Naberius the Devil

gabriel

Only few pilgrims have followed the star.  They are Catholic, Anglican, Orthodox, unknown to each other and lost within the rambling grid of New Amsterdam.  Some sought family, while others sheltered within the walls of a church, and the rest joined the destitute without food or warmth, but with a clear view of the object they followed.  It shone in the night sky, a single point that remained distinct even as electric lights drowned the remaining stars with dim, false daylight.

As I knew they must, they followed when the star moved northward.  Those with cars used them, and those without began on foot, on U.S. Route 209.  By chance, happenstance, or design, they began to draw together.  I cannot know if this is what Father intended of me from the beginning; but by the time three weeks had passed, they arrived together in a small, mismatched contingent.  Time enough had passed for them to know each other; they disagreed on points of theology, in nuances of ritual and observation, but their intent was the same.

They followed, as Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthasar had before them.

The little town of Rochester lies sheltered by the foothills of the Catskills as they roll through Ulster County, and the aging house sits on its fringe, surrounded by copses of white pine and spruce.  They found me there, and they were initially startled that a strange man should be waiting for them.  But I held up my palm in peace, and I spoke with the authority given me, so that several dropped to their knees before I could take one by the hand, and bid the rest calm themselves and rise:

“Do not fear, for I am Gabriel, who stands before God.”

Ah, but Father.  They're children.  Devout, yes, that they made this journey—some from across the seas, continents distant from this one, as far as the Christ herself.  They owe their unwavering fealty to Thee, and yet the thoughts of some border on heretic.  Still, I will do with them as need dictates.  The Catholics in particular seem adept exorcists, and perhaps with their assistance and  Thy favor, I'll drive Naberius back into the Abyss, and my work will be done far before he can return.

If they should die, I beseech Thee: allow them to join the saints by Thy side, as martyrs, that they might praise Thy glory even as we do.

Already, the enemy advances.  I catch his spies glimpsing in through windows, the rebellious ravens that refused to obey the word of Noah, who were compelled by Thee to feed Elijah in the wilderness.  Intelligent birds.  Clever as they perch on the windowsills of the old manse, and glare on the pilgrims as they go about their daily prayers and preparations.  I've explained to them what they must do.  Within these dusty walls, they prepare for war.

And yet—so much remains uncertain.  I cannot reveal that I wonder at the state of the world.  There is but silence from Thee.  I expected my Lord, the first Christ, and not a new emanation of Thee.  This child was born without my knowing, so that the star arrived long after its time, in a country I did not foresee, and she lived—no, best not to imagine what has been done with her, even when my wrath would be just.  Perhaps she has endured agony and crucifixion already, that she should never suffer again.

charting the sky

Thank you.

You start small, with simple games of point-and-name: Bed, Dress, and even Cat as she watches a tortoise-shell stray slink under a parked car and disappear during a sunny weekday morning walk.  Simple but steady stimulus, with periodic repetitions.  You soon evolve to verbs in single syllables, the everyday things.  Eat.  Sleep.  And you incidentally find yourself following Maslow's pyramid; though I plan to leave its base far, far below before too long.  An empress should not labor at the base of a pyramid, but be elevated to its peak.

Still.  She understands, or is beginning to understand, yet repeats only when nudged.  She reduces language to Please Master, with the looks and gestures we've been using from the start, when she stared up at me with those big and deep-dark eyes and I abruptly knew that she would be mine.  Even had things been clear to me then, I'd still have done it.  Another simple word: Kiss.

She is a quiet, vocally reserved.  As a rule, she does not cry, and I don't intend to make her.  She speaks with those eyes, her baby fingers tugging at my sleeve or grasping at my jaw or my cheekbones, and with chirruping sounds like a contented animal might make.  Let's not knock them aside.  Let them be the foundation of Nary's language, and let us simply add: like gabled towers to the palace, buttressed with English and eventually French or German, Greek and Latin and Hebrew.  Let her study the Scriptures in their native tongues.  Maybe we'll have a good laugh about it, when she's a grown woman, slight but gorgeously dark and exotic, and I still sit her on my knee.

