Bless the Child (23 page)

T
he large bouquet from Floralies dwarfed the desert table in the foyer. Maggie read the card wonderingly. Abdul Hazred. The Egyptologist. How odd. “I believe I can be of help to you,” it read. Any port in a storm, she thought with a sigh, as she telephoned for an appointment to see him. Then, she hurried outside, hailed and uptown-bound cab and headed to the museum.

Maggie hurried through the Egyptian exhibit to the conference room of Hazred’s office. She was startled to see him surrounded by papyri, books and a computer console; he looked rumpled, frenetic, as if he’d been up all night searching for something specific. She noted that he handled both ancient and space-age with skill.

“Please sit down, Mrs. O’Connor,” he said, gesturing toward the chairs that ringed the table edge. He seemed somewhat more human than he had on first meeting.

“The flowers were lovely, Dr. Hazred,” she said. “And quite unexpected.”

“A pity they were not more in keeping with our mutual quest,” he answered. “Moon daisies, or lotuses, perhaps. Egyptian flowers are extraordinarily beautiful this time of year.”

Maggie smiled, wondering where this was headed.

“After you left, Mrs. O’Connor,” he began, his manner conciliatory. “I put two and two together . . . Correct me if I’m wrong, but I sensed that the information you sought had great meaning for you.” He raised an enquiring eyebrow. “I would like to suggest to you that we strike a bargain here, Mrs. O’Connor. If you tell me honestly why you are pursuing this matter, perhaps we may be able to help each other fit a large piece into a puzzle that has tantalized seekers for thousands of years.”

Maggie tried to read intent on Hazred’s face, but his expression was impenetrable; he could be on Eric’s side for all she knew, or he could have his own axe to grind. Ever since the night of the Sending, she’d felt paranoid about everything. But he did seem to know something, and at this point any help could be important, so Maggie told him a somewhat expurgated version of her story. Hazred listened carefully, questioning, judiciously, probing just enough. He signaled her toward a group of notes he’d been working on.

You must know, Mrs. O’Connor, that the odds against your granddaughter actually
being
the Isis Messenger are fifty million to one . . .”

“Believe me, Dr. Hazred,” she replied with a short laugh, “I’ll be thrilled if you can prove to me that she isn’t.”

“However, what made me reconsider your request, Mrs. O’Connor,” he continued with great seriousness, “is that certain very specific conditions must pertain at the exact moment of Materialization. The Great Mother is no fool, Mrs. O’Connor—she has set up an almost insurmountable obstacle course of circumstances necessary to aport the Amulet into being. My investigations convinced me there are forces stirring in the Universe at this very moment, contriving to set the ancient game in play. It would appear you have been drawn into this cosmic contest.” He sat back and regarded her with calculation, for a moment.

“I believe your granddaughter is the Messenger, and you, Mrs. O’Connor, are the Guardian—which prompts me to make my proposition.”

He paused for a moment. “We must trust each other, Mrs. O’Connor, at least a little—for if you
are
the Guardian, it may be my karma to provide you with the key to the game’s strategy. I wasn’t quite honest with you the other day . . . you see, I’ve devoted much of my life to the legend of the Isis Amulet. I’ve studied both scholarly sources and arcane ones, sometimes at great danger to myself . . .” He drifted a little, lost in the memory of his own efforts. “I fully understand your reticence in trusting me with information, yet I must advise you, Mrs. O’Connor, that you run certain substantial risks in not taking advantage of my assistance.”

“In what way?”

“There is far more at stake here than just the life of this child, I’m afraid. Do you understand the concept of the Ka, Mrs. O’Connor? You might call it soul or spirit . . . in truth it is far more than that. The Ka is the animus that contains the lifeforce, the true being, mental and spiritual—that gives life to the body. It was the Ka the ancients sought to feed and clothe after death, in their elaborate funerary rites.”

Maggie nodded.

