"I wish I could do that," Mack said aloud, alone again in the Waiting Room in Limbo, rage leaking out of him and being replaced by self-pity. He said aloud, "It isn't fair, putting me up against all these famous people, to say nothing of spirits who can conjure themselves where they please in the twinkling of an eye, whereas I, a common, earthy sort of man, must proceed on foot, and make effort, and take every step that lies between here and there."
"What dreary self-pitying do I hear?" a deep and sarcastic voice behind him said.
Mack turned quickly, startled, because he had thought himself entirely alone. There was Odysseus, tall and splendid, magnificent in a freshly pressed white tunic. Thrown over it was a cloak with the many folds beloved by sculptors. Odysseus had a face so noble that it could make a common man like Mack, with his common features and snub nose and freckles, consider himself no comelier than an ape. Odysseus stood a head taller than Mack, his skin bronzed, muscles rippling in his well-formed arms.
"Hello, Odysseus," Mack said. "What are you up to?"
"I'm on my way to the great assembly hall to listen to Ananke's judgment and perhaps offer a few ideas of my own. And your?"
"I'm waiting for Mephistopheles to come with the reward he promised me."
Odysseus shrugged. "Do you think it's wise to take it? Personally, I wouldn't accept an obol from these present-day devils. They seek to enslave you by making you dependent on them. But to each his own.
Farewell, Mack."
And with that, Odysseus released a Traveling Spell from his leather sack of spells and vanished from sight.
"Say you so?" said a voice behind him.
Mack had a moment to wonder if there was some special mechanism in the universe that enabled people always to conjure themselves into existence behind his back. He turned and beheld Rognir the dwarf, who had just come up through a hole in the floor that he had cut with his mattock.
"Of course I say so," Mack said. "Everyone else around here gets about by magic. They just have to say the word and they're where they want to be. But I am forced to walk, and I don't even know where I'm going."
"That's really tough," Rognir said with heavy sarcasm. "What do you think I do, buster?"
"You? I never thought about it. How do you get around?"
"Dwarves travel in the old-fashioned way. On foot. Dwarves don't just walk, however. They first dig tunnels to wherever they want to go, and then walk. You think it's easy to build a tunnel?"
"I suppose it's not," Mack said. He thought about it for a moment. "I suppose sometimes you encounter rock."
"The places we tunnel through are made up more of rock than of dirt," Rognir said. "We dwarves get positively cheerful when there's nothing but dirt to tunnel through. Rocks and boulders are bad enough, but the worst is tunneling under a swamp. You have to shore up the tunnel as you go along, and that means you have to cut balks of wood and drag them to where you need them. Balks of wood don't come ready-cut, and forests are usually far away from where you want the wood. Sometimes we use shaggy little ponies to help us, but most of the time it's just muscle power and grit."
"I guess you don't have it very good."
"Wrong again," Rognir said. "We dwarves feel that we have it very good indeed. We are not humans, remember. We are a class of supernatural being, though we don't make a big deal of it. We could have petitioned the high powers for special abilities. But that's not our way. We are the one and only race in the cosmos that isn't asking anybody for anything."
"Aren't you concerned about who wins the contest between Light and Dark?"
"Not in the slightest. The outcome doesn't affect us dwarves. Concerns about Good and Evil leave us cold. Dwarves know no good except digging, and no bad except digging, either. Our destiny is mapped out from birth to death: we dig till we drop, and when we're not digging we walk our tunnels and find jewels and attend jamborees. We don't expect spirits to come along and do our work for us."
"Well, I suppose I should feel properly ashamed of myself," Mack said, feeling, in fact, a little abashed.
"But what do you expect me to do?"
"Tell me if I'm wrong," Rognir said, "but isn't it true that all these spirits and demigods and Faust himself are fighting for the right to rule mankind for the next thousand years?"
"That's my understanding of it," Mack said.
"Fine. So what are you going to do about it?"
"Me? You mean me personally?'
"That's who I'm referring to," Rognir said.
"Why… Nothing, I suppose. There's nothing I can do. And if there were, why should I?"
"Because it's your destiny they're talking about, dummy," Rognir said. "Don't you want a say in it?'
