Wakim stands now at his side, his hand upraised as if recovering from a blow delivered.
The poet drops his cigarette and his cane leaps within his hands, tracing a circle of green fires about him. Wakirn turns to face him.
“Fugue!” says Vramin. “A genuine fugue masterl And forward-going! Who are you?”
“I am called Wakim.”
“How is it that you know the exact number of the immortals, that being two hundred eighty-three?”
“l know what I know, and those flames will not save you.”
“Perhaps, and perhaps not, Wakirn. But I do not oppose the powers of the House of Life and the House of the Dead.”
“You are an immortal. Your very existence is sufficient to give the lie to your words.”
“l am too indifferent to oppose anything on principle. My life, however, is another matter,” and his eyes flash green.
“Before you attempt to turn your power against me, Wakim, know that it is already too late…”
He raises his cane.
“Either the dog or the bird has sent you, and it does not matter which…”
Green fires spray in fountains upward, engulfing the pavilion.
“More than a mere plague-bearer, I know you to be. You are too well-endowed to be any less than an emissary…”
The pavilion vanishes about them, and they stand in an open area in the midst of the Fair.
“Know that before you there have been others, and all of them have failed…”
A green light leaps upward from his cane and arcs like a rocket flare through the sky.
“Two of them fell before the one who now approaches…”
The light overhead persists, pulsates.
“Behold the one who comes upon scenes of chaos, and whose cold metal hand supports the weak and the oppressed.”
He comes, riding down the sky on the back of a great beast of burnished metal. It has eight legs and its hooves are diamonds. It slows with each stride that it takes, covering less and less distance.
“He is called the Steel General, and he, too, is a fugue-master, Wakim. He hearkens to my beacon.”
Wakim turns his eyes upward and beholds the one who had once been a man. Whether it is by Vramin’s magic or some premonition of his own, he knows that this will be his first real contest in the thousand years of his memory.
The green fires fall upon Madrak now, and he stirs himself and rises with a moan.
Eight diamonds touch upon the ground, and Wakim hears the sound of a distant banjo.
The Red Witch calls for her Chariot of Ten, and orders her cloak of gold. This day she’ll off across the sky to the Ring where the Midworlds go.
This day she’ll off across the sky on her own wild ways to show…
There, in the worlds of the Life and the Death, the worlds that she used to know.
Now, some say her name is Mercy and others say it’s Lust. Her secret name is Isis. Her secret soul is dust.
…A eunuch priest of the highest caste sets tapers before a pair of old shoes.
…The dog worries the dirty glove which hath seen many better centuries.
…The blind Norns strike a tiny silver anvil with fingers that are mallets. Upon the metal lies a length of blue light.
Place of the Heart’s Desire
The Prince Who Was A Thousand walks beside the sea and under the sea. The only other intelligent inhabitant of the world within which he walks cannot be sure whether the Prince created it or discovered it. This is because one can never be sure whether wisdom produces or merely locates, and the Prince is wise.
He walks along the beach. His footsteps begin seven paces behind him. High above his head hangs the sea.
The sea hangs above his head because it has no choice in the matter. The world within which he walks is so constructed that if one were to approach it from any direction, it would appear to be a world completely lacking in land masses. If one were to descend far enough beneath that sea which surrounds it, however, one would emerge from the underside of the waters and enter into the planet’s atmosphere. Descending still farther, one would reach dry land. Traversing this land, one might come upon other bodies of water, waters bounded by land, beneath the sea that hangs in the sky.
The big sea flows perhaps a thousand feet overhead. Bright fish fill its bottom, like mobile constellations. And down here on the land, everything glows.
It has been said that a world such as this unnamed place with a sea for a sky could not possibly exist. Those who said it are obviously wrong. Positing infinity, the rest is easy.
The Prince Who Was A Thousand is in an unique position. He is a teleportationist, among other things, and this is even rarer than a master of temporal fugue. In fact, he is the only one of his kind. He can transport himself, in no time at all, to any place that he can visualize.
And he has a very vivid imagination. Granting that any place you can think of exists somewhere in infinity, if the Prince can think of it too, he is able to visit it. Now, a few theorists claim that the Prince’s visualizing a place and willing himself into it is actually an act of creation. No one knew about the place before, and if the Prince can find it, then perhaps what he really did was make it happen. However—positing infinity, the rest is easy.
