The "mistresses of the bed" kept regular night watches, the 81 Attendant Nymphs sharing the imperial couch for 9 nights in groups of 9, the 27 Beauties 3 nights in groups of 9, the 9 Spouses and 3 Consorts 1 night per group, and the Empress 1 night alone.
These arrangements lasted from, roughly, the early years of the Chou dynasty (255-112 B.C.) to the beginning of the Sung dynasty (A.D. 950-1279) when the old order broke down and had to be abandoned according to a contemporary post, because of the unbridled and ferocious competition of no less than 3000 ladies of the palace. After making every allowance for poetic licence, it is clear that by the time of the Sung dynasty the occupants of the "inner chambers" had even less to do than ever before, and time must have been wearisome to the point of inducing mental breakdown. As a result, says the legend, in the year 1120, playing cards were conceived by an inmate of the Chinese imperial harem, as a pastime for relieving perpetual boredom.
Roger Tilley:
A History of Playing Cards
The next morning Reverend Siltz conducted Brother Paul on a geographic tour. "I trust you are strong of foot," he remarked. "We have no machines, no beasts of burden here, and the terrain is difficult."
"I believe I can manage," Brother Paul said. After yesterday's experience with the Animations, he took quite seriously anything his host told him—but it was hardly likely that the terrain alone would do him in.
He had not slept well. The loft had been comfortable enough, with a mattress of fragrant wood shavings and pretty wooden panels above (he had half expected to see the roots of the grass that grew in the turf that formed the outer roof), but those Animations kept returning to his mind's eye. Could he have formed a physical object himself, let alone a human figure, had he not stalled until the storm passed? If a man could form a sword from a mental or card image, could he then use it to murder a companion? Surely this was mass hypnosis! Yet Deacon Brown had Animated the cup instead of the four corns...
He shook his head. He would ascertain the truth in due course, if he could. That was his mission. First the truth about Animation, then the truth about God. Neither intuition nor guesswork would do; he had to penetrate to the hard fact.
Meanwhile, it behooved him to familiarize himself with this locale and these people, for the secret might lie here instead of in the Animations themselves. Despite his night of doubt, he felt better this morning, more able to cope. If God were directly responsible for these manifestations, what had a mere man to fear? God was good.
As they set out from the village, a small, swarthy man intercepted them. His body was deeply tanned, or perhaps he had mixed racial roots, as did Brother Paul. His face was grossly wrinkled, though he did not seem to be older than about fifty. "I come on a matter of privilege," he said.
Reverend Siltz halted. This is the Swami of Kundalini," he said tightly. And to the other: "Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Vision."
"It is to you I am forced to address myself," the Swami said to Brother Paul.
"We are on our way to the countryside," Reverend Siltz said, with strained politeness. He obviously did not appreciate this intrusion, and that alerted Brother Paul. What additional currents were flowing here? "The garden, the amaranth, the Animation region, where the Watchers will meet us. If you care to join them—"
"I shall gladly walk with you," the Swami said. "I am happy to talk with anyone who wishes to talk with me," Brother Paul said. "I have much to learn about this planet and this society."
"We cannot spare two for the tour," Siltz insisted. "The Swami surely has business elsewhere."
"I do, but it must wait," the Swami said.
"Well, surely a few minutes—" Brother Paul said, disliking the tension between these two men.
"Perhaps the Swami will consent to guide you in my stead," Reverend Siltz said, grimacing. "I have a certain matter I could attend to, given the occasion."
"Am I the unwitting cause of dissension?" Brother Paul asked. "I certainly don't want to—"
"I should be happy to guide the visitor," the Swami said. "I am familiar with the route."
"Then I shall depart with due gratitude," the Reverend said, his expression hardly reflecting that emotion.
"But there is no need to—" Brother Paul began. But it was useless; the Reverend of the Second Church of Communism was on his way, walking stiffly but rapidly back toward the village stockade.
