“Perhaps you can arrange such an audience,” said the guest.
“As I understand it,” said Iaachus, “differing temples, and sets of temples, define themselves in terms of beliefs, or creedal commitments. For example, your temple, or your temples, commit themselves to, say, propositions one, two, and three.”
“Proceed,” said the guest.
“But, as these propositions appear to be unintelligible—”
“Such as exceed the grasp of reason,” said the guest.
“—they can be neither proved nor disproved.”
“They are beyond proof,” said the guest.
“And they cannot be disproven,” said Iaachus.
“That is their strength,” said the guest. “They are irrefutable.”
“But,” said Iaachus, “these differing temples, or sets of temples, have their own propositions, say, one, four, and five, similarly irrelevant to the world, similarly compatible with any situation whatsoever, more propositions which in no way could be shown to be either true or false, propositions to which evidence is immaterial, propositions similarly immune to refutation.”
“What is your point?” inquired the guest.
“And yet the adherents of your Redemptor, who spoke of peace, sweetness, gentleness, love, patience, resignation, and such, are willing to burn and kill one another over these competitive gibberishes.”
“Perhaps you can arrange an audience with the emperor, or the empress mother,” said the guest.
“Do you truly believe,” asked Iaachus, “that your mighty Karch, invisible and mighty, unseen and vast, sculptor of universes, designer of the cobra’s fangs and the vi-cat’s claws, the germ that can fell a torodont, stars which can engulf worlds, cares whether or not some street sweeper believes in propositions one, two, and three, or one, four, and five?”
“The audience?” politely inquired the guest.
“You are a highly intelligent man,” said Iaachus. “You cannot convince me that you take these things seriously.”
“I think that you can arrange such an audience,” said the guest.
“Permit me to speculate,” said Iaachus, “on the practical relevance of creedal commitment, and on the importance of the singularity claim, as well, both of which, viewed simply, appear so implausible, anomalous, and absurd. What lurks behind the contrived veil of nonsense, so objectively pointless, on the other hand, is mighty with meaning. Behind the fog of appeal and distraction lies something quite real, quite comprehensible. Concealed in the night of nonsense is something quite different. In the darkness, the beast is afoot, alert, eager, and ravenous. How ironic that simple, loving teachings should be turned to the familiar ends of ambition and greed, of power. How wise to claim sole proprietorship of the keys that lead to golden worlds. What prestige redounds to the humble! How paradoxical to cast oneself down to be exalted over one’s brothers. Consider the self-image, the self-esteem, the community image of the selfless servitors of so innocent and benign a creed! Celebrate them! Contemplate the public’s acceptance and approval so lavishly awarded, so justifiably deserved, so humbly acknowledged, the garnered livelihood so easily acquired, the economic support bestowed by the faithful. Who would be willing to divide the spoils of such a possible victory? Who will contest a hut of reeds on Zirus? But many might do much for a golden palace.”
“Men are satellites,” said the guest. “They orbit various suns of power.”
“And there are a hundred suns,” said Iaachus.
“A thousand,” smiled the guest, “and even more.” He then sipped his kana.
“I shall arrange the audience,” said Iaachus.
“I thought you might,” said the guest.
16
“I cannot see it!” cried Otto, reining the horse up suddenly, it squealing, the clawed forefeet raking at the sky.
“Steady!” cried Julian.
The horse was spun about, jerked forward again, reins taut, mouth bloody at the bit, eyes wide and wild, the clawed feet tearing at the turf.
“Steady, steady!” said Julian.
“Why have you brought me here?” demanded Otto, standing in the stirrups.
“That you might know,” said Julian.
“Where is it?” demanded Otto.
“Gone,” said Julian.
“No!” said Otto. “It is there, somehow, as the mountain itself!”
“No longer,” said Julian.
“From the beginning of the world!” said Otto.
“Those are stories,” said Julian.
“For a thousand years!” said Otto.
“Perhaps,” said Julian. “I do not know.”
“I cannot see it!” said Otto. “I cannot see it!”
“It is gone, dear friend,” said Julian. “Like the village, remembered only by rubble and charred shambles.”
“See!” cried Otto, pointing. “There should be path guards, trail watchers!”
“They no longer stand their posts, no longer keep their rounds,” said Julian.
“They are remiss,” said Otto. “They must be reprimanded. Let them be nailed to boards!”
“Things are no longer as they were,” said Julian.
“Discipline!” said Otto.
“It does no good to reprimand the dead,” said Julian. “The dead are done with discipline.”
“Dead?” said Otto.
“It seems, all,” said Julian. “Hold! What is your intention?”
“It is to ascend,” said Otto.
“I encourage you to remain here, at the foot,” said Julian. “There is less here to stir fearful rage.”
“I shall ascend,” said Otto.
“Better not, dear friend,” said Julian.
“Do not fear,” said Otto. “It is day. The invisible eyes will not be open, the fences will not be alive, the lightnings will not strike.”
“Even were it night,” said Julian, “even if beasts were to prowl, or Heruls to intrude, the defenses are inert.”
“I ride!” snarled Otto, and struck heels into the startled mount, and the great beast leapt forward.
Julian, astride his own mount, hurried in the wake of his friend, beginning the long, steep, winding climb to the summit.
In less than an hour they dismounted their driven, gasping, trembling, unsteady, chest-heaving, worn beasts.
The boots of Otto and Julian ground into the cold gravel of the path.
They sucked the thin, cold air into their lungs. If they had turned, they might have seen the green, summery expanse of the Plains of Barrionuevo, of the Flats of Tung, far below, stretching even to the Lothar.
“The gate was here!” said Otto.
“No longer,” said Julian.
A light coating of snow covered the area, common here throughout the year.
This imparted to the scene, despite its jumbled, jagged outlines, an appearance of passivity and serenity.
“It is lovely here,” said Julian.
“This place was chosen for it remoteness, its stillness, and beauty,” said Otto.
“A fit place for the prayers, the contemplations, the meditations of the brothers,” said Julian.
“What is it that the snow so innocently, so gently, veils?” said Otto.
“Let us return to the plain,” said Julian.
Otto drew back, and struck the snow from his damp hand on his jacket. “The stonage is black,” he said. It seemed a scar lay on the snow.
“From the blast,” said Julian. “Within, it is worse, toward the center, where rock melted. One can still see where it flowed, where it cooled, like the spines of snakes.”
Otto scraped his boot in the snow, and the side of his boot was rimmed with brittle crystals and chill ash.
“Serviceable timber, even half-burned, was salvaged,” said Julian, “by peasants, and Heruls.”
Wood, as one might have surmised, was a precious commodity in the area.
There was a stirring, and scratching, to the side.
“The horses are uneasy,” said Otto.
“Yes,” said Julian.
The men regarded their mounts.
One of the beasts lifted its head, its nostrils distended. There was a susurrating, uneasy rumble in its throat, answered by a similar sound from its fellow.