What Entropy Means to Me

by George Alec Effinger

  "Congratulations, Tere," I said slowly. "Is your coup legal?"

  "Why not? I just thought of it first, and I am eldest son."

  "Acting eldest son," I reminded him.

  Tere frowned. "Do you not believe that Dore has been accepted into the bosom of Our Parents?"

  "Of course I believe it," I said nervously, "but I think you should have acted more democratically."

  "What's undemocratic about it?" Tere asked, beginning to grow dangerously irritable. "You can't elect an eldest son."

  I decided to change the subject. "What about Ateichál? She made some fierce indictments."

  "The last gasps of a drowning woman," Tere said happily. "The familiar tu quoque fallacy. She can't excuse herself by making her own denunciations." I didn't think it necessary to ask Tere if Ateichál's accusations were true.

  "What does your title mean?" asked Shesarine.

  "Oh," said Tere with his famous smile, "you like it? It's a neat combination of things. Mostly 'caliph,' because my power is basically the same. The caliphs were supposed to be the successors to Mohammed, who, like Dore, left no son."

  "Dore left no power, either," said Shesarine unwisely. Tere lifted his eyebrows, but made no reply. He continued:

  "The caliphs, and the Kalp, serve as custodians of the true belief and protector of the faithful. I want you to come to me as you would to Dore; feel free to bring me your problems and questions. My door will be open twenty-four hours a day. Also 'Kalp' brings in associations of other kinds. Kalpa, for instance, is the Hindu term for one cycle in the recurring pattern of creation and dissolution. A kalpa is one day of Brahma, equal to four billion three hundred and twenty million years. I think that adds a sense of continuity and promise. Calpe is also the old name for the Rock of Gibraltar, a tie with Our Parents' pleasingly odd and tainted world."

  "That's real fine," I said, and came back to my room, forfeiting the free cupcakes and lemonade.

  Dore and Glorian walked toward the hills with the early sun rising behind them, among the invariably white clouds of day. With the village of Monthurst at their backs, the men looked forward to a lonely march over the heights to the sacred River. It had been months since Dore had been in the healing presence of the mystic waterway, and he was thin and pale.

  "You have made great progress in your spiritual development," said Glorian. "To tell the truth, I didn't think you'd make it this far. You're really very noble."

  "Thank you," said Dore. "But whatever gain I've made has cost me in anguish and pains of the soul. I see more clearly now, but what I see strikes to my very heart. I see the pettiness of people, their inability to solve their minuscule problems, their needless languishing over trivia when the great and universal ills go neglected. I am oppressed by the meanness of people; I cannot enjoy my expanded humanity as long as I must suffer the ignoble and niggardly strivings of others."

  "Don't be condescending. You're not finished yet."

  "Well, Glorian my friend," said Dore cheerfully, "I want to thank you for helping me along my way. I never would have made it if it hadn't been for you."

  "Don't exaggerate my role. You had it inside you all the time. I just forced you to bring it out."

  "No, really; I really mean it. Thanks a lot."

  "That's all right," said Glorian generously. "Tell me, if you had to summarize all that you've been through, what do you consider to be the main points?"

  "Well now, that's a tough question." Dore paused for a moment, staring ahead at the misty gray peaks. "I think the important thing is dedication and hard work. A lot of people have an idea, but aren't willing to do the actual sweat to achieve success. If I had to advise a youngster, I'd say, 'Work hard, get plenty of rest, eat well, and never forget that there are plenty of people trying to take your place.' It's all a matter of having a clean follow-through. I like to see youngsters starting at an early age, in an organized situation, and going right on through to their adult lives. Of course, we have to remember that children shouldn't be expected to be as proficient as adults; that would be unfair to them, because those years should be a time of fun and learning. But I believe that any boy or girl who sets his goals high and never loses sight of them, who practices constantly and lives clean, can, with a few breaks, make a big name for himself."

  "That's very interesting, Dore. What do you think have been the greatest hazards for you in your own amazing career?" Glorian smiled to himself, for his plan was succeeding. If he could get Dore talking, our brother might not notice the cave of Love. Glorian gives me a warning look and motions me to be quiet.

