The Six Messiahs

chapter 3

German flags on the tables. german songs from the Bavarian band in the dining hall. German wines and beers and German food from the German waiters, speaking German to the German passengers. It was getting to be all so, well, Germanic, thought Doyle. And the decor: Prussian banners, double-headed eagles, heraldic shields on the walls. All that's missing is Kaiser Wilhelm. At least the good burghers of Frankfurt and Munich didn't throw their noses out of joint when we retaliated in our good-natured way; Innes planting his hand-fashioned. Union Jack on the table, me commandeering the band's tuba, playing my oompah version of "God Save the Queen."

Innes even clapped me on the back after I hijacked that tuba. Seemed almost proud of his old brother. Warmed my heart. Come to think of it, Innes had been civil enough all afternoon, executing his secretarial duties briskly, efficiently. And the name of Pinkus/Pimmel not even mentioned since dinner. Perhaps I shouldn't give up on the boy just yet.

The brothers' patriotic counterattack cheered the hearts of the few English souls on board and Doyle realized he needn't have worried that the Germans would take offense; he'd always found them a jovial, high-spirited people—although he occasionally suspected that if one were shipwrecked alone on a desert island, he would eventually begin to lunge about and brandish a club. But their applause after his performance had seemed sincere enough; a smile even cracked the granite face of Captain Hoffner. Doyle had noted this loosening of inhibition often during previous voyages; the farther people ventured out to sea, the less encumbered they became by their landlocked identities.

But what had that disagreeable incident before dinner been about? A half-whispered confrontation outside the bridge: Captain Hoffner and two anxious young men; American accents, Jewish, one of them wearing a Star of David. Voicing heated concern about shipboard security and where a certain item was being stored: something about a book?

The younger of the two men—thin beard, sandy moustache—looking confused, genuinely frightened. Hoffner polite but strained, clearly put upon. Conversation dying instantly as Doyle came around the corner. A complicated look to Doyle from the second of the men—the senior of whatever partnership they represented: recognition, rising expectation, relief. Hoffner nodding to Doyle, waiting for him to pass before taking up with them again, impatiently, wishing this problem would go away.

Doyle kept an eye out for them but the two men had not made an appearance during dinner—no, wait, there was one of them now, the older one, standing in the passage outside the dining hall doors, up on his toes, searching through the dispersing crowd.

Probably for me, Doyle concluded. But no time to deal with the man now; he was already late for the evening's entertainment.

Sophie Hills had a square, sensible face and the no-nonsense manner of a beloved nanny or the neighborhood grocer's wife. Short, graying hair. No concessions to fashion. Eyes clear and alert. Her handshake as firm as an admiral's. Wearing the corsetless clothes of a suffragette, she exhibited none of the vaporous affectations so common to those in the spirit-raising trade. After being introduced to Doyle, she clapped the seance to order as if it were a meeting of a Wimbledon gardening club, crisply taking her seat in front of five rows of chairs crowded into the ship's library. The audience settled in.

No round table, hand holding, or candlelight for Miss Hills: right down to business. One chair reserved beside her from which Mrs. Saint-John could administrate. Doyle took a seat in the front row to their left, surrounded by his companions from the Captain's table. Neither Innes nor the American reporter in view; he hadn't mentioned the event to his brother and word had apparently not trickled down to Pinkus from any other direction. Doyle noticed the red-haired Irish priest settle in behind him to his right. Hadn't seen the man since yesterday afternoon on the top deck. They acknowledged each other with a polite nod.

Mrs. Saint-John led them through the usual preseance disclaimers: Sometimes the spirits follow their own prerogatives, their behavior nothing if not unpredictable and as far as their statements were concerned no guarantee could be given for complete authenticity. . . .

"Sometimes the spirits are as downright pigheaded and ridiculous as any living human being. Particularly our closest relations," said Sophie.

A good laugh. Ice broken. Smart. Remarkably relaxed atmosphere, thought Doyle. Completely free of hokum or mumbo-jumbo. So far. Doyle glanced around....

There was the young man from the bridge, edging into the back of the room. Their eyes met briefly; he slipped into, one of the few remaining seats. What does he want? Doyle wondered; well, I'll find out soon enough....

Wait: two more figures crowding in behind the young man.

Innes and Pinkus, in that ridiculous hat.

Rats.

"Now if we could have complete silence, please," said Mrs. Saint-John.

Sophie Hills smiled, waved—like a child's bye-bye— closed her eyes, and began a series of deep breaths. Her body slackened gradually, then without warning snapped into an awkward pose completely unlike what she'd maintained before the onset of her trance: fingers locked, hands joined in front of her as if folded into the generous arms of a dressing gown, elbows thrust straight out to the side. Head perched on an elongated neck, wobbling gently side to side as if balancing on a spindle. Wide, enigmatic smile. Eyes open but creased horizontally ...

There was no other way to say it, thought Doyle: She looked Chinese.

A golden, tinkling laugh bubbled out of Sophie Hills.

