Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “The way you treat me I thought you might once have had kids of your own. That’s all.”

  It was no trouble for Reese to keep his Virtu persona from blushing. He reached out and mussed up Donnerjack’s hair.

  “Let’s talk a little about number lines,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  At first, Reese came by regularly and young Donnerjack would slip over the line into Virtu to join him. Reese would shake his head as he did it.

  * * *

  It was Reese Jordan who first fastened on calling the boy “Jay.”

  “‘John’ simply won’t do—at least not for me. ‘John’ is your father’s name and calling you such would lead this old man into confusion and madness.”

  He laughed and young Donnerjack laughed with him. Although intellectually he knew that Reese Jordan was an old, old man—far older than his father would be if his father was still alive, far older than most of the other residents of his Verite rest home—when Reese came to tutor his friend’s son in Virtu, his virt persona was the unchanging aspect of a man in his thirties.

  This tutoring had caused some concern when Caltrice detected the oddity in young Donnerjack that permitted him to cross the interface without resorting to the usual mechanical and electronic contrivances. The genius loci had analyzed the situation and concluded that, since Donnerjack somehow brought his entire body across the interface, the increased time flow would age him prematurely. Out of deference for Reese’s need to make as much as possible of what years remained to him, young Donnerjack visited his mentor in Caltrice’s locus using a virt persona. Soon he acquired an education far beyond what any observing merely his physical years would believe possible.

  They made an odd pair: the old man with the appearance of a much younger man and the boy with the knowledge—if not the wisdom—of one far older. However, the friendship was real and strong. Young Donnerjack privately came to consider Reese Jordan as the father he had never had. Reese Jordan, in turn, came to love the boy both for himself and out of respect for the memory of his father.

  Indeed, as time passed, Reese realized that though he had known John D’Arcy Donnerjack as well as any man had, he had never felt more than professional respect and comfortable affection for him. John’s son, now, even with his odd seriousness, his somewhat analytical way of looking at a joke, and his peculiar perspective on human affairs, his son was something entirely different.

  “No, ‘John’ will not do—forgive me, son,” Reese said. “I believe another form of your name would suit me better. That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all, Reese,” young Donnerjack said, looking up at the older man with interest. He was aware of a certain sense of ritual in the occasion, almost a coming of age. Obscurely, he felt he would be a different person when Reese had renamed him. “What name do you think would fit?”

  “Well, we could call you by your middle name, but I think ‘D’Arcy’ would be a bit too pompous. It adds a certain ring to the whole, but no… not by itself.”

  “Okay.”

  “‘John’ is a particularly fruitful name for diminutives,” the old man continued. “It gives us both ‘Johnny’ and ‘Jack.’ You do not strike me as a ‘Johnny’ and ‘Jack Donnerjack’ sounds like something from a nursery rhyme.”

  Caltrice, who had been listening, head just above the water, green hair trailing out, a Sargasso Sea in miniature, laughed—a pleasant sound like the plashing of waves. Young Donnerjack frowned serious agreement and nodded for Reese to continue.

  “Then, since you are named for your father, you are also a Junior. Together with your given name that makes you ‘John Junior’ which is a bit of a mouthful. It shortens to ‘JJ’ of course.”

  Reese Jordan glanced at the serious mien of the young man seated next to him. Even barefoot, with his toes trailing in the water of Caltrice’s pool, he was clearly no more a “JJ” than he was a “Johnny.”

  “But then there is simply ‘Jay.’ It is a name with great possibilities.

  It recalls your given name quite nicely and it invokes a number of rather tidy totemic images.”

  “Totemic images?” young Donnerjack repeated, entranced.

  “Why, yes. There is the letter itself—a clean simple curve like a fishhook in print, a double curve like an infinity symbol slightly askew in cursive. There is also a class of birds called ‘jays.’ Blue, more commonly than not, scavengers and thieves, some say, but with an eye for things of value as well. They warn other animals of predators and do not hesitate to band together against their enemies. They are related to ravens and crows. ‘Jay.’ What do you think?”

