He walked back across the parking area and up onto the orphanage porch, where the wind sang through cracks in the wood. He unlocked the doors with his master key.
There was no sound on the lower floor. After his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, the empty corridors and classrooms seemed haunted by long shadows that suddenly leaped from his path or slid soundlessly along the papered walls. He climbed the stairs, past the second-floor landing with its tattered carpet and mothball odor, on up the stairway toward the third floor. He walked with one hand grasping the smooth bannister, mindful of his footing in the dark. He was careful to make as little noise as possible; he did not, for some reason he was reluctant to admit, want to announce his presence to whomever was walking amid the children as they slept.
On the third floor he could smell the path in the air where a burning candle had passed; the thick odor of wax led directly down the corridor to the dormitory’s closed doors. He moved through the corridor, stopping once and wincing as a loose board squealed beneath him, and then his hand touched the dormitory doors. The crack at the bottom betrayed no light and there was no sound of movement beyond. He listened. He hoped to confront a sister who had perhaps gotten up to attend to a sick child but the relentless hammering of his heart, the fearful pounding of blood through his veins, reminded him that he already knew this was not the case.
Behind that door something waited. Behind that door was the child.
He thought he felt vibrations with his hand, as if someone—or more than one?—were on the other side of the door and heard his heartbeats, counted them while laughing into cupped hands. Go away, he told himself, go away. Get away from this door, this place. Get into your car and drive home and come back in the morning as if nothing had happened, as if you had never seen a white trace of flame flicker briefly by the glass. Get away. Get away while you can.
But no. No.
He opened the doors and stepped through into the dormitory.
It seemed darker than the corridor. His eyes strained to make out the jigsaw of bunk beds. A thin silver of moonlight zigzagged across the floor from a window, cut in thirds and quarters by the shadows of tree limbs. A branch scraped across glass and made the flesh crawl at the back of his neck; the sound reminded him of fingernails on blackboards.
And then he noticed something—too late, and with a sudden rush of fear that made his eyes widen involuntarily, made him back toward the doors that had now shut behind him.
The beds.
The beds were empty.
Hands clawed at his legs; dozens of hands moved over him like cold ants. He tripped and threw out his arms for support but he was falling, falling, falling to the floor as the bodies leaped at him from the blackness around the doorway. He saw gleaming teeth, eyes round and wild, fingers curled into awful tearing claws. He opened his mouth to cry out but one of them jammed a fist between his teeth; other hands grasped at his hair, scratched at his eyes, held him down against the floor. He thrashed wildly in an effort to escape but the bodies he shook off returned like angry wasps. And finally, bruised and beaten, he lay quiet knowing it was not yet over.
One of them wrenched his head to the right.
In the corner, standing with his back against the wall, was the child. He held a candle; Father Robson watched wax splatter to the floor in a round puddle. The flame, swaying to a silent rhythm, cast red shadows on the wall around the child’s head. The child’s eyes were in shadow still, but his lips were tight and grim in the dim candle glow. The lips, Father Robson thought, of a man.
And then the child whispered, “We’ve been waiting for you, Dog Father. Now we can begin.”
The children waited. Eyes glittered in the candlelight. Father Robson heard the boys’ harsh breath and saw it beginning to fog the cold glass of the windows. Begin? Begin? Now he knew; he was too late. The power and madness of this child had taken them over, had mesmerized them until they were all echoes of his own black rage. Father Robson wanted to scream, loudly scream scream scream for help without shame. For anyone. For God. But he was afraid to try to scream; he was afraid he would not be heard and the realization of his fate would drive him mad.
Baal hadn’t moved. He stood holding the candle, watching the pale face of the man on the floor beneath him, as the thin flame sharpened into a burning knife and illuminated a pair of eyes that tore bloodily through the soul of the holy man and emerged, grinning, with his heart.
