Creatures of Light and Darkness
Roger Zelazny
To Chip Delany, Just Because
Generations pass away and others go on,
since the time of the ancestors.
They that build buildings,
their places are no more.
What has been done with them?
I have heard the words of Imhotep and Hardedef,
with whose sayings men speak so much.
What are their places now?
Their walls are crumbled,
their places are non-existent,
as if they had never been.
No one returns from there,
so that he might tell us their disposition,
that he might tell us how they are,
that he might still our hearts
until we shall go to the place where they have gone.
Make holiday and weary not therein!
Behold, it is not given to a man
to take his property with him.
Behold, no one who goes can come back again.
-HARRIS 500, 6:2-9.
Comus enters with a Charming Rod in one hand, his Glass in the other; with him a rout of Monsters, headed like sundry sorts of wild Beasts. They come in making a riotous and unruly noise, with Torches in their hands.
-MILTON
The Human Dress is forged with Iron,
The Human Form is a fiery Forge,
The Human Face is a Furnace seal’d,
The Human Heart is a hungry Gorge.
-BLAKE
Prelude in the House of the Dead
The man walks through his Thousandyear Eve in the House of the Dead. If you could look about the enormous room through which he walks, you couldn’t see a thing. It is far too dark for eyes to be of value.
For this dark time, we’ll simply refer to him as “the man.”
There are two reasons for doing so:
First, he fits the general and generally accepted description of an unmodified, male, human-model being—walking upright, having opposable thumbs and possessing the other typical characteristics of the profession; and second, because his name has been taken from him.
There is no reason to be more specific at this point.
In his right hand, the man bears the staff of his Master, and it guides him through the dark. It tugs him this way, that way. It burns his hand, his fingers, his opposing thumb if his foot strays a step from its ordained path.
When the man reaches a certain place within the darkness, he mounts seven steps to a stone dais and raps three times upon it with the staff.
Then there is light, dim and orange and crowded into corners. It shows the edges of the enormous, unfilled room.
He reverses the staff and screws it into a socket in the stone.
Had you ears in that room, you would hear a sound as of winged insects circling near you, withdrawing, returning.
Only the man hears it, though. There are over two thousand other people present, but they are all of them dead.
They come up out of the transparent rectangles which now appear in the floor, come up unbreathing, unblinking and horizontal, and they rest upon invisible catafalques at a height of two feet, and their garments and their skins are of all colors and their bodies of all ages. Now some have wings and some have tails, and some have horns and some long talons. Some have all of these things, and some have pieces of machinery built into them and some do not. Many others look like the man, unmodified.
The man wears yellow breeches and a sleeveless shirt of the same color. His belt and cloak are black. He stands beside his Master’s gleaming staff, and he regards the dead beneath him.
“Get up!” he calls out. “All of you!”
And his words mix with the humming that is in the air and are repeated over and over and again, not like an echo, fading, but persistent and recurring, with the force of an electric alarm.
The air is filled and stirred. There comes a moaning and a creaking of brittle joints, then movement.
Rustling, clicking, chafing, they sit up, they stand up.
Then sound and movement cease, and the dead stand like unlit candles beside their opened graves.
The man climbs down from the dais, stands a moment before it, then says, “Follow me!” and he walks back the way he came, leaving his Master’s staff vibrating in the gray air.
As he walks, he comes to a wornan who is tall and golden and a suicide: He stares into her unseeing eyes and says, “Do you know me?” and the orange lips, the dead lips, the dry lips move, and they whisper, “No,” but he stares longer and says,
“Did you know me?” and the air hums with his words, until she says, “No,” once again, and he passes her by.
He questions two others: a man who had been ancient of days, with a clock built into his left wrist, and a black dwarf with horns and hooves and the tail of a goat. But both say, “No,” and they fall into step behind him, and they follow him out of that enormous room and into another, where more lie under stone, not really waiting, to be called forth for his Thousandyear Eve in the House of the Dead.
The man leads them. He leads the dead whom he has summoned back to movement, and they follow him. They follow him through corridors and galleries and halls, and up wide, straight stairways and down narrow winding stairways, and they come at last into the great Hall of the House of the Dead, where his Master holds his court.
He sits on a black throne of polished stone, and there are metal bowls of fire to his right and to his left. On each of the two hundred pillars that line his high Hall, a torch blazes and flickers and its spark-shot smoke coils and puffs upward, becoming at last a gray part of the flowing cloud that covers the ceiling completely.
He does not move, but he regards the man as he advances across the Hall, five thousand of the dead at his back, and his eyes lay red upon him as he comes forward.
The man prostrates himself at his feet, and he does not move until he is addressed:
“You may greet me and rise,” come the words, each of them a sharp, throaty stab in the midst of an audible exhalation.
