by E. Z. Rinsky
He’s wearing a white robe and nothing on his feet. A white hood is draped over his head. As he nears I see he’s wearing a wax mask, and has a silk bag slung over his shoulder. My heart screams as he passes within a few meters of me. I put a hand over my cheek and look down. Thank God I’m not sitting on the edge of the aisle.
He slowly ascends the staircase, and his bare feet pad gently toward the circle of lecterns. His wax mask, I think, is fat-cheeked, cherubic. The face of a child.
The faces of the inmates on either side of me are stoic, rapt, as Sophnot unslings the silk bag from his shoulder and puts it down at his feet. I put my forearms on my knees and crouch behind them to hide my lower face.
Sophnot reaches in and removes a single book. Mounts it on one of the lecterns, and opens it to a page somewhere in the middle. The second book takes him a moment to place—like he’s thinking about where to put it in relation to the first. One by one, he removes the books and deliberately places them on their appropriate lectern. Nobody speaks.
Finally, after what feels like silent hours, Sophnot drops the empty sack at his feet, and steps backwards into the middle of the circle. He raises one hand.
“Good Sabbath, my sons,” he says. He’s not yelling, but his voice is incredibly resonant—enough that I have no doubt that even the people in the farthest corner of the yard can hear him.
The sitting congregants reply as one:
“Good Sabbath, Father.”
He steps toward one of the lecterns, flips through a few pages, studies something through the eye slits of his mask.
“I want to start this week on a page from the volume that corresponds to the fifth floor.”
His voice is definitely Nathan Heald’s. Although in his office he was clearly restraining the power of his voice. The projection of his voice, louder even than if he was speaking through a bullhorn, is mesmerizing.
“This is related to the concept of the circular river, which flows in a continuous loop, which I spoke about three Sabbaths prior. And you will recall the thought experiment of a computer program, whose lone function is to provide a platform upon which to replicate the program from scratch. The tricks the one we once called God used to spark the flame of consciousness. That primitive magic has outgrown its use.”
Sophnot clears his throat, bends at the waist and peers into the book through his mask. Reads:
“A boy wanders until he comes to the entrance of a small village. The entrance is guarded by an oracle. ‘May I enter?’ the boy asks. The oracle says, ‘Let me first consult with the heavens, to foresee if you’ll bring good or evil upon the people of the village.’ The oracle consults, and then returns to the boy. ‘You may not enter. If you enter the village you will steal from—’”
Sophnot pauses for a moment. Appears to be thinking. “This approximately means ‘someone who mends shoes’—a cobbler. The oracle says ‘If you enter the village you will steal from the cobbler. Go, and never set foot here.’ The boy leaves, grows old, and dies far far away from that village, never meeting the cobbler. Was what the oracle saw a lie?”
Sophnot steps back from the book, positions himself again in the exact center of the circle of books. He’s silent for a moment. I look again at Courtney, who doesn’t even notice. His eyes, like all those in the crowd, are fixed on the figure in white.
“One of you dreamt this last night,” Sophnot says. “Which of you dreamt this?”
Deep silence. Then a faint voice, behind me, to my left.
“I dreamt this, Father.”
I turn to look at the speaker. A slender man with wild grey hair.
Sophnot nods knowingly.
“In the dream, you were the boy,” he says, not as a question.
“Yes, Father.”
“And who was the oracle?”
The man blinks.
“I don’t know, Father.”
Sophnot nods.
“Then let us learn.”
Sophnot steps to the next lectern. Flips through the pages.
“The volume which corresponds to the sixth floor speaks of a room the color of a grey sea. This is understood to be an allusion to the human brain. When you are born you enter the room through a door. All the days of your life you sit in this room. When you die you leave through the same door.” Sophnot looks up from the book. “Years ago I left the room through the door, yet here I stand. I have seen the oracle on the other side of the wall—the one we used to call ‘God’—who whispers to us through thin paper, lies to us about what will be. But he cannot see us. For to see us would be to tear through the wall, and destroy the very idea of the room. The wall is made of the only substance on earth which insulates its contents from God’s prying eyes.” Sophnot points to his white hooded head. “Skin.”
