Deus Irae

“Giddap!” Tibor said.

The cart creaked, rocked forward, back, forward, forward, continued on along the ditch, caught the incline, rose with it. A minute later, they had it back on the trail.

“Try it now,” Pete said. “See how it moves on the level.”

Tibor set out.

“Better,” he said. “I can feel the difference. Much better.”

“Good.”

They continued on along the trail then, up, down, around, about the hills.

“How far are you going?” Tibor asked Schuld.

“A good distance,” the man replied. “I am going through that town we spoke of. We might as well go that far together.”

“Yes. Do you think you might have time to point that place out to me?”

“Lufteufel’s? Surely. I’ll try. I’ll show you where I think it is. You see, I want to help.”

“Well, that would be very helpful,” Tibor said. “When do you think we will reach it?”

“Perhaps sometime tomorrow.”

Tibor nodded.

“What do you really think about him?” he asked.

“A good question,” the hunter replied, “and one I knew you would get to sooner or later. What do I think of him?” He pulled his nose. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I have traveled widely,” he said, “and I have seen much of the world, both before and after. I lived through the days of the destruction. I saw the cities die, the countryside wilt. I saw the pallor come upon the land. There was still some beauty in the old days, you know. The cities were hectic, dirty places, but at certain moments—usually times of arrival and departure—looking down upon them at night, all lit up, say, from a plane in a cloudless sky—you could almost, for that moment, call up a vision out of St. Augustine. Urbi et orbi, perhaps, for that clear instant. And once you got away from the towns, on a good day, there was a lot of green and brown, sprinkled with all the other colors, clear running water, sweet air—But the day came. The wrath descended. Sin, guilt, and retribution? The manic psychoses of those entities we referred to as states, institutions, systems—the powers, the thrones, the dominations—the things which perpetually merge with men and emerge from them? Our darkness, externalized and visible? However you look upon these matters, the critical point was reached. The wrath descended. The good, the evil, the beautiful, the dark, the cities, the country—the entire world—all were mirrored for an instant within the upraised blade. The hand that held that blade was Carleton Lufteufel’s. In the moment that it plunged toward our heart, it was no longer the hand of a man, but that of the Deus Irae, the God of Wrath Himself. That which remains exists by virtue of His sufferance. If there is to be any religion at all, I see this as the only tenable credo. What other construction could be placed upon the events? That is how I see Carleton Lufteufel, how I feel he must be preserved in your art. That is why I am willing to point him out for you.”

“I see,” said Tibor, waiting for Pete’s reaction, disappointed when none was forthcoming. Then, “It does make sense,” he said, partly to irritate Pete. “The greatest painters of the Renaissance had a go at depicting the other. But none of them actually got to see their subject, to glimpse the visage of God. I am going to do it, and when men look upon that painting they will know that I have, for it will be true. They will say, ‘Tibor McMasters has seen, and he has shown what he saw.’ “

Schuld slapped the side of the cart and chuckled.

“Soon,” he said. “Soon.”

That evening, as they were gathering kindling for a campfire, Pete said to Schuld, “You took him in entirely, I’d say. That business about wanting to see Lufteufel preserved in his art, I mean.”

“Pride,” Schuld replied. “It was easy. Got his mind off me and onto himself quickly. Now I am a part of his Pilg: Guide. I will speak to him again later this evening, confidentially. Perhaps if you were to take a brief walk after dinner…”

“Of course.”

“When I have finished, any second thoughts he may have had as to my sincerity will be laid to rest. Everything should proceed smoothly afterward.”

The subtlety and sense of timing of a thermostat or a cardiac pacemaker, Pete decided—that’s what it takes to be a hunter—a feeling for the rhythm of things and a power over them. This is going well. Only Tibor must not really see Lufteufel…

“I believe you,” Pete said. Then, “I don’t quite know how to put this, though, so I will simply be direct: Do either of the two religions involved in this mean anything to you personally?”

A huge stick snapped between Schuld’s hands.

“No,” he said.

“I didn’t think so, but I wanted to clear that up first. As you know, one of them means something to me.”

“Obviously.”

“What I am getting at is the fact that we Christians would not be overjoyed at seeing Lufteufel actually represented in that mural.”

“A false religion, a false god, as you would have it. What difference does it make what they stick in their church?”

“Power,” Pete said. “You can appreciate that. From a strictly temporal standpoint, having the real thing—as they see it—would give them something more. Call it mana. If we suddenly had a piece of the True Cross, it would whip up our zeal a bit, put a little more fire into our activities. You must be familiar with the phenomenon. Call it inspiration.”

Schuld laughed.

“Whatever Tibor paints, they will believe it is the real thing. The results will be the same.”

He wants me to say that I believe in the God of Wrath and am afraid of him, Pete thought. I won’t do it.

“Such being the case, we would as soon it were not Lufteufel,” Pete said.

“Why?’

“Because we would look on that as blasphemy, as a mockery of God as we see Him. They would be deifying not just any man, but the man responsible for all our present woes, the man you yourself referred to as an inhuman monster.”

Schuld snapped another stick.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve a neatly dug hole in the ground, let alone worship. I see your point. What do you propose doing?”

“Use us for your cover,” Pete said, “as you had planned. Locate him. Get as close as you feel necessary to satisfy yourself as to his identity. Then tell Tibor you were mistaken. He is not the man. Our ways part there. We go on, continuing our search. You remain behind or depart and double back—whichever is easier—and do what you must do. Lufteufel is thus removed from our field of consideration.”

“What will you do then?”

“I don’t know. Keep going. Maybe locate a substitute. I don’t know. But at least Carleton Lufteufel will be out of the picture.”

“That, then, is your real reason for being here? Not just the protection of Tibor?”

“It might have figured in the decision—a little.”

Schuld laughed again.

“How far were you willing to go to insure Tiber’s not seeing him? I wonder. Might it extend to actual violence?”

Pete snapped a stick of his own.

“You said it,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“I may be doing you people a favor just by doing my job,” Schuld said.

“Maybe.”

“Too bad I didn’t know about it sooner. If a man is going to labor for two masters, he might as well draw good wages from both of them.”

“Christianity is broke,” Pete said. “But I’ll remember you in my prayers.”

Schuld slapped him on the shoulder.

“Pete, I like you,” he said. “Okay. We’ll do it your way. Tibor doesn’t have to know.”