Brother Paul nodded thoughtfully. He was thinking of the way huge Satan in Dante’s Inferno had winked at him. Surely that was a shallow concept of Satan, one that could be laughed off—and indeed they had done just that. But what would happen if he now went to interview the real Satan? He had been more or less a spectator in a framework designed for Lee’s torture. This time the torture would be attuned to Paul himself.

  Yet as he pondered, it seemed increasingly necessary. He had tried to examine the Gods of others from an objective standpoint and failed because he did not know enough about them. He had tried to examine his own Christian religion and failed again. The answer, ultimately, had to lie within himself—and to know himself, he would have to put himself to the test. Only then would he be able to prove his own fitness to judge God. As Lee had put himself to the test in his Hell—and found, after suffering and doubt, vindication.

  The surest test of Brother Paul himself would be found in his own personal Hell.

  20 • Violence (Devil)

  When Jesus Christ was crucified, Governor Pontius Pilate assigned Roman soldiers to stand guard. One of these soldiers, named Longinus, had a malady of the eyes. When Jesus died, Longinus took a spear and pierced his side, verifying his death. Blood ran down the shaft of the spear, and a drop of it got on the soldier’s eyes. Immediately they were healed. This, combined with certain other signs occurring at the time of Jesus’ death—the darkening of the sun and quaking of the earth—caused Longinus to be convinced that Jesus was indeed the Son of God, and the soldier was converted to the Christian faith. He gave up the military life, studied with the Apostles, and became a monk. Many years later he was brought before the Governor because he refused to sacrifice to idols. He was subjected to torture; his tongue was cut off and his teeth torn out. But Longinus took an axe and smashed the idols, his brazen act calculated, as though to say “If these be gods, let them show themselves!” Demons came out of the idols and took over the bodies of the Governor and his aids, and the Governor became blind. He then had Longinus beheaded. But after, he fell down before the corpse, and wept, and did penance. His sight returned. Thereafter, he did good works.

  They stood in a hollow in the ground ringed by hugely twisted oaks. The full moon illuminated the tops but hardly penetrated to the ground. It was a beautiful but hauntingly evil setting.

  “There were these two devils,” Therion remarked. “And the little one said, ‘I’m tired of being the lesser of two evils!’” No one laughed.

  Slowly an opacity formed from the shadow, and this shaped into the walls of a building—a single large room with bench pews at one end and an ornate stone altar at the other. A church.

  But what a church! The cross on the altar was upside down, and crooked at that, with a crack traversing it. The stained-glass windows seemed to be smeared with drying blood and formed pictures of obscene sexual acts involving satyrs, plump women, and pigs. Beyond the altar was a sculpture of the Virgin Mary, one breast dangling tubularly, masturbating the infant Jesus. A monstrous pentacle enclosed the altar and a goodly portion of the floor, including several of the pews. It was a five-pointed star, the extremities symbolizing the five projections of the human body, the five senses of man, and the five elements of nature. Everything was wrong, profane, or disgusting—calculated to be the reverse of normal religious procedure. As it had to be. For this was to be the Black Mass, the infernal ceremony through which they would summon Satan.

  Brother Paul felt a shiver go down the outsides of his arms. Did he really want to go through with this? No question about it: he did not! He had known what he thought was ultimate horror in his first Animation, the horror of personal degradation—only to suffer worse horror in the second. This was the third, and it would surely be the worst if he survived it at all. Yet—he had to do it not only for the sake of his mission, but, ironically, for his personal satisfaction. He had to know himself—whatever that self might be. Only then could he hope to know God.

  He wore a black cape embroidered with Satanic symbols and serpents, hanging open in front to expose his genitals, for he wore no underclothing. The congregation was grotesquely masked with some individuals being in complete animal costumes. The acolytes were naked young men whose lingering glances tended to rest on each other’s posteriors: blatant sodomists. They swung censers that reeked of marijuana, opium, and worse.

  The high priest stepped up to the altar. His robe, like Brother Paul’s, was open; unlike Brother Paul, he had an erection augmented by Animation to inhuman magnitude. It was of course Therion. Under his direction, members of the congregation lifted a mattress to the top of the altar, covering it with a dirty black drape.

