The Witch Doctor

by Christopher Stasheff

  "How about if she's using it to kill an attacker?" I said.

  "A good woman would not wish to kill." Friar Ignatius turned back to me. "She would wish to protect herself and would therefore only wish to stop or withhold the attacker. Her spell might kill him, if that were the only way to stop him, but her intent would be good, and her magic from goodness."

  It sounded specious, but I didn't argue. I'd heard enough about sex crimes to believe that a woman might very well kill an attacker by accident. All she'd really be thinking about, of course, would be stopping him—but if she hit a vital organ, tough luck. I'd be the first to say it, and the last to deny it. "So how can you tell if you're dealing with a wizard or a sorcerer?"

  "You may know him by the symbols he uses," Friar Ignatius answered. "If he inflicts pain to gain magical powers, if he speaks of death and uses skulls and twisted blades and blood, then his magic is surely ill, and aided by evil."

  "Symbols?" I frowned. "I've only seen sorcerers use words!"

  "You may also see them brandish a staff or a wand," Friar Ignatius said. "It magnifies the force of a spell, even as it magnifies the force of a blow."

  I had a notion it had something to do with directing the force, like an antenna, but it was not fair bringing electromagnetism into the discussion.

  "But brewing spells with physical objects for symbols is lengthy and cumbersome, though the magic is extremely potent," Friar Ignatius said. "In the field, a magician will rely on words and gestures."

  "But how could that do any good? How could physical symbols do any good, for that matter?"

  "Because, Master Wizard, the symbol is the thing."

  I stared and clamped my jaws shut. In my universe, one of the cardinal principles of semantics was that the symbol was not the thing. Well, other universes, other natural laws.

  "The whole of one's being must be gathered together and directed," Friar Ignatius explained, "that all the energies within and around our bodies may form and fashion the magical energy to our purpose. Symbols are the tools we use to so solidify our beings—and the more powerful the symbol, the more fully are the various parts of ourselves gathered together."

  "So whether we're drawing on God to help us focus our own energies is a matter of whether or not we want to," I interpreted.

  " 'Focus'—an excellent term!" Friar Ignatius clapped his hands. "I should have thought of turning to mathematics for my concepts! I thank you, Wizard Saul."

  I shivered, wondering what I had done. This "magic field" he was talking about seemed to be this universe's equivalent of electromagnetism—and I knew darn well what our own physicists and engineers had been able to do with electricity and magnetism, once they had started shaping their thinking according to mathematical principles. What would happen here, if Friar Ignatius started applying math to magic?

  Amazing things, I didn't doubt, because I had a very strong suspicion that it really was possible to manipulate that magic field without drawing on either good or evil. It was an impersonal force, after all; the personal element came when you tried to draw on the power of supernatural beings to help you control it. Besides, I was still trying to think of those beings as imaginary—in which case, they served as very, very powerful symbols.

  Powerful, indeed! They tapped directly into the subconscious. I thought of my hallucinatory guardian angel and shuddered. "I wouldn't be so extreme," I said easily. "After all, we're talking about an art, not a trade. So words are symbols, and poetry concentrates meaning... so the better the poetry, the more powerful the spell?"

  Frisson's eyes were so wide they almost bulged.

  "Aye," Friar Ignatius said, "and poetry that is sung, is more powerful still."

  "Sung?" I frowned. "How does that work?"

  "Because there is order in melody," Friar Ignatius explained, "that adds its strength to the order of rhyme and meter; and because song is felt throughout the body, and thereby incorporates all of our energies."

  My spirits sank; I had a tin ear. But Frisson's face lit with delight. "I have a passable voice."

  "Then bend your thoughts toward God and goodness," Friar Ignatius said, turning to him. "Meditate on Him, that your magic may be for the benefit of others, and the strengthening of goodness."

  Frisson gazed at him, eyes glowing, and nodded. "Aye, for we go up against great evil, Friar Ignatius."

  "The power of goodness must needs be greater than the power of evil," Friar Ignatius rejoined, "for it doth draw on God, the Ultimate Source."

