Michael’s troubled heart grew calmer as understanding dawned. “That much I will surely do,” he answered grimly.
“Good. . . . I don’t mean to sound insensitive, Michael, but I haven’t seen your wits this addled since that old blowfish made war on Heaven.”
Then something else occurred to Michael. “Are they to lose the Cup then?”
“No,” the Creator said. “It stays, if they can keep it.” He sighed heavily, and looked up at the sky in consternation, or a damn good impression of it. “I’ve got pretty deep faith in the boats I build,” he said. Then, more quietly, “May they have faith in Me.”
“How am I to know when it is time to step aside?” Michael asked.
“You’ll know him when the time comes,” the Creator said sadly. “He’ll be pretty banged up and full of leaks by then, I imagine. But you’ll know him. ’Til then, keep guarding the borders, and teach the villagers . . . something of caution. Once it starts, everyone’s on their own.”
There was a long silence on the beach then. Even the surf seemed pensive.
“He’ll need a friend, Michael. Awful bad, I expect. A whole fleet of friends, if he can find ’em. That’ll likely be harder than it sounds, by then.” The Creator looked out to sea, and Michael wondered if it were tears he saw in the fisherman’s rough gray eyes, or just the watery seep of old age. “You should see him now,” the old man sighed. “You’d love him, Michael. You’d love him fiercely.”
They were tears, all right. And Michael understood them all too well.
Miriam turned to gaze back through Joby’s bedroom doorway at her son’s shadow-softened face. Locks of shiny raven hair covered one closed eye. His breath had already fallen into the soft, slow rhythms of sleep, and, under the worn red bedspread that served as Joby’s cape by day, he still clutched his precious storybook. She smiled, wishing her father could see how much Joby had come to treasure the simple gift. Her father had always seemed to know precisely what was wanted, quietly providing no more, no less.
As joyful as her own childhood had been, Miriam was certain she’d never shone half so brightly as Joby did. Like a cascade of pennies, images flashed through her mind: Joby standing utterly still to watch a spider spin its iridescent orb; charging shirtless through the house in summer with all the frightening combustibility little boys so wantonly squander; Joby lost in his storybook, wide blue eyes like whirlpools sweeping streams of dream and glory into the insatiable sea of his imagination. He was an intelligent and thoughtful boy, the sort who might have been cruelly treated by other children, she thought, had he not been such a charismatic little athlete, gleefully pulling a train of other boys behind him half the time, all parroting the things he said and did, for good or ill. Her smile widened. This marvelous, incandescent little boy was all her joy . . . he and Frank.
Though Frank sometimes laughed at her “silly superstitions,” Miriam had sensed a kind of ambient brightness around their son from the very day of his birth. Times had been far harder then. Frank’s mother had been killed by a drunk driver two months after Miriam and Frank were married, and his father had died eight months later of “severe angina”—the medical name for a broken heart, Frank had insisted. Frank had been unable to find work both equal to his talent and sufficient to support a family, and as Miriam had grown larger with Joby, he had begun to grow more distant.
Then Joby had been born.
She could still see Frank’s radiant expression as he’d held their son at her hospital bedside, a renewed confidence in his voice and gestures, and an affectionate delight in her that she had feared gone forever. He’d gone home that evening to find a message on the answering machine from an architectural firm he’d applied to three months earlier, offering him a good job more than lucrative enough to meet their needs. Ever since, life had been almost alarmingly kind to them.
Now Frank was a partner in the firm. Surrounded by wonderful friends, they had a lovely home in a pleasant California suburb, completely paid for thanks to the surprising sum left them when Miriam’s father had died. With the exception of her father’s sudden but peaceful death five years before, they had encountered not a single crisis or hardship since Joby’s arrival.
While Frank seemed to take all their remarkable fortune appreciatively in stride, Miriam occasionally found herself wondering what price might be demanded of them later. Now, watching Joby sleep, she found herself chasing that ridiculous thought away again. Sorry, she apologized silently to the empty air. I can’t seem to help my silly superstitions. No one’s perfect, I suppose.
