The Gods Look Down

by Trevor Hoyle

  Queghan said, ‘You’re assuming that the creature – the protoplast – will be both alien and intelligent. It could turn out to be one or the other or neither.’ He started collecting the specification together.

  Professor Mulder didn’t respond to this: his expression remained static and composed. He had said what he had to say.

  ‘I’m not particularly keen on genetic engineering myself,’ Queghan said, trying not to sound apologetic. ‘The reason for building the device isn’t to create a protoplast.’

  ‘Then why build it? Is Earth IVn in desperate need of single-cell protein?’

  ‘I have to know if it’s practicable. You might think that mytho-logical interpretation of past events is without scientific relevance but it happens to be my field of study and I think it’s important. Your contribution has been invaluable and I’m sorry you don’t wish to continue any further.’

  He was automatically, without thinking, gathering the sheets together and putting them in order. Something scribbled in one corner caught his eye and Queghan read it uncomprehendingly; he read it again and read it a third time. It was one of Professor Mulder’s random notations:

  L. I. F. F. E. (∑)

  ‘Psi phenomena are examples of meaningful coincidences which are linked in terms of meaning but have no casual relationship such that one event gives rise to another’ – the Theory of Synchronicity proposed by Carl Jung and Wolfgang Pauli.

  Everything now assumed a kind of paradoxical logic like that of a mathematical equation which balances out beautifully and at the same time gives an impossible result. The apparent ‘coincidence’ of approaching Professor Mulder had been predestined all along: the Professor had given the clue when he’d written down the acronym for the unit he envisaged in the blueprint and specification: Laser-Intensified Fermentation and Fertilization Equipment, with the symbol ∑ standing for high-intensity light source – the standard warning on all units incorporating laser optics.

  The Biblical machine had indeed come from the future – this future – and the advanced civilization that had been responsible for its construction was the civilization of Earth IVn. Queghan had been seeking the mysterious agency which had transmitted the machine into the past and all along the answer had been, quite literally, under his nose. It was him. He was the one responsible.

  The paradox had come full circle. The blueprint and specification had been derived from texts which gave a description of a machine existing in Biblical times – and it was from that same blueprint and specification that the machine had been built (speaking strictly sequentially had yet to be built) and transmitted back into the past. It was a closed circle of events, each one leading logically and irrefutably to the next, but it gave rise to a whole series of complex speculations.

  The most baffling was how the machine could have preceded its own design. That it had really existed in the past there could be no doubt – it was mentioned innumerable times in the Kabbalah and in the Judaeo-Christian Bible – but how to explain the illogicality of the blueprint and specification being taken from a record of the machine’s own existence at an earlier period of history? Queghan didn’t know the answer but he did know that sometime in the future, in his lifetime, the machine would be built and transmitted back into the past.

  There was one final mystery.

  Why was the machine necessary in the first place? Why had its specification included a fermentation and fertilization capability? What on earth was its ultimate purpose?

  And who – or Who – had willed its creation?

  13

  The Protoplast

  She had been branded an evil woman and the people threw stones at her as they would to drive away the scavenging pariah dogs, and even the children – educated in these matters by their parents – sniggered as she went by and called out ‘Harlot!’ and made obscene gestures with their scrawny fists. She had come to accept it (there was no choice) and withdrawn into a self-protective shell of icy aloofness, not answering their taunts or acknowledging their presence, though she burned inside with a deadly white flame, so pure and hot that it scorched every fibre of her being. She was not so readily cast down; a lust for revenge shook her like palsy; the day would come, she told herself, and the day would be sufficient unto itself. They scorned her now but somehow Maria would have the retribution she craved.

  Her father had warned her of this. Ever since she was a child he had told her that those descended of Dagon had a heavy burden to bear, for they were set apart from their neighbours by virtue of their birthright. The story was well known, even among those who were not of their tribe, how an Angel of the Lord had descended from heaven and been tempted by the evil daughter of Dagon in the temple at Ashdod, and from this sacrilegious act had come a tainted people who would carry the sins of their forefathers for all time. The story had become the central legend of their tribe and even after twenty-eight generations it both sustained them and set them apart so that they lived in the community as outcasts.

  Maria had learnt the hard and painful lesson that there was no charity in the hearts of men. Her neighbours worshipped in the temple, knelt and prayed for forgiveness of their sins, and straight away poured scorn on those they considered had transgressed in the eyes of God. They sought forgiveness but weren’t prepared in their turn to forgive. They suffered with rancour and ill grace the presence of the tribe of Dagon in their midst, treating them as an inferior species which didn’t deserve the consideration and respect they would have shown an animal.

  Before he died Maria’s father had tried to comfort her with these words:

  ‘Our forefathers were punished for their sins. They were driven from their city by a plague of vermin and afflicted with emerods and ever since the descendants of Dagon have been made to pay anew, each generation carrying the guilt of the past. It won’t always be so. The time will come, and it won’t be long, when our people will be rid of the stigma which has lain upon us like a brand; we will be as other men, even exalted above them.’

