Mission

by Patrick Tilley

  I loaded the coffee tray with cups and saucers and carried it out on to the porch. Miriam followed with a trayful of open sandwiches, dips and crisp warm bagels. We found the four of them sitting round The Man in these folding-type movie director’s chairs I have. He was sitting in the same spot as on on that first Sunday, with his legs crossed and his back against the white clapboards, listening with unfeigned interest as Carol told him, in minute detail, about life in Cedar Falls. Gale and Jeff sat chafing at these apparent total inconse-quentialities.

  I began handing round the coffee as Miriam filled each cup and prayed under my breath that he wouldn’t disappear on me until Linda had clapped eyes on him. I didn’t mind what happened after that; they would all know I wasn’t kidding.

  I heard another car scrunch on to the gravel drive below the house. A fire-house red Dodge Omni had pulled up behind Fowler’s Rabbit. ‘That’ll be Linda,’ I said. ‘Excuse me.’

  I walked down to the Dodge and noticed that it had Virginia plates. Linda was sitting in the passenger seat. ‘Hi … good to see you.’ I looked past her at the man who sat with his hands on the wheel.

  ‘Uh, this is Peter,’ said Linda. ‘My, er – brother.’

  ‘Oh … I didn’t know you had one,’ I replied, in an unwelcoming sort of way. I nodded at brother Peter, who wore tortoiseshell glasses and a tan leather jacket. A nothing sort of guy of indeterminate age; late twenties, early thirties perhaps. He bore no discernable family resemblance to Linda and, to judge by his expression, carried coffins for a living.

  Linda did her lip-gnawing bit. ‘Pete came into town for the weekend and, uh – since he had the car …’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘But if you don’t want him around, he’s quite happy to-call back for me.’

  I eyed her woodenly. ‘Does he know what he’s getting into?’ Her mouth wobbled. ‘Well – ’

  ‘That’s all I need to know.’ I opened the car door to let her out and looked across at her brother. ‘Join the party …’

  We went up on to the porch and waited for a pause in the conversation. I made the introductions. ‘Linda and Peter Kovacs. Linda’s my secretary. Peter owns the car.’

  Everybody shook hands or gave them a friendly wave.

  ‘Hello, Linda,’ said The Man. He stood up and kissed her on the cheek.

  Linda’s cheeks flushed. ‘This is my brother.’

  ‘Yes, of course …’ The Man gripped Kovacs hand and gave him a sharp, hawk-like stare. ‘I was wondering when you’d come.’

  Kovacs laughed uneasily. ‘It’s not often one gets an invitation like this.’

  There was something going on but I couldn’t work it out. I looked at them both with a frown. ‘Have you two already met?’

  The Man smiled. ‘In a way.’ He let go of Kovac’s hand. ‘I know some of Peter’s friends …’

  Kovacs exchanged a glance with Linda as The Man settled down against the wall.

  ‘Here, take this,’ said Miriam. She passed the remaining chair over to Linda. ‘There are plenty more inside.’

  Kovacs parked his butt on the rail of the porch.

  ‘Uh-uh,’ I said. ‘That needs fixing. I’ll get you a chair.’ I turned to Miriam. ‘Do we have enough coffee?’

  ‘Plenty,’ she said. ‘But we’ll need a cup for Linda’s brother.’

  Game, set and match.

  Kovacs followed me into the house and picked up one of my black bentwood chairs. ‘One of these?’

  ‘Yes, sure …’ I went into the kitchen, pulled out a cup and saucer and opened a bottle of wine for The Man. Kovacs carried the chair to the door of the kitchen and watched as I nearly ruptured myself on the cork. I jerked my head towards the porch. ‘That was a curious exchange. What do you think he meant?’

  ‘No idea,’ shrugged Kovacs, ‘but it was kind of creepy, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I guess he must have picked up your name and number on one of his trips through Linda’s head.’ I finally got the cork out. ‘I imagine she must have told you who he is. Do you believe it?’

  The question made Kovacs blink. ‘I’m prepared to accept the possibility.’

  I grinned at him, ‘In that case, you’d better watch your step. From here on in, it’s uphill all the way.’ I picked up a glass and brandished the bottle of red wine. ‘It’s for Yale. He’s not into coffee and stuff.’

