What Entropy Means to Me

by George Alec Effinger

  Dore was enthusiastic on the job. He made friends quickly and used materials wisely. He fit in. All nature rejoiced to his presence. When he walked across the lawn the grass in his footsteps stretched out toward him, rather than clinging crushed to the ground. From Dore's small, constant smile I gathered that the tiny blades praised him in their grassy tongue, inaudible to us of course, but related closely to the dialects of his woody friends. It was from his trees that we first got a hint of his pervasive influence: One day, as we labored early in the bean fields, we were astounded to hear the branches of the trees groaning and rustling in perfect four-part harmony, with elegant counterpoints, themes, restatements, all a verdant orchestration of a Scottish pibroch or dirge, according to Cillenavei. We had never heard anything like it, and we knew that no one of us had the skill to teach the trees that music. The trees missed him, more, I'm sure, than my meadows would miss me. Soon we became blasé to swarms of bees humming descants to his absence, or Riverbank pebbles spontaneously forming intricate mandalas with his portrait in the center.

  Dore's established leadership enables us to bear our guilt as well as we do. We console ourselves with trifles. If one of us looks sad, as though he is considering his part in the sacrifice of our brother, someone will say, "What more did he have to look forward to? His hopes were realized. As it was, he had but forty more years of the same. Now he's with Our Parents, doing whatever they do in the great beyond." It's not much, but it's all we have.

  Success and personal satisfaction are rarely achieved on one's own. As is usually the case, Dore's happiness was the result of an amicable partnership. This brings me back to my discussion of my courtship of Dyweyne, Dore's amicable partner. It has been some time since I have spoken with her. She avoids me. Yes, but why? It may be because I hide something foul among my motives, to which I myself am yet blind. Or, I choose to believe, because she fears the tempest of feeling that I stir in her. She is too aware of the role she plays, that of grieving mistress; we must assure her that for her, also, life goes on. And here life means . . . me.

  We are separated by a distinction of concepts. She clung closely to home, and, meaningfully, to the house itself; her interest was her gardening. She cared most deeply for her small plots of cultivated soil, blooming near her window and cultured by her conscious volition. I, on the other hand, though as charmed by nature and yellow blossoms as she, prefer the wilder sort, untamed and raw. Therein lies the flaw of difference. My mind is creative and free, able to value beauty wherever I find it; and Dyweyne must rule it, bring it forth exactly as she fancies, in a structured, homelike context. But I still love her. She has withdrawn since Dore's journey, but if only she would trust me I know that I could open her up.

  It is still so quiet. I expect Dyweyne, Joilliena, even Tere.

  If only life mirrored the theater the way theater mirrors life. Then I might have more hope. To a great extent, certainly, my frustration is engendered by the environment: the order and lawfulness of the "city." Here, in this thoroughly governed house, Dyweyne has the resources of custom and system on which to rely. If only I could transport her "to another part of the forest," if, like the abandonment of the town in Love's L. Lost, or Midsummer N.'s Dream, or As Y. L. It, we could bid goodby to this locked-in house and speak with lovers' eyes in the faerie green world, then she'd have difficulty dismissing me.

  Seasons change, feelings change. Thomas Nashe, in his unduly ignored Summer's Last Will and Testament, can afford from his patronized distance to mock the fool. But he himself says, "Give a scholar wine, going to his book, or being about to invent, it sets a new point on his wit, it glazeth it, it scours it, it gives him acumen. . . . " Who will deny that love is my wine? Later Nashe quotes Aristotle: "There is no excellent knowledge without mixture of madness." My madness is Dyweyne; hers is, sadly, Dore. I add the "sadly" for the cause is so futile. Dyweyne, let me make you happy again. Come back, my sister, come back to me and to all of us.

  I heard the tiniest rustle of paper. A note has been slipped beneath my door. Is it from her? No. It is from the desk of . . . Loml. It is in Tere's lovely, flowing script. It says, "You cannot avoid the assignment with fancy footwork. Do you not recall that Dore is still on his goat? Get him off at once. All best, Tere."

