Her head tilted. "What about the other part?"
"Oh, yes, the part about planets," Marcelle said as he cupped his chin for a moment, apparently confused. "I'm sorry, but for some reason I can't remember the other part." Then he nodded, convinced. "Ah, yes, now I remember. It was about Venus and Saturn." A laugh. "Such, an old wives' tale. But they are all old wives' tales, you know."
"But you don't have it right." Amy leaned slightly forward. "It was about Mars."
"Mars?" Marcelle looked crestfallen, feigning disappointment in his inability to remember something so simple. "Mars is it? Are you certain? I, ah ... perhaps I'm getting too old for these games." He stared away, studious. "I was certain that it was Venus and Saturn."
"No." She shook her head solidly. "It was Saturn and Mars." She leaned even farther forward. "It was like ... like something about Saturn and Mars and the water of the moon!" At the words she seemed pleased, as if she'd defeated the priest in a word game.
"Hmm." Marcelle frowned. "You know, now that you say it, my dear, I think you may be right." He made a circular gesture in the air, amazed at his sudden recall. "Yes, yes, something about all of them being together, all in a line, or something like that."
She stared at him, nodded more easily.
A pause, and Marcelle suddenly released a deep breath, slapping both hands on his knees. "Well, Amy, I guess we should forget all those questions I was going to ask. I seem to be forgetting everything today." He smiled. "Why don't you just enjoy your day? I shan't trouble you anymore."
He rose with a kindly nod and turned, taking a single step.
"But what about the man?" Amy asked after him and Marcelle hesitated, gazing back patiently. She was suddenly and openly frightened. "Will he try to hurt me again?"
Marcelle did not move but his aspect changed, solidifying and strengthening. "We will never let him hurt you, Amy," he said.
"Well ... did I help you?"
Marcelle smiled benevolently.
"Yes, child," he said. "More than enough."
***
The priest leaned on a rail, smoking his habitual cigarette, when Soloman emerged a few minutes later. He waited in silence as Marcelle expelled a slow breath, and clearly read the severe hardness of his face.
Knew the priest had discovered something unsettling.
There was another long breath and Marcelle sniffed, frowning as his cigarette spiraled purest white in the early morning light. A lengthy space grew between them.
"So," Soloman said finally, "what was all that about, Marcelle?"
"About a dark and disbelieved god who lives," the priest replied, glancing at the sun. "About one whose name means 'Who is like God upon the Earth.' And before whom the world once trembled." He grimaced. "It was about one who, for a while in these last years of my life, I ceased to believe was an actual force in this old, cursed world of ours."
Still for a moment, Soloman cast a slight glance to ensure they were alone and unheard. "Look, Marcelle, just tell me what the hell we're dealing with. I'm tired of games, tired of riddles, tired of spells and things that go bump in the night. I want to know exactly what we're up against."
"You already have your suspicions."
Soloman stepped closer. "I want to know what you're thinking."
With a bitter gaze the priest continued, "Cain was correct, Soloman. We do not know him. I know more than almost any other and yet I know nothing at all, really. It is a mystery, in the end."
"Try and explain."
Marcelle seemed to settle. Not physically, but with an invisible, internal gravity that made him somehow more substantial. A solemn certainty creased the lines of his face.
"It is the oldest theme of man," he said slowly, "and the most mysterious. Shakespeare approached it again and again and never managed to reveal more than a dim reflection. Milton strongly challenged it and failed to lift it above the level of a romantic ideal. Yet it is a fear that inhabits the deepest instinct of man – a concept that has dominated literature and art for six centuries." He gestured. "Theramo wrote of it in ‘Belial.’ Sprenger and Institoris approached it in the epic ‘Malleu Malefi-carum.’" He blew out a slow stream. "’Doomsday’ by Alexanderus, ‘La battaglia celeste tra Michele e Ludjero’ by Alfano, ‘El Adversae’ by Rolf of Alexandria. It has always been an obsession of man to understand what place ... he ... once held in this universe."
