Confirmation

Being a meditation on life in a Calvinist Universe

THE RELUCTANT HEDON

Then suddenly there was the moon and James breathed deep. He switched off the ignition and swung his feet around onto the pavement. He locked and shut the door of his truck and exhaled slow and deliberate, savoring the bite in his lungs, the dampness in his nose; the smell of wet earth and quiet night. His breath hung white on the air and wove itself fog-in-fog before him. Looking up he saw a silhouette floating in free space, wraith-wispy through the dense, wet air. It had seen the headlights and now held a bottleshape in offering to James or the moon. James trotted across the small field and then began his ascent to the top of the hill where Conrad sat waiting.

James flopped to the moist turf and panted a little. Conrad didn't look at him, he just stared out over the city, a sprawling web of lights now become mystic and unfocused by the low-hanging haze. He passed the bottle to James, who coughed, swallowed, and adjusted to the tart sting of cheap table burgundy. It was a magnum bottle, a good supply for this kind of night.

"Well?" James mumbled.

"Well, what?"

"Right. You know what. Alan said you got accepted. Congratulations." James put his hand on Conrad's arm and squeezed it. Conrad, still staring at the city lights worked his tongue around in his mouth but didn't say anything. "What's wrong?" James was concerned. "You got accepted, right?"

"M-hm." Conrad said through his nose.

"What's wrong? Aren't you going?" Conrad had fixed his only plans for the future on going to Applegate, a small college in West Virginia that had a superb History Department. At least it had John Nelson Turner, whom Conrad worshipped. James had little interest in late European History, but Conrad lived for it. When other kids were memorizing baseball averages, Conrad could rattle off minute details of every minor skirmish on the Continent in the last three hundred years. James admired him. His devil-may-care determination, his shallow-running passion; his unnerving ability to snap instantly out of one emotional context into another. Conrad's head jerked around and flashed a fierce smile that was almost frightening in the soft half-light from the city and the moon.

"So did you see The Fourteenth Flower?"

James met his eyes squarely. "What happened? Why aren't you going to Applegate?"

Conrad didn't break gaze, but he shut his mouth and waited it out. Eventually he looked away.

"Your folks are all for it, right?"

Conrad snorted and bit his lip.

"I thought you said they were all for it."

"I hoped they'd be all for it."

"You mean you didn't tell them--about applying?"

"I didn't get a chance. And all this last semester Dad kept saying 'You know where you want to go?' And I list off Applegate and a few other schools to make it sound good and so now all of the sudden at dinner he announces I'm going to State."

So tell him you want to go to Applegate."

"I did. He said 'What? You wanna break me? I gotta keep a roof over our heads.' and all that bullshit. 'What's wrong with State?' he says, 'It was good enough for Walter. Applegate is a school for pussies'."

"He was drunk." James gathered.

"'Course he was drunk. He's always drunk." Conrad pulled from the bottle with something like vengeance.

Conrad's father was incomprehensible to James, and made him glad his own father was dead. James felt a typical pang of guilt at this recognition. His father had died of a heart attack when he was ten. But he was old, James reminded himself. Both of his parents were old. He only remembered stern orders, obedience, and certain punishment of his father which occasionally still haunted him, especially at night. As if he were watching. As if he could still exact judgement, and would. But the big belt and booming voice seemed so far away right now. The moon's maternal cast shed peace off onto him, and anyway, James was sure there was no apparition that could endure Conrad's defiant wit. Conrad made him feel safe, as the wine made him feel warm. He loved Conrad. Within the moment this realization swelled in him. He blinked back an instant of tears and reached for the wine to wash the emotion from his throat, purposely touching Conrad's hand for a brief moment as he passed it.

"Did you know," Conrad studied him critically, "that you are a different color in the moonlight?"

"Am I?" James chuckled, coming to.

"You're blue."

"Really." James looked at his skin. Then he looked at Conrad's. "So? So are you."

"I know it! And God, it's glorious!" Conrad leaped up and stretched his arms outward, embracing the heavens. Then he began chanting in Latin.

The words rolled out with authority. Conrad was well practiced and James knew he was honored to witness Conrad's grand admission to his clandestine passions. Nobody studies Latin, James chuckled. Nobody but Conrad.

The hypnotic cantation ceased, yet seemed to linger on the air as Conrad hugged himself and stared hungrily at the moon. James was loath to break the spell so he waited for Conrad's gaze to seek him out. When their eyes met, James nodded at him. "Too cool. What did it mean?"

Conrad tried not to smile but was betrayed. "I said 'To hell with my old man, I am a child only of Night. I live for her. I bath in her." He turned his face full up to moon and starry field. "I worship her. Mother Moon and Father Void! In you I am at peace. In you I am fulfilled."

He stretched his arms wide to embrace the heavens again and sighed heavily.

James became uncomfortable and turned away so as not to behold Conrad's profane ecstasy. Offense welled in him and he breathed deep to master it. A few minutes later Conrad sat down again beside him.