The Prince has not the least idea, not a snowball in hell’s worth, as to where the nameless world is located, anyway, in relation to the rest of the universe. Nor does he care. He can come and go as he chooses, taking with him whomsoever he would.
He has come alone, however, because he wishes to visit his wife.
He stands beside the sea, beneath the sea, and he calls out her name, which is the name “Nephytha,” and he waits till a breeze comes to him from across the waters, touching him and saying the name that is his own.
He bows then his head and feels her presence about him.
“How goes the world with thee, loved one?” he inquires.
There comes a sob upon the air, breaking the surfs monotone turning.
“Well,” comes the reply. “And thyself, my lord?”
“I will be truthful rather than polite, and say poorly.’”
“It cries yet in the night?”
“Yes.”
“I thought of thee as I drifted and as I flowed. I have made birds to be within the air to keep me company, but their cries are either harsh or sad. What may I tell thee, to be polite rather than truthful? That I am not sickened by this life that is not life? That I do not long to be a woman once again, rather than a breath, a color, a movement? That I do not ache to touch thee once again, and to feel once again thy touch upon my body? Thou knowest all that I might say, but no one god possesses all powers. I should not complain, but I fear, my lord, I fear the madness that sometimes comes upon me: Never to sleep, never to eat, never to touch a solid thing. How long has it been…?”
“Many centuries.”
“…And I know that all wives be bitches unto their lords, and I ask of thee thy forgiveness. But to whom else may I address my bitching, but to thee?”
“Well taken, my Nephytha. Would that I could embody thee once more, for I, too, am lonely. Thou knowest I have tried.”
“Yes.”
“When thou hast broken the Thing That Cries, then wilt thou discipline Osiris and Anubis?”
“Of course.”
“Please do not destroy them immediately, if they can help me. Grant them some measure of mercy if they will give me back to you.”
“Perhaps.”
“…For I am so lonely. I wish that I could go away from here.”
“You require a place surrounded by water, to keep you alive. You require an entire world, to keep you occupied.”
“I know. I know…
“If Osiris had not been so deadly set upon vengeance, things might have been different. Now, thou knowest, I am bound to slay him when I have resolved the matter of the Nameless.”
“Yes, I know, and I agree. But what of Anubis?”
“Periodically, he attempts to slay me, which is of no great import. Mayhap, I shall forgive him. But not my bird-headed Angel, never.”
The Prince Who Had Been A King (among other things) seats himself upon a rock and stares out across the waters and then upward into the bottom of the sea. The lights stir lazily above him. High mountaintops poke with their peaks into the bottommost depths. The light is pale and diffuse, seeming to come from all directions. The Prince tosses a flat stone so that it skips out upon the waves that are before him, away.
“Tell me again of the days of the battle, a millennium ago,” she says, “of the days when he fell, who was your son and your father, the mightiest warrior ever raised up to fight for the six races of man.”
The Prince is silent, staring out across the waters.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because each time that you tell it, you are moved to undertake some new action.”
“…And to meet with some new failure,” finishes the Prince.
“Tell me,” she says.
The Prince sighs, and the heavens roar above him, where swim the bright fish with transparent bellies. He holds forth his hand, and a stone skips back into it from out the sea. The wind passes and returns, caressing him.
He begins to speak.
Angel of the House of Fire
Upward stares Anubis, seeing death.
Death is a black horse shadow without a horse to cast it. Anubis stares, gripping his staff with both hands. “Hail, Anubis, Angel of the House of the Dead,” comes a voice rich and resonant that sings through the great Hall.
“Hail,” says Anubis, softly, “Master of the House of Fire— which is no more.”
“This place is changed somewhat.”
“It has been a long time,” says Anubis.
“Quite.”
“May I inquire as to the state of your health these days?”
“I find it to be quite stable, as always.”
“May I inquire as to what brings you here?”
“Yes. You may.”
There is a pause.
“I had thought you dead,” says Anubis.
“I know.”
“I am pleased that you survived, somehow, that deadly onslaught.”
“Likewise. It has taken me many centuries to return from the place unto which I was cast subsequent to that foolish use of the Hammer. I had retreated beyond space as you know it a moment before Osiris struck with the blow which smashes suns. It drove me further than I intended to go, into the places that are not places.”
