Vision of Tarot

  Brother Paul concentrated on a virtually intangible object: Lee's likely concept of Hell. It was probably a fairly artistic, literary notion, definitely Christian but not necessarily Mormon, for that would be too obvious. What Hell would a Mormon envision Jesus Christ attending? That was where Brother Paul needed to go.

  The scene firmed around him. It was a field, half-plowed, about a fifth of a hectare in extent. Beyond it, to what he assumed was the east, the sun was rising in the sky. In the distance stood a tower, seeming to lie directly under the sun—perhaps the same tower he had seen in his first Tarot visions. "The Tower of Truth," he murmured.

  He looked to the west and saw a deep valley with dangerous ditches and an ugly building in the lowest reaches. His field lay between tower and dungeon, the only arable land in sight. But he had no horse or ox to draw his plow; he would have to go to a neighbor to borrow his team, and that meant leaving his field unattended.

  Now a motley crowd of people moved along the slope toward his field. Exactly his problem: they were apt to trample it flat, ruining yesterday's plowing, if he didn't stay here to ward them off.

  Then he had a notion. Maybe some of them would help him plow!

  But as they came closer, he lost confidence. The people seemed to be drifting aimlessly. Some were fat, others sickly, and others morose; none of them looked like reliable workers.

  From the other direction came a more promising prospect: a pilgrim in pagan clothing with a sturdy staff. As the Animation would have it, the pilgrim arrived at Brother Paul's field just as the throng surged in from the other side.

  "Whence come ye?" someone cried. "From Sinai," the pilgrim replied. "And from our Lord's sepulchre. I have been a time in Bethlehem and Babylon and Armenia and Alexandria and many other places."

  "Do you know anything of a Saint named Truth?" someone asked eagerly. "Can you tell us where he lives?"

  The pilgrim shook his head. "God help me, I have never heard anyone ask after him before! I don't know—"

  "I'm looking for Truth," Brother Paul said. "I saw his tower a moment ago. I can point out the way."

  They looked at him dubiously. "You, a simple plowman? Who are you?"

  "I am Paul Plowman," he said—and was shocked to hear himself say it. Now he recognized this scene: it was from the Vision of Piers Plowman, a fifteenth century epic poem by William Langland. And he was stuck in the title role!

  "Yes, Paul," the people said. "We'll pay you to take us there."

  But that wasn't really where he wanted to go. Not right now. First he had to locate Lee; then he could search out the Tower, now hidden behind clouds. Lee was more likely down in the Dungeon of Wrong, this Animation's version of Hell.

  But now that he was in this vision, Brother Paul found himself constrained to follow the script. But maybe he could stall them while he figured out some way to rescue Lee.

  "No, I won't take any money, not a farthing," he told them. "I will tell you the way—it's over there to the east—but I must stay here to plow my field."

  They looked toward the east. The clouds were thickening into a storm. "We need a leader. You'll have to come with us."

  "I have a whole half acre to harrow by the highway!" Brother Paul protested in the alliterative mode of the epic. "But if you help me to prepare and sow my field, then I'll show you the road." That should turn these idlers off!

  "That would be a long delay," a young lady protested. She was in a fancy dress and wore the kind of hat called a wimple. Amaranth, naturally. And the pilgrim was Therion. "What would we woman work at while waiting?"

  Now there was a challenge! Obviously this lady had seldom soiled her hands with common labor. "Some must sew the sack to stop the seed from spilling," he told her. "You lovely ladies with your long fingers—"

  "Christ, it's a good idea," agreed a knight—another version of Therion. "I'll help too! But no one ever taught me how to drive a team."

  Then they were all volunteering. It seemed the plowman's job would soon be done! Which was not exactly what he wanted. Well, he was stuck with it now.

  But it turned out that many people were not good workers. Brother Paul had to keep after them, bawling them out, before the job was done.

