Deus Irae

by Philip Kindred Dick

  “There,” the bird informed him.

  “New Brunswick, Idaho,” the bird said.

  “That’s because we crossed the state line,” the bird added. “We were in Oregon but now we’re in Idaho. You dig?”

  Tibor said, “Yes.” He flicked the cow and it resumed its great-hoofed march. Now the wheel bearings had begun to squeal and knock again; he heard them but he thought, I can make it to the town, and there I probably can locate a blacksmith who can insert a new bearing unit, possibly one for each wheel. Because if one is running dry, the others must be nearly dry, too. But how much money would it cost?

  “Can you get the repair work on my cart at wholesale prices?” he asked the bird.

  “That doesn’t exist anymore,” the bird said. “There are no factories, just self-contained enclaves such as you see here. I can find a competent repairman, however; there’s at least two in New Brunswick who specialize in repairing prewar equipment.”

  “My cart is postwar,” Tibor said.

  “They can fix that, too.”

  “And the cost?”

  “Maybe we can barter,” the bird said. “Too bad you didn’t pick up some of the valuables of the worm; you could have walked off with any and all of them.”

  “Junk,” Tibor said. And then, amazed, he said, “You mean that such rubbish is considered valuable out here?” They must be far behind our level, he realized. And I’m still close to home. That close, and everything is different. How isolated we are. How little we know. How much has been lost!

  “The bedsprings would have been worth bringing here,” the bird said. “The handymen in the town can use the steel to make tools of several sorts. Knives, picks—a variety of things.”

  “And the transistor radio? When there’s nothing on the air?”

  “The unit could be adapted to form an antifertility generator, to be operated during sexual intercourse.”

  “God,” Tibor said, appalled. “You mean they’re curbing the birth rate? When the population of the world is down to a few million?”

  “Because of the altereds being born,” the bird said. “Like yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so. They would, in New Brunswick, rather have no births than have ugly, deformed mutations spawned all around them.”

  Tibor said, “Maybe they’ll drive me out, as soon as they see me.”

  “Very possibly,” the bird agreed. It fluttered on, down the slope of the hill, toward the flat floor of the valley beneath.

  As they descended, the bird prattled on, telling of the strange and frightening—and fascinating—altereds that had been born in the area during the past few years. Tibor barely listened; the rough jolting of the cart, its front right wheel stuck, made him ill; he shut his eyes, and, trying to relax, prayed for relief from his nausea. Part of it, he realized, is fear… my fear at showing up in New Brunswick, a place I have never been before. What will it be like, finding myself surrounded by strangers? What if I can’t understand, and they can’t understand me? And then he thought, New Brunswick. Maybe he would find someone who still remembered German. That would help, if the tongue hadn’t evolved—or devolved—too far.

  Blithely, the blue jay described various altereds he had seen during his life. “—And some have a single eye in the center of then: head. Cyclopism, I believe it’s called. And with others, when they are born, their hide is cracked and dried and sprouting a heavy coat of dark, coarse fur that covers the baby. And then there was one where its fingers came out of its chest; it had no arms, just like you. And no legs. Just the fingers protruding from the ribcage. It lived almost a year, I understand.”

  “Could it wiggle the fingers?” Tibor asked.

  “It made obscene gestures from tune to time. But no one was really sure that it was intentional.”

  Tibor roused himself from his retracted state. “Were there any more types that you can remember?” Now and then the subject morbidly fascinated him, perhaps because of his own problem. “What about geryons? Any of them, the three-in-ones?”

  “I have seen geryon three-in-ones,” the bird said. “But not at New Brunswick. Farther to the north where more radiation drifted. And in addition I saw one time a human ostrich… that is, long spindly legs, a feathered body, then naked neck up to—”

  “That’s enough,” Tibor said, too unwell to listen to any more.

