Demonworld Book 6: The Love of Tyrants

by Kyle B. Stiff

  A group of half-naked children ran into them. All of their faces shifting – tiny old people, a web of unfamiliar faces – and they took people by the hands.

  “A play!” said the children.

  “They're putting on a show!”

  “Come and see! Come and see!”

  Wodan found himself being led by the children. They walked up a wooded hillside. He wondered if time would open up and he would see the forest, or the earth itself, as it had looked throughout all the ages. He did not. Unlike the people, the woods were surprisingly static. Long black trunks stretched upward, and the ground was covered in wet, red leaves that must have fallen long ago. The air was dark and foggy, but warm with so many campfires. He was in all forests, or the only forest in all creation. People leaning against trees were gnomes, ancient, silent, smiling things, more idea than flesh and blood. Was he on an alien world? Or were all worlds alien… strange creations beyond reckoning. The image was lost when one child gripped a vine and slapped it against another child's bare behind. He shrieked, not from pain but simply as a show of wonder. The child needed the adults to understand that they lived in a universe where a vine could whip across your ass at any moment.

  His awareness seemed to slip away, then he found himself sitting in a comfortable wicker chair among a large group of people sitting on the ground or on short stools, or even on tree branches overhead. All eyes were on a stage of stone and aged wood where a group of primitive entertainers reenacted the Redeemer's tale. Or the Redeemer's tales; Wodan could see hints of different ages in the simple sets, nods to the mythic Ancients, to modern-day Pontius, décor from Temple Grounds, even costumes that looked like Lucas's disciples. But the play was not a retelling – one of the actors stopped mid-line and winked at Wodan before continuing. This let him know that they were gods, beings conducting a ritual that echoed through multiple ages, bouncing here and here and here, different tones heard in different times, all originating from the same original event which was still occurring.

  Just when Wodan thought he understood where the gist of the play was heading, a bearded and robed actor going by the name Redeemer began speaking to some sort of jester in patchwork clothes and a bizarre haircut. The other actors drifted into the background, as if their story had been paused. The character playing Redeemer said to the jester, “Who are you?”

  “Everyman!” said the jester.

  “Oh? And who is Everyman?”

  “Well, I'll tell you.”

  Everyman began drawing a simple sketch of himself on a large, flat piece of wood. “I'm this kind of guy. And see this? I'm always the kind of guy who does this when that happens. That's just me. And when it comes down to it, I’m the kind of guy who does this, that, and the other. A wise man once said to me 'know thyself'. Lucky for me, I know exactly the kind of person I am. And here I am!”

  Everyman proudly finished his crude drawing, a retarded stick figure whose face was split in half with a horseshoe smile.

  “You say that this is you?” said Redeemer.

  “Say it? I know it!”

  “But this is a drawing. This is not you.”

  “This is me, I know who I am. I'm the kind of person who-”

  “No,” said Redeemer. “You do not know yourself. You know only an image in your mind. A false idol that is not you, but a caricature of foolish notions you imagine to be sensible. Don't you know that you are gods?”

  Everyman thought for a moment by rubbing his head and working his mouth. The crowd laughed. “Well I tell you,” said Everyman, “I might not know about that, but there's some things I do know, and that's for sure!”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh yes! For instance, I know that orange is a sound and a struck bell makes a color. Even if fools make a fool of me from sunup to sundown, I can rest easy on that foundation of knowledge!”

  “Then let me trouble your rest,” said Redeemer, “and fill your nights with worry. You do not have knowledge, but only categories and definitions. They look pretty and balanced, but what good are they? You have defined the color and failed to see the beauty in it. You have categorized the sound of the bell in your mind, and now it can no longer move your heart. What do you know! Know nothing. Then this world can be a wonder! Not a series of inconveniences that are impossible to fit into your awful, absurd categories!”

  Everyman back-flipped, his feet hitting the stone stage soundlessly. “That sounds like a lot of religious nonsense,” he said. “Now, I might not know some things, but there are, at the very least, some things that are known. And some people do know those things. So there!”

