The Warlock Heretical

Chapter Sixteen

Rod stepped out to gaze up into the sky, to let the infinite vastness of the stars calm his soul by making him realize how little the absurd strivings and conflicts of his minuscule mortal kind really mattered.

He should have known better.

An elf popped up next to his shin. "Lord Warlock! The friars in the log house do call for thee!"

"Father Boquilva?" Rod asked. "What's wrong now?"

"I do not know, save that he did step without his door and cry, 'Wee folk, if thou dost hear me, call the High Warlock!'"

"Oh. He did." Rod nodded. "Interesting. Practicality wins out over theology. You elves are supposed to be superstition, but when he needs you badly enough, he calls. Yes, this order does derive from the Jesuits. Okay, tell him I'm coming."

Rod turned into the lane toward the chapter house and saw Father Boquilva hurrying toward him with a lamp in his hand. At least, the priest's face looked as though he were hurrying, but his pace matched the slower movements of the stocky man beside him, who was strangely dressed for a Cathodean. For any Gramaryan, for that matter. He was wearing a black coverall—with a Roman collar.

Rod stood taut, all his danger signals screaming. The man was from off-planet.

Then he remembered that the man was also clergy, and if he wasn't trying to disguise himself, was probably a friend.

"Good evening," he said. "Did I send for you?"

Father Boquilva gasped, but the stranger looked up with a merry glint in his eye. "In a manner of speaking, you did—and as I remember, your manner of speaking was a bit abrupt. You're the, uh, 'High Warlock,' I take it?"

"They call me that, even though I have less to do with spirits than you do." Rod held out a hand. "Rod Gallowglass, Father."

"A pleasure." The man took his hand. His grip was warm and strong, and his smile broadened. As his face came close to the lamplight, Rod could see that he had thinning, close-cropped graying hair, and a neatly trimmed, grizzled beard. "But how did you guess my alcohol intake?"

"Easy—you're a priest. Mass once a day, with at least a thimbleful of wine. Not to mention the other kind of spirits."

"Thank you; I'll try not to. I'm McGee."

"The Reverend Morris McGee," Father Boquilva said stiffly, "Father-General of our Order!"

Rod froze, staring at the priest. "You just may be the answer to the prayer I didn't quite phrase."

"I remember it being closer to a threat, actually. His Holiness was good enough to read it to me." McGee turned back to Father Boquilva. "If you would, Father, we would appreciate the hospitality of your house for a few hours longer."

"Of course, Reverend Father. Our house is yours—in more than name." Father Boquilva turned away toward the door, his back ramrod straight.

And his tone had been stiff enough to iron a shirt on. Rod fell in beside McGee and leaned over to mutter in his ear, "Who's being rebuked, me or you?"

McGee looked up at him with delight. "Quite so. Lord Warlock, quite so! I believe I am a trifle too, ah, informal, for Father Boquilva's taste."

Rod nodded. "After all, you're almost a legendary figure to him. You could at least have the courtesy to be tall, lean, and grim."

"Oh! Yes, I must try." McGee stood up a little straighter and went a few steps with a stiff-legged stride, scowling fero-ciously. Then he relaxed and looked up at Rod. "Something along that line?"

Rod held up a thumb-and-forefinger circle. "You have it down pat."

"Thank you—and thank you for the guidance," McGee chuckled. "I think we shall get along famously."

The monks were moving about in a daze, and whenever they sneaked a peek at the Father-General, their faces were loaded with awe, even fear.

"They'll grow used to it," McGee said, but he eyed them sympathetically. "They never should have been left so completely out of touch with the rest of the Order for so long, Lord Warlock."

" 'Rod,' please…"

"No, 'Lord Warlock,' by your leave-—I must learn to think in your terms, and quickly."

Rod bowed his head. "As you wish, but if you really think the situation's so urgent, why didn't you come sooner?"

"Ah! I began trying to clear my schedule as soon as Father Uwell reported to me, but there are so many chapters, with the good souls of fifty planets under their care! And from Father Al's report, matters were in good order here." The Father-General shook his head. "I should have realized that, if the Abbot had been tempted toward opposing the King once, he might be so again."

"Well, don't blame him too hard. I'm pretty sure it's not just his idea alone, Father."

"Oh?" McGee's gaze seemed to probe into Rod's brain. "Who would have helped him?"

