Of Machines & Magics (10 page)

“Is this the Exhibition, then.”

“An exhibit, I think Roli,” Ponderos pointed along the river bank. “See, there’s something further along
and
beyond that as well.”

“We should investigate these things Ponderos, they must be unique.”

“Calistrope, if you think I’m going to put one more foot in front of the other before I sit down for an hour or two, before eating and drinking my fill, then you can think again.”

“That goes for me, too,” said Roli.

“Oh no it doesn’t,” Ponderos did not mince words. “You are going down to the river to catch six or seven crayfish and a hatful of water for tea and Calistrope is going to help me bind my ribs. Are my words exact? Do I need to explain anything? No? Good.”

So Roli spent half an hour turning over stones at the edge of the river and ten minutes collecting driftwood for a fire. He filled Calistrope’s collapsible panikin with water for cooking and the shell which Ponderos used for brewing tea, set them on hearth stones to boil and at last, sat down. “There. It’s done.”

“Me, too,” Calistrope helped Ponderos with his shirt and leather vest and sat down himself.

They ate. Drank aromatic tea. “Oh, that was excellent, excellent. Those crayfish, Roli, some of the best I’ve had. Calistrope? What do you say?”

“Very tasty Roli. I believe I will sit here a little longer, there’s no point in risking indigestion.”

“None at all.”

Roli, by nature rather more restless than his older companions, roamed the shore. Ponderos and Calistrope were content to watch the water streaming past where high-stepping insects picked their way from one stone to another looking for tasty tidbits of their own in the magenta tinted foam and bubbles.

It was all very peaceful. Until, of course, Roli disturbed them with urgent cries.

“Now what?” asked Calistrope with resignation. He stood up and looked up the bank’s rise to where Roli stood with legs and arms spread out. “Now what?” he said more loudly.

In answer, Roli made a pounding motion with his right fist. There was dull thump, as though he had hit a bass drum.

Calistrope and Ponderos approached cautiously. It appeared that Roli was leaning his weight against thin air. It proved to be a barrier, a barrier so clear and clean that it could be sensed only by touch—except at ground level, Calistrope noted. Where the unseen barrier touched the ground, there was a sharp edge to the sand where it had piled up against it a little.

The barrier was non-reflective, non-refractive; it had no texture discernible, a finger slipped along the surface without registering sensation of any sort. Smooth, transparent, impassable. Roli had simply walked right into it.

“Impossible,” Ponderos decided. He shook his head and slammed his palm against the unseen surface with all his might. The blow produced exactly the same drum-skin noise as before.

“No, no,” Calistrope smiled. “It’s here isn’t it? So it is not impossible. You and I—even Roli, here—are accustomed to seeing apparent impossibilities. We call it magic.”

Ponderos sniffed. “There’s no magic here. No smell of it,” he closed his eyes for a moment. “No, I can’t feel a thing. No magic. This is just…”

“There’s a sign over here,” Roli had walked a little further along, around the barrier’s curve. “Can’t read it though.”

When they came to it, a small rectangular sign set at ground level, they saw it bore a single word composed of characters which none of them had ever seen before. Strange cursive lines with a half melted look to them, quite unknown.

It came as a minor shock to Calistrope and Ponderos. Apart from minor differences in dialect, speech and reading-writing were the same everywhere, understandable communications between human beings had long ago become instinctive. It was almost impossible to invent a new spoken or written word that could not be comprehended by all or almost everybody else.

They continued on and eventually discovered the barrier to be circular, a protective case right around the majestic figure within. A great bell-jar placed over the statue by some giant hand to protect it from the elements.

“Here is another sign,” Ponderos nodded at the small plaque. “And readable this time though it’s still gibberish.”

N’York
, the sign said. As meaningless as before.

“I suppose it could be a place name,” Ponderos surmised. “They can sometimes seem irrational.”

But Calistrope was considering other aspects. He did not reply.

“This is more recent than the Ants’ map suggests, I suspect,” Ponderos suggested. “Look at the creases in her robes—as sharp as the day they were cut by the stonemason’s chisel. Even protected from wind and rain, they’d not stay as sharp as that, surely…”

“The map—at least the original—was made long before the world stopped turning,” Calistrope said. “When the sun shone white.”

