Will Wilder #3

by Raymond Arroyo

  “Well, you got here in one piece, little man,” Bartimaeus said, leaning over him. “Lucky for us, this is the library. And it seems pretty quiet.”

  “Ahem,” someone said from behind him. Will stood up to find a rotund, black-robed monk staring at them through tiny black spectacles. “You come-uh from where-uh?” he asked in Italian-accented English.

  “Uh-Mer-EE-Kuh,” Bartimaeus said slowly, as if that would bridge the language gap. “Peri-Luss Faahhhls.”

  The hard expression on the bald monk melted into a smile. “Pero-lis-uh Falls-uh…Jacob-uh Wilder town. Ah, sì, sì, sì.”

  Will nodded uncertainly to the monk.

  “You got it. Jacob Wilder town,” said Bartimaeus, laughing. He looked back at Will. “Ma Italian’s gittin’ better.” Then back to the monk: “We’re looking for one of Jacob’s diaries. A few of his books are here.” He was slow talking again, loudly. “We need some information.”

  “Informazione…uhh…Jacob-uh Wilder?” The monk pinched his fingers together, painting indecipherable word pictures with his hands. “Abbot Gamaliel-uh. He will-uh help-uh you. Avanti. Avanti.”

  “I think that means ‘let’s roll,’ ” Bartimaeus said, galloping after the plump monk. Will, with some trepidation, did the same.

  * * *

  In Jacob Wilder’s office at Peniel, Cami told Lucille everything she’d seen over the last few days, from Will’s “unbelievable” performance on the football field, to the way he confined three football players in a makeshift jail, to the bewildered state of the people in town, to the cheerleader that Will had suddenly taken an interest in. “He practically ignores Simon and me. The only reason he gives Andrew the time of day is because they’re on the football team together,” Cami went on, clearly upset by what she shared. “He’s changed. He’s different.”

  “I’m glad you all came to me, dear,” Lucille said, worriedly straightening the silk arms of her jacket. “His newfound ability on the field is coming from the amulet he wears. The locket of Samson.” She pointed absently to the empty case in the corner. “I know it’s hard to love people when they’re not loving you. But it’s often the moment when our friends are not treating us well when they need us most.” She eyed Max and Cami with pity. “Will is fortunate to have friends like you.”

  Aunt Lucille clapped her hands suddenly and went to one of the crammed shelves along the office wall. “Will’s having some difficulty seeing the things that we rely on him to see. I had thought of giving this to him, but I’m not sure he’s in any condition to use it properly.”

  She held a dented, conical metal helmet in her hand.

  “Is that the Joan of Arc helmet you told us about the other day?” Cami asked.

  Aunt Lucille nodded, placing it down on the desk. “Only one who is pure, one who is truly concerned about others can make use of this relic.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I think you need to use it, Cami—for Will’s sake and perhaps for the sake of all of us.”

  “But what can I do?” Cami asked.

  “Wearing the helmet, you will hear and see things others cannot. Until Will’s sight is restored—and only he can do that—we need other eyes on the ground.” Aunt Lucille inhaled and drew both her lips into her mouth. “And frankly, from what you’re telling me, and from what I know, I worry about the safety of this town.” She handed the helmet to Cami.

  Wide-eyed and unsure, Cami balanced the helmet on her knees.

  “Don’t worry, Cami,” Max said, reaching toward her. “I saw somebody wearing the helmet in a dream last night. Will was punching and there were ugly people around. Horrible people. One of them had horns like a bull. Somebody had that helmet on next to Will. I couldn’t see the face. It must be you. You’re part of this.”

  “We’re all a part of this,” Aunt Lucille said, coming around the desk and bending down to Cami’s sight line. “Put the helmet on your head when you fear something is amiss. Now, you can’t go down the street with the thing on your head, but find times to wear it when you’re not likely to be spotted or when you are indoors. My mother always claimed to hear a voice when she wore it. She saw some things too.”

  Cami slowly lifted the helmet and put it over her head. It was heavier than she expected.

