The Six Messiahs

by Mark Frost

  "So what sort of events might bring these Messiahs forward?"

  "I suppose the usual calamities: cataclysm, pestilence, apocalypse. Our hero needs a good entrance. Although according to this theory, He would have been standing in front of us the entire time without anyone noticing."

  "What happens to these people when they don't become the Chosen One?" she asked.

  "They live out their days and die in peace, the lucky creatures."

  "Never knowing about the part they might otherwise have played."

  "For their sake let's hope so. Messiah; what a dreadful job. Everyone throwing themselves at your feet, asking you to cure their rheumatism. Pearls of wisdom expected to fall with every utterance. All pain and suffering and never a kind word in the end."

  "Speaking of being nailed to a cross, would you mind if I moved? I'm on the verge of a crippled neck."

  "Not at all. Nearly finished," he said, the tip of his tongue tickling his lip in concentration.

  Eileen relaxed and turned to face the other direction, looking past Jacob out the far window. "Tell me: I've always been unclear on exactly what the Messiah is supposed to do for us if He does come back."

  "There is a remarkable division of opinion on this subject. One school of thought has Him riding down from the sky in the nick of time to save the world from eternal darkness. Another believes He will appear wielding a vengeful sword to judge the wicked and reward the faithful, of which there are only about twelve. A third version says if enough human beings straighten themselves out and follow the path of goodness, He would show up at once and lead us all through the pearly gates."

  "I guess it depends on who you talk to."

  "Not to mention the two thirds of the world who don't believe in the idea at all."

  "What do you believe, Jacob?"

  "Since I have come to the conclusion this is an area about which I can only confess my staggering ignorance, I've decided it's far too important a question to be answered with any degree of certainty."

  "Leave certainty for the fanatics, you mean."

  "Exactly. I take a wait and see approach. I'll either find out when I die or I won't." He laughed heartily, turned his sketch pad around, and showed her the finished portrait. His hand was sure and his eye discerning: Her features accurately rendered, the high cheekbones, the dramatic arch in her dark brow, but the resemblance ran deeper than appearances.

  He's captured my character, she thought with a jolt: the pride, willfulness, and deep-seated vulnerability. Penetrating the layers of accumulated toughness, Jacob had seen the romantic idealist submerged below. An actress spent unnatural amounts of time before the mirror contemplating the state of her face—constantly on alert, shoring up the battlements, fighting to stave off every line and slippage—but she had not seen this forgotten gentle quality in herself for so long, the sight brought tears brimming to her eyes.

  Was that naive, fresh-faced girl from Manchester still inside her? She felt a fool, weeping over such long-lost territory, but that youthful part of her nature had been good and true and Jacob had seen it clearly. She looked at the kind, frank tenderness in his azure eyes and for once didn't worry about whether her hair was in a tangle or her makeup ruined.

  What does this man want from me? she wondered. Maybe nothing. What a shocking idea.

  She tried to hand back the portrait, but he insisted that she keep it. She looked away, dried her eyes, blew her nose—it sounded like a trumpet to her; how attractive—and swallowed a fractured thank-you.

  "If you'll excuse me for a moment," said Jacob, rising from his seat. She nodded, grateful for a moment alone, and watched him walk away.

  He needed a breath of air; that queasy throbbing in his chest again; the third time since leaving Chicago. She hadn't noticed, he was sure of that, but he'd felt the blood drain from his face like water from a bath. A desperate light-headedness came over him, his vision tightening down to woozy tunnels. He gripped the handle of the car door and pulled with what little strength he could spare. Standing on the platform between the cars, now that she couldn't see him, he dedicated all his energy to recovering....

  Breathe, you old fool: worse, much worse.

  He doubled over, swallowing great gulps of hot desert air, feeling it sweep ineffectively through the dry bellows of his lungs; heart throbbing with effort, missing a beat, losing its rhythm—

  Come on, Jacob, enough of this nonsense, you have work to do.

  —tingling in his limbs, fingers going numb, knees on the verge of collapse, he held on to the chains that ringed the platform, looked down at the bright ribbon of steel rushing by beneath the train; sweat ran down off his forehead, soaked through his shirt—

  This is worse than before; this is worse than it's ever been.