  "I think the prime danger is overconfidence," said Dore. "A lot of times I go out there after a big victory, and I feel like nothing can stop me. There's a very real thing in emotional preparation. For instance, if I, say, have just beaten a powerful sorcerer or notorious villain, I come off a strong win with an edge of self-confidence. Now if I meet something less threatening, like a grass dragon or a robber, I'm in for a battle. Supposing I run across a letmoth. Well, two or three of those things can bleed a grown man dry before he can yell for help. But if I'm feeling overconfident I won't think twice about challenging it. Now the letmoth is going to be tough, because by itself it's not so much of a match for me; it's what we call 'up' for the bout, while I'm not going to be as motivated. I believe that's important for a youngster; it's difficult, I know, but they should try to put out one hundred percent. If it's worth doing, you might as well do it to the best of your ability."

  "Thank you very much, Dore, for sharing your thoughts with me. But I'm afraid we can't continue this, as much as I would like to. We're just about out of time; these cliffs have grown steep, and they'll take all of our attention for a while."

  "You're lucky," says Thib, just in from Tere's reception, "Tere and Ateichál are so busy now they won't notice what you're doing. Or me. Or the rest of us. Unless they need an example, like what you just had Dore say."

  "What do you mean?" I ask equitably.

  "Dore said any boy or girl can make a name for himself, with the right breaks. He suggests that he'd be happy to help us, too. Ateichál might jump on that if she needs something."

  "I guess the Kalp would aid me," I say, with an ironic expression. Thib doesn't notice. He's a very simple and musty lad.

  "Tere's too busy signing autographs," says Thib. "He's going to dress up in a clown suit and visit the nursery later."

  The hills had, indeed, grown more rugged. The day was drawing to its close; already the sun had dipped below the ice-clad western peaks and the air in the heights was putting on its evening chill. "We'd better start looking for shelter," said Dore. "A cold rain and a bitter night won't do my aging bones any good." Glorian made no reply, but followed Dore's way up the stony path with his fingers crossed.

  "Ah!" said our brother with relief, "there's a cave ahead, and enough daylight left to gather what meager fuel the mountain sprites provide."

  "Beware that cave, my friend. It is the very cave of Love against which Queen Corylis wisely warned you."

  "Well, I'm not falling into any pits, Glorian. We can just sit under a ledge or something. Just for the night."

  "I've accompanied many a young man who spent one night for the rest of his life. Come away, now. We may find less ill-famed lodgings higher up."

  "No," said Dore stubbornly. "I'm not looking for trouble there. But I'm tired and hungry, and I see no good reason to go further tonight. It's about time that I add initiative to my new-found virtues. I have followed you for months. This one time well do it my way."

  "As you will, my friend," said Glorian sadly. "But if you must stop there, you shall do it without my assistance. I will await you on the other side of these mountains; below the point where an underground rivulet emerges and tumbles over a precipice, you will see a castle on an island. This is the stronghold of Baron von Glech. In seven days I will give you up and return whence I came. Good luck, Dore, and be prudent. From the Baron's gate it is not far to the River a
nd your goal. I hope to see you on the other side. Goodby." Before Dore could answer, Glorian had disappeared. Our brother shook his head in bewilderment, and continued the climb to the cave of Love.

  I suppose the fatal festivals of love are usually celebrated by poets and dramatists. Love is one of those topics we can't discuss rationally. If someone has something negative to say about romance, he's branded as a laughable misogynist or a pervert. But there are times when the course of true love is not only not smooth, it's absolutely vicious. That is what Glorian meant by warning Dore to avoid the cave, and I can interpret the episode as my subconscious trying to warn me to dim my own pilot light of love.

  I have been receiving notes written in a handwriting that is pitiably easy to identify: Joilliena's. They have an been variations on a single theme, that my love for Dyweyne is injurious to all three of us. Love sits on my shoulder like an impatient carrion-eater, waiting for me to stumble. I balance my affections and my duty, so that Ateichál, grown vindictive, or the Kalp may find nothing disrespectful enough to demand immediate correction. But those tender feelings creep in; Dyweyne was Dore's chief confidante, the one person in the house who knows what he thought. Why haven't I interviewed her? Why hasn't Tere or Ateichál brought her into the poisonous center of their struggle? Dyweyne has given up her garden flowers to languish in a twilit corner; perhaps she has turned our minds to forget her, and damns her own intervention with guilt.

