The Power: Berkeley Blackfriars Book Two

by J. R. Mabry

  “That’s a lot of trust,” Kat said.

  “That’s a lot of trust,” agreed Susan.

  For a few moments, no one said anything. Finally, Randy’s voice came from the guitar amplifier. “I think you’ve all got your heads up your asses.”

  “Thank you for your helpful input, Randy,” Kat said, narrowing her eyes in her brother’s direction.

  “Okay, so Preston’s got this Spear, which means that any form of opposition will be met with equal and greater force,” Mikael reasoned. “And we’ve seen how that can work in a democratic situation. This week is the Republican National Convention, and we know he’s pushing for Governor Ivory to be, basically, a write-in-candidate. If he can sway the Episcopal diocese, he can sway the Republican delegates.”

  “And we know what kind of man Ivory is,” Susan continued. “He wiped out an entire American city because there were too many Muslims in it. He’s the real face of evil.”

  “I got a text from Dicky yesterday,” Brian added. “He pointed out that both Saint James and Prester John were known as the Moor Hammer.”

  “Add Ivory to that list,” Terry said.

  “What’s a Moor Hammer?” asked Randy.

  “Someone who hammers Moors,” Brian said.

  “Oh thanks. That explains everything,” Randy returned.

  “No, Brian’s saying the simple truth of it,” Terry said. “The Moors are Muslims, mostly. If you are known as someone who pounds on Muslims—”

  “Okay, I get it,” interrupted Randy. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I did say so,” Brian objected.

  “You know, Bishop Preston likes to bring up his ancestral connection to Prester John,” Susan noted. “I think he might see his mission as continuing in his footsteps.”

  “Like a reincarnation?” asked Kat.

  “Maybe, but not necessarily,” Susan said. “You know how Bush Junior felt compelled to invade Iraq and defeat Saddam Hussein because Bush Senior hadn’t finished the job? Maybe it’s kind of like that.”

  “You’re saying that Prester John pounded on the Muslims,” Kat followed her reasoning, “but he didn’t wipe them out. So, Bishop Preston wants to finish the job.”

  “Exactly,” Susan said. “Perhaps it’s part of some misguided desire to be faithful to his family heritage, to carry on the tradition, or to bring to completion a project that his supposed ancestor so fiercely desired.”

  “He may just consider it his Christian duty,” Terry offered.

  “Maybe,” Susan conceded. “Either way, if he can get Ivory elected—”

  “He’ll have the might of the American military at his disposal to do it,” Mikael finished.

  Terry whistled.

  “It’s a good hypothesis,” Brian noted, “but we don’t have any proof. We can’t just act against such a wild notion, and besides, who would believe us?”

  “That’s never stopped us in the past,” Terry smiled, and pinched Brian’s leg.

  “But we’ve never faced evil on this kind of…global scale, either,” Susan said. “We’re just a little group of…well, let’s face it, religious…” she trailed off, searching for the word.

  “Extremists?” suggested Randy. “Nut cases? Deviants? Fanatics? Cultists? Weirdos? How about ‘unusualists’? That sounds kind.”

  Susan sighed, declining to finish the sentence. Randy had done that adequately.

  “Look, this can’t go anywhere,” Kat said. “Even if Preston uses the Spear-magick-thingy, and the Republicans do elect Ivory as their presidential candidate, the Democrats are not going to just forgive and forget Dearborn. They’re going to see Ivory as a dangerous person. There’s no way he’ll get elected.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing,” Felicia noted, running her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “This nomination is not the only election Preston can control. If he prevails here, there’s nothing stopping him from influencing the national election, too.”

  Kat’s eyes widened.

  “Wait, it goes beyond that,” Mikael said. “The Spear is just a means to an end—getting into power. Once Ivory wins the presidency, he’s still going to have access to the Spear.” He paused to let them catch up with them. Eyes widened around the table.

  “No one will be able to stop him,” Brian breathed. “No one in the whole world. If he wants to wipe out Muslims…”

  For a full minute, no one said anything. They stared into their cups or at the tabletop. Finally, Susan spoke. “So, we need evidence. We can’t fight Preston and Ivory with force—we don’t have any. The only way to win this is with information.”