"Of course I do! But who am I to tell people how I should be ruled?" "Who is the one to speak for mankind? Is it Faust?"
Mack shook his head. "Faust thinks he's Mr. Universal, but he's really just a loudmouth magician with a couple of good tricks. People like that are different from the rest of us. I know some of their tricks, but when they talk about the higher aspects of the alchemist's art it leaves me cold." "Quite properly so," Rognir said. "It's all a lot of hot air. There's only digging. That's for us, the dwarves, of course. As for you, why should you let a mug like Faust tell you how you are to be ruled?"
Mack stared at him. "But what can I do?" "For one thing," Rognir said, "you can get angry."
"But I'm not mad at anyone," Mack said. But even as he denied it, he felt the stirrings of a long-suppressed rage. At first he thought he was faking it, as he had faked so many things in his life, and he told himself to calm down, it would go away. But this feeling of rage didn't go away. Instead it grew and spread through his head, until he could feel black anger inflaming his eyeballs, engorging the veins of his neck, threatening to burst out the top of his head. "Well, damn it, it's not right!" he burst out at last. "Nobody should decide the fate of the common man but the common man himself. It's been too long that we've let spirits, and so-called great men like Faust, decide our destinies for us. Now is the time to do something about it!" "Now you're talking," Rognir said.
Mack's shoulders sagged. "But what can I do?"
"It's an interesting question," Rognir said, and turned to the tunnel he had just excavated and walked into it.
Mack stood still in the room and stared for a while at the hole Rognir had disappeared through. He had a great desire to dive into it himself. But of course men don't dive into tunnels like dwarves. Mack crossed the room and opened the door. Outside, the vast, indistinct landscape of Limbo spread out before him. There were hills ahead, but they were nebulous, and seemed to disappear into the clouds, unless those were mist-veiled mountains behind them.
Looking more closely, Mack saw there was the indication of a path. He followed it through swirling white and yellow mists. Presently he came to a crossroads. There was a sign that read road to earth and pointed one way, road to hell another way, the way you've come pointing back the way he had come, and road to heaven as the last direction. Mack made up his mind and started walking.
pointed one way, road to hell another way, the way you've come pointing back the way he had come, and road to heaven as the last direction. Mack made up his mind and started walking.
2 It was a clear day in the part of Limbo reserved for the judgment of mankind's destiny. The sky was fishbelly white, but that was not unusual for the time of year. A few snowflakes had fallen earlier, but no real accumulation was expected. In the distance, the hills of Nothingness were a low blue line on the horizon. It was literally true that on a clear day you could see forever.
Mephistopheles and the Archangel Michael were sitting side by side on a tall pillar recently vacated by Simon Stylites, who had found a better way to mortify his spirit by picking a punishment from the future and forcing himself to watch televised reruns of every game the Tampa Bay Buccaneers had ever played.
Michael hadn't visited Limbo in quite a while, not since he had met with Mephistopheles to set the contest. He was happy to
see that nothing much had changed. There was still the same dear old vagueness about where the sky ended and where the land began, the same pleasing ambiguity over the colors of things, the same uncertainty as to shapes. Vagueness! And its concomitant, moral uncertainty!
After a long life of absolutes, there was something refreshing about it.
"Limbo is just the same as it ever was!" Michael said.
"My dear archangel," Mephistopheles said, "if you rein in your passion for paradox for a moment, you can see that there's been a lot of change around here. Don't you notice all the building that's going on?"
"Oh, that, of course," Michael said. "But that's quite ephemeral. Underneath it's the same dear old Limbo." He peered in a westerly direction. "What are they putting up there?"
Mephistopheles looked in the indicated direction. "Didn't you know? That's the new Palace of Justice, where the judgment will be announced."
Michael peered at it. "It seems to be a most noble structure."
"It's certainly large enough," Mephistopheles said. "I understand quite a few guests have been invited from both sides. Even some humans, though that's quite unusual."
"Well, it seems only right," Michael said. "After all, it is their destiny being decided."
"So what?" Mephistopheles snorted. "The forces of Light and Dark never consulted mankind back in the good old days. We just told them the way it was going to be, and they had to like it or lump it."