“So the Ants told you.”

“I’ve no reason to distrust them, I’m not certain that ants
can
lie—that takes a human being, I think. Besides, it isn’t stone that the statue’s made from. I believe it to be metal.”

“Metal?” Ponderos was incredulous. “Come now Calistrope, that’s taking things too far.”

“Well we’ll see. Let us look at this next one. It seems to be a building.”

They walked away from the statue. The distance was a furlong or two to the building which took on a more and more wondrous appearance as they approached. So marvelous in fact, that the nearer they came, the slower they walked.

“That is beautiful,” breathed Calistrope. “The statue is inspiring but this is… this is pure beauty.”

For once Roli said nothing, both he and Ponderos were as stunned as Calistrope.

The structure was built from white marble with pastel hued veins of blue and pink and green running through it. Tall archways gave entrance to the interior which was shadowed but gave hint of intricate stone carvings and sweeping arabesques of silver inlay on the floors. The roof: sheets of burnished copper which reflected the burning rays of some unseen sun, slender spires topped with the heads of serene gods and goddesses. Despite the decoration, the architecture had a simplicity which defied time—it might have been created since the world ceased its turning or could just as easily date back to the great eras of
Dispersal
and the
Rekindling
of civilization.

The astonishing building was reflected perfectly in a pool of still water which lay before it, between it and the circular barrier which surrounded and protected it. The ground around the building and the pool was covered in a dense green of what they assumed was a sort of moss, a variety with short narrow leaves like miniature sword blades.

“And another sign board,” said Roli, first to break their silence. “Unreadable, too.”

On a tour around the building which was almost as incredible from the sides and rear as from the front, they encountered other signs in differing alphabets. One of them was lettered in familiar script, so mundane that it had no name and seemed remarkably out of place next to this exotic edifice.
The Tomb of the wife of Al Jehan
, it told them.

Calistrope frowned. “A tomb,” he said to himself. But Ponderos, less introspective, called their attention to the sand which was blown by a freshening breeze. The thin film of dust was sliding down to the ground leaving the surface of the barrier unstained and clear. It was, however, sliding down the surface of a hemisphere which evidently closed above the building.

Ponderos wondered if the barrier was in fact a globe, penetrating underground as far below as its height above.

Calistrope was still looked at the sign. “I wonder who this Al Jehan was,” he murmured. “And who was his wife. Why so grand a… Roli, I am out of touch with such matters, what happens to people when they die?”

Roli pursed his lips, shrugged. “Sometimes they are buried though more often burned.”

“A tomb though. What is the purpose of a tomb?”

“To keep the memory alive? I don’t know,” Roli kicked at a knob of rock. “In my family, we counted ourselves lucky if we could find enough to bury,” he leaned back against the barrier, his hands deep in the pockets of his surcoat. “This is morbid stuff Calistrope. Death is not fit subject for discuss…” Roli fell suddenly backwards onto the greenery which came up to the barrier’s perimeter.

Calistrope and Ponderos rushed forward to help him up and stopped just as quickly. The wind had abruptly died, the sound of rushing waters had stilled, the myriad squeaks and chirps of insect life were silenced.

From the pool in front of the mausoleum, the sound of a fish jumping left a widening ring of ripples on the surface which shattered the perfect reflection.

Somehow they were on the inside of the barrier while outside, beyond its invisible locus, the world was compressed, as though seen through a distorting lens. It flickered as they moved, like a scene seen though the gaps in a board fence and overhead, the clouds raced across a sky stippled with black and silver bars. The sun alternated between the timeworn maroon bloat and a blinding disc of white.

Chapter 9

To one side, the great statue looked down at them, her calm visage holding an enigmatic smile. To the other was the great building which had—on the outside—stood half a league or more in the distance; here it was no more than a furlong from them, an effect of crossing the barrier between dimensions.

