Anthony, Piers - Tarot 3 - Faith of Tarot

by Faith of Tarot (lit)

  Brother Paul shrugged as he dressed. "I wouldn't know. It is only a name to me."

  "Maybe I should go to Egypt," Abraham mused. "If you slip their noose, it may not be safe for me in Worms for a time." But then he smiled. "But I shall be glad to take the risk if only to aggravate that sanctimonious cleric. Come, we shall effect your escape."

  V

  Triumph: 24

  The chief value of the Bible lies in its moral principles and spiritual guidance. To regard it as authoritative in any other field is to fly in the face of modern knowledge. The Bible is not a textbook in science. Its world view is that of the childhood of the race, and this primitive cosmology is seen in all its references to the physical world. The earth is conceived as flat and stationary. The sky is a canopy or vault through whose windows the rain falls. The sun, moon, and stars are contained within this vault. Beneath the earth is Sheol, the realm of the dead. This world and the creatures in it, according to the Scripture, were made in six days. The world in which the Bible was written was one in which human destiny was determined by the stars, sickness was caused by demon possession, the dead were raised, angels stirred the waters of a pool for the healing of the sick, and the Red Sea was parted.

  Many literalists, like Augustine, insist that "Scripture gives no false information" and that if it conflicts with science, so much the worse for science. But others, confronted with the vast discrepancy between the biblical world view and modern knowledge, can distinguish also between the passing and the permanent, between the abiding values of the Bible and their transient setting. They know that changes in civilization do not touch the vital and basic experiences of man. The outmoding of world views cannot belittle the permanence of the Scripture in its moral and spiritual values, its timeless aspirations and deathless convictions. The discoveries of Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton, of Pasteur, Darwin, and Einstein do not in any way impair the universal validity of faith, hope, and love.

  —Fred Gladstone Bratton: A History of the Bible, Boston, Beacon Press 1959.

  Two days later just as hope was rising, Brother Paul felt renewed fatigue and fever. A deep cough developed. It was not a return of the plague, but something else whose symptoms he recognized: pneumonia. He had driven himself too hard, too soon after his prior illness. Now he had to rest—or return to Hell permanently. He had not consciously felt threatened by the plague, awful as it was; it was not a disease to which a twentieth or twenty-first century man was attuned. But pneumonia—that he respected.

  Where could he go? He had headed west from Worms, disguised as a beggar, avoiding any possible contact with likely Waldenses. He had trekked toward France, hoping the minions of the Holy Office would not pursue him beyond the boundaries of the Holy Roman Empire, assuming they picked up his trail. He could not afford any friends, of course; anyone who helped him might suffer at the hands of the Inquisition.

  Abraham, despite his protestations, had given him some money and general advice. He might obtain lodging at some isolated farm for a pittance, and no one would know he was there until days after he was gone.

  Odd how the roles had reversed. Therion had helped him (apologizing for it by muttering about possible reward and aggravation of the status quo), while Lee was out to destroy him. Satan certainly knew how to turn the knife in the wound!

  Brother Paul heard horses on the path. Should he hide—or try to bluff it out? The odds were they weren't after him. What was one suspected heretic in the whole medieval society? Maybe they had never been after him; the Jew had wanted him out, so had concocted the notion of this plot...

  No, he couldn't convince himself. This was not the medieval society; it was an Animation set in it. Historical fiction, and he was the central character. All conspiracies would revolve around him.

  "Brother, you're paranoid," he told himself. He hunched his shoulders within the cloak and trod on. The sounds of the horse became distinguishable: two horses and the creak of wheels. A fast-traveling coach or wagon. He moved over so as to give it room to pass; a coach probably meant a noble and they tended to be arrogant. The horses could run him down and trample him if he got in the way. Beggars weren't worth much.

  The horses came abreast of him, snorting. He glanced sidelong, without turning his head. It was a two-wheeled wagon, canopied, reminding him of a chariot. The chariot of the Tarot of course—power on the move, symbolic of man's journey along the road to salvation.

