Faith of Tarot by Piers AnthonyPiers Anthony
Faith of Tarot
Book III: The Miracle Planet Revealed
 
Dedicated to the Holy Order of Vision

Acknowledgments
A HISTORY OF THE BIBLE, copyright © 1959 by Fred Gladstone Bratton. Published by 
Beacon Press. Used by permission of the publisher.
THE HISTORY OF THE DEVIL AND THE IDEA OF EVIL, copyright © 1974 by Paul Cams. 
Published by Crown Publishers. Used by permission of the publisher.
NO LAUGHING MATTER: RATIONALE OF THE DIRTY JOKE (Second Series), copyright © 
1975 by G. Legman. Distributed by Breaking Point, Inc. Used by permission of the 
author.
The author wishes to thank J. W. Drought for the passage reproduced here from 
his novel, THE SECRET, published by Skylight Press, Norwalk, Connecticut, 1963.

Author's Note:
This is the concluding volume in the three-part novel of Tarot. The first 
volume, God of Tarot, presented the challenge of finding God, and developed the 
character of the protagonist, Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Vision. The 
second volume, Vision of Tarot, explained the religious background of the quest, 
including the graphic reenactment of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. Though the 
present volume is a unified tour of Hell, the novel should be more intelligible 
and meaningful if the reader goes through the prior two volumes. For those who 
are unable or unwilling to do so, here is a summary of the salient aspects:
Brother Paul is sent to Planet Tarot by his superior, the Reverend Mother Mary, 
to discover whether the Deity manifesting there is or is not God. He finds 
numerous schismatic religions there who also need to know the truth, so that 
they can unite and survive the rigors of colony life. He is the guest of the 
Reverend Siltz of the Second Church Communist, whose son wishes to marry 
Jeanette, a Scientologist; Siltz is strongly opposed. Brother Paul encounters 
the lovely woman Amaranth, who worships the snake-footed god Abraxas and seeks 
constantly to seduce Brother Paul. He is befriended by the Mormon Lee and the 
devil-worshiper Therion, who become his Good and Bad Companions in the visions, 
leading him respectively toward improvement or mischief. He discovers he has a 
daughter, Carolyn, as yet unborn but whom he loves deeply. All parts are played 
by Planet Tarot colonists. They encounter the monster Bigfoot, and participate 
in a series of playlike scenes, seeking truth yet failing to resolve the issue. 
Brother Paul concludes that only by knowing himself, putting himself to the 
ultimate test, can he find God. He decides to visit his own, personal Hell—and 
his companions elect to accompany him, even there.
Volume III, Faith of Tarot, commences with the group's descent. Portions of this 
narrative may be objectionable to some readers. Hell is not a nice place.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. Violence: Triumph 20
II. Revelation: Triumph 21
III. Hope/Fear: Triumph 22
IV. Deception: Triumph 23
V. Triumph: Triumph 24
VI. Reason: Triumph 25
VII. Decision: Triumph 26
VIII. Wisdom: Triumph 27
IX. Completion: Triumph 28
Appendix: Animation Tarot

 
I
Violence: 20
When Jesus Christ was crucified, Governor Pontius Pilate assigned Roman soldiers 
to stand guard. One of these soldiers, named Longinus, had a malady of the eyes. 
When Jesus died, Longinus took a spear and pierced his side, verifying his 
death. Blood ran down the shaft of the spear, and a drop of it got on the 
soldier's eyes. Immediately they were healed. This, combined with certain other 
signs occurring at the time of Jesus' death—the darkening of the sun and quaking 
of the earth—caused Longinus to be convinced that Jesus was indeed the Son of 
God, and the soldier was converted to the Christian faith. He gave up the 
military life, studied with the Apostles, and became a monk. Many years later he 
was brought before the Governor because he refused to sacrifice to idols. He was 
subjected to torture; his tongue was cut off and his teeth torn out. But 
Longinus took an axe and smashed the idols, his brazen act calculated, as though 
to say "If these be gods, let them show themselves!" Demons came out of the 
idols and took over the bodies of the Governor and his aids, and the Governor 
became blind. He then had Longinus beheaded. But after, he fell down before the 
corpse, and wept, and did penance. His sight returned. Thereafter, he did good 
works.
 
They stood in a hollow in the ground ringed by hugely twisted oaks. The full 
moon illuminated the tops but hardly penetrated to the ground. It was a 
beautiful but hauntingly evil setting.
"There were these two devils," Therion remarked. "And the little one said 'I'm 
tired of being the lesser of two evils!' " No one laughed.
Slowly an opacity formed from the shadow, and this shaped into the walls of a 
building—a single large room with bench pews at one end and an ornate stone 
altar at the other. A church.
But what a church! The cross on the altar was upside down, and crooked at that, 
with a crack traversing it. The stained glass windows seemed to be smeared with 
drying blood and formed pictures of obscene sexual acts involving satyrs, plump 
women, and pigs. Beyond the altar was a sculpture of the Virgin Mary, one breast 
dangling tubularly, masturbating the infant Jesus. A monstrous pentacle enclosed 
the altar and a goodly portion of the floor, including several of the pews. It 
was a five pointed star, the extremities symbolizing the five projections of the 
human body, the five senses of man, and the five elements of nature. Everything 
was wrong, profane, or disgusting—calculated to be the reverse of normal 
religious procedure. As it had to be. For this was to be the Black Mass, the 
infernal ceremony through which they would summon Satan.
Brother Paul felt a shiver go down the outsides of his arms. Did he really want 
to go through with this? No question about it: he did not! He had known what he 
thought was ultimate horror in his first Animation, the horror of personal 
degradation—only to suffer worse horror in the second. This was the third, and 
it would surely be the worst if he survived it at all. Yet—he had to do it not 
only for the sake of his mission, but, ironically, for his personal 
satisfaction. He had to know himself—whatever that self might be. Only then 
could he hope to know God.
He wore a black cape embroidered with Satanic symbols and serpents, hanging open 
in front to expose his genitals, for he wore no underclothing. The congregation 
was grotesquely masked with some individuals being in complete animal costumes. 
The acolytes were naked young men whose lingering glances tended to rest on each 
other's posteriors: blatant sodomists. They swung censers that reeked of 
marijuana, opium, and worse.
The high priest stepped up to the altar. His robe, like Brother Paul's was open; 
unlike Brother Paul, he had an erection augmented by Animation to inhuman 
magnitude. It was of course Therion. Under his direction, members of the 
congregation lifted a mattress to the top of the altar, covering it with a dirty 
black drape.
"Let the ceremony begin," Priest Therion said sonorously. "Virgin—dispose 
thyself."
Amaranth came forward, diffidently. The animal congregation began a chant whose 
words were indistinguishable—because the litany was being recited backward. She 
wore a fetching gown similar in respects to the nightgown she had used as Sister 
Beth: the material was sheer and tended to fall open at key locations, exposing 
portions of her lush anatomy. Brother Paul was no longer so naive as to suppose 
such offerings were accidental; she liked to put her torso on display. And he, 
male that he was, liked to see it thus. Now she did a little dance, removing 
films of material from here and there and flinging them away in the manner of a 
cheap strip-tease artist. Slowly her bouncing breasts came into full view and 
her flexing thighs.
"I would rather have made a try for Heaven," Lee muttered beside him.
Brother Paul knew what he meant. But imperfect man had no chance to achieve 
Heaven directly; first he had to settle with Hell. On this they more or less 
agreed. Brother Paul had gone to Lee's Hell to fetch him out; now Lee was coming 
to Brother Paul's Hell to help in whatever way he could. This was the nature of 
friendship.
Amaranth disposed of the last item of apparel and danced naked. She was such a 
splendid figure of a woman with her generally slender body blessed by full 
breasts and buttocks that Brother Paul had trouble with his posture. If only he 
had more concealment for his crotch!
"Marvelously protean flesh," Lee said, and Brother Paul realized that this was 
Antares' thought. The amoebic alien naturally appreciated flexibility, tubular 
elongations, and jellylike quiverings of anatomy.
The congregation acknowledged her beauty with a medley of snorts, growls, 
grunts, groans, and animalistic howls. Several males rubbed their crotches 
suggestively, making bucking motions with their hips, while the females tittered 
rudely.
Brother Paul felt his temper rising. How was he to stand here and tolerate this 
indignity to the woman he loved? (Loved! How had that term entered his mind! He 
might be tempted by her, but not...) Yet she was doing it voluntarily—and doing 
it to assist his own mission. For this was the way, according to Therion, to 
find Satan most swiftly and surely—and Therion was the expert in such matters. 
If this were the worst of the indignities he, Brother Paul, had to suffer here, 
he was well off.
Amaranth walked languorously to the altar and picked up two burning candles 
there. Brother Paul knew they were made from human fat. Holding one candle in 
each hand, she carefully seated herself up on the altar, then leaned slowly back 
to lie upon it, face up. Her head rested on a pillow inscribed with Satanic 
designs, and her arms spread wide to either side to support the guttering 
candles. They gave off an odor like cooking meat, making Brother Paul's stomach 
roil unpleasantly. Her legs spread wide, dangling off the edge of mattress and 
altar so that her vagina lay open to public view. Brother Paul tried to keep his 
eyes away from the moist aperture, but they strayed back. He bit his tongue, 
fighting off the reaction that his open robe would advertise to the entire 
congregation.
The acolytes brought sacramental wafers stolen from a legitimate church, and 
sour wine that looked distressingly like diluted blood. The Priest held the 
wafers above Amaranth's body and pronounced a ringingly profane curse upon them. 
He handed them back for distribution to the congregation, then bent down and 
kissed the girl resoundingly between her legs.
Brother Paul started forward, but Lee restrained him. "It is the ritual," he 
cautioned. "It is an abomination—yet the road to Hell is paved with 
abominations, as we well knew before we made this compact."
"And the angel of Hell enjoys every one of them!" Brother Paul pronounced 
through gritted teeth. But his friend was right: this had to be suffered. Had he 
expected an easy route to the Infernal Region?
The congregation accepted the wafers and wine, but neither ate nor drank. They 
threw the wafers down on the floor, trampled on them, and poured the wine on 
top. "Jesus Christ eats shit!" someone yelled, and Brother Paul flinched, 
remembering the terrible crucifixions of the Savior. "Fuck the Virgin Mary!"
"Words mean little—either of worship or condemnation," Lee murmured. "The 
Satanists overrate the significance of external expressions. Neither Jesus nor 
his mother can be touched by the likes of these."
And that of course was correct. This infernal ceremony was valid only to the 
extent Brother Paul allowed it to touch him, like Voodoo magic. Let the demons 
curse; they were only advertising their own powerlessness.
Priest Therion raised a benign right hand, very like the Hierophant he once had 
been. His left hand fingered his penis. Brother Paul was reminded of the Spanish 
obscenity: "You irritate my penis!" in lieu of the English "You are a pain in 
the ass!" Evidently Therion irritated his own penis. "All in good time," Therion 
said, responding to the cries of the congregation.
"They shall pay—in good time," Lee murmured in a deadly low tone. It was evident 
that despite his encouragement to Brother Paul, he could not avoid being moved 
himself.
Now the members of the congregation opened their costumes and urinated on the 
mash of wafers and wine. "Piss in the mouth of God!" one bawled, then jumped as 
the woman behind him gave him a playful one-fingered goose in the rectum.
The Priest bestowed another juicy kiss on the Virgin's vagina, then rose, 
smacking his lips. "Fill the Grail," he said.
The acolytes scraped up a mound of urine-wafer mash and dumped it into a huge 
dirty chalice. Therion took this chamber pot of a Grail, gestured obscenely over 
it, and lo! it was a human baby. "Celebrant, come forward," he cried.
"That's me," Brother Paul said glumly. "Last time I traveled his road, I 
regretted it..."
"It is only ritual," Lee reminded him. "Profanity, nudity, urine—these can harm 
you only if you yield to them. Keep your mind pure, your intent honorable, and 
all the fiendish powers of Satan are futile."
Good advice! Brother Paul stepped forward.
Therion held the baby out to him. "Place this innocent infant on the belly of 
the Virgin, slit its throat, and catch the blood in the chalice," he instructed. 
"Here is the sacrificial knife; here is the cup. You must do it well, or Satan 
will not come." And he gave his standing penis another jerk with one hand 
momentarily freed for the purpose to show that there was also a sexual 
connotation to his statement. When Satan came, he came.
Brother Paul froze, appalled despite his preparation. "I can't do that!" he 
cried. "I can't kill—"
Therion frowned, looking truly demoniac. "Oh, come on, Paul," he said under his 
breath. "It's not really a baby, you know; it's a puppy. An animal. A living 
sacrifice for Satan. See?" And for a moment Brother Paul glimpsed the little 
beast, its tail curled tightly between its legs. "Don't be a fool. Go along with 
the gag."
The shape of the baby reappeared. So it was illusion! He should have anticipated 
that. After all, he had seen it change from chalice to infant. But was it right 
to kill a dog?
"Come on," Therion urged. "You're holding up the show. Do you think it's any 
worse than butchering a swine for bacon?"
Was it any worse? How many times had Brother Paul eaten of the flesh of animals? 
A thousand? Ten thousand? For each such meal, some animal, somewhere, had had to 
die. He would be a hypocrite to balk now.
He took the baby and set it on the soft white tummy of the Virgin. Virgin? How 
could she be after his liaison with her in the Castle of the Seven Cups two 
Animations ago? Yet he could not be sure about that, since Therion had—
He shook off the ugly thought, as he always did, and accepted the knife and 
chalice. This was horrible, but it represented his rite of passage. If he could 
eat the flesh of an animal killed for him, he should be able to kill an animal 
himself.
"Daddy." Brother Paul paused, thinking he had heard someone speak. But the 
screaming encouragement of the congregation drowned out all else. He must have 
imagined it. He hefted the knife, seeing a shaft of pale moonlight glint from 
its cruel blade.
The baby opened its eyes and looked at him. And abruptly Brother Paul recognized 
it. "Carolyn!" he breathed.
No—that was impossible. She was at least ten years old by this time, assuming 
the Animations progressed chronologically. No baby! And as a colonist she was 
twelve, verging on nubility. So this had to be a false identification, perhaps a 
figment of his own balking mind.
He gripped the knife with sweaty fingers and raised it to the tiny throat. It 
wasn't really her throat, but that of a puppydog. Merely illusion—
He froze again. Illusion? If Therion could make a puppy resemble a human baby, 
why couldn't he make a baby resemble a puppy? Or a young girl resemble a baby?
Whose throat was he cutting?
Again he remembered that episode at the Castle when he had grabbed the naked 
Amaranth—and later looked in the window and seen Therion standing where the girl 
had supposedly been. Had Therion made himself resemble Amaranth, and—
"Get on with it!" Therion said through gritted teeth. "The natives are getting 
restive. Do you want to ruin everything?"
Brother Paul had gone along before—and regretted it profoundly ever since. Was 
he so much the fool that he could be destroyed twice by the same magic? How much 
worse a deed was he being guided to this time by the Evil Companion?
"Now! Therion cried, his desperation such that even his penis lost elevation.
Now Brother Paul was sure. He dropped the knife and lifted his daughter from the 
stomach of the Virgin. "What in Hell are you trying to do?" he demanded with no 
profanity.
"Fool!" Therion cried. "It is too late to stop it now. Satan is coming!" He 
snatched at the baby, but Brother Paul drew aside, using his judo balance, and 
stepped out of the way with her in his arms.
Now the congregation, balked of its expectation, became a ravening mob. With an 
animal roar it charged forward.
Brother Paul set the child down behind him and braced himself for devastating 
action. He had in his hands the skill to maim and kill, rapidly, and if that was 
what this horde really wanted—
"No, Paul!" Lee cried.
And Brother Paul understood. Lee was not concerned for the welfare of the mob; 
he was cautioning Brother Paul. Once before he had yielded to Temptation—by 
doing its will in the name of opposing it. That had been the path to ruin. 
Instead, his model had to be Jesus Christ: to preserve his own values regardless 
of the threat.
He stood firm, his arm about the child—and it was as if an aura surrounded him, 
a shining light, impervious. The rabble broke against this shield and was 
rebuffed.
"Damnation!" Therion cried. "Satan is coming; He must have His blood! There is 
only one chance remaining—and I'll have to do it myself!" He grimaced as though 
contemplating an act so horrible that even he had to nerve himself for it.
Therion stalked up to the altar, a hand on his phallus. The Virgin still lay 
there, holding the two burning candles. Therion positioned himself between her 
legs and lowered his boom, orienting on her exposed vagina. "I hate this," he 
said. "I'd rather crap on her face. But this has to be according to form."
Brother Paul started forward—but again Lee cautioned him. "You have won—don't 
throw it away now! What means most to you?"
And Brother Paul realized: the life of his daughter was more important than the 
virginity of his girlfriend. He stood firm.
Therion closed his eyes, bared his teeth as though before a firing squad, then 
steeled himself with a hearty oath and rammed his member home. Amaranth gave out 
a gasp of amazement and dropped the candles; evidently she had anticipated only 
another genital kiss. But it was too late for any meaningful protest on her 
part; she had already been speared. There was a spray of blood: her maidenhead, 
its rupture augmented by Animation.
The mob went wild again. It dissolved into a swearing scramble of bodies. 
Clothing was ripped off. Men fornicated frantically with women, genitally, 
orally and anally, and those who could not get hold of female anatomy rapidly 
enough plunged with equal fervor into the orifices of whatever was within range. 
It was an incredible orgy of lust, imperative and insatiable. One woman came up 
from the heap with something bloody dangling from her mouth: a bitten-off penis. 
Some of the congregation, it now developed, really were animals; a billy goat 
was mounting a sprawled woman while two men attempted to penetrate the animal's 
rectum simultaneously.
The whole demoniac church shuddered. Smoke issued from vents around the 
perimeter of the pentacle. But the mob paid no attention. Every person was too 
busy slaking his, her, or its drug-loosed, beastly passion. All except Brother 
Paul, Lee, and Carolyn.
Therion was still performing his sacrifice at the altar, shoving ex-Virgin and 
mattress askew in his grim determination to complete the ritual properly. 
"Disgusting!" he muttered. "But I can't let it faze me! I must ejaculate the 
Offering though the Gorgon petrify me!" And he strove ever harder against the 
impotence that threatened him.
Amaranth was trying to scramble to her feet, but could not get them under her 
before he left off his efforts. "What the Hell are you talking about?" she 
demanded, her surprise, confusion, and pain turning to anger as she began to 
comprehend exactly what he was talking about.
Therion stiffened with a climactic effort, then slowly relaxed in place. Then, 
in an amazed afterthought: "I did it! I really did it! I conquered the gaping 
monster! I prevailed over Manifest Castration itself! Only Satan could have 
brought me through that horror!"
"That horror!" Amaranth exclaimed, furious. "Get away from me, you fairy!"
And Brother Paul understood also. To certain homosexuals, the female genital 
region was the terrifying proof of the reality of castration, for where there 
should be a penis and testicles was only a slash like that left by a knife. The 
awful Sword had removed everything! Such people had constantly to reassure 
themselves by dealing only with those who remained unmutilated: other males. 
Homosexuality was Hell.
"But do you know," Therion added with even greater amazement, "I think I liked 
it!" The man had, in his fashion, just been tested as crucially as Lee had been 
in Dante's Hell—and profited as much. He had discovered heterosexuality.
The smoke gave way to thin fire, jetting up like blowtorch flames on each of the 
ten sides of the pentacle, outlining the five points of the star in flame. The 
entire congregation was within this outline. The fire rose up in sheets, forming 
a new enclosure, shutting out the obscene church. The floor shuddered again as 
though subject to an earthquake.
"Satan approaches," Lee said tersely. "The Priest's act summoned—"
"No—I suspect we are going to the Inferno," Brother Paul said. "The Priest only 
greased the channel, as it were. The mountain seldom comes to Mahomet."
"Daddy, put me down," Carolyn said. Brother Paul discovered that he was holding 
her so close her feet were off the floor. She was no infant any more; she had 
swiftly and subtly grown to her colonist size. If he wielded the knife, catering 
to Therion's supposed hate for all the distaff sex—no! He eased up so as to let 
her slide to the floor. He had already come far closer to Hell than he liked!
The whole surface of the pentacle jumped with a rending clang like that of metal 
on concrete. Steam hissed up in great clouds, stifling the fire. Ozone fumes 
suffused the air. The ex-Virgin fell off the altar, carrying the Priest with 
her; in a tangle of limbs they were separated at last.
"Daddy, pick me up!" Carolyn cried.
Instead, he squeezed her thin shoulders gently but firmly, holding her steady. 
"We're going to Hell, honey," he told her. "Don't be frightened."
She turned her startled gaze upon him. Suddenly he realized the incongruity of 
what he had said. They both burst out laughing.
Lee looked at them disapprovingly. "Mirth—hallmark of the Devil," he muttered.
The air became close as the steam-vapor surrounded them. The rampaging 
congregation at last become aware of the changing situation. There were sounds 
of coughing and hacking as the smog coalesced into soot that coated everything. 
Brother Paul found a handkerchief and gave it to Carolyn to breathe through. She 
insisted on sharing it with him, so he stooped down to put his mouth to one end. 
It did seem to help filter out the choking gas and dust.
The bottom dropped out. The entire pentacle plummeted into a bottomless hole in 
the earth like an elevator whose cable and safety brakes were broken. Down, 
down, in free fall, stomachs floating. "Even so did I plunge into the abyss!" 
Therion said from somewhere, reviewing his recent performance, his supreme act 
of courage.
There was wretching among the congregation. But Brother Paul, Carolyn, and Lee 
stood firm. Therion slid free of Amaranth's legs, and she scrambled to her feet, 
virtually floating free of the blood-spattered altar mattress. Brother Paul 
tried again to keep his eyes averted from her and from Therion's now-dangling 
member, but was not entirely successful. Somehow he felt she had betrayed him, 
though obviously she had neither anticipated nor cooperated in—what had 
happened. And of course he shared responsibility, for he had balked at 
sacrificing the baby, necessitating Therion's alternate procedure. So Amaranth 
had been sacrificed instead of Carolyn—and therein lay the key to his basic 
values. Now, looking at the naked woman, with his arm about the child, he could 
not second guess his decision. He did love his daughter more.
Air screamed past the plummeting platform. Air—another hallmark of the Devil! 
The mixed vapors shot upward, their discolorations seeming to writhe like 
serpents. The velocity of the pentacle was now so great that the wind actually 
whistled. Strange creatures, all fang and wing, passed by, peering momentarily 
into the pentacle as though it were a feeding dish. But after the first 
gut-wrenching shock of falling, equilibrium was returning, making the platform 
seem stationary. The congregation, some in tatters and some naked, stood in 
frightened huddles looking out. The approaching Animation of Hell was evidently 
more than these people had bargained for!
Even in this awful descent, Brother Paul found himself musing on the technical 
aspects of the production. The Animations could make things appear to be other 
than they were and convert mirages to reality—but these were matters of 
perception. The actual mind was not affected directly. So how could there be a 
sensation of falling and of violent motion? But the answer came as he phrased 
the mental question: there were many more senses than the proverbial five, and 
the perceptions of balance, motion, and muscle tension were part of the 
Animation whole. The most intense Animations covered the full spate of senses; 
there was no way other than pure reasoning and memory to know any part of the 
objective situation. And even memory was subject in part to Animation as he knew 
from his vivid flashbacks.
The fact was that the greater part of what made up individual awareness was 
controlled by the Animation effect. Perhaps forty percent of Brother Paul's 
faculties affirmed that reality was a visit to a colony planet by a novice of a 
minor Order whose purpose was to ascertain whether Deity sponsored any part of 
the Animation effect. Sixty per cent of him said he was going to Hell.
"We are going to Hell," he repeated softly, and this time he was not laughing at 
all.
With a jolt that sent people sprawling, the platform changed course. Brother 
Paul staggered, trying to prevent Carolyn from falling. Lee reached out and 
caught her arm, stabilizing her and, through her, Brother Paul. "Thanks," 
Brother Paul gasped.
"You steadied me," Lee said. "You showed me the error of my philosophy and 
brought me to unity with Jesus Christ." Now Lee was a tower of strength, able to 
contemplate Hell itself with an approximation of equanimity because his soul was 
pure.
"But what of mine?" Brother Paul asked himself. "My soul is a nest of scorpions 
that I thought had been safely buried—and now they will surely be loosed!"
The platform was now traveling to the side. The congregation scrambled for the 
pews, seating themselves and holding on tightly. Therion held on to the altar 
which was near the front point of the pentacle. "Get over here!" he called. 
"Want to get knocked off?"
Lee looked out at the slanting colors beyond the rim. The mists were thinning, 
showing an awesome chasm below, through which bright tongues of fire leaped. 
"And where would we fall to," he asked, "that we are not already bound for?"
Good point! Except for one qualification. "If we stay on the platform," Brother 
Paul said, "we visit Hell alive and perhaps return from it. If we fall off the 
platform, we may die and never return."
Carolyn looked too. The maelstrom of fire seemed to intensify, forming an 
amorphous demon face glaring up hungrily. "Oooh, I feel dizzy!" she exclaimed, 
teetering. Brother Paul jumped to fetch her in again, but Lee's hand was already 
on her arm, securing her.
Yet with the angling, lurching, and acceleration of the pentacle, all of them 
were being nudged toward the dread abyss. The congregation was secure because 
the pews seemed to be well anchored to the floor; some people even lay on the 
tapering points of the star and hooked their fingers over the forward edges so 
they could peer down raptly into Hell. But here at the front section there was 
nothing to cling to except the altar.
Brother Paul was loath to touch that altar whose cover and mattress had been 
dislodged and now rested on the floor near the rim. But he felt increasingly 
nervous at their precarious footholds. This was like standing on the wing of an 
airplane—and the intentions of the pilot were uncertain. Condensed slime coated 
the floor, making the footing treacherous. Any sudden shift—
It happened. The pentacle lurched, sending the three of them sliding. The 
mattress fell off the edge. There was a spurt of flame from below as it ignited.
Now it was Therion who extended a hand. He caught hold of Brother Paul's 
flailing arm and with demoniac strength hauled him and Carolyn and Lee in a 
human chain to the altar. "We are going home," Therion said with grisly 
satisfaction. "I shall see that you don't get lost on the way. My Master would 
be angry."
And he was the agent of Satan. Well, what had they expected? In the Infernal 
Region, the truly evil man was lord.
They stood by the altar, fingers hooked over its stone edges, and peered 
forward. There were rails ahead, resembling railroad tracks—shining ribs of 
steel curving into darkness. So that was how this platform was being guided!
"A roller-coaster ride!" Carolyn exclaimed.
Brother Paul exchanged glances with Lee. "Out of the mouths of babes..." the 
latter murmured. Could Hell itself be no more than a scary ride?
A tunnel appeared ahead: a black hole in a boundless wall. The tracks led 
straight into it.
The pentacle whipped straight into the hole—but abruptly it became apparent that 
the vehicle was too large for the aperture. At the last moment there was a 
scream of terror as the people at the star points on either side realized the 
threat. Then a crash—and those two points were sheered off cleanly by the tunnel 
walls. The people on them—were gone.
Brother Paul suffered a mental picture of bodies flattened against the wall like 
squashed flies, sticking there for a while before dropping into the flames 
below. Hell was cruel—but again, what had he expected? He hoped Carolyn did not 
realize the implications.
"Daddy, they weren't very nice people," she said. "But still—"
He drew her close against him again, and she laid her head against his shoulder 
and cried silently. She had a way of doing that when her sensitivities were 
hurt, in contrast to her more open crying for normal problems.
The platform was no longer a full pentacle. It was an arrowhead, arrowing 
through the blackness along its track.
Suddenly a monster loomed at one side. It had glaring yellow eyes, bloody red 
teeth, and talons fifteen centimeters long. "HOO-HAH-HAH-HAH!" it laughed with 
horrendous volume, keeping pace with the platform.
"It's a horror-house image," Brother Paul told Carolyn reassuringly as she 
cringed. If only she could have been spared this journey to Hell; he had thought 
she was safely out of this Animation... until Therion brought her in for the 
sacrifice. Damn Therion! At times the man had seemed decent, but always some new 
door opened on his character that made him seem worse than before. That 
sacrifice—could any but a truly evil mind have organized that? Tricking a man 
into slitting the throat of his daughter-figure? "It's meant to be scary—but it 
isn't real."
"It sure looks real," she said, taking heart.
The monster reached down with its two awful arms and caught up two people. They 
screamed—and so did Carolyn. Brother Paul started back toward the action, but 
both Lee and Therion restrained him. An odd situation when these two natural 
antagonists acted in accord! "They are already damned," Lee said. "No one can 
help them or change the manner of their departure from this frame."
The monster carried the victims up toward its gaping mouth. Carolyn hid her 
face. Therion laughed. But the monster drifted back and out of sight before 
consuming its prey. The fading sound of the screams of the two unfortunates were 
all that remained of them.
The remaining members of the congregation, once so violently eager to summon 
Satan, cowered in their places. But the next apparition was a tremendous octopus 
with a cruel, gnarled beak who blithely wrapped eight tentacles around eight 
more people and hauled them screaming and kicking into obscurity.
"Do not be concerned," Therion said in an offhand manner. "All who touch the 
sacred altar are safe from bestial molestation."
Because they were being saved for a worse fate? Brother Paul's misgivings 
mounted.
Amaranth looked up. "I wasn't saved!" she cried. "I was right on the altar 
when—" But she didn't bother to finish.
The remaining congregation hid itself under the benches. There was an 
internecine struggle for position, and two people were shoved off one edge to 
disappear with the usual screams—that cut off abruptly in a great crunching 
sound. What lay below?
Lights appeared, each like a gleaming eye—a line along the sides like the lamps 
of a subway tunnel. If these images were drawn from his subconscious mind, that 
mind's imagination lacked a really original thrust. But Therion seemed to be the 
dominant character in this Animation so far. Hell was his province; it could be 
as unoriginal as he wished.
The vehicle accelerated. The lights became a blur. Then the tracks curved, and 
they were flung to the right as it swept into a tightening spiral. Down, down, 
in a whirlpool vortex, tighter and tighter—and now the platform spun like a 
gyroscope, adding torque to revolution. They clung to the altar for dear 
life—and what was so dear about it now?—their fingers sliding across the slimy 
stone.
The marker lights funneled into an aperture too narrow for the remaining 
platform. The points snagged on projections and tore off. Again the despairing 
screams of the congregation were heard as people were hurled into the darkness 
outside the spiral, and under the wheels of the platform inside the spiral, to 
be sliced into pieces. Sections of arms and legs flew up, bounced off the 
platform, and skidded back into the gloom. One whole head glared momentarily as 
it rolled, leaving a dotted line of blood splotches. "They took no heed for 
their souls," Therion remarked without pity. "They were unprepared to meet their 
Master."
"And are we prepared?" Brother Paul inquired, holding his fingers over Carolyn's 
eyes in a futile effort to conceal the horror from her. "To meet their Master—or 
our own?" He knew that the congregation was composed of phantasms rather than 
real people; throwaways being thrown away. That was why they had not been able 
to touch him when they had attacked him earlier; they were merely part of the 
scenery. The nucleus of five real people was here about the altar. Why hadn't he 
thought to explain that to Carolyn?
The platform was now a pentagon—five sides, no star points. A dozen Devil 
worshipers clung to the sole remaining pew. The pentagon spun down through the 
nether eye of the vortex and plumped with a loud smacking splash into dark 
water.
Lee looked disapprovingly about. "This is Hell?" he inquired.
"Merely the sticks," Brother Paul murmured.
"Oh, the River Styx," Lee repeated, not catching the pun.
"Hell has not yet begun to manifest," Therion assured them with gusto.
So all this had been but the prelude. The warm-up show. Brother Paul felt an 
ugly chill. What would Hell produce when Hell got serious?
The pentagon bobbled on the gentle swell, moving with unseen power and guidance 
across the river. There was a moderately stiff headwind that carried the stench 
of rot, and it chilled them despite its warmth. Other boats were afloat, more 
conveniently shaped; this one was really a raft. Oddly, as many boats were going 
back as forward and were fully loaded. People leaving Hell?
Therion looked forward, baring his irregular teeth in a savage smile. Amaranth 
kept her head down upon the altar; her hell had begun at the outset of this 
descent. She had been so eager to give her samples; had that all been pretense? 
Or was it simply that Therion was the wrong man? The fact that she had actually 
been a virgin argued for the pretense theory. There were women like that, 
Brother Paul knew. All show and no substance. Well, she had substance now!
Carolyn's horror had abated, for she was young; now she glanced about, intrigued 
by the scene. Lee stood with eyes closed in seeming meditation. Brother Paul 
decided not to attempt to engage any of them in conversation. Actually, this was 
probably about as peaceful as Hell could get.
"Shall I tell a joke to pass the time?" Therion inquired. "There was this time 
when God got horny and went to Earth and knocked up this Jewish girl, and as a 
result—"
"Christianity," Lee said. "Why don't you try to be original for a change?"
A boat cruised by on a parallel course but traveling faster. Ripples rocked the 
raft. Therion frowned. "Watch where you're slogging, duffer!" he yelled.
"Go soak your snout!" someone yelled from the boat.
Therion swelled up with delighted indignation. "Osculate my posterior!" he 
cried. "Your waves are slopping my gunwales."
"Yeah? Try these waves, peckerhead!" the other bawled. The boat looped about, 
accelerating to an unholy velocity. Now the ripples became rolling waves. They 
overlapped the raft's rim, sliding across to soak the feet of the five standing 
people and the bodies of those still lying under the benches. The latter got up 
hastily, cursing, for the water was not crystal clear; it was gray with 
pollution and it stank. Brother Paul observed that there were objects in it that 
resembled—yes, they were fecal matter.
Therion reached down, scooped up a dripping chunk, and hurled it at the boat. 
His aim and force were excellent; the turd scored a direct hit on the shoulder 
of one of the passengers.
There was an undecipherable roar of rage from the boat. The passengers stooped 
to scoop out their own ammunition. In a moment a small barrage of feces scored 
on the raft.
"Of course you realize this means war," Therion said, grinning with the sheer 
joy of battle. He squatted beside the altar, not hiding but rather straining to 
produce fresh ammunition. Brother Paul turned away in disgust; Therion was very 
much the fecal personality, and this was manifesting more openly as Hell drew 
near.
Others on both crafts were quick to follow Therion's example. Why should they 
seine the murky water for used shot, when superior grade and personalized 
material was so readily available? Soon the air was filled with stinking blobs. 
One person after another was hopelessly spattered in brown.
Amaranth straightened up, becoming interested in the proceedings. "Oh, shit!" 
she said. She spoke the truth: a mass of the stuff had scored directly between 
her breasts, breaking up and dribbling down her white torso.
Carolyn went around the altar to her. "I'll help you," the child said.
Surprised, Amaranth just looked at her, neither moving nor speaking. Carolyn 
scraped off the main mass with her fingers. She turned half about, holding it, 
looking across to the boat.
"Uh-uh!" Brother Paul warned her.
Reluctantly, Carolyn dropped the mass into the water, then stooped to rinse her 
hands. Then she scooped up a double handful of water and held it up for Amaranth 
to use to cleanse herself somewhat. "You dear child," Amaranth murmured. Then, 
choked, she did not speak again, but splashed the water on her front.
Why hadn't he helped? Brother Paul asked himself. And answered: because Amaranth 
had suffered herself to be defiled in his eyes. She had lain with the 
shit-conscious apostle of Satan. And if that had been unplanned, it was only the 
alternative to the far worse crime she had known about: the execution of this 
same child who now was helping her.
Carolyn, in her blessed childlike naivete, had forgiven Amaranth. Brother Paul 
had not.
Something massive but soft struck him on the back of the head. He knew what it 
was before he scraped it off. Once before he had acted immorally—and had had his 
soul rubbed in shit for it. This time he had passed what might have been an 
unfair judgment and been similarly punished.
Now only Lee remained untouched by fecal matter. He stood in meditation, eyes 
closed, proof against all incursions. Even on the border of Hell, there was that 
of Divine grace about him.
The two craft separated and the battle died out. No one had gained by it; they 
all were going to Hell anyway. Perhaps this was merely part of the initiation: a 
necessary degradation, immersion in filth. As if physical soiling could set the 
scene for spiritual soiling. As perhaps it could. "Dirt thou art," Brother Paul 
murmured. "To dirt thou returneth." Was Hell the grand compost for filthy souls?
The bank of the river arrived. But there was no need to disembark at the 
landing; tracks led out of the water, and the roller coaster ride resumed.
"Now for the grand tour," Therion said contentedly. "We cannot do justice to all 
the aspects of Hell in these few minutes, but we can glimpse a fraction in 
passing." He smiled, and it was not a nice expression. "Don't forget that Satan 
and His minions are themselves deities whose only crime was to lose out in 
palace politics. For a long time the Horned God was worshiped in His own 
right—and some remain true to that faith to this day." Meaning himself.
The platform swept into an exotic gallery reminiscent of the bowels of the Great 
Pyramid. Ancient Egyptian pictures and pictographs decorated the walls, and 
there were large, grim statues guarding every alcove: griffins, hippopotami, 
crocodiles, pigs, tortoises, and serpents. Human-headed birds perched on stone 
branches near the ceiling.
A line of people stood, each in a short skirt and headdress, waiting for 
assignment. The demon in charge had the body of a man but the head of a strange 
beast with an elongated snout. "That is Set," Therion explained. "He has the 
head of an Oryx. He is the God of War, brute force, destruction and death. Even 
the Hyksos invaders feared him; they tried to placate him, calling him Yahveh, 
but in Egypt he was finally dethroned and called Satan." He shook his head. "A 
sad conclusion for such a noble God."
The craft shot through the wall and into a new chamber. Here there was a huge 
bird-footed, four-winged monster, standing on his hind feet. His front claws 
were hooked over a wall, and his canine face peered into the enclosure where a 
multitude of creatures struggled to escape. Most had the bodies of human beings 
and the heads of animals: lion, dog, bear, sheep, horse, eagle, snake. Some wore 
the scaly skins of fish. Heaped in the corners where the scrambling feet had 
scuffled them, were the remnants of a feast: shards of pottery, fruit rinds, 
bread crusts and human hands and feet. "The God of the Chaldeans laughs at man's 
puny efforts to escape his fate," Therion remarked. "Laugh, Anu, laugh!" And 
awful sounds of mirth filled the chamber. "The Sumerians, Accadians, Assyrians, 
Babylonians and the like had well-developed religious mythologies from which the 
Hebrews plagiarized freely. The Creation, Eden, the Tree of Life, the Deluge, 
the Tower of Babel, the destruction of cities by fire, Sargon-in-the-Bulrushes, 
the twelve signs of the Zodiac, the symbols of the Cherubim—all recorded on 
tablets before the Bible was written. Even the Holy Trinity of Ea, Bel and 
Ishtar, with the Goddess represented as a dove—"
But the carriage plunged through another wall. Suddenly the hot air was filled 
with huge buzzing flies. "Ah, this must be the abode of the Phoenician God, Baal 
Zebub, Lord of the Flies," Therion said happily. "Later corrupted to 
'Beelzebub', and changed into a devil in the time honored practice of losers. 
But he was actually no worse than—"
They went past another wall and into a room dominated by a giant erect phallus. 
"The lingam of the Brahman God Siva, part of the Trinity of India," Therion 
exclaimed with joyful recognition. "Symbol and instrument of the creative 
faculty and the all-devouring fire, evolved into the rod, staff, scepter, and 
Crozier. Maybe we'll catch a glimpse of Siva's consort, the multi-armed Goddess 
Kali, the Power of Nature and the ruthless cruelty of Nature's laws. In her 
honor the Thuggees killed thousands of—"
But again the scene changed. "Oh, come on," Therion protested, annoyed at last. 
"Each of these fine Hells deserves a lifetime of attention, and we are getting 
bare seconds. Stop, stop—let's look at one more carefully!"
The platform screeched to a halt, almost throwing them off. They were in a long, 
narrow cavern, with room only for the tracks and a footpath littered with 
obstructions: rocks, bodies, jagged fissures from which noxious fumes drifted. A 
line of bedraggled people marched slowly down this path, harassed by demons. 
"Hm—not sure I recognize this one," Therion admitted. "Must be a convoy, a 
transfer of personnel from one unit to another."
The platform moved along at walking speed, pacing the depressed marchers. The 
demons ran up and down the line on either side, screaming at the humans, kicking 
them, beating them with whips and clubs.
Carolyn stared wide-eyed, her mouth half open in dismay. Amaranth's reaction was 
more specific. "Stop it!" she cried. "Leave those poor people alone!"
"This is Hell," Therion said. "Sinners are supposed to suffer."
Brother Paul and Lee were silent, knowing it was not their place to interfere. 
Hell would indeed be a failure if it were pleasant. This was one of thousands, 
perhaps millions of similar punishments, yet it was hard to tolerate.
A child stumbled over a sharp projection and almost fell into a fissure. The 
woman behind him grabbed his arm to steady him. "Get your hand off!" a demon 
cried, whacking her across the head with his club. She staggered and fell half 
into the crevice herself, one leg rasping across the sharp edge. Blood flowed. 
The demon laughed.
Then another demon came. He caught the woman's arm and steadied her, helping her 
across the crevice. "I'll get a doctor if there's one available," he told her. 
"I can't promise, but I'll try."
"Fool," the first demon said. "This is Hell! You'll fry yourself if you don't 
shape up."
The second demon turned his back and went about his business. The first demon 
returned to his business, kicking at lagging people, shouting insults at them, 
and in general expressing his nature.
"Strange," Brother Paul observed. "Even among demons there are human 
differences."
The path rounded a corner and ended at a double door. The condemned souls were 
herded through the right door; Brother Paul could see an escalator beyond it 
going down. The demons, their tour of duty complete, passed through the left 
door. The tracks paralleled this one; he now witnessed the fate of the demons.
Lo—the demons stripped off their uniforms. Their forked red tails were part of 
the costume, and inside their cloven-hoofed shoes were human feet. They pulled 
away masks, and the horns came off. They were human beings.
A genuine demon sat on a minor throne. As each pseudo-demon came before him, he 
gestured thumbs up or thumbs down. The thumb-ups were wafted gently through an 
aperture in the ceiling from which colored lights and jazzy music leaked; the 
thumb-downs were dropped through a trap door in the floor.
The demon who had clubbed the woman was a thumbs-up; the one who had helped her 
was a thumbs-down. "See," Therion said as both disappeared. "When in Hell, you'd 
better do as the demons do—or pay the penalty."
Brother Paul felt sick at heart.
But now the track looped about to pick up the people who had been marching. They 
too were stripping away costumes—and lo! they were demons in disguise!
Carolyn could contain herself no longer. "Miss Demon," she called to the woman 
who had been struck, now a healthy female demon with cute hoofs and horns and 
tail. "If you're not really a person, why did you—I mean, the man who helped 
you, he—"
"He was found unfit for Hell," the lady demon answered. "That trap door goes 
straight to Heaven."
All the people on the platform stared. "But—" Therion began.
"If you act like a demon just because you think you are in Hell," the lady demon 
informed him, her pointed teeth showing in a knowing sneer, "you will surely 
soon be in Hell. But if you are a misfit, we have no use for you. That man who 
helped me obviously had no idea what Hell was all about."
Brother Paul exchanged glances with Lee as the vehicle resumed speed. What an 
infernal test of character!
Therion seemed shaken. "I didn't know that anyone escaped once he got in this 
far," he said.
"I suspect Satan is more discriminating than we know," Lee said.
They passed through a dizzying array of Hells. They saw people being boiled in 
oil, hung by their tongues, buried headfirst in burning sand, caged in boxes of 
immortal scorpions, disemboweled among flesh-consuming worms, thrown off high 
cliffs, wasted by terrible diseases, and suffering all the torments diabolical 
minds could imagine. They saw the Hell of the early Christian Gnostics, 
contained by a huge dragon with its tail in its mouth, with twelve dungeons 
ruled by demons with the faces of a crocodile, cat, dog, serpent, bull, boar, 
bear, vulture, basilisk, seven dragons' heads, seven cats' heads, and seven 
dogs' heads. The condemned souls were sometimes thrown with pitchforks into the 
open mouth of the dragon or stuffed into the dragon's rectum. They saw King 
Ixion, who had lusted after the wife of the Greek God Zeus and in punishment was 
spread eagled on a fiery wheel, his limbs and head forming its five living 
spokes. They saw Hades, Sheol, Gehenna Tophet, the Hindu Naraka with its 
twenty-eight divisions, the Moslem Fire with its seven regions each containing 
seventy thousand mountains of fire, each mountain enclosing 70,000 valleys, each 
valley 70,000 cities, each city 70,000 towers, each tower 70,000 houses, each 
house 70,000 benches, and each bench 70,000 types of torture. Brother Paul 
brought out his calculator to figure out the total number of tortures this 
progression represented, but got distracted by new visions of Hell and had to 
give it up.
At one place two grotesque demons investigated each soul. Carolyn called them 
"Monkey" and "Naked," mishearing the proper names Therion provided. If the 
person had lived a good life, his soul was drawn gently and painlessly from his 
body and wafted upward; but if he had lived a bad life, the demons ripped out 
his soul with terrible brutality. Further along they saw the Norse Goddess Hel, 
daughter of Loki, in her domain beneath the roots of the Great World Tree. Now 
it was clear to Brother Paul how heavily Dante had borrowed from Norse mythology 
to fashion his vision of the Christian Hell. Indeed, it was evident that 
Christianity itself had incorporated great chunks of Teutonic legend. They heard 
the enumeration of the myriad Princes of Hell: Lucifer, Beelzebub, Leviathan, 
Asmodee, Belial, Ashtaroth, Magot, and on interminably. All the Gods that past 
peoples had ever worshiped had become Christian devils, and it was obvious that 
contemporary Hell was extremely well staffed and could handle any emergency.
At last the impressive, horrible tour was over. Brother Paul's head was 
spinning, and his companions looked dazed. Only Carolyn had adjusted moderately 
well; she was still close enough to the fantasy realms of childhood to accept 
more of the same. They had set out to see Hell; it was more than they had 
bargained on. Which, Brother Paul reflected, was about par for the course.
Now at last their vehicle rolled up to the dread gates of the Devil's residence. 
A horrible clamor swelled in volume: screams of terror, disgust, anguish, and 
shock. The air was close and hot, and the odor of ozone became strong.
They rounded a turn—and there was Satan Himself. He was huge, seven or eight 
meters tall, and His hands and feet were claws, and every joint of His arms and 
legs was the face of a monster from whose wide-open mouth the extension of the 
limb continued. He had a two-meter long phallus in proud erection, great 
bat-like wings, and long twisted horns. Snakes curled around each arm, and when 
He picked up a struggling naked person, the viper bit that victim in the crotch. 
He was carrying people up to His grotesquely tusked mouth and chewing them up 
alive. Simultaneously, He squatted part way, and from his meter-wide anus were 
extruded the shit-slimed, partially digested people He had consumed. As each 
dropped headfirst, being born again in Hell as it were, a minor demon snatched 
his brown-coated body and bore him down into the bottomless flame.
"Master!" Therion cried. "Here they are!" He smiled triumphantly. "Now reward me 
with this one for myself!" He hauled on Amaranth's arm.
Brother Paul stared. So that was it! Therion, having finally conquered his 
horror of women, now wanted to possess Amaranth permanently and was making his 
deal for her. For this he had betrayed them all!
Satan glared down. Beams of brilliant light speared from his eyes to bathe the 
couple, even as Brother Paul's stunned awareness came.
"And does the bitch want you?" Satan inquired. His voice reverberated as though 
from a great distance. "Will she buy her freedom by going with you?"
"Sure she will!" Therion cried. "She likes getting screwed!" And Amaranth, 
terrified by the presence of Satan, did not protest.
Satan laughed. His two claws swept down and forward and snatched the two of 
them. "Here is your reward!" the Horned God bellowed as the serpents' jaws 
closed on Therion's penis and testicles and on Amaranth's pudenda. Twin screams 
of agony rent the air, sounding above even the background bedlam of Hell.
"But You promised!" Therion cried as blood dribbled from his crotch. "I served 
You faithfully—"
His plea was interrupted as Satan bit off his head, chewed up his quivering 
torso, and swallowed him in a single, noisy gulp. Immediately after that, Satan 
chomped down on Amaranth so that her severed legs fell into the flame on one 
side and her head and arms and part of one breast fell on the other. Satan 
smacked His lips. "Those who seek Evil and those who acquiesce to 
Evil—delicious."
Now the talons came for Brother Paul and Carolyn.
"No!" Brother Paul cried, and the child screamed. They clung to each other—but 
the terrible claws clasped each body, sliding on the mucus and diarrhea that 
coated Satan's nails, and wedged between Brother Paul and Carolyn. They were 
wrenched apart and lifted high in the steaming air. The two snakes slid down 
Satan's forearms, their venom-dripping jaws opening wide.
"Take me! Spare her!" Brother Paul screamed.
Satan hesitated. Both snakes halted, obedient to the whim of their Master. The 
hideous, huge face loomed close. "The price of her is two orbs," Satan said. And 
the python on Brother Paul's side lifted its tusk-like eyeteeth toward his eyes. 
Its skin was mottled, its other teeth irregular, and its breath stank of 
ammonia. "These—" The snake's head dropped toward Brother Paul's groin. "Or 
these. Choose."
His sight—or his manhood. To save his daughter. The choice was worse than 
Satan's decision might have been! How could he give up either one?
Yet—if either of his organs had sinned, it was surely not the eyes. Let him be 
more like Jesus Christ, innocent of sexual lust. He would have little use for it 
in Hell, surely.
Even as that decision formed in his mind, the serpent struck down. Its jaws 
closed about his scrotum, the teeth punching in like the spikes of an iron 
maiden. There was a flare of unbearable agony, and Brother Paul screamed. Not 
only with pain, but with loss.
As the blood dripped down from his bitten, empty crotch, Brother Paul saw the 
other claw return Carolyn to the pentagon. She was sobbing uncontrollably, 
having been witness to it all.
Lee strode forward, caught her hand, steadied her, and put his arm about her 
shoulders. The pentagon platform began to move back down the track, away from 
Satan, away from Hell.
Then Brother Paul was lifted the rest of the way to the Horned God's maw. 
Headfirst he plunged into the cavernous mouth and slid down the greasy gullet 
into the guts of the Devil. Now he was one with Satan.
 
