by J. R. Mabry
“He is alive.”
“He is well?”
“Yes. He is all but king, I hear.”
“Glory be to the God of my father, Isaac. Glory be to the God of my grandfather, Abraham. Glory…”
He sank to his knees and clutched at his heart. She rushed to him and held him up. His eyes traveled to the window again. “What is all the noise? What is happening?” he asked her.
“They are readying the wagons. They are going back to Egypt. They are going back to tell Joseph that you…that you know.”
Jacob staggered to his feet and clutched at the window for support. “I will go to Egypt.”
“Go and speak to your sons,” Serah told him. “Let them tell you with their own lips about their sin. Let them receive from your own hand their pardon. They have carried the weight of this for twenty years, and it has been heavy indeed.”
“They have?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I have carried this grief for twenty years. Has it not been heavy?”
“I know it has, grandfather. I am so sorry.”
He looked at her then. He held his arms out to her and she went to him. He embraced her and rocked her as as his tears trickled down his face. “The mouth that sang this wonderful news will never taste death.”
Serah felt something catch in her chest. She hugged her grandfather close to her and wondered at his words.
Prelude 2
San Francisco, Present Day
Consuela would never forget the look on her father’s face. “She’s a witch,” he’d said, and there was fear in his eyes. Consuela could never remember seeing fear in his eyes. Never. He was always the one in control, the one who held the power. The one who beat her. But when Mama’s mother had come to visit, Consuela saw so many things she’d never seen before—someone who stood up to her father, who gave as good as she got, who made him afraid.
It was a revelation. For the next twenty-four hours she felt like her world had turned upside down. Her Abuelita became her hero. She showed her what was possible in the world. She gave her hope.
And if Abuelita was a witch, then that was what Consuela wanted to be, too. She started by searching the web and was amazed at the wealth of information she found. She wondered if the nuns at school knew about the overwhelming abundance of witchery happening just out of sight, beneath their noses, and around, it seemed, every corner.
Obviously there was much to learn, but where to start? She thought about ordering Witchcraft for Dummies, but the truth was, she hated reading, especially in English. No, she needed a tutor, a mentor, a teacher.
She had so many questions, after all. What is Wicca? Is it just another word for witch? Did witches go to hell? That was important, because she definitely did not want to go to hell. It was in the middle of her third night of web-surfing about witchery that her laptop pinged at her, signifying she had a message. She did not recognize the person contacting her. Babylon1961? Who in the world was that? She clicked on the message to open it.
Babylon1961: Hey, it looks like you’re interested in witchcraft.
Her breath caught in her throat. She brought her hand to her chest and looked around to see if she was being watched. Her stuffed animals stared back placidly, but no one else seemed to be around. She took a deep breath and tried to will herself to be calm.
ConnieQT: Yes. I want to be a witch.
Babylon1961: Do you know why? It is not an easy path. It requires great commitment.
Consuela’s thoughts raced. I want to punish my father. I want to be as powerful as my Abuelita. That was all too personal. She didn’t know this person, after all. I want to be in control of my own life. “That’s it,” she said out loud.
ConnieQT: I want to be in control of my own life.
Babylon1961: There are many answers you could have given. But that is the right one. That is the secret password.
Consuela felt a rush of pride flow through her. She got the right answer! Maybe she could be good at this. Maybe she, too, could make her father afraid.
ConnieQT: I want to learn how to be a witch. I need a teacher. Do you know a good teacher?
Babylon1961: I know several. But I think that I might be a good fit for you. Why don’t we meet someplace for coffee? Someplace public, safe for both of us?
This person seemed to know how she thought and what she needed. She or he knew that she might feel unsafe meeting for the first time. A public place, for coffee? That seemed perfect. She began to feel that she could trust this person.
ConnieQT: That sounds good. Where shall we meet?
Babylon1961: There’s only one place where witches and other people in the occult community in San Francisco go. It’s called The Cloven Hoof.
Prelude 3
Berkeley, Present Day
Terry glanced at his smartphone. The blinking car on the screen indicated that his Ryde driver would arrive in under a minute. He’d never used this app before, but the first all-gay taxi service application had been all the rage in the media in the last few days. Why not? he’d thought and downloaded it. After all, he needed to go a bit off the beaten track that day.
He reveled for a moment in the cool breeze, lifting the arms of his cassock to catch the wind. It felt good to just be. He and Brian had fought that morning and he’d had a shitty day after that. I’m still angry about it, he realized. Sex was the problem—and sex had never been a problem for them before. Brian seemed to need less of it, which just made Terry want it all the more. He was so horny he was afraid his erection could be seen through his cassock. Terry sighed.
When he opened his eyes, a dark maroon SUV pulled up just in front of him.
The passenger window lowered. “You Terry?” a voice called from inside.
“That’s me,” he said, snapping out of his reverie and pulling on the door handle. He swung into the passenger seat, turned to face his driver, and melted into his seat.
“Well, aren’t you a cutie?” the driver said, offering his hand. “I’m Ben. I’m here to give you a Ryde.”
“I…uh…I’m Terry,” Terry said, completely lost in the driver’s unruly shock of bright red hair, athletic build, and most disarmingly, the dimple square in the middle of his chin.
