by Неизвестный
His preference for a temporary location fell on San Francisco, where he had many friends and acquaintances. By April 1963, he was in residence there. He was given little by way of duties in the parish where he was staying, and spent most of his time in the open air.
But his compassion and his professional interests were aroused when Lila Wood, one of his acquaintances, talked to him at length one day about Jamsie Z., whom she had recently met at the broadcasting studio where she worked, and who not only seemed deeply troubled, but was more or less politely shunned by everybody.
Mark asked Lila many questions, until she had given him a fairly detailed picture of Jamsie's odd behavior. Even from this secondhand description, Mark was pretty certain that in Jamsie he was probably up against a case of a “familiar.”
What distressed Mark most in his own first long discussion with Jamsie was his strong impression that, short either of a miracle or of Exorcism, Jamsie Z. was on the high road either to complete possession by his insistent “familiar” or to suicide as the easiest way of ridding himself once and for all of his misery. Mark knew the symptoms. And, more importantly, he had acquired over the years an instinct for the crisis point of “familiar” possession. The instinct was like that developed by painters for color and hue and chromatic intensity. That instinct could not be taught, but could only be learned by experience.
The person harassed by the “familiar's” advances, in the extreme stages of that harassment and just before the final outcome, generally begins to have dim perceptions of some more potent figure or force, as a greater shadow thrown by the lesser “familiar” or that which follows on the “familiar.”
After Jamsie Z.'s unmistakable experience at the reservoir, Mark knew several things: there was no doubt in his mind that Ponto was totally real; there was no doubt that he, Mark, would be making a fatal mistake to be put off by the bizarre and often unbelievable predicament of Jamsie, or to dismiss his rages and antics as “psycho” behavior; and there was no doubt that Jamsie had reached the critical point.
The exorcism involving Jamsie Z. and Uncle Ponto lacked much of the violent, scatological, and pornographic elements that accompany other types and cases of possession. The struggle was at a different level, involved a different genre of spirit, and concerned a possession whose intensity was achieved over most of a lifetime.
Mark had come to know by experience that the degree of intelligence and knowledge that generally seems to characterize “familiars” is very low, sometimes approaching the level of half-witted children. “Familiars” seem to have only a small quantum of factual knowledge and very little power of foresight or anticipation. They appear to be bound by cast-iron rules and to be in strict dependence on a “higher” intelligence about which they talk frequently and to which Ponto, for example, had to have recourse at every crisis.
The “familiar” gives the impression of a weak mirror reflection, so to speak, of a greater one. So great seems this dependence of the “familiar” that it never directly engages the exorcist.
This attribute of the “familiar” spirit in particular complicated Mark's efforts. It meant he was working by proxy, or on a secondhand basis. Jamsie was the only one able to hear and see Uncle Ponto, and Jamsie had to verbalize it all for Mark. Ponto could hear and see Mark, but it was only when Ponto's “superior” took over that Mark was dealing directly with the evil spirit.
In excerpting Jamsie Z.'s exorcism, the choice fell primarily on those exchanges that bring out two points: first, the process of Jamsie's possession, and second, the extremely complex relationships implied by this kind of possession-Ponto's relationship as the “familiar” to Jamsie as the possessed, on the one hand, and the relationship of both Jamsie and Ponto to the “superior” spirit, on the other hand.
Mark's past experience of possession by “familiar” spirits had taught him one principal difference between the exorcism of a “familiar” and that of the other kinds of evil spirit. Other types of possessed find themselves almost completely bereft of their freedom. They are saved solely by an influx of grace, channeled through the ministrations of the exorcist. But the victim of the “familiar” spirit is quasi-possessed by the “familiar,” until he gives final consent to the “familiar” and to a “sharing” of himself. Even then, the loss of control over one's inner self does not appear so deep that contact with the exorcist is to all intents and purposes impossible for him, as it often is in other types of possession where the evil spirit “hides” behind the identity of the victim and responds instead of the victim. In this type of possession, it is almost as though the “superior” spirit “hides” behind the “familiar” instead.
