Servant of the Bones (38 page)

“I will. Go on.”

“Who really changed the world forever? Who changed it more than any single man?” I didn’t answer.

“Alexander,” he said. “Alexander the Great did it! He dared to kill empires that blocked his path. He dared to force Asian to marry Greek. He dared to break the Gordian knot with a sword.”

I considered. I thought. I saw the Greek cities along the Asian coast, long after Alexander had died in Babylon; I saw the world as if I were standing back from it. I saw it in patches of light and dark.

“Alexander changed your world,” I said. “The world of the West. I see what you see. Alexander is the cornerstone of the rise of the West. But the West isn’t the world, Gregory.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” he answered. “Because the West that Alexander built has changed Asia. No part of the globe has not been changed by the West that Alexander built. And no mind today stands ready to change the world as he would, and I…as I would.”

He drew in close to me, then suddenly with a darting motion, pushed me with both hands. I didn’t move. It was like a child pushing a man. He was pleased and sobered. He took a step back.

I pushed him with one hand. I pushed him into a stumble and then a fall, from which he rose slowly, unshaken, refusing to be shaken.

He didn’t become angry. He was knocked back a step, but he planted his feet squarely and he waited.

“Why are you testing me?” he asked. “I didn’t say I was a god or an angel. But you’ve been sent to me, don’t you see? You’ve been sent on the eve of the transformation of the world, you are sent as a sign! As was King Cyrus of old, that the people would go home to Jerusalem!”

Cyrus, the Persian. My whole frame ached; my mind ached. I struggled to be still.

“Don’t speak of that!” I whispered. My mind went blank with rage. You can well imagine. I was beside myself. “Speak of Alexander if you will. But don’t speak of Cyrus. You know nothing of those times!”

“Do you?”

“I want to know why I am here now,” I went on, holding firm. “I don’t accept your fervent prophecies and proclamations. Did you kill Esther? Did you send those men to kill her?”

Gregory seemed torn. He reflected. I could read nothing from him. “I didn’t want for her to die,” he said. “I loved her. The greater good called for her death.”

Now this was a lie, a brittle, technical lie.

“What would you do if I told you, yes, I did kill Esther?” he said. “For the world, I killed her, for the new world that will rise from the ashes of the dying world, the world that is killing itself with small men and small dreams and small empires?”

“I swore I’d avenge her death,” I said. “And now I know you’re guilty. I’ll kill you. But not now. When I want to.”

He laughed. “You kill me? You think you can?”

“Of course,” I said. “Remember what the Rebbe told you. I have killed those who have called me.”

“But I didn’t call you, don’t you see, it was the plan, it was the world! It was the design! You were sent to me because I
need you, and can use you, and you will do what I will that you do.”

It was the world
. Those were the very words I’d said to myself in desperate hope. But was it to be Gregory’s world?

“Surely you must help me,” he said. “I don’t need to be your Master. I need you! I need you to witness and understand. Oh, but this is too remarkable that you came alive to see Esther murdered, and to kill those three, you did say that to me, that you killed those three.”

“You loved Esther, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, very much,” he said. “But Esther had no vision. Neither does Rachel. That’s why you’ve come. That’s why you were given to our people, to my grandfather’s father, don’t you see? You were meant to appear before me in all your glory. You are the witness. You are ‘He who will understand everything.’ ”

I was puzzled by his words. Plan, scheme, design. “But what is it I am to witness?” I asked. “You have your church. And what does Esther have to do with it?”

He thought a long moment, and then he said with innocent candor:

“Of course, you were meant for me. No wonder you struck down others.” He laughed. “Azriel, you’re worthy of me, don’t you see? This is what’s so supremely beautiful, you’re worthy of me, of my time, my brilliance, my effort. We are on a par. You are a prince of ghosts, I suspect. I know it.”

He reached to touch my hair.

“I’m not so sure.”

“Hmmm, a prince, I’m sure, and you’ve been sent to me. All those old men; they kept you, passed you down through the generations. It was for me.”

He seemed almost moved to tears by his own sentiment. His face was soft and radiant and confident.

“You have the pride and decisiveness of a king, Gregory.”

