“Lucifer, really,” the Creator scoffed good-naturedly. “Do I seem easily confused? I gave you to this planet, if anything, and told you to do as you like. That hardly constitutes giving you—”
“What the hell is Taubolt?” Lucifer shrieked, literally purple in the face by now. Startled by his outburst, the entire flock of sparrows and pigeons around the trash can burst into flight above them. “If the candidate has gone there, then I’m entitled to know what’s going on!”
“It’s just a little place I set aside several centuries ago,” the Creator replied sternly, “so that a few lucky people could live and die without having to endure your handiwork. I certainly didn’t send Joby there. Nor did anyone I command. He just happened to go. Life’s funny that way. Our agreement does not even suggest that I must suspend all My operations elsewhere. I admit that Taubolt’s guardian did yank your sorry bugging device off poor Joby’s back on their way in; but not at My command, nor, as far as I know, with any knowledge of who Joby even is. Keeping you and yours from Taubolt has been his job for centuries. If you don’t like that, you can take it up with him. He’s a very reasonable fellow. Name’s Michael.”
Lucifer grew pale, though whether from fury or fear was anyone’s guess.
“Oh! But you’ve met him, haven’t you,” the Creator said without smiling. “Well, as I said, you’re welcome to fight it out with him, but I’m staying out of it, just as I’m supposed to.” He turned to Gabriel. “Isn’t that right, our official witness?”
“It is,” said Gabriel.
“It . . . is not fair to place Michael between me and the boy,” Lucifer quavered, “no matter where he is, or why.”
“Not fair?” the Creator observed, sounding incredulous.
“You promised the boy would be free to choose for himself,” Lucifer insisted tremulously. “How can he choose, if You hide him where no choice exists but You?”
“Ah,” God said quietly, “you’ve got a point.” He paused reflectively. “But the issue is moot now in any case. Mortal vacations are brief things, and I’m confident that Joby will be well within your reach again by this very evening. If he ever returns to Taubolt, Michael will not stop your servants from following. Until that day, however, if it ever comes, you’ve no more entrance there than you ever did. Our wager has nothing to do with Taubolt unless Joby is there, so don’t even try to find it. Is that clear?”
“I still insist that this entire affair is outrageously inappropriate to the spirit of our agreement.”
“Have your lawyers talk to My lawyers,” the Creator drawled.
Gathering the remains of his dignity, Lucifer leaned forward to tug his pant cuffs up and saw the bird droppings spattering his knee and shoe.
“Pity,” the Creator said soberly. “That fit of shouting a while back; seems you scared the crap out of them.” He shook his head sympathetically. “Such nice clothes too.”
7
( Lessons in Shame )
Malcephalon was the first of Lucifer’s council to arrive. A dark mist seeped across the threshold, flowing like sump water down the length of the room before swirling sluggishly up into a chair at the opposite end of the table. Black vapor poured across the glossy tabletop, resolving into sinuous gray arms, then crept in viscous cascades up the chair back, thickening into dark robes and, finally, the long gray face that Malcephalon had donned and never abandoned after their fall from grace. The demon’s stony black orbs focused down the table’s length to fasten upon his ostensible superior.
“Here already, Bright One?” he murmured balefully. “Well . . . I share your eagerness after such . . . lengthy preparation.”
To Lucifer’s knowledge, Malcephalon had never smiled since their defeat in Heaven. Kallaystra claimed to admire the demon’s subtle mind, but it still surprised Lucifer that such a lovely, vivacious creature should befriend this sack of ashes.
“Greetings, Bright One!” Kallaystra trilled, materializing in the chair next to Malcephalon. “So, the hunt is to be unleashed at last!”
“Yes, Kallaystra. I’ll not spoil your momentum any longer.”
Before she could reply, a rude gasp issued from the empty air halfway down the table, followed by an even ruder curse.
“You’re crushing me, you cow!” snarled a disembodied baritone voice.
“You’d be easier to avoid if you weren’t sitting in my chair!” retorted a shrilly feminine one.
“I was clearly here first!” grunted the male voice in outrage.
