by Corey Brown
“Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
T’biah takes David’s wrist and turns his hand palm up. In a smooth, quick motion, T’biah draws his knife across David’s thumb. The incision is precise and just deep enough to draw blood.
“Hey.” David says, pulling back his hand. “Why’d you do that?”
“Let it bleed,” T'biah says. Then, finding the artery in Cody’s throat, T’biah gently slices it with the knife tip. A weak red rivulet trickles out, runs down the side of his neck. T’biah shakes his head. “He’s barely holding on, there should be more blood.”
“What now?” David says.
“Press your thumb to his wound. Press it hard, but only for a moment.”
David hesitates, looks at Cody. The red streak on his neck is beginning to dry.
“He doesn’t have much time.” T’biah says, quietly. “You can give him more.”
Until this very moment, the exercise had been a mystery. Having his thumb sliced open made no sense, but just as a breath of wind brings a hint of the impending storm, things are beginning to stir in David. Things are making sense, he knows what T'biah is trying to do. David presses his thumb against the cut on Cody’s throat.
After a split second T’biah grabs David’s hand, pulling it away. “That’s good,” T'biah says. “Don’t want to exchange too much.”
Taking a clean cloth from his coat, T’biah wipes David’s thumb, wraps it. “Keep the pressure on,” he says. “You may feel something, you may feel sick, but it will pass.”
Then T'biah clamps his hand over the wound on Cody’s neck.
Just as David nods his understanding, a cool, slushy feeling comes over him. It starts in his hand and wells up his arm, flooding his body.
“I see what you----”
Before David can finish speaking an image explodes into his brain, he can almost feel the sudden crack of it going through him, like the sound of a baseball bat connecting with a home run. David falls back, colliding with the end of a pew. A dark presence fills his brain, it is fluid, oily, a blackness that seems to have its own life-force. The image howls and twists into a crimson stain against David’s mind. The mental presence hangs, undulating, throbbing, screaming, then it evaporates and the cold, slushy sensation fades, disappears.
His hand still covering Cody’s throat, T’biah narrows his eyes, he knows what has happened.
“That,” T’biah says, “is what Detective Briggs has been experiencing from the moment the Yaw penetrated him. I’m surprised it didn’t kill him instantly.” T’biah thinks about that for a moment then reconsiders. “Well, no, maybe not.”
Carefully removing his hand, T’biah examines the wound on Cody’s throat. All that remains is a red welt. Satisfied, a weak smile works across his lips.
“The spirit is strong in you,” T’biah says, glancing at David. “You overcame the Yaw.”
“What do you mean?”
“You, your spirit, defeated one of the greatest evils in the universe.”
“Spirit? What spirit?” David frowns and says, “It’s in my blood?”
“It’s in all of you. Your blood, your breath, everything.”
David stares at T’biah but then his gaze slips to Cody. He thought he’d felt something changing, something new inside, but now he doesn’t know what to feel.
“Think he’ll be okay?” David says.
T’biah nods, shrugs. “He’ll live, but there will be consequences. Who knows what this will mean for him later?”
David watches Cody’s breathing grow stronger. Feeling at once tired and ready for action, David sighs. “What now?”
“We wait. Detective Briggs will come around, once he finds his mind again.” T'biah pauses, he swallows and says, “Then we leave.”
T’biah stands, David does the same but turns away, letting his eyes wander over the paintings surrounding him. He takes in the images of saints, images of Jesus.
“Yesterday, at the hotel, when you put me in the bathtub,” David says, not bothering to look at T'biah. “What do you mean you had to keep my twin from taking control? The cold bath water made me think I was in was a tunnel of ice. I was freezing. Why’d you do that?”
“Your twin was on the prowl, looking to break out,” T'biah says. “I had to put your body in danger in order to keep him in.”
Now, David looks at T’biah. “And just like now, here in the church, if I died before my twin was fully realized, he would die, too.”
T'biah nods.
