“I take it that the Nameless was also destroyed at that time?”
“I do not know.”
“Then what of your master, Thoth?”
“He abdicated as Lord of Life and Death, and retreated beyond the Middle Worlds.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
Anubis shrugs.
“It is a fact of life, and of death.”
“Why should he do such a thing?”
“I do not know.”
“I wish to go to him. Where may he be found?”
“I do not know.”
“You are not very helpful, Angel. Tell me, now, who is running things in the absence of my brother, your master?”
“I do not understand what you mean.”
“Come now, dog-face, you have lived long enough to appreciate a simple question. Who controls the tides of the Power?”
“The House of Life and the House of the Dead, of course.”
“Of course, indeed! And who is the House of Life these days?”
“Osiris, naturally.”
“I see…”
The shadow rears again, grows larger.
“Dog-face,” says Typhon, the shadow of a horse rampant, “I suspect conspiracy-but I never slay on the basis of suspicion alone. I feel, though, that all is not right. I’ve a dead father who may need avenging-and if my brother has been wronged, then blood shall burn for this, also. You had need to answer me quickly and without much forethought. You may have said more than you intended. Now hear me: Of all things, I know that you fear me most. You have always been afraid of the shadow of a horse, and for good reason. If this shadow falls upon you, Angel, you shall cease to exist. Utterly. And it will fall upon you, if you had aught to do with those things of which I disapprove. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, mighty Typhon. Thou art the only god whom I worship.”
Then springs Anubis, with a howl, a glowing bridle suddenly in his right hand.
The shadow of a hoof passes near him and he falls to the floor. The shadow falls upon the sparkling, silver bridle and it vanishes.
“Anubis, you are a fool! Why did you seek to bind me?”
“Because thou hast made me to fear for my life, Lord!”
“Do not arise! Do not move a muscle, else you shall pass into nothingness! The only reason you could fear me is if you bear a burden of guilt.”
“This is not so! I fear that thou mayst misinterpret and choose to strike on that basis. I do not wish to pass into nothingness. I sought to bind thee in self-defense, that I might hold thee until thou hast all the facts. For I confess that my position makes me to look guilty upon the face of things.”
The shadow moves and falls upon Anubis’ outstretched right arm. The arm withers and goes limp.
“You will never replace that arm which was raised against me, Jackal! Craft on a new one and it, too, will wither. Put there an arm out of metal and it will refuse to function. I leave you only a left hand for your mischief. I shall find the facts-all the facts-myself, if you bear the guilt I now think you to bear, I will be judge jury and executioner. No bridle of silver nor reins of gold can stay Typhon, know that. And know that if my entire shadow pass over you, not even dust will remain. I will return to the House of the Dead one day soon, and, if aught be askew, a new cur shall rule here.”
Fire begins at the edges of the black silhouette. It rears as if to strike once more, the flames flash bright, and Anubis is alone on the floor of the great Hall.
He stands slowly and retrieves his staff with his left hand. His tongue darts forth redly, and he staggers to his throne. A great window appears in the middle of the air, and he regards the Lord of Life through it.
“Osiris!” he says. “The Devil lives!”
“What mean you?” comes the reply.
“Tonight, there was the shadow of a horse come upon me.”
“This is not good. Especially when you have sent forth a new emissary.”
“How do you know this?”
“I have my ways. But I, too, have done this thing-for the first time-and it is my son, Horus. Hope that I can recall him in time.”
“Yes. I’ve always had a liking for Horus.”
“And what of your emissary?”
“I shall not recall him. I should like very much to see Typhon attempt his destruction.”
“Your Wakim-who is he, really? Who was he?”
“That is my affair.”
“If-somehow-he is the one I think he may be-and you know who I mean-call him off, dog, or there shall never be peace between us, if both of us survive.”
Anubis chuckles.
“Was there ever?”
“No,” says Osiris, “since we’re being candid.”