  Fortunately, Dore came at last to the simple hut of a poor peat-cutter. The honest serf cut Dore loose and carried him into the decrepit shack, where he and his wife nursed our brother back to health. Dore, in his gratitude, gave the goat to the good peasant.

  PART THREE

  What Fairer Soul E'er Dwelt This Mortal Cell

  Chapter Nine

  A Moral Dilemma

  Do you know why this is ridiculous? Because we don't know that any of this ever happened. It's silly to write it down. Someday these words are going to be quoted as gospel; the very topographical discrepancies will be passed off as "miracles." We ought at least to send somebody out to see that Dore isn't lying in a ditch just a little way from here. I mentioned this to Tere this morning and he said, "Wonderful! What a great idea. We should send someone to find Dore, even as he was sent to find Our Father. We could have his words firsthand and end this disruptive squabbling. But whom could we send?"

  Who, indeed, eldest son.

  The squabbling to which Tere refers is the first symptom of a genuine religious war. I had not given my brother and his sparring partner, Ateichál, credit enough for their zeal. I had assumed that the matter of their differing attitudes toward Dore was the equivalent of cocktail party chatter. I apologize. Their respective creeds are shaping up nicely now, and are demanding much too much of our time. Petitions are being circulated, loyalty oaths are being signed, processions of masked monks block the hallways, and my little history is due to become a major battleground. Tere made a few statements in the Times-Register, and when Ateichál asked for equal space for rebuttal she was denied. I suppose that Yord was still miffed at what our undefiled sister did with Mylvelane, his best drama and book reviewer. Now Yord is "not available," and Ateichál has requested my aid.

  Their strategy is simply this: Any thought which is printed, either here or in the paper, without subsequent attack is generally believed to be true. This is not so much a logical condition as it is a fault of human nature. A longstanding or constant idea is often equated with a true one. So Tere and Ateichál want to get out as many tracts as they can, hoping that the other will overlook some important point, which will then be incorporated in the growing Mystery of Dore.

  Tere made some preliminary remarks concerning the platform of his new party, the Fraternal. He said that while Ateichál was correct in deifying Dore, a step which ought to have been taken long ago, she was wrong in denying that his mission to learn the secrets of the River was equal to his search for Our Father. Such a denial was an implied limitation on Dore's goodness and ability.

  Ateichál answered this by saying that Tere's insistence on Dore's contract with us mortals is impious. Tere assumes that we here in the house are worthy of such salvation, an assumption never enunciated or even hinted by Our Parents or Dore. Ateichál admits that such an eventual reconciliation among all the members of our family could occur; she is not willing to promise it with assurance.

  The Humanist Party, the liberal wing, temporarily leaderless with the removal to the backyard pen of its last four chairmen, still firmly denies the divinity of Dore.

  And everyone is aware of the power I wield. I am influencing public opinion with each chapter I write. Does Dore seem to be seeking Our Father? Does he seem to be gathering facts about the River and our world? The question of the merits of beliefs, Tere's, Ateichál's, anyone's, is to a great extent political. During other periods of time the war against heresy was a war for the status quo, more than a passionate defense of doctrine. But here the situation is reversed; everyone has left the status quo, for it was so obviously stagnant and sterile. What we have now is a venomous battle to establish Something, and I feel it is my part to stay neutral, giving the
facts as I see them. I've gotten myself into enough trouble.

  I, uh, think that both Tere and Ateichál's viewpoints have a lot to commend themselves. I question, however, the tendency to put Our Parents in the background, obscured for the moment by Dore's brilliant ascendancy.

  Lalichë laughs. "That's it, Seyt," she says. "You tell them."

  Dore and his friend Glorian walked on freshly, enjoying the beauty of the forest and the meadows. So far from our house, Dore had difficulty understanding the harsh accents of his green-growing intimates, but he laughed often and passed on the choicest witticisms to Glorian. Glorian said little, and when Dore inquired what was troubling him, Glorian replied, "Our time is coming. I must prepare myself." This was all the information that Dore could get, and it left him puzzled and frightened.

