One last fragment came to mind then.
“Drink alot of beutey Sir Joby. . . . Feed your hart.”
When nothing more came, Joby stood up with his little bit of writing and went to find his mother. Merlin had said he must be perfect. He figured he’d better start with this.
He found her in the kitchen making cinnamon rolls.
“Mom, will you check if I spelled these right?”
“Good morning, Joby! . . . You sure slept late. Must have had good dreams, huh?”
Joby smiled. “It was the best dream ever! I went to Camelot. . . . But I was forgetting everything, so I wrote it down. Can you check what I wrote, please?”
He handed the paper to his mother, who smiled and began to read. Joby watched her purse her lips, raise her brows, smile, then concentrate and frown again.
“What’s this word?” she asked, holding the paper down so he could see it.
“Vijilint,” Joby told her. “That’s what Merlin said.”
“Vigilant!” she exclaimed. “My goodness, Joby! Where did you hear that?”
“I told you, from Merlin. . . . What does it mean?”
“Well, it means . . . paying very close attention, I guess, or being very careful.”
“That’s what I thought,” Joby said. “How do you spell it?”
“How ’bout I finish reading this first.” His mother smiled.
As she reached the bottom of the page, Joby saw her eyes go moist and pink.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She looked up, seeming startled. “This is what you dreamed, dear?”
Joby nodded uneasily. “Is something in my dream bad?”
“No! No, Joby,” she said, reaching down to wrap him in a hug. “It’s just . . . I had no idea little boys had such big ideas. Drink beauty? Feed your heart? Did you really think of that all by yourself?”
“No,” he admitted. “Arthur told me. . . . Do you know what it means?”
She shook her head. “No better than you do, I’m sure. But it’s a beautiful idea, and I’m glad you wrote it down.” She squeezed him again. “There’s just no end to you, is there, sweetheart!”
“I want to get a book,” Joby said, pulling away from her embrace, “like the one Amy Holten has, with no words in it, so I can write these down, and all the other clues too. But first I want to make sure it’s all spelled right.”
“Well, your spelling’s good enough for government work,” his mother said, setting the paper down to go back to her baking. “Why don’t we get some breakfast in you first. I’ll put these rolls in, then we’ll get you some juice while—”
“No!” Joby protested. “You need to check my spelling! There can’t be any mistakes! Merlin said I have to be perfect to win the contest!”
His mother looked startled.
“Joby . . . no one’s perfect.”
“I know it’s hard,” he frowned, “but I have to. . . . Merlin said I can.”
“You’d really rather do spelling than have cinnamon rolls?” she asked.
Joby nodded gravely.
“Well . . . all right,” she said softly. “I’d be the last one to stand between you and academic excellence. Let’s go over here, where we won’t get food on it.”
2
( Dodgeball )
“If I may, Sir,” enthused the obsessively brushed and Brylcreemed young sycophant rushing a respectful two steps behind Lucifer, “I’d just like to say how honored I am to be of assistance on a project of this magnitude! It seems an eternity since I’ve gotten to work on anything that really mattered here. Not that my regular work doesn’t matter!” he rushed to add. “But this! Well, this is the kind of creative challenge one can really sink one’s—”
“Career on,” Lucifer interjected without turning or slowing down. The sudden silence was gratifying. He could almost hear the damned brownnoser’s pasty little feet sweating under those gleaming black dress shoes. Why, he wondered wearily, with so many souls at his disposal, did he seem to end up with nothing but mediocre losers like this Williamson fellow?
Relieved of Williamson’s annoying chatter, Lucifer fell to inspecting the severely modern makeover his labyrinthine headquarters had recently undergone. After centuries of lavishly baroque decor designed to affirm his stature as the earthbound world’s premier power, Lucifer had suffered a spasm of aesthetic discontent and remodeled. The heroic scale remained, but Lucifer’s vast environment was empty now, for empty had become synonymous, in his mind, with clean, and Lucifer craved nothing more than cleanliness. Long straight lines, perfect right angles, orderly grids, practical materials in sober, undistracting colors, naked utility uncluttered by frivolous decoration. After centuries of baroque excess, these were the breath of sanitized air that Lucifer had contrived to ease his confinement here. Every floor was carpeted in soil-resistant gray. Even the walls were constructed of acoustically absorbent materials so that his immense nest should remain clean even of unwanted sound.
