The Birth of People's Republic of Antartica, стр. 134
Longfaeroe recognized my burden, and worked to insert himself between me and the woes of my sealers. He must have responded to a kindred heart in Grandfather, and seemed to enjoy his opportunity to solace the soul of a failed warrior of the Word. This might be overmuch. Who can say what those ministers of Christianity see when they confront each other? I do believe Longfaeroe found in Grandfather the extremes he had pretended to on South Georgia, in Africa and Asia, and fallen short of. They could not converse, lacking a common language, and whenever I was present Longfaeroe avoided meeting Grandfather’s gaze, moving gingerly around the room as I translated Grandfather’s words for him and whomever else was present. Yes, there might have been envy there—the sort of longing those holy men have for one who has faced their Satan, perhaps even beaten their Satan for one moment. But also there was great respect. Longfaeroe sang psalms that not only reinforced Grandfather’s illusionary architecture of the world, but also celebrated a victory of the spirit over the flesh. Longfaeroe sang, “Even though I walk through the valley as dark as death, I fear no evil, for thou art with me . . .”
Longfaeroe also worked to contain my sorrow. He feared that I would again wander from his vision of me. Longfaeroe realized that what troubled me most deeply was not the world of darkness but the world without Grandfather. He sang to me, “What is more grievous than the passing of a good shepherd? Who among his flock will not cry? Who will survive if he does not put his faith in the shepherd’s shepherd, O Jehovah?”
I was not comforted, sent Longfaeroe from me when he became too insistent. If I was shepherd to the South Georgians, then Grandfather was my shepherd. And there was nothing that could shield me from the fact that my grandfather, whom I thought a beacon only slightly less brilliant than God, was dying.
Grandfather understood my face. He had lost me. He had found me. He realized that it was Grim Fiddle who must now lose Mord Fiddle, forever. And so he provided for my welfare. He must have rehearsed himself for years. Yet he could not have been certain until he had me before him if his Lord God would grant him the time to cover me with the only defense that is impregnable. Grandfather dressed me in the cowl of fantasy, one that he had stitched, one that he believed would protect me from the darkness that had consumed him. This explains why, as he lay dying, he told such a deliberately metaphorical tale of the struggles in Antarctica. He knew my heart, because it was his; he knew my strength, because it was his. He was not sure of my will, because he believed it could be weakened by doubt, as Peregrine’s once had been.
Therefore, Mord Fiddle lavished his last might in order to paint a portrait of the South that was a compelling lie in its parts, as Lazarus had suspected. Grandfather presented the Ice Cross as exaggeratedly bad, the Hielistos as exaggeratedly just, and Cleopatra as exaggeratedly fallen and imperiled. He gave me a purpose beyond my quest for Grandfather that he hoped would usher me onto a path that might one day carry me free. Rather than tell me what to do, which might never have been enough, he created a fabulous landscape and cast me in the role of a champion. Such was an art Grandfather had worked upon his whole life, rendering mankind’s murky history into Lord God’s clear plan.
It could only have been Grandfather’s plan that if his grandson was to survive in the three realms I have called my cosmology, then Grim Fiddle must descend into Niflheim and await Ragnarok—the Twilight of the Gods, or, to be partial to Grandfather’s word-hoard, that Grim Fiddle must walk among the most wretched and await the second coming of Jesus, when Lord God would judge the quick and the dead, would welcome the righteous into the Kingdom of Heaven.
And how did Mord Fiddle, doomed seventy-four-year-old man, move to attain his triumph over history and also to color my fate? He merely set the stage and cast the characters in his fortnight of talk. Grandfather ignited the drama with a last spark, preaching a sermon that Grim Fiddle, abandoned twenty-nine-year-old man, could not turn from.
“You are not the first nor the last, Grim. I have told you, I have shown you, we have seen, there is no peace. Satan is in the world. There is no refuge. It is wrong to seek refuge, wrong to hide from the wickedness Satan has brought. Stand, move, attend! Cleave to righteousness. That is your sword. You see Satan’s harvest. Fast, Grim. Grow mindful, Grim. Do not shy from the light of that mountain of evil. Look into it. Show Satan you are not afraid of him. Lord God braces your arm. Lord God girds your loins. Make war on Satan. Attend! It was my life. Make it yours. Strike! Go to her.”
Such is my memory of the last testimony I heard from the Minister of Fire. I was away from him, inspecting Angel of Death with Kuressaare and Germanicus, when he died. Longfaeroe told me when I came in. They were afraid of me then, with cause. I tried to bring him back. I kissed him. His lips were cold, and hard. I touched him and there was none of the fire that made him, only a wasted old man, released.
Much is at issue in Grandfather’s last cogent testimony to me. One of the