Lindwald had become virtually inert with terror.
“Well?” Lucifer demanded. “Answer me!”
“No, Sir. But it seemed like such a little thing to—”
“ ‘No, Sir’ would have done nicely!” Lucifer raged. He began to breath deeply, like a giant bellows, gathering the shredded remnants of his patience. When he spoke again, it was at a fraction of his former volume, if no less angrily. “One stupid, self-indulgent bit of braggadocio, and look at what you’ve accomplished, Lindwald. Your cover is blown; he’s fully marshaled around his dream of Arthur again—which he’d almost forgotten; he even has an ally now! An ally! You’re a flaming genius!”
Lindwald seemed both surprised and alarmed by the whimper that escaped his own pouty little lips.
“Do you know why you’re not already being filleted for table service, Lindwald?” Lucifer asked in suddenly mild tones infinitely more frightening than his earlier rage.
The shake of Lindwald’s head was barely perceptible.
“Because, as personally satisfying as I might find your immediate destruction, your sudden disappearance now would only confirm their suspicions, and I don’t want that. So I’m sending you back to convince them that you’re nothing after all but a nasty little boy like any other juvenile sociopath they know. Try thinking obedience this time.”
After several moments of agonized silence, Lindwald dared to squeak, “How?”
Lucifer merely smiled. “I am not a monster, Lindwald. I understand your limitations. We are not all born to brilliance, so to spare you any further gaffes, I’m sending you back without any special power at all. You needn’t worry about tipping your hand again, because you really will be nothing but the helpless little bully we want them to believe you are. Of course, your . . . parents,” he smiled cruelly, “will still have their abilities, and I’ll see that they provide the kind of disciplined home life required to nurture your success.”
Lindwald looked like he might puke on Lucifer’s elegant gray pile carpet.
Lucifer turned to wander his office pensively. “Your strategy now is to get soundly thrashed by these boys. Do you understand? Take care to make it happen naturally and look convincing, but when you’re done I want those two boys to look and feel like heroes . . . while you look like the ass you are!” Lucifer turned to face him again. “I’d go now, if I were you. It’s getting late there. We wouldn’t want your parents to worry, would we.”
This last admonition held fearful implications, but Lindwald needed no prodding. He was gone before Lucifer’s words had left the air.
3
( Religions )
“Frank? You coming?”
Lost in thought, Frank looked up to find Sidney Mason at his office door.
“The Goldtree Mall meeting. Ten minutes, dude.”
“Oh! Sure. Thanks, Sid. Be right there.”
Sidney left him with a high sign.
Frank stood to gather what he’d need. His mind had been wandering all morning. His sleep the night before had been plagued by that same weird dream: racquetball at the health club. Unable to see the ball or move beyond a snail’s pace, he’d endured the same humiliating defeat on court, then opened his locker to find Joby hiding there, dressed like a girl, lipstick, mascara, and all, sucking his thumb while the laughter of all Frank’s acquaintances grew loud enough to wake him. That was how it always ended. He’d had the dream at least four times already, and wondered more and more anxiously why anyone would dream such sick things about his own son even once?
Juggling cost estimates, design documents, and blueprints, he shoved the whole matter from his mind once again and headed for the conference room. He had a shopping mall to plan, and important people to impress. There was no time to worry about dreams.
Lindwald sat alone, hunched and brooding at a corner of the playground. The pointed animosity of his schoolmates since the fight with Joby meant nothing to him; but the torments he’d been made to endure at “home” each night since that dreadful audience with his master had been all the more horrendous for knowing they’d grow steadily worse until he managed to get “thrashed.” He’d been goading Joby and Benjamin relentlessly, but for some reason the contemptible pissants wouldn’t fight back now.
