by J. R. Mabry
Marco found himself at the edge of the roof. It was too high to jump and too far to jump to the roof of the next house. He was as trapped as a treed squirrel. Panic and bile rose up in his throat and he felt his fingers begin to shake. His hands went up into the air in a gesture of surrender, hoping that no one would simply shoot him.
That’s when he realized that no one was even looking at him. They were all staring to the southeast, across the back yard. He followed their gaze but found that the roof was obscuring his vision. He climbed toward the peak again, and as he cleared it, he clutched at the shingles to steady himself.
He saw a solid rod of fire extending from the ground to the sky. The rod seemed to be about the diameter of a small house, but it was impossibly tall. It was the very image of raw, unimaginable power. It was terrible, Marco realized, but also glorious. His chest expanded until it was nearly bursting with awe, with wonder, with terror. Flame roiled and flared out from it, catching fire to several trees as it neared them.
As it neared…the rod, the pillar, he realized, was moving. And it was moving directly toward him.
110
Brian was barely conscious of the pillar of cloud behind him as he walked. He knew it was there, the same way he knew the hunch was on his back. It was behind him, out of sight…but present, and somehow now, a part of him. He didn’t know how it worked. Would he summon it, or would it simply appear when it was needed? He didn’t know.
And maybe he didn’t need to know. So much about this new job seemed to be about trusting, not knowing. It was like stepping off a cliff and trusting that some invisible walkway was there to support him. But the more he stepped, the easier it became to trust that the walkway was there.
So far, it had supported him every step of the way. So far, he hadn’t needed to know a thing. He simply felt his connection to HaShem, looked at the person in front of him with compassion, and spoke what he saw. That was it. And it seemed to be enough.
The patchwork dinosaur thundered ahead of him, almost now at the border to Albany. Brian was following in its wake, speed walking, and making some progress on the great, lumbering atrocity. The beast had crushed the walls surrounding Golden Gate Fields—the north Berkeley horse race track—and Brian had followed it through the ruin of the wall. He’d followed it halfway across the race track when he noticed something in his peripheral vision. Following the motion, he turned his head only to discover his sight was blocked by the pillar of cloud. He circumambulated the cloud and saw that a contingent of the Oakland army had been waiting by the wall and had now closed in and blocked it.
Brian felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He suddenly felt cold in the marrow of his bones. When he circled back to the north side of the cloud pillar he saw the patchwork dinosaur staring at him, surrounded by thousands of armed people—not even a fraction of the Oakland army, but more than enough to do him in. Everyone was staring at him. No one looked pleased to see him. Some of them, however, smiled with wicked relish, imagining his bloody end, no doubt.
Time seemed suspended, and Brian suddenly felt very alone. He swallowed thickly and turned around, looking for an out. There was none. He was surrounded on every side by the walls of the racetrack, and the smashed wall to the south was amply guarded. “Whoo boy,” he said, and it was, in its own way, a prayer.
Brian looked up and saw the demon Duke astride the dinosaur, his great gauntleted legs gripping its meaty neck, reins held up in one terrible, clawed hand. In his other hand he wielded a long gold scepter, encrusted with jewels and crowned at the tip—an emblem of his authority and might. A larger, proper crown sat upon his head, his sharp, terrible beak snapping open and closed in gleeful anticipation.
It struck Brian as odd that he could see the Duke. Normally, demons were invisible unless they chose to be seen. But Brian realized that his ability to see the Truth of the situation meant that he could also see the Truth of their presence. It’s going to take me a while to get a sense of these abilities, he thought. If I survive this, that is.
One contingent of the army took a step toward him, then another. Another contingent did the same. They were still a couple hundred feet away, but Brian reflexively stepped back, nearly backing into the cloud. His hands started to sweat and then shake.