“It is said, in the ancient texts, that the Black Forces will seek to capture the Isis Messenger, in order to resurrect the Sekhmet Stone—but that they themselves may be used as the pawns of a far greater player—the Goddess Sekhmet herself may have a hidden agenda. If I interpret these papyri correctly, the Goddess sleeps, and has slept for millennia, like the genie in the bottle. But if a Black Adept is actually able to resurrect the Stone that embodies her power for annihilation, she may choose to inhabit the body of a mortal, in order to experience the pleasures of the flesh she has so long hungered for.

“I fear, Mrs. O’Connor, that your daughter’s husband seeks to imprison your granddaughter’s Ka, and replace it with that of Sekhmet. If such were to happen, Cody’s soul will wander the Underworld for eternity and Sekhmet will free the demons from the inferno. Life as we know it will simply cease to be.”

Maggie shook her head. “Goddesses and curses and demons, Dr. Hazred,” she said, striving for rationality. “I keep feeling as if I’m an unwilling guest at the Mad Hatter’s tea party. What precisely is it you’re suggesting to me?”

“I am suggesting that your granddaughter may not be in danger only from those of the Left Hand Path, Mrs. O’Connor. You see, if all else fails, I suspect the other side will be forced to kill her to keep Sekhmet from reincarnating.”

“You’re telling me she’s in danger no matter which side gets hold of her?” Maggie rose from her chair in agitation. Hazred saw she had taken the bait.

“I think you need the counsel of someone who fully understands the intricacies of this situation,” he said. “The Universe is a vast electrical energy system, Mrs. O’Connor. Everything in it—including us—vibrates at very specific frequencies. All that magic depends on the manipulation of these energetic patterns. Why, the hydrogen bomb is merely one alteration of the pattern.

“If Cody is, indeed, the Isis Messenger, she is the
tuning fork
, Mrs. O’Connor. The
only
tuning fork. It is her frequency, combined with certain magical components of sound and ritual that will vibrate the Universal web into relinquishing the great prize.”

Maggie, unnerved by his insistence on helping, went home wondering what exactly it was Dr. Hazred wished to gain for himself.

P
eter was coming to work with her again today, Maggie thought gratefully, as she glanced at the clock. There were so many things Ellie had told her that she needed to thrash out with someone. To say nothing of Hazred’s hypothesis . . .

She threw a semi-remorseful glance at all the phone messages from the shop, which had gone unanswered.
Screw it!
Cody was the priority and that was that.

She heard the doorbell ring, and then the chatter of voices speaking Portuguese. Maria Aparecida had let Father Peter into the small elitist coterie of those she approved of. “In the end of calculations, dona Maggie,” she’d announced one evening judiciously, “the priest is to be trust by us.”

“Even if he doesn’t always wear his collar?” Maggie had teased.

“God sees the heart, not the wardrobe,” the woman had replied with Brazilian finality.

“I keep asking myself,” Peter said as he entered the library and laid his briefcase on her desk, “if any of what I’m teaching you has practical application at all, Maggie. There’s really no syllabus available for this study program, is there?”

“What you’ve been teaching me is contributing to my sanity,” she replied, meaning it. “Does that count?”

Maggie seemed to him a bit worn by the escalating anxiety, yet he sensed that the central core of her was, if anything, stronger than it had been. “Neither your sanity, nor your fortitude are open to question, Maggie, dear,” he replied generously. “The kind of stress you’re under would destroy most people, yet you seem to grow stronger and more determined, each time I see you. I marvel at you, to be honest.”

“Don’t let my surface cheer fool you, Peter. I’m scared to death. But what you teach me does make me feel less helpless . . . like I’m doing
something
besides fiddling while Rome burns.”

“Then let us begin, again,” he said, tugging an old leather notebook form the threadbare briefcase.

“Today, Maggie, I thought to tell you of my own encounters with what exorcists call ‘The Presence’ . . . the great Adversary of man and God.” He said the words with immense seriousness. “I have no way of knowing what genuine supernatural power Eric and his cohorts have at their disposal, but the Saiittii manifestation they sent to kidnap Cody suggests they can call forth demonic entities, at will. So perhaps at least a portion of my experience may help you gird your loins.”

