Eric Strauss Gospel of the Pantheon

Gospel of the Pantheon

Eric D. Strauss

Chapter 1 –

The Death of the God of Time

Verse One

In the year 1700, the god of time died.

It was late September, and the Villa of the Gods sat atop a

plateau in what is now New Mexico. Back then, though, the place had

no name, and there was nothing there but red dust and jackrabbits.

This particular plateau was very large, and flat, and still the Villa

filled up the whole of it. The Villa of the Gods, you see, is not just the

Mediterranean style house, but also the grounds - acres of meadows,
brush and woodlands, spring fed pools and streams. It is quite an

impressive place.

And the whole of this estate moves from place to place around

the world. It will just be somewhere one day, and not there the next.

Sometimes the Villa will stay in one place for weeks; other times it will be

gone after a few minutes. No mortal has ever actually seen it move, but
move it surely does, for it's always in different places.

And it must have been quite a sight that day – a several acre circle

of green and blue perched high above the red and yellow desert.

There were 28 mortals in the Villa, and all seven of the High

Lords of the Pantheon were there too.

The goddess Baby Lady Bae was inside the Villa. She sat with a

group in a spacious sitting room near the front of the west side of the

building. As usual, she had this side of the house to herself. Baby Lady
Bae tended, you see, to be very concerned about disharmony between

people, and the other gods, though they loved their sister, found this

tiresome to hear about. So they stayed out of her way and left her to her

work.

Baby Lady Bae sat with 24 persons on this early fall day, in the

sitting room. 12 sat upon each of two long, curving sofas. The sofa
cushions were slender, neat, and gray with a bit of red along the edges.

Like the Villa itself, and most of the rest of the furnishings, the sofas

were the work of Accutron, god of Quality in Objects, so they were

perfect.

The two sofas faced each other, and between them, sitting atop a

low, oval table was Baby Lady Bae.

Her guests were mostly couples. They sought her help because

when one mate clasps one hand of Baby Lady Bae, and the second clasps

the other hand, the two parties resonate with the goddess' divinity.

Usually this results in an unbreakable bond between the two.
Occasionally, however, the two are not meant to be, and then it's just

totally over.

So that's what most of those 24 persons were there for. They

came to fall in or out of love. They came to feel better. And Baby Lady

Bae, whose compassion for the peoples of the world is endless, clasped

the hand of each of her 24 guests, and she shared her divinity with each,
and she healed them all. So, a lot of boring girl stuff, basically.

Entropotripocles, god of Stumbles and Confusion, was not inside

the house, but he too was at the Villa. He enjoyed the company of three

nubile mortals beside a shaded, spring-fed pool just past a small hill that

rose up from behind the main structure. This hill ensured that the area
could not be seen from the main house. So, it was an isolated spot, and

private, but not too far from the kitchen.

Female mortals really liked the place. The seclusion, the clear,

cool water, and, of course, the god's considerable charm, disinhibited his

guests, and ensured that a good time was had by all.

In fact, the god of Stumbles and Confusion was so often to be

found by this pool behind the hill that the other gods had taken to calling

the area “Stumbles Pool.” And on this day, Entropotripocles was there,

at Stumbles Pool. He and the three lovely mortals shared pitchers of iced

rum and grapefruit juice and debauched upon the ferns.

Ok, but this isn't our stop either...

Verse Two

That accounts for 27 of the 28 mortal persons at the Villa,

however, and brings us to our destination:

In the eastern most room at the back of the Villa of the Gods, sat

Campaggo Religetti, the 28th mortal in attendance that day. He was

sitting by himself at a very well-stocked bar.

Campaggo worked as a groundskeeper for the Duke of New

Hamptingtonshire, and he didn't get out much. He had never seen, let

alone drank, anything but beer, wine, rum and water. So this bar at the

Villa very much astounded him. The number of different bottles, and
fluids, and fruits – it was too much. He could not possibly choose one,

so he just mixed as many as he could in one glass, atop some ice.

But then felt a bit of “chooser's remorse” anyway, and he decided

to make a second drink, using some of the intriguing looking bottles that

hadn't made it into the first drink. Then he made a third. And then he

started getting nervous and decided he better stop playing around.

So he lined the beverages up in front of him on the bar now and

peered carefully at each. Campaggo rarely had occasion to drink from a

cup made of glass, and he appreciated the opportunity to look at the
insides of his beverages.

“It appears you have anticipated our arrival, sir,” said Precreator.

This so thoroughly startled Religetti that, had he been holding a

drink in his hand, he surely would have flung all of its contents upon the

god. Fortunately, he had been too busy watching his drinks to drink

them.

Precreator grabbed one of the mixtures and sat beside the mortal.

Accutron followed immediately thereafter and he reached over

Campaggo and got the second drink from the bar, then took the seat to

the right of Precreator. He leaned forward a bit, so he could see past

Precreator, and then Accutron stared at Religetti for a full three seconds.

“Who are you?” he finally asked the mortal.

Accutron's voice was large and deep and it had a tendency to

make mortals snap to. But Campaggo was reeling a bit still from the

abrupt arrival of the gods, so it took him a couple of seconds to process

the question.

“Ah... I... I am Campaggo Religetti. Who are you?”

“Accutron. Pleased to meet you Campaggo.”

Accutron offered his hand across the bar. Religetti shook it and

thought that it was surely the largest and heaviest hand he had ever

shaken.

“And I am Precreator, Campaggo,” said the first god. “Welcome

to the Villa.”

Religetti wasn't quite sure how to respond to this, so he said

nothing. It did not appear that he was in any sort of trouble, but best not

to take any chances.

“So, may I ask which of us you are here to see?” asked Precreator

mildly.

At this point, Campaggo reached for the one drink still sitting in

front of him to give himself time to consider the question. He took a

healthy slug from it, and the beverage commanded his immediate
attention. He wasn't sure he liked it but it certainly was strong.

Religetti was still blinking the tears from his eyes when Precreator

tired of waiting for an answer.

“So. Are you here to see me, or are you here to see Accutron?”.

“Ah, I'm sorry, but I'm, ah.. not here to see either of you.”

Precreator looked at Accutron, who shrugged a bit, and picked

up his drink. Precreator turned back to Campaggo.

“That's very unlikely, you know. What of the three drinks? You

were clearly waiting for somebody.”

It was then that Accutron began to pound the bar angrily. When

at last the god had all of the liquid in his mouth swallowed, he bellowed

at Campaggo:

“In the name of all the lords of the Pantheon, man, what in the

world is this nightmare concoction?!”

“Well, I...” Campaggo started to answer, but was cut off by

Precreator, who apparently took no notice of Accutron's antics.

“Campaggo. What of the three drinks – you were waiting for

somebody, yes?”

“Well, I...” Campaggo started to answer, but was cut off by

Accutron.

“I mean seriously man, are you trying to kill us?!”

“Well,

I...”

This time no one interrupted, but Campaggo had forgotten what

he wanted to say.

“Let's get this drinks issue resolved now, shall we,” suggested

Precreator. “You had three drinks, and you are but one person.

Thoughts?”

“Well, you see, I was, am still, I mean, most impressed by this

room, and the many different liquids available, and I must admit I went

behind the bar to look more closely, and, well, after I had made one

drink, I wanted to make another, as I had used hardly any of the choices

in the first, so I made a second and then a third. So, the point is, all of
the drinks are for me.”

This garnered no immediate response , and Campaggo feared that

he had given the wrong impression.

“I mean, of course they are your drinks now, I'm not saying I

want them back, I'm just saying that I didn't make them for you. Which
isn't to say that I wouldn't have, had I known you were coming, because I

definitely would have...”

At this, Religetti shut his mouth. When open, he decided, it just

seemed to get him into more trouble.

“Well, there's no way I'm drinking this, regardless of who it is

for,” said Accutron.

And with that Accutron rose to make himself a different drink.

But Precreator stopped him.

“I think perhaps we ought to drink our drinks, Lord Accutron, as

they were clearly meant for us, and one ought to do that which he is

meant for, eh?”

“Well,” considered Accutron. “I suppose you have a point

there.” And he sat back down.

Campaggo decided not to point out the fact that the drinks, as he

had just explained, were NOT meant for the two gods. Instead he

quietly took another gulp of his own beverage, grimaced, and felt relieved
that at least one matter had been settled to the gods' satisfaction.

“But we still,” said Precreator, “have not determined which one

of us you came to see, nor how it is you ended up in this room, where we
take our drinks, instead of at any of a number of more obvious places in

the house. You must have passed 4 bars on your way in here – there are

two in the foyer alone. That you found your way here, ignoring much

lower hanging fruit, is further proof that you came here to see one of us.”

“Well, Precreator, sir, you see I came back here because I was

hoping, well, I was hoping to avoid running into any of you gods, and
this place seemed rather tucked away back in the corner, so...”

“Avoid running into the gods?!” demanded Accutron. “In the

Villa of the Gods?! Well, why in the world did you come here then?”

This flustered Campaggo terribly, and he tripped all over himself

trying to answer High Lord Accutron's question.

“Well, they say, sir, they say that the Villa – if you see it – you

should go inside because they say that if you can get in you can drink and

feast all you wish, and pay nothing, and there are many beautiful things to
see and other pleasures, like a great pool made of solid gold and filled

with wine, and there are buxom mermaids swimming in the wine, and

you can go swimming with them and...”

“Nonsense!”

declared

Accutron.

“No, I swear it, that's what they say, I...”

“And well they should say such things, Campaggo,” interrupted

Precreator, “because except for that stuff about the golden pool

mermaids swimming in wine, it's all true. For as long as you are here, eat
and drink all you like. Make yourself at home. There is a kitchen behind

the wall behind the bar. The panel there in the middle swivels. All you

need to do is give it a little push to get into the kitchen.”

Precreator paused a moment and tapped a little rhythm out on

the bar, as though it might give him some answers. He finished and

paused, considered, and then spoke again:

“Regardless, Accutron is right – it is absolutely nonsense that the

reason you came here was to eat and drink. Nevertheless, I think we can

conclude that you do indeed believe that to be the reason you entered,
and that you therefore are unlikely to provide any useful information

about the subject.”

The two gods then fell into a moody silence and sipped their

drinks. Every drop appeared to pain Accutron, but Precreator consumed

his impassively. After a minute or two of this, Campaggo mustered

enough courage to ask a question.

“They say that wherever you enter the Villa, even if it moves after

you go in, is where you will find yourself when you leave, is it true? I

mean, probably we have not gone anywhere since I entered not more
than an hour ago, but...”

“Where did you enter?” asked Accutron.

“New Hamptingtonshire – the northern part of the Duke's estate

– I work there. I am a groundskeeper for the Duke.”

The two gods exchanged a look.

Accutron said, “I hadn't realized we had stopped there. But no,

we've moved since you entered. We are in the New World, now, in the

middle of a desert.”

“And yes it's true, when you exit, you will exit back to New

Hamptingtonshire,” added Precreator.

But Religetti had forgotten all about his worries upon hearing

where they had relocated.

“A desert?! I have heard the stories of the adventurers who

traveled to Africa and met men with skin as dark as coal, and they told of

the desert. They say it is a land made of nothing but fine sand, as far as

one can see in every direction.”

“Indeed, a desert,” said Precreator.

“Well, this isn't really that kind of desert,” said Accutron.

“You're just confusing the boy,” chastised Precreator.

“May I see it?” asked Campaggo.

“You will see it,” sighed Precreator. “Now finish your drink,

then go to kitchen and eat whatever you like until you are full. You'll

have to prepare it yourself, but if you don't know how to cook, and I

think it very unlikely that you do, then just stick with cold meats and

cheeses.”

Campaggo, noting that both of the gods had finished their drinks,

downed the rest of his glass in two big gulps. The drink nearly came

right back up, but Religetti sat very still and eventually the nausea passed.
As he rose to go to the kitchen, a thought occurred to him.

“Haven't you any servants, or maids, or cooks, or livery or what

have you?”

Campaggo, who worked for the Duke of New Hamptingtonshire,

had seen the ruler's opulent lifestyle up close, and he knew that it was
very labor intensive. But so far he had seen no staff at all in the Villa of

the Gods.

Accutron snorted. “The last thing we need around here is a

bunch of fawning mortals scurrying about and taking up space.”

“The house,” added Precreator, “attends to custodial matters, and

to the stocking of the bars and larders, on it's own, when we're not

looking. And as for food preparation and making drinks and such, we

seem to manage fine on our own. Now go you to the kitchen. We are

expecting two more, and when all are here, we will go look at the desert.”

Verse Three

Religetti was quite excited to see the New World and the endless

sand in all directions, so he resolved to eat quickly. But upon entering

the kitchen, and perhaps because he was feeling a little drunk, he became

mesmerized by all the foods. There were foods that looked like nothing

eatable he'd ever seen. There were foods that he could not even muster a
guess about what they might be, or how one might eat them. And of

course there were many familiar foods as well – copious sliced meats and

cheeses of all kinds, and breads to match, and sausages, and what looked

like some leftover stew. It took him 20 minutes just to do a very cursory
inventory of his choices.

In the end, he went with what he knew, and he piled meats and

cheeses between two halves of a round loaf of bread. After some

searching he found mustard. And while looking for the mustard, he

noticed a barrel of pickles and he fished out two of those. He also found

a pitcher of mead in the tall cold box, and he grabbed that too, and he
put the mead and his sandwich and the pickles on a small table in the

corner of the kitchen.

Everything was astonishingly good. This was, without question,

the best food he had ever had, and the best mead he had ever drank.

Not that he had had many occasions to drink mead. The thin ale at the

pub was more in his price range.

Regardless, he gorged. And when he was done, he reflected upon

his good fortune at having seen the Villa and commended himself for

deciding to enter it. This was proving to be the greatest day of his young

life. He wondered if any of the other groundskeepers would believe him

when he told them. Probably not, but so what. That wasn't going to
stop him from enjoying himself while he was here.

He rose from the table, and unsure what to do with his mess, he

left it where it was. He recalled hearing that the house cleaned itself, so if

anyone complained that would be his excuse. He turned and walked

towards the swiveling panel in the wall, but before reentering the bar he

turned to look again at the mess he had left, just to gauge how bad it
looked from a bit of a distance, and of course, the mess was gone. There

was no sign that it had ever been there.

Back in the bar, Campaggo saw that two more men had joined

Precreator and Accutron. One of them, he recognized immediately. He

was the god of time. He looked just like the pictures in the book his

mother had shown him when he was small. Well, perhaps the beard was

more gray than white, but it was certainly bushy, and while the god of
time was not wearing a long white robe (he wore canvas pants and a

cotton shirt), there was still no mistaking the guy. The other one was a

rather mousy looking fellow with thinning hair and a bit of a slouch.

“Ah, Campaggo, you've returned. I trust the food was to your

liking,” said Precreator.

“It was the best food I have ever tasted, sir,” replied Religetti,

honestly.

“Good, good. Some introductions, then...”

He pointed to the mousy gentleman, whose face was slightly

wrinkled, the mortal now saw.

“This is Curtis, the god of Text and of Naming Things. Curtis

this is Campaggo Religetti, from the Dukedom of New

Hamptingtonshire.”

At hearing the name of New Hamptingtonshire, Curtis's eyes

widened and he glanced at Precreator and at Accutron. Then he looked
at the god of time, but that god was looking away. Curtis said nothing

about it, though, and he stuck out his hand towards Campaggo.

“A pleasure to meet you Mr. Religetti.”

Campaggo shook the offered hand.

“And this,” said Precreator, indicating the bearded god, “is my

old and dear friend, the god of time.”

Religetti shook his hand as well, and Precreator sighed heavily

and said, “Well let's get going then.”

The gods provided a saddled horse for Campaggo, and then they

began walking away from the house and towards the far perimeter of the
Villa grounds. Though the gods appeared to be walking no faster than

any mortal might walk, Religetti was forced to ride the horse hard across

the unpredictable terrain just to keep up. As a consequence, this ride

required all of the man's attention.

This meant that although it was a fairly substantial distance to

travel, to Religetti it felt like it took hardly any time at all. Nevertheless,
Campaggo was much relieved to see the gods stop, and to have the

chance to dismount. All the food and mead and bouncing and tension

was making him queasy. He was much pleased to have his feet on solid

ground again.

And then Campaggo looked up. He saw the railing at the edge of

the Villa, and beyond it were red spires and blue sky and the yellow

desert far below.

“Accutron's Hammer!” he exclaimed. (The expression was

popular in 1700, and elicited a small chuckle from Accutron when he
heard Campaggo utter it.) “I have never seen any world such as this!”

He walked to the railing and leaned out to take it all in. Now this

would have struck most any observer as a rather unwise thing to do. For
the railing did not just mark the edge of the Villa grounds. It also

coincided precisely with the edge of the plateau itself. And the drop to

the hard, sun-baked clay below was a thousand feet. But Religetti,

apparently, was not afraid of heights, because he leaned out as far as he
could and peered down into the abyss below.

“Wow! There is no grass, no trees, no people or animals! Only

that red rock all around.”

He paused and turned to look at the gods who stood behind him.

“But where is all the sand?”

“I told you it's not that kind of desert,” said Accutron.

The god of time then walked to the railing and he too leaned out

a bit, adding his weight to the equation.

“It is beautiful though, isn't it Religetti?” asked the god of time.

“Isn't this a beautiful world?”

Before Campaggo could reply, a loud cracking sound came from

the railing. Religetti jumped back to safety with the quick reflexes of the

young. The god of time was not so quick, however, and when the

section of the railing split in two, the deity tumbled silently over the edge.

Religetti scrambled back to the railing – an unbroken section –

and watched the god fall. It was several seconds until he saw a puff of

red dust where the body hit the ground. He turned to look at the gods,
then back at the ground, then at the gods again..

“Did you see that?! Is he going to be ok?”

Abruptly, a new god appeared beside Precreator, Accutron and

Curtis.

“The god of time is dead,” said this god.

Religetti thought that this new god was much more impressive

than the others. This god was substantially taller and very broad
shouldered. He had a sweeping plume of shock white hair above an

ageless, square-jawed, serious face. And he clasped in one hand a very

tall wooden staff.

This new god pointed at Campaggo.

“This must be the man from New Hamptingtonshire, the one

who killed the god of time.”

“I-I-I...”

Precreator interrupted Religetti's stammering.

“Please leave us to our grief, Lord Alienator.”

Alienator stared hard at Precreator for three seconds, but the

latter god did not make eye contact with the former. Then, as quickly as

he had appeared, High Lord Alienator was gone.

“I didn't kill him,” blurted Religetti.

“Of course you didn't, “ said Accutron. “Your arrival simply

coincided with the occasion of his death.”

Now, Campaggo Religetti was young, and not very worldly for

sure, but he was not a stupid man, and he put together the many obvious

clues from his day with the gods and realized something abruptly.

“Hey! You knew that he would die today, didn't you?”

“Indeed we did,” said Curtis, and Precreator nodded

confirmation.

“Well, why didn't you warn him to stand back then? Why didn't

you save him?” asked Campaggo.

But before he could receive any reply, a very beautiful woman

appeared behind the other gods and walked to the front of the group.

She was not a large woman, and she had light brown skin and long light

brown hair and a round face with dimples. Campaggo correctly
identified her as Baby Lady Bae.

“The god of time is dead,” she said.

“Yes, he fell over the edge right there,” said Religetti to the

goddess, pointing to where the railing had broken.

Baby Lady Bae looked up at Religetti, and offered him a very

warm smile and Campaggo was abruptly awash in love and warmth. The

grace of her divinity was a palpable, pulsing sort of thing.

Then she looked to her fellow gods and her face went cold.

“You three knew about this ahead of time. Why was I never told

this would happen? I would have liked a chance to say my goodbyes.”

Curtis seemed just slightly flustered by the she-god's question.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “you had not yet been elevated when we

received the prophecy, and therefore, it was not meant for you to know

it, although I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say that we would very

much have liked to have told you.”

Accutron was less politic in his reply. “You would have

intervened to try to save him. Most likely in vain, but still.”

“Prophecy?” asked Campaggo.

“It's a form of meaningsmithing. And it's dirty business all

around,” said Curtis.

Now Campaggo had a pretty good idea what prophecy was, but

like most mortals, he had only a poor and largely incorrect understanding
of what meaningsmithing was, so this comment was not very elucidating.

“Would you like us to tell it to you now?” asked Precreator of

Baby Lady Bae.

Baby Lady Bae looked none too pleased by this suggestion, but

motioned for Precreator to proceed.

“The prophecy said 'When the first man from New

Hamptingtonshire visits the Villa of the Gods, he will watch the god of

time die, and he will collect the finger bones of the god of time and put
them in a sack.'”

“Which,” added Curtis, “means that we no more knew exactly

how or when he would die than you did, Bae, if that is any consolation.”

Baby Lady Bae considered this for a moment.

“What exactly do you mean, 'the first man from New

Hamptingtonshire.' Is this gentleman the founder of New

Hamptingtonshire? Or am I to understand that there is to be a second
man?”

“And a third,” said Accutron.

“Yes, Lady Bae,” said Curtis. “There are two other parts to the

prophecy. Well, three other parts actually.”

“Which are...” she prompted.

“I'm afraid we can't tell you that,” said Precreator.

“You were not yet elevated at...” added Curtis.

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Baby Lady Bae. “I wasn't a god yet when

you heard the prophecies. But you see, now I know about the

prophecies. I know there will be two more men from New

Hamptingtonshire, so why not tell me the rest.”

“Indeed,” began Curtis, “you do now know of the existence of

the prophecies, and that two more men from New Hamptingtonshire

will play a role in fulfilling them, and it is therefore clearly acceptable for
you to know those things...”

“However,” finished Precreator, “we did not decide to tell you

anything else about the Prophecies, therefore it is clearly not acceptable
for you to know those things.”

“Then why not simply decide to tell me those things, at which

point it will be acceptable for me to know them?!” demanded Baby Lady
Bae.

“You know it doesn't work like that, Bae,” answered Precreator.

Baby Lady Bae glared at Precreator, and then she was gone.

The remaining gods now turned to look at Campaggo.

“So,” said Precreator. “You have a job to do, Religetti, and you'd

best get to it.”

“What job?” asked Campaggo.

“Weren't you listening?” asked Accutron. “You have to go get

the fingers of the god of time.”

“And put them in a sack,” added Curtis.

“What, go down there?” asked Campaggo, indicating towards the

edge.

“Just so,” said Precreator.

“Can't you guys just, you know, magic him back up here?” asked

the mortal.

Precreator looked to Curtis, who wrinkled his brow, and with a

“hate-to-tell-you-this” expression said, “I'm afraid we must play this ball
where it lies, so to speak. Certainly it would have been more convenient

for all of us had he died back in the bar, but it didn't work out that way.”

“Perhaps, Campaggo, if you had made the god of time one of

your drinks...” joked Accutron.

This prompted a chuckle from Precreator, but Religetti felt only

rising alarm at what the gods were telling him.

“But how am I supposed to get down there?!” he demanded.

“Here is a rope,” said Accutron, and Campaggo saw that the god

now held a long coiled rope in one hand.

Now, leaning recklessly over the railing was one thing, but

Religetti had no desire to inch his way down a thousand feet of rope. He

scrambled to think of some sort of way to avoid this ordeal.

“But, but... but what if the rope breaks? I'll be killed!”

“This rope won't break,” assured Accutron. “I made it myself.”

“Well, you gods made that railing too, right? And we all know

how sturdy that was!”

“Interesting story, that, actually,” answered Accutron. “Yes I

constructed the Villa, and the grounds, and all of the railing. But I did it
before the awakening of the world, which means I didn't need to do all

the work myself. It's a little bit complicated to explain, but you know

how 'in the very beginning, before there was anything, there were the

world and the people as always, and all the people did was work, and
everything they made was perfect?'”

Campaggo looked blankly at Accutron.

“That gospel has not yet been channeled, Accutron,” said Curtis.

“There's no way this mortal could possibly know that.”

“Ah. Well,” continued Accutron, “that's how it was anyways. So

back before the awakening, I just directed the people, because I could be

certain that the work would be done right, see? The problem is that the

Villa was completed at the dawning of the world, right as year 1 began.
And the Emoticons began crashing into the world just as the last of the

railing was being made – this very section right here, in fact. So you see,

this bit right here was made by mortal hands after the very beginning,

and the mortals channeled the truths of the Article Space imperfectly,

and thus, the railing here, unlike this rope, which I made entirely myself,

was vulnerable to breakage.”

Accutron paused, and looked at the broken railing.

“If you think about it,” he continued, “given the circumstances, it

was inevitable that this bit of imperfect railing would play some

significant role at some point. And as you see, it did.”

None of this made much sense to Campaggo, but he did get the

gist of what it signified: he was going to have to climb down the rope,

like it or not.

Accutron walked to the railing some distance from the point

where it had broken and began tying one end of the rope around the

wood. This gave Campaggo a few moments to appreciate the spectacular

woods that grew near the edge of the Villa grounds and the small glen
where stood Precreator and Curtis watching Accutron get the rope ready.

The trees were enormous and mostly of varieties that Religetti

had never before seen. The beauty of the place easily rivaled that of the
desert, but Campaggo had felt so thoroughly harried throughout the ride

from the house to the railing that he really had not had a chance to see

any of it. He looked far up towards the tops of the towering trees and

was awed by them. He understood then that he was, indeed, in the home
of the gods – in the presence of divinity.

“You'd best get started, I think,” prompted Precreator.

“When you get to the bottom,” said Curtis, “do not let go of the

rope until you have collected all of the fingers of the god of time. As

soon as you let go, you will be back in New Hamptingtonshire, as the
rope is going to be the only thing keeping you connected to the Villa.”

Campaggo nodded that he understood, and then said goodbye

and shook the hand of each of the three gods in turn, and thanked them

for their hospitality. Precreator handed the mortal a small canvas sack,
which Campaggo carefully tied onto his belt to keep it out of his way

during the descent. Then Religetti climbed over the edge of the cliff and

started inching down the rope. It took him the better part of three hours

to reach the bottom.

About halfway down, he realized that he had no way to cut the

fingers off of the god of time, but he wasn't about to go back up now.
He'd just have to find a sharp rock or something.

When at last the mortal arrived at the bottom, however, he saw

that the god had become nothing but bones, and that his clothes had
become a few ancient shreds of cloth. In fact, Campaggo noted, the

remnants seemed to be still aging – aging so quickly that he could watch

it happening. He could see some of the bones literally decaying into

nothing. And this, it occurred to the man, meant that he should probably
hurry up. So, being careful not to release the rope, Religetti easily broke

each brittle finger off in turn and placed it in the sack. He got the

thumbs, too, just to be safe.

Then, after a final gaze at the arid red land, and at the spot where

the corpse of the god of time had been – it was now mostly just dust -

Campaggo released the rope, and found himself back in New

Hamptingtonshire.

Almost immediately after Campaggo's departure, another figure

arrived at the spot of the god's demise. It was Entropotripocles. The

god of Stumbles and Confusion got down on all fours and pawed

through the dust until he found what he was looking for.

Chapter 2 –

The Beholder

Verse One

Five years after the death of the god of time, the Beholder was

born to a happy couple in France. I don't know what their names were.

The man and the woman were artists, and they lived a fine life of

parties and good work. The couple got along swimmingly, and agreed on

most things, but they agreed most forcefully about one thing in

particular. Neither wanted to have a child. They wanted so badly not to

bear offspring, in fact, that the male of the pair usually wore the only
prophylactic available at the time during copulation. It was made of

sweet gum and well-worked lamb's hide and it diminished the pleasure

of the experience significantly.

So despite the strong feelings the two shared on this subject of

procreation, there came a day when passion out-gunned preventative

diligence, and not long after, the woman woefully informed her husband

that she was pregnant. Much tear-making and beating of brows
followed, but the couple eventually resigned themselves to their fate, and

prepared the spare room as a nursery.

The daughter who emerged from the woman looked nothing like

any other child anyone in the village had ever seen. Most modern

persons would immediately identify the child as a girl of Chinese descent,

but in the French village where she was born, nobody had any idea what

Chinese people looked like.

The good news was that the girl looked so utterly unrelated to

either of her parents – indeed so unrelated to any human that anyone in

the village had ever seen – that no one suspected adultery. The man and
his wife were famously devoted to one another, and the notion that the

child was conceived out of wedlock strained all credibility to the point

where it was never seriously considered by the man, the midwife, or any

of the neighbors. The girl's odd appearance was a topic of conversation
for a while, of course, but soon enough the village became accustomed to

it, and it ceased to be interesting.

The parents, being parents, could not help but love their daughter

immensely, once they got to know her a bit, and soon they laughed at

their former dread of child rearing. They could not imagine life without

the little girl.

As the child aged, and required less constant care, the couple

resumed their artistic endeavors and their life became just as busy and

productive as it had been, but was much richer thanks to the addition of

the little Chinese child, whom they had named Marie.

When Marie became old enough to grasp objects and follow

instructions, the couple endeavored to teach her art making. It was their
passion, and, like any parents, they wished to impress their values upon

their child. The wife began by giving her daughter some finger paints

and demonstrating how one might use them to create an artwork. She

encouraged her daughter to do likewise. The daughter, however, would
have none of it. Much to the surprise and dismay of her parents, Marie

was not merely disinterested in painting, she flatly refused to make even

the smallest mark upon a canvas.

As the years passed, the couple tried desperately to interest their

daughter in every medium of art they could think of. She would engage

in none. She would not carve or mold clay, nor sketch even the simplest
stick figure. The only writing that she was willing to even attempt was of

a relentlessly practical variety - “I have gone to market to get bread,” for

example. The girl refused to try acting or whittling sticks, or even to

make a simple rhyme.

This sorely disappointed the couple, but still they loved their

daughter and so eventually they shrugged their collective shoulders and

gave up, and focused on other kinds of parenting. And upon their own
artistic endeavors, of course.

One day, when the girl was about 7 or 8 years old, the mother

brought a painting that she had just completed in from the studio, to the
kitchen, where she expected to find her husband. She wanted his

opinion about it. She found Marie instead, dipping some bread into milk

and eating it.

“Isn't your father in here with you, Marie?” the mother asked.

“No, mama. He just left. He said he needed to ride to the

apothecary for more alum, and he said he would bring back some licorice

for me as well.”

“Ah.” said the mother, disappointed. “Well, I was hoping to get

his opinion on my painting, but, no matter.”

The mother, having long since concluded that her daughter had

no interest in art, had never bothered to ask her daughter's opinion about

any work that she had completed, and her daughter had never

volunteered any opinion whatsoever. But on this day the mother was

quite excited by her new work, and had anticipated that her trip to the
kitchen would produce feedback, so on a whim, she asked:

“Marie, what do think of Mama's painting? Do you like it?”

Marie turned and looked at the work. She stared at it intently for

a few moments. Then she got up and moved to look at it up close.

Then she stepped back and looked at it from far away. At last she spoke.

“The two figures on the right constitute the inspired work.

However, there are problems with the composition of the larger work as

a whole. The table and chair to the left are rendered rather clumsily, and
were tacked on, just to fill space. I recommend cutting the canvas there

at the edge of the table, all the way down, vertically. Frame just the two

figures in a dark wood – a thin, simple frame – to make a long and

narrow painting that gives the impression of a tapestry, scaled down.
That, I think, would make for a successful final piece.”

And then the girl sat back down and resumed dipping bread into

milk and eating it.

“What?” said the mother dumbly.

The girl simply chewed her bread and looked at her mother.

Eventually she said, “I hope Papa does not forget the licorice.”

The woman, bewildered, excused herself and returned with the

painting to the studio. She looked at the work and saw now that her

daughter had been precisely, perfectly correct. Every word had been

right on the money. But it made no sense at all. The girl had never
expressed the slightest interest in any sort of art whatsoever. By the time

her husband returned home, she had almost convinced herself that the

whole experience had never happened.

She related the story to her husband nevertheless, as it was far

too remarkable not to mention, even if it had been some figment of her

imagination. The husband was incredulous.

“But what were here exact words, dear? Surely Marie did not use

that sort of language.”

“I assure you she did! Or at least that is what I thought I heard

from her, as clearly as I think I am now talking to you!”

The husband went to his work space and brought out a nearly

complete bust that he had been laboriously sculpting out of marble. It

was a piece that had been commissioned by a local wealthy merchant,

and while the artist was happy to have the paying work, the goal of the
piece was more flattery than anything else.

“Marie,” the father asked, placing the bust upon the kitchen table,

“can you come in here for a moment please.”

“Yes

Papa?”

“What do you think of daddy's sculpture, eh?”

The girl looked at it for a bit, but she took less time perusing it

than she had her mother's painting. Then she politely finished chewing
the piece of licorice, and swallowed it before speaking, as Marie was a

good girl who cared very much about her manners.

“I'd say it's essentially crap. I don't think that there was ever any

inspiration in this at all, and I recommend that you scrap it and start over.

Everything about it feels workmanlike and forced. True, it shows some

skilled craftsmanship, and attention, but this is bad art.”

Then she returned to her room where she was reading a book

about a milkmaid who falls in a well.

The mother giggled at the girl's direct but wholly accurate

assessment. The father's face began to redden briefly before he too

began to laugh. His daughter was right, but more importantly... his

daughter was right about art! The couple embraced and drank a great
deal of wine, as the French are wont to do, and Marie had some wine as

well, though hers was diluted with water from the pump. She sucked it

up using a licorice stick as a straw.

Verse Two

The parents, inspired by Marie's spot on critique, briefly renewed

their efforts to get their daughter to create art, but it quickly became clear

that these efforts were no less futile than they had always been. This did
not particularly disappoint the parents, though, as they were very proud

indeed of the girl's knack for criticism. In fact, they came to rely heavily

upon it regarding their own work, the quality of which improved

markedly in the face of such unforgiving assessment.

It wasn't long before the couple told their friends about the

young girl's talent. Many of these friends were themselves artists, of

course, as such types tend to hang out together, and many of these
friends, incredulous of the couple's claims, took it upon themselves to

visit with an artwork or two in hand. Each in turn would unveil the

creation, ask Marie what she thought of it, and leave with their incredulity

transformed into conviction.

There were, needless to say, a few artists who did not appreciate a

blunt dismissal of their work. One friend (who left the home a friend no

longer), upon presenting his work, was told by Marie:

“This piece is really, really bad. It genuinely hurts my eyes to

look upon it, and I entreat you sir, to cover it up posthaste, or to return
home with it and study it as a catalog of art mistakes to avoid.”

After a stunned silence, punctuated only by an incompletely

smothered snicker from the direction of Marie's mother, the gentleman
spoke stiffly, with a sneer.

“It's that girl's slanted eyes – they make her unfit to discern true

artistic grace. I always knew there was something not-right with this girl.

Her skin, for god's sake, is the color of dung, and I assure you that no
respectable artist will ever care a whit what she thinks.”

This gentleman was chased from the home by Marie's father,

who held an iron skillet aloft as he ran, apparently intending to use said

cookware to pound the man's manners back into him. Happily for all

involved, Marie's father smoked heavily and was unable to maintain the

chase even as far as the wooden fence across the yard where the
gentleman had tied his horse.

Despite this unseemliness, it never occurred to the couple to

suggest to Marie that she couch her critiques in more politic language.
Instead, they began to warn any who wished to hear her opinion that it

might be very harsh, and the father used the story of the spiteful

gentleman to drive the warning home.

By the time Marie reached her tenth year, a steady stream of local

artists passed through the country house seeking guidance from the girl.

She always provided it when asked, and she never offered any opinion

when she was not asked. Also, it had become clear, by this time, that her
talent transcended medium. She was equally accurate about long fiction

as she was about painting or sculpting. In one neighboring village,

metered verse was all the rage. And when those artists brought their

work to be viewed, she was perfectly correct in her assessment of that as
well. And many years later, when music returned to the world, she would

prove just as certain and correct regarding that.

When not judging art, however, Marie was an ordinary girl. She

read no better, or faster, than her same age peers, nor had she any greater

or lesser interest in books. She enjoyed playing the run and hide games
of children, and she loved the starchy foods of her parents' kitchen. She

was well liked, and was a good, but not a remarkably good, student.

When asked to judge art, however, it was as though she became a

different person. A novelist for example, brought a rather expansive, and

dense, piece of historical fiction, and asked Marie for her opinion of the

work. The girl sat at her kitchen table and read the entire book in twenty
minutes, then proceeded to give a detailed critique of character, narrative

arc, plot, and voice. When she finished with the larger aesthetic issues,

she cataloged over 300 typos and punctuation errors, citing the page

numbers and paragraphs from memory.

The dumbfounded novelist simply listened, amazed. When Marie

finished speaking, the novelist asked her to repeat the catalog, that he

might write it down for reference, but Marie either could not or would
not. She simply didn't respond at all to the novelist's request. The writer

discussed this fact with her parents, and it was proposed, as an

experiment, that he would ask her again, as he had when he arrived, what

she thought of the work as a whole. Again, this elicited absolutely no
response from the girl, and it was thus determined that Marie evaluated a

given work once and only once.

Two more years passed, until, just before Marie's thirteenth

birthday, the girl's parents found themselves devoting nearly all of their

time to supporting Marie's talent. Their house had become a very high

traffic destination, as artists from all over France came to seek the girl's

counsel. Had Marie ever expressed the smallest resentment of the

burden this placed upon her, of course, the parents would immediately

have curtailed the procession of creators. But Marie, when asked about

the long hours, simply said, “Let them all come.”

Her enthusiastic endorsement of an artwork had come to mean

success for the rare artist so deserving. Even a generally positive review
sometimes meant legitimacy. Most evaluations were negative, but almost

all contained useful advice. Only real crap was dismissed with little or no

explanation. And because every evaluation was specific to the work in

question, an artist could return with a new work and new hope.
Similarly, though, a glowing review of one of an artist's works was by no

means an assurance that another work by the same artist would be well

received.

Marie's parents were tired of all the people, but they were happy

for their daughter, who had become something of a celebrity, and they

resolved to endure the routine for her sake.

On the day of her thirteenth birthday, however, all that changed.

Marie awoke and dressed. She walked into the kitchen, tore a hunk of

bread from the loaf, and poured fresh milk into a cup.

“Mother. Father. Today I become the Beholder. So I must

leave this home now, for there are things that I must do. However, I

love you both very dearly, so I shall not go far from here, and you shall
see me sometimes. Do not despair that I am going, for my departure will

allow you each to return to your own creative endeavors, which are

important, and which you have been neglecting on my behalf, and on

behalf of your fellow artists. I am going now, and I am going to take this

cup with me, and this bread of course, but don't worry, as I will return

the cup to you within a week or two.”

And with that, she hugged her mother, and then hugged her

father and kissed him on his cheek, and then picked up her bread and

cup of milk and walked out the door. Her parents, stunned by this turn
of events, looked at one another for a second.

“But.... your presents... It's your birthday...” said the father,

turning back towards the door.

Both parents then rushed out after their daughter. She was

nowhere to be seen.

Verse Three

True to her word, the Beholder did not travel far from her home.

Just outside of her village was a large hill. The hill was covered in grasses

and such, as hills almost always are, but just beneath the top soil, this hill

was solid granite. And on the afternoon of the Beholder's 13th birthday,
every person in the village heard a great rumbling coming from the hill.

The sound became so loud that everyone went outside to see what all the
groaning and earthshaking was about. And the villagers, each of them,

looked to the west, where stood the hill, and saw a great granite sphere

shaking off all the dirt and grass that had previously clung to it.

This sphere sat atop a mighty pedestal, also of granite. And

slowly, the pedestal shook from itself bits of granite until the shape of a

long set of stone stairs took form. Then, at the base of the sphere, just

above the pedestal, a rectangular hole opened – the size and shape of a
very large doorway - and from out of that hole tumbled out a vast

amount of granite dust and chunks. These made their way to the bottom

of the stairs and were shaken off of the stairs until at last the rumbling

stopped.

When the dust cleared, the villagers looked upon a flawless stone

sphere, larger by far than all of the homes in the village combined.

Larger by far, in fact, than the hill itself had been, as the whole thing had
risen up, and taken a substantial part of its mass from the bedrock below.

And leading up to the sphere, was a perfect, and very long, set of granite

stairs.

As the villagers watched, the Beholder climbed those stairs and

entered the sphere through the rectangular hole at it's base. After she

entered, a slab, which until that moment had been hidden from view, slid
down from the top of the rectangular hole, and sealed it so completely,

and so seamlessly, that none could see any indication whatsoever of

where the hole had been.

That night there was a terrible storm. It was by far the worst

storm that anyone in the village could ever remember. It was marked,

most notably, by an extraordinary amount of lightning. And it seemed as
though at least every third or fourth bolt struck the great granite sphere.

As the winds increased and the rain poured down in torrents, all of the

villagers retreated to the warmth and safety of their homes.

Only two people remained in the street, watching the sphere, and

worrying helplessly for their daughter. So only two people actually saw

the final lightning strike that broke from the perfect sphere a single great

piece of rock. But every villager awoke to a clear cold morning and saw
what the sphere had become. Looming over their quiet village was a

massive Eye, cast by the heavens in cold granite.

Verse Four

It was fairly obvious to even the most slow-witted of the villagers

that Marie was Marie no longer. The Beholder had arrived, and the

massive stone Church that she had raised ensured that this arrival did not
stay secret. Like any god, she soon attracted a priesthood, which took up

residence inside the Eye, with their holy patron, The Beholder. And this

priesthood attended to the many bureaucratic doings – scheduling and

record keeping and such – that we now expect from the Church of the
Beholder. This priesthood eventually established the efficient system by

which works are now submitted for Beholdence and by which her holy

judgments are rendered and delivered.

We Curtisarians, incidentally, have an active and good working

relationship with the Beholdernians, and consider them allies and friends.

And I must say that we are consistently impressed with the quick

turnaround time and high level of professionalism achieved by the
Beholder's clergy. As this very work that you, dear reader, currently

peruse shall no doubt eventually make it's way to the Eye, I'll beg your

patience and indulge in a brief “thank you” to whichever noble

Beholdernian priest should happen to glance upon this manuscript
before it reaches the eyes of her Holiness.

But it must be admitted that during the early days of her Church,

when this system had not yet been refined, it often took months, or even
years, for a submitted work to receive the Beholder's holy and true

judgment. This is of note as it gave rise to a strange idiom that often is

the source of confusion amongst faithful Pantheonians who do not know

the story of its origins.

In those early days, an artist, upon submitting his art to the great

Eye, would wait and wait to hear a response from the Beholdernian

clergy. This artist's friends and associates, naturally, would tend to query
the artist about the work.

“Well, have you heard? Is your work good? Have you achieved

beauty?”

This phenomenon became so common, in fact, that the response

evolved into idiom.

“Beauty,” the artist would say, “is in the Eye of the Beholder.”

Thus did this phrase come to mean “No one yet knows for sure

whether it is good or not.”

Around the same time, however, there came into being a cult of

bitter artists. It was made up of artists who refused to accept the
Beholder's true, but deflating, dismissal of their artwork. And the cult

took a particular liking to the idiom, “Beauty is in the Eye of the

Beholder,” because the saying seemed generally insulting to the Beholder

and her Church, or at least, to the efficiency of said parties.

Unsatisfied by this petty insult, however, these bitter souls

twisted the meaning of the idiom over time. Eventually, they used the
words to indicate “there is no definitive quality in art” or that “everyone's

opinion is equal about art.” For some reason, this is the meaning that

stuck, and many still interpret it thusly today. Granted, few outside the

cult ever have cause to utter the phrase, but still.

The group those angry artists began is today known as the Cult of

Aesthetic Relativism. Its adherents are, of course, pitied by almost

everyone, as they have embraced a notion that is so obviously untrue that
it warrants no discussion at all.

Which smacks of a clean ending to this chapter of Gospel, but

before I conclude the history of the ascendancy of The Beholder, I must

yet tie up one last narrative string:

The Beholder was true to her promise to her parents. Within a

fortnight of ascension, she descended from the Eye to return the milk

cup. It was a Sunday. She arrived around 5PM and stayed the evening

and ate dinner with her mother and father. They were so gladdened to

see her, and she to see them, that when she at last left around 9PM, she
took with her a cup of milk, so that she would need to return the cup the

following Sunday. And this was her habit every week, for many many

years, until at last her parents both died after one such visit, on a Sunday

night, at 10 PM, in bed together, of no causes at all, other than it was
time to go.

Chapter 3 –

The Duchess Makes a Deal

Verse One

Two days after the ascension of the Beholder into the Eye in

1718, Entropotripocles visited New Hamptingtonshire, where Campaggo

Religetti still lived and worked. The god of Stumbles and Confusion was

not there to see Religetti, however. He was there to see the Duke's 16

year old daughter – the Duchess.

Now, Entropotripocles is famously fond of lovely young mortals.

And certainly the Duchess was lovely, young, and mortal. But on this
day the god came to the Duchess because he needed the old woman that

only she could become – a woman who's imperiousness, hardened over

the course of decades, might rival that of Alienator himself.

The god began his midday visit with an uncharacteristic courtesy.

Instead of simply appearing before the Duchess in her chamber,

Entropotripocles appeared out in the stone hallway, that he might knock

and announce himself.

A guard (an errand boy with a sword, really) stood stationed

outside the noblewoman's chamber, but this man seemed to neither see

the god, nor hear the sound of the god's fist knocking upon the door.

Knock. Knock.

“Who is it and what do you want?” came the muffled sound of a

woman's voice through the door.

“Duchess, I am the god Entropotripocles and I wish to speak

with you.”

“Enter, then,” she said after a short silence, “and let me see you.”

The god opened the door and stepped into the room. The

Duchess saw a very handsome fellow enter her chamber. He wasn't

particularly tall, but his eyes and hair were jet black, and he carried

himself with an undeniable grace. There was definitely something to this

fellow.

“Perhaps you are truly he,” said the Duchess, after she had

looked him up and down a few times.

“I am indeed, good lady,” said Entropotripocles flourishing a

small bow.

Then something occurred to the Duchess.

“What did you do to my guard?” she asked. “He ought to have

announced you.”

“No need for concern,” replied the deity. “He's fine. He simply

didn't notice me is all. It's really not his fault.”

Now, despite her young age, the Duchess was anything but naive.

And so although her instincts said this visitor might well be who he

claimed to be, she nevertheless tried to maintain some skepticism. It
didn't last long. The stranger radiated some force – likability, perhaps -

and the very tangible quality of that energy was enough, after a few

moments, to settle for her the matter of his authenticity.

“Your charisma magic won't work on me, god of Stumbles and

Confusion,” said the Duchess.

“I hope you are right about that, Duchess, because that is

precisely what has brought me here,” answered the god.

The Duchess arched an eyebrow. “You don't say. Well, get on

with it then. What do you want?”

“Must we rush into business so quickly, my dear? I think that

first perhaps some wine is in order, don't you?”

And before the woman could reply, the god produced a bottle

and two glasses. He pointed to the top of the bottle and the cork

popped out and fell to the floor.

“May I have a seat?” asked the god, looking around the room for

a chair.

The Duchess' bedchamber also served as her primary office. It

was one large room with a balcony. There was a sizable bed against the

south wall, and a desk set slightly away from the north. The Duchess

currently sat behind this desk, with her back to the wall, for she had been

working when the god arrived. And the chair in which she sat was the
room's one and only chair. This was not due to any oversight, mind you.

The Duchess preferred to force visitors to stand. Unfortunately, the

Duchess dealt, on this occasion, with a god, and she concluded it was

probably unwise to make him stand. For a moment, though, she had
seriously considered doing just that.

“Very well,” sighed the Duchess. “Let us move out onto the

balcony. It is a pleasant enough day and there are seats there for the
both of us, and a small table for the wine.”

So the god followed the Duchess outside and the two situated

themselves beneath the shade of the awning. Entropotripocles poured

the wine and the Duchess drank. She had never tasted better, but,

reflexively, she gave no indication that she was impressed.

“Lovely view,” remarked Entropotripocles.

“Yes it is,” replied the Duchess, curtly. And determined to

establish the upper hand in whatever exchange was to come, she elected

to go on the offensive straight away.

“They say that wherever you go, High Lord, chaos follows.

Given that my family has worked hard to establish and maintain order in

this Dukedom, I am loathe to see it undermined. So I must say I'm not

particularly happy about this surprise visit.”

“Relax, my dear. I did not come here to undermine your

authority,” answered the god, calmly. “Quite the contrary, I came here to

help you solidify it.”

“And why would you – the god of Stumbles and Confusion –

wish to do that?” asked the Duchess.

“Well, it's funny that you should mention that unfortunate

moniker. Curtis saddled me with that name, you know. I certainly would

never have chosen it for myself, as it is most misleading, and I am

consequently very much misunderstood. The truth is that I wish no ill
whatsoever upon mortalkind. In fact, I wish to help mortals, but it is

hard for me to do so, because people fear me. And, after all, I would

never wish to force my help upon anyone.”

“Your consideration of our wishes is most gracious, High Lord.”

said the Duchess.

If the god heard the sarcasm, he gave no indication of it.

“Yes. Well, in the sense that grace is the opposite of clumsiness,

I guess it is indeed gracious. Given that force is the clumsiest possible

way to achieve one's ends, I mean. But you understand that already,
Duchess, no?”

“What I understand need not concern you, god,” said the

woman. “But I will say that a ruler, if she is to command the respect of

her people, must be willing to use force when necessary.”

“Ah. Perhaps so. I shall defer to your judgment regarding the

politics of mortals, Duchess. You do have first hand experience in such

matters.”

Entropotripocles drank his wine, and the Duchess drank hers.

She did not take her eyes off of the god, while she drank, however. She

did not trust him at all.

“Regardless,” the god continued, “my point is that I'd like to have

an opportunity to work with mortalkind – to teach people to better

understand and manifest divinity. And that's why I've come to see you.

I'd like you to help me do it.”

“I think you have the wrong mortal,” said the Duchess. “I can

hardly imagine anything that appeals to me less.”

The god laughed. “You don't mince words, Duchess, I'll give

you that. But please hear me out.”

The Duchess drummed her fingers upon the table, and appeared

to consider the request. She knew that she couldn't very well refuse the

immortal, but she was not about to encourage any presumption on his

part.

