What am I expecting this brother to do, thought Ender. His people have always measured themselves against the other tribes. Their forest isn’t fifty hectares or five hundred—it’s either larger or smaller than the forest of the tribe to the west or the south. What I have to do now is the work of a generation: I have to teach him a new way of conceiving the stature of his own people. “Is Rooter great?” asked Ender.

  “I say he is,” said Human. “He’s my father. His tree isn’t the oldest or thickest, but no father that we remember has ever had so many children so quickly after he was planted.”

  “So in a way, all the children that he fathered are still part of him. The more children he fathers, the greater he becomes.” Human nodded slowly. “And the more you accomplish in your life, the greater you make your father, is that true?”

  “If his children do well, then yes, it’s a great honor to the fathertree.”

  “Do you have to kill all the other great trees in order for your father to be great?”

  “That’s different,” said Human. “All the other great trees are fathers of the tribe. And the lesser trees are still brothers.” Yet Ender could see that Human was uncertain now. He was resisting Ender’s ideas because they were strange, not because they were wrong or incomprehensible. He was beginning to understand.

  “Look at the wives,” said Ender. “They have no children. They can never be great the way that your father is great.”

  “Speaker, you know that they’re the greatest of all. The whole tribe obeys them. When they rule us well, the tribe prospers; when the tribe becomes many, then the wives are also made strong—”

  “Even though not a single one of you is their own child.”

  “How could we be?” asked Human.

  “And yet you add to their greatness. Even though they aren’t your mother or your father, they still grow when you grow.”

  “We’re all the same tribe . . .”

  “But why are you the same tribe? You have different fathers, different mothers.”

  “Because we are the tribe! We live here in the forest, we—”

  “If another piggy came here from another tribe, and asked you to let him stay and be a brother—”

  “We would never make him a fathertree!”

  “But you tried to make Pipo and Libo fathertrees.”

  Human was breathing heavily. “I see,” he said. “They were part of the tribe. From the sky, but we made them brothers and tried to make them fathers. The tribe is whatever we believe it is. If we say the tribe is all the Little Ones in the forest, and all the trees, then that is what the tribe is. Even though some of the oldest trees here came from warriors of two different tribes, fallen in battle. We become one tribe because we say we’re one tribe.”

  Ender marveled at his mind, this small raman. How few humans were able to grasp this idea, or let it extend beyond the narrow confines of their tribe, their family, their nation.

  Human walked behind Ender, leaned against him, the weight of the young piggy pressed against his back. Ender felt Human’s breath on his cheek, and then their cheeks were pressed together, both of them looking in the same direction. All at once Ender understood: “You see what I see,” said Ender.

  “You humans grow by making us part of you, humans and piggies and buggers, ramen together. Then we are one tribe, and our greatness is your greatness, and yours is ours.” Ender could feel Human’s body trembling with the strength of the idea. “You say to us, we must see all other tribes the same way. As one tribe, our tribe all together, so that we grow by making them grow.”

  “You could send teachers,” said Ender. “Brothers to the other tribes, who could pass into their third life in the other forests and have children there.”

  “This is a strange and difficult thing to ask of the wives,” said Human. “Maybe an impossible thing. Their minds don’t work the way a brother’s mind works. A brother can think of many different things. But a wife thinks of only one thing: what is good for the tribe, and at the root of that, what is good for the children and the little mothers.”

  “Can you make them understand this?” asked Ender.

  “Better than you could,” said Human. “But probably not. Probably I’ll fail.”

  “I don’t think you’ll fail,” said Ender.

  “You came here tonight to make a covenant between us, the piggies of this tribe, and you, the humans who live on this world. The humans outside Lusitania won’t care about our covenant, and the piggies outside this forest won’t care about it.”

  “We want to make the same covenant with all of them.”

  “And in this covenant, you humans promise to teach us everything.”

  “As quickly as you can understand it.”

  “Any question we ask.”

  “If we know the answer.”

  “When! If! These aren’t words in a covenant! Give me straight answers now, Speaker for the Dead.” Human stood up, pushed away from Ender, walked around in front of him, bent down a little to look at Ender from above. “Promise to teach us everything that you know!”

  “We promise that.”

  “And you also promise to restore the hive queen to help us.”

  “I’ll restore the hive queen. You’ll have to make your own covenant with her. She doesn’t obey human law.”

  “You promise to restore the hive queen, whether she helps us or not.”

  “Yes.”

  “You promise to obey our law when you come into our forest. And you agree that the prairie land that we need will also be under our law.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you will go to war against all the other humans in all the stars of the sky to protect us and let us also travel in the stars?”

  “We already have.”

  Human relaxed, stepped back, squatted in his old position. He drew with his finger in the dirt. “Now, what you want from us,” said Human. “We will obey human law in your city, and also in the prairie land that you need.”

  “Yes,” said Ender.

  “And you don’t want us to go to war,” said Human.

  “That’s right.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “One more thing,” said Ender.

  “What you ask is already impossible,” said Human. “You might as well ask more.”

  “The third life,” said Ender. “When does it begin? When you kill a piggy and he grows into a tree, is that right?”