  —his balance grew precarious, his mind shutting down to a single thought: Hold on to this chain. If he lost his grip he would pitch right over the side. Darkness grew around him, eyes barely able to see, heart skipping like a stone, hearing nothing but the tidal roar of his turbulent pulse....

  One more step; so close, death hovered above him as light as a feather.

  Then like flood waters cresting, the crisis began to recede; his vision cleared, widened, black spots swirling away, his lungs pulled in a satisfying breath, desperation eased, feeling returned to his fingertips. He slumped against the wall, legs quivering, but he felt the pressure loosen inside his chest. Muscles cracked like straw as he regained his footing. Terrible weakness. Blasts of hot air dried the sweat on his forehead; he stepped tentatively across the platform and coaxed open the door to the next car.

  Cool and dark inside; welcoming. He smiled weakly; not so bad, was it, Jacob? He had ventured closer to the brink than ever before. If that was death's hand on his shoulder, all he had to do was turn and face it. He'd always been averse to pain, but if this was all it took to leave, it seemed effortless. A matter of surrender not struggle: Let go and quietly slip away.

  Jittery light angled in through a slatted window. Jacob settled onto a bench; his eyes adjusted, his surroundings came into focus. What are all these strange shrouded shapes? Where am I, in some purgatorial waiting room?

  Then he remembered seeing the cargo being loaded at the station; a protruding sleeve of red velvet curtain, a bucket of spearheads pointing toward the ceiling confirmed it. Theatrical props and sets. Trunks, wardrobes; tools in the workshop of creation.

  "What an appropriate place to die," he whispered.

  He heard something moving in the corner, a rasping sound, metal on stone. Arhythmic, purposeful, owing nothing to the rocking of the train. Jacob listened a minute, rallying his strength, before curiosity overtook him. He stood and moved quietly toward the sound through a narrow passage between backdrops. To either side of him: glimpses of painted mountain tops, palace walls, an impossibly lush sunset.

  The sound ended. Jacob stopped. Something rattled behind him. He turned slowly. The tip of a long knife lightly touched his throat; holding the weapon a man dressed in the blue uniform of a railroad guard. A whetstone in his free hand; the sound Jacob had heard, sharpening the blade.

  The man's face: Asian. Chinese? Pale and strained as Jacob imagined his own must be. His tunic loosely buttoned; bloodstains below the shoulder turning the blue a rusty violet.

  This is the one they were talking about at the station, Jacob realized. The manhunt, the killer with the sword. It looks as if I'm going to die in this place after all....

  If that is the case, why do I feel so calm'?

  His heart had not increased a beat.

  Solemn concentration on the man's face gave way to an interest equaling Jacob's; clearly he perceived no threat from the old man. Slowly the blade came down and they regarded each other with increasing fascination.

  "Forgive my intrusion," said Jacob. "I was looking for a place to die."

  The man studied him. Jacob had never seen eyes that betrayed so little; flat and black, pure neutrality.

  "One plac
e is the same as another," the man said, fingers expertly finding and guiding the long knife into an ornate scabbard.

  What is it about this man that feels familiar? Jacob asked himself. Obviously I've never seen him before—the thought was ridiculous—but he experienced a deep, quiet sensation of affinity.

  "How curious," said Jacob quietly.

  The man sat on a stool between the backdrops; out of necessity, Jacob realized, seeing the blood that had already spilled onto the floor. He had dressed the wound with a band of white cotton wrapped around his chest; left side, under the arm.

  A second, longer scabbard lay at his feet, identical in design to the smaller one; black lacquer highlights shining along its edges, the worn silver hilt of a sword extending from its mouth. The man carefully laid the knife scabbard alongside the sword, adjusting them to mirror the same angle.

  "Dai-sho," said the man. "Large and small."

  "Large and small?"

  "Katana, wakizashi," he said, pointing to the sword, then the knife.

  "I see."

  "It is called Kusanagi." The man gingerly leaned over and picked up the sword. "The Grass Cutter."

  "Why is that?"