II
Revelation: 21
According to one humorous legend of the Creation, God formed Adam and Eve by 
cutting them apart from a single original hermaphrodite. Their bellies were left 
open as the result of this separation, so He gave them each a cord of clay or 
whang string leather to use to sew their bodies up. Adam, in the fashion of the 
male, took great long stitches with the result that some of his cord was left 
over and dangled in front. Eve, in the fashion of the female, made tiny neat 
stitches with the result that she ran out of string and was left with a slit at 
the bottom of her belly. She begged Adam to sever his extra length and give it 
to her so that she could finish the job, but he was selfishly unwilling. And so 
it has been ever since, this contention between men and women over "That Little 
Piece of Whang," because the men refuse to give it to the women and will only 
lend it to them briefly.
 
Brother Paul landed—in a plush modern office. "Please be seated," a pretty 
secretary said. "The Prince of Darkness will be with you in a moment."
Nonplused, he looked around. Could this be the inside of Satan? What had 
happened? Every office artifact was in place from the electronic voicescriber to 
the soft classical music issuing from concealed speakers to the holographic 
photograph of a pleasant rustic scene mounted on the wall. Something was wrong!
Suddenly his bowels reacted with the letdown. He had not expended the content of 
his guts during the river crossing. "Please, Miss—is there a—a rest-room here?"
The shapely woman made an indication with one thumb. There was the sign: MEN. 
Had he looked about more carefully, he would have been able to spare himself the 
embarrassment of asking—though he could have sworn the sign had not been there a 
moment ago. With grudging gratefulness he pushed open the door and went through.
All was in order. Brother Paul positioned himself, took down his trousers (he 
was now informally garbed in civilian Earth-style clothing)—and discovered what 
he lacked. His penis was intact, but he had no scrotum and no testicles. The 
skin of that region was smooth and unscarred; it was as if he had never had 
anything there. There was no pain, no discomfort. He might as well have been an 
immature boy—with no prospect of ever maturing. He was a eunuch.
He sat on the aseptic sonic-flush toilet and relieved himself of the material 
portion of his concern. He reached for the toilet paper—and saw words printed on 
it. He held it up to read. It said: BROTHER PAUL CENJI.
Every piece of paper was printed with his name.
He smiled. Hell had surprises yet! He reached behind—and paused. Was he to wipe 
his ass with his own name?
Well, why not! It was only a joke like the toilet paper that said "Never put off 
till tomorrow what you can do today" or "Get a load off your mind" or "Film for 
your Brownie." A fiendishly minor joke. His pride had better things to feed on 
than this. He took the paper and completed his mission.
"The Horned God will see you now," the secretary announced as he emerged. She 
had to be Amaranth, this time in a minor part—but what about his seeing her body 
crunched into pieces and dropping down...? He squelched that thought; she was 
indicating another door, and obviously all her appurtenances were intact. Rather 
than stare at them a second time with more than sexual curiosity, he walked on 
through.
Satan came forward to shake Brother Paul's hand heartily. The Horned God was 
human-sized, had human hands and feet, and wore a conservative, circa 1995 
plastic business suit complete with Gordian-Knot tie. Only His small, neat horns 
betrayed His nature. "So good to meet a good man!" He said.
Brother Paul gave up trying to make sense of things. He was here, and this was 
surely another aspect of Hell. The Devil would have His way, regardless. "It has 
been an interesting experience, so far," Brother Paul said.
"It has not yet begun," Satan said pleasantly. Who played this part, Brother 
Paul wondered. There seemed to be only one reasonable prospect, yet that—well, 
who could make sense of Hell anyway! "Please make yourself comfortable. This may 
take some time."
"Eternity?"
Satan laughed with mellow empathy. "Not that long, I trust."
The question burst out before Brother Paul knew it was coming. "You just 
swallowed me! How is it that I'm here, in this office—and that You're here, in 
human size?
"I am everywhere," the Devil said easily. "I am in you, and you are in Me. Evil 
is ubiquitous; it has no limits."
"But—"
"If you feel more comfortable knowing the specific geography, I shall provide 
it. I swallowed you; you are now in My belly. You are being digested. My Stomach 
acids will dissolve away, layer by layer, all the protective mechanisms you have 
clothed yourself with, until the fundamental truth of your being is achieved. 
Then, and only then, may you be fairly judged."
"But you—"
"I am in Myself too. I am everywhere. At this moment, a myriad of other souls 
are being similarly interviewed in separate offices. I am with each—within My 
own belly. Only when a given soul is properly processed is it ejected for 
conveyance to its permanent station."
"Defecated out?"
Satan made a little gesture of unconcern. "Most souls are shit; they must be 
treated as shit. This is, after all, the region of just deserts."
"I think my soul is shit too," Brother Paul said. "I saw it once when I was in 
meditation. However, it was pointed out to me that shit is ideal compost, a 
necessary stage in the renewal of life—"
"Well, we shall find out for sure, now. Shall we proceed?"
Brother Paul smiled wanly. "Have I any choice?"
"Oh, yes! Choice is the worst torture of all. Indecision can be far worse than 
wrong decision. Would you rather postpone this interview?"
Where would he stay, during the postponement? In one of the several sub-Hells he 
had toured? "No. Let's get it over with."
"You are intelligent. Were there more like you, My own Redemption would arrive 
more quickly."
"Your Redemption?" Brother Paul asked, astonished.
Satan shrugged. "I am supposedly anti-life. It is my ironic torture to be 
associated with procreation, for with every act of procreation there is another 
soul, new life. I am the Lord of Evil, and as Evil triumphs in the world, a 
greater percentage of souls must come to Me. Thus My punishment is governed by 
yours and outweighs that of all human souls combined. I wish there would be 
fewer people born and that more of them would go to Heaven. When no souls come 
to Hell, I will at last be free—and I fear that will be a long, long time yet."
"I never thought of that," Brother Paul said musingly. "God assigned to you all 
the dirty work—"
"Precisely. Now if you will lie on that couch, please—"
"This is a psychoanalysis?"
"The ultimate. Not for nothing does that term contain the word anal. Sigmund 
Freud originated the couch posture so that his patients would not see the look 
of shock on his face as he heard the horrors in their case histories. I really 
do not suffer from that particular problem, but the couch does seem to work 
adequately for contemporary occidentals."
Brother Paul spread himself on the comfortable couch. "What now?" he asked. "Do 
I just talk, or—?"
There was a rustle of papers. "According to your dossier, there was a certain 
matter of—a clothespin."
The clothespin. Instantly Paul was a boy again back on Earth. It was his first 
time out in a new neighborhood, and he knew no one. He saw a group of children 
seated in a circle behind a building. They were little girls no older than he, 
playing some kind of game with many exclamations and titters.
"Can I play too?" Paul inquired.
They looked at him, the stranger, with merry incredulity. " You're a boy!"
Paul's lip pushed out in mild belligerence. "S'not s'pose to be sexcrimination. 
A boy can do anything a girl can do."
They responded with a spontaneous burst of laughter.
"Well I can!" he insisted.
"That's what yoooou think," one girl said, greatly elevating and extending the 
you so that it sounded almost like a train whistle.
"I can play your ol' game as well as you can!" It wasn't that he cared about 
their game; his fledgling pride was at stake.
"Pride," Satan said in the background. "One of the Seven Basics. Relates to the 
Suit of Pentacles. Misapplied Pride brings more souls to Me than any other thing 
except perhaps Greed—which ties in to the same Suit."
The girl studied Paul. She was elfin with curly reddish hair, quite cute. She 
reminded him of someone—but of course all little girls were played by the same 
actress. "Wanna bet?"
"Sure I'll bet!" But he was uneasy. These girls were too certain of themselves, 
too full of some secret. They knew something he didn't. Yet he had no way to 
retreat.
"Okay, let him play," the redhead decided. This was answered by another outbreak 
of mirth. Strangely, some of it seemed embarrassed; one child was blushing. "But 
you must promise never to tell."
"Okay, I promise," Paul said. "What's the game?"
"Clothespin," she said, and there was yet another general titter. What was so 
funny?
"Okay," he repeated. "How do you play it?"
"It's a contest," she said. She held up a clothespin—the old fashioned kind 
without a spring, just a cylinder of wood bifurcated at one end. The prongs 
normally slid over the clothes, pinning them to the clothesline so that the wind 
would not blow them away before the sun dried them out. This was a big 
clothespin, about fifteen centimeters long. There was a blob of grease on the 
solid end. "You push it in."
"In?" This made no sense to him.
"Like this," she said. She bent her knees and hiked up her dress, showing that 
she wore no panties. The space between her legs was cleft by a hairless crease 
quite unlike his own apparatus; he was both fascinated and alarmed. She was 
incomplete! She fitted the clothespin into the crevice and slowly slid it into 
her body, one centimeter, two, three, four. "Whoever gets it in deepest wins."
Paul was not entirely naive about sex. He had heard stories and seen suggestive 
things on TV and had been able to piece together a fair picture of the mechanics 
of human copulation. After his initial surprise at his first direct view of the 
secret region, he was able to integrate the mental picture with the physical 
geometry. He recognized this game of "Clothespin" as preliminary, surrogate 
fornication. But more immediate, and far more important, he realized that he had 
lost his bet. This was not a game a boy could play, for he had no place to 
insert the pin.
She withdrew the clothespin and held it up, glistening with the spread grease. 
"Now you try it. My mark is there." And she scratched the wood with her 
fingernail, indicating the level of deepest penetration.
All eyes turned to him expectantly, the laughter barely suppressed. Oh, they had 
shown him all right! He was stuck in an impossible position. Outwitted by a 
bunch of dumb girls!
Then he had an inspiration. Girls had more apertures than boys had—but he still 
did have a place. He took the clothespin, took down his pants while the girls 
went into a fury of guilty tittering, and jammed it in to the shocked amazement 
of his audience.
Paul won his bet—and the contest. But at a price. No one told on him, for the 
girls were well aware that they could not do so without incriminating themselves 
and adults tended to take very dim views of children's private pleasures and 
explorations. So the matter never came to the attention of the parental 
authorities. But these girls attended the same school Paul did, as it turned 
out, and some of them were in his own class, and every time he met one of them 
she would giggle secretively and pass on without speaking to him. He lived in 
fear that an adult would catch on to the secret. He should have accepted defeat, 
rather than the victory.
For when the clothespin came out, there had adhered to it a blob of shit.
"So that was the root source of your vision of the Turd back in Triumph Seven, 
Cup Seven!" Satan exclaimed gleefully. "Oh, beautiful; this one will go into my 
special file!"
Brother Paul knew he was blushing furiously with the shame of that memory. 
Naturally Satan was delighted; this was Hell. No physical pitchfork could have 
given him equivalent agony. Yet it was a relief to know this consciously now.
"You chose to seal off the original episode," Satan continued. "The memory drug 
withdrawal must have also helped to bury it. But it remained in your 
subconscious, prejudicing both your self-respect and your relations with women. 
Shit was your nemisis—and now we know the truth."
But that was hardly the whole story.
"Hmm," Satan mused. "There remains opacity. We have peeled off only one layer of 
the onion." He leafed, through His papers. "Was it that episode with Therion? 
No. that was entrapment and too recent. It is necessary for you to realize that 
your control of these Animations is not complete. When you enter the area of 
special expertise of another person, his knowledge and thrust preempt the scene. 
This was especially true in the early stages before your discipline asserted 
itself. Thus you were only partially responsible for the act in the Castle of 
the Seven Cups and cannot be damned to Hell solely on that account. The detail—"
"I don't want to review the detail!" Brother Paul cried.
"You forget where you are," Satan reminded him. "It is necessary to appraise 
your total record; we do not do shoddy anal-ysis here. Therion has had an anal 
fixation since his childhood, much stronger than yours; yours was merely a 
reflection of each boy's normal progression through this stage on the way to 
maturity. But the resolution of that belongs to his analysis, not yours. In this 
case he indulged in passive sodomy, then attempted to eject the result onto the 
face of the girl: symbolic defiling of all women in the exact manner of his 
namesake. The final effort he placed in the Seventh Cup for you to find. Thus he 
sent you into an extraordinary sequence—"
"Therion—did all that?"
"He dictated the scene. You merely played the role he specified for you—as 
others played the roles you specified for them in other scenes. Your will 
normally dominates; this was an exception owing partly to your private feeling 
of guilt. You were not properly aware of the nature of the role and would have 
balked it had you known. So you are guilty of laxity, not intent. We shall have 
to look deeper to judge you properly."
"But I participated!" Brother Paul cried in anguish.
"So you believe that even in the absence of knowledge or intent, you were 
culpable because of the act?"
"Yes," Brother Paul said without full conviction. "I should have guessed or 
stayed off those drugs. I should have kept control so as to prevent it 
happening."
"Then you must answer for it," Satan said. "You must do penance, and the penance 
is this: provide a species-survival rationale for sodomy."
"You want me to justify human homosexuality?" Brother Paul demanded, shocked.
"I don't want; I require," Satan said. "You seem to be having the damndest 
trouble remembering your situation. Kindly confine yourself to the issue: sodomy 
is not identical to homosexuality. The former is an act; the latter is a 
preference."
"My situation," Brother Paul repeated. He could not at the moment imagine 
anything more hellish than this penance.
"No stalling," Satan said. Flames danced about Brother Paul's feet: hot-foot 
galore. The pain was intense.
"I'm answering!" he screamed, and the flames subsided. Rationale? What rationale 
could there possibly be? Sodomy was an abomination!
The flames began to rise again. And under that savage prodding, Brother Paul 
vomited out his answer, the connection between feet and mouth virtually 
bypassing brain. "Reproduction is essential to the species. Therefore, it is 
compulsory behavior, rather than voluntary. Animals have in-heat cycles, with 
the smell of the female coercing the male to copulation. But human beings are 
more intelligent; they take longer to mature and have much more to learn. So 
they need a family situation with a male staying close to help protect, feed, 
and educate the offspring—"
"I question the relevance of this line of exploration," Satan said. "It sounds 
like an argument for heterosexuality." The flames reappeared, flicking playfully 
at Brother Paul's toes. His feet now seemed to be bare.
"It's relevant!" Brother Paul cried. "I am not talking about homosexuality, as 
you pointed out. I'm talking about the rationale for an act that may occur in a 
normally heterosexual situation."
"Well, I'll allow it this time," Satan said. The flames subsided again.
"So in primates the heat cycle is abandoned," Brother Paul continued hurriedly. 
"Sexuality is perennial. The female can be receptive any time of the day or 
year, and in this way she holds her man. But sometimes the family is interrupted 
by circumstance, such as war or natural catastrophe. A function that goes too 
long unused is apt to be lost, such as man's former ability to manufacture 
ascorbic acid in his body. Vitamin C. So the sexual drive in men is continuous 
and insistent. When there are no women, it expresses itself in various alternate 
ways—and one of these is sodomy. If it were not so, the drive to indulge in the 
sexual act with another individual might atrophy at the peril of the species."
"Yes, that will do nicely," Satan said. "Is sodomy therefore a sin?"
"Well, considered that way, in special circumstances—"
"You see," Satan said decisively, "there is no such thing as objective sin. A 
person only sins when he does what he believes to be wrong. Your definition of 
sin does not, upon reflection, include involuntary sodomy. Case dismissed."
Maybe so. Brother Paul would have to sort it all out more carefully at another 
time. "Therion—he served you well, if selfishly. Why did you kill him?"
"I did not kill him. There is no death in Hell. That's the Hell of it! Death 
would represent escape from retribution. I merely tortured him a little. A 
well-deserved humiliation, preparing him for the penance he must do."
Again Brother Paul wondered who was playing the part of Satan. It had to be 
Therion—yet how could he talk about himself this way? Unless this whole 
Animation really was guided by some Godly power, and this role was part of 
Therion's penance. Was there any way to be sure? "But if he made a bargain with 
You to bring us all here—"
"The Horned God makes no bargains! All souls that are My due will come to Me in 
due course. Why should I bargain for what is already Mine?"
"But you accepted my bargain—to spare Carolyn."
"Not really. She is innocent—not even a clothespin mars her record. She is as 
yet unborn. I cannot take her. And you—were already in My power."
"Then why did You torture me by threatening her?"
"This is Hell," Satan said simply. And of course that was true. Brother Paul 
realized that he had taken too narrow a view of Hell. Torture came in many 
forms—and the worst of these were internal.
More rustling of papers. "Why don't you computerize your damned records?" 
Brother Paul inquired irritably. Satan merely chuckled, and Brother Paul 
realized: this, too, was Hell.
"Sexual and/or scatological repression is not after all the root," Satan said. 
"Let's try the racial motif. You are of mixed ancestry—"
"Let's leave my ancestors out of it," Brother Paul said, fearing what would come 
out. "They are not on trial—" But the review was upon him. One did not get to 
argue much in Hell.
It was 1925. She was a young black woman too intelligent to remain in the 
ghetto. She had come to the high-rise district seeking quality employment. She 
had not been successful. This was not entirely racism; the fact that she was 
female had a lot to do with it. Now she was walking back to the apartment which 
she shared with another aspiring woman, because her money was running low and 
she still had to eat. It was early evening.
"Well, now!" A white man stepped out in front of her.
Instantly she reversed, fleeing him—but another man was behind her. He caught 
hold of her. There was the gleam of a knife. "You jus' be quiet, Brown Sugar," 
he said. "We ain't goin' to hurt you none—if you know your place."
She knew her situation, if not her place. She did not struggle or cry out. And 
they were true to their word. They did not beat her; after both had raped her, 
they let her go with only a perfunctory admonition about keeping her mouth shut 
if she didn't want them to come back and squeeze the chocolate milk out of her 
tits. They were pleased; they had saved two dollars apiece for a cleaner lay 
than the local house would have provided.
She kept it quiet. There was nothing she could do about it, for she didn't know 
either man. And if she had, it was the word of one nigger gal against two white 
men: forget it. She was a realist. She bought herself a good knife as insurance 
against future episodes, continued on her quest, and got her job. It was a good 
one as maid to a wealthy white family; they treated her well.
Then she learned that she was pregnant.
Her livelihood was destroyed, but not her life. She went home to her family and 
birthed her bastard son, and his skin was much lighter than hers. She raised him 
well with pride, for that light color was a mark of distinction. He was handsome 
and smart, and he married an open-minded white girl. Their daughter was lighter 
still, and race was less of a barrier than it had been. She married a white man 
who claimed to have some Indian blood somewhere in his ancestry; he was a career 
diplomat. Their son was Paul. He was no darker than a pure Caucasian with a 
summer tan—but he was one-eighth black. They went to Africa, partly because it 
was a prestigious, well-paid position. There was a political flare-up, minor on 
the world scene but quite serious for Americans in that region. Paul was hastily 
shipped out at the age of four; his parents wanted to assure his safety, if not 
their own.
Paul's paternal uncle took him in. Man and wife were conservative with an image 
to maintain; that little bit of Indian blood in their ancestry was a secret 
blot. They never told Paul he was black though this was the age when black was 
beautiful. Paul went to a white private school and associated only with whites. 
There was, of course, token integration at that school, but the occasional 
presence of blacks made no difference to Paul. He was not of their number. He 
had "passed."
He started school—with the snickering girls—but before the year was out his 
foster parents moved out to the country in the north. Paul had trouble in 
school, not so much with the teachers but with other children who teased him 
with the special cruelty only children understood. When he came home with a 
black eye, his foster father acted: "That boy is going to learn self-defense. 
We'll put him in a karate class."
There was such a class at a community center in a neighboring town; Paul and his 
foster father walked in and saw the people practicing in their white pajama-like 
outfits, landing on mattresses. "How much?" the father asked the instructor who 
was a young man in his mid twenties, mild-mannered and not large—hardly the type 
one would fear in the street. The rates were cheap. The man paid the money, 
completed the necessary form, obtained a pajama uniform called a gi for Paul, 
and left him there. Paul was about to learn self-defense.
Paul was nine years old and small for his age. The gi hung on him hugely. But 
there were other children there his size, and the instructor gave him personal 
attention for the first classes. The instructor's name was Steve—he demanded a 
no more formal address—and after Paul saw what he could do, he understood why 
there was no disrespect.
This was a judo class, not karate; they had walked into the wrong room. But as 
it turned out, judo was far better suited to Paul's needs than karate would have 
been, for it enabled a person to defend himself without hurting his opponent, 
and Paul did not like to hurt people. Judo was the science of throws and holds 
and, after those had been mastered, strikes and strangles and assorted leverages 
of pain. With this science a charging giant could be hurled violently to the 
ground and held there until he yielded. Two or more attackers could be tumbled 
into each other. A man with a knife or club could be rapidly disarmed. Yet the 
salient features of judo were courtesy and self-improvement. Students gave to 
their instructor and each other the respect due to people capable of dealing 
death—and of refraining from it.
It started slowly. First Paul had to learn to take falls so that he could be 
thrown to the mat without being hurt. Then he worked on basic throws. To his 
surprise, his first partner was a black girl slightly smaller than he was. But 
she wore a yellow belt, one grade higher than his white one, and he quickly 
discovered that she could beat him in physical combat and hold him down so that 
he could not get up. He developed an instant respect for this martial art; for 
if a girl who weighed less than he could do that to him, what might he do to a 
larger boy—once he learned judo?
At the end of the first class Steve took him aside. "How did you get that black 
eye, Paul?" he asked as if it were not obvious. He had the girl, whose name was 
Karolyn, follow Paul's instructions and reenact the way the school bully had 
stepped forward and punched with his right fist into Paul's left eye. Steve 
nodded. "Here is what you do for that. First, try to get away from him; step 
aside and run if you have to. Don't let him get close to you."
"But then the other kids—"
Steve nodded. "When, for one reason or another, you can't escape, you must 
defend yourself. There are many ways, but for you I think this is best." He 
summoned another boy, larger than Paul. "Nage no kata, second throw, Uki," Steve 
told the boy. The boy closed his fist and shot a punch at the girl's head. She 
blocked it up with her left forearm, whirled, caught his arm with her right arm, 
and heaved. The boy flew over her back and landed with a resounding slap on the 
mat. "That throw is called ippon seoi nage, the one-armed shoulder throw," Steve 
told Paul. "You are going to learn it—now."
Paul was hurt many times after that—but seldom did he suffer at the hands of his 
schoolmates, and never again did anyone land a punch on his face. Judo, to a 
certain extent, became a way of life for him. He progressed from white belt to 
yellow belt to orange and green and finally brown. He entered judo tournaments, 
winning some matches and losing others, but he always put up a good fight and 
was as courteous in defeat as in victory. Never did he seek a quarrel outside of 
class—and seldom did anyone seek one with him.
But he always remembered that first class, and how a little girl had overcome 
him and held him down—and never teased him about it. Paul was somewhat wary of 
girls in general, but in his secret fashion he loved Karolyn. She left the class 
a few months after he started, and he never saw her again, but she had left her 
mark on him in the form of a fond memory.
When Paul was eighteen, his foster parents were divorced. But by that time he 
was scheduled for college, and an education trust fund that had been arranged 
long ago by his parents carried him through. After college he sought his family 
roots—and for the first time learned of his black heritage.
"No, no!" Satan said. "That's not it! That's way too late! You have no guilty 
race secret; you were not even aware that you were passing—and if you had been, 
you would have been culpable only for the lie, not the fact. The culpability of 
your society that discriminated covertly on the basis of race was in any event 
worse than your own."
"This is Satan talking?" Brother Paul marveled aloud. "The Father of Lies?"
"Satan never lies. It is the minions of God who lie, cheat, steal and 
deceive—until the fruits of these iniquities come at last to Me. I am Truth—and 
because the truth is often ugly, I am called evil." The papers rustled again, 
annoyingly. "I'm going to try a somewhat random shot based on intuition. I 
suspect the blocked-out secret of your life occurs in childhood somewhere in the 
foster-parent era. I think it involves a female, but perhaps not in the sexual 
or racist way. So I want—one day of your life, at age eight."
Paul had to urinate. He wanted to continue sleeping as it was cold out there in 
the outhouse and scary at night, for there might be a porcupine. One thing a dog 
never did twice was nose after a porky; that first hellish noseful of barbed 
quills invariably sufficed. Paul did not care to walk into a porcupine by 
accident. Better simply to piss in the snow just outside the back door. But—he 
had to go, and that was the place.
He got up groggily, finding the air oddly comfortable, not cold at all though it 
was winter. He walked down the hall—and it opened out on a pleasant, modern, 
tiled bathroom with a flush toilet—how could he have forgotten about this? He 
stood at the toilet and let go. The sensation was immensely gratifying; the 
liquid flowed and flowed, seeming to have no end, but rather gaining in force 
and conviction.
Then he felt something strange. A wetness about his middle, as if he were 
standing waist deep in a hot bath. Yet there was nothing visible. He fought off 
the sensation—but it would not be denied. With slow horror, the realization 
forced itself upon him: he was standing in brine. Lying in it. For he was still 
in bed; everything had been a dream. Except the urination.
As usual, he had wet his bed. He opened his eyes. It was dark. It was still 
night. Too early to get up. Well, he was comfortable where he was; the rubber 
sheet sealed the depression of the sagging bed so that his hot bath stayed with 
him. So long as he kept the blankets on top and dry, he was all right.
He remembered when it had started two years ago. They had put him in a hospital 
for observation, and in five days there he had been so tense he never wet the 
bed, though they "forgot" to bring him the bedpan for as long as 24 hours at a 
time. One morning there, he had awoken to spy half a dozen nurses clustered just 
outside his door, whispering with animation. Were they talking about him? "Don't 
tell him..." but the words trailed into unintelligibility. There was hushed 
laughter like that of the clothespin girls, only these were big girls. "The way 
I do it... " Do what! "Just shove it in." Surely not a clothespin! Suddenly he 
caught on: this was a hospital. They were planning surgery in secret. Don't tell 
the patient because he might climb out the window and escape. Just take the 
knife and shove it in.
Paul lay in the bed bathed in cold sweat that resembled the urine. They were 
going to cut him open. He had been assured that they were only going to look at 
him (which was bad enough) in the hospital—but that was what they had said the 
first time he went to the dentist too. Grownups thought it was all right to lie 
to children "for their own good," which usually meant something painful or 
extremely unpleasant. It meant that no adult could be trusted, ever.
But the nurses dispersed, leaving him alone with his thoughts. If not now, when? 
All day he cowered in his prison bed, waiting for them to come, for it to start. 
His appetite decreased. He lost interest in the games provided, in his reading 
book, in his drawings. What was the use of them in the face of this terrible 
threat?
At last he was released. The hospital's verdict: there was nothing physically 
wrong with him. Presumption: he could stop wetting his bed if he wanted to. So 
he was encouraged to want to. He had to wash his own sheets each day. The word 
"punishment" was never used, but the message was plain: You do this awful thing, 
you clean it up yourself. Somehow that treatment was not effective. Paul needed 
no extra motivation; he wanted to have a dry bed—and could not. Something always 
happened in the night, no matter how hard he tried to resist.
He was drifting back to sleep this morning, fortunately. Nightmares seldom came 
after his bladder was empty. The hospital memory was fading; it no longer really 
bothered him. So long as he never had to go back for that lurking surgery. 
Mornings were not so bad. His feet were cold, but he was used to that. He heard 
the faint, eerie hoot of some wild animal ranging the forest; he was glad he was 
not out there. He remembered the prior year at the boarding school, he being the 
smallest of the small, beaten up as a matter of course in the initiation, 
fleeing, terrified. Yet even this nightmare was not total. One morning one of 
the bullies, a boy a year or two older than Paul, came in before Paul was up. 
"Hey, I hear you piddle in bed!" the bully exclaimed. "Lessee." And he ripped 
off Paul's blanket.
Paul had wet the bed. He had kicked off his soaking pajamas, and they lay in a 
damp wad at his feet; he was naked from the waist down, steaming in urine. The 
bully looked for a long moment while Paul lay still, not afraid to move but 
simply having no option. He had long since lost his pride of person as far as 
his body went. Then the bully replaced the blanket and went away without 
comment. Later that day, the bully talked to Paul privately "When I piss last 
thing at night, sometimes I just stand there at the pisser a while, and then a 
little more will come. Then some more. Maybe if you waited long enough, you 
could get it all out, and—" He shrugged. He was trying to be helpful.
That bully never bothered Paul again; his sympathy had been aroused. A few days 
later, in the presence of a group of boys, another bully came to Paul. "I won't 
hit you any more," he said, and they shook hands. "And if he does, we'll hit 
him," one of the larger boys said. And after that no one picked on Paul. Yet, 
for him, the school remained a horror; he just wanted to get home.
Now he was home and satisfied. He knew when he was well off. Sometimes he 
imagined this was all a long, bad dream, and that he would wake up and be four 
years old again in Africa in his happy real life, but for two years the 
conviction had been growing that this would never happen. This, now, was his 
real life; the other was the dream.
His feet had stopped hurting with cold; instead they were flaming as though a 
fire blazed about them. That was nice. Paul fancied he could see the leaping 
flames, gold and yellow, sending sparks up toward the ceiling. He could lie here 
forever enjoying that bonfire. If Hell were the place of heat and flames, he had 
no fear of it; better to go there than out into the snow on a windy morning.
The clangor of the alarm jolted him awake. He hadn't realized he had made it 
back to sleep. No question about it; the thin cold light of dawn was seeping in. 
Mornings in winter were so bleak! He lingered for a moment more, than took a 
breath, held it, gritted his teeth, and threw off the blanket. Oh, it was cold! 
The floor was wood, but it was so cold his flame-tender feet could not tolerate 
it; he danced from toe to toe with the acute discomfort of it. He dashed naked 
downstairs to the bathroom; it had no toilet since there was no running water in 
this room, but there was a pitcher by the table. Once all houses had had oil 
heat and city-piped water everywhere, but the crises of energy and water and 
pollution had driven many families out into the wilderness where the air was 
still clean and it was possible to be largely self-sufficient. Water that was 
carried by hand was seldom wasted; that helped the declining water table.
He sloshed some water into the basin, soaked the washcloth in it, then gritted 
his teeth, closed his eyes, and stabbed the wadded cloth at his chest. The shock 
was like ice, for winter in an unheated house brought ice very close. Sometimes 
the kitchen pipes froze, so that water could not be pumped inside, and they had 
to break the ice and dip it out in a wooden bucket. But soon his chest warmed 
the cloth somewhat, and he rubbed it in a zig-zag pattern down and around, 
getting his stomach and thighs. Then another clothful for his backside. He moved 
rapidly, for his teeth were chattering, his skin blue. Still, this was no worse 
than swimming in the mountain pool in summer; the water rushed through a narrow 
channel from its origin somewhere high in the mountains and was so chill he 
dared not dive in, but had to walk in slowly, letting his feet grow numb, then 
his shins, and slowly up until at last his whole body was numb and he could 
swim. Some people could dive in, venting a scream of reaction as the chill 
struck them all at once—but they were better padded than he with subcutaneous 
fat. That was the secret of the walrus. Paul was skinny; the cold went right 
through to his bones, and when he got out those bones radiated it back into his 
flesh. It took him half an hour to get warm again. But he liked swimming. It 
lifted him free of the visible ground, making it seem as though he were flying. 
Flight represented a kind of escape, however transitory.
In less than a minute he was through washing. He dumped the basin into the tub, 
whose drainpipe poked through a hole in the wall to empty into the weeds 
outside, and he charged back upstairs. Theoretically this expenditure of energy 
should warm his body, but the magnitude of cold was simply too great to be 
dented by such measures. He used no towel; the water dried as he moved. Now at 
last he could dress, and that was a comfort. The worst of the morning was done. 
Pants and shirt and sweater and socks. He knocked his boots together at the 
heels before trusting his feet to them; once he had donned them without doing 
that, and he felt something funny, and found a big black multilegged roach 
inside. That had been enough to condition him for some years yet. He was not bug 
shy, but he didn't like such things in his shoes. Some bugs liked to bite.
Down to the warm kitchen heated by the wood stove. These same power crises had 
made wood fashionable again, especially in the country where wood was free for 
the picking up and cutting. That stove was lit in the morning and kept going all 
day; sometimes when it was zero outside, it was a hundred in the kitchen in the 
old F degrees the backwoods people still used. In real degrees C, it was minus 
18 out, plus 38 in.
Paul liked the stove; there was just room behind it next to the back wall where 
he could sit, enjoying a steady temperature around 40° C. He could never get too 
much heat; it reminded him of the old happy years in Africa when it had always 
been warm physically and emotionally. The two were strongly linked for him. But 
no time for that now; his cracked-wheat porridge was ready, and he had to hurry. 
He poured some white goat's milk on top to cool it enough for the first spoonful 
and started in. It was good, filling stuff, and there was always plenty of it; 
he never went hungry.
"I wonder if we're getting anywhere?" Satan murmured. "Well, we have plenty of 
time. On with it."
Then the rush to cram into galoshes, overcoat, mittens, and hood, tying it close 
about his face to protect his ears. It was a long walk to school, but not bad 
once the path had been beaten down. It was cold out, but the wind was down; an 
inch of snow (a scant two centimeters in real measure) had fallen in the night, 
but this hardly obscured the deep track that had been broken through the crust 
last week. Snow crusts were something; they formed when the sun melted the top 
layer of snow, and then the night froze it back tight like ice on a lake. Once 
he had slipped on a hard crust at the top of the hill, and been unable to regain 
his footing because only an axe could cut through it when it was strong, and had 
to slide helplessly a quarter kilometer to the bottom. No harm done; it had been 
fun in fact. Another time he had stamped his foot to break through a thin crust 
to find the solid ground some centimeters below. Suddenly he had sunk down 
another ten centimeters: that was not ground, but a second crust! The ground was 
deeper than he had remembered. Then that, too, had broken, and he came at last 
to the real ground, hidden beneath three crusts, a full meter down. Once a crust 
was covered by new snowfall, it never melted until spring. Like life in a way; 
once he settled into a new level, he could not go back to the old one. Sometimes 
he tunneled under a crust, hollowing out a snow cave, using the crust as a roof. 
Snow was cold, but it had its points.
He crested the ridge and started down through the forest on the other side. Here 
there was wind; it whistled through the bare trees. Beeches, sugar maples, 
scattered clumps of white birches, scattered patches of white pine—which, of 
course, was not white but green, even in winter. It was four kilometers to the 
school, but he was used to the walk and liked it. The animals were harmless; he 
saw their tracks crisscrossing in the fresh snow. Sometimes he would spy a deer 
bounding away. He had never seen a bear though they were present. But at times 
the snow itself was more interesting. One night there had been a freezing rain; 
it formed icicles on every twig of every tree, weighting them down. The forest 
had become a fairyland of glassy pendants, tinkling as his passage disturbed 
them. He had never before witnessed such absolute beauty! Maybe part of his 
attraction was its fragility, its crystalline evanescence. In one day the ice 
had been dirtied and broken, and in three days it was largely gone. Trees were 
beautiful too—but you could always see a tree. The ice forest had been a 
once-in-a-lifetime experience, treasured less for its nature than for its 
rarity.
He passed a large old oak tree leaning over the trail. "Far and wide as the eye 
can wander, heath and bog are everywhere," he sang aloud, picturing the snow as 
heath and bog. "Not a bird sings out to cheer us, oaks are standing gaunt and 
bare. We are the peat-bog soldiers, marching with our spades, to the bog." He 
liked folk songs and enjoyed singing and humming them, but he couldn't do it at 
home. His foster father objected, calling it noisemaking. "But for us there is 
no complaining, winter will in time be past. One day we shall cry rejoicing: 
homeland, dear, you're mine at last!" He felt the tears coming to his eyes and 
got choked up so he couldn't sing any more. Would winter ever pass for him?
Down the mountain two kilometers, then up the next slope. This was a wilderness 
route though there was a plowed-out road he could have used. The problem with 
the road was that it went by the house of Mrs. Kurry. That story went way back 
to last year. One day at school, Paul had washed his hands and noted how 
distinctive the surface of the bar of soap was: firm yet impressionable. His 
artistic sense was awakened. He put the bar against the tap and twisted. Sure 
enough, there was a neat circular indentation as if a spaceship had landed in 
this miniature planet, melting the very stone by the heat of its jet, then 
departed, leaving only this melt mark on the airless surface. But later that day 
there was an outcry: "This water tastes like soap!" Oh oh—it had not occurred to 
Paul that soap would attach to the tap; he had been contemplating the other end 
of it, the art. He confessed what he had done, accepted his ridicule, and 
cleaned it off the tap, and forgotten the matter. But others had not forgotten. 
To them, this was an injury due to be avenged.
Another day Paul had enjoyed himself in new, light, fluffy snow beside the road 
to school by lying on his back and waving his arms to make "Angels" and running 
around saplings, one hand on the trunks to guide him in a perfect circle, to 
leave donut-shaped paths. How easy it was to form geometric shapes in nature if 
you only knew how! It was merely idle play on the way to school, not taking long 
enough to make him late. It happened to be near Mrs. Kurry's house. She stormed 
out and delivered the worst verbal abuse of his life. She accused him of ruining 
her trees, cutting a hole in one of her tires, and being sassy—when he tried to 
explain that he had not harmed the trees, knew nothing of her tire, and did not 
possess a knife. "You did it!" she screamed. "Just like you broke that tap at 
school!" And she chased him off.
The matter had not ended there; there was a letter to the teacher, complaints to 
Paul's family, and a charge from her house whenever he passed by. But he had to 
go to school, and this was the only road. Finally this alternate trail through 
the forest was set up so that Paul would not have to pass her house. His life 
had been made harder, and he had been terrorized—because this neighbor had borne 
false witness against him.
"Ah, yes," Satan observed. "We have her here in Hell now. Beelzebub's dominion; 
I must make sure the Lord of The Flies has her doing penance for false witness." 
The papers rustled as He made a note.
At school it was okay. The kids hardly teased him anymore about his hand 
twitches or compulsive counting of things, and he had a lively interest in many 
fields, so it wasn't so bad. He had a couple of stomach aches in the course of 
the day, but he was used to these. Only when a bad one struck, the kind that 
hung him up writhing in agony for half a day straight, did he really mind—and 
fortunately those powerful ones did not come often. Today was just a minor-pain 
day, no problem at all.
He finished his written work early and doodled on his paper, trying to draw a 
realistic dormer window—the kind that poked out of a slanting roof. A straight 
window was easy because it was all straight lines, but a dormer had all sorts of 
angles that were hard to visualize. It was difficult to draw it on a flat paper 
so that it looked real, and he wasn't quite sure it could be done at all. After 
all, it was three dimensional. But if was a challenge. Maybe if he angled a line 
here—
Uh-oh. The teacher had called on him, and he hadn't heard her at all. His 
classmates were laughing at him. They thought he was stupid, and he suspected 
they were right. Why couldn't he pay proper attention? Others were smart; they 
paid attention. And he had lost his inspiration for the dormer.
On the way home he heard the distant barking of a dog. The hair on his skin 
reacted, and he looked about nervously, hoping the animal didn't come this way. 
Once he had petted a strange dog, and it had jumped up and bared its teeth in 
his face with such a growl he had fled in tears. Other children had thought that 
very funny. Last year some lumbercamp dogs had charged him in a pack, barking, 
nosing up, scaring him. One had nipped him in the rear, but no one paid 
attention. They always said that a barking dog didn't bite though that was 
manifestly untrue. The thing was, a twenty kilogram dog seemed a lot bigger to a 
twenty-seven kilogram boy than it did to a seventy kilogram man. But today Paul 
was lucky; the distant dog went elsewhere.
Actually, the dogs were not nearly so bad as the Monster. At least he could see 
them. The Monster was quite another matter. It followed him home from school 
each day, huge and malignant, like a centipede the size of a dragon with deadly 
pincers in front and a ten meter long sting tail behind and little glowing eyes 
on the ends of its eye stalks that could twist about to see anything. Its myriad 
side legs stretched out to comb the brush: that was to prevent Paul from hiding 
in a bush in order to let it pass and get ahead of him. If that ever happened, 
Paul would have power over the Monster because then he would be following it and 
he would have seen it. But he dared not ambush it because of the extreme care it 
took with bushes. He had to see it from behind. That was the law of their 
encounter.
He looked back, feeling that prickle of apprehension up his back. Nothing was 
visible. That was also the way of it; the Monster could retreat in an instant. 
If Paul only had eyes in the back of his head... the thing was, it could only 
approach him from behind, from the direction he wasn't looking. When he turned 
around, the direct force of his vision made it back off, giving him more leeway. 
But if he should run without turning back to look, too long, it would overtake 
him and—
No! Paul stopped, nerved himself, turned, and strode back down the snow trail. 
He would show it he was not afraid of it though he trembled in his knees. He 
would spot its tracks, proving it had been following him. That would be a point 
for him. Once he got an advantage, however trivial, he would be able to use that 
leverage to drive the Monster back and back until finally it was gone. Then it 
would seek some other prey instead of him.
There were no tracks, of course; he should have anticipated this. Its hundred 
padded feet made little impression in the snow; each carried very little weight, 
and the Monster was very cunning about brushing away any telltale marks. Almost 
too clever for him...
Paul turned about again. With a soundless gloat the Monster resumed the pursuit. 
Paul looked back, but it had dodged out of sight already. He could not defeat it 
this way. Now he had to re-retrace his path, enduring the hazard again. He had 
only complicated his journey.
Strange that the Monster never pursued him in the morning. Maybe that was 
because then he was fresh and vigorous—or because he was going toward the long 
chore that was school. Why should the Monster interfere when he was heading in 
to trouble? It preferred to go after him when he was on the verge of safety. But 
mostly, he thought, it was because the shadows were lengthening in the 
afternoon. The Monster was a devotee of shadows, a beast of darkness, whose 
strength increased as light decreased.
"You were a bit too smart for the Monster," Satan remarked appreciatively. "I 
remember with what gnashing of tooth it complained about the way you kept 
backing it off, just when it thought it had you. We finally had to reassign it." 
Infernal humor!
Now, as Paul came near the crest, he saw the late sun shifting through the 
trees, making the forest brighter, prettier, as though there were a clearing. In 
the summer this effect was enhanced, shaping seeming glades where ferns and 
flowers grew lovely. In winter the entire forest was lighter, so the effect 
diminished. Still, in places it remained strong, and this was such a place. But 
Paul gave no glad start of discovery; instead he averted his eyes from the 
effect, breathing hard, and ran until he could no longer see it.
He made it home. Junie was nibbling the bark of a tree near the house; she made 
a little bleat of pleasure and plowed through the snow toward him. He liked 
Junie as he liked all goats; not only did she provide good milk, she was 
affectionate. He stroked her white-striped nose. She was a Toggenburg, the 
handsomest of goats. Too bad she couldn't come to school with him; if the 
Monster came, she would just butt it with her sawed-off horns. No one won a 
head-to-head collision with a goat!
But he had chores to do. First he had to split tomorrow's kindling for the 
stove, then wash out last night's sheets. The splitting was fun; he liked wood, 
and he liked the feel of its splitting. The first split was hard, halving the 
log; but doing the halves was easier, and rendering each quarter into fine 
kindling was easiest with such a rapid feeling of accomplishment. If only the 
problems of life could be divided and conquered similarly!
Laundering the big sheet was not fun. The water was cold, making his hands get 
pink and hurty, and it was hard to wring out. He twisted it, on and on, until it 
resembled a giant rope, a hawser like that used to anchor a ship, but there was 
always more water in it, waiting to drip, no matter how hard he squeezed. But it 
had to be done.
He looked at the drips descending from the sheet. He was suddenly thirsty—and he 
had forgotten to tank up on water. He was under a proscription. They had taken 
him to a doctor one day about the bed-witting, and the doctor had said: "No 
water after four in the afternoon." And that had been the word. It had had no 
effect on the bedwetting, but it made his evening life a torment of thirst. Now 
he put a corner of the wet sheet between his teeth, tasting the faint remainder 
of urine, helping to hold it while he wrung it out with both hands (he told 
himself), and sucked a few precious drops surreptitiously. It wasn't enough, but 
it helped some; even a single drop became gratifying.
In the evening his foster father read to him: stories of adventure, fantasy, 
history—all fascinating. Paul was in love with the past, the future, and the 
imaginary. Those other realms were always so interesting, partly because of 
their exotic nature and partly because they were not here.
But at last it was full night and time to sleep. Paul had a lamp, a dim night 
light, but it wasn't enough. For now the ultimate dread of his existence loomed, 
and the name of it was Fear. Yet it was admixed with wonder, too, that lured him 
back again and again to—
America! Perhaps only the foreign born could appreciate the full meaning of that 
word. He had come to find the glories of the new land spelled out by a single 
beautiful song. He did not know its title or all its words and could not fathom 
its allusions, but he did not need to. This song—it was not so much a reflection 
of the new world, it was the new world itself.
He could see the vast terrain, covered with fruited plains and waving with amber 
grain and studded with jewel-like alabaster cities that gleamed under the 
spacious skies. Magnificent purple mountains extended from the ordinary sea in 
the east, that he had crossed, to the wonderful shining sea in the far far west, 
almost beyond imagination. It all blended into a vague yet brilliant image 
somewhat resembling a single field where the great trees became smaller, 
dwindling to saplings and finally to brush and green fern and pretty flowers. A 
field of rapture whose brief image brought warmth to his being. America! 
America! He loved her through that song.
Yet America was the city too—a great metropolis whose architecture scraped the 
sky, the smoke of industry rising up toward God. Cars, trains, ships, aircraft, 
spacecraft, printing presses, atomic power plants, huge solar reflectors in 
orbit—the wonderful technology of civilization. Nature and Science: two images, 
each alluring.
The two fragmented into four, and these became framed and frozen. Four pictures 
seemingly innocent—yet taken together, they were nightmare.
1. A woman walking along a city street, a small boy at her side.
2. The woman in a vidphone booth, the child looking in through the glass.
3. A man standing in a clearing, a lion at his side. Nearby, a lightly but 
richly clad woman, lying on a pallet.
4. The man holding the lion in the air, chest high.
What was the secret of these still images that made them horrible? His mind 
proceeded inexorably to the interpretation though he dreaded it.
America! Yet somehow the rousing cadences echoed hollowly, for the city through 
which he walked with his foster mother was not exactly alabaster. Nevertheless, 
it had some of the luster and excitement characteristic of the new world. It was 
not lonely like the farm; there were people, and stores, and television, and 
things happening. A happy picture.
One of his earliest memories of Africa was not Africa at all, but the vision of 
Tomorrow. Tomorrow was a row of houses down the street, and he knew he was going 
down that street and that someday he would be there at those strange houses 
instead of here in the familiar. Suddenly Tomorrow came, and it was called 
America, and he was unprepared for it. He had thought his parents would be there 
with him. There were nice people in the new world, but all he really wanted was 
to go back home.
He realized that the city could be a trap. His foster mother went into the 
glassy doorway to play with the marvelous contraption called the vidphone: some 
mysterious adult business of the machine age. Then she put her hand to the door 
to come out again, but the door was stuck. She could not leave. Sudden alarm; 
the machines could not be trusted, the city would not let go. The promise of 
America had become a threat even to its own people.
Paul's foster father preferred the farm, while his foster mother preferred the 
city. The two seemed destined never quite to meet. Paul did not understand the 
laws of the conflict; he saw only the opposing forces: the city and the country. 
The woman was the creature of the city, the man of the country. They were 
married, yet could not unite. He could call neither one good or evil, right or 
wrong; both were good, both right—yet they warred.
The man stood in the country amid the trees, the symbol of strength, dominating 
the lion. The woman was now in his power, spirited from the vid-trap to the 
pallet, sedated. Surely the man would prevent the lion from doing her harm!
Paul wandered one day through the open fields so like the glorious spaces of the 
song. He had not chosen, could not choose between the rival forces; both city 
and country were parts of America, the promised land, Tomorrow. At the foot of a 
grassy hillside he saw a skull. It was the vast white hollow-eyed bone of a cow. 
He realized that this dead thing had once been part of a living animal similar 
to the animals he knew like Junie. Now it was defunct, its warm flesh gone, its 
hooves nevermore to walk the green field. Had it mooed high, or had it mooed 
low? He could not know; it was gone. He looked upon the fact of death, the face 
of death, and began to realize the utter finality of it. Nevermore! How had it 
died? Maybe an African lion had killed it.
Now the man was holding the lion in the air, happy with the beast, smiling. Yet 
death was in that picture: not the specific act of killing, but the morbid 
knowledge that death had come and swept its scythe and left its mark, and 
nothing would ever take that mark away, for it was final. The lion had fed. The 
pallet was empty. The country had devoured the city. The man was holding up the 
lion to see how much weight it had gained.
Now the field that was America was intertwined with the stigmata of horror, 
terror, and death. The fear was real, the fear was ultimate; by day it could be 
largely avoided or blunted, but by night it became overwhelming. He was gifted, 
cursed, with a graphic imagination; when darkness cut off normal sight, his 
mind's eye filled the world with spectral images so real that he could see every 
detail. Light was the only defense; so long as his eyes remained open and 
seeing, the nightmare was held at bay, like the Monster of the forest.
It was the body that haunted him. The body that had not quite been in the four 
pictures, but that he knew was there, perhaps in the hidden fifth picture. The 
body with the flesh torn off where the lion had fed; the hollow, sightless eyes, 
the bleached white bones protruding from that which had once been—
Screams, screams in the night! It was a sight too mind shattering to face, yet 
too persistent to ignore. It impinged upon his consciousness, inescapable no 
matter how he fled. It loomed in fair fields, it cruised by like the engine of a 
locomotive, always lurking, a mass of horror driving him relentlessly toward 
insanity. It impinged upon his very soul, and almost, now, it had become his 
soul.
"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep," he whispered. "If 
I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." He repeated it in 
singsong, in the tune he had learned for it, trying to blot out the horror, to 
shove it away so he could sleep at last. But it would not be denied, and every 
flicker of the lamp brought it closer until he fancied he could feel it touching 
his cold toes, nudging them, where he could not quite see, and he dared not 
look. How could he look at a feeling? How he wished day would come to release 
him from his torture. But the somber mass of the night loomed between him and 
day, forcing its torture on him. Tomorrow—yet this was Tomorrow, and so there 
was no escape. This night's Tomorrow would only start the cycle again; he was 
bound to it with no relief possible. For the horror was what was past, not what 
was to happen. With sudden inspiration, he modified his prayer: "May I sleep—and 
never wake," he said, and then he slept.
"And so you sealed it over," Satan said as Brother Paul lay bathed in sweat 
steaming like urine, eyes staring, hands twitching. "You had adapted to 
everything in your youth, except for that. You could neither explain it nor 
accept it. You chose to block out that entire segment of your life; that was the 
only course available to you, given your then existing needs and capabilities. 
But of course it did not leave you. It remained as subconscious motivation. The 
five great forces of your life—Fire, Water, Air, Earth and Spirit—evoked 
piecemeal by the cards of the Tarot. The Fire of the burning wood, granting 
temporary relief from the encompassing cold; the Water of your wet bed, while 
yet you suffered from thirst; the Air of the violence about you in the form of 
Mrs. Kurry, the dogs and the invisible Monster, not to mention the gas in your 
tummy that caused you small and great pains; the Earth of your ruptured 
self-esteem, your neurotic twitchings, lack of social status; and the Spirit 
that ruled over all of you supreme: Fear."
"Fear," Brother Paul repeated weakly.
"Yet you had a lot of frustrated talent, for art is a thing of the Spirit," 
Satan continued. "You might have been a sculptor, but your soap carving on the 
tap scotched that. You could have gone into music, but your parents stopped your 
singing in company at the outset. You had fair artistic talent and could have 
been a painter—but your teacher thought your drawings mere distractions. So your 
potential achievement of self-esteem and escape from nothingness via the route 
of creative expression was denied, and in the end you had to write it all off as 
a loss."
Brother Paul did not argue.
Satan shook his head. "This is a tough one! I had figured you for hidden sexual 
or racial sin, considering your background, but fear is not a sin by 
conventional definitions. Cowardice is another matter—but there is little to 
suggest you were ever a coward. You tried to fight back, but were overwhelmed by 
events."
"But the sealing off—I finally gave up on the problem," Brother Paul said, not 
caring that he was arguing against his own interest. "I couldn't face the fear, 
so I fled it. I—"
"You are honest; that's the most awkward thing about you," Satan said. "You were 
uprooted, removed from your home and family in Africa, and planted in new soil. 
But your foster parents had problems of their own. It was in part the 
city-country schism. Their lifestyles differed, and they could not agree, so 
they engaged in a decade-long tug-of-war that terminated in separation and 
divorce. Your fragile new roots were broken again as you shuttled from city to 
country, needing both, needing a unified family. You finally got the country—at 
the price of the family. You were too small to understand that it was not your 
fault; when your foster mother returned to the city, you thought you had driven 
her away: figuratively killed her. You were unable to stand on one foot, on half 
a family—not in your root-pruned condition. So it is scarcely surprising that 
you fell. Your bedwetting, twitching, and nightmare were merely symptoms; it was 
no longer possible for you to survive whole and sane in that situation. So—you 
stepped out of it when you had the opportunity—by orienting your life around the 
lifestyle of judo and sealing off your memories of home. I really hesitate to 
condemn you to eternal damnation for that."
"You have already done it," Brother Paul said. "You have opened out my secret. 
Now Hell is with me—in my memory where it once was shut out."
"But you are stronger now than you were then," Satan pointed out. "You have 
regrown your roots in the Holy Order of Vision. Your life in that capacity has 
been exemplary ever since you suffered your Vision of Conversion. And in fact 
you have not been dragged before Me kicking and screaming; you descended 
voluntarily to Hell itself. Your last free act before being consumed by Me was 
to plead for your innocent daughter, who does not even exist yet, named in honor 
of a girl you admired twenty years ago, and for her safety you sacrificed your 
manhood."
Satan paused thoughtfully, rustling His papers again. "Of course, that was 
governed by your fear of losing your sight, so that you would not be limited to 
the nightmares of perpetual darkness, the Monster and the Corpse. But overall, 
the nobility of the sacrifice outweighs the specific motive of choice of 
punishments. No, I'm very much afraid your case remains in doubt. You do have 
evil on your conscience, and you are humanly fallible, but there is no clear 
shifting of the scales."
Brother Paul was coming out of his lingering shock of memory. This might be an 
Animation, but those memories were real. Yet Satan was correct: he was stronger 
now than he had been as a child: he had a much broader perspective. He could 
appreciate how much beauty and good there had been in his sealed-over life; it 
had been a shame to obliterate that along with the un-faceable. Satan had made 
an accurate assessment. "Do with me what you will," Brother Paul said. He was 
discovering a genuine, fundamental, disconcerting respect for Satan.
"I shall put you to the torture of the Three Wishes," Satan decided. "Three 
because it took me three attempts to evoke your guiltiest secret. I am always 
fair."
"Three wishes?"
"That is correct. I will grant you three wishes—and upon the use you make of 
them, shall you be judged."
"But I could simply wish for Salvation!" Brother Paul protested.
Satan shook His horned head again. "So hard to deceive an honest man! Now I must 
confess the trap: you could wish for Salvation—and you would lose it because 
your wish was selfish. I would honor it by shipping you to Heaven—you alone, not 
your friends or your daughter—and the Pearly Gates would not open for your 
selfish soul. You cannot knowingly seek purely personal gain by demonic means."
"That rules out a lot of things," Brother Paul said. "But I don't see that it 
should be a torture even so. There are innocuous wishes I could make."
Satan smiled, and now the tusks showed. "You will surely find out."
"Do I have any time to think about it?"
"You have eternity. Right here."
"Oh. Very well. I wish for knowledge of the true origin and meaning of Tarot."
Satan nodded slowly. "You are a clever man. I perceive the likely nature of your 
following wishes."
No doubt. Brother Paul hoped that the responses to the first two wishes would 
enable him to phrase the third one in such a way as to obtain the answer to his 
quest here. If he finally discovered the way to learn whether there was a 
separate, objective God of Tarot—
"But knowledge itself is neither good nor evil," Satan continued. "It is how you 
acquire it and what you do with it that counts—as you shall discover. 
Therefore—on your way, Uncle!"
Suddenly Brother Paul dropped through a hole in the floor. He slid down a chute 
that twisted and looped like an intestine. Oh, no! he thought. I'm to be shit 
out, colored brown, like the insult of the Dozens game!
But as he reached the nadir, the passage closed in about him, squeezing him 
through a nether loop, then upward. Fluid surrounded him, moving him 
hydraulically on. The pressure became almost intolerable as the tube constricted 
yet more. Then there was an abrupt release as he was geysered up and out with 
climactic force. He had a vision of the Tarot Tower exploding. He sailed through 
the air, looking back, and realized: this was indeed the meaning of that card, 
the House of God or the House of the Devil. This was Revelation! He had been 
ejaculated from Satan's monstrous erect phallus. He was the Seed, proceeding to 
what fate he could not guess.
 
