by J. R. Mabry
“Since when?”
“Since the beginning,” Terry said. “I’m not saying we’ve done a good job of living it, or preaching it, but it’s always been there.”
“How so?” Charlie asked, seeming to be interested. Kat understood. There was a lot about the friars that just didn’t make sense on the surface of things.
“Christians teach that Jesus is God—and that, out of love for us, Jesus emptied himself of all his divine power, and became a simple, vulnerable, fallible human being, with all the frailty and danger that comes with that.”
“If he was really God, he could have zapped anyone, anytime he wanted to,” Charlie said. “He did all those miracles, after all.”
“No, he couldn’t have zapped anyone. Remember, those miracles only worked when the people he was ministering to trusted that they would work. The power came from them, not from Jesus. Jesus didn’t just seem to be human. He was human.”
Terry leaned back and took a deep breath of the hot, dry air. “And so are we. This tells us something really important about God—God is opposed to coercive power. God never forces anyone to do anything. God’s power is persuasive, not coercive. The Holy Spirit is always whispering to everyone, trying to nudge them in the right direction, but ultimately, we all have free will. To take that away from anyone is violence. It’s evil.”
“Is that why we study magick but don’t practice it?” Kat asked.
“Yes, that’s it exactly,” Terry nodded. “In terms of power, we are called to be celibate. That’s why we make our big decisions by consensus. That’s why we don’t do magick. If we follow Jesus, we have to do what he did. We have to reject coercive power.” An impish look came over his face. “Fortunately, we’re celibate only in terms of power, not in terms of sexuality. Thanks be to God!”
“Amen to that!” Kat laughed. If she’d had a glass of wine, she would have toasted.
“So, getting back to Jesus,” Kat said, “he gave up all his power—his divine power, that is. I think he had a lot of power as a leader, as a speaker.”
“He had moral authority,” Terry agreed. “And he exercised persuasive power very well. But there’s nothing wrong with persuasive power.”
“But, so, is that how they could kill him?” Kat asked. “I mean, he couldn’t stop it, right? If Rome decides to kill someone, they just kill someone. And Jesus got caught in their crosshairs somehow.”
“Right,” Terry said, nodding. “But it’s deeper than that. Rome was coercive power personified. It is the very definition of coercion, of tyranny. As such, it is antichrist—it stands against everything that Jesus stood for. Rome stood for coercive power, and Jesus stood against coercive power. And coercive power stomped him and ground him into dust.”
Kat’s eyes were wide. She knew about the crucifixion, but she’d never heard it talked about in exactly these terms before. Suddenly, the story was taking on vast, revolutionary dimensions.
“Fortunately, that’s not the end of the story,” Terry said. “On the third day, God raised him up, breaking the power of death forever. But more than this, the resurrection was a big, fat ‘fuck you’ to Rome.”
Kat laughed, “Okay, they never told me this at catechism class, not even once.”
Terry smiled but went on. “Rome did its worst; it did what it always did in order to coerce people into staying in line—it terrified them by killing anyone who dared to say ‘boo’ to them. Well, Jesus said boo, they smashed him, and then he got up and said, ‘Ha ha, you lose.’” Terry paused for a moment, looking reflective. “Power did its worst, and Power didn’t win. Love won. And in the end, it will win every time, no matter how big or bad or scary Power seems to be. Jesus met the worst of it, and death was powerless to hold him. And for those of us who have been joined to him—what do we have to fear? Death? Poop on death. It’s been beaten. Demons? Demons are silly beings who are in total denial of reality. People? Okay, people can be scary sometimes, but in the end, Love still wins.”
Charlie didn’t look like he was buying a word of it. “Okay, so where do those come in?” He pointed at the prison cells in the hillside.
“What did Jesus do when he died?” Terry asked. “I mean, while he was dead, where did he go? Any guesses?”
“To Heaven?” Kat asked.
