The Kingdom

by J. R. Mabry

  “What do you think, Jag-meister? Do we go in?”

  “You’re not here to make yourself comfortable. You’re here to find Mikael.”

  Dylan was confused. “I don’t think the adult Mikael is here.”

  “No.” Jaguar swished his tail. “But the young Mikael is.”

  “Ah can’t just leave him here like this,” Dylan said.

  “If you do, he’ll be here forever,” Jaguar said, raising a back leg and licking at his privates.

  Dylan nodded and, like a ghost, walked through the door. The bedroom was no improvement on the rest of the house. A full-size mattress lay on the floor, with a wad of bedding to one side.

  On the other side of the mattress was the little boy Mikael, unconscious, his head to one side, with a mat of blood visible on the back of his head.

  Crouching over him, his grandmother rocked back and forth, tears streaming down her face as she cried out, “Oh Jesus, Oh my Jesus, come into this child and cast out the willful spirits of evil that cause him to disobey his nana! Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, come, Jesus…” And she shuddered and covered his body with her own, apparently attempting to breathe the Holy Spirit into the child with her own wet and sloppy jowls.

  Without another second of hesitation, Dylan knelt and picked up the child, apparently unnoticed by the old woman, who remained poised over an empty spot on the mattress.

  Adjusting his grip on the boy, Dylan nodded to Jaguar. “Lead on, O Kinky Turtle,” he said, humming “Lead On, O King Eternal” as they exited the hovel.

  51

  Richard returned to a house awash in funereal spirit. Kat was inconsolable over her brother’s death—or, rather, the death of his body, which, Richard thought, pretty much amounted to the same thing. There was, after all, no way of getting her brother’s spirit back with no body to put it in. No, he was gone, and Richard’s heart went out to Kat as she wept in the chapel. He sat next to her and put a tentative arm around her shoulder. The tentativeness faded quickly as she curled up and clung to his chest, wetting the front of his cassock with her tears. He held her tightly to him and stroked her hair, saying nothing, not knowing what to say. As with Mr. Kim, it seemed enough to simply be there.

  As he held her, Richard was amazed at the quantity and magnitude of grief surrounding him on all sides. The very world was grieving, and in the magnified world of the friary the grief was even greater. It seemed to him as if he were watching it at a distance—almost like a movie. He was able to bear it because the grief was not his—but he knew that wasn’t true. He loved both Mikael and Toby, and they were both gone. He marveled then at his own detachment, as if he were watching himself from afar, from outside his body. And in that moment, it was the lack of emotion he felt that was grievous to him. He desperately needed to sob the way Kat was doing now. He wanted to feel his feelings, to connect with the sadness that was, now more than ever, the common lot of humanity. He wanted, he realized, to feel connected to others. At this realization, he hugged Kat even closer and buried his face in her hair. It was not enough, he knew. He wanted more, and more intimate contact than Kat could provide. The urgency of his need rose up in him with the suddenness of a tide. It scared him.

  Just then, Susan appeared in the door leading to the kitchen, a mug of what Richard guessed to be hot chocolate in one fist, a yellow Post-it note stuck to a finger on her other hand. She hesitated upon seeing them, huddled in the dark, rocking back and forth slowly. Richard met her eyes and smiled at her encouragingly.

  He patted the back of the chair on the other side of Kat, and hesitantly Susan took it, leaning into Kat and nuzzling her as she let out a deep and sympathetic breath.

  After a few minutes like that, Susan straightened up and passed the Post-it to Richard. In the sanctuary lamp he could just make it out: Spiritual Direction tomorrow, 10 a.m. Mother Maggie says, ‘Be there or you’re a Cathar.’ Richard smiled an annoyed smile. Damn Susan and Dylan, making good on their threat to get him an appointment ASAP. But he wasn’t angry. It was probably, he realized, a good thing. His mind wandered back to the note. The Cathar leaders were called perfects, weren’t they? About as far removed from how he felt about himself as he could possibly imagine.

