The 13 th tribe if-1

by Robert Liparulo

  Tyler grinned.

  “Think about it,” Leo said, addressing Beth. “False gods corrupt the spirit. How can they not? They draw you away from the real God, from his love and protection and moral laws. Then we start looking for things to make us feel better, and we turn to”-he pointed at the lower portion of the painting-“that.”

  “That may be,” Beth said. “But we don’t need to see it.”

  Leo tilted his head, raised his eyebrows. “I disagree. Sin is a car wreck of the spirit. They show high school kids pictures of accidents, bodies and all. ‘This is what happens when you drink and drive-or text and drive.’ Why not show the result of sin: depravity, death.”

  “I believe focusing on positive rewards works better than negative reinforcement.”

  “We’re wired to respond to both.” He made a grab at Tyler’s nose. “What works for your son?”

  She gave him a lopsided smile and conceded, “Both. But I don’t want to be scared into heaven.”

  Leo’s smile grew wider. “When it comes to eternal salvation, don’t you think the best strategy is whatever works?”

  “Still, I don’t need to see it or read it or watch it to know sin is bad for us.”

  “I think we all need reminders: Michelangelo’s depiction of souls being dragged to hell on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel; Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings of demons eating sinners, skinning them alive. Scandalous during their times, but now most of us can appreciate that the artists weren’t trying to titillate us, but tell us the truth about sin.” He scratched at the sparse hair on his cheek. “Can you see yourself as one of the women in this painting?”

  “No,” Beth said definitively.

  “Thank God for that,” Leo said. “Thank him with all of your heart because you know how bad it can be-how bad you can be-without him.”

  “I don’t-” Beth stopped herself. She was going to say she didn’t have to hear the details of child abuse to understand how awful it is. But a thought occurred to her: Didn’t she hate drunkenness and irresponsibility a thousand times more than she had before the accident that had taken Jagger’s arm and the lives of an entire family? Hadn’t she come to hate those things maybe as much as God did? Didn’t it make sense that intimate exposure to sin and the grief it causes-even through art-would nudge her closer to the level of abhorrence for sin that God felt?

  She nodded, giving Leo this debate.

  “So can I see it?” Tyler said.

  “No,” she said. “Not yet.” There was still such a thing as age appropriateness.

  “Mom,” Tyler whined.

  “Tyler, I said-”

  “I have to go to the bathroom. Now.”

  Gheronda raised his hand to point out the restroom, but Beth said, “I’ll take him back to the apartment. We’ve already kept you from your work too long.”

  “Thank you,” Tyler said, rushing along their good-byes. He was squirming now.

  “And you too, Father Leo,” Beth said, “for the food for thought.”

  He bowed his head. “Bon appetit.”

  She took Tyler’s hand and headed for the door at the other end of the hall. He broke away and ran, kicking up the treasures in his utility case: kich-kich-kich-kich-kich…

  “Don’t run!” she hoarse-whispered. She glanced back. The two men were appraising the diptych, as though they hadn’t done so countless times. It didn’t matter if she ever saw it again-she would never forget the depravity it depicted, the twisted delight of its faces, or the nausea it had stirred in her.

  [18]

  Nevaeh pushed her palm against her forehead, willing her headache to go away. “Creed, listen,” she said, without looking at him, “it’s never bothered you before.”

  “It does now.”

  The sadness she detected in his voice surprised her. Until moments ago, his words had been sharp with defiance and anger. She realized his face had softened; his eyes were pleading. She glanced at Ben, sitting behind his big desk, a book open in front of him. His finger was still pressed against a passage he had quoted a minute before. And he went after the man of Israel into the chamber, and thrust both of them through, the man of Israel, and the woman through her belly. So the plague was stayed from the children of Israel.

  Creed hadn’t wanted to hear it-or any argument against his opinion-and now Nevaeh didn’t want to hear him.

  He spoke anyway: “It’s one thing to mete out justice to a criminal, but this… this plan… There will be too many innocents.”

