What Entropy Means to Me
by George Alec Effinger
2

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What Entropy Means to Me
by George Alec Effinger
3

For my parents, for enabling me to write unfettered by the
bonds of nonexistence.
For Robin, Harlan, Kate and Damon, for the same.
And always, especially, for Dia.

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Contents:
Part One: 'Neath His Bronzed Skin His Iron Muscles
Played
Chapter One: Prelude to .. Danger!
Chapter Two: Next: The Radishes of Doom
Chapter Three: A Woman's Treachery
Chapter Four: The Song of the Sword
Part Two: His Mind, Ever Quick to Perceive
Chapter Five: In the Hall of the Mountain Thing
Chapter Six: A Perilous Scheme
Chapter Seven: Goats That Pass in the Night
Chapter Eight: Free at Last
Part Three: What Fairer Soul E'er Dwelt This Mortal Cell
Chapter Nine: A Moral Dilemma
Chapter Ten: The Final Struggle
Chapter Eleven: An End— and a Beginning

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.. Sir, as you and I are in a manner perfect
strangers to each other, it would not have
been proper to have let you into too many
circumstances relating to myself all at once—
You must have a little patience. I have
undertaken, you see, to write not only my life,
but my opinions also; hoping and expecting
that your knowledge of my character, and of
what kind of mortal I am, by the one, would
give you better relish for the other: As you
proceed farther with me, the slight
acquaintance, which is now beginning betwixt
us, will grow into familiarity; and that, unless
one of us is in fault, will terminate in
friendship— O diem praeclarum— then nothing
which has touched me will be thought trifling in
its nature, or tedious in its telling. Therefore,
my dear friend and companion, if you should
think me somewhat sparing of my narrative on
my first setting out— bear with me— and let
me go on, and tell my story my own way— Or,
if I should sometimes put on a fool's cap with a
bell to it, for a moment or two as we pass
along— don't fly off— but rather courteously
give me credit for a little more wisdom than
appears upon my outside— and as we jog on,
either laugh with me, or at me, or in short, do

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any thing— only keep your temper.
Laurence Sterne
Tristram Shandy

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PART ONE
'Neath His Bronzed Skin His Iron Muscles Played
* * *
Chapter one
Prelude to .. Danger!
She was Our Mother, so she cried. She used to sit out
there, under that micha tree, all day as we worked cursing in
her fields. She sat there during the freezing nights, and we
pretended that we could see her through the windows in the
house, by the light of the moons and the hard, fast stars. She
sat there before most of us were born; she sat there until she
died. And all that time she shed her tears. She was Our
Mother, so she cried.
She cried often for our yard, and the chairs that had been
put there. We had many chairs on the scrubby lawn between
the house and the chata fields. Some of the other estates
have iron and stone statues placed around, but none of them
have chairs. We have quite a few. Our Mother taught us that
she got the idea from reading one of the plays that Our
Father brought with him from Earth. We still have many of
those books. Sometimes we throw them into the River when
it looks like it might flood. But we still have most of them.

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I've always liked the plays. I know the one Our Mother
meant; I read it years ago. It is by Ionesco. We have the
plays of Ionesco, of De Ghelderode, and of Büchner. I enjoy
also the plays of Dürrenmatt and Jarry. Of the classics I read
Aeschylus and Aristophanes, Shakespeare and Jonson with
relish. Our Mother always said that I was presumptuous to
display my wide knowledge of the drama, but I do not think
so. The Theater is life.
The chairs. Some are wooden, straight- backed chairs.
These are gray or olive- green, and their paint is peeling and
falling on the grass. There are black enameled iron chairs,
and these are subject to rust where the paint covering is
damaged. There are a few cold, sweaty stone thrones. Our
Mother sat on one of these, with two fluted stone columns
rising to her left and right. Behind her a once- beautiful
embroidered hanging flapped in the winds, rain- spotted and
covered with patches of fungus growth.
There are other sorts of chairs— hammocks hanging and
swinging, their canvas bodies bloated with spring rains— but I
don't think that it is necessary for me to describe them all.
Perhaps you are able already to picture our yard. It is only for
background, that's all. If I tell you that there are also skins
stuffed with rags set out under the white sky, and that they
stay wet longest, and smell worst, how much have I added?
You see, I must now continue elsewhere.
Behind the house, on the other side from the chata bean
fields, was the River. It was the River of Life, which gave us
all our lives and our deaths, too. It sprang, we believe, from
the endless tears of Our Mother. Now, impossibly, she is

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gone, but the River remains. This is our chief defense against
those of our family who contend that there is no life after
death. Our Mother must still continue to weep in her eternal
sorrow, somewhere.
The River was called the Allegheny by Our Father, who
took the name from another river on Earth, near his ancestral
home. We call it the River of Life, or, simply, the River. Many
things could be pulled from the River and dried, but most of
us do not consider that to be moral. Wherever the River
wishes to carry these things (pieces of wood, broken- down
machinery, dead animals and people, boats, our books) is
their proper destination, and it would be profane to pull them
out prematurely. Some of us do not agree, arguing that it
then should be equally impious to enter the River unbidden,
as we do for purposes of worship, cleanliness, and sport.
My brother Dore was of the latter group. It is his mission
that I am describing, although I haven't really gotten into it
yet. He did not go near the River during our monthly
devotions, but preferred to pray from the small chapel in the
house. He did not swim and dig in the River's bottom as some
of the rest of us enjoyed doing. He took nothing from the
River, and believed it sacrilegious to add to the burden of the
strong current. Nevertheless, it was he whom Our Mother
sent. Perhaps if he had allowed himself to sail the River in one
of our flat- bottomed boats he would have returned. Then this
story would have been told by him, and the details that I am
forced to make up out of thin air would have the bite of
authenticity.

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Our Mother sent Dore, and he never returned. He was the
first of our second generation to depart, and Our alreadymourning
Mother died in her guilt and loss.
Dore was the eldest. He was thoughtful; that is why I
argued against his being sent. The mission was meant for one
of the more impetuous, less rational young men. Dore would
never fight without exploring all the ramifications of
everything involved. He might have met his death while
temporizing with a grass dragon. If that fits later on, perhaps
that will be how I will tell it.
My brother Dore was very young when Our Parents came
to Home from their home, Earth. He was the firstborn, and
the only born, at that time. He was still young and alone
when Our Father joined the River. (All the rest of us are the
offspring of Our Mother and her most sacred tears. This we
are taught) My brother wore the crown that he made for
himself when he was first a man, when he coupled with
Melithiel, the princess from down the road. He wore a green
cloak, fearing in his peculiar devoutness to wear the bluegreen
of the River. Rather he celebrated the forests, and their
masculine and less holy aspects. On special occasions he took
for his own a carved wooden throne which was set up on a
stone dais (he did not take the vacated throne of Our Father;
he sat only for short periods of time, a staff cut from the
forest in his hand. He did not like to be conspicuous but, in
his position, it was difficult for him not to be so.
Dore was the friend of the forest. He was well- liked by
lizards. Sometimes in the woods at night, when he built his
large fires and slept, he took off his boots; in the morning

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there would be huge slugs leaving their silvery trails like
webwork in them. Better he should have laughed with fish in
the River.
The idea of the mission was not originally conceived by
Our Mother, although it is thought by some of us that she
gave the inspiration subliminally to our brother Tere. She
used to do that quite a bit. The mission was closely related to
the reason that Our Parents left their beautiful red and gray
Earth.
Our Parents were nearly superhuman in their powers and
in their inestimable resources. Why then did they leave their
natural home for the unknown territories off- planet? Was it
because their brothers on Earth were jealous and afraid of
their control of supernatural forces beyond comprehension?
Was it because the Earth people hated Our Parents for their
all- encompassing knowledge, their perfect and blessed
relationship to all living things, their total and consistent
morality? No. They hounded Our Father and Our Mother from
their midst because of Our Parents’ overwhelming debts.
One day Tere came in from the fields. He works very little
in the fields, contenting himself instead to measure the
distance between the chata stalks with his eyes and remark
on the good fortune that prevented us from planting them too
closely together. We laughed behind his wide back, because
we knew that he was only shirking. We have always hated the
work in the chata bean fields, but we did not hate Tere for
making our tasks harder. We do not like him as much as we
like others of us, but his laziness is only part of the reason.

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Tere thought of the mission, so I will describe him. He was
second- eldest, and there is a theory current among a large
part of us that the mission was intended as a way to become
eldest. He is eldest now, so that theory cannot be totally
discounted; but it is uncharitable.
Where Dore was slim and brown, Tere is plump and
dappled pink. He wears silly clothes, trying to appear regal.
He has made for himself a crown; it is much more
ostentatious than Dore's, floppy silk bunches dotted with
colored rock and shell, with trailers of red and blue ribbons.
He wears a cloak of heavy blue- green material caught at the
neck with a plastic brooch in the shape of a fish. Tere is the
worrier of fishes, he is not their friend. As Dore was home in
the forest, Tere spends his time in the pools and watercourses
of our land. But he is not welcome there: He just spends a lot
of time. He has built a throne. This in itself is almost
inexcusable audacity, for it is the first chair that has been
moved into our yard since the original lot. It is a strange
throne, made of a slick gray substance that we have been
unable to identify. He wears slippers of green, shiny with
simulated scales so that we will recognize his alliance with the
fish. We do not
Tere came in from the fields on this day. He went past Our
Mother, as you must do on the way from the bean fields to
the house. He stopped to pray at her feet, and he prayed that
her grief might lessen. Her pain was frightening in its
intensity. At night we would look out from the windows of the
house and watch her. Our Father had built her throne so that
she was shaded from the sun by the great tree, and at night

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the constellation of the Wheel of the Sleeper revolved like a
milky halo above her. We could not see her then, but the
flashes of light, the shooting stars in the sky fell thickly, like
the endless stream of her tears. Though she was obscured by
the darkness, her sadness was more palpable. We saw her
weeping in the sky and we heard her moans in the groaning
of the River. When we slept, we felt her unendurable torment
in our dreams, for then our minds were opened completely.
We woke several times each night, holding our foreheads and
screaming. Now we rest easier, but the moons are still her
two red and pleading eyes. It is more than one of us who
says that the old days were lighter to bear.
Tere had his inspiration. Someone must make a sacrifice.
Would it be Tere? No, we didn't think so. Tere explained his
idea to Our Mother: a mission to the end of the River. A
mission to the end of existence, to the end of time, to the end
of everything that there could be. And, therefore, it could only
be entrusted to the leader of us all. Only Dore was capable of
making such a sacrifice; perhaps, though, perhaps he might
return. Then he would bring back the news that would stop
the tears of Our Mother: words from beyond the bar, from
Our Father in the belly of the River.
Dore was not a River person, but he accepted the
monstrous task without complaint. Our Mother said little,
Dore said less. Tere explained it to us all. Meanwhile Dore
stood in the house by the great window that overlooked the
River. He watched the green water rushing and he smiled. His
face was rested and peaceful, his features serene and

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beautiful. This was to be his sacrifice and he, at least, knew
how it was to be made.
Before he left on his journey Dore went down the road to
the house of the Fourth family. He went to visit the eldest
daughter, Melithiel, who was by that family's bylaws a
princess of the blood. She slept with him before he left, and
he touched her small, perfect breasts. He knew her three
times that evening, but he had known better. In the morning
the king of the Fourth family showed him what Dore would
miss by going on the quest and probably being killed. He
showed Dore the joys of marriage and the joys of family, and
he taught him briefly the joys that only the generator of a
powerful clan might know. He took Dore out to a hill a few
hundred yards from the Fourth house. The hill overlooked the
house itself and, beyond, the River. At the bottom of the hill
three children played with a doglike animal. After a short
while the king of the Fourth family's wife came out from the
house. She saw her husband and ran up the hill to his arms.
They embraced, and Dore smiled his small, knowing smile.
Dore went on his journey. I believe that I was the last to
see him. It was my job, as the tenth- oldest male, to stand on
the hill in our yard that overlooked the River and hold the
standard of our family. I had to stand there one day out of
each eight, and I was there as Dore took his leave of the
house of the Fourth family. I thought I could make him out,
seeing, I think, his familiar green cloak— the green of the
forest, not the flood green of Tere— and the light glinting from
his lovely crown. I liked to sing to myself, and as I saw Dore
start on his way I sang a song to him, one of his all- time

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favorites. I dedicated that song to him, and now I dedicate
the memory of that song to his memory. At that time I wore a
simple cloth cap with a jaunty red feather. My cloak was
yellow, the color of various flowers that I find pleasing. I am a
meadowman, myself.
As Dore passed out of sight on the forest trail, scorning the
broader road that paralleled the River, a chill wind pushed out
of the valley and up my hill. The white sky darkened, and in a
short while rain fell, several full hours before the regular
evening raintime. I did not know then whether the unusual
conditions were an omen or the result of Our Mother's
increased anguish. We argue still about this very thing. It has
not been resolved to our satisfaction.
When I heard that wind, I knew. The pennon snapped on
its staff, and the sound frightened me. The crest of our
family, embroidered in white and blue and green on the flag,
seemed to be crying out for Dore to return. I knew then that I
would never see him again. At sunset I left my post, and I
carried the staff back to the outbuilding where it is kept. After
I had put it back on its shelf I bowed my head and said the
short prayer, adding a few words for Dore's sake. Then I
walked around the house to the throne of Our Mother. Nearly
all of us were gathered there, sitting on the prickly grass at
her feet. I knelt and addressed my prayer of greeting to her.
She touched me on the shoulder, one of the few times that
she had ever touched me since early childhood. I can
remember that I began to cry when I felt her rough fingers.
Our Mother spoke to us. She told us again the story of how
she met Our Father in the Earth city of Pittsburgh, and of

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their flight from the debtors’ prison there. She told us of the
kindly merchant who sponsored their escape to Home, and
how she had taken that merchant to bed, fondling him in
gratitude and feeling his throbbing manhood within her. She
retold the history of the founding of our First family on Home,
and the coming of the other and lesser families. Then she
addressed herself to the task of Dore, and to his better
qualities, so that we should always remember him as a thrifty
and worthwhile addition to any family. She told us of his love
of the forested lands and his legendary ability to understand
the speech of his floral friends, although we knew all this
already; she told us of his strong arms. At last she stopped,
her holy tears streaming at their constant rate, and we stood
before her in silent worship, our arms outstretched. But, of
course, she could not leave her throne. Her time had not yet
come.
But then we were all made aware that the time was nearer
than we had dreamed, and that our lives were to be altered
beyond our simple- minded comprehension. It remains to be
seen whether or not the changes are of a positive nature.
Some of us believe that they are, and some of us disagree.
Dore set out practically unarmed against the dangers of
Home's unexplored wildlands. Tere told us about the quasireligious
nature of the quest. He explained that the great and
selfless sacrifice of Dore would result in our salvation, at least
in the corporal sense; our intentions would be revealed to the
River in all their purity, and the innocent body of our brother
Dore would serve as substitute for five or six whole shelves of
books. Therefore, he must face the Nature of our world

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(Nature that owes its existence, as do we, to the River) with
only the equipment necessary to see him through to the end
of his journey. The trip back would be entirely a matter of
fortune.
“He will carry, as symbol of our parting with the insane
aggressive disposition of the people of Earth, he will carry an
empty scabbard. What courage he will require! But our
brother Dore is equal to the calling. He is the most qualified
among us, and he is, as eldest male, the only one of us
whose sacrifice could have any meaning” So Tere put it to
us, pausing only now and again to touch his breast and sigh.
I asked Dore about this before he left. He was sitting on
his throne, resting his chin on a bridge of his hands. When I
spoke he looked up, startled. He seemed embarrassed at
being found on his throne again.
“Are you really going out there without even your sword”
I asked.
“No, my brother, I don't think so. If Tere wants someone
to go without a sword, let it be he. I'm the one who's going,
and I'm taking Battlefriend with me. And I'll take everything
else that I can sneak out of the house”
He smiled at me, and I saw the pain hidden behind the
smile. He took his crown from his head and studied it for a
few seconds; he smiled again, perhaps thinking of the days
when he first made it, and first made the princess of the
Fourth family. He looked up and saw me. For some reason he
sighed; he made a gesture which, I am not certain, but it
seemed as though he were offering the crown to me. I cannot

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interpret this; in any event, he shook his head sadly and put
the crown back on.
While I sat at his feet our younger sister Laliche ran to him
and jumped into his lap. The scene was so purely touching
that I was surprised when Dore failed to laugh in his usual
delighted way. Laliche noticed it too. She looked up at his
face, her own nose wrinkled among the freckles.
“Dore” she said, “why don't you put a pine cone on your
stick that you walk with”
Laliche was five years old and enjoyed Dore's special
favor. But that day his mind was on his journey. He did not
answer her.
“Why would he want a pine cone on his staff” I asked.
“Because Dionysus did” she said. She jumped to the
ground again and ran away, laughing and singing and
cursing.
“Yes” I said somberly, “you're much more Orphic than
anything else”
“It does not matter, Seyt. I have been waiting for a sign. I
knew that if I waited here long enough my bird, that
tarishawk that rests here each day, I knew that he would
come. Our Mother said that if he flew from the right, then I
would have good fortune. If he came from the left, my
journey would be disastrous for me, and it would bear no
positive fruits for you”
“And the hawk? Which way did it come? Did it come from
the left”
Dore smiled once more; his smile was always the most
cheerless aspect of him. “The hawk has not come at all” he

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said. He fell silent, resting his head in his hands. I nodded,
though he could not see me; I got to my feet and walked to
the house as quietly as I could.
Dore's journey would not become dangerous for two or
three days. We all knew that he could stay with the lower
families for the first few nights. We had no worries for him
until he left the small growth of humanity behind and entered
into the healthy, wild skin of the planet that is our Home.
We were wrong. Our Mother told us that he had
encountered treachery on his second night away.
Beyond the keep of the Fourth family the estates rapidly
fell off in quality. When Dore bid farewell to that king and
court he followed the dusty trace leading to his beloved
forest. As the sun climbed behind the gritty white clouds he
walked to his doom, whistling. In his place I would have sung,
and most of the girls would have prayed. But, as Our Mother
said on many occasions, it takes all sorts of people to make a
world, and that is what made our family great.
The road was unpaved (I have never in my life seen real
pavement, rutted deep by the wooden carts of the lower
families whose castles and cabins stood to the sides. Roads
have played an important role, not only in the entire and
majestic history of the human race, but also in the endless
procession of literature. Consider the part of the road in
Waiting for Godot or in the tales of Chaucer. If the road in
this history has a lesser importance, it is only because our
road is the shorter.
About suppertime Dore stopped his march under a tall,
slender pine tree. He opened his wallet and took out the

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bread and cheese that he had insisted on bringing. Our sister
Vaelluin, who had done kitchen duty on the day of Dore's
departure, had prepared a compact kit of dried rations in
boilable plastic bags, but Dore said that hard bread and stiff
cheddar were more in keeping with his quest. It was a poor
meal, but Dore had never been used to luxury. He ate
quickly, finishing only part of the day's share and saving the
remainder for an extra- large breakfast. He packed his wallet
and continued his walking, planning to find a place to spend
the night in the hour or so before the evening rains.
About two miles farther down the road he arrived at the
elaborate mailbox of the Thirtyfourth family. It was a salute
to bad taste, combining Doric columns with bastardized
Corinthian ornament, a Greco- Roman frieze and imitation
Khmer temple statuary. Art Nouveau lettering, and obscenely
ornate French Empire neoclassicism on top of Rococo
scrollwork. In all, with portico, porch, piazza, and stoa, it
stood over eighteen feet tall.
Dore followed the pebble drive up to the front of the
building. The path split and went on in opposite directions,
making right angles around a rectangular lawn. In the middle
of the grass was a statue; Dore knew that it was actually a
fountain, but it was turned off during the day. It rather
graphically depicted the rape of Proserpina: when it was
activated after the raintime, colored lights played on the
spray that emanated from an indelicately situated marble
orifice.
A heavy iron door was set into the front of the mailbox.
The door was decorated with heads of Cerberus and bulls

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from the Ishtar Gate of Babylon. Across two panels in the
middle was a faded reproduction of The Last Supper by Dali.
A little balcony stood over the doorway, shading it. At the foot
of one of its supporting columns was a tall urn filled with
white sand and a few crushed cigarette butts. At the base of
the other was a cast- iron Negro coachboy, holding a lantern
and grinning servilely. On the lantern, as in about a dozen
other places, was written Mr. & Mrs. Walter G. Thirtyfour.
Dore lifted the heavy brass doorknocker and pounded it in
place.
The knock was answered immediately by a dirty- faced
young woman. Her clothes were soiled and threadbare, and
her nose was weeping for attention. “Mom says to tell you we
don't want any, thank you” she said.
Dore loved her for that. He never needed more of a
reason. “No” he said, chuckling, “I'm not selling anything.
This is a real crown. I am Dore First. I would like to beg your
hospitality”
The girl stared in amazement. It is likely that she had
never seen any of the First family before. Then she looked at
his rich clothing, and at the jeweled scabbard of Battlefriend.
“How long” she said, stammering, “how long do you plan to
be staying on with us”
“Just this one night, I think”
“Yes, sir. Fine. Please, sir, if you will sign this book. Do you
have any luggage? I can get one of the boys to carry it up to
the house. We hope you enjoy your stay with us, and if
there's anything you need, anything, don't hesitate”

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“Thank you” said Dore, “it'll be all right if you just show
me the way to the house”
The young woman led Dore back through the trees to the
house. The home of the Thirtyfourth family was little, if any,
larger than their mailbox. In fact, it later developed that the
mailbox, being otherwise without function on our Post
Officeless world, served as guest house and part- time brothel.
Dore, as an upper- class visitor, would be quartered in the
main house itself. But courtesy demanded that he at least
visit the mailbox. He hoped that his first fleeting call would
suffice.
His arrival put the household in a state of confusion. The
head of the Thirtyfourth family (who insisted on being called
Walt) ordered a sumptuous feast. This consisted of four
courses of hard, dark bread and fine domestic cheese. Dore
was unimpressed, of course, but did his best to show his
appreciation to his poorer cousins. He explained about his
quest, to the amazement of everyone, and begged to be
excused so that he might get a good night's sleep. He
planned to be on the road again before dawn.
The family sat in stunned silence as he rose from the table.
Dore could not understand their reaction until he recalled that
a wealthy guest customarily distributed cash gifts after such a
dinner. He decided to pretend ignorance, although the conceit
was shallow and transparent to everyone. He went up to bed
amid the stony silence, embarrassed and unable to bring
himself to explain that he carried no money. “Where I go
henceforward” he thought, “I shall go incognito” He slipped
between the coarse, yellowed sheets and was soon asleep.

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In the darkest part of the night, in the most stilly watch,
his door opened. The light from the hallway shone in around
the silhouette of the formidable and unclad body of Dolksey
Thirtyfour, Mr. and Mrs. Walter G's eldest daughter.
Our Mother tutored us carefully in subjects pertaining to
morality, both absolute and relative. This is quite obviously a
case of the latter. People have intercourse for a variety of
reasons, she taught. As a gesture of affection among siblings,
as a reward for valiant deeds, as a plighting of troth, for the
acquisition of offspring, or to augment the income: These are
but a few of the manifold urgings to “make love” Our Mother
always took an ambivalent attitude toward sex. We always
figured that was because she surely wasn't getting any on
that memorial- like throne of hers. Since Our Father joined the
spirit of the Home that he built, Our Mother had become a
passionate but chaste Penelope- symbol of adequate behavior.
Before coming Home, the story goes, Our Father met Our
Mother at a well in Pittsburgh. In that city she was known as
a woman of easy virtue, and she had a reputation as an allaround
mover. Our Father extended his hand in friendship
and invited her to “quit her low- down ways” She was taking
various sorts of pills at this time. She recognized in her future
husband a person of great personal worth and went with him,
abandoning her former loose behavior. Now look at her. Dead
as Dekker; where does it get you?
None of these thoughts passed through the mind of my
older brother Dore as he watched the voluptuous Dolksey
undulating toward his bed. He was still half- asleep. He had
enough awareness, though, to shove himself over against the

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24

wall, giving the girl room to crawl in with him. He was almost
asleep again before she did; she spent a good deal of time
trying to arouse him by fondling her pendulous, alabaster
globes and running her well- formed hands over her flat,
sensuous belly. Finally she gave up in favor of closer and
more intimate tactics.
Dore realized that he wasn't going to be allowed to go
back to sleep. He sighed; then he reached out and grabbed
the moaning woman. She responded instantly. She kissed,
and scratched, and rubbed, and tickled, and bit. Dore was so
distracted by her ministrations that he was unable to gain
entrance. Finally, as she trailed her tongue down the tufted
hairs of his stomach and massaged his lower back he shoved
her away.
“Look” he said, “knock it off. Why don't you just lie there
and we'll get this over with”
Still, he found her pleasant company. Sometime later he
was able to get back to sleep, but he was glad that he had
made the detour.
She was still there in the morning. She woke him with her
elbow. “Come with me” she said.
“We already did that. Let me sleep”
“No, we must away. To my room”
“I was just getting very comfortable here”
“You don't understand” she said, her tongue flicking into
his ear between words. “My father mustn't find us here. It
would be my head”
“How would he find us here? He wouldn't be looking unless
you've been dropping hints”

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“Never mind. If he finds us in my room it will look like
simple rape, and that's all right. You're a First”
“I see. Why don't you go back by yourself”
She demonstrated her reasons, and soon she had shown
him enough to warrant his accompanying her to her boudoir.
Several minutes later, at one of a series of critical points,
Dore heard a chamber door slam shut. Then he heard shouts.
Someone pounded on Dolksey's door. “Okay, you imposter in
there” a voice bellowed, “that's enough. Get out of there
before we come in and slice your real identity to ribbons”
Then he heard more doors slamming.
Dolksey looked worried. “You must leave. Father mustn't
catch us together”
“Yes, I've heard. Let me get my breeches”
“Wait. No, go. We have no time. You must fly, my love”
Dore stood beside the bed, naked and confused. Dolksey
pushed him to the door. She paused before he departed,
looking by turns expectant, disappointed, and angry. Finally
she grabbed him and kissed him fiercely. “Flee, my lion” she
said, breathing warmly and moistly into his ear. Dore grasped
the brass dryad knob and opened the door. Dolksey lunged
and caught his hand. She brought it to her lips and kissed the
fingers.
“You're really weird” he said, and stepped out into the
hallway.
The door slammed shut behind him. He heard the click of
the lock.
Dore hurried down the hall to his room. The door was
locked and no one answered his frantic knocking. He went

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back to Dolksey. Of course, her door was locked fast. At last
she answered his pounding, whispering to him through the
heavy micha planks of her door. “Hurry, my heart. All the
rooms are secured. No one may hide you. You must go before
my father and brothers come again. They will let you escape
if you go now. But if you tarry, for my sake, they will find and
kill you. Our love is doomed; I know how your heart is
breaking, even as is mine. But go, save yourself”
“Wait a minute” Dore screamed. “You got my clothes in
there! And my room's locked, too. I'm not leaving here
without that sword” He got no further answer. In the stillness
he heard the tramping of feet on the front stairs. He hurried,
undressed and unarmed, to the back stairway. He checked for
guards: There were none. He ran down the stairs and out the
back way. He did not stop running until he was across the
overgrown yard and safely in the trees behind the house.

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27

Chapter two
Next: The Radishes of Doom
The reviews are in! What a luxurious feeling it is to get up
and know that you've become a celebrity overnight. Outside
the door to my tiny chamber was my copy of the Home
Times- Register, a little local newsletter done on offset by
Yord, an older brother of distressing cheerfulness. It is
distributed free of charge to members of our family, but it is
also available at a nominal cost to foreign households as well.
On the third page I was gratified to see a two column- inch
critique of my first chapter. The byline read “The Trunkmaker”
but we are all aware that it is our sister Mylvelane
who hides behind the allusion. She began by demonstrating
her sympathy for my difficult assignment, and says that I
have made an auspicious beginning, blending a
compassionate portrait of Dore with an incisive view of our
family life. The only negative thing she had to say was that I
displayed a tendency to exaggerate facts for the sake of
interesting reading. That is something that I'll have to watch.
But, nevertheless, I was greeted with a tremendous round
of applause when I entered the cafeteria. My chapter was a
hit. I am on my way to stardom. Tere himself came over to
my table to congratulate me. “It's very much better than ever
I might have hoped” he said.
“Thank you” I said, not quite knowing how to take his
meaning. I've been writing for years.

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“Yes” he said, “and if you ever need any technical
assistance, why, feel free to drop by. I was very close to
Dore, you know” His smile widened during the invitation,
until by Dore's name it was practically a gloat. He may have
been close to Dore, but Dore was never anywhere near him.
“Thank you” I said flatly, “I appreciate it very much”
“Nothing at all” said Tere, putting his plump pink hand on
mine. “Well, I have to get back to work. Uneasy rests the
head, you know” I can imagine.
And now I, too, have to get back to work. I have
yesterday's chapter before me, and I believe that I will stop
admiring it and get on with entangling Dore. Laliche told me
that she's worried about him already. I just smiled and patted
her head. “There, there” I said, “he'll be all right. He's a Holy
Pilgrim”
“Like Dante” she asked hopefully.
“Yes, I suppose. He has all the trappings”
“But he's already lost his sword. How could he lose an
enchanted sword”
“It happens” I said.
Perhaps that is where I should begin today. Dore hid in the
dense growth that fringed the clearing of the Thirtyfourth
family. He was naked, but the warm sun of the late morning
kept him from feeling uncomfortable. He did feel mightily
insecure, though, for without clothes he was helpless and
unfit for whatever social situations he might meet along his
journey. He was of course without his Battlefriend, and he
knew that facing the unknown terrors of Home unarmed was
pure folly. Either he could try recovering his belongings or

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return, naked, to our house to make another start. He
thought for a long time, while the branches scratched his bare
skin and the thirsty insects had their way. He considered each
possibility, and none seemed to him to have any good points
at all. The sun reached and passed its noontime height, and
began to slide down the other side of the bowl, arousing the
white sky toward the evening rain. Still Dore pondered his
dilemma, and could achieve no satisfying solution.
“Are these yours” asked a voice behind Dore. Our brother
was startled, and his nakedness magnified his sense of
vulnerability.
“Who are you” said Dore. It was a strange man, surely
not a member of the Thirtyfourth household nor any other
with which Dore was familiar. He was holding Dore's captured
clothing and, most wonderfully, Battlefriend in its richly
wrought scabbard. “Yes, those are my things. How did you
get them”
The stranger smiled and held the clothes and sword out to
Dore. “My name is Glorian” he said, “and I have my ways”
Once dressed, again Dore examined his benefactor. The man
was tall and slender, his skin tanned dark over a well- muscled
frame. When he smiled, which he did readily, his teeth were
white and strong. His hair was blond and cut very short. Dore
was fascinated by the man's eyes, which were the brown of
the River after the evening's rain. Glorian's gaze was
magnetic, and Dore at last decided that it was because of the
clever use of the eyebrows, which were in constant motion.
Perhaps the stranger wanted to appear sensitive and aware.

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“So tell me about yourself” said Dore. “Where are you
from”
Glorian smiled again. “I have the Knowledge of the
working of things. I have come from far away, but I have
been with you always. I will be a mystery to you until you
discover the simplicity of yourself. I have a strong back, and I
love children and parties. Today I wear a ruby on my
forehead; this may change as circumstances require. Today I
like daffodils, marigolds, and common garden mint. But that
will vary, too”
“You said your name was Glorian” asked Dore.
“Yes. Why do you ask”
“Nothing” said Dore, shaking his head skeptically.
“I will be of great service to you on your quest” said
Glorian.
“What do you know of my journey” asked Dore, suddenly
suspicious.
“Everything”
“Oh” said Dore. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Thank you for finding my clothes”
“Nothing at all. Let's get going”
I have a regular gallery today. Standing behind me are my
brothers Jelt, Wole, and Niln, and my sisters Aniatrese,
Laliche, Ateichál, and Dúnilaea. They follow my pen across
the page like the spectators at a very slow tennis match. Only
Laliche will disturb me, interrupting at times to clarify some
point. A little while ago she asked if Glorian was going to be a
symbol. I told her to wait and see.

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If only Our Father had had such a friendly, omniscient
guide he would never have come to Home, and we would
never have been born. If he had had Glorian to help him, he
wouldn't have wandered with Our squalling Mother from the
prison in Pittsburgh all the miles to Cleveland's teeming
decay. Indeed, if Glorian had been there, Our Father would
never have met Our Mother, and they would never have been
locked up in the first place, and Dore and we would, again,
never have been born. It's something to consider.
But, instead, Our Father had only a merchant from Parma.
When you say the words “Our Father” around this house,
certain key phrases flash immediately through all our minds.
This is the result of Our Mother's careful training. She was
aware of her power. I'm sure that somewhere behind those
incessant tears, she knew that she could mold us through our
love, pity, and boredom. Joy is the first word that springs to
mind when the Our Father reaction is triggered. A wise choice
by Our Mother. Joy and happiness tinge all our thoughts of
him; we are unsure if that is because Our Father himself was
always happy, despite his series of trials, or because
whatever reason caused his disappearance is in itself cause
for celebration. We are split on this question, but not as split
as on others. Most of us believe the former explanation.
The second phrase that roars unstoppably through our
minds is Infidelity doesn't pay, unless in cash. We always cast
our eyes guiltily to the ground. Our Mother was fidel to her
dying day, but without a strong father figure around we have
grown decadent. Then we think, Children make up for bad
times, and we wonder if that's all that we are. Lastly we are

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trained to think, Love, and we do, but then add, “Sure, I'll
bet” and go to the chapel to pray for forgiveness for these
uncharitable thoughts.
Our Father was strong and self- sufficient, but he could not
save himself and his charming bride from the invisible nets of
the sneep, the Credit Company's ethicless enforcers. It was
only through good fortune— or, as we are instructed, the
wages of grace— that the merchant had a brother- in- law who
ran a book barn in Connecticut. This in- law was shipping a
huge load of remainders and used hardcovers to his outlet on
a far- flung planet and needed a crew for the transport vessel.
Here was a ready- made opportunity for Our Parents to escape
the stifling style of life on Earth, and the stifling air, as well.
Here was a chance to build a new home on a new, untamed
world. Our Father's courage shrank from the idea of leaving
the father- world, but grew again at the sound of the sirens.
“But I know nothing of piloting a space vessel” he admitted
honestly to the merchant from Parma.
“That does not matter” the man said. “My brother- in- law's
ship is modern, up- to- date in every way. He has spared no
expense in making it the very latest word in comfort and ease
of handling. In fact, the entire mechanism is automatic:
liftoff, navigation, and orbit when your destination is reached.
You, your lovely, wet wife, and your handsome child will be
disconnected for the journey, to save the expense of
maintaining you during the duration of the flight. Bells will
sound once a parking orbit has been achieved and you will
awaken, none the worse for your experience, rested and
ready to begin your new life”

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“But I still know nothing about landing the rocket” said
Our Father, liking neither the word “disconnected” nor Our
Mother's hand on the merchant's gabardined thigh.
“No matter” said the merchant with a laugh and a wave.
“You must satisfy the ground control that the craft contains a
live and functional human being, to care for the rocket and its
contents on the ground. At that point you can go back to
sleep if you wish. Louis’ ship will land automatically”
“Well, then, what am I needed for”
“Someone has to unload the books” said the man.
It is surprising how often a gift of aid in an emergency
appears to make the predicament worse. But beggars can't be
choosers, I always say. I always say that because Our Mother
always mumbled it, trying to make the best of a sorry
situation.
“That right there” says Laliche, pointing over my shoulder,
“that's not very true, is it, Seyt” I admit that Our Mother
didn't say it very often. I don't even say it very often. Aren't I
permitted some license?
In any event, Dore and Glorian cut their way through the
underbrush around the estate of the Thirtyfourth family,
careful to keep out of sight. Dore was wounded by the painfilled
screams of his precious timber friends, as he hewed a
path through a thicket of sapling deys. A few times Glorian
saw Dore wince, and asked if something were wrong.
“No” said Dore bravely, “I'll be all right” Soon they had
found the slight trail that served these outlying families as
highway through the great virgin forest. It was not long
before the evening rains began to fall, chilling Dore and

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making him think for the first time of the comforts he had
abandoned for our sake. This was the first night of the
journey when he had not found shelter by raintime. He
glanced at Glorian, who, because of his elegant white robe
and jeweled accessories, Dore believed to be of aristocratic
though enigmatic origin. But the new companion showed no
signs of discomfort, and Dore was reluctant to suggest a halt.
While he had stood alone and undressed behind the house of
the Thirtyfours, Dore decided to forego the suspect hospitality
of the houses in the neighborhood, at least as far as possible.
So the two walked on; eventually the rain stopped, having
scrubbed clean the sky, leaving the heavens to the perfect
white stars and the two ruddy moons.
After a few hours of silent march Dore stopped by a great
pollit, its bark stripping off characteristically in long gray
ribbons. “I believe that I'll stop here” he said. “I did not sleep
either long or well last night, and this seems to be as good a
place as any to take my rest”
“Perhaps” said Glorian, “but if you continue just another
few miles there will be a warm supper and a clean bed. And,
as neither of us is carrying food, the breakfast in the morning
will be a special and heartening blessing”
Dore thought for a few seconds. “What you say is true, but
I fear that I have little desire to make the acquaintance of
more of my fellow citizens”
“It is true that you may meet unexpected knavery along
your way, but surely you expect that. And overcoming it
where you find it prepares you to accept your goals at the
end of the River” Dore gave Glorian a sharp look. He was

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concerned that the stranger should be so familiar with what
ought to be matters known only to our family. Either Glorian
was a force for evil, and then could obstruct Dore if our
brother were not worthy of protection, or be powerless if the
mission did have validity; or Glorian was a force for good, a
guardian spirit from the bosom of Our Father's good will. This
reasoning, combined with growing fatigue and hunger,
convinced Dore to go along with Glorian's plan.
They saw the lights of the house shining through the
darkness before they had covered half the distance. As they
came closer the forest thinned, until they stood in a large
clearing. In the center of the space was a great stone house,
built square and massive and ominous. Dore had pictured a
small cottage inhabited by honest rustics. He was unprepared
to deal with local baronry.
It is a family characteristic to be unbowed in the face of
petty authority. Nothing angers us more than the inflated
bureaucrat, the pompous country squire, or the selfimportant
ceremonial functionary. We have several in our
own family, and I sincerely feel that they dislike themselves
intensely.
I must pause now, because I believe that I'm expected to
refresh my guests. They have for the most part sat patiently
through the unfolding of this second chapter, with little
complaint and admirable courtesy. I will go out and get a few
bottles of wine, root beer for the younger children, and set
out bowls of potato chips and gebbins.
Now, then. I bid my brothers and sisters to enjoy the
spare felicities of my unassuming cell.