"Look at all the friendly faces here," she said—the voice masculine, high-pitched, tonally distinct from her own—and yes, the accent was Mandarin. She laughed again.

Her audience giggled in return; an involuntary response.

"Everybody happy on a ship. Everybody leave their troubles at home!" she said, laughing again, her irrepressible good nature filling the room; the air felt lighter, invigorating as sweet springwater.

Why, I feel better myself, thought Doyle, chuckling. What sort of a trick is this? Infecting people with happiness? New one on me.

"Nobody seasick?" she said.

A collective groan and more laughter. One raised hand from a woman in the middle row.

"Oh, too bad for you, lady. You sit back there, okay?" Some people were holding their sides, doubling over with laughter. "How the food on this ship? Pretty good?"

Yes, the food was good, answered the audience.

"Lady, you really missing out!" she said to the seasick woman. "We really miss food. We got no food over here."

We're certainly eating out of your hand tonight, thought Doyle. Seances usually turned up dour, gloomy spirit personalities, the sort that suggest suicide had played a part in their passing; this was unquestionably the happiest soul Doyle had ever seen a medium manifest. No wonder Sophie was such a crowd pleaser.

"My name is Mr. Li," said Sophie. "But you can call me .. . Mr. Li."

Even his stupidest jokes sounded funny; maybe Mr. Li had been a court jester in his former life.

"We got all sorts people over here. Lots and lots of peoples, All happy, friendly; if not they are after they meet Mr. Li. Same for you. Mr. Li say, Life should make you happy. Why so serious? Not so bad. Look at you: on ship. Good food. No seasick. Except for one lady. Don't sit too close to her!" She laughed again and the crowd laughed right along with her.

Extraordinary talent for mimicry, thought Doyle: I'm completely persuaded that I am looking at a jolly old Chinese man, not the sort of sturdy, middle-aged English woman you find striding through Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon. But nothing necessarily supernatural at work yet.

"All sorts of peoples here tonight. Somebody there want to talk to somebody over here, you tell Mr. Li. If they over here, Mr. Li go find, okay? Mr. Li like, uh, like tele-phone operator."

Standard enough procedure to kick off a reading; now let's see how "Mr. Li" delivers, thought Doyle, studying her every move.

"If I could have a show of hands, please," said Mrs. Saint-John. "We'll try to get to everyone, time permitting."

Audience members began to ask Sophie questions about dead uncles and cousins and husbands, and she relayed straightforward detailed answers that seemed to more than satisfy them. Bringing to bear all his observational skills he could spot none of the usual flaws in her presentation; possible confirmation, thought Doyle, for his theory that mediums somehow tap into the mind of the questioner for their desired information, an easier explanation to swallow than a sea of disembodied spirits hanging about an interdimensional switching board.

But Doyle still had his trump card to play. He took out his pen and wrote a name on a cocktail napkin.

Jack Sparks.

When Mrs. Saint-John pointed to him, he handed her the napkin.

"This is the departed you wish to speak to?" asked Mrs. Saint-John.

Yes, Doyle replied. That was the man. The same test he had applied to every medium he had investigated over the last ten years since Jack had died. The test every one of them had failed.

Mrs. Saint-John leaned in and whispered the name to Sophie. A pause. The brow of "Mr. Li" furrowed; he craned his neck, closed his eyes. Finally he shook his head.

"That man not here," she said.

"So you are unable to contact him?" asked Doyle. Curious; he usually received a parcel of lies; never this response before.

"No. He not here. So sorry."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"What you don't understand, mistah? You pretty smart fella, huh? I think so. Listen to Mr. Li: Man not here. Man not dead."

"Not dead? That's impossible."

"Oh, now you think Mr. Li a liar, huh? Well, you know, Mr. Li been called worse before...."

Doyle felt absurd; here he sat arguing with an Englishwoman masquerading as a Chinaman in front of a crowd of German tourists—and one American reporter—about the death of a man who had plunged off a waterfall locked in a mortal struggle with his brother, as seen and described by Larry his trusted secretary. Fine way for a distinguished author to behave.

On the other hand, all every other medium he'd asked about Jack had ever been able to provide were patently phony bromides that bore no relation whatsoever to the man himself....

Crack!

Doyle's first thought: a gun shot. No, a light bulb had burst, one of the ceiling fixtures, over their heads. A shower of sparks cascaded softly over the audience.

"Look what happen, mistah, see? Now you make spirits mad!"

Mr. Li laughed again, alone this time, the audience taken aback: This Mr. Li was less friendly, his voice assuming a more remote Otherness, metallic and cold. The temperature in the room dropped as his warmth retreated; queasy, ill-fitting. Some shivered and drew their wraps close around their shoulders; a woman moaned inadvertently.

The air around Sophie Hills grew dense and bright, making her suddenly harder to see. Mr. Li's laughter stopped dead; Sophie choked, breath catching in her chest. Her eyes opened wide; she looked panicked. "Mr. Li" was gone. Mrs. Saint-John froze where she sat, alarmed.

