On a Pale Horse (27 page)

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

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

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

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

“Vectors?”

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

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

“Fate could arrange for a replacement, cutting off a thread.”

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

“Chronos could halt the approach of an appointment.”

“Yes, but why—”

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

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

“Show me your soul,” she said.

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

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

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

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

“Well, make your implication!” Zane exclaimed impatiently.

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

What was this distaff dog up to now? “It’s a female profession,” he said guardedly.

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

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

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

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

“There is a way.”

“A way for
what
? I don’t follow you at all!”

“Are you an evolutionist or a creationist?”

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

“There are those who feel there is a conflict.”

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

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

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

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

“Of course it’s worth saving!”

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

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

“An appreciation of several modes of thinking might help.”

“Help avert war? How?”

“By means of formations of thought.”

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

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

Zane contemplated the contrail. “Series?” he asked blankly.

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

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

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

“But it doesn’t reach as far.”

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

“Maybe so. But your point—”

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

“I’ve been getting in trouble in Purgatory because I
haven’t
clung to essentials!” he protested.

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

“Going in all directions,” Zane agreed. “But—”

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

“What use is that?”

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

“I don’t see that—”

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

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

“I have said it,” Nature said calmly.

“Said what? You have evaded the issue throughout!”

“What issue?”

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

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

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

“She’s not that old. At least, I don’t think she is.”

“Estimate to within a decade.”

“Are you jealous?” he asked, pleased.

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

“I just couldn’t tell. She wore fog.”

“Fog?”

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

“Nature is ageless.”

“I suppose she is, technically. But so is Death.”

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

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