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“It's coming along well, Seyt” says Dúnilaea. “It's kind of
funny to see Dore doing those weird things”
“I'm not sure that you're taking the matter seriously
enough” says Ateichál, who currently holds the office of
Spiritual Director. Her term expires in two months; I am
thinking of running against her in the Benevolent primaries.
Perhaps she is already beginning her campaign.
“Oh, I assure you that I am” I say, offering her the bowl
of nuts.
“I'm glad he got his sword back” says Jelt. After a while I
thank them all for coming, and invite them back anytime. I
make it clear that I want to get back to work. Dutifully they
rise and go out into the hall, smiling and thanking me for my
hospitality. It is the first time I have ever entertained. I feel
accepted into responsible maturity.
“Are you going to put me in it any more” asks Niln.
“Well see” I say kindly.
At the launching pad in Florida, Our Parents and Dore were
tucked into their couches by Louis, the brother- in- law of the
merchant from Parma. “Do you still want to go through with
it” he asked.
“You've got your man” said Our Father in his gruff,
imagined voice.
“Fine. Now, when the Customs officials on Ferkel's Planet
discover you in orbit they'll ask you a few routine questions.
You know, registration, cargo, crew descriptions, that sort of
thing. By this time the automatic recall system will have
restored you to tingling, vibrant life. I almost envy bow good
you'll feel. After you have clearance to land, you'll have to

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initiate the automatic entry systems. That's this here. Just flip
this single switch from Off to On. Got that”
“Roger”
“About the top ten percent of the rocket will be all that will
land. This capsule will separate and direct itself toward the
middle of a huge ocean on Ferkel's Planet. This has all been
prearranged, and flight schedules have been filed, so there
will be a carrier waiting for you. Divers from the carrier will
meet you and help you and the cargo into a hovercraft, which
will take you to the carrier itself. The carrier will make a few
other pickups and transport you to Armstrong City, where a
chartered plane will fly you to Shepard Beach. When you get
there, unload the books, make certain that my agent gets
them safely into his truck, and have him sign this receipt.
Give him the yellow copy, keep the blue copy, and send the
white one to me. After that, you're on your own. Your wife
cries a lot, doesn't she”
“I think she's nervous about the landing” said Our Father
discreetly.
“Nothing to worry about, ma'am” said Louis. “It's all
automatic. Chutes will open up and everything. Nothing you
can do, anyway. Just relax. Everybody all set now”
“I guess so” said Our Father resolutely.
“All right then. ‘Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest, '”
said Louis, quoting a truly lovely line from Hamlet. Then he
disconnected Our Mother and Our Father and Dore.
It went against Our Father's character to relax while there
was work to be done. But as Louis pointed out, there wasn't
anything he could do, being disconnected in the first place.

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How remarkable that the merchant's brother- in- law should
choose to quote a piece of Hamlet, a fictional character more
like Dore than is proper to admit. Hesitancy is a key, and
nobility, and tenacity. Of course Dore is not mad; but, then,
was Hamlet? There is no need to get into that question here.
If Dore was reluctant to encounter any more of Home's
settlers, it is because we all feel a great gap between
ourselves and the rest of the families. From earliest childhood
we are constantly reminded that our family is organized along
different lines. We are asked strange questions by other
children, and they cannot understand our answers. We tend
to draw into ourselves, going outside the limits of our yard
but rarely. We certainly have enough company, and enough
variety, right here. I do not say that the other families are all
opposed to us, for even among themselves they differ. But we
have proven that we can get along without them, and they
resent this fact.
It was against this disinclination that Glorian argued.
“Come on” said Glorian, “remember the food and the bed”
“Oh, all right” said Dore. The two men walked across the
short grass of the lawn. The two moons hung in the sky, one
on either side of the dark, fortresslike building. They
reminded Dore of Odin's ravens, and he knew that it was no
good omen. He raised the heavy knocker and brought it down
sharply three times. After a short wait the door was opened
by a small, bearded old man.
“Who summons Dr. Dread” said the white- haired
gentleman.

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“I am called Dore, and my companion is Glorian of the
Knowledge”
“I see no companion” said the old man curiously. Dore
turned in surprise, and sure enough, Glorian had disappeared.
Dore shrugged.
“I am a weary traveler and I beg the hospitality of your
hearth” said Dore, letting Glorian play his foolish tricks and
take their consequences.
The old man opened his door wider, and stood out of the
way to let Dore enter. “Weary, but not wary, eh? Any port in
a storm, eh? Better an unknown pallet to a night al fresco,
eh? Come in. I am Dr. Dread”
Dore went past the Doctor into a large, high- ceilinged hall.
Against the far wall was a huge fireplace with the remains of
a cooking fire still burning. An arras hung on either side of the
fireplace to trap the cool dampness of the stone walls. On a
high shelf were arranged heraldic banners, shields, swords,
and other pseudo- medieval paraphernalia. At either end of
the hall was a great door, made of heavy planks reinforced
with iron bands.
“Food is on the table from my late supper” said Dr. Dread,
“and you are welcome to eat your fill. As for your bed, you
will find a staircase through that door” Here the Doctor
indicated the door to the right. “You will ascend to the second
floor, and may take any chamber that meets your approval.
Please excuse my rudeness in not showing you to your
quarters, but your arrival interrupted me at my work”
“No, thank you very much, Dr. Dread. You've been most
kind”

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“Well, then, I will bid you a good night. My work will not
wait. I should warn you not to follow me through the other
door, or try to investigate. What rests in that tower is my
secret”
“Of course. Good night, Doctor”
“Yes, well. Until morning” The Doctor left Dore, walking
across the stone flooring and making very little sound. He
pulled out a large iron key and unlocked the door, which
opened with a fierce creaking. A weird green light shone into
the hall until the Doctor passed through and shut and locked
the door from the other side. Dore shrugged again and fell to
eating his supper.
I receive a note from Tere, no less. “What has happened to
Glorian? I do hope you haven't written him out. I rather
enjoyed him. With all good wishes, your brother, Tere” I
remember once when Tere volunteered to teach a night class
in Cake Decorating but no one signed up. He was angry for
weeks. Finally he wrote a letter to the paper, claiming that it
was a conspiracy. There may be cliques among us, and it may
be true that Tere belongs to none of them, but we don't
actively plan to ignore him. It just happens.
Our Mother did her best to avoid the development of
divisive, internal groups. She saw that our family was growing
to immense proportions, and that was bound to mean a
certain alignment along party lines. She worked very hard to
keep us homologous, by making sure that we all received
identical indoctrination, similar environmental experiences,
and equivalent amounts of love, praise, and frustration. But it
didn't work, chiefly because each of us had more brothers and

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sisters than our elders, and these siblings served as a
sanctuary from the bleak nonsense of Our Mother's precepts.
She wanted us to be all equal and, more, identical, so that
she could show us off as some sort of matched collection. I've
never really understood her desire. Was she planning to invite
the mistresses of the other families for tea? What could she
gain, besides some rather nice choral music?
Another note. I have provoked the wrath, social
consciousness, or sense of propaganda of Ateichál. She is
offended by what I have said about Our Mother. Well, I defy
my elder sister to prove me wrong.
Yet one more note. Tere backs her up.
Laliche comes in unannounced. “They're right, you know”
she says, but she's only five years old. She doesn't
understand politics.
Our Mother frequently had visions. These always occurred
just at dawn, after the morning clouds had formed above her
head to obscure for the day the sterile sky. Clouds, of course,
hold in themselves the potentiality of rain, a masculine
attribute and thus less holy than the receptive earth. But
even the clouds are more sanctified than the empty sky. After
the heavens were decently covered and the sun had begun its
masked journey, illusions on horseback would visit Our
Mother on her throne. She never failed to take advantage of
the situation, questioning an illusion unmercifully and
reporting the incident to us in long dull, hysterical speeches.
Most often she was visited by Death, who was brought to
Home hidden in one of the thousands of books. We do not
know which one, but if ever we find it we'll all live forever.

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Death spoke in high- sounding riddles, which Our Mother was
good at rendering even more obscure, so during the reading
of these interviews we sat restlessly at her feet and did other
things. Occasionally Our Mother saw a dead king returning
from some important war, or a ship with royal purple sails,
laden with armed children and searching for the River. In her
own way she was a nice old lady. But things change, and they
change us. I loved Our Mother but, my brothers and sisters, it
is dangerous to romanticize her faults. Surely I am not the
only one who will remember them.
It was fortunate that Our Mother met someone as strongly
willed and stoical as Our Father. He always knew how to
control her. Most of their married life she spent in front of
him, with her head bowed. He stood behind her and listened
to her weeping. In the spacecraft he rested in the couch
below her. Our Father was reconnected first, as the pilot of
Louis’ vessel. He was astounded to find that, even
disconnected, Our Mother put in her quota of tears. He felt
wonderful for a few moments. He did not move from his
bunk, knowing that there was nothing to do until he received
the call from the ground personnel on Ferkel's Planet, and he
wanted to enjoy the seconds of peace until Our Mother and
Dore were reconnected. Soon her wailing and gibbering
indicated that he might as well get up.
Our Father sat down at the control panel. He was
fascinated that such a complex piece of machinery as the
rocket could be operated so completely automatically. The
controls consisted of the single toggle switch and a fuzzy
section labeled Radio set into the gray metal. Our Father

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glanced at his right forefinger. “I am gifted with certain
abilities” he thought. “And I am able to use them for my own
advancement and for the betterment of others. What more
could any man desire” He poised his finger above the switch
and waited. After quite a long time he began to worry.
“Surely Ferkel's Planet cannot have such heavy traffic” he
thought. “How could they have failed to notice our approach”
Before him on the viewscreen the planet turned, majestic
and egg- shaped. Its poles were capped nicely with white, but
all the rest of the surface was covered with a dark floral
green. Our Father knew fear. He rose from the control panel
and joined his wife.
“I think we're in trouble” he said.
Our Mother sobbed. “Journey to a new home” she said.
“Tomorrow will be brighter. You take care of it”
“We were supposed to land in a great ocean. That planet
down there doesn't even have a good- sized lake that I can
see. The only water is one large river. There seems to have
been some sort of inaccuracy”
And so, by a fortuitous mistake, the errant ship brought
Our Parents to our world of Home, instead of the golden cities
of Ferkel's Planet. But trapped in orbit, with the ship's
mechanism programed to land them in the midst of a
nonexistent ocean, they were certainly in desperate
circumstances.
“Oh, what will they do” asks Laliche fearfully.
“There, there” I say, stroking her fine black hair, “don't
you think I have this all thought out”
“Oh, what will we do” asked Our Mother fearfully.

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“I don't know” said Our Father. “There must be
something. Ah, here” He had found a small button labeled
Emergency Only. He gave it a sharp push. A low humming
caught his attention, and he turned to see a panel sliding
open. He hurried to the secret compartment, which proved to
be a sort of broom closet. It was filled with mops and buckets
and dustpans. On a shelf in the back were cans of polish and
wax, rolls of electrical tape, a small box of tools, and a thick,
dusty book entitled Manual Operation.
“Well, now” said Our Father jubilantly, “we appear to be
saved. It is merely a matter of focusing my faculties and
learning to land this craft before we starve, thirst, or
strangle”
“I'm behind you all the way” said Our Mother.
“Fine, fine” said Our Father absently, as he began reading
the instructions. Several hours later, armed with the
knowledge contained in the technical book and a Phillips
screwdriver, he had prepared the capsule for separation and a
soft landing in the planet's only river. He returned to his
bunk, and Our Parents settled back to await developments.
“But landing in the River isn't anything like landing in an
ocean” says Laliche. “They'd be helpless if they survived.
There aren't any teams of divers waiting to rescue them”
Laliche, though bright for her age, has never seen an
ocean. A large amount of water is a large amount of water.
Beyond a certain point it doesn't make any difference how far
apart the shores are; besides, this is historical fact. The
screwdriver is still on view in the East Foyer.

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It is true that Our Parents, plummeting down from orbit to
land in six feet of water, might have been seriously harmed, if
not killed, had these been ordinary circumstances. But my
dear heretic sister forgets that the river is the River. They
landed softly, with barely a jolt. The River welcomed them to
Home by running softly and calmly; and when Our Father
opened the hatch to push the capsule to land, the River
obliged by altering its current. The water flowed transversely,
from bank to bank, and soon the capsule was washed ashore.
Our Father recognized the miraculous nature of this aid, and
wanted to sacrifice something in gratitude. All that he had on
hand was his wife and infant son, and a large load of books.
He chose one of the latter, of course, a large coffee- table art
book; and thus began our tradition of book- tossing. The River
seemed pleased.
“Is that really how it happened, Seyt” asks Laliche, eating
the last of my snacks. “How did Our Father know that he
could breathe the air and stuff like that”
Tere, forgive her. Ateichál, she's still very young. I try to
explain to her that either Our Father was omniscient, or he
wasn't. And if Laliche chooses to argue that he wasn't, well,
she can expect to lead a very lonely life. That's the point of
faith. Isn't she at all interested in the weird green light that
so fascinates Dore? Aren't we all supposed to be following
with bated breath the hazardous progress of our brother?
Perhaps I am being too subtle for her. I will dispense with
artifice for the moment, for the benefit of my charming sister.
“That's all right, Seyt” she says. “I was going anyway”

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In the morning Dore came downstairs, refreshed and
anxious to continue his journey. He met the strange Dr.
Dread in the great hall. The Doctor was evidently completing
his own breakfast, and gestured to Dore to join him.
“Thank you, Doctor” said our brother. “I slept very well”
“You were not disturbed by any unusual noises” Dore, his
mouth already filled with cold roast, shook his head. “No
screams? No pleadings or hideous shrieks”
“No” said Dore. “Did I miss something”
The Doctor looked down at his plate. “No, of course not”
he said nervously.
“Then I would like to thank you and be on my way. But
first, I would be honored if you would let me repay you for
your charity. Is there some chore that I might do to relieve
you of the labor”
Dr. Dread appeared to consider Dore's more than generous
offer. Then he looked across the table and smiled. “Yes, if you
would, I have a small task that needs attention. I myself have
been too busy with my researches. If you would, I'd consider
it a great favor”
“Not at all” said Dore, and the two men finished their
breakfast in silence. Afterward the Doctor led Dore outside to
a wooden building behind the house. It was about twelve feet
high and twenty feet along each side. There were no windows
and but one large door set in the front wall. From within Dore
could hear loud scrapings and hangings, and every once in a
while there was a thump as something struck the wall.
“Is this a garage” asked Dore. “What do you keep in
there”

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“That's not important” said Dr. Dread. “I want you to
reinforce these walls. You cannot fail to be aware that this
enclosure houses something monstrous and dreadful. I forbid
you to open the door. You would have to destroy my
ingenious system of locks to do that, but it has happened
before, and the culprits are unanimous in their regret. If you
would, I'd appreciate it if you would merely fasten these bars
across the timbers. It may be a heavy job, but you will be
granting me the most precious gift of all: peace of mind”
“Why, certainly, sir. I'll need a ladder and certain tools. I
like to work in an organized and efficient manner”
“A man after my own heart” said the Doctor. “You'll find
what you need around the corner of this shed” Dore turned
to his labor, and the Doctor left him and returned to the
house.
As he worked, Dore did not think of the funny way things
turn out. Here he was, the eldest son and leader of the
powerful First family, doing carpentry for a neurotically
secretive old man. He did not consider himself the least bit
dishonored. He did not think that we, his brothers and sisters,
would have been disgraced to see him working like a common
serf. This is one of the reasons that Dore stands so far apart
from us. There are other reasons, and it is my job to make
them clear to you, as I've just done.
During a short rest Dore leaned against the tightly sealed
cage and looked back toward the house of Dr. Dread. Up in
the tower where the Doctor worked, Dore saw the same
strange green light flaring from a window. Dore became
aware of movement in the distant chamber as huge forms

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chanced to pass in front of the window and block the emerald
rays. Often the shape was recognizably that of Dr. Dread, but
sometimes Dore saw hideous sights, as though the Doctor
housed towering, monstrous things in his house as well as in
the shed. But that, of course, was the man's business, and
Dore returned to his job, finishing it shortly before
dinnertime.
“Come, my honest fellow” said the Doctor pleasantly,
when he saw that Dore had completed his labors. “Let us
have a last meal together. You may cover a goodly distance
before nightfall, but I'll wager the miles will be shorter on a
full stomach”
“Thank you, sir” said Dore. “Indeed, I could use a few
moments of rest”
Dr. Dread grasped Dore's arm and directed him toward the
house. The old man had a very forceful and direct personality,
and Dore realized that under the proper circumstances Dr.
Dread could appear to be cold and calculating. What could
this man's motives be? What strange goals eluded him?
“I am very interested in you, my son” said the Doctor,
seated with Dore once again at the table. “It saddens me that
you are leaving, and that we have had such little time to talk,
both absorbed in our respective tasks. I am always fascinated
by that which makes one individual different from another.
This is knowledge that has been hidden by the gods, and it
takes a courageous or foolhardy man to tamper with that
cosmic casket”
Dore regarded the Doctor over the edge of his wineglass.
“Fortunately for myself, I am neither”

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“Ah, then why did you find it necessary to disobey my
instructions and peer within my coop of wonders? Did you
find my collection interesting”
Dore set his glass down on the table and stared angrily at
the Doctor. “You mistake me, sir. I never looked within that
fearsome building. I was told not to do so, and I saw no
reason to defy you”
“You lie, young man. No one can resist”
Dore was offended. He was angered that the man would
judge him to be that weak, and then accuse him of lying. He
rose from his chair, his hand straying to the hilt of
Battlefriend. “Sir, again I thank you for your food and the
lodging, but I” Dore put his hand to his head. He felt dizzy,
as though—
“As though the wine had been drugged” says Laliche
happily. I was so engrossed in Dore's awful difficulty that I
didn't hear her enter. Yes, dear little one, the evil Dr. Dread
had drugged our brother's wine. Dore felt very sick—
“The room began to spin and then everything turned black,
eh”
Yes, Laliche, thank you. Dore collapsed in his chair, and
the last thing of which he was conscious was the triumphant
leering face of Dr. Dread staring down at him.
“Dore wouldn't have been suckered like that, Seyt” says
my most tireless commentator. “Our Mother gave us so many
good rules to follow. She taught us to judge bad people. Dore
wouldn't have been fooled for a minute, once he saw that
green light. What's inside that old shed”

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Laliche forgets that Dore did not think himself to be in any
danger. He planned to finish his meal and bid Dr. Dread
adieu. Our Mother's set of training principles was neglected
for the moment. And, of course, this was the very sort of
situation that she was trying to warn us about. She tried to
impress us with the frustration of her position; the sole
receptacle of wisdom on the planet, confronted with dozens of
ignorant children who thought her old and silly. Whenever she
said that, we'd all stand and try to convince her that she was
wrong, that we didn't think that she was so old. Then she'd
ask us to repeat her Precepts of Power. That's what she called
them, Precepts of Power. I could never remember them, so I
just moved my lips. All the girls had them memorized,
though.
Our Mother showed flashes of true concern for our
education. She sometimes surprised us all by giving an
unannounced quiz. She would go to the trouble of having
some of the other neighbors originally from Earth come in to
speak to us. She always called them “visiting lecturers”
sometimes embarrassing the poor people as they stood
before us in their tattered, home- made clothing. We were
expected to listen closely, for each guest would recall details
and scraps of life on Earth, things we knew nothing about
and, perhaps, Our Mother had neglected. I remember once
hearing old Charlie Twelve tell us about walnuts, about their
sweet, ominous bat- shaped meats, looking sometimes like
roast turkeys or warty busts of Zeus. For days afterward we
tried to imagine the taste of walnuts, and we've never
forgotten our feeling of poverty.

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And we tried desperately to include her in the growing
relationship and joyful dependence we felt toward our
adopted world. Only once did we carry her down to the edge
of the River. She was always hearing us speaking of the River
in hushed or excited tones, and she demanded to know what
was going on. My older brother Sabt built a temporary throne
for her in the mud of the Riverbank, and Nesp and Loml
carried her, one holding her ankles, the other supporting her
reverently under the arms. She sat with the water washing
her feet and gazed wistfully downstream, crying and crying
for her lost husband. My younger brother Wole claims that he
saw a water sprite bow before the grieving figure of Our
Mother. Later in the day we wandered off, one by one, to our
chores or to seek other entertainment. So accustomed were
we to having Our Mother fixed steadfastly on her throne that
we all assumed that she had been returned to her place in the
yard. But, sadly, no one had carried her back. She spent the
rest of the day and all night by the water's edge, and in the
morning when we went out to the fields we were horrified to
find her throne empty. We had misplaced Our Mother, and we
panicked until a cool head remembered where we had left
her. It was a very embarrassing moment when we went to
pick her up.
Dore came to his senses strapped to an operating surface
tilted almost perpendicularly to the floor. The first thing that
he noticed was the ghastly green light in the room, indicating
that he had been moved to the Doctor's secret laboratory.
“Ah, welcome back, my young and curious friend. Did I not
say that those whose inquiring minds got the better of their

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caution lived to regret it? Do you not wish that you had
followed my advice? It was such a pity to spoil such a rare
vintage with the sleeping liquor”
“I insist, my impetuous host, that I never betrayed your
trust” said Dore bravely.
“Indeed? But it makes little difference now” said Dr.
Dread, turning toward a bank of dials and flashing lights. “You
are seeing too much to allow me to permit your escape. What
would the innocent townsfolk do, after your tale confirmed
their wild rumors and legends? Why, in no time at all I'd have
a crowd of angry men out there, screaming for my life.
Pitchforks, burning torches, the whole ugly scene. No, I'm
afraid you'll have to continue to accept my meager courtesy”
Dore heard a door slam, and though he couldn't see the
door behind him, he did witness Dr. Dread's angry reaction.
“Gort” said the Doctor sharply. “Go back! Go back to your
cell” The Doctor picked out a flaming brand from the
fireplace and waved it before him. Dore heard a loud, horrible
rustling behind him, and he knew that it belonged to the
demonic shape he had seen from the yard. The Doctor
screamed, and Dore saw him throw the torch across the
room. Dr. Dread hurried to the fireplace, but before he could
find a new weapon the monster forced him into a corner.
Dore could see it now: It stood easily ten feet tall, massive
and globular in shape. It had neither head nor arms, but
propelled its huge bulk on several thin, ropy appendages.
Dore recalled that it was dark red in color, but looked almost
black in the green light.

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“Call him” said Dr. Dread hoarsely. “If you distract him,
he'll be easily confused. Save me and I'll let you live”
Dore took a deep breath and called the brute's name. As
the Doctor predicted, it hesitated. It seemed to forget its
furious attack on Dr. Dread, and stood in the center of the
room, paralyzed with indecision.
“My one defense is their stupidity” said the Doctor. “For
years I have worked, building them up in size and mobility
through selective breeding. Now I have the potential of a truly
unstoppable army of vegetables”
“Vegetables” asked Dore in astonishment.
“Yes, I see that you're amazed. And well you should be. So
should the entire world be, in a short time. Gort is the
descendant of generations of genetically manipulated garden
radishes. He is my prize, the most locomotive of my plant
militia. Also, unfortunately, the most intelligent. That is why I
need you, my feckless spy. Tonight I test my new toy. I shall
transfer your human essence into Gort's nutritious self. Not
your personality, or your memories, or anything like that. Just
enough to make Gort a bit more of a man. And” said the
untrustworthy scientist, “just enough to make you a bit more
of a vegetable. I have dozens of these robots prepared, just
waiting for this evening's success. Soon I alone shall rule;
with my irresistible army I shall move from conquest to
conquest. How can they stop a radish? How do you slay a
scallion, a carrot? They have no vital organs at all. They're
invincible”
“He's mad” says Laliche bitterly. I reassure her.

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“I think not, evil one” said a new voice from the doorway.
Our brother still could not see. He chafed against his bonds,
but they were too strong.
“Who are you, and how did you get past the guards” said
Dr. Dread.
“My name is Glorian of the Knowledge, and one of the
things that I know is that your cause, like all errands of
wickedness, is doomed to failure”
“Get me out of here, Glorian” called Dore.
“Yes, my friend” And Glorian came around the platform on
which Dore was prisoner. “Here” he said cheerfully, “take
this” He put Battlefriend into Dore's hand. Immediately the
iron shackles sprang open, and Dore was free.
“How did that happen” asked Dore in wonder.
“Your enchanted sword conducted my inner wisdom,
which, coupled with your own happy innate goodness,
overpowered the bonds of corruption. But let us hurry, for our
adversary has summoned his planty legions”
“Thanks, Glorian” said Dore, rubbing his sore wrists.
“Stand you behind me, for, despite your simple virtue, I see
that you are defenseless. I shall try to keep them from you
with the strength of my arm, dearest of friends” By now the
room was crowded with the insane Doctor's vegetable guards.
Great overgrown edible roots they were, milling about on
disproportionately cultured secondary roots. The vegetables
segregated themselves by variety: All the carrots grouped
together, and the onions, scallions, beets, sweet potatoes,
radishes, turnips, and garlics. Gort, their nominal leader, was
now confused into inertness.

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“You may save your arm, my companion” said Glorian,
“for you will see that they have none. What the good Doctor
has forgotten is that his soldiers cannot grasp weapons, hurl
grenades, or storm walls. Let us pass through them and go
our way. Do not attempt to wound one, for with your especial
sensitivity to green and growing things, you would be yourself
disabled”
And so the two men walked unharmed among the giant
horrors, while Dr. Dread screeched incoherently behind them.
They took their leave of the madman's stronghold and
continued their interrupted journey.
“What about Dr. Dread and all his vegetables” asks
Laliche, with her penchant for tidy endings.
They were all sadly destroyed in a fire. I suppose the
Doctor himself caused it in the extremity of his
disappointment.
A victory for Dore! Our brother handled himself admirably
in his mystic martial initiation.

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Chapter three
A Woman's Treachery
There is less of a general stir this morning, but I
anticipated that. The reaction is essentially that my second
chapter was much more fanciful than anyone expected. There
is a sharper division among my brothers and sisters, some
intrigued by my imagination, others put off by the
implausibility and the “misrepresentations” Mylvelane as
“The Trunk- maker” in the Times- Register is still enthusiastic,
applauding my independence and my fearless attitude. I think
that I will send her a grateful note.
Now let me begin the day's work. Um. Dore and Glorian
have been reunited, once again on their trail to adventure.
The way led deeper into the primeval forest, and the
farther they traveled the fresher Dore felt. Soon the horrors
of the previous days receded in his memory, and only a few
puzzling factors disturbed his tranquil mind.
“Glorian” he asked quietly, as he walked beside his new
comrade. “You knew that maniac, didn't you? Why did you
get me into that situation in the first place”
“Ah, my friend” said the mysterious young man, “I merely
provided you with an alternative. It was you alone who chose
to enter that domain of evil”
“But I trusted you” said Dore. “You should have warned
me”

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“It was something of a test. It had to happen sooner or
later, and now at least we are both certain of your valor, if
not your prudence. I am very glad that things turned out
well”
“So am I” murmured our brother. “And how did you
disappear like that? Why did you leave me” Glorian only
smiled. They walked on until late in the day, when Glorian
produced apples, dark bread, and ale for their supper.
“These are the last of my supplies” he said. “Even the
Knowledge doesn't permit me to conjure rations for your
sustenance”
“An excellent meal, my friend. Thank you. Now I suppose
we must tighten our belts and learn to make do with what we
find” After their short supper they walked some more, and
the path grew narrower and narrower. When the rains
stopped, the moons illuminated our brother and Glorian
standing beside an elder micha, bewildered as the trail
dwindled and evaporated among the trees.
“Which way” asked Glorian. “This is your quest, Dore”
“Let us stop here for the night. Perhaps in the morning
something will give us a hint. I'd like not to stray too far from
the River, and already I seem to be lost” The two men
settled themselves among the huge roots of the micha and
wrapped themselves in their insufficient cloaks. Dore
addressed a prayer to Our Father, and was soon asleep.
“Seyt”
What a fortuitous time to be interrupted. I had run out of
ideas. It is Relp, this month's Conscience Monitor. I assume

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that he's come to try my guilt. I welcome him mistrustfully.
“Oh, hi, Relp” I say casually.
“Am I bothering you” he says, sticking to the formula.
“No, not at all. I was taking a break”
“That story of yours keeping you off the streets, eh? Keeps
you too busy to sin”
I laugh. Relp takes his position too seriously. “Guess so” I
say.
“That's what I wanted to see you about. Now, you
understand that this is strictly official business, and personal
feelings don't enter into it at all. But whenever the person in
my office gets a complaint, it's his duty to check it out. You
know that; you've been Monitor”
A horrible experience. I nod. “You've gotten a complaint?
Who”
“I'm not supposed to tell. But just to show you the
ridiculousness of the thing, it's Tere. He says you're verging
on blasphemy in that history of yours. I wouldn't know. I
haven't read it. But be careful, all right? A conviction for
blasphemy is a grievous and permanent thing”
I assure Relp that I haven't been doing anything seriously
wrong. I'm just telling a story; some of my family want to
forget that Our Parents and Dore were people, too. They
walked around and stubbed their toes and performed bodily
functions. Except Our Mother, of course; she just cried. I wish
Tere would shut up. I see unhealthy signs of a new regime of
religiosity and conservatism.
Relp gives me his official, cheerless smile, tells me to keep
up the good work, and leaves. Perhaps I will talk to Mylvelane

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or Yord, and get them to do an editorial on the freedom of the
perceptive artist in our society. Our Parents would have been
horrified to see us sliding toward an oppressiveness that
didn't include them.
Days passed, and Dore marched further into the heart of
our world. He communed with his trees and talked with
Glorian, and was actually quite happy. The peace and
contentment were something he had never known before, as
these are qualities we have sacrificed for our sophistication.
He did not suffer from hunger, for his knowledge of the forest
and Glorian's kept them well- fed, although Dore observed,
curiously, that Glorian ate very little. They refreshed
themselves at woodland springs, running toward their
junction with the River and not yet holy in themselves.
One afternoon, while Dore was suggesting that they follow
one of these streams and thus find the River, the two
comrades were startled to hear a loud crashing among the
trees before them. Whatever was causing the commotion was
still invisible, but Dore drew his sword in preparation. They
had met a few small grass dragons and woodcats, but had
avoided them without calamity. Now, however, it sounded as
though they were about to meet something much larger and
wilder. Glorian put his hand on Dore's shoulder. “Don't fear”
he said, “we will face this test together” Our brother nodded
wordlessly.
As the mystery came closer they heard cursing, in a
frustrated female voice. Dore glanced at Glorian, who
shrugged. In a few seconds a young lady came into view but
did not appear to notice the two men.

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“Hello” Dore called, “can we be of service”
The young woman looked up, startled. “I'm lost in this
damn forest” she said, and fell to the ground, crying.
“So are we” said Dore, “but if you like you may travel with
us. I believe we will all fare better together than stumbling
our separate ways”
“He's right, you know” said Glorian. The young woman
looked hesitant, naturally fearing to put her trust in two
strange and somewhat disheveled men. Dore had removed
his crown and jeweled scabbard after the incident with Dr.
Dread, carrying them wrapped in a spare white cloak Glorian
had somehow “found” Our brother appeared to be a simple
soldier of fortune or other sort of vagrant. Glorian's lithe good
looks attracted the young woman, as became evident when
she took his arm. Dore was amused by his friend's
discomfiture.
“My name is Glorian” said that remarkable man.
“Of the Knowledge” said Dore, still laughing. “My name is
Dore”
The young woman stood and curtsied prettily. “I am the
Princess Dawn des Malalondes” she said. “I was stolen from
the palace of my father by the son of Baron von Glech, our
bitterest enemy. I managed to flee before that young rascal
Snolli could consummate his rape, but he has been hunting
me for days. I'm weak with hunger and hopelessly lost” To
demonstrate her point, the Princess Dawn fainted into
Glorian's arms. The stranger looked at Dore helplessly, and
Dore shook his head in wonder.

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“Does not the Knowledge advise you on the ways of
women” asked our brother good- naturedly. “Here, let us
permit her to rest beneath this shady tree. We're in no hurry.
Be a good man and fetch some water from the spring”
While Glorian was absent, Dore observed their new
companion. She was by far the most beautiful girl Dore had
ever seen, fairer than even Aniatrese, our own Beauty Queen.
The Princess Dawn's loveliness was not diminished by the
rigors of her trial, and even the accumulated dirt of her
travels could not hide it. Her hair, matted now with twigs and
leaves, was of the darkest, purest black Dore had ever seen.
Her skin contrasted with it startlingly, so white and
unblemished was it. Though she was small and delicate, her
form was perfect. Dore wished that she would awaken so that
he might see what color were her eyes.
At last Glorian returned with the cold water. Dore did not
ask where the man had found the glass. Our brother held the
water to her lips, and she began to revive.
“She is very beautiful” said Dore.
“But oftentimes such superficial comeliness masks horrors
beneath” said Glorian. “I should have thought you to be the
last person to judge such a book by its cover”
The Princess’ eyelids began to flutter, and then she sat up
suddenly.
“Goodness” she whispered, “have I fainted? Oh, what a
girlish, weak thing to do”
“There, there” said Dore, “you've been through a lot. Just
rest, now. Put your head on my shoulder”

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The Princess looked around, trying to find Glorian. He was
standing a few feet away, looking expectantly at Dore.
“My lord” he said, trying to catch Dore's attention. “My
lord, if all be well with you now, I think that I will take my
leave. My wife expects me soon, and a true harridan she is if
I'm late. I thank you again, my lord, and trust that all will be
to your liking. If I may be of service again, sir, please don't
fail to do me the honor. My lady, my lord, I wish you good
day” Then Glorian bowed, turned, and walked off through the
forest. The Princess was looking into Dore's face with new
interest, so that it was only our brother who saw Glorian fade
from view after several steps.
“Dore, are you of noble birth” asked the Princess.
“Yes, truthfully, I am” said Dore, shaking his head with
displeasure. “But I desired to travel in disguise, and that poor
bungler had to spoil it”
“Oh, he seemed nice enough. And I'm glad that he did”
she said softly and moistly.
“Come” said Dore, “let us be off”
“Must we depart so soon”
“You are being hunted”
“Yes” said the Princess, “yes, of course”
Love is a strange thing. It strikes members of both sexes
and all ages. Love doesn't distinguish between rich and poor
or good and bad. I recall when I fell in love with Joilliena. It
happened after one of Our Mother's lectures on dirt. We were
both so bored that we ran back to the house, desperate for
diversion. It happened that the rec room was nearly empty,
and we played a few games of table tennis. Joilliena was

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impressed with my top spin, and I gave her a few helpful
hints. Afterward we went for a walk outside, unmindful of the
evening rain. We held hands, and she picked some flowers for
me. We met Dore and his lady, Dyweyne, who were also
enjoying the dusky coolness. Dore smiled at me, and I
suppose that I was embarrassed. Dyweyne kissed Joilliena's
cheek and warned her against vice. But the whiteness of our
flowers convinced our eldest sister that our new love was
pure. The four of us went down to the River and thought
about skipping stones.
If Dyweyne is upset by my introduction of the Princess
Dawn, she should recall that Dore never expected to return,
and felt that he might as well accept the bounties of fate. I do
not intend the Princess to be any actual rival for Dyweyne and
I truly hope my lovely sister doesn't take offense. But Dore
was in a lonely and somber state, and we have all had
experience with the magic of contiguity. And, incidentally, if
Joilliena happens to be out there listening, I'd like to take this
opportunity to thank her for those golden moments, and
promise her many more over the years to come.
Was it love that Dore felt, or merely a sexual infatuation?
Of course, he is not available for comment, and this is the
sort of matter that belongs to the realm of individual
assessment. I could enter into a great dissertation on
romance, virtue, and the egotism of love, but I won't. I will
merely go on without prejudicial sentiment and allow the
reader to close his eyes, recall the last few times that he has
felt as Dore does, and decide for himself.

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Toward evening the Princess Dawn began to complain of
hunger. Dore cursed himself for forgetting his companion's
limitations. “I have only some fruit and nuts left from
yesterday's meal, my lady” he said. “Here, let us stop and
share them. It will be time for the rain soon, and perhaps it
will be better to rest”
“My lord Dore” said the Princess softly, “do you suppose
that I might have all the fruit? I am famished and palsied with
hunger”
Dore was bewildered and disappointed, but he couldn't
deny the Princess’ wish. Human relationships are not as
fragile as swooning poets would have us believe. Indeed,
rather than the gentle wildflower, love is most like the sturdy,
tough vine. It grows and turns and twists, sometimes
strangling its support in its blind upward surge. People just
don't understand the human mind. Even after these
thousands of years of practice, we still haven't learned the
basic facts. The true place of humanity in the scheme of
things can be approximated by the appalling frequency with
which one hears the words “contrary to popular belief”
After the meal and the rest period, Dore gathered his kit
together in preparation for the evening march. The Princess,
however, begged him to halt for the night. “You know that
today when we met I was nearly exhausted” she said. “I
thank you for the relief of your food and this short repose.
But I fear that I am sorely in need of one good night's sleep”
Again Dore could not refuse her pleasure. He prepared a hard
bed for her beneath a large tree, covering her with his cloak.

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“Are you not going to share my resting place, my lord”
she said. “You have done so much for me today; surely you
are as fatigued as I”
“Ah, but then would I not be as foul as that Snolli von
Glech whom you avoid so desperately”
The Princess Dawn looked up sleepily from her leafy couch.
“What I withhold so vigorously from some, I may dispense
with joy to others” Dore did not answer, but sat thinking
beneath the black, cold sky.
In the morning Dore was awakened by the sound of the
Princess moving about. He said nothing, but watched for
several minutes as she opened his bundle and removed his
crown and jeweled scabbard. She seemed awestruck by their
beauty and opulence. After a time she replaced them and tied
up the cloth again. She returned to her bed and feigned
sleep. Shortly thereafter Dore stood and went deeper into the
woods to attend to his morning's business, and to permit the
Princess Dawn to arrange herself in privacy. When he
returned he found her still reclining upon the ground, but
watching him with mirthful eyes.
“Good morning, my lord protector. Will you not greet me
as expects a woman lost alone with her truly beloved” She
stretched out her arms and Dore, taken with her drowsy
charms, sat beside her. The Princess Dawn laughed to herself,
for well she understood the powers of love, those that steal
gradually upon a person until he is overwhelmed by desire.
From Aristophanes we hear the story of the creation of Men,
who originally were made with four arms and four legs, but
were divided in half for their sins. All love's goal is now to

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reunite those sundered parts, if but for a moment. Very
crude, but charming. Dore could read from the Princess’ sighs
that she was becoming anxious for such an atavistic
conjunction. In those lonesome woods he knew that he could
do no better, and, in love's sweet disorder, could see no
reason to begin opposing her designs.
“Ah, Dore, come to me” she whispered. “Nature herself
approves: here we will lie in a bed of wild thyme” The
Princess lay back expectantly while Dore removed his belt and
put Battlefriend carefully with his other treasures. He joined
the beautiful Princess and they began their mutual
explorations. The bout proceeded without incident until the
Princess kissed Dore's ear and said, “Soft, my lord, do not
haste. We shall have the day to ourselves” Accordingly, Dore
retarded the tempo of his assault, and the two entwined
devoted themselves to such intimate games as may be
improvised between the roots of a great tree.
Laliche storms into my room, a rather small thunderclap in
respect of her size. She tugs my arm, forbidding me from
continuing the passionate adventure. “I don't like her, and I
don't trust her” she says. I inquire of whom she disapproves,
and of course she means my lusty Princess. I tell her that she
is probably merely jealous, an emotion that has caused more
grief in this world than any other, in its various guises. What
else toppled those topless towers?
“It wasn't me” says my nonagic sister.
“Do you mind if I start this thing toward its conclusion”
asked Dore, for his elbows and knees were scraped raw.

