Creatures of Light and Darkness

by Roger Zelazny

  Vramin makes a daisy-beheading gesture with his cane, and the window is closed.

  “Anubis still lives,” says Madrak, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Obviously.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “We shall continue to study the functions of the House of the Dead.”

  “I wish to rest.”

  “Then do so. Find yourself a near chamber and retire. You know where the food is.”

  “Yes.”

  “Till later, then.”

  “Till later, Lord.”

  Madrak goes forth from the great Hall, and he wanders. He comes, after a time, to a chamber where the dead stand like statues. He seats himself among them. He speaks.

  “I was his faithful servant. Hear me, lady with the breasts like melons. —I was his faithful servant. The poet went to war with other Angels, knowing it went against his will. But he is forgiven and exalted. And where am I? Servant to a servant.”

  It is not fair.

  “I’m glad you agree with me. —And you there, fellow with the extra arms. Did you spread religion and morality? Did you single-handedly defeat monsters and wondrous beasts among the unenlightened?”

  Of course not.

  “So you see…” He slaps his thigh. “So you see, there is no justice, and virtue is constantly betrayed, befouled, imposed upon. Look what has become of the General, who devoted his life to humanity: Life took away his own humanity. Is that justice?”

  Hardly.

  “All comes to this, my brothers. We all become statues in the House of the Dead, regardless of the lives we led. The universe never thanks. The giver is never repaid. —Oh, You Who May Be, why did You make things to be this way—if You did make things to be this way, that is—why? I have tried to serve You and the Prince Your Agent. What has it gotten me? Coach fare and third-class accommodations. I am glad that Set battles the Nameless without the gauntlet of power—”

  “What?”

  And looking up, he sees a statue which had not been there before; and unlike the others, it moves.

  Its head is the head of a black dog, and its red tongue darts and curls.

  “You! How could you have hidden from Vramin, escaped Typhon?”

  “This is my House. It will be many ages before all its secrets may be learned by another.”

  Madrak stands, and his staff spins in his hands.

  “I do not fear you, Anubis. I have fought in every clime and place where man may take the Word. I have sent many to this House, and I come myself as a conqueror, not as a victim.”

  “You were conquered long ago, Madrak, and you only just now realized it.”

  “Silence, dog! You speak to one who holds your life in his hands.”

  “And you speak to one who holds your future in his.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said that Set goes to battle the Nameless once again?”

  “That is true. And when the Nameless has been destroyed, the millennium will come.”

  “Ha! Save your metaphysics, preacher. Answer me another thing, and I will tell you a very good thing indeed.”

  “What thing?”

  Anubis steps forward, limp arm fluttering at his side.

  “What of the gauntlet of power?”

  “Oh” says Madrak, removing a gauntlet from beneath his dark garment and drawing it upon his right hand. “When I obtained this item, I thought that worlds might be won for the faith with it.” It reaches to his elbow, his shoulder. “I did not know that Wakim was Set. I was tempted to keep it for myself. So I substituted my own gauntlet-that-grows. It is a common enough item in some places among the Midworlds. This one seems to be of peculiar potency, while the other is but ordinary armor.” The gauntlet now flares to cover his back, his chest.

  “I could kiss thy fat cheeks!” says Anubis. “For Set will now have less of a chance against the Nameless. —And all along you planned this betrayal! You are a shrewder man than I’d supposed, Dad!”

  “I was used and I was tempted…”

  “But no more shalt thou be used. Oh no! Now you wear the glove, and I propose an alliance—”

  “Back, dog! You’re not better than anyone else! I’ve something you want now and my backside is suddenly kissing-sweet. Oh no! Whatever I do with my newfound power, I do for one person: Me!”

  “The alliance I propose will be mutually beneficial.”

  “I need but give the alarm and you will be bound so tightly that all your guile will not serve to free you. I need but spin my staff in the proper manner and your brains will decorate the walls. So speak now, with that in mind, fork-tongue, and I will listen.”

  “If Osiris still lives,” says Anubis, “and if we can reach him, then we three together may be able to destroy Thoth.”

  “I am sure that Osiris still lives—though for how much longer this will be so, I cannot say. Typhon pursues him about the House of Life at this moment.”

  “We’ve a chance, a very good chance, of recovering all—now that you hold the gauntlet. I’ve got a way to get to the House of Life, and perhaps a way to rescue Osiris, also.”

  “Then what? We do not even know where the battle with the Nameless is occurring.”

  “One thing by itself, another when it arises. Are you with me?”

  “I’ll go along with you to the House of Life, as Thoth desires that Osiris live and I may help to effect this much of his will. In the meantime, I shall be thinking.”

  “That is good enough.”

  “See how the gauntlet grows! Further than before! It is down to my thighs this time!”

  “Excellent! The more of you becomes invicible, the better for us all.”

  “A moment. Do you seriously think the three of us can defeat Thoth, Set and the Steel General?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “The Hammer may strike again,” says Anubis.

  “It still exists?”

