by Неизвестный
“How did you gain entry to him?”
“He wanted it. Those who might have taught him otherwise, we corrupted. But he chose to be entered. Only one opposed us.”
“Who?”
“He never knew him.”
“Who?”
“His father's father. He was given that role by. . .” The voice wailed away in the same regretful note of sorrow.
“By whom?” Mark insisted. No answer.
“By whom?” Mark repeated the question, and added: “Or shall I tell you by whom?”
“By that Person who is beyond notice by us. By the Claimer of all adoration. By the one who never received and will never receive our adoration. . .”
“Did you make Jamsie see the 'funny-lookin' face'?”
“No. His protector. We would never frighten him away. We are more powerful than that. It was his protector trying to warn him.”
Now the tone had changed. A new truculence had entered it. Mark heard it and whitened. He had presumed too much. The voice continued gratingly. It was as if the owner of that voice saw Mark's discomfiture. A hail of sharp questions rained down on his ears, and his mind started to boggle under the weight of the images they evoked.
“Do you think you have escaped us, Mushroom-Souper? Do you think that one of these filthy whores didn't change you? How many times have you lusted after them? Remember the Harlem house and the seventeen-year-old? Remember when she shoved her pussy at you and you saw the black hair glistening on those tawny thighs? Remember your hard-on? Ha! Ha! Priest! You fucking priest! You little burning cock! Ha! Ha! Your prayers were of no avail then. And your Virgin with her lily-white conception was of no avail. Or did you remember to tie the rosary around it and hold it down? Remember! Remember? Remember your wet dreams? We do. So we do. And you do! Don't you think a bit of you belongs already to us? Prieeeeeeeeeest!”
Mark was beaten temporarily. He staggered back. And then he saw Jamsie: both eyes open, his mouth split in a wide, full-toothed grin. He was listening and laughing. Mark got the message. Ponto and his “superior” were leaving. The young priest tapped Mark on the shoulder and pointed to the window. Thin pencils of sunlight were pointing in from the outside. Another bright and hot day had started.
Mark heaved a sigh. Another half hour, he thought, and he would have nailed down the “superior.” “Okay. Let's wrap it up for now, until tonight.” He had recovered his nonchalance. “We meet at 10:00 P.M. sharp. Get some rest. Tonight's the night.”
Then they did what they had done each day before this. Mark recited the Anima Christi, Afterward, he went upstairs and said his Mass. The four assistants took turns watching over Jamsie. In an hour or so after that, he woke up with no memory of what had happened the previous night.
On the last night of the exorcism Mark had a plan to precipitate events if Ponto delayed very long in coming. He had a trump card up his sleeve. There was a certain risk in playing that card; and in what he proposed to do he was incurring dangers on himself as well as on Jamsie.
But the alternative was almost as stark and forbidding. Jamsie was getting progressively weaker in his resolution to undergo the rite of Exorcism, to resist, to survive. He could collapse completely at any moment. He could, indeed, fall into a comatose state as a prelude to an early death—Mark had known such cases—or he could emerge in a state of complete shock. In either condition, Jamsie would be inaccessible. And Mark himself would be left forever with a nagging doubt about Jamsie's fate. There would be no way of knowing if he had become one of the perfectly possessed, immune to any touch of therapy, isolated from any saving intervention, trussed, mummified, and locked away safely by the evil power that possessed him perfectly. Or if he had gone insane in a strictly psychological sense of the word. In any such condition it would be impossible to know how much he perceived of the other world, or if he could pray and exercise his belief and thus cooperate with God's grace for ultimate salvation.
Mark fervently wished to avoid the dubious and dangerous character of such an ending to the case of Jamsie Z.
Mark's trump card lay in a fact that had emerged during his routine inquiries about Jamsie and his general background.
Jamsie had been baptized at home by his grandmother over the kitchen sink. He had been born in a very weakened condition. The attending doctor had despaired of his survival, and his very pious Armenian grandmother had baptized him, because she feared the priest would be too late. From what Mark could find out, there was a reasonable doubt that Jamsie's baptism had been valid.
