The Book of Joby (7 page)

“The candidate’s consent having been attained,” said Gabriel unhappily, “will you, Lucifer, submit to this wager and all its conditions as stated in my presence, bound by every word thereof, win or lose?”

“I will.”

“And will You,” Gabriel asked the Creator, “submit to this wager and all its conditions as stated in my presence, bound by every word thereof, win or lose?”

“I will.”

“The wager is sealed,” Gabriel said dolefully, “which none, even God Almighty, may unsay. The contest begins. . . . By right and custom, Lucifer is granted first blow.”

“Done that,” Lucifer sighed, examining his nails. “Why not leave our young hero to enjoy that peaceful night’s rest you promised, Lord? God knows, he’ll need it.”

But when Lucifer looked up, both the Creator and Gabriel were gone already, leaving him feeling snubbed and vindictive. Thinking to take it out on the Creator’s pathetic little champion, Lucifer attempted to rejoin his dream, only to find himself nursing a hellish headache after banging his being against the barriers the Creator had placed to guard Joby’s sleep that night.

“Enjoy whatever pretty dream he’s left you, child.” Lucifer sneered. “It’ll be His
last
favor for a
very long time
!”

Then Lucifer was gone as well, leaving only the slightest stink of brimstone to dissipate over Joby’s peaceful, softly smiling form.

Sunlight was streaming through Joby’s windows when he woke feeling deliciously rested and intensely excited. He’d really been there! He was sure of it! Everything had been so real! And the way he’d been able to talk! Just like someone from his book! Trying to remember how he’d done that, he found his memories of Camelot already vanishing in the sunlight.

Quick! Quick! Quick!
he thought, scrambling from his bed.
Write it down!

Yanking open drawers and scattering piles, Joby found a few crinkled sheets of wide-ruled newsprint and the iridescent stub of a Disneyland pencil, then rushed to his desk. But the courtly words were already gone, and the very ideas were fading fast.

“I woud rather fite my enemy in the lite then in the shadoes,” Joby scrawled, recalling the scent of roses.

He waited, pencil poised, face scrunched in fierce concentration, then lunged to write again.

“You must be brave and give up your hart. . . . You must be . . .
What?
. . . vijilint.”
Yes, that was the word.
What did it mean? “You must be perfict Sir Joby or the enemy will win!”

But these were all Merlin’s words. What Joby wanted most to capture were Arthur’s.
Think, think, think! What had
Arthur
said?

“What dose evil look like Sir Joby? . . .”
Yes!
“How do you fite it?”
Yes! Yes! What else?
Then he remembered, and his face went slack with worry.

“I cannot help you anymore, Sir Joby. If you fale we all do.”

I have to fight the devil,
Joby thought,
all by myself.
He stared at the sheet of paper before him. Was this all he had left? . . . No. The words had fled. Perhaps he’d only imagined talking like that. But he still remembered riding with Arthur through the fields and hills. He remembered the solemn grove, and the birdsong spiraling up into echoes, the swaying trees, and the laughter and love in Arthur’s eyes. He remembered Camelot on the sea, the seal song and the bird cries, the waves of burning jade, and the sunset—especially the sunset. Arthur had placed the fate of all this in Joby’s hands. The words were gone, but Joby knew the core. The rest he would figure out somehow. Hadn’t Arthur said there would be clues?

One last fragment came to mind then.

“Drink alot of beutey Sir Joby. . . . Feed your hart.”

When nothing more came, Joby stood up with his little bit of writing and went to find his mother. Merlin had said he must be perfect. He figured he’d better start with this.

He found her in the kitchen making cinnamon rolls.

“Mom, will you check if I spelled these right?”

“Good morning, Joby! . . . You sure slept late. Must have had good dreams, huh?”

Joby smiled. “It was the best dream ever! I went to Camelot. . . . But I was forgetting everything, so I wrote it down. Can you check what I wrote, please?”

He handed the paper to his mother, who smiled and began to read. Joby watched her purse her lips, raise her brows, smile, then concentrate and frown again.

“What’s this word?” she asked, holding the paper down so he could see it.

“Vijilint,” Joby told her. “That’s what Merlin said.”

“Vigilant!” she exclaimed. “My goodness, Joby! Where did you hear that?”

“I told you, from Merlin. . . . What does it mean?”

“Well, it means . . . paying very close attention, I guess, or being very careful.”

“That’s what I thought,” Joby said. “How do you spell it?”

“How ’bout I finish reading this first.” His mother smiled.

As she reached the bottom of the page, Joby saw her eyes go moist and pink.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She looked up, seeming startled. “This is what you dreamed, dear?”

Joby nodded uneasily. “Is something in my dream bad?”

“No! No, Joby,” she said, reaching down to wrap him in a hug. “It’s just . . . I had no idea little boys had such big ideas. Drink beauty? Feed your heart? Did you really think of that all by yourself?”

“No,” he admitted. “Arthur told me. . . . Do you know what it means?”

She shook her head. “No better than you do, I’m sure. But it’s a beautiful idea, and I’m glad you wrote it down.” She squeezed him again. “There’s just no end to you, is there, sweetheart!”

“I want to get a book,” Joby said, pulling away from her embrace, “like the one Amy Holten has, with no words in it, so I can write these down, and all the other clues too. But first I want to make sure it’s all spelled right.”