  I sat bolt upright. "You aren't trying to tell me that good will always triumph over evil!"

  "It will, if all other elements are equal," Friar Ignatius said. "No demon can stand against an angel, and white magic is much more powerful than black. But it is more difficult to be good than to be wicked, and more difficult to master white magic than black. Fasting, prayer, self-discipline, returning good for evil—these are difficult. To give in to anger and the lust for revenge is easy."

  I thought about the Taoists and Zen Buddhists, and kept thinking.

  But Frisson spoke. "We must needs confront a vile sorceress and her minions, Friar Ignatius. We will need all the strength that God can lend."

  "His grace is there for all," the monk murmured, "if we will but be open to it."

  "I think," Frisson said, "that I must learn to pray."

  For some reason, that sent shivers down my spine. I tried changing the subject. "Was this why the queen had Thyme tie you up?"

  Friar Ignatius turned to me, a strange light in his eyes. "So you have guessed that, too, Master Wizard! Yes, I had wondered... though I cannot prove that. Still, 'tis quite possible that it was the queen of Allustria who drove our ship to the nymph's isle—for she could not damage me herself, as long as I remained devoted to God."

  "And if anybody could break that devotion," I said, "it would have been Thyme. But why did the queen want you out of the way? Was she afraid you might convince some of her sorcerers to repent and start working toward sainthood?"

  "As do we all," Friar Ignatius reminded me, "if we do not despair. That is possible, Master Saul, but I think it more likely that she wished me imprisoned so that my ideas of human life would not spread."

  "Ideas about the riddle of human existence?" I frowned. "How could that hurt her?"

  Friar Ignatius bowed his head, hiding a smile of bitter amusement. When he looked up again, his face was bland and his smile gentle once more. "I have gathered wisdom from the East and from the West, Master Saul, and let go of those parts that I did not feel consistent with the whole. What is left is somewhat irreverent; indeed, those in positions of power might think I mock them, or the very notion of their right to authority."

  "You mean you've come up with ideas that are a threat to the queen?" I frowned. "How?"

  "Because, taken together, they add up to the notion that folk need not depend on the crown for their sustenance or safety, but only on God, on themselves, and on their neighbors."

  "Decentralization!" I stared, thunderstruck. "My lord! No wonder Suettay's out to get you! You're threatening her bureaucracy!"

  He frowned. "What is a 'bureaucracy'?"

  "Government by desks," I said. "Behind each desk sits a clerk, but they come and go, and the desks stay. Each desk has a bigger desk it answers to—the more powerful clerks answer to other more powerful clerks, and on up to the queen herself."

  "Then you see clearly, Master Saul." Again, he gave me that strange, close look. "You know that her clerks do make her the center of authority of the land and give her control over the least of her subjects, no matter how far from her castle they may be."

  "I'm familiar with the basic idea, yes."

  "And with the notion that each subject must do as he is told, without question?"

  "With the notion, yes. Not with the fact—my countrymen tend to do a lot of questioning, and complaining, too, and sometimes they even manage to go around the lower desks and go right to the top and get satisfaction."

>   His eyes glowed. "A marvelous people! Small wonder you are the one who can aid this land!"

  "I didn't say I was one of the ones who succeeded." I stirred restlessly. "On the other hand, in my own world, I've heard of countries where the people don't dare complain, or even ask any questions. Allustria's like that, huh?"

  "Aye—and if you know the manner of it, then you must be able to imagine what would hap if each of those subjects were convinced that he was the master of his destiny, and that he himself had the duty of choosing what he would and would not do."

  I could feel my eyes snap wide. "That's your theology?"

  He shrugged uncomfortably. "A part of it, yes. But 'tis truly quite old; Christians have always believed in free will, believed that 'tis for each of us to choose whether to sin or not to sin, whether to work toward Heaven or lapse toward Hell."

  "But a tyrant like the queen can gain a lot of mileage if she can convince her people that they're all bound for Hell already, so they might as well do what she says and keep from having pain in this world—and gain anything she's willing to give them for rewards."

