And the Juggler produced a pack of thirty drawings. Brother Paul looked at them as he walked beside his friend, amazed—for these were very like the Major Arcana of the Tarot. Suddenly he realized that Satan was honoring his first wish: knowledge of the true origin and purpose of the Tarot. "This—this is what I seek!" he exclaimed.
"When you named the Tarot, I was sure you were attempting to trap me," the Juggler admitted. "Yet not quite sure—and I could not condemn you on the basis of mere suspicion because that is the way of the Holy Office we abhor." He shook his head sadly. "What a fine world it would be if one man trusted another and had that trust returned! Is this the case in your world?"
"No," Brother Paul said. "Not yet."
"We conceal our card lessons in the one place the Holy Office will never suspect: the pack of playing cards used by gamblers and wealthy degenerates," the Juggler said, passing the rest of the deck to Brother Paul. "These become the minor cards of the greater deck, the whole of which we call the Tarot, or Tzarot, the ruler of cards. We have not changed the minor cards, for that would betray our secret, but we have adapted them symbolically to our purpose. Each of the five suits represents—"
"Five suits?" Brother Paul asked, astonished.
"Some common decks have six, others four—in fact there seem to be many variations in number and symbols as each local printer or copyist innovates to suit himself. But we feel the appropriate number is five to represent the five fundamental elements as taught by the ancients."
"The Ancients!" Brother Paul repeated, thinking of something the alien Antares had said. A Galactic civilization that had existed three million years ago and disappeared.
"The Sumerians, the Egyptians, the Minoans, the Eblans, the Hittites, the Greeks, the Megalithic society—all the ancient peoples who knew so much more than history has credited them with," the Juggler said, and in that moment it was indeed Antares that looked out of his eyes, smiling sadly.
"Oh. Yes. Certainly." Animation though this might be, it seemed important not to introduce anachronism. But there was another matter. "Five elements? Fire, Water, Air, Earth, and—?"
"And Spirit," the Juggler said gently. "That which distinguishes man from animal. Man has conscience; man knows right from wrong. Man ate from the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and thereby separated himself from the ignorant beasts. Some call that a curse; we call it man's most important attribute."
"Spirit," Brother Paul repeated, appreciating it. It seemed that he had always known it. "What separates man from beast."
"The other suits may be interpreted on many levels," the Juggler continued. "As virtues or as classes of society or qualities of character. There is the Stave of Fortitude—or of the peasant. The Cup of Faith—or of the Church." He made a wry face. "Much good the peasant gets from the corrupt established Church! Then there is the Sword of Justice—or of the military." He smiled at Brother Paul's expression; there had not been any direct association of justice and military in his own recent experience! "The Coin of Charity—and of the merchant. And of course the Lamp of the Spirit—and of our wandering souls, seeking to bring that light to those ready to receive it."
"The Waldenses," Brother Paul said, nodding.
"Or any good people of whatever faith who follow their conscience and seek love and truth," the Juggler amended. "As the early Christians did before they were corrupted by power. We Waldenses claim no special privilege or right; we merely do what we can, hoping our seeds will find fertile soil."
And the most fertile soil came from compost, fed by fecal matter. Satan had made Brother Paul into a seed and planted him here. What meaning did that have?
"This picture, The Juggler, represents—me," the Juggler said with a smile. It was, indeed, the Tarot Juggler or Magician—a gaudily dressed man standing at a table upon which various items of parlor magic rested. "The Juggler is of course the master of disguises—as we Waldenses have to be. At times he may appear very much the fool. But the sight of this image alerts the faithful, and when I see the countersign, thus—" He made a gesture with his forefinger like a figure eight turned sidewise. "That is the double symbol of the sun and moon, two circles touching, the eternal progress of day and night reflected in my hat." And he took down his floppy hat to show how the rim formed a similar lemniscate. "I know then to whom to address myself after the show is over. Circumspectly. Usually the believer will find some pretext to bring me to his home, and I will conduct the lesson there. Thus is another segment of my mission accomplished under the dangerously sensitive nose of the Holy Office."