  “Let the ceremony begin,” Priest Therion said sonorously. “Virgin—dispose thyself.”

  Amaranth came forward, diffidently. The animal congregation began a chant whose words were indistinguishable—because the litany was being recited backward. She wore a fetching gown similar in respects to the nightgown she had used as Sister Beth: the material was sheer and tended to fall open at key locations, exposing portions of her lush anatomy. Brother Paul was no longer so naive as to suppose such offerings were accidental; she liked to put her torso on display. And he, male that he was, liked to see it thus. Now she did a little dance, removing films of material from here and there and flinging them away in the manner of a cheap strip-tease artist. Slowly her bouncing breasts came into full view and her flexing thighs.

  “I would rather have made a try for Heaven,” Lee muttered beside him.

  Brother Paul knew what he meant. But imperfect man had no chance to achieve Heaven directly; first he had to settle with Hell. On this they more or less agreed. Brother Paul had gone to Lee’s Hell to fetch him out; now Lee was coming to Brother Paul’s Hell to help in whatever way he could. This was the nature of friendship.

  Amaranth disposed of the last item of apparel and danced naked. She was such a splendid figure of a woman with her generally slender body blessed by full breasts and buttocks that Brother Paul had trouble with his posture. If only he had more concealment for his crotch!

  “Marvelously protean flesh,” Lee said, and Brother Paul realized that this was Antares’ thought. The amoebic alien naturally appreciated flexibility, tubular elongations, and jellylike quiverings of anatomy.

  The congregation acknowledged her beauty with a medley of snorts, growls, grunts, groans, and animalistic howls. Several males rubbed their crotches suggestively, making bucking motions with their hips, while the females tittered rudely.

  Brother Paul felt his temper rising. How was he to stand here and tolerate this indignity to the woman he loved? (Loved! How had that term entered his mind! He might be tempted by her, but not…) Yet she was doing it voluntarily—and doing it to assist his own mission. For this was the way, according to Therion, to find Satan most swiftly and surely—and Therion was the expert in such matters. If this were the worst of the indignities he, Brother Paul, had to suffer here, he was well off.

  Amaranth walked languorously to the altar and picked up two burning candles there. Brother Paul knew they were made from human fat. Holding one candle in each hand, she carefully seated herself up on the altar, then leaned slowly back to lie upon it, face up. Her head rested on a pillow inscribed with Satanic designs, and her arms spread wide to either side to support the guttering candles. They gave off an odor like cooking meat, making Brother Paul’s stomach roil unpleasantly. Her legs spread wide, dangling off the edge of mattress and altar so that her vagina lay open to public view. Brother Paul tried to keep his eyes away from the moist aperture, but they strayed back. He bit his tongue, fighting off the reaction that his open robe would advertise to the entire congregation.

  The acolytes brought sacramental wafers stolen from a legitimate church, and sour wine that looked distressingly like diluted blood. The Priest held the wafers above Amaranth’s body and pronounced a ringingly profane curse upon them. He handed them back for distribution to the congregation, then bent down and kissed the girl resoundingly between her legs.

  Brother Paul started forward, but Lee restrained him. “It is the ritual,” he cautioned. “It is an abomination—yet the road to Hell is paved with abominations, as we well knew before we made this compact.”

  “And the angel of Hell enjoys every one of them!” Brother Paul pronounced through gritted teeth. But his friend was right: this had to be suffered. Had he expected an easy route to the Infernal Region?

  The congregation accepted the wafers and wine, but neither ate nor drank. They threw the wafers down on the floor, trampled on them, and poured the wine on top. “Jesus Christ eats shit!” someone yelled, and Brother Paul flinched, remembering the terrible crucifixions of the Savior. “Fuck the Virgin Mary!”

  “Words mean little—either of worship or condemnation,” Lee murmured. “The Satanists overrate the significance of external expressions. Neither Jesus nor his mother can be touched by the likes of these.”

  And that of course was correct. This infernal ceremony was valid only to the extent Brother Paul allowed it to touch him, like Voodoo magic. Let the demons curse; they were only advertising their own powerlessness.

