Rudyard Kipling's Tales of Horror and Fantasy (104 page)

When they were at the after-table once more they sat down, all except the Friar who went to the window and huddled bat-like over the thing. ‘I see! I see!' he was repeating to himself.

‘He'll not hurt it,' said John. But the Abbot, staring in front of him, like Roger of Salerno, did not hear. The Infirmarian's head was on the table between his shaking arms.

John reached for a cup of wine.

‘It was shown to me,' the Abbot was speaking to himself, ‘in Cairo, that man stands ever between two Infinities – of greatness and littleness. Therefore, there is no end – either to life – or—'

‘And
I
stand on the edge of the grave,' snarled Roger of Salenio. ‘Who pities
me
?'

‘Hush!' said Thomas the Infirmarian. ‘The little creatures shall be sanctified – sanctified to the service of His sick.'

‘What need?' John of Burgos wiped his lips. ‘It shows no more than the shapes of things. It gives good pictures. I had it at Granada. It was brought from the East, they told me.'

Roger of Salerno laughed with an old man's malice. ‘What of Mother Church? Most Holy Mother Church? If it comes to Her ears that we have spied into Her Hell without Her leave, where do we stand?'

‘At the stake,' said the Abbot of St Illod's, and, raising his voice a trifle, ‘You hear that? Roger Bacon, heard you that?'

The Friar turned from the window, clutching the compasses tighter.

‘No, no!' he appealed. ‘Not with Falcodi – not with ourEnglish-hearted Foulkes made Pope. He's wise – he's learned. He reads what I have put forth. Foulkes would never suffer it.'

‘“Holy Pope is one thing, Holy Church another,”' Roger quoted.

‘But I –
I
can bear witness it is no Art Magic,' the Friar went on. ‘Nothing is it, except Art optical – wisdom after trial and experiment, mark you. I can prove it, and – my name weighs with men who dare think.'

‘Find them!' croaked Roger of Salerno. ‘Five or six in all the world. That makes less than fifty pounds by weight of ashes at the stake. I have watched such men – reduced.'

‘I will not give this up!' The Friar's voice cracked in passion and despair. ‘It would be to sin against the Light.'

‘No, no! Let us – let us sanctify the little animals of Varro,' said Thomas.

Stephen leaned forward, fished his ring out of the cup, and slipped it on his finger. ‘My sons,' said he, ‘we have seen what we have seen.'

‘That it is no magic but simple Art,' the Friar persisted.

‘'Avails nothing. In the eyes of Mother Church we have seen more than is permitted to man.'

‘But it was Life – created and rejoicing,' said Thomas.

‘To look into Hell as we shall be judged – as we shall be proved – to have looked, is for priests only.'

‘Or green-sick virgins on the road to sainthood who, for cause any mid-wife could give you—'

The Abbot's half-lifted hand checked Roger of Salerno's outpouring.

‘Nor may even priests see more in Hell than Church knows to be there. John, there is respect due to Church as well as to Devils.'

‘My trade's the outside of things,' said John quietly. ‘I have my patterns.'

‘But you may need to look again for more,' the Friar said.

‘In my craft, a thing done is done with. We go on to new shapes after that.'

‘And if we trespass beyond bounds, even in thought, we lie open to the judgment of the Church,' the Abbot continued.

‘But thou knowest –
knowest!
'Roger of Salerno had returned to the attack. ‘Here's all the world in darkness concerning the causes of things – from the fever across the lane to thy Lady's – thine own Lady's – eating malady. Think!'

‘I have thought upon it, Salerno! I have thought indeed.'

Thomas the Infirmarian lifted his head again; and this time he did not stammer at all. ‘As in the water, so in the blood must they rage and war with each other! I have dreamed these ten years – Ithought it was a sin – but my dreams and Varro's are true! Think on it again! Here's the Light under our very hand!'

‘Quench it! You'd no more stand to roasting than – any other. I'll give you the case as Church – as I myself – would frame it. Our John here returns from the Moors, and shows us a hell of devils contending in the compass of one drop of water. Magic past clearance! You can hear the faggots crackle.'

‘But thou knowest! Thou hast seen it all before! For man's poor sake! For old friendship's sake – Stephen!' The Friar was trying to stuff the compasses into his bosom as he appealed.

