by John Norman
“Of course,” said the guest.
“Some doubt that the individual existed,” said Iaachus, “for example, the unusual accounts, the surprising occurrences, the similarities with other prophets, teachers, gods, and such.”
“To deny truth is blasphemy,” said the guest.
“I have no objection to supposing the individual, or such individuals, perhaps conflated into one, existed,” said Iaachus.
“The Arbiter of Protocol is generous,” said the guest.
“His, or their, nature, doings, lives, views, teachings, and such, seem obscure.”
“Not at all,” said the guest. “Truth is one.”
“There are many differing versions and accounts of the teachings in question,” said Iaachus.
“But truth is one,” said the guest.
“It must be difficult to know which version or account is true,” said Iaachus.
“Not at all,” said the guest.
“If any one of them,” said Iaachus.
“One is true, truth is one,” said the guest.
“Surely others cling as tenaciously to their own accounts and versions, as you to yours,” said Iaachus.
“Persistence in error is execrable,” said the guest.
“The Redemptor, as I understand it,” said Iaachus, “is identical with Karch.”
“Yes,” said the guest, “but different, as well.”
“That is hard to understand,” said Iaachus.
“Of course,” said the guest.
“Your doctrines, in their abundance and complexity, seem to far exceed the simple words ascribed to your Redemptor.”
“But are entailed by them, by irrefragable logic.”
“Many seem unintelligible,” said Iaachus.
“They transcend reason,” said the guest.
“That is a virtue?” asked Iaachus.
“Of course,” said the guest.
“You take much of this on faith?” asked Iaachus.
“Yes,” said the guest.
“Why?” asked Iaachus.
“Because our faith is based on truth.”
“Truth is hard to find,” said Iaachus.
“Not when seen through the eyes of faith,” said the guest.
“Which faith?” asked Iaachus.
“Mine,” said the guest.
“I see,” said Iaachus.
“I hoped you would,” said the guest.
“Your doctrines, and those of other temples, all claiming to be the one, true temple of the Redemptor, seem to differ.”
“Heresy is rampant,” said the guest.
“Perhaps the empire might be of assistance?” said Iaachus.
“If properly guided,” said the guest.
“Perhaps that has something to do with your desire to meet with the emperor and the empress mother?” said Iaachus.
“Perhaps you can arrange such an audience,” said the guest.
“As I understand it,” said Iaachus, “differing temples, and sets of temples, define themselves in terms of beliefs, or creedal commitments. For example, your temple, or your temples, commit themselves to, say, propositions one, two, and three.”
“Proceed,” said the guest.
“But, as these propositions appear to be unintelligible—”
“Such as exceed the grasp of reason,” said the guest.
“—they can be neither proved nor disproved.”
“They are beyond proof,” said the guest.
“And they cannot be disproven,” said Iaachus.
“That is their strength,” said the guest. “They are irrefutable.”
“But,” said Iaachus, “these differing temples, or sets of temples, have their own propositions, say, one, four, and five, similarly irrelevant to the world, similarly compatible with any situation whatsoever, more propositions which in no way could be shown to be either true or false, propositions to which evidence is immaterial, propositions similarly immune to refutation.”
“What is your point?” inquired the guest.
“And yet the adherents of your Redemptor, who spoke of peace, sweetness, gentleness, love, patience, resignation, and such, are willing to burn and kill one another over these competitive gibberishes.”
“Perhaps you can arrange an audience with the emperor, or the empress mother,” said the guest.
“Do you truly believe,” asked Iaachus, “that your mighty Karch, invisible and mighty, unseen and vast, sculptor of universes, designer of the cobra’s fangs and the vi-cat’s claws, the germ that can fell a torodont, stars which can engulf worlds, cares whether or not some street sweeper believes in propositions one, two, and three, or one, four, and five?”
“The audience?” politely inquired the guest.
“You are a highly intelligent man,” said Iaachus. “You cannot convince me that you take these things seriously.”
“I think that you can arrange such an audience,” said the guest.
“Permit me to speculate,” said Iaachus, “on the practical relevance of creedal commitment, and on the importance of the singularity claim, as well, both of which, viewed simply, appear so implausible, anomalous, and absurd. What lurks behind the contrived veil of nonsense, so objectively pointless, on the other hand, is mighty with meaning. Behind the fog of appeal and distraction lies something quite real, quite comprehensible. Concealed in the night of nonsense is something quite different. In the darkness, the beast is afoot, alert, eager, and ravenous. How ironic that simple, loving teachings should be turned to the familiar ends of ambition and greed, of power. How wise to claim sole proprietorship of the keys that lead to golden worlds. What prestige redounds to the humble! How paradoxical to cast oneself down to be exalted over one’s brothers. Consider the self-image, the self-esteem, the community image of the selfless servitors of so innocent and benign a creed! Celebrate them! Contemplate the public’s acceptance and approval so lavishly awarded, so justifiably deserved, so humbly acknowledged, the garnered livelihood so easily acquired, the economic support bestowed by the faithful. Who would be willing to divide the spoils of such a possible victory? Who will contest a hut of reeds on Zirus? But many might do much for a golden palace.”