Looking up, he caught Laura Bayer gazing adoringly at Joby as he played tetherball with Ben. The guy practically takes her head off with a dodgeball, Lindwald thought, and she goes soft for him! He spat between his feet, and wondered what made abuse such an aphrodisiac. The day after he’d hurt her, Joby had brought Laura a tree frog in a mayonnaise jar tied ’round with a green ribbon, and she’d fawned over the gift as if it were chocolates! Ye gods and little daisies! It was insulting to be in so much trouble over such imbeciles! Nonetheless, if Lindwald didn’t find some convincing way to make them thrash him soon, his so-called parents would put scars on the scars he already bore beneath his clothes, which were no less painful for the contrived nature of his boyish seeming flesh.
When Joby slammed the winning shot high over Benjamin’s head, Laura bounced to her toes, but just managed not to clap. She didn’t want to hurt Benjamin’s feelings. He was really very good, just not as good as Joby.
“Beating you’s getting boring, Benjamin,” Joby crowed, arresting the tetherball as it swung back around the pole.
“Then I’ll beat you this time,” Benjamin offered unperturbed. “Loser serves.”
Joby swung the ball to him, but shook his head. “You’ll have to beat Laura—if you can,” he teased, turning to grin at her. “I gotta go write a idea down before I forget.”
As she watched him run off to write in his secret book, Laura sighed. She’d always liked him, of course. Most everybody did. He was nice, and smart, and good at sports, and very handsome. But what had really won her heart was how deeply he had cared about what happened in the dodgeball game. She was glad he’d tried to hit Lindwald. She’d have done the same thing if she’d had the ball. But Joby had been so sorry, and so sweet to her ever since, that she’d have forgiven him no matter what. Joby had something none of the other boys did. He had a heart.
“So . . . wanna play me?” Benjamin asked shyly.
Turning from her thoughts of Joby, she smiled and nodded, stepping into the ring around the pole. Benjamin was very nice too, of course, and almost as handsome as Joby. When she and Joby got married, she hoped Benjamin would be their best man.
Hunched down against the school building, Joby slipped his “clue book” from a coat pocket. Its royal-blue cover was decorated with silver stars around a golden sun. His mother had gotten it at the stationery store, but Joby pretended it was a magic book conjured up by elves. He never wrote on its blank pages with anything but pencil, so that he could go back later and fix his spelling, which had improved so much that both Mrs. Nelson and his mom had noticed. A knight must practice, Joby reminded himself whenever learning to be perfect began to seem too hard. Since the disastrous fight with Lindwald, Joby had been careful to make sure his temper didn’t mislead him again. He was also careful now to be polite to adults, wash his hands before every meal, and keep his room clean . . . well, cleaner anyway. He did his schoolwork first thing after detention each day . . . or almost first thing . . . most of the time. But he was still determined to do better. No more mistakes. A knight must practice.
Planning their strategy against Lindwald, Joby and Benjamin had started looking through his Treasury of Arthurian Tales for ideas. Several stories had mentioned a magical cup called the Grail, which nothing evil could come near, so the boys had started paying close attention to any cups they encountered, in case one of them should be it. Many of these same stories mentioned people called priests or bishops, who seemed to know a lot about fighting the devil. When Joby had wished aloud that they could find one, Benjamin had assured Joby that they had lots of priests at the church he and his parents went to, though he’d never seen any bishops there.
Joby had never been to church. His parents had never even talk
ed about it. And when Benjamin told him that priests wore long robes like the people in Joby’s book, and that the church looked like a castle, Joby had nearly flipped. “Maybe they’re from Camelot!” he’d exclaimed. “Maybe they can tell us how to get there and talk to Merlin!”
Emboldened, Benjamin had explained that the church was at a school where people learned how to be priests, and suggested they ride over on their bikes that weekend, and talk to someone named Father Crombie.
“Why do you call him that?” Joby had asked.
“ ’Cause that’s his name, you dork! They get different last names, but their first name’s always Father.”
“But—”
“I don’t know why!”
“Oh.”
“He’s pretty old, but he’s real nice, and he knows all kinds of stuff. I bet he can tell us everything about fighting the devil.”