Concerned for the aesthetic nourishment of his staff and tenants, Lucifer had taken care that this new industrial monotony be tastefully punctuated with priceless examples of appropriate artwork. Bad Dadaist painting, Neobrutalist sculpture, Pop art, Op art, and original animation cells from Beavis and Butthead were displayed, not as expressions of Lucifer’s taste but as evidence of mankind’s depravity. That was what Lucifer collected most avidly.
Entering the conference room, Lucifer settled unceremoniously into a large gray chair at the near end of a massive, gleaming graphite table. Williamson walked around a large obelisk of polished obsidian to join two more conservatively dressed project recruits already seated at the table’s far end, the dour tension in their faces magnified by a sourceless, color-leaching light from overhead. There was no other kind of light in Hell. Lucifer regarded windows as nothing but inducements to reduced productivity.
He considered the three damned souls awaiting his will and sighed despondently. “Before we waste any time brainstorming,” he announced dryly, “you’ll want to give your full attention to the following presentation.”
The room fell dark as a large screen appeared from within the wall behind him. It flickered blue-green for a moment, as if illuminated by firelight through twenty feet of seawater. Then a young man in medieval garb appeared on bended knee, his pale face cast down reverently, half-hidden behind locks of shiny raven hair. “My King,” he murmured, “I would serve you with my life. Only name the quest.”
Lucifer’s three servants watched in utter silence as Joby’s entire dream of Arthur and Merlin was replayed. When the screen flickered to darkness, the overhead illumination resumed, and Lucifer turned back to face his functionaries.
“Lest I steal anyone’s thunder,” Lucifer drawled sardonically, “I’ll hear your ideas before expressing my own modest thoughts.”
The team sat like deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck.
“Lesterman,” Lucifer sighed, “let’s begin with you.”
“Certainly, Sir.” Lesterman pulled an attaché case from beneath the table. “Well, Sir,” he said, proffering a thick sheaf of manila folders, “I’ve prepared these personnel rosters, materials requisitions, and logistical outlines for a variety of strike scenarios ranging from the immediate mutilation of his parents at the hands of a serial killer currently stationed in the area to the destruction of his entire town by direct meteor impact in late March. Of course, I’ve researched a number of more prosaic options; the collapse of their home during an earthquake, financial catastrophe, public disgrace, the usual things, but I thought . . .” Lesterman stammered to a halt as Lucifer dropped his face into his hands, and began to shake his head. “Sir? . . . Is something wrong, Sir?”
“Are you deaf and blind, Lesterman,” he asked without looking up, “or just out to break the Guinness World Record for lethal stupidity?” When he did look up, Lesterman flinched, and dropped half his files. “Were you paring your nails when that young zealot leapt u
p and volunteered to end his life for Arthur? Striking hard at such a fellow will only galvanize him into full-blown martyrdom! Our Enemy would love that, wouldn’t He! I’d lose, Lesterman! I’d lose right out of the gate!”
“I . . . I . . . Of course,” Lesterman stammered. “That is—I just—”
“I don’t think you’ll be needed, after all,” Lucifer observed wearily.
There was just time for pure animal terror to register on Lesterman’s face before he and all his folders vanished without sound or fanfare.
Seeing the obvious distress this caused Lesterman’s remaining teammates, Lucifer drawled, “Calm yourselves, gentlemen. I know we all abhor waste here, but Lesterman will still have ample opportunity to be of service.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Even here, folks have to eat . . . don’t they?”
