Dead & Godless (21 page)

Prodded
by the tip of a sword, Sir Willehad strode forward. The dire view from the
hilltop wounded him deeper than any archer’s arrow ever could. Such an
overwhelming host! They must’ve come to sack one of the great cities, and this
siege was but a stop along the way.

Lord,
I ask not for a miracle,
he silently prayed.

His
brothers had long walked with death by their sides, but what of the villagers? Most
of the men would be butchered, and those who didn’t lose their lives would lose
all dignity, forced to grovel and feign thanks to their conquerors while their
wives and daughters were enslaved in the troops’ pleasure houses. Their sons
would be taken and indoctrinated, forged into the fanatic warriors that made up
the disposable front lines of the Mohammedan fighting force.

I
ask not for victory this day.

Perhaps
there was justice in this. He had heard talk of crusaders in other lands,
boasts that made his stomach turn. But those men were not his brothers. Those
men were not facing the axe. Hopefully some of the villagers who had fled at
the attack’s onset had escaped. They might even bring word to the king, though
by then, this fortress would be flying a different flag.

I
ask only for the courage to do your will.

“See
how the infidels are brought to their knees!” trumpeted Khalid, commander of
the caliph’s Eighth Battalion. “But Allah is merciful.” Khalid threw down a Bible,
one of the spoils from the monastery they had sacked the day before. He kicked
it open. “Submit to your rightful Lord, spit on this book of lies, and your
life will be spared.”

“Never!”
grated the knight.

With
a nod, Khalid signaled to the soldier behind Willehad. The knight was forced
down, his knees slammed to the dirt and his chest pressed to a stump that now
served for a headsman’s block.

“The
martyr says to God ‘this life is yours,’” said Ransom, “while the suicide
declares ‘it’s my life,’ and no words hold greater peril than those.”

The
axe fell in a black arc.

“He
who gains his life shall lose it. He who loses his life shall gain it.”

As
Willehad’s headless corpse was dragged unceremoniously aside, the next of the
king’s men approached the stump. Stone-faced, he knelt of his own accord,
ignoring Khalid’s offer.

Corwin
had seen enough. He turned his back as the executions continued, the thwack of
the axe sounding every few moments.
It’s insanity. Both religion and war.
It’s all insanity!
But then a new sound arose. For reasons he couldn’t
explain, the knights lifted their voices in song.

It
was a moving chant, slow and reverent. And though the lyrics were all in Latin,
Corwin could feel power in the words.

“Salve,
Regina, Mater misericordiæ

vita,
dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve

ad
te clamamus exsules filii Hevæ

ad
te suspiramus, gementes et flentes

in
hac lacrimarum valle”

Over
the field their voices carried, only strengthening as the corpses piled up. Even
the headsman felt something stir within him. Who were these men, who went to
their deaths with neither fear nor hatred in their eyes? Were they truly the detestable
swine of whom the Prophet spoke? Then why was their song so hauntingly beautiful?

Yet
another knight knelt, baring his neck to the axe. What a terrible weight, that
axe! The headsman’s grip faltered.
No more.
The axe slid from his sweaty
palms, fell to the grass.
This cannot be Allah’s will.
Deep inside, he
felt his consciousness touch something lost, now found again. There was an
innocence that he could never regain, but a goodness that he could, if only for
a moment. The gravity of the choice pressed upon him.

A
moment of life, or a lifetime of death?

“I .
. . I wish to become a Christian!”

In
less time than it took him to draw another breath, Khalid’s knife opened his
throat. The headsman’s body rolled down the hill like so many of the heads his
axe had hewn.

Again
I cull our ranks,
thought Khalid. He had seen it coming, predicted it.
There’s
always one or two like him.
It was best to deal with such matters swiftly
and soundly, before the sickness spread. Much evil could be sewn by the hushed
murmurings of a few soldiers around a campfire.

With
cold efficiency, he wiped clean the blade.

“You!”
He pointed to one of his men. “Take up the axe!”

Having
witnessed what a moment of weakness cost his brother, the soldier obeyed
without delay. And still the Christians sang.

“Not
one of these men will renounce the Redeemer. Not one of them will live,” Ransom
said as smoke began to swirl. “Do you sense nothing noble in their sacrifice?
Is their choice foolishness to you?”