So it had been agreed. They’d go on Saturday morning.
Their best idea, however, had been to start their own Roundtable. It still amazed Joby that they hadn’t thought of it sooner. They weren’t going to tell anyone about their secret quest, of course, but if they knighted a bunch of their friends and got them to swear to fight the wicked and defend the weak, they’d have more than enough might to keep Lindwald in his place.
The idea had received mixed reviews so far at school, but Johnny Mayhew and Peter Blackwell had already signed up enthusiastically, which meant Duane Westerlund was in as well, because he did everything Peter did. That was only five, but Joby was sure more would want in once they saw how cool it was. There was even a big, round table in the library, which was always open after school. They’d agreed to have their first meeting there on Monday afternoon when Joby’s detention would finally be over.
When Laura had heard about it, she and Paula Guarachi had asked to join too. But the boys had all agreed that girls could not be knights. Joby felt kind of sorry for Laura, but she was pretty cool, especially for a girl, and he was sure she’d get over it.
In the meantime, Joby had been getting ready for their first meeting by writing ideas for the Roundtable in his book. He’d come up with six already:
1. The meetings should be secret!—which is hard in the library, but maybe we could just shut up if someone comes until they leave again.
2. The knights should vote on everybody’s ideas.
3. The knights should be like secret helpers and do good things for people without getting caught like Santa Claws.
4. The knights should always stick up for each other and help anyone who is getting picked on more than they should.
5. There should be tests everybody has to pass to get in. Even me and Benjamin.
6. The knights should have contests on weekends in the woods to get better at sports and fighting.
Joby read over his list with satisfaction, taking special note of words whose spelling he’d had to correct. Then he wrote: “7. The knights should all have bycicles.” He thought for a moment, chewing the end of his pencil, then added, “And maybe help any guy who passes the tests to get one if he dosn’t have it all redy.”
Just then, the school bell rang, commanding everyone back to class, but as Joby stood to go inside, he found Lindwald standing in his way.
“Whatcha got in the book?” Lindwald sneered. “Names of all yer boyfriends?”
A knight must practice, Joby reminded himself, and walked around him without even meeting his eyes.
Saturday morning, after forcing down two pancakes and a few forkfuls of scrambled egg to please his mother, Joby bounded from the table, ran outside, leapt on his bike, and lit out for Benjamin’s house.
As Joby arrived, his friend peddled out to meet him so that they didn’t even have to slow down. Then they rode and rode and rode, until houses gave way to fields of dead corn or bare, furrowed dirt already showing the first green fuzz of winter grass. This was so much farther than Joby had ever ridden, it seemed as if they might really be riding all the way to Camelot.
“You sure you know where we’re going?” Joby called to Benjamin.
“See that?” Benjamin shouted, pointing at a distant oasis of wide lawns, trees, and dark buildings nestled beneath the round dry hills ahead of them. “That’s it!”
Twenty minutes later, they rode between the seminary’s massive wrought-iron gates onto park-like grounds lushly landscaped around huge brick buildings older than any Joby had ever seen. The roofs were shingled in slate, the eaves and gables trimmed in gothic masonry. The many-paned windows were glazed in wavy glass, elaborately leaded and framed; nothing at all like the aluminum-trimmed plateglass familiar to Joby. But the church itself was by far the best thing there.
Many stories tall, the building was fronted in giant stone columns and elaborate reliefs. A wide cascade of steps led up to large, richly carved triple doors of dark wood hung on heavy wrought-iron hinges. The windows were all of stained glass. One, huge and round, hung like a giant spiderweb above the doors. Intricate towers rose to either side of the building’s facade, topped in pillared openings filled with bells. Joby stared up at the edifice, barely able to breathe. It was his book come to life—his dream come true!
“Come on,” Benjamin said, climbing the stairs two at a time. “It’s neater inside.”
