Misfit (21 page)

Jael glances back at Britt, searching her face for some sign that she might be humoring the Mons.

Maybe even that she thinks it’s a joke. But the look Britt returns is absolutely serious.

She turns back to the Mons. “Monsignor?” she says lightly.

“I don’t understand. I don’t need any help.”

“That is because you cannot see what we see. You cannot see the forces of darkness that have enthral ed you.”

“Wait,” says Jael, “is this an intervention?”

“No,” says the Mons. “It is an exorcism.”

“What?” says Father Ralph, and turns to the Mons.

“Francis, what are you talking about?”

“Look at her, Ralph,” says the Mons. “The poor girl is possessed by a demon.”

“Francis,” says Father Ralph. His eyes widen with alarm, but his voice is set in a forced reasonable tone. Like he can talk them al down to earth. “An exorcism? This is crazy, not to mention probably il egal. And I’m pretty sure the bishop would not—”

“The bishop,” says the Mons, “is a weak, officious worm who has less faith than an atheist.”

“Francis, what’s gotten into you?” asks Father Ralph, his voice laced with panic now. “Listen to yourself.

You sound like some kind of raving zealot.”

“No, Ralph,” says the Mons. “I sound like a true man of the Church. And if you can’t see the cancerous evil pouring out of this girl, then you are no priest at al .”

Father Ralph just stares at him, utterly lost. Jael can see it in his eyes. He didn’t join the priesthood for titanic battles of good versus evil. He just wanted to help people. He’s way out of his depth and he knows it.

The Mons turns back to Jael, and she can see in his eyes that it was precisely titanic battles of good and evil that brought him to the priesthood. And he is ready to throw down.

“My child,” he says is a stern voice, “we are here to save your soul from the wicked monster that has invaded you.”

“Monsignor, I stil don’t know what you’re talking about,”

says Jael. “I’m not possessed by any monster.”

“Jael,” says Britt. “We’ve al seen the way you’ve changed over the past week. I didn’t understand what was going on until Monsignor talked to me about it this morning. That was why you kept talking about witches last night. You were cal ing out to me for help and I just didn’t understand. So let Monsignor help you. He’s your only hope for salvation.”

Jael wants to tel her that she’s a traitorous bitch, then maybe throw her through the window. But this isn’t the time for that. She takes a deep breath and turns back to the Mons.

“I don’t believe in any of this stuff,” she says, unable to keep the tension from her voice.

“If you believe none of this is true . . .” The Mons looks at Father Ralph and Britt while he talks, as if they are his audience.

“If you don’t believe in demons and the vile powers of darkness, then you have nothing to fear.” He turns back to Jael, his old eyes as hard and cold as steel.

“If you have nothing to hide, why not go through with it?”

“Fine, whatever,” Jael says, striving for indifference, but sounding a bit too shril .

“Jael,” says Father Ralph. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” He looks at her pleadingly, like he wants her to back down.

Instead she looks at the Mons. “Say your stuff.”

He nods, and turns his gaze to Father Ralph. “You can leave if you like,” he says in an almost mocking tone.

“No, Francis,” says Father Ralph. “I’l stay. I won’t leave you alone with these girls. And I warn you, if I see anything inappropriate or dangerous happen, I’l be cal ing the police.”

“The police wil not be of much help, I’m afraid. But stay if you like. Perhaps you wil yet have the opportunity, by the grace of God, to see the truth.” He turns back to Jael. “I’m glad you have consented.

Now, please sit on the couch. Someone who is in the throes of exorcism often flails around, and I want to minimize the injuries you might inflict on yourself.”

“Sure,” says Jael. She sits down on the smal couch, trying without much success to look relaxed. It’s just like Mass, she tel s herself. Except she doesn’t have to kneel the whole time.

The Mons takes two leather straps and fastens one on each arm of the couch.

“Hold out your hands,” he says.

“Francis, you’ve got to be kidding!” says Father Ralph.

“The couch is for her protection,” says the Mons.

“These straps are for ours.”

“You real y do believe this nonsense,” says Father Ralph, shaking his head, his expression somewhere between amazement and disgust.

