Tarot, page 19
The barbed tongue flicked about, striking toward Brother Paul like an arrow but stopping short of the target. The small wings flapped slowly back and forth, the thin leathery skin crinkling between the feathered ribs. Brother Paul could not recall ever having seen anything uglier than this.
“Whatsamatter?” the dragon demanded. “Chicken?”
Brother Paul felt a tingle of anger. What right had this filthy thing to call him names? He gripped his sword firmly and stepped forward.
And paused again. This was Temptation—the urge to violence for insufficient cause. So the monster had called him “chicken”; why should he react to the archaic gibe? This was the lowest level of social interaction, and violence was the refuge of incompetence. “I merely wish to visit that castle, for I suspect that the information I need is inside. If you will kindly stand aside, there need be no strife between us.”
“Temptation never stands aside!” the creature snorted. It was very good at speaking while snorting. “You must conquer me before you can complete your mission, chicken.”
“But I don’t want to slay you. I shall be satisfied to pass you by.”
“You can’t slay me; I am eternal. You can’t pass me by. In fact, you can’t even fight me; you’re a natural coward. Why don’t you get out of this scene and let the air clear?”
As if he hadn’t been trying to do just that! “I would, if I had no mission to perform. I will, after it is done. Now please stand aside.” Brother Paul strode forward.
The dragon held its ground. “Temptation cannot be bluffed,” it said.
Brother Paul refused to strike it with the sword without some more definite provocation. Though he knew it to be a mere symbol, its semblance of a living, intelligent (if ugly) entity was too strong.
He sidled around it—and the dragon was before him again. It had jumped magically to block him. He changed direction again—and it blocked him again.
So that was the way of it; the thing was trying to provoke him into striking. And if he struck first, he would have succumbed to Temptation.
This time Brother Paul walked straight into the dragon. And bounced off its warty face.
Therion still stood a little apart, watching with morbid interest. “It didn’t bite me,” Brother Paul said, surprised.
“Temptation does not attack physically,” Therion explained. “It merely offers a more intriguing alternative. Still, it must be conquered.”
Brother Paul failed to see anything intriguing in the dragon. He tried again to avoid it, and failed again. He was becoming more than mildly angry, and felt the urge simply to smash the thing out of his way, but he suppressed the impulse. Instead, he sheathed his sword and tried to heave Temptation out of the way with his hands. But the dragon was too heavy and low-slung to budge. “You can’t conquer me by halfhearted measures,” it said with a phenomenal yard-long sneer.
Brother Paul found himself sweating. Apparently this thing could balk him if he refused to fight it directly. Yet he remained reluctant to do so. He turned to Therion. “You’re my guide. What do you recommend?”
“You must find common ground on which to meet it. Temptation assumes many guises. Maybe one will suit you.”
Brother Paul considered this. Many guises—could that be literal here? Physical? “I don’t care to take the sword to you, beast,” Brother Paul told it. “Yet you must be moved. Isn’t there some less devastating way to determine the issue?”
“I’ll meet you on any front, chicken,” the dragon said. Part of its sneer remained, having failed to clear the far end of its long mouth.
“How about barehanded? Can you meet me in human form?”
The dragon vanished. In its place stood a man, huge and muscular, with yellow eyes, a red face, blue horns and a warty nose. And that lingering sneer. “What say now, coward?” the demon demanded.
“I say that if Jacob could wrestle with the Angel of the Lord, I may wrestle with Temptation,” Brother Paul replied. He felt better now. This was a judo situation, and he was competent. He could subdue his opponent without hurting him.
“I don’t know no Jacob!”
“‘And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day.’ It’s from the Bible, the first book of Moses, called Genesis, chapter thirty-two.” Brother Paul paused, expecting the demon to flinch at the Biblical reference, but was disappointed. But of course this was not a demon of the infernal regions, but the demon that was within every man; it would be conversant with the holy as well as the unholy. Except that it did not seem to know about this particular episode.
