The Glory

by J. R. Mabry

  She pocketed her phone. “Kapernacky got the Parks System high mucky-mucks out of bed.”

  “She gets a gold star.”

  “No shit. This site was reserved for the night.”

  “We got a name?”

  “Yep. East Bay Pagan Assembly.”

  “Ah. The EBPA,” Cain nodded vigorously. “I’ve seen their bumper stickers.”

  “You have?”

  “Of course not. I’m bullshitting you. Who the fuck is the EBPA?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ve got a contact name: James Tomlinson.”

  “There’s a solid British surname. Got a phone number?”

  “And an address.”

  “Let’s not call, then. Let’s send a squad to pick him up. Now.”

  Saturday

  Light pours from a million radiant lives

  Off of kids and dogs and the

  hard-shelled husbands and wives

  All that glory shining around

  and we’re all caught taking a dive

  And all the beasts of the hills around shout,

  “Such a waste!

  Don't you know that from the first to the last

  we’re all one in the gift of grace!”

  —Bruce Cockburn, “In the Falling Dark”

  4

  “So I woke up and when I opened my eyes, I saw this enormous black disk hovering over my face. Then it drooled on me,” Marco said, picking sleep out of his eyes.

  “That’s our Toby,” Susan gave the dog an affectionate rub.

  Brian sat a cup of coffee in front of each of them. “Nothing like the first cup of the morning.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” Susan said. Through the door they could hear the sound of the friars reciting the Venite.

  “Then he farted,” Marco continued. “So, you know, typical dog stuff. Reminds me of why I’m a cat person.” He raised one eyebrow. “So why do I get the spooky sense that this dog could do long division?”

  “Because he could probably do calculus,” Susan answered.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Neither am I.” She paused and considered Toby.

  “I was standing right here a few months ago,” Brian said, gesturing with a spatula. “That dog got up on his rear legs and unlatched the back screen door.”

  “No shit,” Marco said.

  “So I followed him outside, and we discovered that an angel had died, and he inhabited Toby at the last moment.”

  “There’s an angel…in your dog?” Marco pointed at the yellow lab. “Is he still in there?”

  “As far as I know,” Brian said, turning to tend to his bacon.

  “Is he conscious?” Marco asked.

  “I think so,” Brian said.

  Marco narrowed his eyes at the dog. “Nenni trint,” he said. Tobias sat. “Nenni parmgi,” Marco commanded. Tobias leaped up and ran a circle around the room.

  “Did Terry actually train this dog in Enochian?” Marco asked Brian.

  “Nope. That dog only knows English commands.”

  “And not very many of those,” Susan said. “This is Dylan’s dog, remember?”

  “It’s the angel that knows Enochian,” Brian said, with a broad, wry smile.

  “No shit,” Marco said, flabbergasted.

  “Pretty normal for life around here,” Susan admitted.

  “Speaking of weirdness, where is that Randy guy?” Marco asked, pointing to the mirror.

  “He doesn’t get up until about noon. Typical mag—” Brian caught himself.

  Marco laughed. “You can say it, man. Typical magickian. It’s only funny because it’s true.”

  “Thanks for the grace,” Brian said, turning slightly red. “I leave a plate of bacon and maybe some fruit out on the counter for him.”

  “But how can he reach it?” Marco asked. “He’s over there? And he’s trapped inside the mirror.”

  “Watch,” Brian said. He finished lifting the last of the bacon from the pan onto a plate and set the plate on the counter. He pointed at the mirror. “What do you see?”

  Marco looked in the mirror. “I see…a plate of bacon on the counter.”

  “Yep. He can reach it.”

  Marco scowled. “That shouldn’t work.”

  “And yet, the guy in the mirror never complains of being unfed.”

  “Crazy,” Marco said.

  “This from a guy who created an animatronic Baphomet,” Susan teased.

  “Point,” Marco agreed.

