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Chapter 1Grilled Cheese mary
Michael was in his bed, safe and dreaming, but even in dreams terror can penetrate and grip the heart: In an underground chamber he stood, sword of blue flame in hand, facing the red-haired witch. Beside him stood his mount, a humongous komodo dragon-like creature with six legs and a mouth full of razor sharp fangs. He knew the creature to be a Threek, bred for tunnel battle against dragons and he had ridden him through many underground passages to get there. “I’m here to kill the dragon,” he announced. “And this time I bring his doom.” He lifted the sword known as Gram, the same that slew the dragon Fafnir, reforged with cobalt-blue flames to kill the dragon of light. The journey halfway around the world was over at last. He could see the antechamber of the fire-belching beast — the walls inlaid with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires, the stone behind them glowing with the light of dragon’s breath. But reward wasn’t the reason for his journey over perilous mountains and through dark caverns deep. His enemies worshiped the great worm as a god, oppressing and killing his people. He would prove there were no gods in Azmerith. An alabaster wall glowed with translucent light behind the witch. "He's in there, isn't he?" The witch waved a ring of keys and muttered a spell under her breath. She thrust the keys toward him. “She was our mother— you’ve killed her,” she accused. He stared at her. “What?” The dream was transforming. The witch turned into his sister, Karolyn. He wondered what she was doing in his dream of the dragon chamber but still he lifted his sword to protect himself. ‘This could be an illusion,’ he thought in the dream, suspecting the witch of casting a spell designed to save herself. "Get out of my dream or die," he shouted.
* * *
Karolyn awoke to the glow of dawn streaming through her attic window. Her dreams were much more benign; she remembered riding on the back of a unicorn. The sun was rising over the east bay hills. The house was utterly quiet but for the far off drone of traffic on the freeway. An exodus of early risers was on its way out of the city for the weekend. It was Saturday and there was no school, but Karolyn already had a plan. For her twin brother Michael she would go to the kitchen first to start the coffee dripping. She knew he liked coffee. Maybe if she toasted a bagel for him she could get him to go with her to Mass. She hoped so; first Confession, then Mass. Maybe the bagel would do it. After Mass, she would go to the cemetery to visit her mother’s grave. She threw back her comforter and stood at the room’s center. The attic wasn’t made to be used as a living space and everything in it was improvised. Two poles hung with wire from the slanting roof beams made her closet. A rectangular hole in the floor with the top of a worn wooden ladder jutting from below was her door. The pillow end of her bed, a mattress on the floor, rested against the old red brick chimney rising from the fireplace two floors below and her four-drawer dresser, the only real furniture in the room, was at the opposite end of the attic against the triangular wall, just below the window. The best thing about her room was the window. She went there and looked out at San Francisco Bay. Opening the window she felt the cool bay breeze on her face and breathed in the fresh salted scent of the sea. She loved the view from her attic; it was the reason she let Michael have the larger bedroom on the floor below. Her window was the only one in the house looking over the weathered rooftops of the old neighborhood to the bay. On a clear day she could see the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz Island, the abandoned federal prison turned tourist attraction. The water of the bay was dark grey and choppy, but not so choppy that there were whitecaps. The breeze upon the face of the water gently broke its surface. Far out on the bay she could see a dozen specks of white sails belonging to the rich yacht owners coming out from the Sausalito and San Francisco harbors for a day of sailing. Far beyond the Golden Gate in the Pacific, she could see a ship about to sail over the horizon, maybe a freighter or a oil tanker. She wondered if the people aboard the ship could still see land or if the waves around them were all they could see. About this day she wrote in her journal: ‘As I stood there that morning, I thought, ‘One day I’ll go sailing and my sails will take me across the sea to someplace exotic, somewhere romantic.’ I had no idea how true my thoughts nor that I would be captured by pirates!’ Karolyn picked up the hairbrush from the top of the dresser, ran it through her long red hair and then set it down next to the picture frame holding an image of Saint Bridget, the patron saint of Europe. “Good morning Saint Bridget. Hello mother,” she said aloud. She then said her first Hail Mary and Our Father, followed by the first of Saint Bridget’s fifteen prayers. The prayers were written on a piece of binder paper folded next to the frame but she didn’t need to read it anymore. After saying the prayers for forty-one days they were memorized. In front of the image of Saint Bridget rested the reason she started the obsessive ritual: a shiny black stick of charcoal given to her by her father on her thirteenth birthday. The charcoal stick was the only thing she possessed of the mother she couldn’t remember and it was precious to her. Several times she tried drawing with the charcoal but found the stick difficult to use. It seemed to have a will of its own. She couldn’t get it to do as she wanted. Once she tried to draw a dress, thinking she might like to be a fashion designer, but the stick kept slipping and going in every direction as though with a mind of its own. The drawing ended up resembling a suit of armor more than a dress. She put the stick on the dresser, a precious memento to remind her that she did once have a mother. She hoped Saint Bridget might notice it. She decided to say the prayers to save the soul of her deceased mother. She didn’t know if her mother was in Purgatory or not but she was suspicious. Without ever being told, she knew there was a secret about her mother’s death. She could feel it whenever her father spoke of her and see it in her Aunt Genevieve’s eyes when her mother’s name was mentioned. Father said she died in an auto accident but he didn’t talk about it. Karolyn wondered if the death was really something else, something more like a drug overdose or a suicide. There were no photos of her, no clothing or jewelry, nothing left behind other than the piece of charcoal and some secret sketches their father kept locked in a chest in his bedroom. She recently learned about the sketches when she asked why her mother owned the charcoal. It was at the birthday party. The candles on the birthday cake were being lit by Aunt Genevieve when her father put the charcoal into her hand. “This gift is from your mother. She asked me to give it to you on your thirteenth birthday,” he told her. “What did mother use it for?” she asked, studying the shiny black stick. “Your mother was an artist,” he answered. “You never told me. What did she draw?” Sam’s expression changed. Karolyn saw a familiar sadness in her father’s eyes. She knew the look from many times before. The look gave her the feeling again, a feeling of ice running down the back of her neck, that there was a secret she wasn’t being told. “She drew some landscapes, sometimes dragons, sometimes unicorns. Those are the best ones.” “Are? You said those are the best ones? Where are they? Can I see them?” she asked. Sam studied her for a long moment. He was thinking, his expression blank. It was the same serious look she saw when she asked if she could begin dating. He was trying to figure out a way to let her down. Karolyn knew then she discovered a piece of the puzzle, maybe a small piece, but definitely something new. Aunt Gen was even looking away, like she was hiding something. “Hey, let’s blow out the candles,” said Michael, oblivious to the discussion and in a hurry to get to the cake. He didn’t care about old drawings. He never seemed to care about their mother. “Yes, let’s cut your cake and then you can open your other presents.” said their father. “Wait! That’s bogus. It’s my birthday and you told me my mother drew drawings and now you want me to wait to see them?” Aunt Gen looked very concerned now. In fact, she was scowling at Sam. It was obvious she didn’t like the discussion and wanted it to end. “Come on, there’s twenty-six candles lit on the cake, thirteen for each of you! Make your wishes and blow them out if you want your wishes to come true,” she said, her voice in a higher tone than usual. “Dad!” “Maybe later sweetie. They’re locked up and— ” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want you to get sad on your big day. Looking at old drawings isn’t exactly birthday fun.” “Forget it Karolyn! The cake’s gonna be cooked a second time if we don’t blow out the candles,” insisted Michael. After the cake it would be time to open presents and he was hoping for a new fishing pole. Karolyn let the subject drop but wasn’t about to forget it. She guessed the sketches wouldn’t make her sad even if they were sad for him. Maybe in the sketches were the answers to her questions. Maybe they were the suicide note she left behind. Looking out at the bay from her bedroom window that morning, the mysterious drawings gnawed at her mind. In the two weeks since her birthday party she asked her father four times if she could see them and each time he found an excuse to put her off. She was sure he wanted her to forget them and quit asking. She wondered why they were hidden away. The sun, risen now changed the color of the water to a greenish-grey. More sailboats dotted the bay. She dressed, climbed down the ladder and