This is not part of their program, thought Doyle, rising from his chair. No one else in the room moved; Pinkus pinned against the wall, primal fear. He saw Innes take a step toward the two women____

Crack!

Another light bulb burst. Frightened cries. People scrambling to avoid the sparks.

Doyle felt a hand on his shoulder: the priest.

Sophie fell to her knees; her body shuddered uncontrollably but her eyes remained clear and full of appeal, wrestling against something unseen and turbulent, some force trying to enter her?

The priest moving quickly toward her.

"Someone in this room!" said Sophie, terror warping her voice. "Someone not what they seem! There is a liar here!"

Innes was the first to reach her; he took hold of an arm. At that moment, Sophie Hills lost whatever battle she was fighting; her eyes closed, her body went rigid as an oak. She turned to Innes and her eyes opened-—she shook her arm and Innes flew off her as if he'd been struck by a runaway horse, crashing into the first row of deck chairs six feet away.

Doyle lowered a shoulder and threw his full considerable weight into the woman; she yielded hardly an inch, hitting a wall. He slid around to the back, clamped a bear hug on Sophie Hills, pinning her arms and held on. The priest thrust a crucifix before her face; she stopped struggling, eyes fixed on the cross. Innes scrambled back resiliently and from behind locked his arms around the woman's shoulders. She offered no resistance but a ferocious energy coursed through her body; both brothers agreed later it felt as if they were holding a Bengal tiger.

The priest didn't waver.

"In the name of all that is Holy, I command you, Unclean Spirit, to leave this body!"

The woman looked at him. Placid, serene. Smiled angelically.

"Do you remember your dream?" she asked the priest; a woman's voice again; low, intimate, melodic. But not Sophie's.

The priest stared at her in amazement.

"There are six. You are one. Listen to the dream."

What the devil was this?

"You must find the others. There are five. You will know them. If you fail, hope dies with you. This is the Word of the Archangel."

The voice so quiet no one else heard it: only Doyle, Innes, and the priest. Her smile faded and the woman went limp in their arms. Doyle laid Sophie gently to the ground. Slow, shallow breathing. Unconscious.

Air in the room clear again. Time, which had felt suspended, began again. Mrs. Saint-John collapsed; Innes caught her before she hit the floor.

Captain Hoffner appeared next to Doyle, his smooth facade ruined. "Mein Gott. Mein Gott."

"Get them to their beds," said Doyle.

Hoffner nodded. Crewmen appeared. Sophie Hills gently carried off. Innes fanning Mrs. Saint-John back to woozy life. That sobering relief particular to accident survivors washed through the crowd; some stunned, not moving off their chairs, others slowly leaving the room, clinging to each other.

The young man from the dining hall, still as eager as before, caught Doyle's eye again. A respectful, urgent appeal: now, sir? Doyle nodded to him: yes, in my cabin, half an hour. He wanted to talk to the priest first—where did he go? Doyle turned: no sign of him.

There was Pinkus in the corner. Throwing up into his hat.

So the evening shouldn't be a total loss.

Innes rushed back into Doyle's cabin.

"Miss Hills is resting comfortably...."

"And the priest?'' asked Doyle, looking up from a book in his hand.

"Nowhere on deck. I tried to page his cabin from the steward's office, but no one seems to know which cabin he's in. The dining room staff says his name is Devine; Father Devine from Kilarney...."

A soft knock at the door. Doyle nodded. Innes admitted the nervous young man; mid-twenties, medium height, high forehead, large owlish eyes, thinning curly brown hair, posture slightly stooped—the apologetic air of a man perpetually exuding self-effacement. Dark circles under his eyes provided the only shading in his ghostly pallor.

"Mr. Conan Doyle, thank you, sir, thank you so much fori seeing me. I'm really sorry for the inconvenience...." American: traces of New York. The man glanced at Innes, uncertain if he should continue.

"My brother will not violate your confidence, sir. Who are you and how may I help?"

"My name is Lionel Stern. I came on board when you gentlemen did. Traveling with a business associate of mine. I wanted to speak with you, sir, because we have reason to believe someone on this ship intends to murder us before we reach New York."

"You've taken this up with the Captain." The conversation overheard on the bridge.

"At some length. He maintains his ship is safe, every reasonable precaution taken; he was unable to offer us any additional guarantees."

"What did you offer him to authenticate this threat to your lives?"

Stern appeared taken aback. "We were followed all the way from London to Southampton...."

"And, you believe, onto this ship."

"Yes."

"Have any direct actions been taken against you?"

"Not to date, but—"

"Have you seen or had any contact with the person or persons you believe are planning to kill you?"

"No." The man looked at them both sheepishly; this seemed to be the limit of his hard evidence. No mention of the "book" Doyle had heard them talking to the Captain about. Doyle gave Innes a look—back me up on this—then moved to the door, opened it, and gestured firmly to Lionel Stern.

"I will ask you to leave my cabin, sir."

Stern's jaw dropped. He looked ghastly. "You're not serious."