"Ah, forgive me, your holiness. I will cease lest the earth open up and devour us."

James tried to maintain his indignation in the face of Conrad's deadpan mockery but failed. Conrad saw the smile and offered the wine. James accepted. Swigged. Conrad leaned back upon the hill, locking his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and it seemed to James that he radiated contentment. A flash of jealousy washed over him. Why should Conrad be so damned happy? His family life sucks, his grades are below average and his talent for making enemies unrivaled. So why the hell should he be in such a state of shameless bliss while I'm...

"Desolate" came into his head but he rejected that and consciously plugged in "unhappy." He mouthed the word and it felt insubstantial to his tongue. To his heart.

"I had this weird dream last night." Conrad started.

James looked over at him, surprised. "Really?"

"Why 'really'?"

"I had one last night, too. I hardly ever remember dreams, so it's kind of weird, you know, us both having dreams we remember on the same night." After a couple of seconds' silence James urged Conrad on.

"Well..." he concentrated "I dreamt I was in a shopping mall. Not Fox Hollow, but one like it, except it was three stories. I was on the top floor, in a bookstore. I was arguing with Mr. Dreyden--have you had him, for Political Process?"

"I had him for social studies."

"Okay, so you know how he has always got to be right? He was yelling at the top of his lungs, but it was all gibberish. Not even another language, just noise. And then--I don't remember what happened. I wasn't in the bookshop anymore, I was in the open part, you know, where the fountains and stuff are. And right down the middle of the mall comes this beautiful black panther--at least I think it was a panther--and I mean, she was so black she was blue. And graceful? Oh! It was like watching music.

"How did you know it was a 'her'?"

"She was all feminine. This is still so clear!" Conrad was squinting his eyes, replaying the visuals in his head. "She came right up to me and licked my forehead. And she was big. She didn't have to reach up to do it. And I had no choice but to follow her. We walked around the shops--I don't remember them, really. But then she led me down the escalator. So then we were on the second floor and the people were like... transparent; their shirts and their chests. And inside their chests there were little objects--lot's of things, weird things. Like, a doll or a dog or a tiny refrigerator or ice cream sundaes or books or pictures. Just lots of things riding around in people's chests. But nobody seemed to notice. And I looked down at my chest and I saw a marionette--but it was me. It was a Conrad Mercer puppet. And I looked inside the panther, which was still leading me around, and I saw a clock, the most beautiful clock you could ever imagine. And then we went down the escalator again. And as we went down, I heard loud, jumbled, confused noise. When we got to the bottom, it was a world all of itself. There were a million people and animals and trees and they were dancing furiously--it was almost frightening--and I got sucked into it; the swirling, the noise, the passion. It was kind of like a race and kind of like dancing and a lot like sex, too. Being lifted out of yourself by the ecstasy, the abandoning of your defenses into a--I don't know--a ritual, an orgy, a world of swirling and colors and changing shapes and perpetual orgasm. And the panther was the room. That's the weird thing. This whole bizarre world came and sought me out. And I embraced it, leaped into it. I woke up crying, it was so beautiful. I felt betrayed for having to come back."

But James was only half listening. He was too haunted by the memory of his own dream. He kept turning it over in his head, waiting for Conrad to finish so that he could spit his own out. There was now an awkward silence as James realized he was expected to react to what he had only marginally heard. "Weird" presented itself as an appropriate response, if not a little generic, so he said that.

"You're telling me," Conrad returned. "It's like something I understand--maybe subconsciously or something--but I can't really explain it in words."

"So what about yours?" Conrad asked. His request sounded like genuine interest, not just politeness, and that was reassuring.

"I dreamt it was late at night. I was downstairs sitting cross--legged in front of the fireplace. I had a poker in my hand, sort of playing with the fire, you know, like everyone does when they go camping. He could see Conrad nodding. "So I heard something behind me, and I turned around. I guess there weren't any lights on or anything 'cause out of the shadows and into the firelight I saw my father."

"Like before he died?"

"Now, he was still dead, I think. Well, not dead--animate, but--hell, I don't know. He was decayed; he smelled and his eyes were gone. Just black sockets staring at me. But the worst part was his--he was smiling; this huge, sinister grin. And he pointed his finger at me and started to laugh. This huge, horrible, evil laugh. He threw his head back and howled and then came towards me, pointing his finger and laughing, laughing. Then I noticed the choir from church standing in a sunken pit in the living room. They were like a Greek chorus, all chanting in unison 'BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND OF THE ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH, FALLEN, FALLEN IS BABYLON THE GREAT!' on and on, like that, and I started to back away 'cause my Dad kept coming towards me, always laughing. And I tripped and fell, and I kept on falling and I saw that I was falling into the fire. Then I woke up." James had goose-bumps and the fear rolled through him all over again.

"Intense." Conrad muttered. He was also disturbed. His dream had been weird but wonderful. James' was simply worrisome. James lifted the bottle and chugged it.