Maggie sat on the couch and curled her stockinged feet under her, in an unconscious gesture of self-protectiveness. “I’ve always wondered what Possession really means,” she said curiously, “and how an exorcist combats it.”

Peter leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him; she could sense the strain this topic evoked in him. Exorcism was obviously not a topic Peter Messenguer spoke of lightly.

“There appear to be several gradations of demonic interchange with humankind,” he began. “The less severe manifestations, in which a man or woman is plagued by one or more demonic entities from whom they cannot seem to escape, are called Harassment or Oppression. Most cases that come before the Church—assuming they are more than merely psychotic episodes, neurotic delusions, or drug-related hallucinations—fall into this category, Maggie. True possession is as rare as it is deadly.”

Maggie frowned; this was all so unnerving. “How do you quantify the difference?”

“The simplest test is to attempt to place a blessed article onto the afflicted person’s body, Maggie. In genuine Possession, the demonic Presence simply will not allow it. I’ve seen people convulse, vomit, levitate, toss immovable furniture about like toys . . .” He shook his head to convey the inconceivably strange nature of these events.

“What’s it like, Peter?” she asked, fascinated, “this Presence? How do you even know it’s there?”

The priest leaned back and stretched his long legs out in front of him, a conscious effort at dispelling tension. He took a deep breath before speaking. “The Presence wants you to know it’s there, Maggie. A terrible, consuming pride seems always to motivate its actions.”

“Couldn’t it be just the person’s own warped psyche talking to you?”

“The Church takes pains to rule out dementia, Tourette’s
S
yndrome, and all known types of psychosis, of course. There are stringent psychological and medical criteria that must be met, before they’ll allow an exorcist to be called in.” He paused. “But after all the psychiatrists and medical doctors have made their investigations, occasionally, a case presents itself, in which there’s simply no way to explain the aberrant behavior, except to say it is caused by something other than human.”

“Like what?”

“Like a demon, Maggie. Like an adversarial Evil Intelligence from somewhere else. Somewhere we don’t understand.”

Maggie frowned. “How could you ever be certain of such a bizarre possibility, Peter?”

“The criteria are very specific, Maggie . . . the afflicted person must be able to do things humans ordinarily cannot. Like speaking in unfamiliar tongues, or levitating, or exhibiting superhuman strength, or telekinesis, or reading the thoughts of those around him. Sometimes even knowing the most intimate sins of those in the room, whom it considers the enemy.”

“And you’ve actually seen, all this?”

“I once had an itinerant farmworker converse with me in an ancient Sumerian dialect that hasn’t been voiced by man in four thousand years. We were able to rule out cryptomnesia—buried recollections from childhood or infancy—because his access to education had been so limited. On other occasions, I’ve seen demons turn out to be some obscure Chaldean God of Evil, that even scholars have forgotten.”

Maggie had her lower lip firmly between her teeth, without knowing it. Peter almost smiled at the childlike response to the terrors he described.

“How on earth does a person become Possessed Peter? Surely no one really invites the Devil in and says, hi there, I’d like to make a pact with you?”

“Ah, Maggie, don’t be so certain of that fact. It isn’t unheard of, for man in his greed, to think this world’s goods are worth the exchange. And remember, one may invite evil in behind the lines of defense, in many far subtler ways . . . by lying, cheating, stealing, and the like, one can wear away quite effectively at the lines of fortification. Small evils open the door for larger ones.”

“Drugs and alcohol also seem to have the capacity to open the channel to a place where the evil entities bide their time, waiting for access to humanity. And any trauma—physical or psychological—that jars a person out of control of his own will, can provide access.”

Peter paused to think if he’d forgotten any possibilities, then added, “Occasionally, babies are dedicated to Satan at birth by their parents, so their own free will is not engaged.”

“Are you telling me,” Maggie said aghast, “that someone can have his soul sold out from under him?”

“At Baptism, Maggie, we Christians dedicate our children’s souls to Christ, renouncing Satan and ‘all his works and pomps.’ The child’s own free will is not in question. The other side does the same in reverse.” Peter smiled a little; the crinkling lines in his face made him look as if he were squinting at the sun.

