The Warlock Heretical (29 page)

circle. "You have it

down pat."

"Thank you—and thank you for the guidance," McGee chuckled. "I think we shall get along famously." The monks were moving about in a daze, and whenever they sneaked a peek at the Father-General, their faces

were loaded with awe, even fear.

"They'll grow used to it," McGee said, but he eyed them sympathetically. "They never should have been left so

completely out of touch with the rest of the Order for so long, Lord Warlock."

"'Rod,' please ..."

"No, 'Lord Warlock,' by your leave—I must learn to think in your terms, and quickly." Rod bowed his head. "As you wish, but if you really think the situation's so urgent, why didn't you come sooner?"

"Ah! I began trying to clear my schedule as soon as Father Uwell reported to me, but there are so many chapters,

with the good souls of fifty planets under their care! And from Father Al's report, matters were in good order

here." The Father-General shook his head. "I should have realized that, if the Abbot had been tempted toward

opposing the King once, he might be so again."

"Well, don't blame him too hard. I'm pretty sure it's not just his idea alone, Father."

"Oh?" McGee's gaze seemed to probe into Rod's brain. "Who would have helped him?"

"Secret agents." Rod gave him back stare for stare. "I have reason to believe there are two separate off-planet

groups trying to subvert the government and take over the planet, Father. I think one of them got to him."

McGee nodded, without taking his gaze away. "I'd think you were paranoid, if I didn't know you were an agent

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of SCENT."

"Why doubt it?" Rod shrugged, impressed by the thoroughness of McGee's briefing. "I could be both."

"True," the Father-General admitted. "Still, Widdecombe has declared a schism, Lord Warlock, and Rome

earnestly wishes to heal the breach."

"They won't tolerate it, you mean? But at this point, Father, the only way to eliminate the schism is to eliminate

the Archbishop."

"Abbot." McGee raised an admonishing forefinger. "Only an Abbot, Lord Warlock—we mustn't forget that. The

congregations of Gramarye are of the Church of Rome, no matter what a misguided soul has told them."

"And the Cathodeans of Gramarye are part of your Order?" Rod smiled. "Do you think the Abbot will accept

that, Reverend?"

"Whether he does or not is of no consequence." McGee waved a hand, palm flat and level. "I have faith in my

monks."

Rod could have raised the question of ownership, but he liked McGee's attitude—for his own purposes, of

course. "Well, most of the current crop of friars seem to have been very willing to follow the Abbot off the

straight and narrow path. If you'll pardon my saying so, they're a little weak on the virtues they preach." McGee winced. "You must not judge them too harshly, Lord Warlock. Be mindful, the Abbot and his clergy are

only human; they, too, are fallible. The Word of Christ, and His Sacraments, are a treasure more precious than

gold, but we hold—"

"'. . . this treasure in an earthen vessel.'" Rod finished the quotation, nodding. "Yeah, yeah, I know the song, too,

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Father. But why does there have to be so doggone much earth in the vessel?"

"How else can one make ceramics?" McGee countered.

Rod's mouth twisted in impatience. "Father, if I tried to fire a vessel with that much earth in it, it would fall apart

in the kiln—which is exactly where I'm tempted to put His Grace the quondam Archbishop."

"Patience, Lord Warlock, patience." McGee lifted the forefinger again. "That kiln you speak of is only for God's

stoking, and if the Abbot and his monks are fallible, they are also redeemable. We may yet find a way to woo

himself and his adherents back to the Church."

"Good luck, Father," Rod sighed, "but you'll pardon me if I remain skeptical. A power-hungry ecclesiastic is

power-hungry first, and an ecclesiastic second. In fact, he's probably

an ecclesiastic only as a means of gaining power. Personally, I think the clergy started with a Paleolithic con

man,"

McGee reddened, but didn't mention anything about courtesy. "Why Paleolithic?"

"Because there are signs that Neanderthals buried their dead, and I personally doubt they were trying to salt away

stores for the winter. And you have to admit that the ancient Egyptian priests pretty effectively took over the

government when they decided that the Pharaoh was a god."

"Ah! But that could just as easily have been the government taking over the priests," McGee countered.

"Still, I

take your point, Lord Warlock—when Church and government have mixed, the results have generally been

unhealthy. Nonetheless, you must admit that even though there have always been some opportunists in holy

orders, there have also been many truly dedicated religious people who happened to have an aptitude
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for

administration, and have naturally tended to move up in the hierarchy."

"No, I don't have to admit anything, Father." Rod cocked his head to the side, studying McGee. "Still, I do think

you're right. But even some of those good souls have succumbed to temptation, and started seeking power for its

own sake."

McGee watched him keenly. "Are you thinking of your local abbot now?"

"I am," Rod admitted. "From what I know of him, he's basically a gOOd man, in spite of his being a reasonably

competent bureaucrat."

"Ah." McGee nodded, pleased. "Then he may be open to appeals to his conscience, and capable of repentance."

"Yeah, but by the same token, he might reject any idea that he's done wrong." McGee frowned. "How do you reason that?"

"Because," Rod said, exasperated, "it's the only way he can avoid massive guilt. Once he gave in to temptation,

he became a convert to his own particular vice, with all the fanaticism of any convert. You might say he's acquired a vested interest in sin, and to disown it would be to ruin him. No, Father, I think he's gone too far down

the road he's on to be able to come back again."

"He may have crossed his Rubicon," McGee admitted, "though I certainly hope not. Why do you think so, Lord

Warlock?"

"Because of the tactics he's using. You see, Reverend Sir ..." Rod glanced up at the hovering monks, then

hunkered down and lowered his voice. "How much did Father Al tell you about our local variety of, uh .

. .

magic?"