  “I like it,” said John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior.

  “Then it shall be so,” said Reese Jordan, and with a fine sense of ceremony, he cupped a handful of water from Caltrice’s pool and baptized the boy with his new name.

  Lounging on the bank, the dog Mizar, who recalled neither his making nor his naming, beat his tail on the grass in applause. He did not realize that this same tail had once had another cable, a thick one of dark red. Nor would he have cared to know of his earlier self. Alone of those from Death’s realm who watched over and played with the boy, he knew nothing of his first master and, knowing nothing, neither did he care.

  “Jay,” said the boy aloud and oddly happy. “Jay.”

  Then he was overwhelmed by emotions far too complex and too confusing to bear. With a whoop and a leap, he jumped into the pool, splashing Reese thoroughly and almost, almost succeeding in grabbing Caltrice by a trailing strand of her seaweed hair.

  * * *

  And on days when Reese was not available, Jay Donnerjack would slip off with Phecda, Mizar, Dubhe, or Alioth to explore the multilevel world of Virtu. Ruined cities, empty cities, vacated boardrooms, gymnasiums, brothels—they could feel their way into the downsides of things not being used. And jungles, mountains, beaches, Escherscapes, deserts, and the undersides of seas were all places they viewed and explored.

  “You must remember,” Reese cautioned him one day, on a beach, “that for you both worlds are real. If you have slipped through to Virtu you can die in a virtual avalanche. When you’re back in Verite you could break your neck falling down a flight of stairs.”

  “What does Virtu mean, anyway?” Jay asked.

  “It is an eighteenth-century term for an object of art. After all, it is the greatest object of art the human race has produced.”

  “I guess you’re right. And Verite is our starting-place reality.”

  “Right.”

  “And physics and chemistry—all the laws of motion and thermodynamics—they don’t really work the same way in Virtu as they do in Verite, but they simulate it in Virtu—”

  “Correct.”

  “—because there have to be enough similarities to rely on in use— and enough differences to make the place useful.”

  “That’s right. Especially since it’s used for recreation as much as for business and problem-solving.”

  “What is the big problem you’ve been working on, this unified theory?”

  “When Virtu created itself following Bansa’s accidental chain reaction crashing of part of the field, the place didn’t exactly spell out all its rules for us. They had to be learned—trial and error—as we tried to install some of our own. Virtu was stronger as to basics, though it will take programming and the creation of new spaces. What we’ve never really been able to determine is whether its physical laws are localized, distorted by occasion, special instances of more general laws—or whether, ultimately, there are really no general laws, whether it might all be expedience and emulation riding atop a sea of chaos.”

  “Does it really matter,” the boy asked, “if the results are the same?”

  Reese laughed.

  “You talk a lot like your father in one of his more pragmatic moods. Sure it matters. Everything matters, ultimately—how, I can’t say, but I shall always believe that it does. A difference between a theoretician and a
n engineer, I suppose. We care about beginnings and endings, and when a boundary is really boundary. Someone else might say, Tour time would be better spent learning more ways to work with it. That’s where your theories are going to come from and find backbone.’ They’re right, too. But I incline toward the former approach and your dad toward the latter.”

  “But you both think of the place as Virtu, an object of art?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m glad things are not too simple, in life or in mind,” said Jay, picking up an exotic peach-colored seashell between his toes and casting it back into the water.

  “It’s like the joy of solving a good crossword puzzle,” said Reese.

  “What’s a crossword puzzle?”

  “Oh, my! We’ve been neglecting your education again. I’ll bring some next time we visit. I think you’ll enjoy them.”

  * * *

  Arthur Eden’s Origin and Growth of a Popular Religion caused a tremendous sensation. Eden had the gift of prose granted to only a handful of happy essayists, yet his contentions were firmly rooted in the academic traditions of anthropological research and elegantly documented.

