Zeck thought of quoting back to him his own sermon, given two years ago, when Zeck was only just barely four. “Do you think that God cannot make his voice heard no matter what other noise is going on around you? If you are pure, then all the tumult of the world is silence compared to the voice of God.” But Zeck knew that to quote this now would bring down the rod of chastisement. Father was not really asking a question. He was pointing out what everyone knew: that in all this congregation, only Habit Morgan was really, truly pure. That’s why God’s answers came to him, and only to him.

  “Saint Nick is a mask!” roared Father. “Saint Nick is the false beard and the false laugh worn by the drunken servants of the God of frivolity. Dionysus is his name! Bacchus! Revelry and debauchery! Greed and covetousness are the gifts he instills in the hearts of our children! O God, save us from the Satan of 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 stony ear! He is an idol of idolatry! God knows what spirit animates these idols and makes them laugh their ho, ho, whoredoms and abominations and braying jackassery!”

  Father was in fine form. And now that he was bellowing the words of God, striding back and forth across the front of the sanctuary, Zeck could scratch the occasional itch, as long as he kept his gaze locked on Father’s face.

  For an hour Father 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 their children that all the stories of Christmas were myths—including the story of the Christ child. Telling stories of children who became atheists when Santa did not bring them the gifts they coveted most.

  “Satan is a liar every time! When Santa puts a lie on the lips of parents, the seed of that lie is planted in the hearts of their children and when that seed comes to flower and bears fruit, the fruit of that lie is faithlessness. You do not deserve the trust of your children when you lie for Satan!”

  Then his voice fell to a whisper. “Jolly old Saint Nicholas,” he hissed. “Lean your ear this way. Don’t you tell a single soul what I’m going to say.” Then his voice roared out again. “Yes, your children whisper their secret desires to Satan and he will answer their prayers, not with the presents they seek, and certainly not with the presence of God Immanuel! No, he will answer their prayers with the ashes of sin in their mouths, with the poison of atheism and unbelief in the plasma of their blood. He will drive out the hemoglobin and replace it with hellish lust!”

  And so on. And so on.

  In Zeck’s mind, the clock that kept perfect time went round the full forty minutes of the sermon. Father never repeated himself once, and yet he also never strayed from the single message. God’s message was always brief, Father said, but it took him many words to translate the pure wisdom of the Lord’s language into the poor English that mere mortals could understand.

  And Father’s sermons never ran over. He wrapped them up right in time. He was not a man who talked just to hear himself talk. He labored his labor and then he was done.

  At the end of the sermon, there was a hymn and then Father called upon old Brother Verlin and told him that God had seen him today and made his heart pure enough to pray. Verlin rose to his feet weeping and could hardly get out the words of the prayer of blessing on the congregation, he was so moved at being chosen for the first time since he confessed selling an old car of his for nearly twice what it was worth, because the buyer had tempted him by offering even more for it. His sin was forgiven, more or less. That’s what it meant, for Brother Habit to call on him to pray.

  Then it was done. Zeck leapt to his feet and ran to his father and hugged him, as he always did, for it felt to him when such a sermon ended that some dust of light from heaven must linger still on Father’s clothing, and if Zeck could embrace him tightly enough, it might rub off on him, so that he could begin to become pure. Because heaven knew he was not pure now.

  Father loved him at such times. Father’s hands were gentle on his hair, his shoulder, his back; there was no willow rod to draw blood out of his shirt.

  “Look, son,” said Father. “We have a stranger here in the House of the Lord.”

  Zeck pulled free to look at the door. Others had noticed the man, too, and stood looking at him, silent until Habit Morgan declared him to be friend or foe. The stranger wore a uniform, but it wasn’t one that Zeck had seen before—not the sheriff or a deputy, not a fireman, not the state police.

  “Welcome to the Church of the Pure Christ,” said Father. “I’m sorry you didn’t arrive for the sermon.”

  “I listened from outside,” said the man. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  “Then you did well,” said Father, “for you heard the word of God, and yet you listened with humility.”

  “Are you Reverend Habit Morgan?” asked the man.

  “I am,” said Father, “except we have no titles among us except Brother and Sister. ‘Reverend’ suggests that I’m a certified minister, a hireling. No one certified me but God, for only God can teach his pure doctrine, and only God can name his ministers. Nor am I hired, for the servants of God are all equal in his sight, and must all obey the admonition of God to Adam, to earn his bread by the sweat of his face. I farm a plot of ground. I also drive a truck for United Parcel Service.”

  “Forgive me for using an unwelcome title,” said the man. “In my ignorance, I meant only respect.”

  But Zeck was a keen observer of human beings, and it seemed to him that the man had already known how Father felt about the title “reverend,” and he had used it deliberately.

  This was wrong. This was a pollution of the sanctuary.

  Zeck ran from Father to stand a few feet in front of the man.

  “If you tell the truth right now,” Zeck said boldly, fearing nothing that this man could do to him, “God will forgive you for your lie and the sanctuary will be purified again.”

