Tyrannia (12 page)

I start to doze, and dream my own version of the Land of Light. Well, it’s more like a half a dream, since I know I’m dreaming. Does that count? It’s almost pitch black in my Land of Light, and other people run past with flashlights in their hands, laughing. I have no flashlight. There’s an ocean nearby, or maybe a lake, because I hear waves and birds squawking. I hear a whispering voice next to my ear, and I wonder if it’s Jesus. Then I startle awake, and I see outside that a sparkling white crusader van has pulled up next to the knot. I jump up. The dining room is full, and nearly everyone looks at me.

“Hey!” I yell. I start running toward the door. The old man looks up from the pit crew, in the middle of overturning a slab of hickory ribs. I know he’s contemplating changing back into his riot gear, but then figures it’s more trouble than it’s worth.

Outside the door, sprinting toward the van, I see that the guardian angel moves to Abercrombie. She’s still in the knot. He takes hold of her elbow. He closes his eyes and starts praying again. Then he starts up with the crying again. Crying is a lot like speaking in tongues, it seems like. People in white suits—containment suits, it seems like—move out of the van and start plucking people from the knot. They’re checking some kind of meter next to each person that I hadn’t noticed before. Abercrombie’s meter has a gold glow. It would have been impossible to see in daytime.

Stupid stupid me. I’d heard about this happening—choosing a few who respond really well to the knot and taking them away for “further ministerial training.”

Then the thought crosses my mind: maybe Abercrombie
wanted
to come to the knot in the first place. But, I don’t know, felt some
obligation
to see me first and tell me about Fitch because I’m his friend.

I can’t bear that thought, so I push it away.

“Leave her alone!” I shout. I’m shrill, I know this. The guardian angel smiles at me, as if to say, what do you think about this? What would you give to be me? Then he turns away and motions to a driver of one of the vans. The van pulls up.

This is illegal, right?
I think.
This isn’t even sanctioned by a proper church, right?

I reach toward my gun but I don’t have it; in my rush, I forgot to pick it up from coat check. My hands feel small. One or two other knotters besides Abercrombie are ferried to the van. The angel slides Abercrombie’s head out of the knot. Her hair is slick from whatever is inside of there. She’s gurgling. I start rushing for him then, I don’t care how many weapons he has. But then I hear a “let go of her” from behind me. The old man. He
is
in riot gear. I put my hands up and turn around, but he’s pointing the gun at the guardian angel, not me.

“Do you have permits?” he says.

The guardian angel laughs.

“Permits, please,” the old man says, “Presbyter Knot Protocol 5. I’m also going to have to see the maintenance records of the knot
and
your vehicle.”

“You have no authority,” the guardian angel says.

“You’re on private property, and private property is sacrosanct.”

Abercrombie is looking back and forth between the two men. I try to creep forward but can’t find a way to reach her .

The guardian angel looks back at the van, and then smirks, and he reaches for his taser. But the old man shoots. My bones rattle from his recoil. The angel is pushed back, body convulsing. His Aramaic Tommy robes stiffen, absorbing the bullet, and he is gathered into the arms of his deacons. He won’t die; he has too much faith in himself to die. The van drives away, and Abercrombie falls toward me. I catch her. She smells like apricots and dog piss.

“Get out of here,” the old man says to me, not looking at my eyes. “Just get out of here.” He is pretty much in deep shit, I know that, but I don’t think. I take his advice and run.

They say that in the Land of Light, you can go anywhere you want to go, and be anyone you want to be. But I know that’s not true. When inside, they make you think that you want to go to the places they provide—mostly in the Holy Land. They make you think that the avatars they provide are the most amazing available. Which they are, from a purely technical standpoint.

But here’s the thing, I’m not sure it’s really worth it. It sounds kind of boring, except for maybe the sex. They don’t
admit
this on TV, but this is what they use to lure people in. And they don’t
call
it sex, of course. It’s “intimacy.” The relationship you have with Jesus gets kind of . . . heavy, if you’re a girl. And that spills over into how the girls see guys there. It’s really messed up. Yeah, there
are
plenty of beautiful fundie girls there looking for guys who have accepted Christ like they have. In the Land of Light, girls are told to imagine their “future husband.” To hold such an imaginary person in her heart, until he could be found in the Land of Light.

