“We should reach the first village tomorrow morning.”
“Is there a church there?”
“I believe so. And a bishop.”
“I must confess.” A little farther, he added: “I believe the fault is mine.”
“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.”
“My error has been in viewing this journey as part of a curse. Instead, from the beginning, I should have accepted my burden as a challenge. Am I the Prince of Rome, or am I not? If I am, then isn’t it my duty to confront evil directly and struggle against it with all my abilities? I must drive the devils and demons from these lands. Along the way, I intend to visit every church we pass to inspect for evidence of decadence and heresy. And when I return at last, the people will flock from their homes and fall on their knees. The blessings of the Lord shall rain upon my head. All men are brothers; children, fathers; fathers, sons; sinners, saints.”
“I think you’ve been out in the sun too long.”
“What happened to my armor?” Julian said suddenly.
Hesitantly, Andrew told him.
“But I can’t go on without it,” Julian said, his composure instantly gone. “Please—go back. Say you will. Bring it to me.”
“Are you mad?”
“No. Don’t you see? It’s the only protection I have. Please Andrew. Say you will.”
“I’ll go.” Without a backward glance, Andrew turned the stallion and galloped away.
Julian dismounted. Like a slow echo, he was hearing the words he had so recently spoken to the gathered villagers. Strangely, to his ears, the words sounded very fine indeed; he was genuinely moved.
But he was alone now.
No, he thought, that wasn’t absolutely true; he was not wholly alone.
Donna Maria was here.
Approaching the stretcher, he leaned over and gingerly raised the silk dressing that covered Donna Maria’s face. Her eyes were wide open in the white, flaccid face, shining like bright marbles, seeming to stare. Involuntarily, he shuddered and almost dropped the silk. A smile appeared to cross her lips. He whined, shying back, then looked again. Now he thought she was frowning. He released the silk, watching it slowly flutter down to cover her face.
Then he sat in the dust and waited for Andrew to return.
While Andrew piled wood for the fire, Julian observed, his eyes easily penetrating the gathered darkness. During the long day, he had allowed himself to forget the words of Mother Mary’s warning. But now, in the deep blackness of night, with the moon shielded from view by the bulk of a heavy cloud, the words came powerfully back to him: a man who was not a man, whose skin was cold like steel and hard like stone. Julian glared bitterly at Andrew, who snapped his fingers. A spark leaped from his fist, jumping into the piled wood. Gently, the fire caught, growing slowly, expanding, licking at the night.
“At least you’ll be warm.” Andrew turned away from the fire. “I want you to know I had the devil’s time finding that much wood. I don’t think there’s a tree within ten miles of here.” He sat beside Julian, who turned to face him. “You ought to take that armor off,” Andrew said. “The fire will keep you warm.”
Don Julian shook his head, remaining silent.
“Weil, it’s your choice.” Andrew wandered off in the direction of the horses. Listening intently, Julian heard the mule snort. A moment later, Andrew returned, bearing parchment and a pen. Dropping down beside the fire, he sat motionlessly for a long while, then began to write. Julian had never seen a robot writing before. He was curious how they managed with their steel fingers.
“How long,” he asked, using the words to camouflage his approach, “before we reach the shrine?”
“Seven days—perhaps eight.” Andrew continued to write.
“Is that all?” Julian peered past the robot’s sleek shoulder. He could not discern the meaning of the words, but the letters were gracefully written, neat.
“It’s not much more than a hundred miles from the castle. Today has slowed us down.”
“I didn’t realize,” Julian said.
Andrew took a blank sheet of parchment and covered the page on which he had been working. “You thought this was going to be some sort of endless quest? Only robots ever visit the Shrine of Sebastian. You shouldn’t be expected to know.”
“What were you writing?” Julian asked.
“I call it The Book of Man.”
“Why?”
“It’s the story of Sebastian. His life, his work, his world.”
“But that’s blasphemy,” Julian said.
“Not to a robot. I’m not writing the book for you.”
“No—no, I suppose not. I’ll—I’ll have to read it when you’re done.”
“You’ll most likely be dead. It’ll take me twenty years.”
“Oh,” said Julian, conscious once again of Mary’s warning. Carefully, he stood, edging away.
“I’ll wake you at dawn,” Andrew called. Reaching out, he took his pen and parchment and began to write.
Sleeping, Don Julian dreamed. In the dream, as in life, Mother Mary came to him.
“Have you come to show me the future?” he asked, with eager anticipation.
She shook her head. “Not this time, Julian. I wish you to accompany me upon a journey. Will you do that?”
“Will any harm befall me?”
“It will not.”
“Then, yes—of course I’ll go.”
She took him by the hand—hers was warm and soothing, as light and insubstantial as air—and led him toward a towering flight of curved stairs that had suddenly appeared rising majestically from the desolate earth, sweeping endlessly into the sky. Together they ascended, passing upward into the core of a huge white cloud. At the end of the staircase stood a pair of high, glittering silver gates, which sparkled with bright embedded jewels the color of the rainbow. Two men stood flanking the gates, both dressed in flowing white robes.