  The bird cackled, “Let me tell you the best I’ve ever seen, in all the places I’ve ever been. It consists of an external brain which is carried in a bucket or jar, still functioning, with a dense Saran Wrap to protect it from the atmosphere and to keep the blood from draining off. And the owner had to constantly watch it, to see if it hadn’t been dealt a traumatic jolt. That one lived indefinitely, but his whole life was spent in—”

  “No more,” Tibor managed. His nausea had won out over his morbid interest; he again closed his eyes and settled back against the seat behind him.

  They continued on in silence.

  All at once the seized-up front right wheel of the cart came off. It rolled away and disappeared below them; the cart came to a sudden stop as the cow halted, aware that its burden had undergone a fundamental alteration.

  Tibor said thick-tonguedly, “Well, that ends it all for me.” He had anticipated this off and on during his life, and on this Pilg he particularly felt its closeness. Worry had become a doorway to the real, all at once; it had been an irrational fear that actually worked itself out in reality. He felt animal terror, as if he had been caught in a trap, by his foot—if he had had a foot. The animal gnaws its leg off, he thought in overwhelming panic, to get away. But there’s nothing I can do. I have no leg to gnaw off; there’s nothing I can do to save myself.

  “I’ll get help,” the bird said. “Except—” It flew down and came to rest on Tiber’s shoulder. “You’re the only one who can understand me. Write a note and I’ll deliver it.”

  With his right manual extensor Tibor got out a black-leather notebook and ballpoint pen. He wrote: “I, Tibor McMasters, an incomplete, am trapped on the hillside in my ruined cart. Follow the bird.”

  “Okay,” he said; he folded the paper and held it up. The blue jay seized it with his beak, and then, pumping himself up into the warm morning air, he streaked off, toward the valley below and its human—or near-human—inhabitants.

  Silence.

  Maybe I’ll never move forward again, Tibor said to himself. My grave, here. The tomb for my ambitions. Or rather, the ambitions of others operating through me. Yes, my ambitions, too, he realized. I didn’t have to come here; I knew the dangers and yet I came here. So it’s really my fault. To come here and die, so close to what I’m seeking for. Assuming that this was the right place to come.

  “Screw it,” he said aloud.

  The cow turned questioningly. Savagely he flicked at it with his pseudowhip. The cow mooed and tried to walk ahead. But the front axle dug deep into the ground and brought the forward motion to an abrupt halt. All I can do is wait, he realized. If the bird doesn’t come back, or doesn’t bring someone with it, then I’m dead. Here in this ordinary spot. I journeyed here to die. And the God of Wrath will never be found… at least not by me.

  And now what? he asked himself. He examined his watch; the time was nine-thirty. If they’re coming at all they should be here by eleven, he decided. If they’re not here by then—

  Then, he thought, I will give up.

  “I would have liked to see a geryon,” he said aloud, as if to the cow. Maybe I ought to let you go, he pondered. No; if they do come with help I will need you.

  “ ‘Cow, cow,’ “ he quoted. “ ‘I and thou.’ “ He would have liked to go on with the James Stephens poem, but he could not remember any more. ‘Looking in each other’s eyes?’ Was that it?

  How banal, he thought.

  Strange, he thought, how at crucial and unfortunate times one relies not on great poetry but on doggerel. ‘When that one great scorer comes to total up your name it’s not whether you won or lost but how
you played the game.’ That’s it, he realized. Poetry, even great poetry, couldn’t be any better.

  I’ve played the game with honesty and skill, he informed himself.

  “ ‘If wishes were horses then beggars might ride,’ “ he quoted aloud. Silence, except for the breathing of himself and the cow—the animal still strained to reach some lush weeds not far off. “You’re hungry,” he said to her. So am I, he thought. And then he thought, That is how both of us will die: of thirst and hunger. We will drink our own urine to stay alive a little longer, he realized. And it won’t help.

  My life depends on a creature small enough to fit in my hand, he thought. A mutant jay bird… and jays are noted for their lying, stealing ways. A jay is virtually a convict. Why couldn’t it have been a thrush?

