Dead & Godless (11 page)

“Are
you married, Mr. Corwin?” asked Blue as they emerged from a barrel vaulted
tunnel.

“Not
me. Never got the chance.”

“What’s
it like where your home is?”

“Well,
it’s kind of like the place where you were flying your kite, only with fewer
trees and bigger buildings. There are carriages that move without rails and long,
snowy winters. Sometimes the sun comes out. And you can find some good people,
but only if you look hard enough.”

“Are
you going to go back?”

“I
don’t think so.”

“But
I bet you miss it, don’t you?”

“A
little.”

“My
husband once told me that nothing good goes away forever. Someday all the good
things will be new again. New, he said, but not the same. Never the same, for
then there would be no adventure in our reunions.”

Corwin
smiled. “I hope he’s right.”

Their
walkway intersected with another beneath the quaint brick dome of a gazebo. Blue
had begun on a course straight through when something drew her attention to the
left. She tilted her head and concentrated, as if listening for an elusive whisper
that she alone could hear.

The
stop was a welcome respite for Corwin, who propped one arm against a pillar.

“Are
we lost?”

Like
a bloodhound tracking a scent, Blue’s instincts had thus far sniffed out an
invisible trail. Her confidence was infectious, and somewhere along the way Corwin
had ceased worrying about where they might end up. But now she looked
conflicted.

“Not
lost,” she said. “Two ways.”

“Which
is the faster way?”

“Straight.”

“But
from that look in your eyes, I’m guessing you want to go left.”

“I’m
not sure why.” As she stared down the left-hand path, a confused longing came over
her. “I just feel I’m supposed to.”

Corwin
shrugged off his weariness. “Left it is, then!”

Blue’s
expression brightened at his words, though he still spied traces of sadness, shadows
stitched in the arctic gems of her eyes.

She
kept an ear to the far winds as they made their way. Her steps had lost their
bounce, but there was a new type of energy, a hope or conviction that Corwin
couldn’t quite pin down. Content to follow, he let his thoughts drift to the
many doors that edged the labyrinth roads. One appeared to belong to a ritzy
hotel, Room 1901. Another was iron, eaten by rust and half-covered in peeling
paint. Some bore windows, like the porthole in the door ahead, but they offered
no glimpse of the worlds beyond. Even when Corwin leaned to inspect it from
behind, the door's view was the same, its glass infused with amber light.

To
reach out and turn one of the knobs was a constant temptation. He resisted it for
the very practical reason that he hadn’t the slightest clue what would happen. Perhaps
he could peek through, harmlessly open one of the doors—just a crack—and reseal
it when his curiosity was satisfied. Or perhaps it wouldn't be that easy. What
if opening a door meant getting pulled into an alternate universe? And what if
someone or something was waiting for him on the other side?

Feeding
his curiosity with daydreams, Corwin didn't right away notice that he had lost
his guide. Alone, his mind raced back to the here and now.

“Blue?”

No
answer came, but it took only a second to spot her. Blue stood motionless some
yards behind, her gaze glued to a large, stout rectangle of tarnished silver.
The door was elaborately engraved, vines weaving a Celtic pattern along its
border. In the center rose a tree. Seven stars hung above it, pointy crosses in
the sky.

As
Corwin drew near, Blue turned, and seeing her face he immediately dropped to
one knee.

“Why
do you kneel?” she asked, her voice a golden harp.

“It
just seemed like the right thing to do . . .” he kept his eyes to the ground,
“when in the presence of royalty.”

“But
you are not one of my subjects, Corwin. You are a friend. Rise.”

He
glanced up, but the vision of Blue was so resplendent, so stunning that he dared
not look upon her. Instead of standing, his utmost urge was to dig a hole and
crawl shamefully out of sight.

“If
it's alright with you, I'll just stay down here.”

Soft
hands cupped his cheeks and the gentle warmth of spring poured over him. The
scent of tulips perfumed the air as she raised his head, her sapphire eyes
meeting his.

“Rise.”

However
unworthy he felt, Corwin had not the power to refuse her.

“My
true name is Mirielle,” she said. “You and the angel have done much for me.”

“Um,
my lady–”

“Please,
call me Mirielle.”

“Lady
Mirielle, how did you come to be where we found you?”