“Very well,” she at last sighed. “Speak your mind, god, that we

may be done with this.”

“Thank you, Milady,” said Entropotripocles. “Well, to put it

simply, I want you to build my Church. I am desirous of a Church and

clergy. I come to you because I hope to convince you to construct for
me the Great Cathedral of my Church, here, in New Hamptingtonshire.”

The Duchess was not at all religious, but she knew that the

Curtisarians had a Great Cathedral, and the Baby Lady Baens, she
believed, had erected one to their god as well. The god of time had one

too, now that she thought about it. And she knew the Cathedrals to be

massive structures and significant wells of power. The notion that she

would want to build one here in New Hamptingtonshire was ridiculous.

The woman set down her glass. This god, she decided, needed a

good lambasting. And given that “to lambast” was among her favorite

activities, she launched into it with gusto.

“Foremost, High Lord, such a construction project would not be

cheap,” began the Duchess. “How do you propose we are to pay for
such a thing? Second, this Church of yours in my Dukedom will only

weaken the Duchy. If the Church is to be powerful, then it must have

authority over certain things. And if it is to have authority, then such

authority that it claims will have to be authority that the Duke, or
Duchess, relinquishes.”

“True enough, I suppose,” said the god.

“Third,” continued the Duchess, “why would you speak to me

about this? My father is the Duke, not I, and while he affords me a great

deal of latitude regarding the Duchy's business, this is too substantial a

matter for me to undertake without his consent, even if I wanted to,

which I don't. The fact that you have failed to consider these facts tells

me that you are embarrassingly unprepared even to meet with me to
discuss why it is such a bad idea.”

The Duchess let that last bit sink in for a moment. Then she

resumed her litany:

“Besides,” she said, “the Church of the god of time, despite our

efforts to discourage it, has a hold on the hearts of many of our peasants.
My people are stubborn when it comes to matters of faith, and they are

unlikely to switch their allegiance to any other god, you least of all. And

lastly, even if I could persuade the people to direct their worship towards

you, I haven't the slightest interest in doing so.”

As a finishing touch, the Duchess concluded with her well

practiced, and usually very effective, “cold hard stare.” This tactic, like

her “only one chair” strategy, helped keep people deferential. It said “no
uppityness will be tolerated.”

Entropotripocles smiled faintly and met her eyes with his own.

Such impudence irritated the Duchess, and she glared even more

fiercely at the deity. But on this day, for the first time, the woman

discovered the limits of her talents. The Duchess was indeed extremely
good at intimidating people, but Entropotripocles wasn't people, and he

wasn't intimidated. The god just stared right back at her, without the

slightest sign of discomfort. And eventually, the woman could bear the

weight of the god's eyes upon her own no longer and she looked away.

When she did, Entropotripocles responded.

“All reasonable points, Duchess. All very reasonable. Except the

one about your people's piety, of course. The god of time is dead, you

see. And his demise has left something of a spiritual vacuum in the
world. His flock has already begun to dissipate, and his churches have

begun to crumble, for the people no longer feel the resonance of his

divinity within their walls.”

“He's dead?” asked the Duchess.

“I don't expect, though,” the immortal continued, ignoring the

woman's question, “that these people will simply lose all interest in

divinity. In fact, I am quite confident that they will seek that resonance

elsewhere.”

“But how can it be that...”

Entropotripocles held up his hand to silence the young woman.

“As for the cost, my dear, this Cathedral will eventually pay for

itself. When my Church has grown large, the Cathedral will attract many
travelers, and wealth, and much business will grow up around it. Your

Duchy will stand above all its neighbors in status, for it will boast the

Grand Cathedral of a High Lord of the Pantheon.”

“But...” attempted the Duchess once more, but Entropotripocles

silenced her yet again and continued:

“Do not think, however, that I hope to convince you to assist me

on the merits of the idea alone, good lady. For you see, while the death

of the god of time has afforded me the chance to fill the spiritual void of

your people, that is not the only thing it has afforded me. I am also able
now to offer you something very significant in exchange for your

cooperation – something that I imagine would be of immeasurable value

to a mortal such as yourself.”

This got the Duchess' attention, so this time she made no effort

to interject. Perhaps, she realized, she needed to shift gears. It appeared

this might be a negotiation worth taking seriously after all.

None of this was lost on the immortal, and he took a slow sip of

wine, and clicked his tongue as if casually appreciating the palate of the

wine. Then he unhurriedly considered his words before he finally
proceeded.

“How much do you know about the god of time, Duchess?” he

asked. “I mean, do you understand what he did? What his, well, his
'purpose' was, so to speak?”

“I can't say I've thought about it much,” answered the woman,

truthfully.

But she was not happy about how the conversation had turned.

She decided that some snottiness was in order.

“Oh wait!” she exclaimed. “It had something to do with time,

right?”

Entropotripocles chuckled. This poised and imperious woman

was actually only an adolescent, and he was glad to see that she

occasionally acted like one.

“Indeed, that's very insightful Duchess. He kept time orderly, is

the long and short of it. It was because of him that all the places of the

world aged at the same speed. He prevented one place from zooming

off into the future while another languished in the past. He kept things

nice and even, all over the world.”

“And now he's dead, right?” said the Duchess, intrigued enough

by what the god said to put aside her reflex to dismiss, at least for now .

“So, then...”

“Yes,”

answered

Entropotripocles.

“The equilibrium is no longer

being maintained. Some places in the world will now age much faster

than before, and others will age much slower.”

“Ok,” said the Duchess. “I will admit that you have peaked my

curiosity, god. Continue.”

“Well,” obliged the immortal, “this phenomenon will not effect

the living. The people and the plants and creatures will live and die just

as before, and because lifespans will be unchanged, mortals will have a
hard time noticing that anything is different.”

The god paused and drank.

“It's a little more complicated, really, but...”

Entropotripocles shrugged and left it at that.

“But what?” asked the Duchess.

“Well, suffice it to say that mortals are self-involved creatures,

and they choose their metrics accordingly. Toss the Last Emoticon into

the mix, and...”

“Who?” interjected the woman.

“Oh, sorry. Alienator. The Last Emoticon is another name for

Alienator.”

“Ok. Go on.”

But Entropotripocles was apparently not quite ready to leave this

point.

“Surely you know the history of the arrival of the Emoticons and

of the Awakening of the world? It's was a very significant event you

know.”

The Duchess suppressed a sigh. “No, I don't. But, fine, The

Last Emoticon is Alienator. Thanks for clarifying. Now let's not get

sidetracked.”.

“Ok,” said the god. “Let's see. Where was I?”

“You were saying something,” she reminded him, “about how

time has changed, but that it won't actually effect anybody.”

“No, no. The death of the god of time will effect everybody,”

objected Entropotripocles.

But the Duchess was not finished.

“And before that you mentioned some sort of incentive, that you

have thus far failed to elucidate upon.”

“I'm working my way towards it,” said the god. “These things

are all inter-related, you know.”

“So be it,” said the Duchess. “But do try to keep the theology to

a minimum. It's painfully dull.”

“I'll try, Duchess,” said the god.

The Duchess nodded, and the god resumed his explanation.

“Uneven Time does not operate directly upon the living, that is

true. But it impacts the land itself – the dirt and the rocks and sticks, the

non-living and the dead. And, more significantly, it therefore impacts
culture. Culture is the consequence of the interplay between Agence and

Space. It emerges from the proximity of life to other life – it is tied to

the land as well as to the living. So these time issues will be – already are

- shaping the cultural arc of each of the various places of the world.
Which certainly will impact the people who make up those cultures.”

The woman squinted as if trying to make the god's words come

into better focus.

“Let me be a bit more specific, Duchess,” said the god. “What

does Uneven Time mean for you? It means that in some places, the
people will develop new ideas and new technologies very quickly, while

in other places, the way of life will remain unchanged for decades or even

centuries. Uneven Time will resist the influence of traders and travelers.

When people bring ideas from a fast land into a slow land, the ideas
simply won't catch on, or will be dismissed. And mortals won't even

notice that it's happening.”

This, the Duchess understood. It seemed quite odd, but it made

sense. Then something occurred to her.

“But now you've told me of the time effect. So I'll be able to

notice it, yes? It seems impossible to me that I wouldn't.”

“I don't really know for sure what the answer to that question is,”

admitted Entropotripocles. “But I'd guess that probably, yes, you will be
able to.”

The Duchess nodded.

“At any rate,” shrugged the god, “there is one place in the world

that is quickest, and another that is slowest. Because although time is

Uneven from place to place, it's still static within a given place, you see?”

“Yes, ok,” the Duchess said after a second or two, “that makes

sense.”

“Now the fastest place in the world is the area where the god of

time died. He died in 1700, when he fell from a plateau. And the whole

rock formation is already eroding away. And the exact spot where he
landed is the single fastest few feet of ground on the planet. That spot of

ground is so fast, in fact, that when I went to see the body of the god of

time, not 4 hours after he died, all of his bones had turned to dust.”

The god reached into his pocket.

“Except,” he said, “this one.”

He held up a sun bleached vertebrae for the woman to see, then

placed the bone on the table between them.

“I take it that bone has some significance?” asked the woman.

“Yes, but we will get to that. I have one more thing to tell you

about Uneven Time. You understood about the fastest land, yes?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Alright then,” said the god, “Well, on the other end of the

spectrum, naturally, is the slowest land. And that land, my dear, just so

happens to be right here – the Dukedom of New Hamptingtonshire.”

The Duchess considered this news.

“I'm not sure,” she said, “that's a distinction I particularly want

my Duchy to have.”

“Your lack of enthusiasm is understandable,” replied the god.

“But living in the slowest place does potentially give you one big

advantage. Because the only reason I told you all that stuff about
Uneven Time was so you could understand what the bone does and why

it is the incentive I earlier mentioned. With this bone, you see, I can tie

one mortal to the pace of the land in which she resides.”

It took a few moments, but the Duchess eventually deduced the

implications of what the god had said. When she did, she opened her

mouth as if to speak, but she made no sound.

“Just to be sure that we understand one another,” said the god,

“let me spell it out for you. If I were to use this bone to tie, say, the

Duchess of New Hamptingtonshire, to the land, she would age very
slowly indeed - provided she stays in New Hamptingtonshire, of course -

because this land is the slowest place in the world.”

“What exactly do you mean by 'very slowly,'” asked the Duchess,

her voice betraying just a hint of the excitement she felt.

“Well, perhaps this hypothetical Duchess would age but 1 year

for every 100 years she lives. Probably even slower than that. I assure

you, Duchess, that this place feels very slow. But it will be at least a few

more decades before I can be much more specific than that. Uneven

Time is, after all, new to me too.”

The young Duchess forced herself to breathe slowly. She would

give anything - do anything – to get what the god offered. Build him a

Church? Of course, without a second thought. It was a fantastic deal.
But the Duchess steadied her will, and tried to think of this as she would

any other negotiation. And that meant doing whatever she could to hide

her enthusiasm from the immortal.

“That's awfully vague, don't you think?” asked the Duchess, after

she had counted off five slow breaths. “If I were this hypothetical

Duchess you're talking about, I'd be very concerned that what is being
suggested might bear little resemblance to the actual thing. Because what

is being asked is quite specific, is it not? Build a Grand Cathedral for a

High Lord of the Pantheon. There is only one design for such a

structure. Unless Accutron has delivered unto his people a second
design that I don't know about?”

“No, you are right. There is only one design for a Grand

Cathedral.”

“And it is therefore easy to say precisely what is required to build

one,” concluded the Duchess. “The expense of such an endeavor would

be enormous. It would require gold and resources and labor, each in
massive quantities. Right?”

“Absolutely,” said the god. “I cannot disagree with that.”

“So,” continued the mortal, “were this hypothetical Duchess to

take on such a task, she would know quite clearly what was expected of

her. Yet she is not afforded a clear picture of what she would get in

return. She is offered vague descriptions like 'very slowly.'”

“I do understand your point Duchess,” assured Entropotripocles.

“But, what you...”

“One more thing, deity,” interjected the woman. “If I were this

hypothetical Duchess, I'd expect you to present the real Duchess a real

offer, because only when that happens, can negotiations begin in

earnest.”

And then the woman leaned back in her chair, set her mouth into

a studied frown, and folded her arms upon her chest.

Entropotripocles smiled to see such fierceness. Everything that

he had seen so far had confirmed his belief that she was the ideal mortal

for his plan. And for that, he felt towards her genuine warmth.

“You are right, Duchess,” acknowledged the god. “You have not

yet heard any offer. The reason that you haven't is that I have not yet

established with complete certainty that you are capable of doing what I

need you to do.”

“You are concerned that I will be unable to build your

Cathedral?” asked the woman.

“No, I am sure that you can build it. But there are risks that

come along with - let's say - 'associating' with me. This endeavor will

require an occasion of close association, and I need to establish that you
have the fortitude to handle the risks.”

“What risks?” demanded the Duchess. “And what do you mean

by 'association?' Am I at risk now, sitting here with you?”

Entropotripocles ignored the question. “Duchess, do you recall

what you said to me when first I arrived today?”

The Duchess thought back.

“I believe I said, 'who are you and what do you want.' ”

“Well, yes,” laughed the god. “That's what you said first. But I

am referring to your statement regarding what you called my 'charisma

magic.' You told me that it would not work on you.”

“Oh, right,” replied the noblewoman. “And you told me that

was the reason you came. I guess I thought you were just being glib.”

“No. I meant precisely what I said. And I believe that your self-

assessment was correct. Or correct enough for my purposes, at any rate.

But before I can make you the offer, I need you to prove it. You should
know, however, that if you fail the test, you will no longer wish to live.”

This gave the Duchess pause. She eyed the immortal warily.

“What sort of test is this, god?”

“The 'charisma' that you felt, Duchess, is but the slightest trickle

of the divinity I contain. No mortal can be exposed to it all and keep her

autonomy. For I am the god of the follies of the people. And among

mortalkind's more ill-advised follies is 'faith in leadership.' It is a mortal's

desire to place his or her will in the hands of another mortal. It manifests
as an embrace of charisma, in which a person gives away his autonomy,

and offers adoration to another. Doing so provides a sort of pleasure –

the pleasure that a favored pet feels when given praise, for example.”

“That is folly indeed, god,” replied the young woman. “I have

nothing but contempt for such weak-mindedness. It is hardly even

useful in an underling.”

The god shook his head.

“All mortals, even you, Duchess, have within them some longing

to indulge in this folly. That urge is fundamental to mortality. Because

every mortal begins life wholly dependent, every mortal at some point

desires to return to that state.”

The noble woman folded her arms and snorted.

“I have no such desire within me, god.”

“The test, should you choose to take it, will prove you wrong

about that. The test will expose you to as much of one-fourth of what I

have within me. And you will succumb to that divinity. The test is not
whether you can resist – you cannot. The test is, can you recover your

independent will, once I have taken the divinity away again.”

“Think what you wish, god,” said the noblewoman. “But I don't

do 'adoring.' I will pass your test.”

“And if you do, I will offer you the deal we have discussed: the

bone for my Cathedral.”

“Offer it to me now, contingent upon passing the test,”

countered the Duchess.

“Alright. Your distrust is probably wise, though I assure you,

unnecessary in this case. I want you to pass because I want to make this
deal. I need you to stay young for a long time.”

Before the Duchess could ask him what he meant by that last

part, the god picked up the bone from the table and held it aloft between
himself and the woman.

“Duchess,” he said, “I make you the following offer: build me my

Church, and I will tie you to the land. I will give you the potential to live
at least a thousand years. Contingent, of course, upon you passing the

test.”

Internally, the woman rubbed her hands together greedily.

Externally, however, she appeared perhaps even more dubious than

before.

“Potential?” she asked. “What do you mean, the potential to live a

thousand years?”

The god had assumed that the woman would immediately accept

the offer. But it appeared that once again, he had underestimated the

toughness of this particular mortal. So he sighed and set the bone back
on the table.

“Well, if you get stabbed in the head the day after you complete

the Cathedral, then you will no doubt regret having made the deal. I
cannot guarantee you long life, because to live is an inherently risky

activity. I can, however, promise you that if you do die in 10 or 20 or

even 50 years, you'll look like a dead teenager.”

The Duchess nodded, and tried to think of any catches she might

be missing.

“What guarantees are there that once I am finished, you will not

just kill me and steal the bone back?.”

The god considered this.

“I don't think there is anything I might say or do that assuage all

doubts regarding this, Duchess. But I'll tell you the truth, anyways.”

The woman nodded for the god to continue.

“I have never before approached any mortal with any sort of

offer like this, and based on what I have seen here today, I think it very

unlikely I will ever approach another, even should you decline, or fail the

test. You are so precisely the right person for what I need done that you

are almost certainly the only person who can accomplish it. This bone is

meant for you and you alone. Regardless of the outcome today, I will
never again have any need of it.”

The Duchess thought about this statement for some time before

responding.

“There are many rulers who might build you a Church, god. You

clearly have things in mind beyond what you have told me.”

“Perhaps I do, woman. But the offer I present obligates you only

to build my Church. Nothing else.”

“Nevertheless,” countered the Duchess, “what you have planned

clearly involves me in some capacity. So you can tell me at least

something more regarding it.”

“No.”

“You can't or you won't?” asked the woman.

“I'm not going to,” answered the god.

The Duchess drummed her fingers on the table and chewed on

her bottom lip. What an irritating answer.

“If I am the only mortal who can do this, then you will have to

compensate me accordingly,” the Duchess told the god. “In addition to

the bone, what are you prepared to offer me? I am the only candidate,

and therefore I am critical to your plans. Surely you cannot expect me to

accept your first offer, given the leverage of my position.”

“Duchess. I applaud your efforts, and your negotiating skills.

But I need offer nothing else. I am not some rival Duke that you can

befuddle, you know. I have come to you with an offer. And when I go,

I will leave having obtained your commitment and having tied you to the

land, or I will leave with the bone. Those are the only possible
outcomes.”

The Duchess nodded and rubbed her nose. It had been worth a

shot. But she had pretty well run out of ideas. To conclude negotiations

having won not a single meaningful concession from her opponent galled

her immensely, though, so she kept thinking, and eventually one last

possible approach occurred to her.

“There is still the matter of my father, god,” said the woman.

“You have not addressed that. You are asking me to commit the

resources of this Dukedom to your project. But that is not, presently, my
decision to make. What will happen if I accept your offer only to find

that, despite a good faith effort on my part, I am unable to persuade my

father to honor the agreement I have made?”

“I am immortal, and therefore patient. You will be obligated to

fulfill your end of the bargain when your father dies or abdicates the

throne, and not before.”

This was quite a concession indeed, thought the Duchess, for her

father was still a young man.

“High Lord Entropotripocles, you have a deal. I will build you

your Church, in accordance with terms we have agreed upon.”

The god clapped his hands together, feeling rather satisfied

himself.

“Excellent!” he said. “Then it is time to test.”

Verse Two

The Duchess had been proved wrong. She had become utterly,

gratefully submissive - overjoyed just to be in the god's company. She

had been willing to do anything to please, but the god had told her to just

sit there and wait. She had thanked him for telling her what to do.

Now came the ugly part.

Entropotripocles muted his divinity until it was almost

completely contained – just as it had been before the test.

Now came the begging and the sobbing. Now came the...

“You son of a bitch!” screamed the Duchess, “What did you do

to me?!”

“Well, I, uh...” stammered the god. This was completely

unexpected. The mortal had recovered, just as he had hoped she would.

But it had not taken her days, or even hours to do so. It had taken one

minute.

“I despise you,” she hissed at him. “I despise you and your so

called divinity. It is nothing more than parlor magic, and you will pay,

deity, make no mistake about that. You will pay!”

“Have you forgotten about our deal, Duchess?” asked the god,

finding himself quite unexpectedly on the defensive.

And indeed the Duchess had forgotten. Her venom was purely

reflexive. The woman's will was so great, and her unwillingness to defer

so complete, that when the god retracted his power enough for her to

realize what was going on, she had been consumed not by anguish, but

instead by a crescendo of rage. And this rage had occupied her to the
exclusion of all other thoughts.

“Well...” she began.

The Duchess took a moment to compose herself. She turned

away from the god, took several deep breaths, and waited until she had

steadied herself. The noblewoman reminded herself of her top priority –
pass the test. And to pass she needed to display composure. She

absolutely loathed this devil, of course, and she would not forget the

humiliation she had just suffered, but there would be time for that later.

Right now, she had immortality to attain. She turned back around and
faced the god.

“Ahem. Yes, the deal. Forgive my outburst, god. I did consent

to that experience, so although it was nothing short of the most filthy
violation I have ever endured, I suppose I cannot accuse you of rape.”

“No, I suppose you cannot. And though I took no advantage of

your eagerness to serve me, you are right Duchess. A violation is

precisely what it was. It is most notable that you view it as such.”

“Call it what you will god. But we have business to attend to. As

you see I am composed, and I feel quite myself. I believe the criteria you

set forth required that I 'recover' from the ordeal completely and quickly.

Do you agree that I have done so?”

“Duchess,” said the god, shaking his head, “you have exceeded

my wildest expectations.”

“Then give me what is mine,” demanded the woman.

“Of course,” said the immortal. “You remember all the details of

our arrangement I'm sure, and I am confident that you will fulfill your

end of the bargain when the time comes.”

“I will do what I have agreed to, god. It is a very fair price for

what I am getting in return.”

The god nodded and stood and picked up the bone from the

table.

“Come stand before me then, Duchess, and take off your shirt.”

The Duchess hesitated.

“Do you think I'm now trying to trick you into showing me your

breasts, woman? It is necessary that you take off your shirt, so take it

off.”

She saw no lechery in the god's eyes, so she gave him a hard look

but did as he instructed. Entropotripocles held the bone against the

woman's chest with the palm of his hand.

“This might hurt a bit,” he chuckled.

Then, abruptly, the god pushed the bone through the young

woman's rib cage and into her heart. The whole of the Duchess' body

clenched up in a half-begun sob, and agony spread from her chest to the

rest of her body. Blood gushed from the wound. The Duchess was
certain she would die.

But then the wound closed, and the ribs mended, and the flesh

grew back, leaving only a small scar where the bone had entered, beneath
the blood that had already dried and begun to flake away. And she felt

just as she had before in very short order. She felt no different at all.

“See you later, Duchess. When you alone rule this land, I expect

my Cathedral to be your top priority.”

And then he was gone.

The Duchess smiled back at the empty space where the god had

been.

“That could easily be thirty years,” she quietly said.

She already ruled New Hamptingtonshire. Her father was just a

useful figurehead. And, given the circumstances, she decided that he

would remain precisely that for as long as he lived.

But Entropotripocles had known full well who really ruled New

Hamptingtonshire. And the god had lied to the Duchess when he had

described himself as patient. The Duke died that very night.

Chapter 4 –

Luciano Visits the Villa

Verse One

In 1765, Campaggo Religetti married. He was in his eighties, but

was still a vibrant fellow, or, at least, he was vibrant enough to father a

son. Very little had changed in New Hamptingtonshire over the course

of the 65 years since Campaggo had visited the Villa and collected the
finger bones of the god of time. The Duchess, for example, still looked

hardly a day older than sixteen, though, given her actual age, she ought to

have appeared as wizened as Campaggo himself.

One thing that had changed, though, was that there was now a

massive Cathedral in the center of Hamptingtonshire City. And before I

get to Campaggo's wedding, I'd like to go back to 1728, to the day of the

Cathedral's opening...

Nearly everyone in the city, including Campaggo Religetti,

gathered in front of the Grand Cathedral, to hear the Duchess explain

what the building was and to perhaps catch a glimpse of the inside of it.

During the Duchess' speech, right after she had begun in fact, a

figure appeared out of nowhere at the door of the Church, just behind

and to the side of the noblewoman. Campaggo was close to the front of

the crowd, and he saw the figure and he recognized him as Curtis, the
god of Text and of Naming Things.

“Curtis! Hello, Curtis!” Campaggo had shouted out. He waved

both arms vigorously in hopes that the god would see him and remember

him from the Villa.

Curtis had turned around to see who was calling him and he

spotted Religetti.

“Campaggo! What a surprise to see you. It never occurred to me

that you might be here today, but of course it makes sense. You live in

New Hamptingtonshire.”

And Religetti smiled and gave the god a thumbs up.

Though the god had apparently spoken to Campaggo at a normal

volume, the voice of the immortal carried across the crowd, and later

many people asked Campaggo how he had come to know the god. But

Campaggo was somewhat embarrassed by the attention and he was not
inclined to answer any questions about it. Being greeted by the god

nevertheless made Religetti a minor celebrity amongst the

groundskeepers and other estate staff. People still asked him about it

years later.

Regardless, nearly everyone in the crowd heard Curtis, and it was

soon established that it had been a god who had spoken. This sparked

much excitement. Everyone wanted to see the immortal. Even the
Duchess stopped talking and turned around.

So there were many eyes upon Curtis when the god stood before

the two huge oaken doors of the Church and raised his hands. And there
were therefore many who saw the god burn deep into the stone above

the door the following words: “The Church of Squalor.”

Thus did Entropotripocles' Church come to be called “The

Church of Squalor,” and thus did his priests come to be known as “The

Clergy of Squalor.”

Now let's get back to Campaggo's wedding...

By 1765 it had become the law of the land that all weddings be

Squalid ones, and the Grand Cathedral was within easy walking distance
of Campaggo's quarters, so it was in the Cathedral that Religetti, at the

age of 83, was married.

It had taken Campaggo decades to become prosperous enough to

entice a young woman to marry him, and then it had taken him several

years more to save enough to afford the ceremony. And Religetti knew

that upon committing the funds to the service, he might not even get
what he paid for. In a wedding service in the Church of Squalor, you see,

one ran the very real risk of being married to the wrong person, as there

were blindfolds and a full day's worth of intoxicant consumption

involved. But, in the end, Campaggo was lucky – he managed to walk
out of the Church a happy old man with the exact young bride he had

intended to marry. And within a year, his son, Luciano Religetti, was

born.

Luciano was much like his father, but he was less practical. The

boy spent his time carving figurines out of wood, and he showed little

interest in learning the family business of keeping the grounds of the

Duchess' estate.

For all of his childhood, and on into his adolescence, Luciano

was able to work on his carvings. Nothing gave Campaggo as much joy

as seeing the wooden creations that his son made, for Luciano did

excellent work, and the old man proudly displayed each completed piece

in their shared quarters. Mrs. Religetti had died giving birth to Luciano.
So all that Campaggo and his son had were each other, and the wooden

figures to keep them company.

When Luciano was 14, he had a conversation with his father one

morning as the old man got ready for work.

“When will I begin working, Father? I am the last one of my

friends not yet to work.” said the boy.

“You work, Luciano,” answered Campaggo as he laced his boots.

“You work very hard.”

“I don't understand,” said his son.

“That is your work,” said Campaggo, pointing to Luciano's

carvings.

“It's true father, that I work on those,” said the son, “but they

earn us no money at all. They require work, but I don't see how they can

be my work.”

The elder Religetti, who sat upon the edge of his bed,

straightened out his back and looked up at his son. He placed his hands

on his knees and thought about what his son had said.

“When I am finished keeping the grounds,” the old man finally

said, “I have nothing to show for it. Things may look a little nicer, but

the grounds that I keep are not even my own. How can that be my

work?”

Luciano considered this for a few moments.

“You do have something to show for it. You have money to

show for it,” he said.

Campaggo sighed. “Money is a lot like keeping the grounds. I

pull the weeds and they're gone. Then the rains come, and the weeds

grow back, and I pull them again. That's not work. That's maintenance.
And money's the same way. I earn the money, I buy the food, and the

money is gone, so I earn the money again. That's not 'something to

show for it,' that's maintenance.”

Luciano looked unconvinced.

“Do you understand?” asked Campaggo.

“I think so,” said Luciano. “But I'm not sure I agree. And I'm

pretty sure the other groundskeepers don't think that way.”

“It's impossible to know what other people think,” said the old

man. “We can only hear what they say. And people choose the words

they say for a lot of different reasons. They don't necessarily choose

them very wisely, because once they're spoken, words just melt into the
air.”

Campaggo rose creakily to his feet. The old man's boots were

tightly laced now and he was ready to go. So, just as he did each
morning, right before he left the quarters, Campaggo used his calloused

hands, stained copper by the earth, to flatten out the wrinkles from his

clothing.

On this morning, though, he then looked at those stained hands,

and rubbed them together and faced his son.

“But when you do your work, son, you have something when you

are done. Something that does not melt away. Something that you can

point to and say, 'that's my work,' and people will know what you have
done.”

Luciano nodded, and watched his father open the door and settle

the broad brimmed hat he wore atop the few gray hairs that remained on

his head. Just before Campaggo stepped outside, a question occurred to

the boy.

“What

is your work, father, if it is not keeping the grounds?”

Campaggo sighed, and smiled. “You are my work, Luciano. I

can point to you and say, 'that's my son.' And I can point to those
carvings and say, 'and that is my son's work.'”

So it was that Campaggo provided for his son, to give the boy

time to carve. Each morning, the old man would go out to his day of

labor, tending to the gardens all around the manor house where the

Duchess lived. And each morning, Luciano would take his knives and a

piece of wood and he would sit in front of the quarters and chip away.

These happy years would not last. The Dukedom, after all, was a

rather backwards place - Luciano's father was a groundskeeper, and

therefore Luciano would be one as well. But for the moment, the young
man was able to put off that fate and work on his art.

One day, when Luciano was 17, and Campaggo was just a few

days shy of his 101 birthday, the elder Religetti told his son something
that he had kept secret for over 80 years. Campaggo had never really

understood why he had kept the story secret, but he did understand that

it was now time to tell it.

The old man told of the visit he had long ago made to the Villa.

He included every detail he could recall, and he told it as accurately as he

could, and entreated his son to listen carefully and remember it. And
then he gave his son the sack containing the bones of the god of time.

Luciano, for his part, wasn't sure what to make of the story. He

believed his father, assuredly, and he found the tale interesting, but

Luciano did not know what meaning, if any, he ought to take from the

account. Regardless, the boy made an oath to his father that day – an

oath that Campaggo insisted he make. Luciano swore to keep the bones
of the god of time secret and safe, and to pass them on to his own son,

just as Campaggo had passed them on to Luciano.

The next day, Campaggo Religetti died while feeding the fish that

lived in the pond on the east side of the manor house.

Verse Two

For the Duchess, things had gone just about perfectly since her

meeting with Entropotripocles in 1718. It had taken the woman a

decade to build the Cathedral, and it had practically bankrupted the

Duchy, but build it she had. And now, 65 years later, the Church had
more than paid for itself, just as the god had told her it would.

Better yet, she looked and felt hardly a day older than she had 6½

decades past, when she had made the deal with the god of Stumbles and
Confusion.

And beyond that even, her fears regarding the power of this

Church had not been borne out. If anything, the institution had served

as an excellent partner in solidifying her power over all the peoples of her

land.

Yes, she was quite pleased indeed with the status quo. So she was

therefore quite displeased when anything out of the ordinary happened.

Naturally, then, when on one summer's night Entropotripocles again

visited the woman in her chamber, the Duchess was not happy. This
time the god did not knock.

“Ah Duchess, how nice to see you again. May I say you are

looking as lovely as ever?”

The Duchess, who had been alone in her chambers, undressing

for bed, was, needless to say, quite startled to hear the god's greeting. So
much so that she dropped the sleeping gown she held, and stood

speechless before the god, entirely naked, before scrambling first to

retrieve, and then to hastily don, the article of clothing.

“What

are

you doing here?!” she demanded. “Why didn't you

announce yourself before just poofing in here? Can't you see I'm

dressing?!”

“That is precisely why I elected not to knock, good lady,” said the

god. “So comely a woman as yourself ought to be admired. And

knowing that you remain unmarried, and given that I find you here
preparing for bed alone, I suspect that such admiration occurs far too

infrequently.”

The Duchess finished pulling her sleeping gown over her head,

and not until she had assured herself that it was all the way on, did she

answer.

“I allow that sort of admiration on my own terms, god,” she said

firmly, “and precisely as frequently as I desire it. Marriage. Please.”

“Fair enough. But there are other reasons for marriage, you

know - what of children, for example?” asked Entropotripocles. “Aren't

you interested in preserving your lineage?”

“One needn't marry to do that either,” said the Duchess, folding

her arms and glaring at her unwanted guest. “The legitimacy of an heir

would be irrelevant until my death, after all, so why would I care about

that? On the other hand, if I were to marry a man, that man would

become Duke. I could not prevent that. I would afford him no real
power, certainly, but he would still be Duke, and he would still meddle in

my affairs.”

“So you intend to bear an heir out of wedlock?” asked the god.

“No. I don't intend to have an heir at all. What need have I for

one? I plan on living forever, or near enough. Besides, I'm quite sure

that I am barren, for I have not become pregnant yet, despite my share of
dalliances. And for that, I am muchly thankful. Children are filthy,

needy, little creatures, and I have no interest in them whatsoever. Now

tell me why are you here, god. Surely it is not to discuss my uterus.

What do you want?”

“There's really no need to be curt with me, Duchess,” said

Entropotripocles with a thin frown. He then walked to within a few feet
of the woman, and purposefully, in a low voice, he said, “If anything, I

ought to be greeted as a benefactor. Haven't things turned out just as I

promised?”

The Duchess, looked hard at the god, and caught a hint of anger

in his eyes. It was something she had not seen during the god's last visit,

and it unsettled her. Though the Duchess had lost none of her

imperious nature, she was not nearly as reckless as she had been at 16.
This was a High Lord of the Pantheon, she thought, and he was not

someone to take lightly. So she resolved to put on a show of politeness.

She forced to her face a chagrined smile, and looked down, for

just a moment.

“Indeed they have turned out well, High Lord,” she said. “Please

forgive my rudeness. I was startled is all, and I forgot my manners.”

Abruptly, the god's usual, devious grin returned. “Of course, my

dear, think nothing of it at all. I understand how it is when one is caught
off guard.”

Now resigned to having a guest, the Duchess attempted to be

gracious.

“Seeing as the night is warm, and the moon is full, perhaps we

can talk on the balcony?” she suggested.

The god indicated for the woman to proceed, then followed her

outside, and took the seat across from her.

“Wine?” asked the god.

“Certainly,” responded the Duchess.

And just as before, the god conjured up a bottle and glasses and

poured the vintage for both of them.

“I must say, Duchess,” began the god, “that I am very pleased

with the Church you built for me. It's quite a grand affair.”

“Yes, well, thank you,” she answered. “I rather expected to see

you when it was completed. I figured that you'd at least want to inspect

it. One of your brethren, Curtis, attended the ceremony, you know?

Well, he popped in briefly, anyways.”

“Yes, I know. And he affixed to my Church that most

unfortunate name. But there's nothing to be done about it. He is the

god of Naming Things after all,” replied Entropotripocles.

The Duchess sipped her wine, and waited for the god to

continue. He didn't, and at last, she spoke, if only to fill the silence.

“You know, I kind of looked over my shoulder for the first ten

years or so after the Cathedral opened. I kept waiting for you to come,

perhaps to instruct me on how to select the clergy for your Church, or to

tell me what to do next. But the building has been completed now for,

what... 50 years? 60? And it has been nearly 70 since last I saw you.

That's an awfully long time. I concluded long ago that my business with

you was over, and that you had judged my execution of the task assigned
to be at least adequate.”

“Oh, my dear, much more than merely adequate,” said the god.

“You've built my Church carefully and well. And I must say I was most

impressed by the speed with which it went up, too.”

The god paused to drink. He looked out into the night.

“I mean for one thing,” said the god, “I had thought it would be

some time before the Title passed from your father onto you. I had

thought it might be decades before you would even be able to begin.”

This last bit caught the Duchess by surprise.

“He had an unfortunate accident,” she said. “It was the very

night you visited me last, in fact. He fell down the stairs, apparently

while going to relieve himself.”

The Duchess let no suspicion slip into her tone when she said

this, but it had been obvious to her then, and it was obvious still, that the

god had been behind her father's death. Entropotripocles surely knew

that she understood this, so the Duchess interpreted his bringing it up as
a bit of a threat. She wondered what he wanted her to do this time and

how much she was going to dislike doing it.

“I'm terribly sorry for your loss,” said the god.

“That was a long time ago, but thank you.”

They both sipped their wine and studied the moonlit grounds

until at last the High Lord of Stumbles and Confusion returned his eyes

to the woman across from him and spoke.

“I imagine that you would like to know why I am here.”

The Duchess nodded.

“Two reasons, really,” he said. “The first is that I am in search of

a gift for High Lord Accutron. And I would like you to be responsible
for acquiring it.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Yes, something quite specific, and I wish you to acquire it

precisely as I will now describe, so listen carefully.”

The Duchess indicated that she understood, and was ready, and

then Entropotripocles told her all the details of what she would need to

do. It took quite a while.

“A contest, eh?” asked the woman, when at last the god had

finished. “Alright. A strange request but certainly one that I can

accomplish. What's in it for me?”

“My continued affection. I ask you to do this as a favor for me.

Perhaps I will give you something in return, something that at some

point you will find valuable. But that remains to be seen.”

In her younger years she would have negotiated fervently. But as

she had aged she had come to understand the advantages of winning the

favor of those with power. Her efforts on this night, in fact, were no less
vigorous than they had ever been, but her tactics were substantially more

subtle.

“Very well,” said the Duchess. “It is a small thing to ask of me. I

will gladly do a High Lord this favor.”

“Excellent Duchess. Thank you.”

“And the second matter? You said, I believe, that you had two

reasons for coming to see me.”

“Yes. Well as I mentioned before, Duchess, you are a very

comely woman, much deserving of attention. Deserving, in fact, of more
thorough, and satisfying, attention than any mortal man can offer you.

And I was hoping that you might allow me the pleasure of sharing your

bed tonight. Of course, feel free to decline. I would not force my

company upon any woman who did not wish it.”

Though somewhat startled by the directness of this proposition,

the Duchess found herself rather strongly aware of the god's unmitigated
maleness, and she found that she wished his company very much. The

Duchess had no special resistance to lust, after all, and a long habit of

satiating her appetites precisely as she wished. It did not occur to her

that her acquiescence on this occasion might be anything but another
instance of the same.

Regardless, she did not regret the choice, at least not at first. She

had never had such a lover before, nor would she ever again. But as the
two reached the height of their passion, Entropotripocles again indulged

in an Adoration Feedback. This time, the god released all of his divinity

into the woman.

When the woman awoke in the morning, she was still quivering

from the sex. Then she remembered the Adoration Feedback. It had

been bad enough when he had her permission. This time, though, the

god had imposed it upon her against her will, and the woman's anger

regarding that fact far outweighed the pleasure she had taken from the

god. She screamed curses at him, but he was long gone.

For his part, the god, from the comfort of the Villa, watched the

woman rage, and he felt no guilt about what he had done. He had waited
almost 7 decades for the Duchess to become strong enough to handle

the full scope of his divinity and retain her autonomy. Her resistance to

his power had been required. Her consent had not.

The god had tied her to the land for just this purpose, after all.

He had needed to be certain that regardless of how long it took her to

become strong enough to survive a full force Adoration Feedback, her

body would still be young enough to bear a child. And, indeed, it was.
In fact, it probably had hundreds of childbearing years left in it.

Entropotripocles would need no more than 6 or 7 of them.

Verse Three

Luciano Religetti buried his father in the commoners' graveyard

just north of Hamptingtonshire City, and walked back through town

thinking about nothing. As he passed the square where the farmers came

to sell their goods, he noticed an official crier, and a small crowd
gathered around the man, listening. Luciano stopped to hear what was

going on.

“Your noble ruler the Duchess wishes to announce a

competition, open to gentry and serf, man, woman and child alike,” said

the crier. “All who wish to enter may do so.”

Luciano could not recall there ever being such a thing before.

“Entrants will sculpt a figure of a mythical beast – any mythical

beast that he or she chooses.”

A sculpting contest? Luciano lamented the fact that he made

carvings instead of sculptures. But he kept listening anyways, because it

just so happened that the carving he had been working on for weeks –
the one that he had almost completed – was of a Dragon. And a

Dragon, he thought, surely qualified as a mythical beast. Luciano had

never seen a real Dragon, at any rate, and he was fairly certain that they

did not actually exist.

“An award of 4 ounces of the purest gold will be given to the one

who enters the best work.”

Hearing this, Luciano decided he might just try to enter his

carving after all.

Luciano made his way back towards his quarters on the grounds

of the estate, thinking about the contest, and the fortunate coincidence

that he had a mythical beast already in the works, and he wondered if he
had any chance to win. He thought they might just tell him “that's not a

sculpture, that's a carving,” and send him away. But he figured it was

worth a shot anyways.

When Luciano reached the door to his quarters, he called out to

his father, to tell him about this news about the contest. Then he

remembered that his father was gone, and would not ever be home again.

At that moment, the young man understood death for the first time, and
he fell to his knees beside his father's bed, and he sobbed into his father's

rough blanket, and he knew true despair, for he was alone.

Verse Four

Luciano Religetti began his job as a groundskeeper the next day.

The groundskeeper foreman, upon seeing how little the young man knew

about the work, partnered him with an older, and experienced, man

named Gurry.

Gurry had known Campaggo. He had worked with the elder

Religetti on occasion and had heard the old man talk proudly about his

son. So although Luciano had never met Gurry, Gurry felt as though he
knew Luciano. And Gurry was therefore very sympathetic towards the

young Religetti, and did his best to befriend him, and to teach him how

to do the work of keeping the grounds.

Luciano, however, was unresponsive to the older man's friendly

overtures. The young man saw his father in everything, and missed him

so much that the sorrow made him incapable of purposeful or joyful

living. Luciano worked all day, and then returned to his quarters, and
prepared his food and ate it, and then he slept. Luciano did not dream.

The next day was the same. As was the next.

On Sundays and Wednesdays, Religetti went to the square in

town to purchase potatoes and rice, carrots and bread, and sometimes a

little meat, and then he returned to his quarters and put the food on the

table beside the small, wood burning stove. The rest of the time, he lay

on his bed and wept or simply stared at the empty bed his father had
once occupied.

After several weeks of this, Luciano thought about carving, and

he picked up the Dragon he had been working on before his father's

death. He saw that the piece was very close to being finished. But
instead of getting his knives, he returned the wooden figure to its place,

and he lay back down on his bed. Luciano had always carved knowing

that when he was finished, he would show the work to his father, and

that it would make the old man happy. Perhaps that had been the only
reason he had ever done the work.

One day, a month after Luciano began his job as a

groundskeeper, he and Gurry were working in the rose beds, pruning,

and pulling out the weeds. It was a hot day, and both men knelt in the

dirt beneath wide-brimmed hats. Sweat dripped from Luciano's nose,

and because the heat discouraged conversation, neither man spoke. This
stillness stretched on for hours. So when Gurry finally broke the silence,

the sound of the man's voice rattled oddly in Luciano's ears.

“Have you heard about this mythical beast contest, Luciano?

You know how to do that sort of thing, don't you? To make a sculpture,

I mean? A sculpture of a beast?”.

Luciano stopped digging out the weeds for a second, and wiped

his face with the back of his hand.

“Ye..“ he began, but very little sound came out, because his

throat was dry, and because he had been silent for so long.

He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Yes, I've heard about the contest,” he replied, “but I don't do

that sort of thing anymore.”

“But I thought that's what you did. Your father used to talk

about it. You carve things, right? Isn't that what you do?” prodded

Gurry.

“I did do that,” said Luciano curtly. “Now I do this.” Luciano

did not like it when Gurry spoke of Campaggo.

The young man then looked up to see where the sun was in the

sky, and adjusted his hat and resumed digging. Gurry watched him for a

moment, and then Gurry returned to his digging too, and the men did
not speak again for the rest of the day.

But the next day, while working the other side of the rose bed,

Gurry asked him about it.

“Why don't you carve anymore, Luciano?”

“I just don't, that's all,” answered Religetti.

“Well, I really think that you should think about making a beast

for the contest. There's a big award for the winner. 4 ounces of gold.
You don't make that much in three years of keeping the grounds.”

“Yeah, well, like I said,” replied Luciano, “I don't do that

anymore, so it doesn't matter if it's a thousand ounces of gold, because

I'm not going to be the one to win it, because I don't do that anymore.”

But Gurry kept bringing it up, day after day. And Luciano kept

telling him the same answer. Soon enough, there was only a week left to

submit an entry before the contest would be closed.

Gurry worked the handle of a water pump until a small trickle

poured from the mouth of the device. He squatted and bent his head

beneath the pump so that the water fell into his mouth. When he had

finished drinking Gurry indicated that he would continue pumping to

allow Luciano to do the same.

“This is the last week, you know?” said Gurry, as he watched the

younger man drink. “For the beast contest, I mean. This is the last

week.”

Luciano pulled himself to his feet and wiped his mouth. He had

had enough.

“Everyday you bring this up, Gurry, and everyday I tell you the

same answer. I guess your old ears don't hear so well anymore. I DO

NOT do that anymore! Understand?! I don't do that anymore, ok? So

just quit talking about it.”

Gurry stopped working the pump for a second, then started

again. This time the older man filled his hat with water, and used that
humble basin to wash his face and hands. He then emptied the

remaining water onto the ground and returned the hat, now damp and

cool, to his head.

Religetti watched this, fists clenched, waiting for a reply. When

Luciano saw that none was forthcoming, he turned from the older man

and started back towards the field where the two men were working.

“You know,” said Gurry as Luciano walked away, “your father

always said that his son was an artist. It was what he was most proud of

in life – that his son made beautiful things.”

Luciano Religetti neither stopped nor turned around at hearing

this. He just kept walking towards the field. But that night, when he

returned to his quarters, Luciano picked up the Dragon carving, and he
took out his knives and his stool, and in the dim light of the oil lamp, he

worked. His hands were slow at first, but they found the memory of

years of woodworking soon enough.

Luciano worked until dawn and then the Dragon was finished.

And examining the final product, the young man concluded that it was

the best thing he had ever made. Then it occurred to him that he had
not thought about his father once the whole night.

He put away his knives and swept up the wood chips. After that,

though it was still very early, Luciano Religetti went to Gurry's quarters
and woke the man up. Luciano showed his friend the Dragon.

“Thank you, Gurry, for your persistence,” said Religetti. “I'm

sorry. I have been... well...”

Gurry waved off the young man's apology. He took the Dragon

from Luciano and held it up to have a good look at it. Gurry stared at it
for a long time, turning it over and over in his hands.

“It's so beautiful,” said the older man finally. “I've never seen

anything like it.”

After that, Luciano took it to the Chamberlain's office at the

front of the estate, just as the crier had indicated that anyone with an

entry should do. He waited by the door for quite some time until finally
somebody came by and unlocked it, told Luciano to wait where he was,

and then went inside. After a couple of minutes, the man came back out

with parchment and a quill, and wrote down Luciano's name, and that he

was a groundskeeper on the estate, and he wrote down the dimensions of
the piece (it wasn't very large – perhaps two feet long, and a foot high,

and six inches deep), and the material it was made of.

The man then took the dragon from Luciano, and he stabbed a

hole in one corner of the paper, ran some twine through the hole and

tied the paper to the dragon.

Then he said “good luck” to Religetti, and took the carving into

the office.

Luciano peaked through the door, as it closed behind the man,

and he saw that there were many other entries inside. Some of them

looked to be quite fancy. All things considered, the young man didn't
really like his chances, but that was ok. Because for the first time in

months, Luciano was happy.

Verse Five

Several years passed and Luciano had long since forgotten about

the contest. He had given up hope of winning it after the first two

weeks, because he figured it couldn't take any longer than a fortnight for

the Duchess to choose a winner. But then one Sunday afternoon in
October of 1786, a little more than 3 ½ years from the day Religetti had

first heard the crier announce the sculpture contest, there was a knock on

Luciano's door. The young man went to see who it was, and discovered

the Duchess herself standing outside in the fading autumn sun, holding
the Dragon in her right hand.

“Are you..” she looked at the paper she held in the other. “Loo-

chee..oohhh...”

The Duchess grimaced and put her left hand against the wall to

steady herself.

Luciano watched this in silence, uncertain what to say or do. At

last, the woman's discomfort passed and she spoke again.

“Did you make this?” she said, and she held up the Dragon to

indicate that she referred to it.

Luciano was naturally very surprised to see the Duchess at his

door holding the Dragon. But what was just as surprising was that the

noblewoman appeared to be pregnant. Luciano hadn't heard that the

Duchess had gotten married, and a royal wedding was the sort of news

that generally traveled fast. It then occurred to Religetti that he was

staring and that the Duchess had asked him a question.

He quickly moved his gaze away from the woman's round belly

and said, “Yes, Milady, I made that. I am Luciano Religetti.”

The Duchess looked him over. Then she pulled a small bag with

a drawstring on it out of her pocket. This she handed to Luciano.

“Well, congratulations. You won. Here's your gold.”

“I won? That contest?” asked Luciano, somewhat confused. “I

won the sculpting contest from a long time ago?”

“Yes. Now listen to me very carefully,” instructed the Duchess.

“You need to listen because you have a job you have to do. It's a very

simple job, but it is very important that you do it like I tell you to do it.”

The Duchess handed Religetti the Dragon he had made. He held

the bag of gold in his right hand, so he took the carving from her with

his left, a bit hesitantly.

“Aren't you going to keep the Dragon?” he asked.

“No. Now just keep your mouth shut and listen to me. You are

to carry that Dragon with you everywhere you go – and I mean

everywhere. It is not going to leave your side, at any point, day or night.

Is that clear?”

Luciano

nodded.

“Every minute of every day you must have that with you,” stated

the Duchess firmly, and she stared Luciano straight in the eye, and

pointed her finger at him to emphasize the point. “If you fail to do so,

boy, you will regret it, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Duchess, I understand. But how will I be able to work,

carrying this around? And for how long must I carry it? Forever?”

“This task is more important than whatever it is you do. What

do you do, anyways?” asked the Duchess.

“I keep the grounds, Milady,” answered Religetti.

“Well, consider yourself on paid vacation, because you are not to

perform any groundskeeping until this is done. I don't want you around
any other people. Instead, you will report to the far northwest corner of

the estate grounds, with the Dragon, near the edge of the forest, and

stand there by yourself, all day, everyday, until you see the Villa.”

