God of Tarot (5 page)

But she was unaware of this chasm within him—an innocence for which he sincerely thanked God. “I feel you would not concentrate exclusively on the religious implications of the problem,” she continued blithely. “You would relate to the concerns of the colonists as well. Perhaps you will be able to ascertain not only what happened to the priests, but why it
doesn’t
happen to the colonists, and why faith seems to be such a liability. But more important—”

“I think I anticipate you,” Brother Paul murmured.

“We want to ascertain whether this phenomenon is ultimately material or spiritual. We have observed only the fringes of it so far, but there appear to be elements of both. One explanation is that this is a test for man, of his coming-of-age: that God, if you will, has elected to manifest Himself to man in this challenging fashion. We do not want to ignore that challenge, and certainly we do not wish to risk crucifying Christ again! But we also cannot afford to embarrass ourselves by treating too seriously a phenomenon that may have completely mundane roots.”

“God has completely mundane roots,” Brother Paul pointed out, with no negative intent.

“But He also has completely divine branches. The one without the other—”

“Yes, I appreciate the delicacy of the problem.”

“If this manifestation should actually stem from God, we must recognize and answer the call,” the Reverend Mother said. “If it is a purely material thing, we would like to know exactly what it is, and how it works, and why religion is vulnerable to it. That surely will not be easy to do!” She paused. “Why am I so excited, Paul, yet so afraid? I have urged you not to go, yet at the same time—”

Brother Paul smiled. “You are afraid I shall fail. Or that I will actually
find
God there. Either would be most discomfiting—for of course the God of Tarot is also the God of Earth. The God of Man.”

“Yes,” she said uncertainly. “But after all our centuries of faith, can we really face the reality? God may not conform to our expectations, yet how could we reject Him? We
must
know Him! It frightens me! In short—”

“In short,” Brother Paul concluded, “you want me to go to Hell—to see if God is there.”

∞

Unknown

Consciousness has been compared to a mirror in which the body contemplates its own activities. It would perhaps be a closer approximation to compare it to the kind of Hall of Mirrors where one mirror reflects one’s reflection in another mirror, and so on. We cannot get away from the infinite. It stares us in the face whether we look at atoms or stars, or at the becauses behind the becauses, stretching back through Eternity. Flat-Earth science has no more use for it than the flat-Earth theologicians had in the Dark Ages; but a true science of life must let infinity in, and never lose sight of it… Throughout the ages the great innovators in the history of science had always been aware of the transparency of phenomena towards a different order of reality, of the ubiquitous presence of the ghost in the machine—even such a simple machine as a magnetic compass or a Leyden jar. Once a scientist loses this sense of mystery, he can be an excellent technician, but he ceases to be a
savant
.

Arthur Koestler:
The Ghost in the Machine

The Station of the Holy Order of Vision was, Brother Paul was forcibly reminded, well out in the sticks. It had not always been that way. This had once been a ghetto area. In the five years of the Matter Transmission program, officially and popularly known as MT and Empty respectively, several billion human beings had been exported to about a thousand colony planets. This was a rate that would soon depopulate the world.

But it was not the policy of the Holy Order of Vision to interfere in lay matters. Brother Paul could think his private thoughts, but he must never try to force his political or economic opinions on others. Or, for that matter, his religious views.

So now he trekked through the veritable wilderness surrounding the Station, past the standing steel bones of once-great buildings projecting into the sky like remnants of dinosaurs. During winter’s snows the effect was not so stark; the bones were blanketed. But this was summer. His destination was the lingering, shrinking technological civilization of the planet. The resurging brush and shrubs grew thicker and taller as he covered the kilometers, as though their growth kept pace with his progress, then gave way on occasion to clusters of dwellings like medieval villages. Each population cluster centered around some surviving bastion of technology: electricity generated from a water wheel, a wood-fueled kiln, or industrial-scale windmills.