His amusement soured as he noticed the chunky one called Lindwald salivating rather conspicuously at the idea of dining on Lesterman. Oh, God, Lucifer groaned mentally. To be free at last of these revolting maggots!
“On second thought,” he told the two remaining functionaries, “I don’t think I can endure any more of your genius just now. Someone must survive to do the footwork, after all, so I’ll just spell it out for you.
“You’re fairly new here, Williamson, but Lindwald’s been around long enough to understand how rudely we’ve been surprised on previous occasions just when we were sure of victory. Though some of those reversals seemed utterly unexplainable, I’ve never been able to prove the Enemy’s unlawful interference, which leaves us to assume that the devious Deity is able to anticipate our strategies impossibly far in advance—or has somehow booby-trapped virtually every aspect of creation itself. Any questions so far?”
The two damned souls shook their heads in perfect unison.
“Therefore, we must begin with meticulous observation,” Lucifer continued, “followed by patient, careful execution. During this initial phase of our campaign, the candidate must perceive our presence no more than the hare perceives the circling hawk. We must test him, but do nothing major—nothing, you understand—until we have grown to know his fears and insecurities as well as what he doesn’t fear; what he loves, and what he hates; his dreams and ambitions—especially his ambitions; his favorite and least favorite colors, foods, smells, sounds. Anything—anything—might tip the balance.
“That’s why you’re here, Williamson,” Lucifer continued. “My attention is required in too many places to be watching the child eat and sleep and piss at all hours. That will be your job. Report everything to me. I want you to dust off every least skill acquired during that illustrious career in advertising, and research this boy like you never researched any market in your lamentably brief life. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir,” Williamson replied. “When I’m finished, your biggest problem will be choosing which of the available buttons to push for the desired result, Sir.”
“That may be your biggest problem,” Lucifer replied. “I will have no problems at all. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, Sir.”
After an uncomfortable silence, the fat one, Lindwald, cleared his throat softly, and asked, “What about me, Sir?”
“I think that you, Lindwald, may finally be ready to enter the fourth grade.”
“Quick, Sir Benjamin! Up the castle wall!” Joby raced to scramble up the live oak tree that spread its old arms over a quarter of their backyard. “The dragon can’t get us up there. We’ll make a new plan!”
“How come it won’t get us?” Benjamin asked, racing after Joby. “Can’t it fly?”
“It broke its wing!” Joby shouted without slowing.
“How’d it break its wing?” Benjamin pressed, waiting impatiently for Joby to climb above the first branch so he could follow.
“It tripped on my underwear!” Joby answered in exasperation. “Don’t ask questions, Sir Benjamin! Just climb! You wanna get us both eaten?”
From inside the house, Miriam watched the elaborate play of little muscles across the small bare backs of her son and his new friend as they scrambled up into the tree’s higher branches and fell into earnest conversation. She was still astonished at how quickly they had fallen head over heels into friendship. An after-school fight over some trivial violation of boyish honor had brought them together. Benjamin had bloodied Joby’s nose, Joby had blackened Benjamin’s eye. Two days later, Joby had knighted Benjamin on King Arthur’s behalf, and they’d been inseparable ever since. Boys, she thought with a smile. Go figure.
Besides the boundless energy native to most children, they shared a natural athleticism, vivid imaginations, and a predilection to laugh at anything with the least potential for humorous interpretation. But, while Joby was a born leader, Benjamin was content to follow, constantly asking questions for which Joby happily invented answers. While Joby talked, laughed, and decreed incessantly, Benjamin tended toward thoughtful silences. Even their appearance was day and night. Deeply tanned, with large brown eyes and nearly white-blond hair, Benjamin seemed a golden noon beside the lunar radiance of Joby’s pale skin, blue eyes, and midnight locks. Miriam always enjoyed seeing them together. They seemed two halves of some marvelous whole.
“Hey you,” Frank said softly, coming up to give her a squeeze.
“Have a good nap?” she smiled, still watching the boys.
