Deus Irae

Seventeen

Rain ... A gray world, a chill world: Idaho. Basque country. Sheep. Jai alai. A language they say the Devil himself could not master…

Pete trudged beside the creaking cart. Thank the Lord it was not difficult, he thought, to convince Tibor that Lufteufel’s place was nowhere near the spot Schuld had said it was. Two weeks. Two weeks, and Tibor is still hurting. He must never know how close he really was. He sees Schuld now as a madman. I wish that I could, too. The most difficult thing was the burial. I should have been able to say something, but I was as dumb as that girl with the broken doll in her lap we passed the next day, seated there at the crossroads. I should have managed some sort of prayer. After all, he was a man, he had an immortal soul… Empty, though, my mouth. My lips were stuck together. We go on… A necessary errand of fools. So long as Tibor can be made to feel that Lufteufel is still somewhere ahead, we must go on. Forever, if it comes to that, looking for a man who is already dead. It was Tiber’s fault, too, to think that God’s vision could indeed be captured, to believe that a mortal artist could daub an epiphany with his colors. It was wrong, it was presumption of the highest order. Yet… He needs me now more than ever, shaken as he is. We must go on… where? Only God knows. The destination is no longer important. I cannot leave him, and he cannot go back—He chuckled. “Empty-handed” was the wrong term.

“What’s funny?” Tibor said, up on the cart.

“Us.”

“Why?”

“We haven’t the sense to get out of the rain.”

Tibor snorted. Proper as he was, he commanded a somewhat better view than Pete.

“If that is all that concerns you, I see a building down the hill. It looks like part of a barn. We may be nearing a settlement. There seems to be something more in the distance.”

“Let’s head for the barn,” Pete said.

“We are already soaked. Can’t get any wetter.”

“This isn’t doing your cart any good.”

“That is true. All right. The barn.”

“A painter named Wyeth liked scenes like that,” Pete said when the shelter came into his view, hoping to route Tiber’s thoughts away from his brooding. “I saw some of his pictures in a book once.”

“Rainscapes?”

“No. Barns. Country stuff.”

“Was he good?”

“I think so.”

“Why?”

“His pictures looked exceptionally real.”

“Real in what way?”

“The way things actually look.”

Tibor laughed.

“Pete,” he said, “there are an infinite number of ways of showing how things actually look. They are all of them right, because they show it. Yet each artist goes about it differently. It is partly what you choose to emphasize and partly how you do it. It is plain that you have never painted.”

“True,” Pete said, ignoring the water running down his neck, pleased to have gotten Tibor talking on a subject that held more than a little of his attention. Then a peculiar thought struck him.

“Such being the case,” he said suddenly, “if—when we find Lufteufel, how will you fulfill your commission honestly, properly, if there are an infinite number of ways you might go about it? Emphasis means showing one thing at the expense of another. How will you get a true portrait that way?”

Tibor shook his head vigorously.

“You misunderstood me. There are all those ways of doing it, but only one is the best.”

“How do you know which one it is?” Pete asked.

Tibor was silent for a time. Then, “You just do,” he said. “It feels—appropriate.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Tibor was silent again.

“Neither do I,” he finally said.

Inside the barn there was straw. Pete unhitched the cow and she munched it. He closed the door. He lay back in the straw and listened to the rain.

God! I’m tired! It has been a long pair of weeks, he thought. Haven’t called Abernathy since right after it happened. Nothing new to say, though. Go on, he told me. Do not let Tibor know. Lead him through the land. Continue to search. My prayers go with you. Good night.

It was the only way. He saw that clearly now. There was a sweetish smell to the damp straw. A tangle of stiff leather hung from a nail overhead. Rain dripped from several holes in the roof. A rusted machine occupied a far corner. Pete thought of the beetles and the Great C extension, of the autofac and the twisted trail from Charlottesville; he thought of the card game that night, with Tibor, Abernathy, and Lurine; and of Tiber’s sudden grasping at the faith; he thought of Lurine; he recalled his vision of Deity above the hook, and as suddenly that of the lidless-eyed regarder of the world and all in it; Lufteufel, then, hung high, dark, hideous in his ultimate frustration; he thought of Lurine…

He realized that he had been asleep. The rain had stopped. He heard Tiber’s snores. The cow was chewing her cud. He stretched. He scratched himself and sat up.

