Bless the Child (18 page)

“In the name of Jesus Christ.
Help me! Somebody help me!”
Maggie shrieked the words. The creature blurred and shuddered. Was it her imagination that it drew back? Heartened, she shouted, “
Hail Mary full of grace, defend me!”
It retreated with a roar. Cody slumped comatose to the floor. The lines of the Ninety-first Psalm were suddenly in Maggie’s head; she hadn’t thought of it since childhood:

“Whoso dwelleth under the defense of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.”

She cried out the words.

“I will say unto the Lord, Thou art my hope, and my stronghold: my God, in Him will I trust.

For He shall deliver me from the snare of the hunter.”

The entity seemed smaller, less dense.

Maggie recited every prayer she knew, then sang the hymns she remembered from her childhood stint in the church choir. As she finished
Tantum Ergo,
another psalm, unfamiliar to her, was suddenly in her head , so she cried out it’s words, wondering where they’d come from:

“He shall defend thee under His wings, and thou shalt be safe under His feathers: His faithfulness and truth shall be thy shield and buckler.”

She recited the words aloud, not knowing how she knew them.

“Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night: nor for the arrow that flieth by day;

Nor the pestilence that walketh in darkness: nor for the sickness that destroyeth in the noon-day.”

As suddenly as it had materialized, the entity vanished. Petrified, shivering in the unbearable cold, Maggie touched Cody’s body with trembling hands; the child lapsed into a stuporous slumber, and seemed barely to be breathing. Sobbing, she lifted the comatose Cody into her arms and crushed her to her own body, staring out into the terrifying void beyond the circle. She prayed and prayed . . . and tried to stay awake.

It was the longest night of her life.

Finally, somewhere near dawn, Maggie felt her eyelids begin to droop inexorably. She fought to stay awake, bit her hands until they bled . . . shook her fist against the awesome cold. This was
not
just exhaustion; she felt drugged, dizzy, disoriented. She tried to fight the creeping numbness, but it seemed beyond her. The light was fading within her like a dwindling flame. In a last desperate effort at protection, she prostrated her own body over Cody’s.

Then she slept.

When Maggie awakened, her granddaughter was gone. She stared at the upended Holy Water cups; the garlic wreath and rosary the child had worn were shredded on the floor. Somehow, they had lured her out of the protective circle. The Pentagram had been compromised from within.

Sick with failure and dread, and now ineradicably aware of the power she was up against, Maggie hung her head and cried.

Then she called Peter and Ellie.

Lord, hear me out and hear me

out this day;

The way to Thee’s a terrible long

way.

Theodore Roethke

E
llie sat cross-legged on the floor, as Father Peter paced the length of the library. Maggie, red-eyed, was in the corner of the couch. She had just finished telling her story.

“It’s
not
your fault the defenses were inadequate, Mags,” Ellie said with compassion. “You did what you could—you just didn’t have the conscious knowledge, or the right tools. It’s a miracle you held the thing off as well as you did! They must have dispatched a Saiitii Manifestation against you, and they’re tough to cope with, even with experience.”

Ellie looked at Peter. “You might know it as a ‘Sending.’ They’re pretty formidable, even if you’re trained properly. Maggie must have tapped into some residual knowledge when she made that Pentagram, or it could have killed her.”

Father Peter nodded. “I’ve seen similar demonic attacks in Africa and South America,” he said. “You mustn’t blame yourself, Maggie. You were up against a powerful foe.”

“Eric called up a demonic elemental from Hell to harass you, Mags,” Ellie explained. “And because your defenses were flawed, it probably hypnotized you once you were exhausted, and then got to Cody in some fashion. I expect Ghania has blood, hair, and nails from the child, for links. They probably got her to tip over the Holy Water and screw up whatever protective energy grid the Pentagram had to offer . . . I’ll bet those sons of bitches were waiting for her right outside the window.”

“After what I experienced last night, Ellie, I
know
they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if it served their purpose. That thing feeds on violence.”

“Evil always does, Maggie,” Father Peter interrupted. “The
mysterium inquitus
is brutal and elusive, and it feeds on all that is worst in us.”

“Tell me if you think I’m right, Peter,” Ellie said. “I can call you Peter, can’t I? You’re entirely too young to be my father.”

Peter smiled. “I’d be pleased if you’d both call me Peter.”

“There has to be an explanation for why this is all happening
now
,” she continued. “There’s got to be a reason they waited this long for Jenna to take Cody.”

