vulnerable places. Too many madmen had a head start upon the officials and soldiers who were coming after them.
I threw off the body—again the effort surprised me—and went up and out of the building and high over the world, and then descended to the Temple of the Mind in Tel Aviv.
Soldiers had it surrounded. I entered invisibly and slew every last follower of Gregory who resisted. I slew the doctors who guarded the toxic weapons. I moved fast with swift and certain blows. I made no noise. Death lay in my wake. It was wearisome and sad, but done well and completely.
At once I moved on to Jerusalem and there found that Gregory’s followers had all surrendered. The city was safe.
Not so in Tehran. Once again, I slew the resisters, and here I must confess to an evil indulgence. I took lavish and splashy physical form to kill, so that some of the more superstitious Persian Minders—converts of Gregory’s from desert religions—would be especially affrighted. Vanity, ah, vanity. I disgusted myself with this fancy show. Blood had lost the shine of rubies. Fear in the eyes of my victims wasn’t so pretty.
So I suppose my games were instructive to me, and therefore had benefit. Whatever, I slew everyone in the Tehran Temple who did not bow down and beg for mercy, who did not throw down a weapon and crawl towards surrender.
There were other temples which required my intervention.
But I am not going to give you this litany of slaughter.
Let me say only that I assessed each Temple, whether or not it had been “neutralized,” as modern military men would say, and I gave my assistance where I thought it was imperative. I grew more and more tired.
I knew the modern world must complete this work. I knew that it must appear as if the world itself had conquered Gregory Belkin and the Temple of the Mind. I left the certain victories to the human beings.
I learnt from this rampage. I learnt that I did not love at all to kill anymore. Nothing of the Mal’ak remained in me.
My fascination was with love, my obsession was with love.
And the truth is, that the very last of these murderous tasks—the killing of a few very dangerous Minders in Berlin and in Spain—I did with weariness and no small demand on my own endurance and fortitude.
Temple battles would continue.
I was finished.
A great relaxation overcame me. It was easy to return to my own fleshly form. It was the natural result of preoccupation or distraction—to become physical, the creature you see and hear, to feel and smell, and to walk in the world. Invisibility became a feat. I found this compelling.
For a week I wandered the Earth.
I wandered and wandered.
I went into the lonely sands of Iraq. I went to the ruins of the Greek cities. I went to the museums which held the finest of the art of my times and gazed on these things in quiet.
It took energy to move from place to place in spirit form, but in either state I was quite strong. Indeed to take on any other form than my own became harder.
And as you know—as you saw yourself earlier—when I called back the body of Nathan to me, there was no wedding of my cells with his cells. His flesh was putrid and from the grave, and I sent it back, humbled, and ashamed that I had troubled it.
I studied all the time I wandered. I went into the bookstores and the libraries. I read through many nights, without sleep. I watched the television endlessly as the Temples were contained and destroyed in various countries. I heard of the mass suicides. I saw it all blended finally with the other news all over the world. It was headlines at the beginning of the week. By the end it was still first page of
And the magazines burst forth with their great flower-colored covers, and then a new issue came out and it was another story.
The world went on. I knew your books. I read them in the night. I went to your home in New York City.
I came here after you, to find you. You remember. You had a deep fever.
All the rest you know. I can still change my shape. I can still travel invisibly. But it gets harder and harder to change into anyone else. You see?
You understand? I’m not human. I am the full spirit that I dreamed I would be—in those dark terrible moments when rebellion and hate seemed my only source of vitality.
I don’t know what will happen now. You have the tale. I could tell you more, about those bad masters, about little things I saw, but all will be revealed in God’s good time.
That’s the end of my adventure. That’s the end. And I am not dead. I am strong, I am seemingly without flaw. I am perhaps immortal. Why do you think? What more does God want of me?
Will Rachel and Esther and Nathan forget me? Is that the nature of the bliss that lies beyond the light, that you forget and only come when you are called?
I’ve called. I called and called and called. But they don’t answer. I know they are safe. I know someday I may see that light. Beyond that, the purpose of life is to learn to love and that is all I intend to do now.
Is it the blood of Gregory himself that keeps me the wanderer? I don’t know. I only know I am whole and that this time I served myself as best I could.
I killed, yes, but it was not for a cause, but to stop one. It was not for a master, but to stop one. It was not for an idea, but for many ideas. It was not for a solution, but for the slow unfolding mystery around us. It was not for death, death which I wanted above all, the rest, the grandeur of the ultimate election to die. No, what I did was not for that. I did it for life—so that others may struggle for it. I turned my back on the light and then I shot to death the man with the great plan.
Never forget that, Jonathan, when you write the story. I shot Gregory Belkin. I took his life.
Has God made a special place for me? Has he made it easy for me? Did he give me visions and signs? Was my god Marduk a guardian spirit? Or was he and were all the spirits I saw merely dreams of the lonely human heart that endlessly refurbishes heaven?
Perhaps the story is chaos. It is another chapter in the endless saga of the blunted yet stunning accomplishments of vicious human wills, the stunted yet dazzling ambitions of little souls. Mine, Gregory’s…
Perhaps we are all little souls. But remember, I told you I’ve seen these things. And as I turned my back on the Light of Heaven, I committed yet another murder. Death was mixed up in my story from its earliest days.
And I don’t know any more about death finally than any mortal man living knows. Perhaps less than you do.
Part IV
LAMENT
Cry not, my baby.
Cry.
I know a frog ate a white moth.
The frog did not cry.
That’s why he’s a frog.
The moth did not cry.