"Science and rationalism have changed all that," Michael said. "It's what is called progress. A good thing on balance, I believe."
"Of course you believe that," Mephistopheles said. "What else could you say, given your predisposition to affirm?"
"And what else could you say but the contrary?" Michael asked.
"You've got a point there," Mephistopheles admitted. "We're both restricted in our viewpoints."
"Exactly. That's why we have Ananke to do the judging."
"Where is Ananke, by the way?"
"No one has seen her latest incarnation. Necessity has strange ways of conducting herself. And there's no use complaining about it. She just says it's Necessary, and never explains why."
"Who's that coming?" Mephistopheles asked.
Michael looked out across Limbo. Even with perfect vision, it took him a moment to bring into focus something as small as a man on the vast landscape of zilch.
"That's Mack the Club!" Michael said.
Mephistopheles looked. "Are you quite sure? That is the man I've been dealing with during this contest."
"Oh, it's definitely Mack," Michael said. "Is it possible that you made a mistake in Cracow, my dear demon? Has the wrong Faust been performing in your contest?" Mephistopheles looked again, and his lips thinned. His dark eyes seemed to smolder. Glaring at Michael, he said, "I seem to see a fine spiritual hand in all this!"
"You give me too much credit," Michael said.
Mephistopheles looked again. "That's definitely the fellow who's been doing the contest. Are you sure he's not Faust?" "Afraid not. His name is Mack, and he is a common criminal. I'm afraid you picked the wrong man to decide human destiny, my dear Mephistopheles."
"And you have picked the wrong devil if you think you can get away with this?"
Michael smiled but did not reply.
Mephistopheles said, "We'll settle this later. I must get down to the banquet hall. Darkside is catering the refreshments this time." He peered out across Limbo again. "Where is that fellow going?"
"Read the signpost. He is on the road to Heaven," Michael said.
"Really? I didn't know that was the direction to it!"
"It changes from time to time," Michael said.
"But why?"
"We of the forces of Good," Michael said with dignity, "try not to spend too much time asking why."
Mephistopheles shrugged. Together the two great spirits proceeded to the Palace of Justice.
CHAPTER 3
Azzie was strolling through the outer courts of the Palace of Justice when he came across Michelangelo himself. He recognized the painter from pictures he'd seen of him in art books at Demon U. Michelangelo was just putting the finishing touches on a gigantic fresco.
"Looks good," Azzie said, moving behind the painter.
"Would you mind getting out of my light?" Michelangelo said. "The working conditions are bad enough here without you making them worse."
Azzie moved. "It must be wonderful to create art."
Michelangelo sneered and wiped his sweaty forehead with a paint rag. "This isn't art. I'm just doing some touch-up on an old piece of mine."
"But you could do original painting if you wanted to, couldn't you?" Azzie asked.
"Sure. But in order to paint, a man must aspire, and what is there to aspire to after you've reached Heaven?"
Azzie had no answer because he'd never thought about it. Michelangelo returned to his work, and, watching him for a moment, Azzie thought he looked perfectly content.
Outside the great auditorium, in the circular corridors that surrounded the circular building, innumerable spirits were standing around, drinks in hand, eating hors d'oeuvres and talking. There were more spirits here than the place could hold, in fact, because every aethereal, indeed, the greater part of all sentient beings, had wanted to attend. The front office had come up with some new packing orders in an attempt to accommodate all. Even so, the concept of virtual space had had to be invoked, to the distaste of the purists who felt that either you're there or you're not there.
This was the big day, Judgment Day, the biggest event of the Millennium, the super Mardi Gras of the universe. It was time for everyone to get together with everyone else. Groups of spirits kept on arriving, looking around with awe at the Palace of Justice, then exclaiming, "Gee, so this is the place!" And then going on to somewhere else, usually the cafeteria, where for the most part they ordered light salads, because they didn't want to lose their appetite for the orgy that was promised if Bad won, or the feast that would be presented if the victor was Good.
