The Glory

by J. R. Mabry

“Try me…” Purderabo raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Amelia Earhart,” Larch said. “Did she fail in her around the world flight?”

  “She did crash.”

  “She did not crash—which is why no one has found the wreckage of her plane. Instead of crashing, she translated. ‘And Enoch walked with God, and suddenly he was not, because God took him.’ She was BOTA, by the way.”

  “The Builders of the Atydum aren’t magickians,” Turpelo objected.

  “They are in their upper grades,” Larch said. “Anyway, the point is that she was not a failure, either—she succeeded beyond our ability to imagine. She is a hero.”

  “But nobody knows about it,” Turpelo pointed out.

  “Fame is not our object,” Larch said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Purderabo smiled.

  “When I was a boy,” Eleazar said, gesturing with the knife as if it were no more dangerous than a teaspoon, “my father told me that success was measured not by how many people liked me, but whether I liked me.”

  “You’ve succeeded, then, Eleazar,” Turpelo said with a smirk. “No one likes you.”

  “My father told me that there was nothing more important than my reputation,” Purderabo countered.

  “Well, you fucked that up, didn’t you?” Khams smiled.

  “No thanks to present company,” Purderabo conceded. “How about you, Babylon? What timeless wisdom did your father pass on to little Babylon—”

  He stopped when he noticed that Larch’s eyes had grown small and hard. He seemed to have withdrawn within himself, like a cornered animal that might spring an attack at any moment. “We will not discuss my father,” he said, his voice quiet, hoarse, and cold as quicksilver. “Not ever.”

  “But Babylon, I was only—”

  Larch sprung from his chair and took Purderabo by the lapels, lowering his face so that their noses were almost touching. “Not. Ever.”

  “I get it, Stanis,” Purderabo said, his voice wavering. “You can let go of me now.”

  Larch released his coat but continued his awful eye contact. Finally, he looked away and slunk back to his chair. The room was silent as the fraters feared to breathe.

  “What were we talking about?” Khams asked.

  “Paternal wisdom,” Eleazar said helpfully.

  “Before that,” Khams said, scowling at Eleazar.

  “Uh…Amelia Earhart?”

  “We were talking about Babylon’s ambitious proposal,” Purderabo said, his voice commanding such sufficient authority that the others fell silent. Purderabo set down his teacup and leaned forward toward Larch. “I understand why the scope of the…project…is attractive to you, Babylon. It appeals to your flair for the dramatic.”

  Larch was about to object, but Purderabo held up his hand and continued. “But you could just as well change global weather patterns or cultural gender norms or any other grand scheme we might concoct. What I don’t understand is your passion for this project. Just what are you after, Babylon?”

  Larch looked down at his hands. His jaw tightened. “Justice.”

  “Justice,” Purderabo repeated, a bit sarcastically. “Because you are a champion of justice.” He turned to the others. “This is the reason we never get any magick done anymore—Babylon is out on the protest lines, picketing for justice.” This elicited a few nervous laughs from the others. “Don’t bullshit me, Babylon. You’ve never graced a candlelight vigil with your presence in the whole of your shoddy little life.”

  “I have never involved myself in a protest because I do not engage in futile activities,” Larch’s eyes remained hard, and he was grinding his teeth. “But this…this is something I can do, something that is within my power. I can pull tyrants from their thrones—” he leaned forward in his seat and spoke so low that everyone held their breath to hear it. “And I will.”

  “Yes, yes, the downfall of God.” Purderabo rolled his eyes. “As I said, ambitious. But…Larch—”

  “Magickal names only!” Eleazar objected.

  “Fine. Babylon,” Purderabo conceded. “Listen…if you do away with…with the Tyrant…what will happen to us?”

  “What do you mean?” Larch blinked. “We’ll be heroes. We’ll be hailed as liberators. We’ll be showered with glory.”

  “Yes, that’s all lovely,” Purderabo waved his grand vision away. “But just suppose the Neoplatonists are correct, and the universe is contingent—”

  “Not just the Neoplatonists,” Turpelo interjected catching his drift, “but the Vedantists and the Hermeticists and the…well, the entire Western Mystery tradition that we uphold and carry on. Everyone says the universe is contingent.”