There was a movement from the other side of the room, from among a jumble of metal bed frames. Someone was being held there by three of the children, someone moving, shaking a head from side to side, someone with eyes wide and glistening. A woman. A woman in a gown with her hair tangled behind her as she lay outstretched on a bed. Father Robson struggled to see her face but he could not. Their grip on him was too strong. He saw her fragile white limbs outspread; the hands clutched helplessly at the metal bars above her head.
Baal said to one of the children, “Richard. You will go through the corridor and lock the sisters’ wing off from the stairway. Go.” The child nodded and slipped away into the darkness. In a moment he had returned and Baal saw that it had been done. “Good,” he said. “My good Richard.”
Baal cast his eyes on the man and Father Robson saw a thin smile on his lips, as if he had already declared himself the victor in this vile game of blind-man’s buff. Baal said, “The time for struggle is past, Dog Father. Things are simply as they are. Each passing day has seen my strength increase. Now these are my children. This has been my testing ground; the ultimate test was this…” He held forth the candle. “The minds of children are simple and innocent. The mind of an adult is somewhat more…complex. My angel of light came bearing gifts, Dog Father. The gift of life; the gift of freedom. And I give freedom to my faithful. Oh yes. One touch and I make them kings. One touch and I destroy them. I hold them. I hold you.”
The man’s face was contorted with fear. Tears began to well in his eyes and mucus dripped from his nose to the floor. Baal said, “No tears, Dog Father. You will go to your everlasting reward; isn’t that so? Or have you sinned and been fucking the sisters in the closets? Man of God, where is your God? Where is He?” Baal bent toward the offered, blood-drained face. “Where is He now, Dog Father? I’ll tell you… He cringes and hides. He holds up a cross and hides in the darkness.”
Baal straightened. “And now I consummate my angel of light,” he said mockingly, and the children around him moved aside to let him pass. Father Robson worked his head around to watch.
Baal, his face gaunt and purposeful in the light of the flame, stood over the bed where the woman lay and gave the candle to one of the others. Father Robson saw that the woman had stopped moving. She lay still even when the children released her. Baal unhurriedly removed his pants and with groping hands spread apart the woman’s legs. He moved upon her and then, with a maddened intensity, tore at her gown, clawing red rents in her flesh. Father Robson ground his teeth and closed his eyes to escape the awful moment but he could not shut out the sounds; the flesh against flesh, the moaning of the woman, the urgent breathing of the child. Then he exhaled finally with a noise that made Father Robson sick to his stomach. The bedsprings creaked as the child stood and put on his pants again. And there was another sound, a sound that made Father Robson spray tears and sweat as he jerked his head up against the force of the children.
He had heard the sound of licking flames. The child had set the mattress afire with the candle. Fire crept toward the spent, naked body of the woman. Dark smoke began to billow up. Oh God, the holy man thought, the child will kill us all. He thrashed and bit his lips but to no purpose.
Baal stepped back, his red eyes reflecting tongues of flame. He moved to another bed and, extending both hands, grasped the sheets. Father Robson watched, horrified. It had not been the candle that had set the bed afire, as he’d thought. It had been the hands, the body of the child. Baal grew rigid and the sheets began to char where his hands touched. On the already
burning mattress the woman hadn’t moved; Father Robson turned his head away as he saw flames catch the remnants of her gown and spread into her fan of hair.
The child moved through the dormitory, his hands outspread as if conducting a symphony of flame, touching the sheets and pillows and mattresses, setting hungry fires racing. Smoke choked them. Father Robson had difficulty breathing and he heard the children around him coughing, yet none of them moved to extinguish the fires. A glass shattered with the heat. The ceiling began to char and blacken. Flames weaved like cobras before Father Robson’s face. He thought he could smell his own flesh burning.
And he was aware, as well, that the smoke was spreading through the cracks of the doors out into the corridor. Soon the sisters would be alerted by the smoke and heat. But something tensed in his throat, choking him. He gagged on his wild hopes of rescue. The wing where they slept…had been locked off from the corridor. They would not be able to smell the smoke until flames had reached the stairway.
