ButlerOctavia-TheBookofMartha2003.pdf

TheBookofMartha

“It’sdifficult,isn’tit?”Godsaidwithawearysmile.“You’retrulyfreeforthefirsttime.Whatcouldbemoredifficultthanthat?”MarthaBeslookedaroundattheendlessgraynessthatwas,alongwithGod,

all that shecouldsee. In fearandconfusion, shecoveredherbroadblack facewithherhands.“IfonlyIcouldwakeup,”shewhispered.God kept silent but was so palpably, disturbingly present that even in the

silenceMartha felt rebuked. “Where is this?” she asked, not reallywanting toknow,notwantingtobedeadwhenshewasonlyforty-three.“WhereamI?”“Herewithme,”Godsaid.“Reallyhere?”sheasked.“Notathomeinbeddreaming?Notlockedupina

mentalinstitution?Not…notlyingdeadinamorgue?”“Here,”Godsaidsoftly.“Withme.”After amoment,Marthawasable to takeherhands fromher face and look

againat thegraynessaroundherandatGod.“Thiscan’tbeheaven,”shesaid.“There’snothinghere,nooneherebutyou.”“Isthatallyousee?”Godasked.Thisconfusedherevenmore.“Don’tyouknowwhat I see?”shedemanded

andthenquicklysoftenedhervoice.“Don’tyouknoweverything?”Godsmiled.“No,Ioutgrewthattricklongago.Youcan’timaginehowboring

itwas.”This struckMarthaas suchahuman thing to say thather feardiminisheda

little—although she was still impossibly confused. She had, she remembered,been sitting at her computer, wrapping up one more day’s work on her fifthnovel.Thewritinghadbeengoingwellforachange,andshe’dbeenenjoyingit.Forhours,she’dbeenspillinghernewstoryontopaperinthatsweetfrenzyofcreationthatshelivedfor.Finally,shehadstopped,turnedthecomputeroff,and

realizedthatshefeltstiff.Herbackhurt.Shewashungryandthirsty,anditwasalmost five A.M. She had worked through the night. Amused in spite of hervariousachesandpains,shegotupandwenttothekitchentofindsomethingtoeat.And then she was here, confused and scared. The comfort of her small,

disorderlyhousewasgone,andshewasstandingbeforethisamazingfigurewhohad convinced her at once that hewasGod—or someone so powerful that hemight aswell beGod.He hadwork for her to do, he said—work thatwouldmeanagreatdealtoherandtotherestofhumankind.Ifshehadbeenalittlelessfrightened,shemighthavelaughed.Beyondcomic

booksandbadmovies,whosaidthingslikethat?“Why,”shedaredtoask,“doyoulooklikeatwice-live-sized,beardedwhite

man?” In fact, seated as he was on his huge thronelike chair, he looked, shethought, like a living version of Michelangelo’s Moses, a sculpture that sheremembered seeing pictured in her college art-history textbook about twentyyears before. Except that God was more fully dressed than Michelangelo’sMoses,wearing,fromnecktoankles,thekindoflong,whiterobethatshehadsooftenseeninpaintingsofChrist.“Youseewhatyourlifehaspreparedyoutosee,”Godsaid.“Iwanttoseewhat’sreallyhere!”“Doyou?Whatyouseeisuptoyou,Martha.Everythingisuptoyou.”Shesighed.“DoyoumindifIsitdown?”Andshewassitting.Shedidnotsitdown,butsimplyfoundherselfsittingina

comfortablearmchair thathadsurelynotbeenthereamomentbefore.Anothertrick,shethoughtresentfully—likethegrayness,likethegiantonhisthrone,likeherownsuddenappearancehere.Everythingwasjustonemoreefforttoamazeand frighten her. And, of course, it wasworking. Shewas amazed and badlyfrightened. Worse, she disliked the giant for manipulating her, and thisfrightened her even more. Surely he could read her mind. Surely he wouldpunish…Shemade herself speak throughher fear. “You said you hadwork forme.”

Shepaused,lickedherlips,triedtosteadyhervoice.“Whatdoyouwantmetodo?”Hedidn’tansweratonce.Helookedatherwithwhatshereadasamusement

—lookedatherlongenoughtomakeherevenmoreuncomfortable.“Whatdoyouwantmetodo?”sherepeated,hervoicestrongerthistime.“Ihaveagreatdealofworkforyou,”hesaidatlast.“AsItellyouaboutit,I

wantyoutokeepthreepeopleinmind:Jonah,Job,andNoah.Rememberthem.Beguidedbytheirstories.”