“This is ridiculous,” Charlie said. “Oz. He went to fucking Oz—where he had a cheeseburger with the fucking Easter Bunny. And then he and the Easter Bunny picked up some babes.”
“Um…close, but no.” Terry grinned at him. “He came here.”
“Here?” Kat said. “Are you saying that when Jesus died, he went to Hell?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Terry nodded. “Although it wasn’t called Hell then. It was just the place of the dead.” He dusted off his hands. “Jesus stood right here, right where you’re sitting.”
Kat looked around her, feeling a momentary wave of awe.
“Do you want to know what he did while he was here?” Terry said.
Kat nodded, entranced. Charlie scowled skeptically.
“Well, he started out in one of these cells, as everyone who goes to Hell does. But the cell couldn’t hold him. Do you know why?”
“Because…he was God?” Kat asked hesitantly.
“Right. So, he broke the lock and walked right out. Want to know what he did next?”
“Tell me,” Kat said, breathless.
“He smashed the locks on every prison cell in the whole place. Then he went over to that big wall that we just passed—the one that separates the tombs from the bureaucratic district—the wall of Dis. And he smashed the doors off it. Boom, he destroyed it.”
“Wait a minute,” Charlie said, “How can Jesus give up power but then come down here and kick ass like that? Isn’t that displaying power?”
Terry sighed. “Religion is a heaving mass of paradox. Roll with it.”
“So, after Jesus…busted the place up, what happened to everyone who was here?” Kat asked.
“Everyone who wanted to just walked right out. The locks were busted; the walls were down. Jesus led everyone who wanted to go straight to Heaven.” Kat could see that Terry was enjoying this. “Here, come and see,” Terry led them to the nearest cell. Sure enough, through the bars hung an ancient-looking chain. A padlock hung from one of the links, looking like it had been smashed with a rock or a sledgehammer.
Charlie peered into the cell. “It actually looks kind of homey.”
“And the person who was a prisoner here?” Kat asked.
“Gone. Followed Jesus right out,” Terry said. “But look, here.” He walked a couple of hundred feet to their left. As they approached another of the cells, Kat could hear crying and snuffling. It sounded like an old woman. Kat lowered her hand over her eyes to try to see better into the dim recesses of the cell. In the far corner, she saw a figure covered in rags, huddled against the wall, rocking back and forth.
“Okay, you said, everyone who wanted to could leave,” Kat said. “So, is this a person who didn’t want to leave?”
“Well, she only died about twenty years ago, but in Jesus’s time there were lots just like her. There still are. Jesus destroyed Hell’s coercive power, but people can still choose to stay.”
“Why in the world would she choose to stay?” Kat asked.
“Beats me,” Terry said. “Ask her.”
Kat examined the door. The chain was slack, the lock busted, just like the other one. “There’s nothing keeping her in there,” Kat noted.
“Right,” Terry said.
“Hey, Honey!” Kat called to her. “Come out! We’ll take you to a much better place!”
“Go away, devils! You can’t trick me!” the woman’s voice shot back.
Kat looked at Terry. “That’s so, so sad.”
Terry nodded. “I know it. And there’s nothing you can do.”
Just then, Kat noticed that only she and Terry were standing at the cell. “Where’s Charlie?” she asked.
Terry’s eyes flashed with panic. “Oh shit,” he said. “Charlie!”
“You said there was nothing to be afraid of,” Kat said.
“Well, there isn’t…exactly,” Terry said.
“And…not exactly?” Kat asked.
Terry followed the trail along the hillside until he came to the first cell. Inside, huddled against the rock, was Charlie.
“Charlie, you idiot, what are you doing in there?” Terry asked.
“It’s safe here,” Charlie said.
“Charlie, come out right now!” Terry called, swinging wide the door. “Look, there’s no reason for you to be in there! Come on!”
But Charlie shook his head and hugged the rocks. “It’s dangerous out there. It’s peaceful here. For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I’m home.”
“Charlie, you’re not at home. You’re in fucking Hell!” Kat felt a moment of hysteria bubble up in her. She forced it down.
