THE AFTERLIFE OF ST. VIDICON OF CATHODE
Part I
by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright © 2004
With thanks to Morris McGee,
honorary Father-General of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode,
and to Laurie Patten,
honorary Mother Superior of the Order of Cassettes.
The abbot waited in the convent's audience chamber, fascinated by the beauty drawn from its flat planes and minimal furniture by the glow of waxed golden paneling, the vivid color of the spray of flowers in a ceramic vase of elegant simplicity, and the two pictures adorning the walls, lighted by the windows opposite—an old woman next to a young on the wall facing the bench on which he sat, and on the wall at his left, the cowled face of a man in middle age, his brooding expression softened by the twinkle in his eye. If he was the man the abbot suspected, the artist had caught his character perfectly, leaving an elegant legacy to her successors. The whole room spoke of the care and devotion of the women of the Order, and of their dedication to their vocation.
The door opened to admit a woman of his own age, no longer slender, but with a kind though firm look to her eyes. The abbot rose in deference.
"Sit, please, my lord," the nun said with a slight frown. "Surely the abbot of the Order of Saint Vidicon should not stand to a mere nun."
"Any gentleman should stand when a lady enters a room." But the abbot sat as she bade. "Certainly the abbot should show respect for the Mother Superior of the Order of Cassettes."
"I am only Sister Paterna Testa, a simple nun like all my sisters," the woman said primly. "As you know, my lord, we are not officially sanctioned nor formally an Order, so our leaders have never claimed such a title."
"If it comes to titles, I am not a lord," the abbot said with a smile of amusement. "I am a peasant, the son of peasants."
"Then you do not use the title when you speak with dukes and earls?" Sister Paterna Testa was skeptical.
"I will admit to that much of worldly vanity," the abbot said without the slightest sign of contrition. "I cannot risk their contempt when I berate them for their treatment of their peasants, after all."
"I have heard that you do just that," Sister Paterna Testa said, "when most of your predecessors rarely emerged from their monastery, and then only by royal summons."
"Or in outrage at the actions of the monarch." The abbot nodded. "It has seemed to me that if I remonstrate with the lords, or even Their Majesties, while their sins are still minor, I may be able to prevent the growth of conditions great enough that I am forced to speak in indignation."
"And so it has occurred, from what rumor tells me." Sister Paterna Testa nodded. "So are you come to remonstrate with me, and demand that my Order be brought within your jurisdiction?"
"Heaven forfend!" The abbot raised his palms as though to fend off a horror. "But it does seem to me that the only two Orders in the land should be in communication, and that your Order should be officially recognized as being in every way the equal of mine."
"That is quite generous," Sister Paterna Testa said slowly, "but we have managed well for centuries without such recognition—indeed, without your knowledge. How did you learn of us?"
"Word of your aiding the High Warlock and the High Witch might have been kept to yourselves," the abbot said with a smile, "but not news of the battle you fought to aid him. Minstrels have spread the tale throughout the length and the breadth of the land, so it finally reached even my ears."
"Minstrels! I like not the sound of that." Sister Paterna Testa turned away, frowning. "The Queen shall no doubt summon us now to be sure we count ourselves her vassals."
"She is more likely to summon you to heal those sunk in melancholy or beset by delusions," the abbot said, "but no matter her motive, it would strengthen your position to be officially constituted, and recognized by the Pope."
"I had heard that His Holiness had finally found Gramarye." Sister Paterna Testa turned her frown back to the abbot.
"He has, but felt it sufficient to leave us to the ministrations of the Father-General of our Order," the abbot said.
"Then we stand on quicksand," Sister Paterna Testa said, "for we have no abbess or mother-general."
"Quite so," said the abbot, "since there is no Order of Cassettes anywhere but in this convent, whereas the Order of St. Vidicon has chapter houses on every Terran-colonized planet."
"We have as firm a claim to his founding as have you!"
"I do not doubt it," said the abbot, "and you thereby have as good a claim to exist as an independent Order, subject only to the Holy Father."
