Blameless in Abaddon (24 page)

“Don't buy it,” said Maleb. Opening her compact, she held up the mirror and painted her mouth with phosphorescent scarlet lipstick. “For every woman who deserves the sort of punishment our mother received, there are thousands who follow the rules and
still
get shafted. Childbed fever, vicious husbands . . .”

“One sometimes hears the theory that our ordeals are like surgical incisions,” said Martin, evoking a memorable metaphor from
The Conundrum of Suffering.
“Just as a doctor must cut into our bodies to excise malignant tumors, so must God cut into our souls to facilitate our spiritual growth. In both cases the patient suffers considerable postoperative pain, but ultimately it's necessary.”

“God is a surgeon?” said Maleb with the sort of outraged incredulity Martin had often observed among adolescent shoplifters at the moment of sentencing.

“So the argument goes.”

“Adversity builds character,” Augustine elaborated, puffing on his pipe. “Discipline forges a worthy soul.”

“Who the fuck are you?” asked Shuah.

“Saint Augustine, bishop of Hippo Regius.”

Shuah pulled a strand of bubble gum from her mouth, stretching it taut until it snapped. “Well, Your Grace, if you'll take a minute to consider the quantity of pointless pain in this universe . . .”

“. . . you'll see the cosmic surgeon has acted more like a vivisectionist,” said Maleb, rouging her cheeks.

“I like that,” said Martin, positioning his fingers above the computer keyboard and typing,
God as cosmic vivisectionist.

Shuah reached toward the pillar, broke off her mother's right ear, and deposited it in Martin's hand. “Here, sir. Carry this to The Hague. Eventually it will disintegrate, but not before you've offered it in evidence. Ask the judges if they really believe that those who endure the worst tribulations are also those most needful of spiritual growth.”

“Thank you,” said Martin, cradling the ear in his palm. “When I was the magistrate of Abaddon, I always tried to make the punishment fit the crime.”

“If you and your sister knew as much about theology as you do about incest,” said Augustine, pointing to Shuah's
BABY ON BOARD
shirt, “you'd realize how superficial your objections are.”

“Superficial?” echoed Shuah indignantly.

“Once we reach the source of the Hiddekel, everything will become clear,” said Augustine.

Shuah snapped her bubble gum. “You're going to the Garden of Eden?”

“The Garden—and beyond,” said Ockham.

“All the way to the pineal gland,” said Beauchamp.

A concupiscent smile flitted across Augustine's face. “Perhaps you lovely ladies would like to come along.”

Maleb swung her swollen belly toward Lot. “May we, sir? May we? Oh, please,
please
tell Bishop Augustine we're allowed to go.”

“You must, Father,” wailed Shuah. “I've never been to Eden. I hear it's beautiful this time of year.”

“We'll do anything you ask,” said Maleb.

“We'll forgive you for inviting the men of Sodom to gangbang us,” said Shuah.

“You were probably in a bad mood,” said Maleb.

“My answer is no,” said Lot, finishing his margarita.

“No?” gasped Shuah.

“No,” said Lot. “I absolutely forbid it.”

“But . . . why?” asked Maleb.

“Yes—why?” asked Shuah.

“Maybe I'm an old fool. Maybe my wife is made of salt. Maybe my daughters use me as a sperm bank. But the fact remains that, until God takes the Idea of Patriarchy and replaces it with something better, the power relationships within
this
family will remain unchanged. Why am I forbidding you to visit the Garden, Maleb? Why, Shuah? Because I'm your
father
, that's why.”

 

Sixty miles beyond Sodom a series of alluvial fans emerged from the Hiddekel, splitting the river into a network of channels so narrow and shallow that Belphegor needed all his navigation skills to keep the
Good Intentions
from running aground. Martin spent this treacherous passage lounging on the afterdeck, computer balanced on his knees, contemplating Mrs. Lot's right ear as he chronicled her nubile daughters' spirited attack on the disciplinary defense.

