God of Tarot (2 page)

He sniffed. “I trust that is not hellfire I smell,” he remarked.

“What
?” Brother James was not much for humor.

Brother Paul pried open the mechanism. Smoke puffed out. “There it is! Our wooden bearing has scorched and warped, decreasing the pump’s efficiency.”

“Scorched?” Brother James asked, surprised. He seemed much relieved to verify that the problem was mechanical, the result of neither the subsidence of the water level nor the proximity of hellfire. “That’s a
water
pump!”

Brother Paul smiled tolerantly. The deepening creases of his face showed that this was an expression in which he indulged often—perhaps more often than was strictly politic for a man of his calling. Yet there was a complementary network of frown-lines that betrayed the serious side of his nature; some of these even hinted at considerable pain. “Not all of it is wet, Brother. This cylinder is sealed. In a high wind, when the shaft is turning rapidly—wind power varies as to the cube of wind velocity, as you know—the bearings can get so hot from friction that they actually begin to char.”

“We did have very good winds yesterday,” Brother James agreed. “Brother Peter arranged to grind flour for a whole week’s baking. But we never thought the mill would—”

“No fault of yours, Brother,” Brother Paul said quickly. “It is quite natural and sensible to use the mill to best effect, and a strong wind makes all its chores easy. This is just one of the problems of our declining technology. I will replace the bearing—but we would be well advised to choke down on the mill during the next gale winds. Sometimes it may be better to waste a little good wind than to lose a bad bearing.” He smiled to himself as he worked, considering whether he had discovered an original maxim for life, and whether such a maxim might be worth integrating into his life’s philosophy.

He fetched a suitable replacement bearing and proceeded to install it. His dark hands were strong and sure.

“You are a magician,” Brother James remarked. “I envy you your proficiency with mechanical things.”

“I only wish the spiritual were as easy to attain,” Brother Paul replied. Now he was sweating with the pleasant effort. He was a thickset man of moderate height, with short black hair. He was inclined to chubbiness, but his muscles showed formidable delineation as he lifted the heavy unit into place.

“Wouldn’t it be better to have the pump on the surface, so that it could be serviced more readily?” Brother James asked as Brother Paul struggled with the weight of the descending cylinder. Brother Paul had drawn it up without trouble, but was now occupied with easing it into its precise place.

“It would—but we would have no water,” Brother Paul explained. “Surface pumps employ suction, which is actually the outside pressure of the atmosphere pushing up the fluid. That’s about fifteen pounds per square inch, and that cannot draw water up more than about twenty-eight feet, what with friction and certain other inefficiencies of the system. Our water table is thirty feet down. So we employ a pressure pump set down near the water; that type of device has no such limit. It
is
more cumbersome—but necessary.”

“Yes, I see that now. It is more than harnessing the windmill to the pump; it has to be done the right way.”

“I suspect it is the same with the power of God,” Brother Paul said musingly. “It is there, like the wind:” an immense potential, often ignored or unperceived by man. Yet it is real; we need only take the trouble to understand it. It is our job to harness that potential, to apply it more directly to the lives of men. But though we seem to have all the elements right, it will not work if they are not correctly placed and adapted to our particular situation—or if part of the mechanism is broken, even though nothing may show on the surface.”

“I don’t regard that as an analogy,” Brother James said. “It is the literal truth. The wind
is
God, and so is the water; we can not exist apart from Him. Not for a moment, not in the smallest way.”

Brother Paul paused in his labors to hold up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You are correct, of course. Yet there must be a process of communication between the power above—” he lifted his right hand to the sky— “and the substance below.” His left hand pointed toward the buried cylinder.

“I would call that process ‘prayer’,” Brother James said.

The reassembled pump worked. A full, pure flow of water emerged from the pipe, cascading into the storage tank and cistern. Brother James was ecstatic.

Without further comment, Brother Paul walked back to his room, washed his hands, arms and face, and changed to his habit: the black robe with the reversed collar, the cross worn outside. He had a class to conduct, and he was overdue. When dealing with matters pertaining to the works of God on Earth, it was best to be punctual.

