by J. R. Mabry
“A crozier…it’s a ceremonial shepherd’s crook. It’s priceless. If anyone stole it…it would be the worst tragedy of the evening.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll see what I can do.” He kicked at a protruding edge of one of the paving stones and set off toward the stairs.
“Can I get you anything, Bishop Preston?” Ms. Finn asked him. “Some water?”
He hadn’t been thinking of water, but the moment she mentioned it, he realized how desperately thirsty he was. He nodded vigorously for a moment but stopped that when it made his head hurt worse. He grimaced and waited as she got up and went in search of a water bottle.
In a few minutes she was back, putting a plastic bottle into his hands. She guided it to his lips, and he drank greedily. He drained the bottle. “More,” he said. But before she could rise, a fireman approached with what appeared to be a large stick. As he got closer, Preston could see that it was his crozier. He sighed deeply, every muscle in his body relaxing.
He reached out his hand and snatched the crozier as the man offered it to him. No sooner did he have it than the pain in his head was forced back and out. At least that was what it felt like. The pain, after all, was a form of opposition. The Spear met it with equal and greater force. Preston shook his head. It was pain free.
He stood, and his legs were steady. The dizziness was gone. He straightened his suit coat and dusted himself off. He turned to Ms. Finn and saw the fear on her face as he did so. It occurred to him that he should have gone slower, that his recovery had been too quick, too miraculous. She was frightened. He didn’t care.
“I have a big day tomorrow, Patricia,” he said to her, beginning to walk toward the street. He leaned on the crozier like a walking stick, although there was little need for that now. “This kind of thing…can’t happen again. There is too much at stake here. Don’t you agree?”
He looked over at her, and his eyes narrowed. She was so terrified that she looked about to cry. “Ms. Finn, we are not in ordinary times here. Miracles happen. We are about God’s business. I need you to pull it together. Can you do that, or do I need to find another assistant?”
He saw her swallow. She looked from side to side uncertainly. Finally, she found the courage to meet his eyes. “I don’t understand what’s happening. But I’m here to help you.”
“Good,” the bishop said, continuing toward the street. “First, get me a cab. Second, I need you to get those exorcist friars on the phone.”
84
PRESTER JOHN STEPPED into the kitchen with a loud stomp of boots. Kat felt the floor shake under his step and noted with alarm how close his head was to the ceiling. He was taller than Mikael, she noted. Why hadn’t she noticed that in the khan’s own world?
She turned toward her friends. Brian’s eyes were wide. Terry’s mouth was open as was Dylan’s. Susan clutched at her husband’s shoulder protectively, her maternal instincts obviously in high gear. Kat didn’t know if they knew who their visitor was, but his militant attire alone made him an object of wonder. Well, better get it over with, she thought. “Guys, this is Prester John.”
The khan nodded curtly to Kat. He then turned to consider the others. He looked unimpressed. He sniffed. “Fetch a boy for my horse, and bring wine. It has been centuries since I have journeyed forth from my kingdom. This air is strange. It tires me.”
Kat wasn’t sure how to respond to this. “Yes, tired. I know how you feel,” she laughed nervously, looking back and forth between the king and her friends. They looked at her. They looked at the khan. She turned to Prester John. “Um…we don’t have a boy,” she said. “We don’t have horses here.”
“You are peasants?” the khan scowled, his piercing black eyes incredulous. “Who is your lord? Take me to him.”
Brian stepped forward. “Your majesty, please allow me to welcome you. This house is a friary dedicated to the use of the Order of Saint Raphael. Father Dylan is our acting prior—”
Dylan wiggled his fingers at the khan.
“And Kat, whom you seem to know, is an oblate.”
“There are no women friars,” the khan looked suspicious.
“Much has changed since you ruled on Earth, your majesty,” Brian explained. “Women are now friars, priests, and bishops in many Christian communions. Also, in our part of the world, horses are no longer the primary means of conveyance. We do not use them, so we do not have facilities to house them.”
“You are a child of Abraham,” Prester John stated.