  She stared at Lucille and then over at Max, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. As she went to take it off, a tiny voice with a slight French accent filled her ears. “Don’t be afraid,” it whispered. “You were born to do this.”

  Cami pointed to the helmet, excitement exploding on her face. “It’s working. I think it likes me.”

  * * *

  The bald monk led Will and Bartimaeus out of the monastery, into the night. They followed the flickering light of the monk’s candle down several darkened staircases and onto a gravel path near the foundation walls. “This-uh abbey looks very different-uh from when Jacob-uh Wilder was here.”

  “So that’s his nice way of saying the United States leveled the place during World War II,” Bartimaeus tried to whisper. “They thought Nazis were holed up inside, so they dropped bombs on the abbey. A whole lotta bombs.”

  “We are-uh here.” The monk held the candle toward a thin stone staircase that led to a hole in the side of the foundation wall. “Abbot Gamaliel.” The monk pointed. “He up-uh there.”

  Will and Bartimaeus looked at each other for a moment before Bart started climbing the steps. A faint light illuminated the opening in the wall, diffused by a thin gray curtain. Bartimaeus was the first to go in, ducking his head to enter.

  On a cot at the far side of the dwelling, he discovered a figure wrapped in covers. “Abbot Gamaliel?” Bart said gently.

  Will pushed the curtain aside to enter the crude room. “He’s sleeping. Maybe we should come back later.” Before he could speak again, a hand like a baggy baseball mitt covered his face, knocking his pith helmet off balance.

  The hand belonged to an ancient-looking, rail-thin man lost in faded black robes. He lay sideways on a platform just above the entryway and had a great pumpkin head covered with brown splotches. Will started to pull away.

  “No, no. Hold still.” The monk with paper-thin skin and deeply sunken eyes continued to hold Will’s face, his arm extended from above. His expression changed from delight to concern as he held Will’s face. “You see less than I do, boy. For a Wilder, that is disgraceful.” He released his hold.

  “What…how do you know what I can see?” Will said indignantly.

  “I know what I feel. The eyes can lie—and mine are of little use to me these days—but the spirit never lies.” His eyes were like slits and Will was unsure if Gamaliel could see anything at all.

  “The decoy over here is pretty smart,” Bartimaeus said, amused by the blanketed mannequin on the cot.

  “A good example of people seeing what they want to see. I have always slept above the doorway. That way I know who has come. And who I wish to let go.” He dropped from the ledge with astounding ease for an old man and turned toward Will. “The eyes of your soul are dulled. You see the surface, indulging your eyes, gobbling up what pleases you and missing what is essential. What a waste of a gift. You’ll never progress that way.” The old man’s mouth never really closed, but hung agape even when he wasn’t speaking. “You see only for your own pleasure and that will jeopardize us all.”

  Before Will could respond, Bartimaeus stepped between them. “Abbot, I’m Bartimaeus Johnson. And you were right, this is a Wilder. Dan Wilder’s boy, Will. Sorry ’bout barging in on you, but we have an emergency.”

  “I didn’t imagine you came for a tour….Dan Wilder’s son, hmmmm. No wonder he sees nothing. What do you seek, Bartimaeus?” the abbot asked, ignoring Will.

  Will started to speak, but Bartimaeus shushed him with a scowl. “One of Jacob’s diaries has some information we need. A demon has risen
in Perilous Falls: Asmodeus.”

  “The Wilders have always had difficulty with that one,” Abbot Gamaliel said, falling to his knees. He reached inside a hole in the rocky wall. Within moments he produced several leather-bound books, warped by age and weather. “Most of Jacob’s writings are at Peniel, no? These are the only things I have. If a diary exists, it will be among these volumes.”

  Bart held the books close to his face, one at a time, until he found one that looked familiar. “This is the ticket.” Bartimaeus anxiously leafed through the pages. The W etched on the cover, like the one on Jacob Wilder’s desk, was the giveaway.

