by Patrick Ness
What do I do now? he thought. What do people do?
He set down a sparklingly clean coil on the red dropcloth, completing a perfect grid. Without realizing what he was doing, he picked the coil back up and began to put his cycle together again.
31. A Basic Question.
What does it all mean? thought Jarvis, turning over the dirt with a handrake. If it meant anything at all.
It was that second bit that nagged at him. Frankly, he would have liked to dismiss Mrs Bellingham’s dream out of hand. He was a rational man, or at least that was how he had always viewed himself. Being a parish priest and seeing the day to day banality and wonderment of trudging and ongoing life would have taken the mystery out of him anyway. The miraculous happened in the first breath of a baby born to a mother thought to be barren, or in the soft scent of an unexpected bloom of amaryllis in his garden or even just in how the sunlight spoke its way in rows across the wooden floor of the older sanctuary. The glory and mystery of God expressed itself here, he believed. One needn’t make it, meaning life and the world one lived in, more mysterious and miraculous by reading omens and prophecies in every ill-lit corner.
As for his parishioners, Jarvis had heard them talk of prophecies before, usually after the fact when hindsight performed its organizational magic and made everything seem as if it had all gone according to a pre-ordained plan. Premonitions were always so much more potent when remembered afterwards. Jarvis saw little harm in them, even approved of them because if all religion were in some part an attempt to explain the big mess of life, then this was just that function put to use at a basic level. If this was what some of his parishioners needed to explain God to themselves, well, then wonderful; most people never got an explanation of any sort. Prophecy also managed to fill the time of some of the more runaway control freaks in his congregation, those gray-eyed souls who liked to sail in on black clouds of foreboding offering ‘divine guidance’ on what the parish could do before its obvious and inevitable – and imminent – collapse; folks who seemed to want to do nothing more than place a reservation for an ‘I told you so’ later on. Theophilus Velingtham, of course, was grand champion.
Mrs Bellingham was different, though. She had never been given to the mystical and had even seemed embarrassed to speak of it in front of him. Moreover, he was convinced of her sincerity, her own deep belief in what she was telling him. This was no new convert offering proof of a supernatural schematic or an old eccentric gloomily predicting vague woes to come. Jarvis believed her because he could feel her genuine concern. And now, he found himself struggling with what in the world to do, what to make of it all, wondering what on earth did it all mean?
If it meant anything at all.
‘I’m a little girl again, picking haggleberries in the woods out by the stream behind my grandmother’s church. I’m alone, but I can hear her voice talking to me. When the dream starts, it’s just jibber-jabber, but then she starts to say, “He’s coming, He’s coming,” and I can just tell, the way you can in a dream, that the He is capitalized, like in the Sacraments. “He’s coming,” she says, and then there are all these other voices that surround hers, whispers, all saying, “He’s coming, He’s coming” over and over again. I keep asking, “Who? Who’s coming?” but they just keep saying it.’
‘Is it malevolent, do you think? Is that what’s bothering you?’
‘It’s hard to tell, Father.’
‘Do you think you’re being warned? Or that we’re being warned?’
‘I really don’t know. I wasn’t especially scared by the dream until last night.’
‘What happened last night?’
‘It was the same dream as usual, but after a while, my grandmother and all the voices started saying …’
‘What is it, sister?’
‘They said, “He’s already there.”’
‘Meaning, in Hennington?’
‘Yes. He, whoever “He” is, is here, and whatever that means makes me feel very afraid indeed.’
Jarvis grunted as he tossed a handrake of sod into the compost pile. He was sorting through his dilemma by unearthing an unsuccessful crop of Hereford’s tulips, piling up stubbornly unopened bulbs like old stones. He was, in fact, almost precisely where Mrs Bellingham had discovered him cajoling his basil on the previous day. The sun was out. The sky was blue. Jarvis’ mind was focused dually on tulip removal and prophecy comprehension when he put the first two prongs of the handrake through the soft tissue between his thumb and forefinger.
—Fucking hell!