  Priest Therion raised a benign right hand, very like the Hierophant he once had been. His left hand fingered his penis. Brother Paul was reminded of the Spanish obscenity: “You irritate my penis!” in lieu of the English “You are a pain in the ass!” Evidently Therion irritated his own penis. “All in good time,” Therion said, responding to the cries of the congregation.

  “They shall pay—in good time,” Lee murmured in a deadly low tone. It was evident that despite his encouragement to Brother Paul, he could not avoid being moved himself.

  Now the members of the congregation opened their costumes and urinated on the mash of wafers and wine. “Piss in the mouth of God!” one bawled, then jumped as the woman behind him gave him a playful one-fingered goose in the rectum.

  The Priest bestowed another juicy kiss on the Virgin’s vagina, then rose, smacking his lips. “Fill the Grail,” he said.

  The acolytes scraped up a mound of urine-wafer mash and dumped it into a huge dirty chalice. Therion took this chamber pot of a Grail, gestured obscenely over it, and lo! it was a human baby. “Celebrant, come forward,” he cried.

  “That’s me,” Brother Paul said glumly. “Last time I traveled his road, I regretted it…”

  “It is only ritual,” Lee reminded him. “Profanity, nudity, urine—these can harm you only if you yield to them. Keep your mind pure, your intent honorable, and all the fiendish powers of Satan are futile.”

  Good advice! Brother Paul stepped forward.

  Therion held the baby out to him. “Place this innocent infant on the belly of the Virgin, slit its throat, and catch the blood in the chalice,” he instructed. “Here is the sacrificial knife; here is the cup. You must do it well, or Satan will not come.” And he gave his standing penis another jerk with one hand momentarily freed for the purpose to show that there was also a sexual connotation to his statement. When Satan came, he came.

  Brother Paul froze, appalled despite his preparation. “I can’t do that!” he cried. “I can’t kill—”

  Therion frowned, looking truly demoniac. “Oh, come on, Paul,” he said under his breath. “It’s not really a baby, you know; it’s a puppy. An animal. A living sacrifice for Satan. See?” And for a moment Brother Paul glimpsed the little beast, its tail curled tightly between its legs. “Don’t be a fool. Go along with the gag.”

  The shape of the baby reappeared. So it was illusion! He should have anticipated that. After all, he had seen it change from chalice to infant. But was it right to kill a dog?

  “Come on,” Therion urged. “You’re holding up the show. Do you think it’s any worse than butchering a swine for bacon?”

  Was it any worse? How many times had Brother Paul eaten of the flesh of animals? A thousand? Ten thousand? For each such meal, some animal, somewhere, had had to die. He would be a hypocrite to balk now.

  He took the baby and set it on the soft white tummy of the Virgin. Virgin? How could she be after his liaison with her in the Castle of the Seven Cups two Animations ago? Yet he could not be sure about that, since Therion had—

  He shook off the ugly thought, as he always did, and accepted the knife and chalice. This was horrible, but it represented his rite of passage. If he could eat the flesh of an animal killed for him, he should be able to kill an animal himself.

  “Daddy.” Brother Paul paused, thinking he had heard someone speak. But the screaming encouragement of the congregation drowned out all else. He must have imagined it. He hefted the knife, seeing a shaft of pale moonlight glint from its cruel blade.

  The baby opened its eyes and looked at him. And abruptly Brother Paul recognized it. “Carolyn!” he breathed.

  No—that was impossible. She was at least ten years old by this time, assuming the Animations progressed chronologically. No baby! And as a colonist she was twelve, verging on nubility. So this had to be a false identification, perhaps a figment of his own balking mind.

  He gripped the knife with sweaty fingers and raised it to the tiny throat. It wasn’t really her throat, but that of a puppy dog. Merely illusion—

  He froze again. Illusion? If Therion could make a puppy resemble a human baby, why couldn’t he make a baby resemble a puppy? Or a young girl resemble a baby?

  Whose throat was he cutting?

