The Monk

by Hallahan, William H. ;

  The Monk

  William H. Hallahan

  FOR DION

  PROLOGUE

  Satan

  First came the hawk. Barely moving her broad wings, she rode the thermals high over the Hudson River Valley, heading south, the late-afternoon sun striking her glossy black feathers. As she passed over the dun-colored fields and the red-and-gold-hued foliage of autumn, she noted everything, even the smallest of the field mice hurrying into its burrow with seeds and grass.

  The sun was low in the sky when she passed over the New York state line into the Pocono mountain range of Pennsylvania, still searching. Several times she wheeled off course, to study a small crossroads hamlet far below her.

  From her height she could look down on great migratory flights of birds fleeing winter—starlings like pepper, grackles, robins, blue jays, swallows, juncos, whitethroats, mixed in with the long V’s of Canada geese, snow geese and ducks. There were marsh birds, rails, solitary rufous towhees, tribes of goldfinches, whole nations of warblers. Following them were the powerful hawks and falcons, buteos and other predatory relatives. The black hawk ignored them all as she sailed on, searching.

  Over Hawk Mountain in Pennsylvania, she noted the multitudes of humans with binoculars making the annual bird census; many of them in turn noted her singular dark color and her impressive wingspread. She found a new thermal there and let it boost her still higher in the sky. The sun was setting, and other hawks were diving into flights of birds, taking one for the evening meal with a burst of feathers. Shadows were filling the valleys as she soared on.

  In the last flush of sunset, she crossed into the autumn patchwork of Bucks County, banked south and crossed the Pennsylvania Turnpike and followed Route 611 to Philadelphia. At dusk she wheeled in vast circles over the countless lights of the great city, wedged between the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers, over the wedding-cake construction of City Hall. Then finding something at last, growing alert, making smaller and smaller circles, she shortened her wingspread and stooped with astonishing speed at Rittenhouse Square, sailed low over the trees to navigate silently between some trees and land on the roof of a brownstone mansion.

  Her cruel claws clattered on the slates, then carefully she folded her stiff black wings like a man collapsing an umbrella. She waited for the emanations.

  Inside, the house was bustling with the new baby. The young mother had just gotten home from the hospital, and in celebration her husband was taking her to a performance of the Philadelphia Orchestra at the Academy of Music on Broad Street.

  The chauffeur was at the door, the new mother in her gown, noting that her figure had not regained all its slimness and the master was giving final instructions to the nursemaid.

  “You’re absolutely safe here,” he said. “The windows are all barred. Johnson is on duty until morning with a trained guard dog. There’s plenty to eat in the kitchen. The television is right here and Bob’s your uncle.”

  The nurse nodded casually: a routine nursing assignment.

  “Feeding time is ten P.M.”

  “Yes.” She nodded again, then watched him descend the stairs to speak to Johnson in the huge hallway. At the door the Doberman pinscher paced restlessly, his claws clacking softly on the Italian marble tiles. A few moments later the limousine pulled away, watched by the hawk. Then she too left. She spread her wings, took a hop and glided down the slope of the roof, and pumping powerfully, crossed Rittenhouse Square and slowly rose into the night sky and disappeared.

  Two hours passed.

  The nurse fed the baby at ten, changed his diaper, resettled him in his crib, then returned to the television. A while later she turned her head and listened. She looked through the crack of the door into the darkened nursery.

  Nothing could possibly have gotten into the nursery without having passed through the television room. She leaned over and squinted at the nursery window. Shadows of the bars lay on the glass panes. Annoyed with herself but still unsatisfied, she stood up and pushed the nursery door open.

  The window was firmly locked, the bars were untouched, the room was empty save for the baby, who breathed softly in his crib. She walked over and looked down at him. He was a beautiful child with a high brow and handsomely proportioned face.

  When she turned away, she found herself in near darkness. The light in her sitting room and the television were off. Only the distant streetlights illumined the two rooms. She paused, thinking that a circuit breaker had tripped somewhere. In a moment there would be light again.