“Go away,” Charlie said defiantly. “I’m staying.”
39
AS SOON AS he saw the policeman and the paramedics’ uniforms, Richard ducked behind the wall that separated the main cafeteria area and the kitchen. Students were allowed there—it was where they dropped off their soiled dishes and silverware, and also where they picked up fried food and condiments. A window graced the south wall, and without thinking, Richard jumped up on a counter, opened the window, and pitched himself through.
Do you have any idea how far a fall this is? Duunel asked as he was doing so, but Richard didn’t hesitate long enough to answer. He was relieved to find that he only fell about three feet before hitting the corrugated fiberglass roof of the porch below. Richard crouched there, gaining his bearings. He shuffled to the edge of the roof and lowered himself to the ground.
Is this really necessary? Duunel asked. I mean, a psychiatric hold could be just the kind of break that you need. Like a mini-vacation, with interesting friends, lots of professional pampering, and it would keep you off the sauce.
Richard did not grace this with an answer. He’d landed near the offices of the Swedenborgian House of Studies. He thought of going in, but Hearst Street was just a few quick paces away. He scurried across the street, trying to look inconspicuous. He crossed the street again, heading toward the GTU library, when a voice called out after him. Without looking back, he started sprinting past the library.
The Episcopal seminary was on his left, just across the street. Instinctively, he ran for it. He pushed past the double doors, ran past the front desk, and opened the door to the basement where the restrooms were. Once in the stairwell, he drew off his cassock, rolled it up, and stuffed it beneath the stairs. Once again he heard voices, just upstairs. He rushed to the bottom of the stairs, opened the stairwell door, and ducked into the women’s room.
Fortunately, it was empty. He entered a stall and crouched, feet out of sight on the toilet seat should anyone check. He fought to control his breathing. This is certainly exciting, Duunel commented. I haven’t been a fugitive from the law in years.
“I’m not a fugitive,” Richard whispered under his breath.
Walks like a duck…Duunel almost sang.
Just then, Richard’s cell phone vibrated. He said a short prayer of thanks that it had been on vibrate mode and hadn’t just given them away with a rousing chorus of “Here I Raise My Ebenezer.” Carefully, he drew it out and checked it. There was a new email. Richard opened it, his curiosity piqued.
Before he could read it, however, the bathroom door opened. Richard froze. Your nose itches, Duunel said in his head. It itches so bad you’re about to sneeze.
Richard ignored him. He counted to twenty, and at about fifteen the door closed again and Richard heard heavy shoes clomping back up the stairs. He let out a huge sigh of relief.
So, that was a bust. I like Mulgrew’s style, though, I must say. She would have been a hoot to work for, don’t you think? Duunel said, for some reason suddenly chatty. I hear the Muslims are recruiting, if you strike out with this whole bishop thing.
Something about that comment gave Richard pause. Then the news report came rushing back to him. The attack on Dearborn, and the Michigan governor’s statement. It was almost too much to get his mind around. A heaviness came over him, and he closed his eyes and quietly lowered his feet to the floor. Then he looked back at his cell phone.
This morning he had sent out a message to the old-cath listserv, urgently but discreetly announcing a need for emergency episcopal oversight. He hadn’t really expected anyone to respond to a note with such sketchy details, but here was one. The email address read [email protected], which Richard did not recognize.
He scanned the message. “Richard, long an admirer of your work. We can probably work something out. Must visit in person.” A street address in Riverside, California, followed. It was signed, simply, Bishop.
Who is Bishop? Duunel asked. Is that a title or a name?
“I have no idea,” Richard said.
He sounds like a nut, Duunel said.
“That message is too short for him to sound like anything,” Richard retorted.
I’d delete it if I were you, Duunel suggested.
“I’m going to do no such thing,” Richard said. He stepped out of the stall and listened at the bathroom door. Nothing. Cautiously, he opened it and made for the service door.
Where are we going now? Duunel asked.