Looking back, Brother Paul wondered: what use was that stockade, if it did not keep out Bigfoot? Probably the monster merely swam around one end of the stockade where the wall terminated in the lake; during a storm there would be no way to keep watch for it.
"It is all right, guest Brother," the Swami said. "We differ strongly in our separate faiths, but we do not violate the precepts of the Tree of Life. The Reverend Communist will have occasion to verify the whereabouts of his wayward son, and I will guide you while making known my exception to your mission."
Still, Brother Paul was dubious. "I fear the Reverend is offended."
"Not as offended as he pretends," the Swami said with a brief smile. "He does have a serious concern to attend to, but it would have been impolitic for him to allow that to compromise his hospitality or duty. And I do have a pressing matter to discuss with you. For the affront of forcing the issue I offer such token recompense as I am able. Have you any demand?"
This was a bit complicated to assimilate immediately. Was this man friend, foe, or something between? "I am really not in a position to make any demands. Let's tour the region, and I will listen to your concern, trusting that this does not violate the Covenant."
"We shall skirt the main region of permanent Animation, and the advisory party shall be there. The tour is somewhat hazardous, so we must proceed with caution. Yet this is as nothing to the hazard your mission, however sincerely intended, poses for mankind. This is my concern."
Brother Paul had suspected something of the kind. In this hotbed of schismatic religions, there was bound to be a good doomsday prophet, and someone was sure to express strong opposition to any community project, even one designed to help unify the community itself in the interest of survival. Brother Paul had had experience with democratic community government. He had been shielded from the lunatic element here. Now it seemed to have broken through. Yet even a fanatic could have useful insights. "I certainly want to be advised of hazards," Brother Paul said. "Physical and social."
"You shall be apprised of both. I will show you first our mountain garden, to the south; between eruptions we farm the terraces, for the ash decomposes swiftly and is incredibly rich. Our single garden feeds the whole village for the summer, enabling us to conserve wood for winter sustenance. This is vital to our survival."
The man certainly did not sound like a nut! "But what of your wheatfields that I passed through yesterday?"
"Amaranth, not wheat," the Swami told him. "Amaranth is a special grain, adaptable to alien climes. Once it was thought of as a weed, back on Earth, until the resurgence of small family farms developed the market for tough, hand-harvested grains. We have been unable to grow true wheat here on Planet Tarot, but are experimenting with varieties of this alternate grain, and have high hopes. The lava shields are also very rich here on Southmount, but decompose more slowly than the ash, and so require slower-growing, more persistent crops. The climate of the lower region is more moderate, which is a long-range benefit."
Brother Paul did not know much about either amaranth or volcanic farming, so he wasn't clear on all this and did not argue. However, he did find some of these statements questionable. The decomposition of lava was not, as he understood it, a matter of a season or two, but of centuries. The seasonal growth of plants would be largely governed by elements already available in the soil, rather than by the slow breakdown of rock.
Their discussion lapsed, for the climb was getting steep. Glassy facets of rock showed through the turf, like obsidian mirrors set in the slope. Volcanic? It must be; he wished he knew more about the subject The vol
canoes of Planet Tarot might differ fundamentally from those of Earth, however, just as did those of Earth's more immediate neighbor, Mars.
Fundamentally. He smiled, appreciating a pun of sorts. A volcano was a thing of the fundament, shaped by the deepest forces of the planetary crust. So whether different or similar—
He stumbled on a stone, and lost his train of thought. There was a path, but not an easy one. The Swami scrambled ahead with the agility of a monkey, hands grasping crystalline outcroppings with the precision of long experience. Brother Paul kept the pace with difficulty, copying the positioning of his guide's grips. In places the ascent became almost vertical, and the path was cleaved occasionally by jagged cracks in the rock. Apparently the lava had contracted as it cooled, so that the fissures opened irregularly. The slanting sunbeams shone down into these narrow clefts, reflecting back and forth dazzlingly, and making the mountain seem like the mere shell of a netherworld of illumination. A person could be blinded, he thought, by peering into this kaleidoscopic hall of mirrors.