  Then in the corner of the room she noted a mass of unusual blackness, an opaque shadow that drank light. As she watched it seemed to thicken and spread. Was she imagining or did arms seem to extend from it? It assumed a larger and more distinct shape. A trick of light? It looked like a huge figure, a black gown with a hood and a hidden face. Or was it? She tried to make it out as she stepped back involuntarily. Swiftly the huge figure moved and enwrapped her. She disappeared into the inky-black folds, her white uniform completely swallowed up. She was unable to breathe, unable to move a muscle. Abruptly, at the door the Doberman exploded in a volley of sharp barks, its claws scraping the wood. Wildly now it leaped against the door, making the panels shudder, digging into the wood with its claws, straining the door latch.

  In a moment the nurse slipped limply to the floor and the amorphous mass turned to the crib. Johnson the guard was bounding up the stairs, calling to the dog. The baby was lifted and now could be seen a beautiful purple aura around the infant’s head. The figure enfolded it in the sleeves of the soutane. A black clawlike hand descended on the baby’s face and remained there for a moment. Then the child was carefully replaced in its crib as the door opened and the dog charged into the room, its savage teeth snapping at empty blackness.

  The guard turned on the light. There the nurse lay and there in the crib the child lay. Both were dead. There was no one else in the room.

  Before midnight the red-haired priest and his bull mastiff arrived. The priest observed the two ambulances and the four police cars and the knot of people. He sighed and walked away at a brisk pace with the dog. Too late again.

  The hawk watched the priest go. The priest was called Timothy, and the hawk had been watching him for thousands of years—fighting the bitter game of the infants with the purple aura. She had just beaten Timothy again.

  She watched his undefeated upright back striding away. Once they had been associates in heaven—never friends, but never enemies—long before the Fall, long before the Game of the Infants. She followed Timothy a short distance, skimming from tree to tree, then rose and flew off into the night. Black as the darkness that surrounded her, she uttered a triumphant cry for Timothy’s ears only. Cree cree cree.

  High into the night sky she flew, on patrol again. But she’d grown weary of the game. The red-haired priest was like some blind cosmic force that never tired. The instant she killed an infant with a purple aura, Timothy would turn and commence searching for another, always hoping that this time he would arrive first—before the hawk could kill. Did he never weary of the game? He could afford to lose for thousands of more years, she knew. He needed to find only one infant, to win just once in order to bring final punishment to all the legions in hell. But he would never do it. He could never beat her. For the hawk was Satan’s surrogate. Invincible.

  His name hadn’t always been Satan. And the name was not of his own choosing to begin with—it meant adversary. He was God’s adversary. Even the role of Prince of Darkness had been thrust upon him. Originally he had been the brightest and foremost of all the angels in the firmament, second only to the Lord Himself and his original name proclaimed it—Lucifer: light-bringer.

  The quarrel had started when the Lord, totally without forewarning, had
made his stunning announcement. Lucifer had been in his pavilion overlooking the river when Michael had summoned him to meet with the Lord. And in the meeting the Lord said to Lucifer, “I am going to bring forth a Son.”

  Lucifer, who scorned the pomp and parade of words, said nothing. Instead he went off alone to consider this news. It was a lowering of rank. He would no longer be second in the hierarchy, nearest of all to the throne of heaven. He would be third or less, possibly eliminated completely if he failed to find favor with the Lord’s new Son. It was more than a simple demotion. There was an unmistakable overtone of criticism in the announcement, as though Lucifer had failed the Lord somehow and was to be replaced by one whose service would be more “satisfactory.”

  Lucifer searched his conscience. Had he been disloyal? Not by word or even thought. Puzzled though he had often been by the Lord’s actions, difficult as it was often to submit to another’s will, pointless though many of His orders seemed, Lucifer had always suppressed the inner voice that rebelled against serving another. Nor had he shown to his friends and supporters even a hint of dissatisfaction. He always publicly endorsed the Lord’s decisions. He had never encouraged dissatisfaction in the hearts of others.