Mary told Julian to halt. Peering closer, he recognized the two men: one was Andrew and the other—whose name he did not know—had black skin and golden eyes.
Turning, he tried to flee. But Mary called him.
He turned. “Why have you brought me here?” he demanded.
“But this is heaven,” she said.
“And may I enter?” he asked, having lost his fear as abruptly as it had come.
“Oh, no. Not yet.”
“But why? Have I sinned so awfully?”
“Of course you haven’t. It is not that. Before entering heaven, you first must die.”
“Then I will,” he said. “You must tell me how.”
“There are three ways. The first, of course, is fire. Then comes water and, finally, earth. Each way is very painful, but some ways are more horrible than others. For this reason you are permitted to choose yourself.”
“That is very fair.”
“Then choose. You must do it now.”
But his mind was very confused. He tried to see past Mary, wanting to glimpse the world beyond the shining gates, but all he could see was another drifting cloud, like a puffy white lake. Except for the two creatures flanking the gate, not another living soul could be seen. But he knew he would rather die than live, for no matter what lay on the other side, surely it could not be any more dreadful than the existence he was already forced to endure upon Earth.
“Have you made your choice?” Mary asked.
“I have,” Julian said.
But when he awoke, with the sky bursting with brilliant crimson light and the sun a huge speckled disk at the edge of his vision, he could not remember what he had chosen.
“We ought to reach the village by noon,” Andrew said.
But Julian wasn’t listening.
Andrew speaking:
As presently conceived, The Book of Man should run to a length of more than ten million words, but I think I should point out that the vast proportion of these words is strictl
y my own doing. To me a story is the same as a skeleton upon which must be hung the skin, flesh, muscles, meat, the internal organs—lungs, stomach, heart—and the sensory organs—eyes, ears, nostrils, tongue; in other words, words.
When Jupiter first came among us, it was easy to see that he was incredibly old. All robots are old, of course, after a fashion, for none have been built in several centuries, the knowledge, according to some, having been lost. I was nearly a thousand years myself—by my best estimate—before I ever set eyes upon Jupiter. But I guessed he was at least ten or twenty times older than me—and he claimed several factors beyond that.
He was a colored robot. His skin was the shade of rust. Instead of the blinking buttons robots usually wear on their heads in silly imitation of the human eye, Jupiter saw with a pair of snakelike tendrils that extended from his upper chest. In other ways he was unlike any robot we had ever seen. His voice seemed to come from a cavity buried somewhere deep within him; he had no mouth.
The other robots dismissed him as mad. A tiny forest of scrub oak and stunted pine circled the castle in those years. Here, during the day, Jupiter hid, while at night he ventured out to join us around our fires. At first, his presence was tolerated, but when he began to speak of Sebastian as though possessed of personal knowledge, the other robots began to feel resentful.
Finally, one of the younger ones stood up and told Jupiter to go away.
I was the only one to object. “Let him stay. A robot is not afraid to hear anything.”
“Who’s afraid? But he’s crazy. What he says is a desecration upon the sacred memory of Sebastian.”
“What do you know about Sebastian?” I asked.
“More than he does.”
“Well, why don’t we listen and find out? I want to hear.”
But none of the others did. It was clear they preferred the vague, ethereal Sebastian of the established legends. So I took Jupiter to my cottage and heard him there.
In twelve nights he told me all he had to say. I merely listened, recording the words in my memory, making no comments, expressing neither belief nor disbelief. In fact, it wasn’t until I commenced the actual composition of The Book of Man that I realized I did believe every word he had spoken—at least those directly concerned with Sebastian.
The concept of the book had entered my mind that very first night. I waited until he was finished before telling Jupiter my intentions. He said nothing. The next night he failed to appear. But the story was done.
As he told it, the tale was not especially complicated. Few stories are. The fife and death of Jesus Christ, for example, could easily be compressed to fewer than a hundred words with nothing lost but the poetry, beauty, romance, terror, suspense, and tragedy; in other words, everything.
And so it is with Sebastian.
He was not a rich man. According to Jupiter, he lived in the skeleton city of New York. One day a vision came to him. In my book, I express this vision as the voice of God, though I do not necessarily believe the truth is anything so metaphysical. In any event, the voice instructed Sebastian that the Earth was no longer the proper dwelling place for man, that the human race must now depart. In The Book of Man, I describe this concept through the beautiful metaphor of God having departed the Earth and gone to dwell elsewhere in the universe. His children—mankind—must follow.
So Sebastian set out to spread his message throughout the globe. He converted several wealthy men and convinced them to purchase a fleet of ships capable of making the journey to the stars. He spoke with poor men also, the humble as well as the proud, kind men and vicious men. Some told him yes, you are speaking the truth. And these followed him. Others laughed or grew angry and drove him from their cities.
Eventually, he completed his mission and journeyed at last to the Floridian shores, where the fleet of ships stood waiting. Those who had accepted his vision gathered here to greet him.
Then Sebastian spoke, explaining that the ships were programmed to fly straight to their intended destination, the world of Advent. He wished the men and women a safe and bountiful journey and expressed to them the glories that awaited them beyond.