  “The first life is within the mothertree, where we never see the light, and where we eat blindly the meat of our mother’s body and the sap of the mothertree. The second life is when we live in the shade of the forest, the half-light, running and walking and climbing, seeing and singing and talking, making with our hands. The third life is when we reach and drink from the sun, in the full light at last, never moving except in the wind; only to think, and on those certain days when the brothers drum on your trunk, to speak to them. Yes, that’s the third life.”

  “Humans don’t have the third life.”

  Human looked at him, puzzled.

  “When we die, even if you plant us, nothing grows. There’s no tree. We never drink from the sun. When we die, we’re dead.”

  Human looked at Ouanda. “But the other book you gave us. It talked all the time about living after death and being born again.”

  “Not as a tree,” said Ender. “Not as anything you can touch or feel. Or talk to. Or get answers from.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Human. “If that’s true, why did Pipo and Libo make us plant them?”

  Novinha knelt down beside Ender, touching him—no, leaning on him—so she could hear more clearly.

  “How did they make you plant them?” said Ender.

  “They made the great gift, won the great honor. The human and the piggy together. Pipo and Mandachuva. Libo and Leaf-eater. Mandachuva and Leaf-eater both thought that they would win the third life, but each time, Pipo and Libo would not. They insisted on keeping the gift for themselves. Why would they do that, if humans have no third life?”

  Novinha’s voice came then, husky and emotional. “What did they have to do, to give the third life to Mandachuva or Leaf-eater?”

  “Plant them, of course,” said Human. “The same as today.”

  “The same as what today?” asked Ender.

  “You and me,” said Human. “Human and the Speaker for the Dead. If we make this covenant so that the wives and the humans agree together, then this is a great, a noble day. So either you will give me the third life, or I will give it to you.”

  “With my own hand?”

  “Of course,” said Human. “If you won’t give me the honor, then I must give it to you.”

  Ender remembered the picture he had first seen only two weeks ago, of Pipo dismembered and disemboweled, his body parts stretched and spread. Planted. “Human,” said Ender, “the worst crime that a human being can commit is murder. And one of the worst ways to do it is to take a living person and cut him and hurt him so badly that he dies.”

  Again Human squatted for a while, trying to make sense of this. “Speaker,” he said at last, “my mind keeps seeing this two ways. If humans don’t have a third life, then planting is killing, forever. In our eyes, Libo and Pipo were keeping the honor to themselves, and leaving Mandachuva and Leaf-eater as you see them, to die without honor for their accomplishments. In our eyes, you humans came out of the fence to the hillside and tore them from the ground before their roots could grow. In our eyes, it was you who committed murder, when you carried Pipo and Libo away. But now I see it another way. Pipo and Libo wouldn’t take Mandachuva and Leaf-eater into the third life, because to them it would be murder. So they willingly allowed their own death, just so they wouldn’t have to kill any of us.”

  “Yes,” said Novinha.

  “But if that’s so, then when you humans saw them on the hillside, why didn’t you come into the forest and kill us all? Why didn’t you make a great fire and consume all our fathers, and the great mothertree herself?”

  Leaf-eater cried out from the edge of the forest, a terrible keening cry, an unbearable grief.

  “If you had cut one of our trees,” said Human. “If you had murdered a single tree, we would have come upon you in the night and killed you, every one of you. And even if some of you survived, our messengers would have told the story to every other tribe, and none of you would ever have left this land alive. Why didn’t you kill us, for murdering Pipo and Libo?”

  Mandachuva suddenly appeared behind Human, panting heavily. He flung himself to the ground, his hands outstretched toward Ender. “I cut him with these hands,” he cried. “I tried to honor him, and I killed his tree forever!”

  “No,” said Ender. He took Mandachuva’s hands, held them. “You both thought you were saving each other’s life. He hurt you, and you—hurt him, yes, killed him, but you both believed you were doing good. That’s enough, until now. Now you know the truth, and so do we. We know that you didn’t mean murder. And you know that when you take a knife to a human being, we die forever. That’s the last term in the covenant, Human. Never take another human being to the third life, because we don’t know how to go.”

  “When I tell this story to the wives,” said Human, “you’ll hear grief so terrible that it will sound like the breaking of trees in a thunderstorm.”

  He turned and stood before Shouter, and spoke to her for a few moments. Then he returned to Ender. “Go now,” he said.

  “We have no covenant yet,” said Ender.

  “I have to speak to all the wives. They’ll never do that while you’re here, in the shade of the mothertree, with no one to protect the little ones. Arrow will lead you back out of the forest. Wait for me on the hillside, where Rooter keeps watch over the gate. Sleep if you can. I’ll present the covenant to the wives and try to make them understand that we must deal as kindly with the other tribes as you have dealt with us.”

  Impulsively, Human reached out a hand and touched Ender firmly on the belly. “I make my own covenant,” he said to Ender. “I will honor you forever, but I will never kill you.”

  Ender put out his hand and laid his palm against Human’s warm abdomen. The protuberances under his hand were hot to the touch. “I will also honor you forever,” said Ender.

