The Glory

by J. R. Mabry

  “You tell me you never once got it on with Perry.”

  Cain’s face flashed with anger. He pointed at Madison. “Don’t you ever. Talk about her. To me.”

  “You gotta wonder if Mrs. Cain worried about the two of you.”

  “Am I going to have to turn the hose on you dogs?” Marco asked.

  “There’s no…Mrs. Cain.”

  “What? Man, what the fuck are you talking about? I been to your house. I met your wife.”

  “We’re separated.”

  “Over what?”

  “What goddam business is it of yours?” Cain asked with a little venom in his voice.

  “Just asking,” Madison put his hands up.

  Marco was amazed at how deserted the streets were. On the other hand, if he lived there, he’d be holed up, too. Any sane person would be.

  “Over what?” Madison repeated.

  Cain was silent. “Money troubles,” he said finally, looking down.

  “Man, your wife is a lawyer. You all ain’t got any money troubles.”

  Cain wouldn’t look at him.

  “He’s lyin’,” Madison said to Marco.

  “Why would he lie?”

  “I don’t know. He just is. I’ll bet you dinner.”

  “Where you gonna buy dinner?”

  “We’ll get dinner after the zombie apocalypse, all right? But you’re gonna pay for it, ’cause Cain here is lyin’ through his ass.”

  Cain’s face was rock hard. He refused to look either of them in the eye. Marco stopped. “You know, it’s funny that you should bring this up, because I just caught myself about to lie to you guys, like, three times.”

  “What for?” Madison asked, putting his hands on his hips.

  Marco shrugged. “I have no idea. I chose not to, but it wasn’t my first impulse.” He took a couple of test sniffs of the air. “This might be nothing, but it might be something, too.”

  “What? What might be something?”

  “The urge to lie…or at least the urge to not tell the whole of the truth.”

  “None of us ever tell the whole truth,” Madison said. “Actually, I don’t think it’s ever possible to tell the whole truth.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because words are so…lame. You describe anything in words and it’s not even close to what you are trying to say. Not ever.”

  “Maybe your vocabulary just sucks,” Cain said.

  “Maybe you still waitin’ for your balls to drop.”

  “Let’s be on guard,” Marco suggested. “Let’s be careful with our words, just in case. Something’s not right. It might be a magickal attack or something. Or maybe there’s a falsehood sigil around.”

  “Or maybe Cain here just isn’t ready to talk about it,” Madison said, sounding conciliatory.

  “No. There’s some kind of compulsion going on,” Marco said. Truth was, he liked Cain. The man might have skeletons in his closet, but thus far he’d struck Marco as being fairly open and vulnerable. And Madison’s angry jabs were beginning to get on his nerves, so he really wanted to cut Cain some slack.

  “Can’t you check that with your compass-thingy?” Madison asked.

  Marco nodded and pulled out the Liahona again. Holding it firmly in both hands, he asked it, “Take me to the sigil for the nearest falsehood demon.” Both arrows moved lazily around their respective dials, not pointing in any particular direction, under no apparent influence or power.

  “Let me try something else,” Marco said, suddenly inspired. “Take me to the source of the Lie.”

  Instantly, both needles spun and pointed due south.

  Cain looked up. “That’s the hills.”

  “Toward the hills, then,” Madison said, shrugging.

  They walked uphill to the roundabout, then headed off on Marin. A couple of blocks in, Madison raised his hand. “Somethin’s not right,” he said.

  Marco froze and listened. He didn’t hear anything.

  “No birds,” Cain said.

  “Right,” Madison agreed.

  Then they heard the boots. Not all at once, but slowly, as if someone were turning up a volume knob. “What the fuck is that?” Marco asked.

  The three of them instinctively gathered together, standing back-to-back in a triangle, warily watchful on all sides. “There,” Madison pointed. Marco and Cain pivoted as the marchers came into view.

  It took a few moments for Marco to understand what they were seeing. About a hundred people—men and women, all of them white—were marching in formation, with rifles slung over their shoulders. All were wearing boots of some kind, and although their clothes didn’t match, all of them were wearing black with blood-red accessories.

