by J. R. Mabry
Not now, though. “We…I…specifically told you to protect the savior, not attack him.”
“I don’t understand. First, who is the savior? I was never clear on that.” Had she ever said? He wracked his brain but couldn’t think of it. “Second, any job I have to do will be easier if I have the power to do it. One step at a time, right? Once I have the Spear of Destiny, nothing will be able to stop us. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“You’re an idiot,” she almost spat through the mirror.
His shoulders fell, and he felt at a complete loss. He felt a panic rise up within him, mortified at having displeased her. His Pim. “I-I-I hope—” he stammered, but he couldn’t finish the sentence. “I don’t understand,” he said finally.
“Governor Ivory is the one my Masters have set their hopes upon. All our plans at this point depend on him. And you, you fucking imbecile, almost got him killed.”
“I did? When?”
“He was in the bishop’s office when you and the army we graciously gave you attacked it.”
Larch deflated even further. “He was? Oh shit.” His head was swimming. “I had no idea. I thought…” But he didn’t know what he thought. He just stood there feeling like a naughty schoolboy. It was a very old feeling, and not one that he liked—not at all.
He had to redeem himself. He couldn’t bear the look of anger and spite on Pim’s face. He wanted her so badly, he would do anything to win back her winsome smile.
“Give me one reason why we shouldn’t choose someone else to lead our army?” Pim crossed her arms. Although her feet were out of frame, he could see by the motions of her leg that she was tapping one foot, too.
“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I was trying to…do the right thing.” He was sincere, but the words landed wrong as soon as he’d said them—like the dissonant clunk of lead pipe on concrete. “Please tell me what to do. I have every intention of being your obedient servant.” He bowed slightly to her. He also felt ridiculous, but he didn’t let that stop him.
She narrowed her eyes at him, apparently thinking. “Just a minute,” she said and walked out of frame. He heard faint voices—arguing. Five minutes passed, and he turned off the shower, as the steam was so great now that it was beginning to impair his vision rather than facilitating it. He also took a leak. He leaned against the bathroom door again and waited some more. Eventually, Pim walked back into frame.
“You’re a very lucky man,” she said. “Some people have more…invested…in you than I do.”
His heart fell. He felt the awful stab of the wounded lover. He wanted to cry, but he blinked it back instead. He said nothing but merely waited for her to continue.
She crossed her arms and looked out of frame. She moved her head from side to side. “Give me a fucking minute; I’m getting to it,” she said to someone in the nether-wings.
“Okay, here’s the deal. We’ll let you keep the army—for now.” She scowled at him. It was a bad scowl. “The savior will be at the Republican National Convention tomorrow. You need to protect him. Especially from the Blackfriars.”
“The Blackfriars?” Larch was surprised. Then he remembered that the friary was the place the army had congregated first. It suddenly dawned on him that the Blackfriars were the only people that Pim and her masters were really afraid of. He pursed his lips in curiosity, thinking this odd. As much as he respected Richard, he’d always thought the others to be kind of buffoonish. He flashed on his own lodge fraters and winced. The pot calling the kettle black, he thought.
“But be warned, magickian. One more fuckup and—”
“And what?” he asked, a wet chill running down his spine.
“Let’s just say that’s how people get eaten,” she said. For the first time in their conversation, she smiled
TUESDAY
86
SUSAN WATCHED HER HUSBAND SLEEP. With her eye, she traced the broad length of his nose. The red in his beard caught the morning light just starting to peek through their bedroom window.
Dylan stirred. He opened one eye. He saw her looking at him. He jerked up. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong, silly,” she said, touching his nose with her finger. “I’m just looking at you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re beautiful. And I love you,” she said. She smiled. “And I’m proud of you.”
“Keep talking,” he said, scooting over to nuzzle her.
She wrapped her arms around his bulky chest and squeezed. “You were an addict when I married you,” she said.
“O God, here it comes…” he moaned.