“Oh, that Jacob!” the demon said sneeringly. “He was a pretty puny angel, not to be able to beat a mortal man. In fact he would have lost if he hadn’t struck a low blow.”
Brother Paul remembered. “‘And when he saw that he prevailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob’s thigh was out of Joint, as he wrestled with him.’ But that sounds more like a leglock than a low blow—leverage on the thigh to throw out the hip joint.”
“The ‘hollow of the thigh’ is a euphemism for the crotch,” the demon insisted. “The angel popped Jacob’s crotch.”
“Perhaps so,” Brother Paul admitted. “It is a debatable point. Yet further along it is referred to as ‘the sinew which shrank’ and since he did sire a good family—”
“Not after he wrestled with the angel!”
Brother Paul spread his hands. He had thought his combat with the demon-dragon would be physical, but he was glad to settle for this Biblical arena instead. He had done a lot of Bible reading in the past few years, being fascinated with it as both religion and history. He was also intrigued by the continuity of the Bible, in the forms of the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha. “At any rate, the Angel did not defeat him, and he won from it a blessing: the name of Israel, meaning ‘A Prince of God,’ and founded the tribe of Israel.”
“And his daughter Dinah got raped,” the demon said, smiling as if with enjoyment.
This creature reminded Brother Paul strongly of Therion. He glanced back, but Therion was still standing there. On second thought, Therion would not approve of rape, not from consideration for the woman, but because he seemed to feel that the sexual act was a male sacrifice bestowed on the unworthy female. Why force this gift on a mere woman? “Rape is too strong a term,” Brother Paul continued. “The young man was honorable, and begged to be allowed to marry Dinah formally, and even accepted the requirement of circumcision although he was a Gentile prince.”
“Yeah, they covered up the record,” the demon said. “Tried to make it out a good fuck in the end, so they wouldn’t have to stone him for rape or her for acquiescence. A lot of juicy dirt got censored out of the Good Book.”
Brother Paul started to make an angry retort, then realized that this was merely another aspect of the battle. Temptation fought with concepts as well as words, and truth was irrelevant. If distortion and vernacular caused Brother Paul to lose his temper, the victory would go to the dragon.
Indeed, these slights on Biblical accuracy were ones that Brother Paul himself had pondered privately. He liked to comprehend the full meaning of what he read, and much of the Bible remained tantalizingly opaque. Jacob’s encounter with the Angel of God—there was an enigma! Why would an angel want to wrestle with a mortal man, and why would anything as pure of motive as an angel ever yield to the temptation? Yet Brother Paul knew he had to challenge the Bible with extreme caution, for it was a document that generations of scholars had not been able to question with certainty. Indeed, archaeological evidence continued to support the legitimacy of Biblical statements. Who was he, a minor novice in a minor Order, to set his puny judgment against the accumulated wisdom and revelation of the ages?
So he must vanquish Temptation here, too. It was not his place to debate any aspect of Scripture in public. It had been a mistake to invoke it here. What he did was his own responsibility; it should not be justified by reference to the Bible. That was a perversion, to adapt the Holy Book to individual purposes—though so many scoffers and special interests did.
“Enough of this,” Brother Paul said. “If you will not let me pass, I must apply leverage.”
The demon laughed. It was taller than Brother Paul, and heavier, and possessed a better physique. But how powerful was it, actually? Temptation could not be measured by external appearances.
Brother Paul stepped toward the castle, and of course the demon moved instantly to block him. This time Brother Paul stepped into it, shoved against the demon’s right shoulder, and used his own right foot to sweep the demon’s left foot out and forward. It was the o uchi gari, or “big inner reap” of judo.
The demon fell on the sand, as though its foot had slipped on a banana peel. Brother Paul stepped over it and resumed his march toward the castle. That had been amazingly easy!
And the demon stood before him again. “Very clever, mortal. But Temptation is not so readily put behind you. You could throw me a thousand times, and I would still be before you, for no single act of will defeats me.”
