Well, I hate to admit it, but the next few minutes rather
shook my long-standing hardheaded view of the world. Turned out, all those slabs I'd noticed in the big alcove weren't tombstones, after all.
They were stone tablets, covered with lettering. Written in fiery flame.
Yep. God's letters to Hildegard.
"It's an insufferable nuisance, really," she complained. "Why can't He use paper like everyone else? Part of His growing senility, I'm afraid. Always tends to manifest itself as grandiosity, you know, when Supreme Deities start reaching their dotage. My share of our correspondence fits very nicely into a simple drawer. But His side! I had to have that alcove built especially just to store them. Frightful waste of space. And it heats the room up terribly, during the hot spells in summer."
She sighed heavily. "In our early exchanges it wasn't so bad. His tablets were written in pleasant letters of lambent gold. But for the past few years—well, perhaps the last twenty years—it's always those horrid fiery flames. He's irritated with me, of course. But it can't be helped. It's my duty as a pious woman to tell Him the plain and simple truth about Himself. He doesn't want to hear it, naturally."
She moved back toward her desk. "I hate to say it, I really do, after having devoted my life to His service. But I've finally come to the conclusion that there's just no hope for Him. I had wanted to avoid unpleasantness when Joe comes back, but I see now that it's inevitable. A terrible scene Joe's going to make, you can be sure of it, when he sees what a mess the Old Geister's made of everything."
I was too dazed to object to the Joe business. Matter of fact, I was too dazed to do much of anything except be dazed.
"I can see why the Ecclesiarchs aren't too fond of you," croaked Greyboar.
As she resumed her seat, Hildegard snorted. "Those shriveled-up old toads! Nasty things! Can't even call them men anymore. I'm quite fond of men as a rule, even if their natural handicaps frustrate me at times. But it never fails—once you load a man down with power and wealth, he turns into a toad. Every time." She ran her fingers through her thick white hair. "Well, I should be fair. Vast majority of women turn into toads, too, when you load them down with power and wealth."
I'll say this much for Greyboar—he's nowhere near as smart as I am, but he recovers from shock a lot better. He scratched his head, and asked the Abbess:
"Just out of curiosity, Hildegard, how do you get away with it? Pissing in the face of every power in the world, starting with the Lord Almighty himself. Pardon my language."
Hildegard grinned. Really a great grin she had, that old woman. Cheerful, friendly, a bit devilish.
"Oh, I don't mind a little vulgarity. Don't use such language myself, of course. Wouldn't be proper—after all, I am the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility. But you can't spend as much time as I have with the wise old women of the Sssuj and retain your girlish prudery. Earthy lot, they are."
"I thought the Sssuji ate everybody who goes into the swamp," said Greyboar. "Especially, you know, missionaries."
"What nonsense!" The Abbess frowned fiercely. "That's a foul lie spread by disgruntled imperialists. They're just sour, you know, because the Sssuji eat all the armies they send into the swamp. Very diet-conscious, actually, the Sssuji. I was deeply impressed by that aspect of their culture. They refuse to eat missionaries, for instance, despite everything you've ever heard. They say the sanctimony in the veins spoils the meat. The swamp snarls absolutely adore missionary, on the other hand, so it all works out nicely."
"Then why didn't they feed you to the snarls?" asked Angela timidly.
Hildegard was clearly puzzled. "Why would they do that? I didn't go there to preach to them. I went to ask questions. Spent several years there, as it turned out. It was marvelous, really. And to get back to your question, Greyboar, it was the wise old women of the Sssuj who told me how to—as you put it—'get away with it.' " By which expression I take it you mean be able to expound the true faith without being pestered to death by God and the Inquisition and that sorry lot of Ecclesiarchs."
"So what's the secret?" asked Greyboar.
"It was obvious, once they explained it to me. 'Just build your Abbey in Joe's Favorite Woods,' they said. So obvious! I should have seen it myself."
Greyboar frowned. "I don't see why that would do it."
Hildegard looked at him, shook her head sadly. "So odd, it really is. The same parents, there's no question about it. You look just like her, except Gwendolyn's quite pretty in a huge sort of way. Strange how genetics works itself out, the sister being so intelligent and the brother such a dumbbell."
"Would you mind just answering the question," growled Greyboar. "I'm getting a bit tired of these comparisons between my sister and me."
"But it's obvious, my good man! Why is this forest called 'Joe's Favorite Woods'?"
"Well—"
"Because it was his favorite woods, that's why! And why was it his favorite woods? Because it was filled with snarls. Forest snarls, too, who were always Joe's favorites even though he denied it and tried to pretend he loved all his snarls the same."
Greyboar was hopelessly lost. So was I.
"So, since I'm a snarl-friend, once I set up my Abbey here I could go about my business without worrying about a lot of fretful old men. The forest's still full of snarls, you know. Highest density of snarls in the world, actually."
