by Jesse Jordan
“Ah, thank you. Right here, if you will.” Ezra took the dirt without looking at it. “This anti-Antichrist cabal, for instance. Terrifying, right?”
James nodded. They want to kill you.
“Well, maybe not so. What do we know of them? We know they made a concerted effort today to abduct an unguarded, unarmed, unsuspecting sixteen-year-old boy and failed. We know they are a secret society that passes their secrets down with their genes, cousins marrying cousins, half-sisters and half-brothers, like a royal family. And what does that tell us? Inbreeding. Which means they are working against a stacked genetic deck. I would wager a good many of their number are—to put it kindly—unduly challenged in the development of their mental capacities. And finally, I think we can say with certainty that their original goal has been corrupted. You see, the Vatican knows about them. The Vatican is very much like any government, and as such it has intelligence operations—like the CIA, for instance. You run rebels here, you back a dictator there, finance a guerilla war or two, but always while maintaining deniability. The Vatican, as I’ve said, operates in much the same way. Who knows? This cabal could be right. Or this one. Or that one. Support each one at a distance, but keep them close enough to jump on board at a moment’s notice.
“So, the Vatican has been financing them from the beginning, and this anti-Antichrist cabal lives big and fat, and they hunt potential Antichrists. They no longer proselytize or try to convert anyone. If you want my opinion, I think they’ve grown to like their status, their lives. I think 100 percent be damned, they just want to keep the Apocalypse at bay. Or maybe at this point they’re simply acting out of habit. Either way, you’ll be able to navigate them without the slightest problem once you begin to accept and master your gifts. And until then, as I said, we’ll just get you a little protection.
“Spit, please.” Ezra held out the handful of dirt, and James looked at it without moving. “Spit, James.”
James decided—and it happened in that single instant—that he was too tired to question and fight anymore. I believe. And as the decision struck him, it felt as though he descended into a warm bath; his tension broke, and the weight was lessened. James leaned forward and spit in the dirt. The spit was light brown from the cookies and milk. “Sorry.”
“Perfectly alright, James. Again, please.”
James spat twice more at Ezra’s insistence, until the clump was sufficiently muddied.
Ezra pressed his hands together, and the muscles and tendons of his fingers and forearms jumped and flexed as he squeezed harder and harder. Then he released, and in the open palm of his left hand was a tightly packed ball of mud. Ezra kept his hand where it was, bringing his face down to it. He opened his mouth and exhaled onto the mud, which seemed to shudder.
Then he spoke, whispering to it. “Dii-iiink . . . Dii-iiink . . .”
Ezra straightened up and held his hand out so that it was between the two of them. James watched.
The ball of mud . . . shuddered.
James’s first instinct was to back away, but he didn’t. He stood and tightened his fists and told himself not to be scared. However, what he saw next did scare him. It is a singular experience and one experienced by very few in the history of this Earth—James saw the impossible.
The ball of mud shook, was still, and then opened like a flower. But it wasn’t a flower; it was a man. A tiny man made of mud, and as if he’d been lying on his back curled in a ball, he unfolded, his arms and legs unfurling until he lay spread in Ezra’s palm like the Vitruvian Man. Then he did something truly amazing: he stretched. It was such a human gesture, and it reminded James of the way babies stretched when first awoken. The little mud man finished his stretch and sat up, looking around, and when he saw Ezra it was as if his whole body sagged.
“What?” the little man said, and James was amazed at the voice, so loud and clear. “What am I doing here?”
“Hello, Dink,” Ezra said with his customary smile.
“Hurry, Asmodis.” The little man turned fully now, setting his feet and planting his fists firmly on his hips. He looked up at Ezra’s beaming visage. “Spit it out, or I’m gone.”
“Dink, I’m afraid that your singular services are once again needed.”
“No, okay? No. I’m too busy.”
This can’t be real. This isn’t happening.
