The Fourth Circle Page 4

  7. THE SUN IN THE HOUSE

  THE FIRST MUFFLED echoes of distant thunder scattered his brethren through the jungle.

  He stayed where he was.

  This was not ordinary thunder followed by torrents that poured from the sky, penetrating the densest foliage, allowing no escape; his fur, though thick, would then be soaked, and in the night, though the monsoon rain was tepid, he would briefly feel the rare, unpleasant sensation of cold.

  The thunder now rapidly approaching brought no sky-water, nor did it dart fiery tongues capable of enveloping a giant tree trunk in a cloak of flame and extinguishing all animals, even the largest, sheltering under it.

  He differed from his brethren in possessing an unusually retentive memory.

  He remembered, though it had been a long time ago, when he was very young, that this same roar had heralded the arrival of an enormous bird with four whirling wings. Then he had scampered, panic-stricken like the others, into the thicket of the jungle, losing his mother along the way. When nothing happened after the huge fat bird had landed and the noise had died, the curiosity characteristic of his species prevailed. Along with a few others, he plucked up the courage to peep through a concealing curtain of leaves.

  Three creatures identical to the one who lived in the big stone house emerged from the bird, the wings of which now drooped. He knew there was nothing to be afraid of, because the one in the house had never harmed them. Not only did he not hunt them, he even let them enter the house and allowed them, too, to climb all over the boulder he revered as a pack does its leader.

  Recently the creature, who lived alone in the house without the rest of his brethren, had stopped coming out. This creature lay in a corner, breathing with difficulty and seeming not to notice them any more. He recognized the creature's plight, for there were a few aged members of the pack whose fur was quite gray and who were unable even to pick the fruit that grew plentifully everywhere, so that the other younger ones had to bring it to them. Just as he would have done for a member of his pack, he brought the old one some fruit, but the old one did not seem to care. That was a sign that it was not safe to stay in the house for long, that big predators would come soon to take the old one, just as they came for his gray brethren when, because they no longer belonged, the pack carried them, rigid, down from the trees and left them in a clearing. Why they had decided to become old and leave the pack mystified him and, like any other unknown, filled him with fear and trepidation, perhaps more so than the others.

  Predators, however, did not take the old one. Three of his brethren arrived in the great noisy bird and took him up into the sky, none knew where. For a while the house remained empty. But the teeming life of the jungle filled every niche, so that it was not long before new residents moved in, mostly small creatures that posed no threat to his pack's dominance. He roamed with his brethren through the empty house, climbing the rough walls, squeezing through holes, scrambling over the vast stone leader of that other, mightier pack—a leader who might have no one to bow down before him now but whose absence of devotees could not last.

  The dry thunder, quite close, from which he alone did not run into the safety of the dense forest, was bringing, he divined, a new resident for the house. When the great bird landed in the clearing with a roar so loud that the nocturnal howling of predators seemed like morning twittering in the branches, several tall creatures walked out of its belly, carrying bulky, heavy things for which he had no terms of reference and thus could not recognize.

  They carried the things into the house, and soon he heard new, sharp sounds emerge from it, such as had never before resounded in the jungle. He stood at the edge of the clearing, not daring to approach. Time passed slowly, but he did not know the meaning of impatience. And then, a miracle happened.

  A monotonous drone replaced the sharp sounds, a drone similar to the sound of the small river that, swollen by the monsoon rains, cut through the jungle. Not long after, all the openings were suddenly illuminated from within, as if the sun shone inside the big house. The light drove away the darkness, and the small intruders scattered wildly—fleeing outside or into any crevice where the splendor did not penetrate.

  This was too much, even for him. Though he knew from experience that the tall ones posed no threat to him, his instinct was to dive for cover in the nearest thicket. Still, he did not run away, but remained hidden by the trunks and leaves, staring unblinkingly at the wonder of the big house.

