Six

It was not possible not to heed that terrible voice. She felt herself walk toward the group. Suddenly, she was somewhere above the trees by the roadside, looking down at herself as she approached the man at the head of the little crowd--and yet she was inside herself also, as one is both within himself in a dream and an observer nonetheless. The others moved aside to give her a wide berth.

They were there in her again; she had failed. She could not kill herself now. As she gazed down, if down it was, she felt inside herself something writhing in agony, like snakes in pain, twining together as if for protection against the menace they were facing.

" µ !" she heard the rasping male within her say, and that horrendous voice cut through her to her very marrow, "Be silent! You will answer only when spoken to, no more; you will speak the truth for once, and only in Aramaic."

"Yes, Master. Good master," answered the voice. And she fell down at the feet of the prophet and began groveling in the dust like a dog awaiting punishment. She--the conscious she, the observer--would have stopped herself, but they had complete control over her at the moment.

"Refrain from calling me good. What do you know of good? How many are you?"

"We are seven, Master, only seven."

"Does she know you."

"Oh, yes, merciful Master. She invited--"

"You lie."

She cringed and groveled again in the dirt of the roadway, Mary herself writhing inwardly that she should be abasing herself before a man, while the voice pleaded, "It was not truly a lie, merciful Master. She did not refuse us--"

"I will engage in no disputations with you. Is she listening now? Can she hear us?"

"Yes, Master."

"She is to know how you entered her. Explain it."

"As I said, Master, she did not refuse us. It was our right, and we were not forbidden, as happens so often with us. She--"

"Stop! In your description of how you entered her, you are to speak in such a way that she alone will understand what you did to her. These others need not know--and are not to know--what she did."

"But it was her cursing God that opened the door. We could not have entered without it, Master. You know that."

"Let that suffice. What she had done and what had happened to induce her to curse God is not to be mentioned. Continue."

"It is only that when she did so, one of us tried to enter and she did not refuse. That is all, Master. And then came the others."

"What did you tell her?"

"Only that she was evil, something that she knew very well, most merciful Master, and whether she wanted to learn what evil really was, so that she could understand what had happened to her."

"As if, in other words, it meant that she would understand the evil that had been done to her, not in what way she herself was evil."

"It could have been interpreted in that way, one supposes."

"One supposes! You knew perfectly well that that would be the only way in which she would interpret it."

"You know, trebly merciful Master, that we cannot be certain of such things."

"I will play no games with you. We both know what you knew and how well you knew it. So she accepted having you enter in order to discover exactly how she had been wronged."

"But she did accept, Master, and so she must have at least suspected the truth and been willing to accept that, because in fact we were allowed to enter, and you know that we cannot enter a person who has been totally deceived. Why do you torment us in this way?"

"You would speak to me of tormenting someone? But is it not the case that the 'knowledge' you gave her of the malice and deceit of others was in fact your malice and deceit--it had no relation to reality?"

"Master, merciful Master, you know that sometimes it was true--often and often it was true! Spare us!"

"But when it was true, it was true by accident. Is it not so that she thought it was true, not because of something she discovered, but because you made her believe it true, whatever the facts happened to be."

"I cannot lie, Master. I admit that."

"You cannot lie! You! You cannot lie to me, certainly, because I know the truth beforehand. I say this, however, so that she will understand that you have been lying to her from the beginning, and so that she will no longer trust anything she thought she knew up to now."

As he was saying this, Mary, from her position somewhere over the heads of everyone, was watching in increasing horror as that pathetic thing which was herself cringed and struggled and fought against the words it was being coerced into saying. Every syllable was dragged out of it by main force; she could feel the thing inside her trying to twist every statement to its own advantage, or at least make it sound less damning. But it could not succeed.

"Do you deny," the voice was continuing, "that as long as you are within her, she can trust nothing she thinks to be the truth?"

She writhed again on the ground like a serpent. "We cannot know what she is thinking. We do not know whether she knows the truth."

"But you can distort her perceptions; you can create illusions at your pleasure. Is that so or is it not?"

"It is so, Master. You know that."

"And so whether you can know what she is thinking makes no difference. She cannot know when you are deceiving her--when her own eyes and ears are deceiving her--and when you are not."

"We cannot deceive her about her own thoughts, Master. And we believe she has discovered that already."

"Yes, you cannot control her thoughts, and you would not, because that would take from her the power to sin. But you will not lead me astray. Tell me whether there is any time she can be

sure that what she seems to be perceiving is accurate and not the result of your deception."

"She can be sure now, Master."

"But at no other time."

