TWENTY-SEVEN
There is no rest for the righteous or the wicked.
How could there be?
When the devil attempted to make his throne high above the clouds he was cast from heaven, only to find a more hospitable place to ply his craft. It was on that day the end was foretold.
They stand on the corner, two among the crowd, watching. The third church is now written. Pergamos.
‘Do you know what his name means in Latin?’ she asks. It is an old game, one of which neither of them has grown weary.
‘Yes. It means “bearer of light.”’
‘Very good.’
An icy wind slices through the gathering on the corner. People stamp their feet, rub together their hands. They are cold, yet they cannot leave, cannot look away. Instead they stand and watch, transfixed by the spectacle. It is not often that evil walks into their lives in ordinary raiments.
She considers the road they are plotting, how long ago it had begun, how dark the nights. Beelzebub, Belial, Satan, Old Serpent. None of these names are accurate. There is only one name. That name is Man.
‘Do you think light has been shed?’ she asks.
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘Do you think they will follow?’
‘I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is written in the stone.’
She brims with pride. Another car arrives, more officials. Above them, in the early morning sky, a light struggles though the gray clouds, a light as silvery as Venus. Some call it the Morning Star. Some call it the Day Star.
Others call it by its ancient name, taken from the Latin lucem ferre.
Lucifer.