The Juggler summoned strength. "Take the sacred pictures, friend. Guard them well. They must not fall into the hands of—" He had to stop, gasping.
"I will guard the Sacred Tarot with my life," Brother Paul said soberly. "The Inquisition shall not have it."
The Juggler could no longer speak. His fevered hand touched Brother Paul's in mute thanks. He shuddered, trying to vomit again, but nothing came. Then with what seemed a superhuman effort he managed a few more words. "Abra-Melim, the Mage of Egypt—Abraham the Jew in Worms—tell—" He choked—and before Brother Paul could help him, he collapsed.
Brother Paul tried to revive him with more water, to make him comfortable—but in a moment he realized that his friend was dead.
"Let him only change parts..." Brother Paul prayed, feeling an intensity of loss that threatened to overwhelm him. "Let the role die, not the player—" But he could not be sure that prayer would be answered, for this was an aspect of Hell.
IV
Deception: 23
There is no more immoral work than the "Old Testament." Its deity is an ancient Hebrew of the worst type, who condones, permits or commands every sin in the Decalogue to a Jewish patriarch, qua patriarch. He orders Abraham to murder his son and allows Jacob to swindle his brother; Moses to slaughter an Egyptian and the Jews to plunder and spoil a whole people, after inflicting upon them a series of plagues which would be the height of atrocity if the tale were true. The nations of Canaan are then extirpated. Ehud, for treacherously disembowelling King Eglon, is made judge over Israel. Jael is blessed above women (Joshua v. 24) for vilely murdering a sleeping guest; the horrid deeds of Judith and Esther are made examples to mankind; and David, after an adultery and a homicide which deserved ignominious death, is suffered to massacre a host of his enemies, cutting some in two with saws and axes and putting others into brick-kilns. For obscenity and impurity we have the tales of Onan and Tamar, Lot and his daughters, Amnon and his fair sister (2 Sam. xiii.), Absalom and his father's concubines, the "wife of whoredoms" of Hosea and, capping all, the Song of Solomon. For the horrors forbidden to the Jews, who, therefore, must have practiced them, see Levit. viii. 24; xi. 5; xvii. 7, xviii. 7, 9, 10, 12, 15, 17, 21, 23, and xx. 3. For mere filth what can be fouler than 1st Kings xviii. 27; Tobias ii. 11; Esther xiv, 2; Eccl. xxii. 2; Isaiah xxxvi. 12; Jeremiah iv. 5, and (Ezekiel iv. 12-15), where the Lord changes human ordure into "Cow-chips!" Ce qui excuse Dieu, said Henri Beyle, c'est qu'il n'existe pas,—I add, as man has made him.
—The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night: Translated and annotated by Richard F. Burton: Volume Ten, n.p., The Burton Club, n.d.
Brother Paul collected the Juggler's things into a little pile, then set about burying him. The actor, in this role, was not mutilated: that was a minor relief. That circumcision of Jesus had been uncomfortably convincing!
Brother Paul did not want to bury the man just anywhere, but lacked the strength and will in his grief to be choosy. So he cut a stick with the Juggler's magic-tricks knife and used it to excavate a shallow grave. He was afraid this would be scant protection against the ravages of scavenging animals, but it was the best he could do.
He did not know what manner of ceremony the Waldenses used at a burial, so he said a few words of his own choosing. "May the mission on which this good man went be somehow fulfilled." Yet he knew from history that, in the narrow sense, it had not been. Juggler had died in vain. The Waldenses had never gained many converts although their ideas had had broad influence.
Now he sorted through the Juggler's belongings. They were routine: the reversible cloak, jacket and pants; the infinity-rimmed floppy hat; the vials of powder for coloring fire and other special effects; the trick wand that sagged limply when held one way, yet was stiff when held another way (oh, the phallic symbolism there!); the cup and knife and coin. The twin-bodied flute. That hurt most of all, for it was the instrument that had summoned Brother Paul and brought the beauty of song into his fourteenth century life. Such a pitiful remembrance! But these items were overwhelmed by the significance of the Tarot deck, the true original of an idea that had branched into many forms. This, perhaps, was the true mission of the man—giving to the world the truth in Tarot. In that sense, maybe the Juggler's mission had not been futile.