  ‘Why do you call him Yale?’ asked Kovacs.

  ‘He told me that was his name. We haven’t had much occasion to use it. Miriam and I normally refer to him as The Man. Yale Sheppard was something we came up with so as I could book him into an hotel. It’s not Yale, it’s Ya’el – pronounced Yah-ell. If you use that name, or think of him as The Man, it stops you getting hung up on the conventional image that springs to mind when anyone starts talking about Jesus. Though, if we were being pedantic, it could be argued that Jesus of Nazareth was the Spirit of God in the flesh. That body out there on the porch originally belonged to a Galilean called Joshua barjoseph. The Man may look like one of us, but he isn’t. Believe me.’

  Kovacs pursed his lips. ‘Ya’el … mmmm, that’s interesting. I wonder …?’

  I put the things I was carrying on the kitchen counter. ‘Wonder what?’

  ‘If it’s an abbreviation of Yahoel…’ Kovacs put the chair on the floor and leant on it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Yahoel is the first of the seventy-two names of Metatron,’ said Kovacs. ‘The king of angels, prince of the divine face, or presence.’

  It gave me a very curious feeling to hear those words coming out of someone else’s mouth. The Man had admitted to being a Prince of the Ninth and of the Presence but I’d always considered it to be our secret. Once again I was being overly possessive but at the time, I felt a flash of resentment. Almost as if I’d discovered that Kovacs had been eavesdropping on my conversations with The Man.

  ‘Metatron,’ continued Kovacs, ‘is the Celestial power that links the human and the divine. Assuming, of course, that you believe in angels in the first place. He even holds sway over Michael and Gabriel – two of the great angelic princes. Yahoel, or Metatron, is believed to be the angel who was the spiritual guide of Abraham, and the guardian of the Israelites during the Exodus from Egypt and their journey through the wilderness. He’s also been identified, by some authorities, as the power that occupies the throne on the right hand of God – and also as the Messiah of Christian theology.’

  Four weeks ago, all this would have sounded like gobbledygook, but not any more. I helped myself to some of the wine and offered the bottle to Kovacs along with my cigarettes. Kovacs, it turned out, didn’t drink or smoke. ‘That’s quite a mouthful,’ I said. ‘Do you keep tabs on angels for a living?’

  He smiled and took a more comfortable grip on the back of the bentwood chair. ‘No, it just happens to be a hobby of mine. It started when I picked up a second-hand copy of a marvellous book called A Dictionary of Angels at Leakey’s – ’

  ‘You mean the shop on Second Avenue at 79th Street?’ I interjected.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Amazing,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been getting books from there. I can’t understand how I missed that one.’

  ‘It’s out of print,’ said Kovacs. ‘I got my copy a good ten years ago. And I’ve been hunting down copies of the books mentioned in the bibliography ever since.’

  ‘It sounds fascinating,’ I said. ‘And it all fits with what our friend out on the porch has told me. Could you send me a Xerox copy of anything you have on Yahoel?’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Kovacs adjusted his glasses. ‘I hope this doesn’t sound impertinent, but what was it that convinced you that he was the – you know …?’

  ‘The Risen Christ?’ I smiled. ‘You don’t have to feel embarrassed. I know how tough it is to discuss something like this without generating waves of laughter or cries of outrage. All I can say in answer to your question is something inside me responded to h
is presence. He has never told us, in so many words, who he is but he has never denied it. We were just fortunate enough to recognise him – and we’ve also seen him do some pretty incredible things. But that was later. The knowledge of who he was came first. If you’re lucky, it may come to you and Linda. But it won’t be through me telling you. It comes from within.’

  Kovacs gave a deprecating smile. ‘Doesn’t sound too difficult. I’ll give it a try.’ He picked up the chair. ‘As you’ve probably gathered from Linda, we Catholics tend to be easily impressed.’

  ‘You’re also easily upset,’ I replied. ‘I’d better warn you, it’s not all good news. Rome comes in for a lot of stick.’

  Kovacs laughed. ‘Can you think of a time when it didn’t?’