Being relatively free, then, and not out of contact with the exorcist, the victim of the “familiar” must be active in his own exorcism. He, in fact, must be the final source of his own liberation by accepting the healing and salvation from God. And, in this sense, the exorcee in such a case is the one who enables the exorcist to complete his work.
Mark spent quite a lot of time explaining to Jamsie this peculiarity of his forthcoming exorcism, Jamsie, like many others, had never reflected on his freedom. Free will was just a vague and abstract term for him. It took Mark a good deal of explaining to get Jamsie to understand that he had to exercise an option. This was the basic option of free will. Mark could only indicate to Jamsie when he should make a tremendous effort of will. Only Mark would be in a position to know the precise moment at which Jamsie could most effectively make that choice.
A peculiarity of this exorcism had to do with a ploy of Ponto's that had the same mischievous quality about it as many of the antics that had worn Jamsie down so much. The exorcism could be performed only after the sun went down. In fact, it was not always possible to start immediately at sundown; Ponto might not respond or appear for quite a while. And it was not possible to continue the exorcism after sunrise. This was not considered by Mark to be characteristic of this type of possession-just a mark of malice on the part of Uncle Ponto and his “superior.” The night held terrors for Jamsie from which he was free during the daytime. That was a plus for Ponto and his “superior.”
On the other hand, during daylight hours, Mark had ample time to consult the psychiatrist who had dealt with Jamsie. He also had Jamsie thoroughly checked by a doctor of his own choosing.
The psychiatrist remained in his unwavering conclusion that Jamsie was not suffering from anything like paranoia or schizophrenia. And finally during the exorcism itself Mark found that the Uncle Ponto. Jamsie saw and heard informed him accurately about things which Jamsie could neither have known nor guessed.
Each session of the exorcism took place in a basement room of the rectory where there was virtually no probability of interruption by the outside world. Jamsie sat on a kitchen chair at a table except for the last portion of the exorcism. The assistants were four in number: a younger priest Mark had pressed into his service, two young friends of his who worked in a law firm together, and a local doctor whose judgment Mark felt he could trust.
Jamsie's exorcism lasted over five days.
Mark always began each session with the Salve Regina, a prayer to the Virgin, and he ended with the Anima Christi, a prayer to Jesus. Only in the last two sessions were there any violent objections channeled through Jamsie to these prayers.
The first three sessions of the exorcism were full of irrelevant discourses by Uncle Ponto (all put into words by Jamsie). Mark bided his time and was certain he could afford to wait. He knew that sooner or later Uncle Ponto would break down and his “superior” would have to intervene.
This is what happened in the fourth session.
The time was 4:15 A.M., just an hour before sunrise. Mark had started the fourth session a little after midnight. He had pounded Ponto with questions through Jamsie for four hours, but Ponto had dodged them with prattling and nonsense.
At this late moment in the session, Mark saw Jamsie straighten up in the chair and look to one side. To Mark it was
obvious: Jamsie was seeing more than Ponto now. This was the first flaw, the first sign of weakness, the first indication Ponto's “superior” might be coming to his aid. Maybe Mark's pounding with questions had not been so wide of the mark after all.
Mark's mind raced back over his most recent questions and hammerings at Uncle Ponto. He could think of only one thing that might have evoked Uncle Ponto's “superior.” In answer to a spate of nonsensical remarks on Ponto's part, Mark had said in tones of utter disdain: “We have now come to the end of your intelligence. You have no more defense and no more explanations why this human soul should become 'familiarized' by you. You are repeating yourself. You are a nothing and worse than a nothing compared to the power of Jesus. In his name I tell you: you have to go forth and leave this person and go back to the one who sent you. You and he are defeated by Jesus.”
“It's the Shadow, Father,” Jamsie was staring, almost transfixed. The eyes of the pathetic young prostitute of nearly 30 years before, staring at the man in the shadows at the foot of her bed, seemed to stare for a moment from Jamsie's face, so similar was the look.
Mark went on inexorably. “You are completely at the mercy of Jesus, you and all associated with you. Jamsie, however, is protected. You have no greater one, no one to make up for your stupidity.”
