Schizoid Creator
Clark Ashton Smith
In the private laboratory which his practice as a psychiatrist had enabled him to build, equip and maintain, Dr. Carlos Moreno had completed certain preparations that were hardly in accord with the teachings of modern science. For these preparations he had drawn instruction from old grimoires, bequeathed by ancestors who had incurred the fatherly wrath of the Spanish Inquisition. According to a rather scurrilous family legend, other ancestors had been numbered among the Inquisitors.
At the end of the long room he had cleared the cluttered floor of its equipment, leaving only an immense globe of crystal glass that suggested an aquarium. About the globe he had traced with a consecrated knife, the sorcerers’ arthame, a circle inscribed with pentagrams and the various Hebrew names of the Deity. Also, at a distance of several feet, a smaller circle, similarly inscribed.
Wearing a seamless and sleeveless robe of black, he stood now within the smaller, protective circle. Upon his breast and forehead was bound the Double Triangle, wrought perfectly from several metals. A silver lamp, engraved with the same sign, afforded the sole light, shining on a stand beside him. Aloes, camphor and stroax burned in censers set about him on the floor. In his right hand he held the arthame; in his left, a hazel staff with a core of magnetized iron.
Like Dr. Faustus, Moreno designed an evocation of the Devil. But not, however, for the same purpose that had inspired Faustus.
Pondering long and gravely on the painful mysteries of the cosmos, the discrepancy of good and evil, Moreno had at last conceived an explanation that was startlingly simple.
There could, he reasoned, be only one Creator, God, who was or had been primarily benignant. Yet all the evidence pointed to the co-existence of an evil creative principle, a Satan. God, then, must be a split or dual personality, a sort of Jekyll and Hyde, manifesting sometimes as the Devil.
This duality, Moreno argued, must be a form of what is commonly called schizophrenia. He had a profound belief in the efficacy of shock treatment for such disorders. If God, in his aspect as the Devil, could be suitably confined and subjected to treatment, a cure might result. The confused problems of the universe would then resolve themselves under a sane and no longer semi-diabolic Deity.
The glass globe, specially constructed at great expense, contained at one side electrical apparatus of Moreno’s own devising. The machine, far more complex than the portable apparatus used in electric shock treatment, could release a voltage powerful enough to electrocute simultaneously all the inmates of a state prison. Moreno considered that no lesser force could effect the shock necessary for the cure of a supernatural personage.
He had memorized an ancient spell for the calling up of the Devil and his confinement within a bottle. The globe would do admirably for the aforesaid bottle.
The spell was a bastard mixture of Greek, Hebrew and Latin. Its exact meaning seemed doubtful. It was filled with such terms as Eloha, Tetragrammaton, Kis Elijon, Elohim, Saday and Zevaoth, the names of God. The word Bifrons recurred several times. This was no doubt one of the Devil’s numerous names. But there could be only one Devil.
Moreno disregarded as childish those old demonologies that peopled Hell with a multitude of evil spirits, having each his own name, rank and office. All, then, was in readiness. In a firm, sonorous voice which might have been that of a priest chanting the Mass, he began to recite the incantation. When the summons came Bifrons was busily engaged in amorous dalliance with the she-imp Foti. Like Janus, he was two-faced; and he possessed multiple members. Since Foti herself was somewhat peculiarly formed, their love-making was quite complicated.
Bifrons began to withdraw his members from about the she-imp, ‘Some damned sorcerer has gotten hold of that ancient spell containing my name. It’s the first time in two hundred years. But I’ll have to go.’
‘Hurry back,’ enjoined Foti, pouting with her four lips, two of which were located in her abdomen.
‘If you don’t you may find me otherwise occupied.’The air sizzled behind Bifrons in his exit from the infernal regions.