"Beautiful," Brother Paul murmured. "In my day, these cards have lost much of this meaning. You hide them under superficial interpretations so that the Inquisition will not suspect, and those superficial aspects have carried through so that most people do not even suspect the primary purpose."
"That is exactly as it should be," the Juggler agreed, pleased. "It means the Holy Office will not prevail in your land either." He indicated the next card. "This is the Lady Pope. Do you know the legend of the Popess?"
Brother Paul nodded affirmatively. "However, our researches show that no such person existed historically."
"Perhaps not on that level. But symbolically she certainly exists! This is the way we see the Church, the Whore of Babylon who has taken upon herself the attributes of secular power and become as one with the kings of the flesh. This picture follows naturally on the first, as a false Pope follows a false Magician. A harlot disguised as a priest, treading in the footprints of a priest, disguised as a juggler. Those of true faith will perceive the reality behind these facades."
"Yes, I should hope so," Brother Paul agreed.
"Now here is a very special representation," the Juggler continued, showing another card. "Kindly admire the art."
"But it is blank!" Brother Paul protested.
"It is and it isn't," Juggler said. "Some say this is the Holy Ghost, the invisible Spirit of God. But we prefer to call it the Unknown—that ineffable force that governs the life of man."
"Fate!" Brother Paul said. He remembered this card now from his rapid tour of the gallery under the Pyramid.
"Perhaps. It is really up to each person to interpret it for himself. If he draws a card randomly from the deck and this one appears, it is a signal that he is proceeding on erroneous assumptions and should re-examine his situation."
"Interesting," Brother Paul said, more than interested. "Is there a particular reason it appears here in the deck, right after the Lady Pope, rather than at the beginning or end? I note it has no number."
"It is numberless and also infinite," the Juggler agreed. "Therefore, it has no assigned place in the deck. When the cards are arranged in order by number and suit, the Ghost is inserted randomly. We do try to keep it with the Triumphs because often we separate them from the suits in order to avoid suspicion, but if it falls among the suits and turns up in the course of a card trick—well, it is merely a blank card of no significance." He contemplated the empty card a moment. "Seldom does it manifest this early in the deck. There must be a reason for that but I confess I do not fathom it. Perhaps it relates to you." And Antares looked out at him again.
Brother Paul shrugged. "I do seem to be an unknown quantity in this world." The Ghost concept was growing on him. He had never, before he entered the Animations, suspected that a thing like this could be in the Tarot—but it seemed it was. Or once had been.
"Next come the Empress and Emperor, of equal rank according to our precepts, lawfully wedded. We believe in the married state and find the celibacy now fashionable in the Church to be hypocritical. God did not create man and woman that they should not know one another and not have the fulfillment of families! There are so many innocent bastards sired by priests! They breathe on young women during Confession and get them unknowingly excited, easy prey for lechery, and such women dare not expose their seducers lest the seducers charge them with heresy and destroy them without trial. Better those priests should
marry and be openly fruitful as the Holy Book decrees."
"Yes..." Brother Paul murmured. But he, without testicles—what of him?
"And the Pope himself," the Juggler continued, showing the next. "So like the Emperor that one can hardly tell the difference, adorned with costly robes, coronets, scepter, on a throne yet! What would you take the meaning of this image to be?"
"That the Church has become overly materialistic," Brother Paul said promptly. Never before had it occurred to him that the close similarity between Emperor and Hierophant (Pope) was not coincidental!
"Very good, Brother Paul; you have a very quick perception! We feel that when the Church consented to be endowed by the Roman state, she became morally corrupt and lost the mandate of Christ. She has been led astray by worldly power, dominion, and wealth—as any religion would be, however pure its original tenets. We protest against all religious endowments and any temporal powers of clergy."
