by J. R. Mabry
Susan had the presence of mind to stay put and ask for the room number. The woman scrawled it on the paper, and Susan snatched it from her hand and willed her ample frame to catch up to Richard and Terry before the elevator arrived.
While they waited, Richard took charge. “Everyone got cell phones?” Terry nodded, but Susan shook her head. “Terry, stay here, and watch the lobby in case we miss them.”
“Check, boss.” Terry stepped back just as the elevator arrived, and Richard and Susan stepped on.
“2107,” she told him. He hit the button for the third floor and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet.
“Easy, boy. We’re going to find him.”
He ignored her and continued to bounce until the door chimed and opened onto a nondescript hospital corridor.
They stepped out of the elevator and oriented themselves. “This way,” Susan said, pointing at the red sign affixed to the wall at the corner, indicating room numbers.
No one stopped them—indeed, they hardly saw any staff as they jogged toward the room. Richard was breathing heavily as they crossed the threshold. He tugged at the privacy curtain and visibly relaxed as he saw the unconscious man in the bed.
“He’s fine, Dicky,” Susan said, putting a hand on his arm. “You stay here with him—I’m going to the nurses’ station to get the release.”
Richard nodded and watched her walk out of the room. He closed his eyes and slumped in the chair. In seconds, all of the accumulated stress of the day rose in his throat until he choked up. I really need a good cry, he thought, but he knew this was not the time or place. Instead, he ran his fingers through his hair and breathed deeply several times, willing himself to be present with his body, feeling the aching in his feet, the pressure in his head. He felt the panic drain out of him so vividly that he would have sworn that a pool was collecting on the floor.
After a few minutes, he was able to redirect his focus and take in the room around him. Alameda Hospital was clean, but older than many hospitals he had visited, and its age was reflected in the shabbiness of its rooms.
This wouldn’t be a place where he would want to spend any significant time. At least Randall is unconscious, he thought. Or the angel, reminding himself who the current occupant was. He stared at the body, its chest silently rising and falling, an occasional tic twitching a cheek or an eyelid. Funny, he thought, he doesn’t look much like Kat. Sure, his hair was black like hers, but that’s where the resemblance stopped. Still, that’s the way it was with some siblings.
Just then, Susan’s voice rose above the quiet humming of the room’s monitors. It was hard to fluster Susan, so he was instantly concerned. He rose and followed her voice to the nurses’ station.
“Problem?” Richard asked her, approaching the counter at her side.
“They just changed shifts,” Susan said, holding her forehead in both hands, “and the last shift didn’t tell them we were coming.”
“They didn’t write anything down?” Richard inquired.
The corpulent African-American woman seated behind the counter narrowed her eyes at him without deigning to answer. She exuded an air of arrogant superiority that would not suffer these fools or any others.
“Did you show her the letter?” Richard asked.
“Of course I showed her the letter.”
The nurse cocked an eyebrow as if to say, “I am sitting right here,” and then turned back to her computer screen.
“So, no problem. Call Kat, and have her explain it again.”
Susan nodded and grabbed Richard’s phone from his outstretched hand. Content that Susan had things under control again, Richard wandered back to the room where the chair was calling to his aching feet like an orthopedic siren.
It wasn’t until he sat down again and allowed himself a relieved moan that he was seized once again by panic. The bed was empty.
29
Mikael awoke, sick and disoriented. His head felt thick and woolly, and no sooner had he gained consciousness than the contents of his stomach chose that very moment to seek release.
That was when he noticed that his wrists were bound, as well as his ankles. Unable to turn his body, he whipped his head around as far as it would go and heaved. He grimaced as the vomit ran down his cheek. He could see the steam rising from it, his first clue as to the cold that surrounded him.
As soon as his throat was clear, he began a more careful survey of his environment. It appeared to be a stone room—Perhaps a cellar? he thought, seeing tiny tendrils of roots worming their way through where the ceiling and walls met. He was lying on something not soft but not stone, either. He decided it was probably an old mattress thrown on the floor. Iron rings affixed to the wall at his feet provided security for the ropes that held him there, and he assumed that a mated pair held his hands.