  “Know this? Know that?” said Redeemer. “Sounds to me like you have quite a bit of faith. How do you find it in your heart to believe in such things?”

  “Because I am alert! I am smart! I am so smart, in fact, that my own opinions make perfect sense to me. You don't need faith when you know something for certain!”

  “No,” said Redeemer, “you do not know. You feel as if you know because you are in a dream. You are asleep and dreaming that you are awake and alive and alert. When you dream, you accept all manner of falsehood as real. When you open your eyes to the absurdity, you will wake up and see through the spell of illusion cast upon you. It is easy but you must die first. You must throw off all that you believe you are.”

  “Alright, fine,” said Everyman. “I might not be so wise or dependable or even worth a damn, but I know someone who is. A man of great wisdom! A man of fame and stature! I take his word as fact and his acts I adore! Behold… Otherman!”

  A curtain at the rear of the stage parted and revealed three actors in an awkward position. One was obviously dressed to look like the High Priest. He laid on the floor with his legs splayed out in the air. The other two, dressed like black robes, pushed on his behind and shoulders in an attempt to bring his head closer to his crotch. The High Priest worked his mouth into an oval, muttering, “Almost… almost there...” The crowd laughed uproariously while Everyman, not bothering to look at the ridiculous spectacle, gestured for Redeemer to look and be impressed.

  “I'm impressed,” said Redeemer.

  “I'll say!” said Everyman. “Who wouldn’t be?”

  “To be sure,” said Redeemer. “He's quite flexible for his age.”

  Everyman turned, shrieked, and leaped in the air. More laughter from the audience as he fought to pull the curtains shut.

  “My my!” said Everyman. “Looks like we caught him at a bad time.”

  “Didn't seem like he was having that bad of a time.”

  “Listen, just because he's not perfect doesn't mean perfection isn't possible. I know, for a fact, that it's possible to be perfect!”

  As the two actors discussed having all traits in perfect measure versus finding balance as the situation demanded, Wodan's attention drifted. He looked at the crowd. Their faces. They laughed, or started in surprised. They were being entertained. Was this Lucas's idea? Putting his philosophy into a play rather than a dry sermon… Wodan had to respect the technique. But it could be a suspicious thing, too. What if sick and short-sighted philosophies were put into an entertaining tale?

  At once he saw that entertainment could be used for enlightenment or indoctrination. There was no real way to know the difference until after the tale had been experienced and absorbed. The only way to remain unaffected was to become dead inside, to be affected by nothing. And the drawbacks to that were obvious.

  That's why we have to remain flexible, he thought. Falling deeper and deeper into ideology is no different than being dead! Flexibility, being open to possibilities, even scary ones – it's the only way to remain balanced.

  Just when he thought of balance, Everyman dropped several bouncing balls he had been juggling.

  “So balancing isn't for the lazy,” said Everyman. “So what! That doesn't mean there isn't one perfect thing out there! And that thing must be… the meaning of life…!”

  Everyman gestured to the crowd, seemingly awed by hi
s own statement. Redeemer rubbed his face, no doubt uncomfortable with being cast in the role of the “straight man” to a jester playing the part of the human mind.

  Everyman raced to a stack of books, held one upside down as he read, then blinked in surprise.

  “I've got it!” he said.

  “Got what?”

  “It! The meaning of life!”

  “They put that in books now?” said Redeemer.

  “They put it in this one. Turns out the meaning of life… is death!”

  “What?!”

  “Yes sir! First life beats you down. Then it lays you out flat. Then it drops its drawers, squats on your head, and-”

  “We get the idea.”

  “- and that's not even the worst of it. Fortunately, life's one mercy is that it ends. And when it ends, you find yourself at...” Everyman put his hands together and sang softly, “The… pearly… gates!”

  “Is that a euphemism?”

  “Yes – for the Kingdom of Heaven!”

  “Redeemer shook his head. “So life is hard, but then you die and everything is good?”

  “Yes!”

  “You son of a mule! Don't you know where the Kingdom of Heaven is?”