But the sense I got was that it would always be a ménage à trois, even if you get married with one of the girls, and have more kids than you could count.

After which, they figure that you’ll be willing to listen to anything thrown at you. Which is maybe true, for some people.

Like my Dad, for one. I learned a lot about the Land of Light after he kept going to the knot over and over again. He kept trying to convince my mom and I to dive in, feel what he was feeling, which was apparently the Holy Spirit. Then one day, he probably decided he loved Jesus more than us and left for the Alabama Principality. I kept going through all of his old college books after he moved; Mom wanted to throw them away, but I hid them in the old wine cellar. (Plenty of room there after the Community turned dry.) I kept reading about the outside world, the way the world used to be, trying to find Dad there. But he wasn’t in those books anymore. He was part of the Light.

I have to admit on one sick level that it’s tempting. Everyone smiling and considerate. Everyone praying, and saying how Jesus is doing an A-OK job in their eyes. But then, the Land of Light never leaves you. They say this is a good thing, proof of your faith. But then you see things on the edges of sight. You’re not in
control
of what you see anymore.

And then the nasty, unending guilt comes. Which is also engineered, of course.

Which the churches would tell you would be the
point.

In that regard, I try to think of my Dad as little as possible.

Abercrombie’s in the back of my Hummer5. There’s an obscene amount of room back there. I wonder if the SuperCar itself can chase after us. She’s coming to, writhing around, eyes half-closed. “Where am I?” she mutters. It’s not entirely clear she’s speaking to me.

“You’re in a vehicle,” I say. I check out of the gates of the Shopping Center. A flock of silver drones swarms above me, then flies to the scene of the shooting. I am harmless.

“A vehicle.” She laughs. “Where are we driving to?”

“To the hospital. To see your brother.”

She pauses for a long time, and for a while I think she’s asleep. But then she sits up straight and says, “Jesus, is that you? Is that you driving?”

“No. It’s Swatch. Your friend Swatch.”

She laughs. “Stop messing with me, Jesus. Now get back here like you promised.”

There is a rest stop ahead. With picnic tables and a copse of trees. The gate is closed and chained. No one uses these anymore. No one has picnics anymore. It would be easy to stop there. To rest. To get the courage to turn around and help the man who shot the angel.

“I’m your lamb, Jesus, just like you told me . . .”

My hand hovers on the turn signal, but then goes back to the wheel as we pass the rest area. I turn on the radio and try to find her a channel that will calm her down. But then I realize I’m trying to find a station to drown her out. Gospel, maybe. The blues. Something lonely. But none of the music on the radio is lonely anymore. My Dad really loved the blues before he went away.

At this point, static would do.

We pass low-lit shantytowns and trashcan fires along the river that used to be marshes, marshes that were once home to all those geese. Maybe those were the geese Abercrombie saw.

“Where are we going again?” she says.

“To the hospital. To see your brother Fitch.”

“Who?”

Then she starts laughing again.

That’s when I start praying. I start talking to God in a way I never have before. The words fall out of my mouth, and I don’t even know what I’m saying. My head is light and I’m not even asking God for anything. Nothing at all. I’m just letting him know that I’m here, and that I have no idea who I saved, who I didn’t save.

Walking Stick Fires

On All Hallows’ Eve Eve, Parka sat on his motorcycle in the unending desert. The moon was a low-hanging fruit. The blue fires of Casino were off in the far distance to the north. Parka pulled an apple out of his jacket pocket, cut it in half with his claw, and offered one half to his fellow traveler Jar.

“The apple has a pleasing scent,” Jar said before he ate it, crushing the apple into pulp with his mandibles.

“I would have to agree,” Parka said.

“Where did you procure it?”