  He remembered that this epic meandered through a great deal of symbolic dialogue, while people dubbed Conscience, Reason, Wisdom, and Holy Church debated moral issues with others titled Liar, Falsehood, Flattery, and Mede the Maid. It might be a great work of medieval literature, but it wasn't taking him where he wanted to go. He had to break away from this story and seek another that would serve his purpose better.

  Probably a direct effort wouldn't work; the Animations tended to precess when opposed as he knew to his chagrin. But maybe a slanting push, a shift into something similar, that might cast him into a more suitable role...

  What offered? Piers Plowman had tried to get men to earn their salvation by reforming themselves. Was there another epic with similar thrust and symbolism?

  Suddenly it came to him. "Pilgrim's Progress!" he exclaimed. Bunyan's allegory even shared the alliterative P! In it, the character Christian sought the celestial city, buttressed by such bit players as Help, Worldly Wiseman, Legality and Evangelist. Would anyone know the difference if he phased into that vision? The genuine, fictional, Piers Plowman could take over here. Why not give it a quiet try! Not a hard shove, just a nudge...

  It worked! Brother Paul found himself in the Valley of Humiliation of Pilgrim's Progress. He was alone, but carried a good sword. He should be able to make his way to—"

  His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a monster. Oh, no! Now he had to face the hazards of this vision, and they were no more pleasant than those of the others. This was the thing called Apollyon, and he knew he could not escape it. He would have to fight it if he could not bluff it back. So he stood his ground.

  The monster was hideous; it had scales like those of a fish, wings like a dragon's, bear's feet, a lion's mouth, and a bellyful of fire. Its face, however, seemed familiar: could this be Therion again?

  Apollyon gazed on him disdainfully, blowing out evil smoke. "Whence come you? and whither are you bound?"

  "I am from the City of Destruction," Brother Paul replied, "which is the place of all evil, and am going to the City of Zion." He was locked into the action and dialogue of the classic; only his thoughts were free. What a circuitous route he was following to locate Lee's Hell!

  Apollyon spread out his legs to straddle the full breadth of the way. "Prepare thyself to die; for I swear by my infernal den, that thou shall go no further; here will I spill thy soul."

  With that the monster threw a flaming dart at Brother Paul's breast. But Brother Paul had a shield, round and coppery like a great coin (had it been there a moment ago?) and intercepted the missile.

  He drew his sword—but Apollyon was already hurling more darts at him. Brother Paul tried to block them off, but they come like hail, magically multiplied. One flew directly at his face; he threw up his sword to fend it off, not daring to raise the shield and expose his legs, and it wounded his hand. Brother Paul gave a cry of pain and shook it loose; the wound was superficial, but it stung like fire. But then another dart speared his left foot, making him dance about in agony. What was on those barbs—essence of red ant, hornet, and scorpion? His shield dropped low—and a third dart caught him in the head, just above the hairline on the right.

  Brother Paul fell back. He was being destroyed! He had somehow thought he was invulnerable to attack by mythical monsters since he was only passing through. False notion! The Animations could and did kill; he had known that from the outset. Apollyon might be a creature of the imagination of John Bunyan, but this was the realm of imagination, and the monster was being played by another real person. If Pilgrim's Progress decreed the death of this character, Brother Paul was in trouble. Unless he could shift stories again, get into a surviving role—"

  He tried to concentrate on that, but could not. The dreadful darts were
still coming at him, and his head, hand, and foot still hurt. A trickle of blood was dribbling into his right eye. Apollyon was striding forward to match Brother Paul's retreat; any attention diverted to other literature could be immediately fatal here!

  No help for it: he would have to fight right here and now. He obviously could not win by playing the monster's game; he would have to convert it to his own style. That style, of course, was judo; let him get his bare hands on Apollyon, and—"

  But that hadn't worked too well against the dragon Temptation back in the Seven Cups. Judo was geared primarily to handling men, not monsters. So maybe it was best to save that for a last resort and use his sword meanwhile.

