A Persian officer spied the commotion and chanced his hide by coming to investigate. He, too, recognized the casualty. He gave orders, and the boys took hold of the corpse and dragged it back up the hill. The body was heavy, but there were many hands; few were slow to realize that this detail was taking them away from the worst danger. The battle, such as it was, dissolved.
Mym watched from his steed, invisibly. He saw them get the body into a bunker. He saw the boy he had occupied identified as the soldier who had killed this horrendous enemy. The boy was an instant hero, given a commendation and sent to the rear to report to higher authorities. He would be safe—and neither he nor his mother would suffer further privation.
Persia had said, publicly and often, that it would carry on the war until this enemy leader was deposed. Suddenly the man was dead. The stated reason for the war had been eliminated. The attack was called off, and a de facto truce developed.
No more children would die for a while. Perhaps the war would now be allowed to end, and the recovery could begin.
Mym wasn't sure what the final judgment might be on his method of stopping this war, but he was satisfied. He had not only accomplished his objective, he had learned another way to make his position effective.
Chapter 10 - THANATOS
Concerned by what Fate had told him of Satan's designs, Mym tried to talk to Rapture about it that night. "I think you would be better off with Luna in the mortal realm," he sang. "Since you can still readily spend the nights with me, here, the separation is really not that onerous."
"With the cousin of the woman you loved before me?" she inquired bittersweetly.
Ouch! "Who informed you of that?"
"Lila, of course."
"Lila—the creature of Satan."
"She's an interesting woman. She will make you an excellent concubine."
"I'm not so sure I want a demoness for a concubine. She surely serves the interests of Satan before mine."
"You don't like the notion of any woman serving any interest before yours?"
This was not the type of question Rapture had asked before this. Mym wasn't sure he liked the change. "I don't like the notion of being that close to a creature provided by the Incarnation of Evil."
"Oh, pooh!" she said. "Lila isn't evil! She's an educated woman."
"What is she doing in Hell, then?"
"She says it was a bum rap."
"A what?"
"A bum rap. A false charge. A misunderstanding. Before she realized, she was in Hell and couldn't get out. So she makes the best of it."
"It still sounds suspicious to me. She's a demoness."
"Oh, don't be such a fuddy-duddy!"
"A what?"
"An old-fashioned bore."
"It sounds like reduplicating echoism to me. This occidental slang does not become you. Rapture. Don't forget you are a princess."
"Was a princess. Now I'm a woman. And so is Lila. Oh, the things I am learning from her!"
"Like what, apart from gossip and slang?"
"Like this," she said, and kissed him in a fashion that made his skin heat.
"You're coming on like a concubine!" he protested.
"I'm coming on like a woman who is learning what it's all about."
"A princess does not need to know what it's all about!"
"But a woman does. Lila is certainly right about that."
"I really think you would be better off with Luna Kaftan."
"Luna is a fine woman, and I like her—but now that I know how similar she is to your former love, I prefer to keep my distance from her—and your distance too. It's enough trouble adapting to this new lifestyle without having to worry about what's going on in your mind."
He found that concern singularly difficult to address. He felt no romantic attraction for Luna, but it was true that his new knowledge of her relation to Orb worked a subtle effect on him. Where was Orb now? How had she fared, after he had deserted her? Had the ring enabled her to cope adequately? She had been a western woman, and he had loved her; now Rapture was assuming some western attributes, and he did not find them appealing in her. Perhaps there was justice in her disinclination to remain with Luna.
"Well, perhaps you could stay with another mortal woman," he suggested.
"Why? I like it here. The food is good, the grounds are beautiful, and Lila is a fine companion. Soon she is going to take me to visit Hell."
"To visit Hell!" he exclaimed in singsong, almost choking. "I don't want you going near that place!"
"You prefer that I sit in the castle all day, sewing handkerchiefs?"
He sighed. It was true that there was not a lot for her to do here in Purgatory. "Perhaps you could find something to do in the mortal realm to keep you busy. I'm sure Luna would—"
"Her, again. She seems much on your mind."
Unfortunately true, after the dialogue with Fate. He had never expected to be thrown into the company of Orb's close relatives. But because he had known Orb well, he trusted those relatives. And he wanted to get Rapture away from the insidious influence of Satan. "I just feel that Satan means to do you some mischief, and it would devastate me to have that happen."
She softened. "That's an unprincely thing to say. Why don't you just order me to do what you wish?"
"Because I love you."
"You know that's a decadent Western concept." But she could not suppress her pleasure. "I will seek some mortal employment."
"That pleases me."
Then they made love, and all was good.
The next situation requiring the personal attention of Mars was in Latin America. Conquest, Slaughter, Famine and Pestilence were eager to get to work, but Mym lacked proper enthusiasm. Increasingly he was wondering whether he was the proper man for this office. He had been trained for command and for war, but he took no special joy in it, especially not in pointless bloodshed. He would prefer to abolish war. But there was the conflict of interest, because, if he succeeded, he would lose the office—and where would he be then? Locked into this alien Afterlife, his mortal life completed. What chance at the ultimate relief of nirvana would he have then?
