Anthony, Piers - Tarot 3 - Faith of Tarot

by Faith of Tarot (lit)

  He approached another hamlet. But before he could set up his show, a child hurried up. Children seemed to be ubiquitous messengers, perhaps because they were not yet locked into the labor system. "Juggler—the Lord of the Manor suspects—you must go!"

  Brother Paul did not question the message. There could have been an informer at last night's meeting. A horseman could have ridden at night, carrying the news: a heretic missionary! He packed up his equipment immediately and departed the village. He was weary—but this was no place to stay.

  He cleared the village, but now was not sure what to do. He had not eaten in several hours, though the pangs of hunger had not yet touched him. He was more tired than he really should be, and the thought of sleeping in another tree crotch did not appeal. Yet if the villages were not safe—

  The path led up a hill—and there at the height, gruesome in the gloom of husk, was a gibbet. A man was working at it, taking down the rope. He spied Brother Paul. "Too late!" he called down cheerily. "You missed it. He's already been hanged, taken down, drawn and quartered."

  Brother Paul paused. He was not feeling good, and this did not improve his outlook. Since he might be under suspicion himself, he could not openly express his revulsion. "Well, I had a long way to come."

  "You should have hurried." The man's tongue ran around his mouth, tasting the memory. "It was something to see! He must've kicked his feet a full minute! Still, it was too good for him. I'd have had him quartered live! Stealing the Lord's best horse, running it half to death—we're well rid of him!"

  So a poor peasant had been executed publicly for stealing a horse. Well, that was justice in the medieval age; horses were valuable.

  "But stay around," the man said. "Almost every week we have a new show. Mostly foot hangings, but some of them aren't bad. They—"

  "Foot hangings?" Something piqued Brother Paul's curiosity, morbidly.

  "Right. For minor stuff like killing a peasant or fucking a witch." The gibbetsman laughed coarsely, but Brother Paul was not certain this was humor. "String him up by one foot, let him swing a day. Some are tough; they don't seem to notice it. But some scream like all hell, and some die without a mark on them."

  Hanging by one foot. Now Brother Paul recognized what had jogged his curiosity. One of the Triumphs of the Tarot was titled the Hanged Man, and that man was suspended by one foot. He had put another interpretation on that card before, but naturally it related to this crude medieval torture. The Tarot reflected the life of its times. How much misinterpretation there had been in subsequent centuries of that card!

  Brother Paul shook his head and moved on, feeling worse. But he had hardly put the gibbet out of sight when he heard something. A horse!

  He hurried off the path. Maybe what he heard was innocent—but he could not take the risk. Even though he had merely impersonated the barba, he had spoken heresy, which was against what this medieval culture called the word of God, and that was a serious matter. The Inquisition—

  The horseman passed. Brother Paul heaved a sigh of relief and returned to the path. He would go as far as he could while light remained, watching for a good place to spend the night.

  His groin hurt. He paused to explore it, for a moment harboring the wild hope that his genitals were somehow growing back. This was not the case; there was merely some sort of swelling there, perhaps of the lymph nodes. It made walking awkward. As if he didn't have problems enough, without food or lodging or water—

  Water! Suddenly he was ravenously thirsty. Was there a spring near here? The path had strayed away from the great river, rising into the hills; he needed water here, not a league away.

  He staggered, feeling dizzy. He was hot, burning up; he knew it though he had no objective way to check his temperature. His skin itched.

  Slowly the realization dawned. He had observed these symptoms before. In the Juggler—just before he died.

  He had the dread plague.

  Brother Paul fell headlong in the path, striking heavily and rolling part way over. He saw the moon hanging in the gloomy dusk sky. Isis, Goddess of Luna, the principle of female deception, stared obscurely down at him from her filling crescent: the face of the womb. Somewhere a sad hound bayed.

  It was no time at all—but also an eternity of fading in and out, retching, burning thirst, pain. Discovery; exclamations. "Get it off the road!" But he remained because no one would touch him for fear of contamination. Then one came who was willing, and Brother Paul was dumped unceremoniously into a wagon. He bumped along, being taken—where? Obviously to the burial dump for plague victims.

