What Entropy Means to Me

by George Alec Effinger

  But the others . . .

  "Isn't that Mylvelane?" I ask in horror.

  "You can still recognize her? Yes, she's 49127046 now. A dangerous heretic who couldn't be saved. Oh, Ateichál tried. They spent many nights together. I could hear the loud cries from my room down the hall. But she was hopeless. She is better off here, and so are we."

  I can say nothing. Dozens of brothers and sisters were tried, found guilty, and . . . sentenced. And still Ateichál wants to save their souls. She climbs the stairs and takes her place at the front of the balcony. She is entirely naked, unadorned in the service of Dore, her spiritual lover. She wears only a small gilded chain around her thick neck. I don't understand the significance, and I am reluctant to ask Sabt. She has her light blonde hair in tight curls, like a helmet for her pious battle. She carries some flowers wrapped in waxed paper; after a short introductory prayer to Our Father and Mother asking for Dore's safe return she throws the flowers down to the numbered audience. None of those in the pen make any move toward the offering. Ateichál's heavy, unclothed body does not excite me.

  "Let us speak today of goodness," she says in her gospel voice. "Does anyone still believe in it?" Naked, large-boned Ateichál lets the silence sweep in, and only Sabt's rustling program disturbs the effect. "Can anyone cite me an example of goodness, now that Our heavenly Father and Our earthly Mother have left us, now that Dore, our priceless Link, has followed?" Once again she permits a peaceless quiet to form around us.

  "God has given over the rule of the world to his subordinate angels, and they have proven to be traitors. The very seat of goodness has been overthrown. We must make the best of what we have. Order has gone. Morality is irrelevant. All that is left is us. Our Father cleared a home of calmness and justice in the midst of this chaos. Our Mother programed us with the precepts necessary for a good life. We may spend our allotted seventy years in whatever mode we most desire; but it was for Dore, and Dore alone, to be called to his Parents' side, to discover the answer to the question we may know only as 'Why.' We are as machinery, to facilitate Dore's quest. He is doing it not for us, but instead we are sacrificing ourselves for him. It is to be a seventy-year sacrifice for each of us, and for our children, and for each generation to come. It is necessary. Why? I do not know. You must have faith."

  I begin to think about Ateichál's words, about the blackness of her universe, and I glance down into the pit, into the pen, the corral that imprisons my heretic brothers and sisters. Ateichál's words are very . . . interesting. They are very . . . interesting.

  "There is only teleology. The purpose of the world, of the Creation of everything, is to get Dore along on his journey. For us, now that we have played our expediting role, there is only life. Life without further goals beyond selfish pleasures. We have seventy years to kill. All that we do, all work, all play, all cultural, organizational, intellectual, bestial activity represents nothing more than an effort to rid ourselves temporarily of that oppressive fact. Seventy years, with nothing to come after. Such a gross waste of energy, were it not for Dore! Let us be thankful to him for that, at least! Let us be thankful that we have had him, as so many billions have not. Let us be thankful that he may still serve, in prayer, as intermittent diversion. Seventy years, my brothers and sisters! Such a long time to pass. The hours move so slowly.

  "Without Dore, what do we have? Hope. And hope is an illusion, a romance. The universe is emptier than we are, my friends. There is no universal Good waiting for you to pass your scabby human trials. There is no Good at all." Ateichál drops her clenched fists to her sides. She begins to weep, and Sabt hurries to her with a dark-blue cloak. Before the departure of Dore, Ateichál was a student of the bones of Home, delighting in the dark and stuffy shafts beneath the ground, and in the mineral treasures to be found there. The brooch that closes her cloak is made of lead, shaped to resemble a fleshless human jaw of teeth.

  Tere takes Ateichál's place on the balcony, moving with great dramatic sweeps of cloak and waving of arms. "Come, my children," he shouts through his impervious smile, "sing with me. Move your arms, my dears," he says, his eyes wide, his voice cracking. "Move your feet, move your necks for Dore!" "Thank you," said Dore.

  "Eh?" said Despair, covering his crusted eyes suddenly with his huge, filthy hands.