  I flagged him down as he turned away. ‘Hold on a minute. Does the name ‘Brax ring a bell?’

  Kovac’s eyes fluttered as his brain made the right connections. ‘That’s an interesting one. The only name I can think of that fits is “Abraxas”. The Gnostics regarded him as the Supreme Unknown. He’s usually classified as a demon but his name is also connected with the cycles of Creation. He was believed by some authorities to be the ruler of 365 heavens and by others as the mediator between living creatures and the God-Head. There is also a story about an Aeon – which again, by tradition, is usually identified as Abraxas – who mirrored himself on chaos and became Lord of the World.’

  As you can see, this guy Kovacs was a walking encyclopedia. His mention of the word ‘Aeon’ brought to mind what The Man had said about the origin of the Ain-folk. ‘And an Aeon is what?’ I asked.

  ‘The highest order of Celestial power,’ replied Kovacs. ‘It’s a term used to describe the first created beings. Spiritual entities formed from the divine presence. God’s own being. Abraxas was their leader. The word ‘Aeon’ is also synonymous with the sefira – the divine emanations through which God manifested his existence in the creation of the Universe.’

  More pieces of the jigsaw puzzle. And they seemed to fit into the picture I’d begun to build of’Brax. ‘I must get a copy of this book,’ I said.

  ‘The best thing is to let Leakey’s know you’re after one,’ suggested Kovacs. ‘And try the other second-hand bookshops. It was published in 1967 by The Free Press, New York. The author’s name was Gustav Davidson. Price was fifteen dollars. At least, it was then. Could be twice that now.’

  I waited in case he was going to quote me the Library of Congress Catalogue number but he didn’t. I handed him his cup and saucer, took out a new glass for The Man and picked up the bottle of wine. ‘What do you do for a living, Pete?’

  Kovacs moved aside to let me pass. ‘I’m an analyst.’

  ‘Investment, political, food, systems, or psycho – ?’ I asked.

  ‘Agricultural,’ he replied. ‘I’m mainly involved with studies of Eastern Europe, Russia and Asia. Keeping tabs on changes in crop mixes, ground utilisation and farming technology. Producing forecasts of grain and root crop yields. Mostly from journals, official reports and statistics published by the countries concerned, plus whatever information comes to hand.’

  It sounded like the kind of job where you could die of boredom before picking up your first pay cheque. ‘Fascinating,’ I said.

  Kovacs shrugged as we walked through to the front of the house. ‘It pays the rent. It also helps us fix the right price for our grain shipments if we know how desperate they are. All part of the international poker game.’

  I nodded agreement. ‘I see from the car that you live in Virginia. Do you work for the Department of Agriculture in Washington?’

  ‘Well, sort of,’ he replied, with an interesting lack of precision. ‘I’m on a kind of retainer. But I guess that still makes me a faceless Federal bureaucrat.’

  ‘Don’t knock it,’ I said. ‘Kissinger started on a part-time basis too.’

  Kovacs caught The Man’s eye as we joined the others on the porch. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a chair?’

  The Man shook his head. ‘No thanks.’

  I poured out some wine and got Linda to pass it to him. Miriam filled Kovac’s cup with coffee and handed me the pot. ‘Leo, be a sweetie, go and make some more, will you?’

  Leo, be a sweetie …

  Gale McDonald found me watching the percolator doing its stuff while I nursed my paranoia.

  ‘What do you think?’ I said. ‘Was it worth the trip?’

  ‘He’s certainly a remarkable guy,’ she admitted. ‘And he’s been telling us some pretty amazing things but – ’ She pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows clear of her blue shades, ‘ – what proof have we got that it’s true?’

  ‘How about your editor? Do you think he’d buy it?’ I asked.

  McDonald shook her head. ‘I doubt it. I’ve a feeling that if I wheeled Yale into the office and got him to repeat what he’s just been telling us, we’d both get thrown out on our ear.’ She sighed frustratedly. ‘If only we could come up with some tangible evidence. Maybe some kind of medical report from Jeff Fowler about his blood. A complete rundown on his physiology or whatever. Something that would really prove that Yale was not just an ordinary guy who was making all this stuff up.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ I said. ‘And a few miracles would come in handy too.’