  “I think you’re all fucking delusional,” Randy said. “Go to his office; put a spork through his chest. End of problem.”

  “Randy has a point,” Susan said, looking sad.

  “A spork is not what I would call an efficient weapon,” Mikael complained.

  “Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a Lutheran pastor during the Second World War who decided that the lesser evil was to assassinate Hitler,” Susan said. “He wanted to stop the slaughter of the Jews. We’re trying to stop the slaughter of another people. If we’re right…Let’s say we get evidence, and we’re right. Isn’t murder justified? One guilty life in exchange for millions of innocents?”

  Brian brooded darkly as Terry’s mouth dropped open. Terry shut it and shifted uncomfortably. “Abhorrent as that idea is, Susan, we can’t not consider it.”

  “But wait,” Mikael said. “Let’s say we did try to kill him. How would we do that if the Spear repels all opposition?”

  Brian, still looking grim, cleared his throat. “I can’t say this absolutely, but the ancient sources say that its power has to be directed by intention.”

  “What do you mean, ‘intention’?” Kat asked.

  “I mean that the Spear probably doesn’t have a will of its own,” Brian explained. “I think it’s a tool, like a hammer. A hammer is great at driving nails, but you have to pick it up and direct it to do that. Otherwise, the hammer just lies on the ground. The Spear is the same way. It isn’t going to come to life and defend Preston from all comers. He has to pick it up and use it.”

  Kat nodded. Felicia looked at her hands. She shook her head. “Maybe it is justified, but I’m not prepared to go there. We have to remember love. We win with love.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Randy said.

  “Say more, Reverend,” Terry asked.

  “I think violence is the easy way out. If we sink to that level, then it isn’t we who win, it’s violence. Loving is harder. And I don’t know how love can bring good out of this. I don’t think the disciples had any idea, either, when Jesus went to the cross. I think the best we can do is trust that God can do it, and try to do everything with as much compassion as possible,” Felicia explained.

  “Well, we can try to have compassion on where Bishop Preston is coming from,” Susan began in a tentative tone that said, this is a thought experiment. She continued, “I mean, what if he really is just doing what he thinks is right?”

  “I don’t think he’s a good man,” Felicia said. “In fact, I’m not sure that even he would say so. But I do think that, in his own mind at least, what he is doing makes sense—it’s justified. He’s trying to save the world—”

  “By projecting the collective shadow of Western Civilization onto the Muslims?” Brian asked.

  “Yes,” Felicia said. “But the point is, we’ll have a better chance of figuring out how he thinks if we sympathize with his driving motivations. We don’t have to agree with him—I mean, none of us here thinks the problem is really Islam, right?” Heads shook all around the table—slowly, thoughtfully. “But if we understand why he thinks so, we’ll be a step ahead.”

  “I agree,” Terry said. “Jesus said that we should love our enemies, so if that doesn’t start here, then we don’t have any right calling ourselves Christians.”

  “Cult. My sister has fallen in with a fucking cult,” Randy moaned.
/>   Terry looked at Randy. Then he cocked his head. A smile began to spread across his elfin features.

  “What’s funny, Ter?” asked Mikael.

  “I…” He looked around the table. “Yes. I have an idea.” He turned to Felicia. “Can you get me in to see Bishop Preston? Today?”

  “What are you thinking?” Mikael asked. “Preston’s got to be crazy busy. He might have an opening sometime six months from now. What do you—”

  Felicia held up her hand. Kat thought she looked small. “I’m ashamed to say that I nominated him for the job of bishop, from the floor, you know. He forced me to. He threatened me. But when I’d done it, he came up behind me and said, ‘I owe you one.’ I didn’t think too much about that. But now…that’s one favor I’ll be glad to call in.” She looked Terry in the eye. “You want in today? I’ll get you in today. Now tell us your idea.”

