The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [171]
"Must be a terrible burden, all that money," said Jacob, looking around at the riches in the room. "Tell me, how do you manage it so well?"
"I consider myself blessed, I really do." Reverend Day stood and limped slowly around his desk toward Jacob ' 'Enormous wealth seems to place no untoward weight upon my soul whatsoever. It rests on my broken shoulders like a hummingbird." He waved his hand through a ray of light and the dust ducked and swirled.
"What's your secret?"
"I claim nothing for myself. I am a servant, not a master. I live to fulfill my obligation to God, and what earthly goods pass through my hands leave no stain. Ask what all this money means to me and I would tell you truly, Jacob Stern, that I cannot tell a silver dollar from a buzz saw. Money is merely a tool given to me to complete the Holy Work."
"The Holy Work..."
"Why, The New City. Our cathedral. Everything you see around you."
"And its purpose?"
"To bring man closer to God. Or should I say to bring Him closer to man...." The Reverend stopped himself and smiled curiously. "You're filled with questions, aren't you? Why don't we speak more ... directly?"
"What about?"
"I know you, Jacob Stern," said Day, taking a seat across from him. "I admit I could not place you at first; you've shaved your beard, old man. The Parliament of Religion, last year in Chicago, yes?"
Jacob felt the throbbing in his chest approach like the footsteps of a giant. He nodded.
"You are no pleasure-touring retiree. You are a scholar in Kabbalah, as I recall, and one of the foremost. Kabbalah is one of the holy books I've been attempting to decipher since I began my serious collecting. So naturally I am very curious to know. Rabbi Stern, just exactly ... what... you are doing here?"
Jacob felt a wave of energy slide around his head and chest like a slick spineless insect, probing for a weakness. He summoned his strength, erecting a barrier of thought to hold off the gnawing insinuations. His life felt as fragile and indefensible as the dust drifting in the mottled air.
"I believe I asked you first," said Jacob.
"Fair enough," said Reverend Day. "We have time; you don't have anywhere you have to be." He laughed, a first hint of cruelty.
"I'm listening," said Jacob.
Reverend Day leaned forward and spoke in a theatrical whisper, like an adult telling a child a bedtime story. "One day, a man awakens and discovers burning inside himself a light. A tremendous well of Power. Call it a spark of the divine, whatever you prefer; he has been touched by grace."
"It's been known to happen," said Jacob.
"In time he learns to use the Power—no, that's not right: He learns how to enable the Power to perform its sacred work through him; a more modest way of putting it. From that moment, the Light guides his every thought and action, directing the man to gather about him a congregation and lead his people away from the corrupted world of man. Into the desert. To build a new Jerusalem. The Power provides him with a Vision to show how and where they should remove themselves; a dream about a black tower, his church, rising from the sand."
"You've had a dream like this?" asked Jacob, looking up in surprise, then willing his eyes back down to stay focused on the dust.
"Nine years," said the Reverend. "Since the day I woke and found myself lying in a filthy ditch by the side of a river. In Switzerland, of all places. No memory of who I was or any single detail of what my life might have been before. All I possessed was this dream. This Vision. And I paid a terrible price for my enlightenment. My body crippled, many times worse than you see the poor self now: a year to heal, two before I could walk. Was it worth it? Without hesitation I would have to tell you: yes.
"Go to America, my Vision commanded, and plant your seed in the sand. Who was I to argue with such an authoritative voice? Nothing, a speck of dust. And so, without benefit of clergy, I took