by J. R. Mabry
Susan shook her head. “Maybe so, at least until we’re able to sort out what he’s allergic to and what he’s not.”
“This is going to be…challenging,” Brian said, stepping over Dylan in order to get a dish rag. He began to scrub at the stains.
Susan slid from her knees onto her rump, close to Dylan’s body. She held his hand. “I guess we wait.”
“Unless he’s had a stroke, in which case we should call the paramedics,” Brian said.
Susan opened his eyelids one at a time. “His pupils are the same size, so it’s probably not a stroke.” She drew her mouth up in grim consideration. “I’m betting this is just an allergy thing. It’s a strange one, but it’s what was happening yesterday, so it’s probably what’s happing now.”
Mikael was staring into the chapel. “What’s up with Kat?”
“I thought she was praying. Or meditating,” Terry said. “But come to think of it, if she were, she would have noticed…” Alarm punctuated the last word, and he leaped to his feet. Together, he and Mikael approached Kat cautiously.
Terry held up his hand. “No closer. She’s not meditating or praying. She’s in Vision.”
“How can you tell?” Mikael asked.
“Rapid eye movements,” Terry responded. “Look.” He pointed at Kat’s eyes, and indeed, beneath her closed lids there was a lot of activity. Her eyes darted back and forth, up and down. She was obviously elsewhere, interacting with an environment completely invisible to them.
“Where is she?” Mikael asked.
Terry shrugged. “Beats me. But we won’t do her any favors trying to rouse her. She could get stranded in the Void if we do. Best to leave her alone, and she’ll come home—”
“Wagging her tail behind her?” Mikael finished, but he wasn’t smiling.
“I’ll leave her tail to you, studly,” Terry said. He slapped at Mikael’s arm. “C’mon.” He turned back into the kitchen.
“Well, while you’re waiting for your respective spouses to gain consciousness,” Brian started, picking up the shattered cup’s pieces, “let’s have something to eat.”
“We need to pray,” Terry said, looking at his watch.
“The Lord will understand if you eat first, then pray,” Brian said. “Besides, by then you might have a chapel to do it in, and order mates to pray with.”
“Point,” Terry nodded. “And Jesus might be hyper-punctual, but he’ll still show up even if we’re not.”
Mikael nodded at this, his arms crossed and his gaze fixed firmly on his girlfriend as he leaned in the doorway. Brian began setting out sandwich makings and brewing a fresh pot of decaf.
“How did it go, Terry?” Susan asked.
“All according to plan,” Terry said. He swept his fingers through his hair and took his regular seat at the table. “That Bishop is one cool character, though.”
“How do you mean?” asked Brian.
“Well, he’s really in command,” Terry said. “He reeks confidence. It’s kind of intimidating.”
“Well, wouldn’t you be confident with the Spear of Destiny in your crozier?” Mikael asked.
“If I had a crozier, that is definitely how I’d want it stocked,” Terry nodded.
“Really, though?” Susan asked. “If you had the Spear, right now, if any of us did, would we use it?”
They all looked at the floor. Finally, Terry spoke. “It’s no different from any other form of magick, is it? It’s against our Rule. Just because it’s famous or Jesus-related doesn’t make it good or exempt it from our vow.”
“How about you, Brian?” Susan asked. “You and I haven’t taken any vows.”
“I think for me it would depend on the situation,” he said thoughtfully, pausing over the laying out of Gouda. “And, with all due respect to the vows we take, it’s going to be the same for any of us when it comes right down to it. I mean, just a few months ago, Richard used the Ring of Solomon when you were all under demonic attack, right? Was he wrong to do so? Did he break his vow?”
They paused to consider this. “Yes,” Terry said finally. “He broke the vow. But you’re right, I don’t blame him—considering what was happening. And it turned the tide for us. Not in ways we could have foreseen…which is part of the problem.”