“I am,” Brian returned.
“How come you to be in a Christian friary? Is someone ill?”
“No,” Brian smiled. “I am not a doctor. I am a scholar. And a cook. The friars are…not celibate. Many are espoused. This is Father Dylan’s wife, Susan. And this is Father Terry, my husband,” Brian said, indicating his beloved. He held his breath.
Prester John looked at Terry. He looked at Brian. He looked back at Terry. Then he turned to Kat. “This is a strange country,” he said.
“This is Berkeley,” Kat said. “You have no idea.”
“Does your strange country have wine?” he asked.
“Yes,” Kat said with a nod.
“Then it will be tolerable,” the khan said.
“I’ll get wine,” Brian said, heading to one of the cupboards. “Terry,” he called over his shoulder, “can you back the clunker out of the garage and make a space for Prester John’s horse?”
Terry nodded and headed for the front door. Kat heard the jingle of keys as the screen door slammed behind him.
“I’m afraid we have no hay,” Brian said. “But I can manage some oats in the morning.” He leaned over to Dylan and whispered, “Good thing I just made a Costco run.”
“Word,” Dylan whispered back.
Brian poured a large glass of wine and invited the khan to sit. The normally large kitchen seemed small and crowded as Prester John attempted to fold himself and all of his plate armor onto one of the benches. Once seated, however, he seemed less imposing, and more weary.
He lifted the large wine glass and examined it, obviously curious. “I have never seen craftsmanship like this,” he said, a note of wonder in his voice. “It is very fine.”
“IKEA,” Kat nodded.
The khan cocked his head at her.
“It’s Swedish,” she said.
“Your words are strange,” he said. He sniffed at the wine and jerked back in surprise. He took a sip, and Kat saw a succession of emotions play over his face. He took a large swig. Then he knocked back the whole glass in a gulp. He burped loudly and slammed the glass down on the table. It shattered into several delicate shards.
For a moment, everyone just stared at the broken glass. “Uh…we don’t have that tradition, here,” Kat said. “The whole goblet-slamming thing, I mean.”
Brian quickly moved to sweep up the shards. As he tipped the dustpan into the trash can he said, “Dyl, can you grab one of the brass Eucharistic chalices from the chapel?”
Dylan rose and tottered into the chapel. A moment later he returned with a gold-plated brass chalice. Brian took it from him with a nod of thanks and filled it with wine. He set this before the khan with a smile. “This one will not break as easily,” he said.
Prester John admired the cup. “How do poor friars merit vessels of such finery, or wine of such vintage as this?” He chugged the second cup of wine and slammed the chalice to the table.
“We’re not poor,” Susan said. “We’re pretty solidly middle-class.”
The king’s eyebrows moved together. He looked at Brian. “What does this one mean? What is middle-class?”
“She means we are neither poor nor wealthy. We are like merchants, in between,” Brian said. “For friars, we make a good living.” He looked at Kat. “Does he know we’re exorcists?”
Kat shook her head.
“Exorcists?” Prester John’s eyes grew large. “Then you are brave souls. I will speak to your leader. Alone.”
Dylan looked from side
to side. “He means you, Honey,” Susan said, patting his knee.
Kat’s heart fell. She realized that, as much affection as she felt for Dylan, she had no confidence in him as a leader. If only Richard were here, she thought.
“Ah,” Brian interrupted her thoughts. “Here is another custom you will be unfamiliar with, your majesty. The Order of Saint Raphael is a consensus order. The prior may issue orders in the heat of battle against evil forces, but until battle is enjoined all share in the process of making decisions.”
Prester John turned to Dylan. “Does this not dishonor you?”
“Nope,” Dylan said. He smiled a big, goofy smile.
Prester John frowned. “I do not understand how this…” He fished for a word.
“Works?” Brian offered.
“Yes, that will do,” the khan said.
“Waal, mostly we just sit around and talk about shit,” Dylan said, “and what we need to do becomes clear. Usually around time for dessert.”
“I do not understand this…shit,” Prester John said.