III
Hope/Fear: 22
When the High Patriarch of the Christians in Constantinople made a motion, the 
priests would diligently collect it in squares of silk and dry it in the sun. 
Then they would mix it with musk, amber and benzoin, and, when it was quite dry, 
powder it and put it up in little gold boxes. These boxes were sent to all 
Christian kings and churches, and the powder was used as the holiest incense for 
the sanctification of Christians on all solemn occasions, to bless the bride, to 
fumigate the newly born, and to purify a priest on ordination. As the genuine 
excrements of the High Patriarch could hardly suffice for ten provinces, much 
less for all Christian lands, the priests used to forge the powder by mixing 
less holy matters with it, that is to say, the excrements of lesser patriarchs 
and even of the priests themselves. This imposture was not easy to detect. These 
Greek swine valued the powder for other virtues; they used it as a salve for 
sore eyes and as a medicine for the stomach and bowels. But only kings and 
queens and the very rich could obtain these cures, since, owing to the limited 
quantity of raw material, a dirham-weight of the powder used to be sold for a 
thousand dinars in gold.
—The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night: translated from Arabic to French 
by Dr. J.C. Mardrus, and from French to English by Powys Mathers: Volume I, 
London, The Casanova Society, 1923.
 
The first thing Brother Paul saw was the star. It hovered just above the 
horizon, bright and beautiful and marvelously pure: the Star of Hope.
But immediately he felt fear: where was he? Was this another aspect of Hell? 
What menace lurked in this unknown region? He hardly dared move until he knew 
whether he stood on a plain—or the brink of a precipice.
Fortunately he had not long to wait. Light grew; it was breaking dawn, brighter 
in one portion of the firmament, giving him convenient orientation. He knew 
which way North was. Now if only he knew where in the universe he was. Not 
Planet Tarot, it seemed; the vegetation, air and gravity were too Earth-like to 
occur anywhere but on Planet Earth. But he needed to narrow it down more than 
that! It had to be the temperate zone, for now he saw that the trees were 
deciduous.
Perhaps he had seen the Morning Star, actually the Planet Venus, symbol of love. 
He hoped that was a good sign. But other stars could shine in the morning too, 
depending on the season, cloud cover, and mood of the viewer.
He stood on a pleasant hillside. It was evidently spring. Though the morning was 
cool, it was not unpleasant, and the odors of nature were wonderful. Flowers 
were opening, and they seemed to be of familiar types though he could not 
identify them precisely. If he had his life to do over again, he would pay more 
attention to flowers! Carolyn would have enjoyed this scene.
Carolyn—where was she now? Not until the recent review of his past had he 
realized consciously the rationale of her naming. Carolyn, one-sixteenth black, 
in honor of the all-black Karolyn who had shown him what judo could do and never 
snickered. Satan had said Carolyn did not yet exist—yet she did exist, for he 
knew her and loved her and she was his daughter. The colonist child was merely 
the actress, standing in lieu of the real Carolyn, who was—where? He could not 
believe she was a creature solely of his imagination; he was emotionally unable 
to accept that. Well, at least she had avoided Hell; probably Lee had taken her 
back out of the Vision. Thank God!
Or was it Satan that deserved the thanks?
Music interrupted his thoughts. Beautiful, flute-like—was the melody the "Song 
of the Morning"? Edvard Grieg, who composed it as part of the famous Peer Gynt 
suites, had lived in the late 19th century, and he was Swedish—no, Norwegian. 
Could that be where and when Brother Paul found himself—in historical Europe? 
Given the capacities of Animation, this was well within the range of 
possibility. How he would love to meet that marvelous musician, one of his 
favorites! But no, this melody was not that; one passage had merely seemed 
similar. So—forget Grieg, unfortunately. Satan would hardly have granted him 
that incidental pleasure.
But why guess at all? The tune issued from the vale to the west. Brother Paul 
walked toward it. He realized he was wearing a belted tunic and crude leather 
shoes made comfortable by use. But something itched him—ouch! He suspected it 
was lice. That put him back somewhere in the Middle Ages, probably Europe. 
Sanitation was not well regarded then. Not by the Christians. In fact it had 
been said that Christianity was the only great religion where dirtiness was next 
to Godliness. The Moslems in particular had ridiculed that attitude, perhaps 
angered by the impertinence of the Crusades. Only in relatively recent times had 
the Christian attitude changed.
The musician came into view. He was a young man, tall and slim and strong, 
garbed in garishly colored pantaloons and jacket and hat. One slipper was blue, 
the other red. His stockings were the reverse. There were small bells on his 
knees, and he wore a bright blue cape. The brim of the hat spread so widely it 
flopped down over his eyes. Yet this comic personage seemed in no way 
embarrassed. He rested on the ground under a densely leaved tree, and he was 
playing on a strange double flute, his right hand fingering the holes on one 
side, his left the other.
"Pan pipes!" Brother Paul exclaimed.
The man stopped. He looked up questioningly. "Ja?" he inquired.
Brother Paul did some quick readjusting. That sounded like German! He was not 
proficient in that language, but he might get by. "I—was admiring your music," 
he said haltingly in German.
"The shepherd's flute," the man agreed in the same language. His accent was 
strange, but not unintelligible. "It sets the mood for the day. Will you join 
me?"
"I would like to," Brother Paul said.
"Have some bread," the man said, tearing off the end of a long loaf and 
proffering it. This was hard black stuff, but it smelled good.
"Thank you," Brother Paul said. "I fear I have no favor to return. I am a 
stranger here, without substance."
The man smiled. "There are no strangers under the eye of God."
"None indeed!" Brother Paul agreed, encouraged. "I am Brother Paul of the Holy 
Order of Vision." He broke off, uncertain whether that would make any sense in 
this context.
"Would that have anything to do with the Apostle Paul's vision on the road to 
Damascus?"
"Yes," Brother Paul agreed, gratified. Here was a kindred soul! The actor was 
obviously Lee, but now the role itself was harmonious. "For both my Order and 
myself. We believe that the foundation of present-day Christianity was when the 
Pharisee Jew of Tarsus was converted to Christ. To a considerable extent, he 
made Christianity what it is. More correctly, he laid down the principles this 
great religion should follow although many bearing the title of Christians have 
strayed from those precepts. We of the Order of Vision try to restore, to the 
extent we are able, the Christianity of Saint Paul's vision. A faith open to all 
people, regardless of the name they choose to put upon their belief." He knew he 
was not speaking with the eloquence he wished, handicapped by the language, but 
it was getting easier as he progressed. Lee, of course, knew all this—but it was 
necessary to get it on record for this Animation, as it were anchoring the 
philosophical basis.
"Very well spoken, Brother! You are then a traveling friar?"
"No, not at all. I am here—well, by accident. I don't even know where this is. 
Or when this is. I am from America, circa 2000 A.D." How would that go over?
The man smiled again, shaking his head. "I regret I know of neither your Order 
nor your country, and I surely misunderstand your calendar. But I am ignorant of 
the fine points of religion; my folk always believed religion originated with 
fear. I have no knowledge whether this is true. But on geography I am more 
conversant: this is the land west of the Rhine, north of the Alps, and this is 
the year of Our Lord 1392, and I am a simple itinerant minstrel, entertainer, 
and magician. I go by many names, none of them significant; you may call me 
simply LeBateleur, or the Juggler."
"The Juggler!" Brother Paul repeated, astonished. "Thirteen ninety-two!"
"You seem surprised, friend. Have I given offense?"
"No, no offense! It's just that—in my framework—which seems to be some six 
centuries after yours—your name is the title of a—what some call a 
fortune-telling card!"
The man waved a flute in a careless gesture. "This, too, I do, if there be an 
obolus in it." He flipped the flute in the air and caught it expertly. "Do you 
wish your fortune told?"
"I, uh—no thank you. If an obolus is a unit of money, I have none." Brother Paul 
seemed to remember a medieval coin worth a cent or so; this could be it. "In 
fact, I seem to be without resources and cannot repay you for your bread unless 
there is some service I can do."
The Juggler looked at him appraisingly. "I will accept payment with a mere 
song."
"A song?" Brother Paul found himself liking this unpretentious yet talented 
character, but this was confusing. "I do not claim to be an accomplished singer, 
though I do enjoy the form."
"I will give you the tune so that you may hum as I play." And the Juggler put 
his shepherd's flute to his lips and played an oddly sad melody.
"I like it," Brother Paul said. He began to hum, picking up the tune readily. He 
remembered how, as a child, he had been rebuked for humming. But now he was 
freed of that geas and could enjoy it.
As he mastered the song and hummed more forcefully, the Juggler changed his 
playing. Now it was the descant, complementing and counterpointing Brother 
Paul's voice. The pipes with their linked yet separate themes were lovely in 
themselves; but now, augmenting Brother Paul's voice, they lifted the song into 
a creation of such simple beauty that he found himself in a minor transport of 
rapture. Music soothed the savage breast indeed.
When it finished, the Juggler smiled. "Brother Paul, man of Vision, you were 
unduly modest. You have a voice second only to that of a castrate."
Brother Paul suffered a feeling of horror quite removed from the intended 
compliment. In medieval times young boys with good voices were castrated before 
puberty so that they could retain their sweet high ranges and continue singing 
in church choirs. The Bible forbade any man "injured in the stones" to enter a 
congregation of the Lord, but the Church ignored that when its convenience 
suited. What about himself: had he recovered his masculinity, or was Satan's 
excision permanent? The Juggler had spoken figuratively; Brother Paul's voice 
remained tenor since castration after the age of puberty had no immediate effect 
on range. Yet—
He could check readily enough. But not right now! "I thank you for the bread—and 
for the song. I must be on my way. Could you direct me to the nearest town or 
city?"
"Merely follow the river, friend! There are hamlets throughout, and eventually 
to the north you will come to the great city of Worms, the first Imperial Free 
City of the Empire."
"Worms! I remember the Diet of Worms, where Martin Luther—" He broke off. The 
Diet of Worms occurred in 1521—a hundred and thirty years after the year this 
was supposed to be. He remembered that date with special clarity because there 
had been a joke among his schoolmates about the "diet of worms" they would have 
to eat if they misremembered that date. One thousand, five hundred, and twenty 
one worms to be exact.
"You have friends in Worms then?" Of course the pronunciation was different with 
the W sounding more like a V, so the joke was no good for adults.
Brother Paul cut off his continuing, worm-like thought and answered. "Uh, not 
exactly. But perhaps I shall find what I seek there."
"May I inquire what you seek? It is not my business, but I have made many 
contacts in the course of my travels and perhaps can help direct you."
"I am looking for a deck of cards called the Tarot."
The Juggler's brow furrowed. "Ta-row? I think I have heard of some such pastime 
indulged in by the wealthy." "
"They are special cards with pictured trumps and numerical suits. We use them as 
an aid to meditation, but they have a long and checkered history." But the 
Juggler's obvious perplexity made him pause. Apparently in this role he had no 
direct knowledge of Tarot. "This is the deck I mentioned where one card has your 
name: the Juggler or Magician."
The Juggler spread his hands. "I would be flattered, but this is surely a 
coincidence. There are many of my ilk, begging our bread and a night's lodging 
from village to village. Are there also cards for merchants and plowmen and 
friars?"
"Not specifically. The cards favor kings, queens, emperors, and popes," Brother 
Paul said with a smile. "As you suggested: an entertainment of the wealthy."
"Worms would be the place to seek then," the Juggler said. "It is the capital of 
the Bishop-Princes and a center of Empire intrigue. I wish you well."
"Thank you." Brother Paul rose and oriented northward.
"Move east until you spy the river," the Juggler advised. "The roads are better 
along its bank, and the villagers are accustomed to travelers."
Brother Paul nodded appreciatively and walked east.
By mid-afternoon he was hungry and footsore. He had found the river and a 
suitable trail north, but the villagers were not particularly hospitable to one 
who had no money. This idyllic historic land had its drawbacks. But he plodded 
on.
A party of ill-kempt soldiers rounded the turn, going south. Brother Paul knew 
that excellent armor and mail were available to those who could afford it in the 
fourteenth century, but these men were more like rabble. Instead of chain and 
gauntlets and swords they wore doublets with patches of leather sewn on for 
protection, their hands were bare and calloused, and they carried assorted 
knives and staffs evidently scrounged from what was most readily available.
They were upon Brother Paul before he realized their nature; because he was hot, 
grimy, and tired he had not been paying proper attention to his surroundings. 
"Out of the way, ruffian!" the leader said, striking forward with his staff.
Brother Paul reacted automatically. Adrenaline flooded his system, abolishing 
his fatigue. He stepped aside, reaching out with his left hand to catch hold of 
the moving staff. He turned to the left, his right hand coming down on the 
soldier's right hand, pinning it to the staff. Now he was beside the soldier, 
his two hands on the staff along with those of the other man. Brother Paul bent 
his knees, pushing the staff up and forward, causing the soldier to overbalance. 
He heaved—and the man flew over Brother Paul's right shoulder to land 
resoundingly in the dirt. The staff, by no coincidence, remained in Brother 
Paul's hands.
"Sorry," he said in his imperfect German. "I thought you meant to attack me." 
Better to put the most positive face on it!
But now the other soldiers ringed him, knives drawn. They looked ugly, in 
feature and attitude. "Who are you, churl?" one demanded.
"Just a traveler to Worms," Brother Paul said innocently.
"Who's your Lord?"
They thought him a servant. "I have no Lord. I'm just looking for the Tarot 
deck—"
The soldiers exchanged glances. "Sounds like a heretic to me," one said, and the 
others nodded agreement. "No protector, interfering with honest troops—let's 
teach him his place."
Uh oh. Brother Paul looked around, but there was no retreat. They had him, and 
they meant trouble. They had delayed their revenge only long enough to ascertain 
that there would be no likely retribution from some powerful noble who might 
have sent this stranger on some mission. If Brother Paul tried to escape, he 
would get stabbed by a dirty knife. If he fought—the same. Better to accept 
their chastisement—and be more careful next time.
"We'll flog him," the leader decided, dusting himself off. Brother Paul had not 
thrown him with damaging force, and the turf had broken the man's fall, so he 
had taken no injury worse than bruises. "Strip him!"
Rough hands ripped away Brother Paul's clothing while one of the men unwound a 
brutal-looking whip. This was not going to be pleasant at all!
They hauled off the last cloth—and paused. "He's gelded!" one exclaimed.
"Must be a slave, escaped from a galley—or a convict. We'd better kill him and 
cut off his ears; might be a reward."
"Cut off his ears first," one suggested. "I want to hear how a gelding screams."
Now Brother Paul knew he would have to fight. He had no choice. These were brute 
men to whom life was cheap, and they had no mercy. By beating and killing 
others, they sought to redeem their own sorry lot. The leader looked like 
Therion. Brother Paul braced, noting the position of each. If he caught one and 
threw him into two others—
"What's this?" a new voice demanded.
All turned, startled. It was a priest in black robe with a silver cross glinting 
at his throat. Even without this uniform, his demeanor would have cowed 
strangers. It was as if light glinted from his steely eyes.
"It's nothing, Father," the chief soldier said. "We caught this felon, and—"
"A heretic," another put in.
"Allow me to be judge of what is or is not significant, and who is or is not a 
heretic," the priest said sternly. His pale eyes glared down on Brother Paul as 
from a great height. He rubbed his nose with two fingers, squinting 
appraisingly. "Are you not the eunuch of the Apostle?" he demanded.
Startled, Brother Paul could not answer.
The priest gestured imperiously. "The Holy Office wants this miscreant. Garb him 
and bind him; I will convey him to Worms myself."
"Yes, Father," the soldier agreed, cowed. "But can you handle him alone? We 
could hamstring him for you. He's a rough—"
The priest peered down at the man. Something very like a sneer curled his 
aristocratic lip. "Your tongue wags rather freely, minion. Is it too long?"
"Father, I—"
"The Holy Office might arrange to have it cut shorter so that it will no longer 
interfere with your work."
With a visible gulp and tightly closed mouth, the soldier turned to get to work 
on Brother Paul, and the others jumped to help. They could easily have 
over-powered the priest, but this thought apparently was not in their 
repertoire. Quickly they replaced Brother Paul's tatters and tied his hands 
behind him with a length of cloth. It was evident that the mere mention of the 
Holy Office put a chill into the stoutest military heart.
"Good men," the priest said gruffly. He lifted two fingers in a careless 
benediction. "God be with you. Be about your business."
The soldiers bowed their heads. "Thank you, Father," one said and hastily 
retreated. In moments they were away and out of sight.
From the frying pan into the fire?
The priest considered Brother Paul again. He lifted the crucifix in one hand. 
"Miscreant, kiss the divine symbol of your Savior," he snapped imperiously.
The memory of a friend suffering and bleeding on that cross was too fresh. "Kiss 
my ass," Brother Paul muttered in English. He had read of the corrupt, venial 
medieval priests, and this one seemed typical of the breed. He spoke of tortures 
more readily than he spoke of the love of Jesus. Better the untender mercies of 
the soldiers; at least they were not such hypocrites. When Jesus Christ had gone 
out for his second crucifixion, men of this ilk had been awaiting him.
"I could have your ears sent to join your privates," the priest said warningly. 
Then he smiled. "Do you not know me, Brother Paul?"
Amazed, Brother Paul recognized him. "Juggler!"
"Stumble onward, friend; the ruffians may be suspicious. When it is safe, I will 
release you." And Juggler gave him a cuff on the neck that landed without force. 
What an actor he was!
Brother Paul stumbled forward, hunching his back as if cowed. "How—how did 
you—?"
"I followed you because my mind was in doubt about you. When it seemed you were 
authentic, I donned one of the disguises in which I am versed."
"Just in time, too! They were going to kill me! But why should you—?"
The Juggler shook his head ruefully. "My friend, I apologize. I took you for a 
spy of the Inquisition, but such a person would never have sung the heretical 
melody or have suffered himself to be humiliated as you were by those soldiers, 
and a eunuch could not have been admitted to the Holy Office. I realized I had 
misjudged you."
"The Inquisition? I?" Brother Paul laughed. "I abhor the repression for which 
the Inquisition stood!"
"So do I. If I were to fall into the power of the Holy Office—" The Juggler 
shook his head gravely.
"But why should they bother you? A mere minstrel and juggler, however talented—"
"Friend, I must confess that I juggle more than batons," Juggler said, untying 
Brother Paul's hands. "I am a barba. An Uncle."
"Uncle?" Brother Paul repeated blankly. He seemed to remember Satan using the 
term.
"A missionary of the Waldenses."
"The Waldenses!" Brother Paul had heard that name before. A historical sect, 
persecuted for their heretical beliefs.
"My partner fell victim to the Black Death. I would have saved him if I 
could—but it was in God's hands, not mine. Now I continue alone, for the 
believers must be served. But I fear lest my mission be incomplete."
Now the Juggler quickly removed and reversed his priestly robe. On the inside 
was his peasant-magician garb. The silver cross was shoved into a deep pocket 
with a contemptuous twitch of his lip. Now Brother Paul understood the necessity 
for the Juggler's dramatic abilities. The life expectancy of a suspected heretic 
was brief indeed. How much worse for a heretic missionary!
"Juggler—it may be presumptuous to ask—but do you think I might accompany you? I 
don't know my way around and have no money, but there might be some way I could 
help if you tell me what to do, and perhaps your route will take me where I am 
going. I bear no malice to your sect; in my framework there are many Christian 
and non-Christian religions, and tolerance is part of our custom and our law." 
Thanks to John Murray and others.
The Juggler turned to him seriously. "Brother Paul, I was hoping you would make 
the offer. I think I followed you in the hope that you would turn out to be a 
compatriot. You see, there are certain aids I need when performing my tricks—and 
I must perform or the Holy Office will be suspicious, and suspicion is 
nine-tenths of the law. I do not cheat anyone—my faith forbids that!—but I must 
put on a realistic show. Only in that manner can I justify my presence so that I 
can meet with those to whom I bring my message."
"And what is your message? I am a man of some religious scruple myself, and 
while I would not seek to interfere with your belief, I—"
"The Waldenses follow precepts similar to those of the Albigensians. The 
Albigensians were suppressed by the sword and cross two generations ago, so we 
profit by their misfortune and tread carefully. A number of their survivors have 
joined us. We rely on the authority of the Bible, rather than that of the 
Church. We emphasize the virtues of poverty, and so we cater chiefly to the 
poor. We insist on the direct relationship between man and God so that priests 
become irrelevant. We do not believe in confessions or prayers for the dead or 
the intercession of Saints. Men and women are equal. We do not venerate the 
cross, which is the torture implement on which Christ died. We missionaries are 
known as the barbe or Uncles to those we encounter of our faith and to those we 
convert. Because we spread a message that runs counter to that of the 
Church—indeed, we feel Christianity could dispense with the formal Church 
entirely and be the better for it!—we are deemed heretics and suffer the 
opprobrium thereof. Yet we see the temptations of Satan on every side while God 
remains aloof. We feel that if God recruited as actively as Satan does, this 
would be a better world. Therefore, we proselytize."
"There is little in your philosophy to which I take exception," Brother Paul 
said. "My sect honors the Bible, but also respects the texts of other religions, 
such as the Buddhists and the Moslems and the Confucians. We would not abolish 
any sect, but rather seek to coexist in peace with all faiths. Yet I can see 
that much of your philosophy of religion has come down to my own time and has 
been incorporated into the faiths of my world including my own Order of Vision. 
The Quakers honor the direct relation between man and God, calling it the 'Inner 
Light,' and the Jehovah's Witnesses attempt to combat Satan by active 
recruiting, and we take what amount to vows of poverty at the Holy Order of 
Vision—" He spread his hands. "There is too much to cover at the moment."
"I had hoped this would be the case. Your Order sounds like a sister school."
"It may be," Brother Paul agreed. "We do not seek converts, but we do lend 
support to those in need of faith." He paused. "You remind me of someone I 
knew—in my own time. He—" He broke off. He was getting so carried away with this 
play that he was forgetting who was playing what part! This was his friend Lee 
in a new guise. No need to disrupt the scene by remarking on it. "But of course 
that is irrelevant. I believe your message should be spread, for this age has 
need of it, and I will help you in what ever way I can."
"Then let me show you the lesson plan," the Juggler said. "Our devotees are 
mainly illiterate peasants. They are good people, but they could not read the 
Bible even if they were permitted to possess it. Even if it were translated to 
their language from the Latin. What point is there in an unreadable, unavailable 
Word of God! Yet we dare not carry the Bible with us or anything else that might 
betray our nature to the Holy Office. So—we use these little pictures whose real 
nature we carefully conceal from the minions of the Church."
And the Juggler produced a pack of thirty drawings. Brother Paul looked at them 
as he walked beside his friend, amazed—for these were very like the Major Arcana 
of the Tarot. Suddenly he realized that Satan was honoring his first wish: 
knowledge of the true origin and purpose of the Tarot. "This—this is what I 
seek!" he exclaimed.
"When you named the Tarot, I was sure you were attempting to trap me," the 
Juggler admitted. "Yet not quite sure—and I could not condemn you on the basis 
of mere suspicion because that is the way of the Holy Office we abhor." He shook 
his head sadly. "What a fine world it would be if one man trusted another and 
had that trust returned! Is this the case in your world?"
"No," Brother Paul said. "Not yet."
"We conceal our card lessons in the one place the Holy Office will never 
suspect: the pack of playing cards used by gamblers and wealthy degenerates," 
the Juggler said, passing the rest of the deck to Brother Paul. "These become 
the minor cards of the greater deck, the whole of which we call the Tarot, or 
Tzarot, the ruler of cards. We have not changed the minor cards, for that would 
betray our secret, but we have adapted them symbolically to our purpose. Each of 
the five suits represents—"
"Five suits?" Brother Paul asked, astonished.
"Some common decks have six, others four—in fact there seem to be many 
variations in number and symbols as each local printer or copyist innovates to 
suit himself. But we feel the appropriate number is five to represent the five 
fundamental elements as taught by the ancients."
"The Ancients!" Brother Paul repeated, thinking of something the alien Antares 
had said. A Galactic civilization that had existed three million years ago and 
disappeared.
"The Sumerians, the Egyptians, the Minoans, the Eblans, the Hittites, the 
Greeks, the Megalithic society—all the ancient peoples who knew so much more 
than history has credited them with," the Juggler said, and in that moment it 
was indeed Antares that looked out of his eyes, smiling sadly.
"Oh. Yes. Certainly." Animation though this might be, it seemed important not to 
introduce anachronism. But there was another matter. "Five elements? Fire, 
Water, Air, Earth, and—?"
"And Spirit," the Juggler said gently. "That which distinguishes man from 
animal. Man has conscience; man knows right from wrong. Man ate from the fruit 
of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and thereby separated himself from the 
ignorant beasts. Some call that a curse; we call it man's most important 
attribute."
"Spirit," Brother Paul repeated, appreciating it. It seemed that he had always 
known it. "What separates man from beast."
"The other suits may be interpreted on many levels," the Juggler continued. "As 
virtues or as classes of society or qualities of character. There is the Stave 
of Fortitude—or of the peasant. The Cup of Faith—or of the Church." He made a 
wry face. "Much good the peasant gets from the corrupt established Church! Then 
there is the Sword of Justice—or of the military." He smiled at Brother Paul's 
expression; there had not been any direct association of justice and military in 
his own recent experience! "The Coin of Charity—and of the merchant. And of 
course the Lamp of the Spirit—and of our wandering souls, seeking to bring that 
light to those ready to receive it."
"The Waldenses," Brother Paul said, nodding.
"Or any good people of whatever faith who follow their conscience and seek love 
and truth," the Juggler amended. "As the early Christians did before they were 
corrupted by power. We Waldenses claim no special privilege or right; we merely 
do what we can, hoping our seeds will find fertile soil."
And the most fertile soil came from compost, fed by fecal matter. Satan had made 
Brother Paul into a seed and planted him here. What meaning did that have?
"This picture, The Juggler, represents—me," the Juggler said with a smile. It 
was, indeed, the Tarot Juggler or Magician—a gaudily dressed man standing at a 
table upon which various items of parlor magic rested. "The Juggler is of course 
the master of disguises—as we Waldenses have to be. At times he may appear very 
much the fool. But the sight of this image alerts the faithful, and when I see 
the countersign, thus—" He made a gesture with his forefinger like a figure 
eight turned sidewise. "That is the double symbol of the sun and moon, two 
circles touching, the eternal progress of day and night reflected in my hat." 
And he took down his floppy hat to show how the rim formed a similar lemniscate. 
"I know then to whom to address myself after the show is over. Circumspectly. 
Usually the believer will find some pretext to bring me to his home, and I will 
conduct the lesson there. Thus is another segment of my mission accomplished 
under the dangerously sensitive nose of the Holy Office."
"Beautiful," Brother Paul murmured. "In my day, these cards have lost much of 
this meaning. You hide them under superficial interpretations so that the 
Inquisition will not suspect, and those superficial aspects have carried through 
so that most people do not even suspect the primary purpose."
"That is exactly as it should be," the Juggler agreed, pleased. "It means the 
Holy Office will not prevail in your land either." He indicated the next card. 
"This is the Lady Pope. Do you know the legend of the Popess?"
Brother Paul nodded affirmatively. "However, our researches show that no such 
person existed historically."
"Perhaps not on that level. But symbolically she certainly exists! This is the 
way we see the Church, the Whore of Babylon who has taken upon herself the 
attributes of secular power and become as one with the kings of the flesh. This 
picture follows naturally on the first, as a false Pope follows a false 
Magician. A harlot disguised as a priest, treading in the footprints of a 
priest, disguised as a juggler. Those of true faith will perceive the reality 
behind these facades."
"Yes, I should hope so," Brother Paul agreed.
"Now here is a very special representation," the Juggler continued, showing 
another card. "Kindly admire the art."
"But it is blank!" Brother Paul protested.
"It is and it isn't," Juggler said. "Some say this is the Holy Ghost, the 
invisible Spirit of God. But we prefer to call it the Unknown—that ineffable 
force that governs the life of man."
"Fate!" Brother Paul said. He remembered this card now from his rapid tour of 
the gallery under the Pyramid.
"Perhaps. It is really up to each person to interpret it for himself. If he 
draws a card randomly from the deck and this one appears, it is a signal that he 
is proceeding on erroneous assumptions and should re-examine his situation."
"Interesting," Brother Paul said, more than interested. "Is there a particular 
reason it appears here in the deck, right after the Lady Pope, rather than at 
the beginning or end? I note it has no number."
"It is numberless and also infinite," the Juggler agreed. "Therefore, it has no 
assigned place in the deck. When the cards are arranged in order by number and 
suit, the Ghost is inserted randomly. We do try to keep it with the Triumphs 
because often we separate them from the suits in order to avoid suspicion, but 
if it falls among the suits and turns up in the course of a card trick—well, it 
is merely a blank card of no significance." He contemplated the empty card a 
moment. "Seldom does it manifest this early in the deck. There must be a reason 
for that but I confess I do not fathom it. Perhaps it relates to you." And 
Antares looked out at him again.
Brother Paul shrugged. "I do seem to be an unknown quantity in this world." The 
Ghost concept was growing on him. He had never, before he entered the 
Animations, suspected that a thing like this could be in the Tarot—but it seemed 
it was. Or once had been.
"Next come the Empress and Emperor, of equal rank according to our precepts, 
lawfully wedded. We believe in the married state and find the celibacy now 
fashionable in the Church to be hypocritical. God did not create man and woman 
that they should not know one another and not have the fulfillment of families! 
There are so many innocent bastards sired by priests! They breathe on young 
women during Confession and get them unknowingly excited, easy prey for lechery, 
and such women dare not expose their seducers lest the seducers charge them with 
heresy and destroy them without trial. Better those priests should marry and be 
openly fruitful as the Holy Book decrees."
"Yes..." Brother Paul murmured. But he, without testicles—what of him?
"And the Pope himself," the Juggler continued, showing the next. "So like the 
Emperor that one can hardly tell the difference, adorned with costly robes, 
coronets, scepter, on a throne yet! What would you take the meaning of this 
image to be?"
"That the Church has become overly materialistic," Brother Paul said promptly. 
Never before had it occurred to him that the close similarity between Emperor 
and Hierophant (Pope) was not coincidental!
"Very good, Brother Paul; you have a very quick perception! We feel that when 
the Church consented to be endowed by the Roman state, she became morally 
corrupt and lost the mandate of Christ. She has been led astray by worldly 
power, dominion, and wealth—as any religion would be, however pure its original 
tenets. We protest against all religious endowments and any temporal powers of 
clergy."
Brother Paul had to interrupt. "In fairness, I must say that this situation is 
much improved in my day, perhaps again because of your efforts. The Catholic 
Church stands as a bulwark against oppression, and its priests are persecuted by 
totalitarian regimes. In broad parts of Asia it has been almost entirely 
suppressed, and in Europe during recent political upheavals priests were 
tortured. In Latin America—" But he had to stop, prompted by the Juggler's look 
of perplexity. There was no "Latin" America at this period of history.
"Perhaps in your day the Church has recovered some basic humility and purpose," 
the Juggler said. "But right now the Pope is weighted down with those odious 
instruments of torture called crosses and other ornaments never authorized by 
the Scriptures. Call it heresy if you will, but we insist on separation of State 
and Church, not this ludicrous and oppressive amalgam. Why, the Cardinals are so 
greedy for power they contest with each other for the papal throne."
"Ah," Brother Paul said, remembering. "The Great Schism! Three Popes—"
The Juggler smiled. "Not quite that bad, yet. Fourteen years ago, when Pope 
Gregory XI died—is he in your records? The one who ended the 'Babylonian 
Captivity' of the papacy by returning to Rome from Avignon, France—"
"Babylonian captivity for the Whore of Babylon!" Brother Paul interjected, 
laughing.
"Just so. When Gregory died, the Roman mob pressured the Cardinals to install a 
local boy. Rome is an unruly city, and non-Italian popes don't feel quite safe 
there, perhaps for good reason. The Cardinals responded by electing Urban VI. I 
do not claim Urban was a bad man as these things go; he was an uncompromising 
reformer who yielded to no man on matters of principle."
"Trouble, surely!" Brother Paul murmured.
"Correct. His harsh mode soon alienated the Cardinals, especially the French 
ones. They declared his election null and elected Robert of Geneva, who became 
Pope Clement VII and took up residence in Avignon. He had to; his life would 
have been hazardous in Rome! Three years ago Urban died, but that did not 
resolve the problem. The Italians replaced him with Pope Boniface IX."
The Juggler pinched a louse out of his hair with obvious satisfaction. "So now 
we have two popes," he continued. "Which is the real one and which is the 
Antipope no one can say for sure. In Italy it is best to say Boniface; in France 
say Clement." He made a gesture of good-natured helplessness. "How glad I am 
that we Waldenses do not recognize either of these clown priests! But make no 
mistake, either one would string me up by one foot if he caught me or any other 
barba. The men may be ludicrous, but the office remains powerful."
Brother Paul thought of some of the politics of his own period and had to agree. 
"If it is any comfort to you, this eventually got straightened out. In my time 
there is only one pope. But of course there are many Christian religions who do 
not follow the Catholic pope, so in that sense it is more confused than ever."
The Juggler continued on through the deck, picture by picture, while Brother 
Paul listened so raptly that he felt no further fatigue despite the distance 
they were walking. Here at last was True Tarot!
They followed the Rhine downstream, coming to a village in the Holy Roman 
Empire—a region that would be known in Brother Paul's day as Germany. The 
Juggler was exceedingly cautious in populated areas, fearing overt persecution; 
the Empire was not the safest place for Waldenses this year.
Much of the region was forested and beautifully unspoiled, but the fascination 
of the Tarot was such that Brother Paul hardly noticed where they were going or 
what was around them. The individual trees could have been twentieth century 
skyscrapers or completely alien life forms, and he would have passed them 
blithely by.
At the village the Juggler set up his table and performed his cardboard 
miracles, and he was a most proficient stage magician who obviously enjoyed 
amazing the credulous and making children laugh. The peasants threw small coins 
in appreciation: not many, for they were poor, but even an obolus went a long 
way here.
However, no secret signal was given, so there was no ministering to the 
Waldenses faithful. "I did not expect a contact here," Juggler confided. "Up 
nearer Worms there are more believers. I'll make arrangements to spend the night 
in a stable."
"The stable was good enough for our Savior's birth," Brother Paul murmured. He 
already had a load of lice in his clothing, so could not take on many more bugs 
from the environment. His feet were sore, his muscles stiffening, and his 
unfamiliar clothing was chafing the skin raw in places; anywhere was fine for a 
rest. When he slept, he would dream of Tarot—assuming he remained in this 
situation now that his wish had been fulfilled.
Next morning he remained in the fourteenth century, his body stiffer and rawer 
than ever with assorted welts from the bites of unseen insects. But fresh water 
and some more black bread made him feel better, and the resumed walk gradually 
worked out the kinks. He was not comfortable, but he could get by. But he 
wondered: why was he still here?
As they trekked north toward the great free city of Worms, the Juggler abruptly 
staggered. "Ah, the thirst!" he cried.
Thirst? Brother Paul caught his arm, steadying him. The man was hot! "Friend, 
you have a fever!" Brother Paul said. "You must rest; I will fetch water to cool 
you."
The Juggler slumped down against a tree. "I fear it will do no good," he gasped. 
"I felt it coming, but tried to persuade myself it was not." He vomited weakly, 
soiling his uniform.
Alarmed, Brother Paul hurried to fetch water from the river anyway. But when he 
reached the bank, he found he had no container for it. He had not thought, in 
his worried haste, to bring one of the Juggler's trick cups, and in any event 
that would have been too small. Maybe he could find something by the bank—
He ran along the riverside, searching desperately. There was nothing. But his 
friend was gravely ill!
He burst through a copse of trees. There was a girl dipping water from the 
river. She had an earthen pitcher in each hand and was evidently rinsing them 
out, swishing water in them and pouring it out again. Over her shoulder near the 
eastern horizon he saw the first star of dusk. Uncommonly bright, almost 
blindingly brilliant. He suffered the feeling of déjà vu.
But he had no time to figure it out. "Miss, oh Miss!" he called. "Fraülein—may I 
borrow a pitcher?"
The girl looked up, startled. She resembled—but of course Amaranth played this 
part; why did he keep being surprised by the new ways in which the basic cast 
appeared?
"I have a friend, sick," Brother Paul explained breathlessly. "He needs water."
She hesitated. "Sick?"
"A fever, vomiting, thirst—"
"The Black Death!" She got up so hastily she dropped a pitcher in the water and 
fled.
He had no time or reason to pursue her. What could he do with a woman anyway, 
had he the time and inclination? He was a eunuch. He sloshed into the water to 
recover the bobbing pitcher before it sank. At least he had that!
The Juggler was worse when he returned. Brother Paul splashed water on his 
friend's face and on his hot, dry skin. He offered a cup, and the Juggler gulped 
avidly.
Now Brother Paul saw it: black spots forming on the man's skin. "Uh oh."
"It is the Black Death," the Juggler said. "I buried my companion, may God 
accept his soul, and I hoped I had escaped—" He looked up, alarmed. "My friend, 
get away from me! You cannot save me; you can only infect yourself."
"No danger of that," Brother Paul assured him. "The plague was spread from rats 
to men by infected fleas."
"Fleas! But fleas are everywhere!"
He was right. Lice, nits, fleas—there was no escaping them here. Probably fleas 
had left the dying barba companion and hidden in the Juggler's clothes. Now, 
after the incubation period of several days, Juggler had come down with it. Rat 
fleas might spread it, but they didn't need rats once they infested human 
clothing.
"You saved my life from the soldiers," Brother Paul said. Actually, he might 
have fought off the soldiers successfully—but it had been no certain thing. "I 
will do what I can for you."
The Juggler retched again. "There is only one thing needing doing for me, 
friend—and that is more than any man can ask of another, were it even possible."
The man was extremely sick, and Brother Paul did not know how to care for him. 
Even with hospital care, the outlook would be doubtful, for the bubonic plague 
had killed about a third of the population of Europe in the latter part of the 
fourteenth century. Even had Brother Paul known where to get help, he would not 
dare to take the Juggler there. A heretic missionary in a time of 
persecution—no, he could not seek help! "What is this impossible thing?"
"My mission," the Juggler said. "There are good people who depend on the Uncles 
to uplift their faith. They should be told—that they must wait a few more 
months, until the persecution dies down, until the next barba comes. They must 
not give up hope!"
"I can tell them that," Brother Paul said.
"But they are hidden—and to seek them out is to risk discovery by the Holy 
Office—for you and them. You dare not—" the Juggler lapsed into silence for a 
time. He was fading rapidly. When a killer disease took hold of the body of a 
medieval man, already weakened by fatigue and malnutrition, its ravages were 
swift!
The Juggler summoned strength. "Take the sacred pictures, friend. Guard them 
well. They must not fall into the hands of—" He had to stop, gasping.
"I will guard the Sacred Tarot with my life," Brother Paul said soberly. "The 
Inquisition shall not have it."
The Juggler could no longer speak. His fevered hand touched Brother Paul's in 
mute thanks. He shuddered, trying to vomit again, but nothing came. Then with 
what seemed a superhuman effort he managed a few more words. "Abra-Melim, the 
Mage of Egypt—Abraham the Jew in Worms—tell—" He choked—and before Brother Paul 
could help him, he collapsed.
Brother Paul tried to revive him with more water, to make him comfortable—but in 
a moment he realized that his friend was dead.
"Let him only change parts..." Brother Paul prayed, feeling an intensity of loss 
that threatened to overwhelm him. "Let the role die, not the player—" But he 
could not be sure that prayer would be answered, for this was an aspect of Hell.
 
IV
Deception: 23
There is no more immoral work than the "Old Testament." Its deity is an ancient 
Hebrew of the worst type, who condones, permits or commands every sin in the 
Decalogue to a Jewish patriarch, qua patriarch. He orders Abraham to murder his 
son and allows Jacob to swindle his brother; Moses to slaughter an Egyptian and 
the Jews to plunder and spoil a whole people, after inflicting upon them a 
series of plagues which would be the height of atrocity if the tale were true. 
The nations of Canaan are then extirpated. Ehud, for treacherously 
disembowelling King Eglon, is made judge over Israel. Jael is blessed above 
women (Joshua v. 24) for vilely murdering a sleeping guest; the horrid deeds of 
Judith and Esther are made examples to mankind; and David, after an adultery and 
a homicide which deserved ignominious death, is suffered to massacre a host of 
his enemies, cutting some in two with saws and axes and putting others into 
brick-kilns. For obscenity and impurity we have the tales of Onan and Tamar, Lot 
and his daughters, Amnon and his fair sister (2 Sam. xiii.), Absalom and his 
father's concubines, the "wife of whoredoms" of Hosea and, capping all, the Song 
of Solomon. For the horrors forbidden to the Jews, who, therefore, must have 
practiced them, see Levit. viii. 24; xi. 5; xvii. 7, xviii. 7, 9, 10, 12, 15, 
17, 21, 23, and xx. 3. For mere filth what can be fouler than 1st Kings xviii. 
27; Tobias ii. 11; Esther xiv, 2; Eccl. xxii. 2; Isaiah xxxvi. 12; Jeremiah iv. 
5, and (Ezekiel iv. 12-15), where the Lord changes human ordure into 
"Cow-chips!" Ce qui excuse Dieu, said Henri Beyle, c'est qu'il n'existe pas,—I 
add, as man has made him.
—The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night: Translated and annotated by 
Richard F. Burton: Volume Ten, n.p., The Burton Club, n.d.
 