“Hail, Anubis, Master of the House of the Dead!” says the man, and he stands.
Anubis lowers his black muzzle slightly and his fangs are white within it. Red lightning, his tongue, darts forward, reenters his mouth. He stands then, and the shadows slide downward upon his bare and man-formed body.
He raises his left hand and the humming sound comes into the Hall, and it carries his words through the flickering light and the smoke:
“You who are dead,” he says, “tonight you will disport yourselves for my pleasure. Food and wine will pass between your dead lips, though you will not taste it. Your dead stomachs will hold it within you, while your dead feet take the measure of a dance. Your dead mouths will speak words that will have no meaning to you, and you will embrace one another without pleasure. You will sing for me if I wish it. You will lie down again when I will it.”
He raises his right hand.
“Let the revelry begin,” he says, and he claps his hands together.
Then tables slide forward from between the pillars, laden with food and with drink, and there is music upon the air.
The dead move to obey him.
“You may join them,” Anubis says to the man, and he reseats himself upon his throne.
The man crosses to the nearest table and eats lightly and drinks a glass of wine. The dead dance about him, but he does not dance with them. They make noises which are words without meaning, and he does not listen to them. He pours a second glass of wine and the eyes of Anubis are upon him as he drinks it. He pours a third glass and he holds it in his hands and sips at it and s
tares into it.
How much time has passed he cannot tell, when Anubis says, “Servant!”
He stands, turns.
‘Approach!” says Anubis, and he does so.
“You may rise. You know what night tonight is?”
“Yes, Master. It is Thousandyear Eve.”
“It is your Thousandyear Eve. This night we celebrate an anniversary. You have served me for a full thousand years in the House of the Dead. Are you glad?”
“Yes, Master…”
“You recall my promise?”
“Yes. You told me that if I served you faithfully for a thousand years, then you would give me back my name. You would tell me who I had been in the Middle Worlds of Life.”
“I beg your pardon, but I did not.”
“You…?”
“I told you that I would give you a name, which is a different thing altogether.”
“But I thought…”
“I do not care what you thought. Do you want a name?”
“Yes, Master…”
“…But you would prefer your old one? Is that what you are trying to say?”
“Yes.”
“Do you really think that anyone would remember your name after ten centuries? Do you think that you were so important in the Middle Worlds that someone would have noted down your name, that it would have mattered to anyone?”
“I do not know.”
“But you want it back?”
“If I may have it, Master.”
“Why? Why do you want it?”
“Because I remember nothing of the Worlds of Life. I would like to know who I was when I dwelled there.”
“Why? For what purpose?”
“I cannot answer you, because I do not know.”
“Of all the dead,” says Anubis, “you know that I have brought only you back to full consciousness to serve me here. Do you feel this means that perhaps there is something special about you?”
“I have often wondered why you did as you did.”
“Then let me give you ease, man:You are nothing. You were nothing. You are not remembered. Your mortal name does not signify anything.”
The man lowers his eyes.
“Do you doubt me?”
“No, Master…”
“Why not?”
“Because you do not lie.”
“Then let me show it. I took away your memories of life only because they would give you pain among the dead. But now let me demonstrate your anonymity. There are over five thousand of the dead in this room, from many ages and places.”
Anubis stands, and his voice carries to every presence in the Hall:
‘Attend me, maggots! Turn your eyes toward this man who stands before my throne! —Face them, man!”
The man turns about.
“Man, know that today you do not wear the body you slept in last night. You look now as you did a thousand years ago, when you came into the House of the Dead.”
“My dead ones, are there any of you here present who can look upon this man and say that you know him?”
A golden girl steps forward.
“I know this man,” she says, through orange lips, “because he spoke to me in the other hall.”
“That I know,” says Anubis, “but who is he?”
“He is the one who spoke to me.”
“That is no answer. Go and copulate with yon purple lizard. —And what of you, old man?”
“He spoke to me also.”
“That I know. Can you name him?”
“I cannot.”
“Then go dance on yonder table and pour wine over your head. —What of you, black man?”
“This man also spoke with me.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I did not know it when he asked me—”
“Then burn!” cries Anubis, and fires fall down from the ceiling and leap out from the walls and crisp the black man to ashes, which move then in slow eddies across the floor, passing among the ankles of the stopped dancers, falling finally into final dust.
“You see?” says Anubis. “There is none to name you as once you were known.”
“I see,” says the man, “but the last might have had further words—”
“To waste! You are unknown and unwanted, save by me. This, because you are fairly adept at the various embalming arts and you occasionally compose a clever epitaph.”
“Thank you; Master.”
“What good would a name and memories do you here?”
“None, I suppose.”
“Yet you wish a name, so I shall give you one. Draw your dagger.”