  One day, about a month after Dore outwitted the giant Despair, Glorian turned to our brother. "Do you recall the lady Narlinia von Glech?" he asked.

  "Von Glech?" said Dore, pretending that he could not place the name of that deceitful woman. "Was she not the sister of Snolli von Glech, who so basely stole my small treasure?"

  "That's her," said Glorian grimly. "The castle of old Baron von Glech is not far from here. I trust you'll want to drop in."

  Dore was astonished. "Why, yes. I'd feel more secure with Battlefriend at my side."

  "And perhaps you'd care to call on Narlinia, too?" Dore did not reply; Glorian chuckled. "But you must know that the way will be no less filled with dangers than it has been in the past."

  "That's a shame," said Dore. "I'd like a long, soaky bath and a warm meal."

  "I know of a small kingdom ahead where you might be able to achieve those ends, and a clean bed thrown into the bargain. King Herodes is an old-time acquaintance of mine."

  "Like Dr. Dread?" said Dore sarcastically.

  "I'm sorry," said Glorian, "but you're well aware that everything that's happened has strengthened your moral fiber. That's what I'm for."

  "How far to the king's house?"

  Glorian just smiled again and pointed. They traveled until late in the afternoon. From the top of a hill Dore looked down into a large valley, bounded on the farther side by rolling green hills and, beyond, a distant, rugged range of mountains. "The River runs just on the other side of those peaks," said Glorian, and Dore spent some time gazing at them with interest.

  In the middle of the valley was a small walled town. Dore could see what appeared to be the palace in the center of the village, with towers roofed with bright gold. The two men descended into the valley and reached the entrance to the town just before the rains began, as the guards were locking the gates.

  "Who seeks entrance to Monthurst, capital of his majesty, King Herodes?" challenged a mailed soldier.

  "It is I, Glorian of the Knowledge, and I bring Dore, a worthy pilgrim."

  "How are you, Glorian?" called the soldier.

  "Fine. What's new in Monthurst?" said the strange companion, now tall and strong, with long arms and a broad, sturdy back. His hair was brown and fell to his shoulders. He wore a long velvet robe, gathered at the waist by a rope woven of golden threads. On his head was a silver crown with five points, each topped with a polished onyx.

  "Nothing, really. Go on in, the king'll be glad to see you."

  Glorian turned to Dore and said, "See, they know me here. Relax." Dore grimaced and followed his friend into the town. They went straight to the king's palace, which was built of large stone blocks set together without mortar. Around the building were many gardens and fountains, and the townsfolk seemed happy and prosperous. The guards at the palace door recognized Glorian immediately, and he and Dore were let in.

  "Ah, Glorian!" said King Herodes with delight. "It's been a long time. You should come more often; you're always welcome."

  "Thank you, King," said Glorian. "I'd like to introduce my friend, Dore First, who has traveled a great distance and is weary. Dore, meet King Herodes of Monthurst."

  "A friend of Glorian's . . ." said the king, smiling.

  "I'm honored," said Dore with a small, tactful bow.

  "Has he met the Queen?" the king asked Glorian.

  "Not yet, I believe," said Glorian. "I'm sure he would appreciate a good meal, though, before the rigors of courtly life."

  "Of course." The king clapped his hands, and attendants hurried off to prepare the banquet. The king put his arm around Dore and escorted him from the hall. "Wait until you meet my wife. Queen Corylis is the most beautiful woman in the world. Glorian will tell you that I wouldn't settle for second best. Wait until you see her. Better yet, you'll just have to sleep with her tonight."

  Dore was horrified. Hospitality was one thing, but Dore couldn't accept the responsibility. There is good promiscuity and bad promiscuity, and another man's wife is an example of the latter. Our Mother drummed this into our heads every four days. We had to have some standards.

  "I appreciate the offer, King Herodes," said Dore slowly, "but I don't think I could allow myself the liberty. I'm a pilgrim, you see, and we have a sort of code."