He clasped his other hand tightly over the wound, not forgetting to glance around the garden to see if anyone had heard his epithet, the harshness of which surprised him momentarily out of his shock. Then the blood began to run through the fingers of the work glove, and he took off for his kitchen. With a yelp of pain, he peeled away the gloves and thrust his injured hand into the sink, turning on the cold tap. An astonishing amount of blood pulsed out in time with an ache that radiated up his whole arm. The handrake had gone all the way through; blood poured from holes on both sides. He began to chant the Samaritan’s Catechism under his breath, not as a prayer but because it was short and repetitive and gave his mind something else to do besides concentrate on the sickening sight of his hand. He grabbed a white cloth towel from the sink and wrapped it tightly around the four bleeding holes. He felt dizzy. He slumped down into a chair, holding his hand up near his face, gasping out the Catechism.
— … grant me assistance in my moment of need, give me strength to face my duties and commitments, ow ow ow …
He was clearly going to need hospital. As hard as he held the towel, he was still bleeding through it. And my GOD, it hurt more than he could ever have imagined such a thing hurting. He stood to walk to the phone and nearly swooned. His mind raced with words, growing louder to cover the pain. I must not faint, he thought, I’m going to faint. He made it to the wall and leaned heavily for a moment to try to keep himself conscious. He uttered a short prayer.
—Lord, help me. Grant me clarity.
Behind closed eyes, he was suddenly witness to a picture of his desktop bathed in afternoon sunlight. Have I fainted? he thought. Am I coming to? The picture moved, making its way to his desk, coming to rest at his own well-worn copy of the Sacraments. Jarvis had, for the moment, forgotten his wound. There was such a direct feeling to this vision (was that what it was?), such a vividness that his mind was clear of everything else. The cover of the book opened, and the pages shuffled themselves along before reaching the final chapter, the Book of Ultimates, zeroing in on a set of verses. He read the two lines that had somehow insinuated themselves into more of the Bondulay and the culture surrounding it than nearly any other segment of the Book, the two lines that had sprouted an entire cottage industry that Jarvis both disapproved of and found obscurely frightening.
And in a time of sunlight, a dark wind will encroach, obscuring the truth,
And in the time of dark wind, a light wind will encroach, revealing the truth.
Oh, no, thought Jarvis. Not again. It couldn’t be happening again. Could it?
32. Opening the Deal.
The church, thought Theophilus, is the only building which is never truly empty.
He leaned forward in the pew, elbows on the prayer bar, hands clasped together, lips pressed shut, eyes closed. He prayed rhythmically, silently, repeating the All Hail precisely forty-one times, a decades-old penance for who knew what sin that had turned into a daily ritual, even though the penance prayers had been out of use for years upon years. Whatever slackening in principles the church had undergone in the name of so-called ‘social change’ – the dispensation with the penance prayers being only the most galling example – the Lord remained eternal and unwavering. Theophilus had been raised with the All Hail, and he would continue to use it, regardless of fashion or, worse, the laxity of the clergy.
—… All hail to the Lord who rescued me from the desert of despair, all hail to the Lord wh
o saved my soul from perdition …
He wasn’t explicitly aware of it, but as he sat in the cave-like quiet of an empty (despite his own axiom) sanctuary on a bright Thursday morning, Theophilus’ body had settled into a rhythm, too. The length of each prayer took precisely two long measured breaths, and each breath comprised exactly ten heartbeats. After forty-one turns through the fourteen-line prayer, Theophilus’ thoughts would fall silent, but the regular beats in his body would continue. His eyes still closed, he would push away sounds from the outside and any stray thoughts which chose to saunter by. The world would slowly soften away, and Theophilus’ mind and soul would open up. For here in the Lord’s place, in His house, attuned to (and by) the deep quiet of Theophilus’ mind, here was where the Lord spoke to him. As clearly intentioned as a gun, the words would come, the words would come. Over a long, long lifetime, Theophilus had trained his body to move easily into the place where all he had to do was listen, listen for the words from the One True Lord, the words from the Almighty. Sometimes words of comfort, sometimes scripture references, usually encouragement to wait. Quite a bit of encouragement to wait, actually, until recently, when things took a turn.
