The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [174]
"Those are the works of man, not God..." Jacob protested; his heart raced dangerously, tripping out of control.
No longer listening, Reverend Day reached out and gripped Jacob's wrists, his voice digging in like a knife.
"I believe that it is man's true purpose to eradicate God's Laws on earth, to free ourselves from the limitations He imposed a thousand ages ago. The irony is this so-called God knows He's failed, even if He won't admit the thought into His own mind. And I have come to realize that this final act of rebellion, casting God out of our world, is the very reason why God himself created man—to defeat and surpass Him— even if He won't acknowledge it."
"How?"
"By destroying God's presence on this earth," said the Reverend in a violent whisper.
"But how would you—"
"The plan for destroying Him has been lying hidden in His books from the beginning. He put it there Himself, I've decoded the information: and I've built a chamber beneath my church according to His sacred specifications, to amplify the Power of the action."
"What action?"
"It's so simple, Jacob: He wants us to burn the books."
Jacob stared at the ground, shaking his head, trying to shield himself against the madness.
"Burn the books! Destroy His Laws, erase His presence from the earth! That's the great Holy Work for which God created man in the beginning. And doing it will set free the Messiah who can lead us the rest of the way to our final freedom. The one, true Messiah."
"You?"
Reverend Day laughed, blood running from his ears, his nostrils, red flecks forming in the corners of his eyes. "Heavens no; I'm just a messenger. Our Messiah is the one angel too pure and selfless for the likes of God; the Archangel He bound in chains, cast out of heaven, and consigned to the pit, for fear that in his righteousness he would one day reveal to man his real and higher destiny.
"We will complete the Archangel's work here, that's the purpose of our City. We will destroy the books and break the chains that bind our Messiah in darkness. That's the divinity of the dream, why we've been gifted with the Vision. That's why ... we ... we ..."
Reverend Day rose abruptly to his feet, severe shaking agitating his limbs. Jacob felt as if his own skull were about to burst, the smell of rot sickening him.
He looked at the Reverend; the man's eyes rolled back in his head, a harsh gibbering burst out of his throat, his body stiffened, and he fell hard to the carpeted floor, dust exploding into the light, his arms and legs flailing like a landed fish, blood streaming from every orifice in his face.
The pressure in Jacob's head let up as if a valve had been shut off. His eyesight returned to normal, the throbbing relented, and he registered the sight of the Reverend on the floor before him.
A grand mal seizure, realized Jacob. The man's an epileptic.
And his power can't penetrate the veil of the attack.
Jacob gripped the edge of the sofa as he realized what he must do. Where would he find the strength? The man had nearly killed him without even looking him directly in the eye.
Jacob wobbled to his feet; the seizure showed no sign of abating, but there was no telling how much time he had.
He searched the room and his eyes settled on a crystal paperweight, an orb wrapped in vines of glass resting on the desk. Jacob staggered to the desk, gasping for breath. He hefted the crystal with both hands; yes, heavy enough. About the size of the steel balls the Italians bowl with on the Greenwich Village green.
Two steps back, standing over the Reverend, looking down at him; a lessening in the attack's intensity. Jacob frantically tried to find his balance, took a deep breath, and lifted the crystal over his head.
A rush of vertigo; too much effort. Vision darkened alarmingly, he lowered the ball, dropped painfully to his knees. Blood and sweat pouring down his face; he rested the ball on the floor, wiped his brow with his sleeve.
Keep breathing, old man; if it's the last thing you ever do, make your life count for something and