by J. R. Mabry
Dylan closed his eyes. It was shame, Kat realized. Her heart went out to him.
Prester John leaned over and spoke in Kat’s ear. “What in the name of heaven are you all talking about?”
Brian overheard and laughed. “Hashish madness, your majesty. Dylan has had hashish madness for years.”
Prester John burst out laughing. It was a large, booming laugh that filled the room and shook it. It was also infectious. Soon, they were all smiling, if a little uncertainly. Dylan looked like he wasn’t sure if the mirth was directed at him or not. In the end, it didn’t seem to matter. Prester John pounded the tabletop, and when his guffaws subsided he looked at Dylan with renewed respect. “This explains much,” he said.
When he stopped laughing, he drew himself up and directed a question directly at Dylan. “But what of me?”
Dylan met his eyes. “What do yuh mean?”
“I have come to chasten my son,” he said. “Surely, I must accompany you.”
Dylan blew air out of his cheeks. “Waal, yer majesty, thet’s gonna be a problem. See, uh, no one is gonna let you through the door like that, and it’s gonna be hard fer you to pass as one of us, an’…”
He looked at Brian for help. It occurred to Kat that if they gave Prester John a cassock and allowed him to tag along, much of their energy would be spent babysitting him, keeping him out of trouble, maybe keeping him from getting shot when he challenged some clueless Republican flunky to a swordfight.
“Your majesty,” Brian said, “surely when you commanded armies, you had a small number of trusted men that you sent into the most dangerous situations. We call them ‘special forces.’ What was your name for them?”
The khan’s eyebrows knit together as he thought. “I did indeed have such men. I called them itegekü.”
“The…trusted?” Brian guessed.
“Yes, that is very close,” the khan nodded.
“Your majesty, the Blackfriars are your itegekü here,” Brian said calmly, without a hint of condescension. “You must trust them, just as you trusted your own special forces, to go into the most dangerous situations and act on your behalf. If they are successful, there will be nothing to stop you from confronting your descendant, Bishop Preston. But you must first let them infiltrate the enemy, and draw them out.”
Prester John nodded. “This is fair counsel,” he judged.
Dylan nodded. “We got one shot at this, y’all,” he said. “We got one day to get that Spear, or there will be nothin’ to stop Governor Ivory gettin’ to the White House. An’ that means that ain’t nuthin’ gonna stop World War III. The only thing standin’ between this world and Armageddon is us, so Ah’m gonna say this an’ Ah want you all to hear it: Lean hard on Jesus, and don’t fuck it up.”
“Amen,” said Terry.
“Amen,” said the rest.
88
RICHARD LOOKED down to double check the map. When he looked back up, he realized that he was out of road. He spun the wheel and slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop within mere inches of a drainage ditch. “Goddamn,” he breathed, and got out of his car to survey the road. He had, apparently, looked down at just the wrong moment. For no apparent reason, the road did a fishback, heading off in a direction that Richard did not want to go. That’s dangerous, he thought.
To his right he could see the campus of Pacific Christian College. A row of enormous palm trees adorned the massive lawn, trailing off into the horizon. To his left, about a hundred yards from the fishback, was a small coffee shop—or diner, he couldn’t be sure. He looked back at his directions. He looked at the diner. “Could that be it?” he wondered aloud.
Richard got back into the car and cautiously made as tight a turn as he could, coming to a full stop just outside the diner. Its yard was untended. The tiny parking lot sported more mud than gravel. The only identifying marker on the place was a piece of plywood with the words NO EXIT painted on it in blood-red splashes.
Yet for all its unkempt façade, the place seemed to be hopping. Richard looked at his watch—9 a.m. It was time for coffee. He leaned in the window of his rental car. “Stay here, Toby. If you see anything strange, bark like a motherfucker.”
The dog barked exactly once, which Richard took to mean “message received.” He slapped the hood of the car, straightened his cassock, and went inside.