Slowly, inexorably, dusk descended, darkening the levees and straining the redness from the river. A harvest moon rose, bright and quintessential. “Just the sort of moon, I'll bet,” said Beauchamp to Martin, “beneath which old Abel's brother harvested the world's first crop. Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I find it odd that a mathematician would allude to the Bible,” said Martin.

“Mathematics excites me—and so does the Book of Numbers,” she said with a quiet smile. “Tell me, friend, what are you hoping to accomplish, anyway?”

“With
International 227?”

“Yeah.”

“You don't approve?”

“Not really, no. When it comes to evil, I'm with Einstein. ‘God is subtle but not malicious.'”

“Let me try putting it in quantitative terms. Every time we look the other way while the Defendant unleashes a plague or a tornado, the net amount of dishonesty in the world increases.”

Beauchamp frowned and, bending over, grasped the iron ring affixed to the afterdeck hatch. “You know, Judge, I'm afraid I'd have to call that a white man's way of looking at things. Black people have never had the luxury of rejecting the divine order. We've never had the privilege of railing against the universe. For hundreds of years, Jesus was our only friend.”

“Okay, fine—but that doesn't mean the universe is benign.”

Tugging smartly on the ring, Beauchamp opened her way to the berths. “Isn't it enough that the universe
exists
?”

“No. It isn't.”

“
Tsk, tsk
, Judge. That's all I can say.
Tsk, tsk.
You sure are hard to please.”

As the mathematician went below, Martin set about learning whether his co-prosecutors had responded to his previous communiqués. There was no mail from Esther, but Randall had posted an elaborate message.

 

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: Thur, May 18, 09:35 AM EDT

 

First, the bad news. In response to our discovery motions, Pierre Ferrand regrets to inform us that Lovett refuses to release any depositions from his witnesses. Torvald supports this decision one hundred percent. Apparently we shouldn't be surprised. In cases like ours, where the death penalty is a possible outcome, the World Court often allows the defense to stonewall it.

 

Now, the good news. We have officially hired Dr. Donald Carbone, cataclysmatician, as a witness for the prosecution. He intends to augment his testimony with exhibits from the Kroft Museum of Natural Disasters and Technological Catastrophes—a photo of the smallpox virus, an iron lung, a
Titanic
life preserver, and so forth. At first the museum's curator, a professional jerk named Brian Maltby, refused to let his treasures leave the country, but they became a lot less delicate the minute I offered him $45,000 to label, package, and ship the stuff. It wouldn't hurt if you expressed a little gratitude, Martin, instead of accusing me of “goofing around.”

 

I'm trying to nail down a second expert witness: Dr. Tonia Braverman, a Brown University historian who's written an eleven-hour PBS series about wars, rebellions, and massacres.
A History of Havoc
will probably never be aired
—
the final cut was too downbeat—but I think we should make the judges watch it, assuming we're still including human depravity in the indictment. Braverman is definitely in our camp. She likes to quote Stendhal: “God's only excuse is that He does not exist.” But He
does
exist, Martin, and so we need this trial.

 

Lovett's behavior so angered Martin that his heart began to beat madly, rattling his implanted Port-A-Cath.

 

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: Thur, May 18, 11:06 AM Local Time

 

Lovett doesn't have a phone, not to mention a fax machine, so send the old bluffer a telegram instead. Remind him the main thing he wants from this proceeding is a “good fight.”
How can we give him a “good fight” if we don't know whom he plans to put on the stand?

 

Sorry about the “goofing around” remark. I was terrified Carbone would slip through our fingers. Braverman sounds like a real find, and I love the idea of screening
A History of Havoc
during the trial. Congratulations. Of
course
we're still indicting Him for human depravity. There will be no plea-bargaining in
International 227!

 

The instant Martin sent his message to Randall, something unexpected occurred. The text vanished in a sudden starburst, replaced by a . . . by a what? Hard to say. A kind of spherical amoeba, its outer shell shimmering with an azure light radiating from an incandescent core.

The image on the screen grew sharper.

“Greetings, Earthling,” said the optic neuron, its voice pouring from the laptop speaker.

