"Yes, yes."
"Then we may say that God is in those books, is He not? God appears to us in His words and His Laws which limit and define us. This is the way God comes closest to manifesting in our physical world."
"Agreed."
Reverend Day leaned in, only an inch away from Jacob's face. "Rabbi, how can we be so certain that man's destiny is—not to obey God's will—but to free ourselves from Him? Why should we continue to live under the unquestioned assumption that the plan God outlined for us in these books was the right one?"
"That lies beyond our capacity—"
"But He gifted us with free will; how can we be sure His true intention isn't for us to rid the world of His influence and by so doing evolve into gods one day ourselves? What if this liberation turns out to be the true function of the Messiah that the books refer to?"
"I don't understand," said Jacob, clinging to consciousness, darkness closing around the edges of his sight, tears falling from his eyes.
"This will sound like a blasphemy to you; imagine that our so-called Deity is, by cosmic standards, nothing more than a foolish, undeveloped pup, as plagued by doubt, as troubled and unsure of His own intentions, as any man on earth. Imagine a being like this, no longer able or willing to reliably guide us, a parent losing control of its children as we outgrow the need for His protection...."
"That is not for us to know."
"But I disagree. Look at the evidence, Jacob. Look at the wickedness of this world: sin, violence, corruption, warfare. Would you call the 'Creator' of such a hellish inferno infallible? Are His ways and methods so beyond our reproach? I think not."
"Those are the works of man, not God..." Jacob protested; his heart raced dangerously, tripping out of control.
No longer listening, Reverend Day reached out and gripped Jacob's wrists, his voice digging in like a knife.
"I believe that it is man's true purpose to eradicate God's Laws on earth, to free ourselves from the limitations He imposed a thousand ages ago. The irony is this so-called God knows He's failed, even if He won't admit the thought into His own mind. And I have come to realize that this final act of rebellion, casting God out of our world, is the very reason why God himself created man—to defeat and surpass Him— even if He won't acknowledge it."
"How?"
"By destroying God's presence on this earth," said the Reverend in a violent whisper.
"But how would you—"
"The plan for destroying Him has been lying hidden in His books from the beginning. He put it there Himself, I've decoded the information: and I've built a chamber beneath my church according to His sacred specifications, to amplify the Power of the action."
"What action?"
"It's so simple, Jacob: He wants us to burn the books."
Jacob stared at the ground, shaking his head, trying to shield himself against the madness.
"Burn the books! Destroy His Laws, erase His presence from the earth! That's the great Holy Work for which God created man in the beginning. And doing it will set free the Messiah who can lead us the rest of the way to our final freedom. The one, true Messiah."
"You?"
Reverend Day laughed, blood running from his ears, his nostrils, red flecks forming in the corners of his eyes. "Heavens no; I'm just a messenger. Our Messiah is the one angel too pure and selfless for the likes of God; the Archangel He bound in chains, cast out of heaven, and consigned to the pit, for fear that in his righteousness he would one day reveal to man his real and higher destiny.
"We will complete the Archangel's work here, that's the purpose of our City. We will destroy the books and break the chains that bind our Messiah in darkness. That's the divinity of the dream, why we've been gifted with the Vision. That's why ... we ... we ..."
Reverend Day rose abruptly to his feet, severe shaking agitating his limbs. Jacob felt as if his own skull were about to burst, the smell of rot sickening him.
He looked at the Reverend; the man's eyes rolled back in his head, a harsh gibbering burst out of his throat, his body stiffened, and he fell hard to the carpeted floor, dust exploding into the light, his arms and legs flailing like a landed fish, blood streaming from every orifice in his face.
The pressure in Jacob's head let up as if a valve had been shut off. His eyesight returned to normal, the throbbing relented, and he registered the sight of the Reverend on the floor before him.
A grand mal seizure, realized Jacob. The man's an epileptic.
And his power can't penetrate the veil of the attack.
Jacob gripped the edge of the sofa as he realized what he must do. Where would he find the strength? The man had nearly killed him without even looking him directly in the eye.
Jacob wobbled to his feet; the seizure showed no sign of abating, but there was no telling how much time he had.
He searched the room and his eyes settled on a crystal paperweight, an orb wrapped in vines of glass resting on the desk. Jacob staggered to the desk, gasping for breath. He hefted the crystal with both hands; yes, heavy enough. About the size of the steel balls the Italians bowl with on the Greenwich Village green.
Two steps back, standing over the Reverend, looking down at him; a lessening in the attack's intensity. Jacob frantically tried to find his balance, took a deep breath, and lifted the crystal over his head.
A rush of vertigo; too much effort. Vision darkened alarmingly, he lowered the ball, dropped painfully to his knees. Blood and sweat pouring down his face; he rested the ball on the floor, wiped his brow with his sleeve.
Keep breathing, old man; if it's the last thing you ever do, make your life count for something and wipe this abominable insult to God's grace off the face of the earth.
The Reverend's awful shuddering subsided further, his tongue protruded from the side of his foaming lips. He moaned unconsciously.
Finish it, Jacob; put the wretched animal out of its misery.
Jacob edged closer to the man and raised the ball again. He paused, waiting for the Reverend's head to settle so he could bring the weight down squarely on his forehead.
The Reverend's eyes opened, instantly aware and alert, locking onto Jacob's, as if he'd been watching all along from the shadows of his fit.
Jacob looked away and struck at him with the ball.
Too late; a wave of pressure nudged his aim slightly to the side; the ball smashed harmlessly into the carpet an inch from the Reverend's skull.
Day's hand snapped up and grabbed Jacob's wrist in a vise, snapping a bone. With his other hand, he wagged a chiding finger in his face.
"Naughty, naughty," whispered Reverend Day, pale and frightful as a corpse.
He gestured sharply; the ball flew from Jacob's hands and crashed against a far wall, shattering, an explosion of glass.
Day gestured again; Jacob rolled back and fell against the desk, pinned there helplessly, unable to move a muscle.
"The Hindus have an interesting theory," said the Reverend, as he advanced on him. "They believe God speaks to them ... through the eyes."
chapter 15
ALTHOUGH DESTINED FOR A BRIGHT FUTURE ONCE THE north-south lines in the territory connected through its terminus, Prescott, Arizona, had still not grown beyond much more than a whistle-stop. Doyle's charter was the only train in the yard when it arrived late that afternoon.
Six sturdy horses and two pack mules waited for them at the supply depot, along with the supplies Innes had ordered: maps, rifles, ammunition, medical kit, and a week's stores of food and water. The retired prospector behind the counter had been outfitting mining expeditions for fifteen years, even an occasional Englishman or two among them—the Arthur Conan Doyle name meant nothing to the old man; he wasn't a reader—but he had never seen an odder or more purposeful bunch than the one doing business with him now.