The Lord had been doing rather a lot of talking of late, and He had been saying the most remarkable things.
—Holy sugar, Deacon! You scared the life out of me!
If this violent summons out of his meditation startled or even affected Theophilus, his face reflected nothing. He merely opened his eyes and turned his head casually towards the interruption. There even seemed to be a smile on his lips.
—Good afternoon, Martin. Doing some work today, are we?
Marty Farnham, church electrician, stood sheepishly a few feet away in the aisle, carrying a ladder and sporting a surprised grin.
—Yeah, there’s some lights out in the baptistry. Nobody’s usually here at this time.
—I am always here at this time.
—Well, I meant during the day.
—Which is, of course, what I meant.
Theophilus’ smile broadened, teetering somewhere between friendly and garish. Marty Farnham hadn’t the slightest idea how he should take it.
—I just meant that it was so quiet, I didn’t see you there. I must normally come at other times.
—Yes.
—Are you praying for Father Kingham?
—I pray for Father Kingham every day, but why, pray tell, would I specifically need to pray for Father Kingham today?
—He hurt his hand. They took him to the hospital.
—'They'?
—Yeah.
—Is he badly hurt?
—I think he just cut himself with a tool whilst in the garden.
—Then I will be sure to offer up a special prayer for Father Kingham and his gardening injury.
—Yeah, well, anyway, like I was saying, I didn’t think anyone was here. I just walked on in, and I was almost on top of you before I realized, you know, I wasn’t alone.
—You’re never alone in church.
—Pardon?
—I said …
Looking at this poor, simple man, Theophilus paused. His heartrate was steady, his breathing still cyclical despite the jolt of the interruption. His mind felt, yes, it did, it felt opened. Opened and ready. So this was where it started, was it? Well, why not? Hadn’t the Lord Himself started out with the humblest of followers? One becomes two, two becomes four, and so on, but the miracle of zero becoming one must happen first. Here, at last, then. So be it, and praise be to the Lord.
—Are you all right, Deacon?
Marty shifted his hold on the ladder. The Head Deacon, who was always so intimidatingly holy, had gotten the oddest look on his face, as if he was listening to something, even though the church was so quiet it could have been the dead of night. And then he asked a very strange question indeed.
—Do you believe in the prophecy of the Sacraments, Martin?
33. Unsentimental Journey.
Jacki had faced disorientation upon awakening more times than she cared to remember, but this was really something. She seemed to be lying down in the back seat of a car. Scratch that, the back seat of a moving car. She was wrapped up in a dark gray blanket that covered her from feet to neck. Apart from that, she seemed to be completely naked. She stared upwards and listened to the hum of the car for a moment. This wasn’t the usual disorientation where she failed to recognize familiar surroundings for a brief, terrifying span before her synapses started firing and making the proper associations. No, this time she really had no idea where she was.
The interior of the car was a drab blue vinyl with silver sparkles glimmering dimly here and there. Jacki could feel a broad cross-stitch design on the seat beneath her, with hard round buttons where the lines met. Everything smelled faintly of grease and soap. The back of the front seat was all one piece, stretching from door to door. So it was an older car, then. The sun pushed through clouds to shine into the back window, so that made it morning, at least. Nope. Nothing was signifying. Nothing was suggesting any sort of memory. It all remained stubbornly unfamiliar.
She could feel worry hovering off in the bleak, queasy distance somewhere, but she concentrated purely on naming things in her field of vision: wool blanket, blue ceiling, tree going by, Jacki, Jacki is who I am. She realized she could see the person sitting in the passenger seat. Her skin was a darker tan color, probably Rumour, and she had short, unevenly cut hair. She had a large raised mole growing out of the middle of her cheek. The sunlight glinted off a shiny layer of oil coating her broad nose. In a sudden coalescence – wham! – Jacki recognized her. For a brief, thrilling moment, she couldn’t place whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. Curiosity was finally the engine that drove her to speak.