“Heavens to Betsy . . . now you've taken over the World Wide Web?”

“Only for a few seconds. How's it going, Candle?”

Martin inhaled deeply. He would never get used to these divine interventions—never. “Pretty well, actually. I found a powerful countertheodicy on Moriah and another outside Sodom—”

“Terrific.”

“—along with Isaac's bindings and Mrs. Lot's right ear.”

“It's good they gave you something tangible. Tribunals like material evidence.”

“I don't understand why your Progenitor is helping me like this. In my final statement to the Court I'll be arguing for disconnection of the Lockheed 7000.”

“He's a real enigma, isn't He? If Sarkos is the Father of Lies, Yahweh is the King of Riddles. Keep following your instincts, Judge. You're doing great. Health still holding up?”

“I can't complain.”

“That doesn't sound like you.”

“All right, I
can
complain. I'm weak, I'm nervous, I'm tired—”

“Hey, everybody—Martin's back!”

“—but between the Feminone and the Roxanol, I'm still on my feet.”

“Go for it, sir. Bring Him to book.”

At which juncture the neuron vanished, leaving Martin to stare perplexedly at his hard-drive menu.

 

Hello, gentle reader. At last I have returned. I hope you missed me as much as I missed you.

In case you're wondering, I can assure that you Randall Selkirk was absolutely right to assume the PBS documentary called
A History of Havoc
would make a piquant prosecution exhibit. The first scene alone—the death of Robert François Damiens before the steps of Notre Dame cathedral in 1757—furnishes provocative material for anyone wishing to argue that God couldn't possibly have had sufficiently good reasons for allowing the Fall of Man. I'm proud to say that, aided by my Elias Howe sewing machine, I fashioned the very hoods worn by Monsieur Damiens's executioners—the actual executioners, I mean, not the underpaid impersonators of the reenactment.

His mind unhinged by various ecclesiastical controversies, Damiens had tried to assassinate Louis XV, a deed for which he was convicted as a regicide and sentenced to make the
amende honorable
in the Place de Grève. While the crowd gaped and gasped, an executioner mounted the scaffold, seized a pair of steel pincers forged especially for the occasion, and systematically tore gobbets of flesh from Damiens's chest, arms, thighs, and calves. A second executioner poured molten lead into these wounds, followed by a demonic potion of burning resin and boiling wax.

“Pardon, my God!” Damiens screamed to the local priest, who had come to hear his confession. “Pardon, Lord!”

The executioners next tied ropes to his upper arms and thighs, harnessed the ends to four horses, and urged the animals to a gallop. Unfortunately for Damiens, the horses were strangers to the business of quartering, and they failed to pull him apart. Growing desperate, the executioners now drew out their knives and slit his shoulders and hips. The horses tugged mightily, causing the agonized man to cry, “My God, have pity on me!”

At last his legs came off, but his arms remained in place. Again the executioners went to work, sawing through his muscles until their knives scraped bone. The horses tugged once more, and finally the right arm came loose, followed by the left. Still alive, Damiens somehow managed to sit up and survey what he'd become, a torso with a brain. He was not quite dead when they raised him aloft, threw him onto a pile of logs, and set the pyre ablaze.

To tell you the truth, I'm glad the age of the
amende honorable
is over. Being the Devil, I naturally favor capital punishment, but I believe a simple hanging or electrocution will suffice in most cases. As Damiens's death demonstrates, torture is a system too easily abused. I think it's unconscionable that four well-meaning horses were humiliated in public when the executioners could easily have taken them from their stables the night before and taught them how to quarter. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's cruelty to animals.

 

The Idea of the Moon stood at its highest by the time the Hiddekel was reborn, each channel melding with its parent stream, whereupon Belphegor throttled down, dropped anchor, and retired to the berths. Ten minutes later a snoring sound arose: a hoarse, oddly mechanical buzz, like a Hollywood chainsaw hooker pursuing her vocation. His father, Martin recalled, had also been a prodigious snorer, a refreshing touch of corporeality in a man who otherwise seemed not quite of this Earth.