On A Pale Horse

"It may be true that the dead can not die—but if you do to a demon's corporate body what would kill a living creature, that demon loses the use of that body and must return directly to Hell. So it is much the same, in practice."

  Zane returned to another matter. "What's so important about privacy? Do we have secrets to exchange?"

  "Indeed we do. We are the mortal immortals; we can't have our secrets known to mortal mortals, lest we lose respect. We can't tell all to the Eternals, lest we lose our power."

  "What secrets?" Zane asked. "I'm just doing my job."

  "As you perceive it."

  "Is there something I don't know about it?"

  "Perhaps." She settled into a livewood chair, her ambience of mist spreading to fog much of it out. "I can make a small and not entirely comfortable demonstration."

  She gestured, and suddenly Zane felt a tremendous concupiscence. He wanted sex, and he wanted it now. He found himself standing, in more than one manner, and approaching her.

  "No!" he gritted, knowing this was not his own desire, but one imposed from without. Nature only smiled.

  He reached for her—but forced himself to grasp for her soul, not her body. His gloved hand passed through the mist and her flesh, and his fingers hooked into her soul. He drew on it, stretching part of it out of her body.

  She stiffened as if in sudden pain. Then Zane's erotic feeling left him as quickly as it had come. Her spell was off. He relaxed his hold on her soul and withdrew his hand from her flesh.

  Nature took a deep and somewhat shuddering breath, and the mist about her fluctuated in intensity. She had lost some of her composure. "I have shown you part of my power," she gasped. "And you have shown me part of yours."

  Again Zane suffered an illumination. "I do have power over the living—to a degree!" He remembered how his client in the hospital, the old woman like his mother, had reacted when he had tried the first time to take her soul. It had to be a terrible shock to have the soul pulled from a living body.

  "You do indeed, Thanatos. No one can balk an Incarnation in his specialty—not even another Incarnation. There is no profit in opposing each other, ever. Nature governs all of life—but she doesn't govern Death. The individual powers each of us has are inviolate. No one—"

  Here she paused, giving him a straight glance of enigmatic significance, her eyes like the swirlings of a tempest at night. "No one can interfere with any one of us with impunity."

  Zane was shaken by her revelation. He had not realized before how directly and specifically she could affect him, or how he could affect her. His own power had surprised him as much as hers. But he got himself organized and returned to the subject. "So you summoned me here to tell me something and show me something, putting difficulties in my way. What is really on your mind?"

  She shrugged again, seeming to like the motion. She had recovered her composure. She was, of course, an exceedingly tough creature. "You have met the others."

  "I presume you mean the other special figures—Time, Fate, War. Yes, briefly."

  "We really are special, Thanatos, we mortal immortals. We differ from one another, but we interact in devious yet essential ways, exerting our vectors."

  "Vectors?"

  "Well, you don't suppose any of us are completely free, do you? We don't do what we do frivolously. Just as the vectors offered, elevation, wind, temperature, humidity, barometric pressure, and landscape interact to determine exactly where a thrown ball will fall, so do the relevant factors determine how a war shall proceed, or how a cold front shall move, or when a given life will end. It may seem like chance or caprice, but that is only because no mortal person and few immortal entities comprehend the nature of the operative forces. We are not free—no one is absolutely free—yet we do have some leeway, and in this we individualize our offices. Each Incarnation can counter another to a limited degree, if that other permits, but we prefer not to do that unless there is sufficient reason."

  Zane was curious. "How can Death be countered, even if Death permits?"

  "Fate could arrange for a replacement, cutting off a thread."

  Now he felt a chill, for he knew this had been done before. "Fate—why should Fate ever want to do that?"

  "Chronos could halt the approach of an appointment."

  "Yes, but why—"

  "Mars could fashion a social disruption that could change the entire picture."

  She was avoiding his question. Still, this seemed worth pursuing. "And what of Nature? What cute little trick do you have up your fog, aside from the doubtlessly convenient ability to inflict instant lust?"