“I’m sick to death of your eternal bickering!” rasped a third voice. “There are five other chairs at this table. Why don’t you both just take one of those?”
The Devil’s Triangle, as they were known, appeared then, all piled into the same chair. A skinny, wan, and pockmarked fellow struggled beneath an obese and shrew-faced maiden with dirt-smudged clothes and wild, fiery hair, while an emaciated crone, little more than a jumble of sticks in a long shroud of rotten lace, rode the struggling heap.
“You only sat in this one because you knew I wanted it, Tique!” shrilled the maiden squirming between them. “And you only want it,” she screeched at the crone on her back, “ ’cause I’m already sitting here, Trephila!”
“Age before beauty, you impudent sack of flab!” replied the crone, her voice a thin fugue of rusty hinges and wrenching nails.
It was all an act, of course, in which they never ceased to find amusement.
“Stop disgracing yourselves,” Lucifer commanded wearily. “Or has the Enemy Himself sent you here to ensure our failure?”
“Now see how you’ve both embarrassed us,” Eurodia whined.
“Us?!” her companions protested in unison.
Without transition, the uncouth trio were transformed into three neat, attractive individuals seated side by side in amiable silence. Tique was now a trim and handsome youth in clean white samite; Eurodia a slender Celtic beauty in dark velvets and bright satin ribbons; and Trephila an image of regal splendor, robed in sparkling lace, her shining silver hair elegantly coifed.
“Better?” Trephila asked with arch dignity.
“Much.” Lucifer rose and went to place his hand against the room’s large obelisk. “Williamson,” he said. “Lindwald. Join us.”
At the appearance of Lucifer’s once-human operatives, Eurodia said, “What is this lot doing here? I thought this was to be a serious council.”
“Even lowly functionaries must remain on the same page as the rest of us,” Lucifer retorted. “Have we not seen the littlest bugs derail the largest endeavors?”
Trephila sniffed contemptuously as everyone frowned or looked away in disdain.
Lucifer leaned back imperiously in his chair. “Have we any other concerns to air before getting started?”
“Bright One,” Malcephalon ventured morosely. “I trust I will not offend by asking why the child’s Roundtable escapade has been allowed to go on so long. Has this not left him somewhat strengthened?”
“Ah yes. . . . My lengthy preparations.” Lucifer smiled coldly. “Had I not taken time to observe our quarry unhindered in his own element, would we have discovered his true spiritual lineage, or that of his friends? Had I bowed even then to calls for hastier action, we would certainly have missed the subtler snares laid for us in Taubolt.” He swept the gathering with a challenging look. “While I appreciate the exemplary patience you’ve all demonstrated, I believe the time to act has finally arrived.”
“Well, I second that!” huffed Trephila.
“My own exhaustive observation and analysis,” Lucifer continued, pointedly ignoring her, “has revealed a few particularly useful insights regarding our target. During his furious assault on Lindwald, Joby demonstrated an unexpected and deeply encouraging aptitude for rage, which may turn out to be key. In addition, while some sympathetic resonance with their former lives seems, happily, to have them already heading down the same tragic path they followed last time, Joby’s severe integrity and intense desire to be an agen
t of good, as our Oppressor defines it, opens him beautifully to the self-blame, perfectionism, and blind trust that helped undo him last time.”
“That Arthur!” Tique laughed. “Always leaping into the fire for any pea-brained pauper with a sob story.” He slapped the tabletop, grinning like an idiot. “I’m glad he’s back! This is gonna be a riot!”
Fortifying his patience, Lucifer indulged the small spate of laughter that followed.
“Unfortunately,” Lucifer continued when he had their attention again, “there are some worrisome pitfalls to be aware of. Despite the pervasive shallowness and cynicism we’ve cultivated in the world of late, the child still exhibits an astonishing capacity for imagination and faith. As Lindwald so stupidly proved, he cannot be counted upon to deny his own experience and explain away our careless slips, as most will these days, so we must still proceed with utmost caution and stealth.”
“If he’s so alert to the truth about us,” Tique interrupted, “why not just torment him openly? It’s not like anyone else would believe him if he sought help.” He rolled his eyes. “All this careful skulking about is such a bore!”