Sister Paterna Testa knit her brows, searching his eyes for duplicity and finding none. Slowly, then, she said, "How could we prove such a claim, though? The Vatican will scarcely accept our unsupported word."
"This picture will support your claim by itself." The abbot nodded at the painting of the monk. "If it matches photographs in the archives of our Order, few can gainsay you. It is painted from life, is it not?"
"From memory, at least." Sister Paterna Testa turned to the portrait. "It was drawn by the young woman who became our second leader, some years after the visitation of the monk who saved herself, and our founder. He would not say his name, though."
"Yet he told you tales of St. Vidicon that we know not," the abbot said, "or so the minstrels have even sung—that you have knowledge of the Saint that we have not."
"So that is why you have come!" Sister Paterna Testa turned back to him, amused. "You mean to trade your support for our knowledge, is that it?"
"Our support will be freely given if you will have it." It was the abbot's turn to be prim.
"And you expect our knowledge to be freely given also?" Sister Paterna Testa asked with a trace of irony. "Well, it shall be so, for we believe that knowledge should be free to all who wish to learn it."
"I have seen your school for the peasant children, and it is elegant proof of that claim," the abbot said. "If you wish to share, I shall not refuse."
"Be skeptical," Sister Paterna Testa warned him. "This may be only tales of imagination, that some gifted nun made up to while away a winter's evening for her sisters—and if it is, I am sure it has gained episodes from other tellers as the winters have rolled."
"Or it could indeed be words left to you by that monk." The abbot nodded at the portrait. "I promise I shall not be credulous, sister, for who could know the events that befell the Saint after his death?"
"Only one inspired by St. Vidicon himself," Sister Paterna Testa sighed, "or one who delighted in imagining what befell the Foe of Perversity in the afterlife. You remember how St. Vidicon died?"
"Who does not?" the abbot asked. "Though it is hard for any of us to believe that a world so full of people as Old Earth could be so blinded by prejudice and ignorance as to seek to obliterate the Roman Catholic Church."
"Impossible though it seems, our traditions speak of it."
The abbot nodded. "We have histories of Terra that testify to it, ones brought by our ancestors when they came to this world—and not Church histories only, but also those by lay scholars, non-Catholics, agnostics, and even an atheist."
"Do you really?" Sister Paterna Testa looked up with interest. "Do they also tell that only a speech by our Holy Father the Pope was able to save the Church?"
"They do indeed, for apparently he was an extremely charismatic speaker."
"But how could the whole world hear him?'
"You must promise me not to speak of this to any outside our Orders," the abbot admonished, "and swear your nuns to silence, too, for we do not wish the people of Gramarye to be contaminated by too much knowledge of advanced technology."
"Even so was the wish of our ancestors, though I sometimes question their wisdom," Sister Paterna Testa said. "Well, as you ask, I shall promise. How was it done?"
"By a magical instrument called 'television,' by which the picture of the Holy Father was projected into every living room on the planet," the abbot said, "or at least those who chose to see it—and since the issue was hotly debated, more than half the planet watched. Certainly all the Catholics did, and the fallen-away Catholics, of whom there were many, many more."
"And St. Vidicon was responsible for maintaining this magic spell?"
"This electronic miracle, let us say," the abbot answered. "It was he who was the engineer who oversaw the operation of the transmitter—but the instrument was old and faulty, and kept burning out resistors and failing."
"So he took the place of that resistor," Sister Paterna Testa said in awe.
"He did indeed, and the Pope's speech was heard through to the end," the abbot said. "Fallen-away Catholics came flooding back into the churches, and the world's governments saw that they could not rule against so very many of their citizens—so the Church was saved."
"But Father Vidicon was dead," Sister Paterna Testa whispered.
The abbot nodded. "The electrical fire that had burned out the resistors, also burned out his life. He was declared a saint within the year, for none could doubt that he was a martyr for the Faith."
