"That's right," rumbled Greyboar.
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I suppose it's too late now, then."
"Too late for what?" I demanded.
She looked at me for a moment, as if deciding something.
"Well, I suppose there can't be any harm in telling you. You must already know, anyway. You see, Zulkeh's gotten himself mixed up in the Joe business."
I knew it! I knew we should have passed up this job! Anything involves Gwendolyn, it's going to get you into the Big Soup Pot, sure as sunrise.
"That's why I was trying to reach him while he was still in Goimr," continued the Abbess. "I sent him a letter, warning him to steer clear of the thing. I knew if he dug into it, Zulkeh would break open the Joe problem before the world was ready. He's a terribly talented mage, you know, but without the sense of a chicken. Sorcerous bungling raised to the level of genius."
She eased herself back into the chair, chuckling rather ruefully. "Not that he probably would have heeded me. He's as stubborn as he is maladroit. But, it's all a moot point anyway. The message apparently never reached him. It was returned to me."
Here she frowned fiercely. "Impudent rascals! Look at this!" She dug into a desk drawer and drew forth a letter. The letter had been torn open, then resealed. A crude outline of a black hand had been drawn on the outside.
"My letter was opened by the authorities in Goimr. They sent it back to me, with an accompanying note saying that the wizard Zulkeh was under death sentence in Goimr—there's some new regime there now, it seems—and warning me to avoid any further contact with him. Can you believe the cheek? Even threatened my life, the silly fools. Warned me of the 'wrath of the Black Hand of Goimr.' "
"What's the 'Black Hand of Goimr'?" asked Angela, finally able to overcome her fear of the snarl.
Hildegard shrugged. "Who knows? Who cares? Just another ridiculous little death squad, I assume. Probably be sending assassins to the Abbey, I don't doubt, like all the others." She smiled, like a saint. "Hope so, really, it keeps the snarls from getting too hungry."
As if to register her own agreement, the snarl lying on the rug cracked her eyes open a bit and yawned. A ghastly great red tongue licked a gruesome great pink maw. Horrible sight, really.
But I had other things to worry about than a mere snarl. "We don't want no part of any Joe business!" I shrilled. "Got enough of that in Prygg! You didn't say nothing about Joe business in your letter!"
Jenny piped up. "I don't understand what this is all about. Who's Joe?"
Everyone stared at her. Then, at Angela, after Angela piped up: "Yeah. Me too. I've heard his name mentioned before. But who is this guy, anyway?"
I was surprised, until I remembered that most people don't know about Joe. Which really isn't surprising, of course, when you consider that Joe is the ultimate heresy and even whispering his name in the wrong place can get you burned at the stake. What's left of you.
The Abbess was frowning. "I declare! What kind of education are they giving children these days?" She planted her hands on the desk in front of her and leaned forward a bit.
"Joe, my dear girl, is the man who invented God. Way back in the ancient times."
She hesitated, pursing her lips. "Well, I suppose I shouldn't call him a 'man,' perhaps. The scholars are in dispute over the matter. Those of them who've managed to avoid the Inquisition, anyway. He was one of the Old Groutch, you know, those ancient cave dwellers in Grotum who were possibly our ancestors. Or possibly not. As I say, the scholars are still wrangling ferociously over the thing. 'Leaky' Sfondrati-Piccolomini claims they were, but Johansen Laebmauntsforscynneweëld insists they were a collateral branch who went extinct with no issue. And there are other theories. A host of them! For instance—"
She broke off, seeing Angela and Jenny's jaws agape.
"But, my dear girls—surely you can't be surprised! Somebody had to invent the Old Geister, after all. Why shouldn't it have been a caveman named Joe? I assure you the theological reasoning is impeccable."
Jenny was almost spluttering. "But—but—He's God."
Hildegard frown deepened. "Of course He's God. The Lord Almighty, and all that. What of it? Somebody still had to invent Him."
She waved her hand, as if brushing aside a fly. "But that's really a minor issue. The big question, of course, is whether God actually destroyed Joe afterward, as the myths always claim." She snorted derisively. "Silly things, myths. No, no, my dear girls. You can be quite sure that Joe will be coming back. Quite soon now, I imagine, especially with that exasperating Zulkeh stirring the pot."