But he did not go himself.
He raised his hands and robots appeared to load the ships with supplies. Then the people mounted tall ladders and disappeared inside the waiting vessels. At a signal, the ships rose swiftly into the air, roaring like enraged beasts as they sliced through the blanket of the sky.
When he could no longer see the specks of silver hurtling through the blue, Sebastian went away.
The village wasn’t there.
A sea of rubble—bricks and stones, chunks of wood and broken bits of plank board—was all they found where the village once had been. Here and there, protruding through the destruction, were evidences of past domestic tranquility: dishes, washtubs, pans, shovels, and rakes. Dismounting, Don Julian walked to the edge, then, gingerly, waded in. Andrew followed.
“Do you recall where it was?” Julian asked.
“What?”
“The church.”
“I couldn’t say.”
“I’ll look.” It was easier walking on top of the rubble than trying to wade through it. In some places, it was more than a yard deep. Julian skirted those places where houses once had stood, the foundations jutting forlornly through the surrounding rubble. As he moved, he glanced down, shifting his feet, disrupting the surface of the sea, exposing new destruction to the open air.
“War?” he asked, remembering the old world that played such a significant role in the Bible.
“No.”
“Then what?” He leaned down, his hands encased in steel mesh, and moved a heavy stone.
“Nothing. They went away. It happens all the time. The village declines till it can’t support itself. There aren’t enough tradesmen or farmers or doctors. So the whole village finally packs up and moves on. Maybe they find that the next village is the same way, so they move again. Eventually, they find a place which hasn’t passed the point of no return. They stop and stay. Fifty or a hundred years later, the same thing happens again.”
“Then why all this”—he waved a hand at the rubble—”this destruction?”
“How would you feel if you had to give up your whole life? Before leaving, they take what they can carry, then destroy the rest. They go wild.”
“I see. Ah.” He had found it. Carefully, he shifted the surrounding rubble, then, removing his gloves, tenderly lifted the object. He wiped away the covering dirt. It was a bronze casting—the Christ Child—turned gray by its long burial. Only the head remained. The nose was broken off. The face was scratched in a hundred places and a big chip had been gouged above the left eye like a second eyebrow.
“What do you want with that?” Andrew said.
“It was famous—a work of art.” Julian turned the head in his hands. “Made in olden times. I wonder where the rest of it is. The body.”
“Maybe they took that part with them.”
Julian shrugged and tossed the head onto the rubble. “Hey—what’s that?” He pointed across the rubble. At the opposite edge, a group of figures could be seen, a dozen or more. Some were sitting in the dust while others lay upon the ground. As Julian watched, a low, painful moan came through the air.
“Are they hurt?”
“Leave them alone.”
“Why? Are they ill?”
“Just don’t go near them.”
Julian waded ahead. Andrew reached out but Julian shook him off. Andrew shouted: “Come back!”
“They’re robots!” Julian cried, when he was closer. Several were howling now; together their voices sounded like desperate wolves.
Julian hesitated, a feeling of utter dread coming suddenly over him. But his sense of duty prevailed. He forced himself ahead, stepping free of the clinging rubble, reaching solid ground.
The robots gave no indication they were aware of his approach. He passed unmolested through their
ranks and went to one of those upon the ground. He knelt down, his armor moving easily with him. He had grown accustomed to the suit and wore it like a second skin.
“You should not be here.” One of the robots approached from behind.
“Why?” Julian said, turning.
“Oh.” The robot halted. “I am sorry. I thought you were one of us.”
“No, this is just a suit I wear. For protection. I am a man.” He added, with unnecessary humility, “I am the pope.”
“The pope is a woman.”
“No.” He pointed to the horses far away. “She is dead.” Turning back, he stared at the robot upon the ground. Something was wrong with its face. Running across the silver forehead was a wound a hand’s length from end to end, a red, open sore. With his bare hand, Julian touched the wound. Tiny pieces, like moist dust, flaked off on his fingertips. The robot moaned. Julian saw that further sores covered the legs, arms, and stomach of the robot. A long stain had burned a trail around its neck. He looked away. Some of the other robots had only one or two visible sores. The one behind him was clean except for a single splotch on its right knee. Those upon the ground were the worst infected. One was so covered with sores that only an occasional glimmer of polished silver skin could be glimpsed through the surrounding red.
Julian went over there.
He knelt down. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
The robot tried to answer but, instead of words, only a thick, milky substance, red in color, came from its mouth. Sickened, Julian turned away. He whispered, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be . . .
“No!” An arm grabbed him tightly. It was Andrew.
“What is this?” Julian demanded.
“Let them alone. They don’t need that. Come away with me—hurry!”
“But why?”
The robot who had spoken before said, “He is right. You had better go. Your prayers mean nothing to us. Robots have no souls.”
Andrew tugged furiously at his arm. “Come on, Julian. You heard what he said. They don’t want you.”
“All right.” Standing, Julian went with him, refusing to match his haste. In silence, they mounted the horses, then Julian turned for a final look at the robots. Their moans reached him softly now. None of them was moving. One wept loudly.
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