Chains of the Sea

  “This way,” Andrew said, riding up the hill.

  At the edge of a small creek that sliced across the top of the hill, they paused. Andrew threw himself into the rushing water, remaining submerged for several minutes.

  At last, he came to the bank and shook himself beneath the cold sun.

  “Are you safe now?” Julian asked.

  “I won’t know for several hours, but I don’t think I was near them enough to be infected.”

  “What is it?”

  “We call it the plague of rust, though it’s not rust, of course. I don’t know what it is, but it’s everywhere. It’s been spreading in this area for a year now.”

  “But none of our robots have been infected.”

  “Oh, no?” Andrew mounted and turned the stallion. He tugged at the mule. “Over half our robots have caught the plague over the last few months. We’ve had replacements sent from the neighboring villages.”

  “But I’ve never seen it.”

  “As soon as one knows he has it, he wanders off, like those back there. He goes away to die.”

  “They always die?”

  “Always.”

  “Is it very painful?”

  “A robot cannot feel pain. But—yes—they tell me it is like having a fire burning inside you.”

  Julian recalled his dream: the three ways of dying.

  They rode off. Andrew said it would take another three days to reach the next village, if there was one.

  The light flashing inside the darkened booth was so brilliant that Don Julian had to squint to keep his eyes from watering painfully. A bright, luminous golden cross, tacked to the roof of the booth, flickered constantly on and off. In Julian’s hand, the palm of the old priest was warm and dry and soothing. A sharp, bitter odor clung to the air. He sniffed, trying to identify the smell.

  “Pig,” the priest said. “The kitchen’s right above. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not. In fact, I—” But it was time to get down to business; he knew he could not delay another moment. Staring at his bare feet, he murmured, “Father, I have sinned.”

  “You’re sure of that?” The priest’s voice was bright, cheerful, its strength at odds with his advanced years. Kindly, he caressed Julian’s hand. Because of the cross, Julian could glimpse the certain outline of the priest’s head traced upon the material of the separating curtain. His head was held high; he sat without moving. “No, Father, it is true. Even I—the pope.” He recalled the offenses he had committed in the months since his last confession: “I have suffered un-Christian thoughts. I have read literature of the deepest blasphemy.”

  “But what have you done with them?”

  “With what?”

  “Your thoughts.”

  “Why, nothing—not yet.”

  “Do something, then confess. Everyone suffers from an ugly thought or two. But this literature—this sounds serious.”

  “My robot is writing a book dealing with the life of Sebastian. Last night, while we were camped and he was off fetching firewood, curiosity overcame me. The temptation of awful knowledge proved too great. I crept to his pack and exposed the pages. Before he returned, I had read a great deal. He caught me in the act and was very amused. For myself, it was a great humiliation.”

  “Sebastian, you said?”

  “The Prince of Deceit. The book, of course, is sheer blasphemy. I cannot blame the robot. He was born without a soul. But I am the pope.”

  “Sebastian is very popular now,” the priest said, tentatively. “Not only with robots.”

  Julian laughed hollowly. “Satan has always been popular.”

  “Ah, yes—how true.” Suddenly, the priest’s hand was gone. Something hit the floor, slid beneath the curtain. There was a scraping noise, the thud of feet upon the floor. “I’m afraid I must run, Holy Father. If you wish, I will continue your confession later. Something very important has been forgotten; I must deliver an essential sermon.”

  “Yes, all right. I’ll wait.” He was unable to keep the irritation out of his tone. He heard the old priest rushing away. Perhaps he hadn’t been fair: forcing the old man to hear the confession of a pope. But if not he, then who else? Julian sat impatiently, ill at ease, feeling overcome by guilt more than ever. He recalled all the terrible sins he had not yet had time to reveal: the practice of astrology, the use of the prophetic potion, the consulting of a wandering soothsayer only the day before, his egotistical dreams, the bitter reflections upon the memory of his deceased wife.

