The Glory

by J. R. Mabry

  “Wow.”

  She shrugged. “Eh. It’s a job.”

  “But you also tell the truth.”

  “It’s part of the same job. You can’t usher forth God’s glory with a falsehood, now can you?”

  “So you always tell the truth?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s my super-power.”

  “What if people don’t want to hear it?”

  “Oh, they mostly don’t, sure enough.”

  “But what if they refuse to hear it?”

  “I don’t know. That hasn’t happened yet.”

  “In 3500 years?”

  “Not once.”

  She stopped and rubbed her chin, considering. “You know, I’m not sure about this, but I don’t think they can refuse it.”

  “I would have thought you’d know how that worked by now.”

  “You’d think so, yes.” She stopped in front of an imposing house, it’s eaves supported by twelve large pillars. It sported a circular drive and a regal and idiosyncratic architecture that seemed to be one-part Roman basilica and one-part twentieth century arts-and-crafts bungalow. Many tall, vibrant oaks presided over an immaculate garden that surrounded the mansion. It was an incongruous mutt of a building that shouldn’t have worked, and yet somehow it did, managing to be at once both intimate and extravagant. It was also strangely reminiscent of a ski lodge Brian had visited near Yosemite once.

  “Who lives here?”

  “No one. It’s a government building.”

  “Pretty nice for a government building,” Brian’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Of course it is. This is Netzach. We treasure beauty here.” She knocked on the door. “At least we do when our heads aren’t wedged permanently in our bungholes.”

  After a few minutes, the massive door swung inward and a taut-lipped woman dressed in the same military coat they were wearing greeted them. Descending from it was a knee-length maroon skirt. Her golden hair was done up in a tight bun and her shoes were flat, sensible business-wear.

  “I’m here to see him, dear.”

  “Of course, Serah. Come in.”

  Maggie stepped up and motioned for Brian to follow. Brian did, his mouth dropping open at the sight of the foyer. The room was paneled in marble with great exposed beams. A wrought-iron chandelier hung from a massive carnelian dome. Gold pomegranates and deer adorned its rim, alternating with globes of greenish light. A staircase spiraled around the periphery of the room leading to a second floor, and perhaps a third—Brian couldn’t tell from where he was standing. Several doors led in different directions. Their host walked off toward one of them, her heels clicking against the marble floor. Brian noticed that even the slightest noise was accompanied by an echo.

  “This way please,” the woman opened a door—fully twice as wide as most doors Brian was used to, and much higher, too.

  “Thank you, Bet,” Maggie said. “How is your father, dear?”

  “Touch and go, now,” she said, a shadow of sorrow passing over her face.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. He is a dear. Please give him my love, won’t you?”

  “I will.”

  Maggie pressed the younger woman’s arm warmly, then brushed past her into the room.

  Fully entering the room, Brian realized it was a lot smaller than he had anticipated. It was larger than any room in the friary, but still seemed small in comparison with the foyer. Still, the overhead lamps were bright, the ceiling was high, and there were several comfortable-looking leather couches.

  “He’ll be ready for you shortly,” Bet said, and she closed the door.

  “Oh. This is a waiting room,” Brian said. “That explains it.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Who are we waiting for?”

  “Him, of course. Moshe.”

  “Moshe? Moses? We’re waiting to see Moses? The Moses?”

  “Yes, dear. Don’t get all star-struck. He’s not all that.”

  Brian’s head swam and he felt his pulse spike. He ran his hand across his short hair and shook his head. “Uh…wow. Gonna meet Moses.”

  “You were always going to meet Moses.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a difference between, ‘Someday you’ll go to heaven and meet Moses’ and ‘Moses will see you now,’ don’t you think?”

  Maggie shrugged.

  “You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?”

  “I knew him when he was no one.”

  “What was he like back then?”

  “He was like a rabbit—a huge, hairy rabbit. Scared of his own shadow. I once came up behind him and said, ‘boo,’ and he jumped three feet from Tuesday.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really. That’s Hod talking.” She paused, smiling. “That’s not true, either. I’m just pulling your leg.”

