Parable of the Talents

packs, and we weren't yet low on money. But I wanted to begin at once to reach out to peo­ple. Why not stop for a day on our way to Portland and leave a few words behind in this old gray house? It was good practice, if nothing else.

We worked hard and got the garden cleaned up. Len mut­tered and complained, but I didn't get the impression that she was really suffering. In fact, she seemed interested in what she was doing and content to be doing it, although she complained about bugs and worms, about the way the weeds smelled, about the way the damp earth smelled, about getting dirty. . . .

I realized that while Len had talked about experiences with her family and with the servants and experiences with her kidnappers and with living on her own, scavenging and stealing, she's never talked about working. She must have done some small jobs for food, but working seems still to be a novelty for her. I'll have to see that she gets more experience so that even if she decides to go off on her own, she'll be better able to take care of herself.

Later in the day, when we had finished the weeding, the woman—who told us her name was Nia Cortez—gave us a plate of three kinds of sandwiches. There was egg, toasted cheese, and ham. And there was a bowl of strawberries, a bowl of oranges, and a pitcher of lemonade sweetened with honey. Nia sat with us on her side porch, and I got the im­pression that she was lonely, shy, and still more than a little afraid of us. What a solitary place the old house was, dropped amid grassy hills.

'This is beautiful country,' I said. 'I sketch a little. These rolling hills, blond grasses, and green trees make me want to sit drawing all day.'

'You can draw?' Nia asked me with a little smile.

And I took my sketchpad from my pack and began to draw not the rolling hills but Nia's own plump, pleasant face. She was in her late forties or early fifties and had dark brown hair streaked with gray. Drawn back into a long, thick horsetail, it hung almost to her waist. Her plumpness had helped her avoid wrinkles, and her smooth skin was tanned a good even brown—a nice, uncomplicated face. Her eyes were as clear as a baby's, and the same dark brown as most of her hair. Drawing someone gives me an excellent excuse to study them and let myself feel what it seems to me that they feel. That's what sharing is, after all, and it comes to me whether I want it or not. I might as well use it. In a rough and not altogether dependable way, draw­ing a person helps me become that person and, to be hon­est, it helps me manipulate that person. Everything teaches.

She was lonely, Nia was. And she was taking an uncom­fortable interest in me-as-a-man. To curb that interest, I turned to Len, who was watching everything with sharp, in­telligent interest. 'Wrap up a couple of sandwiches for me, would you?' I asked her. 'I'd like to finish this while the light is right.'

Len gave me a sidelong glance and used paper napkins to wrap two sandwiches. Nia, on the other hand, looked at Len almost as though she had forgotten her. Then, in a moment of confusion, she looked down at her hands—tools of work, those hands. She seemed more contained, more restrained when she looked at me again.

I didn't hurry with the drawing. I could have finished it much more quickly. But working on it, adding detail, gave me a chance to talk about Earthseed without seeming to proselytize. I quoted verses as though quoting any poetry to her until one verse caught her interest. That she could not conceal from me. To her credit, it was this verse:

'To shape God

With wisdom and forethought

To benefit your world,

Your people,

Your life.

Consider consequences.

Minimize harm.

Ask questions.

Seek answers.

Learn.