Okay, panic isn’t going to solve anything, he thought to himself. You don’t need to know what to do. You know what to do. Relax. Connect. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, clearing his mind and concentrating only on his breath. In the space of those breaths, there was only breathing. There was no danger. There was no fear. There was nothing but the air coming in and the air going out. He felt his muscles loosen their stranglehold. He felt his chest relax. The knot of pain just over his aorta unspooled. He reached out with his heart, with his fingers, with his will, and felt another hand, another heart, another will, reaching out for him. The hands clasped, the hearts entwined, the wills became one. He felt himself utterly embraced by his God. He felt himself become…what? An appendage. A member. An instrument.
His eyes snapped open and he beheld the demonic army now actively closing in on him. The dinosaur, too, was lumbering toward him, the Duke swinging his scepter and emitting an ear-splitting screech from his snapping beak. Brian saw not only the Duke, but his henchmen—legions of demons, hovering above the heads of the Oaklanders, sapping them of their reason and their will and compelling them forward, drunk on chaos and bloodlust that was not their own.
Looking at them as a group, he only saw the collective menace of their demon taskmasters, as the nefarious hosts cackled and cracked their whips, driving them on. But when he looked at them as individuals, he saw the Truth about them. He focused on one woman, advancing toward him with a two-by-four, studded at one end with nails. Her eyes were wild and her mouth was turned up in something halfway between a sneer and a smile.
He looked more deeply and saw the pain of her childhood, the abandonment of her father, the abuse of her mother. He saw how she had sought to escape the horrific stories she was told about herself, stories she believed. He saw the empty sex, the sting of alcohol, the soothing blanket of the heroin. He saw the flicker of hope in her heart nearly extinguished, and he experienced the broken-hearted ache of HaShem’s love for her. He felt compassion for her blossom inside him. He longed to rush to her, to take her head in his hands, to tell her the Truth—that she was loved and lovable.
But he knew that the moment he reached her, he would be overwhelmed and overcome. At the momentary thought of his own protection, the light of his awareness shone on himself, and he nearly staggered from the force of it. In the space of what must have been only a few seconds, he saw the way he had always discounted himself. He was, after all, supremely unworthy. He was deformed, for one thing. His mind flashed to images of being shunned in school, even at Temple, for being a “freak.” He saw how he had hated himself because of his homosexuality—how he had been expelled from the seminary once his “secret” had become known. How he had been disowned by his father and shunned by his mother. He saw how the tender flower of his soul had recoiled at Terry’s betrayal, and how deep down he felt that he somehow deserved it.
He saw that all this was true—he had felt these things. These perceptions had directed his life. But he also saw that they were perceptions only, and not reality. They were the Truth, but seen through the twisted, distorting lens of his own self-hatred, fear, and despair. He saw in that moment how the twisting had happened, how his tender heart had become bruised and tattered. His heart swelled with compassion for the boy he had been and saw the teasing and rejection for the evil it was. He was overcome with pity on his younger self for the endless nights of self-loathing over his sexuality. He saw the tender soul at the heart of him…and he loved it as God loved it.
And in that moment, he was overcome by an elation that felt a lot like freedom. He saw the stories he had told himself and saw how they had been distortions and lies. He saw the way others looked at him and now knew the problem w
as with them. He saw the whole world and his place within it—and saw that it was both beautiful and twisted, splendid and chronically ill.
Then the physical manifestation of that illness rose up before him and beat the air with its clumsy claws. Brian blinked as he took in the fatal proximity of the dinosaur, but he couldn’t tear himself away from the revelations that rocked his soul. He looked within again and saw Terry, and he saw that he loved him. When I’m done here, he thought, I’ll go back to Alameda. I’ll find him. I’ll tell him the Truth about himself. Then he’ll be sorry… Then he stopped. He saw an even deeper Truth about himself. Yes, there was a part of him that was still hurt, that wanted revenge, that wanted to see Terry grovel.