  She had never discovered – from her father or any other member of the tribe – how this miracle was to come about. It seemed futile to hope, and yet hope continued to burn steadily inside her, a hot clear flame. She shared her father’s conviction that one day soon salvation would be at hand, but it was founded on nothing more substantial than blind instinctive faith.

  Two days after her nineteenth birthday, as in the twinkling of an eye, Maria fell in love. She had been sent by her mother to the carpenter’s shop to ask for shavings to kindle the fire, and having run the gauntlet of sniggers and obscene whispers had entered the dark cool room filled with the sweet fragrance of freshly-cut timber. The carpenter, who was not of her tribe, was a gentle man called Eliel who treated everyone with kindness, irrespective of their line. He greeted Maria warmly and told her she could collect as many shavings as she wanted.

  Maria set about her task and it was only after several moments had elapsed that she became aware she was being watched by a young man with intense dark-brown eyes who sat cross-legged in the far corner of the room. He was smoothing down a piece of work with pumice stone, though his eyes were fixed on her, never leaving her face. She was annoyed (she pretended to be annoyed) and flashed him a cold blank stare which didn’t have the effect she intended, for he smiled. This confused her and she glanced away, feeling her cheeks grow hot. The heavy sweet fragrance of the wood seemed to be preventing her from fully catching her breath.

  He said, ‘Need any help?’

  ‘No,’ she said at once, and then in a softer tone, remembering her mother’s edict, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There are some bigger pieces here if you want them.’ He scooped up a handful and tossed them to her. His hand passed through a bar of sunlight and she was dazzled: an impression of his hand was imprinted on her eye which turned from glowing black to brilliant white every time she blinked.

  ‘Got something in your eye?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Might be sawdu
st.’

  ‘There’s nothing in my eye,’ Maria said tartly, gathering up the scraps of wood. She obstinately refused to look at him and got to her feet, thanking the carpenter, and was so intent on avoiding his look that she turned and almost walked into the wall.

  ‘You have got something in your eye.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ she said, and ran outside, now totally bewildered and nearly in tears, thinking, What a stupid stupid man!.

  For several days after she couldn’t recall what he looked like (she remembered he had dark-brown eyes) but she knew every detail of his hand which was perpetually in her memory, bathed in vivid sunshine.

  The young man, whose name was Jozabad, of the tribe of Kish, had come to the village to take up an apprenticeship, and by surreptitious questioning and observation Maria learned everything she could about him. But she was careful not to visit the carpenter’s shop too often in case he got the idea that she was keen on him, which of course she certainly was not.

  Jozabad, however, took matters into his own hands and did the unthinkable: without even the flimsiest of pretexts he came to her house and asked for her by name, apparently indifferent to the consternation he caused – not only that he had come unbidden but also that a man of the tribe of Kish could lower himself to visit the house of one of the tribe of Dagon. Maria’s mother was scandalized and she was also afraid, and she refused to call her daughter or to allow Jozabad over the threshold. He was not of their tribe and had no business calling on them; she would forbid Maria to visit the carpenter’s shop ever again.

  Closing the door firmly and resolutely she returned to the kitchen. Her face was closed, her lips sealed tight. Maria, who was (in deed if not thought) the innocent party, went about her chores with a creeping discretion, making very little noise, for she knew well enough the strict taboo which separated the other tribes from her own people. Marriage between them was not forbidden because it was never considered; the stigma, even after twenty-eight generations, was scored deep into their minds and hearts.

  The following day, as they were making bread, her mother said, ‘I’ve noticed how pale you’ve been lately, Maria. Are you feeling all right?’

  Maria looked up, startled. ‘There’s nothing the matter with me.’

  ‘You’re so quiet. I’ve been thinking you should visit your cousin Elisabeth for a while. The heat will be starting soon and it’s much cooler in the hills round Juda. Why don’t you go and stay there for the summer? A change of air for three or four months will do you good.’ She was kneading dough with strong curved fingers, wrestling with it like a bear throttling a snake.

  Maria said quietly, ‘I’d rather stay here, mother.’

  ‘I think you should go.’

  ‘I’d rather stay.’

  Her mother choked the last gasp out of the doughy snake. ‘It would be better for your health, Maria, and for everyone concerned, if you went. The summer heat can be very trying. Very trying indeed.’

  Maria said, ‘If you want me to go I’ll go.’

  Her mother tied the snake in knots and dropped it into an earthenware bowl where it lay still and dead.

  ‘There’s a sensible girl.’

  *

  Elisabeth, wife of Zacharias, was forty-three years old and still without a child. She and her husband had waited patiently through the years, and then impatiently, and then they had prayed, but the child had never come.

  They lived in the city of Juda, on the edge of the hill country, where the scrubland gave way to rocky slopes which rose up to bleached volcanic cliffs standing poised and sharp in the cool clear heights above the desert plain. Some of the tribe of Dagon had settled here, believing that the further they fled from the populated areas the more accepted they would become; it was a fallacy soon disproved.

  When Maria arrived there was great excitement in the household. She didn’t understand the reason until, when they were alone together, her cousin broke the news.

  ‘After all these years I am with child. Maria, think of it! I’m to be a mother!’

