Then did the multitude raise courage and gird its loins. With clubs and stones all pursued the beast down the slopes of Mount Sinar, many sore afraid but all chanting the name of the Lord.
And in a field a shrewdly thrown stone brought the beast to its knees, still screaming in a voice horrible to hear. Then did the stout warriors smite it many times with strong clubs until at last the cries ceased and the beast was still. And out of the foul body did come a poisoned red water that sickened all who beheld it.
But when the beast was brought to the High Temple of Yaldabaoth and placed in a cage before the altar, its cries once more resounded, desecrating the sacred halls. And the High Priests were troubled saying: "What evil offering is this to place before Yaldabaoth, Lord of Gods?"
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 44-47
Pain.
Burning and scalding.
Can't move.
No dream ever so long . . . So real. This, then, real?—Real. And I? Real too. A stranger in a reality of filth and torture. Why? Why? Why?
My head feels twisted inside. Tangled. Jumbled.
This is torture, and somewhere . . . someplace . . . I've heard that word before. Torture. It has a pleasant sound. Torment? No, torture better. The sound of a madrigal. Name of a boat. Tide of a prince. Prince Torture. Prince Torment? Beauty and the Prince.
So twisted in my head. Great lights and blinding sounds that come and go and have no meaning.
Once upon a time the beauty tortured a man. They say. Said.
His name was?
Prince Torment? No. Finchley. Yes. Digby Finchley.
Digby Finchley, they say—said—loved an ice-goddess, named Theone Dubedat.
The pink ice-goddess. Where is she now?
And while the beast did moan threats upon the altar, the Sanhedrin of Priests held council, and to the council came Maart, saying "0 ye priests of Yaldabaoth, raise up your voices in praise of our Lord for he was wroth and turned His face from us. And lol A sacrifice has been vouchsafed unto us that we may please Him and make our peace with Him."
Then spoke the High Priest, saying: "How now, Maart? Do ye say that this is a sacrifice for our Lord?"
And Maart spoke: "Yea. For it is a beast of fire and through the holy fire of Yaldabaoth it shall return whence it came."
And the High Priest asked: "Is this offering seemly in the sight of Our Lord?"
Then Maart answered: "All things are from Yaldabaoth. Therefore all things are seemly in His sight. Perchance through this offering Yaldabaoth will grant us a sign that His people may not vanish from the earth. Let the beast be offered."
Then did the Sanhedrin agree, for the priests were sore afraid lest the children of the Lord be no more.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 48-54
See the silly monkeys dance.
They dance around and around and around.
And they snarl.
Almost like speaking.
Almost like—
I must stop the singing in my head. The ring-ding-singing. Like the days when Dig was working hard and I would take those back-breaking poses and hold them hour after hour with only a five-minute break now and then and I would get dizzy and faint off the dais and Dig would drop his palette and come running with those big, solemn eyes of his ready to cry.
Men shouldn't cry, but I knew it was because he loved me and I wanted to love him or somebody, but I had no need then. I didn't need anything but finding myself. That's the treasure hunt. And now I'm found. This is me. Now I have a need and an ache and a loneliness deep inside for Dig and his big, solemn eyes. To see him all eyes and fright at the fainting spells and dancing around me with a cup of tea.
Dancing. Dancing. Dancing.
And thumping their chests and grunting and thumping.
And when they snarl the spittle drools and gleams on their yellow fangs. And those seven with the rotting shreds of cloth across their chests, marching almost like royalty, almost like humans.
See the silly monkeys dance.
They dance around and around and around and . . .
So it came to pass that the high holiday of Yaldabaoth was nigh. And on that day did the Sanhedrin throw wide the portals of the temple and the hosts of the children of Yaldabaoth did enter. Then did the priests remove the beast from the cage and drag it to the altar. Each of four priests held a limb and spread the beast wide across the altar stone, and the beast uttered evil, blasphemous sounds.
Then cried the prophet Maart: "Rend this thing to pieces that the stench of its evil death may rise to please the nostrils of Yaldabaoth."