“What you suggest might work, were this not Arthur returned,” Lucifer said with barely suppressed irritation. “A soul like his is not broken by handing it the very adventure on which it thrives. On the contrary, the most devastating assault against a child who feels the call to greatness in his very blood is a life of relentless mediocrity. To our great good fortune, no other time or place in history better lends itself to that purpose than this one. We need do little, in fact, but smooth the boy’s way of meaningful challenges until his life offers no hope at all of any least meaning or achievement.”
“Smooth his way!” Eurodia protested. “We’re just to spend the next twenty-five years making him comfortable?”
“This is going to be no fun at all!” Tique groaned.
“Bloody ashes!” Lucifer yelled. “I said nothing about making him comfortable! Could I have made that any clearer?”
“Well, if we’re to smooth his way,” Trephila demanded, “how are we to—”
“Of meaningful challenges, Trephila . . . not of meaningless miseries. That he must never be allowed anything truly interesting or important to do doesn’t mean we shouldn’t bury him in empty busywork and pointless obligations. While we avert any major crises in his own life, those around him ought to suffer terribly in ways he is utterly powerless to alter. Whenever he trusts, I want that trust betrayed, but only in ways too petty to pursue. His brightest achievements must never be opposed, only dismissed with empty applause followed by suffocating indifference.
“When he is reduced to ghostly impotence, defeated by no enemy he can point to but himself, left with no shred of faith in anything whatsoever or any meaningful contribution to make, despising his own existence even as he berates himself for ingratitude in the face of so many blessings, then, and only then, will I be able to remake him in our image. This is the one course our Enemy is unlikely to have anticipated. Now, does everyone understand?”
“I am so relieved!” Eurodia laughed. “You had me quite worried, Bright One.”
“Beyond all this, I trust it is obvious,” Lucifer continued, barely suppressing his impatience with all of them, “that having discovered our opponent’s invasive coastal sanctuary, Joby must be allowed nowhere near the coast again at any time for any reason. We need waste no valuable time parsing the Creator’s convoluted strategies there if they are just allowed to rust unvisited. Is that clear?”
“Do you take us for simpletons?” Tique asked.
Resisting the temptation to answer, Lucifer merely turned to Kallaystra and said, “I want you to start fanning his parents’ troubles back into flame, of course. Nap time’s over. Get that teacher into position, and make sure our long-suffering priest doesn’t despair of Joby’s eventual return to the fold. Richter still has a part to play.
“Malcephalon,” he said without waiting for her reply, “I want you whispering that wise counsel you’re so renowned for into Joby’s ear night and day. Teach him everything there is to know about shame, self-loathing, and despair. And by all means, let’s do unravel his Roundtable now that it serves no further purpose. Lindwald may be of some use to you there.
“Tique, Eurodia, Trephila. A flood of petty misfortune and frustration will be very useful now. I imagine you’ll enjoy that. But remember, nothing meaningful enough to get his teeth into.
“Lindwald, your good fortune in winning Joby’s confidence saved you once, but speak one syllable to him which Malcephalon or I have not dictated, and you’ll grace Hell’s dinner table faster than you can say, Pop-Tart. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Williamson,” Lucifer said, as if in afterthought, “you may continue as our security camera.”
Williamson, whose face had long ago gone purple, said nothing.
“Are we finished?” Trephila asked impatiently.
“For now.”
“Good!” she cackled, suddenly the hag again.
Eurodia and Tique resumed their ruder forms as well.
“I get first shot at his bicycle!” Tique exclaimed.
“You only claimed that because I want his bicycle!” Eurodia whined.
Their voices were the last part of them to vanish.
Williamson left the meeting consumed in a fury like few he’d ever known. “Lowly functionaries!” Little bugs! That might apply to nitwits like Lindwald, but Lucifer’s damn campaign would have crashed and burned months ago if not for himself! Hadn’t Williamson been the one to inform Lucifer of Lindwald’s screwups in time to remedy them? Hadn’t he alerted Lucifer to Joby’s hidden lineage? Hadn’t Williamson been the one to connect Taubolt with the Creator’s dream of “Camelot”?