The light finally dawned. There aren't many snarl-friends in the world, at any one time. Hildegard was the second one I'd met in my life. Shelyid was the first. And that little dwarf had—well, never mind the details. The point is, I'd seen what one enraged snarl could do. I shuddered to think about an entire forest full of hundreds—thousands?—of the monsters. It's no wonder the gentle monks of St. Shriven-on-the-Moor got a vision from God!
"But come," said Hildegard, "I'm afraid we've wandered away from the purpose of our meeting. I don't believe the Old Geister is going to be around much longer, sad to say. So I have to make sure to obtain the score of the Harmony of the Spheres before Joe gets back. He's quite a nice man, Joe is. According to all the legends, at any rate, and I've no reason to believe his personality will have changed. But the fact is, the man had apparently no ear for music. Such, at least, I have to assume since there's no record that he invented music."
She leaned back in her chair, again planting her hands firmly on the desk in front of her. "No, there's no question God's been much the better influence in that regard. But it would be just like the Old Geister, on His way out, to take the Harmony of the Spheres with him. Purely out of malice, of course—it's not as if the Harmony would do Him any good where He's going! So I've got to get the score, before it's lost."
By now, Greyboar and I had given up trying to make sense out of anything the Abbess said. It's not that we doubted her, mind you. Rather difficult to argue with a woman who corresponds with God and has His old letters to prove it, don't you know? It's just that we couldn't begin to follow her reasoning. So we gave up. As the wise man says: "I hate to be the one to break the news to you, General, but you're a foot soldier."
"So how do we do that?" asked Greyboar. "And where do I come in?"
"Well," explained Hildegard, "we'll have to get the score from one of the fallen angels. It doesn't matter which in particular. Any of them will do—they all know the score. The Old Geister made them memorize it, of course. He makes His angels memorize everything He says."
"Fallen angels?" I squeaked. "You mean—devils?"
Hildegard frowned again. "And you claimed to be the smart one! Well, I should make allowances, I suppose. No doubt you had a rotten education. You have the air about you of a dog who was beaten too often as a puppy. Can't mistake it—that certain perpetual scowl at the world; it's unmistakable, really."
Abbess or not, I was starting to take exception to her attitude. But she cut off my exception before I got a chance to express it. Started right in lecturing again, just like a schoolmarm in a class for the mentally handicapped.
"Devils, you see, are independent creatures of the Darkness. Same with demons, daemons, imps—that whole wretched bunch that dwells in the infernal regions. Fallen angels are something else entirely. They're figments of the Lord's imagination, which He created and brought to divine life for no good reason except that He's such an Egotist that He doesn't really want to talk to anyone except Himself. So the Old Geister created angels in His image, so He could carry on a conversation with Himself. Kept them within limits, of course. He didn't want any backtalk, you understand, just an audience who'd listen to His every word like it was Holy Writ and say 'Yes, God' and 'You're absolutely right, God' and so forth. The problem, naturally, is that, like every egotist you've ever known, the Old Geister's as vain as a Peacock. Sooner or later one of the angels doesn't fawn over Him as quick as He likes, so—off you go, bum! It's to the netherworld with you! Eventually, He lets them back upstairs, but the fallen angels hate the whole thing. It's not that it hurts them any, you understand. It'd do them some good, actually, a stint in the netherworld, if they'd learn anything from the experience. But since the angels are created in His image, naturally they never learn anything, since they think they already know it all. But while they're down there they become quite frightful. It offends their self-esteem, you see, being snickered at by devils and such. They become exceedingly nasty, after a while. Very hard to tell them from proper devils, if you just happen to run into them without knowing the trick of it."
"Which is what?" I asked.
Hildegard got a very prim look at her face. "I don't believe there's any need to get into that subject. It wouldn't be proper for me to talk about it."
Greyboar was back to scratching his head. "I think I see where you're going. We have to descend to the netherworld, somehow—"
"Goodness, no!" gasped Hildegard, clutching her throat. "Why, the very idea! My good man, I am the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility! It's a shocking idea, positively shocking! You should be ashamed of yourself! A devout woman like myself, consorting with devils and demons. Shocking!"
"But then, how are—"
"We shall summon the fallen angel here, of course!" exclaimed Hildegard. "It's the only proper way to proceed."
Like I said, it was impossible to follow the woman's logic. Just keep foot soldiering. Greyboar apparently felt the same way.
"Fine, fine," he said hurriedly. "No problem—we'll bring the character up here. I assume you know how to do that? I certainly don't." Seeing the frown gathering on Hildegard's brow, he hastened on: "Yeah, yeah, of course you know how to do it! After all, you are the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility! So, anyway, the idea is you haul the bum up here and I choke the answer out of him."
The strangler looked down at his huge hands. Cracked his knuckles. The snarl raised her head, gave him a speculative look—sort of, Hmmm, this guy might make for an interesting little set-to, not like those squealing soldiers what just jump into your maw like rabbits.
"I've never tried to put the squeeze on a fallen angel," mused Greyboar. "What the hell, why not? It'll be an interesting challenge."