If we make it that far.  If the towers don't all come crashing down.

Difficult, the prospect of relinquishing some of my grasp over her.  I'd be a liar, yes, if I didn't admit that power weren't involved.  And I'm supposed to lie, aren't I?  But the utter dependency of a child is intoxicating.  Even if I were a man, I'd be God in her eyes, the way a parent is God to any child.  And so she overflows with it, with faith in me like nectar, and I feel debauched, overflowing from the pores.  To loosen my grasp, relinquish it—ah, but don't crush the little nightingale, Marquis.  Don't be a fool.  Keep her tethered, keep her close, but don't ruin her because you're afraid.

You want her to thrive.  You want her to grow.  You want to give her all the things your father didn't, don't you.

So I let her fumble with the fork at dinner time, and brush her own teeth, and watch as she explores the flat with that fresh wonderment I envy—the mundane rendered extraordinary.  Puzzles to be solved, riddles to be undone.  Standing in front of the mirror and adjusting my tie in the morning, I let her pull on her clothes and slip into her own shoes.  But there are inevitably buttons she can't fasten, laces she can't tie, and I kneel down to help her.  She does not always articulate it, but occasionally her gratitude will escape in a clumsy-tongued, genteel murmur.

And whether or not I use words, my answer's the same:

You're welcome.

Feels strange to be drinking the wine—a vintage I can't name, but which tastes familiar, prying at my memory's faded edges.  Like the Pinot noir she replaced, it has a rich but subtle flavor on my tongue.  I shouldn't be surprised.  Of course, I've already decided.  There was never a need for deliberation.  But I need a few hours of isolation to take everything in: the enormity of the thing, somehow compressed into Nary's undersized frame.

Harming her, stopping her before she can affect the course of events is out of the question.  I could.  I could rend her flesh and bones, gnash her between my teeth.  It would be over before she could scream—and that would be the end of the Christ.  Not with a bang, but with a whimper.  Father's Host and the exiles and I would all be at a stalemate, and perhaps it would last forever, neither here nor there, quick nor dead, treading this mortal limbo until—

Until what?

It a few hours before dawn and the sky has grown a pale azure.  L'heure bleue, right before daybreak, right after sunset.  The star has faded to the ghost of a glimmer.  Even when I can't see it, can delude myself in brief moments that it isn't hanging above my head, it'll continue staring down.  Well then—let's have a contest, shall we?  Like the Children of Man do.  Let's see who blinks first.

I haven't bothered with a jacket.  The air is warm for November, but out on the balcony, with the tile chilled against the soles of my feet and the high breeze lancing through my shirt, the cold wakes me completely.  Sleep proved elusive last night—and she, curled in the blankets by my hip as I sat up on the pillows, may never understand why.  I've left her to dream safe and warm.  But I imagine Corbin is awake—waiting for the next order.

They'll be coming.  It's a beacon, this new Star of Bethlehem, for wise men and kings, angels and devils.  Kill her, and Father's plans are irreparably halted.  Save her, and the promise of the Thousand-Year Kingdom gleams brightly in the future—for the saints, for the chosen few.  Not for us.  But is it all that simple?  It sounds like Father's rhetoric to me.  Dogma in stark black and white.

Leaning on the balcony's rail, I watch the incessant flow of traffic on the street below, and the gradual brightening of the gleaming steel skyline.  The glass is cool in my hand.  I raise the wine-dampened rim to my lips and drain the rest.

For now, she is only a child with wide and adoring eyes.  Could that love ever wither—one day mirror Father's condemnation?  I struggle to envision it; but the possibility is something I won't deny.  I can only continue onward, regardless of what choice she makes.  For now, she trusts me entirely, placing herself into my hands without fear or reservation or guile, utterly, the way only a child can.

How else can I answer her, except by keeping faith?

