With a mental shrug—they hadn't told him to come in, but at least they hadn't told him to stay out—Tamino went through the door. It scraped noiselessly shut behind him; Tamino remained for a moment in darkness. Then, as before, the light began slowly to increase.
In the light a form appeared, as if taking substance from the air. Tamino wondered, so silent had been this manifestation from nowhere, if this was the wicked magician Sarastro himself? But no; surely he would have no place in a temple devoted to Wisdom and Enlightenment. And in a temple devoted to Truth, at least he could get—he was sure—some straight answers.
Before him stood the venerable form of a man in late middle-age. His gray hair was covered with a hood, on which the emblem of the rayed sun was inscribed in gold. He wore robes of silvery gray, and once again the sun's rays were inscribed on the breast of his garment. His features were nondescript, but he looked mild and even kindly.
"Well, young man," he asked, "what do you want?"
Tamino stood silent for a moment. Now that he was inside the place, after three tries, what did he in fact want?
"The truth," he said at last, "that's what your notice out there tells me."
The old man smiled. He said, "There are many different kinds of truth, you know. It may not be that simple. And even if I were to speak the truth, you might not be able to hear it, so that whatever I said, it would sound like a lie to you."
'Til take that chance," Tamino said, and then it occurred to him that the Messengers had answered Papageno's question almost in that way, as if he was not capable of understanding the simplest thing.
Well, he was a stranger here and it made no sense to be offended by their peculiar customs. He had never before had an otter as a bath attendant either, and that had been an interesting new experience. Maybe this would be no worse.
He might as well tell the exact truth about what he wanted.
"I am looking for a wicked magician called Saras-tro," he said.
The old man—Tamino imagined he must be some sort of priest—raised his eyebrows; his look was mild and kindly.
"What do you want with Sarastro?" he inquired.
If, Tamino thought, this was the Temple of Truth— with, he noticed, Wisdom and Enlightenment thrown in—they must know what kind of evil Sarastro had been doing in their territory. He said, "I came here to rescue a helpless girl that this evil man has in his clutches."
There was not the slightest change in the priest's kindly and benevolent face. His expression showed only mild curiosity. "Who told you that?" he inquired.
"The victim's mother!"
"And," continued the priest in his gentle voice, "how do you know that what she told you was the truth? The world, my son, is filled with those who have no respect for the truth."
"Well, is it true then?" Tamino demanded belligerently. "Did he kidnap Pamina, or didn't he?"
"As I told you, my boy, there are many kinds of truth. On one level, what you say is true; Sarastro took Pamina from her mother's care."
"And you dare to admit it!"
"You do not know Sarastro," the priest observed, "and his motives are not known to you. How, then, can you stand there and judge him?"
"I may not know Sarastro," Tamino said, and in spite of himself he felt indignation surging up into his voice, "but I know what he has done. And I know right from wrong!"
He stepped back a little as he spoke, so sure was he that the ancient priest would immediately contest him. But the serene old face remained calm.
"Do you indeed? Do you indeed?" Incredibly the ancient face broke into a wide smile. "Well, then, my son, you know more than any of us here, and we ought to roll out the velvet carpet and canopy reserved for the gods!" His smile was so purely benevolent, so devoid of malice, that in spite of his anger and confusion Tamino found himself wanting to smile in return.
Then the priest said, "I wish you would refrain from judging Sarastro—or anyone else—until you are certain of the truth. It is not as simple as it sounds."
Now Tamino was angry again. He said, "Every malefactor can find some good excuse for what he has done! The facts speak for themselves. What excuse can there be, for tearing a daughter from her mother's arms?"
"I am not here to make excuses for Sarastro," said the priest.
"Oh, aren't you? I thought that was exactly what you were doing," said Tamino, conscious that he was being rude, and not caring.
"Let me ask you a question in turn, since you have asked me several," said the priest. "Who appointed you judge of Sarastro's deeds and motives?"
Now Tamino felt on surer ground. He said, "I am a stranger in this land and I do not know your customs. But in the country where I was born, when the man of nobility hears of an injustice, it is his duty and privilege to correct it and to right a wrong. Otherwise he is no better than the worst of churls."
"Then we are agreed on one thing at least," said the priest, "but you do not know the whole story. If Sarastro were here, I am certain he could make himself clear to you, if he chose to do so. Until that time, a stranger would do well not to judge between rival causes until all the truth is known to him."
"Then," Tamino said, "how am I to learn all the truth?"
The priest's smile spread until it seemed to glow all over his gentle face.
"At last," he said, "you have asked a question to which I am permitted to give you the answer. The truth will be made known to you when you have successfully passed the Ordeals and been admitted as a sworn member of our Brotherhood."
Abruptly the light vanished; the priest was gone, and the temple around him, and Tamino was standing alone in the great vaulted space before the three temples, with the sun rising behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He wondered if he would ever get used to the way in which people around this place kept appearing and disappearing. It was still dreadfully dark, although the sun should soon be surfacing over the temple.