"I cannot be expected to help you, and I would resent this unwelcome intrusion from any man unless he is willing to part with the truth. You will please leave at once."

Whatever force of will had been holding Stern together dissolved; his plain features fell. He collapsed into a chair and cradled his head in his hands. "Sorry. You don't know the strain I'm under. You can't imagine...."

Doyle closed the door, walked over, and studied Stern for a moment. "You were born and raised on the Lower East Side of New York City. The oldest son of Russian immigrant parents. You are a secular Jew, thoroughly and willfully assimilated into American culture. That you have rejected the religious observances of your father has been a matter of no mall dispute between you. You sailed to London approximately six weeks ago from Spain—Seville, I believe—where, over a period of at least one month, in partnership with the man who accompanied you on board the Elbe, you negotiated a complicated transaction involving the use or purchase of an extremely rare and valuable book, which you are now transporting to America. A book of some profound religious or philosophical significance. This book is the cause for these well-founded concerns about your safety, Mr. Stern, and I will enjoy your complete candor in this matter from this moment on or we will proceed no further."

Stern, as well as Innes, stared at him uncomprehending, mouth agape.

"Have I left anything off?" asked Doyle.

Stern slowly shook his head.

"How in the world ..." began Innes.

"You wear a Star of David around your neck at the end of that chain."

Stern lifted the medallion, as described, from under his shirt.

"But how did you know he was Russian?" asked Innes.

"Stern is a fairly common diminution—Americanization, if you will—of an entire subgroup of Russian surnames. You display none of the obvious outward signs of a devout, Orthodox Jew—it's likely your father, who was undoubtedly part of the first wholesale immigration from Russia to New York a generation ago, is more avidly a practitioner—in spite of which you wear a religious symbol concealed around your neck, indicating some self-division about your status; a conflict not uncommon in the relationship between a father and his eldest son.

"The uppers of your shoes—relatively new as indicated by the lack of wear on the edge of the soles; purchased with the last few weeks—are a distinctive Spanish leather particular to Seville. Your stay in that one city was of sufficient length to have this pair of shoes crafted to order—three weeks to a month usually—which suggests you were probably there on business. And this afternoon I happened to overhear a portion of your conversation with the Captain about the safekeeping of a book."

Stern let them know all of Doyle's conclusions were accurate, save two: His shoes had been purchased from a bootmaker on Jermyn Street in London, where his recent business had been conducted—he'd never set foot in Spain—but yes the leather had been sold to him as a product of Seville, and the book in question was indeed of Spanish origin.

Innes shared but did not disclose his equal astonishment, unwilling to indicate either undue admiration of or a lack of solidarity with his brother. He knew Arthur had consulted with the police from time to time, and of course he'd written those detective stories, but had no idea his detective skills were sharpened to such a remarkable edge.

"So, Mr. Stern," continued Doyle, standing over the man, hands folded magisterially behind his back, "now you had better tell us about this book the parties allegedly following you are so interested in and how it came into your possession."

Stern nodded, running his pale, slender hands back through his unruly hair. "It is called the Sefer ha-Zohar, or Book of Zohar, which means 'The Book of Splendor,' a collection of twelfth-century writings that originated in Spain. They are the basis of what is known in Judaism as Kabbalah."

"The tradition of Jewish mysticism," said Doyle; he searched his mind, finding his hard knowledge of the subject frustratingly scant.

"That's right. The Zohar has been for centuries a restricted document, studied only by an eccentric line of rabbinical scholars."

"Well, what is it?" asked Innes, lost as a motherless calf.

"Kabbalah? Hard to describe, really; a patchwork of medieval philosophy and folklore, scriptural interpretations, legends of creation, mystical theology, cosmogony, anthropology, transmigration of souls."

"Oh," said Innes, feeling sorry he'd asked.

"Most of it's written as a dialogue between a legendary, perhaps fictional teacher by the name of Rabbi Simeon bar Yochai and his son and disciple, Eleazar. The two supposedly hid in a cave for thirteen years to avoid prosecution by the Roman emperor; when the emperor died and the Rabbi came out of seclusion, he was so disturbed by the lack of spirituality he saw among his people that he went right back into the cave, to meditate for guidance. After a year, he heard a voice that told him to let ordinary people go their own way and to teach only the ones who were ready. The Zohar is the record of those teachings, written down by his followers."

"Not unlike the Socratic dialogues of Plato and... er, what's his name," said Innes, not wanting to appear entirely ignorant, although he still had only the dimmest idea of what the fellow was talking about.

"Aristotle," said Stern and Doyle.

"Right-o."

"Did those original manuscripts survive?" asked Doyle.

"Perhaps; the Zohar was written in Aramaic, the language of second-century Palestine. Authorship of the original remains in dispute, but it is most often attributed to an obscure thirteenth-century rabbi who lived in Spain, Moses de Leon. Only two surviving manuscripts of De Leon's original work have been found; one is called the Tikkunei Zohar, a short addendum written some years after the main book. The Tikkunei was obtained last year from Oxford by the University of Chicago for study by a group of Jewish-American scholars—among whom my father, Rabbi Jacob Stern, as you correctly surmised, Mr. Doyle, is one of the foremost.

