The Glory

by J. R. Mabry

“No, a Blackfriar, Order of St. Raphael.”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re the guys that caused such a ruckus at the Republican Convention.”

  “That was us,” Mikael smiled again, more authentically this time.

  “I gave up on God a long time ago,” he sighed. Then he said, “Catholic,” as if that explained everything.

  “We’re Catholic, and half of the people in our order are queer,” Mikael said. “Plus…well, just look at the Roman Catholic priesthood. Half of them—”

  “At least,” the man agreed. “But I can’t lie to myself or the world, not as a way of life.”

  “Do you know what the Zoroastrian term for Hell is?” Mikael asked.

  “I’m not sure I know what a Zoroastrian is,” the man responded, his bushy eyebrows raising. “So no, do tell.”

  “The House of the Lie,” Mikael said.

  “Holy shit,” the man said, visibly squirming in his seat.

  “What?” Mikael asked.

  “I think that’s what’s got me so tied up in knots,” the man said. “When I came out, I promised myself no more hiding, no more pretending to be someone I wasn’t. No more lies.”

  “Yeah?” Mikael prompted.

  “I don’t lie to my partner. Not ever. If he’s having a bad hair day, I tell him.”

  “I’ve heard there’s nothing sexier than bad hair,” Mikael said.

  “Well, there is that,” the man grinned. “I lied to him today. It was a stupid lie. It was a lie that could completely destroy our future. And I don’t even know why I did it.”

  “I do,” Mikael said, his eyes fixed on some distant point only he could see.

  “You do?” the man asked.

  “It isn’t your fault,” Mikael put a hand on his arm.

  “It sure feels that way,” the man said.

  “And you may not even be completely honest with me now—” The man started to protest, but Mikael held his hand up. “But that’s okay. That’s not your fault either. There’s something…going on.” Mikael paused, uncertain how to explain things in terms the man would understand or believe.

  “What kind of things?” the man leaned over, clearly interested.

  Mikael realized he liked this man, and was suddenly fearful of losing his trust. He opened his mouth to say something about a tainted water supply, but he closed it again. “I’m afraid to say.”

  “That sounds like an honest reply,” the man smiled.

  “Yeah. But it wasn’t my first impulse. See, I think there’s something happening that is…not forcing people to lie, exactly, but making it way easier. So easy that it seems better than just saying what’s true. It’s the same with the fighting.”

  “What could cause that?” the man asked.

  “Well, I’m a friar, so if you ask me I’m going to give you a spiritual theory about that,” he smiled apologetically. “But if you ask a psychologist, I’m sure you’ll get a different take on it.”

  The man nodded, apparently satisfied with that. “Do you think it’s always like this, and we just don’t notice?” he asked.

  Mikael cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, maybe our first impulse is always to lie. Maybe that’s just part of our nature, part of our DNA. And maybe we don’t notice it because we’re lying to ourselves all the time, too.”

  Mikael nodded, not convinced but impressed. Augustine would have loved this guy, he thought. “Maybe so,” he said. After all, who knew? It was a less crazy explanation than Mikael’s would have been had he summoned the courage to speak it aloud.

  “It’s time to face the music,” the man said. He stood and set his cup aside.

  “What do you mean?” Mikael asked.

  “I mean time to eat some crow. Time to say ‘I fucked up’ and let the chips fall where they may.”

  Mikael smiled sadly. “Going to try to patch things up?”

  “Going to try. I might fuck it up royally. I might make it worse. I might say or do something I’ll regret, but goddam it I have to try. If I don’t try…I’ll never be able to live with myself. You know?”

  Mikael stood up, nodding. He did know, actually. “Can I give you a hug?” he asked.

  The man’s face brightened and twisted up in an effort not to cry. “Oh, sweetness, I’ll take a hug anytime.”

  Mikael felt the prickly wax of the man’s mustache stab at his temple as he embraced him. “Be courageous,” he said, although he didn’t know where that had come from.