  Again he remembered that episode at the Castle when he had grabbed the naked Amaranth—and later looked in the window and seen Therion standing where the girl had supposedly been. Had Therion made himself resemble Amaranth, and—

  “Get on with it!” Therion said through gritted teeth. “The natives are getting restive. Do you want to ruin everything?”

  Brother Paul had gone along before—and regretted it profoundly ever since. Was he so much the fool that he could be destroyed twice by the same magic? How much worse a deed was he being guided to this time by the Evil Companion?

  “Now! Therion cried, his desperation such that even his penis lost elevation.

  Now Brother Paul was sure. He dropped the knife and lifted his daughter from the stomach of the Virgin. “What in Hell are you trying to do?” he demanded with no profanity.

  “Fool!” Therion cried. “It is too late to stop it now. Satan is coming!” He snatched at the baby, but Brother Paul drew aside, using his judo balance, and stepped out of the way with her in his arms.

  Now the congregation, balked of its expectation, became a ravening mob. With an animal roar it charged forward.

  Brother Paul set the child down behind him and braced himself for devastating action. He had in his hands the skill to maim and kill, rapidly, and if that was what this horde really wanted—

  “No, Paul!” Lee cried.

  And Brother Paul understood. Lee was not concerned for the welfare of the mob; he was cautioning Brother Paul. Once before he had yielded to Temptation—by doing its will in the name of opposing it. That had been the path to ruin. Instead, his model had to be Jesus Christ: to preserve his own values regardless of the threat.

  He stood firm, his arm about the child—and it was as if an aura surrounded him, a shining light, impervious. The rabble broke against this shield and was rebuffed.

  “Damnation!” Therion cried. “Satan is coming; He must have His blood! There is only one chance remaining—and I’ll have to do it myself!” He grimaced as though contemplating an act so horrible that even he had to nerve himself for it.

  Therion stalked up to the altar, a hand on his phallus. The Virgin still lay there, holding the two burning candles. Therion positioned himself between her legs and lowered his boom, orienting on her exposed vagina. “I hate this,” he said. “I’d rather crap on her face. But this has to be according to form.”

  Brother Paul started forward—but again Lee cautioned him. “You have won—don’t throw it away now! What means most to you?”

  And Brother Paul realized: the life of his daughter was more important than the virginity of his girlfriend. He stood firm.

  Therion closed his eyes, bared his teeth as though before a firing squad, then steeled himself with a hearty oath and rammed his member home. Amaranth gave out a gasp of amazement and dropped the candles; evidently she had anticipated only another genital kiss. But it was too late for any meaningful protest on her part; she had already been speared. There was a spray of blood: her maidenhead, its rupture augmented by Animation.

  The mob went wild again. It dissolved into a swearing scramble of bodies. Clothing was ripped off. Men fornicated frantically with women, genitally, orally and anally, and those who could not get hold of female anatomy rapidly enough plunged with equal fervor into the orifices of whatever was within range. It was an incredible orgy of lust, imperative and insatiable. One woman came up from the heap with something bloody dangling from her mouth: a bitten-off penis. Some of the congregation, it now developed, really were animals; a billy goat was mounting a sprawled woman while two men attempted to penetrate the animal’s rectum simultaneously.

  The whole demoniac church shuddered. Smoke issued from vents around the perimeter of the pentacle. But the mob paid no attention. Every person was too busy slaking his, her, or its drug-loosed, beastly passion. All except Brother Paul, Lee, and Carolyn.

  Therion was still performing his sacrifice at the altar, shoving ex-Virgin and mattress askew in his grim determination to complete the ritual properly. “Disgusting!” he muttered. “But I can’t let it faze me! I must ejaculate the Offering though the Gorgon petrify me!” And he strove ever harder against the impotence that threatened him.

  Amaranth was trying to scramble to her feet, but could not get them under her before he left off his efforts. “What the Hell are you talking about?” she demanded, her surprise, confusion, and pain turning to anger as she began to comprehend exactly what he was talking about.

  Therion stiffened with a climactic effort, then slowly relaxed in place. Then, in an amazed afterthought: “I did it! I really did it! I conquered the gaping monster! I prevailed over Manifest Castration itself! Only Satan could have brought me through that horror!”