by John Norman
“I have heard,” said Ingeld, “that Floon was silent on this matter. Indeed, Floon, as I understand it, was an Ogg, and most Oggs are neuters, as many members of certain species of insects. If that is the case, the views of Floon, as of many Oggs, would most likely be quite neutral on the matter, they having no interest in such things, saving, perhaps, making some provision for the reproductives to see to the survival of the species.”
“Floon never mentioned females,” said the visitor.
“Nor,” said Ingeld, “as far as I can understand it, did he mention males. He seemed to do his preaching in a rather broadcast fashion, addressing it to many things, trees, rocks, dogs, birds, horses, clouds, Oggs, Vorites, humans, and whatever forms of life, or reality, he encountered.”
“His love was universal,” said the visitor.
“There is nothing in the extant books, as it is explained to me,” said Ingeld, “which distinguishes between men and women, or, for that matter, between trees and Oggs.”
“There is oral tradition,” said the visitor.
“Were you there?” asked Ingeld.
“The oral tradition was there,” said the visitor.
“In some of the books, the koos, whatever it might be, if it is anything, is not even mentioned,” said Ingeld.
“It need not be mentioned in every book,” said the visitor. “Nine of the fifty is sufficient.”
“In some books,” said Ingeld, “it seems the ‘table of Karch’ is set on this world, or in this reality, if not on Zirus alone, and not somewhere else.”
“That is a metaphor for somewhere else,” said the visitor.
“There seems little in the simple teachings of Floon having to do with obscure matters of doctrine,” said Ingeld.
“It is there implicitly, all of it,” said the visitor. “It has been worked out carefully, after studying the holy texts, separated from the many false and corrupt texts, of course, and after much prayer and meditation. Karch would not permit his true faith to be mistaken in such matters.”
“Your faith,” said Ingeld.
“Yes,” said the visitor.
“As I understand it,” said Ingeld, “Floon loved all nature, seeing it as rich, beautiful, and living, even worlds and suns.”
“That is the Pervasiveness Heresy,” said the visitor.
“Human beings have a nature,” said Ingeld.
“Alas, yes,” said the visitor, “that is their fundamental culpability, their fault and challenge. Nature must be met, fought, and overcome.”
“Why?” asked Ingeld.
“So that one can live the life of the koos, and eventually sit at the table of Karch.”
“What if there is no koos?” asked Ingeld. “What if Karch, if he exists, approves of the world and nature, which does exist, in the way it exists, rather than its repudiation and denial?”
“It would be my hope to bring you to see the light, and convert you to the true faith,” said the visitor.
“And what am I to get for this?” asked Ingeld.
“The life of the koos, and, perhaps, if you live well, obey, and do not question, though much is uncertain, a place at the table of Karch.”
The arm of the visitor was still before his eyes.
“Perhaps you can do better than that,” said Ingeld.
“Gold, and power,” said the visitor.
“Speak,” said Ingeld.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cornhair, kneeling in the darkness, and dampness, chained to the wall ring, her hands high, by her forehead, sobbed. Her back still burned, from the lash.
She heard the key turn in the heavy lock of the door, behind her.
She turned her head about, as she could.
The door creaked open, slowly. She could see the light, from a small lamp, being borne by someone, presumably a man, a keeper. In its light, she could see the dampness glistening on the wall before her. She cried out, frightened, as a small filch scampered over her left calf, presumably disturbed by the opening of the door and the bit of light. She knew that she shared her quarters with such small, furtive forms of life, for she had heard them scratch about, but they had not bothered her. This was the first time one had touched her. Her cell was not a pleasant one, and she had little doubt but what it served as a suitable holding place for recalcitrant prisoners, or slaves who had failed to be found fully pleasing. Indeed, the building, as she had learned, served as a prison, as well as a slave house. Although the conditions of her incarceration were far from ideal, Cornhair had been relieved not to have been killed, and there is a security, of course, in being chained, for one knows then that one is still being kept, at least for a time.
The tiny light was still behind her, and not moving. She could not make out what was in the room with her. She turned about, again, as she could. She sensed there were at least two men present, one back in the hall, and perhaps others.
“Please do not whip me further, Masters,” she said. “I will be good. I will call out well. I will smile. I will try to please you. I will try to bring you coin!”
Cornhair had now learned what it is to be a whipped slave, and she was prepared to go to great lengths to avoid any further encounters with the hissing lash. No longer was it a mystery to her why slave girls were so eager to be found pleasing. They knew their softness and beauty was subject to the leather, and that they must expect to be punished for any infractions of rules or lapses of discipline. Even a careless word, a clumsy movement, a tardy response to a command, might bring the sting of a switch. Most Masters are kind, but they expect beauty, grace, and obedience in a slave, and will have it so.
There was no response to her protestations.
“Masters?” she said, uneasily.
She pulled a little, at the manacles.
“Is this the one?” asked a male voice.
“Hold the light closer, higher,” said a woman’s voice.
“This was lot number two hundred and twenty-seven,” said a male voice, from back in the hall.