Brother Paul collected the Juggler's things into a little pile, then set about 
burying him. The actor, in this role, was not mutilated: that was a minor 
relief. That circumcision of Jesus had been uncomfortably convincing!
Brother Paul did not want to bury the man just anywhere, but lacked the strength 
and will in his grief to be choosy. So he cut a stick with the Juggler's 
magic-tricks knife and used it to excavate a shallow grave. He was afraid this 
would be scant protection against the ravages of scavenging animals, but it was 
the best he could do.
He did not know what manner of ceremony the Waldenses used at a burial, so he 
said a few words of his own choosing. "May the mission on which this good man 
went be somehow fulfilled." Yet he knew from history that, in the narrow sense, 
it had not been. Juggler had died in vain. The Waldenses had never gained many 
converts although their ideas had had broad influence.
Now he sorted through the Juggler's belongings. They were routine: the 
reversible cloak, jacket and pants; the infinity-rimmed floppy hat; the vials of 
powder for coloring fire and other special effects; the trick wand that sagged 
limply when held one way, yet was stiff when held another way (oh, the phallic 
symbolism there!); the cup and knife and coin. The twin-bodied flute. That hurt 
most of all, for it was the instrument that had summoned Brother Paul and 
brought the beauty of song into his fourteenth century life. Such a pitiful 
remembrance! But these items were overwhelmed by the significance of the Tarot 
deck, the true original of an idea that had branched into many forms. This, 
perhaps, was the true mission of the man—giving to the world the truth in Tarot. 
In that sense, maybe the Juggler's mission had not been futile.
The crescent moon had risen. Brother Paul went to the river to wash and drink, 
then looked back toward the grave site. He was horrified to see two wild curs 
approaching it, sniffing. "Hey! Get away from there!" he cried. The dogs paused, 
hearing his voice, poised for flight. But then they spied the moon and lifted 
their muzzles to bay at it. Brother Paul knew that canines, being nose-oriented, 
had difficulty dealing with a thing they could see but not smell; one sense told 
them it was there, but another denied it. A man who heard a voice but found no 
person there was similarly perplexed, calling it a ghost. A dog merely howled.
Something attracted his attention almost at his feet. It seemed to be a crayfish 
trying to climb out, as though attracted also by the moon. Or attracted by the 
grave, Brother Paul amended his thought with a shudder. He looked again toward 
that grave and saw the silhouettes of the dogs sitting there with two giant 
trees rising to frame the moon like dark castles. A pretty nocturnal scene, in 
its way—but also as horrible as his own vision of the field with the lion. Death 
lurked beneath each: not the brief shock of violent destruction, but the 
lifelong grief of the loss of a loved one.
He strode toward the dogs, and they skulked away. The grave was undisturbed—but 
how long would it remain so? Yet he could not remain here indefinitely to guard 
it. The Juggler would simply have to take his chances in death as in life.
The night was warm. This must be the season of the "Dog Days"—hot. When the "Dog 
Star" Sirius was prominent... that must be the star he had seen in the morning 
or evening. He could survive the night's temperature without trouble.
Brother Paul found a suitable tree and climbed to its crotch, bracing himself 
and squirming around until reasonably comfortable. Before he knew it, he slept.
 
He woke hungry and with additional stiffness. There might be fruit trees in the 
forest—but he did not know where to look and did not want to steal. Obviously 
this Animation was not yet through with him, and he did not wish to become one 
of the failure statistics, i.e., dead. Satan had promised him information on the 
True Tarot; Satan had not promised he could take it with him from the fourteenth 
century. He would have to shift for himself until he could demonstrate his 
ability to survive here indefinitely.
Yet what legitimate way was there to obtain food? He did not want to get too 
close to villagers because he had to hide and preserve the invaluable Tarot 
deck. He was an obvious stranger, speaking awkwardly, not to be trusted by the 
clannish locals, and liable to suspicion by soldiers. If he even showed his face 
in a village, he might be mobbed. Unless—
He almost fell out of the tree. Well, why not? It had worked for the Juggler!
With nervous confidence, Brother Paul descended, stretched his cramped limbs, 
urinated against the roots of the tree, and donned the magical robe. He was 
about to do tricks for his dinner. His strangeness should only enhance the 
effect.
First he rehearsed the tricks. His own youthful experience stood him in good 
stead; he could do sleight of hand as well as was needed. He hated to have to 
use the Sacred Cards for parlor tricks, but they were his best tool—and indeed, 
he had used Tarot in this capacity before. He riffled through the crude cards, 
making sure he could handle them with sufficient dexterity. They were printed 
cards, but not uniform; probably some kind of wooden block print, itself hand 
carved, for it would be over half a century before the printing press was 
developed.
Then he put them away and turned over some rocks and was lucky enough to spot a 
small harmless snake. "Easy, fellow," he murmured, catching it and putting it in 
a tied handkerchief. "I will let you go in due course." Yes—he was ready.
He set out again, following the trail to the north, working the kinks from his 
body. He did not feel good, but he felt halfway confident. There had to be a 
village along this trail somewhere, and now he had no intention of avoiding it.
It turned out to be surprisingly easy. His bright Juggler costume identified him 
instantly, and within moments of his appearance at the next village there was a 
crowd around him. Without further fanfare he set up the table a villager brought 
and began his act. He made a small silver coin appear between his fingers, 
vanish, and reappear from the ear of the nearest urchin. He poured water from 
one cup into another, then showed the second cup to be empty. He waved his 
wand—and the little snake appeared on the table and slithered away. Finally he 
did tricks with the cards, making the Ace of Wands come up repeatedly, no matter 
how carefully it was shuffled into the deck.
Suddenly, in the midst of his act, he remembered what had somehow faded from his 
consciousness for the past day. This deck had five suits.
He continued almost mechanically, going through his limited repertoire while his 
mind and eye reviewed the suits. Wands—Cups—Swords—Coins—and Lamps, just as the 
Juggler had told him. Ace through ten in each, plus Page, Knight, Queen, and 
King. Fifty numbered cards in all, plus twenty Court Cards and thirty Waldenses 
Triumphs—a deck of one hundred cards in all. A magical number in this age and 
his own!
How had the scholars of later centuries missed this obvious clue that their 
decks were incomplete? 100 was a number to conjure with while 78 was a nothing. 
They must have looked at individual cards, instead of at the deck as a whole. 
Almost literally missing the forest for the trees.
Maybe this was another aspect of the Tarot he had yet to discover. He could not 
leave this framework until his whole wish had been granted—including the 
ramifications of it he had not known about.
He wrapped up his show and made his bow. A few small coins were set on his 
table. Success! Now he could buy some food, and no one would question his 
presence here. He could survive.
As the crowd dispersed, a young woman approached hesitantly. "Sir—your cards—is 
there a picture of the Juggler among them?"
The Juggler. He had not employed that card or any of the Triumphs in his act, 
both because they were too valuable to risk and because he feared they might 
arouse suspicion. He had promised to keep them out of the hands of the 
Inquisition, and this was best accomplished by keeping them out of sight. But 
how could he deny the card that stood for his dead benefactor? Slowly, he 
nodded.
She made a sidewise figure eight in the air with her forefinger. "Barba" she 
whispered. "We have awaited your coming! Please, visit our hut tonight."
Brother Paul paused in chagrin. Here was Amaranth in a new part, delivering the 
signal of identification for the Waldenses. Of course these believers were on 
the lookout for traveling entertainers! Why hadn't he thought of that when he 
set out to imitate his friend? He should have answered no about that card so as 
not to arouse false hopes.
Yet he had promised to inform the believers of the delay before the next Uncle 
came so they would not lose hope. This was his opportunity. He had almost 
forgotten that commitment, but had no alternative now. "Miss, I regret to inform 
you that—"
"Oh, don't speak about it here!" she protested, glancing nervously over her 
shoulder. Sure enough, another villager was approaching, and Brother Paul had to 
break off.
"Then you will perform for us tonight," Amaranth said brightly. "We will give 
you supper and straw for the night."
"Uh, yes, that will be fine," Brother Paul agreed lamely. He smiled at the other 
villager. "I trust you enjoyed the show?"
"That snake—it was alive!"
"Of course," Brother Paul said with a smile. "I would not want to conjure a dead 
snake."
The man's eyes widened. "Then you are in league with Satan!"
Uh oh. These primitives believed in magic. He had made his show too good. He 
was, perhaps literally, in league with Satan, but that was not relevant to this 
issue. "No, it is merely a trick. I caught the snake in the forest this morning 
and hid it in my sleeve. Don't tell anyone!"
Disappointed, the man departed. There went a close call! He could not afford to 
be too convincing!
There was nothing resembling a supermarket here, but there was a local baker 
from whom Brother Paul obtained a loaf of black bread. His stomach did not like 
the stuff very well; it was too much like his childhood bread. But at least it 
was familiar.
In the afternoon he ranged the area and managed to catch several beetles and 
caterpillars: ammunition for the evening show. He spotted one rather pretty 
little stone and pocketed that too, although he wasn't sure he could use it in a 
magic trick. He chatted with people who were curious about news of the world—and 
fortunately the world was limited to a few square leagues in their awareness.
In the evening the young woman fetched him to her hut, which actually turned out 
to be a good sized cottage some ten meters by five with a thatched roof, and 
constructed of fairly sturdy hand-hewn beams. Inside, however, he discovered it 
did double duty as a shed for animals; straw was on the floor, and the ambient 
odor was strong. But what had he expected among peasants? The lowest classes of 
the medieval societies had never had a good life and always had to live pretty 
much from hand to mouth.
This house was crowded with people of all ages. "Barba!" an old woman cried. "I 
feared I would die before I had your blessing!"
And he had to tell them he was not the Waldenses missionary. This was going to 
hurt. Yet they deserved to know the brutal truth: that the true Juggler had died 
of the plague not half a day's walk from here, trying to reach them. "I regret 
to explain that I am not—"
"Oh, it's all right, Uncle," she said. "We are all of the faith here. From all 
the villages around, we have come. Some will be punished for failing to work for 
their Lords today, but they had far to travel to get here on time. A young 
couple have delayed marrying lo these many months so that you could do it, and 
we have a child sick near to death, and we all stand in such desperate need of 
your counsel, for our life is hard and some of us have suffered in the 
persecution and we know not even how to pray properly to God for relief. We have 
had no one in a year to preach the True Faith to us, and now at last you have 
come, and what a blessing it is! If I die tomorrow, I die happy, for I die with 
my faith uplifted by your touch!" And she held out her withered hand to be 
touched.
And what was he to say now? At such sacrifice had they gathered to meet him, 
risking their very lives to have the blessing and encouragement of the barba. 
How great was their simple faith in the terrible shadow of the Inquisition! How 
could he tell them now that the true missionary was dead?
Suddenly he appreciated with much greater clarity the situation of the 
Universalist John Murray who was prevented by a lack of wind from sailing away 
and going about his business until he agreed to preach at the local church. 
Murray had not felt qualified, yet—
Yet if he, Brother Paul, did not tell these good people the truth, he would have 
to impersonate the Uncle they thought he was, the representative of a religion 
to which he did not belong. Even if that could be called ethical, he wasn't sure 
it was possible. And how could he participate in such a terrible lie?
The old woman was waiting. He had to do something now! Should he kill her with 
the truth or provide salvation with a lie? Was this a test of his own mettle? If 
he lied, he was surely doomed to Hell. Yet how many other people would the truth 
doom?
Brother Paul touched her hand. "It is your own great faith that uplifts you, 
good woman," he said gently, knowing she would misinterpret his words. If this 
be the road to Hell, so let it be. "I am only a man."
"Yes, yes!" she breathed raptly.
"No man can stand between you and God. You have no need of priest or barba, so 
long as your heart is open to Our Lord."
"Ah, but you make it so clear!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Uncle, my faith has wavered 
so often, but your words restore it stronger than before! Give me your 
blessing!"
"My blessing means no more than that of any other person," Brother Paul said, 
troubled. No matter how he tried to defuse the lie, it became stronger like her 
faith. "There is no special power in me; I am as nothing, unworthy. I have no 
avenue to God that is not as readily available to you. I could say the words, 
but that would not—"
"Say the words!" she cried raptly.
There was no way out. "May the blessing of Our Holy Father be upon you," he 
murmured.
It was as though she had been reprieved from Hell. Her wrinkled face was 
transformed by rapture.
Now the others crowded in, nudging the old woman aside, and she suffered herself 
to be moved, oblivious in her joy. "The barba blesses us all by his presence," a 
man said. "Come, Uncle—we must tend first to the child, lest she die unclean." 
He hustled Brother Paul to the corner where the child lay on a straw pallet amid 
flies.
Brother Paul looked at her again on the verge of protesting the confusion of 
identities. But as he looked, he recognized—Carolyn. This girl was about twelve 
years old, but so wasted and thin she could have been eight. Yet the 
face—obviously it was the same actress, and so, in the terms he dealt with, the 
same girl. She had not escaped Hell's aftermath after all. Satan had betrayed 
him. He should have guessed when Lee showed up in this sequence! Now—he had to 
save Carolyn again. If he could.
What was her illness? Should he ask? No, he could get no useful answer. Had it 
been anything routine, she would have recovered on her own. Malnutrition? Then 
why hadn't it affected other members of her family? It must be some individual, 
slow debilitation, not susceptible to the treatment available. Something 
like—cancer.
In which case, nobody could save her. The medical technology for abolishing 
cancer had not been developed until the 20th century. The barba had a hopeless 
task. Even the genuine Waldens Juggler could not have done what these people 
hoped.
But if she died, here in Animation, would she also die in real life? He was 
uncertain. Some people did die in Animation—and the odds seemed against his own 
survival. But some survived. If a person thought he died in Animation, would his 
life expire in his mundane existence? The witch-doctor power of Voodoo suggested 
this was a solid possibility. Suppose a person only played the part of a 
character who died and knew that—could he then survive?
What was the present state of Lee, his Good Companion? Infused by the aura of 
Antares, he had played the role of Jesus Christ and had not died. But 
historically, Jesus had risen again. Now Lee, as the Juggler, had died again, 
more convincingly, for he was no longer the Son of God but a mere mortal man. A 
played part or reality?
If the player died, surely his part died too, for a dead person could not 
animate a living one—not in this manner. Antares was a special case. If a part 
died, the player might live or die, depending. If a part lived, the player had 
to live. Therefore, the only way to be certain was to keep this part alive; then 
he would know that Carolyn lived in all forms. Even though the form he loved had 
not yet been born in his own time framework.
The logic might be suspect, but his feeling was not. He had to save her. Though 
Satan Himself dictated otherwise. To Hell with Satan!
"I will try," Brother Paul said, realizing that these words committed him with 
finality to this part within the play. He was impersonating the Juggler, the 
part that belonged to his friend. He was deceiving these good people. The Moon, 
he thought, experiencing the awful poignancy of it. Planet of deceit. He had 
thought his honor was his most important asset; now Satan had shown him it was 
not. For the sake of an unborn child, the mere part in a play, his honor was 
forfeit.
If this manifest failure in his character damned him to Hell, he thought again, 
so be it. These people might be illusory, and this play might be scripted by 
Satan, but Brother Paul was what he was in reality or imagination. He had to try 
to save this child.
He knelt beside her and put the fingers of his right hand to her forehead. The 
flies buzzed up angrily. Her body was not feverish. Was this a good sign? Maybe 
not; cancer would not necessarily cause a fever. His left hand took her thin 
right hand. How bony her fingers were!
"My dear," he said.
There was no perceptible response. Her breathing continued with labored 
regularity. She was asleep, but not blithely so; he feared she was locked in 
some internal nightmare as bad as his own.
He concentrated, willing her to wake, to recover. Antares had told him he had an 
aura and that this might be used to heal; Jesus Christ had implied the same. If 
this were true, he might be able to help this child. "Wake, little one," he 
said, praying for it to happen.
But it did not happen. His prayer met a blank wall. Brother Paul was not Jesus 
Christ; he could not heal by mere touch and will. Not even when the subject was 
his daughter.
At last, defeated, he rose. "We cannot know the ways of God, except when He 
wills it," he said sadly. What had he done wrong? "I will see this child again." 
And he would. Again and again, for this was the one defeat he could not accept 
as final.
The old woman nodded soberly. Had she expected more from him?
Brother Paul returned to the center of the room. All eyes followed him 
expectantly. He had come prepared to put on a magic show, but this was obviously 
not what they had come for. They wanted a message from the Waldenses, an 
affirmation of faith.
He had in effect perjured himself when he ministered to the child. Should he 
aggravate it now? He looked at the faces of old and young, shining with hope, 
and knew that he had to complete his own damnation. He could not destroy their 
belief when he knew there was no alternative for them. Both true barbe for this 
route were dead, and it might be another year before another set came this way. 
Better a makeshift message than none at all. Even the actors of a play written 
in Hell deserved some consideration.
What of the Juggler? What would he have done in this situation? Brother Paul 
knew: he would have given a ringing presentation of his faith. Now Brother Paul 
had assumed the missionary's place; was there any more fitting way to repay the 
favors the Juggler had done him? What better epitaph than a declaration of the 
message the Juggler had sought to bring!
"Brothers and Sisters of the faith," Brother Paul began, experiencing sudden 
stage fright. "I—am a novice. The true barba who was instructing me, guiding me, 
to whom I was apprentice—that good man perished before he could reach you. I beg 
your indulgence, for I have not before presented the message of the Waldenses 
alone."
No one responded. They took his words as mere apology, the ritual modesty, 
missing the literal import. He was the uncle, the religious guide; experience 
made little difference. So his partial confession of his deceit was no 
confession at all. Satan made it very easy to sin!
Well, he would simply have to do it. He would give them the message of the 
Waldenses as well as he was able. It was not a bad message—not at all.
"The Waldenses follow precepts similar to those of the Albigensians," Brother 
Paul began. But immediately he saw that it wasn't going over. These people had 
no knowledge of foreign religious philosophies or the history of heretic sects; 
they simply believed in the word of the barba.
He tried again. "The Waldenses believe that people should return to the 
principles that Jesus Christ and the Apostle Paul established. Simplicity, 
humility, and disinterested love for all mankind." But this wasn't working 
either. It was a lecture. The Juggler had spoken clearly and rationally to 
Brother Paul, but that was one literate, educated scholar communicating with 
another. Peasants and serfs needed something more tangible. The Juggler, when 
doing his magic show, had appealed to the least sophisticated element of society 
with the same finesse he had shown Brother Paul. He had been a man for all 
levels.
It was not enough for the people to desire enlightenment; it had to come in 
palatable form. These people were what they were: uneducated. Philosophically 
they were like children: ready to learn, but with limited intellectual 
experience.
What he really needed was a programmed lesson, preferably illustrated. Pictures 
were great for illiterates.
Pictures—programmed text. Suddenly it burst upon him. Of course!
Brother Paul brought out the thirty Tarot Triumphs. He extracted the Fool and 
showed it before him. "Look at this buffoon!" he exclaimed. "He walks with his 
eyes to the sky while the town cur rips the pants off his bum!"
Now they responded with appreciative surprise. Now he had their attention. Now 
he could score!
"It is hard indeed for a rich man to approach God," Brother Paul said. "Or for 
the powerful noble, or the proud priest. What is wealth or power or pride to 
God? Better to leave all that behind, and seek God with a heart unfettered by 
worldly things. To be like the Fool, stepping boldly toward his goal, eyes fixed 
on the splendor of the rainbow, seeking God with pure, selfless love."
There was a murmur of agreement; the poor people were receptive to news that the 
poor could achieve salvation more readily than the rich. That the buffoon might 
be nearer to God than the Lord.
"Even if at times it hurts," he concluded, rubbing his own posterior as if it 
were sore. "For the dogs of Manor and Church have sharp teeth."
The peasants' faces burst into appreciative smiles. The arrogance of the civil 
and religious authorities was a chronic sore point with them, and they liked 
hearing them likened to dogs. No doubt about it: Brother Paul was uttering 
heresy by the definitions of this medieval society—and he was enjoying it.
"This picture is Everyman," he continued. "Every person who seeks truth and 
enlightenment. He does not have to wander the countryside; the way is prickly 
enough though he never depart his village. His companions may laugh—yet he 
presses on, his eyes fixed on that glory that awaits those who persevere despite 
ridicule and even torture. Call him a fool—but those who laugh are the real 
fools."
Some peasants started to laugh—then caught themselves. Others began to laugh at 
them—and suffered similar second thoughts. Most nodded knowingly. They were all 
fools in this room, suffering persecution for their particular faith in God. 
Brother Paul had scored again—thanks to the card. It was a good feeling.
"Yet is it better to have some direction," he continued with more confidence. 
"And so we have the Juggler—" he held up the appropriate card "—who comes in 
many forms, but always with the same message. It is the message of Jesus Christ, 
the first great Magician, who sought to lead erring human souls to the majesty 
of God. Even with that divine example to follow, many of us can hardly find the 
way. It is as though the message is magic, appearing and disappearing, eluding 
us just as we seek to grasp it." And the wand appeared in his hand, waved, and 
vanished.
He paused. They were with him now, raptly studying the little picture. It spoke 
better than his words ever could—but it needed interpretation. Perhaps the 
picture messages could have been made more obvious—but then the Inquisition 
would have deciphered them too. They had to be clear—only when properly 
explained. Like locks, they had to open to the proper keys—and resist all other 
efforts. Indeed they did this; imposter philosophers had missed the point of 
Tarot for centuries! Alas, even the deck of the Holy Order of Vision was sadly 
flawed, distorted by a chain of errors of interpretation—yet he had never 
realized this until he came here to the late fourteenth century. Satan had 
granted him his wish in full, providing not only the authentic original deck, 
but also its proper meaning. Yet he had to work out much of that meaning for 
himself; there was no instant comprehension of a philosophy as complex as Tarot.
Brother Paul held up the Lady Pope. "Yet who tries to give us that divine 
message? The Whore of Babylon!" He was interrupted by a shout of savage 
laughter. Oh, yes, they were familiar with that story! "The Church has become a 
giant succubus, tempting us with the promise of Salvation but leading us into 
damnation."
He showed the Ghost card. "It is hard to know right from wrong. 'Tell us what to 
do!' we cry, yet the answer is a blank space. We are all creatures of ignorance. 
Only God knows all, the Infinite, the Holy Spirit, the Ghost! Our past, present 
and future are all clouded by the unknown. Who knows which of us will die 
tomorrow—" He paused, thinking of the sick girl.
Then he thought of himself. His whole participation here was another unknown. In 
fact, his mission to Planet Tarot in that distant, almost forgotten other 
reality—He cut off that line of thought and followed through with the same 
presentation the Juggler had given him, through Empress, Emperor, and Pope. 
Already he felt like a true Waldens missionary.
Now he came to Love. Except that this was not Love, primarily, but Choice. 
Through the centuries, he now realized, this card had been interpreted according 
to its purposely misleading illustration, rather than its more fundamental 
meaning. Iconographical transformation. Interpreting from the superficial image, 
rather than comprehending the intent of the symbol. Similar confusion must have 
phased the Ghost entirely out of existence! It was blank, therefore it stood for 
nothing, therefore it did not exist. Lord, how many fools had tinkered with 
Tarot!
But back to Choice: "A person cannot serve both God and Mammon. Riches and 
worldliness may be very tempting, but their benefit is superficial. Evil often 
puts on a fair face—yet it remains evil." He himself had been deceived by that 
fair face in the form of a sparkling intellect when he selected Therion to be 
his guide in the First Animation. What a price he had paid for that error! Yet 
it had forced on him a profound humility without which he could not have 
progressed this far through the rest. After compost, everything smelled better. 
"Do not choose Love of Possessions over Love of God! Give your heart and soul to 
Jesus Christ. Dedicate yourselves to doing good—"
A small sigh interrupted him. It should not have been audible over the general 
rustle of the people in the crowded room, but it sounded like a clarion in his 
ear. The sick child!
He broke off the presentation and went to the child and took her limp little 
hand again. "Do not choose the wrong path," he murmured only for her. He became 
oblivious to the rest of the room. "Come to the light, for we love you."
A tremor passed through her body. Her eyelids flickered. But she did not wake.
Brother Paul felt a horrible premonition: if he did not rouse her now, he would 
never succeed because she would fade out of part and life together. Whether the 
strain of three Animations was bearing her down, or whether her physical 
condition was causing her part to fade with her, or a combination—she was going.
He could not let her go. He had never known her before the Animations, and what 
he did know was only a young colonist playing a part. But somehow he was sure 
that there was—or would be—a Carolyn, his daughter. Who would die—or might never 
exist—if he let her go now. Ludicrous as it might seem to take this premonition 
seriously, he believed it.
"Pretty child," he murmured, speaking to that most precious spirit he sought, 
oblivious to all else. "You can only exist if someone believes in you. I believe 
in you. Someone must love you. I love you. Someone must need you. I need you. If 
you pass on, I shall have to go with you wherever your spirit leads. You are my 
future. Without you, my love is wasted. My life is empty. You must wake for me." 
And he put both hands on the sides of her face, cupping it tenderly, smoothing 
down the straggly hair, and leaned over and kissed her forehead. There were 
tears in his eyes, and as he came near her they spilled out and fell on her pale 
cheek.
He felt a power stirring like the flux of a magnetic field as it might feel to 
the magnet. It was the aura. Oh, God, he prayed silently. If there is healing 
power in me, let it heal her now.
"So much care," the old woman murmured, "for a child he doesn't even know." She 
was speaking with awe, not with cynicism.
"The barba reflects the love he speaks of—the love of God," another said.
If only that were true! Brother Paul's affinities seemed to be much closer to 
Satan than to God. He had bargained with Satan to save Carolyn from Hell—but had 
not thought to save her from death. That was the fallacy in dealing with the 
Devil; no man could outwit that horrendous evil intelligence. Had Satan granted 
his wish for Tarot knowledge—at the expense of his friend Lee and his child 
Carolyn?
Somehow he didn't believe that. Couldn't believe that. He had to have faith that 
Satan, like God, kept His word. Satan could not accurately judge souls if He 
were corrupt Himself. So this had to be another trial, not a punishment. Maybe 
Brother Paul was being offered another chance to promote his own private welfare 
at the expense of hers. To renege on his deal with Satan. All he had to do was 
let her die and return with his knowledge of Tarot.
"Wake," he murmured desperately. "There is so much for you to live for! Remember 
the field of flowers, the pine trees, the pretty stones." He almost said 
"airplane" but caught himself in time.
Her eyelids flickered again. "Stones..." she breathed.
All little girls liked pretty stones! This was fair game. "At the edge of the 
river," he said urgently. "All colors, rounded, some with streaks of brown or 
red. Each one separate, each one precious—because it is yours, because you value 
it. Nothing else can take its place." With inspiration, he reached into a 
pocket, his fingers sifting through what was there. He found what he wanted, 
brought it out, pressed it into her hand, and closed her fingers about it. "A 
stone!" he said. "The most wonderful thing there is! A little chunk of God."
Her hand tightened, feeling the contours of the stone. "Yes..."
"Most wonderful—except for a little girl," he amended. "The stone is nothing 
without you. It needs you! Take care of it."
A shock of realization went through her. Her eyes popped open. She looked at 
him, her eyes suddenly great and blue, too large for her face, strikingly 
beautiful. Her lips trembled, then parted. "Uncle," she whispered.
"Glory!" the old woman exclaimed. "She wakes!" Tears of joy streamed down her 
face.
Brother Paul felt tears on his own face again. He squeezed the child's hand 
gently. "Rest, Precious, rest. God is with you." And this was no line in any 
play; he had never been more sincere.
"God..." she repeated weakly.
"Only have faith in Him; you are His child. No one stands between you and Him. 
Put your soul in His care; He will not betray you." He squeezed her hand again. 
"God loves you. This you must believe." Yet there was an underlying current, for 
when he said God he also meant "I". This was his child too, and he loved her. 
And had it really been God who had restored her—or Satan?
"I believe..." she said dutifully.
"I believe..." the old woman echoed.
"It is a miracle of healing," the man said.
The child's eyes closed. She was sleeping now, a small smile on her face, the 
stone tightly held. Brother Paul released her hand and stood up. "It shall be as 
God wills," he said. "I do not know whether God will take her today—or in twenty 
years. But she is a creature of God—as are we all."
"Yes, Uncle!" the woman agreed. "How wonderful is the faith you bring!"
"It is the love that Jesus Christ showed to man," Brother Paul said. And 
silently: Thank you, Jesus!
He thought of returning to his Tarot presentation—but decided against it. The 
recovery of the child was a better message than any other. If it were really 
recovery, and not some temporary remission...
Next morning. Brother Paul resumed his journey toward Worms. He already knew as 
much about the Tarot as he had ever hoped to learn—but it seemed this "wish" had 
not yet run its full course.
He hoped the sick child recovered fully. It was uncertain at this stage. He had 
wanted to make provision for news of her progress, but knew there was no safe 
way to handle this. Even a cryptic message: THE LAMP IS LIT or THE LAMP IS OUT 
could be hazardous to the health of the messenger—and perhaps the child too. 
What would the Inquisition do to the living evidence of heretic healing? And 
peasants could not travel far freely; they were fairly well bound to their lots 
by the ties of the feudal system. Any man who did not pay his required rents on 
time, or serve on his Lord's estate, or appear at the regular church 
services—that man was in trouble.
Brother Paul did not like impersonating the barba, but now there seemed to be no 
way to avoid it. Only soldiers, minstrels, and the aristocracy could travel 
freely without being challenged. Soldiers went in groups, and the Lords and 
priests had horses and retainers. Had the soldiers he had encountered before 
been quicker witted, they would have been suspicious of a priest afoot and 
alone; fortunately the Juggler's bold ruse had worked. Brother Paul did not care 
even to attempt impersonating a bishop!
He approached another hamlet. But before he could set up his show, a child 
hurried up. Children seemed to be ubiquitous messengers, perhaps because they 
were not yet locked into the labor system. "Juggler—the Lord of the Manor 
suspects—you must go!"
Brother Paul did not question the message. There could have been an informer at 
last night's meeting. A horseman could have ridden at night, carrying the news: 
a heretic missionary! He packed up his equipment immediately and departed the 
village. He was weary—but this was no place to stay.
He cleared the village, but now was not sure what to do. He had not eaten in 
several hours, though the pangs of hunger had not yet touched him. He was more 
tired than he really should be, and the thought of sleeping in another tree 
crotch did not appeal. Yet if the villages were not safe—
The path led up a hill—and there at the height, gruesome in the gloom of husk, 
was a gibbet. A man was working at it, taking down the rope. He spied Brother 
Paul. "Too late!" he called down cheerily. "You missed it. He's already been 
hanged, taken down, drawn and quartered."
Brother Paul paused. He was not feeling good, and this did not improve his 
outlook. Since he might be under suspicion himself, he could not openly express 
his revulsion. "Well, I had a long way to come."
"You should have hurried." The man's tongue ran around his mouth, tasting the 
memory. "It was something to see! He must've kicked his feet a full minute! 
Still, it was too good for him. I'd have had him quartered live! Stealing the 
Lord's best horse, running it half to death—we're well rid of him!"
So a poor peasant had been executed publicly for stealing a horse. Well, that 
was justice in the medieval age; horses were valuable.
"But stay around," the man said. "Almost every week we have a new show. Mostly 
foot hangings, but some of them aren't bad. They—"
"Foot hangings?" Something piqued Brother Paul's curiosity, morbidly.
"Right. For minor stuff like killing a peasant or fucking a witch." The 
gibbetsman laughed coarsely, but Brother Paul was not certain this was humor. 
"String him up by one foot, let him swing a day. Some are tough; they don't seem 
to notice it. But some scream like all hell, and some die without a mark on 
them."
Hanging by one foot. Now Brother Paul recognized what had jogged his curiosity. 
One of the Triumphs of the Tarot was titled the Hanged Man, and that man was 
suspended by one foot. He had put another interpretation on that card before, 
but naturally it related to this crude medieval torture. The Tarot reflected the 
life of its times. How much misinterpretation there had been in subsequent 
centuries of that card!
Brother Paul shook his head and moved on, feeling worse. But he had hardly put 
the gibbet out of sight when he heard something. A horse!
He hurried off the path. Maybe what he heard was innocent—but he could not take 
the risk. Even though he had merely impersonated the barba, he had spoken 
heresy, which was against what this medieval culture called the word of God, and 
that was a serious matter. The Inquisition—
The horseman passed. Brother Paul heaved a sigh of relief and returned to the 
path. He would go as far as he could while light remained, watching for a good 
place to spend the night.
His groin hurt. He paused to explore it, for a moment harboring the wild hope 
that his genitals were somehow growing back. This was not the case; there was 
merely some sort of swelling there, perhaps of the lymph nodes. It made walking 
awkward. As if he didn't have problems enough, without food or lodging or water—
Water! Suddenly he was ravenously thirsty. Was there a spring near here? The 
path had strayed away from the great river, rising into the hills; he needed 
water here, not a league away.
He staggered, feeling dizzy. He was hot, burning up; he knew it though he had no 
objective way to check his temperature. His skin itched.
Slowly the realization dawned. He had observed these symptoms before. In the 
Juggler—just before he died.
He had the dread plague.
Brother Paul fell headlong in the path, striking heavily and rolling part way 
over. He saw the moon hanging in the gloomy dusk sky. Isis, Goddess of Luna, the 
principle of female deception, stared obscurely down at him from her filling 
crescent: the face of the womb. Somewhere a sad hound bayed.
 
It was no time at all—but also an eternity of fading in and out, retching, 
burning thirst, pain. Discovery; exclamations. "Get it off the road!" But he 
remained because no one would touch him for fear of contamination. Then one came 
who was willing, and Brother Paul was dumped unceremoniously into a wagon. He 
bumped along, being taken—where? Obviously to the burial dump for plague 
victims.
He tried to say something, but his mouth would not work properly, and the noise 
of the wheels was loud. And what difference did it make? He would soon be dead 
anyway. Satan had granted his wish. He had not wished for life. Not his own 
life.
Lights shone: lamps in the night. Buildings loomed. He was coming into 
metropolitan Hell. The demon driving the wagon stopped to converse with a devil 
guarding the gate to some torture station. Money changed hands. Money—the love 
of which was the root of all evil. How fitting that it dominate the rituals of 
Hell! Then the two of them came back to Brother Paul and hauled him out of the 
wagon and walked him through the narrow portal of the building. They dragged him 
stumbling upstairs and finally laid him out on a pallet. Maybe some vivisection 
to lead off the festivities...
Troubled unconsciousness. Something at his face: he felt wetness. The water 
torture! But he was so parched he had to gulp it down. Then other tortures; 
bitter herbs to eat, cold washing of body, sleep.
Now he woke in a clean bed. A man about his own age stood over him. He had a 
full black beard, above which dark, seemingly hooded eyes looked out. "I think 
you have passed the nadir, stranger." The voice was familiar.
"I have the Black Death," Brother Paul said. "My companion died of it."
"Many do. You came close. But I have a certain finesse with herbs, and your 
constitution is strong." He drew up a wooden chair and seated himself beside the 
bed. "The question is, why did a castrate Waldens barba stricken by plague call 
my name?"
Brother Paul focused on him, confused. "Your name?"
"I am Abraham the Jew."
Oh. "My companion gave me two names before he died. One was yours. I did not 
realize I spoke it aloud."
"Fortunate for you that you did. I am interested in strange things—in magic and 
sorcery and odd faiths. So when the burial detail heard you name me, they 
brought you here. I saw at once that you were of a heretical sect—but what is 
Christian heresy to a Jew? I neither gave away your secret nor let them dump you 
to die. Intrigued by curiosity, I paid their fee and gave you drink and 
medication. Now I seek my reward: complete information on you and your magic."
Could he trust this man? Did it matter? Evidently this was not formal Hell, 
after all, but a continuation of the medieval vision. Brother Paul decided to 
tell the truth or as much of it as made sense. "I am no barba. I am a stranger 
to this realm, who was befriended by a Waldens missionary who had lost his 
companion. Then he died, and I took his place."
"A risky impersonation. Are you not aware what they do to heretics?"
"I was fleeing the Holy Office when I fell ill," Brother Paul admitted.
"You say the barba named me. Where did he get my name? I have not before had 
dealings with the Waldenses. In fact, I had not realized they were into 
sorcery."
"Only the magic of God's great love," Brother Paul said. "The rest is stage 
trickery to entertain the masses and allay suspicion. I suppose the Waldenses 
keep track of those who might help them in emergency, and you were the one for 
the city of Worms."
"That seems reasonable," Abraham agreed. "For as it developed, I have helped 
you. Yet surely they were aware that all Jews are grasping usurers and that I 
would not help one of their number unless they made it amply worth my while." He 
smiled briefly. "I am sorry you are not the real Uncle; I am most curious what 
payment they proposed to proffer. What was the other name the dead man uttered?"
Brother Paul concentrated, and it came back. "Abra-Melim, the Mage of Egypt."
The Jew shook his head. "That name means nothing to me. And Egypt is far away 
from Worms."
"True." Brother Paul felt tired already. He dropped off to sleep, and Abraham 
let him be.
 
He woke later—perhaps it was another day—feeling Stronger. The Jew's herbs must 
have been potent! Some sound had disturbed him. Maybe it had been the Jew 
delivering food; at any rate, there was a sweet roll and an ewer of milk beside 
his bed, though he was alone.
Brother Paul began to eat and drink, glad for his hunger; he was definitely on 
the mend. He had thought he was finished when he came down with the bubonic 
plague, but of course it was not a hundred per cent fatal. Good care had been 
all that he needed. How fortunate that he had cried out Abraham's name in his 
delirium!
Abraham the Jew—there was a nagging familiarity about him. Shave off that beard 
and—of course! He was Therion in this new role.
What did that mean? The Good Companion had died; now he was again in the power 
of the Evil Companion. Lee had been the Wand of Fire; Therion was the Sword of 
Air. What did this devious servant of Satan have in mind for him this time?
Now he heard voices and realized that this was what had awakened him. One was 
Abraham; the other—no, it could not be the Juggler, for he was dead in this 
sequence. A stranger, then.
What stranger would seek him out? Had the Jew, angry because he could not repay 
his board, betrayed him for a price to the Inquisition? If so, how could he 
escape? He was feeling better, but not that much better. This was the first food 
he had eaten in perhaps two days: good, but hardly enough.
"...minstrel, ill with the Black Death," Abraham's voice came more clearly. "No 
harm in him."
"I shall be the judge of that," the other responded firmly. "There is news of a 
shameless heretic in this region."
"Heresy!" Abraham snorted derisively. "Your entire Church is a heresy by our 
definition!"
"Jew, you have had an easy life in this fair city," the other retorted grimly. 
"It could become more difficult." There was cold menace in the too-familiar 
voice. It sounded so very much like the Juggler in his guise as a priest.
"I merely expressed a viewpoint." Abraham's voice had turned conciliatory; the 
threat had had its effect. "To us, there is not a great difference between 
Christians and the Moors. Both of their founders were prophets subscribing to 
our principles; both cults are comparatively young."
They had evidently halted on the landing near Brother Paul's door, engrossed in 
their unamiable dialogue. "Jew, you do not draw on an inexhaustible supply of 
tolerance," the other said warningly. "I will interview this man."
"I do not know whether he is in fit condition to be interviewed," Abraham 
protested. He spoke loudly and clearly—obviously intending Brother Paul to 
overhear. That did not seem like betrayal—yet the ways of the Evil Companion 
were invariably devious. "He is merely a stage magician who fooled me into 
supposing he might possess real magic; a charlatan. Of no interest to your 
Order."
"Jew—" The freighting of that single word was eloquent.
"Well, we shall see." Abraham opened the door.
Brother Paul refused to play a game of deception by feigning sleep. He had had 
enough of deception! "Greetings," he said as they entered. He continued munching 
his bread.
The visitor wore a white habit with a black mantle: the classical garb of a 
Dominican monk. His beard was neat, his eyes piercing, and he had an air of grim 
concentration. "I am Brother Thomas, a Black Friar," he said.
It was! It was Lee in a new part! He had survived the death of his prior part! 
"How glad I am to see you, friend!" Brother Paul exclaimed.
The Friar looked at him sternly. "Have we met before?"
Of course Lee would play the part properly, inflexibly; that was his way. And 
what a part he had now! He had become his former enemy, the Inquisition.
Lee had also, in life, been something of a racist. Now he was a "Black" Friar. 
It was only a name, of course—but in these Animations names were often a vital 
part of the symbolism. Lee was really making up for past indiscretions! Of 
course, since this was an aspect of Hell, Satan might have required—
"Perhaps he performed a show at your house, one time," Abraham said. And what of 
Therion: he had ridiculed the Bible, and now was a Jew. Satan had given him a 
hellish assignment too!
"Let him speak for himself." The Friar's penetrating gaze swung to bear on 
Brother Paul again. "Juggler, why did you address me as 'friend'?"
Brother Paul had allowed his racing thoughts to distract him from his present 
situation. Now he had to play his own part. "I thought I recognized you, but I 
may have been mistaken."
Brother Thomas's glance was too keen. This man would make a devastating enemy! 
"Surely we have not encountered each other before; I have no connection with 
stage magicians or others of that ilk. Yet there is no doubting the flash of 
recognition that illuminated your features just now."
This was awkward. Surely Lee-the-player recognized and remembered 
Brother-Paul-the-player. But this part of "Brother Thomas" had not met him. So 
the Dominican would have to verify by some legitimate means what the player Lee 
already knew to be the case: that Brother Paul was playing the part of a heretic 
missionary. Probably, by the standards of historical Dominicans, Brother Paul's 
own Holy Order of Vision was heretical. So he was in trouble, regardless.
Or was he? Lee would play the part of Brother Thomas straight, inflexibly 
accurate—but the player was limited in his interpretation of the part by his own 
background. Brother Paul would not be able to best a true Dominican in 
theological debate; after all, Saint Thomas Aquinas, from whose name this part 
had probably been drawn, had been a Dominican—perhaps the most redoubtable 
Catholic theologian of all time. But Lee was no Dominican, in life, and no 
Catholic. He was at a disadvantage. So was Therion, whose Horned God was the 
antithesis of the Jewish Jehovah. Brother Paul found he rather enjoyed the 
irony.
"You do not answer?" the Friar demanded. "This is suspicious."
And suspicion was tantamount to conviction with the Inquisition! He had to get 
talking! "I am not a common juggler," Brother Paul said. What was the best line 
to take, knowing that part of this man knew the truth, and so could not be 
deceived? How close to that truth could he come without, by the rules of this 
grim game, giving away the Waldenses and thus betraying his promise to this same 
player in another guise? Yet Brother Paul's own religious and ethical scruples 
prevented him from lying. The barba impersonation was a very special case. 
Never, since he joined the Holy Order of Vision, had Brother Paul failed to 
honor the truth as he understood it. He had once concealed his childhood fears 
even from himself, and his one-time addiction to the memory drug had caused 
other obscurities in his life. That was over; he did not intend to practice 
concealment again, no matter what pressure Satan applied.
"And what would be behind that innocent facade?" Brother Thomas inquired. He was 
intent, expectant, closing in on the heresy his memory from his previous role 
knew was there, if only he could prove it here. Yet Brother Paul perceived a 
misgiving in him, the suppressed regret of a man who did what we required though 
it was personally painful. Lee wanted to lose this fish—but as the Black Friar 
he was bound to do his utmost to reel it in. And his chances of failure were 
diminishingly small.
Oh, Satan, you have crafted the most artistic fiendishness yet! You have forced 
us to destroy ourselves, knowingly. For even Therion, in the role of a man who 
had harbored a heretic, would be doomed.
Well, why not the truth? Extraordinary measures would be required to extricate 
themselves from this maelstrom. Brother Paul had told it before. The other 
players had assigned parts, but Brother Paul played himself, even when he 
assumed another role as now. He was himself pretending to be the Juggler, not 
himself cast in the role of the Juggler. A difficult but key distinction. He was 
under no obligation that he knew of to make pretenses. "I am a visitor from 
another—"
But his own self-protective censor cut him off. There were different levels of 
truth here in Animation. He had experienced how directly these visions could 
affect the people within them. If he said something here that convinced the 
Friar that he was a lunatic or a heretic, he could lose his part. And for him, 
unlike the others, his part was his life. This was not worth the risk. "Land," 
he finished lamely. Then, before the Friar could follow that up, he added: "I am 
a Brother of a Christian Order there."
"Would that land be Italy?" Brother Thomas asked.
Italy—the home of the Pope (one of them, anyway) and of the Waldens heresy. 
Loaded question! "No. It is across the ocean, perhaps unknown to you. But we 
have Dominican monks, and I thought you were one I knew until I saw that you 
were merely another of that excellent Order." Which disposed of the recognition 
problem—he hoped. "We believe in the original message of Jesus Christ and the 
Apostle Paul." Brother Paul was not about to be caught up in any great ignorance 
concerning Jesus or him namesake Paul; he was on secure footing here.
"Those are apt beliefs," the Dominican observed wryly.
"The Holy Bible is an apt tutor."
"Now that I can agree with," Abraham put in. "Certainly the Hebrew Text which 
you refer to as the Old Testament. To us, Jesus was merely a man—a good man, 
perhaps, and a prophet, but nevertheless a man. Jesus was a Jew; he followed the 
Scriptures we originated and codified." In this role, Therion could not 
challenge the origin of the Old Testament, whatever private doubts he had.
"Yet you slew Him!" Brother Thomas snapped. "For that you are forever accursed!"
Abraham spread his hands disingenuously. "An unfortunate complication. Your 
Saint Paul was also a Christian killer, you know. Remember how he had Stephen 
stoned?"
Oh, Therion was enjoying this now!
"Saint Paul repented!" the Friar said hotly. "He himself suffered stoning for 
his Christian faith!"
"And now you Christians are eager to stone your own kind, calling them heretics 
when they protest the manifest corruption in your ranks."
"The Holy Office does not stone Christians," Brother Thomas said stiffly.
"No. The Holy Office merely strings dissenters up by the thumbs like so many 
carcasses of venison with a scribe meticulously recording every scream. How your 
Jesus must appreciate those screams!"
This was getting dirty. The Dominican blanched. Brother Paul knew Lee was 
remembering his role of Jesus in the other Animation and his own objection to 
the very evil Therion now pointed out. Oh, telling thrust!
This also suggested why a Jew might help a Christian heretic. The Jews had known 
centuries of persecution at the hands of righteous Christians, many of whom were 
hypocrites with little inkling of the original precepts of their religion. Now 
the Waldenses, like other sects before them, were advocating a return to those 
original precepts—and were suffering similar persecution. Therion, as a member 
of another persecuted sect, could play this role with gusto. For who had been 
more vilified by Christianity than the Horned God?
Brother Thomas had recovered somewhat. Lee, as a Mormon, also knew the meaning 
of persecution. The Mormons had had to migrate more than once from hostile 
country to preserve their freedom of worship only to have that country, in the 
form of the expanding United States of America, annex their new territory and 
outlaw their style of marriage. Yet he had a role to play here, and he would 
play it well. "The Holy Office takes no joy in suffering. But it is not always 
easy to salvage the immortal soul of a hardened heretic. Surely the momentary 
discomfort he may feel during interrogation is an infinitesimal price to pay for 
his release from the eternal fires of Hell. The boil must be lanced, though it 
hurt for an instant, lest it poison the whole."
That was a good statement, Brother Paul thought. Lee was coming through well in 
this very difficult role.
But the Jew was pressing for the kill. It was The Dozens, again. "I think Hell 
might well be a better place to spend eternity than among hypocrites."
"No, the hypocrites are relegated to the infernal regions," Brother Thomas said 
evenly. "There they suffer the eternal torment they so richly deserve."
Abraham affected surprise. "With no reprieve?"
"With no reprieve. They had their chance in life."
"No rehabilitation?"
"No rehabilitation after death."
"Not even if the hypocrite sincerely repents his hypocrisy?"
"No, once he is damned, he is damned forever."
"Is this what your Jesus Christ said? That there be no forgiveness when the 
prodigal son returned?"
"Forgiveness in life," the Dominican said grimly. "There must be a point of no 
return," and that point is at the terminus of life. At death the decision is 
final. This is the reason we labor so diligently to save a person's soul in time 
by whatever means we possess. We do not wish any immortal soul to suffer 
indefinitely." He glanced piercingly at Abraham. "There may still be time even 
for you, Jew."
Abraham laughed. "I do not fear Satan! I'd prefer to live as Jacob did, 
money-grubbing and lusty, cheating and being cheated—and human throughout. When 
the time comes, I will wrestle with God as he did, and we shall see what we 
shall see. Yahveh will understand."
This was Therion's interpretation, Brother Paul thought. He doubted a genuine 
Jew would have put it that way. Therion, like Lee, was limited by his own 
religious background. Thus God was cast in a Satanic mold.
But strait-laced Lee could not accept such a statement and neither could the 
Dominican Friar. "God accepts no money-grubbers, no cheaters, no lust! You 
blaspheme!"
"God seems to accept the Holy Office," Abraham remarked.
But Brother Thomas was too worked up to grasp the full nature of that insult. 
"No culture could justify such things. They are abominations before God!" This 
too matched what Brother Paul knew of Mormon tenets; the forbidden fruit of the 
Garden of Eden was sexual intercourse. But because God had commanded man to be 
fruitful and multiply, Adam and Eve had chosen the lesser of evils and indulged 
in the fruit of sex. This really was not too different from medieval Church 
doctrine to Brother Paul's mind.
The problem was that Lee was far better versed in The Book of Mormon than in the 
Bible. A number of names overlapped, but they stood for different people. The 
Jacob of the Mormons was not the Jacob of the Jews.
"Your God accepted a man who sent his own firstborn son out into the wilderness 
with his mother!" Abraham said. "Abraham's firstborn was Ishmael—and he cast him 
out in favor of his second son Isaac. From Isaac and his cheating second-born 
son Jacob are the Jews descended, and from them came the Jew called Jesus, whom 
you—"
He broke off, for Brother Thomas was staring at him. Oops—the Baal-worshiper 
Therion had allowed his personal feelings to carry him away, forgetting that in 
this part he was the Jew. As Therion, it was natural that he resent the 
exclusion of his philosophic ancestor Ishmael—but as the Jew, he had fluffed his 
part.
That fluff could give the advantage to the Dominican—and undermine Brother 
Paul's own position. His own role was at stake; Abraham knew his Waldens 
association and Brother Thomas suspected it. Discovery or betrayal would 
probably finish him. Would Therion sell him out to protect himself? Therion 
certainly would! He had to step in.
"There may be misunderstanding," Brother Paul said carefully. "Abraham was the 
father, according to the Bible, of Ishmael by his wife's maid Hagar. Abraham's 
wife Sarah was barren, so she gave him her Egyptian maid for the purpose of 
siring an heir. This was standard practice in those days, for to the nomads 
children were vitally important. The custom seems to derive from the Hurrians. 
Plural marriages were permitted, and no blame attaches to Abraham for this. He 
would have been remiss had he not taken steps to provide offspring, to continue 
the tribe."
The Friar might have objected—but the player Lee, sensitive about the furor over 
the former Mormon practice of polygamy, could not bring himself to do it. The 
Jew was happy to have his namesake Abraham defended, and the player Abraham 
eager to have his fluff covered. So Brother Paul had the floor—for now.
"The problem came because, though Ishmael was the first son, Isaac was the 
legitimate son. God made Sarah fertile at the age of ninety, and Abraham was a 
hundred when Isaac was born. So it was a remarkable circumstance, unanticipated. 
There was fierce rivalry between the two women, and in the end the only way 
Abraham could settle it was by sending away Hagar and Ishmael. But Yahveh looked 
after them, and their descendents became the Arabs—actually more numerous and 
prosperous than the descendents of Isaac, the Jews. So it was a difficult 
situation, and an unkind compromise had to be made, but I don't think blame 
should attach to either the Arabs or the Jews for that."
"Attach the blame to the Hurrians," Abraham said, relieved.
Brother Thomas was not so eager to let it go. "Yet I believe the Jew said 
something about Jacob, cheating and lusting and fighting with God? This sounds 
heretical to me."
Meaning that if Brother Paul tried to defend such actions by Jacob, instead of 
denying them, he might be accused of heresy himself-the very thing he was trying 
to avoid. Once the Inquisition put him to the torture on this pretext, the 
torturers would quickly extract from him the rest of his information. Therion, 
obviously unsympathetic to the children of Isaac despite his present role, was 
ill-equipped to reverse himself there. So it was Brother Paul's problem again. 
Had this been engineered by Satan? Regardless, it was hellish.
"Those were hard times," Brother Paul said carefully. He felt as if he were 
treading a thin sheet of ice covering the rumbling maw of a volcano. One 
misstep, a single mischance—doom. Satan charged a high price for the wish He 
granted! "Abraham had many problems and very difficult decisions. His son Isaac 
had his own problems; it was all he could do to protect his pretty wife Rebekah 
from the attentions of other tribesmen. Isaac's twin sons Esau and Jacob were 
rivals for his favor; Isaac tended to favor the strong hunter Esau, while 
Rebekah liked the more moderate Jacob. So there was a very human dissension in 
that family too. It might be taken as an analogy to the contrasting pulls of the 
rugged country life of the nomads, and the more comfortable, settled life of 
city peoples." And there was his own crisis: country vs. city! "In which 
direction would this tribe go? Thus the strife was subtle but intense. Jacob, as 
boys will, made a deal with Esau to obtain his brother's birthright and followed 
it up by tricking their father Isaac into granting his blessing to Jacob. This 
was a form of cheating. But the point is, the men of Biblical times were human 
with human stresses and failings, and they did make errors of judgment and 
passion. They were a great trial to Yahveh."
"Yes," Abraham agreed, and Brother Thomas nodded. So far, so good. But he wasn't 
out of trouble yet.
"Jacob was cheated in his turn, perhaps in retribution," Brother Paul continued. 
His hands were sweating; surreptitiously he wiped them on the blanket. "When he 
worked for seven years to marry the fair Rachel, he discovered after the 
consummation that her father had substituted her older sister Leah. Now he had 
to work another seven years for Rachel. He was actually allowed to marry Rachel 
within a week, however, so he did not have to wait; he had two wives while he 
worked off the debt. And perhaps the hand of God was in this too, for as it 
turned out, Rachel was barren. So it was Leah who provided him with a number of 
fine sons. Then Rachel, to preserve her status, gave him her maid for 
procreative purposes in order to have at least a surrogate son. So Leah gave him 
her pretty maid for another son, and—well, you could call this lust, but I don't 
think that's quite fair. All of it was for the purpose of increasing the size of 
the tribe, and since underpopulation was the main problem of that day—"
Brother Thomas the Dominican Friar spread his hands. "Brother, I thought you 
were practicing deceit, but you evidently have a fine knowledge of the Bible."
"It was Jacob who practiced deceit," Brother Paul agreed, weak with relief. "And 
his father-in-law. Each had his motives—"
"In fact, your knowledge of the Bible is so specific that I suspect you must 
have been reading it yourself."
Oh, no! Now Brother Paul remembered: in medieval times the Church frowned on 
common reading of the Bible. It was deemed too important to be left to the 
run-of-the-mill believer, and instead had to be read and interpreted by the 
hierarchy. He had marched into another trap.
"In my country, the study of the Bible reaches further toward the layman than it 
does here." he Said. Understatement of the mission! "And as a traveling minstrel 
I am accustomed to remembering stories. It is easy to remember the greatest 
story ever told." Would that pass?
"I must accept your credits as a Christian scholar," Brother Thomas continued. 
"I apologize for questioning you during your infirmity."
Victory! Brother Paul had so phrased his commentary as to defend the Mormons 
along with the Biblical Jews, and this had paid off. Multiple wives, for a good 
cause...
"Ah, but this matter of wrestling with God—" Abraham said, unable to resist the 
gibe.
Brother Paul saw disaster looming again. If Brother Thomas resumed the fray—
"We all wrestle with God at times," the Dominican said. "We call it conscience. 
The human flesh is weak, while God is strong; we must listen to God always."
"Yes," Brother Paul agreed, relaxing again. So the dogs really had been called 
off!
Brother Thomas faced the door. "I apologize again for the intrusion. Farewell." 
He crossed himself.
"Farewell," Brother Paul echoed, making the sign of the cross with his own hand. 
A true barba would never have done that.
It was a mistake. His hand knocked the table at his bedside, and the Tarot deck 
fell to the floor. It landed face up with a sound like thunder, the cards 
splaying apart.
Brother Thomas whirled and stepped back in and stooped with dismaying alacrity. 
"What is this?" he inquired, picking up the cards.
"A tool of the Juggler's trade," Abraham said quickly. "He performs magic tricks 
with them for the entertainment of peasants."
"Magic is heresy," the Dominican said with an abrupt return of grimness.
"Stage magic," Brother Paul said. Why had this had to happen now? The worst 
possible break! Satan's work, of course. "Sleight of hand. I can demonstrate."
But the Friar was looking through the cards. "Many of these seem to be 
conventional images such as are used by riff-raff for gaming. But some are more 
complicated representations." He held up the card for Deception with its 
sinister Lunar theme. "What is the meaning of this?"
"That seems to be an astrological motif," Abraham said quickly. "I have made 
some considerable study of astrology and other types of magic—" He smiled at the 
Dominican's expression. "Do not look so shocked, Friar! Magic is not forbidden 
to us Jews! In fact we often have need of it to hold our own in this Christian 
country."
Brother Paul knew what he meant. The Jews had some of the most authoritative 
magic in the form of the Qabala, Cabala, Kabbalah or however it was transcribed. 
They had guarded that knowledge so well that it was unknown to the Christians of 
this period. Thus the Qabala had no connection with the Tarot although later 
"experts" had done their best to merge the two.
"This is astrology?" Brother Thomas inquired dubiously. Astrology, if Brother 
Paul remembered correctly, was regarded as more of a science than magic in 
medieval times. Thus it was not heretical by Church definitions; indeed, some 
Church scholars were astrologers. "Where is the horoscope?"
"The entire deck would be the horoscope," Abraham explained glibly. "The symbols 
would not be arranged on charts, but on individual cards, and the fall of the 
cards must determine the reading. This is obviously the planet of the Moon."
Again, the Dominican's piercing glance stabbed Brother Paul. "Brother, do you 
practice divination for your audience?"
"No," Brother Paul answered honestly. "What these pictures evoke is in the mind 
of the beholders. If you see an astrological symbol in an ordinary Lunar 
landscape, and wish to pay me a coin for that encouragement, you are a fool and 
I am richer by that coin."
Brother Thomas hesitated, then smiled. "There are many fools in this world." he 
said. He turned again, setting down the cards. "Methinks you are not above 
preying on foolishness on occasion, Brother, when you are hungry. And the 
biggest fool of all is the Jew who believes in magic." He crossed himself again 
and marched out.
"The hypocrite!" Abraham muttered. "His whole Church is built on magic! The 
reason they burn heretics is that those people practice magic that is outside 
Church control. They can't tolerate competition! Jesus Christ was a magician; he 
made water into wine, and a few crumbs of bread sufficient to feed a multitude. 
I seek magic openly—and someday I shall find it!"
Brother Paul found he agreed with him. "There is a lot of hypocrisy in religion. 
But why have you helped me, knowing that I practice no genuine magic?"
"Well, I didn't know that," Abraham said candidly. "I was sure that most of your 
tricks were innocuous. But I have heard of the Waldenses and their cards, and I 
suspected there could be magic in it. So—" He broke off, his face twisting into 
alarm. "The Friar crossed himself. Twice."
"Friars do," Brother Paul agreed.
"When there is a challenge or a threat, they do. But Brother Thomas was 
departing. Why should he cross himself before leaving the presence of a Jew?"
Brother Paul was getting tired and wanted to sleep again. "Maybe he was warding 
off heresy."
Abraham shook his head in grim affirmation. "He crossed himself because he 
believed he had confirmation of the presence of evil. By his twisted definition, 
I am a known evil, but you—"
"If he really suspects me, why didn't he just take me in when he had the chance? 
I am weak from my illness; I could not have offered much resistance."
Abraham paced the floor nervously. "That is what I would like to know. I would 
not have dared to interfere, had he declared you heretic; any little pretext 
will do for a new pogrom! Soft-heartedness can only go so far! I would have had 
to renounce you, and he knew it. So why should he practice such deception? He 
surely has great mischief in mind."
The more Brother Paul considered that, the more concerned he became. Suppose the 
Dominican had decided he had a live heretic on the line—and thought he might 
reel in more heretics with a little cunning patience? He might indeed pretend to 
be satisfied so as to reassure the quarry—then watch that suspect. "I fear I 
must be on my way," Brother Paul said regretfully. Rest seemed wonderful, but 
not if a conspiracy was building against him and the Waldenses. He had to lose 
himself quickly.
"I think our minds are moving in similar channels," Abraham said. "The Dominican 
is unconvinced—rather, he is convinced! He smells heresy! I saw his eyes glint 
when he saw your Tarot. He has seen such cards before, I'll warrant, or heard 
them described! I believe he has returned to consult the other demons of his 
Order, and if they don't arrest you they will spy on you, trying to discover 
your contacts and methods of identification so that they can burn many heretics 
instead of one. I believe you should escape this city in haste. I shall have to 
denounce you as soon as you are gone to save my own skin. Are you able to 
travel?"
"I'm not sure," Brother Paul said. "Your attentions have helped, but the black 
plague is nothing to fool with; I remain weak."
"No doubt the Friar is certain you can not move about today, therefore is not 
casting his net quite yet. But tomorrow—" He paused, grimacing. "It will have to 
be risked," he decided. "I am a Jew; my situation is precarious. I have money, 
so they deal with me carefully, but it is not wise to push them too far. I will 
give you directions how to escape, but I cannot provide any material assistance. 
It must seem that you fled while I was preparing to turn you in."
Brother Paul agreed. He had to move on today, now—for the Jew's sake, his own, 
and the Waldenses'.
"What was that other name the missionary gave you?" Abraham asked suddenly.
"Name? Oh—Abra-Melim, the Mage of Egypt."
"Abra-Melim, the Mage of Egypt," the Jew memorizing it. "They have outstanding 
lore in Egypt. This may be the magician I am looking for. Surely the Waldenses 
believe the Mage has what I seek."
Brother Paul shrugged as he dressed. "I wouldn't know. It is only a name to me."
"Maybe I should go to Egypt," Abraham mused. "If you slip their noose, it may 
not be safe for me in Worms for a time." But then he smiled. "But I shall be 
glad to take the risk if only to aggravate that sanctimonious cleric. Come, we 
shall effect your escape."
 