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"As much as he knew, Lord Warlock—that an astonishing percentage of your people are functioning espers of

one degree of proficiency or another."

"Good enough, as a summary. And, well, Father, suddenly there's been an unusual number—hell, there's been an

outright epidemic of hauntings and poltergeists and unlicensed mind-readers, all spooking the population and

driving them toward the Abbot's camp."

McGee frowned, then turned and beckoned Father Boquilva over. As the head monk sat, McGee asked, "Has

there been an unusual amount of 'magical' activity lately?"

Boquilva stiffened, then slowly nodded. "I blush to admit it, Reverend Sir, but there has." McGee's face darkened. "Can it be that a man of the Church would dare to use his flock's superstitions to coerce

them into accord with his will?"

Rod shrugged. "Why not? Priests have been doing it for centuries."

"That was not worthy of you, Lord Warlock," McGee snapped. "You know quite well that the Church has done

all it can to enlighten its people!"

"Well, yes, I do have to admit that," Rod sighed. "In fact, when the Church wouldn't provide enough superstition,

people went out and invented their own."

"Yes, and frequently became lost and tortured in the maze of their own imaginings—which is why it is doubly

reprehensible for the chief clergyman of the nation to reinforce those superstitions, by producing illusions of

them!" McGee shook his head, scowling. "How does one fight nightmares, Lord Warlock?"

"With dreams, Father." Rod smiled. "Been doing it all my life."

Father McGee raised his hand in blessing over the kneeling monks, murmuring some Latin phrases, then watched

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them as they rose and turned away, following the path away from Rod's house and back into the woods. Then the

Father-General looked down at his monk's robe, pressing his hands over the

fabric. "I had never thought I would wear a real monk's robe! It's so much more comfortable than a coverall. But,

ah ... a trifle more, shall we say, insecure?"

"Nobody said that only pilgrims could gird their loins, Father. I'm sure we can find you a strip of linen, if you'd

like." "I would appreciate that." McGee looked back up at the retreating monks. Their robes were obscured by

the darkness now, so that they appeared to be only a double file of torch fires. "Excellent fellows! I'm sure they'll

recover from meeting me." He turned back to Rod with a smile. "Still, their awe is a bit uncomfortable, for the

time being. I do appreciate your invitation, Lord Warlock—my sons' reverence is pleasant, but tiring. Are you

certain, though, that your good wife will not object?"

"Believe me, Father, I know. The system we've got beats radio and visiphone all to he— uh, heck. As long as you

don't mind sleeping in the same house with a family of witches."

"Oh, I would, if you really were witches," McGee said, "devoted to Satan and to evil. But I know you to be

espers, devoted to good, and according to Father Uwell's report, perhaps better Catholics than you may know."

Rod paused in the act of raising the knocker, frowning. "What's he know that I don't know?" Fortunately, the door swung open before McGee could answer.

Gwen stared at the priest, frankly awed, then curtsied and stood aside. "Welcome to our home, Father."

"Why, thank you, milady." The priest stepped in, raised his hand to sketch the Sign of the Cross in the air, and

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intoned, "May the blessing of God be on all in this house." Then he looked up at Gwen with a guilty afterthought. "If you don't mind?"

"Oh, nay, Father! We are honored!"

"Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to bless anybody who didn't want it. By the way, where are 'all in this house'?"

"In their beds, praise Heaven, and asleep—though 'twas quite some time ere I could calm them sufficiently, after

Cordelia's news."

Rod wondered what form the calming had taken this time. Shouting? Birch switches? Hypnotism?

"It's so nice to be an occasion! May I sit?"

"Oh, of course, Father! Wouldst thou wish ale?"

McGee looked up, his eyes lighting. "Why, yes, I would, now that you mention it! My sons in the forest are to be

commended for their piety, but plain water can become a bit boring, no matter how tasty the brook it was taken

from. Yes, that will do nicely. Thank you, milady."

" Tis my pleasure, Father." Gwen sat across the fire from him, beaming. "Hast thou truly come from another star

to aid us?"

"Don't pay any attention to her 'humble local' bit, Father— she's been to Terra herself."

"Well, true." Gwen lowered her gaze. "Still, I am amazed thou couldst be with us so quickly."

"The Holy Father counts the planet of Gramarye to be of considerable importance, milady; faith that keeps a

whole population within the bounds of doctrine for five centuries is rare."

"Besides," Rod inferred, "you'd rather be drawn and quartered before you'd lose a chapter of your Order. And the

Pope is aware of just how much havoc we could wreak if we started trying."

"There is some (ruth to that," Father McGee admitted, "and the sudden explosion of hauntings here is
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evidence of

it. Tell me, milady, have you noticed any effects of this sudden plague of ghosts on the faith of the peasants?"

"Aye, Father, and 'tis sad to see." Gwen sobered. "Many among them do begin to doubt the goodness of the

clergy."

"Just as I feared, just as I feared," McGee muttered, staring at the fire. "The schism would have shaken their faith

enough, but ghosts and goblins would finish the job. I shudder to think of the effect on the children—they are so

ready to believe whatever they see! Yet they are also so steadfast in the faith and love they've given."

"Pretty good description of it," Rod said, rising from his chair. "In fact, I think I'll just take a peak at our resident

fanatic."

"He rests soundly, my lord," Gwen protested, turning to watch him go to the door of the boys' room.

"I take it one of your children suffers from an excess of faith?" McGee asked quietly. Gwen denied it with an impatient toss of her head. " Tis only that the boy doth feel the pull of a vocation, Father.

It doth worry his father unduly."

McGee sat still for a moment, then asked, "How old is the lad?"

"He is seven."

"Rather young," McGee said, frowning, "and, though the call may come at any age, those who—"

"Gwen." There was panic under Rod's tone, and she was at the doorway to the boys' room almost before he