How it glitters in the doorway. Like silk moire or rainbow lamé. There goes Sidra. Passed through as though nothing was there. Doesn’t seem to hurt. That’s good. God knows I could stand anything except being hurt. No one left but Bob and myself—and he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. My turn now, I suppose. But where to?
To nowhere?
Yes—that’s it. To nowhere!
In this world I’m leaving there’s never been any place for me. There was nothing I could do; nothing I ever wanted to do. The world wanted nothing from me but my beauty. It had no need of me. Nothing but to pose naked while nearsighted little men smudged pictures on canvas.
I want to be useful. I want to belong. Perhaps if I belonged—if living had some purpose for me, this lump of ice in my heart might melt. I could learn to feel things—enjoy things. Even learn to fall in love.
Yes—that’s it. To nowhere!
Let the reality that needs me, that wants me, that can use me . . . let that reality have me and call me to itself. For if I must choose, I know I shall choose wrong again. And if I am not wanted . . . anywhere; if I go through to wander forever in blank time and space . . . still am I better off.
Take me, you who want me and need me!
How cool the veil . . . like scented sprays caressing the skin.
And even as the multitude knelt in prayer, Maart cried aloud: “Rise, ye children of Yaldabaoth, and behold!”
Then did all arise and were struck dumb and trembled. For through the curtain of fire stepped a beast that chilled the hearts of all. To the height of eight cubits it stood and its skin was pink and white as nacre.
The hair of its head was yellow and its body was long and curving like unto a sickly tree. And all was covered with slack folds of white fur.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 38-39
God in Heaven!
Is this the reality that called me? This the reality that needs me?
That scarlet sun . . . so high . . . with its blood-red evil eye. Mountaintops like pain-racked titans.
Towering mounds of gray slime—The scabrous sheen of valley floors—The pervading sickroom stench of fetid ruination— And those monstrous creatures crowding around me—like gorillas made of black, rotting coal. Not animal, not human. As though man had fashioned beasts not too well—or beasts had fashioned men still worse. They have a familiar look to them, these monstrosities.
The landscape has a familiar look. Somewhere I have seen all this before. Somehow I have been here before. In dreams of death—Yes— This is a reality of death and twisted shadows.
Again the multitude cried out: “Glory to Yaldabaoth!” and at the sound of the sacred name, the beast turned toward the curtain of flames whence it had come. And Behold! The curtain was gone.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 40.
No retreat?
No way out?
No way back to sanity?
But it was behind me a second ago, the veil! No escape—Listen to the sounds they make. The swilling of swine in muck. This can’t be real. No reality was ever so horrible. This is all a ghastly trick. Like the one we played on Lady Sutton. I’m in the shelter now. Bob Peel’s given us a new kind of hashish or opium—I’m lying on the couch dreaming and groaning. Presently I’ll be awake—Before they come any closer— I must awaken!
With a loud and piercing cry, the beast of the fire ran through the multitude. Through all the gathered thousands it ran and thundered down the mountainside. And the shrill sound of its cries was as the brazen clangor of beaten shields.
And as it passed under the low boughs of the mountain trees, the children of Yaldabaoth cried out in new alarm; for the beast shed its white furred hide in a manner horrible to behold. And the skin remained clinging to the trees. And the beast ran farther, a hideous pink-and-white thing.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 41-43.
Quick! Quick! Run through them before they clutch me. Down the mountainside! If this is a nightmare, running will awaken me. If this is reality—But it can’t be. That so cruel a thing should happen to me—Were the gods jealous of my beauty? Jealous of the pride I took in my beauty? No. The gods are never jealous.
My dressing gown!
Gone.
No time to go back for it. Run naked, then—Listen to them howl at me—Raven at me. Down!
Down! Quickly and down. This rotten soft offal earth sucks my feet like a leech’s mouth. Like the pulsating tendrils of an octopus.
They’re following.
Why can’t I wake up?