Brother Paul stepped into it again. The demon braced against the maneuver that had brought it down before, but this time Brother Paul caught its right arm with both of his own and turned into ippon seoi nage, the one-armed shoulder throw. The demon’s momentum carried it forward, and Brother Paul heaved it over his own shoulder to land on its back in the sand, hard.
This time Brother Paul followed it down and applied a neck lock. A simple choke would have cut off the demon’s air, causing it to suffocate in a few minutes; this was a blood strangle that would deprive the creature’s brain of oxygen, knocking it out in seconds.
The demon struggled, but it was useless. Brother Paul knew how to apply a stranglehold. He would not kill the creature, but would merely squeeze it unconscious. It would revive in a few minutes, unharmed—but too late to stop him from entering the castle. Temptation postponed might well be Temptation vanquished!
The seconds passed—and still the thing fought. The hold was tight, yet it seemed to have no effect. What was the matter?
The demon’s arm came around, groping for Brother Paul’s face. Sharp nails scraped across his cheek toward his right eye. He knew he would lose an eye if he did not get it out of reach in a hurry, but to do that he would have to release the strangle. This creature was not bound by polite rules of sport-combat!
Obviously the stranglehold had failed. The vascular system of demons seemed to be proof against the attack of mortals. Temptation could not be so simply nullified. Brother Paul let go and jumped up and away.
“I am a dragon,” the demon said, standing. “I have no circulation, no blood. I operate magically. I need breath only to talk. You cannot throttle Temptation, fool!”
Evidently not! Brother Paul stepped toward the castle again, and the demon blocked his passage as before, grinning.
Brother Paul’s left hand caught it by the right arm, jerking it forward. His right arm came up as if to circle the thing’s impervious neck. The demon laughed contemptuously and pulled back, resisting both the throw and the strangle.
But Brother Paul’s right arm went right on over the demon’s head, missing it entirely. He twisted around as though hopelessly tangled, falling to the sand. But the weight of his falling body jerked the demon forward over his back. It was soto makikomi, the outside wraparound throw, a strange and powerful sacrifice technique. The demon landed heavily, with Brother Paul on top; such was the power of the throw that an ordinary man could have been knocked unconscious. Immediately Brother Paul spun around, flipped the demon onto its face, and applied an excruciating arm-lock, one of the kansetsu waza. The demon might not have blood, but it had to have joints, and they were levered like those of a man. Such a joint could be broken, but he intended to apply only enough leverage to make the creature submit. In this position, there was no way the demon could strike back; no biting, no kicking, no gouging.
He levered the arm, bending the elbow back expertly. The demon screamed. “Do you yield?” Brother Paul inquired, easing up slightly.
For answer, the demon changed back into the dragon, its original and perhaps natural form. Brother Paul had hold of one of its legs, but the ratios were different, and the lock could not be maintained. The monster’s jaws opened, its orange tongue flicking out to lash at Brother Paul’s face, whiplike. He had to let go quickly.
“So you couldn’t take it,” he said to the dragon. “You lost!”
“Temptation never loses; it is merely blunted, to return with renewed strength. I balk you yet.” And the dragon moved to stand once again between Brother Paul and the castle.
Brother Paul turned to Therion, who had stood by innocently while all of this occurred. “What do you say now, guide?”
“Have a drink,” Therion said, presenting a tall, cool cup of liquid.
“I don’t need any—” he started to reply, but he was thirsty, and in this situation the refreshment cup was appropriate and tempting. Maybe he was too hot and bothered to perceive the obvious—whatever that was. With a cooler, cleared head he might quickly figure out the solution to this maddening problem of the Dragon. He accepted the drink.
It was delicious, heady stuff, but after the first sip, he paused. “This is alcoholic!” he said accusingly.
“Naturally. The best stuff there is, for courage.”
“Courage!” Brother Paul’s wrath was near the explosion-point. “I don’t need that kind! My Order disapproves of alcohol and other mind-affecting drugs. Get me some water.”
