Lamb

by Christopher Moore

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what I expected. Maybe something a little—I don’t know—smaller.”

  “Could you find your way back out of these canyons if you had to?” Joshua asked.

  “Nope. You?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Ahmad waddled over to the great door and pulled a cord that hung down from a hole in the wall. Somewhere inside we heard the ringing of some great bell. (Only later would we learn that it was the sound of a gong.) A smaller door within the door opened and a girl stuck her head out. “What?” She had the round face and high cheekbones of an Oriental, and there were great blue wings painted on her face above her eyes.

  “It’s Ahmad. Ahmad Mahadd Ubaidullaganji. I’ve brought Balthasar the boy he has been waiting for.” Ahmad gestured in our direction.

  The girl looked skeptical. “Scrawny. You sure that’s the one?”

  “That’s the one. Tell Balthasar he owes me.”

  “Who’s that with him?”

  “That’s his stupid friend. No extra charge for him.”

  “You bring the monkey’s paws?” the girl asked.

  “Yes, and the other herbs and minerals Balthasar asked for.”

  “Okay, wait here.” She closed the door, was gone only a second, then returned. “Send just the two of them in, alone. Balthasar must examine them, then he will deal with you.”

  “There’s no need to be mysterious, woman, I’ve been in Balthasar’s house a hundred times. Now quit dilly-dallying and open the door.”

  “Silence!” the girl shouted. “The great Balthasar will not be mocked. Send in the boys, alone.” Then she slammed the little door and we could hear her cackling echo out the windows above.

  Ahmad shook his head in disgust and waved us over to the door. “Just go. I don’t know what he’s up to, but just go.”

  Joshua and I dismounted, took our packs off the camels, and edged over to the huge door. Joshua looked at me as if wondering what to do, then reached for the cord to ring the bell, but as he did, the door creaked open just wide enough for one of us to enter if we turned sideways. It was pitch black inside except for a narrow stripe of light, which told us nothing. Joshua again looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m just the stupid no-extra-charge friend,” I said, bowing. “After you.”

  Joshua moved though the door and I followed. When we were inside only a few feet, the huge door slammed with a sound like thunder and we stood there in complete darkness. I’m sure I could feel things scurrying around my feet in the dark.

  There was a bright flash and a great column of red smoke rose in front of us, illuminated by a light coming from the ceiling somewhere. It smelled of brimstone and stung my nose. Joshua coughed and we both backed against the door as a figure stepped out of the smoke. He—it—stood as tall as any two men, although he was thin. He wore a long purple robe, embroidered with strange symbols in gold and silver, hooded, so we saw no face, only glowing red eyes set back in a field of black. He held a bright lamp out as if to examine us by the light.

  “Satan,” I said under my breath to Joshua, pressing my back against the great iron door so hard that I could feel rust flakes imbedding in my skin through my tunic.

  “It’s not Satan,” Joshua said.

  “Who would disturb the sanctity of my fortress?” boomed the figure. I nearly wet myself at hearing his voice.

  “I’m Joshua of Nazareth,” Joshua said, trying to be casual, but his voice broke on Nazareth. “And this is Biff, also of Nazareth. We’re looking for Balthasar. He came to Bethlehem, where I was born, many years ago looking for me. I have to ask him some questions.”

  “Balthasar is no more of this world.” The dark figure reached into his robe and pulled out a glowing dagger, which he held high, then plunged into his own chest. There was an explosion, a flash, and an anguished roar, as if someone had killed a lion. Joshua and I turned and frantically scratched at the iron door, looking for a latch. We were both making an incoherent terrorized sound that I can only describe as the verbal version of running, sort of an extended rhythmic howl that paused only when the last of each lungful of air squeaked out of us.

  Then I heard the laughing and Joshua grabbed my arm. The laughing got louder. Joshua swung me around to face death in purple. As I turned the dark figure threw back his hood and I saw the grinning black face and shaved head of a man—a very tall man, but a man nonetheless. He threw open the robe and I could see that it was, indeed, a man. A man who had been standing on the shoulders of two young Asian women who had been hiding beneath the very long robe.