“There
is a place in the Starlight Garden, a meadow with many ponds. By day their halcyon
waters glisten clear, but under the stars, the ponds reflect distant realms, worlds
far removed from our own.

“One
night while my king slept, I walked alone amidst the reflected lands, and there
I saw a city mantled in dazzling white. Never before had I seen snow. My king
had warned me against swimming in that place, but I thought that if I could
just wade by the shore, perhaps I might feel some shadow of that land, know
what it was to live as those people bundled in furs lived.”

Her
fingers traced the grooves in the silver door.

“That
was a long time ago, and now I fear to return. What if my foolishness has
brought shame upon my king?”

“No!”
The word leapt out, louder than Corwin had intended. “He won't be ashamed of
you. I'm sure that more than anything, your husband just misses you.”

She
hugged him, this same girl that had wrapped her arms around his neck while he
carried her over electrified rails, only now her touch was enough to melt the
coldest winter freeze.

“I
thank you, Corwin! You will always be welcome in our land. And give my thanks
to the angel!”

“About
that . . .” he floundered, remembering where he was.

“Left
at the next lamp post, then the second flight of stairs on your right.”

She
rested a hand on the doorknob.

“Can
I ask you one more thing?” Corwin's request stalled her. “How can you tell which
way is which in this maze?”

“After
I left the Garden, the past faded, but the mists of the future began to clear.
I can see where things lead, where time will take them.”

“You can
see into the future?”

The
revelation struck Corwin like a ton of bricks.

“Only
to the next bend in time's road.” Her hand went to his forearm and squeezed. “Beware
the one who wears false skin! Beware the whisperers!”

The Soulless Stranger

At the top of the
stairs, Ransom held a phone to his ear.

“That's
what I thought . . . No need, it's already been taken care of . . . Thanks
Elsie, and stop worrying. We're ten steps ahead of them. I'll see you.”

“Blue
says thanks,” said Corwin. “And her real name is Mirielle, by the way.”

“Queen
Mirielle of the Starlight Garden. Perhaps we can pay a visit when this is all
over, provided that you're not in Hell, of course.”

“Of
course.”

“And
that would be our exit.”

Near
the corner of the platform stood a blue plastic door. As Ransom pulled its
lever, the slider above switched from “occupied” to “vacant.” The labyrinth
vanished and the two travelers stepped out into a breezy autumn night. There
was dirt underfoot and a full moon in the sky, its glow limning the clouds with
a silver sheen. It might have been a pleasant change, if not for the acrid
stench.

Cringing,
Corwin turned to discover a row of filth-encrusted porta potties. In front of
each was a line. At the head of the nearest, a portly man in a Red Sox cap was regarding
them with a look of amused disbelief.

Ransom
strode right up to him, his aloof demeanor not ruffled in the slightest.

“Whatever
you think went on in there, I assure you that the truth is far stranger.”

“Nice
choice on the door,” Corwin whispered cynically as they marched towards the
colorful lights and blaring pop music of the fairground.

Families
were everywhere, mothers clutching their children’s hands and fathers with
toddlers riding on their shoulders. Packs of teenagers roamed the trampled
grass, navigating between food stalls and game booths, presenting their tickets
to vendors and lining up in front of noisy, electric carnival rides that
invariably looked more thrilling than safe.

That
was the point,
Corwin reminded himself, though a few of the rusty rides
stood out to him as lawsuits waiting to happen.

He
recognized several of the attractions, sights that brought back memories from
his childhood. They walked past the Gravitron, a chrome flying saucer that spun
in a stomach-churning whirl. Whoops and hollers arose from the bumper cars as
they swerved and rammed each other again and again. A Viking ship swung like a
great pendulum, its screaming sailors lifting their arms to the sky. It struck
Corwin that these were all familiar but different. The painted backboards, the
blinking lights, the horned dragon on the prow of the ship—they didn’t quite
match the rides that he so vividly remembered.

This
place might have been the past, but it wasn’t his past, and that knowledge came
as a relief.

Corwin
hadn’t been to a carnival since he was ten years old. His parents had taken him
then, his father holding his hand as he gleefully dragged them towards one ride
after another. How big and strong that hand had felt! And how frail his father
had become, reduced to a vacant-eyed shell of his former self in those last
days. Corwin clenched a fist and briefly shut his eyes, blocking out the
memories.

