I SHALL UTTERLY CONSUME ALL THINGS OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH: So I wrestle and wrestle with Satan; she assumes many forms and arguments over the endless weeks to follow, a falcon and a sage, a technician and a wild beast, a stone, a bone, a crone. And I come through all of these struggles and impositions with my belief, if not my virtue, intact until finally on the fortieth day (I believe that it is the fortieth but by this time my record’ keeping, needless to say, has become somewhat dishevelled) He appears Himself, a special appearance as guaranteed by all the apocrypha and looks at me lying on the desert floor in a rather exhausted condition and says, “Quartermain, what are you doing? Why have you done all of this to yourself?’’
“For the splendor,” I say. His form is ineffable and I will, hence, not attempt to describe it. “For the sacrifice and for the necessity, to commit myself to You as Your only begotten Son—”
He makes a dismissive gesture. “Do that in the temples,” He says. “It’s not necessary here, this is a confidential discussion.” He squats in clouds of glory, clasps his hands, spits into the sand. “No, really,” He says, “the outcome is impossibly humiliating and the question of Resurrection is still being debated. You have no assurance. All that awaits you are heat, dust, lepers, the misbegotten, the legions, the crucifix and a most miserably bleeding and sweaty ordeal. Why not get out now? You can call for an end to this ridiculous simulation and be resting comfortably in the recovery shack in just a few moments.”
“It isn’t really You,” I say grimly. “It’s him in another form. You’ve assumed another shape in order to tempt me. Get thee behind me, Satan.”
“Oh come on,” He says with a splendidly graceful gesture. “Really Quartermain, if you’ve gotten to the 39th day of this you ought to have more sophistication than that. We’re working together; we’re a team.”
I lick my burning lips. “Is that supposed to unsettle me?” I say. “I knew that all along and it’s merely another aspect of doubt. A Cult Leader must be able to subsume himself in mystery. It doesn’t change anything. I’m not unsettled at all.”
“Ah well,” He says, “ah well,” and rises from his crouch. “You are of strong stuff, Quartermain, or at least of stronger stuff than most of them, but if this doesn’t unsettle you, the ass certainly will. No creature of the twenty-second century is really equipped to ride upon an ass. For any considerable distance to be sure.”
‘Til deal with that when the time comes,” I say. “Right now I have another day on this bloody desert.”
“And a very good day to you indeed”He says, and disappears, leaving me to my various cogitations and moanings which, considering the thirst, heat, starvation, pain, and humility which have been invoked upon me, are considerable. It is very hard to take a sense of dignity from all of this, but astonishments, as I have perhaps brought Him to understand, are few.
COMFORT ME WITH APPLES: Long consultations with my Counselor resonate within memory as I founder in delirium on the desert floor. “You are an ambitious man, Quartermain,” she said to me. “There is a core of obsession within you which profoundly fails to intersect with the sense of the times. This is no century for ambition. The machinery, the engines of the night have overtaken us all; it is best perhaps to give one’s will to them. There are small escape hatches, possibilities offered: the lotteries, the Slaughtering Docks, the Technician’s License and the Cult Leaderships, but they are, as we know, largely illusory, rigged against achievement and functioning largely as safety valves. It would be far easier for you if you were to accept your condition, give up; easier for me too because predictably I have fallen in love with you and your ambition works against the small layers of peace we might create as insulation. Come on, Quartermain,” she said, offering me her hand, “come to me and rest. It really isn’t that bad once you accept the circumstances. The machines don’t want our souls, merely our respect.”
I looked upon her, my gentle and wise Counselor, assigned to me many years ago to give comfort to me as I was to give comfort to her, each of us Counselor to the other in a relationship alternately stratified and affectional. It would be easy, I thought, easy to take that acceptance which she offered, to give into the will of the machinery and the dark administrators who controlled the complex. For a passing moment I felt more profound than any I had ever known, but in the next instant I had passed through as I had done so many times, and knew that it was impossible. “It is impossible,” I said. “I want to be a Cult Leader. I want to have my servitors and the congregation; I have something to say, I want to disseminate that message. I do not want to give in, not when the will exists to be otherwise.”
“Vanity of vanities,” she said quietly, “all is vanity.”
“So true,” I said. “To give up is vanity, to struggle is vanity. To struggle is what I have elected.”
“You are a fool,” she said, “a self-dramatizing fool.” Her eyes were moist. “Come here,” she said, “look upon the city; all of the greys and greens. The walls of the city were erected to guard us against the monstrous, the truly insane, outside of those walls anything may happen —”
“Vanity of vanities,” I said. And thought of the desert outside those walls, the desert upon which, if I were strong enough, I would take the forty and assert the oath and return to toss one by one with casual strength all of the money changers from the temple. “The time, the season.”
Her hands upon me insistent, her voice against me insistent. “You are a fool, Quartermain,” she said, “and the price of your foolishness will be mightily extracted from you.