"Secret agents." Rod gave him back stare for stare. "I have reason to believe there are two separate off-planet groups trying to subvert the government and take over the planet, Father. I think one of them got to him."

McGee nodded, without taking his gaze away. "I'd think you were paranoid, if I didn't know you were an agent of SCENT."

"Why doubt it?" Rod shrugged, impressed by the thoroughness of McGee's briefing. "I could be both."

"True," the Father-General admitted. "Still, Widdecombe has declared a schism, Lord Warlock, and Rome earnestly wishes to heal the breach."

"They won't tolerate it, you mean? But at this point, Father, the only way to eliminate the schism is to eliminate the Archbishop."

"Abbot." McGee raised an admonishing forefinger. "Only an Abbot, Lord Warlock—we mustn't forget that. The congregations of Gramarye are of the Church of Rome, no matter what a misguided soul has told them."

"And the Cathodeans of Gramarye are part of your Order?" Rod smiled. "Do you think the Abbot will accept that. Reverend?"

"Whether he does or not is of no consequence." McGee waved a hand, palm flat and level. "I have faith in my monks."

Rod could have raised the question of ownership, but he liked McGee's attitude—for his own purposes, of course. "Well, most of the current crop of friars seem to have been very willing to follow the Abbot off the straight and narrow path. If you'll pardon my saying so, they're a little weak on the virtues they preach."

McGee winced. "You must not judge them too harshly, Lord Warlock. Be mindful, the Abbot and his clergy are only human; they, too, are fallible. The Word of Christ, and His Sacraments, are a treasure more precious than gold, but we hold—"

"'… this treasure in an earthen vessel.'" Rod finished the quotation, nodding. "Yeah, yeah, I know the song, too, Father. But why does there have to be so doggone much earth in the vessel?"

"How else can one make ceramics?" McGee countered.

Rod's mouth twisted in impatience. "Father, if I tried to fire a vessel with that much earth in it, it would fall apart in the kiln—which is exactly where I'm tempted to put His Grace the quondam Archbishop."

"Patience, Lord Warlock, patience." McGee lifted the forefinger again. "That kiln you speak of is only for God's stoking, and if the Abbot and his monks are fallible, they are also redeemable. We may yet find a way to woo himself and his adherents back to the Church."

"Good luck, Father," Rod sighed, "but you'll pardon me if I remain skeptical. A power-hungry ecclesiastic is power-hungry first, and an ecclesiastic second. In fact, he's probably an ecclesiastic only as a means of gaining power. Personally, I think the clergy started with a Paleolithic con man."

McGee reddened, but didn't mention anything about courtesy. "Why Paleolithic?"

"Because there are signs that Neanderthals buried their dead, and I personally doubt they were trying to salt away stores for the winter. And you have to admit that the ancient Egyptian priests pretty effectively took over the government when they decided that the Pharaoh was a god."

"Ah! But that could just as easily have been the government taking over the priests," McGee countered. "Still, I take your point, Lord Warlock—when Church and government have mixed, the results have generally been unhealthy. Nonetheless, you must admit that even though there have always been some opportunists in holy orders, there have also been many truly dedicated religious people who happened to have an aptitude for administration, and have naturally tended to move up in the hierarchy."

"No, I don't have to admit anything, Father." Rod cocked his head to the side, studying McGee. "Still, I do think you're right. But even some of those good souls have succumbed to temptation, and started seeking power for its own sake."

McGee watched him keenly. "Are you thinking of your local abbot now?"

"I am," Rod admitted. "From what I know of him, he's basically a good man, in spite of his being a reasonably competent bureaucrat."

"Ah." McGee nodded, pleased. "Then he may be open to appeals to his conscience, and capable of repentance."

"Yeah, but by the same token, he might reject any idea that he's done wrong."

McGee frowned. "How do you reason that?"

"Because," Rod said, exasperated, "it's the only way he can avoid massive guilt. Once he gave in to temptation, he became a convert to his own particular vice, with all the fanaticism of any convert. You might say he's acquired a vested interest in sin, and to disown it would be to ruin him. No, Father, I think he's gone too far down the road he's on to be able to come back again."

"He may have crossed his Rubicon," McGee admitted, "though I certainly hope not. Why do you think so. Lord Warlock?"