  Then he remembered the object he had heard falling to the floor. He looked down. In the flashing light, he read: The Holy Bible.

  Well, that would help; his own copy was packed away.

  Holding the thick book in his lap, he opened the pages randomly.

  He read: “Sebastian was a dark being with bright eyes. He was humble and the world knew him not. When the Lord spoke . . .

  Julian stopped, blinking his eyes furiously in time to the flashing light. He looked at the page again, but the words had not changed. He turned some pages and again glanced down. “A hank of mongrel hair, a slice of robot skin, the rear leg from a homed toad, a cubic inch of blessed earth, a dash of lamb urine, a strand of pure white hair, the ground button of a spiny cactus.”

  The ingredients for making the prophetic potion. His eye caught the top of the page: “Chapter Eleven—Recipes, Potions, and Other Sacred Food.”

  Cautiously, averting his eyes from any unnecessary exposure to the pages, he turned to the next chapter.

  The page was headed: “The Life and Death of Jesus Christ.” He read slowly, with care. The chapter was not one of the gospels, but a merging of all four, written in an expressive, simple language. The Sermon on the Mount had been eliminated. Not a single miracle was mentioned—not even the raising of Lazarus. Jesus was born in a manger in Bethlehem, son of Mary and Joseph. (No mention of Immaculate Conception.) He went to Jerusalem to preach. (No reference to what he said.) He perished upon the cross.

  The resurrection had been deleted.

  No, Julian thought, his hands trembling. This cannot be. He could barely hold the book as he turned to the title page:

  THE HOLY BIBLE

  Authorized Edition—98

  Revised and Printed at the Chapel of Diego

  The old priest himself? Julian had suspected some sort of Satanic substitution, but this was much worse. Had the devil managed to infiltrate the earthly soul of that eminent and reverend man? Julian was filled with an awful sadness, tinged with growing fear.

  And this book?

  How much circulation had it gained? And, if any, why had the parishioners failed to recognize instantly the enemy who had penetrated their ranks, and taken steps to drive him away?

  Hastily, holding the Bible gingerly, as though it were too hot to handle firmly, Julian vacated the confessional booth.

  The Chapel of Diego was a huge stone building, laced with twisting corridors and dotted with tiny cells. Some said, centuries ago, the chapel had been a prison. The priest had brought Julian to a small room in the deepest basement to hear his confession in privacy.

  Within a short time, wandering the corridors, Julian was utterly lost.

  He moved in near darkness that was punctuated by the occasional flare of a dim torch or flickering lantern. Fearful thoughts raced through his mind. Had the priest deliberately lured him there to be trapped? Had Satan, working through the old man’s tainted soul, succeeded in capturing the pope himself?

  He heard a loud, booming voice that seemed to shake the stone walls. He drew back in utter fear. But then he heard another voice; it was laughing.

  Cautiously, he followed the sound. The laugh came again and again, growing in force. Julian approached a small door and put his ear against the wood.

  The laughter was coming from there.

  He opened the door a crack and peeked inside. Two big lanterns burned in the ceiling. A blac
k curtain, like that used in the confessional booth, divided the room neatly in half, rising nearly to the ceiling. The portion of the room that he could see was deserted.

  Again, he heard the laugh.

  “Hello,” he called. “Who’s here, please?”

  “Father?” said a quizzical voice. The curtain parted slightly, revealing a face, plump, white, as round as the full moon. “Oh, good Lord,” said the face. “I mean, oh, Holy Father.” The man pushed past the curtain. He was middle-aged, fat, and dressed in the garb of a peasant. He hurried across the room, fell on his knees, and pressed his lips wetly against Julian’s hand.

  “How blessed I am to meet the Holy Father.”

  “Please,” Julian said. “Stand up.” This was the first time anyone had recognized his new identity; it made him uncomfortable. “I seem to be lost. Perhaps you could help me find my way outside.”