“Cult Leaders have their choice of women,” I point out.
FOR UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN: The fortieth day expires and, grumbling, Satan releases me; he has, after all, no choice according to the contract. I return to the city where food and water await me along with devotion of my followers, a small and hardy band who seem to have increased in my absence. They look at me with awe. “It wasn’t that difficult,” I say self-deprecatingly, “I was armored with the strength of my own innocence. Too, you have to consider the benefits.” Nonetheless they remain unshaken in their devotion. I have returned gaunt and bearded and it is possible that an aura of the divine clings to me although the secret is that it is not faith but cynicism which has gotten me through the ordeal. “Rabbi,” one of them says, “what do we do now?”
“We gather, we formalize, we recruit, we go upon the countryside, perform miracles, raise a dead man or two, redeem a harlot, comfort the sick, give grace to the graceless, find an ass, come into Jerusalem, attract the attention of the legions and so on and so forth,” I say. “Eventually, sooner than we would like, we get to the grimmer parts but that does not have to concern us now. In fact,” I say rising, “this does not have to concern us at all. Consider it merely as a journey, as a set of tasks to be completed for a pre-ordained goal.” For me, if not for you, I think.
“Did you wrestle out there, Rabbi? a boy asks, his eyes round and devoted.
“Like a son of a bitch,” I assure him.
UPON THIS ROCK: Peter, Paul, Mark, Simon Peter. Judas is the only problem; eventually I find a thin, sullen youth with a limp whose generalized rage seems easy enough, when the time comes, to direct toward betrayal. Assuming custody of the lot and giving them simple instruction I go upon the countryside. Loaves and fishes are easy, the Magdalene interlude only slightly embarrassing. (She misunderstands my motives initially. It has been so long since Counseling that I almost respond but fortunately hold myself in check and eventually the Magdalene understands.) Lazarus is noisome and disgusting, far fleshier and more odorous than might possible be inferred through the materials but discipline and a visualization of the many rewards of being a Cult Leader squeeze me through the vile episode. Peter follows me into the fields on the evening of this adventure and says, “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Quartermain?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I say. I should point out—if it is necessary to point it out—that the discipl
es, congregation, observers and hangers — on are all professionals from the twenty-second who function in Simulation; they have their own reasons for being on the scene. “That was all settled in the desert.”
“You seemed overcome with revulsion back there. And the really difficult stuff is still ahead.”
“Nothing to it,” I say. I give the trembling youth a clap on the shoulder. “After what I’ve been through already this is nothing.”
“Very well,” Peter says, “I’m just trying to help. We are disciples you know; we have that responsibility.”
“Oh I know that,” I say with a booming laugh. I am really quite giddy; who would not be, considering the situation? “I know you’re there to help. And the best way that you can help is by staying in place.”
“Certainly,” Peter says, “certainly, Rabbi,” but I detect a bit of sullenness in his posture and am given to understand, as I should have understood from the beginning, that my goals and those of the disciples are not necessarily confluent. They are, after all, creatures of the Simulator and hence of the State. One must embrace this understanding and after a time one does.
IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE WORD: The ass, a miserable creature, is taken from pasture and I am lashed on. Somewhat awkwardly I ride into Jerusalem surrounded by my ragged troops. (The texts give no hint of the essential indignity and anonymity of the enterprise; there are many riding on asses toward Jerusalem in this time. Only in retrospect did I assume stature.) I find crude quarters; Judas disappears upon predictable, mysterious business. The Magdalene comes to visit me during this interval in my tent, and when she drops her cowl I see to my surprise that she is my Counselor.
“Well, what did you expect?” she says. “There’s a long commitment here. I had to come and be with you to see it through. Now come home before it’s too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s time to stop. This is ridiculous, Quartermain. You’ve done very well up to this point but now the nails and the torment begin. You haven’t really begun to suffer.”
“Are you working for the Simulators?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, tossing her head in a gesture not unlike that of Satan a long time ago although I do not, for an instant, confuse the two. “I’m working for no one. I care for you. I have your interests at heart. Listen, you’ve shown a lot of courage and you’ve carried this on far longer than almost anyone. We can have a nice life together. It isn’t so hard once you give up and accept the situation. And you’ve proven a good deal to yourself.”
“Leave now,” I say. “Leave before I become angry.”
“Come on,” she says, putting her hands on my shoulders. “Enter me. Let me show you what you’ll be missing. Cult leaders must remain chaste you know.”
“I must remain chaste,” I say. Her breasts suddenly appear. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to help you come to your senses before it’s too late, Quartermain. This is insane.” She rubs a breast against my nose. “Come on,” she says, “it gets much easier once you accept the truth.”
I hold her arms tightly, desperately wrench her away from me. She stumbles back. “Get out of here,” I shout, “get out of here right now!”
Her eyes are luminescent. “You’re really serious about this,” she says. “You really are. You believe in this —”
“Don’t you?” I say. “Don’t we all?”