“What’s
foolish is that this had to happen at all,” replied Corwin. The smoke veiled
his eyes, whisking him and his attorney back atop the fortress walls. “Abolishing
religion might not bring an end to all wars, but it would bring an end to some,
and isn’t that enough? If doing away with all this business of gods and devils
could save us from just one nuclear war, wouldn’t that be worth it?”

“Were
Christianity but a myth, you would be right,” said the angel. “If there is no
afterlife, then all the worldly merits of faith—all the hope and kindness and
charity that the Redeemer has inspired—would not be enough. No honest man can
say that religion is a wonderful dream. If it is not true, then it is not
wonderful at all.”

“That’s
exactly my point!” exclaimed Corwin. “Christianity cannot stand on its
perceived benefits to society alone. No religion can!”

Moors
jumped from a burning siege tower, abandoning its timber skeleton as it veered
off course, its great wooden wheels crushing the corpses of those who had
fallen in the earlier assault, grinding their bones into the mire.

“But
if it
is
true . . .” Ransom bent to light a cigarette in one of the
blazing braziers.  “If the fate of not just nations, but eternal souls hangs in
the balance, then it is worth any price—an infinite price! For such is the
worth of the blood that was spilled to redeem you.”

Riddles and Revelations

The only good
reason to believe something is if it’s true.

In
his past life, those words had spurred Corwin to set off on a quest that led
him as far away from God as atheistic humanism could take him, only it wasn’t
as far as he thought. A part of him now wondered:
If I had lived a little
longer, steadfastly followed that maxim a little farther, might it have taken
me full circle?

He had
to marvel at his own invincible stubbornness. Those contrite atheists who
“wished they could believe” would surely have broken long before now. But not
Corwin. Truth was the only thing that he wished for, which made the sneaking
sense of joy he felt as Christianity’s puzzle came together all the more
disconcerting.

Prudently,
he reminded himself that the puzzle wasn’t complete yet. There remained one
glaring problem in the case for Christianity:
Christians.

“How
am I supposed to believe all this stuff when Christians themselves don’t
believe it? If they did, they’d all be shining examples of love and humility,
but when I look at Christian churches, what I see instead is intolerance and
hypocrisy.”

“In
order to tolerate that which runs contrary to one’s convictions, one must first
have
convictions,” said Ransom. “Your secular society doesn’t prize
tolerance. It prizes indifference. And despite what you may think, Christianity
doesn’t have a monopoly on hypocrites.”

“Maybe
not, but it sure has a lot of them, and they don’t do your cause any favors. Neither
does your fanatical adherence to the scribblings of some ancient sheep herders
that we’re not even sure existed.”

“Disregard
all your ancient scribblings and you won’t have much history left.”

Moorish
arrows ricocheted off the unyielding bricks of the guard tower that stood
before them. Ransom reached for the iron ring on the door. As the portal swung
shut at their backs, all the tumultuous noise of the battlefield was hushed in
an instant.

They
were somewhere dark and musty. Ransom procured a candlestick from a small table
beside the entrance and held the wick to the end of his cigarette. A tiny flame
was soon waxing happily, illuminating a path that was about the same width as
the walkway they had just left, only this path was quiet, peaceful and hemmed
in by tall bookcases. Dusty tomes and papyrus scrolls were stacked three
stories high to where brass candelabras hung, flickering and fuming.

Corwin
examined the writing on some of the book spines.

“The
Douay-Rheims Bible, the New American Bible, the King James Version . . . These
are all Bibles.”

“This
library is home to every edition, translation and iteration of the Holy Bible
that ever was,” said Ransom, “along with apostolic letters and several long
lost writings by the Patriarchs. You’ll find the approved, the apocryphal and
even the illustrated.”

“There’s
even a copy of the Jefferson Bible!” Corwin said in surprise as he pulled a
modern-looking volume off the shelf.

“I
figured you’d like that one, although a Bible without miracles is like an issue
of Playboy without nudity. It kind of misses the point.”

Replacing
the book, Corwin continued down the aisle. He ran his fingers along the bindings
and marveled at the stupendous effort his race had put into cataloging this
most unbelievable of tales.