“You think they waited until the time of their ritual was near, don’t you, Ellie? And for some reason they couldn’t just snatch her and perform their ceremony the next morning . . . so we must presume they needed to prepare her in some way.”

I like this priest,
Ellie thought, as she took up the thread.
He has an open mind.

“If they really intended to use Cody to get the Amulet and the Stone, Mags, it will require the kind of High Ceremonial Magic, that has almost never been performed in this century,” she explained patiently. “It’s believed that Aleister Crowley attempted the Evocation in 1929, and nearly died because he couldn’t control the forces he called up. Someone in Maa Kheru must be a Black Adept. To even attempt such a Materialization they’ll need to invoke the aid of something far greater than mere elementals. I’d guess one of the Fallen Angels or Satan himself. The Egyptian equivalent would be Set or Sekhmet, so one or both will surely be called forth.

“You see, Maggie, all ceremonial magic depends on the Adept having made a pact with specific demons, who are then under his command. It’s a tricky proposition—there are many dangers to the Magus if the demon can’t be controlled and returned to Hell at the end of the ceremony. If you slip up, not only is the demon’s evil let loose in the world, but the Magus himself can be driven mad or killed outright, and his soul forfeited to Satan.”

“Maggie,” Peter said seriously. “I’ve been giving a great deal of thought to this three-dimensional chess game the Universe has set before us. Hear me out, will you?

“The Isis Amulet and the Sekhmet Stone are metaphors. They represent the eternally warring factions of Good and Evil, in all their varied manifestations. As such, they provide the ultimate test for humanity—are we capable of commanding forces that heretofore were only controlled by God?” He smiled at Ellie indulgently. “Or the
Gods
. . . as others might style it.” She smiled back, feeling a distinct simpatico with the man.

“On this cosmic battleground, for reasons beyond our understanding, you, Maggie, seem to have been designated as a warrior for the side of Good. Just as Eric appears to be carrying the colors for Evil.”

“What if I don’t have the muscle for such a contest?” Maggie asked. “I don’t know what I’m
doing
with all this.”

“I suspect Peter and I have come to the same conclusion, Mags,” Ellie said quickly. “We’re your coaches. After last night, I think you’ll agree that you need some training. It’s up to us to see you develop muscles.”

“How?”

“We teach you, Maggie,” the priest answered. “I teach you what I know of God . . . theology . . .Good and Evil. The heresies they’ve spawned, the saints they’ve made. Ellie will give you a crash course in metaphysics and magic. We’ll combine our efforts on Egyptology. In case you are the one who must enter the arena, we will see to it that you do not face Goliath unprepared.”

Ellie and Peter exchanged a meaningful look. What Peter hadn’t said was that each of them had been called to the battlefield, too.

“I don’t know what to say,” Maggie answered worriedly, “except . . . I’ll do my best. I have to believe you’re both endangering yourselves terribly by befriending me, yet you’re offering your time and wisdom so lovingly, I know there can never be a proper repayment.”

“’Even in times of darkness, that is the time to love,’” Peter quoted softly, “’that an act of love may tip the balance.’”

“Aeschylus,” Ellie said, “had a lot on the ball.”

Father
Peter pulled his coat collar up against the chill night air as they left Ellie’s. The walk to Maggie’s house wasn’t a long one and he felt need of the cold to clear his mounting confusions.

He glanced at the woman who walked beside him, trying to imagine what she must be feeling about all that had disrupted her orderly life. She looked so vulnerable in the moonlight; troubled and young. What was it about her that touched him in so deep and unrecognizable a place? He’d always thought that if a woman ever breached his defenses, it would be because of sex. But, this was something subtler than that, and therefore a far more dangerous temptation.

“Would you like to stop somewhere, Maggie?” he asked suddenly. “A cup of coffee, perhaps. I assume all the coffee houses in the Village haven’t yet been turned into Blimpie Bases.”

Maggie looked up startled, her mind a thousand miles away. “Coffee,” she murmured, “I’d like that.” Then she glanced at her watch, concernedly. “Isn’t it awfully late, Peter? If you’re driving back to Rhinebeck tonight . . .”

“No. I’ve borrowed a friend’s apartment for a few days, Maggie. I thought to stay in the city until we figure things out a bit.”

“Can you do that? Just up and leave, I mean?” She smiled at her own foolishness. “Forgive me, Peter. I suppose I’ve been thinking of you as a soldier under orders.”

