God of Tarot (14 page)

“Twenty days? These plants look like sixty days!”

“Yes. I warned you that growth was at an incredible rate, so you are free not to credit it. Soon we begin the first harvest of the season. Then no more wood soup until fall.”

“We could use some of this soil back on Earth!”

“Undoubtedly.
We
could use more supplies from Earth, and not only when the mother planet wishes to bribe us to permit religious intrusion. Perhaps we can exchange some soil for such supplies.”

Brother Paul was not certain how much of this was humor and how much was sarcasm, so he did not reply. The cost of mattermission made the shipment of tons of soil prohibitive. What was really needed was the formula—the chemical analysis of the soil, and some seeds from these vigorous plants. And that would be very difficult, for the importation of alien plants to Earth was forbidden. Export was without restriction, but imports had to pass rigorous quarantine; there was a certain logic to this, for those who comprehended bureaucracy. Even if he, Brother Paul, were chemist enough to work out the formula, he would probably not be able to make the authorities on Earth pay attention anyway. But he would take samples and try…

“This is an active volcanic region,” Brother Paul observed, cutting off his own thoughts. It was a discipline he had to exert often. “What happens if there is an eruption before the harvest?”

“That depends on the vehemence of the eruption. Most are small, and the wind carries the ash away from this site. Later in the season, when the prevailing winds shift, it will become more precarious.”

Brother Paul looked down the steep slope again toward the village. The scene was like that of a skillfully executed painting, with the adjacent lake brightly reflecting the morning sun. Beautiful! But he would hate to be stranded here on the volcano when it blew its top! Evidently there could be both ash and lava.

That reminded him of one of his notions that had been aborted by the difficulty of the climb. “Gas,” he said. “Does the volcano issue gas? That might account for—”

“There are gas and liquid and solids and enormous energy, in accordance with the laws of Tarot,” the Swami said. “But none of these are of a hallucinogenic nature. Our problem is not so readily dismissed as originating in the mouth of the mountain.” He stood beside Brother Paul and pointed to the north. “There, five kilometers distant, is the depression we call ‘Northole.’ There is the seat of Animation for this region.”

“Maybe a subterranean vent from the volcano?” Brother Paul persisted. “Strange effects can occur. The Oracle at Delphi—that’s a place back on Earth—would sit over the vent of—”

“Well I know it. Yet it seems strange that there is no Animation here at the volcano Southmount itself. No, I feel that the secret is more subtle and formidable.”

“Yet you object to my attempt to explore the secret?”

The Swami showed the way down the mountain. This was a less precipitous path to the west, so that they were able to tread carefully upright, occasionally skidding on the black ash lying in riverlike courses at irregular intervals. “Do you comprehend
prana
?”

Brother Paul chuckled. “No. I have tried hatha yoga and zen meditation and read the
Vedas
, but never achieved any proper awareness of either
prana
or
jiva
. I can repeat only the vulgar descriptions:
prana
is the individual
life
principle, and
jiva
is the personal soul.”

“That is a beginning,” the Swami said. “You are better versed than I anticipated, and this is fortunate. In the Hindu, Vedic, and Tantric texts there is a symbol of a sleeping serpent coiled around the base of the human spine. This is Kundalini, the coiled latent energy of
prana
, known by many names. Christians call it the ‘Holy Spirit,’ the Greeks termed it ‘ether,’ martial artists described it as
‘ki’
.”

Now Brother Paul was in more familiar territory. “Ah, yes. In my training in judo, I sought the power of
ki
, but could never evoke it. No doubt my motive was suspect; I was thinking in terms of physical force, not spiritual force.”

“This is the root of failure in the great majority of aspirants.” The Swami paused on the mountainside. “Do you care to break that rock?” he inquired, indicating an outcropping of crystal.

Brother Paul tapped it with his fingers, feeling its hardness. “With a sledgehammer?”

“No. Like this. With
ki.”
And the Swami lifted his right arm and brought his hand down in a hard blow upon the rock.

And the rock fractured.