  66

  THE TRIP to the Islamic Cultural Center seemed long to Susan. She’d been there before, but only once. Intellectually, she knew that Oakland hadn’t gotten any farther away than it was last week, but back then life had seemed a lot less complicated. Mikael seemed to be sleeping in the backseat. Brian drove grimly, silently. Susan touched his arm. “Worried about Terry?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “He’ll be fine,” she offered.

  “He’s walking into a dangerous situation alone,” he said.

  “No, he isn’t,” Susan said. “Jesus is as real to Terry as he is to me, or HaShem is to you. And Terry knows how to pray. This is a very good time to exercise our trust muscles.”

  “Trust muscles,” Brian repeated, nodding. “So, speaking of Dylan, how are your trust muscles?”

  “Jerk.” Susan withdrew.

  “I’m sorry,” Brian said. “I’m half kidding. I didn’t mean it…meanly.” Coming to the end of Gilman Street, Brian took a left onto the I-80 on-ramp. “I know you looked in on him before we left. How is he?”

  “Sleeping like a baby bear,” she said, looking out the window as they got up to speed. “So, Brian, I have to tell you something. This allergy to medications that Dylan developed, well, overnight, it seems. He’s not going to go down without a fight. He’s an addict, and everyone knows it. He knows it. He’s a long way from hitting bottom, and I’m scared for him. Before breakfast, I went through every pill bottle in the house and emptied them.”

  “You what?” Mikael called.

  “Oh good, you need to know this because I emptied Kat’s epilepsy medication, too,” Susan said over her shoulder.

  “Nice of you to tell us about it,” Mikael said.

  “I am telling you about it. Please tell Kat,” Susan said, a little testily. “And nice of you to tell us that Kat is epileptic.”

  “Well…there’s no reason to, really,” Mikael said, a little defensively.

  “Uh-huh. And when Kat and I are having tea and she begins flipping about on the floor like a landed trout, don’t you think it would be good for me to have a clue as to what is going on?”

  Mikael ignored the point. “So, what’s Kat supposed to do about her meds?”

  “There’s a cookie jar shaped like a kangaroo in the high cupboard,” Susan said.

  “I hate that cookie jar,” Brian scowled.

  “Everything is in there, in snack baggies, labeled with a Sharpie.”

  “You were busy before breakfast,” Brian said, merging over to Interstate 580.

  “What? It only took ten minutes or so.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mikael said, “I saw my pills in the bathroom just before we left.”

  “Nope,” Susan said. “Those were white Good-N-Plenty’s.”

  “Fucking brilliant,” Brian smiled. “Let’s hope Dylan isn’t suddenly allergic to licorice.”

  “But Kat’s pills are round,” Mikael said.

  “Altoids sprayed with antifungal foot powder,” Susan said.

  “Oh, that would do it,” Mikael said, and laughed. He pulled out his cell phone. “Gotta text Kat about that.”

  Turning off at Fruitvale, Brian quickly navigated to the Islamic Cultural Center. Street parking, however, proved difficult to find. “There’s got to be a hundred people here,” Susan said, taking in the scene. People were lined up out the door and down the sidewalk in front of the storefront meeting place.

  “Yeah, pretty much as Nazim described it. He’ll be grateful for the help,” Brian said, scanning the block for parking. Three blocks down, he lucked out, spotting someone just pulling out of a parallel space. Soon they were walking back up to the cultural center.

  “Uh, Susan, do you mind covering?” Brian asked.

  “Of course I mind,” Susan said, pulling a scarf out of her purse and winding it around her head.

  “Thank you,” Brian said, “and I’m sorry.”

  Needing to cover her head pissed her off momentarily, but as they drew near to the center, her anger morphed into shame. She wanted to avoid the eyes of the dark-haired women who watched them approach. She assumed they would be darting daggers at her, but when she met their eyes, no daggers were in evidence. Instead, she saw only grief. Worry and pain were there, too, and she instantly felt a mixture of rage and compassion.

  Brian spoke briefly to the women at the front of the line, and they drew back, making room for them to pass. Inside, in a room that did triple duty as meeting hall, classroom, and mosque, Brian waved to his friend Nazim. Nazim waved back briefly and motioned them to a circle of chairs along one wall. Some of them were empty. Brian nodded and led Susan and Mikael to them.