descended the stairs to the lower floor. In the kitchen, she started coffee dripping and put a fresh bagel in the toaster before going to Michael’s room. “Wake up sleepy,” she chimed, opening the door. “Go to hell,” returned Michael. He rolled onto his side and pulled the quilt over his head. “It’s going to be a beautiful day. You don’t want to waste it.” “It’s Saturday. Leave me the hell alone.” “Come on, I’m making coffee for you. Get up and we’ll do something fun.” “Crap, just le’me sleep another ten minutes. Get out of my room.” Karolyn turned and went to her father’s bedroom next, opening the door quietly and just far enough to peek inside. She didn’t want to wake him too early as he usually worked late into the night writing or reading. Her father wasn’t in bed and wasn’t at his desk. “Dad?” she whispered. There was no answer. She went back to Michael’s room and opened the door. Michael was sitting on the side of the bed in nothing but his underwear. “God damn it! Don’t you knock? Or are you just a little perv?” He quickly pulled his bedspread over his lap and glared at her. Karolyn felt her face going crimson. She averted her eyes. “I thought you were still in bed. I’m sorry. Do you know where dad is?” “He left a note. Now get out perv!” “Where did he leave it?” “I don’t know. Look on his desk. He said he’s going somewhere. Go read the note unless you want to stay to watch me dress.” He stood up, dropping the bedspread from around his waist. Karolyn quickly stepped back and shut the door. On her father’s desk she found the typewritten note on a piece of stationary:
Kids, Got a lead on a BIG story. Going to your Grandfather’s. Will call when I get there. Aunt Gen will be coming over while I’m gone. MIND HER. Do your homework. I might have some comp tickets to a Giants game if you’re good. Love Dad
‘Lord help us!’ thought Karolyn. On her way downstairs she knocked on Michael’s door but didn’t open it. “I hope I’m not interrupting something but you better come downstairs. Disaster has stuck.” The door swept open. “Interrupting something? Gross— you’re the one with squeaky bedsprings every night. What’s the big disaster?” Karolyn turned and descended the stairs before answering, “Aunt Gen,” she called. Michael bounded down the stairs after her, hopping over the last three steps to land with both feet and a loud thump on the foyer floor. He turned to the kitchen. “Aunt of the Baskervilles? Lady Cruella of Berkelevania?” “She’s coming to babysit! Dad’s gone and told her to come watch us.” She handed him the note and he looked at it. “Oh crap!” was all he could say. He poured himself a cup of coffee and grabbed half of the hot bagel from the toaster, putting it on a small plate. “If he went to Grandpa’s he’ll be gone for days, maybe a week even,” said Karolyn. “I know. We’re screwed if Auntie Freakenstine is watching us.” “Dad said he might have some tickets to a Giant’s game if we’re good.” “Yeah, so?” “So if I told Dad you went to Confession while he was gone, I bet he’d give them to us for sure.” Michael sat at the table and looked into his coffee cup. “Tell him— I’m cool with it.” Karolyn smiled. “Then you’ll go to Mass with me?” Michael didn’t answer. He was busy scraping at his bagel with a butter knife. “What are you doing? There’s no butter on the knife. The bagel isn’t burnt is it?” Michael kept scraping, removing some of the dark brown toasted face of the bagel. He held the bagel up for her to see. “Look! An image of Christ appeared on my bagel! It’s just like the cheese sandwich miracle.” “What are you talking about? You scraped that. It doesn’t even look like Jesus.” She inspected the bagel to see if her brother scraped a picture at all. ‘Actually the image isn’t bad,’ she thought, but she wouldn’t tell him. There was a small round head with scraped out eyes and mouth. He even made a head band supposed to be the crown of thorns. “Don’t you know? The cheese sandwich Mary! Some lady in Florida said the Virgin appeared on her grilled cheese sandwich. She made a sandwich and took a bite out of it, then saw the Virgin staring back at her. She kept the thing in a plastic bag on her nightstand for ten years and it never molded. No mold for ten years! She finally sold it on eBay for twenty-eight thousand bucks.” “You’re kidding.” Karolyn poured herself a glass of milk and took the other half of the bagel from the toaster. “No, I’m not. I swear. You can Google it.” “Who would buy a ten-year-old sandwich for that much money?” “I dunno, some casino I think. They sell T-shirts and stuff with pictures of the sandwich on them.” Karolyn looked at her brother and laughed. “I know you’re full of it…. but I’ll believe you if you’ll go to Mass with me,” she offered. Michael shook his head and turned the face of the bagel to look at him. “Lemme see what my good friend Hey-zeus has to say on this matter,” he said mockingly. He put the bagel up to his ear and acted like he was