Anthony, Piers - Tarot 3 - Faith of Tarot

by Faith of Tarot (lit)

  "Very well spoken, Brother! You are then a traveling friar?"

  "No, not at all. I am here—well, by accident. I don't even know where this is. Or when this is. I am from America, circa 2000 A.D." How would that go over?

  The man smiled again, shaking his head. "I regret I know of neither your Order nor your country, and I surely misunderstand your calendar. But I am ignorant of the fine points of religion; my folk always believed religion originated with fear. I have no knowledge whether this is true. But on geography I am more conversant: this is the land west of the Rhine, north of the Alps, and this is the year of Our Lord 1392, and I am a simple itinerant minstrel, entertainer, and magician. I go by many names, none of them significant; you may call me simply LeBateleur, or the Juggler."

  "The Juggler!" Brother Paul repeated, astonished. "Thirteen ninety-two!"

  "You seem surprised, friend. Have I given offense?"

  "No, no offense! It's just that—in my framework—which seems to be some six centuries after yours—your name is the title of a—what some call a fortune-telling card!"

  The man waved a flute in a careless gesture. "This, too, I do, if there be an obolus in it." He flipped the flute in the air and caught it expertly. "Do you wish your fortune told?"

  "I, uh—no thank you. If an obolus is a unit of money, I have none." Brother Paul seemed to remember a medieval coin worth a cent or so; this could be it. "In fact, I seem to be without resources and cannot repay you for your bread unless there is some service I can do."

  The Juggler looked at him appraisingly. "I will accept payment with a mere song."

  "A song?" Brother Paul found himself liking this unpretentious yet talented character, but this was confusing. "I do not claim to be an accomplished singer, though I do enjoy the form."

  "I will give you the tune so that you may hum as I play." And the Juggler put his shepherd's flute to his lips and played an oddly sad melody.

  "I like it," Brother Paul said. He began to hum, picking up the tune readily. He remembered how, as a child, he had been rebuked for humming. But now he was freed of that geas and could enjoy it.

  As he mastered the song and hummed more forcefully, the Juggler changed his playing. Now it was the descant, complementing and counterpointing Brother Paul's voice. The pipes with their linked yet separate themes were lovely in themselves; but now, augmenting Brother Paul's voice, they lifted the song into a creation of such simple beauty that he found himself in a minor transport of rapture. Music soothed the savage breast indeed.

  When it finished, the Juggler smiled. "Brother Paul, man of Vision, you were unduly modest. You have a voice second only to that of a castrate."

  Brother Paul suffered a feeling of horror quite removed from the intended compliment. In medieval times young boys with good voices were castrated before puberty so that they could retain their sweet high ranges and continue singing in church choirs. The Bible forbade any man "injured in the stones" to enter a congregation of the Lord, but the Church ignored that when its convenience suited. What about himself: had he recovered his masculinity, or was Satan's excision permanent? The Juggler had spoken figuratively; Brother Paul's voice remained tenor since castration after the age of puberty had no immediate effect on range. Yet—

  He could check readily enough. But not right now! "I thank you for the bread—and for the song. I must be on my way. Could you direct me to the nearest town or city?"

  "Merely follow the river, friend! There are hamlets throughout, and eventually to the north you will come to the great city of Worms, the first Imperial Free City of the Empire."

  "Worms! I remember the Diet of Worms, where Martin Luther—" He broke off. The Diet of Worms occurred in 1521—a hundred and thirty years after the year this was supposed to be. He remembered that date with special clarity because there had been a joke among his schoolmates about the "diet of worms" they would have to eat if they misremembered that date. One thousand, five hundred, and twenty one worms to be exact.

  "You have friends in Worms then?" Of course the pronunciation was different with the W sounding more like a V, so the joke was no good for adults.

  Brother Paul cut off his continuing, worm-like thought and answered. "Uh, not exactly. But perhaps I shall find what I seek there."

  "May I inquire what you seek? It is not my business, but I have made many contacts in the course of my travels and perhaps can help direct you."