  He tried to say something, but his mouth would not work properly, and the noise of the wheels was loud. And what difference did it make? He would soon be dead anyway. Satan had granted his wish. He had not wished for life. Not his own life.

  Lights shone: lamps in the night. Buildings loomed. He was coming into metropolitan Hell. The demon driving the wagon stopped to converse with a devil guarding the gate to some torture station. Money changed hands. Money—the love of which was the root of all evil. How fitting that it dominate the rituals of Hell! Then the two of them came back to Brother Paul and hauled him out of the wagon and walked him through the narrow portal of the building. They dragged him stumbling upstairs and finally laid him out on a pallet. Maybe some vivisection to lead off the festivities...

  Troubled unconsciousness. Something at his face: he felt wetness. The water torture! But he was so parched he had to gulp it down. Then other tortures; bitter herbs to eat, cold washing of body, sleep.

  Now he woke in a clean bed. A man about his own age stood over him. He had a full black beard, above which dark, seemingly hooded eyes looked out. "I think you have passed the nadir, stranger." The voice was familiar.

  "I have the Black Death," Brother Paul said. "My companion died of it."

  "Many do. You came close. But I have a certain finesse with herbs, and your constitution is strong." He drew up a wooden chair and seated himself beside the bed. "The question is, why did a castrate Waldens barba stricken by plague call my name?"

  Brother Paul focused on him, confused. "Your name?"

  "I am Abraham the Jew."

  Oh. "My companion gave me two names before he died. One was yours. I did not realize I spoke it aloud."

  "Fortunate for you that you did. I am interested in strange things—in magic and sorcery and odd faiths. So when the burial detail heard you name me, they brought you here. I saw at once that you were of a heretical sect—but what is Christian heresy to a Jew? I neither gave away your secret nor let them dump you to die. Intrigued by curiosity, I paid their fee and gave you drink and medication. Now I seek my reward: complete information on you and your magic."

  Could he trust this man? Did it matter? Evidently this was not formal Hell, after all, but a continuation of the medieval vision. Brother Paul decided to tell the truth or as much of it as made sense. "I am no barba. I am a stranger to this realm, who was befriended by a Waldens missionary who had lost his companion. Then he died, and I took his place."

  "A risky impersonation. Are you not aware what they do to heretics?"

  "I was fleeing the Holy Office when I fell ill," Brother Paul admitted.

  "You say the barba named me. Where did he get my name? I have not before had dealings with the Waldenses. In fact, I had not realized they were into sorcery."

  "Only the magic of God's great love," Brother Paul said. "The rest is stage trickery to entertain the masses and allay suspicion. I suppose the Waldenses keep track of those who might help them in emergency, and you were the one for the city of Worms."

  "That seems reasonable," Abraham agreed. "For as it developed, I have helped you. Yet surely they were aware that all Jews are grasping usurers and that I would not help one of their number unless they made it amply worth my while." He smiled briefly. "I am sorry you are not the real Uncle; I am most curious what payment they proposed to proffer. What was the other name the dead man uttered?"

  Bro
ther Paul concentrated, and it came back. "Abra-Melim, the Mage of Egypt."

  The Jew shook his head. "That name means nothing to me. And Egypt is far away from Worms."

  "True." Brother Paul felt tired already. He dropped off to sleep, and Abraham let him be.

  He woke later—perhaps it was another day—feeling Stronger. The Jew's herbs must have been potent! Some sound had disturbed him. Maybe it had been the Jew delivering food; at any rate, there was a sweet roll and an ewer of milk beside his bed, though he was alone.

  Brother Paul began to eat and drink, glad for his hunger; he was definitely on the mend. He had thought he was finished when he came down with the bubonic plague, but of course it was not a hundred per cent fatal. Good care had been all that he needed. How fortunate that he had cried out Abraham's name in his delirium!

  Abraham the Jew—there was a nagging familiarity about him. Shave off that beard and—of course! He was Therion in this new role.