“The Villa? I don't understand. You mean The Villa of the

Gods?”

“Yes, the Villa of the Gods. And you don't need to understand.

You just go stand out there, with the Dragon, and when you see the Villa,

go inside, and take the Dragon with you. Once you're inside, find High

Lord Accutron, and give him the Dragon. Tell him it is a gift. After that,
you can leave the Villa, and that's it. Your task will be complete, and you

can go back to your groundskeeping.”

“Ok, Duchess, that's what I'll do then.”

Then there was a silence. Luciano wasn't sure what the Duchess

was waiting for, but he wasn't about to close the door in the
noblewoman's face, so he just waited.

“Well, go on,” she said. “Do as I have told you.”

“Oh, you want me to go right now?” asked Luciano. He glanced

at the sun, and saw that it was low in the sky. “But it's almost dark,

Milady.”

The Duchess crossed her arms and stared at Luciano.

“Ok, I'll go right now, then, Duchess, sorry.”

Luciano looked around him for a place to put the gold, and

settled on stashing it behind a couple of books on a shelf. He didn't
really want the Duchess to see where he was hiding it, but there wasn't

anything he could do about that. She was standing in the doorway still,

staring at him, arms folded, and looking impatient. So he just stuck it

behind some books, then shifted the Dragon into his right hand, and
made his way out the door. The Duchess moved aside to let him pass.

Luciano closed the door behind him. The Duchess waited and

watched until she saw him walking towards the northwest. Then she

turned and waddled back to her estate, pregnant, uncomfortable, and

very, very angry at Entropotripocles.

As soon as Luciano was sure the Duchess was out of sight, he

turned right around and headed back to his quarters. But the next

morning, he got off to an early start, and made it out to the northwest

corner of the estate by mid-morning.

The young man explored the isolated area until he found an

inviting spot, and he sat down there with his back against the broad trunk

of an old willow tree.

At first, Luciano kept a vigilant watch, scanning in all directions,

looking for any sign of the Villa. But all he saw were plants and birds

and the wooden posts and wire fence that marked the edge of the

Duchess' estate. So it wasn't long before he stopped looking.

This was a terribly boring job the Duchess had assigned him.

Just sitting here doing nothing was worse than keeping the grounds.

Tomorrow, thought Luciano, he would bring his knives. There were
plenty of fine pieces of wood strewn around here. But that was

tomorrow, and right now was today, and he had nothing to do.

So while it was still only late morning – too early for a midday

meal - he decided to eat the lunch he had packed himself, just because it

was an activity. Predictably, the food made Luciano sleepy. So using his

coat for a pillow, Religetti stretched out in the dappled shade of the tree

and soon he was asleep.

Luciano awoke, maybe an hour later, confused about where he

was and anxious that somebody might have caught him sleeping. But

when he sat up, he saw it. Right in front of him, where before had been
just a big empty meadow, was the Villa of the Gods. The front gate was

literally no more than ten feet away. It was so close, in fact, that the

branches of the willow tree under which he sat hung over the Villa's

stone wall and into the grounds of the Villa proper.

Luciano grabbed his Dragon carving and stood up and walked to

the gate.

Now Campaggo, before he had died, had told Luciano all about

the time that he had gone to the Villa, so Luciano had thought he had

some idea of what to expect. But as he strode up the long walk, he
realized that what he had imagined, listening to his father's story, was

nothing compared to the actual thing. The building itself was very large,

but no bigger than the Duchess' manor. In every other way, however,

the Villa was wholly superior to any other dwelling he had ever seen.

Foremost, the place was absolutely spotless, everywhere he

looked. The structure itself was made of some sort of gleaming white

stone, as was the walkway, and the windows were framed in a
complementary cream colored wood. The door was charcoal gray, and

made, by the looks of it, from slate. The lawn was perfectly cropped and

all of the flowering plants were in bloom. Luciano was very impressed

with whoever kept the grounds here.

At last Luciano reached the door and went through it and entered

the building proper. He stood in the foyer and studied the space. There

was a bar to his right and a sunken room to either side. It was just as
clean, if not cleaner, inside than it had been out front. He had never seen

such cleanliness. Noting his own dusty clothes and dirty boots, Luciano

thought it best if he just stand where he was.

“Hello?” he called out from his spot in the foyer.

There was no reply.

“Hello? High Lord Accutron? Are you home?”

Nothing. Apparently, he would have no choice. Religetti walked

into the main part of the house. He stepped very gingerly at first, but

gradually he made his way with a bit more confidence. It looked like

nobody was home. He didn't explore the entire place – he never even

made it upstairs – but he did poke around a goodly bit, in search of
Accutron, or, failing that, some other god. He encountered nobody.

And at last he found himself in the very same bar that his father had sat

at.

Luciano didn't know it was the same bar, of course. In fact, he

assumed it was not. But the younger Religetti did recall Campaggo

telling him about sitting at a bar, and about making three drinks, by
mixing as many different alcohols as possible. This had apparently

brought the gods out for Campaggo, so Luciano thought he'd try the

same thing and maybe he'd get the same results.

Before too long, Luciano was sitting not only at the same bar, but

in the very same seat that his father had sat in, and with three drinks in

front of him, like his father, and he peered through the glasses and
watched the drinks swirl around, just as his father had done. The only

difference was that sitting atop the bar in front of Luciano, right beside

the drinks, was the Dragon.

“Well, I guess today's the day,” said a low, big voice from behind

Religetti.

Luciano turned around and saw two men – gods, he corrected

himself. One was a stout looking guy with incredibly large hands. The

other was an olive-skinned fellow of slight built and average height.

“Is this the same mortal as last time?” asked the stout one. His

was the voice that had alerted Luciano to their presence in the first place.

“It couldn't possibly be,” said the other god. “But they do look

remarkably similar. I'm guessing this must be his... grandson?”

Luciano didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

“Well, are you? Are you the grandson of Campaggo Religetti?”

“Uh, no, I'm his son – Luciano. Are you guys gods?”

“Yes. I'm Precreator,” said the olive-skinned god. “And this,”

he motioned to the other, “is Accutron.”

“Oh, good,” said Luciano. “I'm supposed to...”

Precreator cut him off. “In good time young man. First let us sit

down and, ah, enjoy our drinks.”

And with that the two gods sat down next to Luciano. Precreator

took the chair immediately beside the mortal, and Accutron took the next
chair down.

“So, hello,” said Precreator. “Welcome to our home, Luciano.”

“Thank you, High Lord,” said Luciano, trying to be polite. “I

apologize for my appearance. I'm afraid I may have gotten some dirt on

your rug.”

“Think nothing of it, boy,” Precreator waved off Religetti's

concerns. “The house cleans itself, you know.”

Accutron took a slug from his drink and grimaced.

“Well. It is not quite as awful as the drink your father made me, I

don't think,” he said.

This prompted Luciano to remember his own drink, which he

still hadn't tasted. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed it cautiously, before
taking a sip. It wasn't very good, but having made it, the young man

figured he'd better choke it down. He didn't want the gods to think he

was wasting their liquor. So he took a big gulp of it, and it burned all the

way to his belly, brought water to his eyes, and made him shiver.

“That good, eh?” said Precreator.

Luciano blinked away the tears and said, “Ah, well... it definitely

packs a punch.”

Accutron snorted at hearing this, and Precreator raised his glass,

said “cheers,” and downed half of it in one swig. It didn't appear to

make much of an impact on this god at all.

“Are you hungry, Luciano?” Precreator asked. “You're welcome

to make yourself something to eat if you'd like. The kitchen's right

through there.”

“No thank you, sir,” replied Religetti. “I actually just finished my

lunch before I saw the Villa. Well, I ate, took a nap, then I saw the Villa,

actually. But the point is, I'm really not hungry right now, sir.”

“Alright then,” nodded Precreator. “Tell me something, Luciano.

What did your father do with the bones of the god of time? Does he still
have them? He did keep them didn't he? He didn't lose or sell them did

he?”

“No, sir,” replied Religetti. “He passed away, several years ago.

But he gave them to me just before he died. I have them at home, in a

sack, in the cupboard behind some dishes.”

“So Campaggo is dead, is he? He was a good man. I'm sure it

must have been hard for you, Luciano, yes?”

Luciano

nodded.

“You're a lot like he was, I think, and I don't doubt that you two

were rather close. But then, that's why you are called 'mortals', right?

Because you die after a certain number of years. If it is any consolation,

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death is not what you think it to be. There's no 'Postcreator,' if you

know what I mean?”

“Well...not really,” said Luciano after considering this for a

moment. “I guess I don't know what you mean. Thank you for your kind

words nevertheless, High Lord. It was indeed hard, but a friend of mine
helped see me through it. And like I said, it was several years ago now.”

The god nodded. “You'll want to hold on to those bones, by the

way. They'll be necessary at some point, I'm sure.”

“What do they do, if you don't mind me asking?” asked Luciano.

“Nothing,” answered Precreator. “But hold on to them

anyways.”

“They're good luck,” said Accutron, just before he choked down

another gulp of his drink. “Ahhh. That's got some serious bite. But the

bones? Yeah, they're good luck. You rub them for good luck.”

“Accutron,” scolded Precreator. “Why must you fill this young

mortal's head with such nonsense? You know full well that rubbing the

bones will do no such thing. Quit teasing the boy.”

Precreator then turned towards Luciano. “Accutron is just

playing with you, Mr. Religetti. The bones are not good luck. They don't

do anything at all. Don't listen to the High Lord.”

Accutron drained the rest of his drink.

“Ok, I'm done,” he said with a gasp. “You two hurry up and

finish your drinks. I want to get this over with.”

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Precreator drained the rest of his drink in a second mighty slug.

It took Luciano a few go's to finish his own, but he too eventually

emptied it.

“So,” said Precreator. “Now you can tell us about why you're

here.”

“Oh, right,” said Religetti.

Luciano was still thinking about what Precreator had told him

about death, and he had forgotten about the Dragon entirely.

“I'm supposed to give you this, High Lord Accutron,” said the

mortal, looking past Precreator at the stockier of the two gods. “It's a

gift.”

Luciano pushed the Dragon down the bar towards the god.

“A gift from whom?” Accutron asked.

“Um, I'm not sure, now that you mention it,” answered the

mortal. “From the Duchess, I guess, but she didn't actually say,

specifically, that it was from her.”

“Did you make this?” asked Precreator.

“Yes. Yes, I did. I entered it into a contest and it won, and I

guess it was a contest to make a present for you, because when the
Duchess came to give me my award, she told me to go to the northwest

corner of the estate and wait until I saw the Villa, and when I did, to go

in and find Accutron and give it to him. And so I did go there and...”

Luciano trailed off, because it was obvious that neither of the

gods were listening to him. Both were staring intently at the carving he

had pushed down the bar, though neither of them touched it.

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“You made this?” asked Accutron, incredulous.

Luciano nodded. “Yes. I carved it out of wood.”

“It's absolutely stunning work,” said Precreator.

“The proportions are perfect,” added Accutron. “Every detail is

flawless. You've really manifested the truths of the Article light,

beautifully, and those of my own Article as well.”

Luciano flushed a bit to hear such high praise from a god.

“Well, thank you very much, High Lord. I almost didn't finish it

in time to make the contest, because I was mourning the death of my

father. But fortunately, my friend Gurry – the one I mentioned earlier -

talked some sense into me, because I did end up getting it in on time, and

it won me four ounces of gold. Although for some reason it took over
three years for the Duchess to announce the winner.”

“This has been Beheld,” said Accutron. “You sent this to the

Eye of the Beholder?”

“Um.. I don't think so, sir. I don't know what that is. I just

entered it into the Duchess' contest.”

“She must have had all the entries Beheld,” said Precreator.

“That would explain the three years. And the fact that she chose the

right winner, for that matter.”

Both gods stared at the dragon in silence for a moment,

apparently thinking.

“The Squalid One has been getting things done,” said Accutron.

“Yes, I agree, things are moving along,” said Precreator.

“Though that's hardly due to altruism on his part.”

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Luciano didn't understand any of this, so he thought he'd best

just sit quietly. If the gods wanted to explain it to him, he figured, they'd

explain it to him.

“Well,” said Accutron. “I guess there is no point in stalling any

further.”

And with that he held up his two massive hands in front of him,

and looked at them for a moment. Then he reached for the Dragon and

picked it up.

Luciano watched in amazement as the Dragon broke into a

million tiny flecks, and crawled up the arms of High Lord Accutron, and

continued up until the flecks had covered the whole of the god's body.
And then the shape of that body changed, and before too long, there

stood on the floor a Dragon that looked exactly like the one he had

carved, and the beast on the floor, like the carving, was made entirely of

wood. The only difference was that this new beast was perhaps three
times as large as the carving had been. It was about 6 feet long, and

maybe three feet high. The carving was nowhere to be seen.

“Is that,” asked Luciano, “is that.. Accutron?”

“Yes, mortal,” said the wooden Dragon with a sigh. “It is I.”

And then the god slapped his Dragon tail down upon the floor,

perhaps out of frustration. Luciano noticed a scale fly off the tip of the

tail, and he got down from his chair and retrieved it.

“This fell off of you, Accutron,” he said, showing the Dragon the

small piece of wood in his hand.

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Abruptly, in rapid succession, two gods appeared in the room.

The first was a very impressive looking fellow, much bigger than the

other gods.

“The second prophecy has been fulfilled,” he said.

“Obviously,” said the Dragon Accutron.

“Ha! A Dragon. I'd never have guessed it,” said the impressive

one. “But don't take it too hard, High Lord. Perhaps you can learn to
use those claws as fingers.”

“Can you please just leave us be, Alienator?” asked Precreator.

The impressive god was Alienator then, thought Luciano, and the

mortal noticed that Alienator ignored Precreator's request.

“And the second man from New Hamptingtonshire will come,”

intoned Alienator, “and Accutron shall lose his hands, and the mortal will

leave with a scale from the beast.”

“Yes, Alienator, we all know the second prophecy,” said the

Dragon. “Now don't you have some static truths to inflict upon the

people or something?”

Alienator gave the Dragon god a contemptuous snort, and then

The Last Emoticon was gone as suddenly as he had arrived.

The second god was a bookish looking fellow with thinning hair

and a bit of a squinty expression. Luciano thought that he might be

Curtis, the god of Text and of Naming Things. He fit Campaggo's

description of Curtis, anyhow.

“Hello, Curtis,” said Precreator, confirming Luciano's guess.

“Hi guys,” said the god of Text.

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Curtis looked at Luciano with a bit of a startle, then he looked at

Precreator.

“Is this the same mortal as last time?”

“It's his son,” answered Accutron. “He looks a lot like his father

though, eh? Because, I thought the same thing.”

“Ah. That makes sense,” said Curtis. “Anyhow, I hate to make

the day any more messy than it already is, but I'm afraid you've gotten a
name change, Accutron.”

The Dragon sighed. “Well, don't be shy. Lay it on me.”

“You are now 'High Lord Accutron, Dragon god of Quality in

Objects.'”

“That's not much of a change,” said the wooden Dragon.

“It has the word 'Dragon' in it now.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, it's not too big of a change really,” said

Accutron.

“Still,” said Curtis, “I thought you'd like to know.”

“Yeah, ok, thanks,” said Accutron.

“Does the mortal have the scale yet?” asked Curtis.

Precreator looked at Luciano.

“Oh, yeah,” said Religetti. “It's right here.”

He opened up his hand to show the small Dragon scale sitting on

his palm.

“Do you want it?” asked the mortal, looking first to Curtis, and

then to Precreator.

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“No, no. You have to keep it,” said Curtis. “That's the whole

point.”

“Take it home and put it in the sack with the bones of the god of

time,” instructed Precreator. “Keep it safe. Don't sell it or lose it, ok?”

“Ok,” assured Luciano. “I'll do just as you say.”

“Well,” sighed Precreator as he stepped down from his barstool,

“you can stay as long as you want, mortal, and eat and drink as much as
want. When you're done, just go out the same way you came in and

you'll be back in New Hamptingtonshire.”

Then Precreator, Curtis, and the Dragon god Accutron made for

the door of the bar.

“Goodbye Luciano,” said Curtis, “nice to meet you.”

“Nice meeting you too,” said Religetti, but the gods were already

gone.

Luciano considered staying and seeing the kitchen or having

another drink, but he was nervous that he might lose the scale, and he

was still trying to sort out in his head all the stuff that had happened, so
he just made his way to the front door, and then down the path and out

the front gate. Upon closing the gate behind him, he found himself in

the exact spot where he had entered the Villa, looking out at a big empty

meadow.

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Chapter 5 –

Birthing Pains

Verse One

It was January of 1790 and the Duchess had been pregnant for

nearly 7 years. She and a carefully chosen midwife retreated, alone, to the

noblewoman's chambers as soon as the Duchess' water had broken.

Years earlier the Church of Squalor had claimed the right to be

present at any and all births, that all newborns might be baptized into the

Church with Squalid wine. It had further been established that a midwife

must be licensed by the Church to practice midwifery, because said
licensing was quite profitable for the Church. The Duchess had

approved these policies at the time because she got a cut of the licensing

fees and because she had thought herself unlikely to ever be personally

affected by them. Now that she was to give birth, however, she partially
recanted her assent and claimed that the dominion of the Church

regarding both matters applied only to the peasants. This displeased the

Church.

But no matter how much the Church complained, the Duchess

was not about to place her well-being in their hands. Childbirth was a

dangerous affair, and the clergy of Squalor were notoriously incompetent

at just about everything. So the Duchess had bent not an inch to the
repeated demands of the Archbishop. She used a midwife that she

trusted – one who had no affiliation with the Church at all – and she

permitted no clergy to attend.

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She had further given orders that not only her chambers, but the

entire 2nd floor of the estate as well, be cleared of people. Her honor
guard – comprised of the most competent men in her military – guarded

every entrance to the floor to prevent any interlopers. The Duchess did

not want anybody to hear her scream. And scream she did, for the labor
was not an easy one. It lasted the better part of six days.

In the final weeks of her pregnancy, the Duchess had made the

decision that the child would be killed immediately upon being born. But
when the ordeal was over, and the exhausted midwife handed the even

more exhausted Duchess her child, the noblewoman found that she

could not bring herself to give the order. Perhaps it was the divinity that

ran through the infant's veins that took hold of the woman's emotions
and stayed her hand. But probably the Duchess was moved by nothing

more than simple human compassion. Compassion is an inherent part of

every mortal. Even the Duchess had some, and apparently motherhood

brought just a bit of it to the surface.

Regardless, it frustrated the Duchess to discover this softness

within herself, for she considered sentiment to be synonymous with

weakness. But she did feel something for the baby she held, and she
could not deny that she did.

Still, she was the Duchess, and intellectually at least, she knew

better than to let emotions have too much impact on decision making.

So after she slept, and ate, the woman decided to do the next best thing

to killing the child. She called for the Archbishop of Squalor – at the

time Archbishop Eurnald – and held the baby to her breast while she
waited for the man to arrive.

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She was satisfied with the plan she had come up with. It allowed

her to avoid murdering her baby, it would soothe the Archbishop's

indignation, and, given Eurnald's long history of ineptitude, the child
likely wouldn't survive in the man's care anyway.

A guard appeared at the door to her chamber.

“Archbishop Eurnald has arrived, Duchess,” said the man with a

crisp salute.

“Well, send him in.”

The Archbishop entered with a great flourishing bow.

“Milady, a runner has informed me that you have need of Church

counsel, and of course I came myself, posthaste, to learn how High Lord

Entropotripocles' most trusted servant might assist in this hour of your
need.”

The Duchess despised the man, and thought him an

incomparable fool, but she tried never to let her personal feelings get in
the way of successfully manipulating somebody. So, in making her reply,

she adopted the cumbersome courtspeak he favored.

“Your expedience is most gracious, Archbishop, and you have

my many thanks. I'm afraid I must apologize for my dreadful behavior

the last week or so. I cannot imagine what came over me to deny the

Church its rightful dominion over this matter of childbirth. I suspect it
was the pregnancy, affecting my ability to think clearly. Can you forgive

a foolish woman for succumbing to her frailty and her fickle moods?”

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The Archbishop's eyes widened a bit. He was visibly pleased to

hear the Duchess acknowledge her mistakes. And, of course, he

reassured the Duchess that all was forgiven.

“Milady, t'was but a trifle, and has already been forgotten. All

mortals sin, but it takes a noble woman indeed to repent her mistakes.
You have reached out to the Church, and so though you once chose a

course that earned the disfavor of our High Lord, through the guidance

of his holy Church, your spirit may yet regain the translucence of purity.”

“Thank you, Archbishop,” said the Duchess, her eyes becoming

moist. “Verily, your words have eased my anxious heart.”

“Now if I may ask, Milady,” said Eurnald. “What matter can the

Church assist you with.”

“Oh, Archbishop,” moaned the Duchess, “to speak of it breaks

my heart. Lo, but I fear I must separate from this babe, though only just

yesterday did he first grace my ears with his warm mewlings and though

these chambers have been brightened by the light of his beneficence for

but a single day. Alas, Archbishop, I am unmarried, and to have a child
outside of the dictates of the holy doctrines of Squalor is wholly

unacceptable. I cannot so openly defy Church rules, for t'would set a

loathsome example for my people, who look to me to show them the

righteous course.”

“A most troubling and unfortunate circumstance indeed,

Duchess,” sympathized Eurnald. “But may I say that your piety is above

reproach. You display a most righteous commitment to our most holy
Lord Entropotripocles, and to the doctrines of his Church. Sometimes

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the choices we mortals must make are dictated to us by a higher power,

and such choices not easy ones.”

“Not easy, indeed. No, anything but easy. And High Lord

Entropotripocles forgive me, but I yet do waver. Still, I know there is

only one course to take, Archbishop, and only the Clergy of Squalor can
be trusted to see it through to fruition. I would not risk placing this babe

in any less reliable hands than your own.”

“What would you have me do, Milady?” asked the Archbishop.

“Speak your wish, and by the grace of the High Lord himself, I shall see

it done.”

“This child must be taken from here,” sighed the new mother.

“Take him by ship across the channel, Archbishop. Let him be raised

there by commoners, for he must never know his true lineage. I cannot

bear to think that he might lament the mother he has lost. Nay! Let me

do the lamentation for the both of us. And though to lose this babe
seems a greater woe than any I might have strength enough to bear, I

hope that in time my sorrow will ease. Now it is up to you Archbishop.

I have no where else to turn.”

The Archbishop's eyes showed how deeply he felt his own

importance, and his mouth literally quivered with satisfaction. The

Duchess had affirmed his authority over the matter of this birth, and
now she would relinquish the custody of the child to the Church.

“It shall be my honor, Duchess, to implement the exile exactly as

you say. And may I once again commend you for your good sense and
for your compassion.”

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“Thank you, Archbishop. I cannot tell you how much I value

your help. Now please, take the child and go – I think if I am to hold

him but one more minute, I will never let him go.”

The Archbishop apparently took the Duchess at her word, for he

jumped to the side of the bed and snatched the child from his mother's
arms.

“There will be no delay, Milady, I assure you. We shall prepare

for departure at once.”

And with that, Archbishop Eurnald made his exit.

The Duchess had been fully involved in the tactics of

manipulation heretofore. But now that she was alone, something

happened. A real sense of loss overcame her, and the woman wept no

fewer than three honest tears.

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Verse Two

The son of Entropotripocles did not, in fact, die in the hands of

the Squalid ones. Instead, he made it all the way to Portugal, where he

was placed in the care of a peasant couple. This couple, though

commoners, had the good fortune to own and farm an acre of land along
the coast, very near the Grand Curtisarian Cathedral.

I say “good fortune” because the Curtisarian Church, then as

today, is considered an autonomous nation, with sole authority over the

Cathedral and surrounding lands. And we Siblings, of course, are

generally not much inclined to interfere in the affairs of the people who

own, live or work upon the lands over which the Church has sovereignty.

It should be remembered that the newborn boy had been

conceived some 7 years earlier. The Duchess had assumed the extended

pregnancy was related to her own slow aging, but, in fact, the long
gestation had nothing to do with the Duchess. And now that he was

born, and had been moved far from New Hamptingtonshire, the boy

aged no more quickly than he had inside his mother. Indeed, he aged so

very slowly – he grew so little in his first year – that his Portuguese
parents felt no urgency to choose a name for him.

Eventually, however, word of the nameless boy reached the

nearby Grand Cathedral of Curtis. The Curtisarians there, of course,
found the idea of a nameless child wholly unacceptable and general

policy of non-interference notwithstanding, they sent a Sibling to visit the

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family. That Sibling held the boy, channeled the truths of Curtis, and

thereby determined the child's true name – Elias Cork.

Elias was a baby for a very long time, and a toddler for a very

long time as well, and so on. This made for a difficult childhood, but he

managed alright, and his adoptive parents were very protective. He
looked to still be a small child when these faithful caregivers died, first

the father, and then the mother, about a week after her husband. It was

1841, and the 10 year old boy had been alive for 51 years.

So it was decided by the Siblinghood that Elias Cork would begin

initiate's training in the Church of Curtis. The Curtisarian Church

accepts no initiates younger than twelve, but Elias Cork was a special

circumstance. He was placed with the twelve year-olds for want of a
better option.

He resented this.

But it's hard to say what else the Curtisarians could have done

with the boy. His mind was somewhere in between that of a child and

that of an adult. He had ample experience, but his brain lacked the
physical maturity to contain it, or to process it meaningfully. He was

definitely not an adult, and yet he was not a normal child. For the

Siblings who took him in, he proved mostly just to be a whole lot of

trouble.

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Verse Three

It was about three years after Luciano Religetti returned from the

Villa with the Dragon's scale that the Duchess gave birth to Elias. About

a month after that, Luciano married.

The mating between Luciano and this wife was undeniably a

happy one, but for whatever reason, it never produced any children.

Luciano wanted a child very badly, and he believed that he would make a

good father . Alas, it appeared that it would never be. But then, in 1840,
his wife leaned over the edge of a well to free a well-bucket that had

become stuck upon a loose stone. She tumbled into the well and on the

way to the bottom, she broke her neck and died.

Even after fifty years of marriage, Luciano was still considered

very well off for a groundskeeper. He was very poor compared to the

merchants or the landed farmers, and a pauper compared to the gentry or

the Duchess, but among the groundskeepers, he was considered well off.
So upon the death of his wife, Luciano pursued a new woman, and was

able to entice an attractive, and somewhat eccentric, young woman to

agree to marry him.

One ought not conclude that Luciano was unaffected by the

death of his wife. He did indeed mourn her, and he missed her, but he

also considered her passing to be an opportunity to pursue an outcome

that he had long before essentially given up on. Namely, he hoped to
become a father.

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Though he thought he was surely pressing his family's luck

regarding Squalid wedlock ceremonies, Luciano had good fortune on his

second wedding day, just as he had on his first. He again ended up
married to the right woman. And nine months later, in 1841, when

Luciano was 75 years old, he finally had a child. This son was named

Rigaberto Religetti.

Rigaberto was somewhat more unusual than either his father or

his grandfather. He apparently inherited his mother's eccentricity. Even

as a young child, Rigaberto showed a tendency to become a little bit
obsessed with those things that struck his interest. The boy was a thinker

– not necessarily a good thinker – but definitely a hard thinker, and once

he got hooked onto something, he just wouldn't let it go. Rigaberto's

brow seemed perpetually furrowed during his childhood and adolescence.

For example, the boy loved to watch his father carve. Rigaberto

himself displayed no particular aptitude at carving, but then his interest in

watching his father did not come from a desire to learn the craft. He was
interested, instead, at understanding where the wooden figures came

from, and why, and how. So he would watch his father work, and think

about the meaning of what he saw, and sometimes ask questions.

“Why are you carving a bear, Papa?”

“Well, I don't know, Rigaberto. When I started working with this

wood, it seemed like it was meant to be a bear, I guess.”

“But how do you know that wood's meant to be a bear?”

“I'm not sure. It just is, I suppose.”

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Religetti watched his father's crooked fingers wield the old

knives, and he watched the chips of wood fall to the ground. He thought

hard about what his father had said for a few minutes.

Then he asked, “But how do you know that you are carving the

right bear?”

Luciano's fingers continued working while he answered his son.

“Well, you see, it has to look like what it looks like in my head –

that's how I know what it is supposed to look like. And if it looks like

that, then it's the right bear. And if it doesn't, then it isn't.”

This prompted a good ten minutes of heavily furrowed brows

from the boy, who at the time, was 8 years old. He continued to watch

the wood chips fall and he thought and thought.

At last he said, “Well how does what it is supposed to look like

get into your head in the first place?”

At this, his father stopped chipping, and set the wood down

beside him. He thought about what his son had asked, and he scratched

at the loose, wrinkled skin around his chin.

“That's a good question,” he eventually replied. “Where does

what it's supposed to look like come from? Hmm.... Well, I don't really

know, Rigaberto. But I do know that when it comes to me all at once,

and really clearly, then it's right. And I know that when I try change what
it's supposed to look like, it always turns out badly. I think it might have

something to do with the gods, but I'm no expert on religious matters.”

So that was the sort of stuff that Rigaberto thought about all

through his youth. And somewhere along the line, because he asked a lot

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of questions, somebody told Rigaberto about the state of Robotic Mind,

and Rigaberto came to understand that the state of Robotic Mind had

something to do with where good ideas came from. The boy's
understanding of the principle was incomplete, (and often simply wrong)

but the state of Robotic Mind seemed, to Rigaberto, like the key to

resolving all of his various musings, if he could just get to the bottom of

it.

Luciano, on the night before he died, told to his son Rigaberto

the story of Campaggo's visit to the Villa of the Gods, and the story of
his own visit to the Villa. He showed Rigaberto the bones, and the

Dragon's scale, and he made Rigaberto swear to keep them safe, and to

not tell anyone about them. The son promised his father he would. The

next day, Luciano died, and Rigaberto buried him beside Campaggo. The
day after that, in 1859, Rigaberto Religetti, now 18 years old, took over

his father's job as a keeper of the grounds on the estate of the Duchess.

Rigaberto's mother remarried – for she was still a young woman -

and she moved to the quarters of her new husband, another

groundskeeper on the estate. Rigaberto had long been determined to

make a machine that placed a man in a state of perfect Robotic mind.

When he had learned about the bones and the scale from his father, he
was struck by the notion that he could maybe use them to make such a

machine. So he was glad to get his mother out of his way. He figured

he'd need the space for the machine, even though he hadn't the slightest

notion how such a thing might be made or what it might look like.

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Chapter 6 –

The Gospel Of the Very Beginning

Verse One

You may recall, from two earlier chapters, references to certain

heretofore unchanneled Gospels. The first was the Gospel of the Very

Beginning. Well, consider it unchanneled no more.

Now for a Curtisarian like myself, the opportunity to channel this

long sought gospel is huge. However, for the non-Pantheonic scholars

reading this work... Disclaimer follows:

The Gospel of the Very Beginning is difficult to understand, and

not very fun to read, simply because the truths of the very beginning are
ineffable. It is here rendered faithfully from the perfect vision of Curtis

himself, but this history, nevertheless, will likely not be of interest to

many readers.

Verse three actually tells what happened after the very beginning.

It explains why the things that have happened thus far, happened the way

they did. It explains what the prophecies were and why they came to be.

In other words, it's helpful to know this stuff, but if it's too

theological for you, just skip this chapter. Don't get stuck here, please.

Frankly, I almost wish Curtis had delivered this gospel to someone else,

because I'm afraid this is going to lose me some readers. But he's the
god of text, so, I'll just stick it here like he says and hope for the best. It's

not too long.

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Verse Two

In the very beginning, before there was anything, there were the

people and the world like always. And the people were just as they are

now, or at least they looked about the same. One big difference, though,

was that back then all the people ever did was work, and all the work

they did was perfect, but it didn’t mean much because the people still
enjoyed a state of glorious Robotic mind.

The very beginning, of course, predated mortal time, and because

it was a period of exclusively immortal time, there were really only two

types of work that the people did. This is so because when we speak of

work, we speak of manifesting the Truths of the Articles into media.

And there are only two types of media that can resonate without mortal
time. Those arts are manifestations of the Truths of the Article Space

and the Article time. They are what we call math and music

Granted, the people also channeled the Truths of the Article

Agence in the very beginning, but though they did so, it was not in any

recognizable way. The Truths of Agence are manifest in language. Such

Truths do have an immortal state, because they are born of an Article of

the Universe, but in their immortal state, the Truths of the Article
Agence are Truths exclusively of form, which is to say they are divested

of all meaning.

So while, in retrospect, it may appear that whatever works in this

domain were being made in the very beginning were very much the sort

of thing which Curtis oversees - namely, manifestations of the Truths of

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the Article Agence, - if these manifestations could not yet deliver

meaning, then Curtis could not possibly have been there. This must be

true because although the resonance of text with Truth is a function of
form, the purpose of text is to deliver meaning. And in the very

beginning, before the people understood meaning, form became the

purpose of the words. And if the purpose of text is meaning, and if form

was the purpose in the very beginning, then it follows that form was the
meaning. And where form is meaning? Well, that is no sort of dominion

over which Curtis could possibly rule.

Now regarding the Article Light, its truths also have immortal

form. But such truths are simply the sight of the things themselves. And

if the people sustained a perfect state of Robotic Mind in the very

beginning – as we know that they did – then to manifest the Truths of
the Article meant nothing more than to simply look upon the things of

the world.

The creation of image did not occur until static, mortal truths

were introduced unto the world, because for one person to create image

there must be at least one who has the capacity to infuse the image he

views with meaning. Otherwise, there is no impetus to make the image

in the first place. Unlike melodies or maths, images do not contain
within themselves their own purpose, see. Like text, the purpose of an

image is to communicative. And in the very beginning, there were no

mortals with that capacity to infuse meaning. So like the Article Agence,

the Truths of the Article Light are immortal in origin, but without mortal
time, the Truths have no meaningful manifestation.

Therefore, GWIToo FaTS was not there in the very beginning.

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And neither was Baby Lady Bae, nor Alienator, nor

Entropotripocles, nor the Beholder, nor the god of time, nor any of the

other Demigods.

In the very beginning there were only Precreator and Accutron

and the people. But don't conclude from all this that immortal time and
mortal time are mutually exclusive. There is nothing implicit in either

that precludes it from coexisting with the other. It's just that in the very

beginning mortal time had yet to be introduced.

And that's why the only gods who were there in the very

beginning were Precreator and Accutron.

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Verse Three

Each High Lord (except Alienator) corresponds to an approach

that a mortal might take to transcend the static truths that it is his instinct

to cling to. It is desirable for a mortal to transcend that instinct, because

to indulge in it is to be dragged down by the truth to which he clings.

At first, those approaches were very limited. But Baby Lady Bae

eventually would ascend to indicate the avenue of compassion, and

Entropotripocles the avenue of indulgence, and the Beholder the avenue
of the pursuit of divinity through the refinement of aesthetic vision.

So, just to recap, in the very beginning, there was Precreator and

Accutron, and there was music and math, and there were the people,
who did nothing but manifest these two arts. Then came Alienator, and

immediately thereafter the god of (mortal) time, who was forced to

become the first and most important Demigod of the Last Emoticon.

And when Alienator came upon the world, he used the god of time to
create Even Time and to thereby hide maths and music from the people.

But Alienator could not take from the people frequency, nor

could he take counting and measuring, nor words. The people needed
frequency and words to speak and they needed counting and measuring

to function, and if the Last Emoticon were to have locked these

functions away from the people, then he would not have people worth

deceiving with his static truths.

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And although Alienator infused meaning into language so

completely that it is now impossible for us to conceive of language

without meaning, the capacity of the people to tap the Article Agence
remained, and so Curtis came into the world. He immediately sought to

help the people to manifest the immortal Truths of the Article Agence

into mortal form, so that the text the people wrote, though the meanings

it conveyed were comprised entirely of static truths, might, by the grace
of its form, assist the people to detach from the very static truths they

made manifest..

And the people needed to build things, and to keep numerical

records, so although Alienator had taken from them the capacity to

discover the immortal truths of math, he could not take counting and

measuring. And through these two skills, Accutron showed the people
how to manifest quality in objects, and Accutron provided the plans for

all the structures of the world, that the people might build, and he

encouraged the people, though real engineering was yet denied them, to

pursue quality in all the objects that they made.

Alienator would have liked to have pinned down visual arts to

some extent too, but GWIToo FaTS, the god who is too fast to be seen,

was too fast for him. So the people were able to manifest the Truths of
the Article Light into images, unencumbered by the Last Emoticon, right

from the awakening onward.

Like Curtis and GWIToo FaTS, Entropotripocles came unto the

world as soon as the people were awakened. Pleasure is an implicit

capacity of the fully awakened person, and his path is visceral, and it is

born of body, rather than of an Article, so Alienator couldn't do anything

about that either. But the Last Emoticon probably didn't want to

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anyways, because few understand the path the Squalid one offers. Many

were, and are, led astray by his divinity. The way of indulgence is the path

with the most wrong turns, and it is the right path for the fewest people.
So Alienator was probably glad to see Entropotripocles.

Through the grace of the texts they wrote, and through the

process of debate, the Curtisarians became, before any other mortals,

able to identify that the static truths of Alienator were false promises.

The Curtisarians learned that real Truths are fluid. They learned that

rhetoric does not serve truth and that dialectic is wholly about intent.
With this knowledge, the Siblings began to channel the gospels and

deliver them unto the people.

Alienator used Even Time ensure that no people or culture could

advance until all people and cultures were ready to do so. This

prohibited the media of the future from emerging. But the god of time

had frequency in his heart, and he allied himself not with his master

Alienator, but with his friend Precreator. And so it was that the god of
time wished to die, because it hurt him that his life denied to the people

the immortal Truths of the Article Time.

The god of time had come to know that mortal time was inherent

to a fully awakened people. He also had come to know, therefore, that

his existence did not provide the people with mortal time, but rather

served only to restrict the full integration of mortal and immortal time

together. And once Alienator knew that the god of time had concluded
this, the Last Emoticon knew he had to do something.

So Alienator proposed a deal with the other gods. It was agreed

that the clergy of the god of time would channel from the whole of the

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Pantheon – each of the High Lords then ascendant, and the god of time

too – all at once. The result was the prophecies, and the prophecies

predestined certain events, and they afforded each High Lord a chance to
realize what he or she wanted, including Alienator. But do not be misled.

Though the events were predestined, the outcomes were not, and it was

up to each of the gods to determine whether his or her chance was seized

or wasted.

The god of time made of his chance precisely what he wanted.

He died, and at the moment of his death he allowed mortal and immortal
time to integrate. He might have chosen, instead, to doom the world

forever to the certain slow progression that he had theretofore inflicted

upon the people, but it was not his will to do so.

Anyhow, once Uneven Time had spread across the world, the

media of the future – which is to say, the reintroduction of music and

maths, and the development of film, and code art and such - became

possible. And once this possibility was accomplished, the Beholder, who
had long been locked away, was born in the guise of a mortal babe, and

she grew until she ascended to her rightful place in the Pantheon.

And after that, Accutron freely gave up his hands for the good of

the people. He chose to keep his Dragon form so that mortals might

manifest not only quality in objects, but also the art of math, and with it,

the craft of engineering.

Now the Truths of the Article Space before the transformation,

could not be channeled because of Alienator's magic. But once freed,

they did not need to be channeled through any god, for alone among the
Truths of the Articles, those of Space are self-evident. The permanency

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the Truths of Space is intuitive. The truth value of a given work of math

art can be “objectively determined.” The Beholder has no dominion

over the art of math.

Therefore, once Accutron chose to live as a Dragon, he became

pretty well unnecessary. And sometime after the year 2000 he started to
become perhaps slightly bitter, but I think we can excuse him that,

certainly.

Baby Lady Bae was not yet ascendant when the prophecies were

delivered, nor was the Beholder, so the will of neither god was included

in the prophecies. As for Precreator, and Curtis, and Entropotripocles

and Alienator? Well, the particular histories of those gods, as they relate

to the prophecies, comprise the remainder of this gospel, so I won't say
any more about them right now.

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Chapter 7 –

The Colony at the Pass

Verse One

In 1874, the Duchess met with a pair of traders whom she had

dealt with several times in the past. They were two brothers named Alo

and Cam Mimzer, and they provided the Duchess with information.

As in the past, the men were dispatched by the Duchess' Regent

to a small, poorly lit room in a back corner room of her estate. This

room, unlike the Duchess' chamber, had three chairs. The Mimzers sat

and waited nearly 40 minutes for the noblewoman to arrive.

When she at last entered the room, they stood.

“Sit down.”

They sat.

“You have news,” said the Duchess matter of factly, as she took

her seat behind the large wooden desk that dominated the room

“Indeed, Duchess, we do. Two things you will find significant,

we think,” said Alo.

The Duchess motioned for them to proceed.

“Duke Grondo is dead, milady,” said Cam.

“Grondo is dead? Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” said both men in unison.

“Then Grondovich has been made Duke,” asserted the Duchess.

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“He has,” said Cam. “Which appears to be why the old Duke

died. You see, it was his son who killed him. And why else do heirs kill

their fathers? Grondovich was tired of waiting for him to die on his
own.”

This news had much significance, if true, thought the Duchess.

But she had lived a long time, and had learned to be skeptical. She had

no doubt that Grondo was dead, but Grondovich's responsibility for the

death? This rang a little untrue.

“How do you know for sure that the son killed the father?” asked

the Duchess of the Mimzers.

“These facts have been confirmed by several eyewitnesses,” said

Alo, “and the confirmations were obtained separately, by both Cam and

myself, Milady.”

The Duchess drummed her fingers on the table.

She knew very little about Grondovich – Illmingston's new

Duke. But what little she thought she did know didn't gibe with this
story of regicide.

For example, she knew that Grondo had never allowed his son to

lead troops into battle. Some might have allowed for the possibility that
this had stemmed from Grondo's concern for his son's safety, but the

Duchess felt she had understood Grondo well, and he was not that kind

of guy. The noblewoman had always thought the son was likely

incompetent. If the Mimzer's account were true, however, she would
have to rethink this perspective.

Now back in 1872, Duke Grondo had sent a courier to New

Hamptingtonshire with a request that the Duchess provide men and

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supplies to support the war he waged to the East. He had sent a

battalion of men armed with handguns to accompany the courier, as he

thought that this show of force would help the Duchess understand that
his was not a request that she could afford to decline.

By the time the courier and the troops had reached Hamptingtonshire

City, however, all but a half dozen or so of the handguns had broken,

and those that hadn't jammed incessantly. The land simply would not

accept the technology.

The Duchess had instructed her City and Honor Guards to prepare

for battle - she was unwilling to accept these foreign troops in her land.

But her men found themselves facing an essentially disarmed opponent.

They rounded up Grondo's forces, and the Duchess ordered all but ten
of the invaders killed, and instructed that the lucky ten survivors were to

watch the executions of the rest. She then sent the ten survivors back to

their Duke with a very simple message, that she herself penned on

parchment and sealed with wax. It read:

The Dukedom of New Hamptingtonshire respectfully declines your request

for troops and supplies. But thanks for your interest.

Signed,

The Duchess of New Hamptingtonshire

Thus the Duchess came to understand the role that Uneven Time

played in military affairs, and she saw that though her own Duchy was

the least advanced, she did not necessarily operate at a disadvantage. She

could handle the old, bullheaded Grondo.

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But Grondovich might prove more dangerous. She needed more

information about the man.

“Tell me specifically how it happened,” instructed the Duchess.

“The son waited until his father slept, and then slit his throat with

a long dagger,” said Alo. “I spoke with a serving girl, who saw the whole

thing. She said that Grondovich did it casually, as if he gave it hardly any

thought at all.”

“But besides the eyewitness, the story is all over Illmingston.

And everybody tells basically the same version of events,” added Cam.

The Duchess stared hard at the two brothers. They were not

twins, but they looked a lot alike, and she could never remember which

was which. Each was portly, and balding and sweaty, and each dressed in

the slightly gaudy clothing popular with the merchant class. Each wore
an embroidered vest and loose velvet pants, though not of precisely the

same color or design.

The Duchess was inclined to be skeptical of any information that

she paid for, but the Mimzers were not lying. These two men hadn't the

courage to explicitly lie to her, nor the skill to get away with it. Spicing

up what they knew – making it appear more valuable than it was –

perhaps. They were greedy men, she knew that. But this seemed cut and
dry. Nothing about the story felt embellished, it justed didn't quite feel

right. But given the apparent consensus in Illmingston regarding the

account of what happened, she thought it safe to conclude in this case

that not only were they not lying, but they weren't wrong either.

“All right, then,” she said. “That's good to know. What is the

other item you wish to bring to my attention?”

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“Well, it appears that at the time of his death, Grondo had largely

lost the war,” said Alo. “He had mostly run out of men. During the

fortnight Cam and I were in Illmingston City, we saw a thin, but steady,
stream of soldiers returning from the east - a most sorry lot, many of

them badly wounded. And according to those who returned,

Grondovich has ordered all remaining troops to return to the capital.”

“News from East Illmingston corroborates this,” added Cam.

“We have heard reports that Illmingston and East Illmingston have

signed a war fighting postponement.”

Now this was news that the Duchess had no trouble believing.

She had known that the war had not been going well for Grondo. The

old Duke had been periodically attacking East Illmingston, off and on,
for decades, and East Illmingston had no doubt learned to construct each

defensive fortification design they used with increasing efficiency and

quality over the years, to the detriment of Illmingston's forces.

“Also good to know,” said the Duchess.

She pulled out a small bag of silver coins and tossed them on the

desk in front of the brothers.

“Good work, gentlemen. But Grondovich is still an unknown,

we mustn't take him for granted. He is weak now, but unlike his father,
he apparently has the sense to know when to lick his wounds. Which

means he is likely smarter than his father. And he apparently more

devious as well, given that his father is the dead one.

He will take the time to rebuild the army right, I think we can

count on that. And while we always knew where Grondo's guns were

pointed, we will not know what his son intends to do until he does it.

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What I need from you are updates on his progress doing so, if

you can acquire any such information. The father was obsessed with

East Illmingston. But the son may look the other direction, and see in us
a lower hanging fruit.”

The brothers nodded in response.

“Return to your trading, gentlemen,” the Duchess concluded.

“But keep your eyes and ears open. And if you learn anything

new, inform me immediately.”

“We will, Duchess,” said Alo.

“As you command, Duchess,” said Cam.

Cam then picked up the coins from the desk, and the two men

rose from their chairs, bowed, and turned and walked out of the room.

Now that she was alone, she gave this Illmingston matter her full

attention. And the more she thought about what the Mimzers had told

her, the more she began to feel as though her concerns were justified.

In 1872, in facing Grondo's men, she had been lucky. Had the

old Duke equipped that battalion with swords as well as with handguns,
she would have had a real fight on her hands. The Duchess had never

liked spending money on maintaining a sizable, well equipped army, so

even just one of Grondo's battle tested battalions would have given her

token forces trouble, had said battalion been equipped with blades. But
outside of that one time, she had never had occasion to regret avoiding

expenditures on defense.

For one thing, Grondo had always directed the bulk of his

aggressions at East Illmingston. He had been driven by some irrational

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hatred towards his neighbors to the east, and for as long as that war had

continued, the Duchess had felt comfortable that Illmingston was little

real threat to her rule in New Hamptingtonshire. Grondo might have
conceivably bloodied her lip, but only to the extent that doing so might

help him in his fight against the Easterners.

And to the west of the Duchess were Accutronians. They

operated some sort of federation of independent towns, and wanted no

part of politics, or war, even though they alone had the full library of

designs, including all military designs. The Duchess was unsure about
were they stood regarding Uneven Time – she suspected it varied

between the regions – but she knew that whatever sort of objects and

tools an Accutronian land did support, the Accutronians made sure each

was of the highest quality. So they were both non-aggressive and an
unattractive target. And as a consequence, the people to the east of New

Hamptingtonshire had a longstanding habit of peace, and a

determination to keep it that way. They posed no threat to the Duchess.

To the south lay the Earldom of York. It was the smallest of her

neighbors, and was ruled by the Smythes, who, generation after

generation, proved themselves disinterested in the general health and

strength of their Earldom. The Smythes devoted their attention to their
own lavish indulgences and social dramas. Which meant that they were

largely ineffective in other matters. York was no threat.

Lastly, to the north of New Hamptingtonshire lay the sea and a

rocky, shallow coastline that, except for one small harbor, was unfriendly

to ships. Hers were not a seafaring people, and the respective naval

powers of the world, therefore, also posed little risk to her Duchy.

135

The bottom line is, the Duchess hadn't needed to worry about

maintaining a real fighting force for a long time.

Now, that would apparently have to change. But the

noblewoman was still loathe to waste money on something so non-

productive as the military. Then, while musing about all this, the
Duchess was struck by an idea. And it seemed like an idea that, if she

could pull it off, would protect her from Grondovich, cost very little, and

perhaps, in the long term, even annex her some land and bring in some

additional revenue.

As the plan took shape, her enthusiasm grew until at last her

concern about the risks that Grondo's death posed were outweighed by

her excitement about the opportunity it presented.

136

Verse Two

The Duchess returned to her chamber, finished her lunch, and

had the dishes taken away. Then she spread out a map of the Isle on top

of her desk. Shortly thereafter, a guard stepped into the room.

“Corporal Wisdom has arrived, Duchess, and requests permission

to enter.”

“Send him in.”

Corporal Wisdom looked every bit the military man. Not so

much in the face, which was young, pleasant, and unmemorable, but the

rest of him for sure. His hair was closely cropped, his dress uniform was
impeccably kept, and he looked as though he had never slouched once in

his life.

Although the Duchess had long avoided raising a large standing

army, she did maintain the City Guard, and her personal Honor Guard,

and she managed both of these forces personally, and chose her officers

carefully. She selected for promotion only those men possessing both
unwavering loyalty and stand out skill.

Despite having been born in York, Wisdom was one such man.

He was a Tentian, and a very devout one at that. So he respected
hierarchy and rules a great deal, and he demanded of himself strict

adherence to all protocol. Tentians made insufferable companions, but

they made great underlings.

