Vol. 5 Chap. 78 A Pint At The Crossroads

Vol. 5 Chap. 78 A Pint At The Crossroads

The world unfolded for Truth at the junction of St. Veertigrid’s Omni-Benevolent Hospital and Pisnngos #11347, a rest stop two hundred kilometers north of St. Veertigrid’s. As rest stops went, it was a decent one. The Pisnngos franchise prioritized cleanliness, good lighting and a variety of easily consumable snacks and drinks for sale at just four times their usual prices.

For two wen, your screamingly bored child could hop on a pretend fire bird and rock back and forth as a tinny “WOOSH” noises played. The ride lasted for exactly one minute. Truth knew that, because he had been collapsed in a corner next to the machine for fifteen minutes now, and had seen three kids use it.

The angel had done right by him. He was completely healed. Best shape of his life. All that poisonous energy had been smoothed out and poured into him, reinforcing every scrap of his being. Elevating his position in the hierarchy of the real and not-real.

On the other hand, he had been possessed by an angel, which leaves a mark on you. Usually by bursting you open like an organ-stuffed balloon. He didn’t burst. Lucky him. He was just completely wiped.

Perks, I think I’m justified in saying that it has been an unfathomably long, unpleasant, terrifying, day.

Oh? This wasn’t normal for you? It didn’t seem wildly out of the ordinary.

I think you may have a skewed notion of what is normal.

I have no ‘notion’ of what is normal. ‘Normal’ wasn’t a concept I could conceive of yesterday. Comfortable and not comfortable. Dangerous and not dangerous. Food and not food. But ‘normal?’

Truth had just enough energy to barely nod. ‘Normal’ was a tricky word, prone to misuse. It shouldn’t be casually trusted. He stayed down until the fourth child tottered onto the plastic bird. The noises the device made were unendurable.

He sat on the artificial-cherry-flavor-red benches outside the stop. He vaguely knew this highway. It was the main road up north on the west side of the peninsula. The spot he was looking for was pretty far north, and out to sea. He might be on the wrong side of the front lines by the time he got there. Or he could hop on a navy boat. Well. He’d figure it out. A troop transport pulled in. A long bus, crammed with soldiers all heading north. Good enough. He didn’t ask a lot of questions. His blessings were up and running again, so he just popped the locks on the luggage compartment, made himself a nest on top of the packs, and fell asleep.

This time, no one noticed his nous shaking.

The Pillars of Hercules pub on the Strand is graced by four old bastards this night. Not legally bastards, but as a practical matter- none of them were nice people. They were sociable, to varying degrees. Some of them. But you wouldn’t call them nice.

Pepys was downright charming, to most people, most of the time. Terms and conditions assuredly applying. He had survived the years of the Lord Protector, made his fortune with the return of the Stuarts, comfortably navigated the ‘Glorious Revolution’ of 1688, and still remained a figure of considerable wealth and power at the end of it all. All through dint of ruthless networking, politicking, social engineering, and graft.

Sir Issac Newton, on the other hand, was a well known prick who’s arrogance was only just eclipsed by his genius. Which was saying something when you were hailed as the foremost genius humanity had produced since the days of antiquity. His pettiness, vindictiveness and sheer animal satisfaction at having people tortured to death as part of his official duties were, likewise, historical in scale.

Sitting across the table from him, going hollow cheek to hollow cheek with Newton was Locke. Another man of elegant manners and vaguely amiable disposition, he had nevertheless been at the pointy end of politics since at least the Exclusion Crisis. And while some of his patrons had gone into exile, Locke was still walking the mucky streets of London a free man. The amiability hid a certain selective blindness and discretion that served him quite well.

Then there was Truth, known in these times as Captain Alítheia, in command of the Second Rate Ship of the Line Dauntless. One arm never quite recovering after repeatedly testing conclusions against the Dutch. Comfortably well to do after taking a string of prizes from across the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. A long career at sea meant he was a hard case before he was fourteen, and better at trigonometry than most Cambridge Dons before he was twenty-one. Present company excepted, of course.

Pepys was his patron, and knew he loved reading philosophy. And Pepys had been president of the Royal Society, of which Newton and Locke were both members. And Pepys knew every single damned person in London, never mind Society luminaries. So here they all were. Pepys could keep a party going all night, and they were all already half drunk.

“I wronged old Hobbes.” Truth muttered.

“Impossible. The old fraud was wrong on almost everything.” Locke shook his pointy nose in disagreement. Truth persisted anyway.

