A Maze of Death

9

“So now we can see it,” Seth Morley said. At last. It makes a noise, he thought, like a thousand cosmic babies dropping an endless number of giant pot lids onto a titanic concrete floor. What are they doing in there? he asked himself, and started toward the front face of the structure, to see what was inscribed over the entrance.

“Noisy, isn’t it?” Wade Frazer shouted.

“Yes,” he said, and was unable to hear his own voice over the stupendous racket of the Building.

He followed a paved road that led along the side of the structure; the others tagged after him, some of them holding their ears. Now he came out in front, shielded his eyes and peered up, focused on the raised surface above the closed sliding doors.

That much noise from a winery? he asked himself. It makes no sense.

A small door bore a sign reading: Customers’ entrance to wine and cheese tasting room. Holy smoke, he said to himself, the thought of cheese drifting through his mind and burnishing all the shiny parts of his conscious attention. I ought to go in, he said to himself. Apparently it’s free, although they like you to buy a couple of bottles before you leave. But you don’t have to.

Too bad, he thought, that Ben Tallchief isn’t here. With his great interest in alcoholic beverages this would constitute, for him, a fantastic discovery.

“Wait!” Maggie Walsh called from behind him. “Don’t go in!”

His hand on the customers’ door, he half-turned, wondering what was the matter.

Maggie Walsh peeped up into the splendor of the sun and saw mixed with its remarkably strong rays a glimmer of words. She traced the letters with her finger, trying to stabilize them. What does it say? she asked herself. What message does it have for us, with all we yearn to know?

“Wait!” she called to Seth Morley, who stood with his hand on a small door marked: Customers’ entrance. “Don’t go in!”

“Why not?” he yelled back.

“We don’t know what it is!” She came breathlessly up beside him. The great structure shimmered in the mobile sunlight which spilled and dribbled over its higher surfaces. As if one could walk up on a single mote, she said to herself longingly. A carrier to the universal self: made partly of this world, partly of the next. Wittery. A place where knowledge is accumulated? But it made too much noise to be a book and tape and microfilm depository. Where witty conversations take place? Perhaps the essences of man’s wit were being distilled within; she might find herself immersed in the wit of Dr. Johnson, of Voltaire.

But wit did not mean humor. It meant perspicacity. It meant the most fundamental form of intelligence coupled with a certain amount of grace. But, over all, the capacity of man to possess absolute knowledge.

If I go in there, she thought, I will learn all that man can know in this interstice of dimensions. I must go in. She hurried up to Seth Morley, nodding. “Open the door,” she said. “We must go inside the wittery; we’ve got to learn what is in there.”

Ambling after them, regarding their agitation with distinguished irony, Wade Frazer perceived the legend incised above the closed, vast doors of the Building.

At first he was perplexed. He could decipher the letters and thus make out the word. But he had not the foggiest notion as to the meaning of the word.

“I don’t get it,” he said to Seth Morley and the religious fanatic of the colony, Mag the Hag. He strained once more to see, wondering if his problem lay in a psychological ambivalence; perhaps on some lower level he did not really desire to know what the letters spelled. So he had garbled it, to foil his own maneuvering.

Wait, he thought. I think I know what a stoppery is. It is based on the Celtic, I believe. A dialect word only comprehensible to someone who has a varied and broad background of liberal, humanistic information at his disposal. Other persons would walk right by.

It is, he thought, a place where deranged persons are apprehended and their activities curtailed. In a sense it’s a sanitarium, but it goes much further than that. The aim is not to cure the ill and then return them to society—probably as ill as they ever were—but to close the final door on man’s ignorance and folly. Here, at this point, the deranged preoccupations of the mentally ill come to an end; they stop, as the incised sign reads. They—the mentally ill who come here—are not returned to society, they are quietly and painlessly put to sleep. Which, ultimately, must be the fate for all who are incurably sick. Their poisons must not continue to contaminate the galaxy, he said to himself. Thank God there is such a place as this; I wonder why I wasn’t notified of it vis-à-vis the trade journals.

I must go in, he decided. I want to see how they work. And let’s find out what their legal basis is; there remains, after all, the sticky problem of the nonmedical authorities—if they could be called that—intervening and blocking the process of stoppery.

“Don’t go in!” he yelled at Seth Morley and the religious nut Maggie Baggie. “This isn’t for you; it’s probably classified. Yes. See?” He pointed to the legend on the small aluminum door; it read: Trained personnel entrance only. “I can go in!” he yelled at them over the din, “but you can’t! You’re not qualified!” Both Maggie Baggie Haggie and Seth Morley looked at him in a startled way, but stopped. He pushed past them.