"After long negotiations, my partner and I have just secured the temporary loan of the oldest complete handwritten manuscript of the Book of Zohar. Called the Gerona Zohar; it dates from the early fourteenth century and was discovered years ago at the site of an ancient temple near Gerona, Spain. There's been tremendous controversy among experts about the Gerona Zohar's authenticity; my father and his colleagues hope that with both books in their possession they can compare them side by side and resolve these questions once and for all."

"Right, so what's so special about this old Bologna Zohar?" asked Innes, stifling a yawn.

"Gerona. To be honest, I've never studied it myself. I'm a businessman, rare books are my trade not my passion; I have no training or interest in such an academic undertaking. But my father, who's studied the Kabbalah for close to thirty years, would tell you he believes this book, if successfully decoded, will provide man with the answer to the mystery of creation, the identity of our creator, and the exact nature of the relationship between us."

"Mmph. Tall order, that," said Innes, displaying his natural gift for understatement.

"No one's managed it yet, have they?" said Doyle.

"It's all Greek to me," said Stern. "I wouldn't know what the mystery of creation was if it jumped up and stole my hat; all I'm told is that among the men my father keeps faith with, the Book of Zohar is reputed to contain the hidden key that will unlock the secret meanings of the Torah. ..."

"The first five books of the Old Testament," said Doyle.

"Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy," said Innes, counting his fingers to remember—behind his back—-as he'd been taught to do in Sunday school.

"... and that the Torah was allegedly transcribed directly from the teachings that Moses supposedly received from God on Mount Sinai."

"Allegedly; supposedly."

"As you also correctly observed, Mr. Doyle, I am not by temperament or inclination in even the slightest way a religious man. If there is an all-powerful, all-knowing God, and if He had intended for man to solve the riddle of his own creation, I seriously doubt He would have gone to all the trouble of hiding the answer in the pages of a musty old book."

"A book which, nevertheless, you now believe someone is willing to kill you for."

"I didn't say the book was without earthly value: before taking possession of it we had the Gerona Zohar insured by Lloyd's of London for a sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Preposterous!" snorted Innes. "Who'd pay that much for a book?"

"There are private collectors the world over who would consider it a priceless addition to their libraries," said Doyle. "Men for whom money is no object and who might be more than willing to commission the theft of such an item."

"Commission the theft? Fiddlesticks; from whom?"

"Well, thieves, naturally." Good Christ, the boy was thick sometimes.

"You have arrived at the root of my fears exactly, Mr. Doyle," said Stern. "As I said, neither my associate nor I— his name is Rupert Selig, by the way; he manages European accounts and works out of our London office—neither of us can point to any direct evidence of someone stalking us. But ever since we arrived in London with the book, we have both experienced the uncanny feeling that we were being observed.

The feeling grew steadily worse as we made our way to Southampton and onto the Elbe. I don't know how else to describe it: a crawly feeling up the back of my neck, small sounds that stay just out of earshot when you stop to listen, shadows that seem to move from sight as you turn...."

"I am familiar with the sensation," said Doyle.

"Bloody spooks at a seance don't help much," said Innes.

"Absolutely; I don't know about you but I found that business tonight terrifying," said Stern. "And I can't tell you why but I felt that what we saw tonight and what I've been going through are somehow related. I consider myself a logical man, Mr. Doyle; I hope you will never hear me utter a more perfectly illogical statement."

Doyle felt his responses to Stern softening; once the man unburdened himself of his initial reluctance, his honest modesty and intelligence grew considerably more appealing.

"When such a feeling comes from deep levels of the intuition, I advise anyone to pay attention to it," said Doyle.

"That's why when the Captain said he could not help us I turned to you: I've read newspaper accounts of your assisting the police on a number of mysterious cases. You also strike me as a man who is not afraid to take a stand for what he believes in...."

Embarrassed, Doyle waved off the compliment. "Where is your copy of the Gerona Zohar now, Mr. Stem?"

"Under lock and key in the ship's hold. I checked it this afternoon."

"And your companion, Mr...."

"Mr. Selig. In our cabin. As I told you, Rupert's concerns for our safety have been even greater than mine. Since we sailed, he's refused to go out on deck after dark...."

Innes snorted contemptuously—in the tradition of the Royal Fusiliers—then realizing the inappropriateness of his response, disguised it as the onset of a protracted coughing fit.

"Must be the goose feathers in my pillow," said Innes.

"Perhaps we should have a word with your Mr. Selig as well," said Doyle, not stooping to dignify Innes's outburst with even an evil eye.

Lionel Stern knocked softly on the door to his cabin: three rapid knocks, then two slower ones. Innes was appalled at the lack of luxury in this second-class passageway, but in mixed

company decided such an observation was best kept to oneself.