  For a while, nothing happened there. The brilliance poured steadily out from within, and the droning continued unchanged. Then the tall creatures came out and headed for the big bird that silently and patiently awaited them. All except one stepped into the bird. Soon after, the great wings began to whirl with terrible force and with a gigantic roar lifted the unwieldy bird and its bulky, but now somewhat reduced burden, over the treetops into the blue. Before turning back to the house, the remaining tall one stood for a while gazing after it.

  The last echoes of passing thunder had long died away and given place to the everyday sounds of the jungle, which had already forgotten this brief but potent disturbance of its timeless monotony, before he gathered courage to step out of the thicket and move toward the stone house.

  He moved cautiously, fighting an instinct that told him to retreat, to fly. A more retentive memory was not the only thing that distinguished him from others of his kind. Perhaps more importantly, he could at times overcome instinct, that ancient, inherited wisdom of race survival, and subordinate it to his intelligence: a course of action liable to be lethal for the individual in a world full of danger, except in rare cases when the intelligence was of the right kind and the circumstances favorable.

  Using its footholds to climb the outer wall, he found himself in an opening that allowed him to see inside and began to get the feeling that he had taken the right course of action. The scene inside differed from all previous ones. Above the stone leader of the pack, a sun was blazing, so strong he could not look straight into it. The large room contained things he had never seen before: strange things that did not exist in the jungle. He did not understand them.

  The feeling that the risk had been worth it, however, did not require any kind of understanding. Even if he had had the ability to speak, he would never have been able to explain, either to himself or to others, why it was that just one look at the new resident was enough for him to realize that his whole world had been irrevocably changed.

  8. THE FINGER OF GOD

  THEY HAVE LOCKED him up.

  In the cellar, under the iguman's residence: dark, damp, and smelling of rot, like the forecourt of Hell itself. Probably to give him a taste of the damnation that surely awaits him if he does not undo this satanic business of his. But he will not hear of it, now that he is fully in the power of the evil spirits. Instead he ridicules and teases them, mocking them with a malicious, demonic snigger, telling them that they themselves should try to paint some other godly pictures over the horror he left on the ceiling.

  Indeed they tried, what else could they do, the sniveling long-robes? In abject fear, as I see well, they would like to conceal their evil fate. They tried, but it would have been better if they had not. They whitewashed the ceiling themselves, did not even call me—afraid, I daresay, that I am in some infernal covenant with the Master. Yes, they painted over the awful scenes of the underworld, which Sotona himself, by the hand of my Master, drew there in mockery of the Most Holy. They hoped to win my Master over, by hook or by crook; to persuade him to populate the vaulted ceiling with the holy ones of Heaven rather than show those desolate lands with their three hideous suns and loathsome circle, the in-signia of the Devil.

  Oh yes, they concealed the awful scenes, but not for long. For just before the next dawn broke, before holy Matins as the first pale light began to chase the stars from the heavens, the diakons who had been keeping watch under the cursed vault of the ceiling to drive away the powers of darkness by their virtuous and sanctified presence rushe
d out in great fear as if a hundred vrags from Hell were after them and ran to the iguman's residence, crossing themselves frantically and crying, "A miracle! A miracle!"

  Since they found no other words to speak of the great terror that gripped their innocent souls other than vacant, witless exclamations and since their clamor woke the whole monastery—including me, who being God's servant, sleeps as lightly as they do—we all hurried after the bewildered iguman into the church in trepidation and dark foreboding, only to receive a new, unwanted gift of Sotona.

  I myself was last to arrive, held back in the monastery courtyard by a terrible, diabolical din, which I first thought arose from the bosom of the earth itself, from the plague-ridden lairs of the demonic spawn; but when I collected myself a little, I noticed that the inhuman, fiendish laughter was coming from depths far shallower than Hell: from the cellar under the iguman's residence where my Master lay. And a chill icier than that of dawn clutched my heart.

