The Lucifer Messiah

by Frank Cavallo

  “I don’t want to wait another thirty years. That’s for sure. Go ahead,” he answered.

  Maggie was reluctant. His skin was so pale. He was sweating even though his forehead was cold to the touch. This wasn’t the time to dredge up dirty laundry. Nevertheless, she began anyway.

  “Well, I was mad at you, for a long time. I still am. A little, I think,” she said.

  “Mad at me? How’s that?”

  “For leaving the way you did. Maybe just for leaving. For all the times that I needed you here.”

  There was a lot she wanted to say, but her thoughts only came out in fragments.

  Sean’s reply seemed like more of a sneer than anything else. “You had Vince.”

  “That’s not fair, and you know it. What happened, happened. I made a choice, and I’ve had to live with that ever since,” she answered.

  “I could say the same for myself.”

  “Yeah. I suppose you could. But at least I had the courtesy to tell you about mine. Do you think that was easy? It tore me apart, but I did it. I did it because you were my friend and I cared about you. When you ran away you didn’t even say goodbye,” she said, finding it easier to let her feelings out the longer the conversation went on.

  Sean, on the other hand, answered flatly. His tone was so vacant that the words seemed totally absent of emotion. “I hate goodbyes. I’ve made too many of them in my life. Always saying goodbye to someone, or someplace.”

  Maggie shook her head. He could still disappoint her, even half a lifetime later.

  Leaving him on the chair, she turned her back, and walked to the other side of the room. Sean almost settled his head back down, expecting her to have lost patience. She hadn’t, though, and she proved it by opening Vince’s old phonograph.

  There were a few records piled next to it. One was already on the turntable. She placed the needle down gently, and the single spun. At first there was just the familiar crackle and static, then a hint of a tune that almost felt distant, until the horns blared.

  “Do you remember this?” she asked, her back still turned.

  Sean perked up his ears. The music was soft, but it had a strong tempo. He couldn’t quite place it. He knew it, but it had been so long. As soon as he heard John McCormack’s tenor voice, though, he remembered. He remembered everything.

  Up to mighty London came an Irish lad one day

  All the streets were paved with gold

  So everyone was gay!

  The first line brought it all back.

  “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” he said, a certain satisfaction clear in his voice. “I haven’t heard this in years.”

  Neither one spoke for a moment. They just listened to the old tune, to a song that seemed to have been everywhere during the War.

  Singing songs of Piccadilly, Strand and

  Leicester Square

  Till Paddie got excited and he shouted to Them there

  “I played it earlier, but you were passed out. I used to cry every time I heard this. Especially after you were gone,” she said, turning back to face him from across the room.

  It’s a long way to Tipper-ary

  It’s a long way to go

  It’s a long way to Tipper-ary

  To the sweetest girl I know!

  “I’m sorry.”

  It was all he could think to say.

  “Sorry?” she shot back.

  “For that. For this. I was angry in those days. You were my world, you and Vince. When you told me you were gonna marry him, it was … I don’t know, it wasn’t like anything, really. It was the worst thing I could imagine, the worst thing in the whole world, so I thought.”

  His bout of coughing grew worse then, and he had to clear his throat of what he guessed was blood, from the sickening flavor of it. Finally, he was able to finish his thought.

  “If I had to do it again, I would have made different choices. If I’d known then what I know now.”

  His fit did not end with the close of his words. Maggie rushed from the phonograph back over to the chair, holding his head as he choked on the blood and phlegm. In only a moment he was passed out. She found herself pondering his words alone, with only the scratchy old recording to keep her company again.

  “Yeah. I might have too, if I’d known then.”

  TEN

  THE CHILD-WHO-WAS-NOT-A-CHILD, WHO HIS ASSOciates called Argus, sipped his tea with the hand of a connoisseur. In his elegant, but uncommonly tiny suit, he sat quietly, feet dangling from the edge of his chair. There were only a few others in the diner to notice him. A cabbie with a day-old beard growth sat nibbling on dry toast at the end of the counter. A lady of the evening, still done up for a night on the town, waited for her late-night snack as she counted her trick money before calling it quits.

