Andy, however, had the strength advantage, and could hit the ball harder than she could. It wasn’t unusual for a racquetball to exceed speeds of ninety miles per hour, and when it was bouncing off four walls that didn’t make for an easy return. Andy was also several inches taller than Sun, so he hit the ball high whenever he had a chance, and often the bounce would sail over her head out of reach.
After twenty minutes Andy was able to cut Sun’s lead down to one point. His sweatshirt was soaked enough to wring-out, and it was becoming harder to catch his breath between volleys.
Sun didn’t appear to be sweating at all.
“You can take a break if you need one,” she told him. Her smirk was barely concealed.
He pursed his lips and didn’t answer. She served and scored.
“Twelve to ten, are you sure you don’t want to get some water?”
Water did sound good.
“After the game. Serve.”
It only took four more serves for Sun to win.
She shook his hand with vigor, her smile wide and genuine. Andy handled the loss easily. He just wanted something to drink.
A few minutes later they were in the Mess Hall, each with a large glass of water. Andy was on his third.
“You’re better than I thought,” Sun said. “You actually gave me a little trouble.”
“You could play professionally.”
“Well, I did, kind of. American Racquetball Association. Won a few tournaments. No big deal, really. Racquetball stars don’t get too many product endorsements.”
“You might have shared that info with me before we bet a thousand bucks.”
“We’ve still got an hour before Bub is ready for his next lesson. Want to play again? Double or nothing?”
Andy could feel his muscles starting to cramp up. He knew he wouldn’t get through another game. But she was so earnest, so cute. Her eyes were wide and bright and her cheeks had a lovely flush to them. Such a change from the dour, strict women he’d met yesterday.
“Race said something about a pool table. Do you play?”
“I haven’t for a while.”
“How about a game of nine ball, double or nothing?”
Sun grinned. “You’re on. I need to shower and change first. See you in Purple 5 in twenty minutes?”
“It’s a date,” Andy said.
And as she trotted off, he sincerely hoped it was.
Rabbi Menachem Shotzen ended his nightly kaddish by asking G-d to help his friend, Father Thrist, with his crisis of faith.
He took off his braided kippah—a skull cap he received at bar mitzvah, and put it in his tallis bag on top of his tzitzit and his tefillin, both of which were worn only for morning prayer.
The Rabbi glanced at his nightstand. He knew what it contained. And he knew that only minutes prior, he had pleaded with G-d to give him the strength to avoid it.
Shotzen turned away from the temptation and instead seated himself at a small desk to proofread the latest pages of his memoirs.
He hefted the manuscript, now over fifteen hundred hand written pages, and its weight pleased him. Not too bad, especially considering one day and two nights of the week, Shabbes, he was forbidden by Jewish law to write. The first line still made him proud, and he said it softly to himself.
“Blessings and curses, I have had many of both.”
He glanced at the nightstand again. One of the curses, for sure. Bub may indeed be demonic, though Shotzen doubted it, but in that drawer was something even worse. Yetzir ha- ra. A denial of G-d.
He approached it just the same.
The liquor was where he had left it, awaiting his return. Shotzen picked up the bottle—half-full of overproof peppermint schnapps—then put it back down. It was a familiar ritual, with a familiar ending. Once the nightstand was opened, the bottle won.
This time the internal struggle lasted barely a minute. Shotzen poured himself a generous glass, cursing his weakness. On his second glass, his curse became a resignation. On his third, it became a toast.
He wasn’t sure if he imagined the knock at the door or not. He stopped in mid-gulp and held his breath, listening. The second knock gave him a start.
“Yes?” he answered, almost choking on his schnapps. The bottle was on the desk, empty now, but Shotzen placed it back into the nightstand.
“Menachem? It’s Michael.”
Shotzen pursed his lips—this was his disapproving look—and he opened the door. Thrist was dressed for Mass, roman collar pristine and starched and green cassock meticulously ironed.
“May I come in?” he asked.
His tone didn’t match his dress; it was dull and lacking conviction.
“Of course.”