Soloman knew, but he asked the question anyway. "What are you talking about?"
The priest was steady. "I speak of Satan, Colonel."
As it was said, Soloman heard himself deny it. "That's impossible." He shook his head. "Satan is just a mythological concept. I mean, there might be such a thing as supernatural evil—I tend to believe that there is—but you're talking about the Devil."
"Oh, I'm speaking about far more than 'the Devil,'" Marcelle replied evenly. "I'm speaking of a cosmic being so powerful, and so deceived by his own great fierceness, that he threatened to tread underfoot the Throne of God. I'm speaking of a celestial entity that was once the greatest heavenly force, and even dared to wage war with the Creator of the Universe. Yes, Colonel, a being that makes the blackest of all human sin seem as nothing when measured against the purity of his evil."
Soloman wasn't sure how to receive it. He tried to contain his shock and amazement. "Look, Marcelle," he began, "I believe that a man is more than a bunch of electrical neurons but I'm not sure if I can believe in what theologians call 'Satan.'"
"But is there anything else that would more appropriately define this adversary?" Marcelle waited patiently, almost challenging; Soloman didn't reply. "Do you not remember what Cain spoke of in the museum, Colonel?" he continued. "Did he not reveal himself? And the elements of this spell hold the purest satanic characteristics."
"Yeah, I remember what Cain said in the museum," Soloman conceded. "I'm just not sure what it means. Or what all this means about the moon and planets. I agree that it sounds like some kind of Black Magic but that could just be superstition. Some of it could have some substance – I don’t know. But I don't know that it does, either. There's no way to know whether any of this is real."
Marcelle spoke with certainty. "Black Magic, or superstition as you term it, has endured so many centuries because there is something true and real at the heart of it. And, if it will ease your mind, I have learned that belief in a supremely evil, supernatural being that wars with God is a dominant theme among all the world's people and religions. Everyone, it seems, tends to believe in Satan even though they may not believe in God. But, then, as Milton demonstrated, the Devil is more interesting."
Soloman glanced behind himself; yeah, good, they were alone, though he knew they could switch to German or French if someone approached. He turned back with a whisper: "Marcelle, if anybody knew we were talking about this, they'd lock us up."
"And yet this theme dominates the earliest sacred writings of man, Colonel. It was held sacred by the Celts, the Druids, and even the Norse-- men. And since the beginning of recorded history it has been explored « by every nation and tribe, submerged within the varying mythologies. Just as it is a dominant theme of the Church. Yes, history alone grants substantial weight and substance to what intelligent men, in their prideful arrogance and ignorance, tend to ridicule. But what the centuries have held to be preeminent must be respected, regardless of our prejudices."
For a while Soloman said nothing. "I don't know if I can agree with you on this, Marcelle. I mean, it's obvious that Cain isn't human. That much is clear. But this is a stretch that I'm not sure I can make. There's not enough evidence. And just to be safe I don't think we should mention it to anyone. We'd lose credibility, and they wouldn't believe us anyway."
Marcelle stared with a faint gleam. "Indulge me for a moment, Soloman," he said finally, "and I will explain my perspective. And you can accept it or not. For you are correct; I have no means of proving anything. Just as you would have no means of disproving. Logic is merely the beginning in the search f
or truth, but logic, forever, will end at faith."
Soloman glanced around. "All right," he said slowly, "but switch to another language if someone approaches us."
They began to stroll along the porch, shoulder to shoulder. "Man's concept of Satan has changed greatly through the ages," Marcelle continued. "And the Enlightenment fundamentally altered the manner in which modern man looks upon him. From Calvin to Luther and the contemplative mystics, to Augustine, Milton—" He waved. "All of them were involved. Even Voltaire and Rousseau, fathers of modern existentialism, influenced our current concept of what is, and always has been, known as Lucifer.