  “Just fuckin’ with you,” he said. Then he giggled.

  He leapt off of the women’s shoulders and took a deep breath before doubling over and hugging himself with laughter. Tears streamed out of his big chestnut eyes.

  “You should have seen the look on your faces. Girls, did you see that?” The women, who wore simple linen robes, didn’t seem as amused as the man. They looked embarrassed and a little impatient, as if they’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything but this.

  “Balthasar?” Joshua asked.

  “Yeah,” said Balthasar, who stood up now and was only a little taller than I was. “Sorry, I don’t get many visitors. So you’re Joshua?”

  “Yes,” Joshua said, an edge in his voice.

  “I didn’t recognize you without the swaddling clothes. And this is your servant?”

  “My friend, Biff.”

  “Same thing. Bring your friend. Come in. The girls will attend to Ahmad for the time being.” He stalked off down a corridor into the mountain, his long purple robe trailing behind him like the tail of a dragon.

  We stood there by the door, not moving, until we realized that once Balthasar turned a corner with his lamp we’d be in darkness again, so we took off after him.

  As we ran down the corridor, I thought of how far we had traveled, and what we had left behind, and I felt as if I was going to be sick to my stomach any second. “Wise man?” I said to Joshua.

  “My mother has never lied to me,” said Josh.

  “That you know of,” I said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Well, by pretending to have an overactive bladder, I’ve managed to sneak enough time in the bathroom to finish reading this Gospel of Matthew. I don’t know who the Matthew is that wrote this, but it certainly wasn’t our Matthew. While our Matthew was a whiz at numbers (as you might expect from a tax collector), he couldn’t write his own name in the sand without making three mistakes. Whoever wrote this Gospel obviously got the information at least secondhand, maybe thirdhand. I’m not here to criticize, but please, he never mentions me. Not once. I know my protests go against the humility that Joshua taught, but please, I was his best friend. Not to mention the fact that this Matthew (if that really is his name) takes great care in describing Joshua’s genealogy back to King David, but after Joshua is born and the three wise men show up at the stable in Bethlehem, then you don’t hear from Joshua again until he’s thirty. Thirty! As if nothing happened from the manger until John baptized us. Jeez.

  Anyway, now I know why I was brought back from the dead to write this Gospel. If the rest of this “New Testament” is anything like the book of Matthew, they need someone to write about Joshua’s life who was actually there: me.

  I can’t believe I wasn’t even mentioned once. It’s all I can do to keep from asking Raziel what in the hell happened. He probably showed up a hundred years too late to correct this Matthew fellow. Oh my, there’s a frightening thought, edited by the moron angel. I can’t let that happen.

  And the ending? Where did he get that?

  I’ll see what this next guy, this Mark, has to say, but I’m not getting my hopes up.

  The first thing that we noticed about Balthasar’s fortress was that there were no right angles, no angles period, only curves. As we followed the magus through corridors, and from level to level, we never saw so much as a squared-off stair step, instead there were spiral ra
mps leading from level to level, and although the fortress spread all over the cliff face, no room was more than one doorway away from a window. Once we were above the ground level, there was always light from the windows and the creepy feeling we’d had when we entered quickly passed away. The stone of the walls was more yellow in color than the limestone of Jerusalem, yet it had the same smooth appearance. Overall it gave the impression that you were walking through the polished entrails of some huge living creature.

  “Did you build this place, Balthasar?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” he said, without turning around. “This place was always here, I simply had to remove the stone that occupied it.”

  “Oh,” I said, having gained no knowledge whatsoever.

  We passed no doors, but myriad open archways and round portals which opened into chambers of various shapes and sizes. As we passed one egg-shaped doorway obscured by a curtain of beads Balthasar mumbled, “The girls stay in there.”

  “Girls?” I said.

  “Girls?” Joshua said.