And he had not been able to answer the old priest. A dozen answers, arrested on his tongue, were still crowding his mind; things like, "What makes you think I would have anything to do with your Brotherhood, when a creature like Sarastro is at the head of it?" From the way in which the old man had defended Sarastro, he supposed this man was another of Sarastro's deluded creatures, hypnotized by the wicked magician. He remembered the tears of the Queen of the Night; how could anyone doubt that she was a great woman, and a much-wronged one?
Yet in spite of himself Tamino found his mind returning to the vicious mockery with which her three ladies had treated the harmless Papageno. If the servants were reasonlessly cruel, how could he believe in the goodness of the mistress? Perhaps, he thought, and was ashamed of himself for his doubts, he should hear Sarastro's reasons for what he had done.
But meantime he was lost in the precincts of an unfamiliar temple; and if the temples here were anything like the ones in his home country, then one thing of which he was sure was that the priests would soon be about for the sunrise observances—supposing, that was, that they had anything so civilized and predictable, here at the end of the world. And if he were found here—well, Papageno had been afraid of Sarastro and what Sarastro might do if they were caught here, and Papageno knew more about this part of the world than he did.
Of course, Papageno too was a servant of the Queen of the Night, and his attitude toward Sarastro would be what he had learned from his fellow servants— Tamino broke off that thought angrily. Why had he begun to doubt the Queen, that lovely and grieving mother?
It was still dark; why was the sun not rising? Where was Papageno? He started to shout again; then thought better of it. He could hardly hope to remain unobserved in Sarastro's precincts, if he went around shouting at the top of his voice. And even if, as that old priest had said in his riddling manner, he had been expected here for those mysterious Ordeals, Papageno was a strange Halfling and afraid of Sarastro. And he had brought Papageno here; he was responsible for the funny little bird-man, and that responsi
bility would hardly be served by letting Papageno fall into the hands of Sarastro's priests.
And how, he wondered irritably, could he possibly be about his real business, which was the rescuing of Pamina, when he had to stop and worry about taking care of Papageno? And the wretched Halfling had gotten himself lost, too. What a nuisance!
His hands fell on the bamboo flute tied at his waist. Perhaps, with the help of the flute, he could manage to attract Papageno's attention without shouting. He put his lips to the flute, and began to play.
There was a flickery of firefly golden light before him, and he saw the faint gleam of the Messengers who had brought him here.
"We are glad to see that you turn to the flute when you are in darkness," said that strange voice that was like a blend of many voices. "That is the power of the flute: to bring Enlightenment to those who walk without the light."
Tamino suddenly thought, through the sounds of that curious voice, that he could hear something like an echo of that mighty chorus which had warned him away from the first two doors.
"Why is it so dark in here?" he asked. "Surely the sun should be rising—"
"The darkness in which you wander is not only the absence of the sun's light," replied the Messenger. "The Light you seek is the Light of Enlightenment."
Tamino clapped his hands to his head; made a grasp at the flute to keep it from slipping through his fingers. "Doesn't anyone here ever talk in anything but riddles?" he demanded angrily. "For all the talk about Truth here, there seems to be damned little of it around, at least when it comes to giving straight honest answers!"
"If you ask complicated questions to which there are no simple answers, we can hardly give you simple answers," the voice of the Messenger—or of all of them—answered. Tamino was trying to focus his eyes so that he could really see the shifting forms. He could only see the movement of draped limbs, never a whole face but only the momentary flicker of an expression, a moment's amusement or humor or compassion, a movement that suggested wings—or a bared muscular arm? Or was it only the sweep of the draperies? He wished they would stay still long enough that he could really see what or who they were.
He said, "You said something like that to Papageno. He's a Halfling and he's not very intelligent. But if you give me an answer, I think I could understand it. It seems to me that a question like How long will it be till sunrise? is simple enough!"
"This I can answer," said the Messenger. "If the darkness does not soon give way to light, then you will wander forever in darkness which will never lighten." The voice was like a great chorale, and it was not for a moment that Tamino realized what he had actually heard.
"Another riddle," he said in disgust. "To a perfectly simple question!"
"What makes you think it is a simple question?"
To that, Tamino found no immediate answer. He said in a rage, "Well, here is a question that perhaps you will find simple enough! Tell me, riddlers, is Pam-ina alive, or has Sarastro done away with her?"
"Pamina is alive, and unharmed," said the Messengers. "You need know no more than that at present." The insubstantial forms flickered again, and abruptly vanished. With them vanished the light; once again Tamino was alone in the dark.
That answer had been unequivocal, at least. But he had had other questions to ask; chief among them was, "What is Sarastro's true nature? Who then had been telling the truth—the Queen of the Night, or the old priest?" But he supposed that if he had had a chance to ask the Messengers, they would have answered him in more riddles, and he had had enough of those for one day—or one lifetime.
He had learned one thing, at least: Pamina was alive and, presumably, well. No, he had learned a second thing: the flute was the instrument of his own enlightenment—though, at the moment, he felt more muddled and in darkness than ever. Though, by now—so long he had delayed talking riddles with the Messengers— the sun was really rising. It hardly seemed, here in these precincts, the same sun he had seen crossing the desert, that hard, brazen, blazing disk; here it seemed a gentler sun, soft light streaming with mist.
