“Good, so I have your indulgence. Let me begin then with an obvious fact. We live within the universe, of course. Next, to this evident fact I would add it doesn't really matter why or how the universe got here. What matters is that it is here and that the modes and systems of its construction are unbelievably complex and layered. Each of you here believes because you are immortal you are the greatest thing there is. You sit crowned at the apex of existence, you are gods. But the universe itself is far, far greater. We are just flecks of dust blown mindlessly across its surface. We are ants crawling on a vast plain, which extends across galaxies and dark matter and has no end. Truly to be a god, therefore, would be to share existence with the universe itself. To be cognitively identified with it. But the way you live now, even if you seem able to live forever, you will always be a slave to a cosmos you have no knowledge of, no control over. This place you call Heaven could be hit by an asteroid tomorrow, or the planet itself could fly apart, and then where would all your precious immortality be?”
It was another direct challenge to the self-esteem of Heaven, but unlike Pascale's more spiritual attack it was made in hard rational terms. The philosophers were on more familiar ground.
Heloise found her voice. She spoke nervously, but with feeling.
“Adorno, you go too far. By going so far, so high, you exceed the possibility of rational discussion. At that point what you say is sheer hubris, and like Icarus you come crashing down. You become both exalted and pessimistic.”
The scientist laughed easily. “Not at all, my esteemed colleague. I could just as easily argue the universe is doomed, and us with it—that the exhaustion of energy will produce a bottomless pit of dust in which all movement has died. That would be pessimistic. But in fact I believe the universe is predisposed to its own existence. In which case its life may be indefinite. What I'm suggesting is that we here, in comparison, are mere blips in its fourteen billion years explosion of light. We are playthings of a vast wanton child.”
“Bravo,” blurted Friedrich, suddenly finding himself in perfect agreement with Adorno. “Mein Herr Professor is following the only valid direction. How could the one who drove death from its hidden lair be called irrational? Rather, he is the one who is really thinking. His thoughts are of the sublime, the impossible. But they make us taste the insipidity of our existence, so we regain its vibrant truth!”
Zeno finally recovered his tongue. “No, no, no! I cannot allow this to go unchallenged. It is very easy for Adorno to come in here and declare our world pointless, to set up his own cathedral in its place. What has he ever done to become our priest? Unlike Sarobindo here who has always risked death in order to bring us the presence of the measureless?”
But again Zeno had miscalculated. The mention of Sarobindo was the one thing guaranteed to provoke Adorno further and Zeno had made a direct challenge. Adorno's casual drawl took a steely edge.
“You think Sarobindo's Font Eterno somehow has meaning? It's nothing but a circus, a freak show! It degrades everything we came here to achieve. It has made me despair of what you call Heaven and everyone in it. Listen, I will try to explain in as simple terms possible the facts of the universe you inhabit. There are basically two principles at work, unity and separation. Two more or less identical elements A1 and A2 can combine on a random basis to form a new reality AA. But this can only happen if there is some kind of principle of combination, and at the same time one of continuing separation or difference. Absent either of them, you could not have the new phenomenon, the combination. To simplify enormously, you could choose the example of water: it contains two elements in combination, hydrogen and oxygen. They combine and yet remain different. And this peculiar combination creates the unique substance of water. These principles—of combination and difference—may themselves be a grand chance but you cannot have a universe without them, and if you beg them into existence each time you come across physical phenomena then in point of fact you proclaim them as law. No, they have to be stable and real and be the case for all imaginable universes. This of course does not imply the existence of a Supreme Being, but what it does do is force you to admit the universe was there before you, and is greater than you, for you did not create these principles, they created you. We did not will them into being, they willed us, and therefore they outrank us.”
Abelard interrupted, “Where are you going with all this? I don't see the point.” But Adorno didn't seem to notice.
