A FARCE TO BE RECKONED WITH
by Roger Zelazny & Robert Sheckley
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Ylith congratulated herself on her luck. She had chosen a perfect day for her journey from Heaven to the neat little graveyard outside of York, England. It was late May. The sunshine was glorious. Little birds of all sorts cavorted on mossy tree limbs, singing away on the edge of the surround. And the best of it was, the dozen little angels in her charge were being very good, even for angels.
The youngsters were playing together nicely, and Ylith was just starting to relax when suddenly a cloud of sulfurous yellow smoke puffed into existence not ten feet from her. When the smoke cleared, a short, red-haired fox-faced demon wrapped in a black cloak stood before her.
"Azzie!" Ylith cried. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd take a little time off from infernal affairs, check out some shrines," Azzie said.
"Not thinking of changing your allegiance, are you?" Ylith asked.
"Not like you," Azzie said, referring to Ylith's former career as a witch. "Nice bunch you've got." He waved at the little angels.
"They're being terribly good, as you can see," Ylith remarked.
"It is not news when an angel acts good," Azzie said.
In fact, the little angels had begun running around the graveyard and quarreling. Their voices rose, high-pitched and sugar sweet:
"Look what I've found! It's the tomb of St. Athelstan the Mealymouthed!"
"Oh, yeah? I've found the gravestone of St. Anne the Anxious, and she was much more important!"
The angels all looked very much alike with their snub features and their uniformly blond, smooth honey-colored hair that curled up beneath in the pageboy bob so fashionable that century. They all had plump wings, still covered with baby feathers and concealed under white and pink traveling cloaks. It was customary for angels visiting Earth to hide their wings.
Not that anyone would have been surprised to see angels in that year of 1324. It was well known that angels went back and forth between Earth and Heaven on a regular basis then, as did imps and devils and other supernatural creatures who had managed to remain in existence during the change of major deities, along with several anomalous immortal beings that no one had gotten around to identifying. In terms of deities, the Renaissance was an eclectic sort of an age.
"What are you doing here, Ylith?" Azzie asked.
The beautiful dark-haired witch explained that she had agreed to take this group of pubescent angels on a tour of Famous Shrines of England as part of their summer term Religious Training course. Ylith, perhaps because of her past history as a witch in the service of Bad — before she changed sides due to her love for a young angel named Babriel—was very much in favor of religious education for the young. They had to know something, so that when people asked questions, Heaven wouldn't be embarrassed by their answers.
Their starting point, the Martyr's Field in the north of
England, had many famous tombs; the little angels were busy discovering who had been planted where.
"Here's where they buried St. Cecily the Unwary," one of the little angels was saying. "I was talking to Cecily just the other day, in Heaven. She asked me to say a prayer at her grave."
Azzie said to Ylith, "The children seem to be doing fine. Why don't you come with me and let me give you some lunch?"
Ylith and Azzie had been an item once, back in the days when they were both Bad Creatures in service to Evil. Ylith still remembered how crazy she had been for the high-stepping, sharp-muzzled young fox demon. That was quite some time ago, of course.
Now she walked over to where Azzie indicated, near a spreading oak tree, and was more than a little surprised when a light flashed and the scene shifted abruptly. Suddenly she seemed to be standing on the shore of a great sea, with palm trees swaying on the beach and a big fat red sun lying low on the horizon. Near the edge of the water was a table laden with good things to eat and drink. And there was a broad bed, too, there on the beach, close to the table and made up with satin sheets and with innumerable cushions of all sizes and shapes and colors. Beside the bed a small chorus of satyrs sang the music of seduction.
"Just lie down over here," Azzie said, for he had accompanied Ylith into the new construct. "I will ply you with grapes and iced sherbets and we will know such delights as we once enjoyed — entirely too long ago."
"Hey, take it easy!" Ylith said, evading Azzie's amorous lunge. "You're forgetting I'm still an angel."
"No, I'm not," Azzie responded. "I just thought you might like to take a break."
"There are certain rules we must follow."
"How do they apply to your little fling with Dr. Faust?"
"That was a mistake," she said, "a case of bad judgment on my part while under emotional stress. Anyway, I repented afterwards. I'm okay. Just like before."