  “I...”

  “It's within.” Redeemer pointed at himself. “The Kingdom of Heaven isn't out there. Life doesn't start when it ends. The Kingdom of Heaven is within.”

  “But… but that means...”

  “It means life is to be experienced, not abstained from.”

  ***

  Wodan jerked awake. The stage was empty, the crowd was gone, and the torches were put out. The forest was dark. He was afraid, thinking for a moment that he lived in an empty world, and had only dreamed that others had been with him. He must have slept through the rest of the play.

  Silly, he thought, to imagine myself the last man on Earth.

  He passed through the darkened woods as quietly as a ghost, then found a group of people dancing around a fire. He drew near the circle, then tripped on something. Magog was on the ground, mouth hanging open, eyes darting around. Wodan knew he must've taken something. Perhaps being an artist made him more sensitive to the visions. Wodan saw someone had already placed a clump of grass under his head for a pillow, so he left him alone.

  On the other side of the fire, he saw Haginar with a group of boys pushing one another up onto the lower branches of a tree. Zachariah sat in a crouch among a group of older men and women, deep in discussion and unmindful of the dancers carrying on nearby.

  In the crook of the roots of a wide tree with drooping branches, he found Yardalen and Jarl. Wodan went to them. They saw him, turned slightly, and just as Wodan had decided that he was no longer high, he was struck by the realization that he could read both of their minds. Not by scanning their brains using some psychic sense, but by intuiting meaning from subtle gestures. And he was not reading their minds without them knowing it; no, they wanted their minds read.

  He began to fear that others did this all the time, but he had been like a blind man fumbling about his entire life. The dread immediately fled when he saw Jarl scratch his nose with his pinkie, a nervous gesture he was familiar with. He had always been reading the shifting weight of small gestures… and had simply never noticed. Once again he felt like an alien in the world he was born in.

  He could plainly see that Jarl wanted to tell him something, but was afraid. He was afraid of blurting the thing out, of looking foolish, of possibly betraying either his Order or even his lord. Glancing at Yardalen, the set of her shoulders and hesitant smile, he could see that she enjoyed Jarl's company more than she'd expected, but there was another with whom she'd rather be.

  “Where is your husband?” said Wodan.

  Yardalen did not force a smile in greeting. “Anyone who marries a public figure soon learns they're just a mistress, second to his true calling. But it's fine. I am patient, and what he's doing is important.”

  Is it? Wodan wondered.

  He sat before Jarl. Knowing he could not press the Entertainer too hard, he thought of another matter that bothered him. If Jarl could not help in this matter, who could?

  “Jarl, I have a question for you.”

  “I will answer as best I can, my Lord.”

  “There's a pair of mythological beasts… maybe you know them. Leviathan and Behemoth. The one who told me about them… well… he made it seem as if all of humanity was...” Wodan thought of the poor people here, running around in the woods, imagining they were enlightened as an ancient creature took notes for his amusement.

  “Masters and slaves, right?” said Jarl. “Yes, that's the simple way of looking at it. Everybody wants to survive, but some people are a little more… pushy than others. Or some people are smarter. Or just more organized. In any case, you end up with one person in charge of another person's life. Or a small group who think it's their duty to run everyone else's affairs. And maybe it is, I don't know. The more I see and learn, the less sure I am.” Jarl scratched his chin. “That take on Leviathan and Behemoth can be depressing. One rules, the other labors. But, my Lord, didn't you know there was a third beast?”

  Wodan looked at him.

  “It's true,” said Jarl. “People like black and white, yes and no. They like things simple. The third beast shatters simplicity.”

  “Tell me,” said Wodan, wondering why Setsassanar had not already told him.

  Jarl smiled slightly. “He's called Ziz, or Zizi. His wingspan stretches from horizon to horizon, and nothing escapes his gaze. His wrath is like a storm unleashed – and yet his prime concern is the protection of children. All children.”