“Stop it.” She slapped at his balding pate. “And you still are; we both know that. I’m so grateful to Grandfather and Jaguar and the Powers. I can see a big difference in you already.”
“I have no idea what yore talkin’ about,” he said. “And they’re all sons-a-bitches.”
“They love you and they saved you,” she said.
“From what?”
“From you,” she said. “From that compulsion to constantly numb yourself out.”
“Sons-a-bitches,” he repeated. He lowered his nose and pressed it between her breasts. “Mah favorite spot.”
She stroked the back of his head. “I wish I knew what you were afraid of.”
“I ain’t afraid of nothing,” he said in a mammary-muffled voice.
“You’re brave, all right,” she said. “I’ve seen you and Richard go up against things that would make Schwarzenegger run for cover. But there’s something even scarier than demons in your head. Something that makes you hide out from your own feelings, over and over and over.”
“Yer soundin’ like a psychologist,” he said, coming up for air. He nestled his head in the crook of her neck.
“I think you should see a psychologist,” she said.
“Fuck that,” he said. “Too expensive.”
“I’ll bet the others wouldn’t bat an eye at paying for your therapy from the common fund. I bet they’d pony right up.”
Dylan said nothing.
“You’re embarrassed,” Susan realized, and said it out loud. “I don’t think you need to be. If we could do it all ourselves, we wouldn’t need Jesus.”
“Ah’m feelin’ distinctly Pelagian this mornin’,” he said. “Ah’ll thank you to keep yer Augustine to yerself.”
“Augustine was judged right,” Susan countered.
He pulled away briefly and squinted at her. “How is it that you manage to win an argument fifteen hundred years before y’ore even born?”
“Behold my power, and despair!” she teased, pinching him.
He yelped. “Do that again.”
“Nope. Intermittent reinforcement is the most effective means of operant conditioning.”
“If yer quotin’ Skinner, thet means y’ore tryin’ to get me hot,” Dylan said. “Are you tryin’ to get me hot?” He moved one hand down her belly, coming to rest in the warm pressure between her thighs.
“I’m not saying no,” she said and rolled on top of him. She straddled him and pressed her vulva against his hardness.
He grabbed at the fleshiness of her hips and pressed up into her. She shivered and lowered her face down to kiss him, wetly and deep. Breaking off the kiss, she sat up and rode him, swaying back and forth and delighting in his moans.
He rolled her off him before he came and kissed his way down to her belly. It was her turn to moan.
When they were both satisfied, they snuggled again. Susan looked at the clock. “Brian will have breakfast ready soon,” she said. “You’d better go pray, or Terry will start without you.”
“Ah’m prayin’ for bacon,” Dylan said, and smacked his lips.
“How are you feeling?”
“Ah’m feeling fiiiiiiiiine,” he said. “Ah am now, anyways.”
She slapped at his shoulder. “Aches? Pains?”
He smiled at her. “Ah’m fine, Darlin’. Honest to God.”
“Good. ’Cause
we’ve got a big day ahead of us,” Susan said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you ready for it?” she asked.
“As ready as Ah’m gonna be, Ah reckon,” he said, unconcerned.
“The others are going to be looking to you to lead them,” she reminded him.
He grunted.
She continued. “Richard’s gone…somewhere. Terry can’t do it. He’s too abrasive, and Mikael won’t listen to him. Mikael and Kat are too green. That leaves you.”
He grunted.
“I mean it, Honey. You’ve got to find your power here. If you don’t step up and lead today, we’re not going to see tomorrow. You know that’s true.”
He grunted.
“You can’t hide anymore.” She put her head on his chest. “The Powers have taken that away from you…”
“Sons-a-fucking-bitches,” he breathed, looking at the ceiling.
“So, what are you going to do?” She played with the hair on his chest.
“Y’know, someday y’er gonna wake up and realize yore not Katie von Bora,” he complained.
“What are you going to do?” she repeated.
