What was the present state of Lee, his Good Companion? Infused by the aura of Antares, he had played the role of Jesus Christ and had not died. But historically, Jesus had risen again. Now Lee, as the Juggler, had died again, more convincingly, for he was no longer the Son of God but a mere mortal man. A played part or reality?
If the player died, surely his part died too, for a dead person could not animate a living one—not in this manner. Antares was a special case. If a part died, the player might live or die, depending. If a part lived, the player had to live. Therefore, the only way to be certain was to keep this part alive; then he would know that Carolyn lived in all forms. Even though the form he loved had not yet been born in his own time framework.
The logic might be suspect, but his feeling was not. He had to save her. Though Satan Himself dictated otherwise. To Hell with Satan!
"I will try," Brother Paul said, realizing that these words committed him with finality to this part within the play. He was impersonating the Juggler, the part that belonged to his friend. He was deceiving these good people. The Moon, he thought, experiencing the awful poignancy of it. Planet of deceit. He had thought his honor was his most important asset; now Satan had shown him it was not. For the sake of an unborn child, the mere part in a play, his honor was forfeit.
If this manifest failure in his character damned him to Hell, he thought again, so be it. These people might be illusory, and this play might be scripted by Satan, but Brother Paul was what he was in reality or imagination. He had to try to save this child.
He knelt beside her and put the fingers of his right hand to her forehead. The flies buzzed up angrily. Her body was not feverish. Was this a good sign? Maybe not; cancer would not necessarily cause a fever. His left hand took her thin right hand. How bony her fingers were!
"My dear," he said.
There was no perceptible response. Her breathing continued with labored regularity. She was asleep, but not blithely so; he feared she was locked in some internal nightmare as bad as his own.
He concentrated, willing her to wake, to recover. Antares had told him he had an aura and that this might be used to heal; Jesus Christ had implied the same. If this were true, he might be able to help this child. "Wake, little one," he said, praying for it to happen.
But it did not happen. His prayer met a blank wall. Brother Paul was not Jesus Christ; he could not heal by mere touch and will. Not even when the subject was his daughter.
At last, defeated, he rose. "We cannot know the ways of God, except when He wills it," he said sadly. What had he done wrong? "I will see this child again." And he would. Again and again, for this was the one defeat he could not accept as final.
The old woman nodded soberly. Had she expected more from him?
Brother Paul returned to the center of the room. All eyes followed him expectantly. He had come prepared to put on a magic show, but this was obviously not what they had come for. They wanted a message from the Waldenses, an affirmation of faith.
He had in effect perjured himself when he ministered to the child. Should he aggravate it now? He looked at the faces of old and young, shining with hope, and knew that he had to complete his own damnation. He could not destroy their belief when he knew there was no alternative for them. Both true barbe for this route were dead, and it might be another year before another set came this way. Better a makeshift message than none at all. Even the actors of a play written in Hell deserved some consideration.
What of the Juggler? What would he have done in this situation? Brother Paul knew: he would have given a ringing presentation of his faith. Now Brother Paul had assumed the missionary's place; was there any more fitting way to repay the favors the Juggler had done him? What better epitaph than a declaration of the message the Juggler had sought to bring!
"Brothers and Sisters of the faith," Brother Paul began, experiencing sudden stage fright. "I—am a novice. The true barba who was instructing me, guiding me, to whom I was apprentice—that good man perished before he could reach you. I beg your indulgence, for I have not before presented the message of the Waldenses alone."
No one responded. They took his words as mere apology, the ritual modesty, missing the literal import. He was the uncle, the religious guide; experience made little difference. So his partial confession of his deceit was no confession at all. Satan made it very easy to sin!
Well, he would simply have to do it. He would give them the message of the Waldenses as well as he was able. It was not a bad message—not at all.
"The Waldenses follow precepts similar to those of the Albigensians," Brother Paul began. But immediately he saw that it wasn't going over. These people had no knowledge of foreign religious philosophies or the history of heretic sects; they simply believed in the word of the barba.
