Bless the Child (25 page)

Peter turned the corner of West Fourth Street and headed toward the river. He needed to clear his head of Maggie, the woman, before he could help Maggie, the student, to learn what she must. He was teaching her daily now, and he was a good teacher, he knew that from his days in academia. Perhaps, even a great teacher, when it came to certain difficult terrain . . .

And Maggie was a wonderful student. She loved to learn, lusted after knowledge—thrilled at the cerebral leaps necessary to understanding the subjects he put forth. And she had a prodigious memory.
She
was not the problem in this interchange.

The problem was what in the world to teach her. He had schooled her in his own experiences of exorcism, that should she meet the Adversary in any guise, she would not be totally unprepared. But even in so doing, he had felt a terrible despair in the inadequacy of his teaching, for no one can prepare another for so unearthly an onslaught. No one can explain the enormity of the negative
energy
it is . . . an energy with its own roots, its own intellect, its own beingness.

He would teach her next what the great minds had said of Good and Evil, but they both knew only too well, that Evil is not theoretical. It is insidious, and is skillful in its disguises. The moment of confrontation comes in the street, or office, or marriage bed, where decisions must be made on practical human grounds, not pontifical ones. He had taught her what he thought he knew of man and God. But it was apparent to him that her odyssey in the real world of life, love, work, marriage, family had fitted her as well to teach him, as the other way around.

Incline Thy ear to our prayers, we beseech Thee, O Lord, and brighten the darkness of our minds by the grace of Thy visitation.

He’d go back up to Rhinebeck tomorrow, to use the library. There were one or two references that might bring clarity. And James was there. The ear of a friend is the best comfort in troubled times.

The river looked black and dirty. Poor Hudson, he thought. Men have done evil even to you, in their lust for money. Evil abounded. It was everywhere. In expediency, and ambition, and greed, and need, alike. And it almost always cloaked itself in some less recognizable disguise. Even that of simple omission.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil, is that enough good men do nothing,” Burke had said. Peter sighed and prayed for guidance.

“Et clamor meus ad te veniat,”
he murmured. Let my cry come unto thee . . .

He would teach her what he knew, and leave the rest to God.

Cody
waited breathlessly for the sound of Ghania’s footsteps to fade . . . then she waited a little longer. Sometimes, Ghania appeared when you didn’t even hear her coming, so you had to be really careful.

With nervous eyes locked on the door, the child pulled out the bear, and felt around inside his neck, for her treasures.
They were still there.
She breathed again. One gold button, one woolen thread that might have come from Mim’s sweater, at least it looked like the same color, so maybe . . . one tiny seashell from the exact spot on the sand where Mim had stood, and told her about the secret place in their hearts. And there was still room for more things, if she could only find them.

Cody, took her treasures out, one by one, and rubbed them up against her cheek, lovingly. When she did that, pictures always came into her head. Pictures of Mim. Sometimes they were scenes she remembered from the past. But not always. Lately, there were new pictures, too. She had seen Mim crying, two times. And once she had seen her walking down the street with a tall man. Once, she had even heard her voice . . .

A sound in the hall shocked the child into stuffing the treasures hastily back into the bear. She pushed him down under the covers, listening to the thud of her own heart beating,
ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom
inside her chest. It did that when she got really scared. The door opened and Ghania’s eyes scanned the scene, then satisfied that all was quiet, she left again.

Cody smiled underneath the blanket. She had her magic treasures now, that let her see Mim. And she had the place inside her where she kept her secrets.

And, Ghania didn’t know about any of it.

A
bdul Hazred rang Maggie’s doorbell; he had a book in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

Maria Aparecida ushered him into the house with a significant lowering of her eyebrow, and padded off to find Maggie. “The Egyptian, I have placed in the parlor, dona Maggie,” she said with an air of disdain.

“He doesn’t appeal to you, eh?” Maggie replied, amused.

“Moses didn’t like his kind, either,” she pronounced her curtain line, and Maggie had to suppress her own laughter on the way to meet her guest.

“Good evening, Dr. Hazred,” she said, greeting him. “I was surprised by your phone call.”

“If you would be so good as to call me Abdul,” he responded, “I would feel you have relented toward me, and will accept my help in this matter of the Amulets.”

“Abdul, then,” she agreed. “But I’m afraid I’m still not certain what help it is you feel you can offer.”

He extended the wine. “I regret to say my country does not excel in the making of wine, so I have had to resort, on this count at least, to a grudging truce with the French. This particular vintage is a favorite of mine . . . I thought perhaps we might enjoy a glass of it as we speak of what service I could be.”

He was certainly charming. Maggie thought; maybe she should just chalk her antipathy up to chemistry and hear him out.

“Perhaps, if you sit down, Abdul and tell me what’s on your mind, I’ll have a better understanding.” She motioned him to an armchair and he followed her cue, as she walked to the bar and opened the wine.