  Eden’s treatment of his subject matter was ethical in the extreme. As he had privately promised himself at the beginning of the project, he revealed no rituals, gave away no secrets, broke no vows.

  But he did show that despite its claims of being based upon ancient truths, the Church of Elish was a religion in active evolution. Revealing himself to have been member of the Church under the name of Emmanuel Davis, Eden reported how his research was used to design everything from vestments to prayer services. His discussion of the lavish interiors of private buildings and offices, the lifestyles of the most senior members of the hierarchy, implied—without ever bluntly stating so— that the donations gathered during the Collect were not always used for the aggrandizement of the deities.

  Origin and Growth of a Popular Religion was abridged (mostly by omitting the footnotes) in an edition illustrated with pictures taken from a variety of sources—including the ancient media tradition of reenactment. It became a stage play entitled Undercover Cleric; a trideo with the same title (but here Eden/Davis was supplied with a sexy but tough assistant who spent much of her time interrogating members of the Church’s hierarchy during carnal congress), and an interactive virt adventure. This last had a surprising tendency to malfunction; five lives were lost and dozens of other participants were injured before it was shut down. This only added to the general belief that the Elishites had more to hide than Eden had implied.

  Other works came out in imitation: Ishtar’s Slave, Entering the Elshies, Winged Lie, others with even more lurid titles. None sold as well as Eden’s books, for none had his unique mixture of anthropological expertise and personal insight. Arthur Eden, himself, could be assumed to have become a very, very wealthy man. His agent, when interviewed, refused to comment but looked quite smug. It was noted that he was building a new house in Paris.

  But Arthur Eden, himself, could not be found for interviews. After a single massive gala launch for his book—a party that was well-attended despite (or perhaps because of) the immense amount of secrecy surrounding what it was meant to launch—he simply vanished from the public eye. For a few months after the release of the book he responded to hard copy interviews. Then, pleading a need to keep himself safe in the face of numerous death threats (none, he was careful to note, from the Church authorities, always from irate worshipers), he retired from sight.

  His book remained on the best-seller list for over a year in hard copy, continued to do so in electronic form for another eighteen months. (Some said it might have lasted even longer except for the tendency for copies to have suffered vandalism in the form of unauthorized editing and argumentative footnotes.)

  The Church of Elish never publicly commented on Eden’s Origin and Growth of a Popular Religion. It lost some membership immediately-after the release of the book, then it began to regain its former size. Virt crossover powers were occasionally displayed by acolytes, but largely the hierarchy seemed indifferent to public opinion, focused instead on its private mission.

  * * *

  High amid the branches of a jungle giant, Jay looked down in awe as Sayjak fought with Chumo for the leadership of the clan. It had just been a matter of time. The fight had been brewing for ages, Chumo hoping to catch Sayjak under the weather or injured, to give him the edge in any conflict—and vice versa. However, though he tried to hide it, Sayjak had turned his ankle in the afternoon’s raid on an eeksy encampment.

  “Time you and me had it out, boss,” Chumo had said shortly after their return.

  “You not good enough, Chumo.”

  “I waited long time, watching you. Know all your tricks. Let’s find out.”

  Sayjak tried to cold cock him with a powerful right-hand palm smash. Chumo dodged as he blocked it and struck Sayjak on the ribs with his left hand.

  “You gettin’ old, flabby,” he said.

  Sayjak growled, caught him in a sudden embrace and head-bashed him several times before the other could break away and spring back halfway across the compound.

  Jay, who had been playing hide and go seek with Dubhe in the limbs at the middle to higher levels of the jungle giants, had lost his playmate and been drawn to the place of the fray by the roars and growls. Fascinated then, he had halted in the fork of a great tree and stared downward to where the combatants now rolled about trying to strangle each other.

  “Weakling!”

  “Fucker of slow goats!”