“You fool,” she says, backing toward the tent flap, “don’t you know that no one has ever become a Cult Leader this way? They told me the truth and I’m risking everything by carrying it to you but there’s no other way. All of the Cult Leaders are State Employees, the stories of the Simulators are all lies, just to keep the masses in check, to make them believe there’s a way out. Now get out of this before it’s too late.”
“And you too,” I say, “you too. And after the life from which I saved you and the immortality you have been given. It is too unkind.”
“You’re mad, Quartermain,” the Magdalene says. “You’re filled with madness.”
“Get thee behind me,” I say and plunge toward her furiously, but the canvas drops and I am alone.
BEFORE THE COCK CROWS: The crowd—much larger than before and more respectably garbed — shouts for Barabbas and Pilate says to me in his heavy accent, “You see, it is quite impossible. I gave you a fair chance, however. You must admit that.”
I say nothing to him. There is nothing, after all, to say. I can hear Judas frantically counting his silver somewhere in the background. The crowd murmurs for the next step in the process and I move forward, lift my arms. “To the high place,” I say, “to the high place now.”
A blush spreads over Pilate’s features. He leans toward me and whispers, “I’ve been authorized to make you a final offer. We can get you out of here quickly. There’s no need for this, Quartermain. We’re all on your side and really you’ve done admirably until now, there’s no reason to suffer —”
“To the high place!” I scream and the soldiers seize me under the arms and take me away. There is an instant of hesitation as I brush through the crowd and for a harsh, shocking instant I fear that the soldiers too are authorized to make me a compromise but then common sense reasserts itself along with speed and I am carried away. Huge wooden blocks are fastened in place along my back. The soldiers cannot possible be part of an authorization. Not everyone can be in on this. They could not employ and manipulate thousands simply to divert one Quest. Or could they? The resources of the technicians are awesome. I may have misunderstood the situation.
WHY HAS THOU FORSAKEN ME? The thieves, chatty in their dilemma, toss insults back and forth over me as I hang in difficult posture. Flashes of color below give me hope that the casting of lots has begun. “Ain’t it a bitch?” one of the thieves says, “ain’t it just a merry bitch? The things a man gets put through,” and then he dies or at least he seems to die, his face slackens, drool appears, his body gives out and lies slack. “I had big plans,” the other thief confides to me, “I didn’t see no way to make it in the armies. But I guess there’s just no way for the common folk, eh chief?”
“Before this night is out you shall dwell with me in heaven,” I say.
“Ah,” the thief says, “the same old bullshit, that’s all you get.”
FORGIVE THEM! In the blood haze one of the hundred priests in the guise of a bird appears before me. “Quartermain,” he says, “I am prepared to make you a final offer. This is the last time. There is no Resurrection. There is no Church. There is nothing; you have been misled by the texts just like so many of them, so it would serve you to attend closely. We can get you out of here and make you a Lecturer in Metaphysics. With a high-level rating and much better domicile. Think of the comforts. Also the Counselor. She’s very emotionally tied to you.”
“Go away,” I say.
“Quartermain, you’re not being reasonable.”
“Go away.” The huge dark bird flutters, inclines. “I mean it,” I say. “I’m not going to sell out now. I’ve gone too far.”
“You’re crazy. There’s nothing beyond. Nothing.”
“There’s a Leadership.”
“You’ll be dead.”
“In the Simulators?”
“Truth,” the bird says. “This is no dream, you fool.”
“Go away,” I say for the third time. The bird shakes its huge head.
“You’re a fool. Quartermain, you could have had it all.”
“I have nothing if I yield. Upon this rock I will build my church.”
“You were warned,” the hundredth priest says and flies. Coma storms and lashed to the wood, I lose count of the breaths of my betrayal.
LIFT UP YOUR HEADS O YE GATES: The stone is rolled away on the third day but I am not there, of course. Nor on the fourth, fifth, or, tenth. On the fortieth they think to search the desert and there they find my bones, thus obviating any necessity for worship.
In the twenty-second you can’t take
anything seriously.
Playback
Did you ever read what they call Science Fiction? It’s a scream. It is written like this: “I checked out with K 19 on Alabaran III, and stepped out through the crummalite hatch on my 22 Model Sirius Hardtop. I cocked the timejector in secondary and waded through the bright blue manda grass. My breath froze into pink pretzels. I flicked on the heat bars and the Brylls ran swiftly on five legs using their other two to send out crylon vibrations. The pressure was almost unbearable, but I caught the range on my wrist computer through the transparent cysicites. I pressed the trigger. The thin violet glow was ice-cold against the rust-colored mountains. The Brylls shrank to half an inch long and I worked fast stepping on them with the poltext. But it wasn’t enough. The sudden brightness swung me around and the Fourth Moon had already risen. I had exactly four seconds to hot up the disintegrator and Google had told me it wasn’t enough. He was right.”
The Very Best of Barry N Malzberg Page 25