  Susan put a teaspoon of sugar in her coffee and stirred it. “Brian, can I ask you a personal question?”

  Brian turned from his stove and cocked his head. “Sure…” he answered, sounding uncertain.

  “Does Terry seem a little…I don’t know…off to you?”

  Brian’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked out the kitchen window where the sun was now fully visible. “He’s fine,” he answered, turning back to the stove without looking at her.

  “Bullshit. He’s restless. Irritable. He’s not acting like Terry.”

  Brian said nothing. He stabbed at the end of the bacon with a fork and turned it.

  Dylan burst through the door and snagged a piece of bacon from the counter before sitting down next to his wife. “Good prayer makes ya hungry!” he announced. Mikael and Kat came into the kitchen next, followed closely by Richard.

  “I don’t know how good I’d call that prayer,” Kat said.

  “Whaddaya mean?” Dylan asked, heading for the cupboard to grab a cup.

  “I can’t stand that Psalm. ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.’ What crap.”

  Richard’s eyebrows raised. “It is a time-honored Psalm.”

  “But we shouldn’t be afraid of God,” Kat said, sitting down at the table. “Can’t we say, ‘reverence for God’ or something like that?”

  “I’m not sure ‘reverence’ really captures it.” Richard said, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “We shouldn’t cower before the mysterium tremendum? Is God not powerful? Is God not terrible? Is not God awe-some in the true meaning of that word?”

  “Yeah, okay, but how can you really love someone you’re afraid of?” Kat asked. “I don’t think you can.”

  “Let’s ask Dylan,” Richard said behind his hand. Everyone burst out laughing.

  Susan froze and turned crimson. “That was not fair.”

  “True, though,” Dylan said, bobbing his tea bag in his hot water. He was grinning like he’d just won an argument for the first time in months.

  “Breakfast is served,” Brian said, not looking at Susan. He placed a large bowl of egg scramble on the lazy Susan.

  “How was Mabon?” Marco asked.

  Kat and Mikael looked at each other before responding. “It was…kinda good?” Kat finally said. “I’m so sorry. Pardon my rudeness. I’m Kat.”

  Mikael smacked his head. “Sorry! Kat, meet Marco. Marco, Kat. Marco’s an old friend of the Order. He’s a solitary Thelemite. He invents stuff…magickal stuff.” Kat reached across and shook his hand.

  “I met your brother already,” Marco said. “It’s a…let’s call it a pleasure for now.”

  “I’m betting it wasn’t much of a pleasure meeting him,” Kat said, steeling a glance at the mirror. Randy had yet to appear.

  “So what do you mean ‘kinda good’?” Marco asked.

  “Kat did great, as usual. She’s an ace celebrant,” Mikael began.

  “Can’t wait to hear her say mass,” Richard said.

  “But just as we were in the middle of it—”

  “Tossing our corn thanksgivings on the fire,” Kat interjected.

  “—something happened.”

  “What happened?” Richard asked.

  “I’m not sure. It was like that moment when you take a swig from a carton of milk and you suddenly realize it’s sour,” Mikael said. “It was like that, only the whole world seemed sour.”

  “It felt like a punch in the gut,” Kat said.


  “Yeah, that too,” Mikael agreed. “But after it hit, all of our energy was just…gone.”

  “You mean personally? You felt lethargic?” Brian asked. He looked relieved and enlivened at the change of subject.

  “No, I mean all the energy we’d raised in the circle. Sucked right out.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Richard said.

  Marco looked concerned. “I have. This kind of thing doesn’t happen by accident. You got sapped.”

  “What are you saying?” Kat asked.

  “I’m saying that this was probably intentional. Someone wanted your ritual energy for…well, for their own devices.”

  “Who?” asked Mikael.

  “I wish I knew. But anyone who would steal someone else’s tapas was probably not up to any good,” Marco drummed absently on the table.

  “Eat. Eggs are getting cold,” Brian commanded.

  “Where’s Terry?” Susan asked.