The sun is half hidden behind the mountains, his colors turning dark and angry. The horizon is a thick line of violet. In the low light you could almost imagine that Oliver’s not wearing a mask—that he’s assumed the face of whatever boy he took that mold from.
“This is the oracle’s folly. He wrapped our minds in skin, castrating himself. He can only listen through the wall—never see. Outside our skin, though, he can see. And all out here—” Sophnot gestures toward the mountains, the congregation. “He sees us. Even now, he intrudes on our Sabbath. But only here,” Sophnot says, pointing backwards at his tower, “here we finally have peace. Here is my domain. And soon we will complete the physical manifestation of our holy writ. My friends!” he shouts. “This week, as I foresaw, I secured for us the funding to finish our project!”
For the first time, noise from the prisoners. They applaud and cheer. Sophnot scans the crowd, basking in their praise. My chest freezes for a minute when I think maybe he’s looking straight at me through his mask—I forget to keep hiding my face—but eventually his gaze moves on.
“The oracle—the one we called ‘God’—lies to us. But I am Sophnot. I see things he doesn’t!”
The prisoners and officers now stand up and whoop. I stand up, but keep my head down. First time in my life I’m thankful I’m not that tall.
“The world is a circular river, my friends,” Sophnot’s voice booms. “To each of you, standing on the banks”—he turns and seems to direct this to his four prisoners—“you think you are moving forward. But I was always both directly behind you, and far in front of you, waiting, waiting for you to bring me exactly what I needed.”
Cheers. One prisoner in the front row breaks into a frenetic dance, the kind you see from hippies tripping on acid at Coachella.
Sophnot raises both robed hands to the west, where the sun has all but disappeared behind the peaks.
“The Sabbath has nearly arrived, my sons. The week is nearly concluded. Shall the Sabbath once again be ushered in by our bride?”
The cheering becomes a chorus of ecstatic affirmations: “Yes! Yes! It shall!”
The prisoners and officers scream and leap around, like they’re so excited they’re trying to jump right out of their skins.
Some random inmate grips my biceps and forces me to join his insane dance. He kicks his bare feet up toward the sky. His eyes are wide in rapture, mouth hanging agape like he’s experiencing a sustained orgasm.
“The queen!” he gasps. “The queen is here!”
He jumps up and down, jerking me along until I manage to shove him off of me. The unfazed leech quickly finds a new host, and the music-less dancing continues for a few minutes, rising in fervor and intensity, until Sophnot again raises his arm and his voice reverberates like thunder:
“She’s here!” The voice of Sophnot immediately puts an end to the jubilation. Every prisoner falls to his knees.
I peek up and see that on the stage, Sophnot is forcing the four collared prisoners on stage to stand up off their stools, despite the leaden balls in their laps, and the spikes pressing up against their necks. When he puts his hands on Courtney’s shoulders and lifts him out of his seat, my vision goes red, and it takes every ounce o
f restraint in my body not to simply unholster and fire. The four of them stand with their chins raised to the sky, all clearly struggling to cradle the heavy balls in their arms.
Sophnot raises his hands and points west, back to the entrance of the yard where he came in what feels like hours ago.
“Kneel for your queen!” he bellows, and everyone falls into a groveling position.
I have no choice but to lower my own forehead to the dusty cement, just like everyone else.
For a long time, I don’t hear anything. The sun has all but set now, the thousands of us prostrating beneath a veil of darkness.
Delicate, padding footsteps, proceeding down the same aisle Sophnot did. I’m dying to look up, but don’t dare—in my peripheral vision I can see the prone figures beside me are unflinching. Hollow echoes as the source of the footsteps reaches the stairs to the stage.
Oh man. Oh no . . .
Before I even look up, I know who’s standing onstage with Oliver Vicks.