  "For setting me free," said Dore. Glorian had disappeared.

  "No, wait," said the giant, stumbling back against his boulder door. "Nothing, there is nothing, don't you see. No goodness left at all. They're right, loo. There is nothing to hope for, loo, nothing to live for." The giant made several strange choking sounds behind his hands, and Dore watched anxiously, worried for Despair, his new friend. The giant straightened at last, and breathed heavily. He recaptured Dore with one quick movement.

  "There is no evil, and there is no good," said Dore. "There is some truth in both sentiments, I think, but perhaps a compromise is closer —"

  "No, loo, no, loo," said the giant, carrying Dore back through the tunnels, not even stopping to light a torch.

  I hear that gentle knock. Dore is back in the cattle fold now; he was nearly free, but now he's back in his foul-smelling prison. The knock on the door means that Dyweyne would like to speak with me. Her brother and lover has just been plucked from the eager arms of freedom, and yet she calls on me. I welcome her. Her face is creased and wet: what distasteful feelings does she read in me? My sister, as much as Mr. Oscar Wilde's well-known fictional portrait, shows to me my real self, and I choose not to look too closely.

  "Why?" she says, weeping. "That is not Dore. You do not describe the brother you knew. What are you doing to him?"

  No one else in our family can make me feel—guilty.

  "Is it because his quest is so pointless?" she asks. "Why do you not give him a real task? He was heroic and noble, but how can he be in your silly situations? You have taken Dore and yes, even Our Father and Mother, and changed them to fit your strange narrative. Why, Seyt?"

  Well, I explain, no, I haven't, really. I can't expect her to understand about my allegory or the complex framework I am building. She is too simple, too generous to accept such sophisticated technique. I say nothing more. Dyweyne realizes that she is powerless to make me understand her: My artistic integrity is stronger than her sentimentality, which is as it should be. Romanticism is for adolescents, and stark realism is for the mindless. I demand effort on the part of the reader.

  If I have distorted my characters, I'm sure Tere and Ateichál would let me know.

  Glorian and Dore stood against the wooden railing of the empty pen. Glorian was trying desperately to revive Dore's foundering morale. If only Dore knew how we were all behind him one hundred percent, how we all wished him success, how we all worried about him and even, secretly, tossed unimportant books into the River for his well-being, I'm sure he would have been heartened.

  "Did you sleep well last night?" asked Glorian.

  "Yes, I suppose," said Dore, "although I was troubled by a strange dream."

  "Oh? Perhaps it was some sort of omen. Tell me of it."

  "Certainly," said Dore. "I dreamed of a domino."

  "Just one?"

  "Yes, just the one. All night. No people or sounds in the dream, just the domino. The five-three."

  "Wonderful!" cried Glorian. "The five-three is a lucky little devil. It presages victory after hardships. It confirms your inner ambition, but counsels you to avoid extremes, to temper pleasure with practicality. Advances in music, art, and drama are indicated. Rely on good manners and good taste. The five-three is a domino of hope and good news."

  "Are you making that up?" said Dore suspiciously.

  I am reminded of the many stories, perhaps apocryphal, of Our Father and his fantastic ability with dominoes.

  "See what I made you, Seyt?" Lalichë explodes into my closet of a room, carrying a large, colored construction paper gift. On one side is a golden snake with the head of a lion, apparently floating above an altar. Around it is written i
n Lalichë's childish hand, "I, even I, am the Good Angel or perhaps Spirit." On the back is pasted a triangle of letters:

  A

  EE

  HHH

  I I I I

  OOOOO

  YYYYYY

  WWWWWWW

  and beneath that is written, "Please keep the contents of Seyt's chest in working order."

  "What is it for?" I ask my little sister.

  "It's a Gnostic amulet," she says solemnly. "That's Knubis, the Sun of the Universe."

  "I know," I say, "but those W's are supposed to be omegas. And why did you give it to me?"

  "You have stirred the wrath of Tere and Ateichál," says Lalichë, kissing me suddenly on my cheek and running from the room. At the door she stops and says, "I've never heard of any stories of Our Father being skillful with dominoes."

  "You're too young," I say, my mind considering her warning.

