“It is true that the Compassionate Pilgrim (upon whom be peace) advised that the search for truth should begin in this world. He chided philosophers whose concept of virtue and perfection was based on their claimed knowledge of worlds other than our own. But he did not forbid the study of the transterrene—he only wished such a study to be based on a firm earthly foundation, a complete understanding of humanity and the world in which humans live. An understanding which the Pilgrim Eidrich (blessed is he) bequeathed to us.”
“Did he not disparage the gods?”
“Rather famously he did, using a word that I will not repeat in the presence of a lady.” Gracefully he nodded at the duchess. “For when you consider the stories told of the gods, they are shown as tyrannical, capricious, wayward, and wanton, behaving in ways that would reflect no good on any person who followed their example. The Pilgrim advised paying no attention to the gods—forgoing sacrifice, for example, and festivals—and instead build human ethics upon human reality.”
The duchess spoke. “Did the Pilgrim not say that if the gods were just, they would reward human goodness whether you worship them or not; but if they were unjust, there was little point in offering worship (as there was no certainty of a just reward); whereas if the gods did not exist at all, there was no point in worship whatsoever?”
“Your grace maketh a good translation of the passage.”
The abbot, I thought, might not flatter the gods, but well he knew how to flatter his hostess.
“Many followers of the Pilgrim deny the existence of the gods,” I pointed out.
Ambrosius gave one of his serene nods. “In this they follow the dictates of their own reason. But the Pilgrim (may he remain a virtuous example to us all) offered no opinion as to the existence of the gods, but said only that there was no sense in building them temples or offering them worship.”
“And your own opinion?”
The abbot pressed his lips together. “You presseth rather the point,” he said.
I smiled. “You are a Philosopher Transterrene, are you not? Is this not your province?”
“Very well,” he said, with the merest hint of ill grace. “Since you insist upon an answer. I prefer to think not of tangible, material gods or goddesses, but rather a universal divine Essence, which may be perceived by those whose senses have been refined by the gifts of Nature, or by long study fixed upon the ultramundane. By which I mean certain poets, perhaps”—this with a nod at Blackwell—“as well as musicians, great spiritual leaders, and most especially by the Compassionate Pilgrim, Eidrich (rest he in peace). And I hold furthermore that those whose senses are not attuned to the Divine can do no better than to follow these figures, the Pilgrim especially.”
Which was no help at all. I had hoped to find some understanding of my encounter with Orlanda, but instead found nothing but blather of divine essences perceptible only by great spiritual leaders, among whom I had no doubt Ambrosius numbered himself.
I was still haunted by the memory of Orlanda, and the choice she offered me. In addition, I still gave a start every time I saw a red-haired woman, fearing the goddess had come for her vengeance.
“I know a man who has met a god,” I said. “Or if not a god, at least a being holding some aspect of divinity.”
“Many claim such things,” said the engineer Ransome. He caressed his mustaches. “Most are mad, the rest deluded.”
“The man was not mad,” said I. “Nor was he extraordinary in any way—a respectable burgess. He was found credent by all in the city.”
“Credent?” asked Ambrosius.
“It’s a new word. I made it up.”
“From credentus,” said the duke helpfully.
“Ah.” Ambrosius waved a hand. “Of course.”
I returned to the story of my mythical burgess. “He was held, as I say, in repute. And he said that on a journey in Bonille, when he was a young man, he encountered an old well—a holy well with a nymphaeum.”
“I believe I know the place,” said the abbot.
The old faker. I had invented this particular well in Bonille to disguise my own in Fornland.
“Very casually he paid his respects to the nymph of the well,” I said, “and was on his way when he met a woman riding along his road. A lovely, lively young woman, he said. They held conversation for an hour or so—I believe he offered gallantries, which she playfully declined—and then her path turned away, and he bade her farewell. Later, during a shower, he took shelter in an old stone stable, and the ancient wall collapsed. He was pinned beneath the rubble, very badly injured and like to die. If his injuries hadn’t killed him. he might have frozen to death before help arrived.
“Yet he was rescued, and the young woman he met on the road managed it. She removed the heavy stones, an extraordinary feat, and bound his wounds, and helped him to his horse. It was night and cold, and he knew not where to travel, but she led his horse out into the country. And as the night progressed, and as she kept up a stream of diverting conversation, he began to realize that his wounds were healed.
“She brought him to her home—an old ring-fort in the hills near Lake Gurlidan, the place blazing with light and revelry—and he realized that she was the nymph of the well. She offered to make him her lover—”
“And he accepted, and was gone for an hundred years.” Ransome waved a hand. “I believe we all know the story.”
This cavalier dismissal spurred my anger, but I chose to make a mild reply. “On the contrary,” I said, “the man bethought him of his own home and bed, and made as polite a leave-taking as he could. She was furious, but allowed him to depart. He has lived ever since in fear that the goddess might curse him for his rejection of her favors.”
I saw interest kindle in the eyes of Blackwell the playwright, but Ransome and Ambrosius both spoke at that point, and together came to the conclusion that either my invented burgess was a vainglorious liar, or that he was deranged by his injuries and that the entire incident was a fantasy concocted by an impaired mind.
“I cannot swear to the truth of the story,” I said, “but can only state that the man was not otherwise known as a liar, and showed no other evidence of delusion. But still”—I turned to the Abbot Ambrosius, and adopted my learnèd-advocate face—“if the gods do not inhabit this transterrene realm of yours, then what else exists there that is worthy of your attention? This divine Essence of yours may be studied here as well as in the aether, I suppose.”
Ambrosius was taken aback. Perhaps no one had ever asked this particular question before.
“Well,” he said weakly, “the proper study of philosophy includes that of matter, and in addition to its manifestations on our world, matter may be defined by its absence. And so far as we can tell, matter is a property entirely of the earth, and so—”
Ransome began to laugh. “You study matter by its absence? You might as well say that you can study life by looking at lumps of lead!”
“I suppose there are planets and stars and the crystal spheres,” offered the duchess.
“Yet it is men with telescopes who have enlarged our knowledge of these things,” said Ransome. “Not philosophers.”
“There is also the Comet Periodical,” said Blackwell. “Which turns all knowledge of the spheres to dust.” He viewed Ambrosius with his eyebrows lifted. “You do not hold, with some of your brethren, that the Comet is the refuge of the gods?”
Since the discovery of the Comet Periodical, which returns every seventy-seven years, some of the Pilgrim’s followers have claimed that the gods, having been rendered superfluous by the Pilgrim’s life and thought, had withdrawn to the Comet until they were needed again. Thus they returned at regular intervals to see if the Pilgrim’s doctrine was still being practiced, and then, discouraged, withdrew again.