  "Show me your soul," she said.

  "My—!" Then he made the connection, and brought out the soul of the left-footed dancing girl. He had stuffed his soul-bag automatically in his pocket and forgotten it until this moment.

  Nature wafted a ball of mist at the soul. "Do not misjudge the power of any Incarnation, Thanatos. When you leave me, go to the crypt and try this soul. Then you will comprehend."

  Zane put the soul away. It seemed unchanged. Was she bluffing? What could she really do with a soul? "You brought me here only for this?"

  She laughed, causing little puffs of mist to spin off and float free. "By no means. I merely make my point with that soul so you learn proper respect and pay attention to my implication."

  "Well, make your implication!" Zane exclaimed impatiently.

  "What do you suppose is the most ancient profession of the human species?" Nature asked.

  What was this distaff dog up to now? "It's a female profession," he said guardedly.

  "Not so, Thanatos. Females were not permitted. The oldest profession is that of shaman, or medicine man, or witch doctor."

  "Witch doctor!" Zane exclaimed incredulously. "What validity did he have before modern magic was mastered?" But as he spoke, he remembered Molly Malone's comment about the old cave painters and their lost powers over the souls of animals. The practice of magic did predate modern advances.

  "The shaman was the original liberal arts supporter. The chief of the tribe was the man of action, while the shaman was the man of intellect. It may not have been easy for him in primitive times, when neither magic nor science worked better than erratically, but he was the one with the true vision of the future. From him descended those who had to fathom why, instead of merely accepting what. Doctors, philosophers, priests, scientists, magicians, artists, musicians—"

  "All those who cater in some fashion to Nature," Zane agreed, though privately he wondered whether artists and musicians really belonged in that category. Their professions were more subjective than most. "But your point—"

  "There is a way."

  "A way for what? I don't follow you at all!"

  "Are you an evolutionist or a creationist?"

  "Both, of course! But what does that have to do with anything?"

  "There are those who feel there is a conflict."

  She was changing the subject again, in that infuriating way of hers. "I see no conflict. God created the cosmos in a week, and Satan caused it to evolve. Thus we have magic and science together, as is proper. How could it be otherwise? But what did you intend to say to me? I do have other business."

  "We do fear the unknown," Nature said. "Thus man seeks to explain things, to illuminate what remains dark. Yet he remains fascinated by mystery and chance and oft times gambles his very life away." She glanced smokily at him, and Zane was sure that she, along with all the other Incarnations, knew how he had gambled with money and then with his own life. "Man is the curious creature, and if his curiosity can kill him, it also educates him. Today we have both nuclear physics and specific conjuration of demons."

  "And both are hazardous to the health of man!" Zane snapped. "It's an open question whether a rogue nuclear detonation would do more damage than a ranking demon of Hell loosed on Earth. Maybe World War Three will settle the question."

  "I trust we can settle it less vehemently," Nature said. "Much as I would dislike to deny Mars his
heyday. Assuming mankind is worth saving."

  "Of course it's worth saving!"

  "Is it?" she asked, turning her enigmatic, deep-pool gaze on him.

  Suddenly Zane had doubts. He shoved them aside. "Let's assume, for the sake of discussion, that man is worth saving. What's your point?"

  "An appreciation of several modes of thinking might help."

  "Help avert war? How?"

  "By means of formations of thought."

  "Formations?" Zane was annoyed, but refused to admit the extent of his confusion. If Nature had a point to make, he wanted to grasp it.

  "Man is not merely a linear thinker," she said, drawing a line of mist in the air. It hovered like a distant contrail. "Though series effort is certainly straightforward, and useful in many circumstances."

  Zane contemplated the contrail. "Series?" he asked blankly.

  "Imagine the synapses of your brain, like so many matchsticks, connecting head to tail. Your thoughts travel along these little paths." She punctuated the line with her finger, breaking it into five parts: -----. "This is a series arrangement. It is like driving down a highway, start to finish."