The crescent moon had risen. Brother Paul went to the river to wash and drink, then looked back toward the grave site. He was horrified to see two wild curs approaching it, sniffing. "Hey! Get away from there!" he cried. The dogs paused, hearing his voice, poised for flight. But then they spied the moon and lifted their muzzles to bay at it. Brother Paul knew that canines, being nose-oriented, had difficulty dealing with a thing they could see but not smell; one sense told them it was there, but another denied it. A man who heard a voice but found no person there was similarly perplexed, calling it a ghost. A dog merely howled.
Something attracted his attention almost at his feet. It seemed to be a crayfish trying to climb out, as though attracted also by the moon. Or attracted by the grave, Brother Paul amended his thought with a shudder. He looked again toward that grave and saw the silhouettes of the dogs sitting there with two giant trees rising to frame the moon like dark castles. A pretty nocturnal scene, in its way—but also as horrible as his own vision of the field with the lion. Death lurked beneath each: not the brief shock of violent destruction, but the lifelong grief of the loss of a loved one.
He strode toward the dogs, and they skulked away. The grave was undisturbed—but how long would it remain so? Yet he could not remain here indefinitely to guard it. The Juggler would simply have to take his chances in death as in life.
The night was warm. This must be the season of the "Dog Days"—hot. When the "Dog Star" Sirius was prominent... that must be the star he had seen in the morning or evening. He could survive the night's temperature without trouble.
Brother Paul found a suitable tree and climbed to its crotch, bracing himself and squirming around until reasonably comfortable. Before he knew it, he slept.
He woke hungry and with additional stiffness. There might be fruit trees in the forest—but he did not know where to look and did not want to steal. Obviously this Animation was not yet through with him, and he did not wish to become one of the failure statistics, i.e., dead. Satan had promised him information on the True Tarot; Satan had not promised he could take it with him from the fourteenth century. He would have to shift for himself until he could demonstrate his ability to survive here indefinitely.
Yet what legitimate way was there to obtain food? He did not want to get too close to villagers because he had to hide and preserve the invaluable Tarot deck. He was an obvious stranger, speaking awkwardly, not to be trusted by the clannish locals, and liable to suspicion by soldiers. If he even showed his face in a village, he might be mobbed. Unless—
He almost fell out of the tree. Well, why not? It had worked for the Juggler!
With nervous confidence, Brother Paul descended, stretched his cramped limbs, urinated against the roots of the tree, and donned the magical robe. He was about to do tricks for his dinner. His strangeness should only enhance the effect.
First he rehearsed the tricks. His own youthful experience stood him in good stead; he could do sleight of hand as well as was needed. He hated to have to use the Sacred Cards for parlor tricks, but they were his best tool—and indeed, he had used Tarot in this capacity before. He riffled through the crude cards, making sure he could handle them with sufficient dexterity. They were printed cards, but not uniform; probably some kind of wooden block print, itself hand carved, for it would be over half a century before the printing press was developed.
Then he put them away and turned over some rocks and was lucky enough to spot a small harmless snake. "Easy, fellow," he murmured, catching it and putting it in a tied handkerchief. "I will let you go in due course." Yes—he was ready.
He set out again, following the trail to the north, working the kinks from his body. He did not feel good, but he felt halfwa
y confident. There had to be a village along this trail somewhere, and now he had no intention of avoiding it.
It turned out to be surprisingly easy. His bright Juggler costume identified him instantly, and within moments of his appearance at the next village there was a crowd around him. Without further fanfare he set up the table a villager brought and began his act. He made a small silver coin appear between his fingers, vanish, and reappear from the ear of the nearest urchin. He poured water from one cup into another, then showed the second cup to be empty. He waved his wand—and the little snake appeared on the table and slithered away. Finally he did tricks with the cards, making the Ace of Wands come up repeatedly, no matter how carefully it was shuffled into the deck.