One of the three big doors stood open, and as they walked into the church’s dark interior, Joby looked up and gaped. Nearly lost in shadow, the ceiling was a lacework of vaulted masonry impossibly high above their heads. The huge stone columns supporting it were shod and capped in marble carved to look like giant thistle leaves. Statues gazed down from domed alcoves like giants solemnly considering Joby’s worthiness to interrupt their deliberations. The mysterious gloom was broken here and there by patches of soft varicolored light from the stained-glass windows. Joby had never encountered incense, but traces of its unfamiliar scent gave him shivers. This was Arthur’s throne room. Peering through the shadows past rows and rows of polished benches, where he imagined the court must sit in their finery for coronations and knightings, Joby saw the royal throne itself beside a beautiful marble table. On the wall behind these, a whole other castle was carved in miniature relief around a large, richly ornamented golden box.
Joby’s rapture was suddenly unsettled by an awful sight. Above the golden box hung the realistically painted sculpture of an almost naked man nailed by his hands and feet to what looked like a sawed-off telephone pole. A circle of long thorns made his forehead run with blood, and his face was clenched in pain and grief. Joby stared at this terrible thing, filled with a powerful sense of dread and wrong. Why would Arthur keep such a terrible statue? He was about to ask Benjamin when he saw, higher still, a far larger statue hovering half in silhouette between the stained-glass windows around it. The regal figure wore voluminous robes and a high, pointed crown, holding an orb in one hand and a staff in the other. It was obviously a king; and Joby was sure which one it must be.
“Arthur,” he whispered reverently.
“What are you doing?” Benjamin asked.
By reflex, Joby had gone down on one knee.
“It’s Arthur,” he said without rising or looking away from the statue.
Benjamin followed his gaze, and said, “No it’s not. It’s God.”
“God’s a king?” Joby asked.
“I guess,” Benjamin said. “Joby, you’re only s’posed to kneel by the benches when you sit down, or in front of the altar. And you’re s’posed to get right up again.”
Joby got to his feet, realizing that Benjamin would not understand what it meant to kneel before Arthur. His friend hadn’t known anything at all about Arthur before Joby had knighted him back in September.
“Where are the priests?” Joby asked.
“I don’t know. Since the door was open, I thought there’d be somebody in here.” Benjamin peered around uncertainly. “It’s kind of spooky without the lights on. Maybe we should go try one of the school buildings.”
They were turning to leave when the
whisper of rustling cloth made them stop and peer back into the darkness. Something moved beside the big table at the front of the church; a column of deeper shadow seemed to pull away from the lesser gloom around it. Both boys froze, and Joby felt deadly certain they were in trouble. The tall shadow drifted toward them, its dark robes swirling as if borne on some silent, ghostly wind. Then it entered a patch of colored light, and was suddenly just a man. Joby saw Benjamin unclench and let out a gush of breath, then realized that this must be a priest.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” The priest smiled pleasantly. His charcoal hair was shot with silver, and there was a regal grace and confidence about him that seemed familiar to Joby, though he didn’t know why.
“We’re looking for Father Crombie,” Benjamin explained. “The door was open . . . I thought he might be in here.”
The priest’s expression became apologetic. “Unfortunately, Father Crombie is away at the diocesan office all day. Might anyone else do?”
“Oh,” Benjamin said in obvious disappointment.
“Have you come a long way, then?” the priest asked sympathetically.
“We just . . . We had some questions.” Benjamin shrugged. “I sort of know Father Crombie. . . . But . . . I guess it doesn’t have to be him.”
“I’m Father Morgan.” The priest smiled, extending his hand to Benjamin. “I’m just visiting, but I’d be delighted to assist you if I can. Were these personal questions?”
Shaking Father Morgan’s hand, Benjamin said, “This is my friend, Joby. They’re really his questions.”
“Joby! I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. How can I help?”
“Well, first,” Joby confided, seeing no reason not to get straight to the point, “we were wondering if you know how to get to Camelot.”
The Book of Joby Page 7
