The Descent

A  form  rose  in  the  moon  shadows.  Released  of  his  weight,  the  wicker  chair  creaked in its weave,  and he stepped  forward.

'Who are you?' she asked.

'Parsifal didn't call you?'

'Yes.'

'Didn't he tell you?'

'Tell me what?'

'Who I am.'

A winter chill settled  on her.

Parsifal had called yesterday,  and she  had  cut  short  his  roadside  augury.  The  sky  is falling,  that's  all  she  could  make  of  his  nonsense.  Indeed,  his  burst  of  paranoid  advice and  omens  had  finally  accomplished  what  Thomas  had  failed  to  do:  convinced  her their quest  for the monster was a monster itself.

It  had struck  her that their search for the king of darkness  was autogenetic,  brought to life from nothing more real than their idea of it. In retrospect,  their search had been feeding  on  itself  for  months,  on  its  own  clues  and  predictions  and  fancy  scholarship. Now  it  was  beginning  to  feed  on  them.  Just  as  Thomas  had  warned,  the  quest  had become  dangerous.  Their  enemies  were  not  the  tyrants  and  would-be  tyrants,  the C.C. Coopers of the world, or their fabled Satan  of  the  underworld.  Rather,  the  enemy was their own overheated  imaginings.

She  had  hung  up  on  Parsifal.  Repeatedly.  He  had  called  back  several  times,  ranting and raving, sounding like a Yankee  carpetbagger  trying  to scare her off  the  plantation. I'm staying put, she told him.

He had been right then.

Her  wheelchair  sat  next  to  her  nightstand.  She  did  not  try  to  talk  him  out  of  the murder.  She  did  not  question  his  method  or  test  for  his  sadism.  Maybe  he  would  be swift and businesslike. So  you die in bed after all, she thought to herself.

'Did he sing songs to you?' the man asked.

Vera  was  trying  to  arrange  her  courage  and  thoughts.  Her  heart  was  racing.  She wanted to be calm.

'Parsifal?'

'Your father, I meant.'

His question distracted her. 'Songs?'

'Before you went to sleep.'

It  was  an  invitation.  She  took  it.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  threw  herself  into  the search. It  meant ignoring the crickets and penetrating her  jackhammer  heartbeat  and descending into remembrances  she had thought were  gone  forever.  But  there  he  was, and yes,  it was night,  and  he  was  singing  to  her.  She  laid  her  head  back  on  the  pillow, and his words made a blanket and his voice promised shelter. Papa, she thought.

The  floorboard squeaked.

Vera  regretted  that. If  not  for  the  sound,  she  would  have  stayed  with  the  song.  But the wood returned  her to the room. Up through the heart  she came, back into the land of crickets and moonbeams.

She  opened  her  eyes  and  he  was  there,  barehanded,  with  the  firefly  spinning  a crooked halo high above  his head. He was reaching for her like  her  lover.  And  then  his face entered  the light and she said, 'You?'

St. Catherine's Monastery, Jabal Musa (Mt Sinai)

De  l'Orme  arranged  the  cups  and  placed  the  loaf  of  bread.  The  abbot  had  provided him  a  meditation  chamber,  the  sort  enjoyed  for  thousands  of  years  by  men  and women seeking spiritual wisdom.

Santos  would  be  charmed.  He  loved  coarseness  and  simplicity.  The  wine  jug  was clay.  The  table's  planks  had  been  hewn  and  nailed  at  least  five  centuries  ago.  No curtain in the window. No glass, even.  Dust  and  insects  were  your  prayer  mates.  Like words from the Bible, a bolt of sunlight stabbed  the darkness  of  his  cell.  De  l'Orme  felt its  warmth  upon  his  face.  He  felt  it  travel  east  to  west  across  his  cheeks.  He  felt  it setting.

It  was  cool  this  high,  especially  compared  with  the  desert  heat  on  his  ride  in.  The road  was  no  longer  so  good.  De  l'Orme  had  suffered  its  potholes.  Because  tourists  no longer  came  here  in  such  abundance,  there  was  less  reason  to  maintain  the  asphalt. The  Holy  Lands  didn't  pull  them  in  like  they  used  to.  The  revelation  of  hell  as  a common  network  of  tunnels  had  achieved   what   hell  itself   could  not,  the   end  of spiritual  fear.  The  death  of  God  at  the  hands  of  existentialism  and  materialism  had been  grievous  enough.  Now  the  death  of  Supreme  Evil  had  turned  the  landscape  of afterlife  into  a  cheap  haunted  house.  From  Moses  to  Mohammed  to  Augustine,  the carnies had been good for their day, but no one was buying it anymore.