by J. R. Mabry
Mikael laughed. “Because we completely forgot about him!”
“Probably best,” Terry said, a wide smile on his own face. “He’s a bit…under the weather.”
“There!” Davy announced. The diocesan logo filled up a mostly blank white wall.
“Okay, Maggie,” Richard said. “What’s happening? I’ve never seen you so jittery.”
Maggie nodded at Davy. A picture of an older man in episcopal regalia filled the screen. “This,” she said, a note of venom in her voice, “is Bishop John Preston, who is now, I am very sorry to report, the bishop of the Diocese of California.”
“Yeah, Ah saw him on the news,” Dylan said. “Good old boy. Georgia boy.”
“He’s a good old boy, all right,” Maggie said. “He retired from the Diocese of South Carolina in 2005. Do you want to know how many women were ordained in that diocese during his tenure there?”
“I’m guessing zero,” Terry said.
“You would be guessing correctly,” Maggie said. “Do you know how many were ordained the year after he left, in 2006?”
“Tell us,” Richard said.
“Twenty-six,” she answered, her eyes hardening into little black pools of poison.
Richard whistled. “That’s quite a backlog.”
“No kidding,” Maggie spat. “But wait, there’s more. The Defense of Marriage Act? Preston had a major hand in drafting the language on that. He’s…well connected in Washington.”
“How about his treatment of gays and lesbians when he was in South Carolina?” Terry asked.
“What gays and lesbians?” Maggie asked. “As far as he’s concerned, they don’t exist, and when he finds them, they are rooted out.”
“You mean, he’s defrocked clergy?” Dylan asked.
“Far worse than that. I mean he’s literally walked into parish offices and deleted parishioners from the parish rolls. He’s unsealed pledge records and returned pledges to gay and lesbian parishioners.”
“You’re shitting me,” Richard said.
“God’s honest truth,” Maggie said. “Davy, play that clip from CNN.”
Preston’s face filled the wall of the meeting room. He was confident, and his eyes shone. “There’s no place for perverts in a Christian nation!” he bellowed, speaking to what looked like an enormous crowd. A roar went up, and Preston held up a hand to quiet them.
“Who’s he speaking to?” Mikael asked.
“A Tea Party rally in Tennessee,” Maggie answered.
“Thet’s mah home state,” Dylan said, deflating in his seat. “Ah needs me a doobie. Can Ah light up in here?”
Richard slapped the back of his head playfully.
“Ah was polite enough to ask,” Dylan complained.
Preston was speaking again. “We need to return to biblical standards of morality!” The crowd cheered again. “And to do that, we must return to a biblical standard of law. We should not be a tolerant people. We should not tolerate wickedness in our midst. We should not tolerate wickedness where it can reach our children, where it can influence them, corrupt them, hurt them!” The cheers trebled in volume. “Gay behavior should be punished in our day as it was in Moses’s! Perverts should be put to death—no ifs, ands, or buts. No years of supporting perverts in our prisons as they exhaust their appeals. It should be quick, public, and merciful.” The crowd cheered again, but there was an edge of hesitancy in it. “Because we are a merciful people, what we must recognize is that perverted people are in pain—moral pain, psychological pain, existential pain. For people such as them, death is a mercy. And the fact that Hell awaits them is between them and God, and is none of our affair.” Davy paused the file so that Preston froze with his mouth open and his forefinger raised to Heaven.
Terry’s eyes were wide. “And this is the man who is bishop of California right now?”
Maggie nodded gravely. “That’s why we’re here.”
“What Ah don’t understand is why the good people of this diocese would want someone like him to be their bishop,” Dylan wondered. Then he added, “Are there snacks?”
Maggie ignored his second remark. “That’s what I don’t understand, either. Davy, play the file you shot on the convention floor.”
A new file sprang to life on the wall. The camera followed Preston as he wandered, in full regalia, around the floor. A voice boomed. “We’ll proceed with the results of the new ballot. San Francisco Deanery?” The camera whizzed across the room in a messy blur of color and lit upon a frumpy, middle-aged woman with librarian glasses. “The San Francisco Deanery voted 27 to 5 for…Bishop Preston.”
