A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 11 (Part 2 of 2)

An hour later, as the diners rose from the table, the Dean approached Imlon.

“A word if you will, Master Held,” he said, “Though wait until his Reverence departs.”

“I am your servant, sir,” said Imlon, glancing over at the priest.  He bit his lip.  Dean Harp, for all his easy manner, was a man of powerful influence, far superior to a college fellow.

The astronomer stayed at the rear as the company departed, giving his goodbyes to Temith and those others who approached him.  He fussed with his cloak until he saw the priest depart, at which point he handed the garment back to a servant.  Harp was waiting.  Wordlessly he and Imlon proceeded to a fine office, full of papers and immense tomes.

“Sit down, Master Held,” said Harp.  “I have some intelligence for you.  Has Dean Raetho spoken to you recently?”

“No, sir,” said Imlon.  “Only a greeting here and there.”

“I thought it would be thus.  Imlonavar, you may not be a St Cato’s man, but I fear the Dean of Exodus will not find it in himself to speak to you of this.  Your treatise has been discussed in the Cathedral Chapter.”

“Chapter?” said Imlon.  He sighed.  “I knew the Canons were aware of it, but I did not think the matter had progressed that far.”

“And further still.  I understand they have sent dispatch to the Archbishop of Pironas, seeking doctrinal guidance.”

A cold chill crept down Imlon’s throat.  He shook his head, smiling.  “There’s an irony.  That treatise was banned in Emmares two months ago, and now the Archbishop reads it.”

“Irony or not, I trust you see the gravity of the matter,” said Harp.  “There was a reason why the College chose not to publish the work.”

“I do, sir.  Thank you.”

The chill had gone.  It was only a momentary thing.  Resolution took its place.  Harp made a pyramid of his fingers and stared at the ceiling.

“Six years ago,” said the Dean, “A theologian of House Trevistan was preparing to publish a certain sermon.  It was a quaint theory.  He postulated that all the world, all creation even, is a fantasy.  I remember the first words of the manuscript: ‘God is sleeping, and we are but a dream of the Heaven.’  What do you make of it?”

Harp seemed wholly serious.  Imlon tried to gather his thoughts.  “I think it plausible, but it does not diminish man’s state.  Dream or not, we can only see our lives from one perspective.  If something matters to us, it matters, however insignificant it would be to God.”

Harp nodded.  “He didn’t publish, in the end.  The College and Cathedral convinced him otherwise.  He would have been expelled if not.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I’m sure you do.  Tread warily, Imlonavar.”

But not backward, thought the astronomer.

*

Soon afterward, Imlon sat down in his chambers at House Exodus.  A fire dried out his damp cloak and boots and he lit a few candles also, careful not to spill wax on his papers or instruments.  Lenses, prisms, quills, inkpots, small parcels and skeletal wooden casings lay all over one half of the table, and on the other lay inch-deep piles of parchment and paper, held down by whatever he could use as a paperweight: polished stones, damaged lenses, books, tankards, a chunk of stale bread.  The latter, he noticed, was starting to turn blue.  He threw it on the fire, brushing the crumbs from the parchment.