"None could," Sister Paterna Testa agreed, "though by the time the Pope declared his knowledge, many miracles had already saved those who called upon the Saint for aid."
The abbot nodded. "Any who worked with magical equipment, even as Father Vidicon had."
"Of course." Sister Paterna Testa smiled. "By the time they called upon him, St. Vidicon had already bested the worst of the spirits that plague humankind with the urge to fail, and thereby turn their own devices against them."
"What spirits were those?" The abbot leaned forward, the intensity of his hunger for learning finally unveiled. "How did Father Vidicon defeat them?"
Sister Paterna Testa laughed softly… but her laughter quieted as her gaze drifted, eyes losing focus, and her voice fell into Biblical rhythms as she began the tale.
When that the blessed Father Vidicon did seize upon a high-voltage line and did cleave unto it, aye, even unto death, so that the words of our blessed Holy Father the Pope might reach out though the satellites to all the television transmitters of the world, for the saving of our most Holy and Catholic church—aye, when that he did thus die for the Faith and did pass into one enduring instant of blinding pain, he was upheld and sustained by the knowledge that, dying a martyr, he would pass straightway to Heaven, and would be numbered among the Blest.
How great was his dismay, then, to find himself, as the pain dimmed and awareness returned, falling through darkness amidst a cold that did sear his soul. Distantly did he espy certain suns, and knew thereby that he did pass through the Void, and that his eternal fall was not truly so, but was only the absence of gravity. Indeed, he knew the place for an absence of all, and fear bit his soul—for thus, he knew must Hell be: a place of lacking, of absence of being. Then, in his terror, did he cry out in anger, "My God! For Thee did I give my life! Wherefore hast thou doomed me?"
Yet no sooner were the words said than he did repent, and cursed himself for a faithless fool, thus to doubt even now in death, that the Christ would uphold him.
And straightway on the heels of that thought came the shock of insight—for he saw that, if he did die to cheat the Imp of the Perverse, defeating Finagle himself by his very perversity, he must needs expect reversal of expectation—which is to say that, if he died expecting the vistas of Heaven, he would most certainly discover the chaos of Hell.
Then courage returned, and resolution; for he did come to see that the struggle was not ended, but only begun anew—that if he did desire Heaven, he would have to win to it. Then did he wonder if even the saints, they who dwelt in God, could count their toils ended, or if they chose eternally to struggle 'gainst greater foes.
Then did his Mission become clear to him, and the blessed Vidicon knew wherefore he had come to this place. The enemy 'gainst whom he had striven throughout his life, endured still—and now would Father Vidicon confront him, and look upon his face.
With the thought, his fall slowed, and he saw the mouth of a tunnel ope in the darkness before him, and it did glow within, a sullen red. Closer it did come, and wider, stretching and yawning to swallow him; yet Father Vidicon quailed not, nor tried to draw back. Nay, bravely he stood, stalwart in nothingness; yea, even eagerly did he strain forward, to set foot upon infirm, fungoid flesh and stride into Hellmouth.
As he strode, the sullen glow did brighten, gaining heat until he feared it would sear his flesh, then remembered that he had none. Brighter and hotter it flowed, until he turned thorough a bend in its tube and found himself staring upon the Imp of the Perverse.
Gross it was, and palpable, swollen with falsehood and twisted with paradoxes. Syllogisms sprouted from its sides, reaching toward Father Vidicon with complexes of bitterness, and it stood but did not stand, on existential extensions.
"Turn back!" roared the Imp, in awesome sardonicism. "Regress, retrograde! For none can progress that do come within!"
"Avaunt thee!" cried Father Vidicon. "For I know thee of old, bloody Imp! 'Tis thou who dost drive every suicide; thou who dost strengthen the one arm of the Bandit who doth rob the gambler compulsive; thou who dost bring down freezing snow upon the recumbent form of the will-leached narcotic! Nay, I know thee of old, and know that he who retreats from thee must needs pursue thee! Get thee behind me—for I shall surpass thee!"