To his right, the room extended a good eight to ten feet. Yellow light flickered and guttered at the whims of the draft, throwing unruly shadows on the ceiling.
Not long after coming to, Mikael found himself fading in and out of consciousness. The sleep was a relief, but it was not restful sleep.
After a couple of hours of on-again, off-again lucidity, he came to, but the quality of it was different.
The thick-headedness was gone, and in its place, a chilly numinousity that seemed to crackle with the dancing candle flame. Then Mikael noticed that his perspective was different. Instead of staring up from the mattress, he was staring down from above.
He smiled as he saw himself. Handsome fucker, he thought, and he watched his mouth smile in response. He saw his spiky jet-black hairdo, his piercings, the scar to the left of his chin left over from childhood when he had driven his tricycle off the roof.
He was surprised that the overwhelming emotion he felt was not criticism, as it usually was when he looked in the mirror, but compassion, even pity. He saw not a rebellious fuckup but a noble man in unfortunate circumstances. Instead of fear, he felt a calm assurance. He heard Julian of Norwich’s words as if whispered to him out of the void, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and every manner of thing shall be well.”
He relaxed even further and enjoyed the floating sensation. Just then, a squeak and a thud broke the stillness, and a door he had not previously noticed opened onto a darkened hall.
With calm disinterest, Mikael watched a man enter the room and close the door behind him. A bolt slid into place, and the man turned toward Mikael’s body resting peacefully on the mattress.
From his vantage point on the ceiling, Mikael could not see the man’s features, but he found he just didn’t care that much who it was. Even in his detached state, his own lack of curiosity seemed odd to him, but he did not dwell on it. Instead, he turned his attention back to the man, now leaning over the Mikael body, now stooping to wipe the vomit from his cheek. Then Mikael realized the man was speaking. He paid closer attention to the words, which slowly became intelligible.
“Sick. There, that’s better. I’m really very sorry for all this unpleasantness. I’m not at all sure what to do with you.”
A nag of recognition pulled at Mikael. He knew that voice, but from where? He beamed beatifically at the top of the stranger’s head, wishing nothing but peace for him.
The man grabbed a blanket from a pile in a dark corner and spread it out over Mikael’s body. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
The man sighed and squatted beside the unconscious friar. His thumb worried at the ring on his right hand, and Mikael suddenly knew who it was that was tucking him in—Dane the Younger.
“I wish you would wake up—I have so much I want to ask you!” Dane sat back on his haunches and seemed to consider. Then, apparently thinking aloud, he said, “But maybe I can still ask…what if you’re not sick, but plagued? Hmm…” He rose and paced the room’s meager distance.
He stopped and raised his right hand, which sported a large red jewel set into his ring. “I hold this dread ring, and I command its power. I do not wish to use i
t, but I will if I must. Therefore, if there be any demon associated with this man’s condition, I command it to appear to me now, or face your doom!”
Dispassionately, Mikael watched the air ripple, and as if projected on the wall, the image of a dragon appeared. The dragon coiled and resolved into the visage of a man, half-beautiful, half-scarred and deformed.
“Who dares summon me?” It was an odd voice. Mikael knew that under normal circumstances he would be terrified, but he felt oddly comforted as if he were watching the whole scene on television from the safety of the friars’ couch.
“Noble demon, welcome. I bid you come—and behave yourself. Let no harm come to me or to this man, lest harm befall you through the power of this ring.”
“You speak well…yet you are no magickian.” The infernal Duke eyed him suspiciously. “How came you by such power?”
“I will ask the questions here, demon. What misfortune befell this man? And how are you involved?”
Mikael marveled to hear the demon’s description of the magickal working wrought by the Lodge of the Hawk and Serpent. Apparently, Dane found it equally fascinating, as a look of wonder and barely restrained excitement flashed across his upturned face. He grinned broadly and asked the demon more pointed questions about the location of the lodge and the identity of its members.