Suddenly he brightened. “Air, Earth, Water, Fire!” he exclaimed. “Beautiful. Thank you, God, for sending me this revelation.” To him there was no objection to conversing with God directly; in this case, familiarity bred respect, not contempt. The Holy Order of Vision encouraged contact with God in any fashion that seemed mutually satisfactory.

The students were there before him: five young people from a nearby village. These orientation sessions were held periodically, when sufficient interest developed. As the massive energy and population depletion of Earth continued, the need for technological and social systems closer to nature intensified, so these sessions had become fairly regular. The Brothers and Sisters took turns conducting them, and this was Brother Paul’s week.

“Sorry I’m late,” Brother Paul said, shaking hands all around. “I was delayed, if you will, by a superimposition of elements.”

One of the girls perked up. She was a slight, bright-eyed nymph with a rather pretty elfin face framed by loose, dark blonde tresses. She seemed to be about fifteen, although inadequate nutrition stunted the growth of youngsters these days, delaying maturity. A month of good feeding might do wonders for her, physically—and perhaps spiritually also. It was hard to be a devout individual on an empty stomach. At least it was hard for those not trained in this kind of discipline. “You mean something by that, don’t you, sir?” she asked.

“Call me Brother,” Brother Paul said. “I am Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Vision. Yes, I had an anecdote in mind, and thank you for inquiring.” It was always best to begin on a personal basis; early theology could alienate young minds. He was not trying to convert, but merely to explain; even then, it had to be done appropriately. People were more complex than windmills, but there were parallels.

“Big deal,” one of the boys muttered. He was a strapping lad, massive across the shoulders, but surly. He had not been stunted by hunger! Evidently he had been sent here, perhaps by parents who could not control him much longer. The Order Station was no reform school, but perhaps he would find enlightenment here. One never could anticipate the mechanisms of God, who was as much more complex in His devices as man was in relation to a windmill.

“We have a windmill that we use to pump water from the ground, among other chores,” Brother Paul said. “But friction caused a bearing to burn out. Does that suggest anything to any of you?”

They all looked blank—three boys, two girls.

“In our studies at the Order we place emphasis on the elements,” Brother Paul continued. “Not the atomic elements of latter-day science—though we study those, too—but the classical ones. Air, Earth, Water, Fire: we find these manifesting again and again in new ways. They show up in personality types, in astrology, in the Tarot deck—their symbolism is universal. Just now I—”

“The windmill!” the blonde girl said. “Wind is air! And it pumps water!”

“From the earth,” one of the boys added.

“And it got burned,” the surly one finished. “So what?”

“The four elements—all together,” the first girl said, pleased. She clapped her hands together in un-selfconscious joy. There was, Brother Paul noted, something very attractive about a young girl exclaiming in pleasure; perhaps it was nature’s way of getting her married before she became a burden to her parents. “I think it’s neat. Like a puzzle.”

“What
good
is it?” the hulking boy demanded.

“It is an exercise in thinking,” Brother Paul said. “As we seek parallels, coincidences, new aspects of things, we find meaning, and we grow. It is good to exercise the mind as well as the body. The ancient Greeks believed in that; hence we have the Pythagorean Theorem and the Olympic Games. We believe in it too. This, in a very real sense, is what the Holy Order of Vision is all about. ‘Holy’ as in ‘Whole,’ ‘Vision’ as in the vision of Saint Paul on the road to Damascus, that converted him to Christianity. He is not to be confused with Saint Paul the Hermit. We are not a church, but rather a brotherhood. We wish to bring together all people, and teach them the Universal Law of Creation, to prepare the Earth for the new age that is dawning. We try to provide for those in need, whatever that need may be, counseling them or offering material aid. We place great emphasis on practical applications—even windmills, in this day of retreating civilization.”

“Hey, that’s great!” the girl said. “Can anybody join?”