“Allright,”shesaidbecausehehadstoppedspeaking,anditseemedthatsheshouldsaysomething.“Allright.”Whenshewasagirl,shehadgonetochurchandtoSundaySchool,toBible

classandtovacationBibleschool.Hermother,onlyagirlherself,hadn’tknownmuchaboutbeingamother,butshehadwantedherchildtobe“good,”andtoher, “good” meant “religious.” As a result, Martha knew very well what theBiblesaidaboutJonah,Job,andNoah.Shehadcometoregardtheirstoriesasparables rather than literal truths, but she remembered them.GodhadorderedJonah to go to the city ofNineveh and to tell the people there tomend theirways.Frightened,JonahhadtriedtorunawayfromtheworkandfromGod,butGodhadcausedhimtobeshipwrecked,swallowedbyagreatfish,andgiventoknowthathecouldnotescape.Jobhadbeenthetormentedpawnwholosthisproperty,hischildren,andhis

health,inabetbetweenGodandSatan.AndwhenJobprovedfaithfulinspiteofall that God had permitted Satan to do to him, God rewarded Job with evengreaterwealth,newchildren,andrestoredhealth.AsforNoah,ofcourse,Godorderedhimtobuildanarkandsavehisfamily

and a lot of animals because God had decided to flood the world and killeveryoneandeverythingelse.WhywasshetorememberthesethreeBiblicalfiguresinparticular?Whathad

theydowithher—especiallyJobandallhisagony?“Thisiswhatyou’retodo,”Godsaid.“Youwillhelphumankindtosurviveits

greedy,murderous,wastefuladolescence.Help it to find lessdestructive,morepeaceful,sustainablewaystolive.”Marthastaredathim.Afterawhile,shesaidfeebly,“…what?”“Ifyoudon’thelpthem,theywillbedestroyed.”“You’regoingtodestroythem…again?”shewhispered.“Of coursenot,”God said, sounding annoyed. “They’rewell on theway to

destroyingbillionsofthemselvesbygreatlychangingtheabilityoftheearthtosustainthem.That’swhytheyneedhelp.That’swhyyouwillhelpthem.”“How?”sheasked.Sheshookherhead.“WhatcanIdo?”“Don’tworry,”God said. “Iwon’t be sending you back homewith another

messagethatpeoplecanignoreortwisttosuitthemselves.It’stoolateforthatkindofthinganyway.”Godshiftedonhisthroneandlookedatherwithhisheadcockedtooneside.“You’llborrowsomeofmypower,”hesaid.“You’llarrangeit so that people treat one another better and treat their environment moresensibly. You’ll give them a better chance to survive than they’ve giventhemselves.I’lllendyouthepower,andyou’lldothis.”Hepaused,butthistimeshecouldthinkofnothingtosay.Afterawhile,hewenton.

“Whenyou’vefinishedyourwork,you’llgobackandliveamongthemagainasoneoftheirlowliest.You’retheonewhowilldecidewhatthatwillmean,butwhateveryoudecideistobethebottomlevelofsociety,thelowestclassorcasteorrace,that’swhatyou’llbe.”This timewhen he stopped talking,Martha laughed. She felt overwhelmed

withquestions,fears,andbitterlaughter,butitwasthelaughterthatbrokefree.Sheneededtolaugh.Itgaveherstrengthsomehow.“Iwasbornonthebottomlevelofsociety,”shesaid.“Youmusthaveknown

that.”Goddidnotanswer.“Sureyoudid.”Marthastoppedlaughingandmanaged,somehow,nottocry.

Shestoodup,steppedtowardGod.“Howcouldyounotknow?Iwasbornpoor,black,andfemaletoafourteen-year-oldmotherwhocouldbarelyread.WewerehomelesshalfthetimewhileIwasgrowingup.Isthatbottom-levelenoughforyou?Iwasbornonthebottom,butIdidn’tstaythere.Ididn’tleavemymotherthere,either.AndI’mnotgoingbackthere!”StillGodsaidnothing.Hesmiled.Martha sat down again, frightened by the smile, aware that she had been

shouting—shouting at God! After a while, she whispered, “Is that why youchosemetodothis…thiswork?BecauseofwhereIcamefrom?”“Ichoseyouforallthatyouareandallthatyouarenot,”Godsaid.“Icould

havechosensomeonemuchpoorerandmoredowntrodden.IchoseyoubecauseyouweretheoneIwantedforthis.”Martha couldn’t decide whether he sounded annoyed. She couldn’t decide

whetheritwasanhonortobechosentodoajobsohuge,sopoorlydefined,soimpossible.“Please let me go home,” she whispered. She was instantly ashamed of

herself.Shewasbegging, soundingpitiful, humiliatingherself.Yet thesewerethemosthonestwordsshe’dspokensofar.“You’re free to askme questions,”God said as though he hadn’t heard her

pleaatall.“You’refreetoargueandthinkandinvestigateallofhumanhistoryfor ideas andwarnings.You’re free to take all the time you need to do thesethings.AsIsaidearlier,you’retrulyfree.You’reevenfreetobeterrified.ButIassureyou,youwilldothiswork.”MarthathoughtofJob,Jonah,andNoah.Afterawhile,shenodded.“Good,”Godsaid.Hestoodupandsteppedtowardher.Hewasatleasttwelve

feethighandinhumanlybeautiful.Heliterallyglowed.“Walkwithme,”hesaid.Andabruptly,hewasnottwelvefeethigh.Marthaneversawhimchange,but

nowhewashersize—justundersixfeet—andhenolongerglowed.Nowwhen

helookedather,theywereeyetoeye.Hedidlookather.Hesawthatsomethingwasdisturbingher,andheasked,“Whatisitnow?Hasyourimageofmegrownfeatheredwingsorablindinghalo?”“Yourhalo’sgone,”sheanswered.“Andyou’resmaller.Morenormal.”“Good,”hesaid.“Whatelsedoyousee?”“Nothing.Grayness.”“Thatwillchange.”Itseemedthattheywalkedoverasmooth,hard,levelsurface,althoughwhen