  “Of course, Holy Father, I—”

  From behind the curtain, the deep, thundering voice came again: “Where have you gone, Colmo? I did not grant you leave to depart. I demand your immediate return. The word of the Lord is firm.”

  “Hold on!” the fat man cried. He looked desperately at Julian. “Take the corridor—”

  “No,” said Julian, looking grim and forceful. “Forget that.” He pointed at the curtain. “I want to know who is back there.”

  “Don’t you know?” asked the fat man.

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Why, it’s God.”

  Julian nodded and crossed himself painstakingly. Even here: the devil.

  “Well, actually it’s only the machine,” the fat man said. “But if I don’t hurry back, my time will run out.”

  “What time?”

  “You understand, Holy Father.” The man smiled. With a feint, he tried to slip away. Reaching out quickly, Julian caught his sleeve.

  “I demand to know what you mean. What is this machine?”

  “The miraculous machine. The robots helped the priest build it. You pay the priest and he permits you an hour with God. You can talk to Him, pray, confess, whatever you want. He will even, under certain circumstances, grant divorces, but the fee is considerable. Usually, it is quite reasonable, given such a remarkable device. It has made our parish very wealthy. You ought to try it, Holy Father.”

  “Perhaps I will,” Julian said. Stifling his fear, he walked straight ahead, passing easily through the black curtain. There was no one here; against the farthest wall a huge machine, made of wood, light metal, and glass, was sitting. Julian had never seen a device that could compete with this either in size or apparent complexity.

  Putting his head back through the curtain, he gestured at the fat peasant to come and join him. When the man appeared, Julian led him to the corner farthest from the machine and whispered: “Tell me how to make it work.”

  The fat man also spoke softly: “You talk through there.” He pointed to a mesh-covered opening near the center of the machine. “The answer will come from above.” He pointed again, indicating a metallic appendage shaped like a truncated bugle with a wide mouth. “But you must speak loudly,” he cautioned, “or else the Lord will not hear.”

  “Wait for me outside,” Julian said. “I will consult with the machine.”

  “But, Holy Father. My time is short and—”

  “I will speak to the priest for you. Now go”—he glanced at the machine—”and hurry.”

  As soon as he was alone, Julian approached the machine and sat in a padded chair apparently provided for the purpose. His lips rested only inches from the mesh-covered opening. He was convinced this device was surely some infernal creation of the devil, yet wasn’t it his duty to test the machine, for if he failed to know his enemy well, how could he expect to fight and defeat him?

  “I have returned,” he said, attempting to lift his voice in the piping tones of the peasant.

  “Colmo!” said the machine. The voice rocked Julian in his seat. Digging his fingernails into his palms, he struggled to control his fear.

  “I wish to ask a question.” Then—painfully—he added: “Oh, Great Father in Heaven.”

  “Speak, Colmo,” said the voice, no gentler than before. “Ask, and you shall be permitted to know.”

  “The pope,” Julian said, struggling to maintain the pitch of his voice, “has come to visit our parish.”

  “I am aware.”

  “Yes, but do you know the reason for his journey?”

  “Obviously, I do.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Despite himself, Julian was impressed by the audacity inherent in the tone. “Can you tell me what will become of him?”

  He expected hesitation or bluster. But whoever was speaking through the machine was not lacking in boldness. The answer came immediately:

  “For him, the future contains great pain and suffering.”

  “He will die?”

  The answer was longer in coming: “In an earthly sense, no.”

  “In what sense?”

  “In a spiritual sense.”

  “He will lose his faith?”

  A long delay: “He will die.”

  “Yes,” Julian said. He leaned forward, straining not to shout: “And the danger which threatens him. From where will it come—and how?”

  “From everywhere. From the being who accompanies him. From the brothers of that being. And, most powerfully, from a man who is a stranger to the eyes of the pope.”

  Julian’s hands were trembling. He forced himself to say, “A man with black skin? Golden eyes?”

  “That is the man.”

