Delusion's Master (Tales From the Flat Earth) (28 page)

At the head of
the straggling erratic band walked an elderly leader with a sterner and yet
more eccentric tread, for he had mastered, long before the followers of his
sect, an almost empathic awareness of what pebbles might lie before him, and he
was generally able to avoid them all. His face was savagely introspective, and
vainglorious as that of a great king. It was the venerable philosopher, he who
had debated with Azhrarn (unknown) on the nature of the gods, he who had later
become convinced that the gods were in the stones. And they who mooched and
circumnavigated behind were his converts.

“And why do
you travel to Bhelsheved?” they had had demanded of them. “Is it to revere the
supernal child and its mother?”

“There is no
god save a stone,” intoned the philosopher and his companions.

They were
going to Bhelsheved to see if the supernal child was made of, or in any way
related to, stone. If it was, then it was the child of heaven. If not, they
would denounce it.

As they had
slept, sprawled on the powder and debris of all those stones which, over
centuries, had become the desert itself, the hour before dawn approached them,
and with it a figure clad in a damson mantle, who had stolen about their
recumbent forms. They would have been insulted to know Madness felt quite
comfortable with them.

When the aged
and venerable philosopher who led them woke, he found lying by his hand a most
beautiful and uncommon stone. It was made of mauve quartz, and was four-sided.
If he had not been obsessed by the idea of gods, he might have thought of dice,
and guessed this to be an abnormal die.

“See,” the
philosopher instructed his waking acolytes, “it is a sign from our celestial
masters. Here is their representative, one of their more lovely messengers.”

And everybody
praised the die of Chuz, and adored it, and the philosopher placed it in a
leather bag about his neck—in which previously he had stupidly carried a golden
curio. They had already, all of them, a large collection of shards and
quartzes.

That day,
about noon, the band of fanatics advanced upon Bhelsheved, and in the groves at
the foot of her walls they came on a young woman, who squatted in the dust
under the leafless trees, and who, on their arrival, rose up and distressed
them with her hideous appearance.

She held
herself like a huge winged toad, her legs thrust out, and her arms. Her toes
and her fingers, besides, were rigidly clawed, her eyes screwed up tightly as
if she wished to see nothing of the world. Her mouth stretched wide in a
ghastly rictus. A vague bitter scent came from her rags and from her ragged
hair.

The
philosopher halted in dismay. Even his faith and his narrow-mindedness were
shaken by such a visitation. Behind him, sympathetic to his whims—for surely
all he did was inspired and theological—the sixty-nine followers also came to a
halt.

Each gazed at
the hideous woman.

“By the
protecting majesty of the gods everywhere about us on the ground,” declared the
philosopher at last, “why do you stand in our way?”

And then a
voice burst from the throat of the woman, so incongruous and unpleasant that
some were seized by panic. It was a voice indeed which gave the impression that
if the woman’s throat were being utilized, whatever used it was not herself,
but some possession—a weird harsh shout without expression of any kind.

“I come to
demonstrate,” this awful voice howled, “how the gods punish those who worship
falsely. Behold my condition, and be warned.”

“And what is
that to us?” the philosopher demanded, “who worship in perfect enlightenment.”

“The gods
brook no evasion,” roared the frightful woman.

The
philosopher, wishing to regain his sense of personal command, stepped forward
and grasped the creature by her arm—it was as stiff as a board.

“The stones
are gods.”

The maniacal
face let out another rush of noise. “So they are, for gods can kill. A crystal
god mounted on a pin, driven through the eye of a man, will kill him. A flint
god, set in a sling, whirled about and thrown, will also kill.”

“I will not
countenance such blasphemous talk. The gods are not to be thought of in this
way.”

“Only
veritable gods may dismiss the false god. Let fly the gods. Fling them against
the harlot of Bhelsheved.”

“I will not
put up with this,” said the philosopher.

He thrust the
woman from his path. Rather to his distaste, she toppled to the earth and lay
still as one dead, her stiff limbs pointing in four directions. She did not
seem to breathe, nor had she all the while he had conversed with her.

The followers
of the sect filed after him, and, as they passed the corpselike body, they
caressed and patted those stones they bore about with them as talismans.

Presently,
they passed into the city, and so into chaos. For such the city had become. And
of the chaos, the philosopher and his sect inquired what had happened.

A great shock
and horror was sweeping that spangled and commercial congregation, the reaction
to Dunizel’s confession, for the gist of it had spread quickly. Indubitably,
mixed with the general sense of disaster, were feelings of nervous guilt for
individual and particular crimes and impieties. Added to these, doubtless, the
old prohibition was reviewed. They should not have ventured to invade the city
at the wrong season. And some were actually soon in flight from the area, in
their turn dragging out the dire news with them. The bride of the god was a
slut who had birthed a beast with blue eyes and the shape of a small female
child. But only recall, she had been born with teeth and hair and nails! Ah,
was it
their
sins which had induced this event? How else could evil have
entered Bhelsheved.

The soldiers
who had been the guard of the chosen woman were now her jailors. They looked at
her with loathing, and with caution at the silk cords, tight as wires, causing
her wrists and ankles to bleed. Were these bonds tight enough? Could she break
free by use of subterranean magic? No, for the Demon could only venture to her
side by night.

She had been
taken out, and the ends of her bonds secured to the ornate carving of the
west-facing bridge leading from the golden temple. More than this they had not
done. Nor had they done anything at all to the child, which Dunizel herself had
put from her lap and settled quietly in the tall chair within the temple. From
this position the child had not shifted, and none had laid a hand on her. For
how were they to destroy the progeny of the Demon? And the woman herself, how
might they chastise her? For if he could not come to her aid by day, night must
return, and he with it.