My breath—like knives in my chest that dance quickstep of cutting torture.
Why can’t I wake up?
Close! I hear them. Close!
WHY CAN’T I WAKE UP?
And Maart cried aloud: “Take you this beast for an offering to our Lord Yaldabaoth!”
Then did the multitude raise stout courage and gird its loins. With clubs and stones all pursued the beast down the jagged slopes of Mount Sinar, chanting the name of the Lord.
And on a small plateau stout warriors pursued it until a shrewdly thrown stone brought the beast to its knees, still screaming in a manner horrible to hear. Then did the warriors smite it many times with strong clubs until at last the cries ceased and the beast was still. And out of the pink-and-white carcass oozed a fetid red matter that sickened all who beheld it.
But when the beast was brought to the High Temple of Yaldabaoth and placed in a cage before the altar, the cries once more resounded, desecrating the sacred halls., And the High Priests were troubled, saying: “What foul offering is this to place before Yaldabaoth, Lord of Gods?”
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 44-47.
Pain.
Like burning and scalding.
Can’t move.
No dream was ever so long—so real. This, then, is real, all real. And I, too, am real. A stranger in a reality of filth and horror and torture. My beauty—But why? Why? Why?
My head—still ringing. It feels twisted. It itches inside. I want to scratch it.
This is torture, and somewhere . . . some place—I have heard that word before. Torture. It has a pleasant sound. Torture. The sound of a madrigal; the name of a boat; the title of a prince. Prince Torture.
So light in my head. Great lights and blinding sounds that come and go and have no meaning.
Once upon a time I torture a man—they say.
His name was?
Finchley? Yes. Digby Finchley.
Digby Finchley, they say, loved a pink ice goddess named Theone Dubedat— they say.
The pink ice goddess.
Where is she now?
And while the beast did moan malicious spells upon the altar steps, the Sanhedrin of Priests held council, and to the council came Maart, saying: “0 ye priests of Yaldabaoth, raise up your hearts and voices in praise of our Lord. For He was displeased with us and turned His face away. And Lo, a sacrifice has been vouchsafed unto us that we may make our peace with Him.”
Then spoke the High Priest, saying: “How now, Maart? Do ye say that this is a sacrifice for our Lord?”
And Maart spoke: “Yea. For it is a beast of fire. It was born of the fire and through fire it shall return whence it came.”
And the High Priest said: “Is this offering seemingly in the sight of Yaldabaoth?”
And Maart spoke, saying: “All things are from Yaldabaoth. Therefore are all things good in His sight.
Perchance through this strange offering Yaldabaoth will grant us a sign that His people may not vanish from the earth. Let the beast be offered.”
Then did the priests agree, for they, too, were sore afraid lest the children of the Lord be no more.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 48-54.
See the pretty monkeys dance.
They dance around and around and around.
And they snort.
Almost like speaking.
Almost like—I must stop the singing in my head. The ring-ring-singing. Like the days when Dig was working hard and I would take those difficult pos
es and hold them for hour after hour with maybe five minutes’ time out and I would get dizzy sometimes and reel off the dais and Dig would drop his palette in fright and come running with those big solemn eyes of his ready to cry.
And I knew he loved me and I wanted to love him, but I had no need then. I had no need of anything but finding myself. Now I’m found. This is me. Now I have a need and an ache and a loneliness deep, deep inside for Dig and his love. To see him all eyes and fright at the fainting spells and dancing around me with a cup of tea.
Dancing—dancing—dancing— And thumping their chests and grunting and thumping.
And when they grunt the spittle drools and gleams on their yellow fangs. And those seven with the rotting shreds of cloth across their chests.
See the pretty monkeys dance.
They dance around and around and around…
So it came to pass that the high holiday of Yaldabaoth was nigh. And on that
day did the priests throw wide the portals of the temple and the hosts of children of Yaldabaoth did enter. Then did the priests remove the beast from the cage and drag it to the altar. Each of four priests held a limb and spread the beast wide across the altar stone, and the beast screamed again with evil, blasphemous sounds.