"Hey, leave some for the girls."

"What girls?" James barked.

"Well, you know Beck doesn't get off work until ten. I told her we'd probably be here, if she wanted to come by." Conrad and Becky had been tight for a couple of months now, and James liked her okay. Then he reminded himself that she doesn't drive yet.

"How's she going to get here?"

"Oh, maybe she'll call Sharon--"

"I knew it! Dammit!!" James spat.

"What the hell is wrong with Sharon? She isn't ugly, she isn't stupid, and she doesn't smell bad. And for some insane reason, she seems to like you a whole lot." They had been over this ground before.

James played with a piece of grass, sulking. "I know-- I like her, too."

"So what's the big deal? You're not being fair to her! You ask her out, then you don't talk to her for a week; you kiss her and then you won't touch her for the rest of the night! What the hell is your problem? You're confusing her--dammit, you're confusing me!" Conrad was actually yelling now.

"I think..." James spoke deliberately, thoughtfully. "I like her too much.. .I'm afraid. I want to... you know. I keep wanting to get closer. But I don't want that. I get-- I think about her in bad ways I-- sin."

"You sin." Conrad made it sound ludicrous.

"It makes me-- I..." James couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Ho!" Conrad caught on. "You fantasize about her and get your rocks off! Yeah!" He howled and laughed at him, like his father in his dream. James suddenly felt damned from both directions. "Oww! I love it--love it!!" Conrad started to calm down. "My boy, I'd worry if you didn't! Oh--" He caught his breath. "You're too weird, Jay."

And "Jay" was an endearing name; it softened them towards each other.

The sound of car doors slamming broke their truce of silence.

"Don't make fun of me." James whispered.

"I'm not. I won't." Conrad held his eyes until a silhouette loomed in the circle of the moon. James recognized the shadow as Sharon. He also felt his heart swell, his breath quicken, recognizing the unbidden stab of infatuation.

"Dammit." He whispered, not willing to surrender his will so easily to his emotion. "Dammit!"

"Hi, Conrad. Hi James." She sat next to him, and James thought how odd it sounded hearing her say his name. "Becky's coming."

"Okay." Conrad gave James a wink.

Sharon put her hand on his leg, squeezing tenderly.

He felt his groin tighten, his face blush. His flesh crawl.

"Hi." He said.

CONFESSION

James ducked his head inside, as though fearing attack from something within.

"Jim, hi. Come in, come in." Nobody but the Pastor called him "Jim." James didn't mind; it was just between them. Special.

He looked around nervously and shut the door behind him.

"You know, you didn't have to make a formal appointment to see me," the pastor began casually.

"If I wasn't held to an appointment I wouldn't have made it here." James' face read dead serious.

Pastor Mallory leaned forward on his desk with sudden and sincere concern. "What's wrong Jim?"

James had just sat down, but at this he was up and pacing. His mind was blank as to any way to start. "It's my friends." There, that was something.

"Yes, your mother's not too fond of your friends, is she?" James stared out the window

"What is it about your friends she doesn't like?

"I don't want to talk about my mother. Not especially.

"Okay. What is it about your friends that's bothering you?

"It's not them, it's me."

The Pastor rolled his tongue in his cheek and fought the first tremor of exasperation. He just waited for James and played unconsciously with a pencil.

"Guilt," he said. The word was itself like an indictment and was instantly eaten up by tension and silence.

"You feel guilt? What about, then?"

"Everything." There was anger. "Everything! I can't stand it anymore! I can't live with it over my head. Everything makes me feel guilty. If I cut someone off in traffic, even accidentally, I feel it. If I honk at someone, even!" He fished around visibly for examples. "If I tell a white lie just to spare someone's feelings, it eats me up inside. I can't tell, hell, I can't hear an off-color joke without getting tense. And then girls..."

He trusted Pastor Mallory. Mallory knew that, too, and respected it. James started to cry, so he looked down at his hands, the hands that had baptized this child fresh from the womb. He waited for him to calm a little.

"Have you...been with a girl, Jim?"

James shook his head. "But I like this one girl a lot. Sharon. I think she's in love with me."

"Well, that's not so bad, is it?" The Pastor smiled. "Is she a nice girl?"

"Yeah. She's terrific. But we keep getting close, you know?

"Hm--and you're afraid you won't be able to hold back." It was a statement. The Pastor got up and leaned against the wall next to James. "Tell you truth, Jim?"

James nodded.

"I'm surprised you've held out so long. I mean, realistically, your values are your friends' values. You're a responsible boy...." The Pastor thought hard and watched him. "How long has this self-chastisement been going on?"

James turned from the window, scarlet-faced, wet-eyed with a wild, desperate look. "I tried to kill myself. Twice."

Mallory felt fear. He ran his hand across James' hair, resting it with compassion on his shoulder. "Does your mother know?"

"No. I hide it. From my friends, too. I drink a lot."

"I understand."

