by J. R. Mabry
“I have a question, not a statement.” Bishop Van Patton stood.
Mellert nodded.
“I think it would be impossible for me to approve of the lifestyle of the Blackfriars,” she said. “But on the other hand, I can think of things about each and every one of you that I don’t like. No offense intended, of course.” She smiled, and several of the bishops guffawed. “My point is that I don’t approve 100 percent of anyone’s lifestyle—my own included. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t acknowledge the validity of our ministries. Why do we not allow the same grace for the Order of Saint Raphael?”
She sat, and Tom nodded, looking hopefully at the assembled prelates. Bishop Hammet rose and waited to be recognized. “My dear girl,” he said condescendingly, “it is not as if we are straining at gnats, here. We are all sinners, of course, but we are talking about a matter of degree, aren’t we? The Blackfriars exhibit a magnitude of heresy, apostasy, and licentiousness that cannot be ignored or suffered to continue. We are not talking about godly but misunderstood misfits, but willful and open rebellion against the most foundational moral standards required by the Gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Bishop Tom rose at this, immediately, and almost as quickly regretted it. Mellert nodded to him, and Hammet yielded the floor, but Tom had absolutely no idea what to say. “Uh…I…” he stammered, thinking, Think, you idiot! and wiping his sweating palms against the seat of his pants. “Begging your pardon, Bishop Hammet, but you are wrong. We are, in fact, talking about sincere ministers who are indeed misunderstood and, admittedly, misfits. And we are not talking about a group that exists solely to undermine the work of God in the world, as you see fit to paint them. I know each of them personally and intimately. I have served as their confessor and their counselor. Every member of that order obsesses about his own personal integrity and is sincerely committed to his ministry. They intend to do good in this world, and I can personally attest to the fact that they are successful in this. Do they have problems? Yes. More than Bishop Van Patton? Perhaps. More than Bishop Hammet?” He leveled a severe eye at the Texan prelate. “That is not for me, or any of us, to judge.”
He looked away and swept his hand around the rest of the room. “Do they have more problems than anyone else in this room? I have gotten to know most of you in the last couple of years, and I don’t believe there is a single person here with feet made of any more precious substance than clay. Our Lord said, ‘By their fruits ye shall know them.’ I say look at the Blackfriars’ professional track record. Look at the literally hundreds of successful exorcisms they have performed—at the people that have been restored to their lives, to their loved ones, to their faith.
“Look at the trust placed in them by our sister communions. Do any of you oversee ministries that your local Roman Catholic archdiocese employs? Or the local Episcopal diocese?” Tom watched the bishops slunk into their seats, looking for the first time a little sheepish. “No? Instead, they look upon us with pity, often contempt for our little parishes and—to their way of thinking—insignificant ministries. But the Order of Saint Raphael is routinely called upon by the Roman and Episcopal authorities in the San Francisco Bay Area, because they are good at what they do. Because they are effective. Because they get results. Because there is no one else of any communion that does it better. No, when the Roman Archdiocese comes to the Berkeley Blackfriars to perform an exorcism, it comes to a ministry of the Old Catholic Synod of the Americas to meet their needs. I’m proud of the order. And I want you to think twice about expelling the most effective, the most celebrated, and the most needed ministry in our communion. And the next time you or the people you care for come to you with a demonic disorder, ask yourselves, where you are going to go for help? To Bishop Hammet? I’d like to see him facedown a demonic host without making water in his pantaloons.” With that, Tom sat down and crossed his hands, meeting Hammet’s acid gaze with one of his own.
Bishop Mellert could not disguise a slight smile at someone putting Hammet in his place. “Any further discussion?” he asked, trying to appear professional. “Then I suggest we take a vote—by private ballot.”
Index cards were passed around as Mellert made the necessary clarifications. “This is a yes or no vote on the question: ‘Should the Old Catholic Order of Saint Raphael be excommunicated?’ Yes or no. No other answer will be considered. Now, vote.”
Tom stared sadly at his index card. With a sinking heart he wrote No on it and folded it in half. Deacon Eldritch circled around the room collecting the cards and, having received them all, sat back down next to the presiding bishop to count them. In a few moments, he had divided the cards into two piles. He looked up and addressed Mellert. “Seventeen for, six against.”
Tom crumbled in his seat, covering his face with his hands. “The synod has spoken,” Mellert announced. “The Old Catholic Order of Saint Raphael is hereby ex—”
“Wait!” Bishop Tom stood up, his folding chair once again shooting out from under him and clattering to the ground. But he did not hear it. A righteous rage had gripped him, and he could not let the excommunication just happen, not without a fight. “This is an unjust action, and I will not stand for it!”
Mellert’s eyebrows rose, and Hammet smiled evilly over his steepled fingers. Mellert spoke slowly and cautiously. “And just what do you intend to do about it, Bishop Müeller?”
Tom was breathing hard, and he looked around like a caged animal. “If the Blackfriars go, I go.”
“Really, Tom,” Mellert said, shaking his head in distaste. “That kind of threat does not become you.”