“If
Christians would just admit that most of those stories are mythical, more
people might actually take them seriously.”

“Why
assume that every account of the supernatural must be a myth?” Ransom inquired.

“I
live in the real world, or at least I used to,” muttered Corwin.

“What’s
more logical: believing in an omnipotent creator who can defy the laws of
nature, or one who cannot?”

“Sure,
a god who authored the rules should be able to break them, but believing in such
a god doesn’t mean that you have to take the Bible literally. No rational
person really believes in Noah’s Ark, Moses parting the Red Sea, or Jonah living
in the belly of a whale. The Bible is an interesting book, but it’s not a
historically accurate one.”

“The
Bible is a collection of books,” said Ransom. “Some passages are meant to be
taken literally, others are symbolic, still others are poetry. Unlocking the
truth requires the correct key.”

“Are
you saying that there’s truth to those outlandish stories?”

“There
is, though not necessarily in the way you imagine. Much was left unwritten.
What if I told you that Noah was a member of an advanced, Atlantian civilization
who kept a gene bank of all the Earth’s organisms?”

“Now
that’s a flood story I’d like to hear!” laughed Corwin. “But I can’t argue
about what’s not written, only about what is. And this I can tell you for sure:
To accept the historical claims of the Bible is to discover a tale of two gods,
neither one as perfect as your theology suggests. The god of the Old Testament is
a cruel and petty tyrant who thinks nothing of massacring women and children.
And while Christians like to think of their New Testament god being kinder and
gentler, what we really find in Jesus is a puritanical moralist whose strict
standards are impossible to live up to, even for his own hand-picked apostles!”

“The
Father and the Redeemer are different persons, yet the same God. His love is
fierce and his wrath terrible, but his ways are never without mercy.”

“Calling
god’s wrath terrible is putting it mildly. In the Old Testament, he wipes out
nearly the entire world in the flood, sends the Angel of Death to kill a bunch
of children in Egypt, and orders the Israelites to murder every living thing in
Jericho, sparing not even the livestock! Where is the justice in that? Where
is the mercy?”

“Your
lives are valuable precisely because they are not your own. They belong to the
Father, and should he not have an absolute right to call souls home to him
whenever he wishes?”

“Calling
souls home?” echoed Corwin. “That’s a rather kind way of saying
killing
people.”

“True
death comes through sin alone,” said Ransom. “You’re still too caught up in the
physical, still judging that which you know not. Can you see what mankind
deserves? Can you see the fates of their souls? Can you look a million years
into a billion different futures and chart the most humane course? Of the scope
of God’s mercy, those bound by time can only guess.”

“One
thing that I never would’ve guessed is that a god of perfect justice would be
so hard to justify.”

“Before
accusing him of cruelty, perhaps you should consider the stubbornness of man. The
Father is ever patient, always offering his rebellious children many chances to
change, but time and time again, nothing less than bloodshed gets through to
you.”

The
candelabras creaked, their flames wavering as a sudden gale whipped up a storm
of loose parchment. Corwin and Ransom found themselves caught in the eye of a
tornado, the library hidden behind whirling Bible pages. When the wind quieted
and the papers fell away, they stood in a spacious stone hall.

A stately
colonnade bordered the edge of the room, which overlooked a thriving desert oasis.
Grand buildings and statues of half-human, half-animal gods shone under the
sweltering sun. The broad, azure band of the Nile flowed out of the south, leaning
palms and sandstone dwellings nestled along its banks.

To
their right the hall rose in a dais, and there sat the Pharaoh, his expression
unamused. Standing below him was a bearded man whose robe and walking staff
left little doubt as to his identity.

“What
is it this time?” moaned the Pharaoh.

“The
Lord commands that you set his people free,” declared Moses. “If you will not
listen to reason, then he will convince you by the might of his hand.”

“I
should like to see that.”

Time
leapt forward and it seemed at first that nothing had changed, but then Corwin
noticed the river. Its blue waters had turned a dark maroon and the stench of
rotting fish was thick in the air.

“I
don’t know if you’ve bothered to look outside your palace, but there’s a river
of blood out there.” Moses raised his staff towards the Nile.
“A river of
blood.”

