by J. R. Mabry
The Power
Berkeley Blackfriars • Book Two
J. R. Mabry
Apocryphile Press
1700 Shattuck Ave #81
Berkeley, CA 94709
www.apocryphilepress.com
© 2013 by John R. Mabry
Revised and corrected edition, 2017.
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-947826-00-7
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover graphics by Milo at www.derangeddoctordesign.com
Contents
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Reviews
Other Books by J.R. Mabry
Dedication
Acknowledgements & Caveats
Prelude 1
Prelude 2
Prelude 3
Prelude 4
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Epilogue 3
Epilogue 4
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Untitled
Prelude 1
Prelude 2
Prelude 3
Prelude 4
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To find out more about the Berkeley Blackfriar’s universe, download your free copy of The Berkeley Blackfriar’s Companion. Includes short stories set in the Blackfriars’ universe, photos of main characters, a complete glossary, a walking tour of the Blackfriars’ Berkeley, recipes from Brian’s kitchen, a short history of Old Catholicism, a Q & A session with author J.R. Mabry, links to music and videos associated with the books and more!
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Reviews
If you enjoy the Blackfriars books, please help other people find them by leaving an honest review on amazon or kobo or wherever you buy books. Thank you!
Other Books by J.R. Mabry
The Berkeley Blackfriars Series:
The Kingdom
The Power
The Glory
The Christmas at Bremmer’s Series:
What Child is This?
The Temple of All Worlds Series:
The Worship of Mystery
Dedication
This book is dedicated to three friends who have gone before us
into perpetual light, each of whom inspired a portion of this story:
PAT CROSSMAN
RICHARD STEVENS
J. W.
Et lux perpetua luceat ei…
Acknowledgements & Caveats
Grateful thanks to all of my friends who encouraged me in the writing of this novel, especially my wife, Lisa Fullam, who heard every chapter as it emerged and offered invaluable encouragement and feedback. Special thanks are due to those who read the first draft carefully and made invaluable suggestions, especially: Lola McCrary, Liza Lee Miller, B.J. West, and Kate Gladstone. Thanks also to my editor, Jason Whited, for making the second edition sparkle.
Special thanks to Josephine McCarthy, whose fine The Exorcist’s Handbook provided wonderful inspiration. It was she who introduced me to the Sandalphon (and I hope you will thank her for it, too).
Liturgical rites are adapted from the Roman Catholic Ritual for Exorcism, the 1979 Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, and the United Church of Christ Book of Worship. To shield myself from possible litigation, I have changed the names of some institutions, especially in the Gourmet Ghetto neighborhood of Berkeley in which the friars live and work. Those familiar with the area will no doubt sort out, fairly easily, what is what.
Love is the opposite of power.
That’s why we fear it so much.
—Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram
And our faith is a power
which comes from our natural substance
into our sensual soul by the Holy Spirit,
in which power all our powers come to us,
for without that no one can receive power,
for it is nothing else than right understanding
with true belief and certain trust in our being,
that we are in God and he in us,
which we do not see.
—Julian of Norwich, Revelations of
Divine Love, 54th chapter
A QUARTET OF PRELUDES
Prelude 1
THE FIFTH CRUSADE AGAINST THE MUSLIMS
Amid the shrieking of the dying and the stench of the dead, the Ong Khan Toghrul crested the hill and reined back his mount. His eyes burned from the smoke. He squinted, trying to assess the scene. Behind him were five hundred men, all of them Mongol warriors, faithful Nestorian Christians ready to lay down their lives in the cause of the Savior.
His nostrils twitched at the stink, and his horse shied with impatience. “My Khan,” said his lieutenant from behind him. “What are your orders?” But he was not ready to answer. His eyes flicked to the city walls, which were still holding against the Crusad
er army. Although this is hardly an army, he thought, taking stock of the wasted might of Europe before him. Most had been slaughtered. Here and there, living soldiers were clustered—no, huddled—apparently without leaders.
His lieutenant moved parallel to him, and touched his elbow with a mail-gloved hand. “Jahn?” he said. “Jahn, the men need direction. This is a killing ground…”
Toghrul nodded his assent. “Yes, but it will not be ours.” He turned to face his lieutenant. “Tsogt, send messengers to these soldiers of Europe—those that are left. They can die or fight under our banner. It is their choice.” Tsogt nodded briskly and began barking orders.
Toghrul watched as horsemen sped off toward small pockets of soldiers spread out across the battleground. With a grand gesture, he signaled an advance. He watched the Christians of Europe gawk with wonder at the great Christian army of Mongolia speeding over the hill to save them.
Within the hour, the Christians of Europe had either been assimilated into his ranks or dispatched by the sword. Fortunately, only a few had objected, and they were those who pretended to leadership. Jahn Toghrul spat. Leaders in name, perhaps, he thought bitterly.
Only one of their so-called leaders had joined them. The khan summoned him, and when the man appeared before him, he sank to his knees instantly, though it was obvious he was a noble. Here is a man who knows the intrinsic hierarchy of warriors, Jahn thought, and dismounted to speak to the man without shouting. “I am the Ong Khan Toghrul, king of the Kerait Mongols, called Jahn at my baptism. You are?”
“Sir Philip of Longacre, of England, sire.” The man’s tunic was torn, his hair matted with filth. He kept his eyes on the dirt.
Wise man, Jahn thought. “I have heard that you who follow the Bishop of Rome consider us heretics,” Jahn said, a testy edge to his voice. “Is this so, Sir Philip?”
“I…I know nothing of this, my lord.” The man looked quickly from side to side, but he did not look up. Jahn fingered the Talisman of Amitiel, which hung on a cord from his neck. It grew cold. “You lie.”