"Except that you and Babriel broke up over it."
"We still see each other. How did you hear about that, anyway?"
"The taverns of Limbo are the great exchange posts for Heavenly and Hellish news."
"I hardly see that my love life rates as particularly important gossip."
"Hey, you used to be big-time, lady. You used to hang out with me, remember?"
"Oh, Azzie, you're impossible," she said. "If you want to seduce me, you should be telling me how beautiful and desirable I am, not how important you are."
"As a matter of fact, you do look terribly good," Azzie said.
"And you are being terribly clever, as always," she said. She looked around at the seaside. "It is a beautiful illusion you've created here, Azzie. But I really must get back to the children."
She stepped out of the oceanside illusion, arriving back in the churchyard just in time to prevent Angel Ermita from pulling the ears of Angel Dimitri. Azzie soon appeared beside her, looking not too crestfallen for his recent rejection.
"Anyhow… I don't think it's me you want so much. What is bothering you, Azzie?" Ylith asked. "What are you doing here, really?"
"I'm between engagements," Azzie said with a bitter laugh. "I'm out of work. I came here to consider what to do next."
"Came here? To England?"
"To the Middle Ages, actually. It's one of my favorite periods of Earth history."
"How can you be out of work? I should think you'd be well employed by the Powers of Bad, especially after the masterful way you handled things in the recent Faust game."
"Ah! Don't talk to me about the Faust game!"
"Whyever not?"
"The judges of Hell have robbed me of the real honors I should have received after Mephistopheles bungled things so badly. The fools in Hell go on as though their positions are assured for all eternity, little realizing that they stand in imminent danger of going out of fashion and vanishing from men's thoughts forever."
"The Forces of Bad, on the verge of vanishing? But what would happen to Good?"
"It would vanish, too."
"That is quite impossible," Ylith said. "Mankind cannot live without firm opinions on Good and Bad."
"You think not? They did so once. The Greeks lived without absolutes, and so did the Romans."
"I'm not so sure of that," Ylith said. "But even if it's true, I can't imagine mankind living in that strident but morally bankrupt pagan way again."
"Why not?" Azzie asked. "Good and Bad aren't like bread and water. Mankind can get along nicely without them."
"Is that what you want, Azzie?" Ylith asked. "A world without Good or Bad?"
"Certainly not! Evil is my true work, Ylith, my vocation. I believe in it. What I want is to come up with something impressive in favor of what they call Bad, something that will motivate mankind, seize its attention, bring it back again to the dear old drama of Good and Bad, gain and loss."
"Do you think you can do that?" she asked.
"Of course. I don't want to boast, but I can do anything I set my mind to."
"At least," Ylith said, "you have no problem with your ego."
"If only I could get Ananke to see things my way!" Azzie said, referring to the personified spirit of Necessity who ruled gods and men in her inscrutable way. "But the silly old cow persists in her ambiguities."
"You'll think of something," Ylith said. "But now I really must be getting along."
"How can you stand being around those brats all the time?" Azzie asked.
"Getting yourself to like what you ought to like is half the trick of being good."
"And what is the other half?"
"Saying no to the blandishments of old boyfriends. Especially demonic ones! Good-bye, Azzie, and good luck."
Chapter 2
Disguised as a merchant, Azzie walked into the nearby city of York. Crowds were streaming toward a central point in the city, and he allowed himself to be carried along through the narrow winding streets. The people were in a holiday mood, but Azzie didn't know the cause of celebration.
A play was being enacted on a wooden platform in the middle of the city's central square; Azzie decided to watch. Stage plays for the general public were a fairly recent invention. Suddenly it had become a fad that was sweeping Europe.
It was all pretty simple and straightforward. Actors came out on a raised platform and pretended to be someone else. If you'd never seen it before it could be quite thrilling. Azzie had seen many plays in his tune—a long tune that stretched all the way back to the primitive goat dances of the ancient Hellenics — and he considered himself something of an expert. After all, he had been in the opening nights' audiences for Sophocles' great dramas. But this production in York was something different from goat dances and from Sophocles. This was realistic drama, and these two actors were talking like man and wife.
"So, Noah, what's new?" said Noah's wife.
"Woman, I have just had a divine revelation."