James could see that he did. "Then I feel guilty about that." The storm within him built. Broke. "Why?! Dammit! I'm a good person!! My friends are good people--it doesn't bother them! They're normal; they have a good time. They laugh, they sleep at night! They party, they make love, they can tell somebody off! They're normal, satisfied. They don't cry themselves to sleep at night terrified of God! Why doesn't God hear me?! Why am I not forgiven?! WHY AM I SO FUCKING CRIPPLED?!!" James was kneeling now, holding his head in his hands and sobbing unashamedly and loud.

Suddenly, what the Pastor had only suspected, he now knew to be true. "Oh Father, no." He whispered. He prayed silently until James' sobbing quieted, and finally ceased.

"Do you feel any better?"

"A little." He got up and groped for a kleenex. Mallory handed one to him.

"I'm sorry." James sniffed. "I'd better go."

"No, don't. Don't leave. I need to talk to you more."

You need? James looked up at him.

"Sit down, please. This is important."

James didn't know if he were going to be reprimanded or lectured or what. He obeyed.

"How long has it been since your confirmation?"

"Coupl'a years."

"Do you remember much from your classes?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Do you remember much about our church reformers?"

"Like Luther and Calvin?"

"Especially Calvin. What do you know about Calvin?"

"Predestination. Right?"

Pastor Mallory was standing with his chin in his hand, thinking hard. "Right. Right." He decided not to say anything more. James was scared enough. "Let's see... today is Thursday... Jim, can we get together tomorrow night? About nine, say?"

"I have a date with Sharon tomorrow."

"I think this is important."

James nodded. "No problem; she'll cope. Where do you want me to meet you?"

"Do you know Alma McDerman?"

"Sure." Mrs. McDerman was an old widow who was also a member of Warren Lane Presbytarian. At least James thought of her as old. He was fond of her.

"Oh, you used to cut her lawn, didn't you?"

"No, that was Gary Sanders. But I helped him a couple times."

''So you know where she lives.

"Uh-huh. There?"

"Yes. At nine. Is that alright?"

James sniffed again, blew his nose and nodded. "Sure."

Reverend Mallory embraced him, and he returned it. "See you tomorrow."

"See you. Thanks."

James managed a smile and closed the door behind him.

It was the Pastor's turn to panic and fight back tears.

Part Three:

CONFIRMATION

It was ten to nine when James found himself on Mrs. McDerman 's street. The street lamps cast yellow hazed planes which James stepped through unhindered. It was cold again and the fog made the cold tangible.

Sharon hadn't been too upset. He had to promise he would come over after--no matter what the time. And that was okay with him. But what was bothering him was the Pastor's seriousness. His insistence. In remembering the meeting, it seemed to James that the Pastor had been frightened. If Pastor Mallory were frightened, perhaps there was reason to be frightened indeed.

Mrs. McDerman's house came into view, and James consciously changed the tack of his thoughts to her. She had always been there, at church. She sat in the second row, usually by herself. She sang loud and smiled large. She had watched James grow up; week by week. She employed him periodically and teased him often--much as she did the other children. They loved her. She was easy to love.

Then he discovered himself at her door. There were a few cars parked on the street. James opened the screen door and knocked. There was a scuffle of steps and voices. Then the door opened and Mrs. McDerman was welcoming him.

"James, please, come in." She gave him a warm smile and shook his hand. Pastor Mallory was there, too. He seemed a little nervous. James saw a strange emotion played out on his face. Fear? Not fear only, perhaps fear and pity. But he shook James' hand firmly, and gave a confusing "you can do it kid" look.

"James, look here." Mrs. McDerman, when he had looked, straightaway moistened his forehead with water from a chalice in her hand. Then she took his hand and moved it; now touching his forehead, now his right breast, now his left, so, making the sign of the cross. She then did it to Pastor Mallory and he to her.

There was a sickly-sweet smell heavy on the air that became gradually more irritating. James looked beyond his hosts around the foyer, and saw the source of the smell. Blood, fresh and wet had been applied to the wall; shoulder high immediately at either side of the door. A statue of the blessed virgin sat on a pedestal in the corner, a supply of scented candles were lit at her feet, adding to the pungent air.

Mrs. McDerman noticed his discomfort and took his hand in hers. "Come James, we have much to do." She took him through the bloodied door, entering the study. The room was dimly lit, with a fireplace in the far wall. Flames leaped excitedly, throwing faint shadows on the dark-paneled walls. There were many bookshelves, stacked to capacity with books and antique objects of arcane origin. A ceremonial sword hung over the hearth and in the center of the room was an ornate table, exquisitely illustrated with complex diagrams indexed with Hebrew letters and Latin phrases held a collection of crystals and stones, cut and uncut, carefully arranged upon the diagram.

