Hostage to the Devil

by Malachi Martin

  It was all David needed to push him, even pursued by his fears, past that crag. He began to think words again, to open his lips, mouthing them soundlessly.

  Then panic rose. What if it were all delusion, mocking delusion? The panic became pandemonium in his brain. But now it was matched and outstripped by his violent wish to speak, to get those words out in living sound. Somehow, if it took his last strength, if it cost him his life, he had to pronounce them audibly. His intentions would not be humanly real until he did…unless he did.

  In his agony, still on his knees and still facing the window of his room, David remained so absorbed in this last effort that he still did not notice the figure standing outside the window. Father Joseph had waited at home for the storm to abate, and then set out for the farm. The only light in the place had been from David’s window. Now he stood outside trying to guess what was happening to his friend inside. “Help him. Mother of Jesus. In the name of Jesus, ask for help for him, please.” He could see David’s lips working silently and his wide, sightless eyes staring into the night.

  Joseph was about to tap on the window or wake up the others in the house when he heard David cry out loud, at first in a staccato fashion, then firmly and connectedly and vibrantly: “I choose…I will…I believe…. Help my unbelief…Jesus!…I believe I believe I believe.” Joseph stood stock-still and listened. He could only see David’s face and hear his words. He could not enter his consciousness, where the twin chants had once again sounded to the very depth of his soul.

  But it was different for David now. He had chosen, and the result was instantaneous. He found, not destruction and helplessness and childish weakness, and not the black slavery of mind and will that Mister Natch had taunted would be the fruits of belief. Instead, a great and breathtaking dimension full of relief and distance and height and depth flooded his mind and will and imagination.

  As if the darkness and agony behind him had been but a little transitory test, the horizons of life and existence were miraculously clear now. The air was suffused with serene sunlight and great, calm spaces of blue.

  Every scale, measurement, and extension of his life was clothed in the grace and comeliness of a freedom he had always feared losing but had never been sure he possessed. Every slope he had climbed as a young boy—his first attempts at thinking, at feeling, at judging morally, at self-expression—were now covered in beds of high flowers scented, like violets and harebells and columbine. Every cranny and niche where his feet had caught and he had tripped and stumbled during his early intellectualism at the university were now filled with springing green grass.

  And his greatest wonder was his new sky, his fresh horizon. Over the years his human sky had become a cast-iron grating—he had been able to send an odd plea winging through the little holes. But his horizon itself had become a tall, unscalable mesh of steel; it was misted with unknowing and agnosticism: with the “We cannot know exactly” of the pseudointellectual, the “Let’s keep an open mind” that opens every argument against belief.

  Now, suddenly, with his decision made, David’s sky was a dustless depth of expanding space. His horizon was an open vastness receding, receding, receding, ever receding, without obstacle or limit or speck or narrowness. He saw himself immeasurably high up, free of trammels, on a zenith of desire and volition, clear of all backward-looking, unhampered by cloying regrets or by wisping mice of memory gnawing at his untried sexuality and his unexpected whims.

  David was in full view of all he ever signified as a human being and all that being human ever signified for him, at the ancient heart of man’s millennial weakness and on the peak of man’s gratuitously given power to be with God, to be of God, and to live forever.

  The many figures that had peopled his past he now saw within the eternal light—Neanderthal, Cro-Magnon, Sinanthropos, Homo sapiens, food gatherers, food producers, Stone Age men, Bronze Agers, Iron Agers, Jew, Crusader, Muslim, Renaissance Pope, Russian Patriarch, Greek priest, Catholic cardinal, Asiatic Buddha, African devil, Satan, Darwin, Freud, Mao, Lenin, the poor of Sekelia, the running and burning figures in the streets of Hiroshima, the dying babies of Bombay, the houses in California’s Bel Air, the lecture halls of the Sorbonne, the villas of Miami Beach, the mines of West Virginia, the wafer in his own hands at Mass, the lifeless face of Jonathan….

