The Host_ A Novel - Stephenie Meyer [5]
“You speak as if a war were raging.”
“To the remains of the human race, one is.”
These words were strong in my ears. My body reacted to them; I felt my breathing speed, heard the sound of my heart pumping louder than was usual. Beside the bed I lay on, a machine registered the increases with a muted beeping. The Healer and the Seeker were too involved in their disagreement to notice.
“But one that even they must realize is long lost. They are outnumbered by what? A million to one? I imagine you would know.”
“We estimate the odds are quite a bit higher in our favor,” she admitted grudgingly.
The Healer appeared to be content to let his side of the disagreement rest with that information. It was quiet for a moment.
I used the empty time to evaluate my situation. Much was obvious.
I was in a Healing facility, recovering from an unusually traumatic insertion. I was sure the body that hosted me had been fully healed before it was given to me. A damaged host would have been disposed of.
I considered the conflicting opinions of the Healer and the Seeker. According to the information I had been given before making the choice to come here, the Healer had the right of it. Hostilities with the few remaining pockets of humans were all but over. The planet called Earth was as peaceful and serene as it looked from space, invitingly green and blue, wreathed in its harmless white vapors. As was the way of the soul, harmony was universal now.
The verbal dissension between the Healer and the Seeker was out of character. Strangely aggressive for our kind. It made me wonder. Could they be true, the whispered rumors that had undulated like waves through the thoughts of the… of the…
I was distracted, trying to find the name for my last host species. We’d had a name, I knew that. But, no longer connected to that host, I could not remember the word. We’d used much simpler language than this, a silent language of thought that connected us all into one great mind. A necessary convenience when one was rooted forever into the wet black soil.
I could describe that species in my new human language. We lived on the floor of the great ocean that covered the entire surface of our world-a world that had a name, too, but that was also gone. We each had a hundred arms and on each arm a thousand eyes, so that, with our thoughts connected, not one sight in the vast waters went unseen. There was no need for sound, so there was no way to hear it. We tasted the waters, and, with our sight, that told us all we needed to know. We tasted the suns, so many leagues above the water, and turned their taste into the food we needed.
I could describe us, but I could not name us. I sighed for the lost knowledge, and then returned my ponderings to what I’d overheard.
Souls did not, as a rule, speak anything but the truth. Seekers, of course, had the requirements of their Calling, but between souls there was never reason for a lie. With my last species’ language of thought, it would have been impossible to lie, even had we wanted to. However, anchored as we were, we told ourselves stories to alleviate the boredom. Storytelling was the most honored of all talents, for it benefited everyone.
Sometimes, fact mixed with fiction so thoroughly that, though no lies were told, it was hard to remember what was strictly true.
When we thought of the new planet-Earth, so dry, so varied, and filled with such violent, destructive denizens we could barely imagine them-our horror was sometimes overshadowed by our excitement. Stories spun themselves quickly around the thrilling new subject. The wars-wars! our kind having to fight!-were first reported accurately and then embellished and fictionalized. When the stories conflicted with the official information I sought out, I naturally believed the first reports.