“Stop!” Terry said. “Can you roll that back a little? Watch the guy behind her.”
Davy restarted the file. Behind the woman speaking, a man in a blue suit was shaking his head vigorously. Suddenly, however, his eyes focused on one spot, and his shoulders sagged. “That’s not right,” Terry said. “Can we see that again?”
Davy played the file again. Richard nodded in unison with the others as he watched the man carefully. “I’d sure love to see the actual numbers on those ballots, to see if they match up with what was reported,” Richard said.
“Ah am with you there, buddy,” Dylan said, his head resting on his hands as he squinted at the wall.
“What is Preston doing while this is happening?” Mikael asked.
“Near as I can tell, and there are a number of cameras rolling—smartphones, mostly—he’s wandering through the crowd. Here’s a long shot of the convention floor.” He played a different file. The sound was muted, but they could still make out what was being said.
“Look at that”—Terry said, pointing at the blurry figure that was Preston—“he’s travelling from deanery to deanery as they take their votes.”
“Okay, what do we think is going on here?” Richard asked. “Ideas. No judgment, just brainstorming.”
“It could be demonic,” Dylan drawled, “but the apparent need for proximity makes no sense. He wouldn’t need to be anywhere near a demon for it to do its work.”
“It could be a glamour variation,” Mikael said. “A spell. The people think they’re voting for one person but actually writing down a different name—or the name that appears, that is read by the person reading, is different from what’s actually on the paper.”
“That would explain the reaction of the man behind the woman reading the deanery results,” Richard nodded.
“But it wouldn’t explain his zombification immediately afterward,” Mikael said. “Boom! Fuckin’ zombie.”
“Point,” Richard conceded.
“An influence spell?” Mikael offered.
“You’re the expert on spells, Mikael,” Terry said, his eyes narrowing as he thought. “Is proximity important?”
“Well…no. That doesn’t fit.” Mikael’s shoulders sagged.
“Okay,” Richard said, getting up and writing on the chalkboard. “Let’s list what we see. Proximity is an issue. Mind control of some kind is going on. And in more than one person. And it’s not blanket, but targeted; otherwise, both this guy and this woman would both be…zombified at the same time.”
Richard could see nods all around. “So, what could it be?”
No one spoke.
Richard put his hands on his hips. “Really? We got nothing?”
“Waal…look on the bright side,” Dylan said, “we know what it’s not. Now we just have to look at what we haven’t ruled out yet.”
“It’s not a spell. It’s not a demon…” Richard discovered he was chewing on the chalk. He spat it out.
“Thet thar stuff comes in bubble-gum flavor, too, dude,” Dylan said helpfully.
Richard wiped his mouth and turned back to the chalk board.
“Talisman?”
All eyes turned to Terry. He squinted. “Show us that file again, please, Davy. Let’s watch what he’s doing.”
They watched as Preston moved through the crowd, clutching at his crozier and holding it forth whenever the re
sults were being read for a particular deanery.
“Bingo,” Richard breathed.
“It’s the crozier?” Mikael asked.
“Davy, do you have a clearer shot of him in the crowd?” Richard asked.
“Yeah, a couple of them. There’s the one we saw at the beginning, before we panned over to the vote.” He played that one again. They saw Preston stop and close his eyes. Then the camera zoomed away in a wash of color.
“And here’s another one shot with a phone.” A grainy file jumped to life on the wall and quickly focused on the bishop. He pressed one hand to his forehead, closed his eyes, and held forth his shepherd’s crook.
“That’s very curious,” Richard said. “It’s like Moses holding his staff up during the battle against the Amalekites in Exodus 17.”
“As long as he held it up, the Israelites won,” Terry remembered, nodding. “But as soon as he lowered it, the Amalekites started winning.”
“Riiiiight,” Dylan nodded.
“So, what’s so special about that crozier?” Terry said, leaning in for a closer look.
“It’s big,” Richard noted. “Oversize. It’s bulky. It’s weird.”