Ahead
rose a huge red-and-white striped tent, its pinions fluttering in the breeze. The
interior was aglow, promising hot food and live music, games of chance and a
place to rest one’s legs. Ransom’s shadow lengthened as he approached the
furled flaps of the entrance.

“It's
a shame,” said Corwin. “I bet Blue would’ve loved this place.”

In
unspoken agreement, Ransom drew a fresh cigarette from his case. A snap brought
a tongue of flame to his index finger, the tobacco’s glow swelling bright as he
took a drag.

“Before
you start puffing away . . .” Corwin pointed to a sign posted beside the tent’s
entrance. A red circle and slash barred the icon of a cigarette.

“No
smoking?” scoffed Ransom. “Damn communists! They're welcome to try and stop me.”

“You
might give a thought to the children, not that I'd expect it from you. For an
angel, you’re a terrible role model.”

Ransom
gave a loud groan.

“Fine!”
Cinders hissed as he crushed the cigarette’s tip between his fingers and flicked
its smoking butt into the nearest trash bin. “Happy now?”

His
client’s victorious smile was almost enough to make him light up another.

As
they stepped inside, the tantalizing aroma of fried dough and cinnamon lured
Corwin’s eyes to a nearby stall where a bundle of long, ridged pastries had
been set to cool.

“Churros!
I haven’t had one of those in forever.”

“I was
leaning more towards the funnel cake,” said Ransom.

“Trust
me,” urged Corwin. “You want a churro. They go great with bourbon.”

The
angel perked up.

“Your
arguments are getting more persuasive all the time!”

With
a steamy, sugary stick of crisped dough in hand, Corwin launched into his
second paradox.

“The
Paradox of Omniscience is pretty straight-forward: If god is all-knowing, then
he knows the outcome of your every decision before you make it. Given the
choice between A or B, god knows that you're going to choose A, and god cannot
be wrong. Therefore, you don’t really have a choice. There was never any
possibility for you to choose B, because you cannot choose other than as god
knows.”

“So
either man doesn’t have free will, or God doesn’t know everything,” Ransom
summarized. “The Father’s knowledge leaves no room for chance.”

“Correct,”
said Corwin. “And just because your god is beyond time, that doesn’t mean that
he gets a free pass.”

“God's
transcendence is no less relevant here. It means the difference between ‘God
cannot
be wrong’ and ‘God
is not
wrong,’ between ‘man
cannot
choose
other than as God knows’ and ‘man
does not
choose other than as God
knows.’ But poor wording aside, your puzzle deserves a deeper look.”

Ransom
bit into his churro, abruptly halting as a pack of children bolted past.

“Tasty,”
he grunted.

They
veered towards the game booths while a cover band performed John Cougar Mellencamp’s
“Authority Song”
on stage, playing to dozens of exhausted parents who
were more than happy to sit down and take a listen.

“The
simple answer is that there is no paradox,” Ransom asserted. “That the Father
knows the outcome of your choices doesn't mean that those choices weren't yours.
The conflict is a contrived one.”

“There’s
nothing contrived about the notion that your god essentially dooms people before
they're even born! For every soul that ends up damned, the lord chooses to
create someone, knowing full well that the poor bastard is destined to spend
eternity roasting in Hell. How is that not ridiculous?”

“It’s
only ridiculous if you didn’t have a choice.”

“But god
knew!” Corwin insisted. “He knew where the cards would fall. He shuffled the deck
and he dealt you your hand.”

“A
card game is a bit of a crude example,” replied Ransom, his shrewd gaze
scanning the big top.

“I
take it you’ve got a better one?”

The
answer sparkled in Ransom's eyes as he spied what he was looking for.

“Have
you ever played pachinko?”

Nestled
between goldfish catching and ring throwing was a game booth that went largely
ignored. A sign above it read
Pirate’s Treasure
, the words seared into a
broken strip of wood. The booth was manned by a gap-toothed fellow who clearly took
his job seriously. He grinned at passersby, looking every bit the pirate with
his eye patch and skull-and-crossbones bandana, a plastic cutlass strapped at
his side.

“Ahoy
there, mateys! Only three tickets ta play!”

“Three
tickets!” squawked the parrot on his shoulder.