V
Triumph: 24
The chief value of the Bible lies in its moral principles and spiritual 
guidance. To regard it as authoritative in any other field is to fly in the face 
of modern knowledge. The Bible is not a textbook in science. Its world view is 
that of the childhood of the race, and this primitive cosmology is seen in all 
its references to the physical world. The earth is conceived as flat and 
stationary. The sky is a canopy or vault through whose windows the rain falls. 
The sun, moon, and stars are contained within this vault. Beneath the earth is 
Sheol, the realm of the dead. This world and the creatures in it, according to 
the Scripture, were made in six days. The world in which the Bible was written 
was one in which human destiny was determined by the stars, sickness was caused 
by demon possession, the dead were raised, angels stirred the waters of a pool 
for the healing of the sick, and the Red Sea was parted.
Many literalists, like Augustine, insist that "Scripture gives no false 
information" and that if it conflicts with science, so much the worse for 
science. But others, confronted with the vast discrepancy between the biblical 
world view and modern knowledge, can distinguish also between the passing and 
the permanent, between the abiding values of the Bible and their transient 
setting. They know that changes in civilization do not touch the vital and basic 
experiences of man. The outmoding of world views cannot belittle the permanence 
of the Scripture in its moral and spiritual values, its timeless aspirations and 
deathless convictions. The discoveries of Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton, of 
Pasteur, Darwin, and Einstein do not in any way impair the universal validity of 
faith, hope, and love.
—Fred Gladstone Bratton: A History of the Bible, Boston, Beacon Press 1959.
 
Two days later just as hope was rising, Brother Paul felt renewed fatigue and 
fever. A deep cough developed. It was not a return of the plague, but something 
else whose symptoms he recognized: pneumonia. He had driven himself too hard, 
too soon after his prior illness. Now he had to rest—or return to Hell 
permanently. He had not consciously felt threatened by the plague, awful as it 
was; it was not a disease to which a twentieth or twenty-first century man was 
attuned. But pneumonia—that he respected.
Where could he go? He had headed west from Worms, disguised as a beggar, 
avoiding any possible contact with likely Waldenses. He had trekked toward 
France, hoping the minions of the Holy Office would not pursue him beyond the 
boundaries of the Holy Roman Empire, assuming they picked up his trail. He could 
not afford any friends, of course; anyone who helped him might suffer at the 
hands of the Inquisition.
Abraham, despite his protestations, had given him some money and general advice. 
He might obtain lodging at some isolated farm for a pittance, and no one would 
know he was there until days after he was gone.
Odd how the roles had reversed. Therion had helped him (apologizing for it by 
muttering about possible reward and aggravation of the status quo), while Lee 
was out to destroy him. Satan certainly knew how to turn the knife in the wound!
Brother Paul heard horses on the path. Should he hide—or try to bluff it out? 
The odds were they weren't after him. What was one suspected heretic in the 
whole medieval society? Maybe they had never been after him; the Jew had wanted 
him out, so had concocted the notion of this plot...
No, he couldn't convince himself. This was not the medieval society; it was an 
Animation set in it. Historical fiction, and he was the central character. All 
conspiracies would revolve around him.
"Brother, you're paranoid," he told himself. He hunched his shoulders within the 
cloak and trod on. The sounds of the horse became distinguishable: two horses 
and the creak of wheels. A fast-traveling coach or wagon. He moved over so as to 
give it room to pass; a coach probably meant a noble and they tended to be 
arrogant. The horses could run him down and trample him if he got in the way. 
Beggars weren't worth much.
The horses came abreast of him, snorting. He glanced sidelong, without turning 
his head. It was a two-wheeled wagon, canopied, reminding him of a chariot. The 
chariot of the Tarot of course—power on the move, symbolic of man's journey 
along the road to salvation.
He kept on walking, Jetting it pass, still sneaking looks at the horses. The 
chariot seemed to have slowed, pacing him rather than passing.
"Juggler!" a too-familiar voice called.
Oh, no! It was Brother Thomas, the Dominican Friar.
"Juggler—no need to walk when you can ride," the enemy said cheerily. "How 
fortunate I am traveling your way!"
Brother Paul considered running. But he could not outdistance the chariot on the 
road; he would have to go cross country. He knew he could not get far; he was 
sick and weak and had to rest, while the Dominican was well and strong.
Dispiritedly, Brother Paul climbed up into the chariot beside the Friar. There 
was a seat there, and he sank down on it with physical relief. What else could 
he do?
 
The chariot halted. Brother Thomas steadied him with a firm hand. "We have a 
barber who can help you," he said. Was there menace there? A barber—surely not a 
mere cutter of hair. A medieval doctor. Letting out the bad blood, so the 
patient could improve. A treatment that could be fatal. "No..." Brother Paul 
protested weakly.
"Have no fear," the Dominican said reassuringly. "Our barber employs only the 
very best leeches, culled weekly from the Seine."
Bloodsucking worms from the river. Brother Paul thought about vomiting, but 
lacked the energy. Then something else nagged him. "The Seine?"
"We are a long way from Worms, friend," Brother Thomas informed him. "You slept 
like the dead—and indeed, I feared that might not be much exaggeration. This is 
the heart of France, our chief monastery. Is it not beautiful?"
Brother Paul roused himself enough to look. The gate was barred. The windows 
were small and high. The walls were thick. This was a veritable fortress. 
"Beautiful," he echoed dismally.
The gate closed behind him. He was trapped—and he had not been able to dispose 
of the cards. He must have maintained a death grip on them to protect them from 
the Friar's curiosity. Or maybe the Animation had skipped over this dull passage 
so that nothing at all had happened between scenes. Animation was real, but on 
its own terms.
They came to a central room where a great fire blazed in a fireplace. Brother 
Paul, shivering with a chill, moved toward it gladly. Several hooded monks 
appeared, closing in about him. "You must rest," Brother Thomas said. "A room 
has been prepared. We shall take your soiled clothes and provide you with fresh 
apparel."
Should he try to resist? It was hopeless; he was sick and weak, and they were 
many and strong. He could gain nothing—and there was always the chance that they 
did mean well, that the Jew had deceived him about the motives of the 
Dominicans.
Except for the Tarot. Brother Thomas had seen that deck, and player Lee would 
have known its nature from his previous part. So Lee knew what he was looking 
for, and with that deck in his possession he could investigate legitimately and 
zero in on the secret. Brother Paul's decision to avoid the Waldenses must have 
nullified the spying strategy, so the Animation had shunted right across to the 
next contest of wills. The cards were now the key; if Brother Thomas and the 
Inquisition gained possession of the cards, exposure of the Waldenses was a 
virtual certainty. The Dominicans would reproduce the cards, put on jugglers' 
suits, give sermons based on the cards—and take whole audiences into custody, 
cleaning out entire cities with single sweeps. It would work because the people 
would believe in the authenticity of anyone who carried such cards—as they had 
believed in Brother Paul.
Without those cards, Brother Thomas the Dominican would have no certain evidence 
that Brother Paul was a heretic and no lever to use against the Waldenses. He 
would be unable to proceed with the persecution. Not according to the rules of 
this play, no matter how much he knew privately. And Lee would follow the rules, 
absolutely.
The monks pressed close. This was an Animation; were they real? Maybe he could 
walk right through them and on through the cloister walls. Yet this too would be 
misplaying the part, cheating. Satan had sent him here at his own request, as it 
were; he should not have been surprised to discover Satanic elements of the 
sequence. Perhaps he played the part of a genuinely historical character, and 
significant revelations remained. He had to play the animation game or forfeit 
all that Animation held for him. Which meant that he had to submit now to the 
power of the monks.
Except for the Tarot deck. If he believed in the play, he had also to believe in 
the Waldenses who would be routed by his betrayal of the Juggler's trust. They 
would be put on trial for heresy, perhaps tortured, perhaps burned at the stake. 
As Joan of Arc had been burned—would be burned—in this area a generation hence. 
Brother Paul could not allow himself to be the instrument of these good people's 
doom.
He could afford neither to invoke the power of his disbelief in the reality of 
this Animation nor to go along with it completely. He had to do the right thing 
despite increasing pressure. Yet what was right in this hell of indecision?
Brother Paul reached inside his robe into the secret pocket. His fingers closed 
about the deck. He lifted it out, holding it for a moment, gazing on this most 
precious object he had ever possessed: the True Tarot. He had suffered a tour of 
Hell itself and the black plague to obtain this cardboard Grail.
He nerved himself. Then, quickly, he hurled the Tarot into the open fire, 
spreading the cards with a twist of his wrist so that they would burn rapidly.
Brother Thomas screamed as though his own body were afire. He dived at the 
hearth, reaching in with his bare hands, trying to recover the blazing cards. 
The other monks rushed to restrain him, thinking him mad—as indeed he was at 
that moment!—and Brother Thomas had to allow them to haul him away from the 
searing heat.
Brother Paul knew the agony the Friar suffered; he was experiencing it himself. 
He watched the cards curl and writhe in the flame as though struggling to 
escape. Colored tongues danced above the pigments. The heat of the sun, the 
flames of Hell, the conflagration of the spirit—in microcosm!
The blaze died down. Dismal ashes settled out. It was done; the treasure had 
been destroyed. The tainted Gift had been rejected. Brother Paul had played the 
game by the rules and won. At the cost of his Grail. Now at last the Animation 
could end, releasing him from the torture of his first wish.
They waited, as it were in tableau. Nothing happened. The issue had been 
decided—yet the scene continued. Evidently Satan had not finished the sequence.
Back into their roles! "You may have destroyed the demon deck, the physical 
evidence against you," Brother Thomas said. "But it remains in your mind. Heresy 
is an affliction not of matter, but of the spirit. It is this we must 
cleanse—for the good of your soul, and the souls of the other people led astray 
by heretic teachings."
So there was after all no way to avoid this thing. The medieval Church was 
partial to physical means to achieve its spiritual ends. The ultimate 
deprogramming: torture.
"We must take him to the interrogation center," Brother Thomas decided. "This 
matter must be competently handled."
Brother Paul coughed. This was no polite objection; he felt his fever peaking, 
and his lungs were rattling. The pneumonia was taking firm hold. He was not in 
condition to be tortured; he might expire before they got any information from 
him.
No such luck. Brother Thomas arranged for the best herbal remedies, wholesome 
milk and bread, a comfortable bed in a quiet room, and summoned no barber. He 
took very good care of Brother Paul, doing everything medievally possible to 
promote his health. Was this merely because the role required it—or because of 
the friendship that had once existed between them in other roles?
He slept and dreamed of Paris: the city he had never seen either in life or in 
Animation. He woke in his comfortable chamber. He had had no idea that monks 
lived so well! This was no dark ascetic cell, but a pleasant residence. Yet of 
course this was the sort of thing the cards of the Waldenses protested: a 
priestess living like an empress, a priest like an emperor. While the common 
people lived like the serfs they were.
However, Brother Paul would be glad to trade this fine accommodation for the 
poor but kindly hospitality of the peasants. It was torture he faced here; he 
had no doubt of it. At any moment that door would open and he would be taken to—
The door opened. Brother Paul closed his eyes, steeling himself. He was sure 
that torture in Animation would be just as terrible as—
The scent of perfume touched him. "Am I then so ugly as all that?" a soft voice 
inquired.
Brother Paul's eyes popped open. A most comely young woman stood beside his bed. 
Hastily he drew the covers about him. "Who—?" he asked, amazed.
"I am the Lady Yvette," she said, making a kind of curtsy.
She was a beauty, wearing a long tunic under a sideless surcoat, closely fitted 
so as to make the femininity of her figure quite evident, though her natural 
endowments hardly required this service. She had a buttoned hood, but wore it 
unbuttoned under the chin so that a suggestive amount of bosom was displayed. 
Amaranth, of course.
Brother Paul was not so weak as to be unmoved by her appearance. Yet he was 
guarded, knowing Satan had placed her in this scene. "What can I do for you, 
Yvette?"
"I understand you have knowledge of a beautiful set of playing cards," she said.
As expected. Another ploy for betrayal. "I had such a deck, but it was 
unfortunately lost in a fire."
"Yes, but you could recreate it," she said hopefully.
He smiled. "I am no painter!" Yet he might have aspired to be, once... "The 
artwork is well beyond my talents."
She looked at him intently. What was behind that lovely facade this time? He had 
seen her more or less raped in the Black Mass, then reconstituted as Satan's 
secretary, then as assorted bit parts in this wish-vision. What did Amaranth 
really feel for him? Once he had thought he loved her, but recent events had 
chilled that somewhat. "We could employ a good artist. You could describe the 
pictures to him, and he would paint at your direction. It might take some time, 
but—"
"I may not have time," he said. "I am to be interrogated by the Holy Order as a 
suspected heretic."
She raised a finger knowingly. "This set of cards—it would be for the King who 
is a great lover—"
"Oho!" His own bitterness burst out, surprising him. "You are his mistress!"
She colored. "A great lover of culture," she continued. "Fine sculpture, fine 
paintings—these things Charles takes great pleasure in. More than in the 
government of the realm. If we suggested to him that the culture of the court 
would be enhanced by a really fine set of cards with mystical elements, I'm sure 
he would be most intrigued and would commission the very best artist. Especially 
for cards with magical properties."
"Magical properties? Why should the King care about such nonsense?"
She shook her head so vigorously her bosom bounced. "No, no—magic is not 
nonsense! And Charles VI is—" She faltered. "His Majesty has a certain peculiar 
interest in the occult." She leaned forward to whisper. There was no way she 
could be unaware of what this did to her cleavage. "Some say he is mad, at least 
at times. So such a device—cards he could use to summon spirits—"
It was coming clear. A king of dubious sanity, interested in art and magic. 
Maybe they hoped the cards would distract him, while others ran the kingdom. 
Well, that was not much of Brother Paul's concern. However, if he recreated the 
Tarot of the Waldenses—that would be a certain route to betrayal. "I am sorry," 
he said.
She leaned closer, as though concluding that if a study of her globes from a 
meter's distance wasn't sufficient argument, half a meter's distance might do 
better. "You don't understand, sir," she said urgently. "If you do this thing 
for Charles—if you make him happy—the Holy Office can have no power over you. 
Charles is the King!"
Oho! Her offer had real substance like her bosom. Play along with the palace 
politics and avoid torture. The notion had an insidious appeal. Still, how could 
he imperil all the faithful followers of the barbe, the missionary Uncles? The 
Inquisition would surely use those cards to trap unwary believers into 
admissions of heresy. "No," he said regretfully.
"I would be most grateful," she murmured, touching her bodice with the delicate 
fingers of one hand. "The set would take many weeks to paint, and I would be 
with you always—"
And there was the final facet of the offer. The love of a beautiful woman.
She did not know he was castrate. She had been treated much the same way as he 
had, by Satan's pythons, but apparently that mutilation had not carried over 
into this sequence. After all, she had her limbs and head back: she had been 
crunched into pieces by Satan's jaws and restored. Naturally she assumed he had 
been rendered whole again too.
Her appearance and manner might excite him, but any attempt on his part to 
follow through would be futile. "Get out of here!" he said savagely.
Surprised, she withdrew. And now he wondered: would he have been able to resist 
such an offer had he retained his testicles?
In due course Brother Thomas conducted a friendly little tour of the local 
facilities. Down in the cellar of the building was a dank, old, but serviceable 
torture chamber.
"Today we merely show you the instruments," Brother Thomas explained with an 
enigmatic glance. What were his private Mormon reactions to this role? "I must 
apologize for the gloom. Since Charles VI came to power in France there has not 
been as rigorous a campaign against doctrinal error as we of the Church deem 
proper. Thus our facilities suffer somewhat from disuse."
"Unfortunate," Brother Paul said grimly. Inside his stomach knotted.
"However, the situation will surely improve in due course; the sun can not 
forever remain behind a cloud," Brother Thomas continued. "And it does mean that 
you will not be subjected to the annoyance of delay."
"Nice." No question about it: Brother Paul was desperately afraid. He had never 
been tortured in this fashion and knew the Inquisition was expert at this type 
of thing. This might be a kind of play, but he knew the torture would feel real 
and perhaps be real. Had any of the prior Animation fatalities occurred by 
torture? It was all too possible.
Brother Thomas drew open a great oaken door and showed the way into the darkest 
chamber yet. He picked a torch out of its socket, lighted it with his own, and 
replaced it. Now the room could be seen in all its awful splendor, the details 
imperfect but still far too suggestive for Brother Paul's taste. It was filled 
with metal and wooden structures. The purpose or function of some were obscure, 
while others evinced their nature all too brutally. There was a large fireplace 
with assorted kettles placed about, filled with water, oil or other fluid. There 
were knives and irons and axes. Ropes descended from rafters. Chains and 
manacles were at the walls. Ladders and large spoked wheels abounded.
"You see, the practice of magic by laymen is witchcraft," Brother Thomas said, 
as though this were a matter of merely academic interest. "And witchcraft is 
heresy. France has led the world in the definition and clarification of this 
threat. Our theologians are well on the way to formulating a comprehensive 
system of procedure that will rid the world of this evil. Archbishop Guillaume 
d'Auvergne of Paris showed the way more than a century ago, and Thomas Aquinas 
did much to develop it further. We Dominicans were assigned by Pope Gregory to 
perform this holy office, subject only to the Pope. We do our best."
"No doubt," Brother Paul agreed.
"Yet we would not willingly cause distress to any person. It is our desire only 
to abolish willful religious error and establish the truth as it has been 
declared by the Church. For the good of the souls of all the people. Therefore, 
we use every device to encourage voluntary renunciation of heresy."
"Such as torture," Brother Paul agreed.
"We prefer to call it interrogation," Brother Thomas said with a wry expression. 
His eyes met Brother Paul's momentarily, and now there was no doubt about the 
agony of conscience behind the discipline of the role. "I sincerely hope you 
will be persuaded to cooperate voluntarily, making recourse to coercive methods 
unnecessary."
The Vice Squad at college had entertained similar hopes back in Brother Paul's 
youth. But seldom was human dignity and freedom suppressed voluntarily. People 
always fought back, some in token degree, others completely. Brother Paul knew 
he was fated to be the latter type.
Yet he knew that Lee did not want to torture him. So though the lines of the 
play were intended to be hypocritical, in this case they were sincere. "I 
believe you," Brother Paul said. "Yet, merely as supposition, what would become 
of the soul of a man who betrayed those who had placed their trust in him? If he 
saved himself from discomfort by yielding them up to the burning stake?"
"Heretics?" Brother Thomas snorted. Yet, again he showed the stigmata of stress. 
There was a tremor in the muscle of one cheek, and his eyes were narrow. He 
abated these symptoms somewhat by proceeding to the first implement of torture.
"These are thumbscrews," Brother Thomas said, lifting small metal contraptions 
and holding them in the light of the torch. "The vise is applied to the tips of 
the thumb or finger, no higher than the base of the nail, and tightened until 
the blood flows or the bone splinters. It is amazing how well this promotes 
confession; often the very first finger suffices. In recalcitrant cases, 
however, the screws may become stuck, so that they can not be removed except by 
cutting off the finger. We hope to develop better instruments so as to avoid 
this messiness."
Brother Paul forced himself to examine the thumbscrews. They were crude things, 
not screws at all but merely bands of metal, tightened by twisted wires. This 
was, after all, early in the Inquisition; in the next three centuries the 
torture instruments would develop greater sophistication—as Brother Thomas had 
anticipated. In the early days it was possible for subjects to die before they 
confessed and recanted; in the later days this seldom happened. Should he 
consider himself lucky—or unlucky?
"Here are the whips," Brother Thomas continued, showing the next niche. "We 
generally strip the suspect, bind him tightly, and whip him about the back and 
buttocks. This is the first degree of interrogation. If this is not effective, 
we stretch him on the ladder—" He indicated an ordinary wooden ladder. "And pour 
boiling fat over his body. Normally he will confess at this time."
"How convenient." This stuff was crude, yet surely sufficient. Brother Paul was 
sure that he himself could not withstand such tortures. Yet, knowing that many 
Waldenses, whose only crime was their belief in the original precepts of Jesus 
Christ and the sanctity of the Holy Bible, would be routed out and similarly 
tortured if he yielded—how could he yield? He thought of the thankful old woman, 
racked on the ladder, and of the sick little girl with thumbscrews on her thin 
little fingers. Something very like Satanic rage clouded his vision.
"Suppose the suspect is innocent?" Brother Paul inquired, surprised to find no 
quaver in his voice. "What would your torture avail when a man has nothing to 
confess?"
"There are no innocent suspects," Brother Thomas said with chilling conviction. 
"There are only taciturn heretics. Those who resist the preparatory 
interrogation are then subject to the second degree, called ordinary torture." 
He indicated a rope strung over a beam. "This is for the strappado. The 
suspect's arms are tied behind his back. He is then hoisted into the air and 
weights are attached to his feet in order to wrench his shoulders from their 
sockets without shedding his blood or marking him."
Dislocation of limbs. That meant that even if the hapless prisoner were released 
thereafter, he would probably never regain his former health. But of course he 
would not be released; his agony would end only in death. The prospect sickened 
Brother Paul, yet morbid curiosity forced him to inquire further: "And if his 
taciturnity persists?"
"Then we must regretfully apply the third degree, called extraordinary torture. 
This is squassation. This resembles strappado, except that he is hoisted higher, 
the suddenly dropped to within a few inches of the floor. Because stones 
weighing as much as a hundred kilograms are attached to his feet, his arms are 
instantly disjointed and his whole body stretched cruelly. Three applications 
are deemed sufficient to cause death."
Had they used the kilogram as a unit of measure of weight in medieval France? 
Regardless, that was more than the weight of a man. By any measure, the business 
was grim enough! "And if even this does not bring confession?"
"The surviving subject may then be interrogated by special means." The Dominican 
showed a crude pair of pincers. "These are heated in the fire, and when red-hot 
are used to tear the flesh. Or he may be seated in a metal chair placed over the 
fire itself so that his posterior slowly cooks. His hands or feet may be cut 
off. Or—"
"I think that suffices," Brother Paul said. Was there a place he could safely 
vomit?
"I am glad to hear that." The look Brother Thomas turned on him was compounded 
of victory, relief, and barely suppressed horror. How can we know the dancer 
from the dance? Brother Paul thought, appreciating the deepest meaning of the 
line from W. B. Yeats' poem with sudden intensity. What nostalgia for that 
500-year future he felt! How could the Friar live with the conscience of the 
Juggler within him? Satan was surely testing him as severely as he was testing 
Brother Paul. "Come upstairs, where our scribe will record your statement."
"You misunderstand," Brother Paul said. "I have no confession to make—except for 
my belief in the timeless and measureless beneficence of God."
Disappointment—and muted hope. "You renounce your heretical belief, and take 
sanctuary in the bosom of the Holy Mother Church?" Which would mean capitulating 
and yielding up the information and producing the complete Waldens' Tarot deck 
from memory, as well as betraying all the Waldenses he already had encountered. 
Lee did not want to participate in the torture of his friend as surely as 
Brother Paul had not wanted to hammer a nail through the wrist of his friend on 
the cross. But Lee also did not want to see the Waldenses persecuted. But he had 
to play his part faithfully, seeing no way out. "I warn you, you can not escape 
from our power; no ruse, no false recantation will avail." For him, it would be 
best if Brother Paul escaped so that neither torture nor betrayal occurred. 
Thus, this covert suggestion: at least TRY to escape our power. Brother Paul 
might be able to kill himself in the attempt, and that would be better than the 
Churchly alternatives.
"I mean that I have more than sufficient understanding of the specific 
instruments of the Church's beneficence," Brother Paul said, gesturing at the 
assembled torture devices. "Now I must retire to consider my decision."
"Of course." Brother Thomas guided him out, locking the dread chamber behind 
them. It wouldn't do to have anyone sneaking in here and playing with the 
instruments! "You may consider as long as you wish—but I regret you must do so 
without the benefit of water."
Thirst—a most effective inducement! The longer Brother Paul delayed, the worse 
it would get. Had Lee known of his sensitivity to thirst, dating from his 
childhood misery, or had it merely been a lucky guess? His torture had already 
begun!
Back in his chamber, Brother Paul re-examined the barred window. No hope there; 
it was completely solid, and it opened to an inner court. He would have to 
depart by the regular passages and doors—which would surely be guarded. Of 
course he had special physical skills; he could overcome the monks, rendering 
them safely unconscious by careful judo strangles during the night—
No. First, he was ill; his pneumonia had abated during this rest, but he could 
still feel its variable fever and the catch in his breath, signaling the 
involvement of his lungs. Violence and flight would quickly throw him into a 
potentially fatal relapse—but not so rapidly as to prevent them from nursing him 
back to health for the torture. Second, he knew that these monks were merely 
actors to the extent they had any tangible existence at all; he had no moral 
right to practice violence on them.
Yet the alternative to escape was torture—or betrayal. If he were tortured, he 
might confess anyway—but possibly the others would be restrained by the same 
considerations that restrained him—reason, friendship, and ethics—and ease off 
after token punishment. Then he might be able to get through. Yet if Lee played 
his role with complete integrity that torture would hurt. So the impasse 
remained.
There was a delicate knock on his door. "I'm here," he called sourly. As if 
there were any question!
The door opened. Yvette stood there. She had changed her attire; now she was 
more Italian in style, her hair braided and bound circularly about her head like 
a coronet. Her dress was closely contoured about her upper body with sleeves 
closing in firmly about her wrists and the front molded exactly to the shape of 
her full bosom. The neckline was almost straight from the curves of her 
shoulders across the uppermost swell of her breasts. In back it became a cape, 
whose excess material had to be held out of the way by hand. In all, it was 
strikingly like the costuming in the earliest Tarot cards and most attractive to 
the male eye. But of course that was the way of Amaranth; in whatever role she 
played, she had strong sex appeal. The question was, did she have anything else?
"Come," she murmured conspiratorily. "The King has granted you audience."
"What?" He had been distracted by the costume.
"King Charles VI," she said, winking. "I told him of your magic cards, and he is 
interested. This is our chance!" She took him by the arm and drew him on.
Well, at best it was a chance to make a break. Brother Paul suffered himself to 
be guided through the silent halls and out into a chariot whose canopy descended 
to close off the outside view entirely. The ride was rough, but quite private, 
jammed in with Yvette.
She turned to him, enjoying it. Apparently his prior rebuff had fazed her only 
temporarily; like a healthy young animal, she had bounced back for another try. 
And bounce she did; her breasts threatened to detach themselves entirely from 
the dress. She might as well have been naked above the waist. Yet what use was 
this to him? Eunuch that he was, the stimulation was all in his mind.
"I do so admire a man with discipline," she said. "If only you perform this 
service for the King—"
Brother Paul merely shrugged. He was sorry he could not see the great city of 
Paris. Even in the fourteenth century, it must be something! Obviously Yvette 
was working with Brother Thomas, carrot and stick under the Devil's direction, 
trying to lure him into the betrayal he resisted. So both of them took care that 
he should not pick up any notion of the local geography that might facilitate 
his escape.
Of course he could simply jump out of the chariot and run—but he was sure guards 
on horseback were following. No chance there! He had to bide his time, waiting 
his opportunity—if it ever came.
The palace was impressive both in scale and primitiveness. They entered a huge 
central hall from which doors led to the kitchen; he knew this by the constantly 
trooping servants carrying loaded platters of fish, venison, boiled meat, 
fritters, and pastries.
Suddenly Brother Paul was hungry. This entrance must have been carefully timed 
to expose him to the main meal of the day. He had been so concerned with thirst 
he had not realized he had not yet eaten today. He certainly knew it now!
"The King doesn't seem to have arrived yet," Yvette observed. Brother Paul was 
uncertain how she could tell since this room was filled with people lustily 
feasting at the long tables. Many of them were well dressed in fur-lined robes 
and capes; since the air was chill, Brother Paul wished for heavier clothing 
herself.
She noticed. "Oh, are you cold? Come over here by the fire." And indeed, there 
was a raised hearth in the center of the hall with a great fire blazing. But 
there was no flue. The smoke rose and spread voluminously until it found egress 
through an aperture high in the ceiling. Well, at least this bonfire was warm! 
No wonder they needed a large dining hall; otherwise the smoke would stifle 
everything.
"Let me fetch you some food and wine," Yvette offered solicitously.
Temptation indeed! "Is that permitted?"
"Of course. You are here for audience with the King; he would not let it be 
bruited about that you were not treated properly. You will always eat well 
here."
That was not precisely what he had meant. Well, he would experiment. "If I could 
just have something to drink—"
"If the King enters, there'll be a fanfare and silence. You must face the royal 
entourage and bow. Otherwise, just stay here and keep warm." She traipsed off, 
hips swinging beautifully in the gown as she marched toward the nearest table. 
Now came the test: did this role allow her to abate his thirst, undermining the 
Friar's coercion?
Brother Paul glanced about. What would stop him from walking out right now while 
he was unattended? Apart from hunger and thirst. His eye caught that of a guard 
standing near the wind baffle at an exit. Unattended? Ha!
He refocused his attention on something more positive: the groaning tables of 
food. Multiple dishes had been set out simultaneously, and with a little 
analysis he was able to identify a number of them with fair certainty. Beef 
marrow fritters, a popular medieval dish; large cuts of roast meat, origin 
dubious; saltwater and freshwater fish; broth with bacon; blancmange, which was 
shredded chicken blended with rice, boiled in almond milk, seasoned with sugar, 
and cooked until thick. Surprising how much he remembered once he put his 
hunger-sharpened mind to it! He hoped Yvette brought him some of that!
But first he hoped she brought him something to drink. She had not answered his 
plea directly; until he had that drink, he could not be certain this was not 
merely a refinement of the torture. Maybe he would be allowed all he wanted of 
thirst-producing food, without liquid.
Dogs chewed on the bones and scraps under the table. No problem with waste 
disposal here! The diners tore fragments of meat from the main roasts with their 
hands, openly licking off their fingers before grabbing again. One noble 
evidently had a cold; he blew his nose noisily with his bare finger and thumb, 
wiped the digits off on his robe, and fished with them in another stew for a 
succulent chunk. There were no napkins or eating utensils.
There was a sound like that of a horn, followed by a brief, astonished silence. 
The fanfare announcing the King? No, a false alarm; someone had broken wind so 
vociferously as to be audible above the tremendous clatter of the meal. People 
in that vicinity edged this way and that, making exaggerated faces and 
snufflings, but it was impossible to tell who was the culprit. Obviously a meal 
like this was bound to produce considerable flatulence, but the proscription 
against audible venting was strong. Brother Paul was reminded of Mark Twain's 
commentary on the subject, titled 1601—supposedly a conversation between Queen 
Elizabeth of England and her courtiers, including William Shakespeare. "The pit 
itself hath furnished forth the stink," Brother Paul murmured, quoting the 
famous playwright's response when accused of authoring the stench. "And heaven's 
artillery hath shook the globe in admiration of it." A fitting comment for this 
sequence spawned by the Devil, the Lord of Air. And how did the Biblical "Wind 
of God" relate? Could the Suit of Swords of the Tarot actually embrace 
flatulence?
But now Yvette was back. She had assembled a splendid platter for him: 
brewet—pieces of meat in thin cinnamon sauce; eels in a thick spicy puree; 
frumenty, which was a thick pudding of whole wheat grains and almond milk 
enriched with egg yokes and colored with saffron; venison; and several obscure 
blobs he hoped were edible by his modern definitions. And—bless her!—the spiced 
wine he had requested. The abatement of thirst!
What a contrast this plate was to the poor fare of the peasants! But no eating 
utensils. He could of course employ his fingers, but didn't want to emulate the 
slobbish manners he had observed here.
"Use the trencher," Yvette suggested delicately. That was Amaranth speaking, 
misinterpreting her part; the true medieval lady would not have realized his 
problem.
Oh, yes—the trencher. A thick slice of stale bread about fifteen centimeters 
long: the all-purpose pusher, sop, spoon, and plate. Essential in a situation 
like this.
Brother Paul scooped up some frumenty and washed it down with a gulp of wine. 
Hoo! That stuff was strong! They had to spice it to cover its rabid bite! Yet if 
his memory of conditions in the medieval cities was true, this stuff was a good 
deal safer than water to drink; the alcohol cleaned out the other contaminants. 
The water of the upper reaches of the Rhine might be sanitary, but Paris was far 
from that wilderness.
He was allowed to eat undisturbed, standing by the fire, and to drink several 
tumblers of wine. His head began to feel light; he would have preferred 
something nonalcoholic, but his thirst overrode that consideration. Apparently 
it was true: the Inquisition had no power in the palace of the King. If he 
wanted to avoid torture...
Yvette peered past the pillars that supported the roof. "King Charles has not 
come," she remarked. "I shall have to take you to his bedroom."
"Is that proper?" Brother Paul inquired.
"Oh, yes—I have been there often," she said, leading the way. Well, he had 
asked.
But the bedroom, set on a higher level than the main hall, was more than a 
sleeping place. There was a fireplace set against the wall, and it had a genuine 
flue so that the smoke was not intrusive. Courtiers abounded; this was evidently 
a semi-public receiving hall.
The King reclined on his great square canopied bed. The thing was like a 
chariot, and he the charioteer. He wore a turban-like headdress instead of a 
crown, but his ornate embroidered robe showed his rank. Regardless, Brother Paul 
knew him—for he was Therion. As Lee had progressed from heretic to Dominican, 
Therion had gone from Jew to Monarch. Was Satan taking care of his own?
King Charles VI of France looked up and spied them. "Hey, my pretty!" he 
"exclaimed. "Come up for a kiss!"
Yvette went to him—and suddenly Brother Paul, remembering the conclusion of the 
Black Mass, could stand it no more. He turned and stalked out of the room.
And Brother Thomas was there before him, present at a suspiciously opportune 
occasion. "Now you comprehend the alternative. Would it not be better to return 
to the bosom of the Church?"
The alternative: reprieve through the intercession of the mistress of the Mad 
King. And Amaranth would play that part faithfully, as the minionette of the 
Monarch, to spare Brother Paul from torture. The cards were only a pretext. It 
was not intellectual gratification Charles most craved.
Brother Paul's real choice was between torture—and betrayal of his relation with 
Amaranth. Whatever that relation might be.
 