Brother Paul had to interrupt. "In fairness, I must say that this situation is much improved in my day, perhaps again because of your efforts. The Catholic Church stands as a bulwark against oppression, and its priests are persecuted by totalitarian regimes. In broad parts of Asia it has been almost entirely suppressed, and in Europe during recent political upheavals priests were tortured. In Latin America—" But he had to stop, prompted by the Juggler's look of perplexity. There was no "Latin" America at this period of history.
"Perhaps in your day the Church has recovered some basic humility and purpose," the Juggler said. "But right now the Pope is weighted down with those odious instruments of torture called crosses and other ornaments never authorized by the Scriptures. Call it heresy if you will, but we insist on separation of State and Church, not this ludicrous and oppressive amalgam. Why, the Cardinals are so greedy for power they contest with each other for the papal throne."
"Ah," Brother Paul said, remembering. "The Great Schism! Three Popes—"
The Juggler smiled. "Not quite that bad, yet. Fourteen years ago, when Pope Gregory XI died—is he in your records? The one who ended the 'Babylonian Captivity' of the papacy by returning to Rome from Avignon, France—"
"Babylonian captivity for the Whore of Babylon!" Brother Paul interjected, laughing.
"Just so. When Gregory died, the Roman mob pressured the Cardinals to install a local boy. Rome is an unruly city, and non-Italian popes don't feel quite safe there, perhaps for good reason. The Cardinals responded by electing Urban VI. I do not claim Urban was a bad man as these things go; he was an uncompromising reformer who yielded to no man on matters of principle."
"Trouble, surely!" Brother Paul murmured.
"Correct. His harsh mode soon alienated the Cardinals, especially the French ones. They declared his election null and elected Robert of Geneva, who became Pope Clement VII and took up residence in Avignon. He had to; his life would have been hazardous in Rome! Three years ago Urban died, but that did not resolve the problem. The Italians replaced him with Pope Boniface IX."
The Juggler pinched a louse out of his hair with obvious satisfaction. "So now we have two popes," he continued. "Which is the real one and which is the Antipope no one can say for sure. In Italy it is best to say Boniface; in France say Clement." He made a gesture of good-natured helplessness. "How glad I am that we Waldenses do not recognize either of these clown priests! But make no mistake, either one would string me up by one foot if he caught me or any other barba. The men may be ludicrous, but the office remains powerful."
Brother Paul thought of some of the politics of his own period and had to agree. "If it is any comfort to you, this eventually got straightened out. In my time there is only one pope. But of course there are many Christian religions who do not follow the Catholic pope, so in that sense it is more confused than ever."
The Juggler continued on through the deck, picture by picture, while Brother Paul listened so raptly that he felt no further fatigue despite the distance they were walking. Here at last was True Tarot!
They followed the Rhine downstream, coming to a village in the Holy Roman Empire—a region that would be known in Brother Paul's day as Germany. The Juggler was exceedingly cautious in populated areas, fearing overt persecution; the Empire was not the safest place for Waldenses this year.
Much of the region was forested and beautifully unspoiled, but the fascination of the Tarot was such that Brother Paul hardly noticed where they were going or what was around them. The individual trees could have been twentieth century skyscrapers or completely alien life forms, and he would have passed them blithely by.
At the village the Juggler set up his table and performed his cardboard miracles, and he was a most proficient stage magician who obviously enjoyed amazing the credulous and making children laugh. The peasants threw small coins in appreciation: not many, for they were poor, but even an obolus went a long way here.
However, no secret signal was given, so there was no ministering to the Waldenses faithful. "I did not expect a contact here," Juggler confided. "Up nearer Worms there are more believers. I'll make arrangements to spend the night in a stable."
"The stable was good enough for our Savior's birth," Brother Paul murmured. He already had a load of lice in his clothing, so could not take on many more bugs from the environment. His feet were sore, his muscles stiffening, and his unfamiliar clothing was chafing the skin raw in places; anywhere was fine for a rest. When he slept, he would dream of Tarot—assuming he remained in this situation now that his wish had been fulfilled.