Already they
had attempted to find one who would lash her. No one would accept the task. Not
the highest noble or the lowliest seller of comfits.

So, the child
was left in the temple; Dunizel was bound on the bridge, a white and gilt
butterfly in the spider’s web. That was how matters stood, with the crowd
roiling and squealing on the four broad streets where animals had been
permitted to foul the mosaic, and fringed robes had been pawed by beggars and
pickpockets.

The overcast
sun had crossed noon’s threshold, and now, barely discernible, began to descend
from the zenith. The lour of the distant storm was deepening, dyeing the air
with tints of purple.

Some had
hurried into the countless little fanes, regardless of their purpose,
entreating for an omen, or merely for rescue. Most milled about the lake,
staring at the enwebbed butterfly on the bridge. Their allergy intensified as
they looked at her, she seemed so fragile, so far beyond them. They interpreted
her marvel as damnation, and, more perversely, her patient silence as a leering
arrogance.

Occasionally a
priest or priestess wandered or poised transfixed in the body of the crowd.
They were grabbed at, stroked, gripped, badgered for intervention. As ever,
these ethereal ones scarcely understood. Where able, they retreated. But in
their cells now, also, the crowd pursued them, hammering on the doors and
mewling: “Save us!”

And some had
seen the seeress Zharet, or her phantom, all twisted, her face held in the
semblance of a fit, and she had told them that this was how the gods had
punished her for her long belief that the Demon was a God. And how much worse,
she said, their punishment must be when it came, since they had cherished the
error longer than she, and still would not avenge it. These words were not
conducive of comfort or good cheer, and like most such words were widely
reported and leant credence.

This their
dilemma, then: To be revenged on Dunizel would most probably draw down on them
in turn the retribution of her atrocious lover. Not to be revenged on her would
be to incite the retribution of heaven.

Yet surely the
gods were more powerful than the disgusting one from the pit? Surely the gods
would save their people if Dunizel were slain?

But no one
could decide this weighty point. They wavered. Who dared take responsibility
either way? None of them. Not sage, not fruit-seller, nor prince, nor whore.
Let another move first. Let another show them the way. Let there be a portent,
or a herder to step out at the head of the herd, or to drive them before him.

And Dunizel
stood, butterfly-winged by her gemmed garments that the edges of the storm
winds softly blew, and her hair, misted by the dull sun as it descended from
the zenith. And the purple hints and tints of the storm fluttered like ravens
back and forth over the city. They knew, if no other knew, and had gathered as
ravens did, when death was imminent.

But Dunizel,
so calm, clear as glass, did
she
know?

Her mother had
been translated gradually into golden flame by the comet’s touch. Dunizel, once
called Flame, called afterward Moon’s Soul, she too seemed turned into a fire,
the pale blue-silver fire of stars, or of that particular queen-star of dawn,
or of dusk. As she waited on the bridge, she appeared to be metamorphosing into
pure light. As if, knowing she was near to death, she prepared for it by
melting away her physical form, allowing her soul to burn through.

Azhrarn could
not come to her, that she knew. Not while the sun, however tarnished, was in
the sky. And his protections of her must be weaker under that sun. And the
human hate about her was like a distant sound of breaking things, which grew
steadily nearer. Oh yes, for sure she guessed she must die. And what had she
had of life, to wait there in such uncomplaining peace? And what fulfillment
had she had of love to wait there without weeping?

The old
philosopher, his amethyst die-god hanging from his neck in its bag, his acolytes
pushing to make the way for him, had reached the foot of the western-facing
bridge, and now he glared at the maiden tied there.

“Is that she?”
the acolytes asked of each other.

“Yes, it is
the great harlot, the trull of the monster,” replied voices from the crowd,
with shiverings and sobs and curses.

“She does not
to me,” announced the philosopher, “suggest a trull, but rather a virgin.”

“Oh,” one
muttered close by, “she remained virgin since the child was not got in the
wholesome fashion. It was implanted via the adjacent entrance, and carried in
her bowel, thereafter dislodged in the manner of excrement.”

At these
sentences, the elderly philosopher, who had come to venerate stones, felt a
stab of the utmost rage. Something in the maiden’s beauty, which even from the
foot of the bridge, and with his fading eyes, he yet saw adequately—as the
light of a star is normally visible to all—caused him to feel disgust at the
mood of the crowd. What did such fools, who trod on stones, comprehend of
anything? The philosopher would have struck out at the man, but could not be
certain who it was. So he said, partly to locate him, “I am convinced some
marks of her defilement would besmirch her, and they do not. Even if she has
committed sin inadvertently, I think her blameless. She shines with her
innocence.”

“She is
luminous as moonlight,” agreed a subtle voice by the philosopher’s ear—not the
voice of the fellow who had previously spoken. The philosopher turned and found
a charming young man, muffled in a mantle empurpled by the storm glow, at his
side. The young man’s eye—the philosopher saw only his right profile—was
modestly cast down. The philosopher was roused, for here seemed a natural
aristocrat, a youth of fine feeling and spiritual possibility.

“And do you
think this girl has done as they say?” inquired the philosopher.

“I know she
has,” said the young man.

“Then you
reveal your lack of judgment,” said the philosopher. “My new faith has brought
me to conclude there are no such things as demons, save in legend and story.”

A bark of
laughter, like the laugh of a fox, escaped the young man. As if to smother it,
he raised a white gloved hand to his lips, and still he kept his gaze lowered.

“I see you
scan the earth,” said the philosopher. “That is sensible. The gods manifest
upon the ground. But tell me, is the child of this girl a stone? Of marble,
say, or opal? Have you ever come close enough to tell?”