“Afraid not, Dean,” he said somberly, “We are preparing for a war to which there has been no equal upon the Earth nor within the Heavens.”
“What, like ‘end of days’ kind of bad?”
“No,” he replied with the utmost sincerity. “Considerably worse, I’m afraid.”
“Right,” I muttered with a football size lump in my throat.
“Your place is on the battlefield. You are a Deacon of the Seventh Realm serving under Abernethy, your archdeacon. You must return to them.”
“Return?” I asked. “Didn’t realize I’d been there in the first place.”
With a classic emotionless expression, he said, “Let us just say that you didn’t make for very good company during your initial stay.”
“Ah, Ok,” I said making the mental note that I really needed to figure out what the hell that meant. “Orders?”
“Report to the Quartermaster — one of the Earthly gates of the Seventh Realm. Learn what you must of our ways. Abernethy will guide you. It is imperative we locate the anakim. The new generation has reached maturity. Time is more than precious, as you will quickly learn.”
Placing his empty goblet on the table, he turned and walked toward the hearth. Abruptly stopping, he looked back and said, “Oh, and please inform John that I would be most appreciative if he prepared a batch of his orange butter scones for my next visit. They’re quite good.”
Absolutely dumbfounded, I muttered, “Ah, Ok — scones. John?”
“John O’Dargan,” he said continuing toward the hearth. “You will know him as Rooster. Head cleric of the Seventh Realm. Unique fellow. Excellent cook. Bit of a temper.”
Stepping headlong into the roaring fire, he simply vanished in a brilliant flash of white light. Completely unimpressed, I muttered, “Show Off.”
Again left to my own devices, I stood there for a long second wondering just how the hell to get out of the rotunda. There were no doors, and there was no way in hell I was stepping into the bonfire elevator. Seemed like a really bad idea. Even for me. Luckily I didn’t have much time to ponder on it because the sound of grinding rock was evident to my rear. Turning just in time to see a crude doorway morph in the solid rock wall, I figured it was exit stage left.
“Orange butter scones,” I muttered as I stepped through the portal. “What the hell …”
There was a swirling vortex of blinding light followed by darkness, and just like that — I was somewhere else.
And it was cold.
Typical.
Chapter 15
“Hey! Pal! You can’t be here!”
Step ping through the portal, I was met with a gust of bitter cold wind followed by a second wave of intense light — and some asshole with a thick New England accent screaming at me.
“You there! The park’s closed! Get the hell outta’ here before I call the cops!”
There’s nothing quite like the Boston accent. Poetry and profanity all wrapped up in a steady stream of dropped syllables and alien inflection. Been a while since I’d heard it, having left when I was eighteen and never making the return trip. Always planned to go back for a baseball game. But the sting of growing up with the continued let down of the Red Sox sort of took the glamour out of it. Unfortunately, that never dissuaded me from being a diehard fan. Something about misery and company.
Bastards.
“Relax, JFK, I heard you the first time,” I grumbled squinting from the bright light pouring down from above. “Go pahk a cah’ or something.”
Rising to my feet, I brushed a thin layer of snow off my clothing. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Although the entire field was covered in snow it was unmistakable. The Green Monster looming in left field — the ginormous CITGO sign blazing in the night sky — the crazy triangle in center field — the sea of bleachers — the Pesky Pole.
I was at Fenway Park. Sitting directly behind home plate no less. In the very seat my Dad used to bring me to as a kid. Every spring. Some of my fondest memories. Never came back after he died. Wasn’t the same.
Smirking to myself, I muttered, “Classic Cloakb — ah — Stephen. Classic Stephen.”
Although it was nighttime, the stadium lights reflecting off the snow had the place lit up like it was mid-afternoon. An absolute spectacle. With exception, of course, to the portly night watchman angrily waddling his way toward my seat through the snow-tufted aisles. Gut proudly hanging over the belt of his rent-a-cop uniform, he relentlessly puffed on a cigarette as he pulled to a halt within a couple steps of me.
