The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (44 page)

Rose stared at Paul’s hate-filled screaming face and shuddered with a terror so complete she almost fell over backwards in her chair.

Paul lowered his arms. He was laughing now. “Oh, I do get carried away sometimes. I surely do. Still, you shouldn’t be so frightened,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Look at all the pain you’ve already endured, at your very own hands. This shouldn’t be much different, d’you think?”

“Mmmpphh!” Rose grunted, her eyes pleading.

“Still, I believe it’s customary within your S&M circles to have some kind of ‘safe’ word—a signal to express your limits regarding the level of pain you’re able to endure. However, since this is strictly a disciplinary action as a result of your foolish disobedience, we should think of a word that has a more direct bearing on these unique circumstances.

“Now what should it be?” he mused, picking up the pliers, holding them to his mustache, plucking out a single white hair while he mulled over the possibilities.

“I’ve got it! It’s not really a word, more of a phrase to be accurate, but if the pain gets to be too much, if I go too far, just gurgle out as best you’re able, ‘Please, Daddy! Save me!’”

I’ve been going to the chapel day after day, equally impelled by my thirst for revenge and my insatiable curiosity about the Clan Kelly mystery. Any knowledge gained, I thought, would be potentially useful in whatever last stand I could muster against the man who had decimated all our lives. Mother. Me. Martin.

Paul never came inside while I was in there. I looked at the pictures stuffed between the candles, the weird inscriptions on the walls, but mostly I read the books. Some sections were easy to read, but a lot of it was written in teensy scribbles, some of it backward, or in Ogham. I knew a little bit about Celtic Genealogy from reading the
Annals of the Four Masters
, but these notations (almost always in the margins), were so pointed, critical and comical I could almost hear Paul reading them aloud.

There were frequent references to the Milesians: Heremon, Heber and Ir and many of the big guns in their lineage; Tormac Mac Art, Ugaine Mor, Crimthann-Niadh-Nar, Eochaidh Dubhlen, Colla da Crioch, Maine Mor, Ceallach (the first reference to “Kelly” I found)…and my personal favorite: William Boy Kelly. Even more interesting was the fact that Paul’s marginal commentaries were all written like he personally knew them. For example, in the
Book of Connor
, Paul’s fifth son, he wrote, “Sometimes he reminds me so much of Niall, I wonder if he’s a Kelly at all.” I assume he’s referring to Niall Noígíallach, of the nine hostages. It seemed that they were once allies, but something went wrong and the Kellys and O’Neils had been feuding ever since. Which made me think about Rose. Another O’Neil.

The narrative was similar in every volume: the training period, the killings and thefts of ritual objects in “raids” as he calls them—and in most cases, their deaths—at the hands of rival clans, their brothers, another clan member and occasionally Paul himself. The raids are launched to plunder ancient artifacts, like St. Grellan’s Crosier—good story there. Even more bizarrely, Paul and his sons (Martin, usually) sojourn on lengthy quests to obtain what they call “the four elementals” which are the four treasures of the Celtic Gods, the Tuatha Dé Danann: The Dagda’s Cauldron, The Spear of Lugh, The Stone of Fal and the Sword of Nuada. From what I’ve read, he claims to have nabbed two of them.

I kept reading and making notes, hoping the books might contain the answer to the question that nagged me most of all: What were they really trying to do? If this was a competition, someone had to win something more valuable than all the loot they were taking, even the elementals. A grand prize? Yet I couldn’t find a single reference to any reward other than the gold and artifacts they found, stole and hoarded. Everything else I learned raised even more questions. There were never any explanations, as if everything was written for someone who already knew the story. Every time I asked Paul a direct question, he wouldn’t say a word. He’d just smile and point back to the chapel. Yeah, yeah, I know. Look and learn.

