by J. R. Mabry
Frater Eleazar raised his hand. “There was a monk and a woman. He came into Randy’s—”
“Magickal names, please!”
“Fine—into Frater Benedict’s room just as I was gathering his stuff together. I jumped in the bed and pretended to be asleep.” He leaned in and whispered. “I think they thought I was him.”
“A monk, you said.”
“Yeah.”
Larch rolled his eyes and sighed. “Describe this…monk.”
“I don’t know,” Frater Eleazar said, looking at the ceiling. “Tall, tall as you. Brown hair, balding, kind of Irish looking. Looked like a nice guy.”
Larch continued to drum his fingers. He did not own a gun, but the fantasy of pulling one out and blowing a hole in any one of his brothers at this moment was an enormously satisfying one. “He is a nice guy,” Larch said. “And obviously much smarter than the lot of you.”
He rose and paced to the window. When he spoke again, it was with his back turned to them. “Get out of my sight, all of you. I’m disgusted with you.”
“But Frater Khams is making bean dip,” Frater Charybdis protested.
“Out!” he said, without turning around.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see them rise, heads hung low in shame, tottering to the kitchen to put things away. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, counting to seventy-five.
The doorbell rang. Larch glanced at his watch. Who the fuck could that be? he thought. It’s nearly eleven.
Most of the brothers were filing downstairs, but just as the last of them descended out of sight, Frater Charybdis emerged again with a stranger in tow.
He was tall, lithe, and carried himself with an arrogant and exaggerated grace that was just a tad bit fey. He was also handsome enough to be a model—with sculptured cheekbones and wavy black hair that seemed to defy gravity.
He was also young. About half Larch’s own age, he estimated, and yet he carried himself with an authority far beyond his years. An authority, Larch guessed, that was purchased rather than earned.
“I’m so sorry to have disturbed your evening,” the young man said, offering his hand. “I am Alan Dane.”
“Dane?” Larch looked at him again. “Of the San Francisco Danes?”
“The same. May I have a seat?” He looked at the seating options and seemed to have immediately regretted his request, but Larch waved him into one of the less objectionable options and took his regular chair for himself.
“Well, I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Dane,” Larch managed a smile. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I understand you and your…friends”—he smiled, apparently realizing he was ignorant of the proper nomenclature among magickians—“have succeeded in a most ambitious feat.”
“What feat would that be?” Larch stopped smiling.
“A feat that resulted in the disappearance of a large amount of fruit.”
“It could be that you heard something of the sort,” Larch said cautiously. “But from where?”
Dane smiled. “Let us just say a little bird told me.”
“A bird?”
“Yes. A bird named Articiphus.”
Larch’s mouth sprang open, and he felt a little queasy. In a few moments, the initial shock had passed, and the ability to speak English was restored to him. “Articiphus—the demon Articiphus—told you about what we have done?”
“He did.” A bored smugness settled over Dane’s face, but it was so obviously affected that instead of inspiring awe, it only made Larch angry. Still, he was confounded, not at all clear on the powers or the dangers of the man before him. “I find that…extraordinary, Mr. Dane. But I am unclear why it should interest you.”
“Oh, but I am very interested indeed. You see, I have dedicated my life to a philanthropic endeavor that I have assiduously pursued in my own small way, saving one life at a time. Your…experiment has inspired me. With your assistance, I see the promise of helping millions.”
“That’s very noble, Mr. Dane, but we are committed to our own project of…world change.”
Dane grinned. “I love a good game of dueling euphemisms, don’t you? I suggest that our ends are not mutually exclusive and that by advancing my agenda, you may advance your own.” Dane looked down at his hands, a minute dropping of the guard, an intimation of confidence. “Of course, I have no way of knowing what your ends are, but I would not be surprised if they might not be easier to achieve with some funds at your disposal. I dare say your…headquarters, or whatever you call this place, could use some work.” He glanced up at Larch. “No offense intended, I assure you.”