  “You know what,” the man said as he pulled away. “I am courageous every single day of my life. Why should I stop now?” He nodded resolutely, then turned to go.

  Mikael watched him as he cleared the door and disappeared into the street. Mikael knocked back the final slug of espresso and then made for the door himself. “I’m going to try,” he repeated. “I might fuck it up royally. I might make it worse. I might say or do something I’ll regret, but goddam it I have to try. If I don’t try…I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

  87

  Brian opened his eyes and found himself facing a wall of people in uniform. It seemed to be a platoon of soldiers. He froze but relaxed a bit when he realized that none of them were pointing a weapon at him. In fact, no one seemed to even notice him. A drill sergeant barked a call, and they turned in formation—almost. Several of them turned the wrong way, and one of them started marching and then scrambled to regain her place. They’re newbies, Brian thought. They’re practicing. His adrenaline was beginning to wane now, and he began to study them more closely. They all wore the same gray-green jacket, with red epaulets at the shoulders, but their pants were of different colors. He even saw some dresses descending from the jacket on some of the women, and one of the men was actually wearing a kilt. Several of the smaller people looked like they were swimming in their jackets, and on some of the larger ones they seemed too tight. But whether they actually fit or not, Brian got the impression that they were all profoundly uncomfortable in their uniforms.

  Having successfully turned, the regiment was now practicing marching away from him. Satisfied that he was not in any danger, he took note of his surroundings. Looking up, he saw a deep emerald sky at twilight. The light lent everything a greenish cast, including his own skin. He turned his hand over and marveled at it. He noticed it was a little pudgier than his hand normally was. He looked down and realized he was suddenly about twenty pounds heavier than he was in his own world. He felt a little uncomfortable in his own skin.

  Looking up he noticed that, once again, he was in a park. But it was a much larger park this time. In the distance, surrounded by forest, he saw another gigantic statue that dwarfed everything else in this world. It was Venus—her eyes looked out on the world without pupils, her face a flawless oval, her breasts small, upturned, and perfect. Brian was sure the marble was white, but the light made her glow with an almost fluorescent green.

  Brian had never felt an erotic urge toward women before, but he felt something akin to it now as he stared at her. Not a sexual urge so much as a human urge to embrace, to be embraced. Brian swallowed as he thought of Terry. What he wouldn’t give to be held by him right now, to hold his hand, to spoon with him. Loss sucked at his heart, and he felt sick.

  “There you are. Let’s get moving.” Brian blinked and looked around. He had been so absorbed in the statue and his own feelings that he’d completely forgotten about his immediate surroundings. He spied the speaker and smiled. It was Maggie, of course—this world’s Maggie. She was shorter, a little plumper—but she looked younger, too. Just as in Hod, her fingers were less mangled by arthritis, she seemed in better health. Brian smiled, for in this Maggie he caught a glimpse of how pretty she must have been when she was young. She was also wearing the same gray-green coat the platoon had been wearing.

  He walked toward her and embraced her eagerly. As he did so, he felt flooded with feelings. He flashed on the last time he had seen his own mother. He heard the echo of Terry’s last shuddering org
asm. His heart ached with nostalgia for breakfasts at the friary. Goose bumps rose up on his arms as he felt the rough wool of Maggie’s coat.

  “He’s here,” she said in a whisper, pushing him away gently. “Quickly, put this on.” She handed him a coat exactly like her own.

  “That looks so military,” he noted.

  “Frighteningly so,” she agreed. “Welcome to Netzach, by the way. This is the place of Victory.”

  “I guess that explains the uniform,” Brian said.

  “No, it doesn’t. Quite the opposite.” She looked around to make sure they weren’t being observed. The platoon was now about a quarter of a mile away. In the other direction, Brian could see where the skin of the city began. Maggie walked in that direction. Brian assumed she was leading him back to her apartment again. He wondered if it would be in the same place in this world. I guess I’ll find out, he thought as he fell into step beside her.

  “Have you seen him?”

  “You mean the magickian?”