Frank topped the stairs just then, coming quietly up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist and kiss the back of her neck before looking in at their sleeping son.
“Dropped off pretty quick, huh?” he whispered.
“It’s tiring work,” she smiled, “saving the world again every day.”
Over dinner, Joby had told them all about routing Zoltan and his horde of evil monsters before lunch, then of being sent by King Arthur to slay two bloodthirsty ogres under the backyard deck before coming in to wash up for dinner. It had been a pretty big day, even for a great knight like their son.
“Did you read to him?” Frank asked.
She nodded. “The last one again. He keeps wanting that one lately. I really don’t know why. It’s so depressing.”
“Arthur’s death?” Frank asked.
She nodded again. “I asked him what he liked about it, and he said it was the part about Arthur coming back when the world’s in trouble again.”
Frank chuckled under his breath. “That boy wants to be a knight so bad. . . . I think he’ll take the news about Santa okay; but I dread the day we have to tell him Arthur’s just a fairy tale too.”
She turned and kissed him sweetly on the lips. “That would be a father’s job.”
“I would never presume to diminish a woman’s potential like that,” Frank murmured. “Besides, I’m the one who’ll have to tell him about sex. What happened to fair distribution of labor?”
Her smile widened, and she put her arms around his neck. “The way things work these days, he’ll be telling you about sex.”
“Then we’d better make sure I’m savvy enough not to embarrass us, hadn’t we?” He took her hand and led her smiling toward their own room at the end of the hall.
“Can’t help her silly superstitions,” Lucifer drawled, watching them tease each other down the hall into their bedroom. “Did you hear that? Oh, the irony!”
Neither the Creator nor Gabriel replied.
“So this is Your candidate,” Lucifer mused, gazing down at Joby as the three of them settled invisibly around his bed. “It’s hardly surprising he’s so well behaved. Look at the life You’ve given him! One long, golden stream of blessings! We’ll see how long that cheery disposition lasts when his picnic gets rained on, won’t we.” He looked up at God expectantly. Still no response. “Dying to be a knight, is he? And you’ve decided to grant his wish. I never cease to be astonished at Your capacity for kindness, Sir. Your proclivity for subjecting innocent children to these rather gruesome trials is rather intriguing. Perhaps I’ve failed to appreciate the complexity of Your character.”
The Creator only waited patiently without reply. That, Lucifer realized, was what irked him most about God: His smugly passive-aggressive tendencies. The Creator never allowed the anger He must surely be feeling to slip out where anyone might see it. Lucifer found such saccharine duplicity disgusting.
“Who proposes this wager?” Gabriel asked, launching the timeworn ritual without preamble.
“I, Lucifer, Angel of Light, Mirror of Dawn, propose this wager.”
“Who joins in this wager?” Gabriel intoned again.
“I do,” the Creator answered.
Between them, Joby sighed in his sleep, and turned to rest facing God.
“Who will witness our agreement,” Lucifer asked in accordance with the ancient rite, “and truthfully attest to its conditions and outco
me if so required?”
“I will,” Gabriel answered. “Is this acceptable?”
“It is,” answered the Creator and Lucifer in unison. And it was. Lucifer might despise his younger brother, but the dusky little do-gooder had never demonstrated the wit to lie, and Lucifer doubted him capable of it, even if he wanted to.
“Then speak your terms with care,” Gabriel said, “for each word spoken here will henceforth be binding and immutable. What do you wager, Lucifer?”
“I wager,” Lucifer smiled, “that this candidate, deemed faithful and steadfast to our Lord, will, when put to the test and left to choose of his own free will, unequivocally renounce the Creator, brazenly defy His will, and commit great wickedness instead.”
Joby’s hand moved toward his mouth, as if he might suck his thumb. But the habit had fallen beneath his dignity even in sleep many years before, and the gesture was arrested as suddenly as it had begun.
