Mrs. Sickles's suspension of her household's Advent abstinence hadn't extended to preparing a dessert, so Toloth was able to slip away to Teresa's bedroom as soon as he had finished her gnocchi. Once there, he sat down on her bed and gave her bookshelf a critical once-over, correlating each volume, as he passed her eyes over it, with what she remembered about its contents.
Beginnings were important, he knew. Start off on the wrong foot when studying an alien culture, and you could find yourself a thousand light-years from what you really wanted to know. He couldn't afford to let that happen in this case.
So: from which of the various Christian authors on the shelves could the essential secret of Christianity's appeal be most easily extracted? He dismissed the various Bibles; unlocking their mysteries, as he knew from experience, required more expertise than he possessed. (Of course, he could have used Teresa's expertise, but that would have involved letting Teresa's mind influence his own, and that he was determined not to do. He would not be transformed.) The Catechism was likewise out; it was too encyclopedic, too factual. Toloth was looking, not for a series of ideas, but for the key to those ideas' collective appeal; in the back of his mind, he had a vague image of a secret handbook laying out the Church's strategy for world domination. (Had The Way been on Teresa's shelf, he likely would have selected it just because of Opus Dei's reputation.)
He eventually settled on The Imitation of Christ. It wasn't one of the books Teresa knew very well – she had attempted to read it at the age of eight, been overwhelmed, and had never returned to it before being infested – but she knew it was considered one of the world's great spiritual manuals, and that phrase seemed hopeful enough. He rose and took the small paperback from where it sat next to Misty of Chincoteague, then returned to the bed and settled down to seek his gnosis.
At first, it seemed plain sailing. The book opened splendidly – just the way such a book as Toloth was seeking ought to open: "He that followeth Me shall not walk in darkness," saith the Lord. These are the words of Christ; and they teach us how far we must imitate His life and character, if we seek true illumination, and deliverance from all blindness of heart. And the second paragraph was even better: His teaching surpasseth all teaching of holy men, and such as have His Spirit find therein the hidden manna… He, therefore, that will fully and with true wisdom understand the words of Christ, let him strive to conform his whole life to that mind of Christ. The most esoteric mystery cult could hardly have put it better. All that remained was for Toloth to find out what sort of arcane knowledge the "Mind of Christ" consisted in, and then recast it so as to make it suitable for the likes of Gef and Oliss. What could be simpler?
But then the third paragraph came, and it all fell apart. Without a single word of warning, as though it flowed perfectly naturally from his previous statements, the human author began deriding the very notion that the way to please Jesus had anything to do with knowledge: What doth it profit thee to enter into deep discussion concerning the Holy Trinity, if thou lack humility, and thus be displeasing to the Trinity? For verily it is not deep words that make a man holy and upright; it is a good life that maketh a man dear to God… If thou knewest the whole Bible, and the sayings of all the philosophers, what should all this profit thee without the love and grace of God? "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," save to love God, and Him only to serve.
After a moment's discomposure, Toloth rallied, and rebuked himself for being so surprised. Teresa herself, after all, had emphasized to him that all the elaborate philosophy on which her religion seemed to be built was really secondary: What we're really about is making sure that people go to Heaven. The question was, could one persuade a poolful of izcots – and an unruly Hork-Bajir host – that the path to Heaven lay through quiet obedience to the Empire and its aims?
He read on. For a while, his quest seemed hopeful, as the author spent the remainder of the short chapter, and the whole of the next, rebuking ambition in its various forms and emphasizing the feebleness and insignificance of the mortal nature. That is the highest and most profitable lesson, when a man truly knoweth and judgeth lowly of himself – surely, that was a suitable thing to teach the lesser spawns? Any attempt they might make to get above themselves could then be rebuked by reminding them of their lowliness.