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“Let me see” said the Princess, who herself was in a most
uncomfortable position with her spine upon a half- buried root.
She seemed to think for a few seconds. “Yes, my lord, take
me now” And the two, as one, united themselves in moist
completion. Almost immediately Dore heard the sound of
running feet, and looked up in dismay to see an armored
youth absconding with Dore's belongings.
“It's that wretch, Snolli von Glech” cried the Princess
Dawn.
“Caught with your pants down again, eh, my friend” said
Glorian from behind the great tree.
“How long have you been there” asked Dore angrily. “And
why didn't you do anything to stop that thief”
“Perhaps it would be more profitable to question your
putative Princess” said Glorian, still declining to come into
view. “I don't mean to hurry you, but if you would care to
recompose yourself, I believe that we can learn some
interesting things”
Dore did as he was bidden, staring impotently after the
young thief.
“Now” said Glorian, “tell my friend who you are”
The Princess looked at Glorian, and gasped. She cringed
against Dore in dismay. “You” she whispered, her eyes still
on Glorian. “Do you guide this man on his quest”
Dore was confused, for the man who had stepped from
behind the tree in no way resembled the Glorian he had
known, except in the tone and firmness of his voice. The new
Glorian was short and thickly built, with curly brown hair and
a dark complexion. He wore a heavy violet tunic and black

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breeches, and had a silver band about his brow set with a
large sapphire.
“Are you Glorian” asked Dore doubtfully.
“Yes. I have changed because the environment of our
relationship has changed. Your studies are near an end, and
soon you must take up your burden of responsibility. But first
I must make clear to you what has happened, for you have
not acted wisely and cannot afford to continue thus in the
future”
“And you are familiar to the Princess in your current
guise”
“Very much to her chagrin” said Glorian. “Her family
refuses my Knowledge”
“Not I” said the Princess in a quavering voice. “My brother
and my father force their will upon me”
“Tell Dore your name” said Glorian sternly. When she did
not reply, he answered for her.
“The Princess Dawn des Malalondes is a fiction. This young
woman is Narlinia von Glech, the daughter of the
impoverished Baron Glaub von Glech. Her brother often
teams with her to waylay unsuspecting swains such as
yourself. Your crown and your jeweled scabbard will stock
next month's sculleries, but your sword Battlefriend will be
put to other uses. Your reputation is wider than your modesty
admits, and your ensorcelled blade is desired by many. It
remains to be seen what results your ardor may have in the
wide world, but you have not by any means met the last of
the Von Glechs. I begin to think that perhaps this encounter
was ordained, and that my decision to leave you to your

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honor was more momentous than I dreamed. In any event,
you are without the protection of your sword, and are in no
manner prepared to gain it back”
Dore was ashamed. “It is only now that my judgment
begins to uncloud” he said. “What do you suggest I do”
“Bid this trollop of a princess farewell, and come along”
said Glorian.
“I'm sorry, Dore, really I am” she said, with genuine tears
in her eyes. “I want to see you again. Can you believe me? I
.. I think I love you” Dore said nothing, but walked away
and left her beneath the giant tree. He did not turn around
again, and followed with Glorian the forest stream as it led
back toward the River.
“You sure make Dore look like a fool” says Laliche, failing
to understand the allegorical device of moral education. I do
not intend this history to be merely a collection of simulated
exploits. There is in it the potential for a truly useful homiletic
tool.
Tere comes into the room, filling it with his officious
humor. He always appears to be occupied, but he seems
busier than he is. “Women” he says with a deprecatory laugh
and a snort. “Excuse me, Laliche, but it's true. You can't trust
women as far as you can throw ’em”
“Have you ever thrown one, Tere” asks my sister from
within the refuge of youth. Tere doesn't answer. He smiles at
me, only apparently amused by her remark.
“Laliche” he says pointedly, “it was you for whom I was
looking. I'd like to speak with you for a few minutes, if you

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don't mind. Perhaps it isn't a good idea to interrupt our
brother at his Gongorism”
“It doesn't make any difference” she says, and both Tere
and I wonder at her meaning. Tere takes her skinny arm and
the two of them leave my room without a word.

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Chapter four
The Song of the Sword
I do not here attempt to derogate my brother's reading
habits, but merely to indicate the disparity in our interests.
Had Dore been as educated in the drama as I, he could easily
have found solace. Such topics as love, betrayal, and revenge
have fascinated playwrights continuously, for these themes
lend themselves excellently to the generation of motion,
passion, and dead bodies. Molière, that surpassing nonEnglish
Thalian, says that if everyone were clothed in
integrity, and every heart were just, sincere, and kindly, the
other virtues would be practically useless, since their part is
to enable us to stand the prejudices of our fellows. Elsewhere
another person, George Chapman, in his All Fools of 1605,
tells us that “Love is Nature's second sun, causing a spring of
virtues where he shines” Thus we have on one hand the
recommendation that those noble qualities are necessary to
abide the pettiness of the world, and on the other hand a
prescription for the cultivation of those virtues: Love. I hope I
am not acting presumptuously to add that Love, meaning
here either the spiritual or the sensual sort, might best in
most practical circumstances be employed when it is an
amalgam of the two.
Although the lady was not, after all, the Princess Dawn des
Malalondes, Dore recognized in her a certain quality, as
though the crimes of her greedy father and brother had failed

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to win over her soul. Along the way after their meeting our
brother found himself giving much thought to her, and to
Glorian's veiled promise that Dore would have the opportunity
to meet her again. Dore began to hold to that assurance with
great hope, perhaps to the detriment of his journey's more
worthy goals.
This ability to consider one problem even when most
engrossed with another is a typical distortion of one of Our
Father's impressive traits. There was nothing Our Father was
if not resourceful; he had an answer for everything, and if
sometimes that answer was unrealistic, he was rarely at a
loss for another. He could juggle a plurality of weighty
matters with little effort. Now, of course Dore tries, and he
certainly considers a lot, but he somehow lacks the same
capacity to distinguish priorities. Our Father always knew the
relative importance of his problems, and treated them
accordingly.
When the great space- traveling capsule landed in the
waters of Life here on Home, rather than the salty ocean
toward which it had been aimed, Our Father was little
dismayed. Plans began forming before he ever soaked his foot
in the River. If he could manage to haul that capsule onto the
shore, it would make an ideal cabin and base of explorations.
Home was an uncharted world and, even if Our Father had
known where he was, he would have known nothing of the
dangers of his new environment. A secure shelter was needed
before nightfall.
I have already shown how the River itself aided Our
Parents by sweeping the capsule up on the muddy banks.

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Once it rested precariously on the land, Our Father began to
give thought to how it might be moved to a safer location. He
thought of inclined planes, screws, rollers, blocks and tackles,
pendulums, and other simple engines. So lost was he in
thought that he did not notice the eyes that stared at him
from the leafy verges of the forest. Soon the animals grew
bolder, and Our Mother's frantic scratching at the capsule's
window attracted his attention. Our Father was surrounded by
scores of animals, ranging in size from tiny shrews and dobs
to huge, slavering doglike beasts and venomous grass
dragons.
Our Father smiled slowly, careful not to make any sudden
or threatening motions. He looked at the animals, and they
looked at him. He pointed first at the capsule, then up the
small slope of the bank. Our Father was amazed when the
animals nodded, but said nothing when, one by one, they slid
down the declivity and began rocking and dragging the
capsule until it rested on the lip of the escarpment.
“I want to get it a little more inland, if you'd give me a
hand” said Our Father, and he laughed with the animals at
his faux pas. Together they wrestled it all the way across the
strip of land that separates our house from the River. They
stopped when Our Father judged it to be in a satisfactory
place; indeed, it was never moved again, and our house was
built up around it. Unfortunately, the construction was done
so that the foundation was completed and the upper stories
finished before Our Father discovered no doors or windows
had been provided for access to the capsule. It was a lucky
thing that by this time the books and Our Mother and Dore

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had been offloaded. We would have a fine museum piece in
that space capsule now if we could get to it, but there is an
unwritten prohibition against destroying any part of the
house.
Later that evening some of the animals returned with a
vast assortment of fruits and edible tubers, and placed them
before the capsule's hatch as a sort of offering; Our Father
wrote in the ship's log— his first and last entry" We seem to
have found our milieu”
The stream that Dore and Glorian were following grew
larger as it joined with others along its route toward the
River. Soon the two travelers were walking within the
confines of a small valley; beyond the rims of the depression
grew the towering trees of the forest, obliterating the traces
of the sun's light but for the part of the sky immediately
above the water. The hollow was carpeted with soft grass and
the way was easier, unobstructed by the boles of huge trees.
But at night the men climbed the ridge to sleep among the
michas and oaks, because the low, wet valley was home for a
great variety of predatory insects.
One morning Dore was awakened by the noise of many
persons shouting in the valley below. He thought for a
moment that he had dreamed the racket, but when it began
again, louder still, he knew that another strange encounter
was about to begin. He looked around for Glorian but, not
much to his surprise, he discovered that the puzzling man
was nowhere to be seen. Dore decided to peer quietly over
the lip of the low cliff.

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As soon as his face looked over the edge the shouting
grew louder. Dore could not help but think that the party of
men below knew of his presence and had come to speak with
him. He stood up and sighed; among these eccentric peoples
he never knew what to expect. He would not run from them,
and the only way to maintain his unarmed peace was to go
down to them.
“Oh, puissant Ugid” shouted one of the feather- robed men
when Dore appeared, “we pray that you aid us in our coming
battle. Know, oh mighty god of military robustness, that we
your servants have followed your laws and made our
sacrifices, every one. The Seduevii are your priests and your
disciples, no matter what the lying Nomitians have said.
Come to us in your guise of loving uncle. Don your lightning
helm and thunder sword and whatever else you need. Help us
to drive the thieves and rapists from our land”
Dore was quick to realize that these chanting men thought
that he was an avatar of some heathen god. It would be a
difficult role, but perhaps it would bring him closer to the
Princess Dawn. He wished that he could remember her real
name.
Love's melancholy is a crippling disorder. In extremities of
passion a heroine may do herself or others grievous bodily
harm, and the steadiest of military heroes may go sullen to
his tent. The symptoms of love's distress are too familiar and
unpleasant to be listed again, but the proper treatment, which
is simple and effective, is virtually unknown. The secret is diet
and exercise. Diet and exercise. A handy formula,

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recommended by the best classical authorities, easy to
remember and easy on your pocketbook, too.
If I may be permitted to light my way with Robert Burton's
candle, I will describe the methods given to us by Our Mother.
One time my younger brother Auel asked her why one of our
sisters recently rejected by the young man of her choice was
behaving so strangely. We all laughed with delight at his
innocence, but Our Mother, always quick to spot an opening
for a lesson, said that his question was not as stupid as it
sounded. From behind her veil of tears she began a lengthy
and somewhat pointless discourse on the rebuffed suitor and
the abandoned mistress. This developed into a practical
demonstration, and for weeks thereafter we improved our
skills upon a lifelike dummy, “treating” it for shock, water and
smoke inhalation, and unrequited affection.
Ovid instructs us that poverty has not the means to fatten
love. From this oversimplified maxim Our Mother developed
what she called her Sorrow Drill. Whenever we felt the poison
of heartache, we were to forswear our lovely clothes and put
on rough, unpleasant garments. We were to go barefoot at all
times. Most of all we were to fast, for saith St. Ambrose,
hunger is a friend of virginity and an enemy to lasciviousness.
Further, Ovid relates that Love yields to business. Diet and
exercise.
None of us were too excited by Our Mother's ideas, and
some of the classicists among us searched for equally
authoritarian refutations. One was found in Horace, where he
counsels the lovelorn to take refuge in a nearby servingmaid
or whatever. Soon, few of us paid any more attention to

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either side of the dispute and continued at our pleasure,
leading to the usual number of broken hearts and blackened
eyes. How often must the trite old romantic dramas be
played? Is it that we enjoy the distressing scenes and
encourage the midnight aches? It is not for me to supply an
arbitrary answer.
It is only indirectly that we have learned of love for other
than a desirable sexual object. Our Mother never told us of
love of beauty, love of one's home, or love of nature; these
things we have inferred from her wide though damp- eyed
recitations of Our Father's excellences. Such papers as Sabt's
perceptive “Man of the Hour: Our Father's Eternal Integrity”
and Talavesía's “The Failure of Mediocrity” have expanded our
understanding of the finer things in life.
Our Father lived simply, holding few things dear beyond
his home and family. But these beloved ideas he defended
with all the occult weapons at his command. Our Mother could
never quite grasp the abstract forces that drove her husband
to provide and protect. Only when she slept did her misty
conscious mind cease to interfere. When she was unconscious
her tears were clearer, her dreams gentler, her sentiments
more humane. It is a great pity that when awake she was
never able to share them with us, for she became unable to
express or remember them.
It was not long before other men tried to take for
themselves some of the bounties of Home. One day, while
making a cool potato salad in the reconverted space capsule,
Our Mother heard strange voices. She ran crying outside,
where Our Father and his four- footed forest friends were hard

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at work building our house. She told him wonderingly of the
voices from the ether. He knew at once what they meant; he
brushed past her and hurried to the capsule. Sure enough,
Our Mother had heard radio transmissions through the
capsule's receiver.
“Hello, uncharted world. This is Sagittarius. One Five Four
Three Three Seven, do you read me? Over” said a small,
distant voice.
Our Father leaned over the panel and spoke into the radio.
“This is the Master of Home. What do you want? Over”
“Hello, Home. We are lost and are low on supplies. We
request permission to land. Over”
“Roger, Sagittarius” said Our Father confidently, “you may
manent thralldom. Do you wish to discuss terms? Over”
“Negative, Home. Feudal circumstances entirely
unacceptable. Your world is certainly large enough for all of
us. We have your transmission monitored and your position
plotted. We shall land far enough away so you needn't worry.
Over”
“Roger, Sagittarius” said Our Father confidently, “you may
try. Will speak with you later. Over and out” It did not take
long. After Our Father put the matter out of his head and
returned to his construction work, the intruders tried to put
their plan into action. They programed their landing module
for a soft touchdown exactly halfway around the planet from
Our Parents’ settlement. But at an altitude of 60,000 feet the
module, floating gently down on several large parachutes,
struck something “solid” in the atmosphere. In some magic
way Our Father had caused a barrier to exist around our

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entire world. Perhaps the River aided him. Our Mother didn't
know; she was making potato salad at the time. But so on
there was another frantic message.
“Hello, Home Master. Do you copy? Come in. Home” Our
Father listened patiently. “Hello, Home. We're stuck up here.
Let us down! You can't let us die up here. Any terms you like,
but get us down! Over”
Our Father smiled grimly to himself, and assured the
immigrants that they would land safely. They came down not
far from our clearing and, after swearing fealty and eternal
loyalty. Our Father allowed them to begin building their new
home. These folk became the Second family. More and more
spacecraft attempted to violate Our Father's territorial
franchise, and each time they were compelled to bow to Our
Father's demands. Through Our Father's farsightedness, we
enjoy eminence over all others on Home, from the Lawrence
P. Seconds (who have become close friends, coming over
often for canasta and coffee cake, and who maintain a certain
distinction among the other tenants) down to the poorest of
the Sixties and Seventies.
Of course, once the families were safely established in they
hierarchic lives, they felt that nothing could stand in the way
of their forceful usurpation of power. Several times an armed
revolt was put down by Our Father and his animal allies.
Since Our Father's disappearance we have feared to mention
the possibility of a new rebellion, for Our wise Father often
remarked to Our Mother that thoughts of hostility attract an
enemy. We have been trained to think only happy thoughts.

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Of what did Dore think as he climbed carefully down the
steep bank to the group of men below? We cannot say with
any assurance. When he reached the floor of the valley he
thought it best to let the others initiate the meeting. He stood
quietly, observing the two leaders disdainfully as befitted the
human aspect of a mighty god. One of the men was tall and
gaunt, with a large head shaved bald. He wore a long robe of
orange feathers, and Dore was curious about their origin;
there are no orange birds on Home with which we are
familiar. The other man was shorter and quite heavy. He
looked very unhappy, and his plump face and neck were
dripping with sweat. He wore a feathered robe also, but his
was a dazzling collection of rainbow colors. His shoulderlength
black hair was crowned with a heavy golden helmet.
The bald man stepped forward, offering Dore his hand. Dore
grasped it, and the bald man smiled.
“My name is Palaschine” he said. “I am the leader and
chief priest of your cult. This is the king of the Seduevii, King
Lebrodias” The king smiled, and Dore shook hands with him,
to the dismay of Palaschine. “The king is the head of our
secular arm” said the priest, emphasizing the word secular
for Dore's benefit, and, no doubt, also for Lebrodias.
“And I” said Dore pleasantly.
“You, of course, are the great god Ugid” said Palaschine.
“No doubt your memory is cloudy after your journey from
Heaven”
“Possibly” said Dore. “Do you know of a family called Von
Glech”

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The priest looked at the king, who shook his head slowly.
“That's all right” said Dore, “I was just checking. I don't have
a great deal of time, so why don't you outline the situation for
me”
King Lebrodias smiled broadly. “Certainly, sir, if you will
follow me. Our encampment is not far away, and we have
tables and maps and miniature troop markers just waiting for
you. Come, and I will briefly sketch in the history of our
troubles”
Well, of course, the background was in no way unusual.
The Seduevii were simple agricultural people who were often
raided by the hostile, nomadic Nomitians. Dore, or Ugid, was
a mythical deity who appeared only once every five hundred
years. A prophecy foretold his rebirth and settling for once
and all the territorial dispute through force of arms. As far as
Dore could fathom, both the Seduevii and the Nomitians were
tribes indigenous to Home.
Even here in the deepest cellar, where I have taken to
writing, even down in the slimy, dark catacombs beneath our
house I am found by the wrathful and contentious interest of
Ateichál. She would not deign to come down here herself, of
course, but instead sends one of her underlings, young Blin,
with a note.
“That thought will mark you, Seyt” says the note. “A belief
in human inhabitants previous to Our Parents is dangerous,
odious, and a total and indefensible profanity. You have gone
too far. Very truly yours, your sister, Ateichál”

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I tip Blin generously and he leaves, stopping by the stairs
and saying, “I am not an underling. I'm a henchman”
Ambition and decadence are running unfettered these days.
Dore could not understand how so many people could have
banded together and degenerated to tribal barbarities in the
few years since Our Parents’ arrival on Home. (Is that
better)
In the camp of the Seduevii, our brother was stopped
before the pavilion of the king by a minor functionary. He was
told to raise his right hand and take an oath that he would
serve the just cause of the Seduevii to the best of his ability,
so help him Ugid. The functionary was taken aside by
Palaschine and reprimanded, but Dore and the priest had a
good laugh over the humorous affair inside the tent. A runner
broke in to announce that the battle had been scheduled for
noon, less than two hours hence. Dore looked thoughtful. A
great deal of work had to be done before then.
Dore was enthusiastic about his assignments, taking
pleasure in the preparatory stages and following through with
perseverance. But often he spent a disproportionate amount
of energy on the planning; he tended to draw up lists of
materials and alternate schemes, so that the task might have
been completed in much less time by someone else, if that
person had merely begun immediately upon the business in
the simplest way. Of course when Dore completed something
it was done prettily, with extra scuff- guards of spare metal, or
thoughtful plastic bumpers, or the drainage system designed
in a meaningful pattern. In our frequent, tedious board games
Dore was the inevitable victor, because he played to a totally

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alien strategy; and when he won, he did so grandly. He never
just wiped out his opponents, he defeated them each in some
aesthetic and significant way.
It may be indicative of our shared outlook to mention that
Dore was the only one of us who never attended Our Father's
school. Our attendance was kept to a minimum, because Our
Mother disapproved of our associating with the common
children; but every one of us managed to spend a goodly
amount of our formative years hiding in the cloakroom. Only
Dore, the eldest and, for a time, the only child, was not able
to escape Our Mother's weeping and watchful eyes. The
school had been founded as a public service by Our Father, in
an offhand attempt to prepare the new immigrants for their
life on Home. Courses were taught in flora and fauna of
Home, the proper duties to the River and Our Parents,
hygiene, practical arts and crafts, remedial reading, history of
Earth, local government, and French I and II. Our Father
himself taught the first semester, and it is a matter of pride
among his former students. Following Our Father's hejira, the
school was run by the Seconds’ lovely twin daughters, Judith
and Diane.
The battle presented Dore with the sort of intellectual and
artistic puzzle he enjoyed the most. But he was concerned
that the schedule would not give him time to prepare as he
would like.
Another messenger came into the tent. “Heavenly leader,
the armorer must know what periaptic device you desire
emblazoned on your shield” he said.

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Dore thought for a moment, wishing that he had the time
to make some preliminary sketches. “I'd like the River in the
foreground” he said at last, “and two towers in the middle
distance, with a range of mountains visible between them,
and a sun rising between two ice- crowned peaks”
“I'll try” said the messenger doubtfully, “but I think they
were planning on something simple, like a seven or eightpointed
star” He saluted in the manly way of the Seduevii,
faced about smartly, and left. Dore sighed.
King Lebrodias came in, sitting at the table with Dore.
“This thing is ridiculous” he said, taking off his golden
helmet. “It's too soft to even deflect a sword cut. I think
Palaschine just makes me wear it to make me look silly. How
are the plans”
“Still incomplete, I'm afraid” said Dore. “I wish we had a
better estimate of their strength. I wish we had a better count
of our troops, for that matter. Look at this report from
Captain Tradius: We looked upon the camp of the Nomitians,
and, lo, the moons shone upon their burnished breastplates
to blind our eyes as the noontime god of fire. And when the
wounded Dawn had bled and fallen lifeless, corpse- white, into
the sky, the enemy stood marshaled as the leaves upon the
trees. '”
“Perhaps we could capture their baggage train” said the
king hopefully.
“I think not”
“Attack their flank? That's always popular”

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“Where is it” asked Dore. There was no answer. “I think
we'll just find the narrowest part of the valley and block it
with our ranks” said Dore without enthusiasm.
“Excellent” cried King Lebrodias, pleased that the
responsibility was at last removed from his shoulders. “Only
you, mighty God of Fury, could lead us to victory” Dore
chewed his lip and said nothing.
There is no retreat. I suppose I may as well go back to my
room, for I am found out. Laliche skips down the stairs,
evidently happy to see me. I, of course, am always glad to
see one of my cherished brothers or sisters. She brings me
the morning paper, which I have neglected in favor of an
early start. I open it to Mylvelane's column and I see that,
while she is still enthusiastic, my work merits only about a
single column- inch. It is hinted that Mylvelane has received
threatening notes, and I suppose I can guess who sent them.
“Look at the headlines, Seyt” says Laliche eagerly. That
goes to show how my interest in things has changed. I used
to read the Times- Register from cover to cover, every article:
women's and society, recipes, pets, comics. Now I see if I'm
mentioned by Mylvelane, and then I read the sports, and, if I
have the time, I read the news.
The headlines say, tere bolts benevs; Denies Rift with
Ateichál; To Form Third Party Says Spokesman. I guess that's
news, but for all my careless interest I don't really believe in
politics. My critical opposition appears to be divided, but I
don't have the skill to play one against the other. And we will
have to wait to see if the division is anything more than an
unprincipled bid for power. Perhaps it is a good thing, as it

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will split the conservative vote. I used to be an active
Benevolent myself, but my tepid politics are being dragged
further and further left.
Dore was educated almost entirely by Our Father, who
kindly stayed around long enough to set firmly Dore's
personality in the ways of courtesy. After Our Father
departed, Our Mother took Dore aside and tried to continue
his education along her own unsettling lines. Fortunately,
even at his tender age Dore knew enough to stare blankly
while she sniveled and nod his head often, but ignore the
fallacies that tumbled from her mouth as readily as the tears
from her eyes.
A tale, uncollected before now in the annals of our brother,
assumes that Our Father left to Dore a large body of secret
wisdom, hidden in some form within the scores of exotic
chairs on the lawn. The originator of this baseless rumor asks
what other explanation there may be for the chairs; that is a
very good question. It is true that many of them have parts
that easily could have been places of concealment, but to
some of us this is hardly conclusive evidence. To others it is
all that is necessary. There are those of us who are needlessly
foolish.
But the fact remains that Dore alone received special
knowledge, and we can neither prove nor deny that this
learning is what called him to the ghosty council of Our
Parents. We search for clues in what we know of his youth:
He worked hard, he played hard. He delighted in making
presents for his family; he would take a high wooden stool
deep within his sheltering forest and put together leather

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wallets. Each of us received one on his birthday; then Dore
began to make belts for us. We accepted the gifts gratefully,
searching them for bits of arcane lore. But such knowledge is
not for us, or else we have failed to read the patterns of the
leather's hand tooling.
It is sad to think of Dore, alone and the product of such
random influences, putting his life on the line for us. Certainly
Our Father trained him well and hard, and Our Mother labored
for years thereafter, sometimes at cross- purposes to her
husband's beginning, but ultimately to Dore's moral benefit.
But at last there was Dore, his head filled with teeming
strangeness, far from his house and beset by strangers. With
enough allegoric responsibility to fill ten books, he is given
more by the Seduevii, thoughtless barbarians who want him
to fight their battles. And it is we who have cast him out. Tere
and Ateichál don't like to face that fact, but it is something
that we must live with.
Blin is back with another note. Laliche takes it from him,
as I am much too emotional to deal with it. “If you weren't
official historian” it says, “what you have said about Our
Mother would lose you your name. You are going to be
extremely vulnerable when your period of grace expires,
Seyt. To tell the truth, I'm looking forward to it. Regards to
Laliche. Your sister, Ateichál”
I will not be intimidated. I owe it to future generations to
give them a rousing good tale as well as unadorned and
unpalatable facts. It is a wonder that books get written at all,
with such a multitude of petty critics ready with

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discouragement. Laliche applauds my fortitude, and I
continue.
Dore couldn't think of anything else worthwhile to do, so
he went outside and reviewed his troops. They stood in ranks
uncomfortably, obviously poorly disciplined. They were
farmers and townsmen, not soldiers, and they were armed
with whatever each individual thought might be a weapon:
pruning hooks, pitchforks, long knives. There were few
swords and little armor. Dore was discouraged, for he knew
that the Nomitians were accustomed to battle.
“I'll need a weapon for myself” he told an orderly. In a
few minutes the man brought Dore an old and battered
sword.
“Gulla is mighty angry” said the orderly, “but I promised
him that you'd see that he wasn't hurt during the battle”
“Thanks” said Dore, beginning to realize his danger. The
more he saw of the men the more he knew that they were in
no way fit for making war. He suggested a parlay with the
Nomitians, but King Lebrodias was shocked. Such a meeting
would cast a shadow on his masculinity. Dore felt trapped.
Our brother stood before his army. “I'm going to ask for
volunteers” he said. “I want a corps of strong men, men who
will not run from danger. I will fight for you at the front, but I
am only one blade. Who will guard my shield arm” He waited
for the flash of dozens of swords in answer to his challenge,
but only three men spoke up: a tall, brawny man named
Corag, himself a Nomitian outlawed for his wanton killing; a
small, dark man called Shendai the Deft, who wielded a single
gold- handled dagger; and a youth named Porcellus Tarvin.

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“All right” said Dore, “these three and myself will be your
vanguard. Remember what you fight for, remember your
homes and wives. If we fall, do not lose heart, but fight on for
our sakes. I bless you all and welcome you who die valiantly
to call on me in Heaven. Valete”
The soldiers grumbled and dispersed. King Lebrodias took
Dore aside and whispered in his ear. “My good Ugid, surely
you're not going to take an active part in this nonsense? What
did you mean, ‘fight at the front? A man could be killed, and
you're wearing a man's body, you know” Dore made no
reply, but stared around him at the quiet, anxious men in the
camp. “If you do intend to be up there” said the king
nervously, “I hope you realize that my place is here. We can't
afford to lose both of us” Dore nodded, and walked away.
He stopped a lieutenant and asked what time it was.
“Shortly after eleven, I suspect” said the man. Dore thanked
him, and told him to arrange for the mustering of the men at
a narrow part of the valley a half mile from the camp. Dore
had studied the maps and decided on this part of the valley
for several strategic reasons. He knew he could position the
men in one of two ways: either strung out across the valley
so that a good number of them would be fighting in the
stream itself, a difficult position to defend; or split
detachments on the two banks. He chose the former, because
this particular part of the stream was pinched and shallow,
and flowed into a deep pool. Dore decided to deploy his men
unevenly, with concentrations of them on the banks where
the fighting would be fiercest, and fewer guarding the
stream's passage. If the Nomitians chose to try the center,

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the men would give way and drive the attackers into the deep
water.
“You're not a very good militarist, Seyt” says Laliche. I
wave at her impatiently and continue to set up the pieces.
The Seduevii defenses were dejected as they stood waiting
for the battle. The men stationed in the water seemed even
glummer, knowing that a slip on the smooth stones of the
bottom meant death. Everyone stared ahead and waited for
the signal of the sunlight flashing on the polished weapons of
the enemy. Dore walked among the ranks and told them to
hold their shields steady, those that had them, and to use
them as an impenetrable wall. If any man broke contact, the
whole line of men was doomed. Cooperation was necessary,
and Dore appealed to the courage of the Seduevii, to their
pride and honor. At last Dore knew he had done all that he
could, and took his place with his three comrades in the
center of the front rank.
After a time the enemy was seen, marching along the
right- hand bank. Soon their drums and songs could be heard.
The Seduevii moved restlessly, and Dore felt his throat go
dry. A strange electric tingle found a home in his lower
abdomen. He was aware of a constant hum of prayers
directed toward his ears.
The Nomitians halted. A man, evidently a leader, walked
forward and shouted: “Give us access to your women, grain
eaters, and we will kill you tomorrow” The Nomitians laughed
and yelled their own insults when they heard their general's
challenge. The Seduevii did nothing. Dore made a quick
calculation and he was heartened to see that the Nomitians

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appeared to have about half the force of the Seduevii,
although much better equipment.
The Nomitian leader directed his troops, and they arranged
themselves to attack the right bank and the right half of the
line in the water. Dore suffered through a moment of
indecision when he saw the plan. Should he recall the left part
of his line? The Nomitians were holding a part of their men in
reserve and concentrating on a single area. Dore's left would
not be used at all, but if they were removed the Nomitians
would be free to pass. And, suddenly, Dore realized that he
had not provided any reserves.
Jelt interrupts me to say that I'm doing good stuff. He
really likes the battle so far, he says, and he sits on the
basement steps to await developments. Laliche joins him, and
they hold hands and stare at me. I feel unaccountably
nervous.
“Steady now, men” shouted Dore. “The wall of shields, the
forest of blades”
“For mighty Ugid” rose the cry from several throats, but
most of the Seduevii were less eager. Dore knew that scores
of men were destined to die in the battle, and he hardened
his poetic soul to stand the slaughter. He never gave thought
that he, himself, might be one of the many to foul the stream
with his life's blood; and, at the appointed time, the water
began to turn red at his feet. Around him the Nomitians were
taking a horrible toll of his comrades. He looked ahead and
saw a huge, shaggy barbarian coming toward him with a twohanded
ax covered with blood. Dore's tingle grew to a
palpitation, but he planted his feet firmly and met the man's

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charge with an upward thrust of his sword. The villain fell to
his knees, his chest slit to cool his steaming blood. Dore
realized that the man had been expecting an overhand cut.
Perhaps these savages knew nothing of the finer points of
swordplay (" Neither did Dore” say Jelt and Laliche in unison.
They have been joined by Auel, Shesarine, and Niln; Dore
felt a strange, grim smile play upon his features, and a red
mist seemed to float before his eyes. Dore's sword stuck in
the man's vitals, and only a desperate parry by Corag, the
erstwhile Nomitian, saved our brother from a steely death.
Sadly, in rescuing Dore the great bearded Corag was struck
from two sides at once and collapsed at his chieftain's feet,
where the gurgling scarlet water rushed his soul to join the
River.
“Mighty Ugid! Mighty Ugid” sang many voices behind
Dore. The Nomitian leader, fighting several yards to Dore's
right, grinned and yelled to his men: “We are saved, my
Nomitian laddies! They have Ugid among them! He has come,
even as our priests foretold! Forward, the day is won” Dore
did not understand.
“We are lost, mighty Ugid” said Tarvin, the boy. He
pointed to the left bank of the stream. A second force of
Nomitians stood watching above the valley on the high ridge.
If they continued downstream the battle would be in vain,
and if they joined the attack the battle would soon be over.
Dore saw with horrified clarity why the barbarian forces
seemed so small at first. Then Tarvin pointed past Dore's
shoulder, to the right bank. On the near margin a third party
of Nomitians stood ready. “Oh, mighty Ugid” muttered Dore.

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While our brother stood lost in contemplation, Porcellus Tarvin
was cut down by a Nomitian pike.
“Do not slay that one” cried the Nomitian general,
pointing to Dore. “As long as he breathes, the field is ours”
“What does he mean, murderer of children” asked Dore of
the brute who had killed Tarvin.
“Are you not Ugid, god of failure? Have you not come as
appointed to lead the pagan Seduevii to defeat? Once in five
hundred years you come to settle the world's disputes, and
now you end for once and all the matter of our strife. We
thank you, Ugid, whose power is irresistible and false” Dore
was humiliated and filled with anger, and his arm rose and fell
before he thought to stay it. The Nomitian warrior sank in the
water, covering the slender body of the youth he had slain.
A low, sibilant voice spoke in Dore's ear. “Mighty Ugid, aid
them now, for I must take my leave” Dore turned, and
Shendai the Deft smiled and bowed. As Dore watched, the
short, mysterious man cut a path through the Nomitian
hordes, neatly severing carotid arteries and sword hands with
his razor- sharp knife. The knots of fighting men blocked our
brother's view, and he could not see if Shendai escaped.
Dore did not know what to do. The remaining Seduevii had
grouped themselves around him, chanting his name
mournfully. Those who had not fled continued to fight,
wanting to win a place in their vapid paradise.
“Remember how we promised our women” said one man
boldly, “how we laughed at our dinner tables and vowed to
whip these mongrel savages. Now is the time to make good
that oath. Even while we die our daughters and mothers are

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suffering. Now, only now those black pigs are doing our
lambs. And unless we make some sort of fight, who is to say
that they are not doing better for our wives”
Others voiced their proud thoughts, and were unmercifully
slain. “Now” said Dore, trying to make their final minutes
seem meaningful, “while your weary arms fall to leave you
without defense, as your sturdy hearts prepare to shelter cold
steel and quit forever their vibrant task, listen to me. Death is
for you a kind of glory, though your eyes burn and your heads
buzz too much for credulity. I want to thank you, and I want
you to know it's been a privilege being here with you today”
Soon the last of the Seduevii had been dispatched, and Dore
stood alone on the right bank. The Nomitians waved to him as
they passed on their way to their spoils.
Dore sat down on a large rock by the side of the water. He
looked at the sword in his hand, covered with gore. He spat in
disgust and threw the weapon into the stream. Then he rose
and turned his back on the mounds of corpses, and headed
back upstream. He saw two legs hanging down from the ridge
some yards ahead of him, and he wondered if it were a
survivor of the Seduevii or a Nomitian deserter. It was
neither. It was Glorian.
“An admirable job, Dore. Fine, fine. You acted with honor”
Dore just stared angrily.
“Another test? Did you learn something more about me”
he asked at last.
“Why, yes, my friend. You are a bundle of wonders”
“How are you going to thank Porcellus Tarvin for his help”
asked Dore bitterly.

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“Don't overreact, Dore. Life and death. Good and bad.
Come on, we have to get going. The rain is starting”
There are about fifteen people sitting on the stairs, looking
like fans at a ball game. There has not been a sound for
several minutes. They realize I have ended the battle, and
now they break into applause. I feel triumphant. I have
turned a real success, and the Benevolent Party will just have
to do without me.
“That was really neat, Seyt” says Jelt, and I smile and
thank him. I am tired, and Dore has much thinking to do. He
is sick of his journey already, and wondering about the true
meaning of his self- investment. What sanctified reasons could
Our Mother have had for asking his death? Why did we listen
to her then, when we spent so much effort to overlook her
inventions before? How could we have accepted Tere's plan so
quickly? Dore will leave that hateful little brook and cleanse
his thoughts among his beloved trees. He and I will go
upstairs to rest and discuss these questions.

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PART TWO
His Mind, Ever Quick to Perceive
* * *
Chapter five
In the Hall of the Mountain Thing
He was only a filthy peasant. His rags were crusted with
the corruption of years of use, and his hair matted with the
foulness of his existence. He lived to be avoided, to be struck
down into the mud, to be cursed and vilified. He labored,
fevered and flecked with pain, in his tiny field of violet
bushes.
His name was Vasmahli Odrucajnek. Through the grace
and favor of the Baron Riy he was allowed to pass fifty years
of life in perpetual toil. The stony ground allowed him a
meager portion of its fruits, and the worthy Baron permitted
him to keep a quarter of these. Without resentment, without
love, without hope, the skeleton of Odrucajnek pricked the
soil.
He had a wife and six children. He despised each of them
with the only passion that he knew. The noxious dark- green
sky was too low, the arrogant land too hard for him to love;
the spiteful members of his family were too demanding for
him to do anything other than hate. Three of his children had

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taken their own wives and husbands, silently snapping the
worn, uncherished family ties. The others could starve in their
lazy apathy if they so desired.
His back would not bend and his arms shook as he filled
the baskets with the bright blue beans. His wife would soak
them for days to make the bitter tea that sustained them.
Most of the beans, however, would be traded for other foods;
the tough brown roots that were gnawed like bones; the hard,
pealike vegetables that were boiled; and dark, gritty flour to
make bread.
Odrucajnek thought of his family. His baby would be on
the floor, crying. The other two brats were probably sitting in
a corner, their dull faces holding back their tears of frustration
and hunger. And his wife would be entertaining a neighbor,
wealthier and still appreciative of her clumsy favors. There
was nothing, nothing at all to return to, but Odrucajnek was
too tired to die.
At sunset, with the wind riding down on him from the
distant northern mountains, he walked back to his hovel with
his load of beans. The last pink and gray flickers of the feeble
sun had barely vanished when a rain began to fall. It rained
methodically, the wind dying completely rather than disturb
the strictly vertical drop of the water. The rain was cold, and
he was thoroughly drenched by the time he reached his hut.
No one acknowledged his return, and he ate his poor meal in
solitude by the smoking fire.
The task of eating proved too much for his weary body.
Odrucajnek threw the wooden plate to the ground and limped
to the low bed. The mattress was a torn bag stuffed with

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straw and crawling with a variety of parasitic vermin. He lay
down, not bothering to remove his damp rags, and he began
to cough. The fit kept him in agony for a while, as it did every
night, but soon he propped up his head and spat. He sighed
deeply and fell back down, and was soon asleep.
The nights usually passed quickly, dreamlessly. This night,
however, Odrucajnek dreamed uneasily of vague landscapes,
and of falling and loud noises. With a start he opened his
eyes. The dim light from the fire's expiring flame showed him
in shadowed outlines the room he knew and loathed so well.
His family was gathered together in the darkness about ten
feet from the bed. Soresklya, his wife, crouched in the dirt,
her hands covering her mouth as she whimpered in terror.
The baby was screaming but neglected. The two older
children had gathered stones and were beginning to throw
them.
As the clinging webs of sleep blew from his mind he
learned why. He was growing. He was twenty, twenty- five,
thirty feet tall! With one huge fist he smashed the cabin's wall
into splinters. His wondering was broken by a stone hitting his
chest. He squinted down into the half- light at his feet. He
lashed out, and his already forgotten family was crushed
lifeless against the ground, their limbs twisted and their
bones powdered. He blasted the remnants of his miserable
home with his fingers, grinding all that remained of his past
into the derisive earth.
He was fifty feet tall, he was a hundred feet tall! With a
scuff of his toe he removed the bluebean fields. He popped
the homes of the neighboring serfs apart like so much wet

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cardboard. In the cloudy blackness he strode toward the
mountains. He recognized the fortified palace of his Baron. He
got down on his knees and learned that his body didn't pain
him any longer. He laughed and laughed and with one grimy
thumb ruined Lodejpo Riy's hopes for the ermine and crown
of King.
He was a quarter, a half mile high! He thundered the
ground as he waded among the hills. He was two, five, eight
miles high! The mountains disappeared beneath the waves of
gray- green thunderheads. Lightnings hissed out at him,
rolling booms of sound followed and he laughed.
He grew. His ponderous weight collapsed the straining
layers of rock on which he walked. Once he fell, laughing and
shouting, screaming through the wind to the ground out of
sight miles below his eyes. Lying there with one arm in the
sea, he roared even louder. He grabbed up handfuls of rock
and forest and city and flung them about. After a while he
quieted, and at last resumed his interrupted night's sleep.
The sun woke him. His eyes opened and were startled by
the huge ball of flame hanging in space, seemingly within
arm's reach. He himself floated about, swimming in the void.
His notion of the universe, his flat world surrounded by tiny
and useless stars, was forgotten with ease lent of madness.
He did not doubt that the yellow- green ball turning before his
face was his own former home. He flicked the small, hurtling
moons away and held his planet in the palm of one dirty
hand. A forefinger probed, vainly seeking the fields, the huts,
the scenes of his lifelong torment. With a snarl that was more

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than half sob he clapped the injured world to dust. He
continued growing.
He was unaware of time, and space was beginning to
mean as little. The great, heaving sun was as big as a basket
when he reached for it. He pulled it apart, separating it into
tiny pieces as he would a used cooking fire. The fusing gases
failed to harm his scabrous hands. He threw the parts of the
star away and killed it.
He turned his attention to the farther stars, unwinking,
staring in fright, like pinpoints of light slipping through a satin
cape of perfect blackness. He reached, but they were yet too
distant. He raged and screamed and stretched his naked
arms, and in a while he was among them. The wheeling stars,
once so proud in their random formations, sailing like some
mighty fleet on boundless seas, trembled as he came among
them. They were fireflies; they were gnats and mosquitoes,
and he swatted them from his neck and wrists, brushing them
away and slapping them dead.
His musty beard floated light- years from his cankered
nose. Dusty callused feet trailed behind him at an
unimaginable distance. He smiled when he saw the double
spiral of a galaxy. His lined and leathery cheeks puffed out,
and he blew, wanting to make the pinwheel spin. Instead, the
millions of burning suns whished away, soundlessly, like
smoke. He was sorry he had ruined the pin- wheel and he put
out his hands and grabbed the galaxy, squeezing the worlds
and suns together like a lump of clay. Hundreds of exploding
stars spilled from his hands: sand running through the fingers
of a playful child.

