Octavia Butler - Parable 01 - Parable of the Sower.pdf - Octavia Butler - widez2

Parable of the

Sower

by Octavia Butler

Theodysseyofonewomanwhoistwiceas feelinginaworldthathasbecomedoubly dehumanized.Thetimeis20

25;theplaceis California,wheresmallwalledcomunitiesmustprote ct themselves fromdesperate hordes of

scangersandroamingbandsofdrugaddicts.Whe nonesuch community is overrun, LaurenOlamina,an18-yea

r-oldblackwoman,setsoff onfoot,movingnorthalongthedangerous coastalhighways.Laurenisa"sharer,"one

whosuffers from hyperempathy -- the ability to feel others' pain as well ash erown.

"Butler's spare, vivid prose style invites comparison with thelikes of Kate Wilhelm and Ursula Le Guin."

--Kirkus

"Moving, frightening, funnyand eerily beautiful." --The Washington PostGeneralFiction ScienceFiction

2024

Prodigy is, at its essence, adaptability andpersistent,positiveobsession.Withoutpersistence, whatremainsis

anenthusiasmofthemoment.Without adaptability, what rem ains may bechanneledintodestructivefanaticism.

Withoutpositive obsession, therei snothingat all. EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

byLaurenOyaOlamina

Parable of the Sower

All that you touch

Page 1

YouChange.

All thatyou Change

Changesyou.

The only lasting truth

IsChange.

God

IsChange.

EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

SATURDAY, JULY 20, 2024

I had my recurring dream last night. I guess I should have expected it. Itcomesto me when Istruggle--

whenI twist on my own personalhookand try to pretend that nothingunusual ishappening. It comes to me

when I try to be my father's daughter.

Today is our birthday-- my fifteenth and my father's fifty-fifth. Tomorrow, I'll try to please him-- him

and the community and God. So last night, I dreamed a reminder that it's all a lie. I think I need to writea

boutthedreambecausethisparticularliebothersmeso much.

I'm learningto fly,to levitate myself. No one is teaching me. I'm just learningonmy own, little by little,

dream lesson bydream lesson. Not a very subtle image, but a persistent one. I've had many lessons, and

I'm better at flying than I used to be. I trust my ability more now, but I'm still afraid. I can't quite control

my directionsyet.

Ileanforwardtowardthedoorway.It'sadoorway liketheonebetweenmyroomandthehall.Itseemsto be a long

way fromm e, but I lean toward it. Holding my body stiff and tense, I let go of whatever I'm grasping,

whateverhas kept me from rising or falling so far. And I lean into the air,straining upward, not moving

upward, but not quite falling down either. ThenI do begin to move, as though toslideontheairdriftingafewfe

etabovethefloor,caught betwee nterrorand joy.

I drift toward the doorway. Cool, pale light glows from it. Then I slide a little to the right; and a little

more.IcanseethatI'mgoingtomissthedoorandhit the wall beside it, but I can't stop or turn. I drift away

from the door,a way from the cool glowintoanotherlight.

Thewallbeforemeisburning.Firehassprungfromnowhere, hase aten in through the wall, hasbegun

toreachtowardme,reachforme.Thefirespreads.Idrift into it. It blazes upa round me. I thrashand scramble

and try to swim backout of it, grabbinghandfulsofairandfire,kicking,burning!Darkness. PerhapsIawakea

little.Idosometimeswhenthefire swallows me. That's bad .WhenI wakeup all the way, I can't get back to

sleep. I try, but I've neverbeenableto.

Page 2

This time I don't wakeupall the way. I fade into thesecondpartofthedream--thepartthat'sordinary andreal,

thepartthatdidhappenyearsagowhenIwas little, though at the time it didn't seem to matter.

Darkness.

Darknessbrightening.

Stars.

Starscastingtheircool,pale,glintinglight.

"Wecouldn'tseesomanystarswhenIwaslittle,"my stepmother say sto me. She speaks in Spanish,herown

firstlanguage.Shestandsstillandsmall,looking up at the broad sweep of the Milky Way. She andIhavegone

outafterdarktotakethewashing downfromtheclothesline.Thedayhasbeenhot,as

usual, and weboth like the cooldarkness of early night. There'snomoon, but we can see very well. The

sky is full of stars.