And the four priests, strong and holy, put strong hands to the limbs of the beast so that its struggles were wondrous to behold and the light of evil on its hideous hide struck terror into all.
And as Maart lit the altar fires, a great trembling shook the firmament.
BOOK OF MAART: XIII: 55-59
Digby, come to me!
Digby, wherever you are, come to me!
Digby, I need you.
This is Theone.
Theone.
Your ice-goddess.
No longer ice, Digby.
I can't stay sane much longer.
Wheels whirl faster and faster and faster . . .
In my head, faster and faster and faster . . .
Digby, come to me.
I need you.
Prince Torment.
Torture.
Then did the vaults of the temple split asunder with a thunderous roar, and all that were gathered there quailed in fear, and their bowels were as water. And all beheld the divine Lord Yaldabaoth descend from pitch-black skies to the temple. Yea, to the very altar itself.
And for the space of eternity did the Lord God Yaldabaoth gaze at the beast of fire, and His sacrifice writhed and cursed its evil helpless in the grasp of the pure priests.
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 59-60
It is the final horror—the final torture.
This monster that floats down from the heavens.
Ape-Man-Beast-Horror.
It is the final joke that it should float down like a thing of fluff, silk, feathers; a thing of lightness and joy. A monster on Wings of light. A monster with twisted legs and arms and loathsome body. The head of a Man-Ape . . . torn and broken, smashed and ruined, with those great, glassy, staring eyes.
Eyes? Where have I—?
THOSE EYES!
This isn't madness. No. Not the ring-ding-singing. No. I know those eyes—those great, solemn eyes. I've seen them before. Years ago. Minutes ago. Caged in a zoo? No. Fish eyes floating in a tank? No. Great, solemn eyes filled with hopeless love and adoration.
No . . . Let me be wrong.
Those big, solemn eyes of his ready to cry.
Crying, but men shouldn't cry.
No, not Digby. It can't be. Please!
That's where I've seen this place before, seen these man-animals and the hellish landscape—Digby's drawings. Those monstrous pictures he drew. For fun, he said, for amusement.
Amusement!
But why does he look like this? Why is he rotten and horrifying like the others . . . Like his pictures?
Is this your reality, Digby? Did you call me? Did you need me, want me?
Digby!
Dig.
Dig-a-dig-a-by-and-whirl-a-whirl-a-ring-a-ding-a-sing-a . . .
Why don't you listen to me? Hear me? Why do you look at me that way, like a mad thing when only a minute ago you were walking up and down in the shelter trying to make up your mind and you were the first to go through that burning veil and I admired you for that because men should always be brave but not men-ape-beast-monsters. . .
And with a voice like unto shattering mountains, the Lord Yaldabaoth spoke to His people, saying: "Now praise ye the Lord, my children, for one has been sent unto you to be thy queen and consort to thy God."
With one voice the host cried out unto him: "Praise our Lord Yaldabaoth."
And Maart made obeisance before the Lord and prayed:
"A sign to Thy children to Lord God that they may increase and multiply."
Then the Lord God reached out to the beast and touched it, raising it from the altar fires and the hands of the pure priests, and behold! The evil cried out for the last time and fled the body of the beast, leaving only a sweet song in its place. And the Lord spoke unto Maart, saying: "I will give you a sign."
BOOK OF MAART; XIII: 60-63
Let me die.
Let me die forever.
Let me not see or hear or feel the—
The?
What?
The pretty monkeys that dance around and around and around so pretty so nice so good everything pretty and nice and good while the great, solemn eyes stare into my soul and darling Dig-a-dig-a-by touches me with hands so strangely changed go prettily nicely goodly changed by the turpentine maybe or the ochre or bile green or burnt umber or sepia or chrome yellow which always seemed to decorate his fingers each time he dropped palette and brushes to come to me when I—
Love changes everything. Yes. How good to be loved by dear Digby. How warm and comforting to be loved and to be needed and to want one alone in all the millions and to find him so strangely beautifully solemnly walking flying descending in a reality like that of Sutton Castle when shelter can't see and I really knew that cliffs down—ran me with pretty monkeys laughing and capering and worshiping so funny so funny so nice so good so pretty so funny so . . .