“At the same time—and this is what really fascinates me— there is also randomness, chance, a totally different principle in the midst of attraction and repulsion. There is spontaneity in the midst of order, or freedom together with pattern, whatever way you want to put it. How can that be? And how can I penetrate that secret? The whole thing seems very much like it is designed for life, or rather it is the design of life itself, neither more nor less. So then I say, if we were able somehow to connect ourselves to this overall life-design in the universe, to plug ourselves into its program, well then we would indeed be gods. But until then we are nothing but children imagining themselves to be fairies, and your honored Sarobindo is the biggest fairytale of all.”
For the second time this evening there was a strangled silence but this time it lasted only an instant. Down at the end of the tables there was an eruption. Cyrus had cried out earlier but apart from that had not engaged in conversation. He had observed the proceedings tight-lipped but with ever increasing agitation. Now he stood up abruptly and began to clamber awkwardly up onto the table, not caring that he was kicking the person next to him or sending the table contents flying. Dishes of chicken, fish, bread and vegetables were sent toppling into people's laps. Glasses toppled and wine spilled and spread out in dark stains across the tablecloth. But Cyrus was oblivious. He was already shouting as he struggled unsteadily to his feet on the trestle.
“Enough, enough, I say! I have no idea what the honored scientist is talking about, I am an historian not a philosopher. But I will not tolerate disrespect for the mystery at the heart of our homeland. I see with absolute clarity it is these interlopers from the North who have brought this anarchy into our midst. We can allow Adorno the privilege of private research but when this Pascale comes uninvited, openly insults our Heaven and opens the door to chaos then I say she is undesirable. I demand here and as of this moment, she be taken into custody. I demand Magus be contacted and she be detained as an anti-social.”
Cyrus had spoken in an oratorical manner, his voice rising and reaching a crescendo in the last phrases. Gaius and a couple of others were already clapping and shouting agreement. As he repeated his demand he pumped his fist in the air and the effect was one more time to shake the board on which he was standing. Already dislodged by his scrambling on top one of the corners slipped free and tipped down. Cyrus lost his balance and pitched forward. He fell headlong onto the ground between the tables, with a cascade of dishes, jugs, food and wine beside him. People screamed and cried out and there was a dull snapping sound as his extended arm took all his weight. Everyone was now on their feet and shouting. Many were calling out that Cyrus was right, that such a night had never been witnessed before and Pascale should be arrested at once. Danny and Palmiro were thoroughly frightened, casting around uncertainly. Jonas grabbed Pascale and whispered they had to leave. She saw everyone staring up at her, their faces twisted in horror and anger. She felt the danger and nodded: Jonas was right, they should go. The two of them backed out of the tent and ran toward their car. No one followed: the name of Magus had been invoked, that was enough. All the same Jonas swerved the car around hard, breaking and changing gear as fast as he could. The tires squealed as he launched forward, escaping the philosophers' courtyard on the darkened roads of Heaven.
7. THE CANYONS
The desert scrub at the western limit of Heaven—the place where Pascale had wandered off the morning after her Initiation—continued along its southern edge. Progressively the land changed, falling away from the plateau into a series of fractured mesas pe
netrated by narrow, forbidding canyons. Heading from the mesas farther south, the canyons collapsed into an arid rocky waste and finally a true desert, a lifeless expanse of scalding white sand. It was this natural geography which acted as the anchor for the climate of Heaven, a kind of heat trap protected and reinforced by the constant warm air which fell in a great loop from the Northern Homeland.
At the intersection of two canyons at the base of a mesa, about thirty miles to the south of the nearest Homeland habitation, lay a straggling assortment of adobe cabins and stock pens. A few individuals could be seen moving about in desultory fashion with buckets or tools. Others were not doing anything, just sitting or sleeping. The scene had none of the pride and vigor of Heaven, rather a profound sense of loss. People still held hints of great beauty, but they were dirty and unkempt. Some carried disfiguring scars and mutilations. All of them had the most awful look in their eyes, infinite boredom flecked with anger and fear. If Heaven was only a few miles away, up along a dirt track, here was its classic alternative, Hell.
