On A Pale Horse (26 page)

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

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

“Of course it's worth saving!”

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

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

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

“Help avert war? How?”

“By means of formations of thought.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But it doesn't reach as far.”

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

“Maybe so. But your point—”

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

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

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

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

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

“What use is that?”

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

“I don't see that—”

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

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

“I have said it,” Nature said calmly.

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

“What issue?”

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

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

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

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

“Estimate to within a decade.”

“Are you jealous?” he asked, pleased.

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

“I just couldn't tell. She wore fog.”

“Fog?”

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

“Nature is ageless.”

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

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

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

“Or to size up the new officeholder.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Definitely an unusual date,” Luna murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So cold,” the girl agreed, beginning to shiver.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes,” the girl agreed faintly. “Pleased to meet you, Death. I've heard so much about you.” But she did not seem thrilled.

In due course they got the girl to her friends, who welcomed her like one returned from the dead. “And stay away from strange slippers,” Luna cautioned her in parting.

They rode Mortis back to Kilvarough, galloping through the sky into the dawn. “Some date,” Luna repeated, and kissed Zane farewell. “Shall we call it love, hereafter?”

“Is it?” he asked, genuinely uncertain. What he felt for Luna was deeper and broader than what he had felt for any woman before, but not intense.

She frowned. “No, not yet.” She smiled a little sadly. “Perhaps there will be time.”

Zane went to work on his backlogged case load. He was continuing to grow more proficient, orienting on a given soul anywhere in the world well within the time his Deathwatch showed. Even so, he found himself becoming increasingly thoughtful about the nature of his office. Death was not the calamity of life, but a necessary part of life, the transition to the Afterlife. The tragedy was not dying, but dying out of turn, before the natural course of a given life was run. So many people brought their terminations upon themselves by indulging in suicidal endeavors, getting into strong mind-affecting drugs, or tampering with black magic. Yet he himself had been as foolish, trying to kill himself because of his loss of a woman about whom he no longer cared.

In a way, he realized, he had not really been living until he left his life. He had been born again, in death.

Now, as he got well into the office of Death, he began to believe he could fill it well. It was intent, more than capacity, that made the difference. Probably, his predecessor could have done a superior job—but hadn't bothered. Zane had less ability, but a strong desire to do right. He did not have to be a specter. He could try to make each person's necessary transition from life to Afterlife gentle. Why should anyone fear it?

Of course, he was still in his initiation period. If the powers that were didn't approve his performance, his personal balance of good and evil would suffer, and he would be doomed to Hell when he left the office. But as far as he knew, he could not be removed from the office by any other power. Not as long as he was careful. So if he was willing to damn his soul, he could continue indefinitely, doing the job right.

Yes, that was it. “Damn Eternity!” he swore. “I know what's right, and I'm going to do it. If God damns me or Satan blesses me, then it's too bad, but I've got to have faith in my own honest judgment.” Suddenly he felt much better; his self-doubt had been ameliorated.

His current client was underground, in the general vicinity of Nashville, the rustic song capital. This was no problem for Mortis, who merely phased down through the ground, carrying Zane along. He saw the strata of sand, gravel, and different kinds of rock, until he reached a sloping shaft through a vein of coal and came to the chamber where two miners had been trapped by a recent cave-in. There was no hope for them; air was limited, and it would take days for others to clear the shaft of rubble.

It was completely dark, but Zane could see well enough. It seemed his office imbued him with magic vision, so that mere blackness could not stay him from his appointed rounds. The men were lying against a wall of rubble, conserving their strength and breath; they knew there was no way out.

“Hello,” Zane said, feeling awkward.