“And what have you been doing all this time?”
“Coming back.”
“You alone, Typhon, of all the gods, could have survived that fiery falling.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Set the Destroyer, your father, died in that battle.”
“Aieee!”
Anubis covers his ears and closes his eyes, letting his staff fall to the floor. The cry that rings through the Hall is a soulsear-ing thing, half human, half animal, and it hurts to hear even that portion of it which he does.
After a time, there is a mighty silence, and Anubis opens his eyes and lowers his hands. The shadow is smaller now, and nearer.
“I take it that the Nameless was also destroyed at that time?”
“I do not know.”
“Then what of your master, Thoth?”
“He abdicated as Lord of Life and Death, and retreated beyond the Middle Worlds.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
Anubis shrugs.
“It is a fact of life, and of death.”
“Why should he do such a thing?”
“I do not know.”
“I wish to go to him. Where may he be found?” “I do not know.”
“You are not very helpful, Angel. Tell me, now, who is running things in the absence of my brother, your master?”
“I do not understand what you mean.”
“Come now, dog-face, you have lived long enough to appreciate a simple question. Who controls the tides of the Power?”
“The House of Life and the House of the Dead, of course.”
“Of course, indeed! And who is the House of Life these days?”
“Osiris, naturally.”
“I see…
The shadow rears again, grows larger.
“Dog-face,” says Typhon, the shadow of a horse rampant, “I suspect conspiracy—but I never slay on the basis of suspicion alone. I feel, though, that all is not right. I’ve a dead father who may need avenging—and if my brother has been wronged, then blood shall burn for this, also. You had need to answer me quickly and without much forethought. You may have said more than you intended. Now hear me: Of all things, I know that you fear me most. You have always been afraid of the shadow of a horse, and for good reason. If this shadow falls upon you, Angel, you shall cease to exist. Utterly. And it will fall upon you, if you had aught to do with those things of which I disapprove. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, mighty Typhon. Thou art the only god whom I worship.”
Then springs Anubis, with a howl, a glowing bridle suddenly in his right hand.
The shadow of a hoof passes near him and he falls to the floor. The shadow falls upon the sparkling, silver bridle and it vanishes.
“Anubis, you are a fool! Why did you seek to bind me?”
“Because thou hast made me to fear for my life, Lord!”
“Do not arise! Do not move a muscle, else you shall pass into nothingness! The only reason you could fear me is if you bear a burden of guilt.”
“This is not so! I fear that thou mayst misinterpret and choose to strike on that basis. I do not wish to pass into nothingness. I sought to bind thee in self-defense, that I might hold thee until thou hast all the facts. For I confess that my position makes me to look guilty upon the face of things.”
The shadow moves and falls upon Anubis outstretched right arm. The arm withers and goes limp.
“You will never replace that arm which was raised against me, Jackal! Graft on a new one and it, too, will wither. Put there an arm out of metal and it will refuse to function. I leave you only a left hand for your mischief. I shall find the facts—all the facts—myself. If you bear the guilt I now think you to bear, I will be judge, jury and executioner. No bridle of silver nor reins of gold can stay Typhon, know that. And know that if my entire shadow pass over you, not even dust will remain. I will return to the House of the Dead one day soon, and, if aught be askew, a new cur shall rule here.”
Fire begins at the edges of the black silhouette. It rears as if to strike once more, the flames flash bright, and Anubis is alone on the floor of the great Hall.
He stands slowly and retrieves his staff with his left hand. His tongue darts forth redly, and he staggers to his throne. A great window appears in the middle of the air, and he regards the Lord of Life through it.
“Osiris!” he says. “The Devil lives!”
“What mean you?” comes the reply.
“Tonight, there was the shadow of a horse come upon me.”
“This is not good. Especially when you have sent forth a new emissary.”
“How do you know this?”
“I have my ways. But I, too, have done this thing—for the first time—and it is my son, Horus. Hope that I can recall him in time.”
“Yes. I’ve always had a liking for Horus.”
“And what of your emissary?”
“I shall not recall him. I should like very much to see Typhon attempt his destruction.”
“Your Wakim—who is he, really? Who was he?”