Brother Paul stared.
“Ki!”
he breathed. “You have it!”

“I do not make this demonstration to impress you with my skill,” the Swami said, “but rather as evidence that my concern is serious. You have looked at me obliquely, and this is your right, but you must appreciate the sincerity of my warning.”

Brother Paul looked at the cracked crystal again. Some flaw in the stone? He had not observed such a flaw before, and even if there had been one, it should have taken a harder blow than the human arm was capable of delivering to faze it. The power of
ki
was the most reasonable explanation. The man who possessed that power had to be taken seriously. It was not merely that he was potentially deadly; the Swami had to have undergone rigorous training and discipline, and to have achieved fundamental insights about the nature of man and the universe.

“I take you seriously,” Brother Paul said. The Swami resumed his downward trek as if nothing special had happened. “So few apply proper respect to their quest for the aura—”

“Aura!” Brother Paul exclaimed, surprised again.

The Swami glanced sidelong at him. “That word evokes a specific response?”

Brother Paul considered telling the Swami of his vision of the creature from Sphere Antares, who had informed Brother Paul of the existence of his own, supposedly potent aura. It required only a moment’s reflection to squelch that notion. He knew too little of this man and this society to discuss something as personal as this, since it reflected on his own emotional competence. What sensible person would believe in the ghost in the machine, or in private, personal alien contact during the period of instantaneous matter transmission? “I have read of Kirlian photography.”

“No. Photographs are not the essence. Aura permeates the gross tissues of the body, and is the source of all vital activity including movement, perception, thought, and feeling. The awakening of this force is the greatest enterprise and the most wonderful achievement man contemplates. By this means it will be possible to bridge the gulf between science and religion, between technology and truth. But there is danger, too. Grave danger.”

They were now down on the plain, walking northward through the amaranth. No wonder the “wheat” had looked funny! Brother Paul was distracted by the thought of the young woman he had encountered here the day before, and his other adventure. “Speaking of danger—is it safe to come here without weapons? Yesterday I encountered a wild animal near here.”

“Yes, the news is all over the village! The Breaker will not attack you again, since you mastered it. Otherwise I surely would not have brought you this way.” He paused. “Though how a lone man could have defeated as horrendous a creature as that one, that none of us dares to face without a trident—”

“I was lucky,” Brother Paul said. This was not false modesty; he
had
been lucky. “Had I been aware of the threat, I would not have ventured into the amaranth field.”

The Swami faced him. “What exactly did you do to overcome the Breaker?”

“I used a judo throw, or tried to,” Brother Paul explained.
“Ippon seoi nage
and an armlock.”

“Ippon seoi nage
should not be effective against such a creature; the dynamics are wrong.” The Swami looked at him with a glint of curiosity in his eye. “I wonder—” He hesitated. “Would you show me exactly what you did?”

“Oh, I would not care to throw you on this ground,” Brother Paul demurred.

“I meant the armlock—gently.” There was no question that the Swami was familiar with martial arts.

Brother Paul shrugged. “As you will.” They got down on the ground and he applied the armlock, without pressure. “Nothing special about it,” Brother Paul said. “On the Breaker, it was really a leglock. I had not expected it to work, owing to the peculiar anatomy of the—”

“Bear down,” the Swami said. “Do not be concerned; my arm is strong.”

He was right about that; Brother Paul could feel surprisingly formidable muscular tension in the Swami’s light frame. This man was like another aspect of the ghost in the machine; he seemed fanatical because he was improperly understood, but he was merely giving his allegiance to other than the usual imperatives. Brother Paul slowly increased the force of the hold to the point where the Breaker had screamed.

“More,” the Swami said.

“There is danger.”

“Precisely.”

Well, pain should make the man tap out before his elbow actually broke, Brother Paul thought as he put an additional surge of effort into it.

“There!” the Swami cried.

Brother Paul eased up in alarm.

The Swami smiled, obviously unhurt.

“It is what I suspected. You used
ki
!”