  “Yes. His name is Larch.”

  “I don’t care to know his name. Yes, he’s here. Can’t you tell?”

  “Um…I’ve never been here before, so no. I don’t know what’s in place and what’s out of place.”

  “Oh. Right.” Maggie’s English accent was still present, but it was less pronounced here. “Well, your guy certainly knows what he’s doing. He had the place all figured out before he got here. He knew exactly how to reach the optimum number of people—did you know he was tech savvy?”

  “Uh…yeah. I think he was a computer engineer before he retired to go into full-time ass-holism.”

  Maggie burst out with a short laugh. She stifled it, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Got to be careful right now. Anyway, he knew how to reach people, and he knew how to play on their worst fears. He’s got the whole world—”

  “This world, you mean? Netzach?”

  “Of course I mean Netzach,” she said, a little testily. “As I was saying, he’s got the whole world acting very much not like ourselves.”

  “How so?” Brian asked as they reached the lip of the greenbelt and stopped to wait for a “walk” signal to cross the street into the city proper.

  “This is a place of rampant creativity and productivity. Netzach is a place where everyone is always busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Why, generating novelty, of course.”

  “Novelty?”

  “Yes. Art. Stuff that no one has ever seen before. New combinations, new ideas. This is where we make it. Novelty is God’s food.”

  “It is?”

  “What do you think God eats? Cucumber sandwiches with marmite? Candied sweet potatoes?”

  The light changed and they crossed the street.

  “I…I guess I’ve never thought about it before,” Brian was taken aback. “I don’t think of God as needing to eat anything.”

  “That would be a joyless God, then, wouldn’t it?” Maggie asked. “And don’t you think it strange that God instilled in us such a joy of eating if he didn’t enjoy it himself? No, Netzach is the breadbasket of heaven. We’re a whole world of artists, of free spirits—you might even call us ‘bohemians.’ Which means, of course, that nobody dresses alike, no one acts alike, we’re not a place where pattern or routine has much cachet. Certainly few people get up very early. You might even call us a little naughty.” She jabbed her elbow into his ribs.

  “Ow,” Brian said reflexively.

  “Oh, toughen up,” Maggie chastened him.

  “So what happened?”

  “Your magickian planted a couple of news stories in exactly the right places. Fabricated news stories, I might add…at least I think they’re fabricated. They’d better be. Anyway, he told people that heaven was going to start phasing us out. Everyone was going to be out of a job.”

  “But if this is where you make God’s food—”

  “Right. What did they think he was going to do? Stock up on TV dinners?”

  As they penetrated the city, Brian looked around. They seemed to be the only people walking together. Everyone he passed looked hard, even angry. Several people glanced at them suspiciously. And all of them, every last one, was dressed exactly alike.

  “But people freaked out anyway, because they were told they were going to lose their way of life. So then your magickian friend suggested we start organizing militias, grouping ourselves into regiments.”

  “That was fast,” Brian said.

  “Time moves differently in each sephirah, dear. Don’t be an idiot.”

  Brian opened his mouth but then closed it. They reached another corner and waited for the light to change. They were in a neighborhood business district, and everyone seemed both grim and busy.

  “So you see the irony of course,” Maggie said.

  “I do?” Brian asked.

  “I certainly hope the Brian in other worlds is brighter than the Brian here,” Maggie said.

  “Sorry,” Brian felt heat rise to his ears. “What’s the irony?”

  The light changed and they stepped off the curb.

  “That we were so afraid of losing our way of life that we abandoned it in order to fight for it.”

  Brian nodded, understanding. “And…who do you intend to fight?”

  Maggie looked at him like he was stupid. “Haven’t you been listening? We’re gearing up to fight Heaven, of course.”

  “That’s…that’s what he wants,” Brian said. “He wants to fight heaven.” It was both a revelation and at the same time, not at all surprising. Brian vaguely recalled Richard talking about Larch’s antipathy for God, even calling him “the enemy.” “So he’s here to raise an army.”