“That is my affair.”
“If—somehow—he is the one I think he may be—and you know who I mean—call him off, dog, or there shall never be peace between us, if both of us survive.”
Anubis chuckles.
“Was there ever?”
“No,” says Osiris, “since we’re being candid.”
“But the Prince has
actually threatened us, for the first time, threathened to end our reign.”
“Yes, this twelve-year past—and we must act. We’ve centuries, he’s indicated, ere he’ll move. But move he will, for he always keeps his word. Who knows, though, what he has in mind?”
“Not I.”
“What has happened to your right arm?”
“The shadow fell upon it.”
“And we shall both of us go in this manner, beneath the shadow, if you do not recall your emissary. Typhon has changed the picture completely. We must contact the Prince—seek to bargain with him, to placate him.”
“He is too clever to be deceived by false promises, and you underestimate Wakim.”
“Perhaps we should bargain in good faith—not to restore him, of course…”
“No! We shall triumph!”
“Prove it by replacing your arm with one that will work!”
“I shall.”
“Good-bye, Anubis, and remember—not even the fugue works against the Angel of the House of Fire.”
“I know. Good-bye, Angel of the House of Life.”
“Why do you use my ancient title?”
“Because of your unbecoming fear that the old days are upon us once more, Osiris.”
“Then call off Wakim.”
“No.”
“Then good-bye, foolish Angel, most fallen.”
“Adieu.”
And the window is full of stars and power until it is closed, with a left-handed movement between the flames.
There is silence in the House of the Dead.
Sketches
…An eunuch priest of the highest caste sets tapers before a pair of old shoes.
…The dog worries the dirty glove which hath seen many better centuries.
…The blind Norns strike a tiny silver anvil with fingers that are mallets. Upon the metal lies a length of blue light.
The Coming of the Steel General
Upward stares Wakim, seeing the Steel General.
“Faintly do I feel that I should have knowledge of him ,” says Wakim.
“Come now!” says Vramin, his eyes and cane flashing fires green. “All know of the General, who ranges alone. Out of the pages of history come the thundering hoofbeats of his war horse Bronze. He flew with the Lafayette Escadrille. He fought in the delaying action at Jarama Valley. He helped to hold Stalingrad in the dead of winter. With a handful of friends, he tried to invade Cuba. On every battleground, he has left a portion of himself. He camped out in Washington when times were bad, until a greater General asked him to go away. He was beaten in Little Rock, had acid thrown in his face in Berkeley. He was put on the Attorney General’s list, because he had once been a member of the I.W.W. All the causes for which he has fought are now dead, but a part of him died also as each was born and carried to its fruition. He survived, somehow, his century, with artificial limbs and artificial heart and veins, with false teeth and a glass eye, with a plate in his skull and bones out of plastic, with pieces of wire and porcelain inside him— until finally science came to make these things better than those with which man is normally endowed. He was again replaced, piece by piece, until, in the following century, he was far superior to any man of flesh and blood. And so again he fought the rebel battle, being smashed over and over again in the wars the colonies fought against the mother planet, and in the wars the individual worlds fought against the Federation. He is always on some Attorney General’s list, and he plays his banjo and he does not care, for he has placed himself beyond the law by always obeying its spirit rather than its letter. He has had his metal replaced with flesh on many occasions and been a full man once more—but always he hearkens to some distant bugle and plays his banjo and follows—and then he loses his humanity again. He shot craps with Leon Trotsky, who taught him that writers are underpaid; he shared a boxcar with Woody Guthrie, who taught him his music and that singers are underpaid; he supported Fidel Castro for a time, and learned that lawyers are underpaid. He is almost invariably beaten and used and taken advantage of, and he does not care, for his ideals mean more to him than his flesh. Now, of course, the Prince Who Was A Thousand is an unpopular cause. I take it, from what you say, that those who would oppose the House of Life and the House of the Dead will be deemed supporters of the Prince, who has solicited no support—not that that matters. And I daresay you oppose the Prince, Wakim. I should also venture a guess that the General will support him, inasmuch as the Prince is a minority group all by himself. The General may be beaten, but he can never be destroyed, Wakim. Here he is now. Ask him yourself, if you’d like.”
Creatures of Light and Darkness Page 6
