“The psychology behind this thing fascinates me, so I trust you will permit me one more question: What difference does it make whether you slay him or Horus slays him? He will be just as dead either way.”
Wakim pauses, apparently considering the matter, as if for the first time.
“This thing is my mission, not his,” he says at length.
“He will be just as dead, either way,” Vramin repeats.
“But not by my hand.”
“True. But I fail to see the distinction.”
“So do I, for that matter. But it is I who have been charged with the task.”
“Perhaps Horus has also.”
“But not by my master.”
“Why should you have a master, Wakim? Why are you not your own man?”
Wakim rubs his forehead.
“I—do not—really—know… But I must do as I am told.”
“I understand,” says Vramin, and, while Wakim is thus distracted, a tiny green spark arcs between the tip of the poet’s cane and the back of Wakim’s neck.
He slaps at his neck then and scratches it. “What…?”
“A local insect,” says the poet. “Let us proceed to the door.”
The door opens before them, beneath the tapping of his cane, and its guards drowse before a brief green flare. Appropriating cloaks from two of them. Wakim and Vramin move on, into the center of the city.
The temple is easy enough to find. Entering it is another matter.
Here now, there are guards—drug-maddened—before the entrance.
They approach boldly and demand admission.
The eighty-eight spears of the Outer Guard are leveled at them.
“There will be no public adoration till the sundown rains,” they are told, amidst twitches.
“We shall wait.” And they do.
With the sundown rains, they join a procession of moist worshippers and enter the outer temple.
On attempting to go further they are brought to a halt by the three hundred fifty-two drug-maddened spearmen who guard the next entranceway.
“Have you the badges of inner-temple worshippers?” their captain inquires.
“Of course,” says Vramin, raising his cane.
And in the eyes of the captain they must have them, for they are granted entrance.
Then, drawing near the Inner Sanctum itself, they are halted by the officer in charge of the five hundred ten drug-maddened warriors who guard the way.
“Castrated or non-castrated?” he inquires.
“Castrated, of course,” says Vramin in a lovely soprano. “Give us entrance,” and his eyes blaze greenly and the officer draws back.
Entering, they spy the altar, with its fifty guardians and its six strange priests.
“There they are, upon the altar.”
“How shall we obtain them?”
“By stealth, preferably,” says Vramin, pushing his way nearer the altar, before the televised service begins.
“What sort of stealth?”
“Perhaps we can substitute a pair of our own and wear the sacred ones out of here.”
“I’m game.”
“Then, suppose they were stolen five minutes ago?”
“I understand you,” says Wakim and bows his head, as in adoration.
The service begins.
“Hail to Thee, Shoes,” lisps the first priest, “wearer of feet…”
“Hail!” chant the other five.
“Good, kind, noble and blessed Shoes.”
“Hail!”
“…which came to us from chaos…”
“Hail!”
“…to lighten our hearts and uplift our soles.”
“Hail!”
“Oh Shoes, which have supported mankind since the dawn of civilization…”
“Hail!”
“ultimate cavities, surrounders of feet.”
“Hail!”
“Hail! Wondrous, battered Buskins!”
“We adore thee.”
“We adore thee!”
“We worship thee in the fulness of thy Shoeness!”
“Glory!”
“Oh archetypal footgear!”
“Glory!”
“Supreme notion of Shoes.”
“Glory!”
“What could we do without thee?”
“What?”
“Stub our toes, scratch our heels, have our arches go flat.”
“Hail!”
“Protect us, thy worshipers, good and blessed Footgear!”
“Which came to us from chaos…”
“…on a day dark and drear…”
“…out of the void, burning—”
“…but not burnt… Thou hast come to comfort and support us…”
“Hail!”
“…upright, forthright and forward forever!”
“Forever!”
Wakim vanishes.
A cold, wild wind begins.
It is the change-wind out of time; and there is a blurring upon the altar.
Seven previously drug-maddened spearmen lie sprawled, their necks at unusual angles.
Suddenly, beside Vramin, Wakim says, “Pray, find us a gateway quickly!”
“You wear them?”
“I wear them.”
Vramin raises his cane, pauses.
“There will be a brief delay, I fear,” and his gaze grows emerald.
All eyes in the temple are suddenly upon them.
Forty-three drug-maddened spearmen shout a battle cry as one, and leap forward.
Wakim crouches and extends his hands.
“Such is the kingdom of heaven,” comments Vramin, perspiration like absinthe glittering coldly upon his brow. “I wonder how the video tapes will show this thing.”
Weft and Wand
What is this place?” Horus cries out.
The Steel General stands braced, as for an anticipated shock, but there is none.
“We are come to a place that is not a world, but simply a place,” says the Prince Who Was A Thousand. “There is no ground to stand upon, nor need of it here. There is little light, but those who dwell in this place are blind, so it does not matter. The temperature will suit itself to any living body, because those who dwell here wish it so. Nourishment is drawn from this air like water, through which we move, so there is no need to eat. And such is the nature of this place that one need never sleep here.”