“What would you claim if this were proven?” Gabriel asked.
“That this creation be immediately and completely expunged from space and time,” Lucifer breathed, overwhelmed by an almost erotic longing, “and another commenced by the Creator in its place, subject to whatever specifications I shall advise.”
“Your terms?” Gabriel asked Lucifer.
“First, that the Creator forbid all immortal beings in His service from intervening unless directly asked to do so by the candidate, lest his fate be decided for him by others. Second, given the Creator’s advantage as first cause, and His supremacy over even me, I propose that He promise not to intervene directly, or by command, or by any word or act that may be construed as expression of His will in this matter for the trial’s duration.”
Gabriel turned to the Creator, forbidden to call Him God or Lord within the ritual, and asked, “Are You content with these terms?”
“I Am.”
There was a moment of astonished silence, during which Lucifer hoped his own surprise wasn’t as transparent as Gabriel’s. He had never expected such conditions to go unchallenged, and wondered uncomfortably what the Creator’s complacency could mean.
“Have you terms to add?” Gabriel asked the Creator uncertainly.
“Only that Lucifer not deprive the candidate of life itself or the power to choose unless and until the boy’s unequivocal failure has been confirmed before valid witness, and that Lucifer’s victory, if any, be achieved before the candidate’s fortieth year of life, lest even in triumph the child be deprived of any peace.”
“Are you, Lucifer, content with these conditions?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes,” he replied. The Creator’s terms were frightfully routine. It was sometimes tempting to wonder if his Master had any imagination at all.
“What would You claim if victorious?” Gabriel asked the Creator.
“Restitution to the candidate according to My terms; that the candidate remain completely unmolested by Lucifer or any that serve him for the remainder of his natural life; and that any benefit coming to the candidate or the world at large from this contest remain unchallenged by Lucifer or his servants, so long as the candidate lives.”
“Will you, Lucifer, concede to these conditions if proven wrong?” Gabriel asked.
“I will.”
“One thing remains to seal the wager,” Gabriel proclaimed, “that you make, each, your case to the candidate, himself. For from the first day it has been ordained that mortal men and women shall be free to choose.”
“By right and tradition, the Creator is first,” Lucifer replied, constrained by form to say so, though he preferred this anyway, since it gave him power of rebuttal.
Between them, Joby’s eyes moved rapidly behind their soft, smooth lids, already deep in dream; for it was not to the conscious child that the Creator and His adversary would appeal, but to the deeper self that moved relentlessly like magma beneath the cool, slow crust of Joby’s waking life.
“My King, I would serve you with my life. Only name the quest.”
Sir Joby knelt again before Arthur’s dais, eyes cast reverently toward the floor, eagerly awaiting his lord’s will.
“Should friendship be hobbled by such formality, Sir Joby? Rise, and add the pleasure of your countenance to that of your courtesy.”
“As Your Majesty wills,” Sir Joby replied, unable to suppress the smile that fountained from deep within him as he rose and looked into the laughing gray eyes of his beloved lord, Arthur, King of Briton, and Master of the Roundtable.
“We have much to discuss, Sir Joby, but I would be out in the light and air on such a splendid morning. Will you consent to ride with me awhile?”
“I am yours to bid, Sire,” Joby beamed, “but I would be well pleased with such a privilege.”
“Then I extend it on one condition,” Arthur said, “that we put aside the manners of majesty for now and speak instead as friends. A king may command what he likes, I am told, but I often wonder of late if I am yet allowed friends, or only subjects now.”
“Does the king truly doubt my friendship?” Joby smiled.
“Nay, the king does not,” Arthur answered dryly. “Nor do I. So pray, for this short while, let us have none of the king between us. I will call you Joby, and you shall call me Arthur.”
“As you wish, my—Arthur. I am deeply honored.”
“As am I,” Arthur replied, descending to clasp Joby’s hand.
