by J. R. Mabry
Let’s get out of here, pronto. Shall we? Duunel said forcefully.
Richard ignored him and relaxed his body. “Veni Sancte Spiritus,” he prayed, “Come, Holy Spirit…”
Not going there with you, Duunel said. I know I said I wouldn’t allow cocksucking activities, but given the choice…
“Veni Sancte Spiritus…” Richard began to sing. Mother Maggie joined him. Together, their voices blended in the early morning air, until an unseen Presence surrounded them and held them.
Okay, that’s it. Shit, I’m outta here. See you in—how long does this spiritual direction silliness actually last?
“See you in an hour, Duunel,” Richard smiled at Maggie. She winked at him.
With Duunel either absent or dormant—Richard couldn’t tell which—he was able to sink deeper into prayer. After about five minutes of rich, delicious silence, he opened his eyes and saw Maggie smile. It looked like a forced, pained smile, but he put it aside for the moment.
“Tom’s dead,” he said simply.
Her face fell. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “You don’t mean it?”
He nodded gravely. “Last night. Motorcycle accident. Killed instantly. That’s what Gretchen said, anyway.”
“Oh my God,” she repeated. “Oh, Dicky, I’m so, so sorry.”
“I know you met him once—”
“At dinner at the friary. He’s…He was a lovely man.”
“Yes, yes, he was,” Richard agreed. He felt tears begin to burn at his eyes, but he forced them down.
“Are you doing a Requiem Mass for him? I’d like to come.”
“Thank you, but we can’t have a mass. We’ll have a memorial service, but that’s all.”
She cocked her head, thinking this through, and suddenly her eyes got round. “Oh my dear. You can’t have a mass because you have lost your bishop…” The implications came rushing in on her. Her mouth gaped open. “Oh my, Dicky, that means…if you go to fight a demon…”
“We’re powerless, yes,” Richard nodded. “We discovered that last night, much to our horror, and to the extreme discomfort of a man who should have been delivered of a demon today—but isn’t.”
“And you can’t say mass, and you can’t hear confessions, and you can’t…Well, you can’t do any of the sacraments.”
“We’re unplugged,” Richard agreed.
“God help you,” Maggie breathed.
“I don’t see how he can.” Richard shifted uncomfortably. “God gave us this structure—the church—a line of authority, a conduit of power, and it’s broken. It was a gift, and now it’s gone. ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.’”
“Unless…” Maggie held up one gnarled finger.
“Right. Unless we put ourselves under the authority of another bishop.”
Maggie’s face fell. “Oh my dear. That is the last thing you need to be thinking about as you grieve for your friend.”
“I know it. I just have to…compartmentalize. Actually, I’m doing a lot of that these days, what with Duunel in residence.”
“How is that going?”
“He’s the biggest pain in the ass imaginable. It’s like having a hyper-destructive roommate handcuffed to you at all times.”
“I can only imagine.” Maggie nodded thoughtfully.
“So, there are two things before me—dealing with my feelings about Tom…”
“Not easy to do with a demon in your head making fun of you for loving people, I’m sure,” Maggie said compassionately.
“True,” agreed Richard. “And second, I need to find a new bishop.”
“I wish you could find two,” Maggie mumbled, looking at her gnarled hands.
“What was that?” Richard asked.
Maggie smiled. “Oh nothing. Let’s start with Tom, shall we?”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Richard said, “I don’t know where to begin.”
“Well,” said Maggie, “I’m here, you’re here, and Jesus is here. Surely, there’s something that needs to be said.”
Richard nodded his head. “It’s so unfair.”
“That’s my boy!” Maggie slapped at his knee. “Tell us what’s unfair.”
“We do crazy, dangerous things all the time—the order, I mean. We go to fucking battle with demons, for Chrissake. We do it all the time. If one of us got killed, it would be sad, but it wouldn’t be tragic.”
“Why not?”
“Because we went into this knowing the risks, and we are all ready to die for something. We took up our cross; we followed Jesus. And if we die like Jesus, too, in order to help someone, well…it’s not okay, but it’s okay. It’s fair. It’s what we’re called to do.”