"Rupert? Rupert, it's Lionel."

No reply. Stern looked at Doyle, concerned.

"Asleep?" asked Doyle.

Stern shook his head and knocked again. "Rupert!"

Still no answer. Putting his ear to the door, Doyle heard a creak of movement inside, followed by a slight click.

"Your key?"

"Left in the room," said Stern. "We decided it was best not to go walking around the ship with it."

Innes rolled his eyes skyward.

"We should ring for the steward," said Doyle. "Innes?"

Doyle gestured him off with a toss of the head. Innes sighed and idled down the hall in search of a steward, thinking they must be a rare sight down here among the unwashed.

Stern rattled the door handle. "Rupert, please open the door!"

"Keep your voice low, Mr. Stern. I'm sure there's no reason for alarm."

"You told me to pay attention to my intuition, didn't you?" He banged his fist on the door. "Rupert!"

Innes returned with a steward, who absorbed a quick explanation before opening the cabin with his passkey. The door jerked to a halt at six inches, stopped by a taut security chain.

The steward began explaining the chain could only be removed by someone inside when Doyle raised his boot and gave the door a mighty kick; the chain snapped, the door flew open.

The cabin long and narrow. Double bunks bolted to the left wall. Closed and locked porthole over a washbasin at the far end.

Rupert Selig lay on the cold steel floor, legs fully extended, arms raised to the level of his shoulders, fists clenched, mouth , and eyes frozen open in as perfect an expression of ungodly terror as Doyle had ever witnessed.

"Stay back," said Doyle.

The steward ran for help. Stern slumped against the wall; Innes propped him up with a free hand. Doyle stepped cautiously over the bulkhead, pausing to absorb as much detail as possible in a room that he knew within minutes would be trafficked beyond usefulness.

"Is he dead?" whispered Stern.

"Afraid so," said Innes.

Stern's eyes rolled back in his head. Innes directed his inert form gently down to the floor of the passage outside the cabin.

Doyle knelt beside Selig's body to examine something faintly scrawled on the wall. His eye moved to a small clot of mud on the tiles by the door. Traces of the same mud were visible beneath the nails of his right hand.

"Try to keep them out of the cabin for a while, would you, Innes?" said Doyle, taking a magnifying glass from his pocket.

"Certainly, Arthur."

"There's a good fellow."

ROSEBUD RESERVATION, SOUTH DAKOTA

The moon was one night from round. The first cold breath of winter rode in the pocket of the wind. Leaves already turning. Geese overhead, flying south, away from the motherland. She looked back from the rise at the tumbledown houses and huts on the reserve and wondered how many more of her People would be taken when the snows came? How many would be left to welcome the spring?

She hugged the blanket tight around her shoulders. Hoped one of the patrols would not find her out here beyond the walls and send her back onto the reserve. So much sorrow: disgusting food, whiskey, the coughing sickness. The blue coats' repeating rifles. Sitting Bull murdered by one of his own Whites with their lying treaties, ripping open the belly of the sacred black hills for their gold ...

And she was afraid to sleep because of a dream that the world was ending? How was that any worse than what she saw when her eyes were open?

She knew the world of the Dakota, their Way, was gone forever. One trip to their city of Chicago had shown her that The whites had built a new world—machines, straight lines, squared corners—and if it was that world she saw ending in the dream, why should she lose any sleep? If the world of the Dakota, the first human beings, could be destroyed in one generation, then no world could be made to last; surely not one built on the blood and bones of her People.

This dream was not a curse wished on the whites, although many had passed her lips. They had killed her mother and father, but this was no vision of revenge. This dream had crept into her sleeping mind unwelcomed, and in the three months since, it had become a nightly torment from which she could find no relief. Driving her to stand out here on the flats beyond the reserve and ask her grandfather for an answer, which still had not come after seven nights of waiting.

There was proud, strong medicine in her family, and she knew when a dream-quest came she must follow wherever it would take her. This vision held no medicine she knew—a dark tower rising into burning skies above a lifeless desert, tunnels carved beneath the earth, six figures joining hands; out of a hole in the ground the Black Crow Man rode a wheel of fire. The images reminded her of what the Christians called Apocalypse, but if it came to that she was not afraid to die: When the fighting began, and she was called upon as in the dream, her only fear was that she might fail.

Thirty summers. Many suitors; never a husband. Hard to accept a man who had never ridden the hunt, a no-fight man, a touch-the-pen who'd given up their Way. But the whites killed all the strong ones and whiskey took the rest. So she had learned to ride and shoot and skin, made herself a warrior in body and in mind. She went to the white school as law required, learned to read their words and understand how they lived. They baptized her—one of their many strange rituals; and they thought her people were primitives—and called her Mary Williams.

When it suited her, she would answer to that name, wear I heir clothes—these skirts, these uncomfortable binding stays—and make herself handsome with their paints, but she look a lover only when she wanted one and even then always held herself apart. She had known since she was small that he was making ready for a life of power. When the dreams started, she knew that her time had finally come. No more preparing.