“Well, your spelling’s good enough for government work,” his mother said,
setting the paper down to go back to her baking. “Why don’t we get some breakfast in you first. I’ll put these rolls in, then we’ll get you some juice while—”

“No!” Joby protested. “You need to check my spelling! There can’t be any mistakes! Merlin said I have to be perfect to win the contest!”

His mother looked startled.

“Joby . . . no one’s perfect.”

“I know it’s hard,” he frowned, “but I have to. . . . Merlin said I can.”

“You’d really rather do
spelling
than have cinnamon rolls?” she asked.

Joby nodded gravely.

“Well . . . all right,” she said softly. “I’d be the last one to stand between you and academic excellence. Let’s go over here, where we won’t get food on it.”

“If I may, Sir,” enthused the obsessively brushed and Brylcreemed young sycophant rushing a respectful two steps behind Lucifer, “I’d just like to say how honored I am to be of assistance on a project of this magnitude! It seems an eternity since I’ve gotten to work on anything that really mattered here. Not that my regular work doesn’t matter!” he rushed to add. “But
this
! Well,
this
is the kind of creative challenge one can really sink one’s—”

“Career on,” Lucifer interjected without turning or slowing down. The sudden silence was gratifying. He could almost hear the damned brownnoser’s pasty little feet sweating under those gleaming black dress shoes. Why, he wondered wearily, with so many souls at his disposal, did he seem to end up with nothing but mediocre losers like this Williamson fellow?

Relieved of Williamson’s annoying chatter, Lucifer fell to inspecting the severely modern makeover his labyrinthine headquarters had recently undergone. After centuries of lavishly baroque decor designed to affirm his stature as the earthbound world’s premier power, Lucifer had suffered a spasm of aesthetic discontent and remodeled. The heroic scale remained, but Lucifer’s vast environment was empty now, for empty had become synonymous, in his mind, with clean, and Lucifer craved nothing more than
cleanliness.
Long straight lines, perfect right angles, orderly grids, practical materials in sober, undistracting colors, naked utility uncluttered by frivolous decoration. After centuries of baroque excess, these were the breath of sanitized air that Lucifer had contrived to ease his confinement here. Every floor was carpeted in soil-resistant gray. Even the walls were constructed of acoustically absorbent materials so that his immense nest should remain clean even of unwanted sound.

Concerned for the aesthetic nourishment of his staff and tenants, Lucifer had taken care that this new industrial monotony be tastefully punctuated with priceless examples of
appropriate
artwork. Bad Dadaist painting, Neobrutalist sculpture, Pop art, Op art, and original animation cells from
Beavis
and Butthead
were displayed, not as expressions of Lucifer’s taste but as evidence of mankind’s depravity.
That
was what Lucifer collected most avidly.

Entering the conference room, Lucifer settled unceremoniously into a large gray chair at the near end of a massive, gleaming graphite table. Williamson walked around a large obelisk of polished obsidian to join two more conservatively dressed project recruits already seated at the table’s far end, the dour tension in their faces magnified by a sourceless, color-leaching light from overhead. There was no other kind of light in Hell. Lucifer regarded windows as nothing but inducements to reduced productivity.

He considered the three damned souls awaiting his will and sighed despondently. “Before we waste any time
brain
storming,” he announced dryly, “you’ll want to give your full attention to the following presentation.”

The room fell dark as a large screen appeared from within the wall behind him. It flickered blue-green for a moment, as if illuminated by firelight through twenty feet of seawater. Then a young man in medieval garb appeared on bended knee, his pale face cast down reverently, half-hidden behind locks of shiny raven hair. “My King,” he murmured, “I would serve you with my life. Only name the quest.”

Lucifer’s three servants watched in utter silence as Joby’s entire dream of Arthur and Merlin was replayed. When the screen flickered to darkness, the overhead illumination resumed, and Lucifer turned back to face his functionaries.

“Lest I steal anyone’s
thunder
,” Lucifer drawled sardonically, “I’ll hear
your
ideas before expressing my own modest thoughts.”

The team sat like deer staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck.

“Lesterman,” Lucifer sighed, “let’s begin with you.”

“Certainly, Sir.” Lesterman pulled an attaché case from beneath the table. “Well, Sir,” he said, proffering a thick sheaf of manila folders, “I’ve prepared these personnel rosters, materials requisitions, and logistical outlines for a variety of strike scenarios ranging from the immediate mutilation of his parents at the hands of a serial killer currently stationed in the area to the destruction of his entire town by direct meteor impact in late March. Of course, I’ve researched a number of more prosaic options; the collapse of their home during an earthquake, financial catastrophe, public disgrace, the usual things, but I thought . . .” Lesterman stammered to a halt as Lucifer dropped his face into his hands, and began to shake his head. “Sir? . . . Is something wrong, Sir?”

“Are you deaf and blind, Lesterman,” he asked without looking up, “or just
out to break the Guinness World Record for lethal stupidity?” When he did look up, Lesterman flinched, and dropped half his files. “Were you paring your nails when that young zealot leapt up and volunteered to end his life for
Arthur
? Striking hard at such a fellow will only galvanize him into full-blown martyrdom! Our Enemy would love that, wouldn’t He! I’d
lose,
Lesterman! I’d lose
right out of the gate
!”

“I . . . I . . . Of course,” Lesterman stammered. “That is—I just—”

“I don’t think you’ll be needed, after all,” Lucifer observed wearily.

There was just time for pure animal terror to register on Lesterman’s face before he and all his folders vanished without sound or fanfare.