The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

“Would you mind just answering the question,” growled Greyboar. “I’m getting a bit tired of these comparisons between my sister and me.”

“But it’s obvious, my good man! Why is this forest called `Joe’s Favorite Woods’?”

“Well—”

“Because it was his favorite woods, that’s why! And why was it his favorite woods? Because it was filled with snarls. Forest snarls, too, who were always Joe’s favorites even though he denied it and tried to pretend he loved all his snarls the same.”

Greyboar was hopelessly lost. So was I.

“So, since I’m a snarl-friend, once I set up my Abbey here I could go about my business without worrying about a lot of fretful old men. The forest’s still full of snarls, you know. Highest density of snarls in the world, actually.”

The light finally dawned. There aren’t many snarl-friends in the world, at any one time. Hildegard was the second one I’d met in my life. Shelyid was the first. And that little dwarf had—well, never mind the details. The point is, I’d seen what one enraged snarl could do. I shuddered to think about an entire forest full of hundreds—thousands?—of the monsters. It’s no wonder the gentle monks of St. Shriven-on-the-Moor got a vision from God!

“But come,” said Hildegard, “I’m afraid we’ve wandered away from the purpose of our meeting. I don’t believe the Old Geister is going to be around much longer, sad to say. So I have to make sure to obtain the score of the Harmony of the Spheres before Joe gets back. He’s quite a nice man, Joe is. According to all the legends, at any rate, and I’ve no reason to believe his personality will have changed. But the fact is, the man had apparently no ear for music. Such, at least, I have to assume since there’s no record that he invented music.”

She leaned back in her chair, again planting her hands firmly on the desk in front of her. “No, there’s no question God’s been much the better influence in that regard. But it would be just like the Old Geister, on His way out, to take the Harmony of the Spheres with him. Purely out of malice, of course—it’s not as if the Harmony would do Him any good where He’s going! So I’ve got to get the score, before it’s lost.”

By now, Greyboar and I had given up trying to make sense out of anything the Abbess said. It’s not that we doubted her, mind you. Rather difficult to argue with a woman who corresponds with God and has His old letters to prove it, don’t you know? It’s just that we couldn’t begin to follow her reasoning. So we gave up. As the wise man says: “I hate to be the one to break the news to you, General, but you’re a foot soldier.”

“So how do we do that?” asked Greyboar. “And where do I come in?”

“Well,” explained Hildegard, “we’ll have to get the score from one of the fallen angels. It doesn’t matter which in particular. Any of them will do—they all know the score. The Old Geister made them memorize it, of course. He makes His angels memorize everything He says.”

“Fallen angels?” I squeaked. “You mean—devils?”

Hildegard frowned again. “And you claimed to be the smart one! Well, I should make allowances, I suppose. No doubt you had a rotten education. You have the air about you of a dog who was beaten too often as a puppy. Can’t mistake it—that certain perpetual scowl at the world; it’s unmistakable, really.”

Abbess or not, I was starting to take exception to her attitude. But she cut off my exception before I got a chance to express it. Started right in lecturing again, just like a schoolmarm in a class for the mentally handicapped.

“Devils, you see, are independent creatures of the Darkness. Same with demons, daemons, imps—that whole wretched bunch that dwells in the infernal regions. Fallen angels are something else entirely. They’re figments of the Lord’s imagination, which He created and brought to divine life for no good reason except that He’s such an Egotist that He doesn’t really want to talk to anyone except Himself. So the Old Geister created angels in His image, so He could carry on a conversation with Himself. Kept them within limits, of course. He didn’t want any backtalk, you understand, just an audience who’d listen to His every word like it was Holy Writ and say `Yes, God’ and `You’re absolutely right, God’ and so forth. The problem, naturally, is that, like every egotist you’ve ever known, the Old Geister’s as vain as a Peacock. Sooner or later one of the angels doesn’t fawn over Him as quick as He likes, so—off you go, bum! It’s to the netherworld with you! Eventually, He lets them back upstairs, but the fallen angels hate the whole thing. It’s not that it hurts them any, you understand. It’d do them some good, actually, a stint in the netherworld, if they’d learn anything from the experience. But since the angels are created in His image, naturally they never learn anything, since they think they already know it all. But while they’re down there they become quite frightful. It offends their self-esteem, you see, being snickered at by devils and such. They become exceedingly nasty, after a while. Very hard to tell them from proper devils, if you just happen to run into them without knowing the trick of it.”