  Brother Paul stood and fought, swinging his sword back and forth, forth and back in flashing arcs. It was a good weapon, beautifully balanced, and its edge was magically sharp, and this was a heroic fantasy Animation. Apollyon retreated, fearing this new imperative. Brother Paul advanced, trying to cut the monster in half.

  But the sword was also heavy. His arm was tiring. If he didn't cut down the enemy soon, he would wear himself out, and then be vulnerable. So he doubled his effort, trying to finish it now.

  Apollyon stepped in close. Brother Paul dropped his shield and swung a two-handed blow at the monster's head to cleave him in two lengthwise. And hesitated in mid-stroke: it was Apollyon he aimed at—but would it be Therion he killed?

  In that moment Apollyon dodged to the side, turned about, caught Brother Paul's arms in his own, emitted a stunning scream KIIAAIII!—and executed a perfect ippon seoi nage shoulder throw. Brother Paul, fool that he was, had walked right into it! These throws had been designed to handle warriors in armor and to disarm armed attackers. He had been beaten at his own game.

  The fall was bruising. Brother Paul's sword flew out of his hand, and the wind was knocked out of him. Half conscious, he felt the monster dropping down expertly to put him in a holddown. It was Kami shiho gatame, the upper four quarter hold, one of the most effective in the judo arsenal. The monster was bearing down, putting the weight of his torso on Brother Paul's head, pinning it, forcing him to turn his face to the side in order to prevent suffocation. The fish scales of Apollyon's body stank in Brother Paul's nostrils and rasped against his cheek. He tried to struggle to throw the monster off, but the hold was cruelly tight. Apollyon really knew his business! No man could break this hold!

  This was no judo match, however. The monster was not about to let him up in thirty seconds in polite victory. "I am sure of thee now," Apollyon said, pressing down harder. The weight of his body increased magically, becoming more than the mere position could possibly account for. Brother Paul thought his skull was going to crack open. His eyeballs were being squeezed; they seemed about to pop out of his head. He was in a vice, and the invisible handle was being cranked tighter...

  Then he saw the sword. It had not flown far; it was within a meter, lying flat on the ground. Had he turned his head the other way, he would not have been able to see it. Pure luck! Desperately he flung out his left hand—and caught the handle.

  "Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy," he gasped. "When I fall I shall arise." Then he made a left-handed stab at the monster's side. It was not a really effective stroke because Brother Paul had poor vision and poorer leverage, but the good sword gouged out a patch of scales and laid open the dark inner flesh.

  Apollyon gave a cry of agony. His hold loosened, and Brother Paul heaved him off. Brother Paul rolled to his hands and knees, shaking his aching head, and saw brown ichor leaking from the monster's side. Brother Paul raised himself to his knees, gripped the sword again in both hands, and raised it high. "Nay," he cried. "In all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us." And he brought the sword down in a conclusive smash.

  But Apollyon, defeated, scuttled back, escaping the blow. "Spare me, great Hero!" he cried. "I will make it worth your mercy!"

  Brother Paul hesitated. Was this in the script? Could he trust the monster—or the man who played it? Well, he still had the good sword and could use it the moment Apollyon made a false move. The monster seemed to be out of darts anyway. "What do you offer, O fiend?"

  "Information!" Apollyon cried eagerly. "I know these realms as you do not. I can direct you to anything you seek. Riches, weapons, pretty nymphs—"

  Hm. "I am looking for someone in Hell."

  The monster spread his wings, momentarily startled. "I could have sent you there ere now, had you not thwarted me."

  "I don't want to be sent to Hell—I want to rescue someone who may be there. Locate him for me, and you can go free."

  Apollyon fluttered his wings again in a gesture very like a shrug. "I see you know little of Hell, O mortal! If it took you such a tussle to overcome me (and then only because I neglected to kick your blade aside), who am the least of fiends, you would survive only seconds in the infernal region. You would need to have a thorough comprehension of the history and psychology of Hell before you could even guess where your friend might be, for it is larger than all the world, and then you still durst not venture there yourself."