“So you froze me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And what if Detective Briggs had put a bullet in my head?”
T'biah narrows his eyes, his body becoming visibly more rigid. “Your sister would have lost her brother, I would have lost my son and the Destroyer’s plans would have been stopped cold. Cody would have saved the earth from a terrible fate. But if that’s how God wanted it to play out, that’s how it would have played out.”
David considers this, nods to himself and says, “What is the Yaw?”
“Something you should avoid at all costs.”
“Well, no shit. I----”
“No more,” T’biah says, with a quick sweep of his hand. “You no longer speak those kinds of words, you are a new man and foul language ceases to be a part of your vocabulary.”
David nods. He doesn’t like being told what to say but understands that things are different, David knows he is different.
“I figured it was something bad,” David says. “But just now, when you said I might feel something, I really did. And I saw something, some kind of image. I don’t know what it was but I have no doubt it was evil. So, just exactly what is the Yaw?’
“The Yaw,” T'biah says, “is made up of failed demons. The ones who are too weak or too stupid or the ones who just screw up too much. As punishment, or maybe just to avoid wasting them, Satan strips them of consciousness, draws them into a whole and forces them to his bidding. In a way, the Yaw is an extension of his mind, it responds to his every thought and only he controls it.”
“So, it’s an army of demons” David says.
T’biah shakes his head. “It’s not like that. Once in the Yaw, a demon is no longer a demon. They lose all their individuality, their identity, everything. They are absorbed, consumed, they become part of a single presence taking whatever form the Destroyer wishes.” T’biah looks closely at David and says, “Know this, the Yaw is nothing more and nothing less than mindless, insatiable evil. It is pure insanity, alive and in motion. Never, ever, face it alone.”
Cody feels his consciousness rising, gliding upward out of the wet, acidic mist he’s been drowning in. Like a pull chain around his mind, he is being dragged upward, coming back. If not upward, he is at least being pulled away from the brain rape he’s been trapped in for who knows how long?
He hears voices, men talking, saying something about demons and failure. Or were they talking about an army?
On the inside, Cody is trying to regain cerebral control, on the outside his body starts to twitch and shudder.
“Is that normal?” David says, seeing Cody jerk. “Should he be doing that?”
“How should I know?” T’biah says. “I’ve never seen a man suffer the Yaw.”
There was that word again, Cody thinks. The Yaw, what was that? The Yaw…
Cody sits bolt upright, his face contorted. Every organ, every muscle in his body seems to be rock hard, constricted. He looks at T’biah, then at David.
“The…Yaw,” Cody rasps, pointing at himself.
Then he rolls onto his hands and knees and expulses a gut load of bile. A syrupy, yellow-green liquid pours from his mouth and nose, punctuated by gasping pauses as his gut recoils, builds up steam and erupts again.
“Oh man,” David says, jumping away, trying to avoid the splatter.
Instantly, T’biah is next to Cody, putting an arm over him, saying, “Good, keep it going, get it all out.” Looking up at David, T’biah says, “Ge
t him something to drink. Water, get some water.”
A third expulsion, more liquid stench. Cody wonders if his face is going to rip from his head. He knows the stuff coming out of his mouth is not the leftovers from lunch, what he does not know is the shit gushing up his throat and spilling onto the floor is his soul purging whatever the Yaw had done to him.
Cody closes his eyes, his body tenses, he vomits again.
David runs toward the back of the sanctuary. Where would he find water? There has to be a drinking fountain or vending machine somewhere. He stops in the vestibule, looks left then right and sees it.
“That’s water,” he says.
David walks to the font of holy water bolted to the wall. It is copper with a cross serving as a mounting bracket. From the top of the cross, waving down to the basin is a thin swoop of metal representing the Holy Spirit. David curls his fingers around the bowl. This thing is bolted tight to the wall and yet David knows breaking it loose is not going to be a problem. The real question is how to do it without spilling the water?