Brother Paul shook his head. “I have no—”

“You have a powerful aura,” the Swami insisted. “I was uncertain until you focused it. You are a gentle man, so you never willingly invoke it, but were you otherwise, you would be a monster. Never have I encountered such power.”

Brother Paul sat bemused. “Once another person said something of the kind to me, but I dismissed it as fancy,” he said, thinking again of Antares.

“Only those who have mastered their own auras can perceive them in others,” the Swami assured him. “My own mastery is imperfect, so your aura was not immediately apparent to me. But now I am certain, it was your
ki
, the focused application of your aura, that terrified the Breaker. Surely it was this aura that selected you for this mission too, though others might have rationalized it into other reasons. I had hoped this would not be the case.”

Brother Paul shook his head. “If this… this aura protects me against threats, surely—”

“The threat of which I speak is much greater than merely a physical one. You see—”

“Hello.”

Both men looked up, startled. It was the girl of the wheatfield, the Empress of Tarot.
Amaranth
field, he corrected himself. This time she was not fleeing him, and for that he was grateful. Now he could discover whom she was.

She wore a one-piece outfit, really a belted tunic embroidered with a landscape reminiscent of the local geography. Every colonist’s apparel was distinctive, reflecting his religious bias, but this was something special. There were hills and valleys in color, and two volcanic mounts in front: a veritable contour map. Brother Paul tried not to stare. They were extremely lofty and well-formed volcanoes.

“We merely pass by,” the Swami informed her.

“Wrestling on the ground, flattening the crop, and crying out?” she demanded. “Swami, I always knew you were a nut, but—”

“My fault,” Brother Paul interposed. “I was trying to demonstrate how I discouraged the Breaker.”

Her lovely eyes narrowed appraisingly. “Then I must speak with you,” she said firmly. Indeed, everything about her was firm; she was a strikingly handsome young woman, with golden hair and eyes and skin, and features that were, as the narrators of the
Arabian Nights
would have put it, marvels of symmetry. Brother Paul might have seen a fairer female at some time in his life, but at the moment it was difficult to call any such creature to mind.

“I have undertaken to guide this man about the premises,” the Swami said gruffly, as he rose and dusted himself off. “We must arrive at Northole in due course.”

“Then I shall accompany you,” she said. “It is essential that I talk with our visitor from Earth.”

“You cannot leave your station!”

“My station is the Breaker—who is absent today,” she said with finality.

Brother Paul remained silent. It seemed that the Swami was being served as he himself had served Reverend Siltz; also, it would be wickedly pleasant having this scenic creature along. He had feared he would not see her again, but here she was, virtually forcing her company on him. Obviously she accepted no inferior status; maybe women were, after all, equal to men here. That would be nice.

The Swami shrugged, evidently suppressing his irritation. “This female is the understudy to the Breaker,” he said, by way of introduction. “She alone has no fear of the monster. It is apparent in her manner.”

“The Swami prefers his docile daughter,” she responded, “who has few illusions of individuality.”

Thrust and counterthrust! “What is your name, Breaker Lady?” Brother Paul asked. “Why did you flee from me before, if you have so little to fear?”

“I thought you were an Animation,” she said. “The only way to handle an Animation is to get the hell away from it.”

Hm. A candid, colloquial answer that did much to debilitate his prior conception of her as the Empress. “But your name?”

“Call her anything you like,” the Swami said. “Subtlety is wasted on the unsubtle.”

The girl only smiled, not at all discommoded by the Swami’s taciturnity. If she had intended to give her name, that intention was gone now. Somehow he had to defuse this minor social crisis, since he wanted to get along with both of them, though for different reasons.

“Then I shall call you Amaranth, in honor of this beautiful field where we met,” Brother Paul decided that physical compliments were seldom in error, when relating to the distaff.

“Oh, I like that!” she exclaimed, melting. “Amaranth! May I keep it?”

“It is yours,” Brother Paul said benignly. He liked her mode of game-playing, and he liked her. “You thought I was an Animation of the Devil, and I thought you were an Animation of the Empress. No doubt we were both correct.”