“As I told you, Maggie, I have followed the story of the Isis Amulet and Sekhmet Stone for many years. Enough, in fact, so that it has become something of an obsession—albeit, a scholarly one—for me. I have always known the Materialization would come in my lifetime. To that eventuality I have pursued every conceivable avenue of inquiry . When you contacted the museum, my instincts told me the Messenger had come among us. Needless to say, I long to meet her.”

“I see. So you simply wish to be introduced to Cody . . . it isn’t that you have information you feel might be helpful?”

Hazred looked offended. “Oh no, Maggie. Quite the contrary . . . if your granddaughter is the
one
, she will need to be prepared for her mission. In arcane terms, we speak of an
Awakening.
You see, contrary to popular myth, the chosen ones of the Gods do not arrive on this plane of existence fully in control of their powers. Like Buddha, Krishna, and Christ, they must awaken to their grand vision gradually, and be coached along the way, both by life itself, and by master teachers, who are put in their path for this purpose. In the case of your granddaughter, however, there is little time for her to grow into her gifts, inasmuch, as the most propitious moment for Materialization will come while she’s still a mere child.” He paused in the lengthy soliloquy.

“I therefore, most humbly offer my services to you as a spiritual tutor for the child. My lineage is both royal and priestly. I think you will find I have a good deal to offer Cody.”

Maggie frowned. “You obviously don’t know, Abdul, that Cody is no longer with me.”

“No longer with you? What does that mean?”

“It means that her mother has kidnapped her, for lack of a better term, and I’m afraid that I’ve been declared
persona non grata
at the Vannier home.”

Hazred looked disproportionately distressed.
That damnable Vannier had gone back on his solemn word; he had promised the opportunity to work on the Awakening of the Messenger before the ritual. How dare he steal the child and not let his associates know? It was the witch’s doing, most likely. She wanted to perform the Awakening by her own methods, Goddess help the poor child.

“I am most bitterly disappointed by this news, Maggie,” he said, trying to force his mind back to the conversation at hand. “To be honest, it makes me fear gravely fro your granddaughter’s safety. These are delicate matters . . .”

“No one fears more than I, Dr. Hazred, I assure you. If I thought there were a way to get her back, believe me I would do so.”

There was obviously little left to say, so Hazred left the house and Maggie wondered what he might have taught Cody, had she been available.

“You gave me your word!” Hazred snapped at Eric. “You know as well as I , the Awakening is critical.”

Vannier remained calm in the face of the Egyptian’s tirade. “Circumstances changed, Abdul. The O’Connor woman became too much of a complication, and I decided to remove the child from her influence, altogether.”

“How dare you make this judgment without consulting the Council of Thirteen?”

“I dared that in precisely the same way I shall dare to decide who plays which role for the Materialization, Abdul,” Eric answered, with only the slightest hint of exasperation. “Democracy is not nearly as efficient as autocracy, I assure you. For example, I have chosen
you
to assist me on the alter during the Ceremony, despite the fact there are twelve others who consider themselves equally qualified.”

“So, you throw me a bone?” Hazred replied contemptuously. “It is my
bloodline
and my
talent
that will place me on the altar, that night—not your noblesse oblige.”

“As you wish, Abdul, but as the die is already cast where the child is concerned, I expect you’ll surely see the wisdom in dropping these quibbling arguments, before you and I end up seriously at odds with each other.”

Hazred, infuriated, but seeing the futility of his position, mended this fence as best he could, and left the Vannier estate.

Eric obviously had his own agenda in this matter.

So too, of course, did he.

P
eter had been working in the book depository since early morning, transcribing, writing, cross-checking in diverse languages. There were groups of papers blanketing the entire surface of the large table, and piles of reference materials littered the floor like earthbound satellites. The more he read, the worse he felt. It was impossible to know what to believe anymore. Truth, myth, archetypal fantasy. It all boiled down to Good and Evil. The eternal war. The drowning pool for heresy. The child was the ultimate metaphor, of course. And Maggie . . . Peter put his head in his hands to rest; his shoulders sagged, as if a great weight had been placed upon them.

Finally, painfully, he stood up and stretched. He felt a weariness of spirit, more than of the body; he needed replenishment of a subtle and profound nature, the kind that could only come from God. He made his way down the long corridor to the chapel. It was comfortably small and intimate. Funny, how he’d always felt closest to God in tiny chapels or poor mission churches. God didn’t seem comfortable in cathedrals. They spoke too loudly of power and pelf. Christ liked common people better than kings.
It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.
That was a mistranslation of the same truth. Strange where the mind rambles to, if you didn’t keep a weather eye on it. He sighed and knelt down at the altar rail to pray.

To anyone seeing him there it would have been obvious he was deeply troubled . . . the droop of his shoulders, and the head bent low over folded hands, praying for guidance, or forgiveness.

After a long while, Peter rose, blessed himself, and made his way through the labyrinthine corridors to the area of the building that served as residence. He stopped at one of the doors and knocked, a little hesitantly.

“James,” he called out, when the knock went unanswered. “Will you hear my confession?”