“I believe because I have seen pure evil incarnate,”

says the Mons. “I have been face-to-face with the darkness, and I know what it is capable of. When the demon takes hold, I don’t want Brittany in any danger.”

"God wil protect me,” says Britt.

The Mons turns to her, a bitterly amused smile on his face.

“God’s wil is unknowable.”

Britt flinches and lowers her head.

The Mons turns back to Jael. “Your hands, please.”

Jael can feel her body instinctual y heat up. That’s the last thing she needs right now, so she asks the air around her to cool her off. But she’s too agitated and the air goes overboard.

The temperature of the room drops so rapidly that frost rims the window and everyone’s breath turns to fog as it leaves their mouths.

The Mons looks around, but doesn’t seem surprised.

He just holds out the straps and says, “Your hands.

Quickly.”

Jael holds out her hands and she can’t stop them from trembling. The Mons sees it immediately. He looks her in the eye and says, “I cannot tel you that there’s nothing to fear.

Because that would be a lie.”

“Jael,” says Father Ralph. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

Her mouth is so dry, it takes a few swal ows before she can say, “Yeah. Do it.”

The Mons nods and fastens the straps around her wrists and pul s them tight so that she can’t lift her arms. Then he steps a few feet back. He looks at Britt and Father Ralph. “From this point, you must obey my every command if we have any chance to save this girl. Now”—he pul s out a smal black prayer book from under his robes—“let us begin.”

He holds the book in front of him and reads in a loud, deep voice, “Holy Mother of God!”

Britt and Father Ralph respond with, “Pray for us.”

“Holy Virgin of virgins.”

“Pray for us.”

“Saint Michael.”

“Pray for us.”

“Saint Gabriel.”

“Pray for us.”

The funny thing is, it real y does seem like Mass. It goes on and on, just like the Petitions, and it slowly builds up a lul ing rhythm. Little by little, Jael begins to relax. This isn’t so bad, she thinks. And what if the Mons real y can get the demon out of her? Almost al of her problems gone in a poof. Is that real y such a bad thing? Sure, she’d miss the little bit of magic she’s learned. And her uncle would be crushed. But maybe her dad would loosen up. Maybe they wouldn’t have to move. And there would be no Jack stalking her, and no worrying about Belial showing up out of nowhere.

Of course, she’d never be able to avenge her mother.

In fact, if her mother was stil alive, it would probably break her heart.

After al , it would be like Jael was rejecting her. . . .

Then an image forms in her mind of her mother. Not the dreamlike visions from the necklace, but something somehow dredged up from her own memory. She can see her so clearly: a woman with black, curly, tangled hair that frames a regal, brown face. Her sharp green eyes have a sadness to them, but there is a smile on her lips like she’s just about to laugh. She’s strong and fierce and beautiful. And she gave up her life so that Jael could live.

What happens to demons when they die? Maybe they go wherever mortals go. Maybe they return to the elements. Or maybe they burn into nothingness. For years, Jael has told anyone who wil listen that she doesn’t believe in an afterlife.

That the whole concept is just stupid. But now, the idea that her mother simply does not exist grips her as if she were again staring into the infinite night sky.

It’s too big for her to grasp and she starts to panic.

She clings to the image of her mother like a life preserver. If nothing else, there is one place that her mother exists. In her.

But then the guilt crashes down on her. Because only a few moments before, Jael wanted to get rid of her mother and everything that went along with her as if her demon half was some kind of sickness. How can she reject the mother she has always longed for?

“I cast you out, unclean spirit!” the Mons yel s.

He flicks holy water on Jael’s face and it breaks her concentration. The image of her mother begins to slip away.

“Along with every satanic power of the enemy,” says the Mons. “Every specter from Hel , and al your fel companions, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ!”

Jael tries to bring the memory back, but the harder she fights to hold on, the faster it fades away, until final y, she only has a dim recol ection of it.

“Hearken, therefore, and tremble in fear, Satan!” yel s the Mons. “You enemy of faith, you foe of the human race, you begetter of death, you robber of life, you corruptor of justice, you root of al evil and vice!”

It dawns on Jael that the Mons is talking about her mother.