Village
, he thought. From the same Latin root as
villa
, the manor of a feudal lord. Inhabited by feudal serfs called
villains
, whose ignorant nature lent a somewhat different meaning to that word in later centuries. Society was fragmenting into its original components, under the stress of deprivation of energy. Electronics was virtually a dead science in the hinterlands where there was no electricity; automotive technology was passé where there was no gasoline. Horsepower and handicrafts had quickly resumed their former prominence, and Brother Paul was not prepared to call this evil. Pollution was a thing of the past, except in mining areas, and children today did not know what the term “inflation” meant, since barter was the order of the day. People lived harder lives now, but often healthier ones, despite the regression of medical technology. The enhanced sense of community in any given village was a blessing; neighbor was more apt to help neighbor, and the discontented had gone away. Light-years away.

However, he approached each village carefully, for the villains could be brutish with strangers. Brother Paul was basically a man of peace, but neither a weakling nor a fool. He donned his Order habit when near population centers to make himself more readily identifiable. He would defend himself with words and smiles and humility wherever he could, and with physical measures when all else failed.

Though he was a Brother of an Order with religious connotations, he neither expected nor received free benefits on that account. He rendered service for his night’s board and lodging; there was always demand for a man handy with mechanical things. He exchanged news with the lord of each manor, obtaining directions and advice about local conditions. Everyone knew the way to MT. Each night he found a different residence. In some areas of the country, actual primitive tribes had taken over, calling themselves Saxons, Huns, Cimmerians, Celts, or Picts, and in many respects they did resemble their historic models. The Saxons were Americans of northern European descent; the Huns were Americans of middle European admixed with Oriental descent; the Cimmerians seemed to be derived from the former fans of fantasy adventure novels. Elsewhere in the world, he knew, the process was similar; there were even Incas in Asia. He encountered one strong tribe named Songhoy whose roots were in tenth-century Black Africa. Their location, with ironic appropriateness, was in the badlands of black craters formed by savagely rapid and deep strip mining for coal. Once there had been enough coal in America to power the world for centuries; no more.

The Holy Order of Vision, always hospitable to peaceful travelers, had entertained and assisted Shamans and Druids and other priestly representatives, never challenging their beliefs or religious authority. A Voodoo witch-doctor could not only find hospitality at the Station, he could converse with Brothers of the Order who took him completely seriously and knew more than a little about his practice. Now this policy paid off for Brother Paul. The small silver cross he wore became a talisman of amazing potency wherever religion dominated—and this was more extensive every year. Political power reached only as far as the arm of the local strong man, but clerical power extended as far as faith could reach. The laity gave way increasingly to the clerical authorities, as in medieval times. Thus Brother Paul was harvesting the fruit of the seeds sown by his Order. In addition, he had rather persuasive insights into the culture of Black societies, whether of ancient Africa or modern America. He fared very well.

After many pleasant days of foot travel he entered the somewhat vaguely defined demesnes of twentieth-century civilization. Here there was electricity from a central source, and radio and telephones and automotive movement. He obtained a ride on a tram drawn by a woodburning steam engine; no diesels or coal-fired vehicles remained operative, of course. The electricity here was generated by sunlight, not fossil fuel, for MT was as yet unable to preempt the entire light of the sun for the emigration program. “Maybe tomorrow,” the wry joke went.

The reason for the lack of clear boundaries to the region was that the electric power lines did not extend all the way to the periphery, and batteries were reserved for emergency use. But radio communication reached some distance farther out, so that selected offices could be linked to the news of the world. At this fringe, wood was the fuel of choice where it was available.

This was a pleasant enough ride, allowing Brother Paul to rest his weary feet. He felt a bit guilty about using the Order credit card for this service, but in one day he traversed more territory than he had in a week of foot travel. He could not otherwise have arrived on time.

He spent this night at the Station of the Coordinator for the Order in this region: the Right Reverend Father Crowder. Brother Paul was somewhat awed by the august presence of this pepper-maned elder, but the Right Reverend quickly made him even less at ease. “How I envy you your youth and courage, Brother! I daresay you run the cross-country kilometer in under three minutes.”

