The Darkening Dream by Andy Gavin

Author:Andy Gavin [Gavin, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781937945022
Google: 7o8wLIfFUcwC
Amazon: 1937945014
Publisher: Mascherato
Published: 2012-01-13T22:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Eight:

Clash of Faiths

Salem, Massachusetts, Sunday afternoon, November 9, 1913

“SARAH’S SPENDING A GREAT DEAL of time with her friends of late,” Rebecca said as she and Joseph stepped onto the front porch.

Joseph patted pockets, looking for his keys. He could never remember which one he’d dropped them in — it was the first pocket, but which was the first?

“That, I think, is a good thing. As much as I enjoy teaching her, she needs variety. You know, socialization.”

He found the keys — scratching against his favorite pipe!

“Socialization had better not include any improper fraternization,” his wife said.

He brushed her tuchus, opened the door, and tapped two fingers to the silver mezuzah.

A spark of energy burned his hand. He smelt something akin to sulfur.

“Rebecca. Go to the Kleins — stay there until I call.”

She opened her mouth. He put a finger to her lips.

“Something’s in the house,” he said. She picked up her skirts and went.

Joseph raced into his study. He grabbed his father-in-law’s prayer bag off the shelf, yanked it open, and pulled out the prayer shawl and the fuzzy top hat — no time for the complicated tefillin.

He returned to the foyer, raised his arms above his head, and shouted in Hebrew: “The Lord is my light and my help; whom should I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life, whom should I dread?” The structure of his temple-like ward seared into his retinas. A kind of ecstasy flowed into him. Four luminous walls girded the house, perfectly aligned as they were on the points of the compass. In each direction pillars shaped like angels spread their celestial wings.

“When evil men assail me — to devour my flesh — it is they, my foes and my enemies, who stumble and fall.”

A line of cold red flame raced from his feet past the kitchen and into the open cellar door. From the depths of the basement he heard a scream.

He followed the trail. Soundless tongues of fire licked his trousers but did not burn. At the top of the stairs he yelled, “To my right Michael and to my left Gabriel, in front of me Uriel and behind me Raphael.”

He leapt. The weight of his mentor’s shawl lifted and the touch of feathers enveloped him. He landed lightly on the cellar floor. He raised his arms, and the foundations of his metaphysical temple poured light into the room.

Before him, surrounded by sulfurous smoke, writhed a blonde girl in a black suit with a clerical collar. Joseph grasped the mezuzah around his neck and shouted the Shema, the central prayer of his faith.

Brighter than bright, a searing white light from the silver charm bathed the girl before him, causing the figure to blur and waver. In her place was a gaunt middle-aged man carrying a bag, his spectacles askew and his frazzled hair smoking.

Joseph could still see echoes of the feminine form — his prayers had only muted the effect. What foul sorcery was this? All too reminiscent of Khepri and his waxen disguise.

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