Mikael leaned against the doorframe, scowling. “Okay, pardon me for playing Mr. Zeal of the Convert here, but isn’t this the Gondor imperative? In Tolkien, the men of Gondor wanted to use the One Ring against the Dark Lord, but Gandalf wouldn’t hear of it, and everyone thought he was crazy for wanting to destroy it.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Terry said. “But Bilbo and Frodo both used it to get out of sticky situations. Was that wrong? They wouldn’t have made it otherwise, would they? Besides, is it really as black and white in the real world as Tolkien paints it?”
“Isn’t the point of this learning to depend on God’s power instead of our own?” asked Susan.
“Sure, but at what point does ‘I sent you a helicopter’ kick in?” Mikael asked.
“I didn’t vow not to ride in a helicopter,” Terry answered. “I vowed not to use magick. And the Spear is magick.”
“It’s not demon magick,” Brian pointed out.
“It’s not good magick,” Terry countered.
“So, what makes it bad magick,” asked Mikael, “if not demons?”
“It’s coercive,” Terry said. “It’s a byproduct of concentrated sin. Coercive power is corrupting, so it makes sense that a great concentration of corruption would result in a coercive talisman, doesn’t it?”
“Is all coercive power evil?” asked Mikael.
“Luther says no, but he wouldn’t say it was godly, either,” Susan said. “It’s part of his ‘two kingdoms’ theory—God approves of civil authority, which needs coercive power to keep peace—”
“Brigands must be dealt with,” Brian agreed.
“But it’s not the same as the Kingdom of God, in which coercive power has no place,” Susan explained.
“Are those separate realms?” Mikael asked.
“Yes and no,” Susan said. “They’re overlapping jurisdictions, by necessity.”
“That sounds paradoxical,” Brian said.
“That’s Luther for you,” Susan agreed.
For a while none of them spoke. Then Dylan’s eyelids fluttered. He opened his eyes, looked at Susan, then past his feet at Mikael. Mikael smiled and waved at him. “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” he said.
Susan caressed Dylan’s face. “How are you feeling, Honey?”
Brian and Terry knelt where Dylan could see them, concerned but loving smiles on both of their faces. Terry reached for Brian’s hand and squeezed it. Brian squeezed back. They’d been here—not Dylan’s exact situation, but dire enough. Terry’s affection for his partner’s steadfastness welled up in him, even as he expressed his concern for Dylan.
Dylan blinked. “Ah feel like someone just took a jackhammer to the back of mah eyeballs. What happened to meh?”
“Coffee happened,” Brian said.
“Huh?” Dylan asked.
Susan spoke as if she were talking to a child, softly but firmly. “Something has changed, Honey, since you were attacked. You had terrible reactions to the medications the doctors gave you. Even Advil…well, it almost killed you. And now, we know that coffee is off limits, too.”
“What are you tryin’ to say?” Dylan asked suspiciously.
Susan’s jaw quirked. “I’m not trying to say anything, Honey. I am saying what is happening to you. No subtext here.”
“Ah think there is,” he said.
“What do you think the subtext is, Dylan?” asked Brian.
“Ah think this is about weed,” he said.
“I think that is a cause for concern,” Susan said. “But none of us is doing this to you.”
“God is,” Dylan said.
“Okay, fine. God is.” Susan rolled her eyes.
“Now Ah understand what Jaggy meant,” Dylan’s voi
ce took on a faraway quality as he remembered his vision.
“What did he say?” Susan asked.
“He said the Powers was gonna help me,” Dylan said. “Until I learned to help mahself.”
“That sounds positive,” Susan said.
“The Powers are vindictive sons-a-bitches,” Dylan decided.
“I think someone is having feelings,” Susan said, touching the tip of his nose with her forefinger.
“Damn right Ah’m havin’ feelings,” Dylan said. “This is about weed.”
“How so?” Terry asked him.
“Weed is the wolf. Yer the little dog,” Dylan said, looking up at his wife.
“Gee, thanks,” Susan raised one eyebrow. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Y’all are the little dog. An’ Ah love the little dog,” Dylan sighed. “But Ah loved the wolf more.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “Ah’m sorry, Darlin’.” He tucked his nose in between Susan’s breasts and started to weep.