Without difficulty, Mary Morley perceived the writing over the entrance of the gray, large building.

I know what it is, she said to herself, but they don’t. A witchery is a place where the control of people is exercised by means of formulas and incantations. Those who rule are masters because of their contact with the witchery and its brews, its drugs.

“I’m going in there,” she said to her husband.

Seth said, “Wait a minute. Just hold on.”

“I can go in,” she said, “but you can’t. It’s there for me. I know it. I don’t want you to stop me; get out of the way.”

She stood before the small door, reading the gold letters that adhered to the glass. Introductory chamber open to all qualified visitors, the door read. Well, that means me, she thought. It’s speaking directly to me. That’s what it means by “qualified.”

“I’ll go in with you,” Seth said.

Mary Morley laughed. Go in with her? Amusing, she thought; he thinks they’ll welcome him in the witchery. A man. This is only for women, she said to herself; there aren’t any male witches.

After I’ve been in there, she realized, I’ll know things by which I can control him; I can make him into what he ought to be, rather than what he is. So in a sense I’m doing it for his sake.

She reached for the knob of the door.

Ignatz Thugg stood off to one side, chuckling to see their antics. They howled and bleated like pigs. He felt like walking up and sticking them but who cared? I’ll bet they stink when you get right up close to them, he told himself. They look so clean and underneath they stink. What is this poop place? He squinted, trying to read the jerky letters.

Hey, he said to himself. That’s swell; that’s where they have people hop onto animals for youknowwhat. I always wanted to watch a horse and a woman make it together; I bet I can see that inside there. Yeah; I really want to see that, for everyone to watch. They show everything really good in there and like it really is.

And there’ll be real people watching who I can talk to. Not like Morley and Walsh and Frazer using fatass words that’re so long they sound like farting. They use words like that to make it look like their poop don’t stink. But they’re no different from me.

Maybe, he thought, they have fat asses, people like Babble, making it with big dogs. I’d like to see some of these fatassed people in there plugging away; I’d like to see that Walsh plugged by a Great Dane for once in her life. She’d probably love that. That’s what she really wants out of life; she probably dreams about it.

“Get out of the way,” he said to Morley and Walsh and Frazer. “You can’t go in there. Look at what it says.” He pointed to the words painted in classy gold on the glass window of the small door. Club members only. “I can go in,” he said, and reached for the knob.

Going swiftly forward, Ned Russell interposed himself between them and the door. He glanced up at the class-one building, saw then on their various faces separate and intense cravings, and he said, “I think it would be better if none of us goes in.”

“Why?” Seth Morley said, visibly disappointed. “What could be harmful in going into the tasting room of a winery?”

“It’s not a winery,” Ignatz Thugg said, and chortled with glee. “You read it wrong; you’re afraid to admit what it really is.” He chortled once again. “But I know.”

“‘Winery’!” Maggie Walsh exclaimed. “It’s not a winery, it’s a symposium of the achievement of man’s highest knowledge. If we go in there we’ll be purified by God’s love for man and man’s love for God.”

“It’s a special club for certain people only,” Thugg said.

Frazer said, with a smirk. “Isn’t it amazing, the lengths people will go to in an unconscious effort to block their having to face reality. Isn’t that correct, Russell?”

Russell said, “It’s not safe in there. For any of us.” I know now what it is, he said to himself, and I am right. I must get them—and myself—away from here. “Go,” he said to them, forcefully and sternly. He remained there, not budging.

Some of their energy faded.

“You think so, really?” Seth Morley said.

“Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

To the others, Seth Morley said, “Maybe he’s right.”

“Do you really think so, Mr. Russell?” Maggie Walsh said in a faltering voice. They retreated from the door. Slightly. But enough.

Crushed, Ignatz Thugg said, “I knew they’d close it down. They don’t want anyone to get any kickers out of life. It’s always that way.”

Russell said nothing; he stood there, blocking the door, and patiently waiting.

All at once Seth Morley said, “Where’s Betty Jo Berm?” Merciful God, Russell thought, I forgot her. I forgot to watch. He turned rapidly and, shielding his eyes, peered back the way they had come. Back at the sunlit, midday river.

She had seen again what she had seen before. Each time that she saw the Building she clearly made out the vast bronze plaque placed boldly above the central entrance.