He said nothing. She stroked his chin. “I know you’re scared,” she said softly. “So am I. I don’t want you to do this alone. I want you to go downstairs and pray for help. I want you to lean on Jesus like you’ve never leaned before. I want you to call the smart shots and put our people in the places they can do the most good, keeping in mind their talents and their limitations. I want you to trust God and do the thing that scares you most.”
“You want me to man-fucking-up and play drill sergeant, is that it?”
“If you want to live to hump another day,” she said, “then yes.”
87
MORNING PRAYER WAS PARTICULARLY POIGNANT. Kat always enjoyed the ritual of it—the meditative stillness, the synchronistic, scarily applicable symbolic messages that the appointed scripture readings for the day always seemed to hold, the vulnerability of her brothers in the order as they laid their fears and hopes before God. She loved them terribly. And she felt loved. She fought to keep the tears bottled up as they named their intercessions.
She knew that every one of them was aware that they may not be alive to pray in this room tomorrow. And they poured all of that anxiety into their prayer. She felt it charged with power. Even the picture of the patchwork Jesus that covered the chapel wall seemed worried. That must be my imagination, she thought. But it didn’t change what she saw.
The incense of their prayers was soon displaced by the delicious odor of bacon, and as they said their final amens, they drifted greedily to the kitchen. The lazy Susan in the center of the table was overloaded with the fruit of Brian’s labor—sausage and cheddar omelets, and molasses-caraway buns—both were steaming, both fresh and hot. The fried potatoes with sun dried tomatoes were beginning to cool. Brian was just filling coffee mugs as they streamed in.
Susan was already in place, and she handed a cup of tea to her husband. Dylan sniffed at it but otherwise accepted it without any derisive comment. As Kat sat down, she worried about her brother. She thought back to what they’d heard about the attack on the bishop’s office. Of course, Terry couldn’t have asked Bishop Preston, “Oh, and how did that mirror on your wall fare?” But it’s what she most wanted to ask. Directly after breakfast, she would email him and hope against hope for a reply.
“Did anyone rouse the khan?” Brian asked.
Terry perked up and leaped to his feet. “Jesus! I didn’t even think—” But just then they heard the sound of hard boots on the stairs, and in moments Prester John was ducking to clear the door frame. He stepped into the kitchen, his eyes severe.
“How did you sleep, your majesty?” Brian asked.
“Your magick is not wasted on bedding,” the khan announced.
“Um…is thet a good thing?” Dylan asked uncertainly.
“Never in my life have I slept so well,” the khan clarified.
“We are glad to hear it,” Brian said. “But in truth, there’s no magick to it. Most people in our land sleep as well.”
“Then your nation is blessed of God,” Prester John said and worked himself into a space at the table.
“There’s really no need for armor at the table, your majesty,” Brian said, smiling.
“We are joining battle this very morning, are we not?” The khan looked confused.
“Waal, that’s definitely somethin’ we gotta talk about,” Dylan said. “Can someone say grace so we can dig into this loveliness?”
Susan obliged. “Fortify us with this food, Blessed One. Because we need your help and strength. Amen.”
“Amen,” they all agreed, and the lazy Susan began to spin.
Kat noted that Prester John ate with undisguised gusto. He also ate without any hint of Western table manners, and she fought to keep from staring at him as he lowered his face into his plate and shoveled in his eggs, using his spoon as a trowel. She noted that others were struggling not to watch him as well, and then it was hard not to simply laugh. Again, she felt a pain of poignancy, recognizing in that moment of glee everything she loved about her life, about these people. The precariousness of their continued life together struck at her heart like a lance.
As soon as their first helpings were nearing completion, Dylan wiped his beard and threw his napkin on the table. “All raaaght, friends-n-neighbors, we gots us a hell of a day before us. Time to make a plan.”
Mouths froze in mid-mastication as they stared at him. Terry cocked one eyebrow suspiciously. Dylan ignored them and continued. “I suggest we head over to the City by BART; thet way we can all stay together since we only gots the one car. We got us a bishop, so make sure you got yore kit bags with you—God knows what we’ll encounter once we get there. But use yore small kits—just the essentials—we don’t need to be slowed down by a bunch of luggage.”