  "I am looking for a deck of cards called the Tarot."

  The Juggler's brow furrowed. "Ta-row? I think I have heard of some such pastime indulged in by the wealthy." "

  "They are special cards with pictured trumps and numerical suits. We use them as an aid to meditation, but they have a long and checkered history." But the Juggler's obvious perplexity made him pause. Apparently in this role he had no direct knowledge of Tarot. "This is the deck I mentioned where one card has your name: the Juggler or Magician."

  The Juggler spread his hands. "I would be flattered, but this is surely a coincidence. There are many of my ilk, begging our bread and a night's lodging from village to village. Are there also cards for merchants and plowmen and friars?"

  "Not specifically. The cards favor kings, queens, emperors, and popes," Brother Paul said with a smile. "As you suggested: an entertainment of the wealthy."

  "Worms would be the place to seek then," the Juggler said. "It is the capital of the Bishop-Princes and a center of Empire intrigue. I wish you well."

  "Thank you." Brother Paul rose and oriented northward.

  "Move east until you spy the river," the Juggler advised. "The roads are better along its bank, and the villagers are accustomed to travelers."

  Brother Paul nodded appreciatively and walked east.

  By mid-afternoon he was hungry and footsore. He had found the river and a suitable trail north, but the villagers were not particularly hospitable to one who had no money. This idyllic historic land had its drawbacks. But he plodded on.

  A party of ill-kempt soldiers rounded the turn, going south. Brother Paul knew that excellent armor and mail were available to those who could afford it in the fourteenth century, but these men were more like rabble. Instead of chain and gauntlets and swords they wore doublets with patches of leather sewn on for protection, their hands were bare and calloused, and they carried assorted knives and staffs evidently scrounged from what was most readily available.

  They were upon Brother Paul before he realized their nature; because he was hot, grimy, and tired he had not been paying proper attention to his surroundings. "Out of the way, ruffian!" the leader said, striking forward with his staff.

  Brother Paul reacted automatically. Adrenaline flooded his system, abolishing his fatigue. He stepped aside, reaching out with his left hand to catch hold of the moving staff. He turned to the left, his right hand coming down on the soldier's right hand, pinning it to the staff. Now he was beside the soldier, his two hands on the staff along with those of the other man. Brother Paul bent his knees, pushing the staff up and forward, causing the soldier to overbalance. He heaved—and the man flew over Brother Paul's right shoulder to land resoundingly in the dirt. The staff, by no coincidence, remained in Brother Paul's hands.

  "Sorry," he said in his imperfect German. "I thought you meant to attack me." Better to put the most positive face on it!

  But now the other soldiers ringed him, knives drawn. They looked ugly, in feature and attitude. "Who are you, churl?" one demanded.

  "Just a traveler to Worms," Brother Paul said innocently.

  "Who's your Lord?"

  They thought him a servant. "I have no Lord. I'm just looking for the Tarot deck—"

  The soldiers exchanged glances. "Sounds like a heretic to me," one said, and the others nodded agreement. "No protector, interfering with honest troops—let's teach him his place."

  Uh oh. Brother Paul looked around, but there was no retreat. They had him, and they meant trouble. They had delayed their revenge only long enough to ascertain that th
ere would be no likely retribution from some powerful noble who might have sent this stranger on some mission. If Brother Paul tried to escape, he would get stabbed by a dirty knife. If he fought—the same. Better to accept their chastisement—and be more careful next time.

  "We'll flog him," the leader decided, dusting himself off. Brother Paul had not thrown him with damaging force, and the turf had broken the man's fall, so he had taken no injury worse than bruises. "Strip him!"

  Rough hands ripped away Brother Paul's clothing while one of the men unwound a brutal-looking whip. This was not going to be pleasant at all!

  They hauled off the last cloth—and paused. "He's gelded!" one exclaimed.

  "Must be a slave, escaped from a galley—or a convict. We'd better kill him and cut off his ears; might be a reward."

  "Cut off his ears first," one suggested. "I want to hear how a gelding screams."