“But the Prince has actually threatened us, for the first time, threatened to end our reign.”
“Yes, this twelve-year past-and we must act. We’ve centuries, he’s indicated, ere he’ll move. But move he will, for he always keeps his word. Who knows, though, what he has in mind?”
“Not I.”
“What has happened to your right arm?”
“The shadow fell upon it.”
“And we shall both of us go in this manner, beneath the shadow, if you do not recall your emissary. Typhon has changed the picture completely. We must contact the Prince-seek to bargain with him, to placate him.”
“He is too clever to be deceived by false promises, and you underestimate Wakim.”
“Perhaps we should bargain in good faith-not to restore him, of course…”
“No! We shall triumph!”
“Prove it by replacing your arm with one that will work!”
“I shall.”
“Good-bye, Anubis, and remember-not even the fugue works against the Angel of the House of Fire.”
“I know. Good-bye, Angel of the House of Life.”
“Why do you use my ancient title?”
“Because of your unbecoming fear that the old days are upon us once more, Osiris.”
“Then call off Wakim.”
“No.”
“Then good-bye, foolish Angel, most fallen.”
“Adieu.”
And the window is full of stars and power until it is closed, with a left-handed movement between the flames.
There is silence in the House of the Dead.
SKETCHES
… An eunuch priest of the highest caste sets tapers before a pair of old shoes.
… The dog worries the dirty glove which hath seen many better centuries.
… The blind Norns strike a tiny silver anvil with fingers that are mallets. Upon the metal lies a length of blue light.
THE COMING OF THE STEEL GENERAL
Upward stares Wakim, seeing the Steel General.
“Faintly do I feel that I should have knowledge of him,” says Wakim.
“Come now!” says Vramin, his eyes and cane flashing fires green. “All know of the General, who ranges alone. Out of the pages of history come the thundering hoofbeats of his war horse Bronze. He flew with the Lafayette Escadrille. He fought in the delaying action at Jarama Valley. He helped to hold Stalingrad in the dead of winter. With a handful of friends, he tried to invade Cuba. On every battleground, he has left a portion of himself. He camped out in Washington when times were bad, until a greater General asked him to go away. He was beaten in Little Rock, had acid thrown in his face in Berkeley. He was put on the Attorney General’s list, because he had once been a member of the I.W.W. All the causes for which he has fought are now dead, but a part of him died also as each was born and carried to its fruition. He survived, somehow, his century, with artificial limbs and artificial heart and veins, with false teeth and a glass eye, with a plate in his skull and bones out of plastic, with pieces of wire and porcelain inside him-until finally science came to make these things better than those with which man is normally endowed. He was again replaced, piece by piece, until, in the following century, he was far superior to any man of flesh and blood. And so again he fought the rebel battle, being smashed over and over again in the wars the colonies fought against the mother planet, and in the wars the individual worlds fought against the Federation. He is always on some Attorney General's list and he plays his banjo and he does not care, for he has placed himself beyond the law by always obeying its spirit rather than its letter. He has had his metal replaced with flesh on many occasions and been a full man once more- but always he hearkens to some distant bugle and plays his banjo and follows-and then he loses his humanity again. He shot craps with Leon Trotsky, who taught him that writers are underpaid; he shared a boxcar with Woody Guthrie, who taught him his music and that singers are underpaid; he supported Fidel Castro for a time, and learned that lawyers are underpaid. He is almost invariably beaten and used and taken advantage of, and he does not care, for his ideals mean more to him than his flesh. Now, of course, the Prince Who Was A Thousand is an unpopular cause. I take it, from what you say, that those who would oppose the House of Life and the House of the Dead will be deemed supporters of the Prince, who has solicited no support-not that that matters. And I daresay you oppose the Prince, Wakim. I should also venture a guess that the General will support him, inasmuch as the Prince is a minority group all by himself. The General may be beaten, but he can never be destroyed, Wakim. Here he is now. Ask him yourself, if you'd like.”