  He was just about to fall into prayer when, for an instant, he heard the two chants again. He was jerked out of his visioning back to the reality of the chair, the bay window, and the night. The heavenly chant was now no more than a single prolonged note on a lute, persistent, limpid, clear, beautiful. Mister Natch’s grating chant had been diluted and shattered.

  By some mysterious proxy, David felt the pangs of an agony he did not regret. He was, he knew, assisting at the inescapable woe of some living beings whom he did not know, whom he had to hate, but whose fate was catastrophic disaster unmitigated by any poignancy or any pity. Despite the flooding peace and light washing over his spirit, he found himself following the desperate retreat of his wounded adversaries.

  The once-muscular, breathing cries of Mister Natch had now narrowed to a thin, piping wail shot through with trills of terror, arpeggios of agony running feverishly and irregularly through every note of protest. That lingering wail seemed to spiral up, twisting and writhing and curling, an insect shaking poisonous antennae while it scuttled backward desperately for home cover in the sewer, a snake whose body was a solid, pulsating pain, stabbing its head upward as it moved away from the fluid lava of that other resounding note—what David always described afterward as his “Salem chorus.”

  Then he began to feel great distances again. Mister Natch’s clamor dwindled, always pursued by that chant of Heaven. As it all grew fainter, David stood up, listening intently. The two chants were withdrawing from him. He flung open the double windows and looked out past Joseph’s shoulder, his gaze traveling to the garden and, beyond, to the countryside, the mountains, the horizon. As the sounds withdrew, sucked, as it were, into uncharted spaces among the stars overhead, he searched the sky. The storm center had slipped away to the Eastern seaboard to be spent over the Atlantic. It was cold, probably freezing. Up among the stars he tried to follow the trajectory of those sounds. But the last faint echoes died. All was quiet. He listened, gazing silently upward. There was no sound.

  A slow smile of recognition appeared around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, as he heard the rustling energies of the earth recovering themselves after the storm.

  His glance rested finally on Father Joseph, and he motioned him to step inside. The moon was already riding high, bright-faced, a warm, yellow hue to its light. Its very silence was golden and gentle and confident. He and Joseph were about to turn away from the window into the room when a mockingbird started to sing down in the copse where Old Edward used to stroll smoking his pipe in the evenings after dinner. That song came to David as a message from a world of grace, a hint of life without ending; not as Jonathan and as he, David, had taken such sounds of nature; not as intimations of molecules endlessly regrouping, but of endless life for each person, and of love without a shadow.

  David sank into his chair and listened. Joseph stood motionless, afraid to disturb him. He looked away from David out at the sky and the trees. All night long until the moon sank and the early lights of the sun streaked from the east, first blue and gray, then red, the two men stayed there, while only the mockingbird’s song broke the silence. The song seemed to take on the unruffled calm of infinity. It filled their ears and minds. It poured into every corner and cranny of the room where they were. It was surprising, full of unexpected flights and long, graceful sustainments that teetered on to the edge of melody, then swung away just in time to take up new scales. It was not triumphant. It was celebration of calm, proclamation of continuity, assertion of living’s value, confirmation of beauty for beauty’s sake, assurance of a morrow as well as blessing on all yesterdays. It came as annunciation, and filled their night silence with gr
ace.

  Toward the dawn Joseph heard a low whisper and glanced at David. He was reciting the Ave Maria in the Greek of Paul and Luke and John: “Chaire Miryam, kecharitomene,” and repeating that long, leaping compliment the Angel Gabriel paid the Virgin: “Kecharitomene! Kecharitomene! Kecharitomene!…Full of Grace! Full of Grace! Full of Grace!” Slow tears ran down David’s cheeks.

  There was no point, Joseph knew, in disturbing him now. The peace of silence and that song were all he needed and what he deserved, all the balm he wanted.

  They waited until day broke full and the mockingbird had trilled to silence in a quick descent. They saw it take off from the trees and soar up, singing again as it went until it was a mere speck in the lightening color of the morning sky, alternately sailing and fluttering, until it faded from sight into silence.