"Wilt thou, then?" cried the Imp. "Then look to thy defense—for I shall undo thee!"
Then a great calm came upon the Blessed One, and he stood straight, smiling gently and saying, "Nay, I shall not—for I know now that to become defensive is to bend the sword so that it strikes against thyself. Nay, I shall not defend, but offend!” And so saying, he leaped upon the Imp, striking out with his fist.
But the Imp raised up a shield, a plane of white metal, flat as a fact and bare as a statistic, and polished to so high a gloss that it might not have existed. "See!" cried the Imp, full of glee. "See the monster thine offense hath wrought!"
And staring within, Father Vidicon did behold a face twisted with hatred and tortured with self-doubt. It wore a beard of assumptions and was bound by the Roman collar of law.
Yet the Blessed One did not recoil. Nay, he did not so much as hesitate to question himself or his cause; only, with a voice filled with agony, did he cry, "Oh my Lord! Now preserve me! Give me, I beg of Thee, some weapon against the wiles and malice of this Imp's Shield of Distortion!"
He held up his hands in supplication—and Lo! In his left, a blade did appear, gleaming with purity, its edge glittering with exquisite monofilament sharpness—and in the Blessed One's palm, its handle nestled, hollow to the blade folded.
The Imp sneered in laughter and cried, "See how thy master doth requite thee! In exchange for thy life, he doth grant thee naught but a slip of a blade, which could not pierce so much as a misapprehension!"
"Not so," cried father Vidicon, "for this Razor is Occam's!"
So saying , he slashed out at the shield. The Imp screamed and cowered away—but the Blessed One pursued, slicing at the Shield of Distortion and crying, "Nay, though canst not prevail! For I could have wasted eternity wondering where the fault lay in me, that could so twist my face and form! Yet the truth of it is shown by this Razor, as it doth cleave thy Shield!"
So saying, he swung the blade, and it cleaved the Shield in twain, revealing hidden contours, convexities and concavities of temporizing and equivocating. The Imp screamed in terror and the Blessed One cried,
" 'Tis not my image that is hideous, but thy shield that is warped!"
Dropping its shield, the Imp spun away, whirling beyond Father Vidicon to flee toward the Outer Dark.
Filled with righteous rage, the Blessed One turned to follow it—but he brought himself up short at a thought; for 'twas almost as though a voice spoke within him, saying, Nay! Thou must not seek to destroy, for thus thou wouldst become thyself an enemy of Being. Contain only, and control; for the supporting of Life will lead Good to triumph; but the pursuit of Destruction in itself doth defeat good!
The Blessed One bowed his head in chagrin—and there, even there in the throat of Hell, did he kneel and join his hands in penitence. "Pardon, my Maser, that in my weakness, I would have forgotten the Commandment of Thine example." And he held up the Razor on his open palm, praying, "Take again the instrument wrought for Thee by Thy faithful servant William. I need it not, now, for Thou, O God, art my strength and my shield, and with Thee, I need naught."
Light winked along the length of the blade, and it was gone.
Father Vidicon stood up then, naked of weapons and solitary in his feelings, yet light of heart and strengthened in resolution. "Whither Thou wilt lead me, my Lord," he murmured, "I shall go; and with what adversaries Thou wilt confront me, I shall contend."
So saying, he strode forth down the throat of Hell; but the song that rose to his lips was a psalm.
Bravely strode he onward through the throat of Hell, praising God for pitting him against the Imp of the Perverse, that he might achieve governance over the spirit of self-defeat, for the glory of God and the salvation of all who labor with cathode ray or keyboard. Yet having routed the Imp, he did not seek escape, but strode ahead in answer to the Call he felt, the new vocation the Lord had given.
