Deus Irae

Carl Lufteufel.”

“Why not?” said Tibor. “Because it wouldn’t be right, that’s why. I’ve been commissioned to paint the God of Wrath in the center of the mural—in appropriate lifelike authentic colors—so it is therefore important to know him as he really is.”

“Is it all that important?” said Dr. Abernathy. “How many people knew his appearance in the old days? And if they are living, how many of them would recognize him today—if he be still living, that is?”

“It’s not that,” said Tibor. “I know I could fake it, that I could manufacture a face—just from the repro I’ve seen. The thing of it is, though, it wouldn’t be true.”

“True?” said Dr. Abernathy. “True? What’s truth? Would it detract from a single SOW’s devotion were he to look upon the wrong face, so long as his feeling were proper in terms of his faith? Of course not. I’m not trying to denigrate those you may consider my competitors. Far from it. It is you that I value. A Pilg is a risky thing at best. What would be gained by losing you? Nothing. What would be lost by losing you? A soul and a good painter, perhaps. I should hate to lose you on a matter of such small consequence.”

“It is not a matter of small consequence, Father,” said Tibor. “It is a matter of honesty. I have been paid to do a thing, and by God!—yours or theirs—I must do it properly. This is the way that I work.”

“Peace,” said Dr. Abernathy, raising his hand. He took another sip of coffee, then said, “Pride, too, is a sin. For by this, Lucifer fell from heaven. Of all the Deadly Seven, Pride is the worst. Anger, Avarice, Envy, Lust, Sloth, Gluttony—these represent man’s relationships to others and the world. Pride, however, is absolute. It represents the subjective relationship of a person to himself. Therefore, it is the most mortal of them all. Pride requires nothing of which to be proud. It is the ultimate in narcissism. I feel, perhaps, that you are a victim of such sentiments.”

Tibor laughed. Then he gulped coffee.

“I fear you have the wrong man,” he said. “I’ve precious little of which to be proud.” He placed the coffee cup before him and raised his metal hand. “You would call me proud—of anything? Hell! I’m half machine, sir! Of all the sins you’ve named, it’s probably the one with least application.”

“I wouldn’t bet money on it,” said Dr. Abernathy.

“I came to discuss religion with you,” said Tibor.

“That’s true,” said Dr. Abernathy, “that’s true. I think that that is what we are discussing. I am trying to place your task in proper perspective before you. More coffee?”

“Yes, please,” said Tibor.

Dr. Abernathy poured and Tibor looked out the window. Eleven o’clock, that moment of truth, was passing over the world, he knew. For something had just gone out of it. What it was, he would never know.

He sipped and thought back upon the previous evening.

“Father,” he said, finally, “I don’t know who’s right or wrong—you or them—and maybe I’ll never know. But I can’t cheat somebody when I tell them I’m going to do a thing. If it had been the other way around, I’d give you the same consideration.”

Dr. Abernathy stirred and sipped. “And maybe we wouldn’t really have cared if you could not have found us the Christ for our Last Supper,” he said, “so long as you did a good job. I am not trying to dissuade you from doing what you think is right. It is just that I think that you are wrong, and you could make things a lot easier on yourself.”

“I’m not asking for easy things, Father.”

“You are making me sound like something I am not trying to be,” said Dr. Abernathy. “It is only, I repeat, that I think there is a way in which you could make things easier on yourself.”

“In other words, you want me to go away for a time, pretend to have seen the face I should see, paint it, and be done with it,” said Tibor.

“To be quite frank about it,” said Dr. Abernathy, “yes. You would be cheating no one—”

“Not even myself?” asked Tibor.

“Pride,” said Dr. Abernathy, “pride.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Tibor, lowering his coffee cup. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”

“Why not?” asked Dr. Abernathy.

“Because it wouldn’t be right,” said Tibor. “I’m not that sort of man. As a matter of fact, your suggestions have given me second thoughts about your religion. I believe I’d like to postpone my decision with respect to converting.”

“As you would,” said Dr. Abernathy. “Of course, by our teachings, your immortal soul will be in constant jeopardy.”

“Yet,” said Tibor, “you may consider no man damned, isn’t that right?”

“That is true,” said Dr. Abernathy. “Who gave you that Jesuitical bit of knowledge?”

“Fay Blaine,” said Tibor.

“Oh,” Dr. Abernathy said.

“Thank you for your coffee, sir,” said Tibor. “I believe I’d better be going…”

“May I give you a catechism?—something to read along the way?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You don’t like me or respect me, do you, Tibor?”

“Let me reserve my opinion, Father.”

“Reserve it, then, but take this,” said Dr. Abernathy.

“Thank you,” said Tibor, accepting the pamphlet.

Dr. Abernathy said, “I will disclose something more to you which you should know. I came across it in a textbook about the religions of the ancient Greeks. Their god Apollo was a god of constancy, and when tested he always was found to be the same. This was a major quality in him; he was what he was … always. In fact, one could define Apollo by this, and the Apollonian personality in humans.” He coughed and went on rapidly, “But Dionysus, the god of unreason, was the god of metamorphosis.”

“What is ‘metamorphosis’?” Tibor asked.

“Change. From one form to another. Thus you see, the God of Wrath, also being a god of unreason, like Dionysus, can be expected to hide, to camouflage himself, to conceal, to be what he is not; can you imagine worshiping a god who, rather than is, is what he is not?”

Tibor gazed at him in perplexity. Perplexity, the efforts of two ordinary men, filled the room: perplexity, not understanding.

“These sayings are hard,” Dr. Abernathy said, at last. He rose to his feet. “I’ll see you again on your return?”

“Perhaps,” said Tibor, activating his cart.

“The Christian God—” Dr. Abernathy hesitated, seeing how worn Tibor looked, worn by perplexity. “He is the God of unchange. ‘I am what I am,’ as God puts it to Moses, in the Bible. That is our God.”

Outside, all magic had fled from the noonday world, the sun had hidden its face behind a brief cloud, and Darlin’ Corey had eaten a bumblebee and was ill.

Five

He returned to the digs the following afternoon. The door grumbled when he inserted his finger, but it recognized the loops and whorls and slid halfway to the right. He sidled through and kicked it, and it closed behind him.

Adjusting his side-pack, which contained a new supply of herbicides, he paused for a moment to touch the lump which had grown between his left temple and forehead. It throbbed, it drove a shaft of pain through his head, as he knew it would. But he could not keep his hands away from it. The sore-tooth reaction, he decided.

He gulped another tablet from his new supply, knowing that it would have less than the desired effect.

Turning, then, he moved down the perpetually lit, perpetually poorly lit tunnel that led to the bunkers. Before he reached the one in which he was currently sleeping, his foot came down atop a small red truck and he was pitched forward to land upon his shoulder. As he fell, he shielded his aching head with an upflung arm. Activated by the push of his foot, the truck blew its horn and raced back up the tunnel.

After a moment, a short, heavyset figure raced past him, making sobbing noises.