He suffered an indefinable terror. There seemed to be a heavy weight on his 
chest, interfering with his breathing, yet nothing was visible. He felt 
completely helpless in the face of this unknown menace—yet there was an 
ironically voluptuous element. Was he a masochist—one who derived erotic 
pleasure from pain?
Then an extremely shapely young woman entered the room, whose very presence 
seemed to illuminate the air. It was Yvette, nude, glowing. He knew he must 
avoid her, and as she approached he struck at her with his fist; but he felt 
nothing, only air. She was an illusion.
Then she touched him, drawing off the covers and removing his night clothes, 
laying him bare before her. Though he resisted with all his strength he could do 
nothing, for his hands passed through her while hers handled him with substance. 
He was invisibly bound, and could not move from the bed or change his supine 
position. He had to lie there in stasis, except for his uselessly flailing arms.
She leaned down over him, her fine breasts dangling ponderously, and kissed him 
on the mouth, and her lips were solid. He could not turn his head away or even 
close his eyes. He remembered that one of the Saints had bitten off his own 
tongue to prevent contamination in a similar situation, but his jaws were 
immobile.
Her deep kiss stirred him immeasurably despite his reluctance. He concentrated 
on diversionary thoughts, on icy-cold showers, on trigonometric functions, and 
his body relaxed.
But the nymph had only begun to fight. More correctly, to love. Small 
difference! She moved down and leaned over his hips, lifting up his member and 
placing it between her smooth breasts. She pressed them together with her hands, 
his member sandwiched between their protean fullness. The flesh flowed warmly 
around it, enclosing it with gentle hydraulic pressure. She kneaded her own 
breasts, and the motions were transmitted to him muted yet quintessentially 
potent. Under that firm yet fluid incentive, his member swelled until it seemed 
ready to burst, becoming simultaneously as rigid as cast iron.
But I'm castrate! he cried in his mind. This can't be happening! I can't react 
sexually!
Obviously he could react! She had seen his empty scrotum—empty? It didn't exist 
at all!—and knew his handicap. What did she know that he didn't?
Satisfied with her priming operation, the nymph let go her breasts and lifted 
them away with a flex of her upper torso. Now his member angled up stiffly. She 
climbed upon him, moving carefully to slant her posterior and take him neatly 
into her hot, moist orifice. Once more he struck at her with his fist—and once 
more her visible body was no more than smoke. Yet her vulva moved down, melting 
about him, and he felt himself penetrating her, being enveloped. At last the 
connection was complete, full depth.
Now she brought her lips to his again, and as she kissed him she slid her body 
slowly up and down, drawing it slickly along his torso and causing his 
penetration to diminish, then increase again. Her tongue slid between his lips 
and played with his own in counterpoint. It was the rhythm of coitus, and he had 
no defense.
It continued for seconds, then minutes; then it seemed an hour. The weight on 
his body was the same; before it had been nameless, but now it was female. His 
terror had been replaced by disgust: a mere transmutation of the same emotion. 
This was merely torture in a different form.
And he realized: his masculinity was like that of a boy before puberty. He could 
be stimulated to the point of urgency—but could never climax. This could go on 
until his penis blistered...
The door crashed open. Brother Thomas stood there, glowering. Yvette evanesced: 
she faded gently away, leaving Brother Paul lying naked with erection.
"So you have lain with a succubus!" Brother Thomas thundered. "Pollution of 
Satan! You are an unrecalcitrant heretic!"
Brother Paul could not deny it.
Now he was in the torture chamber. Brother Thomas sprinkled Holy Water on the 
instruments. "Bless these holy mechanisms, God's tools on Earth," he intoned. 
"Thy will be done."
He put both Brother Paul's hands together in the vise and screwed it inexorably 
closed. Brother Paul screamed, but the pressure did not abate. The agony quickly 
became intolerable. The fingernails cracked; blood 'spurted forth like a series 
of ejaculations, one from each digit. Flesh and bone were pulped together. He 
knew he would never be able to use his hands again.
And was that not fitting? His hands—during his stasis, they alone had been free. 
They had not touched the succubus because she did not exist; she was a phantasm. 
Yet hands had touched him—and what hands could these have been except his own? 
He had touched his own lips, poked his finger in his own mouth, and stroked his 
own body under the guise of flailing at the apparition. He had manipulated and 
stimulated his own member in a desperate effort to refute his demoniac 
castration. His own hands were the instruments of his attempted pollution; they 
had now paid the Churchly penalty.
The scribe-witness held his quill ready. "We will record your recantation now," 
Brother Thomas said.
Brother Paul suffered a lucid moment. "Shove it up your ass," he said 
delicately.
"The mouth must pay the penalty for blasphemy," Brother Thomas said sadly. Now 
he inserted the metal choking-pear into Brother Paul's mouth, and rotated the 
handle so that the two halves of it pressed pitilessly apart, forcing open the 
mouth until the hinge of the jaw broke. The temperomandibular joint. He could no 
longer even scream effectively—
Yet out of his mouth he had spoken heresy, supporting the gross impertinence of 
the Waldenses. He had uttered the sacrilegious interpretations of the Tarot and 
demeaned the Holy imperatives of the loving Mother Church. Thus the mouth that 
had so gravely transgressed was indeed punished: an eye for an eye, a tooth for 
a tooth—
No! he cried internally. I may be a sinner, but the Waldenses are good people 
and the Tarot is valid. I cannot betray them!
Brother Paul woke in sweat. It had been a nightmare—a demon of sleep. His hands 
were whole, his jaw hinged.
As he lay there and let his sweat dissipate, he realized that the signs of 
nightmare had been evident all along. The succubus had looked like Yvette—like 
Amaranth. That meant she was a creation from his memory, rather than an external 
character of the Animation. Real women did not act like that, which was why men 
had to make do with the guilty dreams. And the torture instruments—the 
hand-press and choking-pear—these had been levered by threaded metal screws. 
They were more sophisticated devices, more technologically progressed; they 
existed in the later centuries of the Inquisition, not here in the 14th century.
The whole thing had been a Freudian dream-within-a-dream, a mechanism of double 
censorship showing him the lusts and fears his own mind balked at admitting. Now 
he had reverted to the more general dream, which was this Animation—itself a 
vision sponsored by Satan in the original Animation. Now that he had seen what 
was buried within the triple prison—
Well, what about it? So he had lusts! So he feared pain! Weren't these natural 
feelings? The dream had only shown up the foolishness of his secrets!
Still, the local tortures were fully sufficient to the need. If he were tortured 
at this level of reality, he would surely yield up his information and betray 
his friends. Only in the exaggerated dream state was he bold enough to tell the 
Inquisition to shove anything, anywhere. No one could withstand such savage 
physical coercion indefinitely! Thus he could only hurt himself by holding out.
Yvette opened the door and stood there a moment, a lamp in her hand, like the 
succubus she had seemed to be. She glided in. "Juggler—I came in haste before 
dawn, lest we both suffer. You acted precipitously by walking out on the King. 
But I convinced him you had a sudden call of nature and fled lest you disgrace 
yourself in his presence like old Blowhard in the dining room. Charles is so 
fascinated by the notion of the magic cards he is willing to forgive your 
indiscretion if you return to him immediately." She stood over him, an ethereal 
female spirit, breathtakingly lovely. If he were to draw her down now, remove 
her dress, would she perform, after all, like the succubus? He suffered abrupt, 
savage temptation, yet did not act. "I beg of you, friend," she continued. "Come 
with me before the Holy Office takes you below. Once the torture starts even the 
King will not intercede, lest he suffer excommunication by Pope Clement."
Excommunication by the Pope! The Church knew no limits to its abuses! On top of 
that, Clement was known historically as an antipope, though his election had 
been no more political than that of a number of authorized popes. Perhaps his 
major crime was that he did not reside in Rome. The Church forced complete 
compliance with its dictates, yet could not even agree on its Pope, or that the 
Office was more important than the residence. Suddenly Brother Paul decided. "I 
will come with you."
"You will?" she asked, amazed.
Her surprise made him pause. What was he doing? He knew that giving the cards to 
the King would be the same as confessing to Brother Thomas. In either case the 
Waldenses in France, the Holy Roman Empire, and perhaps even in Italy itself 
would be routed out by the Inquisition. They would be tortured and perhaps 
exterminated, as the Albigensians had been.
Yet there was no way he could hold out against the tender persuasions of the 
Church. It was not a choice between right and wrong, but between obvious wrong 
and subtle wrong. The only question was whether he would yield up the 
information before or after suffering dislocation of his arms or destruction of 
his fingers. Since he was bound to capitulate, he might as well do it 
comfortably, feasting at the King's table and dallying with the King's mistress.
Shame! Yet what better course was there? His sense of personal dignity, the last 
of the qualities in himself he valued, had been beaten down. He had been 
degraded by this Hell stage by stage, until he could not maintain his pride 
intact any longer. So he would do what he had to do—if only he knew what that 
was.
Well, he could run away. They could not watch him all the time, and in time his 
health should improve, and if he started out describing unimportant cards of the 
deck he might get a chance to make his break before the key cards came up. By 
accepting King Charles' offer, he was buying time and leeway—
No! He would not bargain in bad faith. If he gave his word to produce the cards 
for the Mad King, he would have to do the job. His pride had not yet descended 
below that level.
Though the originators of the Tarot suffered their special genocide in 
consequence? What kind of pride was that?
Yvette was leading him on, in more senses than one, out of the silent monastery 
into the hooded chariot away from the place of torture. The eastern horizon was 
brightening. He wished he could see the sunrise!
She paused to kiss him. "I'm so glad you have come to your senses! Everything is 
ready. I shall introduce you to the artist immediately."
"Artist?"
"The one who will paint the cards as you direct. His name is Jacquemin 
Gringonneur. It is imperative that the work proceed quickly, for the King is 
impatient and already just a bit wroth with you. He is a young man, not yet 
twenty-five years of age, but let that not deceive you. He is capable of truly 
mad acts."
"I'm sure he is," Brother Paul agreed, thinking of the historical Charles VI who 
assumed the throne as a boy of twelve and became insane at age twenty-four—and 
of Therion now playing that part. But he was more concerned with his own 
problem. It seemed the only practical and honorable way remaining to him to save 
himself from torture and to save the Waldenses from destruction—was suicide. 
That must have been hovering somewhere in his secret mind when he agreed to come 
to the palace. So long as the Juggler lived, in any form, the Waldenses were not 
safe, and the Tarot itself was in danger of obliteration. That last was 
especially ironic: the rendering of the Tarot in a beautiful court edition, 
publicizing it—would destroy it because of the extermination of its originators. 
It would cease to have meaning and become—just another pack of cards.
Did he have the courage to sacrifice himself? Was this the pass that prior 
investigators of the Animation phenomenon had come to? Very soon he would find 
out!
The chariot stopped. Yvette led him this time to a garden within the palace 
estate concealed from outside by a stone wall. "Wait here," she said. "I will 
fetch the artist."
As she spoke, the dawn sun emerged from behind clouds to shine brilliantly over 
the wall into the garden. Its first beam struck a sundial set on a pedestal. 
Tall flowers waved in the morning breeze; were they sunflowers so early in the 
season? Yet he could not know precisely what season it was; he had assumed 
spring, but it might be fall. The sun was so brilliant the beams of it speared 
out in sixteen directions, quartering the quarter circles, illuminating all the 
world.
Brother Paul stood there, holding Yvette's hand, loath to let her go despite his 
judgment of her nature. After all, she was doing it for him; she could have 
seduced King Charles without bothering with any Tarot deck. By her morality, she 
was doing right. It was wrong to condemn her merely because her values differed 
somewhat from his own. And somehow it was easier to forgive a lovely woman.
Suddenly, in an incandescence rivaling that of the sun, he had his revelation. 
He had another alternative—one that would satisfy all parties, hurting 
none—except perhaps the Inquisition itself.
"Let me tell you of the first card I shall describe to the court artist," he 
said to her. "This one is dedicated to you, my pretty minionette."
"For me?" She smiled, flattered.
"For you, child of the garden. It is a scene of this very place at dawn with the 
wall and the flowers—and two young people, virtually children before the glories 
of creation, naked as it were like Adam and Eve—"
"Sir?" she inquired archly.
"Clothed, then," he said with a smile. He had visualized the card of the Holy 
Order of Vision Tarot, but of course that was anachronistic. "Bathed in the 
brilliant light of the golden disk. And the name of this picture is—The Sun."
"The Sun!" she repeated, pleased.
Her pleasure was no less than his own. For now he knew his course. He would 
create a Tarot for the King—but not precisely the Tarot of the Waldenses. He 
would truncate it, eliminating certain cards of the Triumphs so that the 
Inquisition would never be able to divine the full meaning of the deck. Some 
cards the Dominicans already knew about, so these Brother Paul had to retain, 
though he would delete key symbols so as to render the meanings obscure. Since 
the pictures were already designed to be interpreted on two levels, the genuine 
and the superficial, this part was easy; he would never betray the true nature 
of any picture. And if he could eliminate entirely as many as eight Triumphs and 
abolish in one bold stroke the whole of the key suit of Spirit-He smiled again, 
still holding her hand as they stood before the wall. Mad King Charles VI would 
never know the difference; he cared only for the beauty of the cards (or the 
beauty of the lady who sold him on the project) and their supposedly magic 
properties. Brother Thomas would not realize that the deck was incomplete for 
some time because he had not had an opportunity to count the cards of the full 
deck, and Brother Paul would present the cards in mixed order. He would retain 
the first half-dozen of the Waldens' order intact just in case. Given the time 
it would take the artist to complete each one, especially if Brother Paul 
arranged to be picky about details—so that the King might have the very best 
deck of course—it could be months before the deck was done. By then, who could 
say for sure whether it was complete or which items might be missing? Lee would 
know, but as Brother Thomas he would not be able to prove it—not by the rules of 
this game.
Brother Paul would in fact create a new Tarot, consisting of a score or so of 
Triumphs, and four suits of thirteen cards each—well, maybe fourteen, no harm in 
that. A full deck of around 75 to 80 cards, each with its superficial title and 
interpretation concealing the real message. The Inquisition could play with 
copies of this deck as long as it chose; it would only waste its effort. The 
Waldenses would not long be fooled by a "Juggler" who never spoke of the Ghost, 
or Nature, or Vision, or the Lady of Expression, or the Two of Aura. Or who, for 
that matter, failed to discuss the underlying meaning of the Triumph known 
popularly as The Sun.
For the Waldenses interpretation of that last card was—Triumph.
 
VI
Reason: 25
The slime rose up to criticize the work of art. "There you sit," it said, 
"serene and content in your ebony gloss—yet utterly useless. You think you are 
beautiful, but you are only a molded husk. You are glazed, but you are brittle 
and shallow. Where is there any softness in you? Where is that fine slippery 
resiliency that is the heritage of the commonest blob of grease? Where is the 
rippling undulation of fluid motion, the flexibility and warmth of dishwater? 
You lack the variety of size and shape and color that glorifies the contents of 
every garbage can. You cannot take flight in the soft air in the free manner 
known to every particle of dust swept from the floor. You cannot appreciate the 
refractive art of the dirty window pane in the sunlight. You can never 
immortalize your substance by leaving a pretty stain on the wall. And never, 
never will you bring that worthy satisfaction of a job well done that every 
human being obtains from cleaning up rubbish like me."
"You are not beautiful—you are a monstrosity."
The work of art listened and was ashamed. It fell off the antique table and 
shattered on the floor. The slime looked on as the housewife swept up the myriad 
fragments, all shapes and colors and sizes, and dumped them sadly into the 
wastebasket.
"Now you are beautiful," said the slime, and it vanished down the drain.
 
"Well," Satan said, "are you satisfied about the origin and nature of Tarot?"
"Yes," Brother Paul agreed. "It was some lesson. But how did I acquit myself in 
the matter of the wish?"
"You passed," Satan said frankly. "I thought I had you there for a while, caught 
between sin and torture, but you threaded the needle. Of course you compromised 
yourself somewhat by consciously misleading the Inquisition—but the point of the 
dilemma was that you were left not with a choice between good and evil—"
"But with a choice between evils," Brother Paul filled in. "That was the Hell of 
it."
"Precisely. Anyone can tell good from evil if he wants to in a limited 
situation; not everyone can comprehend evil well enough to deal with it 
sensibly. You did an excellent job, and I fear you are not destined to reside in 
Hell—but there remain two wishes. Often a person who surmounts the most 
devastating challenge succumbs to the minor one. Shall we proceed?"
What use was there in waiting? Brother Paul wanted to be through with this awful 
examination! "Proceed," he said, buoyed by his triumph. What could be worse than 
the medieval Hell he had just been through?
"Name your second wish."
"I wish to know the evolution and future of Tarot."
Satan flicked his tail with a snap like that of a whip. "So shall it be—"
"But not in physical incorporation!" Brother Paul cried. "I just want to 
perceive it, not live it!" Would Satan accept the modification? One physical 
experience of history had been more than enough!
"Very well. Bye-bye," Satan said, making a little wave with four fingers. That 
gesture, by any other entity, would have seemed effeminate.
Brother Paul felt himself rising. He looked down—and there was his body, 
standing in Satan's office. Satan and the furniture remained in place. As 
Brother Paul continued to rise, he saw the secretary's office too—she was 
cleaning her nails in the timeless manner of the type—and the surrounding rooms. 
He could see through the walls, focusing on any portion he wished, seeing that 
portion clearly: a variable X-ray vision.
So this was what soul travel was like! His aura had detached from the host body 
and was now traveling and perceiving by itself. He had, as it were, become one 
with the fifth suit of Tarot.
There were scores of offices—hundreds—thousands—too many to count. Each was a 
mere cell in the total, connected to its neighbors by vessels, forming cohesive 
larger organs. "And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his 
freedom," he thought, remembering the words of the poet Auden. The whole mass 
formed into a monstrous building thousands of stories tall, irregular in 
outline, supported by two massive round columns—the shape of Satan Himself.
Then on up, out, he viewed the environs of Hell with its own myriad cells, each 
with its special tortures. And finally he burst into the bright day of the 
world. He was out of Hell at last—but only by the spirit.
Now he coasted to the continent of medieval Europe, aware of the date without 
knowing how, and to the city of Paris. Still he had no chance to look at it, for 
he phased in to the bedroom of the King. Charles VI was abating his melancholy 
by playing with his Gringonneur Tarot. The deck was pretty much as Brother Paul 
had edited it: twenty-two Triumphs, four suits, seventy-eight cards in all. The 
mere shadow of True Tarot, but a private victory for Brother Paul!
Because Charles liked companions for his gaming, he impressed his courtiers into 
Tarot playing sessions. It was fun for them; they became adept at inventing new 
interpretations for given cards and given spreads that catered to the King's 
ego. Soon more decks were made, and it became fashionable to play Tarocchi all 
over France, and Europe, wherever they could be afforded. Tarot became a status 
symbol. Quickly variations appeared, associated with special locales or 
interests. Some decks had as many as forty-one Triumphs—the word soon simplified 
to Trumps—consisting of the "basics" Brother Paul had retained plus twelve signs 
of the astrological zodiac, plus the four "elements" (he really had succeeded in 
eliminating the fifth one!), and certain Virtues. Some decks had eight suits. 
But none restored the particular cards Brother Paul had hidden: eight Triumphs 
and the entire suit of Aura.
The Waldenses, of course, knew the truth—but they never made it public. And so 
they survived despite persecutions and plagues, eventually surfacing as a 
legitimate Christian sect with branches all over the world, even in America. In 
later centuries, when heresy became respectable under the name of Protestantism, 
the secret could have been safely told—but by then it was no longer important 
enough to recall. Persecution had made the original Tarot what it was; in the 
absence of persecution, it faded. The truncated Tarot became a virtual property 
of the Gypsies and other fringe elements of society who used it primarily for 
fortune telling. And so the secret remained, forgotten at last even by the 
Waldenses themselves.
The development of printing at the end of the fifteenth century brought playing 
cards to the masses. But many people found the full deck too cumbersome. As the 
cards sifted down from the nobles and the rich to the poor, full pictures were 
too expensive. More cards were dropped until the deck returned almost to the 
original form that the Waldenses had hidden their illustrated lecture in. Of all 
the Trumps only the Fool remained, now called the Joker. Sometimes a blank 
replacement card was also provided, the manufacturer's unwitting ghost of the 
Ghost. The Knights were banished, reducing each suit to thirteen cards. Thus the 
peasant deck came to rest at fifty-three cards—the number of weeks in the year 
plus one for the fraction left over. The symbols of the suits metamorphosed to 
the peasant level too: Swords converted to Bells, Pomegranates, or Parakeets, 
and then to Spades (Tarot really did beat its swords into plowshares!), Cups to 
Roses and to Hearts, Wands to Acorns to Clovers later called Clubs, and Coins to 
Leaves and to Diamonds. German cards of 1437 depicted hunting scenes, with suits 
of Ducks, Falcons, Stags, and Dogs. A later deck had sixteen suit signs: Suns, 
Moons, Stars, Shields, Crowns, Fish, Scorpions, Cats, Birds, Serpents, and 
others. People played games called Trappola, Hazard, Bassett, and Flush; and 
they gambled avidly. The cards had come of age—at the lowest common denominator.
But the "complete" Tarot continued as a subgenre with a strong appeal to persons 
interested in the occult. In Italy, Philippo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan, 
loved cards and commissioned for a small fortune several expensive sets, 
including an elegant heraldic deck to commemorate the union of his daughter with 
the scion of Sforza in 1441. "Ah yes, the most beautiful of the classic decks," 
Brother Paul murmured soundlessly as he hovered, contemplating the cards in 
their original splendor. There was the Cardinal Virtue Justice pictured by a 
lady robed in a dress of spun silver, holding sword and scales, and in the 
background a knight galloping his charger. There was the Moon held by a lady's 
right hand while her left tugged at the cord securing her skirt: if the lunar 
symbol was too obscure for the viewer, the left hand made the female mystique 
somewhat more evident. Ah, woman: where would she be without her hinted secrets? 
And the card of the World, showing a walled city suspended between sky and sea. 
Cardinal Virtue Fortitude, showing a burly Hercules beating a lion with a club. 
Skeletal Death with his giant longbow. And Time with a bright blue cloak over a 
yellow tunic, hourglass in hand.
But Brother Paul could not stay. He had to move on, tracing the Tarot wherever 
it might lead. He saw a simplified, almost cartoon-figure Tarot emerge in Italy; 
this was easier for the peasants to understand, and it became very popular among 
the lowest classes. It was soon copied in France and called the Marseilles 
Tarot. Further variants developed over the decades, culminating in the famous 
Swiss Tarot classic of the eighteenth century. Unfortunately, the symbolism had 
suffered further degredation over the centuries, much of it by "iconographic 
transformation"—the misreading of the pictures and revised interpretation based 
on those misreadings. Time lost his hourglass and became the Hermit with a lamp, 
and the Hercules of Fortitude became a lady gently controlling the lion, the 
card labeled Strength.
Experts came along, vowing to restore the Tarot to its pristine state—but though 
the Inquisition had passed, they did not discover the missing cards. Count de 
Gebelin decided the Tarot was of ancient Egyptian origin, based on sevens: twice 
seven cards in each suit, three times seven Trumps (plus the numberless Fool; 
eleven times seven total (plus Fool). The name itself, he said, derived from the 
Egyptian tar, meaning "road," and ro, meaning "royal." Therefore, Tarot 
translated as the "Royal Road of Life."
Brother Paul shook his head invisibly and moved on. He encountered a disciple of 
Gebelin called Aliette, a wigmaker by profession, who decided that the origin of 
Tarot dated back almost four thousand years to the general time of the Deluge. 
He reversed his name and used it to entitle his deck, adding a modest 
description of its worth: the Grand Etteila. Here the Lady Pope became the Lady 
Consultant, a lovely nude woman standing within a whirlwind; that card also bore 
his name, Etteila. The Kings and Queens became professional men and social 
ladies, and the Fool was Folly or Madness. The deck was well illustrated and 
very pretty—but Brother Paul was not inclined to linger.
Next he found Alphonse Louis Constant, who under the nom de plume Eliphas Levi 
traced Tarot back further yet to Enoch, the Biblical son of Cain. He tied it in 
with the Jewish Qabalah, aligning the Trumps to correspond to paths along the 
Qabalistic Tree of Life. Then Brother Paul saw Gerhard Encausse, who under the 
name of Papus aligned the Trumps to the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew 
alphabet. "Abraham the Jew would have loved that!" Brother Paul commented and 
moved on.
At last he approached the twentieth century. There was the Order of the Golden 
Dawn, and there was Arthur Edward Waite, designing yet another "corrected" 
Tarot. Waite made the Fool into a saintly figure with the dog a prancing pet 
instead of a seat-biting menace, and the notorious Lady Pope became a virginal 
High Priestess. He converted one of the Devil's imps into a full-breasted nude 
woman suggestive of Eve, and he dabbled generally with the symbolism like an 
editor blue penciling a manuscript he did not understand. And of course he 
failed to restore the Hermit to Time. Paul Foster Case, another Dawn member, 
refined the images, retaining all Waite's errors for his B.O.T.A. (Builders of 
the Adytum) deck, and Brother Paul's own Holy Order of Vision further refined 
the Case variant for its private Tarot.
But Brother Paul now discovered he could no longer accept the Vision Tarot. It 
had only partial relation to the truth as he now saw it. "Oh, Satan—you have 
divested me of something I valued," he said. "I was satisfied with the Vision 
Tarot, believing it to be the most refined and authentic deck available—until I 
went to Hell."
Nevertheless, he moved on. Aleister Crowley was another Dawn member who had to 
dabble. He converted Fortitude to Lust with the nude woman voluptuously 
bestriding the multi-headed beast, one of her hands resting on the animal's 
penis while the other supported a cup like a filling womb against a background 
of sperm and egg cells. His Devil most resembled a monstrous phallus with a buck 
goat superimposed. Justice became Adjustment, Temperance became Art, Judgment 
became Aeon, the Hanged Man was castrate (Brother Paul suffered a sudden shock 
of empathy), and the Hermit—remained the Hermit. Brother Paul threw up his 
invisible hands and moved on. Now he knew the theoretical identity of his Bad 
Companion and wasn't sure he cared to know more.
Yet the Tarot variations multiplied. One group used mediums and a ouija board to 
derive a "New" Tarot quite different from all prior decks. There was also a 
military Tarot, and an animal Tarot, and a nude-woman Tarot and a Star Maiden 
Cosmic Tarot and even a Devil's Tarot—
"Enough, Satan!" Brother Paul cried soundlessly. "They are all variants of the 
meaningless deck I foisted on the world, interpreted to destruction by idiots! 
Let me center on something meaningful, not this interminable proliferation! And 
let me interact at least a little! If this was the life of a ghost or traveling 
soul, it was frustrating enough to be another version of Hell. In assimilating 
the world's knowledge, the ghost also assimilated its follies—and could do 
nothing to abate them.
"So shall it be," Satan agreed. The cards flew up, exploding from their packs to 
fill the scene with multiple pictures like the conclusion to the story Alice in 
Wonderland, spinning about him with increasing rapidity until their images 
blurred and he was in a wash of confusion.
Help!
Was it his own cry? No, he knew he was in the power of Satan and needed no other 
assistance; the cry had come from elsewhere, perhaps telepathically. In his 
aural state he might be receptive to such a message.
Brother Paul tried to orient on the soundless plea, but he remained in chaos. 
Colors swirled about him, yielding no fixed forms. It was as though he floated 
through a waterless ocean, unbreathing, for his traveling aura had no lungs. 
Disembodied yet sentient, he was unable to control his whereabouts without 
Satan's imperative.
My soul drifts free, he thought.
But not without purpose. Someone had called for help, and Brother Paul had 
received that plea and was drawn by that need.
Am I dead?
It was a flashing of light, the meaning in the flow. A spirit newly freed of its 
mortality, a soul rising toward Nirvana or sinking toward Hell. If he could only 
reach it, help guide it—I am a fool! it flashed.
Brother Paul began to learn how to navigate in this chaotic state. He oriented 
on the flashing voice. Of course this person was a fool—the Fool of Tarot. Every 
person was. Brother Paul moved along a corridor that opened ahead, not a special 
avenue exactly but a—
The person screamed. The Fool must have stepped off the precipice! That was the 
nature of Fools. So noble, idealistic, well intentioned—the epitome of the 
finest expectations of civilization. Yet also supremely impractical. Fools 
tended to get bitten in the posterior by unruly canines: anal sadism to gratify 
the spectators. Especially when practiced on an individual of lofty aspirations.
The journey was amazingly far, though not precisely long. He moved at impossible 
velocity through a veil he could not quite define. At last he saw the person who 
had summoned him. Flashing for help, it was no human being at all, yet not a 
creature like Antares either. This was a hideous animate disk harrow. A savagely 
ringed worm with laser lenses. I need a guide! it flashed.
Brother Paul was taken aback. He had somehow anticipated a human being, not this 
flashing slash thing. Yet it seemed this was a creature in need. How could he 
refuse? "I will be your guide," he said almost before the thought was complete. 
Yet how could he guide when he was lost himself?
As he spoke, his setting filled in about him: the Station of the Holy Order of 
Vision with its important windmill turning behind him. His last conscious 
contact with the elements of nature and Tarot before he had been summoned to 
this unique quest, what seemed thousands of years ago. It was good to feel firm 
ground beneath his feet again; chaos really did not appeal.
Could he simply walk back into his former life at the Station, leaving all Hell 
behind him now? He was tempted to try! But first he had to help this entity who 
was in need, if he could.
What mode of thing are you? the creature demanded, just as though it were the 
normal entity and he the weird monster. Well, its viewpoint was no doubt valid 
for it—and after what Brother Paul had learned about himself, he could well 
understand how monstrous he might seem to another sapience.
He suddenly realized that this was no part of his own framework, but that of the 
summoning creature. His setting of the Order Station was merely a bit of 
mocked-up background to make him seem more natural, much as a specimen in a 
modern zoo might be placed in a cage painted to resemble its home milieu. This 
was in fact—the future! He had traveled forward through time to a period far 
beyond his own mortal termination.
"No thing am I, though once a thing I was," Brother Paul said with a smile. He, 
like the Roman poet Vergil, author of the Aeneid, had been brought forward in 
time to assist one who knew of him. No wonder he had been so conscious of the 
Triumph of Time in the Tarot! "I lived on Planet Earth, circa 2000, in the time 
of the Fool emigration program that depleted our planet." He explained his 
origin in more detail, knowing it would be difficult for this entity to credit.
Sibling Paul of Tarot! the creature interrupted him. The Patriarch of the 
Temple!
Well, these confusions had to be expected. "No, I am merely Brother Paul, a 
humble human creature. No patriarch, no temple—the Holy Order of Vision is not 
that type. But I will help you all I can since you seem to be in need and have 
called, and I have heard, and this is my purpose in life—and it seems in death 
also. But I shall be able to help you better once I am oriented. Of what 
species, region, and time are you that you thus invoke me?"
To you, your repute may seem minor, the thing flashed. But to me, a Slash of 
Andromeda 2,500 years of Sol after your time, there is no greater name than 
Sib—than Brother Paul. You are the creator of the Cluster Tarot, one of the 
great forces in the shaping of the contemporary scene.
Cluster Tarot? Brother Paul did not place that one. Surely some misunderstanding 
there. For the moment, another matter was more pressing: the time span. Two 
thousand five hundred years after his time? That would be about the year 4,500! 
And this was a sapient creature of another galaxy, Andromeda! What a jump he had 
taken! "But who are you, friend? I can't just call you Slash, can I?"
I am Herald the Healer—though I am in sore need of healing myself!
"Ah, heraldry," Brother Paul said. "I have often admired the herald's art, 
though I supposed that would be forgotten in your century, if indeed it can 
really be known in Andromeda."
It survives, it flourishes, Herald flashed. Especially in your Cluster Tarot.
Brother Paul shook off the misplaced reference again. "No matter. Come, creature 
of the future: let us explore together. Where are we, and what is our purpose?"
And the Andromedan explained: he had been injured during a visit to the Planet 
Mars of System Sol in Segment Etamin in Galaxy Milky Way of the Cluster—injured 
by a laser strike from an enemy spaceship. He had been dug out of the rubble and 
taken to something called a Tarot Temple where they practiced Animation Therapy 
to reconstitute minds. Herald had conjured Brother Paul from the distant past to 
aid in this reorientation.
Did that mean that Herald of Andromeda was the real person while Brother Paul 
himself was a figment of the imagination of an entity 2,500 years yet uncreated? 
That was a difficult concept to accept completely! "I suffer from some 
confusion," Brother Paul said, feeling dizzy.
The Andromedan flashed a laser beam on him, and Brother Paul abruptly felt more 
secure. Apparently he could exist in this framework so long as his companion 
believed in him. After all, he had visited the human colony in the Hyades, in 
Sphere Nath, three hundred years after his time; this was merely a greater 
extension of that mechanism. What do you wish to know, Sibling Patriarch?
"Just call me Brother, if you don't mind." Brother Paul cast about for a 
suitable starting point to enable him to relate to this alien properly. "Let's 
start with this: why did you conjure a human being instead of a creature of your 
own type?" What did he really wish to know? Everything—but it was obviously not 
his purpose here to aggrandize his personal curiosity. Not directly at any rate. 
He had been on a quest for the future of Tarot, but that had to wait; his human 
conscience would not allow him to neglect an entity in need.
I loved a female, of your species, the creature confessed.
This absolute alien loved a human girl? How was this possible? But Brother Paul 
concealed his confusion. "So did I, so did I! There is nothing like a sweet, 
pretty girl is there!"
Nothing in the Cluster! Herald agreed. I was in Solarian host, and she—
Solarian—that would be a creature associated with the star Sol—or a human being. 
And host—but better not to make assumptions. The way of Antares might not be 
that of Andromeda. "Let's start just a little further back," Brother Paul said. 
"This matter of—Solarian hosts?"
After your time, Herald said. Naturally you have not encountered it. Today we 
shift from body to body, since our identities are incarnate in our auras. 
Transfer the aura—perhaps you call it soul—and—
Confirmation! "The soul! You can move souls from body to body?"
We can. We do, Brother. Though I am a Slash of Andromeda, I can inhabit the body 
of one of your kind. In that form, I naturally react in the manner of—
"Ah, yes. As a human being, you could take an interest in a human girl. Sorry I 
was slow to grasp your meaning. No doubt if I were to occupy a Slash body, I 
would pay similar respects to Slash females." That seemed impossible; he could 
not at the moment imagine an animate light-emitting disk harrow with sex appeal. 
But intellectually he could concede the validity of the concept. "Yet you are of 
completely different species, so no lasting emotion exists—
On the contrary! Aural love is absolute..
"Love is the Law—Love under Will," Brother Paul agreed—then paused, realizing 
that that was what Therion liked to say. Was Herald the Slash another 
manifestation of Therion ready to lead him into yet another aspect of Hell? 
Alien miscegenation, Slash breeding with Human?
No, it did not matter. Brother Paul had survived this much of Hell and perhaps 
been somewhat cleansed. He was not about to be led into further compromise. He 
would do what was right because it was right. If Herald were an aspect of 
Therion—well, who needed help more than Therion did? In fact, with the 
retrospect of several thousand years, he could not even call Therion evil; in 
the fourteenth century roles had been reversed with Lee playing the persecutor 
and Therion the persecutee. How did that little saying go? "There's so much good 
in the worst of us, and bad in the best of us, it ill behooves the most of us to 
talk about the rest of us." Whoever had said that had really understood human 
nature. Therion had a lot of good in him, many admirable qualities despite some 
appalling lapses. And surely Satan was cauterizing out those lapses by forcing 
him to play the role of an insane king...
With that reconciliation of attitude, Brother Paul felt an exhilaration akin to 
Redemption. He had learned something by his experience in Hell. He had learned 
caution in judging, lest he be judged himself. Maybe in time he would master the 
art of forgiveness that he preached.
Love is the Law—Love under Will, Herald echoed in pretty flashes. I do not know 
whether that is a universal truth, but it is true for me. I suffer grievously 
the loss of my Solarian bride. Life means little to me without her.
"Tell me more about this," Brother Paul urged. "I do not know how I can help, 
but I will do what I can."
I cannot face it directly, yet.
"Approach it obliquely," Brother Paul said. "You summoned me—"
Yes. I was flashing through the Cluster Tarot Triumphs in order, in the standard 
reorientation program, and—
There it was again. Maybe he was here to learn the future of Tarot. If his own 
quest related to Herald's problem, he should check it out. "I am familiar with a 
number of versions of the Tarot deck, but not this 'Cluster' you mention. Does 
it most nearly relate to the Waite, or Thoth, or Light, or—?"
I know nothing of these names. It is the one you created on Planet Tarot. Don't 
you remember?
Brother Paul shook his head. "I have created no deck, except in the sense that I 
may have expurgated the original Waldens' deck to protect—"
Perhaps you called it by another name. It may be that it was termed Cluster 
after your death.
Brother Paul thought about that. He had not yet finished his life; he could not 
speak for what he might do in later years if he survived the Animation sequence. 
He was dissatisfied with conventional Tarot decks, including that of the Holy 
Order of Vision. Only the original Waldens deck suited him now, and that one had 
been lost to the world since 1392, though there was no longer any reason for it 
to be hidden.
It burst upon him like the Vision of Saint Paul: he could restore the Waldens 
deck and give it back to the world! He could undo the damage he had done, now 
that the world was safe for genuine Tarot. "That so-called Cluster deck—does it 
have five suits?"
Certainly.
"And thirty Triumphs? One hundred cards in all?"
You remember it now! That is the one. And the Ghost has fifteen alternate faces, 
for those who require forty-four Triumphs or an extra suit.
Fifteen faces for the Ghost card? That did not match the Waldens' deck! Still, 
the puzzle seemed to have been partly solved. "I believe what happened was that 
I restored the original Tarot, and later generations elaborated and retitled it. 
I deserve no credit for creating it; that belongs to the anonymous people six 
hundred years before my time. And I have nothing to do with any temple."
My knowledge of ancient history in alien Spheres is inexact, Herald said 
diplomatically. But I am certain you are the Founder.
And who could say what might be attributed to him after his death when he could 
not protest? Pointless to discuss it further. "I came here to assist in your 
problem, not mine. What is most meaningful to you?"
There was some confusion, but in due course the Andromedan nerved himself to 
respond. You ask what is meaningful to me? It is my Solarian child bride, burned 
for possession, though innocent—
"Possession? Of what? A proscribed drug?"
Of alien aura.
"Oh. You said it was possible to transfer the soul from one body to another." 
This would have made very little sense if he hadn't interviewed Antares! "And 
some souls—some auras are not permitted in some bodies—some hosts? So they 
punish—"
Abruptly Herald projected the image of a castle: a medieval edifice of Earth 
complete with turrets and a moat as big as a lake. It was very like the 
structure Brother Paul had sought in the first Animation. This one was under 
siege with strange wheeled creatures driving along a gravel ramp or fill 
extending from one shore across the water toward the outer wall.
"The Tower of Truth!" Brother Paul breathed. "Or is it the Dungeon of Wrong?"
The Slash did not respond directly. The view expanded. The effect was of flying 
across the lake and into the forbidding island fortress. More soul travel!
In the central courtyard was a great bonfire—and in that fire, suspended from a 
bar, was a lovely nude young girl. The flames were leaping up around her legs 
which she vainly tried to lift out of the heat.
Her skin was an alien tint of green or blue, but her features were immediately 
familiar. "Carolyn!" Brother Paul gasped in sudden anguish. His daughter!
Herald flashed at him questioningly, and Brother Paul realized that the Slash 
did not perceive the same identity. The girl was not, could not be, the original 
Carolyn; she would have lived and died in the twenty-first century. Yet this was 
her surrogate, perhaps her far future descendent, his Daughter-image, the 
innocent child. Here she had grown to early nubility—as well she might in 
twenty-five centuries!—and she was beautiful. If her character matched what 
Brother Paul had known, it was no wonder Herald had loved her. To know her was 
to love her, whatever the situation! Brother Paul himself loved her—but that was 
not competitive with Herald's love; it was the natural complement.
But such conjecture was a waste of thought in the present crisis. "This was 
real?" Brother Paul demanded, appalled by the flames, the obvious and horrible 
torture. Carolyn—in the flames of Hell! Had Satan lied to him, sparing her from 
the sacrificial knife at the Black Mass only to claim her in this far worse 
fashion? "In this far future, this age of intergalactic empire and the concourse 
of myriad sapient species via the miracle of the transfer of auras, this 
happens?" Yet obviously it did.
Oh, help me, Patriarch! She is my beloved!
The image disappeared, perhaps abolished by Brother Paul's own revulsion. 
Patriarch? If he were sure that any descendant of his would perish barbarically, 
chained in flames, he would never beget the line! "In the face of such a loss, 
there is little I can offer except my own grief." But that would not solve 
anything! He tried to continue: "Though I hope there is some feasible way for 
you to find relief." How utterly, inanely callous he sounded—yet if he had 
spoken the way he felt, it would have been a cry of simple pain and horror: oh, 
Satan, you saved your worst torture until last!
Then show it me! the creature flashed. This Healer needs healing!
Show him—yet what was there? How could death itself be negated? Especially when 
Brother Paul was only visiting this time as an incorporeal aura. "Perhaps a 
Tarot reading would help."
This is the Temple of Tarot. But no mere Animation can satisfy me long, I need 
reality, not illusion.
An interesting comment in this situation. Brother Paul had traversed so many 
levels of illusion he was not sure whether he would ever recover reality. Still, 
he had to believe that some things were constant, and the Andromedan had a good, 
solid orientation. "The Tarot reveals reality. Shall we try a spread?"
The Cluster Satellite Spread is best.
"I haven't heard of that one. Suppose you describe it, and I'll lay it out." 
Brother Paul found a deck of cards in his hand. He shuffled them, resisting the 
temptation to look at their faces. What was important was that they related to 
Herald's need, and he was sure they did.
Deal them into five piles, the Slash flashed. The piles signify DO, THINK, FEEL, 
HAVE and BE.
Brother Paul dealt them out face down. What an interesting set of 
representations! Surely they matched the five suits, which in the Waldens deck 
stood for WORK, TROUBLE, LOVE, MONEY, and SPIRIT. In the popularized version, 
anyway, that matched the superficial titles. The fundamental meanings were much 
closer to those Herald had listed. He had seen how they also equated to the 
medieval elements of society: Peasant, Soldier, Priest, Merchant, and the whole 
class of rootless people like entertainers, gypsies (who had not actually come 
on the European scene by 1392), and criminals. It was an intellectual challenge 
to line things up by fives. The Rhine experiments had used five symbols; did 
these also match the Tarot suits? Square, circle, cross, star, and wavy lines. 
The wavy lines obviously stood for water or the suit of Cups; the circle was a 
disk or Coin; the cross would be a Sword. But the square, now—well, four sticks, 
clubs, or scepters could form a square, so that might be the suit of Wands. And 
the star, like the Star of Bethlehem, signaling the location of the holy spirit 
of Jesus—that would be Aura. Somewhat forced, maybe, but still—
He had come to the end of the cards. Now they were in five piles, twenty cards 
to a pile. The mode of this new layout came to him. "Your Significator, the card 
that most nearly represents you—that should be the King of Aura." For he was 
abruptly aware that Herald the Healer had a phenomenal aura; he could feel it 
impinging on his own. Not since Jesus Christ had he experienced its like. 
Perhaps that was what had really reached out across the millennia to summon him. 
"We must locate that card."
You are of equivalent aura yourself—as of course you would be, the Andromedan 
flashed.
Antares had said the same. Extremely high aura—that notion jogged something. 
Something highly significant. There must be a fundamental connection between 
aura and Animation—
Then the card came up, breaking the chain of thought. "Here it is in Pile Two: 
THINK. In my terms, TROUBLE or MAGIC, that I'm sure has metamorphosed in your 
day to SCIENCE."
But my problem is FEEL, Herald protested.
"Perhaps the Tarot is telling you that the solution lies in your thinking rather 
than in your emotion. We can at least explore the possibilities." But privately 
he doubted. What mode of thinking could justify the burning of an innocent young 
woman? "Now how does this 'Cluster' spread go?"
Following Herald's directions, Brother Paul formed the layout. He started with 
the Significator, crossed it with Definition, and followed with cards to the 
South, West, North, and East, forming a cross. "Past, Present, Future, and 
Destiny," Brother Paul murmured, appreciating the simplicity of it. "Modified 
Celtic layout."
Celtic? the Andromedan flashed, perplexed.
"A spread of my day, having little if anything to do with the historical Celts. 
This spread of yours seems to be oriented on fives, and it rather appeals to me. 
The spreads of my day may have been less precise." But again he was dubious; how 
could five cards define a problem as aptly as ten or twenty cards?
Brother Paul considered the cards he had dealt. The Significator was crossed by 
the Three of Aura, labeled Perspective or Experience. Because it was sidewise, 
he could not tell which aspect dominated; probably both applied. Regardless, it 
was relevant. The card in the PAST location was—
Brother Paul paused, amazed and gratified. "Ah, the vanity of the flesh!" For 
the card was Vision, eighteenth Triumph in the Waldens' deck, and it was 
illustrated by the scene he had visited from The Vision of Piers Plowman. He 
must have had a hand in this, for though that classic was contemporary with the 
Waldenses in the fourteenth century, the Waldens' Tarot had not used this 
particular illustration. He could not remember now what they had used, but not 
this. He must have successfully re-created the deck, drawing at least to some 
extent on his own experiences.
Half bemused by his growing awareness of his own complicity in the shaping of 
this deck, Brother Paul moved on through the Cluster Satellite Spread, tracing 
Herald's problem. Yet revealing as the messages of the cards might be to the 
Andromedan, they spoke with perhaps even greater eloquence to Brother Paul 
himself. For these cards were not as a rule illustrated by medieval scenes; the 
court cards were alien creatures and the Triumphs—
He was unable to grasp or retain the whole of the illustrations for the 
Triumphs. Many related to concepts that seemed not to exist in his own 
framework, though they obviously derived from the basic notions of the 
Waldenses. Here in Animation the cards became mind-stretching aspects of the 
future universe, and all he could do was absorb as much of it as possible 
without critical examination. His assimilation came in diverse gouts, but the 
overall picture was roughly this:
After the Fool period of mankind's history the expansion of Sphere Sol slowed, 
stabilizing at a radius of about a hundred light years. The farthest human 
settlement was Planet Outworld whose people were green; the King of Swords had a 
picture of Flint of Outworld, a high-aura native of this facet. But the Tarot in 
its multiple variations continued to expand explosively, knowing no Spherical or 
species boundaries. The Animation effect of Planet Tarot was exported to other 
planets, though it was proscribed by Sphere Sol. The Tarot symbols took on four 
dimensional attributes that multiplied the effectiveness of divinatory readings. 
Alien missionaries carried Animation Tarot across the Milky Way Galaxy. Most 
Spheres adopted variations of the 100 card Cluster deck, but some used the 78 
card decks or other sizes. Temples of Tarot were established among the wheeled 
Polarians (78 cards), and the swimming Spicans (100 cards), and the musical 
Mintakans (114 cards, counting the variations of the Ghost). In just a few short 
centuries Tarot ranged thousands of light years, coming to dominate the culture 
of the great conglomeration of species that formed the mighty interstellar 
empire called Segment Qaval, whose dominant sapients resembled nothing so much 
as vertical crocodiles. Then Tarot leaped a million light years to Galaxy 
Andromeda and Galaxy Pinwheel. Sophisticated interstellar organizations drew on 
Tarot for symbols, such as the Society of Hosts whose card was Temperance: the 
soul or aura being transferred from the living vessel of one host to another. 
Indeed, the proper designation for that card was Transfer. In a devious but 
compelling sense, Tarot helped organize the entire local Cluster of galaxies.
Brother Paul saw a fleet of huge spaceships, each one to two kilometers in 
diameter, each one shaped like the symbol for one of the Tarot suits. Ships like 
Swords battled with ships like Scepters and Cups and Disks and Atoms. It seemed 
the suit of Aura was variously known as Lamps, Plasma, and Atoms; in fact the 
variations of Tarot among alien creatures dwarfed in number and imagination 
those Brother Paul had surveyed on Earth. This did not mean the medieval Tarot 
decks of Earth were forgotten; quite the opposite. The aliens gleefully adapted 
all the old cards to new purposes, filling out each deck to a hundred cards and 
overflowing into the Ghost. Every Tarot deck that had ever existed anywhere was, 
by the definition of the Temple of Tarot, valid.
Concurrently, every deity that had ever related to Tarot was also considered 
valid. Thus the God of Tarot was a composite of every conceived and conceivable 
deity in all time and space. "All Gods are valid," became a common saying.
The shortage of energy caused galaxy to war against galaxy. Only the phenomenal 
efforts of Tarot-inspired heroes prevented horrendous destruction. The Solarian 
Flint of Outworld, spying his enemy by a Tarot reading and neutralizing her; 
Melody of Mintaka, herself an expert Tarotist; and Herald the Healer, laboring 
to save the entire Cluster from the threat of alien conquest and destruction—
And this was the Tarot spread that might motivate Herald to achieve his vital 
mission. And Brother Paul was the guide. He shook his head, bemused again. "I 
have come from Hell to help you," he murmured.
I do not comprehend.
"It is not comprehendable. Perhaps the whole of my life and death has been for 
no other purpose than to facilitate your mission. On the other hand, this could 
be an incredible delusion of grandeur. Regardless, I shall do what I can." 
Brother Paul looked at the final card of the reading. "Here is Destiny—but it is 
the Ghost, the great Unknown. The reading cannot end here!"
The spread can be augmented, Herald flashed. Actually, this exchange occurred 
somewhere during Brother Paul's series of revelations about the future history 
of Tarot; everything was mixed hopelessly together, but it did not matter.
Lo, they dealt a satellite spread, modifying and clarifying the main layout. 
Somewhere here or elsewhere the cards augmented his knowledge of the Ancients, 
those creatures whose civilization had spanned the entire Cluster, three million 
years ago. Their technology had been well beyond anything known even in the 
modern, Solarian-year-4500 Cluster. Yet they had vanished completely. Now an 
alien invader known only as the Amoeba was attacking with technology that seemed 
to approach the Ancient level. The only hope of repelling the Amoeba was to 
discover Ancient technology—in a hurry.
How was a Tarot reading guided by a man two and a half millennia out of date to 
accomplish such a thing? Tarot could evoke only what was already in the mind of 
the querent—and Animation was much the same. Yet what could he do but go on?
Still, something nagged at his awareness. Ancients—Animation—Amoeba... there was 
some critical connection of such overwhelming importance that... but he could 
not quite get his thought around it, and the revelation escaped.
They formed a second satellite spread. This one animated—the Daughter figure 
again. She was in the fire as before, writhing in silent but devastatingly 
evocative agony, trying to draw her slender legs out of it, then resigning 
herself to her doom. As Jesus resigned himself to his doom on the cross—
"No—I forbid this!" Brother Paul cried. "There is no way this torture can 
promote the welfare of your culture! I have felt the fires of Hell myself; do 
not do this to her again!"
She is my wife, the Page of Swords! Herald flashed, and his agony was a terrible 
thing in its brilliance. His love was in the flame, and his sanity was breaking. 
Suffer as I suffer! She burns, she burns!
It was Herald's vision, not Brother Paul's. But it was the Page of Disks he saw 
more than the Page of Swords. Carolyn. His child. Or the child of his child, a 
hundred generations removed. One card of the Tarot for each generation. But the 
connection—absolute. There was no way he could tolerate the infliction of such 
horror on her.
Brother Paul aspired to be a peaceful man, but now he had to fight. "I 
sub-define!" he cried, slapping down another satellite card. "The Eight of 
Aura—Conscience!" Maybe in this distant future the card no longer represented 
this concept, but he willed it so regardless.
Carolyn did not fade. Her anguished mouth opened, and she cried: "Herald forgive 
them—they know not what they do!"
As Jesus had cried. Now Brother Paul's own descendant begged the same reprieve 
for her tormentors. In this moment her aura was like that of Christ; he could 
feel the gentle power of it like none other in the universe. Yet Christ's 
sacrifice had not purified the erring populace, had not expunged evil from the 
world. Instead evil had infiltrated Christ's own Church and prospered as never 
before. The tears of Jesus—Now another innocent was being sacrificed, as it 
were, progressing from the incarceration of a sealed-in chamber in a wall to the 
dancing flames. Her lovely hair puffed into a blaze, shriveling with horrible 
speed into a black mass.
Herald charged the fire, but this was useless; even in the Andromedan's own 
framework, this was only a memory vision. Brother Paul slammed down another 
card, not knowing what it was, only praying that somehow this recurring wrong 
could be righted.
Time froze. This card was blank, for he had not selected any, and in this 
Animation there was no random manifestation. He had to choose, consciously or 
subconsciously. What did he want?
"Oh, God, I want her safe, unburned," Brother Paul whispered.
God did not answer. And why should He? It was not God's way to interfere 
directly in the affairs of living species. That was Satan's business.
"Then what do You offer, Satan?" Brother Paul asked.
The response was instant: Vengeance.
God was distant, aloof; Satan was near and relevant. Suddenly it was easy to 
appreciate why a man like Therion would prefer to worship the Horned God. The 
promises of God were nebulous and often postponed until their completion became 
pointless; justice delayed, justice denied. Satan operated on a much more 
direct, responsive basis. Satan was a businessman; He set a price on what He 
offered—but He damn well delivered. He never cheated, not directly; He used any 
conceivable loophole to make His gifts more costly than any person would 
voluntarily pay, but He abided by His infernal rules. He had shown Brother Paul 
the origin and purpose of Tarot and also the evolution and future of Tarot; now 
He was angling for that fateful third wish.
To make that bargain would be in effect to worship Satan. Yet there was much 
that was worthy in Satan. Perhaps Brother Paul had spent his life seeking the 
wrong deity.
But he could not make this bargain. Not quite. "No! I want her alive!"
"Vengeance—and life," Satan replied, right on top of the situation. To bargain 
with God was an exercise in futility; Satan was the one in control.
Brother Paul looked again at the awful flame. "I'll take it!" Carolyn had prayed 
for forgiveness of her persecutors. Instead Brother Paul was bringing vengeance. 
Surely Jesus' tears were flowing yet!
The card he had chosen manifested as the Tower—the House of God—and of the 
Devil. It was the Tower of Truth, and the Dungeon of Wrong, and this very 
castle. From the sky a bolt of energy came—and everything was a blinding 
brilliance.
Revelation! The vision retreated, and he saw the roiling fireball of an atomic 
explosion. This was the vengeance sponsored by Satan: fiery destruction of the 
entire castle. All those who had perpetrated the atrocity of burning Carolyn had 
been hoist by their own petard. All had died in fire.
Now Satan guided him on a kaleidoscopic tour of the Cluster, showing him the war 
with the alien Amoeba. This was the Age of Aura; the soul of Carolyn, known to 
Herald as Psyche, was captive in the Transfer network of the Ancients. As this 
network was restored, that soul was freed.
Carolyn/Psyche had lost her lovely human host, but she lived eternally in other 
hosts. She and Herald were happy. She was no longer Brother Paul's little girl 
in either body or spirit. She had found her own life. And that was the way it 
had to be.
Satan had granted the third wish—and Brother Paul knew he had expended it in a 
selfish manner. When the final test of his conscience had come, he had 
sacrificed his personal honor for this. It was the measure of his nature that he 
was not sorry.
And do you know the verdict on your soul? Satan inquired from the swirling chaos 
of the void.
"In the final crisis. I yielded to my baser instincts," Brother Paul said. "I 
am, after all, a worshipper of the Horned God."
What fate awaits you now?
"I am doomed to Hell," Brother Paul answered, knowing that his unworthiness only 
reflected that of mankind. Man was not yet ready to meet God—not in Brother 
Paul's time, not in the forty-fifth century, perhaps never. Satan had brought 
him at last to reason. "I am ready."
So shall it be!
Abruptly chaos vanished. Brother Paul found himself standing on the green turf 
of Planet Tarot. Scattered about within a half-kilometer radius were Lee, 
Therion, Amaranth, and Carolyn.
Brother Paul looked about, realizing that the third and final Animation was 
over. All five of them had survived it. He himself stood restored in health and 
sanity, uncastrate.
With increasing amazement and horror he grasped the reason.
 