  It was quiet, almost surreal for Manhattan, a town that was buzzing seemingly at all hours. Outside the slightly steamed restaurant windows a few trucks made their way through mostly empty streets, accompanied only by the rush of the sewer vents and the occasional homeless straggler. It was Argus’s favorite time of the day.

  During the dawn hour, when the moments seemed to stretch longer than at any other point of the day, he often found himself drawn back over the many years of his long, long life. The older he grew, in fact, the more he enjoyed casting his thoughts backward, rather than forward.

  The child-who-was-not-a-child had seen that sun rise more than five hundred thousand times. And with each one there was a memory.

  Prague, December 1923 was the one that drew his attention this morning.

  He could still hear the icy water rushing over the rapids of the Vltava, just beyond the Charles Bridge. He could almost see the battlements of the castle_Pražský Hrad, bastion of ancient Czech kings, rising defiantly through the early day’s haze. And he could still smell the pungent odor of a man who had not bathed; a stink that he well recalled had carried downwind from where the disheveled figure sat along the riverbank.

  He had been huddled, wrapped in a urine-stained cloak beneath a barren tree. A steaming mess of yellowish puke had oozed over the near cobblestones, an empty bottle of vodka at its center.

  Argus had approached him carefully, for he had walked with a cane in 1923, a thing he distinctly remembered, perhaps better than any of the other details of that day. His thin, withered legs had not been able to carry him swiftly in those days, and he had several times brushed long, white hair from his eyes as he neared. Charybdis had been at his side then, and he well recalled how his loyal aide had looked in those days as well.

  1923 had been a good year for Charybdis. He was strong then, tall and broad-shouldered, with the Nordic features of a Dane or a Swede. An aristocratic beard on his chin lent him the bearing of a noble in exile. A perfect watchman for the little old lady named Argus, as she neared the drunk at the edge of Prague’s central river.

  “Are you certain of it?” Argus questioned, his voice the shrill whine of a hag.

  “As sure as I can be without seeing him myself. The owner of the bar described the scene to me personally. If his memory was even close, then we may be in luck,” Charybdis answered.

  “What did he say again, exactly?”

  “That a woman wandered into his beer hall three nights ago, tall, beautiful, and speaking English with an American accent. Every man in the place bought her a drink, and by midnight she was utterly drunk. One of the bolder of the patrons retired with her to the rear of the hall, to a private room.”

  “Not much to speak of so far, Charybdis,” Argus interrupted as they neared to within several yards of the tree where the lone beggar sat.

  “It will be. Only the girl and the man, a regular at the tavern, entered the private room, and the owner assures me that no one else was back there. Then, about five minutes later, after some loud and unusual sounds echoed from that area, a single male stumbled out of the room, half dressed in the clothes of the man who had entered. The second man, who no one had seen before, ordered a dr
ink and secluded himself in the shadow of a corner booth. A few minutes later, someone checked the room and found—are you ready?

  “The man who had entered with the girl, knocked unconscious and naked. No girl anywhere in sight—just her clothes scattered on the floor.”

  “Interesting.”

  “So the owner checked the booth where the male no one recognized had sat down a few minutes earlier, and what did he find? The blond girl, alone and dressed in the guy’s clothes, finishing the drink that the unknown man had ordered.”

  “What did he do?”

  “The owner grabbed her by the arm, and picked her up to demand an explanation. A second later, he dropped her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when he looked at it in the light, the arm was a snake.”

  “He was drunk as well?” Argus chided.

  “Maybe, but there’s more. After he dropped the snake the girl slumped back into the booth, again, all in shadow. When she got up a few seconds later, it wasn’t her, it was the strange guy again, and he walked out of the bar, stumbling, drunk, and laughing.”