  “But you did know him.”

  “Yes, and he was a nervous nelly—I’m not joking about that. He was just about to go see Pharaoh for the hundredth time—the biblical account is condensed, I hope you know—and it was time for an ultimatum. Poor bugger was shaking in his sandals. He just kept saying, ‘I can’t do it, I can’t do it,’ over and over.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Well, that was easy. I told him he could.”

  “But how did you know that he could?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I just know the Truth about people somehow, remember?”

  “Do you know the Truth about me?” Brian asked.

  “Of course. I know that you’re miserable without him.”

  “Without Terry, you mean?”

  “Don’t be thick, dear. Of course I mean Terry. And I also know that you won’t be whole until you swallow your pride and forgive him.”

  “But he betrayed me.”

  “Oh, boo-hoo.” She waved him away. “Grow up. People betray each other every day. It doesn’t give you license to abandon them or to nurture your resentment until it becomes gangrenous. You have too much work to do.”

  Brian’s eyes widened. “And what is that work?”

  She patted his hand and stood up. A moment later a different door opened and Bet poked her head in. “He’ll see you now.”

  88

  Dylan stood up and wiped the sweat from his one good eye. He marveled at his own constitution that was somehow, despite the bitter cold in the room, still determined to sweat. It didn’t feel like a gift, but he chose to hold it that way. He was relieved to be free of his bonds, even if he was still being held prisoner. Just being up and moving about the room was a degree of liberation. He made a final, careful line with his chalk and then sat back on his haunches, surveying his work. “That’s it,” he said with a note of satisfaction in his voice. “Uh…we just need a few candles and a nekkid girl strung out on meth, and we got us a genuine magick show.”

  Milo’s dark face flashed with anger. “Girl? You didn’t say anything about needing a girl.”

  “Easy boy,” Dylan said, holding his hands up and rising to his full five feet, eight inches. He pushed at the pain in the small of his back with his left hand. “That there was a joke. Ah guess you never really met a magickian, have you?”

  Milo shook his head.

  “Waal, they’re like most folk, Ah suppose. You got some that’re serious, really workin’ it as a path. Hard-workin’ honest people you’d be proud to call yore friend. Mah friend Marco’s like that—although Ah do wish he’d stop flirtin’ with mah wife, but that’s another matter. But then ya got folks who’er drawn to the tradition ’cause they’re broken somehow.”

  “Broken how?”

  “Diff’rent ways. But it’s usually somethin’ to do with power. Magick is power, so it attracts folk who feel like they got none.”

  “What attracts you to magick?” Milo asked.

  “Not a damn thing. Ah’m a shaman, which is another thing altogether.”

  “But you know it—”

  “Yeah, you hang around Dicky for twelve years you’d pick this shit up, too.”
<
br />   “Dicky?”

  “Our bishop.”

  “So you don’t need a girl on meth?”

  “Nope. We’re ready.”

  “You don’t need to test anything?”

  “Demons don’t take kindly to dry runs, gen’rally. If ya gotta disturb ’em, best to do it only once. It’s not like they enjoy havin’ their wills bound.”

  Milo studied him in the dim light. “Hmm…are you talking about the demon or yourself?”

  “You ever think of gettin’ out of the henchman business? ’Cause you ken make a hell of a lot more money as a psychotherapist.”

  “I am not a henchman,” Milo said through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, damn, mah mistake. It’s just…yer shore actin’ like a henchman, so…”

  “Why aren’t you afraid?”

  Dylan laughed. “Of you, Milo? You gotta be kidding me. On mah off days Ah’ve faced demons that would eat you fer breakfast an’ still be hungry.”

  “Well, I guess we’ll see about that in a minute.”

  “Ah guess we will.”

  “I’ve texted the Mayor. He’s close by.”

  “Ah’ll make some final adjustments, then. You got them candles?”

  “In that box, along with some glass holders,” Milo pointed.