Tibor watched the shadows among the overhead beams. If he had not taken back the arms and legs, he thought, I could never have killed that strange man, that hunter, that Jack Schuld. He was too strong. Only the manipulators could have served. Why leave me with the devices that would help me kill? For a while things seemed to be going so well… It seemed as if everything were near to completion, as if a few days more would have seen a successful end to the Pilg. It seemed as if the image might soon be captured and the job finished. I had—hope. Then, so quickly after… despair. Is that an aspect of the God of Wrath? Perhaps Pete raised a valid question. What to emphasize in such a study? Even if I am to look upon his face, is it possible that, this time, I may be unable to do a painting correctly? How can I capture the essence of such a being in surface and color? It—it passeth understanding… I miss Toby. He was a good dog. I loved him. But that poor madman—I am sorry I killed him. He could not help it that he was mad. If I had kept those arms and legs the whole thing would have been different… I might have given up and walked home. After all, I am not even certain I could paint with real hands. God, if you ever want to give them back, though… No, I do not think I will ever have them again. It—I do not understand. I was wrong in accepting this commission. I am certain of that now. I wanted to depict that which may not be shown, that which cannot be understood. It is an impossible job. Pride. There is nothing else to me other than my skill. I know that I am good. It is all that I have, though, and I have made too much of it. I had felt, somehow, that it was more than sufficient, not just to make me the equal of a whole man, but to surpass other men, to surpass even the human. I wanted all the future generations of worshipers to look at that work and to see this. It was not the God of Wrath I wanted them to look upon with awe, but the skill of Tibor McMasters. I wanted that awe, their wonder, their admiration—their worship. I wanted deification through my art, I see that now. My pride brought me the entire way. I do not know what I am going to do now. Go on, go on, of course. I must do that. This is not at all how I thought things might turn out.

The rain had stopped. He tensed and relaxed his muscles. He looked up. The cow was chewing her cud. He heard Pete’s snores. No. Pete was sitting up, looking his way.

“Tibor?” Pete said.

“Yes?”

“Where is that snoring coming from?”

“I don’t know. I thought it was you.”

Pete stood, listening. He looked about the barn, turned, and moved toward a stall. He looked within. He would have dismissed it as a bundle of rags and trash if it had not been for the snoring. He leaned nearer and was engulfed by the aura of wine fumes which surrounded it. He drew back quickly.

“What is it?” Tibor called out.

“Some bum,” Pete said, “sleeping one off, I think.”

“Oh. Maybe he could tell us about the settlement up ahead. He might even know something more…”

“I doubt that,” Pete said. Holding his breath, he returned and examined the figure more closely: an untrimmed beard stained a number of colors, ancient crumbs of food still trapped within it, a glistening line of saliva down through its strands, framing teeth which had gone beyond yellow to a brownish cast, several of them broken, many missing, the remainder worn; the heavily lined face could be seen as sallow in the light which fell upon it through the nearest hole in the roof; nose broken at least twice; heavy encrustations of pus at the corners of the eyes, dried upon the lashes; hair wiry, tangled long and gray pale as smoke. A tension of pain lay upon that face even in sleep, so that tics, twitches, and sudden tightnesses animated it unnaturally, as though swarms of insects moved beneath the skin, fighting, breeding, dying. Over-all, the form was thin, wasted, dehydrated. “An old drunk,” Pete said, turning back again. “That’s all. Can’t know too much about the settlement. They probably ran him out of it.”

The rain has stopped and there is still some light, Pete thought. Best we leave him here and get moving again. Whatever he has to tell us will hardly be worth the hearing, and we would be stuck with a hangover bum on our hands.

“Let’s just leave him and go,” he told Tibor.

As he moved away, the man moaned and muttered, “Where are you?”

Pete was silent.

“Where are you?” came the croaking voice once more, followed by a thrashing about from within the stall.