Jamsie's grandmother had known very little English and she certainly did not know the words of baptism in English. It was she who had poured water over his baby head. But, it appeared, the Irish midwife who was helping Lydia, Jamsie's mother, in the childbirth, had pronounced the words of Baptism.
If this were so, then the Baptism had indeed been invalid. The same person who pours the water must pronounce the words. Otherwise, no Baptism of that kind is valid. The baby is not baptized, has not become a Christian.
To create even further doubt, the parish priest, who had finally arrived much later, never bothered to correct the doubt and baptize Jamsie provisionally. Such “conditional baptism” is usually conferred in such cases. But, for whatever reason, apparently this had not been done.
Now Mark proposed to baptize Jamsie. Instinctively, as an exorcist, Mark knew that the “rejection” of Evil Spirit implied in Baptism of an adult was something a mere “familiar” could not handle. The “superior” would have to intervene in a new way in order to protect the common interest of “familiar” and “superior” alike.
And then it was Mark's object to attack the peculiar bond between the “superior” spirit and its “familiar” spirit. That much done, Mark would no longer have to deal secondhand; he would have the “superior” in the open-not temporarily as in the previous sessions, but as the “responsible party,” so to speak. From then on Mark could handle things as in a more “normal” exorcism.
Having spent, therefore, one hour waiting for Ponto to come, Mark had Jamsie lie down on the cot, where the assistants strapped him securely. He now proceeded with the Baptism, Jamsie answering all the queries which are put to an adult person about to be baptized, reciting the Creed and making other professions of faith.
This went on for a short while in relative calm, until Jamsie broke off in the middle of a sentence. His voice changed, and he said quickly to Mark: “He's coming back. He's in a terrible state.”
Uncle Ponto was obviously with Jamsie. Mark's plan had worked that far. He arid his assistants listened to one end (Jamsie's) of a bizarre conversation and tried to guess what was said at the other end (Uncle Ponto's).
“I will not have you in my life.” Jamsie was looking over to the door of the room. He was silent for a few seconds. Then he spoke in a waspish tone. “What happens on Jupiter and what I could do with much money—a million bucks—is all hogwash. I want to be left. . .”
Now Jamsie was looking at the ceiling, now at the window, now over toward the door again. “That won't help at. . .” His face flushed with anger. “But why should I be afraid to die? Others have had to go.”
Mark and the others continued to listen in silence. Evidently Ponto was in a bad state.
Jamsie broke in: “Mark says Jesus said you're a goddamn liar and. . .” Interrupted, Jamsie looked over in the corner and scowled. “I'll talk about what I damn well please, and listen. . .”
Then something happened of an abrupt and quite unexpected nature. Jamsie's eyes grew larger, the whites of the eyes shone. His face seemed to cave in, to lose some substantive strength. He shrank back on the couch, into himself.
Mark was by his side in an instant and laid his hand in Jamsie's. It was a prearranged signal between the two of them. Jamsie had time to press Mark's fingers lightly, then he started weeping and sobbing.
“It's no use.” His fingers let go of Mark's hand. “It's no use. I'm finished. He's back. They're all back.”
Mark took the crucifix and started immediately. When he did, Jamsie seemed to go to sleep suddenly, his jaw sagging, spittle running down his chin.
“Multus!”
“Mushroom-Souper!” The words were pronounced with a velvet smoothness, but icy cold.
“Multus! Answer us. It is you and no one else?”
“Mushroom-Souper, you ludicrous little pigmy. We have our mark on you. All this hocus-pocus will not keep you or him that belongs. . .”
“Multus! Answer us!” Mark had the spirit where he wanted it. “Jamsie's 'familiar' is Ponto. Why do you say he belongs to you? Who are 'us' then?”
“You smelly ones walk around in bodies of slime and mud and muck. You say one, two, three, four hundred, seven million, a trillion. Ha! Ha-Ha!”
“Multus! Is Uncle Ponto you? Are you Uncle Ponto?” “We are spirits. There is no one, two, three, four, hundred, seven million, a trillion. We are kinds and species. We are spirits! Powers. Dominations. Centers. Minds. Wills. Forces. Desires.”