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The slowly turning galaxies were all about him now. They
moved proudly, slowly, hanging in the dark and huddling into
themselves against the cold of space. He came among them.
He laughed at them, but they paid no heed. He questioned
them, he threatened them. He plucked them from their places
and dashed them together, or put them on himself,
decorating his hair and beard.
He came to the wall. It was huge, extending up and down
and away in all directions further than he could see. He stared
at it quietly for a short time, feeling again his relative
smallness. The wall was made of dark- stained planks of
wood, laid in rows with gray, flathead nails; he hit the boards
with his fists until his hands were scraped and bloody. He
cried. He had stopped growing.
A monster of night descended, eclipsing great swaths of
stars and space as it drew nearer. The gigantic black arm
reached down and scooped him up. A gleaming copper band
was on its wrist, brighter than all the swirling, faltering stars.
Odrucajnek kicked at the ebony pillar fingers and he tore at
the glistening black palm.
Another immense arm appeared, as terribly white as the
other was perfect black. The white fingers bore heavy silver
rings; they probed at Odrucajnek's cringing form. The two
hands held him trapped, and they closed about him so that he
was left in absolute darkness.
He was lifted out of space and deposited on a sheet,
blindingly white and clean, which seemed to extend beyond
the limits of his vision. Once more, sobbing and cursing, he
fell asleep.

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When he awoke it was as if he had been reborn. He could
remember neither his name nor his pathetic former life. He
could not recall the world upon which he passed so many
fruitless years or his starlit cosmic adventure. He made no
attempt to remember these things.
At the foot of the bed had been placed a suit of clothes. He
put on the deep- blue silk shirt and kneebreeches, and they
touched his new body with all the gentleness of womankind.
On his feet he wound the clean linen cross- gartered
stockings, and laced the sandals to his knees. Finally, he
slipped on a sleeveless robe of white and gold.
A mirror was set into one of the walls of the chamber, and
he studied his unfamiliar reflection closely. His neatly cut
black hair, handsome features, and smartly trimmed beard
gave him an image of dignified authority. His clothing and his
young, powerful body magnified the impression of quiet
strength. He gave a brief nod of satisfaction and went out in
search of breakfast.
Or so he said. To tell the truth, the story seems a little
unlikely. I wouldn't be inclined to believe it without proof.
He stood at the mouth of the cave, yawning into the
morning mists. From halfway up his hill he could look out over
the green ocean of the forest. The sun had climbed over all
but the tallest trees, and burned a pale disc behind the
clouds.
The goats stirred uncomfortably in the damp air, anxious
to be led out to the sweet grass of the hillside. A few came to
stand beside him, nudging him familiarly; these were the first
of the herd to shake off the night's drowsiness. They were

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also the first to hear Dore, as he crashed through the
underbrush at the very foot of the hill.
Dore's face was ripped by the low branches, and his arms
stung from forcing a path through the climbing briars. The
forest had grown wilder as it grew denser, until now it bore
little resemblance to the brighter woods that he had known
nearer our house. He lost his sense of responsibility to the
younger trees and delicate growths of the forest floor. “Well,
enough of this” he said in a surge of frustration, kicking a
clear way through a stand of sapling losperns.
It's certainly easy to sympathize. After traveling as long as
he had, and going through what he had experienced, I surely
wouldn't be too concerned about the bad karma from
trampling a few lousy little plants. It has always seemed to us
that Dore could hear the minute cries of even the smallest
damaged branches and wounded stems; but after a while
your empathic powers must get overloaded. No one of us
would have met such exquisite tortures as our sacred brother.
“Our sacred brother” I hear you ask. Yes, let me speak to
that for a moment. It was about this time, by my own madeup
chronology, that our sister Ateichál began a series of
sermons on our obligation to Dore, and the impossibility of
ever fulfilling it. At first they were only the postscript to the
monthly devotional services; we had always made our
obeisance to the River on the Eve of No Moons, and ritually
included a prayer for the well- being of Our Father. Lately, of
course, we also prayed for and to the spirit of Our Mother.
But it was Ateichál's bright idea to include a few short words
for Dore's sake. Now we have the prospect of a religious war

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on our hands, with the attendant proliferation of “heresies”
and two separate but equal inquisitions.
We tread on unsure ground, theologically. The doctrines
are still in the malleable state; what eventually evolves from
them will owe its existence not to pre- eminent merit, but to
the shrewdness of the compromises made by the factions.
But at least we have an idea of who's on which side; a certain
spryness is required in answering all but the most innocent
questions, but we know in which direction to exercise that
agility. Pity poor Dore, if you haven't before now. (Could I
have failed to arouse that much sympathy? Have I failed my
assignment already? Then what is keeping your interest? If
you want a better picture of Melithiel, you lose, I'm afraid)
He is totally at sea; he is wandering in a wilderness of ethical
entanglements, and he has only his irony- tinged faith to guide
him past the fanatics intent only on his destruction.
He did not see the giant until the latter looed to him. Dore
was battling his way through the thinning trees at the edge of
the giant's clearing when a thunderous deep voice splintered
the early peacefulness.
“Loo” it went.
“All right” said Dore, gazing up startled at the giant on the
mountain. “Okay, I'm coming”
“Loooo” roared the giant.
Dore stood on the verge of a forest, staring at the man
with the goats at the mouth of a cave. The man was dressed
in rags; his hair and bushy beard indicated that he had been
living close to the earth for a very long time. He was a giant
in stature, and a giant in aroma, even upwind. He stood

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about fifteen feet tall, and his mighty frame was awesome to
behold. He wore tarnished metal bands around his biceps,
and a huge club hung from his girdle.
Laliche is reading this as I write; she suggests that I am
subconsciously introducing an overtly phallic symbol here. I
don't think so. For me to have Dore meet and overcome a
symbol of his masculinity would be to metaphorically castrate
our sacred brother. We wouldn't want Ateichál to read that;
she always dug Dore's body. (Now Laliche implies that the
symbol is of my putative virility, not Dore's. A lot she knows,
five years old)
Our Father was a giant in his day as well, so it may be that
I am drawing on his description here. Of course, that may be
a worse departure from orthodox thought. But who is to say?
(" Tere, for one” says my little sister, giggling) What sort of
quest would it be if Dore were to meet only puny threats that
stood in his way armed with beanbags? To be of any worth
Dore must contend with honest dangers. A giant's as good as
any. At least I think so. Giants have lots of historic precedent
in quest tales.
Our Father was a giant in his day as a result of his wide
assortment of menial jobs. Because of Our Parents’ financial
naïveté, Our Father was forced to take on any number of
laborious tasks, none as heroic as those of Hercules but every
bit as tiresome. We are told of his employment as a loader of
trucks, piling by hand huge cartons of Baton's Corrasable
Bond into vans for delivery. Various sorts of mechanical
devices could have done the job in shorter time, but the
courts of law that sentenced Our Father and found him this

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employment felt that the physical labor might be of
rehabilitative effect.
Rehabilitated from and for what? Our Father was unfairly
judged, of course, but never did he complain. The august
body that decreed his guilt commanded his allegiance, and in
his innocent patriotism he could not see the logical fallacy
upon which the system was based. He did his work efficiently,
and his overseers were envious. The stripes he earned from
his boss's cat were more to slow him down than anything
else. Our Father still worked, however; see him: sweating
through the long, hot days, singing his mournful work chants
as he loaded the typing paper onto the trucks. That is my
image of manhood; not, as Laliche would have me admit,
some mythical grotesquerie or the gross symbol hanging from
the monster's belt. (Now she tells me not to be ashamed of
my inner urgings. Get out of here; you must flee, my sister,
before another of those urgings forces from you the last gasp
of mortal life)
We all know that Dore is lithe, fleet of foot, and of the
shrewdest natural bent. It would be reasonable, then, to
expect him to be wary of the dangers presented by a scruffy
and altogether plebeian giant. If Dore were to turn and run
through the forest, the giant would be hard- pressed to follow.
This seems, at first glance, to be the course I should have my
brother adopt.
No, no, no. If you don't have the idea by now, give up.
Primo, Dore is bone- weary, nearly starving, bleeding from
half or unhealed wounds, and longing for hominid
companionship. Secundo, he needs to learn all he can about

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the nearby countryside, so that he may face the dangers
thereof with at least a minimum of preparation. And tertio, if
he were going to avoid all the rough spots, I would have had
him take a boat in the beginning.
So Dore looked up at the monster on the hill. The giant
was, in traditional terms, as tall as a mountain. His cave
yawned behind him like the greedy mouth of a grave, as the
poet has it, hungry for yet more rotting bodies. A metaphoric
owl dwelt on a craggy overhang, and his ceaseless, awful calls
kept away all but the least sensitive birds and animals.
All these things Dore began to see as he climbed the large
boulders on the side of the hill. He became less and less sure
that the giant would greet him hospitably, not knowing for
certain what was meant by the periodic Loooo. The giant was
escorting his goats to pasture, down the hill on the other side.
Dore continued climbing, and in several minutes he stood
gasping for breath at the entrance to the cave.
The opening into the cave was wondrous dark; the
morning sun was still too weak to push back the gathered
forces of aged night. Dore stood outside, whistling and
rocking on his heels like a bored magazine salesman. Around
the cave huge rocks had been sunk between sprawling micha
trees and tall, slender losperns to form a sort of pen or yard.
Presently Dore heard a vague looing. The sound grew
louder, and in a short while the fearsome giant appeared. He
towered over Dore's appalled form, grinning a yellow- toothed
and joyless grin. He wore animal skins pinned together with
thorns, in the traditional comic- strip caveman style. He held
up one hand, palm facing Dore, and said, “Loo” Dore did the

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same and said, “Dore” Loo grinned, and bent to the remains
of his cooking fire just outside the mouth of the cave. He blew
on the coals and soon had the fire going once more. From the
blaze he lit two torches, handing one to Dore and indicating
that they should enter the cave.
Dore followed him into the cavern, regretting it
immediately. Besides the damp, unpleasantly ancient smell of
livestock, the equally venerable stink of giant made the air
virtually toxic. They proceeded into the heart of the mountain,
and soon they were entirely divorced from the light of the
sun. Loo halted, putting his burning branch into a niche
carved from the rock wall. Dore did the same, and sat upon a
flat stone that evidently served as a seat. The giant nodded
solemnly and offered Dore some goat cheese and warm goat
milk. Dore accepted gratefully; the cheese was old and
rancid, but the milk was sweet and frothy.
“Loo” said the giant, refilling Dore's stone cup with milk,
“I been expecting you, don't you see. I been sitting in this
cave ever since the world began, don't you see, waiting just
for you. Now you're here, the prophecies have been fulfilled,
and we can get on with it. It's all very interesting”
“What prophecies? How did you know that I was coming”
“I know, loo, I know it all. You're one of those humans,
aren't you? I've met a few of you before” Here the giant
pointed into the gloom, indicating some grisly bones lying in
twisted disarray further into the cave. “Loo, and I'm glad to
see you. It makes me feel better, don't you see, sitting here
talking to you, drinking a cup of milk. Tell me, what is the
news”

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Dore was still looking at the disarticulated skeletons. He
was seeking a viable pretext for escape, trying to think of
something that wouldn't upset the giant's evidently
murderous ire. “Look, Loo, thanks for the milk and all” he
said, “but I have to be going. I really shouldn't have killed
this much time. My wife's waiting for me down in the forest,
and we're supposed to be on a vacation. But why don't you
drop by when you're passing through? Stop in; we'd love to
have you. There's always room for a friend” Dore stood,
starting to make his way out of the cave.
The giant scowled evilly. “My name's not Loo. I say it a lot;
it's a verbal habit like ‘well,’ don't you see. And you can't
leave until I at least test you” He stood, too, and with his
longer strides arrived at the cave entrance well before Dore,
who stumbled in the darkness. The giant hefted his gateway—
an incredibly heavy boulder fully ten feet tall— and blocked
the opening.
“You needn't explain your coming, loo” said the giant.
“The fact that you came at all, don't you see, is proof enow of
your desire for expiation”
You would think, from the pained expression on Dore's
handsome face, that just being in the same county as that
pungent lair would be the redemptive equivalent of several
thousand of the finest candles going. But no, the giant did not
agree. He apparently felt a sense of pride in the resourceful
and, to his mind, not entirely inelegant uses to which he had
put the materials that he found to hand.
At one time, long ago, there was another such temporary
“home” which Dore recalled with something approaching the

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same repugnance. Our Parents and Dore were fleeing the
sneep of Cleveland. They had barely escaped, driving their
rattling groundcar through the rain- slicked streets of the near
West Side. Across the city they drove, prepared at any
moment to hear the sirens of the Northeastern Ohio Credit
Association's sneepcars.
They abandoned the car on a dark side street, running
through the drizzle for the protection of the park. They
huddled together under a shale ledge in the remnant of
Cleveland's once- famous Emerald Necklace. All night they
imagined they could bear the shouts of the hunting sneep,
and expected to see at any moment the beams from their
pocket searchlights. Dore was still a baby and unaware of
their danger; he slept through most of the night, but Our
Mother and Father held each other in silence. Our blessed
Mother's tears flowed in their holy profusion.
For several weeks the family lived in a corner of the
Metropolitan Park, hiding during the day in a wet, filthy
culvert. At night they sat out under the silver maples, afraid
to speak for fear of revealing their presence to the electronic
ears of the sneep that might have been planted nearby.
At last, of course, they were discovered. Our Father was
spotted on one of his nocturnal forages by the wealthy
jeweler from Parma. The merchant called to Our Father, who,
in his blind panic, caught the man and began, to strangle him.
Our Mother heard the noise of the battle and, fortunately for
all of us, was so impressed with the merchant's
accoutrements that she decided it would be worthwhile to
spare him and rely on his gratitude.

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And what gratitude it was! The largest that Our Mother had
ever seen, and the only one since Our Father's was shot off in
the war.
“Then where did Dore come from, Seyt? That is, without
resorting to out- and- out blasphemy” asks my little brother,
Auel, who has just come in.
“Why, hello there, Auel. You know the story, don't you?
Surely you've been taught that Our Father appeared to Our
Mother in the debtors’ prison of Pittsburgh in the form of a
shower of gold. Our Mother was impregnated by this shower
of gold, and thus Dore was conceived”
I'll wait a minute until he leaves.
Alors. What I was going to say was that copulating with a
shower of gold is not the most stimulating thing in the world.
It's all right for him, I suppose, and it enabled Our Parents to
effect their escape (" Hey, Lenny, there's a naked broad and
the damnedest shower of gold you ever saw” “We'd better
get the doc) (" Quick now, my love. They have left the doors
wide open in their unthinking haste; but, still, Our Mother
was partial to the regular way.
Na'theless, the memory of those sodden, muddy days in
the abandoned sewer was forever imprinted engrammatically
on Dore's infant mind. It is altogether reasonable to assume
that his deep and abiding love for greenlands sprang from this
early situation. And after that he avoided all the darker,
moister places of his surroundings. But he was trapped in the
giant's cave, and these unconscious and nonverbal feelings
flooded back and forth through his unprotected psyche. He
was afraid, and nauseous.

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“Loo, you might as leffer make yourself to home” said the
giant, grinning, “because, loo, I get to tell my tale here, and
you will be amazed”
The two had returned to the giant's parlor, although in the
dim light of the torches Dore could see little. He found his
former seat by tripping over it. He sat and listened, all the
time trying feverishly to find some way to get out.
The giant told him how he had originally been a slimy
peasant named Odrucajnek. Dore nodded absently; he could
believe that. The growing part got a bit much, though.
Actually, Dore couldn't care less. But the conversation was
the only thing he had to stall the giant. Dore sat on his rock,
frantically studying the cave and finding nothing at all
encouraging.
“Are things realer now” asked Dore.
“Loo, yes, of course. Before, don't you see, it was all
someone else's idea. Now all this is my illusion”
“Yes, but how do you know it's not my illusion, as it seems
to me”
“You probably do have your own, don't you see, but, loo, it
works within my system. I created this universe. Back at the
beginning of time. Your time, loo, not mine”
“I don't understand” Dore realized that if he said “I don't
understand” often enough, he might die of old age right there
in the cave.
“I'm not boring you, am I” asked the giant.
“No, not at all. I've never seen God before”
“Yes. God. I've never thought of myself as God, but, loo, I
suppose I am! It's not so difficult being God, don't you see.

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You open your eyes in the morning and, loo, there you are.
Easier than pulling limbs”
“Tell me” said Dore, his voice croaking with frustration,
“how did you come to create the world as we know it”
“An interesting question, that. I was about to tell you; a
revelation, don't you see. Loo, if I'd let you go, you could be
my prophet. These others were here first, loo, but they
missed their chance. They wouldn't believe me, and I'm a
jealous god, don't you see. We'll know, loo, we'll know about
you in a while”
The giant stood up again, taking in one hand the torch that
he had put in the wall and, with the other, reaching down
around the level of his knees to clutch Dore's arm. “Come
with me” he said, “and I will show you your test”
“Fine” said Dore helplessly.
Now, Tere and Ateichál are getting just the least bit
impatient with this account. I believe from their hints that
they were looking forward to something on the order of the
Book of Job, that great mock- Euripidean drama. But certainly
it is clear that, for me, at least, it is impossible to sing my
song as briefly or as beautifully as those nameless authors of
Job.
But where I detect irritation in the spiritual cadre (in the
final analysis my only true sponsor, I find however only
mounting joy in the mundane concerns that surface,
ephemerally, to float like bubbles for a time in the
imagination of the acquisitive members of our happy band.
With me now are Loml and Peytheida, Male and Female Vice-

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presidents in Charge of Proliferation for the current
incarnation of the Ploutos Corporation.
“Good evening, my brother and sister. It is nice of you to
drop by to see me”
“It's nice to be here” says Peytheida.
“It's nice of you to have us” says Loml.
I offer them some candied flowers. My tiny cell has
become increasingly popular as word of my project,
sanctioned as it is by all factions, spreads among our
sorrowing tribe. My present visitors are here to investigate
the merchandising possibilities that may arise as a direct
result of my history. Surely there can't be very many.
I receive for this ingenuous sentiment two indulgent
smiles.
“You underestimate your power” says Loml.
“Mightier than the sword, after all” says Peytheida.
Now that I am once again alone, I must consider their
excited dreams. Can it be that I am shaping the destiny of
not only our own way of life here in the house, but also the
course of whatever culture may develop across the length and
breadth of Home, our dear adopted world? Reasoned
discourse permits no positive reply, and yet.
Tourism. For the least instance, how about that monster's
torch of a dozen paragraphs past? They would make little
plastic images of it, molded so that if they were painted at
one end to simulate flame, we would have the allegorical false
light, the will- o- the- wisp of heresy, which is coming to play
such a large part in our day- to- day life. The plastic remaining
one color, brown, throughout— voila! the famous club. I am

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told that our house and grounds will become a fashionable
and lucrative tourist attraction. Why not take the opportunity
to supply each pilgrim with a material and permanent
keepsake? Sell to them little clubs like atrophied pickle pins
mentioned so often in American journals. If they could sell
souvenir ladders at the Lindbergh kidnap trial, why can't we
have countrified inns, Antiques signs in front of every home
on the road, with weathered boards and pre- faded letters.
Corps of engineers dig lagoons in the yard among the chairs:
a boat ride under the summer sky, to view with open mouths
animated figures bending at the waist in artificial greeting.
Wax dummies of Our Parents and Dore in their favorite
chairs. I cannot await this with any eagerness.
Dore and the giant walked deeper into the cave, and Dore
caught indistinct glimpses of many sorts of evil things. The
corridor went along in a straight line for quite some distance,
with no side branches or inlets of light that might promise a
possible emergency exit. Then he noticed by the sudden
steepness of the path that they were going down into the
heart of the mountain. The light of the burning brand in the
giant's fist broke on the cave walls against scores of tiny,
colored surfaces. It seemed to Dore that the rocky passage
was set with a staggering variety and richness of rough gems,
and the refracted beams split the darkness with weak flares
of red, blue, and green.
As they walked, the giant continued his story. Dore had to
restrain himself from pointing out various inconsistencies that
occurred to him; he knew the danger of appearing a

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disbeliever. He was careful to say “Wow” and “Uh huh” at the
appropriate places.
“What happened when you woke up? Where were you”
“Now, loo, that's also very interesting. I couldn't remember
then who I was, don't you see, or even what had just
happened to me. I've had to reconstruct all that since”
“And a marvelous fine job of reconstructing it is, too” said
Dore. He was sorry it had slipped out before he could censor
the sarcastic tone, but the giant never noticed.
Laliche, my critic, my thesis consultant, has graced me
with another visit. And this time I listen to her. She claims
that this chapter is growing unwieldly, with a disproportionate
amount of description and dialogue. Now, of course, she is
ready with a reason for why this is happening: it seems to her
prepubic mind that I am trying to avoid dealing squarely with
the problems inherent in my task. I am refusing to “come to
grips with (my) material” I am not coping with the actual
assignment I am not relating.
Well, of course. How astute of you to notice. This is the
most difficult thing I've ever had to do. I loved Dore.
I had planned for the end of this section a longish essay on
the problems of writing, much like that of Henry James's
Preface to The Portrait of a Lady. After all, I am in a peculiar
position; I must detail a quest about which I know nothing,
and therefore I fashion fiction. (What a play of words there.
Mylvelane, Tere, do you notice) But insofar as I deal with
real people and places, I am constrained to limit my
imagination. And this paragraph now is a further delay, more
procrastination. “What happened to Dore” they cried,

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expecting a five- page answer. And so, like Fielding, I will
strive and aim to bring this section to a close. It has gone on
its appointed length, is quickly reaching that limit of attention
span that I can reasonably require of an audience. A few
more bits of information to impart in preparation for the
action of the following pages, and then I will end. Laliche is
satisfied; and you, my inquisitory readers, you must be
patient while I learn to juggle plot and charm.
What the giant told Dore: He told him how he (the giant)
had awakened in a room at the end of a long hallway. Along
the hall were two other sleeping rooms. At the far end was a
large room, decorated with crystal and gold and soft, colored
silks. There were no other rooms, and no doors or windows
anywhere.
As he entered the room he saw the misty forms of three
people disappearing. They were vanishing, evaporating, like
smoke from a fire. He saw what appeared to be two giant
men, one with the most totally black skin, the other snowy
white. With them was a golden creature, smaller and rounder,
with long, golden hair. This one raised a hand and waved, just
before they all blinked out completely. (" A princess” said
Dore. “Some beautiful goddess, no doubt”
“Eh” said the giant, puzzled)
The giant sat in their parlor for hours. He put his feet up
on a large coffee table, the top of which was dull black and
perfectly clean. It was decorated with galaxies and nebulas in
infinite detail. When he tapped his finger on the sheet of glass
covering the table the stars moved. He lifted the glass and
put his hand down onto the blackness; it kept going. They

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had the whole physical universe there in that coffee table.
They were gods, and they had gotten tired of it. The giant
had been picked as their successor. The first thing he did was
to wipe out the old universe, like washing a blackboard.
“One clean, empty coffee table. Loo, then I got rid of that
idiotic palace”
“Why? It sounded great to me” Dore was beginning to
lose hope. They were still walking down into the mountain,
but their path curved around on itself many times, and every
now and then side paths cut into theirs. Dore was pretty well
lost. He began to smell the concentrated aroma of cattle from
up ahead.
“Maybe. But it was theirs, don't you see. I wanted my own
place. So first I created this universe. It's modeled after the
old in a lot of ways, don't you see. Then, loo, I created this
world to be my home, which is what I named it. Then I made
myself into a regular person, don't you see, keeping of course
my superior appearance and mentality, loo, so I could watch
you and decide if you're worth saving. I have to be thinking of
someone to take my place someday, don't you see, and I
haven't found him yet”
The broad hint wasn't lost on Dore, but he didn't really put
much faith in the story. There were several implausible
points.
“Why didn't you make a more luxurious capital
somewhere” asked Dore. “I mean, as the Supreme Being of
all the universe, this cave can't be the best you could do”
“Well, loo” said the giant, yawning, his baroquely rotting
teeth shining in the firelight like ancient, yellowed scrimshaw,

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“when I allowed myself to incorporate on the human level,
don't you see, here on the mundane plane, loo, I forgot to
maintain those supernatural powers that went with my former
self. This avatar is, you might say, voluntarily without my
godlike attributes, don't you see. So I'm more or less here for
the duration, if you take my meaning. But” he said, his tone
becoming slightly more threatening, “that doesn't mean that I
am without my own senses- shattering personal strength,
don't you see, and my all- encompassing power”
“I see. But tell me more”
Ah, this giant, this hider- under- bushels. How like the type
of impotent magnitude he is. He is the American Dream, as
amusingly portrayed in Albee's The American Dream, the ballless,
witless whore who has nothing but his smile and beauty;
he is the essence of Genet's The Balcony, where people
pretend to be and, thus, become the symbol and actuality of
authority. This silly giant. And who is to say that his story is
all delusion? It is Dore who must refute him. And as long as
that great crab- tree cudgel swings at the monster's side, well,
kyrie eleison.
And so they came, man and myth, to the subterranean
enclosures that the giant had built for his animals. There was
one large pen in an immense natural cavern, and beyond that
another and smaller fold fenced with rough, unstripped
hardwood boughs. Both pens were empty now, during the day
when the animals were pasturing on the hill. Dore thought of
the clean air without and the freshness of the forest, and
wished for the same simple luck of the animals.

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“Well, loo, the big one keeps the cows, don't you see, and
the other is for the goats. Now, tonight they will have a
guest, loo, and I hope you don't mind their rough manners.
Country hospitality, don't you see. You have come here to
your fashioner under the usual burden of guilt and sin, but
how am I to know if your repenting is sincere? Loo, yes, a
problem: Do I take your word? Ah, the weak point of the
theology. So. Tonight you sleep with the cows. Tomorrow
night you sleep with the goats. The evening after, loo, you
pass with the pigs further on. And if your desire is such that
you do not give up, don't you see, if you swallow your
profane pride and weather this ordeal, loo, you win. I suggest
you pass the time praying. Takes your mind off the troubles,
don't you see”
The giant scooped Dore up in one huge hand, hoisting him
up above his head. Dore balanced there for only a moment,
until the giant lobbed him in a gentle arc into the largest
corral. The thought of the eloquent skeletons of his infidel
predecessors was little consolation for the filth in which he
landed, heavily, on his back. The giant laughed some yards
away, and as Dore turned to say something the monster lifted
his torch and headed back toward the daylight, leaving Dore
in total darkness, pain, and corruption.

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Chapter six
A Perilous Scheme
Our Mother would have been scandalized. She had a very
negative attitude toward filth, an outlook that she was careful
to impress on those of us who would listen. We could always
tell when it was going to be one of the “dirt days” as we
laughingly called them. The sky remained dark, even as the
sun rose higher and higher into the heavens’ spacy vault. The
normally white roof of clouds hung dark and low, unmoving in
the morning's windless quiet. Grudgingly we'd rise and dress,
knowing that the day would be spent listening to the
cleanliness lecture again. Our Mother was waiting, and
someone kept attendance reports. (All right, it was Tere. Not
to put Tere in a worse light, you understand, but Tere always
seemed to have more sharp pencils than anyone else)
The air would always be chilly when we left the house.
We'd walk in groups of three or four as slowly as we could
among the chairs on the lawn, clucking our tongues, staring
sullenly at the clumps of needle grass. At last we'd get to Our
Mother's throne, despite all our efforts to get lost on the way.
The usual early devotions were said, though with less
enthusiasm than on ordinary days. Our Mother noted no
difference, however, as beaded with dew on her stone seat as
the throne itself. She stared out over our heads, blinking
rapidly and nodding as regularly as a metronome. Only Tere
noticed that our prayers were rushed with impatience; Our

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Mother just gurgled her holiness, but Tere came around
afterward to our rooms. “Let's try to understand her” he'd
say. “She's having a hard time now that Dad” (Dad) “went
off. The least we can do is be tolerant, okay” Then he'd
punch each of us on the shoulder, smile winningly, and mince
away.
On dirt days he'd help her out. He'd stand next to her in
front of one of the pillars, where he could watch each of us.
Our Mother would do nothing for a long time, letting us soak
up the unpleasantness for as long as an hour. A great idea for
a play, eh, Laliche? The audience is seated all at once, and
while they are coming in the curtain is slowly falling, hiding
some imaginative and interesting scene. After two and a half
hours they are permitted to go home. Naja, then Tere would
hand Our Mother her sword. She looked very silly with it. The
broadsword would get heavy as the afternoon went on, and,
instead of holding it before her symbolically, she took to
resting it on the arm of the throne, or letting it waver
dangerously close to Tere's inadequate breast. It did not take
long for the sword to lose whatever metaphorical significance
it might have had.
We were watching other things, anyway. How fascinating
became the embroidered hanging behind the throne! It filled
with the first afternoon breezes, bellied out and emptied, and
slapped back against the pillars. Our Mother's voice droned
on, accompanied by Tere's distracted “to be sure" s. After
several more hours Our Mother wept to her conclusion. The
sun would be too low for us to work in the fields; someone
would shout, “Let us then cleanse ourselves in the healing

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holy waters of the River” which was just an excuse to go
swimming. Those of us who believed in that sort of thing left
in a group, and the rest of us headed back to the house for
some table tennis or shuffleboard in the rec room before
supper.
Once, though, after Dore left, we had a special dirt day. In
the first place, it was the only one since our eldest brother's
departure. This was the longest respite we had ever enjoyed.
“Perhaps” we had thought timidly, “perhaps she'll never do it
again. Because of Dore” But it was not to be. We sat about
her, arms folded around our knees, boys and girls tickling
each other with blades of grass. The morning passed as
usual, and we started to get caught up in the rhythmic fwap!
thub of the tapestry after the noontime winds began. But we
slowly noticed that the sky was doing odd things. The heavy,
threatening clouds lightened to their accustomed grayishwhite,
then began to thin in the middle so that they collected
in bunches at the horizon. The sky above was bright blue, the
only time it had been clear within my memory. Everyone fell
silent except Our Mother, who spoke on from behind her
tears. Tere slipped away, not unnoticed by anyone. We
watched him loose a bird from a cage behind the micha tree.
At first sight I believed it to be Dore's tarishawk, but as it
circled closer I saw that it was a redskip, a small swiftlike bird
officially known as Dodham's racer. No one is sure who or
where Dodham is.
Tere tried to return to his position next to Our Mother
without attracting attention, but we all made a great show of
smiling to him and waving. He stood in front of the pillar and

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stared at the ground. We refused to acknowledge either the
clear sky or the bird. We were unsure how Tere had managed
the cloud thing, but we were united in wanting to deprive him
of his silly triumph. The dirt day went on from there as usual,
but it had given us material for speculation.
As Dore lay imprisoned in that filth, he must have given
thought to Our Mother's teachings. She had never made a
distinction between involuntary dirt and dirt of one's own free
will. Surely Dore could not be held responsible for whatever
uncleanness he suffered in the giant's lair. But he must have
felt a few moments’ guilt nevertheless. Could we dare to
interpret the physical soiling of Dore's person as a symbol for
the disorder of his intellectual self? Tere the messianist would
be happy with this slightest of slaps at Dore's new stature.
Ateichál the fundamentalist, now, might with reason be upset.
I must therefore decline to voice an editorial preference.
That intellectual disorder might best be described in Dore's
own terms, in the words of his motto: Creative equilibrium.
This is the principle of having one's cake and eating it, too. Or
closing one's eyes and letting it all go away. It happened
generally that by the time Dore had thought things out,
events had progressed to the point that his choice had been
narrowed to one mandatory response. We can all appreciate
how that has its good and bad points.
Dore thought in the muck. He traced plans in the slime on
the floor, invisible in the absolute darkness.
“We don't have time for that” whispered someone behind
him.
Dore was startled. “Who is it” he said.

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“It is I” said the voice. “Glorian”
“Ah, fine. What do you look like now”
“What does it matter” said the mysterious stranger. “I
have fair hair and a ruddy complexion. My back and spine are
my best parts”
“Then you wear a ruby”
Glorian laughed. “You are learning quickly” he said. “Yes,
I have a yellow ruby on my forehead. It leaves me vulnerable
to ailments in my joints, so let us get out of here soonest”
“How? The situation looks hopeless to me”
“They all do” said Glorian. “But faith works wonders”
“It is well that faith does, because I can't” said Dore.
“Right this very minute there is an angelic Person waiting
outside the mouth of the cave for you. If we can manage your
escape within the hour, that Person will be in a position to cut
a great deal of time from your trial”
Sabt, the fourth- eldest male, has cleverly caught my
lapsus linguae there. No doubt Glorian himself would never
slip so, to reveal to Dore that the journey was indeed some
sort of initiation. I can remedy the error easily enough, by
simply making our brother ignore its significance. But do I
now have to explicate the whole myth structure to you? No, I
believe it best to go on, to let you piece the picture together
on your own.
This doesn't satisfy my brother Sabt. The trouble with
writing this in plain view is that everyone feels qualified to
criticize each development. I suppose I am the only one of us
who knows what I plan to do, but all the brothers and sisters

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in the house have suddenly become experts. It's my project,
and my symbols are my own.
“Since when” asks Sabt. “Dore was much more my
brother than yours. You have a responsibility to us as well as
to him. You seem to think you're writing this for your own
self- aggrandizement. I'm sure Ateichál would find that an
unwholesome attitude”
“What sort of .. Person” asked Dore, ignoring Glorian's
slip.
“Oh, a sexless ethereal sort. Girded round with flowered
garlands. Visible yellow aura. Smells of anise”
“Do you have a plan”
“Yes” said Glorian. “Here's my plan”
Well, that got rid of Sabt. No one seems to be at all
interested in the ingenious ways I find to extricate Dore from
the diabolical situations in which I place him. All attention is
focused on the merest modifiers, on the minutest descriptions
that I drop more as filler than anything else. If I say that
Dore finds a chain of red roses in the pen, and binds it about
his waist to symbolize the union of carnal and spiritual
desires, I do not intend my dear brothers and sisters to
interpret this in a negative light. Compromise is a fine, true
thing, although the word appears to have adopted a
pejorative sense lately. Dore hesitates, which in itself implies
action at some time. This is well- known; I am shocked that
some of us are becoming outraged at my innocent
observations. Dore may be holy nowadays, but when I knew
him as the Will Incarnate he messed around a lot.

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I was embarrassed by Sabt's return. He read what I had
written after his departure, growing redder and redder
through the last paragraph. He made a few notes, saying
nothing, and left once more. The days of the liberal
atmosphere seem to be numbered. With Sabt was my
younger sister Shesarine, who is still with me. She would like
to know what the Person mentioned by Glorian represents. I
thought originally that the Person was to combine masculine
and feminine elements, as the River combines the strength
and fructification of the male and the fluidity and receptivity
of the female. This hybrid Person would then be an external
projection of the forces currently at work within Dore himself.
The Person would remind Dore that all work and no play, etc;
part of compromise in this situation would be, necessarily, to
allow a certain standard of pleasure. But this pleasure must
be tempered and accepted in the proper spirit; the Person
would explain to Dore that the red roses were essentially the
same as the red robe so often seen adorning the Virgin Mary:
the red of Eros, transformed from base animal drives into a
pure and holy Love. Shesarine thought that this was dumb.
All right. Never mind, then. It'll take longer than an hour for
Dore to escape and the Person will be gone. Okay?
“We must wait for nightfall” said Glorian.
“Fine” said Dore. “How will we be able to tell when it gets
dark”
“Easy. We'll just wait until the giant returns with the cattle.
You can sit here where he can see you, putting on a grand
show of enjoying the whole thing. Then we'll just stealthily

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follow him back through the tunnels to the front entrance and
slip away”
“What about the huge rock he uses as a gate”
Glorian winked at me. I nodded gravely. “Don't worry” he
said to our brother, “I have a feeling everything will be ready
for us”
Very soon the two men saw the flickering of the giant's
torch. It shone redly, a tiny point of light in the universe of
darkness. It seemed to hover motionlessly for hours, as the
giant drew nearer down the long tunnel. In a while they could
hear the lowing of the cattle. Dore looked around for Glorian,
but of course he could not see him. “Glorian” he whispered.
There was no answer. “Glorian, where are you” he said,
louder. The man had disappeared again.
There were a few thumps and bangings, evidently the
giant opening the gate to the pen. Dore stood and pressed
himself against the wooden timbers so that he might not be
crushed or trampled by the herd of cows. The animals filled
up the pen, milling about noisily. The torch, which had been
placed in a holder, began to float again as the giant prepared
to leave.
“Well, loo” said the giant, “how's it going so far”
“All right, I guess” said Dore.
“Good” They were both silent for a moment. The torch
waved as the giant gestured broadly. “All this, this, is real
life, eh”
“Yeah. Strange”

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“Real life, don't you know” The giant laughed sadly. “We
do such silly things. Loo, but it's still great. Being an
individual, don't you know”
“I suppose so. I've never been one”
Our Father was the individual, and so it is difficult to
accept Dore's statement without looking deeper into our
brother's often torpid thought processes. From early
childhood, word reaches me, Dore knew that eventually he
would be the one to have to go out in search of Our Father.
He lived for years with the responsibility constantly coloring
his relationships in the house. He could not avoid distancing
himself from us, although he was by nature the warmest of
friends; he was aware that we could not fail to demand that
he do this thing. He was sorry for our guilt long before we
ever felt its subtle pains.
I have to come up with some answer to Shesarine's charge
that I am cheapening Dore's sacrifice by turning him into
“just another Christ- figure” What can I say? By sitting
outside the framework of the story, much like the levels of
audiences in Kyd's admirable Spanish Tragedy (a play I have
often suggested to Vaelluin's Lawn Theatre summer stock
group. They insist that Neil Simon draws better, I can obtain
a degree of, well, not objectivity, I suppose, but at least a
studied carelessness that enables me to present Dore in all of
his two or three aspects. Christ? Well, there are parallels, but
aren't there always? You can hardly fault me for showing
touches of the greatest of all influences. I am very fond of
Christ; but Dore's character is more complex than that, and

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his story is much more resonant with allusion than simply a
Christ/ Prometheus thing.
Dore's journey was an historically imperative event. But
even so we all feel responsible for whatever fate befell him.
We regret our ever listening to Tere, although none of us
would go so far as to wish to change places with Dore. But
where Our Father was the very essence of leadership (the
story goes, Dore gave himself over to vacillation. In him
indecision masqueraded as “reason” and our leaderless
family suffered unknowingly. Our Father's crown, which is still
on display from nine in the morning until five- thirty in the
evening in the West Foyer, is a massive gold affair. Dore
made himself a simple circlet of metal, but Our Father wore a
heavy helmet, ribbed and studded with bloodstones and
Spanish topazes. We need someone to assume that emblem
of strength and sureness, but no one quite that capable
seems to be coming up through the ranks.
Dore felt a moment of panic as he noticed the bobbing of
the torch. The giant was preparing to abandon him once more
in the strange and foul cell.
“Glorian” whispered our brother, never taking his eyes
from the slowly diminishing light. “You there? What are we
going to do” There was no answer but the soft murmurings
of the cows and the squishings of their hooves in the mud.
Dore was confused and frightened. He was usually pretty
good when he had a choice of actions; somehow or other he
always came through, late or not. But the situation was so
unpromising that he couldn't see anything else for it but to do
as the giant wished.