  What did that mean? The Good Companion had died; now he was again in the power of the Evil Companion. Lee had been the Wand of Fire; Therion was the Sword of Air. What did this devious servant of Satan have in mind for him this time?

  Now he heard voices and realized that this was what had awakened him. One was Abraham; the other—no, it could not be the Juggler, for he was dead in this sequence. A stranger, then.

  What stranger would seek him out? Had the Jew, angry because he could not repay his board, betrayed him for a price to the Inquisition? If so, how could he escape? He was feeling better, but not that much better. This was the first food he had eaten in perhaps two days: good, but hardly enough.

  "...minstrel, ill with the Black Death," Abraham's voice came more clearly. "No harm in him."

  "I shall be the judge of that," the other responded firmly. "There is news of a shameless heretic in this region."

  "Heresy!" Abraham snorted derisively. "Your entire Church is a heresy by our definition!"

  "Jew, you have had an easy life in this fair city," the other retorted grimly. "It could become more difficult." There was cold menace in the too-familiar voice. It sounded so very much like the Juggler in his guise as a priest.

  "I merely expressed a viewpoint." Abraham's voice had turned conciliatory; the threat had had its effect. "To us, there is not a great difference between Christians and the Moors. Both of their founders were prophets subscribing to our principles; both cults are comparatively young."

  They had evidently halted on the landing near Brother Paul's door, engrossed in their unamiable dialogue. "Jew, you do not draw on an inexhaustible supply of tolerance," the other said warningly. "I will interview this man."

  "I do not know whether he is in fit condition to be interviewed," Abraham protested. He spoke loudly and clearly—obviously intending Brother Paul to overhear. That did not seem like betrayal—yet the ways of the Evil Companion were invariably devious. "He is merely a stage magician who fooled me into supposing he might possess real magic; a charlatan. Of no interest to your Order."

  "Jew—" The freighting of that single word was eloquent.

  "Well, we shall see." Abraham opened the door.

  Brother Paul refused to play a game of deception by feigning sleep. He had had enough of deception! "Greetings," he said as they entered. He continued munching his bread.

  The visitor wore a white habit with a black mantle: the classical garb of a Dominican monk. His beard was neat, his eyes piercing, and he had an air of grim concentration. "I am Brother Thomas, a Black Friar," he said.

  It was! It was Lee in a new part! He had survived the death of his prior part! "How glad I am to see you, friend!" Brother Paul exclaimed.

  The Friar looked at him sternly. "Have we met before?"

  Of course Lee would play the part properly, inflexibly; that was his way. And what a part he had now! He had become his former enemy, the Inquisition.

  Lee had also, in life, been something of a racist. Now he was a "Black" Friar. It was only a name, of course—but in these Animations names were often a vital part of the symbolism. Lee was really making up for past indiscretions! Of course, since this was an aspect of Hell, Satan might have required—

  "Perhaps he performed a show at your house, one time," Abraham said. And what of Therion: he had ridiculed the Bible, and now was a Jew. Satan had given him a hellish assignment too!

  "Let him speak for himself." The Friar's penetrating gaze swung to bear on Brother Paul again. "Juggler, why did you address me as 'friend'?"

  Brother Paul had allowed his racing thoughts to distract him from his present situation. Now he had to play his own part. "I thought I recognized you, but I may have been mistaken."

  Brother Thomas's glance was too keen. This man would make a devastating enemy! "Surely we have not encountered each other before; I have no connection with stage magicians or others of that ilk. Yet there is no doubting the flash of recognition that illuminated your features just now."

  This was awkward. Surely Lee-the-player recognized and remembered Brother-Paul-the-player. But this part of "Brother Thomas" had not met him. So the Dominican would have to verify by some legitimate means what the player Lee already knew to be the case: that Brother Paul was playing the part of a heretic missionary. Probably, by the standards of historical Dominicans, Brother Paul's own Holy Order of Vision was heretical. So he was in trouble, regardless.