  “If you do away with the One upon whom the universe is contingent, won’t the universe simply cease to be?” asked Purderabo. “I mean, I’m all for an end to tyranny, but not at the cost of existence itself.”

  “Yes,” Khams agreed. “I’d rather put up with a little tyranny and continue to exist. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Has the meeting begun?” Eleazar asked. “Should I be taking notes now?”

  “Have you learned nothing in all your studies?” Larch asked. “The one that everyone calls ‘God,’ the being that has jurisdiction over this particular universe, is not the Ground of All Being.”

  Purderabo moaned. “Must you bring Tillich into this?”

  Larch ignored him. “The Creator is a demiurge. No less an authority than the Gnostics mapped out the basic celestial hierarchy in great detail. Not just the angelic hosts, not just the Tyrant, but what was above that—the Godhead, the Pleroma.”

  “The Fullness,” Purderabo translated, awe sounding in his voice.

  “Precisely,” Larch said. “The Pleroma is the Ground of All Being. This being the common folk call ‘God’—the Gnostics named him Samael, by the way—he may have made this world, but he himself is supported and contingent on the Pleroma.”

  “So if we defeat the Tyrant Samael,” Purderabo reasoned, “the universe will not wink out of existence?”

  “No more than England ceased to be simply because the tyrant Charles the First was deposed,” Larch affirmed.

  “And you’re…sure of this?” Eleazar asked, a little nervously. He had found a notebook and a single periwinkle crayon but had not yet started writing.

  “Were the allies sure that the entire universe would not implode when they set off the first atomic bomb?” Larch asked, a little impatience creeping into his voice.

  “I would hope so,” Khams said.

  “No, they were not. But they deemed the risk worthwhile.” He leaned over and peered into each of their eyes in turn. “So. Do. I.”

  Purderabo stuck out his lower lip and nodded as he thought. “You make a compelling argument, Babylon. But you said some misdirection would be in order, if we were not to be thwarted.”

  “Yes. That is why I called us together,” Larch said. His black mood seemed to have passed and he turned up the corners of his mouth in the beginning of a proud grin. “Take a look at this.” He pressed a button on the keyboard and a video sprang to life on the computer screen. Purderabo rose and lumbered over to where Larch was sitting. The others also crowded around for a closer view.

  “What are we looking at?” Turpelo asked.

  “This is a convent in West Oakland, about two blocks from the 580 overpass into Emeryville,” Larch said. “The godly women have just sat down for dinner. Aaaand, there we go.” They watched as one of the old women pitched forward into her plate.

  “They’re not moving,” Khams pointed out.

  “No,” Larch said, stroking his chin.

  “They’re still as stones,” Purderabo noted.

  “Lifeless as cow-patties,” Larch agreed.

  “That’s not even a saying,” Eleazar protested.

  “Wait, that one’s moving,” Khams said, pointing to one of the nuns.

  “Yes. She’s the one who poisoned them,” Larch said. “At least, that’s my theory. Now…watch.”


  They held their breaths as two young African American men entered from the hallway.

  “Who are they? They look scared out of their skulls.” Purderabo sounded delighted.

  Their eyes widened as the living nun’s head pulled back, her jaw distended, and black birds poured out of her throat, filling the room with the frantic beating of wings.

  “Splendid!” Turpelo breathed. “Let’s watch that again!”

  “I’m way ahead of you. I’ve already edited the last fifteen seconds into an endless loop for my ongoing amusement,” Larch said, sounding a little giddy. He clacked on his keyboard and pulled up another file. Once launched, the murder of crows erupted from the old woman’s throat perpetually.

  “Where did you get this footage?” Purderabo asked. His eyes were shining, and it was clear that he was, once again, in awe of Larch.

  “I made it myself. I planted the camera in the convent, posing as a PG&E technician—‘Just here to check for gas leakage, ma’am.’ Nobody watches you as you scurry here and there, you know. And after that was in place, I captured the footage on a laptop set up in their undercroft, where I also placed this sigil.” He pointed to a sigil on the screen.

