“You sound more like that customer with the stars and moons robe every minute,” the demon told him, returning to fascinated experimentation with the tail. He was trying to wag it in circles now.
“Will you stop playing with that confounded thing!” the student of the occult screamed.
The demon eyed him reproachfully. “It wasn’t my idea, you know,” he said mildly. “I never had one before. Suppose somebody suddenly tied one of these things on you. Wouldn’t you have the curiosity to investigate a bit?”
Perkins looked as though he was about to prance around the room in his agitation, but restrained himself before crossing the chalk line of the pentacle. He shrilled his protest:
“Here I spend years—years!—in learning how to summon a devil, and what do I get?”
“You got me,” the demon said. “What did you have in mind?”
“I had you in mind,” Perkins shrilled desperately. “I wanted to sell my soul, but I’m beginning to wonder whether or not you could make the agreement I wanted.”
“This soul stuff escapes me,” Ozidaminos said soothingly, “but I’ll be glad to give you what you want.” He added with caution, “If possible.”
The other took a deep breath and a sly look entered his eyes. “Very well,” he said. “Do you have a contract?”
“A what?” the demon asked, stamping his cloven hoof on the floor, interested in the clattering sound it made.
“Good heavens, don’t do that,” Perkins told him hurriedly. “Do you want to break my lease?”
The demon said mildly. “You certainly are difficult to get along with. I was just experimenting with this fantastic foot you gave me. What’s a contract?”
“What do you mean, I gave you? And you know full well what a contract is; I sign it with blood.”
The demon stared at him, wide-eyed. “You must be jesting,” he said. Then, “No, now that I recall, the guy with the moons and stars on his cloak had the same idea.”
“Will you please stop talking about this man with the moons and stars?” Perkins shrilled.
“Sorry,” the demon said. “Where were we?”
“The contract!”
“Oh yes, the contract. Tell me more about it, and don’t get so excited. You’ll get ulcers.”
Perkins began to prance again. “I am willing to sell my soul in return for one wish!” he yelled in agitation.
“All right,” the demon said, in a tone that suggested he was humoring the other. “What do you want?”
“‘The contract,” the other suggested slyly. “I want to sign the contract first.”
“Listen,” the demon told him, “I haven’t the vaguest idea of what you mean. You summoned me, showing you believed in me; very well, I’m grateful, now tell me what you want and it’s yours.”
“In return for my immortal soul,” the other said dramatically.
“If that’s the way you want it,” the demon said, shrugging.
“Done!” said Nostradamus Perkins quickly, as though in fear the demon might change his mind. “And here is my wish. I demand immortality!” He began to laugh, almost hysterically.
“Okay,” Ozidaminos said, “immortality it is. What’s so funny?”
The other took a long moment to get over his fit of laughter. “Don’t you see?” he cried. “I’ve beaten you.”
The demon rubbed the end of his nose with the claw-tipped finger. He said ruefully, “This is a hell of a way to make a living. What’s happened now?”
Perkins shrilled in glee. “Don’t you see! Don’t you see! I’ve beaten you. You’ve given me immortality; now you can never collect my soul.”
“Your code of ethics is lousy,” said the demon. “Luckily, it doesn’t affect me. But, frankly, and from the friendliest of motives, I’d suggest you change your mind about that immortality stuff. I can give it to you all right, and since I’ve given my word, will, if you want. But—are you sure?”
The other laughed long and loud. Until, as a matter of fact, somebody started pounding on the apartment wall with a shoe.
“Do not think to confound me, Satan. Thou knowest full well that thou canst not forswear thy pledge…”
“There you go with that screwy dialect again,” Ozidaminos complained. “You sound as if you’ve been reading corny books or something.”
“Your agreement must be lived up to,” Perkins finished.
The demon shrugged again. “It’s all right with me. You’re asking for it; but you might pick out something a bit less hard on yourself. After all, I’m here to give you a hand.”
The other stopped laughing and bent a prejudiced eye on him. “You’re here to rob me of my soul,” Perkins rasped. “But you’ll never have it; I’ve beaten you.”
Ozidaminos shook his head at him, in bewilderment. “This soul you keep talking about. Just what is it?”
Nostradamus Perkins gaped and started to say, “But, that is why you came…” Then he broke off, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “But, why did you come,” he asked, “if it wasn’t for my soul?”
The Demon shrugged smugly. “I came because you summoned me. And, to be frank, I needed it pretty badly. There has been so much doubt in this world of our existence that we of the other world are badly beset. Old Ishtar and Aeshma Daeva, for instance, have practically faded away, and Zeus and his gang—you’d hate to see them, knowing the weight they used to throw.”
“I…I don’t understand.”
The demon yawned. “Oh, surely you must, otherwise you wouldn’t have known how to summon me for a favor. Surely it is elemental that everything is in the mind. Matter exists, life exists, everything exists, but in the human mind. We of the other world are dependent entirely upon your beliefs in us. You summoned me. Good. I am grateful. I am willing to exercise certain powers I possess, and which you lack, to give you your desire. In return, I know I am secure, for as long as you live, you will believe.
