The Book of Joby (51 page)

“No,” she said. “He’s been far away with a family of his own for many years.”

“Oh. Sure,” Joby said, realizing the Mrs. Lindsay was hardly young enough
to have children still in college. But it all looked so much as if the boy had just left.

“You should sleep then,” she said warmly. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. When would you like breakfast in the morning?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Joby said.

“You’ll be no help to me starving.” She smiled.

“I . . . Whenever you’re having breakfast, I guess,” he said sheepishly.

“That’s awful early. Seven o’clock. The guests don’t eat ’til nine.”

“I’m an early riser,” Joby assured her.

“Great then,” she beamed, “I’d love the company. I’ll cook something special. It’s Christmas after all. Forecast says it will be lovely tomorrow. You’ll have dinner with us, won’t you? It’s the finest feast in town, if I do say so, and Father Crombie will be there.”

“I’d love to,” he half-laughed, wondering if she thought his social calendar might be full, or something. “Is everyone here so generous? Or did I just happen to run into the two nicest people in town first?”

“Welcome to Taubolt,” she smiled, “and sweet dreams, dear.” She closed the door behind her.

Joby looked around the room again with a surreal feeling that he’d actually come home to some former life he’d just forgotten until now. He dropped his duffel bag, and went to the window for one last glance at the starry night outside, then turned out the light, pulled back the covers, and dropped onto what felt like a real feather bed. Moments later, he fell asleep trying to recall when he had last felt so content.

Michael sat perched atop the dead fall on which he’d come to rest after Joby caught him watching. That had been careless, but Taubolt’s guardian had hardly been himself since his disturbing discussion with Gabriel. Michael’s younger sibling had always been a bit high strung, but reckless disobedience? Michael didn’t know what to think, except that disaster was woven all through the news.

And then there was Joby himself. The delightful child Michael remembered was gone, his once radiant heart a cauldron of conflicting emotions of which Joby himself seemed hardly aware.

He wondered what the world’s scientists would make of a seismic event felt over half the globe with no identifiable epicenter, and might have smiled at Hell’s apparent tantrum over Joby’s escape, were it not for what he saw approaching Taubolt now.

Out on the horizon, farther than any normal owl could possibly have seen, a vast boiling shadow gathered and grew, eating the stars as it came.
Already, it starts,
he thought bleakly,
and I may do nothing but watch.

Below him, a twinkling village of innocent souls slept peacefully, dreaming Christmas dreams with no inkling of how their long peace was about to crumble.

Fierce with joy, Joby ran through dark woods trailing spreading waves of light, candles lighting candles lighting candles in his wake. An exuberant wind roared through the canopy above him, filling the charged air with swirling leaves. The gale grew louder around him until a blinding flash lit the wood as bright as day.

Joby started awake to find the wind’s roar undiminished, mixed with what sounded like a shower of nails on the roof above him. Another stuttering flash lit the room, followed by a volley of crackling thunder as Joby sat up in bed.

He went to the window, and swept aside the curtains just in time to see a long arc of violet lightning hurled across the roiling sky like some attenuated tree, followed by a more muted rumble.

“Wow!” he murmured, filled with boyish delight at the display.

Just outside, tree limbs thumped against each other and the walls, sounding like a delegation of clubfoot drunkards stumbling down a flight of wooden stairs.

Another clap of thunder ratcheted through the air, and the roar of wind began to build, as if some immense train were rushing headlong toward the house. Across the yard trees whipped suddenly low to the ground, and Joby stepped backward from the window in alarm.

Churning with hail, leaves, and twigs, the mammoth gust struck like a tidal wave, causing the house to groan and shift around him. Joby stumbled farther back as the windowpane bulged inward and the stovepipe began to shake and screech against the gale with a sound like some tormented tractor engine. The great cypress trees that had seemed shelter to the house before, beat upon it now like savage giants. Joby glanced apprehensively at the ceiling, wondering if the top floor was such a safe place to be.

Hearing another powerful gust surge across the headlands, he pressed himself against the wall, and waited, mesmerized, as trees across the street thrashed low again. The sash rattled violently as something large slammed
against the west side of the house with a battering boom. A string of Christmas lights torn from the inn’s eves swung past the window. Across the street, power lines arced and flared, launching sparks into the wind like silver dandelion seeds. Then everything went inky black as Taubolt’s power failed. The solid darkness around him magnified the roar of driving hail and raging wind until the storm seemed more a malevolent animal trying to break into the house than a mindless tantrum of air and water.

Outside his room, Joby heard muffled voices, a thud, a curse, quiet laughter. He groped along the wall until he felt the doorjamb and opened the door to find several narrow beams of light playing across the hallway. Dressed in nothing but his briefs, he closed his door to a crack before one of those flashlights found him.

“Everyone, please stay put ’til I can get some lamps lit.” Mrs. Lindsay’s voice floated from behind one of the flashlight beams. “Joby? Is that you, dear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lindsay.”