Jenny and Angela were utterly befuddled by now. I wasn't, myself. Just moderately fuddled. But I was determined to get off the subject. The quickest way to perdition I know is to meddle with the Joe business. By now, I trust, the reason is blindingly clear.
"Just exactly what do you require from us?" I demanded brusquely. "And I repeat—we're not doing anything that involves the Joe stuff."
"Well, of course not!" exclaimed Hildegard. "What possible reason would I have to hire a strangler for that? No, no, my dear Ignace. I should have thought the matter was obvious. I need Greyboar's assistance to obtain the score for the Harmony of the Spheres."
Yeah, that's it—her reply to the question, word for word. Didn't make any sense to me, either.
"Come again?" asked Greyboar.
Hildegard frowned. "Strange, really. Your sister's such a smart girl. Well, so be it. We'll just have to do the best we can with the human material available."
She laced her fingers and began speaking, in much the same tone that one speaks to a child. A slow-witted child.
"It's the Harmony of the Spheres, is the problem. Now that Joe's coming back, the Old Geister's on His way out. Pity, really. He was such a promising young Deity, in His early years. But I'm afraid there's no hope for Him now. The Man's—well, He's not really a Man, you know, but since He insists on using the masculine pronoun, He can't very well complain—anyway, He's just gotten hopelessly set in His ways, the past few millennia. Become a complete Pighead, actually, much as I hate to say it."
I was beginning to see why the Ecclesiarchs were miffed with her.
"I've tried to warn Him, needless to say. There's still a chance for a harmonious resolution, if He'd mend His ways and try to set things right before Joe gets back. Joe will be peeved with Him, of course, under the best of circumstances. But I've tried to explain to the Old Geister that Joe isn't the vindictive sort, so if He can at least show that He's made an attempt to get everything back on track there's every reason to believe that Joe will decide to let bygones be bygones. Of course, He'll have to give up all of this Lord Almighty foolishness, but that'll be for the best, anyway—even for Him. Especially for Him, as a matter of fact. Megalomania has always been the worst occupational hazard for a Supreme Deity. If He had the sense of a Pigeon, He'd see it right off, but I'm afraid He's gotten so swell-headed over the ages that—"
"Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!" I had visions of the Inquisition's chambers dancing in my head. Vivid, vivid, vivid images. "I said no Joe business, lady! And what do you do, right off? You go into it like the wizard Zulkeh wouldn't dream of on his worst days!"
"In addition to which," added Greyboar, "you're nuttier than a fruitcake."
The Abbess stared at him. I got the impression that she was puzzled by his words, rather than offended.
"What on earth do you mean, young man—'nuttier than a fruitcake'?"
Greyboar snorted. "What do I mean? All this ridiculous chatter about how you've been trying to warn the Old Geister about Joe, that's what. I mean, look, your Abbess—"
"Hildegard, please! I detest formality."
"—Hildegard, then. Sure and I've heard of people claiming they talk with God, but they're either weird mystics squatting on a mountain somewhere or they're fruitcakes chained up in an asylum."
"Well, of course!" exclaimed Hildegard. "No sane person would try to talk with the Old Geister. It's impossible—and don't be
lieve anything those silly mystics tell you, either. You should be able to talk to Him, of course, but the Man's an absolute Fanatic about following proper channels. Insists that you have to correspond with Him through the post. I don't mind so much myself—I've always rather enjoyed writing letters, actually. But it makes it so difficult for the poor people. It's hard for them to write to Him, you know, suffering from illiteracy the way they do. And then, even when they do manage to block out a simple note, the Old Geister will refuse to read it, like as not. I hate to say it, but the truth is He's a fearsome Snob. Won't even look at a letter unless it's written in a fine hand, and then He insists the text has to be in the ancient cipher of the Order of the Knights Rampant. It's such a nuisance! I know the cipher, of course, but there aren't more than a handful of people in the world who do—outside of the Godferrets, naturally—and, besides, even for someone who knows it, the cipher is an absolutely beastly script, absolutely—"
"No Joe business, I said!" I starting hopping up and down with agitation. Then stopped as soon as the snarl raised her head and gave me a look I didn't much care for. So I calmed down a little, and continued:
"Look, Abb—Hildegard, I'll say it again for the last time: no Joe business. Especially, I don't want to hear about the Godferrets. Heard enough about them back in Prygg. If it scared the wizard stiff, it's nothing Greyboar and I want anything to do with, that's for sure."