He laughed a little. “I have friends at the
Catholic Worker
, who’ll welcome another priest to say Mass on the Bowery. And there’s an old pal who runs an AIDS hospice on Thirteenth Street who can always use an extra priest, if it comes to that. I’m more or less on my own recognizance these days anyway, Maggie. What duties I have can get along without me for a little while.”

She smiled genuinely, unexpectedly. “Figaro’s is still wonderful, Peter,” she said, switching her direction toward Bleecker Street. “Almost like in the old days.”

The landmark coffee house was dimly lit and smelled enticing,
coffee beans and camaraderie,
she thought wistfully, as memories of good times, long gone, were roused by the friendly atmosphere.

They settled at a table in the corner and ordered. The sun-etched lines in Peter’s face crinkled as he sipped the dark steaming espresso that arrived minutes later. He had a good, lived-in face, Maggie thought, watching. A complicated face.

“What made you become a priest, Peter?” she asked, settling into the chair and looking around.
God, this place holds dear memories,
she thought fleetingly.
Youth and carelessness are so quickly gone . . . thank the Lord memories don’t vanish, too.
It felt good to be indoors and for some reason she couldn’t fully define, it felt good to be with Peter.

“I was enchanted by God, Maggie,” he responded musingly. “From the time I was very young, I was enraptured by His Universe, His Power, His Majesty. Later, when I began to stretch my wings intellectually, I was seduced by the endless learning I saw stretched before me on the road to Him. Do you recall the poem ‘The Hound of Heaven’ by any chance?”

Maggie smiled and closing her eyes, leaned back just a little in her chair remembering. “‘
I fled Him down the nights, and down the days . . .’”
she recited, with the reverence of one who truly loves poetry. She could almost hear her father’s deep baritone inflections resonate within her own; the memory of his poetry readings lived in her so sweetly. “‘
I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind, and in the mist of tears, I fled from Him . . .’”

Peter smiled, surprised at her intimate knowledge of the old poem that had such meaning in his life . . . but it was a sad smile, full of lost possibilities. “
‘All things betray thee, who betrayest Me . . .’”
he quoted. “Oh, my dear Maggie, that was the fatal line for Peter Messenguer, I think. You see, from that moment on, I wanted never to betray Him, never to disappoint. I wanted to follow Him into the secrets of the Universe . . . unravel with Him all the great Mysteries . . .” He shrugged his shoulders, the enormity of these desires indescribable.

“So yours was an intellectual seduction, then?” she answered, intrigued by this man, trying to fathom him. “Where could one so gifted as you find an adequate sparring partner, but in God?”

Genuinely startled by the unvarnished insight, Peter looked at Maggie with amused intensity. “Others have heard my story and been awestruck . . . you see the only relevant truth. Pride has always been my greatest sin, Maggie. Intellectual arrogance. The knowledge that I could comprehend things that baffled lesser minds. I was like a kid from the ghetto who has a gift for basketball beyond the ordinary. But my gift was of the brain, not the body.” He laughed a little at his own metaphor. “It’s hard not to be proud, if you’re a ‘natural’ . . . and yet, who has less reason for pride, than one who didn’t have to sweat for his achievement?”

“I’m sure you’ve sweated enough, Peter,” she answered thoughtfully. “The gifts are only the beginning. After that comes the work of being worthy of them.”

He nodded acquiescence, and she continued, warming to her investigation of the man. “So you chose the biggest Big League of them all, to test your own mettle, didn’t you? Politics, the army or the Church—they’re the only bastions of true power left in the world, aren’t they?”

Peter laughed aloud. Her irreverence toward him was wonderfully freeing. Everyone else treated him like an icon or a pariah . . . but not Maggie. She refreshed him and made him feel young again.

“And you never fear, Peter, like the man who fled the Hound of Heaven, that ‘having Him . . . you might have naught beside’?”

Peter realized he was staring into her eyes over his coffee cup; he wasn’t certain what it was he sought.

“Having Him seemed enough to me in those days, Maggie,” he answered slowly. “And, to be honest, the life suited me to a tee. The opportunities for intellectual indulgence, the breathtaking education, the company of brilliant confreres, the unfailing aristocracy of the Church in Rome. I was a boy from a poor family, Maggie—I could never have afforded the kind of education and exposure I was given. I exalted in the freedom to travel, to pursue the complexities I’d dreamed of as a small boy, in a gray little town, next to nowhere.”