Shotzen stepped aside and allowed him entrance. He closed the door quietly and found Thrist staring at his glass of schnapps. It still held a finger or so.
“Not on account of my reprehensible behavior, I hope,” Thrist said.
“My disease needs no provocation,” Shotzen answered. He and Thrist had talked many times about alcoholism. In fact, Thrist was the only one that Shotzen discussed it with.
“I am sorry, Menachem.”
“Passion is a refreshing emotion to see in you,” Shotzen replied. “In our many dialogs throughout the years I don’t recall you ever yelling like that before.”
“It was inexcusable, both the tone and the content.”
“Nothing is inexcusable, as long as there is remorse. Apology accepted, Father.”
Shotzen offered his hand, which the priest clasped in both of his.
“You are a dear friend.”
“As are you.”
Thrist sat on the bed and nodded at the manuscript.
“Working on the memoirs?”
“Pathetic, no? There sits my life, never to be read by anyone under penalty of government execution.”
“Time passes, Rabbi, whether we want it to or not. At least you have something to show for it.”
“True. My legacy. How preferable it is to a wife and child.”
Thrist’s long face became longer. “Have you ever heard from Reba?”
“Not once since I granted her the get, the divorce. And why should I? Ha-shem told the Jews to be fruitful and multiply, and I… I have no lead in my pencil. Between the sterility and the alcohol, it is no wonder she grew to hate me.”
“You could have adopted.”
Shotzen smiled. “I could have stopped drinking as well. I’d still have it all; her, my synagogue, my congregation—perhaps even my father would still be alive. He died of shame, you know, when I showed up at Temple and read from the Torah drunk as drunk can be.”
“We all have our crosses to bear.”
“I so dislike that expression,” Shotzen frowned. “But what of you, Father? No desire for children? Women? Adonai made you a man, He cannot then deny you a man’s needs.”
“God can bless the beasts and the children, because I never cared much for either,” Thrist said with the barest of smiles. “And sex?” “I was created to serve God. Perhaps that is why he denied me any charisma whatsoever.”
Shotzen laughed, “I’m happy that you’re able to find your sense of humor, after this afternoon. If I were the devil, I would have done the same thing to test your faith.”
Thrist nodded. “So you agree it is a possibility that Bub is the devil?”
“No. No more than I agree that Jesus was the moshiach. But when something has the appearance of Satan it would make sense for it to also imitate the demeanor.”
Thrist absorbed this. “And if Bub indeed knew Christ?”
“The beauty of faith, Michael, is that there is no need for proof. Belief in a feeling is more powerful than belief in a fact. Ha-shem could surely appear to the world at any time and squelch all doubts. But Adonai prefers faith.”
“But what if Bub is a sign from God? Think of it, Rabbi. Nothing happens by accident. The Lord preordains all. Bub was sent here, by God, as proof of His existence. I agree
with the power of faith, but Christ also taught us the power of proof.”
“Familiar argument. Christ was not the son of Adonai. Ha-shem can not be man. None of the prophesies were fulfilled.”
“They were all fulfilled.”
Shotzen reached for his glass and finished the schnapps. He was halfway to the nightstand when he remembered the bottle was empty.
“Let’s stick with the current argument,” Shotzen said. He sat on his bed, facing Father Thrist. “What do we know of ha-satan?”
“The Adversary. First mentioned in Job 1:6. Taken to mean the opponent of God.”
Shotzen nodded, his double chin jiggling. “But before that was Ma’lak, the shadow side of Ha-Shem, turned to humanity because Adonai was too bright to be seen by mortals. Later, In Jubilees, it had become a separate entity. Mastema, the Accusing angel.”
“Dualism,” Thrist added, “probably taken from Zoroaster. Ahriman the Lord of Darkness. Zarathrustra’s concept of good and evil as opposing forces.”
“Zoroaster’s era is highly debated; he could have lived anywhere from the 18th century B.C. up until the 7th… five hundred years after Moses. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, he may have taken his ideas of deities from the Egyptians, Set and Ra, and prior to them, the Mesopotamians with Ereshkigal. The Queen of the Underworld. The first recorded mention of hell.”