"Call that news?" Mrs. Noah said scornfully. "All you ever do, Noah, is walk out into the desert and have revelations. Isn't that true, children?"
"Sure is, Mama," said Jepthah.
"Right on," said Ham.
"Too true," said Shem.
"The Lord God has spoken to me," Noah said. "He commands me to take the boat I just built and move everyone aboard, because He is about to send a rain that will drown all things."
"How do you know this?" Mrs. Noah asked.
"I heard the voice of God."
"You and your crazy voices!" said Mrs. Noah. "If you think I'm going to move into that crazy boat with you and the kids just because you've heard a voice, you've got another think coming."
"I know it'll be a little crowded," Noah said, "especially after we get all the animals aboard. But not to worry. The Lord will provide."
"Animals?" Mrs. Noah asked. "You didn't say anything about animals."
"I was just getting to that part. That's what the Lord wants me to do. Save the animals from the Flood He's about to send."
"What animals are we talking about? Like pets?"
"God wants us to take more than just pets," Noah said.
"Like what?"
"Well, like everything," Noah said.
"How many of everything?"
"A pair of each kind of animal."
"Each kind? All of them?"
"That's the idea."
"You mean, like rats?"
"Yes, two of them."
"And rhinoceroses?"
"I admit it'll be a squeeze. But yes, rhinoceroses."
"And elephants?"
"We'll get them aboard somehow."
"And walruses?"
"Yes, of course, walruses too! God's instructions were very clear! Two of every kind."
Mrs. Noah gave Noah a look that as good as said, Poor drunken old Noah is having his fantasies again.
The audience loved it. There were about a hundred of them in the improvised theater, lounging on benches. They howled at Mrs. Noah's lines, stamping their feet to show approval. They were poor townspeople and rustics mostly, this audience that had gathered to watch a soon-to-be-apocryphal miracle play called Noah.
Azzie sat in one of the box seats that had been set up on a special scaffolding above and to the right of the stage. These seats were for the use of the prosperous citizen. From here he could watch the actors who played Noah's sons' wives changing their costumes. He could lounge at his ease and remain above the unwashed fetor of the masses for whom these plays, with their morally correct attitudes and their simpering points of argument, were intended.
The play went on. Noah boarded his boat; the rains began. A yokel with a watering can stood on a ladder and simulated the beginning of forty days and forty nights of rain. Azzie remarked to the well-dressed man in the box seat behind him, "Do what God says and everything will come out right for you! What a trivial conclusion, and how untrue to everyday life, where things come out in the oddest fashion with no regard for cause and effect."
"A sage point," the man said. "But consider, sir, these tales are not meant to be true to life. They just point to how a man should attempt to comport himself in various circumstances."
"Well, obviously, sir," Azzie said. "But it is all sheerest propaganda. Don't you ever wish you could see a play with more invention in it, instead of a concoction like this that links homilies together as a butcher links sausages? Wouldn't you like to see a play whose plot was not hitched to the simpering determinism of standard morality?"
"Such would be refreshing, I suppose," the man said. "But such a philosophically based work is unlikely to come from the clerics who pen this sort of thing. Perhaps you'd care to pursue the point further, sir, after the play, over a tankard of ale?"
"Delighted," said Azzie. "I am Azzie Elbub, and my profession is gentleman."
"And I am Peter Westfall," the stranger said. "I am a grain importer, and I have my shop near St. Gregory's in the Field. But I see the players are beginning again."
The play got no better. After it was over, Azzie accompanied Westfall and several of his friends to the Sign of the Pied Cow, in Holbeck Lane near High Street. The landlord brought them flowing tankards, and Azzie ordered mutton and potatoes for all.
Westfall had received some education in a monastery in Burgundy. He was a large middle-aged man, sanguine of complexion, mostly bald, florid of gesture, and tending toward goutiness. From watching him refuse the meat, Azzie suspected him of vegetarianism, one of the deviant marks by which a Catharist heretic could be detected. It made no difference to Azzie, but he filed the information away for possible use some other time. Meanwhile there was the play to discuss with Westfall and the several other members of his party.
When Azzie complained about the play's lack of originality, Westfall said, "Indeed, sir, it is not supposed to be original. It is a story that tells a most edifying message."