Then did the children of Yaldabaoth take the sign of the Lord to their hearts and lo! Thenceforth did they increase and multiply after the example of their Lord God and His Consort on high.
Thus endeth the BOOK OF MAART
VI
At the moment when he entered the burning veil, Robert Peel stopped in astonishment. He had not yet made up, his mind. To him, a man of objectivity and logic, this was an amazing experience. It was the first time in his life that he had not made a lightning decision. It was proof of how profoundly the Thing in the shelter had shaken him.
He stayed where he was, sheathed in a mist of fire that flickered like an opal and was far thicker than any veil. It surrounded him and isolated him, for surely he should have been aware of others passing through, but there was no one. It was not beautiful to Peel, but it was interesting. The color dispersion was wide, he noted, and embraced hundreds of fine gradations of the visible spectrum.
Peel took stock. With the little data he had at hand, he judged that he was standing somewhere outside time and space or between dimensions. Evidently the Thing in the Altar had placed them en rapport with the matrix of existence so that mere intent as they entered the veil could govern the direction they would take on emergence. The veil was more or less a pivot on which they could spin into any desired existence in any space and any time; which brought Peel back to the question of his own choice.
Carefully he considered, weighed and balanced what he already possessed against what he might receive. So far he was satisfied with his life. He had plenty of money, a respected profession as consultant engineer, a splendid house in Chelsea Square, an attractive, stimulating wife. To give all this up in reliance on the unspecified promises of an unvalidated donor would be idiocy. Peel had learned never to make a change without good and sufficient reason.
"I am not adventurous by nature," Peel thought coldly. "It is not my business to be so. Romance does not attract me, and I suspect the unknown. I like to keep what I have. The acquisitive sense is strong in me, and I'm not ashamed to be a possessive man. Now I want to keep what I have. No change. There can be no other decision for me. Let the others have their romance; I keep my world precisely as it is. Repeat: No change."
The decision had taken him all of one minute, an unusually long time for the engineer, but this was an unusual situation. He strode forward firmly, a precise, bald, bearded martinet, and emerged into the dungeon corridor of Sutton Castle.
A few feet down the corridor, a little scullery maid in blue and gray was scurrying directly toward him, a tray in her hands. There was a bottle of ale and an enormous sandwich on the tray. At the sound of Peel's step, she looked up, stopped short, then dropped the tray with a crash.
"What the devil—?" Peel was confounded at the sight of her.
"M-Mr. Peel!" she squawked. She began to scream: "Help! Murder! Help!"
Peel slapped her. "Will you shut up and explain what in blazes you're doing down here this time of night!"
The girl moaned and sputtered. Before he could slap the hysterical creature again, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned and was further confounded when he found himself staring into the red, beefy face of a policeman. There was a rather eager expression on that face. Peel gaped, then subsided. He realized that he was in the vortex of unknown phenomena. No sense struggling until he understood the currents.
"Na then, sir," the policeman said. "No call ter strike the gel, sir."
Peel made no answer. He needed more facts. A maid and a policeman. What were they doing down here? The man had come up from behind him. Had he come through the veil? But there was no burning veil; just the heavy shelter door.
"If I heard right, sir, I heard the gel call yer by name. Would yer give it to me, sir?"
"I'm Robert Peel. I'm a guest of Lady Sutton. What is all this?"
"Mr. Peel!" the policeman exclaimed. "What a piece er luck. I'll get me rise for this. I got to take yer into custody, Mr. Peel. Yer under arrest."
"Arrest? You're mad, my man." Peel stepped back and looked over the policeman's shoulder. The shelter door was half-open, enough for him to make a quick inspection. The entire room was turned upside-down, looking as though it had just been subjected to a spring cleaning. There was no one inside.
"I must warn yer not ter resist, Mr. Peel."
The girl emitted a wail.
"See here," Peel said angrily. "What right have you to break into a private residence and prance around making arrests? Who are you?"
"Name of Jenkins, sir. Sutton County Constabulary. And I ain't prancin', sir."