  "Legend says it belonged to Susanoo, god of thunder; he carved the sword with lightning from a mountaintop. One day Susanoo went out to hunt and left it behind; the sword became angry and cut down every tree and blade of grass on the island. Why there are so few trees in Japan...." He stopped, closed his eyes, went pale as a shiver of pain ran through him.

  "It's self-propelled, this sword?" asked Jacob.

  The spasm passed; the man nodded.

  "That's quite a sword."

  "Honoki," the man said, running his hand along the gleaming scabbard. "Hard wood: cut from the last tree the sword chopped down. Same: fish skin; from a whale Susanoo killed. Habuki: the collar; keeps blade from wearing against the sleeve. This peg fastens blade to hilt, bamboo: mekugi. Metal pins cover the peg: menuki."

  Sweat dripped freely off the man's forehead; his fingers trembled. He's reciting this inventory as a meditation, Jacob decided; to stay awake, alert. Maybe to stay alive.

  "What is this?" asked Jacob gently, pointing to the pommel grip-

  "Kashira."

  "And this?" he asked, pointing to a plate resting against the scabbard.

  "Tsuba. Separates blade from handle."

  The man pulled out the sword a few inches to show Jacob the tsuba; an elliptical stack of fused metal plates half an inch thick with an oxidized red patina, its exposed surface exquisitely engraved with the double image of a fiery bird, each gripping in its beak the other's flowing tail feathers: one rising from and the other falling into stylized tongues of flame.

  "This is the phoenix," said Jacob, amazed to find such delicate artistry as part of a deadly weapon.

  "Phoenix," said the man. "Name of city." He tilted his head toward where they had come from.

  Not without irony, realized Jacob; there's more going on inside this man than meets the eye.

  "To fall and rise again," said Jacob. "From the ashes."

  "Long way to go." The man shrugged, referencing his own reduced condition. He laid the sword down again beside its mate, took a shallow, painful breath.

  "How badly are you hurt, my friend?"

  "Gunshot. Hit in back, under left shoulder."

  "Would you like me to look at it?"

  "You are a doctor?"

  "The next best thing," said Jacob. "I'm a priest."

  The man's eyes brightened as his forehead furrowed in doubt. "You? Priest?"

  "What, such a look I'm getting."

  "You don't look like a priest."

  "Priest, rabbi, what's the difference?" said Jacob, helping ease the tunic off his shoulders. '"Where did you learn to speak English like this?"

  "From a priest; he was Catholic."

  "Ah, well; you see, there are priests and then there are priests."

  Dried matter saturated the rough bandaging around his back; fresh dark blood still oozed from its center.

  "I am priest, too," said the man.

  "Are you a Buddhist?"

  "Shinto."

  "So you are Japanese, then."

  "You have heard of shinto?"

  "I have read about it and I met shinto priests from your country last year, in Chicago. Which island are you from?"

  "Hokkaido."

  "These men were from Honshu."

  "Hai. Big city men."

  "Shinto means 'the way of the gods,' doesn't it?"

  Jacob peeled the bandage away from the wound; the man flinched slightly as the last layer of muslin pulled a ridge of crusted blood off the injury; a small, round hole just below the shoulder blade. Bruising around the trauma; no redness or infection yet.

  "Yes. Kami-no-michi," said the man, his voice betraying no discomfort at Jacob's probing. "Kami means 'superior'; the gods above."

  The bullet had entered his back in the meat of a muscle, glanced off a rib, tumbled, and exited the side of the chest; another larger hole there, two inches below. The man's breathing unaffected, the lung must be all right, Jacob thought, feeling a bit ridiculous; what am I now, suddenly a surgeon?

  "You can thank the gods above you're not walking among them now," said Jacob, his own frailties forgotten for the moment. "We need something to clean this wound."

  "Alcohol."

  "You're in luck; there's a whole car full of actors up ahead. Where did you find this bandage?"

  The man pointed to a bolt of cotton gauze sitting in a trunk nearby.

  "A regular infirmary back here." Jacob retrieved the cotton from the trunk and began folding a bandage from the bolt. "Tell me about this priest, the one who taught you English. ..."

  "He lived at our temple. American missionary."

  "Came to convert you, did he?"

  "In the end we converted him; he is there still."

  "One good turn deserves another. I'd better go get that alcohol."