But he saw something deeper. He saw that this was not what he really wanted. He saw that he loved Terry not with a hurt, tenuous love, but with his whole heart, with everything that was in him. Not in spite of his betrayal, but embracing it—even, in some way he did not understand, because of it. More than anything he wanted to feel Terry’s lips on his own, wanted to feel Terry’s arms around his neck, wanted to feel the tiny shudder of Terry’s body when his partner came. Love for him welled up within him and threatened to spill out of his eyes. He didn’t want revenge, he just wanted Terry. In the worst, best way.
A demonic scream snapped Brian back to the present. The patchwork dinosaur reared up, its great, awkward feet almost directly above his head. The Oakland hordes were only a few paces away, and still they kept coming, driven by their demonic oppressors into a frantic orgy of senseless, gleeful hate.
Brian shook his head to clear it, the gaze of Truth still focused on himself. And he saw something else. He saw not just who he had been, but who he was. Not just a respected Talmudic scholar, but more. Not just a cook and a caretaker of people he loved. Not just a wounded animal, but a healer. He stepped forward and addressed the demonic Duke.
“Duke Caphalaxus—I see you. I call upon you to dismount and treat with me face-to-face.”
The Duke’s beak parted and issued forth a scream that sounded like the tortured cries of a thousand damned souls. The dinosaur’s great patchwork feet crashed mere inches from Brian, and he knew the next footfall would not be near him but on him. He reached out and touched the dead skin of the beast, shuddering as he realized that the portion of the monster he touched was the headless torso of a man, bolted through the collarbone and stitched with twine into the body of the beast.
And yet at his touch, the dinosaur stopped. Brian spoke to the whole of it generally, and to the torso of the man specifically. “I see you and what has become of you. And it is wrong. It is time for you to rest and to reclaim the dignity that is yours. Return now to your rightful place.”
As he finished these words, the great beast swayed, and the massive chunks of meat of which it was composed—both human and animal—began to rain down, plummeting to earth as the illusory spells and demon magick that permitted its cohesion gave way to the Truth, and the ropes, bolts, staples, and stitching that seemed to hold everything in place were no longer adequate. Flesh ripped from flesh and the giant mountain of gore gave way, falling and rolling and splaying out onto the earth to claim its right and proper home in the dust.
As it did so, the demon Duke also tumbled to the ground, its noble limbs splayed out in its indignity, its beak cawing in protest, and its crown cast into the dirt. Uncertain what to make of this spectacle, the Oakland hordes involuntarily took a step back, clearing a way for Brian to make his way to the fallen Duke.
Climbing over the great, cold chunks of fallen flesh that had so recently composed the patchwork dinosaur, Brian stooped and retrieved the crown. He turned and handed it to the Duke, who was drawing himself upright once again, towering now over Brian, and waving his menacing, skeletal limbs in wrathful protest.
From somewhere within him, a calm washed over Brian—a calm born of true knowledge of who he was, whence he had come, and the real power that resided within him. “I won’t let you frighten me,” Brian said. “So flap all you want. You cannot hurt me…not anymore. In case you don’t recognize me, allow me to introduce myself. I am the Forerunner. I go before the Lord. I tell the Truth. And the Truth is that you’re work here is finished. You and your legions have tormented these good…well, these complicated people…for long enough. The Glory will no longer be hid but is shining forth even now, and it is a searching brightness that you cannot bear.”
The pillar of cloud was advancing again, just as Brian knew it would, and it was headed straight for the Duke. “So you may face it now…or you may slink back to the shadows, you and all your hosts, and delay the hour of your accounting until judgment. But know this, Duke Caphalaxus, that day is coming—and on that day, the House of the Lie that you serve will no longer stand. So choose.”
The Duke shrank back, raising its hands to ward off the pillar of cloud, shrieking like the terror of the newly dead.
A Quartet of Epilogues
Your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your healing shall spring up quickly;
your vindicator shall go before you,
the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
you shall cry for help, and he will say, “Here I am.”
—Isaiah 58:8-9
Epilogue 1
Brian paused when he reached the shore and, stepping around the pillar of cloud to get an unobstructed view, he gazed back over Oakland. The smoke from several fires were still sending plumes into the evening air, but most of the killing had stopped. He had spent the entire day approaching the oppressed and the broken, speaking the Truth to them, watching how it had crushed them and healed them at the same time.
