by J. R. Mabry
Fair enough, Kat thought, but gave a little scream of her own as the horse started to trot after the magickian, and she grabbed at the saddle horn for a handhold.
The horses covered the ground much more quickly than she had done, of course, and in mere minutes they slowed as they approached the door of the keep. Dismounting quickly, the magickian helped Kat to the ground and bid her follow.
They entered by a different door this time, shortcutting through a lush garden so dense with foliage that it resembled a jungle. “Wait here,” the man said, disappearing into a low door. He reappeared a moment later, his most gracious smile once again in place. “The khan will see you now.”
But will the khan be a gentleman? Kat thought. An answering thought said, Will you be a lady? She knew the answer to that.
She stepped once more into the warm, romantic room with the giant fireplace. Tapestries hung on the walls. Huge, squat furniture—roughly fashioned from dark woods and cushioned with red and purple velvets—sat at a safe distance from the fire.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, but as they did she located Prester John studying a map on a large oaken desk. His hair must have been long, for this time she noticed it had been gathered up in a topknot, fastened with a dark wooden clasp.
When Kat would later try to describe him, he sounded like a goofy crossdresser—a man in a yellow muumuu with his hair done up in a barrette. But in person, there was nothing effeminate or silly about him. It was obvious to her that this was a man of power, dressed in a way that communicated that power in his own culture. It was Kat who felt small and out of place.
She curtsied, and this time it was not forced, nor was it awkward. She averted her eyes, feeling quite properly chastened by his appearance this time. She stood nervously and waited to be spoken to.
“It seems you have more courage than sense,” Prester John said, apparently to her. “I am sorry for the way I…I misspoke earlier. I hope you will pardon my offense.”
She looked up and met his eyes. He was serious. She looked over at the magickian, who raised his eyebrows in surprise, shooting her a look that said, You got your apology—unlikely as that was.
“Of course,” she said. “If you will pardon my”—she fished for an appropriate sounding word—“headstrong…ness.” She mentally slapped herself on her forehead. Fuck me, she thought. Really? “Headstrongness”? Is that even a word?
Prester John, however, seemed to chalk it up to the ongoing mutability of language because he grunted and gave a stiff nod. “I assumed I knew what you had come for,” he said, straightening up to his full, considerable height. “My magickian tells me I was wrong.” Before she could answer, he continued. “I was inhospitable, but the mistake was honest. For hundreds of years men have visited me, and each of them has only been after one thing.”
A painful look crossed Kat’s face as she thought, To get into your pants? which was usually the end of a sentence like that, but she held her tongue. And her breath.
“The Graal,” he said.
She let out her breath, relieved that the answer had nothing to do with pants. Despite the fact that Prester John wasn’t wearing pants, she imagined that the king could fill some formidable pants. She shook her head briskly, trying not to think about what was in the king’s pants, which was hopeless now that she had.
“I’m sorry, your highness,” Kat said. “Where I come from, the only grail we know about is in a very silly movie.”
“Movie?” The king looked puzzled.
“It’s like a play,” she reasoned. “I watched the whole movie, and never figured out what the grail even was. Is it a…cup? I remember something about a cup.”
The king nodded, apparently measuring her sincerity.
“I find your ignorance of the Graal incredible,” the king said. “But I will assume you tell me the truth.”
“Yeah…we’re not big on the grail thing,” Kat said, not sure how to answer him and bristling a little at his use of the word “ignorance.”
“The Holy Graal is the cup that our Lord Jesus Christ drank from at the Last Supper,” Prester John said with an almost liturgical ring to his phrasing.
“Wow!” Kat said. “Well, that’s a thing, isn’t it?”
The king scowled, apparently mystified by her response. “I am the keeper of the Graal,” he continued. “For centuries men have sought me out in search of its mystical powers.”
“That’s very, very…exciting.” Kat nodded vigorously. “Can I speak to you about something kind of important?”
Prester John pierced her with his fierce black eyes. “Speak.”