He tried again. "The Waldenses believe that people should return to the principles that Jesus Christ and the Apostle Paul established. Simplicity, humility, and disinterested love for all mankind." But this wasn't working either. It was a lecture. The Juggler had spoken clearly and rationally to Brother Paul, but that was one literate, educated scholar communicating with another. Peasants and serfs needed something more tangible. The Juggler, when doing his magic show, had appealed to the least sophisticated element of society with the same finesse he had shown Brother Paul. He had been a man for all levels.
It was not enough for the people to desire enlightenment; it had to come in palatable form. These people were what they were: uneducated. Philosophically they were like children: ready to learn, but with limited intellectual experience.
What he really needed was a programmed lesson, preferably illustrated. Pictures were great for illiterates.
Pictures—programmed text. Suddenly it burst upon him. Of course!
Brother Paul brought out the thirty Tarot Triumphs. He extracted the Fool and showed it before him. "Look at this buffoon!" he exclaimed. "He walks with his eyes to the sky while the town cur rips the pants off his bum!"
Now they responded with appreciative surprise. Now he had their attention. Now he could score!
"It is hard indeed for a rich man to approach God," Brother Paul said. "Or for the powerful noble, or the proud priest. What is wealth or power or pride to God? Better to leave all that behind, and seek God with a heart unfettered by worldly things. To be like the Fool, stepping boldly toward his goal, eyes fixed on the splendor of the rainbow, seeking God with pure, selfless love."
There was a murmur of agreement; the poor people were receptive to news that the poor could achieve salvation more readily than the rich. That the buffoon might be nearer to God than the Lord.
"Even if at times it hurts," he concluded, rubbing his own posterior as if it were sore. "For the dogs of Manor and Church have sharp teeth."
The peasants' faces burst into appreciative smiles. The arrogance of the civil and religious authorities was a chronic sore point with them, and they liked hearing them likened to dogs. No doubt about it: Brother Paul was uttering heresy by the definitions of this medieval society—and he was enjoying it.
"This picture is Everyman," he continued. "Every person who seeks truth and enlightenment. He does not have to wander the countryside; the way is prickly enough though he never depart his village. His companions may laugh—yet he presses on, his eyes fixed on that glory that awaits those who persevere despite ridicule and even torture. Call him a fool—but those who laugh are the real fools."
Some peasants started to laugh—then caught themselves. Others began to laugh at them—and suffered similar second thoughts. Most nodded knowingly. They were all fools in this room, suffering persecution for their particular faith in God. Brother Paul had scored again—thanks to the card. It was a good feeling.
"Yet is it better to have some direction," he continued with more confidence. "And so we have the Juggler—" he held up the appropriate card "—who comes in many forms, but always with the same message. It is the message of Jesus Christ, the first great Magician, who sought
to lead erring human souls to the majesty of God. Even with that divine example to follow, many of us can hardly find the way. It is as though the message is magic, appearing and disappearing, eluding us just as we seek to grasp it." And the wand appeared in his hand, waved, and vanished.
He paused. They were with him now, raptly studying the little picture. It spoke better than his words ever could—but it needed interpretation. Perhaps the picture messages could have been made more obvious—but then the Inquisition would have deciphered them too. They had to be clear—only when properly explained. Like locks, they had to open to the proper keys—and resist all other efforts. Indeed they did this; imposter philosophers had missed the point of Tarot for centuries! Alas, even the deck of the Holy Order of Vision was sadly flawed, distorted by a chain of errors of interpretation—yet he had never realized this until he came here to the late fourteenth century. Satan had granted him his wish in full, providing not only the authentic original deck, but also its proper meaning. Yet he had to work out much of that meaning for himself; there was no instant comprehension of a philosophy as complex as Tarot.