There
was no line, but the game did have one devoted fan. A boy in a pirate hat had
been playing for some time, trying his luck in hopes of scoring enough points
to win one of the many prizes displayed along the booth’s rear wall. Steadfast
determination was etched on his face, and Corwin guessed that he wouldn't be
quitting any time soon.

“Tickets?”
Ransom looked askance as he sauntered up. “Any chance you take cash?”

“Ya
gots ta have tickets ta play,” maintained the crusty pirate.

"Three
tickets!" his parrot repeated.

With
a magician's flourish, Ransom flipped his palm, pulling a folded one hundred
dollar bill out of thin air.

“But
my friend here loves games, and he's terribly impatient.”

“Well
why din’cha say so?” Swiping the bill from his hand, the pirate squinted as he held
it up to the light. “That thar be a mighty fine ticket!”

He
promptly snatched a pair of prizes off the wall.

“Congratulations,
me boy!”

The
man thrust a stuffed tiger and a purple squirt gun into the boy’s arms, then
swiveled his shoulders and propelled him on his way.

“Now
shove off!”

Corwin
shot his attorney a sidelong glance.

“Creating
money out of thin air . . . Some might call that counterfeit.”

“Strange,”
said Ransom offhandedly. “That’s not what they call it when your banks do it.”

“Save
the lecture on monetary policy for the Federal Reserve.”

“I
thought I told you that I don’t represent the hopeless.”

Handing
over a white ball that had probably served as a billiards cue ball in the past,
the pirate retired to his seat behind the ticket box. Corwin and Ransom had the
pachinko board all to themselves.

Like
many of the carnival games, the board looked as though it had been constructed
in a handyman's garage. A large wooden plank made up the backboard. It leaned
like a pinball machine, rectangular and bordered with low walls. Numerous round
pegs were staggered along its length, with slots at the bottom to catch the
ball. Each was labeled with a point score, though the winning slots would have
been obvious even without them. The coral blue waves of a tropical ocean colored
the board. An unlucky player might end up in a slot that was home to shark fins
or a black-flagged pirate galley, while those more fortunate would see their
ball come to rest by the mermaids or on an uncharted island, next to palm trees
and a heaping treasure chest.

“Pachinko
is one of Japan’s great gambling pastimes,” said Ransom. “One look at the board
should be enough to give you the gist of it.”

“I
drop the ball in from the top. It gets bounced around by the pegs as it rolls
down, and I end up either rich or screwed, only it seems that my chances of
getting screwed are disproportionately higher,” deduced Corwin. “I can
definitely see the parallels to Christian theology.”

“Perceptive
as always,” Ransom droned. “Now imagine that the player is God and you are the
ball. God starts the ball rolling with full and perfect knowledge of the
outcome. Let’s also say that every peg on your journey represents a decision,
and God knows which way you’ll bounce. He knows your final destination. The
question is: has God forced you along your path?”

“Yes,”
answered Corwin. “In that scenario, your path and your fate—it was all
predetermined. Moreover, god made the rules. Forces like gravity and momentum
were implemented by him. The game was rigged from the start.”

Ransom
dropped the cue ball into play, watching as it clunked from one peg to the next
on its bumpy descent.

“Since
the pegs are decisions, let’s replace gravity and momentum with, say, one’s
environment and biological urges. I believe we already spoke on the roles of
nurture and nature?”

“Right.
And your position was that those forces influence our decisions, but don’t
totally determine them.”

“If
they do, then you don’t really have free will,” stated Ransom as the ball caromed
into a slot encircled by sharks, “with or without God.”

“That
makes sense.”

“And
you do believe in free will, seeing as how you’ve already spoken about making
choices and even appealed to the existence of goodness, a concept which is surely
absurd otherwise.”

“How
do I put this?” considered Corwin. “I feel that free will exists. It's not
something that I can prove, and maybe I'm wrong, but not believing in it would
make life intolerable.”

“How
very
religious
of you,” replied Ransom. “Then let’s apply that same
logic to the game.”

Snatching
up the ball, he placed it a second time at the top of the board.

“Imagine
now that the ball has free will. Forces such as gravity and momentum still play
a role, but they can be defied. For every peg in its path, the ball ultimately
decides which way it will bounce.”

This
time the downward journey made for an odd spectacle. It began with several
predictable bounces, but upon reaching the leftmost peg, the ball rebelliously
changed course, going on to cross the board in the complete opposite direction.