"She cannot be certain, Master. But we do not always deceive, as you know. Often and often we tell the truth."

"But only when it suits your aims. But she cannot know when it suits your aims."

He waited as if for a reply. No word came from the abject mass at his feet.

"Can she?"

"Forgive me, Master. I did not know you were asking a question."

"Continue trifling with me thus at your peril! Can she know when you are deceiving her and when you are not? Except now?"

"No, Master, merciful Master. Do not hold this against us, Master. We meant no trifling--"

"Be silent. I would speak to her now. Allow her to speak."

Suddenly, Mary was no longer above her body, but only inside it, looking at the dust of the roadway, with her hand clutching convulsively at a root that grew across a rut. She turned to look up and shrieked in terror.

Instead of seeing a human face, she looked into three huge whirlpools, three black vortices of agony that led deep and deep into an infinity of fire. Somehow they--this--was looking at her, and the look was a light that blinded her, white and more brilliant than the sun at noon, all the while it was black as the darkness of darkness, burning with the fire. And it was somehow a face, though it looked not at all like a face; but it had a mouth that she could feel, but not see; if it were to speak, it would stab and stab.

It was about to open, as the pit--the three abysses which were one pit--yawned before her; it was about to speak. She would be swallowed down into that fire! She would be cut to shreds! Let it not Speak! She would--

A hand touched her back, and now she saw with human eyes. She was looking at the ground before her face once again; and she fought to keep her eyes fixed there, not to behold that appalling sight again. In spite of herself, she found herself being raised to her feet by that hand, and standing up. Then she realized what she must look like, with her eyes modestly cast down in front of everyone, like a repentant sinner. She tilted her head back and looked defiantly straight into those terrible eyes.

And saw the face of a man not quite at middle age, but certainly beyond the initial flush of maturity; a man somewhat taller than average, physically strong, a man who had worked with his hands, not a delicate Pharisee, but not a man striking in beauty, or indeed in any particular way: the sort of man one passed hundreds of times every day and ignored. Neat, but not over-groomed; well-dressed, but not foppish; the tassels on his cloak of average length. There was nothing remarkable about him.

Nothing, that is, until one began to notice him. In that good-looking but not overly handsome face could be discerned the face of the blinding light and the three infinite whirlpools of eternal fire. It was as if he had covered them with flesh so as not to overwhelm the casual observer. But anyone who cared to look would find in that countenance material enough for absolute terror or absolutely unshakeable hope, depending on the circumstances.

There was nothing gentle, nothing tender, about that face; but at the same time, there was nothing harsh or cruel about it. It gave the impression that its owner not only ruled himself, but that there was nothing in his world that dared refuse to obey him--and it was clear that anything that looked upon that face belonged to his world.

But even while making it clear that he was master and knew it, and that everything and everyone else was his slave and he know this also and could make anyone he chose know it, there was respect in his face. Not tenderness, respect. He would never exercise his sovereignty except as sovereignty was meant to be exercised: to serve those one commanded. He would submit to those who must perforce submit to him.

It was this that made hope a possibility as one looked at him; the knowledge, the absolute certainty, that in spite of his power, he respected one's reality absolutely, and would never force his will upon anyone.

Would she have seen all this if she had not witnessed the performance of those within her, and then seen that face through what must have been their eyes? She would probably not have looked at him twice, because when all was said and done, it was an ordinary face. At any other time, she would have despised him. Under the circumstances, that was not now possible.

"Do you understand your situation?" he asked, and she realized with a shock that she had been in terror at the prospect of hearing this ordinary voice. She put on an insolent expression.

He was looking at her as if nothing had happened; as if her reaction made no difference to him. He had asked her a question, and was waiting until it registered, and she got round to making an answer.

This brought her mind to the question itself rather than her position before him and the rest of the little crowd, who were silent as the tomb.

Did she understand that there were in fact demons--seven of them, apparently, which accounted for the different voices and the conversations and disputes she was dimly aware of--and that they had entered her at various times because of her desire to understand the implications of what Zebediah had done to her, and her need to find him totally to blame and herself totally the victim? That they had promised her this wisdom, though she thought that she was merely growing in sagacity because of increasing bitter experience with men?

Did she understand that everything she thought she had found out was something that they had let her know or told her for their own purposes, whatever those were, but which probably involved her destruction and her complicity in the destruction of as many as possible, and that all of this had led up to the revelation this very afternoon that she herself was exactly what her tormentor originally was? That she now faced a life of doing deeds that her own mind shrank from? Creating sons to destroy them?

Did she understand all this? And did she understand that everything, including what she thought she discovered on this very day was suspect, except her knowledge of her own sins? Did she understand this? Oh, yes, she understood it. She understood.