He had learned that new Incarnations had a period of apprenticeship or trial, after which they could voluntarily give up the offices. Perhaps it would be best for him to do that—to step down when that chance came. Would that return him to mortal status? He suspected so. But what offered then? Would he have to resume his position as Heir-Prince to Gujarat, displacing the man he had established in his place and marrying the Princess of Rajasthan? That would be horrible!
Suppose he could step into the mortal world in some other capacity? Become a new person in the occidental world? That had its appeal. But what would he do? He was trained to be a prince, and that was not a preferred employment in the west. Also, he was a stutterer. He had made it on singsong well enough, but that was in large part because he had held positions of extreme power, both as Prince and as the Incarnation of War. Others did not laugh at the powerful; they accommodated their idiosyncrasies. But if he tried to assume an unpowerful position—
No, he would have to make do with the situation he had, try to be the best Mars he could be and, if he succeeded in abolishing war, to retire to whatever the Afterlife offered. This was not a bad existence, really. He could emulate Musashi, author of Five Rings, learning to prevail through humility and hard work.
That book spelled out the Way to learn the author's strategy very simply and directly, in the section on the Ground: to think honestly; to train, to learn every art and know the Ways of all professions; to distinguish between gain and loss, develop intuitive judgment, perceiving what could not be seen; to pay attention even to trifles, and to do nothing that was of no use; in sum, to be honest and perceptive and purposeful throughout life. So easy to read and to agree with, but sometimes so hard to honor! How would Musashi have handled the situation with Rapture?
Mym sighed. As far as he could tell, the great Japanese Samurai had never married or fo
rmed any significant relation with a woman. Perhaps he had been most practical of all in that!
They arrived at the site. It was a jungle. Lush tropical growth spread all about. "What's the situation?" Mym asked.
"Muddled," Conquest replied. "This is a guerrilla war, festering for a number of years. I was surprised when it died down at the time of your ascension, because the underlying causes had not changed."
"Satan had a hand in that," Mym sang. "He didn't like my predecessor."
"True. But Satan's grudges are legion."
"So we don't really know how things are faring, here, because guerrilla warfare is not open and measurable," Mym said. "We only know that there will be bloodshed, much of it by innocents."
"Yeah!" Slaughter said raptly.
"But there is a strong indication that something of extreme significance is about to occur at this site," Conquest said. "That's why this action requires our personal supervision."
"I should have known there would be more to it than mere routine destruction and killing," Mym sang sourly. "Just what kind of development is this?"
"We don't know," Pestilence said. "But I feel it in my flesh, so it must relate to me."
Mym looked at him. The figure's flesh writhed with maggots and mold and leggy things; and when he moved, flies buzzed up. If a man was known by the company he kept, Mym thought, he would have preferred other company.
Again he thought of the Book of the Ground, in Five Rings. Pestilence was like a rotting segment of ground! But this was an erroneous association, for Musashi did not talk of decay, but of the importance of basic organization and proper timing in all things, the groundwork for success, and of ascertaining the reality, so as to have one thing but to know ten thousand things. Knowledge—there was a prime key. The warrior who knew all things did not waste his effort on what was of no use.
Information! That was the first requirement here—to perceive that which could not presently be seen.
"I will investigate," Mym decided. He dismounted and looked about. What should he look for? He didn't want to identify with another eleven-year-old boy!
"There is a government outpost there," Conquest said, pointing.
"That will do." Mym strode toward the building. As he came near, four men emerged. They were rough-looking types, wearing unkempt uniforms, carrying sidearms and knives. Mym paced himself to overlap the evident leader and phased in.
Again he suffered disorientation, but he was getting the hang of this and soon he was using the soldier's perceptions. This man was reasonably well fed and healthy, but dirty and dissatisfied. He had little formal education and owed his position of limited leadership to his muscle and general insensitivity to the plight of others. Mym did not like him at all, but stayed with him because it would have been too much of an investment in time and energy to phase in to another body. This overlapping was not pleasant for him, but it seemed to be the best way to get a real feel for the situation. If a person wanted to know how to deal with worms, there was nothing like being a worm for a while!
This squad was on a mission. The host was barely literate in Spanish, his native language, but one of his henchmen could read well. "It's the farm across the stream, there," the man said. "We'll have to watch it; he's got dogs."
"We know how to deal with dogs," the host said, and the others laughed coarsely.
They trekked to a small wooden bridge across the river. Two emaciated children were sitting there. They stretched out their thin arms in a gesture of supplication as the party approached. "Candy?" the little boy begged in Spanish. Mym could understand this language now, because he was tuning into the sense of it as rendered by the host's brain.
"Get out of our way!" a henchman grunted. He lifted his boot, set it against the boy's shoulder, and shoved. With a scream the boy tumbled backward into the river.
"Death Squad!" the little girl cried, struggling to her feet. "Bad men!" She started to run away.
"Don't let her go!" the host cried. "Can't have her telling anyone we were here."
