And do not think this woman was low in rank, for I know I have spoken earlier of my dealings with bishops and archbishops and cardinals and bishopas. There, however, I spoke of the Eastern Gnostic Church, where a bishop is one of the intermediate ranks, just as it is in Cyprus. However, in the Saskatoon Empire, the older Canadian Heterodox Church is dominant, and within the Canadian hierarchy a bishop is the highest clerical rank.
Unfortunately, the Canadians and the Gnostics hate each other bitterly, so my previous rank of archbishop meant nothing here. For this reason, I had not told anyone about my old post, and, indeed, I thought it best to keep it a secret.
After she had finished admiring my plans, the wise Bishop of Pos Tangrove said, “If you will take my advice, emperor, you will see to it that Yreth builds these cathedrals without delay, for not to do so would insult God, whereas to build them would bring you the rewards of His love, and would besides increase still further your reputation in the world as a patron of beautiful things.”
The emperor looked glum then and said, “I fear it will be years before these cathedrals are finished, and I will have to wait that long for improvements to my luma, for I will trust none but Yreth with this valuable commission.”
Then one of the Imperial Advisors, a woman called Paos, said, “Emperor, I have an idea. Why not have Yreth begin work on these cathedrals at once in order to satisfy the dictates of his powerful God. But let his work be of a very preliminary nature, so it will not take much time. Then, when this part is done, he may turn his attention to your luma, and complete it, before returning to the arduous task of finishing the cathedrals.”
This seemed like a good plan, and the Bishop of Pos Tangrove said she would go to pray upon it, to see if God liked the sound of it. When she returned, we were all delighted to hear that it met with the complete approval of God, although He had added the condition that she should help me with the work, and that, when the cathedrals were finished, she should be set in charge of them.
It was all settled, then, and to the complete satisfaction of all those present, both human and divine. The emperor said he would pay me generously for my labours, and this was no idle boast, for I received a truly magnificent stipend of one thousand arrans each month while the work was in progress, in addition to lavish gifts from many of the emperor’s family and other citizens of the town, who, knowing how close I was with the emperor, hoped I would speak well of them to him.
Soon after, I went out into the wilderness again to find the most suitable sites for my cathedrals. I decided to situate them in a great triangle around the city, with each cathedral standing at a distance of three miles from the city walls.
I worried at first that the Bishop of Pos Tangrove would interfere with my work, but as it turned out her taste in architecture was impeccable, and she had a great many useful ideas for me. For example, I had wanted to name the cathedrals after the Holy Trinity—one after God, one after Christ, and one after the Holy Ghost. The bishop, though, had a better idea.
She said to me, “You would be better to name the cathedrals after the great cities of the region, for that is the way we do things here, and it draws the people in very well. If you call your building the Cathedral of God, you may be sure that God is the only one who will be inside it, which would be hollow praise to Him indeed.”
I saw the wisdom of this, and so we decided to name the cathedrals the Cathedral of Pos Tangrove, the Cathedral of Pos Vindwater, and the Cathedral of Ichic, and within them they contained numerous smaller chapels, such as the Chapel of Belpinian, the Chapel of Entric, the Chapel of Pos Croythorn and Pos Pola, the Chapel of Great Tasker, and so on, in order that the cathedrals might draw in pilgrims from all across the Saskatoon Empire—which, when they were finally built, they did.
On another occasion, I had been feeling uneasy about some aspect of the three cathedrals, but I could not say what it was. Strange things started happening to me then: one of my shoes went missing; I cut my arm; a large bird landed in front of me and pecked at a dead mouse. I was disturbed by these omens and felt God was somehow displeased with my designs.
Then the Bishop of Pos Tangrove, quite unexpectedly, seemed to echo my thoughts, saying, “You know, I feel uncomfortable with these cathedrals being all so very much alike. It seems to me it might be impious to have three fingers pointing up to God in such a way.”
I realized at once that she was right, and this was the very thing troubling me. I decided on the spot that only one of the cathedrals would take the original form I had envisioned, which is to say, a fist with the first finger pointing upward. For the other two cathedrals, I would vary the designs slightly, so each construction pointed to heaven with a different digit. I changed the designs then so one was a fist pointing to heaven with the second finger, and the other was a fist on its side, pointing skyward with the thumb.
In any case, once I had revised the designs, I went out into the wilderness with a few slaves to the sites I had selected and we hammered large wooden stakes into the ground, with signs upon them bearing the words: “This will be a great cathedral.”
Then, with the preliminary part of my constructions begun, I returned to Saskatoon and spent six months working on the emperor’s accursed luma.
I am sure, by now, you are feverish with the desire to know what a luma might be. It has amused me to keep the secret to this point, while several times mentioning the mysterious structure here and there, and knowing you will be puzzled by the reference. Still, it is now time for my amusement to curtail itself, and for me to tell you what the luma is all about.
A luma, simply put, is a kind of artificial mountain. It is constructed in the shape of a square-edged triangle, with the square edge upon the ground, so you might climb up the sloping edge to the top, then peer over the sheer drop, drawing a sense of excitement and danger from the great distance to the ground. This is the whole purpose of the structure, and for all its great size, it contains no rooms or doors or windows. It is merely a thing you climb.