  David stirred and moistened his lips. He did not look at Father Joseph, but just said: “Let’s make some coffee, Father Joe. Then let’s get over to Jonathan, before it’s too late.” Father Joseph did not stir. He was waiting for David’s glance and some word. David turned and smiled at the other man: “I know now, Joe. I now know.” He paused and looked out the window again. “It is the same spirit. The same method. The same slavery.”

  A MOTHER’S SONG

  Joseph glanced at David’s face as he drove. It was firm and expressionless, save for a certain granite-like set to the jawline. His cheeks were hollow, but the growth of his beard filled his face out. The eyes were steady. David seemed driven by some powerful inner force Joseph felt much more than he understood. It made him a little afraid. He sensed vaguely a touch of ruthlessness, a downright and decisive thrust. He looked away from David; and, without warning, he found himself laughing quietly with a surprising surge of ironic humor.

  “What’s the joke, Joe?” It was good to see David’s mouth soften.

  Father Joseph had found himself saying spontaneously, “God help the poor Devil,” when he saw the determined look on David’s face. David grinned and threw an admiring look at his companion. “God bless you, Father Joe. You’re never in any danger. You never took yourself seriously enough.” Then they both laughed.

  They reached Jonathan’s house just after sundown that same day. David decided against waiting to round up assistants. He knew he would be in control of this case; he knew he had already bested the “Mister Natch” that had taken Jonathan so much farther into possession than David himself had been.

  When they drew up at the house, the front door was open. Jonathan’s mother, Sybil, stood in the doorway, a shawl around her shoulders. She was not smiling, but not sad, just quietly matter-of-fact.

  “You were expected, Father David,” she said, as the two men entered. “They told me you were coming.” Then, in answer to the query in David’s eyes, she explained that until early that morning, until about three o’clock, Jonathan had been all right; that is, he had remained unchanged. “But,” she continued, “when you were liberated, he suddenly got very bad.”

  Joseph was stunned; he could not believe he had heard her say to David, “when you were liberated.” But David’s eyes were filled with understanding as she went on. “I’m not worried about my son’s body. It’s his soul.”

  For some seconds David stood looking at her. Joseph knew he was excluded from an intimate understanding between these two people. But he knew too that the price of being included was too dreadful.

  On the hall table beside them two candles were already lit. Side by side with them were crucifix, ritual book already open, holy-water flask, and stole.

  “It shouldn’t be too late yet,” David spoke.

  “It shouldn’t be,” she rejoined. Then grimacing gently: “It’s just I have not long to go myself. And if he must go too, I want us all to be together.”

  David nodded his head slowly while he stared at the door beyond her. His mood was part wariness, part musing. Then he returned her gaze, saying: “You will be, Mother. Have no fear. You will all be together. The worst is over.”

  He slipped the stole around his shoulders, took the ritual book and holy-water flask in hand. Joseph held the candlesticks. David looked at the open pages of the ritual. Jonathan’s mother had opened it at the page where the main prayer started. Stepping past her, he turned the doorknob and entered Jonathan’s room.

  It was shuttered and dark. An unnaturally acrid and fetid odor hit his nostrils. Jonathan was sitting on the floor in the far corner, his feet doubled up beneath him. The light from the corridor fell across his face. David read the terror in his eyes, but it was a frozen terror. And David knew immediately: Jonathan would do nothing more, would struggle no more.

  Jonathan’s mouth was open. But neither tongue nor teeth were visible. Joseph placed the candles on the small night table by the bed. As the light fell on Jonathan, they noticed a curving line of fresh water drops running from wall to wall. His mother had shaken holy water recently in a semicircle pinning her son into the corner. One hand lay by Jonathan’s side, but the other, the one with the crooked forefinger, lay on his chest in an eerie gesture. He was deathly still; but his eyes were glued on David’s face and followed him as he moved closer.

  As David stood over him, Jonathan’s eyes were large, bloodshot whites with little half-moons of black irises glinting up at David.

  Joseph expected David to start immediately, but David said nothing. He stood there. Silence.