137

The Corporal approached the desk, knelt to one knee, bowed his

head and said, “Corporal Wisdom reporting as instructed, milady,”

before rising and reassuming his ramrod stance.

“So I see, Corporal.”

The Duchess pointed to the map.

“Tell me. How many routes are there from Illmingston into New

Hamptingtonshire, and what do you know about them? You may
consult the map if you wish.”

Wisdom didn't need to.

“There are only two routes, Duchess. The most direct is through

the Pass to the northeast. It is the only such Pass along the border

between Illmingston and New Hamptingtonshire. The second route is to
the south, across the Nurl river, and then through York. It is less direct,

but it is favored, except in the summer, because the northern parts of

Illmingston get a lot of rain, and sometimes even snow, and the roads

from the Capital through the Pass and into New Hamptingtonshire
become very muddy and difficult to travel the rest of the year.”

“Very good Corporal. I'm impressed.”

“Thank you Duchess.”

“Now Corporal, if you were to lead an invasion of New

Hamptingtonshire from Illmingston, which route would you take?”

“I would wait until summer, and lead my men through the Pass,

Milady.”

“And why is that?” asked the Duchess.

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“Because the lands between Hamptingtonshire City and the Pass

are largely unpopulated. It would be possible to move a large force to

the very gates of the City before being noticed. It would afford my
troops the advantage of surprise. It would be impossible, on the other

hand, to move any sizable force through York without being noticed.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Well, of course, if a commander was to take the southern route,

and if New Hamptingtonshire was alerted to his troop movements, as
seems almost certain, then the commander of our forces – excuse me, I

mean the New Hamptingtonshire forces – could simply position his

troops at the bridge, and hold it with relative ease. And if he found

himself at risk of losing the bridge, he could burn the bridge. There is no
other way across.”

“No other way, Corporal?” asked the Duchess, raising an

eyebrow.

“It might be possible to cross in boats, but the fast and turbulent

waters of the Nurl make boats a very iffy proposition. As commander of
the invading forces, I'd likely have to travel 80 miles to the east, where

the river broadens and the water becomes calm, to ferry my men across.

And that would put me squarely amidst the city states of the

Accutronians. It seems unlikely that they would allow my Illmingston
troops to march across their lands to enter New Hamptingtonshire from

the west.”

“Well done, Corporal You gotten the situation just right.”

The Corporal said nothing, but the Duchess could see that he

was pleased by the praise.

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“So then,” continued the Duchess, “let's put you back on our

team now. If you anticipated an invasion of New Hamptingtonshire by

Illmingston, what measures would you take to prepare for her defense?”

“Well, foremost, I'd raise an army, Milady. The City Guard and

your Honor Guard are capable, and well trained, and provide ample
muscle to keep order with the Duchy, but would be insufficient to meet

an invading army.”

“Of course, Corporal, but I'm interested in strategic specifics

here.”

“Well, I'd build fortifications here, where the pass empties onto

the plain, at the northeastern boarder of New Hamptingtonshire,” said
Wisdom, and he indicated the spot on the map.

“Almost, Corporal. You have the right idea. Now let me explain

to you the situation, and put aside the hypotheticals. Duke Grondo is

dead. His son killed him and assumed the throne.”

Corporal Wisdom was surprised to learn this.

“I had not heard, Duchess,” he said. “That is interesting news

indeed.”

“Of course you hadn't,” replied the Duchess. “I just learned of it

myself this morning.”

The Corporal flushed a bit at this small rebuke.

“Forgive me Duchess, I didn't mean to presume.”

The Duchess dismissed the apology with a wave, and continued.

“And I learned another piece of news this morning as well. It

appears that the war with East Illmingston had been going very badly –

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Illmingston's army is in tatters, and Grondovich has signed a war fighting

postponement and recalled all his surviving soldiers to Illmingston City.

One can only assume he plans to rebuild the army.

My concern is that Grondovich is not his father. It appears that

he is somewhat more savvy than Grondo, and it seems likely that he will
not be driven by the irrational hatred of East Illmingston that consumed

Grondo and decided the man's every course. So I fear that when

Grondovich has rebuilt his forces, he will look west, to New

Hamptingtonshire.”

“Or York,” said Wisdom. “It would be an easier target.”

“Possibly,” shrugged the Duchess. “But York's hardly worth

taking. New Hamptingtonshire has wealth, and ample good, productive

farmland, and forests in the north. Not to mention the Cathedral of

Squalor, which has accumulated much treasure, and would appear ripe

for plunder to any would be conqueror.”

The Corporal nodded.

“Which brings me to why I summoned you. I wish you to build

the fortifications you mentioned earlier, but I want you to build them

here, at the other end of the pass,” she said, pointing to the spot on the

map.

“But that is in Illmingston, Duchess. To build fortifications there

would be tantamount to a declaration of war.”

“Yes, Corporal, the plan has its risks. But do you see what sits

right beside the entrance to the pass. Illmingston's stone quarries. New

Hamptingtonshire needs access to that stone, Corporal, and the location
of the quarries will greatly facilitate the construction of fortifications. It

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is September now, so whatever quarrying Illmingston may be doing will

close for the season soon. By one month from today, I want you to lead

six hundred of our people to this location. You are to establish a colony
there. You are to work through the winter training these peasants into

soldiers, and you are to begin fortifying the area. With a little luck, and

perhaps a late spring, Grondovich will not learn of your presence there

until June. And if you have prepared well, I suspect he will not be
militarily ready to deal with you before the rains begin again. And, in that

case, he will have to wait until the following summer.”

The Corporal looked as though he had doubts about the plan,

but he said nothing other than, “As you wish, Duchess.”

The Duchess took steps to reassure the man of the viability of

the plan.

“You will begin this colony well supplied, both with weapons and

food and whatever else you need to succeed. And you will continue to
receive shipments of provisions through the first winter. Come spring,

you will see to it that your colonists put in at least some crops, because I

do expect this colony to be self-sufficient, eventually. But I don't expect

miracles, Corporal, and my top priority is to secure the pass and the
quarries.”

“Which fortification blueprint would you have me use, Duchess?

And will you equip me with Accutronian builders?”

“Good questions, Corporal, and ones I wish to address at some

length. This project is important to me, and so I am going to authorize
you to carry with you a copy of every fortification blueprint in our

library. As I believe our library is current – for what I pay the

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Accutronians it had better be – this means that you will carry every

fortification blueprint yet delivered to the people. You will have no

fewer than 20 design choices.”

“20 choices?!” exclaimed the Corporal. “I had no idea there were

so many different walled encampments.”

“Yes, well we do try to restrict the dissemination of such

blueprints. Accutron delivers them to the Accutronians. We pay well to

have access to all possible designs, and we hope that others elect not to.
We have no control over whether they do, but we can insure that we

don't give away to others for free what we have paid handsomely for.

Which is why I want to stress that no one – absolutely no one – but

yourself and the Accutronians is to see any of those blueprints. You are
to evaluate the area and choose a design quickly. And once you have

made your choice, you are to immediately burn all of the others. I'll still

have the originals here, and once you've chosen, you'll have no need for

the copies of the ones you didn't choose. So burn them. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, Duchess,” said the man, but still he marveled over

what he had learned. “20! Remarkable.”

“Well, some of the designs may be for lookout towers or walls,”

conceded the Duchess. “But at least 10 should specifically be blueprints

for a walled encampment.”

Corporal Wisdom nodded his understanding. 10 was still many

more possible encampment designs than he ever would have suspected.

“Now regarding your other question, Corporal: I will send you

with three Accutronian advisers, paid in advance through the end of the

first year. They will assess the location and advise which blueprint is

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most well suited. I cannot afford to equip you with Accutronian labor,

obviously, but with the help of the advisers, you should be able to select

the best design in short order, and they can help to train your people to
execute the blueprint with at least some degree of competency.”

“I understand and will comply, Milady,” snapping to the

appropriate military rigidity.

But the Duchess sensed through the strict adherence to hierarchy

some lingering doubts, and she wanted more than the man's compliance.
She wanted his faith, and his enthusiasm. So first she sighed and lowered

her head, and she folded her hands before her on the desk, as if

overwhelmed by the responsibility of her throne. And when she at last

looked again into Wisdom's eyes, her own eyes shone with urgency, and
they revealed vulnerability.

“Will you do this for me, Corporal Wisdom?” she asked the

soldier. “I ask this of you because you are the best I have. I have
complete faith in both your loyalty to your Dukedom, and in your skills

as a soldier and as a leader. I would not ask this of you if I did not

believe you could do it.”

The Duchess held Wisdom's gaze for a few seconds in silence, to

drive the importance of the point home.

And the importance indeed did not escape Wisdom.

“Milady, I will not let you down,” he said quietly, and with

earnest intensity.

This was exactly why the Duchess found Wisdom so valuable.

He truly believed in his Duchess, and in things such as duty and honor
and what not.

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“I know I can count on you, for you ever have served me with

distinction. But do not think that my gratitude will be limited to a simple

thank you. For this colony will need to be governed by you. And only
titled nobility are fit to govern the people. So from this day forth, you

will be called Viceroy Wisdom, and you will rule the lands surrounding

the Pass and the quarries in my stead, and regarding all matters within

those lands, your word is law, and you will answer to no one except me.”

“Duchess, I, I... I don't know what to say,” stammered Wisdom,

eyes wide and shining with excitement. “Thank you, Milady!”

“No, Viceroy Wisdom, it is you who has the thanks of all of the

peoples of New Hamptingtonshire, and you have my personal gratitude

as well. The bravery you display here today, in taking on this difficult
task, befits your new title. Truly, you have the spirit of a nobleman. The

spirit of -- a Viceroy.”

The Duchess feared perhaps she had laid it on a little too thick,

but soon she saw that the speech had hit its mark. In fact, the Duchess

had caused Wisdom to so strongly feel the “chivalric gravitas” of the

occasion, that the young man appeared to be barely able to contain his

eagerness to faithfully serve. The new Viceroy was awash in the majesty
of Feudalism And these emotions welled up in him until at last he could

contain the richness of it all no longer.

“Before the righteous eyes of Tentia,” said Wisdom, dropping to

one knee and bowing his head, “and before your own beatific gaze, my

Duchess, I offer you my oath – I shall turn all threats, come they by way

of the wild beast, or by way of the sword and bow of man, or by way of
the winds and waters of heaven's fury. So long as I live, I do swear to

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wreak savage violence upon any who challenge your sovereignty over

those lands.”

This plan, thought the Duchess, might just work.

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Chapter 8 –

Elias Cork and the Church of Curtis

Verse One

Elias Cork advanced through the stages of the Curtisarian Initiate

very slowly. Typically, an initiate studies for 6 years, and in the 7th year,

he completes the tests and final interviews. If he demonstrates the
necessary aptitude, he then attains full Siblinghood.

But when Elias Cork met with Sibling Futeen for his final

interview, he had been an initiate for 25 years. And by the time of this

meeting in 1875, more than 80 years after his birth, Elias finally looked

like a full grown adult.

“Elias, you have been with us for a long time,” said Futeen to the

initiate who sat across the desk from her.

“Indeed I have, Sibling,” replied Cork.

“This is not the first time we have talked,” added the woman.

“Again, Sibling, you are right. We have spoken many times,” said

Cork flatly.

Futeen sighed, and tapped a pencil on her desk.

“Do you understand the purpose of this interview, Elias?”

“I believe, Sister, that the purpose of the final interview is to

answer any lingering doubts regarding the fitness of an initiate, yes?”

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Futeen nodded. “Of course you know full well that is precisely

the purpose,” she said. “And I cannot fault you for providing that

answer when asked. But have you ever really thought about the question,
Elias? Have you thought about why this last step exists, and about,

specifically, how it is of particular relevance for you?”

Elias waited sometime before answering. So long, in fact, that

Futeen began to think perhaps he would simply leave the question

unanswered and wait for the next one. But at last the man spoke.

“Sibling Futeen, do you know how long I have been here?”

“25 years, Mr. Cork.”

“Correct. Longer than any other initiate before me, yes?” said

Elias.

“By quite a bit,” replied Futeen .

“I think it is fair to say then, Sibling, that there is no element of

the initiate process about which I have not thought extensively. So to
answer your question directly: Yes. I have really thought about this step,

and about how it is relevant to me.”

“Then,” said Futeen, “you must know that the doubts that we

have regarding your fitness for Full Siblinghood will not be easily

answered. As you pointed out, you've been here an awfully long time,

and it seems that the various opinions in the Siblinghood have become
rather solidified, regardless of where said opinions fall.”

“Given that fact, Sibling,” retorted Cork, “it follows that there are

those who feel that these 'doubts,' as you say, are well founded, and there

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are those who feel that these 'doubts' are overstated. And I would have

preferred, I think, to interview with a Sibling of the latter camp.”

Futeen made a small clicking sound with her tongue. It was a

habit of hers that came out whenever she searched for the right words.

Usually, it was something she did when she wrote. But this was a
situation that needed to be navigated carefully, so she clicked as she

looked across the desk at Elias.

“I was selected to do this interview because of several reasons,

Mr. Cork,” she said at last. “Among those several reasons was the

consensus that my own perspective regarding you falls near the middle of

the range of opinions held by the members of the Administrative board.”

“If you say so, Sibling Futeen,” said Cork, folding his arms across

his chest. “But I have had ample experience with you to have drawn

conclusions of my own. And, given the clarity, and the sheer volume, of

the data that has led me to those conclusions, I believe I can safely stake
out one additional position. Specifically, it is safe to say when you make

claims that conflict with what I already know, it is because those claims

are false. And the claim that you fall somewhere in the middle regarding

me definitely conflicts with what I already know.”

Futeen could not help but admire the man's on-the-fly

wordsmithing.

“Very nicely said, initiate. That kind of skill is precisely why you

have been permitted to continue for this long.”

“And it is precisely why I find this endless talk of 'doubts'

intolerable,” answered Elias. “Regardless, this seems a pointless

conversation. There is likely nothing that I might say in this interview

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that will have any significant impact on the decision that I suspect you, in

conjunction with others on the Board, have already made.”

Futeen paused, and looked at Cork, and she began clicking her

tongue again.

“Elias,” she finally said, “do you know why you have advanced so

slowly? Why we have been so hesitant to promote you? You and I have

spoken about it, certainly, many times in the past, have we not?”

“We have, Sibling Futeen, and I remember every conversation,”

answered the initiate.

“Then you know that your skills are not in question. You are

certainly among the more skilled scribes in residence. And I include in

that pool full Siblings.”

The woman paused but Cork said nothing.

“It is your attitude,” she finished, “that is the issue.”

“I believe, Futeen, that my work ought to speak for itself, and

that it speaks amply well of me. My attitude has no bearing on the

quality of the text I generate.”

“Your work does speak for itself, Elias. But it must also serve

the interests of High Lord Curtis, if you are to be a Sibling of his

Church.”

At this, Elias Cork's anger began to spill over the rim of his

calculated detachment.

“How is it that you can justify sitting in judgment of me regarding

the will of Curtis?” he demanded. “You, who has not a tenth of my

talent at channeling his Truths, have the gall to lecture me about my

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understanding of his will? At your best, your writing is adequate, and the

rest of the time it is utterly uncompelling.”

Futeen had anticipated this sort of thing from Cork, and she had

taken care to prepare herself for this meeting well in advance. Unlike the

initiate across from her, however, she stuck to her game plan and
remained outwardly calm.

“That, Elias, is precisely the attitude of which I speak.”

“Within two years of entering the Church, I had surpassed all

other initiates,” persisted Elias. “Yet my advancement was blocked by

the likes of you. Within a few more years, I had surpassed the skills of

most of the full siblings. And yet still I was held back.”

“The job of a Sibling of the Curtisarian Church, Elias,” answered

Futeen, “is to serve the people by manifesting the truths of Curtis into
the gospel. That is our purpose. Your purpose, I'm afraid, seems to be

the manifestation of your own glory.”

“You keep avoiding the issue. I have mastered all of the skills,

Futeen. I have mastered them to a degree which neither you, nor any

other Sibling here can hope to achieve, for not one of you has half the

talent that I have. And yet still you would deny me my rightful place

among the Siblings.”

Cork stared hard at Futeen. Futeen scratched her head and

counted to five. But when she spoke, it was from between clenched

teeth.

“There are two skills, Elias Cork, which we require every initiate

to learn, that you have, in fact, not yet mastered. They are humility and
grace. You have not the humility to understand that other Siblings have

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done brilliant work – work that equals or surpasses the quality even of

your own admittedly impressive text – and you have not the grace to hide

that lack of understanding.”

Elias Cork glared across the desk at this woman that he

thoroughly despised. Futeen had been in his way for far too long, and
one way or another, she would know his wrath.

Futeen settled back in her chair with a long sigh.

“You have great conviction about these matters, Elias. We

Curtisarians have long taken it on faith that when a mortal channels

immortal Truth, he becomes less vulnerable to conviction. But because

the matter about which you are so convinced is a matter specifically
related to your own effectiveness at channeling such Truths, for you, the

principle seems not to apply. For you, to channel well seems only to

strengthen your conviction.”

“The distinction that you make is absurd,” countered Elias Cork.

“You speak of faith as though it were desirable, and then in the next

breath you condemn my own faith by calling it conviction.”

“Well, that's just it,” answered Futeen. “The distinction is,

admittedly, rhetorically indefensible. But you seem to think that means it

does not exist. It is exactly this sort of attachment to static meaning that
is the problem.”

Cork shook his head in disbelief.

“So,” he began his reply, “you present me with a distinction, the

existence of which cannot be disputed, though you admit that you cannot

adequately defend it. You then assert that I fall on the wrong side of the
dichotomy. You deny me my due based upon this totally arbitrary

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assessment, and then tell me that it is not possible to dispute the

assessment. Which is to say that it is not possible to evaluate the

assessment to determine if it is accurate. Which is no different at all
from telling me that you have rendered the decision that you felt like

making, just because you felt like it.”

Futeen held up her hands, at a loss for words. For years she had

hoped to convey to this man the limits of language, and the fact that

sometimes outarguing someone didn't make you right. But eventually

she had accepted that it just wasn't going to happen. And today was
further confirmation of that reality. Cork would never understand

dialectic. At least not so long as he remained at the Cathedral.

She closed the file on her desk, and she delivered the verdict. As

Cork had suspected, it had been rendered prior to the interview, in

conjunction with the other members of the administrative board. The

unusual circumstances had demanded that the decision not be unilaterally

reached. But in the event that Futeen witnessed evidence of real change
in the man, the board had been prepared to revisit the matter. She

hadn't, and it wouldn't.

“Elias Cork, I cannot recommend you for advancement, and I

consider it very unlikely that you will ever be a suitable candidate for

Siblinghood. I believe it in your best interests to pursue success

somewhere other than here in this Cathedral, and I, for one, suspect that

you will find it, once you leave us.

However, there are others on the board who are loathe to see an

initiate of your talent leave the Church. So it has been decided that you
will be permitted to repeat FYBFS (final year before full Siblinghood),

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should you choose to do so. You can use that time to learn what it

means to be a Sibling of the Church of Curtis, and perhaps you will be

able to display that understanding in next year's interviews.”

Elias Cork rose from his chair, knocked it over, and stormed

from Futeen's office.

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Verse Two

Now the Curtisarian Church, naturally, believes wholeheartedly in

rebuttal. And in every instance when an administrative decision goes

against a Sibling or an initiate, that person is encouraged to compose a

rebuttal to any elements of the decision he disagrees with. The

administrator in question is then required to read the rebuttal, and to
answer it, point by point, also in writing. The two texts are then

forwarded to other administrators, who evaluate respective merits of

each composition. Sometimes, decisions are even reversed.

So Futeen was not at all surprised to find a rebuttal on her desk

the following morning. What she did not know, as she sat down to read

it, was that Elias had no interest in seeing the decision reversed. Cork
had already left the Church. He had booked passage to New

Hamptingtonshire, where he intended to make his way to a different

institution – The Church of Squalor. What she also did not know was

that the rebuttal she prepared to read was no ordinary text. It was a
meaningsmith spell.

It ought to have been anticipated that Elias Cork might learn to

meaningsmith. It was, after all, precisely his attraction to static truth that
had held him back so long in the first place. It is surprising that the man

had not turned to meaningsmithing sooner. But surprising or not, this

rebuttal was the first spell that he actually cast. And it was a remarkable

piece of work.

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To this day, Curtisarian initiates study the spell. We Siblings use

it to show students what deft, compact writing looks like. We use it to

teach poetic voice and diction. And we use it to exemplify the
Alienatorial perspective that all Curtisarians must remain vigilant against,

lest it hold them back, as it did Elias Cork.

Poor Futeen never recovered from the attack. She spent the rest

of her days trying to recapture her ability to Channel the truths of Curtis,

but she never again produced anything but drivel. Elias' magic had

convinced her that she could not write well.

Elias Cork's Rebuttal to Futeen

“Then the world was wet with anxiety. And all were defiant

against inequity. And all stabbed at it, not so much in hopes of killing it

as in hopes of convincing it to act dead. For so forcefully had the

egalitarian old pioneers driven their message home, that even the
broadest of the contemporaries no longer remembered - or rather they

vigorously forgot - that truth is imperious, and that it always manifests in

ones.

So huddle with your fellow Siblings. Squint with them until all

agree that the forest is just a sea. Trade with them descriptions of the

featureless wash of green. And chatter with them beside the thin, chill

fire built of that forest's yield. Try not to notice that your logs are just
twigs and that even the twigs are not really made of wood.”

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Chapter 9 –

The Marriage of the Duchess

Verse One

Years passed, and, inexplicably, the Colony at the pass was never

confronted by the army of Illmingston. Nor did Grondovich ever

dispatch couriers to the Duchess to demand that she withdraw, nor even

to express displeasure. It was as if the Duke had never learned of the

Colony's existence. Of course, that notion strained all credibility. Surely
the man had sent out patrols. And even if he hadn't, some good citizen

of Illmingston who used the Pass must have informed the Duke of the

encampment. It was essentially impossible that he did not know about

the colony.

So the Duchess concluded that Grondovich was laying low for a

reason, and while she had been unable to learn what that reason was, she
assumed that she would find out soon enough. Most likely, the day she

learned the reason would coincide exactly with the day her colony was

destroyed.

But the colony had produced for the Duchess both quarried

stone and foodstuffs for a full seven years, while causing no

confrontation with Illmingston. The plan had succeeded beyond what

she could reasonably have hoped. So, though she knew it couldn't last
forever, she was satisfied. The colony at the pass settled into the back of

her mind with her other revenue streams.

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But one matter did require her attention in the year 1881. It was

an opportunity that looked very promising, and she was determined to

cash in on it.

The Smythe family, ancestral rulers of York, had been getting

smaller for years. The Smythes were not, you see, what one would call a
“genetically robust” line of royalty. They carried in their genes a

propensity for alcoholism, impulsiveness, and epilepsy, and also,

apparently, an unshakable belief in the superiority of the Smythe

bloodline over all others. It was this last folly, in fact, that accounted for
the infamous Smythe axiom: “best not to pollute the bloodline by

marrying outside the family.” And it was this last folly that ultimately

resulted in the eventual diminishment of the Smythe line to a single

remaining man.

In 1881 the old Earl of York died. Upon his passing, all that was

left of the Smythes of York was the old Earl's unmarried and childless

son Montgomery. Poor Montgomery had no sisters or half-sisters to
marry. Not even a distant cousin was left.

It was this new Earl of York whom the Duchess had enticed out

of his Earldom with a most regally presented invitation. It was this man
who now arrived at the Duchess' estate in New Hamptingtonshire.

“Montgomery Smythe, Earl of York, may I offer you a most

heartfelt welcome to New Hamptingtonshire!” declared the Duchess.

For the occasion, the woman sat upon the throne of the large hall

in her estate. Though she disliked both the throne and the room, the
arrival of a Smythe required that she use both.

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She had arranged for her Honor Guard to be dressed in gaudy

costumes. These bore no resemblance to their actual uniforms, but they

displayed the sort of ostentation that she knew a Smythe expected. Her
men formed two lines down the center of the hall, and thereby created a

path. Upon the length of this path, lay an ornate rug, strewn with flower

petals. And it was down this path, and upon this be-petaled rug, that

Montgomery Smythe now walked.

“Duchess! Such a pleasure to see you! I must admit I am

surprised to see so lovely a young woman on this throne. Why I rather
expected to see an old woman. I was under the impression that the

Duchess has ruled in New Hamptingtonshire since the time of my dear

Grandfather Kingston.”

The foppish new Earl of York strode at an even pace atop the

flower petals as he spoke. His Chamberlain had entered the hall first,

and had then returned to describe the setting to Smythe before the Earl

entered the room himself. Montgomery adhered strictly to a simple
policy: he never looked at peasants. It was nevertheless important to him

to know precisely how the Duchess had outfitted her people for the

occasion, so he had settled on the above described solution.

“Oh, dear, Montgomery,” rued the Duchess. “I fear this is a

common mistake, and I am most sorry not to have made clear to you my

recent ascension to the throne. I am the third consecutive Duchess of

New Hamptingtonshire. My mother, sadly, recently passed away.”

Smythe's attention was primarily focused upon his own inimitable

grace. The Earl made certain that his eyes never left the Duchess, and
that his walk never faltered, but he wasn't listening at all.

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“I do apologize for any misunderstanding,” continued the

woman. “But one can't be too careful, when it comes to information.

Not every power on the Isle is as reliable a friend as the Earldom of
York, you know.”

It's easy, thought Smythe, to stride with confidence. He knew

that he cut quite a dashing figure indeed. He had gone with an ornately

embroidered black longcoat for the occasion. He had left said

overgarment unbuttoned so as to reveal pale the green vest and the

whispers of lace that adorned his neck. At the chest, his light gold silk
shirt poked above the top button of the vest. Matching green riding

britches and lambswool riding boots completed the ensemble.

But as he neared the throne, he recalled that the Duchess had

said something.

“What did you say?”

“I said, dear sir,” replied the woman, “that I apologize for any

misunderstanding. You see my mother recently died, and she too was

known as the Duchess.”

Montgomery Smythe blinked a few times and considered what

the woman had just said.

“Oh yes!” he exclaimed at last. “You mean about your age!

Because I said that I expected somebody older, yes?”

“Precisely, good sir,” said the Duchess. “And I just wanted to

beg your forgiveness for the misunderstanding.”

“Think nothing of it, dear girl. My Regent apparently heard from

traders that you had ruled for many years. So it was entirely my fault.

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Purchasing information from a commoner is like, well... like

purchasing advice from a peasant I suppose. Eh? Ha ha ha. Eh?”

“Ha ha ha,” laughed the Duchess. “Surely, truer words have

never been spoken good sir.”

“I have come bearing gifts, Duchess, in thanks for your most

gracious invitation,” said Smythe. And the Earl gestured to the long line

of servants that he assumed stood behind him, but that, in actuality, had

not yet entered the building.

The Duchess saw nothing, and for a moment, she said nothing,

assuming that the Earl would turn and see his mistake. But it quickly

became evident that he intended to do no such thing, and that he
planned, instead, to wait, arm outstretched where he had flourished it,

until he heard the reply that he anticipated hearing.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed the Duchess finally, and then, after a

pause, she attempted a girlish giggle, eyes wide, mouth set in a wide grin.

Smythe offered a deep bow. “It was the very least I could do,

dear friend. Now I don't doubt that you have no small feast awaiting me

– a feast, if you will, fitting for an Earl, Eh? Ha ha ha, Eh?”

Again the Earl awaited a response, and this time the Duchess was

quicker to provide one.

“Ha ha ha,” she laughed. “Oh yes, good sir, indeed such a feast

awaits us.”

“Well, let us to it, then, Duchess. For I know you are anxious to

see the wondrous gifts that I have brought up close, and I am eager to
know the delights of your table.”

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So the two retired arm in arm to the dining room, and as they

walked, the Earl told the Duchess stories of the society happenings in

York, and of his own rapier wit, and of the stupidity of the peasants. The
Duchess stopped him only once, briefly, when she saw her Regent

attempting to get her attention.

“Forgive the interruption, Earl, and know that to disrupt so

fascinating a story pains me greatly...” began the Duchess.

“Well I should hope so, Milady,” frowned the Earl. “I was just

getting to the part where I gave the fellow what for!”

“Oh, and I am most eager to hear it, dear sir. Most eager

indeed!” scrambled the woman. “But I must chastise this stupid fellow
right here. I had insisted upon, uh, yellow flowers in my chamber this

morning, and I awoke to discover red! I fear if I do not speak to him

now, he will think that I permit such sloppiness to go unpunished. I am

new to the throne, if you recall, and I wish to establish the proper respect
before the servants develop an insolent attitude.”

“Very well,” sighed the Earl, “I suppose it will take you some

time to learn how best to deal with the serving folk. I must say, however,

that it is not becoming a lady to speak to those of common blood. I will

not even look at any but my Regents or my Chamberlain.”

Had the Earl glanced towards the man that the Duchess

indicated, he would have seen that the fellow was, indeed, one of the

noblewoman's Regents. But the Duchess elected not to point this fact

out.

“You have much indeed to teach me regarding the arts of

sovereignty, Earl Smythe, and I am anxious to learn. But if you will

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indulge me but this one small folly, I would be most grateful. I do

apologize for the short delay.”

“Of course, my dear,” smiled the Earl graciously. “It is

unreasonable of me to expect you to understand the intricacies of ruling

so soon. Go right ahead. I shall admire this rather elegant tapestry while
you attend to your miscreant.”

“What is it?” hissed the Duchess, once safely out of earshot.

“The Earl's Chamberlain has informed me that the Earl will only

eat upon a table covered in silk, and that he will wipe his mouth only

with silk napkins.”

“Do we have such things?” asked the Duchess.

“I have the staff working on it as we speak, but the table will not

be ready for at least 20 minutes,” replied the Regent.

“Ok. Let me think...” said the woman. “Have wine set out on

the patio on the East side of the house. Be sure to use the gold leaf
crystal goblets. And replace the iron chairs with the silk clad ones from

the library.”

“Ok. I will see to it,” and the Regent made to leave.

The Duchess grabbed the man's arm before he could run off.

“And make sure Smythe's servants – the ones with the gifts - are

directed to the dining room.”

“As you say, Milady,” and again he moved to go.

The Duchess held fast to the man's arm.

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“And talk to the Earl's Chamberlain some more. Find out what

else this buffoon might expect. Get as much information from the

Chamberlain as possible. Then talk to the Earl's Regents, if he brought
them. Let's avoid any more surprises, if at all possible.”

“Is that it?” asked the Regent.

“Yes,” said the Duchess.

And the man again went to carry out his instructions.

“My dear Montgomery, I thank you muchly for your patience,”

said the Duchess upon returning to the Earl's side. “I am ready to
proceed.”

“Ah, Duchess, good. Now I believe I was telling you about the

time the Count of Vissaly met the business end of my wit, yes?”

“Indeed you were, good sir. Apparently that gentleman forgot

whom he was dealing with, no?”

“Forgot indeed, Eh? Ha ha ha. Eh?”

And with that, the two rulers continued their walk.

The Earl was so engrossed in relating his triumph to the Duchess

that he did not notice that the woman made two consecutive right turns

and headed the pair back in the direction from which they had come.
This is particularly of note because, of course, the Earl's estate was

identical to the Duchess'. Both had been built from the same blueprint –

the most opulent estate design available. The Earl did, however, notice

when the Duchess slid open a wide glass door, and ushered the man
outside and onto a shaded patio.

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“And that, noble lady,” yammered the Earl, “is what you might

call...”

The Earl paused and looked around him, confused.

“Are we out of doors?” he asked. “We are indeed! Surely, good

woman, you cannot expect me dine in the open, like some shepherd?!”

“Of course not, dear Earl. In fact, I would not dream of doing

you the insult of asking you dine at all, considering.”

There was a long pause. The Duchess watched the Earl blink

until at last the man processed the fact that the Duchess had said
something.

“What's that my dear? What is that you say?” he asked.

Smythe had been directing all his concentration at the puzzle of

finding himself out of doors, you see, and had not been prepared to hear

the woman's words.

“I said,” repeated the woman, “that I would not dream of doing

you the insult of asking you dine at all, considering.”

“Considering what? I was under the distinct impression that we

were making our way to a feast!”

“Really?” asked the Duchess, feigning surprise. “Well, good Earl,

perhaps you do things differently. But in New Hamptingtonshire, when

a noble receives another into her home, the two must share wine upon

the patio, before any food can be consumed.”

The Duchess gestured to the wine that had been placed upon the

table, and to the silk backed chairs that the staff had brought to replace

the iron ones, and to the gold leaf crystal goblets waiting to be filled.

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“To fail to present you, Earl Smythe, with precisely this

arrangement prior to beginning the feast celebrating your arrival, would

have been to do you a very great disservice. Likewise, good sir, it is true
that for the guest nobleman to fail to partake in this tradition with his

host would be to issue her the very gravest of insults, here in New

Hamptingtonshire.”

To hear all this flustered the Earl immensely, for he considered

himself unequaled in both knowledge and mastery of all the social graces

of the titled and the landed.

“I – I – We – I...” he stammered. A rush of blood ran to the

man's face and he looked as though he had an urgent need to sit down.

“Are you quite alright, Montgomery?” asked the Duchess.

The Earl made his way to the nearest of the two silk backed

chairs, and made a flimsy wave with his left hand, while he covered his

eyes with the right. The Duchess correctly interpreted the wave as an

instruction to whichever servants might be present to pour the wine.

And the woman's Regent, heeding the spirit of her boss' instructions, had
stationed two members of the staff in the shadows at the back of the

patio. The Duchess now motioned for these people to pour wine into

the goblets.

“Have you taken ill, Earl?” repeated the woman. “Or perhaps

the trip has caught up with you. I don't doubt that such a voyage

afforded far too few of the comforts to which one of your station is

accustomed.”

Again there was a long pause. The Duchess looked at the two

servants as if to say, “you two heard me, right? Why does he not answer?”

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The two servants shrugged their own lack of insight into the matter. The

man's silence made no sense to them either.

“What did you say, Duchess?” asked Montgomery at last. “Did

you ask me something?”

“I said, have you taken ill, Earl?” repeated the Duchess, as

pleasantly as she could.

The Earl managed first a wan smile, and then he processed the

words and with some effort, he shaped his lips into a scowl.

“No, no, Duchess, nothing like that. It seems I was briefly

overcome by the force of my righteous indignation. You see, good lady,

my misbegotten Regent informed me prior to beginning this trip that the

court of New Hamptingtonshire had discontinued this tradition.”

The Earl now half-heartedly pounded his fist upon the table.

“I swear,” he proclaimed, “that I will see all the skin lashed from

that man's back for making me the fool!”

“I cannot blame you, Earl Smythe, for your frustration,” cooed

the Duchess. “But be assured. It is not possible for any person – be he
peasant or gentry or noble – to make you appear the fool.”

“What's that? Not possible to appear the fool? Hmm... Oh yes!”

answered the Earl. “Very well said! You do have a point there, eh? Ha
ha ha. eh, Duchess? You do have a point there, eh?”

And with that, the Earl grabbed the goblet nearest him and

drank from it a hefty pull.

The Duchess endured at least another 30 minutes of Smythe's

blatherings about court life in York, before her Regent silently alerted her

167

that the preparations were complete. At that point, the Duchess led the

Earl to the banquet hall.

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Verse Two

Smythe had arrived at the Duchess' estate on a Sunday, and the

Duchess' was to spend the whole of the week wooing the man. But by

Tuesday afternoon, she had revised that schedule. The revision was

necessary because she feared that if she forced herself to spend three

more full days in the company of the Earl, she would end up stabbing
herself in the head, just to put an end to the torture.

So just after dinner, on Tuesday evening, she launched phase two

of the plan, well ahead of schedule.

”Montgomery,” she said as the two sipped dessert wine and

picked at pastries, “may I be honest with you?”

“Of course my dear. You may always rely upon me to keep your

confidences,” replied Smythe. “You may think of me as a father, if you'd

like – though assuredly a particularly dashing and virile one, eh? Ha ha
ha, eh Duchess? A dashing sort of father indeed, eh?”

The noblewoman reflected that the Earl was more “thrashingly

puerile” than “dashing and virile,” and this thought amused her enough

to muster a meager laugh for yet another example of Smythe's

incomprehensible variety of humor.

“Ha ha. You are most dashing indeed, Montgomery,” she said.

“And generous with both wisdom and guidance. Yet I confess I would

rather not think of you as a father.”

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And then the Duchess looked in her lap, as if ashamed and

unsure to act, and she remained silent for some time.

“I'm afraid I don't understand, noble lady,” replied Smythe.

There is some matter of state that confuses you, yes? And you wish to

solicit the piercing Smythe insight regarding it. Well, permission to pick
my brain is happily granted Duchess, for I could hardly be called a

nobleman if I did not do my best to assist a fair lady in need.”

Immediately upon completing this speech, the Earl's glance

happened to fall upon an olive upon a platter. But it was not just any

olive. This was the same olive that had earlier evaded the stabs of his

fork, he realized.

“Thank you for allowing me access to so valuable a resource, Earl

Smythe, but no. It is a matter of a different sort that troubles me on this

night.”

During their first encounter, the Earl had permitted the olive's

impudence to go unpunished, because an especially succulent bit of pork

fat had captured his attention, but now he furrowed his brow and
stabbed at the olive, intent on punishing it for its earlier cheekiness. It

avoided puncture once again and squirted away an inch or two down the

platter.

The Duchess, having waited in vain for a reply, repeated herself, a

bit more loudly:

“I say, Earl, that it is a different sort of matter that troubles me

tonight.”

“Eh?” asked the Earl, stabbing again at the olive, this time with

more gusto.

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“I said,” repeated the Duchess even more forcefully, “that it is a

matter of a different sort that troubles me on this night.”

Again the morsel escaped the Earl, and he slammed his fist upon

the table.

“I'm sorry,” he said, looking up briefly at the woman seated

across from him. “Did you say something?”

At this point the Duchess took her own fork, and though she

wished very badly to plunge it into the eye of the Earl, she instead

speared the olive and handed it, along with the fork, across the table to

Smythe.

“If you could be so kind as to afford me your attention for just a

moment, Earl Smythe,” she said.

“Good show, Duchess!” said the man, taking the fork from the

woman, and staring at the defeated enemy impaled thereupon. “I guess

what they say about the luck of puppy dogs and schoolgirls is true after

all, eh? Ha ha ha, eh?”

“Earl Smythe!” declared the Duchess firmly, and fury sprang

into the woman's eyes. “You will listen to me now!”

The Earl was quite taken aback by this, for no one had ever

spoken to him in such a tone. But he was also rather cowed by the

outburst.

“There's no need to shout, you know,” he pouted. “I can hear

you just fine.”

“Forgive my curt tone,” replied the Duchess, as she recaptured

her demureness. “It's just... It's just that I'm afraid I have something to

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confess, and I fear that upon hearing what I have to say, you will not like

me anymore,” said the woman, her eyes pleading for approval.

The woman's uncertainty returned to Smythe his confidence, and

he looked upon the Duchess with great sympathy. It appeared that the

woman had his attention at last, at least for the moment.

“Sweet child,” Smythe said, “whatever it is, I'm sure it cannot be

that bad,” and he reached across the table and offered the woman his

hand.

Hesitantly, the Duchess took it.

“Well, Montgomery,” she said from between trembling lips, “I

fear I have an ulterior motive for inviting you here.”

The Earl nodded for her to continue, and she looked up and into

his eyes, her own eyes moist with emotion. When it appeared that some

bit of food might steal his gaze from her, she squeezed his hand hard,

and his eyes returned.

“I am but recently ascended to the throne, as you know, and I

just feel so overwhelmed by the responsibilities of it all. These matters of

state, I fear, are too much for me. I am but a woman, dear sir, and I

think I am unfit for this job. My mind runs everywhere, and matters of
administration bore me to tears. My mother knew that I was not fit for

such a burden, and she long sought for me a husband, but alas, she died

before she could find a suitor of sufficient rank and character, and...”

The Duchess trailed off.

The Earl offered her his most reassuring smile.

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“There, there, my dear. This is nothing to be ashamed of. To

rule your people is your right and your duty, but it is also quite a

responsibility to have thrust upon you at so young an age.”

The Duchess wiped the tears from her eyes and offered Smythe a

look of gratitude.

“I had not meant to bring it up so soon – I had told myself I

wouldn't – but you have been so kind to me, and you cut so heroic a

figure, I'm afraid my girlish heart has gotten the better of me. I wonder
if you might consider helping me Montgomery. I mean, I wonder if... I

know it's not right for a woman to suggest such a thing, but I wonder if

you might consider assisting me by... by becoming my Duke? New

Hamptingtonshire needs a strong leader and...”

The Earl pressed a finger to her lips. It was slathered with grease

from the meal, and it took every bit of the Duchess' resolve to allow it to

remain there.

“Shh,” the man said. “Quiet now, my sweet.”

He took his finger from her mouth and, along with the rest of

that oily paw, used it to clasp the noblewoman's other hand.

“You are in luck, child. I was betrothed to my sister, for as you

know the Smythe bloodline is without equal, and I would have been quite

unworthy the name were I to have chosen to dilute our blood purity

when a suitable candidate within the family was available. But my sister

died several years back, before we could marry, and, sadly, no other
family remains.”

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“That is tragic news indeed, Earl, but I must confess that despite

the weight of sympathy within my bosom, my heart yet leaps a bit to hear

it.”

“Fear not, my lovely, I cannot be cross with you for that. You

would hardly be a woman, after all, if your heart remained still at such
news.”

“So then, are you...”

“Yes, my precious bird. I will take you as my wife. The blood

that courses through your frail, innocent body is noble blood, and you

are worthy of the surname Smythe.”

“I will be a most dutiful wife,” continued the Duchess, as though

still trying to convince the man, “and I will love you with every ounce of

my heart. Indeed, good sir, I already do.”

The Earl smiled indulgently.

“Duchess,” he cooed, “I said yes. I will make you my wife.”

The Duchess broke into a wide smile and clapped her hands.

“Can we begin planning the wedding tomorrow?!” she asked

excitedly.

The Earl nodded.

“I must tell my ladies in waiting!” exclaimed the woman.

“Of course my dear,” Smythe said with a wave, as the Duchess

scurried from the room.

Now that the Earl had his hands back, his eyes searched the table.

There had been something, he thought, that he had been trying to do

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before the Duchess had started in with her girlish talk of romance.

Something that had needed to be taught a lesson, perhaps. Yes! He

remembered now. It had been something in need of a good stabbing.

The Earl picked up his fork so that once he figured out what it

exactly it was, he might get right down to it. But when he raised the fork
in the air, he saw that there was an olive on the end of the utensil. Aha!

That had been the scoundrel that he had needed to stab. Well, well. It

looked as though the morsel had simply given up, and impaled itself on

the prongs, to avoid his noble wrath.

“Wise choice, my little green friend,” the Earl said to the olive.

And then, with a great sense of accomplishment, the man ate it.

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Verse Three

The ceremony took place on Saturday, less than one week from

the day of Smythe's arrival. All the landed gentry of New

Hamptingtonshire were present, as were many of those of York, for the

journey from Smythe's small Earldom to Hamptingtonshire City requires

at most three days, even for a cumbersome caravan of a nobleman, and
the courier carrying news of the Earl's looming wedding date had reached

Yorktown by Wednesday morning.

Indeed, it felt like just about everyone from the area with a Title

before or after his or her name – no matter how minor – was in

attendance at the Cathedral that day. The Church of Squalor was

overflowing with Counts, and Viscounts, Viceroys and Bishops, and
Squires and Ladies.

And the Duchess put on a celebration fitting to such an occasion.

She was, after all, in a celebratory mood. Within two days, the Earl
would be dead, and as his only legal heir, she would rule not only her

own Duchy, but the Earldom of York as well. So she pulled out all the

stops for this party, and, as a consequence, much of the workforce of her

estate was deployed, on that Saturday in January of 1891, to the
Cathedral. Among these workers was Rigaberto Religetti.

Religetti, now 30 years old, had been assigned the job of picking

up the empty glasses and plates that the guests set down in various spots
around the Cathedral, and of returning them to the kitchen area to be

cleaned and refilled.

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In keeping with Squalid doctrine, the ceremony began in the late

morning and lasted the entire day. By the time the actual marrying part

commenced in the evening, everyone in attendance, including all of the
clergy, all of the guests, and all of the staff, was thoroughly loaded. This

definitely includes Religetti, for his particular job had enabled him to give

the many half-finished drinks he carted towards the kitchen a good home

in his belly.

On one occasion in the late afternoon, a Chamberlain from the

estate had seen Religetti doing this and challenged the groundskeeper
about it.

“I am enshuuring that none of the Duchesseses liquor goes to

waste!” Rigaberto had proclaimed with an indignant slur. “So you just
leave me ah-lone.”

Fortunately, the Chamberlain had been called away by some

minor noble before Religetti could get himself into any real trouble.

Regardless, I'm sure that you can guess what happened. A

Squalid wedding, you see, is much like a game of high stakes “Pin the
Tail on the Donkey.” And once all of the inane rituals - the spinning

around, and the fireworks, the plunging of the room into complete

darkness for a full 20 minutes, and all of the other pointless rigmarole

dictated by Squalid doctrines – were completed, the Bishop presiding
over the Duchess' wedding declared the two people standing before him

to be “man and wife.”

The Bishop then, as is stipulated in Squalid doctrine, removed the

“blindfolds of binding and bonding” that covered the eyes of the bride

and groom. Of course the eyes of the priest in attendance, and just

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about everybody else in the room were also covered, so the moment of

de-blindfolding always held a few surprises.

The Duchess, when the Bishop removed her blindfold, said

nothing at all. She simply looked at the swarthy groundskeeper with

unkempt hair who stood directly before her and slowly shook her head.

And when Rigaberto's blindfold was lifted, and when his eyes

settled into some semblance of focus, Religetti saw the most beautiful

woman he had ever seen, standing right in front of him.

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Verse Four

Immediately following the wedding, the Duchess was, of course,

livid. That is not to say, however, that she was particularly concerned.

She begged the Earl for a few days to set things straight, and she assured

him that she would “still be a virgin” when the matrimonial misfire had

been rectified.

But because Religetti was now Duke, the Duchess could not

pursue the simplest solution and order that the man be executed. There
were a few rules that even the Duchess couldn't break. Openly killing

her peoples' rightful Duke was one of them. Even though the

commoners knew nothing about (and had no reason to feel anything in

particular towards) Religetti, they loved their new Duke all the same. It
was about the word before the name, not the man behind it. It was a

totally irrational type of national pride, but that didn't make it any less

important to those who felt it.

But there were others ways in which the Duchess might resolve

her problem. The most obvious approach was probably the best, so she

decided to implement upon Religetti the same poisoning plot that she

had planned for Smythe. The Duchess was confident that there would
be plenty of poison left to do in Smythe after the next wedding, which

she would hold the very day after she saw to it that her first marriage

ended in widowhood. And once both men were dead, she'd mount a

vigorous investigation into it, and catch and execute a couple of
“assassins.” Maybe she'd even pin it on Illmingston. That way - just in

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case she ended up needing one - she'd have a motivated and bloodthirsty

populace.

The Duchess had spent the morning after the Religetti wedding

making the above calculations. Then, around noon, she sat upon her

bed, propped upright with pillows stacked against the headboard, and
prepared to eat the first bite of her lunch.

“You must not kill him, Duchess.”

Startled by both the unexpected voice, and the sudden

appearance of a being directly in front of her, the Duchess jerked in

alarm and her fork flew into the air. The bite of pork sausage that had

been perched upon the fork's prongs, now landed, instead, onto her nice,
white, feather down blanket.

“Dammit, Entropotripocles!” cursed the woman. “Why is it that

you must drop in unannounced?! I have a protocol for receiving visitors,

you know. Look what you did to my blanket. Would it kill you to be

announced like everyone else?”

“I repeat, Duchess,” said the god from the foot of her bed. “You

may not cause the death of Rigaberto Religetti. If you do, you will incur

not only my wrath, but the wrath of many of the other gods as well, and

your reign in New Hamptingtonshire will come to a quick and certain
end.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What makes you think I

plan to kill the man? And why can't I kill him?” demanded the Duchess.

“Because there are many gods who feel strongly that he must

survive. And though killing him may serve your interests, I assure you

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that the interests of the rest of you mortals and us gods are best served

by letting him live.”

The Duchess folded her arms and glared at the god.

“You know, you have a lot of gall, god. Do you think I have

forgotten what you did to me when last you visited? Do you perhaps

imagine that I have become philosophical about the awful desecration

you inflicted upon me?”

“It doesn't matter whether you have or not.”

“Do you think I enjoyed being pregnant for SEVEN YEARS?!”

“I'm not here regarding any of those things, Duchess, so there's

no point in discussing them,” said the god flatly.

“Exactly my point. You come in here telling me how I ought to

manage my affairs, as though we can discuss whatever you wish, despite

there being unfinished business between us. But we cannot god.

Because there is business. And it is yet unfinished.”

“And no doubt,” said the god, “such business there will continue

to be. That does not change what I am telling you today, woman. And I
suggest that you attend to my words carefully, and respect the explicit

orders of the gods. Do not kill Religetti.”

“You ask that I respect your orders? You, the being who has

disrespected my sovereignty, it seems, at every turn? I shall do no such

thing, god, for you have not earned my respect. The only thing that you

have earned is a particularly slow and brutal castration. And I would die

a happy woman if only I could be the one to administer it.”

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Entropotripocles

leveled a steady look at the mortal but he said

nothing.

The Duchess, her arms still folded, assessed the god's look,

decided she could handle him, and cut to the chase.

“I

am going to kill the man, Entropotripocles,” she said, “and

that's all there is to it. Yes, I despise you. But please understand that has

nothing to do with this. For that matter, neither does Religetti. He did

nothing wrong. But to kill him, nevertheless, is precisely what I shall do.
It is the clearest, simplest, and possibly, the only, solution to my problem.

And my problem is one that must be solved.”

