"Do you see," He said again, "the resemblance?"
Gentle stared at the abomination before him and, for all its patchworks and disunions, knew that he did. It wasn't in the limbs, this likeness, or in the torso, or in the sex. But it was there. When the vast head was raised, he saw his face in the ruin that clung to his Father's skull. A reflection of a reflection of a reflection, perhaps, and all in cracked mirrors. But oh! it was there. The sight distressed him beyond measure, not because he saw the kinship but because their roles seemed suddenly reversed. Despite its size, it was a child he saw, its head fetal, its limbs untutored. It was eons old, but unable to slough off the fact of flesh, while he, for all his naivetes, had made his peace with that disposal.
"Have you seen enough, Reconciler?" Hapexamendios said.
"Not quite." "What then?"
Gentle knew he had to speak now, before the likeness was undone again and the walls were resealed. "I want what's in You, Father." "In me?"
"Your prisoner, Father. I want Your prisoner." "I have no prisoner."
"I'm your son," Gentle said. "The flesh of your flesh. Why do you lie to me?"
The unwieldy head shuddered. The heart beat hard against the broken bone.
"Is there something you don't want me to know?" Gentie said, starting towards the wretched body. "You told me I could know everything."
The hands, great and small, twitched and jittered.
"Everything, You said, because I've done You perfect service. But there's something You don't want me to know."
"There's nothing."
"Then let me see the mystif. Let me see Pie 'oh' pah."
At this the God's body shook, and so did the walls around it. There were eruptions of light from beneath the ; flawed mosaic of His skulclass="underline" little raging thoughts that cremated the air between the folds of His brain. The sight was a reminder to Gentle that, however frail this figure looked, it was the tiniest part of Hapexamendios' true scale. He was a city the size of a world, and if the power that had raised that city, and sustained the bright blood in its stone, was ever allowed to turn to destruction, it would beggar the Nullianacs.
Gentle's advance, which had so far been steady, was now , halted. Though he was a spirit here and had thought no barrier could be raised against him, there was one before him now, thickening the air. Despite it, and the dread he felt when reminded of his Father's powers, he didn't retreat. He • knew that if he did so the exchange would be over and Hapexamendios would be about His final business, His prisoner unreleased.
"Where's the pure, obedient son I had? " the God said. :
"Still here," Gentle replied. "Still wanting to serve You, if You'll deal with me honorably."
A series of more livid bursts erupted in the distended skull. This time, however, they broke from its dome and rose into the dark air above the God's head. There were images in these energies, fragments of Hapexamendios' . thoughts, shaped from fire. One of them was Pie.
"You've no business with the mystif," Hapexamendios said. "It belongs to me."
"No, Father."
"To me."
"I married it, Father."
The lightning was quieted momentarily, and the God's pulpy eyes narrowed.
"It made me remember my purpose," Gentle said. "It made me remember to be a Reconciler. I wouldn't be here—I wouldn't have served you—if it weren't for Pie 'oh' pah."
"Maybe it loved you once," the many throats replied. "But now I want you to forget it. Put it out of your head forever. "
"Why?"
In reply came the parent's eternal answer to a child who asks too many questions. "Because I tell you to," the God said.
But Gentle wouldn't be hushed so readily. He pressed on. "What does it know, Father?"
"Nothing."
"Does it know where Nisi Nirvana comes from? Is that what it knows?"
The fire in the Unbeheld's skull seethed at this. "Who told you that?" He raged.
There was no purpose served by lying, Gentle thought. "My mother," he said.
Every motion in the God's bloated body ceased, even to its cage-battering heart. Only the lightning went on, and the next word came not from the mingled throats but from the fire itself. Three syllables, spoken in a lethal voice.
"Cel. Est. Ine."
"Yes, Father."
"She's dead," the lightning said.
"No, Father. I was in her arms a few minutes ago." He lifted his hand, translucent though it was. "She held these fingers. She kissed them. And she told me—"
"I don't want to hear!"
"—to remind You—"
"Where is she?"
"—of Nisi Nirvana."
"Where is she? Where? Where?"
He had been motionless, but now rose up in His fury, lifting His wretched limbs above His head as if to bathe them in His own lightning.
"Where is she?" he yelled, throats and fire making the demand together. "I want to see her! I want to see her!"
On the stairs below the Meditation Room, Jude stood up. The gek-a-gek had begun a guttural complaint that was, in its way, more distressing than any sound she'd ever heard from them. They were afraid. She saw them sloping away from their places beside the door like dogs in fear of a beating, their spines depressed, their heads flattened.
She glanced at the company below: the angels still kneeling beside their wounded Maestro; Monday and Hoi-Polloi leaving off their vigil at the step and coming back into the candlelight, as though its little ring could preserve them from whatever power was agitating the air.
"Oh, Mama," she heard Sartori whisper.
"Yes, child?"
"He's looking for us, Mama."
"I know."
"You can feel it?"
"Yes, child, I can."
"Will you hold me, Mama? Will you hold me?"
"Where? Where?" the God was howling, and in the arcs above His skull shreds of His mind's sight appeared.
Here was a river, serpentine; and a city, drabber than His metropolis but all the finer for that; and a certain street; and a certain house. Gentle saw the eye Monday had scrawled on the front door, its pupil beaten out by the Oviate's attack. He saw his own body, with Clem beside it; and the stairs; and Jude on the stairs, climbing.
And then the room at the top, and the circle in the room, with his brother sitting inside it, and his mother, kneeling at the perimeter.
"Cel Est. Ine," the God said. "Cel Est. Ine!"
It wasn't Sartori's voice that uttered these syllables, but it was his Hps that moved to shape them. Jude was at the top of the stairs now, and she could see his face clearly. It was still wet with tears, but there was no expression upon it whatsoever. She'd never seen features so devoid of feeling. He was a vessel, filling up with another soul.
"Child?" Celestine said.
"Get away from him," Jude murmured.
Celestine started to rise. "You sound sick, child," she said.
The voice came again, this time a furious denial. "I Am Not. A. Child."