  Abbot Gamaliel opened his big palms to Will. “Jacob’s writings are only part of the reason you are here. I trained with your great-grandfather, Will. Give me your hands.”

  “I’d rather not,” Will said, crossing his arms, still stung by the comment about his dad. “Mr. Bart, I’m going to wait outside.”

  “As you wish.” The abbot shuffled aside to permit Will room to exit. “You may as well step into the darkness—you’re already halfway there.”

  “What?” Will spun around.

  “Your insolence, your selfishness…you’re clouded by the Darkness. It has a hold on you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Will said.

  “Then give me your hands.” Gamaliel once again presented his palms.

  Bartimaeus stopped flipping pages. He looked over at Will. “Go on.”

  Will hesitantly offered his hands, stiffly laying them on the old man’s palms.

  Abbot Gamaliel rolled his oversized head as if trying to relieve a kink in his neck. Then he tightened his grip on Will’s hands. “Your strength is not your own.”

  “I have the relic of Samson,” he whispered. “On me.”

  The old man’s eyes opened like two dark caverns, filled with pinpoints of light. “You are so alone, Will Wilder. The dead surround you—black, black arts,” he raved, still holding Will’s hands tightly. “There is not much time. Not much time.”

  After contorting his face for several moments, Gamaliel bellowed, “Ahhh” and threw Will’s hands aside in disgust. “The situation is dire. He sees nothing. If he can’t even see demons, how will he ever progress to the spirits of the dead or angels—”

  “Angels?” Will asked.

  The abbot thrust his hands into a stone basin in the corner, washing them. “He is so compromised—what did you say your name was?”

  Bart looked up from the book. “Bartimaeus.”

  “Of course, Bartimaeus.” He smiled as if a fond memory had resurfaced. “The boy is attached to the Darkness.” Drying his large hands, he returned to Will. “Do you know what I am speaking of?”

  Will nodded guiltily, though in fact, he didn’t know what Gamaliel was getting at.

  “You must break free of this thing. Death. I see death all around you. Does that make sense?”

  “Not really.” Will was more frightened than he had been all day. He nervously started looking behind him. And what did Gamaliel mean when he said Will would see dead spirits and angels?

  “If I can get in here for a minute…” Bart shook the old warped book at Will. “I think I found somethin’ we were looking for.” He motioned for Will to come closer.

  Abbot Gamaliel lowered himself onto a box along the wall and rested his face in his hands. Will read the diary over Bartimaeus’s shoulder.

  “This could be the ‘death’ the abbot has been talking about,” Bart said, pointing to the middle of the page. “That’s Jacob’s handwriting.”

  Will studied the page.

  In Paris, but also later in Rome, we discovered the way Asmodeus uses the dead like puppets to enact his will. The Nazis at the Louvre utilized the black arts to summon the demon via a blood rite. In each case, the donor of blood became the demon‘s vessel—for a time. Eventually, the beast returned to claim the donor‘s life, moving on to a new host. In Rome, Brother Felix found spoiled graves and coffins slashed open by Asmodeus. The demon reanimated the corpses, which it promptly possessed. I am certain this is what the prophecy means when it references the ”many masks“ this demon wears.

  “So now we know why those bodies went missing from the old de Plancy Cemetery,” Bartimaeus told Will. The boy took the diary from Bart, lost in the deluge of information.

  This Marquis of Iniquity is among the most powerful and elusive demons I have ever encountered. It is also one that I had persistent problems identifying. For a time I lost all view of it….Since we escaped Paris, my Sarah has been transfixed by a peculiar tune. She‘s hummed it ceaselessly. When I asked her the origin of the lilting lullaby, she curtly informed me that it was something Colonel Von Groll, one of her Nazi coworkers at the Louvre, played on a music box while they worked. I have since heard the same tune on the streets of Rome, in New York, Jerusalem, and Hong Kong. This was no coincidence. I began to see a pattern. In each instance individuals were drawn to the music—obsessed by it. At first I thought it was just a distraction or a fad. But I‘ve since learned that the song is of a diabolic origin. It targets those who desire things not theirs to have. They become obsessed with their cravings, lusting for unattainable things, situations, or people. Those already focused on satisfying their cravings are particularly susceptible to the music. Over the last few weeks, the Brethren have worked to destroy the recordings of the tune played on the wireless and stamp out all distribution of it. But mass communications make this a difficult task.