“Yes,” said the woman’s voice, “this is the one.”
“Five darins,” said the man.
Cornhair heard the coins being counted out.
“You have been sold, 227,” said a man’s voice.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair. “To a woman, Master?” she asked.
“Yes, dear,” said a woman’s voice.
“We have something special in mind for you,” said the voice of another woman.
“Hood her,” said the first woman. “Then unchain her and tie her hands behind her back. I have a leash.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cornhair, kneeling in the darkness, and dampness, chained to the wall ring, her hands high, by her forehead, sobbed. Her back still burned, from the lash.
She heard the key turn in the heavy lock of the door, behind her.
She turned her head about, as she could.
The door creaked open, slowly. She could see the light, from a small lamp, being borne by someone, presumably a man, a keeper. In its light, she could see the dampness glistening on the wall before her. She cried out, frightened, as a small filch scampered over her left calf, presumably disturbed by the opening of the door and the bit of light. She knew that she shared her quarters with such small, furtive forms of life, for she had heard them scratch about, but they had not bothered her. This was the first time one had touched her. Her cell was not a pleasant one, and she had little doubt but what it served as a suitable holding place for recalcitrant prisoners, or slaves who had failed to be found fully pleasing. Indeed, the building, as she had learned, served as a prison, as well as a slave house. Although the conditions of her incarceration were far from ideal, Cornhair had been relieved not to have been killed, and there is a security, of course, in being chained, for one knows then that one is still being kept, at
least for a time.
The tiny light was still behind her, and not moving. She could not make out what was in the room with her. She turned about, again, as she could. She sensed there were at least two men present, one back in the hall, and perhaps others.
“Please do not whip me further, Masters,” she said. “I will be good. I will call out well. I will smile. I will try to please you. I will try to bring you coin!”
Cornhair had now learned what it is to be a whipped slave, and she was prepared to go to great lengths to avoid any further encounters with the hissing lash. No longer was it a mystery to her why slave girls were so eager to be found pleasing. They knew their softness and beauty was subject to the leather, and that they must expect to be punished for any infractions of rules or lapses of discipline. Even a careless word, a clumsy movement, a tardy response to a command, might bring the sting of a switch. Most Masters are kind, but they expect beauty, grace, and obedience in a slave, and will have it so.
There was no response to her protestations.
“Masters?” she said, uneasily.
She pulled a little, at the manacles.
“Is this the one?” asked a male voice.
“Hold the light closer, higher,” said a woman’s voice.
“This was lot number two hundred and twenty-seven,” said a male voice, from back in the hall.
“Yes,” said the woman’s voice, “this is the one.”
“Five darins,” said the man.
Cornhair heard the coins being counted out.
“You have been sold, 227,” said a man’s voice.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair. “To a woman, Master?” she asked.
“Yes, dear,” said a woman’s voice.
“We have something special in mind for you,” said the voice of another woman.
“Hood her,” said the first woman. “Then unchain her and tie her hands behind her back. I have a leash.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Gold, and power?” said Ingeld.
“Much gold, and much power,” said the visitor.
“How can that be?” asked Ingeld. “It is well known that such as you are sworn to simplicity and poverty, that you abhor luxury and shun wealth, that you are professionally destitute. How many pennies do you collect in your temples?”
“I do not speak of pennies,” said the visitor, “even of mountains of pennies, gathered on a hundred worlds, but of armies, and ships.”
“Take down your arm from before your eyes,” said Ingeld.
“But the creature beside you,” said the visitor. “Be so kind as to conceal her. Have her crawl behind your chair, if nothing else.”
“Remain where you are, as you are,” said Ingeld.
“Yes, Master,” said Huta.
“Spare me this distress,” said the visitor. “We are a pure, holy, ascetic faith, a spiritual faith, a koosian faith.”
“Spare me your hypocrisy,” said Ingeld. “It wearies me. Save it for the cattle you slaughter, skin, and milk. I know of your public meals, and services, with your dram of water and your bit of bread, and the secret banquets in hidden chambers. Your plumpness is not the product of pans of water and crusts of bread, designed to bring you closer to the mysteries of the koos. And your exarch, a pompous, sanctimonious, clever scoundrel, has enough blubber to be the envy of aquatic mammals traversing polar seas. And I know about the plate in the temples, the golden vessels, the secret storerooms, the credits in a thousand banks, the treaties with kings, the bribings of tyrants, the suborning of officials.”
“You mistake us, great Lord,” said the visitor.
“Coarse cloth lined with rich fur,” said Ingeld.
“No, Milord,” said the visitor.
“Perhaps you would like a repast at my table,” said Ingeld, “though it be a humble one and of this world, a repast with scarlet wine, from the terraces of Chiba, the Wine World, or honeyed bror, from Cirax, with juicy, steaming, roasted meat, from cattle fattened on the plains of Tangara, with candies, custards, cakes, and fruits?”
“A swallow of water, and a crust of bread, would be more than ample, Milord,” said the visitor.
“Save your posturing and platitudes for your stricken, guilt-ridden, moaning, whining believers, who take such things seriously,” said Ingeld.