shelookeddown,shecouldn’tseeherfeet.Itwasasthoughshewalkedthroughankle-high,ground-huggingfog.“Whatarewewalkingon?”sheasked.“Whatwouldyoulike?”Godasked.“Asidewalk?Beachsand?Adirtroad?”“A healthy, green lawn,” she said, and was somehow not surprised to find

herself walking on short, green grass. “And there should be trees,” she said,getting the ideaanddiscoveringshe liked it. “Thereshouldbesunshine—blueskywithafewclouds.ItshouldbeMayorearlyJune.”And itwas so. Itwas as though it had always been so.Theywerewalking

throughwhatcouldhavebeenavastcitypark.Martha looked at God, her eyes wide. “Is that it?” she whispered. “I’m

supposedtochangepeoplebydecidingwhatthey’llbelike,andthenjust…justsayingit?”“Yes,”Godsaid.Andshewent frombeingelated to—onceagain—being terrified.“What if I

saysomethingwrong,makeamistake?”“Youwill.”“But…peoplecouldgethurt.Peoplecoulddie.”GodwenttoahugedeepredNorwayMapletreeandsatdownbeneathitona

longwoodenbench.Martharealizedthathehadcreatedboththeancienttreeandthecomfortable-lookingbenchonlyamomentbefore.Sheknewthis,butagain,ithadhappenedsosmoothlythatshewasnotjarredbyit.“It’ssoeasy,”shesaid.“Isitalwaysthiseasyforyou?”Godsighed.“Always,”hesaid.Shethoughtabout that—hissigh, thefact thathe lookedawayinto the trees

insteadofather.Wasaneternityofabsoluteeasejustanothernameforhell?Orwasthatjust themostsacrilegiousthoughtshe’dhadsofar?Shesaid,“Idon’twanttohurtpeople.Notevenbyaccident.”Godturnedawayfromthetrees,lookedatherforseveralseconds,thensaid,

“Itwouldbebetterforyouifyouhadraisedachildortwo.”Then, she thought with irritation, he should have chosen someone who’d

raisedachildor two.Butshedidn’thave thecourage tosay that. Instead, shesaid,“Won’tyoufixitsoIdon’thurtorkillanyone?Imean,I’mnewatthis.IcoulddosomethingstupidandwipepeopleoutandnotevenknowI’ddoneituntilafterward.”“Iwon’tfixthingsforyou,”Godsaid.“Youhaveafreehand.”Shesatdownnexttohimbecausesittingandstaringoutintotheendlesspark

was easier than standing and facing him and asking him questions that shethoughtmightmake him angry. She said, “Why should it bemywork?Whydon’tyoudoit?Youknowhow.Youcoulddoitwithoutmakingmistakes.Whymakemedoit?Idon’tknowanything.”“Quiteright,”Godsaid.Andhesmiled.“That’swhy.”Shethoughtaboutthiswithgrowinghorror.“Isitjustagametoyou,then?”

sheasked.“Areyouplayingwithusbecauseyou’rebored?”God seemed to consider the question. “I’m not bored,” he said.He seemed

pleasedsomehow.“Youshouldbethinkingaboutthechangesyou’llmake.Wecantalkaboutthem.Youdon’thavetojustsuddenlyproclaim.”Shelookedathim,thenstareddownatthegrass,tryingtogetherthoughtsin

order.“Okay.HowdoIstart?”“Thinkaboutthis:Whatchangewouldyouwanttomakeifyoucouldmake

onlyone?Thinkofoneimportantchange.”She lookedat thegrassagainand thoughtabout thenovels shehadwritten.

What if she were going to write a novel in which human beings had to bechangedinonlyonepositiveway?“Well,”shesaidafterawhile,“thegrowingpopulation ismaking a lot of the other problemsworse.What if people couldonlyhavetwochildren?Imean,whatifpeoplewhowantedchildrencouldonlyhave two, no matter how many more they wanted or how many medicaltechniquestheyusedtotrytogetmore?”“Youbelievethepopulationproblemistheworstone,then?”Godasked.“I think so,” she said. “Toomany people. If we solve that one, we’ll have

more time to solveother problems.Andwe can’t solve it onourown.Weallknow about it, but some of us won’t admit it. And nobody wants some biggovernmentauthoritytellingthemhowmanykidstohave.”SheglancedatGodandsawthatheseemedtobelisteningpolitely.Shewonderedhowfarhewouldlethergo.Whatmightoffendhim.Whatmighthedotoherifhewereoffended?“So everyone’s reproductive system shuts down after two kids,” she said. “Imean, they get to live as long as before, and they aren’t sick. They just can’thavekidsanymore.”“They’ll try,” God said. “The effort they put into building pyramids,

cathedrals, and moon rockets will be as nothing to the effort they’ll put into

tryingtoendwhatwillseemtothemaplagueofbarrenness.Whataboutpeoplewhosechildrendieorareseriouslydisabled?Whataboutawomanwho’s firstchild is a result of rape?What about surrogatemotherhood?What aboutmenwhobecomefatherswithoutrealizingit?Whataboutcloning?”Martha stared at him, chagrined. “That’s why you should do this. It’s too