  “Sounds like one of us,” Argus said.

  “Based on his description, I’d say that huddled scavenger over there is our man,” Charybdis replied.

  The pair walked slowly, like hunters stalking prey. Slumped and quivering, the quarry did not appear dangerous to all outward appearances. If he were indeed the man they suspected him of being, however, then they knew that he was likely the single most dangerous man in Prague, if not in all of Europe besides.

  They neared with great caution.

  Argus placed a shriveled hand on the beggar’s shoulder, fighting back his instinct to choke on the brew of stale alcohol and human waste that hung about him. Charybdis waited beside him, prepared for trouble if it should arise.

  “My son. Let us help you,” Argus said, gently lifting the head of the unfortunate wretch.

  Immediately he realized that his search had ended. The face was that of Sean Mulcahy, just as he remembered it from the first and only time he’d seen it, in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 1918.

  Argus recalled taking hold of the young drunk, and carrying him to a waiting carriage. From there they had taken him to a small two-story home in Zizkov, a sheltered neighborhood outside the bustle of the city center. They’d used the side entrance to avoid dragging the dirty young American through their spotless foyer.

  He had awakened after a bath and a drink of black coffee. Argus laughed as he thought on it, for the young man’s voice and manner had been, in those days, almost as foul as his odor.

  They wasted little time. Once Sean regained his consciousness, they settled in the central room of their suite. Still somewhat woozy, Sean nestled into the folds of a soft ermine couch next to a crackling fireplace. The little old lady in the black dress and stringy white hair left briefly, leaving him alone with the tall Viking.

  “Where am I?” Sean asked.

  “The Haven of the Three Shields,” Charybdis answered from beside him.

  A moment later the tiny woman returned. Hobbling on her gnarled cane, she clutched something large close to her breast. It was a book, which she presented to Sean when she sat down beside him on the couch, the Nordic man still standing.

  “Our home, here in Prague. Your home as well, if you wish it to be,” Argus added.

  “I ain’t got no home,” Sean said.

  “Very well, many of us are wanderers. For whatever you choose to do, know that you may stay here as long as you like. You are safe here, my son.”

  “Safe? From what?”

  “From the outside; from those who do not understand us and who fear what they do not understand.”

  “Us?” Sean questioned, sitting up fully as Argus opened the ancient book across his lap. “What is this?” the American asked.

  “Take it, my son. It may answer some of your questions,” Argus replied, settling the leather-bound volume to rest comfortably in his lap. The hide cover was beaten and timeworn. The pages cracked when he opened it. Argus pointed a knobby finger to a gold leaf that jutted out from the middle of it. “Here, the page where I’ve marked it. Begin there. I’ve brought the English translation.”

  Sean cast an incredulous eye at the old woman and her tall aide, but he did as the lady asked.

  “The words of Nestor, second Keeper of the Lore, as spoken to his scribe, the honored Galatea”

  It did not take long for him to offer his own commentary, however.

  “What the hell is this shit?”

  “Read,” was all the old lady Argus replied.

  “In the early day, as the green glen cradled the mist, and the sparrows announced the coming of the sun, he came to me as if spoken from a dream. First merely words, then words made flesh and earth and stone, brought to life in the haze that spread in every direction”

  Sean cringed, but he kept reading.

  “When mortal men walk among the clouds, like the gods their fathers banished, he will come. Unlike any born of the human line before, a trickster who will shed all bonds. Seek him when the master grows weary, sated from fifty feasts, the Keeper will fall to the bringer of the light, the one who was, and who will come again.

  “Then shall there be a new dawn. The star of morning will lead the flock back to their peace long lost. From across the veil of night, far in the cold north by way of the western sea. Lucifer of old will be reborn.”

  The end of the page brought yet more comments from the young New Yorker.

  “There. I read it. Happy, lady? I didn’t follow a damn word.”