Dr. Moreno felt surprised and even appalled when he saw the being that his incantation had called up in the globe. He had scarcely known what to expect, and had paid little attention to old pictures and descriptions of the Devil, seeing in them only the dementia of mediaeval superstition. But the teratology of this creature seemed incredible. The two faces of Bifrons bloated alternately against the globe’s interior; and his arms, legs, body and numerous other parts squirmed and flattened themselves convulsively in a furious effort to escape. But through the thickness of the glass, or the power of the surrounding circle, Bifrons was bottled up as helplessly as any djinn imprisoned by Solomon. He resigned himself presently and began to relax, floating awhile in mid-air, and finally seating himself on Moreno’s electrical machine. As if feeling more at home, he looped some of his parts around the various pairs of forceps, ending in electrodes, that projected from a huge and intricate device.
‘What the devil do you want?’ he bellowed. The glass muffled his voice, which was still sufficiently audible. His tones bespoke anger and resentment.
‘I want the Devil,’ said Moreno. ‘And I presume that you are he.’
‘The Devil?’ queried Bifrons. ‘It’s true that I’m a devil. But I’m not the Old Man himself. There are many thousands of us, as you should know if you’ve read the demonologists. I’m no infernal price but merely a subordinate, though with special powers of my own. Again, what do you want? Money? Women? A Senatorship? The Presidency of your cock-eyed republic? Name it, and I’ll grant the wish. I’m in a hellish hurry to get out of here.’
‘You can’t fool me. I know that you are the Devil – the only one in the universe. And I don’t want any of your gifts. All I want is to cure you.’
Bifrons was startled. ‘Cure me? Of what? Say, what kind of a sorcerer are you anyway?’
‘I’m not a sorcerer but a psychiatrist. My name is Dr. Moreno. My hope and intention is to cure you of being the Devil.’
This madhouse doctor must be crazy himself, thought Bifrons. He cogitated. The trend of his cogitations was betrayed only by a sardonic one-sided twist of his left-hand mouth.
‘All right, I’m the Devil,’ he agreed finally. ‘But let’s get this over with. What do you mean to do with me?’
‘Subject you to shock treatment,’ announced the doctor. ‘A very special high-voltage treatment. It should be the best thing for schizophrenia like yours.’
‘Schizo-what?’ roared Bifrons. ‘Do you think I’m a lunatic?’
‘Let me explain. I am using the term schizophrenia in its literal sense, meaning split personality – not as commonly applied to several types of psychic disintegration or regression. I think that you are really a sick Deity. Your illness consists in being Satan part of the time. A genuine case of dual and alternating egos. The Satanic self dominates at present, otherwise I shouldn’t have been able to call you up. But we’ll soon remedy all that.’
The demon thought it well to conceal his consternation. He must get back to Hell as soon as possible and make a report. Satan, he felt, would be interested in Dr. Moreno.
‘Get on with your treatment,’ he enjoined. ‘What is it, anyway?’
‘Electricity.’
Bifrons assumed an expression of double-faced dismay. ‘That’s a highly dangerous and destructive force. Do you wish to annihilate me?’
‘The result should be different in your case,’ said the doctor in his most soothing professional voice. ‘Are you ready?’
Bifrons gave a bicephalic nod. Moreno stepped cautiously from the circle and went over to a panel of switches and levers set in the laboratory wall. Watching the demon closely, he began to manipulate one of the levers.
The numerous forceps of the machine, on which Bifrons had so conveniently seated himself, closed themselves on various parts of his anatomy, applying their electrodes to his skin. A pair, hitherto concealed, sprang forth and seized his temples tightly. Moreno grasped a switch firmly and turned on the full voltage. Then, still cautious, he returned to the protective circle.
A shower of sparks and short blue bolts issued from the machine within the globe. In spite of the many forceps that had tightened upon him, Bifrons writhed and tossed like a harpooned octopus. Smoke seemed to pour from his head, body and members, muffling the apparatus that held him captive. Soon a dark-brown cloud, seething and swelling, had filled the globe’s interior, concealing everything from view. The cloud was something that Bifrons could emit at will, like the fluid of a cuttle-fish.
As a matter of fact, since his nature was itself electrical, he had absorbed the terrific voltage with merely a mild discomfort. The dark cloud was a necessary screen for the tactics that he now intended to use.