  Dyweyne is the gentlest, most honest person I've ever known. I risk here some nameless form of heresy in attributing the hyperboles to someone not of the Holy Three. But my experience informs me. Some of us think she has special knowledge, and that she awaits the return of Dore and her own elevation to godhood. Ateichál, with her cold, sexless devotion to Dore, rages whenever she hears it. Not only does a return of Dore negate her beliefs, but her jealousy has grown to unreasonable proportions. The Kalp might welcome our brother's homecoming on theological grounds, but I'm certain that demotion to second-eldest male would upset him. Others of us do not believe that Dyweyne has any secret information, but is merely playing the part of the bereaved wife, a new Our Mother in tasteful style. Would Ateichál be willing to accept a reincarnation of Our Mother in Dyweyne, as she plays with the idea of Our Father's spirit possessing Dore?

  Ateichál has fallen on hard times. She has grown desperate in the need to prove her eminence, and the more she struggles the more we shake our heads and feel sorry for her. Brothers and sisters are turning up numbered in the backyard pen with increasing frequency, as Ateichál strives to impress us with her diligence. But it is to no avail. For all Tere's unwholesome character, his claim to authority beats out anything Ateichál has to offer. But still she shrieks her complaints. We see very little of her these days. She hides her icy Brunhildic charms within her tower and plots her futile strategies. No one takes her very seriously, and so she behaves like a frustrated child, intent merely on injury. We are getting together a list of names subscribing to a request that Tere do something about her. She's keeping us awake nights with her rantings, as they echo through the moonlit corridors.

  Her efforts are producing strange results. Besides encouraging Tere in his puerile bid for control, Ateichál is throwing the radical members of our family together. Previously the irregular minds canceled each other out; their various strangenesses were easy to ignore, and they refused to compromise with any party or any person. Now, in self-defense, the curious prodigies are banding together and hammering out a weird, disreputable creed. Their first step was to throw into the River the amber pendant each of us wears. Our Mother firmly believed in the efficacy of amber in preventing fits in children and in guarding their devotion. Their chief idea is that the River is nothing but a river and, similarly, that neither Dore nor yet Our Parents were in any way remarkable. The radicals, calling themselves the Mudsitters, can be easily identified as they flaunt their pendantless chests in open society.

  Turmoil and revolution in their best guises serve to tear down ancient and meaningless customs, in favor of practical social reform. Ateichál may indeed be driving us further from her own brand of religion, but her admonitions of doom blast like lightning bolts the moldy foundations of our world. And, as Plutarch would have us believe, lightning is the fertilizer of the waters. Ateichál may make no progress with the sense of her bellows, but their very iconoclastic force may do us all some good. I will pause for a moment in anticipation of some inspiration, some sudden insight now that I have discovered her true rewarding purpose.

  Proper knowledge defeats the shouting minions of emotion. Will that do? I wonder if I can frame that sensibly.

  Proper knowledge. That of course means correct knowledge, free from heresy. That is what we're all seeking, some more assiduously than others. By emotion my Muse probably means the angry deeds of Ateichál. Our one defense, then, is to finally locate Truth and hide behind it. The whole framework of science and service which we have built since Dore's departure is based on false premises and superficial reasoning. This structure must be destroyed in order to make room for Truth.

  A hastily scribbled note from Ateichál: "That's what I'm trying to do! Best, A."

  A card from the Kalp, himself: "That's what I'm trying to do! Your friend, brother, and ruler, Kalp Tere I." (I wonder where the Tere II, by implication, is going to come from.)

  We reap what we have sown, and what we reap is confusion. I could dream that Our Father visited me and advised me that irritability opens one to the corrosion of error, and the dream would have relevance. We should save our energy, which we are dissipating in numerous projects, and direct our wills toward building a better world for all of us. My flash of perception has faded.