  "No," said Glorian. "But let us consider your plight. Captured by a Giant Despair, like Christian and Hopeful in Bunyan's ever-popular Pilgrim's Progress."

  "I could never get through that," said Dore.

  "Never mind. Perhaps we could take a lesson from them."

  "How did they escape?"

  "They were put in a 'dungeon, nasty and stinking.' "

  "Uh huh."

  "They had neither food nor water from Wednesday morning until Saturday night. Every day the giant beat them unmercifully."

  "Say," said Dore, "how do you know all these things?"

  "That's what I was put here for," said Glorian, giving me a secret smile. "Anyway, the giant counseled suicide, rather than their continuing a life of pain in his dungeon. Fortunately, Christian had a key called promise that could open every lock in the giant's castle."

  "That was fortunate. What do I do?"

  "You consider some more. Spenser. The Faerie Queene. Despair's not a legitimate giant, but he's big and he lives in a cave. His charmed speeches persuade everyone who listens to kill himself."

  "Apparently despair leads to suicide."

  "Yes," said Glorian, as pleased as any tutor with Dore's understanding. "Despair is the greatest of evils, because it limits and denies God's infinite love and mercy. One is saying that one's sins are so great that even God couldn't forgive them. A perverse sort of pride. Do you want to kill yourself?"

  "No," said Dore seriously, "things haven't gotten that bad."

  "Fine, my lad."

  "How does Spenser's hero kill Despair?"

  "He doesn't," said Glorian sadly. "His girl friend saves him."

  "Oh," said Dore. "Are we done considering?"

  "Not just yet. Before Spenser's Despair episode, a real giant is killed. Orgoglio, Carnal Pride. When he's stabbed he deflates like a blown-up balloon."

  "That's dumb."

  "Well, they used to think the erection of the penis was caused by air. Giants are phallic symbols."

  "I've heard that somewhere else lately," said Dore disgustedly.

  No, that was Lalichë telling me that.

  Dore was silent for several seconds. "You want me to stab him in the chest?"

  "I guess so," said Glorian.

  "With what?" There was no answer. Dore thought of the other giants he had heard about. Glorian was silent, and for a while Dore thought that the mystic ally might have abandoned him again.

  "How about pulling an Odysseus?" said Dore to himself.

  "Congratulations!" said Glorian. "I was just waiting to see how long it would take you. Come, let us sharpen the stake. The giant will be back to lead out the goats very soon."

  "Let's skip the stake, all right?" asked Dore. "That's too gratuitous. Besides, do you really think he'd lead the goats out blind?"

  "I don't know," said Glorian doubtfully. "You'll be easy to spot."

  "I will not blind that stupid monster," said Dore. "He's in bad enough shape already. Let's go find the goat pen."

  In the terrible darkness the two men stumbled and bruised themselves repeatedly, before the impatient noises of the goats directed them to their goal. Dore was frantic for a while, trying to find something to use to fasten himself to the underside of a large goat. Quite by accident he discovered two large buckets suspended from a pole by long ropes, evidently used by the giant to transport milk. In a few minutes Glorian had tied Dore to the breast of the animal. There was nothing left now but suspense.

  Dore's face was pressed against the goat's stinking chest, and thus he did not see the approaching light of the giant's torch. But he could hear the familiar looing, and Dore grew more anxious as he waited to be discovered. But after the she-goats had been milked Dore knew by the motion of his own that the flock was being led outside. Fortunately, Dore's animal neither led the way nor straggled conspicuously, and after a nervous journey Dore was finally outside. He had no idea how long it had been since he had seen the sun, and even now all he could see were gray, curly goat hairs.

  He heard Glorian whisper, "Here, you evil-smelling beast!" and then Dore felt a sharp bump, as though Glorian had kicked the goat. The animal began to run, and Dore hoped it would not attract the attention of the giant. At the bottom of Despair's hill he tried to call out, but his voice was muffled by the closeness of the goat. "Tell your next victim my name is Dore," he cried.

  "What?" said the giant, looking around for his captive.

  "My name is Dore!" shouted our brother, his words still garbled.