Hildegard was still frowning. "But, my dear little man," she said, "I was simply responding to Greyboar's remark about my alleged lunacy."
"Hildegard," said Greyboar, "I wasn't saying you were a madwoman because I thought you said you were talking to God. I don't care how you claim to do it—through the Royal Mail or carrier pigeon. You're nuts."
She drew herself up stiffly. "Well!" she exclaimed. "I can certainly understand now why Gwendolyn isn't pleased with you. A stupid jackass, just as she said!" She sniffed. "Thinks the world isn't any bigger than the bag of oats stuck on his nose."
She rose from the desk and walked over to the alcove. She turned and crooked a finger.
"Come hither, then, man-who-thinks-like-a-jackass. Examine the oats for yourself."
I swear, the woman was just too weird to get angry with. Greyboar and I looked at each other, shrugged, and went over to the alcove.
Chapter 13.
Remedial Theology
Well, I hate to admit it, but the next few minutes rather
shook my long-standing hardheaded view of the world. Turned out, all those slabs I'd noticed in the big alcove weren't tombstones, after all.
They were stone tablets, covered with lettering. Written in fiery flame.
Yep. God's letters to Hildegard.
"It's an insufferable nuisance, really," she complained. "Why can't He use paper like everyone else? Part of His growing senility, I'm afraid. Always tends to manifest itself as grandiosity, you know, when Supreme Deities start reaching their dotage. My share of our correspondence fits very nicely into a simple drawer. But His side! I had to have that alcove built especially just to store them. Frightful waste of space. And it heats the room up terribly, during the hot spells in summer."
She sighed heavily. "In our early exchanges it wasn't so bad. His tablets were written in pleasant letters of lambent gold. But for the past few years—well, perhaps the last twenty years—it's always those horrid fiery flames. He's irritated with me, of course. But it can't be helped. It's my duty as a pious woman to tell Him the plain and simple truth about Himself. He doesn't want to hear it, naturally."
She moved back toward her desk. "I hate to say it, I really do, after having devoted my life to His service. But I've finally come to the conclusion that there's just no hope for Him. I had wanted to avoid unpleasantness when Joe comes back, but I see now that it's inevitable. A terrible scene Joe's going to make, you can be sure of it, when he sees what a mess the Old Geister's made of everything."
I was too dazed to object to the Joe business. Matter of fact, I was too dazed to do much of anything except be dazed.
"I can see why the Ecclesiarchs aren't too fond of you," croaked Greyboar.
As she resumed her seat, Hildegard snorted. "Those shriveled-up old toads! Nasty things! Can't even call them men anymore. I'm quite fond of men as a rule, even if their natural handicaps frustrate me at times. But it never fails—once you load a man down with power and wealth, he turns into a toad. Every time." She ran her fingers through her thick white hair. "Well, I should be fair. Vast majority of women turn into toads, too, when you load them down with power and wealth."
I'll say this much for Greyboar—he's nowhere near as smart as I am, but he recovers from shock a lot better. He scratched his head, and asked the Abbess:
"Just out of curiosity, Hildegard, how do you get away with it? Pissing in the face of every power in the world, starting with the Lord Almighty himself. Pardon my language."
Hildegard grinned. Really a great grin she had, that old woman. Cheerful, friendly, a bit devilish.
"Oh, I don't mind a little vulgarity. Don't use such language myself, of course. Wouldn't be proper—after all, I am the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility. But you can't spend as much time as I have with the wise old women of the Sssuj and retain your girlish prudery. Earthy lot, they are."
"I thought the Sssuji ate everybody who goes into the swamp," said Greyboar. "Especially, you know, missionaries."