Thrist nodded. “Mmm-hmm. Predating Judaism. But none of these would be an accurate description of our Bub, so let’s move ahead.”
“Agreed. In Enoch, Lucifer, the Bearer of Light, was cast out of heaven because of lust. Or pride, in Enoch’s second chronicle, or free will according to Origen of Alexandria, or disobedience, or a war in heaven…”
“He has many names and many incarnations. Satan-el. Abbaddon. Astarot. Rahab. Rofacale. Moloch. Leviathan. Baal-beryth. Metatron…”
“Metatron is an archangel.”
“He is referred to in Exodus, interpreted as the lessor Yahweh, ordering atrocities upon his chosen people. He could indeed be the first devil, the shadow side of God.”
“You are misguided, as usual, but let’s go on. There’s Beliel, the prince of Sheol. Also Baal-zebub. Azazel. Mastema. Mammon. Belphegor. Kakabel. Lahash. Sammael…”
“Tartaruchus,” Thrist continued. “Zophiel. Xaphan. Baresches. Biqa. Salmael…”
“I said Salmael.”
“You said Sammael, not Salmael.”
“They aren’t the same?”
“Sammael is the Angel of Poison, Sumerian in origin. Salmael is a Duke of Hell, who each year calls for the annihilation of the chosen tribes of Israel.”
“Ah! How could I have forgotten that one? So which of these nasty beings do you believe Bub to be?”
Thrist touched his chin. “I’m not sure. He may not be any of them. He may be all of them. Our current conceptions of Satan and hell began after Rome fell. The hysterical visions of Pope Gregory the Great in the 6th century. Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of England in the year 731. The Vision of Tundal in 1149 offers a detailed look at the tortures of Hell.”
Shotzen was familiar with them all. “Much more influential was Dante,” the Rabbi added. “He gave us the description of the circles of hell and its demons in 1306. William Blake, Bosch, Breughel, Giotto, Memlinc—all famous religious painters who gave modern man images of a bat-winged, cloven-hooved, horned angel from hell.”
“Martin Luther, John Calvin, Milton’s Paradise Lost… they also helped hone the modern image. And Marlowe and Goethe’s versions of Faust.”
“Yes,” Shotzen nodded, his chins bouncing. “The devil as an intellectual. Gentleman Jack. Old Nick. Old Scratch. Mephistopheles. Old Horny. Black Bogey. And now, he’s an icon of pop culture.” Shotzen shrugged. “He’s in cartoons, movies, television shows, commercials…”
“Worshiped by thousands of school children in the form of rock music. Did I ever tell you about the time the arch diocese sent me to a Black Sabbath concert in the early 1970’s?”
Shotzen sighed. “Yes. You’ve shown me your souvenir T-shirt. I doubt there is anything about you I don’t know.”
“Which brings us back to topic. What do we have here?”
The Rabbi felt good. His mind was clear; clearer than it had been without the liquor. Shotzen once read that booze was proof that G-d loves us and wants us to be happy. The Talmud also stated that we would be held accountable in the world to come for every permitted food and drink we have had the opportunity to eat yet not eaten. Why should being drunk be considered a sin?
“Both of our religions believe in angels, correct?” Thrist asked.
“Yes.”
“And angels can fall from grace, just as man can.”
“Natch. But Jews don’t believe in a fiery hell where souls are tortured for eternity by red devils with pitchforks. Sheol, the pit, is nothing more than the absence of God. And most believe it doesn’t last any longer than eleven hours.”
Thrist held up his hands as if stopping an oncoming car. “Let’s hold off on hell for a second. Is it possible for a fallen angel to visit earth?”
“Perhaps. But demons aren’t prevalent in Jewish midrash. They’re usually allegorical. For example Kesef, the demon who attacked Moses at Horeb, is the Hebrew word for silver.”
Thrist sighed. “Menachem, open your mind for a moment. When President Carter recruited you for Samhain, you were publishing that underground newsletter—”
“The Wandering Jew,” Shotzen said with pride.
“You were America’s foremost expert in Judaic mysticism.”