  He thought then of a thought which had buffeted him for years. A picture of a creature, some kind of fairly small furred animal. The animal, silently and alone, at its burrow, would build gay and complex oddities, which eventually, when there were enough, it at last carried to a nearby road. There it would set up shop, spreading out on each side of it the things it had made. It sat there in silence all day, waiting for someone to come along and buy one of the things it had made. Time would pass; afternoon would disappear into evening; the world would darken. But the creature had not sold any of its creations. At last, in the glooming, it would wordlessly, meekly, gather up its oddities and go off with them, defeated, but voicing no complaint. Yet its defeat was total, despite the fact that the defeat came slowly, amid silence. As he himself sat here, waiting. He would, like the creature, wait and wait; the world would grow dark, then lighten the next day. And so it would go, again. Until at last he would not awaken with the sun; there would be no more silent hope—only an inert body slumped in the seat of the cart. I must let the cow loose eventually, he realized. But I’ll keep her here as long as I can. It is reassuring to see another creature, he decided. At least as long as it’s not suffering.

  Are you suffering? he wondered. No, you don’t understand; for you it’s only a period of immobility, with no recognition of what the immobility signifies.

  “Lord of Wrath,” he said aloud, voicing the familiar liturgy. “Come to me. Scourge me over all and take me with you to Country. Place me among the ranks of the Great Florist.” He waited, eyes shut. No response. “Are you with me?” he asked. “Sir, you who have done so much; you who control all suffering. Redeem me from my present suffering. You made it happen; you are responsible for my travail. Lift me out of it as only you can do, Deus Irae.”

  At that he paused and waited. Still no response, either in the world outside him or in the internal realm of his mind.

  I will consult—hell, not consult; beg—the older God to appear, he told himself. The defeated, vestigial religion of our forefathers.

  Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,

  dona eis requiem sempiternam.

  Still nothing. Neither had helped.

  But His ways are sometimes slow, he reflected. His time is not our time; for Him it may be only a blink of the eye.

  Libera me domine.

  “I give up,” he said aloud, and felt himself, his body, do so. All at once he was tired; in fact he could not hold his head up. Maybe this is the release I asked for, he thought. Maybe He will give me a nice death, a painless one: swift and quiet. A sort of going to sleep, as they used to provide sick or injured pet animals… whom they loved.

  Tremens factus sum ego et timeo!

  Bits and pieces of the old mass, or was it from a medieval poem? A Catholic requiem?

  Mors stupebit et natura,

  cum resurget creatura, judicanti responsura!

  He could remember nothing more. The hell with it, he decided. They never come when you want them, he told himself.

  A great clear light formed in the sky above him. He peeped, half blinded, shielding his eyes with the terminal of his left manual gripper. The clear light sank toward him; now it had become smoky red, a billowing, nebulous disk that seemed heated up and inflamed, angry from within. And now it could be heard: a sizzling racket like rushing wind or something white-hot being plunged furiously into water. A few initial warm drops of moisture dripped down on him. The particles scalded him and, instinctively, he shoved his body aside.

  The disk above him grew into a more formed—but still plastic—state. He could make out features on its surface: eyes, a mouth, ears, tangled hair. The mouth was screaming at him, but he could not make out the words. “What?” he said, still gazing upward. He saw now that the face was angry, at him. What had he done to displease it? He did not even know who or what it was.

  “You mock at me!” the shifting, vibrating, weepy face roared. “I am a candle to you, a dim light leading into light. See what I can do to save you if I wish. How easy it is.” The mouth of the face bubbled with words. “Pray!” the face demanded. “On your hands and knees!”

  “But,” Tibor said, “I have no hands or knees.”

  “It is mine to do,” the great lit-up face said. Tibor all at once found himself lifted upward, then set down hard, on the grass by the cart. Legs. He was kneeling. He saw the long mobile forms, two of them, supporting him. He saw, too, his arms and hands, on which the top portion of his frame rested. And his feet.

  “You,” Tibor gasped, “are Carleton Lufteufel.” Only the God of Wrath could do what had just been achieved.