His “own exhaustive observation and analysis”? Williamson thought in outrage. How dare he?! Their security camera indeed! This was the last straw! It was time Hell’s whole useless ruling class learned a lesson about those little bugs they relied on to keep the dirt from under their own celestial nails. If it took him years, he’d find some way to win Lucifer’s precious wager all by himself. Let them call him a bug then!
California’s Indian summer had been canceled this year. August’s dry heat had surrendered overnight to September’s crisp chill, as if summer were just too tired to fight about it. That was pretty much how Joby felt too, as he rode toward school for his first day of fifth grade. There’d been trouble at his dad’s construction site almost the moment they’d returned from Taubolt. The people who’d hired his father’s company weren’t happy anymore, and his dad was being held responsible. His father had been grumpier than ever, always telling Joby he should “stand on his own two feet, and be a man,” as if Joby were standing on his hands or something. His parents were angry at each other half the time now too, and Joby didn’t understand that either, though more and more often it seemed to be his fault somehow.
A week after their trip to Taubolt, his dad had backed over Joby’s bike while leaving for work one morning, smashing it completely. His parents had been furious, and threatened not to replace it. No one had believed him when he’d sworn to having no idea how it got there. Joby had loved that bike! It had still been practically new! Why would he have dumped it right under the wheels of his father’s truck where any idiot could’ve seen it would get run over? He’d even asked Benjamin if he’d borrowed it without asking, but Benjamin had sworn he’d never touched it. Eventually, his dad had broken down and gotten him another one, mostly because they were tired of driving him around, but the new bike was only a crummy three-speed, and an ugly yellow color at that.
Since then, Joby had tried harder than ever to be good, but he couldn’t seem to make it through ten minutes without tripping on something, or tearing his clothing, or bumping his head. At first, his mother had just smiled and called it “growing pains.” But after he’d smashed a few juice pitchers and dinner plates, she had stopped smiling, and begun to act a
s if he were doing it on purpose. So much for her “perfect little boy.” In fact, his mother had become so nervous and irritable that by now Joby automatically tiptoed whenever she was around. She didn’t seem even to want Joby going out of the house anymore. Just this morning she’d tried to insist on driving him to school, then told him, “You be careful on that bike!” at least twenty times.
No doubt about it, Joby was glad to have someplace to go again besides his house. Now that everyone was back at school he’d get the Roundtable going like it had been, and that would fix everything else. He wasn’t sure how, but he felt sure it would.
Approaching an intersection two blocks from school, he pulled his back brake handle to slow down, but nothing happened. He instinctively pulled the front brake handle, and that did nothing either. He looked back in surprise to see what was wrong with his brake shoes, momentarily forgetting the intersection.
A loud screech brought his gaze back around in time to see a beaten old town car on the cross street accelerating straight toward him! Joby turned his bike so sharply that he nearly flipped over, but the huge car clipped him anyway as it roared by without slowing down. Against a vague, astonished fear, and a barely conscious struggle to reclaim control of his body as it flew toward the sidewalk, Joby had only one clear thought: His parents would never get him another bike.
Frank paced up and down the shiny pastel hallway like a shooting-gallery duck, careful to avoid Miriam’s bee-stung eyes. They’d been examining Joby since before Frank’s arrival half an hour ago. Was it supposed to take that long?
Along with everything else, Frank hated how perfectly this validated Miriam’s damn dreams. Her nightmares had returned in mid-July. He’d done everything he could to be understanding, but she seemed to expect him to help her tie Joby to a chair until her sleep improved! She hadn’t wanted Frank to replace Joby’s bike. Now Joby had virtually handed her the final word, and she was acting as if that made the accident all Frank’s fault somehow. Half of him wanted to let Joby walk until high school if that’s how long it took him to learn a little caution. The other half didn’t want to let Miriam win. She’d been having these damned nightmares for months after all. So one of them finally comes true? What did that prove? Law of averages, right?
The Book of Joby Page 16