complicated.”Silence.“All right,” Martha sighed and gave up. “All right. What if even with

accidentsandmodernmedicine,evensomethinglikecloning,thetwo-kidlimitholds.Idon’tknowhowthatcouldbemadetowork,butyoudo.”“Itcouldbemade towork,”Godsaid,“butkeep inmind thatyouwon’tbe

cominghereagaintorepairanychangesyoumake.Whatyoudoiswhatpeoplewilllivewith.Orinthiscase,diewith.”“Oh,”Marthasaid.Shethoughtforamoment,thensaid,“Oh,no.”“Theywouldlastforagoodmanygenerations,”Godsaid.“Buttheywouldbe

dwindlingall the time. In theend, theywouldbeextinguished.With theusualdiseases,disabilities,disasters,wars,deliberatechildlessness,andmurder, theywouldn’tbeabletoreplacethemselves.Thinkoftheneedsofthefuture,Martha,aswellastheneedsofthepresent.”“IthoughtIwas,”shesaid.“WhatifImadefourkidsthemaximumnumber

insteadoftwo?”Godshookhishead.“Freewillcoupledwithmoralityhasbeenaninteresting

experiment.Freewillis,amongotherthings,thefreedomtomakemistakes.Onegroupofmistakeswill sometimes cancel another.That’s saved anynumber ofhumangroups,althoughitisn’tdependable.Sometimesmistakescausepeopletobewipedout,enslaved,ordrivenfromtheirhomesbecausethey’vesodamagedoralteredtheirlandortheirwaterortheirclimate.Freewillisn’taguaranteeofanything,butit’sapotentiallyusefultool—toousefultoerasecasually.”“Ithoughtyouwantedmetoputastoptowarandslaveryandenvironmental

destruction!”Marthasnapped,rememberingthehistoryofherownpeople.HowcouldGodbesocasualaboutsuchthings?God laughed. It was a startling sound—deep, full, and, Martha thought,

inappropriatelyhappy.Whywouldthisparticularsubjectmakehimlaugh?WasheGod?WasheSatan?Martha, in spiteofhermother’s efforts, hadnotbeenabletobelieveintheliteralexistenceofeither.Now,shedidnotknowwhattothink—orwhattodo.Godrecoveredhimself,shookhishead,andlookedatMartha.“Well,there’s

nohurry,”hesaid.“DoyouknowwhatanovaisMartha?”Marthafrowned.“It’s…astarthatexplodes,”shesaid,willing,eveneager,to

bedistractedfromherdoubts.“It’sapairofstars,”Godsaid.“Alargeone—agiant—andasmall,verydense

dwarf. The dwarf pulls material from the giant. After a while, the dwarf hastakenmorematerial than it can control, and it explodes. It doesn’t necessarilydestroy itself,but itdoes throwoff agreatdealof excessmaterial. Itmakesaverybright,violentdisplay.Butonce thedwarfhasquieteddown, itbegins tosiphonmaterialfromthegiantagain.Itcandothisoverandover.That’swhatanova is. If you change it—move the two stars farther apart or equalize theirdensity,thenit’snolongeranova.”Martha listened,catchinghismeaningeven thoughshedidn’twant to.“Are

yousayingthatif…ifhumanityischanged,itwon’tbehumanityanymore?”“I’msayingmorethanthat,”Godtoldher.“I’msayingthateventhoughthisis

true,Iwillpermityoutodoit.Whatyoudecideshouldbedonewithhumankindwill bedone.Butwhatever youdo, your decisionswill have consequences. Ifyou limit their fertility, you will probably destroy them. If you limit theircompetitivenessortheirinventiveness,youmightdestroytheirabilitytosurvivethemanydisastersandchallengesthattheymustface.”Worse andworse,Martha thought, and she actually felt nauseouswith fear.

She turned away fromGod, hugging herself, suddenly crying, tears streamingdownherface.Afterawhile,shesniffedandwipedherfaceonherhands,sinceshehadnothingelse.“WhatwillyoudotomeifIrefuse?”sheasked,thinkingofJobandJonahinparticular.“Nothing.”Goddidn’tevensoundannoyed.“Youwon’trefuse.”“ButwhatifIdo?WhatifIreallycan’tthinkofanythingworthdoing?”“Thatwon’thappen.But if itdid somehow,and ifyouasked, Iwould send

you home. After all, there are millions of human beings who would giveanythingtodothiswork.”And,instantly,shethoughtofsomeofthese—peoplewhowouldbehappyto

wipe out whole segments of the population whom they hated and feared, orpeoplewhowouldsetupvasttyranniesthatforcedeveryoneintoasinglemold,nomatter howmuch suffering that created.Andwhat about thosewhowouldtreat the work as fun—as nothing more than a good-guys-versus-bad-guyscomputer game, and damn the consequences. There were people like that.Marthaknewpeoplelikethat.ButGodwouldn’t choose that kind of person. If hewasGod.Why had he

chosenher,afterall?Forallofheradultlife,shehadn’tevenbelievedinGodasaliteralbeing.Ifthisterrifyinglypowerfulentity,Godornot,couldchooseher,hecouldmakeevenworsechoices.Afterawhile,sheasked,“WastherereallyaNoah?”

