by Ian Wallace
Warily I ventured: “You aren’t being skeptical?”
“Not at all,” declared Grayle, his mouth corners quirking upward a bit. “But I am trying to get around to Thoth.”
“Sorry. Carry on.”
“It seems that within the religion of the New Serapis a king can choose any god he may wish to be the patron of his people; and customarily then that god’s consort-goddess becomes the matron for the women. As one might expect, the emperor of the proud Kazans chose Horus for their god and Isis for their goddess. To complete one’s identification with one’s god, it is customary for each people to add its own divine subspecies name to our common croyd-designation; and so the species-subspecies name of the Kazans is croyd Horus—”
“—while the Caerleons are croyd Thoth?”
The Grayle grin broke open again. “Since you cannot read my mind, you are as swift as I might wish. Or can you read my mind?”
“I am not reading your mind. Tell me about Thoth.”
“Our missionary Merleon—”
“He is alive?”
“Barely. May I continue?”
“Pray do. Apologies.”
“He told my father King Otter that Thoth is the subtlest of all the gods, one who uses his head as well as his heart. And this concept my father liked passing well, although in practice he used his head or he used his heart but not both together; and so do I like it, and my own practice is what it may be. And so we are croyd Thoth.” He paused, frowning a little. “That is, most of us are.”
“Pelleon is not. And neither is Queen Gueraine.”
Grayle was on his feet, just like that—light-footed, lithearmed, dangerous.
I said quietly: “I am from Thoth.” And I disappeared and reappeared.
Reassured, Grayle sank back, his mouth rueful. “You have touched,” he admitted, “on a very sore point. May we talk about it? I have not talked about it with anyone, Merleon being the way he is—”
There came a stately rap on a portal: one, two, three. Grayle glanced at me: I disappeared. “Come in,” said Grayle.
A varlet entered through the distant door. “Sire, it is the seigneur Pelleon.”
“Send him in, and gladly.”
The varlet departed. Pelleon entered, clad now in courtly clothing. Advancing lithe-rapid to the throne, he knelt on one knee at the feet of his liege, kissing Grayle *s great ring.
Grayle said with a smile that was somewhere between friendship and love: “Get up, my brother, and embrace me.” And they both arose and embraced.
“Pray seat thee,” invited Grayle, waving at my apparently empty chair—which I hurriedly vacated.
Pelleon disposed himself therein with the unstudied grace of a panther. “Sire, I have come to report.”
“Report, then. It is a good excuse for talking.”
“Sire, I went at thy command to the dungeon of the seigneur Gelt of Galt, and I informed him that he must pay his taxes or show cause why not to thee through me. And he waxed wroth, and he caused two varlets to take me by the arms with intent to cast me into jail. So after that, poor fellows, I made the point again full gently to Seigneur Gelt. Whereupon four knights attended by ten men-at-arms entered and set upon me. To make it short, I have brought back with me the assurance of the seigneur Gelt of Galt that his taxes will be forwarded to thee within a fortnight; his sword is in my room as pledge. And I pray that my next mission may be more challenging.”
“Thou tell’st it crisply, as always,” commented Gray le, scratching the top of his head with a forefinger. “Our chroniclers will be hard put to it to amass famous tales of thee.”
“Sire, I put faith in their low talents.”
“I have no immediate mission for thee, but I will think of something.” The king leaned forward a little: “Dost fret to learn that thou must linger here?”
Pelleon flushed, but he replied steadily: “I praise my lord Thoth and my king Grayle that I shall be permitted to pleasure me here with thee and with my lady the queen.” He paused. He cleared his throat. He flushed more deeply and was silent.
Grayle leaned back on his throne, plucking at his lower lip. He murmured: “Merleon used to tell me about something he called Freudian slips of the tongue—”
Stiffening, Pelleon said solidly: “I think that for the first time I must lay the issue on the table in order to kill it. Thou knowest that I worship the queen. And that is all.”
Grayle, coming to some kind of resolve, faced Pelleon earnestly. “My brother, we love each other, and we love the queen; but most of all, we love our Council Table and our dream and our land which together we have unified under Thoth.”
Pelleon, fervently: “On the matter of the unification—mostly thou, not I.”
“I on the initiating and the attaining, but thou and I on the establishing and expanding and securing.”
“Thou’rt right that I love the things you mentioned in the priorities you noted.”
“The other things more than the queen thou worshipst?”
Pelleon held the king’s eyes. “I do not see a choice. But if there were a choice—more than the queen.”
“Now listen, Pelleon. I know that thou art a croyd Horus; and my lady queen, whose mother was a croyd Isis, has never fully reconciled herself to Thoth or to his consort-goddess Maath. Art thou sure that thou comprehendest the potency of this mixed-up god brew?”
Jaw taut, Pelleon asserted: “I have adopted Thoth, and I am loyal to him because he is the god of my king.”