But then he got another check. He was in chapter 3 now, and the author was continuing his attack on intellectual pretensions, reminding his readers that acquaintance with the Eternal Word (that was Jesus, Toloth gathered) was the true source of knowledge. Which sounded very well, until, coiled up in the second paragraph like a gilhizee in a subfet bush, came the sentence: No man without Him understandeth or rightly judgeth.
At first, Toloth didn't see any special significance in this; it was simply one more expression of the basic sentiment that animated the whole passage. Then, when he was halfway through the next sentence, a sudden alarm bell went off in his mind, and his gaze darted back up the page. Yes, it said no man – and it said judgeth.
Toloth felt a chill go down his borrowed spine. For a moment, he had missed the implications of that – but he was quite sure that no izcot would. If no-one could rightly judge without knowing Jesus, it followed logically that all those in positions of authority ought, ideally, to be worshippers of Jesus – and, in any case, could be held to the same standards that worshippers of Jesus held themselves to. Which meant that there would be no use in attempting to keep the rabble submissive by exhorting them to humility, since they could legitimately ask whether the Council and the Visserarchy were likewise abasing themselves in their own thoughts.
Decidedly, that aspect of the thing would have to be suppressed – but, then, that meant suppressing the whole line of thought that had seemed so promising. To remove the idea that all sellthee were poor, frail, and utterly dependent on Jesus was to remove the only reason Jesus's worshippers had to be humble. (Toloth did momentarily wonder whether one might not tell the izcots that the Emperor was himself a manifestation of Jesus, but then he discarded the notion. In other circumstances, it might conceivably have worked, but Oliss knew perfectly well that Teresa both hated the Empire and loved Jesus. So that was no good.)
He soldiered on, hoping that the author would supply some solution to this problem. But it seemed that he was doomed to disappointment; if anything, the text got more alarming as he went on. [L]et all creation keep silence before Thee; speak Thou alone to me: that was hardly the sort of thing one wanted an Imperial subject saying to a human deity, or to anyone who wasn't an official mouthpiece of the Empire. The spirit that is pure, sincere, and steadfast… doth all things to the honour of God: how likely was it that Imperial edicts would always be concerned to honor the human God? He is truly great who deemeth himself small, and counteth all height of honour as nothing: by the fires of Kandrona, that condemned the Empire's entire policy at one stroke!
By the end of the third chapter, Toloth was ready to scream with frustration. What was the matter with this religion? In every respect, it was gentler, milder, and more self-sacrificing than even the most humane of non-Earthly cults, and yet its very gentleness seemed to carry the power to destroy and remake whole worlds. How could you govern people who were more concerned to serve Jesus than to satisfy any desires of their own? If you threatened to torture them unless they obeyed you, they would simply accept the torture, believing that – how had the Kempis human put it – It is vanity to follow the desires of the flesh and be led by them, for this shall bring misery at the last. Even if you killed them, they would prefer that to submission: It is vanity to desire a long life, and to have little care for a good life.
Of course, not all Jesus-worshippers would necessarily show that level of conviction (though Toloth suspected that all the ones he had met that day would). But that wasn't the issue. Merely believing that he ought to have that sort of conviction made a person a risk – and how could you persuade someone who cared about Jesus not to believe it? (Particularly someone who had actually been inside Teresa Sickles's mind; one could scarcely hope to persuade Oliss that Jesus didn't demand courageous self-sacrifice.)
And, as Toloth arrived at this dismal conclusion, he heard a knock on the bedroom door, and Teresa's father poked his head in. "How are you doing, chickadee?" he said. "Feeling a little fresher now?"
Toloth forced Teresa's face into a contented smile. "Yeah, I guess so," he said.
Mr. Sickles glanced at the book in his daughter's hands, and chuckled. "Trying the Imitation again, are you?" he said.
Toloth nodded. "I figured it was about time," he said.
"Well, good for you," said Mr. Sickles. "Anyway, it's time to set up the den, so grab what you'll need and come on. And bring your rosary; your mother has a special intention tonight."
Author's note: All quotations from the Imitation are taken from the Christian Library translation.