“It sounds rather like Hell,” Horus observes.
“Nonsense,” says the Steel General. “My own existence is just so, as I carry my environment around with me. I am not discomfited.”
“Hell,” Horus repeats.
“At any rate, take my hands,” says the Prince, “and I will guide you across the darkness and amid the glowing motes of light until we reach the ones I seek.”
They link hands, the Prince furls his cloak, and they drift through the twilitic landscape that is empty of horizon.
“And where is this place that is not a world?” asks the General.
“I do not know,” says the Prince. “Perhaps it only exists in some deep and shiny corner of my dark and dirty mind. All that I really know is the way to reach it.”
Falling, drifting a timeless time, they come at last to a tent like a gray cocoon, flickering, above/below/before them.
The Prince disengages his hands and places his fingertips upon its surface. It quivers then, and an opening appears, through which he passes, a “follow me” drifting back over his shoulder.
Brotz, Purtz and Dulp sit within, doing something which would be quite disgusting and unique by human standards, but which is normal and proper for them, since they are not human and have different standards.
“Greetings, smiths of Norn,” says the Prince. “I have come to obtain that which I ordered a time ago.”
“I told you he’d come!” cries one of the grayish mounds, twitching its long, moist ears.
“I acknowledge that you were correct,” answers another.
“Yes. Where’s
that frawlpin? I ought to refrib it once more, before…”
“Nonsense! It’s perfect.”
“It is ready, then?” inquires the Prince.
“Oh, it’s been ready for ages. Here!”
The speaker draws a length of cold blue light from a sheath of black fabric and offers it to the Prince. The Prince takes it into his hand, inspects it, nods and replaces it within the sheath.
“Very good.”
“…And the payment?”
“I have them here.” The Prince withdraws a dark case from beneath his cloak and places it in the air before him, where of course it hangs suspended. “Which of you will be first?”
“He will.”
“She will.”
“It will.”
“Since you cannot decide, I will have to do the choosing myself.”
The Prince opens the case, which contains surgical apparatus and an extrusible operating light, as all three creatures begin to quiver in their places.
“What is happening?” inquires Horus, who has entered now and stands beside him.
“I am about to operate on these fellows, and I will require your enormous strength in assistance, as well as the General’s.”
“Operate? To what end?” asks the General.
“They have no eyes,” says the Prince, “and they would see again. I’ve brought three pairs with me and I’m going to install them.”
“This would require extensive neurological adaptation.”
“This has already been done.”
“By whom?”
“Myself, the last time I gave them eyes.”
“What became of those?”
“Oh, they seldom last. After a time, their bodies reject them. Generally, though, their neighbors blind them.”
“Why is that?”
“I believe it is because they go about boasting how, among all their people, only they are able to see. This results in a speedy democratization of affairs.”
“Ghastly!” says the General, who has lost count of his own blindings. “I’m minded to stay and fight for them.”
“They would refuse your assistance,” says the Prince. “—Would you not?”
“Of course,” says one of them.
“We would not employ a mercenary against our own people,” says another.
“It would violate their rights,” says the third.
“What rights?”
“Why, to blind us, of course. What sort of barbarian are you?”
“I withdraw my offer.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“What assistance will you require?” asks Horus.
“The two of you must seize upon my patient and hold him, while I perform the surgery.”
“Why is that?”
“Because they are incapable of unconsciousness and no local anesthetics will affect them.”
“You mean you are going to perform delicate surgery on them just as they are—exotic surgery, at that?”
“Yes. That is why I will need two of you to immobilize each patient. They are quite strong.”
“Why must you do this thing?”
“Because they want it done. It is the price agreed upon for their labors.”
“Whatever for? A few weeks’ seeing? And then—what is there to see in this place, anyhow? It is mainly dust, darkness, a few feeble lights.”
“It is their wish to look upon each other—and their tools. They are the greatest artisans in the universe.”
“Yes, I want to see a frawlpin again—if Dulp hasn’t lost it.”
“And I, a gult.”
“I, a crabwick.”
“That which they desire costs them pain, but it will give them memories to last for ages.”
“Yes, it is worth it,” says one, “so long as I am not the first.”
“Nor I.”
“Nor I.”
The Prince lays out his instruments in the middle of the air, sterilizes them and points a finger.
“That one,” he says, and the screaming begins.
The General turns off his hearing and much of his humanity for the next several hours. Horus is reminded of his father’s study; also of Liglamenti, on D’donori. The Prince’s hands are steady.
When it is done, the creatures have bandages over their faces, which they may not remove for a time. All three are moaning and crying out. The Prince cleans his hands.
“Thank you, Prince Who Was A Surgeon,” says one of the creatures.
“…for this thing you have done for us.”
“…and for us.”
“You are welcome, goodly Norns. Thank you for a wand well made.”