  The music had a maddening effect on Sarah, leaving her listless and hostile toward me and even her closest friends. Those addicted to the music go into a walking trancelike state. But it has an even worse effect on those who love them. I saw couples divided and men go mad—families destroyed by this hellish music. The melody itself creates an insidious isolation that produces seeming ”miracles“ for those who listen. The music actually fuels their dissatisfaction with life and pulls them into a realm of fantasy. The Sinestri add to the illusion by creating real-world assistance. In Sarah‘s case, it was romance that she desired. Invisible imps delivered flowers to her throughout the week with flattering notes. She became obsessed with discovering who her ”secret admirer“ was—even though I told her there was no such person. My explanations only made her more indignant. Without Sarah‘s assistance I was lured in and deceived by a songstress named Tamara Malvagio. She performed at the Palazzo Modo, a club outside of town….

  “Modo?!” Will asked Bartimaeus. “Just like Cassian Modo? Could it be the same family?”

  “Family! Ha.” Gamaliel lifted his great head. “There is no ‘Modo family’—only the horde of minor demons and the possessed who go by the name of their master: AsMOdeus. Modo.” The old man held his stare.

  Will nervously returned to the book, searching for more answers. Was there a way to stop Modo? Could Cassian be Asmodeus, even though all the world could see him?

  “Now this is pretty interesting.” Bartimaeus pointed to the lower portion of the opposite page. Will’s eyes followed Bart’s finger.

  Confronting the beast was no easy task. Tamara led me to a villa on the outskirts of Rome, on the Old Appian Way, occupied by a high-ranking SS officer. Brothers Charles and Gamaliel were already embedded there as undercover servants. They had discerned weeks earlier that this place was a den of evil activity and possibly the home base of Asmodeus. Beneath the home were the ruins of a pagan temple where ritual sacrifices and other black arts were common. I might have been killed that night had it not been for dear Gamaliel. When I entered the party, two Nazis struck me on the head and dragged me down to the pagan temple. Upon awakening, a hideous thing—a creature with three heads and a withered leg with lethal talons—approached me. Among the twenty or so people in the room was Gamaliel. Unbeknownst to me, he had devised an incense that, when burned, incapacitated and stunned the demon. By the time I awoke, Bro
ther Charles had broken the chains that held me captive and incense filled the chamber. Without Charles and Gamaliel‘s incense, I might have never survived, nor defeated the beast. It took time and was truly a communal effort….

  “Abbot Gamaliel?” Will looked over to the shriveled man seated along the wall. “Was this you? Do you remember how to make that incense? How to defeat this demon?”

  “I told you I trained with your great-grandfather.” He brushed his hands atop his legs and stood. “Now I suppose you’ll want my incense recipe.”

  * * *

  Nightfall plunged the main corridor of the north tower of Peniel into near darkness. From the courtyard, Baldwin barged into the hallway, heaving. He flattened himself against the nearest wall and made sure the passage was empty before he moved again. Shards of moonlight glinted off the heavy sledgehammer he lugged to the end of the hallway. Baldwin stood silently before the pink sarcophagus, the one Will and Bartimaeus had used to reach Monte Cassino. Sweat glistened off his forehead as he scanned the casket. Then in a fit of anger, he dropped the hammer to the floor and turned to leave. In the middle of the hallway he balled his hands into fists and struck his stomach in anguish. “No, no, no,” he moaned, muttering, as if arguing with some unseen figure. A sharp pain in the palm of his hand forced him to hold it up to the moonlight. A nasty purple gash appeared where the witch of Wormwood had cut him weeks earlier. The edges of the cut held a touch of green and stung horribly.