A Lower Deep

enter the conflict.'

'Don't be so sure.'

'I'm not, really, but in his eyes he's already fulfilled his greatest purpose.'

'I suppose he has,' I said.

Fane had more on his mind but he didn't know how to come out with it. He hobbled forward, awkward as an infant just learning to walk. The terrible pain was evident in his face. He must've just broken his legs again within the last few days, maybe the first minute he stepped foot into the Holy Land. Whispering, he asked an odd question. 'Do you ever get worried?'

Sometimes you can be prepared for absolutely anything, except sincerity. 'Why are you here, Fane? There's nothing you can do, one way or the other.'

'I'm trying to keep the world from ending. If this truly is Armageddon-'

'It's not.'

'You are worried. I can hear it in your voice. And you've every right to be. Before Abbott John left Magee Wails he had a dream about you.'

'He told me.'

'No, he had another vision. One that involved you and the archangel Michael.'

Michael who would slay the red dragon with seven heads, ten horns, and seven crowns and save the world.

I said, 'Involved us how?'

'He said Michael was trapped. I don't know what that meant, but the abbot believed you were supposed to free him.'

'Abbot John was a good man, in his own way, but he was insane. After all that suffocation his brain was oxygen starved.'

Fane was still edgy and tried to get the stiletto at my throat again, but I caught his wrist and easily bent it backward. Still, he wouldn't let go of the blade. 'Your order doesn't hold much credence with me, Fane, considering recent events.'

'Armageddon is upon us. The signs are occurring.'

'Crap. You're putting too much faith in that book.'

'And you too little.'

I shoved him away and thought about it.

John of Patmos, author of the Apokaylpsis, the book of Revelation, and who called himself a companion in tribulation, was an extremist who kept the floundering Christian religion alive with fear of the apocalypse during a time of rampant paganism. His book was a letter written to the seven churches in Rome's eastern empire of Asia Minor, telling them to endure the worsening conditions for Christians under the Roman persecution.

Some preached his prophecies to be literal while others believed the book concealed his message in symbols and imagery, a message that couldn't be deciphered without some lost key to the original subtext. The truth, if it existed, might lie somewhere between. Or it might not.

I hissed into his face. 'Do you expect the sun to become black as a sackcloth of hair, and the moon to become blood, and the stars to fall from heaven?'

'There is no wind.'

I swallowed, spun around, and just then saw Theresa floating above us with the silver cord flapping hard against the windows. My name on her chest stood out as clearly as if it still ran with her warm blood. She clawed at the air, trying to get closer. I brushed Fane aside and went to her, but she was already moving off, reeling with her arms outstretched to me as she slipped farther and farther away.

Fane took a step forward and nearly fell into my arms. 'There's no wind because the four great angels hold the four winds in the corners of the world.'

Maybe it was true, but I'd never much believed in Revelation because so few angels were spoken of by name.

'The apocalypse is already in motion,' he said.

'And has been since the beginning of time.'

'Abbot John said-'

'Do you really believe that my actions, or yours, might somehow alter the will of God?'

'We all must fulfill our fates.'

I burst out laughing. It was a deranged and lonesome sound in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, in the place of the skull.

Perhaps no one had laughed here in thousands of years-perhaps never.

And I couldn't stop.

Chapter Fifteen

Holding a cup of sweet Muslim coffee, Self found me in the streets. He was eating stolen Easter cookies, traditionally shaped like crowns of thorns. Crumbs speckled his lips, but still somehow reminded me of blood.

Glad you're having such a good time, he said.

What's so funny?

Nothing. Have you seen my father or Gawain?

Heard Pop's bells ringing a couple of times but I never caught sight of him.

He finished his spiced coffee with one large slurp and started to head back toward the bazaar for more. I stepped in his way and he glanced up curiously, with only the hint of his teeth showing. We'd come so far together and yet had hardly moved at all. The spices worked at the back of my throat, flooding my sinuses. Sugar coated my tongue, those cookies fresh and still warm in my stomach. He understood so much at times, knowing what he shouldn't. Other important concerns didn't matter to him at all.

My second self climbed up my shirt, perched on my shoulder, clambered over my head, and leaped to the ground where he ran off to find more coffee. I followed and watched while he stole a cup from a street stand. I tried not to enjoy the taste of it too much while he hummed to himself in delight.

Where's my father?

I don't know.

Tell me.

You don't listen very well.

I reached out to him then for some reason, and in the same second he held his hand out to give me a cookie. My new skin was red and looked raw and bleeding in the sun. I noticed his lifeline was much different from mine now, and I wondered if one of us was going to die soon.

Try to keep that happy mood, Self said. He nodded east, toward the Mount of Olives. Jebediah's arrived with his brood. They're waiting for you.

Any suggestions?

He actually seemed to think about it. Let's leave this goddamn dusty place to the zealots and head for Jamaica.

I only wish.

He stomped a nice calypso beat, slowly at first before really swinging into it. He was good. I could almost hear the kettle drums and conch shells. Come on, da ganja do you good, mon.

We headed for MountOlivet, toward the central summit, which was regarded as the Mount of Olives proper and where Jebediah would undoubtedly be expecting me in the Garden of Gethsemane.

I was still weak from the fire, and the walk emptied me further as sweat ran through my hair and dripped down the backs of my arms. Soon I felt as if I'd spent all morning in a sweat lodge ceremony and yet hadn't been cleansed. There was no balance or tranquility in it. The nausea returned, vicious but fleeting, and I was forced to my knees in order to ride the sickness out.

Faith meant everything now, even if the reasons for it were unknown. When the queasiness passed I stood