Terry and Brian stood to give him some space. Terry went back to his place on the bench, and Brian finished setting out the cheese. Mikael looked on with concern and compassion. Susan rocked Dylan, making soft shushing noises until he quieted.
Brian set the platter on the table. “Make sandwiches whenever you’re ready,” he announced to no one and everyone. Mikael nodded but stayed at his post in the doorway.
“Am Ah in Hell?” Dylan asked, sniffling.
“I think you’re in Heaven, Honey,” Susan said. “Look, you’re surrounded by the people who love you most. And there isn’t anything any of us wouldn’t do for you. I think it’s just your addiction that’s twisting your perception.”
“You know, I heard an Orthodox priest talking one time,” Terry said, spreading mayonnaise on a slice of rye. “He said that our ideas of Heaven and Hell are completely wrong. He said that when we die, we all go straight into the unmediated presence of God. The people who had opened themselves to God during their lives experienced his presence as bliss, but the people who had shut God out experienced his presence as overwhelming and painful.”
“But they were both in the same place,” Mikael nodded approvingly.
“Yup. It’s just how they perceived it that was different.” Terry placed a slice of cheese and fixed a final slice of rye on top. “Brian, are we out of pickles?”
“Oh damn. Sorry. We have pickles,” he said, turning to the fridge.
“Brian, would you make me some tea?” Dylan asked, sitting up.
Brian stopped with the pickle jar in his hand and looked at Susan. “Do you think that’s wise?” he asked.
“It’ll be fine,” Dylan said. “Arnault and Grandfather both gave me tea. Ah think it’s mah consolation drug.”
Susan sighed. “He’s got to try it sometime. Might as well be now.”
Brian shrugged and put the kettle on.
“Can someone tell me what’s goin’ on? Ah mean, like, fer work?” Dylan asked, wearily climbing into his seat at the table. He eyed Terry’s sandwich like a begging hound.
Terry swallowed and gave Dylan a brief rundown on the events of the past few days. Susan sat next to her husband and reported the ominous gossip they’d heard at the Islamic Cultural Center, as well as the blood they’d found outside the house of the man she’d been exorcising. Through it all, Dylan scowled and nodded. When Susan stopped speaking, Dylan said, “So let me get this straight: Randy is in Hell—”
“No, Honey. I think you’re still a bit disoriented,” Susan patted his knee. “Charlie is in Hell; his body is at the hospital. Randy is in the mirror, hanging at Dio House, in the bishop’s office. Kat is in Vision, but we don’t know where she’s gone to.”
“And Richard?” Dylan asked. He seemed crestfallen. Richard was his best friend, after all.
Susan squeezed his leg. “We don’t know. He’s been incommunicado for more than a day. He doesn’t answer his phone, or text messages, or email.”
“Thet’s not good,” Dylan said. No one disagreed.
“We have a lot to pray for after dinner,” Terry said through a mouth full of sandwich.
Brian set a steaming bowl of something that looked both white and mushy in front of Dylan, followed quickly by a mug of black tea.
“Grits?” Dylan sniffed.
“Let’s start simple, then add things. That way, if you have another reaction, we’ll know what you’re allergic to,” Brian reasoned. “If you do fine tonight, we’ll know that you’re A-OK for corn and tea.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” Susan said.
Dylan did not protest. He tucked into the grits with vengeance. Everyone held their breath. Dylan himself didn’t hesitate. He finished bite after bite, stopping now and then to take a sip of tea.
“The man is still upright,” Brian noted.
“That’s a very good sign,” Susan said, allowing herself to relax a bit.
“Now Ah want chocolate,” Dylan announced, scraping the last of the grits from the bottom of the bowl.
“Don’t push it,” Brian scolded, swiping up his bowl and placing it in the sink.
77
KAT STORMED out of the keep, stomping over the lush green turf, cursing under her breath. This time, she did not see the brightness of the sun, or the brilliance of the flowers, or the delicate butterfly that she crushed beneath her Doc Martins. The flap of her cassock hung open, and her hands were balled into fists.