An owl circled the rising moon. Grandfather had taught her about the spirit of the owl: He had such powerful medicine. More than any of the big bellies left alive in the Hunkpapa or Oglala families. What would he counsel if he were with her now?

The owl landed softly on the branch of an overhead pine, settled his wings, looked sharply down at her, and through his ageless eyes she felt the presence of her grandfather.

Go back to your bed and sleep and wait for the dream. The dream is the question and the answer. The dream will tell you what to do.

The owl blinked twice then swooped off into the night.

She remembered something else he used to tell her: Be careful what you ask the gods for.

Walks Alone walked back inside the walls of the reserve. Sleep would come for her quickly after so much time.

THE NEW CITY, ARIZONA TERRITORY

Cornelius Moncrief had a king-size headache, and prospects for improvement looked dim; there wasn't a man jack, or woman, in the West he couldn't persuade to see things his way—that was his job—but he found himself starting to wonder if the Reverend A. Glorious Day was going to come around. Shit. Nobody ever won an argument with the railroad and who was Cornelius Moncrief if not the railroad personified?

Lord knows I laid it out for him plain as day—polite, too first time through, like always, that's company policy—but this white-eyed, Bible beatin' hunchback in the black frock coat with that scraggly hair and his Holy Roller attitude don' seem to grasp the nature of my authority. What is wrong with this jasper? I'm here to dictate terms and he's rantin' and ravin' at me like I'm some sinner in the market for salvation

Give him this much, the fella must preach a mean sermon One look at that cadaverous face'd suck coins into the collection basket right out of my pockets. That mug belongs in a box with the lid nailed shut. Somethin's gone sour in this fella's pickle barrel, 'cause I know this much: I know there's nothing wrong with Cornelius Moncrief.

'Course none of the Reverend's soul-saving flapdoodle was going to put Cornelius off his feed. He'd worked some of the diciest backwaters in creation during his fifteen years on the western circuit; murder, rape, casual violence: Couldn't expect people on a frontier to behave any other way. But somebody had to enforce the will of the railroad and Cornelius was the syndicate's number one troubleshooter: labor disputes, runaway coolies, accounts in arrears, they sent him in to settle up when all other options fell short. Cornelius carried a Sharps buffalo gun in a custom valise and a mother-of-pearl-handled Colt .45 with a Buntline barrel in his belt. At six foot four, 285 pounds, with his Sharps and that hogleg Colt, he'd never run into nothing yet he couldn't handle.

But Cornelius had felt the heebie-jeebies crawling over him like bad violin music from the moment he jumped off his horse in this hick burg.

Why you call this place The New City? Cornelius wanted to ask the Reverend. Was there an "old" one? What's the "the" for? And what's with the slaphappy grins on these yahoos? He hadn't heard a single contrary word from these citizens—spades, Indians, chinks, Mexicans, whites, all mingling together, everybody so nice and friendly to him you'd think he was Gentleman Jim Corbett come to town for a heavyweight championship bout. What did these puddin' headed dirt farmers got to be so damn giddy about? Living in a rat's nest of half-assed, fly-infested shanties fifty miles from nowhere in the middle of the Arizona desert? Road goes straight through Hell Valley, then takes a turn up Skull Canyon; even the goddamn Apaches had more sense than to put down wigwams this far out in the sand. No running water, electricity. Sweet Jesus, they ain't even got a proper saloon: The New City's a "dry community," they're so pleased to tell you with their pea-brain smiles.

They built an opera house, though, right there on Main Street. Theatrical companies coining in to put on shows; if they die out here it won't be for lack of entertainment. But not another building in town off the Main Street with more than four walls and a planked floor 'cept that big black church on the edge of town.

What'd the Reverend call it? The "cathedral."

Now Cornelius had been to St. Louis and New Orleans and San Francisco, and this didn't look like any cathedral he'd ever clapped eyes on: towers, spires, black stones, not a single cross in sight, staircases twisting this way and that. Looked more like a castle in one of those short-pants fairy tales. Big enough to fit into any one of those cities, though. Going up fast, a whole hive of worker bees—and there was demolition going on underground, too; he'd heard muffled explosions round the clock since he arrived. Must be mining something in those high rocks behind the tower; quartz, maybe silver or gold. Some kind'a fresh money was bank-rolling this crazy tank town.

Cornelius was getting steamed. First they kept him cooling his heels in the Reverend's parlor half the morning without offering so much as a root beer to cut the dust. Finally, he gets a sit-down in the same room with the head rooster and he's barely said hello before the Reverend rips into a tub-thumpin' filibuster on the evils of man, how it's the foretold destiny of The New City to rise out of the desert and create a world without sin—which is why he can't allow the railroad to bring the foul taint of civilization into their Garden of Eden.

Right from the git-go, Cornelius wants to cut in: Save your breath, pal; I don't even pray to your God,'though I've sent a Chinaman off to meet Him from time to time. But try as he might, Cornelius can't find an opening to slip into his pitch 'bout how no-body in their right mind turns down the railroad. ...

