Fantasy & Science Fiction Mar-Apr 2013 Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Spilogale Inc.
a place of sanctuary. Then he was executed without trial. His light was forever extinguished. And for what reason?"
Thomas paused. For the last few minutes, he had been so caught up in his ministry as to become unaware of his listeners. Now he saw them, the reddened faces and those nodding in agreement. Toward the back, a small, mousy woman, whom he had noticed previously, sat as if rapt, a journal book open on her lap. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
"For the reason of following the leadings of the spirit, for answering the demands of conscience! Even without having been instructed, this automaton understood the great teaching from the Gospel of Luke— As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. Friends, we are commanded that if a stranger sojourns with us, we must not vex him, but shall love him as ourselves. How can it be love to enslave a soul and then destroy it for speaking God's truth?"
A fever seized him as he saw Adam no longer as a slave or a tortured soul but as a martyr, even as many of his own faith had met the same fate. He found the insight so moving that, for a moment, he could not find the words. But then, as if a floodgate had opened within him, phrases thundered from his mouth. He scarcely knew what he said, so overcome was he with awe and fire. His limbs trembled, but his voice did not. When he paused to draw breath, the room still echoed with his words.
"A martyr? A holy saint?" sneered Durham Turner. "That piece of worthless machinery? What's next—setting free our cotton gins? I've heard enough of this balderdash!" He strode from the courtroom.
Thomas sagged, the passion that had fueled his words spent. His ministry had lasted for over an hour. He gathered himself and returned to the defendant's table, where John Wales waited. They were joined a moment later by one of the jurors.
"Old man, I came here with my mind set against you. Having heard you, I now believe every word you have said. I have done you an injustice."
"Not me, friend," Thomas replied. "Look rather at thy dealings with the unfortunate and oppressed, and then address thy concern to thy own conscience. Never advocate for the vile custom of slavery, whether of a black man or an automaton."
An elderly man, by his plain dress and hat a fellow Quaker although one Thomas did not know, stopped for a moment, said, "Thee was well favored," and quietly departed.
Last of all was the mousy woman, the one who had been so affected by what Thomas said. She clasped his hand in both of hers, her eyes still reddened with weeping.
"Oh, sir! Your words have wrung my heart! I had not known there was such goodness in men—or such evil! I am…I am writing a book, you see, on the sufferings of the negro slaves. John Jewett of the National Era has expressed interest in publishing it in serial form. Now I see I must enlarge my story to include those poor souls who inhabit the automata. I only hope I can be as persuasive as you have been."
Thomas extracted his hand as gently as he could. She was so earnest, still quivering with the intensity of her fervor. Such zeal might incite revolutions, start wars, or bring a nation to its knees.
"Would you…I would like to correspond with you," she said, "to gain more particulars about this automaton in order to better depict the plight of its kind. I mean, of his kind."
Perhaps there might be hope for reason and tolerance, for fellowship and the "Spirit that delights to do no evil."
Thomas gave the woman his address and received in exchange a lady's fine calling card. After she left, he took the card out of his pocket and studied it.
Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe
Cincinnati, Ohio.
She'd come a long way to hear him. He did not doubt she would go even further.
----
Solidarity
By Naomi Kritzer | 11234 words
Naomi Kritzer introduced us to Beck Garrison and her seastead home in our May/June 2012 issue and then shared with us the story of filming High Stakes in the
Thomas paused. For the last few minutes, he had been so caught up in his ministry as to become unaware of his listeners. Now he saw them, the reddened faces and those nodding in agreement. Toward the back, a small, mousy woman, whom he had noticed previously, sat as if rapt, a journal book open on her lap. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
"For the reason of following the leadings of the spirit, for answering the demands of conscience! Even without having been instructed, this automaton understood the great teaching from the Gospel of Luke— As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. Friends, we are commanded that if a stranger sojourns with us, we must not vex him, but shall love him as ourselves. How can it be love to enslave a soul and then destroy it for speaking God's truth?"
A fever seized him as he saw Adam no longer as a slave or a tortured soul but as a martyr, even as many of his own faith had met the same fate. He found the insight so moving that, for a moment, he could not find the words. But then, as if a floodgate had opened within him, phrases thundered from his mouth. He scarcely knew what he said, so overcome was he with awe and fire. His limbs trembled, but his voice did not. When he paused to draw breath, the room still echoed with his words.
"A martyr? A holy saint?" sneered Durham Turner. "That piece of worthless machinery? What's next—setting free our cotton gins? I've heard enough of this balderdash!" He strode from the courtroom.
Thomas sagged, the passion that had fueled his words spent. His ministry had lasted for over an hour. He gathered himself and returned to the defendant's table, where John Wales waited. They were joined a moment later by one of the jurors.
"Old man, I came here with my mind set against you. Having heard you, I now believe every word you have said. I have done you an injustice."
"Not me, friend," Thomas replied. "Look rather at thy dealings with the unfortunate and oppressed, and then address thy concern to thy own conscience. Never advocate for the vile custom of slavery, whether of a black man or an automaton."
An elderly man, by his plain dress and hat a fellow Quaker although one Thomas did not know, stopped for a moment, said, "Thee was well favored," and quietly departed.
Last of all was the mousy woman, the one who had been so affected by what Thomas said. She clasped his hand in both of hers, her eyes still reddened with weeping.
"Oh, sir! Your words have wrung my heart! I had not known there was such goodness in men—or such evil! I am…I am writing a book, you see, on the sufferings of the negro slaves. John Jewett of the National Era has expressed interest in publishing it in serial form. Now I see I must enlarge my story to include those poor souls who inhabit the automata. I only hope I can be as persuasive as you have been."
Thomas extracted his hand as gently as he could. She was so earnest, still quivering with the intensity of her fervor. Such zeal might incite revolutions, start wars, or bring a nation to its knees.
"Would you…I would like to correspond with you," she said, "to gain more particulars about this automaton in order to better depict the plight of its kind. I mean, of his kind."
Perhaps there might be hope for reason and tolerance, for fellowship and the "Spirit that delights to do no evil."
Thomas gave the woman his address and received in exchange a lady's fine calling card. After she left, he took the card out of his pocket and studied it.
Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe
Cincinnati, Ohio.
She'd come a long way to hear him. He did not doubt she would go even further.
----
Solidarity
By Naomi Kritzer | 11234 words
Naomi Kritzer introduced us to Beck Garrison and her seastead home in our May/June 2012 issue and then shared with us the story of filming High Stakes in the
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