listening, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head. “What’s that Jeez? Oh, I see.” He nodded. “You say you want me to be a fisher of fish today Jesus? Not a fisher of men? And what? You want me to put butter on your face and eat you?” “Michael! That’s blasphemy! Now you have even more reason to go to Confession.” Karolyn’s tone was angry though she suppressed a laugh. Michael could always make her laugh. Michael put the bagel back on his plate and reached for the butter dish. “I ain’t going sis— that’s that,” he said flatly. “I’m never going back to that hell hole church and you shouldn’t either.” “You’re wrong! You’ll end up in Hell if you don’t go to church. We’re all born in sin.” Michael took a bite out of his bagel and followed it with a gulp of coffee. He let out an exasperated sigh. “You can believe that crap if you want but don’t push it on me. I’m going fishing today. That’s real. You cast out a line and sometimes you get a fish, sometimes you get trash, and sometimes you get snagged. There’s no magic man up in the sky who’s gonna make it any different.” Karolyn slowly shook her head. “Is that it? You lost your faith because you can’t catch fish? You used to love being an altar boy. I remember when you couldn’t wait ‘till you turned nine so you could help the priest. You even said you wanted to be a priest once. Now, for two months you haven’t gone to Mass!” “I grew up,” stated Michael. He took another big gulp of coffee. “Well, you might think it’s grown up to reject the church but the church won’t reject you. I talked to Father Neffam and he said he wants you back. He said you were next in line to carry the Processional Cross. He said….” Michael stood and threw his coffee cup against the backsplash of the sink. It hit with a loud crash and shattered into a hundred pieces. His face was flushed and the veins on his neck stood out. “Shut the hell up!” he shouted and stormed out of the room. Karolyn sat stone still, staring at the splinters of the ceramic cup. Ever since Michael quit the church his temper was worse. He stayed in his room more and never wanted to talk about why he stopped believing. He even dumped his friends who were altar boys with him. He didn’t seem to have any friends at Berkeley High either and she wondered if he was being bullied there, or if his grades were bad and he was keeping it a secret. As she stood and began picking up the broken shards of cup, she resolved to talk to her school counselor, Sister Jessica, about what she should do. Michael wasn’t a student at Saint Benedict’s anymore, but Sister Jessica was a good advisor, someone who she could go to like a mother when there were problems. She heard the front door slam and knew it was Michael leaving to go fishing at the bay.
2 THORNS AND NAILS
Evening arrived and Michael wasn’t home. Worried about him, Karolyn kept busy by putting away dishes and tidying up the kitchen. After the morning blow up, she missed Mass and hadn’t gone to the cemetery as planned. Instead, she tried to draw again, without much success. Giving up on drawing she searched her father’s closet for her mother’s drawings, finding a locked chest. She guessed this was where they were hidden. She made note of this in her journal. The front door banged open and without knocking, Aunt Gen burst into the foyer. She cast a glance at Karolyn in the kitchen and then turned to the living room. “Your dad asked me to watch you brats again,” she called as she flopped onto the couch grabbing the television remote. She put her spike-heeled boots on the coffee table and started switching channels. Aunt Gen came to stay. Karolyn rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” she whispered. “What? What did you say?” called Genevieve, flipping through channels until she found the Springer show. “I asked how long he’ll be gone,” answered Karolyn, coming into the foyer and looking at her Aunt. She noticed Genevieve had gotten several new piercings during the past week. Besides the nose ring and the two hoops adorning each side of the red triangle of fake blood on her lower lip, there were rows of dangling loops over her ear spools and rows of tiny studs and rings where her eyebrows used to be. She shaved her eyebrows and drew new wickedly angled pencil thin ones above the new beads and rings. Karolyn couldn’t tell if she used a permanent ink marker or if the new eyebrows were tattooed. Aunt Gen was arrayed in her usual layers of black lace and leather, leather gauntlets and a black silver-studded collar around her neck. Her hair, shaved on the sides except for her braided sideburns was dyed raven’s wing black. “I see you got some new jewelry,” remarked Karolyn, noticing the new piece hanging around her neck with the strands of tarnished silver beads. “What is it? A coffin pendant?” Aunt Gen smiled, revealing her stained teeth that looked as though she drank from a can of dark blue paint. “Like it? It’s yours if you want; might do you some good to face the reality hanging