Mikael put down his fork. “Who are you, and what have you done with Dylan?”
Dylan ignored him. “Terry, you’ve got a relationship with Preston. Ah wants you to stick to him like glue. You’re our best chance at snatchin’ that crozier when he ain’t lookin’. And once you’ve got it…”
Everyone held their breaths.
“Don’t think. Just act. Am Ah clear?”
Terry nodded curtly. “The rest of us will be decoys. We’ll let them deploy us however they want, but let’s keep track of where Terry is at all times ’cause as soon as he’s got it, we gotta be there to close ranks and keep him safe.”
“You do realize we’ll be the only people in the building who aren’t carrying guns, right?” Terry asked.
“Which will be a moot point once you’ve got yore mitts on that Spear,” Dylan said. “An’ in case Terry gets taken out, whoever’s closest to Preston has got to take his place.”
“That’s the whole plan?” Mikael asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice.
“There’s too many variables to go into more detail,” Dylan nodded. “The more we define it, the more flustered we’ll be when things don’t go as planned. So, the plan is simple: We do whatever they tell us to do—within the bounds of our Rule, o’ course—and try to keep Terry clear to stay as close to Preston as possible.”
Dylan watched as one by one his order mates nodded their agreement. “Thet means that if someone tries to call Terry away, one of us leaps in and does whatever is bein’ asked. Keep Terry free. First chance he gets to snatch the Spear, he does, and we get outta there. That’s it.”
More nods.
Dylan turned to his wife. “Darlin’, Ah wants you on the computer. Monitor the convention, as well as any incoming messages from Randy. Group text us anything you think is relevant.”
“Aye-aye,” she said. Kat saw tears brimming in her eyes.
“Brian, Ah want you at the library in case we need research support. Never know what the fuck we’re gonna run into, and if it’s anything like what we usually run into, Ah’m gonna need information fast and r
eliable-like.”
Brian nodded. “You got it, Boss. Which library, do you think? Berkeley Public, GTU?”
“Ah’m gonna suggest the Bancroft,” Dylan said. “Thet way if you need to rush over ta the GTU, you can do it in five minutes. We can cover the most bases that way.”
“The Bancroft will probably give us everything we need anyway,” Brian nodded. “Good plan.”
“All agreed?” Dylan asked.
“Dylan, if you don’t mind me asking,” Terry said cautiously. “I don’t…I mean, I’ve never seen you…like this. Why couldn’t you do this last week? I mean, you’re good at this.”
Dylan puffed up his chest, staring at Terry. Kat thought he looked angry. Then he deflated, and he looked down at his hands. “Ah been wonderin’ the same thing, Ter. An’ here’s what Ah think. Ah think Ah told mahself that the pot was helpin’ my anxiety. An’ it kinda was. It relaxed me as soon as Ah smoked it. But Ah ignored the fact that it made me more anxious, too.”
“It often has a paradoxical effect on people,” Brian agreed. “I noticed the same effects in myself.”
“So, Ah think I wuz usin’ it to treat mah insecurity, an’ all the while it wuz makin’ me more insecure,” Dylan said, a sad wistfulness in his voice. “Ah sure do miss it, though. It’s like losin’ a limb. Or a fambly member.”
“You’re losing a large part of your identity,” Susan said, taking his hand. “If you’re not the pothead friar, who are you? You’re proud of that identity, I know. It says something powerful and true about the goodness of creation and the liberty of the Gospel. But it’s a flag someone else will have to carry now. You have to figure out who Dylan is without pot.”
“Ah feel like I jus’ died.” Dylan continued staring at his hands.
“A part of you has.” Susan leaned over and kissed him. “I’ll mourn him, too. After all, it was the pothead friar I fell in love with. But I made a vow to you, the true Dylan, no matter how you change, or what you’ll face. Including this weird allergy illness. And to be honest, Honey, the pothead was eclipsing the friar. Something had to give.”