He wondered if the riddling Messengers would consider that a symbol for enlightenment as well? Or did it simply mean that the sun was rising, as it did every day in the world outside, as it did, presumably, even in the realms of the Queen of the Night. In any case, it made the question of locating Papageno, and getting under cover, even more urgent, for in the light the priests of this place, whether or not they did civilized things like sunrise observances along with their main business of talking in riddles, would soon be out and about and alert for intruders.
If he should begin to play the flute again would the Messengers reappear with more of their conundrums? They had vanished of their own accord, presumably because they thought he had had enough enlightenment for one time. So now, presumably, if he played the flute it would be to look for enlightenment without their dubious guidance. Or even, he thought cynically, for a totally mundane purpose, such as making music or attracting the attention of Papageno, who would presumably hear it more easily than if Tamino started shouting. Or would the Halfling think it simply one more birdcall in this strange place?
Whatever happened, he would try the flute. If the Messengers took it into their heads, or whatever they had in place of heads—he had certainly never gotten a good look at their faces—to appear again, he would simply ask them where Papageno was, and again try their ability to give simple factual answers.
He set the flute to his lips and began to play.
Tamino had always been fond of music. One of the things he had missed most, on this journey, had been the evenings in the royal palace when his father's musicians would play, sing, and dance to a variety of instruments. From childhood he had had good teachers, and could even play one or two instruments. The flute had a singularly soft tone, sweet and reedy; it was evidently the work of a master craftsman. Quite apart from any magical qualities it might possess, it was itself a treasure. As he improvised a simple pastoral melody of his faraway homeland, he lost track of everything else, thinking only of the music.
There was no sign of the Messengers, to Tamino's relief. But after a little while, as he played, he noticed one of the temple doors quietly opening. Soft bulky forms, indistinct in the half-light, stole down the steps of the temple, moving quietly toward Tamino. The melody faltered; at once they were motionless, and Tamino could see that they were men—or were they? Surely they were bears, thick fuzzy hair on their bodies, noses so long they surely qualified as snouts, their hands deformed—or clawed? He had never seen bear-halflings before; had not known they existed. A tall rangy man who could have been a horse? His ears stood up at the side of his head, his hair was long and coarse and jet black, swept back along his skull and down his neck. A small furry man came and nestled against Tamino's arm: a beaver, a rabbit-halfling? And still they came, and listened, and hovered, while Tamino played, in a marveling wonder.
He would never have believed there could be so many kinds of Halflings. Even seeing, he did not really believe. The larger ones frightened him, especially the bears, they pressed so close and were so huge. What troubled him most was that none of them uttered a sound. Had they any human speech, or were they dumb, flawed, made without voices by the folly or uncaring of their makers? And the smaller ones upset him too. Why should anyone have bothered to make Halflings in this purposeless travesty of Humankind? What use could they possibly serve? He found himself petting the small rabbit-thing as it snuggled against him, and had to remind himself that this animal, this pet, was a sentient being with, he supposed, something resembling human consciousness and a human soul and he should somehow manage to treat it—no, him, or perhaps her—as a fellow human.
But how? It was one thing to treat someone like Papageno, who was at least human in form, and had human speech, as what he looked like, a fellow soul in an animallike body. Tamino could treat him as he did one of his father's subjects who was not particularly intelligent. He had not been educated to reign, b
ut he had been brought up knowing that, as their prince, he was, in a very real sense, responsible for every soul in his father's kingdom and Empire.
But what, in the name of all the gods he had ever heard of and a few he hadn't, did one do with a rabbit-halfling? He could hardly treat the poor thing like an equal, for it wasn't. That in itself didn't bother Tamino—few men were. He had early been taught how to act toward his father's subjects, and had never abused that position since a long ago day when he had beaten one of his playmates simply because, as the Emperor's son, he knew the other child could not fight back. He had quickly learned that this was an offense too grave even for a beating in turn by his tutors. The Emperor himself, gray and terrifying, called his younger son to him, and in words Tamino was never to forget, forbade him ever to repeat the offense.
But his father had never had a rabbit-halfling for a subject. He could not even speak with the poor thing, since it had no speech. He had been taught that if a man was ignorant, he should be educated. How did one educate this creature? He supposed it could be trained like a housepet, a cat or dog or an idiot. That did happen. Regrettably some children were born idiots and must be as well treated. But idiots were created by the gods for some unknown purpose of their own. Man, sentient man, had created these creatures. Tamino's head throbbed. Why?
His lips trembled on the flute, and the music stopped. The creatures made soft sounds of disappointment, but Tamino had no heart to continue playing.
He thought, bitterly, of what the Messengers had said; the flute would bring him enlightenment. But he was more confused than ever. Why? What had prompted the men of Atlas-Alamesios to create these folk?
An ape who could play chess with an Empress, and even win—yes, perhaps there was some reason for that. Even a bird-man who could be put, as a delicious jest, to dressing in bird feathers and catching birds to be made into ritual robes when they were not made into potpies. But what place was there for a rabbit-halfling in the society of court or temple?
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