Job: A Comedy of Justice (30 page)

“Everybody but me. Well, let us offer thanks that you are willing to have dinner with us.” Suddenly she shrieked as she fell forward off the board. The picture followed her down.

She splashed, then came up spouting water. “Daddy! You pushed me!”

“How could you say such a thing?” he answered in self-righteous tones. The living picture suddenly vanished.

Katie Farnsworth said conversationally, “Gerald keeps trying to dominate his daughter. Hopelessly, of course. He should take her to bed and discharge his incestuous yearnings. But they are both too prissy for that.”

“Woman, remind me to beat you.”

“Yes, dearest. You wouldn’t have to force her. Make your intentions plain and she will burst into tears and surrender. Then both of you will have the best time of your lives. Wouldn’t you say so, Margrethe?”

“I would say so.”

By then I was too numb to be shocked by Margrethe’s words.

Dinner was a gourmet’s delight and a social confusion. It was served in the formal dining hall, i.e., that same family room with a different program controlling the hollow grams. The ceiling was higher, the windows were tall, evenly spaced, framed by floor-length drapes, and they looked out on formal gardens.

One piece of furniture wheeled itself in, and was not a hollow gram—or not much so. It was a banquet table that (so far as I know) was, in itself, pantry, stove, icebox—all of a well-equipped kitchen. That’s a conclusion, subject to refutation. All I can say is that I never saw a servant and never saw our hostess do any work. Nevertheless her husband congratulated her on her cooking—as well he might, and so did we.

Jerry did a little work; he carved a roast (prime rib, enough for a troop of hungry Boy Scouts) and he served the plates, serving them at his place. Once a plate was loaded, it went smoothly around to the person for whom it was intended, like a toy train on a track—but there was no train and no track. Machinery concealed by hollow grams? I suppose so. But that simply covers one mystery with another.

(I learned later that a swank Texas household in that world would have had human servants conspicuously in sight. But Jerry and Katie had simple tastes.)

There were six of us at the table, Jerry at one end, Katie at the other; Margrethe sat on Jerry’s right, his daughter Sybil on his left; I was at the right of my hostess, and at her left was Sybil’s young man, her date. This put him opposite me, and I had Sybil on my right.

The young man’s name was Roderick Lyman Culverson III; he did not manage to catch my name. I have long suspected that the male of our species, in most cases, should be raised in a barrel and fed through the bunghole. Then, at age eighteen, a solemn decision can be made: whether to take him out of the barrel, or to drive in the bung.

Young Culverson gave me no reason to change my opinion—and I would have voted to drive in the bung.

Early on, Sybil made clear that they were at the same campus. But he seemed to be as much a stranger to the Farnsworths as he was to us. Katie asked, “Roderick, are you an apprentice witch, too?”

He looked as if he had sniffed something nasty, but Sybil saved him from having to answer such a crude question. “Mothuh! Rod received his athame
ages
ago.”

“Sorry I goofed,” Katie said tranquilly. “Is that a diploma you get when you finish your apprenticeship?”

“It’s a sacred knife. Mama, used in ritual. It can be used to—”

“
Sybil!
There are gentiles present.” Culverson frowned at Sybil, then glared at me. I thought how well he would look with a black eye but I endeavored to keep my thoughts out of my face.

Jerry said, “Then you’re a graduate warlock, Rod?”

Sybil broke in again. “Daddy! The correct word is—”

“Pipe down, sugar plum! Let him answer for himself. Rod?”

“That word is used only by the ignorant—”

“Hold it! I am uninformed on some subjects, and then I seek information, as I am now doing. But you don’t sit at my table and call me ignorant. Now, can you answer me without casting asparagus?”

Culverson’s nostrils spread but he took a grip on himself. “‘Witch’ is the usual term for both male and female adepts in the Craft. ‘Wizard’ is an acceptable term but is not technically exact; it means ‘sorcerer’ or ‘magician’…but not all magicians are witches and not all witches practice magic. But ‘warlock’ is considered to be offensive as well as incorrect because it is associated with Devil worship—and the Craft is
not
Devil worship—and the word itself by its derivation means ‘oath breaker’—and witches do not break oaths. Correction: The Craft forbids the breaking of oaths. A witch who breaks an oath, even to a gentile, is subject to discipline, even expulsion if the oath is that major. So I am not a ‘graduate warlock.’ The correct designation for my present status is ‘Accepted Craftsman,’ that is to say: ‘witch.’”