  “Eater of dung!”

  Jay’s vocabulary grew as the battle progressed.

  Sayjak found a stick and broke it on the side of Chumo’s head. Chumo struck him with both fists and seized him in a massive hug.

  “Twist your head off!”

  “Break your legs!”

  “Eat your liver!”

  “Eat yours, with hot herbs!”

  “Cut your dick off, shove up ass!”

  Sayjak dragged his hands free, circled the other’s head with them. Chumo began kicking him as hard as he could in the injured ankle. Sayjak grimaced but did not relax his grip.

  “Old bastard! Gonna kill you bad now!”

  The People shrieked and leapt about. “Was Chumo bad enough to be a good boss like Sayjak?” the more intellectual wondered.

  Jay found himself trembling and sweating as the beast-men rolled and crashed below. He had never seen a real fight before.

  “No!” he whispered as Sayjak’s thumbs found their ways to Chumo’s eyeballs.

  Chumo released his hands from the great hug with which he’d been trying to crush Sayjak. Now he began working them upward between their bodies as he felt the pressure begin on his eyeballs. He bared his teeth and snapped his jaws ineffectually. He snarled and cursed.

  Sayjak squeezed.

  Bringing his arms up, Chumo seized Sayjak’s wrists, attempting to pull his hands away from his eyes. He kept kicking at the ankle. Both combatants bled from scalp and shoulder wounds.

  Jay wanted to look away but found that he could not. There was something fascinating about the spectacle, touching on thoughts of rationality and irrationality he had long tried to resolve. Basically, though, it was the terrible violence of the confrontation…

  Chumo let out a horrible, gagging shriek, and Donnerjack saw that Sayjak’s thumbs were sunk deeply within his eye-sockets. Immediately, his hands shifted to Chumo’s throat. Chumo stopping kicking him and emitted several soblike gasps. Then he began choking.

  “You say, ‘Let’s find out,’ ” Sayjak said, his grip continuing to tighten. “All right. You find out.”

  There followed a highly audible cracking sound, like the breaking of a stick, as Chumo’s head snapped far to the right.

  “There, you get your wish,” Sayjak said, untangling himself and rising above Chumo’s body. “Who’s boss here?” he yelled.

  “Sayjak!” the onlookers shouted.

  “Bos
s of bosses!”

  “Sayjak!” they responded again.

  “Don’t forget it!” he cried, then limped off toward his tree.

  He regarded the tree’s height, measured it against the pain in his ankle, selected a lower tree whose branches were nearer together. Slowly, trying to appear casual as he took most of the weight on his arms and shoulders, he climbed partway and settled onto the first stout perch he could locate.

  A number of his people cheered then, and he waved to them. Then he smiled to himself. This was the good life.

  Jay waited a long while before slipping away. He had never had a nightmare while wide awake before.

  Jay avoided his few friends and read books during the next several days. He wished he could tell them all that he was traveling. Instead he practiced his aerial acrobatics and let Caltrice refine his swimming in the stream below the waterfall. He had a recurring nightmare concerning the battle for the chieftainship of the People, and at times he seemed to hear the sticklike snapping of Chumo’s neck.

  One night when he had been woken by a particularly vivid nightmare, he heard moans and the rattling of chains. He pursued the sounds to the third floor, where he glimpsed a ghostly figure passing.

  “Wait! Please!” he called.

  The figure slowed, halted, turned, and regarded him.

  “I—I’ve never seen you or heard you before,” Jay stated. “Who— What are you?”

  “Just a ghost. Seems I’ve been asleep for a long while,” the other told him. “Who’re you?”

  “John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior. They call me Jay.”

  “Yes, I can see the resemblance. How’s your dad?”

  “He’s been dead for some years now.”

  “Oh. I haven’t seen him here on the other side of life, so he must have hied off to some special haven. Sorry you lost him, boy. He seemed a good man to have around.”

  “You knew him, then?’