“You mistake the joys of Floon,” said the visitor.
“You rule through flattery, lies, and guilt,” said Ingeld. “You capitalize on loneliness, disappointment, failure, and fear. You teach your followers that they are esteemed and special, unique and inestimably precious, far above others, if not in this world, in another world, one conveniently invisible; you twist the powers and joys of organic nature, for your purposes, into sources of humiliation, doubt, suspicion, misery, and terror; you will have your benighted followers understand their most normal and natural impulses, things as inevitable as the surging of tides and the rotation of worlds, as things of which they should be afraid, of things to be eschewed, things of which they should be ashamed, things for which they should feel guilty, and then you dare to palliate for a price, for your support and enrichment, the effects of the poisons which you yourselves have brewed; you make aberrations and illnesses of what is fine, beautiful, robust, healthy, and inevitable, and then charge for the cure of these tragic diseases which you yourselves have wrought. It is a marvelous fraud, worthy of brilliant and unscrupulous minds, minds skilled in the architecture of control and torture, or minds originally sick, pathetically intent on spreading their own infections to others.”
“You mistake us, Milord,” said the visitor.
“What is most brilliantly insidious in this cultural malaise,” said Ingeld, “is that you inflict this pathological madness on the young and innocent, on the unquestioning, trusting, and gullible, who will believe whatever is taught to them, and do whatever is told to them. It is a sowing of seeds from which to harvest future crops. From such dismal gardens one will reap gold.”
“Surely you do not see such a pure and holy faith as contrived and mercenary?”
“Its effects belie it,” said Ingeld.
“We have thousands of ministrants,” said the visitor. “Surely you do not suspect they serve Karch with duplicity and calculation.”
“I am sure many do not,” said Ingeld. “Worlds are filled with the innocent and trusting, the well intentioned and ignorant, products of the same disease which they then mindlessly propagate, and would fear not to do so.”
“It was not to discuss or defend the truths of the one true faith that I have sought this audience, great Lord,” said the visitor.
“The joys which you denounce and dread,” said Ingeld, “in many faiths are understood as nothing to be feared or doubted, as nothing to be ashamed of; rather, they are understood as, welcomed as, and treasured as, the gifts of the gods themselves who, in their generosity and bounty, would bestow such happiness, such delights, and riches on all rational creatures.”
“False gods, of course,” said the visitor. “Perhaps next you will commend sacral prostitution, the solicitations of priestesses in public thoroughfares, exchanging embraces for coins, the public intoning of hymns to vulgar goddesses, the garish clash of cymbals and tambourines in caves and groves, the scandalous movements of temple dancers.”
“I am sure it is true,” said Ingeld, “that you did not approach the high seat to discuss or defend the doctrines of your faith.”
“No, great Lord,” said the visitor.
“You still avert your eyes from the slave at my side,” said Ingeld.
“Might she not be covered, or withdrawn?” asked the visitor.
“Perhaps you should regard her,” said Ingeld. “It might do you good.”
“Please, great Lord,” said the visitor.
“Face me,” said Ingeld. “When you speak, I would see your eyes,
your expressions. Much may be read from such small things.”
“I would rather not, Milord,” said the visitor.
“You would prefer to be a martyr to Floon?” asked Ingeld.
“Milord?”
“The limbs are tied to four horses,” said Ingeld. “The horses are then, in four directions, driven apart.”
“I would be pleased to gaze on the gracious countenance of the great Lord, Ingeld, of the Drisriaks,” said the visitor.
“Do so,” said Ingeld.
The visitor complied, while, at the same time, averting his eyes from the lithe, splendid animal kneeling to the right of Ingeld, he, the second son of Abrogastes.
“Abrogastes, your father,” said the visitor, “refused to see me.”
“Why?” said Ingeld.
“The great Abrogastes,” said the visitor, “is older, and, I fear, more rigid, less practical, than his noble son.”
“He is trammeled with honor,” said Ingeld.
“The war of the empire and the Aatii, and their numerous allies, waxes fiercely,” said the visitor. “Fleets clash. Planets are riven. Worlds are broken from the chain of their star. Systems hesitate to declare themselves. Who would not prefer to wait, to see how the die falls? Yet neutrality is not easily purchased. The empire, its resources strained, trembles. It fears a looming dawn, implacable, of unstayed barbaritas. Much fighting has been done, much munition expended. Indeed, the war now, so many resources exhausted, resources of many worlds, on both sides, may be fought in narrow corridors, and hang on small battles. Two great weights, largely inert, depress the scale. A penny or a bullet might tip the scale and plunge one weight to the earth, the other to the sky. It could be a small thing, a skirmish leading to a thousand reactions; even a surrender in Telnar, a mistake or defection, a palace coup, could decide matters. It is difficult to see, at this point, the future.”
“Men are fond of their empire,” said Ingeld. “My father does not intend to destroy it. He intends to own it, in one way or another.”
“The empire is unwieldy, and vast,” said the visitor. “It will break apart.”