Baal, framed by wild raging fire, stood over him. The eyes of the others were on him; their clothing smoked. Baal said over the noise, “Rend him to pieces,” and the children fell upon Father Robson like greedy rats on a bloating carcass, savage teeth sinking for veins. When they had finished they stood in crimson pools and held out their hands for Baal’s approval.
The child moved among them, mindless of the heat, searching their eyes. Some he touched gently, a finger to the forehead. When he withdrew the finger, it left in its place a small burned print like a whirling design. With the marking of each uplifted face Baal spoke a name:
“Verin.”
“Cresil.”
“Ashtaroth.”
They seemed to feel no pain but rather to welcome his searching touch. Their eyes glittered; the finger descended.
“Carreau.”
“Sonneilton.”
“Asmodeus.”
Windows shattered from the heat all along the dormitory. Flames pulsated like a great fiery heartbeat.
“Olivier.”
“Verrier.”
“Carnivean.”
Those Baal passed unmarked cast down their eyes and fell to their knees before him. He cast a final glance along the mass of huddled bodies and threw open the doors; smoke and sparks rushed past him, driven by the wind through broken glass. The chosen nine followed him from the fiery dormitory and the last one, a hobbling Sonneilton whose name had once been Peter, quietly closed and locked the doors on the other children.
The chosen followed Baal to the stairway. From the other wing came muffled cries for help; glass broke as someone tried to climb from a window. Pulled by the wind, the smoke whirled beneath locked doors to choke the trapped women.
They crossed the porch and reached the fringe of trees. Baal held up a hand and turned to watch the final act of his performance of flame.
The wind, roaring in, spewed sparks into the sky. Flames had completely engulfed the third floor; as the children watched there was a sound of sagging timber and the fourth floor, the library with its aged volumes, caved in, sending new fire tongues lapping. The gabled roof caught; tiles burst into flame, lighting a thin smile on the face of Baal. Someone from inside the structure screamed, a long and piercing scream that shattered, for an instant, the noise of the fires. Someone else cried out for God and then there were no more cries.
The groaning roof collapsed. Burning timbers exploded into the sky. Flames leaped at the roof of the administration building and in another moment it too had caught afire.
Against the cacophony of crashing timber and bursting glass, against the framework of black sky and whirling white smoke, Baal turned to his chosen nine. He did not raise his voice but still they could hear him above the flames. He said, “We are now men in a world of children. We will teach them what to see, what to say, what to think. They will follow because they have no choice; and if we choose we will set the world afire.”
His black eyes passed from one to the other; they stood in smoking garments and on their foreheads the fingerprint glowed red. Baal moved into the dark veil of forest and the others followed without a backward glance.
The orphanage shuddered on fire-weakened legs; its blood had flowed away in the smoke that leaped up and up, dancing like the smoke of pagan fires. With a final hopeless cry as from a scorched open mouth, the structure trembled and crashed down in an explosion of flames that would burn the forest into ashes before the coming of dawn.
TWO
“…and who is able to war with him?”
—Revelation 13:4
Chapter 11
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HE HAD WOKEN at six o’clock and was now sitting in the breakfast nook of his quiet apartment, reading the morning newspaper as the sun threw purple shadows along the cobblestoned street below.
This was his time of the day, before the noise of awakening Boston reached him, urging him forward with a note-filled briefcase. Now he sipped at a cup of hot dark tea and watched the day brighten, thinking how beautiful and distant the furry cirrus clouds looked over the towers of the city. In the last few years he had found that he enjoyed the little things so much. The tea’s sharp taste, the blues and whites that stretched the sky and gave it life, the peaceful silence of the apartment with its shelves of books and busts of Moses and Solomon: he wished so much, as he did always these early mornings, that Katherine could be here to share these things with him. But death, he knew, was never the end. Her death had made him reanalyze his own life; he knew she was at a blessed peace that he had finally learned to share.
