For those members of the Council of Elders who had their origins in Verite, it took an effort of will to recall that those from Virtu chose their forms—that this man in baggy shorts and puzzling tee-shirt could indeed be the Hierophant, the one who spoke to the Gods on High, the conduit of Truth.
The Hierophant looked at each Elder, at each assistant. His pale eyes seemed to pierce into the heart of each person seated before him, seemed to read doubts and ambitions as if they had been printed on their foreheads in the same square black letters as adorned his tee-shirt.
Randall Kelsey, once of the Elect, now merely a trusted adjunct to Ben Kwinan who himself was an assistant to Elder Arlette Papastrati, flinched beneath that pale gaze, but it passed him by and continued its round of the long conference table. By the time the Hierophant had finished his silent inspection, the gathered Elders were reduced to the status of quivering schoolchildren awaiting the slap of the ruler.
“And so I suppose you think that this was all one great big joke,” the Hierophant said. His voice was deep, gruff, like that of a bear awakened from a long hibernation.
Arlette Papastrati, to her credit, found the courage to speak. In Verite, she was a short, dark woman, her attractiveness marred by a faint mustache. In Virtu, her hair was the color of flame and her beauty left men without any doubt that the universe contained divinity.
“Great Hierophant, do you refer to the events in Central Park?”
“You know I do, sister.”
“Of course we do not view them as a joke. We simply underestimated the… playfulness of the lesser deities.”
“It was a pisser, wasn’t it?”
The Hierophant’s laugh was coarse, his accents more and more those of old Brooklyn. None of the Elders present could step down from their dignity to laugh with him, but a few assistants, more accustomed to following their senior’s lead, tittered compliantly. When the laughter (such as it was) faded, the Hierophant spoke again.
“I suppose you think that the riot that accompanied our little show with Bel Marduk means that we’re going to step back from the timetable that has been divinely set for us?”
“Well, Great Hierophant,” said Aoud Araf, “our analysis shows that this would be the wisest course of action. The Church of Elish faces lawsuits from the city of New York as well as from several of those injured in the riot. A class action suit is being joined on behalf of—”
“Shut up.”
Aoud did so, blinking a few times, surprised at being questioned. Although he lacked the seniority of many present, his proven ability in his department had granted him a measure of authority on issues of security.
“You folks don’t know how to play to a crowd,” the Hierophant said, scratching his belly. “If we retreat now, we’re acknowledging guilt—guilt, I remind you, that is not ours to accept. What did these yahoos think would happen when a deity manifested—doves and white roses? We’ve been honest about the gods of Ancient Babylon. These are the gods of Flood and Fire, the gods who whipped Order out of Chaos and barely kept Order going. We aren’t preaching to any milk-and-water aesthetes! When Marduk flew over their heads, they were damn lucky that all they got was a little cat piss and a few fireworks.”
Despite himself, Randall Kelsey found himself nodding. The Hierophant was voicing—admittedly with a new emphasis—some of his own concerns. The difference was that the Hierophant made the power and potential destructiveness of the gods sound right, even entrancing. From the shifting postures of those around him, Kelsey could tell that others felt the same thing.
“So what would you have us do, sir?” Arlette Papastrati asked.
“Go out there with your shoulders squared. Get your legal advisors to note that the Church plans to sue the city of New York and all those who attended the celebration for behaving in a fashion that ruined our carefully planned, very expensive festival.”
Someone guffawed. “That will make them think twice.”
“Exactly. Find a new location—buy private land if you need to—and plan a second celebration. Tell them you’ll be bringing through Bel Marduk again and perhaps another of the great powers.”
“What if they try to stop us?”
“Use land in the U.S. of A. They still have provisions for freedom of religion in their Constitution. Plant a rumor that the attempts to clamp down on our celebrations are only the beginning of widespread restriction of religious freedom. Lots of religions claim to manifest their gods— Catholics through the Eucharist, voudon through the loas. There are others. Make them our allies in this.”
An excited babble broke loose as the implications of the Hierophant’s words sunk in. New suggestions were made for turning the seeming disaster into a coup of unimagined proportions.
In the excitement, no one noticed when the Hierophant faded away, leaving only the slogan from his tee-shirt scrawled on the wall behind his chair in black crayon.
Jay Donnerjack stood with the crusader ghost, skipping stones into the still inlet of the sea. The grey-blue vista of the ocean was interrupted only by occasional glimpses of a red sail far out on the water. Dubhe clung to Jay’s shoulders, head swiveling as he looked for Death. The caoineag stood mute nearby.
“Fi’ times, that, laddie,” the crusader ghost chortled. “Dinna ken that you can beat that.”
Jay hefted his stone and skipped it thrice. The crusader chuckled.
“Hey!” Jay protested. “Let’s see how well you do with a monkey on your back! Dubhe, climb down. You’re ruining my game.”
Reluctantly, the monkey climbed down and then clambered onto a boulder nearby. Jay skipped another stone.
“Four that time!” he crowed.
The crusader skipped another. “Six!”
Jay scooped up another flat stone. “Want to try, Dubhe?”
“I’m not sure that my arms are made for that.”
“Try.”
“I’d rather watch.”
“Dubhe, the Lord of the Lost will come or he won’t. There isn’t much we can do now. Relax.”
“You might not feel so confident if you’d ever met the Lord of Deep Fields in person. He’s a… difficult person.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Jay said, thoughtfully. “Come on. Here’s a really good stone… Hold it like this. Now pitch it.”
The stone flew from Dubhe’s hand, bounced once, twice, three times before sinking.
“Hey! That was neat!”
The monkey scrabbled down from the boulder and collected another flat stone. For a long stretch, the only sound was the plop of rocks into the water and the players’ cheers and groans.
“Ma’am,” Jay said, turning to the caoineag, “won’t you join us?”
“I do not think so.” She gestured so that her draperies flowed. “I am not dressed for free movement.”
“Yeah, I noticed that.” Jay frowned. “Is there some reason you don’t want me to see what you look like?”
The crusader ghost dropped his skipping stone, completely negating the caoineag’s calm “Of course not, John.”
Jay pretended not to notice the crusader ghost’s discomfort.
“I was just wondering, ma’am. You see, my bracelet thought that there was something familiar about you. I’ve had a bit of trouble with people posing as my friends who were actually agents of the Lord of Deep Fields.”
Dubhe skipped his stone with such violence that it skipped nine times and landed on the opposite bank. Again, Jay did not comment, but he did place a comforting hand on the monkey’s shoulder.