  “I am not liking that color-scheme,” Cain said. “Not one bit.”

  Sticking out like a sore thumb on every one of them, however, was a white hat. Again, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to exactly what kind of hat it was—Marco saw fishing hats, cowboy hats, baseball caps, and even an Easter bonnet, but all of them were white.

  “I am not liking the funky hats,” Madison said. “Clashes, don’t you think?”

  “I am not liking how they’re marching,” Marco said. He hadn’t ever seen a group goose-stepping in real life before, and he didn’t like it one bit. Goose bumps crawled up his arms.

  Someone acting as a sergeant-at-arms called them to a halt, and every boot hit the ground at exactly the same second. “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Marco whispered.

  A short, middle-aged man with a pronounced beer belly separated himself from the crowd and approached them. His motions were formal, jerky, unnatural. With a flourish, he came to a rigid parade rest just a few yards from them.

  “Citizens,” he began, then appeared to notice Madison and Cain’s uniforms for the first time. “Officers,” he gave a slight deferential nod. “We welcome you to the Republic of Stan.”

  “The Republic of who?” Madison asked, but the man ignored him.

  “The Republic of Stan is the world’s youngest sovereign nation, claiming as its jurisdiction most of the Berkeley Hills at present. We welcome you and we promise to keep you safe.” He turned and began to pace, still holding himself with an awkward stiffness. “In the Republic of Stan, we have declared martial law in order to put an end to the rampant killing and looting that has plagued most of Berkeley. Here, everyone obeys orders, everyone pulls their weight, and everyone is provided for. Restrictions will be relaxed once the crisis has passed, but until then we do as we’re told and we protect our own.”

  “And who does the telling?” Madison asked warily.

  “Stan does, of course,” the man smiled paternally. Marco didn’t know why, but he already wanted to slug the man.

  “We are here to escort you to our quarantine center until your safety can be assessed and you can be properly assigned. Everything you need will be provided. There is no reason for you to fear. You are safe now. We extend the gift of the Pax Stan to you.”

  “Pax Stan!” everyone in formation repeated.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Cain said. “We’re on patrol with the Berkeley PD. We’re trying to keep people safe, too.”

  “But you are no longer in Berkeley. You are in the jurisdiction of the Republic of Stan and are therefore now subject to the laws and regulations of the Republic. You are, in fact, trespassing on sovereign soil. We could arrest you as spies. Instead, however, we are extending to you the same courtesy that we extend to everyone that wanders over our borders. We offer you our protection, food, shelter, order, and meaningful work. Surely you can see how refusing such hospitality and kindness might be seen as ungrateful, even rude.”

  “We had no idea we were trespassing. Last we heard, this was still Berkeley,” Marco said.

  “The world has changed,” the little man answered, smiling grimly. “Or perhaps you haven’t noticed.”

  “We apologize for the indiscretion,” Marco said. “And we request leave to
go back the way we came. You can even escort us to the border if you like. Just…let us carry out our own orders. Surely you can understand why it is important to us to fulfill our duty.”

  “What you ask is not unreasonable,” the man said. He stopped pacing and faced them. “Almost you have convinced me. But no. My orders are clear. You are here, and you must be assessed. Please follow the squirrel.”

  “The squirrel?” Marco asked.

  From the company ranks a young woman stepped forward and processed into the open, raising up a pole. At the top of the pole was the carcass of a dead squirrel, swinging from a length of twine.

  “What’s with the squirrel?” Madison asked.

  “It is the emblem of the Republic,” the man said proudly. “Soon, all our uniforms will be adorned with its likeness.”

  “A dead squirrel?” Marco shook his head.

  “Not a dead squirrel, just a squirrel,” the man said testily.

  “But that’s a dead squirrel,” Marco pointed out.

  “You can’t very well keep a live squirrel at the top of a pole,” the man said in a tone that clearly warned Marco to stop being silly. “It would never stand still and might become dangerous if it became spooked. Anyway, sergeant-at-arms, to the Quarantine Center!”

