sleeping in the dark? You know there can only be one answer. Because a great craftsman made all of these things, and everything he makes is good.
“And then reflect; he made me, and he made you. He made us for a purpose.
“Now the foolish people he makes things for sometimes forget or fail to understand what the purpose of his work might be. Because they’re so foolish, sometimes they ask, why did he make the hurricane or the murderer or the disease? They fail to understand what they see when they look around them, at all the wonderful things he made, that serve their purpose, that work so well. They don’t understand; if he made the sun, and the sun is good, and he made you and me – how can we be bad? They fail to understand that everything is good, applied to its proper purpose.
“And that,” she said, “is the Lodge. In a nutshell.” She poured herself a cup of the allegedly ice-cold tea, blew on it and sipped it. “Does that answer your question?”
“So you’re priests,” Chanso said. “Like he said.”
“Priests.” She looked offended. “Oh dear. No, we aren’t priests, because we don’t pray, and we don’t have temples, and I’m not sure we have any gods, even. I think some of us believe in an old man in a leather apron. Some of us simply feel it’s logical to assume that a world that functions must have a function. But priest is a bit of a rude word. You weren’t to know that.”
“But you believe—”
She shrugged. “So do you. You believe that if I drop a stone on your foot, it’ll hurt. Well?”
“Well, yes. Obviously.”
“I see. You believe in a machine – call it the world – which makes dropped things fall. Not just sometimes, not even most of the time, but always. You’re halfway there, at the very least.” She smiled. “I think where priests go wrong is asking people to believe in magic. Which is silly. They invent gods who can do stuff which is impossible; and when you stop and think about it, you
know
it can’t be true. You can’t split mountains down the middle with a frown, or fly without wings, or turn water into milk or wake the dead, and any system of values predicated on magic is obviously garbage. No, we believe in real stuff, like summer and sunrise and the germination of the seed, just as miraculous but we know it’s real, because we can see it. We can see people who need to eat bread to live, and we know that if you put a wheat seed in the ground and come back later, you’ve got bread to eat. Coincidence? I really don’t think so, do you?”
Chanso frowned. “But you said murderers and diseases—”
She nodded. “He made them, therefore they must be good, good for something. Yes, I believe that. It’s the logical consequence of everything I see around me. All things have been made well, but some things are misused and some things are misunderstood, therefore some things are damaged and broken. And some things must be beaten and twisted if they are to be saved.” She smiled. “I never said it was easy, or pleasant. I never said he’s kind or loving or even fair. Actually, I don’t see where blame and fault and good and evil come into it; it’s just a case of foolish people using the wrong tool for the wrong job. And, of course, that’s where the Lodge comes in.”
He was about to ask, but decided to think about it for himself. “The right tool for the right job.”
She was pleased with him. “Precisely,” she said. “To take a very simple example: some fool took a woodcarver and tried to use him as a soldier. Easily put right; and that’s what we’ve done. Usually it’s not as simple or straightforward as that. Quite often we’re dealing with fools who take craftsmen – Lodge people – and try and use them as targets or chopping blocks; or other fools who mistake people for chess pieces. And sometimes we find someone and even we can’t figure out what the hell he’s good for. Is he a hoe, a corkscrew or a doorstop? Is he a
“And then reflect; he made me, and he made you. He made us for a purpose.
“Now the foolish people he makes things for sometimes forget or fail to understand what the purpose of his work might be. Because they’re so foolish, sometimes they ask, why did he make the hurricane or the murderer or the disease? They fail to understand what they see when they look around them, at all the wonderful things he made, that serve their purpose, that work so well. They don’t understand; if he made the sun, and the sun is good, and he made you and me – how can we be bad? They fail to understand that everything is good, applied to its proper purpose.
“And that,” she said, “is the Lodge. In a nutshell.” She poured herself a cup of the allegedly ice-cold tea, blew on it and sipped it. “Does that answer your question?”
“So you’re priests,” Chanso said. “Like he said.”
“Priests.” She looked offended. “Oh dear. No, we aren’t priests, because we don’t pray, and we don’t have temples, and I’m not sure we have any gods, even. I think some of us believe in an old man in a leather apron. Some of us simply feel it’s logical to assume that a world that functions must have a function. But priest is a bit of a rude word. You weren’t to know that.”
“But you believe—”
She shrugged. “So do you. You believe that if I drop a stone on your foot, it’ll hurt. Well?”
“Well, yes. Obviously.”
“I see. You believe in a machine – call it the world – which makes dropped things fall. Not just sometimes, not even most of the time, but always. You’re halfway there, at the very least.” She smiled. “I think where priests go wrong is asking people to believe in magic. Which is silly. They invent gods who can do stuff which is impossible; and when you stop and think about it, you
know
it can’t be true. You can’t split mountains down the middle with a frown, or fly without wings, or turn water into milk or wake the dead, and any system of values predicated on magic is obviously garbage. No, we believe in real stuff, like summer and sunrise and the germination of the seed, just as miraculous but we know it’s real, because we can see it. We can see people who need to eat bread to live, and we know that if you put a wheat seed in the ground and come back later, you’ve got bread to eat. Coincidence? I really don’t think so, do you?”
Chanso frowned. “But you said murderers and diseases—”
She nodded. “He made them, therefore they must be good, good for something. Yes, I believe that. It’s the logical consequence of everything I see around me. All things have been made well, but some things are misused and some things are misunderstood, therefore some things are damaged and broken. And some things must be beaten and twisted if they are to be saved.” She smiled. “I never said it was easy, or pleasant. I never said he’s kind or loving or even fair. Actually, I don’t see where blame and fault and good and evil come into it; it’s just a case of foolish people using the wrong tool for the wrong job. And, of course, that’s where the Lodge comes in.”
He was about to ask, but decided to think about it for himself. “The right tool for the right job.”
She was pleased with him. “Precisely,” she said. “To take a very simple example: some fool took a woodcarver and tried to use him as a soldier. Easily put right; and that’s what we’ve done. Usually it’s not as simple or straightforward as that. Quite often we’re dealing with fools who take craftsmen – Lodge people – and try and use them as targets or chopping blocks; or other fools who mistake people for chess pieces. And sometimes we find someone and even we can’t figure out what the hell he’s good for. Is he a hoe, a corkscrew or a doorstop? Is he a
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