  “Pray!” the face instructed.

  Tibor said, mumbling his words, “I have never mocked the greatest entity in the universe. I beg not for forgiveness, but for understanding. If you knew me better—”

  “I know you, Tibor,” the face declared.

  “Not really. Not completely. I am a complex person, and theology itself is complex, these days. I have done no worse than anyone else; in fact much better than most. Do you understand that I am on a Pilg, searching for your physical identity, so that I can paint—”

  “I know,” the God of Wrath interrupted. “I know what you know and a great many more things besides. I sent the bird. I caused you to travel close enough to the worm so that he would come out and try to gnaw on you. Do you understand that? It was I who made your right front wheel bearings go out. You have been in my power all this time. Throughout your Pilg.”

  Tibor, using his new hands, reached into the storage compartment of the cart and whipped out an instant Color-Pack Polaroid Land camera; he took a quick shot of the moaning face above him, then waited impatiently for the ring to sound.

  “You did what?” the mouth demanded. “You took a photograph of me?”

  “Yes,” Tibor said. “To see if you’re real.” And for other very real reasons.

  “I am real.” The mouth spat out its rebuttal.

  “Why have you done all these things?” Tibor asked. “What is there so important about me?”

  “You are not important. But your Pilg is. You intend to find me and kill me.”

  “No!” Tibor shot back. “Just to photograph you!” He grabbed the edge of the print and dragged it out of the protesting camera.

  The picture showed the wild, frenzied face absolutely clearly. Beyond any possibility of doubt.

  It was Carleton Lufteufel. The man he had searched for. The man who lay at the far end of his god-knew-how-long Pilg.

  The Pilg was over.

  “You are going to use that?” the Deus Irae inquired. “That snapshot? No, I do not like it.” A quiver of his chin… and, in Tiber’s right hand, the print shriveled up, let loose a plume of smoke, and fell quietly to the ground in me form of ashes.

  “And my arms and legs?” Tibor said, panting.

  “Mine, too.” The God of Wrath studied him, and, as he did so, Tibor found himself rising like a rag doll. He landed on his ass in the driver’s seat of the cart. And, at the same moment, his legs, his feet, his arms, his hands—all vanished. Once again he was limbless; he sat there in his seat, panting in frenzy. For a few seconds he had been like everyone else. It was the ultimate moment
for Tibor: restitution for an entire life led in this useless condition.

  “God,” he managed to say, presently.

  “Do you see?” the God of Wrath demanded. “Do you understand what I can do?”

  Tibor grated, “Yes.”

  “Will you terminate your Pilg?”

  “I—” He hesitated. “No,” he said after a pause. “Not yet. The bird said—”

  “I was that bird. I know what I said.” The God’s anger softened, momentarily anyhow. “The bird led you closer to me; close enough for me to greet you myself, as I wanted to. As I had to do. I have two bodies. One you are seeing now; it is eternal, uncorruptible, like the body Christ appeared in after the resurrection. When Timothy met him and pushed his hand into Christ’s wound.”

  “Side,” Tibor said. “Into his side. And it was Thomas.”

  The God of Wrath darkened, cloudily; his features began to become transparent. “You have seen this guise,” the God of Wrath declared. “This body. But there is also another body, a physical body which grows old and decays… a corruptible body, as Paul put it. You must not find that.”

  “Do you think I’ll destroy it?” Tibor said.

  “Yes.” The face disappeared, barely speaking its last word. The sky, once again blue, formed a hollow bowl vault erected by giants—or by gods. From some deep-seated, early period on the Earth, perhaps back in the Cambrian period.

  After a moment Tibor let go of his derringer; sitting in his cart, he had held it out of sight. What would have happened, he conjectured, if I had tried to kill him? Nothing, he decided. The body I saw him in was, undoubtedly, what he claimed it to be: a manifestation of something incorruptible.

  I never could have tried, he realized. It was a bluff. But the God of Wrath didn’t know that; unless of course he was omnipotent, as the Christians believe their God to be.