  Susan felt almost suffocated in the crowded room. The center had no windows, and the stark white walls and industrial carpeting gave her the distinct impression of being in a shipping container. I feel like a can of Spam in here, she thought.

  A moment later, Nazim appeared, shaking his head and nodding in a way that must have meant something in his culture but didn’t exactly translate for Americans. “My friends, I’m so glad you’re here.” He shook their hands, and Brian introduced them quickly. “It’s been like this ever since the bombing,” he said. “People just need to talk.”

  “What can we do for them?” Mikael asked, looking a little lost.

  “Not a thing,” Nazim, oddly, nodded. “I mean, materially or legally. All we can do is listen to them. And that is important. People are grieving, and they need someone to listen. If you want, you can pray with them. Here’s a traditional Islamic prayer you can use.” He pulled a few slips of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed them to them. “Or you can pray extemporaneously. Just don’t pray in Jesus’s name. We love Jesus, peace be upon him, but it’s not a prayer form that we use. It will confuse people.”

  “Of course,” Susan said.

  Mikael stared dumbly. “So, we just…listen?” he managed finally.

  “Yes, just listen,” Nazim said. “Muslims are just like anyone else. If they are hurting, it is only Allah who can heal them. It is Allah who is doing the real work here. You and I can only create the space for a person and Allah to approach one another, to touch each other, to kiss. That’s what heals. Not us.” He smiled. “That’s what all ministers do, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Brian, shooting Mikael a look that said, snap out of it.

  “But…I need a plan…” Mikael protested. He looked like he was going to panic.

  Mikael was having a very hard time, Susan could see. She placed her hand on his neck and pulled him down so that their heads were touching. “Trust. You don’t need to be powerful here, Mikael. God is powerful. Just sit with them, and trust that God can do what needs to be done. Trust muscles.”

  “Trust muscles,” he repeated. He seemed to relax, but Nazim looked concerned. “Mikael, why don’t you watch Brian for the first couple of meetings? When you feel ready, you can move over to that corner over there.” He indicated two chairs set up near a back door. “How does that sound?”

  Mikael nodded, relieved to have a model. Brian clapped him on the arm, and Nazim
led them to a small cluster of chairs and waved a man and his son over to them. Then Nazim led Susan to a dark-haired older woman just getting up from a meeting. “Raja, this is Susan. She’s going to take the next shift.”

  “Oh, that is very good. Pleased to meet you, Susan,” the older woman said. “Thank you for coming down.”

  “I’m just glad I can help,” Susan said with a sad smile. The woman bowed slightly and headed toward the door, sunshine, fresh air, and a much-needed break.

  Susan sat down and arranged her skirt so that it hung properly. Then she waved at the door, and a middle-aged woman wearing Western dress with a simple colorful hijab sat down next to her.

  The woman had been crying. Susan moved a box of tissues within easy reach. “I’m Susan,” she said. “Please tell me your name.”

  “I am Shifa,” the woman said. “Are you Muslim?”

  Susan shook her head. “I’m a Christian, but I believe that the God of Jesus and the God of Muhammad—peace be upon them—are the same God. I want to help. I’m so sorry about what happened in Michigan.”

  The woman met Susan’s eyes and held them. Is she deciding whether or not to trust me? Susan wondered. She guessed that she was. Finally, the woman looked down and said, “My brother and his wife live near there.”

  “Were they hurt?” Susan asked.

  The woman shook her head, but then she started to cry. “No, Allah be praised. But they have to drive into town almost every day. They might have—” she choked on her words. “If it was another time of day…if it were another day…” She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t have to.

  Susan felt grateful that she didn’t have the restrictions on touching that the men had. She reached out and took Shifa’s hand and held it in both of her own. “Thank God,” she breathed. “Have you been able to talk to them?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes. Last night, I was able to get a call through. The cell phones are…overloaded, I think. But this morning, nothing. The phones ring, but no one answers.” She looked up at Susan, panic beginning to tighten her face. “Is it true, what they are saying?”