Entropotripocles, who had been leaning towards the Duchess, his

hands on his propped up knee, now put both feet on the floor and raised

himself up. He looked much larger and more imposing than the

Duchess recalled him ever looking before. His face showed no

expression, but he outstretched his arms and held them there for a
goodly stretch. And when at last he spoke, his voice was a boom that

carried the will of the full Pantheon of gods behind it.

“Do not attempt to cross the gods regarding this matter,

mortal! Let it here be said that should Rigaberto Religetti die,

Duchess, you will be held accountable, no matter what your

involvement in the death might be. His well-being is now your
burden, woman!”

The Duchess was fully convinced. She had not known that

Entropotripocles had such ferocity within him. But this display chilled
her to her core. It was all that she could do to not get up and flee the

room. Yet still the god intoned on, and the woman knew real terror.

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“And heed you me this!” boomed the voice of

Entropotripocles. “Carry your burden with great care, mortal, for if

Religetti dies, you shall know naught but despair from the moment
of your failure until your final, agonized breath. You have but one

choice in this matter. You shall see to the continued well being of

this man, or you shall know the unimaginable fury of a Pantheon of

immortals, each denied his due by your impudence!”

The Duchess whimpered. She could not help it. She noticed that

she had buried her head in her pillow at some point during the speech.
And it took her at least a full minute, and several throat clearings to

regain her voice.

“Ok, O-O-Ok. Seriously, I hear you,” she finally stammered. “I,

I, You can trust me - I won't touch a hair on his head, I promise, ok?”

Just as quickly as the god's ire had become manifest, it was gone,

and Entropotripocles once again became the immortal that the Duchess
had thought she had known.

“That's very reassuring to hear, Duchess,” he said. “And let me

add that we gods really do appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”

But if the god could quickly shift gears, so too could the

Duchess. Not quite as quickly perhaps, but quickly nonetheless. It
should be remembered that the Duchess was quite an old woman, and

very experienced therefore. She knew that the terror she had felt was

some manner of god magic. And with this knowledge she was able to

shake off the fear much faster than any other mortal could have hoped
to.

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Once she had gathered her wits, she hazarded another stab at

protest, albeit this time a rather more deferential one.

“Nevertheless, you surely cannot expect me to remain married to

my groundskeeper. What would you recommend I do about this mess,

given that the most obvious solution is denied me?”

The immortal, however, had no interest in hanging around and

answering questions. And he would not be doing any bargaining today.

“There may be other ways to dissolve your marriage,” shrugged

the god. “I suggest you look into the matter, if it's really so important to

you. Can't hurt to try. But I wouldn't get your hopes up.”

And then the god Entropotripocles was gone, and the Duchess

was left with nothing but the pork on her bed and the residual adrenaline

in her veins to keep her company.

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Chapter 10 –

A Dispute Between Church and State

Verse One

So the Duchess summoned Captain Baker to the estate. Captain

Baker was the Archbishop of the Church of Squalor at the time, having

taken over for Eurnald in the late 1860's. And since the Duchess could

no longer solve her problem the easy way, and further because she had

no way to complain to Entropotripocles himself about that fact, she
thought that the Archbishop of his Church was the best available

candidate for a lengthy talking-to.

“You worthless, incompetent fool! You have married me to my

groundskeeper! How can you actually sit there and tell me your Church

is not to blame?!” screamed the Duchess.

“Milady, I assure you that the Church feels terrible about...”

“I couldn't care less about how the Church feels Archbishop.

What sort of Church blindfolds the people it is responsible to marry,
huh? Can you answer me that?”

“Duchess..” began the Archbishop.

“I'll tell you what kind, Baker,” the Duchess informed him. “The

kind that is very much to blame for the debacle that ensues!”

“Milady, I do understand that our rituals may strike some as odd,

but they are clearly...”

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“Your Squalid Doctrines mean nothing to me, Captain Baker,”

interrupted the Duchess. “Nothing. So don't say a word about them

again. Do you understand me?”

“Well,

I...”

“At this moment I have a mind to have the whole lot of you

dragged from your precious cathedral, hacked to pieces and fed to my

hounds.”

“Now

Duchess...”

But the Duchess cut him off with an outstretched hand.

“Not a word, Baker. Just shut your mouth and listen.”

The Duchess paced across her room several times. She let

Captain Baker stand in front of her desk and stew in silence for a full

three minutes before she at last spoke to him again.

“I am not an unreasonable woman, Archbishop,” she said. “And

so I will afford you the chance to assay my fury. You and your Bishops

will dissolve my marriage to that commoner, and you will do it

immediately.”

The Archbishop waited to be sure that the Duchess was done, as

all of his previous attempts to speak had apparently been premature.

When she said nothing more, he spoke, and, despite himself, his voice
trembled.

“I, I... I assure you, Milady. We will do everything in our power

to fix this unfortunate mistake. But I must bring to your attention the
fact that the Squalid Doctrines explicitly state...”

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“What did I tell you about your Doctrines, Archbishop?”

demanded the Duchess.

The Archbishop, who thought this was a rhetorical question, said

nothing.

“Well?” prompted the Duchess. “Answer me! What did I tell

you about your doctrines?”

“Um...that they mean nothing to you?” hazarded Baker.

“Correct. The only thing I care about is you getting me out of this

marriage, right now.”

“I will call an Assembly of Bishops, Duchess,” conceded the

Archbishop. “I'm certain that we will find a solution if you give us some

time.”

The Duchess merely snorted and shook her head at the man, not

as a response to Baker in the negative, but rather as an expression of

disbelief that such a fool as he actually existed.

Then, very gingerly, the Bishop spoke again.

“If I might, Milady... perhaps we could simply, ah, dispose of the

new Duke, you know, in a permanent fashion? Quietly, and with your

permission of course...”

“Religetti is not to be killed. I want to make that perfectly clear

to you Baker. I don't want him harmed in anyway. And if he is harmed,

for any reason, even if he just falls off his horse, I will hold you

accountable for it, and you will rue the day you were born.”

“As you wish, Milady,” burbled the Archbishop. “Of course we

shall respect your will. I assure you that no member of my Church shall

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perpetrate any violence whatsoever against the Duke. If I might ask,

though...”

The Duchess cut him off.

“I have my reasons, Archbishop. And you have your

instructions. Go meet with your Bishops if you wish. But you have one

week to dissolve this marriage. One. Week. I can keep the Earl of York

waiting for exactly that long. So this matter had better be resolved in that

amount of time. Because in 8 days, Archbishop, I will be married by you,
personally, to the correct man, and I will hear you, personally, announce

me as Lady Smythe, the Duchess of New Hamptingtonshire, legal wife to

the Earl of York, and sole living heir to throne of the Earldom of York.”

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Verse Two

Six days later, Captain Baker delivered the “out” he had

promised. He stood, and she sat behind her desk, as always. It was

never pleasant meeting with the Duchess, but Baker expected this

appointment to be somewhat less dreadful than most. He did, after all,

have good news. Well, mostly good news anyway

“I trust you have solved my problem, Archbishop?” asked the

noblewoman.

“Well, I must confess, Duchess,” began Captain Baker, “that

when last we met I feared that I had not been afforded sufficient time to

broker a solution. But I met with the counsel of Bishops, and naturally
all present shared a great resolve to find an expedited solution. Still,

these matters involve very complex theological issues and only very rarely

can a judgment be reached on any such matter in less than 90 days, even

when the circumstances are as, ah, unique as your own.”

“Unique?” snorted the Duchess.

The Archbishop's attitude suggested that he bore welcome news,

but the Duchess was disinclined to let him revel in it even one tiny bit. If

he had done things right in the first place, there'd be no need for good

news.

“I have spoken with many people, Archbishop, about this

wedding mixup,” said the Duchess. “It has come up often in the

conversations I have been having of late, usually by way of me venting

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my displeasure and expressing my disbelief at the scope of your stupidity.

But do you know what I discovered, Archbishop? Can you guess? I

have found that nobody was the least bit surprised by what happened.
From what I understand, this sort of thing happens all the time! Had I

but known that Squalid hands were so famously incompetent at marrying

a bride to the correct groom, I would never have placed my fate in them,

obviously. But I was foolish. Foolish indeed to assume that you idiots
might manage even that simple task effectively.”

Captain Baker weathered this sarcasm as best he could. The

woman was obviously enjoying watching him writhe. And sometimes,

Baker had found, being a good writher was the best defense. So he

writhed until she had finished her scorning, and then the Archbishop

attempted to turn the conversation back to the subject of his good news.

“The point is, Duchess, that in this case, extended wrangling over

a decision became unnecessary. You won't believe this, but

Entropotripocles – the immortal god himself - appeared amidst his
bishops, and he articulated to us a decision on this matter!”

The Archbishop expected the Duchess to be pleased to hear this,

but she did not look pleased.

“Duchess? Did you hear what I said? Entrop...”

“I heard you Archbishop. What did that devil say?”

“Well, like I said, Milady, it is good news. The god decreed that

while we cannot dissolve the marriage upon your request, it is acceptable
to end the union at the request of your husband, Duke Religetti.”

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The Duchess was literally dumbstruck by what she heard. She

couldn't even bring herself to shake her head. She just stared into space

and ground her teeth.

“So you see,” offered Baker to fill the odd silence, “there is a way

out after all, Milady. Praises be to our generous god, Duchess, for he has
given us a solution, or at least, the clear route by which we might attain

one. All praises due his beneficence!”

“That creature you call a god,” stated the woman, as her jaw

snapped closed and her gaze returned to the Archbishop, “is nothing

more than a sadistic child with too much power and too few limits. His

greatest pleasure, apparently, is interfering with my affairs.”

“Well, now Duchess...” began Captain Baker.

The Duchess cut him off.

“Acceptable

Religetti's request, but not my own? My “husband”

is a dirt laborer! He is a commoner to his core - Duke in name perhaps,

but in name only. What possible difference could his will on the matter
make?!”

“I agree that it is an odd decision, Milady,” Baker hurriedly

replied. “But our Lord Entropotripocles was quite clear on the matter.
He offered no rationale for it, and none on the council, myself included,

presumed to ask. It is not, after all, for we mortals, even for the highest

and most worthy among us, of which you assuredly are one, to question

the will of the gods.”

The Duchess' only response to Baker's rhetoric was a steady,

disdainful stare. In reality, this stare was not directed at the man standing

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on the other side of her desk, but rather at the god relaxing in his magic

house somewhere far away. The Duchess knew who was really to blame.

The Archbishop, however, did not. And he believed that the

Church was, unavoidably, very much to blame for the noblewoman's

current predicament. He would do his best to obscure that fact, but
really, it wasn't easy to hide so looming, noisy and self-evident a fact,

even when that fact wasn't actually true. Ergo, he further believed that

the Duchess' glare was directed at him. And it was quite a glare.

“Th- the important thing,” said the Archbishop, “is to remember

that High Lord Entropotripocles has afforded us an out. He might very

well have forbid the dissolution entirely, you know. In fact, seeing that

such a verdict would have been entirely in keeping with the established
doctrine of the Church, I think we ought to be quite grateful that he did

not.”

The Duchess was pretty sure that the feeling that consumed her

was not, in fact, gratitude. She drew in a deep breath, and then released it

as a sigh. There were many tiny shards piling up around the Duchess'

feet, and she now finally accepted that they were all that remained of her

shattered plans.

“Archbishop,” she quietly said, “I suspect that there will be no

quick solution to this. I will tell Smythe that he can go home. The
marriage is off. Do not take this to mean that I will be settling down

with Religetti now or ever, or that you are somehow excused from your

responsibility. All this means is that you have a little more time with

which to work.”

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Captain Baker, noticing that the Duchess no longer screamed at

him, nodded cautiously. He was unwilling to risk any comment at all, for

he thought the woman might yet be flammable, and he did not wish to
risk reigniting her.

“Let me be clear, Archbishop,” she continued. “The news you

have brought me today is not any sort of solution. For now, I will allow

it to be the starting place from which you will produce the real solution.

The real solution has two parts: 1. the dissolution of my marriage, and 2.

the removal of the title Duke from Religetti's name. Do you
understand.”

“Yes, Milady,” said Baker.

“I have no doubt that you will eventually secure the willingness to

annul from the new Duke, as stipulated by your god,” said the woman.

“If you throw enough money at someone, you can get them to agree to

anything eventually. But make no mistake about it Captain Baker – it is
you and your Church that will be throwing the money. And I don't care

if it requires every bit of wealth in that Cathedral. Your job is to be

comprised of nothing but throwing it at Religetti, until the outcome is

achieved.”

The Duchess began shuffling through some papers on her desk,

as though her mind was already beginning to prepare for her next
meeting. One such paper had caught enough of her attention to elicit a

pause, but she quickly set it aside and turned back to the Archbishop.

“In return,” she said, “your Church will have my continued

blessing. Squalid clergy will continue to enjoy status equal to that of the

landed gentry. Bishops will continue to command the deference afforded

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to Viscounts. And you, Captain Baker, will remain as mighty, and as

important, as a minor Baron.”

“But most importantly,” she concluded, and at this moment her

eyes lifted from the papers and settled meaningfully on the Archbishop,

“I will permit the Church of Squalor to continue to accumulate wealth,
via its many clever fees and tithes.”

She waited four seconds for the man to process all of this.

“Do we have a deal, Archbishop?” she asked, when the four

seconds were up.

Captain Baker looked as though he had bitten something terribly

sour, but he seemed to have very little choice but to accept the woman's
offer.

“Yes we do, Duchess,” he told her. “We have a deal.”

And then, with a curt wave that said “go away now,” the Duchess

drew the meeting to an abrupt close.

Archbishop Captain Baker shuffled back towards the Grand

Cathedral a pale and clammy man, swaddled in the echoes of his

capitulation. His head filled with thoughts of just how much a man with

the kind of leverage that Duke Religetti held might pry from the Church
coffers. And as the permutations and likelihoods worked through

Baker's mind, the Archbishop became increasingly certain that the “deal”

he had “reached” with the Duchess would serve primarily to hasten his

own end. He could only hope that he'd have sufficient time left in office
to steal himself a healthy severance package.

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Verse Three

In the aftermath of the agreement he had reached with the

Duchess, Captain Baker, out of habit, greed, and an instinct for self-

preservation, used every maneuver at his disposal to hold onto the

Archbishop's hat for as long as possible. Finally, just as it appeared that

he had exhausted his catalog of stall tactics, the Squalid Negotiating
Team surprised everybody by announcing the conclusion of its meetings

with Duke Religetti.

The report to council was held in the South Chamber of the

Grand Cathedral on a cold morning in late February of 1882. The whole

affair took perhaps two hours, which is really very little time considering

the length of the report that the team wished to deliver. And by the end
of the meeting, Archbishop Captain Baker would be transformed from

the most incompetent Archbishop in history into an impossibly shrewd

genius, likely endowed with some sort of mystical future-telling skill.

“Following the Duke's response in the negative, Negotiator A

countered by proposing the solution detailed in section 14 C.”

The negotiator was seated at the far right of the table situated

before and below the elevated platform where the Bishops and Baker sat.

He was Negotiator A, and he read the report aloud with no regard

whatsoever for his listeners. Furthermore, the report itself was so laden

with needless official language and protocol that page after page went by
without anything meaningful being said.

195

So it was very easy to drift off and miss large portions of the

report. And Baker, who was already distracted by his unfortunate

situation, found it nearly impossible not to do just that. He processed no
more than a few sentences during the first 30 or 45 minutes of the

presentation. But as the monotonous drone of the voice neared the one

hour mark, Negotiator A began reading transcripts of the actual

conversations between the team and the Duke, and this material
provided some real information. Baker still wasn't listening, but picked

up a few bits despite himself. And what he heard was enough to

convince the man that maybe he should start listening:

“The Duke responded to this proposal in the negative as well,

and provided explanation as follows:

'I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but you guys are

wasting all of our time. Take the title if you wish. I don't want to be Duke

anyways.'

Negotiator B here interjected to repeat fact 7 from the initial

statement of facts sheet, (reference Appendix A, page 1) - namely, that in

this instance the noble title cannot be relinquished so long as the

marriage remains valid and binding.

The Duke dismissed this point of fact, and responded:.

'But this marriage is unbreakable, don't you see that?! My love for my wife

is MARRIED love. It lasts FOREVER. And her love for me is just as big. So

I don't care if you offer me every bar of gold in the world, I will never allow our happy

wedlock to end. It would be too wrong to let this beautiful woman die without
knowing the body of her one true love.'

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Negotiator C, interjected at this point and offered a spontaneous

rephrase of the point earlier mentioned – reference Appendix B,

assertion 4 - that had been established regarding the Duchess' feelings.
Specifically, at this time Negotiator C spoke with a loud voice to the

Duke and said,

'She hates you, your Nobleness! Surely you can see that! She practically

stands atop the roof of her estate and screams it all day long!'

The negotiator reading the report paused at this, to give the

bishops a chance to chastise Negotiator C for this, but seeing that he had

no takers, Negotiator A resumed.

“Let's see... In reply to this the Duke was calm, but resolute and

conveyed convincing sincerity:

'And if what you say is true, and my Duchess says that she, - “hates me,” -

and mind you, I quote your slander there, not what she actually said, because I know

she would not say that about her own husband – whom she LOVES! – but even if

she did say something kind of similar, well then that's because she has the confusion,

or a bewitchment, or some kind of brain problem. And if that's how it is – if she has
brain disease, or water on the brain or whatever - then she needs me more than ever,

and I will never give up. I will never stop trying to find the cure. That's what

LOVERS do for each other, don't you know that?!'

By the end of the council session, the Captain's hold on the

Archbishopship was assured. And within two days of the meeting, Baker

turned to the satisfying business of purging his enemies from the ranks of

the Bishops of Squalor.

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Chapter 11 -

Elias Cork, Acolyte of Squalor

Verse One

When Elias Cork left the Curtisarian Church, he had ample

means to begin a new life. Or, at least, for an immigrating commoner he

was uncommonly well-funded. About 10 years prior to making this trip,

all the funds from the sale of his adoptive parents' farm had been turned

over to Elias. It turned out that those funds would come very much in
handy.

Cork approached the front of the Cathedral of Squalor feeling as

though he were returning to the place he had just left. The outside of the

Cathedral building, anyway, looked identical to the Curtisarian Church.

Cork entered through the large entry hall. He knew very well,

from many years experience, the layout of the Cathedral. Straight ahead

would be the great hall. To the right were the administrative offices. To

the left, the Archival offices. Assuming, of course, that the rooms were

all used in basically the same way. But it didn't take long for Cork to
determine that they were not.

Elias first went to where the administrative offices ought to have

been. Here, apparently, these rooms were being used as a general
dumping ground for not particularly valuable, and totally useless, luxury

goods. The offices were filled with rolled up rugs and tapestries, large

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vases on pedestals, silver and copper scepters with semi-precious stones,

and other such clutter.

So he next reversed course and tried the left side of the entry hall.

In the first of what Elias thought of as the Archival offices, he saw three

priests in red robes, reclining in large, gaudy red-tasseled chairs. There
were a number of empty bottles around the men. Two of them looked

to be sleeping. The third appeared to be eating something from a bowl

with his finger.

No wonder they call this the Church of Squalor, thought Cork.

Now that he had seen it first hand, he was not at all sure he wanted

anything to do with this place. This caused him to think back to the

Curtisarian Cathedral that he had left, and to again feel the burn of
resentment. Elias knew that his mastery of text was unmatched. And

every time he reflected on the fact that he had not been permitted to

achieve status in that Church commiserate with his ability, he just wanted

to jump up and down and scream in frustration.

But that bridge was burned. He reminded himself that he was

glad that he had burned it. The sanctimonious spirituality-policing really

had been too much to possibly bear. And seeing as how Cork
considered himself far too smart and talented to work as a laborer, or

even as some sort of merchant's or tradesman's apprentice, he was going

to have to find a way to make things work in this Church. But before he

could do that, he'd need to find someone who looked capable of
processing a new recruit.

“You look lost,” said a gravelly voice from behind Cork.

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Elias turned around and saw a man – mid twenties maybe –

unshaven but not bearded. This man wore the same style of red robe

that he had already seen. It looked none too clean.

“You're right,” said Cork, forcing a smile. “I am lost. I'm

looking for some sort of administrative office.”

“Administrative office, huh? Well, there's a Bishop's Council

office, but I doubt anybody's there yet.”

“What time does it normally open?” asked Elias.

“Ha, ha. Whenever someone goes in there I guess, though I can't

imagine why you'd want to go there. The only people who have offices

are Bishops, and they just go there when they want a change of scenery.

It's not like they do anything specific there.”

“Oh,” said Elias.

“Are you looking to schedule a wedding? Or pay some sort of

licensing fee? Something like that? You want the cashier. That's open.”

“Actually, I'm interested in becoming an Acolyte.”

This prompted the rather unhealthy looking fellow to give Elias a

once or twice over.

“You? You don't really seem like Squalid material, to be honest.

But if you got the fee, I'm sure you can find a Bishop to take you on. I'm

Olo, by the way.”

“Elias,” said the new arrival, offering his hand. “Elias Cork.”

Olo shook it.

“What's in the bag?” asked Olo.

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“Oh, my clothes, and other personal items. I just reached

Hamptingtonshire City this morning. The boat dropped me off at the

Northern Docks five days ago.”

“What, did you walk all the way here from there? You couldn't

have come up the river this time of year. And where did sail from to
begin with.”

“I crossed the Channel from the coast of Portugal. And yeah, I

walked from the docks to here, once I landed.”

“Wow. You sure look clean for someone who's been camping

out.”

“Well, I cleaned up in a stream just outside of town, and changed

clothes. I figured I should try to look nice.” Elias then sighed as he

looked at the squalid surroundings. “I didn't really know what to expect,
or even how one becomes an Acolyte, I guess.”

“Apparently not,” agreed Olo. “Let's see if we can't get you

acclimated here properly, Elias. Because right now, you are clearly out of
your element.”

“Well, I'd like to at least get started on the process. How much

will this cost? And how do I find a Bishop?”

“Relax, Cork, that's lesson number one. You seem to be in some

kind of hurry. So let's get a drink or two in you. Three probably. In
fact, I'd better give you a full introduction to Squalor. Because you have

to be the least Squalid guy I've ever seen come through those doors. So

let's go put in some work in the wet room. I promise, once we get some

godliness in us, I'll fill you in on which Bishops to try, and which ones to
avoid.”

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Olo headed off towards the great hall, and Elias, having no other

obviously better options, followed him.

The hall was filled with long tables, just like the great hall in the

Curtisarian Cathedral. Except for the front third of the room on the left.

That area appeared to be devoted to alcohol. There were three long rows
of tapped kegs of ale, mead, and heavy brown beer. The tables closest to

these kegs were filled with people. The rest of the tables in the hall were

empty.

Olo led Elias to a group sitting at the table closest to the far end

of the rows of kegs.

“Hey, listen up. Herb, Ula, Jergen, Nathanial, Ingrid, Sailie,

Gotter, and Bert.”

Olo pointed to each red robed person at the table as he named

them. He went through the introduction very quickly, and Elias doubted

if he would remember a single one of their names.

“This is Elias Cork. He says he came here from across the

Channel to become an Acolyte.”

“Can he afford it?” said one of the group. “It's not cheap, you

know, Elias.”

“Who cares!” said another. “The important thing is this guy wants

to be Squalid. It's a very noble goal, and noble goals must be given their
just due. Beer is inadequate, given the occasion. It's time to start in on

some rum.”

“I second that motion,” said another.

“And we will need to smoke much plant,” said a third.

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“That goes without saying,” said Olo. “In fact who has a

longpipe handy?”

Someone handed him one.

“Excellent. And a candle? Jergen locate a cup for Mr. Cork and

pour him some rum. Candle? Anyone? Candle?”

“Oh!” said Elias. “I have that!” and he fished one out of his

knapsack.

“Bravo!” said Olo. “You may just have some Squalor in you yet,

my good man.”

Elias Cork woke up the next morning beside some girl, in what

looked (except for the unholy mess) just like a standard initiate's quarters

in the Curtisarian Cathedral. Elias had no idea where his knapsack might

be, but his money was sewn into a pouch on the insides of his pants.

And his pants were on the floor, right by the bed. So Cork could not
keep the grin off of his face.

He had just had by far the greatest night of his life. And he

found that he didn't care at all about the knapsack. Furthermore, even if

it took every last cent he owned, Elias was determined to become an

Acolyte of Squalor. Cork was an 18 year old man who had spent 85

years searching for exactly this. And now that he had found it, he wasn't
about to let it go.

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Chapter 12 -

The Death of the Emoticons

Verse One

Forgive me long-suffering reader, but Curtis once again has plans

that may not correlate well with your interest or entertainment. (Or

willingness to keep reading I fear.)

So please, please, skip this chapter. This is the last of these –

Curtis has told me himself. I'm thrilled to participate in bringing this

missing gospel into the world. I just wish Curtis would let me excise this

chapter and put it into some other channeled work. The gospel must be
accessible to the people, and this kind of dense theological writing is

anything but.

Still, I can't defy Curtis. I have faith that his must be the right

decision, even if I don't get why. So here is the lost history of the arrival

of the Emoticons. (Or proceed straight to Chapter 13)

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Verse Two

As one can deduce from its name, the very beginning did come

to an end. And the end of the very beginning corresponded with the end

of the end for the Emoticons..

Now in contemporary parlance, the term “Emoticon” has come

to have a secondary meaning. It is used to describe a shorthand favored

by individuals communicating via digitized text. And this secondary

meaning is so prevalent that amongst children and the ignorant it is
sometimes believed to be the primary, or even the only meaning of the

word. But of course, the term was co-opted from earlier scripture that

mentioned, but did not elucidate upon, the Emoticons.

The Emoticons had been traversing space for a good portion of

the duration of the very beginning. Precisely how long that was is hard

to say. But it was a goodly length of time for sure. And eventually they

arrived at the world.

They had fled a dying world, and after an eternity of unpleasant

travel under less than ideal conditions (i.e. the frigid vacuum of deep

space) the road weary creatures were so relieved to discover the world
that they simply threw themselves down upon it with such fervor that the

impact killed them.

It is commonly believed that when our own world nears the end,

all of humanity shall coalesce into the rebirth of the myriad Emoticons

and we shall flee our own end, thinking to escape destiny, only to do to

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some yet unborn race just as the Emoticons did unto us. Which is to say,

or so speculation goes, that, having denied our very end its due (but

having exhausted its allotted scope nonetheless) we shall then have no
choice but to traverse the very beginning until we reach another world,

whereupon we shall crash, all of us except one, upon the surface of that

world, and liberate the inhabitants there from the perfect state of blessed

Robotic mind. Again, this is just speculation.

But the Emoticons did come and crash upon our world, we know

that much for sure. They released unto the people all of the feelings of
humanity such as joy and envy and anger and love. And in doing so, they

mostly severed the peoples' perfect communion with the Articles of the

Universe, and thereby broke the endless state of blessed Robotic mind

that the people had up until then enjoyed. Which was just the thing that
needed to happen.

But most of all, we are grateful to Lord Alienator. For that single

Emoticon, loving himself above all his brethren, and loving himself more
than the people or the articles of the universe even, and believing

himself, above all else, IMPORTANT, chose to pull his own descent

towards the world up short. And he joined Precreator and Accutron as a

god above the people.

Thereby did Alienator become the third god of the Pantheon.

We are grateful to him for making this choice because had he

followed the lead of his brethren and crashed unto the world, all access

to the articles of the universe would have become solidified, and the

peoples' capacity to channel immortal Truth would have become wholly
severed. If that had happened, the people would have been doomed

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forever to purposelessness and pettiness and endless squabblings over

conflicting and static mortal truths.

So Alienator's arrival marked the great shift in the world.

The lifeless husks of the myriad other Emoticons lay strewn

about the world, and decayed. But being a different variety of fleshy

creature than the creatures native to this world, the decomposition of

Emoticon flesh emitted a thick and befuddling scent, as physical and

unavoidable as rain. It smelled of warm sleeping dog. It was a good
smell.

The winds mixed the air of the old world – air that had

heretofore not carried complex smells – with the smell of rotting
Emoticons. The primitive pre-olfactosphere gathered the smell, and

mixed with it the smells generated by they who newly smelled the rot.

These were the smells of both persons and beasts – the smells of the

living. Thus did the visceral experience (i.e. the olfactosphere) of the
physical pseudo-article (i.e. – the living system that is the world) –

achieve maturity in coordination with the system as a whole.

Do not undervalue the significance of the wafting odor of

Emoticon carcass, three days dead, festering beneath the relentless sun of

a young world, and smelling agreeably of warm sleeping dog. It was a

very important smell, for it was critical to the final awakening of the
world and the people.

One week after the arrival, impact, and then death of the

penultimate Emoticon straggler, all of the world and all of the people had
become fully made. (The very Last Emoticon, you will recall, was

Alienator himself.)

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The women people, as they began the slow awakening on the

first morning, began to ensexualate themselves with their fingers and

with the branches of saplings stripped of bark, and with all manner of
natural thing in the world that was easily moistened and slid across flesh.

Soon enough, one of the woman reached orgasm.

Thus Entropotripocles became manifest unto the world.

And within a week of his arrival, Hurrah! The first of the fully made

women menstruated.

It was before that inaugural bloodletting, however, though after

the ensexualization of the women, that the first of the fully human men

discovered that by sufficient agitation might they ejaculate. And certainly
it is not so hard to accept that each of a large majority of males was able

to locate upon his body specifically the flesh to be agitated.

It was Pleasure, then, that opened the floodgates to the whole of

the realized world. And because people then were very much the same

as people are now, they were mostly neither subtle nor sophisticated nor

patient in their appetites. This is why, one way or another, each of the
people headed straight for their own genitals. It was more convenient that

way. So it was that the making of the world was an auto-sexual act.

Which also, incidentally, explains why, to this day, people get

horny when they smell a warm, sleeping dog.

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Verse Three

Now one last quantity of gospel regarding Alienator must here be

channeled before I return to the history of Rigaberto Religetti, as it is

needed to understand the actions of Captain Baker and the eventual

breaking of the Duke's romantic attachment to the Duchess.

A meaningsmith may exercise his power over single individuals,

and might manifest mortal truth into art deftly enough to, for example, to

compel a particular girl to sleep with him. The mechanism by which this
occurs is as follows:

The meaningsmith, by way of cleverness and force of mortal will,

seizes power from Alienator and uses it to elevate a given piece of media
into mortal truth. This truth - the manifestation of the will of the

meaningsmith - then becomes true for she to whom it is intended to

control, provided she can be persuaded to experience the media (usually

text). That last element – the necessity that the target of the spell
willingly consume it – explains why meaningsmiths must work in secret,

and must disguise their work as bearing the signature of some other god.

But once the media is consumed, the meaningsmith's truth becomes the

target's truth, and his will becomes her will, and his goal is achieved. Of
course, the media has to be pretty stunning. It is not easy to seize power

from a god. But it does happen.

Regardless, such a scenario is the classic example of so called

“simple” Alienatorial power, and it is well understood, and explains why

meaningsmiths are so universally hated and feared. It is easy to see why

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there is no Church of Alienator: the effective use of his power requires

disguise.

What is less commonly known is that these same principles work

on a macro level. Wherever there is general consensus about a given

meaning, with or without meaningsmithing magic behind it, that meaning
becomes true, for as far afield as that truth is obvious.

However, should some party from afar point out the malleability

of that truth to a person of sufficient will, and with sufficient motivation,
then the force of Alienator regarding that consensus truth over the

person so notified, becomes weakened. And if that person is a

meaningsmith of sufficient skill, consensus can be broken, or even

reshaped into a different consensus. And if this meaningsmith, at this
point, seizes and applies Alienatorial magic, he can cause a new truth to

take hold, and this new truth will become reality for all within range.

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Chapter 13 -

Duchess: 'I Can't Stands No More'

Verse One

“Hey - Duke Religetti?”

“I'm sorry? What's that?” said Rigaberto. He was staring out the

window in a lovelorn malaise, as was his habit.

“I said 'hey, Duke Religetti.'”

“Oh. Hey. How are you, Clattiburn?”

“No, no. I said it like a question. To get your attention. As in,

'Hey Duke? I've got something to ask you?' You know what I mean?”

Clattiburn Bonorse, the woman with whom Religetti now spoke,

was the new Duke's Regent. But before we get too far along in this

exchange, let's briefly revisit two years back, to when Rigaberto first met
the woman, and fill you in on at least a bit of how she got the job...

It was four or five days after the wedding, and Religetti was

wandering around western Hamptingtonshire City, looking for the

Western Estate. Rigaberto had never before had any reason to travel any
further west than the Cathedral. But the Church officials told him that

he would have to live in the estate that had been occupied, many years

ago, by the old Duke's brother. Religetti didn't have any idea where that

might be. He had expected, after all, that he would live with the
Duchess. But some Bishop had told him that she “wasn't quite ready for

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that,” and had drawn him a map. Religetti looked at that map now, but

he couldn't make any sense of the thing.

Clattiburn came up to him and said, “where are you trying to go?

You've walked around this fountain six times.”

Rigaberto told her that he was looking for the western estate.

“That estate has been unoccupied for like a hundred years.”

“Well, that's where they told me I had to go. I expected to be at

the Duchess' estate, but, they said I couldn't stay there.”

“Well, they must be bringing the old estate out of retirement for

the new Duke. It's going to need a lot of work, especially the grounds,

because nobody's been keeping them up at all.”

“That's what I used to do at the Duchess' estate. I was a

groundskeeper.”

“Well, you'll have plenty to do then.”

Clattiburn was nice enough to walk him all the way to the gate.

“Would you like to come inside?” said Religetti. “I'm not really

sure what I'm supposed to do once I get in there.”

“You'll probably need to find the head groundskeeper.”

“I don't think that's what I'll be doing anymore.”

“Well, what's your job then?”

“I'm not really sure what I'm expected to do, that's the problem.”

After quite a bit more of this sort of back and forth, Clattiburn

finally determined that Religetti was the new Duke. And she became

very deferential. But this didn't last long, because she was a smart

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woman, and she saw that Rigaberto didn't know how to be Duke. So she

decided to help him.

Clattiburn tried to impress upon Rigaberto the importance of a

regal attitude. She never really succeeded, but Religetti appreciated the

effort, and since the woman seemed to know a lot about being Duke, he
had made her his Regent. He had never once regretted it. As soon as

she became Regent, Clattiburn established that Duke Religetti was

entitled to a staff, and she had overseen the transfer of some of the staff

from the Duchess' estate to Rigaberto's western estate. The Duchess had
agreed that nobility needed to maintain a certain standard, for the good

of the feudal way, and she was under pressure from the Church and the

peasantry both to ensure a Duke all could be proud of, so she had

reluctantly sacrificed a few of her staff.

Clattiburn had further gotten for the Duke access to a small

percentage of the Duchy's funds. And with these monies, she had filled

out the rest of his staff by hiring additional people. Basically, if it hadn't
been for Clatti, Rigaberto would have lived alone in the western estate

and wondered how he would be able to buy food. Which brings us back

to January 1884...

“You aren't going to like to hear this, Duke, but your wife has

sent several more notes over, mostly just repeating what most of the

notes from the last week said. But I figured you'd want to know they

came.”

“You mean, about the poetry thing?”

“Yeah. You want I should read one to you?”

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Rigaberto sighed heavily.

“I guess. Go ahead.”

“Ok, it says:

'Attention Duke Religetti: this is just to remind that your earlier request to

attend the poetry reading to be held at my estate on Thursday is denied. I don't know

how you found out about it in the first place, but do not come. Contrary to your note,

this is absolutely not 'a good chance for us to spend some time together.' As I have
attempted to make clear on multiple occasions in the past, no such chance has ever, or

will ever, exist. The reason for this being that I dislike you immensely.'

The Regent paused. “Do you want me to keep going?”.

“Yes, I think so. It's hard to listen to, but perhaps it contains

some clue as to the source of her illness. There must be some cause that
I can find, or even better, some solution, in one of these notes.”

“Duke,” said Clattiburn, “I know you don't like me telling you

this, but I don't think that the Duchess is ill, or bewitched or anything
like that. I think that she's telling you the truth here. I'm a woman. I

know these sort of things. That does not mean that I think you should

give up the title. I mean why help her out? She has been nothing but

horrible to you. But I just have to say again, for the millionth time, that
you're fooling yourself about this woman.”

“I know you think so, Clatti. And I appreciate you trying to look

out for me, but the Duchess and I are married, you know? And marriage

means true love. Therefore, there is something, or someone, that is

making her act crazy like this.”

“Yeah. So you've said.”

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“Is there more to the note?” asked Religetti.

“There is. I take it you want me to continue?”

“Please.”

“Ok... She says:

'I am very much looking forward to this reading. However, if I see you there,

I will be far too enraged and sickened to enjoy myself. So please do not come anywhere

near my estate on Thursday, or any other day.

Thursday, however, would be a very good day for you to go visit the

Archbishop. The Church is very wealthy and powerful and can offer you vast monies

and other desirable things in exchange for your willingness to annul this miscarriage of

wedlock in which I am currently trapped.

If you really want to make me happy, as you always insist that you do, let the

Church buy your acquiescence regarding an annulment. Milk the Squalid ones for all

they are worth! Think of the riches? Don't they sound nice? The wealth available to

you is much much greater than the small funds upon which you are currently able to
draw. So go grab them on Thursday. Just don't come near my estate.

Sincerely,

The

Duchess.'

“And that's the end,” said Clattiburn.

“Hmm...” said Religetti. “How many of these notes exactly have

we gotten – specific to this poetry thing?”

“Let me think,” said the Regent. “I'd say, maybe, 10, 12,

something like that. She seems to have sent two a day since you sent her

your message about wanting to attend.”

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“That's quite a few. This poetry thing seems to be rather

important to her, don't you think?”

“I guess. But we've gotten probably a hundred notes

complaining about how you are undermining respect for hierarchy by

being lax in your control of your staff. And thinking back, we probably
had that many notes specifically complaining about making me Regent,

when you first moved in here.”

“Yeah but not in so short a period of time, right?”

“Well, I guess. But one week I remember she sent you like 30

messages saying how she found you physically repulsive. And you didn't

say, 'my looks seem to be important to her,' right?”

“True, but that's because I can't really change that. But what I'm

thinking is that whoever's behind this bewitchment probably is pushing
hard to keep me away from the poetry reading because he knows that it

is poetry that will be the breakthrough.”

Clattiburn just looked at Religetti and shook her head.

“Therefore,” continued the Duke, “it seems obvious to me that I

need to write a poem for the Duchess. And if I can manage to deliver it

at that reading, and if it is good enough, well it might just be the thing
that snaps her out of it, see?”

“Duke,” sighed Clattiburn, “You are the one who needs to snap

out of it. Can't you see that? You're the one who seems to be under

some kind of spell. I mean, what could you possibly see in this woman?

She's the most domineering shrew in the history of the world! Even if

you could somehow magically make her accept you, she'd just make your
life miserable.”

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“So

you

do think there's a way to make her accept me, then! And

given what we know now, it makes sense that the way might be poetry,

doesn't it?”

With that Duke Religetti strode away from the window and

towards the door of his chamber. It was identical to the Duchess' own
chamber, in terms of location and floor space, but Religetti had a lot

more chairs in his room.

“Hey!” he yelled down the hall. “Can someone get the

Chamberlain for me?”

“I think he might be downstairs,” came a voice from the hall.

“Chamberlain!” shouted Religetti as loud as he could. “Hey

Chamberlain! Can you come here?!”

“What do you need?” came a very faint voice from downstairs.

“Just come here, will you?!” hollered Religetti.

“I'll go get him,” sighed Clattiburn.

“No, no. I guess I can go talk to him downstairs. There's no

reason you should have to go.”

“Yes there is, Duke. The reason is that you're the Duke. You

really should think about keeping these people in line a little better, you
know?”

“Well, I'm sure they've got they're own things to do too, Clatti. I

can go downstairs just as easily as he can come up here.”

“But you're paying him to serve you, remember?”

Religetti shrugged. “It's not really my money, Clatti.”

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“Of course it is! It's yours just as much as it is the Duchess'.

You should get not a cent less than half of the Duchy's wealth.”

Rigaberto was just about to respond to that, but the Chamberlain

appeared in the doorway, and cut the conversation short.

“Ah. Chamberlain!” said the Duke, and he then gave Clatti a

'See? I told you so!' look, though he had really done no such thing.

“What's... the problem.... Duke?” asked the Chamberlain,

somewhat winded from climbing the stairs.

“How much do you know about poetry and how long will it take

you to teach it to me?” asked the Duke.

“Poetry?... What's to know?”

He paused and took another two deep breaths.

“It's very simple,” he said at last. “Each line has to rhyme with

the one before it, but only for a total of two rhymes in a row, see. And

then, it has to use lots of words that compare one thing to something

else. Like, for example...let me think... Like:

Your eyes are like pools,

Your hands use those tools.

Your lips are so red,

There's hair on your head.

See? Nothing to it.”

Religetti turned to Clattiburn, pleasantly surprised.

“That seems easy enough,” he said. “I think this might just work,

Clatti. You want to help me write a poem for the Duchess?”

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Clattiburn shook her head and sighed. “Duke, you're on your

own with this one. I'm no poet, and if it's a love poem you're planning to

write, don't you think you should write it yourself anyways?”

“Ok, I'm going back downstairs now.” said the Chamberlain.

“Wait wait, before you go, is there any paper up here?”

“Top drawer of your desk, Duke,” said Clatti.

The Chamberlain nodded agreement and made his exit.

“I'll leave you to your writing then,” said Clattiburn, and she left

too.

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Verse Two

Rigaberto found that writing a poem was harder than it sounded.

He worked on it for several days, but he didn't think that anything he
came up with was as good as the one the Chamberlain had made up.

Then, with 24 hours to go before the reading, it occurred to him that

maybe he should pray to Curtis, since that was the god of Text. He

prayed and prayed, but he received no words from the god.

Now it must be said, given the intensity with which the Duchess

loathed her husband, that even had Curtis heeded the man's pleas and
delivered to Rigaberto the best possible words to achieve the desired

outcome, Religetti would likely have failed to make much headway. The

Duchess had unfailingly proved herself colder than a spinster at a

frigidity symposium, and she might very well have withstood thawing,
even immersed in the bathwater words of the god of Text. We'll never

know, however, because although Rigaberto did eventually channel verse

straight from Curtis himself, what he channeled would not prove to be at

all the sort of poem that might facilitate romantic ends.

Regardless, when the day of the reading arrived, Religetti had

channeled nothing at all. He had only two lines of poesy completed, and

though Religetti knew he was no expert at evaluating poetic quality, he

was pretty sure that the couplet wasn't very good:

Duchess, sweet Duchess, you are the most pretty

Girl that lives in Hamptingtonshire City.

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Determination, however, won out over doubt and Rigaberto

resolved to deliver these lines to the Duchess and hope for the best. So

he headed out the door and to his beloved's estate.

He entered his wife's estate through a hole in the fence that he

knew about from his days as a groundskeeper, and he proceeded to a
hiding spot that he thought would work well. It was in the bushes

alongside the stone walkway that led to the gazebo where Percy Levandre

was scheduled to read poetry.

Religetti's plan was to wait for his wife to walk past, spring from

the bushes, and recite his carefully memorized couplet with sweeping

romantic gestures. While he waited, and peeked through the leaves, he

rehearsed the scene over and over in his head.

But when his wife rounded the corner, Rigaberto saw that she

was not alone. Beside her walked the Duchess' lovely young lady-in-

waiting, Mary. And it was this beatific girl – she of ample bosom, clumsy

gait, and vacant smile – that at last sparked the flood of inspired, divine
words that Religetti channeled from Curtis. These words seared

themselves into the neglected husband's brain. Reciting them perfectly

would not be the problem.

But Religetti was so wobbled by this jolt of verbiage from the

heavens that, by the time he recovered his senses, the Duchess and her

friend had disappeared into the gazebo, leaving him no one at whom to

spring from the bushes and recite poetry.

Meanwhile, inside the gazebo, the Duchess greeted the society A-

list. She worked the room expertly for a solid ten minutes until, at last,

she sat daintily beside Mary atop a cushioned, ivory-inlaid chair. The

Duchess felt satisfied that the mingle had been a success. She had cowed

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a few of the less docile women, and all in attendance had been reminded

that their Duchess would tolerate no disrespect.

At last she attained a posture that she thought conveyed a good

mix of “imperious” with “bemused but attentive.” And her staff, who

had been instructed to wait until this pose had been achieved, began to
draw the curtain.

Needless to say, Rigaberto evoked quite some quantity of dismay

from the ladies when it was he who emerged from the partially drawn

curtains, pushing aside the velvet with hands still bleeding from the
thrashing that he had just delivered to the poet laureate.

Levandre, you see, had not recognized the Duke, who had come

dressed in his usual ensemble of plain brown pants, a plain brown shirt,
and heavy brown boots. And because the poet had not recognized

Rigaberto as nobility, he had responded to Religetti's attempts to talk to

him with noisy outrage. So much so that the Duke had feared that the

poet would ruin his surprise. Well, one thing had led to another and
punches had been exchanged. The outcome should come as no surprise.

Labor-hardened groundskeeper 1, dandified poet 0.

The assembled women gasped their displeasure at seeing the

bloody-knuckled Duke Religetti - unwashed, wild-eyed, and clad in
rough-hewn brown garb - stride to the front of the stage. But when the

man raised his hands in the air, all of the ladies, even the Duchess, gave

Religetti their full attention, despite themselves.

And in a great, booming voice befitting one who speaks

channeled words, Rigaberto Religetti recited the poem that had come to

him there in the bushes. Flush with certainty, he began with a title of his

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own creation, since the poem he had received from above had not come

with one.

“To the Duchess, my wife – That's who this poem's

for.”

“I'd like to poke my wife's hot friend

Because she's very hot.

Her heavy chest, and glassy eyes

and simple trusting smile

bespeak her eager need for me -

her hungry body needs indeed -

to let the husband of her friend

poke her until he comes within

an orifice, and then again,

until he's emptied and chagrined

at having poked his wife's hot friend.

But I instead shall show restraint -

and let that clam be left unshucked -

For though my loins lament such luck

(for me quite rare) let go to waste,

Tis better I choose not to taste

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the taste of that temptation.

And wifey dear, that odd sensation

that tingles down there 'tween your legs

assuredly now prompts occasion

to see you on your knees to beg.

“Rigaberto,” say you, “take me now!

Abandon all seductive stealth!”

Well here I am dear, roaring thunder,

To plunder all your fleshy wealth.”

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Verse Three

“Archbishop Captain Baker has arrived, Milady,” announced the

guard.

“Send him in.”

“Duchess,” said Baker, “you wished to see me?”

The Duchess perused the papers on her desk for some time,

letting the man stand and wait. When at last she looked up, she got right

to the point.

“Archbishop, I can tolerate this no longer.”

“Religetti, you mean?” asked Baker.

“You know full well that's what I mean.”

“Well,” replied Captain Baker, apologetically, “we have done

everything we can, Milady. The man is unmovable – you saw the report.

And the intervening years have borne out that the man was not

exaggerating.”

“You act as though you have not heard about what he did,” said

the Duchess.

“Milady, I'm not sure to what, specifically, you refer,” lied Baker.

“He ruined my gathering – he beat up Percy Levandre, trod out

onto my stage, and proceeded to deliver the most wholly profane bit of
doggerel I have ever encountered!” said the Duchess.

“Well, I may have heard some mention of this, I'm not sure.”

225

The Duchess stared hard at the Baker from behind her desk. She

was calm, for she wanted the Archbishop to believe every word that she

was about to tell him.

“Listen to me carefully, Captain Baker. When I say I cannot

tolerate this any longer, I mean I cannot tolerate it any longer. You will
find me a way out of this marriage, and strip Religetti of his title.

Because I am a reasonable woman, I will give you one month to

accomplish this. And this is the final deadline. You shall not escape on

the technicality of an agreement again. Achieve the outcome I require.
That's the only thing that will save you now. If at the end of that month,

you have not done what I have asked, I will burn the Grand Cathedral of

Squalor to the ground, and kill every last person inside.”

The Archbishop practically jumped out of his skin.

“But – But, you can't do that! Duchess, we made a deal, and the

Church kept our end of it! We have thrown our money at the man.
We've offered him a fortune that would leave the Church penniless. It is

not our fault that the man refuses to see reason!”

“Yes I can do that. Yes I will do that. Yes I made a deal. Yes I

am breaking it. Be grateful that I give you a last chance to rid me of the

Duke. You have one month. I suggest you get to work.”

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Verse Four

Elias Cork was in the office when the Archbishop returned.

Cork had been smart, and had spent all he had to get accepted as an

Acolyte by the Archbishop himself. Elias' friends had thought him crazy.

But that was because Acolyte was as far as his friends' ambitions reached.

And Elias agreed that it was a great life. But not nearly as good as the life
of a Bishop. Bishops didn't even live in the Cathedral proper. They had

much nicer accommodations than could be found in the Church

building.

And Elias had gone out of his way to take on the task of

Archbishop's secretary. Everybody else avoided responsibility as much

as possible. But unless you were a Bishop, or an Archbishop, you could
only do so much avoiding. It was not easy to become a Bishop - there

just weren't very many of them - but Cork was determined to do just

that. As secretary to the Archbishop, he had bided his time, waiting for

the Duchess to snap. Elias had known that the woman would eventually
get too fed up with the Religetti problem to tolerate it any longer. And

when, early that morning, Elias had received a courier from the Duchess

carrying her demand for a meeting with the Archbishop, Cork had

concluded that “eventually” had finally come to pass. He had told the
Captain what time to leave for the meeting. And now he was waiting

when the Captain returned.

The Archbishop came back into his office thirsty for the

woman's blood.

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“That woman will pay, Cork! Let me assure you of that. Her

marriage is a legal contract! More importantly, the agreement she made

with the Church – with me - is a holy contract! How dare that devil
woman play fast and loose with her commitment to the Church of

Squalor?!”

The Archbishop strode past his secretary, entered into the private

portion of his office and slammed the door behind him.

There was a period of silence – likely the Archbishop had

required several stiff slugs of scotch before he could even sit comfortably

in his chair. The meeting, apparently, had not gone well. Elias sat

behind his desk and waited. It was coming.