All this noise and excitement was a change for Limbo. Limbo was usually a quiet place without anything much happening in the way of entertainment. The inhabitants of Limbo didn't expect much and were willing to live and let live. They tended not to make value judgments, since that was the sole stock in trade of the two adjoining principalities of Dark and Light. The Limboans sauntered along in their strange vague milieu, eating occasional absent-minded meals, making love in their inadequate way, having mediocre poetry readings and folk dance festivals of no great merit. Time was so eventless here that nobody bothered to keep it.
The lack of seasons also contributed to the monotony. And now all of a sudden they were hosting the contest of the Millennium. It just went to show you could never tell.
CHAPTER 4
In the great assembly hall, the central point of the Palace of Justice, all was in readiness for the great event. The audience sat in long curving rows chatting to each other, but for the most part sitting quietly, except in the sections marked for virtual reality, where myriads of onlookers were shuffled in and out at close to the speed of light, so that everyone who wanted to could see the performance without appreciable delay.
And yet, one thing wasn't right. Ananke hadn't shown up.
No one had any doubt that the great goddess Necessity would reveal herself when she was ready, and that she would choose what she considered a suitable vehicle in which to do so. But who would it be?
Expectations in the audience ran high, and people kept on craning their necks around hoping to catch the transformation. But even these knowledgeable ones were surprised when Marguerite, sitting by herself in a back row, suddenly arose as two friars, one blind, the other mute, came down the aisle with their staves tapping, walking directly toward her.
The mute one stared. The blind one turned his face upwards, and, with an expression of ecstasy, said,
"She is come to us at last!"
Marguerite, her eyes wide and glowing l
ike opals, came out of her seat and into the aisle. People made way for her as, accompanied by her friars, who fell into step behind her, she made her way to the stage.
Her face was ivory white, her lips were pale, and her glowing eyes were like tiny flames in a dark mirror.
She seemed far more than a mortal woman at that point.
There was not a sound from the audience as she moved to the throne that had been prepared for her.
She sat down lightly, and turned to face the audience.
"The time of Judgment is at hand. But first, I believe there is one who would speak."
Odysseus stood up, made a deep bow, walked forward, stopped, and turned to address his first remarks to Ananke.
"My greetings to you, Great Goddess. I know, as well as all of us, that you rule everything and everyone.
Yet since this is to be a contest to settle the self-determination you have graciously allowed for mankind, I would take it as an honor if you would let me put forth a claim that has not been heard here."
"Come up to the stage and speak, Odysseus," Ananke said. "Great is your fame in the annals of mankind.
A viewpoint such as yours must be heard."
Odysseus mounted to the stage, arranged his cloak, and began in a low, rumbling voice.
"I should like to propose," Odysseus said, "that all assembled here consider a proposition I am about to put before you. My idea is simple, and even though it may seem revolutionary, I beg you to consider it.
So here it is: I propose that you bring the old Hellenic gods back to Earth and leave human destiny in their hands."
There was a scattered murmur of voices in the audience,, but Ananke held up her hand for silence.
Odysseus continued.
Ananke, Necessity, as your final arbiter of what is to be. Your concepts of good and evil, which began as absolutist statements in the early days of the Church, have been ameliorated to the point where they make no difference at all. The gains you have made in truth have been accompanied by a loss in veracity.
In place of the old free dialectic of Socrates and the Sophists, you have the didacticism of the various leaders of religions, churches, and covens. You will permit me to say to you that this is all rather crude, intellectually unsound, and unworthy of human beings with a capacity for reason. Why let yourselves be swayed by emotional statements? Why preach salvation when you don't believe in it yourselves? I beg of you, bring forth the reign of the old gods again, the irrational old gods with human qualities. Let Ares rage on the battlefield as he has never stopped doing. Let Athene stand for what is good and pure, and put Zeus back as divine arbiter, all-powerful but not all-wise. Our contribution, the Greek contribution, was to propose gods who were very powerful but not very smart. We cut the cloth of the supernatural to cover the frailties of our own inner beings. Now let's have an end of hypocrisy, admit that the new gods and spirits didn't work, and return to the old ways. If nothing else it will be an aesthetic gain."
If at Faust You Don't Succeed Page 23