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He was not able to say how much time passed, but in a
while he saw the giant's torch approaching again. This time
he was able to guess that the monster was escorting the
goats. He said nothing as the giant led the animals past the
cowpen. When the light of the torch had faded somewhat,
Dore felt a reassuring tug at his sleeve.
“Be ready” said Glorian.
“Ready for what”
“To escape, of course. Well follow noiselessly behind the
giant, ever keeping the light of his burning brand as our guide
to liberty and reminder of the constant shining flame of
hope”
“Have you taken care of the giant's boulder yet”
“No” said Glorian, “but be still. He returns”
“Loo” came the call. “That's it for tonight, don't you see.
Have a good rest, now. Don't sit up all night reading. Those
cows will wake you early”
“Thank you” said Dore as the giant was swallowed up by
the darkness of the tunnel.
“By the way” shouted Glorian, “where are the guest
towels”
“Quiet” said Dore, thrashing about in the dark for his
mysterious ally.
“No worry” said Glorian, “he's quite out of earshot by
now. Come; let's follow before we lose his light altogether”
“He's not out of earshot” said Dore anxiously.
“Sure he is”
“We'll see” said Dore, vaulting the fence and landing
lightly on the stone floor. He trusted that Glorian had

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followed; again there was no reply. Dore shrugged and set off
in pursuit of his captor.
If you're reading the original manuscript (which in a few
hundred years will no doubt be precious and a thing of
wonder, you will see that I have crossed out a large section
of dialogue. Dore and Glorian continued their discussion at
some length, giving, as I intended, further insight into their
deepening friendship. Shesarine grew impatient, and Laliche
(who joined me at “Where are the guest towels) agreed
that I should just get on with it. No one seems to appreciate
what I am doing. This is a major task, this document that I
have been urged to write. There is much more to it than just
the hacking and hewing of the hero. Am I the only one who
sees the significance of Glorian? Shesarine says he's
effeminate, “if you know what I mean” Sure, I know what
she means. But it's obvious that she doesn't know what I
mean. “Why bother” I ask myself. Laliche has the answer to
that: Tere, Ateichál, and their holy sideshow. Glorian's a
symbol, all right? A symbol. For the R- r. I must admit
that I just realized that last night. It came to me in a vision.
After Joilliena came to me in a sour mood. The other girls
won't talk to her at lunch.
All right. Shesarine's gone back to her desk in the office of
the Ploutos Corporation. I'll get back to the adventure. Maybe
I'll condense it a bit, now; I think I have the next one all
worked out, and I'm anxious to get to it. Laliche doesn't like
the giant, anyway. She's nice, but she's only five. She'll really
be something in another seven years or so.

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Good. We have Dore and possibly Glorian following the
weakening glow of the giant's torch. The tunnels seemed
strange and threatening in the gloom, more so because Dore
was trying desperately and unsuccessfully to recognize a
feature or landmark. His current fear was that the giant was
not, in fact, returning to the surface and the exit, but rather
taking some side tunnel to whatever goal excited his gianty
mind. Dore pictured himself trapped deep within the bowels
of the mountain, lost forever and at the unsavory and
unimaginative mercy of Loo. He felt an urge to stop and go
over the situation with Glorian, to point out this and other
possibilities which should not go unconsidered; fortunately or
unfortunately (it is for you to decide, Glorian was unavailable
for comment. A tingly, lightheaded feeling in his abdomen
reminded Dore that in the childhood- monster darkness he
would not be able to find his way back to the cattle pen. He
wished that he could calmly shrug his shoulders.
Ahead, the seductive light of the torch shone steadily, as
though the giant and Dore had entered a long and uncurving
corridor. Dore took a deep breath and increased his pace,
thinking that for a time he was safe from dashing out his life
against the walls of a sudden turn. He thought of Our Mother,
whom he believed to be still doing her usual things, safely
and grotesquely seated on her backyard throne. He thought
of Our Father, Dore's own founding Father, whose strange
and unanswerable desertion had made our brother's journey
necessary. What motives had sent (or driven) Our Father
from his wife and son, from the grand new home he had
carved from the alien wilderness of an unknown world?

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Speculation was error (and is now heresy, from which you
just don't recover, and only facts could satisfy our questing
young minds. Dore thought of us, his brothers and beloved
sisters; he thought of our stations and persuasions and
occupations, of all the discriminating and otherwise useless
distinctions we had invented to tell each other apart. He
considered our feelings, how we must blame ourselves for his
sacrifice, how we must lose sleep at night worrying about his
well- being, how the days and months go by without even a
card from him. He chuckled to himself there in the sunless
pit, filled with nostalgia and homesickness and other pointless
emotions. He entertained himself with thoughts of home and
remembrances of us until the giant grabbed Dore's shoulder
from behind.
“Loo, you laugh” said the giant. “What amuses you”
Well now, of course Dore recalled that being caught like
this had turned each of his predecessors from a novice to a
corpse. Dore had to think quickly. He couldn't.
“You haven't seen Glorian, have you” he asked.
“Eh”
“It's not that I was trying to escape, you know. I just
thought that a short walk might do me good. I couldn't get to
sleep. The cows”
The giant had Dore once again tightly within his grasp, but
even in our brother's state of extreme panic Dore realized
that the giant was leading him toward the mouth of the cave,
rather than back to the cattle pens. A simple error on the part
of the giant? Dore thought it best to keep the monster
occupied until Dore might make a break for freedom. But

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through the giant's boulder of a gateway? Dore wasn't
thinking that far in advance.
“I understand” said the giant. “And well that you couldn't,
don't you see. The others, loo, those deaders up ahead, now,
they did. They spent the whole three nights, loo” here the
giant spat in disgust, “their whole sentence they spent with
those filthy beasts. But not you, don't you see. How holy
could they be sleeping with animals? Loo, but you couldn't
bear it. I'd have eaten you if you could” The giant sounded
proud, and congratulated Dore with a bruising tap on the
back.
Dore was silent for a long moment. “You mean I'm free”
he said at last.
“Well, loo, you've passed your first test, don't you see”
Dore wasn't as alarmed as he should have been, because
he heard “first” as “First”
When at last they returned to the giant's parlor, Dore was
worried to see that Glorian had failed to remove the great
stone from the cave's mouth. The giant lifted Dore and placed
him on a smooth flat slab of stone, cold and damp and ten
feet above the floor.
“Hard comfort, eh loo, but better than you found with the
kine” said the giant. “Now sleep you well, for we have much
to talk about in the morning”
“Don't you see” added Dore in a whisper. He watched the
giant prepare his own simple bed, and waited soundlessly
while the torch was put out. Dore was again left frightened in
total darkness, but this time he was soon asleep.

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A knock! a knock upon my humble chamber's portal. A
pleasant change, I will grant, from the unadorned bargings of
my casual siblings. I will leave my desk for the unusual
pleasure of welcoming a visitor rather than tolerating an
intruder. Excuse me.
It is Dyweyne. Or rather, it was her, and I reproduce for
you now our puzzling conversation. I welcome her in, my
eldest sister, with great pleasure, for it is rare that she leaves
her barren cell to visit with the other members of our family.
She is tall and slender, with dark- brown hair piled on her
head in intricate mounds and knots. Light strikes red sparks
from the countless fascinating planes. She wears an unofficial
crown, a barely visible golden band about her brow. The
crown, not one quarter of an inch wide, signifies more that
she was Dore's consort than her rank as eldest female. She
dresses simply in a yellow robe, the color of the garden
flowers with which she passed her days until Dore's
departure. Since that day she has worn a white cloak of
celebration and mourning over the robe, gathered on her
breast with a golden pin in the form of a small doglike animal.
She carries with her tonight the yellow flower she picked to
give to Dore on his return. The flower is, of course, dead and
dried.
“Welcome to my poor apartment” I say to her.
“Thank you, Seyt” says Dyweyne. Her voice is very low,
and she drops her eyes shyly often as she speaks.
“Is there something I can do for you”
Dyweyne stands from the chair she accepted upon her
arrival. Before she turns away I see that there are tears upon

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her pale, friendly cheeks. I am shocked and afraid. What have
I done?
For a few seconds there is a nervous silence. I smell the
rich, earthy smell of Dyweyne, as though she had been once
again working in her abandoned gardens. Dyweyne can
control her flowers, but, too, she can control the basic animal
urges of all of us. Our emotions are never hidden from her,
one reason that she has chosen to secrete herself far from
our riotous nonsense. And, deftly, lovingly, graciously, she
can mold our emotions and change them: change envy to
love, change pity to love, change anger to love. But she
doesn't. She is humiliated by her ability.
“Why are you doing it” she asks, her voice cloudy with
feeling. “Why are you picturing Dore so unfairly? Why do you
show him acting so stupidly, so grossly? Don't you
remember”
I can say nothing. This is the first sign of dissension that I
have had to recognize. Dyweyne cares about Dore and, I
know, she cares about me. What a discovery, that I may be
negligent. I thought that I was above that.
“I'm sorry, my sister” I say to her, embarrassed. “I
thought that for my purposes I was treating him fairly”
She nods sadly. “For your purposes. I, too, am doing the
history of his travels, although you probably do not know of
that. It is not as publicized as your official account and,
truthfully, it is not as nicely wrought. But it is sincere”
Dyweyne begins to weep copiously. I am helpless.

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“I'd .. I'd be honored to see it sometime. I could help you
with it” I say lamely. My sister, chaste, loving, sorrowing,
does not answer and departs. I am profoundly affected.
In the morning Dore was awakened by the noises of the
cattle which the giant was leading out to pasture. He could
not see them because his neck was fastened to the slab by a
large iron staple. His hands and feet were bound to the damp
stone with heavy chains.
“You should not have trusted the giant's strange
hospitality” said Glorian.
“What else could I do” said Dore, staring at the
sedimentary ceiling. “You proved of remarkably little help”
“My ways are my own. Everything in its season. In the
fullness of time. There is yet more to this episode”
“Free me, or there won't be much”
“No chance now” said Glorian, hiding deeper within the
cave, “the giant returns”
“Loo, there. You are awake. Good” said the giant.
“Why have you done this to me” asked Dore.
“Ah, don't you see, you brought it on yourself by not fitting
the bed” said the giant.
“But it's made for someone of gigantic proportions” said
Dore in frustration. “I didn't have a chance”
“For you are not virtuous” said the giant. “If you were
good, don't you see, you'd fit my bed. There is little enough
good in the world”
“Not so” cried Glorian, springing from his place of
concealment.

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“Who is this” asked the giant. “Are you here for pain, or
to effect an escape”
“I am Glorian”
“What” said the giant.
“Glorian” said Dore helpfully.
“And I am Despair” said the giant.
“Is that your name” asked Dore.
“Bunyan or Spenser” asked Glorian.
“Neither” said the giant impatiently, “loo, I'm a different
one entirely”
“What's happening” asked Dore.
“You were beginning your argument” said Despair, the
giant.
“Yes, thank you” said Glorian. “Why do you hold Dore, my
companion, captive upon this noisome rock”
“Well, loo, so he won't wriggle in the Scotch Boot”
“No” said my symbol, “why hold him at all”
“He's evil, don't you see” said the giant, playing nervously
with the cord of the great cudgel that hung by his side.
Evidently, Despair was not used to such close questioning.
“And if I could prove the nonexistence of evil”
“Eh” said Despair.
“If I could show that your fears are groundless”
“What fears” asked Despair.
“If I demonstrate the universality of goodness”
“I would set him and you free” said Despair with his
disconcerting grin.
“Then, do you believe in the goodness of God” asked
Glorian.

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“He is God” said Dore.
“Well” said Glorian, “that will simplify things. You are
good, eh”
“Loo, certainly”
“And by ‘God’ we understand omnipotence and
benevolence of infinite extent”
“Yes, I do my best” said Despair.
“Then follow this” said Glorian confidently. “Positing the
existence of evil, either you— God— cannot rid the world of it
and are impotent, or you can but won't, and are malevolent.
And also, we learn early through experience that a good and
moral life is of no practical value in achieving happiness for
ourselves or our loved ones”
“I move in mysterious ways” said Despair.
“Don't we all” muttered Dore.
“For often we have seen the wicked rewarded” said
Glorian, continuing his sophistry, “while we ourselves
seemingly go from punishment to undeserved punishment. So
some of us fall from the ways of grace, attempting to avoid or
at least nullify the apparently random distribution of reward.
Thus we fall into sin. But of course the wages of sin is death.
But it is through sin that we recall the sovereignty of God; by
transgressing God's laws we acknowledge their existence.
And the acknowledgment of God's lordship works to His
greater glory. Every act of man, whether the most holy
sanctioned rite or the most heinous crime, works to the
eventual Good, the universal and willing acceptance of God's
yoke of love”
“Your friend is free” said Despair.

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There is no evil. We may all breathe a sigh of relief. I
admit that for a moment I was unsure about our brother's
fate, but faith worked its advertised miracle. In the
background now the giant Despair loosens Dore's bonds,
shaking his head and pondering Glorian's high sentiments.
The giant is subdued. He grasps Dore's hand and begs his
forgiveness. Dore smiles in his beautiful way and says
nothing. The three friends walk slowly to the mouth of the
cave, where the giant rolls back the huge stone. They
converse in low tones, curiously reluctant to say their goodbys.
“Come with me” says Sabt, who has returned as
promised. It is time for a break, anyway. I bid farewell to my
giant.
I take my notebook, in an attempt to crystallize some
thoughts concerning Dore's next adventure. I have, as I said,
a general idea, but now I need to incorporate it, to swath
such flimsy feelings in firm, stabbable flesh. New horizons,
new vistas of action and meaning, new people to kill and love.
Perhaps now, walking about our charming house, nodding
hello to brothers and sisters going by with papers in their
hands, standing on ladders with brushes, kneeling in
courtyards with trowels, I will get characters, plot, dramatic
impetus. I know where Sabt is taking me.
Outside, on the far side of the house from Our Mother's
vacated and already crumbling seat, there is a pen, an
enclosure very much like the one in which Dore passed his
recent restless hours. If you still have a mental image of that
compound merely translate its location. Place it in the middle

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of a lawn of prickly high weeds, perhaps one hundred yards
from the house. There is already a well- worn path from a rear
entrance of the house, although the pen was not built until
after Our Mother's Desumption.
“Where were these, uh, tenants housed prior to the
construction of these, uh, quarters” I ask.
Sabt marches briskly, not even turning his head to answer.
He does not want to waste energy, and is trying to urge me
to greater speed with his example. We must not be late.
“In the basement, of course” he says. “There are many
more of them now, so we thought it best to move them out
here. Fresh air. Exercise”
I shudder. “Who are ‘we” I ask.
Sabt grants me an unpleasant look. “Tere and Ateichál”
I know why there are many more of them.
At one end of the rectangular corral a high platform has
been built, with a balcony, overlooking the enclosure and its
inmates, my brothers and sisters. The stage looks like a
beardless diving tower, a small open box for the Pope or
visiting royalty to wave from, slowly. I think of the play by
Genet. I think about prostitution, about bartering for power,
about identities and images changing as fluidly as
motivations. I think about lies. I think about the ugliness
inherent in all relationships. I think about some people
standing on platforms looking down on other people. I wonder
how I might feel to be on that balcony.
“Let's go up” says Sabt. “The lesson'll start soon”
We take our seats. I have time to look down into the pen,
against my better judgment I see horrors; balls and cylinders

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and pools of animal flesh that used to be human. Several of
these unfortunates (oh, Father, what a damned euphemism)
were born that way. 5396 was the next male to be born after
me. 9704535 and 40313642 were twins, females originally
destined for marriage with princes of high- ranking foreign
families. 2940, 7188, and 9305 were all normal males in their
youth, until puberty began some strange endocrine- linked
transformations in their somatic selves. They were all good
friends. Haven't spoken to them in years, though.
But the others.
“Isn't that Mylvelane” I ask in horror.
“You can still recognize her? Yes, she's 49127046 now. A
dangerous heretic who couldn't be saved. Oh, Ateichál tried.
They spent many nights together. I could hear the loud cries
from my room down the hall. But she was hopeless. She is
better off here, and so are we”
I can say nothing. Dozens of brothers and sisters were
tried, found guilty, and .. sentenced. And still Ateichál wants
to save their souls. She climbs the stairs and takes her place
at the front of the balcony. She is entirely naked, unadorned
in the service of Dore, her spiritual lover. She wears only a
small gilded chain around her thick neck. I don't understand
the significance, and I am reluctant to ask Sabt. She has her
light blonde hair in tight curls, like a helmet for her pious
battle. She carries some flowers wrapped in waxed paper;
after a short introductory prayer to Our Father and Mother
asking for Dore's safe return she throws the flowers down to
the numbered audience. None of those in the pen make any

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move toward the offering. Ateichál's heavy, unclothed body
does not excite me.
“Let us speak today of goodness” she says in her gospel
voice. “Does anyone still believe in it” Naked, large- boned
Ateichál lets the silence sweep in, and only Sabt's rustling
program disturbs the effect. “Can anyone cite me an example
of goodness, now that Our heavenly Father and Our earthly
Mother have left us, now that Dore, our priceless Link, has
followed” Once again she permits a peaceless quiet to form
around us.
“God has given over the rule of the world to his
subordinate angels, and they have proven to be traitors. The
very seat of goodness has been overthrown. We must make
the best of what we have. Order has gone. Morality is
irrelevant. All that is left is us. Our Father cleared a home of
calmness and justice in the midst of this chaos. Our Mother
programed us with the precepts necessary for a good life. We
may spend our allotted seventy years in whatever mode we
most desire; but it was for Dore, and Dore alone, to be called
to his Parents’ side, to discover the answer to the question we
may know only as ‘Why.’ We are as machinery, to facilitate
Dore's quest. He is doing it not for us, but instead we are
sacrificing ourselves for him. It is to be a seventy- year
sacrifice for each of us, and for our children, and for each
generation to come. It is necessary. Why? I do not know. You
must have faith”
I begin to think about Ateichál's words, about the
blackness of her universe, and I glance down into the pit, into
the pen, the corral that imprisons my heretic brothers and

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sisters. Ateichál's words are very .. interesting. They are very
.. interesting.
“There is only teleology. The purpose of the world, of the
Creation of everything, is to get Dore along on his journey.
For us, now that we have played our expediting role, there is
only life. Life without further goals beyond selfish pleasures.
We have seventy years to kill. All that we do, all work, all
play, all cultural, organizational, intellectual, bestial activity
represents nothing more than an effort to rid ourselves
temporarily of that oppressive fact. Seventy years, with
nothing to come after. Such a gross waste of energy, were it
not for Dore! Let us be thankful to him for that, at least! Let
us be thankful that we have had him, as so many billions
have not. Let us be thankful that he may still serve, in prayer,
as intermittent diversion. Seventy years, my brothers and
sisters! Such a long time to pass. The hours move so slowly.
“Without Dore, what do we have? Hope. And hope is an
illusion, a romance. The universe is emptier than we are, my
friends. There is no universal Good waiting for you to pass
your scabby human trials. There is no Good at all” Ateichál
drops her clenched fists to her sides. She begins to weep, and
Sabt hurries to her with a dark- blue cloak. Before the
departure of Dore, Ateichál was a student of the bones of
Home, delighting in the dark and stuffy shafts beneath the
ground, and in the mineral treasures to be found there. The
brooch that closes her cloak is made of lead, shaped to
resemble a fleshless human jaw of teeth.
Tere takes Ateichál's place on the balcony, moving with
great dramatic sweeps of cloak and waving of arms. “Come,

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my children” he shouts through his impervious smile, “sing
with me. Move your arms, my dears” he says, his eyes wide,
his voice cracking. “Move your feet, move your necks for
Dore” “Thank you” said Dore.
“Eh” said Despair, covering his crusted eyes suddenly
with his huge, filthy hands.
“For setting me free” said Dore. Glorian had disappeared.
“No, wait” said the giant, stumbling back against his
boulder door. “Nothing, there is nothing, don't you see. No
goodness left at all. They're right, loo. There is nothing to
hope for, loo, nothing to live for” The giant made several
strange choking sounds behind his hands, and Dore watched
anxiously, worried for Despair, his new friend. The giant
straightened at last, and breathed heavily. He recaptured
Dore with one quick movement.
“There is no evil, and there is no good” said Dore. “There
is some truth in both sentiments, I think, but perhaps a
compromise is closer”
“No, loo, no, loo” said the giant, carrying Dore back
through the tunnels, not even stopping to light a torch.
I hear that gentle knock. Dore is back in the cattle fold
now; he was nearly free, but now he's back in his foulsmelling
prison. The knock on the door means that Dyweyne
would like to speak with me. Her brother and lover has just
been plucked from the eager arms of freedom, and yet she
calls on me. I welcome her. Her face is creased and wet: what
distasteful feelings does she read in me? My sister, as much
as Mr. Oscar Wilde's well- known fictional portrait, shows to
me my real self, and I choose not to look too closely.

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“Why” she says, weeping. “That is not Dore. You do not
describe the brother you knew. What are you doing to him”
No one else in our family can make me feel— guilty.
“Is it because his quest is so pointless” she asks. “Why do
you not give him a real task? He was heroic and noble, but
how can he be in your silly situations? You have taken Dore
and yes, even Our Father and Mother, and changed them to
fit your strange narrative. Why, Seyt”
Well, I explain, no, I haven't, really. I can't expect her to
understand about my allegory or the complex framework I am
building. She is too simple, too generous to accept such
sophisticated technique. I say nothing more. Dyweyne
realizes that she is powerless to make me understand her: My
artistic integrity is stronger than her sentimentality, which is
as it should be. Romanticism is for adolescents, and stark
realism is for the mindless. I demand effort on the part of the
reader.
If I have distorted my characters, I'm sure Tere and
Ateichál would let me know.
Glorian and Dore stood against the wooden railing of the
empty pen. Glorian was trying desperately to revive Dore's
foundering morale. If only Dore knew how we were all behind
him one hundred percent, how we all wished him success,
how we all worried about him and even, secretly, tossed
unimportant books into the River for his well- being, I'm sure
he would have been heartened.
“Did you sleep well last night” asked Glorian.
“Yes, I suppose” said Dore, “although I was troubled by a
strange dream”

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“Oh? Perhaps it was some sort of omen. Tell me of it”
“Certainly” said Dore. “I dreamed of a domino”
“Just one”
“Yes, just the one. All night. No people or sounds in the
dream, just the domino. The five- three”
“Wonderful” cried Glorian. “The five- three is a lucky little
devil. It presages victory after hardships. It confirms your
inner ambition, but counsels you to avoid extremes, to
temper pleasure with practicality. Advances in music, art, and
drama are indicated. Rely on good manners and good taste.
The five- three is a domino of hope and good news”
“Are you making that up” said Dore suspiciously.
I am reminded of the many stories, perhaps apocryphal, of
Our Father and his fantastic ability with dominoes.
“See what I made you, Seyt” Laliche explodes into my
closet of a room, carrying a large, colored construction paper
gift. On one side is a golden snake with the head of a lion,
apparently floating above an altar. Around it is written in
Laliche's childish hand, “I, even I, am the Good Angel or
perhaps Spirit” On the back is pasted a triangle of letters:
A
EE
HHH
I I I I
OOOOO

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YYYYYY
WWWWWWW
and beneath that is written, “Please keep the contents of
Seyt's chest in working order”
“What is it for” I ask my little sister.
“It's a Gnostic amulet” she says solemnly. “That's Knubis,
the Sun of the Universe”
“I know” I say, “but those W's are supposed to be
omegas. And why did you give it to me”
“You have stirred the wrath of Tere and Ateichál” says
Laliche, kissing me suddenly on my cheek and running from
the room. At the door she stops and says, “I've never heard
of any stories of Our Father being skillful with dominoes”
“You're too young” I say, my mind considering her
warning.
“No” said Glorian. “But let us consider your plight.
Captured by a Giant Despair, like Christian and Hopeful in
Bunyan's ever- popular Pilgrim's Progress”
“I could never get through that” said Dore.
“Never mind. Perhaps we could take a lesson from them”
“How did they escape”
“They were put in a ‘dungeon, nasty and stinking. '”
“Uh huh”
“They had neither food nor water from Wednesday
morning until Saturday night. Every day the giant beat them
unmercifully”

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“Say” said Dore, “how do you know all these things”
“That's what I was put here for” said Glorian, giving me a
secret smile. “Anyway, the giant counseled suicide, rather
than their continuing a life of pain in his dungeon.
Fortunately, Christian had a key called promise that could
open every lock in the giant's castle”
“That was fortunate. What do I do”
“You consider some more. Spenser. The Faerie Queene.
Despair's not a legitimate giant, but he's big and he lives in a
cave. His charmed speeches persuade everyone who listens
to kill himself”
“Apparently despair leads to suicide”
“Yes” said Glorian, as pleased as any tutor with Dore's
understanding. “Despair is the greatest of evils, because it
limits and denies God's infinite love and mercy. One is saying
that one's sins are so great that even God couldn't forgive
them. A perverse sort of pride. Do you want to kill yourself”
“No” said Dore seriously, “things haven't gotten that bad”
“Fine, my lad”
“How does Spenser's hero kill Despair”
“He doesn't” said Glorian sadly. “His girl friend saves
him”
“Oh” said Dore. “Are we done considering”
“Not just yet. Before Spenser's Despair episode, a real
giant is killed. Orgoglio, Carnal Pride. When he's stabbed he
deflates like a blown- up balloon”
“That's dumb”
“Well, they used to think the erection of the penis was
caused by air. Giants are phallic symbols”

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“I've heard that somewhere else lately” said Dore
disgustedly.
No, that was Laliche telling me that.
Dore was silent for several seconds. “You want me to stab
him in the chest”
“I guess so” said Glorian.
“With what” There was no answer. Dore thought of the
other giants he had heard about. Glorian was silent, and for a
while Dore thought that the mystic ally might have
abandoned him again.
“How about pulling an Odysseus” said Dore to himself.
“Congratulations” said Glorian. “I was just waiting to see
how long it would take you. Come, let us sharpen the stake.
The giant will be back to lead out the goats very soon”
“Let's skip the stake, all right” asked Dore. “That's too
gratuitous. Besides, do you really think he'd lead the goats
out blind”
“I don't know” said Glorian doubtfully. “You'll be easy to
spot”
“I will not blind that stupid monster” said Dore. “He's in
bad enough shape already. Let's go find the goat pen”
In the terrible darkness the two men stumbled and bruised
themselves repeatedly, before the impatient noises of the
goats directed them to their goal. Dore was frantic for a
while, trying to find something to use to fasten himself to the
underside of a large goat. Quite by accident he discovered
two large buckets suspended from a pole by long ropes,
evidently used by the giant to transport milk. In a few

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minutes Glorian had tied Dore to the breast of the animal.
There was nothing left now but suspense.
Dore's face was pressed against the goat's stinking chest,
and thus he did not see the approaching light of the giant's
torch. But he could hear the familiar looing, and Dore grew
more anxious as he waited to be discovered. But after the
she- goats had been milked Dore knew by the motion of his
own that the flock was being led outside. Fortunately, Dore's
animal neither led the way nor straggled conspicuously, and
after a nervous journey Dore was finally outside. He had no
idea how long it had been since he had seen the sun, and
even now all he could see were gray, curly goat hairs.
He heard Glorian whisper, “Here, you evil- smelling beast”
and then Dore felt a sharp bump, as though Glorian had
kicked the goat. The animal began to run, and Dore hoped it
would not attract the attention of the giant. At the bottom of
Despair's hill he tried to call out, but his voice was muffled by
the closeness of the goat. “Tell your next victim my name is
Dore” he cried.
“What” said the giant, looking around for his captive.
“My name is Dore” shouted our brother, his words still
garbled.
“Eh” said the giant.
“Never mind” said Dore.
“Eh? What”
And so Dore devised and executed his own escape from
the prison of the giant Despair, bound to the bottom of a rawboned
goat. And, also, he conquers Despair, the chiefest of
heresies. Tere? Ateichál? All right?

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And you, Dyweyne: How's that?

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Chapter seven
Goats That Pass in the Night
Where is Dore now? Tied upside- down to the bottom of a
goat, yes, of course; but where? I had him wandering away
from the River, through a forest to the giant's mountain. Now
he's gone back down the hill. I don't suppose the goat would
pick his way through that dense thicket, so for now Dore's
going even further from the River. Slowly we are learning that
the River runs as a great life- giving and sanity- maintaining
force through our world. The farther one travels from its
blessed banks the more irrational become the local
inhabitants, and even the environment itself. And now,
helpless, Dore is carried deeper into that enveloping chaos.
We must fear for his safety.
The goat stopped to eat some grass. “Glorian” said Dore.
“Let me down, Glorian, I'm getting tired” There was,
natürlich, no answer. “I'm getting very hungry, you know
that, Glorian” Silence, broken only by peaceful, innocent bird
songs. A warm sun in a white sky, the heartening sounds of
insects at work and play, the friendly welcome of growing
things: None of this relieved Dore's aching neck and back, his
leaden arms and legs, his parched throat and empty stomach.
Where the goat skips, there skips he. As the goat stood
idly munching the early- afternoon grass, Dore began to be
aware of noises around him that didn't conform to the
vicinage: metal clinking on metal, meanings, sounds of feet

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tramping across the meadow. The people had to approach
very closely before Dore could actually see them. Indeed, a
man spoke up before Dore was aware of his presence.
“Hello, I've found some sort of beast” shouted the man.
“A horse, perhaps” said one of the others.
“No” said the first, “it seems to have horns. It's not large
enough for a horse, either. It may be a goat”
“Yes” said Dore, “it's a goat”
“It talks” said the first man fearfully, moving away. Dore
could see that he was dressed in a very ragged military
uniform. He carried an absurdly ancient rifle over his
shoulder, in such disrepair that Dore did not believe it could
be fired. The man's trousers were tattered and patched, and
his feet were bound up in filthy rags.
“No” said Dore, “it's just me. I'd be grateful if you'd get
me down”
“Is it a demon” asked one of the other men, who had
gathered around the goat at a respectful distance.
“No” said the first man, “it didn't seem to burn when I
touched it. I think it is merely a talking goat”
“Can't you see me” said Dore in exasperation.
“No” said one, “of course not. We're blind”
“Blind? An army, blind”
“We're retreating, aren't we” said the first man.
“How did it happen? What strange weapon or terror
blinded you all, to a man” asked Dore with his noted
compassion recognizable in his voice.
“Oh, we were blind when we set out” said one of the
shabby warriors.

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“Ah” said Dore in anguish. “What people could send out
such a handicapped and futile force to defend them”
“It's not as bad as all that” said the first man, as the
others began to take up again their stumbling, painful march
homeward. “We are from the village of Newburg, and we
have constant border disputes with another village,
Springfield. But years ago our rulers agreed on this method of
keeping the carnage to a minimum. Both villages gather
together their sightless citizens of all ages, men and women.
We are armed and led on our way out of town. If and when
by chance we should meet the blind army of Springfield, we
engage them as best we can. This way there is no one to
witness the horrors of war, and no one is left with crippling
visual memories of the butchery. Indeed, few are ever hurt,
and never by design but only through chance and the holy will
of God. After a time we regroup, and the army of Springfield
marshals itself, and the two forces return to their homes. The
sight of our poor band, limping, bleeding more from lowhanging
branches than bullets, torn and dirty and tired and
completely vincible, is enough to frighten our fellow citizens
back into their safe parlors. We look so utterly defeated that
everyone expects momentarily the Springfield army of
occupation. They wait breathlessly for the new masters, for
the life of slavery and hopelessness. Of course, the townsfolk
of Springfield are thinking the same thing. And everyone is
content to live for a while without interference, happy to be
left alone, grateful for the negligence of the conquerors”
“That's horrible” said Dore. “It's absurd to think it could
work more than once”

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“Oh, I don't know” said the man. “We're but simple
country folk. God be with you, goat”
“Stop” said Dore pleadingly, “you have to help me”
“Nay. You cannot aid us, and we have nothing for you. Our
task is finished” And the man went along across the meadow
after his companions, and Dore was once more left alone.
Later, as the twilight deepened, our brother thought he saw
another goat, standing motionless on the horizon. His own
goat showed no sign of recognition, and so Dore kept his
peace.
Today is a special day. The River rose during the night,
grumbling and straining its back higher and higher until this
morning we saw it from the fields. The sunlight reflected from
the boiling surface and shone, sparklike, through the flat gray
leaves of the low dey trees along the bank. Peytheida touched
me on the arm during breakfast. “Do you think you can leave
your history this morning” she asked. “Long enough to come
with us, I mean. You haven't done the book thing in quite a
while”
I nodded. I wasn't aware that I have been that lax in my
observances. Things pile up. I'm losing points with Tere,
Ateichál, Dyweyne, Joilliena, and the family, not to mention
Our Father and Mother, and even the River. How difficult it is
to be a functioning artist in a demanding society. Such neverto-
be- forgotten masters as Wagner and Kafka could afford to
thumb their noses at convention and the myth of sociability.
But we lesser luminaries must make efforts to conform, at
least until our output has purchased for us a modicum of
accepted eccentricity.

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Peytheida carried a worn blue edition of Up From Slavery
by Booker T. Washington. Elliavia brought a copy of Branch
Cabell's Ladies and Gentlemen, complete with dust jacket. I
found a volume of Bury's History of Greece. My sisters were
very beautiful. I was haggard, bleary- eyed from working late
and rising early. My clothing was rumpled; I tend to neglect
my appearance when I am composing. The younger children
giggle at me behind their hands in the hallways. The older
brothers and sisters glance at me at meals and turn away to
speak in whispers, with creased brows and much nodding. But
this morning I made a discovery of myself. I tried to reach my
new and changing personality; but it is still, for the most part,
secret. A few hints, and some new peace.
The River changed from flat gray to flat green, dark flat
blue to a black almost as deep as the moonless night. We
stood for a few minutes on the bank, silently, within our
individual and unjoined thoughts. Then Peytheida tossed her
book into the water. The River changed immediately, keeping
its same ominous hues but falling back to its accustomed
depth, leaving us higher and farther from the current. Elliavia
had to throw her book quite a distance then, over an expanse
of mud and shore that was already drying and verdant with
new, River- sired sedge. Immediately the Cabell touched the
water the River lightened in color. I did not wait, but threw
my book into the flood. There were no visible effects, but we
all felt them in our souls. The whole world enjoyed the repose
of the heart.
I thanked my sisters for asking me to join them. Where
before I felt the torture of inconstant emotions, I feel now the

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joy of unified energies. I am able to verbalize my feeling
better— and am now for the first time aware of a sudden love
for Dyweyne, and a gratitude for the cherished love of
Joilliena. I understand responsibility, chiefly my lapses
concerning the proper respect due my house and our River.
Tere and Ateichál are justified in their displeasure. I hope that
my observances today in some small part rectify my illconsidered
neglect.
I receive a note from Tere. He and his sister- in- faith would
be pleased if I were to make amends. Terms to be arranged.
Peace. Harmony. Good fellowship.
I. I cannot write, not about Dore. I will sleep.
I awoke to find Joilliena kneeling by the side of my bed,
praying. I raised my head a little, but she did not notice, so I
let it fall back to the pillow. I closed my eyes and pretended
to be still asleep. The silence was awful, because the situation
was so strange. Perhaps I had been asleep for days or weeks,
unconscious and on death's waiting list, and only now had
made a miraculous recovery. My tongue felt all right and the
inside of my mouth was free of unusual symptoms. My limbs
could be moved without discomfort. I did not feel the
presence of swellings under my arms or ears. My head and
throat were without pain, and I was neither fevered nor
chilled. Physically I felt fine.
But mentally, no. Where was the well- being that soothed
me to sleep? I could almost recall that sense of oneness of
purpose, of solidarity with my family and my world that
destroyed the doubts of the last few weeks. It may be that I
have sunk to deeper depression now, having known and

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misplaced a rare religious event. When at last I sat up and
interrupted Joilliena's worship, she merely smiled shyly,
stood, and left without a word. I read over my words of last
evening and experienced only a sense of profound loss, that
the moment of pure devotion had to be so fragile and shortlived.
Later I found beneath my bed a scrap of parchment
with a crudely drawn duck and the words “O River, forgive
him, he doesn't know what he's talking about” inscribed on
the back.
“There is only work. Do it” I will lose myself again and
forever in my history. All else is fantasy. People are dreams
and hopes are less.
The goat; Dore. The countryside flattened as they
wandered farther from the safety of the River. From Dore's
upside- down vantage the features of the landscape seemed to
shrink: Tall losperns gave way to stubby, barren fruit trees,
then to shag- barked pollits, to thorny bushes, low shrubs,
clumpy weeds. The tall grass disappeared and was replaced
by the prickly short stuff that we find in hard, stony soil. Dore
was desperately thirsty, but never did he find help in being
loosed from his creature prison. He traveled bound to the
beast for several days. At last he spied a solitary micha tree
in the midst of the plain. The goat, also, was intrigued by the
anomaly, and as Dore came closer to the tree he discovered
that a man was tied to it, as helpless as our brother.
The tree grew straight and branchless for ten or twelve
feet, and there the trunk was marked by two limbs growing
out parallel to the ground, looking like two supplicating arms.
The poor man had his own arms thrown back over the

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branches and bound, and his body was thrust forward
painfully by the curvature of the trunk. His head hung forward
as though he were asleep, comatose, or dead.
“Hello” called Dore. The convict jerked his head up in
surprise.
“Hello” he said. “Get me down”
“You can see how I am as resourceless as you, roped as I
am to this goat. Do you know how I might be released”
“If you don't get me down, I don't care” said the man.
You can begin to see what the journey and the difficulties
have done to Dore. Even Tere and Ateichál in their sanctified
rigidity must admit that the things he has seen and the
people he has had to deal with must have caused him to
change. Surely one can't behave the same, rely on old
standard patterns of response in every situation. So of
course, Dyweyne, of course it isn't the same Dore we knew. It
isn't the same world, either.
But such things as common courtesy go beyond local
custom. Situation ethics do not excuse insolence, vulgarity,
and discourtesy. How often Our Mother used to say that very
thing! Early in the morning, on the way to the chata fields, I
used to hear her mumbling away about politeness. She didn't
mind bad news, she always claimed, as long as the
messenger was polite. We read often in the Greeks,
particularly Oedipus the King and one of the Oresteia, I
believe, of the frightened bearer of bad tidings worrying about
his own punishment. Politeness is the key. If we remember
the three magic words we can open any door. Soon Laliche

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will tell me that she thought Promise was the key. That was
last chapter.
So Dore had to explain patiently and carefully to the man
in custody of the micha tree. He did so to no avail. The man
grew angrier, cursing Dore for lacking the compassion to set
him free. Evidently the man was of a weak mind in the past,
for he seemingly could not comprehend that Dore, too, was
as imprisoned as he.
“Are you some sort of mythological hybrid” asked the
man in the tree.
“No” said Dore.
“I mean like a centaur or something. You look like part
man, part goat. If you have strange and inhuman faculties,
you could easily get me down”
“I'm sorry” said Dore, “but I'm just a man like you, tied to
a goat. Like I said, I can't use my hands to free either of us”
“I can pay you”
“It's not that”
“Look” said the man in a surly voice, “why don't we do
this: I'll ask you a riddle. If you guess it, you may pass by
unharmed. If not, you have to cut me down. Ready? What is
it that dreams at noon and toils at midnight, yet never sleeps
or works”
“It doesn't concern me now” said Dore.
The man was quiet for a few seconds. “It doesn't matter.
You aren't real, anyway”
“What is reality” asked Dore.
“Is that your riddle” said the man sarcastically. “Did you
make that up by yourself”

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“Well, what is reality”
“All right” said the man, “I'll tell you” And the man told
Dore what reality really is. “Reality is neatly summed up in
this poem:
What is there but to run, and
having run, rave, and
having raved,
ruin?
What more"
“Where did you learn that” asked Dore without interest.
“I always knew it. I'm the corporal manifestation of the
spirit of the River”
Now this, we the readers know, is a patent lie. The
corporal manifestation of the River is Glorian. But Dore hasn't
thought of that yet. Nevertheless, he didn't accept the
stranger's word on the matter.
Dore, as a paid- up member of our happy clan, had much
experience with manifestations and aspects. They are quite a
source of amusement among the younger children. Of course,
having divine parents leaves one with the constant
uncertainty that the doglike animal or friendly shade tree one
is observing may well be Father or Mother off on a spree. We
frequently tell the toddlers to be good, or Our Father will get
them, usually in the form of a streptococcus or a letmoth. If
they are frightened and ask to have the night light left on, we
turn the screw and tell them that even the light may be an

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offended Parent, just waiting for the youngster to fall
asleep. That always gets them.
Our Father was compelled to come to Our Mother in
various guises, for well- known reasons. The shower of gold
was a favorite for a while, until the thrill began to fade. Our
Father employed on special occasions the form of the
fructifying rainstorm, a very Chaucerian touch that I've
always applauded. It took Our whining Mother a while to
figure out what to do with a rainstorm. And, too, certain
errors and miscalculations were bound to result. We like to
repeat the jocular tale of the day Our Father came in from his
work with the chairs to find Our Mother in bed with a strange
swan.
“Isn't this” said Our Mother, confusion claiming her
expression.
“No” said Our Father, kicking the fowl out of his marriage
bed and going out to find a bite to eat. These incidents
happened fairly frequently, and Our Mother always had the
perfect excuse that she could never be sure that it wasn't her
husband, who thus was cuckolded by animals, vegetables,
and inanimate objects. But nowadays we wonder.
I hear shouts of outrage from downstairs, from outside,
from next door and up in the towers: “No, we don't wonder.
You wonder”
Not a note, but Tere himself stands at my barrierless door.
He is angry, and even his perpetual, oiled smile cannot hide
his outrage. I invite him in, offer him a chair, a handful of
gebbins. He does not move. He glares, and after a suitable
time, smiling, he speaks.