  They sat in the dark, huddled together in a pile for a long and timeless space. In the distance, the boom boom boom of Brian’s drumming brought a feeling of primal majesty to the chapel. Richard watched the play of light upon the patchwork Jesus, the leaping flames bringing his features to life, making them appear to move in a kaleidoscopic, swirling pattern that reminded Richard of windowpane acid.

  Behind them the front door opened, and Terry walked in. He paused a moment to let his eyes adjust and then walked toward the others. In the flicker of the candle, Richard could see concern, confusion, and weariness on Terry’s face. He sat down next to Susan and laid his head on her shoulder. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Randall died,” she whispered.

  Richard expected another jag of sobs from Kat when she heard that, but she seemed to be cried out.

  Terry reached over Susan and touched Kat on the arm. He didn’t say anything else, though. He had just spent two hours comforting those who had lost other loved ones, and he was exhausted. A touch of sympathy was all he could give, and, fortunately, it was all that was required.

  The drum filled the air with sacredness despite the grief and fear. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Richard was startled when it did. It had been comforting, like a mother’s heartbeat or the wheels of a train. He had taken it for granted, and when it was gone it was as if something lovely and holy had been sucked out of the world.

  “Dylan must be back,” Susan said.

  “Let’s hope Mikael is, too,” Terry added.

  Richard did not have a good feeling about it, but he held his tongue and pulled Kat’s hair back from her face. “You okay?” he asked gently. “We’re going to go see about Mikael.”

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded. “I’m coming with you,” she said, uncurling her legs to get to her feet.

  Like a mournful medieval procession, they made their way past the foyer, through the living room, and began to climb the wide front stairway.

  Richard brought up the rear and paused on the last step as Terry poked his head into Mikael’s room. Soon they were all crowded around the doorway, watching as Dylan, kneeling over Mikael’s body, cupped his hands and blew into his mouth. He did it again, mumbling prayers only heard by himself, his power animal, and the Divine.

  Then he sat back on his haunches and discovered he had an audience. “Well?” asked Brian, rubbing his wrist. “Tell me I didn’t just aggravate my carpal tunnel for nothing.”

  “We were able to retrieve a significant chunk of Mikael’s soul, split off when he was a kid,” Dylan said, his voice cracked with exhaustion. “But no, we didn’t find him-him.”

  The small amount of hope in the room deflated like a knifed basketball. Richard put his hand on Kat’s arm, wondering how much more she could take.

  When she spoke, though, it was with such strength and clarity that he was taken aback. “That’s it? You’re just giving up?”

  Dylan sighed, and Richard could hear him carefully control his annoyance, buffering it with compassion despite how little he had left to give. “No, Darlin’, Ah’m not givin’ up. But Ah am gonna go ta bed. T’marra Ah’ll give it another try.”

  She lowered her head. Dylan had gently put her in her place, and if she resented it, she made no show of it. Without another word, Dylan rose and made his way to the bathroom. “Goin’ ta bed, now,” he called down the hall.

  “More cocoa,” Susan said, and slipped down the front stairs.

  “Ready for bed, Baby?” Terry sidled up to where Brian was seated and pressed his belly against his partner’s face. Brian pressed back into the belly and nodded. “Ass-thoo-fud,” came Brian’s muffled voice.

  “Huh?” asked Richard.

  “Cats to feed,” Terry translated.

  Richar
d was impressed but said nothing. Kat sat down on the bed beside Mikael and stroked his wild black hair. Terry touched her on the shoulder. “You going to be okay sleeping here?”

  She nodded and lay down, spooning against Mikael’s unconscious form. Wordlessly, the three men filed out of the room and down to the kitchen, where Susan was poised over the stove.

  “Someone has to call the coroner,” she said to them, not looking up.

  “Can’t we do that in the morning?” Brian asked.

  “I don’t know; aren’t there laws about these things?” Richard asked.

