirit animates these idols andmakes them laugh their ho, ho, whoredoms and abominations and brayingjackassery!"

Father was infine form. And now that he was bellowing the words of God, striding back andforth across the front of the sanctuary, Zeck could scratch the occasionalitch, as long as he kept his gaze locked on Father's face.

For an hourFather went on, telling stories of children who put their faith in Santa Claus,and parents who lied to their children about Saint Nick and taught theirchildren that all the stories of Christmas were myths- including the story ofthe Christ child. Telling stories of children who became atheists when Santadid not bring them the gifts they coveted most.