“Not oneman dealingwith aworldwide flood,”God said. “But there havebeenanumberofpeoplewho’vehadtodealwithsmallerdisasters.”“Peopleyouorderedtosaveafewandlettherestdie?”“Yes,”Godsaid.She shuddered and turned to face him again. “Andwhat then?Did they go

mad?”Evenshecouldhearthedisapprovalanddisgustinhervoice.God chose to hear the question as only a question. “Some took refuge in

madness,someindrunkenness,someinsexuallicense.Somekilledthemselves.Somesurvivedandlivedlong,fruitfullives.”Marthashookherheadandmanagedtokeepquiet.“Idon’tdothatanylonger,”Godsaid.No,Martha thought.Nowhehad foundadifferentamusement. “Howbiga

changedoIhavetomake?”sheasked.“Whatwillpleaseyouandcauseyoutoletmegoandnotbringinsomeoneelsetoreplaceme?”“Idon’tknow,”Godsaid,andhesmiled.Herestedhisheadbackagainstthe

tree. “Because I don’t know what you will do. That’s a lovely sensation—anticipating,notknowing.”“Notfrommypointofview,”Marthasaidbitterly.Afterawhile,shesaidina

different tone, “Definitely not frommy point of view. Because I don’t knowwhattodo.Ireallydon’t.”“You write stories for a living,” God said. “You create characters and

situations,problemsandsolutions.That’slessthanI’vegivenyoutodo.”“Butyouwantmetotamperwithrealpeople.Idon’twantdothat.I’mafraid

I’llmakesomehorriblemistake.”“I’llansweryourquestions,”Godsaid.“Ask.”Shedidn’twanttoask.Afterawhile,though,shegavein.“What,exactly,do

youwant?Autopia?BecauseIdon’tbelieveinthem.Idon’tbelieveit’spossibleto arrange a society so that everyone is content, everyone haswhat he or shewants.”“Notformorethanafewmoments,”Godsaid.“That’showlongitwouldtake

forsomeonetodecidethathewantedwhathisneighborhad—orthathewantedhisneighborasa slaveofonekindoranother,or thathewantedhisneighbordead.Butnevermind.I’mnotaskingyoutocreateautopia,Martha,althoughitwouldbeinterestingtoseewhatyoucouldcomeupwith.”“Sowhatareyouaskingmetodo?”“Tohelpthem,ofcourse.Haven’tyouwantedtodothat?”“Always,” she said. “And I never could in any meaningful way. Famines,

epidemics,floods,fires,greed,slavery,revenge,stupid,stupidwars…”“Nowyoucan.Ofcourse,youcan’tputanendtoallofthosethingswithout

puttinganendtohumanity,butyoucandiminishsomeoftheproblems.Fewerwars, less covetousness, more forethought and care with the environment.…Whatmightcausethat?”She looked at her hands, then at him.Something had occurred to her as he

spoke, but it seemed both too simple and too fantastic, and to her personally,perhaps,toopainful.Coulditbedone?Shoulditbedone?Woulditreallyhelpifitweredone?Sheasked, “Was there really anything like theTowerofBabel?Didyoumakepeoplesuddenlyunabletounderstandeachother?”Godnodded.“Again,ithappenedseveraltimesinonewayoranother.”“Sowhatdidyoudo?Changetheirthinkingsomehow,altertheirmemories?”“Yes,I’vedoneboth.Althoughbeforeliteracy,allIhadtodowasdividethem

physically,sendonegrouptoanewlandorgiveonegroupacustomthatalteredtheirmouths—knockingoutthefrontteethduringpubertyrites,forinstance.Orgivethemastrongaversiontosomethingothersoftheirkindconsiderpreciousorsacredor—”To her amazement, Martha interrupted him. “What about changing

people’s…Idon’tknow,theirbrainactivity.CanIdothat?”“Interesting,”Godsaid.“Andprobablydangerous.Butyoucandothatifyou

decideto.Whatdoyouhaveinmind?”“Dreams,”shesaid.“Powerful,unavoidable,realisticdreamsthatcomeevery

timepeoplesleep.”“Doyoumean,”Godasked,“thattheyshouldbetaughtsomelessonthrough

theirdreams?”“Maybe.But I reallymean that somehowpeopleshouldspenda lotof their

energyintheirdreams.Theywouldhavetheirownpersonalbestofallpossibleworlds during their dreams. The dreams should be much more realistic andintensethanmostdreamsarenow.Whateverpeoplelovetodomost,theyshoulddream about doing it, and the dreams should change to keep up with theirindividual interests.Whatever grabs their attention,whatever they desire, theycanhaveitintheirsleep.Infact,theycan’tavoidhavingit.Nothingshouldbeable to keep the dreams away—not drugs, not surgery, not anything.And thedreams should satisfymuchmore deeply,more thoroughly, than reality can. Imean,thesatisfactionshouldbeinthedreaming,notintryingtomakethedreamreal.”Godsmiled.“Why?”“Iwantthemtohavetheonlypossibleutopia.”Marthathoughtforamoment.

