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After the procession ended, they withdrew to a garden outside the walls of Jerusalem. And in the evening, it happened that Matthias beheld a serpent there, hidden by weeds. He therefore took up a stone that he might crush the beast; but Mary stayed his hand, saying, “There is no danger, for look, the beast sleeps.”
“Teacher,” Matthias answered, “it will not sleep forever.”
“Verily,” said Mary, “I promise it will sleep till dawn; and when the dawn comes, we will leave this place and all the serpents that it holds.”
Yet still, Matthias kept hold of the stone and gazed upon the serpent with fear.
“O ye of little faith,” said Mary to Matthias, “why do you concern yourself with the sleeping creature before you, when you are blind to the serpents in your own heart? For I tell you, each drop of your blood courses with a legion of serpents, and so it is for every Child of Dust. You are all poisoned with black venoms, poisoned unto death. But if you believe in me, I will sing those serpents to sleep; then will they slumber in peace until you leave this flesh behind, entering into the dawn of God’s new day.”
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Ben Jacob lowered his page and looked to the Verifiers for their confirmation. The Patriarch turned in their direction, too, but he didn’t need their nods to tell him the scripture had been read correctly. Septus knew the passage by heart; it was one of the fundamental texts of Mother Church, the Virgin’s promise of salvation. It was also one of the most popular texts for heretics to challenge. The presumption of original sin, of damnation being inherent in human flesh . . . that was anathema to many a fiery young soul. What kind of God, they asked, would damn an infant to hell merely for being born? It was a good question, its answer still the subject of much subtle debate; but the Virgin’s words were unequivocal, whether or not theologians had reasoned out all the implications.
“Anton Leeuwenhoek,” Septus said, “you have heard the verified word of scripture. Do you deny its truth?”
Leeuwenhoek stared directly back. “I must,” he answered. “I have examined human blood in meticulous detail. It contains no serpents.”
The toadies in the courtroom had their mouths open, ready to gasp again at sacrilege; but even they could hear the man was not speaking in deliberate blasphemy. He seemed to be stating . . . a fact.
How odd.
Septus straightened slightly in the Patriarchal throne. This had the prospect of more interest than the usual heresy trial. “You understand,” he said to Leeuwenhoek, “this passage is about original sin. The Blessed Virgin states that all human beings are poisoned with sin and can only be redeemed through her.”
“On the contrary, Your Holiness.” Leeuwenhoek’s voice was sharp. “The passage states there are snakes in human blood. I know there are not.”
“The snakes are merely . . .” Septus stopped himself in time. He had been on the verge of saying the snakes were merely a metaphor; but this was a public trial, and any pronouncements he made would have the force of law. To declare that any part of scripture was not the literal truth . . . no Patriarch had ever done so in open forum, and Septus did not intend to be the first.
“Let us be clear on this point,” Septus said to Leeuwenhoek. “Do you deny the Doctrine of Original Sin?”
“No—I could never make heads or tails of theology. What I understand is blood; and there are no snakes in it.”
One of the toadies ventured a small gasp of horror, but even a deaf man could have told the sound was forced.
Prosecutor ben Jacob, trying to be helpful, said, “You must appreciate that the snakes would be very, very small.”
“That’s just it,” Leeuwenhoek answered with sudden enthusiasm. “I have created a device that makes it possible to view tiny things as if they were much larger.” He turned quickly toward Septus. “Your Holiness is familiar with the telescope? The device for viewing objects at long distances?”
The Patriarch nodded in spite of himself.
“My device,” Leeuwenhoek said, “functions on a similar principle—an arrangement of lenses that amplify one’s vision to reveal things too small to see with the naked eye. I have examined blood in every particular; and while it contains numerous minute animalcules I cannot identify, I swear to the court there are no snakes. Sleeping or otherwise.”