“No water is available; this is a desert,” Therion said imperturbably. “Does your Order actually ban alcohol?”
“No. The Holy Order of Vision bans nothing, for that would interfere with free will. It merely frowns on those things that are most commonly subject to abuse. Each person is expected to set his own standards in matters of the flesh. But only those persons of suitable standards progress within the Order.”
“Uh-huh,” Therion said disparagingly. “So you are a slave to your Order’s inhibitions, and dare not even admit it.”
“No!” Brother Paul gulped down the rest of the beverage, yielding to his consuming thirst.
The effect was instantaneous. His limbs tingled; his head felt pleasantly light. That was good stuff, after all!
Brother Paul faced the dragon, who was still between him and the castle, smirking. “I’ve had enough of you, Temptation. Get out of my way!”
“Make me, mushmind!”
Brother Paul drew his gleaming sword. He strode forward menacingly, bluffing the beast back. When the thing did not retreat, he smote the red dragon with all his strength—and cut its gruesome head in half. Sure enough, there was no blood, just a spongy material like foam plastic within the skull. The creature expired with a hiss like that of escaping steam and fell on its back in the sand, its little legs quivering convulsively.
“Well, I made it move,” he said, wiping the green goo off his blade by rubbing it in the sand.
“You certainly did,” Therion agreed.
“So let’s get the hell on to that castle before the dragon revives.”
“Well spoken!”
But now a new obstacle stood between them and the objective. It was another cup—the one containing the Victory Wreath. The braided twigs and leaves stood tall and green above the chalice, the two ends not quite meeting.
“Take it,” Therion urged. “You have won it. You have slain Temptation!”
Brother Paul considered. “Yes, I suppose I have.” Somehow he was not wholly satisfied, but the pleasure of the drink still buoyed him. “Why not?”
He reached out and lifted the wreath from the meter-tall cup. Strange that this, too, should appear in his vision of the castle; had his choice of one cup granted him all cups? Somehow his quest was not proceeding precisely as he had anticipated.
He set the wreath on his head. It settled nicely, feeling wonderful.
“Very handsome,” Therion said approvingly. “You make a fitting Conqueror.”
Yes, this was Key Seven, the Chariot, the Conqueror, wasn’t it? With the Seven of Cups superimposed. Brother Paul bent down to view his image in the reflective surface of the polished golden cup. And froze, startled.
His image was a death’s head. A grinning skull, with protruding yellow teeth and great square eye sockets.
Brother Paul rocked back, horrified. There was something he remembered, something so appalling—
No! He shut it off. This was only a reflection, nothing supernatural. He forced himself to look again. The death’s head remained.
Experimentally, he moved his face. The skull moved too. He opened his mouth, and the bony jaw dropped. He blinked, but of course the skull could not blink, and if it could, how could he see it while his own eyes were closed?
His left hand came up to feel his face. A skeletal hand touched the skull in the cup. His nose and cheeks were there; the flesh was solid. The skull was merely an image, not reality. But what did it mean?
“Let’s not dawdle,” Therion said. “The dragon is not going to play dead all day.”
Regretfully, Brother Paul stood up and circled around the cup. He was sure the skull meant something important. If it were part of the natural symbolism of this card, why hadn’t he noticed it before? If not, why had it appeared now? He had encountered this card many times before coming to Planet Tarot; had the skull been on the cup then? He couldn’t remember. There was something—something hidden and awful—but he did have a mission. Maybe the explanation would come to him.
He moved on. Then he realized he could have checked the blinking of the skull by winking one eye and watching with the other. He was thinking fuzzily, though his mind seemed perfectly clear. Well, it was of insufficient moment to make him return for another look at the cup. If it remained.
He glanced back. The huge cup was still there, and beyond it, the body of the dragon. He regretted the slaying; he really shouldn’t have done it. He was not ordinarily a violent man. What had come over him?