A henchman strode after the girl and caught her. He hauled her back by one spindly arm. "What do we do with her?"
"Kill her," the host said.
"But she's just a kid," the henchman protested.
"She's a witness," the host clarified.
"But we can't just—"
"Where are your guts?" the host demanded. "We've gotta job to do." He drew his knife. "We don't want noise. I'll show you how to make it quiet."
He took hold of the girl's straggly hair, hauled her head up, and brought the knife to her exposed throat.
Mym acted. He exerted his will and paralyzed the man's arms. The little girl dropped from the slackening grasp and lay on the ground, unmoving. She had fainted.
"See? No noise," Mym forced the man's vocal apparatus to say. It was difficult, because Mym had to focus the thought without language, forcing it through the brain so that it came out in the proper words.
"No noise," the henchman echoed, relieved. "For a minute I thought you were going to kill her!"
Mym eased up on his control. The host found himself in the awkward position of having done a senseless thing by his definition. He had indeed intended to kill the child. Now he had to explain his action.
It was easier for him to pretend that things had gone as planned. "Now you know," he said gruffly and turned and moved on across the bridge.
Mym had navigated that crisis. But had he done it by proper planning and decision or by simply muddling through? He still had a lot to learn of the Way of Strategy!
They proceeded on toward the farm. Mym now knew that this was a killer group that went surreptitiously to murder individuals who opposed the policies of this nation's government; he had read about these during his military studies. Thousands or tens of thousands had been killed in this manner—but instead of securing the government's power, this had generated a backlash that had become a full-fledged guerrilla revolution. This government was at war with its own people and would have fallen long ago if not generously supported by powerful outside interests.
Mym had no sympathy with terrorism, whether practiced by the government or against it. If this was the way this government operated, his sympathies were with the opposition.
But it was not his job to dictate the political system of a nation or the manner it maintained its base of power. It was his job to supervise the violence that resulted.
Well, perhaps he could redefine his job. He had succeeded in drastically changing the configuration of the war between Babylonia and Persia; was there a way to eliminate these Death Squads here?
Aside from arranging another elimination of a head of state, he wasn't sure how. And when he started practicing assassination himself, how did that differ from what the Death Squads were doing? It was no easy decision.
Now the men were near the farmhouses. The dogs spotted them and charged. A henchman tossed down bits of meat that he removed from a special package. The dogs, poorly trained, paused to snap up the meat—and in moments they were writhing on the ground. The bait was poisoned, of course.
"He's supposed to be alone today," the literate henchman said. "His wife's off at the big celebration." Mym wasn't able to grasp the exact nature of the celebration; it was tied in too closely with cultural values that did not align with his own.
"We'll play it safe, anyway," the host said. "We'll surround the house. I'll challenge him from the front; you be ready to catch him when he tries to sneak out the back."
They deployed accordingly. But as the host came to the front, the figure of a woman appeared in the doorway.
The host cursed under his breath. Mym read his thought: the intelligence had been wrong. The wife was home. Now it would be messy, and they would have to kill her too. They would charge extra for that.
The woman disappeared inside the house, slamming the door. The host charged, knowing that time was now of the essence. He would have to catch and kill the woman, because his weak-kneed cohort
s wouldn't want to do it. He couldn't have her escaping and bearing the report of the identity of the killers; that would embarrass the employer, who preferred anonymity.
He lifted his boot and kicked at the flimsy door. It crashed inward. He stepped over it and into the house. There was the woman, speaking into a telephone.
A telephone! There was another vital detail the intelligence report had overlooked! If he had known about that, he would have taken time to cut the wires before approaching the house. It was a nuisance, but had to be done. Now it was too late; she had already made the call.
He strode across and swept the phone out of her hand. The woman screamed and spun away from him. He caught at her, getting hold of her shawl. It came free, and he threw it down and grabbed again, this time catching her blouse. That tore as she fought to escape, exposing her haltered bosom. Evidently she had been less formally garbed and donned her blouse over the halter when she heard activity near the house.
The host paused. This was a well-shaped woman! Of course he had to kill her—but it would be a shame to let a form like that go to waste. The henchman would catch the escaping man; he could spare a few minutes.
He got both hands on her and bore her back against the wall. She screamed, so he knocked her in the face. Blood welled at her lips, but the scream cut off.
He caught at the halter and yanked. The thing was sturdier than it looked; instead of coming away it stretched out and down, baring one of her breasts. The sexual passion of the host was magnified by this sight. He stared at the breast, then reached for it.
Mym, bemused at the proceedings, had failed to act in time to abate the host's violence. Now he exerted himself, fighting to control the sudden lust of the man. But though he had been successful in saving the girl-child, he was now up against a greater determination. The host had not really wanted to kill the child, but had intended to do it as a necessary thing; in contrast, he was inflamed by desire to possess this woman before he killed her. Perhaps with more experience, Mym could have assumed control. As it was, he could not. While he tried, the host opened his own clothing and brought his body up against that of the woman.