Again, Dangerous Visions Part 15

Also, I was no longer afraid or unhappy.

While I lived many an animal gave his life to feed me, and many a plant. Even plants have spirits, and animals certainly do, no matter what the foolish Christians say. They died for me. Now I die for them. That is the world's agreement with us. There were some ants in the dust of the road. They began crawling on me. They began to gather around the spreading stain of my blood, like my brothers and sisters in the coven gathering to the great feast of Midsummer's Eve.

"Merry meet, merry part, my darlings," I said to the ants, as I lay down gently in the sand, trying not to crush any of them. The sun came up and warmed my naked flesh, which was good, since as the drug wore off I began to feel the cold in the morning breeze. I lay so still a bee landed close to my nose and I could see the beautiful s.h.i.+fting colors in his wings.

The flies were there too, and they also had pretty wings.

I don't really hate flies.

And then I died.

And dying, I remembered.

I was a boy and I tended goats.

My meat was goat meat. My drink was goat milk. My clothing was goat skins. I tended goats and protected them from wild animals and demons. My G.o.d had the face of a goat, and the blood of goats was poured out to Him on the stone before our hut.

When the man with the clothes that were not made of skins came to us and told us of Jesus and showed us the dead man on the cross we were kind to him, as we are kind to all strangers, as it is certainly true that all of us are strangers pa.s.sing through this world again and again. But we could not believe in the things he said and besides he spoke with such an accent some young men could not help but laugh at him. He then grew angry and went away, this Jesus man.

Before he left, he said, "Those who cannot learn from the word must then learn from the sword." We knew what he meant and were troubled. We have never learned the arts of war in this rough land, depending on the unpleasantness of our climate and the infertility of our soil to discourage invaders. The Jesus man did not want our land, as an ordinary enemy might. He wanted us. He wanted us to become his goats, that he could protect or kill, as he wished.

But months pa.s.sed with no word of him, and we forgot him in our daily round with the goats and our private feuds between families. (These fights between families rarely produced fatalities, since they were fought almost exclusively with quarterstaffs.) Then, one afternoon when the sun was warm and the sky without a cloud, I was watering the goats at a stream near the Dun bridge when I heard a horse coming at a slow walk in the distance. I ran up and stood on the bridge, trying to catch a glimpse of the rider, for the truth is that horses are rare things in this country.

In a moment I saw him, coming up the rocky pitted road.

The cross on his s.h.i.+eld was plain enough even at a distance, so I knew he was the man with the sword the Jesus man had promised to send after us. I knew also that I was not going to let this man pa.s.s over our bridge, save after I was dead. It's little enough our people have, but we do have our pride, and that no man can take from us.

All the same I was scared.

This horseman rode so slow and steady. He must have seen me, standing in the middle of the bridge with my quarterstaff, but he rode neither slower nor faster than he had before sighting me. Perhaps the horse had but one gait, and that a slow one, for he was surely the biggest, heaviest beast that ever bore the name of horse. I suppose he had to be a big one to carry the weight of all the armor the rider wore. When this great monster of a horse and his rider all bound up in metal were within earshot I called out, "Hey, what's your business here?"

"I've come to teach good Christian ways to you and your demon-loving people," he answered, and oh, his voice was cold.

"It's we who may be teaching you manners," I shouted. "We are many and there's but one of you."

"One of us is enough," he said, "with G.o.d and cold metal on my side." He raised his lance and kept on coming, neither slower nor faster than before.

"Stop!" I shouted, raising my stick. I had been taught that a well-used quarterstaff could deflect a lance, if you were quick enough with it. "Stop, I say!"

He bent forward slightly in the saddle and gave his horse a little kick with his heels. The ungainly creature broke into a heavy trot. In an instant those great hoofs sounded on the bridge and that sharp bright point of the lance was bearing down on me. I held my staff in both hands, waiting for the exact instant to jerk it up and send the lancepoint harmlessly to one side. Then, a quick thrust between the horse's legs and...