As a linguist she had been able to translate it the first time around. Mekkis, the Hittite word for power; it had passed into the Sanskrit, then into Greek, Latin, and at last into modern English as machine and mechanical. This was the place denied her; she could not come here, as the rest of them could.

I wish I were dead, she said to herself.

Here was the font of the universe… at least as she understood it. She understood as literally true Specktowsky’s theory of concentric circles of widening emanation. But to her it did not concern a Deity; she understood it as a statement of material fact, with no transcendental aspects. When she took a pill she rose, for a brief moment, into a higher, smaller circle of greater intensity and concentration of power. Her body weighed less; her ability, her motions, her animation—all functioned as if powered by a better fuel. I burn better, she said to herself as she turned and walked away from the Building, back toward the river. I am able to think more clearly; I am not clouded over as I am now, drooping under a foreign sun.

The water will help, she said to herself. Because in water you no longer have to support your heavy body; you are not lifted into greater mekkis but you do not care; the water erases everything. You are not heavy; you are not light. You are not even there.

I can’t go on dragging my heavy body everywhere, she said to herself. The weight is too much. I cannot endure being pulled down any longer; I have to be free.

She stepped into the shallows. And walked out, toward the center. Without looking back.

The water, she thought, has now dissolved all the pills I carry; they are gone forever. But I no longer have any need for them. If I could enter the Mekkisry… maybe, without a body, I can, she thought. There to be remade. There to cease, and then begin all over. But starting at a different point. I do not want to go over again what I have gone over already, she told herself.

She could hear the vibrating roar of the Mekkisry behind her. The others are in there now, she realized. Why, she asked herself, is it this way? Why can they go where I can’t? She did not know.

She did not care.

“There she is,” Maggie Walsh said, pointing. Her hand shook. “Can’t you see her?” She broke into motion, became unfrozen; she sprinted toward the river. But before she reached it Russell and Seth Morley passed her, leaving her behind. She began to cry, stopped running and stood there, watching through fragmented bits of crystal-like tears as Thugg and Wade Frazer caught up with Seth Morley and Russell; the four men, with Mary Morley trailing after them, rapidly waded out into the river, toward the black object drifting slightly toward the far side.

Standing there, she watched them carry Betty Jo’s body from the water and up onto land. She’s dead, she realized. While we argued about going into the Wittery. Goddam it, she thought brokenly. Then, halting, she made her way toward the five of them who now knelt around B .J. ‘s body, taking turns at giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

She reached them. Stood. “Any chance?” she said.

“No,” Wade Frazer said.

“Goddam it,” she said, and her voice came out broken and lame. “Why did she do it? Frazer, do you know?”

“Some pressure that’s built up over a long period of time,” Frazer said.

Seth Morley stared at him with violence flaming in his eyes. “You fool,” he said. “You stupid bastard fool.”

“It’s not my fault she’s dead,” Frazer chattered anxiously. “I didn’t have enough testing apparatus to give anyone a really complete exam; if I had had what I wanted I could have uncovered and treated her suicidal tendencies.”

“Can we carry her back to the settlement?” Maggie Walsh said in a tear-stricken voice; she found herself almost unable to speak. “If you four men could carry her—”

“If we could float her down the river,” Thugg said, “it’d be a lot less work. By river around half the time is cut off.”

“We have nothing to float her on,” Mary Morley said.

Russell said, “When we were crossing the river I saw what looked like a jury-rigged raft. I’ll show you.” He beckoned them to follow him to the river’s edge.

There it lay, trapped into immobility by an extrusion of the river. It lay undulating slightly from the activity of the water, and Maggie Walsh thought, It almost looks as if it’s here on purpose. For this reason: to carry one of us who has died back home.

“Belsnor’s raft,” Ignatz Thugg said.

“That’s right,” Frazer said, picking at his right ear. “He did say he was building a raft somewhere out here. Yes, you can see how he’s lashed the logs together with heavy-duty electrical cable. I wonder if it’s well-enough put together to be safe.”

“If Glen Belsnor built it,” Maggie said fiercely, “it’s safe. Put her on it.” And in the name of God be gentle, she said to herself. Be reverent. What you’re carrying is holy.

The four men, grunting, instructing one another as to what to do and how to do it, managed at last to move the body of Betty Jo Berm onto Belsnor’s raft.

She lay face up, her hands placed across her stomach. Her eyes sightlessly fixed on the harsh, midday sky. Water dribbled from her still, and her hair seemed to Maggie like some hive of black wasps which had fastened on an adversary, never again to let it go.