The man draws the blade which hangs at his left side.
“Now cut off your thumb.”
“Which thumb, Master?”
“The left one will do.”
The man bites his lower lip and tightens his eyes as he drags the blade against the joint of his thumb. His blood falls upon the floor. It runs along the blade of the knife and trickles from its point. He drops to his knees and continues to cut, tears streaming down his cheeks and falling to mingle with the blood. His breath comes in gasps and a single sob escapes him.
Then, “It is done,” he says. “Here!” He drops the blade and offers Anubis his thumb.
“I don’t want the thing! Throw it into the flames!”
With his right hand, the man throws his thumb into a brazier. It sputters, sizzles, flares.
“Now cup your left hand and collect the blood within it.”
The man does this thing.
“Now raise it above your head and let it drip down upon you.”
He raises his hand and the blood falls onto his forehead.
“Now repeat after me: ‘I baptize me…’”
“‘I baptize me…’”
“‘Wakim, of the House of the Dead…’”
“‘Wakim, of the House of the Dead…’”
“‘In the name of Anubis…’”
“‘In the name of Anubis…’”
“‘Wakim…’”
“‘Wakim…’”
“‘Emissary of Anubis in the Middle Worlds…’”
“‘Emissary of Anubis in the Middle Worlds…’”
”’…and beyond.’”
”’…and beyond.’”
“Hear me now, oh you dead ones: I proclaim this man Wakim. Repeat his name!”
“Wakim,” comes the word, through dead lips.
“So be it! You are named now, Wakim,” he says. “It is fitting, therefore, that you feel your birth into namehood, that you come away changed by this thing, oh my named one!”
Anubis raises both hands about his head and lowers them to his sides.
“Resume dancing!” he commands the dead.
They move to the music once more.
The body-cutting machine rolls into the hall, and the prosthetic replacement machine follows it.
Wakim looks away from them, but they draw up beside him and stop.
The first machine extrudes restrainers and holds him.
“Human arms are weak,” says Anubis. “Let these be removed.”
The man screams as the saw blades hum. Then he passes out. The dead continue their dance.
When Wakim awakens, two seamless silver arms hang at his sides, cold and insensitive. He flexes the fingers.
‘And human legs be slow, and capable of fatigue. Let those he wears be exchanged for tireless metal.”
When Wakim awakens the second time, he stands upon silver pillars. He wiggles his toes. Anubis’ tongue darts forth.
“Place your right hand into the flames,” he says, “and hold it there until it glows white.”
The music falls around him, and the flames caress his hand until it matches their red. The dead talk their dead talk and drink the wine they do not taste. They embrace one another without pleasure. The hand glows white.
“Now,” says Anubis, “seize your manhood in your right hand and burn it away.”
Wakim licks his lips.
“Master…” he says.
“Do it!”
He does this thing, and he falls to unconsciousness before he has finished.
When he awakens again and looks down upon himself, he is all of gleaming silver, sexless and strong. When he touches his forehead, there comes the sound of metal upon metal.
“How do you feel, Wakim?” asks Anubis.
“I do not know,” he answers, and his voice comes strange and harsh.
Anubis gestures, and the nearest side of the cutting machine becomes a reflecting surface.
“Regard yourself.”
Wakim stares at the shining egg that is his head, at the yellow lenses, his eyes, the gleaming barrel, his chest.
“Men may begin and end in many ways,” says Anubis. “Some may start as machines and gain their humanity slowly. Others may end as machines, losing humanity by pieces as they live. That which is lost may always be regained. That which is gained may always be lost. —What are you, Wakim, a man or a machine?”
“I do not know.”
“Then let me confuse you further.”
Anubis gestures, and Wakim’s arms and legs come loose, fall away. His metal torso clangs against stone, rolls, then lies at the foot of the throne.
“Now you lack mobility,” says Anubis.
He reaches forward with his foot and touches a tiny switch at the back of Wakim’s head.
“Now you lack all senses but hearing.”
“Yes,” answers Wakim.
“Now a connection is being attached to you. You feel nothing, but your head is opened and you are about to become a part of the machine which monitors and maintains this entire world. See it all now!”
“I do,” he replies, as he becomes conscious of every room, corridor, hall and chamber in the always dead never alive world that has never been a world, a world made, not begotten of coalesced starstuff and the fires of creation, but hammered and jointed, riveted and fused, insulated and decorated, not into seas and land and air, and life, but oils and metals and stone and walls of energy, all hung together within the icy void where no sun shines; and he is aware of distances, stresses, weights, materials, pressures and the secret numbers of the dead. He is not aware of his body, mechanical and disconnected. He knows only the waves of maintenance movement that flow through the House of the Dead. He flows with them and he knows the colorless colors of quantity perception.
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