  If it wasn’t disloyalty, was it incompetence? He searched his memory carefully. His work had always been exemplary. There had never been any perfunctory motions. No mere compliance or indifference. He always made sure the Lord’s orders were carried out completely.

  But never once had the Lord asked him for his counsel. He had been summoned, commanded and dismissed.

  Lucifer knew that he did not have a convivial temperament. His reserve was a flaw in his makeup, he confessed to himself. He had never been able to reach out, to encourage the Lord to confide in him. It bespoke a lack of warmth. Had his reserve been interpreted as arrogance or coldness or disapproval?

  But if his personality had been the flaw that brought him down, then it was the Lord Himself who had given it to him. He decided he had been unjustly treated.

  When the news of the new Son was announced to the others, Lucifer would feel himself disgraced in front of all the hosts of heaven. He would see his diminished stature in their eyes, their sidelong glances at him, their eyes staring at him as he passed. Oh, the little clusters that would gaze and murmur at him.

  The Lord had not given any reason to Lucifer for His move, had not thanked him for his loyal service, had not in any way mitigated the pain and disgrace the announcement brought with it.

  Lucifer stood in his pavilion and looked over the river and beyond at the lovely fields filled with ever-blooming flowers washed in the supernal light and saw strolling angels on the plain.

  And in his heart for the first time he felt an alien emotion. He felt anger.

  When the Lord made His announcement to the convened angels, He sat outside His pavilion in His special chair with Lucifer on His left hand and His messenger and surrogate Michael on His right.

  “I am going to bring forth a Son,” He announced. “And He will sit at my right hand.” And that was all He said. He explained nothing. He gave no indication when the Son would appear. Or why.

  Lucifer felt every eye on him. Mute eyes, unspoken thoughts. He wanted none of their sympathy. It would make him feel inferior to hear their condolences. He withdrew to his pavilion.

  Beelzebub came to see him, portentous, casting his eyes for eavesdroppers. “There are many who say you were badly treated. Even Timothy.”

  Lucifer nodded and waited for more. He knew he had never been popular with hoi polloi as Timothy was. He, Lucifer, had been universally admired and respected, looked up to rather than petted as Timothy was. He was a leader. Timothy was a hero. And now “they” were saying he had been badly treated. “Even Timothy.” If it had been Timothy demoted, they would be saying more than “badly treated.”

  “They say you were giving good, loyal service and now you’ve been paid with injustice.”

  Timothy himself came to talk. A splendid angel with crisp curls of red gold, everything he did was right: the graceful management of his limbs, the way he moved, the way he held his head. Affable, an undiscriminating smile for the whole of heaven, he came now visibly troubled.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “You deserved better.”

  Lucifer again felt a burgeoning anger. “I didn’t need your approval and now I don’t need or want your sympathy.”

  Timothy nodded sympathetically. “But you see you have it.”

  “Then take it back and leave here.”

  “Perhaps there is a reason. The Lord may yet say something to explain.”

  “I don’t need His explanations. His actions have said it all.” Lucifer pointed his hand at the exit.

  Timothy nodded once more at him and left. Somehow, Lucifer always felt that he and Timothy were doomed someday to be on the opposite ends of a quarrel.

  Why hadn’t the Lord originally chosen Timothy as second in line? Timothy had affability, warmth, popularity. The Lord talked easily to Timothy.

  Beelzebub smirked after Timothy’s footsteps. “You deserved better,” he mocked.

  Abdiel came, with smoothing hands that caressed the lumpy air. “I’m sure,” he said, as though laying a wreath at Lucifer’s feet, “that an explanation will be forthcoming.” Loyalty to the Lord. And an unbidden peacemaker.

  Later Beelzebub’s friends gathered outside his pavilion. They all wore the same look—Beelzebub’s look: quick ferret’s eyes, alert, observing all. Moloch, Baalim and Ashtaroth, Thammuz, Dagon, Rimmon, Belial. They expressed no sympathy. Probably they felt none. Malcontents, they took Lucifer’s situation as an affront to themselves.