“Of course I do. What does the Master usually say to you, Spirit?” he asked. “What do you remember?”

“Nothing,” I said adamantly. A lie of my own. “I wouldn’t be with you if I could,” I said. “I stay with you now because
I’m trying to remember and to know. I should kill you now. That would probably be like your precious Alexander when he cut the Gordian knot.”

“No, that won’t happen,” he said calmly. “That cannot possibly be meant. If God wanted for me to die, anyone could do it. You don’t realize the scale of my dreams. Alexander would have understood.”

“I am not yours,” I said. “I know that much. Yes, I want to know the scale of your dreams, yes. I don’t want to kill you without understanding why you had Esther murdered. But I am not yours. Not meant for you. Not necessarily meant…for anything.”

Somewhere the mother was crying again. That I’m sure I could hear. I turned my head.

“Do as I say,” he said, touching me again, clamping his hand on my arm.

I pulled away. I hurt him a little.

My strength had gone past exhilaration. I was restless. I wanted to walk, to touch things. I wanted to touch these couches of velvet, and run my hand on the marble. I wanted simply to look at my hands. I was holding utterly fast. I wasn’t sure that I could dissolve now if I wanted to.

It was a strange feeling, to be so strong, and not to know if the old tricks would work. But then I had only lately made myself Esther. I was tempted…

…But no, this was not the time.

I glared at the bones. I reached down and covered up the bones with the fragile lid. There lay the Sumerian letters for me to read.

“Why did you do that?” he demanded.

“I don’t like the sight of the bones,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because they’re mine.” I looked at him. “Somebody killed me. Someone did it against my will. I don’t like you either, necessarily. Why should I believe you that I am something worthy of you? What is your scheme? Where is your Alexandrian sword?”

I was sweating. My heart was pounding. (I didn’t really
have a heart but it felt like it was pounding.) I peeled off this coat, admiring my own handiwork as I did it. I could see how different it was from his clothing, though modeled completely upon it.

Perhaps he noticed the difference too.

“Who sewed these clothes for you, Azriel?” he ordered. “Were they done by invisible angels on invisible looms?” He laughed as if this was the most preposterous idea.

“You’d better think of clever things to say. I may not kill you, but I very well may leave you.”

“You can’t! You know you can’t!”

I turned my back on him. Let me see what else I could do.

I looked at the walls, the ceiling, the peach silk of the drapes, and the great tree of life blazing in the carpet. I drew near the window and the air moved my hair. The coolness came down on my skin and on my hair.

Slowly, I closed my eyes, though I could still take small steps, for I knew where everything was, and I clothed myself, envisioning a robe of red silk, with a sash of silk, and jeweled slippers. I took
her
shade of red, wrapped myself in it, and brought the gold to me for the sleeves and for the hem and for the slippers. I was now clothed in her violent red. Perhaps the mothers here mourned in red.

It was conceivable.

I heard him sigh. I heard his shock. I saw myself reflected in the mirrored panes of the ornate doors, a tall, black-haired youth in a long, red Chaldean robe. No beard, no, no hair on the face. I liked the smooth face. But this would not do, these garments, too antique; I needed freedom and power.

I turned around.

Again, I closed my eyes. I imagined a coat of his cut in this brilliant red but of the finest wool, tailored as his coat was tailored, with buttons of simple and perfect gold, almost pure gold. I imagined the trousers looser and smooth, as a Persian would want them to be, and the slippers I stripped of their embroidery.

Beneath the coat, I drew to myself, against my skin, a shirt like his, only of far whiter silk even than his, its buttons made
of gold as well, and round my neck on my chest, beneath the wings of this coat, against the shirt, I brought two full strands of beads which I took from all the opaque stones of the world I loved—jasper and lapis lazuli, beryl, garnet, jade, and ivory. I put amber with this, on these two strings, until I felt the weight against my chest, and then I raised my hand and touched the beads, and when I let my shoulders fall easy, the coat almost closed over this secret bit of vanity, these ancient beads. My shoes I made identical to his shoes, only of the softest cloth, and lined with silk.

He was shocked by these simple magic acts. I had found them easier than ever.