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“We are having a meeting, brother Seyt” he says. “A
representative group of us have gathered to discuss your
work so far. It would be well for you to attend. The discussion
will be salient, instructive, and mandatory. In ten minutes. In
my suite”
His suite. That tells you something, doesn't it? Let me
finish with Dore.
The man chained in the micha tree cursed our brother
soundly, promising to bring down all sorts of plagues for
Dore's failure to observe the laws of hospitality. Dore couldn't
waste any more time with him, so he apologized for his haste
and took his departure. After some struggling and painful jabs
of numbed feet and hands, the goat moved on. Dore thought
he saw another goat, just like his, walking slowly across the
plain, a man tied beneath it just like our brother. This time
Dore called out, but there was no answer. Perhaps he was
hallucinating.
Tere's rooms were filled with my brothers and sisters. In
the large central chamber was a lovely michawood table,
which I remembered used to be in the state dining room in
the South Wing. Around it were seated Tere, Ateichál, Sabt,
Shesarine, Joilliena, Vaelluin, Blin, Dyweyne, Elliavia,
Peytheida, Loml, and several others whom I haven't spoken
to in many months. Chairs and stools were scattered about
and filled the room with staring, uncompromising faces: my
brothers and sisters, my family, my critics, my jury. Tere's
other four rooms were also crowded and, while these
kinspeople could not see me, word of my appearance was
passed by messenger from group to group. Nesp, ninth- oldest

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male (and thus the functioning male member of our family
next oldest to me, stood and faced me as I hesitated on the
threshold.
“Ah, Seyt” he said without enthusiasm, “won't you come
in” I glanced at Tere. He said nothing, but smiled dreadfully.
I wanted to tell Nesp that I didn't think I would come in, just
to see the reaction.
“Thank you” I said. A seat had apparently been left for me
at the table, between Dyweyne and Joilliena, and I sat
uncomfortably.
“We wanted to discuss with you your journal of Dore's
pilgrimage” said Nesp. It took me a few moments to
remember where I had met him before, but after listening to
him for a while I recalled that he was Vice- president in
Charge of Permeation for the Ploutos Corporation. I never
liked him.
“Certainly” I said.
“Now, of course, you have been handed a difficult
assignment. And, right off the bat here, at the outset, we'd
like to say that we appreciate the diligent way you've handled
the hot potato we passed to you. As far as quantity goes,
you're doing fine” Nesp paused, and I looked around. No one
had changed expression, but Sabt nodded thoughtfully. “But
you have a problem” said Nesp. “We realize how formidable
a task it must be to chronicle the progress of a near- god”
“A god” said Ateichál in her lowest voice.
“Yes, quite” said Nesp, looking a bit shaken. Could that
slip have been enough of a sin to warrant turning in his name
and several pounds of flesh, for four digits and a place in the

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sun? We don't know. That's what I'm supposed to be doing, if
they'd only let me alone. I'm codifying the faith.
“In any event” said Nesp nervously, “we have Our Father
and Mother above, with light, rain, and grace. Dore for a
time, as we all know, dwelt among us without any outward
sign of his special calling. But it is apparent, through the
troubled days we have had since his departure, that it was
through him that the spirit of Our Parents made itself
manifest in our midst. Perhaps we have the divine motivation
to unite with God, Our Parents, the River; but without Dore
that hope is meaningless”
“Nicely put, brother Nesp” said Ateichál with an edge of
impatience to her voice. “But I think what Seyt would like to
hear is criticism more to the point. Style. Technique. Point of
view”
“Yes” said Nesp, nearly sliding beneath the table in his
fear, “yes, quite so. If we may direct our attention to those
matters now, then. We, as your patrons and your audience,
feel that if and when you stray from your precise assignment
it is our duty to instruct you. We do not intend to interfere
with your material as such. Please don't interpret this as an
attempt to censor you or to discourage you in any way. But
we are concerned with the matter of correct thought.
Orthodoxy. A minimal adherence to the facts as we
understand them. And here is our .. complaint” Nesp smiled
at me. I chewed my fingernail and nodded. “You tend to
misrepresent both Our Parents and Dore. You allude to
incidents in the past which are not official doctrine. Further,
lately you have begun to invent what may be interpreted as

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myths impugning the well- known and documented moral
character of our beloved pantheon”
There was a terrible silence. I was expected to defend
myself.
“Thank you” I said. “I appreciate your interest. All I can
say is that, of course, the work is yet incomplete, and
perhaps you are developing an incorrect impression seeing it
bit by bit. I think that it may be best for you to wait until I
have finished, when you can see the grand play of narrative,
action, suspense, humor, and other tricks. I have spent a
great amount of time inventing an overlaying system of color,
size, animal, plant, and number symbolism, of which you
seem to be unaware, unfortunately. I am using inspirations at
such a prodigious rate that my subconscious seems to have
formed a protective callus. If I have wandered from my
appointed path, forgive me and allow me to try to find it
anew”
They all seemed very satisfied. Nesp rose and came over
to me while the younger brothers and sisters were serving
cider and donuts. He shook my hand and told me that he had
enjoyed my giant. I thanked him. He told me to come down
and visit him at the Corporation. I thanked him, looking over
his shoulder at Tere and Ateichál, those rival pietists. Neither
had moved from his seat, neither had spoken. They both were
staring back at me, but I couldn't read the meaning of their
looks.
I am severely chastised. Could this have happened if Dore
had been here? An unfair question, a moot point. This started
out to be so much fun. It seems sometimes that objects are

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designed to defeat their apparent purpose. Pens are made to
enable one to write words that mask one's meaning.
Frustration is the chief weapon of chaos. We don't have
forever, and that saddens me.
A definitely anti- Ateichálian sentiment. All right, fellows.
Starting tomorrow I will be better.

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Chapter eight
Free at Last
It's very quiet today.
There are no unsettling comings and goings of younger
family members, asking me if they can be in my book. None
of the older brothers and sisters have come in to stand,
coughing, by the side of my desk until I acknowledge them.
Everyone is leaving me alone today, alone to write my own
impeachment, if I will. I feel as if I am auditioning for old age.
With what morbid interest are they gathered, to watch me
hastening to the thumbscrew and bastinado of Ateichál's
sacred mission? Who cheers me on? Is there a section of the
grandstand set aside for my fans?
Life along the River is exciting, healthful, never
exhausting. But I can't claim that we live here without threats
to our safety. Besides the somewhat shaky relations with our
neighbors, whom we choose to ignore, there are strange
beasts and vegetable menaces. Standing on the hill with the
banner was not a simple task. I am rather glad that this
history excused me from the job, which has been passed on
to the eleventh- oldest male, a young man named Thib. We
regret that Thib is not as suited, preferring to spend his spare
time in dark and damp cellars. I told him that if he wished he
could come to me for some pointers, but he never did. I
fulfilled my obligation to him.

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Happiness has always played a great part in the governing
of our family. We were always happy, except for those times
when devotional matters by their nature compelled us to
grieve. But in the day- to- day maintenance of affairs we were
quite contented. Each of us had his own particular area of
interest, but each member of the family was concerned for
everyone else's business as well. For an instance, I was
always messing around in the meadows. Flowers, most
frequently the yellow ones, were my sidekicks, though there
was a limited amount of experiences which we could share.
Nevertheless, I gained through Relp's association with lily
pads, for example, or Vaelluin's water birds. She was so lost
when they followed Dore down the River.
I don't know if I can convey to you, my now- and- then
readers, the pervasive, nearly threatening quality of that
happiness. We were reminded of it constantly. Our Mother
told us often enough that she wept only that we might not
have to. But that weeping, bless her soul if it needs it, was
the only signal we had that our happiness was to some extent
illusory. It kept us awake nights. Even today leaves will not
grow on the lower branches of the micha tree under which
she sat.
Our happiness was founded on beauty, pleasure, and
fertility. Everyone is beautiful. Everyone has access to
everything he desires. And Our Mother was fertile. She was a
true mine of information and children. We, for some reason,
are not. Our Mother always felt that her greatest sadness
since the vanishing of her husband was in never seeing a
grandchild. The dew of the subconscious, trampled upon by

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the cloddish feet of sensual, conscious life, lies all around us
on the lawn of existence. The tributary streams of thought,
arising from the collected dews and passing from our minds in
the form of action, make us what we are. And our dews are
beautiful dews. We think joy and sky and silver chalices. We
have happiness. We dance to express ourselves, oftentimes
stopping in the middle of some essential labor to hop up and
down with strange, ecstatic expressions on our faces. Others
in the chamber or hallway or field will clap their hands. It's a
shame that Dore has to miss all this.
And now, sincerely, I want to thank Tere and Ateichál for
their custodianship of our happiness. Without them we would
have been lost in the bogs of individual interpretation. We
would have wasted our energies in many fruitless directions,
but they have sacrificed their own pleasures to the task of
uniting us. We are a great team, moving forward into
enlightenment together, watchful for those twin deceitful
lords, Rumor and Heresy. Like Hermes, messenger of the
gods, the bringer of the Word and the guide of the dead, Tere
and Ateichál join the best of both worlds, the male and female
principles combined without taint of carnality to the
betterment of all concerned. And if Tere's masculinity is less
apparent than it might be, and if Tere and Ateichál tend to
differ over fine points of doctrine, well, it is only Our Father's
way of reminding us that they— and us— are only mortal.
But not for long. I have a plan.
In a perfect democracy such as ours, where each member
of the family has precisely the same opportunity to
demonstrate merit, those who possess that merit cannot fail

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to be recognized. Inner worth makes itself known although,
due to the total environment of equality, there is little
personal gratification. Naturally, those with the most
goodness are those least interested in reward, but it is a wellknown
fact that the existence and impartial availability of
reward can act as a motivating factor for those unfortunates
born with fewer of God's beneficences. If one can point to
another, better person and try to emulate him, for whatever
reasons, the results can only work for the general good.
Thus, I herewith introduce a system for canonization,
contingent only on the acceptance of the sectarian leaders.
My inspiration is obvious, and I beg the pardon of Tere and
Ateichál for my lack of imagination, but I hasten to say that I
see no reason why the scheme may not be as serviceable
now as it has proved to be in the past.
St. Lucy, my researches indicate, was a virgin martyr of
quite some time ago. She was an allround fine person and
had several miraculous or horrible things happen to her. In
art of the church she was pictured with two eyeballs on a
dish. Every time you saw a holy lady with two eyes on a dish,
it was St. Lucy, because of the similarity between her name
and the Latin for “light” Now, if my plan were adopted,
Ateichál could be St. Ateichál, not necessarily a virgin or
martyr but possessed of enough mystic substance to easily
defeat all competition. Future graphic representations of her
could contain some symbol of her personality or her
achievements. I don't know what.
Even Tere. St. Tere. Of course, like all new ideas it takes a
bit of getting used to. But even the true saints were

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sometimes a mite ludicrous in the stories and myths that
came to be collected. We read of St. Agatha, another in a
long series of virgin martyrs. She had her breasts cut off for
her faith, and is of course shown in paintings and mosaics as
carrying them on a dish. Because of the shape of breasts on a
dish she is the patron saint of bell founders. Who knows what
Tere might end up to be? St. Apollonia had several teeth put
out by an angry mob and became the divine one invoked
against toothache. In time we might with a little effort build
up an entire Ars Medica of helpful souls.
Say it with me now: St. Ateichál. St. Tere. A small
beginning, but a sure and practical foundation for a great
edifice of faith. Let us prepare now for the eventual passing of
these two most generous of disciples. Let us build gorgeous
things to house chips of their bone. Let us touch St. Tere and
St. Ateichál whenever we can, and tell them of the cures they
have achieved. Let us smile quietly at them when they pass.
And let us not forget to be on the lookout for others who
might, through demonstrations of virtue, be elevated to their
lonely rank. Whoever proves that he lives “along Dore's way”
may be eligible, and not just those who work miracles or talk
to fish. Even a poor hagiographer.
Who will be the first to have a vision and build a shrine?
Who will be the first to be eaten in Dore's name? Who will be
the first to hold back the River's angry torrent with his simple
faith? I tingle with anticipation. It is possible that this work
may be equivalent to Moses’ well- received Pentateuch, that I
institute here the beginnings of something that will endure for

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all time, even as my avid- for- wealth Ploutonic brethren have
indicated?
How quickly the dream ends. Two notes—
From Tere: “No. I will not accept sainthood”
From Ateichál, ironic in tone: “We lack virgins”
The rain begins. It is evening. The quiet is still
undisturbed, and somehow the daily shower spatting on the
narrow slit of a window makes the house even more
soundless. I wish I could judge whether I am thought a fool, a
dangerous enemy of the faith, or a pious workman who
happened to miss his mark. I wish there were external
guidelines; I wish my personal doubts didn't so mask the
reality of my work. What I write is governed by what I feel,
and (St) Tere and (St) Ateichál will not give me the time or
the liberty to know what that is.
I would like to go for a walk with Dyweyne. I would like to
walk beside her through the paneled, tiled, tapestry- hung
halls of this house and talk, in low, loving, sentenceless
tones. So much could be understood. Perhaps when I became
afraid we would stop and I would touch her arm and she
would lower her eyes and smile. People going by would
pretend not to notice. Then we'd walk some more until I
uncovered a new fear. Soon they'd all be gone. Dyweyne,
why don't you come? Is it because you do not believe that I
have anything to offer you?
Many material benefits can accrue from our association.
Gain through inventiveness: In my function here as
documenter of the faith I am in a position to make or break
you, not that you have to worry about the latter. But I can set

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you up in a comfortable circumstance. I'm sure you
appreciate that. As the companion of the official historian and
biographer of our esteemed brother, you will receive extra
attention. All eyes will be on you when we enter the cafeteria.
Our sisters will copy your dress, your hair styles, your
mannerisms. Stories will be written comparing me to Dore,
telling of the pain of his memory and linking your name with
others in clandestine attempts to ease your anguish.
I'll go out now, I think. I haven't taken a good ramble in
months. How grow the hedges beyond the yard? Do the
doglike animals still run wild, waiting to nip your ankles when
you cross the property line? I think I will take a summer
promenade, along the same rude highway that Dore followed,
so many dreadful weeks ago. I will take my notebook and
search for clues. And perhaps I will meet someone; perhaps
Dyweyne will feel like leaving her humid cell for a while.
The house looks as if it has aged a century in the last few
months. The paint on the outer walls and palisades and
gabled towers is flaking off, as though our very residence
weeps for Dore's return. The driveway is a long, gently
curving path filled with white cinders. The crunching sound
they make beneath my shoes always made me feel curiously
at home, but today they are reminding me that as I walk
down the hill I am going away from our country. I pass the
various introductory monuments just within the huge, arching
granite gates. Here is Loml's moss- covered obelisk, the oldest
of them. It makes me seek out my own shattered pediment,
which I began at the age of eight and destroyed at an early
stage when I discovered that no one was watching. It is

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hidden by weeds. Here is Niln's red column, inscribed with
meaningless pictographs. There is a new, sad equestrian
statue of Dore, built by Talavesía, Dúnilaea and Laliche. A
bronze tablet with Yord's name engraved on it; a marble
column; several simple pillars; a boulder with strange figures
carved on it which Aniatrese tells me are copied from Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle's “Adventure of the Dancing Men” a
Sherlock Holmes rouser. I pass by these and other remarks,
under the permanently open stone portals, and out into the
wide world of mystery and disease.
About a quarter mile down the road I came to the home of
the Fourth family, residence of the lovely Melithiel who is
famed in song and legend. As no one seemed to be out and
about, I saluted as I passed. I went on, and I saw the forest
track where Dore turned away from the road. I didn't.
Continuing down the road, I saw a weather- worn roadside
stand, where the way is met by the drive of the Fifth family.
It was constructed of warped boards and sections of
cardboard, badly fitted together and threatening to surrender
entirely at any time. A wooden sign stood in the uncut grass,
with letters of chalk dispersed and emaciated by the evening's
rain. The sign was unreadable, but I saw pints of strawberries
for sale, and apples, corn, raw gebbins, beans, tomatoes, and
flowers. The whole thing gladdened me; I think that it's
because I was gratified to see someone still working for
himself, still providing, still contending successfully, with
enough left over to offer in trade. Our poor attempt at
growing chata embarrassed me, because I know that the

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Fifths here must resent us more for it. I went up to the stand
and said hello.
“Howdy” said a young boy, perhaps six or seven years
old. He was shy and after his first volley retired behind his
grandfather's chair. The old man, I recalled, was Donald Five,
an honest patriarchal sort. He touched the child's head
affectionately. His son and daughter- in- law, Andrew and
Bonny Five, ran the farm now. I supposed Mr. Donald had
been put to pasture here at the stand. Is it worse than a
stone- damp throne?
“Onions and carrots are cheap today” said Donald Five. I
felt my throat choke with emotion; which one?
“Fine” I said. “And let me have a box of the berries,
okay”
“Anything else”
“No, that's all for today”
“That's, um, three- six, and one” said the old man, putting
my purchases in a stained paper bag.
“Do you have to have cash” I asked in humiliation. “You
see, I'm a First, and I don't usually carry money”
“You're a First, are you” said the old man suspiciously. “I
beg your pardon, but I'm afraid I didn't recognize you” I
could see that he didn't believe me. I got out my card, and he
examined it for a moment. “I'm sorry, sir, that I caused you
this trouble” he said politely, but, I could sense, bitterly.
“Take these with our compliments” I took the package and
hurried down the road, still away from our house. I had
wanted to talk to those people, to let them know of my

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sudden and dilettante affection, and I only succeeded in
playing the lord.
I saw no one for several hundred yards and my thoughts
and unpracticed guilts tortured me. I saw Les and Larry
Eleven, with whom I played when I was much younger and
less discriminating. They were standing on a hill in their yard,
looking out over the River with their older sister, Maureen. I
yelled to them, and they turned and waved. I went up their
driveway and climbed the hill to join them.
“Hi” I said, nervously.
“Hi” said Les. “Haven't seen you for a long time”
“Been busy” I said.
Larry touched Maureen's shoulder and I heard him say,
"For eight years"
Maureen smiled at me. “You're a First, aren't you” she
said. I nodded, pretending to be interested in anything else.
“You're the one who's writing the story of that other one, the
one who went down there, aren't you” She pointed her bare
arm down the River. I nodded again.
“How did you know that” I asked, kicking a stone down
the hill toward the water.
“She gets around” said Larry, grinning.
Maureen stood by my side and pressed herself against me.
“I get around” she said. “I come and go”
“She means she comes and she goes down" said Les.
“I'm sorry” I said, frightened of their cupidity, “I'm not
carrying any cash”
The three were silent, shocked. Maureen stared at me with
her head slightly turned, her forehead furrowed. Larry took

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her arm. “Come on” he said. “Let's go back to the house”
His brother knelt and picked up some small stones. I was
afraid that he was going to throw them at me, but he turned
his back and ignored me completely, and threw them out into
the River. I might have been horrified by his sacrilege, as
would about half the other members of our family.
I stayed on the road, coming at last to a small side street
which I followed to the estate of the Twentyseventh family.
This clan lived in many individual, identically constructed
houses; they were painted white or yellow or pale green with
a flagstone walk and a picture window, much the same as
their ancestors had for centuries on our forsaken shelter,
Earth. I took a deep breath and marched up the path to one
of the houses.
I rang the doorbell and was answered by a large woman,
strong and red and parturient. “These are for you” I said,
pressing the bag of vegetables into her hands.
“For me? Thanks” she said, closing the door. I caught it
before it shut.
“Wait” I said, “I'd like to ask you a few questions”
“I don't know. We don't want to buy nothing”
“I assure you I'm not selling anything” I said. “Did you
ever know Dore First”
“He one of them that live in that crazy big house up to the
end of the road” she asked.
“Yes, ma'am”
“They're crazy. Don't know the one you mean, he never
been by here, ain't likely any of ’em ever will. They're all
crazy. Is that all right”

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“Yes, ma'am, thank you” I said and headed home. The
road was filled with holes, and I stumbled over large rocks a
few times. All the way I felt very vulnerable. It was a new
feeling, and I welcomed it. I tried to think of a way of
avoiding the Fifth's fruit stand; when I passed it, it had been
shut up for the evening.
My room is dark, and it suits me now. I believe that this
afternoon I went by a milestone in my development. From
struggling artist I have graduated to suffering poet. It is not a
happy milestone, and I will endeavor to get through this
stage as quickly as possible. What's next? Angry young man?
Bored celebrity?
My room is dark; there are two narrow windows set in the
heavy stones of the outer wall, and they let in little light. For
illumination I depend on tallow candles with which Joilliena
supplies me, scorning the overhead fluorescents. The
windows are rectangular, standing tall on scanty bases. They
are divided into dozens of small regular parallelograms by
lines of gray lead. On one of the windows two of the
parallelograms are colored; a transparent red and a yellow
pane have been inserted by a whimsical glazier. On the other
window there is a green and an orange pane, as well as an
uncolored pane with a very detailed tempera painting of a
scholar in a wheelbarrow.
My room is rectangular, just wide enough for my bed along
one short wall. The long walls run parallel to the major axis of
the house itself, and thus the two windows look out,
theoretically, on the yard of chairs and the vacant throne of
Our Mother. But an addition was built jutting out obliquely

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from the house. On the ground floor the addition makes with
the house a sort of open courtyard or bay, and there is a
charming cloistered walk in the new wing. On the grass we
have placed a table with a large umbrella and four white
aluminum chairs. The new wing has a tower which obstructs
my view. In the tower is a single small window, about twelve
inches long and six inches high.
Dore loved our house. No, I don't mean just the family and
Our Parents and the fallow ambience; he loved the house, its
inanimate construction, the insane angles and explosions of
rooms. Dore was basically a homebody. He never went out to
eat. I don't recall his ever once taking someone dancing or
getting up a softball game. This may be the reason Ateichál
has avoided the rigors of a missionary tactic: We are the
Chosen, of course, but we were Chosen for something that
had previously occurred. There is little use in going out to
convince others that the greatest spiritual guide has already
been here, had nothing to say, and left without promise. Ours
is a strange faith.
Dore was enthusiastic on the job. He made friends quickly
and used materials wisely. He fit in. All nature rejoiced to his
presence. When he walked across the lawn the grass in his
footsteps stretched out toward him, rather than clinging
crushed to the ground. From Dore's small, constant smile I
gathered that the tiny blades praised him in their grassy
tongue, inaudible to us of course, but related closely to the
dialects of his woody friends. It was from his trees that we
first got a hint of his pervasive influence: One day, as we
labored early in the bean fields, we were astounded to hear

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the branches of the trees groaning and rustling in perfect
four- part harmony, with elegant counterpoints, themes,
restatements, all a verdant orchestration of a Scottish pibroch
or dirge, according to Cillenavei. We had never heard
anything like it, and we knew that no one of us had the skill
to teach the trees that music. The trees missed him, more,
I'm sure, than my meadows would miss me. Soon we became
blasé to swarms of bees humming descants to his absence, or
Riverbank pebbles spontaneously forming intricate mandalas
with his portrait in the center.
Dore's established leadership enables us to bear our guilt
as well as we do. We console ourselves with trifles. If one of
us looks sad, as though he is considering his part in the
sacrifice of our brother, someone will say, “What more did he
have to look forward to? His hopes were realized. As it was,
he had but forty more years of the same. Now he's with Our
Parents, doing whatever they do in the great beyond” It's not
much, but it's all we have.
Success and personal satisfaction are rarely achieved on
one's own. As is usually the case, Dore's happiness was the
result of an amicable partnership. This brings me back to my
discussion of my courtship of Dyweyne, Dore's amicable
partner. It has been some time since I have spoken with her.
She avoids me. Yes, but why? It may be because I hide
something foul among my motives, to which I myself am yet
blind. Or, I choose to believe, because she fears the tempest
of feeling that I stir in her. She is too aware of the role she
plays, that of grieving mistress; we must assure her that for
her, also, life goes on. And here life means .. me.

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We are separated by a distinction of concepts. She clung
closely to home, and, meaningfully, to the house itself; her
interest was her gardening. She cared most deeply for her
small plots of cultivated soil, blooming near her window and
cultured by her conscious volition. I, on the other hand,
though as charmed by nature and yellow blossoms as she,
prefer the wilder sort, untamed and raw. Therein lies the flaw
of difference. My mind is creative and free, able to value
beauty wherever I find it; and Dyweyne must rule it, bring it
forth exactly as she fancies, in a structured, homelike
context. But I still love her. She has withdrawn since Dore's
journey, but if only she would trust me I know that I could
open her up.
It is still so quiet. I expect Dyweyne, Joilliena, even Tere.
If only life mirrored the theater the way theater mirrors
life. Then I might have more hope. To a great extent,
certainly, my frustration is engendered by the environment:
the order and lawfulness of the “city” Here, in this thoroughly
governed house, Dyweyne has the resources of custom and
system on which to rely. If only I could transport her “to
another part of the forest” if, like the abandonment of the
town in Love's L. Lost, or Midsummer N. 's Dream, or As Y. L.
It, we could bid goodby to this locked- in house and speak
with lovers’ eyes in the faerie green world, then she'd have
difficulty dismissing me.
Seasons change, feelings change. Thomas Nashe, in his
unduly ignored Summer's Last Will and Testament, can afford
from his patronized distance to mock the fool. But he himself
says, “Give a scholar wine, going to his book, or being about

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to invent, it sets a new point on his wit, it glazeth it, it scours
it, it gives him acumen. “ Who will deny that love is my
wine? Later Nashe quotes Aristotle: “There is no excellent
knowledge without mixture of madness” My madness is
Dyweyne; hers is, sadly, Dore. I add the “sadly” for the cause
is so futile. Dyweyne, let me make you happy again. Come
back, my sister, come back to me and to all of us.
I heard the tiniest rustle of paper. A note has been slipped
beneath my door. Is it from her? No. It is from the desk of ..
Loml. It is in Tere's lovely, flowing script. It says, “You cannot
avoid the assignment with fancy footwork. Do you not recall
that Dore is still on his goat? Get him off at once. All best,
Tere”
Fortunately, Dore came at last to the simple hut of a poor
peat- cutter. The honest serf cut Dore loose and carried him
into the decrepit shack, where he and his wife nursed our
brother back to health. Dore, in his gratitude, gave the goat
to the good peasant.

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PART THREE
What Fairer Soul E'er Dwelt This Mortal Cell
* * *
Chapter nine
A Moral Dilemma
Do you know why this is ridiculous? Because we don't
know that any of this ever happened. It's silly to write it
down. Someday these words are going to be quoted as
gospel; the very topographical discrepancies will be passed
off as “miracles” We ought at least to send somebody out to
see that Dore isn't lying in a ditch just a little way from here.
I mentioned this to Tere this morning and he said,
“Wonderful! What a great idea. We should send someone to
find Dore, even as he was sent to find Our Father. We could
have his words firsthand and end this disruptive squabbling.
But whom could we send”
Who, indeed, eldest son.
The squabbling to which Tere refers is the first symptom of
a genuine religious war. I had not given my brother and his
sparring partner, Ateichál, credit enough for their zeal. I had
assumed that the matter of their differing attitudes toward
Dore was the equivalent of cocktail party chatter. I apologize.
Their respective creeds are shaping up nicely now, and are

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demanding much too much of our time. Petitions are being
circulated, loyalty oaths are being signed, processions of
masked monks block the hallways, and my little history is due
to become a major battleground. Tere made a few statements
in the Times- Register, and when Ateichál asked for equal
space for rebuttal she was denied. I suppose that Yord was
still miffed at what our undefiled sister did with Mylvelane, his
best drama and book reviewer. Now Yord is “not available”
and Ateichál has requested my aid.
Their strategy is simply this: Any thought which is printed,
either here or in the paper, without subsequent attack is
generally believed to be true. This is not so much a logical
condition as it is a fault of human nature. A longstanding or
constant idea is often equated with a true one. So Tere and
Ateichál want to get out as many tracts as they can, hoping
that the other will overlook some important point, which will
then be incorporated in the growing Mystery of Dore.
Tere made some preliminary remarks concerning the
platform of his new party, the Fraternal. He said that while
Ateichál was correct in deifying Dore, a step which ought to
have been taken long ago, she was wrong in denying that his
mission to learn the secrets of the River was equal to his
search for Our Father. Such a denial was an implied limitation
on Dore's goodness and ability.
Ateichál answered this by saying that Tere's insistence on
Dore's contract with us mortals is impious. Tere assumes that
we here in the house are worthy of such salvation, an
assumption never enunciated or even hinted by Our Parents
or Dore. Ateichál admits that such an eventual reconciliation

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among all the members of our family could occur; she is not
willing to promise it with assurance.
The Humanist Party, the liberal wing, temporarily
leaderless with the removal to the backyard pen of its last
four chairmen, still firmly denies the divinity of Dore.
And everyone is aware of the power I wield. I am
influencing public opinion with each chapter I write. Does
Dore seem to be seeking Our Father? Does he seem to be
gathering facts about the River and our world? The question
of the merits of beliefs, Tere's, Ateichál's, anyone's, is to a
great extent political. During other periods of time the war
against heresy was a war for the status quo, more than a
passionate defense of doctrine. But here the situation is
reversed; everyone has left the status quo, for it was so
obviously stagnant and sterile. What we have now is a
venomous battle to establish Something, and I feel it is my
part to stay neutral, giving the facts as I see them. I've
gotten myself into enough trouble.
I, uh, think that both Tere and Ateichál's viewpoints have a
lot to commend themselves. I question, however, the
tendency to put Our Parents in the background, obscured for
the moment by Dore's brilliant ascendancy.
Laliche laughs. “That's it, Seyt” she says. “You tell them”
Dore and his friend Glorian walked on freshly, enjoying the
beauty of the forest and the meadows. So far from our house,
Dore had difficulty understanding the harsh accents of his
green- growing intimates, but he laughed often and passed on
the choicest witticisms to Glorian. Glorian said little, and when
Dore inquired what was troubling him, Glorian replied, “Our

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time is coming. I must prepare myself” This was all the
information that Dore could get, and it left him puzzled and
frightened.
One day, about a month after Dore outwitted the giant
Despair, Glorian turned to our brother. “Do you recall the lady
Narlinia von Glech” he asked.
“Von Glech” said Dore, pretending that he could not place
the name of that deceitful woman. “Was she not the sister of
Snolli von Glech, who so basely stole my small treasure”
“That's her” said Glorian grimly. “The castle of old Baron
von Glech is not far from here. I trust you'll want to drop in”
Dore was astonished. “Why, yes. I'd feel more secure with
Battlefriend at my side”
“And perhaps you'd care to call on Narlinia, too” Dore did
not reply; Glorian chuckled. “But you must know that the way
will be no less filled with dangers than it has been in the
past”
“That's a shame” said Dore. “I'd like a long, soaky bath
and a warm meal”
“I know of a small kingdom ahead where you might be
able to achieve those ends, and a clean bed thrown into the
bargain. King Herodes is an old- time acquaintance of mine”
“Like Dr. Dread” said Dore sarcastically.
“I'm sorry” said Glorian, “but you're well aware that
everything that's happened has strengthened your moral
fiber. That's what I'm for”
“How far to the king's house”
Glorian just smiled again and pointed. They traveled until
late in the afternoon. From the top of a hill Dore looked down

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into a large valley, bounded on the farther side by rolling
green hills and, beyond, a distant, rugged range of
mountains. “The River runs just on the other side of those
peaks” said Glorian, and Dore spent some time gazing at
them with interest.
In the middle of the valley was a small walled town. Dore
could see what appeared to be the palace in the center of the
village, with towers roofed with bright gold. The two men
descended into the valley and reached the entrance to the
town just before the rains began, as the guards were locking
the gates.
“Who seeks entrance to Monthurst, capital of his majesty,
King Herodes” challenged a mailed soldier.
“It is I, Glorian of the Knowledge, and I bring Dore, a
worthy pilgrim”
“How are you, Glorian” called the soldier.
“Fine. What's new in Monthurst” said the strange
companion, now tall and strong, with long arms and a broad,
sturdy back. His hair was brown and fell to his shoulders. He
wore a long velvet robe, gathered at the waist by a rope
woven of golden threads. On his head was a silver crown with
five points, each topped with a polished onyx.
“Nothing, really. Go on in, the king'll be glad to see you”
Glorian turned to Dore and said, “See, they know me here.
Relax” Dore grimaced and followed his friend into the town.
They went straight to the king's palace, which was built of
large stone blocks set together without mortar. Around the
building were many gardens and fountains, and the townsfolk

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seemed happy and prosperous. The guards at the palace door
recognized Glorian immediately, and he and Dore were let in.
“Ah, Glorian” said King Herodes with delight. “It's been a
long time. You should come more often; you're always
welcome”
“Thank you, King” said Glorian. “I'd like to introduce my
friend, Dore First, who has traveled a great distance and is
weary. Dore, meet King Herodes of Monthurst”
“A friend of Glorian's” said the king, smiling.
“I'm honored” said Dore with a small, tactful bow.
“Has he met the Queen” the king asked Glorian.
“Not yet, I believe” said Glorian. “I'm sure he would
appreciate a good meal, though, before the rigors of courtly
life”
“Of course” The king clapped his hands, and attendants
hurried off to prepare the banquet. The king put his arm
around Dore and escorted him from the hall. “Wait until you
meet my wife. Queen Corylis is the most beautiful woman in
the world. Glorian will tell you that I wouldn't settle for
second best. Wait until you see her. Better yet, you'll just
have to sleep with her tonight”
Dore was horrified. Hospitality was one thing, but Dore
couldn't accept the responsibility. There is good promiscuity
and bad promiscuity, and another man's wife is an example of
the latter. Our Mother drummed this into our heads every
four days. We had to have some standards.
“I appreciate the offer, King Herodes” said Dore slowly,
“but I don't think I could allow myself the liberty. I'm a
pilgrim, you see, and we have a sort of code”

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The king looked angry. “You'll sleep with Corylis and like it,
or I'll be deeply insulted. And your friend here will no doubt
instruct you that it is never good policy to offend a powerful
monarch within his own palace. Until dinner, then” And the
king went away.
Dyweyne will be pleased, I think. I choose to believe that
the political frenzy in the house has driven her even deeper
into her widow's seclusion, but I will admit that I have added
to her agitation. Dyweyne, come out and let the grateful sun
kiss your shining eyes. Can you not see the way Dore has
grown on these pages? He was intelligent, and that means
that he was adaptable: able to mature and change his
outlook, blessed though provincial, and learn to live a life of
honor and innocence among the screaming ills of the world. I
have done well by your lover, and I want to do well by you.
You can't cling to the past forever, you know. Come out; it'll
do you good.
I think that in the midst of the tempestuous political
situation in the house at the moment, the development of
jealousies and amative excesses can only work to our
disadvantage. A certain unity is required, for it seems that for
the most part it has been the solitary, unskillful, visionary
thinkers who have been put to the Question. We all heard
Nieb ask jokingly if Dore had a hairpiece. Two months ago we
would have laughed for hours, but today we sat
uncomfortably in our seats and waited for the green or bluecowled
brethren to lead him away. It is all a matter of a
strange sort of affection between Tere and Ateichál; somehow
this is the working out of their unreal betrothal.