“It is no threat!” Tom announced, and before them all he removed the episcopal ring from his finger and placed it on the table before Mellert. Then, amid the sound of gasps and protests, he strode out of the room.
64
Terry had balked, of course. “I am not summoning any demons! It is against our rule, and a danger to everyone in the house!”
Richard had thought all of this through. He patiently explained that issuing an invitation on the astral plane was not the same as summoning—the demons were not compelled to come, after all. He didn’t bother telling them he had asked Larch to issue his own invitations, since Richard had no idea how compulsory those would be. He also explained that, yes, they would have to remove the wards surrounding the house, which would be especially dangerous to both Mikael and Kat, since Articiphus, the very demon that was oppressing them, was at the top of the guest list. “All we need to do,” Richard had explained to universally gaping mouths, “is to ward Mikael’s room. Everyone can hole up there until dinner is over. I’ll be the only one at risk.”
Terry had called him “fucking nuts,” and Dylan had said worse. Susan was livid, and Kat was incredulous.
“Look, so far we’ve just been reacting to things—we need to begin ordering them,” Richard had argued. “Even if we do get Mikael back, he’s nothing better than a prisoner. Kat, too. We need some options, and we need to start making them for ourselves. I’m not exactly sure what’s going to go down here, but it sure as hell beats sitting back and waiting to get hit again. Does anybody have a better idea?” he had asked. Silence had reigned in the chapel, and so he started handing out assignments. They were all too angry, and too scared, to grumble. Richard didn’t blame them.
At six o’clock sharp he opened the front door and pricked his finger. He squeezed a drop of blood on the threshold, and continued squeezing, leaving a trail of red drops all the way to the kitchen table, where he took a seat and waited.
After a few moments, he began to intone. “Come, Articiphus, noble duke, ruler of two score legions of demons. Come, Malack…”
Night came early in February, and Richard drew his habit closer about himself against the cold. Candles on the kitchen table guttered, and shadows danced about the walls. Richard took a deep breath and willed himself to relax.
He heard the door creak, and he broke off his chant, listening. It’s just the wind, he told himse
lf, and continued. “Come, Talin…”
As if his eyes were adjusting to a light not previously seen, he watched with mounting anxiety as a wispy shape floated into view of the kitchen. Richard’s voice caught in his throat, but he fought the fear and continued his droning invocation.
He continued even as the great lizard loped into view, the traditional mount of the demon Batheliel. In ghostly procession, the lizard pawed into the foyer, past the chapel, and into the kitchen. The doorway was too narrow for the beast’s great frame, but the parts that were too wide simply passed through the walls at either side of the door. Richard’s intonation halted as soon as he saw the rider astride the great lizard. Bearing a goshawk on one fist and reins in the other, he sat erect and proud. A robe of satin and ermine hung around his broad shoulders, but within the hood he saw the kindly face of an old man.
No sooner had he passed into the kitchen than the next guest arrived. Richard’s eyes widened at the sight of the massive wolf with the tail of a serpent. From his great jowls he vomited fire, blue-black flames that froze the air and made the winter’s cold almost unbearable. This, Richard knew, was almost certainly the infernal Marquis Talin.
Once more, Richard saw movement in the hallway and steeled himself against the next apparition. This one had the shape of a man, in a long black cloak. Richard almost breathed in relief until he looked into the hood of the cloak and saw the face—not of a man but of raven, its cruel beak clacking open and shut in rapid, inhuman movements. Its black eyes were soulless and seemed to look past him. Malack, Richard whispered to himself, naming the one that governed forty legions of demons.
As these three dignitaries took their places at the table, yet another figure stirred and entered, gliding through the doorway and past the walls. This was the most horrible and glorious of them all. Seated high upon a dragon, so high that his crowns poked through the ceiling, another great duke of the infernal realm took his place. He held a serpent in one hand, and his face on one side was a beautiful youth, while the other was most horribly scarred. This was the one he had been waiting for, Richard knew. This was Articiphus, the duke of Hell that had stolen Mikael’s spirit from his body and had delivered two magickians to the Beautiful Gate.
Richard watched in awe as Articiphus descended from his mount and took a place at the large oaken table.
Richard cleared his throat and tried to appear confident. “Greetings, nobility of Hell, and welcome to my home.”
Talin’s wolf-head growled, but Batheliel spoke gently. “Yours is a strange hospitality, Priest. It has been a very long time since I have been made welcome by one such as you. It makes me…suspicious.” He grinned a leering grin.
Talin was staring straight at Richard’s head and drooling. Malack turned his head so that one eye looked directly at him. “Feed us,” said the wolf.
Almost wilting beneath his menacing glare, Richard nodded and drew out several teacups from a bag sitting on the bench next to him.
Then he retrieved a knife and, holding the blade carefully in his right hand, made a neat, shallow incision on his left forearm.
A stream of blood pumped forth, and Richard, struggling to keep his arm from shaking, held the wound over the cups and drained a goodly portion of his blood into each one of them. Thank God only four answered my call, he thought to himself.
That being done, he placed a cup—each with about three thimbles full of blood—before each of the demons. He bowed as he set each cup down, showing what he hoped would be appropriate deference.