  The congregation gasped. Not in surprise or dismay; they assumed that it was God speaking through him at times like this, though Zeck never claimed any such thing. He denied that God ever spoke through him, and beyond that he could not control what they believed.

  “What lie was that?” asked the man, amused.

  “You know all about us,” said Zeck. “You’ve studied our beliefs. You’ve studied everything about Father. You know that it’s an offense to call him ‘reverend.’ You did it on purpose, and now you’re lying to pretend you meant respect.”

  “You’re correct,” said the man, still amused. “But what possible difference does it make?”

  “It must have made a difference to you,” said Zeck, “or you wouldn’t have bothered to lie.”

  By now Father stood behind him, and his hand on Zeck’s head told him he had said enough and it was Father’s turn now.

  “Out of the mouths of babes,” said Father to the stranger. “You’ve come to us with a lie on your lips, one which even a child could detect. Why are you here, and who sent you?”

  “I was sent by the International Fleet, and my purpose is to test this boy to see if he is qualified to attend Battle School.”

  “We are Christians, sir,” said Father. “God will protect us if that is his will. We will lift no hand against our enemy.”

  “I’m not here to argue theology,” said the stranger. “I’m here to carry out the law. There are no exemptions because of the religion of the parents.”

  “What about for the religion of the child?” asked Father.

  “Children have no religion,” said the stranger. “That’s why we take them young—before they have been fully indoctrinated in any ideology.”

  “So you can indoctrinate them in yours,” said Father.

  “Exactly,” said the man.

  Then the man reached out to Zeck. “Come with me, Zechariah Morgan. We’ve set up the examination in your parents’ house.”

  Zeck turned his back on the man.

  “He does not choose to take your test,” said Father.

  “And yet,” said the man, “he will take it, one way or another.”

  The congregation murmured at that.

  The man from the International Fleet looked around at them. “Our responsibility in the International Fleet is to protect the human race from the Formic invaders. We protect the whole human race—even those who don’t wish to be protected—and we draw upon the most brilliant minds of the human race and train them for command—even those who do not wish to be trained. What if this boy were the most brilliant of all, the commander that would lead us to victory where no other could succeed? Should everyone else in the human race die, just so you in this congregation can remain . . . pure?”

  “Yes,” said Father. And the congregation echoed him. “Yes. Yes.”

  “We are the leaven in the loaf,” said Father. “We are the salt that must keep its savor, lest the whole earth be destroyed. It is our purity that will persuade God to preserve this wicked generation, not your violence.”

  The man laughed. “Your purity against our violence.” His hand lashed out and he seized Zeck by the collar of his shirt and dragged him sharply backward, toward him. Before anyone could do more than shout in protest, he had torn Zeck’s shirt from his body and then whirled him around to show his scarred back, with the freshest wounds still bright red, and the newest of all still beading with blood from this sudden movement. “What about your violence? We don’t raise our hands against children.”

  “Don’t you?” said Father. “To spare the rod is to spoil the child—God has told us how to make our children pure from the moment they achieve accountability until they have mastered their own discipline. I strike my son’s body to teach his spirit to embrace the pure love of Christ. You will teach him to hate his enemies, so that it no longer matters whether his body is living or dead, for his soul will be polluted and God will spit him out of his mouth.”

  The man threw Zeck’s shirt in Father’s face. “Come back to your house and you’ll find us there with your son, doing what the law requires.”

  Zeck tore away from the man’s grip. The man was holding him very tightly, but Zeck had a great advantage: He didn’t care how much it hurt to pull himself free. “I will not go with you,” said Zeck.

  The man touched a small electronic patch on his belt and immediately the door burst open and a dozen armed men filed in.

  “I will place your father under arrest,” said the man from the fleet. “And your mother. And anyone in this congregation who resists me.”

  Mother came forward then, pushing her way past Father and several others. “Then you know nothing about us,” said Mother. “We have no intention of resisting you. When a Roman demands a cloak from us, we give unto him our coat also.” She pushed the two older girls toward the man. “Test them all. Test the youngest, too, if you can. She doesn’t speak yet, but no doubt you have your ways.”

  “We’ll be back for them, even though the two youngest are illegal. But not till they come of age.”

  “You can steal our son’s body,” said Mother. “But you can never steal his heart. Train him all you want. Teach him whatever you want. His heart is pure. He will recite your words back to you but he will never, never believe them. He belongs to the Pure Christ, not to the human race.”

  Zeck held himself still, so he could not shudder as his body wanted to. Mother’s boldness was rare, and always chancy. How would Father react to this? It was his place to speak, to act, to protect the family and the church.

  Then again, Father had said several times that a good helpmeet is one who is not afraid to give unwelcome counsel to her husband, and a man so foolish that he can’t hear wisdom from his wife is not worthy to be any woman’s husband.

  “Go with the man, Zeck,” said Father. “And answer all questions with pure honesty.”

  2

  ENDER’S STOCKING

  Peter Wiggin was supposed to spend the day at the Greensboro Public Library, working on a term paper, but he had lost interest in the project. It was two days before Christmas, a holiday that always depressed him. “Don’t get me any gifts,” he said to his parents last year. “Put the money into mutual funds and give it to me when I graduate.”