Maggie nodded, her face looking like a dried apple in the glow of the candle.
“But Tom…he was an accountant. The most dangerous thing he ever did was ride a motorcycle. There was no meaning in his death. He was going to the store. He didn’t die for anything. He just died…” Richard’s throat clotted up, and tears began to come.
“What do you need to say to Jesus?” Maggie asked.
Richard felt lost. He snatched a tissue from the box beside him and blew his nose. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to pray.”
“Why don’t I pray for you, then?”
Richard nodded and bowed his head. Maggie stretched out her gnarled hands to Heaven and cried out with a clear voice, “Jesus, you son of a bitch! What were you thinking? Have you no heart? What did this poor man Tom ever do to you? He loved you! He lived for you! He was faithful to you! He gave friendship and love and support to Richard and his friends—your servants, your people, these folks who are supposed to be close to your heart! Don’t you care? Are you powerless to save? What kind of God are you? If you don’t save the ones who actually live for you and love you, they’ll say, ‘He’s a weak god!’ If you don’t care, they’ll say, ‘He’s a heartless god!’ Don’t trouble yourself on our account, Jesus, oh no, I’m sure you have better things to do—but how about your own? This kind of thing looks very bad, and I’m tired of trying to spin it for you. From now on: not my job. Do you hear? Not my fucking job!” Maggie’s features, contorted with passion, softened again. “Thank you, Jesus, for hearing us and loving us even though it sometimes seems as if you don’t give a fig. In your own sweet name we pray. Amen.”
Richard was riveted. “If I were God, I’d be scared shitless of you.”
She smiled and laid a twisted hand on his knee. “Someone has to keep him honest.”
16
KAT SAW children playing and walked toward them. An ostrich crossed her path, causing her to look around. She seemed to be in a park, and she noticed that there were other large animals milling about with the people. In the distance, she saw the spire of a church and the dome of what might have been a mosque or maybe an Orthodox Christian church—she couldn’t tell.
Just then, the ostrich ran straight up to her and looked directly in her eyes. “You’re not saying,” the ostrich said, and behind it an enormous ball of fire descended from the sky, enveloping the sacred buildings in the distance. She never heard an explosion, but the wind roared and tore at her clothes, whipping at her hair. A tarp blew into her, covering her face, and she fought to get it off.
When she woke, her top sheet was wadded around her upper torso, restricting her arms’ movement. “Shit,” she said to the ceiling. “Dream.”
She sat up and looked out the window. The early morning sun was warm on her skin. Despite the dreadful panic of her dream, everything here seemed bright, clean, and good. She struggled to recall as much of it as she could, but the images were fading quickly. She remembered the ostrich. And the fireball. She shuddered. She breathed deep and tried to let it go. Then she got up and stumbled to the bathroom.
After a quick shower, the dream was mostly forgotten, and she felt much better—human, even. She shook out the wadded sheet and started to make the bed. Yesterday’s concerns began to light upon her mind like cro
ws on a high-tension wire.
“Jesus, I’m a little worried about Richard,” she said, tossing one of the pillows aside.
Six months ago, she realized, she would have felt stupid praying like that—hell, she would have felt weird praying at all. But a lot had changed since that time, and rather quickly. She found herself praying a lot now. Not long after she had been baptized and petitioned to join the Order of Saint Raphael, Mikael had suggested she read a little book called The Practice of the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence.
She had been instantly enchanted by the medieval monk’s friendly style, but even more so by the method of prayer he pioneered. She described it as “housework with Jesus.” Just as Brother Lawrence had talked to Jesus while he did the monastery dishes, Kat began talking to Jesus—out loud—while she folded laundry, mowed the lawn, or did any of the other mindless chores that everyone pitched in with at the friary.