  A young man who looked very much like he must be in the marines stepped forward. “Sir! Yes, sir! Squirrel-master, forward march!”

  The little man approached them menacingly. “You will follow the squirrel, and you will do it now, or we will resort to some unpleasant persuasion.”

  Marco looked at his companions.

  “We’re outgunned here,” Madison said.

  “This is so wrong,” Cain said.

  “It’ll be more wrong if they shoot us on the spot,” Marco said. “I’m going to follow the fucking squirrel. For now.”

  Marco started walking after the squirrel-bearer and was relieved when the two officers followed. He tried to stay alert for details, for clues to their situation, and to any possible exits.

  “Militia, right shoulder, Arms!” the sergeant-at-arms barked behind them. “Forward march!”

  With a rising sense of alarm and the sound of tramping boots behind them, Marco followed the emblem of the Hanged Squirrel into the bowels of the Berkeley Hills.

  73

  “It’s a lingam,” Brian said out loud.

  Maggie looked back at him, and for the first time, a slight smile escaped her lips. A moment later, Brian was looking at the back of her head again.

  A lingam, looming on the horizon, was dwarfing everything else in this shadowy, violet world. Sexual images blasted through Brian’s brain, as if they had been building up pressure, and had just been released—like the opening of a firehose or the gush of orgasm. He was staring at the pillar of the world, the organ that rested in the yoni of Malkuth, his own world, and stretched to connect this world, Yesod, with the higher sephirot. It was the connector, the vital pipeline, a rock-hard penis bursting with life and seed and joy, stretching from one world to another, aching to connect.

  Brian felt himself getting hard as he watched it, and yet, he reminded himself, there seemed to be precious little joy or connection in this world—at least that he could see so far. They crossed over the greenbelt mall and headed into what looked like a residential area. He was sorry to leave the open plain and the grass. The buildings they passed were crowded too closely together for Brian’s liking. It was depressingly urban, with wet alleys and mangy cats and profane hip hop spilling out from open windows.

  And the arguments. Every block they passed seemed to sport one. Brian hunkered down into his new sweatshirt, but it wasn’t from the cold. It was an instinctual withdrawal from conflict. Maggie walked up to a rock wall about three feet high. Her hand descended, facing him, flat as a pancake. Stop. Brian stopped. Then he stood on tiptoe and tried to see over the wall. They appeared to be at a small river or a canal. Looking to the right, Brian noticed the remains of a bridge. He squinted, trying to see it more clearly. It looked like a truck had hit it and left a tangle of twisted metal and wire and jagged scrapes of paint. Whatever had happened to it, one side of it had fallen short of its moorings, hanging from the far shore at a dangerously diagonal angle. Was it possible to navigate through the wreckage, to climb up to the other side? Maybe, but he wouldn’t want to gamble his life on it.

  Maggie was negotiating with a man in uniform. She gave him two purple bills and pointed back at Brian. The man gave him a quick glance, then handed her two tickets. She waved him toward her and, as he approached, she handed him a ticket. Then without another word, she turned left and speed-walked along the stone wall to a cut-out section that led to a cement staircase. She turned right and began to descend. Brian followed, still respecting the distance between them. At the bottom, two uniformed officers held a skiff still on a quick-moving river. A third officer was in the boat with a long pole.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Brian said out loud.

  Maggie didn’t reply but held her hand out to one of the officers. He grasped it and held her steady as she stepped into the boat. Brian thought to eschew the offer of help but nearly fell when the boat lurched beneath him. The officer caught his elbow and said, with a hint of reproach in his voice, “You can’t do it alone, son. By the way, your shoe is untied.”

  Brian thanked him but felt the heat rising in his face. He sat and tied his shoe with double knots. He was grateful to sit for a brief moment, realizing just how far they’d walked. The officer with the pole expertly navigated to the other side of the river, and two more officers caught the skiff and helped them as they climbed out.