  He kept on walking, Jetting it pass, still sneaking looks at the horses. The chariot seemed to have slowed, pacing him rather than passing.

  "Juggler!" a too-familiar voice called.

  Oh, no! It was Brother Thomas, the Dominican Friar.

  "Juggler—no need to walk when you can ride," the enemy said cheerily. "How fortunate I am traveling your way!"

  Brother Paul considered running. But he could not outdistance the chariot on the road; he would have to go cross country. He knew he could not get far; he was sick and weak and had to rest, while the Dominican was well and strong.

  Dispiritedly, Brother Paul climbed up into the chariot beside the Friar. There was a seat there, and he sank down on it with physical relief. What else could he do?

  The chariot halted. Brother Thomas steadied him with a firm hand. "We have a barber who can help you," he said. Was there menace there? A barber—surely not a mere cutter of hair. A medieval doctor. Letting out the bad blood, so the patient could improve. A treatment that could be fatal. "No..." Brother Paul protested weakly.

  "Have no fear," the Dominican said reassuringly. "Our barber employs only the very best leeches, culled weekly from the Seine."

  Bloodsucking worms from the river. Brother Paul thought about vomiting, but lacked the energy. Then something else nagged him. "The Seine?"

  "We are a long way from Worms, friend," Brother Thomas informed him. "You slept like the dead—and indeed, I feared that might not be much exaggeration. This is the heart of France, our chief monastery. Is it not beautiful?"

  Brother Paul roused himself enough to look. The gate was barred. The windows were small and high. The walls were thick. This was a veritable fortress. "Beautiful," he echoed dismally.

  The gate closed behind him. He was trapped—and he had not been able to dispose of the cards. He must have maintained a death grip on them to protect them from the Friar's curiosity. Or maybe the Animation had skipped over this dull passage so that nothing at all had happened between scenes. Animation was real, but on its own terms.

  They came to a central room where a great fire blazed in a fireplace. Brother Paul, shivering with a chill, moved toward it gladly. Several hooded monks appeared, closing in about him. "You must rest," Brother Thomas said. "A room has been prepared. We shall take your soiled clothes and provide you with fresh apparel."

  Should he try to resist? It was hopeless; he was sick and weak, and they were many and strong. He could gain nothing—and there was always the chance that they did mean well, that the Jew had deceived him about the motives of the Dominicans.

  Except for the Tarot. Brother Thomas had seen that deck, and player Lee would have known its nature from his previous part. So Lee knew what he was looking for, and with that deck in his possession he could investigate legitimately and zero in on the secret. Brother Paul's decision to avoid the Waldenses must have nullified the spying strategy, so the Animation had shunted right across to the next contest of wills. The cards were now the key; if Brother Thomas and the Inquisition gained possession of the cards, exposure of the Waldenses was a virtual certainty. The Dominicans would reproduce the cards, put on jugglers' suits, give sermons based on the cards—and take whole audiences into custody, cleaning out entire cities with single sweeps. It would work because the people would believe in the authenticity of anyone who carried such cards—as they had believed in Brother Paul.

  Without those cards, Brother Thomas the Dominican would have no certain evidence that Brother Paul was a heretic and no lever to use against the Waldenses. He would be unable to
proceed with the persecution. Not according to the rules of this play, no matter how much he knew privately. And Lee would follow the rules, absolutely.

  The monks pressed close. This was an Animation; were they real? Maybe he could walk right through them and on through the cloister walls. Yet this too would be misplaying the part, cheating. Satan had sent him here at his own request, as it were; he should not have been surprised to discover Satanic elements of the sequence. Perhaps he played the part of a genuinely historical character, and significant revelations remained. He had to play the animation game or forfeit all that Animation held for him. Which meant that he had to submit now to the power of the monks.

  Except for the Tarot deck. If he believed in the play, he had also to believe in the Waldenses who would be routed by his betrayal of the Juggler's trust. They would be put on trial for heresy, perhaps tortured, perhaps burned at the stake. As Joan of Arc had been burned—would be burned—in this area a generation hence. Brother Paul could not allow himself to be the instrument of these good people's doom.