“Seducer of men! Betrayer of nations! Instigator of envy!”

“Stop,” Jael says quietly. A wind begins to pick up in the room. Loose papers flutter around the room like startled birds.

“Font of avarice! Fomenter of discord! Author of pain and sorrow!”

“Stop it now,” she says a little louder. The room temperature drops below freezing. A sheen of frost coats everything.

“Depart, seducer!” shouts the Mons, gazing at her with grim determination. “Ful of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent!”

“I said stop it!” Jael rips her arms free from the leather straps and stands up.

“Give place, abominable creature,” yel s the Mons as he backs away. There is fear in his eyes, but it is dim compared to his hatred. “Give way, you monster!”

“SHUT UP!” Jael screams so loud that the windowpane cracks. She lunges forward and grabs the Mons by his robes with one hand and hauls him in until their faces are only inches apart.

“Depart, impious one, accursed one,” yel s the Mons, his spit hitting her face. “Depart with al your deceits!

The Lord God commands you!”

“Nobody commands me,” says Jael in a voice she barely recognizes as her own. She holds him with one hand. Her other hand rises in a fist. “Not the devil, and not God.” The fist bursts into flames and she thinks it would be so easy just to shove this jet of fire right down his throat.

“Be gone, seducer!” he shrieks.

It would be so easy . . .

Jets of water spray down from the ceiling. The firebal in her hand must have set them off. But the temperature in the room is so low that the spray turns to hissing sleet. She takes a deep breath as the ice crystals pound on her head and back.

Then she lets her fire go, lets her anger go.

“Do you actual y believe you’re doing God’s work?”

she asks.

“I am a servant of God!” he whimpers.

“The only one you serve is your own ego,” she says. “I see it in your soul. But you don’t have to take my word for it.”

She looks deeply into his eyes. He wails and tries to pul away with a desperate energy. She grabs his face with her free hand and forces him to look into her eyes, where he sees the reflection of his own eyes.

Together, they look down into the murky depths of his soul.

She riffles through his memories like a bloodhound.

She can almost smel the stink of corruption on his soul. But where does it live? What is its root? Then she sees an image of a dead little boy, and she steps into a memory of Peru.

She can feel the heat from the sun, hear the screams of the dying, and smel the patches of blood that streak the stone paved streets of Iquitos. She looks through the eyes of young Father Francis Locke as he kneels down in the street and tries to bind the stump of a little boy’s arm. It was hacked off by one of the Shining Path guerril as with a machete. The guerril as have vanished into the forests, as they usual y do, leaving many dead, and many more soon to die. This boy probably won’t live.

Father Locke knows it. The boy knows it. Yet Father Locke continues to bind the bleeding stump because there’s nothing else he can do. He has only been a missionary here for one year, but he can hardly remember any other life. There is only this.

Gathering the flock up again after the communist rebels have wreaked their havoc.

“Father, Father!” A young woman appears next to him. He thinks of her as a woman, anyway, but to Jael she looks like a girl. “We found one! We have him!”

He nods, then finishes the tourniquet for the boy. He lays his hand on the boy’s forehead and quickly gives him last rights.

Then he stands up and motions for the woman/girl to lead him.

They walk through narrow, winding streets to a smal open market area. A large crowd shouts and curses at someone crumpled on the ground. It’s a member of the Shining Path, covered in dirt and blood, but stil alive.

The crowd wants to know what they should do.

Everyone else is dead, they say. The police captain.

The governor. Father Locke is in charge now. They want to kil the rebel. And they want absolution.

The rebel, who looks about thirteen to Jael, struggles weakly on the ground. One leg bleeds profusely from a machete gash, and one arm lays useless, ripped up by a gunshot wound.

“Please, Father, I beg you,” says the rebel boy. “Give me protection in the name of the most merciful Jesus Christ.”

Father Locke stares at the man/boy for a long time.

He seems deaf to the shouts and protests of the people who surround him.

His thoughts make no sense to Jael. Something about a temple made of gold with rivers of blood flowing down its sides. Final y, Father Locke lifts up his hand for silence.

“Tie a tourniquet around his leg and arm so he doesn’t bleed to death.”