“I come from a time, like, a thousand years after you did your stuff. On Earth,” she said, not certain of her words. “And there’s this guy who says that he’s your great-great-great—and lots and lots more greats—grandson. He’s a bishop. And he’s got the Spear of Destiny—I don’t know what you call it, but the one that stabbed Jesus at his crucifixion.”
“You speak of the Spear of Longinus.” The khan looked suddenly interested.
“Yeah, that’s the one. I was using ‘long johns’ as a mnemonic device, but I still couldn’t remember the damned thing. Anyway, he likes to talk about how you are his ancestor and all, and how you used to kill Muslims in battle—and he’s real, real proud of that—and he’s determined to finish what you started. His friend—I mean, I guess they’re friends—the governor guy, Ivory, he already dropped a bomb on Dearborn—”
“Bomb? Dearborn?” the King shook his head. “These words are strange to me.”
“A bomb is like…an explosion.” She threw her hands up and made loud “kkkk-shhhh-ing” sounds with her mouth.
The king cocked his head in confusion. The magickian stepped forward. “If your majesty will excuse me, I believe the young woman speaks of something like Greek Fire. Only, perhaps in her time, more potent.”
The king’s eyebrows shot up.
“Sure, okay,” Kat agreed, heartened that she was making progress. “And Dearborn is a city where a bunch of Muslims live—uh, lived.”
“This man used Greek Fire on a whole city?” The king looked horrified. “And their women? And children?”
“KKKK—shhhhhhhh,” Kat said again, moving her hands dramatically. “Everyone. Even people who were not Muslim got killed. But the governor did it—not the bishop. But the bishop supports him, you know, and is helping him get elect—you probably don’t know what an election is. Into a position of even more power, so he can…you know…kill more…Muslims.” She pursed her lips and scrunched up her nose. “Am I making any sense at all?”
“And he does this in my name…” Prester John looked like someone had punched him in the gut.
“Oh yeah. He mentions you every chance he gets.” Kat nodded. “You’re like his favorite subject, when he’s not talking about killing Muslims. Except that he’s usually talking about them together.” Kat felt good that she’d finally blurted it out, but she felt flustered. She wasn’t usually so ditzy. She wondered if there was something about the atmosphere of this strange world that was affecting her. On the other hand, it could just be the proximity of the enormous king and the thought of the correspondingly enormous contents of his pants. Kat realized she was incredibly horny. Note to self, she thought, fuck Mikael blind at first opportunity.
“Walk with me,” the khan commanded. “Ismael, send wine.” The magickian nodded and walked briskly from the room, in search of a servant, Kat reasoned. She followed the king as he stepped out into the cool brightness of the garden.
He walked slowly, with his hands behind his back. He seemed suddenly weary, older—definitely sadder. “Do you know why I’m here?” he asked her. “What do they say of me in your time?”
“Not much,” Kat said. “I mean, no offense, but I’d never heard of you before Bishop Preston started talking about you. Everyone else in my order knew about you, though…” She thought about that for a moment, feeling a bit sheepish. Boy, do
I have a lot to learn, she thought.
“I have had fewer and fewer visitors, which I now understand.” He nodded approvingly. “It is good that I am little known. I want no one to suffer what I have suffered.”
“It looks like you’ve got it pretty good,” Kat said.
“Let me tell you my tale, and then you can tell me how felicitous my reign seems to you,” the king said.
Kat worried briefly about her brother but was now too interested to hurry off. “Please,” she said. “I’d love to hear about it.”
“I arrived that day at Damietta to find the European armies scattered. I gathered them and used them like a fist to break down the walls of the castle. Without mercy, I murdered the Saracens—you call them Muslims. I killed their comrades until one of them talked, then I killed the rest of them anyway. I hunted down their king, who was making strikes at us from the desert, and I killed him, too, along with all his men. I killed his camp women. I killed their children. Then I went from city to city, and we killed every Child of the Prophet we met. We waylaid caravans, we cut them down, we stole their goods, we slew their livestock. And we did this all in the precious name of Christ, our Lord.” A cloud had descended over the khan’s countenance, dark as a thunderhead. “That is how I spent my life. That is how I made my fame: Khan Jahn, the Moor Hammer. That is how I became a saint, beatified by Pope Honorius even if I was only a Nestorian heretic.” A pained smile flitted over his mouth at the thought of this, but it only lasted a minute.