  He could afford neither to invoke the power of his disbelief in the reality of this Animation nor to go along with it completely. He had to do the right thing despite increasing pressure. Yet what was right in this hell of indecision?

  Brother Paul reached inside his robe into the secret pocket. His fingers closed about the deck. He lifted it out, holding it for a moment, gazing on this most precious object he had ever possessed: the True Tarot. He had suffered a tour of Hell itself and the black plague to obtain this cardboard Grail.

  He nerved himself. Then, quickly, he hurled the Tarot into the open fire, spreading the cards with a twist of his wrist so that they would burn rapidly.

  Brother Thomas screamed as though his own body were afire. He dived at the hearth, reaching in with his bare hands, trying to recover the blazing cards. The other monks rushed to restrain him, thinking him mad—as indeed he was at that moment!—and Brother Thomas had to allow them to haul him away from the searing heat.

  Brother Paul knew the agony the Friar suffered; he was experiencing it himself. He watched the cards curl and writhe in the flame as though struggling to escape. Colored tongues danced above the pigments. The heat of the sun, the flames of Hell, the conflagration of the spirit—in microcosm!

  The blaze died down. Dismal ashes settled out. It was done; the treasure had been destroyed. The tainted Gift had been rejected. Brother Paul had played the game by the rules and won. At the cost of his Grail. Now at last the Animation could end, releasing him from the torture of his first wish.

  They waited, as it were in tableau. Nothing happened. The issue had been decided—yet the scene continued. Evidently Satan had not finished the sequence.

  Back into their roles! "You may have destroyed the demon deck, the physical evidence against you," Brother Thomas said. "But it remains in your mind. Heresy is an affliction not of matter, but of the spirit. It is this we must cleanse—for the good of your soul, and the souls of the other people led astray by heretic teachings."

  So there was after all no way to avoid this thing. The medieval Church was partial to physical means to achieve its spiritual ends. The ultimate deprogramming: torture.

  "We must take him to the interrogation center," Brother Thomas decided. "This matter must be competently handled."

  Brother Paul coughed. This was no polite objection; he felt his fever peaking, and his lungs were rattling. The pneumonia was taking firm hold. He was not in condition to be tortured; he might expire before they got any information from him.

  No such luck. Brother Thomas arranged for the best herbal remedies, wholesome milk and bread, a comfortable bed in a quiet room, and summoned no barber. He took very good care of Brother Paul, doing everything medievally possible to promote his health. Was this merely because the role required it—or because of the friendship that had once existed between them in other roles?

  He slept and dreamed of Paris: the city he had never seen either in life or in Animation. He woke in his comfortable chamber. He had had no idea that monks lived so well! This was no dark ascetic cell, but a pleasant residence. Yet of course this was the sort of thing the cards of the Waldenses protested: a priestess living like an empress, a priest like an emperor. While the common people lived like the serfs they were.

  However, Brother Paul would be glad to trade this fine accommodation for the poor but kindly hospitality of the peasants. It was torture he faced here; he had no doubt of it. At any moment that door would open and he would be taken to—

  The door opened. Brother Paul closed his eyes, steeling himself. He was sure that torture in Animation would be just as terrible as—

  The scent of perfume touched him. "Am I then so ugly as all that?" a soft voice inquired.

  Brother Paul's eyes popped open. A most comely young woman stood beside his bed. Hastily he drew the covers about him. "Who—?" he asked, amazed.

  "I am the Lady Yvette," she said, making a kind of curtsy.

  She was a beauty, wearing a long tunic under a sideless surcoat, closely fitted so as to make the femininity of her figure quite evident, though her natural endowments hardly required this service. She had a buttoned hood, but wore it unbuttoned under the chin so that a suggestive amount of bosom was displayed. Amaranth, of course.

  Brother Paul was not so weak as to be unmoved by her appearance. Yet he was guarded, knowing Satan had placed her in this scene. "What can I do for you, Yvette?"