The neighborhood wallisa massive, looming presencenearby. I see it as a crouchinganimal, perhapsabo

ut to spring, more threatening than protective. But my stepmother is there, andsheisn't afraid. I stay close

to her. I'm seven years old.

I look up at the stars and thedeep, black sky. "Whycouldn'tyouseethestars?"Iaskher."Everyonecansee

them." I spe ak in Spanish, too, as she's taught me. It'san intimacysomehow.

"City lights," she says. "Lights, progress, growth, all those things we're too hot and toopoor to bother

withanymore."Shepauses."WhenIwasyourage, mymothertoldmethatthestars--thefewstarswe couldsee--w

erewindowsintoheaven.WindowsforGod to loo kthrough to keep an eye onus. I believed her for almost a

year." My stepmother hands me anarmloadofmyyoungestbrother'sdiapers.Itakethem, walk back toward

theh ouse where she has left her big wicker laundry basket, and pile the diapers atopthe rest of the clothe

s. The basket is full. I look to see that my stepmother is not watching me, then let myself fall backward

onto thesoft mound of stiff, cleanclothes. For a moment, the fallislikefloating.

I lie there, lookingupat the stars. I pick out some of

theconstellationsandnamethestarsthatmakethem up. I've learned them from ana stronomy book that

belonged to my father's mother.

Iseethesuddenlightstreakofameteorflashingwestwarda cross the sky. I stare after it, hoping toseeanother.

ThenmystepmothercallsmeandIgo backtoher.

"Thereare city lights now," I say to her. "They don'thidethestars."

Sheshakesherhead."Therearen'tanywherenearas manya stherewere. Kids today havenoidea what a blaze

of light citiesused to be--andnot thatlongago."

"I'd rather have thestars," I say.

"The stars are free." She shrugs. "I'd ratherhave

the city lights back myself, the sooner the better. But we can afford thestars."

Page 3

A gift of God

Maysearunreadyfingers.

EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

SUNDAY, JULY 21, 2024

At least three years ago, my father's God stoppedbeingmyGod.Hischurchstoppedbeingmychurch.And

yet, today, because I'm a coward, I let myself be

initiated into that church. I let my father baptizemein all three namesof that Godwhoisn't mineany more.

MyGodhasanothername.

We got upearly this morningbecause we had to go across town to church. Most Sundays, Dad holdschu

rchservicesinourfrontrooms.He'saBaptist minister,andeventhoughnotallofthepeoplewho livewithinourneigh

borhoodwallsareBaptists, thosewhofeeltheneedtogotochurcharegladtocome tou s. That way they don't

have to riskgoingoutsidewherethingsaresodangerousandcrazy.It's bad enough that some people-- my

father for one--havetogoouttoworkatleastonceaweek.Non eof us goes out to school any more. Adults

getnervousaboutkidsgoingoutside.

But today was special. For today, my father madearrangementswithanotherminister--afriendofhis whostill

hadarealchurchbuildingwitharealbaptistery.

Dadoncehadachurchjustafewblocksoutsideourwall. He began it befo re there were so many walls. But

after it had been slept in by the homeless, robbed, and vandalized several times, someonepouredgasoline

inandarounditandburneditdown. Sevenofthehomelesspeoplesleepinginsideonthat last night burne dwith it.

Butsomehow,Dad'sfriendReverendRobinsonhas managedtokeephischurchfrombeingdestroyed.

We rode our bikesto it thismorning-- me, two of mybrothers,fourotherneighborhoodkidswhowereready

to be baptize d, plus my father and some other neighborhoodadultsriding shotgun. All the adults were arm

ed. That'sthe rule. Goout in a bunch, andgoarmed.