“Answer in the name of the Church. Answer the questions of Jesus' authority. Are you Uncle Ponto?”
“Yes! Ha! Ha! No! Ha! Ha!” The laughter froze the blood in the listeners' veins. It was a rollicking sneer of contempt, no fun in it, no humor. Then: “Ponto is us without the intelligence of the Claimant.” There was a trap ready to spring on Mark. But Mark knew better than to ask who the Claimant was. Claimant, Master, Prince, Leader—it all came down to one being: the supreme intelligence of evil which had led and which leads all intelligences in revolt against the truth of God. Mark never felt in all his life that he wanted a direct tussle with that personage. Deep instinct of his own limitations held him back from such a step.
Instead, Mark pursued his urgent quest of uncovering the relationship between Uncle Ponto and the Shadow. “But Uncle Ponto uses his own intelligence on his own account.”
“Never.” The definitiveness of that word hit them all. “Ponto's intelligence is subordinate to you.” “Always.” The answer was a stony blow. Imperious. Curt. “And Ponto's will?”
“Those who accepted, those who accept the Claimant, have his will. Only his will. Only the will. Only the will. The will of the Kingdom. The will of the will of the will of the will of the will. . .” The voice faded down from a curt, domineering tone to a sniveling, breathed whisper and died away. Mark detected the sudden influx of fear in it. The young assistant priest also caught that note of fear, and, in a kind of victory yell, he leaned forward with a sudden ebullience: “Hit them hard, Mark!”
Mark rounded on him, his eyes blazing. “Shut your mouth!” “That is right!” came the mincing tone. “That is exactly right! But our quarrel is with you, Priest! We have years to deal with this little virgin and to show. . .”
Mark broke in. “You will speak when questioned. Only then. And you will tell us in the name of Jesus,” Mark thundered, his annoyance with the young priest's mistake filling his voice and channeled at the spirit, “you will tell us: Jay Beedem, has he consented to your power?”
There was complete silence. Only Jamsie's breathing could be heard. Mark had never met Beedem, but he figured oddly in Jamsie's story, and Mark's nose caught a strange scent there, even from a distance. He needed to know if there was an essential connection Beedem had with Ponto or with his “superior” that affected Jamsie.
“Jay Beedem,” insisted Mark. “You will tell us when. . .”
“No.” It was summary and definitive. “We will not tell you anything, Priest.” Silence again.
. “By the authority of the Church and in the name of Jesus, you. . .”
“That Church and that Person have no authority over Jay Beedem. He is ours. Ours. Ours. Ours. The Kingdom. Ours.”
Mark drew a deep breath. This was not new for him, but it always gave him a sinking feeling to find out that someone was protected by summary evil, protected even from the touch of grace. He knew better than to pursue the subject. Once before, about ten years before, he had tried. And the onslaught that ensued had interrupted the exorcism (which someone else had to start all over again and finish), and left Mark literally dumb and deaf for about five weeks. Something vital had almost died in Mark that time. He had challenged Evil Spirit on its own secure ground.
He switched to another tack. “Your funny-looking face: what was the purpose of that?”
“The funny-looking face was not our doing. We do not frighten those we prospect.”
“What result was effected by showing Jamsie that face?”
“By it, his protector wished to acquaint him with the face all take on who belong to us. . .”
“Was it this,” Mark interrupted almost involuntarily, “that stopped Jamsie at the reservoir? That face?” There was no immediate answer.
Mark got the faintest hint of something strange happening to the others in the room. He glanced quizzically at his young priest; his face was beaded with perspiration. Mark paused.
Then all four assistants flung their hands to their ears, their faces screwed up in expressions of pain.
“Mark, for the love of God, get them to stop that whistling!” the doctor was shouting at the top of his voice. “It will stun us.”
He and the other three started to moan in pain; then all four were shouting and screaming, their heads and bodies turning this way and that, backing away from the cot where Mark stood beside Jamsie's inert body.