“And when I died, I discovered myself here.” He waved at the garden. “In my old castle, still king of my own lands. Only…my people are gone.”
Kat was puzzled. “But I’ve seen people. There are people here.”
“Yes, but they aren’t my people.” He looked down and caught her eye. “Have you not guessed, Lady Kat, who my subjects are now?”
Kat was lost. She saw the grieved mirth in his eyes, but she shook her head.
“My subjects are all Moors…Muslims. In fact, they are, every one of them, the very people I killed.”
Kat gasped. Yes, she realized now, every one of them looked Middle Eastern.
They had come to a small clearing in the jumbled tangle of plant life. In the open space was a stone table with two stone blocks for benches on either side. Atop the table were a pitcher and two goblets.
The king bade her sit and filled both goblets with wine. He sat with a heavy sigh and continued, “At first, I was outraged. I was filled with fury, with horror, with revulsion. That such heathens, such savages, such animals should be my subjects? It was unthinkable. I believed God had either made a mistake or that he was mad.
“In time, I understood that God was not mad, but wise. For in time I discovered…not Saracens…but people. I have found them to be witty, intelligent, and clever. I have discovered that they are loyal, generous, and kind. They are clean, industrious, ingenious, and learned. I have also found them to be devout—their devotion to God puts me to shame.” He sighed, and his sigh carried the weight of the world. “I discovered that I was no saint—despite what I had told myself, despite what some Roman bishop might have declared. I discovered the depth of my sin…and it is deep indeed.”
He looked like he might cry. Kat felt sorry for him, but she didn’t know what to say. She took a sip of the wine. It was hearty, but sweet. She liked it so much that she involuntarily licked her lips.
The king looked into the sad distance, and when he spoke again his voice was weary. “I expected to be granted a place amidst the glory of God. Instead, I must suffer the devotion of the very people I have wronged. Their kindness wounds me. Their care, their obedience stings. Every day I curse the day I was born. Every day I strive to be worthy of them, to be a better king than any earthly ruler has ever attempted. They give me all I could ever hope for. And I give them everything I have. And thereby, I pray someday, if I am a good enough king, that God will grant an end to this Purgatory.”
Kat asked the thing that kept bugging her. “So, don’t the people you killed…resent having to serve you? I know I would, if you’d killed me, that is.”
The king shook his head, gravely, slowly. “They remember nothing. Oh, they remember their lives, their families, their labor. But nothing of the battle. It is Allah’s kindness.” He leaned over and whispered, “They think they are in Heaven.”
“Maybe they are,” Kat said.
“How could it be?” Prester John asked, but it was rhetorical. It was clear he thought it impossible. “So, you see,” he continued, “your news makes me sad. I have come to love this people. The thought that they are still being killed in your time, and by my sons yet…it is a grievous thing to me.”
He downed his wine in a single gulp and then slammed his cup down onto the table. Kat jumped. Not seeming to notice, the khan poured himself another cup. This he also dispatched quickly. Again, he brought the cup down on the table with a bang. Kat felt the urge to chant, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” but she restrained herself. Prester John wiped his beard with the back of his hand and looked at Kat with what seemed like sincere affection.
“My daughter, I am saddened by your news, but I am glad to have met you. We will meet again.” And with that, he rose, bowed to her almost imperceptibly, and walked off through the garden.
“Huh,” Kat said out loud. She took another sip of the wine, wondering. In a moment, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. It was the magickian, making his way through the brambles toward her.
“Your horse is ready,” he said, “if you would like to return home.”