“Each personwill have a private, perfect utopia every night—or an imperfectone. If they crave conflict and struggle, they get that. If theywant peace andlove,theygetthat.Whatevertheywantorneedcomestothem.Ithinkifpeople

go to a…well, a private heaven every night, itmight take the edge off theirwillingness to spend their waking hours trying to dominate or destroy oneanother.”Shehesitated.“Won’tit?”God was still smiling. “It might. Some people will be taken over by it as

though it were an addictive drug. Some will try to fight it in themselves orothers.Somewillgiveupontheirlivesanddecidetodiebecausenothingtheydomatters asmuchas their dreams.Somewill enjoy it and try togoonwiththeir familiar lives,buteven theywill find that thedreams interferewith theirrelationswithotherpeople.Whatwillhumankindingeneraldo?Idon’tknow.”He seemed interested, almost excited. “I think itmight dull them toomuch atfirst—untilthey’reusedtoit.Iwonderwhethertheycangetusedtoit.”Marthanodded.“Ithinkyou’rerightaboutitdullingthem.Ithinkatfirstmost

peoplewillloseinterestinalotofotherthings—includingreal,wide-awakesex.Realsexisriskytoboththehealthandtheego.Dreamsexwillbefantasticandnotriskyatall.Fewerchildrenwillbebornforawhile.”“Andfewerofthosewillsurvive,”Godsaid.“What?”“Someparentswillcertainlybe too involved indreams to takecareof their

children.Lovingandraisingchildrenisrisky,too,andit’shardwork.“Thatshouldn’thappen.Takingcareoftheirkidsshouldbetheonethingthat

parentswanttodoforrealinspiteofthedreams.Idon’twanttoberesponsibleforalotofneglectedkids.”“Soyouwantpeople—adultsandchildren—tohavenightsfilledwithvivid,

wish-fulfilling dreams, but parents should somehow see child care as moreimportant than thedreams, and thechildren shouldnotbe seducedaway fromtheirparentsbythedreams,butshouldwantandneedarelationshipwiththemasthoughtherewerenodreams?”“Asmuchaspossible.”Martha frowned, imaginingwhat itmightbe like to

liveinsuchaworld.Wouldpeoplestillreadbooks?Perhapstheywouldtofeedtheirdreams.Wouldshestillbeabletowritebooks?Wouldshewantto?Whatwouldhappentoheriftheonlyworkshehadevercaredforwaslost?“Peopleshould still care about their families and their work,” she said. “The dreamsshouldn’ttakeawaytheirself-respect.Theyshouldn’tbecontenttodreamonaparkbenchorinanalley.Ijustwantthedreamstoslowthingsdownalittle.Alittlelessaggression,asyousaid,lesscovetousness.Nothingslowspeopledownlikesatisfaction,andthissatisfactionwillcomeeverynight.”Godnodded.“Isthatit,then?Doyouwantthistohappen.”“Yes.Imean,Ithinkso.”“Areyousure?”

Shestoodupandlookeddownathim.“IsitwhatIshoulddo?Willitwork?Pleasetellme.”“Itrulydon’tknow.Idon’twanttoknow.Iwanttowatchitallunfold.I’ve

useddreamsbefore,youknow,butnotlikethis.”His pleasurewas so obvious that she almost took thewhole idea back.He

seemedabletobeamusedbyterriblethings.“Letmethinkaboutthis,”shesaid.“CanIbebymyselfforawhile?”Godnodded.“Speakaloudtomewhenyouwanttotalk.I’llcometoyou.”Andshewasalone.Shewasaloneinsidewhatlookedandfeltlikeherhome

—herlittlehouseinSeattle,Washington.Shewasinherlivingroom.Withoutthinking,sheturnedonalampandstoodlookingatherbooks.Three

ofthewallsoftheroomwerecoveredwithbookshelves.Herbooksweretherein their familiar order. She picked up several, one after another—history,medicine,religion,art,crime.Sheopenedthemtoseethattheywere,indeedherbooks,highlightedandwritteninbyherownhandassheresearchedthisnovelorthatshortstory.Shebegantobelieveshereallywasathome.Shehadhadsomesortofstrange

wakingdreamaboutmeetingwithaGodwholookedlikeMichelangelo’sMosesand who ordered her to come up with a way to make humanity a less self-destructive species. The experience felt completely, unnervingly real, but itcouldn’thavebeen.Itwastooridiculous.Shewenttoherfrontwindowandopenedthedrapes.Herhousewasonahill

and faced east. Its great luxury was that it offered a beautiful view of LakeWashingtonjustafewblocksdownthehill.But now, therewas no lake.Outsidewas the park that she hadwished into

existenceearlier.Perhaps twentyyards fromher frontwindowwas thebig redNorwaymapletreeandthebenchwhereshehadsatandtalkedwithGod.Thebenchwasemptynowandindeepshadow.Itwasgettingdarkoutside.Sheclosedthedrapesandlookedatthelampthatlittheroom.Foramoment,

it bothered her that it was on and using electricity in this Twilight Zone of aplace.Hadherhousebeentransportedhere,orhaditbeenduplicated?Orwasitallacomplexhallucination?She sighed.The lampworked.Best to just accept it.Therewas light in the

room. There was a room, a house. How it all worked was the least of herproblems.Shewenttothekitchenandtherefoundallthefoodshehadhadathome.Like

thelamp,therefrigerator,theelectricstovetop,andtheovensworked.Shecouldprepare ameal. It would be at least as real as anything else she’d run acrossrecently.Andshewashungry.