I should add that advocates of the luma do not treat its climbing as a mere amusement. Indeed, to them, the sensation of danger which they feel as they peer over the summit is spiritually moving, and they believe, through the experience, they are brought closer to the knowledge of death, and, therefore, to God.
I tried the luma for myself, and found it a very terrifying sensation. It is not that it was so very high, for I have built and climbed many towers higher than the luma. No, the luma’s curious terror comes from the fact that the drop is so sharp and precipitous, and, together with the sloping floor at your feet, and lack of support, it gives one a precarious, giddy feeling.
I was dining with the emperor regularly by then, and I said to him one evening, “I cannot imagine why you would want the luma any higher. It seems to me it is already high enough to serve the function, and its height surely filled me with dread.”
He said, “When I first ascended the luma, my reaction was the same as yours, but since that time I have climbed its slope on thousands of occasions, and, gradually, its terror has diminished to my senses. These days, when I climb to the top, I can happily sit upon the edge, or jump about, or hop, or shoot arrows to the ground, or even do a handstand, just as I please, and with no dizzying sensation at all. You can see, then, the great luma has lost its spiritual power for me, and I find this fact disturbing.”
I said, “Then you are saying it is not the luma’s height that gives it this spiritual power over you, but the sensation of danger it imparts, a sensation you no longer feel?”
He said, “Yes, you have defined the problem exactly. What a clear mind you have!”
After hearing these comments, I started to find the problem of the luma more interesting, and I realized that, despite the emperor’s request, there was more to be done than just making the luma higher. Even if it were to go to the moon, its height would eventually lose its blow upon the nerves o
f its climbers, for people become accustomed to such things.
Then a wonderful idea came to me. I thought to myself, “Suppose the top of the luma were not quite so solid and sturdy, but instead swayed and creaked like an old bridge, as though it might give way. That would certainly be terrifying.” Then I thought, “No, for even this is something the climbers would eventually find tiresome. What is needed here is not the illusion but the reality of danger.”
At once, I knew exactly how the new luma would be built. It would be tall, that was certain—I had already planned to increase the height of the luma by three times through the addition of two stages—but now I decided to make an ingenious alteration to the peak of the topmost section, which is the place where people peer over the edge. It would appear very solid when people walked upon it, but in actual fact it would be set upon a delicately balanced pivot, held in place by a mechanical latch. The latch was to be of a temperamental nature, and when people walked up to the edge of the luma it would, on occasion, fall away, sending them tumbling to their deaths.
This latch, which sounds so simple in theory, was actually a very difficult thing to construct. The first latch I built would either give way too easily or else would refuse to budge at all, depending upon how well it was greased. Then I built another latch that gave way whenever the weight of more than two people, or one fat person, was placed upon it, but would remain firm under a lighter weight. This did not please me, though, for it was too predictable, and I knew people would soon discover the secret to survival.
Eventually I built a more complex mechanism. It used a cage containing a number of desert rats. The cage’s pathways were partially blocked by several wooden paddles, attached to stiff wires. The other end of each wire went into a hole in a vertical sliding rod. As the rats moved through their enclosure, they pushed against the paddles, extracting the wires from the holes. When all the wires were pulled at the same moment, the rod dropped onto a trigger plate, tripping the latch mechanism and releasing the luma’s pivoting platform. In this way, the random movements of small animals controlled a structure weighing many tons.
If, at that moment, people were standing on the edge of the pivot, looking down at the terrible drop, the entire top ten feet of the luma would abruptly tip beneath them, sending the unfortunate observers to their deaths. Once the weight of these people was gone, of course, the pivot slowly returned, and the mechanism locked once more. A lever pushed the rod back into place, and, assuming the rats were no longer pressing on the paddles, the wires would keep it there.
It took me about eight months to construct the luma, of which a month was spent installing the mechanism at the summit. I placed a secret door partway up the third section, by means of which a slave might crawl through to feed and water the rats, or, if necessary, replace them.
During this time, I used to have my luncheon in the Courtiers’ Hall, where I would talk with the various courtiers on this subject or that. One of them was a very rude fellow by the name of Lambic Staid who loved to pick arguments with others and to cause all manner of trouble. Unfortunately, he was also a favoured Imperial Attendant, with eight tweaks upon his comb, and many of the other courtiers were afraid of his influence with the emperor.
One day, he sat himself down at my table, although I had not invited him there, and he said, “I hear you are from the sea.”
I said, “I was not born under the waves, if that is what you mean, but I have lived by the sea, and I know my way around a ship.”
He said, “Tell me this, then: what manner of creature is a seal? Is it a doglike fish, or is it a fishlike dog?”
Well, I knew this man’s reputation, and I had seen his argumentative ways in action, but I was not afraid to take him on, so I said, “It is a doglike fish, although I am quite certain you will think differently.”
He tapped his fat nose and said, “Indeed I do, my friend, for I have been an important courtier for a good many years now, and in all that time I have learned a thing or two. A seal is a fishlike dog.”