“Men are satellites,” said the guest. “They orbit various suns of power.”
“And there are a hundred suns,” said Iaachus.
“A thousand,” smiled the guest, “and even more.” He then sipped his kana.
“I shall arrange the audience,” said Iaachus.
“I thought you might,” said the guest.
Chapter Sixteen
“I cannot see it!” cried Otto, reining the horse up suddenly, it squealing, the clawed forefeet raking at the sky.
“Steady!” cried Julian.
The horse was spun about, jerked forward again, reins taut, mouth bloody at the bit, eyes wide and wild, the clawed feet tearing at the turf.
“Steady, steady!” said Julian.
“Why have you brought me here?” demanded Otto, standing in the stirrups.
“That you might know,” said Julian.
“Where is it?” demanded Otto.
“Gone,” said Julian.
“No!” said Otto. “It is there, somehow, as the mountain itself!”
“No longer,” said Julian.
“From the beginning of the world!” said Otto.
“Those are stories,” said Julian.
“For a thousand years!” said Otto.
“Perhaps,” said Julian. “I do not know.”
“I cannot see it!” said Otto. “I cannot see it!”
“It is gone, dear friend,” said Julian. “Like the village, remembered only by rubble and charred shambles.”
“See!” cried Otto, pointing. “There should be path guards, trail watc
hers!”
“They no longer stand their posts, no longer keep their rounds,” said Julian.
“They are remiss,” said Otto. “They must be reprimanded. Let them be nailed to boards!”
“Things are no longer as they were,” said Julian.
“Discipline!” said Otto.
“It does no good to reprimand the dead,” said Julian. “The dead are done with discipline.”
“Dead?” said Otto.
“It seems, all,” said Julian. “Hold! What is your intention?”
“It is to ascend,” said Otto.
“I encourage you to remain here, at the foot,” said Julian. “There is less here to stir fearful rage.”
“I shall ascend,” said Otto.
“Better not, dear friend,” said Julian.
“Do not fear,” said Otto. “It is day. The invisible eyes will not be open, the fences will not be alive, the lightnings will not strike.”
“Even were it night,” said Julian, “even if beasts were to prowl, or Heruls to intrude, the defenses are inert.”
“I ride!” snarled Otto, and struck heels into the startled mount, and the great beast leapt forward.
Julian, astride his own mount, hurried in the wake of his friend, beginning the long, steep, winding climb to the summit.
In less than an hour they dismounted their driven, gasping, trembling, unsteady, chest-heaving, worn beasts.
The boots of Otto and Julian ground into the cold gravel of the path.
They sucked the thin, cold air into their lungs. If they had turned, they might have seen the green, summery expanse of the Plains of Barrionuevo, of the Flats of Tung, far below, stretching even to the Lothar.
“The gate was here!” said Otto.
“No longer,” said Julian.
A light coating of snow covered the area, common here throughout the year.
This imparted to the scene, despite its jumbled, jagged outlines, an appearance of passivity and serenity.
“It is lovely here,” said Julian.
“This place was chosen for it remoteness, its stillness, and beauty,” said Otto.
“A fit place for the prayers, the contemplations, the meditations of the brothers,” said Julian.
“What is it that the snow so innocently, so gently, veils?” said Otto.
“Let us return to the plain,” said Julian.
Otto drew back, and struck the snow from his damp hand on his jacket. “The stonage is black,” he said. It seemed a scar lay on the snow.
“From the blast,” said Julian. “Within, it is worse, toward the center, where rock melted. One can still see where it flowed, where it cooled, like the spines of snakes.”
Otto scraped his boot in the snow, and the side of his boot was rimmed with brittle crystals and chill ash.
“Serviceable timber, even half-burned, was salvaged,” said Julian, “by peasants, and Heruls.”
Wood, as one might have surmised, was a precious commodity in the area.
There was a stirring, and scratching, to the side.
“The horses are uneasy,” said Otto.
“Yes,” said Julian.
The men regarded their mounts.
One of the beasts lifted its head, its nostrils distended. There was a susurrating, uneasy rumble in its throat, answered by a similar sound from its fellow.
“They smell death,” said Otto.
“No, dear friend,” said Julian. “It has been too long. What could be found of death was borne away, long ago, by peasants.”
“What could be found?” said Otto.
“Not a great deal,” said Julian. “The leavings of birds, the discards of filchen.”
“I am angry,” said Otto.
“I encouraged you to remain below,” said Julian.
The heads of the horses turned about, uneasily, nostrils distended. They stirred in place. There was mud about their paws, where snow, trampled, had melted.
“They are restless,” said Otto.
“Not from death,” said Julian.
“A vi-cat then?” said Otto.
“Probably,” said Julian.
“The beasts return,” said Otto.
“They always will,” said Julian.
Otto and Julian mounted.
