Dead & Godless (20 page)

Corwin
sank to his knees, his palm pressed against the shard.

“And
if the person you love is a drug addict or a compulsive gambler? Aren’t there times
when loving someone means striving to change them, not simply accepting their
decisions and letting go?”

“And
if the person you love is an atheist?” countered Ransom. “We can try to change
those who choose a path of self-destruction, but we cannot force them to
change. To do so would not be love.”

“But
must Hell be an end to trying? What if I don’t want to give up?”

“You
would reason with the damned? Talk sense into demons?” Ransom’s tone was
incredulous. “You know not of what you speak.

“The
Father loves them still, infinitely more than you ever could. But just as Hell
is less than Earth, the damned are less than the living. You will not mourn for
them.”

“I
won’t even mourn for them? How can you say that?”

“On Earth,
one may love the idea of a person more than a person’s true self. A ruthless
dictator may be a loving father in the eyes of his children. But in Heaven, we
see the fullness of things. We rejoice in perfect justice.”

“Love
is stronger than justice!” Corwin insisted.

“Love
demands justice!” retorted Ransom. “Ask yourself which would be a worse fate for
your beloved: to be killed or to live a long life as a serial killer?”

Calming
his mind, Corwin considered the meaning behind the question. By the logic of
materialism, death was an ultimate end. People simply ceased to be. The loss
was utter and complete. So why was the thought of a loved one turning into
something vile so much worse? To think of his father as a murderer, a rapist or
a child molester—it was hard even to imagine, and far more disturbing than the
image of his lifeless body laid to rest in that coffin.

That
was true death,
he realized. He could love the dead, but could he love a
serial killer? Not in the same way. Perhaps not at all.

“Better
to die than to live as a monster,” he declared, “because to do so would be to
die twice. It would mean the death of something inside, something more precious
than a beating heart.”

Light
enveloped the frozen figures. With a flash, they vanished, set free from their
cages. A cloud of sparks twinkled like stars in the glassy crystals. Ransom
laid a hand on Corwin’s shoulder as their glow softly died.

“A
wise answer.”

Love
is not mere kindness,
thought Corwin.
It’s not something easy or safe . . .
It’s the most dangerous thing in the world.

Wars and Rumors of Wars

Departing the
inner room, Ransom led the way up a spiral staircase that climbed one of the
palace towers. Arrow slits were spaced every fifteen paces along the outer
wall, and like the rearmost balcony, they overlooked a world whose clock had
been turned to night. Torches crackled in sconces between them, casting light
on the tower’s smooth masonry.

“You’ve
run out of paradoxes,” said Ransom. “But surely you have other arguments that
were never put to paper?”

“Why
bother?” sighed Corwin. “Without proof, we could go on trading arguments until
Hell freezes over. Would it change anything?”

“You
fear that we’d be running in circles, but thus far we haven’t been. You’ve
agreed with much that you didn’t think you would, and found that you believed
in much that you didn’t think you did.”

It
was true,
Corwin had to admit. He’d lived his life taking many things for
granted, things such as free will and intrinsic values, without ever giving
much thought to what they implied.

“But
I’m still not the kind of believer that you want me to be,” he said. “If I had
met someone like you in life, maybe things would have turned out differently.
Instead of a virtuous atheist, maybe I would have been . . .”

“A
skeptical Christian?” guessed Ransom.

“I
was going to say an optimistic agnostic,” snorted Corwin with a laugh. “But who
knows?”

Outside,
thick clouds veiled the starlit vista, and from above, the raucous din of
drumbeats and war cries, quiet and remote at first, began to reverberate
through the walls.

“That
which keeps you from believing runs deeper than the claims of Christianity,”
stated Ransom.

“Your
can defend those claims philosophically, but there’s philosophy, and then
there’s real life,” said Corwin. “When you witness how much violence is
committed in the name of god, it’s hard to view religion as anything other than
a poisonous lie. You don’t see atheists killing each other over the proper way
to interpret Darwin’s
Origin of Species.”

“And
if they did, would you conclude that all interpretations must be equally
false?”

“That’s
not the point!”

“I
hope your point isn’t that religion is the cause of all war, or some other
uninformed nonsense,” Ransom droned.

“War
has many causes. I’m not so simple-minded as to lump them all into one tidy
catchphrase. But you can’t deny that religion has a history soaked in blood!”

“Hasn’t
it also united people, brought those from different tribes, races and cultures together?”

“At
what cost? Unity has never been god’s top priority. Jesus himself said that he
came not to bring peace, but the sword.”

“So
he did.”