"You call that an edifying message?" Azzie demanded. "Be patient and it'll all work out? You know perfectly well that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and that if you don't complain nothing ever changes. In the Noah story, God was a tyrant. He should have been opposed! Who says God is right every time? Is a man to have no judgment of his own? If I were a playwright, I'd come up with something better than that!"
Westfall thought that Azzie's words were provocative and unorthodox, and it was in his mind to chastise him. But he noticed that there was a strange and commanding presence about the young fellow, and it was well known that members of the Court often disguised themselves as ordinary gentlemen, the better to draw responses from the unwary. So Westfall eased up on his queries, finally pleading the late hour as an excuse to retire.
After Westfall and the others had departed, Azzie stayed on awhile at the tavern. He wasn't sure what to do next. Azzie considered following Ylith and again trying his seductive wiles, but he realized it would not be a good move. He decided instead to travel on to the Continent, as he had originally intended. He was thinking of staging a play of his own. A play that would run counter to these morality plays with their insipid messages. An immorality play!
Chapter 3
The idea of staging an immorality play had seized and inflamed Azzie's imagination. He wanted to do great things, as he had in the past, first in the matter of Prince Charming and then again in the affair of Johann Faust. Now he wanted to strike again, to amaze the world, both spiritual and material.
A play! An immorality play! One that would create a new legend concerning man's destiny, and would single- handedly turn the tides of fortune toward Darkness!
He knew it was no small task; he knew he had some strenuous work ahead of him. But he also knew of the man who could help him create such a play: Pietro Aretino, one day to be eminent among Europe's Renaissance playwrights and poets. If Aretino could be convinced…
He made up his mind sometime after midnight. Yes, he would do it! Azzie walked through the town of York and out onto the fields. It was a splendid night, with a great spangling of stars shining from their fixed sphere. All good God-fearing folk had gone to bed hours ago. Seeing there was no one about, God-fearing or not, he stripped off his satin coat with the double row of buttons and opened his crimson waistcoat. He was splendidly muscled; supernatural creatures are able, by paying a modest fee, to keep their bodies in shape magically, utilizing the Hellish service that advertises "Sound body, evil mind." Stripped, he unfastened the linen binder that pulled his batlike demon's wings flat to his body in order to conceal them during his journeys among mankind. How good it felt to stretch his wings again! He used the linen binder to tie up his clothing to his back, taking care that his change was securely placed. He had lost money this way before through careless stowage. And then, with three running steps, he was aloft.
He slid forward in time as he went, enjoying its astringent smell. Soon he was over the English Channel, headed in a southeasterly direction. A brisk little following breeze pushed him along to the French coast in record time.
Morning found him above Switzerland, and he pumped for more altitude as the Alps came into sight. Next came the familiar Great St. Bernard Pass; soon after that he was flying over northern Italy. The air was noticeably warmer, even at Azzie's altitude.
Italy! Azzie loved it here. Italy was his favorite country, and the Renaissance, at which he had just arrived, his favorite time. He considered himself a sort of Renaissance demon. He flew over vineyards and tilled fields, little hills and sparkling rivers.
Azzie turned toward the east and, adjusting the set of his wings for the heavier air rising off the land, flew until land and sea seemed to interpenetrate in a great marsh that stretched green and gray below him and combined at last with the Adriatic. And here he came to the outskirts of Venice.
The final yellow rays of the setting sun illuminated the noble old city, glinting off the waters of the canals. In the oncoming gloom of evening he could just make out the gondolas, each with a lantern suspended from a pole in its rear, making their way back and forth over the Grand Canal.
Chapter 4
Back in York, old Meg the servant was cleaning up the inn when Peter Westfall arrived for his morning pail of ale.
"Master Peter," Meg said, "did you lose something last night? I found this where you gentlemen were sitting."
She handed him a little bag made of either deerskin or a very fine chamois. There was something inside.
"Oh, yes," Westfall said. He fumbled in his purse and found a farthing. "Here, have a pail of beer for your trouble."
Westfall returned to his house in Rotten Lane and went to his private room on the top floor. The room was spacious, with sloping windows set in the ceiling, and it was furnished with three tables made of stout oak. On these tables Westfall had placed various items of the alchemist's trade. In those days, the allied practices of alchemy and magic were accessible to many.