“Yeah, that’s pretty clear,” Brian laughed. “Don’t worry, your majesty. All we’re saying is that it is not the order’s way for the leader to make the decisions by himself. The counsel of all is sought and honored.”
Prester John nodded slowly. “I predict that you exchange many words and rarely act in haste.”
“You are most astute, your majesty,” Brian bowed slightly. “That is a very accurate assessment.”
“Why are none drinking with me?” the khan asked.
“Thet thar is a fine question,” Dylan seconded. “Let’s put some wine in some coffee mugs, and we can all pound the fuckin’ table.”
Brian shrugged and started setting out coffee mugs. When he set one down in front of Dylan, however, it was already full.
“Is this tea?” Dylan sniffed at it.
“Yes,” Brian said, pouring a decent Sonoma merlot into the rest of the mugs.
“God hates me,” Dylan said.
“Now you sound just like Richard,” Susan said.
“Heavy is the head that wears the fuckin’ crown,” Dylan took a sip and wrinkled his nose. “Ah’ll get used to it. But Ah won’t be happy about it.”
Brian raised his cup toward the khan. “To our guest. May your mission be blessed.” He clinked glasses all around. Prester John watched the strange ritual with detached curiosity.
“Uh, thet reminds meh,” Dylan said, setting his cup down. “Jus’ what is yore mission, anyway?”
The khan drained another round of wine and once again slammed the chalice down on the rough wooden table. “Can you not guess?” He looked at each of them in turn, but he held Kat’s eyes as he spoke. “Children are often in need of admonishment.”
Just then the disco strains of Abba’s “Fernando” rang out, and Terry fished in his pocket for his cell phone.
“It’s awfully late for a call,” Brian frowned.
“It might be one of the parishioners from Trinity North Church,” Terry said. “A couple of them are in the hospital, after all.” He frowned at the screen. “I don’t recognize the number.” He punched at the On button and held it to his ear.
“Father Terry, here,” he said cheerily.
“I guess I’ll get Char—the spare room ready for our guest,” Brian said. He smiled at Prester John. “Your majesty, I regret that your feet will hang a bit off the edge of the bed, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“Terry, what’s wrong?” Susan asked. Everyone looked at him. He had grown white as a sheet, and his mouth hung open as if he were about to speak but couldn’t quite manage it. He held up one finger, listening intently.
“Was anyone hurt?” he asked. “Well, that’s something.”
Susan raised her eyebrow. “It might be time for cocoa,” she whispered to Brian.
“It’s definitely time for cocoa,” he agreed and moved to the stove, looking back over his shoulder at his partner.
“When do you want us?” Terry asked. He signed for pen and paper. Dylan scrambled to the office and rushed back with a yellow legal pad and a Sharpie. He thrust them in front of Terry, who started writing. “I understand. We should probably arrive around 10 a.m., then,” Terry said. “Where?” he paused, listening. “Are you sure you won’t need an escort?” He wrote an address. Kat noted it was in San Francisco. “Service entrance. Got it. How many of us?” His eyes darted back and forth. “Just a minute,” he covered the microphone and said to Dylan. “Are you in play?”
Dylan didn’t hesitate. “You bet yore sweet ass Ah am.” Terry looked at Susan for a confirmation. She shrugged. “I’d say no, but I can’t keep him prisoner.”
Terry nodded. “We’ll have four friars on site, and two support personnel—one for research and one for tech. They work remotely, usually.”
Kat sat up straighter. “Sounds like a job,” she said.
“Uh-huh,” Terry said. “Of course,” he said. Then he listened for a long stretch. Finally, he nodded and seemed to be interrupting. “There’s just one thing—that episcopal oversight we discussed? Our power is severely limited…” He trailed off, listening. “That’s fine, then. We’ll see you tomorrow.” Terry lowered the cell phone and put it on the table.
“Okay, then,” he said. He pursed his lips and stared straight ahead.
“He looks a little dissociated,” Susan said, mostly to Brian.
