CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As a young priest, one just admitted to elevated service in the Church of Bithitu, Thameron had much time to himself, for regulations held that new ministers just enfolded should have time for contemplation and thought, time to walk the world in their robes and sandals and rings, to listen to and communicate with the people of the world, and time later to discuss these things of the world with church elders as they continued their indoctrination into the church’s position on all matters.

Barely eighteen summers old, zealous and strong, filled with the light of the Lamp, Thameron was somewhat overwhelmed with his new white robes and blue sandals and golden rings, his persona of priest. Six years of study and discipline had brought him to this door. An orphan, left to the world when his father died, Thameron had become a ward of the state and, through the draw of the state lottery, had been removed to the Church, just as other homeless children had been removed to schools or businesses or military service. He had not loved the Church then, when he first had entered it. Adolescence was upon him; he had yearned for a free life. But stern discipline and thoughtful communion had brought him around; he had journeyed through fear and uncertainty to at last realize that the Church was good, that Bithitu was the Prophet of the Light, and that he himself—Thameron, an outcast, lost and unloved—could do much good for the world. Six years of diligent occupation at lessons, with no tolerance for play or frivolity, had earned him at last his white robes, while it had taken others seven, eight, or more years to accomplish the same.

The Prophet Bithitu shows the way and the path. He is the way and the path to the eternal favor of all the gods.

Thameron followed a strict schedule that he had drawn up for himself. He arose at dawn, with his brethren in the dormitory behind the temple. An hour of fasting and prayer followed, and then morning devotions: a single-file march past Muthulis, the Chief Priest of the Temple, while each young man bowed and whispered purities before taking break­fast. Breakfast, as always, was meager, with prayers and silent offerings as heavy as sauces. But following the meal, young priests were left on their own until midday. Most took to walking the grounds of the temple, where a large park had not yet been taken over by the city for new apartments; others retreated into the silent world of the vast temple library. Some, in pairs or groups, went into the streets to spread the light of faith in all directions. And some few held jobs, employment in businesses or in the homes of the advantaged, by which they earned money to bring to the coffers of the prophet.

Thameron habitually spent his mornings alone, in the streets, in the poorest sections of northern Erusabad. Bithitu himself had gone to the poor, the aged, the whorish and gambling, the diseased and lost of humanity, to administer first to them, to teach them of the light within themselves. Thameron him­self, lost and orphaned, had been saved by Bithitu; now he would save others by the aid of Bithitu.

The sum of all humanity that ever was, is, or ever will be cannot equal and cannot comprehend the goodness and love of Bithitu our Prophet.

As he walked the streets, Thameron smiled at everyone he passed and wished them morning graces. Many of the wealthy or the poor, the guilty or the most devout, would stop him and reach into their purses to make offer­ings. One of the ways the church judged the success of the young priests’ ministries was by how much money each brought to the coffers each evening.

Today Thameron visited the tenements and taverns down by the docks. These were the poorest sections of the city, but when Thameron looked upon the dirty streets, the broken people, the refuse and the contamination, the hunger and the meanness, he saw only the work of Bithitu to be done.

There was an apartment house on the corner of Dock and Miet Avenues where pimps, thieves, and other criminals resided, and Thameron came here once a week, unafraid of being robbed or harmed. The thieves and other criminals looked forward to his visits. For Thameron did not speak in platitudes; he did not live alone in some high room of the temple and look down from a balcony a few times a year during festivities. He came into the streets, into the gutters and alleys, to talk, listen, advise, chastise, purify, de­mand, and encourage. He did not apply the prophet’s teach­ings here as he would a hammer on an anvil, for the prophet was very far away for these men and women. Thameron brought only himself and the silent knowledge that Bithitu was within him, and that in time—at the right time—Bithitu would reveal himself to each of these men and women. To force Bithitu or any philosophy or hope upon them could do only harm; to let them accept naturally, a little at a time, from the single light deep within themselves, was the way of patience and guidance.