Westfall pulled out a chair and sat down. He untied the silver cord that knotted the throat of the bag, eased in two fingers, and carefully withdrew the smooth yellow stone he found inside. Engraved on it was a sign that could be recognized as the Hebrew letter, aleph.
Westfall knew it had to be a talisman or charm — an object of power. This was the sort of thing that a master magician would possess. With it, various conjuring powers would be his; he could call one or more spirits out of the deep, depending on how the talisman was tuned. Westfall had always wanted a talisman, for without it, his magic had always been quite ineffectual. He suspected that it had been dropped by the spooky young fellow he had talked with after the Noah play the previous night.
That gave him momentary pause. He stopped and thought. This, after all, was not his talisman. The owner would be likely to return for something so unusual and valuable. If he did, Westfall would of course return it immediately.
He started to put the talisman back into its soft case, then stopped. It could do no harm if he played with it until its owner returned. Surely that would be unobjectionable.
Westfall was all alone in his upper chamber. He turned to the talisman. "All right, let's get to work," he said. "I don't know which magical incantations to use, but if you're a genuine charmed object, a mere indication should be enough. Fetch me a spirit here to do my bidding and be quick about it."
Before his eyes the little stone talisman seemed to heave and sigh. The black sign on its side changed color, first becoming golden, then deepest red. It began to vibrate as if it had a small but powerful demon inside. A sort of high-pitched hum emanated from it.
The light in the chamber dimmed as if the talisman were stealing power from the sun. A whorl of dust rose from the floor and began to rotate in a counterclockwise direction. There were deep sounds apparently coming from the air, like unto the bellowing of impossibly large cattle. A cloud of green smoke filled the room, setting Westfall to coughing. While he caught his breath he watched the smoke dispel, revealing a young woman with lustrous black hair and an expression of pert beauty. She was wearing a long full skirt with many pleats, and a red silk blouse with dragons embroidered on it in thread of gold. She had on little high-heeled shoes, and a variety of tasteful jewelry. Right now she was very angry indeed.
"What is the meaning of this?" Ylith demanded. For it was Ylith whom the talisman had captured, probably because Azzie's last thoughts had been of her. The talisman must have picked up the impression.
"Why, I conjured you," Westfall said. "You are a spirit, and you must do my bidding. Right?" he added hopefully.
"Wrong," Ylith said. "I am an angel or a witch, not a mere spirit, and I am not bound to your talisman. I suggest that you recalibrate and try again."
"Oh, sorry," Westfall said, but as he spoke Ylith disappeared. Westfall said to the talisman, "Do be more careful this time. Fetch me the spirit you're supposed to. Do it!"
The talisman quivered as if it felt bad about being reprimanded. A musical note came from it, and then another. The light in the chamber dimmed again, then returned to full brilliance. There was a puff of smoke, and from it stepped a man wearing a complicated suit of dark satin and a conical hat. From his shoulders flowed a navy blue satin cloak embroidered all over with magical signs in gold thread. The man had a mustache and beard, and he looked entirely out of sorts.
"What is it?" he asked. "I told everyone I was not to be disturbed until after my next sequence of experiments. How can I be expected to pursue my investigations unless I am left in peace? Who are you and what do you want?"
"I am Peter Westfall," Westfall said. "I have conjured you by the power of this talisman." Westfall held it up.
The bearded gentleman said, "You conjured me? What are you talking about? Let me see that!" He looked closely at the talisman. "Originally Egyptian, but familiar somehow. Unless I miss my guess this is one of the original series with which King Solomon bound a larger collection of spirits back quite some time ago. I thought all of these had been retired. Where did you get this?"
"Never mind," Westfall said. "I have it. That's the important thing, and you must obey me."
"I must, must I? We'll just see about that!" The man suddenly doubled in size and moved threateningly toward Westfall. Westfall seized the talisman and squeezed it; Hermes let out a shriek and stepped back.
"Take it easy!" he said. "You don't have to get rough."
"This charm gives me power over you!"
"Oh, I suppose it does," the other responded. "But damn it, this is ridiculous! I'm a former Greek god and a supreme magician — Hermes Trismegistus, by name."