Dane rose and sauntered over to the bookshelf, feigning interest in the titles. “What I am suggesting, Mr. Larch, is becoming your patron. Magickians often had patrons in ages past, no? They did work of interest to the patron, but the support also allowed them to pursue their own research as well, isn’t that right?”
Larch hated himself for it, but he was interested. Very interested. Many of his brothers were, indeed, very concerned about the state of the Lodge house, and certainly they would advance their work much more quickly if they could dispense with their day jobs. Larch rose and joined Dane by the bookcase. “Just what sort of patronage are we discussing? I mean, in dollar amounts?”
“I suggest 100,000 dollars for three months, with an option to renew for the same amount at the end of that time.”
Larch nodded. “And what sort of…work would you like us to pursue?”
Dane smiled a satisfied smile. “Well, fruit is all well and good, but I’d like to make something a little larger disappear.” He held up a cautious hand. “But I want to make sure we get it right. I suggest another experiment.”
Larch nodded. “Yes, just what we were planning. Perhaps our goals are compatible after all. Suppose we try something…a little larger?”
34
Susan surfaced from the soft sea of sleep to the bouncing of the mattress. Dylan was snoring beside her, and she rolled over to make room for Tobias, who often climbed up on their bed in the middle of the night to claim his favorite spot between them.
She was about to drift off again when she noticed the reek of whiskey. A little startled, she wondered how Tobias had gotten into the liquor, and she turned on her bedside light.
There, nestling into the space between her and her husband, was Richard, fully clothed and apparently drunk into near oblivion. She reached over him and tapped her husband on the head until he opened an eye. Dylan didn’t move, but his eye rolled about, taking in the situation.
Richard turned, threw an arm over Susan’s waist, and leaned his head on Dylan’s chest. Dylan looked up at his wife and chuckled. “Ah guess a little guy just needs some snuggles sometimes.”
Susan put her hand to her mouth to stifle a chuckle of her own. “Oh, Richard. You really do need someone to hold you right now, don’t you?” She looked at her husband again. “What should we do?”
“Ah think we should turn off the light and go to sleep.”
“And Richard?”
“So long as he doesn’t puke in our bed, Ah’m good.”
Susan’s face registered a complex mixture of pity, worry, and incredulity. Then, it resolved into compassion as she leaned down and kissed Richard on the top of his head. She did the same for her husband, turned off the light, and pulling Richard’s hand closer into her tummy, went back to sleep.
SUNDAY
35
The next day, Kat joined the friars for Sunday morning mass. She seemed grim and distant but there just the same. Dylan didn’t think it was a particularly inspiring service but reminded himself that they all had a lot on their minds.
As soon as the service ended, Brian came to the door to announce that breakfast was served. Except for some quiet grunting, few words were spoken until they were all seated.
Brian placed a large steaming bowl of scrambled eggs on the lazy Susan before them, followed by a tray of still-sizzling bacon. Biscuits foll
owed, with apple butter and honey in small matching bowls.
The sight of such beautiful food had an analgesic and enlivening effect on the whole house, and even Tobias begged with renewed vigor.
“Susan,” said Terry, his mouth full of biscuit, “have you had a chance to look at that flash drive?”
“Yeah. You’ve got a couple of articles by that Larch guy—actually fascinating stuff, although it looks like he’s still working on them—on chaos magick and Whiteheadian process theism.”
“Really?” Richard’s first word of the morning. “Can you print that out for me?”
“Good morning, sleepyhead. Welcome to the conversation! Yes, of course I will.”
“What else? Was the roster intact?”
“Yes,” said Susan, selecting a piece of bacon. “Only five names, though. Still, it’s something to start with.”
“Hey…” Kat was staring into space but waving her hand for attention.
“What’s up?” asked Dylan, scooping a mountain of eggs onto his plate. He made to scoop another spoonful, but Brian reached over and slapped his hand.