A tall, quite handsome black priest opened the door and looked out quizzically. He was Father James Kebede, late of Ethiopia; as close to a confidant as Peter had ever had. The price of brilliance and iconoclasm is always loneliness—few minds could keep up enough for friendship; fewer still were apolitical enough to espouse the cause of an almost heretic.

James and Peter had learned their friendship tentatively, over the chess board. Then, they’d stumbled into conversations that rambled through faith, morals, and the human condition, to probe the mysteries of God’s astonishing creation. Peter had discovered in the younger man a true believer—a rarity now within the Church to find one with absolute faith. It had refreshed him like a sign from God. James believed in the difference between Good and Evil, in the reality of demons, and in the exquisite, mind-numbing power of God. And not because he was stupid or simple, but rather the reverse. Father Peter liked and admired him very much, and he asked him, on four separate occasions, to aid him in performing exorcisms.

“Are you in need of confession, my friend?” James asked with a gentle smile. “Or of someone with whom to question this great and puzzling Universe God has vouchsafed us?” He was taller than Peter, and as powerfully built as a Masai warrior. Yet he moved with a sort of tender diffidence, as if he didn’t wish to disturb the world as he passed through it.

“Both, perhaps,” Peter responded, and James saw that the older man looked weary, troubled. “I could use your good counsel, James.”

“How good my counsel is remains in question,” James answered with a good-natured laugh. “That I will gladly share it with you is a certainty.”

The two men walked toward the large rectory kitchen and Peter sat down at the table, while Father James made an elaborate process of the preparation of tea for them both. He warmed the crockery pot first with hot water, in the English manner, and watched the steeping leaves judiciously, until they reached the proper state for pouring. He had once told Peter he took pains with the preparation of food because it was so scarce in his country, he felt it should always be treated with reverence and gratitude. He also told him of the jackals who came down from the hills at night to devour the starving children sleeping in the streets of Addis Ababa . . .

“You take joy in the small things of Creation, my friend,” Peter said, watching him.

“Ah, but you see how equably God has divided the labors of the Universe, Peter. I shall take care of the small things and you shall take care of the large ones . . . like unraveling God’s Plan, perhaps. Is that what troubles you tonight, my friend?”

Peter laughed, as he was meant to, and shook his head. Despite the laugh, there was a pervasive sadness in his every gesture.

“Nothing quite so grand as that, James,” he said quietly. “But thorny, nonetheless. There is a child . . . and a woman . . . both in need of help I may be able to give them. And I want to help . . . more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long while. I feel almost as I if it’s fated in some way that I do. But . . .” James looked up quizzically from his pouring, and Peter raised his eyes to meet his friend’s.

“I am drawn to her, James, in a way I was sure I had long ago overcome. I’d thought by this advanced age, to be freed from the temptations of the flesh, but something in this woman has stirred me.”

James raised his eyebrows eloquently. This was not a conversation to be lightly bantered; this was a challenge each man must meet for himself. It was a lonely combat.

“You are a man as well as a priest, Peter,” James said, understanding. “As long as we are in the body, we are of the body. You’ve chosen a hard road to follow in conscience.” He thought for a moment—there was so much to say, and so little of it that could really help. “Do you recall the Devil in the Sixth Circle, my friend?” he asked finally.

Peter nodded. “It is said by the Chinese sages,” he responded, with a rueful smile, “that as each man nears enlightenment, the final test he must pass, before attaining the knowledge of God, is the test of the Devil in the Sixth Circle. He is the most cunning of Devils, for he uses our strengths against us, as well as our weaknesses. For him no Marquis of Queensbury rules apply . . . he lies, he cheats, he lures us into compromise . . . and he knows us better than we know ourselves.”

“But you must remember, Peter,” the younger man said gently, “he is friend as well as foe, for he is the goad which forces us to our greatest feats of spiritual achievement. To defeat him, we must be more than the sum of our parts . . . we must be servant, warrior, teacher, priest, and sage. All that we can be, Peter. For he is the last opponent.”

“What are you saying to me, James?” Peter asked, serious as Judgment Day.

“This woman, my friend,” James replied. “It occurs to me, she could be for you the Devil in the Sixth Circle. And you could be very near the end of your journey.”

Peter stared at the young priest, considering the implications of what he had suggested.

“Stay near me on this one, James,” he said finally, his voice strained by confusions. “I feel that the Lord is about to make demands upon me that I’ll be hard pressed to fulfill. I may need a friend.”

“Of that you are assured, Peter,” James said, with quiet finality.

The two men talked long into the night, and Peter unfolded the strange story that now plagued him. Later, when he returned to his own room, he pulled down a book from the bedside shelf and thumbed through it, searching for a remembered passage. When he found it, he sat down on the bed and read:

The Devil in the Sixth Circle is the most powerful of all Devils. He will possess one’s sovereign, parents, wife or children, fellow believers or evil men, and through them will attempt in a friendly manner to divert you from your journey toward Enlightenment. Or he will oppose you outright.

He is the final opponent, and the most deadly.