Calendar carried the arrows away. Then the young piggy named Human took his place, squatting on the ground in front of Miro. He was carrying a leaf-wrapped bundle, which he laid on the dirt and opened carefully.

It was the printout of the Hive Queen and the Hegemon that Miro had given them four years ago. It had been part of a minor quarrel between Miro and Ouanda. Ouanda began it, in a conversation with the piggies about religion. It was not really her fault. It began with Mandachuva asking her, “How can you humans live without trees?”

She understood the question, of course– he was not speaking of woody plants, but of gods.

“We have a God, too– a man who died and yet still lived,” she explained. Just one? Then where does he live now? “No one knows.” Then what good is he? How can you talk to him? “He dwells in our hearts.”

They were baffled by this; Libo would later laugh and say, “You see? To them our sophisticated theology sounds like superstition. Dwells in our hearts indeed! What kind of religion is that, compared to one with gods you can see and feel–”

“And climb and pick macios from, not to mention the fact that they cut some of them down to make their log house,” said Ouanda.

“Cut? Cut them down? Without stone or metal tools? No, Ouanda, they pray them down.” But Ouanda was not amused by jokes about religion.

At the piggies' request Ouanda later brought them a printout of the Gospel of St. John from the simplified Stark paraphrase of the Douai Bible. But Miro had insisted on giving them, along with it, a printout of the Hive Queen and the Hegemon. “St. John says nothing about beings who live on other worlds,” Miro pointed out. “But the Speaker for the Dead explains buggers to humans– and humans to buggers.” Ouanda had been outraged at his blasphemy. But not a year later they found the piggies lighting fires using pages of St. John as kindling, while the Hive Queen and the Hegemon was tenderly wrapped in leaves. It caused Ouanda a great deal of grief for a while, and Miro learned that it was wiser not to goad her about it.

Now Human opened the printout to the last page. Miro noticed that from the moment he opened the book, all the piggies quietly gathered around. The butter-churning dance ended. Human touched the last words of the printout. “The Speaker for the Dead,” he murmured.

“Yes, I met him last night.”

“He is the true Speaker. Rooter says so.” Miro had warned them that there were many Speakers, and the writer of the Hive Queen and the Hegemon was surely dead. Apparently they still couldn't get rid of the hope that the one who had come here was the real one, who had written the holy book.

“I believe he's a good Speaker,” said Miro. “He was kind to my family, and I think he might be trusted.”

“When will he come and Speak to us?”

“I didn't ask him yet. It's not something that I can say right out. It will take time.”

Human tipped his head back and howled.

Is this my death? thought Miro.

No. The others touched Human gently and then helped him wrap the printout again and carry it away. Miro stood up to leave. None of the piggies watched him go. Without being ostentatious about it, they were all busy doing something. He might as well have been invisible.

Ouanda caught up with him just within the forest's edge, where the underbrush made them invisible to any possible observers from Milagre– though no one ever bothered to look toward the forest. “Miro,” she called softly. He turned just in time to take her in his arms; she had such momentum that he had to stagger backward to keep from falling down. “Are you trying to kill me?” he asked, or tried to– she kept kissing him, which made it difficult to speak in complete sentences. Finally he gave up on speech and kissed her back, once, long and deep. Then she abruptly pulled away.

“You're getting libidinous,” she said.

“It happens whenever women attack me and kiss me in the forest.”

"Cool your shorts, Miro, it's still a long way off. " She took him by the belt, pulled him close, kissed him again. "Two more years until we can marry without your mother's consent."

Miro did not even try to argue. He did not care much about the priestly proscription of fornication, but he did understand how vital it was in a fragile community like Milagre for marriage customs to be strictly adhered to. Large and stable communities could absorb a reasonable amount of unsanctioned coupling; Milagre was far too small. What Ouanda did from faith, Miro did from rational thought– despite a thousand opportunities, they were as celibate as monks. Though if Miro thought for one moment that they would ever have to live the same vows of chastity in marriage that were required in the Filhos' monastery, Ouanda's virginity would be in grave and immediate danger.

“This Speaker,” said Ouanda. “You know how I feel about bringing him out here.”

“That's your Catholicism speaking, not rational inquiry.” He tried to kiss her, but she lowered her face at the last moment and he got a mouthful of nose. He kissed it passionately until she laughed and pushed him away.

“You are messy and offensive, Miro.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “We already shot the scientific method all to hell when we started helping them raise their standard of living. We have ten or twenty years before the satellites start showing obvious results. By then maybe we'll have been able to make a permanent difference. But we've got no chance if we let a stranger in on the project. He'll tell somebody.”

“Maybe he will and maybe he won't. I was a stranger once, you know.”

“Strange, but never a stranger.”

“You had to see him last night, Ouanda. With Grego first, and then when Quara woke up crying–”

“Desperate, lonely children– what does that prove?”

“And Ela. Laughing. And Olhado, actually taking part in the family.”

“Quim?”

“At least he stopped yelling for the infidel to go home.”

“I'm glad for your family, Miro. I hope he can heal them permanently, I really do– I can see the difference in you, too, you're more hopeful than I've seen you in a long time. But don't bring him out here.”

Miro chewed on the side of his cheek for a moment, then walked away. Ouanda ran after him, caught him by the arm. They were in the open, but Rooter's tree was between them and the gate. “Don't leave me like that!” she said fiercely. “Don't just walk away from me!”

“I know you're right,” Miro said. “But I can't help how I feel. When he was in our house, it was like– it was as if Libo had come there.”

“Father hated your mother, Miro, he would never have gone there.”

“But if he had. In our house this Speaker was the way Libo always was in the Station. Do you see?”

“Do you? He comes in and acts the way your father should have but never did, and every single one of you rolls over belly-up like a puppy dog.”

The contempt on her face was infuriating. Miro wanted to hit her. Instead he walked over and slapped his hand against Rooter's tree. In only a quarter of a century it had grown to almost eighty centimeters in diameter, and the bark was rough and painful on his hand.

She came up behind him. “I'm sorry, Miro, I didn't mean–”

“You meant it, but it was stupid and selfish–”

“Yes, it was, I–”

“Just because my father was scum doesn't mean I go belly-up for the first nice man who pats my head–”

Her hand stroked his hair, his shoulder, his waist. “I know, I know, I know–”

«Because I know what a good man is– not just a father, a good man. I knew Libo, didn't I? And when I tell you that this Speaker, this Andrew Wiggin is like Libo, then you listen to me and don't dismiss it like the whimpering of a c o!»

“I do listen. I want to meet him, Miro.”

Miro surprised himself. He was crying. It was all part of what this Speaker could do, even when he wasn't present. He had loosened all the tight places in Miro's heart, and now Miro couldn't stop anything from coming out.