  Larch noted the gaping jaws of his fellows. “Who…is that? Tispis?” asked Turpelo.

  “Very good, my friend.” Larch patted Turpelo on his hip. “Nice to see that you are up on your sigils.”

  Turpelo shrugged. “I like to think of it as my expertise.”

  “You’re going to need it,” Larch said, smiling up at him.

  “What did you do to activate it?” Purderabo asked, still not able to peel his eyes away from the video.

  “I sacrificed a cat,” Larch said. The others took a step back, clearly shocked.

  “It was a mangy stray,” Larch waved them on. “And it’s not like there aren’t a million of them in Oakland. I gave him the privilege of spending his useless life on something worthwhile and grand.”

  The others did not look convinced. Larch pulled out a large leather satchel covered with post-it notes, each with spells scrawled on them. “Careful not to let those notes fall away until we’re ready for them.” He handed it to Purderabo.

  “What’s in here?” Purderabo asked, taking the satchel from Larch gingerly.

  “Sigils,” Larch said.

  “For what?” Khams asked.

  Larch clacked on his keyboard, and the video shrunk to the size of a thumbnail, but a new file sprung to life and quickly filled the screen. It was a map.

  “That’s Oakland,” Turpelo said, leaning in again.

  “It is,” Larch agreed.

  “I hate Oakland,” Purderabo sighed. “It’s so…common.”

  “Dirty,” Eleazar agreed.

  “It’s no dirtier than parts of San Francisco,” Turpelo challenged. “And may I point out that those are your favorite parts of San Francisco, Eleazar?”

  “I used to live in Oakland,” Khams offered. “It’s not so bad. Wait, are those watermarks?” Khams peered even more intently at the map.

  “They are, after a fashion.” Larch eyed Khams closely, hoping he was catching on.

  “There’s a watermark etched over each neighborhood,” Khams said, pointing at the screen. “There’s one over Millsmont. There’s another over Laurel, and another over the Dimond district…”

  “Those watermarks—Babylon, can you highlight those?”

  “Glad you asked,” Larch said. At the touch of a button, the watermarks began to glow.

  “Sigils,” Turpelo breathed.

  “And do those sigils correspond to the ones in this satchel?” Purderabo asked.

  “They do. This,” he said, motioning toward the screen, “is the plan. Your job is to carry these sigils into the heart of the neighborhoods indicated and post them where they are visible but not accessible. We don’t want the wind blowing them off or anyone tearing them down. Then you’ll mark the boundaries of the neighborhoods with like sigils using spray paint.”

  “You want us doing graffiti?”

  “I want you tagging.”

  “For demons.”

  “Yesssss…” Larch grinned. “And not just Oakland.” He pushed the forward button on his keyboard. Another map appeared, this one of Berkeley, and another of Emeryville. “Oakland first, then Emeryville, then Berkeley. It will be a couple of long, hard days, but by my calculations, we can mine the whole area in, oh, thirty-six hours, give or take.”

  “Mine?”

  “Like land-mines.” Larch grinned. “But with demons.”

  “Fucking brilliant,” Purderabo breathed. “So, how do we activate them?”

  “I’m not killing any cats,” Khams crossed his arms.

  “There are demons on this screen that wouldn’t pay attention if you just killed a cat,” Turpelo pointed out.

  “No need to concern yourselves, my friends.” Larch held his hand up. “These sigils are pre-activated.” Purderabo almost dropped the satchel, but Larch was ready, holding the bottom of it. “That’s why you must be sure that none of the warding spells drop off,” he said, pointing to the post-it notes.

  “How dare you endanger us by calling us into the same room with…with…” Purderabo held the satchel as far away from his corpulent frame as he possibly could.

  “I assure you, it is adequately warded.” Larch’s confidence was convincing. They all relaxed.

  “So…and I hesitate to ask,” Turpelo started, running his fingers nervously through his hair, “but, um, how did you activate them?”

  Larch smiled. “With a little help from my friends. My Wiccan friends, that is.”

  13

  Richard saw the lighting crews setting up near the chapel and froze. “Oh shit,” he said out loud.

