The Philosophical Strangler(65)

I was beginning to see why the Ecclesiarchs were miffed with her.

“I’ve tried to warn Him, needless to say. There’s still a chance for a harmonious resolution, if He’d mend His ways and try to set things right before Joe gets back. Joe will be peeved with Him, of course, under the best of circumstances. But I’ve tried to explain to the Old Geister that Joe isn’t the vindictive sort, so if He can at least show that He’s made an attempt to get everything back on track there’s every reason to believe that Joe will decide to let bygones be bygones. Of course, He’ll have to give up all of this Lord Almighty foolishness, but that’ll be for the best, anyway—even for Him. Especially for Him, as a matter of fact. Megalomania has always been the worst occupational hazard for a Supreme Deity. If He had the sense of a Pigeon, He’d see it right off, but I’m afraid He’s gotten so swell-headed over the ages that—”

“Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!” I had visions of the Inquisition’s chambers dancing in my head. Vivid, vivid, vivid images. “I said no Joe business, lady! And what do you do, right off? You go into it like the wizard Zulkeh wouldn’t dream of on his worst days!”

“In addition to which,” added Greyboar, “you’re nuttier than a fruitcake.”

The Abbess stared at him. I got the impression that she was puzzled by his words, rather than offended.

“What on earth do you mean, young man—‘nuttier than a fruitcake’?”

Greyboar snorted. “What do I mean? All this ridiculous chatter about how you’ve been trying to warn the Old Geister about Joe, that’s what. I mean, look, your Abbess—”

“Hildegard, please! I detest formality.”

“—Hildegard, then. Sure and I’ve heard of people claiming they talk with God, but they’re either weird mystics squatting on a mountain somewhere or they’re fruitcakes chained up in an asylum.”

“Well, of course!” exclaimed Hildegard. “No sane person would try to talk with the Old Geister. It’s impossible—and don’t believe anything those silly mystics tell you, either. You should be able to talk to Him, of course, but the Man’s an absolute Fanatic about following proper channels. Insists that you have to correspond with Him through the post. I don’t mind so much myself—I’ve always rather enjoyed writing letters, actually. But it makes it so difficult for the poor people. It’s hard for them to write to Him, you know, suffering from illiteracy the way they do. And then, even when they do manage to block out a simple note, the Old Geister will refuse to read it, like as not. I hate to say it, but the truth is He’s a fearsome Snob. Won’t even look at a letter unless it’s written in a fine hand, and then He insists the text has to be in the ancient cipher of the Order of the Knights Rampant. It’s such a nuisance! I know the cipher, of course, but there aren’t more than a handful of people in the world who do—outside of the Godferrets, naturally—and, besides, even for someone who knows it, the cipher is an absolutely beastly script, absolutely—”

“No Joe business, I said!” I starting hopping up and down with agitation. Then stopped as soon as the snarl raised her head and gave me a look I didn’t much care for. So I calmed down a little, and continued:

“Look, Abb—Hildegard, I’ll say it again for the last time: no Joe business. Especially, I don’t want to hear about the Godferrets. Heard enough about them back in Prygg. If it scared the wizard stiff, it’s nothing Greyboar and I want anything to do with, that’s for sure.”

Hildegard was still frowning. “But, my dear little man,” she said, “I was simply responding to Greyboar’s remark about my alleged lunacy.”

“Hildegard,” said Greyboar, “I wasn’t saying you were a madwoman because I thought you said you were talking to God. I don’t care how you claim to do it—through the Royal Mail or carrier pigeon. You’re nuts.”

She drew herself up stiffly. “Well!” she exclaimed. “I can certainly understand now why Gwendolyn isn’t pleased with you. A stupid jackass, just as she said!” She sniffed. “Thinks the world isn’t any bigger than the bag of oats stuck on his nose.”

She rose from the desk and walked over to the alcove. She turned and crooked a finger.

“Come hither, then, man-who-thinks-like-a-jackass. Examine the oats for yourself.”

I swear, the woman was just too weird to get angry with. Greyboar and I looked at each other, shrugged, and went over to the alcove.