Slowly, deliberately, he begins to pull. David feels his biceps constrict, tighten, but it is hardly an effort. Even now, having only the slightest idea of who he is, David knows he has the strength to tear the font loose. The bowl begins to distort but the combination cross and wall bracket remains bolted in place. He tugs harder and the plaster begins to crack around the mounting bolts. Then one popping sound follows another and the bowl begins to separate from the mount, the solder joints begin to fail.
“I hope this is okay.”
Cody has finished retching, David is relieved to see him sitting upright.
T’biah glances up at David, looks at the deformed copper bowl, and says, “I wondered if you’d take that.”
“Is it a problem, using Holy Water? Am I Hell bound?”
T’biah scowls, points at the font. “This stuff, it comes from the tap. Only God can make something holy. Don’t worry, Hell is safe from you. For now.” T'biah takes a small, rough cloth from his coat pocket and dips it in the water. Then he gently wipes Cody’s face clean. “There,” he says. “Now give it to him.”
David kneels, holding the font out to Cody and quietly says, “Here you go, take a drink.”
Leaning against the end of a pew Cody slowly opens his eyes. His face is ashen, lines crease the corners of his mouth, and blood seeps out of one ear. He looks like one of the living dead.
“Come on,” David says, lifting the bowl to Cody’s mouth “This will help.”
Cody passes his dull, vacant gaze from David to T’biah. He can hear, even understand what was being said but he cannot seem to move. There is a buzzing in his arms and legs, sapping his energy, and he simply cannot move. Beneath the skin his whole body is vibrating. Cody feels the cold metal touch his lips, feels the water dribble down his chin.
David takes the font away, glances at T’biah. “This guy is way gone,” he says. “Are you sure it’s not too late?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” A faraway look emerges in T'biah’s eyes. “But he has to make it.”
Cody’s tongue comes out, trying to catch a drop or two dribbling off his face.
“That’s it, Cody,” T’biah says. He motions to David. “Give him another drink.”
Cody tries to lift his right hand, but he can raise it only an inch or so before it drops back to the floor.
David holds up the font and tips more water into Cody’s mouth. Again, most of it runs down his chin, down his shirt. But a splash or two makes it past his dry, cracked lips and Cody eagerly swallows what little he can.
“Mm...mer…m-more,” Cody rasps. It is as much plea as request. The buzzing, the crawling feeling under his skin is beginning to subside and he feels a small measure of strength returning. David tips the bowl and this time a mouthful of water makes it down Cody’s throat. It is cool and comforting and energizing.
A few more sips and Cody takes the bowl from David, slurping as much as he can, not caring that some untold number of strangers had dipped their untold number of fingers in this water. Cody doesn’t give a shit. They could have washed their faces in it for all he cared. This stuff is bringing him back.
Draining the font, Cody tips it back, way back, letting the last drop fall into his mouth. Holding up the copper bowl for a moment longer, Cody tosses it aside. It bounces once with a clang then rolls a few feet. The sound echoes then dies away. Silence. No one speaks, no one moves.
Cody sniffs then coughs, clears his throat and tries to speak. But nothing comes out. Instead of intelligible language he makes a hacking sound, like a cat arfing up a hairball. Cody licks his lips, tries to speak again.
“W-w-well, that wassss--” Cody says, his body spasms and he carries the tail end of the word a little longer, making a hissing sound. “Fu-f-fun.” Cody raises his right hand. “He-help meeeee yup.”
“Sure you can stand?” David says.
Rather than attempting to speak which, God knows, is a lot of work, Cody just nods.
David helps Cody to his feet and then to a nearby church pew. Dropping hard onto the oak bench, Cody takes David’s hand, rotates it palm up. Cody looks at the cut of David’s thumb. With his left hand, Cody touches the incision on his own throat.
“Th-thaaanks,” Cody says, looking into David’s eyes. “You s-s,” Cody pauses, makes a face, tries again. Youuu s-saved my life.”