Maggie’s dark hair bounced as she shook her head. “After experiencing Eric’s Sending, Peter, I don’t doubt what you’re telling me in the least, but I sure as hell wonder how a mere human could ever hope to combat such an Evil Intelligence?”

“Carefully, Maggie,” he answered intently. “Oh, so very carefully. You see, it seeks to
engage
you . . . to lure you into debate and controversy, even into the kind of pride that says ‘I can win.’ A form of madness, of course. But it becomes the ultimate challenge, don’t you see?”

What was there to say to that, Maggie wondered. “So, how do you ever best it, Peter?”

The priest chuckled. “You do not, of course.
You
cannot. Christ can.
‘In the name of Jesus Christ, I take authority over you,’
is what you say,” Peter thundered the words, startling her.
“In the name of Jesus Christ, I bind, I rebuke, I exorcise . . .”
It is only that exhortation of the Holy Name, which allows you to engage the Great Enemy. Alone you are absolutely powerless.”

“How could anyone even dare to try?” she whispered, and he smiled sadly.

“Only with that strange combination of humility and hubris that is the special province of exorcists, Maggie. We blunder in where others fear to tread, because we trust so utterly in the power and goodness of God.”

Maggie nodded, beginning to understand. “This Adversarial Intelligence, Peter,” she said thoughtfully. “How does it show itself?”

He made a gesture that said there were no adequate words possible. “The Presence is unmistakable . . . powerful, utterly malignant. It uses all your most secret vulnerabilities against you . . . Sometimes it plays hide and seek, clawing at your psyche like a cat with a mouse . . . But you always know when it’s there.

“And you must be intensely careful in all your dealings with it, Maggie, because your own faith, sanity, and physical health are on the line, as well as the patient’s, and there can be grave danger.”

“Then, how can I possibly protect myself and Cody, Peter? Let’s say Eric calls up some horrible demonic power from the Pit. I can’t live in a Pentagram forever, even if I could build a good one!”

“Prayer, Maggie! You must attach yourself to the whole two thousand years of Christianity and the Collective Unconscious it has created. And you must never engage the creature in debate . . . a wise, old exorcist I know always warned me,
‘Never engage the entity, my boy . . . if you do, he’ll beat you every time.’
You must never invite it in, never acknowledge its power, never doubt its existence. And you cannot fear . . .”

“How on earth can I control fear, Peter?” she asked despairingly. “If I go into that awful house to try to rescue Cody, I’m going to be scared out of my wits!”

“You
must
control your terror, just as a warrior does at the moment of entering the battlefield. If you cannot, do not even try to save her. Evil doesn’t play fair—and it, too, is empowered by a collective life-force, thousands of years old. Fear weakens you, and strengthens it. You must place your faith in the power of Goodness, and you must surrender your fate to God. Perfect love casteth out fear, Maggie. Unless it does, you cannot possibly prevail.”

She let out an emphatic sigh; you know truth when you hear it, even if you’re not certain you can live up to its demands. Mr. Wong had said very much the same thing:
“When you have lost your fear of death, you are invulnerable, Maggie. What, then, can you be threatened with?”

The
lessons had lasted until late in the day. Stories of demons whirled in Maggie’s brain, scrambling with each other for space.

“I need a break, Peter,” she said wearily, around four o’clock in the afternoon. “I think I need some fresh air, and a conversation on any topic but this one.” They adjourned to the pocket-size backyard that, in summer, was Maggie’s joy.

She pulled two out-of-season deck chairs into what was left on the late afternoon sun and they sat down. Peter, too, was grateful for the change of pace; there were so many troubling memories called up by today’s conversation. He put his head against the Adirondack chair’s angularity, and pulled his collar up. It was too cold yet to be comfortable outdoors, but the air was restorative. The borrowed sweater he wore had belonged to Jack, and it was small for his large frame.

“Tell me what it was like for you, Peter,” she prompted, forcing her mind free of the earlier conversation, looking for a neutral topic that would provide a momentary respite. “When you were young and found yourself on the Church’s fast track.”