The seeing and speaking came naturally to him now. He didn’t even think about it. Long before this interminable day had been done, he had relaxed into it until it had become like the effortless muscle memory of a pianist.
The marrow of his bones felt tired. In the distance he could see the pillar of fire and knew that Maggie was headed in this direction as well. He knew there was more to do, but it would be tomorrow’s work. He had seen enough heartbreak, devastation, and salvation for one day.
Now there was only one thing on his mind. One more thing that needed to be made whole. Without even stopping to think how weird it was, he stepped out onto the water and crossed the short distance between Oakland and Alameda.
His friends were waiting. As he approached the docks, Dylan and Susan rushed to him and threw their arms around him. Mikael and Kat had not yet made it over, but Richard had crossed the distance somehow. He was lying on the ground, apparently exhausted, and gave Brian a wave. Tobias had been more enthusiastic, jumping up on him and giving his face a sloppy lick.
“Where’s Terry?” Brian asked, pushing Toby down.
In answer, Dylan tossed his head toward one of the low buildings near the dock. Terry edged around the corner, and, head hung low, he avoided Brian’s eyes as he slunk over to where he was standing. If he had a hat, it would be in his hands, Brian thought.
“Good shabbas, Bucky,” Terry said.
“Good shabbas, bunny. I missed you.”
Terry looked like he was going to cry. “I missed you, too. Horribly.”
An awkward silence passed between them. Then Terry spoke again, so softly Brian could hardly hear it. “I’m sorry I was such a horn dog.”
“I’m sorry I shut you out. Can you forgive me?”
Terry’s lower lip was trembling as he raised his head. His eyes were brimming with tears as he met Brian’s gaze for the first time. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Brian could see into Terry’s soul, and as he gazed at his love, he saw true contrition, without even a grain of self-justification held in reserve. He saw how the dynamics of their relationship had led to Terry’s transgression, and saw the Truth of his own part in it. “Yes, honey. Yes, I did. And I’m sorry.”
Terry rushed to him the
n, and he felt his heart leap into his throat as he caught his partner up in his arms. He blinked back tears as he smelled Terry’s hair and felt the press of his arms as he squeezed him. Then he held his partner as his shoulders shook with sobs.
“I don’t have any excuses, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’m just…I’m so sorry.” Terry said, his voice muffled by Brian’s shirt and vest.
“Shhh…it’s okay, bunny.” He lifted Terry’s chin so that he was looking up into his eyes. His lower lip was trembling. Brian kissed it and held it still with his own lips. Then he drew back and spoke. “I forgive you. And my entire heart is yours.”
Terry buried his face in his shirt again, lost in another round of sobs. When they subsided, Brian said. “I have a promise to make to you. From now on shabbas is always nookie night, no matter what.”
Terry sniffed and hyperventilated. “You know what, Bucky? Tonight is shabbas.”
“Why yes,” Brian said. “Yes it is.”
Epilogue 2
Holy Apocrypha Abby, Two Weeks Later
Susan poured herself a cup of tea when Marco entered and set a beautiful wooden box on the kitchen table. His round face was the very picture of satisfaction.
“What’s that?” Susan asked.
“It’s a gift.”
“For who?”
“For Kat.”
Kat looked at Marco, startled. Then she looked at Mikael, who was sitting beside her in their regular places. His eyebrows raised. “Okay,” she said, leaning over and dragging it toward her. It was large, about a foot-and-a-half square, but only about three-inches deep. The wood was stained a deep, reddish brown and shone from a fresh coat of lacquer.
Susan could still smell the lacquer and half expected it to be tacky to the touch, but if it was, Kat did not mention it. She watched as Kat opened the catch on the box’s lid and pushed it back on its hinges. Her face was screwed up in curiosity as she gazed into it.
