which allows the person who studies it to penetrate and merge with the book, and in this way enter the secret heart of our Creator.'
'You're saying these books are somehow alive,' said Eileen.
'In a way, yes. This is complicated. Are you familiar with how a telephone works, my dear?'
'Not exactly.'
'Neither am I. But as I understand it, there is a mysterious substance in the little part that you hold and speak into....'
'The mouthpiece.'
'Thank you; a substance that when we speak into this mouthpiece vibrates and turns our words into an electrical signal which runs along the wires to the other person—don't ask me how—where there is more of this magical substance in the part they listen to—the earpiece, yes?—that also vibrates and turns these signals back into the words we spoke over here so they can understand them. Isn't that fantastic?'
Three feet away, Bendigo Rymer began to snore, a foghorn cutting through the clacking of the train.
'So holy books are like this substance.'
'Yes. The word of God has been received by them on their pages, translated into words and numbers and sounds so that someone who approaches with the proper education can eventually decipher and understand. God speaks in one end; we listen on the other.'
'If that's the case,' asked Eileen, taking another bite of apple, 'why isn't everybody in on the mystery?'
'Not everyone is ready. A person must achieve a high degree of purity before studying this material or the power of the information would rip them apart like a hurricane. There is a saying: The vessel must be made strong for the passing down of wisdom.'
With a thud, the silver flask he'd been sipping from slipped from the sleeping Rymer's seat to the floor at Stern's feet. Eileen tucked the flask back under Bendigo's arm, grateful that she hadn't been drinking tonight; she'd indulged altogether too much recently, comfort in place of company, and it was time she tapered off. She rested her head against the seat, more relaxed than she could remember, tranquilized by the gentle rocking of the train and the steady sound of Jacob's voice.
'This has traditionally been the role of the priesthood, in every religion: to help men and women prepare for the receiving of spiritual information from the higher realms.'
'All my priest ever did for me was try and stick his hand up my skirt,' said Eileen, instantly regretting it.
'Well, that is the great challenge of living, isn't it?' said Jacob, not at all embarrassed. 'Humans are divided beings attempting to reconcile our two natures: the spiritual and the animal. That's why I wear this ribbon around my waist, by the way; it is called a
'Think the world's fallen from grace, do you? We're all hopeless sinners and the like.'
'You are English, are you not?'
'Dear me, is it still so obvious?'
'Only in a most delightful way. But let me ask you: Is there any doubt in your Church of England that man is a completely wicked, sinful wretch?'
'Of the worst sort. And my experience with men bears that out.'
Jacob laughed. 'This is the feeling most people have about their life, you know. That they have failed their God, or themselves, in some fundamental way.'
'Is that what you feel, Mr. Stern?'
Stern looked at her, his blue eyes as bright as shiny buttons, joy radiating from him as steadily as heat from a coal fire. What an attractive younger man he must have been, thought Eileen, instantly deciding how wonderful her life would be now if she had met him then.
'There is no question,' said Stern, 'that we human beings are sad and broken creatures. Look around; it requires no great vision to see that things are not as they should be. If there was perfection in the world, why would man and woman be separate beings, for instance? Why are there differences of color or religion, country or family that cause such blind hatred and bloodshed? The most unimaginable cruelties seem never to fall outside the capabilities of man.'
'Yes. It's all quite hopeless, isn't it?' she said, staring dreamily into his eyes.
'They say that in every creation the creator reveals his personality; if so then the Creator of this world must Himself be a terribly wounded and incomplete being. In this way, perhaps we do resemble our God. And if there is such a God, surely he must be in exile with us, suffering as we do, struggling on his own path toward spiritual perfection. The path we are all stumbling along. The history of humanity tells us there is an undeniable progression in spite of all our violence and pain, a slow, gradual moving toward the light—in Hebrew 'light' has the same numerological value as 'mystery.' Perhaps one day we will all achieve this 'enlightenment.' '
Eileen tried to disguise a yawn. Jacob smiled.
'One of the great disadvantages of growing old; you think you know so much but nobody else has the endurance to listen to you.'
'No, it's quite interesting, really,' said Eileen. 'I just haven't had any reason to think about such things for the longest time.'
'Who does? Only crazy old men locked in their basements with a thousand books. Real life, families, making a living; who has time to worry about suffering when suffering takes up so much time?' said Stern, laughing.
'You really are the most wonderfully peculiar man,' said Eileen.
'This is a compliment?'
'I mean it to be. Different. Unusual. Out of the ordinary.'
'Some of my most outstanding qualities,' said Stern, laughing again.
'Well, I approve of them, Mr. Stern. You're a fine old fellow.'
Stern took a satisfying breath and looked out the window, moonlight gleaming off the luminous snowcap of a distant peak. 'It is a most amazing world, in any case,' he said. 'Such a shame we can't appreciate it more.'
'I suppose you just have to take advantage of those moments when they come your way,' said Eileen, a delicious sleepiness creeping into her.
A dreamy look came over Stern, transparent and fine; he looked years younger suddenly. 'Nothing is lost. Nothing's destroyed. There are no divisions. No disharmony. Everything returns.'
No, this isn't possible, thought Eileen, a familiar stirring quickening her heart. Ridiculous. She hunted down the feeling, examined it, produced it, tested it; and then had to admit there was validity to it, however absurd.
She was falling in love with him.
chapter 6
They gathered under the heroic arch in the great hall of the Metropolitan Museum, Fifth Avenue's northernmost outpost of downtown civilization, a glittering multitude of bosomy dowagers and their consorts, society's finest—they called themselves the Four Hundred, someone explained to Doyle, the exact number of people who could fit into Mrs. Vanderbilt's ballroom—paying homage to their distinguished visitor from England. Doyle felt overmatched at first sight of the prestigious throng, but he had watched the Queen handle a few