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Joilliena, whom I have not forgotten but merely set aside,
must feel a jealousy for Dyweyne, who must know jealousy
for the ladies Dore meets in my spurious history. I am
ashamed to admit my jealousy for Dore and for the blinding
light of his love which dims my own poor flame. None of this
is healthy or safe. United in mutual esteem we could act
sensibly in each other's defense. Jealousy stirs the mind to
restlessness. One falls victim to an unjust way of thinking;
one misrepresents the words of others, hunting within each
sentence for fuel to feed that hideous passion. Does this not
sound like the symptoms afflicting our virginal sister and our
flouncing brother?
A brief bulletin has arrived from the latter, during my
preceding meander of ideas. Laliche will read it, as I am much
too concerned with Dore's coming epiphany to care.
“‘ A high- level official of the newly formed Fraternal Party, '”
says my little sister, innocent of factional ties, “‘ defined
Ateichál's error as one of observation and interpretation, and
absolved her from what he termed “willful impiety,
maliciously or otherwise designed to undermine the faith of
our family” Dore, the statement continued, obviously had
two missions, each precisely as important as the other.
Ateichál has not seen the necessity for each, and is thus
unable to accept their duality. We pray for her
enlightenment. '”
Laliche and I wait for our sister's reply. It is not long in
coming:
“‘ From her small, austere chamber in the North Tower,
Ateichál issued the following statement of position: “Any

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presumption of motive is blasphemy; any limitation of action
is heresy. I will not dictate Our holy Brother's inspirations,
and I will not demand redemption at his hands” I thank Tere
for his meaningless absolution, and deeply regret that, until
such time as he assumes responsibility for his faulty belief, I
cannot extend the same to him. '”
I certainly wish they'd get together and talk things over. I
don't understand the difficulty: They make an ideal couple.
Tere's inclinations in no way endanger Ateichál's purity.
Besides, I've seen the plans for the new and larger heretic
compound.
Such are the knotty trials of love. All the half- learned,
misunderstood concepts of honor and respect get mixed up
with personal pride to make a classic approach- avoidance
situation. Dore would not have minded a free amatory
encounter, but his instincts and his training denied him access
to another man's chosen partner.
“King Herodes is a nice enough fellow” said Dore, “but he
won't understand that I can't make love to his wife. In the
first place, where's he going to sleep? What's he going to do
while I'm with his queen, read a good book”
Glorian was inspecting the vast collection of armor and
weapons in the palace's trophy room. He put down an
impressive double- edged sword and sighed. “Dore, there are
different customs in different places. You're not still back in
that insane house of yours. You ought to be glad. You ought
to open yourself to new ideas”
Dore paced impatiently. “And you're the one who's always
lecturing me on ethics and wholesome thoughts”

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“But you're under compulsion. The situation doesn't
present you with a choice”
“What if I make one anyway” asked Dore solemnly.
“You mean refuse the king”
“Yes”
Glorian turned and faced Dore. “If you accept, Herodes’
expert ministers will disguise you so that the queen herself
won't recognize you. I've been here often, and I've seen
many a duplicate Herodes in these halls. In the morning no
one will say a word, but the king will beam at you as if you
were a long- lost son. You'll be expected to thank him and tell
him how good it was. That will make him happy. If you
refuse, he will be humiliated before his subjects, even though
they will never learn of the thing. But he will know. And the
only way he can save his honor is to kill you”
“Have you ever been up there” asked Dore with a wry
expression. Glorian did not answer. “Well” said Dore, “let's
go”
“To find the king”
“No. Back to the forest”
Glorian put his hand roughly on Dore's shoulder. “No” he
said, “this time you're going to stay and see this through. Do
not think that your path here is predestined, and that you
cannot follow a worthy course. You have not even thought on
the matter, and already you wish to flee to the unthreatening
woods. You have passed beyond them, although you refuse to
admit it. Your initial tests were physical, of danger to life and
limb. You had no problem with monsters, human and
otherwise. Then you contended with intellectual hazards.

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Now, finally, you are fronted with questions of virtue, to
prove your spiritual mettle. If you run to your forests you
forfeit all you've gained, and no second chance. Sun and rain
and greenery are wonderful, but a man's life is sadly none of
these things. There are more strains of courage than merely
facing a sword”
Dore was confused for a moment and made no reply. At
last he said, “And if I don't accept? If the king's subtle
ministers prepare another in my place”
“Excellent” said Glorian, slapping Dore's mighty back.
“And I know the very man. A member of the king's
Praetorian, Belodicos by name”
“Is this man trustworthy”
“Eminently” said Glorian. “I saved his life once”
“How fortunate” said Dore. “Let us send for him at once”
In a short time Belodicos the guard appeared before Dore,
and the situation was explained to him. He, too, was hesitant
to accept the duty, but his debt to Glorian persuaded him. He
would visit the offices of Treneos and Meronidas after the
dinner hour and be transformed into an image of King
Herodes. Then, after dark, he would enter the royal
bedchamber and join the queen, careful to awaken and
depart before the first light of morning. Belodicos agreed
doubtfully and left Dore and Glorian alone in the trophy room.
The two men were unaware that their conversation had
been overheard by Neliastra, a young servant girl engaged in
polishing the armor, who had hidden herself behind an arras
when Dore, Glorian, and Herodes had entered the hall. She

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hurried straight to Queen Corylis and told of the plans of the
king, Dore, and Belodicos.
“I admire the virtue of the man Dore” said the queen,
“and I sympathize with the plight of the honest Belodicos.
But, lo, these many years, how I have grown to hate the stink
of spirit gum and grease paint! And simple Herodes believes
that he has fooled me every time. How like a courtesan I feel,
to be displayed to all who visit, and bestowed as a gift, like
some golden cup or matched stainless flatware. I must end
this charade”
Neliastra spoke up diffidently. “Great Queen” she said, “I
do not wish to advise one exalted above my low degree, but
hearken to my scheme. The tool of the strangers’ plan,
Belodicos of the youthful heart, has been my true beloved,
though circumstance has forced our paths asunder. I, a
servant to your grace, and he, a stalwart of our lord's
defense, now rarely meet to share love's joy. Allow me, your
faithful bondmaid, to visit those same councilors and have
myself made new in your image. Then myself, a grateful
hollow queen, and he, king but of my soul, will meet one
night for moments of luxury. All innocent, we; and thou shalt
have thy joke”
“Delightful” said the queen, and ordered preparations to
be made.
“Look, Seyt” says Sabt, Ateichál's press representative.
Before he can finish, Laliche shows him to a chair and gives
him a large illustrated book to read while I continue my work.
Laliche is becoming indispensable. If she were only a few
years older, I'd ply her with candy. My story is simple enough

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and moving well toward its foreseeable climax, so I will grant
Sabt his audience.
“Audience” he says with distaste. “You're lucky that
Ateichál instructed me to meet with you. She's being very
careful to point out your frequent inaccuracies, you know; you
should be glad that she worries so over your puny soul” I
could ask Sabt what Ateichál considers to be the value of a
soul without eternal life or any kind of Deific Judgment. But,
no doubt, the system of their dogma provides them with
answers.
“What can I do for you, my brother” I ask politely.
“Ateichál requests that you refrain from repeating the vile
heresies of our kin; even for purposes of instruction the mere
voicing of these beliefs is injurious to the human and
therefore assailable maintenance of truth” Sometimes Sabt
sounds like a pamphlet of an uplifting nature.
“Whom do you feel to be the most dangerous enemies of
your faith” I ask craftily.
“There are several whose variant ideas may lead to the
corruption of straight thinking. For instance, Chel speaks of
the identity of Dore's two missions. The very elevation of
Dore's quest for Riverlore to an equality with his reunion with
Our Father is bold heresy. But Chel takes the Terian error
further. He equates the three offices of the River— Water,
Channel, and ineffable Current— with the three members of
our pantheon. Our Father, he claims, is the fleshly
manifestation of the River's sacred and life- giving fluid. When
it is given direction, as Our Father's essence was through the
agency of Our Mother, the result is a Current, a force, in our

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experience it is Dore, who proceeds from Our Father and is
made appreciable to us by Our Mother. While Ateichál
applauds the sense of copartnership and is amused by the
neatness of the analogy, she has seen fit to induce Chel to
retract his speculations. Chel may be consulted on the matter
in the backyard pen any day before five”
“That is very interesting” I say, “but even I can see the
impertinence in his suppositions”
“Really” says Sabt hopefully. “You're coming along, Seyt.
We are also dead set against Dalonelle's argument that in
Dore the participation of Our Father's will replaced the human
element we all share. Dore may be as holy and godlike as Our
Parents, but he was also, as you have endeavored to make
clear, a functioning and normal man” Sabt allows me a smile,
as reward for my spiritual progress.
“I have tried to show that” I say modestly. “What exactly
is Tere's position these days”
Sabt scowls. “Tere is the arch- heresiac. He is beyond
redemption and, thus, beyond the power of Ateichál's
cleansing service. In demanding the good favor of Dore, he
demands that Dore's humanity be dominant over his
godhead, a concept unique in its absurdity. He suggests that
Dore's identity with Our Parents goes no further than a
‘willing accord’ with their designs. There is nothing
salvageable from his apostasy, and no castigation could be
equal to his effrontery”
“Thank you, Sabt” I say, chuckling, “for listing so carefully
the solecisms Ateichál wants avoided” Sabt looks horrified,
nods, and runs out.

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“Perhaps if you get them at each other's throats” says
Laliche, “they'll leave you alone”
Late that night Dore and Glorian conceived a great hunger,
and resolved to creep downstairs and find themselves a
midnight meal. They followed the tortuous passageways of
the palace and at last came upon the back stairway, which
Glorian knew was situated near the largest of the king's
kitchens. In a short while they were in the pantry, and had
made for themselves a fine snack of leftover meat pies and
warm beer. As they sat eating they heard the sound of
footsteps coming down the stairs. The two men hid, for fear
they would be discovered and reported by a guardsman, and
thus Dore's ruse would be revealed.
“I wonder who left these lights burning” said a voice. “I'll
have the heads of those scullery maids yet”
“Quiet” said Glorian softly, “it's King Herodes himself, no
doubt tired of his hiding and seeking refreshment”
“It figures” said Dore fearfully.
“Aha” said the king angrily. “Someone's been stealing
himself a meal at my expense. Here are the remains of a
hastily enjoyed supper. The thief didn't even have the
consideration to clean up after himself. Hmmm, I wonder”
The king pulled back the hanging behind which Dore and
Glorian had concealed themselves. “You” said the king. “Are
you not with my queen? Have you then so mischievously
rejected my gifts”
“No, my lord” said the Queen Corylis, stepping out from
behind another hanging. “He is not sharing my favors. And,
for that reason, I believe he has acted with honor. I fear that

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is more than you have done. Only out of love and obedience
to you have I bedded with your heroes, each of whom I have
detested and resented for having stolen my time with you.
Perhaps you have acted out of love and husbandly pride, but
even a king may act foolishly, though no one may tell him so.
Do not tax this man's friendship, for we owe him much”
“You are right, my wife” said Herodes ashamedly. “I will
never do it again. I wish to reward the friend of Glorian. What
boon is most seemly to you”
“Perhaps we could endow a seat at the University” said
Corylis. “He could lecture to our citizens on morality and the
splendid virtues”
“I thank you, your majesties” said Dore humbly, “but I
trust you will understand when I say that I am anxious to
continue my quest. Indeed, I hope to leave with your
blessings in the morning”
The rulers of Monthurst were disappointed, but promised
to aid him in whatever way they could. “Materially, you
understand, we're a bit strapped” said King Herodes with
embarrassment. “But we can provide you with good advice,
warm feelings, and magical contrivances to speed you on
your way”
“Anything you can spare would be welcome” said Dore.
“Well, then, my reluctant lover” said Queen Corylis with a
smile, “you seem to be one who questions his goals. You have
come far and through many strange adventures, and now you
begin to wonder if the outcome will justify it all. Perhaps you
think that those who sent you on this quest were hasty and
ill- advised. Perhaps you think the pot of gold at the end of

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your trials is nothing more than a phantasm to lure you to
your doom. But look at it this way: You've come all this
distance; it would be a shame to turn back now”
“My wife is right. Go on and seek your fortune. If you went
home you'd regret it for the rest of your life. Ah, you young
people. I wish I could join you”
The queen clapped her hands, and an attendant appeared
and was instructed to fetch a certain parchment. Dore
marveled at the discipline of the servants, as it was well after
midnight. After a brief pause the attendant returned with the
ancient manuscript.
“Carry this with you at all times” said Corylis. “It will
guard you against night blindness, injuries of the arches and
feet, ecstasies connected with bad food, and perhaps against
discomforts due to the common cold” Dore bowed and
tucked the amulet inside his girdle. “I understand you seek
the domain of Baron von Glech” said the queen. “Glorian
knows the way, I'm sure, but still I feel it my duty to warn
you of the cave of Love. There are many dangers there, some
so voluptuous as to make the teeth rot in your mouth just
thinking of them. But other evils there are which are fatal in
hidden ways. It is best to give that treacherous place your
back and pass well away from its sensuous invitations”
“I'll bet Dore doesn't” says Laliche.
“There is only one matter that I don't comprehend” said
King Herodes. “Who is it that entered the queen's chamber
this evening”

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“So you do spy” said Corylis with amusement. “Your
actions have not been so charitable after all. The Voyeur King,
what a surpassingly fine title for an operetta”
“We shall discuss that later” said Herodes angrily. “I
desire to have my question answered” The four people
climbed the stairs to the royal boudoir, and on the way
Glorian and Corylis explained their schemes. Everyone had a
good laugh at the baroque turn of events. At the door to the
chamber the king himself dismissed the confused guards, who
of course believed their liege to be inside, sound asleep.
Glorian, Dore, Herodes, and Corylis peeked into the bedroom
and saw Belodicos, disguised as the king, and Neliastra,
playing the queen, asleep in each other's arms. “Oh”
whispered the four fondly as they quietly shut the door again.
“My man Belodicos will have a strange awakening in the
morning” said Herodes, shaking his head.
“Oh, I don't know” said Corylis. “I'm sure he's recognized
his sweetheart by now. We ought to do something for them,
too. They've been star- crossed enough”
“Shall I give them half my kingdom” asked Herodes
generously.
“No, I think not, my lord” said the queen. “Well talk about
it another time” And the two rulers and Glorian and Dore
sought their beds for a shortened night's rest. In the morning
everyone waved goodby, and our brother and his companion
set out once more for whatever reasons Dore had.
“‘ Whatever reasons.’ A clever evasion” says Laliche.
“Without a weathercock army in this house it's difficult to

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decide if Tere or Ateichál deserves the commitment. Do you
think they really love each other”
“It's not the tides” I say distractedly, as I notice that Tere
has been reading over my shoulder for some time.
“Hello, Seyt” he says, smiling, holding out his political
hand. Despite all the handshaking he's been doing it's still fat
and it's still wet.
“Hello, Tere. How's it going”
“We have them on the run now. Orthodoxy versus
orthopraxy. We have right on our side; Ateichál ought to
realize that even in a trivial way our case is the stronger: We
have twice the god to rely on that she has. And her point is
that she can't rely on him. Small comfort for the simple man,
eh? Like you and me. Our sister is growing too big for her alb.
I take it from your writings that you don't approve of her
methods. Her inquisition lacks restraint and taste. Would you
care to see a list of her intended defendants”
I admit that I would. Tere insists that I not reveal the
source of his information. I promise. The list reads: “Loml,
Sabt (, Joilliena, Nesp, Aniatrese, Talavesía, Jelt, Thib,
Laliche (, Seyt (”
“She doesn't plan to rule a large congregation, does she?
There won't be many left when she's through” I say, my eye
continuously straying to the () after my name. Laliche has
run out of the room, crying.
“Don't worry, Seyt” says Tere, pressing my thigh so that I
will be reassured. “We, the Fraternal Party, were formed for
the express purpose of stopping this nonsense. Help us, Seyt.
I don't mean by joining the party and raising funds. But a lot

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of the younger brothers and sisters still follow this fairy tale of
yours. You and they can aid us. And perhaps those on this list
won't have to turn in their names for numbers, after all. Why
don't you think it over, Seyt? Come see me in the morning
and we'll talk about it” Tere grins and leaves. The floppy silk
crown that he wears makes me sick.

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Chapter ten
The Final Struggle
On the way back from breakfast this morning I saw a large
gathering of people by the bulletin board. Usually the notices
on the board are trivial and totally unexciting: bookcases for
sale; invitations to join the River's Ally, a service organization
that picks up papers around the yard; sometimes a lost and
found notice. No one ever reads the bulletins except the
people who put them up. We have a lot of Harvest Moon Balls
and Ring Dances that go totally unattended. But today there
were two announcements worth reading.
The first statement was written with a felt- tip pen on a
large rectangle of purple construction paper. It seemed to me
to be Ateichál's acknowledgment of the waning of her
influence, demonstrating to us all the indomitable nature of
(our) human spirit, in the face of her terrorist tactics. The
notice said, “Our brother Tere has made certain accusations
concerning my investigation into corrupt devotional practices.
These accusations were made with the intent to discredit me
and my associates, and to support his own malicious doctrine.
It is well- known that Tere was in full accord with the
measures which I felt necessary; after his desertion of the
Benevolent Party he adopted those same measures for his
own uses. A list of potential violators of orthodox thought has
been circulated, purporting to belong to me. I deny this vile
calumny, and further declare my belief that the list of future

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martyrs was drawn up by the Fraternal Party, possibly by
Tere himself. Yours in Dore, Ateichál”
When I finished reading the notice I shook my head.
Shesarine turned to me and laughed. “Intrigue” she said.
“Busy little wheels”
“See that you don't get caught up in them” I said, and we
both laughed again.
Our brother Stug, a classicist and a recluse, quoted us a
line: “‘ One man has one sort of ill, someone else has another,
and surely no one under the Sun is happy in the truest
meaning of the word.’ Theognis. It will be most difficult to
avoid those wheels, Seyt. Have you read the other yet? We
enter a new era, and trade Scylla for Charybdis”
Shesarine and I turned back to the bulletin board and read
the other announcement. This one was elegantly done in a
flowing hand on a white card. It said simply, “Tere, the
chairman of the Fraternal Party, Guardian of the Faith and
Scourer of Heretics, proclaims through his seigniory as Eldest
Son his accession to the office of first Kalp of Home. All are
requested to acknowledge the authority of the Kalp in matters
domestic and foreign, spiritual and temporal. Long live Kalp
Tere, successor to Dore” Beneath this was added in pencil,
“Reception at eleven, in the Map Room. Refreshments and
prizes”
“What's a Kalp” asked Shesarine.
“I'm not sure” I said. “Let's go to the Map Room now and
see if anyone else is there”
The Map Room is at the end of the main corridor in the
North Wing. It is a very comfortable room with thick carpeting

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and richly stained panels, designed to produce a mood of
confidence and ease. Tere had chosen well. The tables had
been pushed against the walls and folding chairs had been set
up. One large table had been placed at one end of the room,
and Tere sat there when we came in. Many of the chairs were
already occupied when we entered; when Tere saw me he
came over to speak with us.
“Ah, Seyt” he said, beaming. “You've seen the
proclamation, eh? What do you think, lad? You'll be glad to
shake this moist old hand now, eh”
“Congratulations, Tere” I said slowly. “Is your coup legal”
“Why not? I just thought of it first, and I am eldest son”
“Acting eldest son” I reminded him.
Tere frowned. “Do you not believe that Dore has been
accepted into the bosom of Our Parents”
“Of course I believe it” I said nervously, “but I think you
should have acted more democratically”
“What's undemocratic about it” Tere asked, beginning to
grow dangerously irritable. “You can't elect an eldest son”
I decided to change the subject. “What about Ateichál?
She made some fierce indictments”
“The last gasps of a drowning woman” Tere said happily.
“The familiar tu quoque fallacy. She can't excuse herself by
making her own denunciations” I didn't think it necessary to
ask Tere if Ateichál's accusations were true.
“What does your title mean” asked Shesarine.
“Oh” said Tere with his famous smile, “you like it? It's a
neat combination of things. Mostly ‘caliph,’ because my power

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is basically the same. The caliphs were supposed to be the
successors to Mohammed, who, like Dore, left no son”
“Dore left no power, either” said Shesarine unwisely. Tere
lifted his eyebrows, but made no reply. He continued:
“The caliphs, and the Kalp, serve as custodians of the true
belief and protector of the faithful. I want you to come to me
as you would to Dore; feel free to bring me your problems
and questions. My door will be open twenty- four hours a day.
Also ‘Kalp’ brings in associations of other kinds. Kalpa, for
instance, is the Hindu term for one cycle in the recurring
pattern of creation and dissolution. A kalpa is one day of
Brahma, equal to four billion three hundred and twenty
million years. I think that adds a sense of continuity and
promise. Calpe is also the old name for the Rock of Gibraltar,
a tie with Our Parents’ pleasingly odd and tainted world”
“That's real fine” I said, and came back to my room,
forfeiting the free cupcakes and lemonade.
Dore and Glorian walked toward the hills with the early sun
rising behind them, among the invariably white clouds of day.
With the village of Monthurst at their backs, the men looked
forward to a lonely march over the heights to the sacred
River. It had been months since Dore had been in the healing
presence of the mystic waterway, and he was thin and pale.
“You have made great progress in your spiritual
development” said Glorian. “To tell the truth, I didn't think
you'd make it this far. You're really very noble”
“Thank you” said Dore. “But whatever gain I've made has
cost me in anguish and pains of the soul. I see more clearly
now, but what I see strikes to my very heart. I see the

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pettiness of people, their inability to solve their minuscule
problems, their needless languishing over trivia when the
great and universal ills go neglected. I am oppressed by the
meanness of people; I cannot enjoy my expanded humanity
as long as I must suffer the ignoble and niggardly strivings of
others”
“Don't be condescending. You're not finished yet”
“Well, Glorian my friend” said Dore cheerfully, “I want to
thank you for helping me along my way. I never would have
made it if it hadn't been for you”
“Don't exaggerate my role. You had it inside you all the
time. I just forced you to bring it out”
“No, really; I really mean it. Thanks a lot”
“That's all right” said Glorian generously. “Tell me, if you
had to summarize all that you've been through, what do you
consider to be the main points”
“Well now, that's a tough question” Dore paused for a
moment, staring ahead at the misty gray peaks. “I think the
important thing is dedication and hard work. A lot of people
have an idea, but aren't willing to do the actual sweat to
achieve success. If I had to advise a youngster, I'd say, ‘Work
hard, get plenty of rest, eat well, and never forget that there
are plenty of people trying to take your place.’ It's all a
matter of having a clean follow- through. I like to see
youngsters starting at an early age, in an organized situation,
and going right on through to their adult lives. Of course, we
have to remember that children shouldn't be expected to be
as proficient as adults; that would be unfair to them, because
those years should be a time of fun and learning. But I

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believe that any boy or girl who sets his goals high and never
loses sight of them, who practices constantly and lives clean,
can, with a few breaks, make a big name for himself”
“That's very interesting, Dore. What do you think have
been the greatest hazards for you in your own amazing
career” Glorian smiled to himself, for his plan was
succeeding. If he could get Dore talking, our brother might
not notice the cave of Love. Glorian gives me a warning look
and motions me to be quiet.
“I think the prime danger is overconfidence” said Dore. “A
lot of times I go out there after a big victory, and I feel like
nothing can stop me. There's a very real thing in emotional
preparation. For instance, if I, say, have just beaten a
powerful sorcerer or notorious villain, I come off a strong win
with an edge of self- confidence. Now if I meet something less
threatening, like a grass dragon or a robber, I'm in for a
battle. Supposing I run across a letmoth. Well, two or three of
those things can bleed a grown man dry before he can yell for
help. But if I'm feeling overconfident I won't think twice about
challenging it. Now the letmoth is going to be tough, because
by itself it's not so much of a match for me; it's what we call
‘up’ for the bout, while I'm not going to be as motivated. I
believe that's important for a youngster; it's difficult, I know,
but they should try to put out one hundred percent. If it's
worth doing, you might as well do it to the best of your
ability”
“Thank you very much, Dore, for sharing your thoughts
with me. But I'm afraid we can't continue this, as much as I

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would like to. We're just about out of time; these cliffs have
grown steep, and they'll take all of our attention for a while”
“You're lucky” says Thib, just in from Tere's reception,
“Tere and Ateichál are so busy now they won't notice what
you're doing. Or me. Or the rest of us. Unless they need an
example, like what you just had Dore say”
“What do you mean” I ask equitably.
“Dore said any boy or girl can make a name for himself,
with the right breaks. He suggests that he'd be happy to help
us, too. Ateichál might jump on that if she needs something”
“I guess the Kalp would aid me” I say, with an ironic
expression. Thib doesn't notice. He's a very simple and musty
lad.
“Tere's too busy signing autographs” says Thib. “He's
going to dress up in a clown suit and visit the nursery later”
The hills had, indeed, grown more rugged. The day was
drawing to its close; already the sun had dipped below the
ice- clad western peaks and the air in the heights was putting
on its evening chill. “We'd better start looking for shelter”
said Dore. “A cold rain and a bitter night won't do my aging
bones any good” Glorian made no reply, but followed Dore's
way up the stony path with his fingers crossed.
“Ah” said our brother with relief, “there's a cave ahead,
and enough daylight left to gather what meager fuel the
mountain sprites provide”
“Beware that cave, my friend. It is the very cave of Love
against which Queen Corylis wisely warned you”
“Well, I'm not falling into any pits, Glorian. We can just sit
under a ledge or something. Just for the night”

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“I've accompanied many a young man who spent one night
for the rest of his life. Come away, now. We may find less illfamed
lodgings higher up”
“No” said Dore stubbornly. “I'm not looking for trouble
there. But I'm tired and hungry, and I see no good reason to
go further tonight. It's about time that I add initiative to my
new- found virtues. I have followed you for months. This one
time well do it my way”
“As you will, my friend” said Glorian sadly. “But if you
must stop there, you shall do it without my assistance. I will
await you on the other side of these mountains; below the
point where an underground rivulet emerges and tumbles
over a precipice, you will see a castle on an island. This is the
stronghold of Baron von Glech. In seven days I will give you
up and return whence I came. Good luck, Dore, and be
prudent. From the Baron's gate it is not far to the River and
your goal. I hope to see you on the other side. Goodby”
Before Dore could answer, Glorian had disappeared. Our
brother shook his head in bewilderment, and continued the
climb to the cave of Love.
I suppose the fatal festivals of love are usually celebrated
by poets and dramatists. Love is one of those topics we can't
discuss rationally. If someone has something negative to say
about romance, he's branded as a laughable misogynist or a
pervert. But there are times when the course of true love is
not only not smooth, it's absolutely vicious. That is what
Glorian meant by warning Dore to avoid the cave, and I can
interpret the episode as my subconscious trying to warn me
to dim my own pilot light of love.

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I have been receiving notes written in a handwriting that is
pitiably easy to identify: Joilliena's. They have an been
variations on a single theme, that my love for Dyweyne is
injurious to all three of us. Love sits on my shoulder like an
impatient carrion- eater, waiting for me to stumble. I balance
my affections and my duty, so that Ateichál, grown vindictive,
or the Kalp may find nothing disrespectful enough to demand
immediate correction. But those tender feelings creep in;
Dyweyne was Dore's chief confidante, the one person in the
house who knows what he thought. Why haven't I
interviewed her? Why hasn't Tere or Ateichál brought her into
the poisonous center of their struggle? Dyweyne has given up
her garden flowers to languish in a twilit corner; perhaps she
has turned our minds to forget her, and damns her own
intervention with guilt.
Dyweyne is the gentlest, most honest person I've ever
known. I risk here some nameless form of heresy in
attributing the hyperboles to someone not of the Holy Three.
But my experience informs me. Some of us think she has
special knowledge, and that she awaits the return of Dore and
her own elevation to godhood. Ateichál, with her cold, sexless
devotion to Dore, rages whenever she hears it. Not only does
a return of Dore negate her beliefs, but her jealousy has
grown to unreasonable proportions. The Kalp might welcome
our brother's homecoming on theological grounds, but I'm
certain that demotion to second- eldest male would upset him.
Others of us do not believe that Dyweyne has any secret
information, but is merely playing the part of the bereaved
wife, a new Our Mother in tasteful style. Would Ateichál be

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willing to accept a reincarnation of Our Mother in Dyweyne, as
she plays with the idea of Our Father's spirit possessing Dore?
Ateichál has fallen on hard times. She has grown
desperate in the need to prove her eminence, and the more
she struggles the more we shake our heads and feel sorry for
her. Brothers and sisters are turning up numbered in the
backyard pen with increasing frequency, as Ateichál strives to
impress us with her diligence. But it is to no avail. For all
Tere's unwholesome character, his claim to authority beats
out anything Ateichál has to offer. But still she shrieks her
complaints. We see very little of her these days. She hides
her icy Brunhildic charms within her tower and plots her futile
strategies. No one takes her very seriously, and so she
behaves like a frustrated child, intent merely on injury. We
are getting together a list of names subscribing to a request
that Tere do something about her. She's keeping us awake
nights with her rantings, as they echo through the moonlit
corridors.
Her efforts are producing strange results. Besides
encouraging Tere in his puerile bid for control, Ateichál is
throwing the radical members of our family together.
Previously the irregular minds canceled each other out; their
various strangenesses were easy to ignore, and they refused
to compromise with any party or any person. Now, in selfdefense,
the curious prodigies are banding together and
hammering out a weird, disreputable creed. Their first step
was to throw into the River the amber pendant each of us
wears. Our Mother firmly believed in the efficacy of amber in
preventing fits in children and in guarding their devotion.

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Their chief idea is that the River is nothing but a river and,
similarly, that neither Dore nor yet Our Parents were in any
way remarkable. The radicals, calling themselves the
Mudsitters, can be easily identified as they flaunt their
pendantless chests in open society.
Turmoil and revolution in their best guises serve to tear
down ancient and meaningless customs, in favor of practical
social reform. Ateichál may indeed be driving us further from
her own brand of religion, but her admonitions of doom blast
like lightning bolts the moldy foundations of our world. And,
as Plutarch would have us believe, lightning is the fertilizer of
the waters. Ateichál may make no progress with the sense of
her bellows, but their very iconoclastic force may do us all
some good. I will pause for a moment in anticipation of some
inspiration, some sudden insight now that I have discovered
her true rewarding purpose.
Proper knowledge defeats the shouting minions of
emotion. Will that do? I wonder if I can frame that sensibly.
Proper knowledge. That of course means correct
knowledge, free from heresy. That is what we're all seeking,
some more assiduously than others. By emotion my Muse
probably means the angry deeds of Ateichál. Our one
defense, then, is to finally locate Truth and hide behind it. The
whole framework of science and service which we have built
since Dore's departure is based on false premises and
superficial reasoning. This structure must be destroyed in
order to make room for Truth.
A hastily scribbled note from Ateichál: “That's what I'm
trying to do! Best, A”

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A card from the Kalp, himself: “That's what I'm trying to
do! Your friend, brother, and ruler, Kalp Tere I” (I wonder
where the Tere II, by implication, is going to come from)
We reap what we have sown, and what we reap is
confusion. I could dream that Our Father visited me and
advised me that irritability opens one to the corrosion of
error, and the dream would have relevance. We should save
our energy, which we are dissipating in numerous projects,
and direct our wills toward building a better world for all of
us. My flash of perception has faded.
Sabt, Ateichál's uneasy nuncio, has brought a formal
statement which our sister of chastity desires read here,
rather than merely posted on the board. I am secretly
pleased at this acknowledgment of my universal acclaim and,
of course, I allow Sabt to proceed. He refuses to let me copy
his notes, but forces me to transcribe his oral proclamation.
There is a conservative clinging to old forms at work here that
I dislike; it contradicts the clear thinking which I have just
outlined, and is a definite symptom of Ateichál's inability to
grasp our needs.
In any event, her declaration: “To the brothers and sisters,
made sacred by Dore's transient blessing, greetings. I feel it
is my duty to my faithful adherents to reply in some way to
Tere's scandalous actions of this morning. It is clear to
everyone that the assumption of any sort of authority in this
family is not only immoral but illegal. If Tere can force
submission with his upstart party of rascals, he has not
become our leader; he is, in effect, no more than the boss of
a military takeover of the shakiest sort. I call for unity,

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forgiveness for past differences, and firmness of purpose in
removing the scoundrel from his invented office. Tere
deserves no more than the back of our hand, most certainly
not our bowed knee. I for one will never recognize his
supremacy, and I will have nothing but the wrath I feel for
Tere for anyone who will. Yours in Dore, only in Dore and Our
Parents, Ateichál”
“She's softening a bit, isn't she” I ask Sabt, who is
already starting for the door.
“What? Huh? What soft” he says, fidgeting to be away.
“The way she signs the thing. She's adding Our Parents
now”
“Oh, yes, she feels that will make her case a bit more
palatable. She's getting ready a new platform. She wants to
incorporate a couple of novel extrapolations that we
suggested”
“Is it too early to tell me” I ask, knowing that in his
insecure job Sabt would desire to please anyone.
“No, I suppose not. Ateichál is going to believe that
perhaps Dore's education concerning the River is of
importance, but only insofar as it is absorbed in his search for
Our Father. The search and the education are equal, because
they follow as cause and effect. There is still but one aspect
to be worshiped, but the one aspect has two sides. The key
point is going to be the mitigating influence of Our Mother. If
Dore were human, her mission for him would have been
unjust and cruel. If Dore were divine, her years of shaping
him for the ordeal would have been pointless. So Dore must
be a mixture, and his burden must be a ‘hypostasis’ or

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conglomerate of the two, indivisible motives. I believe that
Ateichál has been misrepresented as steadfastly claiming that
his relationship to us is of no future importance. But Tere's
insistence on separating Dore's will into unrelated parts is
offensive to intelligent minds”
Perhaps Sabt realizes that he is giving Ateichál's opponents
time to build their refutations. He puts his hand to his mouth
and opens his eyes wide; then he turns and runs from the
room.
Dore climbed the path to the cave of Love, and found to
his delight that the closer he approached the easier the way
became. There was a small quantity of dry brush around the
mouth of the cave, and Dore gathered it and built himself a
fire to warm the provisions with which King Herodes had
supplied him. He dared not enter the cave too deeply for fear
of the infamous dangers, but he sat just within the protective
overhang and watched the rain. After a time he stretched out
upon the stony floor and fell asleep.
In the morning he discovered that he was not at the
mouth of the cave. With a sudden surge of fear he saw that
he was in a large cavern, evidently deep within the mountain.
But unlike Despair's noxious lair, the cavern was well- lit by an
unknown source, and the air was perfumed and pleasant.
Still, Dore was anxious to be on his way across the
mountains.
“You need not hurry” said a lilting voice behind him. Dore
turned to demand his release, but he was stricken
speechless; he saw a lovely person of indeterminate sex and
surpassing physical beauty. Dore searched the flowing gown

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for signs of identifying bulges, but could make no evaluation.
The face and form, and the infinite grace of the person
fascinated Dore. “I am Love” said the person, “and I
welcome you to my temple. Many people seek me out, and
many find me by chance. It is no matter how you came here.
You may enjoy my hospitality as long as you like, though I
require your devotion. But mine is an easy worship” Love
smiled and pointed to a smooth walk bounded by Love's
sacred roses. “This way, my friend. Your way through here is
shorter than across the mountains, and you will find that your
body's restless hungers will trouble you only when you will
them. Stay as long as you like, and if you want anything, just
ask” Before Dore could reply, Love vanished.
Dore followed the path for a few minutes, on his guard lest
the honeyed words of Love prove treacherous, and the way
be strewn with monsters and pitfalls. But he found none, and
soon entered another large underground vault. The room was
filled on all sides with great chests of polished micha and
bronze. Some of the chests were forced open, and by each of
these knelt a man. Dore left the path and joined one of them.
The man was filthy and unkempt; his hair and beard had
grown to a prodigious length as if he had been locked in a
foul dungeon for many years. He sat by his chest and sorted
an unbelievable treasure: gold plate and jewelry, precious
gems cut and uncut, silver in unrefined chunks and stamped
into coins. When the man saw Dore he jumped up and began
striking our brother. The blows were weak, and soon the man
tired and fell to the floor.

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“It's mine” whispered the man. “Gold, coins, buy them all.
I'll show them”
“Let me help you” said Dore, aware that the love of
treasure had held the wretch captive for many years. “You
have been on your journey far too long. Your friends must
think you dead”
“I have been gone four days” said the man. “Do not trick
me. This is mine; find your own” Dore shrugged and left the
man to his avarice. Other men in similar condition looked up
as he passed, but Dore saw that there was an unlimited
supply of unopened chests. He shuddered and continued on
his way. He was unaware that the day had passed as he
stared at the old man's riches.
The way opened into a third cavern. This one was arranged
into compartments furnished with handsome couches and
tables, all of different design and construction. The separate
rooms were divided by heavy drapes of various pleasing
colors and materials. Dore looked into one apartment and saw
a woman seated at a round table of polished obsidian. The
woman was grossly fat, so large that Dore doubted that she
could ever walk away from her feast. Periodically a young
man or woman entered and set a new course before her.
The woman waved to Dore. “Come, sit beside me and eat.
I'll never be able to finish this myself” Dore had not eaten
well in some time, even at the palace of Herodes, and he
thanked the woman and joined her. Fantastically elegant
dishes appeared and disappeared on the table as the young
waiters came in their endless train. Dore enjoyed each course
more than the last, as the food grew more and more exotic

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and sensuous. The woman talked not at all; to Dore she
seemed an indefatigable engine of consumption, eating her
way through each delicacy only until something else was
brought. Soon Dore's desire waned as he watched the
woman's relentless progress. He stood regretfully, wishing he
could take something with him, but he knew that he could
easily fall into bondage to his palate as had the obese woman.
She didn't even notice when Dore left. Our brother did not
know that he had spent the entire night at her table.
The fourth cavern was dimly lit, with luxurious silks and
laces hanging from poles and carelessly draped over cushions
on the floor. A soft music was issuing from an indefinable
location, and the atmosphere was warm and sultry. One of
Love's young pages met Dore on the path.
“Have you come from the salon of viands” asked the
youth.
“Of course” said Dore impatiently. “Is this the way out”
“Yes, you are making surprisingly good progress. You have
time to rest after your meal” Dore looked about him and saw
many other travelers taking their ease among the comforts of
the room. He decided that a short nap might be refreshing.
He followed the page to a fairly unoccupied area. He was soon
asleep, but awoke to the strident pleading of another man.
“Won't you please fix this pillow for me” asked the man,
his voice urgent but slow.
“Fix your pillow? You can do it yourself and let me sleep”
said Dore irritably.
“Ah, but I would so like it if you would do me this favor.
Relaxing here is so .. relaxing. I could stay here forever”

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“Yes, I suppose, but I for one have an errand”
“So do I. So have we all. But the point is, not now. In a
while I'll be up and away. Until then will you fix my pillow”
“All right” said Dore, hoping to quiet the man's demands.
As he stood he threw off the soporific influence of the
chamber. He plumped the pillow to the other's pleasure and
picked his way through the dormant figures to the path. He
had slept away the entire second day.
“Seyt” calls Peytheida from the corridor, interrupting my
excellent allegory. “Come on, it's important” I tell her that I
can't leave my tale.
The fifth cave was the cave of pride, where a bespectacled
clerk seated at a large desk skillfully aroused that feeling
within our brother's breast, and antagonized Dore into a
defensive and vain attitude before allowing him to enter. The
cave was filled with others who had received the same
treatment, and they contended amongst themselves with
boasting and swaggering heroics. Our brother competed
mindlessly for some time until one of the others in the noisy
chamber mentioned his murder of his parents and usurpation
of his father's throne. The very words “father” and “mother”
brought Dore back to himself, and he cursed his foolishness.
He departed that senseless place as quickly as he could, but
he had spent the night of the second day unknowingly.
“Are you going to go through all seven, Seyt” asks
Peytheida. “You'll miss your chance if you don't hurry” In a
minute.
Along the path Dore found a couch set out for travelers.
Sitting on it was a handsome young man. Dore greeted the

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man, who invited Dore to rest for a moment and talk. Dore
was still angry with himself for falling into the trap of pride,
and he thought it best to regain his head before he contended
with any more of Love's trials. The man spoke to him
pleasantly for a time, asking questions about Dore, our
house, and his goals. Soon the questions probed deeper, and
Dore began to reveal his most buried desires and frustrations.
“I know exactly what you mean” said the young man at
one point. “I always wanted a loving wife and children.
Fortunately, I met the most beautiful girl and we're blessed
with three wonderful children. I can't wait to get home to see
them. I've got pictures” The man went on, touching on
each of Dore's secret wants. Our brother liked the man, but
soon his envy colored his thoughts, and he grew dissatisfied
and angry. He considered abandoning his quest, which surely
could never produce the ends he now knew he craved more
than anything. The man talked on, and Dore grew more
envious until he was nearly at the point of physical violence.
“Stop” cried Dore, shaken and despairing.
A note from Tere: “You were doing okay, but Dore's divine,
remember? Human temptations are meaningless. It's
unrealistic to show him subject to such trivialities as envy.
Just a caution, nothing serious. Best, the Kalp”
Of course, I wasn't finished. Dore's inner resources
rescued him just in time, and he shook off the mesmeric
bonds of the youth's conversation. He wished the young man
the best of luck and continued on his way. While he
languished in the coils of covetousness, the third day passed.