Suddenly, in the midst of his act, he remembered what had somehow faded from his consciousness for the past day. This deck had five suits.
He continued almost mechanically, going through his limited repertoire while his mind and eye reviewed the suits. Wands—Cups—Swords—Coins—and Lamps, just as the Juggler had told him. Ace through ten in each, plus Page, Knight, Queen, and King. Fifty numbered cards in all, plus twenty Court Cards and thirty Waldenses Triumphs—a deck of one hundred cards in all. A magical number in this age and his own!
How had the scholars of later centuries missed this obvious clue that their decks were incomplete? 100 was a number to conjure with while 78 was a nothing. They must have looked at individual cards, instead of at the deck as a whole. Almost literally missing the forest for the trees.
Maybe this was another aspect of the Tarot he had yet to discover. He could not leave this framework until his whole wish had been granted—including the ramifications of it he had not known about.
He wrapped up his show and made his bow. A few small coins were set on his table. Success! Now he could buy some food, and no one would question his presence here. He could survive.
As the crowd dispersed, a young woman approached hesitantly. "Sir—your cards—is there a picture of the Juggler among them?"
The Juggler. He had not employed that card or any of the Triumphs in his act, both because they were too valuable to risk and because he feared they might arouse suspicion. He had promised to keep them out of the hands of the Inquisition, and this was best accomplished by keeping them out of sight. But how could he deny the card that stood for his dead benefactor? Slowly, he nodded.
She made a sidewise figure eight in the air with her forefinger. "Barba" she whispered. "We have awaited your coming! Please, visit our hut tonight."
Brother Paul paused in chagrin. Here was Amaranth in a new part, delivering the signal of identification for the Waldenses. Of course these believers were on the lookout for traveling entertainers! Why hadn't he thought of that when he set out to imitate his friend? He should have answered no about that card so as not to arouse false hopes.
Yet he had promised to inform the believers of the delay before the next Uncle came so they would not lose hope. This was his opportunity. He had almost forgotten that commitment, but had no alternative now. "Miss, I regret to inform you that—"
"Oh, don't speak about it here!" she protested, glancing nervously over her shoulder. Sure enough, another villager was approaching, and Brother Paul had to break off.
"Then you will perform for us tonight," Amaranth said brightly. "We will give you supper and straw for the night."
"Uh, yes, that will be fine," Brother Paul agreed lamely. He smiled at the other villager. "I trust you enjoyed the show?"
"That snake—it was alive!"
"Of course," Brother Paul said with a smile. "I would not want to conjure a dead snake."
The man's eyes widened. "Then you are in league with Satan!"
Uh oh. These primitives believed in magic. He had made his show too good. He was, perhaps literally, in league with Satan, but that was not relevant to this issue. "No, it is merely a trick. I caught the snake in the forest this morning and hid it in my sleeve. Don't tell anyone!"
Disappointed, the man departed. There went a close call! He could not afford to be too convincing!
There was nothing resembling a supermarket here, but there was a local baker from whom Brother Paul obtained a loaf of black bread. His stomach did not like the stuff very well; it was too much like his childhood bread. But at least it was familiar.
In the afternoon he ranged the area and managed to catch several beetles and caterpillars: ammunition for the evening show. He spotted one rather pretty little stone and pocketed that too, although he wasn't sure he could use it in a magic trick. He chatted with people who were curious about news of the world—and fortunately the world was limited to a few square leagues in their awareness.
In the evening the young woman fetched him to her hut, which actually turned out to be a good sized cottage some ten meters by five with a thatched roof, and constructed of fairly sturdy hand-hewn beams. Inside, however, he discovered it did double duty as a shed for animals; straw was on the floor, and the ambient odor was strong. But what had he expected among peasants? The lowest classes of the medieval societies had never had a good life and always had to live pretty much from hand to mouth.
This house was crowded with people of all ages. "Barba!" an old woman cried. "I feared I would die before I had your blessing!"
