Nom d'un Nom
Fantasy Fiction - August, 1953
(1953)*
Randall Garrett

A hundred generations spent their time and effort attempting to find the True and Secret Name of God. But even after finding the answer, there was still the matter of pronunciation ...

-

	Donald Bush read through three pages of the book before he looked up in disgust.

	"Hah! I thought this was fiction!"

	On the far side of the room, Mark Lewis was seated at The Monster—a huge, old fashioned, roll-top desk—correcting a manuscript. When Bush spoke, he didn't look up, but his pencil paused.

	"What are you reading?"

	Bush shrugged. "The Devil We Know. I thought it was a fantasy. The title seemed familiar."

	Lewis turned around, laying down his pencil. "You're thinking of a short story by Kuttner. That particular book happens to be one of the standard works of demonology."

	Bush had a habit of dropping in on Mark Lewis at odd times of the day and night, mainly because of the fascinating conversations that sometimes bloomed over a bottle of Lewis' port. Lewis was in his fifties, perhaps twice Bush's age, but the two of them shared so much the same outlook and the same likes and dislikes that the difference was hardly ever noticeable.

	Lewis had been writing fantasy and science-fiction for twenty-odd years, and young Bush, "having sold his fourth story, tried to think of himself as an author, too.

	Both men had a habit of sleeping late on Sundays, so Bush hadn't thought anything of showing up at the older man's home at ten-thirty Saturday night. Mrs. Lewis had gone out to a neighborhood Bingo game, and Lewis himself had been deeply engrossed in making a few necessary changes in his latest novelette when Don Bush rang the doorbell.

	As Lewis hadn't happened to be ready to quit his work yet,

	Bush began browsing through Mark's huge collection of books, and had come across the volume under discussion.

	Bush turned another page. "Demonology? Then I can presume it is fiction."

	Lewis ran a hand along his temple, smoothing down the nearly pure white hair. "Not exactly. Lockhart, the author, doesn't believe in it anymore than you or I do. It's simply a—well, a history of the beliefs of the earlier peoples, with respect especially to religion. Something like The Golden Bough."

	"Or the Necronomicon," grinned Bush.

	The older man began to stoke his pipe. "Not exactly in the same category. Abdul Alhazred really believed what he put down. He put it down as fact.

	"Look at it this way: If I say, 'There are such things as ghosts,' that isn't true. 'But if I say, 'Certain people in the Middle Ages believe in ghosts,' the statement is a historical fact, and worth recording as such." He struck a large kitchen match and began to puff at the long Dutch pipe.

	Bush laid the book aside. He was interested, and wanted to know more, but it was easier and more enjoyable to get it out of Lewis than to get it out of Lockhart's book.

	"You're talking about ghosts; let's get back to demonology. What does he—" Bush jerked a thumb at the book "—deal with? Calling up the devil so we can sell our soul for the ability to become wizards, witches, and warlocks?"

-

	"Not entirely," replied Lewis, through a cloud of blue fumes, "That's purely Christian demonology. It was taken, mostly from the older Hebraic beliefs, as were the Moslem ideas.

	"Each, of course, was modified to fit the then existing beliefs of the Arabs or the Europeans. But the very earliest basis probably sprang from the polytheistic religions of our savage, cave-dwelling forebears. There were thousands upon thousands of spirits—both good and bad—existing in the world. If these could be controlled, it would be great stuff for the person who did the controlling.

	"Even when the idea of monotheism came in, it didn't do away with the ' concept of thousands of spirits. In modern Christianity, for instance, we still have the angels, and the Evil Hosts of Satan."

	Bush stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. "These spirits were supposed to be-all-powerful—right?"

	"Supposedly," nodded Lewis.

	Bush got up and headed for the kitchen, lifting his voice so that it could be heard in the study.

	"Well, then, how do you go about controlling such superthings?"

-

	He took the chilled bottle out of the refrigerator, grabbed a couple of glasses, and returned to the study.

	"Simply," Lewis answered. "Everything—including you—has a True Name. If you know the True Name of anything, you have it by the short-hair."

	Bush poured. "Well, Donald James Bush is my true name. What can you do with that?"

	Lewis waived that off. "If I say 'Donald James Bush', do you instantly appear before me, no matter where you are? No. Therefore, that isn't True Name."