around your own neck.” Karolyn reached into the top of her blouse and found the slender silver chain she wore. “This is the only reality I need,” she said pulling out her precious silver crucifix for her Aunt to see. Genevieve put her hands in front of her heavily masqueraded eyes, her black painted fingernails wriggling. “Wicked little girl! I’m melting! Melting….” she laughed pretending to be the dying Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz movie. “Dead man nailed to a piece of wood! Be real, Karolyn. Wha’did ya think. I was gonna burst into flame?” “Jesus isn’t dead,” stated Karolyn. “He promises eternal life and it’s silver, not wood.” Genevieve cackled at her. “Well I’m not a werewolf either. Silver or wood it’s all a sham. Sheeze, I thought your mother was into fantasy but you put gooey whipped cream and a cherry on it.” She took a miniature cigar and lighter out of her black sequined belt purse, lit the cigar, placed it between her pierced lip rings, and blew out a cloud of putrid blue-grey smoke. “Dad doesn’t want you smoking in the house,” said Karolyn. Genevieve looked around the room as though searching for something. “Hmmm, well I don’t see him.” She lifted a cushion on the couch and looked under it. “Nope, he’s not under there. I guess he left me in charge here. Hey, whacha got to eat? Go back in the kitchen and do your Mary Poppins thing. Make me something scrump-dee-dee-licious bitchus!” Karolyn’s teeth were clenched tight and her knuckles were turning white. It was bad enough Aunt Genevieve was her usual obnoxiously rude self but the mention of her mother in a nasty tone made her tremble with a very non-Christian rage. Part of the trembling was the fear she felt; fear of what she was imagining— the other part was from the thought she was about to go through with it. She would run at her aunt and smash her face with her fists and then while holding her down by her studded collar she would tear every one of the piercing rings from her face. For a long moment she held this thought and then felt herself let out a long-held breath. She remembered Sister Jessica’s advice, ‘Whenever you’re mad at someone, just think of what our Lord Jesus would do.’ She turned and went back to the kitchen. “Maybe an exorcism would do it,” she whispered. Meanwhile at the internet café on San Pablo Boulevard, Michael was finishing a game of Mortal Kombat. The machine was old and beat up but the CPU was still functional and to Michael it was the best use for a quarter he could find. The game was a classic and he was very good at it. He killed Reptile and his score was more than 12 million, the highest score ever on that particular machine. He entered his initials in the high scorers’ box and having no more quarters started on his way home. Pumped and confident after the victory, he cut through the neighborhood away from the busy traffic of the main boulevard. Though the distance was about the same and would save no time, it always seemed faster when walking if there weren’t so many cars streaming by. Anyway, he didn’t like walking on the boulevard where some of the cars would slow down and the men inside would stare at him. He didn’t know what they wanted but he was sure it wasn’t anything good. He felt great walking through the neighborhood. He beat every opponent in Kombat and now his name was at the top of the list for all time. He doubted anyone in Berkeley would ever top his score. Four blocks passed under his feet like he was gliding on butter, and then he was in front of Saint Ambrose’s church, his old parish. He tried not to look at the edifice. Bruce Raiden, the self-proclaimed head altar boy, bounded down the cement steps from the wooden doors of the church entrance and stood before him. Bruce was a big boy, big with beefy hands and a broad waist. He was double Michael’s weight, a head taller and when he stepped onto the sidewalk he blocked it completely. “Hey Mike, what-sup? You coming back? I can give you the thurible job.” Michael hated the thurible and Bruce knew it. The thurible was the censer suspended on chains holding burning incense. The boys who carried it usually burnt their fingers until they learned better. Michael burned his fingers several times and once his leg. That was the day Father Neffam put burn ointment on his leg, a day he would never forget. “No, I’m not coming back, just passing by,” said Michael taking a step toward the street to pass around Bruce. “Well hold on,” said Bruce, stepping with him and still blocking the way. Bruce put his big beefy hand on Michael’s chest. “I want to talk to you a minute.” Two other altar boys who strayed out of the church doors were coming down the stairs. Whatever instruction or practice they were there for was over and they were wearing their street clothes. Bruce glanced at them, and then turned back to Michael. “I want to know why you left and what your plan is now. You don’t have any plans, do you?” “I plan on going home