Brian set a cup of cocoa in front of his partner. “This should do it.” He tapped Terry on the shoulder. “Okay, Honey cakes. Time to brief us.”
Prester John scowled, his head moving back and forth, obviously trying to assess what was happening and not entirely sure he understood. He turned to Kat. “There were voices coming from the little box?”
Kat nodded. “To talk to people at long distances. It seems magickal, but it isn’t. Not really. It’s just a machine.”
“You use them like pigeons?” Prester John asked.
“Kind of,” Kat nodded. “Less poop, though.”
“That was…the child in need of admonishment,” Terry said, sipping at his cocoa.
“My son?” Prester John asked. “My son was speaking in the little box?”
Terry nodded. “Yes. He was attacked tonight, at the Dio House.”
Everyone sat up straighter. Susan said, “I don’t know whether to say ‘that’s terrible’ or ‘that’s wonderful.’ I’m conflicted.”
“Who attacked him?” Dylan asked. “Do Ah get one of those?” he asked Brian. Brian set a mug in front of Dylan. He sniffed at it. “Goddam fucking tea,” he said.
“He didn’t know. He only knew that there were hundreds of them. He said they were acting like zombies. But some of them were floppers. He guessed that they were possessed. I think our neighborhood horde moved on to San Francisco after the heist at the Maccabean Museum.”
“Which means that Larch is probably behind this,” Brian said.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Terry nodded. “So, the bishop has hired us to provide security for him tomorrow at the Republican National Convention.”
Dylan whistled through his teeth. “Thet’s at the Moscone Center, right?”
“Yup. The Secret Service will meet us at the service entrance to process us and provide us with security badges and such.” His eyes were large as if he could not believe what he was saying. “So, anyone have any outstanding warrants?”
They looked at each other. Dylan raised his hand. “Ah got an overdue parking ticket,” he said.
“I think we’re safe on that score,” Terry answered. “We’ll be in San Francisco, after all, far out of the jurisdiction of the Berkeley Parking Nazis.”
“Goddamned BPN,” Dylan seethed.
“I’ve got a question.” Kat raised her hand. “We still don’t have a bishop.”
“We do now,” Terry said. “The Order of Saint Raphael is now under the episcopal oversight of the Bishop of California—Bishop Preston.”
“The well of irony j
us’ never runs dry, does it?” Dylan sipped at his tea. He stuck out his pinkie finger as he did so.
“It’s the perfect opportunity,” Susan said. “We couldn’t ask for better. It won’t ever be this easy to get close to Preston.”
Terry nodded. “The problem is that the place is going to be thick with security. We’ll be close, all right, but getting away with anything is going to be tough. Plus, there’s one more little snag the bishop mentioned.”
“What’s that?” asked Susan.
“The Republican organizing committee isn’t letting any of their people through the door unless they’re carrying,” Terry said.
“Carrying what?” Dylan frowned.
“Packing,” Terry clarified.
“Yer shittin’ me,” Dylan said.
“Nope. Every single Republican delegate will be carrying a firearm.” Terry set down his cup. “Yippie-kai-yay.”
85
LARCH TOUCHED the skin dangling from his beaked nose and flinched as he tore it off. He applied some triple antibiotic ointment and repeated the process for the rest of the injuries to his face. Leading his very own army of the damned was not turning out like he’d hoped.
The last of his bandages in place, he turned off the lights in the motel bathroom and lit a single candle, which he placed behind him. He ran hot water in the shower until the room steamed up. Then he leaned against the door, unfocused his eyes, and waited for her to appear.
It didn’t take long. But this time, she didn’t spin playfully into view. There were no gauzy dresses or fetching glances. Instead, she just materialized and looked at him with a caustic gaze that could remove wallpaper. “What have you done?” she asked.
“I did…wait, what do you mean?” Larch asked defensively. She’d never appeared like this, and he was taken aback. Sure, the raid on the bishop’s office had been a disaster, but he expected her to be sympathetic and encouraging, not cross. Indeed, that’s why he was summoning her. It was time for a pep talk. And she was a spirit with plenty of pep.