  Lucifer ignored them. And soon they drifted off, finding other places of discontent to haunt.

  The crowd seemed to forget Lucifer after that. He went through the motions of his office still, waiting until the Lord would announce the arrival of His Son.

  Shortly, the Lord indicated that he had another announcement to make. “Lucifer, summon the angelic hosts, in proper rank and order.”

  And Lucifer dispatched messengers to the far corners of heaven. Soon the entire heavenly host was gathered before the Lord’s pavilion. There they were drawn up in their correct ranking: seraphim first, then cherubim, thrones, powers, virtues, dominations, principalities, archangels and angels.

  “I will soon bring forth a new creature,” the Lord said. “Man. He will dwell in Paradise. And he will be the chiefest among all the angelic hierarchy.”

  The stunned eyes of the multitude went from the Lord’s face to Lucifer’s and to Michael’s. But they found no answers there. Several, including Abdiel, seemed ready to speak. But they remained silent. No one had ever questioned the Lord before. Slowly they dispersed, in small groups, murmuring.

  How, they asked, had they failed the Lord? Weren’t they all demoted by this new event? Man was now the Lord’s more favored creation, not the heavenly hosts. Man came first, ahead of them. Was the Lord angry with them? What wrong had they done? But they asked each other and found no answers.

  Beelzebub was outraged. He came to Lucifer’s pavilion with his retinue—Moloch, Belial, Ashtaroth and the others. They spoke of their anger in low hissing tones. Lucifer ordered them to watch their tongues. He wanted no part of their discontented ways.

  “We have a proposal,” Beelzebub said to Lucifer. “We can go live some other place. And you can be our leader.” He watched Lucifer’s face. “We are not wanted here.”

  We are not wanted here. The thought fed Lucifer’s growing anger. Now he was not alone. He was not the only one who had been slighted.

  “There is a large number.” Beelzebub pointed. A huge number of heavenly host outside his pavilion. They were looking to him to give shape and direction to their feelings.

  “Enough of such talk in these halls,” Lucifer said.

  “We wish to talk with you,” Beelzebub answered. “Let us go somewhere.”

  Lucifer hesitated. If he went with them, he wou
ld be setting his foot on a path with no return. He reflected only a few moments. Then he nodded at Beelzebub. They went to the west side of heaven a good distance and Beelzebub said, “We are unhappy.”

  “You are unhappy,” Lucifer echoed. “The Lord has done something to displease you? Are you deprived? Are you in any way less than you were? Since your very being is a gift from the Lord, whatever the Lord gives, He can take away again. By what standard do you justify your right to feel unhappy? I ask you this: Dare you set yourself above the Lord?”

  His eyes went from face to face and they all remained silent.

  “Not one of you has answered me,” Lucifer said at last. “You should have said Yes. The Lord has done something to displease you. You are deprived. And by your loyalty and love you have earned His. And He has now withdrawn it. For you are now less than you were.”

  “And,” Beelzebub said to Lucifer with his crafty grin, “dare you now set yourself above the Lord?”

  “Who says He is the Lord?” Lucifer replied. He watched their stunned faces again. And he rephrased the question that has unsettled the entire cosmos ever since. “Who says that He created us? We have only His word for it. None of us remembers our own creation. Maybe He’s an impostor.”

  “What are you saying, Lucifer? What is the point of that deadly question?”

  “Why must we leave?”

  And slowly, with comprehension, their gazes turned to one another’s.

  “How many of us are there?” Lucifer asked.

  And they conferred among themselves. “There are legions,” they answered. “All of Moloch’s, most of Belial’s—perhaps all of Beelzebub’s, and several legions beyond that. And we surely can recruit more. And, Lucifer, you yourself command legions.”

  Lucifer frowned. “It is not enough.”

  “It is all we have. Michael’s forces will remain loyal to the Lord. So will Abdiel’s and Gabriel’s and all the others, including Raphael’s.”

  “And Timothy the red-haired?” Lucifer watched them react.