“A silken man,” he said. He said it in Yiddish.
“Zadener yinger mantchik.”

“Shall I cap it off?” I asked. “By walking out of here?”

He drew himself up. His voice was shaky now. If it was not humility, it was some form of respect.

“There’s time for you to show me every trick you know, but for now, you must listen to me.”

“More interested in your schemes than seeing me vanish?” I asked.

“Alexander would be more interested in his own schemes, wouldn’t he? Everything is ready. Everything in place, and now you come, the right hand of God.”

“Don’t be so hasty. What God!”

“Ah, so you despise your origins and all the evil you’ve done, do you?”

“I do.”

“Well, then, you should welcome the world that I place in your hands. Oh, I see more by the moment. You are here to teach us after the Last Days, I see it.”

“What Last Days! When the hell are mortal men going to shut up about the Last Days! Do you know how many centuries ago men yammered on about the Last Days?”

“Ah, but I know the very dates of the Last Days,” he said calmly. “I’ve chosen them. I see no reason to delay in telling you the whole scheme. I see no reason not to make it all
known. You recoil from me, deride me, but you’ll learn. You are a learning spirit, aren’t you?”

A learning spirit.

“Yes,” I said. I liked this concept.

I listened to the sound of steps in the passage. I thought I heard the mother’s voice, low and urgent, and I didn’t like it that she was still crying.

Coldly, I observed that his proximity to me did not matter. He could be one foot away or ten. I was just as strong. I was quite independent of him, which was perfect. As he watched, I covered my fingers with gold rings, and those fine stones I liked for rings, emeralds, diamonds, Eye of the Sea, or pearl, and ruby.

The mirrors were full of us. I would have bound my hair with a leather thong, and should have done it, but I didn’t care just now, and again, I felt my face, to be sure it was smooth as was his face, because for all my love of a long beard, I liked this naked skin better.

He walked around me. He took his steps silently and made a circle as if he could close me in this way, with my power. But he knew nothing of magic, circles, pentagrams.

I asked my memory: Had ever I seen a Master more excited than he was, more proud, and more hot for glory? I saw crowds of faces. I heard songs. I saw ecstasy; but those had been masses and masses, and it had been a lie. And my god had been weeping. That was no answer.

The answer was this: I couldn’t kill him, not yet. I couldn’t. I wanted to know what he had to teach. But I had to be certain of the limits of his power. What if he were to command me now as the Rebbe had done?

I moved away from him.

“You fear me suddenly?” he asked. “Why.”

“I don’t fear you. I’ve never served a King, not as a spirit on any account. I’ve seen them. I saw Alexander when he was dying…”

“You saw this?”

“I was there in Babylon and I walked past him with his men, guised as one of them. He lifted his left hand again and
again. His eyes were
completely ready for death
. I don’t think he had any more great dreams in his head. Maybe that’s why he died. But you are full of dreams. And you do burn bright like Alexander, that is true, and I fight you yet I…I think I
could
love you.”

I sat down and remained still on a hassock of velvet, and I thought.

I sat there, elbows on my knees. He took his stand in front of me, allowing plenty of room, perhaps ten paces, and then he folded his arms. Take charge.

“You already love me,” he said. “Almost everyone who sees me loves me. Even my grandfather loves me.”

“You think so?” I said. “You know he knew I was there when he sold you the bones, he saw me.”

This stunned him into utter silence. He shook his head, then went to speak, then was silent again.

“I was in the room and visible, and when he saw me with his mean little blue eyes, that was when he agreed to tell you what you wanted to know of the Servant of the Bones and to sell me to you.”

The full hurt of it hit him. The full hurt. I thought he would weep. He turned and walked this way and that. “He saw you…” he whispered. “He knew the spirit could be brought forth from the bones and he gave the bones to me.”

“He knew the spirit was there in his room, and he sold you the bones in the hope that I would go with them. Yes, he did that to you. I know, it’s pain, unendurable pain to realize that such a trick could be done. For a mortal man to hurt a mortal man, that’s one thing. But for a zaddik to see a demon and know that demon can destroy you, and to pass on that demon to you—”