"It was during the sixteenth century, during the last gasp of the Reformation, that the traditional concept of Satan was absorbed by materialism, making ‘evil’ nothing more than a simply opposition to what the majority considered to be ‘good.’ It was simply a dualism of forces that kept the universe in balance.
“Psychologists have a term for it; it is called 'splitting.' In scientific terms, it is the means by which men defensively divide the universe into cohabitating halves; good and evil, harmful and helpful, friendly and unfriendly. And many social mores, if you will, were born from that psychological development. There was the death of the witch craze, the removal of a tyrannical Church, the upheaval of social structures in England and the Continent. And it was an appropriate maturation, I believe; an advance long overdue. But there was also, to our detriment, a distancing from a belief that 'Satan' himself exists, allowing Satan to become little more than an impersonal personification of universal evil, somewhat shuffled off to the realm of mythology like Loki or Set." He paused, grunting at a sudden thought. "But let me ask you a question, Soloman, since you were formerly a manhunter: If you wanted to hide and everyone were hunting you, what would be the wisest course of action?"
Soloman knew it by rote; it was a fundamental procedure of counterintelligence. "If you want to go under and stay under, you make them think you're already dead."
"Exactly," Marcelle nodded. "For if your enemy believes you are already dead, then they will not search so ferociously for you. And what could be a greater victory for a penultimate being who may desire to design the destiny of every life on the Earth? If men believed in Satan, they would fear him. And then they would seek God for protection. But if men did not believe in Satan, then they would not need God or even believe in God. It is as simple as that. If there is no such thing as Satan, then ..." He gestured vaguely.
Malo strolled toward them, patrolling the perimeter, and Marcelle switched effortlessly to French. "Si on ne cherche pas le Diable, pourquoi cherche leDieu? Maintenant, jepense qu'il n'y apersonne qui cherche, lis se sont tons igares."
Closing, Malo cast a vaguely suspicious glance as Soloman switched over. "Oui," he replied, "je connais les mots. 'Le serpent ancien, appele le Diable et Satan, qui seduit tout le monde.'"
"Le meme," Marcelle replied pensively.
Malo passed and Marcelle switched again to English. "Yes, Colonel, it would be the same: Satan, the Devil, who deceives the whole world. As you quoted from Revelations." He paused. "I didn't know you were familiar with the Scriptures."
"I've read them," Soloman said simply. "I don't know what I believe but I've read the bible cover to cover."
"Good." The priest frowned. "No man is intelligent if he cannot speak thoroughly on a book that has changed so much of the world just as they should also know the Koran and the teachings of Buddha or Confucius and the subtlest writings of Nietzsche.”
"But what you said a few moments ago is something I've heard before, Marcelle. It's not a new thought."
"Fundamental truths usually aren't, Colonel," he agreed. "The genius of a great thought – "
"– is measured by its simplicity," Soloman finished, and they fell silent together. Truly, Soloman didn't know what to believe, but the certainty in the priest's tone intimated that there could be something substantial to the theory. In addition, Soloman remembered that Marcelle was a man of science; he was not prone to mysticism.
"I believe," Marcelle said with gravity, "that there are forces in this universe not easily understood. Forces of incredible power. I believe, even, that you may be challenging ... a god."
"Maybe." Soloman allowed bitterly. "Whatever it is, I guess I've challenged it."
Marcelle stopped, leaning on the rail. "I gave up all I had for my faith," he added, suddenly contemplative. "And I've spent too many years forgetting it ... until now. It is a long journey, Soloman. I tell you the truth, from faith to faith – from believing to disbelieving, and believing again. From beginning in darkness to find your way through that labyrinth of lies and deceptions, the intentional misuse of truth. It is a journey that has consumed my entire life and still, sometimes, I perceive that I know little more than when I began."
"No," Soloman said, "you know a lot more, Marcelle. It's just that in the beginning you simply believed, so a prayer was just a prayer. But then you began to question. And, after a little while, a prayer wasn't just a prayer. It was a mystery – questions without answers. But after forty years of answering one question after another you learned that the mystery never ends, so you were back where you began – at faith."