  “Yes, girls, you ninnies,” Balthasar said. “Humans much like yourselves, except smarter and better smelling.”

  Well, I knew that. I mean, we’d seen the two of them, hadn’t we? I knew what girls were.

  He pressed on until we came to the only other door I had seen since we entered, this one another huge, ironclad monster held closed with three iron bolts as big around as my arm and a heavy brass lock engraved with strange characters. The magus stopped and tilted an ear to the door. His heavy gold earring clinked against one of the bolts. He turned to us and whispered, and for the first time I could clearly see that the magus was very old, despite the strength of his laugh and the spring in his step. “You may go anywhere you wish while you stay here, but you must never open this door. Xiong zai.”

  “Xiong zai,” I repeated to Joshua in case he’d missed it.

  “Xiong zai.” He nodded with total lack of understanding.

  Mankind, I suppose, is designed to run on—to be motivated by—temptation. If progress is a virtue then this is our greatest gift. (For what is curiosity if not intellectual temptation? And what progress is there without curiosity?) On the other hand, can you call such a profound weakness a gift, or is it a design flaw? Is temptation itself at fault for man’s woes, or is it simply the lack of judgment in response to temptation? In other words, who is to blame? Mankind, or a bad designer? Because I can’t help but think that if God had never told Adam and Eve to avoid the fruit of the tree of knowledge, that the human race would still be running around naked, dancing in wonderment and blissfully naming stuff between snacks, naps, and shags. By the same token, if Balthasar had passed that great ironclad door that first day without a word of warning, I might have never given it a second glance, and once again, much trouble could have been avoided. Am I to blame for what happened, or is it the author of temptation, God Hisownself?

  Balthasar led us into a grand chamber with silks festooned from the ceiling and the floor covered with fine carpets and pillows. Wine, fruit, cheese, and bread were laid out on several low tables.

  “Rest and refresh,” said Balthasar. “I’ll be back after I finish my business with Ahmad.” Then he hurried off, leaving us alone.

  “So,” I said, “find out what you need to from this guy, then we can get on the road and on to the next wise man.”

  “I’m not sure it’s going to be that quick. In fact, we may be here quite some time. Maybe years.”

  “Years? Joshua, we’re in the middle of nowhere, we can’t spend years here.”

  “Biff, we grew up in the middle of nowhere. What’s the difference?”

  “Girls,” I said.

  “What about them?” Joshua asked.

  “Don’t start.”

  We heard laughter rolling down the corridor into the room and shortly it was followed by Balthasar and Ahmad, who threw themselves down among the pillows and began eating the cheeses and fruits that had been set out.

  “So,” Balthasar said, “Ahmad tells me that you tried to save a bandit, and in the process blinded one of his men, without so much as touching him. Very impressive.”

  Joshua hung his head. “It was a massacre.”

  “Grieve,” Balthasar said, “but consider also the words of the master Lao-tzu: ‘Weapons are instruments of misfortune. Those who are violent do not die naturally.’”

  “Ahmad,” Joshua said, “what will happen to the guard, the one I…”

  “He is no good to me anymore,” said Ahmad. “A shame too, he was the best bowman of the lot. I’ll leave him in Kabul. He’s asked me to give his pay to his wife in Antioch and his other wife in Dunhuang. I suppose he will become a beggar.”

  “Who is Lao-tzu?” I asked.

  “You will have plenty of time to learn of master Lao-tzu,” said Balthasar. “Tomorrow I will assign you a tutor to teach you qi, the path of the Dragon’s Breath, but for now, eat and rest.”

  “Can you believe a Chinaman can be so black?” laughed Ahmad. “Have you ever seen such a thing?”

  “I wore the leopard skin of the shaman when your father was just a twinkle in the great river of stars, Ahmad. I mastered animal magic before you were old enough to walk, and I had learned all the secrets of the sacred Egyptian magic texts before you could sprout a beard. If immortality is to be found among the wisdom of the Chinese masters, then I shall be Chinese as long as it suits me, no matter the color of my skin or the place of my birth.”