“I know that, silly,” he said. “It’s on the app. This your first time?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“I love virgins,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “What are you, some kind of priest?”
“Yes, I am,” Terry said as they sped away from the curb.
“So, there’s that whole pesky celibacy thing to deal with. How is that?” Ben asked.
“Uh…our Order isn’t celibate.”
“You don’t say?” Ben smiled. His dimple seemed to take up half of his face. “Are you—let me guess—Japanese?”
“Nice guess. Half Japanese. On my father’s side.”
“Oooh. So you know what that means, right?”
“Uh, no. What does that mean?” Terry asked, relaxing enough to flirt back a little.
“It means that you, Mr. Terry, are just my type.”
Prelude 4
Oakland, Present Day
With a crack of splintered wood, the front door smashed inward, leaving T-Ray and Darnell framed in the doorway, two black silhouettes against the orange curtain of urban twilight. T-Ray glanced behind them to see if anyone had witnessed their crime and saw only a bag lady minding her own business, shuffling away from them toward the 580 freeway overpass. T-Ray gestured for Darnell to enter quickly, and throwing a last glance over his shoulder, Darnell followed. Inside he blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
The foyer was really a hallway, with stairs to the left. T-Ray snapped open the bag he’d brought, and began to cast about for “stealables” as his cousin used to call them, but there was nothing in the hallway except a bunch of old pictures on the wall. T-Ray squinted at them. They were pictures of…nuns? He blinked in confusion, then turned to watch Darnell turn the corner and freeze.
“What?�
� he whispered. Darnell didn’t answer. The hallway doglegged to the left, and T-Ray poked his head around the corner and froze himself. He was looking at a dining room, that was clear. Stretched nearly the length of the room was a dining table, each place set with care. About a dozen old women sat stock still in front of their empty plates.
“There you are!” a cheerful voice called out.
T-Ray and Darnell both jumped.
An old woman spun through the butler door, a large steaming bowl between two potholders in her hands. Her wrinkled face broke into a broad, warm smile at the sight of them. “You, my dears, are just in time for dinner.”
Every instinct in T-Ray’s body told him to abandon the caper and sprint, but he seemed strangely rooted in place. He licked his lips and nearly vibrated in place from nerves.
“Did you—” the old woman started, ducking past them and peering around the corner at the front door. “Oh, sugar! You didn’t have to break the door down, sillies. It was open! Tsk…” She waved away her objection. “It’s never locked, not here.” Walking back toward the dining room, she shooed them inward.
Darnell looked over his shoulder directly into T-Ray’s eyes. He’d never seen his homey this scared. Not even when they were being shot at. Then he realized why. None of the old ladies seated around the table were moving, or perhaps could move. Then one of them succumbed to gravity and her head pitched face forward into her plate.
Their host tsk-tsked again, and pulled the woman upright again. “Please, have a seat,” she said. “We always have a couple of extra seats.” T-Ray and Darnell stood as still as the ladies around the table. “Sit!” the old woman commanded. Glancing at one another, they obeyed, each taking a seat between two of the frozen women.
“Everything is hot, so dig in. There’s roast beef—it’s leftover from last night, but that’s when it’s best, I think. Mashed potatoes are here,” she said, pointing to a covered bowl. T-Ray could see the steam rising off of it. “And carrots, steamed with rosemary, here.” She smiled at them with a look of satisfaction. “Please, help yourselves.” She grabbed the potatoes and began to serve herself. “So, please tell me your names, young men.”
T-Ray blinked and looked at Darnell. He wanted to think of an alias, but he couldn’t. Before he could answer, though, the old woman continued. “I’m fascinated with the life of crime. You probably wouldn’t guess this about me, but I’m a member of the Ellery Queen fan club!”
“Who?” asked Darnell.
“Shut up, fool!” T-Ray whispered.
“Are you gentlemen in the habit of stealing from nuns, then?”
T-Ray looked at the old women. It was only then that they noticed that each of them seemed…well, a little butch. They also had crosses dangling from chains around their necks and were staring, sightless and unblinking, at the feast before them.
“Ya’ll are nuns?” T-Ray asked.
“Yes, what did you think? We run the Oakland Food Pantry down the street. Perhaps you know about it? Anyone can get food there, no matter who they are or what time of day it is. Or night.” She smiled warmly. “So tell me about yourselves—are your parents living? Do you have siblings? Oh, you haven’t touched the roast beef yet! What’s wrong with you?”
Darnell reached hesitantly for the platter of meat and looked up into T-Ray’s eyes briefly. His hands were shaking as he lifted a slice of roast to his plate.
“You are not going to find much of interest in this house, I can tell you that. We might have some old silver, but we don’t wear jewelry. We have a television, but it’s the same one we’ve had for fifteen years—it’s not one of those fancy flat screens. How do those work, anyway?” She shook her head and nibbled at a forkful of mashed potatoes. “In any case, you are welcome to anything you find here. And take your time! I won’t be calling the police—not that they’d come anyway. This is Oakland, after all! I only have one request, and I ask you to take this very seriously. Please take only what you truly need. And next time, my dears,” she flashed them a conspiratorial smile, “just knock.”