Instruction can take several forms, but I've found modeling and repetition the most effective. Young children in particular learn by imitation—and so charming, the way Nary will fumble to upturn her jacket's collar, and the way it tends to frame the softness of her cheek and fragile jawbone. She follows the direction of my eyes, the gestures of my hand, and I may have caught her, once or twice, attempting to ape my expression. She's a natural mimic.

This, of course, will be far beyond her ability. But I want to acclimate her to these strange objects, these obtuse rituals. And so we're dressed for Sunday dinner—or at least Corbin and I are, both of us freshly shaven and dressed in pressed suits, and I'm sure that the half-Windsor knot like a noose around my throat is impeccable. Nothing out of place. The poised trappings of a child aristocrat can come later; I leave Nary, for now, in a simple dress colored like buttercream. A sugared confection. It complements her skin, which glows from her recent bath.

Corbin has set the table. Start small, with a simple family place setting. I don't even know if she's seen a fork, and stemware must be utterly foreign. There's a bottle of Burgundy Pinot noir, and we've been draining it a slow glass at a time. I've placed the tiniest amount in Nary's glass, but I don't expect her to like it. I sit beside her, with Corbin across from both of us, thoughtfully watching as I show her with exaggerated care just how to hold the knife and fork; the tenderness of the salmon filet causes it to melt at the barest pressure.

We've left Thelonius Monk playing in the background, low, soft. Nothing obtrusive. But let's affect her palette early—for clothing, food, music, for words and poise, for sights and smells. The lamplight falls soft and gold on the tabletop, the white linen cloth and the gleaming hardwood.

I take a taste; and it's good, damn good. I might prefer a Chateaubriand, but anything that bleeds trumps vegetable life; and salmon should be perfect for Nary. A new taste, but easy on the tongue, something that dissolves and nourishes her poor underfed bones. We'll make you strong, darling.

I cut another sliver, and cupping my palm beneath her chin, offer her the morsel on the fork's tines.

Corbin has been silent. It's only when he speaks that I realize he's been waiting for the right time and, not finding it, must break into the tableau with a calm, quiet dose of reality:

“Is there really time for this, Master?”

There's an ache somewhere in his voice. That's why I'm not angry. He wants there to be time enough, just like I do. The star is back again tonight, not some passing nocturnal fluke, and drawn curtains keep neither of us from feeling its weight. But I tell him:

“Of course there is. It's not the end of the world yet.”

I sense his nod more than see it, because my attention remains on the child.

And finally he asks: “More wine?”

still life with salmon, manet

herald

"What is he?"

Around them, the langauge spoken is predominantly Cantonese. Their table overlooks Victoria Harbour through the picture window, but Kim Kong Kea hardly notices the brilliant lights from Wan Chai or the slow progress of ferry boats across the black water. He drinks the Château Margaux slowly, mechanically. It is a formality, like shaking hands and the reserved pleasantries he exchanged with the Englishman before dropping the pretenses.

"The peasant mentioned seeing the wings of a crow."

"If he is who I believe," the other answers, his Cantonese meticulously unaccented, his tonal shifts pitch-perfect so that Kong Kea is momentarily surprised that a white-skinned gwailo could possess such fluency, "he is a devil we've sought for years upon years."  He smiles, and his broad hands are folded composedly on the table.  Kong Kea has payed for the entire lavish bottle, but the other has only taken a token drink.  A courtesy, polite.  Professional.

Good.

"Devil?" Kong Kea asks. That word again, devil: gwai.

"In the Judeo-Christian tradition, rather than the Buddhist.  'Devil'," he pronounces the word in English before switching back to Cantonese, "not a soul reborn in Naraka."

He is pale-haired, the British man, with chiseled features that defy age with their strong, clean angles. Thirty or forty. Blue-eyed, straight-limbed, his clothing handsome and impeccable without a trace of stiffness.  He is one of the outsiders remaining in Hong Kong after the decade-old exchange between Britain and the People's Republic.  Retreating to their ancestral places; leaving the land in rightful hands.