  "Eh?" said the giant.

  "Never mind," said Dore.

  "Eh? What?"

  And so Dore devised and executed his own escape from the prison of the giant Despair, bound to the bottom of a raw-boned goat. And, also, he conquers Despair, the chiefest of heresies. Tere? Ateichál? All right?

  And you, Dyweyne: How's that?

  Chapter Seven

  Goats That Pass in the Night

  Where is Dore now? Tied upside-down to the bottom of a goat, yes, of course; but where? I had him wandering away from the River, through a forest to the giant's mountain. Now he's gone back down the hill. I don't suppose the goat would pick his way through that dense thicket, so for now Dore's going even further from the River. Slowly we are learning that the River runs as a great life-giving and sanity-maintaining force through our world. The farther one travels from its blessed banks the more irrational become the local inhabitants, and even the environment itself. And now, helpless, Dore is carried deeper into that enveloping chaos. We must fear for his safety.

  The goat stopped to eat some grass. "Glorian?" said Dore. "Let me down, Glorian, I'm getting tired." There was, natürlich, no answer. "I'm getting very hungry, you know that, Glorian?" Silence, broken only by peaceful, innocent bird songs. A warm sun in a white sky, the heartening sounds of insects at work and play, the friendly welcome of growing things: None of this relieved Dore's aching neck and back, his leaden arms and legs, his parched throat and empty stomach.

  Where the goat skips, there skips he. As the goat stood idly munching the early-afternoon grass, Dore began to be aware of noises around him that didn't conform to the vicinage: metal clinking on metal, meanings, sounds of feet tramping across the meadow. The people had to approach very closely before Dore could actually see them. Indeed, a man spoke up before Dore was aware of his presence.

  "Hello, I've found some sort of beast," shouted the man.

  "A horse, perhaps?" said one of the others.

  "No," said the first, "it seems to have horns. It's not large enough for a horse, either. It may be a goat."

  "Yes," said Dore, "it's a goat."

  "It talks!" said the first man fearfully, moving away. Dore could see that he was dressed in a very ragged military uniform. He carried an absurdly ancient rifle over his shoulder, in such disrepair that Dore did not believe it could be fired. The man's trousers were tattered and patched, and his feet were bound up in filthy rags.

  "No," said Dore, "it's just me. I'd be grateful if you'd get me down."

  "Is it a demon?" asked one of the other men, who
had gathered around the goat at a respectful distance.

  "No," said the first man, "it didn't seem to burn when I touched it. I think it is merely a talking goat."

  "Can't you see me?" said Dore in exasperation.

  "No," said one, "of course not. We're blind."

  "Blind? An army, blind?"

  "We're retreating, aren't we?" said the first man.

  "How did it happen? What strange weapon or terror blinded you all, to a man?" asked Dore with his noted compassion recognizable in his voice.

  "Oh, we were blind when we set out," said one of the shabby warriors.

  "Ah!" said Dore in anguish. "What people could send out such a handicapped and futile force to defend them?"

  "It's not as bad as all that," said the first man, as the others began to take up again their stumbling, painful march homeward. "We are from the village of Newburg, and we have constant border disputes with another village, Springfield. But years ago our rulers agreed on this method of keeping the carnage to a minimum. Both villages gather together their sightless citizens of all ages, men and women. We are armed and led on our way out of town. If and when by chance we should meet the blind army of Springfield, we engage them as best we can. This way there is no one to witness the horrors of war, and no one is left with crippling visual memories of the butchery. Indeed, few are ever hurt, and never by design but only through chance and the holy will of God. After a time we regroup, and the army of Springfield marshals itself, and the two forces return to their homes. The sight of our poor band, limping, bleeding more from low-hanging branches than bullets, torn and dirty and tired and completely vincible, is enough to frighten our fellow citizens back into their safe parlors. We look so utterly defeated that everyone expects momentarily the Springfield army of occupation. They wait breathlessly for the new masters, for the life of slavery and hopelessness. Of course, the townsfolk of Springfield are thinking the same thing. And everyone is content to live for a while without interference, happy to be left alone, grateful for the negligence of the conquerors."