“I had this dream…” she scowled, trying to bring it back up.
“Is this a Dream dream, or just a dream?” Susan asked, guardedly.
“I’m not sure. I was in a field, and there were lots of holes in the ground—snake holes. And I was digging them up, because there was treasure buried in them.”
“The group your brother belonged to was the Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent,” Richard offered.
Susan blinked. “Maybe we should be looking for treasure!” She giggled, and then stopped mid-gig. “Wait, maybe we really should be looking for…money?”
“What good would that do?” asked Brian.
“Well, we don’t know what the Lodge is up to,” Susan thought out loud.
“We know they have it in for God,” Richard interrupted and related some of the cryptic conversation he had had with Larch.
“Well, lots of people have it in for God,” Susan noted, “but we still don’t know why they were willing to do something so dangerous in order to rid the world of avocados. It seems so senseless.”
“Larch made out that it was an experiment.”
“Okay, so what are they really trying to accomplish?” Susan asked. “What are they going to do when they’re not experimenting? What is the real thing?”
“You mean, what’s gonna happen when it’s not about avocados?” Dylan interjected.
“Exactly,” Susan nodded slowly.
Richard’s head swam with momentary vertigo.
“Wait, I’m still lost,” Terry was shaking his head. “What’s that got to do with money?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Susan said, “but let’s see if they’re working alone or with someone else. If they’re working on someone’s behalf, I’ll bet there’s money involved. If we can figure out who that is, we might have another clue as to what they’re up to.” She looked at Richard for approval.
He was staring off into space, thinking. Then he noticed them all staring at him. “Uh, yeah, good idea. Let’s do it.”
They looked at each other, a little worried. Dylan muttered an “Okay…” obviously disturbed at how much wind had gone out of Richard’s sails.
“So…assignments?” asked Terry, prompting Richard.
Richard shook his head to clear it. “Right. Well, obviously, Susan should get to work on the money thing—”
“I can help,” Kat said. “I used to work for Wells Fargo’s online banking department.”
“No shit,” said Richard, impressed. “Okay, the rest of us…the rest of us…um, Terry, why don’t you work with the angel, and see what you can figure out. I’ll do some research on the sigil we found at Randy’s place—see what we can find out about the demon he employed to make the body switch.”
“And me and Brian?” asked Dylan.
“We need groceries,” Brian said, “and need I remind you, I don’t drive.”
Richard smiled weakly, “Well, you can’t feed an army without food. Grocery shopping it is. Any objections?”
Dylan scowled at him, but said nothing.
“Don’t take it so hard, Boobie,” Brian said, kissing Dylan on his bald spot. “I’ll get you ice cream while we’re out.”
In spite of the teasingly patronizing nature of the remark, Dylan brightened.
“That’s my man,” Susan said, patting his hand as she rose from the table. “Let’s get to work,” she said.
36
Bishop Tom lazed in the shower longer than he normally did. Sleep had proved evasive last night, and he was having a devil of a time waking up. Every time it seemed he might drift off, his thought returned to that damnable FedEx package and the fate of his friars hanging on the whim of Andrus Mellert.
Mellert was a good man. Quiet, but even. Tom had never felt much affection for him, but he liked him well enough. He was a moderate, dismissive neither of tradition nor of the novel pastoral situations that were presenting themselves of late.
Tom tried to trust Mellert. He tried to trust God. In the end, though, he had to admit that he just wasn’t feeling that trusting.
Clad only in his bathrobe, he padded along the linoleum hallway back to his cell, his slim toiletries case in hand. He fished in it for his key and opened the door.
Then he grinned. For there, in his path, was a FexEd package. He picked it up and shut the door behind him. A Post-it note was stuck to the underside, reading, “I prayed. No answer. You decide. —A.M.”
Tom felt the anxiety rush out of him. He hugged the package to his chest and exhaled two great lungfuls of pent-up angst. Then he threw the package on his tiny desk and set about dressing for breakfast and morning mass, feeling for all the world like he had just dodged a bullet.