  A groan of mortal fear escaped his lips. He could not bear this torture a second longer. He jumped from the chair, turned to flee. But something caught his eye: a loose stone in one wall. Hurrying over, he bent down and pried the stone out from the wall. He held it in his hands.

  “The moment of truth has come,” he said, and rushed at the machine. “Devil! Satan!” Hurling his hands high over his head, he brought the stone forcefully down. The machine bent, sagged; the metal cracked. Glass shattered. Again up—down. The wood split. Thick strands of wire, like tangled clumps of bright grass, were exposed. Again and again, he struck with the stone, smashing the mouthpiece, crushing the horn. Sparks flew from inside the machine, leaping across the floor. His hands were burned, his hair and beard singed. But he did not pause till his work was done.

  Then he collapsed on the floor and wept, surrendering himself to the comfort of his tears. For a long while, he saw and felt nothing beyond an awful, weary emptiness.

  “Holy Father.” The voice was mild, meek, hesitant. A hand stroked his shoulder. He opened his eyes.

  “Yes?”

  It was the peasant. “We should go now.”

  “Yes.” Julian gained his feet. His eyes rested upon the shattered, mutilated, desecrated remains of the miraculous machine. Briefly, he smiled, but without satisfaction.

  “Let us go,” he said.

  Julian swept down the wide central corridor of the chapel. Ahead, beckoning him, came the sound of loud voices running through the chanting syllables of a prayer. He controlled his anger, channeled his indignation. The voice of the old priest rose above the chanting of his flock.

  “Julian!” Andrew stood near the door, talking to an old rust- colored robot whose eyes were tendrils extending from his chest.

  “Get out of my way,” Julian said.

  “No—wait.” Andrew blocked his path. “Control yourself.”

  “I am.” Julian tried to push Andrew away.

  “You don’t want to go in there.”

  “I must.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Out of my way, Andrew. I order you.”

  Obediently, Andrew moved back. Julian thrust open the door and stepped into a vast, high-ceilinged room filled with parishioners. The walls were brilliantly painted with motifs from the Bible. He stood a moment, gazing from scene to
scene, gaining strength from these frozen glimpses into a sacred past. He witnessed the Creation, the birth of Adam, saw Moses with the stone tablets, the Ark, the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, the vision of Ezekiel, the beheading of John the Baptist, Christ born in Bethlehem, Christ crucified, Christ resurrected, the conversion of Saint Paul, the martyrdom of the early Christians, the miracle of Bernadette of Lourdes. And, in the deepest, darkest corner, the paint brighter and fresher than elsewhere, the likeness of a tall, dark man, only his back exposed, hands lifted to the heavens, where the sky was filled with long silver ships whirling upward toward the stars.

  “Sebastian!” he cried, horrified. “No!”

  “Hush,” said a man beside him. The crowd milled through the room. Julian had never seen so many people in his life. Only a few were sitting; most swarmed in the aisles.

  He tried to push past them. “I am the pope. Let me by. Please.” But no one moved till he reached out and grabbed and pushed. Once, his feet left the floor and he was carried through the air, his body kept afloat by the press of people around him.

  “Please. Blasphemy. Let me through.”

  At last, he reached a place below the altar.

  High above, perched in front of a blazing fresco of Christ on the cross, was the old priest, whose voice rose powerfully in a sermon of utter joy. Julian stuffed his ears with his fingers, refusing to listen. He could smell the devil lurking there.

  “I have come!” he shouted, not listening himself. “Beware!”

  But no one seemed to hear him.

  Again, he fought the mob. Finally, spying a short flight of steps leading to the altar, he made his way there and then, unmolested, swiftly ascended. At the top, he turned and rushed at the priest, who heard him coming and swiveled his long neck.

  “Oh,” said the priest, throwing up his hands and facing the crowd. “How fortunate we are today. The pope has come to speak to us.” Stepping back, he gestured to Julian to assume his place.

  Julian found himself alone, facing the mob.