by J. R. Mabry
“That’s the Hall of Forms, again,” Terry said, daring to be hopeful.
“He’s climbing the steps—much more easily this time, I must say.”
“I kind of miss the guy,” Terry said, cocking his head wistfully.
“Okay, this is a tricky transition for me, same as last time…” Astrid paused, momentarily still beneath the black blanket. “And we’re in! Takes a minute to adjust to the light. Wow. Okay, I know I’ve seen this before, but…wow.”
“Ah never lose my sense of wonder in seeing the Grand Canyon again,” Dylan sympathized.
“Or Notre Dame Cathedral,” added Terry.
“There’s Eva Kadmona in the center, and everything you can think of is spinning around her in an orbit, some of them look like their ellipses are as long as a football field.”
“I don’t like the fact that everything revolves around this woman—” Susan frowned.
“Yeah, but what else is new?” Dylan quipped. Susan punched him in the arm.
“Ow, Darlin’, that really hurt,” Dylan rubbed at his arm.
“Well, actually, looking more closely at it now, there appear to be nested fields of relationships among the objects,” Astrid corrected herself.
“How positively Whiteheadian,” Brian pursed his lips, considering it.
“Yeah, but these archetypes are not evolving, that I can see,” Astrid answered.
Brian chewed on that, placing a hand on Terry’s knee.
“Eva is a gravity point, with lots of things in orbit around her, but she’s also in orbit herself—it’s just slower, more subtle.”
“What is she orbiting?”
“I don’t know—she’s moving too slowly.”
“She’s the archetypal woman, all right,” Dylan added, wincing from another anticipated blow from his wife. She ignored him. Despite her grief, Kat smiled at this, although it was obvious to Dylan that she was trying not to.
“Pretty much everything we use or eat, though, is orbiting her,” Astrid said. “I gotta say, sadly, she is not my type.”
“You mean she’s pretty? That’s gotta be disconcerting,” Brian snorted.
“I’d say, ‘Go fuck yourself,’ but you’d just enjoy it,” replied the blanket. “Okay, our angel friend is holding up one of the pictures…and he dropped it to the ground. He’s picking it up…and dropping it on the ground.”
“Maybe he’s hoping it’ll just start orbiting?” Terry suggested.
“Mebbe it’s like a kite, yah gotta kinda get it started,” Dylan offered.
“I think our boy is on the same wavelength, Dyl,” Astrid said, shifting her hips in his direction. “He’s running around Eva, holding the paper out like a paper airplane or something. Oh! Shit! He tripped—stepped into the orbit of a porcupine…”
“That’s gotta hurt,” Mikael winced.
“Ah…but the paper didn’t fly with him. It caught its orbit, it’s flying by itself. It’s rounding out, taking on dimension and…mass…” She was breathing heavily now. “Friends, we have avocado!”
“Yea!” Everyone cheered. Dylan hugged Susan, and she wiped at a tear.
“He’s looking around. He’s looking for something. He can’t find it. Wait, maybe he’s onto it, now. He’s holding up another magazine page. Now he’s running with it. He’s jumping over the armadillo…he’s letting go…it’s in orbit! It’s filling out…it’s…a weird-looking bird?”
Kat looked sheepish. “It’s a dodo. I always thought it was sad that they were extinct. I’m sorry?” she cringed.
Mikael laughed out loud and hugged her to him. Brian looked concerned and asked, “Isn’t there some kind of prime directive against this kind of thing?”
“He’s got one more sheet. He’s running…running…still running. This one is bigger, apparently, more momentum is needed or something. Anyway…there it goes…bigger…bigger…”
But before she could declare what it was there was a scrabble of anxious nails on the kitchen linoleum, and then Tobias bounded into the room, all hair and tail and jowls. He was wagging so hard it looked like he might break himself in two. He sprang right to Dylan, leaped up, and began slobbering kisses all over the friar’s face.