“It sure is…” Terry breathed.
“Whatever it is,” Richard said, “it allows him to control people. Lots of people. Whatever that crozier really is, it allows him to completely have his way.”
“Zero accountability,” Terry whistled. “Zero democracy.”
“And that’s just about as dangerous as church people can get,” Richard agreed. But a sinking feeling in his gut told him that it wasn’t true. It could be more dangerous. He just didn’t know how.
32
LARCH LIT a candle for mood and called the meeting to order. The assembled magickians of the Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent lumbered up to the table almost reluctantly, each of them focused on something else. Fraters Purderabo and Turpelo were locked in a heated argument over the relative efficacy of two medieval grimoires, while Frater Eleazar stared off into space, almost terminally distracted.
Frater Khams emerged from the kitchen with a veggie tray that seemed to be unusually heavy on bell pepper wedges. Larch scowled. He hated bell peppers. But there were also Fritos. Khams next emerged with guacamole and a large pitcher of iced tea, which he placed on the table.
Larch frowned at the guacamole. “Trying to send a message, Frater?” he said, raising one eyebrow in Khams’s direction.
“Far from it. Sale on avocados at the Nob Hill Market.” He held his hands up in a don’t shoot me gesture. Larch let it go. Nobody else seemed to even notice. In fact, no one seemed to be paying much attention at all. Larch picked up a spoon and tapped at his water glass until the grimoire conversation abated.
“Gentlemen of the Light,” Larch began with his ritual greeting, “brothers and comrades in the service of liberation—let us bring our meeting to order so that we may efficiently direct our energies for the transformation of mankind.”
“Hear, hear!” they all shouted, banging on the table.
Larch turned to Eleazar. “Master Secretary,” he addressed the officer, “what is at the top of our agenda?”
“Frater Purderabo has moved that we change the wording of our ritual greeting from ‘the transformation of mankind’ to ‘the transformation of humankind,’” he said, looking at his papers.
Larch sighed, wondering just how much transformation would be assisted by this motion. Nevertheless, he acquiesced to duty and pointed at Purderabo. “Please state your rationale, Frater.”
“It’s time for the magickal community to come into the twenty-first century and to be sensitive to women’s issues. Use of exclusionary language in our proceedings and rituals is insensitive and damaging to women,” he stated firmly.
“That sounds reasonable,” said Khams, nodding.
Larch looked around the table and pointed out that there were only men present. “We are in precious little danger of offending any women tonight,” he said.
“But that’s just the problem. Women might want to join us if we used more inclusive language,” countered Purderabo.
“Master Secretary, in the seventy-five years since the founding of our lodge, how many women have petitioned to join us?” Larch asked.
Frater Eleazar did not need to consult any papers. “None, Frater.” Then he raised a finger. “Although Frater Dubois in 1975 did undergo a sex change operation…that didn’t end well…” he trailed off.
“But if one should wish to join us…” Purderabo began hopefully.
“A motion has been made to change our deliberative and ritual language in the alleged interests of hypothetical females,” Larch stated authoritatively. “All in favor?”
Khams, Purderabo, and Turpelo raised their hands.
“All opposed?” He looked over at Eleazar, who shifted nervously. “Uh…I’m against it? If you’re against it, that is,” he smiled obsequiously. Larch shuddered inwardly and turned back to the rest of the table. “The ayes have it,” he said with a disappointed note of resignation in his voice, “Let the mythical women clamoring for admittance rejoice.”
Purderabo slapped Turpelo on the back. He, in turn, was congratulated by Khams. “This is a great day for the magickal community!” Purderabo announced, raising his glass.
“Yes…a red-letter day for the worldwide occult community,” Larch said darkly. “Next on the agenda?”
“New aprons!” Eleazar read. “This is my item. I mean, I suggest we discuss it—but only if, of course, you all deem it necessary.”
Larch ran his fingers through his thinning hair and wished he could be…well, almost anywhere else. The endodontist’s? he mused. Yes, I’d much prefer to be at the endodontist’s. “New aprons, Frater Eleazar? I am on the edge of my seat. Pray, give us your rationale.”