Grayle straightened, laid his hands upon his thighs, and regarded the massive distant doorway. “Then,” he said, “let us put it more directly. I respect the lady-worship that thou accordest my queen. And candidly, Pelleon, if it were more than that, privately I would stay blind, for a man is a man and a woman is a woman and I am often away at wars, and besides, she does not really love me, she only likes me well. What I may feel for her is here inconsequential. But equally inconsequential is what I have just said.” His soul burned in the fierce eyes that he turned on Pelleon: “What is consequential is our kingdom and our people and our dream, and these are all one, wherefore the copula is one. And thou shalt not jeopardize this dream!”
They held hard gaze together.
Pelleon declared with ardor: “Grayle, never have I touched her or offered to touch her; never has she invited or encouraged „„ »> me.
A few moments later Grayle leaned back, closing his eyes. “Pelleon,” he said quietly, “I believe thee. Just remember two things. First, if that ever changes, it will become known, and our people are fetish-minded, and our dream will perish with the fetish of the queenly saintliness—and our dream must not perish.”
His eyes came open, they were full on Pelleon. “And second—if the first is not enough—if that ever changes, no matter how secretly, it will become known, and our Gueraine will perish hideously at the hands of the people who serve the old cruel law.”
The silence was very long.
Pelleon cleared his throat, raised his chin, and stated simply: “It will not happen, my brother.”
Imperiously Grayle stood. “As a croyd, I am not selfish and I believe in the consummation of true love. But as this king, I command thee to be wary of the god-mix!”
With natural dignity, Pelleon stood and told him: “I will be wary of the god-mix.”
They compelled each other…
King Grayle’s face went into an easy smile, and he came forward to embrace his adopted brother.
Pelleon embraced him. I knew that soul-noble Pelleon was totally sincere in this.
Pelleon gravely departed.
I tossed toward Thoth a recommendation that Grayle be truly my father. But on the other hand, if my father were Pelleon…
Heavily said Grayle: “I do not believe him.”
Half-heartedly I defended Pelleon: “He was entirely sincere.”
“Of course, because he believes himself. But love is love, and he is of Horus, and she is of Isis.”
Grayle’s fist began a slow, rhythmic beat on a throne arm, and aloud he meditated: “If I command him to desist, or send him away, he will obey—and both of them will die of heartbreak, and I love them both.
“If I warn him to desist—but I have just warned him to desist; but he is evasive with himself, and in fact he will not desist because he cannot—this is greater than he, and that is very great.
“If I fight him, either he kills me, which ends my dream, or I kill him, which ends my love and theirs.
“I can neither divorce her nor clamp a chastity belt about her loins, for either would dishonor her, and either would be known.
“If I let it go to consummation, it will be discovered and I will have to burn her. Or if I bless it publicly, I will be ridiculed for a royal cuckold and my dream will die. If I were a small man, I could simply bless it; but I am a king, and my dream would die.
“And as for trying to persuade or command her—” The fist stopped beating, the hand spread hard-hopelessly.
“Do you see, Pan? It is a totally enthralled situation. No trio was ever trapped so neatly, or with such vast consequences hanging by—well, by the trivial testicles and ovaries that command a man and woman beyond their spiritual power to bypass.
“Pan, I confess I do not understand this—I mean, I do not think I could be trapped by such a compulsion in myself if I knew the terror of the consequences. I am no saint, I have strayed among beds—and the consequences of one of these pleasurings may turn out tragic—but never have I gone straying when I knew that the long-range outcomes would be bad. But he knows, and she knows—and yet they will, they will—” His fist resumed the beat.
I queried: “Have you consulted your mentor Merleon on this?”
He laughed without mirth. “My revered mentor is caught in the same sort of trap—and in his sixties! For years he has been a besotted love-prisoner of a nymph called Ninevé, she keeps him in her ornate cavern along with a variety of loves of all ages, she visits each of them at her pleasure and she keeps them enthralled with her eyes between visits. Pan, what is this blood-bubbly that soars to high heaven and yet demands such clownish behavior for its consummation?” It was not rhetorical; he was pleading for reply.
I frowned somber. Presently I ventured: “Objectively it is comical, but it is not meant to be objective. For two alone and in the dark, without mirrors, it is totally subjective, and it is high.” “Why high? Why is it subjectively high even when the cool-thought consequences are foolish or even disastrous?”
“Do you really want my analysis?”
“I asked.”
“The erotic need is in the glands, mediated by the brain. The erotic desire is in the mind, controlled by the brain. The high love is in the mind purely, but the mind of necessity refers it to the brain for interpretation; and the part of the brain that supplies the most clamant meaning is the part that mediates the glandular need. And so the kingdom fell.”
Meditative silence.
Grayle ventured: “Does all that make it bad or stupid?”
“Often bad. Often stupid. Often neither.”
Meditative silence.
“Queer brains we have,” Grayle murmured. “And if all this be so, why do these same croyd-minds damn to the fire a woman caught like any of them in such a crossfire?”
“Because, as a matter of self-preservative pride in one’s own mind-will, few humans will let themselves believe that they would be caught in this ornate trap; and therefore anyone whom they see so caught is damned as somehow subhuman.”
“They will not let themselves believe that they can be caught?”
“You don’t believe it of yourself. You said so.”
The smile-quirk came. “Touche. But on the other hand, I do not damn them”
“That is because you are really a thoth. But—can you save Gueraine and Pelleon?”