  “I’ll do it,” Susan said. “I’ll just call the police and tell them we can wait until morning if they can. Their call. If they want to come tonight, I’ll let them in. I’m a little wired tonight anyway.”

  Terry kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Sweetie,” he said and, holding Brian’s hand, led him out the back door to their cottage.

  When she and Richard were alone, Susan offered, “Chocolate?”

  “Nah. I need to get some air.”

  “Where are you going?” she said, a little concerned.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, but it was a lie.

  52

  As he often did, Dane had ordered his driver to pull up near a playground. He knew it would probably be too late to see any of the children, but there was something about such places that soothed him. He would often come here to watch the little ones. He loved to “read” them, to discern what kind of homes they lived in, which of them had mommies and daddies worthy of them. In other words, he liked to see which of them was suffering the most.

  Then he would fantasize about liberating them. How he would do it, what it would look like, feel like, how it would smell. He often got so swept up in his fantasies that he lost track of time. Sometimes the fantasies were enough, and he went away satisfied. Sometimes, they were merely antecedent pleasures leading up to that glorious time when he, their savior, would deliver to them their salvation.

  Happily for him, it often turned out that the children who were most abused were those with the least amount of supervision. Some of them simply gave him their hands and walked with him directly to his car. They were, he knew, the ones who needed him most. He loved them more than any of the others because they came willingly, offering their worship with a glad heart.

  Tonight, however, there were no children at the playground. It was late, and then there was the disappearance of the dogs, which no doubt contributed to the lack of teenagers—a playground’s normal nocturnal residents.

  He would have to come back soon, though. Perhaps tomorrow. He would need another child, and this one would be special. A sacrifice to end all sacrifices—the giving of a single life for the salvation of many. But there were no likely candidates at this park, on this evening.

  He stewed in what was, after all, a petty disappointment. He reminded himself that there would be other opportunities, other children, other days of reckoning. Soon, he promised himself, soon.

  Just then, the vibration of his cell phone interrupted his musings. He flipped it open and pressed it to his ear.

  “Dane,” he said curtly. The speaker was talking too fast—he could barely understand him. “Slow down, I can’t…oh, it’s you, Larch. I’m glad you called—very nicely done with the dogs, sir. You are to be congratulated. So now we know it can be done for a living creature of that size—”

  Larch was screaming at him now. Dane squeezed his eyes closed and struggled to maintain his composure. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if your man is in a coma. You knew that would happen…What? No, you idiots are the demon experts; you find a way to reverse it or prevent it. That’s not my job. My job is money. And power. And I have both, and you will not forget it. You work for me—” He held the phone away from his ear until Larch had finished his rant. “Larch, you will speak to me calmly and respectfully, or a hit squad of demons will teach you how to show such respect. Am I clear?”

  The phone was silent as Larch apparently considered his words. “Beat up? What do you mean you were beat up?” Dane asked, amused by the notion. “What, all of you? Baseball bats and chains? How did they… You didn’t have to open the door for them, you numbskull.” With a lighter spirit, Dane listened to the rest of the story of the lodge’s assault, more delighted at the surprising turn than concerned.

  “Look, only one of you is in the hospital, so consider yourself lucky. No, Larch, there you are wrong. One of you will carry the final package. This is what we have all been working toward. Yes, well, you have your agenda, and I have mine. A deal is a deal, sir. Tough. You don’t have to do the ritual yourself—this is one of the perks of leadership—you get to delegate the dangerous work to the plebes…just pick someone competent. You can knock yourselves out trying to fix them later.” Dane listened to Larch’s feeble protestations and finally, irritably, interrupted him. “Tomorrow night at midnight. I will be there with the package. And you will be there to make sure your magickian goes through with it. You’ve done good work for me so far, Larch. If you want to live to see your precious revolution, don’t blow it.”

  He snapped the phone shut and breathed a long, irritated breath. He tapped on the glass, and his demon driver turned and showed him his fangs. “Where to, sir?” the creature said, with perfect British diction.

  “I need to unwind, Clive. Take me to the usual place.”