Attacked by death, she thought. The wasps of death. And the rest of us, she thought; when will it happen to us? Who will be the next? Maybe me, she thought. Yes, possibly me.

“We can all get on the raft with her,” Russell said. To Maggie he said, “Do you know at what point we should leave the river?”

“I know,” Frazer said, before she could answer.

“Okay,” Russell said matter-of-factly. “Let’s go.” He guided Maggie and Mary Morley down the riverside and onto the raft; he touched the two women in a gentle manner, an attitude of chivalry which Maggie had not encountered in some time.

“Thank you,” she said to him.

“Look at it,” Seth Morley said, gazing back at the Building. The artificial background had already begun to phase into being; the Building wavered, real as it was. As the raft moved out into the river—pushed there by the four men—Maggie saw the huge gray wall of the Building fade into the far-off bronze of a counterfeit plateau.

The raft picked up speed as it entered the central current of the river. Maggie, seated by Betty Jo’s wet body, shivered in the sun and shut her eyes. Oh God, she thought, help us get back to the settlement. Where is this river taking us? she asked herself. I’ve never seen it before; as far as I know it doesn’t run near the settlement. We didn’t walk along it to get there. Aloud, she said, “Why do you think this river will take us home? I think you’ve all taken leave of your senses.”

“We can’t carry her,” Frazer said. “It’s too far.”

“But this is taking us farther and farther away,” Maggie said. She was positive of it. “I want to get off!” she said, and scrambled to her feet in panic. The raft was moving too swiftly; she felt trapped fear as she saw the contours of the banks passing in such quick succession.

“Don’t jump into the water,” Russell said, taking her by the arm. “You’ll be all right; we’ll all be all right.”

The raft continued to gather speed. Now no one spoke; they rode along quietly, feeling the sun, sensing the water… and all of them afraid and sobered by what had happened. And, Maggie Walsh thought, by what lies ahead.

“How did you know about the raft?” Seth Morley asked Russell.

“As I said, I saw it when we—”

“Nobody else saw it,” Seth Morley broke in.

Russell said nothing.

“Are you a man or are you a Manifestation?” Seth Morley said.

“If I was a Manifestation of the Deity I would have saved her from drowning,” Russell pointed out caustically. To Maggie Walsh he said, “Do you think I’m a Manifestation?”

“No,” she said. How I wish you were, she thought. How badly we need intercession.

Bending, Russell touched Betty Jo’s black, dead, soaked hair. They continued on in silence.

Tony Dunkeiwelt, shut up in his hot room, sat cross-legged on the floor and knew that he had killed Susie.

My miracle, he thought. It must have been the Form Destroyer who came when I called. It turned the bread into stone and then took the stone from her and killed her with it. The stone I made. No matter how you look at it, it goes back to me.

Listening, he heard no sound. Half the group had gone; the remaining half had sunk into oblivion. Maybe they’re all gone now, he said to himself. I’m alone… left here to fall into the terrible paws of the Form Destroyer.

“I will take the Sword of Chemosh,” he said aloud. “And slay the Form Destroyer with it.” He held up his hand, groping for the Sword. He had seen it before during his meditations, but he had never touched it. “Give me the Sword of Chemosh,” he said, “and I will do its work; I will seek out the Black One and murder it forever. It will never rise again.”

He waited but saw nothing.

“Please,” he said. And then he thought, I must merge more deeply into the universal self. I am still separate. He shut his eyes and compelled his body to relax. Receive, he thought; I must be clear enough and empty enough to have it pour into me. Once again I must be a hollow vessel. As so many, many times before.

But he could not do it now.

I am impure, he realized. So they send me nothing. By what I have done I’ve lost the capacity to accept and even to see. Will I never see the God-Above-God again? he asked himself. Has it all ended?

My punishment, he thought.

But I don’t deserve it. Susie wasn’t that important. She was demented; the stone left her in revulsion. That was it; the stone was pure and she was impure. But still, he thought, it’s awful that she’s dead. Brightness, mobility and light—Susie had all three. But it was a broken, fractured light which she gave off. A light which scorched and injured… me, for example. It was wrong for me. What I did I did in self-defense. It’s obvious.

“The Sword,” he said. “The Sword-wrath of Chemosh. Let it come to me.” He rocked back and forth, reached up once again into the awesomeness above him. His hand groped, disappeared; he watched it as it vanished. His fingers fumbled in empty space, a million miles into the emptiness, the hollowness above man… he continued to grope on and on, and then, abruptly, his fingers touched something.