“This man is ill,” Thameron commented to some others in one room of the apartment house. He laid his hands on the forehead of an old, haggard pickpocket. “Where is the near­est physician?”

“There aren’t no blood-takers around here, priest.”

“Then you must take him to one.”

“Let him die, Thameron. His time’s come.”

Thameron faced the speaker, a fat, weathered man. “I don’t believe that. Where there is life, there is hope. If he can be saved, he will reawaken and perhaps see with new eyes. Are you waiting for him to die so you can pick his pockets?”

A few of them laughed.

“Are you?”

“He’d do it to us, Thameron. We have to live down here. If we could sell his body for some long gold, we’d do it. His time’s come. Our time’ll come. You can’t scare us.”

“I’m not trying to scare you.” He reached into his purse and withdrew some of the silver given him by the devout and the guilty. “This money is cursed if you steal it from me,” he reminded one of the men. (This was a common superstition.) “But if you accept it, you must do with it as I tell you.”

A tentative brown hand reached for the coins.

“Take it, and do with it as I say, or demons will follow you and you’ll suffer an accident. Take this man, your brother, to the nearest physician. Do it in good faith. Whatever is left from what the doctor asks as a fee is yours. Drink, gamble, find your pleasure, but remember that Bithitu watches; but first take this man to a physician. Do you understand?”

Someone chortled. “Why don’t you just light candles and pray for him?”

“This time I’m praying for him with silver. Do you understand?”

They understood. His calm reasoning, his unprovoked sym­pathy, his goodness, his tolerance, his honesty won them where proud priests and city guards and court downcallings had ever failed. Two of the men took up their friend and, with Thameron’s silver in their fists, carried him off, down the stairs and out into the street, to get him proper attention.

“I am a lamp in a storm,” said Bithitu; “I guide the lost with unwavering light.”

And always, when he was in this pocket of town, Thameron made it a point to visit Assia. Sometimes he wondered whether (had life gone differently) Assia might somehow have been the sister he had never had. As it was, he cared for her, sought to nurture her and awaken her. Something in his spirit one time, sometime, had sensed something in Assia’s spirit, and both had felt it; since then, Thameron had felt a compulsion to­ward the young woman, and he grieved that her dangerous life must someday shadow her inner light unless she could get away from here.

He entered the tavern on Sirruk Street and nodded to the burly man behind the counter, ignoring the chortles of some of the patrons at tables. He went to the rear and took the creaking stairs up to the second floor. He walked halfway down the land­ing till he came to Assia’s door. It was a while before noon yet, but Thameron felt she must be awake. As he knocked on her door, a tired face poked out from another room farther down.

“Thameron.”

“Morning graces, sister.”

“I thought it might be you.”

He smiled and made the sign: a circle in the air and the line of the flame. The prostitute smiled back at him, with­drew, and closed her door.

From within Assia’s room: “Ibro?”

“No. Thameron.”

Quick footsteps, and the door was opened. Assia’s crisp black eyes, her flowing blue-black hair, her smile. “Oh, come on in. Come in.”

He entered, quietly closing the door behind him. Assia, half nude, had not yet finished dressing. Thameron realized that she probably spent half her life undressed, so he did not take her casualness as an affront. He could, however, appreciate Assia’s beauty—although her inner beauty counted for much more than what the world saw. Her face, oval and dark; her eyes, deep as pools; her slim arms, slim legs. Foamy, cascad­ing hair. Her heavy breasts, far too large for a woman of so slight a build. Her dainty feet.

Assia sat in a chair and pulled on her skirt, stood up and wriggled to get it over her hips. Thameron smiled tolerantly. She crossed the room; her hair floated, her breasts swayed. Retrieving a short cotton vest from her bed, she pulled it on but left it unlaced in the front. Then she perched on the end of her bed, took up her comb, and began to do her hair.

Strong sunlight fell through the window; by it, Thameron noticed how pale Assia had become. He crossed to her, took up a chair, and sat in it, facing her.