  “No? You should, Lucifer,” Argus said, moving closer to him and pointing at the words on the yellowed page.

  “What? You really are a crazy old coot aren’t you?”

  “You’ve no idea how right you are,” Argus answered, getting up from the couch to stand before Sean.

  “See, at least we got somethin’ between us. Now, if we’re all done with the mumbo-jumbo, it’s been nice talkin’ with you guys, but I’ve got some Czech beer with my name written all over it.”

  “About my age, that is. I am one very old creature indeed. In fact, you’re far more right than you could possibly know.”

  Sean merely sighed, but he delayed his exit long enough for Argus to finish her words.

  “I was born in the year you know as A.D. 395, anno Domini in the language I was taught to speak as a boy.”

  “As a boy? Right.” Sean almost smiled, now he knew the old hag was nuts. “I’ll give you credit, you look good for your age. I stand corrected. Nice talking with you.”

  “Wait. I am telling the truth. I was born in Milan during the first year of the reign of Flavius Honorius, son of Theodosius the First. As a child I saw the Visigoths ride south toward Rome in 402. Later, I was a consort to one of Charlemagne’s knights. Even later I stood beside Duke Godfrey, and saw Jerusalem burn in 1099. But you have no reason to believe any of that.”

  “You’re right there.”

  “But you will believe this,” she said, her voice falling into a whisper. “/ know what you are”

  Sean felt a sudden, uncomfortable chill. He knew exactly what the old woman meant, even though he wished with all his heart that he didn’t.

  “Yeah, what am I? I ain’t crazy, I’ll tell you that,” he finally answered, mustering all of his street-kid false bravado.

  “No, but you are quite a rare breed, only one or two like you in a century.”

  Sean’s expression went cold.

  “Don’t worry. You’re among friends here, I assure you. Others of your kind. Well, maybe not exactly your kind, but very much like you, in any case. Including me, by the way.”

  “And you are?”

  “They call me Argus. And I would very much like to be your friend.”

  A soft touch on his shoulder broke him from his spell, and Argus found himself back in the diner, back in New York and 1946. It was Arachne. There was a dire look played out across her delicate features
.

  “You must come quickly. Charybdis has sent me to find you,” she said in a hushed tone.

  Her cheeks were red and there was a hint of sweat in her blond hair. She paused after she spoke, to regain her breath before finishing.

  “Something has happened at the church!”

  ELEVEN

  THEY HAD HUSTLED AS FAST AS POSSIBLE THE SEVEN north-south blocks and four long east-west blocks back to the burned-out cathedral, Arachne resorting to carrying her boyish master the last three. Charybdis was waiting for them when they arrived.

  A shriek echoed from inside as they stopped.

  “It’s begun,” the dark-cloaked African said as they hurried into the shelter of the cathedral.

  Inside was a scene of the macabre.

  Nearly a dozen people were gathered on the broken-down altar at the rear of the place, each holding a candle that made for the only light in the musty hall. They were encircled, and chanting in an ancient, labyrinthine dialect. The long shadows from their tapers danced upon the walls in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

  In the middle of their ritual circle something writhed on the sooty ground.

  And it screamed.

  Argus and his aides rushed to the altar. The inhuman howling reaching a fever pitch as they neared.

  “When did it start?” he asked.

  “Not more than three hours ago. I had the local hospitals under our watch, as per your orders. An ambulance brought this one in from off the street. No one knew what to do with her. Our people spirited her out and brought her here,” Charybdis answered.

  “Do we know who it is?” Arachne asked.

  “Not yet. She was already in the midst of it when we rescued her. She has not come out yet,” the dark-skinned woman replied.

  “Is this the first?” Arachne asked.

  “That we know of, at least. It’s still early, but it means the time is rapidly approaching. Within days the condition will afflict all of us,” Charybdis answered.

  Argus, though the smallest of the gathered folk, moved through the circle with a wave of his palm. Then he saw firsthand the source of the awful screams.