The screen door slammed behind him, and he waited for his eyes to adjust. To his right were dusty bookcases filled with secondhand books. Atop the middle book case was a foot-high statue of Nataraj, the dancing Shiva. Looking to his left, he saw a bar with a cash register at one end and behind it a mirror reminiscent of saloons in cowboy movies. Obscuring the mirror at one end was an espresso machine.
Richard continued to scan the room, counterclockwise. On the wall was a mural of what seemed to be Jesus wearing a cowboy hat and chaps. Surrounding him were a cadre of boho-looking disciples, frozen in place, some of them sipping espresso and others playing liar’s dice. At one table, a German shepherd sat upright, tipping back a Dos Equis, apparently charming a poodle bitch. Beneath the picture, in the same rough script as the sign above the door outside, were the words, The Great Omission.
Scattered around the room were the very same sorts of tables depicted in the mural, many of them occupied. There were no wooing canines, but otherwise, the mural seemed to have gotten it mostly right. About half of the clientele were people in their thirties and forties, sipping from enormous mugs and definitely running through a good supply of croissants. He guessed the other half were students at the Christian college as they were both younger and louder.
The place was filled with an energetic conviviality that touched Richard deeply.
“Is that your dog?”
Richard registered the question but didn’t see the asker, nor did he know whether the question was being put to him. A wave caught his attention. Behind the bar, a sandy-haired man smiled at him. “I said,” he raised his voice, “is that your dog?” He pointed out the window at Richard’s car.
Richard walked over to him and nodded. “Yeah, that’s Toby.”
“Why don’t you bring him in?” The man’s eyes twinkled at him. His smile was genuine and warm. Was he…flirting?
Richard pushed the thought away. “Is that allowed? I mean, health codes and all.”
“I see that you are debilitated and require your companion animal,” the barista said with a mock-curt nod.
Richard laughed out loud. “Sure, I’ll bring him in.” In a few moments, Toby burst through the door, and Richard made sure it didn’t slam behind them. A mild cheer rose up in the room as Toby rushed to sniff out the first table he came to, to the apparent delight of the diners.
“Welcome,” the barista said.
“That’s one dangerous curve in the road out there,” Richard complained.
“Tell me about it.” The barista visibly bristled. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve complained. There’s usually an altar of some kind set up there.”
“It’s not hard to see why,” Richard admitted.
“What can I get for you?” The barista pounded a hand on the bar.
“What’s the favorite, here?” Richard leaned against the bar. The barista’s hair was beginning to thin, a tragedy Richard knew well. He was younger than Richard by about ten years; shorter, too. He was thickly built, but not overweight. Solid, Richard decided.
“Well, we got a full morning menu,” he said. “I recommend the honeydew-green matcha latte, but if you’re a meat-and-potatoes guy, the fair trade Italian roast is probably the way to go. It’s the default morning drink around here.”
“And the default evening drink? Just out of curiosity?”
“That would be either the house red or the Riverside Firehouse IPA, on tap. ’Course we got the holy trinity of Guinness, Bass, and Harp, too, if you’re not feeling adventurous.” He smiled. “But that’s all academic—we don’t pour anything harder than a triple espresso until 4 p.m.”
�
��As it should be,” Richard slapped the bar. “I’ll take a mug of that Italian roast, please.”
The man nodded and grabbed a mug from a precarious pile against the wall to his left. “What’s your name, stranger?” The twinkle in his eye revealed that the man knew he was using a Gunsmoke-worthy cliché.
“Richard Kinney,” Richard said, his tummy burbling under the assault of the delicious aromas filling the room.
“Then I’ve been expecting you.” The man put a steaming cup in front of him. “On the house. Welcome.”
“That’s very kind,” Richard said. “So, I’m guessing you’re Bishop?”
“The one and only,” the barista said. “I hope. Because if not, a complicated science fiction scenario would ensue, and I like a quiet life.”
Richard laughed. He liked this man. A lot. He felt his libido rise.
Don’t you fucking go there, Duunel’s voice said in his head. We have a deal.