“Whatever it is this time,” Dink said, “it doesn’t matter. Okay? Just no. Plus, you’re supposed to be looking for the One, but every time I see you, you’re just hanging around and you got some—” The little man froze as he caught James in his periphery.
Oh, crap.
Dink turned to face James, and if possible, his shoulders pulled back farther. “Who am I looking at, Asmodis?”
James’s voice came out weak. “Why does he keep calling you that?”
Ezra chuckled and set Dink on the bed, where he continued to stare up at James. “Don’t worry; that’s just what I’m called in the place where I’m from. And to answer your question,” he said to Dink, drawing the little man’s attention up to him, “this is James Salley.” Ezra paused, clearly enjoying the moment. “He is the One.”
The little mud man’s entire body reacted to these words. His shoulders tightened, and his knees flexed, as if he were preparing to leap at James. But instead, he snapped his ankles together and brought his left fist up to his chest in a single, crisp motion. “Honor,” the little man said. “I am Kesin of the Army of Morning Star, though everyone calls me Dink.” He nodded once.
James immediately knew two things: Dink was a warrior, and things like honor were important to him. He didn’t know how he knew these things, but he was sure that if he didn’t answer honestly and earnestly, then something would forever be missing between them.
“Hello, Dink. I’m James. I’m . . . Ezra, who you call Asmodis—he told me that I’m the One, sort of.” James shifted under Dink’s gaze but didn’t look away. “To be totally honest . . . I’m pretty freaked out right now.”
“The Antichrist hunters have been after him,” Ezra said, a small smile on his face.
Dink looked from James to Ezra and then back again. “I’ll watch over him.”
“You must be ready at all times, Dink.”
“I’ve pledged to watch over him, which means I will,” Dink said without looking at Ezra. “Don’t talk to me like I’m an asshole.”
“As you can see, James, Dink is not the most charming of acquaintances, but he is our most fearsome warrior. He’ll keep you safe. If—”
“Thank you,” James said, jamming it between Ezra’s words. “Thank you, Dink.”
Dink nodded without taking his little, dark eyes from James’s.
“As I was saying, if you need Dink, all you have to do is call him.”
James stood up. He felt a sense of ceremony for which he had no training or natural inclination. James gave a nod to match Dink’s and reached out a hand.
The little man took hold of the tip of James’s middle finger with both hands and shook. “I’ll be ready,” Dink said. Then he looked to Ezra. “I’ll tell the others the time is at hand, Asmodis.” And with that, the life was instantly extinguished from his eyes. The expression went from his face and his small form folded up once more, until again he resembled a small oval of hard dirt, though one packed impossibly tight. Ezra picked it up and handed it to James.
God, it’s so light. It looked so heavy when . . . when it was Dink.
“Keep that with you at all times,” Ezra said. James looked at it, unsure of what he should do now. Eventually he placed it on the top of his bedside table with the same care with which one would lay a child in its cradle. “Soon you will need no such protection. You, James, will be the greatest power this world has ever known.”
Here we go.
But Ezra seemed to read James’s exhaustion and exasperation and did not go on. “I think that’s enough for tonight.”
James looked out his bedroom window to see the red of summer dusk
giving way to the deep-ocean dark blue of night. A breeze blew the trees back and forth, back and forth, and their leaves and branches clicked and swished. It’s all really gonna happen.
“Who’re the others?” James said, turning away from the window.
“Pardon me?”
“Dink said he was gonna tell the others. Who did he mean?”
The instant Ezra smiled, James knew the question wasn’t about to be answered. “It’s a very long story and one that should be told with the time and respect it deserves. Tonight is not the time. You’ve had a long day. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll tell you everything. For now, though, get some sleep.”
Fifteen minutes after Ezra had gone, James remained seated on his bed.
The room was different. No doubt about that. The corners buzzed with energy, as if every inanimate object had been imbued with power and foreboding. It was bigger and smaller all at once. James looked at the dirt on his bedside table. You know what you saw. A part of him felt that he should be frightened by what he’d just seen, should be upset, but what he really felt was relief. Some things are true, and whatever part of your body or soul or brain it is that responds to truth, it recognizes it when it’s near. That part rang out strong and straight as he spoke with Dink, as he looked in the little man’s “eyes.” He’ll protect me.