Dylan hugged at Tobias, catching a fistful of mane and burying his face in it, weeping openly and unashamedly with relief and joy.
Everyone crowded around the dog, reaching out to touch him as if to make sure he were real.
“He’s…different.” Susan commented. “Redder.”
Dylan collected himself enough to realize she was right. The golden lab was decidedly more auburn than he remembered.
Terry turned to Kat, “What kind of dog was in the picture?”
“Red? A big red dog. I don’t remember what kind,” she said, grimacing slightly.
“Who cares?” Dylan laughed. “Red dog is better’n no dog any day!” As he ruffled the dog’s fur, Tobias turned over and begged for a belly rub.
“Well Ah’ll be damned!” Dylan exclaimed. Written backward across the dog’s stomach, like a faint purplish tattoo, was the word Viagra accompanied by the faint face of a smiling young couple.
Kat put her hand to her mouth, “Oh my God! There was a Viagra ad on the other side of the dog picture I cut out!”
“You mean that every dog on the planet is now a walking, eating, and pooping advertisement for the Pfizer Pharmaceutical Company?” laughed Susan out loud.
“You cannot buy that kind of publicity!” Dylan announced with a hearty guffaw. “Can we invoice them for that?”
“The angel is looking around,” Astrid announced. “Now he’s heading for the door…the angel has left the building!” Astrid pulled her head out from under the blanket and raked at her wiry blonde hair with her fingers. She beamed at the sight of Tobias, leaping up and licking almost everyone there. Then, abruptly, the dog turned and wagged into the kitchen. Slurping noises were immediately audible.
Brian stretched. “Toby has the right idea. This calls for champagne.” He followed the lab into the kitchen.
“Ah only wish Dicky were here to see this,” Dylan added, a wave of sadness washing over his features. Susan squeezed his hand, commiserating but saying nothing.
“Uh, guys…” Brian called from the kitchen. “Come see this.”
As they filed into the kitchen, Terry started laughing. There, in the very place where the bowl of guacamole had been sitting days before, was a mass of green pulp, dripping off the table onto the floor.
78
Just as the last of the sun sank below the horizon, the first spat of rain hit Richard’s cassock. He pulled it more tightly around him and stood at the curb, looking at the warm, cheery lights of the friary. He dared come no closer—the warding, which Terry no doubt had already set in place again, would not allow it. He was, after all, a vehicle for a demon, and he had yet to see one that could defy Terry’s wards.
He fought back a surge of sadness. He knew his friends would be celebrating their victory, and he longed to share it with them. His love for them rose up with a lump in his throat, and he uttered a small, pained cry as he swallowed it down.
Against his momentary despair, he summoned up the memory of his vision—and marveled at the pain and uncertainty that comes from the limits of human perception. If only everyone could see how connected everything was, how safe, how ultimately okay it was all going to be, there would be a lot less suffering in the world.
He felt Duunel shrink and hide at the memory of the vision. It was comforting to know that, even if he was inhabited by a demon at the moment, he was not defenseless against it. All he had to do was conjure up a memory, a visual, even just the feeling generated by the ring to send Duunel scurrying for cover.
Things could be worse, he told himself. But it didn’t really help. He was not, after all, in the only place in the whole world that he wanted to be. He opened his mouth to say, “God hates me,” but he stopped himself because he knew now how completely untrue that was. And with that thought
, Fr. Richard Kinney turned his back on the welcoming lights of his home, an exile from the Kingdom.
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THE POWER
Berkeley Blackfriars • Book II
Prelude 1
1220, DAMIETTA, EGYPT
THE FIFTH CRUSADE AGAINST THE MUSLIMS
Amid the shrieking of the dying and the stench of the dead, the Ong Khan Toghrul crested the hill and reined back his mount. His eyes burned from the smoke. He squinted, trying to assess the scene. Behind him were five hundred men, all of them Mongol warriors, faithful Nestorian Christians ready to lay down their lives in the cause of the Savior.