“The Sabbath Queen has arrived!” Everyone gradually unfolds themselves. Gets to their knees first, then their feet. I expected this, but it doesn’t make it less sickening: Standing beside Sophnot in the center of the circle is Becky Carlson. His arm is curved around her waist, gripping a handful of her emaciated hip. The dead expression she wears betrays nothing. She’s holding a big bouquet of white and yellow flowers.
I can hardly bring myself to look at her withered form, swimming inside a long-sleeved white gown, as Sophnot greedily runs his hand up and down her side, squeezing handfuls of flesh wherever he can find them. The sentry towers have trained their floodlights on the stage, making the whole thing resemble a sort of macabre theatre.
Then he drops his arm, turns, and makes a motion with his right hand.
My hand moves to my Glock.
If he’s going to execute them now, I have no choice.
“Go to your Sabbath meal, my sons,” Sophnot cries. “You will find delicate meats, fresh breads, rich wines. I bought these for you from this week’s bounty—serve me by enjoying them! Meditate on my teachings. And after we eat, we will spill the blood of these heretics. Make an Afikomen—the dessert sacrifice—and show the one we used to call ‘God’ the weakness of his creations. Good Sabbath!”
“Good Sabbath, Father Sophnot!”
Sophnot stands still on stage for a moment, arm around Becky’s waist, as the giddy men file out of the yard, toward the dormitories. Then he starts gathering the books himself and placing them back in his silk sack. In the dark, he looks like a rotund ghost, slipping lithely between his lecterns, closing and handling each book as delicately as one might an infant. Becky stands still, gripping her bouquet tightly, face blank.
I walk as slowly as I dare—don’t want to stick out—worried that I’ll have no choice but to follow the men into the dining hall. But then Sophnot finishes gathering his books, slings the bag over his shoulder, and leads Becky into the black hole in the front of the tower, leaving four shapes sitting stilly outside the tower entrance.
The sentries move the floodlights away from the platform, and I have my chance. I fall out of line, and stride toward the stage with great purpose, praying nobody questions my intentions. Knees quivering, I reach the edge of the stairs, and find a small gap between them and the exterior of the tower. Drop to my stomach and look around. Nobody has followed me. They’re all too eager to get to their meal.
In minutes the yard is completely empty; guards and prisoners alike retreating into the low white buildings on the perimeter of the yard. And then the sentry lights shut off . . . suppose even the guards up there are going to the meal. The only sound is the shuffling of the four prisoners on their stools.
I wait a few more moments to be safe. A faint whirr from well over my head, like a helicopter.
Did the cops decide to check into my call??
No. It’s an elevator rising up through the core of the unfinished floors over the tower, like passing through some enormous urethra. The elevator appears to stop just beneath the glowing top floor.
I take a few deep breaths and shove up, slink up the stairs to the wooden platform. The four forms are on their stools, deadly still. I cringe as my footsteps make the wood creak, but I can’t help myself from rushing to Courtney and Mindy.
She looks to be in worse shape. Even in the darkness I can see her face is discolored from the sun, a few more hours of that and she might have started charring. Her breaths are shallow, neck straining to stay erect. Her arms are wrapped around the heavy lead ball in her lap, clinging to it like a life preserver.
I lean in close to her collar, study the tanned leather and intricate metallurgy to see how to unlock it.
“Don’t . . . touch,” Courtney gasps, to my left.
His watery green eyes come into focus. The collar isn’t quite choking him, but every syllable is a horrible strain.
“Sensiti-ive,” he whispers, and shows me his palm, where the collar cut his hand in the car a few nights ago.
“I’m not touching it,” I say.
I inspect the heavy cuff around his neck. Two round holes on either side for the keys. And as Courtney discovered, if you enter the wrong keys, there are those two dormant interior blades ready to awaken.
“I can get you out of this maybe,” I whisper. “Sophnot must have the keys.”
“No.” He closes his eyes and then slowly opens them. “Just go.”
“Did you fire your dart?” I ask.
Courtney takes a deep, careful breath through his nose.
He wheezes, “Aimed for chest. Hit metal.”