Touched… but did not grasp.

I swear, he said to himself, that if I am given the Sword I will use it. I will avenge her death.

Again he touched but did not grasp. I know it is there, he thought; I can feel it with my fingers. “Give it to me!” he said aloud. “I swear that I’ll use it!” He waited, and then, into his empty hand, was placed something hard, heavy and cold.

The Sword. He held it.

He drew the Sword downward, carefully. God-like, it blazed with heat and light; it filled the room with its authority. He at once leaped up, almost dropping the Sword. I have it now, he said to himself joyfully. He ran to the door of the room, the Sword wobbling in his meager grip. Pushing open the door he emerged in the midday light; gazing around he said, “Where are you, mighty Form Destroyer, you decayer of life? Come and fight with me!”

A shape moved clumsily, slowly along the porch. A bent shape which crept blindly, as if accustomed to the darkness within the Earth. It looked up at him with filmed-over gray eyes; he saw and understood the shirt of dust which clung to it… dust trickled silently down its bent body and drifted into the air. And it left a fine trail of dust as it moved.

It was badly decayed. Yellowed, wrinkled skin covered its brittle bones. Its cheeks were sunken and it had no teeth. The Form Destroyer hobbled forward, seeing him; as it hobbled it wheezed to itself and squeaked a few wretched words. Now its dry-skin hand groped for him and it rasped, “Hey there, Tony. Hey there. How are you?”

“Are you coming to meet me?” he said.

“Yes,” it gasped, and came a step closer. He smelled it, now; mixture of fungus-breath and the rot of centuries. It did not have long to live. Plucking at him it cackled; saliva ran down its chin and dripped onto the floor. It tried to wipe the saliva away with the crust-like back of its hand, but could not. “I want you—” it started to say, and then he stuck the Sword of Chemosh into its paunchy, soft middle.

Handfuls of worms, white pulpy worms, oozed out of it as he withdrew the Sword. Again it laughed its dry cackle; it stood there swaying, one arm and hand groping for him… he stepped back and looked away as the worms grew in a pile before it. It had no blood: it was a sack of corruption and nothing more.

It sank down onto one knee, still cackling. Then, in a kind of convulsion, it clawed at its hair. Between its grasping fingers strands of long, lusterless hair appeared; it tore the hair from itself, then held it in his direction, as if it meant to give him something priceless.

He stabbed it again. Now it lay, sightlessly; its eyes gummed over entirely and its mouth fell open.

From its mouth a single furry organism, like an inordinately large spider, crawled. He stepped on it and, under his foot, it lay mashed into oblivion.

I have killed the Form Destroyer, he said.

From far off, on the other side of the compound, a voice carried to him. “Tony!” A shape came running. At first he could not tell who or what it was; he shielded his eyes from the sun and strained to see.

Glen Belsnor. Running as fast as he could.

“I killed the Form Destroyer,” Tony said as Belsnor dashed up onto the porch, his chest heaving. “See?” He pointed, with his Sword, at the crippled shape lying between them; it had drawn up its legs and entered, at the moment of its death, a fetal position.

“That’s Bert Kosler!” Belsnor shouted, panting for breath. “You killed an old man!”

“No,” he said, and looked down. He saw Bert Kosler, the settlement’s custodian, lying there. “He fell into the possession of the Form Destroyer,” he said, but he did not believe it—he saw what he had done, knew what he had done. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll ask the God-Above-God to bring him back.” He turned and ran into his room; locking the door he stood there shaking. Nausea flung itself up into his throat; he gagged, blinked… deep pains filled his stomach and he had to bend over, groaning with pain. The Sword fell heavily from him, onto the floor; its clank frightened him and he retreated a few steps, leaving it to lie there.

“Open the door!” Glen Belsnor yelled from outside.

“No,” he said, and his teeth chattered; terrible cold dashed through his arms and legs; the cold knotted itself into the nausea in his stomach, and the pains became greater.

At the door a terrible crash sounded; the door hesitated and creaked, then abruptly threw itself open.

Glen Belsnor stood there, gray-haired and grim, holding a military pistol pointed directly into the room. Directly at Tony Dunkelwelt.

Bending, Tony Dunkelwelt reached to pick up the Sword.

“Don’t,” Glen Belsnor said, “or I’ll kill you.”

His hand closed over the handle of the Sword.

Glen Belsnor fired at him. Point blank.