  Now Brother Paul knew he would have to fight. He had no choice. These were brute men to whom life was cheap, and they had no mercy. By beating and killing others, they sought to redeem their own sorry lot. The leader looked like Therion. Brother Paul braced, noting the position of each. If he caught one and threw him into two others—

  "What's this?" a new voice demanded.

  All turned, startled. It was a priest in black robe with a silver cross glinting at his throat. Even without this uniform, his demeanor would have cowed strangers. It was as if light glinted from his steely eyes.

  "It's nothing, Father," the chief soldier said. "We caught this felon, and—"

  "A heretic," another put in.

  "Allow me to be judge of what is or is not significant, and who is or is not a heretic," the priest said sternly. His pale eyes glared down on Brother Paul as from a great height. He rubbed his nose with two fingers, squinting appraisingly. "Are you not the eunuch of the Apostle?" he demanded.

  Startled, Brother Paul could not answer.

  The priest gestured imperiously. "The Holy Office wants this miscreant. Garb him and bind him; I will convey him to Worms myself."

  "Yes, Father," the soldier agreed, cowed. "But can you handle him alone? We could hamstring him for you. He's a rough—"

  The priest peered down at the man. Something very like a sneer curled his aristocratic lip. "Your tongue wags rather freely, minion. Is it too long?"

  "Father, I—"

  "The Holy Office might arrange to have it cut shorter so that it will no longer interfere with your work."

  With a visible gulp and tightly closed mouth, the soldier turned to get to work on Brother Paul, and the others jumped to help. They could easily have over-powered the priest, but this thought apparently was not in their repertoire. Quickly they replaced Brother Paul's tatters and tied his hands behind him with a length of cloth. It was evident that the mere mention of the Holy Office put a chill into the stoutest military heart.

  "Good men," the priest said gruffly. He lifted two fingers in a careless benediction. "God be with you. Be about your business."

  The soldiers bowed their heads. "Thank you, Father," one said and hastily retreated. In moments they were away and out of sight.

  From the frying pan into the fire?

  The priest considered Brother Paul again. He lifted the crucifix in one hand. "Miscreant, kiss the divine symbol of your Savior," he snapped imperiously.

  The memory of a friend suffering and bleeding on that cross was too fresh. "Kiss my ass," Brother Paul muttered in English. He had read of the corrupt, venial medieval priests, and this one seemed typical of the breed. He spoke of tortures more readily than he spoke of the love of Jesus. Better the untender mercies of the soldiers; at least they were not such hypocrites. When Jesus Christ had gone out for his second crucifixion, men of this ilk had been awaiting him.

  "I could have your ears sent to join your privates," the priest said warningly. Then he smiled. "Do you not know me, Brother Paul?"

  Amazed, Brother Paul recognized him. "Juggler!"

  "Stumble onward, friend; the ruffians may be suspicious. When it is safe, I will release you." And Juggler gave him a cuff on the neck that landed without force. What an actor he was!

  Brother Paul stumbled forward, hunching his back as if cowed. "How—how did you—?"

  "I followed you because my mind was in doubt about you. When it seemed you were authentic, I donned one of the disguises in which I am versed."

  "Just in time, too! They were going to kill me! But why should you—?"

  The Juggler shook his head ruefully. "My friend, I apologize. I took you for a spy of the Inquisition, but such a person would never have sung the heretical melody or have suffered himself to be humiliated as you were by those soldiers, and a eunuch could not have been admitted to the Holy Office. I realized I had misjudged you."

  "The Inquisition? I?" Brother Paul laughed. "I abhor the repression for which the Inquisition stood!"

  "So do I. If I were to fall into the power of the Holy Office—" The Juggler shook his head gravely.

  "But why should they bother you? A mere minstrel and juggler, however talented—"

  "Friend, I must confess that I juggle more than batons," Juggler said, untying Brother Paul's hands. "I am a barba. An Uncle."

  "Uncle?" Brother Paul repeated blankly. He seemed to remember Satan using the term.

  "A missionary of the Waldenses."