“Oh, it was nothing.”
“…Let us know whenever you need another.”
“…And the price will be the same.”
“Then I shall be going now.”
“Good-bye.”
“Farewell.”
“Adieu.”
“Good seeing to you, my fellows.”
And the Prince takes Horus and the General in hand, setting all feet upon the road to Marachek, which is but one step away.
Behind him there is more wailing, and things quite normal and proper for Norns are quickly and frantically done.
They are back in the Citadel almost before Horus, who knows what it is, has succeeded in drawing the blue wand from its sheath at the Prince’s side.
It is a duplicate of the weapon which sun-eyed Set had used against the Nameless, a thousand years before.
The Temptation of Saint Madrak
Madrak has one chance of living through the onslaught. He throws his staff and dives forward.
The choice is the right one.
He passes beneath the dog as it leaps, snapping at his staff.
His hand falls upon the strange fabric of the glove the creature had been worrying.
Suddenly, he is comforted by a confidence in his invincibility. This is something even the narcotic had not fully instilled in him.
Quickly he determines the cause and slips the glove upon his right hand.
The dog turns as Typhon rears.
The black shadow falls between them.
Tickling, stirring, the glove reaches to Madrak’s elbow, spreads across his back, his chest.
The dog lunges and then howls, for the dark horse shadow comes upon it. One head hangs lifeless as the others snarl.
“Depart, oh Madrak, to the appointed place!” says Typhon. ”I shall occupy this creature to its destruction and follow in my own way!”
The glove moves down his left arm, covers the hand, spreads across his chest, reaches down to his waist.
Madrak, who has always been mighty, suddenly reaches forth and crushes a stone within his right hand.
“I fear it not, Typhon. I’ll destroy it myself.”
“In my brother’s name, I bid thee go!”
Bowing his head, Madrak departs. Behind him, the sounds of battle rage. He moves through the lair of the minotaur. He makes his way upward through the corridors.
Pale creatures with green, glowing eyes accost him. He slays them easily with his hands and proceeds.
When the next group of attackers moves upon him, he subdues them but does not slay them, having had time to think.
Instead he says:
“It might be good for you to consider the possibility of your having portions of yourselves which might withstand the destruction of your bodies, and to label these hypothetical quantities souls, for the sake of argument. Now then, beginning with the proposition that such—”
But they attack him again and he is forced to slay them all.
“Pity,” he says, and repeats the Possibly Proper Death Litany.
Proceeding upward, he comes at last to the appointed place.
And there he stands.
At the Gateway to the Underworld…
On Waldik…
“Hell hath been harrowed,” he says. “I am hal
f invincible. This must be the gauntlet of Set. Strange that it but half covers me. But perhaps I’m more a man than he was.” Stomach then regarded. “And perhaps not. But the power that lies in this thing…Mighty! To beat the filthy-souled into submission and effect their conversions—perhaps this is why it was rendered unto my hand. Is Thoth divine? Truly, I do not know. I wonder. If he is, then I wrong him by not delivering it. —Unless, of course, this be his secret will.” Regards hands enmeshed. “My power is now beyond measure. How shall I use it? All of Waldik might I convert with this instrument, given but time.” Then, “But he charged me with a specific task. —Yet…” Smile. (The mesh does not cover his face.) “What if he is divine? Sons who beget their fathers may well be. I recall the myth of Eden. I know this serpent-like glove may indicate the Forbidden.” Shrugs. “But the good which might be done…No! It is a trap! But I could beat the Words into their heads.…I’ll do it! ‘Though Hell gape wide,’ as Vramin says.”
But as he turns he is caught up in a vortex that sucks the words from his throat and casts him down a wide, blank, cold well.
Behind him, the shadows strive, Waldik gapes wide, and then he is gone, for the Prince has called him home.
Thundershoon
…But Wakim the Wanderer has donned the shoes, and he rises now to stand in the middle of the air, laughing. With each step that he takes, a sonic boom goes forth from the temple to mingle with the thunder. The warriors and the worshipers bow down.
Wakim runs up the wall and stands upon the ceiling.
A green door appears at Vramin s back.
Wakim descends and steps through it.
Vramin follows.
“Hail!” suggests one of the priests.
But the drug-maddened spearmen turn upon him and rend him.
One day, long after their miraculous departure, a galaxy of mighty warriors will set forth upon the Quest of the Holy Shoes.
In the meantime, the altar is empty, the evening rains come down.
Winning the Wand
On Marachek, in the Citadel, stand they all, there, as backward reel their minds.
“I’ve the shoes,” says Wakim. “You may have them for my name.”
“I’ve the glove,” says Madrak and turns away his face.
“…And I’ve the wand,” says Horus, and it falls from his hand.
“It did not pass through me,” says the Prince, “because it is not formed of matter, nor any other thing over which you may exercise control.” And the mind of the Prince is closed to the inner eye of Horus.
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