The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

She sighed heavily. “In our early exchanges it wasn’t so bad. His tablets were written in pleasant letters of lambent gold. But for the past few years—well, perhaps the last twenty years—it’s always those horrid fiery flames. He’s irritated with me, of course. But it can’t be helped. It’s my duty as a pious woman to tell Him the plain and simple truth about Himself. He doesn’t want to hear it, naturally.”

She moved back toward her desk. “I hate to say it, I really do, after having devoted my life to His service. But I’ve finally come to the conclusion that there’s just no hope for Him. I had wanted to avoid unpleasantness when Joe comes back, but I see now that it’s inevitable. A terrible scene Joe’s going to make, you can be sure of it, when he sees what a mess the Old Geister’s made of everything.”

I was too dazed to object to the Joe business. Matter of fact, I was too dazed to do much of anything except be dazed.

“I can see why the Ecclesiarchs aren’t too fond of you,” croaked Greyboar.

As she resumed her seat, Hildegard snorted. “Those shriveled-up old toads! Nasty things! Can’t even call them men anymore. I’m quite fond of men as a rule, even if their natural handicaps frustrate me at times. But it never fails—once you load a man down with power and wealth, he turns into a toad. Every time.” She ran her fingers through her thick white hair. “Well, I should be fair. Vast majority of women turn into toads, too, when you load them down with power and wealth.”

I’ll say this much for Greyboar—he’s nowhere near as smart as I am, but he recovers from shock a lot better. He scratched his head, and asked the Abbess:

“Just out of curiosity, Hildegard, how do you get away with it? Pissing in the face of every power in the world, starting with the Lord Almighty himself. Pardon my language.”

Hildegard grinned. Really a great grin she had, that old woman. Cheerful, friendly, a bit devilish.

“Oh, I don’t mind a little vulgarity. Don’t use such language myself, of course. Wouldn’t be proper—after all, I am the Abbess of the Sisters of Tranquility. But you can’t spend as much time as I have with the wise old women of the Sssuj and retain your girlish prudery. Earthy lot, they are.”

“I thought the Sssuji ate everybody who goes into the swamp,” said Greyboar. “Especially, you know, missionaries.”

“What nonsense!” The Abbess frowned fiercely. “That’s a foul lie spread by disgruntled imperialists. They’re just sour, you know, because the Sssuji eat all the armies they send into the swamp. Very diet-conscious, actually, the Sssuji. I was deeply impressed by that aspect of their culture. They refuse to eat missionaries, for instance, despite everything you’ve ever heard. They say the sanctimony in the veins spoils the meat. The swamp snarls absolutely adore missionary, on the other hand, so it all works out nicely.”

“Then why didn’t they feed you to the snarls?” asked Angela timidly.

Hildegard was clearly puzzled. “Why would they do that? I didn’t go there to preach to them. I went to ask questions. Spent several years there, as it turned out. It was marvelous, really. And to get back to your question, Greyboar, it was the wise old women of the Sssuj who told me how to—as you put it—`get away with it.’ ” By which expression I take it you mean be able to expound the true faith without being pestered to death by God and the Inquisition and that sorry lot of Ecclesiarchs.”

“So what’s the secret?” asked Greyboar.

“It was obvious, once they explained it to me. `Just build your Abbey in Joe’s Favorite Woods,’ they said. So obvious! I should have seen it myself.”

Greyboar frowned. “I don’t see why that would do it.”

Hildegard looked at him, shook her head sadly. “So odd, it really is. The same parents, there’s no question about it. You look just like her, except Gwendolyn’s quite pretty in a huge sort of way. Strange how genetics works itself out, the sister being so intelligent and the brother such a dumbbell.”