Two men were in the room when they entered. One rose to greet them. The one that didn't was small and rather thick. He was smoking a pipe, bald on top, fiftyish and gruff looking. Before the other gentleman could introduce himself, this one called from his chair. "So, the poor lamb is here. Pointless. Didn't I tell you it was pointless, Mallory? 'Course I did. There are some things you are deaf to; reality and common sense amongst them. The only mercy the Damned receive is ignorance; and you're going to rape this poor boy of that single solace are you? 'Course you are. You're the clergy. What's your job, then, but to make us sweat?" Then he laughed as if he had struck himself funny and didn't care that his mirth was exclusive to him. The others felt awkward. The other man glowered at him.

This other man was of average height, youngish, but well dressed; casual, but still he wore a tie. His black hair shown almost blue. He looked Hispanic, but his voice betrayed no accent and much schooling.

"Please allow me to apologize for Mr. Carrington. I am Paul Jiminez. It's James, right? Nice to meet you." He clasped James' hand firmly in both of his and looked far into his eyes--as if searching for something on a distant horizon of James' inner world. The handclasp lasted a little long for comfort, and awkwardly Jiminez let go and returned his gaze to James' surface appearance, still smiling. Mrs. McDerman looked at him as if in anticipation. Jiminez shrugged and shook his head. She looked disappointed. They resumed their seats as Mrs. McDerman offered James a place near the fire. James was still stiff with the cold, and this felt very, very good.

"Would you like tea, James?" She offered when he had sat. He nodded.

The Reverend held up a hand to stop Mrs. McDerman. "Would you rather have a scotch, Jim?"

"Oh, yes!" He coughed eagerly.

The old woman looked disapprovingly at the Pastor.

"Go and pour him one, Alma. Lord knows he'll need it." He tried to say this quietly but James heard.

He felt very strange. The Pastor sat near him, swirling his scotch. Mr. Carrington blew out puffs of woody fragrance at regular intervals and browsed through a large leather-bound book, feet up, on an overstuffed chair.

Jiminez was on the edge of his seat, chin in hand, thinking intensely and glancing back and forth between the fire and the boy. No one knew quite how to start.

Mrs. McDerman returned with the drink and took her own seat. For a while no one said anything, and for James this waiting was intolerable.

"Why...why am I here?" He stammered.

"Sneak-preview of Judgement," shot Carrington without looking up from his book.

"Aaron!" Mrs. McDerman snapped "Some care for the boy's feelings!"

"He doesn't need feelings; he needs novocaine." Carrington turned a page.

"You speak as if we knew the outcome." Jiminez said reproachfully.

"The good Reverend seems to know."

"I do not know!" Mallory attempted at once to clarify his earlier remarks, and also convince himself against his intuition. "That is what we are here to determine."

Mrs. McDerman saw James' panicked confusion and held his hand. It helped. He clung tightly to her. "We are sort of a society, James, in that we all have one thing in common. We meet here on the last Friday of every month to talk; to encourage each other. We are sort of a confederacy of misfits."

James looked at Carrington and wondered how encouraging he could be.

"We were talking about Calvin in my office, do you remember? Well, that brings in, of course, Predestination. You understand that, no doubt, but..." He fished for a gentle approach. "History is written and done, Jim. It we cannot change. What has been, what is, and that which will be has been written and closed by the Destiny. We are only playing our roles, acting it out. What the Destiny has ordained, is, and it must be so to fulfill the Purpose. We cannot in our miniscule spheres of influence be allowed to disturb it with something so precarious and fickle as our own whims and Desires. Within the Destiny many of us have been ordained to eventually cross over into a state which the saints have called 'heaven;' and some are ordained towards that state which has been called 'hell.' Do you understand so far?"

James was not quite sure, but he nodded and Alma picked it up.

"To most people, it appears normal, and the choices they make, being tuned with each personality by the Purpose seems congruent with their character. Their decisions, for all practical concerns, are their own; and so it must be to fulfill the Destiny."

She stopped and it suddenly appeared to James that this old woman was very wise, far beyond what he had considered her. It was such a new dimension to her that James felt both glad and apprehensive; for she was graver, graver than he had ever beheld her.

"Unfortunately, Jim, either the Destiny has overlooked a couple of cracks in the surface of the Purpose, or we have been singled out to carry a most peculiar burden." Mallory stopped to catch his next thought, since James still sat motionless, mouth open, uncomprehending.

"We are like those pathetic transsexuals," Carrington injected. "All ready to go into the world as a woman only to find they've been handed the wrong set of privates."

James still seemed bewildered, and the Pastor got to his feet and started pacing. "I'll tell you about me, Jim, how's that? I love the dark. I love drunkenness. I love lechery. Does that surprise you? Jim, I raped a woman once. I have lusted for the dark things in the heart of man and when I had nearly destroyed myself the Destiny interceded and claimed me for it's awful, terrible own. That is why I am a minister. The middle ground of laymen is too close to the darkness, for I fear I would flee to my true love. Only in this extreme may I find the devotion to continue my appointed place in the Purpose. It is where I must be. It is a prison, but I must obey. I must surrender, or be crushed beneath the heavy hand of God.