  "Even so. And, too, I have come to believe that folk should be governed by their own consent and consensus, by discussing matters till they can agree, following the example of the holy hermits who abide nearest them. Thus they would live according to the common law they create together, and by the Commandments of God."

  "Revolutionary!"

  " 'Tis a brave notion, and devoutly to be wished." Frisson was pensive. "But how could it come to be, Friar Ignatius? Such a transformation in people's thoughts could not be worked in a single night, nor even a decade."

  "Even so," the monk agreed. "If it can come about at all, it will be by the patient example of men and women dedicated to God—and I do not, of course, believe it can come to be completely or perfectly as I see it. Only in Heaven may we be perfect, one by one or all together. Still, I do think we can hope to improve greatly as the years roll. 'Twill be a long process, and slow..."

  "But even in its early phases, people would want a better government," I said. "You're giving them the idea that they can expect to be treated as worthwhile human beings in their own right."

  "But of course," Friar Ignatius murmured, "for that is what they are. Every soul is infinitely precious, Master Saul—precious to God, and therefore should be precious to anyone who calls himself Christian."

  "Should be," I noted. "And, of course, there's the minor problem of whether or not your ideas will work unless everybody tries them all at once—but even a small dose would be enough to bother the bureaucrats. They see people as numbers, not souls."

  "A fascinating notion." Friar Ignatius frowned. "So you can understand, Master Saul, why the queen would wish me gone."

  "Oh, sure! She wants people to believe they're stuck being whatever they were born as—and if they were born serfs and peasants, as the vast majority of them were, it's not going to do them any good to try to be anything different, or to even protest against what the authorities tell them to do."

  "Which is to say, that they have no free will, not even such lesser forms," Friar Ignatius agreed.

  Interesting that he thought social mobility and social action were minor. "Of course, it is awfully difficult to become anything you're not born to—and society does everything it can to keep you in place."

  "Difficult," the monk agreed, "but not impossible. Our birth and our talents, and the moral teachings given us by our parents and clergy—these are among those things given us, over which we have no control. Still, a soul who strives, and who uses wisely what she or he is given, may yet do great things."

  I frowned. "How about if he's born with a really vicious temper, a lust for power, and a sex drive that just won't quit?"

  Friar Ignatius shuddered. "I have heard of such men; nay, I have met them. But even one so accursed may win to Heaven through devotion to God, and adherence to His Commandments."

  That, of course, was what really mattered, to him—free will was there so we could choose to sin or not to sin, to fly or to burn. I was seized with the vision of the pinball machine of life, with the balls and the laws of force and motion being determinism, and when and how I hit the flappers being free will. "I think we should tilt."

  All three of them looked at me as if I'd lost my marbles. "What did you say, Wizard?"

  "Uh, nothing," I said quickly. "Strategy for the revolution. How long before we get to the mainland, do you think?"

  Only a day and a night, as it turned out. There were some storms with some very odd timing, boiling up out of a clear blue sky—but Frisson was clearheaded again, and we had some idea what we were fighting. I fished through my sheaf of parchments and handed him a couple of odes in praise of sunshine, and he improved on them as he recited, and for some reason, the foul weather blew over almost as quickly as it had come.

  Still, it did seem kind of odd to me that the queen should let us make it back to the mainland with no worse trouble than that.

  I mentioned this to Friar Ignatius right after we had hauled the boat past the high-tide mark and started hiking inland. "It may be that she has little time to spare for us," he told me, "even though we may be the greatest challenge yet to her throne."

  "Aye," Gilbert agreed. "If the Spider King and the Gremlin have done as they promised, she will be far too busy to spare us much attention."

  "Good point." I turned to the nearest large spider—we were hiking through a marshy meadow, and the arachnids seemed to be everywhere; the stiff grass was ideal for mooring webs. "Tell the Spider King we're back, will you?" I said. "And we'd like to know what's going on."