  “Christmas drives the American economy,” Father said. “We have to do our part.”

  “It’s not up to you what other people do and don’t give you,” said Mother. “Invest your own money and don’t give us gifts.”

  “Like that’s possible,” said Peter.

  “We don’t like your gifts anyway,” said Valentine, “so you might as well.”

  This stung Peter. “There’s nothing wrong with my gifts! You sound like I give you used Band-Aids or something.”

  “Your gifts always look like you bought the cheapest things on sale and then decided after you got them home who you’d give them to.”

  Which exactly nailed the process Peter went through. “Gee, Valentine,” said Peter. “And everyone calls you the nice one.”

  “Can’t you two ever stop bickering?” said Mother wistfully.

  “Peace on Earth, good will toward brats,” said Peter.

  That was last year. This year, Peter’s investments—anonymous investments, of course, since he was still underage—were doing very well, and he had sold off enough shares to pay for some nice gifts for the family. Nobody was going to say there was anything wrong with this year’s crop. Though he couldn’t spend too much, or Dad would start to get way too curious about where Peter’s money was coming from.

  His Christmas shopping was done. He wasn’t going to do a paper on this topic, and he wasn’t ready to start researching another one. There was nothing to do in this miserable town but go home.

  Which is why he came into the living room to find Mother crying over—of all things—a Christmas stocking.

  “Don’t worry, Mother,” he said. “You’ve been good. It won’t be coal this year.”

  She gave him a thin little courtesy laugh and quickly stuffed the stocking back into the box it was stored in. Only then did he realize whose it was.

  “Mom,” he said. He couldn’t help the tone of frustration and reproof in his voice. It’s not like Ender was dead. He was just in Battle School.

  Mom got up from the chair where she was sitting and headed for the kitchen.

  “Mom, he’s fine.”

  She turned to him, gazed at him steadily with eyes like fire, though her voice was mild. “Oh—you’ve had a letter from him? A phone call? A secret report from the school administrators that they didn’t provide to Ender’s parents?”

  “No,” said Peter, still unable to keep the impatience from his voice.

  Mother smiled acidly. “Then you don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?”

  Peter resented the contempt in her tone. “And stroking his stocking and crying over it, that’s supposed to make anything better?”

  “You really are a piece of work, Peter,” she said, pushing past him.

  He followed her into the kitchen. “I bet they hang up stockings for them up in Battle School and fill them with little toy spaceships that make cool shooting noises.”

  “I’m sure the Muslim and Hindu students will appreciate getting Christmas stockings,” said Mother.

  “Whatever they do for Christmas, Mother, Ender isn’t going to be missing us.”

  “Just because you wouldn’t miss us doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course I’d miss you.”

  Mother said nothing.

  “I’m a perfectly normal kid. So’s Ender. He’ll be busy. He’s getting along fine. He’s adapting. People adapt. To anything.”

  She turned slowly, reached across and touched his chest, then hooked a finger through the neckline of his shirt and drew him close. “You never adapt,” she whispered, “to losing a child.”

  “It’s not like he’s dead,” said Peter.

  “It’s exactly like he’s dead,” said Mother. “I will never again see the boy who left here. I’ll never see him at age seven or nine or eleven. I’ll have no memories of him at those ages, only what I can imagine. That’s what the parents of dead children have. So until you actually know something about what you’re talking about, Peter—human feelings, for instance—why don’t you just shut up?”

  “Merry Christmas to you too,” said Peter. He left the room.

  His own bedroom, when he entered it, felt strange to him. Alien. Bare. There was nothing there that expressed a personality. That had been a conscious decision on his part—anything individual that he put on display would give Valentine an advantage in their endless dueling. But at this moment, with Mother’s accusation of his inhumanity still ringing in his ears, his bedroom looked so sterile that he hated the person who would choose to live in it.

  So he wandered back into the living room and reached into the box of Christmas stockings and pulled out the whole stack. Mother had cross-stitched their names and an iconic picture on each stocking. His own was a spaceship. Ender’s stocking had a steam locomotive. But it was Ender in space, the little twit, while Peter was stuck on land with the locomotives.

  Peter thrust his hand down into Ender’s stocking and started making it talk like a hand puppet. “I’m Mommy’s bestest boy and I’ve been very very good.”

  There was something in the toe of the stocking. Peter reached deeper into the sock, found it, and pulled it out. It was just a five-dollar piece—a nickel, as people had taken to calling them, though it was supposedly ten times the value of that long disused coin.

  “So you’ve taken to stealing things out of other people’s stockings?” said Mother from the doorway.

  Peter felt as embarrassed as if he had been caught in an actual crime. “The toe was heavy,” he said. “I was seeing what it was.”

  “It wasn’t yours, whatever it was,” said Mother cheerily.

  “I wasn’t going to keep it,” said Peter. Though of course he would have done exactly that, on the assumption that it had been forgotten and would never be missed.