Brother Paul held up the Lady Pope. "Yet who tries to give us that divine message? The Whore of Babylon!" He was interrupted by a shout of savage laughter. Oh, yes, they were familiar with that story! "The Church has become a giant succubus, tempting us with the promise of Salvation but leading us into damnation."
He showed the Ghost card. "It is hard to know right from wrong. 'Tell us what to do!' we cry, yet the answer is a blank space. We are all creatures of ignorance. Only God knows all, the Infinite, the Holy Spirit, the Ghost! Our past, present and future are all clouded by the unknown. Who knows which of us will die tomorrow—" He paused, thinking of the sick girl.
Then he thought of himself. His whole participation here was another unknown. In fact, his mission to Planet Tarot in that distant, almost forgotten other reality—He cut off that line of thought and followed through with the same presentation the Juggler had given him, through Empress, Emperor, and Pope. Already he felt like a true Waldens missionary.
Now he came to Love. Except that this was not Love, primarily, but Choice. Through the centuries, he now realized, this card had been interpreted according to its purposely misleading illustration, rather than its more fundamental meaning. Iconographical transformation. Interpreting from the superficial image, rather than comprehending the intent of the symbol. Similar confusion must have phased the Ghost entirely out of existence! It was blank, therefore it stood for nothing, therefore it did not exist. Lord, how many fools had tinkered with Tarot!
But back to Choice: "A person cannot serve both God and Mammon. Riches and worldliness may be very tempting, but their benefit is superficial. Evil often puts on a fair face—yet it remains evil." He himself had been deceived by that fair face in the form of a sparkling intellect when he selected Therion to be his guide in the First Animation. What a price he had paid for that error! Yet it had forced on him a profound humility without which he could not have progressed this far through the rest. After compost, everything smelled better. "Do not choose Love of Possessions over Love of God! Give your heart and soul to Jesus Christ. Dedicate yourselves to doing good—"
A small sigh interrupted him. It should not have been audible over the general rustle of the people in the crowded room, but it sounded like a clarion in his ear. The sick child!
He broke off the presentation and went to the child and took her limp little hand again. "Do not choose the wrong path," he murmured only for her. He became oblivious to the rest of the room. "Come to the light, for we love you."
A tremor passed through her body. Her eyelids flickered. But she did not wake.
Brother Paul felt a horrible premonition: if he did not rouse her now, he would never succeed because she would fade out of part and life together. Whether the strain of three Animations was bearing her down, or whether her physical condition was causing her part to fade with her, or a combination—she was going.
He could not let her go. He had never known her before the Animations, and what he did know was only a young colonist playing a part. But somehow he was sure that there was—or would be—a Carolyn, his daughter. Who would die—or might never exist—if he let her go now. Ludicrous as it might seem to take this premonition seriously, he believed it.
"Pretty child," he murmured, speaking to that most precious spirit he sought, oblivious to all else. "You can only exist if someone believes in you. I believe in you. Someone must love you. I love you. Someone must need you. I need you. If you pass on, I shall have to go with you wherever your spirit leads. You are my future. Without you, my love is wasted. My life is empty. You must wake for me." And he put both hands on the sides of her face, cupping it tenderly, smoothing down the straggly hair, and leaned over and kissed her forehead. There were tears in his eyes, and as he came near her they spilled out and fell on her pale cheek.
He felt a power stirring like the flux of a magnetic field as it might feel to the magnet. It was the aura. Oh, God, he prayed silently. If there is healing power in me, let it heal her now.
"So much care," the old woman murmured, "for a child he doesn't even know." She was speaking with awe, not with cynicism.
"The barba reflects the love he speaks of—the love of God," another said.
If only that were true! Brother Paul's affinities seemed to be much closer to Satan than to God. He had bargained with Satan to save Carolyn from Hell—but had not thought to save her from death. That was the fallacy in dealing with the Devil; no man could outwit that horrendous evil intelligence. Had Satan granted his wish for Tarot knowledge—at the expense of his friend Lee and his child Carolyn?