“Can you come help me, please?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll get some clothes on.”

By what little light spilled through his narrowly open door Joby found and donned his jeans and T-shirt, while the house continued to creak and boom around him. Then he was out passing other guests with hasty greetings as he rushed, barefoot, to catch up with Mrs. Lindsay, who was already headed for the stairs.

“This is wild,” he whispered when he caught up. No longer alone in the dark, his fear was giving way to excitement again. “I’ve never seen a storm like this.”

“It’s a pretty bad one,” she said almost cheerfully as they descended the stairs. “But we’ve seen worse, I think. Hard to tell ’til morning. Sorry to press you into service so soon, dear, but I need you to bring some lamps back up to the guests’ rooms while I light a few more downstairs.”

“My pleasure, but, well, is it safe to stay up there? I mean, with the trees and all?”

“Those trees are half made of such weather, young man. They’ve stood through storms like this for a hundred years, and I’ll be truly surprised if they surrender even a limb to anything this one has to offer. So when you bring the lamps up, please don’t go scaring my guests with such ideas. All right, dear?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” He saw her smile in the wan glow of her flashlight. “But a word in time saves nine, to mangle the proverb. We must remember that some of those city folk may not take the same delight in such little adventures as people like you and I do.”

Joby had to smile.
Those city folk?
Who did she think he was? Then the rest of her remark registered:
people like you and I.
Suddenly, he ached with wanting to belong—really belong—here in Taubolt.
Like you and I. . . . Yeah,
he thought.
Thanks, Mrs. Lindsay. That’s the best Christmas present I ever got.
“I thought you said Christmas was going to be lovely,” he teased as they headed for the kitchen.

“Well, here’s more proof that weather’s a famously imprecise science, dear,” she laughed. “Welcome to the wild frontier, Joby.”

In all his existence, Gabriel had never endured anything so shameful as knowing that he alone was to blame for the euphoric astonishment dawning on Lucifer’s face.

“Do my ears deceive me, little brother,” Lucifer gasped in unbridled delight, “or did they just hear you
admit
to having blatantly cheated?”

“Joby prayed for a sign,” Gabe said palely, “and sought—”

“I’ve finally got You!” Lucifer crowed, turning with glee to face the Lord of all Creation. “The wager is forfeit to me!” He actually chortled. “I don’t think I’m going to make You wipe it all away just yet though. I want a little time to enjoy
his
humiliation first!” He pointed vengefully at Gabriel. “Well, little brother? Have you nothing to say? Aren’t you going to stammer explanations? Apologize perhaps? Grovel? Anything?”

The Creator gazed sadly at Gabriel, who looked abashed, and said, “I did nothing to influence his choice. I only answered his prayer for a ride.”

“His prayer to you personally?” Lucifer demanded.

“No,” Gabe said without hesitation.

“His prayer to angels in general? To God even?”

Again, Gabe shook his head.

“Just his
wish,
then,” Lucifer scoffed. “It was no prayer at all.” He turned insolently to God. “I tire of all this stalling. The victory is mine. I claim my prize. It is time to unmake this miserable travesty.”

“Of course,” the Creator said. “As soon as you explain which of the wager’s terms has been violated.”

Lucifer looked incredulous. “Our terms clearly stipulate that no immortal servant of Heaven may intervene without explicit invitation to do so by the
candidate! My overzealous sibling here is certainly an immortal being, and he has, by any
honest
definition, intervened on his own initiative,” his expression became sly, “unless You put him up to it, of course. . . . You didn’t, I suppose.”

The Creator’s silent stare grew chilly.

“Just asking.” Lucifer shrugged. “Pays to be thorough, You know.”

“I have yet to see your point,” the Creator said, unamused.

“What’s not to understand?” Lucifer snapped. “He interfered! The terms say—”

“That I was to
command
him not to,” the Creator interrupted coldly, “which I did. There is no term requiring his obedience.”

While Lucifer gaped, Gabriel struggled not to stagger from sheer relief.

“You . . . You cannot be serious!” Lucifer choked at last. “The assumption of obedience is obviously inherent in any mention of Your command!”

“You’d be proof of that, I suppose,” the Creator observed dryly.

“Then . . . then I demand that he be punished,” Lucifer spat. “The penalty for angelic disobedience is damnation, if I am not mistaken.”

“That I cannot say,” the Creator replied.

“You
cannot say
?” Lucifer said shrilly. “You had no trouble finding Your voice when it was
my
turn!”

“Your terms,” the Creator calmly reminded him, “forbid Me from anything that might constitute expression of My will in regard to any issue touching on this matter prior to the wager’s resolution. Thus, I cannot say.”

Gabriel and his Master waited in silence, until, after much ranting, pacing, and heavy breathing, Lucifer was able to go on.

“A touch. I confess it, Sir,” Lucifer said, still struggling toward calm. “You are . . . stunningly resourceful. But as Your
angel
has proven himself a liar and a sneak, I must at the
very
least insist he be deposed as our wager’s official witness.”