  Oh, I know only too well all the sounds he utters—pleasant and mild, harsh and angry—too well to be mistaken. It was his voice indeed, but it seemed to come out of the very jaws of the Unclean. No human creature could produce that satanic laughter. Only the perverse joy that fills the Devil when he tears yet another fallen soul from the Almighty could produce such awful howling.

  For a moment I stopped as if transfixed, my gaze directed at the narrow slit, which was all that let the light of God's day into the gloomy cold of the cellar. Icy fear filled me: the fear that after the Master's terrible laughter the last trumpets of Yerichon would ring out and the Day of Judgment come upon us, that the dread hordes of the underworld would spew forth to draw us into their bottomless, fiery pit.

  But no such thing happened, may the Lord be eternally praised. The horrible, eerie laughter changed to a painful, choking rattle, as if the vrag had suddenly left my Master to put an end to the inhuman sound with his own weak, paltry throat.

  The sudden silence that reigned, ancient and deathlike, rather than allaying my fear only made it grow. Turning and seeing that I was alone in the middle of the courtyard, I hastened after the others to see the new miracle in the church, thankful to God that no other ears than mine had heard that sepulchral, mocking roar hideously issuing from the jaws of the Unclean, for if they had, they could no longer doubt that my Master was entirely in his power.

  All my poor hopes that the Master might yet be saved from a relentless, abominable fate withered as soon as I stepped under the cursed ceiling, joining the monachs who stood mute and trembling, their gaze directed upward or askance as they crossed themselves and mouthed barely audible prayers. I looked up and I saw. A miracle, in truth, not of God but of the Devil.

  For there where the God-fearing monachs had with industry born of terror concealed with all-whitening lime those scenes of supreme offense and pain to the eye of the believer—there was now no concealment! The hideous images of Sotona, endowed by some supernatural power, had cast off the pall of the just and showed themselves once more in all their baneful nakedness, with the dread signs of the Unclean One, which now seemed to burn with some accursed, fiery brilliance of their own. The three pustulant suns of repulsive color, like three rotting teeth of Sotona, shone out presumptuously from the vault of the ceiling, while the terrible demonic circle, the very throne of the nether kingdom, seemed to tremble agitatedly, starting to turn like a mindless wheel on the chariot that carries doomed souls into the land of shadows.

  It seemed that this was not enough for the dark, fallen angel, hungry to settle some unsettleable score with the Almighty, whose justness is infinite. Hardly had my eyes, unused to satanic wonders, filled with icy dread before the sight of the vault coming horribly to life, when a rumble sounded outside, distant at first, then louder, rising to a thunderous roar that resounded deafeningly from the stout marble walls of this ancient, godly building, causing the robed ones to flee in panic, probably thinking that this thunder of God's rightful anger, unheard by any living ear since the times of ancient Yerichon, would bring the haunted ceiling of Sotona down on their sinful heads.

  Although the true faith teaches that they should accept with grace, uncom-plainingly, like Job of old, this and any other fate that God in His infinite justice might prepare for them in punishment for sins known only to Him, the monachs succumbed to fear, rushing out of the church into the courtyard in great confusion, crossing themselves, throwing up their hands and pushing each other, devoid of all dignity, while uttering hoarse, meaningless exclamations.

  I too hurried out, again bringing up the rear, driven by a fear even greater than theirs, because I thought I knew from whence the thunder came. This thunder was no expression of the wrath of God, but laughter from below ground, the earth-shaking laughter of the Unclean One, who had howled hideously from the iguman's cellar a few moments before I stepped into the church. That laughter that had been intended for my ears alone was now amplified a hundredfold to fill all ears and put the final, ghastly, satanic seal on my Master's sad fate.

  Firm in this belief, I at once turned my fearful gaze on the small slit in the wall of the cellar—but, lo, a new miracle! Neither the flames of hell nor guffaws of diabolical glee issued from it. No, a very different sight lay before me: a clear, white, angelic light, which could not but announce the grace of God and eternal bliss of the Garden of Eden, poured forth from my Master's prison; but to what good, when all eyes except my loyal ones were looking in another direction?