Julian turned his horse toward the backtrail. “Let us descend,” he said.
But Otto, asaddle, continued to regard the calm, terrible scene before him. The broad reins were enclosed in massive, clenched fists.
Julian turned his mount once more, and drew his beast up, beside, but a bit behind, that of his friend.
“What happened here?” said Otto, speaking quietly, as softly as the darkening of a sky in the north.
“The wars,” said Julian.
“I cannot understand this,” said Otto. “It is pointless, there is nothing to be gained here. This is incomprehensible carnage, inexplicable, wanton devastation.”
“Explicable in terms you might not understand,” said Julian.
“Why would Abrogastes attack this remote, isolated place, of no political or military significance? Why would he, or Ingeld or Hrothgar, or Ortog, or a hundred other chieftains, kings, and commanders, waste resources here?”
“They would not,” said Julian.
“I do not understand,” said Otto.
“This was done by no barbarian fleet,” said Julian.
“I do not understand,” said Otto.
“It was done by imperial cruisers,” said Julian.
“By the empire?” said Otto.
“By imperial forces,” said Julian.
“You said ‘the wars’,” said Otto.
“Faith Wars,” said Julian.
“Civil war?” said Otto.
“Of a sort,” said Julian.
“I do not understand,” said Otto.
“There are numerous sects and cults, some larger, some smaller, each purporting to be the one, true institution founded by the Ogg, Floon.”
“But Floon did not found an institution,” said Otto. “He was outside institutions, even opposed to institutions. He appealed to individuals as individuals, urging them to look into their own hearts and live their own lives well. He was opposed to artificiality, to artifice, to convention, to government, law, taxes, marriage, family, money, many things. Such things were denounced as unnatural. Many conceived of him as posing a threat to rules, to order, to civilization itself. Thus, it seems, he was brought to his miserable end. Certainly he would have been opposed to any institution which would presume to interpose itself between the individual, an Ogg or not, and the face and blessings of the god, Karch, who may or may not have been an Ogg, or any other god.”
“Nonetheless,” said Julian.
“It is hard to understand,” said Otto. “Are they unfamiliar with the teachings of Floon?”
“Perhaps only unfamiliar with the meanings,” said Julian.
“Or do not care to be familiar with them,” said Otto.
“Perhaps,” said Julian.
“It would not be convenient?” said Otto.
“Presumably not,” said Julian.
“It is all very strange,” said Otto.
“There are many views,” said Julian. “Perhaps the most benign is that Floon was a sweet, pleasant, compassionate, benevolent, normal Ogg, sincere and concerned, who wanted to help people live better, happier lives, and he made the mistake of going ahead and attempting to do so. The difficulties arose, as I understand it, in trying to understand what relationship might obtain between Floon and Karch. Was Floon an ordinary, normal Ogg who would speak for Karch, who seemed unwilling to speak for himself? And, if this was the case, did he speak on his own prerogative for Karch, or was he directed to speak by Karch. Or was there some more mysterious relationsh
ip involved? For example, was Floon related to Karch, as a nephew, or brother, or cousin might be related, though in some unusual sense, not well specified? Perhaps Floon was an attribute or property of Karch? Or, if Floon was Karch, or a part of Karch, and Karch was perfect, might not the seeming Floon have been an illusion, as Karch, or his progeny or relations, or such, would presumably not be allowed to feel pain? Too, why would Karch allow himself, or such, or his emissary or representative, or such, to feel pain, at all? Then there is the Emanationist theory which is that Floon was an emanation of Karch.”
“The brothers were Emanationists,” said Otto, “whatever that might mean, or however it might be understood, if at all.”
“That is accounted a heresy, one of several,” said Julian, “and heresies are accounted dangerous to the welfare of the koos.”
“I have heard of a koos,” said Otto. “But I do not understand it.”
“No one does,” said Julian. “The notion is unintelligible.”
“What is a heresy?” asked Otto.
“It is a departure from orthodoxy,” said Julian.
“And what is an orthodoxy?” asked Otto.
“A heresy from someone else’s point of view,” said Julian.
“I understand little of this,” said Otto.
“It is all nonsense,” said Julian. “It is only necessary that one learn to manipulate the terminologies, to utter certain words in certain sequences, approved sequences, of course, that is important.”
“Words that merely float about, and never touch earth?”
“They are safer that way,” said Julian.
“How is it that folk can hate one another, and burn and kill one another, over such sillinesses?”
“It is apparently easy,” said Julian. “And there is nothing silly about being burned alive.”
“But Floon preached peace and love,” said Otto.
“Forget about Floon,” said Julian. “He has nothing to do with it. You do understand, I take it, how men might fight and hate, and burn and kill, for gold, power, prestige, and influence?”
“Yes,” said Otto.
“Well,” said Julian, “there are many roads leading to such things, some more obvious, others more subtle, and it is tempting to follow such a road, particularly for some, if you can draft others to clear the way for you, to accept the risks of removing obstacles from your path, to bloody their hands while yours remain sanctimoniously clean.”