"Because of the tactics he's using. You see, Reverend Sir…" Rod glanced up at the hovering monks, then hunkered down and lowered his voice. "How much did Father Al tell you about our local variety of, uh… magic?"

"As much as he knew. Lord Warlock—that an astonishing percentage of your people are functioning espers of one degree of proficiency or another."

"Good enough, as a summary. And, well. Father, suddenly there's been an unusual number—hell, there's been an outright epidemic of hauntings and poltergeists and unlicensed mind-readers, all spooking the population and driving them toward the Abbot's camp."

McGee frowned, then turned and beckoned Father Boquilva over. As the head monk sat, McGee asked, "Has there been an unusual amount of 'magical' activity lately?"

Boquilva stiffened, then slowly nodded. "I blush to admit it, Reverend Sir, but there has."

McGee's face darkened. "Can it be that a man of the Church would dare to use his flock's superstitions to coerce them into accord with his will?"

Rod shrugged. "Why not? Priests have been doing it for centuries."

"That was not worthy of you. Lord Warlock," McGee snapped. "You know quite well that the Church has done all it can to enlighten its people!"

"Well, yes, I do have to admit that," Rod sighed. "In fact, when the Church wouldn't provide enough superstition, people went out and invented their own."

"Yes, and frequently became lost and tortured in the maze of their own imaginings—which is why it is doubly reprehensible for the chief clergyman of the nation to reinforce those superstitions, by producing illusions of them!" McGee shook his head, scowling. "How does one fight nightmares, Lord Warlock?"

"With dreams, Father." Rod smiled. "Been doing it all my life."

Father McGee raised his hand in blessing over the kneeling monks, murmuring some Latin phrases, then watched them as they rose and turned away, following the path away from Rod's house and back into the woods. Then the Father-General looked down at his monk's robe, pressing his hands over the fabric. "I had never thought I would wear a real monk's robe! It's so much more comfortable than a coverall. But, ah… a trifle more, shall we say, insecure?"

"Nobody said that only pilgrims could gird their loins, Father. I'm sure we can find you a strip of linen, if you'd like."

"I would appreciate that." McGee looked back up at the retreating monks. Their robes were obscured by the darkness now, so that they appeared to be only a double file of torch fires. "Excellent fellows! I'm sure they'll recover from meeting me." He turned back to Rod with a smile. "Still, their awe is a bit uncomfortable, for the time being. I do appreciate your invitation. Lord Warlock—my sons' reverence is pleasant, but tiring. Are you certain, though, that your good wife will not object?"

"Believe me, Father, I know. The system we've got beats radio and visiphone all to he— uh, heck. As long as you don't mind sleeping in the same house with a family of witches."

"Oh, I would, if you really were witches," McGee said, "devoted to Satan and to evil. But I know you to be espers, devoted to good, and according to Father Uwell's report, perhaps better Catholics than you may know."

Rod paused in the act of raising the knocker, frowning. "What's he know that I don't know?"

Fortunately, the door swung open before McGee could answer.

Gwen stared at the priest, frankly awed, then curtsied and stood aside. "Welcome to our home, Father."

"Why, thank you, milady." The priest stepped in, raised his hand to sketch the Sign of the Cross in the air, and intoned, "May the blessing of God be on all in this house." Then he looked up at Gwen with a guilty afterthought. "If you don't mind?"

"Oh, nay, Father! We are honored!"

"Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to bless anybody who didn't want it. By the way, where are 'all in this house'?"

"In their beds, praise Heaven, and asleep—though 'twas quite some time ere I could calm them sufficiently, after Cordelia's news."

Rod wondered what form the calming had taken this time. Shouting? Birch switches? Hypnotism?

"It's so nice to be an occasion! May I sit?"

"Oh, of course, Father! Wouldst thou wish ale?"

McGee looked up, his eyes lighting. "Why, yes, I would, now that you mention it! My sons in the forest are to be commended for their piety, but plain water can become a bit boring, no matter how tasty the brook it was taken from. Yes, that will do nicely. Thank you, milady."

" Tis my pleasure, Father." Gwen sat across the fire from him, beaming. "Hast thou truly come from another star to aid us?"

"Don't pay any attention to her 'humble local' bit, Father— she's been to Terra herself."