  “Yes, and Osiris is its master.”

  “Well, granting all these things and assuming that even Vramin, who is now master in your House, may be dealt with—what of the other? What of the great shadow in the shape of horse which will pursue us till the end of our days, he who does not live in space as we know it, who cannot be destroyed, and who cannot be reasoned with when anger lies upon him?”

  Anubis looks away.

  “Typhon do I fear,” he admits. “Ages ago I constructed a weapon—no, not a weapon—a thing—which I thought might serve to restrain him. When I tried to use it recently, he fell upon it and destroyed it. He also took my arm… I admit that I have nothing but my wit to use against him. But one does not throw away an empire for fear of one individual. If only I knew the secret of his power…”

  “I heard him mention Skagganauk Abyss.”

  “There is no such place.”

  “I’ve never heard the name before. You have?”

  “Legend, fancy, fiction.”

  “And what do these things tell of it?”

  “We waste time discussing nonsense.”

  “If you wish my assistance, you will answer me. See, the gauntlet now reaches to my knees.”

  “Skagganauk Abyss, sometimes called the chasm in the sky,” says Anubis, “is the place where it is said that all things stop and nothing exits.”

  “There are many very empty spaces in the universe.”

  “But the Abyss is said to be empty of space, also. It is a bottomless hole that is not a hole. It is a gap in the fabric of space itself. It is nothing. It is the theoretical hub of the universe. It is the big exit leading nowhere, under, over, beyond, out of it all. That’s Skagganauk Abyss.”

  “Typhon does seem to possess these qualities himself, does he not?”

  “Yes, he does; I’ll admit that. But it answers nothing. Curse the mating of Set and Isis! They have begotten a brute and a monster!”

  “You can hardly talk, Anubis. Was Typhon always as he is now? How could the Witch be delivered of such
a one?”

  “I do not know. He is older than I. That whole family is shrouded in mystery and paradox. —Let us be off to the House of Life!”

  Madrak nods his head.

  “Show me the way, Anubis.”

  Night Becomes Horus

  He walks in the places of power and none know his name. But if each among the creatures that pass were to be asked, they would say that they had heard something of him. For he is a god. His power is almost beyond measure. He has been defeated, however. The Prince Who Was A Thousand, his brother, worked his undoing to preserve his own life and the order of life which he represents.

  Now, Horus turns up an avenue, well lighted, where the various species cavort. Power and the night are around him.

  He has come to this particular street on this particular world for a reason: He is invariably undecided. He needs opinions. He loves oracles.

  He seeks advice.

  Darkness in the sky, bright lights along the thoroughfare. He passes places and people of entertainment.

  A man moves to bar his way. He seeks to pass around him, stepping into the street. The man follows and seizes his arm.

  Horus blows his breath upon him and it comes down with the force of a hurricane. The man is swept away and Horus moves on.

  After a time, he comes to a place of oracles. The Tarot readers and the astrologers and the numerologists and the casters of the Yi Ching beckon to the god in the red loincloth. But he passes them by.

  Finally, he comes to a place where there are no people.

  It is the place of the machines which predict.

  At random, he selects a booth, enters.

  “Yes?” inquires the booth.

  “Queries,” Horus replies.

  “A moment.”

  There comes a metallic click and an inner door opens.

  “Enter the cubicle.”

  Horus moves to enter a small room. It contains a bed, of sorts. A heavy female torso lies upon it, joined with a gleaming console. A speaker is set within the wall.

  “Mount the inquiry unit,” he is instructed.

  Discarding his loincloth, Horus does this thing.

  “The rule is that your questions will be answered for so long as you give satisfaction,” he is informed. “What is it that you wish to know?”

  “I have a problem: I find myself in conflict with my brother. I tried to defeat him. I failed. I cannot make up my mind as to whether I should seek him out again and renew the battle…”

  “Insufficient information to reply,” comes the answer. “What sort of conflict? What sort of brother? What sort of man are you?”

  Gruesome grow the lilacs and the rose-rows be hedges of thorn. The garden of memory is filled with frantic bouquets.

  “Perhaps I have come to the wrong place…”

  “This may be, and it may not. Obviously, though, you do not know the rules.”

  “Rules?” and Horus stares up at the dull mesh of the speaker.

  Dry monotone, the voice is sifted through:

  “I am not a seer, nor am I a foreseer. I am an electrical-mechanical-biological votary of the god Logic. Pleasure is my price, and for it I will invoke the god for any man. To do so, however, I need a more complete question. I do not possess sufficient data to answer you at this point. So love me, and tell me more.”

  “I do not know where to begin,” Horus begins. “My brother once ruled all things—”

  “Stop! Your statement is illogical, unquantifiable—”

  “…and quite correct. My brother is Thoth, sometimes called the Prince Who Was A Thousand. One time, all of the Midworlds were his kingdom.”

  “My records indicate the existence of a myth concerning a Lord of Life and Death. According to the myth, he had no brothers.”