  “‘Now kill all the boys,’” Ben said, “ ‘And kill every woman-’ ”

  Creed slapped his hand on the desk. “Stop quoting Scripture to me,” he said. “I know it as well as you do.” He sighed and said quietly, “That was then… this is now.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair and rubbed his goatee. “What’s changed?” he said. “Did God?”

  “Yes!” Creed said and paused. “No.”

  Nevaeh said, “‘All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’ ”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to kill them, not like this,” Creed said. “Everyone deserves a chance.”

  Nevaeh tilted her head. “At what?”

  “Salvation,” Creed said. “Redemption.”

  “Do we?”

  Creed blinked. “Yes.”

  “Then where is it?” Nevaeh snapped. “Where is it, Creed? How long do we have to wait?”

  “That’s another issue,” Ben said. His deep voice and crisp diction imbued the words with authority. “Right now we’re addressing Creed’s concerns regarding our plan.”

  “We’re not addressing anything,” Nevaeh said, waving a dismissive hand at Creed. “It’s like talking to a brick wall.”

  “Creed,” Ben said patiently, “when God’s people crossed the Jordan into Canaan, they cleansed the land of the pagans living there. Everyone: men, women, and children.”

  Nevaeh said, “They were directed by God to do so.”

  “Where’s our directive?” Creed demanded. It’d been a point of contention among them for centuries: just how did God communicate with his children once burning bushes and pillars of fire fell out of vogue?

  “It’s come through prayers,” Nevaeh said, “dreams.”

  “Inspired by you and your desires,” Creed asked, “or his?”

  “He paves our way,” Nevaeh said. “We listen when he foils our efforts… and when he aids them.”

  “You can’t say that because God allows it, he wants it.”

  Ben said, “Our actions have always been consistent with his revealed word.”

  “As you interpret it,” Creed said. “The people of Canaan would have corrupted the Israelites, seduced God’s people into worshipping false gods, acting like pagans.”

  Ben spread his hands. “And you’re saying the ways of the modern world don’t?”

  “You can’t rid the world of blasphemous influences,” Creed said. “Trying to is just pointless… and cruel.”

  Ben tapped the Bible in front of him. “More than cleansing Canaan of bad influences, the destruction of those towns was symbolic, a sign for everyone who came after-everyone who reads the Bible now or who ever did-that God demands loyalty, and death will come to everyone who betrays his will.”

  “So you’re planning the destruction of an entire city to prove a point? To try to teach religion to a world that won’t listen?”

  Ben sighed. He lowered his face into his hands. Finally he said, “Yes.”

  “That’s just wrong,” Creed said. “It turns us into the very criminals we’ve been trying to rid the world of.”

  “Round and round,” Nevaeh said, heading for the door. “Chat about it all you want. We resolved this a long time ago.” She strode into the dark corridor, feeling the eyeless sockets of the skulls watching her. “We have a precedent for this,” she called back. “A divine precedent.”

  [19]

  Nevaeh stormed past her own room and stopped before reaching the next one. The he
avy wooden door was open, allowing light, music, and the children’s voices to spill out. Their laughter and playful banter calmed her, reminded her not to take everything so seriously.

  She took a deep breath, stepped into the entrance, and leaned against the doorframe. It was a big space, lighted by two bare bulbs whose wires had been tacked to the stone ceiling. Two beds-plump with blankets and pillows-and two dressers were situated on opposite ends. Heavy wooden chests of varying shapes and sizes ran the length of the back wall. Stuffed with toys, they nevertheless failed to hold the children’s collection, which was piled against the chests and walls, scattered around the room: dolls and pull toys; board games and puzzles; containers of Play-Doh, Silly Putty, Legos, Erector Sets. It looked like a missile had struck a toy store.

  The left side of the room was Jordan’s, and its walls marked his territory as clearly as a dog claimed a backyard: a slingshot; BB, Airsoft, and paintball guns; an oak dartboard so pocked and pitted that it was concave, its markings long gone. Posters displaying hot-dogging skateboarders, exotic sports cars, sharks. If a glance didn’t tell you the age and gender of the occupant, you didn’t know eleven-year-old boys.