"Alma, may I speak for you, dear? Alma is a skilled sorceress. Her lover was a demon named Baarol. He is her contact still, but under the Destiny she has been claimed and declared chosen. So she must ever long for his embraces lost, while yet enduring his presence in her practice of the art. Eventually, in our surrender we have found a sort of peace. But the surrender is a long time in it's completion, and peace will come only after a longer time still. There is no refusal to the Destiny; there is only torment until the submitting is complete.

"There. I have told you of us, but I cannot speak for Carrington--"

"And Carrington will not speak of himself." Carrington said with a note of exhasperation. "It's too damn complicated. But you needn't look long at a patch of earth to see that it is really just dung."

"And," continued the Reverend "Paul alone must tell you of himself."

Paul sat up straight and shot a glance to Mallory. "I am the Reverend's opposite, in a way. I thirst after the things of God. I wanted with all my heart to be a priest. I had even enrolled in the seminary. Monastic life, even, appealed to me. I saw God and the joy of God in everything around me. But my flesh-- I felt what all men feel, but I could not forgive myself. I was dismissed from among the seminarians by a father who regularly heard my confessions. My, heh, confessions were hours long, almost daily and so detailed as to be (as I now see) ridiculous. I was ordered home due to what he called severe neurosis and commanded by the bishop to receive secular psychiatric treatment and Catholic counseling. My parents are perfectionists and they believed I had been rejected by God. They were more correct than they knew."

Reverend Mallory spoke gently. "Paul tried to kill himself, too, Jim."

Paul's eyes confirmed this. Then, as on whim, he loosened his tie and pulled on his collar, revealing scars on his neck.

"I met Alma in the hospital. She secretly applied her healing arts--her crystals and such--and when she felt I trusted her, she said she had a hunch about me. The same way Mr. Mallory feels about you."

James tried to stay ignorant, fought comprehension, but he could not. Panic spurred his heart; terror and tears showed on his face. He shook a little when he talked. "You...you think I'm...I'm damned? I can't be! I've always--" But the testimony of the others in that room could not be discredited. They had lived these lives. It was proof enough.

Mallory grabbed James' glass and walked off to refill it. "We don't know, Jim, not for sure. There are certain ways we can tell. If you are going to live any kind of life at all, this conflict must be resolved or you will suffer needlessly all your days. When you came in, you'll remember that Paul looked into your eyes. Sometimes by their eyes the Damned and the Chosen will know their own. Paul could not tell, so perhaps that is a good sign."

Paul confirmed this with a gentle nod.

James received the drink thankfully and gulped at it.

"What do you think, Jim? Do you want to know?" They were all staring at him. Even Carrington peered around his book.

"Yes." He spoke it as if he would choke upon the word.

Mallory offered his hand to Mrs. McDerman, who took it and rose from her chair.

"We will prepare the magick." They walked into what appeared to be a small storeroom-turned-sacristy and closed the door.

"What did you do--when you found out?" James almost whispered to Paul.

"I panicked; but you get over that. Nothing is of you alone. The Destiny decides all things. We perceive all of this through a single subjective experience, which truly warps our perspective. So since we have no actual responsibility in our action, however much they are seeming responsibilities, we must not fear what lies for us within the Purpose. If the Purpose is just, we have nothing to fear. But perhaps you cannot understand that right now. You will learn. You must learn to survive. We suffer so because we try to be what we are not. We must submit to our damnation. We must learn indulgence. We must overcome our repulsion of the dark heart of humanity. And still, even having done that and acquired some assorted lusts and subsequent peace, we cannot help hut to be good men. Perhaps that will count for something in the end. You see, the universe revolves in a sort of wild, seemingly chaotic, yet ultimately complex Dance, each facet of Creation moving in it's appointed steps in perfect harmony and balance towards the Purpose and yet is itself the Purpose in a way mere men may not comprehend. The angels and the demons understand more than we, and they move gracefully and perfect. We here" (he meant Alma and Mallory, too) "have somehow fallen out of step with the Destiny, and so we must submit. We must, we must, or we shall live in misery."

The door to the little room opened again, and Alma emerged alone, holding a stone bowl, candles and a folded black cloth. She went to the center of the room and knelt. She spread the large cloth out with almost a rhythm to the unfolding. "Lights, please, Paul." Paul leaped after the light switch. Carrington had closed his book, observing now with interest. When the lights went out, Alma lit one candle. She pointed to the cloth, which was filled with circles drawn in white in an odd pattern strewn with unfamiliar symbols.

"Sit, James. There. Cross-legged in the circle. Do not move from that circle--no matter what. Do you understand?" James nodded. He sat, making sure no part of him even approached the white circle's boundaries. No matter what.

Alma began to chant. Latin, James was sure, but he recognized nothing. She lit two more candles, and, chanting, positioned them carefully upon the cloth.