"You can kill him?" the aging man demands to know, his deep-set eyes sharp, and the frown that he cannot hide forms wrinkles of tension between his heavy brows and deep lines along his gaunt cheeks.

"Kill is not precisely correct.  But I can mete punishment and suffering upon his head." A pause. The outsider leans forward slightly, the cerulean gaze steady. Kong Kea misses the trace of intensity, the barely-perceptible hitch in the other's calm.  He is distracted, barely hears: "You said this devil is somewhere in New York—Manhattan.  And I understand that he has a child in his possession, and your son—"

A delicate muscle convulsively shivers with tension along the line of the pale man's jaw.

"The child is unimportant," Kong Kea says quietly but sharply. "Take her. I don't care. But I want something."

"What might that be?"

"All who meet him speak of his eyes."  He thinks of Sangha's ruined body, staring blankly at nothing.  With nothing.  "—I want you to bring them back to me."

I did not expect her to understand a moment of it:

The ugly primate simulacra, which we'd stood and watched—before she'd turned those open, impossibly dark eyes of hers toward mine, and made me forget myself for a while.  And I doubted she perceived any significance to the mocked-up water buffalo and leopards and compact Asian elephants standing as the second-floor hall's centerpiece (decades-old taxidermed specimens from India, Burma, Siam with histories all their own), like taking a year-long walking tour through the nations of her home continent, seventy or eighty years removed in time.  Or the gargantuan, hundred-foot blue whale model under soft blue light: suspended from steel wire so that the impossible plasticine monstrosity seemed frozen while swimming a timeless ocean, with us sunk to the unfathomable bottom.

We merged from the museum and into the afternoon with eyes accustomed to the muted artificial twilight inside.  Sunlight, our natural enemy; necessary the way oxygen is necessary, even while it corrodes you from the inside.  Oxidization.  Rust.  That's what age is, that's what dying is—the air wearing you out, eating you away from the very innermost layers of your cells.  Without it, you could not live.  Without it, you might live forever.

I hid Nary from the sun, and I wondered if, with time, her dear skin will grow paler.  Sheltering her beneath the shadows of awnings and eaves as we passed beneath them, I wandered a few streets—strolled, with her insubstantial weight in my arms and the clutch of her little fingers prying at my collar and my jaw.  I thought of sunlight and air, and fevers and dying, and the fruit of the tree that they shall not eat.  When I found it, months ago, years ago, I can't remember—after I'd wandered the sear dusty landscapes of the Crescent for weeks on end, when I finally tracked Jophiel down to the wasted place she still guarded, abandoned by Father just as surely as I had been—

Nothing.  No Tree, no lofty branches, no forbidden fruit to pry the mortal shackles from around the Sons and Daughters of Man.

It's a rotten joke, but I can't help laughing.  You don't need cherubim and a burning sword to block the path back to the Tree of Life.  Just primitive irrigation techniques that poison the whole works over the ages with salination; Eden turns into one long, sterile stretch of salt flats.  The place where it all began, really, and it's as dead and ruined as a hooker's body in the gutter after she shoots up one needle too many.

I wonder if, after all, I can't find Fulcanelli—the Old Man, or the young woman, or whatever the hell he is now, and make him cook up a batch of panacea, crank out the Fountain of Youth.  Philosphers' Stone.  One just for her, because I won't need it, because I'll live forever, because I'm not exactly alive to begin with.  We all glutted on that Tree, that fruit, before there was a law forbidding it, before it possessed a form or a name; before we had our own names, and then lost them again.

But—

It wasn't a new idea, when it struck me as I stopped in front of a suitable-looking cafe for a quick lunch, something for me and Nary.  A theory, a hypothesis, an untested and untried dream.  I would have given it to Ophelié, my O—had she not lived according to her own ambitions, designs, methods; and now waits, my Eurydice, within far-distant marches, our borderland country.  But Nary is clay in a way that Ophelié never was—and why not, after all, mold it precisely as I see fit?  Do with her as I please?

Return the things that were taken away?

The essence of the Tree of Life lingers still, within me.