“We’ve got to pack,” Richard said, speed dialing Brian. “We’re going on a road trip.”
40
MIKAEL TURNED the key in his PO box and grinned to see the slip of paper indicating that he had a package waiting. He was almost jumping up and down as the turbaned Sikh proprietor handed him the package. Mikael noted that he was not his usual cheery self. “What’s up, Gus?” Mikael asked.
“It is too bad about Michigan,” he said, shaking his head. Mikael was mystified. Did Michigan State just lose a championship? He knew Gus was a sports fan. That must be it. He shrugged and picked up his package. “Take it easy, Gus. Give my love to Radha.” Gus forced a brief smile and waved.
The Post Box Place store was only a few blocks from the friary, and Mikael traversed it easily. The package was only about two feet on its largest side, and it wasn’t heavy, so he felt no burden. The summer sun felt good on his hair, and a trickle of sweat ran down his back. He relished it.
Nearing the friary, he noted that there were about fifty people across the street now. His brow furrowed at this, and he pressed on to the next street and turned right, walking to the house directly behind theirs. To the side of the house was a small footpath. Mikael turned onto it, and, not for the first time, wondered to whom the path belonged—the city? The Murphys, whose house was directly behind theirs? Or was it some liminal no-man’s-land that had simply been grandfathered in without being questioned?
Whatever its status, he was grateful for it now as he lifted the latch on the gate to the friary’s back yard and entered. He was grateful that no one was around. He saw the remnants of a fire in the trash can, which he definitely thought was odd, but he didn’t stop to investigate. Instead, he opened the door, patted Tobias, and headed up the back stairs. Once in the narrow window-laden room he shared with Kat, he closed the door behind him. With his thumbnail, painted black a week ago and now beginning to chip a bit, he sliced through the packing tape and opened the box. He discarded the packing material and held up a jet-black cowl.
The official habit of the Order of Saint Raphael was the Anglican cassock, which has no hood. Mikael liked the cassocks as their double-breasted cut was smart-looking, and of course, black was classic. But for what Mikael had in mind, a hood was imperative. And a cowl…well, that was just plain cool. He put the cowl over his head and noted with satisfaction that it blended into the cassock seamlessly. It was exactly the same color, and close enough to the same fabric that unless you looked carefully in good light, it would be impossible to tell that it was not the same.
Smiling in satis
faction in the mirror, he opened the dresser drawer that held his socks. Fishing around in the back, he found another prize—a black mask. He put it on and then looked at himself in the full-length mirror fixed to the back of the door. A feeling of excitement and pride welled up in him. “Meet the Confessor,” he said to his image in the mirror.
It was a dashing image if he did say so himself. The cassock flared just a bit at the waist, and his hair radiated in a mane, barely contained by the hood of the cowl. The mask hid any identifying features. “Foemen beware,” he said dramatically.
Then the door opened. Kat was there, looking disheveled. Her eyes were wet and red, and her hands were shaking. She ran to Mikael and fastened her arms around his waist. She sobbed into his chest. Mikael put his arms around her reflexively, wondering at her state. “What’s wrong, kitten?” he asked, stroking her hair.
She poured out the details of their journey in one long, sobbing sentence. Mikael didn’t grasp all of it, but the general contours eventually took shape. He made comforting shushing noises whenever she dissolved into sobs, and waited patiently for her to resume. Finally, she finished, recounting how she and Terry had hiked back from the Abyss in stunned silence. Then she sank to the bed and stared blankly out the window.
Mikael handed her a tissue from a box on the windowsill. She grabbed at it gratefully and blew her nose. She took deep breaths, broken by occasional staccato catches, but eventually her breathing became steady and she looked like she was more aware of the room around her. When her eyes finally lit on him, he smiled.
“You look ridiculous,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said. “The great advantage of being in intimate partnerships is the mutual support, I always find.”
“Is this for the steampunk convention next month?” she asked warily.
“Do you see any goggles?” he shook his head.