—Excuse me? Davis?
Her voice surprised and dismayed her. It was a croaking, rusty thing that squeaked her syllables up and down. Nevertheless, the brown head with the mole and shine immediately turned around.
—She’s awake.
—Thank God.
Another voice. The driver.
—Ms Strell? How are you feeling?
—I’m thirsty. Yes, really thirsty and—
—We’ll be at your house soon. We’ll get you something.
—My house?
—Yes. Joanie and I are taking you home.
So. Joanie and Davis, the two custodians from Jacki’s wing of Hennington Hills, were driving her home.
—Where … I mean … I don’t remember anything.
Jacki saw Davis exchange a worried look with Joanie.
—We can talk about it later, Ms Strell. You’ve had a bad … shock. When you’re feeling better, we’ll talk about it then.
—Where are my clothes?
—We couldn’t find them.
—Oh. Shit. Oh, my God.
Panic sat like a dust mote just outside of her range of vision. She couldn’t see it, but she could tell it was there.
—Just hang on, Ms Strell. We’re almost home.
—How do you know where I live?
—We found your purse in your office.
—I was in my office?
—We’ll talk about it later. Please, just rest. You’ve had a bad shock.
—A bad shock.
It’s the end, thought Jacki. The end of everything. This has to be the end. Am I dying? she thought, for the second time in two hours. Am I finally dying? Is this what I’m seeing? Panic crawled forward over her thoughts, and here at the end, Jacki could suddenly see, clear as day, where everything had started.
Thomas had invited her to dinner her third day on the job, six years ago, on a Friday before a three-day weekend. Having grown up in Ottorongo, thirty-five miles southeast of Hennington, Jacki had never heard even a whisper about Thomas Banyon or Hennington Hills Golf Course and Resort. She moved to the city after her divorce as a way of starting over. Her husband had used a clever lawyer and Jacki’s own mercurial attention span to gain sole custody of their pre-adole
scent sons, which if Jacki were honest with herself was actually sort of okay. The boys, Morton and Tucker, had always baffled her, especially in their utter resistance to logic, almost like aliens placed in her life as a test. She struggled with a deep lode of shame these feelings caused her, but seeing her sons on weekends or occasionally for holidays was, when you got right down to it, preferable to the constant battles that their lives would almost surely have turned into. A fresh start was in order. Answering an ad, she had taken her skills and moved away to begin a new life. She had no idea what she was walking into when Thomas approached her one evening, his voice nearly a purr.
—This isn’t a come-on. Just an informal thing to get to know my new accountant better as a person.
Saying no wouldn’t have even occurred to her as a possibility.
—So why the move from the ‘burbs into the big city?
—I’ve lived in the suburbs all my life, I guess. I just wanted something different. A clean slate, maybe.
—Are you running from something?
He smiled when he asked that, a smile that made Jacki feel like she was running from something even though she wasn’t, a smile that made her want to be running from something.
—Only a marriage that ended with the same dull un-pleasantries as any other.
—Nothing more than that?
—Afraid not. I’m just a strange mathematician who sometimes wears different shoes on each foot without realizing it.
Thomas laughed.
—Do you really?
—My head’s in the clouds, as my ex-husband said. Over and over again.
—Would you like another drink?
—I think that might be nice.
—Has anyone ever told you how pretty your eyes are? Again, that’s not a come-on. I’m just saying.
Flattery. Flattery. Of all the basest caprices, of all the simple-minded ruses that had been used to snare willing participants in the history of world seduction, flattery had pulled Jacki right in. Three drinks later, she was whispering to him about her breasts. Three drinks after that, she was back in his office, showing him how they worked, letting him take a suckle or two. Before she knew it, his hand was up her dress, his pants were down to his slightly bowed knees, and he was sticking his stout, stiff little prick up inside of her. And even then, she knew she wasn’t all that drunk. Even then, pressing into his stocky body on the large, leather couch in his office, she knew that it was his words and the way he smiled at her and the way he just recognized that she was there, her, Jacki, of all people.