Short of breath and clearly pissed that I’d interrupted his routine of eating and smoking, he grumbled like only a true Bostonian could, “What a’ you fuck’n deaf? I said, You — Can’t — Be — Here.”
As several smart-ass replies were about to fly from my mouth in rapid succession, I felt the cloak begin to stir. Then instantly, and without my summoning, it manifested and billowed about my shoulders in a vibrant show of force.
Before I had the chance to say anything, Mall Cop dropped his cigarette and jumped backward as a look of sheer panic washed over him. Arms flailing uncontrollably, he toppled over the row of seats to his immediate rear, sending his three hundred plus pounds of donut filled flab crashing to the waiting concrete below. As his tough guy demeanor vanished, he burst into tears and began to blabber nonsensically like a small child.
“No … no, no, no … Y-you … W-why are y-y-you h-here? I-I d-didn’t brbreak any rules,” he repeatedly muttered as I watched in awe. Quickly scampering to his feet several steps from me, he threw both hands out to his front like he was trying to hold me at bay. “No. No, no, no. I’ve f-f-followed the rules. P-pl-please No.”
“Take it easy there, Ponch,” I said as delicately as possible trying to calm him down a bit. “Why don’t you have another smoke. Maybe a Twinkie … or several. Sit down for a minute. Take a load off. If that’s possible.”
Now that he was up close and personal, there was something about him that I couldn’t quite wrap my head around. It was off. Faint as hell, but it looked like a soft glow of reddish energy pulsing around his rotund body.
“You’re not here to sm-smite me?” He apprehensively mumbled while lowering his hands and starting to calm down a bit.
“Smite you? I barely even know you,” I said thinking that was one hell of an odd question. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“You wear the cloak,” he said fumbling to light another cigarette with shaking hands. “You’re a-a-a Deacon. I c-can See you.” Successfully lighting his smoke, he sucked on it like it was the last cigarette on the face of the Earth. “When you guys show up it’s game over. Everybody knows that.”
“Ah, right. The whole game over thing,” I replied having no frigg’n idea what he was going on about. Deacons don’t render judgment on humans and, although one fat son of a bitch, this joker was no nephilim. So what the hell was I missing?
“But I’ve been good, bossman. Done everything the Guild guys told me. Minding my own business and all. Even got myself a job,” he proudly said wiping the snow off his uniform.
Although I still had no clue what was happening, I figured it best to play along with Chubs. Evidently the Deacons had a rep to maintain. Giving him a stern look, I said, “Right. Well, tell you what, chief. Consider this a warning. Sort of like a courtesy call.” Just for effect I willed the ashen stone gauntlets into being and with a spectral flash they formed on my hands and ignited with a fine layer of white flame. “Break the rules and I’ll be back. Fry your sorry ass like a bacon double cheeseburger. We clear?”
Scared shitless, he dropped his second cigarette and stepped backward. “Yes … Yes, sir! We’re clear. Whatever you say, bossman.”
“Good,” I said feeling rather satisfied. “Now get the hell out of here. And quit smoking. It’s bad for you. In fact, do some damn sit-ups once in a while. And lay off the fast food.”
In something between elation and absolutely fright,
he abruptly turned and ran like hell. To be fair, it was more of a speedy waddle but the intent was clearly there. As he reached the end of the aisle and disappeared down one of the exit ramps, I stood in awe for a few seconds wondering what the hell just happened. Evidently, I had a few things to learn about Deacon operating procedures on Earth.
“First things first,” I muttered while willing the cloak and gauntlets into retreat.
As the cloak faded from my shoulders, I found myself wearing a black, knee length peacoat and matching wool watch cap. By the grace of God, I was also sporting my favorite Levi’s and brown leather work boots. Really, really happy that I had shoes on, I figured it best to get on with it. I needed to find the Quartermaster.
Thinking it would have been really nice if Stephen had actually sent me there instead of here, I started making my way down the snowy aisle to the ramp. Pausing to take one last look at the Green Monster in all its wondrous glory, I muttered, “That’s funny. I don’t remember there ever being seats on top of the Monster. Must’ve been added last season.”