"Now, James. Be still. This is the testing. The stone bowl contains a paste made of blood and ashes. I will apply it to the back of your hand. Then hold still--no matter what. We cannot know in what form the exchange will be made. Trust this: if within your palm there is blood, the Destiny has chosen you. If ash is there, rejection." Then she chanted again; slowly and with confidence. She took a gleaming knife from her dress' sash and dipped it into the deep red-brown paste, applying it to James' left hand. James could not hold it still, although he tried. He was simply too frightened. When she had finished she lit another candle and kissed the flame.

A thin pillar of fire roared instantly floor to ceiling, directly through James' outstretched hand. He tried to jerk it back but Paul was behind him, reaching along James' arm with is, holding the youth's wrist steady, and dead in the center of the inferno.

As quickly as it had come, the pillar was consumed by blackest air. The candles, too, were extinguished.

The lights came on and James was shaking uncontrollably, daring not to look at his hand. The Reverend stood by the light switch. James looked up at him, and saw his left sleeve rolled up and a bandage fixed to his forearm.

"What?" The Reverend asked with impatience. "Well, what?"

Alma grabbed James' arm and turned it over. The hand was unharmed, though it stung. And in the palm...nothing. James looked up hopefully. "Oh, dear..." she said to herself. She met the Pastor's worried frown. "This one will not work with him."

"OH, SHIT!" Screamed Carrington. "SHIT! DO IT AGAIN!!"

"It will do no good, Carrington. This particular magick will not wor--"

"IT MUST!"

"IT WILL NOT!" Alma's voice thundered with authority. Carrington was red in the face, seething. Pastor Mallory wordlessly carried a cot out of the storage room and taking great care, arranged it just so on the carpet. It was odd in that it sat higher at the head than at the foot by about a foot and a half. Then James noticed that the pattern on the carpet was the same as the circles on the cloth, only magnified and in much greater detail.

"Here, James." Paul handed him what looked like a thin white nightshirt. "There's a bathroom down the hall to change in. You must wear only this." James obeyed.

When he returned much was different. Carrington was gone from the room and the furniture had all been pushed aside to clear the patterns on the carpet. In many circles, the Pastor was setting shoulder-high candle holders, each one holding a single great candle, all black.

"No," corrected Alma, "There." Mallory moved one of them to a different circle. She nodded. In the center there was another stone bowl, burning huge chunks of myrrh.

James was cold and uncomfortable in the thin shirt. He felt naked standing there alone in the doorway. The myrrh made him choke.

"There you are, dear, come here. We must hurry. Midnight is fast upon us, and I dare not attempt this at such a time. Stand here. Remain standing. Face this way. Now be patient. Remember do not move. Do not look around. If you step outside this circle, I cannot protect you, and this is a hungry time of night for demons. Listen to me close, now, James. I may hurt you, but I will not kill you." Her eyes riveted him in their intensity. "Remember to watch your blood. If red, your are Chosen. If black, Rejection. Remember."

James faced the back of the room obediently. His heart raced as he heard Carrington enter behind him. He did not trust him. Someone layed down on the cot. James heard it squeak. He faced a table with objects upon it concealed by red cloths which were ornately illustrated. Alma lit some of the candles, and then joined Pastor Mallory in the storage room. James heard Paul ask if he should stand anywhere in particular. Alma told him to stand ready at the lights and to stay within the circle nearest him when she gave the word. In a moment James heard the storage room door close. Paul switched off the lights. Shadows leaped and the sound of James' tense breath filled the room. He shivered with cold and also with fear. But he trusted. He trusted.

Slowly into his vision, Alma and Mallory appeared; each on either side of his vision. They held a single candle each and stepped rhythmically, together and slow. As they moved to each corner, they turned and faced one another. James now saw that they both wore white robes, with wide sleeves and cowls; tied at the waist with a white rope. They then stepped towards each other, until they met behind the table. They set their candles in holders waiting there. Mallory stepped back and Alma pushed the white hood from her head. She held her hands up level with her ears, palms outward towards James. Something was written on her forehead in what looked like Hebrew, but he could not be sure.

She began to chant. This time it was less musical, but much more involved. Watching with rapt attention, James began to recognize certain elements from the ceremony. Only once had he seen a Roman Mass, but he remembered enough to see that it was similar to what was being performed here before him.

Alma took up the cloth covering the utensils on the table. A short silver sword and a chalice glimmered in the dim and leaping light.

Pastor Mallory began to sing. It was high, and clear; completely unlike the voice James knew. It needed neither accompaniment nor translation. He sang the essences of the sacred and profane until it seemed the air was as thick with it as with the gagging perfume.

Alma held forth the chalice, prostrated herself before it and raised it again, chanting a counter-rhythm to Mallory's song. Then, ceremoniously, she stepped around the table and began a procession back again passing behind James. The cot at his back had been squeaking spasmodically for some time but James was only now aware of it. Then a sound reached his ears that made him catch at his breath, silent so as to hear.