“Maybe he is ill,” Tibor said.

“I do not doubt it.”

“Come here,” said the voice, “come here…”

Pete looked at Tibor.

“Maybe there is something we can do,” Tibor said.

Pete shook his head, moved back to the stall.

Just as he looked about the partition, the man said, “There you are,” but he was not looking at Pete. He was addressing a jug he had withdrawn from beneath a mound of straw. He uncorked it but lacked the strength to raise it to his lips. He threw his head back then and turned it to the side. He tipped the jug toward his mouth, sucked upon it. Some of the wine splashed over his face. As he uprighted the jug, he was seized with a spell of coughing. Ragged, breaking sounds emerged from his chest, his throat, his mouth. When he spat, Pete could not tell whether it was blood or wine residue that reddened the spittle so. Pete moved to withdraw.

“I see you,” the man said suddenly, his voice slightly firmer than it had been. “Don’t go away. Help old Tom.” His voice slid into a practiced whine then. “Please, mister, can you spare a—help? A help for me? M’arms don’t work so good. Must’ve slept on ‘em funny.”

“What do you want?” Pete asked.

“Hold this jug for me, please. I don’t want to spill any.”

“All right,” Pete said.

Holding his breath, he entered the stall and knelt beside the old man. He raised the frail shoulders with his right arm, gripped the jug with his left hand. “Here,” he said, and he held it tilted while the other drew a long series of swallows from it.

“Thank you,” said the man, coughing less vigorously than before, but still showering Pete’s wrist and forearm.

Pete lowered him quickly and set down the jug. He began to draw away, but a bony hand snatched his wrist.

“Don’t go, don’t go. I’m Tom, Tom Gleason. Where you from?”

“Utah. Charlottesville, Utah,” Pete said, struggling not to breathe.

“Denver,” said Tom, “that’s all, thank you. It was a nice city. Good people, you know? Someone always had the price of a flop and—what’s the word? Thunderbird!” He chuckled. “What’s the price? Thirty twice. You want a drink, mister? You have some of this. Ain’t bad. Found it in the cellar of an old place off the road, back—” His hand flopped. “What way? Oh hell! There’s more there. Have some. Still plenty here.”

“Thanks,” Pete said. “No.”

“You ever been to Denver?”

“No.”

“Remember how nice it was before they burned it. The people were nice, you know? They—”

Pete exhaled, breathed, gagged.

“Yeah, gets me that way, too,” Tom said. “Burning a nice place like that. Why’d they do it, anyhow?”

“It was a war,” Pete said. “Cities get bombed when you have wars.”

“I didn’t want no war. It was such a nice place. No reason to bomb a nice place like Denver. I got burned when they did it.” His hand plucked feebly at his tattered shirt. “Want to see my scars?”

“That’s all right.”

“I got ‘em. Got plenty. Had me in a field hospital for a while. Threw me out soon as I got better. It wasn’t nice anymore. Hardly anything to drink, or eat either. Those was rough times. I don’t remember so much anymore, but I went a lot of places after that. Nothing left like Denver was, though. Nothing nice left. People ain’t so nice anymore either, you know? Hard to get a little juice from folks nowadays. Sure you don’t want none?”

“Better save it,” Pete said. “Hard to get.”

“That’s the truth. Help me to another, will you?”

“Okay.”

While he was doing this, Tibor called out, “How is he?”

Pete said, “Coming around.” Then, “Wait awhile.”

On an impulse then, he asked Tom, “Do you know who Carleton Lufteufel was?”

The old man looked at him blankly, shook his head.

“Might have heard the name. Might not. Don’t remember so well anymore. Friend… ?”

“Just a name to me, too,” Pete said. “But I’ve got a friend here—a poor little inc, who has been looking all over for him. Probably, he’ll never find him. Probably, he’ll just go on and on and die looking.”

Tom’s eyes brimmed over.

“Poor little inc,” he said, “poor little inc…”

“Can you say the name?” Pete asked.

“What name?”

“Carleton Lufteufel.”

“Gimme another drink, please.”

Pete held him again.