The place went by the familiar name of “The Ranch.” Most people in Heaven did not even know it existed. They had a vague idea that there had to be some such location, but they preferred not to think about it, drowning their minds in the constant stream of distractions and thrills Heaven provided. The figure of Magus was known and he was the connection to the possibility of such a place, but exactly who Magus was and what he did, again no one cared to think. And Magus liked it that way.
He'd had the job of warden to anti-socials since the first days of Heaven's story and in fact he was recruited precisely for such a purpose. He came from some shadowy intelligence agency specializing in black sites and disappearances. But his task in Heaven was quite different from the summary violence of the bad old days. He was a sensible man who appreciated that no one could or should be executed in Heaven. Everyone was a god and to eliminate one was to threaten the immortality of all. In consequence anyone who proved unable to maintain the values of divine existence had to be quarantined but never killed. In the event it proved remarkably efficient. Exactly because of the mental pathology of his charges Magus’ work was very simple: there was nothing stopping them throwing themselves off the top of a mesa, an ultimate solution which residents now and then employed. If a god decided to terminate his or her existence that itself was a divine decision and no one had a problem with it. In Heaven undesirables were essentially self-regulating.
As far as Magus was concerned his work was indispensable to the meaning of Heaven itself. He took pride in keeping immortality free of all breakdown, and part of the job was allowing Immortals to be blissfully unaware he was doing just that. He ruled his fiefdom with a cold heart but great pleasure. If his charges caused trouble he generally allowed them to sort it out among themselves. Only occasionally would he beat them. For the rest he ensured they had food to eat and work to keep them busy if they wished it. His only real concern was that they did not escape and return to the city, and that was very unlikely. There were padlocked gates on the canyons, and only he had the keys, so it was impossible to ride out on a horse. Iron stakes and footholds were carved into the rock so a determined individual could climb to the top, but the road back to Heaven was treacherous, brutally hot, and impossible to cover in one day. At night it was hunted by packs of feral dogs and coyotes which ranged through the badlands and no one stood much chance out on the trail after dark. Thus, when an inmate was not present at evening roll-call he would simply wait until the next morning then set out with a couple of horses. Any missing individual who was still alive, and not hopelessly lost, invariably lay exhausted at the roadside. Magus simply loaded them on the horse and returned with them to the Ranch.
It was actually a lot of fun if someone tried to escape, but people rarely did. The state of mind of the prisoners was usually one of robot-like withdrawal while they went through the motions of an endless life. Anyone too angry never lasted. As a result Magus experienced a quiet and constant satisfaction preserving the purity of immortal existence.
The day Pascale arrived, accompanied by Marius and two bodyguards, Magus was seated in his usual spot, a large fan-backed wicker chair under the adobe arches of his cabin. The party had radioed ahead and let themselves in through the gate with their own security key. As they rode up the sun was receding across the canyon to the west and the shadows of the arches were cool and inviting to the trail-weary riders. They hitched their horses to a rail and Magus invited the men to come in. He gestured curtly to Pascale that she remain outside.
“Sorry you were obliged to leave the sweet airs of the city to make your way into my inferno. Please sit here and rest. Let me get you something.”
He was a short heavy-set, dark-tanned man with buzz-cut hair, a straight-edged nose and narrow lips. He was dressed, unlike anyone else in Heaven, in desert fatigue pants and clean black tee. He beckoned with a wave behind him and a woman in a frayed denim dress emerged from the cabin door carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. Marius and his agents came in and sat in the chairs offered them.
Marius replied, “Thank you, Magus. As always Heaven owes you an immense debt for providing this service. Here is another deviant for your charge, and I have to say one especially maladjusted.”
He launched at once into the story of Pascale, her unconventional arrival, reclusive behavior and her outburst at the philosophers' table. The banquet had taken place just a couple of days before but the Anthropology Colony had needed to move quickly to prevent the rot spreading.
Meanwhile Pascale stood outside in the broiling light and without a drink for her thirst. She was dressed in her usual shift but had managed to tie a kerchief around her head, peasant-style, to protect herself from the sun.