Making the mental note to look into that later, I turned down the ramp and started walking toward the exit. Reaching into my memories of visiting Fenway with my Father, I focused on some of our pre-game rituals. Getting a clear picture in my thoughts, I took three bold steps and found myself instantly outside the park, standing on the corner of Lansdowne and Brookline, staring at the Caskn’ Flagon.
“Dad’s favorite pre-game watering hole,” I muttered somewhat fondly. “Still here. Too bad it’s closed. I could go for some wings. And a beer. Make that several beers.”
Thinking about food for the first time in who knows how long, I realized that I was really frigg’n hungry. My stroll down memory lane was rudely interrupted by a familiar whisper-like shriek accompanied with a blast of wind to the face.
“Ok … I’m going,” I grumbled.
Although I still had no idea where it came from nor what caused it, I’d learned to take the hint. Keep moving. Turning right, I started walking down Lansdowne Street. For some reason it felt like the way to go.
Lit only by the neon signs from the various bars lining the street, it was completely deserted. Everything was closed. Must have been late. Persistent waves of howling, frigid air whipped through the buildings, creating an ominous series of mini-cyclones with the loose snow strewn about the sidewalks. Nasty weather. Felt like late winter in New England.
Pulling the peacoat collar up around my neck, I steadily moved down the empty street, mesmerized by the city lights in the distance. The familiar landmark of the Prudential building jutted far into the night, defining the skyline. Lit up like a beacon, it was a sight I remembered well. My Father always insisted on parking at the Prudential so he wouldn’t have to deal with the traffic around Fenway. I could probably walk there in my frigg’n sleep from here.
Lost in thought, I longingly gazed at the building for a moment when I noticed something peculiar about the skyline to its immediate right. There was a distinct patch of sky that seemed to almost shimmer in the darkness. Sort of like the air above a hot fire. Stretching clear into the clouds, it was subtle but definitely there. Like a veil. As the whisper-like shriek buzzed my tower again, I figured that was probably where I needed to go. Judging by the location, it looked to be somewhere in the Back Bay area. With my stomach groaning with hunger pains, I hooked at right at the end of Lansdowne and moved down Ipswich.
Reaching into my memories, I focused on the park near the Boylston Street bridge that crossed the Muddy River where my Father and I used to stop occasionally. Getting a clear picture in my thoughts, I took three bold steps and instantly found myself standing there. Trying to pinpoint the obscurity in the sky, I moved down Boylston and hung a right on Hemenway. Maneuvering through the adjoining rows of Victorian brownstones, I reached the intersection at Westland Ave in a matter of minutes.
Catching a glimpse of a digital clock hung in the window of a convenience store on the corner, it read ‘3:32 Am.’ That would explain why the streets were absolutely devoid of traffic. It also noted the date to be ‘Sunday, 1/5.’ Seemed it had only been a week since my departure from the land of the living. Looking to my left, the source of the shimmering veil was coming from the far end of Westland Ave near the Mass Ave intersection. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I started making my way down the deserted, snow laden street as chunks of ice crunched beneath my boots.
“Man this weather sucks,” I grumbled.
Thinking it would have been nice if this Quartermaster joint was somewhere in the tropics or anywhere where it didn’t snow for that matter, I kept moving. The street was lined with brownstone apartment buildings on either side, with the occasional laundry mat, pizza place, and convenience store sprinkled in. Within about a hundred feet of the intersection with Mass Ave and Symphony, I noticed an elderly gentleman, sitting on a foldout chair, casually puffing on a pipe directly outside an old, battered door to a would be apartment building.
Unlike the doors to the other buildings, which were set on stone stoops, this one was sitting squarely at street level. Thinking it rather odd that he be hanging out in the frigid weather at three thirty in the morning, I slowly approached him. Bundled in a burly black wool coat complete with thick scarf wrapped around his neck, tweed touring cap, and fingerless gloves, he simply sat there blowing smoke rings into the wintry air.