“How have you been?”

“Well enough. I have to hurry—”

“What happened to your eye, Assia?”

She ceased combing so diligently and glanced at Thameron apprehensively. “Some character last night.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged.

“Why are you hurrying?”

“Ibro…is angry with me again.”

“Why?”

“Junis. She told him some things.”

“Is it money?”

Assia nodded. “My father needed—I didn’t give every­thing to Ibro. I think this—” she pointed to her eye “—was planned. He could’ve hurt me a lot more. Now Ibro wants me to go visit some nobleman. I have to go.”

Thameron reached into his purse. “If this money goes to the church, they’ll only waste it on themselves. It belongs to the people. Here—how much would you make?”

Assia stared at the money in his hand. “I—can’t.…”

Thameron poured all the gold into her palm. “That much?”

“Gods, at least!”

“Take it. Give it to Ibro. Any left over, use for yourself. Hold some back for yourself, now. Assia, please, go see a physician.”

“I’m all right, Thameron.”

“No, you’re not. You look weak. Are you eating properly?”

She laughed as though he had told an obscene joke.

“Don’t, Assia.… Please, now, just—”

“Thameron, really—I’m all right.”

“Take the money. At least buy yourself some decent food, not the slop they make here. Take care of yourself—and, Assia, don’t gamble it. Do you hear me?”

She frowned and set the money on the bed. She held onto Thameron’s hand and searched his eyes, and her demeanor softened. “He’ll know if I don’t visit that nobleman.”

“Tell him you found a better prospect on the way.”

Assia laughed merrily. “Tell him I found a priest?”

Thameron didn’t smile.

She sighed. “Why are you a priest, Thameron?’

This—all over again. The feel of Assia near him. The strange sense of a shifting balance within him. “There is much good to be done in the world.”

“It can be accomplished without a priest’s robes.”

“But Bithitu is the Light. He protects, he guides—”

“Those priests at the temple protect and guide no one but themselves; they’re as corrupt as anyone. Anyone except you. You’re too good.”

“Even they can be saved. They have…strayed. We all stray. I stray, in my heart.”

Assia loved this Thameron, and in a way more profound than how he loved her, or the way in which he loved the prophet. She did not love an enigma, an idol, a lesson or a spiritual challenge; she loved a young man, this young man, and she loved his spirit. Sometimes she idly wondered if the same mischance that had made her a prosti­tute had also made Thameron a priest. She wondered, too, at the frailty of emotions and the fleetness of time, and how difficult it was to manage truth when often truth was very obvious and ordinary.

And she knew she desired Thameron; but she wondered, with all of her truth, if the desire was actually for Thameron, or simply for Thameron the priest.

“Noon,” he announced abruptly, standing. “I must return to the temple.”

It was for Thameron, although she could not tell him, though she could not show him, though he suspected it but acted as if he didn’t, though the love and concern she felt for him were equal to the love and concern he felt for her.

“Thank you, Thameron.…”

“We can leave together. Here. Ibro will think you’re going to see that nobleman. Just spend some of that getting a good meal, will you?”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t gamble it, and see a physician, Assia! I mean it.”

“I’ll see.”

“Come on. Are you finished?”

“Yes.” She tied her vest in the front, very loosely, then glanced at herself in her cheap copper mirror. “Do you like my hair this way? I could always—”

“It’s very pretty. You’ve very pretty, Assia.”

“Are priests allowed to compliment women?”

“This priest, I’m afraid, does a lot of things most priests aren’t supposed to do.”

Yes, it was for Thameron, although she could not tell him.…

“I am the Heart and the Hand and the Eye,” said the Prophet Bithitu; “feel with me, touch my hand, see with my eyes.”

* * * *

On his return to the temple, Thameron managed to collect additional gold and silver, although he was used to turning in sparse purses at the end of the day. He felt good only when he had been able to give more than he had received—in gold, in heart, in replenishment.

If only his masters at the temple could understand these things as he did.…