His nostrils twitched at the stink, and his horse shied with impatience. “My Khan,” said his lieutenant from behind him. “What are your orders?” But he was not ready to answer. His eyes flicked to the city walls, which were still holding against the Crusader army. Although this is hardly an army, he thought, taking stock of the wasted might of Europe before him. Most had been slaughtered. Here and there, living soldiers were clustered—no, huddled—apparently without leaders.
His lieutenant moved parallel to him, and touched his elbow with a mail-gloved hand. “Jahn?” he said. “Jahn, the men need direction. This is a killing ground…”
Toghrul nodded his assent. “Yes, but it will not be ours.” He turned to face his lieutenant. “Tsogt, send messengers to these soldiers of Europe—those that are left. They can die or fight under our banner. It is their choice.” Tsogt nodded briskly and began barking orders.
Toghrul watched as horsemen sped off toward small pockets of soldiers spread out across the battleground. With a grand gesture, he signaled an advance. He watched the Christians of Europe gawk with wonder at the great Christian army of Mongolia speeding over the hill to save them.
Within the hour, the Christians of Europe had either been assimilated into his ranks or dispatched by the sword. Fortunately, only a few had objected, and they were those who pretended to leadership. Jahn Toghrul spat. Leaders in name, perhaps, he thought bitterly.
Only one of their so-called leaders had joined them. The khan summoned him, and when the man appeared before him, he sank to his knees instantly, though it was obvious he was a noble. Here is a man who knows the intrinsic hierarchy of warriors, Jahn thought, and dismounted to speak to the man without shouting. “I am the Ong Khan Toghrul, king of the Kerait Mongols, called Jahn at my baptism. You are?”
“Sir Philip of Longacre, of England, sire.” The man’s tunic was torn, his hair matted with filth. He kept his eyes on the dirt.
Wise man, Jahn thought. “I have heard that you who follow the Bishop of Rome consider us heretics,” Jahn said, a testy edge to his voice. “Is this so, Sir Philip?”
“I…I know nothing of this, my lord.” The man looked quickly from side to side, but he did not look up. Jahn fingered the Talisman of Amitiel, which hung on a cord from his neck. It grew cold. “You lie.”
The man looked down at his knees, and his face turned beet red. He nodded furiously. “That is what they say, my lord.” He held his breath, but then blurted out, “But it is not…my own opinion, sire.”
Jahn’s eyebrows raised. A bemused smile crossed his lips. “Really, Sir Philip, and are you in the habit of questioning the teaching of your bishops?”
Sir Philip’s face was so red that it seemed ready to burst. “Um…no…”
There was no way out of this, Jahn knew. He did not suffer fools, but he was not entirely without mercy. “Tell me what has happened here.”
The man nodded, visibly grateful for the change in subject. “Two weeks ago, we laid siege to the city. Twenty thousand of us.”
Jahn scowled. “Twenty thousand?”
“Yes, my lord. The Egyptians fought well.”
“I see that they have.” There were scarcely four hundred men left. Together with his own horsemen, they would hardly make a thousand. “How did they accomplish this?”
“They…they are charmed bowmen,” Philip said, spluttering for an explanation. “They have demons shooting at us. And then, there are the raiders.”
“Tell me about the raiders.”
“They attack us at night. They attack when we are besieging the city—when our backs are to the hills. They are led by a sultan, Al-Kamil, they call him. He is like a ghost.”
The khan grunted and stepped away, surveying the sandy hills. “Sir Philip,” he said, “you will not be false with me again. Tell me, will your men follow you?”
The siege was hard, and doubly so since half of his men were wasted guarding the army’s rear flank from a Saracen army that might or might not appear. They did not, and by midday, the tower door folded in on itself with a booming crack that the khan heard from half a mile away. The European Christians swarmed into the tower. The slaughter was quick.