Shotzen thought back to those years, living like a hermit in a one bedroom apartment, studying and interpreting ancient texts. The Kabbalah and Zohar, a little known Jewish tome which revealed how to obtain peace on earth. The 4th century Haggadah, a collection of Jewish legends and exegetical treaties. The apocrypha, the hidden scriptures of the Torah compiled during the period of exile in Babylonia.
“Michael, you’ve read the same texts. Seven heavens and seven earths, with twenty one layers of reality hooked together by wires. Gehenna, a continent on Arqa which encompasses the seven layers of hell—this is all allegory.”
“Take a good look at Bub, Rabbi, and tell me he is allegory. You agree fallen angels could visit the earth?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then perhaps this fallen angel, this devil, would take on a familiar appearance, even if it is the appearance that mankind gave him.”
“Go on.”
“If Bub was truly alive at the time of Christ…”
“Again with Christ?”
“Christ as Messiah isn’t the point. Can you believe that there was once a living breathing person named Jesus Christ?”
“There is mention of him in Josephus, so yes. But every knee has not bowed, there is no universal peace, the lion has not lain down with the lamb, nor does every tongue swear loyalty to the one true God.”
Thrist frowned. “You’re missing the point. You have conceded that devils exist, and that Jesus existed. Now the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke all make the claim that Beelzebub tempted Jesus while he fasted in the desert. Luke 4:5 Then the Devil took him up...”
“Please,” Shotzen grimaced. “We don’t want to play the scripture quoting game again.”
“Fine. The point is, if Julius Caesar indeed taught Bub how to speak Latin, and Caesar died in 44 BC, isn’t it conceivable that it was Bub who tempted Christ in the desert?”
“That was eighty years later.”
“Demons don’t age. He’s been here for 100 years and looks exactly the same. Can’t you at least admit it could be possible?”
“Possible, yes. Probable, no. Whether Bub is a demon or something pretending to be a demon, it makes sense for him to act like a demon. Lies, deceptions, flattery, bribery, bargaining, tempting, wheeling and dealing; these are Satan’s tricks. I contend he heard the name Christ and played on your reaction to it.”
Thrist’s wrinkles deepened and he pursed his li
ps. “So he also heard the name Julius Caesar?” he countered.
“He was found in 1906. Say he was buried in the 1800’s, or even the 1700’s or 1600’s. He could have known the names of both Christ and Caesar. He spoke Maya when he woke up, and the Mayans were conquered by the Spanish, who were Christians, if I remember my history. That was one of the ways they justified the genocide of the indigenous South American people. They claimed it was Adonai’s will to slaughter the heathens.”
“Bah!” Thrist threw his hands in the air and stood up. “The problem with you, Rabbi, is your insistence on the past to explain the present. Until you find some kind of precedent for Bub in one of your ancient mystic texts, you’ll continue to deny what you see with your own eyes.”
“What is more important Father—what I see with my eyes or what I feel with my heart?”
“You were born and raised a Jew, and that’s why you are a Jew. It was what you were taught. I’m Catholic because that’s what I was taught. But faith is not a substitute for proof, no matter how much you insist. Anyone with a high school education can argue that the world is more than 6000 years old. Yet that is what our religions teach. Atheists have attacked the Bible from all angles, finding one discrepancy after another. How does the Church refute these claims of no God? Faith! But that doesn’t matter anymore!”
Thrist was shouting now, his finger pointing at Shotzen.
“I could show the entire world the Bible, and only some will believe. But if I showed the entire world our friend Bub, ALL WOULD BELIEVE!”
Thrist sprung to his feet, his face bright red, breathing as if he’d just run a marathon.
Shotzen chose his words carefully. “Bub is not a sign from ha-shem, Father.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Perhaps you need some time off, to rest. Can’t you confer with the arch diocese?”
Thrist stormed over to the door and opened it. He turned before leaving. “I need time off,” Thrist said, “like you need another drink.”
Thrist left, closing the door behind him.
Shotzen mulled it over.
J.A. Konrath / Jack Kilborn Trilogy - Three Scary Thriller Novels (Origin, The List, Haunted House) Page 10