“Well stated! Thank you. I ask forgiveness for using the term ‘warlock’ to you and about you—” Jerry waited.

A long moment later Culverson said hastily, “Oh, certainly! No offense meant and none taken.”

“Thank you. To add to your comments about derivations, ‘witch’ derives from ‘wicca’ meaning ‘wise,’ and from ‘wicce’ meaning ‘woman’…which may account for most witches being female and suggests that our ancestors may have known something that we don’t. In any case ‘the Craft’ is the short way of saying ‘the Craft of Wisdom.’ Correct?”

“Eh? Oh, certainly! Wisdom. That’s what the Old Religion is all about.”

“Good. Son, listen to me carefully. Wisdom includes not getting angry unnecessarily. The Law ignores trifles and the wise man does, too. Such trifles as a young girl defining an athame among gentiles—knowledge that isn’t all that esoteric anyhow—and an old fool using a word inappropriately. Understand me?”

Again Jerry waited. Then he said very softly, “I said, ‘Do you understand me?’”

Culverson took a deep breath. “I understood you. A wise man ignores trifles.”

“Good. May I offer you another slice of the roast?”

Culverson kept quiet for some time then. As did I. As did Sybil. Katie and Jerry and Margrethe kept up a flow of polite chitchat that ignored the fact that a guest had just been thoroughly and publicly spanked. Presently Sybil said, “Daddy, are you and Mama expecting me to attend fire worship Friday?”

“‘Expect’ is hardly the word,” Jerry answered, “when you have picked another church of your own. ‘Hope’ would be closer.”

Katie added, “Sybil, tonight you feel that your coven is all the church you will ever need. But that could change…and I understand that the Old Religion does not forbid its members to attend other religious services.”

Culverson put in, “That reflects centuries, millennia, of persecution, Mrs. Farnsworth. It is still in our laws that each member of a coven must also belong publicly to some socially approved church. But we no longer try too hard to enforce it.”

“I see,” agreed Katie. “Thank you, Roderick. Sybil, since your new church encourages membership in another church, it might be prudent to attend fairly regularly just to protect your Brownie points. You may need them.”

“Exactly,” agreed her father. “‘Brownie points.’ Ever occur to you, hon, that your pop being a stalwart pillar of the congregation, with a fast checkbook, might have something to do with the fact that he also sells more Cadillacs than any other dealer in Texas?”

“Daddy, that sounds utterly shameless.”

“It sure is. It also sells Cadillacs. And don’t call it fire worship; you know it is not. It is not the flame we worship, but what it stands for.”

Sybil twisted her serviette and, for the moment, looked a troubled thirteen instead of the mature woman her body showed her to be. “Papa, that’s just it. All my life that flame has meant to me healing, cleansing, life everlasting—until I studied the Craft. Its history. Daddy, to a witch…
fire means the way they kill us!
”

I was shocked almost out of breathing. I think it had not really sunk into me emotionally that these two, obnoxious but commonplace young punk, and pretty and quite delightful young girl…daughter of Katie, daughter of Jerry, our two Good Samaritans without equal—that these two were
witches.

Yes, yes, I know: Exodus twenty-two verse eighteen, “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” As solemn an injunction as the Ten Commandments, given to Moses directly by God, in the presence of all the children of Israel—

What was I doing breaking bread with witches?

Mark me for a coward. I did not stand up and denounce them. I sat tight.

Katie said, “Darling, darling! That was clear back in the middle ages! Not today, not now, not here.”

Culverson said, “Mrs. Farnsworth, every witch knows that the terror can start up again any time. Even a season of bad crops could touch it off. And Salem wasn’t very long ago. Nor very far away.” He added, “There are still Christians around. They would set the fires if they could. Just like Salem.”

This was a great change to keep my mouth shut. I blurted out, “No witch was burned at Salem.”

He looked at me. “What do you know about it?”

“The burnings were in Europe, not here. In Salem witches were hanged, except one who was pressed to death.” (Fire should never have been used. The Lord God ordered us not to suffer them to live; He did
not
tell us to put them to death by torture.)