	Bush sipped at the wine. "They had it figured out very neatly, didn't they? I mean, if the magic didn't work, you didn't have the right words—right?"

	"Precisely," Lewis agreed. "There was even more to it than that. Suppose you call on the demon Archaezel to bring a storm tomorrow, and you pronounce the name just so. Tomorrow it storms. Fine.

	"Then, a couple of weeks later, you want another storm. You go through the same rigamarole. No storm. What happened?

	"You didn't pronounce the name exactly right this time! These things have to be absolutely correct. If the mouth is held a little wrong, or the tongue comes forward a tenth of a millimeter too far, the pronunciation is off, and the demon doesn't have to obey.

	"Perhaps the human ear can't tell the difference, but the sensory apparatus of the demon sure can!"

	Bush mulled this over, rubbing his chin. Then:

	"Hold it a minute! Assuming you've got the name absolutely perfect, you can command any spirit. Right?"

	Lewis finished his wine before answering: "Right."

	"Well, then, why did they think they needed all those pentacles or pentagrams or whatever, and all the mystic spells and incense and candles? What good did they do?"

	"Ah, now there you have it," Lewis said, warming to his subject. "With the True Name, you can command any being. He must do it. But—and here's the kicker—it doesn't prevent him from doing anything else he may want to do! Understand?

	"For instance, you may conjure up an Arabian djinni and command him by his True Name to bring you gold and jewels. He is forced to do it, but that doesn't prevent him from ripping you to pieces or carrying you off to Hell after he does it—or even before, for that matter."

-

	"Does make it tough," agreed Bush, refilling his own glass, "But why couldn't you command him not to rip you up or carry you down?"

	"A demon can, theoretically, be very literal in taking his commands, interpreting them to the letter instead of the spirit. If he—"

	"I get you," interrupted Bush. "If you tell him not to rip you to bits, he poisons you or—"

	"Worse than that," Lewis re-assumed command of the conversation, "Suppose you give him the explicit command not to harm you. He has to obey. Then you tell him to bring you the jools. Fine. He does it.

	"Next day, while you're gloating over your wealth, in comes the local constabulary and hauls you off to the town Bastille. Why? The demon got the ice by making himself look like you and murdering half the clerks in Tiffany's in the process.

	"So you fry in the chair. Who did it? Not the demon. He never touched you. Get it?"

	"Nasty. And that's what the pentagrams are for?" asked Don.

	Bush, eyeing the wine bottle again.

	"Mostly," said Lewis, complacently filling his own glass. "But actually the demon would never have to go that far, except under unusual circumstances. If you didn't have the protection of the pentagram, he would probably jump you before you could give him any command at all."

	Lewis glared at his Dutch pipe, relit it, took a swallow of port, and went on:

	"So, all in all, it is better not to call up demons. If you have a Who's Who in Spiritland, with pronunciation, you'd do better to call up the ones that won't harm you—the Good Spirits."

	Bush raised his eyebrows. "You can conjure them up, too? Like angels and stuff?"

	"Why, to be shore!" Lewis nodded. "As a matter of fact, you can do better than that. Ever hear of the Tetragrammaton?"

	Bush's eyebrows lowered again. "Greek, isn't it?"

	"The word is Greek. Means 'four letters'. But the belief is Hebrew. Started about three centuries before the birth of Christ.

	"They did not use the True Name of the Supreme Being, substituting, instead, four letters. They've been translated into Roman script variously, as YHVH, IHVH, JHWH, JHVH, and YHWH. And the name had been translated as Yahweh or Jehovah."

	Bush blinked. "You mean that you could call Him up—or down, rather?"

	Lewis nodded again. "According to the laws of demonology, you could—provided you knew the True Pronunciation."

	"Hmmmm. I wonder what it was?" Bush had just enough wine to wonder about such things.

	"How should I know? You don't have to pronounce a name the way it's spelled; look at Cholmondeley or Marjoriebanks. For all I know you could pronounce it—" He made a vulgar mixture of noises that couldn't possibly have been spelled.

	There was no flash of light or flame. There was no smoke or noise or warning.

	The Presence was standing beside them.

	Bush's glass dropped shatteringly.

	Lewis gasped. "Great God!"

	"Quite the contrary!" snarled the Presence as it attacked.

	Mark Lewis had pronounced the wrong name.

The End
sleipnir 2/29/2012