  Seeing Wodan's expression, he added, “Sounds quaint, doesn't it? And yet despite all the brutal simplicity of survival – kill or be killed, obey or die – mankind has always dreamed of a beautiful world. Ziz represents artists, or mankind's creative impulse. He is not brutal simplicity, but complication and beauty beyond measure.”

  “Then why-”

  “Because he has been edited out of most accounts of the story of Job.”

  At first Wodan thought of bringing this to Setsassanar, of offering a hypothetical mythological bird as a counterargument. But then he began to suspect that Setsassanar had somehow set him up to learn this on his own. As powerful and ruthless as Setsassanar was, wasn't he also strange enough to show an embarrassing side of himself that he could have simply hidden from his apprentice forever? If Setsassanar wanted to seem like the ultimate Master, showing advertisements where he posed in his underwear was the wrong way to go about it.

  “There's nothing really surprising about this,” said Jarl. “Even as the Ugly and the Law and all the other gangs did anything they could for power, and even as the common folk worked and did whatever they could to survive, people always dreamed and told stories to one another. That's what keeps us going. Behemoth and Leviathan would fade away if Ziz didn't uphold the roof of the world for them to live in.”

  Jarl smiled, and Wodan saw the sad, gentle smile of everyone who had ever held onto a dream like a life raft.

  “We build shelters against storms,” said Yardalen. “We live in terror of losing what little we have. But the world always looks so beautiful after a violent storm.”

  “Exactly!” said Jarl. “That's Ziz! And that's… well, that's my Lord, too.”

  Wodan hid his face, overcome by the idea.

  “But… my Lord,” said Jarl. “I was… hoping to speak to you of… something else. Another beast, as it were.”

  “Go on.”

  “It's about… the Ghost. You know, one of the so-called four gods of the wasteland. You know of it, don't you?”

  “Of course,” Wodan said hesitantly. “The religion I grew up with was focused on the Ghost and the Redeemer. The Ghost made the world and humanity. Also destroyed the world and humanity a few times. The Ugly wrote about it in the Book of the Red. He’s a jealous and vengeful god. But I haven't thought about that stuff for years.”

  “M
y Lord, I don't really know how to say this without seeming crazy, so I’ll just say it. I think the Ghost may be real.”

  “A real creature?”

  “Yes. Sort of. Not a creature of this world, per se, but a being that can visit this world, influence it, take from it. From reading the records in the Temple, I've found variations… little echoes from different ages. One account might sound like myth, but then another might sound more-than-modern, kind of like the technologically advanced era of the Ancients seen from the eyes of the primitives who followed them. They all interacted with the Ghost. They all sacrificed to it.”

  “Sacrificed?”

  “That is… they fed it.”

  The words hung in the air. Wodan grappled with the strange statement, as well as the understanding that he was no longer sure what could be considered strange after everything he had experienced.

  “Different methods were used in different times,” said Jarl. “But always there's a ritual or a device bestowed on the faithful. Something living is always handed over… like livestock, or even human children. There's always a lot of people going along with the thing because they think they are doing good. And there's always one person in charge, speaking on behalf of the Ghost and selling the idea to the others. That person might be a high priest, a head scientist, an occult sage, whatever you want to call him. He always thirsts for power and he always goes mad.”

  Jarl remembered the image of the Ancient scientists working in the desert, the night sky pierced by a sickening array of dancing lights. Then he fell silent, more than a little embarrassed at being fearful over scraps of things he'd read in ancient books.

  As for Wodan, he knew full well that being a leader was a strange thing. What could he really do in this situation? “Don't worry, Jarl,” he might say. “Not only do I accept the existence of extradimensional beings, I'm also fully trained to handle them.” Comforting him would be dishonest… but then again, Wodan had been in similar situations many times before. What do you do to ensure people survive if winter is worse than expected? How do you get clean water to miners and runoff water away from them and everyone else? How do you collect and allocate taxes, and how do you investigate and prosecute tax evaders without ruining every single business? Helpful “experts” existed only in varying shades of incompetence, and Wodan had no idea how to do any of those things. And yet he had done all of those things. At least in part, and at least avoiding total disaster.