She would, she realized. And yet she had been seduced by this place. Maybe it wasn’t Heaven, but it was heavenly. It was no wonder the Muslims thought they had entered paradise. If she had woken from death here and had been told this was Heaven, she would believe it. She wasn’t sure that she didn’t believe it now. She drained the wine, wiped her mouth on the back of her own hand, and stood.
“I’m good, Ismael,” she declared. “Let’s go.”
78
RICHARD’S HANDS were still shaking as he drove into town. Images of cooperating law enforcement agencies taking down the Ecbatana Ranch danced in his brain, and he felt a thrill of vengeful satisfaction as he watched them play out. He had no way of knowing, of course, whether that was happening, or would happen, or if, in fact, someone was looking for the stolen car he was driving. There was so much he didn’t know. I know this, he thought, I am not out of the frying pan yet.
Just as twilight was beginning to fall, he saw a rental car agency to his right and a block later pulled into a grocery store parking lot. “C’mon, big boy,” he said to Tobias, holding open the door for the dog. “Time for us to get a new car. Maybe one that no one’s looking for. And then let’s find a vet and get that lip looked at.”
79
BISHOP PRESTON LIT a cigar and leaned back in his chair. Governor Ivory raised a glass to his friend. “Here’s to your speech tomorrow, John. You ready?”
The Dio House was so quiet it was creaky. It was the way Preston liked his office best—and always had, as long as he had been a bishop. The staff had gone home, night had fallen, and the peace that the church had always promised its people seemed to descend on him in a way that was real and present to the senses. Metaphorical peace was all right, he supposed. But this peace, this night peace, this passed understanding. He craved it during the day, and he reveled in it now.
“I am as ready as I’m going to be.” Preston poured himself another scotch. “Here’s the way I’ve always looked at it: Whenever I’ve had to deliver a big sermon, I’m just making myself available to preach the Good News. It’s God’s job to make it shine.”
“You think God’s going to help us out?” Ivory looked skeptical.
“We are doing God’s work,” Preston said. “I believe that. Don’t you believe that?”
“I do.”
“Well, God ain’t gonna leave us swingin’ in the wind, David. He’s atramplin’ out the vintage wher
e the grapes of wrath are stored. You wait and see.”
Ivory chuckled. “I trust you know your business better than I do.” He took a swig and made a face. “Isn’t that a Yankee hymn?”
“Best damned lyric a Yankee ever wrote,” Preston grinned. “Besides, I did all right against them liberal wonks on Block Jamison’s show, didn’t I? I trust you got some good responses?”
“Well, there’s no shortage of hate mail, of course, but those seem to be coming almost exclusively from the left.” Ivory moved his head from side to side. “But among the GOP faithful, the support has been o-ver-whelming. I can’t thank you enough for that, John. You put it into a context that I couldn’t have done, speaking for myself. It would have sounded too defensive.”
“I think you’re right about that.” Preston ran his finger around the rim of his glass. “But I’m not surprised by the response. Tomorrow I’ll make my speech, and Wednesday I’ll take the case to the floor. I’ll be damned if we don’t blow the walls off that place.”
“The speeches tonight were good. Ridgeway’s pretty confident.” Ivory looked worried.
“Let him. That’s what we want. They know we’re making noise, but they just think I’m being a cranky old man. They don’t know the lightning that’s going to strike tomorrow night when I make my address.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“I am.”
Ivory looked skeptical, but he nodded and sipped from his tumbler. “There are lots of people in the party who don’t like me.”
Preston leaned forward on his great oaken desk. “Here’s what we’ve got to keep in mind, David: This is not about you. Any one of those flag-wavin’ clowns you’re goin’ up against would make a decent president, in my opinion—”
“Except for Chesterton.”
“Ain’t no way Chesterton is going to get the nomination, and you know it. But if any of the rest of them got it, I’d vote for them, and that’s a fact.” He drew on his cigar. “But this isn’t about minor policy differences. This is about the war on Western civilization. And you, Governor Ivory, are the only man I trust to take decisive action. You ready to get down to business?”