37
Terry peered in the door of the guest room and saw the body of Randall Webber resting quietly. He pushed the door open wide and, entering the room, placed a small stack of books on the floor near the bed. Then he opened the blinds and the two windows overlooking the fruit trees that adorned the backyard.
The guest room was small but comfortable. Webber lay on a twin-size bed, a wine-crate nightstand beside him. Terry picked up a glass of water from the night table and carried it down the narrow, winding hallway to the bathroom, where he emptied it and filled it again with fresh water. Then, taking a bottle from the medicine cabinet, he went back to where the sleeping angel lay.
He placed the water glass on the nightstand and removed two of the small orange pills from the bottle. With his thumbnail, he crushed the tablets on the nightstand, and then carefully transferred the powder to the water glass using his fingers. He cursed himself momentarily for not doing this more scientifically, with a mortar and pestle and warm water, but he was too busy to indulge himself. The powder dissolved into the water readily enough despite its temperature, and Terry lifted the glass to the magickian’s lips and slowly and carefully emptied it.
Checking his watch, he noted the time and went to the bathroom, both to have his requisite morning shit and to kill some time. Having finished, and read several pages of the current Christian Century, Terry returned to the room. Satisfied that nothing had changed, he sat down on an empty space near the foot of the bed. Tobias passed in the hall then doubled back and sniffed at Terry.
“This is likely to be scary, Toby. Better go downstairs.”
Tobias panted and licked at Terry’s hand. “Go, get!” Terry said, more emphatically. That, Tobias understood, and he dutifully made his way out of the room. In moments, Terry heard the clack of his nails on the back stairs.
Terry sat for several minutes centering himself. He watched the trees out the window sway lazily against the bleak gray sky of the Berkeley winter.
It had been twenty minutes since he had given the magickian the Valium. He waited a few more minutes just to be on the safe side. Ten milligrams of Valium was nothing to sneeze at, but he wanted to make sure the drug was at its optim
um power before taking any action.
At the half-hour mark, Terry sucked in his breath. “Okay, here goes.” He reached through the slit in his cassock and pulled a pair of foam earplugs out of his pants pocket. Fitting them in his ears, he shut his eyes and reached out in his mind’s eye toward the strong, brightly luminous violet ball before him. As he had already done several times, he carefully connected the energy source—the soul of the angel—to the central nervous system of the magickian.
Once again, the result was immediate, and violent. The mouth of the magickian opened wide, and a wail fit to wake the dead filled the air.
Downstairs, Susan looked up at the sound of it. “Houston, we have contact,” she said. Then she reached out and touched Kat lightly on the cheek. “Stay here,” she said, reading Kat’s body language. Kat was poised to rush upstairs, to comfort, to protect, to…just be there. “We have work to do here, and he’s in good hands with Terry. Besides, Terry needs time and space to work with him without…well, distraction.” Her look was apologetic, but Kat understood. Just then, Tobias, who had been licking himself by the back door, lifted his head and howled in sympathy.
Susan laughed at the cacophony and squeezed Kat’s shoulder. Blinking back tears, Kat returned her gaze to the computer screen. Susan knew she was only faking paying attention to what she was doing, but it was all right; she would be able to focus again eventually, Susan was sure. With another glance toward the ceiling, she looked again at her own screen.
Terry gritted his teeth and waited out the scream. It was a formidable howl, and despite the earplugs, painful. But Terry knew that what he was feeling was nothing compared to the pain the angel was experiencing. He was sure that the magickian had had trouble adjusting to the angel’s subtle body, and it would have been very uncomfortable indeed, but it was nothing compared to the anguish this angel must be experiencing trying to interface with such a gross, heavy, and lethargic body as humans have. Terry imagined it must be like performing surgery with sandpaper instead of a scalpel. The analogy made him cringe, but to hear the angel’s howl, he imagined it was apt.