  ‘Don’t be such a pisser, Resnick,’ she sniffed. ‘I came up here to help.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that he might not want your help – or even mine?’ I said. ‘That it might be the other way around and that you and I need his?’

  She reseated her glasses on the bridge of her nose. ‘Don’t you want to see him on TV?’

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  She looked baffled. ‘Why not? If you handle this the right way you could reach a global audience of a hundred, two hundred million people. You could get the whole world to switch on.’

  I shook my head. ‘Gale, come on. You know in your heart of hearts it would never work. It would be cheap, trivial and totally superficial. Besides which, I can’t bear the idea of him being interviewed by David Frost. Can you imagine it? It would be absolutely horrific.’

  ‘Now who’s being trivial?’ said McD. ‘Look, let’s be serious for a minute. If we could sell this to my editor, he could probably persuade Channel Eight to get a team of Biblical scholars together in a lodge up in the Adirondacks, or Lake Placid, and pay their expenses while they check out his story.’

  ‘Gale,’ I sighed. ‘I don’t think you understand. If you put The Man together with the top five or the top fifty theologians, what would it prove? Every scrap of knowledge they possess comes from the study and reinterpretation of the surviving written evidence. Which has already been messed around through oral transmission, before being selectively edited and amended by the first writers to put pen to papyrus and then getting its tenses twisted by translators. Not to mention the chunks missed out by copyists or burnt underneath Arab cooking pots. When you come right down to it, there is very little hard, incontrovertible evidence.’

  ‘But what about his healing of Mrs Perez’s hands, and the statue that she and her husband and Father Rosado saw bleeding. And Jeffs medical evidence. That’s proof too.’

  I brushed her word aside. ‘That could be explained away. And in any case, it’s not directly attributable. Supposing he refuses to give the panel a sign, the way he turned down that request from the Pharisees? Can’t you see what would happen? You’d get into a ludicrous situation where the experts insisted that the texts were authentic and that The Man was an impostor.’

  ‘Sure, I can see that,’ replied McD. ‘But there’s an equal chance that it could be the other way around. After all, there’s no reason why they shouldn’t react the way you have. Obviously, we’d put people with open minds on the panel. Maybe a humanist, some agnostics, atheists or whatever. You know, so that we get a broad spectrum of belief.’

  I threw up my hands. ‘Gale, it’s pointless. It’s a self-defeating exercise. If you’re trying
to get The Man the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, your experts also have to be acceptable to the churches whose viewpoints they represent. Which means that your panel will be packed with hard-liners. But even they may fail to reach a consensus.’

  She frowned. ‘Why?’ It was obvious that learning to ride a bucking bronco had not left her a great deal of time to absorb the ups and downs of the ecumenical movement.

  ‘Because,’ I began patiently, ‘the differences which separate rightwing and Marxist-type Christians are almost as great as the differences between Christian and Jew. And between Jew and Moslem, and Moslem and Hindu. It may not be exactly headline news but the Vatican has been cracking down on its maverick theologians over the past few years. How are they going to take the news that the power that launched Christianity was the same power that inspired Muhammad and set Islam on the road to Morocco? And which in turn, through its incursions into Spain and southern France, carried enlightenment back to Christendom. Fuelling the Renaissance, the Reformation and, through the teaching of the Sufis, a new search for The Truth?’

  McD’s eyes narrowed in an effort to bring this giant canvas into fine focus. Bright though she was, I had a feeling that her knowledge of European history stopped at the North Dakota line. ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘That, and much much more,’ I said. ‘The big headline to come out of all this is that you Christians don’t have a monopoly on the truth about God. You’ve been running with the ball but in the wrong direction. The Man staked a claim to the whole world but the one you’ve created is not quite what he had in mind.’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said.

  ‘Or me either,’ I replied. ‘Apart from my sister’s wedding, it’s nearly twenty years since I saw the inside of a synagogue. But what The Man is selling is light-years away from the present set-up. It means a radical re-think of God, heaven, earth and the whole salvation package. We have to go back to the beginning and revise our views on everything from Arianism to Zen. The Man is part of an ongoing Universalist movement. The elements are here, right under our noses. We just have to work out how to put them back together again.’