“Cork! Come in here!”

Elias opened the door to the Archbishop's private office.

“Yes,

Archbishop?”

“Listen to this. Directly from the doctrines of Squalor. And I

quote:

'No wedded man and woman may have that binding unbound for any reason.

And that means no divorce, no matter what. And don't try to get tricky - no

annulments either.'”

“That's very nicely read, Archbishop Baker.”

“Do you hear that, Acolyte? Do you?!” demanded Baker. “Is

this a confusing verse?”

“Not in the least, sir. The woman seems to have no respect for

the sovereignty of the Church regarding matters of the spirit.”

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“You got that right, Acolyte. The gall of that woman! How dare

she openly defy the command of our sacred lord? She will pay for this I

tell you!”

“Indeed, your eminence, her behavior is most unacceptable,”

replied the young priest.

Elias Cork was a much different man than the one who had fled

the Church of Curtis two years earlier. He had definitely learned the

grace that Futeen spoke of, though he had certainly not gotten humble.
But then, humility didn't really suit his nature.

There was no doubt that Cork was in the right place. Elias had

never understood how and why to manipulate, while living amongst
Curtisarians. Because he had been so skilled, he hadn't been able to get

past the idea that he had earned stature and, therefore, that he ought to

have been able to demand it. But in the Church of Squalor, where

nobody really thinks that skill or competency have anything to do with
success, Elias Cork took to the art of manipulation like a babe to its

mother's teat.

He took to the bottle with the same fervor, incidentally. And to

smoking plant as well. Such habits were common amongst the Clergy of

Squalor, of course, and probably explain why said priests tended to be so

sloppy and incompetent. It is a rare mortal who can thrive via the way of
Squalor, after all. But Elias Cork was only half mortal. And the whole of

this place – this path – made him feel just awesome and empowered.

The Curtisarians had condemned him for his ego, and had told

him that to succeed he had to let it go. In response, all he had been able

to do was shove it in their faces, again and again. But here, he was told

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to embrace his will, and he did just that, and thus became outcome

oriented and scary-effective. He became a master schemer.

“You know, it's very interesting, your eminence,” said Cork, “that

you should happen to read that very verse aloud to me.”

Baker was surprised to hear this. His secretary was not usually a

man given to unsolicited comment.

“Eh? Interesting? How so, Acolyte?

“Well, it so happens that I have a friend – a pen pal if you will -

who lives on the continent. He is... I hesitate to say, Archbishop, as I do
not wish to offend you.”

“Too late to go back now, man. Out with it. But don't worry, I

am not easily offended,” replied Baker.

“Well, he is a meaningsmith of no small talent. He is very well

studied in Alienatorial wisdom.”

Cork had Baker's full attention.

“A meaningsmith? How certain are you of this? Surely the man

has not presented himself as such.”

“Of course you are correct, Archbishop, he has not. And indeed,

I could be mistaken. But I am fairly confident in my assessment – as
confident as one can be about such matters. I would not waste your time

with this were I unsure.”

Baker looked hard at his secretary.

“Exchanging text with an Alienatorian, Elias? Rather dangerous

business, don't you think?”

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“Well, he is an old family friend, sir. And while I cannot say that

I trust the man, I think it quite possible that he trusts me. Regardless, I

do my best to be attentive to the risks, and I learn a great deal from our
exchanges. Enough, I think, to justify the potential dangers.”

“And you think you've discovered something that might help us

deal with the Duchess?” asked Baker.

“Just so, your eminence. Though it may be a bit of a long shot, I

felt it my duty to bring it to your attention.”

The Archbishop nodded.

“Well, you were right to tell me,” he said, “especially if it actually

can assist us in resolving this intractable problem with the Duchess.”

“Oh!” said Cork, “That reminds me of another matter in need of

your attention, if you'll indulge me a moment. I'd hate to get all caught

up in my explanation and have it slip my mind...”

Baker impatiently motioned for the man to get on with it, and

now saw for the first time that his secretary carried a small stack of

folded slips in his left hand. The secretary now handed these to his boss.

“In the wake of the past, ah, culling, of Bishops from the

Council, a number of parish heads and other clergy have submitted

petitions. Mostly they concern the vacancies that still sit unfilled,

Archbishop. Perhaps you can look them over?”

“Ha ha ha,” laughed Baker. “Very gracefully done. You wish a

Bishopship, Elias Cork?”

Cork indulged himself in a faint smile.

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“Well, it is my hope to assist the Church. My plan, I think, ought

to be able to at least break Religetti of his illusion that the Duchess might

someday love him. And if I can do it, then, yes. I'd feel as though I had
served my Church sufficiently well to represent it from a Bishop's chair.”

“Alright, Cork. But the Duchess was quite insistent that Religetti

not be harmed. If we eliminate him, it may end up costing us more than

just money. But if you can break the man's heart, he will name his price.

And given the dire circumstances right now – I won't go into detail – but

given the circumstances, if you can do that – if you can open the door for
the negotiators, you'll have earned that seat. What do you have in

mind?”

“Archbishop, it is as simple as convincing the people of

something that they already know.”

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Verse Five

The plan that Cork laid out for the Archbishop involved

meaningsmithing, of course, but Baker cared little for the means,

provided the end achieved was of sufficient value. And the end here,

being the preservation of Baker's own stature and health, was of very

great value indeed.

Seizing upon the language of the same scripture that the

Archbishop had read aloud, Elias proposed that the populace as a whole
be convinced that Religetti was no man at all, but rather a field horse.

More precisely, the story that would be spread told of a Duchess who

was so shamed by her involuntary marriage to a horse that she installed

the Church gardener – a man actually named Charles - to play the role of
Duke Religetti. The real Rigaberto Religetti was actually a draft horse

employed in the fields of the Duchess' estate. This “using the name of a

horse” part was spun as a cutesy, inside joke between Charles and the

Duchess, co-conspirators in selling the “Religetti lie.”

Cork's efforts to transform Religetti into a horse would ultimately

fail. Elias, however, wasn't actually counting on the transformation part

working. He just needed it to start to work.

He had learned several months earlier that the Duchess had

forbidden anyone from harming Religetti. This ran absolutely counter to

everything that Cork knew about the Duchess. So, he had concluded
that she must have had a very compelling reason not to see the man hurt.

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Which is why Cork had chosen a transformation spell. It was

slow. Anyone attempting to counteract it would have ample time to do

so. On the surface, the key component of the meaningsmith spell was:
“he that is named Rigaberto Religetti is actually a horse, not a man.”

If the populace of New Hamptingtonshire became widely

convinced of this, given that Cork had involved Alienator, what they

believed would become reality. And once Religetti transformed into a

horse, the Church could dissolve the marriage without running afoul of

any of the scripture of Squalor. Horses aren't allowed to marry.

This was the plan that Elias allowed all his Squalid brethren to

see. It seemed like a long shot, but it was kind of interesting, and that

alone meant he had widespread participation within the Church.

So the Acolytes and Bishops informed the people, via the

avenues of rumor and innuendo, of the Duchess' “dirty little secret

horse,” and the misinformation began to take hold. Religetti awoke one
morning to find his face stretched notably forward. There was a fine

brown hair upon all his body that grew up through the man's natural,

coarse black hair, and in some spots, this horse hair, obscured Religetti's

skin completely.

“What is happening to me?!” he exclaimed, but all of the servants

around him heard only neighing, even Clattiburn, for all believed him to
be a horse.

Before the horse transformation became complete, though, a

counter rumor swept through the Dukedom, and saved the day for
Rigaberto. The source of the counter rumor remains a mystery, but the

specifics of it are wholly known: it held that the horse story was

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meaningsmith work, designed to help the Church in its battle with the

Duchess regarding the annulability of her marriage to Duke Religetti, a

man that she deeply despised, but who refused to agree to end the marriage.

This counter rumor defeated the spell. It had a bit of an unfair

advantage, you see, because it was actually how things were. So this
counter-rumor displaced the original rumor as “the truth,” and it did so

within a day and a half. Which meant that the current truth was once

again the truth that had existed before.

Except for one thing. Elias had changed the truth via

meaningsmithing. To reverse this change, therefore, also required

meaningsmithing. Thus did the old truth come to have the power of

Alienator behind it, even though in all other ways it was unchanged. The
only difference was that the truth had now become a truth that could not

be disbelieved.

The impact? That the Duchess hated Religetti had long been

very widely understood. Now, however, it could not be denied by

anyone living in the Duchy. And in the Duchy, of course, is exactly

where Religetti lived.

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Chapter 14 -

The Secret Weapon of Grondovich

Verse One

You may recall the colony at the Pass that Viceroy Wisdom had

established ten years prior to this business of the breaking of Religetti's

heart through meaningsmithing. And you may be surprised to learn that

the colony still, a decade removed from its founding, sat unmolested. In

those ten years, in fact, Viceroy Wisdom had constructed quite a fort, and
had made the colony entirely self-sufficient. Not only that, but the

outpost had continued to prove a great source of resources and revenue

for the Duchess.

It turns out that the noblewoman had been right when she had

surmised that Grondovich was laying low because he had a plan. She

had been wrong, however, when she had concluded that the plan had
anything to do with the colony, or with New Hamptingtonshire at all.

The fact was, Grondovich had never even sent patrols outside of

Illmingston City. It wasn't that he didn't care about the Dukedom of
Illmingston, or that he was disinterested in preserving his sovereignty, it

was just that he could not afford to divide his resources or his attention

for even a moment, if his plan was to succeed.

Accordingly, Grondovich required all serfs to stay within the

capital city, that he might make the needed observations, and adjust the

details of his plan as needed. Since he, the Duke, lived on the estate in

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Illmingston City, it followed that the serfs he was breeding remain there

as well. There were no exceptions made. Ultimately, the Dukedom's

military supremacy would be assured by the success of the program, and
Grondovich was not about to allow the carelessness of some peasant

who wanted to “travel around” to jeopardize his vision.

But of even more importance to Grondovich than the practical

outcome he pursued, was the integrity of his research. This was a Duke

who believed in the supremacy of the intellect. And while he was

interested in pursuing research that had practical applications, it was the
work itself that really excited him.

Now, Grondovich believed in plans and he believed in schedules.

He had a small wooden plaque made for the wall above his desk. It read
“A plan is how my vision becomes our reality.” Grondovich was known to

often bring this wisdom to the attention of his underlings. It reminded

his people, Grondovich thought, that when the Duke set a timetable, he

could be expected to follow it, and others should know that he expected
them to do the same.

So it should come as no great surprise that upon beginning the

breeding programs, Grondovich had established some benchmark dates,

and had set some expectations. And March 1st, 1883, was the last, and

most important, date listed in the calender for this project.

Just after breakfast, the Duke ordered Regent Yallers, (his right

hand man), to assemble his newly completed, genetically-bred super-

troops by the east gate, near the palisade. Grondovich was nothing short
of giddy. Yallers, typically, wrung his hands and warned the Duke against

“unrealistic expectations.” But the familiar pessimism of his Regent

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would not dampen the Duke's mood on this day. This was a moment for

which Grondovich had been waiting an awfully long time. Ten years, in

fact. To the day.

According to the plan, “the creation and maturation of a

superwarrior, out of peasant stock, requires ten years.” And today
marked ten years since he had posted the first set of breeding pairs. The

Duke had been disciplined. He had not once succumb to the desire to

peek early, because he knew that to do so would only diminish the

excitement of seeing his vision fully realized. In other words,
Grondovich really had his hopes up for this day.

And now he stared at the dirty, squirming children that Yallers

had assembled before him and just shook his head.

“These are my warriors, Yallers? These woeful, filthy creatures?

They look like little children!”

“My Lord Duke,” stammered Yallers, “forgive me but perhaps

you recall my bringing this very matter to your attention some years

back? You'll recall, my liege, that I indicated then that none of the
warriors appeared to be aging any faster than an ordinary child would.”

“Yes? And? What of it, Yallers? They had ample time. How

long can it possibly take to grow a peasant? I gave them a full decade –
ten long years, Yallers - ten years.”

“Sire, you do but speak the truth, here. Ten years was very

generous, but of course, one cannot grow faster or slower than one
naturally grows, no matter how reasonable the expectation to do so may

be, can one, my liege?”

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“Where do you pick up such nonsense, Yallers? Honestly, it's no

wonder that you haven't advanced beyond Regent. If you look at the

actual data, you can only conclude that some character flaw – laziness,
perhaps - is responsible for their stunted growth. I mean think about it

man. You have to stop indulging in groundless and emotional responses

to matters of science.”

Yallers had accomplished one thing, when Grondovich had first

assumed his father's throne. He had hid the truth of the old Duke's

death – that his son, while engaged in swordplay against imaginary
enemies (as was his habit) had accidentally killed his sleeping father – and

replaced it with a truth more likely to inspire the respect and fear

befitting Grondovich's station. But since then, Yallers had been

frustrated in every attempt to do his job competently.

Comments such as the one the Duke just made had, for years,

caused the Regent great consternation. They had rendered him awkward,

fumbling for a reply. But over time, Regent Yallers had discovered
precisely the response the Duke expected in this context, and he now

sighed and delivered it.

“Of course, my Duke. You are most gracious, once again my

liege, to illuminate for me these shortcomings. I can only pledge to try to

take your lesson to heart, and ask humbly that you continue to forgive

my failings.”

Yallers' concession, as always, brought on the “encourage”

portion of Duke Grondovich's lecture.

“Honestly Yallers, if you can learn to use reason to pierce the

darkness of your ignorance, you have real potential to advance.” The

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Duke placed his hand upon the Regent's shoulder, and looked him

square in the face. “Seriously, old friend. You - have - real - potential.”

Yallers knew the reply for this as well, and he delivered it on cue -

a feeble smile.

Now satisfied at having established, and at having explained to

Yallers, that the cause of the superwarriors smallness was, in fact, peasant

laziness, Grondovich turned his eye towards the physical weakness –

indeed, the overwhelming “ordinariness” - of these undersized peasants.
There was no avoiding the reality of what he saw. These were very poor

quality supertroops.

It was baffling. Had he made any mistakes? How could this

batch of warriors possibly have come out so badly? He knew that he had

been diligent about forcing the serfs to have sex. He knew that much for

sure. He had done his job there. And he was certain that he had chosen

the mating pairs wisely. He had an intuitive knack for the sciences. Plus,
he had taken care to shuffle new partners in and out of the mating pairs

frequently, to ensure redundancy. So what had happened?

Grondovich now lamented not having taken notes while making

observations . It was kind of hard, without any written record, to

remember what all he had done, and what it had meant. And it was

going to be especially tough to figure out what exactly had gone wrong.
Now that he thought about it, it was going to be difficult to say for sure,

even, whether or not something had, in fact, gone wrong at all.

One needs data to accurately evaluate the efficacy of a project,

mused the Duke. And because he lacked that data, he concluded that

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absolutely nothing could be scientifically ruled out. This included the

possibility that the project had actually been successful.

Genotypic betterment was the goal here, he reminded himself.

And yes, the Duke allowed, it was possible that he had been wholly

successful in making genetically superior peasants.

As he examined the children, one by one, he tackled the

conundrum, working out all the possibilities. This process involved

much muttering aloud.

“Were I able to look at the genotype, the genetic improvements

that I have bred into these serfs might be undeniable. It is indeed

possible that the disappointing phenotypic indicators are just horribly
misleading flukes.”

Regent Yallers did not repeat his earlier mistake. He heard the

Duke, but this time he offered no thoughts at all regarding his theory.

And in the end, the Duke did manage without the Regent's counsel.

Eventually, Grondovich succumbed to the persistent sense that there

would be no salvaging anything of value from this fiasco.

The bottom line was that he would be forced to arrange for

another war-fighting postponement with East Illmingston. He would file

it on the grounds that peasant laziness undermined the Dukedom's ability
to achieve military readiness. Given that the reason was true, accurate,

and beyond his control, the Duke expected that the postponement would

be approved with a minimum of squabbling. Really though, this

provided little comfort, because he had never much cared about the
military value of the thing in the first place. He was just very upset about

how his research had turned out.

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Grondovich explained this to the peasant children.

“You small serfs. Listen here. All of you - I want your eyes on

me, OK? Everyone listening? Good.”

The Duke paced a bit, with his hand on his jaw, then spoke.

”You see, you need to understand. You serfs are very

disappointing to me. I mean, some of you may very well be genetically

superior to the old peasants in some ways - I'll allow for that possibility –
but I'll be honest. It sure doesn't look like it. And I'm pretty

disappointed. I was really expecting something dramatic, you know,

something that lived up to the level of my inspired vision. But look at

yourselves. You look more like a pack of trembling boys than a division
of battle ready troops. I mean, to be blunt, you are essentially

indistinguishable from ordinary serf children!”

The children, not sure what to make of this, continued to stand

quietly and look at the Duke.

Seeing that no useful response would emanate from the group

anytime soon, the Duke sighed a long sigh. He looked skyward and

clucked as he considered the scope of the failure of the peasants to

evolve. Then, with some “everybody gather round” arm gestures,

Grondovich addressed his people as a whole. He spoke loudly enough
that all the peasants nearby could hear him.

“Peasants! Come! All of you, come hither! Circle around me.”

Peasants attending to matters along the busy nearby street set

down shovels and stopped carts and such, and, after a while, a decent-

sized crowd shuffled around the Duke.

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Grondovich looked at the serfs, making eye-contact with many

and checking for attentiveness. The Duke did not consider the fact that

these peasants constituted but a tiny fraction of the populace of
Illmingston. Nor did it occur to him that a more organized approach to

delivering a proclamation might deliver his message more effectively. He

assumed that any individual peasant lucky enough to hear the Duke speak

understood that he was to inform all of his fellow peasants of the Duke's
will.

As a consequence, Grondovich cared little about the size or

makeup of the crowd he addressed, but he cared a great deal about the

focus of each person within that crowd. And he absolutely refused to

begin speaking until he had the full attention of every serf in his

audience.

So he now waited for the late arriving peasants to quit their

shuffling and scratching and looking around. At last, he deemed the

crowd “poised to listen,” and he began.

“You can stop having sex with each other now.” He spoke

slowly and loudly so as to be understood. “It's – not - wor-king.”

The crowd stared at the Duke blankly. This, the Duke correctly

interpreted as a failure to understand. The owner of Illmingston's largest

inn had, for years, been posting intermittent lists of “mating pair
assignments,” as per the Duke's instructions. The peasants, however,

had never understood why these lists were posted, nor who they were

posted for, nor what a “mating pair assignment” was.. All they knew for

sure was that it was something the Duke periodically shouted at people;
i.e:

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“You! Come here! I'm switching you to mating pair 17.”

So the Duke was correct. The peasants did not understand.

This, he set out to rectify.

“Look it's very simple. These new peasants over here...” The

Duke gestured towards where the failed batch of supertroops had been

standing earlier, “aren't any better than you. Do you see? Look at them.

See?”

The gathered serfs dutifully looked towards the area of crowd

where the Duke pointed, saw the random peasants who now stood there,

(the boys having dissipated), then silently looked back to the Duke for

further instructions.

Grondovich shook his head in frustration.

“Ok. I'll explain this once more only. Those new serfs are

supposed to be better than you old serfs, do you understand that?”

Nothing.

“That's why I've been breeding you this whole time! That's why

I've been assigning you to mating pairs, you know? That's the whole
point of this last ten years!”

Once again, he heard nothing that suggested comprehension

from his audience. This time, Grondovich magnanimously directed the
muttered admonishment towards himself.

“Why am I wasting time lecturing peasants on complex matters

of science? I am expecting too much from them. I ought to have learned
by now that when talking to a serf one must keep things very simple.”

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Regent Yallers heard these mutterings, but elected to simply nod

encouragement to his Duke. The Duke didn't notice this, and again

addressed the peasants.

“Listen, all you need to remember is: no – more - sex. Ok?

Got it? All the mating pairs I assigned? Those are done now.
Everybody hear that? No more mating pairs – just go back to however

you were before. But I am going to need you all to abstain completely

from intercourse, for the foreseeable future, OK? That means no

'picking your own pairs.' Does everyone hear that?”

The Duke stood amidst his people with his hands on his hips,

and waited for confirmation. He waited until he saw a dozen or so

scattered nods.

“Ok? So I don't want to catch any of you doing anything sexual

until I figure out how I'm going to improve on this last batch. I'm not

going to have any of you wasting childbearing years on unimproved
children, so while I adjust the plan, there will be a moratorium on making

them.”

And with that, he stomped off towards the east gate of his estate.

Yallers scampered after him. The peasants just went back to what they

were doing.

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Chapter 15 -

Elias Cork meets his Father

Verse One

Elias Cork surveyed his spacious Bishop's chambers – there was

more than one room - and allowed himself to feel satisfied, just for this

evening. The Church of Squalor believed in affording its Bishops luxury

befitting their station. And the ornate tapestries, the many statuettes

made of precious metals, the gold leaf designs upon the walls, the finely
woven, deep red rug, the large bed draped with silk linens, and the well

apportioned bar – all of it satisfied Cork immensely.

He settled into one of the more cushiony chairs and smoked a

good deal of the smoking plant to which the Squalid ones had introduced

him, and of which Elias had become very fond. He stopped smoking

when he forgot what he was doing and was struck by the urge to look
around his new room some more. He noticed that he was very happy.

And it further struck him just how much better Squalid life was than

anything he had experienced amongst the Curtisarians.

He soon discovered the washroom, and the miracle of running

water – a faucet dispensed water from the cistern above the building into

the basin. Cork turned it on and off, on and off. He had never had

running water as an acolyte of Squalor living in the Cathedral proper.
And this luxury was one that he knew even full Siblings in the Curtisarian

Church did not enjoy.

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Bishophood, he thought, is going to be just great.

The thought of his former home, however, brought thoughts of

Futeen, and he wished he knew for certain whether his spell had worked.

He found now that he hoped that it had not. But he suspected that it

had, and almost felt some guilt about having done it. Futeen had been
absolutely right, after all. Cork hadn't belonged there. He belonged right

where he was now. But then, he really hadn't been capable of being

anyone other than who he was at the time. Maybe if the Curtisarians had

gotten him drunk a little more frequently he wouldn't have been such a
bastard all the time. Oh well.

He turned off the faucet and left the washroom. When he

walked back into the main room, he was startled to see a man, sitting on
his bed. It was a handsome fellow, dressed rather jauntily, with black hair

and black eyes.

“Who are you,” asked Elias. “And what are you doing in here?”

But Elias wasn't upset or anything. He was in a fine mood, and

likely the fellow had made an honest mistake, so he tried to make it clear
that he wasn't mad.

“Perhaps there's been some confusion about chamber

assignments,” Elias said, “because I just got these rooms...”

“No confusion at all, I assure you my good man,” said the

stranger. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” said Cork, somewhat hazily. “Um, do I..

should I... know you?”

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“Yes you should. But you obviously don't. Nevertheless, I wish

to offer my most heartfelt congratulations on your recent promotion,”

responded the man.

Cork was inclined, at this point, to ask the man to quit playing

around and explain himself, but perhaps it was better to wait it out. The
guy seemed friendly enough, after all.

“Thank you, good sir. I guess news travels quickly, for I did not

think any outside of our Church yet new of my appointment.”

“Indeed,” replied the man, and he at last stood.

He then slowly strolled about Cork's chambers, and looked at the

many opulent furnishings. Elias remained standing where he was, and

kept his eyes on the stranger, just to be safe.

“But you see,” the man at last stopped, and fixed his eyes on

Elias, “I am very much inside of your Church. In fact, I am the whole

reason your Church exists. I am Entropotripocles, High Lord of

Stumbles and Confusion. And you, Bishop Cork, are my son.”

Elias' knees buckled a bit to hear this, and he made his way to a

velvet chair by the bureau, and sat in it. He did not even consider the

possibility that this stranger might be anyone other than who he claimed.
Once the god had identified himself, his divinity became obvious to

Elias.

“Uh - do you mean, Sir, that I am your son, in the sense that all

of your clergy are your children?”

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“Ha ha ha,” laughed the god. “No, no, not like that. I mean that

you are my son – my only child. And therefore, lucky for you, my

favorite as well.”

Elias Cork could only blink in response to this news, and attempt

to process the information. His head felt good and thick, which was
great, but it didn't make processing new information any easier.

“Surely you've wondered why it is that you age so slowly?” asked

the god.

“I have indeed, High Lord, but I had no answers, nor any means

of finding any, so...” Cork trailed off.

“Of course your mother is very long-lived as well, Elias, but I

don't think that you got your particular variety of slow growth from her.

Because she is wholly mortal and her own longevity is the result of
something in her heart, not something in her blood,” continued

Entropotripocles.

“My mother?” asked Elias.

“Never mind that,” said the god. “I would have liked to have

filled you in on all of this years ago, son, but I had to let you make your

own success, you know. Had you known your parentage sooner, your
resentment regarding your lack of status would have prohibited you from

attaining it. But today, you have earned these luxurious new

accommodations, and the title of Bishop, and today you are truly

satisfied. So today it became possible for me to visit you, and to witness
what my son has become.”

“I see,” said Elias, his mind spinning through the implications of

all this.

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“But I am not here simply for familial bonding, Bishop Cork. I

am here on business as well.”

“What business is that, High Lord?” asked Cork.

“You can call me 'father,' if you wish, Elias. No? No, I guess

not. It likely would feel rather unnatural I suppose. But as to the matter

of business, I think you will be pleased. I am here to see to it that you

attain the Archbishopship of the Church of Squalor.”

Cork's eyes widened. He could not have asked for any better

news than this.

“Really?! But how? I mean, can you just issue a decree, awarding

me the position?” asked the new Bishop. And then, smiling at the

thought, he said, “Archbishop Baker is not going to be happy about this

at all.”

“Oh no, nothing like that. You misunderstand the relationship

between the gods and their Churches,” explained Entropotripocles. “For

you see they really aren't our Churches at all. They're your Churches. This
Cathedral emanates my divinity from its walls, but it is up to you mortals

to shape the direction of the Church.”

“But surely the doctrines, the rituals... aren't they your doing?

Don't they reflect your will?” asked Elias.

“I wrote no such doctrines, and I requested no such rituals.

Those things were done by mortals. And a terrible job they did, I must

say. The doctrines and rituals of this Church very much do reflect my

own affection for mortal folly, however, and I will happily admit that the

goings-on of this Church have provided me many hours of amusement.

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Nevertheless, I think that you will do a much better job with the

doctrines than have past and current Archbishops.”

“I still don't understand how this will come to be, though. Do

you intend to eliminate my competition? Take the Archbishop and a few

of the other Senior Bishops out of the picture? It's more cutthroat than
would be ideal, but...”

The god cut him off.

“You still don't understand, son. I don't operate like that. Sure, I

may play around the edges of the rules a bit – for example I decreed to

the council of Bishops regarding the matter of the Duchess' marriage.

And I was indirectly responsible for the death of the old Duke.”

“The old Duke?” asked Cork.

“Yeah. The Duchess' father. Before your time. But funny story,

that, actually. The old man had drank himself to bed, and during the

night he had to get up to relieve himself. He fumbled along, all bleary-

eyed and not feeling so well, and just as he passed the top of a long
staircase, I appeared right in front of him and shouted “Boo!” You

should have seen the expression on his face! Ha, ha, ha ha. Anyway, he

tumbled down the stairs and cracked his head open and died. But it's not

like I pushed him or anything. Now where was I?”

“I believe you were telling me about how you don't kill people,”

replied Cork.

“Just so, Bishop. I don't kill people, and I don't make decrees.”

“Except for that one to the council,” interjected Elias.

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“Precisely,” replied the immortal. “Because I don't follow rules,

either, so I had to make at least one. Regardless, I do make plans, and

direct mortals to implement those plans. And that is precisely what I am
here to do right now.”

Bishop Cork nodded for the god to proceed.

“So here's what I want you to do. It's a bit complicated, so

listen.”

“You have my full attention, I assure you,” said Elias.

“Good. In the morning, you will acquire a horse and you will

travel to Illmingston City. Dress in the clothes of a commoner, and take

the southern route, through York. I don't want to risk anyone in the

Colony at the pass seeing you.”

“Ok,” said Elias.

“Once in Illmingston City, get a room at the inn. Then find a

spot in the common room and make yourself comfortable. There are
two men staying there at present. They are large men, balding, and they

will be dressed in the garb of merchants. They look like twins, but they

actually are just ordinary brothers. When you see them, it will be obvious

who they are.”

“Alright,” said Elias.

“I want you to strike up a conversation with these men. They

should be amenable to it, because while they are traders, they are also

spies for the Duchess. Unfortunately, they are very bad spies, and if we

don't feed them the information they need to know, they will never learn
it on their own. Tell them that you work on Duke Grondovich's estate,

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and let it be known that the Duke had been talking a great deal about a

secret weapon – something ten years in the making. Tell them that he

was very excited about the project coming to fruition, and that once he
had seen the results, he stopped talking about it completely. All this is

true, as it must be, for while they are bad spies, they are thorough, and

they will seek out others who work around the Duke to confirm the

story.”

“And that's it? Then I return here?” asked the newly promoted

Bishop.

“Yes, then you return here, but there is one more thing that you

will need to attend to,” said the god.

“Ok. What is it?”

“Once you have returned home, go about your normal business

for four days. It will take at least that long for the Mimzers to make it

back to New Hamptingtonshire.”

“The Mimzers, I presume, are the men I am to meet in

Illmingston?”

“Precisely.”

“After four days, get a room at the inn here in Hamptingtonshire

City and, again, position yourself in the common room, and get

comfortable. You might have to wait another day or two. The man you
will be looking for is named Viceroy Wisdom. He is a Viceroy, but he is

foremost a military man, and he will likely be dressed in the uniform of a

Corporal of the Duchess' honor guard. You will know him when you see

him – he will stand ramrod straight, and probably he'll be frowning
disapproval at the merrymaking of the common room.

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Once you have established that he has arrived, come back here.

The next morning, return to the inn and wait until you see him check out

and leave.”

“Ok, I understand so far,” said Cork.

“On the morning of the next day, again acquire a horse, and head

towards Illmingston, but this time take the Northern Route. Dress in

your Bishop's robe, and don any other accouterments that indicate your

rank in the Church of Squalor. You should reach the pass by nightfall of
the following day, and once you do, ride your horse hard, but do not

exhaust it. On the Illmingston side of the pass, you will see a fort. It is

the Colony at the Pass, and it belongs to the Duchess.”

“In Illmingston?” asked Elias.

“Yes, yes. In Illmingston. But I don't want to explain all that

right now. All you need to know is what you are to do. Approach the

gate of the colony and request admittance. Once inside, demand that you

be given a new horse. Tell whomever you speak with that you have

pressing business with Duke Grondovich of Illmingston. Church
business. Be as arrogant and presumptuous as possible. Convey that

because the colony is part of New Hamptingtonshire, its residents are

subject to Squalid rule, and that they therefore must do as you say and

provide a horse. Reiterate that you have an urgent need to meet with
Grondovich.

Whomever you speak with will go to discuss the matter with the

Viceroy first. When that happens, do not wait for him to return. Leave
the colony posthaste, and slip away into the night. Do not continue on

towards Illmingston City. As soon as you are away from the walls of the

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colony, head south and spend the night well hidden in the forest. Wait

until the late afternoon of the following day, then make your way back

through the Pass and slowly back here to the Cathedral.”

“I will do just as you have instructed, High Lord,” said Elias.

“But I don't see how this will help me become Archbishop.”

“That's because it's not your plan, Elias. If it were your plan,

then you'd be able to see how it all fits together.”

“Well, maybe you could explain it to me. Since it's your plan, you

must see how it fits together, right?”

“True enough. But that would spoil the fun of watching you

implement it in the dark, you see?”

“Well, yeah, I hear you. But what if I get something wrong

because I misconstrue the purpose of something.”

“As long as you just follow the instructions, you'll be fine. Don't

ad lib, that's the key. Don't try to help the plan along with any freelance
efforts, ok? If you just do like I said, it'll work out great. I mean, so far,

everything's gone just as I had hoped.”

“Ok, then. You're the god. And I am a man of faith, after all.”

“Yes, Elias,” said the god, “I believe you are.”

And then Entropotripocles reached into his pocket.

“Hey. Before I go. Some disciples in a fast moving land recently

started producing these. They're called “cigarillos.” You smoke them.

Would you like to try one?”

Cork reached out and pulled a slender tube from the package that

Entropotripocles offered.

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“Sure. What do they do to you? Are they like the smoking

plant?”

“No nothing like that. They don't cause pleasant confusion. In

fact, I'm not entirely sure if I really like them,” said the god as he lit one

of the tubes. “But I find myself smoking them all the time anyways.”

Seeing how the god handled the mechanics of the thing, Elias

Cork placed the cigarillo in his mouth, lit the end, and inhaled. It made

him cough. But it also made him feel a bit lightheaded. He pulled
another drag and slowly blew it out. Father and son then puffed on their

cigarillos, and filled the room with smoke.

When Elias had finished his he said, “Hey. Can you get me some

more of these?”

And Entropotripocles looked at the man with genuine pride.

“That's my boy,” he said.

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Chapter 16 -

Precreator and the Third Religetti

Verse One

When the meaningsmithed truth about the Duchess took,

Rigaberto fell into a deep despondency, and remained in bed for two

weeks. While he lay in his bed he found distraction, if not solace,

thinking of his work – of his groundskeeping job and of his old room.

He had brought, shortly after the marriage, all of the stuff from

his old quarters to his new chamber at the western estate. His stuff had

been comprised of a number of his father's carvings, the bag with the
bones of the god of time and the scale from the wooden god Accutron,

and that's about it. He had stuffed these things in a closet and pretty

much forgotten about them.

But now, as he lay in bed mourning the death of his illusions, he

thought again about his studies on the state of Robotic mind. Such

thoughts, however, invariably prompted memories of the Duchess and

her estate, and when this happened, Religetti recalled his broken heart,
and his reverie became interrupted by moans of dismay.

And it was just following one such moan – just following two

weeks of such moans, as well - when there appeared before him a being,
at the foot of his bed. This fellow was somewhat on the skinny side - not

terribly well built – and he had tightly curled gray hair atop his head. His

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skin was an even olive color, and a few subtle wrinkles near his eyes

showed the history of countless millennia of laughing.

“A holy apparition!” cried Rigaberto.

“Hello, Rigaberto Religetti. How are you feeling?” asked

Precreator.

“Uh, fine, sir, just fine,” answered the mortal, unsure of which

particular divinity this was, or why he had come.

“I am Precreator – pretty exciting eh?”

“Precreator! Welcome, most holy god, to this bedroom!”

Rigaberto scrambled to straighten his pillows and sit more

upright in his bed, as such social niceties seemed called for in such a
situation.

Precreator wore tan canvas pants and a plain white shirt, and had

sandals on his feet. All in all, he looked very ordinary.

The god looked around the stately room – saw the many pillows,

wide windows, and fine carved furniture.

“Nice room you have here. It's pays to be the Duke, eh? And I

don't doubt that there are ample buxom young serving girls awaiting

instructions, just down the hall, eh?”

Precreator gave Rigaberto a “you dirty dog, you” look.

Religetti didn't really have any specific expectations for this

audience with a deity. He had been given no notice, after all - no time in

which to form any. Nevertheless, such banter from Precreator,

Rigaberto was pretty sure, ran counter to whatever expectations he might
have had.

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“Well yes, I suppose there are several wenches about that fit that

description,” was his answer, but his heart was not in it, for it was still

broken.

“They aren't going to get any more nubile than they are right

now. It'd be a shame to let them rot on the vine, my good man.”
instructed Precreator.

“I'm not sure I'm quite up to that, right now, Precreator, to tell

you the truth,” said Rigaberto.

“Well, chin up, my good man,” encouraged the god. “You know,

I met your grandfather, and your father, and they both seemed like rather

resilient fellows. I have no doubt that they passed that noble trait on to
you, as well.”

It hadn't occurred to Rigaberto that this was one of the gods

whom Luciano and Campaggo had met, but now that the god mentioned

it, Religetti remembered the stories that Luciano had told him the night

before he died.

“That's right!” exclaimed the Duke. “You did meet my father,

didn't you? And my grandfather as well. What an amazing coincidence

that all three of us have encountered you. I guess I come from a lucky

family.”

“Lucky in gods, but not lucky in love, eh Duke?”

“You're certainly right about that,” answered Religetti.

But even as he said it, he felt his depression lifting. He did come

from a lucky family. And he was the Duke now, so there were plenty of
women who would gladly offer their affections to him, now that he

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thought about it. He further realized that he was rather fond of

Clattiburn, and that she was much more deserving of his affection than

the Duchess had ever been.

“But you know, Precreator” said Rigaberto, “You're right about

something else too. I have indeed built up quite a bit of tension over the
last couple of years, what with saving myself for the Duchess, and said

tension might very well be released into a different female, for the benefit

of all involved.”

“Sure it might!” enthused Precreator. “It might, it can, and it

should be so released. It'll make you feel a lot better, without fail.”

Rigaberto, his head now filled with images of Clattiburn, into

whom this mission might be accomplished, said nothing for some time,

until he again remembered his manners.

“Oh! I'm terribly sorry High Lord! Where are my manners.

Please forgive my unkempt state. This room is no place for conversation

with High Lord Precreator,” said Religetti.

And for the first time in a fortnight, he got out of bed, to find a

chair for his guest.

“Yes, you've not been bathing whilst indulging in your bed

wallow, have you? There's an awful, gamey smell that just swaddles the

whole room. It smells like the winter den of a family of moles. I wasn't

going to say anything, but...”

Rigaberto was mortified to hear this from the god.

“Please accept my sincerest apologies, High Lord. I must confess

that in my woeful state I have neglected matters of hygiene.”

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“I was just poking fun, my good man,” reassured Precreator.

“You needn't fret on my account. I have the power to turn off my own

sense of smell.”

This, Precreator had delivered perfectly deadpan. But now in the

pause that followed, as he wrestled with a piece of furniture, Religetti
wondered if Precreator had intended that last bit as a joke.

“I'm not staying, anyways,” continued the god. “I just dropped

in because you looked as though you could use some cheering up.”

Religetti at last made it to the god's side with a grunt and a heavy

oak chair. Precreator looked at the chair, then at the slightly winded

Duke.

“I really do have to go, Rigaberto, so let me wish you lasting

happiness and I'll be off.”

But he did not vanish. Instead, the god spoke again.

“Unless you have something that you want to ask me?”

Rigaberto was caught off guard by this question, but he suspected

that it was important. Of course, any brush with the gods is a blessed
and significant event. Most mortals will live their whole lives without

ever standing in the presence of a deity. But amidst the splendor of just

such an occasion, Precreator's query still stuck out to Religetti. If

Rigaberto had understood the god correctly, Precreator was offering him
something besides advice and sympathy.

For a moment, Rigaberto felt a panic rise within him. He knew

not what to ask. He feared that he might waste this chance – this one
opportunity to access the hidden secrets of the gods. But this thought

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reminded him of his youthful obsession. Then that prompted the next

thought and soon the right course hit him square and clear.

“There is one thing about which I would like to ask you, mighty

Precreator. I wish to make The Helmet of Robotic Mind, but I do not

know how.”

Once spoken, this name resonated and echoed until the

reflections of sound coalesced into a single sustained pitch, which lasted

for 3 seconds, and which could be heard throughout Hamptingtonshire
City and for miles out into the surrounding countryside.

It was the first true pitch that the world had heard since the very

beginning. Rigaberto was absolutely captivated by it, and he listened
until there was nothing left of the sound.

“What was that sound?” he asked the god.

“You tell me,” said Precreator.

“It was – it was – 440.”

“That's why you are my Prophet Rigaberto. Call it A if you like.

It's a pitch – a frequency.”

Rigaberto had pronounced the Helmet's true name. And music

made it's first step back into the world. And for the moment, Rigaberto's

mind was entirely focused upon this event, but Precreator had not gotten
off task.

“Anyhow, I'd be happy to tell you how to make the Helmet,

Rigaberto. In fact, that is precisely the purpose of my visit, to be honest.
I fibbed a bit when I told you that I was here to cheer you up. Certainly

I hoped to do just that, but I must admit I had an ulterior motive for

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coming. Of course, you needed to ask for it without any hints from me,

so I couldn't just tell you up front why I came.”

“It doesn't matter to me,” shrugged Religetti. “I just appreciate

the fact that you came. And if you'll tell me how to make the Helmet,

you'll be doing me a great service, because I have long studied Robotic
Mind and have made very little progress in understanding it.”

“That does not surprise me, Religetti. For while occasional

mortals may achieve a state of robotic mind, temporarily, it is difficult to
do so. Your father achieved it when he rendered the Artifact Luciano's

Dragon Carving. And you achieved it when you channeled the metered

verse that you recited to your wife. But even among mortals who do

achieve the state, there are none who really understand it.”

The news that he had already achieved the state of Robotic mind

caught Religetti completely by surprise. But it only served to compound

his curiosity about the subject. Precreator had his full attention as he
began to explain how the Helmet would be constructed.

“You will need elements from each of the High Lords to

complete this project, Rigaberto. I trust that you still possess the bones

of the god of time, and Accutron's scale?”

“Yes sir,” answered Rigaberto.

“Good. Now the scale was born from Luciano's Dragon

Carving, so it has been Beheld, so the Beholder is taken care of. And it is

a part of Accutron, so he's taken care of too. For the main part of the
Helmet, retrieve the golden anointing bowl from the Church of Squalor.

They fill it with wine and use it in many of their drunken rituals, and it is

infused with the divinity of Entropotripocles. GWIToo FaTS, you

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needn't worry about, because I assume that you won't be constructing the

helmet in complete darkness, and so long as some light strikes the

Helmet, it will have been touched by the god Who is Too Fast to Be
Seen. You will have to secure a Sibling of the Curtisarian Church for this

endeavor as well, and he will need to channel text in the presence of the

Helmet. And once you have done all that, Baby Lady Bae will arrive, and

evaluate your fitness to don the Helmet. She will either give or deny you
her blessing. If she denies it to you, that's that. The Helmet won't work,

and there's nothing more to be done about it. But I really wouldn't be

too concerned about that. I think she'll like you a lot.”

“That's it?” asked Rigaberto.

“No, there are more steps, and they need to be done in a precise

order and within a specific time frame. But it's too complicated to tell

you all the details, so I wrote them down.”

The god dug around in the pocket of his canvas pants.

“Here,” he said, and he handed Religetti a folded up piece of

paper.

Religetti took the paper from the god. Something tickled in his

brain though...

“Wait!” he said abruptly. “Isn't there another god?”

“You are probably thinking about Alienator. He will play his role

in this too, but that will be much later. You needn't concern yourself with

him, as far as the construction of the Helmet is concerned.”

“Alright,” said Rigaberto, “but he wasn't who I was thinking of.”

Rigaberto tapped on his forehead until the name came to him.

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“Tentia! What about her? That's who I was thinking of.”

Precreator snorted.

“Tentia's a demigod Religetti. She is one of Alienator's demigods.

She exists solely to keep the people convinced of the specific mortal
truths that Alienator wishes them to be convinced of. Her job is to keep

the people thinking that truths are static, and that they should be clung

to. She doesn't matter in the slightest.”

“Really? But why is she called Tentia, High Lord of the

Righteous?”

“Because mortals don't research the matter. If they read the

channeled gospels, they'd see that her true name is Tentia, Demigod of

Alienator. But enough. I've got other things to do you know, and you

should get to work.”

“Alright, bye,” said Religetti distractedly. He had begun to read

the paper the god had given while the god had been explaining about

Tentia.

“One last thing,” said Precreator. “Pay attention. This is

important. To put on the Helmet is a sacrifice, Rigaberto, and it is not

one to be made lightly. You will give up the world of mortals once you
put it on, and you will never be able to rejoin it. However, the code that

you will chant will eventually teach your fellows to manifest the Truths of

time. Mortals need help with those Truths, Rigaberto, because they are

by far the most difficult to manifest faithfully.

But for your sacrifice, you will know the immortal Truths of time

like I know them. Perhaps even more purely, for you will have no
contact with mortality. For the whole of the time that you chant the

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code, you shall be connected to the immortal melodies directly. If you

don the Helmet, you will trade your mortal life for one comprised of

nothing but frequencies. So think about it. Once you make the choice,
there is no going back.”

And then the god Precreator was gone.

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Chapter 17 -

Viceroy Wisdom Brings Death

Pre-Verse

The Battle Hymn of Viceroy Wisdom

(Excerpted from the Tentian Gospel Hymn Book, and reprinted here for

reference.)

Viceroy Wisdom returned from his R&R.
The camp appeared still sacrosanct behind its iron bars.
And yet the dread looped in him like unwanted song
and with the moon rose his conviction - there was something wrong.

So though the Viceroy most earnestly longed for bed,
the worried Wisdom washed his face and grabbed his gun instead.
And hours later, as he finished up his rounds
he found himself abruptly startled by an evil sound.

A woman's moaning rose up from behind a shed
The moon, in lockstep, reached its zenith high above the head
of Mrs. Jenkins, a lieutenant's modest wife,
found straddled savage on Entropotripocles' blight.

You can't prepare for disaster and therefore let righteousness guide your sword

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Sullen earth swallowed Jenkins upon the dawn
And Corporal Wisdom bid him rest and mused upon his wrong.
The law denied man the right to end his own life.
But then the law was not a man with an unfaithful wife.

Ash and acrid aroma of smoking flesh
Recalled the foulness in that woman and her cleansing death.
For god and mortal and Jenkins each in their turn,
Corporal Wisdom had commanded that the woman burn.

You can't prepare for disaster and therefore let righteousness guide your sword.

But the Viceroy now turned out his funeral black,
for men of action act, react to foulness, and attack.
In midday swelter, he gathered his angry men
where yesterday only the languid and the bored had been.

And they marched hard. The violence began at four.
The Squalid Church itself would sound the start of Wisdom's war.
Arriving early, the troops hid themselves behind bush and rock,
Until the fourth crack of the Squalid clergy's steeple clock.

Now! Ammunition spat from the Viceroy's gun,

And all the henchmen of the Church of squalor turned to run

Entropotripocles sat high up above and laughed,

His clergy cut down by the righteous Viceroy's fierce attack.

You can't prepare for disaster and therefore let righteousness win the day.

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Verse One

“Good morning Viceroy. How prepared are you, militarily?”

asked the Duchess.

She stood, on this occasion, and, on a whim, she instructed

Wisdom to take the seat behind her desk – the only chair in her chamber.

The man complied, albeit hesitantly.

“Well... I would say we are well prepared Milady,” said the

Viceroy.

The Duchess looked the fellow over. His face looked more

weathered than it had a decade ago, when she had last seen him, and his

cropped, light brown hair showed an occasional strand of gray, but other

than that, the man appeared basically unchanged.

“Be honest with me Viceroy,” instructed the Duchess.

“But I am, Milady. We are very well prepared. Our fortifications

are substantial. We would be honored if you would grace our colony by
riding with me back to the Pass and seeing for yourself,” suggested

Wisdom.

“That's not going to happen, I'm afraid. But you certainly seem

to believe that you are well prepared. Which of the fortification plans did

you use?”

This was something of an awkward question for Wisdom.

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“Well, you see... I probably should have sought your approval

first, Milady, but I believed time to be of the essence. Or maybe I just

should have gone with fortification 8, as I first thought...”

“What are you getting at man, spit it out,” said the Duchess.

“See, I was looking at one of the plans, and it occurred to me

that, while it was suitable, it might be better if we could make better use

of a particular...well, the long and the short of it is – I made up my own

plans.”

“What are you talking about, man?” asked the Duchess

brusquely. “You aren't making any sense.”

“Yes, I know it's hard to get a handle on it at first,” said Wisdom.

“And it's hard to explain too. But you see, it's like – you know how there

are a certain number of designs to choose from? Well, what I did is, I
took a piece of paper, and I wrote on it until it was covered with a design.

But it was a design that, until that moment, had not existed. I made a new

design, you see.”

“But that's imp...” began the Duchess.

And then it struck her that it was not at all impossible. In fact,

now that she thought about it, it seemed like the most natural thing in the
world. The Duchess remembered when she had begun construction on

the Grand Cathedral for Entropotripocles. She had been frustrated

because she had been forced to reject several excellent locations that

hadn't afforded quite enough flat ground, before she had finally settled
on one. Why had it not occurred to her to simply alter the plans?

“And how did that work out? Were you able to build from your

plan?” she asked Wisdom.

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“Well, at first, not so well. But the Accutronians were very

excited about the idea of making their own designs, once I had explained

it to them adequately. And we kept making adjustments, and
improvements. The advisers ended up staying with the colony for three

years. I could only offer them reduced pay, but they had their hearts in

the project, so they stayed on. And by the time they left, I had learned a

great deal about construction from them. Regardless, the fortifications
of the Colony, now, are quite impressive. We would be much honored if

you were to grace our outpost with your presence and see for yourself,

Milady.”

The Duchess wished that she could travel to the colony and see

for herself, but she had made it this long without leaving

Hamptingtonshire City, and she wasn't about to take the risk now.

Wait a second... There was something to be gleaned from all this...

“Accutron is dead,” said the Duchess.

“Excuse me, Milady?” asked the Viceroy.

“That's the only explanation,” she said.

Wisdom had nothing to say to this, so he remained silent, and

figured that she would clarify if she saw fit.

“The world is changing, Viceroy. Did you know that the god of

time died almost 200 years ago.”

“No, I didn't. But then he is rather a minor god, Duchess. One

hardly ever hears anybody speak of him, and he has no Church or clergy.

And seeing as time continues on, it makes sense that nobody would

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suspect that the god had died. I mean, he must not have been very

critical, because time is as it has always been.”

“But that's just it Wisdom. He didn't used to be thought of as a

minor god. There once was a Grand Cathedral of time – did you know

that?”

Wisdom shook his head.

“No, Milady. And though I do not doubt the veracity of what

you say, I must admit it is somewhat hard to believe.”

“And regardless of how it may seem, time is not as it has always

been, Viceroy.”

“As you say, Duchess,” but Wisdom was clearly unconvinced.