  The king looked angry. "You'll sleep with Corylis and like it, or I'll be deeply insulted. And your friend here will no doubt instruct you that it is never good policy to offend a powerful monarch within his own palace. Until dinner, then." And the king went away.

  Dyweyne will be pleased, I think. I choose to believe that the political frenzy in the house has driven her even deeper into her widow's seclusion, but I will admit that I have added to her agitation. Dyweyne, come out and let the grateful sun kiss your shining eyes. Can you not see the way Dore has grown on these pages? He was intelligent, and that means that he was adaptable: able to mature and change his outlook, blessed though provincial, and learn to live a life of honor and innocence among the screaming ills of the world. I have done well by your lover, and I want to do well by you. You can't cling to the past forever, you know. Come out; it'll do you good.

  I think that in the midst of the tempestuous political situation in the house at the moment, the development of jealousies and amative excesses can only work to our disadvantage. A certain unity is required, for it seems that for the most part it has been the solitary, unskillful, visionary thinkers who have been put to the Question. We all heard Nieb ask jokingly if Dore had a hairpiece. Two months ago we would have laughed for hours, but today we sat uncomfortably in our seats and waited for the green- or blue-cowled brethren to lead him away. It is all a matter of a strange sort of affection between Tere and Ateichál; somehow this is the working out of their unreal betrothal.

  Joilliena, whom I have not forgotten but merely set aside, must feel a jealousy for Dyweyne, who must know jealousy for the ladies Dore meets in my spurious history. I am ashamed to admit my jealousy for Dore and for the blinding light of his love which dims my own poor flame. None of this is healthy or safe. United in mutual esteem we could act sensibly in each other's defense. Jealousy stirs the mind to restlessness. One falls victim to an unjust way of thinking; one misrepresents the words of others, hunting within each sentence for fuel to feed that hideous passion. Does this not sound like the symptoms afflicting our virginal sister and our flouncing brother?

  A brief bulletin has arrived from the latter, during my preceding meander of ideas. Lalichë will read it, as I am much too concerned with Dore's coming epiphany to care.

  "'A high-level official of the newly formed Fraternal Party,'" says my little sister, innocent of factional ties, "'defined Ateichál's error as one of observation and interpretation, and absolved her from what he termed "willful impiety, maliciously or otherwise designed to undermine the faith of our family." Dore, the statement continued, obviously had two missions, each precisely as important as the other. Ateichál has not seen the necessity for each, and is thus unable to accept their duality. We pray for her enlightenment.'"

  Lalichë and I wait for our sister's reply. It is not long in coming:

  "'From her small, austere chamber in the North Tower, Ateichál issued t
he following statement of position: "Any presumption of motive is blasphemy; any limitation of action is heresy. I will not dictate Our holy Brother's inspirations, and I will not demand redemption at his hands." I thank Tere for his meaningless absolution, and deeply regret that, until such time as he assumes responsibility for his faulty belief, I cannot extend the same to him.'"

  I certainly wish they'd get together and talk things over. I don't understand the difficulty: They make an ideal couple. Tere's inclinations in no way endanger Ateichál's purity. Besides, I've seen the plans for the new and larger heretic compound.

  Such are the knotty trials of love. All the half-learned, misunderstood concepts of honor and respect get mixed up with personal pride to make a classic approach-avoidance situation. Dore would not have minded a free amatory encounter, but his instincts and his training denied him access to another man's chosen partner.

  "King Herodes is a nice enough fellow," said Dore, "but he won't understand that I can't make love to his wife. In the first place, where's he going to sleep? What's he going to do while I'm with his queen, read a good book?"

  Glorian was inspecting the vast collection of armor and weapons in the palace's trophy room. He put down an impressive double-edged sword and sighed. "Dore, there are different customs in different places. You're not still back in that insane house of yours. You ought to be glad. You ought to open yourself to new ideas."

  Dore paced impatiently. "And you're the one who's always lecturing me on ethics and wholesome thoughts."

  "But you're under compulsion. The situation doesn't present you with a choice."

  "What if I make one anyway?" asked Dore solemnly.

  "You mean refuse the king?"