“No.”
“Have you prayed to Thoth?”
“Only for clarification. Not for intercession.”
“Why not for intercession?”
Grayle sat erect. “Thoth put me here in this place to do my best unaided. I would serve him ill were I to call him to my aid. More, I would be taking unfair advantage of other croyds who are not so aided. I must be a man of Thoth in my own right.”
I meditated the interesting argument. There had been a time when I too would have advanced it.
I said softly: “You really do believe in Thoth, don’t you.” Grayle frowned down. “To oversimplify, while being ultimately truthful—aye.”
I suggested: “It looks to me as though being an independent man in this quicksand will preserve your pride at the cost of destroying two loves and a dream.”
During many minutes the king quietly gnawed his knuckles. And then Grayle said, not looking up: “Thou art from Thoth. Teach me.”
Already Grayle was on a germinal track, and a souled one. Automatically, all whom he might ever touch or influence thereafter were entering or would enter upon alternate tracks at their own next if-nodes. For most of them, though, the new tracks would perfectly parallel the old tracks; for some, the new would perfectly duplicate the old for a while, until the crisis would come; and even then, psychic inertia would inhibit breakaway…
Thus—just as long before, only new for them because their souls had been injected into their tracks—young Pelleon encountered young Queen Gueraine in a small private garden that only she frequented, except when he also frequented it. There was a low old chapel in this garden.
They stood five paces apart. He gazed at her white forehead, her eyes being lowered. He said: “My lady, I have been too long away from thee.”
After a moment, low she returned: “Aye.”
He stood gawky, arms hanging. She too went awkward.
He cleared throat and said: “Thou knowest that I worship thee.”
“Aye.”
He wet his lips. He said then: “A worshipful knight should hide no thought from his queen.”
“Aye.” Her eyes came up a little, dwelling on his jaw.
He got his mouth open to say the next thing. He closed his mouth. Suddenly his chin hit his chest and he groaned: “Oh, my God.” Up came his chin, and he darted forward and seized her hand in both his hands.
Then her alarmed eyes met his. Not moving her hand, she protested: “My lord Pelleon!”
Sinking to both knees, he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.
She stood trembling, gazing down upon him.
Moving swiftly to him, she slipped a hand behind his neck and drew his head against her belly.
Long they stayed, not moving.
He told her belly brokenly: “Long have I worshiped thee. But I love thee.”
Blessedly his ears just heard the whispered answer.
Silence. Horus and Isis do not reason: rather, they know.
To her knees she went and pressed her lips against his.
After long embrace, they hugged them one to the other, and she told his ear: “Grayle will be away tonight. I will be in the Chapel of Maath.”
I watched the hidden varlet slip away to report to Scans.
I went away too.
The cavern of Ninevé was deep-hidden in the old-oak forest, and its entrance was barred by an immovable rock. Penetrating this rock, I wound down chthonic corridors until ultimately I came to the cell that housed Merleon.
I found the old priest of the New Serapis limp in an armchair. No sign of Ninevé.
In the mind of Merleon I spoke quietly. “Not to shock you, sir, I will tell you that I am a spirit of the air; and since we spirits are familiar to you, thus you will take me easy.”
Merleon, eyes closed, answered: “I think you are lying. Either you are my delusion, or else you are an alien mind occupying my brain. I warn you away from my pyriform cortex; it’s wide open and pretty wild.”
“Just now,” I commented, inspecting it, “wide open it is, but pretty mild—pooped, I would say. How did you ever get trapped into this?”
/> “Into Ninevé? Well, at first that seemed to take some doing; but now I realize that she—”
“This adventure, I mean. The whole Arcady thing. And why did you pick Caerleon for your territory?”
“Young man’s adventure,” Merleon reminisced. “I was sold on the New Serapis, it combined all the best of modern science with a psychically updated version of what used to be crudely called magic, all framed-and-decorated by the aesthetically fascinating god symbols of old Kamat. So naturally at eighteen I jumped at the chance to help convert a planet. As for Caerleon, I didn’t exactly pick it. I had asked for Kaza, but at my age I had no seniority; so they gave me a choice between Angouliers across the sea, there—Pelleon’s land—and this Caerleon. Well: I was not only a Serapian zealot but also an Arthurian romantic; and here was a chance for synthesis—so here I am.”
“In the Cavern of Ninevé.”
“I like it here—about every third night.”
“I congratulate you, sir, at your age. Why you so often?”
“The others have vigor. I have imagination.”
“I note that here you are addressing yourself rigorously to the eroticortical aspects of love, without troubling yourself about romantic idealism.”
“It is a perfectly Arthurian approach: remember your Mallory. However, sir—did I catch your name, if you have one?”
“Pan.”
“Sir Pan?”
“Pan.”
“However, Pan—I presume that your wry remark about me veiled an allusion to Gueraine and Pelleon.”
“Exactly.”
“They do contrast with Ninevé and Merleon, don’t they?”
“They do.”
“It’s a shame for Grayle, too. Were I with him, probably I could…But I’m not with him. And I could be, any time I might choose. But I’m not.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t choose.”
“Why not?”