He glanced at Jamsie: “What is it, Jamsie? Tell me! Quick!”
Mark was afraid Jamsie would be stilled by fright, or by some power Ponto held over him, or—as had happened in other such cases—that Jamsie would fall unconscious before he could clue Mark in.
“He's talking rubbish, Father,” Jamsie answered with difficulty.
Jamsie began to draw short breaths, as if breathing was now difficult for him. Then he started to cringe and draw into himself. His hands went to his neck as if to support his head. His face turned red. The doctor looked at Mark but made no move yet. The two young assistants stirred, ready to jump to Jamsie's aid. Mark quieted them with a gesture, then went on.
“We think Jamsie had better die with the blessing of the Church than live on in such a condition.”
“No! No!” It was Jamsie, repeating for Mark what Ponto said, but with great difficulty. “I cannot fail. I must have my home. They will not allow that Person. . .” Jamsie broke off and started to gag and choke.
Mark went on. “We think Jesus, the Lord of all things, is coming to expel you, you puny and filthy being, expel you and send you back defenseless and stupid where you came from. Jesus cannot be opposed.”
Mark stopped. Jamsie's eyes had closed. His hands fell to his sides in a helpless gesture. He started to slither from the chair to the floor.
“Quick!” Mark said to the assistants. “Get him on to the cot.”
As he slipped off the chair, Jamsie's body lodged between the chair and the table, resting not quite entirely on the floor. His fists were clenched and held tightly to his neck, his head was sunk on his chest, his shoulders hunched, his knees bent, his toes splayed out straight and rigid. He was a twisted mass of hard angles and awkward curves. At first, the assistants and Mark thought Jamsie had merely got jammed at a difficult angle between the chair and the table. But after a moment's effort and examination, they realized that they could not budge his body. It was heavier than anything they could move. They shifted the chair and table away. Jamsie fell heavily to the ground as if drawn by an invisible magnet. Throughout all this his eyes were open and staring sightlessly.
Perspiring and helpless, the assistants looked up at Mark.
He held up the crucifix and in a loud voice said: “I command you, Ponto, I command you in the name of Jesus! Let go of this creature of God. Cease to pin him to the ground. Let go, I command you!”
Jamsie's body suddenly loosened. His head lolled to one side, his eyes turned upward until only the whites showed, his hands unclenched, and his arms rolled to his sides lifelessly.
Quickly the assistants picked him up and laid him on the cot.
“Tie him down,” said Mark. Then to the doctor: “Take a look, Tom. Just make sure, will you?”
The doctor checked Jamsie's pulse and looked at Mark forebodingly. “Take it easy, Mark. He's very low. I have no means of knowing how low without more thorough checking. Take it easy.”
Mark nodded. He knew he was close to a break in Ponto's resistance. He motioned to them all to stand back. He took the holy-water flask from the young priest and, raising his hand, faced Jamsie as he lay on the cot.
Mark sprinkled holy water on Jamsie in three deliberate gestures—he looked like a man throwing a grenade each time. And each time he pronounced in quick succession the words of his greatest reproach. He was addressing the “superior.”
“Lurking Coward. Filthy Traitor. Defeated Rebel. Come out from behind your miserable secundo, your toady. Come out. And be shamed once more. Once more be defeated by Jesus. Be thrust into the Pit.”
As his assistants saw him at that moment, Mark had completely changed. Up to this point, he had spoken softly, cautiously, every word and expression coming out of him after a weighty pause. Now he seemed suddenly to be a foot taller. At the same time he seemed coiled up. His face was hard; his mouth barely opened as he spoke; and, on the tape, there is a sudden, unexpected sense of onslaught and fierce hatred and contempt in Mark's voice.
In answer to Mark, there came a slow and very weak moaning from Jamsie. It gradually picked up in speed and volume, growing higher in pitch and deeper in resonance. Jamsie's body shook and vibrated beneath the leather straps holding him to the cot.
“Or are you a secundo of Jesus also?” Mark continued in the same deadly tone. “A real secundo of his triumph? Traitor and Father of Lies, promiser of vain victories? Are you also broken by. . .”