Now!

I brought up my staff smartly, exactly right, but the man in metal was too strong for me. His lance went into my belly, deep in, and came out again through my back. It was painful, being pierced, but not so bad as I had expected. I didn't faint. I didn't even cry out. I was just...surprised.

The horseman reined in and backed off, pulling his lance carefully free of me. That's what really hurt! And seeing that point swing up and back, covered with my blood and bits and strings of my guts. It was the thought of it that hurt me, really. The idea of being pierced, stabbed, run through. The idea was what hurt most.

I stepped back, and my foot came down on empty air.

I made a futile try at keeping my balance, but it was too late. Down I went with a rush and a wet thump, into the shallows of the stream under the bridge. I looked up. The horseman was laughing so hard he almost fell off his horse, looking down at me through the slits in his helmet. He was still laughing when he turned his horse and continued on across the bridge.

I tried to move my legs, but they no longer obeyed me. I thought then that perhaps I had broken my back in the fall.

My people could place no blame on me. I had done all I could to stop the invader. Then I thought, "No, I could have run ahead and given warning. Now he will take my people by surprise." Only then did I begin to cry. My bravery had been all for nothing, where my cowardice might have made possible some defense, however feeble.

The water went on flowing over my half-submerged body. I watched, through my tears, the sunlight dancing on the surface like leaping fire, and I said to myself, very softly, "If I return to Earth again, I shall return as one of the strong, like that horseman."

And that thought made me smile as I died.

When I did return to the world it was in Southern France, near the Spanish border. I had, of course, forgotten all about my past life. Or had I? There was something about the pa.s.sing of mounted men of arms that made me excited beyond belief, and when I saw the sign of the cross a strange emotion, awe mixed with fear and, perhaps, a touch of hate, swept over me.

Once, in a parade, I saw some high church dignitaries riding, all covered with jewels and fine clothing, and I thought, "Some day, I shall be like that."

My parents owned a house and lands, but overseers and servants saw to the running of them. My father worked and studied in one little room in the great house, writing far into the night by candlelight and reading ancient scrolls in Greek and Latin. He was a hard man to talk to, but one day I went to him (I was then in my early teens) and told him I wished to become a priest.

He did not answer me at first, as he sat there in his carved chair, one arm on an octagonal wood-inlaid table and the other hanging loose so his fingertips touched the rug, while I stood tongue-tied before him. At last he slowly shook his head, as if an infinite weariness had come over him.

"Do you think I've cared for you all these years only to hand you over to the Pope?" he demanded, his long, delicate scholar's fingers doubling into fists.

"What's wrong with that?" said I.

"Let me show you," he said, gentle now, no longer angry.

He showed me things he had translated out of the ancient scrolls in Latin and Greek, showed me quotations from the Bible, quotations from Josephus, one dusty scroll after another until my vision blurred and my head was spinning. "You see?" he kept saying eagerly. "You see?"

At last I could contain myself no longer. I cried out, "No, I don't see! I don't understand!"

"But it's so clear," said my father, fixing me with his great dark hollow eyes. "The Pope is the anti-Christ. The Catholic Church is not Christ's mission in the world, but the Devil's."

For a moment I was too stunned to speak, then I shouted, "No! No! I won't listen!" and ran from the room. I knew then, for the first time, that my father was a heretic.

He never spoke to me again on the subject of religion, and rarely on any other subject. It was my sister, two years younger than I, who became from that day forward his constant companion, who now wore boy's clothing and began to be raised as a boy, and I understood that she had taken my place with my father, that he had meant for me to inherit his house and lands and carry on his demon-inspired work with the old books and scrolls, but that now everything, everything would go to her.