“Mm.” Septus took a moment to fold his hands on the bench in front of him. When he spoke, he did not meet the prisoner’s eyes. “It is well known that snakes are adept at hiding, are they not? Surely it is possible that a snake could be concealed behind . . . behind these other minute animalcules you mention.”
“A legion of serpents,” Leeuwenhoek said stubbornly. “That’s what the text said. A legion of serpents in every drop of blood. Surely they couldn’t all find a place to hide; and I have spent hundreds of hours searching, Your Holiness. Days and weeks and months.”
“Mm.”
Troublesome to admit, Septus didn’t doubt the man. The Patriarch had scanned the skies with an excellent telescope, and had seen a universe of unexpected wonders—mountains on the moon, hair on the sun, rings around the planet Cronus. He could well believe Leeuwenhoek’s magnifier would reveal similar surprises . . . even if it didn’t show serpents in the bloodstream. The serpents were merely a parable anyway; who could doubt it? Blessed Mary often spoke in poetic language that every educated person recognized as symbolic rather than factual.
Unfortunately, the church was not composed of educated persons. No matter how sophisticated the clergy might be, parishioners came from humbler stock. Snakes in the blood? If that’s what Mary said, it must be true; and heaven help a Patriarch who took a less dogmatic stance. The bedrock of the church was Authority: ecclesiastic authority, scriptural authority. If Septus publicly allowed that some doctrines could be interpreted as mere symbolism—that a fundamental teaching was metaphor, not literal fact—well, all it took was a single hole in a wineskin for everything to leak out.
On the other hand, truth was truth. If there were no snakes, there were no snakes. God made the world and all the people in it; if the Creator chose to fashion human lifeblood a certain way, it was the duty of Mother Church to accept and praise Him for it. Clinging to a lie in order to preserve one’s authority was worse than mere cowardice; it was the most damning blasphemy.
Septus looked at Leeuwenhoek, standing handcuffed in the dock. A living man with a living soul; and with one word, Septus could have him executed as a purveyor of falsehood.
But where did the falsehood truly lie?
“This case cannot be decided today,” Septus announced. “Mother Church will investigate the claims of the accused to the fullest extent of her strength. We will build magnifier devices of our own, properly blessed to protect against Satan’s interference.” Septus fought back a smile at that; there were still some stuffy inquisitors who believed the devil distorted what one saw through any lens. “We shall see what is there and what is not.”
Attendants nodded in agreement around the courtroom, just as they would nod if the sentence had been immediate acquittal or death. But ben Jacob said, “Your Holiness—perhaps it would be best if the court were to . . . to issue instructions that no other person build a magnification device until the church has ruled in this matter.”
“On the contrary,” Septus replied. “I think the church should make magnifiers available to all persons who ask. Let them see for themselves.”
The Patriarch smiled, wondering if ben Jacob understood. A decree suppressing magnifiers would simply encourage dissidents to build them in secret; on the other hand, providing free access to such devices would bring the curious into the church, not drive them away. Anyway, the question would only interest the leisured class, those with time and energy to wonder about esoteric issues. The great bulk of the laity, farmers and miners and ostlers, would never hear of the offer. Even if they did, they would hardly care. Minute animalcules might be amusing curiosities, but they had nothing to do with a peasant’s life.
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Another pause for prayer and then Leeuwenhoek was escorted away to instruct church scholars in how to build his magnification device. The man seemed happy with the outcome—more than escaping a death sentence, he would now have the chance to show others what he’d seen. Septus had met many men like that: grown-up children, looking for colorful shells on the beach and touchingly grateful when someone else took an interest in their sandy little collections.
As for Leeuwenhoek’s original magnifier—Septus had the device brought to his chambers when the court recessed at noon. Blood was easy to come by: one sharp jab from a pin and the Patriarch had his sample to examine. Eagerly he peered through the viewing lens, adjusting the focus in the same way as a telescope.
Animalcules. How remarkable.