now— that is if you don’t mind moving your fat ass out of my way,” answered Michael. He knew immediately, upon feeling the words slip off his tongue, he made a big mistake. Even as the word fat came from his mouth he wished he could somehow grab it and pull it back before it reached Bruce’s ear, and then there was the word ass. It was a BIG mistake. Even the boys coming down the stairs froze at hearing those words from the small boy who stood in front of the massive Bruce. To them, they just watched David sling a stone at Goliath, only no stone was in sight. At first Michael only felt the sensation of flying. He was in the air and the air was all around him. It seemed there was a whistling sound and he could see high in the sky that stars were out, not too many, because of the city lights, but there were definitely stars up there. He heard the voice of a boy, he guessed one of the boys on the stairs, saying “Wow! What a punch!” and the other boy exclaiming “Awesome, you nailed him.” Then there was a laugh, probably from Bruce. The next thing he felt was the sidewalk kind of slapping him in the back of the head. It didn’t hurt right then so his mind noted it like a simple fact, noted and stored it for later reference. Next he felt the sensation of his face burning, as if the molten head of a sledgehammer slammed into his left jaw, eye, and nose. It flashed though his mind that blood was gushing from his nose. He could taste blood in his mouth. He noted it and moved on. The thoughts took a tenth of a second, and then the back of his head did hurt. It hurt a lot. Realizing he had been punched and knocked down he thought of Mortal Kombat. He imagined jumping to his feet and executing a perfect flying kick. He would give a warrior’s yell as he planted one foot on his opponent’s chest in the vicinity of his heart, thus cracking his ribs. It would be a spinning leap and with the other foot, he would kick Bruce’s head sideways, stunning him. He would then take the stance of a ninja, give the death cry, and plunge his fist through the broken ribs to the heart. The thought took all of a quarter-second before he saw Bruce leaning over him with his fist cocked back to throw another punch. Quickly he rolled, sprang onto his feet, tripped on the second step of the Saint Ambrose stairs, felt his knees hit the fourth step and scrambled upward. Bruce was somewhere behind him, grunting, his second punch thrown but missed. Michael heard the fist smack into the sidewalk and Bruce swearing. He didn’t look back. There were only six more steps to reach the open sanctuary doors, six quick steps and he would be inside, safe. He thought he would be safe; Bruce wouldn’t dare attack him with God watching. Somehow, he flew again. He wasn’t sure if he leapt that far or if Bruce threw him from behind but it seemed he flew through the centermost of the church’s triple doorways and into the vestibule. There was a second set of three inner doors between the vestibule and the chapel. They were closed. As Michael reached for one of their brass handles he felt himself spinning. Bruce gripped his collar and threw him like a Frisbee. “Let me go!” yelled Michael. “This is God’s House!” As he yelled he felt a strange hope arise within: if God was around He would hear and be so pleased He would help. Then his back slammed into the statuary table at the side of the vestibule and his hope fell along with the figurines of various saints, displayed there for sale. Two Saint Jude’s clattered to the floor. Bruce had tossed him from the center of the vestibule all the way to the side. “You better keep your mouth shut,” said Bruce. “God doesn’t like traitors.” The other two altar boys came back up the stairs and stood in the open doorway blocking escape. “He hates traitors,” taunted one. “Judas,” said the other. Michael looked at them and though his vision was blurred he recognized both as boys who were once his friends, at least church friends. With the back of his hand he wiped some of the blood from his lower lip. “You two are the traitors,” he said. Bruce stepped closer, his fist cocked and ready to throw another punch. “You’re gonna keep your mouth shut about Father Neffam. Right?” Michael’s left hand swept a number of the saint statues and one votive candle from the top of the table toward Bruce. The move was designed to distract him while his other hand opened the chapel door and he passed through. His goal was to make it to the front of the chapel and go out through the side door. He entered the left side aisle. The exit was nearly straight ahead. He ran alongside the dark wooden benches of the left half of the chapel. He knew he could out run Bruce once he got to the street. “Cathie me now you fat ass bastard,” he shouted. The other boys might catch him but probably wouldn’t try to do anything more than hold him. He thought he could shake them off. “Now you’re really in for it,” bellowed Bruce from behind. The running footsteps of the