She nodded.

"Do you wish to be freed from them?" came the question.

Did she?

She could feel them inside her quaking in terror, and almost replied immediately that she did, just to have the pleasure of their agony.

But she was looking into his face, and realized that this would not be acceptable. She would not be able to be freed from them as an act of vengeance against them; she must seriously consider the question of whether she herself wanted to be free.

Did she?

"I wish to die," she answered, and added in a voice of scorn, "Master." If she was forced to acknowledge that she was a slave, she would do it with as bad grace as possible. He opened his mouth again, and her heart leaped in panic at his response to her insolence.

"That is not for me to grant you now. Do you wish to be free of the demons within you?"

Which meant, in the last analysis, whether she wanted to be free to face reality, or to live forever with the illusions that these things had created within her.

What difference did it make? If anything, the reality of her life was probably worse than what she had thus far envisioned it to be--and from what she knew of that, it was intolerable. Would it be better to face it in all its horror or-- Or what? Or continue on the familiar path, since of a surety they would not permit her to kill herself, now that they knew her intentions. But she could see that the familiar path led beyond the unspeakable agony of the past few days into territory even worse than she had just explored.

--What was she thinking? That she could escape from their control only to be controlled by this man facing her? Better to be the slave of devils than the slave of a man! He would no more let her kill herself than they would!

"They are lying to you once again," the voice broke in. "If I free you, I will send you from me; and you may stay away if you wish. In fact, I will not permit you to return before sunset tomorrow, so that you will have time to consider your life and what you truly want for yourself."

"You will not be doing me a favor."

"Possibly not."

"Then why do you torment me? You have the power. Why do you not simply do it?"

"Because it is your life, not mine."

"And therefore, I must decide! Then accept my hate and do it! I care nothing for what may happen! Do it!"

"You have heard?" said Jesus, but not to the people around him, but to those inside her. "You are to leave her and remain apart from her until tomorrow at sunset, and then you may return only if she permits you. Go!"

Something from her stomach rose up her throat, and at the same time her lungs seemed to explode. She screamed and fell to the ground, her head, it seemed, draining out of her skull. Everything was racing to leave through her mouth at once, tearing at her, pulling her, kicking her from within, trying to inflict as much pain as possible before leaving her alone. She was certain she would die; but she only rolled in the dust as if she were on fire, shrieking and wailing with voices of agony--different voices, sometimes two or three at once.

Then, when the limit of pain had been reached and then surpassed, and then doubled, everything stopped. She lay exhausted on the road.

The thought of all the people looking on her humiliation, enjoying it, made her spring to her feet and stare defiantly at the man who had brought this upon her. She tossed her head, and said, "You think you have done a good deed! You think you have saved me! You have destroyed me!"

"Perhaps so," he answered. "That will depend on you. You have a night and a day of peace to consider it."

"Consider what? Who am I? What have you left of me?"

"Whatever there was of you that they left behind. You will find that there is much. You will recognize yourself."

"I doubt it."

"If you refuse to do so, that is your choice, of course."

"So I am to consider my evil ways, and then return and beg your forgiveness, now that you have left me this torn piece of rag that I must now call myself."

"Understand this: If you wish to be forgiven, you will receive forgiveness--Do not speak; I am aware that you do not believe it possible. If you wish tomorrow evening to be forgiven, return to me."

"And then I am to learn the conditions you impose."

"The only condition is that you wish it. You must know one more thing. It will not be possible for you to kill yourself before tomorrow night."

"So you would remove from me the one blessing in this curse you have cursed me with!"

"For a time, yes. You are rash, Mary. If I did not, you would kill yourself without taking thought. And you will find that it is not now necessary."

How did he know her name? Had someone spoken of her? "Then you are master, and I am slave."

"Yes."

"Suppose I refuse to take thought. Suppose I simply wait until tomorrow night."

"I will not force you to do otherwise."

"Do you actually believe that you can control my thoughts? Not even they could!"

"It is of no consequence."

"No consequence! That you think you can control thoughts! That you can forgive sins! You claim that I was deceived by spirits within me, and you practiced magic on me to drive them out! My deception is nothing in comparison!"

"Drive her away, Master!" came a voice from those standing about. "She herself is ten times the demons you cast out of her!"

"I need no driving, kind sir," she said in a voice of withering scorn. "If the Master will dismiss me, I will leave of my own accord. May I depart, Master?"

"You may go."

"Thank you, gracious Master. Gracious, kind, generous Master! I leave you in the pleasant company of the rest of your slaves!"

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