  Sabt, Ateichál's uneasy nuncio, has brought a formal statement which our sister of chastity desires read here, rather than merely posted on the board. I am secretly pleased at this acknowledgment of my universal acclaim and, of course, I allow Sabt to proceed. He refuses to let me copy his notes, but forces me to transcribe his oral proclamation. There is a conservative clinging to old forms at work here that I dislike; it contradicts the clear thinking which I have just outlined, and is a definite symptom of Ateichál's inability to grasp our needs.

  In any event, her declaration: "To the brothers and sisters, made sacred by Dore's transient blessing, greetings. I feel it is my duty to my faithful adherents to reply in some way to Tere's scandalous actions of this morning. It is clear to everyone that the assumption of any sort of authority in this family is not only immoral but illegal. If Tere can force submission with his upstart party of rascals, he has not become our leader; he is, in effect, no more than the boss of a military takeover of the shakiest sort. I call for unity, forgiveness for past differences, and firmness of purpose in removing the scoundrel from his invented office. Tere deserves no more than the back of our hand, most certainly not our bowed knee. I for one will never recognize his supremacy, and I will have nothing but the wrath I feel for Tere for anyone who will. Yours in Dore, only in Dore and Our Parents, Ateichál."

  "She's softening a bit, isn't she?" I ask Sabt, who is already starting for the door.

  "What? Huh? What soft?" he says, fidgeting to be away.

  "The way she signs the thing. She's adding Our Parents now."

  "Oh, yes, she feels that will make her case a bit more palatable. She's getting ready a new platform. She wants to incorporate a couple of novel extrapolations that we suggested."

  "Is it too early to tell me?" I ask, knowing that in his insecure job Sabt would desire to please anyone.

  "No, I suppose not. Ateichál is going to believe that perhaps Dore's education concerning the River is of importance, but only insofar as it is absorbed in his search for Our Father. The search and the education are equal, because they follow as cause and effect. There is still but one aspect to be worshiped, but the one aspect has two sides. The key point is going to be the mitigating influence of Our Mother. If Dore were human, her mission for him would have been u
njust and cruel. If Dore were divine, her years of shaping him for the ordeal would have been pointless. So Dore must be a mixture, and his burden must be a 'hypostasis' or conglomerate of the two, indivisible motives. I believe that Ateichál has been misrepresented as steadfastly claiming that his relationship to us is of no future importance. But Tere's insistence on separating Dore's will into unrelated parts is offensive to intelligent minds."

  Perhaps Sabt realizes that he is giving Ateichál's opponents time to build their refutations. He puts his hand to his mouth and opens his eyes wide; then he turns and runs from the room.

  Dore climbed the path to the cave of Love, and found to his delight that the closer he approached the easier the way became. There was a small quantity of dry brush around the mouth of the cave, and Dore gathered it and built himself a fire to warm the provisions with which King Herodes had supplied him. He dared not enter the cave too deeply for fear of the infamous dangers, but he sat just within the protective overhang and watched the rain. After a time he stretched out upon the stony floor and fell asleep.

  In the morning he discovered that he was not at the mouth of the cave. With a sudden surge of fear he saw that he was in a large cavern, evidently deep within the mountain. But unlike Despair's noxious lair, the cavern was well-lit by an unknown source, and the air was perfumed and pleasant. Still, Dore was anxious to be on his way across the mountains.

  "You need not hurry," said a lilting voice behind him. Dore turned to demand his release, but he was stricken speechless; he saw a lovely person of indeterminate sex and surpassing physical beauty. Dore searched the flowing gown for signs of identifying bulges, but could make no evaluation. The face and form, and the infinite grace of the person fascinated Dore. "I am Love," said the person, "and I welcome you to my temple. Many people seek me out, and many find me by chance. It is no matter how you came here. You may enjoy my hospitality as long as you like, though I require your devotion. But mine is an easy worship." Love smiled and pointed to a smooth walk bounded by Love's sacred roses. "This way, my friend. Your way through here is shorter than across the mountains, and you will find that your body's restless hungers will trouble you only when you will them. Stay as long as you like, and if you want anything, just ask." Before Dore could reply, Love vanished.