“In a house outside of Casino.” He indicated the blazing pyramids and monoliths with his claw. “Two days ago. I forgot I had it. There it was, sitting on a kitchen table. Red and perfect.” When he finished eating the apple, Parka brushed off a posse of stick insects that landed on his shoulders.

“Hey, cool, walking sticks,” Jar said, brushing them off Parka’s jacket.

“Is that what the locals call them? I just don’t know where these bugs come from,” Parka said.

“They are everywhere,” Jar said, cleaning his mandibles with his fingers afterward.

Parka watched the walking sticks rattle on the hard desert ground.

“All right,” Parka said, kicking his motorcycle to life. The reactors shot into clutch for a second and then hummed. Jar followed with his. “Santa Fey then?”

“They are expecting us.”

Parka patted his satchel, the one containing the Amulet of Ruby Webs, which he had extracted from Casino at great cost.

“Yes they are. I do not expect traffic. Nor to encounter those we disposed of.”

Parka was thinking of the Worm-Hares.

“Not under the mountains.”

“Nope.”

Parka leaned forward and his bike shot forward. Jar soon followed. After they broke the sound barrier, Parka put on his headphones. He liked Toby Keith.

In the great tunnel underneath the mountains, they stopped at a rest stop. They hydrated and Jar sulfurized his joints. There were a couple of other travelers at the rest stop. Others sped by on their motorcycles and flaming chariots. Every once in a while there would be a rumbling sound that would shake the wire grating of the low roof and send dust to the ground. Once there was a low growl far above, like a brane gun backfiring.

“What’s that?” Jar asked once.

“Taos,” Parka said, not looking up from his hammock and his well-thumbed copy of The Toby Keith Review.

“Ah,” Jar said, going back to his sour acupuncture.

The human child who was indentured to the rest stop looked up from his abacus. He had a name tag that said SHARON. “They’ve been going like that for a fortnight. The Black Rooster Company is finally yielding their fortress against the Azalean Gullet.”

But the two couriers ignored him. Blushing, the child went back to his figures.

“Say,” Parka said, “what are you going to be for All Hallows’ Eve?”

Jar pulled the needle from his spine and blew on the tip. “I was thinking Jack Nicklaus.”

“Really? I love As Good as It Gets
!
”

Three of Jar’s eyelids quivered, a sign of confusion and then mild amusement. “No, not the actor. The golfer.”

Parka raised his eyebrows. “Really? Do you golf?”

Jar shrugged. “Who are you going to be?”

“Dwight D. Eisenhower,” Parka said without any hesitation.

“Really? I love World War II!” It took Parka a few seconds to realize Jar was being a sarcastic mimic.

Parka sighed.

“But seriously,” Jar said, perhaps sensing Parka’s exasperation. “I would have sworn that you’d be one of the indigenous musicians.” Jar pointed at the cover of The Toby Keith Review, in which Toby was performing in his moon-slave cage for various Being seneschals.

“I’m not quite so easily typecast, friend,” Parka said. “Not quite so easily in one box or another. I have a lot of interests.”

“Uh-huh,” Jar said.

“Anyway,” Parka said, wanting to change the subject a bit, “it won’t matter if we can’t make Santa Fey by tomorrow.”

“Ha ha,” Jar said. “Don’t worry. We’re in the slow season. We’re deep underground. The winds of war are incapable of blowing upon our faces.”

“I am not quite so sanguine,” Parka said, closing his magazine and hopping off the hammock. “We should go.”

“So soon?” Jar said. “I still need to sanitize my needles.” He held a glinting needle out. The tip wavered.

Parka was going to say something clever and lewd but the sound of an approaching caravan drowned out any coherent thought. Three motorcycles and a black Camaro. They were slowing down and resting at the rest stop.

“Hey. Jar,” Parka shouted, before the caravan stopped.

Jar looked over. It was a caravan of Casino dwellers, all Worm-Hares.

“Ugh,” Parka said. “Like I said, let’s go.”

“Hey!” the prime Worm-Hare said, slithering out of the Camaro. It was too late. “Hey!”