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ambition.
NOAH ARKWRIGHT, The Wisdom of Amel
"What folly!" the Abbod said. "You deliberately told your friend to set the
mob on him. And after I expressly forbade it..Ahhh, Macrithy , .."
Macrithy stood bent-shouldered in the Abbod's study, The Abbod sat in the
lotus posture on a low table facing the prieSt. Two fingers upraised in
antennae position, knobby knees protruding where he beat across them, the
Abbod stared fixedly at Macrithy.
"I was only thinking of you," Macrithy protested.
"You did not think at all!" The Abbod was terrible in his quietly pained
judgment. "You did not think of the human beings who were turned into a mob.
Orne could have cast them into eternal hell. He might still do it when he
comes into his full powers."
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"I came to warn you as soon as I knew he had escaped," Macrithy said.
"Of what use is this warning?" the Abbod asked. "Ahhh, my dear friend, how
could you have fallen into such error? You see, what is happening right now
is the easily predictable consequence of your actions. I can only surmise
that this situation is what you really wanted."
"Oh, no!" Macrithy was horrified.
"When mouth and action disagree, believe action," the Abbod said. "Why do you
want to destroy us, Macrithy?"
"I don't! I don't!" Macrithy backed away from the Abbod, made fending
motions with both hands. He stopped when his back encountered the wall.
"But you do," the Abbod said, his voice sorrowful. "Perhaps it's because I
assigned Bakrish to Orne and not you. I know it was an assignment you wanted.
But it could not be, my friend. You would have sought to destroy Orne.,. and
yourself. I could not permit that."
Macrithy buried his face in his hands. "He'll destroy us all," he sobbed.
"Pray he doesn't," the Abbod said, his voice soft. "Send him your love and
your concern for him. Thus, he may come to a fortunate awakening."
"What good is love now?" Macrithy demanded. "He's coming for you!"
"Of course," the Abbod murmured. "Because I summoned him. Take your violence
away now, Macrithy. Pray for yourself. Pray for a cleansing of your spirit.
I, too, will pray for that."
Macrithy shook his round head from side to side. "It's too late for prayer."
"That you should say such a thing," the Abbod mourned.
"Forgive me, forgive me," Macrithy pleaded.
"Take my blessing and go," the Abbod said. "Ask the forgiveness of the God
Orne, as well. You may have caused Him great hurt."
Worldly use of power can destroy an angel. This is the lesson of peace.
Loving peace and pursuing peace are not enough. One must also love one's
fellows. Thus one learns the dynamic and loving conflict which we call Life.
NOAH ARKWRIGHT, The Wisdom of Amel
Orne strode down a narrow street in the heart of the religious warren. He
hugged the wall and avoided lights, but not with furtive motions. The
priest's robe hung loosely on him and a little long. He tucked a fold under
his belt, hoped someone would find the priest but not too soon. The man lay
bound and gagged with strips torn from his own underclothing beneath bushes in
the park.
Now, to find the Abbod, Orne thought.
Keeping his stride even and calm, he crossed an alley. A sour smell of old
cooking tainted the narrow passage. The slap-slap of Orne's sandaled feet
made a double echo off stone walls.
Light poured from another alley directly ahead of him. Orne heard voices. He
stopped as shadows were projected out of the alley and across the
intersection. Two priests came into view. They were slender, blond and
benign. Both turned toward Orne.
"May your god grant you peace," Orne said.
The pair stopped, faces in shadows now, the light behind them. The one on the
left said: "I pray you follow the path of divine guidance." The other said:
"If you live in interesting times, I pray the fact causes you no alarm." He
coughed, then: "May we serve you?"
"I have been summoned to the Abbod," Orne said. "I seem to have lost my way."
He waited, alert for any movement from this pair.
"These alleys are a maze," the priest on the left said. "But you are near."
He turned, throwing a long, hooked nose into profile against the light. "Take
this next turning to your right. Follow that way until the third turning on
your left. That way ends at the court of the Abbod. You cannot miss it."
"I am grateful," Orne murmured.
The priest who had given directions turned back to Orne, said: "We feel your
great power, blessed one. Pray, give us your benediction."
"You have my blessing," Orne said, and meant it.
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The two straightened abruptly, then bowed low. Still bowing, the one on the
right asked: "Will you be the new Abbod, blessed one?"
Orne put down a sense of shock, said: "Is it wise to speculate on such
matters?"
The pair straightened, backed away. In unison, they said: "We meant no harm.
Forgive us!"
"Of course," Orne said. "Thank you for directing me."
"A service to one's fellows is a service to God," they said. "May you find
wisdom." There was a curious echoing quality to their voices, one slightly
out of step with the other. Again, they bowed, then scurried around Orne and
hurried on their way.
Orne stared after them until they were lost in darkness. Curious, he thought.
What was that all about?
But he knew how to find the Abbod now.
It is not necessarily loving kindness to build a fence around your master.
How then can he observe his servants and see that they minister to him without
thought of reward? No, my son, a fence is often a work of fear and a
container for dust.
Sayings of the ABBODS
The street of the Abbod proved to be even narrower than the others. Orne
strode down it, observing that he could stretch out both arms and touch the
opposed walls. They were rough stone illuminated by widely spaced glowglobes
of an ancient design, all black plasteel curlicues around the globes. A door
glowed dimly gray at the end of the alley. The area smelled of newly turned
earth and fungus. The plastrete surface underfoot was dishmarked with the
passage of feet.
The Abbod's door proved to be locked.
Orne thought: A locked door? Can all be sweetness and purity on Amel?
He stepped back, peered up at the wall. Dark irregularities atop it suggested
spikes or a similar barrier.
Orne's thoughts turned cynical: Such civilized appointments on this peaceful
planet.
There was violence in this place beyond the ravening of mobs. Narrow alleys
were easy to defend. Men who knew how to give sharp orders knew how to give
military orders. The trappings of psi and a constant harping on peace
betrayed a concern with massive violence.
A concern with war.
Orne glanced back up the alley. It remained empty. He sensed the urgency of
the fear within him. A deadend street could live up to its label. He wanted
to leave this place as fast as his feet would take him. This thought brought
him no relief from the internal signal. One place was as dangerous as another
on this planet. There was no way out of it except to plunge through the
danger.
He took a deep breath, shed the priestly robe, swung a hemmed corner up onto
the wall, pulled. The robe slipped, caught. He tested it, heard a small
tearing sound, but the fabric held. Orne tried his weight on it. The robe
stretched, but remained firmly caught atop the wall.
Scrabbling sounds marked his passage up the stones. He avoided sharp spikes
at the top, crouched there to survey his surroundings. One window on the top
floor of the two-story building opposite him glowed with a dim rose light
behind loose draperies. Orne glanced down, saw a courtyard, tall pots in rows
topped with flowering bushes. He glanced once more at the lighted window,
felt the abrupt stab of rejection.
Danger there!
An air of tension filled the courtyard.
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