T-Ray nodded, but his eyes widened as he watched the old lady’s head roll back on her neck. Her jaw opened, then opened wider, as if her jawbone had moved out of joint to allow her mouth to stretch and widen unnaturally. Her tongue darted toward the ceiling, then withdrew. A moment later, a thousand ravens erupted out of the old woman’s throat and spilled into the air, filling the room with pounding wings, oily feathers, and the hungry screams of scavenger birds.
Friday
I am the Lord, the maker of all,
who alone stretched out the heavens,
who spread out the earth by myself,
who frustrates the omens of diviners
and makes a mockery of magicians,
who turns back the wise
and turns their knowledge into folly.
—Isaiah 44:24-25 CEB
1
Susan leaned toward the living room window, and then shrieked and ran to the door.
“What was that?” Dylan asked.
“Your woman seems to be in a state of excitement,” Richard noted, not taking his eyes off the chess board. Terry rested on his elbows but was staring off into space, oblivious to the checkered battlefield before him. Tobias reclined next to Richard on the floor, his legs twitching in response to some activity in his dreams.
“Don’t you never call her ‘yore woman’ again, if you value yore fambly jewels, mister.”
“What are you gonna do about it?” Richard grinned.
“It ain’t me you gotta worry ’bout.”
“Marco!” Susan shouted, flinging the door open wide. She rushed outside to meet him.
“Oh, Jeezus!” Dylan buried his face in his hands.
“Marco?” Terry came to, his head popping up.
Tobias opened his eyes and raised his head, looking around, his ears perked for maximum reception.
“Did ya’ll know he was coming?” Dylan asked them. His broad Melungeon face darkened.
“I knew he was coming, but I didn’t know when,” Richard said, standing up. “You know Marco. ‘I’ll be there soon’ can mean anytime between tomorrow and six months from now.”
“I’da preferred the six months.”
“What do you mean, Dylan?” Terry asked. “Marco is a stand-up guy.”
“’Cept that he always wants to stand next to mah wife,” Dylan groused, getting to his feet.
Terry looked away and began biting his lip.
“C’mon, be a sport,” Richard clapped Dylan on the shoulder. “If she wanted to run off with Marco, she would’ve done it a long time ago.”
“You really know how to comfort a fella.”
Richard rose and headed to the door, Tobias trotting at his heels. He stepped out onto the porch just in time to see Susan rush into Marco’s arms. Then he glanced across the street and saw the small gathering of paparazzi and onlookers. Cameras flashed and people started waving. It’s good to be famous, he thought. His pulse quickened a bit. He smiled and waved back before turning his attention to their guest.
Marco was a big man, bigger than Susan, and probably the only person Richard knew who could swing her around like a little girl—which is exactly what he did. Susan giggled and hung onto his neck.
“O, Lord, give me patience,” Dylan said, stepping out onto the porch next to Richard. At the sight of him, the crowd across the street gave a cheer. Dylan waved at them with obvious embarrassment. Tobias gave a low woof.
“Courage, my friend,” Richard said. It was obvious that Dylan didn’t enjoy the attention as much as he did. “The fruits of the Spirit are—say them with me—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness…”
“You left out faithfulness,” Dylan said blackly.
“I was getting to it. And by the way, Susan has never, ever been unfaithful to you. Not even in her dreams.”
“Uh…settin’ aside how you could possibly know that, Ah would say that she has never been physically unfaithful
. Emotionally, though…waal, just look at ’em.”
“If you were still a toking man, I’d tell you to light up and relax.”
“If Ah were still a tokin’ man, Ah’d already be high, dude. And this wouldn’t bother me nearly as much.”
Susan had stopped swinging and had taken Marco’s arm. They began walking up to the porch. Marco was a full eight inches taller than Richard, with a barrel chest and great arms the size of industrial canned goods. His skin was the color of burnt caramel, a gift from his Nigerian mother and his Filipino father. A thin excuse for a beard clung to his chin, and he had shaved his head since the last time Richard had seen him.
“You look like the great Beast himself,” Richard said, drawing him into a warm, muscular hug. Toby stood by and wagged.
“Ha! You are not the first person to say that!” Marco responded, returning the embrace. “And I am honored by the comparison!”
Marco was a Thelemite, although he had not been an active OTO member for as long as Richard could remember. Marco honored and revered the Great Beast, Alister Crowley, as the revelator of the new Aeon, but he found the company of other Thelemites to be disappointingly erratic. He called himself a “solitary practitioner,” but there was nothing solitary about Marco, who was probably the most social, extroverted person Richard had ever met. He was, however, a rover—traveling in his ancient VW van that doubled as his workshop, never staying longer than a few days in any given place. Brian had once called him a professional couch surfer, and Marco did not deny it.
Richard heard the screen door slam and out of the corner of his eye saw Terry step out onto the porch. He smiled when he saw Marco, but it was a sad smile. Marco released Richard from his bear hug and reached for Dylan.
“Dylan, how’s my favorite pothead?”
“Cursedly pot-free. Yer lookin’ good, though, dude.”