  Brian waited a few seconds for Maggie to get a good lead on him, then set out after her, up another flight of cement stairs, and through a low stone wall identical to the one on the other side. Maggie crossed a street, and Brian was about to follow, when a bus roared by him, passing so close to his nose that he nearly lost his balance. Did not see that coming, he thought. I’ve got to be more careful.

  He waited for a reasonable break in traffic then darted across the street. A moment later and he would have missed Maggie turning left into an alley. He walked briskly to catch up and turned left himself. He did not see her. He continued to walk quickly down the narrow passage between two blocks of apartment buildings. Every now and then he had to dart sideways to avoid a duct or climb over some apparatus he couldn’t identify. The buildings seemed to be cluttered with far more machinery than in Malkuth, of curious design and unidentifiable purposes. In fact, now that he was paying attention, there wasn’t a single building that wasn’t covered in machinery. Like warts marring every flat surface, there was not a two-square-foot area of wall that was not ornamented by some kind of metal box, fan, duct, or tangle of wires. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to them, and there was certainly no thought to aesthetics.

  Brian heard a sharp “Pssst!” and stopped. A door in the rear of one of the apartment buildings waved open, and he sprinted toward it. He leaped up the steps and entered, looking around. He seemed to have stepped directly into a kitchen, and into yet another, different world. Maggie squeezed past him and shut and bolted the door. Then she yanked on his sweatshirt and drew him down to her eye level. “Hello, you old sod,” she said in her thick cockney accent. She planted a kiss on his cheek and released him. “D’ya want some tea, then?”

  “Uh…sure.” The kitchen was tiny, but cozy. There was barely room for the two of them to navigate in it, so Brian took a seat at the small table set against one wall beneath a lithograph of the Thames in winter. Maggie turned on the burner and set the kettle to boil. She reached up into what would have been a low cupboard for Brian and pulled out two mugs.

  “I hope you like chamomile, love. Nothing says ‘comfort’ like the taste of dirty socks.”

  She waddled back to the table, and Brian wondered at how she handled the cups in her gnarled, deformed hands. The ravages of arthritis had not been kind to her, but Brian had never really
noticed how profoundly misshapen her fingers were. Perhaps the Maggie of our world is not as badly off? he wondered. Or is this the Maggie of our world, crossed over like I am? But he didn’t know what was kosher to talk about and what wasn’t. He decided to let her take the lead.

  “Oh, Brian, it’s good to see your face, love,” she said, easing her plump frame into the other kitchen chair. “You have no idea how lonely I’ve been here—or how ironic that is.”

  Brian blinked, not sure how to respond. “It’s…good to see you, too,” he said lamely.

  “Oh, don’t be such an oinker,” she slapped his hand. “It’s safe here. You can talk freely.” She leaned in and said conspiratorially, “You should have seen the look on your face when you saw the zayin.”

  Brian blushed. “I was thinking of it as a lingam.”

  “Then you were right on target,” she said, patting his hands.

  Brian looked into the cup in front of him. It was chipped and stained a dark brown. He blinked and averted his eyes. Best not to look, he thought.

  “I never run into this world’s Brian,” Maggie said. “So you mustn’t be from this world.”

  “No,” Brian said. “Are you…from this world?”

  “Of course I am.” The kettle began to sputter so she lifted it with one twisted hand and filled a teapot.

  “Are you okay…I mean, are you alive…in my world, in Malkuth?”

  “The me in Malkuth is fine. I’m in Tahoe, playing the slots. Or at least I was. Now I’m watching the news, worrying about you all.”

  “And…how do you know that?”

  “Because we’re all just one person, really. Souls have a lot more parts than people imagine. But you should know all about that. We’re all just one person, spread out into these different spheres. Most people just aren’t aware of their souls. But I’ve had time to…let’s say, get acquainted.” She winked at him.

  “So if I run into myself here—”

  “That won’t happen, dear.” She waved him away. “You are yourself here. Your consciousness just travelled to the part of your soul that lives here. Try one of the biscuits.”