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“We're going without you” says Peytheida. I shake my
head in impatience and put down my pen.
What a strange time it was, too. Apparently one of my
reckless remarks caused a bit of comment. Aniatrese and
Peytheida decided that it had been a long time since they had
talked with Dyweyne. Now, although Dyweyne has been shy
of us since Dore's departure, we still all think of her with
affection. It isn't just I who realized her special virtues.
Indeed, even Tere has been moved to send her a valentine,
different and more sentimental than those he sends the
customers of his Ploutos Corporation. I do not doubt that the
intent was political, but it demonstrates Dyweyne's
distinction.
Several of us spent this afternoon standing outside her
door, singing River carols. We hoped she would enjoy them as
she pined in her bare cell. We had brought cookies and milk
with us, and had prepared a sort of party. Auel and Laliche
had made paper planes and houses to put on her walls, and
Peytheida had written a meandering ode. But we sang four
long carols and received no reaction. We knocked on her door
but she didn't answer. Finally we went down to the rec room
and ate the cookies.
“Maybe you scared her with what you said before” said
Laliche.
“What do you mean” I asked. I rarely pay attention to
what I write.
“About Dyweyne's becoming a new reality of Our Mother.
That's certainly a thankless task. I know I wouldn't want to”
said my little sister with a shudder.

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“I didn't really mean it that way” I said evasively.
“Tell us, Seyt” said Aniatrese, our Beauty Queen, “how did
you mean it”
I thought for a second or two. “I might have meant that
the greater part of a parent's identity is the reflected honor of
the children. Certainly the number of children in our family
allowed Our Mother a certain bargaining pressure with the
lesser families. In our case, of course, that honor means
Dore. Perhaps our respect for Our Mother would be less if it
were not for him” The subject quickly grew tiresome, and I
excused myself and returned to my room. But I continued to
think.
On certain dirt days Tere would set up a blackboard near
Our Mother's throne. She would ramble in her moist way, and
Tere would seize on some of her more intelligible remarks.
Afterward there would be a list of key words on the board:
harvest, prosperity, peace, plenty, harmony, sharing, refuge.
None of us could recall what connection they had with what
Our Mother said; but thinking back, it seems certain that she
was looking forward with optimism. It would be rank heresy
now to contradict that hopefulness; Our Father and Dore's
evaporations are shrouded in mystery, but Our Mother's was
accessible to us all. It must be through her, then, that any
future occult manifestations be channeled. And who is the
most likely medium? Dyweyne. Perhaps that is what I meant.
This train of reasoning opens the door to whole new vistas
of theological error. Neither Ateichál nor Tere have been too
receptive in the past to an allegorical interpretation of the
record of our family. Our Parents’ life on Earth, their voyage

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and trials here, and the subsequent founding of our family
must be dealt with literally. This is what I've done in this
history. But I have felt free to coat Dore's adventures, with
which no one else can disagree as they are my own private
figments, with a subtle flavoring of metaphor. This is for the
instruction of the younger children, who will not swallow
straight moral tales unless they appear as parables.
I suppose that Tere and Ateichál are not wholly happy with
what I've done, but they both seem content to let me finish
and allow the work to be judged on its merits. This is
eminently fair, and I'm grateful. And, I guess, they are
correct in worrying about misinterpretations of my symbology
by less astute critics. Nevertheless, the simple instance of
allegory ought not to be dismissed as criminal. And my
doctrinal speculations I defend by claiming the immunity of
the social commentator in a free culture. I do not wish to
drive Dyweyne cringing into her corner, waiting for the soggy
spirit of Our Mother to possess her, and I do not wish to
provoke our spiritual leaders by making the suggestion. Part
of my duty as I see it is to guard against an onset of
inflexibility. It is good for us to flex.
The sixth cavern that Dore came to was similar to the den
of sloth. The air was warm and spiced with unusual incenses,
and the room was provided with many sorts of pleasurable
furnishings, most decorated after an erotic theme. Dore was
wise enough to understand the purpose and danger of this
place, particularly when his suspicions were confirmed by the
sight of scores of couples coupling. He intended to pass by
without pausing, but he was called by a beautiful young

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woman, apparently a fellow traveler caught by the ambush of
desire. She looked so desperate that Dore decided to help
her.
“Come and love me” she said, in a low moaning voice that
Dore found peculiarly exciting.
“I'm afraid I can't” said Dore apologetically. “I have to
meet someone”
The woman smiled sensuously, and trailed her fingertips
up Dore's arm and down across his chest. “Surely it won't
take you that long” she said.
Dore was embarrassed, but also strangely aroused. The
woman was almost supernaturally beautiful, and her perfect
body was not at all concealed by the filmy stuff she wore. Her
half- closed eyes, her writhings, and her black lingerie
inflamed our brother, but he remembered the trouble he'd
had with strange women before. He told the lovely creature
that he was sorry, but that he had to go. “If you like, I think
it would be best if you left with me” he said.
The woman licked her lips. “If you want me, take me” she
said.
“That's not what I mean. If you just give in to your carnal
desires, you'll be here forever. You'll never reach your
destination”
The young woman looked at Dore curiously. “I work here”
she said.
“Oh” said Dore, embarrassed once more. He was not
aware of the passage of time, but he spent the third night
staring at her. He gathered his thoughts with an effort of will
and found the path again.

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The last cavern was a sudden change from the
lasciviousness of the previous ones. Here the walls of the
stone hall were lined with cases of weapons and armor. The
floor of the great chamber was crowded with fighting men.
Dore tried to pass through unnoticed, but he was accosted by
a large bearded man with a short Roman sword. The man
spoke in a rough and unpleasant dialect, and Dore understood
little. But he did make out that he was being challenged. Our
brother tried to ignore it. The man continued, refusing to let
Dore pass, and his insults grew fouler. Finally he combined
his abuse with a physical attack, and Dore was compelled to
defend himself.
Strangely, the bearded man allowed Dore time to find a
sword. When Dore had armed himself, his attacker smiled
and renewed his assault. Dore was too involved in protecting
himself to worry about Glorian, and the fourth day passed as
he struggled with the belligerent savage. Dore's arm did not
weaken and he fought without tiring, but neither he nor his
opponent could win an advantage. At last Dore penetrated the
barbarian's guard and cut almost completely through the
man's neck. The bearded head teetered for a moment, then
settled back in place. The barbarian grunted and felt his neck,
showed his rotting teeth in a hostile grin, and began the
battle anew.
Dore was disgusted. He threw his sword at the other's feet
and turned away. Behind him the man cursed and threatened,
but our brother never replied. He located the path and left the
last of Love's caverns. As soon as he passed through, the
light from behind was extinguished, and Dore was on a rough

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and dangerous trail. Having abandoned the mystic benefits of
Love, his body suddenly informed him that it was weary and
hungry after four days abstinence. Dore laid himself on the
ground and slept. When he awoke he ate the last of his
provisions and stumbled through the darkness of the cave
until he reached the exit. He spent most of the fifth day
finding his way out, but when darkness came he had emerged
on a high, windy cliff. He slept on a narrow ledge that night.
It took Dore all of the sixth day to pick his way down the
side of the mountain. In the late afternoon he spied the
underground stream that Glorian had described, as it
splashed out of the rock like blood from a wound. It fell a
great distance, finally forming a large pool at the base of the
cliff. A thick cloud of mist hid most of the ground, but Dore
could see the island in the middle of the pool, and the castle
of Baron Glaub von Glech. Our brother was heartened at sight
of his goal, and after the rains he finished his descent by
moons’ light. He stopped that night in a small grove on the
verge of the pool, and the restful forest noises soothed him to
sleep.
Dore was awakened by a firm hand on his shoulder. “Come
on” said a merry voice, “wake up. I'd nearly given up on
you”
“Is that you, Glorian” asked Dore groggily.
“Yes, and your ultimate test is scheduled for this
afternoon. Get up and find your scattered wits. We have plans
to make”

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Dore opened his eyes regretfully. Glorian stood beside him,
smiling broadly. Our brother rose and winced at the pain of
his sore muscles. “It was a rough trip” said Dore.
“But you made it. I'm proud of you, though I knew you
could do it”
“I suppose you intended for me to go through there all
along”
Glorian laughed. “You're like a good sword now, hardened
by fire and water. You've mastered the theory; now comes
the real thing”
Dore made a wry face, wondering if Glorian really believed
that all the past perils were just overture. “What happens
now” he asked.
“Let us find the ferry” said Glorian, “and I will explain the
situation” The two men walked slowly, leaving the copse of
losperns and following the edge of the water. Glorian said
that the crown and jeweled scabbard had been sold and were
irretrievable, but that Battlefriend was locked in the Baron's
private vault. Dore's sword was necessary symbolically and
actually for our brother's success. He couldn't hope to locate
Our Father without it, for Our Father had forged it himself
from two broken pieces of something.
“Don't forget that Dore's trying to learn about the River,
too” says Laliche. She's right. I was just going to mention
that.
The process of initiation is a theme that pleads for
development. Every person experiences a time of becoming,
not only the heroes who must be properly trained and
indoctrinated. The grand unfolding of Dore's initiation into the

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mysteries can be read as the maturing and assumption of
adult life by each of his brothers and sisters. Perhaps that is
the universal motive that makes the quest so fascinating;
every person leaves the shell of childhood behind, and to do
so means accepting and contending with the horrors of
maturity. The unknown terrors of self- reliance, the necessity
to acknowledge the rights of others, the agonies of sexual
awareness are the trials and mission of the general. The
Master Bard of Bedford, that anonymous dramatist of
superfluous wit, author of A Faust Comedy and the lost
Tesselatia, deals with the dichotomy of internal and external
pursuits in the Tragedy of Godric of Essex. He is unfortunately
unable to make any meaningful statement about their relative
importance. He is a frustrating playwright to read, and his is
one of the first books I consigned to the River's care.
Oftentimes we may notice that a hero's external problems
are in reality projections of the internal distress of a moral
nature which he is currently enduring. This way the reader is
treated to a superficial struggle in physical terms, and a more
satisfying though hidden victory on an implicit level. I have
discovered that in the best literature everything means
something else. Speaking from my own experience, I can say
that this gets to be a great drain on the author. I would have
been content to confront Dore with a succession of giant
lampreys, Danton's toads, or woodcats. There is little skill in
doing that, unless the reader can be duped into believing that
one dragon represents the evils of Intolerance, a second
identical monster Science, and a third the Papacy. But I have
taken the difficult route.

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“We have a difficult road still ahead of us” said Glorian.
“We must plan surely, for the stronghold of the Von Glechs is
a tough nut to crack. Getting there will be simple enough; but
recovering your needful sword and escaping, and following
the stream to the River, will be a harrowing experience. Are
you up to it, my lad”
“No” said Dore sarcastically. “I think I'll go home now”
“You're a real puzzle sometimes” said Glorian, “Now listen
carefully. We must assume that the Von Glechs are expecting
you. If you go in there with me, they'll be put on the
defensive and be more likely to treat you roughly. They know
me well and have no great liking for me. But I will change my
appearance to an identity with which they are unfamiliar, and
I will enter the castle separately. You must find your sword
and obtain it on your own. In that I can be of no help, as I
have my own work to do; but I do not doubt that the woman
Narlinia may give you aid. After you have achieved your ends,
whatever they may be, you are to meet me at the front gate
at midnight. The gate will be locked, and the guards will allow
no one in or out until morning. But if you have your
Battlefriend I shall be able to pass you through”
“I don't know” said Dore worriedly. “Couldn't I just forget
it? I've come this far without the sword”
“And you'll go no farther without it. Don't be afraid. The
matter is not so doubtful as it sounds”
“What if I don't” Dore was interrupted by a sneeze on
the other side of a low hedge along the path. He stopped
short, an alarmed look on his face. Glorian reached over the
hedge and pulled up a small boy.

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“Who are you” asked Dore sternly.
“If it please your lordship” said the boy fearfully, “my
name is Regelard, son of Norble, porter in service to the
Baron. I could not help overhearing your conversation,
through no mischief of my own”
“You could not help skulking behind that hedge, eh” said
Dore.
“No, sir. You are Dore, of the First family” asked the boy
with respect.
“Yes” said Dore with some amusement. “Am I famous
even here”
“No, sir, but the Lady Narlinia told some funny tales of
you. I recognized you by her description and by your
speeches”
“What shall we do with him” asked Glorian.
“I can be of great help to you” said the boy.
“Perhaps so” said Dore thoughtfully. “We must either trust
him or dispose of him, which I cannot bear considering. All
right, Regelard, now you are one of us. Do our plans sound
faulty in any way”
“No, sir” said the boy with a grin, “they're just fine. And, if
it please your lordship, my friends call me ‘Bucky.’ ‘Regelard’
stinks”
“All right, Bucky” said Dore, clapping his new friend on the
back and smiling. The three companions soon reached the
small pier where they waited for the ferry to the island of the
Baron von Glech.
“Seyt” asks Laliche, who interrupts me less frequently
since she began writing her memoirs. “Ateichál is here” I am

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surprised. Our unspoiled sister has not visited me in many
weeks.
“Good day, Ateichál” I say. “How goes your reformation”
“Better than you report” she says bitterly. “I am not the
powerless fool you picture me to be. I wish to make a
revelation”
I am enthusiastic, always happy to be the forum for
interesting events.
“No one but myself has ever seen this” says Ateichál,
handing me a square of heavy paper. On the manuscript is
drawn an intricate diagram in washable blue ink. Within and
around the lines of the strange sketch are many mystic
symbols: crescents, torches, bulls, eagles, pointing hands,
eyes closed and open, serpents, stars of varying number of
points, lions, pyramids, crosses, suns, and virgins. In the very
center an agate has been glued to protect the recipient
against large spiders. Hebraic letters are scribbled about the
middle, and beneath the whole chart, in a box, is written: “I
invoke the fiery force of love by the power of Varuna, in thee,
for thee. Irresistible desire, as the gods made in the waters,
this I invoked to secure thy love for me. Thou wilt love me
with consuming desire. As ever, Dore”
“What is this” I ask, confused.
“This was Dore's attempt to win me from my devotion.
When he sought himself a mistress he came first to me, and I
explained that his special qualities and my religious zeal made
our union impossible. He was heartbroken, and tried
everything to win my love and my body. But I would not
yield, though my secret heart of hearts desired it. He sent me

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flowers that were picked for him by Dyweyne. He wrote me
silly, romantic poems. Finally I told him that I could not
receive any more from him, and he went to Dyweyne, his
second choice. It is I, not she, that should benefit from the
glory of his attentions”
“This is truly remarkable, Ateichál” I say, genuinely
puzzled.
“Yes” she says, rising. She smiles minimally at me, gives
Laliche a stern glance, and returns to her tower.
“What do you make of this” I say, handing the witchery to
Laliche.
“Oh, this” she says, laughing. “I made this for Jelt, but it
didn't work. Ateichál must have found it and put Dore's name
on it”
“It was a nice try” I say.
“You mean for Jelt? He was too simple to understand it.
I'm going to be more direct from now on”
“No. I meant for Ateichál. She's a very sad person”
Dore, Glorian, and Bucky rode the ferry across the clear
water of the pool to Von Glech's island fortress. Glorian was
careful to keep himself aloof, even though later he would be
in a different guise. It was important to their hasty plans that
Dore be thought alone. Bucky chatted with the ferryman, and
the ride passed without incident.
“Well, we're safely on the island” said Dore musingly. “I
hope getting off will prove as simple a task. What now”
“Now we follow this street through those shacks to the
gate of the castle” said Glorian. “Walk ahead of me. Old Von
Glech knows you're coming, and I wouldn't doubt but that so

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do all these townsfolk. There's probably a price on your
head”
“What have I done” asked Dore. He received no reply.
“I have to leave you here” said Bucky when they passed a
filthy hut put together from scrap steel plates and rotten
planks. “This is the simple home of my father, and I'll be
whipped if I'm late. I wish you gentlemen good luck on your
venture”
“He said he'd be of use to us” said Dore, disappointed at
losing the boy's aid. “But we can't prevent him from going
home”
“He will be of service” said Glorian. “Tonight, after you've
secured your sword and I have gotten you through the gates
safely, come here. My own mysterious business cannot reach
an end before dawn. In any event, there will be no ferry
service until morning. I will meet you here at first light”
“Excellent” said Dore. “Unless I'm recognized and
captured, of course”
“Of course” said Glorian absently. The air began to
shimmer around his body, and for an instant Dore saw flashes
of red sparks. There was a glow which brightened until Dore
could no longer see Glorian. The brilliance hurt our brother's
eyes, and still the light intensified. Then suddenly it was
gone, and Glorian stood in a new identity. He was tall and
stout, mostly bald with a few tufts of brown hair. He wore
plain blue trousers and an open- necked white shirt, with a
turquoise ring on one hand.
“What was that” shouted a man, evidently Norble the
porter, as he ran from Bucky's hut.

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“What was what” asked Glorian innocently.
“That light” said the porter.
“Oh, nothing” said Dore, and the man shook his head and
went back into his house.
“That was close” said Dore, and Glorian agreed. The two
men separated, and in a few minutes Dore presented himself
nervously to the guards at the gate of Castle Von Glech,
seeking entrance.
“Who are you and what is your business” asked a surly
warrior.
“I am a prince from a far- off land” said Dore. “And my
business is the wooing of the Lady Narlinia”
“Are you Dore of the First family” asked the soldier. Dore
was chagrined, but admitted his identity. “Go on in” said the
guard, “they're all waiting for you”
Inside, in the musty entrance hall, Narlinia von Glech sat
in an old, grotesquely carved wooden chair. Dore was sure he
had seen its mate in our yard. Narlinia rose when she saw our
brother. She came to him smiling.
“Hello, Narlinia” said Dore, his mouth suddenly dry. “We
have a chair just like that at home” He felt foolish.
“Come with me” she said softly. “We must talk” She took
his hand and led him through the dank corridors of the castle
to a small chamber. The room was square, with a low ceiling
and only the one entrance. There were no windows and no
furnishings. It looked like a mistake of architecture. “We can
speak freely here” said the lovely young woman. The two
gazed at each other for a moment, and then embraced.

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“Narlinia” said Dore uncomfortably. “Honey? You know
I'm glad to see you, but I don't have time. I want to get my
sword back”
“I know. I had hoped that you came for another reason.
But I will help you get your weapon. My father plans to use it
in his campaign against the peaceful farmers next year. He
believes the sword has mystic properties. Is that true”
“Yes” said Dore softly, “but nothing as beguiling as the
perfume of your hair”
Narlinia laughed. “Come. The guard of my father's vault is
a customer of mine. By the way, is your companion with you?
Glorian”
Dore's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “No. No, he's not. He's
visiting a friend”
“What a shame. My father was hoping to see him”
“That is a shame” said Dore. He followed Narlinia down a
secret staircase to the underground vault of Baron von Glech.
An unshaven wretch lay sprawled before the massive iron
door. Narlinia smiled at Dore and knelt, trying to rouse the
drunken man.
“It's me, Crebbit. Narlinia. I've come”
The poor man looked up blearily; he grinned weakly and
spoke in a thick voice. “Go on” he said. “Just take it. It's in
the back by the secret cheese formula”
Narlinia swung open the iron door and disappeared into
the vault. In a few moments she returned with Battlefriend.
The sword had grown slightly tarnished and was covered with
dust, but Dore was happy to see it. As soon as he touched it

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the light in the keep brightened considerably. “That was
quick. How did he know what you wanted” asked Dore.
“We're old friends” said the Lady Narlinia.
“I didn't think we'd get it so fast. I have a lot of time to kill
now”
“Before what” asked the Baron's daughter innocently.
“Oh, nothing” said Dore.
“Then let us creep upstairs unnoticed, and pass the time in
whatever way seems best” said Narlinia with a bit of a leer.
Dore punched her shoulder affectionately, and could see no
fault with her program.
All too soon it was time for Dore to leave. He regretted
having to abandon the young woman once more, but our
brother removed her clinging arms and gave her a last kiss. “I
must be off” he said. “But I'll come back again someday”
“Dore, I love you” she whispered. “Where are you going?
It's nearly midnight”
“I have an appointment” he said, pulling on his clothes.
The two said their fond goodbys, and Dore slipped away into
the night's concealment.
Glorian was already waiting for him by the gate. “Do you
have”
“Right here” said Dore happily, slapping his enchanted
blade.
“Fine. That's real fine” said Glorian. “Now stand back. I'm
going to open a way for you through the wall. Get through as
quickly as you can. Go straight to young Bucky's home and
await me there. Talk to no one and try not to be spotted.
Good luck” Glorian waved his arms, and a tiny crack

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appeared in the high wall of the fortress. Dore squeezed
through with some effort and much cursing, and did as he
was bidden. In a matter of minutes he was standing before
the door of Norble the porter.
Jelt comes in to disturb the flow of my adventure. “I'm
glad he got his sword back” he says. He sees Laliche sitting
in a corner of my room, too engrossed in her own literary
venture to follow mine any longer. But at Jelt's words she
looks up with a beautiful and predatory smile. She takes his
hand and they go off to share their lovers’ lies. I shake my
head patronizingly. Ah, to be young again.
Even as I am preparing Dore for his one, final, moral
dilemma, I am being tortured by ethical considerations of my
own. There is the problem of Dyweyne. My infatuation for her
knows no bounds, but my affection for Joilliena is in no way
affected. Joilliena can't understand this, claiming that I'm
trying to make a fool out of her. This is surpassingly untrue; I
am well content with what I have, but I worship Dyweyne in a
special way. The traditions of Courtly Love demand that you
weaken at the knees for only the wife of another man.
Indeed, Courtly Love forbids a man from treating his own wife
that way. There is an organization to the feeling, so that the
stricken man is at once the suitor and vassal of his maid. Only
the Courtly, i. e, the well- bred, can Love, because only the
courtly understand the vicissitudes of Service. It is this that I
feel for Dyweyne: a sort of hopeless longing to be her feudal
bondsman and, with fortune, her lover.
When expressed in these terms my love is less like heresy,
if Dyweyne has been elevated to a position of official

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adoration. I do not recall where the matter stands. I think
Tere overlooks it entirely, but Ateichál is ready to grant
Dyweyne some status. Ateichál will do anything, right at the
moment. The struggle has been too much for her.
Other matters try to entice me from my righteous posture,
also. Although the interest of my brothers and sisters has
waned, and I get no more reviews now that Yord and
Mylvelane have been processed, the Ploutos Corporation has
not forgotten me. On my desk are ten or twelve different
proposals for exploiting my history, just waiting for my
signature. Even though none of them offer me a fair deal for
my rights, they are a potent temptation. I have the means to
set myself up as a great and powerful authority. With shrewd
management I could cut for myself a reasonable chunk of
political power. Fortunately, I am immune to such threats to
my peace and indolence.
Dore has yet to learn the depths of his inner resources. He
settled himself in a clear space among the piles of trash in the
yard and fell asleep. The rising sun broke through his dreams,
and it took him a few seconds to recall where he was. He
stood and made a careful survey of the house, but no one
was awake. He wondered where Glorian was. The inscrutable
companion was always so puritanical about such matters as
punctuality and caution. But Dore didn't worry, knowing that
Glorian had more ways of getting out of trouble than most
people had for finding it.
But after the sun had climbed steadily for an hour and
Glorian had not appeared, Dore began to fret. The longer
their departure was delayed the more chance there was that

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they'd be discovered in their theft. Dore was uncertain about
the best thing to do. He hated to abandon the meeting place,
in case Glorian might arrive in Dore's absence and leave our
brother on his own.
“Are you waiting for Glorian, Master Dore” asked Bucky,
startling Dore from his deep thoughts.
“Yes, my lad. I was to meet him here”
“I know. The Lady Narlinia has betrayed you to her father.
Glorian is held captive within a glass bottle. He's powerless
inside blue glass, you know. The Baron is demanding that you
return Battlefriend, or your companion dies”
Dore was horrified. “How do you know all this” he asked.
The boy grinned sheepishly. “It's the talk of the town” he
said. “We've been planning it for weeks. I was supposed to
lead you to the castle and lull your suspicions, but you can
trust me now”
The boy's speech made our brother furious, but he knew
that he was helpless. “Either I can surrender to the Baron, or
I can attempt to rescue Glorian” said Dore hopelessly.
“All the Baron's men are armed and waiting” said Bucky.
Dore's confused thoughts strayed from his emergency. They
flowed backward, over his countless adventures, his victories
and defeats. He thought of Narlinia, and then he thought of
Dyweyne. He pictured Dyweyne's—
A note from Ateichál: “You need not trouble yourself
incessantly about Dyweyne. With one bold stroke I have
simplified matters greatly. Our arrogant sister has been
‘taken care of.’ Yours for a cleaner Home, Ateichál”

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A note from Tere: “I am sure that you share my outrage
and disgust at Ateichál's most heinous of crimes. Be assured
that already we have had our vengeance. Ateichál, that
ghoulish apostate, has, in her words, ‘been taken care of.’
With best regards and deepest sympathy, your brother, Tere
(The Kalp”
“This is it, sir, your moral crisis. You must choose between
the life of a friend and the success of your mission. But you
can't abandon Glorian, and you just can't go in there. You'll
be killed” The boy looked up into Dore's eyes with tears in
his own.
Dore looked out over the run- down shacks, down to where
the pool lay like Our Mother's glassy eyes, reflecting the
unstrained pallor of her skin. A small brook ran out of the
pool at one end, Dore knew, and the brook ran on through
meadows and sweet forests until it merged with the River.
Our brother looked down at Bucky, and then back toward
the castle of the faithless Von Glechs. “You're right” said
Dore.

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Chapter eleven
An End— and a Beginning
Dore followed the River, trekking resolutely now as his
goal grew nearer. He marched quickly along the side of the
rushing water. He stumbled over roots and tangled his feet in
clumps of needle grass, but he did not notice. He went on for
hours, until his breath was coming in short, painful gasps. His
throat was dry from both his exertions and his anticipation. At
last he was forced to halt by the evening rains. He sat down
among the weeds on the bank of the sacred River, huddling
shelterless in the cold storm.
He did not sleep that night. As the white sky broke up after
the rain, pulling apart like cotton to show the cheerless stars,
he got again to his feet. The River ran harder now under the
burden of the day's rain, and Dore followed it further. The
grassy meadowland soon began to broaden to his left and to
his right, across the River. After a short while he noticed that
he was crossing a great, wide plain that stretched to the
distant horizon, featureless except for the River. Shortly
before the next dawn he camped beside the water and slept
through the hottest part of the day. He awoke in the late
afternoon and continued his journey, hungry and weary.
Soon Dore observed that the River itself was changing.
The great River was somewhat narrower now, as streams
split from it and went off at nearly perfect right angles. I
suppose these streams always cut through the opposite bank,

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or, if they did intersect Dore's line of march, that he found
some way of crossing them without entering the water itself.
Then again, it's possible that he felt that as soon as the water
left the main channel of the River it lost its holy nature.
In any event, these streams seemed to happen more and
more frequently, and as a consequence the River became
smaller. When it had shrunk to about the size that it is as it
circles past the faraway house of our First family, it poured
into a huge, beautiful, elliptical lake. The lake was set into the
grassland like a polished stud in a velvet garment. It was
perfectly still; no wind rippled its mirror surface. At what
appeared to be the foci of the ellipse were two small islands,
covered with shrubbery and trees. The tall, slender, white
trees were the first that Dore had seen in days. He addressed
a tentative prayer to the swollen section of the River, and the
implied swelling of its holiness.
At the farther end the shoreline was broken by five small
rivulets which ran out of the lake and diverged quickly. Dore
studied them for some time and finally decided that they all
must be from the original sacred River, and they all must lead
where he had to go. Either he chose to follow the largest of
the streams or he chose the nearest.
The undergrowth grew denser. The dry needle grass gave
way to bushes and tall, delicate ferns, to tough climbing vines
and creepers, then to the deciduous growths, the micha and
the oaks, and finally to Dore's beloved dense, dark woods.
The stream that he followed gurgled pleasantly, without the
rushing roar of the River. Dore could see smooth, mosscovered
stones through the shallow water. He heard the

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singing of cicadas and katydids. He felt at home again, but he
knew he couldn't go on much longer.
The brook tumbled over logs and squeezed past boulders.
Water spiders made their profane, gliding way on its surface.
Unless, being born to the water, they were holy in their own
right; in that case Dore addressed a line of prayer to them,
too. From the right another of the five streams arched
through the trees, joining the one Dore followed and making
a larger creek. In a short while they split around a jagged
chunk of stone and went on separately. Dore made his choice.
Further on two streams joined his, splitting later into two
parts. Dore chose again. The streams wound through the
forest, meeting and dividing in confusing combinations. Dore
became increasingly convinced that it was unnecessary to
differentiate among them; he followed the branch that looked
nicest at the time. The rivulets continued on, making their
roughly parallel courses through the woods.
Toward evening Dore stopped at the edge of a precipice.
The stream leaped over the edge, splashing holiness on Dore
and on the dead leaves of the forest floor. He could see that
there were four other streams that spilled together: As they
fell they mixed again to form the River, reborn in its virgin
purity. Dore climbed slowly down the face of the cliff,
stepping carefully on the wet, slick rocks. It was dusky and
difficult for him to see below. The roar of the waterfall grew
louder, echoing from the walls of the canyon into which he
was climbing, making him slightly dizzy.
He clung for a moment on a narrow ledge. He paused,
gasping for breath and feeling the weakness in his arms and

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legs. His head was pressed close to the mossy wall. He felt
something touch his foot: rodent? reptile? He glanced down.
A hand was grasping his ankle.
Dore's throat felt dry, his head buzzed with fear. He nearly
lost his grip on the rocks in his panic.
“Take it easy” a voice said. “There's a wider one just
below you. Kneel on the ledge that you're on, grab hold of the
edge, and let yourself down. You'll have to swing in pretty far,
but I'll steady you. There's plenty of room here for both of
us”
Dore did as he was told. He let go and landed on a wide
shelf of rock. A young man about his own age was sitting at
the far end. The man gestured, smiling, and Dore sat down,
too. He looked over the edge: blackness so deep that it stifled
even the rumbling of the falling water.
“Make yourself comfortable” said the man. “It's not bad
here, better than you might think. I've been here for quite a
while, and you're the first person that's happened by; I guess
you know how hard the trip is. It'll be nice having someone to
talk to”
“Who are you” asked Dore.
“Well, who are you? You're the stranger here, you know”
“My name is Dore, and I am the eldest male of the First
family of Home”
“Well, that's very funny. In that case, you're my son.
Hello. I haven't seen you since you were that high. How have
you been”
“Are you my Father”
“Yes. How have you been”

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“I have come to look for you. I never expected to really
find you”
“It's fantastic, all right. How are you”
“Fine” said Dore. “And you”
“All right, I guess”
“You .. you are Our Father”
The man laughed. “I'm your father, at least. I think. With
that mother of yours I was never certain. By the way, how is
Sue Ann”
“Sue Ann”
“Your mother, boy. How is she? Oh, never mind; I can see
that you got her brains”
“You're really Our Father? I mean, I've been searching for
you all this time, and you”
“Yes, you idiot. What's the matter? You want a signed
affidavit or something? Who else you know would be sitting
on this ledge Ommming out of sheer boredom for the last
thirty years”
“Why are you no older? You look as you must have when
you first went down the River”
Dore's father shrugged, then pointed off the ledge into the
darkness. “Down there” he said, “the Well”
“‘ The Well”
“Yes. The Well of Entropy”
The two of them were silent for a while, listening to the
murmurings from the darkness, each lost in his own amazed
thoughts.
Finally Dore said, “What about the Well of Entropy”

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“Down there is the entropic center of Home at least, and
possibly the universe. Everything that falls down there
becomes more and more dissociated, tending to the primal
chaotic state. Matter is destroyed as the electrons constituting
that matter slow and stop. When the electrons stop spinning
and the atoms fall apart: no more matter, just randomly
distributed, wasted energy. Up there, where you came from,
is the River, the symbol and essence of divinity on this planet.
God is the ultimate Order, the embodiment of organization.
The River and the Well are the two poles of existence; I
suppose that it is necessary for the River to have its source
from the Well to make the cycle complete. Someday someone
will explore the River upstream as we have done in this
direction”
“But going upstream is sacrilegious”
“Let me decide that. Anyway, this ledge is halfway
between them, tending neither toward destruction or
synthesis. Everything here stays exactly the same. We don't
need food or water, and time is meaningless. Sit back, pull up
a rock. It's kind of boring”
“What” said Dore. His mind was stunned by the impact of
all these new ideas. “How do you know what's down there”
“I climbed down about a year after I first arrived. I didn't
have anything else to do”
“How did you survive? Weren't you subject to the forces of
entropy, too”
“No. I suspected that staying in the curtain of the falling
water would protect me. Enough of the water was being
annihilated so that I had little trouble climbing down. Besides,

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I didn't want to go very far. Pretty soon the rocks go, too,
and you're left scrambling around on metaphysics”
“What did you see? What could there be? Is it Heaven”
asked Dore.
“Caverns, son. Caverns, measureless to man. Mindbending
panoramas of sinuous rills, senses- stunning spots of
greenery, and the ultimate in brain- warping romantic
chasms”
“Was your brain warped”
“No” the young man said slowly, “I got the hell out of
there” Dore's father stood up and walked to the rim of the
shelf. “I want to go up the cliff again. I want you to come with
me. We're going to fill that hole with rocks. We can go up
there and push down all the rocks and logs we can find. Block
it up. Back the River up so there will never be any death for
anything. We can do it”
Dore watched him, frightened by his father's tone. “No, we
can't. It's impossible. You can't overload entropy. Besides ..
besides, there are certain forces in this universe that
shouldn't be tampered with; I believe that entropy is one of
them”
“If you won't help me” the other man said, raging, “I'll do
it myself! You can't get back up by yourself; I know, I've
tried. You can't climb those rocks against the flow of entropy.
Two of us, together, might be able to do it. Those cosmic
forces of yours play by different rules here. You can't make it
alone; I'll leave you down here. I'll turn time back on for you
and you can starve”

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“Look, if I don't help you, you won't get up there, either.
You just said so. And when you turn time back on, if you
could, won't you suddenly age all those years that you've
lost? You'll be an old man. You'll never make it back to the
house”
“What makes you think I'm going back to the house? I
wouldn't go back there if .. That lousy mother of yours. We
wouldn't be here in the first place if she hadn't gotten us into
debt so far we'd never see daylight. Every time I had us
settled she'd trot out her charge cards and get us snowed
under. We had to keep running until we ran here. The first
thing I did was put the old icepick to her frontal lobes. This is
my Home. I made certain that making your wife into a
vegetable was strictly within your rights. Then I stuck her out
on her silly throne so I wouldn't have to listen to her valve
clatter all night. She had the coldest ass in bed you ever saw.
I'm not going back there”
Dore was silent once more. Finally he stood up too, and
went to the edge. He knelt; he swung his feet over and
searched for a secure footing.
“What are you doing” Our Father screamed.
“I'm going down there. I'm looking for my Father. He
wouldn't be just sitting up here raving. Not Our Father. You're
an imposter and a liar”
“Get back up here! You can't leave me like this” The man
grabbed Dore's wrists and pulled, scraping Dore's arms raw
on the rock wall.
“All right, let go” said Dore. “Let go or I'm coming up and
beat you to jelly. You're mad”

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“You don't know what you're doing”
Dore gazed at him through the gloom. Our brother's eyes
were steady, as steady as his voice. “I think I do” he said.
The man grappled furiously. Dore jerked both arms in an
attempt to pull free. His right foot slipped, and he fell out
over the chasm, held only by his Father.
Dore cursed. “Let me go” he said. “Swing me into the wall
and I can grab hold. Then let me go or well both go over”
“No” the other man said, “I can't. I can't let you fall and I
can't let you go down there voluntarily” He had dropped to
his knees when Dore slipped, and now he tried to stand
again. He rose, bent at the waist, and as he moved closer to
the edge to pull Dore up, our brother swung himself into the
cliff. The older man was forced down again, but this time he
lost his balance. He toppled over the brink, never letting go of
Dore's wrists.
“AIIEEEE” they screamed as they fell to their doom.
Well, it wasn't a grass dragon after all. Plummeting to
certain death with Our Father. My brother, the Kalp, has
informed me of our family's dissatisfaction with my Procopian
account. He has added, moreover, his own personal
disapproval. This won't be the official version, I guess. (Tere
also told me, smiling that puffy grin of his, he told me that he
would be inclined to go easier on me if I were reclined to go
easier on him. I told him that I already had a heavy date
down the road, which was, of course, a lie)
Our Mother is gone, he said, and her memory is holy to us
(Like hell it's holy to him; he was measuring his hyperbolic
bottom on her throne last night. Not Our Father's. Her's. The

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remarks I made about her were profanity of the worst sort. I
don't know exactly where I did get them (maybe Our Father
is around and transmitting, but at worst they are creative
reportage. Anyway, our family doesn't see it that way. I've
already finished packing. I'm honored to have the task of
going out to find Dore and Our Father and bringing them
back. I'm taking Tere's place. The Kalp's been wondering how
he was going to work this. But I don't get the wallet of bread
and cheese even. Certainly not a sword: I'm not old enough.
I thought they left Earth because of things like censorship.
Ah, Utopia!
I also go without the blessing and various rites that are
exquisitely Melithiel's, the princess from down the road. I'll
miss that. My brothers are always standing around and joking
about her. She must be really something. I'd probably like
our material better, anyway. (That's just sour grapes. How
would I know) Last night Joilliena came to my room. She
was one of the few who would talk to me after the meeting.
She wanted to come with me, but I said (rather nobly, “No”
I said, “stay and finish your education. If you're in school,
stay in school. If you're out and want to get back in, call your
State Office of Education Opportunities. I will send for you
when I get settled” Of course she cried. I never know what
to do.
This morning my little brother Jelt knocked on the door. I
shouted to him, so that he wouldn't come in and embarrass
Joilliena. I said, “What do you want”

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“Beware the plant men and the great white apes at the
end of the River” he said. I don't know what he meant; I
don't read his books.
Laliche was with him, of course. When she spoke she
sounded as if she were crying. “This is for you, Seyt” she
said. “Be careful” She pushed a piece of white paper under
my door. I smiled sadly, thinking it was another of her magic
charms. It had a red heart drawn in crayon, and shaky letters
that said, “We love you, Seyt”
I thanked them and they went away. Then I got up and
brushed my teeth. Joilliena was still asleep and I left before
she woke. It was so romantic that I nearly wept. I kissed her
cheek, and she smiled in her dreams. Her hair spilled over the
pillow like a wave of amber. Lovely, lovely.
I won't worry about any plant men. But I will watch out for
the Ship of Fools. And those Rhinemaidens, guarding their
refound horde of magic gold, as delightfully depicted by
Richard Wagner in his opera Götterdämmerung. What real
dangers there will be, I cannot say. I don't know. The River I
see over there, and the River I described for Dore probably
won't be the same. (If they are, I'm already lost) But, as
Fluellen says to Gower in William Shakespeare's immortal
play Henry V, “There is a river in Macedon, and there is also
moreover a river at Monmouth. But ’tis all one; ’tis alike as
my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both”
That is in the seventh scene of Act Four.

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