The Six Messiahs - Mark Frost [202]
But Jack's move was not born of obedience. As the Reverend turned and again tried to set fire to the first of the Books that would trigger the summoning, Jack reached over and, oblivious to the pain, snuffed out the burning taper in the Reverend's hand. When Day raised his hand to strike at him, Jack caught him by the wrist in a steely grip, twisted hard, and the taper fell to the floor.
Blood continued to run down into the trough. The rumbling from the pit grew stronger until the walls and floor trembled steadily, but none of the others in the room dared to move, riveted by the confrontation.
"Let go of my hand," ordered Reverend Day, locking eyes with him again.
Jack dropped the gun of his own accord and let go of the Reverend's wrist. Again, before he could move away, Jack reached out, took firm hold of the Reverend's head with both his hands, pulled him close, and stared right back into his eyes.
"Look at me," said Jack quietly.
Enraged, the Reverend now brought the full force of his power to bear; the air appeared to bend around them, their forms wavered, warped by a savage expulsion of energy. Men had died under far less exposure to the sacrament than this, minds dissolving, their will slipping out of them in a runny stream.
Nothing happened. The man stared right back at him.
Blood poured freely out of the Reverend's nose; the effort had weakened him tremendously. Shocked, slowly realizing he could effect no control over this man, the Reverend searched this stranger's face with increasing desperation. The man's expression remained strong but infuriatingly neutral, without rancor, offering no purchase for the Reverend's influence to grasp.
There's no fear in the man, thought Jacob, watching Jack. Without fear there's nothing for the Reverend to seize hold of.
The standoff continued. Finally, when Reverend Day spotted a ghost of something familiar in the stranger's eyes, his own went wide with terror and he scrambled and clawed to pull away, but Jack held his head ferociously in place. Recognition was what he had been waiting for.
"No," said Jack.
Unable to escape, the Reverend tried to avoid his eyes, but Jack maintained his grip, exerted his own will, and pulled the Reverend's eyes back into contact with his own.
"What do you want?" the Reverend asked weakly.
Jack did not answer.
"Who are you?" said Day, his voice failing.
"You know who I am," said Jack.
The man's pitiful, ill face struggled against that suggestion until his last vestige of resistance melted and he sagged forward.
"You know who I am."
"Yes," the Reverend whispered.
"Who am I? Tell me."
After a long silence, the Reverend replied: "My brother."
"What's my name?"
Reverend Day looked puzzled again. "Jack."
"And what is yours?"
After an even longer silence, he whispered: "Alexander."
Jack nodded once. Every pretense fell away from the exchange between them, every mask. All enmity and struggle stripped away. Now they were only brothers.
"Listen to me," said Jack quietly and slowly, trusting that the words he needed would come to him. "Listen to me, Alex. We are all here, in this room; mother, father. Our little sister. None of us know why any of it happened, how you fell so far away from us, the darkness that took you and made you do the crimes you did to us or any of the others. None of that matters now. Do you hear me?"
Alexander Sparks stared at his brother with the rapt attention of a terrified child, praying for comfort and relief. Trembling, lost, the fear was in him now.
"They are all with us here in this room now; their spirits are with us and here is where it ends. I speak for them, their voices are joined with mine. Listen to me...."
Jack found what he had come here to say, leaned forward, and whispered in his ear.
"We forgive you, my brother."
A quiet sob burst from Alexander.
"We forgive you."
Now Alexander sagged forward completely and collapsed into his brother's arms; Jack guided his brittle weight gently down to the floor, knelt beside him, and cradled his brother's piteous broken body in his