  Jonathan’s crooked forefinger stirred from his chest in a slight motion toward David. David looked, still and silent. The forefinger wavered in thin air, then fell back stiffly. It was a gesture of helplessness. Jonathan’s mouth opened and closed; he was trying to say something.

  Still David did not budge or say anything.

  Jonathan moved his head from side to side, his eyes still fixed on David, as if he was trying to pry himself loose from some ropes of influence binding him to David. A sudden and visible tremor ran through his body, and he turned his face and body away from David to the wall. He was shaking all over. They could barely hear the words which came muffled and thick from his mouth.

  “Speak to me, Brother…”

  “No brother, Satan! No brother!” David’s voice was like a heavy knife. Joseph winced. David was silent again.

  “We too have to possess our habitation, Father…” the voice began.

  “Your habitation is forever in outer darkness. And your father is the Father of Lies.” The trenchant sneer in David’s voice again hit even Joseph where it hurt. David, he understood, hated and loathed more than Joseph ever dreamed a man could hate and loathe.

  “Even the Anointed One gave us a place with the swine.”

  “As a sign of your filth,” David spat the words out, “and as an indication of your being buried alive in torments.”

  “Listen!…Listen!” the voice went on with a deathly note of desperation. It was almost a wail. “Listen!”

  “You will listen and you will obey!” David was not shouting. But every word exploded from within him as a living missile. “You will all obey! You will go forth! You will relinquish all possession of this creature! You will do this in the name of God who created him and you, and of Jesus of Nazareth who saved him! You will depart and get back to the uncleanness and agony you chose. You will do it now. In the name of Jesus. Now. Go. Depart. In the name of Jesus.”

  Then David’s voice changed. He was speaking to Jonathan from a reserve of tenderness and affection clothed in strength that moved Joseph as deeply as he had been shocked just a moment previously.

  “Jonathan! Jonathan! I know you hear me. And hearing me, you hear the words of Jesus.” Jonathan’s body started to rack and tremble. He began to stretch out face down on the floor until only his fingertips touched the corner in which he had been slumped. David and Joseph moved back a pace.

  “I know,” David continued, “what you have been through. I know where you failed. I know how you were possessed by this unclean spirit. Jesus has paid for all your sins, as he did for mine. But now y
ou have to pay. Believe me, I know. I know that only you can finally consent. With your will, Jonathan. With your will. But you must consent to suffer the punishment. Do you consent, Jonathan? Do you consent? Consent! Jonathan! Consent! For the love of Jesus, consent with your whole will!”

  Then to Joseph: “Sprinkle some holy water!” Joseph obeyed. David opened the ritual book and started to recite the official prayers.

  From Jonathan’s mouth there came a howl lasting longer than any normal breath. David kept reading steadily, while he held up the crucifix in front of him. According as he progressed in the prayers, the howl increased, interspersed with dreadful sobs and groans.

  But then they heard a thin voice singing. It came from the corridor outside. Jonathan’s mother was chanting a hymn to the Virgin—the ancient Gregorian chant of the Salve Regina. As the medieval Latin syllables reached them in her little voice, Jonathan’s howling and tremors began bit by bit to diminish. David stopped reading the prayers; he closed his book and listened.

  The timbre of the mother’s voice was quavering, reedlike. Yet, for David and for Joseph, it reached past their conscious recollections, past all the censor bonds of their adult life, back to the raw hours and days and months and years when once upon a time they were vulnerable to the misery of human unhappiness and when the love they enjoyed from home and family was their only and quite sufficient safeguard against all wounds.

  Jonathan’s mother was quite literally putting her soul into that sung prayer. Her mother’s heart was crying to another mother. And, as far as Joseph could see, only these two mothers could appreciate what was now at stake. He had never been a highly emotional man; but memories crowded up in front of him, and he was gently stung by nostalgia. Joseph’s enjoyment of esthetic pleasures had always been limited by an unsubtle mind and lack of personal culture. To his own mother he had never spoken as an adult; she died before he matured.