  "Oh. Yes, I see. Synapses connected in series. I suppose we do think in that fashion, though there are alternate paths."

  "Precisely. Here is a system of alternate paths." She swept her hand across the contrail, erasing it, then used her finger to draw five new matchsticks: |||||. "This is a parallel formation. It is, of course, very fast and strong; it leads to a virtually certain conclusion, based on many facts. It is perhaps the most powerful mode."

  "But it doesn't reach as far."

  "True. It is conservative, leading to small, certain steps with few errors, rather than the sudden leaps of understanding possible with the series formation. It does have its liability, but is useful when the occasion requires."

  "Maybe so. But your point—"

  "You do at times seem to be that type of thinker," she said, smiling. She pursed her lips and blew out a ring of mist that swirled toward the ceiling. "You cling to essentials. But they will not always serve you well."

  "I've been getting in trouble in Purgatory because I haven't clung to essentials!" he protested.

  "Then we have the creative formation," she continued blithely, erasing the parallel formation and drawing five matchsticks radiating out from a common center: *. "Divergent thoughts, not necessarily limited to the immediate context."

  "Going in all directions," Zane agreed. "But—"

  "And the schizoid formation," she said, drawing a pentagon: . "Going round and round, getting nowhere, internalizing."

  "What use is that?"

  "It might help a person come to terms with an ugly necessity," she said.

  "I don't see that—"

  "Finally, there is the intuitive formation." She traced another formation: -|||-. "A sudden jump to a conclusion. Not the most reliable mode, yet sometimes effective when others are not."

  "Five formations of thinking," Zane said, nearing exasperation. "Very interesting, I'm sure. But what did you have in mind to say to me?"

  "I have said it," Nature said calmly.

  "Said what? You have evaded the issue throughout!"

  "What issue?"

  Zane had enough. "I don't care to play this game." He stomped out of the citadel. Nature did not oppose him.

  The exit from the center of the estate was much easier than the entrance had been. He walked down a path and through a thicket and emerged in the original field without passing lake or bog or deep forest, a matter of only a few hundred feet. Mortis and Luna were waiting for him.

  "What did old Mother Nature have to say to you so urgently?" Luna demanded archly.

  "She's not that old. At least, I don't think she is."

  "Estimate to within a decade."

  "Are you jealous?" he asked, pleased.

  Luna checked about her as if verifying that she wore no Truthstone. "Of course not. How old?"

  "I just couldn't tell. She wore fog."

  "Fog?"

  "Some sort of mist. It shrouded her whole body. But I had the impression of youth, or at least not age."

  "Nature is ageless."

  "I suppose she is, technically. But so is Death."

  Luna took his arm possessively. "And I shall make Death mine. But didn't she have some important message or warning for you? If it is not for mortals like me to know, just say so."

  Zane laughed uncomfortably. "Nothing like that! Apparently she just wanted to chat."

  "Or to size up the new officeholder."

  "Maybe that. She talked about this and that, evolution and the shaman as the oldest profession, formations of thought, and how the other Incarnations could deviously counter me, if I permitted it. She looked at the soul I harvested on the way here and implied she could restore it."

  "Maybe she was baiting you. Trying to make you react, to take your measure. Some women are like that, and Nature is surely the most extreme example."

  "Surely the archetype," he agreed. "But it's easy to find out about the soul. Let's call her bluff. I'll take this soul back to its body now."

  "This is an interesting date," Luna remarked as they mounted Mortis.

  "If you insist on dating Death, you must expect morbid things."

  The horse took off, knowing where to go. Luna circled her arms about Zane's torso and clung tightly.

  "The prospect of dying has become less of a specter for me since I've known you," she said into his back as they flew in overdrive across the world. "Maybe that was what my father had in mind."

  Zane didn't answer. The thought of her early dying was not becoming easier for him to accept. What would there be for him when she was gone? In what way was she deserving of such a fate? He did not care what the official ledger listed for the burden of sin on her soul; she was a good woman.