‘What Stephen de Sautré knows, you his friends know also. I would have you, now, obey the Abbot of St Illod's. Give to me!' He held out his ringed hand.

‘May I – may John here – not even make a drawing of one – one screw?' said the broken Friar, in spite or himself.

‘Nowise!' Stephen took it over. ‘Your dagger, John. Sheathed will serve.'

He unscrewed the metal cylinder, laid it on the table, and with the dagger's hilt smashed some crystal to sparkling dust which he swept into a scooped hand and cast behind the hearth.

‘It would seem,' said he, ‘the choice lies between two sins. To deny the world a Light which is under our hand, or to enlighten the world before her time. What you have seen, I saw long since among the physicians at Cairo. And I know what doctrine they drew from it. Hast
thou
dreamed, Thomas? I also – with fuller knowledge. But this birth, my sons, is untimely. It will be but the mother of more death, more torture, more division, and greater darkness in this dark age.Therefore I, who know both my world and the Church, take this Choice on my conscience. Go! It is finished.'

He thrust the wooden part of the compasses deep among the beech logs till all was burned.

³
Hymn No. 226 A. and M., ‘The world is very evil.'

ON THE GATE: A TALE OF '16

If the Order Above be but the reflection of the Order Below (as that Ancient affirms, who had some knowledge of the Order), it is not outside the Order of Things that there should have been confusion also in the Department of Death. The world's steadily falling death-rate, the rising proportion of scientifically prolonged fatal illnesses, which allowed months of warning to all concerned, had weakened initiative throughout the Necrological Departments. When the War came, these were as unprepared as civilised mankind; and, like mankind, they improvised and recriminated in the face of Heaven.

As Death himself observed to St Peter who had just come off The Gate for a rest: ‘One does the best one can with the means at one's disposal but—'

‘
I
know,' said the good Saint sympathetically. ‘Even with what help I can muster, I'm on The Gate twenty-two hours out of the twenty-four.'

‘Do you find your volunteer staff any real use?' Death went on. ‘Isn't it easier to do the work oneself than—'

‘One must guard against that point of view,' St Peter returned, ‘but I know what you mean. Office officialises the best of us … What is it
now
?'He turned to a prim-lipped Seraph who had followed him with an expulsion-form for signature. St Peter glanced it over. ‘Private R. M. Buckland,'he read, ‘on the charge of saying that there is no God. 'That all?'

‘He says he is prepared to prove it, sir, and – according to the Rules—'

‘If you will make yourself acquainted with the Rules, you'llfind they lay down that “the fool says in his heart, there is no God.” That decides it; probably shell-shock. Have you tested his reflexes?'

‘No, sir. He kept
on
saying that there—'

‘Pass him in at once! Tell off some one to argue with him and give him the best of the argument till St Luke's free. Anything else?'

‘A hospital-nurse's record, sir. She has been nursing for two years.'

‘A long while,' St Peter spoke severely. ‘She may very well have grown careless.'

‘It's her civilian record, sir. I judged best to refer it to you.' The Seraph handed him a vivid scarlet docket.

‘The next time,' said St Peter, folding it down and – writing on one corner, ‘that you get one of these – er – tinted forms, mark it QMA and pass bearer at once. Don't worry over trifles.' The Seraph flashed off and returned to the clamorous Gate.

‘Which Department is QMA?' said Death. St Peter chuckled.

‘It's not a department. It's a Ruling. “
Quia multum amavit.
”A most useful Ruling. I've stretched it to … Now, I wonder what that child actually did die of.'

‘I'll ask,' said Death, and moved to a public telephone near by. ‘Give me War Check and Audit: English side: non-combatant,' he began. ‘Latest returns … Surely you've got them posted up to date by now! … Yes! Hospital Nurse in France … No!
Not
“nature and aliases.” I said – what – was nature – of – illness? … Thanks.' He turned to St Peter. ‘Quite normal,' he said. ‘Heart-failure after neglected pleurisy following overwork.'

‘Good!' St Peter rubbed his hands. ‘That brings her under the higher allowance – GLH scale – “Greater love hath no man—” But
my
people ought to have known that from the first.'

‘Who is that clerk of yours?' asked Death. ‘He seems rather a stickler for the proprieties.'