  My buddies glanced sidelong at me as if they were wondering about my sanity again... but they'd met the Spider King, too, all except for Gruesome and Friar Ignatius, so they kept their peace. Which was very wise; the spider was busy mending the rim of her web, but she turned and scampered straightaway back to the center—and disappeared.

  Friar Ignatius stared at it for a few seconds. Then he whipped his gaze up to me, stared for a few seconds longer, then glanced back at the web.

  Gilbert squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "There is small time to debate," he said. " 'Tis long and far to Todenburg, and we have only our legs."

  He took the lead, and we filed off after him.

  About half an hour later, we were coming up to a stand of trees. Just to the right of our path, a really splendid web was strung between two saplings, four feet in diameter, with a spider whose body was the size of an old-fashioned dollar. We glanced at it in admiration, then looked again.

  Woven into the web were runes. They spelled out, "Gaze."

  "Gaze?" I frowned, staring. "Gaze at what?"

  "Thus." Friar Ignatius beckoned, and we turned aside from the path, heading for the sound of a brook that had been paralleling our path for the last few minutes. The monk scouted along its edge until he found a small pool that had formed between some rocks. "Here, poet," he said. "Craft a verse that would tune a pool to the king's mind."

  "Uh, I think..." I pulled out the sheaf and riffled through, then yanked a slip. "Here, Frisson!"

  The poet pursed his lips, absorbing his own verse again, then spouted it out, with improvements:

  "Water, water, most contrary,

  Help this televisionary.

  Let no image now be sinking,

  But show us what the king is thinking."

  I did a double take, but he was right—"television" was Latin for "seeing at a distance," though not quite in the way my culture meant it. I looked down at the pool, almost daring it to show me something.

  It clouded and darkened, then cleared, but stayed dark, a deep indigo... and in its depths, images formed. My gaze locked onto them; I couldn't have forced myself to look away if I'd wanted to. And, of course, I didn't want to; to say the least they were compelling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  We saw a mob of peasants beating up a squad of soldiers in a village square.
It was unbelievable, until the pool showed us just one villager swinging a cudgel down at a soldier. The men-at-arms stabbed at him with a pike—but the peasant's cudgel whacked right on the haft behind the head, and the shaft broke.

  "The Gremlin!" I breathed. After all, our perverse friend specialized in making things break down at the crucial moment. Admittedly, he was better with high-tech devices—the more complicated they are, the more things can go wrong—but he was managing pretty well with what he had.

  The battle disappeared, and another army swam into view... but in this one, the soldiers were fighting among themselves. A knight rode about the fray, trying to knock combatants apart with a mace, but his horse tripped, and he disappeared into a melee of flailing arms. The images grew larger and larger, floating out past the edges of the pool, until I could see an overturned kettle next to the ashes of a campfire. The kettle was empty. Then the fighting soldiers swam back in, growing smaller and smaller until I was looking at an overhead view of the churning mass of soldiers. Suddenly they streaked past me, and the images expanded again, until I found myself looking down into a trio of farm wagons. They were filled with hay. Apparently, the quartermaster had bollixed up the order, sending horse food instead of people food, and the soldiers were starving.

  "The Gremlin!" Gilbert breathed.

  "Maybe," I said, "but I think he's getting expert advice."

  The fight dimmed and faded, and another picture grew in its place. A peasant, wearing a green tunic with yellow hose and a tall cap, was going from door to door, looking very confused as he scooped gold pieces out of a bag and handed them to the peasants. The recipients stared, unbelieving, then broke into huge smiles and heaped thanks on the donor—but he was already turning away toward the next cottage, looking very frazzled.

  "He is a tax collector." Gilbert frowned. "Wherefore does he give money, rather than take it?"

  It almost seemed as if the pool had heard him; it clouded up, then cleared again, showing us a view of a big room. We were looking at it from high up on the wall, and we saw a mob of men in rich-looking robes milling about half a dozen tables with checkerboard tops. There was a lot of gesturing, and I could imagine the noise. It looked like one of those television news shots of the New York Stock Exchange just before closing time on a bad day.