“Now?” he said. “Now can you say Carleton Lufteufel?”

“Carleton Lufteufel,” Tom said. “I can still talk. Just my memory that’s bad…”

“Would you—” No, it was ridiculous. Tibor would see right through it. Or would he? Pete wondered. Tom Gleason was about the right age. Tibor already thought he was ill, knew he had been drinking. And more important, perhaps, Tibor’s faith in his own judgment seemed to have waned since the killing of Schuld/Lufteufel. If I act convinced, Pete thought, will it be enough of an extra push to make him believe? If I act convinced and Tom states it for a fact? We could go on forever, wandering, looking, without another opportunity like this, a chance to return to Charlottesville, to finish my studies, to see Lurine again. And if I could succeed, think of the irony! Think of the Servants of Wrath bowing down, praying to, venerating, adoring, not their god in the form of Carleton Lufteufel, but one of his victims: a worthless derelict, a drunken brain-scarred old drifter, a panhandler, a wino, a man—a man who had never done anything to or for his fellows, a maimed human cipher who had never wielded power of any sort; just a man, at his lowest. Think of him in the SOWs’ place of honor! I have to try.

“Would you do a kindness for my poor little inc friend?” he asked.

“Do a what? A kindness? God, yes… There’s enough misery in the world. If it’s not too hard, that is. I’m not the man I used to be. What’s he want?”

“He wants to see Carleton Lufteufel, a man we will never find. All that he wants to do is take his picture. Would you—would you say that you are Carleton Lufteufel, that you were once Chairman of the ERDA? And if he asks you, that you gave the bomb order? That’s all. Would you do it? Can you?”

“One more drink,” Tom said.

Pete raised him to the jug.

“Is everything all right?” Tibor called out.

“Yes,” Pete called back. “This may be very important! We may have had a stroke of luck, if I can get this fellow back into shape… Hold on!”

He lowered the jug. Tom eased away from his arm and sat unassisted. And then, by degrees, his eyes shut. He had passed out. Either that, or—god forbid; he was dead.

“Tom,” Pete said.

Silence. And the inertness of a million years: something below the level of life, something still inanimate which had never made it up to sentience. And probably never would.

Shit, Pete Sands thought. He took the bottle of wine, put the screw-type lid back on it, sat for a time. “The piece of luck I was talking about,” he called loudly. “Do you believe at all in destiny?”

“What?” Tibor yelled back, with signs of irritation.

Reaching into his pocket, Pete Sands got out his roll of silver dimes, always kept there. The all-purpose winning possession, he thought; he got a good grip on the roll of dimes and then tapped it against Tom’s cheekbone. Nothing. No response. Pete then tore the heavy brown-paper wrapper away from the dunes. The metal corns slithered and tinkled against one another, manifesting themselves into visibility.

“Carleton Lufteufel,” ol’ Tom muttered, eyes still shut. “That poor little inc. I wouldn’t want the poor blighted inc wandering till he got hurt. It’s a rough world out there, you know?” Ol’ Tom opened his eyes; they were clear and lucid as he surveyed the many dimes in Pete’s palm. “Chairman of the ERDA, whatever that is—and I gave the bomb order, if the inc asks me. Okay; I got it straight. Carleton Lufteufel, that’s me.” He coughed and spat again, ran his fingers through his hair. “You wouldn’t have a comb, would you? If I’m going to have my picture took—” He held out his hand. Pete gave him the dimes. All of them.

“Afraid not,” Pete said.

“You help me up then. Carleton Lufteufel, ERDA, bomb order if he asks.” Ol’ Tom put the dimes away, out of sight; all at once they were gone. As if they had never been.

Pete said loudly, “This is extraordinary. You think there’s a supernatural entity which guides men along every step of their lives? You think that, Tibor? I never thought so, not before. But my god. I have been talking with this man since he woke up. He is not well, but then he has been through a lot.” He prodded Tom Gleason. “Tell my friend who you are,” he said.

Tom showed a broken-toothed smile. “Name’s Carleton Lufteufel.”

Tibor gasped. “Are you joking?”