But as he went, the crimson of the walls about him darkened down toward ruby, then darkened further still, toward purple. Protuberances began to rise up from the floor, each taller than the last, excrescences that did stand upon slender stalks as high as his waist. Then did their tips begin to broaden and to swell, until he saw that, every few paces, he did pass a glowing ball that stood by his hip. And he did see a strip upon the ceiling that did widen, with decorations that did glow upon it, curlicues and arabesques. It sprouted chandeliers, and square they were, or rectangular; and they did hang down from chains at each corner. Yet neither were they chains, but cables, or aye, rods. "These are like to tables," Father Vidicon did murmur, "tables inverted." Then he noticed that a bulge, extruding from the ceiling, did broaden out, then sprouted arms upon a side. The good father frowned and bethought him, " 'Tis like unto a chair.” And it was, in truth.
Thus did the Saint realize that he did pace upon the ceiling of a hallway, with a strip of carpet Oriental, and with chairs and tables hanging up above his head. And Lo! He did pass by a mirror set into the wall, that did glow with the maroon of the wall across from it; and as he did step past, he saw himself inverted, with chest and hips vanishing upwards. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to rid himself of the sight; and when he did ope his eyes he did see that the walls now did flow past him toward his front; indeed, the mirror did slide past a second d time, from rear to fore. With every step he took, the walls went farther past, and dizziness did claim him. Then did thrills of danger course throughout his nerves, for he saw that he had come upon a region of inversion, where all was upside down, and progress turned to regress; where every step forward took him two steps backward, and all was opposite to how it should have been. "I near the Sardonic One," he bethought himself, and knew that he came nigh the Spirit of Illogic.
Yet Saint Vidicon perceived that he could not approach that spirit unless it chanced that he might discover some way to progress. He stopped; the motion of the wall stopped with him, as it should; and Father Vidicon did grin with delight, taking one step backward. In truth, the wall did then move from front to back. He laughed with joy and set off, walking in reverse. The mirror slid past him again, going from the front toward the back, as was fit and proper. So thus, retreating ever, Father Vidicon went onward toward the Spirit of Contrariness.
And Lo! The Spirit did come nigh, though he moved not; for he stood, arms akimbo, feet apart, sailing at Father Vidicon as he watched the good Saint come; and the spirit's eyes were shielded behind two curving planes of darkness. From head to foot he was clothed in khaki, aye, even to his shirt, where it did show between lapels, and his necktie was of brown. Clean-shaven was he, and long-faced, smiling with delight full cynical, and crowned with a cap high-peaked, with a polished visor, and insigniae did gleam upon his shoulder boards.
Then Father Vidicon did halt some paces distant, filled with wariness, and quoth he, "I know thee, Spirit—for thou art Murphy!"
But, "Nay," quoth the Spirit, "for any trace of any person who dwells in thy real world hath been swallowed up in the mythic figure that hath grown of its own accord and become myself. I am not Murphy, therefore, but someone else by that name."
Father Vidicon's face did darken then. "Deceive me not. Thou it is who hath enunciated that fell principle by which all human projects come to doom."
“The doom's within the doer," the Spirit answered. "How may I exorcize it? Nay, 'tis they who bring it out, not I."
"Thou speakest false, fell foe!" Father Vidicon did cry. "Well dost thou know the wish to fail is buried deep in most and, left to lie, would sleep quiescent. 'Tis thou dost invest each mortal, who dost nurture and encourage that doom-laden wish!”
But the Spirit's smile remained, untouched. "If I do, what boots it? Wouldst thou truly blame me for encouragement?"
"For nurture of foul folly, aye! As thou wouldst know, if thou didst not look upon the world through the fell filter of Inversion!" Thereupon did Father Vidicon leap forth to seize those darkened lenses of the Spirit, to rip away the shadow's shades, crying, "Look not through your glasses, darkly!"
They came away within his hand, yet not only those dark lenses, but all the face, peeling off the Spirit's head like a shriveled husk, exposing there within, a mass of hair.
Father Vidicon gazed on the coiffure, stunned.
Slowly then, the Spirit turned, hair sliding aside to show another face. Hooded eyes now gazed upon the Saint, darkened indeed, but not in frames; for its eyes were naught but frosted glass, and its twisting mouth a grinning grimace.