Tiny, tiny animalcules . . . countless schools of them, swimming in his own blood. What wonders God had made! Creatures of different shapes and sizes, perhaps predators and prey, like the fishes that swam in the ocean.
And were there snakes? The question was almost irrelevant. And yet . . . very faintly, so close to invisible that it might be a trick of the eye, something as thin as a hair seemed to flit momentarily across the view.
Then it was gone.
###
2. The Origin of Serpentine Analogues in the Blood of Papist Peoples:
Her Britannic Majesty, Anne VI, rather liked the Star Chamber. True, its power had been monstrously abused at times in the past five centuries—secret trials leading to secret executions of people who were probably more innocent than the monarchs sitting on the judgment seat—but even in the glorious Empire, there was a place for this kind of hearing. The queen on this side of the table, one of her subjects on the other . . . it had the air of a private chat between friends: a time when difficulties could get sorted out, one way or another.
“Well, Mr. Darwin,” she said after the tea had been poured, “it seems you’ve stirred up quite a hornet’s nest. Have you not?”
The fiercely bearded man across the table did not answer immediately. He laid a finger on the handle of his cup as if to drink or not to drink was some momentous decision; then he said, “I have simply spoken the truth, ma’am . . . as I see it.”
“Yes; but different people see different truths, don’t they? And a great many are upset by the things you say are true. You are aware there has been . . . unpleasantness?”
“I know about the riots, ma’am. Several times they have come uncomfortably close to me. And of course, there have been threats on my life.”
“Indeed.” Anne lifted a tiny slice of buttered bread and took what she hoped would seem a thoughtful nibble. For some reason, she always enjoyed eating in front of the accused here in the Star Chamber; they themselves never had any appetite at all. “The threats are one reason We invited you here today. Scotland Yard is growing rather weary of protecting you; and Sir Oswald has long pondered whether your life is worth it.”
That got the expected reaction—Darwin’s finger froze on the cup handle, the color draining away from his face. “I had not realized . . .” His eyes narrowed. “I perceive, ma’am, that someone will soon make a decision on this issue.”
“Exactly,” the queen said. “Sir Oswald has turned to the crown for guidance, and now We turn to you.” She took another tiny bite of the bread. “It would be good of you to explain your theories—to lay out the train of reasoning that led to your . . . unsettling public statements.”
“It’s all laid out in my book, ma’am.”
“But your book is for scientists, not queens.” Anne set down the bread and allowed herself a small sip of tea. She took her time doing so, but Darwin remained silent. “Please,” she said at last. “We wish to make an informed decision.”
Darwin grunted . . . or perhaps it was a hollow chuckle of cynicism. An ill-bred sound in either case. “Very well, Your Majesty,” he nodded. “It is simply a matter of history.”
“History is seldom simple, Mr. Darwin; but proceed.”
“In . . . 1430-something, I forget the exact year, Anton Leeuwenhoek appeared before Supreme Patriarch Septus to discuss the absence of snakes in the bloodstream. You are familiar with that, ma’am?”
“Certainly. It was the pivotal event in the Schism between Our church and the Papists.”
“Just so.”
Anne could see Darwin itching to leap off his chair and begin prowling about the room, like a professor lecturing to a class of dull-lidded schoolboys. His strained impetuosity amused her; but she hoped he would keep his impulses in check. “Pray continue, Mr. Darwin.”
“It is common knowledge that the Patriarch’s decision led to a . . . a deluge, shall we say, of people peering at their own blood through a microscope. Only the upper classes at first, but soon enough it spread to the lower levels of society, too. Since the church allowed anyone to look into a microscope without cost, I suppose it was a free source of amusement for the peasantry.”
“An opiate for the masses,” Anne offered. She rather liked the phrase—Mr. Marx had used it when he had his little visit to the Star Chamber.
“I suppose that must be it,” Darwin agreed. “At any rate, the phenomenon far outstripped anything Septus could have foreseen; and even worse for the Patriarchy, it soon divided the church into two camps—those who claimed to see snakes in their blood and those who did not.”