Then cried Maart: “Rend this thing to pieces that the smell of its evil death may rise to please the nostrils of Yaldabaoth!”
And the four priests, strong and holy, put powerful hands to the limbs of the beast so that its struggles were wondrous to behold; and the light of evil on its hideous hide struck terror into all.
And as Maart lit the altar fires, a great trembling shook the firmament.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 55-59.
Digby, come to me!
Digby—wherever you are—come to me!
Digby, I need you.
This is Theone.
Theone.
The pink ice goddess.
No longer pink ice, Digby.
Digby, I can’t stay sane much longer.
Wheels whirl faster in my head.
Faster and faster.
Digby, come to me.
I need you.
Torture.
Then did the vaults of the temple split asunder with a thunderous roar, and all that were gathered there quailed and their bowels were as water. And all beheld the glittering image of the Lord, Yaldabaoth, descend from pitch-black skies to the temple. Yea, to the very altar itself.
For the space of an eternity did the Lord God Yaldabaoth gaze at the beast of the fire and the beast snarled and writhed, helpless in its evil.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 59-60.
It is the final horror—the torture.
This monstrosity that floats down from the heavens.
This hideous apelike, manlike, bestial thing.
It is the final jest that it should float down like the ephemera, like a thing of fluff, a thing of lightness and joy. A monster on wings of light. A monster that stands like a rotting corpse with its twisted legs and twisted arms and the shaggy, loathsome body. A monster with the head of a man that looks torn and broken, smashed and ravaged. With those great saucer eyes.
Eyes? Where have I—?
THOSE EYES!
This isn’t madness. No. I know those eyes—those great, solemn eyes. I’ve seen them before. Years ago. Minutes ago. Caged in a zoo? No. Fish eyes floating in a tank? No. Great, solemn eyes filled with hopeless love and adoration.
No…let me be wrong.
Those big, solemn eyes of his ready to cry.
No, not Digby. It can’t be. Please!
That’s where I’ve seen this scene before, seen these creatures and the landscape—Digby’s drawings. Those monstrous pictures he drew. For fun, he said, for amusement.
Amusement!
But why does he look like this? Why is he rotten and horrifying like the others—like his pictures?
This is your reality, Digby? Did you call me? Did you need me? Want me?
Digby!
Why don’t you listen to me? Why do you look at me that way, like a mad thing when only a minute ago you were walking up and down in the shelter trying to make up your mind and you were the first to go through that burning veil and I admired you for that because men should always be brave but not men-ape-beast-monsters…
And with a voice like unto shattering mountains, the Lord Yaldabaoth spoke to His people, saying: “Now praise ye the Lord, my children, for one has been sent unto you to be thy queen and consort to thy God.”
With one voice the multitude cried out: “Praise the Lord, Yaldabaoth!” And Maart groveled before the Lord and spoke, saying: “A sign to Thy children, 0 Lord, that they may increase and multiply!”
Then the Lord God reached out to the beast and touched it, raising it with both hands from the altar fires. And behold! The evil cried out for the last time and fled the body of the beast, leaving only a pleasant song in its place. And the Lord spoke unto Maart, saying: “I will give you a sign.”
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 60-63.
Let me die.
Let me die forever.
Let me not see and not hear and not feel the—
The?
What?
The pretty monkeys that dance around and around and around while the great, solemn eyes stare into my soul, and Digby, the darling, touches me with hands so strangely changed.
Changed by the turpentine, perhaps, or the ochre or the bice green or Vandyke brown or burnt umber or sepia or chrome yellow which always seemed to stain his fingers each time he put down the brush.
