The Broken God (104 page)

Hanu, Hanu, you must die.

For part of a second Danlo waited, and then the sound of death exploded through the cathedral, and two hundred pairs of eyes snapped toward the falling window above them. Only Hanuman, of all the Ringists, did not look up. He held the broken god in his hands, and he never stopped staring at Danlo.

Danlo, Danlo.

It was a truth of the universe that Hanuman must die. Danlo knew that his own will toward hatred was a truth, just as it was true (or would someday become true) that the galaxies out beyond the Canes Venatici and many others would die. All these truths he saw for the first time, and he knew he was very close to the affirmation that he had been seeking for so long. But then, unexpectedly, there came the flash of another truth that he did not want to acknowledge. It was written in Hanuman's face, in his death-haunted eyes, in the way that Hanuman would never stop looking at him.

I have created him, Danlo thought.

With every word that he had ever spoken to Hanuman, with each act, ideal and expression of faith he had created in Hanuman the desire to be more. With love, with wild-ness – even with the sound of his shakuhachi which Hanuman could never bear listening to – he had driven Hanuman to the dark interior door that opens out onto the universe. Danlo, himself, had flung open this door as if he were a child careless of the wildest and worst storms. And Hanuman, for fear of freezing to death, had been forced to slam it shut. Danlo looked at Hanuman waiting behind this closed door, waiting for Danlo to step closer and open it one more time, and he wondered how could he murder this broken-souled man that he had created with so much love and pain.

'No, I won't,' he whispered. 'No.'

Upon this single word the universe turned. The hatred suddenly left Danlo, or for the moment transfigured itself into a deeper emotion. He took a step toward Hanuman, and then ten more blindingly quick steps. He practically flew at Hanuman in his urge to preserve his life. There were only tenths of a second before the window casement crushed them both, but this was time enough to change the future forever. He collided with Hanuman in a shock of fists and knees and exploding breath. He bore him backward, even as he tried to grapple with him. Then, just behind Danlo, the window crashed into the altar, throwing out bullets of glass, tearing a gaping wound in the red carpet and pulverizing the stone beneath. The whole cathedral shook as if a bomb had exploded. Everywhere glass was falling in showers, even as he fell against Hanuman to push him out of the way. With difficulty, through the shriek of broken steel and Danlo's wild rush, Hanuman kept his feet. He jumped backwards and struck out, with his knees, with his eyes, with the pieces of the broken god that he still grasped in his fists.

'By God, you'll kill him!'

Danlo was falling toward Hanuman, and he saw a gleam of jagged ivory sweeping up toward his face. He might have caught Hanuman's fist in his hand or at least twisted his head away, but he was still trying to take hold of Hanuman, and his balance was gone. As he fell over Hanuman, he waited for his head to explode into light. But the blow never came.

'Be still, now, easy there!'

Bardo had stepped behind Hanuman, and he had his huge arms wrapped around him. Hanuman's arms were pinioned against his sides. Although Hanuman stamped his boots against Bardo's feet and drove his diamond-covered head back against Bardo's chin, he could not make him let go. He twisted and writhed and beat the pieces of the god against Bardo's robe, tearing open great rents. Danlo fell against him, pressing him back into Bardo's belly. For a moment, the three of them stood welded together, struggling. Danlo grasped Hanuman's wrists and pulled his hands up against his chest. Hanuman could barely move. His face was up against Danlo's; his breath fell over Danlo's face in hot, urgent bursts. Danlo waited a long time for the madness to leave Hanuman's eyes. Then he let go of Hanuman and stood back, waiting to see what Hanuman would do.

'What's wrong with you?' Bardo's voice thundered out. He let go of Hanuman and stood looking about him at the ruins of the altar. Broken vases and crushed flowers were strewn all about, and there was glass everywhere. At the centre of the altar lay the golden urn, dented and leaking sea water onto the carpet. Many people had been cut by bits of flying glass; they stood about, moaning or screaming or looking back and forth between Danlo and Hanuman, and they seemed utterly confused.

'Oh, my poor window,' Bardo said. 'This is too bad.' Then he remembered his compassion and called out, 'Is anyone injured? By God, is everyone all right?'

As it happened, miraculously, no one was badly injured. But, due to the missing window, everyone was instantly shivering. The storm roared in through the opening in the cathedral's walls. The north wind was bitter and deadly cold, and it dropped clouds of snow over the Ringists crowding the altar.

'Ah, but it's cold in here,' Bardo said. 'Perhaps we should adjourn for the evening and go to the tower and take some refreshment.'

But no one, at that moment, was in the mood for food or drink. With the breaking of the god, the great joyance had come to an end. A few Ringists began edging toward the doors, while others were speaking in low, nervous tones.

'Danlo wi Soli Ringess!' This came from Hanuman, who had regained his quickness of mind. He approached Danlo holding his hands open so that he – and everyone else – could see the two halves of the chess piece. 'I can't accept your gift: you're not a Ringist any longer, and this thing that you've made is no expression of the Way of Ringess.'

