The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [14]
Meshugener mamzer! You don't need a one-way ticket to the wild West; what you need is a doctor. This is probably the onset of an exotic fever or a galloping mental illness. There's still time to reconsider: You could be back in New York without a word of this madness to anyone before your son gets off the ship. And listen, Jacob, do you have any idea how disturbed Lionel is going to be when he arrives with the book he's gone to such trouble to get for you and you've vanished into thin air? There's a train leaving for New York in two hours; what in God's name should prevent you from being on it?
You know perfectly well what's stopping you, old man.
Having dedicated your life to studying the myths and allegories of Kabbalah, you know they're more than words on old parchments handed down through the ages. You know this earth is a battleground between forces of light and darkness and when you are called to serve in that struggle—you know in your heart that's what's happened here, Jacob—you do not wriggle off the hook by reciting a list of your infirmities ... although between your neuralgia and your arthritis, God knows you could make a convincing case.
What did the rabbis tell you when you first took up Kabbalah? Only a man who is married, who has reached the age of forty with his feet firmly on the ground should study this strange book. What's inside these covers is far too dangerous for a dilettante. Knowledge is power and esoteric books are like sticks of dynamite, they said; it takes a special man to make this commitment.
"I am that man," you told them.
Why, what possessed you? If it was thirst for wisdom, there were hundreds of less dangerous wells from which to drink. And twenty-eight years later, here you stand waiting for a train. Mysterious, isn't it?
Be honest with yourself, old man: Some part of you knew from the moment you opened the book—the authentic Sefer ha-Zohar—that as a result one day something extraordinary would happen to you. You wanted it to. So really, what's to complain about? What's so precious about this life you're living, anyway? Your wife gone six years now, rest her soul, your son grown. And Jacob, your office in that basement on Delancey Street? It's not exactly been the sanctuary you'd imagined. It's boring: There, you said it.
You're going to get on that train to Colorado, Rabbi Stern, and make this journey to God-knows-where for the same reasons that brought you to Chicago: because you are a man who believes oracular visions must be paid attention to, even when they come unasked for to sixty-eight-year-old men in less than the best of health who have not led lives you would be tempted to describe as vigorous. Because you've since discovered that part of that vision has already come to pass—the copy of the Tikkunei Zohar has been stolen from Rabbi Brachman's temple in Chicago.
Most of all because if you turn your back now and Lucifer does manifest in a desert somewhere and the earth ends up falling into the hands of the Evil One as this dream of yours suggests... well, if you feel poorly now, just imagine how rotten you're going to feel then.
Here comes the train. God in Heaven, watch over my son— maybe I should wait for Lionel to arrive before running off. What if he's in danger as well? I could at least write him a letter—
No. That's not what the vision advised. Relax, Jacob. Breathe; still your heart. That's better. There's a wonderful confidence that comes with losing your mind; you don't have to put up with nearly so much second-guessing.
Have you got your ticket? Yes, here it is. If only this old suitcase weren't so heavy; I've never packed for such an unpredictable journey before, who knew how much to bring—
Stop now: What were those words you always used to console the suffering in your temple? All of our problems are temporary, so why be sad about them?
And you can also take some comfort, can't you, from that other part of the vision you