Father Vidicon did swallow thickly, and looked down into his hands, where he beheld the back side of the empty face. "Truth," he cried, "I should have thought! Thou hast backward worn they wear!"
But the Spirit chortled then, "Not so! Behold my buskins!"
Then Father Vidicon looked down and found the Spirit spoke in sooth. The back sides of his shoes were there, and his toes did point away upon the other side. "Alas!" the good Saint cried, "What boots it?" Then up he raised his gaze and did declare, "Thy head's on backwards!"
"In sooth." The Spirit grinned. "Wouldst thou expect aught else?"
"Nay, surely!" Father Vidicon now clamped his jaw and folded all his features in a frown. "I should have known! Thou art the jaundiced Janus!"
"Two-faced in truth," the Spirit did agree.
"That thou art not! Truth there cannot be in him who's two-faced. Thy hinder face was false!"
"What else?" The Spirit shrugged. "Yet canst thou be sure that face was faked? Mayhap another countenance doth lie beneath my hair, and I have truly eyes behind, as well as those before."
"Nay, that sight must be seen," the Saint then said, and looking up to Heaven, he did pray: "Good Father, now forgive! That in my false pride and folly, I did think myself of energy to encounter enemies so extreme. I pray Thee now Thine aid to give, and send me here a weapon to withstand this Worker of our Woe!"
But the Spirit chuckled. "What idle plea is this? What instrument could the Patron place in thy palm, that could reverse the perverse?"
A spark of light did gleam within the good priest's hand, glaring and glowing into glass, and Father Vidicon help up a mirror.
His foe laughed outright. "What! Wilt thou then fight the Spirit of Defeat with so small a service?"
"Aye," quoth Father Vidicon, "if it shows truly."
"Nay—for it is 'darkly,' though a glass. Dost thou not recall what thou hast said not long before?"
BuT Father Vidicon held up the mirror to reflect the Spirits' face into its eyes.
"Nay, I have another," then it cried. Its hand slipped backward into an inner pocket and did whisk out another glass, a foot or more in width, and opposed it to the plate the good Saint held, reflecting back reflections into the Reverend's regard.
"It will not serve!” the good priest cried; and even as he spoke, his mirror grew to half again the size of the Spirit's, throwing back into the Spirit's eyes the sight of his own face with a glass beside it, within which was his face beside a glass, in which was another face beside another glass, and so on in recursive series until the reflection was too small to see. The Spirit shrieked and yanked its own glass aside, away; but its image held within the priest's reflector.
" 'Tis too late to take away!” Father Vidicon did cry. "Dost thou not see thou hast begun a feedback uncontrolled?"
And so it was.
"It cannot be!” the Spirit wailed. "No feedback can sustain itself without a power input!"
"I have the Input of the greatest Power that doth exist," Saint Vidicon explained with quiet calm. "All power in the Universe doth flow from this one Source!"
The mirrors grew still brighter within each other's view—brighter then and brighter, white-hot, flaring, burning up the image of the imp; so as his image burned, did he. For, "In truth," quoth Father Vidicon, "thou art naught but image."
So, with wailing howl, the Spirit frayed and dwindled, shimmering, burned to tatters, and was gone.
“So, at bottom, he was, at best, a hologram," Father Vidicon mused, "and what was formed by mirrors, can by them be undone."
He laid the glass that had swallowed the Spirit most carefully on its face and, folding his hands, cast his gaze upward. "Good Lord, I give Thee thanks that Thou hast preserved Thine unworthy servant a second time from such destruction! I pray Thee only that Thou wilt vouchsafe to me the strength of soul and humility that I will need to confront whatever adversary Thou wilt oppose to me."
The mirror winked, and glimmered, and was gone.
Father Vidicon did gaze upon the place where it had been, and sighed. "I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast heard me. Preserve me thus, I pray, 'gainst all other hazards that my hover."
So saying, then, he sighed himself with the Cross, and stood, and set off striding farther down toward Hell.
TO
BE CONTINUED…