  “And if we make this covenant between your tribe and ours,” said Human, “will you give me the honor of the third life? Will you let me rise up and drink the light?”

  “Can we do it quickly? Not the slow and terrible way that—”

  “And make me one of the silent trees? Never fathering? Without honor, except to feed my sap to the filthy macios and give my wood to the brothers when they sing to me?”

  “Isn’t there someone else who can do it?” asked Ender. “One of the brothers, who knows your way of life and death?”

  “You don’t understand,” said Human. “This is how the whole tribe knows that the truth has been spoken. Either you must take me into the third life, or I must take you, or there’s no covenant. I won’t kill you, Speaker, and we both want a treaty.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Ender.

  Human nodded, withdrew his hand, and returned to Shouter.

  “Ó Deus,” whispered Ouanda. “How will you have the heart?”

  Ender had no answer. He merely followed silently behind Arrow as he led them to the woods. Novinha gave him her own nightstick to lead the way; Arrow played with it like a child, making the light small and large, making it hover and swoop like a suckfly among the trees and bushes. He was as happy and playful as Ender had ever seen a piggy be.

  But behind them, they could hear the voices of the wives, singing a terrible and cacophonous song. Human had told them the truth about Pipo and Libo, that they died the final death, and in pain, all so that they would not have to do to Mandachuva and Leaf-eater what they thought was murder. Only when they had gone far enough that the sound of the wives’ keening was softer than their own footfalls and the wind in the trees did any of the humans speak.

  “That was the mass for my father’s soul,” said Ouanda softly.

  “And for mine,” answered Novinha; they all knew that she spoke of Pipo, not the long-dead Venerado, Gusto.

  But Ender was not part of their conversation; he had not known Libo and Pipo, and did not belong to their memory of grief. All he could think of was the trees of the forest. They had once been living, breathing piggies, every one of them. The piggies could sing to them, talk to them, even, somehow, understand their speech. But Ender couldn’t. To Ender the trees were not people, could never be people. If he took the knife to Human, it might not be murder in the piggies’ eyes, but to Ender himself he would be taking away the only part of Human’s life that Ender understood. As a piggy, Human was a true raman, a brother. As a tree he would be little more than a gravestone, as far as Ender could understand, as far as he could really believe.

  Once again, he thought, I must kill, though I promised that I never would again.

  He felt Novinha’s hand take him by the crook of the arm. She leaned on him. “Help me,” she said. “I’m almost blind in the darkness.”

  “I have good night vision,” Olhado offered cheerfully from behind her.

  “Shut up, stupid,” Ela whispered fiercely. “Mother wants to walk with him.”

  Both Novinha and Ender heard her clearly, and both could feel each other’s silent laughter. Novinha drew closer to him as they walked. “I think you have the heart for what you have to do,” she said softly, so that only he could hear.

  “Cold and ruthless?” he asked. His voice hinted at wry humor, but the words tasted sour and truthful in his mouth.

  “Compassionate enough,” she said, “to put the hot iron into the wound when that’s the only way to heal it.”

  As one who had felt his burning iron cauterize her deepest wounds, she had the right to speak; and he believed her, and it eased his heart for the bloody work ahead.

  Ender hadn’t thought it would be possible to sleep, knowing what was ahead of him. But now he woke up, Novinha’s voice soft in his ear. He realized that he was outside, lying in the capim, his head resting on Novinha’s lap. It was still dark.

  “They’re coming,” said Novinha softly.

  Ender sat up. Once, as a child, he would have come awake fully, instantly; but he was trained as a soldier then. Now it took a moment to orient himself. Ouanda, Ela, both awake and watching; Olhado asleep; Quim just stirring. The tall tree of Rooter’s third life rising only a few meters away. And in the near distance, beyond the fence at the bottom of the little valley, the first houses of Milagre rising up the slopes; the Cathedral and the monastery atop the highest and nearest of the hills.

  In the other direction, the forest, and coming down from the trees, Human, Mandachuva, Leaf-eater, Arrow, Cups, Calendar, Worm, Bark-dancer, several other brothers whose names Ouanda didn’t know. “I’ve never seen them,” she said. “They must come from other brother-houses.”

  Do we have a covenant? said Ender silently. That’s all I care about. Did Human make the wives understand a new way of conceiving of the world?

  Human was carrying something. Wrapped in leaves. The piggies wordlessly laid it before Ender; Human unwrapped it carefully. It was a computer printout.

  “The Hive Queen and the Hegemon,” said Ouanda softly. “The copy Miro gave them.”

  “The covenant,” said Human.

  Only then did they realize that the printout was upside down, on the blank side of the paper. And there, in the light of a nightstick, they saw faint hand-printed letters. They were large and awkwardly formed. Ouanda was in awe. “We never taught them to make ink,” she said. “We never taught them to write.”

  “Calendar learned to make the letters,” said Human. “Writing with sticks in the dirt. And Worm made the ink from cabra dung and dried macios. This is how you make treaties, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Ender.

  “If we didn’t write it on paper, then we would remember it differently.”

  “That’s right,” said Ender. “You did well to write it down.”