Shetookasmallcanofsolidwhitealbacoretunaandcontainersofdillweedand curry power from the cupboard and got bread, lettuce, dill pickles, greenonions,mayonnaise,andchunkysalsa from the refrigerator.Shewouldhaveatuna-saladsandwichortwo.Thinkingaboutitmadeherevenhungrier.Then she had another thought, and she said aloud, “May I ask you a

question?”And theywerewalking togetheronabroad, leveldirtpathwayborderedby

dark,ghostlysilhouettesoftrees.Nighthadfallen,andthedarknessbeneaththetreeswasimpenetrable.Onlythepathwaywasaribbonofpale light—starlightandmoonlight.Therewas a fullmoon, brilliant, yellow-white, andhuge.Andtherewasavastcanopyofstars.Shehadseenthenightskythiswayonlyafewtimes inher life.Shehadalways lived incitieswhere the lightsand thesmogobscuredallbutthebrightestfewstars.She looked upward for several seconds, then looked at God and saw,

somehow,withoutsurprise,thathewasblacknow,andclean-shaven.Hewasatall,stockyblackmanwearingordinary,modernclothing—adarksweateroverawhiteshirtanddarkpants.Hedidn’t toweroverher,buthewastallerthanthehuman-sizedversionofthewhiteGodhadbeen.Hedidn’tlookanythinglikethewhiteMoses-God,andyethewasthesameperson.Sheneverdoubtedthat.“You’reseeingsomethingdifferent,”Godsaid.“What is it?”Evenhisvoice

waschanged,deepened.She told himwhat she was seeing, and he nodded. “At some point, you’ll

probablydecidetoseemeasawoman,”hesaid.“Ididn’tdecidetodothis,”shesaid.“Noneofitisreal,anyway.”“I’vetoldyou,”hesaid.“Everythingisreal.It’sjustnotasyouseeit.”Sheshrugged. Itdidn’tmatter—notcompared towhatshewanted toask.“I

hada thought,” she said, “and it scaredme.That’swhy I calledyou. I sortofaskedaboutitbefore,butyoudidn’tgivemeadirectanswer,andIguessIneedone.”Hewaited.“AmIdead?”“Ofcoursenot,”hesaid,smiling.“You’rehere.”“Withyou,”shesaidbitterly.Silence.“DoesitmatterhowlongItaketodecidewhattodo?”“I’vetoldyou,no.Takeaslongasyoulike.”That was odd,Martha thought.Well, everythingwas odd. On impulse, she

said,“Wouldyoulikeatuna-saladsandwich?”“Yes,”Godsaid.“Thankyou.”

Theywalked back to the house together instead of simply appearing there.Marthawasgratefulforthat.Onceinside,shelefthimsittinginherlivingroom,paging through a fantasy novel and smiling. Shewent through themotions ofmaking the best tuna-salad sandwiches she could.Maybe effort counted. Shedidn’tbelieveforamomentthatshewaspreparingrealfoodorthatsheandGodweregoingtoeatit.Andyet,thesandwichesweredelicious.Astheyate,Martharememberedthe

sparklingappleciderthatshekeptintherefrigeratorforcompany.Shewenttogetit,andwhenshegotbacktothelivingroom,shesawthatGodhad,infact,becomeawoman.Martha stopped, startled, then sighed. “I see you as female now,” she said.

“Actually, I think you look a little likeme.We look like sisters.” She smiledwearilyandhandedoveraglassofcider.Godsaid,“Youreallyaredoingthisyourself,youknow.Butaslongasitisn’t

upsettingyou,Isupposeitdoesn’tmatter.”“Itdoesbotherme.IfI’mdoingit,whydidittakesolongformetoseeyou

as a blackwoman—since that’s nomore true than seeing you as awhite or ablackman?”“As I’ve told you, you see what your life has prepared you to see.” God

lookedather,andforamoment,Marthafeltthatshewaslookingintoamirror.Marthalookedaway.“Ibelieveyou.IjustthoughtIhadalreadybrokenoutof

thementalcageIwasbornandraised in—ahumanGod,awhiteGod,amaleGod…”“Ifitweretrulyacage,”Godsaid,“youwouldstillbeinit,andIwouldstill

lookthewayIdidwhenyoufirstsawme.”“Thereisthat,”Marthasaid.“Whatwouldyoucallitthen?”“Anoldhabit,”Godsaid.“That’sthetroublewithhabits.Theytendtooutlive

theirusefulness.”Marthawasquietforawhile.Finallyshesaid,“Whatdoyouthinkaboutmy

dream idea? I’m not asking you to foresee the future. Just find fault. Punchholes.Warnme.”God rested her head against the back of the chair. “Well, the evolving

environmentalproblemswillbelesslikelytocausewars,sotherewillprobablybelessstarvation,lessdisease.Realpowerwillbelesssatisfyingthanthevast,absolutepowertheycanpossessintheirdreams,sofewerpeoplewillbedrivento try toconquer theirneighborsorexterminate theirminorities.All inall, thedreamswillprobablygivehumanitymoretimethanitwouldhavewithoutthem.Marthawasalarmedinspiteofherself.“Timetodowhat?”“Timetogrowupalittle.Oratleast,timetofindsomewayofsurvivingwhat