boys echoed through the chapel. All three were after him and Bruce was faster than Michael anticipated. Halfway along the aisle he leapt onto one of the pews and ran across the bench to the center of the chapel. That gave him some distance from Bruce but what he didn’t expect was one of the smaller boys was running down the center aisle and was there when he reached it. The two collided and Michael fell flat on his stomach, his chin thudding against the tile floor, his arms outstretched toward the altar. Before he could get up he felt the weight of Bruce straddling him, sitting on his buttocks, pinning him to the floor. “Hey now look at this!” shouted Bruce. “Now’s your chance to say you’re sorry, Judas.” He grabbed Michael’s hair and pulled his head backward so he was looking up at the crucifix centered directly behind the altar. “Say you’re sorry to Jesus.” The crucifix of Saint Ambrose’s altar wasn’t as bloody and agonized as some. The Jesus figure was depicted as healthy, lean not starved, weary but not yet passed out or asleep. The wounds of the nails in hands and feet as well as the sword wound in His side were shown with a minimal amount of blood. Even the crown of thorns was more vine-like than thorn. The most striking feature of the crucifix was the eyes. Michael noticed that no matter where in the chapel one sat, the open eyes of Jesus seemed to be looking straight at the viewer. He noticed this feature again as Bruce pulled his head back and made him look at it. He was looking straight up into the eyes of Jesus and Jesus was looking back. “Help me,” he whispered. “Help you? Is that what you’re gonna say? Yeah, you need help. Help to see the light. Say you’re sorry for leaving His service,” demanded Bruce. “No,” groaned Michael trying to lift his hips to throw Bruce off balance. He felt his chin hit the floor as Bruce let go of his hair and hit the back of his head with an open hand. “God, help me,” he begged, earnestly. Bruce pulled his head up by his hair again and made him look upward. This time he thought he saw in the edge of his vision someone standing in the shadows at the side of the altar, someone wearing black with a white collar at his throat. He couldn’t say for sure but he thought it was Father Neffam. “Help me,” he said again, this time hoping that whoever it was would intervene. “Say your lips are at His service,” said Bruce. “Say it.” His tone was exultant, triumphant even, and loud. It was as if he wanted Father Neffam to hear. “Get off of me! God help me!” shouted Michael. “God helps those who help themselves,” taunted one of the altar boys standing next to Bruce. “My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth,” said the other mockingly quoting the Bible passage from John. “Get off of me you faggot. You’re all going to Hell!” bawled Michael. “Shut up Judas,” growled Bruce slamming Michael’s head to the floor. “That’s exactly the kind of thing you’re not gonna say. These things I command you, that ye love one another. That’s John 15. You’re gonna swear to God Almighty you’ll keep your mouth shut. Swear to the Virgin too.” Michael felt dizzy after his head hit the floor. He heard footsteps leaving the altar and then heard the side door open and close as whoever was standing there left. He was beginning to fear for his life. “John didn’t mean it that way,” he said faintly. “He didn’t mean it the way you were taught.” “Let brotherly love continue; Hebrews,” quoted one of the boys kicking Michael in the ribs. Michael knew the quotes. All of the boys knew the quotes if they knew Father Neffam. He taught each of them in Catechism and then in the special private counseling sessions he held in the rectory office. There, a plaque on the wall read: “And the Lord make you to increase and abound in love one toward another, and toward all men, even as we do toward you: -- Thessalonians 3:12.” Father Neffam was very fond of that quote. Most of the young boys taken to his office knew it well but never spoke of it. “Swear to Jesus you’ll do nothing to disgrace our parish,” demanded Bruce, again lifting Michael’s head up. “Swear it or be damned.” “I didn’t do anything,” mumbled Michael. “I hate you Jesus. I hate this church. Why won’t you help me? Help me God!” He was looking directly at the crucifix, straight into the cold watchful eyes of the wooden face as he said these words. Saying them, he suddenly felt the request to be worthless. No one was going to help. No one even heard. “I hate you God,” he whispered. Suddenly he felt strong, stronger than ever before. He felt a blackness surround him, as if the black water of a raging river that was holding him down now lifted him up with its power. It seemed strange to him to be back playing Mortal Kombat, only instead of standing in front of the screen he was inside the video console. He was fighting Reptile again, kicking and punching with blood flying everywhere. He executed a perfect kick to Reptile’s stomach, doubling him