Sure, she had felt self-conscious at first, afraid that someone would hear her. Then one day Dylan walked by while she was ranting at Jesus about something she didn’t even remember, and she had stopped short, blushing. Dylan had only nodded. “Brother Lawrence,” he grunted and continued on down the stairs. She had sighed, and relaxed. It wasn’t at that moment that she truly realized she was among friends, but it was certainly an affirmation.
“And the whole Bishop Tom thing. That was terrible. I didn’t know him, but…” she trailed off. “You know, I’m just getting started here. It wouldn’t be fair if everything just…crumbled now because of some stupid bishops-thingy.” She stopped and stood upright. “Why do we need bishops?” Jesus didn’t say. She made a mental note to ask Susan about that next time they took a tea break together.
Or she’d ask Brian. Since neither of them were Catholic, she valued both Susan and Brian. Their perspectives on the sometimes labyrinthine nature of the Catholic faith were invaluable to her as they were both respectful and no-nonsense at the same time.
“Anyway, Jesus, I don’t want to stop now, not now—I just found these people. I just found Mikael. I just found you…” She stopped making the bed for a moment and stared out the window. “I don’t suppose I’d lose you no matter what, though, right? I mean, that’s what the baptism was for. Together forever, right?”
And in the silence, she heard a still, small voice. “Kat! Heeeeeey, bitch!”
Kat bolted upright. “Jesus?” she asked. The old Jesus—the Jesus she thought she knew about before she met the order would never call anyone “bitch.” But now that she was coming to know Jesus as the order understood him, she wasn’t so sure.
“No, not Jesus, you idiot! Over here!”
Kat could barely make out the words. In fact, she wasn’t at all sure she was even hearing them. They were just barely on the edge of her awareness. She could be making it all up. She could be going a little crazy. It could be Jesus. And all of a sudden, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to tell the difference between any of those things.
“Who’s talking? Am I imagining this? Say something again!”
“I want a hamburger so bad I would sodomize Ronald McDonald to get one,” said the voice.
“Where are you? Who are you?” The voice was a little louder this time and sounded vaguely familiar.
“The new mirror!” the voice shouted. “Come closer to the new mirror.”
Kat had been moving in a cold direction, obviously. The mirror that Brian had found in the yard was about three paces from her. She nearly jumped to it and examined the frame. Rustic wood surrounded the mirror, and in it she saw the room reflected with tiny waves of distortion. And that’s when she noticed him, sitting on the bed, waving his arms.
Her brother, Randy.
Kat gasped and turned around to look at the bed. It was empty. She spun again and looked at the mirror. Again, she saw Randy sitting on the bed. He waved at her like Queen Elizabeth. “Hi, Sis,” he said.
“Randy…” Kat breathed, not comprehending. “What the fuck?”
“It’s good to see you,” he said, flashing her his old, goofy smile. The last time Kat had seen him conscious and cheery like this was before his attempt to destroy the archetypal avocado through demonic magick. “Of course, it’s even better seeing you with your clothes on.”
“What?” she mouthed. He pointed behind her to the bed, she turned and looked at it, and then turned back, her eyes wide. She and Mikael had made love last night…with the newly found mirror hanging in its current place.
“I never. Ever. Want to see anything like that again as long as I live,” Randy said with undisguised and unfeigned revulsion. He shuddered. “I kept thinking, ‘Someone, please, stab out my eyes with an ice pick!’”
“You could have shut your eyes!” Kat said, feeling herself getting angry. She was red as a beet, and fighting back waves of shame.
“Yeah, I hid in the closet there,” Randy pointed to the reflection of the closet door in the mirror. “But that didn’t stop the noise.” He banged against the wall with his fist and made rhythmic grunting sounds punctuated by animal shrieks. It sounded disturbingly like their lovemaking. Kat had no doubt that Randy had experienced just what he said he had. She felt faint, so she backed up and sat on the bed.
Unfortunately, she was now too far from the mirror to hear him well. So after a few moments, she stood, somewhat shakily, and approached the mirror again. “I’m sorry, Randy, I had no idea. I thought we were alone.”