  ‘Is it possible? I thought you were …?’

  ‘I’m not that old,’ Elisabeth said, scolding her. ‘We have lived good lives, Zacharias and I, and now at last we’ve been rewarded – you can’t say we haven’t been patient.’

  ‘You’ve been more than patient. And I’m very pleased for you … I’m very happy that you’re to be a mother.’

  ‘You don’t sound at all enthusiastic, Maria.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. Really.’

  ‘Shall I tell you a secret?’

  ‘Yes,’ Maria said, smiling.

  Elisabeth closed her eyes. She made the sign of the cross and pressed the palm of her hand against her forehead. ‘I’ve seen the Angel of the Lord.’

  Maria said, ‘Where?’ – glancing nervously round the room as if she half expected a heavenly presence to be hovering nearby.

  ‘In a dream.’

  ‘Oh,’ Maria said, relaxing.

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Yes, I believe you. You saw the Angel of the Lord in a dream.’

  ‘He appeared to me six months ago and told me that if I went into the hills I would be blessed with a child.’

  Maria was suddenly afraid. She recalled the legend of their tribe: how an Angel of the Lord had been tempted and seduced by the daughter of Dagon and ever since they had been damned in the sight of God. Was the curse again upon them, to be reenacted after all these generations? Would it follow them throughout time, a penalty which had to be paid again and again? She said:

  ‘And you obeyed him?’

  ‘I went up into the hills, to a place he had spoken of in the dream, and there I found the Ancient of Days.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What did you find?’

  ‘He told me about it in the dream,’ Elisabeth said, her voice falling to a whisper. Her eyes were lost in remembering. ‘He said that in the hills I would find the Ancient of Days and if I worshipped before it I would become fertile. He spoke truly and what he said came to pass.’

  ‘But … what is the Ancient of Days? A shrine?’

  Elisabeth said, as in a trance. ‘A globe of radiant light which burns from within. There is no flame or smoke, as from a fire, but its light is as constant as the sun.’ She looked at Maria. ‘Don’t you see? It’s the fire of heaven! God has not forsaken the people of Dagon – He has looked down upon us and seen our plight and blessed us. We have found favour in His sight.’

  Maria said slowly, ‘Is that what it means? Are you sure?’

  ‘What else can it mean?’ her cousin said eagerly. ‘I was barren and He made me fruitful. Our prayers have been answered.’

  ‘Does Zacharias know of this thing in the hills?’

  Elisabeth shook her head. ‘I was afraid to tell him. I haven’t told anyone … except you.’

  ‘I see,’ Maria said, glancing away.

  ‘Don’t you believe what I’ve been saying?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Maria soothed her.

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  Maria was silent. Then she said, ‘You say the Angel of the Lord came to you in a dream – but couldn’t it all have been a dream? Are you sure the Ancient of Days wasn’t also in your dream?’

  ‘Is my pregnancy a dream too? Feel my belly. Does that feel like a dream to you?’

  ‘Of course you’re pregnant, I believe that. But it could have happened … naturally.’

  Elisabeth said stubbornly, ‘I know what I saw. I know what happened and nothing can change that. God heard our prayers and sent His angel to answer them.’ A thought came to her. She said, ‘I know the place where the Ancient of Days resides – if I show you, then you’ll have to believe.’

  ‘No,’ Maria said quickly. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘If you don’t believe why are you so afraid? If the Ancient of Days doesn’t exist there is nothing to fear. You ca
n’t not believe and be afraid.’

  ‘I’m not afraid for myself but for our people.’

  ‘But why? Our people have waited for a sign. We’ve been persecuted long enough. God has at last shown us His mercy and forgiven us the sins of our fathers. Why else should He bless me with a child?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maria said doubtfully. She looked at her cousin and came to a decision. ‘I will go with you. Perhaps if I can believe I shan’t be afraid any more. My father said before he died that our people would one day be rid of the curse which has lain upon us for so long. Perhaps that day is near.’

  So they went up into the hills around Juda and Elisabeth led the way unerringly to the place where the Ancient of Days resided.

  Everything was as she had said: the narrow fissure opened up to a large chamber inside the rock which was lit by a sphere of serene light. It rested on pillars and slabs that gleamed like burnished brass and threw a soft radiance over the two women as they approached and knelt before it. Neither one spoke; it was as if the chamber was a consecrated place, holier than the temples of the tribe of Kish which they were forbidden to enter.

  Maria felt herself to be suspended, her senses wandering from her body and drifting upwards into the chamber like feathers. She had not disbelieved her cousin’s story so much as been afraid that it was true. It was one thing to pray for salvation but when there was the real and actual possibility that it might be granted she had felt a strange sense of reluctance, as though it was too soon, too hurried, it would be better to wait a few generations more.

  Now her doubts had vanished. There was no fear in her. The Ancient of Days was benevolent, shedding a soft kindly light throughout the chamber, washing them in its holy radiance. The light seemed to penetrate her skin and warm the root of her belly and it was as though she was filled with the Holy Spirit. A feeling of infinite peace and tranquillity settled on her like the gentle rain from heaven.