"Then you're serious?"
The policeman pointed majestically up the corridor. "Come along, sir. Best to go quietly."
"Answer me, idiot! Is this a genuine arrest?"
"You ought ter know," replied the policeman with ominous overtones. "Come with me, sir."
Peel gave it up and obeyed. He had learned long ago that when one is confronted with an incomprehensible situation, it is folly to take any action until sufficient data arrives. He preceded the policeman up the corridors and winding stone stairs, the whimpering scullery maid following them. So far he only knew two things: One, something, somewhere, had happened. Two, the police had taken over. All this was confusing, to say the least, but he would keep his head. He prided himself that he was never at a loss.
When they emerged from the cellars Peel received another surprise. It was bright daylight outside. He glanced at his watch. It was forty minutes past midnight. He dropped his wrist and blinked; the unexpected sunlight made him a little ill. The policeman touched his arm and directed him toward the library. Peel immediately strode to the sliding doors and pulled them open.
The library was high, long and gloomy, with a narrow balcony running around it just under the Gothic ceiling. There was a long trestle table centered in the room and at the far end three figures were seated, silhouetted against the sunlight that streamed through the lofty window. Peel stepped in, caught a glimpse of a second policeman on guard alongside the doors, then narrowed his eyes and tried to distinguish faces.
While he peered he sorted out the hubbub of exclamations and surprise that greeted him. He judged that: One, people had been looking for him. Two, he'd been missing for some time. Three, no one expected to find him here in Sutton Castle. Footnote, how did he get back in, anyway? All this pieced together from the astonished voices. Then his eyes accommodated to the light.
One of the three was an angular man with a narrow graying head and deep-furrowed features. He looked familiar to Peel. The
second was small and stout with ridiculously fragile glasses perched on a bulbous nose. The third was a woman, and again Peel was surprised to see that it was his wife. Sidra wore a plaid suit and a crimson felt hat.
The angular man quieted the others and said, "Mr. Peel?"
Peel advanced quietly. "Yes?"
"I'm Inspector Ross."
"I thought I recognized you, inspector. We've met before, I believe?"
"We have." Ross nodded curtly, then indicated the stout man. "Dr. Richards."
"How d'you do, doctor." Peel turned to his wife and bowed and smiled. "Sidra? How are you dear?"
In flat tones she said, "Well, Robert."
"I'm afraid I'm rather confused by all this," Peel continued amiably. "Things seem to be happening, or have happened." Enough. This was the right talk. Caution. Commit yourself to nothing until you know.
"They are; they have," Ross said.
"Before we go any further, may I inquire the time?"
Ross was taken aback. "It's two o'clock."
"Thank you." Peel held his watch to his ear, then adjusted the hands. "My watch seems to be running, but somehow it's lost a few hours." He examined their expressions covertly. He would have to navigate with exquisite care solely by the light of their countenances. Then he noticed the desk calendar before Ross, and it was like a punch in the ribs. He swallowed hard. "Is that date quite right, inspector?"
"Of course, Mr. Peel. Sunday, the twenty-third."
His mind screamed: Three days! Impossible! Peel controlled his shock. Easy . . . easy . . . all right. Somewhere he'd lost three days; for he'd entered the burning veil Thursday, thirty-eight minutes past midnight. Yes. But keep cool. There's more at stake than three lost days. There must be; otherwise why the police? Wait for more data.
Ross said "We've been looking for you these past three days, Mr. Peel. You disappeared quite suddenly. We're rather surprised to find you back in the castle."
"Ah? Why?" Yes, why indeed? What's happened? What's Sidra doing here glaring like an avenging fury?
"Because, Mr. Peel, you're charged with the willful murder of Lady Sutton."
Shock! Shock! Shock! They were piling on, one after another, and still Peel kept hold of himself. The data was coming in explicitly now. He'd hesitated in the veil for a few minutes at the most, and those minutes in limbo were three days in real space-time. Lady Sutton must have been found and he was charged with murder. He knew he was a match for anyone, as a thinking logical man . . . an astute man . . . but he knew he had to steer cautiously—
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