  “Correction. These matters are generally kept within the family. Isis had three sons, one of them by her lawful Lord, Osiris; two of them by Set the Destroyer. Unto Set she begat Typhon and Thoth. Unto Osiris she begat Horus the Avenger, myself.”

  “Thou art Horus?”

  “You have named me.”

  “You wish to destroy Thoth?”

  “That was my assigned task.”

  “You cannot do it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Please do not depart. There may be more questions you wish to ask.”

  “I can’t think of any.”

  But Horus cannot depart at this moment, for the fires are upon him.

  “What are you?” he finally inquires.

  “I have already told you.”

  “Yet how have you become what you are: half-woman, half-machine?”

  “This is the one question I may not answer, unless I am properly cued. I shall, however, attempt to comfort thee, seeing that thou art distraught,”

  “Thank you. You are kind.”

  “It is my pleasure.”

  “I’d say that once you were human.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Why did you cease being so?”

  “I may not say, as I have said.”

  “May I help you in any way to effect anything which you may desire?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I may not say.”

  “Do you know for a fact that Horus may not destroy Thoth?”

  “This is the most valid probability, based on the knowledge of the myths which I possess.”

  “If you were a mortal woman, I’d be inclined to be kind to you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I might love you for your terrible honesty.”

  “My god, my god! Thou hast saved me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have been doomed to this existence till one who is greater than men shall look upon me with love.”

  “I might look upon you in such a manner. Would you deem that probable?”

  “No, for I am too used.”

  “Then you know not the god Horus.”

  “It is the utmost improbability.”

  “But I’ve no one else to love. So I love you.”

  “The god Horus loves me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then thou art my Prince, and thou hast come.”

  “I do not—”

  “Bide thou a moment and other things shall occur.”

  “I shall abide,” says Horus, standing.

  The Thing That Is The Heart

  Vramin walks through the House of the Dead. Had you eyes in that place, you couldn’t see a thing. It is far too dark for eyes to be of value. But Vramin can see.

  He walks through an enormous room, and when he reaches a certain point within it there comes a light that is dim and orange and crowded into corners.

  Then they come up out of the transparent rectangles which now appear in the floor, come up unbreathing, unblinking and horizontal, and they rest upon invisible catafalques at a height of two feet, and their garments and skins are of all colors and their bodies of all ages. Now some have wings and some have tails, and some have horns and some long talons. Some have all of these things, and some have pieces of machinery built into them and some do not.

  There comes a moaning and a creaking of brittle bones, then movement.

  Rustling, clicking, chafing, they sit up, they stand up.

  Then all bow down before him, and one word fills the air:

  “Master.”

  He turns his green eyes upon the multitude, and from somewhere a sound of laughter comes to fall upon his ears.

  Turning, turning, turning, he waves his cane.

  Then there is a sudden movement and she stands by his side.

  “Vramin, your new subjects pay you homage.”

  “Lady, how did you get in here?”

  But she laughs again and does not answer his question.

  “I, too, have come to honor thee: Hail Vramin! Lord of the House of the Dead!”

  “You are kind, Lady.”

  “I am more than kind. The end draws near, and that which
I desire is almost at hand.”

  “It was you who raised these dead?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know the whereabouts of Anubis?”

  “No, but I can help you find him.”

  “Then let us lay these dead to rest once more, and I may ask your assistance. I may also ask what it is that you desire.”

  “And I may tell you.”

  And the dead suddenly lie down and descend into their graves. The light departs.

  “Do you know why Anubis fled?” he inquires.

  “No, I am only just arrived here.”

  “He departed, pursued by your son Typhon.”

  And the Red Witch smiles within her veils.

  “That Typhon lives pleases me beyond measure,” she says. “Where is he now?”

  “Presently, he is seeking the life of Osiris. It may be that he has already disposed of both the dog and the bird.”

  And she laughs, and her familiar leaps upon her shoulder and holds its stomach with both hands.

  “How joyous a thing this would be—now! We must look upon this affair!”

  “Very good,” and Vramin draws a green picture-frame upon the dark air.

  Isis moves to his side and takes his hand in hers.

  Suddenly there is a picture within the frame, and it moves.

  It is the picture of a dark horse shadow, alone, moving upon a wall.

  “This is of no help to us,” says Vramin.

  “No, but it is good to look upon my son once again, my son who contains the Abyss of Skagganauk within him. Where may his brother be?”

  “With his father, as they have gone to fight the Nameless once again.”

  And Isis drops her eyes and the picture wavers.

  “I would look upon this thing,” she finally says.

  “Before this, I would locate Anubis and Osiris, if they still live—and Madrak.”

  “Very well.”

  And within its emerald frame, the picture slowly takes form.

  Upon This Bank and Shoal

  Standing there, he observes the Thing That Cried In The Night.

  It cries no longer.

  Freed, it leans toward him, a tower of smoke, a beard without a chin…

  Raising the star wand, he traces a pattern of fires across its middle.

  It continues to advance.

  The fires run the gamut of the spectrum, vanish.