  Everyone else was looking up at the sky, barely flushed with the coming dawn.

  I looked up also, and—I saw: all at once, clearly.

  I saw the finger of God descend in a blaze of strong, white light from the sky to the earth. The terrible rumbling was not his righteous anger, but the sweet music of the pipes of Heaven, music that had seemed like a roar from Hades only to my sinful, frightened ears. The monachs all fell to their knees, in profound humility before this vision of Him, this all-powerful sign that His triumph over the powers of the underworld, of the Devil, is everlasting. That they might not sully this holiest of visions, this Epiphany, with their unworthy eyes that had been filled only moments earlier by a hideous ugliness, the robed ones looked humbly downward at the dust, as befitted them. But not I, may God pardon me my overweening pride. I continued to look up, though not so much for my own sake, for who am I but the Lord's poor servant, but rather for my Master's, seeing at once that this salvation from Heaven came for him. The Almighty, in his boundless righteousness, had finally taken pity on him who sang His praises in his paintings, forgiven him his wretched pact with Sotona, hastened to his salvation at the fateful moment when the Prince of Darkness had already stretched out his terrible claws to seize my Master's suffering, sinful soul.

  For if it were not so, how could the earlier darkness and hellish din have been replaced by angelic, celestial light pouring through the narrow opening in the iguman's cellar? And even that, it was not hard to see, was but a tiny gleam of the divine blaze now accompanying the apparition of the finger of God.

  And the finger of God, our righteous and merciful Lord, continued to descend mightily to earth, bringing a new day even before the full dawn, beheld by only my joyful gaze, until in ineffable splendor it gently touched the tops of the dark eastern hills, just at the spot where a moment later the morning sun peeped over the rosy horizon in powerful, final affirmation of this divine revelation.

  9. DESCENDANT OF THE RING

  HE HAD NO name, but was not nameless either.

  The few worlds that knew of his existence gave him various names, none of which suited him, however accurately they all described him. On Threesun they called him Gatherer; he did not feel like one, although it was true that he occasionally, for amusement, collected small forms composed of hardened energy when they happened to swim into his net. Because of the net, stretched between seven large stars near the galactic center from which he originated, on the Blue Sphere they named him Spider; the significance of that name eluded him. He did
not understand the name "Being," either, which those on the Outer Edge con-ferred on him, but because he sensed anxiety and disquiet underlying it, he tended to avoid them, since any distress he might create would quickly pass to him, and he did not like unpleasant experiences.

  Of all his nicknames he liked Player best. He received it from the fishlike inhabitants of the Great Arm, a world enveloped in soft, slushy energy, under the dense sun of the nearby globular cluster; these creatures seldom rose to the surface of their world but were nevertheless aware of him; they sensed his probing, yet delicate, vibrations originating from the very edge of the Black Star to which he was connected by the powerful threads of living force. In the vibrations they discerned a closeness, even a kinship with their own mental structure, albeit at the level of a newborn who innocently takes everything around him as a game.

  This perception of his childlike, naive nature, although inaccurate, inspired them with affection, so that they indulged and understood his prankishness and whims, which, occurring on an astral scale, disturbed other races and sometimes even drove them to despair. But the fishlike individuals soon grew up and stopped playing, while Player appeared to remain unchanged, with the same simple, open nature, though it only seemed so to the swimmers in the vast ga-seous ocean of the Great Arm because of their brief life cycle.

  Although he had already been in existence for inconceivably longer than their species and would probably still be after they had died out, he envied them, just as he envied all other creatures, short-or long-lived, similar to him or dissimilar.

  He envied them all because of the one thing he lacked, or thought he lacked. All others knew their origin, and many had some inkling of their purpose in the overall scheme of things, trifling though it might be, while he, as far as both were concerned, was filled only with a dark void.