“Uh, sometimes—”

“Never cracked three-ten myself. Or the five-minute mile. But once I managed fifteen honest pullups in thirty seconds on a rafter in the chapel.” He smiled ruefully. “The chapelmaster caught me. He never said a word—but, oh, the look he gave me! I never had the nerve to try it again. But I’m sure you would never allow such a minor excuse to interfere with your exercise.”

Obviously the man knew something about Brother Paul’s background—especially the calisthenics he had been sneaking in when he thought no one was watching. He hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“The mission you now face requires a good deal more nerve than that sort of thing,” Right Reverend Crowder continued. “You have nerve, presence of mind, great strength, and a certain refreshing objectivity. These were qualities we were looking for. Yet it will not be easy. Not only must you face God—you must pass judgment on His validity. I do not envy you this charge.” He turned and put his strong, weathered hands on Brother Paul’s shoulders. “God bless you and give you strength,” he said sincerely.

God bless you
… Brother Paul swayed, closing his eyes in momentary pain.

“Easy, Brother,” the Right Reverend said, steadying him. “I know you are tired after your arduous journey. Go to your room and lie down; get a good night’s rest. We shall see you safely on the bus to the mattermission station in the morning.”

The Right Reverend was, of course, as good as his word. Well rested and well fed, Brother Paul was deposited on the bus for a four-hour journey into the very depths of civilization. Thus, quite suddenly, he came to the MT station: Twenty-First Century America.

He was met as he stepped down from the coach by an MT official dressed in a rather garish blue uniform. “Very good,” the young man said crisply, sourly eyeing Brother Paul’s travel-soiled Order robe. “You are the representative of the Visual Order—”

“The Holy Order of Vision,” Brother Paul corrected him tolerantly. A Druid never would have made such an error, but this was, after all, a lay official. “Holy as in ‘whole,’ for we try to embrace the entire spirit of—”

“Yes, yes. Please come this way, sir.”

“Not ‘sir.’ I am a Brother. Brother Paul. All men are brothers—” But the imperious functionary was already moving ahead, forcing Brother Paul to hurry after him.

He did so. “Before I go to the colony world, I’ll need a source of direct current electricity to recharge my calculator,” he said. “I’m not an apt mathematician, and there may be complexities that require—”

“There isn’t time for that!” the man snapped. “The shipment has been delayed for hours pending your arrival, interfering with our programming. Now it has been slotted for thirty minutes hence. We barely—”

He should have remembered: Time, in the form of schedules, was one of the chief Gods of MT, second only to Power. Brother Paul had become too used to a day governed by the position of the sun. He had been lent a good watch along with the calculator for this mission, but had not yet gotten into the habit of looking at it. “I certainly would not want to profane your schedule, but if I am to do my job properly—”

With a grimace of exasperation the man drew him into a building. Inside was a telephone. “Place an order for new batteries,” he rapped out, handing the transceiver to Brother Paul.

Such efficiency! Brother Paul had lost familiarity with telephones in the past few years. Into which portion of the device was he supposed to speak? He compromised by speaking loudly enough to catch both ends of it, describing the batteries. “Authorization granted,” the upper part of the phone replied after a click. “Pick them up at Supply.”

“Supply?” But the phone had clicked off. That seemed to be the manner, here in civilization.

“Come on,” the functionary said. “We’ll catch it in passing.” And they did; a quick stop at another building produced the required cells. These people were not very sociable, but they got the job done!

“And this,” the man at the supply desk said, holding out a heavy metal bracelet.

“Oh, Brothers don’t wear jewelry, only the Cross,” Brother Paul protested. “We have taken vows of poverty—”

“Jewelry, hell,” the man snorted. “This is a molecular recorder. There’ll be a complete playback when you return: everything you have seen or heard and some things you haven’t. This unit is sensitive to quite a few forms of radiation and chemical combinations. Just keep it on your left wrist and forget it. But don’t cover it up.”