Magus commented, “You know me, Marius, I'm always happy to deal with the psychos. Whatever her story is I am certain she will soon find her level here, one way or the other.” Again he hardly looked in Pascale's direction but waved to the woman with the frayed dress, still standing in the doorway. “Koyo, get her to the Women's Building and find her a bunk.”
Marius looked at him. “We go back a long ways, you and I, Magus. You remember when we started all this?”
Magus nodded but without expression.
“I quite often think about it. We invited you to be an Immortal, but on condition you did this isolated job. It probably seemed like a good deal, back then, and really it has worked out very well. But now, you know, an eternity later, I don't understand why you're so willing to keep doing it?”
This time Magus smiled. “You mean, why do I not want to come up to the city and live in a colony with everyone else and do Doblepoble?”
“Well, yes. That's right.”
“I have everything here, Marius. More than you can appreciate. I am Zeus, a god who rules over other gods. The only alternative for the Immortals under my power is death. And even then I am happy. What does your guru, Sarobindo, say? That death gives meaning to life? Well, I believe that. Every time one of these failed Immortals throws herself off the mesa it purifies Heaven. And I feel it. I really do feel it. It seems to me I have helped make Heaven perfect for everyone.” And he smiled again, with smug self-congratulation.
Marius grimaced despite himself. “Ah, thank you, Magus. We are so grateful, for all you do. Well, we must be going more or less immediately, I'm afraid. I and my companions do not want to be delayed on the road.”
He stood up, glancing at the others and they at once followed him. No one extended his hand. The men just nodded at each other and Marius' party led their horses across the canyon to the water trough. They put a lead rope on Pascale’s horse, then mounted and headed for the gate. Magus remained seated, watching the party of gods with ironic detachment as they exited his kingdom.
***
Koyo had come out of the house, her head down, without looking at Pascale. She was a short Asiatic woman, her black hair matted and her dress dirty. As she passed by she touched the new prisoner'
s arm with her hand. Pascale understood she was to follow.
She caught up and said, “Hi, my name is Pascale. Yours is Koyo, no?”
The woman did not reply and did not look up. She continued walking in what seemed an awkward manner, as if she had a disability. Pascale slackened her pace and fell in behind. Magus' cabin was at a corner where the northern canyon made an oblique angle into a second ravine. The woman led her around the corner, along a razor edge of shadow. They passed a stockade in which a pair of horses stood in the gloom, wagging their heads at the flies. There was a tall wood-board building which looked as if it were some kind of store, then there was another adobe cabin with a long veranda bounded by a low wall.
Koyo went behind the low veranda wall and entered a front door. As they passed through the shadowed space Pascale could make out a woman and a man sitting on a bench and a younger woman in a rocking chair. They were dressed in the same dirty denim as Koyo. Only the woman on the bench looked up. She had a narrow, striking face, dark hair, matted like Koyo's, and haunting black eyes. Except, on closer inspection, one eye was missing and the expression in the other complimented the missing one with its total emptiness and indifference. She stared right through Pascale, as if she were a ghost.
Pascale passed through the screen door and then a main door, and they were in complete darkness. The immediate sensation was an intense choking stench. Pascale stood there fighting for breath and trying to get her eyes used to the blackness. She heard Koyo fumbling about, and suddenly a light flared as she lit an oil lamp. Pascale could see a big rough wooden table heaped up with odds and ends, cups, old food, clothes, shoes, scissors, sewing machine, tools, boxes and yellowed papers. Along the walls were bunk beds, similarly strewn with clothes and trash. Koyo scooped a space for the lamp on the table and then crossed over to a bunk, beckoning Pascale to follow. As Pascale stepped forward she saw the floor also covered in junk, including torn clothes and blankets in layers on top of other objects. She stumbled her way to where Koyo was standing while her guide climbed the steps to the upper bunk and proceeded to toss a heap of detritus onto the floor.
Pascale's Wager: Homelands of Heaven Page 29
