“But they never go away?” I say.

“Not far away,” whispers Aenea. Ouster angels float in the sunlight beyond the leaf barrier sunward.

“And you have listened to this since you were an infant?” I say.

“Since before I was born,” says my darling.

“My God, my God,” I say, holding my fists against my eyes. “My God.”

My name is Amnye Machen Also Ata and I am eleven standard years old when the Pax comes to my village of Qom-Riyadh. Our village is far from the cities, far from the few highways and skyways, far, even, from the caravan routes that crisscross the rock desert and the Burning Plains.

For two days the evening skies have shown the Pax ships burning like embers as they pass from east to west in what my father says is a place above the air. Yesterday the village radio carried orders from the imam at Al-Ghazali who heard over the phone lines from Omar that everyone in the High Reaches and the Burning Plains Oasis Camps are to assemble outside their yurts and wait. Father has gone to the meeting of the men inside the mud-walled mosque in our village.

The rest of my family stands outside our yurt. The other thirty families also wait.

Our village poet, Farid ud-Din Attar, walks among us, trying to settle our nerves with verse, but even the adults are fearful.

My father has returned. He tells Mother that the mullah has decided that we cannot wait for the infidels to kill us. The village radio has not been able to raise the mosque at Al-Ghazali or Omar. Father thinks that the radio is broken again, but the mullah believes that the infidels have killed everyone west of the Burning Plains.

We hear the sound of shots from the front of the other yurts. Mother and my oldest sister want to run, but Father orders them to stay. There are screams. I watch the sky, waiting for the infidel Pax ships to reappear. When I look down again, the mullah’s enforcers are coming around the side of our yurt, setting new magazines in their rifles. Their faces are grim.

Father has us all hold hands. “God is great,” he says and we respond, “God is great.” Even I know that “Islam” means submission to the merciful will of Allah.

At the last second, I see the embers in the sky—the Pax ships floating east to west across the zenith so high above.

“God is great!” cries Father.

I hear the shots.

“Aenea, I don’t know what these things mean.”

“Raul, they do not mean, they are.”

“They are real?”

“As real as any memories can be, my love.”

“But how? I can hear the voices… so many voices… as soon as I… touch one with my mind… these are stronger than my own memories, clearer.”

“They are memories, nonetheless, my love.”

“Of the dead…”

“These are, yes.”

“Learning their language…”

“In many ways we must learn their language, Raul. Their actual tongues… English, Yiddish, Polish, Parsi, Tamal, Greek, Mandarin… but also their hearts. The soul of their memory.”

“Are these ghosts speaking, Aenea?”

“There are no ghosts, my love. Death is final. The soul is that ineffable combination of memory and personality which we carry through life… when life departs, the soul also dies. Except for what we leave in the memory of those who loved us.”

“And these memories…”

“Resonate in the Void Which Binds.”

“How? All those billions of lives…”

“And thousands of races and billions of years, my love. Some of your mother’s memories are there… and my mother’s… but so are the life impressions of beings terribly far removed from us in space and time.”

“Can I touch those as well, Aenea?”

“Perhaps. With time and practice. It took me years to understand them. Even the sense impressions of life-forms so differently evolved are difficult to comprehend, much less their thoughts, memories, and emotions.”

“But you have done it?”

“I have tried.”

“Alien life-forms like the Seneschai Aluit or the Akerataeli?”

“Much more alien than that, Raul. The Seneschai lived hidden on Hebron near the human settlers for generations. And they are empaths—emotions were their primary language. The Akerataeli are quite different from us, but not so different from the Core entities whom my father visited.”

“My head hurts, kiddo. Can you help me stop these voices and images?”

“I can help you quiet them, my love. They will never really stop as long as we live. This is the blessing and burden of the communion with my blood. But before I show you how to quiet them, listen a few more minutes. It is almost leafturn and sunrise.”

My name was Lenar Hoyt, priest, but now I am Pope Urban XVI, and I am celebrating the Mass of Resurrection for John Domenico Cardinal Mustafa in St. Peter’s Basilica with more than five hundred of the Vatican’s most important faithful in attendance.

Standing at the altar, my hands outstretched, I read from the Prayer of the Faithful—

“Let us confidently call upon God our Almighty Father Who raised Christ His Son from the dead for the salvation of all.” Cardinal Lourdusamy, who serves as my deacon for this Mass, intones—

“That He may return into the perpetual company of the Faithful, this deceased Cardinal, John Domenico Mustafa, who once received the seed of eternal life through Baptism, we pray to the Lord.

“That he, who exercised the episcopal office in the Church and in the Holy Office while alive, may once again serve God in his renewed life, we pray to the Lord.

“That He may give to the souls of our brothers, sisters, relatives, and benefactors the reward of their labor, we pray to the Lord.

“That He may welcome into the light of His countenance all who sleep in the hope of the resurrection, and grant them that resurrection, that they may better serve Him, we pray to the Lord.

“That He may assist and graciously console our brothers and sisters who are suffering affliction from the assaults of the godless and the derision of the fallen away, we pray to the Lord.

“That He may one day call into His glorious kingdom, all who are assembled here in faith and devotion, and award unto us that same blessing of temporal resurrection in Christ’s name, we pray to the Lord.”

Now, as the choir sings the Offertory Antiphon and the congregation kneels in echoing silence in anticipation of the Holy Eucharist, I turn back from the altar and say—“Receive, Lord, these gifts which we offer You on behalf of Your servant, John Domenico Mustafa, Cardinal; You gave the reward of the high priesthood in this world; may he be briefly united with the company of Your Saints in the Kingdom of Heaven and return to us via Your Sacrament of Resurrection. Through Christ our Lord.”

The congregation responds in unison—“Amen.”

I walk to Cardinal Mustafa’s coffin and resurrection créche near the communion altar and sprinkle holy water on it, while praying—

“Father, all-powerful and ever-living God, we do well always and everywhere to give You thanks through Jesus Christ our Lord.

“In Him, Who rose from the dead, our hope of resurrection dawned. The sadness of death gives way to the bright promise of immortality.

“Lord, for your faithful people life is changed and renewed, not ended. When the body of our earthly dwelling lies in death we trust in Your mercy and Your miracle to renew it to us.

“And so, with all the choirs of angels in Heaven we proclaim Your glory and join in their unending hymn of praise:”

The great organ in the Basilica thunders while the choir immediately begins singing the Sanctus:

“Holy, holy, holy Lord God of power and might, Heaven and earth are full of Your glory. Hosanna in the highest. Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest.”

After Communion, after the Mass ends and the congregation departs, I walk slowly to the sacristy. I am sad and my heart hurts—literally. The heart disease has advanced once again, clogging my arteries and making every step and word painful. I think—I must not tell Lourdusamy.