Amazingly, the demon spoke not with contempt but with patience and respect. Whatever power Dane wielded, it commanded more respect than Mikael thought it possible to summon, especially when it came to demons.
Dane thanked the demon and dismissed him. Mikael watched as the face faded and the serpentine coils of the dragon slithered off the sides of the wall as if absorbed by the corners of the room.
Dane paced excitedly, barely containing his joy. He even did a little hop before turning. “Well, Mr. Monk, it seems you may have led me to my deepest desire. What to do with you now? Prudence dictates that I kill you, I suppose. But you see, I’m not an ingrate, nor am I a murderer. I’m a savior. I know, I know, it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference.”
Mikael could only see the top of his head, but he imagined the man smiling with sad compassion as he said this. Mikael gave him a similar expression, that must have been reflected on his physical face.
“What is this look?” Dane asked, almost laughing. “Are you waking up? No…maybe not.” He pulled a syringe out of his pocket and tested it, sending a golden stream into the air for a brief second. “Well, this can wait, then, I suppose.” He set the needle down out of reach of Mikael’s body.
“Still, you are kind of cute, you know. And so long as you are unconscious…” Dane began to rub at himself. He lay down on the stone floor beside Mikael’s body and undid his own belt. Lifting his hips, he slid his pants down and pulled at his penis until it stiffened. As the candle danced, he allowed himself a small moan of pleasure.
From his vantage point on the ceiling, Mikael had no interest in the man’s erection, nor did he feel any revulsion or disdain. Nor did he feel any when Dane swung around on his knees, and climbed up on the mattress. He planted his knees near Mikael’s head and shuddered visibly as he felt the stubble on Mikael’s cheek graze the sensitive skin of his scrotum. Again and again, he rocked himself over the unconscious man’s head, feeling the ecstasy of the prickly and scratchy beard against his balls.
Mikael watched the scene feeling an overwhelming compassion for the man. The friar did not see what happened next, for his attention was diverted. Above him, a hole seemed to have formed where the stones had been, an ectoplasmic whirlpool that sucked at Mikael’s consciousness like an undertow. At the center of it, he saw a child—a little girl dressed in what appeared to be a long, olive-colored dress. She looked frightened and uncertain, and stared straight into what would have been Mikael’s eyes had he been using physical senses. Moved by compassion, he held out his hand to the little girl and moved toward her into the eye of the vortex. He did not panic as he was drawn up into it, nor was he reassured that all would be well.
30
Kat put the few things that she considered “hers” into a laundry basket and carried it to Mikael’s room. She placed the basket on the bed and sat down beside it. She tried to muster the energy to unpack it, but instead she just sighed and looked around her, seeing little.
The room was small. At one time it had been a veranda—perfect for sleeping out of doors on hot, muggy nights. But such nights were rare in foggy North Berkeley, and at some point in the house’s long history, the veranda had been enclosed. The result was a long, funky room with more windows than wall space.
The room was not wide enough for anything but a single bed. Kat smoothed the covers, imagining what it would be like to try to sleep in it with Mikael. It would be crowded, she knew. No, it would be cozy, she thought.
And at that, her face crumpled, and she heaved a sob so fierce she fell to the comforter and buried her face. She sobbed for Mikael, whom she barely knew, but who had already snagged at her heart. She sobbed for her brother, for his stupidity, for what he had done to himself, to that poor angel, and maybe to others as well.
After a while, the wave of grief passed, and she gulped at the cool, good air like a drowning man. Her mind went blank for a brief moment, and she enjoyed the sensation of simply breathing.
She looked around for something to blow her nose on. She didn’t see any Kleenex boxes—did she really expect to, in the cell of a punk-rock-musician-cum-friar?
Then her eyes lit upon the little altar set up by the window farthest from the door, by the foot of the bed.
