[passage from an untitled novel, written 2 August 1996]
Heat—suffocation—a sense of overwhelming oppression came over
him. He was sweating like a pig.
“Would you like some roast badger-balls?” Marcellus’s voice seemed to echo, as if he
were speaking through a hollow tube of infinite length. “My cook makes them from the ambrosia of the
Leptunian snake-gods.”
The words made no sense.
Nausea fought thirst for the possession of Simon’s soul. He rose hastily to his feet, groping blindly
for the corridor to his private chamber. “I—it’s—there’s an important—something—” he
gabbled. His vision was beginning to
shut down, and before him danced the shimmering heat-waves of a reality-shift. Time.
There was no time. A blinding
flash of pure insight struck him and he fell to his knees. Oh God, he thought, let there be time enough—
Something hard struck him, and there was nothing.
#
Not darkness. Not
light. Nothing. The stuff eternity was made of. Yards of it surrounded Simon like a woolly
cocoon, pressing him, cutting off his breath.
Where was he?
“I am come, Simon of Gitta.”
The voice came from all sides, like wind in the trees. There was something familiar about it.
“Have you?” Simon said.
“What is that to me?”
There was an unnatural silence, as if sound itself had been
cut off—the silence of caves, the complete silence of death. Then the voice came again. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” Amusement tinged the question.
“I know,” said Simon.
“I know. Did you think, Simon
Rock, that you would be able to sneak into Rome like a thief in the night? Did you think you were unobserved? No, Rock, let me tell you that I have watched
your progress every day. I know the
tricks you played on that poor captain of the vessel you came in. I know how you stopped the wind to plague him,
and started it again when it served your purposes.”
“It was the will of God,” said the voice.
“Was it?” returned Simon.
“You have delusions of grandeur.”
“It was.” The voice
sounded a little sullen now.
“It is strange, isn’t it,” asked Simon sarcastically, “just
how often God’s will and yours somehow coincide. Isn’t that a bit thick, Rock? How long can you keep on using that
threadbare excuse for following the whims of the flesh and feeding the needs of
the corpse you live in? God’s will,
Rock? Or yours.”
“They are the same.”
This time the voice was definitely defensive, on the run.
“Ha!” said Simon. “You
admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” snapped the voice. “If what I want is what God wants, it isn’t
because I am making myself equal to Him.”
“Then what is it?” demanded Simon. “What else can you call it?”
“Humility, Simon the Magician, the ability to stop my thoughts
and let God’s fill my mind. The ability
to silence my will and let God’s will move me.
The ability to shut out the distractions of the senses and receive God’s
truth. That’s what I possess, Simon of
Gitta, Simon the false prophet, Simon the liar and stealer of men’s souls,”
said the voice. “And that’s what you
could do with a little of.”
Simon laughed harshly.
“The ability to blind yourself and grope helplessly in the dark. The ability to deafen yourself to everything
but your own thoughts. The ability to
cut yourself off from the Truth—that God gave you your wits to use them, that
God gave you your eyes and your ears and your mind for you to put them to use,
not for you to pretend a stupidity you do not and cannot possess. Save that stuff for your sheep-like
followers.”
“Enough, Simon,” said the voice. “It is God who has given us this shared
vision, and it would be criminal of us both to waste it in pointless
bickering.”
“Yes, Rock,” said Simon.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the past twenty years.”
“Listen, Simon,” said the voice. “I will be coming to Rome tomorrow, as you know. Will you not repent and believe in the
Lord? Will you not do His work on
earth? I warn you, Simon the magician,
you are treading close to the abyss. You
and I, or rather you and the Lord, are close to the final moment of truth, and
I do not envy you this confrontation.”
“Still confusing yourself with God?” Simon asked
derisively. “Well, Rock, I will not
repay the compliment. I will not ask you
to reform, since I know there is no hope of it.
You are too deafened by your own words to know the truth, too blinded by
your own light to see it. But I do warn
you, Rock, to stay out of Rome. You betrayed your Master once. If you come here—and I say this from the most
absolute and certain of foreknowledge, my beloved namesake and enemy—if you
come here, Rock, then you will be in the utmost danger of betraying him
again. So take care, my enemy—stay away
from Rome, as
you value your very soul. Stay
away.” And with a supreme effort of will
Simon pushed back the nothingness and began to struggle to his feet.
But emptiness and blankness refused to retreat, and the voice
put in one final shot. “I thank you for
your warning, Simon the magician—for what it’s worth. But I know myself too well to imagine that I
will ever betray my Savior again, and so Rome
has no terrors for me. Farewell—and look
out, my one-time friend. For I know—and I
say this from the most absolute and certain of foreknowledge—that you are near
the end, and if I have to go down to end your infernal wickedness, then,
Simon—it is a sacrifice I am very willing to make.” And with that the fog cleared and Simon
pulled himself to his feet—and found himself facing Marcellus and the other
guests, staring at him from the door to his chamber.
“What was it?” asked Marcellus. “Some kind of fit?”
Simon took one or two deep breaths to clear the Nothing out of
his spirit. “No,” he said. “It was not a fit.”
“It was a vision,” said one of the guests. “I’ve seen what happens when a spirit seizes
a man before.”
“Yes, you looked dead,” said another.
“Yes, well, in a way I was dead,” said Simon, “dead to this
world and alive to another. Listen, my
good Marcellus, could I have a word with your doorkeeper?”
“With my doorkeeper?
Whatever for?”
“I can’t explain,” said Simon, “But I know there is a man
coming tomorrow—coming here tomorrow.
And I cannot meet with him.”
Marcellus laughed.
“You—a magician, afraid?”
“I’m not a magician,” said Simon, “and I’m not afraid. Not the way you mean. But I know—I know—that this man will
bring an end to all our works if he and I are allowed to meet again. And this cannot be allowed to happen. So look, man, for God’s sake, let me talk
with your doorkeeper!”
Marcellus motioned to a servant, and in a moment the doorkeeper
came in, obviously awed by the great magician.
“You sent for me, my Lord?”
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