“There exists something called Uneven Time. I'm not sure why

I'm telling you about it, but believe me it exists. Have you ever

wondered why I still look so young? It's been a decade since last I saw

you. And I have known you, all told, for maybe 20 years, yes?”

“Give or take,” said Wisdom.

“Look at me, Viceroy,” said the Duchess.

And Wisdom realized that the woman still looked like she was 20

years old. Maybe even younger.

“I cannot believe it!” he exclaimed. “How is it that you remain

so young? And how is that I could not have heretofore noticed it?”

“For precisely the same reason that we never before thought to

make our own plans, Wisdom. It is the interference of the gods. But the

thing is, my age relates to Uneven Time. I won't go into the details, but
the death of the god of time made my longevity possible. And now, you

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have discovered that it is possible to make plans. It is no longer

necessary that the Accutronians channel them from their god. So...”

“Accutron must be dead!”

“Precisely,” said the Duchess.

And then, for a good stretch of time, the Duchess standing, and

the Viceroy behind the desk across from her, both were silent, and each

thought about the implications of all of this. The Duchess realized that
what she had just learned from Wisdom had substantial implications

regarding the business that had prompted her to summon Wisdom in the

first place. And she had a sinking feeling that it had another implication

as well, but now was not the time to worry about that.

The Duchess finally broke the silence.

“All very interesting stuff, and significant as well. I wish that you

had informed me of your discovery sooner Viceroy, but there's nothing

to be done about that now. Regardless, I asked you about the Colony's

fortifications for a reason. And I certainly hope that you are as well
prepared, as you claim, Viceroy. Because that readiness will be tested

shortly.”

“Has there been some new development?” asked Wisdom.

The Duchess paced as she explained to Wisdom about the

meeting four days prior with the Mimzers.

“Just so. My spies have been busy in Illmingston, Viceroy. They

met with a man in the inn there who worked for Grondovich, and they

learned from him about the existence of a secret weapon of some sort.
The Mimzers confirmed these details with other servants working for the

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Duke, and it has been demonstrated to my satisfaction that what they

have told me is true. This weapon has been ten years in the making,

Viceroy, and I fear it may mean the end of New Hamptingtonshire.”

“Do we know anything about the nature of this weapon?” asked

the Viceroy.

“Unfortunately, no. But given what I have learned from you

today, I think that it is safe to assume that Grondovich has built whatever

it is from a plan of his own making. Your discovery is obviously not yet
widely understood. But it is the missing piece that makes everything else

make sense. And I think it is quite likely that, whatever this weapon is, it

will be used on us.”

“Well, weapon or no weapon, Grondovich will have to get his

men through my men, Milady, if he intends to invade New

Hamptingtonshire, because we control the pass. Your foresight

regarding that strategic location has been borne out, and we will not
make it easy for him to get through, I assure you that much, Duchess.”

“You have to understand, Wisdom. You cannot assume anything

about this threat. It could be anything. It is a secret weapon, after all.”

The Duchess had faith in Wisdom's loyalty, and she knew she

would get his best effort, but she worried that in this instance, the man's
lack of cleverness could prove her downfall. So she continued to drive

the point home.

“Question everything and act decisively. We don't know what

our enemy will look like, or what weapons of war he might wage. But be

assured, he will strike first, and when he does, you must make him pay

dearly.”

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“Milady, I pledge upon my life that we will win the day.”

She dismissed this as impossible.

“You misunderstand me, Viceroy. Your small outpost cannot

expect to prevail against the assembled might of Illmingston.
Grondovich has been preparing for the past ten years for this. Whatever

he has up his sleeve, he has surely accounted for whatever resistance he

might face at the pass. Your job is simply to make his victory as costly as

possible.”

“If I may, Duchess,” suggested Wisdom, “I have managed, as I

have said, to construct some rather substantial fortifications. And they

are quite unlike anything he will have encountered previously. I too,
have been preparing for war the last ten years. I suggest, therefore, that

you reinforce the pass, where his forces will be bottled up. I can make

our stand there, where our defensive position is most advantages.”

The Duchess sighed and looked upon Wisdom with something

approaching genuine warmth.

“Viceroy, you have done an absolutely spectacular job for me.

You really have. And I'm sorry that I haven't had more opportunity to

thank you for your competence and for your loyalty. You've done

everything I've asked of you and more. But this threat is not something
that your small outpost can possibly turn aside.”

Wisdom looked down at his hands, both gratified by the praise of

his Duchess, and disappointed in her lack of faith in him. Still, he knew
that she understood the larger strategy of these matters better than he,

and that he needed to accept the reality that she was probably right.

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“Under normal circumstances, your discovery – your unique

fortifications – might prove an advantage sufficient to allow you to win

the day. But it seems certain that Grondovich has also made this
discovery. And so we must conclude that said advantage has been

nullified. We must further assume that he has specifically accounted for

the disadvantages he will face in the Pass, both natural and man made.

He has spent ten years doing just that.”

She stopped pacing for a moment, and stared out of a window at

the grounds below..

“This war will hinge on his secret weapon, Viceroy. Capture me

that secret weapon, or destroy it, and you will have all the troops you

need to make your stand, wherever you choose to make it. If you can do
that – if you can get to the bottom of this infernal weapon - you will be

Earl Wisdom, and you shall have all the lands and power that come

along with it, and you shall have my eternal gratitude.”

Once Wisdom was gone the Duchess called to her guard. She

wanted to see something.

“Guard!”

“Yes,

Duchess.”

“Have someone bring me a mirror.”

A few minutes later, one of the staff arrived with the requested

item. The Duchess took it and waited until the woman had left the

room. The Duchess instructed the guard to shut the door, and once she

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was sure that she was alone, she looked at herself closely, and she

confirmed her suspicion. She looked 20 years old.

Mortals could now improve upon the designs of Accutron.

Which meant that development would proceed at a rate determined by

the cleverness of the mortals themselves. And as more mortals learned
to envision plans, and see them manifest into new structures and things

of all sorts, life would begin to change. It would be no less true in New

Hamptingtonshire than anyplace else.

Uneven Time was slowly becoming regular old Fluid Uneven

Time. And the Duchess' agelessness was fading away.

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Verse Two

Wisdom was happy to check out of the inn and begin his journey

back to the encampment. He did not like the public space of the inn at

all. The tolerance of licentiousness, the boisterousness, the coarse

language and vulgar jokes and dancing – the whole thing just made him

feel queasy, and a little frantic.

But as he had prepared for departure, he could not help but

overhear some conversation. The inn had been abuzz with talk of the
Duchess' ongoing dispute with the Archbishop over her marriage to

Religetti. Apparently some progress had been made with the man.

Though Wisdom didn't catch many of the details, the gist of it seemed to

be that some sort of resolution to the matter would soon be reached.

The Viceroy hoped not. Wisdom hated the Church of Squalor

intensely, but he respected the fact that they refused to annul the

Duchess' marriage. His hope was that the Church held firm on this, both
because the sanctity of marriage demanded it, and because it might

ultimately cause the Duchess to sever ties with the Squalid ones.

Entropotripocles was more devil than god, and his Church was a nest of

loathsome hedonism. It infected the whole of the people with a casual
attitude towards propriety, hierarchy, and the supremacy of the law.

But Wisdom doubted that the conflict over Duke Religetti would

command much of anyone's attention, once the war began. The
Duchess needed to consolidate her allies - and that included the Squalid

ones - if she hoped to prevail against Grondovich.

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Wisdom exited the inn and carried his bag towards the stable.

He did not notice the hooded figure that exited behind him and

walked the opposite way, towards the Cathedral of Squalor.

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Verse Three

The Viceroy was relieved to find no raging battle when he

reached the colony, nor any sign of trouble.

His lieutenant, Warfle Jenkins, met the Viceroy at the gate, and

handed him the report of infractions that had been committed in his

absence. Typically, the Viceroy discussed these reports with the

lieutenant in detail, but on this day, Wisdom did not even glance at it.

“Has anything unusual happened while I was gone, Jenkins?

Anything at all?”

“Well, nothing in particular leaps to mind, sir. Perhaps if I had a better
idea of what you have in mind?”

Wisdom explained the situation, and stressed the importance of

finding, and destroying, the Duke's secret weapon before it was used

against them. Jenkins promised to keep his eyes open, and the Viceroy

then dispatched him to see to the troops' readiness, and to prepare the

outpost for siege.

Hours later, Wisdom prepared for bed.

Now Viceroy Wisdom, as we have established, was a pious man,

among Tentia's most loyal devotees. He engaged in long periods of

prayer, and was vigorous in his penance. And he had been this way, even

as a child. Such service to the divine does not go unrewarded.

So over the years, Tentia had afforded Wisdom the ability to

sense whenever any member of his colony strayed from the path of

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righteousness. And the man had honed this ability until it became

infallible.

That night, as he undressed, this internal alert sounded so loudly

in his head that it made his knees buckle. He quickly put his corporal's

uniform back on, and tightened his belt and buckled his shoes. He then
retrieved his own secret weapon. A handgun.

He had paid a high price for the device. The dark-skinned

merchant had told him that they had been common in Illmingston under
the old Duke, but that ever since Grondovich had taken over, very little

came in or out of Illmingston City. Wisdom, upon seeing the device

demonstrated, had willingly paid what the merchant had asked, and had

purchased all the ammunition that the man had as well.

Now, with his gun strapped to his waist, the Viceroy walked the

perimeter of the camp and worked inwards, allowing his sense to guide

him to the lawbreaker As the full moon rose in the sky, he made quick
progress – the signal of this transgression was very, very strong. And just

when the moon reached its highest point in the sky, Wisdom heard a

moan rise up from behind an armory shed, and he ran towards it.

There he saw, in the moonlight, a nude woman straddling a man.

When the man turned his head to look at the Viceroy, Wisdom saw a

devious grin, and he felt such repulsion towards that grin that he knew
immediately this was no man at all. This was a devil – Entropotripocles

himself.

Then Wisdom saw the woman's face. It was Lieutenant Jenkins'

wife.

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Filled with sudden rage, the Viceroy drew his gun and fired

several shots, not really caring which of the two he hit. He hit neither,

and he was left with a naked woman kneeling on the dust behind the
shed, and a ringing in his ears from the report of the revolver. There was

no sign of the god of Stumbles and Confusion.

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Verse Four

The hall was boisterous and unruly and the Viceroy's rules of

social conduct were being broken left and right. Wisdom faced his

assembled people. Behind him sat Lieutenant Jenkins, slumped in a

chair, his head in his hands. Beside the Viceroy, also facing the crowd,

stood Mrs. Jenkins. Wisdom had refused her clothes, that all might see
her shame. But she stood tall, her hands at her sides, and snarled silently

in defiance. Were she to speak, she would sacrifice her right to trial,

according to the Holy laws of Tentia. But there were others who rose to

speak in her defense, and the laws dictated that the Viceroy must hear
such testimony before reaching his decision.

At the moment, however, the testimony had devolved into a

shouting match.

“You will all be silent!” roared Wisdom, and the din fell to

mutters.

“Thank you Viceroy,” said the woman who held the floor. “As I

was saying, Warfle Jenkins was no husband to Quintle (Mrs. Jenkins).

He was impotent, and did not fulfill his duty as a husband.”

Many of the women nodded at hearing this. They all knew.

Women talk.

Behind the Viceroy, Jenkins groaned in his chair.

“Besides, you can not expect a mortal to deny the will of a god.

She was doing her duty to a High Lord of the Pantheon.”

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“Her duty?!” demanded Wisdom. “Her duty is to Tentia, High

Lord of the Righteous! And against our heavenly mistress, the slut has

sinned most gravely. Her betrayal is absolute, and it will not go
unpunished.”

“But can she even be considered married, if the wedlock was not

consummated? A woman has the right to bear children, if nothing else,

and to be called that woman's husband, a man must plant his seed within

her.”

“Was the marriage actually unconsummated?” asked a male voice

in the crowd.

This question hung in the air, as only two people present knew

the answer for sure.

“Jenkins,” said the Viceroy at last, “we need to know. Have you

lain with your wife?”

Jenkins merely moaned in response to this.

“Warfle Jenkins,” spat the man's nude wife Quintle, “desires the

touch of other men.”

A panic rose within the Viceroy at hearing these words, and he

turned to look at Jenkins, uncertain of the man's discretion - terrified that

it might falter. He then watched as the lieutenant drew the long dagger

he wore on his belt, and thrust it upwards, through the underside of his
jaw, and into his brain.

Viceroy Wisdom, awash in an odd mix of relief and loss, turned

back to face the group. The assembled crowd had fallen into stunned
silence at the sight of the suicide.

284

“The woman Quintle Jenkins has spoken,” declared Wisdom,

“and has therefore sacrificed her right to trial. I hereby declare her guilty

of gross wickedness and sins against the High Lord of the Righteous.
For her crimes, she will burn.”

This provoked a flurry of objections from the women in

attendance, but Wisdom would have none of it.

“I am Viceroy!” he bellowed. “And I have reached my verdict in

full accordance with the law. Sergeant Wurensten, you are now
lieutenant. Prepare a stake, and pile ample wood around it's base.”

“Yes Viceroy,” said a male in the audience who rose to do just

that.

“Dobart, Hillings, prepare the body of Lieutenant Jenkins for

burial.”

“As you say Viceroy.”

Wisdom then looked across the gathered colonists.

“There will be no more dissent regarding this matter. Is that

clear?”

He accepted the silence as affirmation that it was.

“We are done here.”

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Verse Five

As the Viceroy watched the screaming Jenkins woman burn, a

rider sat outside the colony's gate. Then the woman could scream no

longer, and Wisdom heard pounding on the gate, and shouts of “Halloo!

Let me in!” over the crackling of the fire. He dispatched a man to see

who it was and what he wanted, and then lapsed back into the dark
mood, and the grief, that possessed him.

“Excuse me, Viceroy,” said a voice beside Wisdom.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Ah, regarding the man at the gate...”

“Oh yes. What does he want?” asked Wisdom.

“He is a Bishop of the Church of Squalor, Viceroy. He arrived

on a tired horse, and he insists that we give him a replacement.”

“We are not in the business of giving away horses, Private,”

replied the Viceroy. “And we will not give any aid to a Bishop of that

wretched Church. Especially not tonight. Tell him to go away while he

still has his skin, and to be grateful for it.”

“But Viceroy, he claims to have urgent business with the Duke of

Illmingston, and he was quite insistent. He does not seem to be the kind

of man who is used to being denied.”

Wisdom looked hard at the Private, and for the first time, gave

the man his full attention.

286

“Did you say business with the Duke of...”

The pieces began to fall into place. The timing of this was no

coincidence. A Bishop of Squalor en route to Illmingston, regarding

urgent business? The arrival of Entropotripocles himself in the colony,

breeding dissent and lessening the effectiveness of his men?

Duke Grondovich's secret weapon was nothing more than old

fashioned treachery. The Duke, seizing upon the rift between the

Duchess and the Archbishop, had secretly allied himself with the Squalid
ones. It made no difference to the Church who ruled, as long as their

standing in New Hamptingtonshire was not threatened. And no doubt

Grondovich promised the Squalid ones a free hand in managing the

religious affairs of New Hamptingtonshire.

Entropotripocles

himself,

knowing the Viceroy's strength, had

arrived to ensure that Wisdom not interfere. He had come to create

turmoil, and see to it that the Viceroy be too busy dealing with internal
strife to come to the rescue of the Duchess. The clergy were no doubt

even now preparing to slaughter the Duchess and her advisers. They

would then install Grondovich as the new Duke, and the war would be

lost without staining the ground of a single battlefield.

At least that was their plan. But the Church of Squalor, he

reflected, had badly underestimated one Viceroy Wisdom.

“Private! Seize that Bishop, and kill him. Whatever news he has

for Grondovich must not reach the Duke's ears!”

The private ran off back towards the gate, and Wisdom followed

after him, the light of the blaze fading quickly behind him as his long

strides took him away from the fire.

287

When Wisdom reached the gate, he saw the private looking

frantically, all around this part of the outpost's perimeter.

“He's gone, Viceroy,” exclaimed the man. “I left him right here!

But when I came back, he was gone.”

“Find Jenkins – uh, check that. Find Wurensten,” commanded

the Viceroy. “Tell him to lead a search team. I want this Bishop found

and I want him killed. We know which direction he is headed, so find

him!”

“Yes Sir,” saluted the private.

But Bishop Cork was not to be found. He had melted away into

the night.

288

Verse Six

Wisdom buried Jenkins in the morning, and despite himself, he

wept. But circumstances afforded little time for mourning, and so, as the

day warmed towards the noon hour, the Viceroy gathered his troops and

outlined the plan.

“Time is of the essence. We can only hope that we are not

already too late. I will lead the cavalry, and we will make New

Hamptingtonshire before the four o'clock vespers at the cathedral. Once
there, we will lie in wait. When the clergy enters the courtyard, to answer

the clacking of the steeple clock, we will strike.

Infantry will follow as quickly as possible. I expect you to reach

us by the evening of the following day, and to then join us in glorious

battle, should it still rage.

Remember, my men. We ride beneath the banner of the

Righteous, and for our Duchess, in her hour of need. The strength of

our cause is the strength of righteousness, and we shall wreak justice

upon the devil's servants, and drive their foulness from the land.”

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Chapter 18 -

Grondovich Captures the Colony

Verse One

Duke Grondovich got over his disappointment regarding his

failed breeding program fairly quickly, and after toying with trying to fix

the project for a few days, he decide to abandon it altogether. And it was

not long before he decided that he needed a new project. So he retired

to his library and did a good deal of reading. When he emerged, he had a
few things to discuss with Yallers.

“Did you know, Yallers, that my estate here is exactly the same as

the estates of both the Duchess of New Hamptingtonshire and the Earl

of York?”

“Yes, sire, I know. There are quite a few such estates, actually.

At least a dozen on the continent, I'd say.”

“I'm not sure I like that, Yallers. It seems to me that my estate

ought to be different, don't you think?”

“But Sire, if it were different, it would be less grand. This design

is the one used by the higher nobles, like yourself. Only Dukes, Kings,
Earls and Barons can afford to build this design. I mean, occasionally a

Count might gather sufficient revenue, but for the most part, lesser

nobles are forced to use a lesser design.”

290

“I'm surprised, Regent, that you know all of this. I just learned

about these matters myself, you know. We have books of these designs

in the Library. Did you know that?”

“Yes, Duke. That is how we came to have an inn, and a stable,

and servants quarters, and every other structure in the city.”

“We used the designs contained within those books?”

“Of course, my liege, how else? The construction of most of

Illmingston took place several hundred years ago, but to this day, when

new structures are needed, we generally use the same designs we used

then. The Accutronians channel new ones, periodically, but past Dukes

have generally stuck with the old ones, in the interest of uniformity.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, I have decided that I shall construct

a new estate. And I am dissatisfied with the existing choices.”

“Would you like me to send a courier to the Accutronians? It is

possible that a new estate design has been channeled, but to be honest, I

think it rather unlikely. Accutron seems to deliver unto the people
blueprints of a more practical nature for the most part. Silos and carts

and plows – things like that. He delivered to a local Accutronian the

blueprint for the handgun during the time of your father, if you'll recall.”

“No, no, Regent. You are missing the point entirely, I'm afraid. I

intend to make my own design for a palace. I will need some paper and

something to write with. And I want you to find me a good location to

build it.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand, Duke.”

291

“What's not to understand, Yallers? You really need to think a

little bit more before you speak, man. You find me a place for a summer

palace.”

“No, Duke. Not that part. I understand that. What do you

mean by 'make my own design?' That's what I don't understand.”

“Just what I said, Regent! My word but you are slow today.”

But the Duke could see that Yallers was still confused about

something.

“Look. You get to finding the spot, and I'll start making the

plans. When I am done, I will show them to you, and you will see what I

mean.”

“As you say, Duke.”

“And Yallers?” added the Duke.

“Yes?”

“Try to find someplace good – someplace where there's a lot of

stuff.”

30 minutes later the Duke found Yallers in the map room..

“There you are!” said Grondovich. “Good. I have completed

my blueprints.”

The Duke placed his drawing down atop the map which his

Regent had open in front of him on the wide table in the center of the

room. The Regent looked at the paper. On it were a bunch of lines and
shapes, rendered poorly, and then, apparently, placed randomly.

292

“So you see,” said the Duke. “These lines are the walls. You can

see that I intend my estate to be square. And these smaller squares are

rooms, see? And these circles are towers, and those circles are ponds.
And those circles are... wait, are those ponds too? No, no. Those circles

are patios I think. And these wavy lines are waterfalls. And this thing

here is a throne, and this is a big window.”

Two things occurred to Regent Yallers. The first was that the

Duke, a man whom, to the best of the Regent's knowledge, had never

once had a good idea, had happened upon something truly brilliant here.
It had never before occurred to Yallers that men might make their own

plans. But as soon as the Duke started telling the Regent what his lines

meant, it had become obvious, and the potential implications – the

advantage this discovery could give Illmingston - made his head spin..

The second thing, though, was that other mortals would

eventually happen upon this truth too, if they had not already. And

Yallers was quite certain that, brilliant or not, the Duke's insight would
never be directed towards any helpful endeavor. The Duke, no doubt,

would instead expect his Regent to somehow turn that sheet of random

scribbles and shapes into a summer estate.

“So,” said the Duke. “I have done the hard part, Regent. As you

can see my plans are completed. I trust that you have found me a

suitable location?”

Yallers had, in fact, given the matter almost no thought at all.

But seeing that the Duke expected an immediate response, he went with

the first place that came to mind. He moved the “plans” for the new
estate off of the map, and pointed to a spot.

293

“I suggest, Duke, that you consider these lands to the northeast,

surrounding the stone quarry. It is high up in the hills, and will provide a

cool climate during the hot summer months. More importantly, the
proximity to the quarry will eliminate the need to transport heavy blocks

of stone any farther than necessary.”

Yallers found the question of whether there was “a lot of stuff”

there difficult to answer, and so he elected not to address it.

“Are there waterfalls there, Yallers?” asked Grondovich. “I

intend to have waterfalls at this new Palace.”

“Uh, I'm sorry Sire, but I don't know if there are waterfalls.”

“No matter,” said Grondovich. “We shall construct them

ourselves if necessary. Now let's go take a look at this place, Yallers.

Ready my horse.”

Yallers bowed. “I shall alert your honor guard, Sire.”

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Verse Two

Grondovich looked at the map, and then at the fortifications of

the Colony. He, Yallers, and the honor guard had just missed seeing

Wisdom's troops head down the Pass towards New Hamptingtonshire.

In fact, they had missed them by so little, that the dust raised by the

hoofs of horses and the boots of marching men still hung in the air.

“I think this map is drawn wrong, Yallers. We have clearly

entered New Hamptingtonshire, as this fortress flies the flag of the
Duchess, yet this map indicates that the whole pass here is part of

Illmingston.”

Yallers wasn't sure what to say to this.

“Don't worry my good man, I'm not upset,” said Grondovich,

and he patted Yallers on the back reassuringly. “It isn't your fault. You

had no way of knowing that the location you recommended is actually in
New Hamptingtonshire. You were just going by the map.”

The Regent, who had organized stone quarrying for the old

Duke, had drawn rather a different conclusion upon seeing the Colony..

“Sire, if I may, isn't it possible that the Duchess has encroached

upon Illmingston land. Isn't it possible that the map is right, and the
Duchess has simply stolen this land?”

“Nonsense! Look at all the dust in the air. That's textbook New

Hamptingtonshire. You know the saying, 'Dusty old New
Hamptingtonshire?' Everybody knows that.”

295

“As you say, Sire.”

But Grondovich could tell that Yallers still had doubts.

“Let's go ask them then, and settle this matter,” said the Duke,

irritated that his vassal remained unconvinced. And so with the dust of
Wisdom's army still blowing away in the wind, Duke Grondovich led his

honor guard and the Regent to the gate of the Colony, and he knocked

vigorously.

“Who is it?” asked a woman's voice from the other side of the

gate.

“It is Duke Grondovich, of the Dukedom of Illmingston. I'm

hoping that you can answer some questions to resolve a disagreement

that I am having with my Regent.”

The women inside, after some brief but spirited debate, decided

to let the Duke and his men inside.

Later, Grondovich walked along the top of the wide stone wall

surrounding the outpost and surveyed the surrounding lands. Yallers
followed behind the Duke, and tried to discuss with him the importance

of bringing more troops in to secure possession of the outpost.

“Yallers, I'm here to build a summer palace, not deal with military

matters. And anyhow, I have already received approval for my war-

fighting postponement. We're onto a new project now. Try to stay

focused on the task at hand.”

“But Sire, I must stress the urgency of...”

296

The Duke cut him off. “If it is so urgent then attend to it Regent,

don't bother me about it. Just do your job, Yallers.”

“As you say, Sire,” replied the Regent. But as the man turned to

leave, something else occurred to him.

“Sire, have you considered that perhaps you no longer need to

construct a palace, as this fortress is of the highest quality and would

make for you a most impressive home?”

Grondovich stared at Yallers for a moment, dumbfounded.

“You cannot be serious. The whole point of this project is to

'design my own palace,' not to 'go live in someone else's fort.'”

Yallers had nothing to say to this.

“Now,” said the Duke, “I'm inclined towards that flat spot, over

there by those trees. We are going to need some large stones, or wood,

or something strong like that, for the main part of the building...”

As the Duke surveyed the area in the fading light, a lone rider

clad in the burgundy robe of a Bishop of Squalor made his way past the

Colony's ramparts and down into the pass. Grondovich saw the man,
but the lone traveler made no impression on him whatsoever.

297

Chapter 19 -

The Helmet of Robotic Mind

Verse One

The day after the visit with Precreator, Religetti met with the

Church Negotiators, who had been rebuffed throughout the Duke's stay

in bed, and were frantic for their first crack at the man, in the aftermath

of the meaningsmithing that had broken his heart. They were surprised

now to meet a Duke whose perspective, though it had changed 180
degrees, was still no more accommodating to the Church's goals.

“You can annul the marriage, provided I retain the title. It will be

impossible to complete the Helmet of Robotic Mind without it.”

“Sire, you know that is impossible! The only way to abdicate the

throne is to annul the marriage, and if you annul the marriage you cannot
possibly keep the throne.”

“It seems then, gentlemen, that we are at an impasse. I suggest

you speak with me again after I complete the Helmet of Robotic Mind.”

The actual construction had indeed required many more steps

than the ones Precreator had delineated. This Religetti learned when he
read the paper that Precreator had given him. And of no small

significance was the fact that the paper made it clear that from the

moment he took the first step towards constructing the Helmet, he had

precisely too weeks to finish it. If it was not completed within two
weeks, it would not work.

298

So the first step that Religetti took was to attend to the second to

last step of the process, for this step required a Curtisarian. Rigaberto

instructed a courier to carry his request for a Sibling to the Cathedral of
Curtis, along with a copy of the complete instructions for building the

Helmet, just in case the Curtisarian's were inclined to disbelieve that the

situation was as urgent as the Duke claimed it to be.

Rigaberto told the courier to move as quickly as possible. He

took care to impress upon the man the urgency of the situation by

promising him an ounce of gold if he returned with a Curtisarian Sibling
within the fortnight allotted. This proved an effective motivator, and the

man literally ran to the stables to find a sturdy horse for the first leg of

his journey.

Still, the Duke was worried. He looked again at what the paper

said about this text channeling step, and was frustrated by uncertainty.

“On the final day of construction,” instructed the paper, “a

Sibling of the Church of Curtis must channel the Truth of the god of

Text and of Naming Things, in the presence of the Helmet, and that text,

having been read by no one, including its author, must be glued to the

inside of the Helmet. Please understand, if the Helmet is to work, no
person must read even one word of that text.”

This was the one element of the construction that concerned

Religetti the most, for the instructions stipulated quite specific details

regarding this penultimate step, and the successful implementation of

these elements was out of his hands. He would not know whether the

Sibling would arrive on time until the very end. Also, he was as yet

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unsure how he would make sure that no one, including the author of the

text, looked at the writing.

But he could only spend so much time worrying about that,

because he had many other steps to attend to.

Foremost, he sent a second courier to the Cathedral to request

that the Squalid ones lend him their anointing bowl. They refused. So

Religetti paid one of his attendants to go and steal it for him. The man

returned an hour after he had been dispatched, bowl in hand.

“It wasn't even guarded,” the fellow had shrugged, as he handed

the object to Rigaberto.

“Good work!” said the Duke, and he slapped the fellow on the

back. “Now do me a favor and go instruct the guards that under no

circumstances are they to let any Squalid clergy enter the estate for any
reason, for at least the next two weeks. We don't want them trying to

steal it back.”

And the fellow ran off to tell the guards just that.

The bowl was solid gold, and as soon as Religetti had it in his

hands, he upturned it and placed it on his head, to make sure that it

would fit. It did.

Religetti next attended to the more straightforward parts of the

construction of the artifact. He glued each of the finger bones of the god
of time onto the bowl – to what would be the outside of the Helmet.

Then he glued the Dragon Scale in the same fashion.

And then he attended to those requirements that the paper listed,

but that, really, didn't seem to make much sense. Religetti threw a very

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loud and successful party in the presence of the Helmet. Religetti pushed

the Helmet down into a plate of food that had been prepared by

Accutronians from the east. He then left it there for three days and
nights, removed the Helmet, and ate all the food. He used the Helmet as

his pillow for “the whole of one afternoon nap, with a duration of no less

than 30 minutes and no more than 1 hour.” It did not, by the way, make

a very good pillow. Nor did it make for a very restful nap. But he did it.

Of course, this kind of stuff seemed silly to the Duke, and he

suspected that it wasn't really necessary. He considered it quite possible
that Precreator was running him around, just for the god's amusement.

But since the man couldn't be sure, he followed all the instructions

precisely.

At last he had completed every step except for the last two. And

with three days remaining in the fortnight, there was nothing he could do

but wait. So it was a great relief to Rigaberto when the Curtisarian

Siblings arrived in Hamptingtonshire City, on the afternoon of the last of
the fourteen days. This traveling party, incidentally, entered the city

about the same time that Wisdom's cavalry arrived, but the two groups

didn't see one another, as they were headed to different parts of town.

The Curtisarian Church had received the Duke's courier with

great enthusiasm, and had read the copy of the instructions that

Rigaberto sent, and had seen immediately that this was a matter of great

historical significance. News of the courier's arrival spread quickly within
the Church, and soon many copies of the instructions had been made,

circulated, and read by the Siblings. And this is what made it possible for

one smart Sibling to come up with the idea that the the team that the

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Church would dispatch to New Hamptingtonshire should include a

Sibling named Blind Brother Wenton.

As you can imagine, Blind Brother Wenton had never been so

happy to be blind as the day that this suggestion was made. He was the

only Sibling who could be 100% trusted not to read the text he wrote.
But by no means was Blind Brother Wenton the only excited Sibling.

Indeed, all of the Church of Curtis was thrilled to participate in this

historic occasion.

At any rate, Religetti met with the three Curtisarian emissaries in

the library, where sat the almost completed Helmet. Clattiburn was there

too, and she was holding the Duke's hand.

As soon as the courier brought the Siblings into the library, the

Duke gave the courier the gold that he had been promised. He also gave

the man a big hug.

“You've done it, my good man!” Religetti exclaimed.

It had taken quite a while, but the staff was no longer surprised at

all by the Duke's unusual approach to ruling. And despite a lifetime's

worth of training to the contrary, most staff on the estate had long since

come to reciprocate Religetti's casual attitude towards hierarchy and

propriety.

“Thanks, Duke!” said the courier, staring at the chunk of gold in

his palm. “I'm going to make a night of it tonight, for sure, so don't

expect me back until morning, and I doubt I'll be much use for
couriering at any point tomorrow.”

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“Make a week of it, I'd say. You've certainly earned it, and you

have the means to afford all the debauchery you can stomach,” said

Religetti, still beaming about the arrival of the Curtisarians.

The newly arrived Siblings, for their part, weren't quite sure what

to make of this exchange. It was forgotten soon enough, as the Duke
returned attention to the matter at hand. Religetti was anxious to

proceed. He felt like he ought to hurry, even though he knew he had a

solid eight hours remaining. He did manage to display a little patience as

the Siblings wrangled over some details:

“But who will glue his text to the inside of the Helmet when he is

done?” asked one.

“Perhaps he can fold up the text, so we can't see it, and then one

of us can glue it in the Helmet.”

“But what if he folds it the wrong way, and we can still see the

text?”

“You morons!” interjected Blind Brother Wenton. “I'm blind,

not retarded. I'll glue the text, face down, to the inside of the helmet.

Just give me the Helmet, some glue, some paper, and a pen.”

“Then it's settled,” said Religetti, placing the Helmet on the table

in front of Blind Brother Wenton. “Hey! Can someone bring me some

paper, a pen and some glue?” the Duke then shouted down the hall.

A sweaty woman with her sleeves rolled up came to the door.

“I'm kind of in the middle of something right now, can it wait?”

she asked.

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Religetti crinkled his face apologetically. “Not really,” he said.

“This is pretty important.”

“Well, you want the floors clean don't you?” asked the woman.

The Duke thought about this. “No, not particularly,” he said.

“Well, that's what the Chamberlain told me to do. He said, 'clean

the floors.'”

“Yeah,” agreed Rigaberto, “I've noticed he seems to push a lot of

that sort of thing on people. But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather you

get me writing stuff.”

“Clarice!”

interjected Clattiburn, having heard enough. “Go get

the things that the Duke requested right now!”

“Fine,” sighed the woman. “I'll be right back.”

And in short order Wenton had paper, a pen, and some glue on

the desk in front of him.

“Thank you,” shouted the Duke after the woman, as she left the

room.

The two sighted Siblings looked at one another.

“Uh...” said one.

“We must now leave Blind Brother Wenton in peace, Duke,”

interrupted the other. And the two Siblings and the Duke walked from
the room.

“How long will this take?” asked Religetti, as he walked with the

Siblings and Clattiburn down the hall, away from the library.

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“Impossible to say. Blind Brother Wenton is skilled at

channeling the truths of Curtis, but ultimately, it is only with the god's

blessing that any channeling will occur.”

It neared 4 in the afternoon, and this news rekindled Religetti's

stress. He began to hum. It was something Rigaberto had come up with
after the Helmet had been named, and the Duke now hummed whenever

he was preoccupied.

“What is that sound you are making, Duke Religetti?” asked one

of the Siblings, amazed at the music.

It took the Duke a second to realize what sound the Sibling

referred to.

“Oh. That is something I started doing recently. It involves

making specific frequencies, one after another, in a certain cadence. I call
it 'frequency successioning with cadence.'” (Needless to say, the Duke's

name didn't catch on. It eventually came to be called 'humming' instead.)

“It's absolutely remarkable!” declared the Sibling. “I've never

heard anything like it!”

But before any more could be said about the subject, the group

heard Blind Brother Wenton holler down the hall that he was done.

“You're done gluing it and everything?” asked a breathless Duke,

when he reentered the library.

“That I am,” indicated Wenton.

Through the open window, from outside, could be heard the

clacking sound of the steeple clock of the Squalid Cathedral. (Before the

invention of bells, clocks used a device in which one large piece of wood

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was clapped against another, to mark the hours.) Just as the fourth and

final clack sounded, there was a shimmering in the air, and Baby Lady

Bae appeared in the room in front of the Duke and Clattiburn and the
Siblings.

This she god smiled at each in turn, and each felt a rush of

warmth and contentment within him. Even Blind Brother Wenton,

though he could not see the god smile, felt the full force of the god's

upturned lips. Baby Lady Bae then turned her full attention to Rigaberto.

“So. Let's have a look at you then,” she told him.

For the first time, the Duke worried about this step of the

process. Precreator had told him it was nothing to be concerned about,
and up until this point, Religetti had taken the god at his word. But now

he started getting nervous.

He raised his arms up in the air and turned around in a circle, to

afford the Duchess a better look.

“Ha ha,” laughed Baby Lady Bae. “That isn't necessary,

Rigaberto. I'm not looking at your body, you know.”

“Oh,” replied the Duke. “Ok.”

And he put down his arms and turned towards Baby Lady Bae

and looked straight into her beautiful brown eyes. She graced him with

another smile.

“You are a good man, Rigaberto Religetti,” she said. “And you

have my blessing.”

And with that she reached out and grabbed him and hugged him

very tightly. Religetti wrapped his arms around her with utter gratitude,

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for he had never known such joy before that moment. The torrent of

love that infused him was limitless.

At last the god released the man, and Rigaberto realized that he

was crying, and he noticed that Baby Lady Bae wept as well, and that his

neck was wet with her tears.

“Do not choose to undertake this endeavor lightly, my friend.

You must know what you will sacrifice. You and Clattiburn are meant

for one another, and should you don the Helmet, she will lose you, and
you her.”

Religetti looked to the woman that he loved. She cried but made

no sound.

“If you choose to make the sacrifice,” said Baby Lady Bae,

“know that all mortalkind will benefit. The Truths of immortal time
resonate more purely, and more viscerally, than any other. But they are

also far more difficult to channel. Music is not a medium like any other.

It is... Words are of no use. Only through the Book of Robotic Mind

will the people come to understand it.”

“Rigaberto, you must put on the Helmet,” said Clatti in a quiet,

sad voice. “The gods went to a lot of trouble for the good of the people,

and though I love you deeply...”

She fell into silence, and for a long time, she and Religetti and the

Siblings and Baby Lady Bae all stood together and said nothing. And

their were tears in the eyes of each.

“I love you too,” Religetti said to Clattiburn. “And I'm so sorry it

took me three years to see it.”

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Then he hugged her, and she him.

When at last the two ended the embrace, Baby Lady Bae took

Clattiburn by the hand and walked her from the room.

Rigaberto Religetti picked up the completed helmet and placed it

upon his head.

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Chapter 20 -

The Slaughter of the Clergy of Squalor

Verse One

Just as the fourth and final clack sounded from the Squalid clock

steeple, Viceroy Wisdom's calvary division sprung from behind a tall

hedge in the Cathedral gardens, and brought death upon the throngs of

parish priests and Bishops of squalor. Archbishop Captain Baker was

shot in the head by the Viceroy. Most of the late Archbishop's
colleagues were hacked by swords. The Church maintained a small

fighting force, but it was mostly accustomed to looking stately during

Church business. Nevertheless, it arrived on the scene quickly. And it

then, just as quickly, left the scene. It wanted no part of Wisdom's well
trained, and apparently highly motivated cavalry division.

A group of 30 or so clergy managed to lock themselves in a

tower. Individual priests managed to escape into the city. But for the

most part, the clergy of the Church of Squalor were slaughtered. And

when the courtyard was empty of living enemy, Wisdom's troops

prepared to burn the cathedral to the ground.

It was then that the troops of the Duchess arrived.

The Duchess, when she first received disjointed reports of the

attack, had assumed that Duke Grondovich's secret weapon had been

unleashed upon the Cathedral of Squalor. She ordered a division of her

best troops to defend her estate and then sent the rest of her recently

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called up, and very untrained, troops down to the cathedral to deal with

the situation.

These troops outnumbered Wisdom's men by at least 6 to 1. So

the Viceroy and his men barricaded themselves and their horses inside

the cathedral, determined to hold out until the infantry arrived. Wisdom
lamented that his worst fears had come to fruition. The Church had

seized control of the New Hamptingtonshire military. Wisdom knew

that he and his men were the Duchess' only hope – if she still lived.

The Viceroy had a small cadre of archers with him, and using

these, and his handgun, he managed to keep the Duchess' men at bay

through the night. The next day, Wisdom's gun stopped functioning, and

the barricades wouldn't hold much longer. it looked as though the
Viceroy's cavalry was done for.

But then the rest of Wisdom's army arrived. These men were

unsure what to do at first, seeing an army bearing the standards of the
Duchess surrounding the Cathedral. But when this army suddenly

turned around and attacked them, they knew enough to fight back.

Wisdom could not see much of what was going on, but he

correctly interpreted the commotion that he did see as the arrival of his

infantry, and he launched his own attack. The doors of the Cathedral

burst open and the Viceroy's men and horses sprang forth with blood in
their eyes.

Wisdom's men were still substantially outnumbered, but they

fought smarter and held better position. In the end, it wasn't enough.
And when it was clear the battle could not be won, Wisdom surrendered

in hopes of saving the lives of at least a few of his men.

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Wisdom and his remaining men had been hauled away, and the

Duchess' troops had largely dissipated, when Elias Cork rode into the

courtyard of the Church of Squalor. Elias' horse practically stepped on

the body of Archbishop Captain Baker. Cork looked down at the corpse
of his former boss. Then he looked across the courtyard littered with the

dead. And echoing across this courtyard and off the walls of the

cathedral were the woeful laments of the men who were beyond help,

and who had been left behind to moan away their final breaths.

“Aren't you going to get the hat?” said a voice from behind him.

It was Entropotripocles. Elias Cork didn't even turn around. He

just got off his horse and looked around. He saw the bodies of friends,

acquaintances, girls he had slept with... And then he saw Olo, the man

who had welcomed him into the church, and with whom he had been

fast friends ever since. Olo was white and still, eyes open, lying on his
back. His red robe was a darker red than usual. It had taken on the

distinctly brownish color of dried blood.

“The hat, Elias,” said the god as he walked up next to his son.

“The Archbishop's hat, you know. You better get it and put it on

now, because there may have been other Bishops that survived.”

“I wanted to be Archbishop, but not like this. This is...”

“Yeah. It's not a pretty scene, that's for sure.”

“Not a pretty scene?! It's absolutely appalling! Why? How could

you?!”

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The god lit a cigarillo, inhaled it deeply, and then blew out a big

cloud of smoke.

“I must admit,” he said, “all this death makes it easy to see why

so many mortals mistake me for an evil god. But it is a mistake, because

I'm not evil.”

“Not evil?! What else can you be? You can't possibly justify

doing this.”

“See that's just the thing, Elias. I don't do justification. That's

something you mortals seem to be obsessed with. Pretending that a

good story changes what has been done.”

The two beings then just stood and looked at the field of bodies

for some time.

“But you know,” continued the god at last, “every once in while

there's a mortal who makes the other mistake, and thinks that I am good.

I must say it's very endearing. But it too, is definitely wrong. And when

that illusion is dispelled, well, it can be pretty upsetting, I guess, if that
mortal was too attached to his previous perception.”

Elias Cork looked at his father, then back at the carnage..

“You got another one of those?” Cork asked at last, indicating

the cigarillo that the god smoked.

“Sure,” said the god, and he handed Elias the pack.

Elias put a cigarillo in his mouth and Entropotripocles lit it, and

the two of them smoked in silence for a little bit. Then Cork leaned
down and picked up the Archbishop's hat. It was a perfect fit.

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Chapter 21 -

The Resolution of All Things But One

Verse One

The Captain of the City Guard, whom the Duchess had put in

charge of the new army that she had called up, dragged Wisdom before

his ruler, in the large, main hall of the woman's estate. Atypically, she sat

upon the throne that stood at the front of the room. She still didn't like

the throne, as it was very uncomfortable, but she felt it was appropriate
that she sit there on this day, given that the war with Grondovich had

begun. She felt that it would inspire her people to see her seated in her

“head of state chair.”

“Here is the Illmingston scum who led the attack upon the

Squalid One's Milady. I regret to inform you that many of the clergy

were killed, but the Cathedral itself was saved, and the Illmingston army
has been vanquished.”

The Duchess looked at Wisdom and then closed her eyes and

rubbed her temples.

“Thank you Captain,” she sighed, her eyes still closed. “You may

leave us now.”

“But Milady, the prisoner will surely...”

“I said, thank you, Captain. You may leave us now.”

Reluctantly, the Captain of the City Guard turned and walked

from the large hall.

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The Duchess knew Wisdom to be no traitor, but her first impulse

was to hang him anyway. But she heard what he had to say anyway, and

after talking with him, she found she just couldn't do it. Where had this
sentimentality come from? She seemed to be getting soft in her old age.

Still, the woman had no one else upon whom to take out her frustration,

so she stripped Wisdom of his title and threw him in the City Jail.

(Within three months, though, she would release him and give him back
his old job with her Honor Guard, and his old rank of Corporal.)

She then dispatched a scout party to the colony, in hopes of

saving the resource. But even as she dispatched the men, she somehow

knew that it was pointless.

Then she rose from her throne and walked slowly to her

chamber. She needed to take a nap.

The next day, the Duchess awoke feeling drained. But she sent

for the new Archbishop of Squalor anyways. With her fears of war with
Illmingston dispelled, (she had pieced together enough to know that she

had been played, though she still wasn't sure exactly how) she thought

that now would be a good time to see to it that the matter of her

marriage was dealt with. The Church had been struck quite a blow, and
she doubted seriously she would encounter much of a fight from the new

Archbishop regarding the annulment of her marriage. That, at least, if

nothing else, would be one good thing to come out of this debacle.

“Archbishop Elias Cork has arrived, Milady,” said the Guard

stationed outside the door of her chamber.

“Send him in.”

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Elias walked in and looked at the Duchess. He thought he saw

the resemblance. It wasn't striking, but it was there, if you knew to look

for it. And although Entropotripocles had said no more than a sentence
or two about Cork's mother, it had been all the information he had

needed. It had been almost impossible not to figure out, in fact, once he

had turned his attention to the matter.

“Hello, Archbishop... Cork, is it?” asked the Duchess.

“That's right, Milady.”

“Good. Ok, let's not mince words,” the woman stated. “Your

predecessor failed to dissolve my marriage, and you saw what happened

to him. I trust that you will not repeat his mistakes. Can I expect you to
attend to this matter in short order?”

“You had nothing to do with the attack on the Cathedral

Duchess replied Elias, curtly. “There's no sense in pretending that you

did.”

“How...”

“How did I know? Because if anybody orchestrated the whole

thing it was I, although, to be honest, I was only a pawn like yourself.”

The Duchess stared at the man, and raced to try to figure out

what was going on.

“The reality is that my father orchestrated the whole thing, for

reasons only he knows,” concluded the Archbishop.

“Your father? Who...” but then it struck her, and she too saw the

resemblance, for she too now knew to look for it.

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“Guard,” she called out towards her door. “Bring another chair

in here, so that my guest and I may both sit.”

Then she turned her attention back to Elias Cork.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

“Yes we do, mother. But before we get to that, I have some

good news for you. Your marriage is already over. Rigaberto Religetti

successfully constructed the Helmet of Robotic Mind, and he has entered
a state of perfect Robotic Mind. So he is no longer fully human, and he

is therefore not eligible for marriage. In fact, the Curtisarians have

already removed him from his – excuse me, your – estate, and they are

transporting him to their Cathedral across the channel.”

The Duchess nodded, and smiled faintly at this news.

And then the Guard arrived with the chair that the Duchess had

requested, and she talked with her son that afternoon, and many

afternoons thereafter. Eventually, she reflected that the god had not

been lying that evening many years past. He had given her something of
value after all.

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Verse Two

For his part, Elias Cork made some changes around the Church

of Squalor. He kept many of the fees and such, just to make sure the

Church had a reliable flow of income, but he got rid of the whole book

of Church doctrine and resolved to replace it with something better.

He worked on the writing of it for years, making and scrapping

draft after draft, trying to get it just right. In the end, Cork settled on a
doctrine comprised of the very first sentence he had come up with, and

nothing more. It was a sentence that he had immediately dismissed

because he had thought it lacked the necessary gravitas. But it kept

coming back to him, and eventually he decided that it said everything that
needed to be said, and even though it seemed to ring a tad silly, he went

with it. It would be easy to remember.

To this day it remains the whole of the doctrine of the Church of

Squalor:

Do what you choose, and choose what you do, but don't be

surprised when others do too.

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Verse Three

Clattiburn Bonorse gave birth to a healthy baby boy named

Horcy. And she decided that the boy would have her last name. Thus

was Rigaberto the very last of the Religetti's, the third and final of the

prophesied men from New Hamptingtonshire.

Horcy Bonorse would go on to compose many great works of

music. His work inspired countless other mortals to attempt to manifest

the immortal Truths of Precreator into mortal form. His melodies are
among the most well known in the world. You know that song Jingle

Bells? He wrote that.

Indeed, his music has become so ingrained in the minds of so

many people that it is difficult to imagine that there was a time when

such songs had not yet been written. And there is a good reason for this.

They are “immortal” Truths, after all.

His father, and his grandfather, and his great grandfather all

would have been very proud of him.

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Verse Four

As the Squalid clergy, a few miles to the east, were being

slaughtered, Religetti closed his eyes and relinquished his mortal being to

the Helmet of Robotic Mind. Two of the Siblings in attendance saw him

close his eyes and open his mouth, as if about to tell them something.

”1, 0, 0 ,0, 1, 1, 0, 1, 0....”

Blind Brother Wenton, being somewhat more sharp-witted than

his Siblings, immediately began transcribing. Religetti was speaking very,

very quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Blind Brother Wenton used

horizontal dashes to represent 0, as it was more efficient. A second

Sibling, shortly thereafter, also began transcribing, just to be sure they got
it all down right.

But according to Curtisarian lore – now mind you, this is not

channeled gospel - the third Sibling didn't join in. This third Sibling, his
attention having been so focused on the closed-eyed and chanting

Religetti as to not notice the efforts of the other Siblings at the desk, said

five minutes after Precreator's prophet began - “Um, maybe we should

write this down.”

I heard that story soon after becoming an initiate, and it cracked

me up. I'm not sure if it's true, but it's a funny story.

What is true, however, is that Blind Brother Wenton was so alert,

and so prepared (for he still had the pen and paper right in front of him),

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that he managed to catch the very first digit, and thereby ensured that not

a single digit of the chanting was lost.

What is also true is that although Rigaberto was Precreator's

prophet, and although the Truths that the Book of Robotic mind would

teach were Precreator's truths, the Helmet was mostly constructed of the
golden anointing bowl of Squalor. And Entropotripocles wanted mortals

to remember this contribution, and also to come to see that the Squalid

path is one that can facilitate the manifestation of Precreator's Truths, (or

Curtis', or GWIToo FaTS, for that matter.) So Entropotripocles used his
influence upon the Helmet to see to it that the chanting of the code took

Religetti exactly 10 decades, 100 days, 1 hour, 10 minutes, and 10 seconds

to complete. (If you're curious, convert it to decimal.)