So saying, he cast the pieces down to the altar. They bounced and clicked against pieces of glass; they rolled over and over before coming to a stop. Bardo, who was horrified to see such a treasure so badly treated, huffed across the altar. With much sighing, he bent over and scooped up the pieces of the god.

He turned to Hanuman and said, 'But Danlo saved your life!'

Danlo waited motionless, letting plumes of snow fall over him. Although he never stopped looking at Hanuman, he was aware of Surya Lal and others talking among themselves, trying to explain what they had witnessed:'... has taken a vow of ahimsa ... yes, but what a coincidence that Hanuman broke the god exactly when the window fell ... I don't believe in meaningless coincidences.'

In fact, Ringists across the Civilized Worlds would see the hand of a god in the breaking of the great window, as if Mallory Ringess were somehow displeased with the composition of his image and had somehow willed its destruction. People would talk about the miraculous coincidence of the broken god for many years to come. But now Hanuman was addressing Danlo, and Bardo, and they turned their attention toward events of more immediate concern.

'Danlo has saved my life,' Hanuman said. He looked at Danlo as though he hated what Danlo had done. 'I'll never forget this – I can't forget he's been my friend.'

'He saved your life!' Bardo repeated. Then he pressed the pieces of the broken god into Hanuman's hand. 'He might have died in your place!'

Hanuman turned to Bardo and pointed at the pieces of the window scattered across the altar. He said, 'If this window had been mounted properly, Danlo wouldn't have needed to demonstrate such self-sacrifice. Such faithfulness to his vow of ahimsa. But, no, you wanted the window ready for the joyance, even though many of us thought that the portrayal of the Ringess was poorly done.'

Bardo's face fell purple-black then, but he said nothing. He stared down at the altar, muttering, 'Ah, too bad. Too bad.'

With a few words, in front of two hundred stunned people, Hanuman had shamed Bardo. And he had made a connection, however false, between Danlo's carving and Bardo's monumental effrontery in mounting a window that glorified Bardo as much as it did Mallory Ringess. This was Hanuman's genius, to make such connections, to construct in the minds of those who admired him a reality that he wished them to believe.

I have created him, Danlo thought. This is the future that I have made.

He shut his eyes, brooding over the cruellest of truths: that time is like a river flowing in only one direction, and that the future, once it arrives, can never be unmade.

Hanuman nodded at Danlo and said, 'In my hurry to escape the window, I tried to knock it away and nearly struck you. I'm sorry.'

Most of the Ringists, Danlo realized, had been too panicked by the exploding window to notice what had occurred between Danlo and Hanuman. But a few of them must have understood. Even now, Hanuman was beginning to edit the memory of what they had seen.

'Danlo, I'm sorry,' Hanuman repeated. He held up the pieces of the god so that everyone could see them. Then he brought them together, fitting them like pieces of a child's puzzle. Although Danlo was standing close to him, it was difficult to see the crack that divided the god in two.

Hanu, Hanu.

Hanuman's face was full of emotion as he called out: The distance between the love of two friends is as small as the space between the two halves of this chess piece.'

Suddenly, as if he were executing one of the motions of his killing art, he jerked his hands apart. High above his head, the two halves of the gleaming god were now separated by three feet of air. 'But the distance between one who follows the Way of Ringess and one who does not is as wide as the light-years between the stars.'

I have let him live, Danlo thought. I cannot be sorry for that.

'Danlo,' Hanuman said. He moved forward and gave the pieces of the god into Danlo's hands. 'I'm sorry I can't accept your gift.'

'I am sorry, too,' Danlo said. His breath burst into steam the moment it touched the cold air falling over him. Tiny snowflakes broke against his eyes, and his face was burning with cold. Every cell of his body was cold, yet burning, too, with Hanuman's secret gift that he would never forget.

'You should go now,' Hanuman said. He covered his face against the snowy air sifting down over the altar. 'The storm has returned – this late it might be difficult to call for a sled.'

'What do you mean telling Danlo that he should leave?' Bardo suddenly asked. He glowered at Hanuman, then sighed with great force. 'Is it upon you to ask him to leave?'

Hanuman gestured toward Surya Lal and Mariam Erendira Vasquez; he bowed to all the Ringists. To Bardo he said, 'Do you think it's appropriate that they should have to share this night with someone who doesn't follow our Way?'

Everyone was now looking at Bardo. Hanuman was concentrating his whole awareness on Bardo's soft eyes, staring at him as a cat stares at a mouse. 'Ah, no,' Bardo said. 'I suppose it's inappropriate.'

'Then perhaps we should ask Danlo to leave.'

Bardo hesitated as he rubbed his beard. Then he said, 'Ah, why don't you ask him?' He smiled at Danlo weakly, distantly, as if to say that he was sorry, and Danlo wondered what spell Hanuman had cast over him.

'All right,' Hanuman said. He turned to Danlo, and his eyes were full of light, full of himself. 'Please leave.' Danlo bowed and said, 'If you would like.'

'Never return here. It would be wrong for you to do so.'

'You should leave, too,' Danlo said. He looked at Lais Motega Mohammad and Thomas Rane and Rohana Chang; he had everyone's attention, so he spoke the truth of his worst fear. 'All of you. The Way of Ringess ... is like a fever waiting to break out upon the universe. It will destroy you. You should leave before it is too late.'