  "The Waldenses!" Brother Paul had heard that name before. A historical sect, persecuted for their heretical beliefs.

  "My partner fell victim to the Black Death. I would have saved him if I could—but it was in God's hands, not mine. Now I continue alone, for the believers must be served. But I fear lest my mission be incomplete."

  Now the Juggler quickly removed and reversed his priestly robe. On the inside was his peasant-magician garb. The silver cross was shoved into a deep pocket with a contemptuous twitch of his lip. Now Brother Paul understood the necessity for the Juggler's dramatic abilities. The life expectancy of a suspected heretic was brief indeed. How much worse for a heretic missionary!

  "Juggler—it may be presumptuous to ask—but do you think I might accompany you? I don't know my way around and have no money, but there might be some way I could help if you tell me what to do, and perhaps your route will take me where I am going. I bear no malice to your sect; in my framework there are many Christian and non-Christian religions, and tolerance is part of our custom and our law." Thanks to John Murray and others.

  The Juggler turned to him seriously. "Brother Paul, I was hoping you would make the offer. I think I followed you in the hope that you would turn out to be a compatriot. You see, there are certain aids I need when performing my tricks—and I must perform or the Holy Office will be suspicious, and suspicion is nine-tenths of the law. I do not cheat anyone—my faith forbids that!—but I must put on a realistic show. Only in that manner can I justify my presence so that I can meet with those to whom I bring my message."

  "And what is your message? I am a man of some religious scruple myself, and while I would not seek to interfere with your belief, I—"

  "The Waldenses follow precepts similar to those of the Albigensians. The Albigensians were suppressed by the sword and cross two generations ago, so we profit by their misfortune and tread carefully. A number of their survivors have joined us. We rely on the authority of the Bible, rather than that of the Church. We emphasize the virtues of poverty, and so we cater chiefly to the poor. We insist on the direct relationship between man and God so that priests become irrelevant. We do not believe in confessions or prayers for the dead or the intercession of Saints. Men and women are equal. We do not venerate the cross, which is the torture implement on which Christ died. We missionaries are known as the barbe or Uncles to those we encounter of our faith and to those we convert. Because we spread a message that runs counter to that of the Church—indeed, we feel Christianity could dispense with the formal Church entirely and be the better for it!—we are deemed heretics and suffer the opprobrium thereof. Yet we see th
e temptations of Satan on every side while God remains aloof. We feel that if God recruited as actively as Satan does, this would be a better world. Therefore, we proselytize."

  "There is little in your philosophy to which I take exception," Brother Paul said. "My sect honors the Bible, but also respects the texts of other religions, such as the Buddhists and the Moslems and the Confucians. We would not abolish any sect, but rather seek to coexist in peace with all faiths. Yet I can see that much of your philosophy of religion has come down to my own time and has been incorporated into the faiths of my world including my own Order of Vision. The Quakers honor the direct relation between man and God, calling it the 'Inner Light,' and the Jehovah's Witnesses attempt to combat Satan by active recruiting, and we take what amount to vows of poverty at the Holy Order of Vision—" He spread his hands. "There is too much to cover at the moment."

  "I had hoped this would be the case. Your Order sounds like a sister school."

  "It may be," Brother Paul agreed. "We do not seek converts, but we do lend support to those in need of faith." He paused. "You remind me of someone I knew—in my own time. He—" He broke off. He was getting so carried away with this play that he was forgetting who was playing what part! This was his friend Lee in a new guise. No need to disrupt the scene by remarking on it. "But of course that is irrelevant. I believe your message should be spread, for this age has need of it, and I will help you in what ever way I can."

  "Then let me show you the lesson plan," the Juggler said. "Our devotees are mainly illiterate peasants. They are good people, but they could not read the Bible even if they were permitted to possess it. Even if it were translated to their language from the Latin. What point is there in an unreadable, unavailable Word of God! Yet we dare not carry the Bible with us or anything else that might betray our nature to the Holy Office. So—we use these little pictures whose real nature we carefully conceal from the minions of the Church."