  Richard turned around. “Ter!” He sprang up and jogged through the door and saw Terry sitting in the chapel. “Hey, something wrong?” Richard asked, sitting in the short pew next to him. Terry shook his head. “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  “Well, you let me know when you are. I mean, if you want to talk to me about it.”

  Terry gave a half smile and rose with a groan. Just then Richard’s cell phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket as Terry lumbered into the kitchen. “Richard here.”

  “Is this Father Richard Kinney?”

  “The one and only. Who is this?”

  “This is Margo Tindall, from CNN.”

  “CNN, like the CNN?”

  “The one and only. Is this a good time?”

  “Uh…sure. What can I do for you?”

  “There’s been a lot of interest in you and your Order since the Republican Convention. We’d like to do a human interest piece on you. You know, send a camera crew to follow you around for a couple of days. We especially want to see you perform an exorcism.”

  “Uh…that can be dangerous. And unpredictable.”

  “We have insurance, so you won’t need to worry about that. We’ll also pay you for your trouble. Does $3,000 sound about right for three days?”

  “Well…ah, let me talk to my Order mates, but that sounds great to me.”

  “Fine. If you’re on a cell phone you have my number. Text me and let me know. We’d want to start…well, tomorrow if we can.”

  “Yikes. Uh…I’ll let you know later this morning.”

  “I’m counting on it. Thanks, Father.” The phone clicked off, and Richard put it away. He felt a little disoriented as he made his way to the kitchen. “Uh…guys, that was CNN…”

  5

  It wasn’t easy getting a booth at the Cloven Hoof, especially for lunch on a Saturday, and Larch emitted a ululation of triumph as he slid into it. He slumped over his Guinness like a wolf guarding its lair until Frater Purderabo arrived.

  A large man, Purderabo scowled at the booth. Larch scowled back, but scooted the table toward himself a couple inches, making more space on the other side. Apparently satisfied with the accommodation, Purderabo sat. Before he could say anything Fraters Turpelo, Eleazar, and Khams arrived, each clutching at pints.

  The décor was strictly first-circle Dante, with red and orange lighting and strategically placed fog machines. An unwavering house beat punctuated the air but was not so loud that one could not talk. Larch glanced around at the other clientele. It was the usual crowd, most just rousing from bed at noon and stumbling in for a bit of the hair of the dog. He saw folks he recognized from just about every occult community in San Francisco. Some Wiccans were playing darts in the far corner, looking no worse for wear after their late Mabon festivities. A table nearby held members of the local OTO Lodge, arguing heatedly over something. “As usual,” Larch muttered under his breath.

  He didn’t see any of the Golden Dawners this afternoon, but he did notice some Temple of Set guys playing pool. And then of course there were the wannabe’s—the loners brooding over absinthe, the dabblers mooning over the various groups at the bar, and the prostitutes trying to hit them up, looking more tattered than Larch remembered. To complete the scene, waitresses circulated in black fishnets, red teddies, and devil horns stuck on their foreheads with suction cups. It was all great horror show of fun and games, and Larch reveled in the hominess of it.

  “Just like old times,” Frater Khams bobbed his head. “Still got a shit menu, though.”

  “Let’s make a deal,” Larch suggested, “We’ll order the most pretentious thing possible and you promise not to complain about it.”

  Khams narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t argue. A moment later, a waitress slunk over to them. “93,” she said.

  “We’re not Thelemites,” Larch announced.

  “Fuck you, I’m just trying to be pleasant,” the waitress said, smacking her gum. “Do you want to order anything or not?”

  “We are the illustrious Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent,” Frater Eleazar announced.

  “I don’t care if you’re the Lodge of the Smegma and Spittle,” the waitress rolled her eyes. “Food? Or no food?”

  Khams pointed to the menu. “We’ll have the Mediterranean Platter with the hot buttered hummus,” he said. “Plus the no-harm, no-fowl vegetarian chicken wings with the spicy tamarind sauce, please.”