I said, “That is not so. It spends its days swimming in the sea, and so we know, in its heart, it is a fish, not a dog.”
He said, “Ah, such amusing folly. Can you not see that its love of swimming is the very thing that makes it fishlike. Since it is not a fishlike fish, it follows that it must be a fishlike dog. Moreover, some months back I had the opportunity to taste the meat of a seal which a merchant had brought here for the emperor’s table. I dine with him at least once a month, you know. I was struck by the fact that the meat tasted nothing like fish, but in many ways quite similar to dog. Do not feel ashamed, however, for you could not have known these things.”
I said, “If the meat of the seal tastes like dog, then it shows that its taste is one of the doglike aspects to its fishy nature. It is, therefore, a doglike fish, and you are wrong. Nevertheless, I must say I find your arguments delightful, and childlike in their simple naivety. I will be sure to report them to the emperor for his amusement, for I dine with him at least three times every week.”
The other courtiers around gave a chuckle there, for they saw Lambic Staid had met his match in me. But instead of being done with the discussion, as he should have, he started to chide me, saying I did not know what I said, and I knew nothing about the true nature of the seal, and so on.
Well, I started to get angry. I said, “Who are you, a man who lives thousands of miles from the ocean, to talk to me about seals? I have seen a thousand seals in my life. I have hunted them in boats, I have eaten them for dinner, and I even kept one as a pet for a time. Do not tell me they are dogs, for they are fish, as any fool can tell you.”
He said, “You bluster thus, but you cannot prove it.”
I said, “Indeed I can, for there is one sure way to know the nature of a creature, and that is to observe the company it keeps. If you place a seal among fish, they will swim together in the most cordial and agreeable manner. But place a seal among dogs and they will quarrel. The seal will bite at the dogs, and the dogs will bite at the seals, until, at length, the seal lies in pieces, or else, if it is a fierce seal, the dogs do.”
He said, “You do not know this. The story is clearly fabulous.”
I said, “No, it is true, and I have won many bets on such contests.” Then I said, “A seal is not a dog and can no more live peacefully among dogs than a foolish old hypocrite with eight tweaks on his comb can live among wise and worthy courtiers.”
The other courtiers roared with laughter at my sharp retort, but old Lambic was furious.
He said, “You will apologize for those words, or, as I stand here, you will risk the emperor’s displeasure.”
I said, “And you will leave my table or risk mine.”
He did not know where to turn then, so he picked up his plate of stew and threw it into my lap, whereupon I jumped to my feet and snatched the comb out of his hair. Then, on a sudden impulse, I took from my belt one of the inferior combs I had won in my wager over the Pulsiter, and I stuck it in his hair in place of his old comb.
“There,” I said, “I have demoted you for your rudeness. Now, take that back to the emperor, if you will.” Then I pushed him and kicked him until he was out of the Courtiers’ Hall.
All the other courtiers gathered around me then, and said how excellent and just it was that I had treated Lambic in this way, and how he had deserved this punishment for many years.
When the anger had left me, though, I thought to myself, “What have I done? Treating that courtier so may have been a very dangerous act, and although the man is a fool, he is vindictive and might find some way to turn the emperor against me.”
I need not have worried though, for later I heard exactly what had happened. Lambic Staid had stormed straight back to the emperor and told him everything I had done, showing him the new comb I had given him. He thought, by repeating what I had said and telling the emperor how I had treated
one of his courtiers, he would make the emperor angry at me.
Instead, however, the emperor was amused and entertained by the incident, because he knew this courtier had a habit of being too proud and officious. The emperor said, “This man Yreth is as bold in his debating as he is in his hunting.”
Then he had me brought before him, and he told me to return Lambic’s comb, which I did, after taking back the comb I had given to Lambic in its place.
Lambic said, “Is there to be no further punishment for this man, emperor?”
The emperor said, “No. Be at peace, you two. The matter is at an end.”
Lambic was furious at this, but there was nothing he could do about it, so he merely nodded and smiled at the emperor, as if all was new tulips in his garden. I knew, though, he was secretly angry. Later on he came to me in a corridor and said, in a very spiteful tone, “You got off too lightly there, that is certain, but I swear by the emperor’s name that I will be avenged against you.”
I said, “Be counselled by me and drop your plans, for I swear by God’s name that any actions you take against me will bring about your own undoing.”
He scoffed at my words, but as you will soon see, I had spoken prophetically.
When the luma was complete, a special celebration was organized within the palace. Fine foods were laid out in the courtyard, and all the courtiers and the Imperial Family were allowed there. They stared in amazement at the luma and said it was the most wonderful thing they had ever seen, especially when viewed from below like this. Until now, you see, many of them had not been allowed into the courtyard, and had seen only the upper part of the luma over the palace walls.
After everyone was well fed, the emperor ascended the luma with me at his side, and a number of the most prominent courtiers following on behind. We reached the first stage, and the emperor stopped there to look down and to wave to the people below. Then we went up to the next stage, and he stopped again to wave. Even though this stage was twice the height of the first, he showed absolutely no fear, and he walked back and forth balancing on the edge for a time before continuing up.
The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography Page 29