“More
of your cheap sorcery,” spat the Pharaoh. “I am the lord of this land, not your
feeble god.”

Weeks
flew by and now frogs were everywhere, leaping from pillars and feasting on buzzing
clouds of flies. The Pharaoh slouched to one side of his throne, his head propped
against his knuckles. Swollen boils erupted from his skin and he looked even
more irritated than usual.

“Are
the pests and disease not enough?” asked Moses. “You can end this at any time.”

“Very
well.” The Pharaoh waved him away. “Return to your people.”

As
Moses left the hall and the click of his staff against the floor dwindled, a
pointy-bearded advisor skulked out of the shadows.

“Are
you really going to release them, Sire?” his rasping voice whispered.

“Not
a chance.”

Time
skipped ahead. Attendants were waving palm fronds in a vain attempt to keep the
Pharaoh cool and unmolested by the hundreds of locusts that now made the palace
their home. Batting away one of the palms, he seized a locust from his
shoulder, crushing it in his fist as the heavens rumbled with a gathering storm.

If
Moses was having a better time of things, his face didn’t show it.

“How
about now?” he asked in an exasperated tone. “Won’t you reconsider?”

“I’ll
think about it.”

“Will
you truly?”

“There,
I’ve thought about it,” announced the Pharaoh. “I decided against it.”

“Have
you gone completely mad?” Moses stepped boldly atop the dais. “Hailstorms have
beset your kingdom! Swarms of locusts devour your crops!”

“Then
we shall dine on locusts!” The Pharaoh leaned forward in his throne, seething
with barely contained rage.
“I’m told they’re very nutritious.”

The
scene changed, and though Corwin sensed that it was day, an ominous darkness
hung over all the land. There was no thunder, no pestilence; only a dreadful
stillness.

“You’re
back,” the Pharaoh said sourly.

“Think
of your people, of your family!” pleaded Moses. “The plague that is coming is
worse than all the rest.”

But
the Pharaoh only hardened his gaze. Rising, he retired from the throne room. He
would hear no more.

The
scattered pieces of parchment were once again swept up in a rustling, roaring
tornado, returning Corwin and Ransom to the library.

“Humans
are hardheaded, lazy and fearful of change,” said Corwin when they were back
amongst the books. “On that, you’ll hear no argument from me. Heck, I’m probably
a pretty good example, myself.”

“You
don’t say?”

“However,
I’d be a worse person if I lived by the morality of the Bible. The Old
Testament justifies slavery, misogyny and brutal punishments for minor crimes.
And don’t tell me that Jesus changes all that, because he himself said that he
came not to destroy the old law–”

“But
to fulfill it,” chimed Ransom. “You’re looking at the threads, but missing the
tapestry. Because of man’s stubbornness, the Father took things one small step
at a time. And so he began not by abolishing slavery, but by commanding that
slaves be treated with greater kindness. He began not by forbidding tribal
warfare, but by commanding that his people first offer peace. You think the old
law barbaric because you consider not the true barbarism that prevailed
before.”

“If
god is perfect and unchanging, how can his laws change at all?”

“It
was not God who changed. It was man. After the Fall, man was like a limb cut
off from the body, but when the body is made whole again, lifeblood can flow
into that which was dying. That lifeblood is the saving grace of the Paraclete,
the Holy Spirit who was sent down when the Redeemer’s sacrifice made you whole.

“Thus
the law was fulfilled, for the heights of virtue are possible only through grace,
which you did not always have with you, and God never asks the impossible.”

“But
he does ask the impossible!” contended Corwin. “Consider the teaching of Jesus:
‘Whosoever looks upon a woman lustfully hath already committed adultery with
her in his heart.’ If that’s true, then every man alive is an adulterer!

“And
not only is it impossible to follow, a rule like that isn’t even good morality.
Sexual attraction is written into our genes. Without it, the human race would
cease to reproduce. Why demonize something so healthy and natural?”

“You
speak of lust and physical attraction as though they are the same thing,” said
Ransom. “They are not. You can be physically attracted to someone and still
respect that person’s dignity. Sexual attraction is, as you say, healthy and
natural. But that’s not so for lust. To lust is to objectify. It means viewing
a person as less than a person—as merely an object to be used for one’s sexual
gratification.”