He scanned the newspaper’s front page. Here was a catalogue of what had happened in the world while he’d slept. The headlines screamed of a world hungry for either relief or destruction. Every morning it was the same; in fact, the horrible had become commonplace. There had been more than a dozen murders in Boston alone. Kidnappings, arson, robberies and beatings spread across the nation like a thread of blood from a ripped-open wound. A bombing in Los Angeles had killed ten and wounded thrice that many, perhaps, he thought, at the same time he’d rolled over in his sleep; a mass murder in Atlanta while he pulled the blanket up around him; gang warfare in New York while his eyes darted beneath closed lids in pursuit of dreams. Here at the top of the page a suicide pact, in the lower column abandoned children. A tramway explosion in London, a burning monk in the streets of New Delhi, a terrorist group in Prague holding captives and vowing to murder them slowly, one by one, in the name of God.
During the night, while he slept, the world had moved and agonized. It had writhed in fits of passion. Old wounds had been reopened, old hatreds stirred, until bullets and bombs were the only voices to be heard. Indeed, even the bullets and bombs spoke softly now. Soon, perhaps, the loudest voice of all, that blasting voice that rocked nations and burned cities to rubble, would descend screaming through the night. And when he awakened the next morning and looked at the headlines, perhaps he would see no headlines there at all, just a question mark because then all the words in the world would be powerless.
He finished his tea and pushed the cup aside. The pain of the night had settled within him. And the pain of the nights ahead was already unbearable. He knew that his feeling of awful frustration also tormented many of his colleagues at the university, the frustration of speaking out but never being heard.
Many years before he’d had great hopes for his books on philosophy and theology, and though they had been academic successes, they had all died quiet deaths in that limited literary arena. He realized now that no book could ever change a man, no book ever quiet the rush or violent fever on the streets. Perhaps they’d been wrong; the sword now was much mightier than the pen. The sword wrote in red passages of carnage and violence that seemed now to outweigh by far the black words on white pages. Soon, he thought, the time for thinking would be past and men, like automatons, would grasp guns to scrawl their signatures in flesh.
He looked at the grandfather clock in the hallway and noted
the time. Today, fittingly, he was lecturing to his morning class on the Book of Job and the theme of human suffering. It had begun to concern him that time was passing very swiftly indeed; he’d been lecturing day in and day out for almost sixteen years with only a few visits to the Holy Land to break the routine. It had begun to concern him that he should always be either traveling or working wholeheartedly on another book. After all, he told himself, he was past sixty-five—he would be sixty-seven in three months—and time was passing. He was afraid of senility, that disease of old minds, that horrible thing of drooling lips and uncaring eyes, partly because in the last few years he’d already observed the aging process in several of the theology professors at the university. As head of the department, it had been his responsibility to cut back their teaching assignments or, as tactfully as possible, suggest they work on independent studies. He’d hated being administrative hatchet-man but there was no use in arguing with the Board of Review. He was afraid that, in a few years, he would find himself on that scholarly chopping block.
He drove his accustomed route to the university and saw it awakening in the golden morning as he walked, briefcase in hand, up the wide stone steps, flanked by time-scarred statues of angels about to spring toward the sky, of the Theology and Philosophy Building. He walked across the marble-floored hallway and took the elevator to his office on the third floor.
His secretary said good morning. She was a good worker, always there before him in the morning to straighten his papers and arrange his appointments around his classroom schedule. He made small talk with her for a few moments, asking her about the trip to Canada he knew she was going to take in two weeks, and then went on through the frosted-glass door bearing in black letters the name JAMES N. VIRGA and, in smaller letters, PROFESSOR OF THEOLOGY, DEPARTMENT HEAD. In his comfortable dark-blue-carpeted office, he sat at his desk and arranged his notes on the Book of Job. His secretary knocked at the door and entered with his appointment agenda.
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