‘The usual type nowadays,' St Peter returned. ‘A youngPower in charge of some half-baked Universe. Never having dealt with life yet, he's somewhat nebulous.'

Death sighed. ‘It's the same with my old Departmental Heads. Nothing on earth will make my fossils on the Normal Civil Side realise that we are dying in a new age. Come and look at them. They might interest you.'

‘Thanks, I will, but— Excuse me a minute! Here's my zealous young assistant on the wing once more.'

The Seraph had returned to report the arrival of overwhelmingly heavy convoys at The Gate, and to ask what the Saint advised.

‘I'm just off on an inter-departmental inspection which will take me some time,' said St Peter. ‘You
must
learn to act on your own initiative. So I shall leave you to yourself for the next hour or two, merely suggesting (I don't wish in any way to sway your judgment) that you invite St Paul, St Ignatius (Loyola, I mean) and – er – St Christopher to assist as Supervising Assessors on the Board of Admission. Ignatius is one of the subtlest intellects we have, and an officer and a gentleman to boot. I assure you' – the Saint turned towards Death – ‘he revels in dialectics. If he's allowed to prove his case, he's quite capable of letting off the offender. St Christopher, of course, will pass anything that looks wet and muddy.'

‘They are nearly all that now, sir,' said the Seraph.

‘So much the better; and – as I was going to say – St Paul is an embarrass— a distinctly strong colleague. Still – we all have our weaknesses. Perhaps a well-timed reference to his seamanship in the Mediterranean – by the way, look up the name of his ship, will you? Alexandria register, I think – might be useful in some of those sudden maritime cases that crop up. I needn't tell
you
to be firm, of course. That's your besetting – er – I mean – reprimand 'em severely and publicly, but—' the Saint's voice broke – ‘oh, my child,
you
don't know what it is to need forgiveness. Be gentle with'em – be very gentle with 'em!'

Swiftly as a falling shaft of light the Seraph kissed the sandalled feet and was away.

‘Aha!' said St Peter. ‘He can't go far wrong with that Board of Admission as I've – er – arranged it.'

They walked towards the great central office of Normal Civil Death, which, buried to the knees in a flood of temporary structures, resembled a closed cribbage-board among spilt dominoes.

They entered an area of avenues and cross-avenues, flanked by long, low buildings, each packed with seraphs working wing to folded wing.

‘Our temporary buildings,' Death explained. ‘ 'Always being added to. This is the War-side. You'll find nothing changed on the Normal Civil Side. They are more human than mankind.'

‘It doesn't lie in
my
mouth to blame them,' said St Peter.

‘No, I've yet to meet the soul you wouldn't find excuse for,' said Death tenderly; ‘but then –
I
don't – er – arrange my Boards of Admission.'

‘If one doesn't help one's Staff, one's Staff will never help itself,' St Peter laughed, as the shadow of the main porch of the Normal Civil Death Offices darkened above them.

‘This façade rather recalls the Vatican, doesn't it?' said the Saint.

‘They're quite as conservative. 'Notice how they still keep the old Holbein uniforms? 'Morning, Sergeant Fell. How goes it?' said Death as he swung the dusty doors and nodded at a Commissionaire, clad in the grim livery of Death, even as Hans Holbein has designed it.

‘Sadly. Very sadly indeed, sir,' the Commissionaire replied. ‘So many pore ladies and gentlemen, sir, 'oo might well 'ave lived another few years, goin' off, as you might say, in every direction with no time for the proper obsequities.'

‘Too bad,' said Death sympathetically. ‘Well, we're none of us as young as we were, Sergeant.'

They climbed a carved staircase, behung with the whole millinery of undertaking at large. Death halted on a dark Aberdeen granite landing and beckoned a messenger.

‘We're rather busy to-day, sir,' the messenger whispered, ‘but I think His Majesty will see
you
.'

‘Who
is
the Head of this Department if it isn't you?' St Peter whispered in turn.

‘You may well ask,' his companion replied. ‘I'm only—' he checked himself and went on. ‘The fact is, bur Normal Civil Death side is controlled by a Being who considers himself all that I am and more. He's Death as men have made him – in their own image.' He pointed to a brazen plate, by the side of a black-curtained door, which read: ‘Normal Civil Death, KG, KT, KP, PC, etc.'‘He's as human as mankind.'