VII
Decision: 26
The Devil is the father of all misunderstood geniuses. It is he who induces us 
to try new paths; he begets originality of thought and deed. He tempts us to 
venture out boldly into unknown seas for the discovery of new ways to the wealth 
of distant Indies. He makes us dream of and hope for more prosperity and greater 
happiness. He is the spirit of discontent that embitters our hearts, but in the 
end often leads to a better arrangement of affairs. In truth, he is a very 
useful servant of the Almighty, and all the heinous features of his character 
disappear when we consider the fact that he is necessary in the economy of 
nature as a wholesome stimulant to action and as the power of resistance that 
evokes the noblest efforts of living beings.
God, being the All in All, regarded as the ultimate authority for conduct, is 
neither evil itself nor goodness itself; but, nevertheless, he is in the good, 
and he is in the evil. He encompasses good and evil. God is in the growth and in 
the decay; he reveals himself in life, and he reveals himself in death. He will 
be found in the storm, he will be found in the calm. He lives in good 
aspirations and in the bliss resting upon moral endeavors; but he lives also in 
the visitations that follow evil actions. It is his voice that speaks in the 
guilty conscience, and he, too, is in the curse of sin, and in this sense he is 
present even in the evil itself. Even evil, temptation, and sin elicit the good: 
they teach man. He who has eyes to see, ears to hear, and a mind to perceive, 
will read a lesson out of the very existence of Evil, a lesson which, in spite 
of the terror it inspires, is certainly not less impressive, nor less divine, 
than the sublimity of a holy life; and thus it becomes apparent that the 
existence of Satan is part and parcel of the divine dispensation. Indeed we must 
grant that the Devil is the most indispensable and faithful helpmate of God. To 
speak mystically, even the existence of the Devil is filled with the presence of 
God.
—Paul Carus: The History of the Devil and the Idea of Evil, New York, Land's End 
Press, 1969 rpt. of 1900 ed.
 
"I can see you have the answer at last," the Reverend Siltz said.
"No, no answer. I fear it was an impossible mission," Brother Paul said, chewing 
on the good bread his host provided. It was not as interesting as the dishes of 
Charles VI's palace, but it was satisfying. "I went to Hell—but I learned about 
Tarot, not God."
"Tomorrow we shall see," Siltz said confidently. "I observed your face as you 
emerged from Animation and the faces of the others. It was as if you were of a 
single family, transfigured. We shall have the truth from you."
"The truth is hardly relevant," Brother Paul said. "I learned of the original 
Tarot, which has thirty Triumphs, each with a pseudo-meaning and a genuine 
meaning. Together, these Triumphs represent the life of Jesus which is also the 
life of Everyman, beginning in nothingness, developing through childhood and 
adolescence to maturity, then undergoing the vicissitudes of chance, error, 
trial, punishment, and transformation to another status where his real education 
begins. In the end he is subject to the final judgment and perhaps salvation. 
The minor cards offer spot guidance along the way—five suits, each covering a 
fundamental aspect of life, each card with two versions of the basic message. A 
most sophisticated deck of cards—yet so much more than that. All religious 
history is reflected in the Tarot!"
"So it would seem," Siltz agreed. "Perhaps you should record this special deck 
before it fades from your memory."
Brother Paul nodded. "Yes—I destroyed it; I must restore it. Humanity deserves 
the true Tarot! And I must give the world the Cluster Satellite Spread too—or 
would that be stealing from the future?"
"That must certainly have been a remarkable Animation," Siltz observed. "I 
become most curious. What were the meanings of the cards of this extra suit?"
"That would be the suit of Aura. The ace is titled BE, and the symbol is an oil 
lamp in the shape of a cosmic lemniscate." He made a figure with his finger in 
the air: &#8734; . "In the future they will render it as a broken atom, a 
proton-neutron nucleus surrounded by a spiral electron shell. He made another 
figure: &#8734; . "It also resembles a galaxy, by no coincidence." He smiled. 
"Iconographic transformation. The cultures of the Cluster draw from any variants 
that please them, just as they do with measurements. In Etamin they use miles 
instead of kilometers—" He caught himself. "I'm drifting! The deuce is 
illustrated by an outline of the human aura, and its interpretations are SOUL or 
SELF, depending on the way it falls. The trey covers PERSPECTIVE or EXPERIENCE—"
"Here, write it down, write it down!" Siltz said. "I am most intrigued by your 
dream deck! A symbol for each small card?"
"Yes. All symbols in a suit relate to the suit theme, and of course each suit is 
color coded. This is the suit of Art, coded violet—"
"I thought you termed it the suit of Aura."
"Merely alternate aspects. Aura, Art, Spirit, Plasma, Atoms—"
"All one suit?" Siltz inquired, frowning.
"Yes. Each suit has many interpretations, depending on the frame of reference. 
It is like the function key on a calculator. The cards look the same, but a 
shift of function makes them perform in a different manner. That way the 
usefulness of a single deck is multiplied. Instead of one hundred or two hundred 
aspects, there are a thousand or more, each fairly specific. When the reference 
is the classical elements, we call the suits FIRE, AIR, WATER, EARTH, and AURA. 
When it is the endeavors of man, we call them NATURE, SCIENCE, FAITH, TRADE, and 
ART. In medieval times that second suit was MAGIC rather than SCIENCE, but the 
meaning hasn't changed."
Siltz laughed. "I dare say it has not!"
"When the reference is popularized divination, the suits are WORK, TROUBLE, 
LOVE, MONEY, and SPIRIT. When it is the states of matter they are ENERGY, GAS, 
LIQUID, SOLID, and PLASMA. When—"
"Plasma?"
"In physics that is the compressed state that occurs in the hearts of superdense 
stars where the pressure is so great that the normal nucleus-electron structure 
breaks down—"
"Oh, I comprehend. The broken atom! The squashed galaxy. Write it down, write it 
down! You do not want to have to go into Animation for what you forget. Make a 
table for your titles and numbers and symbols." He drew lines on the paper, 
making boxes. "Now your five aces stand for—"
"DO, THINK, FEEL, HAVE, and BE," Brother Paul said, filling them in. "With 
symbols of Scepter, Sword, Cup, Coin, and—"
A knock on the door interrupted him. "Come in, girl," Siltz called without 
removing his eyes from the developing chart. Privately to Brother Paul, he 
muttered: "I thought she'd never relent! It has been several days and not a 
night at my house !"
Jeanette entered. She was almost beautiful in a surprisingly feminine dress, her 
hair set just so, her legs well exposed and well formed. "You—how did you 
know—?"
"Brother Paul's hundred-proof Animation Tarot informed me that mischief was 
afoot. Your business has to do with work, trouble, love, money, and spirit."
"Not with money!" she snapped. Then, abruptly shy, she dropped to one knee 
before him. "Reverend Siltz of the Church of Communism, I beg permission to 
marry your son."
Siltz pointed his finger at her pert nose. "Two grandchildren!"
"The first two children shall be raised in your faith," she said grimly. "Only 
the first two!"
Siltz smiled with crocodilian victory. "I am a reasonable man, though at times 
it pains me. I grant permission."
Jeanette's reserve crumbled. "Oh, Reverend, I thank you!" she exclaimed, jumping 
up and flinging her arms about him.
"Please, daughter—you will scatter Brother Paul's valuable cards, flaunting your 
pretty skirt about like that."
"Never mind my cards," Brother Paul said quickly. "I'm sure you two have details 
to negotiate about the wedding and such. I'll take a walk." He moved to the 
door.
Neither of them seemed to hear him. "You called me 'daughter'!" Jeanette 
exclaimed. "How sweet!"
"Just you take good care of my son," Siltz grumbled. "He is not used to 
marriage. He will not know what to do."
"He has a fair idea how to start," she said, flushing passingly.
Brother Paul emerged from the house. He was touched by the reconciliation, but 
it reminded him strongly of his own problems. He, too, wanted a daughter—but the 
daughter he had in mind belonged to another man, and he had no wife. In any 
event he would soon be mattermitting back to Earth—and the others could not go. 
Above all, he did not have the answer he had come to find. Not any answer he was 
prepared to present to the colonists! How could he stand before the community 
tomorrow and disappoint them?
It was dark. Light spilled from the cabin windows, helping him make his way, but 
beyond the village he had to depend on starlight. He wondered whether any of the 
stars of the entities he had learned about were visible now: Etamin, Mintaka, 
Spika, Polaris, or the galaxy Andromeda. And where would the galaxy called 
Pin-wheel be? He had never heard of that one! Here in the night, those alien 
civilized Spheres seemed both very close and painfully distant in time and 
space. He wished—but that was futile. He had used up his three wishes, and now 
he was in Hell where he belonged.
He proceeded toward Northole, aware that he was taking a foolish risk by 
departing the village stockade alone and unarmed, but he did not care. He had 
seen and lost the universe; what did he have to lose now? What beast of prey 
could be worse than what he had already faced in Hell?
Ahead he spied the flashes of the nova-bugs. There was the place to walk! But 
one foot snagged on something. He dragged it violently forward, recovering his 
balance. There was a series of faint pops. Tarot bubbles—he had walked through a 
cluster of them nestled in a hollow of the ground. A nova bug flashed brightly 
right before him, illuminating the shriveling Bubble remains.
Triggered by that, something illuminated in Brother Paul's mind. "Animation!" he 
exclaimed aloud. "The source of Animation! Now at last I understand!"
He concentrated. Light flared—no nova-bug this time, but illumination Brother 
Paul had willed. Yet he was not yet in the Animation area. "I control it," he 
said. "I have solved the problem of Animation!" Then, more slowly, "But I have 
not solved the problem of God."
He stood for some time in thought, working out the presentation he would make to 
the colonists. "Animation," he said. "The Ancients. Aura. It all ties together 
as I almost discovered two thousand five hundred years hence in Herald the 
Healer's vision." Then he set about gathering Tarot Bubbles with which to 
decorate tomorrow's stage.
 
Brother Paul stood at the apex of the wood pile. "I came here to identify the 
God of Tarot," he said. "The question was whether God is behind the Animation 
effect, and if so, what God he is. I now have an answer—but it is not one that 
pleases me or will please you. I could tell you that Animation tells me that all 
Gods are valid—" But as he had guessed, they were shaking their heads. They 
could not accept that answer. They wanted a single, dominant God, not a 
compromise philosophy.
He paused, trying to phrase his decision in a manner that would not be as 
painful for this group as he feared it would be. Yet what point was there in 
balking, after he had passed through Hell? But he found that he could not state 
his conclusion baldly; he had to lead up to it. "Much of the data on which I 
base my opinion is suspect because it derives from Animation which is the thing 
being studied. Animation is a tangible composite of the imaginations of the 
participants. A shared dream, if you will. It seems that the dream was 
principally mine, and I am an imperfect vessel—how imperfect I never properly 
appreciated until I had this experience! So you may reject my conclusion if you 
will."
All were watching him in silence. Deacon Brown of the Church of Lemuria, eyes 
downcast, yet watching: an eerie effect! Minister Malcolm of the Nation of 
Islam. Mrs. Ellend of the Church of Christ: Scientist, perhaps the oldest member 
of this audience. Pastor Runford, the Jehovah's Witness. Jeanette, sitting 
closely beside the Reverend Siltz: Scientology and Communist united at last. But 
not the Swami, who remained unconscious.
"Three million years ago there existed a species of creature we know only as 
'The Ancients.' They were not human; rather they were part of an alien culture 
embracing the several galaxies of this Cluster: Milky Way, Andromeda, Pinwheel, 
and assorted lesser structures. They were highly sophisticated creatures whose 
technology has never been matched elsewhere. One of their many avenues of 
exploration related to the expression of Art as controlled by sapient 
consciousness. They were much concerned with the mechanisms of imagination and 
sought ways to make Art more direct. Why go through the tedium of painting a 
picture or molding a sculpture if the mind can create the images direct without 
the intercession of material things? Not only would such dream art be more 
convenient, occurring virtually instantaneously, but it would be far more 
versatile than any prior medium. Thus the Ancients created Animation."
Brother Paul paused. He was oversimplifying, for he knew that much of the joy in 
art lay in the doing of it. But he had a problem of timing. The sun was beating 
down warmly now. Most of the pretty Tarot Bubbles had popped. It was time.
"This," Brother Paul said, lifting and spreading his arms, "is Animation."
Abruptly the world turned purple. The wood, the ground, the people—all were 
shades of purple. They looked about and stared at each other, amazed.
Then they turned green. And black. Stygian darkness closed about them—until nova 
bugs flashed, restoring intermittent light.
The effects faded. All was as before. "The nova bugs make their light by 
Animation," Brother Paul said. "That is why their physical light-making 
apparatus has baffled science. The mechanism is not physical at all. It is 
imaginative—literally. I dare say many other unusual features of this planet's 
life will become explicable by the application of this insight."
Reverend Siltz, as baffled as the rest, faced Brother Paul. "How—?"
"I am coming to that, Reverend Communist," Brother Paul said. "Let's relax with 
something pretty while I cover the dreary details." The village houses vanished, 
replaced by lovely flowering trees. A sparkling stream coursed in a meandering 
path between people, arriving at a central conic fountain. Brother Paul stood at 
the apex of the fountain. "As you see, Animation can make images appear where 
there is nothing or conceal what is actually present. It can also produce sounds 
to a lesser extent; but most meaningful speech has to be spoken by a living 
person. It affects touch, but usually only to the extent of modifying existing 
surfaces. In short, there is normally a physical basis for a structure of 
Animation—but the basis and the appearance need not correspond very closely. 
Animation can produce the sensations of water—" and here the fountain spread out 
to become a rising lake surrounding the colonists, wetting them "—but it can not 
actually drown you unless you fall into real water. You might suffocate because 
you believe you are underwater, but that would not be the direct result of 
Animation." The water was above waist level, swirling ever higher as the 
colonists stood, causing considerable alarm. "But I do not mean to torture you, 
only to show you how it is possible to die in Animation without actually being 
killed by it." The water dropped, forming back into the fountain.
"Note that this is not mass hypnosis," Brother Paul continued. "I have shown you 
rather than told you of these effects. All living creatures have an intangible 
force about them we call Aura. An aspect of it has been photographed by the 
Kirlian process—but this appears to be only a refraction caused by water vapor 
associated with our type of life. The original aura can be detected only by 
extremely sophisticated equipment which our human species will not develop for 
several centuries yet. Some would call it the Soul—the ultimate essence of 
individuality, independent of body. In fact, some alien cultures can transfer 
that soul to other bodies, in effect giving their people the chance to travel on 
other worlds in other hosts.
"As will be discovered, the auras of individual entities vary widely in type and 
intensity; most are near 'Sapient Norm' which is coded by the numeral 1; some 
are more intense, coded by higher numbers. Every aura is unique and 
wonderful—but the extremely intense auras are spectacular in special ways." He 
paused, and the fountain turned bright yellow and developed a ring of green eves 
at the base.
"Still no verbal suggestion," Brother Paul said with a smile. "Yet obviously my 
will is being communicated to you! Have no concern for your sanity; each of you 
perceives the same impossibility. I possess one of the most intense auras found 
among our species. I do not claim this makes me a superior man; far from it! I 
am an imperfect vessel with extremely human failings. Chance bestowed this gift 
on me. Until I came to this planet I was not even aware of it, and until last 
night I did not appreciate it. But it turns out that aura controls the 
Animations—and so this is my power." The yellow water solidified into a yellow 
monster that quivered and roared, supporting Brother Paul on its tongue.
"When we went into Animation, my aura extended out, interacting with the weaker 
auras of the others, informing them of my will. And so they saw what I saw and 
spoke as I would have them speak, in a general way. It resembles telepathy, but 
it is not direct mind-to-mind rapport. Since Animation does not affect the mind 
directly, only the perceptions, they actually interpreted their parts rather 
freely—but the play was always mine."
"But what makes it happen?" Reverend Siltz cried, staring at the monster. "Why 
does Animation only happen here on Planet Tarot? Surely other people on Earth 
have auras."
The monster dissolved into a pile of yellow rubble with a ring of green jewels. 
"The Ancients used their sophisticated science to create a special life form 
whose purpose was to facilitate the communication of auras," Brother Paul said. 
"This unique creature generates a—I suppose you'd call it a kind of gas that 
somehow enhances the overlapping of auras so that much improved contact occurs. 
A catalyst. Ordinarily auras are discrete, maintaining their separateness even 
when these auras overlap. Some creatures like to associate in close physical 
proximity so that their auras form something like a common pool, while others 
prefer to stay apart. This substance nullifies that separateness of aura to a 
certain extent, making the auras permeable, merging them. In a rather 
fundamental respect, groups of people in the vicinity of this gas join together, 
sharing themselves. Animation may be the ultimate tool for unity."
"But some Animations are nightmares!" Pastor Runford cried.
"Yes, indeed!" Brother Paul agreed. "Because the average person is not ready for 
unity. He has enough trouble with his own nightmares, which Animation makes 
starkly tangible, without sharing those of others. Those of us who participated 
in this experiment suffered horrors that only we could imagine. Others before us 
have actually died. It is dangerous to loose the untamed horrors of the mind, 
especially when they have been so long suppressed. The Swami Kundalini tried to 
warn me of this." He paused, reflecting. "Fortunately we were a fairly balanced 
group with our horrors canceling each other out as much as they augmented each 
other. We experienced a kind of composite that became largely independent of the 
will of any one of us, including myself. The application of Tarot images helped, 
for the Tarot is a refined body of imagery and philosophy with roots deep in 
human experience and symbolism. Without that to lean on, to structure our 
creations, we could have been in very bad trouble. In the future, the Temple of 
Tarot will integrate Tarot with Animation with potent but precisely controlled 
effect, spreading its system safely across the Galactic Cluster." He smiled. 
"Everywhere but in Sphere Sol. The human government will ban such use of 
Animation, and thereby fall behind other Spheres in this respect, ironically."
Jeanette's brow had furrowed during this speech. Now she jogged Siltz's arm and 
leaned closer to whisper in his ear. How rapidly she had assumed proprietary 
rights, advertising them to the entire community! She could have spoken for 
herself, but now preferred to have the Reverend speak for her. She showed her 
power not so much by marrying young Ivan—who it seemed was not even attending 
this meeting—but by her proximity to Ivan's father, the head of the family. She 
had become one of the family, and in her public deferral she claimed her 
victory.
Siltz listened gravely, as a man listens to his daughter, then spoke aloud. "You 
have not answered, Brother Paul. Where are these Animation creatures? Can you 
show us one?"
Ah, yes; he had drifted from the subject, as was his wont. "Everywhere. They are 
the Tarot Bubbles."
"The Bubbles!" several others exclaimed.
"Correct. These innocuous fragments of froth that generate in the night and pop 
by day. They are a form of life—whether plant or animal or fungus or germ or 
some alien type I can't say. But I suspect the last, as things seem to fall 
naturally into divisions of five here, like the Tarot suits. They multiply and 
grow and feed and seek to survive—"
"But they just sit there or float about!"
"They sit there in the shade," Brother Paul explained. "When they pop, they 
release their hallucinogenic agent and some spores so that new ones can grow 
when favorable conditions return."
"But why bother with the Animation effect, then? They don't need it!"
"They did not evolve naturally. They were created or modified by the science of 
a culture whose motives and abilities were incredibly sophisticated. But 
Animation may be a survival mechanism after all. It may protect the Bubbles from 
molestation by evoking distractions culled from the minds of the marauders. And 
the desire that most sapient species seem to have for hallucinogenic experience 
may cause them to spread the Bubbles all across the Cluster, much as they spread 
fruit-producing plants or sweets-producing insects or useful animals. I also 
suspect controlled Animation can serve as a natural painkiller and as an 
excellent teaching tool. Thus specialists of various types will find uses for 
it. To control Animation they need the Bubbles. I believe the survival of the 
species is assured." Brother Paul frowned. "However, I am less sanguine about 
the prospects for our own human species, whose madness may be aggravated. Many 
quite beneficial drugs have been sorely abused in the past such as morphine and 
mnem. What will happen to Earth when Animation arrives there? Obviously the 
repercussions will be sufficient to cause Animation to be banned."
The yellow monster faded out. Brother Paul was back on the pile of wood in the 
center of the village. "The gas seems to have dissipated," he said. "When the 
threshold of Animation passes, the effect disappears rapidly like a candle going 
out. I brought a number of ripe Bubbles here last night, but they were not 
enough to maintain the effect for long. In the depression of Northole, where 
conditions are better for them, Animation is much more persistent, except when 
storms move the gas elsewhere. But I trust I have made my point."
"You have made your point," Reverend Siltz said. "But what is your answer? Who 
is the God of Tarot?"
"That is the difficult answer since you declined to accept the one I proffered," 
Brother Paul said slowly. This was the part he hated! "All the manifestations of 
Animation turn out to have a physical explanation. The variables of the Bubbles 
and individual auras made that explanation difficult to come by, but I believe 
independent investigation will corroborate my conjectures. Thus we do not need 
to assume the direct participation of a deity."
There was a moment of silence. "There is no God?" Siltz asked slowly. He seemed 
to have become the spokesman for the community. Brother Paul was not sure from 
the way the man spoke whether this, to him, represented defeat or victory. Many 
humanists believed in the spirit of Man, not God; what was the stand of the 
Church of Communism?
"I—can not say that," Brother Paul said. "I can only say that God did not make 
Himself manifest to me through Animation. Therefore, I can not identify the God 
of Tarot—because I have no concrete evidence there is a God of Tarot."
"Yet there is a God," Siltz persisted. "And that God is found within the human 
heart. And Animation makes manifest what is in the human heart. You were 
questing for that truth. Surely you found something."
"No," Brother Paul said heavily. "I am no longer sure there is a God. I looked 
for Him as hard as I could, yet was invariably turned aside, and found only the 
debunking of my most cherished beliefs. The closest I came to God's presence 
was, through the irony of precession, when I was questing in quite another 
direction."
There was no cry of outrage. The assembled villagers of diverse faiths looked at 
him with regret and compassion. "Surely you retain your faith in your prophet, 
Jesus Christ," Reverend Siltz said. "We asked you to choose among our Gods, not 
to renounce your own."
"I am not sure I do retain that faith," Brother Paul said. "What Jesus did can 
be accounted for by the presence of aura. He could have been an ordinary man, 
even a—a mutilated one, with an extremely intense aura. Aura can sponsor 
visions; aura can heal. In the future there will be entities who make a business 
of healing through aura, attributing no religious significance to it." Herald 
the Healer, where are you now? "God—I find it difficult to discover an objective 
rationale for the existence of a Supreme Being in the face of what I now know of 
Animation and aura."
"But this is not negation!" Siltz insisted. "These things may prove only that 
God operates through such tools as Ancients and aura. There are unknowns we can 
not explain; there are rights and wrongs. There must be Divine inspiration, a 
Guiding Force—and you must have had some hint as to the identity of that Force."
"Perhaps," Brother Paul agreed reluctantly. He knew what Siltz was trying to do: 
rescue Planet Tarot from the depression and chaos that a negative decision could 
mean. Better a foreign God than anarchy. This colony needed to unite, at least 
politically, about a single deity—any deity. "Yet I am not certain, now, what is 
right and what is wrong or whether there is in fact any distinction between 
them. One concept is meaningless without the other, much as the black markings 
we call writing are meaningless without the white background of the paper. Black 
and white must work together to form meaning; it is foolish to call either color 
God. Right and wrong exist only as companions, as extremes of perspective; God 
may be in both or in neither, but God can not be taken as one or the other. Yet 
I would not presume on the basis of such subjective evidence—"
"It is not presumption! Five of you participated in the Animations; all 
contributed to the visions. In that group effort, some consensus must have 
developed or you would have destroyed each other. You emerged unified—it shows 
in each one of you, even the child. As a group you have agreed, even if you have 
not consciously understood the rationale of that agreement. If as diverse a 
group as you five can unify, so can our colony—about the same deity. As a group, 
you have identified God!"
Brother Paul looked at Lee, and at Therion, and Amaranth and Carolyn, all 
sitting on the wood behind him. Slowly, each nodded. Yet he resisted. "What we 
experienced," Brother Paul said, "this was a special situation probably not 
applicable to the outside world. You would not be able to accept—"
"Must we direct the question to the Watchers?" Siltz inquired.
Brother Paul did not reply.
"We require an answer," Siltz insisted. "Mormon—your credibility is unblemished. 
We know you will not mislead us, though your own faith be forfeit. Who is the 
God of Tarot?" But Lee shook his head in negation, refusing to answer.
Siltz turned on Amaranth. "Abraxas? You were not scheduled to be a Watcher, but 
by your survival of three Animations you have proven yourself. Who?" But 
Amaranth also declined.
The Reverend's gaze now fixed on Carolyn. "Child, the Nine Unknown Men will not 
be pleased if you do not reveal what you agreed to Watch. Who is God?"
The girl tried to resist, but under the group's uncompromising cynosure she 
wilted and broke. "S-sa'n," she whispered.
"I did not hear," Siltz said sternly. "Speak clearly!"
Carolyn tried again. "Sa—Satan is the God of Tarot."
Now Therion, who had held himself impassive, smiled. "Otherwise known as the 
Horned God," he said. "Returned after thousands of years to claim His own. From 
me you would not have believed it, but from these others you must believe it." 
He turned to address the other Watchers and Brother Paul. "Who here denies it?"
No one denied it. Brother Paul felt a special agony of faith. What had he done, 
when he yielded to his baser, nature in making his third wish? He had been 
relegated to Hell—and this was now Hell. Satan was the God of Hell.
"Humanity belongs to the Devil," Therion said triumphantly. "And the world of 
the living is but an aspect of Hell. We failed to find grace in Animation—yea, 
even the Mormon, even the child, even Brother Paul of Vision!—and so Satan 
returned us to His realm. We have the truth at last."
And the congregation was silent.
 
VIII
Wisdom: 27
Time is running out on the laisser-faire or 'mad dog' phase of human 
exploitation of the earth, owing to the mathematical increase of the human 
population on the one hand, and, on the other, the increasing pollution of both 
the land and sea masses by human beings, through chemical and biological poisons 
used as insecticides, or created by energy producers ('nuclear reactors'), and 
weapons of war. Despite all the tendentious propaganda being spread about, the 
earth can very easily feed all its animal and human population, for many 
hundreds of years to come, especially if—as Victor Hugo demanded in Les 
Miserables a century ago, in 1862—human feces cease to be poured into the rivers 
and the seas, as at present, and are reprocessed and used as fertilizer, instead 
of the pollutive insecticides and chemical fertilizers now being used. For the 
paradox is: It is shit that is clean, and the 'pure white powders' that pollute! 
As it appears, however, that this rational course will not be followed, and that 
lasser-faire capitalistic exploitation of both the earth and all the other 
planets will remain in force and be enlarged, the terrestrial food-supply, as we 
know it, is doomed. The ocean being increasingly polluted already, it will 
probably be a mere bacteriological and radiological swamp, impossible to 'farm,' 
by the time the population/food balance becomes dramatically skewed. Sea-borne 
foods, such as algae, fish, and plankton—on which such delusory hopes are now 
being pinned—will long since all have disappeared owing to the pollution of 
their viable space.
—G. Legman: Rationale of the Dirty Joke: Second Series, New York, Breaking 
Point, Inc., 1975.
 
Therion was leading several villagers in solemn prayer:
Our Father, Who art in Hell, Damned be Thy Name
Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done, on Earth as it is in Hell.
"This is Hell," Brother Paul muttered. And thought with sudden hope: had his 
failure in the trial of the third wish really brought the entire planet to this, 
doomed by himself as imperfect Everyman? Or was this merely another Animation 
masquerading as reality, as the airport scene had been? It was difficult to be 
certain anymore. So maybe—
No. If this were not reality, then he could never in his life be sure of the 
distinction between reality and Animation. Assuming it was what it seemed to be, 
it was still Hellish. How would Satan answer the prayers of his new 
constituents? Surely only in such a fashion as to make them regret it!
"Oh, Swami," he murmured. "You were so right in your warning! I unlocked the 
secret of Animation—and loosed Satan upon us all!"
Yet Satan had honored His bargains with Brother Paul. Satan had answered when 
God stood aloof. Satan was honest and responsive. Perhaps Satan was indeed more 
worthy of worship.
"Sad, isn't it," a man said beside him. Brother Paul turned. It was Deacon 
Brown, the Lemurian.
"Not for me, really," Brother Paul said insincerely. "I'm leaving soon."
"For him," the Deacon said, indicating Therion. "He has been granted what he 
thought he wanted—and that's Hell."
"But he's happy, isn't he?"
"Not at all. Listen to him."
Brother Paul listened. Therion, it seemed, was now telling a dirty joke, "...so 
he went on down to Hell. 'I was bored up there,' he said to Satan. 'No liquor, 
no women, no parties.' Satan waved his hoof, and there was a roomful of drunken, 
naked, eager, beautiful women. So Prufrock dived in amongst them. But in a 
moment he cried, 'Hey, these gals have no holes!' 'That's right,' Satan replied. 
'This is Hell.' "
The reaction of the congregation was less than enthusiastic. "You see, now he 
has responsibility," the Deacon said. "He has to guide them and entertain them, 
and their values don't coincide with his. He's trying to get through to them, to 
shrive himself by making them react with laughter or horror or anger, and they 
aren't reacting. That leaves him the obvious butt—and that's Hell for him. His 
own refuse is bouncing back in his face."
"Yes..." Brother Paul said, seeing it. "But surely he should have anticipated 
this sort of thing when he took the Horned God as his deity."
"He did not choose the Horned God; that was thrust upon him. Back on Earth he 
married the most beautiful and intellectual woman he found—then she turned out 
to be a lesbian, using him only as a cover."
"She had no hole!" Brother Paul exclaimed, catching on.
"None he could use. She two-timed him with a female lover. That sort of thing is 
Hell-on-Earth for a normal man—and perhaps worse for an abnormal one, strongly 
sexed but afraid of the opposite sex."
"The Gorgon," Brother Paul said. "The castration complex. He has it with a 
vengeance! In the Animations—" But he decided he didn't want to talk his own 
castration! he now saw that it was no more a product of his own desire than the 
soul-as-excrement concept had been. "She put horns on him—without another man, 
really complicating his complexes. So he adopted the Horned God!"
"That's why he distrusts all women now and seeks to defile them," the Deacon 
agreed. "He's afraid anyone he loves will betray him."
"Seeks to defile women..." Brother Paul repeated, again reminded of his disaster 
of the Seven Cups, and Satan's clarification of it. Excrement in the face of the 
female! The Black Mass too—the attempt to have a young female killed on the body 
of a mature one. Much was coming clear now. "Yet if he found one that wasn't 
lesbian—how would he know? By rejecting all women, he makes his own Hell."
"Precisely," the Deacon agreed. "And what woman would attempt to break through 
his defense and abate that Hell? A thankless task!"
Brother Paul shook his head. "He is a man of many qualities. I believe his 
attitudes suffered fundamental changes in Animation, and he is ready to accept 
normal heterosexual relations. Perhaps one day some hardy woman will perceive 
those qualities and make the effort."
Meanwhile, Therion was still trying, almost pitiful in the new perspective. "Now 
let me tell you about the Sleeve Job. This man had tried every conceivable kind 
of sexual experience and wanted something really different. So..."
Brother Paul walked away, leaving Therion, leaving Deacon Brown. His mission 
here was over. Now he was only waiting for the return of his capsule to Earth. 
This had been pre-scheduled when this mission had first been instituted; the 
capsule would return at its appointed time with or without him. Certain Planet 
Tarot artifacts would be shipped back, including a sealed terrarium containing 
Tarot Bubble spores, as a supplement to his report. All Brother Paul had to do 
was wrap up his personal affairs. No easy task!
First he had to settle with Amaranth. She had expressed serious interest in him 
between Animations as well as during them, but despite temptation he had found 
his own emotion falling short. She had a marvelous body and a willing nature—but 
somehow he could not envision himself married to a perpetual temptress, a Lilith 
figure. There were other things in his life besides sex. So even if it had been 
possible for him to take her back to Earth with him, he would not have done so. 
The roles the two of them played in life were too different. Had she been more 
like Sister Beth and less like a minionette of Satan—
The problem was, how could he tell her that? She had, by her definitions, done 
everything right. She had undressed herself frequently and to advantage and had 
not bothered him with intellectual discussion. Her notion of the ideal woman. He 
knew from her prior discussion about nature and the Breaker that she had more 
depth than that; the shallowness was merely a role she played. She would make a 
good wife—for the right man. It just happened that he was not that man.
He found that he could not tell her that. Not directly. So he retired to 
Reverend Siltz's house and pondered his Tarot chart—and it came to him. 
Therion's demon Thoth Tarot was adaptable to this purpose!
In the end he found he had written a poem titled "Four Swords"—in the Thoth 
Tarot, the Four of Swords signified Truce. He would give her this Tarot poem 
message, explaining about the problem of roles, and perhaps she would 
understand. This was also his farewell to the Thoth Tarot, and to all other 
four-suit Tarot decks; henceforth, he would devote his energies to restoring and 
perfecting the five suit Tarot of the Waldenses. Satan had given him this, and 
he could not let it go. Perhaps he was, after all, a worshiper of—
There was a knock on the door. Brother Paul went to open it—and there stood 
Amaranth.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't go with you, Brother Paul. I thought you were 
the one for me, I really did, but those Animations showed me things—I really got 
to know myself better, playing those roles, and I saw how dumb some of them 
were. That's not what I really want to be."
"I understand," Brother Paul said. How well he did!
"I—have a greater affinity for another man," she continued. "One I wouldn't have 
looked at before Animation. I prayed to Satan to solve my dilemma, and He sent 
me—"
"Therion!" Brother Paul exclaimed.
"Yes. He—he's really more my type. He likes my body, and I like his mind. In the 
Animations—it worked out pretty well. Actually. When he was King Charles. He 
does with gusto what you resist, and I—I need to be gustoed."
"Yes," Brother Paul agreed.
"He's not really bisexual or whatever. He just never got close to a female woman 
before, despite all his talk. He has very broad horizons. Broader than mine. So 
he can show me new avenues, and I need those avenues because I can't stand 
dullness. It never would have worked out between you and me, Paul. I was never 
Sister Beth, or the Virgin Mary, or any of those lovely pure women that turn you 
on. I'm a creature of indulgence, uninhibited. I want a man foaming at the lips 
to get at my secrets, tearing the clothes off me—"
She broke off. "But I know it bothers you, my just telling you this. You never 
tore clothing off anybody. Even in the middle of the act, you just lay there 
without responding."
In the middle of the act? She was referring to his dream within a dream, being 
ravished by a succubus, unable to respond because he was paralyzed and castrate. 
That really had been her playing that part!
"So—farewell." She turned and walked away.
Brother Paul looked down at the paper in his hand. He had never even given her 
the poem. He had been unresponsive!
Should he destroy the poem? It had had only one purpose, and that was now 
passed. No—he did not believe in book burning or anything that smacked of it. He 
would file it away; maybe future scholars of the Temple of Tarot would find it 
in his papers and wonder what it meant. It was about as anonymous as a poem 
could be; he didn't even know the proper name of its addressee. With luck, he 
would never know.
Yet, now that it was over, he felt a letdown. It might have been fun Amaranth's 
way. Tearing the clothes off her. She was the creature for which man's lust had 
been designed, and he was after all a man. Too bad the fourteenth century 
Animation had cut off before they had gotten into the Palace affair; she might 
have discovered that he was not always paralyzed.
He shook his head. Therion's Satan, perhaps in His jealousy, had made sure 
Brother Paul could not climax anything with Amaranth in that sequence. And there 
were other matters.
Now he had to settle with Carolyn. His love for her was stronger than anything 
he had felt for Amaranth, if of a different nature. He would have to explain to 
her that even if he could take another person home with him (which he could 
not), he could not take a child away from her natural father. What had been in 
Animation—could not be in life.
This was Hell all right.
He walked slowly to the Swami's house. Reverend Siltz had mentioned that the 
Swami had finally recovered consciousness, perhaps in response to Mrs. Ellend's 
ministrations, so Carolyn was moving back in with him. Most of the villagers 
were out about their work in field and forest; the rigorous climate of this 
planet did not permit much time off from chores. There was the sound of 
hammering, momentarily sending a chill through him until he realized it was from 
the shop of the stove-smith. The man was laboring to convert the first units to 
body heating rather than space heating. Several fisherpeople were trawling a net 
through Eastlake, harvesting waterlife for drying and salting for winter. What 
would happen if Lee passed by in his Christ-visage and said "Rise, follow me, 
and I will make you fishers of men"? Probably nothing, for Satan ruled here. One 
man was working on his roof, thatching an annex with freshly cured broadleaves. 
The main section remained turf, but evidently in summer other roofing could make 
do. Everywhere were reminders that this was but the summer interstice; the rest 
of the year was—Hell.
Therion was concluding his service: "Satan is my Shepherd; I shall not be 
satisfied..." Brother Paul hurried on. He had brought this answer to this 
colony, but he could not accept it. Satan might have commendable qualities, but 
surely...
The Swami's house was empty. Then where was Carolyn? She was not yet required to 
work, and the village school was not in session this day because the community 
had not yet agreed on the necessary revisions of texts to reflect the revealed 
reality of the God of Tarot. She must be taking a walk in the countryside, 
sorting out her own feelings. She knew she had to make a life of her own here, 
even if she could not accept it. He would find her.
She was not in the village. That meant she was out in the country. That bothered 
him; the wilderness was unsafe at best for any lone person and worse for a 
troubled child. Why had she risked herself so foolishly?
Why, indeed! Her whole life was in crisis; what did one extra hazard matter? 
Somehow he had to convince her that life was worthwhile... even life in Hell. 
Sure.
He found her in the afternoon on the steep eastern slope of Southmount, as the 
wind was stirring. He saw her small body on a ledge, the feet dangling over and 
swinging idly in little girl fashion. Suicide? No, she was not the type; she was 
merely comfortable there. But clouds were boiling up in the north, presaging 
another storm. These tempests seemed to be an almost daily occurrence, and they 
moved and spread rapidly—and brought unwanted Animation. Carolyn had to get off 
that mountain in the next few minutes!
Brother Paul ran to the foot of the nearer cone, getting pleasantly winded. He 
had neglected his exercises here on Planet Tarot!
The storm, racing him, loomed horrendously. Brother Paul could see the 
thunderhead of it shoving high into the sky, challengingly, a great black knob 
like the head of Satan, rotating its eyeless visage to bear upon this newly 
liberated settlement. Below, the shifting vapors showed the turbulence folding 
in on itself in living layers. This was a bad one!
"Get down from there!" he cried, doubting she could hear him from this distance 
over the swish of the fringe wind. But Carolyn looked down, her eyes bearing on 
him as the air tugged at her dress. Now she was aware of the threat. She 
scrambled onto the flat of the ledge, then started down, running fleetly along 
its broken slopes, hurdling the crevices with an agility that seemed foolhardy.
The wind stiffened. The first splats of rain struck the slope. This storm was 
straight from Northole; it would be carrying a full charge of Animation. Carolyn 
had to make it down before the effect distorted her perceptions. She could take 
a fatal fall!
Abruptly she stopped on a ledge about ten meters above Brother Paul's level. She 
screamed.
"Don't be frightened!" Brother Paul called. "Come down carefully, and we'll 
talk. Watch out for slippery rock where it's wet. I can control the visions—"
But she was pointing over his head. Alarmed, Brother Paul turned.
There was Bigfoot as huge and hairy as before.
"Stay up there!" Brother Paul cried to Carolyn. "I'll stop it from climbing." 
For there was no question of the monster's objective; it was heading not for 
Brother Paul, but for the nearest ramp ledge leading from the base toward 
Carolyn's perch. It was after her!
Brother Paul charged. He had no illusions after his prior encounter with this 
creature about his ability to beat it in physical combat. He had bested the 
Breaker, and the Breaker had balked Bigfoot—but it was also possible that 
Bigfoot had finally realized that Amaranth was not the woman it sought to kill, 
so had given up the attack. At any rate, Bigfoot's terrible mass and power would 
tell; judo could go far to equalize the imbalance, but at best the match was 
chancy. Brother Paul, in challenging this thing, was undertaking the fight of 
his life.
But he had to do it. Bigfoot had reached the foot of the cone and was starting 
up the ledge. Carolyn's frightened face poked over the edge, staring down. 
Bigfoot saw her and made that soul-chilling scream, and her face disappeared. 
All children of the human species had imaginary monsters that terrified them in 
the dark; Carolyn had a real one.
The wind intensified, buffeting the rock; Brother Paul hoped the child was 
bracing herself securely in some alcove so that she could not be dislodged. 
Bigfoot was not the only threat here!
He reached the ledge and ran up it. Bigfoot, quite agile, was negotiating the 
first bend. Brother Paul caught up, reaching for the creature's massive arm.
Bigfoot turned to face him, making that terrible swipe. But Brother Paul had 
anticipated this. He ducked under, caught that arm with both his own, and tried 
to heave the monster over his shoulder and off the face of the mountain.
Tried. For heave as he might, he could not budge Bigfoot. Despite the 
slick-smooth surface of the rock, the creature seemed to be rooted. What weight 
the thing must have to balk a throw of this power!
But if he didn't throw it now, he would be in Bigfoot's power, for he could not 
match its strength. Brother Paul threw his weight forward, his right arm 
extended in the uchi makikomi or inside wraparound throw. His own weight was 
leaning over the ledge, over a drop of about two meters, hauling Bigfoot's 
weight behind. This was one of the most powerful techniques in judo; the fall 
could knock the victim unconscious. Yet still Bigfoot resisted.
Brother Paul made his final effort. He twisted violently to the left, balanced 
on his left foot, and swept his right foot back against Bigfoot's leg in a hane 
motion. This should have lifted the creature right off the ledge and hurled the 
two of them to the ground below—but it didn't.
Now Bigfoot's hairy arms closed about him, squeezing. Brother Paul was lifted 
into the air, his feet dangling.
He jammed one elbow back, hard. It bounced off solid hide. He bent one knee and 
stomped backwards with his heel. The strike should have crushed tender 
anatomy—but it too bounced off harmlessly. He clutched at one of the hairy hands 
that pressed against his chest, seeking to hook one finger and bend it backwards 
until pain made the creature go—but the fingers were each like iron rods, 
immovable. He tried to shove his own two arms up and forward, forcing the 
enclosing arms apart so that he could drop free, but he could not get purchase. 
Bigfoot seemed invulnerable!
Now Brother Paul felt the breath of the monster on his neck. The thing was going 
to bite him!
Suddenly he had the inspiration of desperation. He could not overcome this thing 
physically—but maybe he could use Animation!
Brother Paul concentrated. He made himself resemble the Breaker.
Bigfoot reacted immediately, hurling away this dread infighter. Brother Paul 
sailed out over the ledge, oriented himself, and landed fairly neatly on his 
feet. It was a bone-shaking impact, but not a destructive one. Brother Paul 
absorbed the shock in his legs, fell forward, and took a rolling break-fall. 
This was not comfortable on this hard terrain—but a lot better than what Bigfoot 
had had in mind for him. As his back struck with a rolling impact it was 
cushioned by a cluster of Tarot Bubbles that skidded by; they popped all about 
him, releasing their gas.
He lurched back to his feet and looked for Bigfoot. The creature had resumed its 
climb, hugging the face of the rock so as to keep out of the buffeting wind. The 
rain remained light. Soon Bigfoot would reach Carolyn's ledge; then—
Brother Paul concentrated. The path in front of the monster became a void, 
dropping into an immeasurably deep chasm. Bigfoot halted, as well it might.
Now was the test: was this a stupid beast or a smart one? If the former, Brother 
Paul had it beaten—so long as the Animation effect lasted. He could show it a 
ledge that would drop it off the mountain. If the latter, Bigfoot would soon see 
through the ruse. That would mean real trouble.
The monster put one foot forward cautiously, one paw sliding along the cliff 
wall. The continuing ledge might be invisible to it, even unfeelable to it, but 
the substance was there and so there was no fall. So—Bigfoot was too smart to be 
fooled by illusion more than momentarily. That was bad. Still, its progress had 
been greatly impeded.
Could he conjure a sword and hurl it at the monster? The conjurations of the men 
at the mess hall, back at the outset, had been solid. But Brother Paul realized 
now that those would have been converted objects of the table, wooden bowls and 
such, rather than constructs of air. Anything solid in Animation had to have 
some solid basis; otherwise it was no more than an illusion that would have no 
substance when touched. Illusory knives would not faze Bigfoot much longer than 
the illusory void had.
Still, it was necessary to try. Brother Paul conjured a huge black winged hawk. 
The bird of prey dived on Bigfoot. But the monster ignored it. Such hawks were 
not native to this planet, so were obvjously fabrications. No luck there; the 
monster had human cunning.
How was he to stop Bigfoot? The thing was now halfway up the slope toward 
Carolyn, and once it got its paws on her, no illusion would help her. The 
Animations were losing their effect, and Brother Paul could not handle the 
creature physically. There were no convenient rocks here to throw, no suitable 
weapons. Nothing to adapt! Yet he could not let the thing get at Carolyn!
Only one thing seemed to offer a chance: Brother Paul had to fight it 
again—masking his location and intent by means of Animation. If Bigfoot could 
navigate a treacherous slope in a storm while under attack by an invisible 
enemy, then nothing could stop it.
One other notion. Brother Paul conjured an airplane towing a sky sign: 
HELP—SOUTHMOUNT. He sent it flying toward the village. If that Animation lasted, 
if the effect extended to the village, someone would see it, and then an armed 
party would have to investigate. They probably would not arrive in time, but at 
least it was a chance.
Now he conjured a group of Breakers. One by one they closed—and had no physical 
effect. Bigfoot had been fooled the first time; now it ignored Breakers. But one 
among that charging line was no phantom; it was Brother Paul in disguise. If he 
could get between the monster and the wall and shove outward, striking suddenly 
and by surprise—
Bigfoot was almost to Carolyn's ledge when Brother Paul caught up. The girl was 
cowering at the far edge of a level area; from there it was necessary either to 
climb up a meter—or down ten meters. The rock faces were slick with rain, and 
the wind was still gusting powerfully; it would be suicidal for her to attempt 
that route.
Before, she had foiled Bigfoot herself by making an Animation river the monster 
couldn't cross. This time she was too frightened to think of that—and the 
monster was not about to be fooled that way again anyway. It knew she was 
trapped.
The moment Brother Paul touched Bigfoot physically, the monster would recognize 
him—and that would be the end. Bigfoot was just too strong for him! Yet the 
thing's progress was inexorable—and now its eyes were fixed on the girl. No mock 
gulf or barrier would stop it, and she couldn't run. What to do?
Brother Paul concentrated. A wall of dancing yellow flames sprang up between 
monster and child. Bigfoot hesitated, then pushed through. Beyond—was nothing. 
The girl was gone.
Bigfoot paused, momentarily baffled—then made a human-sounding chuckle. It had 
caught on; Carolyn was there—but now she was invisible. Brother Paul had blotted 
her out via Animation. The monster cocked its head, listening.
Behind it, Brother Paul breathed hard, trying to drown out the sound of 
Carolyn's respiration. He hadn't learned how to control sounds yet. But that 
gave him away; now Bigfoot knew there was another person on the ledge. Brother 
Paul in his haste was making errors as fast as good moves. And time was running 
out.
There was a cry from below. It was Lee from the village. "What's going on up 
there? There's a storm breaking!"
"Bigfoot's after Carolyn!" Brother Paul cried. "I can't stop it!"
"I'm coming up there!" Lee cried.
"No! There isn't time! Find a weapon, rocks, anything!" But in his agony of 
indecision, Brother Paul had let his Animation fade. Carolyn reappeared.
Bigfoot uttered a harsh scream of victory. It charged.
Brother Paul charged after it, concentrating again. A second Carolyn appeared 
beside the first, then a third. "Move about!" he cried to her. "So it can't tell 
which one is you." But she was frozen by terror.
Bigfoot closed on the real one. One hairy arm went out, catching the girl, 
lifting her up. "Daddy!" she screamed despairingly.
Brother Paul struck. Headfirst, he butted Bigfoot in the belly. All his weight 
was behind it; the monster was shoved backward one step, two. Brother Paul 
assumed a new form as he straightened up within the grasp of Bigfoot, reaching 
for the child.
Bigfoot stared in almost human dismay. Then its rear foot, seeking the ledge, 
came down on nothing.
Brother Paul wrenched Carolyn from the monster's grasp as it fell. Bigfoot 
windmilled its arms but could not recover balance. It fell—ten meters to the 
base of the cliff.
Lee arrived on the ledge. He came to look down on the still monster. "My God!" 
he exclaimed. "It's the Swami!"
Brother Paul stared. It was the Swami—and he looked dead.
Carolyn had cried "Daddy!" Brother Paul had misunderstood the reference. She had 
recognized her natural father at the last moment. And so had Brother Paul, 
unconsciously; only the Swami's power of ki or kundalini could account for the 
strength Bigfoot had. The last form Brother Paul had assumed had been that of 
the Swami himself. Bigfoot, seeing its alter ego, had been amazed—and had made 
that one careless misstep that had doomed it.
Brother Paul had killed Carolyn's real father.
"Come away from here, dear," Lee murmured, putting his arm around Carolyn. Her 
face a dry-eyed mask, she yielded. Dully, Brother Paul watched them go, 
experiencing déjà vu. This had happened before, this departure of man and girl 
from horror—at the gate of Hell.
And this was Hell too—and this was real.
 