But beyond that, James was stuck.
The Great Battle. That’s what he said. The One, the Antichrist, the Great Battle. James got up and walked little circles across his room. The Great Battle. The Great Battle? You know this; you know this. Think. James collapsed on the bed with a great, impatient huff. The Antichrist, the Great Battle, Apocalypse, Armageddon. What’s the story? Armageddon, Apocalypse, battle, war, Satan, Great Battle, the Apocalypse, rivers of blood, Moon turns . . . What the hell is the—?
And then it hit him, and James was out of his bed. He left the dirt/homunculus and made his way downstairs to the living room. The image had flashed through his mind only moments before. He saw the small bookcase by the couch, and on it—along with unread copies of A Tale of Two Cities and Moby Dick and Ulysses—was the Bible. As he plucked it from the shelf, he wondered how many times he’d seen it without ever really registering the fact.
Then he was back in his room, stretched out on the bed, lying on his belly, and flipping through the book until he found it.
The Book of Revelation.
James left his light off as night took the room, reading only by the illumination of his desk lamp. He didn’t want Mom coming in when she got home and asking questions about his newfound spiritual curiosity.
The moonless sky battled the streetlights as a few spare birds and bugs called out. James’s room was silent otherwise, save for the occasional sound of a flimsy page being flipped. The book was hard to read, and often James had to go back and read passages two and three times.
As far as James could make out, the story was told by John. He knew John was one of the apostles.29 It said that Jesus appeared to him—like an angel or something, so this was obviously after Jesus was dead—and he showed John a vision of the end of the world.
The way James read it, there was a scroll that Jesus took, and he opened the seven seals on the scroll, and each time he opened one, a different thing happened. Opening some of the first ones released the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He knew about the four horsemen because Duane Duncan had done a report on them last year in history class.30 The first horseman rides a white horse and gets a crown, and James thought he remembered that he was supposed to represent plague or something. The second horseman rides a red horse and takes peace from the Earth, so he represents war. Then the third horseman comes riding a black horse and carrying scales, and James was pretty sure he was famine. Finally, the last horseman arrives. He rides a pale horse—not a white one, but a kind of sickly green/eggshell sort of thing—and he brings death.
So Jesus keeps opening the seals, and there are earthquakes and stuff, and James figured it was about to all go kablooey, but when Jesus opens the seventh seal it just brings out seven angels blowing trumpets, and then the same sort of thing happens again. But when these angels blow their trumpets, everything goes to epic shit. The sky and the oceans and the trees and everything—it all just dies. Locusts swarm the world, and an army begins a slaughter like nothing ever seen before. Humans into the auger. And then Satan arrives. There are dragons—multiple dragons—fighting alongside Satan, and there’s a war, but it’s really vague as to what happens.
Then there’re these bowls. James began to feel lost at this point. There are angels, and they’re holding bowls—seven of them—and they’re pouring them out, which makes even more terrible things happen. Water turns to blood, and the sun burns the land, and everything is total darkness. Preparations are made for the Great Battle—preparations are made for the Great Battle—the Final Battle. But then Babylon—Babylon? Where’s Babylon? Are we supposed to go to Babylon? Are we Babylon?—is destroyed and everybody praises God, and there’s no battle . . . It’s already over. The Beast and the False Prophet are thrown into the Lake of Fire, and Satan is imprisoned. But wait, Satan breaks free, so they start the war again—but no, it’s over. Just like that. Satan is cast into the Lake of Fire. Everyone is judged, and Earth becomes heaven. New heaven.
James finished the Book of Revelation and flipped right back to the beginning. So John is alone on this island, and Jesus appears to him, and then John writes seven letters to seven churches . . .