  I tried to determine Balthasar’s age. From what he was claiming he would have to be very old indeed, as Ahmad was not young himself, yet his movements were spry and as far as I could see he had all of his teeth and they were perfect. There was none of the feeble dotage that I’d seen in our elders at home.

  “How do you stay so strong, Balthasar?” I asked.

  “Magic.” He grinned.

  “There is no magic but that of the Lord,” Joshua said.

  Balthasar scratched his chin and replied quietly, “Then presumably none without his consent, eh, Joshua?”

  Joshua slouched and stared at the floor.

  Ahmad burst out laughing. “His magic isn’t so mysterious, boys. Balthasar has eight young concubines to draw the poisons from his old body, that’s how he stays young.”

  “Holy moly! Eight?” I was astounded. Aroused. Envious.

  “Does that room with the ironclad door have something to do with your magic?” Joshua asked gravely.

  Balthasar stopped grinning. Ahmad looked from Joshua to the magus and back, bewildered.

  “Let me show you to your quarters,” said Balthasar. “You should wash and rest. Lessons tomorrow. Say good-bye to Ahmad, you’ll not see him again soon.”

  Our quarters were spacious, bigger than the houses we’d grown up in, with carpets on the floor, chairs made of dark exotic hardwoods carved into the shapes of dragons and lions, and a table that held a pitcher and basin for washing. Each of our rooms held a desk and cabinet full of instruments for painting and writing, and something neither of us had ever seen, a bed. A half-wall divided the space between Joshua’s room and mine, so we were able to lie in the beds and talk before falling asleep, just as we had in the desert. I could tell that Joshua was deeply troubled about something that first night.

  “You seem, I don’t know, deeply troubled, Josh.”

  “It’s the bandits. Could I have raised them?”

  “All of them? I don’t know, could you?”

  “I thought about it. I thought that I could make them all walk and breathe again. I thought I could make them live. But I didn’t even try.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was afraid they would have killed us and robbed us if I had. It’s what Balthasar said, ‘Those who are violent do not die naturally.’”

  “The Torah says, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. They were bandits.”

  “But were they bandits always? Would they have been bandits in the years to come?”

  “Sure,
once a bandit, always a bandit. They take an oath or something. Besides, you didn’t kill them.”

  “But I didn’t save them, and I blinded that bowman. That wasn’t right.”

  “You were angry.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “What do you mean, that’s no excuse? You’re God’s Son. God wiped out everyone on earth with a flood because he was angry.”

  “I’m not sure that’s right.”

  “’Scuse me?”

  “We have to go to Kabul. I need to restore that man’s sight if I can.”

  “Joshua, this bed is the most comfortable place I’ve ever been. Can we wait to go to Kabul?”

  “I suppose.”

  Joshua was quiet for a long time and I thought that he might have fallen asleep. I didn’t want to sleep, but I didn’t want to talk about dead bandits either.

  “Hey Josh?”

  “What?”

  “What do you think is in that room with the iron door, what did he call it?”

  “Xiong zai,” said Josh.

  “Yeah, Xiong zai. What do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know, Biff. Maybe you should ask your tutor.”

  Xiong zai means house of doom, in the parlance of feng shui,” said Tiny Feet of the Divine Dance of Joyous Orgasm. She knelt before a low stone table that held an earthenware teapot and cups. She wore a red silk robe trimmed with golden dragons and tied with a black sash. Her hair was black and straight and so long that she had tied it in a knot to keep it from dragging on the floor as she served the tea. Her face was heart-shaped, her skin as smooth as polished alabaster, and if she’d ever been in the sun, the evidence had long since faded. She wore wooden sandals held fast by silk ribbons and her feet, as you might guess from her name, were tiny. It had taken me three days of lessons to get the courage up to ask her about the room.

  She poured the tea daintily, but without ceremony, as she had each of the previous three days before my lessons. But this time, before she handed it to me, she added to my cup a drop of a potion from a tiny porcelain bottle that hung from a chain around her neck.