“As a matter of fact,” he added with satisfaction, “now that you have immortality, I am guaranteed at least one believer for the rest of eternity.” He took to contemplating his tail again, a shade of repulsion on his face. “You should have seen how the Greeks used to dream me up,” he said wistfully. “I was really something worth seeing; you know, golden armor and everything.”
Nostradamus Perkins said in bewilderment, “Ishtar? Greeks? Believers?” He scowled, certain doubts beginning to run through him. “Are…are the inhabitants of your ‘world,’ as you call it, Gods or Devils?”
“What’s the difference?” Ozidaminos asked disinterestedly. “One man’s God is another’s Devil—it’s in the viewpoint. Actually, we’re all about the same. Of course, you humans make up a whole new set of rules and regulations every few hundred years, and there’s a lot of…er…propaganda thrown around, but, substantially, we’re all about the same.”
“But…my soul?” Perkins protested.
“Never heard of it,” said the other. His head jerked suddenly. “You’ll have to pardon me,” he said, “I just got a call.” He hesitated, seemingly distressed. “Sorry about that immortality business,” he added. “However, you asked for it and it’s yours. Frankly, I don’t think you’ll enjoy it, especially after the first million years or so. I doubt if there’ll be any members of the human race left by then—except you, of course. But, anyway, thanks again for calling me up.”
He disappeared suddenly.
For a long time Nostradamus Perkins sat and pondered the desirability of immortality. His eyes slowly widened as some of the ramifications came home to him. He didn’t go mad, although that might have been preferable—in the long run…
DREAMTIME IN ADJAPHON, by John Gregory Betancourt
Originally published in Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine (1988).
Dreamtime
came quickly in the last days of Adjaphon, for then we did not know the end approached, and we were drunk from our power and our success. Abroad, our armies marched again, this year in war against the Heron King to the far East, and the priests of our god-patron, Tokos-Dien, predicted nothing but success.
If the days seemed golden, perhaps they truly were. The wealth from a dozen newly conquered lands flowed through Adjaphon’s gates, and the thousand eyes of Tokos-Dien painted on the roof of every building looked down and seemed to bless us all.
I was the son of a cobbler. Jad, my mother called me, but my father called me Jadred, which was a man’s name, for I was thirteen that summer and could have joined the Emperor’s army had I chosen, like so many of my childhood friends had already chosen. In battle there is glory, they had said, and they had gone to win that glory, along with a share of the Heron King’s treasure.
But I did not go, for I was thin and slight, and most took me for a boy of eight, though I was indeed thirteen and a man. I knew my weakness: in battle I would have been slain by the first enemy soldier I faced, just as I had been beaten up by every boy my own age I’d ever fought. Perhaps I was a coward, but I do not think so. I was being realistic. My death could not possibly have served the Emperor’s purposes.
Once I had prayed to Tokos-Dien for a man’s body, strong and tall, promising to serve in his army if he would help me, but I received no answer. Perhaps it was just as well. I was not meant to be a soldier.
The beginning thing, in the dreamtime, was the dream. It came to me one night. In the dream I had wings like a bird but was not a bird myself. I soared over a ravaged land, with crops long-trampled into the ground by feet and hooves, with farmhouses tumbled to ruins, with mills and barns and outbuildings razed to the ground. People were running everywhere, panicked, shouting and screaming, but I could not hear their voices. Then I looked up and saw fires burning across the whole of the horizon, even on empty ground where there was nothing to burn, and running before the flames came the greatest troops of our Emperor, throwing down their weapons, casting off their armor. The men’s faces blurred in the heat, rippling like paper-hangings on a windy day, but I thought I glimpsed my best friend, Savil, who had gone to join the fight against the Heron King three months before.
“Savil!” I called, but he did not pause. Then the flames were upon him, and I could not bear to see more.
I woke, gasping, the bitter taste of smoke still in my lungs. My brother Aghen stirred beside me, but did not wake. I forced myself to silence.
Bright images of those dream-fires still lingered in my eyesight, as though I had been there, as though I had actually seen Savil die. I shuddered at the thought, then denied it. It had only been a nightmare, I told myself, and made signs of aversion to keep away evil.
After that I could not rest, could not lie still. I rose and went to the window in only my nightgown, threw open the wooden shutters, and gazed down into the street.
In those days it was said Adjaphon never slept: merchant caravans moved through the city’s gates like an endless serpent, bringing all manner of fabulous animals and weavings and trinkets and slaves to the marketplace at every hour of the day and night. But at this moment,oddly, there was only a single man in a hooded cloak standing there. He leaned on his staff and seemed to peer up at me, and where his face should’ve been I saw only blackness.
“Jadred,” I thought I heard him say, “you are called.”
Quickly I shuttered the window and barred it. Had the man truly spoken, or was it another part of my dream? He seemed to have been waiting for me. I could not rid myself of that thought. And the moon was bright enough; why hadn’t I seen his face?
I stood there beside the window for a long time, feeling the cold of the floor beneath my feet, feeling my heart beating in my throat.
That was the start of the end, in the dreamtime of Adjaphon, though I did not know it yet.