For a few minutes they stood and looked at the Tomb of Al Jehan’s wife then, by common consent, walked on to the next building which now was revealed as a low pyramidal structure, perhaps three chains on a side. Even though it was low in proportion to its spread, it grew in stature until it dwarfed the building they had just left. A single portal was visible on the triangular side which faced the river. A narrow slot cut straight into the wall, internal radiance flooded out through the opening laying a long, straight path across the sand.

“Another tomb?” wondered Ponderos.

Calistrope shrugged. “Who knows?”

Attached to the sloping face just outside the entrance was a sign. In mundane characters it read:
the Palace of Turain the God
.

“Huh!” Roli snorted, looking up at the stark and unadorned slabs of sandstone, chisel marks still evident in the stone facing on the sloping walls. “Well. Turain the God certainly prefers his palace plain. Shall we go inside?”

Calistrope shrugged once more. “Why not? Another hour or two is not going to matter much one way or another.”

They passed through the entrance, so narrow that perforce, they walked single file. Each of them gave an involuntary gasp of amazement as they reached the interior threshold. “Not so plain,” said Calistrope, his eyesight blurring with tears until they became accustomed to the brilliance. Light bathed the whole interior in a creamy-white, shadowless luminescence. “And there,” he added when he could see plainly once more, “Turain the God.”

At the geometric centre of the hollow pyramid, on a raised dais, a great gilded statue sat indolently upon an equally massive throne. Beneath the gold leaf, the figure was naked, a huge belly swelled over massive thighs, great dugs drooped over the greater belly and had it not been for the obvious signs of masculinity, the statue could well have been that of a pregnant female deity.

In contrast to the rude, unfinished state of the exterior, the inside surfaces of the pyramidal palace were covered in white and pink alabaster slabs. Faces—both angelic and demonic—were carved along the tremendous arches which supported the enormous plates of masonry. The floor space was covered with square and rectangular courts filled with colored gravel.

The pebbles seemed to be gemstones, sometimes rough and dull, sometimes polished and sometimes cut and flashing like rubies and diamonds. Colors ran the gamut of the spectrum: red and blue, white and yellow, green, purple, indigo, black.

The area immediately surrounding the statue and its dais was bare, a border of plain white sand some two or three ells in width. Above them loomed Turain the God, the statue’s head halfway to the high ceiling. The dais was at waist height, the throne supported on a smaller platform upon the dais; ten blue-painted toenails faced them, the largest the size of a man’s hand print, one foot was a little in advance of the other.

Behind the glittering toes, a pair of gold bangles encircled each ankle from which rose a pair of shins to knees like cauldrons and thighs like tree trunks. From there, the eye traveled up and up, across the mound of belly, the puffy flesh of the chest, the fat wrinkled neck and to the severe face of Turain the God.

Turain looked sleepily down at them from slanted eyes all but enclosed by fleshy lids.

“Shall we go closer?” Ponderos almost whispered so overcome was he by the richness and the brilliance.

Hands rested on each of the throne’s arms. Fingers encased in rings encrusted with jewels grasped the rounded ends. One of the fingers, carrying a ring with a stone of clear translucent blue, twitched.

“Um,” began Calistrope and stepped back a pace.

“Er,” said Ponderos and followed suit.

“Ouch,” yelped Roli springing to one side as the hand closed on the space he had occupied a heartbeat before.

All three of them separated and backed away.

“Ha ha ha!” The God’s deep laugh rumbled away and echoed throughout the cavernous building like thunder. “Ha ha.” Turain bent forward, arm outstretched, finger straining forward. Just beyond his farthest reach, Ponderos stood firm. By the width of a hand, Turain was just unable to prod the Mage in his muscular stomach.

“Well well,” said the God. “After all this time,” he boomed.

Ponderos’ gaze traveled up the finger, the forearm, the flaccid biceps and then to the great jowly face grinning down at him.

“Worshipers. Real, live people come to worship me.” Turain labored to reach Ponderos. The finger moved nearer by a knuckle. “Nearer little man. Come nearer and know what it is to have a God touch you.”