Mark took a step toward them, but quickly withdrew. He tried again, and again withdrew. Every time he stepped outside a certain invisible circle around the cot, his ears were assailed by the most horrible and deafening hail of high-decibel sound.
As his four assistants writhed and withdrew slowly, they were looking at Mark, imploring help. He made animated gestures to them indicating that they should keep backing away. They did so until finally, within a foot or so of the back wall near the door of the room, all four suddenly stopped writhing in agony. Their faces lost the lines of pain and concentrated effort.
They looked at Mark finally as though across a huge distance filled suddenly with silence and fog. While Mark could see them clearly, he could not hear them at all. On their side, they could only hear Mark and see his lips moving and his hands gesturing in a distorted fashion. It was like looking through frosted glass into a sunlit room; they saw everything, but unclearly.
Rooted to the opposite side of the room with their bodies to the wall, it was through this weird medium that his four assistants saw Mark's final settling of Jamsie's exorcism. It was a shadow play of horrors for them.
They saw Mark's figure turn partially away from them to face Jamsie's body on the cot. They saw Mark lift the crucifix. They saw his lips move and at first heard nothing. Then, as from a great distance and through a low, rumbling noise like a continuous avalanche of pebbles down the side of a mountain, they began to hear his voice.
“. . . shall be as we bid, because it is in the name of Jesus that we bid you answer us. Was it the face that stopped Jamsie from suicide?”
Another voice, the one with the mincing words, broke through in a guttural tone, sharp, decisive, cold, inimical. “Are you interested in that funny-lookin' face, Priest? Would you like to see it yourself?”
“Answer our question,” was Mark's rebuttal to that invitation to be curious. “Answer it!”
“Yes. Ye-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-es.” The voice was grating out the sounds grudgingly. “It was that face. We are always present when inferiors are about to make a killing.”
“So every time you were present, Jamsie's protector endeavored to let him see that face?” There was no answer to this.
Mark went to another point. “Why did you allow Jamsie to see the. . . the. . . the Shadow?” Mark stumbled over that one, and then regained his composure. There had been moments in his own life when he had been about to make some important decision and, he now realized with a little shiver, there had been some sort of shadow present. He had always put it down to something else. But the wisps of memory distu
rbed him now. Those moments had been during his, bouncy, jaunty days, his “scenario” days, when everything had to have a logical and describable cause, and it was all very simple.
“We did not. Notnotnotnotnotnot.” The word was a thump of sorrow and regret and dreadful aching. Mark felt it. He went on, pressing his questions, still holding the crucifix high.
“Why did a common look exist between the Shadow and Uncle Ponto and Jay Beedem and the pimp and many others; why did a common look exist?”
Mark could see a change in Jamsie that his four assistants could not see through the haze that kept them apart. Jamsie was now wide awake, but his eyes were not on Mark. They looked up to his left. Mark was careful to note this, but he kept looking steadily at Jamsie. He repeated his question. He was getting closer.
“Why the common look? Is this another part of your evil stupidity?”
“Beyond our control.” The words came with difficulty. “We also. . . must submit. . . in material things, we. . . also bound. . . Person beneath contempt holds. . . holds. . . holds. . . holds. . .” The voice started to get slurred. “Ho-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-l-l-l-l-l-l-dsdsdsdsdsdsdsdsdsdsds” The voice died away in an angry buzz until there was no more sound.
“Why the common look?” Mark kept staring at Jamsie, looking for any hint or clue in his reactions.
Still pinned to the opposite wall, Mark's assistants were suddenly horror-struck. They shouted and screamed in warning to Mark. He could not hear, but continued to face Jamsie.
At first what they saw seemed vague, a bulky shape, rearing up behind Mark, much like a cat standing crookedly on its hind legs, front paws lifted, claws open and spread-eagled, ears flattened against its head, mouth opened to hiss.
They heard the distorted rumble of Mark's voice as he continued the exorcism. There was nothing they could do but watch and pray.
“What do you place in those human beings so that they get that look?”
And the voice came rasping out in a slow, steady tone: “Obedience to the Kingdom. They give their will. We fill the soul. What's inside peers out willy-nilly. . .”