Malack dipped his beak into the cup before him. He didn’t seem to be drinking it so much as soaking in it, or even communing with it. Richard was fascinated to see the others do similarly. Only Talin seemed to actively lap the blood up with his tongue. Batheliel sniffed at it, apparently savoring the aroma, while Articiphus placed his finger in the cup, and seemed content with whatever nourishment he was able to draw from it that way.
However odd the means of ingestion, Richard was relieved to see how pleased they seemed. He wasn’t sure how eagerly an offering of live blood would be received, but he was gratified to see that his intuition had been on target.
Finger still in bowl, Articiphus turned his attention to Richard. The beauty on half of his face contrasted with the horror of the other half, creating an unsettling effect, yet his voice was mellifluous and dignified.
“Surely, you have not simply invited us here to feed us, Priest,” he began. “Why have you summoned us?”
“I didn’t summon you,” Richard corrected him, only too late realizing how dangerous it might be to do so. “I invited you, and it was good of you to come.”
“Goodness is not a virtue to which most of us aspire,” Batheliel smirked. “At least, not as our Enemy defines it.”
“Then let us say I am grateful that you have come,” Richard said, only beginning to realize the verbal landmine he had so blithely walked into. “I seek your counsel and ask your favor.”
“Why should we favor you?” asked Talin with a growl. “You are the sworn man of our Enemy.”
“Let us not hold that against him, Talin,” Batheliel counseled. “He only knows what he has been told, and he has not been told the whole of it.”
Richard frowned at such cryptic talk and wondered whether to inquire further. He decided to stay on point. “Thank you, noble Dukes, for your indulgence. Indeed, there is much I do not know, and I beg your patience.” He put a Band-aid on his arm and then continued. “Your majesty Articiphus, your sigil, used in a magickal working, was inadvertently glimpsed by two people in this house, Kat Webber and Mikael Bloomink. As a result of this, Mikael’s spirit was removed from his body.”
“That can happen, yes.” Articiphus said with cool indifference.
“I’d like to ask you to exempt these two persons from your oppression.”
“Magick is like a river,” Articiphus said as if to a child. “Once set in motion, it flows where it will. It only takes great effort to control it, not to make it.”
“I know this is a great favor that I ask. Won’t you please curb the…flow, in this case?”
“Why should I exert the energy? I have regions to run, hosts to oversee. Why should I trouble myself with two careless humans? From the goodness of my heart?” He chuckled at that, and an outburst of humor rocked the room, Malack cawing loudly.
“Because…because I know you are being bound by magickians of the Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent, your majesty. I intend to stop them, to put an end to your servitude to them. I am hoping you will assist me in kind.”
“Out of some human sense of reciprocity, no doubt,” Articiphus sniffed.
“Something like that, yes,” Richard said.
The princely head pursed its lips and stared at Richard intently, apparently considering his offer. “And how about them?” He pointed to his colleagues. “Why did you invite them?”
“On a hunch,” Richard said, hoping that honesty and transparency would be the most efficacious route. “I have another favor to ask, and since each of you are demons that specialize in ‘carrying,’ I am hoping I can enlist your assistance.”
“You need something carried?” Betheliel sneered. “I saw an ad for two dykes and a truck—I can get you the number.”
“Unfortunately, they cannot go where I need the delivery made.”
“And what, pray, is the package?” asked Batheliel.
“An angel’s soul, trapped in a mirror. I’m certain that there is now another angel trapped in the body of one of the lodge magickians—that would need to go as well. If you can bring back the magickian’s soul, so much the better.”
“You are asking us to breach the Enemy’s gates,” Talin snarled. “Do you think we are idiots?”
“Quite the contrary,” Richard said, gaining confidence. He looked directly at Articiphus. “I know of one of your number who has already breached Heaven—twice.”
They all turned and looked at Articiphus. “Against my better judgment,” he adm
itted. “But I had no choice. The magickian compelled me, and I was bound by Great Magick to obey.”
Richard thought for a moment that he caught a note of sad resignation and understanding on the faces of the other demonic dignitaries. Richard thought about how it must be to have such wealth, power, and honor among the infernal spirits and yet be reduced to slavery at the whims of magickians. It was cruel and undignified, even for a demon. Richard felt a passing moment of pity for them.
“And if we say no?” asked Batheliel, smiling with a saccharine sweetness. “Will you then compel us?”
“I am no magickian,” Richard said, and the raven-headed demon made a strangling sound, which must have been a kind of laugh. “So I will work no magick against you.”
Slowly and deliberately he took the Ring of Solomon out of his pocket and placed it on his finger, setting his hands on the table before him so that the ring was clearly visible to all.
A collective gasp rose from the infernal dignitaries, and they all leaned back reactively.
“It is not our way to coerce or compel,” Richard explained. “That is why I asked you here politely, and why I have also asked you for your assistance. Willing cooperation is always superior to coercion. Don’t you agree?”
The demons looked at one another. They looked at him. They looked at the ring. They were each of them profoundly uncomfortable to be in such close proximity to it.