over, and delivered a second kick to Reptile’s face sending him stumbling backwards. He kicked Reptile when he was on the floor and heard the cracking of bones. Sub-Zero had tried to stop him and he spun around, grabbing Sub-Zero’s arm and breaking it over a pile of bricks that had suddenly appeared. For a moment the bricks looked like the back of a church pew. Next, Scorpion tried to run away but Michael ran after him and executed a flying double kick into his back, knocking him headlong into a wall. Scorpion crumpled to the base of the wall and lay there crying. Michael thought it strange that the characters weren’t acting as they usually did. They didn’t get up to fight again after so few moves. He wasn’t sure of what happened after that moment. He was outside on the sidewalk and thought he had probably blacked out sometime after Bruce smashed his head against the floor. Everything from the church seemed a bad dream but looking at his torn and bloody shirt he knew it had been real, at least up until the black out. He didn’t know how much time had gone by since then. It seemed late, dark and quiet; few cars were on the streets. When he got home he sneaked in through the back door and went straight to his room without seeing anyone. It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that he heard from Karolyn about Bruce and two other altar boys who weren’t at morning Mass. Father Neffam asked the congregation to pray for them as they had been in an accident the night before. They were badly injured. After Mass, Karolyn asked one of the Sisters what happened and she thought they were hit by a car while leaving church. Bruce had several broken ribs and one of the boys had a broken arm. The other boy had some bad scrapes and bruises. “I drove him home from the hospital. He looked like he ran into a brick wall,” she said. In Michael’s journal he made this entry: ‘High score in Mortal Kombat, 12-million. Took out the trash at Saint Ambrose.’ |
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WelcomeThe legend of the Cole children is so astonishing that anyone knowing the tale must say Karolyn and Michael Cole are the greatest heroes who ever breathed air or swam in the sea. But, who knows of their legend? Do you? No one would have thought the Cole children capable of great deeds in the beginning. The kids at their schools thought they were rather strange, if they thought of them, and most ignored them or didn’t even notice. They were just a couple of regular kids from the city. They lived in Berkeley, California, a small city across the bay from San Francisco. Michael went to a public high school, Karolyn to a catholic school. They lived in an ordinary two-story brown house on Third Avenue, and weren’t really noticed by anybody when they walked down the street. At that time, Michael was small for his age and rather thin with dark hair and jade green eyes. He liked to play video games, particularly combat video games and he was rather good at them. Karolyn had red hair, the same green eyes, and was an inch taller than Michael. She liked to read and was good at Girl’s Track, especially the hurdles. No one would have guessed they were twins, or brother and sister for that matter, yet they were fraternal twins, born on the same day and of the same mother. There were some remarkable doings when they were born, extraordinary most would say, but I will leave that out for now and perhaps tell you later. Now of course, after all they have done, having become famous, and well---- legendary, it is easy to see the clues that led to their greatness. Even before the Cole children were born, there were clues: The mysterious appearance of their mother was the first. Her name was Harmony, a name that she said fit the occasion, and indeed, it did. Yet that wasn’t her real name; she chose the name at the very moment that she first saw Sam, the Cole children’s father, when he was plowing a field of his father’s farm near Mount Shasta. But don’t let me get ahead of the story without first introducing myself: Of course, you know my name from the title page or book jacket, but if not, if you skipped over that part in a hurry to find out what this book is about, then go back and look again. I want you to make a habit of careful reading. What I’m going to tell you in this book is not a made up tale, make-believe, or a fantasy. Though you probably found it in the fantasy section of a bookstore or library, this is a true story and it requires careful reading. You see, I am not really an author, a writer, or a fabricator of tales. I’m a translator. The story of the Cole children was copied and compiled from a number of sources, including their own journals and those of their father. I assure you it is real. It did happen. As you read on you will come to know this and it will make sense to you because it explains everything you have always known in your heart to be true. |
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