  53

  It was Richard’s favorite kind of sex—anonymous and sweaty. He wasn’t feeling picky that night. His partner was an annoyingly nelly bear he had found at the Jizz Factory bar—not usually his type, but Richard wasn’t really paying attention. Worry invaded his mind, and he wondered whether Dylan would have better luck in his next attempt to find Mikael’s spirit. A pang of regret mixed with guilt shot through him, a frustration that he met with renewed violence in the thrust of his hips.

  “Oh God, yeah!” squealed the bear, who, Richard was mildly horrified to note, was sucking his thumb between verbal outbursts.

  His mind wandered to Kat, and he felt his heart move within him. He had done everything he could, hadn’t he? What had he missed? What might they have done that would have avoided his death? And now, for her to face the prospect that Mikael might never wake from his coma—it was too much to ask of anyone. Richard simply didn’t know how to comfort her. I barely know how to comfort myself, he thought.

  Banging the bear with hard, relentless strokes, Richard wondered momentarily at how outrageously packed the Jizz Factory was that evening. Of course it would be busy tonight. It made perfect sense—the grief experienced by the largely childless gay community would far outweigh that of the straight, where pets were accorded their “normal” station in life. For many of Richard’s gay and lesbian friends, though, their pets were their lives—their children. And here was the evidence—half the gay population of Berkeley converging in one place to bang their butts out—literally—to deal with their grief. Just like me, Richard thought, and the flash of empathy, insight, and solidarity caught him momentarily off balance. It made him feel vulnerable, which was no surprise, lately, but it was also oddly, comfortingly, human.

  He simply could not believe that the eradication of the canine species had been Dane’s ultimate objective—or the lodge’s, for that matter. It had to be another experiment. Start with something small, an avocado, then try something bigger, a dog. But in preparation for what? What was the ultimate target of Dane and his clueless magickal employees?

  Richard was still mystified as to Larch’s antipathy for God—presumably, a dislike shared by his lodge as well. This was not unusual—many people go into the occult because of a negative reaction to the religious abuse they had suffered at the hands of so-called Christian conservatives. But Richard could not understand how making fruit or pets disappear could possibly undermine the Kingdom of Heaven. Then again, he didn’t know what they were going to try next—and he shuddered at the thought.

  “That was cool, do that again!” shouted the bea
r.

  “Do what again?” asked Richard, not slowing down.

  “That shaking thing with your body—it was niiiice.”

  Just then Richard felt himself pushing over the edge. He ground himself into the bear’s guts as a shock of white lightning lit up his brain. Richard panted and pushed and cried out loud until the spasms slowed.

  Catching the end of the condom in one hand to hold it in place, Richard pulled out before he got too soft. “Thanks, man, that was great.” He kissed the bear on the cheek and turned away toward the showers.

  Turning the knob of his combination lock, he fairly radiated relief, noting the almost complete lack of tension in his limbs. He was just pulling his T-shirt over his head when he heard a voice that froze him in his tracks.

  “You’re too cute. Does your bigness match your cuteness?” Richard paused to be sure, but there was no doubt. It was Alan Dane’s voice, using the exact same line he had used when Richard had met him so many months before in this very place.

  Holding his breath, Richard leaned against the lockers, listening. Quietly, he made his way to the end of the row of lockers and peeked around to the next row. He drew back quickly. Dane had been standing in front of an open locker, facing away from him, toward the showers, flirting with a guy several lockers down.

  Richard listened to his own heart nearly beat through his chest as he waited. After what seemed like an eternity, Dane shut his locker and snapped a combination lock into a hole in the handle. Richard heard the click as it locked and continued to listen as Dane’s voice slowly diminished with distance.

  Richard’s mind raced. There was no way Dane would leave the Ring of Solomon at home—especially after being burgled by the friars. He had to have it on him. It was also doubtful whether he would wear it into the baths—too easy to lose it—even easier to have it stolen with a dozen anonymous hands pawing at you.