* * * *
My father’s shop consisted of three rooms. The largest of these was the workroom, where flat sheets of leather lay bundled up against the two largest walls and the sweet, musty smell of tanning-cream was so thick you could almost see it. Here my younger brothers and sisters and I cut leather strips and thongs from patterns every morning. In the afternoon my mother and father sewed them into sandals and boots—mostly boots these days, boots for the Emperor’s army, since the purchasing agents always came to my father’s shop first.
The second room was for storage, mostly of leather but also of finished goods not yet on display. It was small and dark.
The third room opened out onto the street. Finished boots and sandals of every design and size imaginable filled it. They hung in strings from the rafters, from pegs in the walls, from intricately carved wooden racks in the center of the room. Here my mother and father sat during the morning hours, speaking with those who came in to buy or to gossip, laughing and joking, or just watching the parade of passers-by in their few idle moments.
Early that afternoon I heard many feet enter the shop at once, and my father’s welcoming call cut short.
“Where is Jadred, your son?” a loud voice cried. “Tokos-Dien has called him.”
My mother screamed. I stood, shoving back my chair, looking at my two brothers, at my four sisters. None of them said a word; none of them moved. They stared at me, their eyes wide.
Abruptly the curtain to the workroom swept aside. A middle-aged man in the gold robes of a priest of Tokos-Dien ducked through the doorway. He was tall and his features had a proud, chiseled look to them, almost as though he were made of stone. Behind him moved a tide of underpriests in blue robes, and all manner of other servants of the god-patron.
Only the priest’s eyes moved as he surveyed the room. When his gaze fell on me, he knelt. “It is you,” he said. “You are the dreaming one.” He said it with such awe and reverence that I did not know how to begin to reply. And yet as he said it I also knew what he meant: my dream the night before had been more than a dream. It had been a vision sent by Tokos-Dien for purposes only the god-patron or the god-patron’s priests could ever fathom.
“Please,” I said. I licked my lips. I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to abandon my parents or the safety of their home. “Please,” I said again. “What do you want of me?”
“I want nothing,” the priest said. “It is Tokos-Dien who calls you.”
He rose, and at his gesture, the underpriests came in around him, as though a floodgate had been let loose. They ushered my brothers and sisters from the room and blocked the way so my parents could not enter nor see. Then their servants stripped my clothes away and I stood there naked and shivering while they chanted over me.
“You are called,” the priest kept telling me. “You are called.”
I tried to run as an underpriest began to shave my head, and his knife opened a shallow gash beside my ear so that blood ran quickly. The priest grabbed me and hugged me to him, talking like a farmer soothing a frightened beast. His robes were smothering, full of odd spicy smells. I struggled, but his grip was too strong, and his voice had begun to lull me. In moments everything became a blur of sight and sound. Distantly I felt myself being shaved all over, then dressed in gold robes like the priest’s. Finally I felt myself being carried out into the street.
I am called.
My parents were huddled in the corner of the display room, my brothers and sisters clutched tight. They dared not protest, I knew.
I am called.
The underpriests trundled me into a golden carriage. The prist climbed in beside me, still whispering his soothing, mind-numbing words. Someone clicked to the horses and we were off in a mad rush down the street. The servants were running ahead, clearing the way for us, and I felt a cold, sick fear at the thought of what was to come.
How could Tokos-Dien have called me? Surely I was unworthy. I
didn’t want to go. I longed for release, wished I were dead, wished I had never been born. The god-patron seemed to have singled me out for particular punishment or persecution. In that moment I learned what it was to hate—to hate the god-patron’s priests, and to hate Tokos-Dien himself. Mostly I hated Tokos-Dien; young as I was, I knew the priests were only servants doing their master’s will.
Once, long before, I had prayed to Tokos-Dien for help, for a man’s body, when I was a child and everyone my age had beaten me. He had not answered then. Why had he sent a vision to me now?
That, too, was part of the beginning of the end.
* * * *
My first days in the Temple of Tokos-Dien were the most painful of my life. I refused to speak of my vision; rather, I denied it, said I had seen nothing, heard nothing, done nothing. They should let me go, I said. They should let me return to my mother and my father and my life as a cobbler’s son.
To their credit, they did not believe me. Finally, on the eighth day, they locked me in a small room, and priest after priest came in to question me, to prod and probe my mind. They did not let me sleep or rest or eat or drink.
On the second day of their questioning I croaked my confession: “Yes!” I cried. “I saw a vision!” And, after I had drunk and eaten, I babbled of all that I had seen.
The priests transcribed my every word and went away to study what I had said. They left me by myself, in a locked room, with a soft bed and as much food and drink as I could possibly want. I should have been happy, I know, but instead I cursed Tokos-Dien. I did not expect a reply,and there came none.
That night I dreamt a second time, and in this dream I was floating down a river on my back. It was dark here, but somehow I could see. A mountain loomed ahead, and the river ended in a vast whirlpool. I knew without a doubt that I would enter the whirlpool and be sucked down into the underworld, where Tokos-Dien rules. Somehow the god-patron was bringing me to him.
The Fantasy MEGAPACK ® Page 10