"Well, true." Gwen lowered her gaze. "Still, I am amazed thou couldst be with us so quickly."

"The Holy Father counts the planet of Gramarye to be of considerable importance, milady; faith that keeps a whole population within the bounds of doctrine for five centuries is rare."

"Besides," Rod inferred, "you'd rather be drawn and quartered before you'd lose a chapter of your Order. And the Pope is aware of just how much havoc we could wreak if we started trying."

"There is some truth to that," Father McGee admitted, "and the sudden explosion of hauntings here is evidence of it. Tell me, milady, have you noticed any effects of this sudden plague of ghosts on the faith of the peasants?"

"Aye, Father, and 'tis sad to see." Gwen sobered. "Many among them do begin to doubt the goodness of the clergy."

"Just as I feared, just as I feared," McGee muttered, staring at the fire. "The schism would have shaken their faith enough, but ghosts and goblins would finish the job. I shudder to think of the effect on the children—they are so ready to believe whatever they see! Yet they are also so steadfast in the faith and love they've given."

"Pretty good description of it," Rod said, rising from his chair. "In fact, I think I'll just take a peak at our resident fanatic."

"He rests soundly, my lord," Gwen protested, turning to watch him go to the door of the boys' room.

"I take it one of your children suffers from an excess of faith?" McGee asked quietly.

Gwen denied it with an impatient toss of her head. " 'Tis only that the boy doth feel the pull of a vocation, Father. It doth worry his father unduly."

McGee sat still for a moment, then asked, "How old is the lad?"

"He is seven."

"Rather young," McGee said, frowning, "and, though the call may come at any age, those who—"

"Gwen." There was panic under Rod's tone, and she was at the doorway to the boys' room almost before he finished the word. She gasped, then ran in.

Gregory lay stiffly, his whole body trembling with silent sobs.

"Nay, my jo, nay!" Gwen gathered him up in her arms. "Oh, my poor babe! Whatever 'twas, lad, 'twill not hurt thee; lo, 'tis gone!"

Rod stroked the boy's back and bit his tongue, also his panic. Gwen was better able to maintain her composure in this kind of situation; the best he could do was give moral support.

He could see the boy go limp as she stroked his head, crooning, and the sobs suddenly became huge and racking. Geoffrey lifted his head from the next bed, awake and wondering, and Gwen picked up her youngest and took him out of the room, to spare him embarrassment, and his brother wakefulness. Rod stayed just long enough to assure Geoffrey, "He's all right, son. Back to sleep now, hm?" Geoffrey collapsed back into his bedclothes, and Rod stepped out the door, hoping he wasn't a liar.

Gwen sat in the mellow light of the tallow lamps, in the big chair McGee had just vacated, rocking Gregory and crooning till the sobs passed. The Father-General gazed down at her, then looked a question at Rod, who hesitated a moment, then shook his head, motioning for McGee to stay in the room.

The sobs eased, almost ceased, and Gwen murmured, "Now, lad. What frighted thee?" And when the boy only wept, she pressed, "Was it a foul dream?" Gregory nodded, and she urged, "Tell it me."

"I… was old, Mama," Gregory mumbled, and Rod breathed a sigh of relief. "Old, and… alone."

"Alone?" Gwen sighed. "Well, some old folk are. What had made thee so?"

"I… had gone to become a monk, and… as I aged, I forsook even their company, for an hermitage in the wood."

Anger blazed. Rod snapped, "Who's been telling this boy about—"

Gwen glared a dagger at him, and he bit off the rest of the sentence. She was right; the boy needed sympathy now. Any anger, he would construe as being aimed at him.

"There are holy hermits," Gwen admitted. "Yet they are not truly alone, lad, for their lives are filled with the company of God."

Foul! Rod wanted to scream. They go crazy with loneliness! But he held his peace, and managed to keep the thoughts unvocalized; Gregory would certainly have picked them up if he had. Rod wondered if he should leave, get as far away as he could; certainly his own emotions must be agitating the boy even more. But Gwen caught the thought, looked up, and shook her head as she said, "They go apart for study of holy books and contemplation of the Word of God, my son."

"Aye, so I dreamt," the boy sniffled, "and so I had. But… oh, Mama! Thou wert not there, nor was Papa! Nor Magnus, nor Geoff, nor Cordelia, nor even Diarmid! And life seemed so…" he groped for the word.