Come to think of it...

A team of coolies deserted construction on the north/south Arizona spur line three months ago; pinched a ton of supplies when they skipped, too; explosives and such. Not a hundred miles from here. And he'd seen more than a few chink faces in that crowd when he arrived... this little excursion might be worth the trouble after all.

But as I sit here and listen to this padre jabber, not that I'm half-interested in what he's flapping his gums about, there's some odd thing about the Reverend's voice makes it hard to break back in to my pitch: some sound buzzing in the room, like horseflies or a bunch of bees....

What's that on the Reverend's desk?

Looks like a ... a box of pins. That's it. Pins. Open box of pins. Never seen pins look like that before. Shiny. Long. Look new. Must be new. What is it about 'em? Are they new?

"That's right, Mr. Moncrief. Shiny new pins."

"Excuse me?" said Cornelius, without taking his eyes off the box. Not that he wanted to. He felt good; warm inside, better than he'd felt since he got here ... when was it, yesterday?

"You go right on ahead and look at them. There's no problem with looking at the pins, is there, Mr. Moncrief?"

Cornelius slowly shook his head. Heat spread through him deep and fast like Kentucky bourbon from a cool glass. He could relax. There was no problem with looking at the pins.

"Take all the time you need. That's fine."

Reverend Day didn't move. Standing behind the desk. Couldn't look at him. Eyes going soft...

The pins stirred in the box. There was life in them. Yes, he knew it. They shifted, tumbling over each other, and then fast, one by one, the pins stood up out of the box and hung there before him in the air. Shining like ornaments, Christmas tinsel—no, the light flickering off them, reflections tossed high around the room: like diamonds. By the handfuls.

"Beautiful..." whispered Cornelius. "So beautiful."

Sounds around him. Clear bells. Birdsong. Whispery voices.

"You watch them now, Cornelius."

He nodded again. So happy. The Reverend's voice blended sweetly with that bell tone. Other voices clearer: a church choir.

The pins formed a curtain, dancing, shimmering before his eyes: Pictures swam in and out of its surface. Silver fields of tall grass, waving in the wind. Sun jumping off a snowpack. Bright, clear water tumbling down a meadow of yellow flowers ...

Life: so much life. Fish in a stream, horses running free down a lush box canyon. A mountain cat moving peacefully through herds of grazing antelope and deer. Hawks wheeling in a cloudless sapphire sky. And there far down below, near the horizon, what was that? What complete perfection of line, color, and shape dazzled his eye?

A City blooming out of the desert like a hothouse orchid. An oasis around its towers, rising up a thousand feet to meet the heavens. Towers of glass or crystal, red, blue, amber, twinkling in the brilliant sunlight like a canopy of jewels.

Tears flowed down Cornelius's cheeks. His lips blubbered with inexpressible joy. He felt a deep loosening in his chest; his heart opened like a night jasmine.

Through the translucent walls of the City, he saw some greater radiance illuminating its interior. A whisper of a thought and he glided toward the light, drifting through the walls as if they were an insubstantial mist. There were people below, a great mass of them, gathered peacefully on a tree-lined green around a raised platform from where the light originated. Hovering over the crowd now; he'd never seen such peaceful, welcoming faces. They held up their hands to him, guiding him gently down into their warm enveloping embrace.

Love. They loved him. He felt it flooding his senses, filling every corner of his mind. Pouring out of this crowd and into him; oh, the powerful feelings he felt in return ...

He loved them all so much.

The crowd around him turned as one to face a figure of light standing above them on the central column. He gasped: The light came from within a beauty unearthly. Form obscured, features indistinct—golden, burnished—emanating from within a halo of perfect love and generosity and peace.

The figure titanic. Wings spreading out beyond the eye's capacity. No way to measure their span.

An angel.

Eyes found him: great round disks of sky. His angel, there for him and him alone. Eyes held him in the embrace of their gaze. Loving him. A smile; a blessing. The angel spoke without words: He heard them in his head.

"Are you happy here, Cornelius?"

"Oh yes."

"We have been waiting for you."

"Waiting for me?"

"Waiting for the longest time. We need you, Cornelius."

"You do?"

"The time is drawing near. There is so much for you to do."

"I want to help you."

"You've been treated very badly by those people; those people out there."

Tears ran from his eyes. "Yes."

"They don't understand you at all, do they? Not like we do."

"No."

The angel's immensity filled his field of vision; its voice echoed deeply through every fiber of his body.

"Do you want to stay here, with us, Cornelius?"

"I want to, yes. I want to so much."

The angel smiled. Wind ruffled back Cornelius's hair with a sound like a thousand muffled drums. Hands folded in silent prayer, the angel flapped its wings again and ascended from the platform into the firmament. All eyes turned skyward, watching the departure. Music rising to a grand crescendo, drowning out the blissful murmuring of the crowd.

Cornelius smiled, sharing now in their secret knowledge:

He was home.