Next morning he remained in the fourteenth century, his body stiffer and rawer than ever with assorted welts from the bites of unseen insects. But fresh water and some more black bread made him feel better, and the resumed walk gradually worked out the kinks. He was not comfortable, but he could get by. But he wondered: why was he still here?
As they trekked north toward the great free city of Worms, the Juggler abruptly staggered. "Ah, the thirst!" he cried.
Thirst? Brother Paul caught his arm, steadying him. The man was hot! "Friend, you have a fever!" Brother Paul said. "You must rest; I will fetch water to cool you."
The Juggler slumped down against a tree. "I fear it will do no good," he gasped. "I felt it coming, but tried to persuade myself it was not." He vomited weakly, soiling his uniform.
Alarmed, Brother Paul hurried to fetch water from the river anyway. But when he reached the bank, he found he had no container for it. He had not thought, in his worried haste, to bring one of the Juggler's trick cups, and in any event that would have been too small. Maybe he could find something by the bank—
He ran along the riverside, searching desperately. There was nothing. But his friend was gravely ill!
He burst through a copse of trees. There was a girl dipping water from the river. She had an earthen pitcher in each hand and was evidently rinsing them out, swishing water in them and pouring it out again. Over her shoulder near the eastern horizon he saw the first star of dusk. Uncommonly bright, almost blindingly brilliant. He suffered the feeling of déjà vu.
But he had no time to figure it out. "Miss, oh Miss!" he called. "Fraülein—may I borrow a pitcher?"
The girl looked up, startled. She resembled—but of course Amaranth played this part; why did he keep being surprised by the new ways in which the basic cast appeared?
"I have a friend, sick," Brother Paul explained breathlessly. "He needs water."
She hesitated. "Sick?"
"A fever, vomiting, thirst—"
"The Black Death!" She got up so hastily she dropped a pitcher in the water and fled.
He had no time or reason to pursue her. What could he do with a woman anyway, had he the time and inclination? He was a eunuch. He sloshed into the water to recover the bobbing pitcher before it sank. At least he had that!
The Juggler was worse when he returned. Brother Paul splashed water on his friend's face and on his hot, dry skin. He offered a cup, and the Juggler gulped avidly.
Now Brother Paul saw it: blac
k spots forming on the man's skin. "Uh oh."
"It is the Black Death," the Juggler said. "I buried my companion, may God accept his soul, and I hoped I had escaped—" He looked up, alarmed. "My friend, get away from me! You cannot save me; you can only infect yourself."
"No danger of that," Brother Paul assured him. "The plague was spread from rats to men by infected fleas."
"Fleas! But fleas are everywhere!"
He was right. Lice, nits, fleas—there was no escaping them here. Probably fleas had left the dying barba companion and hidden in the Juggler's clothes. Now, after the incubation period of several days, Juggler had come down with it. Rat fleas might spread it, but they didn't need rats once they infested human clothing.
"You saved my life from the soldiers," Brother Paul said. Actually, he might have fought off the soldiers successfully—but it had been no certain thing. "I will do what I can for you."
The Juggler retched again. "There is only one thing needing doing for me, friend—and that is more than any man can ask of another, were it even possible."
The man was extremely sick, and Brother Paul did not know how to care for him. Even with hospital care, the outlook would be doubtful, for the bubonic plague had killed about a third of the population of Europe in the latter part of the fourteenth century. Even had Brother Paul known where to get help, he would not dare to take the Juggler there. A heretic missionary in a time of persecution—no, he could not seek help! "What is this impossible thing?"
"My mission," the Juggler said. "There are good people who depend on the Uncles to uplift their faith. They should be told—that they must wait a few more months, until the persecution dies down, until the next barba comes. They must not give up hope!"
"I can tell them that," Brother Paul said.
"But they are hidden—and to seek them out is to risk discovery by the Holy Office—for you and them. You dare not—" the Juggler lapsed into silence for a time. He was fading rapidly. When a killer disease took hold of the body of a medieval man, already weakened by fatigue and malnutrition, its ravages were swift!