  “Fancy,” Dylan said. He opened the box and took out a smaller box of tapers. He began to set them into small, disc-like holders until he had eight of them. Taking two at a time, he moved them to the six points of the Star of David he had chalked out on the cement floor of the building. He set another candle in a circle in the middle of the star, and one in the tip of the point facing west.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be a five-pointed star?” Milo asked.

  “Oh, ’cause yer an expert in the Clavicula Salomonis Regis now? Or did you just see that on TV?”

  “Supernatural, actually.”

  “Uh. That’s a fun show. But no, dude. Don’t trust Hollywood to get anythin’ right when it comes to religion or magick.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Waal, when it comes to religion, it’s just sloppy. They don’t bother to look shit up. Ah mean, when Ah’m watchin’ one o’ them Christmas movies and the minister is wearin’ red vestments, Ah jus’ turn the damn thing off. It completely ruins the realism fer me. But when it comes to magick, them TV folks know that whatever they show…waal, some stupid kid in a cornfield is gonna try it out. So you can’t show anythin’ real or you’d open yoreself up to all sorts of lawsuits when the demons start eatin’ the stupid cusses.”

  He picked up a folded triangle of paper and put it in the Circle of Containment.

  “What’s that?” Milo asked.

  “That’s a sigil. It’s a symbol that’s tied to a particular demon. Kinda like yore own name is connected to you. If people yell Milo, you come.”

  “Depends who’s doing the yelling,” Milo said with a hint of resentment in his voice.

  Just then the sliding door rolled back and a sound like thunder filled the cavernous room. Mayor Betts entered, wearing a bulky bomber jacket with a fleece collar.

  Dylan stared at it, momentarily covetous. He was so cold that he’d almost forgotten how cold he was.

  “This had better work,” Betts said.

  “Good ev’nin to you, too, Mayor,” Dylan said.

  “This looks appropriately spooky,” Betts surveyed the hexagram and candles. “Can you explain what’s going to happen?”

  “Are you sure you want to be here when it does? It’s not safe,” Dylan said.

  “I want to be here, because I only half believe what any of you have told me in the first place.”

  “Waal, Ah guess if we’re bein’ honest with each other now, Ah think you smell funny. An’ Ah suspect Milo has a secret HO train fetish.”

  Betts narrowed his eyes. “Just explain it.”

  “Okay, okay. Waal, first, you and Milo gotta stand in this box.” Dylan pointed to a rectangle just outside of the hexagram, about six feet by four feet. The word “apertiones” was written inside it in large, blocky letters with the same chalk. “That’s yore box o’ protection. So long as you stand in that box, the demon can’t eat you. Whatever you do, don’t leave that box. You understand?”

  Betts exchanged a worried look with Milo. They both nodded.

  “Good. ’Cause yer demon chow if ya don’t. Now Ah stand here, in the center of the hexagram. Ya see that circle just beyond the star? That’s the circle of containment. We’re gonna do our best not to let the demon out of that circle.”

  “You’re going to do your best?” Betts asked. “Is that going to be good enough?”

  “Ya know, this is really not mah area of occult expertise. Ah wish Dicky were here, but he’s not. So you got me. Ah’m gonna do mah best, an’ either that’s good enough or it ain’t. And that’s yore call, dude.”

  “All right, all right,” Betts shook his head. “What’s that paper?”

  “That’s a sigil,” Milo said. “It calls the demon.”

  “Someone is payin’ attention and gets a gold star fer the day,” Dylan put his hands on his hips, looking satisfied.

  “So who is this demon you’re calling up?” Betts asked. “Tell me about him.”

  “Uh…” Dylan looked up, as if trying to remember something. “His name is Pek.”

  “His name is peck?”

  “Yeah, he’s a Vietnamese demon, originally. He’s been workin’ the States ever since the 1970s, though. Came over with the boat people, remember them?”

  Betts nodded.

  “So Pek is an extreme wrath demon, one of the worst hell has to offer. Wrath demons are usually outrageously violent. Once he’s bound to mah will and free to roam the land, there won’t be any stoppin’ him or controllin’ him, either, unfortunately. He’s pretty much jus’ gonna kill everything in sight in the most horrible, bloodiest, quickest way possible. Ah hope you’ve got janitors ready, ’cause the whole ‘buckets of blood’ shit is real, dude.”