Bless her; she was doing his job for him! “Anybody who wants to, after a student apprenticeship. We do have levels through which the novice progresses according to his ability and faith, and much of the life is not easy. You really have to understand the Order before you can know whether you want to be a part of it”

“Why do you wear the robes and study the Bible and all that?” one of the other boys asked. He was brown-skinned, like Brother Paul: that amalgam of races this culture still chose to term “black.” “Can’t you just go out and do good without all the trappings?”

“An excellent question,” Brother Paul said. “You are really exploring the interrelationship of idea and form. A good idea is wasted without the proper form to embody it. For example, an excellent notion for a book would be ruined by clumsy or obscure writing. Or a fine idea for drawing power for the wind comes to nothing if the design of the gearing is inadequate. Perhaps man himself is an idea that exists in the mind of the Creator—yet that idea must achieve its appropriate form. So it is with us of the Holy Order of Vision; we feel that the forms
are
important, in fact indistinguishable from the basic idea.”

“That’s McLuhanism,” the third boy said. He was a white-skinned, black-haired, clean-cut lad a little older than the others, and probably better educated. He had used a word few were now familiar with, testing the knowledge of the teacher.

“Not exactly,” Brother Paul replied, glad to rise to the challenge. He liked challenges, perhaps more than he should. “The medium may be indistinguishable from the message, but it is
not
the message. Perhaps other forms of expression would serve our purpose as well, but we have a system that we feel works, and we shall adhere to it until it seems best to change.” He closed his eyes momentarily, giving a silent prayer of thanks that the session was proceeding so well. Sometimes he seemed to make no contact at all, but these were alert, responsive minds. “We feel that God has found no better tool than the Bible to guide us, but perhaps one day—”

“Crap,” the surly boy remarked. “God doesn’t exist, and the Bible is irrelevant. It’s all superstition.”

Now the gauntlet had been thrown down. They all watched Brother Paul to see how he would react.

They were disappointed. “Perhaps you are right,” he said, without rancor. “Skepticism is healthy. Speaking for myself alone, however, I must say that though at times I feel as you do, at other times I am absolutely certain that God is real and relevant. It is a matter for each person to decide for himself—and he is free to do so within the Order. We dictate no religion and we eschew none; we only present the material.”

There was a chuckle. Brother Paul noted it with dismay, for he had not been trying to score debater’s points, but only to clarify the position of the Order. Somehow he had erred, for now his audience was more intrigued by his seeming cleverness than by his philosophy.

Disgruntled, the hulking boy pushed forward. “I think you’re a fake. You don’t want to decide anything for yourself, you just want to follow the Order’s line. You’re an automaton.”

“Perhaps so,” Brother Paul agreed, searching for a way to alleviate the lad’s ire without compromising the purpose of this session. How suddenly success had flipped over into failure! Pride before fall? “You are referring to the concept of predestination, and in that sense we are all automatons with only the illusion of self-decision. If every event in the world is precisely determined by existing forces and situations, then can we be said to have free will? Yet I prefer to assume—”

“You’re a damned jellyfish!” the boy exclaimed. “Anything I say, you just agree! What’ll you do if I push you, like this?” And he shoved violently forward with both hands.

Only Brother Paul wasn’t there. He had stepped nimbly aside, leaving one leg outstretched behind him. The boy stumbled headlong over that leg. Brother Paul caught him and eased him down to the floor, retaining a hold on one of the boy’s arms. “Never telegraph your intention,” he said mildly. “Even a jellyfish or an automaton can escape such a thrust, and you could be embarrassed.”

The boy started to rise, his expression murderous. He thought his fall had been an accident. But Brother Paul put just a bit of pressure on the hand he held, merely touching it with one finger, and the boy collapsed in sudden pain. He was helpless, though to the others it looked as though he were only fooling. A one-finger pain hold? Ridiculous!

“A little training in the forms can be advantageous,” Brother Paul explained to the others. “This happens to be a form from aikido, a Japanese martial art. As you can see, my belief in it is stronger than this young man’s disbelief. But were he to practice this form, he could readily reverse the situation, for he is very strong.” Never underestimate the power of a gratuitous compliment! “The idea, as I remarked before, is valueless without the form.”