Or hypnotized, he realized. Could this be the cause of the Animations?
Then what had he seen and touched in the mess hall, during the storm? No crevices there, no sunlight! Scratch one theory.
Cracks and gas: that suggested a gruesome analogy. The bocor, or witch doctor, of Haiti (and could the similarity of that name to "hate" be coincidental? Hate-Haiti—but his mind was drifting perilously far afield at an inopportune time) was said to ride his horse backward to his victim's shack, suck out the victim's soul through a crack in the door, and bottle that gaseous soul. Later, when the victim died, the bocor opened the grave, brought out the bottle, and gave the dead man a single sniff of his own soul. Only one sniff: not enough to infuse the entire soul, just part of it. That animated the corpse; it rose up as a zombie, forced to obey the will of the witch doctor. Could the same be done with a human aura, and did this relate to the phenomena on Planet Tarot?
Idle speculations; he would do well to curb them and concentrate on objective fact-finding. Then he could form an informed opinion. Right now he had enough to occupy him, merely surviving this hazardous climb!
They emerged at last onto a narrow terrace. The Swami led the way along this, for it was wide enough only for them to proceed single-file. The view was alarming; they were several hundred meters above the level of the village, with the top thirty an almost sheer drop. The stockade looked like a wall of toothpicks. Woe be he who lacked good balance!
The terrace opened out into a garden area. Unfamiliar shrubs and vines spread out robustly. There were no Bubbles here, however; evidently the elevation, exposure and wind were too much for them. "We have been farming this plot for twenty days this spring, since the upper snow melted," the Swami said with communal pride.
"Twenty days? These plants look like sixty days!"
"Yes. I warned you that growth was at an incredible rate, so you are free not to credit it. Soon we begin the first harvest of the season. Then no more wood soup until fall."
"We could use some of this soil back on Earth!"
"Undoubtedly. We could use more supplies from Earth, and not only when the mother planet wishes to bribe us to permit religious intrusion. Perhaps we can exchange some soil for such supplies."
Brother Paul was not certain how much of this was humor and how much was sarcasm, so he did not reply. The cost of mattermission made the shipment of tons of soil prohibitive. What was really needed was the formula—the chemical analysis of the soil, and some seeds from these vigorous plants. And that would be very difficult, for the importation of alien plants to Earth was forbidden. Export was without restriction, but imports had to pass rigorous quarantine; there was a certain logic to this, for those who comprehended bureaucracy. Even if he, Brother Paul, were chemist enough to work out the formula, he would probably not be able to make the authorities on Earth pay attention anyway. But he would take samples and try...
"This is an active volcanic region," Brother Paul observed, cutting off his own thoughts. It was a discipline he had to exert often. "What happens if there is an eruption before the harvest?"
"That depends on the vehemence of the eruption. Most are small, and the wind carries the ash away from this site. Later in the season, when the prevailing winds shift, it will become more precarious."
Brother Paul looked down the steep slope again toward the village. The scene was like that of a skillfully executed painting, with the adjacent lake brightly reflecting the morning sun. Beautiful! But he would hate to be stranded here on the volcano when it blew its top! Evidently there could be both ash and lava.
That reminded him of one of his notions that had been aborted by the difficulty of the climb. "Gas," he said. "Does the volcano issue gas? That might account for—"
"There are gas and liquid and solids and enormous energy, in accordance with the laws of Tarot," the Swami said. "But none of these are of a hallucinogenic nature. Our problem is not so readily dismissed as originating in the mouth of the mountain." He stood beside Brother Paul and pointed to the north. "There, five kilometers distant, is the depression we call 'Northole.' There is the seat of Animation for this region."
"Maybe a subterranean vent from the volcano?" Brother Paul persisted. "Strange effects can occur. The Oracle at Delphi—that's a place back on Earth—would sit over the vent of—"
"Well I know it. Yet it seems strange that there is no Animation here at the volcano Southmount itself. No, I feel that the secret is more subtle and formidable."