Thealternativewastobebaptizedinthebathtubat home.Thatwouldhavebeencheaperandsaferandfine with

me. I said so, but noone paid any attention to me. To the adults, goingo utside to a real churchwaslike

steppingbackintothegoodolddayswhen therewerechurchesallovertheplaceandtoomany lightsandgasolinew

asforfuelingcarsandtrucksinstead of for torching things. They neve rmiss achancetorelivethegoodolddayso

rtotellkidshow greatit'sgoingtobewhenthecountrygetsbackon itsfeetandgoodtimescomeback.

Page 4

Yeah.

Touskids--mostofus--thetripwasjustan adventure,anexcusetogooutsidethewall.We wouldbebaptizedout

ofdutyorasakindofinsuran ce, but most of us aren't that much concerned with religion. I am, but then I

have a different religion.

"Why take chances," Silvia Dunn said to me a fewdaysago."Maybethere'ssomethingtoallthisreligion stuff."

Her parents thought there was, so she waswithus.

MybrotherKeithwhowasalsowithusdidn'tshareany of my beliefs. He just didn't care. Da dwanted him to

be baptized, sowhat the hell. There wasn't much that Keith did care about. He liked to hang outwithhisfri

endsandpretendtobegrownup,dodge workanddodgeschoolanddodgechurch.He'sonlytwelve, the oldest of

my threeb rothers. I don't like him much, but he's my stepmother's favorite. Threesmartsonsandonedumb

one,andit'sthedumb oneshelovesbest.

Keith lookedaround more thananyone as we rode. His ambition, if you couldcall it that, is to get out of

theneighborhoodandgotoLosAngeles.He'snevertoo clear abou twhat he'll do there. He just wants to go to

the big city and make big money. According to my father, the bigcity isacarcasscoveredwith too many

maggots. I think he's right, though not all the maggots are in L.A. They're here, too.

But maggots tendnot to be early-morning types.Werodepastpeoplestretchedout,sleepingonthe sidewal

ks,andafewjustwakingup,buttheypaid noattentiontous.Isawatleastthreepeoplewhoweren't goin gto wake

up again, ever. Oneof them

washeadless.Icaughtmyselflookingaroundforthehead. After that, I tried not to look around at all.

A woman, young, naked, and filthy stumbled along pastus. I got a look at her slack expressionandreali

zedthatshewasdazedordrunkorsomething.

Maybeshehadbeenrapedsomuchthatshewascra zy. I'd heard stories of that happening. Or maybeshewas

justhighondrugs.Theboysinourgroupalmost fell off their bikes, sta ring at her. What wonderful religious tho

ughts they would behavingforawhile.

Thenakedwomanneverlookedatus.Iglanced backafterwe'dpassedherandsawthatshehad settleddowninthe

weedsagainstsomeoneelse's neighborhoodwall.

Alotofourridewasalongoneneighborhoodwall afteranother;someablocklong,sometwoblocks,some five. . .

. Up toward the hills there wer ewalledestates--onebighouseandalotofshackylittledependencies where the

servants lived. We didn't pass anything like that today. In fact we passed a coupleofneighborhoodssopo

orthattheirwallswere made u pof unmortared rocks, chunks of concrete, and trash. Thentherewere the

pitiful, unwalled residentialareas. A lot of the housesweretrashed--burned,vandalized,infestedwithdrunkso

rdruggies or squatted-in by homeless families with their filthy, gaunt, half-naked children. Their kids were

wideawakeandwatchingusthismorning.Ifeel sorry for the little ones, but the ones my agea ndoldermakeme

nervous.Weridedownthemiddleof thecrackedstreet,andthekidscomeoutandstand alongthecurbtostareatus.

Theyjuststandand

stare. I think if therewere only oneortwo of us,orif they couldn't seeour guns, they might try to pull us

downandstealourbikes,ourclothes,ourshoes,whateve r. Then what? Rape? Murder? Wecouldwinduplike

thatnakedwoman,stumblingalong,dazed, maybe hurt, sure to attract dangerous attention unlessshecould

stealsomeclothing. I wishwecouldhavegivenhersomething.

Page 5

Octavia Butler - Parable 01 - Parable of the Sower.pdf

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