It made for great reading. But the more I read, the more frightened I became—not from the content as much as what it implied. The incredible notion that they had somehow maintained an underground Celtic feudal society after God knows how many centuries—complete with kings, lords, nobles and a druid sect—put me right back to square one with my belief that Paul was, in fact, an extremely dangerous paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of grandeur. Correction: with delusions of everything. He had invented his own terrifying little world, I thought. It was as if he and his clan were trapped in a Renaissance Faire that never ended. They had even convinced some Irish genealogy nuts from other families to join the game. Did they get all dressed up too?

I wonder if the first person to discover Henry Darger’s hidden collection of several hundred watercolor paintings felt the same way I was feeling. I’m guessing he did, especially if he spent any time reading his 15,145 page, single-spaced manuscript
(The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion)
featuring prepubescent girls with penises fighting off an army of soldiers who routinely hung, strangled and eviscerated them. But I’m sure the person who discovered Darger’s stash didn’t find a blood-caked altar and a crucified angel in the room, or a website filled with snuff videos.

Still, that didn’t mean all the “clansmen” weren’t sharing a delusional worldview. Plenty of cults accept ridiculous mythical stories as the gospel truth, some of them so wacky they make Paul’s adventures seem downright plausible. Hell, all the big religions do the same thing and there’s always more money piling up in the collection plates. Virgin births. Water into wine. Resurrection. Paul and his clansmen were all crazy cultists, tilting at windmills, questing for grails—and murdering each other with apparent immunity. There was no rhyme or reason, no occult or Hermetic references and nothing at all that described the all-important line of succession Paul kept harping on. I was thinking just that when he stomped into the chapel and asked, “Are you beginning to get the big picture?”

“I haven’t been able to get through everything,” I said, pointing at all the volumes in the cabinet below, “but I think I get the gist of it.”

“And the gist of it is?” Paul asked with a dubious expression.

That you’re totally fucking crazy,
I wanted to say, but I answered, “Well, you rape these women, abandon us as babies, but you keep stalking us, writing these books. Then at some point you show up in our lives and train us to be killers. Well, you train most of us; you haven’t done anything with Michael as far as I can tell, and I guess my training’s just begun, right?”

“I’ve taken a different tack with you and Michael. Call it an accelerated learning curve. His training will commence shortly. By the way, you need to pick up the pace, lad. You’re falling far below my expectations. Now, what else have you learned?”

“I don’t know…some of this other stuff…it just doesn’t seem possible.”

“Such as…”

“For one thing, most of these books are written in the first person, and the handwriting is different in each one. I don’t know how you did it, but some of the writing in here,” I said, pointing at the
Book of William
, “it matches my own perfectly.”

“Hhmmph! That is quite odd, now that you mention it. What do you make of that?”

“Well…maybe you imagine what it’s like to be in our heads, then you forge our handwriting. Either that or…” I tried to think of a tactful way to say it. Nothing came out for a few seconds and then, like I wasn’t even in control of my lips and tongue I said, “Or you’re totally fucking crazy.”

I fully expected him to go ballistic, which he did, but not with rage as I expected. With laughter. It took him almost a minute to settle down enough to speak again.

“You’re a real pisser, Billy Boy! So I’m a madman, eh? Delusional psychosis, is that your diagnosis? Well maybe so…that would explain the trouble I have falling asleep at night. But what about you, then? Same problem? Is that why you can see and hear things that aren’t humanly possible? Are you crazy too, lad?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, avoiding his eyes.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he said, cold and deadly. “I’ve seen you use the gift, both in my dreams and my own wakeful visions.”

I said nothing, wishing he would stop.

“Close your eyes,” he suddenly commanded. I hesitated, looking at the pitch-black hallway beyond the candles, wondering how far I could run before he stopped me. Then, accepting the futility of my situation, I slowly closed my eyes, praying the images wouldn’t come. They didn’t. I saw nothing but the flicker of candlelight darting across my sealed eyelids. “Keep them closed,” I heard Paul say. But his voice sounded different, like it was coming from somewhere else in the room. “Now open them.”