  "I understand you have knowledge of a beautiful set of playing cards," she said.

  As expected. Another ploy for betrayal. "I had such a deck, but it was unfortunately lost in a fire."

  "Yes, but you could recreate it," she said hopefully.

  He smiled. "I am no painter!" Yet he might have aspired to be, once... "The artwork is well beyond my talents."

  She looked at him intently. What was behind that lovely facade this time? He had seen her more or less raped in the Black Mass, then reconstituted as Satan's secretary, then as assorted bit parts in this wish-vision. What did Amaranth really feel for him? Once he had thought he loved her, but recent events had chilled that somewhat. "We could employ a good artist. You could describe the pictures to him, and he would paint at your direction. It might take some time, but—"

  "I may not have time," he said. "I am to be interrogated by the Holy Order as a suspected heretic."

  She raised a finger knowingly. "This set of cards—it would be for the King who is a great lover—"

  "Oho!" His own bitterness burst out, surprising him. "You are his mistress!"

  She colored. "A great lover of culture," she continued. "Fine sculpture, fine paintings—these things Charles takes great pleasure in. More than in the government of the realm. If we suggested to him that the culture of the court would be enhanced by a really fine set of cards with mystical elements, I'm sure he would be most intrigued and would commission the very best artist. Especially for cards with magical properties."

  "Magical properties? Why should the King care about such nonsense?"

  She shook her head so vigorously her bosom bounced. "No, no—magic is not nonsense! And Charles VI is—" She faltered. "His Majesty has a certain peculiar interest in the occult." She leaned forward to whisper. There was no way she could be unaware of what this did to her cleavage. "Some say he is mad, at least at times. So such a device—cards he could use to summon spirits—"

  It was coming clear. A king of dubious sanity, interested in art and magic. Maybe they hoped the cards would distract him, while others ran the kingdom. Well, that was not much of Brother Paul's concern. However, if he recreated the Tarot of the Waldenses—that would be a certain route to betrayal. "I am sorry," he said.

  She leaned closer, as though concluding that if a study of her globes from a meter's distance wasn't sufficient argument, half a meter's distance might do better. "You don't understand, sir," she said urgently. "If you do this thing for Charles—if you make him happy—the Holy Office can hav
e no power over you. Charles is the King!"

  Oho! Her offer had real substance like her bosom. Play along with the palace politics and avoid torture. The notion had an insidious appeal. Still, how could he imperil all the faithful followers of the barbe, the missionary Uncles? The Inquisition would surely use those cards to trap unwary believers into admissions of heresy. "No," he said regretfully.

  "I would be most grateful," she murmured, touching her bodice with the delicate fingers of one hand. "The set would take many weeks to paint, and I would be with you always—"

  And there was the final facet of the offer. The love of a beautiful woman.

  She did not know he was castrate. She had been treated much the same way as he had, by Satan's pythons, but apparently that mutilation had not carried over into this sequence. After all, she had her limbs and head back: she had been crunched into pieces by Satan's jaws and restored. Naturally she assumed he had been rendered whole again too.

  Her appearance and manner might excite him, but any attempt on his part to follow through would be futile. "Get out of here!" he said savagely.

  Surprised, she withdrew. And now he wondered: would he have been able to resist such an offer had he retained his testicles?

  In due course Brother Thomas conducted a friendly little tour of the local facilities. Down in the cellar of the building was a dank, old, but serviceable torture chamber.

  "Today we merely show you the instruments," Brother Thomas explained with an enigmatic glance. What were his private Mormon reactions to this role? "I must apologize for the gloom. Since Charles VI came to power in France there has not been as rigorous a campaign against doctrinal error as we of the Church deem proper. Thus our facilities suffer somewhat from disuse."

  "Unfortunate," Brother Paul said grimly. Inside his stomach knotted.

  "However, the situation will surely improve in due course; the sun can not forever remain behind a cloud," Brother Thomas continued. "And it does mean that you will not be subjected to the annoyance of delay."