“Our old Masonic aprons are getting a bit ratty,” he said. “And what with the bit of a windfall we got from the Dane affair—”
“The proceeds from the Dane affair are going for repairs on the lodge house,” Larch declared firmly. “There will be no discussion regarding other uses for those funds.”
“Uh…” Eleazar fussed with the front of his shirt, his flat, puffy features looking lost for a moment. “Yes, of course. Well, regardless of how we pay for them, we need them.”
“I’ve never noticed that our aprons were getting ratty,” Khams said.
“Mine is starting to fray,” Eleazar said.
“Then maybe you should replace your own damned apron,” Khams said. “Mine’s fine.” Heads nodded all around.
“Mine has a soup stain.” Frater Turpelo raised his chubby hand.
Larch bunched his eyebrows together momentarily. “Frater, how on earth did you get soup on your Masonic apron? There’s no food allowed in the temple—you know that.”
“It happened at that Thelema Camp party,” Turpelo said thickly. “We came in ritual gear to give them our blessing—”
“Oh yes, that was grand,” Khams nodded.
“And then…well, I don’t remember much of what followed. But when I woke up the next morning, my apron was stained.”
“Not to mention your reputation,” whispered Purderabo. Khams tried to stifle a giggle, but this only caused tea to erupt from his nose in two tiny streams. Turpelo scowled.
At which crossroads in his life, Larch wondered, had he made the wrong turn? Which precise decision had brought him here, and how might be possibly correct it? As the meeting wore on, Larch felt his mood grow bleaker. Finally, they had worked through all of the agenda items—the most portentous seemed to be a motion to hold a summit meeting with a recently formed Gnostic group in Hayward. When Frater Eleazar finally announced, “New business,” Larch held up his hand.
“I have something very important to present,” he said. He rose and began to pace back and forth at the head of the table. “As some of you know, I have been trying to recreate some of the John Dee workings in my private temple.” There were nods all around. “Du
ring these sessions, I have made contact with a spirit named Pim.” It seemed odd to utter the sound of her name aloud. His stomach did a little flip-flop, which, he was grateful to note, was invisible to his assembled fraters.
“I have heard of her,” Purderabo said. “The occult bulletin boards say that she has succeeded Madimi.”
“I thought she was Madimi at first,” Larch acknowledged. “And she appears to be in every way like her.”
“Has the contact been regular?” asked Purderabo, who seemed keenly interested.
“It has,” Larch said.
“And what has she offered you?”
Larch was struck by the question. “How do you know that she has offered me something?” Larch asked.
“Because that is what she does.” Purderabo waved his chubby hand in an of course gesture.
“Well…yes, she has offered me something,” Larch said. “But I have not yet accepted it…because I’m not sure I trust her.”
“That’s very John Dee-ish,” Eleazar pointed out.
“Yes, thank you,” Larch said dismissively. “If I aspired to be John Dee, I would be flattered.”
“Wonderful,” Eleazar bent to write that down in the minutes.
Larch sighed. “I have brought the matter before you to ask your assistance in a discernment. Pim has offered me an army. My question to you is, were I to lead an army, what would I do with it?”
A look of wonder came over the faces of all those gathered at the table. Frater Turpelo paused with a chip halfway to his lips. Eleazar began to salivate on his notepad.
“Uh…what sort of army?” Purderabo asked, a suspicious look on his red, puffy face.
“An army of the possessed. It is gathering even now,” Larch said.
“Where is it gathering?”
“I…don’t know. Pim just said it was gathering.”
“You’re taking a lot on faith with this Pim,” Purderabo said. “You know that she’s a cocktease, yes?”
For some reason, this made Larch angry. Purderabo might just as well have asked if Larch knew the sky was blue or that Kraft Macaroni & Cheese was yummy. Larch wanted to shout, “Yes, I know she’s a cocktease, you idiot—the buttons on my 501s are so strained they’re in danger of blowing like champagne corks,” but the imagery was simply too close to home. He kept his mouth shut.