He must have been wearing that breastplate under his shirt.
I rub the top of his head. His scalp is cold under my trembling hands.
“Where does he keep the keys? In his robe?”
Courtney smiles mirthlessly. The sadness in his eyes makes my heart feel like ice. “Don’t know . . . Didn’t see them . . . Should be tubular. Two of them, almost identical, but not quite.”
I close my eyes for a moment. I can feel Courtney’s slow pulse in my fingertips, the hot night air on the back of my neck. Taste blood in my mouth, from biting my own gums. I’m terribly thirsty.
I help first Mindy, then Courtney off their stools, lowering the heavy balls gently to the ground, so they can at least lie down on the deck instead of having to support the weight of the ball in their lap. I do the same for the two chained up officers—both of whom look bewildered by my presence, but don’t speak. Then I approach the gaping black entrance. Can’t see anything on the other side, and a cool breeze is blowing out, as if the whole place is air conditioned.
“Easy job, eh?” I smile sadly at Courtney. “You know where there are surprisingly few death cults this time of year? Budapest.”
I unholster my Glock and clench it tightly as I step in through the arched doorway.
The first thing I notice is the change in the air density. The atmosphere in here is thick and heavy, like a muggy Florida evening. Except it’s actually slightly chilly.
My eyes slowly adjust to the dim light. I’m standing in a space so large I can’t quite perceive where it stops in any direction. Just inches over my head, as if the tower was built for someone just my height, runs a network of red and blue pipes—I can’t actually tell whether they are painted red and blue, or if they’re transparent, and carrying red and blue fluid. To both my left and right are staircases that cling to the curved walls, rise along it, spiraling up.
But I think I’d rather take the elevator.
I take a step forward and stumble, catch my fall with my palms and just barely avoid smacking my chin on the dark wood floor. My head is pounding, and I’m getting that familiar pain in my skull that signals the beginning of a migraine. I slowly pick myself back up, squint at the dark floor, trying to figure out what I tripped over. Take another step forward, and nearly trip again, just barely catching myself.
The floor is at some kind of angle. It’s like trying to walk on a shi
p deck during a storm. I rub sweat out of my eyes.
What the hell is this place?
I stoop to my knees and crawl forward slowly, constantly scanning for Sophnot. I hear nothing except my own breathing, the knees of my pants rubbing against the floor. The floor is some kind of wood, strangely warm to the touch, like from geothermal activity.
I stick my pistol back in my pants since I need both hands to crawl effectively. The light is dim and faintly purple, but I have no idea where it’s coming from—I don’t see any lamps or windows. There’s a breeze, but the cool air carries neither the recycled scent of air conditioning nor the dryness of the Colorado night—it’s like the air is blowing in from some other world.
The proportions of space in here are as absurd and arbitrary as a fever dream. The slant of the floor is making me so disoriented that I pull my wallet out, find a particularly flaccid business card, and start ripping off little pieces and dropping them on the floor as I proceed, forming a little bread crumb trail.
As I crawl further ahead, the maze of pipes over my head becomes denser, until it’s a kind of ceiling, like a forest canopy. Up through the cracks in the web I see only darkness. I reach up to brush the pipes and recoil. They’re wet and warm. I sniff my wet fingers and the smell reminds me of the fetal pig dissection we had to do in middle school.
Formaldehyde?
I crawl forward, still dropping business card pieces with trembling hands. A sharp breeze on my cheek draws my gaze upward. A few meters ahead there’s a break in the web of pipes, and the glint of a solid metal shaft.
I crawl slowly to the elevator, starting to adjust somewhat to the weird slant of the floor. I use the holes in the birdcage shaft to pull myself up to my feet. Peering up through the grating I can see only darkness. It doesn’t take me long to locate the call button. I smack it a couple times, thinking I’ll take it up to the twenty-third floor, so I can surprise the bastard, but it doesn’t seem to register. With a sinking heart, I then notice the keyhole beneath the button.
So it’s either the stairs, or just wait down here for them to return.