“This was a stupid fucking idea anyway,” she said out loud. “What was I thinking?” Suddenly, she felt a sense of urgency, to get back to her computer, to see if there was a report from Randy. There he was, putting himself in danger, and she was doing what, here? Apparently, a lot of nothing.
“You’re going the wrong way,” a voice from out of nowhere said.
She stopped. She recognized the voice. It belonged to that slimy magickian. Why are all magickians slimy? she wondered. She realized that she was universalizing from particulars—only the magickians of her experience were slimy. Theoretically, she reasoned, it was possible that there were non-slimy magickians. Somewhere.
“Stop with the peekaboo,” Kat said, hands on her lithe hips. The wind swept her black hair over her face. She spit a strand out of her mouth.
Obediently, the magickian stepped from a cluster of bamboo and bowed slightly. “That was an unfortunate meeting,” he said.
“You’re telling me,” she said. “Do you know how far I had to come?”
“Oh yes,” he said, tsking. “You must have been traveling ever since lunchtime.”
She stared at him. “Are you making fun of me?”
He grinned, but it was a real grin. “Yes, Kat Webber. I am making fun of you. When the khan ruled on Earth, men would travel for months to see him.” He looked down and considered. “When he…withdrew, men spent their entire lifetimes searching for his kingdom. You, I believe, have not been greatly inconvenienced.”
“You’re saying I’m a spoiled brat,” she huffed.
“I’m thinking it, but I’m not saying it.” The man’s head bobbed back and forth.
“You got here fast,” she said.
“I’ve got two horses.” He tossed his chin in the direction of the bamboo copse, “over there.”
“Uh-huh,” Kat said. “Why do you have two horses?”
“One for each of us.”
“I’m going home,” Kat said, and started walking again.
“You’ll be walking a very long time in that direction,” the man called. “As I said, you are headed the wrong way.”
“Which is the right direction?” Kat asked.
“Come back to the castle with me, and meet with the khan. Then I’ll give you a horse and send you with an escort to take you back to the Abyss. You’ll waste no more time than you will if you continue on your present course. Less, I wager.”
“Why should I go back?” Kat asked, a hurt look on her face. “Prester John is obviously more interested in accusing me of something than he is in hea
ring what I have to say.”
“Prester John is…wounded,” the magickian said. “In his mind. He has known great betrayal and much personal suffering. It has made him suspicious and inhospitable. Please accept my apology on his behalf.” He spread his hands in a gesture of peace.
“I don’t trust you,” Kat said, crossing her arms.
“Then I see that you and my khan have much in common. You are both suspicious, and this has garnered you ungracious spirits.”
“Hey, I’m not the same as him!” Kat snapped.
“Aren’t you?” The magickian smiled a satisfied little smile that Kat was dying to rip off his face with her nails.
“All right, I’ll go back,” she said, her pouting face in full effect. “But I want an apology. From him, not from you.”
“I can’t promise that.” The man shook his head. “He is a king. You are a commoner. He condescends to receive you. He will not condescend to apologize to you. You may as well ask the sky to be orange. It will do you no good to rail at it for being blue. Likewise, you cannot prosecute a king for being a king. And you may not require him to act like a slave in order to meet the whim of a common girl.”
“Are you generally good at this persuasion thing?” Kat asked. “Because I’m thinking that you kind of suck at it.”
“You must pardon me if I am not fluent in your most contemporary idioms.” The magickian smiled again, this time obsequiously. “This way, please. The horses are just over here.”
Despite the significant temper tantrum occurring in one room of her brain, Kat obeyed. Sure enough, on the other side of the bamboo grove, two horses were loitering, fully saddled and munching at the grass.
The man offered his hands to help Kat into the saddle, which she gratefully accepted. She had ridden horses a number of times in her life, usually on one-hour guided rides when her family drove through Arizona or Utah. She was awkward in the saddle, and in truth, she was scared of the great beast. Determined that it not show, however, she clutched at the reins, a little too roughly, since her horse gave out a scream of protest.
“No need to guide her,” the magickian said. He had mounted himself, and he pulled up next to her. Taking the reins from Kat’s hands, he dropped them onto the horse’s neck. “She knows the way home.”