Atop a short bookcase, a scarlet altar cloth had been draped. On it the stub of a candle stood, unlit but obviously much used, if the melted wax at its base was any indication. Directly behind the candle was a Byzantine icon of Christ Pantocrator, his right hand held up in a mudra of absolution and blessing.
“Fat lot of good you’re doing,” she said to the icon. “You’ve got a lot of people around here who really love you, you know. Although I’ll be damned if I can figure out why, because you sure as hell don’t seem to be doing anything for them.”
The face of the icon stared at her with eyes that radiated compassion and judgment at once, a disturbing gaze that was hard to focus on for very long.
“Stop looking at me like that, goddammit,” Kat raised her voice at the icon, but the eyes did not look away. They bored straight into her soul, and it scared her.
“Look, I’ll make a deal with you, okay?” The icon’s eyes did not blink. “I’ve never met people like this before. I’ve always just assumed that the people who followed you were self-deceived assholes. And, I know, the folks who live here can be assholes, too, but it’s different when someone can actually say, ‘Hey, I fucked up,’ or ‘I was really being an asshole,’ you know, and these people can do that. They might be hypocrites, but at least they’re not pretending they’re not hypocrites, and that really means something. At least it does to me.”
She couldn’t tell if the icon was smiling or not. There was a slight curve to its left lip that reminded her of Elvis, an ambiguous expression that seemed to change depending on one’s own mental state.
“You save Mikael and my brother,” she said, haltingly, “and I’ll follow you. Like the friars do here. Hell, I’ll join them.”
The words hung in the air as if a reverb chamber were keeping them afloat. She was surprised by the surreality of the notion. I’m a fucking witch, she thought. There’s no way they would have me. There’s no way he would have me. She looked at the icon again, and she knew that it wasn’t true. What was it that was written above the giant icon in the chapel? This man eats with fuckups and sinners. No, he would not turn even a witch away. She wouldn’t have known that three days ago, but she did now.
“I’ll join this fucking order,” she said, just to hear it again.
“You don’t have to do that,” a soft voice came from the doorway. Brian stuck his head in and smiled at her, his close-shaved head bobbing at an odd angle du
e to the hump on his back. He also limped a little when he walked, and he dragged his left foot into the doorway with the rest of him. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t eavesdropping, really. I came to see if you needed any help.” He laid a small bundle on the bed beside her. “Fresh linens.”
She was relieved to see him, and scooted over on the bed, an unspoken invitation to join her.
“What do you mean, I don’t have to do it?”
“You don’t have to make bargains with God.”
Her lip trembled as she fought back another wave of tears. Brian reached out and put his hand on top of hers.
“I’m just so…so scared. For Randy and Mikael.”
“I know,” Brian said, “And good old Yeshua over there knows it, too.” He pointed at the icon. “And it’s very tempting to want to exert any kind of control we can when we feel like we have so little. But God isn’t going to intercede just to trap you into making some commitment to him. God already has you.”
“But I’m a witch!”
“And I’m a Jew! So what?” His eyes softened as he looked at her. “God doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your religious affiliation, or how you like to worship, or in what form you imagine the Divine. God isn’t going to help us because we’re on ‘the right team,’ whatever the hell that means, but because we’re trying to do the right thing. And God is going to do that, with or without your signing any loyalty oaths—especially those that you might regret later.”
She looked at him, and then away at the icon, and then back to Brian. “I just feel so…”
“I know…helpless. I feel that a lot myself. Especially when I know Terry is up against something nasty. But that’s a time for faith, not bargaining. Listen, do you know the story of Jephthah’s daughter?”
“No,” she said, wiping her nose on the back of her hand.
Brian noticed and pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket. He handed it to her. “It’s from the scriptures of my people. Jephthah was a general in the Hebrew army, and it looked like they were going to be wiped out. So, he made a deal with God. If God would let the Jews win, Jephthah would sacrifice the first living being he saw upon returning to his house.”