A moment later, they were riding at a joyful speed through one of Camelot’s lesser gates. Joby dimly remembered the royal stables, the grooming and mounting of horses; but the day was so bright and fair that all else was quickly forgotten. The companionship of his king and the swiftness and vitality of their horses left Joby giddy with the love of life, as glossy ravens scattered before them, cawing complaints as they sought refuge among heavily laden apple trees nearby. It was all so perfect.
After a long and boisterous ride, they stopped to rest their horses within a lofty wood. Joby felt the glade’s deep, cool silence like a large, soft hand upon his shoulder as he dismounted. Rough, ruddy trunks of immense girth soared from burled bowls half as wide as houses into a dense canopy that cast its own twilight, pierced only by occasional shafts of green and silver sunlight. Swept by breezes that did not reach the forest floor, the immense trees swayed together in a ceaseless, solemn dance that seemed to engender the stillness beneath their branches. A liquid trill of birdsong from somewhere deeper in the wood spiraled upward into silence. A tree frog chanted quietly nearby. A squirrel rustled in the branches high above them. These and the wind’s voice were the only sounds.
Arthur found a seat on one of the great, mossy tree bowls, and beckoned Joby to come sit beside him. “Joby,” he said gravely, “you have served me faithfully on too many occasions to count, and the love you bear me brings me deep joy and gratitude.”
“I have no greater satisfaction than knowing we are pleased with one another,” Joby replied.
“Nor do I,” Arthur said. “I have need of a champion, my friend.”
“I would serve you with my life, Sire. Only name the—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Arthur said, waving him to silence with a sad smile. “But I would not have an answer before you’ve heard me out. This is not remotely like before.”
“I beg pardon, My Lord. I did not mean to interrupt—”
“None of that, Joby. You promised.” The king sighed, then smiled. “I am entangled in a contest, Joby, with my oldest and most formidable enemy. It is a desperate and deadly affair with more than mortal parameters.”
“Magic?” Joby asked.
Arthur nodded grimly. “Of the darkest kind. And, as you know, where magic is involved there are strange and immutable conditions laid on all concerned, even kings.”
Joby nodded.
“That is why,” the king continued, “I can tell you so little; only that the fate of all Camelot is at stake. The enemy is vastly more subtle, powerful, and vicious than any I have ever sent you against; the quest will be
long and terrible beyond your imagining, and—mark this well, Joby—I will be utterly unable to aid you in any way whatsoever while it lasts, which may well be half your lifetime. Your entire youth, my friend. Consider it well. Should you fail, we all fail. There will be no rescue this time, no second chances, no further hope at all. Do you understand me?”
After a moment, Joby nodded, daunted despite himself. . . . Half a lifetime . . . without Arthur’s help. “My Lord,” Joby began from force of habit. Arthur frowned. “I mean, Arthur . . . I am willing to try, but . . . how can I hope to win such a contest without your aid? What am I that the fate of all should rest with me alone?”
“You are the friend I trust,” Arthur said, “the champion I choose.” He paused to consider Joby thoughtfully, then said, “Make no mistake, my friend. You owe me not this undertaking! I will take no less joy in you should you refuse. It were far better to do so now, than to agree in vain bravado. But, should you agree, know that though I, myself, can help you not at all, everything else of mine in Camelot, every loyal subject, every inch of my realm, will be at your disposal if you but ask.
“Most of all, hear this, Joby. I know beyond question that you will give everything to this pursuit, but should you fail despite that, the fault will be my own, not yours.”
“This is meant for comfort?” Joby asked, smiling wanly. “That my shame would fall on you? Pray, encourage me some more, Arthur. Tell me I am to ride to battle on a giant snail, or minus an arm.”
“It is good to hear you jest.” Arthur grinned. “But nay, Joby, I think I have encouraged you enough. Think on what I’ve said, and answer in your own good time.”
Joby felt no need to think. “I will do this thing for you, Arthur, whatever it is, or die trying.”
The Book of Joby Page 3