A
wooden beam barred a doorway at the top of the stairs, the stout length of oak
rattling with the crashes and clamor of the world it locked away. Ransom lifted
it off and laid it aside.

“Religion
is
rather like a sword,” he said as he threw open the door.

Rough-hewn
bricks paved a walkway that ran atop the fortress walls. Corwin hastily ducked
as a huge ball of burning pitch whooshed overhead, exploding in the courtyard
below. A knight commander was barking orders and waving his blade. Archers
rushed up the stairs on Corwin’s left to reinforce the walls, ring mail jangling
beneath gray and crimson tunics.

“There’s
too many of them!” lamented one of the knights who huddled not far away. “We’re
all going to die in this godforsaken land!”

The
longbow shook in his tremulous grasp. A veteran with a bushy beard pressed his
back to the merlon beside him.

“Fear
not, brother,” said the large man. “The Lord is with us this day.”

“As he
was with those in Damascus? The Lord isn’t going to hold these walls.”

“By
God’s grace, we will. And if we should fall, His Holiness has already seen to
our souls. Death has no claim on us!”

War
horns sounded with a doleful tone that echoed off the fortifications. The young
knight tried to steady his bow by clasping it with both hands. His breath came
in spasms, and sweat drenched his unsullied tunic.

“I
don’t want to die,” he whimpered.

Seizing
him by the collar, the veteran throttled the fear out of him.

“Then
fight!” he growled.

Corwin
gazed over the ramparts. The sky was bleached. Bone-white clouds domed a
battlefield on which a staggering army had amassed, their forces clad in
turbans and conical helms. Scimitars flashed as the front lines charged, the
regiments behind them marching inexorably onward. Catapults loosed their fiery bombs,
and siege towers rolled towards the walls.

Nocking
arrows, the two knights spun from behind the merlon and fired. The twang of a
hundred bowstrings struck a discordant melody.

Many
an onrushing warrior fell, yet the vanguard surged on, anguished screams
drowned beneath trampling boots, and the disciplined soldiers that followed
were not easily hindered. Raising a wall of shields, they covered their
advancing archers, the wall lowering briefly for the Moors to return fire.

Corwin
scuttled after Ransom, keeping an eye to the horizon as it darkened with a
volley of arrows. Shades might be able to pass through the living, but how they
fared against pointy projectiles wasn’t a topic he was eager to explore.

The trenchant
darts pelted the battlements, some whizzing through the crenels to punish
unwary knights. One such knight collapsed right at Corwin’s feet—the same young
man who had deemed the battle hopeless. Blood spurted from his neck and Corwin
averted his gaze as he gingerly sidestepped the corpse.

“I
hope that indulgence did the trick,” he murmured sincerely.

An
arrow streaked towards Ransom’s skull, and without even a glance, the angel
caught it out of the air, snapping the shaft in his fist.

“The
mortal realm is under siege,” he proclaimed. “Or perhaps it would be better to
say that all men are born into enemy territory. The Father has not abandoned
you. He has sent his Word so that you might arm yourselves, given you a means
by which to prevail, but few there are who ready themselves for battle.”

Corwin
hopped back as a grappling hook flew between them. A quick tug pulled it out of
its arc and the hook caught hold of the ramparts. Hefting a battle hammer, the
bushy-bearded knight swung it like a golf club and knocked the prongs loose.
But no sooner had it fallen away than a dozen more hurtled over the wall, long
ladders thunking against the bricks.

A
high-flying hook sailed over the knight’s head. Yanked back suddenly, it
snagged on his ring mail, and before he could twist free, he was dragged down
hollering into the bloodthirsty throng.

“Those
who handle a sword carelessly are liable to cut themselves,” continued Ransom.
“And a blade that isn’t well forged will break when it meets adversity.”

Arrows,
boulders and boiling oil rained down on the Moorish warriors scaling the walls,
but the crusaders couldn’t stop them all.

“Allahu
Akbar!” yelled the first of the Moors to gain the top of the battlements.

His
scimitar leapt to his hand and the nearest archer drew his broadsword.

“For
God and King Richard!” the knight bellowed.

Their
blades met, the crusader deftly turning the Moor’s scimitar aside. He brought
his pommel up hard against the man’s jaw, laying him low, and lifted his broadsword
for the finishing blow. But the Moor also carried a mace. The knight’s sword shattered
upon blunt steel and a rising scimitar slid between his ribs.

“If
one wields it poorly, a sword may even cut down those whom it was meant to save,”
spoke Ransom as he picked a path through the carnage.