The man looked down at his knees, and his face turned beet red. He nodded furiously. “That is what they say, my lord.” He held his breath, but then blurted out, “But it is not…my own opinion, sire.”
Jahn’s eyebrows raised. A bemused smile crossed his lips. “Really, Sir Philip, and are you in the habit of questioning the teaching of your bishops?”
Sir Philip’s face was so red that it seemed ready to burst. “Um…no…”
There was no way out of this, Jahn knew. He did not suffer fools, but he was not entirely without mercy. “Tell me what has happened here.”
The man nodded, visibly grateful for the change in subject. “Two weeks ago, we laid siege to the city. Twenty thousand of us.”
Jahn scowled. “Twenty thousand?”
“Yes, my lord. The Egyptians fought well.”
“I see that they have.” There were scarcely four hundred men left. Together with his own horsemen, they would hardly make a thousand. “How did they accomplish this?”
“They…they are charmed bowmen,” Philip said, spluttering for an explanation. “They have demons shooting at us. And then, there are the raiders.”
“Tell me about the raiders.”
“They attack us at night. They attack when we are besieging the city—when our backs are to the hills. They are led by a sultan, Al-Kamil, they call him. He is like a ghost.”
The khan grunted and stepped away, surveying the sandy hills. “Sir Philip,” he said, “you will not be false with me again. Tell me, will your men follow you?”
The siege was hard, and doubly so since half of his men were wasted guarding the army’s rear flank from a Saracen army that might or might not appear. They did not, and by midday, the tower door folded in on itself with a booming crack that the khan heard from half a mile away. The European Christians swarmed into the tower. The slaughter was quick.
Tsogt rode to him, fierce and breathless. Blood stained much of his mail, the khan noticed, but was relieved to discover that it was Saracen blood, not his lieutenant’s. “We have the tower, my khan.” Jahn nodded curtly. “Many of the Saracens laid down their arms,” Tsogt continued. “I thought…you might want to talk with them.”
Jahn smiled grimly. “You know me well, Lieutenant. Lead the way.” Within minutes, the khan was striding through the tower door, which was splintered beyond repair. Before him, Saracen soldiers knelt as he passed, averting their dark eyes. His own men stood behind them, swords at the ready, drunk on the victory of the day.
But the khan knew better. A tower is not a keep, he thought to himself. We still have much to do. When he came to the end of the corridor, he stopped and turned regally. He looked down on the Saracen before him. “Tsogt,” he asked, “how many are they that live?”
“Exactly a hundred men, my khan.” Tsogt answered quickly and with confidence.
Jahn drew his sword and with one swift motion, severed the Saracen’s head from his body. “There!” he shouted at the men on their knees. “Now there are ninety-nine, one for each of the ninety-nine names of your heathen god.” The Saracens quaked, but they dared not raise their eyes to the Mongol king. Some of them mumbled prayers in Arabic.
Jahn stepped over the body, its blood spilling over the stones of the floor, creating a slick crimson pool. He faced the next Saracen, who was visibly shaking. Jahn clutched at the Talisman of Amitiel and spoke, a note of kindness entering his voice. “You, Egyptian, what are you called?”
“Mohammad, Sire.” A spreading stain on his breeches betrayed that the man had just wet himself.
Jahn sniffed. “I dare not say the name of your heathen prophet, for it is offensive to the Lord of Heaven. Tell me, Egyptian, where is Al-Kamil?”
The man’s eyes grew wide, but he said nothing. The khan placed the flat of his broadsword at the man’s neck and slowly turned it so that its razor-sharp edge came to bear. “You will answer,” Jahn said quietly.
“I…I do not know.”
The talisman grew cold in Jahn’s hand. “That is a lie,” he said over his shoulder to Tsogt. “Egyptian dog, called by the name of the blasphemer prophet, you are lying, and the cost for lying to the Lord Khan is death. But I am a merciful king, and I will give you one more chance to live before you see Hell. Where is Al-Kamil?”
In answer, the man squeezed his eyes tight and shook his head. With a flourish, Jahn cut his throat, the blood of his neck creating an arc in the air as the sword flashed past. “How many are left, Tsogt?”
“Ninety-eight, my khan.”
Jahn looked out the window and measured the sun. “Good thing the day is still young.” He stepped to the next man, huddled on the floor, and placed the flat of the blade against the quaking man’s temple. Jahn looked up at his lieutenant, and smiled. “Hell will feast well today.”
Prelude 2
HOLY APOCRYPHA FRIARY, PRESENT DAY
A half hour before anyone would stir in the old farmhouse that served as the friary of the Old Catholic Order of Saint Raphael, there was a rustle of wings in the yard. The cherub touched one foot to the earth, then the other, and paused to gain his balance. When he straightened himself, he stood nearly nine feet. His hair was white like bleached wool, and his eyes shone with fire.
Beneath his arm was a package wrapped in cloth that glowed in the dim light of dawn. The angel knelt and unwrapped it, unfolding the cloth with care and laying it aside. He had uncovered a mirror framed with rough wood. He propped it against the house near the back door and turned to go.
“Hey!” a tiny voice shouted. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Where am I? Are you just going to leave me here?”
The angel turned back, lowered his face to the mirror, and placed a raised index finger to his lips. “Shhhhhh,” the angel whispered. Even so, his voice rolled like thunder.
Looking around to be sure that no one had been disturbed, the angel waited. He heard no shouts, detected no movement—only t
he twitter of birds and the distant honking of early morning traffic. Satisfied, the angel turned to go. He made to launch himself, but just short of flight, he clutched at his chest, stumbled, and fell to the grass. A low moan shook the earth.