Ponderos remained where he was and strain as he might, Turain could not reach him without getting off his throne, something he seemed loath to do—perhaps because of his monumental weight. After a moment or two Turain relaxed and Ponderos moved back another step or two, over the low curb and onto one of the squares filled with gems. Calistrope and Roli did the same, moving back and sidling up to stand next to Ponderos.

“I have to admit to you that our allegiance is to another persuasion entirely.”

Turain frowned and it was though dark storm clouds gathered over them, then his expression cleared, bright sunlight shone from a corner of the lowering skies. “That is of no moment. You are here, that is what matters. Devotion to some other gloomy deity who won’t disturb his slumbers by looking over his demesne—how can you compare such a one to me?”

Turain leaned forward once more. “My worshipers feel my love for them, I care for them, nurture them. Come, let me but touch one of you and you will
know
what I say is the truth.”

“Why should you want our poor devotion?” Calistrope edged sideways, into Ponderos hoping his friend would take the hint and they could leave.

Turain’s eyebrows lifted towards the golden hairline with its artful border of curls. “Evangelism. I need more than you three to worship me. Without a following, I am chained here. Go from here and bring me converts, your reward will be great, more than your small minds could possibly envision.”

Calistrope had met Gods before.

A world with a history as long as Earth’s accumulates Gods by the dozen, by the score. Whatever event triggers the creation of a God or elevates a person to God-hood is, fortunately, a rare one. However, multiply that rarity by the millions of epochs of an aged world’s life and it must have occurred hundreds, thousands of times.

Gods, from the small strutting self-important kind to the great aloof beings who can barely comprehend the verities of physical life—Calistrope had met enough. And he did not care to be coerced into proselytizing for any of them.

Roli, next to Ponderos, whispered to him. Ponderos nodded and leaned towards Calistrope. “Keep Turain talking,” he whispered and Calistrope was left to keep the conversation afloat alone.

“What do you need a congregation for?” he asked. “The truly ancient Gods think their own thoughts. They do not wish communion with the likes of us poor mortals—um, souls.”

“Souls? Look around you man. Look at the souls of the millions upon millions who once worshipped me. They sleep here now, dreaming beatific dreams for all eternity. No more toil and hardship, eternal bliss is their lot.”

Calistrope could think of little that he would care less for. However, he kept the thought to himself. “Souls?” he asked. “What souls?”

“All about you. The baubles that even now, you tread on so thoughtlessly. They were my worshippers and have come into their own reward.”

With alacrity, Calistrope stepped off the blue gems under his feet. “Souls?” he said in wonderment.

“Souls. You live, little man, then you die. Without a patron such as myself, what happens? Pff! Your soul flits away like a moth and expires. Here you will sleep and dream forever.”

Calistrope shook his head. “I have already lived more lives than I can remember,” he said. There were subdued sounds from behind the dais; a glimpse of movement. “And they have all been filled with more interesting things to do than dream.”

Turain did not answer him. The God’s eyes seemed focused on eternity, his jaw gaped.

“Turain?” Calistrope went closer. There were more sounds from the rear of the dais and Turain’s eyes snapped wide open, Calistrope could feel their blaze like hot sun upon his skin. The hand reached out faster than a bolt of lightning, the tip of the God’s index finger brushed against his chest, light flooded Calistrope’s brain.

Joy and happiness, ineffable pleasure, sublime contentment… brilliance, radiance, warmth. It visibly streamed towards him from Turain—a beautiful youth whose smile was like the springtime sun. Tenderness enfolded Calistrope; love, compassion, sweeter than a mother’s for her new-born infant enveloped him, buoyed him up.

Here was Calistrope’s heart’s desire, everything he had ever sought after, everything he would ever need.

Calistrope was bathed in the warm glow, the beneficent rays of a young sun caressing his body, his mind, his soul… and it all suddenly died away…

Darkness, cold, loneliness. A loneliness such as he had never felt before came over Calistrope. He wept great tears of grief, rivers of anguish. He lay on the hard ground of that brilliantly lit place and cried in the utter desolation of the darkness of the God’s going.

“Calistrope. Cal…” A warm, hard muscled arm cradled his head. A familiar hand stroked his brow. “Whatever is it that ails you my friend?”