In answer, Richard simply sipped at the coffee and smiled into Bishop’s eyes. Okay, I’m now officially flirting, Richard thought. Well, when it’s right, it’s right. Out loud, however, he said. “And are you?”
“Am I what?”
“A bishop.”
“Yeah, but I don’t trumpet it. It’s how I got the nickname, though, of course.”
“So, not your given name, then?” Richard wasn’t sure his grin could get any wider, but he risked his facial integrity to manage it.
“Terrence,” he said, moving his head from side to side. “I prefer Bishop. Oh, excuse me a minute, please,” Bishop said. “Gotta make the rounds.” He grabbed a coffee pot and headed into the room, topping off mugs and chatting playfully with the clientele. He stopped for several minutes at a table where a very tall, bearded man in a Western-style shirt seemed to be in the midst of an animated discussion with a short, stocky man who was waxing blustery. A very amused younger woman was also at the table and seemed to be teasing the stocky man. Bishop looked like he was arbitrating a dispute. In a few minutes, he detached himself and walked back behind the bar. He set the coffee pot on the burner and turned back to Richard. “I’m thinking you need a croissant. Or a bear claw,” he said.
“A bear claw would be great,” Richard said.
“Peanut and allspice marzipan,” Bishop said, placing one in front of him.
“Good God,” Richard exclaimed. He realized he was ravenous. As he tucked in, Bishop filled a bowl of water and placed it on the floor. “Thank you,” Richard said. “Toby will find that soon enough.”
“No problem. I can probably scare up some leftovers for him later, too.”
Richard took another long pull and waved at the patrons. “Tell me about them.”
Bishop nodded. “Okay, so the table I was just at? The tall guy is Stockton, and the shorter guy is Paulo. They’re graduates of the college. I am, too. We all went to school together, back in the early ’90s. The young woman is a current student. Her name is Tilly. You’ll like her. She’s bubbly.”
“What are they arguing about?” Richard asked.
“The exact meaning of homoousian,” Bishop said. “Stockton is maintaining that it means ‘identical,’ while Paulo insists it means ‘of common origin.’ Tilly is a Unitarian, and she thinks they’re both splitting hairs.”
“Oh my God,” Richard said. “This is exactly the kind of shit my order mates argue about.”
“Okay, see that larger table, over there?” Bishop pointed toward the far corner.
“Yeah,” Richard said. About six people were gathered around it, all of them looking down intently at their books. “Study group?”
“In a way,” Bishop said. “It’s a weekly working group, half Christians, half Thelemites. They’re mapping Paul’s Epistle to the Galatians to—”
“To The Book of the Law,” Richard breathed. “Fucking brilliant. How far are they?”
“About halfway through,” he said. “They’re using Paul as their organizing structure, and hopscotching around Liber Al vel Legis, but you’d be surprised at the number of parallels.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t,” Richard laughed. He took another sip and sighed deeply. “I feel like I’m…home.”
“I’m glad,” Bishop said.
“You’ve got your own little corner of the Kingdom going here.”
Bishop nodded, with obvious satisfaction. “It’s imperfect, but Jesus shows up.” He leaned on the bar and looked Richard in the eye. Richard felt chills run up his spine. He also felt the fern leaf of his penis begin to unfurl. He ignored Duunel’s profanity-laced complaints. He stared back into those eyes.
“So, I gather you need a bishop,” Bishop said.
“Oh. Desperately,” Richard answered.
89
PRESTER JOHN STOOD outside and watched the Blackfriars walk down the street toward the “BART station,” whatever that was. They waved back at him as they neared the end of the block. He raised his hand in farewell. Then they turned the corner and were gone from his sight. He sighed. “‘Special forces,’ my hairy bollocks,” he said out loud to himself. He turned and went to tend to his horse.
90
A SILENCE FELL over the Blackfriars as they boarded at the central Berkeley BART station. People stared at the strange gaggle in their Anglican cassocks. Kat smiled at them patiently. It had taken a while to get used to wearing the long black robe, but she was beginning to grow fond of it. It was roomy, smart looking, and one didn’t have to waste precious time wondering what to wear for the day.