And he had to tell them he was not the Waldenses missionary. This was going to hurt. Yet they deserved to know the brutal truth: that the true Juggler had died of the plague not half a day's walk from here, trying to reach them. "I regret to explain that I am not—"
"Oh, it's all right, Uncle," she said. "We are all of the faith here. From all the villages around, we have come. Some will be punished for failing to work for their Lords today, but they had far to travel to get here on time. A young couple have delayed marrying lo these many months so that you could do it, and we have a child sick near to death, and we all stand in such desperate need of your counsel, for our life is hard and some of us have suffered in the persecution and we know not even how to pray properly to God for relief. We have had no one in a year to preach the True Faith to us, and now at last you have come, and what a blessing it is! If I die tomorrow, I die happy, for I die with my faith uplifted by your touch!" And she held out her withered hand to be touched.
And what was he to say now? At such sacrifice had they gathered to meet him, risking their very lives to have the blessing and encouragement of the barba. How great was their simple faith in the terrible shadow of the Inquisition! How could he tell them now that the true missionary was dead?
Suddenly he appreciated with much greater clarity the situation of the Universalist John Murray who was prevented by a lack of wind from sailing away and going about his business until he agreed to preach at the local church. Murray had not felt qualified, yet—
Yet if he, Brother Paul, did not tell these good people the truth, he would have to impersonate the Uncle they thought he was, the representative of a religion to which he did not belong. Even if that could be called ethical, he wasn't sure it was possible. And how could he participate in such a terrible lie?
The old woman was waiting. He had to do something now! Should he kill her with the truth or provide salvation with a lie? Was this a test of his own mettle? If he lied, he was surely doomed to Hell. Yet how many other people would the truth doom?
Brother Paul touched her hand. "It is your own great faith that uplifts you, good woman," he said gently, knowing she would misinterpret his words. If this be the road to Hell, so let it be. "I am only a man."
"Yes, yes!" she breathed raptly.
"No man can stand between you and God. You have no need of priest or barba, so long as your heart is open to Our Lord."
"Ah, but you make it so clear!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Uncle, my faith has wavered so often, but your words restore it stronger than before! Give me your blessing!"
"My blessing means no more than that of any other person," Brother Paul said, troubled. No matter how he tried to defuse the lie, it became stronger like her
faith. "There is no special power in me; I am as nothing, unworthy. I have no avenue to God that is not as readily available to you. I could say the words, but that would not—"
"Say the words!" she cried raptly.
There was no way out. "May the blessing of Our Holy Father be upon you," he murmured.
It was as though she had been reprieved from Hell. Her wrinkled face was transformed by rapture.
Now the others crowded in, nudging the old woman aside, and she suffered herself to be moved, oblivious in her joy. "The barba blesses us all by his presence," a man said. "Come, Uncle—we must tend first to the child, lest she die unclean." He hustled Brother Paul to the corner where the child lay on a straw pallet amid flies.
Brother Paul looked at her again on the verge of protesting the confusion of identities. But as he looked, he recognized—Carolyn. This girl was about twelve years old, but so wasted and thin she could have been eight. Yet the face—obviously it was the same actress, and so, in the terms he dealt with, the same girl. She had not escaped Hell's aftermath after all. Satan had betrayed him. He should have guessed when Lee showed up in this sequence! Now—he had to save Carolyn again. If he could.
What was her illness? Should he ask? No, he could get no useful answer. Had it been anything routine, she would have recovered on her own. Malnutrition? Then why hadn't it affected other members of her family? It must be some individual, slow debilitation, not susceptible to the treatment available. Something like—cancer.
In which case, nobody could save her. The medical technology for abolishing cancer had not been developed until the 20th century. The barba had a hopeless task. Even the genuine Waldens Juggler could not have done what these people hoped.
But if she died, here in Animation, would she also die in real life? He was uncertain. Some people did die in Animation—and the odds seemed against his own survival. But some survived. If a person thought he died in Animation, would his life expire in his mundane existence? The witch-doctor power of Voodoo suggested this was a solid possibility. Suppose a person only played the part of a character who died and knew that—could he then survive?