Mark got no further. His gibes had hit home. Through Jamsie's open mouth all present in the room could now hear distant and mincing words, each one peeled out of some acidulous throat, licked by a contemptuous tongue, and thrown in a leisurely and deliberate fashion at their ears like sharp darts of scorn. They all felt that scorn. And they all feared.
“Clot of mud. Little puppy of fucking animals. Talking beast. Praying with one end and excreting with the other. Depending on mercy. Asking for forgiveness. . .”
The contempt was like burning acid to those listening.
“. . . smelling like a dunghill. Rotting into a juicy cadaver. Be silent! Retire! Leave this animal to us, the Most Hi-i-i-i-i-i-i-gh. . .” The one syllable of the last word was strung out in a long note that had a wailing quality of regret. Mark noted it, and took the only way out: attack.
“Declare yourself, in the name of Jesus!” A long pause. Jamsie's face was bloodless, drawn. The young priest was about to say something when that voice spoke again.
“We have never yielded to any power. And we will never. . .”
“Then we will begin the exorcism, the cursing out of you, the expulsion of you and all of you in the name of. . .”
“No-o-o-o-o-!” Again, that long-drawn-out wailing note. The voice had lost its contempt. There was a sudden urgency in it, almost a craven note.
Mark had broken a hole in the attack, he knew, and he jumped in with both feet.
“Your name!” Mark's command came before that long wailing “No” was finished.
“Names are for. . .”
“Your name! By the authority of Jesus' Church, your name, I say!” Mark was not shouting, yet his voice filled every part of the room.
“We are. . .” Again the wailing note, but this time with a growl-like resonance. “We are all of the Kingdom. No man can know the name. We are alllllllll. . .” The “1” echoed and echoed until it finally died away.
“What shall we call you then?” Mark was still insistent. “In Jesus' name, what name will you obey? In Jesus' name, what name will you obey?”
“Multus-a-um. Magus-a-um. Gross-grosser-grossesste. Seventy times. Seventy-seven Legion. All. . .”
“Multus? Shall you obey this name, in the name of. . .”
Mark was interrupted by Jamsie. He was suddenly awake, his eyes wide open and bloodshot, his body pushing against the straps, his legs kicking.
“Sit on his legs,” Mark said. The two assistants did so.
“UNCLE PONTO! UNCLE PONTO!” Jamsie was screaming at the top of his voice with a desperation that froze them all. “UNCLE PONTO! DON'T GO. IF YOU GO, WHAT WILL THEY DO TO ME? UNCLE PONTO! UNCLE PONTO!”
Mark drew back and thought quickly.
Jamsie continued blabbering incoherently. Then, in a lower tone, as if wearied by his recent efforts: “Yes. . . thought you were after my. . . no, please. . . don't do that and. . . night. . . radio with Jay Beedem. . .”
Mark was thinking. He turned away. The others could see his face cloaked over in a withdrawn look. For a few seconds he seemed to be elsewhere, to be totally abstracted from the situation. Then he rounded unexpectedly like a whiplash, his voice rising in anger.
“Multus! Multus! Answer us in the name of Jesus. Answer! Answer! By dismissing Ponto! Answer!” Mark waited for a moment. Then he repeated his command. ~-~
“Answer! By dismissing Ponto! Answer!”
Jamsie's eyes clouded over, his head fell back, his body went limp. Mark had his answer. He knew: to all intents and purposes Ponto was gone; he was now dealing directly with Ponto's “superior.” Mark's aim now was clearly to get all the information he could from that “superior,” to find out in particular as much as he could about the tangled lines of the attempted possession of Jamsie and thus clear the way for a successful expulsion of the evil spirit. Multus, like all evil spirits, could not stand the light of truth.
The doctor pried open one of Jamsie's eyes, felt his pulse, and nodded slowly, warningly to Mark.
Mark fired out a series of questions.
“When did you start working on Jamsie?”
“He was chosen before he was born.”
“When did he know you were after him?”
“He knew long before he knew he knew.”