  Conversely, the right side was all little girl: stuffed animals, princess gowns, children’s purses and daypacks with monogrammed names. Small shelves held snow globes, frilly dressed dolls, and porcelain figurines. Posters depicted cartoon characters, Disney princesses, and teddy bears posed in a variety of human activities.

  A large area rug-in a gender-neutral lemon-filled the center of the room.

  Crouching atop a chest, Jordan was aligning an army of wooden Roman soldiers, each a foot tall, in bowling-pin formation. Toby sat against the wall by the entrance, tossing a beanbag in the air and catching it.

  Nevaeh nudged him with her foot. “Why aren’t you practicing?”

  “Sebastian’s goofing around with the simulator. Like this song?”

  Nevaeh listened. It was a ballad, “Forever Young,” the version by Meatloaf. “Funny,” she said, without any humor.

  Toby just grinned.

  Jordan balanced the last soldier, then raised his arm. “Go!” he said. Toby chucked the beanbag, and half of the soldiers scattered across the floor.

  “Five! Ha!” Jordan said. “That’s…” He wiggled his fingers, calculating. “Thirty-two. If you don’t get nine on the next throw, I win.” He tossed the beanbag back to Toby and began resetting the centurions.

  “I’ll get in on this,” Nevaeh said. “My dao says you don’t get nine, Toby.” He’d had his eye on the ancient Han-era sword for some time.

  Toby squinted up at her. “Seriously? Against what?”

  She smiled. “The obol.”

  He laid his palm over his thigh, where she knew he could feel the medallion in his pants pocket. “No way,” he said.

  She shrugged. “A punch, then.”

  “I’m not going to punch you, Nev.”

  “You won’t have to.” She could tell he didn’t like her confidence in his failure.

  “All right, then. Start thinking about which arm you want numb for a week.” He hardened his jaw and eyed the targets, which Jordan was still arranging. Jordan’s hand bumped one, causing three to tumble.

  Lying facedown on the floor, her chin propped on a pillow, Hannah giggled. Her hands gripped the ever-present Rebekah, a threadbare doll with an olive wood face and stone eyes. She smiled up at Nevaeh and said, “Look at my feet.” The little girl’s legs bent up at the knees, and she crossed and uncrossed her ankles as fast as she could. “Is that funny?”

  The things that entertain a six-year-old mind, Nevaeh thought. “Very funny,” she said and sat on the rug beside her. She began rubbing Hannah’s back. “Getting close to bedtime, Hannah, honey.”

  Hannah craned her head around to look at her. “I don’t want to be Hannah anymore,” she said.

  “You don’t? Who do you want to be?”

  “Alexa.”

  “You were already Alexa,” Toby said without looking away from the soldiers. “About a hundred years ago.”

  “I don’t remember. I like it.”

  Nevaeh nodded. “Okay, then, Alexa it is.”

  “And I want dark hair.” She flashed teeth as tiny as kernels of corn.

  Nevaeh lifted a handful of the girl’s locks and let it fall onto her back. “That’ll be very pretty,” she agreed.

  Toby gave Nevaeh a double take and tapped his cheek. She rubbed her face, felt a crusty smudge, and scraped at it with a fingernail. Dried blood.

  “Whose?” Toby said.

  “Nobody you know.”

  “You went without me?” Sounding disappointed. “Does Ben know? Is that why you’re fighting?”

  “Not with Ben,” she said. “Creed’s the one being difficult.”

  Toby nodded. “For a long time. Just like Kayla and Saul and…”

  “Shhh,” she said. “Creed’s not going anywhere.”

  Jordan got all the dolls aligned and stood on the toy box. “Go,” he said.

  Toby raised the beanbag and shook it, closing one eye.

  “Hey, batter, batter,” Jordan said.

  “Quiet,” Toby said. He hurled the beanbag, picking off a single soldier.

  “Oh yeah!” Jordan said. “I’ve beat you like ten thousand times.”

  “Right,” Toby said.

  “ More than ten thousand. I wrote it down.”

  “Show me, then, you little puke.”

  “ Tobias,” Nevaeh said. “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.” He grinned. “Give or take.”

  She shook her head. “Be nice.”