Hildegard had that look on her face again. The one I was beginning to detest heartily. The one that expressed the idea: How does this guy manage to feed himself, anyway, with a brain like a cabbage?
"My dear man," she explained in that patient tone, "how in the world do you propose to strangle an angel? Didn't I just get through explaining that an angel is nothing but a figment of the Old Geister's imagination? They're utterly immaterial, angels are—fallen or not."
Greyboar threw up his hands with exasperation. "Then what am I doing here? I'm a damned strangler, not a theologian! I do manual labor, lady, I'm not a philosopher!"
I couldn't help it—I giggled. Greyboar glared at me.
"Well, of course you're a strangler, my dear man. That's why I engaged your services. I'm not one of those silly people who thinks they can substitute their amateur fumbling for the trained skills of a craftsman. In fact, for the task in front of me, I not only need a professional, I need the best in the field. It won't be easy, I can assure you. If I may be so immodest, I believe you'll find this the most difficult choke in your career."
"Is that right?" demanded Greyboar. He's normally quite cool-headed, the big guy is, but I could tell the Abbess was starting to get his goat. "So who am I supposed to strangle?"
"Why—me, of course," replied Hildegard. "Who else?"
At that point, my brain went on strike. Total walkout, picket lines up, the whole shot. Greyboar gaped.
Of course, Hildegard just kept chugging along with her lesson in Remedial Theology.
"Since they're immaterial figments of the Old Geister's imagination," she explained, "the only way you can force an angel—fallen or risen, by the way, the principle's the same, it's just that you can't summon a risen angel down to earth—to do anything is to squeeze their spirit. And the way you do that is by demonstrating your utter indifference to their existence. Hate that, angels. It tortures them no end, the idea that someone not only isn't overawed by their presence but would just as soon die to get away from them. It's an ancient trick, first perfected by the swamis of the Sundjhab. Great austerities. Does it every time."
She pursed her lips. "Of course, the trick's gotten more difficult over the millennia. In the old days, you could coerce a fallen angel just by practicing the traditional austerities: fasting, scourging, suchlike. But I'm afraid that just won't do, anymore. The Old Geister's gotten tougher as time goes by. Like old Shoe Leather, He is now. His angels just laugh at fasting, today. Scourging will still make them wince, of course. But to force a fallen angel to cough up the score of the Harmony of the Spheres, well, for that I'll need to practice a truly great austerity. I considered the problem at some length, let me tell you, trying to figure out what would be the greatest austerity I could come up with. And then—like a bolt out of the blue!—it came to me: I'll have myself strangled by the world's greatest chokester. If that doesn't do the trick, nothing will."
She smiled. "Is it clear now?"
I had my own opinion as to who in the room suffered from mental deficiency, but I kept it to myself. Didn't need to say anything, anyway. I knew Greyboar would turn the job down flat.
"Not a chance," he growled. "I don't choke girls. Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility or not, you're still a girl as far as squeezing's concerned. You'll have to get another chokester. Even if he isn't the best in the world."
Hildegard nodded her head. "Yes, yes. Gwendolyn told me you'd be stubborn on this point. So I had her give me a note. I have it right here." She rummaged around in a drawer, brought out a letter.
"It's for you," she said, walking around the desk and handing it to Greyboar.
The strangler opened the letter and read it. After reading it twice, he handed it to me. Here's what it said:
Dear brother:
I don't have time now to write a long letter. Things are getting sticky here, and I have to go underground again. Hildegard explained her problem to me, and I told her to hire you. I hate the fact of it, but there's no question you're the world's best professional strangler. And if she's to do what she needs to do, she'll need the best help she can get. I know you've always kept the promise you made me about not choking women. I'm not going to say I'm proud of you for that. You're still nothing but a damned thug. But I am pleased. Sort of. Anyway, you have my permission—this one time—to break the promise. In fact, I'm telling you to do it. Mind your sister! Go ahead and choke Hildegard.
Gwendolyn
It was her letter, all right. I recognized her handwriting, and besides, you couldn't mistake the sentiments—talk about self-righteous!
"Well, I guess it's all right, then," said Greyboar.
"It's not all right!" I exclaimed. "I've said it once, I'll say it again—no Joe business! And this job has Joe business written all over it."
Greyboar shook his head. "Doesn't matter, Ignace. Normally, I'd agree with you. But you saw what it said in the letter. Gwendolyn didn't just give me permission to do the job, she told me to do it. That means it's important to her, for whatever reason. I've disappointed her once in her life, I'm not going to do it again. Not for something like this, anyway. What the hell—we've already gotten mixed up with Joe business."
It'd always been a sore point with me, as an agent, the way Greyboar stuck his nose into deciding which assignments we took. That was my job, dammit! He provides the thumbs, I provide the managerial skills. I admit, he was usually pretty good about it. But, I swear, the man was an absolute pawn in the hands of women. I ask you—what's the point of being the world's greatest strangler if you're going to let every Tina, Diane and Harriet push you around?