Springing
atop the wall, a black-cloaked Moor spotted a crusader whose back was turned. He
unsheathed his dagger, smiling wickedly. The knight was already engaged in battle,
but as the man darted in for the kill, he swung his foe full-around. The Moor’s
dagger sank into the back of his comrade, and with a mighty kick, the knight
sent them both tumbling to their deaths.

“I’d
prefer a world with no swords at all,” said Corwin. “Organized religion moves
armies. It provides the incentive for holy wars, for witch hunts and suicide
bombers.”

“As
opposed to unorganized religion?”

“One
can have spirituality without religion. It would at least be a step in the
right direction.”

“Only
if the ‘right direction’ is atheism,” replied Ransom. “Imagine that you had
some ideas about God and wrote them down. Now you’ve got a bible. But suppose
someone misinterprets your words and you correct them. You’ve just given
yourself authority to interpret your scriptures. Congratulations, you’re now
the pope! It’s as simple as that. An organized religion is
any religion that
can be communicated.”

Maybe
that’s why so much New Age talk sounds like mumbo jumbo,
considered
Corwin. To talk a lot without actually saying anything was an art that spiritualist
gurus had honed to perfection.

“I
was trying to compromise, but fine, then let it all rot! Unlike religion, there’s
nothing in atheism to compel a person to violence.”

“Was
the atheism of Stalin or Moa Tse-tung without violence?” Ransom paused as a
line of spearmen sprinted up the stairs to join the fray. “Theism begins with ‘God
is,’ atheism with ‘God is not.’ Go beyond that, and either viewpoint can be
twisted to serve a dark end.”

“Going
beyond that is what every religion does! I’m not about to defend atheistic dictators,
but the blood on their hands is irrelevant. It doesn’t change the fact that
religion is dangerous.”

“Of
course religion is dangerous!” Ransom’s voice boomed irritably. “The yearning
for God lies close to the heart of what it means to be human. Anything rooted
so deeply within you is bound to arouse strong passions, even violent ones.”

The
next Moor to come over the wall was greeted by a dozen thrusting spears. His
scimitar proved no match for the seven-foot-long polearms. Skewered and tossed
back, he fell with a dying shriek that caused many of those climbing to freeze
a fearful second on their ropes and rungs.

“Maybe
Buddha had the right idea,” said Corwin. “A little detachment would do the
world good.”

“Siddhartha
understood that with passion comes pain, but he failed to see that some
passions are worth the price.”

“Even
if the price is war?”

“Wars
are always fought in the name of something good, be it God, freedom, justice or
what have you. It’s difficult to rally an army with the battle cry: ‘Let us go
forth and slaughter in the name of
evil!’
”

Bolstered
by the range of their spears, the crusaders strengthened their hold on the
walls, but the siege towers were drawing ever closer.

“Light
up those towers!” shouted the knight commander.

Archers
swapped their arrows for ones wrapped in oil-soaked rags, and Corwin realized
that the braziers set along the wall weren’t there merely to help guardsmen see
in the dark. Setting arrows aflame, the knights focused their fire on the
towers, the nearest of which was soon smoking like a rolling funeral pyre.

“Would
you do away with every ideal that men fight over?” asked Ransom.

Corwin
was about to say that, unlike God, ideals such as freedom and justice were
universal concepts that people could agree upon, but his inner skeptic silenced
the words before they came to his lips. One had only to look at political
parties to see how bitterly divided men were, even over the most basic of
ideals. And many of his fellow atheists would argue that notions such as
justice were no more real than God.

Hearing
the
whip-thoom
of another catapult, he turned and saw a fire-ringed
shadow blotting out the sky. The pitch exploded against the ramparts. Black
smoke smothered him, then cleared, a blustery breeze sweeping away the soot.
And Corwin wasn’t on the wall anymore.

He
and Ransom stood on a hilltop, the fortress a gray promontory across the plain.
Besieged on all sides, it seemed destined to fall before the might of the Moorish
hoard.

So
many men,
he thought,
so eager to hack each other apart.

A
line several hundred prisoners long trailed down the side of the hill—Christian
knights whom the Moors had overtaken outside the walls. They’d been stripped of
their armor, ropes binding their wrists.

“I
can accept men fighting and dying for a cause,” said Corwin. “But not when that
cause is a ticket to god’s wonderland in the next life. Religion preys on the
suicidal. It gives those who long for a release from life’s pain an excuse to
go out in a bloody blaze of martyrdom.”

“No true
martyr is eager for death,” replied Ransom. “To lay down a life that you don't
cherish . . . Where is the sacrifice in that?”