The priest glanced away and seemed to consider the truth of Soloman's words. "Perhaps you're right. But now the circle is complete, I believe. And I do not know if faith will be enough."
"Why's that?"
The priest looked at the sun, frowning.
"Because no one has more faith in God," he said, "than Satan."
***
Soloman was both relieved and pleased when he re-entered the house and saw Amy sitting in front of a big-screen television, watching a video. She had a big bowl of popcorn – s strange meal for so early in the morning. But Soloman expected a lot of leeway would be given in the next few days.
It had been so long since Soloman had seen a movie that it actually distracted him. He stood a moment, staring at the screen. It was amazing how much everything had changed in seven years. All of a sudden he felt seriously old and out of touch.
Wordless, Amy gazed up. She didn't say anything but Soloman suddenly felt the attention. He didn't care to talk about Cain anymore and he knew she didn't either. He pointed vaguely to the screen. "That looks like a pretty good movie."
She looked back at the screen, munching a mouthful of popcorn. "Yes, sir. I've seen it eight times."
"Eight times?" Soloman was genuinely impressed. "You've seen this thing eight times?"
"Yes, sir. Eight times, I think. Maybe more, though. Mommy's out of town a lot so I stay with babysitters and they really don't know what to do with me. I like games, but they usually put in a movie and do their homework. Mommy says that one day she's not going to have to work so much." She paused. "I hope not. I get lonely lots of times."
Soloman wondered about her father, but discretion prevented him from asking. Still, he felt a wave of sincere compassion, knowing what it was like to be alone and lonely. It was something they had in common. "Well," he said, "maybe we could play some games in a little while, Amy. Think you might like that?"
She opened her eyes wider. "Monopoly?"
"Yeah," he smiled, "I'm sure we've got a set around here. If we don't, we can send somebody out to get it." The sweetness of Amy's smile broadened as he gazed into the blue eyes and then he laughed, turning away. "Go ahead and enjoy your movie and I'll see what I can do," he added.
"Thanks, Soloman." She stared after him. "I think it would be fun."
"I do, too." He smiled. "I do, too."
Soloman understood as he moved that they were becoming comfortable with each other, and he enjoyed the feeling, knowing satisfaction for the first time in a long while.
It was an odd sensation for him because he'd reckoned his internal defenses as complete. And as he walked away he wondered vaguely how a small child could begin breaking down something a man had spent seven years building to such cold perfection.
***
Without a glance Malo answered Soloman's oncoming question. "I got Tony and Drake in the front listening posts, fifty yards out. Magic and Milo are in the back. They got all four angles covered. Gray and Hank and Chemo are getting some sleep."
Soloman nodded, poured a cup of coffee. He'd need some sleep himself tonight, he knew – or today. But he'd have to catch it in two-hour catnaps because he was in combat flow and he never truly slept because of the vivid alertness. Usually he would rise before sunrise and count each one, wondering many sunrises he would still enjoy.
Without turning his head Malo spoke. "I was a little messed up last night, Colonel." There was no remorse or apology. "Just wanted to tell you that there was no disrespect intended. I was just angry."
Soloman slapped him on the shoulder as he moved out of the kitchen: "Sorry, Malo. I can't remember a thing you said."
The reassembly halted.
"Colonel?"
Half-turning his head, Soloman hesitated.
"Appreciate it, sir."
A curt nod and Soloman stepped out the back door to reflexively search out and identify two highly concealed single-man listening posts set deep in the surrounding trees. The commandos were masterfully camouflaged but Soloman, from years of training, could perceive the leaf-like ghillie suits prone in the forest floor. He knew that with their phenomenal discipline they could hold that position for days, using patience that would drive a normal man insane.
Maggie, sitting on the porch, looked up with a smile. A cup of coffee was beside her and a book was laid open, the cover not visible. She appeared tired of reading.
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