  Brother Paul considered. The monster was making sense! "Very well—tell me that history and psychology."

  A snort of fire issued from the leonine nostrils. "Mortal, that would require a lifetime!"

  "Abridge it," Brother Paul suggested, lifting his sword.

  Apollyon sighed smokily. "I will try. I believe John Milton said it best—"

  "You are familiar with the works of Milton?" Brother Paul asked with surprise.

  "Naturally. He and Bunyan were contemporaries, the two great figures of the Puritan Interlude of seventeenth century British literature. The one wrote the great allegory, the other the great epic. Some scholars (bastards!) choose to ignore Bunyan in favor of Milton, but—"

  "Yes, all right, okay," Brother Paul said. "Tell me about Milton's Hell,"

  "Well, if I may quote from Paradise Lost—"

  "Not the whole epic!" Brother Paul protested.

  "I will edit the selection," Apollyon assured him, though he evidently had had no intention of doing that before. Then the monster set himself up, spread his bear feet like an actor on a stage, and declaimed:

  The infernal serpent; he it was whose guile...

  Had cast him out from heaven, with all his host

  Of rebel angels, by whose aid aspiring

  To set himself in glory above his peers,

  He trusted to have equaled the most high,

  If he opposed; and with ambitious aim

  Against the throne and monarchy of God

  Raised imperious war in heaven and battle proud

  With vain attempt. Him the almighty power

  Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky,

  With hideous ruin and combustion down

  To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

  In adamantine chains and penal fire,

  Who durst defy the omnipotent to arms.

  "Fine," Brother Paul said. "I appreciate the grandeur of Milton—but what about Hell?"

  "I'm getting to it," Apollyon said, annoyed. "Satan picks himself up in the nether chaos and says:

  ...What though the field be lost?

  All is not lost; the unconquerable will

  And study of revenge, immortal hate,

  And courage never to submit or yield:

  And what is else not to be overcome?

  That glory never shall his wrath or might

  Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace

  ...that were low indeed.

  So spake the apostate angel, though in pain

  Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair...

  Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool...

  Then with expanded wings he steers his flight

  ...till on dry land he lights...

  Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,

  Said then the lost archangel, this the seat

  That we must change for he
aven, this mournful gloom

  For that celestial light? Be it so...

  ...Farewell, happy fields,

  Where joy for ever dwells: hail, horrors, hail

  Infernal world, and thou, profoundest hell

  Receive thy new possessor: one who brings

  A mind not to be changed by place or time.

  The mind is its own place, and in itself

  Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.

  ...Here at least we shall be free;...

  Here we may reign secure:...

  Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.

  Brother Paul nodded his head, impressed. "Yes, I can appreciate Satan's determination. He didn't give up at all; he had a fighting heart. So he fashioned Hell into a place of his liking—"

  "Precisely," Apollyon said. "Now how can you expect to descend into this Hell, to the infernal city of Pandemonium, and gain any power over the fallen Archangel? He defied God Himself; only if your power rivals that of God can you hope to extract any soul from Hell. Frankly, you don't measure up."

  "Well, I'll just have to find a way," Brother Paul said.

  Now Apollyon spread his dragon's wings and lofted himself into the air. He sped away, and in a moment he was lost in the distance.

  What now? It would be foolish to venture directly into Hell; Apollyon had shown him that. Yet he could not in conscience give up his mission. Was there any alternative?

  He snapped his fingers. "Dante!" he exclaimed. "He went to Hell—on a guided tour. He had a guide, the Roman poet Virgil. If I had a similar guide—"

  But Dante had not sought the extract anyone from Hell—least of all a prisoner of the status of Jesus. Virgil would probably not have assisted him in such an attempt, and it would have voided his visitor's visa.

  Brother Paul would be better off taking his chances alone. If he could sneak in—"

  No! That would be dishonest. The end did not justify the means. Jesus himself would not accept rescue by questionable means. If he could not do it legitimately, he could not do it at all. So—"