When he lay on his deathbed, it was she, not I, that he called to his side, while I stood outside the closed door, straining to hear their whispering. And when he died, it was she who put on his emerald ring and great green cloak and went every day into the little room to work until after midnight behind locked doors. She and I had been so close, when we had been younger, and had played at being knight and lady in the open fields, even at being lovers. (A sister's kiss is the sweetest of any, because it's forbidden.) Now that was all done and finished. The locked door and the piles of ancient ma.n.u.scripts lay between us like a curse.

I went to the village priest and told him everything, including the demon work of my father and sister, and my own desire to become a priest. It was in my mind that I was really helping her, as if calling in a doctor for someone who is ill, and it was also in my mind that I wanted an education, so that I could read Latin and Greek as my sister could, so that I could become the wise child my father had wanted me to be.

The angel laughs a mocking laugh and says, softly, "Is that all?" No, no, that's not all. Perhaps, perhaps I may have given a few moments' thought to the house and lands, too, that would be mine if she were gone.

I don't know how she knew, but she knew what I had done. She was not angry with me, but only gave herself over more feverishly than ever to her writing and her ancient scrolls in that d.a.m.ned little room. All she said to me was, "If they take me, my brother, you must hide the book I'm working on from them. There's our father's life's work in that book, and you mustn't let them destroy it."

I promised. I could never refuse her anything, to her face.

So, one night, when it was raining hard and the wind was screaming over the rooftops, they did finally come for her. I was in the upstairs hall, leaning my head against the uneven greenish gla.s.s window above the front door, feeling the cool gla.s.s against my forehead, when I heard the cart in the distance, b.u.mping and rumbling over the cobblestones.

They came to the door.

They knocked, with the great iron doorknocker.

My sister went down to let them in, reaching the door before any of the servants, as if the devil had told her that it was she they were seeking. She went with them without a word, and I listened to the cart rumble away until its sound was drowned in the hiss of the rain.

Then I went to the little room, where all the ancient scrolls in Greek and Latin were hidden, and, one by one, I burned them all in the vast fireplace under the tapestry of the unicorn kneeling before the Tree of Knowledge. Yes, all of them, even the huge book begun by my father and carried on by my sister.

Then I went to bed, but I did not sleep well.

The Church was good to me. The good fathers took me in and taught me Greek and Latin and the Bible and obedience. In return I worked hard for the Church all the rest of my life. They found I had a talent for sniffing out heretics, so that became my work. There were in the land at that time many false Christians who claimed that we are born again and again and that the Pope is not to be obeyed, but rather the spirit of Christ in one's own heart. I cannot count the number of those I brought back to the Church, either through argument or prayer or, all else failing, torture. But there were many who slipped away from me, dying while still in a state of sin, and some were braver than any Christian I have known, and died with a smile on their lips, d.a.m.ning me with their forgiveness. It was those that smiled that haunted my sleep, more than those that screamed and pleaded. Again and again they said to me, with their last breaths, "We do not fear you, who can only harm our bodies." I began to drink more good wine than the worst slave of sin, but n.o.body reproached me for it. Indeed, all my fellow heretic hunters drank too much, and some, while drunk, more than once broke their vows of chast.i.ty.

When I reached the age of fifty, I longed to die, I even prayed to die, but G.o.d does not listen to such requests, and I lived on and on and on, as if the alcohol in my blood preserved me from all decay.

I thought more and more often of my sister. I had never seen her again. I did not know if she were alive or dead, though once I heard a rumor that she had died in a nunnery, still faithful to her demonic heresy. I could not ask my superiors about her and, in truth, I preferred not to know her fate, whatever it might be.

Was I in my seventies or my eighties when I found myself at last on my deathbed, surrounded by my withered comrades in their dark robes, their faces all shadows in the candlelight? I don't know. I no longer counted the years, or even the days.

They all knew I was dying, but they tried to cheer me with talk of all we would do when I was "up and around again." Then the Bishop came in to give me final absolution from my sins, and that was the end of the cheerful lies. It was quite an honor, to be thus attended by the Bishop himself, and my ancient friends nodded to each other about it knowingly. I had given my life for the Church, and now I was going to get my reward.