“Best nap I ever had—since the last one.” His eyes followed hers. “Those two spend half their lives up there. Think we should build ’em a tree fort?”
“Let’s not encourage them,” she said. “Half the time, they don’t even hold on to anything.”
“Boys are climbers,” Frank smiled, “and not half as fragile as us old folks. We don’t want to make a wimp out of him.” He squeezed her again. “Worst thing could happen to a boy. Lot worse than fallin’ out of a tree.”
“I’m sure you’re right, dear,” Miriam said, turning with a flirtatious smile to slide her arms around his waist. “Maybe we should find him a sister, so I’d have another wimpy girl to keep me company.”
“Mmmm,” he purred, leaning in to kiss her. “Wanna twist my arm?”
Going through Williamson’s first report, Lucifer had to admit that a few of his observations might be useful, though he had no intention of saying so. One shred of acknowledgment was all it took to render such creatures utterly unmanageable.
He went to the transmission obelisk beside his office door, placed a hand on its glassy surface, closed his eyes, and focused on a name. Kallaystra . . . Kallays—
“Bright One?”
Lucifer opened his eyes to find Kallaystra standing serenely at his side, looking, as always, like the wholesome ingenue she wasn’t. Along with its fiery fantasies of Hell, the mortal world seemed to forget that demons were nothing more or less than angels swept to earth with Lucifer after their failed campaign against the Creator. Driven by rage or despair at their devalued state, some had fallen into madness, making themselves animal and ugly, or wandered off to become solitary rogues. But many, like Kallaystra, had remained as lovely as ever—on the surface at least. Kallaystra was one of very few, however, who still came readily when Lucifer called, one of even fewer he still dared rely upon. That, and the fact that she was an immortal being like himself, not some damned flake of once-human dryer lint like Williamson or Lindwald, earned her a very different degree of courtesy.
“Thank you for coming so swiftly, Kallaystra. I hope my summons didn’t interrupt anything of import.”
“Only boredom, Bright One. They are dull to watch.”
“The boredom you endure magnifies my gratitude. What do you make of them?”
“The boy is certainly bright, but hardly so remarkable as many of his predecessors. The parents seem utterly mundane. Had bitter experience not taught us otherwise, I’d think all this caution wildly excessive.”
“As it would be,” Lucifer conceded, “had our Oppressor less power to complicate even the simplest endeavors. Someday I will catch Him meddling, and make Him
pay.” The idea made him smile. “This would be the very wager to force by default!”
“Would it?” Kallaystra asked. “You still haven’t told me what the stakes are this time.” She gazed at him inquisitively.
Caught off guard, Lucifer hesitated. He could hardly tell her that if he won she and all of Hell’s other inmates would be eliminated with the rest of Creation.
“I . . . don’t want this widely known, Kallaystra, for I’m testing loyalties; but as your faith is well proven, I’ll trust you with a secret, just between the two of us. Agreed?”
“Of course, Bright One,” she replied, eyes agleam with the delight conspiracy always brought her.
“You’ll remember that little war some time ago, in Heaven. . . . The one we lost.”
“What of it?” she said flatly. It was considered poor manners to mention it.
“Perhaps you’ll forgive me for bringing it up when I tell you that, should I win this wager, the outcome of that contest will be reversed.”
“What?” she gasped. “He agreed to this?”
“He did.” Lucifer grinned. “He seems to have grown cocky in His old age.”
“I can’t believe He consented! What can He be thinking?”
“That is precisely what we must discover,” Lucifer cautioned. “He’s surely got an ace hidden somewhere. We need to find it before committing ourselves to anything of consequence.”
“How can I be of service?” she asked, her enthusiasm clearly trebled.
“First, my trusted accomplice, by remembering that no one else must know what I have told you,” Lucifer insisted. “When I am elevated to my rightful place in Heaven, proven loyalties will be rewarded; and proven disloyalty as well. Let the others reveal themselves without knowing what is at stake. Understand?”
The Book of Joby Page 5