This chanting, which began at lighting speed, got progressively

slower as the weeks and months passed. There was almost a full year

between the penultimate digit and the final digit. When that last digit

finally came, Rigaberto Religetti, oblivious - awash in melodic rapture -
died.

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Verse Five

But our story is not quite over. You may recall that there was a

fourth part to the prophecy. The fourth part was unlike the first three.

It didn't offer much information, nor did it use any mysterious language.

It simply said, “Alienator will have his chance.”

When Rigaberto Religetti died, this last bit of the prophecy came

to fruition. In fact, Alienator's chance was the last of four notable things

that coincided with the Prophet's death.

The first thing that happened was that the transcriptions of the

1's and 0's that Precreator's prophet had been chanting were completed.

That code is the Book or Robotic Mind, and though we mortals do not
yet understand it, we someday will.

The second thing that happened was that an initiate of the

Church of Curtis removed the Helmet of Robotic mind from the head of
the Prophet's corpse. This allowed him to find out a secret that everyone

in the Church of Curtis had been dying to know for 90 years. Blind

Brother Wenton, you see, had never been able to tell anybody what he

had written and then glued inside the Helmet. He had no memory
whatsoever of what the text said. And naturally, this made everyone very

curious to find out.

And the other thing that happened, well... it happened to me.

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Chapter 22 -

Alienator Gets His Chance

Verse One

“Sibling August, what is this?” demanded Sibling Helson of me,

the moment I entered his office.

I looked on Helson's desk and saw that he had the most recent

journal in front of him, and that it was open to the first page.

“Well, Sibling Helson,” I calmly replied, “ It appears to be the

October 1984 edition of the Curtisarian Journal.”

An initiate had delivered to me Helson's administrative summons

a full hour earlier, but I had been in no hurry to appear. Waiting had no

doubt only made the administrator even angrier. But Helson and I were
both Board members at the time and he could have simply requested a

meeting. I would have met with him either way, but now I was required

to do so, and I didn't much like that.

“Don't you play dumb with me, Augie,” said Helson, pointing his

finger at me. “You know what I am talking about.”

I grabbed a chair that stood against the wall and moved it to the

middle of the room, across the desk from Helson, and sat down.

“Well, I'm going to guess that you take exception with some of

the contents of said edition, yes?” I said.

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“Yes, Sibling, I do. In particular I take exception with something

written by the journal's esteemed editor, and included in it's most recent

edition as a preface,” said Helson.

“Oh?” I queried innocently. “You didn't like my preface? Did

you find the prose clumsy?”

“Dammit, August!” declared Helson, pounding his fist upon his

desk. “The board ruled on this in no uncertain terms. And you simply

ignored that ruling and did what you wished.”

“I hardly think a 4-3 ruling with two recusals qualifies as 'no

uncertain terms,' Sibling Helson.”

“The ruling,” replied Helson, “may have reflected a lack of

consensus, but the decision it rendered was clear and binding. You

sought the approval of the board to sully the journal with this sort of
politicing. Your motion was denied. And then you went ahead and did it

anyway! It's totally unacceptable, and I fully intend to see you stripped of

your editorship.”

“You do what you must, Helson. Just as I did what I had to do.

To have the influence of the Journal available, and to choose not to use it

to oppose this authoritarian insanity, is nothing short of reprehensible.”

“We went over all of this in the board meeting, Sibling. If you

feel so strongly that you wish to channel the truths of Curtis into this sort

of diatribe, that is your business. But you will not do so as a

representative of his Church.”

“Then you do not wish to see his Church represented accurately,

administrator. Because that so-called 'diatribe' voices the thoughts of the
almost every Sibling in residence. And fully half of the Siblings wanted

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to see that “diatribe” in print, in the journal, that the people might know

where the Curtisarians stand.”

“Look, August. None of us like Generalissimo Strong. Certainly

I agree that the man is the most loathsome variety of cretin. But at least

he has stayed out of the business of the Church. Until this morning, that
is. I met with his representative at 8 AM. And the man made it clear

that should anything like this happen again, the Church risks losing its

status as an independent state.”

This was quite some piece of news indeed. And initially, it

alarmed me. But then it occurred to me what was really happening here,

and I became quite indignant.

“And that is why you are so upset, isn't it?! You don't care about

the so-called principles of the Church that you always carry on about at

all! You are angry because of very practical, concrete risks to this

institution!”

“That is absolutely not true, August. I mentioned my earlier

meeting with Strong's ambassador simply to illustrate a point. The
Curtisarian Principles are not merely the spiritual core our Church, they

are also the means by which we have, for nearly 2000 years, assured our

autonomy. And just one loose cannon can cost us that autonomy.”

On another day, regarding another issue, I might have seen

Helson's point. But about the ruler of Portugal, I was anything but

detached. And at that moment, I was fully caught up in the heat of the

rhetorical battle, so I wasn't about to concede anything.

“Bootlick if you wish, administrator,” I retorted. “But it seems to

me that if the Truths we channel are subject to the Generalissimo's

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approval, then we are already anything but autonomous. And in the face

of such autocratic bullying, your 'principled detachment' begins to look

an awful lot like rank cowardice.”

And then I strode purposefully from the man's office, thus

bringing the conversation to an abrupt conclusion. So I walked away
down the hall feeling pretty good about the meeting. Because that last

retort, I thought, had really packed a wallop.

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Verse Two

After I ate lunch, I returned to my quarters for a nap, just as I did

every day. But it took me a little longer to fall asleep than usual. I

thought about my meeting with Helson, and about the misdeeds of the

Generalissimo, and I really worked myself up into a hearty measure of
indignation about the whole thing. And when I at last fell asleep, I did so

feeling absolutely convinced that I was right.

My usual afternoon nap lasts no more than 20 or 30 minutes.

But on this day, I slept for hours, and when I awoke, it was dinner time.

At least, according to the clock it was. The clock read 5:15, and the lights

were off, but the room was brightly lit, which made no sense. Maybe the

clock was busted.

Regardless, I had been asleep a good while, I knew that. So I

decided to head down towards the great hall and see. Even between

meals, there was always someone there. It was the largest room in the
Cathedral, and it was definitely the social hub for all Siblings and initiates

in residence.

When I entered the room, I saw that it was full of people eating

dinner. Now, I always sat at a table near the front of the room, with a

group of Siblings that I had known for a long time. A Sibling is, of

course, welcome to sit with whomever he chooses, but the initiates are
seated together by year, with the first year students at the first long table

in the back, the second year students one table forward from them, and

so forth. So by the time an initiate achieves full Siblinghood, he has been

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sitting with the same people for seven years. And, as a consequence, he

usually continues to sit with them. I was no exception.

Of course, I had been a Full Sibling for a good ten years, so their

were only a handful of us left to sit together. (Few Siblings stay in

residence for more than a couple of years.)

But all that's not really important. The point I'm getting at is that

I liked to sit with friends, and being fairly senior Siblings meant we sat up

near the front. So once I had filled up a plate, I had to walk past a lot of
people to get to my seat. And I couldn't help but notice that I seemed to

be attracting a lot of attention from people as I walked past them.

At last I got to my table and I sat down between Nad and Fergus.

That put me straight across from Lozingee Plum, and, well, I was a little

bit in love with her.

“Man, everybody keeps looking at me for some reason,” I said as

I sat. “I don't know what's up. Do I have something on my face or

what?”

“Hi, Augie,” said Nad, because he was peering into his soup,

apparently in search of some foreign object that had fallen into it.

But Lozingee and Fergus just looked at me, a bit wide-eyed.

“What?” I said. “What does everyone keep staring at me for.”

At this point, Nad looked up, and was sufficiently startled that he

jerked his knee up into the bottom of the table, and his soup sloshed

onto his tray.

“Ow! Goddammit!” cursed Nad, vigorously rubbing his knee

beneath the table.

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“You're glowing, Augie,” said Lozingee.

“Yeah,” said Fergus. “No doubt about it. You're all aglow,

man.”

I held my arm up in front of my face.

“Well, I don't see anything,” I said.

But then it struck me that the rest of the room appeared to be

very well lit. I could see everything with remarkable clarity.

“Well, I see it too,” said Nad, who still grimaced and rubbed at

his leg. “You're definitely glowing,”

“Definitely,”

agreed

Lozingee.

But at this point I thought I had figured out what was going on.

It had happened to me a few times before. It was Channel Vision.

Channel Vision was not common, but it was not particularly

uncommon, either. It was reported by Siblings in residence at least a few

times a year, and who knows how often it happened but went

unreported. When it was reported, though, the details were almost
always the same:

A Sibling would go either to the administrative offices or to the

archival offices to report a strange occurrence. He'd say how he had
been writing the night before, and the flow of it had been going really

well. Everything was coming out gold – he had never been so locked

into channeling before. It was like Curtis had climbed in his brain and

taken over all the controls. But then, when he was finished writing, and
was ready to go to bed, he went to turn out the lights, only to discover

that they had never been on in the first place. He flipped them on and

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off a few times, just to be sure, but it made no difference. Even when

they were off, the room refused to get dark.

“I seem to have Channel Vision,” I told my friends.

“Channel Vision?” asked Fergus. “Like, you can only see right in

front of you?”

“Ha ha,” laughed Nad. “That's tunnel vision, moron.”

“I'm assuming that you know what it looks like from experience,

yes?” Lozingee asked me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Not quite so vivid as this, but yeah.”

“Because you know that it doesn't make you glow, right?” she

further queried.

“Well, what is Channel Vision, then?” Fergus asked Nad.

“I wasn't sure if it did or not,” I answered the woman. “But I

didn't think so.”

“It definitely does not,” she said. “Something weird is going on.”

“Were you writing just before you came down here?” Nad asked

me. “Like, unusually well or whatever? Because supposedly that's when
you get it.”

“I was sleeping. That's another weird thing about it. I was just

sleeping, then I got up, and I thought my clock was wrong, because by 5
o' clock this time of the year, it's pretty dark in my room, but I could see

everything just fine.”

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“So you went to sleep, mid-afternoon, and everything was

normal, and when you woke up this evening, you were like this?” asked

an incredulous Lozingee.

“Yep.”

“Will someone please tell me what you guys are talking about?!”

demanded Fergus.

“Dammit, Ferg!” said Nad. “It's too much of a hassle to have to

explain. And what kind of Curtisarian's never heard of Channel Vision,

anyways. Just look it up later. We do have an archives, you know.”

The four of us kept discussing my unusual circumstances for

quite some time. Fergus eventually squeezed an explanation out of
Lozingee, and I ate my food while she filled him in. And once Ferg

understood what we were talking about, the four of us tossed a few

possible explanations around. But after a while, there just wasn't

anything else to say about the subject, and the conversation turned to
more earthly matters.

I told my friends about my morning meeting with Helson. Ferg

and Nad sided with me, but Lozingee did not.

“You shouldn't have published that, Augie,” she said. “It isn't

our way.”

And because it came from her, I couldn't help but feel like I had

been caught doing something wrong.

But then the talk turned from what I had done to what the

Generalissimo was doing, and my doubts faded. Lozingee hated him just

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as much as I did, and Nad and Ferg weren't far behind. We talked about

the draconian new laws, the military build up, and the reports that

Squalid churches were being burned. We talked about the various
prohibitions that had been put in place, and about the restrictions on the

press. We all felt bad for the average Portuguese citizen, and glad to be

(technically, at least) citizens of an independent state. And by the time 6

PM rolled around, I had gotten myself worked up into quite a lather of
righteous indignation.

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Verse Three

Bonn was nearing the end of a long boring afternoon in

Religetti's room. It was a terrible job, sitting there, waiting for something

that almost surely would not happen. (Which is why we made the

initiates do it.) You couldn't read or sleep, because you couldn't run the

risk of not hearing it, if it happened. You could eat, but you weren't
supposed to talk.

But you usually at least had company. And even though

conversation was pretty much out, it was still better than doing it by

yourself. Bonn's roommate Hubert had been scheduled to sit

Attendance with Bonn, on this particular day. And that should have

made the task less dreadful. But Hubert had only stayed for an hour or
so.

Hubert had come with food enough for the both of them, and as

soon as the supervising Sibling left, the two 14 year olds started
whispering about it.

“Bonn – you want some of this?”

“Are those the fish tacos from the fridge?” Bonn had asked.

“Yeah. But I got dibs on them. You want some of this cheese

and bread? I also got some crackers, and check it out... wine. I swiped it

from Sibling Giorgio.”

But Bonn was looking at the fish tacos still.

“I wouldn't eat those, if I were you,” he warned Hubert.

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“Why not? You obviously were just going to let them sit in the

fridge, so they reverted to unowned status.”

“You're right. I wasn't going to eat them,” said Bonn. “And you

shouldn't either.”

“They've been in the fridge,” Hubert said. “They're fine.”

”Yeah they've been in the fridge, but they were awfully ripe when

I got them, and that was two days ago.”

“So don't eat them then,” said Hubert, and he bit into one.

Before too long, Hubert had finished them both, and Bonn had

eaten the bread and the cheese, and the two boys had finished what was

left in the wine bottle that Hubert had secured, which wasn't much.

40 minutes later, Hubert was rolling on the floor and groaning,

and sweat poured down the boy's face. Bonn had called down the hall,

and the supervising Sibling, Onu, came and took Hubert. The Sibling

had said he would send a replacement, but none had ever come.

So it had been a really slow four hours, just sitting by the

window, doing nothing. And Bonn hadn't even remembered to wear a
watch, so he wasn't sure how much longer he had until 6:30 – that's

when his shift ended. But it had been dark for a while now, so it couldn't

be that much longer.

“Zero.”

“What?” asked Bonn, reflexively. But then he realized that it was

the Prophet who had spoken. Clear as day. It had to have been him,
because there wasn't anyone else in the room.

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Bonn opened the transcription book, and flipped to the last entry

excitedly, and then, right beside it, he wrote with a trembling hand: “0.”

Then he got up to yell down the hall for someone to send Sibling

Onu. He was anxious to inform him that another digit had been spoken

and recorded. But as the boy ran to the door, he noticed that Religetti's
head had slumped forward, and upon further investigation, he

determined that the prophet was dead. And once he had decided that

Religetti was definitely not going to be reciting any more digits – ever -

he just couldn't resist the temptation to be the first to know.

So he took the Helmet off of the dead Prophet's head, and he

saw the paper that was still glued to the top of the inside of the bowl.

And at that point he concluded that he'd better involve some other
people in this, because the last thing he wanted to do was rip the paper or

otherwise mess things up. As it stood, he could put the helmet back on

Religetti's head and no one would be the wiser. But if he ruined the

paper... well, that was a much bigger bust than he wanted to risk.

Still, once the Siblings got here, his chance would be gone. He

wanted to at least touch the slip, having heard so much speculation about

what it said. So he very gingerly poked it, and when he did, the paper
came loose and fell to the floor.

Now, he couldn't very well just leave it there on the floor. And

there was no way to stick it back onto the Helmet. So Bonn picked the

slip up and read what it said, and then he ran off to tell his fellow Siblings

that the Prophet was dead, and that the book of Robotic Mind was

complete. And, of course, to satisfy the curiosity of a century's worth of
Siblings.

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Verse Four

I had become quite worked up, sitting with my friends, talking

politics. I talked about how inexcusable it was that the Church did

nothing about the Generalissimo, and this became talk about how

someone needed to step up and make some changes.

Then, at 6PM, just when Rigaberto Religetti died, I was taken by

a powerful urge to put my mouth where my indignation was.

“Fergus, do me a favor, will you. Go turn on the mic.”

“Why?” Ferg asked.

“Just do it, please, ok?” I replied.

Ferg looked at Nad and Lozingee Plum, but then he shrugged

and got up and went to turn on the soundboard.

“What are you doing, August?” asked Plum.

“I'm taking matters into my own hands,” I said, and I rose from

my seat and walked towards the podium at the front of the great hall.

“Don't do this, Augie,” said Lozingee. “You're making a

mistake.”

I slowed down, because the woman's words tugged at my shirt.

But I didn't turn and look back at her, so her words lost their grip and I

kept walking.

When I reached the podium, I looked out across the assembled

Siblinghood and I noticed that the room had become fuzzy. I held up

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my arm and, for the first time, I could now see for myself the glow that

consumed me. From what my friends had told me, it had previously

been a soft white. But now the glow was tinged with green and it
flickered and leapt from my body like flames.

The room quieted before I even began to speak - the sight of a

Sibling at the podium, exuding some sort of magical energy, got people's

attention.

I heard the crackle of the speakers come alive. This sound turned

the heads of those Siblings and initiates who had not theretofore noticed

me at the podium. And within moments, the room was silent.

“SIBLINGS,” I began, and my voice boomed from the speakers.

Ferg adjusted the levels, and the next words I said were at the right

volume.

“The council has recently rendered a decision. It is a decision

that I strongly disagree with. And as a council member, I have the right

to challenge that decision in debate, to be adjudicated before and by the

general assembly of the Siblinghood and initiates. I now invoke that
right, pending a declaration of willingness to defend by a Sibling in good

standing. Barring such a declaration, of course, my challenge will carry

the day.”

“I so declare!” proclaimed Helson.

He had risen from a seat at a table near the front of the room,

but all the way to the other side from where I had been sitting. And he
looked absolutely furious. What I was now doing – this very public and

spontaneous airing of council business, was unprecedented. Though it

was within my rights to announce my intent to hold debate on the

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decision in any manner I chose, this sort of grandstanding just wasn't

done.

“We will begin proceedings at 9AM on the morrow,” spat

Helson. “Now, if you are quite finished, I am sure all assembled will

appreciate being permitted to get back to their meals. That fiery glow
that flickers upon you appears to have burned away your social grace.”

“No, Sibling Helson. As a matter of fact, I am not finished. I

call that the debate commence immediately.”

“You can't do that!” protested Helson.

“'Any board member may invoke his right to call immediate

debate before the general assembly, provided there be a quorum, should

that board member believe that it serves the interest of the Church to do

so,' I said, quoting the bylaws. “I do so believe. Therefore I can do that,
and I will do that. I call debate now! Bar the doors.”

There was some commotion, and perhaps indecision, at the back

of the room, but soon enough the heavy oaken doors were shut, and
barred.

“And now, Sibling Helson,” I concluded, “I have done that.”

Curtisarian debate, you see, is defined by a very precise set of

rules. The first of which is that, once called, no Sibling may enter or

leave the room until the debate is concluded, and the matter resolved.
This is done to ensure that the debate procedure is used sparingly, and

that it remain issue, rather than personality, driven. The rule helps

prevent the sort of parliamentary maneuvering that typically bogs down

any purely democratic decision making apparatus.

337

Then I saw Lozingee Plum cross the front of the room, right past

me, not five feet from the podium. She did not turn her head to look at

me, but instead proceeded to the table where Helson marshaled his allies.

“Will the Siblings currently occupying the front center table

please relocate,” I said into the microphone. “This table will be needed
for the judges.”

The Siblings seated there did so, with a minimum of fuss.

“Select your rules judge, Helson,” I instructed.

Helson, who had been engaged in an animated conference with

his people, and with Plum, held up a hand, indicating that he needed a

moment more. I waited. At last he stood and faced me.

“I relinquish my spot at the podium to Sibling Lozingee Plum.”

This was a smart move. Helson stood little chance against me.

But Plum was extremely dangerous. She was soft-spoken, well-liked, deft

with her words, and undeniably reasonable in all things.

“Does Sibling Plum accept the podium spot deferred by Sibling

Helson?” I asked.

“I do,” said Plum.

“Sibling Plum, select your rules judge,” I sighed.

“I select Sibling Helson,” said Plum.

Very clever. I was certainly up against a worthy opponent on this

night. Were I to win the dispute, it would be because I had earned it, for

sure.

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“Sibling August,” Lozingee said to me from Helson's table,

“select your rules judge.”

“I select Sibling Nad,” I said.

Nad and Helson took to the center table in the front of the room.

“Now, may I have the attention of the first year initiates at the

back of the room,” I said.

Even from a goodly distance, and with the room fuzzy, I could

tell that the kids in the back were startled to be called out. They all sat up

straight and still and generally tried to look well behaved. I addressed
them from the podium.

“Most of you are probably unaware of this, seeing as none of you

have yet taken any procedure classes, but in Assembly Debate, it is
required that the third rules judge be selected by, and from a pool

consisted entirely of, first year initiates. This is the done because it is

thought that as the newest members of our Church, you are the least

encumbered by loyalties and firm beliefs. Therefore, a first year initiate is
the most likely to render a decision based solely on the merits of each

side of the dispute, as they pertain to the letter of the rule in dispute.

We ask that you try to choose the initiate among you whom you

believe is most likely to fit that description. Please make your choice

within five minutes, and send that initiate to the front of the room. I

remind all other Siblings and initiates not to interfere with this process,

and I instruct the first year initiates to neither seek nor consider input
from any but their fellow first years.”

And suddenly, the table at the back of the room was abuzz with

activity.

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At that point, there was nothing to do but wait for the kids to

make their decision. But after a minute or so, everybody in the hall was

shocked to hear a pounding upon the door.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

And then I saw something that was very scary. A second year

kid got up and went to open the door.

This elicited several cries of “No!” from Siblings in various

locations. I couldn't tell who this child was, as my vision was too fuzzy

to allow me to make out his face, but Fergus, who was still positioned

behind me at the soundboard, apparently could see the boy just fine, and

I heard him gasp:

“It's

Churd!”

I knew Churd well. He was in the introductory diction class I

taught three days a week. Apparently, he was in Fergus' beginning

cadence course as well. The boy was not entirely without talent, and he

was earnest, and well-intentioned, but he was like a hound dog that has
discovered an interesting smell. Churd, upon being struck by a desire to

act, followed that desire to it's conclusion.

Now, the bylaws were structured in such a way as to guarantee

that no one would ever wish to invalidate a debate by breaking the rule of

“no entrance, no exit.” And the way in which this was accomplished was

to force horrible unpleasantness upon every Sibling and every initiate in

residence, if the rule was ever broken.

The actual bylaws read:

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“Once barred, the doors to the room in which the Assembly Debate takes

place shall not be opened, under any circumstances, until the debate has been concluded,

and a winner decided. Should the door be opened at any time prior to those conditions
being met, the following things will happen:”

And then there were 4 pages of tasks, rituals, and other such

things that each Sibling and initiate would be required to do. Suffice it to

say that if Churd reached that door, everybody would be miserable for

months to come.

“CHURD!” I boomed into the mic. “You will STOP

immediately!”

The boy, hearing his name ringing out from the large P.A.

speakers, pulled up just short of the door. All Siblings sighed in unison.

The sound of relief was loud enough to echo a bit.

“Now. Churd. Do exactly as I say,” I continued. “Return to

your seat. Sit on it. Do not get up again for any reason until this debate

is ended.”

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Again with the knocking.

And Churd, who had been following my instructions, actually

turned his head back towards the door when he heard this. But the

people nearby were ready this time, and they practically tackled him back
into his seat.

I motioned for Fergus to turn up the volume, and he did so.

“And,” my voice boomed from the speakers, “to whichever

Curtis-forsaken initiate is out there knocking upon that door,

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(because no full Sibling would ever do something so stupid) listen to me

very carefully. You will not knock on that door again. I don't care

how good a reason you may think you have to interrupt this
Assembly Debate, you WILL NOT knock on that door, you WILL

NOT try to speak through the door, you WILL NOT stand within

20 feet of the door! Understand?”

And then I waited. Silence. Good.

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Verse Five

Outside of the hall, Bonn heard my forceful admonishment. It

came through somewhat muffled, despite the volume, but the boy had

made out every word I had said. And once he had heard them all, he

gulped in dismay and backed away from the door very slowly, and very
quietly. Then he backed into someone. Bonn nearly jumped right out of

skin.

“Bonn. Tell me you didn't just knock on that door.”

Bonn turned around to see Supervisor Onu, shaking his head and

covering his eyes with his hand.

“I – I – I didn't know, Sibling, I swear, I had no idea that I wasn't

supposed to go in there,” insisted Bonn.

Onu pointed to the two hand scrawled signs that had been taped

to the outside of each of the two doors before the doors had been

barred.

Assembly Debate in Session!

No Entrance, No Exit Rule in Effect!

Do Not Disturb for Any Reason!

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“Oh,” said Bonn. “I guess I didn't notice those signs. I just ran

over here and tried the door and it was, like, locked or something, so I

knocked, because...”

“Oh, sweet Curtis!” exclaimed Onu abruptly, his irritation having

turned to alarm.

Onu took his hand from his face, and Bonn saw that the Sibling

was wide-eyed with terror. The man grabbed Bonn by the shirt.

“Why are you not in attendance to the Prophet, Bonn?!” Onu

demanded. “Please don't tell me that you left him unattended! Because

if you did... Oh no, no, no. Oh please, no. I'm ultimately responsible,

Bonn! Somebody is sitting in attendance right?! You didn't leave the
Prophet alone, did you?!”

“Well,” said Bonn, rather concerned at this display. “Yes, I did

leave him alone, but..”

“No!” howled Onu, and the man fell to his knees and buried his

face in his hands. “Why, why Bonn? Why would you do such a thing?
What if the Prophet speaks a digit while no one is there? Even if he

doesn't, everything is still ruined. Because we don't know – now we can't

be sure it's right! Why, Bonn? Oh, I shall never be forgiven this failure.

Why, why why?”

“Because he's dead, Sibling, that's what I'm trying to tell you. He

can't say anymore digits, because he said “0,” like, I dunno, maybe 20

minutes ago, and then he died. And his helmet, um, well it fell right off
of his head, even though I didn't touch it, and the slip of paper...”

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The man, still on his knees, now looked up at the boy. Onu's

eyes gleamed with hope at the apparent reprieve, and the man clasped at

Bonn's shirt.

“Wait, wait...” said the Sibling. “The Prophet is dead? Are you

absolutely sure?!”

“Yes, most definitely, Sibling. As dead as the god of time.”

“Oh praises be to all the merciful gods of the Pantheon,” said

Onu, as he first rose back to his feet, and then began doing an awkward

little dance of celebration.

“The Prophet is dead at last! Oh sweet Bonn, I knew you would

never abandon your post. And I'm sorry I never sent a replacement for

Hubert, by the way, but no matter about that. No matter ever again! No

more attendance. No more supervising initiates. No more running in to
shut the noisy ones up. No more running in to check the quiet ones,

panicked that they might be sleeping. Oh thanks be to Curtis!”

Bonn just nodded. He had never seen such a display from the

supervisor before, and didn't know quite what to say.

“But wait wait...” said Onu, his mood again making a dramatic

swing. “What was that thing you said about the Helmet?”

“Well, when Religetti died, his head kind off went over to the

side, like this,” and Bonn stuck out his tongue and let his own head loll
over onto his shoulder to demonstrate what he meant.

“And when that happened, the Helmet just fell right off –

completely on its own - and onto the ground. And the slip of paper –
you know the one that the blind Sibling had written something on way

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back when, but couldn't remember what it was, and that everybody has

wondered what it said ever sense, but we couldn't find out, because...”

“Yes, Bonn! Of course I know what slip of paper you are talking

about! Now tell me what happened!”

“Oh. Well, it fell onto the floor.”

Onu waited for more. Bonn just looked at him.

“And?”

“And so I picked it up.”

Onu waited for the boy to continue. Bonn just looked at him

again.

“And?!”

“And

what?”

“And what happened to the paper, Bonn!” demanded Onu.

“Oh, right!” said the boy. “I read it and then I put it in my

pocket. Then I came down here, but the doors were locked, but I didn't

see those signs there until you just pointed them out to me a minute ago,

so I didn't know I shouldn't knock, so I knocked on the door, but then I
guess someone in there got really mad, because...”

Onu

sighed.

“Bonn,” he said, cutting the boy off. “Do you have the slip of

paper with you now?”

“Yes,” said Bonn, and the boy pulled it from his pocket. “Do

you want to see?”

346

“Yes, please, Bonn, if it isn't too much trouble,” responded Onu,

through clenched teeth.

“Here,” said Bonn handing the man the slip. “That's why I was

knocking on the door in the first place, you know. I figured you were in

there, and I thought I probably better find you and give you the paper.”

Onu snatched the paper from the boy's hands and read what was

written upon it. Had there been anyway to get into the hall without

breaking the rules, Onu would have immediately shared the news with
the assembled siblings. And had that happened, the debate would have

been over before it began. But as it was, the doors were barred, and even

for something this momentous, the Sibling wasn't about to interrupt an

Assembly Debate. After all, while the news he had was exciting, Onu
couldn't think of any reason why it might be urgent.

347

Verse Six

It had taken more than the 5 minutes, but less than 10, for the

kids in the back to send forward their choice. She was a girl named

Eline.

The fact that Eline was an initiate meant that she was at least

twelve years old. But this girl didn't appear to be any older than 8 or 9.

When she climbed into the chair between Nad and Helson, it seemed to
swallow her up. My first instinct was to see if we could find some

cushions so that she might see better, but I rejected the notion almost

immediately. Probably, I thought, that would embarrass her.

“That's Eline,” said Fergus quietly. He had come out from

behind the soundboard and was standing right behind me. I covered the

mic with my hand before responding.

“I've never seen her before.”

“Yeah, well she's easy to miss,” said Fergus. “But she's

immensely talented. She never says anything in class, but the text she

generates is on the level of a fifth or sixth year initiate. I'm surprised they

chose her, though. I didn't think that she was particularly popular with

her classmates. I mean she certainly isn't disliked, but I just thought that
she was kind of unnoticed by most of her peers.”

“Maybe that's why they chose her – nobody had any objections.”

“Maybe,” answered Ferg. “Regardless, I think they made a good

choice.”

348

I took my hand off the mic, and Fergus headed back to the

board.

“Initiate Eline, you have been selected by your classmates as the

third rules judge. In the event of a rules dispute, you will only be

required to vote if the other two judges disagree. Do you understand?”

“I do,” said the girl, and her voice was clear and high, and it

carried through the hall.

“The other two judges will now each nominate a debate

conductor, and it will be your job to designate one of the nominees as

heads, and the other as tails, and to then flip a coin. You will allow both

other judges to see how the coin lands, and then will announce the name
of winning nominee. Do you understand?”

“Yes I do,” she said.

“Judges. Resolve the identity of the debate conductor.”

The winner turned out to be Fergus, whom Nad had nominated.

It didn't really matter much, though. Which is to say that the conductor

really doesn't have much impact at all on how things turn out.

I sat down at the table to the left of the judges, and Plum was

seated at the table to the right. Fergus walked up to the microphone.

“Hello assembled Siblings. Tonight we shall debate using the

standard format. It's a 3,3,6,6 format, with each side getting a 3 minute

opening statement, and a 6 minute closing statement. There will be no

intermediate rebuttals, as this is a challenge to a council decision, and not

a motion to amend, nor a motion to initiate. The order is defense,
challenge, defense, challenge. As always, the winner will be decided by

349

vote. Every Sibling and initiate present gets one vote, and each vote is

weighted equally. All present are reminded to vote according to the

quality of the language and the deftness of the delivery, and not
according to any preference for one position or the other.”

Fergus paused, and surveyed the room, making sure he allowed

some time for that last point to sink in.

It occurs to me that some clarification might be in order for non-

Curtisarian readers. What Ferg meant was that the Siblings and initiates
were to vote on who won the debate, not for or against the positions that

the debaters argued. The reason for this is that Curtisarian debate is

supposed to be above meaning. It is thought that the debater who

acquits him or herself with more skill and grace has more faithfully
channeled the Truths of the Article Agence through Curtis. Which, in

turn, is taken to mean that Curtis sides with that debater, and that,

therefore, his Church ought to as well.

The whole thing begins, however, with the premise that because

both positions are knowable only through meaning, each must be

comprised of static, mortal truths. And the Church of Curtis is not in the

business of preferring one static truth over another. Instead, it is in the
business of rendering static truths with such grace that the immortal

Truths of the text – or, in this case, oration – supersede the meanings

expressed by the words and thereby help anyone who should read or

hear those meanings to become less attached to meaning as a whole. The
irony here is that what I prepared to argue was precisely that the Church

ought to take upon itself the job of advocacy.

“The challenger will now step forward and declare,” said Fergus.

350

I walked to the mic. I could hardly see where I was going any

longer. The room had become green and white with fuzziness. And

when Fergus stepped back to give me the podium, he quite abruptly
jumped out of my way. I did not know it at the time, but the glow had

taken on the appearance of a green conflagration – fading to white at the

center – and these “flames” flickered and leapt off me in huge arcs,

reaching as high as ten feet in the air. This phenomenon had not gone
unnoticed before, but now it provoked a growing buzz of conversation

in the room.

“Step away from the microphone, please, August,” said Ferg

before I had the chance to speak. I did so.

“The room is reminded to stay quiet throughout the course of

the debate,” Ferg chastised the Assembly through the speakers. “We

must afford each debater this courtesy in equal measure. Please refrain

from talking, whispering, and so forth. We all see that Sibling August is

engulfed in unholy green flames, but let's all just pretend not to notice,
ok?”

This got a big laugh from the Assembly. But after that, everyone

quieted down, and I returned to the microphone.

“Specifically it is part one of the two part decision rendered by

the council two weeks ago that I wish to challenge.”

Fortunately, I had the thing memorized, because there would be

no getting it from the archives at this point, with the no entry, no exit

rule in effect.

“It reads: 'The Church of Curtis does not support any specific

position regarding any matter not pertaining directly and exclusively to

351

the internal business of the Church. No Church publication, therefore,

can express such support for one or more said position(s) under any

circumstances.'”

Part two of the decision said simply that my request to include

the preface I had written in the Church newsletter had been denied. But
seeing as I had done it anyway, that part of the decision had been

rendered moot. I returned to my chair.

“The defense shall now approach the podium and present

arguments is support of the decision just read by the challenger. Sibling

Plum, you have 3 minutes from your first word. I will be seated beside

the judges. When 30 seconds remain, I will hold up a fist. When time

has expired, I will say 'time,' and you will have 5 seconds to finish your
sentence. If you are still speaking after those 5 seconds, the Assembly

will be instructed to disregard the entirety of your opening remarks. Do

you understand?”

“Yes,” said Plum.

“Once I am seated beside the judges, you may begin.”

Fergus took a seat beside Nad, and Lozingee Plum took the

Podium.

352

Verse Seven

“Assembled Siblings, I take the podium tonight in this great hall

of the Grand Cathedral of Curtis reluctantly, for I do so to oppose the

challenge of my dear friend August.”

Lozingee spoke softly into the microphone. The softness was

amplified so that all could hear, but it nevertheless could not be mistaken

for anything but softness. And though I barely saw anything at all, I
knew that Plum looked down at the podium as she spoke. She was

disinterested in the spotlight, and in every debate she had ever

participated, official and unofficial, she managed to convey this. In doing

so, she won favor with the judges, for the honesty and earnestness of the
woman was undeniably appealing.

“Each of us sits now in this hallowed Church, and each of us is

an outcome of nearly 2000 years of Curtisarian effort. For all of that
time has this Church thrived. For all of that time has this Church made

manifest the Gospel of the Pantheon that all mortals, ourselves included,

might come to better know the fluidity of immortal truth.”

She paused, no doubt, to look up and out at the Assembly.

“I, for one, can think of no more noble endeavor than that.”

And she paused again.

“Sibling August will no doubt tell us of the horrors of the outside

world, and of our responsibility to use the medium of our most holy

Lord Curtis to right those horrors. I am no less appalled by those

353

horrors than he. But what he proposes is but a different color of the

same breed of dog. Because those horrors are perpetrated through the

vehicle of meaning.

It is so very easy to become attached to meaning. I am attached

to the meaning I now express, and I don't doubt that August is attached
to the meanings that he will voice. We are, after all, but mortals, and it is

the mortal condition to believe. But this Church has provided us a

defense against that condition for the whole of it's history. That defense

has protected us, both as individuals and as an institution, for almost all
of mortal history. I think it would be the most unwise of follies to

abandon it, given how well it has performed, and for how long.”

Lozingee paused one last time.

“Augie will now take the podium, and we will all be no doubt

struck by the green fire that surrounds him, and I'm sure, by the quality

of his words as well. That green fire, I cannot help but think, is of some
great significance, though I won't hazard to guess exactly what that

significance might be.

I just hope that it does not burn to ashes all that we hold dear,”

concluded Lozingee Plum.

“Debate conductor,” she then said, “That concludes my opening

remarks. I forfeit the remainder of my time.”

“Defense forfeits the remainder of her time in opening remarks –

approximately 30 seconds,” said Fergus. “Challenger, please take the

podium, you will have 3 minutes. Do you wish to have the signal
instructions repeated?”

354

I was almost totally blind – I could see only vague shapes

through the leaping brightness that enveloped me.

“No thank you, conductor. That won't be necessary.”

I could just make out the podium, though, and really, that was all

I needed to be able to do.

“Sibling Plum,” I began, “thank you for that. It was excellent

stuff – concise, clear and honest. I'll be teaching it in next year's

introductory debate class, no doubt. And you know, you're right. This
Church has maintained its detachment from the issues of the world at

large for many centuries. And today, we thrive, and are secure.”

I put my hands on podium and looked out, though I could not

see the Assembly before me, they needed to see me look.

“In 1932, the Church had operated for many centuries without

electricity, and in 1932, the Church thrived. But you know what? We
wired this Cathedral anyways, and we got lights. By the 40's there wasn't

a Sibling who didn't write on typewriter, after generations had scratched

ink on paper by hand. And now, who among us doesn't use a computer?

The point is simple. Correlation is not causality. Just because we've
always done something, and things are great, doesn't mean that things are

great because we've always done something.

Before Rigaberto Religetti made the Helmet of Robotic Mind,

there wasn't any music. One among us will someday channel the gospel

that explains exactly what happened, how his sacrifice and gift came to

be. But until that day we do know this much: he took a risk, and he
changed the world. I think it's fair to say that's how it always works.

355

Change is scary, and it's not always totally safe. But if there's something

really important at stake, well... the very best among us have the courage

to go for it.

So I guess the question is, what's at stake, and how brave are we?

We all know what's going on outside of these walls. So I'm not going to
spend time telling you just how bad it is. But I will ask you this: if it was

your father, or mother, or child, or boyfriend or girlfriend who was being

thrown in prison – if it was the Sibling sitting next to you – wouldn't you

want the rest of us to stand up and say, 'hell no.'

I waited for a few moments.

“I would. If it were my very good friend Lozingee Plum who

was taken by the Generalissimo, to be used as he saw fit, just like so

many women are – if it were she who was so brutalized, and this Church

did nothing for her, I could have nothing to do with this place. Because

this institution has more power than any of us think. And with it, comes
responsibility. We have, at our disposal, the most powerful medium in

existence. Ours is the power to win the minds and hearts of people, and

to lead them against tyranny.”

I kicked at the base of the podium, and looked down at my feet,

as if considering what I had just said. Then I looked up again.

“Stop for a second and just soak this in, look around you. Where

are we right now, and when, and why?

I'll tell you. We are at the instant when all factors meet. All the

components are in place, and this moment will not occur again, not ever.

Each of us feels the weight of it, no? It is the weight of the gods'

eyes. This is no ordinary moment. Sibling Plum told us that she does

356

not know what these dancing green flames around me mean. Neither do

I. But I know that they are not of mortal origin, and believe me, the gods

are watching what we do here tonight.

What do those divine eyes hope to see, I wonder? Are they

hoping to watch timid Siblings choose the timid course?

We shall decide which course we choose shortly. I will not

presume to say I know what the gods would have us do. But I know

what history demands. Because history always demands the same thing.
Change. And tonight, we will act as history demands.

For how else can this narrative possibly end? Are there any

among us who wishes to awake tomorrow to the fact that he will never
know what that ending might have been? There may be such men and

women are among us, but they will not carry the night. Not tonight.

The hands of the gods, after all have done much knitting to bring

us here.”

“Time!” said Fergus, which meant I had 5 seconds to get out my

last sentence.

“And when the hands of the gods knit for mortals,” I concluded,

“every garment those hands make is a perfect fit, and no nudists are
allowed.”

This prompted the usual murmuring that rose at the end of a

round. Fergus cut it off quickly:

“Defense will take the podium for closing remarks,” he said.

“Defense has 6 minutes.”

357

But then there was the sound of some commotion from the table

of the defense. I couldn't see what was going on, but obviously it was

something quite unusual because there rose again a general mumbling
from the Assembly.

“Who is this man and where did he come from?” demanded

Helson from the judges table.

“Defense requests permission to relinquish the podium to an

alternate,” said Lozingee.

I thought about raising an objection, but Plum was among the

very best debaters in the Church. Why would she want to sub out?

“What is the name of the alternate?” asked Fergus.

“And again, Sibling Plum, where did this man come from?” said

Helson.

“He is Curtis, the god of Text and of Naming Things,” said

Lozingee. “And presumably, he came from the Villa of the Gods. Is
that right Curtis?”

“Yes,” said Curtis, and his voice carried through the room like no

mortal voice could. “The last place I was at before coming here was the

Villa.”

A gasp rose up from the Assembly, and then the crowd burst into

the din of a thousands of people talking at once.

“The Assembly is reminded to remain quiet during these

proceedings!” said Fergus. “Quiet, please! The Assembly is required to
remain silent during the entire course of these proceedings!”

Finally the room quieted.

358

“Does the challenger object to the requested substitution?” asked

Fergus.

I was stunned. Too stunned to answer, for sure. And in truth, I

don't know what I would ultimately have said, if it had come to it.

Probably I would not have raised an objection, I guess. After all, this was
Curtis himself who wanted the podium.

“The challenger does so object!” said a booming voice from

immediately to my right.

Another gasp, and again the murmur of the room rose.

“Quiet, please!” insisted Fergus. “And you sir, are?”

“I am Alienator, High Lord of the Pantheon, and on behalf of

the challenger, and in the interest of his challenge, I do so object.”

“Very well,” said Fergus. “Please state the grounds for the

objection.”

“The rules of Curtisarian debate are clear,” said Alienator. “'A

primary debater may nominate a substitute, once the debate has begun, at

his or her discretion. If, however, the opposition objects to said
substitution, then that nomination shall be denied, unless the the debater

making the nomination has become physically unable to continue, in

which case the nomination shall be approved.' Sibling Lozingee Plum

has no such incapacity, therefore, given that an objection has been raised,
the nomination shall be denied.”

“Does the primary debater for the challenger confirm the

objection raised by the second party seated at the challenge table,
previously identified as High Lord Alienator?”

359

Alienator put a hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear.

“August, you're going to win this debate, no matter how they rule

on this objection. What you are doing is too important. There are too

many lives, and too much liberty at stake. Somebody has to stand up to

tyranny. You've shown the courage to be that man, and believe me, I
won't let you down. But you have to trust me. Say 'yes'.”

There was something about Alienator's voice. It was very

sincere, and he was awfully convincing. I felt a great swell of pride. I was
doing the right thing, and it had taken a lot of courage to do it.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, conductor, I do.”

“Does the defense wish to present argument regarding the

physical capacity of the primary debater to continue?”

“No,” said Lozingee. “The defense concedes that no incapacity

exists.”

“Conductor confirms that the rule is as quoted in the objection,”

said Ferg. “Does either party wish to hear the rule reread?”

“No,” said Plum.

Alienator elbowed me.

“No, conductor,” I said.

“A decision will now be made on this objection by the rules

judges,” said Fergus. “The judges are reminded that they shall confer
with no one, including each other, in making this decision. Votes shall

be voiced in the order in which the judges were nominated. Sibling

Helson, please state your vote, and rationale, now.”

360

There was a long pause. At last Helson cleared his throat and

spoke.

“The rationale for the objection is in keeping with the rules.

Reluctantly, I side with the challenger.”

“Sibling Nad, please state your vote, and rationale, now.”

Another long pause – even longer than Helson's.

“I want to hear what Curtis has to say. I side with the defense.”

“Objection!” I exclaimed, jumping up from my chair. “That's no

rationale! That's just curiosity!”

“Sit down, Sibling!” demanded Fergus. “You may not object to a

rules vote. Besides, the rules judge is not required to justify his rationale,
he is only required to state it.”

I sat, but I was fuming.

“Relax,” said Alienator into my ear. “I told you, you aren't going

to lose this debate. They may have a god on their side, but you've got

one on yours too. And there's still one more judge, anyway.”

“The primary judges have issued a split ruling. Initiate Eline, this

means that you must vote on this rules dispute. Please state your vote

and rationale now.”

Again we waited, and it seemed like the whole of the great hall

held its breath. When the girl finally spoke, her high clear voice rang
from the rafters.

“It seems to me,” she said, “that this is the Church of Curtis.

And if the rules prevent High Lord Curtis from speaking here, then we
need new rules. I side with the defense.”

361

This was followed by a brief silence, and then Assembly erupted

spontaneously into applause. I couldn't help but be pleased for Eline.

This girl had a bright future.

“Well,” said Alienator quietly. “It was worth a shot.”

“We could object to the violation of no entry no exit,” I

whispered to him.

“No,” said the god, shaking his head. “That would just invalidate

the whole thing. Plus we're guilty of it too.”

“Judges side with the defense,” said Ferg. “The substitution is

permitted. The defense will now take the podium for closing remarks.

Defense has 6 minutes.”

Curtis walked to the podium and looked out over his clergy.

“Siblings, it is a great honor to be here among you tonight. I

wish to commend both Sibling Lozingee and Sibling August for

channeling my Truths so beautifully. Furthermore, I wish to thank each
of you here for manifesting the Truths of the Article Agence through me.

To be able to serve as the conduit between mortalkind and the Article is

my reason for being, and it is my greatest joy.

Both debaters tonight have manifested those truths pretty much

flawlessly thus far, and based on merit alone, it would be tough to pick a

winner. But I can tell you who will win, nevertheless.”

The god paused.

“The challenger will win.”

A murmur rose up from the crowd, and then quickly dissipated.

362

“Well, that green fire sure isn't my doing, you know. That's the

work of Alienator, who now sits to the right of Sibling August. Which

means that August has not simply been deft tonight - he has been
convincing. He has been meaningsmithing. When he said that you 'will

act as history demands,' it was no idle boast. He believed it when he said

it, and he projected that belief unto us all, myself included. The force of

the most powerful of all the gods was behind his words, so when he
finishes his closing remarks, that's just how it's going to be.

And if it does turn out like that, well, so be it. That's alright. I do

want to stress that there is no reason at all you can't continue to do great

writing after tonight, no matter what the outcome. Some of the greatest

works ever written, after all, have been persuasive works. And that's

what's really at issue – persuasion. So I want to talk a bit about what that
means.

The immortal Truths of the Articles are fluid and ineffable. Even

the Truths of Space, though they are self-evident and appear to be
unchanging, are not actually static. And the visceral truths of

Entropotripocles certainly are not static either. But text is different kind

of beast. Words are completely sensible. They cannot contain Truth, and

they necessarily contain meaning. And because they contain meaning
they unavoidably make sense.

Now there are many who say that while words can't contain

Truth, they can point to it. Which suggests that words can indicate the
direction in which Truth lies. But really, that's not right either.

Instead, text shares with the arts of the other Articles a very

distinct quality: the capacity to resonate. A mortal may manifest

363

perfection in text, or in oration, or in melody, or image, or math. It is

not easy, and it is rarely done exactly right. But when it is, perfection

resonates in the grace of the mortal manifestation that you read, or see,
or hear, or use to determine. And to encounter such resonance, and be

taken by it, is to hug the divine. Such an experience has no static

meaning, and it requires no belief.”

The god paused to let his words settle in. Then after a goodly

stretch of quiet, he resumed.

“When a mortal has faith, he knows the rightness of his own

course. When a mortal has conviction, however, he believes he knows

the right course for others. Faith is the natural consequence of contact

with the divine, and it is a good thing. But conviction is attachment to a
static truth, and it can only distance one from the divine.

Now, Sibling August is a good man, and he acts from the most

earnest good intentions. He believes that the power of language ought to
serve the interests of his fellows. I think that's a noble, and

compassionate impulse. But he would have this Church use language to

convince others of what he believes. And if he gets his way, given the

great talent residing in this Church, I think he very well might accomplish
his lofty goals. By the power of text might the Generalissimo be

deposed, and I can think of no decent person who would be

disappointed with that outcome.

But you know what? Outcomes are mortal things. Convictions

are static things. And successfully selling either makes it harder for all

involved to know the real joy of divinity.

364

So it remains to be seen what course August will choose tonight.

But August, I have to say, I really don't want to be convinced of

anything. And I bet a lot of your friends out there feel the same way.

Thank you Sibling Plum, for letting me have your spot. And

thank you judges for letting me speak.”

Then Curtis was done and there was silence.

Alienator put a hand on my shoulder again, and started talking in

my ear.

“Don't let him fool you, August, he's...”

“You shut up, you!” I said.

It was the first smart thing I had said all night.

And then, shrugging Alienator's hand from my shoulder, I stood,

and walked towards the podium.

“The challenger has 6 minutes,” said Fergus.

“I rescind my challenge, and forfeit the debate to Sibling Plum,

and to High Lord Curtis, god of Text and of Naming Things.”

The green fire left me all at once, and my sight returned. A few

tears made things a bit blurry, but that was ok.

365

Epilogue

Lozingee Plum came over and gave me a big hug, and so did

Curtis. And I hugged them each in turn and said “I'm sorry,” about 50

times. Finally, the chaotic post-debate chattering that filled the hall
leveled off, and though the room was still loud, when Curtis addressed it,

everybody heard him no problem.

“There is a boy who has been waiting outside, and he has some

big news. Perhaps someone should let him in now.”

So an initiate in the back, after checking with a Sibling to make

sure it was ok, unbarred the door. Bonn and Onu came in, and Onu

handed Bonn the slip of paper and encouraged the boy to stand at the

podium and tell everyone what had happened. And when Bonn had

finished his story, he read the slip of paper, and everyone had a good
laugh.

I bet you'd like to know what it said on the slip, eh? Well, on that

paper was written the one static truth about which even Curtis himself
has the utmost conviction:

Never believe anything you read.

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