But then, before he could begin, I raised myself on my elbow and croaked out to him, "Stop that! I won't have it! No absolution for me!"

"What?" cried the Bishop, amazed. "But then you'll be d.a.m.ned!"

"So let it be!" I rasped out. "But you can't grant me absolution, nor can your Church!"

"Why not?" demanded the Bishop, his face turning livid with anger.

"It's you who have d.a.m.ned me!" I exclaimed, then fell back on my pillow. As if from very far away I heard the Bishop going on with the ceremony, but now I was powerless to stop him, or even to speak.

"I'm d.a.m.ned," I whispered to myself. "d.a.m.ned. d.a.m.ned. d.a.m.ned."

"Hey, don't take it so hard just because you can't get a hard-on," said Marie, lifting her head from where she was uselessly sucking on my d.i.c.k, my flabby, hopeless, impotent d.i.c.k.

Outside, in Montmartre, it was raining, but the night people still walked the streets, shouting and laughing and pretending to have fun, and the accordion in the Lapin Agile cabaret down the street played a heavy-footed waltz. I reached over to the bedtable and poured myself a drink.

"That won't help you f.u.c.k," said Marie. "That's what's d.a.m.ning you, in fact, if you ask me."

I ignored her and drank deep.

"Hey, my friend," she said. "Were you ever a monk?"

"h.e.l.l no," I snapped. "Do I look like one?"

"You drink a lot and can't make love. That's the way it is with a monk, eh?"

"I was born a second-rate piano player," I growled. "That's all I ever was and that's all I ever will be."

"You aren't much of a lover, my friend," she said, sitting up on the edge of the bed and reaching for her bloomers, "but I like the way you play piano, and the songs you sing. They tell the truth about what a s.h.i.+thouse we live in, and besides, people pay good money to hear them. That's the important thing, if you ask me."

"I'm d.a.m.ned," I said again. "I wish I was dead."

"Are you going to get into that? Listen, you promised me you wouldn't try to kill yourself again, right?"

"That's right."

"Well, promise me again."

"I won't try to kill myself," I said, gloomily. "Now how much do I owe you?"

"Listen, my friend. Forget it. Nothing for nothing, right? We've been friends so long we're like brother and sister, eh? It's all in the family."

"Brother and sister? s.h.i.+t. If you were my sister I wouldn't let you sell your a.s.s for a living."

"How do you know, my friend? Brothers don't always treat their sisters so very well. Now help me into my corset like a good brother. Then you can walk me down to the Gare St. Lazare. I have to catch a train."

"Walk all that way? In the rain? s.h.i.+t!"

"It'll be good for you, my drunken brother. It'll sober you up."

"Oh, what the h.e.l.l. All right. I don't give a f.u.c.k!"

She stood in front of the mirror, putting on her little silver crucifix.

"What do you wear that thing for?" I asked her as I searched for my pants.

"I know what's good for me," she answered with a shrug.

When we were finally dressed and stumbling down the steep streets trying not to get run over by the pa.s.sing horses and carriages, I asked Marie, "Where are you going, anyway, on that train?"

"I am going to make my visits," she answered simply, clutching my arm to steady herself, though lord knows I could have used a little steadying myself.

"Visits?"

"To my family. Everyone makes visits, you know."

"I don't," I told her.

"Poor man," she said sadly. "A veritable orphan!"

"I have parents...right here in Paris. They have no more wish to see me than I have to see them."

"Poor man," she repeated.

After a while we were in the station. It was crowded as h.e.l.l.

We stood together on the platform for a while, not speaking, and then she said, "Listen, my friend. I have nothing to read on the train. Can you run down to the stand and buy me a newspaper or something?"

"All right."

"But hurry. The train is due any minute."

I started off through the crowd, but it was slow going.