Calistrope looked up, silhouetted against the brightness was the dark shape of a familiar face, a friend who had loved him since long before their present memories began.

“It’s Ponderos,” said the friend.

“Ponderos,” Calistrope sighed and with a great effort, pulled himself to a sitting position. He looked up at the now still statue of Turain and shivered.

“It’s all right Calistrope. We found the key and turned it off.”

“Off?” Calistrope’s brow wrinkled. He touched me Ponderos. He poured his love into me. It was like… like… I can’t explain it Ponderos, I can’t describe it. Now that it’s gone, it’s like the greatest loss I’ve ever suffered.”

“It was an automaton, Calistrope.”

Calistrope shook his head. “All that love, just for the taking.”

“Not real Calistrope,” Ponderos, his voice harsh, wrestled Calistrope to his feet and together, he and Roli marched him around the side of the dais to the back. “Not real, Calistrope, look.”

Calistrope was still on the edge of despair but he allowed himself to be manhandled and pushed onto his knees beside a hole torn into the back of the dais.

“Roli noticed it first. The statue is part of the throne—or vice versa. Turain couldn’t leave his seat, it’s all a clever working model.”

Calistrope peered into the hole where a panel had been torn away. Inside, the dais was hollow. Pipes sprouted from the ground and connected to pumps and cylinders which were, in turn, connected to wheels and gears and levers. More tubes ran up the inside of a dark shell—what could only be the torso of the seated God on the throne above them.

On a casing, just inside the opening, was a handle. It rested in an upright position. Roli took hold of it and wrenched it downward, it turned on pivots through 180 degrees. There was a sigh of in-drawn breath from above them, an exhalation…

Calistrope’s eyes swiveled upwards in their sockets and he slumped forward. Softness engulfed him, tender thoughts stroked his mind, loving… “Off,” he groaned. “Turn it off for
God’s
sake, turn it off…”

The sensations faded and he opened his eyes once more. His head was haunted, his mind tormented by the remembrance of that suffocating love, the terrible certainty that here
was
the one true God.

“Can you break it Ponderos? Break it so that it can never be used again,” Calistrope sat down with his back against the side of the dais and when he heard the shriek of tearing metal, he nodded. “Thank you my friend.”

Later, as they supported him to the doorway, Calistrope asked: “What’s a penny?”

Neither Ponderos nor Roli could give him an answer.

“Something I heard once,” he told them. “A priest, I think. I’d stolen a jewel for him. “God’s are ten a penny, nowadays.” He said.”

Outside, after some time had gone by, Roli went to the pool in front of Al Jehan’s Monument and caught three of the silvery fish. Baked, they proved very good to eat.

Calistrope sat and ate what was given him and drank when the cup came around.
All those souls,
he mused
. As lovely as gems and as hard. What would happen to them now, now that their God was dead? What was there to inspire their endless dreams?

While Roli slept and the hours passed by and the curious piebald moon rode the skies of the exhibition space, Calistrope sat and told Ponderos of what he had experienced.

Ponderos, brow wrinkled, tried to make his friend realize that it was all a sham. “This is an exhibition, Calistrope, of ancient monuments. There was no God in there, just a clever model.”

“I felt Turain’s touch, Ponderos,” Calistrope reached over and placed his hands on either side of Ponderos’ skull. “Inside. I spoke to him…”

“We all spoke to him.”

“… and him to me. Terrible and beautiful, Ponderos. Incredible.”

“Ersatz emotions, ersatz feelings. They were projected by the machinery underneath the throne, so that whoever the automaton touched could feel what the power of a God felt like.”

“Well,” said Calistrope, only partly convinced. “Perhaps you are right. I hope you are.”

A fish leapt from the water at their side and splashed home again. The sudden noise disturbed Roli and the lad sat up, his hair disheveled and eyes puffy. He shuffled over to the fire and poked about in the ashes until he found a few fragments of the fish they’d baked between the hearth stones.

“Well?” he asked between swallows. “What do we do now? Anyone—“ he picked a flake of white fish meat from between his teeth, “know how to get out of here?”