"What nonsense!" The Abbess frowned fiercely. "That's a foul lie spread by disgruntled imperialists. They're just sour, you know, because the Sssuji eat all the armies they send into the swamp. Very diet-conscious, actually, the Sssuji. I was deeply impressed by that aspect of their culture. They refuse to eat missionaries, for instance, despite everything you've ever heard. They say the sanctimony in the veins spoils the meat. The swamp snarls absolutely adore missionary, on the other hand, so it all works out nicely."
"Then why didn't they feed you to the snarls?" asked Angela timidly.
Hildegard was clearly puzzled. "Why would they do that? I didn't go there to preach to them. I went to ask questions. Spent several years there, as it turned out. It was marvelous, really. And to get back to your question, Greyboar, it was the wise old women of the Sssuj who told me how to—as you put it—'get away with it.' " By which expression I take it you mean be able to expound the true faith without being pestered to death by God and the Inquisition and that sorry lot of Ecclesiarchs."
"So what's the secret?" asked Greyboar.
"It was obvious, once they explained it to me. 'Just build your Abbey in Joe's Favorite Woods,' they said. So obvious! I should have seen it myself."
Greyboar frowned. "I don't see why that would do it."
Hildegard looked at him, shook her head sadly. "So odd, it really is. The same parents, there's no question about it. You look just like her, except Gwendolyn's quite pretty in a huge sort of way. Strange how genetics works itself out, the sister being so intelligent and the brother such a dumbbell."
"Would you mind just answering the question," growled Greyboar. "I'm getting a bit tired of these comparisons between my sister and me."
"But it's obvious, my good man! Why is this forest called 'Joe's Favorite Woods'?"
"Well—"
"Because it was his favorite woods, that's why! And why was it his favorite woods? Because it was filled with snarls. Forest snarls, too, who were always Joe's favorites even though he denied it and tried to pretend he loved all his snarls the same."
Greyboar was hopelessly lost. So was I.
"So, since I'm a snarl-friend, once I set up my Abbey here I could go about my business without worrying about a lot of fretful old men. The forest's still full of snarls, you know. Highest density of snarls in the world, actually."
The light finally dawned. There aren't many snarl-friends in the world, at any one time. Hildegard was the second one I'd met in my life. Shelyid was the first. And that little dwarf had—well, never mind the details. The point is, I'd seen what one enraged snarl
could do. I shuddered to think about an entire forest full of hundreds—thousands?—of the monsters. It's no wonder the gentle monks of St. Shriven-on-the-Moor got a vision from God!
"But come," said Hildegard, "I'm afraid we've wandered away from the purpose of our meeting. I don't believe the Old Geister is going to be around much longer, sad to say. So I have to make sure to obtain the score of the Harmony of the Spheres before Joe gets back. He's quite a nice man, Joe is. According to all the legends, at any rate, and I've no reason to believe his personality will have changed. But the fact is, the man had apparently no ear for music. Such, at least, I have to assume since there's no record that he invented music."
She leaned back in her chair, again planting her hands firmly on the desk in front of her. "No, there's no question God's been much the better influence in that regard. But it would be just like the Old Geister, on His way out, to take the Harmony of the Spheres with him. Purely out of malice, of course—it's not as if the Harmony would do Him any good where He's going! So I've got to get the score, before it's lost."
By now, Greyboar and I had given up trying to make sense out of anything the Abbess said. It's not that we doubted her, mind you. Rather difficult to argue with a woman who corresponds with God and has His old letters to prove it, don't you know? It's just that we couldn't begin to follow her reasoning. So we gave up. As the wise man says: "I hate to be the one to break the news to you, General, but you're a foot soldier."
"So how do we do that?" asked Greyboar. "And where do I come in?"
"Well," explained Hildegard, "we'll have to get the score from one of the fallen angels. It doesn't matter which in particular. Any of them will do—they all know the score. The Old Geister made them memorize it, of course. He makes His angels memorize everything He says."
"Fallen angels?" I squeaked. "You mean—devils?"
Hildegard frowned again. "And you claimed to be the smart one! Well, I should make allowances, I suppose. No doubt you had a rotten education. You have the air about you of a dog who was beaten too often as a puppy. Can't mistake it—that certain perpetual scowl at the world; it's unmistakable, really."