She pulled out her phone and emailed Randy. In a couple of minutes, a reply came back: “Can’t hover near the computer for long. Lots of activity here today. I hear you’re providing security—good, he’ll need it. I know you guys think he’s the Antichrist or something, but I kind of like him. And I think you’re nuts anyway. BTW, I’m not sure how clear he was with that gay Asian guy of yours, but when Bishop Preston said he’d meet you at the service entrance, he meant the southwest service entrance. Don’t be at the wrong place! Ciao, Sis.”
Kat felt relief wash over her. He was okay. More than okay, he was on mission. She leaned over and handed the phone to Dylan. He read it slowly and carefully, and his eyebrows shot up near the end of it. “Good stuff!” he said. “Ah know Moscone Center has two halves to it, East Center and West Center, but it never occurred to meh to ask which one.”
He passed the phone to Terry, who nodded. “Good catch, Randy,” he said. “But I have to object to being reduced to ‘the gay Asian guy.’ There’s so much more bloom to my flower than that.”
“After all, you’re an artist,” Mikael added, accepting the phone from Terry. “And a chef renowned for your bean pâté, and you’re an international man of mystery—”
“Just stop,” Terry commanded. “Although my bean pâté is no slouch.”
Mikael grinned a mean grin as he read the message. He handed the phone back to Kat, who pocketed it.
The rest of the ride passed quickly, and as the doors opened on the Montgomery Street BART station, Kat acquiesced to the current of the stream of people passing from the train up the stairs to the surface.
Once there, the walk was brisk, as was the weather. Although Berkeley was comfortably warm, all bets were off in San Francisco, a mere fifteen miles away.
Kat loved watching the teeming crowds as they rushed to and fro in San Francisco’s business district. As they crossed Market Street, she saw the garish façade of the Museum of Modern Art to her left, while straight ahead a mob of protesters was corralled behind waist-high metal fences bearing the SFPD insignia. Bullhorns raged, but the sound was so distorted that Kat couldn’t make out the words. The signs were easy enough to read, though. One read, GREAT LAKES GENOCIDE, and another read, MOSQUES NOT BOMBS. Kat breathed deeply and kept walking.
To her right, the massive Moscone Center edged unobtrusively out of the ground. Kat had been inside several times—most recently, the Blackfriars had attended a science fiction convention there together. It was mostl
y underground, split like a butterfly into equally spacious centers east of Howard Street and west of it.
Turning right on Howard, Dylan strode ahead of them. To the left Kat saw the stairs leading down to the half-mile-long row of doors that served as the entrance to the East Center. A parallel string of doors stretched out to her right for the West Center. Both sides were teeming with life, with black-suited men hurrying up and down the stairs, talking in rapid-fire bursts with smart-looking women in pantsuits and power dresses.
Dylan went past the westside doors and turned right again on Fourth Street, where another barricade kept protesters at a respectful distance from the center. These were singing, “Jesus loves the little children…” One huge sign had a picture of a vaguely Middle Eastern little girl. Kat’s heart leaped into her throat. These people probably thought they were going to the convention. She wished she could let them know somehow that she was on their side, that she felt like them—that she, too, was so angry that she could hardly see straight.
But of course, there was no time. They turned right into the first alley leading to the southside rear entrances of the West Center. It was a typical San Francisco alley, and nothing particularly stood out to Kat. Debris littered the ground. A bicycle was chained to a No Parking sign, and dumpsters were scattered in an asymmetrical pattern.
The alley dead-ended at a black metal wall of doors that must, Kat supposed, be their destination. Dylan seemed to think so, too, as he strode resolutely toward the doors and pounded on one of them with his thick, hammy fist. He bounced on the balls of his feet until the rest of them caught up to him.
“Just as I imagined,” Mikael said.
“I was expecting more of a welcoming party,” Terry said. “You know, Secret Service agents waving their handheld electronic probes—”
“That was your wet dream last night,” Mikael teased.
“Fair enough,” Terry smiled. “A girl can hope, after all.”