  “Yes. An army composed of the last people anyone would ever suspect. Artists. Imagine.”

  “I doubt they’d make very good soldiers,” Brian objected.

  “You’d be surprised how disciplined and determined people can be when the things they love most are threatened.”

  “But they’re not being threatened,” Brian said.

  “You think what happened in Hod only flowed downhill? Think again. That was deliberate. He had to sabotage accurate representation there in order to make his false stories fly here. And of course, wiping out civility in Yesod was the cornerstone to the whole plan. And so here in Netzach we’re…well, we’re falling apart.” Maggie stopped and looked back at where they had just come from. “And yet, it’s still beautiful.”

  It was a moment’s pause, but it seemed like a slice of eternity. Then suddenly Maggie was walking again, turning right and proceeding up a long flight of stairs set into a hillside. Brian could see houses above them, palatial but definitely residential. “You live here?”

  “Don’t be daft,” she called over her shoulder. “I live in a basement apartment half a city away from here.”

  “So where are we going?”

  She didn’t answer but just kept climbing.

  “Maggie, if all the…creativity stops here, will it affect the other worlds?”

  “Of course! Where do you think creativity comes from? Not from your sodding plane.”

  “I was afraid you’d say something like that. Artists are always saying that their ideas come from somewhere else.”

  “They come from here, naturally,” Maggie said.

  “You know, this is reminding me of Process Theology,” Brian said.

  “Oh yes, it would. Alfred North Whitehead visited in a fever dream about a hundred years ago. Oh, he was a hit.” She was panting now, but didn’t slow her ascent.

  “Whitehead was a hit?”

  “Everyone wanted him at their parties,” Maggie said.

  “Wait, how long was he here?”

  “Time, dear. The time is different.”

  “Oh yeah. I forgot.”

  “He got here and he assumed that this was ‘the top.’ He thought he was seeing God’s ‘primordial nature,’ as he called it, the repository of all potentiality, the source of all creativity. R
eally, it was just a party at Rena’s. Fucking great party. Still, it primed his pump and gave him some important ideas.”

  Brain was winded now, but they were very near the top. “Where are we going?”

  “Tea dear. We’re going for tea.”

  “We just passed a dozen Starbucks where we could have gotten—”

  “Don’t make me smack you,” Maggie said without looking at him. “Because I will smack you.”

  “Right. No Starbucks. And why is there Starbucks here?”

  “It isn’t just the Starbucks,” Maggie said, her voice softening a bit. “We’re going for tea with him. And he doesn’t frequent the bloody Starbucks.”

  “Him? Him who?”

  She didn’t answer but headed across the luminescent green lawn of a city park toward another cluster of what looked like mansions.

  Brian had an idea. “Serah,” Brian said.

  “Yes, dear—” She stopped and looked up at him, her face betraying a mixture of admiration and irritation. “Oh, that was sneaky. So you know about that, do you?”

  “Yes. I know who you really are.” He smiled. “And I’m honored to know you.”

  “You’ll pardon me if I’m not too sure about you yet.”

  “The other Serahs seem to like me better.”

  “They know you better, but they certainly think well of you. Are you an artist?”

  “I’m a cook. So…yes, I’d say so.”

  “So that’s in your favor. What’s your function?”

  “What? Besides cook?”

  “Yes. What do you do?”

  “That’s a rather painful subject at the moment. I guess I…I study Torah. And I take care of people.”

  “That’s the same thing,” Maggie said.

  “It can be…but I’ve known people who have spent their whole lives studying Torah and seemed to completely miss the point.”

  “That’s wisdom.” She gave him a smile that seemed genuinely warm. “I think we might know some of the same people.”

  “What’s your function?” Brian asked.

  “Well, that seems a fair question. My title is ‘the Forerunner.’ In my youth, I walked before the pillar of cloud and the pillar of fire. When I walked, the pillar of cloud moved. When I stopped, the pillar of fire stood still. I am the herald of God’s glory.”