Brother Paul paced alone in Reverend Siltz's cabin, waiting for his honor guard 
to accompany him to the mattermission capsule station. His mission here was 
over, his personal entanglements abated—but his depression had not lifted. If 
only he had achieved the wisdom of experience sooner, before he killed his 
daughter's true father! The signals had been there had he had the wit to 
interpret them correctly. The Swami, a serious man, intolerant of other 
religions, possessing strong psychic power, was unable to accept his wife's 
refusal to convert to his own faith. At the Animation fringe his savage and 
bestial rage had assumed physical shape—perhaps the result of intensive positive 
feedback. Anger, guilt, madness: Animation could be a destructive drug like 
heroine, cocaine, LSD, or mnem, abolishing the human mind's natural curbs and 
loosing monsters. How right the Swami had been in his initial warning: there was 
special danger in Animation. The Swami had known whereof he spoke first hand.
Yet Brother Paul could not believe the man had been evil. The Swami had 
evidently taken good care of Carolyn during his human phase; had his 
transformation into Bigfoot been conscious? Probably not. Had the Swami been a 
criminal, he would not have needed the assistance of Animation to kill his wife 
and daughter. Animation might seem to lend a special ability, as with Therion 
and his judo skill when he played the monster Apollyon, but that had really been 
Brother Paul's doing; he had credited Therion with a talent the man actually 
lacked, and played along governed by the role. The skill that the Swami had had, 
in contrast had been genuine. Bigfoot's enormous size and mass were of course 
Animation enhanced, but the ki that had balked Brother Paul's attacks was 
inherent. Had the Swami's psychic power been directed in the area of aura, as 
Brother Paul's was, the Swami could have been a similar magician in Animation. 
But he had focused on one thing only: Bigfoot. This had been the man's private 
war between the conscious and unconscious minds, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, two 
irreconcilable attitudes. Schizophrenia. Satan only knew how deep religious 
currents ran in some individuals! Brother Paul knew he would never understand 
the full nature of the Swami's motivation. To seek to kill one's own offspring—!
Now the child was doubly orphaned. Her mother had been killed, her natural 
father had become a monster, and her Animation adopted father a murderer. 
Justifiable homicide, legally, or self defense; Lee had been witness to Brother 
Paul's good intent. But in the eyes of Carolyn—
There was a measured knock on the door. Time to go. Brother Paul opened it—and 
there stood Lee. "Oh—I thought it would be—"
"Soon, not yet," Lee replied gravely. "I regret bracing you with a personal 
concern at this time, but I have no choice."
"Come in, sit down!" Brother Paul said heartily. "I am in the depths of a 
depression and need distraction though I may not deserve it. I failed my 
mission, wreaked religious havoc on this colony, and orphaned an innocent child. 
Planet Tarot deserved better!"
Lee faced him squarely. He was a handsome man whose strong character showed in 
his manner. He did indeed seem Christlike. "Who in Hell do you think you're 
fooling?" he asked evenly.
Brother Paul almost laughed at the incongruity. Yet in the context of the 
Animations, Christ and Hell were compatible. "I hope to fool nobody. I will make 
an honest report, buttressed by the holographic recording I was required to 
make, and then return to my Order of Vision station to seek what respite I am 
able from my conscience. I would apologize to you and the others of this Planet, 
if that were not ludicrously insufficient."
Lee shook his head. "I sent myself to Hell, and I deserved to go. You brought me 
out by showing me the error of my thinking, acquainting me with my true sin and 
exorcising it. Now it seems you have sent yourself to Hell—and it falls on me to 
return the favor. Paul, you succeeded in your mission, brought this colony the 
answer it demanded and deserved, and released a wonderful girl from certain 
death. I saw you in Hell and came to know you as well as a stranger can. You are 
determined and true, a great and good man, the closest approach to a living 
saint I know."
This time Brother Paul did laugh. "Hyperbole will get you nowhere! I daresay the 
truth is somewhere between the extremes we two have described. I once heard it 
said that truth is a shade of gray."
Lee smiled. "Or of brown. I will never forget what you did for me. You broadened 
my perspective and restored my faith when I doubted it sorely. Because of you, I 
questioned tenets of my religion I had never thought to question before and 
learned that Jesus would not have acted as I had. In fact, through you I came to 
understand Jesus Christ in a deep and personal manner. He will always be with 
me, henceforth; I bear the stigmata of his presence. I know now that a man's 
soul cannot be judged by his race—and I will exercise such powers as I can 
muster to have that doctrine of my Church revised. Yea, I will preach even the 
Parable of the Good Nigger—for you are that man."
"Thank you," Brother Paul said, uncertain whether to smile or frown. Just as the 
derogatory term "black" had come in the mid-twentieth century to be a mark of 
pride for those affected, so had the term "nigger" by the turn of the century. 
The same thing had happened earlier with the "Quakers" and no doubt would happen 
in future centuries too. Perhaps one day "Hell" would be an analogy for 
spiritual enlightenment. Perhaps that had already happened.
"And that brings me to my immediate business with you," Lee continued. "Your 
daughter necessarily also has black ancestry—"
"Carolyn? She is not my daughter; in reality she has red ancestry. The Swami was 
Amerind, not Asiaind."
"Oh?" Lee said, surprised. "The Mormons have compassion for Amerinds, who are 
the descendants of the early Israelite colonies of America. But this is 
irrelevant. I do this neither to show my freedom from the racial bias I carried 
into Hell nor to test it; I mention it only to clarify that without your 
intercession I would have been unable to consider it."
"Consider what?" Brother Paul asked, confused.
"The merging of the races of man."
"I must be of slow wit this morning. I don't follow—"
"She has no father now but you, and so it is to you I must, according to the 
custom of this Planet, make petition for—"
"Please stop!" Brother Paul said, pained. "I have no authority of any kind over 
Carolyn! Even her name is a construct of my ignorance; she must assume her own 
name. I am about to leave this planet."
"Yes. That is why I had to ask you now, for she is as yet underage and of a 
foreign faith. I would not change that faith, but will compromise in the manner 
shown by Reverend Siltz and—"
Brother Paul's brows furrowed. "Underage for what!"
"Sir," Lee said formally. "I humbly request permission to take your daughter's 
hand in matrimony."
Stunned, Brother Paul could only stutter. "You—you—"
"I was, among other roles, Herald the Healer of the far future. She was Psyche. 
Suddenly I knew that I loved her, and that love had been growing from the time 
of her act of courage in becoming a Watcher of the Animations, and that I had to 
have her though Hell itself bar the union. When I saw Bigfoot about to kill 
her—"
Still overwhelmed by the chaos of his emotions, Brother Paul lurched to his feet 
and stumbled outside.
Carolyn stood there, as he had somehow expected. She wore a sleek white dress, 
and her hair was elegantly braided and looped like a diadem. She resembled a 
fairy princess—no longer a child. For an instant Brother Paul saw Psyche, 
writhing in the terrible flame, the sacrificial child bride: a soul-searing 
image, yet indicative of the new reality. Little girls did grow up, and the jump 
from age twelve to age thirteen could be a giant one.
"Daddy!" she cried and flung herself into his arms in much the way Jeanette had 
gone to the Reverend Siltz. Child yesterday—woman tomorrow.
"Yes!" he cried, hugging her close, joy bursting upon him like the light of a 
nova. "Yes, Carolyn, yes—marry him! There is not a finer man on the planet! You 
will never burn, you will never suffer fear again, you will never be alone! You 
will make your own family, needing no other!"
She kissed him gently and disengaged. Through the blur of his tears Brother Paul 
saw Lee standing beside them. He caught Lee's hand—and saw the spot, the mark of 
the puncture of the nail. The stigmata of Christ. Only a scar, yet—
He set Carolyn's hand in Lee's, aware of his own intense relief. Now he knew she 
would be well cared for! "With my blessing," he said, squeezing their hands 
together.
There was a smattering of applause. Brother Paul blinked—and saw Reverend Siltz 
and his wife, and beside them Jeanette and a young man who favored Siltz in a 
meek way, and Therion and Amaranth and the rest of the villagers.
"It is time to march to the mattermitter," Siltz said.
"Bless you all," Brother Paul said, his depression abating.
 
Alone in the mattermission capsule, Brother Paul laid down his mock-up Animation 
Tarot cards on the crate of Bubbles in a game of Accordion. Each card had only 
its Triumph or suit and number designation notes; there were no illustrations. 
This makeshift deck was not pretty, but it satisfied his present purpose. In his 
mind's eye he saw the symbols as they had been in the Waldens deck, and as they 
would be in the Cluster deck.
He was playing this game because otherwise the sudden loneliness would overwhelm 
him. What he had experienced here, in person and in Animation—forever finished.
The Ghost Triumph came up. From its blank surface a film spread out and up, 
solidifying in air. It swelled, extending a pseudopod to touch the floor. Soon a 
substantial mass of protoplasm rested there. "Salutation, human friend," it 
signaled.
"Hello, Antares," Brother Paul said. "Good to meet you again."
"It was an intriguing adventure, much relief of tedium," Antares said. "This is 
a marvelous deck of concepts you are living."
"The Animation Tarot? Did you really participate?"
"In Animation, yes. Your aura made this possible. And your imagination. Perhaps 
there was an affinity of effects because both aura enhancement and Animation 
derive ultimately from the science of the Ancients. But you were the one who 
reunified them. Do you realize that this experience relates most closely to your 
deck of concepts?"
"My experience?"
"Your world sets the stage with its folly of matter-mission. The other cards 
follow in sequence, right until this present aspect of your wisdom. You have 
become a savant, more experienced in this unique area than others of your kind. 
Now you go forward toward Completion."
"You mean I did not discover the Original Tarot?" Brother Paul asked, troubled. 
"I merely translated my own life into the cards?"
"Not at all. Your life reflects the original Tarot, as all lives do. But for you 
it has been more dramatic than usual and more artistic. Even the five suits have 
direct force as segments of your adventure. This Tarot of yours will spread 
across the Cluster, affecting many alien civilizations and finally saving the 
Cluaster itself from disaster."
Brother Paul smiled. "So the Animation suggested. But we have no way of knowing 
such a thing, alien friend. It was merely our imaginations functioning."
"I confess that much of the futuristic detail was my doing," Antares replied. 
"The culture of Sphere Nath, for example. But not all of it. There was an 
element that cannot be accounted for by rational means."
"Meaning this was all one big fantasy," Brother Paul said. "Yet I would never 
trade the experience for another. My life has been marked by what passed on 
Planet Tarot." Lee wore his stigmata on his body; Brother Paul wore his on his 
soul.
"I'm sure it has. But I do not believe it was fantasy. I prefer to call that 
unknown element the handiwork of God in whatever manner He may choose to 
manifest. In fact I am inclined to agree with the thesis of the Tarot Temple 
that all forms of God and all faiths are valid."
"The Tarot Temple..." Brother Paul repeated. Could he really be about to found 
anything like that? Surely not!
"When I was Herald the Healer, sharing the role with your son-in-law, I learned 
the history record of your life. You were quite famous as an ancient figure, in 
the forty-fifth century of the birth of your Jesus of Christ. You popularized 
the Cluster Tarot and the notion that true belief, rather than its particular 
form, was the essence of faith and that no religion should question the mode or 
precepts of any other. The Temple of Tarot was formed in your name, perhaps 
after your death, and every novice had to experience the Animation record of 
your adventure on Planet Tarot. You were called the Patriarch of Tarot."
"Over my dead body," Brother Paul said tolerantly. "Does your imaginative memory 
of my future also tell you what happened to my little girl in the airline 
terminal?"
Antares considered. "No, that detail was lost to history. But I am certain no 
bad thing happened to her, for she grew up to illustrate the Animation cards 
most prettily. I conjecture that the normal prediction of that vision was 
interrupted by the role player's imposition of her own concerns so that the 
sequence became invalid at that point. Probably the real Carolyn remained with 
you throughout, and the two of you returned to your wife, her mother, without 
further event."
What wife? "That is a comfort to know," Brother Paul said. "Tell me, 
friend—since you manifest only in Animation or mattermission, will I ever meet 
you again? I don't expect to make any more such trips."
"This is unknown," Antares responded. "But since you are conveying a sample of 
the Animation Bubbles to Earth, you may experience the effect again, and if you 
think of me at that time I shall be with you."
"But how will I know it is you, and not just a wish fulfillment?"
There was no answer. Brother Paul found himself looking at his Ghost card—the 
symbol of the unknown. The trip was over.
Yet the significance remained, which the colonists had rejected but, it seemed, 
future civilization accepted: All faiths were valid. If that were so, why not 
his faith in his friend, the alien Antares?
 
IX
Completion: 28
I can hear the ministers, the priests, the rabbis, now screaming in their 
God-given robes that God can demand the life of any man, that we must all give 
our lives to God, offer ourselves up to His trust, do what He tells us to do in 
the "Good" books, which strangely enough are all written in the language of 
men... But if we smash God in the grinning face, slip out of the way of that 
religiously swinging knife, trip Him and slip away to live for a few more days, 
escape again and again, cunningly slide from His grasp and disappear from His 
view, slip around Him, over Him, under Him, hanging onto our lives at all costs, 
then when He finally does get us, and He will, for everything is so much 
mightier than one thing, then He will have the sacrifice of a worthy opponent, a 
man who never asked for pity, who succumbed at the end in spite of himself, and 
lingering on in the absence of a body will be the gigantic spirit of one man's 
effort to belong to no one but himself, whole and complete, memorable even in 
defeat, distinguished even in death, leaving the ghostly presence of his pride, 
his will to be, his hatred of death and all ends, and this Holy Ghost will give 
the future such a forceful start it will be off and running before God can kill 
it again.
—James Drought: The Secret, Norwalk, Conn. Skylight Press, 1963.
 
Brother Paul expected complications of debriefing, but these were few. Bored 
clerks took his recording equipment, and a physician checked his vital signs. 
"You have suffered some physical regression, Father, but it is not serious. Get 
a few good nights sleep, exercise a little, eat well and you'll be back to norm 
quickly enough."
He was dressed and on his way to the next office before it registered. Father! 
He must have misheard.
"We are through with you," the clerk said. "The computer is analyzing your 
holographic record now; we will be in touch if any clarification is required." 
Obviously neither clerk nor computer had any notion what was in that record; to 
them, this was mere routine. Brother Paul wanted to get out of here and into the 
hinterland before anyone was disabused! "Where will we be able to reach you?"
"I will report first to my superior, the Right Reverend Father Crowder of the 
Holy Order of Vision," Brother Paul said. "His address is in your records. Then 
I expect to return to my own Station and start catching up on backlogged chores. 
They must be just about out of wood by now." But the clerk did not smile; he was 
hardly paying attention. He was making his notes on a slip of paper. Brother 
Paul was reminded of the old definition of lecturing: a system whereby the 
material passed from the notes of the instructor to the notes of the student 
without going through the mind of either. "You will be able to reach me through 
the Right Reverend."
"Good enough," the clerk agreed, marking "RR" on his slip. He smiled. "Good 
luck, Father."
Was he back in Animation? Brother Paul shook his head, accepted the travel 
voucher, caught the electric bus, and in four hours was met by the Right 
Reverend himself. "Welcome back to Earth, Father Paul. I trust you are well?"
"I seem to be having some difficulty readjusting to reality. By what title did 
you address me, Reverend?"
"I shall clarify the situation succinctly," Rt. Rev. Crowder said briskly. "The 
Holy Order of Vision is expanding rapidly. It seems that the accelerating 
deceleration of our culture resulting from the colonization program creates an 
insatiable need for our type of ministry. No doubt the tide of social history 
will turn in due course, and we shall have to contract again, but at the moment 
we are desperately in need of competent organizers for new Stations. We must 
provide service where service is needed; that has always been our mission. In 
certain cases we have been forced to waive normal requirements. You have 
excellent recommendations, and your performance on this extraterrestrial mission 
did not diminish your prospects. You have suffered promotion, Father Paul."
"My performance!" Father (what a strange ring to that word; he was not sure he 
liked it) Paul exclaimed. "How would you know of that?"
"Mere survival would have been sufficient; the promotion was in the works before 
you departed this planet. But since we are the parent institution for this 
project, we received an immediate computer statement, unedited," Rt. Rev. 
Crowder explained. "In only four hours I could not of course do more than skim 
it—but that sampling was enough to convince me that you are a remarkable man. 
You have, it appears, identified God."
"No!" Father Paul cried. "I cannot accept that!"
"Oh, the holographs are quite specific, and so are the supplementary data. You 
might be interested to know that the technicians ran a check on the 
mattermission circuitry and discovered an imbalance corresponding to the 
postulated 'aura' of the alien visitor who brought to Earth the secret of 
mattermission. And the Extraterrestrial Chemistry Laboratory has been locked 
into absolute security by your sample of 'Tarot Bubbles.' Thus to the extent we 
can verify it your experience has objective bases. I am convinced that you did 
encounter Satan."
Father Paul was afraid to ask how much of that holographic record would be made 
available to outsiders. He opposed censorship, but in this case he was tempted. 
"But I went in search of God, not Satan!"
"There is no question Satan answered the prayers of the colonists," the Rt. Rev. 
Crowder continued. "They wanted relief from the rigors of the planetary climate. 
They shall have it now. Planet Tarot is about to be declared proscribed; the 
Colonization Computer has declared Animation to be too dangerous for human use. 
All people there are to be resettled on other planets. The bureaucracy can move 
rapidly when it has to."
"They're destroying the colony?" Brother Paul asked, aghast. "All the people in 
all the villages of the planet?"
"Satan does not pussyfoot, as you well know."
"But this was not necessary to—"
"Do not be so shocked, Paul. There is no sacrilege here. Satan is but the nether 
face of God."
"The nether face of God!" Father Paul exclaimed.
"There is and can be only one God—but He has many aspects. For those people who 
are unready to face Him in His Heavenly phase, He makes available one for their 
level. There need be no mystery about this. In fact, Christianity draws its 
dualism from the Gnostics: the belief that all things are dual. Black versus 
white, good versus bad, God versus Satan. Just as two sexes facilitate the 
evolution of species, it seems that two facets of deity facilitate the evolution 
of conscience. Through this constant interaction we are tested and improved 
until we are more than we might have been. Just as women complement men, to 
their confusion and advantage, Satan complements God."
"But everything had a rational explanation! There was nothing to show that the 
intercession of any Higher Power was necessary or that there was really any 
distinction between good and evil. In the framework of the intergalactic 
civilization of the Ancients—"
The Rt. Reverend looked at him shrewdly. "You do not regard these factors as 
products of your imagination?"
"I—" Father Paul hesitated, trying to marshal his mixture of thought and 
emotion. "You said yourself there is objective evidence for the existence of 
Antares in the—"
"I did indeed. I believe in the authenticity of your vision, Paul. I merely am 
verifying whether you believe in it yourself."
Again Father Paul hesitated. "I do believe—though it led me to Satan or to the 
renunciation of any concept of deity. I realize that makes me unfit for the 
promotion you have proffered or for any place in the Holy Order of Vision, and I 
regret intensely failing you in this way. But I must act on what I believe."
"And can you inform me what science or technology makes possible a divinatory 
look into the future?" the Rt. Reverend inquired. "And when you met Satan and 
were physically picked up by Him and consumed—what planetary reality accounted 
for that?"
"I cannot explain these things," Father Paul admitted. "I can only affirm that I 
believe in them."
"And so does your holograph—and the Colonization Computer, and a growing army of 
technicians," the Rt. Reverend said. "I believe them too. How would you explain 
the fantastic coincidence of the single man with the most potent aura among this 
species—being the one assigned to the planet where aura controls Animation?"
"I—" Father Paul began, baffled.
"I submit to you that there is only one agency that can reasonably account for 
the totality of your experience. What name would you put on that Great Unknown?"
"Why, that could only be—" The concept dwarfed his ability to express it. "I—saw 
God?" Father Paul asked numbly. Suddenly things were falling into place. Could 
all that precession have guided him accurately after all? "But God would not 
destroy the entire colony!"
"I offer a rationale," the Rt. Rev. Crowder said. "Let us surmise that, for the 
benefit of the Universe or at least the Galactic Cluster, it is necessary to 
educate a series of sapient entities in a very special way. High-Kirlian-Aura 
creatures to be suitable tools, perhaps fashioned from imperfect clay, yet 
tailored to the need. Call them Herald the Healer, or Melody of Mintaka, or 
Flint of Outworld—or Paul of Tarot. Perhaps even Jesus of Christ. Assume that 
these entities, properly prepared, will set in motion currents that will in the 
course of several millennia preserve the entire Cluster from needless and ironic 
destruction. As by devising or reconstituting a deck of cards whose images evoke 
key understandings on critical occasions—"
"Ridiculous!" Father Paul snapped.
The Rt. Reverend smiled. "No doubt. I certainly will not repeat such fancies to 
others. But were such a thing conceivably the case—would not the viability of a 
single colony planet be a trifling price to pay? We question God's purposes at 
our peril."
Father Paul put his hand to the pocket where he carried his mocked-up Animation 
Tarot deck. Could such a thing be true? "In that case," he said, awed, "God does 
exist—and this is His will."
"Is it not better to believe that—than to renounce your prior faith in Him?"
"Yes!" Father Paul exclaimed, as his balked belief was undammed. Undamned. 
Suddenly he felt whole again.
The Rt. Rev. Father smiled again. "Rest assured that neither this discussion nor 
the holographic record will be put into general circulation. The Colonization 
Computer, I am sure, is even now classifying the whole matter Absolute Satanic 
Secret, and I expect my copy of the holograph to be confiscated shortly. I only 
want you to know that I believe it was God's will that you be subjected to this 
experience, this tempering of your spirit in Hell, and that you surely acquitted 
yourself in a manner satisfactory to Him. It is easy to be noble and chaste when 
one is not subjected to stress and temptation and alteration of consciousness 
You were Everyman; you were flawed, yet survived. Thereby, you justify the 
species and perhaps the form that life has taken in this segment of the 
Universe. Life with aura."
"Thank you," Father Paul murmured, not feeling noble or chaste.
Rt. Rev. Crowder made a gesture of subject dismissal. "There is another matter. 
The Holy Order of Vision is, as I mentioned, expanding. This is not from any 
missionary zeal on our part, but because we appear to answer a need of the 
contemporary society in crisis. But I repeat myself, I fear. My point is that it 
is important for attrition of our competent officers to be minimized."
"Of course," Father Paul agreed, uncertain where this was leading.
"I trust you will agree that the Reverend Mother Mary is competent."
The relevance became uncomfortably clear. "Yes! She helped lead me out of the 
darkness of my prior ignorance. But she would never leave—"
Rt. Rev. Crowder shook his head. "She has given notice."
Father Paul was shocked. "Her faith in God is absolute, not subject to 
vacillation like mine! She—"
"She wishes to leave the Holy Order of Vision. She is carrying on only until we 
arrange a replacement for her Station. It occurred to me that you might have 
some insight into her problem."
"I? No, I—" Father Paul broke off, dismayed. "You didn't promote me to take her 
job!"
"No, no, of course not! Not directly at any rate. She was due for rotation to a 
new Station anyway, so your assumption of the office at the familiar Station is 
appropriate for your first assignment. But since you know her better than I do, 
I thought it would be appropriate if you spoke to her before she left. I hardly 
need to stress the importance of persuading her to remain with us. She has been 
one of the very finest of our young officers, but I am thinking not merely of 
the welfare of the Order, but of Mary herself. I do not believe she would be 
happy in another occupation."
"No, she would not," Father Paul agreed. "The Order is her whole life. This—this 
is not like her!" He shook his head, troubled. "I had looked forward to working 
with her again. Do you have any hint why she—?"
The Rt. Rev. Crowder frowned. "Her personal file is available to me, of course, 
as is yours. I am aware of the manner you came to the Holy Order of Vision. I 
know you were converted by Sister Beth before she—"
"I killed her," Father Paul said. "You know this, yet you promote me—"
"You, like her, were a victim of circumstance. All of us have enough sin on our 
consciences without exaggerating the significance of events beyond our control. 
My point is this: we of the Holy Order of Vision know our members rather well, 
particularly those in whom we see special promise. Most of our people are rather 
literally from the gutter. 7 am. I have blood on my hands, and a micro-lobotomy 
scar on my brain. Like you, I failed my final test; but it was society, not 
Satan, that brought me to justice. It is a cruel world we live in. Hell, in 
fact. But it is Hell, not Heaven, that most needs social workers. Therefore, 
your own past history does not surprise or shock me. What matters is your 
present state—which I believe is the point you made to the Mormon. Mary was a 
similar convert."
"This I can not believe!"
"Your naivete becomes you, Paul. You have spent all your life in Hell and have 
hardly seen it. I shall not betray the details of Mary's prior existence or how 
she came to us. You have seen what a jewel she became. I only want to clarify 
that had she been allowed to undertake the Planet Tarot mission, the Animations 
would have been no more comfortable for her than they were for you."
"Allowed? You mean she—"
"Mary volunteered for the mission, yes. We forbade it because we felt she lacked 
the physical stamina necessary. And so we subjected her to the double indignity 
of assigning you instead."
"She—she suspected what it would be like?"
"Yes. And I rather think she suffers from guilt for sending you—much as you 
suffered guilt for releasing Sister Beth to the police. Fortunately you 
survived, vindicating my judgment—and I think if you were to talk to Mary—"
"Yes! Yes, of course," Father Paul agreed. "She need feel no guilt on my 
account!"
"I was sure you would understand," the Right Reverend Father Crowder said. But 
his smile was enigmatic.
 
Brother Paul's route home differed from his one to the mattermitter so long ago 
in experience. This too was Order policy: to seek new territory even when only 
passing through, rather than retrace steps. Thus he found himself one night at 
the Tribe of the Picts. Whether they really resembled the original Gaelics or 
Celts of Europe was questionable, but he was too diplomatic to evince 
skepticism.
Their Chief was naked, his torso stained blue and green and horrendously 
tattooed: obviously a matter of great pride. "Seldom have I encountered such 
handsome art," Father Paul said tactfully.
"Welcome to our hospitality," the naked artist said appreciatively. "But Father, 
if you would—my child is sick—"
"I am not a doctor—" Father Paul said cautiously.
"We have doctors; they have been unable to help. They say she needs a hospital, 
X-rays, blood transfusion, diagnostics, drugs—" He faced Father Paul. "It is a 
long ride to civilization. She will die before we can get her to such help!"
"I will look at her," Father Paul said. One problem with this retreating 
technology was the return of ancient killers, increasing child mortality. 
Diseases of inattention and malsanitation and ignorance. The Picts were far from 
civilization—in a number of ways.
The child lay on a cot in a dark hut. As he came to her, Father Paul had another 
siege of déjà vu. Had he been here before? Not in this century surely!
She was certainly sick. She was about ten, her face wizened by pain, the rind of 
old vomit at the corners of her mouth. Malnutrition was probably a complicating 
factor, as it had been in medieval times. He reminded himself again that this 
was not intentional child neglect; primitives simply didn't know what good diet 
was or what a healthy environment was. Probably the doctors had tried to tell 
the Chief—but there was only so much any person could say in such a situation if 
he wished to keep his own health. Father Paul would make a prescription that 
might balance her intake somewhat if he were able to help her through this 
crisis;;/he helped her, her father might pay attention.
Her skin was pale, almost translucent. She needed light and attention—and love. 
Where was her mother? Someone to hold her and tell her stories and listen to her 
little joys and tribulations. True primitives centered their lives around their 
children, but these modern regressed people hadn't put it all together yet. 
Their families were likely to be destroyed along with their prior livelihoods. 
Different people regressed at different rates in different ways. It was Hell on 
marriages. He would have to make a prescription in that area too.
Yet it would all be academic if she were too far gone. First he had to catch his 
rabbit.
He sat beside her, taking one burning little hand. "Pretty child, I love you. 
Your father loves you. God loves you. Wake and be well." He put his other hand 
on her forehead and prayed silently: God, help this child. Bring her out of 
Hell.
His aura flowed through her body—that aura others said was one of the strongest 
known. This was not Animation of external appearances, but attempted animation 
of something more important: the will to live. He had to form a new self-image 
within her to make her believe that her illness was an illusion to be banished, 
that she, like the Christian Scientists, could conquer—if she had faith.
And—she healed. Her fever dropped, her tension eased, and she woke. He felt her 
consciousness rising through her modest aura, drawing strength from his 
strength, his love. Her eyes opened, bright blue. She smiled.
"From this day forward," the Chief said from behind Father Paul, his voice 
trembling with emotion, "this Tribe worships your God."
"My God is Love," Father Paul said.
Then the reaction struck him. He had healed her! He had touched her, willed her 
to live, called on God, and used his aura in a new way to make this child 
well—just as Herald the Healer had done in the far future and Jesus Christ in 
the near past.
The ability he had realized in Animation—remained with him in life. He was now a 
Healer.
 
The Station was poignantly familiar with its windmill and conservative 
buildings. Father Paul had to remind himself that he had been away only a 
fortnight or so, though he had roamed back and forth through some five thousand 
years in that interim. From the Buddha to the Amoeba!
Brother Peter emerged from the kitchen as he passed. "Congratulations, Father!" 
he exclaimed. "Go right on to the Reverend's office; she's expecting you."
Father Paul lingered a moment over the handshake. "Brother—how is she? I have 
heard she is not well."
Brother Peter glanced down at their merged hands. "There is something about 
you—some power—"
"The power of a renewed faith in God," Father Paul said. He did not care to 
explain about the aura at this time. "But about the Reverend—"
"Father, I'm sure you can handle it." And that was all Brother Peter would say.
Father Paul went to the office, though he was somewhat grimy from the trek. This 
was where his mission had started a world and time ago; it was appropriate that 
it also terminate here. He paused at the door, nervously rehearsing his 
arguments: how she could do so much more good within the Order than without it; 
how she had done him no disfavor by sending him to Planet Tarot. but instead had 
greatly facilitated his self-discovery; how the Right Reverend Father had spoken 
well of her performance in office; and how the Order needed her services now 
more than ever in this crisis of its expansion. He would not mention what he had 
learned of her pre-Order past of course; that would not be diplomatic, though it 
provided her with a human dimension in his mind that she had lacked before. 
Instead of an angel, she was an angelic woman: a significant distinction. But he 
would try his best to persuade her to remain. Yes.
He opened the door and stepped into the small office as he had before. She was 
standing by her desk, facing away from him, a stunningly forlorn figure. What 
had happened to her?
"Mary," he said, experiencing a rush of strange emotion. That had not been what 
he meant to say!
"Paul, I know what case you mean to make," she said, her voice partly muffled. 
"But my decision has been made. I only want to explain the mechanisms of the 
office and to congratulate you on—"
Something about her—the Animation scene of Dante's Paradiso, where—"Mary, face 
me," he said gently.
Slowly she turned about, not bothering to dab the tears from her cheeks. "You 
are safe. God bless you."
God bless you. Father Paul studied her face, recognizing only now what he had 
been unable to see before. She was the angel he had been questing for all 
through the Animations! No wonder he had never really acquiesced to Amaranth's 
advances. Amaranth had been at best a surrogate figure, standing in lieu of the 
woman he really loved. During his whole adventure in Animation he had been 
searching for—what he had left behind. The girl next door. Yet he had not dared, 
even in imagination, to hope that this ideal woman could ever be his.
And what made him suppose anything had changed? She had never given any hint of 
romantic interest in him; she had always been completely proper as befitted her 
position. It was difficult to believe that her pre-Order history could have been 
as checkered as his; she had to be of a higher plane. Now, upset at what she 
thought had been a bad decision on her part, did she propose to return to that 
lesser prior life?
He wanted to cry out his suddenly discovered love, but could not. What a fool he 
would be to suppose that this angel would ever consider his suit! To speak it 
would be to invite a polite, gentle, half-apologetic demurral: her attempt to 
set him straight without hurting his feelings. Despite her own pressing problem, 
she would make this effort out of the decency in her heart. To touch her would 
be to destroy her as he had destroyed Sister Beth—even if he only touched her 
with a word. He had no right!
Yet—why was she crying? He had never seen her in such open distress, such loss 
of equilibrium; he had never known there were tears in her. If it had been 
concern for him while on the dangerous mission she had been denied, she was now 
absolved. He had survived, he had grown, he had returned! If it was her sadness 
at resigning the Order, why was she doing it? There had to be something else.
"Mary, will you tell me what grieves you?" he asked. "If it is the loss of your 
Station here, I will gladly renounce the office. I know I can not measure up to 
the standard you have maintained. I will go away from here—"
Her voice was now normal, controlled, in contrast to her eyes. "Do not do that, 
Paul. I am glad for your success. I apologize for losing control; it ill becomes 
the occasion." She paused. Then: "You have seen God."
And she had not? She was not the type to envy him that! Still there was 
something unclear here, yet vital.
He thought of his new Tarot. Could it help him? No, he had to work this out 
alone. He had made the wrong decision with Sister Beth, a girl he hardly knew. 
How much more critical was this decision! Should he risk all by professing his 
love for Mary openly—or by concealing it? He could not bear to see her this way, 
so inexplicably tearful—yet he could not afford to aggravate the situation by 
making another error.
There was only one thing to do. Father Paul dropped to his knees to pray to God 
for the answer.
Opposite him, the Reverend Mother Mary did the same.
God of Tarot, God of Earth, God of my experience—show me the way! he prayed in 
silence.
God did not speak to him. God never had—not this way. Should he pray instead to 
Satan? The Devil was always responsive!
No! God and Satan might be one, and there might be no such thing as Evil—but he 
had to orient on the aspect he believed in. The God of Good, of Right, of Love. 
Thy Will be done.
Mary spoke. "I see you are troubled, Paul. It is not right to conceal my concern 
from you; God tells me that. I will tell it simply. I—had visions relating to 
you during your absence. It was at times as though I was a—a siren, a harlot, a 
temptress, as once I was before I found God. An evil creature, luring you into 
error in thought and action. Your heart and eye were fixed on God, but I was the 
agent of Satan, leading you to Hell itself, balking at nothing, using strange 
Tarot cards—" She hesitated, weeping. "I never suspected such depths of 
depravity remained in me. I must get out of your life forever. May God forgive 
me my sin against you!"
Father Paul opened his eyes and stared across the gulf that separated him from 
Mary. Her eyes remained closed, and her face was now in repose, hauntingly 
familiar in a new way. She had made her confession—without comprehending its 
true nature. She had suffered a psychic linkage with him during his Animations! 
She thought Amaranth's mischief and Therion's stemmed from her own imagination 
and will. She could not know that what was false to her was, paradoxically, true 
to him. She had seen Satan—and he recognized it as God.
What quirk could have linked their minds across the light years? No known force 
could explain it, other than God's will—expressed through the force of love.
She loved him!
He studied her face with new understanding. Mary had shared his experience. He 
would need to keep no secrets from her, hide no shame. She had seen him at his 
worst—and tried to absorb the evil to herself.
"And did you also stand before the Cross as Jesus was crucified?" he inquired 
gently. "And in the Tenth Heaven of Paradiso?"
"That too," she agreed, not comprehending. How blessed was her innocence!
In this calm pose she reminded him strangely of—
Like another nova burst, it came to him. Of Carolyn! His daughter of Animation! 
Not to the child actress, now bound with her fiancee for some distant colony 
planet where religion would not be so bad a problem and Animation would be no 
problem at all. Rather, to the one he had accompanied on the airplane, 
revisiting his old college, ten years hence. To the one he had struggled to save 
from death in the fourteenth century. His real daughter—or daughter-to-be.
This was the mother of that child.
Father Paul reached across and took Mary's hand, letting his aura heal her.
The God of Tarot had answered.
 
Appendix: ANIMATION TAROT
The Animation Tarot deck of concepts as recreated by Brother Paul of the Holy 
Order of Vision consists of thirty Triumphs roughly equivalent to the twenty-two 
Trumps of contemporary conventional Tarot decks, together with five variously 
tilted suits roughly equivalent to the four conventional suits plus Aura. Each 
suit is numbered from one through ten, with the addition of four "Court" cards. 
The thirty Triumphs are represented by the table of contents of this novel, and 
keys to their complex meanings and derivations are to be found within the 
applicable chapters. For convenience the Triumphs are presented below, followed 
by a tabular representation of the suits, with their meanings or sets of 
meanings (for upright and reversed fall of the cards); the symbols are described 
by the italicized words. Since the suits are more than mere collections of 
concepts, five essays relating to their fundamental nature follow the chart.
No Animation Tarot deck exists in published form at present. Brother Paul used a 
pack of three-by-five-inch file cards to represent the one hundred concepts, 
simply writing the meanings on each card and sketching the symbols himself, 
together with any other notes he found pertinent. These were not as pretty or 
convenient as published cards, but were satisfactory for divination, study, 
entertainment, business and meditation as required. A full discussion of each 
card and the special conventions relating to the Animation deck would be too 
complicated to cover here, but those who wish to make up their own decks and use 
them should discover revelations of their own. According to Brother Paul's 
vision of the future, this deck will eventually be published, perhaps in both 
archaic (Waldens) and future (Cluster) forms, utilizing in the first case 
medieval images and in the second case images drawn from the myriad cultures of 
the Galactic Cluster, circa 4500 A.D. It hardly seems worthwhile for interested 
persons to wait for that.
 
SUIT CARDS

      NATURESCIENCEFAITHTRADEART
      1DoThinkFeelHaveBe

      ScepterSwordCupCoinLemniscate
      2AmbitionHealthQuestInclusionSoul

      DriveSicknessDreamExclusionSelf

      TorchScalpelGrailRingAura
      3GrowIntelligenceBountyGainPerspective

      ShrinkCuriosityWindfallLossExperience

      TreeHazeCornucopiaWheelHolograph
      4LeverageDecisionJoyInvestmentInformation

      TravelCommitmentSorrowInheritanceLiteracy

      LevertenPandora's BoxGearsBook
      5InnovationEquilibriumSecurityPermanenceBalance

      SuspicionStasisConfinementEvanescenceJudgment

      Band of GloryKiteLockPentacleScales
      6AdvanceFreedomTemptationGiftChange

      RetreatRestraintGuiltTheftStagnation

      BridgeBalloonBottlePackageMobius Strip
      7EffortPeacePromiseDefenseBeauty

      ErrorWarThreatVulnerabilityUgliness

      LadderPlowShipShieldFace
      8PowerVictorySatisfactionSuccessConscience

      ImpotenceDefeatDisappointmentFailureRuthlessness

      RocketFlagMirrorCrownYin-Yang
      9AccomplishmentTruthLoveWealthLight

      ConservationErrorHatePovertyDark

      TrophyKeyKlein BottleMoneyLamp
      10HungerSurvivalReproductionDignityImage

      PhallusSeedWombEggCompost

      ENERGYGASLIQUIDSOLIDPLASMA

COURT CARDS
      NATURESCIENCEFAITHTRADEART
      PAGEChild of FireChild of AirChild of WaterChild of EarthChild of Aura
      KNIGHTYouth of WorkYouth of TroubleYouth of LoveYouth of MoneyYouth of 
      Spirit
      QUEENLady of ActivityLady of ConflictLady of EmotionLady of StatusLady of 
      Expression
      KINGMan of NatureMan of ScienceMan of FaithMan of TradeMan of Art
      ENERGYGASLIQUIDSOLIDPLASMA

TRIUMPHS
0 — Folly (Fool)
1 — Skill (Magician)
2 — Memory (High Priestess)
&#8734; — Unknown (Ghost)
3 — Action (Empress)
4 — Power (Emperor)
5 — Intuition (Hierophant)
6 — Choice (Lovers)
7 — Precession (Chariot)
8 — Emotion (Desire)
9 — Discipline (Strength)
10 — Nature (Family)
11 — Chance (Wheel of Fortune)
12 — Time (Sphinx)
13 — Reflection (Past)
14 — Will (Future)
15 — Honor (Justice)
16 — Sacrifice (Hanged Man)
17 — Change (Death)
18 — Vision (Imagination)
19 — Transfer (Temperance)
20 — Violence (Devil)
21 — Revelation (Lightning-Struck Tower)
22 — Hope/Fear (Star)
23 — Deception (Moon)
24 — Triumph (Sun)
25 — Reason (Thought)
26 — Decision (Judgment)
27 — Wisdom (Savant)
28 — Completion (Universe)
 
NATURE
The Goddess of Fertility was popular in spring. Primitive peoples believed in 
sympathetic magic: that the examples of men affect the processes of nature—that 
human sexuality makes the plants more fruitful. To make sure nature got the 
message, they set up the Tree of Life, which was a giant phallus, twice the 
height of a man, pointing stiffly into the sky. Nubile young women capered about 
it, singing and wrapping it with bright ribbons. This celebration settled on the 
first day of May, and so was called May Day, and the phallus was called the 
Maypole. The modern promotion of May Day by Communist countries has led to its 
decline in the Western world, but its underlying principle remains strong. The 
Maypole is the same Tree of Life found in the Garden of Eden, and is represented 
in the Tarot deck of cards as the symbol for the Suit of Nature: an upright rod 
formed of living, often sprouting wood. This suit is variously titled Wands, 
Staffs, Scepters, Batons, or, in conventional cards, Clubs. Life permeates it; 
it is the male principle, always ready to grow and plant its seed. It also 
relates to the classic "element" of Fire, and associates with all manner of 
firearms, rockets, and explosives. In religion, this rod becomes the scepter or 
crozier, and it can also be considered the measuring rod of faith, the "canon."
 
FAITH
The true source of the multiple legends of the Grail is unknown. Perhaps this 
famous chalice was originally a female symbol used in pagan fertility rites, a 
counterpart to the phallic Maypole. But it is best known in Christian mythology 
as the goblet formed from a single large emerald, from which Jesus Christ drank 
at the Last Supper. It was stolen by a servant of Pontius Pilate, who washed his 
hands from it when the case of the presumptuous King of the Jews came before 
him. When Christ was crucified, a rich Jew, who had been afraid before to 
confess his belief, used this cup to catch some of the blood that flowed from 
Jesus's wounds. This man Joseph deposited Jesus's body in his own tomb, from 
which Jesus was resurrected a few days later. But Joseph himself was punished; 
he was imprisoned for years without proper care. He received food, drink and 
spiritual sustenance from the Grail, which he retained, so that he survived. 
When he was released, he took the Grail to England, where he settled in 63 A.D. 
He began the conversion of that region to Christianity. The Grail was handed to 
his successors from generation to generation until it came at last to Sir 
Galahad of King Arthur's Round Table. Only the chaste were able even to perceive 
it. The Grail may also relate to the Cornucopia, or Horn of Plenty, the ancient 
symbol of the bounty of growing things. It is the cup of love and faith and 
fruitfulness, the container of the classic "element" of water, and the symbol of 
the essential female nature (i.e., the womb) represented in the Suit of Cups of 
the Tarot.
 
TRADE
It is intriguing to conjecture which of the human instincts is strongest. Many 
people assume it is sex, the reproductive urge—but an interesting experiment 
seems to refute that. A group of volunteers including several married couples 
was systematically starved. As hunger intensified, the pin-up pictures of girls 
were replaced by pictures of food. The sex impulse decreased, and some couples 
broke up. Food dominated the conversation. This suggests that hunger is stronger 
than sex. Similarly, survival—the instinct of self preservation— seems stronger 
than hunger, for a starving person will not eat food he knows is poisoned, or 
drink salt water when dehydrating on a raft in the ocean. This hierarchy of 
instincts seems reasonable, for any species must secure its survival before it 
can successfully reproduce its kind. Yet there may be an even more fundamental 
instinct than these. When the Jews were confined brutally in Nazi concentration 
death-camps, they cooperated with each other as well as they could, sharing 
their belongings and scraps of food in a civilized manner. There, the last thing 
to go was personal dignity. The Nazis did their utmost to destroy the dignity of 
the captives, for people who retained their pride had not been truly conquered. 
Thus dignity, or status, or the perception of self-worth, may be the strongest 
human instinct. It is represented in the Tarot as the Suit of Disks, or 
Pentacles, or Coins, and associates with the "element" Earth, and with money 
(the ignorant person's status), and business or trade. Probably the original 
symbol was the blank disk of the Sun (gold) or Moon (silver).
 
MAGIC
In the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve were tempted by the Serpent to eat of the 
fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. The fruit is unidentified; 
popularly it is said to be the apple (i.e., breast), but was more probably the 
banana (i.e., phallus). Obviously the forbidden knowledge was sexual. There was 
a second special Tree in the Garden: the Tree of Life, which seems to have been 
related. Since the human couple's acquisition of sexual knowledge and shame 
caused them to be expelled from Eden and subject to the mortality of Earthly 
existence, they had to be provided an alternate means to preserve their kind. 
This was procreation—linked punitively to their sexual transgression. Thus the 
fruit of "knowledge" led to the fruit of "life," forever tainted by the Original 
Sin.
Naturally the couple would have escaped this fate if they could, by sneaking 
back into Eden. To prevent re-entry to the Garden, God set a flaming sword in 
the way. This was perhaps the origin of the symbol of the Suit of Swords of the 
Tarot, representing the "element" of air. The Sword associates with violence 
(war), and with science (scalpel) and intellect (intangible): God's manifest 
masculinity. Yet this vengeful if versatile weapon was transformed in Christian 
tradition into the symbol of Salvation: the Crucifix, in turn transformed by the 
bending of its extremities into the Nazi Swastika. And so as man proceeds from 
the ancient faith of Magic to the modern speculation of Science, the Sword 
proceeds inevitably from the Garden of Eden... to Hell.
 
ART
Man is frightened and fascinated by the unknown. He seeks in diverse ways to 
fathom what he does not comprehend, and when it is beyond his power to do this, 
he invents some rationale to serve in lieu of the truth. Perhaps the religious 
urge can be accounted for in this way, and also man's progress into 
civilization: man's insatiable curiosity driving him to the ultimate reaches of 
experience. Yet there remain secrets: the origin of the universe, the smallest 
unit of matter, the nature of God, and a number of odd phenomena. Do psychics 
really commune with the dead? How does water dowsing work? Is telepathy 
possible? What about faith healing? Casting out demons? Love at first contact? 
Divination? Ghosts?
Many of these inexplicable phenomena become explicable through the concept of 
aura. If the spirit or soul of man is a patterned force permeating the body and 
extending out from it with diminishing intensity, the proximity of two or more 
people would cause their surrounding auras to interpenetrate. They could thus 
become aware of each other on more than a physical basis. They might pick up 
each other's thoughts or feelings, much as an electronic receiver picks up 
broadcasts or the coil of a magnetic transformer picks up power. A dowser might 
feel his aura interacting with water deep in the ground, and so know the water's 
location. A person with a strong aura might touch one who was ill, and the 
strong aura could recharge the weak one and help the ill person recover the will 
to live. A man and a woman might find they had highly compatible auras, and be 
strongly attracted to each other. An evil aura might impinge on a person, and 
have to be exorcised. And after the physical death of the body, or host, an aura 
might float free, a spirit or ghost, able to communicate only with specially 
receptive individuals, or mediums.
In short, the concept of aura or spirit can make much of the supernatural become 
natural. It is represented in the Animation Tarot deck as the Suit of Aura, 
symbolized in medieval times by a lamp and in modern times by a lemniscate 
(infinity symbol: &#8734; ), and embracing a fifth major human instinct or drive: art, 
or expression. Only man, of all the living creatures on Earth, cares about the 
esthetic nature of things. Only man appreciates painting, and sculpture, and 
music, and dancing, and literature, and mathematical harmonies, and ethical 
proprieties, and all the other forms and variants of artistic expression. Where 
man exists, these things exist—and when man passes on, these thing remain as 
evidence of his unique nature. Man's soul, symbolized as art, distinguishes him 
from the animals.
 
Copyright © 1980 by Piers Anthony.
Cover illustration by Rowena Morill.
ISBN: 0-425-06426-3