Carrington was weeping. In spite of himself and his promise James could not help but turn around. He saw the stubby man lying on the cot, clad only in a white loin cloth which was drenched with sweat. The cot rattled now as his entire frame convulsed. His feet were arranged one atop the other, and his arms were spread wide, palms up. But, oh, the palms....

James let out a cry and cringed, for within the palms the crimson stigmata burned into his vision. The holes were large and gaping through his hands, and his feet were likewise apparently pierced; but empty of all save rendered flesh and fiery pain. Tears ran freely down Carrington' s contorted visage. He made no effort to silence his groaning. He shook and as he shook great drops of blood, rivers of tears, fell to the carpet, collecting in a pool.

Alma passed her hand over the chalice and knelt catching tears as they fell from his knotted cheeks. The blood she gathered, chalice lingering beneath red-running stigmata. She rose and Carrington let out a piercing cry. She touched his forehead with her lips and he was released from his torment into an unconscious rest. His bundled muscles relaxed and his breathing slowed; steadied.

"James." If red, you are Chosen. She spoke his name. She was before him and unbidden he knelt. She bent and touched a kiss to his brow. The sound of it echoed and seemed to linger above Mallory's unending drone. If black, Rejection. She held the chalice aloft, and muttering, lowered it to him; to his lips. His tongue recoiled at the warm and sticky mixture. He choked but it nonetheless slid into him and knotted in his chest.

And suddenly a burning grew in him, like a fire igniting in his very heart.

Before James could blink Alma held the silver sword aloft in her right hand. In the candlelight she loomed above him wraith-like in herself. With her left hand she clutched James' shirt at the neck and with strength which he would not have believed could be her own she rent it down to his belly and as swift as sight, brought the glimmering blade to bear against his flesh which yielded, split beneath its edge and bled...black.

"NO! NO!!" James saw it and screamed at her, streaming tears from his sudden-flooded eyes, he clawed after her, and losing his balance in his lunge, collapsed, clutching at his chest and quite outside his appointed circle.

"James!" Paul shouted from across the room. "Get back! Back in the circle!"

Alma screeched and snatched up her sword and chalice and rushed to the table where she seized a candle and joined Mallory in his chant to control the mystic rift which magicks invariably create.

But it was too late. At first what could simply have been taken for the smoke of incense was now realizing itself into separate forms. Indeed, stepping forward into the staggering candlelight, a hundred vague shades waited as if on the edge of materialization; at once distinct and yet still made of little more than the lingering fog rising from the smoldering myrrh.

The host of Hell surrounded them, glaring from eyes invisible except as gaping orbs in indistinguishable faces. James looked up in a horror forever unknown to most mortal men. He was directly in the center of their formation, and yet in his panic he noted that when the terrible shades turned to face him, they looked on not with cunning, evil, eager or devouring lust for his tender spirit, but...with a disarming expression of pity and compassion.

Unbelieving, James managed to rise to his knees and watch as one of the demons stepped forth towards the makeshift altar where the Pastor and Priestess chanted still. Then recognition swept through Alma and she stumbled on her words. Her chin quivered and she touched her breast and cried out.

"Baarol."

The demon held his wispy arms out to her and called for her embrace.

"I cannot, my love. Yet I long for you always."

He in turn touched his breast and resigned again to their fate, completing a sort of ritual between them. He then gestured at James and spoke. "Fear not for James. He and Paul are ours. We will not harm our own. In the Garden knowledge was delivered and man was crushed. James, our own, you need not be further crushed. Submit to the Destiny. Dance with us, for we are your people and you are ours, ours. Let the Purpose be fulfilled. May the Destiny be over all."

And so saying, the demon turned and the host walked straight out into the fog of night, exchanging that substance for the substance of the smoldering spice. James was on his feet now--not crying anymore, but filled still with fear and yet with wonder. The house was somehow behind him now and he leaped barefoot in the wet streets, chasing to touch every wraith and passing through them like the yellow beacon from the looming street lamp above.

Suddenly, the host stopped and surrounded him again. His chest still bled but he was oblivious, shaking with bitter cold and delirious release. The host parted at a point and somewhere beyond, two eyes glistened. Like cat s eyes, they shone with a brilliance all their own, and James felt sure that a great sleek cat stalked him, black coat lost into the panther skin of night.

Then as the eyes approached the amber-aura street lamp, he saw that they were not a cats eyes at all. They were the shimmering eyes of a woman.

Naked and graceful, she stepped full into the lamplight and he gasped after her, reeling at her perfection, longing for her embrace. Her hips were full and sensuous in a way that the slenderest forms can never capture. Her breasts were round and like precious fruit hung hurting for his fingers' touch. Her long hair she swept away from her face, revealing to him her most treasured secrets.

"Sharon--" James breathed.

And Hell's ambassadors watched and were witness as Sharon's body was embraced tightly to his own. He felt her skin separated from his only by the shreds of his thin shirt.

He ached in his heart for her. He fell on his knees to the black wet pavement. She parted her lips and descended upon him like a dove.

And her lips lit on his own, and he surrendered his mouth to hers.

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