  Mortis lighted beside a funeral home. It was still night, here in San Diego, or wee morning, and the place was quiet.

  The entrance was locked, but it opened at the touch of the Death gloves; no physical barrier could bar Death. They went in and found their way to the freezer vaults, where the recent bodies were stored for the required waiting period. Zane used his gems to locate the specific drawer where the dancing girl lay, and drew it out. He had not realized before he made the effort that the gems would orient on a soulless body if he willed it; they were more versatile than he had known.

  There she lay, definitely dead, not pretty in the manner of a corpse laid out for display with its eyes and mouth stapled shut, its guts eviscerated, and its blood replaced by embalming fluid; she was just a cold corpse.

  "Definitely an unusual date," Luna murmured.

  Zane opened his bag and drew out the girl's soul. He shook it gently, unfolding it, then placed it over the corpse. "This is as far as I can go to—"

  The soul sank into the stiff body. In a moment the naked torso shuddered, and the eyes cracked open. Ragged breathing resumed.

  "She's alive!" Luna exclaimed. "We must get her out of the drawer!"

  "Nature wasn't bluffing!" Zane said. "She restored this girl!" He slid his arms around the girl's chill torso and lifted her up. She remained stiff, as if the rigor mortis had not yet worn off, yet she was alive and could move somewhat.

  Luna helped him carry the girl to a warmer chamber. They worked on her hands and feet, chafing warmth and flexibility back into them, but it was not enough. Her breathing became shallower, and the stiffness did not abate.

  "She must be warmed," Luna said. "Otherwise she will perish again. She was in the freezer too long, and whatever spell Nature made seems to be only temporary. I must use magic—"

  "But that will increase your burden of sin!" Zane protested.

  "What difference does it make? I am already doomed to Hell." Luna brought out a gem.

  Zane let her do it, knowing that what she said was true. The use of black magic could not really damage her case now. Yet it was ironic that she should be further damned f
or this good cause. Sometimes there seemed to be no justice in the Hereafter.

  Luna activated the stone. A soft blue effulgence surrounded it. She brought it near the cold body of the dancer, and immediately the body warmed and softened. Zane's arms, holding the girl upright, were touched by the radiation, and a gentle but potent heat was generated in them. "This is like a microwave oven!" he exclaimed.

  "Similar principle," Luna agreed. "Anything science can do, magic can do, and vice versa. But the mechanisms differ."

  Now the girl recovered quickly. Her breathing deepened, her body became limber, and her color improved. "W-what?" she asked.

  Zane was still supporting her. At the moment she spoke, he was standing behind her, arms around to her front, just beneath her breasts. It took some effort and leverage to keep a half-dead body standing. His position did not change, but his awareness of it did. This was not the way a man held a living girl—especially not a naked one. Yet if he let her go, and she turned about and looked into the face of Death—

  Luna appreciated the problem at the same time. "We must get you some clothing, dear," she said to the girl.

  Zane continued to support her while Luna searched the premises. As Luna looked, she talked, reassuring the girl. "You won't be feeling too well at the moment, dear. You see, you overdid the dancing and lost consciousness. They thought you were dead and put you in a vault. That's why you feel so cold."

  "So cold," the girl agreed, beginning to shiver.

  Luna found a blanket and brought it over. "Wrap yourself in this. There's one other thing we must explain. You have had a very close call—so close that Death was summoned to collect your soul. But it turned out to be—well, he decided not to take you, after all. So don't be alarmed; Death is departing, not arriving."

  "Death?" The girl's wits were not too bright, understandably.

  Zane released her as Luna helped her drape the blanket. The girl turned and for the first time saw Death's face. She gasped, but accepted it.

  "Death doesn't take anyone who isn't ready to go," Luna said reassuringly. "He is really your friend, not your enemy. However, you will have to explain to your acquaintances about this. Tell them that you sank so low you saw Death, but he passed you by. It will bring you some deserved notoriety."