He eyed me again. “So? You seem to approve of the hangings.”

“I never said anything of the sort!” (Dear God, forgive me!)

Jerry cut in. “I rule this subject out of order! There will be no further discussion of it at the table. Sybil, we don’t want you to attend if it upsets you or reminds you of tragic occasions. Speaking of hanging, what shall we do about the backfield of the Dallas Cowboys?”

Two hours later Jerry Farnsworth and I were again seated in that room, this time it being Remington number three: a snow storm against the windows, an occasional cold draft across the floor, and once the howl of a wolf—a roaring fire felt good. He poured coffee for us, and brandy in huge snifters, big enough for goldfish. “You hear of noble brandy,” he said. “Napoleon, or Carlos Primero. But this is royal brandy—so royal it has hemophilia.”

I gulped; I did not like the joke. I was still queasy from thinking about witches, dying witches. With a jerk of the heels, or dancing on flames. And all of them with Sybil’s sweet face.

Does the Bible define “witch” somewhere? Could it be that these modern members of the Craft were not at all what Jehovah meant by “witch”?

Quit dodging, Alex! Assume that “witch” in Exodus means exactly what “witch” means here in Texas today. You’re the judge and she has confessed.
Can you sentence Katie’s teenager to hang? Will you spring the trap?
Don’t dodge it, boy; you’ve been dodging all your life.

Pontius Pilate washed his hands.

I will not sentence a witch to die! So help me, Lord, I can do no other.

Jerry said, “Here’s to the success of your venture, yours and Margie’s. Sip it slowly and it will not intoxicate; it will simply quiet your nerves while it sharpens your wits. Alec, tell me now why you expect the end of the world.”

For the next hour I went over the evidence, pointing out that it was not just one prophecy that agreed on the signs, but many: Revelations, Daniel, Ezekiel, Isaiah, Paul in writing to the Thessalonians, and again to the Corinthians, Jesus himself in all four of the Gospels, again and again in each.

To my surprise Jerry had a copy of the Book. I picked out passages easy for laymen to understand, wrote down chapter and verse so that he could study them later. One Thessalonians 4:15—17 of course, and the 24th chapter of the Gospel according to Saint Matthew, all fifty-one verses of it, and the same prophecies in Saint Luke, chapter twenty-one—and Luke 21:32 with its clue to the confusion of many as to “this generation.” What Christ actually said was that the generation which sees these signs and portents will live to see His return, hear the Shout, experience Judgment Day. The message is plain if you read
all
of it; the errors have arisen from picking out bits and pieces and ignoring the rest. The parable of the fig tree explains this.

I also picked out for him, in Isaiah and Daniel and elsewhere, the Old Testament prophecies that parallel the New Testament prophecies.

I handed him this list of prophecies and urged him to study them carefully, and, if he encountered difficulties, simply read more widely. And take it to God. “‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find.’”

He said, “Alec, I can agree with one thing. The news for the past several months has looked to me like Armageddon. Say tomorrow afternoon. Might as well be the end of the world and Judgment Day, as there won’t be enough left to salvage after this one.” He looked sad. “I used to worry about what kind of a world Sybil would grow up in. Now I wonder if she’ll grow up.”

“Jerry. Work on it. Find your way to grace. Then lead your wife and daughter. You don’t need me, you don’t need anyone but Jesus. He said, ‘Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice, I will come in to him.’ Revelations three, twenty.”

“You believe.”

“I do.”

“Alec, I wish I could go along with you. It would be comforting, the world being what it is today. But I can’t see proof in the dreams of long-dead prophets; you can read anything into them. Theology is never any help; it is searching in a dark cellar at midnight for a black cat that isn’t there. Theologians can persuade themselves of anything. Oh, my church, too—but at least mine is honestly pantheistic. Anyone who can worship a trinity and insist that his religion is a monotheism can believe anything—just give him time to rationalize it. Forgive me for being blunt.”

“Jerry, in religion bluntness is necessary. ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.’ That’s Job again, chapter nineteen. He’s your Redeemer, too, Jerry—I pray that you find Him.”

“Not much chance, I’m afraid.” Jerry stood up.

“You haven’t found Him
yet.
Don’t quit. I’ll pray for you.”

“Thank you, and thanks for trying. How do the shoes feel?”