“Don’t sweat it. But I am curious. Do you always shriek the Portuguese word for bunny rabbit when you come?”
“I swear to God, I’ll smash that fucking mirror,” Kat said.
“Does Jesus know you pray with that potty mouth?” he asked. He leaned in closer, a worried look on his face. “Aaaaand, what is up with the Jesus stuff, anyway? You never used to talk to Jesus. You’re a witch, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I am,” she said. “So is Mikael.”
“And who the fuck is this Mikael?”
“Oh, it’s a long story,” Kat sighed. “The most interesting thing is, though, that it’s all your fault.”
“I doubt that,” he said, looking affronted.
“Believe it,” she said firmly.
“Okay, what happened?”
“As I said, it’s a loooong story,” she repeated.
“Do I look like I’m going anywhere?”
Kat moved the mirror onto the bed and sat down. When she looked for her brother, she found him clinging to the ceiling with a terrified look on his face. She looked up and realized that, lying where it was, the mirror could only reflect the ceiling, and therefore the ceiling was the only place Randy could be. “That looks uncomfortable,” she said.
“Do you think?” Randy asked shrilly.
She propped the mirror up against the headboard, and—at least in the reflection—found herself sitting on the bed with her brother. “Well, it started when I got to your house and found you passed out on the floor…” she began.
17
“THAT’S ABOUT OUR TIME,” said Mother Maggie, looking at the clock. She smiled at him. “Shall we set a time for our next meeting?”
Richard flipped out his iPhone, and they agreed upon a date. Richard gave her a hug and turned to leave, but she caught at his sleeve. “Richard, dear, are you…in a hurry?”
Richard noted the hesitation in her voice. “I have a lot to do today, but none of it is tied to the clock. What’s up?” He sat back down and faced her with concern.
“You’re not the only one with bishop problems,” she said cryptically.
“What do you mean?” Richard said. “Wait…the Episcopal Diocese of California is having its diocesan convention now, isn’t it? Aren’t you voting on a new bishop?”
She nodded. “That’s the trouble. We did three ballots last night, and I expect the final one will be today sometime. I’m on my way over as soon as we’re done.” She lowered her voice apologetically. “It’s why we had to meet so blasted early this morning.”
“
I didn’t mind,” he assured her, although his visible hangover and bed hair told a different story. “Who’s winning?”
“That’s what scares me,” she said. “We had three candidates for bishop, and we’ve done all the vetting and interviews, and any of them, I think, would have been excellent.”
“So, what happened?” Richard asked.
“There was a nomination from the floor—from Reverend Felicia Dunne, over at Saint James’s.”
“That’s up in the Berkeley Hills—a pretty conservative congregation, right?”
“That’s the one,” Maggie agreed. “I know Felicia. I know her partner. Which is why I don’t understand why…how she could possibly have nominated this man.”
“What man?”
“A retired bishop by the name of John Preston,” she said, spitting out the name like poison. “He literally came out of nowhere. No one has done any interviews, no one had ever even mentioned him as a possibility until yesterday, when Felicia raised his name as a tie-breaker.”
“Where does the vote stand now?”
“Three votes shy of the needed two-thirds majority,” she said tensely.
“In favor of…?”
“Preston,” she said the name like it was a curse.
“So, tell me about Preston,” Richard said, pulling out his iPhone to take notes. His thumbs flew over the virtual keyboard as she spoke.
“Before he stepped down as bishop of South Carolina, he encouraged most of his churches to continue using the 1928 prayer book. He never did ordain a woman even though there were plenty of eligible candidates in his diocese. He’s a homophobic, xenophobic misogynist, and he’s just plain cruel besides.”
“He certainly doesn’t sound like a good fit for the Diocese of California.” Richard looked up from his keyboard with a frown.
“That’s putting it mildly,” she said. “I’ve heard he actually advocates the death penalty for gays and lesbians—privately, of course. Make no mistake, Richard, if this man wins, the most conservative bishop in the Episcopal Church will become bishop of the most liberal diocese. It will be open war on everything we stand for.”