  Jacob didn't move for an awkward moment. Would the man trust him enough to let him leave? Apparently so: He didn't even turn around.

  "Where did you read about shinto?" the man asked.

  "A book in my library at home, translated into English, of course. I don't recall the title...."

  "The Kojiki?"

  "Yes, I think that was it."

  "Where did you see this book?"

  "One of the shinto priests gave it to me last year in Chicago during the Parliament; he said it was the first translation anyone had made."

  "Have you seen any other copy?" the man asked, turning to face him with violent intensity. "In Japanese?"

  "No," said Jacob, but the question made an odd sense to him; something coming together in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite define. "Why?"

  The man stared at him with his strange matted eyes. "The Kojiki, the first book, was stolen from our temple."

  "That's what I thought you were going to say," said Jacob.

  SEPTEMBER 26, 1894

  Our train left the Grand Central Depot at eleven o 'clock sharp this morning—Americans are nothing if not obsessively punctual. We're traveling on The Exposition Flyer, an express introduced last year to accommodate traffic back and forth from the World's Fair. We will cover the eight hundred miles to Chicago in under twenty hours; extraordinary, as are the train's lush appointments. Luxury of the first order. Competition for the customer's dollar drives everything here; bigger, faster, stronger; there's no end to this fetish for improvement, but in a country without much history their thoughts run inevitably, sometimes exhaustingly, to the future. But before they can consider themselves truly civilized, something must be done about their incessant public use of the spittoon.

  The broad reaches of the Hudson River accompany us as we make our way north; the train has just passed the farthest outskirt of the City and what greets us is a riot of autumnal colors the brilliance and variety of which I have never conceived. If the Creator of our universe is an arti
st, He has emptied his paint box in these woods; reds, rusts, vermillions, violets, ambers and golds, all made sparkling and radiant by a brilliant warming sun. Hawthorne called this region home; Irving, Melville, and Fenimore Cooper as well; it is nothing if not inspirational. Major Pepperman, our indefatigable host, has termed this glorious weather an "Indian Summer." Not hard to imagine Indians living in these sheltering forests, doing whatever it is Indians do, paddling their canoes, shooting off arrows, scaling the craggy palisades that line the western shore.

  I have just completed the morning's correspondence—letters to Louise; notes and gifts for the children; Martha Washington dolls for Mary, a splendid tin soldier set for Kingsley; now he can restage the American Revolution and continue to rewrite history. A wire from Louise yesterday makes no mention of her health; this of course, entirely without foundation, leads me to suspect only the worst.

  New York City has left me knackered; another few days might have finished me off. What a pace! Amazing its residents don't drop every night and sleep where they fall. I have never visited a city whose residents were so confident, one might say arrogant, about their own significance. The city may well be preparing for greatness but they never let you forget it.

  Two observations: Every man you meet on the street seems utterly consumed with baseball, a local game, apparently derived from cricket, whose elusive appeal they are equally incapable of conveying by any means of common speech. Their professional ' 'season'' has just concluded or I would certainly by now have taken in one of these contests, if only to sort out the dizzying and contradictory welter of rules and regulations its enthusiasts are only too eager to inflict upon the innocent. The second: In the heart of a neighborhood they call Greenwich Village, one of the earliest settled areas of the city, stands Washington Square; entrance framed by a graceful monument to their founding father, it is as charming and picturesque a green, and a virtual oasis of peace and quiet, as any city this size could hope to provide. If Holmes had ever found himself in America, I believe Washington Square is where he would have hung his hat.

  We're quite the odd entourage; Lionel Stern sharing a sleeper compartment with Presto, the Maharaja of Berar— stranger bedfellows would be hard to invent—Innes and myself bunking in the next; Jack, alone, lugging around that compact suitcase Edison gave him as we left his compound: He has yet to reveal its contents to the rest of us. And poor hangdog Pepperman, clutching his wires and newspaper notices, believing he travels with the brothers Doyle alone, ready to retreat into wounded, sheepish solemnity—so incongruous in such a gigantic human being—whenever I invoke the desire for privacy, which on this trip will be often. Heaven forbid the Major catches wind of our actual mission; the anxiety might cause him to spontaneously combust.