James went on like that deep into the night, trying to chip away the two-thousand-year divide to get at the ideas within. He read the book over and over, and each time he saw in his mind’s eye as the Lamb laid waste to the Beast and the Dragon. Is that all? James had trouble arranging his main concern into a coherent thought, but what it boiled down to was this: Had he been chosen only to be the Washington Generals?
And though he’d wondered earlier in the night if he’d be able to sleep with the dirt corpse of Dink next to him, even while he contemplated the Whore of Babylon and the Dragon from the Sea, his body finally revolted. The day had simply been too long, the strain too much. Unbidden, James’s eyes closed and he slumped against the Bible and slept like a dead man.
26. Killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed killed
27. Frank Herbert b.1920, d.1986.
28. Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear: “I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”
29 John, Mark, Luke, Paul, Judas . . . that’s it. James could think of five apostles.
30 And even though it was by far the coolest report that anyone had done, Ms. Adderley (who also teaches world history) made him do a different report because she said that the four horsemen were not historical figures. Duane’s mom got really pissed, and she got a bunch of other holy-rolling parents on board, and they made a big thing about the school being anti-Christian and keeping God out and religious persecution. In the end, the administration made Ms. Adderley pass it. She gave him a C–.
7. A Brief History of Fighting
It was still dark when James woke. He couldn’t remember his dream, only a sense of pressure and panic. The flat, digital clock on his dresser read 4:13. There was no reason to be up, but James knew there would be no returning to sleep. He lay in bed, his eyes open and his body bristling. The only illumination was a shadow of red from the clock and the edges of the streetlight.
He looked to his right, where he could just barely make out the small ball of dirt. Dink. A dog began to bark, off in the night, at least a couple blocks away, and something about the bark reached James like a bat’s sonar screams, and all at once he was aware of the distance between the dog and himself, and of the world outside altogether. In his mi
nd he could see it, deserted, just before the town wakes up, and the impulse took hold of him.
James swung his feet off the bed, and a few moments later, he’d pulled on a pair of shorts. Without turning on the light, he grabbed a hoodie and stuffed his feet into his gym shoes. He paused for an instant before sliding the small ball of dirt into his pocket, and then he was out, in the hallway and tiptoeing down the stairs. He unlocked the back door, and as he stepped outside, it felt as if he were stepping out of his own skin. The air was cool, and the night had a liquid purple hue that was unfamiliar to him.
He went to the garage and noiselessly removed his bike, walking it down the drive. He was at a trot by the bottom, jumping on and pumping the pedals all in one motion. The way was flat, and though James could’ve coasted, his legs wanted to work. Every thirty seconds or so, he stood for a few rotations just to get more torque. The wind in his face felt five degrees cooler, and in the dark, each quiet house was a private bedroom.
James rode in the opposite direction of school, taking Jackson Street west to Gilmore Street. He didn’t know where he was going, but the ride didn’t feel directionless. At each intersection, he felt a strong pull one way or the other.
Once, when he was younger, James had seen an empty boat come untied on the Chicago River when his family was visiting the city. It was one of those tourist boats, a sky-blue-and-white dart of a boat, and as the men on the shores screamed at each other and ran across the bridges, the boat just floated down the river, unconcerned. James didn’t know why the image came to his mind just then, but it tightened the knot in his stomach.
On Gilmore Street he became aware of the overgrown trees and abandoned train tracks. This was the small, two-track offshoot that ran to and from the ChocoMalt factory.31 It used to carry train cars loaded with malt powder and malted chocolate balls and nuts and bars, and now it just lay there like an outgrown child’s toy in the backyard. The grass was weeds. And in another minute, he cleared the line of trees and the old factory sat before him like God’s tank. Football fields of red brick laid on their sides and stacked and filled with so many broken windows—more than you’d ever want to count. Row after row after row. Even on the upper floors, flung rocks had found the brittle glass and blasted it. This mass of forced openness—of uncovered should-be windows—felt almost indecent, like an open fly.