"Well, you've come a cropper this time, Hermes," Westfall said.
"That seems to be the case," Hermes said. "Who are you? Not a magician, that I'm sure of." He looked around. "And no king, because this is certainly no palace. You're some sort of commoner, aren't you?"
"I am a grain merchant," Westfall said.
"And how did you come by this amulet?"
"None of your business."
"Probably found it in your granny's attic!"
"It doesn't matter where I got it!" Westfall's fist tightened convulsively over the amulet.
"Take it easy!" Hermes said, wincing. "All right, that's better." Hermes took a deep breath and performed a small incantation to calm himself down. This was no time for rage, no matter how justified. This stupid mortal did indeed have power over him because of this ancient amulet. How had he gotten it? The fellow must have stolen it, because he obviously knew little or nothing about the Art.
"Master Westfall," Hermes said, "I acknowledge your power over me. I do indeed have to obey you. Tell me what it is you want, and let us waste no further time."
"That's more like it," Westfall said. "First I want a sack of gold coins, fine minted and capable of being spent where and how I please. English, Spanish, or French coins will do nicely, but no Italian ones—they always clip the edges. I also want an Old English sheepdog, a pedigreed one like the King has. That'll do for a start, but I'll have more requests after that."
"Not so fast," Hermes said. "How many wishes are you expecting me to grant?"
"As many as I want!" Westfall cried. "Because I've got the amulet!" He flourished it, and Hermes winced with pain.
"Not so hard! I'll get your stuff! Give me a day or two!" And so saying, Hermes disappeared.
Hermes had no difficulty putting together the items Westfall wanted. He kept bags and bags of gold coin in a cave under the Rhine, in the care of dwarfs who had been out of work since Gotterdammerung. The Old English sheepdog was no great trouble, either — Hermes easily kidnapped one from a kennel near Spottiswode. Then he returned to Westfall's chamber in York.
Chapter 5
Good dog. Now go lie in the corner," Westfall said. The half-grown Old English sheepdog looked at him and barked.
"He's not very well trained," Westfall said.
"Hey, you didn't say anything about him being trained," Hermes replied. "He's got a pedigree as long as your arm."
"He's a good-looking dog," Westfall acknowledged, "and the gold pieces are satisfactory." He had a mess of them in a small stout leather bag at his feet.
"I'm glad you're satisfied," Hermes said. "Now if you will just tell this amulet that you release me and that I am no longer in your power, we can each of us get on with our own business."
"Not so fast!" Westfall said. "I still have a number of wishes I want you to grant."
"But I'm busy!" Hermes complained.
"You must be patient. I'll need you around for a while longer, my dear Trismegistus, and if you do what I ask, after that I'll consider releasing you."
"That's not fair!" Hermes said. "I'm willing to grant you a wish or two out of respect for your ill-gotten talisman, but you're taking advantage of the situation."
"Magic is there to take advantage of people with," Westfall said.
"Don't press your luck," Hermes said. "You don't know what you're playing around with here."
"Enough of this talk," Westfall said. "Listen carefully, Hermes. Earlier, before I conjured you, the talisman gave me somebody else. A woman. A very beautiful woman. Do you know who I'm talking about?"
Hermes Trismegistus closed his eyes and concentrated. Then he opened his eyes again.
"My sense of postcognition tells me you conjured up one of God's angels, a former witch named Ylith."
"How did you know that?" Westfall asked.
"Second sight is one of my attributes," Hermes said. "If you'll release me, I'll teach you the way of it."
"Never mind. What I want is for you to bring that lady —Ylith, you called her? I want you to bring her to me."
"I doubt she'll want to come," Hermes said, eyeing Westfall with interest. This was a twist he hadn't anticipated.
"I don't care if she wants to or not," Westfall said. "The sight of her has inflamed my imagination. I want her."
"Ylith is going to love this," Hermes remarked aside. He knew she was a strong-minded lady who had been fighting for feminine spiritual equality in the cosmos long before the concept was even conceived of on Earth.
"She will have to get used to me," Westfall said. "I intend to possess that lady in all the ways a man may possess a maid."
"I can't make her agree to that," Hermes said. "There's a limit to my powers; they stop at having any influence over the feminine psyche."
...
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