  “Tell that to them.” He cocked his head toward the door. Ben’s and Creed’s voices had grown loud. The accusations and insults reverberated off the stones and bones and drifted into the bedroom.

  She said, “Takes a lot to wear down Ben’s patience, but I guess-”

  Something crashed in the corridor, followed by a pained scream and angry yelling.

  Nevaeh sprang for the door. Toby hopped up, and as she passed him, Nevaeh punched him hard in the chest, knocking him back against the wall and onto his butt. Rubbing his chest, he groaned and said, “How old are you?”

  “You know I always collect,” she said and winked. She went through the doorway. Framed by the light coming from Ben’s room, the two men struggled in the corridor. Creed had Ben pushed back into the skull wall and was pounding at his head with a book. Ben had a handful of Creed’s shirt, while the other hand pistoned into his ribs.

  Hurrying toward them, Nevaeh considered letting them beat each other senseless. Creed deserved it, and heaven knew she’d wanted more than once to shove Ben’s books down the old man’s throat. But without really thinking about it, she ran up behind Creed and hooked her arms under his. She shot her foot out, striking Ben in the chest harder than she intended, and pulled Creed away. Before Ben could follow, Toby inserted himself between them and stiffened his arms.

  “Now, boys,” Nevaeh said. She glared at Ben over Creed’s shoulder.

  Sweat glimmered on Ben’s bald dome. The book had opened a small cut at the corner of his eyebrow, and blood trickled over his cheek. He panted and stared Creed down. Then he knocked Toby’s arms away, snatched the book out of Creed’s hand, and brushed past them into his room.

  Nevaeh shoved Creed down the hall. He stumbled and fell to the floor between Hannah- Alexa — and Jordan, who’d pushed themselves against opposite walls. He rolled over to scowl at Nevaeh.

  She jabbed a finger at him, said, “We’re a family, Creed. A tribe. Sometimes you have to just go along with what the rest of us do.”

  Creed ran the back of his hand over his lips, smearing blood. “Not this time,” he said.

  “It’s happening,” she said. “Live with it.”

  Jordan stepped forward and held a hand down to Creed. Nevaeh knew the boy wasn’t used to strife among them. It wouldn’t surprise her if he also gave Creed a hug and expected everything to b
e better. But when Creed was up, Jordan simply backed up to his spot against the wall.

  Alexa sniffed and wiped away a tear. Creed ran a hand over her head and smiled softly at her. He frowned at Nevaeh, turned, and walked away.

  Ben dropped into the chair behind his desk. He pulled a handkerchief from a drawer and dabbed his forehead. He looked at the blood and shook his head. What had gotten into him? He was used to debating theology with the others. He should not have let Creed get to him.

  But he knew what was bothering him. For some time, doubt had been seeping into his thoughts, trying to corrupt his convictions the way moisture rusts metal. Creed’s words had rattled him; he’d felt them strike his heart-and had felt his heart repel them. It wasn’t logic combating illogic. It was stone ignoring the stroke of a gloved hand. He was hard, yes; all the Tribe were, they had to be. What he felt now was something different. He didn’t know what it was, but something wasn’t quite right.

  He lowered his head. God, is that you? Are you talking to me through Creed? Soften my heart, Lord, make me hear…

  But before long, all he could think about were the plans they’d made to attack the city, about their massive strike against evil. He tightened his lips and nodded. It was the right thing to do. It had to be.

  His fingers slid under the Bible on his desk and slammed it shut.

  [20]

  The knife slipped, pinging against Jagger’s metal hook. He sat in a stout wooden chair on the third-floor walkway in front of their apartment, whittling on a thick branch he’d found in the monastery’s gardens. The physical therapist in Virginia had suggested the craft as a way of becoming dexterous with RoboHand. At first he could barely hold a piece of wood, let alone clamp it tight enough to accommodate the knife’s pressure. But now his biggest worry was leaving indentations in an area of wood he’d already sculpted. He’d even mastered using his non-hand to work the knife, which he did to initially shape the piece. Then he’d switch the knife into his real hand to whittle in delicate details.