"Yet you object to my attempt to explore the secret?"
The Swami showed the way down the mountain. This was a less precipitous path to the west, so that they were able to tread carefully upright, occasionally skidding on the black ash lying in riverlike courses at irregular intervals. "Do you comprehend prana?"
Brother Paul chuckled. "No. I have tried hatha yoga and zen meditation and read the Vedas, but never achieved any proper awareness of either prana or jiva. I can repeat only the vulgar descriptions: prana is the individual life principle, and jiva is the personal soul."
"That is a beginning," the Swami said. "You are better versed than I anticipated, and this is fortunate. In the Hindu, Vedic, and Tantric texts there is a symbol of a sleeping serpent coiled around the base of the human spine. This is Kundalini, the coiled latent energy of prana, known by many names. Christians call it the 'Holy Spirit,' the Greeks termed it 'ether,' martial artists described it as 'ki'."
Now Brother Paul was in more familiar territory. "Ah, yes. In my training in judo, I sought the power of ki, but could never evoke it. No doubt my motive was suspect; I was thinking in terms of physical force, not spiritual force."
"This is the root of failure in the great majority of aspirants." The Swami paused on the mountainside. "Do you care to break that rock?" he inquired, indicating an outcropping of crystal.
Brother Paul tapped it with his fingers, feeling its hardness. "With a sledgehammer?"
"No. Like this. With ki." And the Swami lifted his right arm and brought his hand down in a hard blow upon the rock.
And the rock fractured.
Brother Paul stared. "Ki!" he breathed. "You have it!"
"I do not make this demonstration to impress you with my skill," the Swami said, "but rather as evidence that my concern is serious. You have looked at me obliquely, and this is your right, but you must appreciate the sincerity of my warning."
Brother Paul looked at the cracked crystal again. Some flaw in the stone? He had not observed such a flaw before, and even if there had been one, it should have taken a harder blow than the human arm was capable of delivering to faze it. The power of ki was the most reasonable explanation. The man who possessed that power had to be taken seriously. It was not merely that he was potentially deadly; the Swami had to have undergone rigorous training and discipline, and to have achieved fundamental insights about the nature of man and the universe.
"I take you seriously," Brother Paul said. The Swami resumed hi
s downward trek as if nothing special had happened. "So few apply proper respect to their quest for the aura—"
"Aura!" Brother Paul exclaimed, surprised again.
The Swami glanced sidelong at him. "That word evokes a specific response?"
Brother Paul considered telling the Swami of his vision of the creature from Sphere Antares, who had informed Brother Paul of the existence of his own, supposedly potent aura. It required only a moment's reflection to squelch that notion. He knew too little of this man and this society to discuss something as personal as this, since it reflected on his own emotional competence. What sensible person would believe in the ghost in the machine, or in private, personal alien contact during the period of instantaneous matter transmission? "I have read of Kirlian photography."
"No. Photographs are not the essence. Aura permeates the gross tissues of the body, and is the source of all vital activity including movement, perception, thought, and feeling. The awakening of this force is the greatest enterprise and the most wonderful achievement man contemplates. By this means it will be possible to bridge the gulf between science and religion, between technology and truth. But there is danger, too. Grave danger."
They were now down on the plain, walking northward through the amaranth. No wonder the "wheat" had looked funny! Brother Paul was distracted by the thought of the young woman he had encountered here the day before, and his other adventure. "Speaking of danger—is it safe to come here without weapons? Yesterday I encountered a wild animal near here."
"Yes, the news is all over the village! The Breaker will not attack you again, since you mastered it. Otherwise I surely would not have brought you this way." He paused. "Though how a lone man could have defeated as horrendous a creature as that one, that none of us dares to face without a trident—"
"I was lucky," Brother Paul said. This was not false modesty; he had been lucky. "Had I been aware of the threat, I would not have ventured into the amaranth field."