Somehow he didn't believe that. Couldn't believe that. He had to have faith that Satan, like God, kept His word. Satan could not accurately judge souls if He were corrupt Himself. So this had to be another trial, not a punishment. Maybe Brother Paul was being offered another chance to promote his own private welfare at the expense of hers. To renege on his deal with Satan. All he had to do was let her die and return with his knowledge of Tarot.
"Wake," he murmured desperately. "There is so much for you to live for! Remember the field of flowers, the pine trees, the pretty stones." He almost said "airplane" but caught himself in time.
Her eyelids flickered again. "Stones..." she breathed.
All little girls liked pretty stones! This was fair game. "At the edge of the river," he said urgently. "All colors, rounded, some with streaks of brown or red. Each one separate, each one precious—because it is yours, because you value it. Nothing else can take its place." With inspiration, he reached into a pocket, his fingers sifting through what was there. He found what he wanted, brought it out, pressed it into her hand, and closed her fingers about it. "A stone!" he said. "The most wonderful thing there is! A little chunk of God."
Her hand tightened, feeling the contours of the stone. "Yes..."
"Most wonderful—except for a little girl," he amended. "The stone is nothing without you. It needs you! Take care of it."
A shock of realization went through her. Her eyes popped open. She looked at him, her eyes suddenly great and blue, too large for her face, strikingly beautiful. Her lips trembled, then parted. "Uncle," she whispered.
"Glory!" the old woman exclaimed. "She wakes!" Tears of joy streamed down her face.
Brother Paul felt tears on his own face again. He squeezed the child's hand gently. "Rest, Precious, rest. God is with you." And this was no line in any play; he had never been more sincere.
"God..." she repeated weakly.
"Only have faith in Him; you are His child. No one stands between you and Him. Put your soul in His care; He will not betray you." He squeezed her hand again. "God loves you. This you must believe." Yet there was an underlying current, for when he said God he also meant "I". This was his child too, and he loved her. And had it really been God who had restored her—or Satan?
"I believe..." she said dutifully.
"It is a miracle of healing," the man said.
The child's eyes closed. She was sleeping now, a small smile on her face, the stone tightly held. Brother Paul released her hand and stood up. "It shall be as God wills," he said. "I do not know whether God will take her today—or in twenty years. But she is a creature of God—as are we all."
"Yes, Uncle!" the woman agreed. "How wonderful is the faith you bring!"
"It is the love that Jesus Christ showed to man," Brother Paul said. And silently: Thank you, Jesus!
He thought of returning to his Tarot presentation—but decided against it. The recovery of the child was a better message than any other. If it were really recovery, and not some temporary remission...
Next morning. Brother Paul resumed his journey toward Worms. He already knew as much about the Tarot as he had ever hoped to learn—but it seemed this "wish" had not yet run its full course.
He hoped the sick child recovered fully. It was uncertain at this stage. He had wanted to make provision for news of her progress, but knew there was no safe way to handle this. Even a cryptic message: THE LAMP IS LIT or THE LAMP IS OUT could be hazardous to the health of the messenger—and perhaps the child too. What would the Inquisition do to the living evidence of heretic healing? And peasants could not travel far freely; they were fairly well bound to their lots by the ties of the feudal system. Any man who did not pay his required rents on time, or serve on his Lord's estate, or appear at the regular church services—that man was in trouble.
Brother Paul did not like impersonating the barba, but now there seemed to be no way to avoid it. Only soldiers, minstrels, and the aristocracy could travel freely without being challenged. Soldiers went in groups, and the Lords and priests had horses and retainers. Had the soldiers he had encountered before been quicker witted, they would have been suspicious of a priest afoot and alone; fortunately the Juggler's bold ruse had worked. Brother Paul did not care even to attempt impersonating a bishop!
Anthony, Piers - Tarot 3 - Faith of Tarot Page 11