The corner of David’s mouth lifts in a vague smile. He shrugs, inclines his head toward T’biah and says, “No problem but it wasn’t me, it was him. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”
“M-m-maybe.” Cody says. His tongue feels a foot thick, and dry as leather. He looks hard at T’biah and says, “But h-hee wasn’t-t sure iffit wasss st-still in you. D-didn’t know if your b-b-blood would work.”
From several yards away T’biah stares at him, intrigued by Cody’s insight, ashamed that it might be true. Did he know, for sure, David’s blood would have saved Cody?
T’biah starts to pace, his long brown overcoat fanning out behind. “This is not quite what I’d expected,” he says. “But it’s okay, we can still get Suzanne.” He looks at David. “We can still reach her but you have to do it, you have to go alone.”
“How?” David says. “She’s gone. That other David, my twin, took her.” David shakes his head. “I have no idea where they are. And wherever they are, I can’t go there.”
“Yes, you can.” T’biah’s voice is calm, reassuring. He crosses the floor and puts his hands on David’s shoulders. “I’m your father, you are my son.”
David nods. “How does that help?”
T’biah raises an eyebrow. “Think about it. Think about what Remy Malveaux did and what was inside of him. Think about all of it.”
Wrinkles appeared on David’s forehead as he considers what T’biah is saying. He turns away then glances at the crucifix hanging above the altar.
“I started out as three,” David says, slowly. “But now I am two.”
“Right. What does that mean?”
A look of surprise splashes across David’s face. “You made love to my mom,” he says, facing T’biah. “She became pregnant. And you’re human, but not just human. You died, you chose God so you’re something else. You have God’s spirit.”
“Go on.”
Now David starts to pace, he says, “And Remy was in league with the Destroyer. Remy sold himself. He wasn’t Remy anymore, was he?”
“Correct,” T’biah says. “Malveaux lusted for power, so he made a trade. Had relations with Calí, a demon queen, and her seed passed to him. From then on, he was beholden to Satan.”
“So when Remy raped my mother----” David stops, the realization just now hitting. His mother was raped, more than that, raped by her own father. His shoulders sag, the knowledge finally sinking in, cutting a heartstring. “Calí’s seed was planted, too, wasn’t it?” He says quietly.
Arms folded across his chest, T’biah nods.
“My mother was purely human, so
I became three, human spirit, God’s spirit, and demon spirit.”
“But now the demon is gone,” T’biah says, a new light shining in his eyes.
David’s face turns even more somber, suddenly understanding who he is. “I was three, now I am two. I’m human and still possess your spirit, God’s spirit.” His voice trails off, finally understanding who he really is. He stares at T’biah, a question mark seems to form on his face. “I’m both divine and human?”
“Not quite,” T’biah says. “But close, very close. You are completely human but you possess a thread of divinity.”
David is standing near the front of the sanctuary. Behind him is the lectern, behind that the altar. Like a whisper, like a light touch, David begins to sense the second part of him, the non-human part. Holding out his hands, David inspects them, turning them one way then another. Then he steps up to the altar. He picks up the silver communion plate. It is polished to a brilliant shine. Fingering the platter he turns it over, backside up, and sees his reflection. David examines his face as if seeing himself for the first time.
“I don’t understand,” David says, gently replacing the plate. “How did Remy know it was you?”
“What do you mean?”
David turns to face T’biah. “I assume,” he says, shrugging. He frowns, doesn’t want to use the word. “I assume he raped my mother because you made love to her. How did Remy know you had been with her?”
“Well, he----” T’biah bites off his words, falls silent.
On the run, T’biah had not known what Remy did to Celine. He had believed the child he’d rescued was his and his alone. T'biah did not know how Remy had violated Celine until long after her death. Trying to hide, ashamed of exacting revenge on a cult of police captains and wrecked by the loss of Celine, T’biah had traveled to an outland, another universe.