“Mr. Darwin, We are well aware of the fundamental difference between Papists and the Redeemed.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I believe the usual historical interpretation is . . . flawed. It confuses cause and effect.”
“How can there be confusion?” Anne asked. “Papists have serpents in their blood; that is apparent to any child looking into a microscope. We Redeemed have no such contaminants; again, that is simple observational fact. The obvious conclusion, Mr. Darwin, is that Christ Herself marked the Papists with Her curse, to show one and all the error of their ways.”
“According to the Papists,” Darwin reminded her, “the snakes are a sign of God’s blessing: a sleeping snake means sin laid to rest.”
“Is that what you think, Mr. Darwin?”
“I think it more practical to examine the facts before making any judgment.”
“That is why we are here today,” Anne said with a pointed glance. “Facts . . . and judgment. If you could direct yourself to the heart of the matter, Mr. Darwin?”
“The heart of the matter,” he repeated. “Of course. I agree that today any microscope will show that Papists have snakes in their bloodstream . . . or as scientists prefer to call them, serpentine analogues, since it is highly unlikely the observed phenomena are actual reptiles—”
“Let us not bandy nomenclature,” Anne interrupted. “We accept that the entities in Papist blood are unrelated to cobras and puff adders; but they have been called snakes for centuries, and the name is adequate. Proceed to your point, Mr. Darwin.”
“You have just made my point for me, ma’am. Five centuries have passed since the original controversy arose. What we see now may not be what people saw then.” He took a deep breath. “If you read the literature of that long-ago time, you find there was great doubt about the snakes, even among the Papists. Serpentine analogues were extremely rare and difficult to discern . . . unlike the very obvious entities seen today.”
“Surely that can be blamed on the equipment,” Anne said. “Microscopes of that day were crude contrivances compared to our fine modern instruments.”
“That is the usual argument,” Darwin nodded, “but I believe there is a different explanation.”
“Yes?”
“My argument, ma’am, is based on my observations of pigeons.”
Anne blinked. “Pigeons, Mr. Darwin?” She blinked again. “The birds?” She bit her lip. “The filthy things that perch on statues?”
“Not wild pigeons, Your Majesty, domestic ones. Bred for show. For example, some centuries ago, a squire in Sussex took it into his head to breed a black pigeon from his sto
ck of gray ones.”
“Why ever would he want a black pigeon?”
“That remains a mystery to me, too, ma’am; but the historical records are clear. He set about the task by selecting pigeons of the darkest gray he could find, and breeding them together. Over many generations, their color grew darker and darker until today, the squire’s descendants boast of pigeons as black as coal.”
“They boast of that?”
“Incessantly.”
Darwin seized up a piece of bread and virtually stuffed it into his mouth. The man had apparently become so engrossed in talking, he had forgotten who sat across the table. Good, Anne thought; he would be less guarded.
“We understand the principles of animal husbandry,” Anne said. “We do not, however, see how this pertains to the Papists.”
“For the past five centuries, Your Majesty, the Papists have been going through exactly the same process . . . as have the Redeemed, for that matter. Think, ma’am. In any population, there are numerous chance differences between individuals; the squire’s pigeons, for example, had varying shades of gray. If some process of selection chooses to emphasize a particular trait as desirable, excluding other traits as undesirable—if you restrict darker birds to breeding with one another and prevent lighter ones from contributing to the bloodline—the selected characteristic will tend to become more pronounced with each generation.”
“You are still talking about pigeons, Mr. Darwin.”
“No, ma’am,” he said triumphantly. “I am talking about Papists and the Redeemed. Let us suppose that in the times of Patriarch Septus, some people had almost imperceptible serpentine analogues in their bloodstream—a chance occurrence, just as some people may have curls in their hair while others do not.”
Anne opened her mouth to say that curls were frequently not a chance occurrence at all; but she decided to remain silent.
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