  Betts started to look uncomfortable. “Uh, is there another demon who might not be so…”

  “Nuclear?” Dylan offered. “Uh…sure, but Ah thought you wanted a demon who could take care of business.”

  “Well…I do…I’m just not sure…” Betts unzipped his jacket and Dylan could see that he was beginning to perspire, too.

  Dylan fought the urge to grin. “Look, Ah told you this was some serious shit. You call this demon up, yer gonna have bloodshed like you’ve never seen before, an’ there’s no tellin’ him who to kill and who not to kill, ’cause no one out there is wearing team jerseys.”

  “Can’t you just tell him not to kill anyone on the island?”

  “Ah thought you wanted him to patrol the island’s perimeter, to keep any Oakland incursion at bay?”

  “Yes, but we don’t want him killing Alameda residents.”

  “Ya know, makin’ that kind of distinction might be a little tough for a demon. It’s not like they’re Harvard grads.” Dylan cocked his head as he waited for Betts’ response. None of it was true, of course. Demons were extraordinarily intelligent and would have no trouble making such a distinction, but Betts didn’t know that.

  “I don’t know,” Betts said, running his fingers through his hair.

  “Okay, ya know what? Ah could call up a glamor demon instead. What do you think about that?”

  “What’s a glamor demon?” Milo asked.

  “I’m not sure glamor is the look we’re going for,” Betts said skeptically.

  “Nah, dude, that’s a technical term. A glamor is an illusion. A certain kind of glamor demon looks big and fierce and scary but doesn’t actually hurt anyone. They’re just projectin’ a glamor, an illusion.”

  Betts nodded slowly, understanding. “That could be very useful,” he said.

  “Ah could call up a nest of ’em, if ya like,” Dylan offered.

  “That sounds like an excellent plan,” Betts agreed. “Let’s do that. Keep the friendly fire t
o a minimum.”

  “10-4, good buddy,” Dylan said. “All Ah gotta do is swap out this here sigil for a different one and we’ll get started.”

  Dylan pulled a notebook and a pencil out of the box of supplies Milo had provided. He tore off a new sheet and scratched a sigil onto it that looked uncannily like Mickey Mouse. Then he folded the sigil and placed it in the Circle of Containment, tearing up the previous one. Dylan faced Betts. “Waal, Ah’m ready whenever you gentlemen are. D’you pray?”

  “What?” asked Milo.

  “Pray. To God. Do you pray?”

  Milo shook his head. Betts just blinked.

  “Well, Ah’m only gonna call up a glamor demon, but we’re still dealin’ with demons here, and once the opening is made, Ah cannot actually control who comes through. Ah’m just saying, if yer prayin’ men, now’s a good time.”

  “Thank you, but I think we’re ready,” Betts said.

  “All right, then. You two need to stand in the apertiones box. That’s so the demon will know who you are and won’t eat you.”

  “What does ‘apertiones’ mean?”

  “It’s the Latin root of our word ‘client,’” Dylan said. “Yer the client, so you stand in the client box.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Betts and Milo both stepped into the box.

  Dylan took his place in the middle of the hexagram. “Now Ah’m gonna chant.” Dylan bowed low in the direction of the sigil and began, “Intelligere, O dullest populo; et stulti, quando vos sapiens esse…” It was a Gregorian chant he remembered from the time a couple of years ago that the Blackfriars had tried to do the Daily Office in Latin. It was a miserable failure, but there were parts of it Dylan had found useful.

  As he sang, Dylan stole a glance at Betts and Milo in his peripheral vision, and it seemed to be having the desired effect. But Dylan’s own glamor would only work for so long. Nothing about this working was real—not the hexagram, not the sigil, not the ritual. And in a few moments, when no demon appeared and nothing actually happened, Betts and Milo would realize he’d been conning them.

  Better make the best of it, Dylan thought, and he raised his voice again in a commanding tone. “Oh, great Pek. By the rules laid down long ago by King Solomon, Ah implore you to appear before me—”