  “Regular panko on those, or gluten-free?”

  “Frater Turpelo?” Khams asked, but Turpelo held his hands up and shook his head. “Regular will be fine,” he said.

  “Aarright. Gotta pay ahead, I’m afraid. New rule. Too many assholes playing dine-and-ditch.”

  “I’ll bet it’s those goddam Church of Satan pricks!” Larch asserted.

  “I’m not sayin’ it’s not.” The waitress smacked her gum, looking up and away.

  “They ruin it for fucking everybody,” Larch shook his head and tugged at his wallet.

  The others did likewise and threw worn five and ten-dollar bills onto the table until the waitress scooped them up. “That’ll do. I’ll bring you your change in a minute.” Then she spun away.

  “A drink to our reunion!” Larch said, holding his ale aloft. He was the only one who took a sip. He noticed the glares. “You gentlemen are looking well.”

  “No thanks to you,” Purderabo said blackly. “Thanks to you we lost our Lodge House, all of our possessions—”

  “Including magickal diaries!” Turpelo interjected.

  “—and I had to change my identity. Do you know how hard that is to do when you’re living off a trust fund?”

  Larch opened his mouth to say, “Poor baby,” but he reminded himself to be diplomatic. What he ended up saying was, “That is a terrible inconvenience. But magick is an exacting mistress, gentlemen. And we who serve her do it at great personal cost to ourselves.”

  As he spoke, Larch saw the anger in their faces soften. He saw them sit up straighter in their seats, their shoulders becoming square. They needed to be reminded of the nobility of their calling. And this, Larch knew, was what he was good at. It wasn’t that he was a brilliant magickal technician. No. It was that he was a brilliant leader of men.

  “And we have all sacrificed a great deal for this Work, have we not? And we should not look back or give up, not when we are so close.”

  “Um…so close to what?” asked Khams.

  “So close to the noble goal that has always been before us.”

  “Do you mean…” Purderabo breathed.

  Larch’s lips drew back in a portentous grin as he nodded slowly. “The same. This world groans under tyranny that has prevailed for millennia. But that reign of terror is nearly at its end. And we, gentlemen, are the ones fate has designated to pull the Great Tyrant from his throne.”

  “You’re talking about the overthrow of the Kingdom,” Turpelo fumbled at the zipper of his sweater.

  “Yes.”

  “You want to kill the Tyrant?” Khams asked.

  “That
would be our best-case scenario, yes,” Larch answered, looking confident and satisfied.

  “You want to kill…” Khams leaned in and whispered the last word, “God?”

  “Kill is a strong word. I’m not sure we can kill God. But we can certainly strip him of his power. We can topple his Kingdom. We can reduce his hierarchy to chaos and rubble. And that is precisely what I aim to do.”

  Purderabo looked around, as if frightened that they might be overheard. That was impossible, though—the music was loud enough that even the donkey-long ears of a Gunther demon could not hear if more than three feet away.

  Turpelo was rubbing his hands together now, clearly salivating. “Oh, how many nights have we spun tales of such an undertaking?” Hopeful light radiated from his eyes.

  “How?” Eleazar asked, clearly dubious.

  “How what?” Larch’s voice betrayed irritation.

  “How do you plan to topple the Kingdom?”

  Larch leaned in and nearly whispered, “I intend to ascend the Tree of Life, and to destroy the sephirot as I go.”

  “Like, as in being a terrorist? You’re going to what, blow it up? How are you going to ascend with physical bombs?”

  “Don’t think so literally. The Tree of life hangs together from the top, like a mobile. If you disrupt the sephirot—”

  “It throws the other sephirot off balance…” Turpelo nodded.

  “And if the sephirot are unbalanced?”

  “Chaos,” Turpelo grinned, his eyes narrowing.

  “But our world is an emanation of the higher sephirot,” Khams pointed out. “If they descend into chaos, what will happen here?”