“Wouldn’t joke about my own name now, son. A man might use a lot of them in a lot of different places. But at a time like this, when someone’s been looking so hard for me, there’s no point in denying it. Yes, I’m Carleton Lufteufel. I used to be Chairman of the ERDA.”

Tibor stared at him without moving.

“I gave the bomb order,” the old man added, then.

Tibor continued to stare.

Tom appeared a trifle uneasy, but held his ground, held his smile.

But the moments passed, and Tibor still did not respond. Finally Tom’s face slackened.

A little longer; then, “You ever been in Denver?”

“No,” Tibor said.

Pete wanted to scream, but then Tom said, “It was a nice city. Pretty. Good people. Then came the war. They burned it, you know…” His face underwent contortions and his eyes glistened.

“I was Chairman of the ERDA. I gave the bomb order,” he said again.

Tiber’s head moved and his tongue licked over the control unit. An extensor moved, activating a stereo, full-color, wide-angle, tel-scope, fast-action, shirtbutton-sized war-surplus camera the Servants of Wrath had provided him for this purpose.

I will never know the best way, Tibor thought. I will never do the perfect job with a subject like this. But then it does not matter. I will do the best that I can, the best that I can to show this subject as he is, to give them their murch, as they want it, to glorify their god, as they would see him glorified, not to my greater honor and glory, or even to his, but simply to fulfill this commission, as I promised. Whether it was destiny or simply luck does not matter. Our journey is over. The Pilg has been completed. I have his likeness. What can I say to him now that this is done?

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Tibor said. “I just took your picture. I hope that is all right with you.”

“Sure, son, sure. Glad to be of help. I’m going to have to get back to rest now, though, if your friend here will give me a hand. I’m ailing, you know.”

“Is there anything we could do?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got plenty of medicine laid by. You’re nice people. Have a good trip.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Tom flipped one hand at him, as Pete caught his arm and steered him back to the stall.

Home! Tibor thought, his eyes filling with tears. We can go home now…

He waited for Pete to come and harness the cow.

That night they sat by a small fire Pete had kindled. The clouds had blown, over and the stars shone in the fresh-washed sky. They had eaten dry rations. Pete had found a half jar of instant coffee in an abandoned farmhouse. It was stale, but it was hot and black and steamed attractively under the breeze from the south.

“There were times,” Tibor said, “when I thought I would never make it.”

Pete nodded.

“Still mad I came along?” he asked.

Tibor chuckled.

“Go on, push your advantage,” he said. “… Hell of a way to get converts.”

“Are you still going Christian?”

“Still thinking about it. Let me finish this job first.”

“Sure.” Pete had tried to get through to Abernathy earlier, but the storm system had blanked him out. No hurry now though, he thought. It is all right. Over.

“Want to see his picture again?”

“Yes.”

Tibor’s extensor moved, withdrew the picture from its case, passed it down to him.

Pete studied Tom Gleason’s tired, old features. Poor guy, he thought. May be dead by now. Not a thing we could have done for him, though. What if—? Supposing it was no coincidence? Supposing it was something more than luck that gave him to us? The irony I saw in Lufteufel’s victim deified… Could it run deeper even than irony? He turned the picture, looking into the eyes, a bit brighter for the moment as the man had realized he was making someone happy, a touch of pain in the lowering, the tightening of the brows as he had recalled his nice Denver gone…

Pete drank his coffee, passed the picture back to Tibor.

“You don’t seem unhappy,” Tibor said, “that the competition is getting what it wants.”

Pete shrugged.

“It’s not that big a thing to me,” he said. “After all, it’s only a picture.”

Tibor replaced it in his case.

“Did he look the way you thought he would?” he asked.

Pete nodded, thinking back over faces he had known.

“Pretty much,” he said. “Have you decided how you will handle it?”

“I’ll give them a good job. I know that.”

“More coffee?”

“Thanks.”

Tibor extended his cup. Pete filled it, added some to his own. He looked up at the stars then, listened to the noises of the night, breathed the warm wind—how warm it had become!—and sipped the coffee. “Too bad I didn’t find some cigarettes, too.”