  Or was he? Lee would play the part of Brother Thomas straight, inflexibly accurate—but the player was limited in his interpretation of the part by his own background. Brother Paul would not be able to best a true Dominican in theological debate; after all, Saint Thomas Aquinas, from whose name this part had probably been drawn, had been a Dominican—perhaps the most redoubtable Catholic theologian of all time. But Lee was no Dominican, in life, and no Catholic. He was at a disadvantage. So was Therion, whose Horned God was the antithesis of the Jewish Jehovah. Brother Paul found he rather enjoyed the irony.

  "You do not answer?" the Friar demanded. "This is suspicious."

  And suspicion was tantamount to conviction with the Inquisition! He had to get talking! "I am not a common juggler," Brother Paul said. What was the best line to take, knowing that part of this man knew the truth, and so could not be deceived? How close to that truth could he come without, by the rules of this grim game, giving away the Waldenses and thus betraying his promise to this same player in another guise? Yet Brother Paul's own religious and ethical scruples prevented him from lying. The barba impersonation was a very special case. Never, since he joined the Holy Order of Vision, had Brother Paul failed to honor the truth as he understood it. He had once concealed his childhood fears even from himself, and his one-time addiction to the memory drug had caused other obscurities in his life. That was over; he did not intend to practice concealment again, no matter what pressure Satan applied.

  "And what would be behind that innocent facade?" Brother Thomas inquired. He was intent, expectant, closing in on the heresy his memory from his previous role knew was there, if only he could prove it here. Yet Brother Paul perceived a misgiving in him, the suppressed regret of a man who did what we required though it was personally painful. Lee wanted to lose this fish—but as the Black Friar he was bound to do his utmost to reel it in. And his chances of failure were diminishingly small.

  Oh, Satan, you have crafted the most artistic fiendishness yet! You have forced us to destroy ourselves, knowingly. For even Therion, in the role of a man who had harbored a heretic, would be doomed.

  Well, why not the truth? Extraordinary measures would be required to extricate themselves from this maelstrom. Brother Paul had told it before. The other players had assigned parts, but Brother Paul played himself, even when he assumed another role as now. He was himself pretending to be the Juggler, not himself cast in the role of the Juggler. A difficult but key distinction. He was under no obligation that he knew of to make pretenses. "I am a visitor from another—"

  But his own self-protective censor cut him off. There
were different levels of truth here in Animation. He had experienced how directly these visions could affect the people within them. If he said something here that convinced the Friar that he was a lunatic or a heretic, he could lose his part. And for him, unlike the others, his part was his life. This was not worth the risk. "Land," he finished lamely. Then, before the Friar could follow that up, he added: "I am a Brother of a Christian Order there."

  "Would that land be Italy?" Brother Thomas asked.

  Italy—the home of the Pope (one of them, anyway) and of the Waldens heresy. Loaded question! "No. It is across the ocean, perhaps unknown to you. But we have Dominican monks, and I thought you were one I knew until I saw that you were merely another of that excellent Order." Which disposed of the recognition problem—he hoped. "We believe in the original message of Jesus Christ and the Apostle Paul." Brother Paul was not about to be caught up in any great ignorance concerning Jesus or him namesake Paul; he was on secure footing here.

  "Those are apt beliefs," the Dominican observed wryly.

  "The Holy Bible is an apt tutor."

  "Now that I can agree with," Abraham put in. "Certainly the Hebrew Text which you refer to as the Old Testament. To us, Jesus was merely a man—a good man, perhaps, and a prophet, but nevertheless a man. Jesus was a Jew; he followed the Scriptures we originated and codified." In this role, Therion could not challenge the origin of the Old Testament, whatever private doubts he had.

  "Yet you slew Him!" Brother Thomas snapped. "For that you are forever accursed!"

  Abraham spread his hands disingenuously. "An unfortunate complication. Your Saint Paul was also a Christian killer, you know. Remember how he had Stephen stoned?"

  Oh, Therion was enjoying this now!

  "Saint Paul repented!" the Friar said hotly. "He himself suffered stoning for his Christian faith!"