remainsofitsadolescence.”Godsmiled.“Howmanytimeshaveyouwonderedhow some especially self-destructive individual managed to surviveadolescence?It’savalidconcernforhumanityaswellasforindividualhumanbeings.”“Whycan’tthedreamsdomorethanthat?”sheasked.“Whycan’tthedreams

beusednot just togive them theirheart’sdesirewhen they sleep,but topushthemtowardsomekindofwakingmaturity.AlthoughI’mnotsurewhatspeciesmaturitymightbelike.”“Exhaustthemwithpleasure,”Godmused,“whileteachingthemthatpleasure

isn’teverything.”“Theyalreadyknowthat.”“Individualsusuallyknowthatbythetimetheyreachadulthood.Butall too

often,theydon’tcare.It’stooeasytofollowbadbutattractiveleaders,embracepleasurable but destructive habits, ignore looming disaster because maybe itwon’thappenafterall—ormaybeitwillonlyhappentootherpeople.Thatkindofthinkingispartofwhatitmeanstobeadolescent.”“Can the dreams teach—or at least promote—more thoughtfulness when

peopleareawake,promotemoreconcernforrealconsequences?“Itcanbethatwayifyoulike.”“I do. I want them to enjoy themselves asmuch as they canwhile they’re

asleep,but tobe a lotmore awakeandawarewhen theyare awake, a lot lesssusceptibletolies,peerpressure,andself-delusion.”“Noneofthiswillmakethemperfect,Martha.”Martha stood looking down atGod, fearing that she hadmissed something

important,andthatGodknewitandwasamused.“Butthiswillhelp?”shesaid.“Itwillhelpmorethanitwillhurt.”“Yes, itwill probablydo that.And itwill nodoubt doother things. I don’t

knowwhattheyare,buttheyareinevitable.Nothingeverworkssmoothlywithhumankind.”“Youlikethat,don’tyou?”“Ididn’tatfirst.Theyweremine,andIdidn’tknowthem.Youcannotbegin

to understand how strange that was.” God shook her head. “They were asfamiliarasmyownsubstance,andyettheyweren’t.”“Makethedreamshappen.”Marthasaid.“Areyousure?”“Makethemhappen.”“You’rereadytogohome,then.”“Yes.”Godstoodandfacedher.“Youwanttogo.Why?”

“BecauseIdon’tfindtheminterestinginthesamewayyoudo.Becauseyourwaysscareme.”God laughed—a less disturbing laugh now. “No, they don’t,” she said.

“You’rebeginningtolikemyways.”Afteratime,Marthanodded.“You’reright.Itdidscaremeatfirst,andnowit

doesn’t. I’ve gotten used to it. In just the short time that I’ve been here, I’vegottenusedtoit,andI’mstartingtolikeit.That’swhatscaresme.”Inmirror image,Godnodded, too. “You really couldhave stayedhere, you

know.Notimewouldpassforyou.Notimehaspassed.”“Iwonderedwhyyoudidn’tcareabouttime.”“You’ll go back to the life you remember, at first. But soon, I think you’ll

havetofindanotherwayofearningaliving.Beginningagainatyouragewon’tbeeasy.”Marthastaredattheneatshelvesofbooksonherwalls.“Readingwillsuffer,

won’tit—pleasurereading,anyway?”“Itwill—forawhile,anyway.Peoplewillreadforinformationandforideas,

but they’ll create their own fantasies. Did you think of that before youmadeyourdecision?”Marthasighed.“Yes,”shesaid.“Idid.”Sometimelater,sheadded,“Iwantto

gohome.”“Doyouwanttorememberbeinghere?”Godasked.“No.” On impulse, she stepped to God and hugged her—hugged her hard,

feelingthefamiliarwoman’sbodybeneaththebluejeansandblackT-shirtthatlooked as though it had come fromMartha’s own closet.Martha realized thatsomehow,inspiteofeverything,shehadcometolikethisseductive,childlike,verydangerousbeing.“No,”sherepeated.“I’mafraidoftheunintendeddamagethatthedreamsmightdo.”“Even though in the long run they’ll almost certainly do more good than

harm?”Godasked.“Evenso,”Marthasaid.“I’mafraidthetimemightcomewhenIwon’tbeable

tostandknowingthatI’mtheonewhocausednotonlytheharm,buttheendoftheonlycareerI’veevercaredabout.I’mafraidknowingallthatmightdrivemeoutofmymindsomeday.ShesteppedawayfromGod,andalreadyGodseemedtobefading,becomingtranslucent,transparent,gone.“I want to forget,” Martha said, and she stood alone in her living room,

lookingblanklypasttheopendrapesofherfrontwindowatthesurfaceofLakeWashingtonandthemistthathungaboveit.Shewonderedatthewordsshehadjustspoken,wonderedwhatitwasshewantedsobadlytoforget.

Afterword

“The Book of Martha” is my utopia story. I don’t like most utopia storiesbecause Idon’tbelieve themforamoment. It seems inevitable thatmyutopiawouldbesomeoneelse’shell.So,ofcourse,IhaveGoddemandofpoorMarthathatshecomeupwithautopiathatwouldwork.Andwhereelsecoulditworkbutineveryone’sprivate,individualdreams?