Danlo moved down the altar steps, and his boots sent pieces of glass tinkling against each other. As before, people moved out of his way, allowing him to pass. They regarded him with something like awe, but there was also guilt and anger in their admiration for him, as if they sensed they should turn their backs on him and not meet his eyes. Some, with cotton swabs and tubes of glue that Bardo sent for, were wiping drops of blood from their robes and tending each other's wounds; many more were looking toward Hanuman, wondering what to do. Just before leaving the cathedral, beneath the nested arches of the doorway, Danlo turned and looked back behind him. Hanuman stood alone on the altar. Snow swirled around him and broke up the radiation of the candles so that he seemed enveloped in a sphere of golden light. His face was hard and implacable, and it shouted, Never return here, never! Danlo looked deep into the nave, then, and he looked through time as well as space. The nave – the whole cathedral from wall to wall – was full of thousands of people, all of them facing the altar, all of them swaying and chanting and shouting in ecstasy. There was light everywhere, coming not from candles set afire, but streaming in through the windows in lovely parallel lines of emerald and blue. He saw himself standing on the altar next to Hanuman, bathed in this beautiful light. He saw himself dressed in a black pilot's robe, tall and powerful and burning with compassion – yet it was not himself but only some other man who bore slight resemblance to the person he knew as Danlo the Wild. Even as he fell out of this moment of scrying – in the suddenness of broken glass and wind – he thought that he would never set foot inside the cathedral again. One last time, he bowed to Hanuman. But Hanuman did not see him. Around Hanuman's head the clearface shone like a glowing skull. Now and forever more, he would be imprisoned inside his own skull; he was like a brilliant star about to begin the final collapse into himself, into that crushing singularity of consciousness from which there is no return.

I have created him, Danlo thought.

As he turned to pass through the cathedral's great doors, he felt the jagged pieces of the broken god cutting his hand, and he wondered why he had done what he had done.

Before, you are wise; after, you are wise. In between you are otherwise.

– Fravashi saying (from the formularies of Osho the Fool)
 

The first day of midwinter spring in the year 2954 arrived inauspiciously in a fury of snow and darkness that it seemed would never end. None – except the scryers – might have foreseen that this new year would be a glorious and fateful time in history, as crucial to the evolution of the Order as had been 908, or the Dark Year, or 2326, when Dario the Bold discovered the dead stars of the Vild. Not even Danlo could have known that the strange happenings in Bardo's cathedral would set off an avalanche of decisions leading the radical historians, eventually, to rename 2954 as 'First Year' and to remake their calendars. The great changes began with a seemingly minor event: Lord Pali, upon the urging of alarmed academicians in both the Masters' and Lords' Colleges, banished Hanuman li Tosh from the Order. With the breaking of the god, Hanuman at last had flouted too many people's sensibilities and had compelled too much notice. He had violated several canons as well as betraying his cetic ethics, and so Lord Pall forbade Hanuman to use any of the Order's libraries or to dine at any of the Order's restaurants, and most importantly, he forbade him ever again to cross the Academy walls. In spirit, of course, Hanuman had long since left the Order, so his dismissal caused him no real regret or shame. He must have been secretly glad to be free of his vows, free to imprint his designs on a new religion. Although he pretended to outrage, he and Lord Pall were still playing a deep game with each other. It is impossible to say whether they intended, at this time, to make Ring-ism the religion of the Order; but certainly they conspired to bring down each other's enemies. On 10th day – while Bardo was preoccupied designing the window that would replace the one broken on Year's End Night – Hanuman approached Bardo with a simple, if subtle, plan to reorganize their church. Hanuman proposed formalizing the status of the Way's inner circle. All Ringists who had recorded their remembrances of the Elder Eddas into one of Hanuman's computers would henceforth be known as 'Elders'. While Bardo naturally mistrusted any scheme springing from Hanuman's lips or brain, this appealed to his vanity. Bardo would be seen as the great priest of a universal religion, the bestower of the titles and boons upon those who had been most faithful to him. (It never struck him as absurd that very shortly young journeymen, with their golden robes and pimply faces, would skate about the City demanding to be addressed as 'Elder Lais' or 'Elder Kiku' and that they would make these demands even of older masters who had lived several lifetimes.) And so Bardo approved Hanuman's suggestion and went back to choosing plates of glass for his window. So it happened that Lord Mariam Erendira Vasquez, one of the finest lords ever to serve the Order, came to be called 'Elder Mariam'. This title was to ruin her. The Order's 44th canon, while allowing choice of religious belief, prohibited all who had taken vows from holding formal position in any religion, cult or ideological movement. In a ruthless act that stunned the whole Order, Lord Pall invoked the letter of this canon and banished Lord Vasquez, along with Thomas Rane, Huang li Wood and several other prominent masters whom he must have regarded as stones in his boot. Of the four original members of the Tetrad (Chanoth Chen Ciceron died quietly in his bed shortly after the Festival of the Broken Dolls) only Lord Nikolos now remained to oppose Audric Pall's lordship of the Order.