“No, I did. I called him a coward. I still think his book is trash, but I shouldn’t have called him a coward. Takes guts putting it on the page like that, and making it public.”

“One might say brains would have served him better than ink.” Newton’s voice had a piercing quality to it.

“Just so.” Truth nodded. Pepys winced.

That brought a halt to the conversation. Pepys politely gave Sir Issac a look. The Warden of the Mint might have ignored others but Pepys was the first President of the Royal Society. Newton’s vanity couldn’t withstand the thought of sounding ignorant in front of someone who could inform the entire world of it in mere hours.

“I mean to say that I concern myself with the very mechanisms of the living universe, and by understanding them, understanding God Almighty. We see the hand of God in every orbit, in every falling rock, in the calcination of sulfur and mercury. So long as there is adequate funding for my experiments and to keep myself in reasonable comfort, I don’t care about the conditions of the masses, or under what theory the government supports me and oppresses them.”

“You would care quite quickly if the government were to, for example, claim authorship over your works.” Locke said with deceptive mildness.

“It simply wouldn’t happen. Besides, I truly do concern myself with the high path. I follow in the footsteps of Hermes Tristmagistus, and if others lack the wit to do so, more fool them. I translated the Emerald Tablet into English the other day, just as an exercise and act of devotion.”

Newton’s eyes half closed with pleasure. “Would you gentlemen care to hear true wisdom, transmitted down from Thoth, Moses, Hermes, transmitted by one who was a single step from the Godhead? Here-”

It is true without lying, certain and most true. That which is Below is like that which is Above and that which is Above is like that which is Below to do the miracles of the Only Thing. And as all things have been and arose from One by the mediation of One, so all things have their birth from this One Thing by adaptation.

Newton’s voice took on a certain cadence. His fingers swayed with the rhythm of the lines.

The Sun is its father; the Moon its mother; the Wind hath carried it in its belly; the Earth is its nurse. The father of all perfection in the whole world is here. Its force or power is entire if it be converted into Earth. Separate the Earth from the Fire, the subtle from the gross, sweetly with great industry. It ascends from the Earth to the Heavens and again it descends to the Earth and receives the force of things superior and inferior. By this means you shall have the glory of the whole world and thereby all obscurity shall fly from you.

The mystic words sounded natural coming from Newton. Sincere in a way that “please” or “thank you” wouldn’t.

Its force is above all force, for it vanquishes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid thing. So was the world created. From this are and do come admirable adaptations, whereof the process is here in this. Hence am I called Hermes Trismegistus, having the three parts of the philosophy of the whole world. That which I have said of the operation of the Sun is accomplished and ended.

He sat back with a sigh and a slight smile. “That is what I study. That is the truth I pursue. What matters mortal government against understanding the mind of God?”

A different sort of quiet gathered around the table. This time it was Truth that broke it. “It all used to be one thing, didn’t it? Studying the nature of God, studying the universe, studying how to run a government or be a moral person, it was all one thing. One ‘philosophy,’ covering everyone. Now it’s lots of little things, and not universally applicable.”

“Yes, well, the world was a great deal simpler when Aristotle and Plato were running about.” Newton drained his mug. “I’m headed up to Cambridge in the morning. Good night, gentlemen.”

The group broke up and went their separate ways. Truth walked through the filthy streets, his one good hand resting loosely on a ship’s cutlass. His mind was a storm, ideas tossed about on all the words he didn’t say. He passed a mendicant on the street. He would have thought it some Papist looking for martyrdom, but whatever prayer they were muttering wasn’t in Latin. The robed figure turned suddenly and looked at him.

“And what do you think of my prayer, good sir whom I have never met before?”

“I think it sounds like a load of mystic bunk. I doubt it’s even a real language.”

That got sputtered denials. “It’s Coptic, the language of fabled and ancient Egypt!”

“Oh, Egypt! Home of Moses and Thoth and, after Alexander rolled through, of Hermes?”

“Well. Yes. Manner of speaking. Yes.” The robed figure coughed and looked away. Their body language was suddenly awkward.

“Home of philosophy?”

“I’d say that where you have people, you have philosophy. Debatably. You might not even need people for philosophy to exist.”

Truth nodded. He unbuttoned his codpiece and pissed on the street between them. “Don’t mind me, mendicant. Just philosophizing. You can really smell the ancient wisdom. Philosophy is garbage. The whole game is just us pissing on our boots.”