Tsogt rode to him, fierce and breathless. Blood stained much of his mail, the Khan noticed, but was relieved to discover that it was Saracen blood, not his lieutenant’s. “We have the tower, my khan.” Jahn nodded curtly. “Many of the Saracens laid down their arms,” Tsogt continued. “I thought…you might want to talk with them.”
Jahn smiled grimly. “You know me well, Lieutenant. Lead the way.” Within minutes, the khan was striding through the tower door, which was splintered beyond repair. Before him, Saracen soldiers knelt as he passed, averting their dark eyes. His own men stood behind them, swords at the ready, drunk on the victory of the day.
But the khan knew better. A tower is not a keep, he thought to himself. We still have much to do. When he came to the end of the corridor, he stopped and turned regally. He looked down on the Saracen before him. “Tsogt,” he asked, “how many are they that live?”
“Exactly a hundred men, my khan.” Tsogt answered quickly and with confidence.
Jahn drew his sword and with one swift motion, severed the Saracen’s head from his body. “There!” he shouted at the men on their knees. “Now there are ninety-nine, one for each of the ninety-nine names of your heathen god.” The Saracens quaked, but they dared not raise their eyes to the Mongol king. Some of them mumbled prayers in Arabic.
Jahn stepped over the body, its blood spilling over the stones of the floor, creating a slick crimson pool. He faced the next Saracen, who was visibly shaking. Jahn clutched at the Talisman of Amitiel and spoke, a note of kindness entering his voice. “You, Egyptian, what are you called?”
“Mohammad, Sire.” A spreading stain on his breeches betrayed that the man had just wet himself.
Jahn sniffed. “I dare not say the name of your heathen prophet, for it is offensive to the Lord of Heaven. Tell me, Egyptian, where is Al-Kamil?”
The man’s eyes grew wide, but he said nothing. The khan placed the flat of his broadsword at the man’s neck and slowly turned it so that its razor-sharp edge came to bear. “You will answer,” Jahn said quietly.
“I…I do not know.”
The talisman grew cold in Jahn’s hand. “That is a lie,” he said over his shoulder to Tsogt. “Egyptian dog, called by the name of the blasphemer prophet, you are lying, and the cost for lying to the Lord Khan is death. But I am a merciful king, and I will give you one more chance to live before you see Hell. Where is Al-Kamil?”
In answer, the man squeezed hi
s eyes tight and shook his head. With a flourish, Jahn cut his throat, the blood of his neck creating an arc in the air as the sword flashed past. “How many are left, Tsogt?”
“Ninety-eight, my khan.”
Jahn looked out the window and measured the sun. “Good thing the day is still young.” He stepped to the next man, huddled on the floor, and placed the flat of the blade against the quaking man’s temple. Jahn looked up at his lieutenant, and smiled. “Hell will feast well today.”
Prelude 2
HOLY APOCRYPHA FRIARY, BERKELEY, CA
A half hour before anyone would stir in the old farmhouse that served as the friary of the Old Catholic Order of Saint Raphael, there was a rustle of wings in the yard. The cherub touched one foot to the earth, then the other, and paused to gain his balance. When he straightened himself, he stood nearly nine feet. His hair was white like bleached wool, and his eyes shone with fire.
Beneath his arm was a package wrapped in cloth that glowed in the dim light of dawn. The angel knelt and unwrapped it, unfolding the cloth with care and laying it aside. He had uncovered a mirror framed with rough wood. He propped it against the house near the back door and turned to go.
“Hey!” a tiny voice shouted. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Where am I? Are you just going to leave me here?”
The angel turned back, lowered his face to the mirror, and placed a raised index finger to his lips. “Shhhhhh,” the angel whispered. Even so, his voice rolled like thunder.
Looking around to be sure that no one had been disturbed, the angel waited. He heard no shouts, detected no movement—only the twitter of birds and the distant honking of early morning traffic. Satisfied, the angel turned to go. He made to launch himself, but just short of flight, he clutched at his chest, stumbled, and fell to the grass. A low moan shook the earth.