"Empty?"

"Aye, empty. Without purpose. Oh, Mama! How could such a life be holy, without any folk to be good for?"

What could Rod say? That Gregory wasn't the first one to ask that question, nor would be the last? At least for him it was only a dream—so far.

But the boy had calmed enough to catch the thought. He looked up at his father, eyes wide. "Is that truly what my life must be?" There was terror just under the words, and Rod hastened to assure him, "No. It doesn't have to. You have the choice, son."

"Yet I do wish to study!" Gregory protested. "Not just Holy Writ, though—the plants, and the animals, and the stars… Oh, Papa! There is so much to learn!"

Well, there spoke the born scholar. "But you can have other people around, and still find time to study, son."

"I cannot possibly, Papa! So much study as I wish, must needs leave small time for converse!" His eyes widened in horror. "Yet without folk to study for, what is the purpose of knowledge?"

"To bring one closer to God," McGee murmured.

Gregory whirled to stare at him, almost shocked.

Before he could protest, Rod stepped into the breach. "Son, we have a guest tonight. He is the Reverend Morris McGee, Father-General of the Cathodeans."

Gregory stared. "The Abbot?"

"No, the Abbot's abbot." McGee smiled. "I am leader of all the chapters of the Order of St. Vidicon, lad."

Gregory forgot his nightmare in awe. "All the monks, on all the planets that circle all the stars?"

"Only the fifty that have Terran humans on them." McGee glanced at Rod. "I thought your people were innocent of the rest of the Terran Sphere, Lord Warlock."

"Well, of course, my own children are going to have to suffer through a modern education, Father. But don't worry, they all know better than to let anyone else know."

" 'Twould fash them unduly," Gregory explained, his eyes still wide. "Nay, thou knowest all about the life of a monk, then, dost thou not?"

"All," McGee confirmed, poker-faced. "And I assure you, lad, that you don't have to be a monk in order to try to learn all you can about everything."

"Yet thou dost think such learning would lead one toward God."

"If one really studies everything, and pursues it far enough, yes—or so I believe." McGee turned his gaze toward Rod. "Perceptive little chap, isn't he?"

"Only three leaps ahead of me, most of the time." Rod turned to Gregory. "You heard it from the Order's mouth, son."

"Yet surely one must go off alone to study so much!"

"Hermitage is not necessary," Father McGee said firmly, "though you might want to think seriously before you married. If you wish to have a family, they must be more important to you than your studies."

"So that if study is to be more important to me, I should not wed?"

"So I believe." McGee nodded. "That is why many scholars become monks—so that they may still have human companionship, but be able to devote their lives primarily to study. Still, that is only true of a few Orders; ours is one of them. Many others are primarily concerned with praying."

Gregory nodded slowly. "Thus could a man have solitude to concentrate all his thoughts on study, yet still have times when he is in company."

It was positively weird, hearing statements like that coming out of the mouth of a seven-year-old, and Rod always had to fight to remember that, emotionally, he was still a very small boy. But it didn't seem to faze Father McGee. He simply nodded, very seriously, and came over to the boy. "All true, lad—if the man's studies are directed toward learning as much as he can about God, through His creations. Yet if you wish to study the universe by itself, without the need to find a connection between God and every slightest phenomenon, you might wish to be a scholar, but not a monk."

Rod breathed a sigh of relief; he had just heard an intellectual Emancipation Proclamation.

But Gregory frowned. "I do not understand."

"Why, it's simply this." McGee pulled up a straight chair and sat down. "A vocation to study does not, by itself, mean that you have a vocation to the priesthood."

Rod could see the little boy relax, a little outside, hugely inside. "I may be a scholar, yet not a monk?"

McGee nodded. "That is the way of it. The two can be quite separate, you see."

"Yet where can I find companionship, if I do not become a monk?"

"Why, wherever you may. Hindu holy men sometimes built their hermitages near villages, so that they could be there if they were needed. Ancient Taoists were supposed to build their villages near a hermit's mountain, so that they could follow his example." McGee smiled. "You might even consider gathering other scholars about you, founding the first university on Gramarye."

He gazed at the boy, smiling, and after a few minutes Gregory began to smile, too.

And from that moment, in his parents' eyes, Father McGee could do no wrong.