  “Are you one of the monks here?” A severe, angular woman in her early 40s approached him. She hugged a clipboard to her chest and flashed him a smile that was all teeth. “I’m Tapper Alexander. I’m looking for Father…Richard Kinney?”

  “That’s me,” Richard said, trying to collect his thoughts, which seemed to be running in circles and screaming. “And we’re friars, not monks.”

  “Oh, how interesting,” Tapper said in a tone that revealed that it wasn’t the slightest bit interesting to her. “It’s Sunday morning, so I assume you’ll be having a service. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Mass is at 11 a.m.”

  “I thought so. Okay if we set up here in the chapel then?”

  “Perfect,” Richard said, moving his head from side-to-side rather than up-and-down.

  “Are you…all right?” Tapper asked him, cocking her head.

  “I’m…fine. We’re just…juggling a lot this morning,” Richard said.

  “Oh. Well, is it okay to bother you with questions?”

  “It isn’t a bother at all.” Richard flashed a smile. “We’re glad you’re here.”

  “Okay, then,” Tapper said, shooting him a look that said that she was not so sure.

  Richard turned on his heel and went back to the kitchen. He pressed both hands on either side of the doorway, barring any motion in or out. “Listen up!” he whispered. Everyone stopped and faced him. “This is an emergency situation, so I’m going to start giving orders. Any problems with that?” Everyone shook their heads, a little stunned. “Good. Mikael, make sure that guitar amp is turned off. Not down, off. No one will notice Randy in there as long as he’s not screaming expletives at people.” Mikael rushed over to the guitar amp and unplugged it. “Kat, please take Terry upstairs and put him in one of your cassocks. You look like you’re about the same size. Susan, wake Dylan up and pour about two pots of tea into him before he sets foot downstairs. Also, make sure Marco is presentable, and ask him if he can come down and start breakfast. He loves to cook.”

  “What are you going to do?” Susan asked.

  “I’m going to go take care of Brian,” Richard said. He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got just a little over an hour before mass, and I want everyone calm
and in their places at 11 sharp. We’ve got to get a lid on the chaos so that the cameras don’t pick any of it up. Everyone clear?” Nods all around. “Okay, let’s move.”

  Richard ran his fingers through his hair and squared his shoulders before heading out to the cottage. Tobias was underfoot and almost tripped Richard in his rush to get through the back door. Richard rolled his eyes at the big yellow dog’s exuberance. Richard took all three stairs to the ground at once, crossed the narrow patch where the new garden had been planted, and bounded up onto the porch. He didn’t bother to knock. “Brian,” he called.

  The living room looked like a tornado had hit it. Richard peeked into the kitchen and, not finding Brian there, headed for the bedroom. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. “Brian!” he shouted, before pushing open the door. He stepped inside and looked around, but Brian was nowhere to be seen. He spun around and headed for the bathroom. It, too, was empty. “Brian!” he shouted again, but no one answered.

  “Goddam it, Brian,” Richard said, slipping down onto the couch. Everything seemed suddenly very, very much out of control. If only CNN weren’t here, he thought. Things would be bad, but they wouldn’t be…dangerous. Just then, Brian walked through the front door holding a suitcase.

  “Oh, hey,” he said. He walked past Richard into the bedroom, and Richard got up off the couch and followed him. He sat on the bed as Brian threw clothes into the suitcase. “Did you know?”

  “What? Oh, about Terry? He told me yesterday—me and Dylan.”

  “Just yesterday?”

  Richard nodded. Brian grunted and turned to the chest of drawers, gathering up a heap of socks.

  “I’m really sorry, Brian. I wish it didn’t happen. And I think Terry wishes it hadn’t either. He loves you desperately.”

  “Apparently not enough to keep it in his pants,” Brian said.

  “He seems truly penitent to me.”

  Brian paused and looked at the suitcase. “It’s not enough.”

  “I get it. You’re angry. You’re hurt. But just because Terry did something he regrets doesn’t mean you have to. It’s not a contest.”

  “I’m not trying to hurt him. I’m just…I need some space.”