Getting to within a few steps from him I pulled to a halt, and noticed that he had one of those ‘Hello, My Name Is’ nametags stuck to the front of his coat. In red marker he’d written the name ‘Fred’ in capital letters. Not acknowledging my presence in the least, he continued to stare into the night sky sucking on his pipe.
“Ah, Hello, Fred,” I finally said after standing there for a few awkward seconds.
“Hello, schmendrick,” he replied without so much as looking in my direction, in what sounded like a harsh New York accent dripping of sarcasm. Knocking out the contents of his pipe against the chair, he turned and locked eyes with me. “About time you showed up. So glad you could make it. They’re waiting for you inside.”
Dismissively looking away he produced a bag of tobacco from inside his coat and very carefully repacked his pipe.
Although I wasn’t sure what a ‘schmendrick’ was, I got the sense that it wasn’t exactly a term of endearment. Seemed my man Fred wasn’t a fan.
“Thanks, Fred,” I muttered in a less than friendly tone. “Good talk.”
As he mumbled something else of an unpleasant nature under his breath, I turned my attention toward the door. It was old. Really old. Rusted metal reinforced with several large rivets and laden with sporadic pronounced dents. Oddly, the doorknob was of perfectly polished bronze, which stood out like a sore thumb. Although there was no locking mechanism, a Chi-Rho was carefully etched into its center. Amidst the rust and dents there was also a series of Enochian glyphs faintly inlaid in the center of the door itself. In small, military-like typeface, the word ‘QUARTERMASTER’ was stamped neatly within the top of the wooden frame. Although subtle, there was a definite hum emanating from beyond the threshold.
“Ok, I’m going in,” I affirmably said giving Fred another glance.
“Good for you, schmendrick,” he snidely replied staring into the night sky while effortlessly blowing a perfect ring of smoke.
As my hand was about to grasp the doorknob, he said, “You know, they think you’re a savior of some sort. The Seventh of Seven — the one that’s going to restore the Balance once and for all. The turn of the tide. But I know the truth, schmendrick.” Turning to look at me with an intense squint, he coldly grumbled, “They’re wrong.”
“Thanks for that,” I awkwardly replied after a long moment. “Anymore pearls of wisdom before I go?”
Completely ignoring me, he rose to his feet and began to hobble down the empty street grumbling under his breath the whole time.
“Another time then,” I called after him. “Great meeting you. I guess. Not so much.”
Watching my disgruntled new buddy fade into the shadows, I figured it was time to check out the Quartermaster. Things clearly couldn’t get any stranger. Again turning toward the door, I reached down and grasped the knob. As my hand made contact with the Chi-Rho, the door instantly swung open and I realized I was wrong.
The strange meter was not yet pegged.
Not even close.
Chapter 16
Boldly crossing the threshold to the otherworldly outpost, I felt a subtle wave of energy wash over me as I pierced the veil. Fully in the room, my initial impression of the surreal setting laid out before me was something to the effect of Middle Earth meets a Prohibition era Irish pub powered by a DeLorean with a flux capacitor.
It was insane. Almost too much for reality to accept and allow to exist.
The mouth watering aroma of delectable food sizzling on the massive stone hearth behind the mighty ‘L shaped’ bar was matched only by the incredible sound of acoustic blues and gravelly voice of the bearded dude in the far corner banging on a guitar. Oddly, I think a small feral pig was sitting on the stool next to him tapping a tiny hoof to the rhythm.
It was peculiar. Even for here.
Making the mental note to find out what in the hell that was all about, I continued with my observation. The place was packed despite the fact it was three thirty on a Sunday morning. And by packed I mean by hundreds of people. It was an absolutely massive expanse, which made no sense whatsoever. Gauging from the surrounding buildings on the street, it should have been a hole in the wall. It was like the laws of physics didn’t apply. In fact, from where I stood I couldn’t even see the end of the bar.
To be fair, that was probably due to the branches of the ginormous tree growing out of the floor obstructing my view. Easily the largest oak I’d ever laid eyes on, it was surrounded by a brilliant clear stream that flowed steadily toward the back of the room and out of sight.
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 14