How good to be loved by Digby. How warm and comforting to be loved and to be needed to want one alone in all the millions and to find him so strangely walking in a reality like that of when Sutton Castle can’t see and I really knew that the cliffs down which I ran so funny so funny so nice so good so pretty so funny so…
Then did the children of Yaldabaoth take the sign of the Lord to their hearts, and Lo, thenceforward did they increase and multiply, forever chanting the praise of their Lord and His Consort on high.
Thus endeth the BOOK OF MAART
VI
Exactly at the moment when he entered the veil, Peel paused in astonishment. He had not yet made up his mind. To him, a man of utter objectivity and absolute logic, this was an amazing thing. It was the first time in all his life that he had not made a decision with trigger speed. It was the final proof of how violently the Thing in the shelter had socked him.
He stood where he was and took stock. He was sheathed in a mist of fire that flamed like an opal and was far thicker than any veil should be. It was not beautiful to Peel, but it was interesting. The color dispersion was wide and embraced hundreds of fine gradations of the visible spectrum. He could identify more than a score by name.
With the little data he had at hand he judged that he was standing somewhere either outside time and space or between dimensions. Evidently the Thing in the shelter had placed all of them en rapport with the matrix of existence so that the mere intent as they entered the veil could govern the direction they would take on emergence. In other words—would direct the time and space into which they would step.
The veil was more or less a pivot that could spin them into any desired existence.
Which brought Peel to the matter of his own choice. Carefully he considered, weighed and balanced accounts. So far he was satisfied with the life he led. He had plenty of money, a remunerative profession as consultant engineer, a lovely house, an attractive wife. To give all this up in reliance on the vague promises of an invisible donor would be sheer idiocy. Peel had learned never to make a change without good and sufficient reason. There was neither good nor sufficient reason now.
“I am not,” Peel thought coldly, “adventurous by nature. It is not my business to be so. Romance does not attract me, nor does the unknown. I know that I like to keep what I have. Perhaps I am overly fond of keeping. The acquisitive instinct is strong in me and I am not ashamed to be a possessive man.
&n
bsp; Acquisitiveness has brought me wealth and success. Now I want to keep what I have. There can be no other decision for me. Let the others have their romance—I keep my world precisely as it is.”
He strode forward firmly, a punctilious, bald, bearded martinet, and emerged into the dungeon corridor of Sutton Castle.
A few feet before him, a little scullery maid in blue and gray was scurrying directly toward him, a tray in her hands. There was a bottle of beer and an enormous sandwich on the tray. At the sound of his step she looked up, stopped short, her eyes widening, then dropped the tray with a crash.
“What the devil—” Peel began, confounded at the sight of her.
“M-Mr. P-Peel!” she squawked. She began to scream: “Help! Murder! Help!” Peel slapped her sharply. “Will you shut up and tell me what in blazes you’re doing down here this time of night—carrying on like this?”
The girl squawked and sputtered. Exactly, Peel noted, like a decapitated hen.
Before he could slap her again he felt the hand on his shoulder. He turned sharply and received another shock to find himself staring into the red, beefy face of a policeman. The man was in uniform and there was a rather eager expression on his heavy face. Peel gaped, then subsided. He realized quite suddenly that he was in the vortex of phenomena. No sense struggling until he understood the tides.
“Na then, sir,” the policeman said. “No call ter strike the gel, sir.”
Peel made no answer. The sharp needles of his mind plucked at the facts. A maid and a policeman.
What were they doing down here?
“If! recollect a’right, sir, I heard the gel call yer by name. Would yer give it again, sir?’’
“I’m Robert Peel, you blasted idiot. I’m a guest of Lady Sutton’s. What is all this?”
“Mr. Peel!” the policeman cried. “What a piece er luck. I got to take yer into custody, Mr. Peel. Yer under arrest.”
“Arrest? You’re out of your mind, my man!” Peel stepped back and glanced over the policeman’s shoulder. The veil was gone and in its place the door to the shelter yawned wide. The entire place was turned upside down. It looked as though it had just been subjected to a spring cleaning. There was no one inside.
Selected Stories of Alfred Bester Page 26