I grabbed my chest in shock. I was looking at me, from where Paul was standing. From inside his head. My eyes looked back at me. I saw an almost indescribable intensity in them and I said…I mean my body said, in a voice that will haunt me forever: “Look in my left eye with your left eye.”

I did what the voice told me, even though I didn’t have a clue who I was or where I was. It felt like a rope was being pulled inside my gut (whose gut?) and…

Wham!
I was back inside my body, looking at Paul. I hadn’t moved. Nothing had changed, except my perspective. And that was everything. The sensation was beyond amazing. I’d been seeing my visions for so long they didn’t seem strange to me anymore. But this was something else. If something like this was possible…

“What isn’t?” Paul said, finishing my thought.

“So if you’re not crazy, and I’m not crazy…”

“Then everything you’ve ever known, everything you’ve ever believed about yourself…about the description of reality you’ve clung to so stubbornly all your life…all of it…every bit of it…is an illusion. Yes, Billy, you’ll be looking at life through a new pair of glasses now. A nice, red, rosy pair.”

I swallowed hard. There were a million more questions I wanted to ask, but one burned far brighter than the rest.

“Do the others…can they see things too?”

“Better finish your reading. They, or most of ’em, are long in the grave.”

“Not Martin,” I argued.

“Ah yes,” Paul sighed. “Actually, I’ve been wondering the same thing meself. I’ve seen the power in him, glowing like a dormant ember, but never have I witnessed him use it. Since your talents are so…expansive, perhaps you can answer that riddle even better than I.”

Was he being serious? Did he mean my “gift” was stronger than his? I wasn’t sure what to say or do next, but I didn’t have to worry about that. He’d already made plans.

“Let’s take a stroll. We have an appointment and we’re runnin’ late.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, happy to get some fresh air.

“Church. I’m going to show you how
not
to run a religion.”

Here’s a fun fact: Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Mulberry Street is the oldest Catholic church in New York. It was razed by a fire in 1866, but was restored two years later, much as it had been before: simple and unpretentious. I read about it on a flyer in the vestibule. The mass was already in progress. He didn’t seem to care, clomping ahead, sitting in the back row of pews.

I slid in next to him and whispered, “What’s up?”

“It’s Ash Wednesday,” he said, pointing to the priest kneeling in front of the altar. God, I hate church.

When it came time for the “ashing”, Paul stood up and I followed him into the aisle. What the hell. When it was my turn, I knelt down in front of the priest and watched him dip his thumb in a bowl full of gray ashes. Then he rubbed it on my forehead, making the sign of the cross. While he was doing it, he mumbled something incoherently.

Instead of going back to our pew, Paul stormed out of the church, clearly furious. “What was all that about?” I asked him, after we exited into the drab morning light.

“It was bad enough when they stopped using Latin,” he fumed. “But now you can’t even understand what they’re saying in English!”

I asked him if he was talking about the ash prayer and he shouted, “Yes, Goddammit!”

When I asked him what the priest had said, he told me, “Never mind, it’s all ruined now.”

Okaaaaay.
Paul grumbled and waved for me to follow him home.

We sat on the couch, saying nothing. I guess that was the point. I tried to probe inside him, making sure to keep my eyes open—so he couldn’t do that switcheroo thing again. I could feel him blocking me. He took a sip from his flask and walked into the dark hallway without another word.

I twiddled my thumbs for a few minutes, getting pissy, when I was suddenly slammed with an image of Paul inside the chapel, sitting in a huge oak chair. He was inviting me to join him. I resented the sudden intrusion and tried to shut him out. I wasn’t sure how to do it and made the initial mistake of closing my eyes to concentrate on pushing him away. Instead, the image became even more vivid, to the point where I could see that he had a golden chalice in his hands. I opened my eyes and I could still see him. I was about to surrender and join him in there, when some part of me, some physical part took over. It started with a tingle in a spot directly below my navel. Then a long grunting
pussssssshhhh!
The only physical sensation I could compare it to is taking a shit. A really difficult shit. I wondered if this was the kind of push that mothers felt in childbirth.