Baal
DOWN THE DIM CORRIDORS Virga followed the blond man who had moments before ordered the execution of three men.
They climbed a long marble staircase where Virga saw food and excrement smeared about; he wondered if the dogs were allowed to run free. They reached a narrow hallway that stretched on past a dozen closed doors. Here and there the hallway turned off into huge rooms or widened into alcoves. They moved through an area that had been decorated with elaborate Islamic art; Virga saw the remnants of pictures, now shredded as if by maddened claws, and of bits of ancient and probably priceless pottery. Now the once beautiful objects crunched beneath their feet.
Virga felt alarm at being in a hostile environment. Everywhere eyes seemed to be following him; he was conscious of being watched from all sides, though they never passed anyone or saw anyone. He had felt, or rather sensed, the ominous presence that was part of this place. The notion of something lurking, something staring from the shadows at his back, was unshakable. And he noticed, in the dankness of the hallway, things scrawled on the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling. Triangles and circles and strange scribblings that made no sense to him at all, yet filled him with a dread he could not even begin to grasp. He was trembling and he hoped the other man would not notice.
And there was something else. An odor, a stench. Part of it was the excrement smeared everywhere, even on the walls; part of it was rotted food. But there was something else, something that was whirling around his head, clinging to his clothes as if it were a solid but decaying presence. It was the stench of death, of something perhaps long past death.
"Are you also an American?" Virga asked the man. His voice echoed in the hallway.
"I was born in America," the man said without turning.
Virga had hoped he would. He wanted to see what it was up on the man's forehead. "What's your name?"
"Olivier," the man said.
"That's all?"
"Yes. That's all."
Ahead the hallway ended at a pair of gold-ornamented closed doors. On the walls and ceiling were the same strange symbols, triangles and circles. Centered directly above the doorway, Virga noted, was an inverted cross.
The man turned abruptly. "I assume we'll be meeting again. I'll leave you now." He opened the doors and Virga stepped through, his eyes trying to pierce the gloom that leaped at him from the silent chamber. The man firmly shut the doors behind him.
He felt, with the closing of the door, a tremendous and awful sense of being imprisoned in a place from which he had no chance of escape. He shivered; it was actually cold in the room. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness he saw that he stood in a library of some sort. Around him were shelves packed with books, thousands and thousands of them. Not wanting to betray his fear, he attempted to control his trembling. He checked his initial impulse to turn toward the doorway and retrace his steps, if that were possible, out into the sweet hot sun. In this room the presence was fierce and heavy, bearing down on his back like the teeth of the snarling Dobermans.
And he realized, as the flesh tingled at the back of his neck, that he was not alone.
He heard the breathing, steady and soft, from the opposite side of the room. A single thin beam of sunlight was thrown through the narrow slit of a window. It fell across the shoulders of a man.
The man sat motionless, his hands folded before him on a wide desk topped with the alternating squares of a chessboard. The two opposing camps had been set up; they glowered at each other across their battlefield. Virga stepped forward. He could not see the man's face quite yet; it was covered by a broad band of shadow. But he could see clearly the man's hands, skeletal and white as if carved of either ivory or ice. They never moved, but as Virga approached he was aware of the man's head turning slightly, very slightly, to watch him. He was aware of eyes cutting into his brain, though he couldn't see them at all. He felt open and defenseless.
Baal said softly, "Dr. Virga?"
He was surprised. Had the man been aware of his presence? He was fearful of moving any closer. He stopped where he was.
"It is Dr. Virga, isn't it?" the man asked.
"Yes. That's right."
The man was nodding. He gestured with a thin finger to the shelves of books. "Your works are here. I've read them. I've read every volume in this library."
Virga grunted. Impossible.
"Is it?"
"Your colleague Dr. Naughton," Baal said, "has told me a great deal about you. And of course your reputation as a man of intellect precedes you."
"Naughton? He's here?"
"Of course. Isn't that why you've come to this place? To seek Dr. Naughton? Yes, I think it is. Dr. Naughton is also a man of great intellect, a man of great foresight. He recognizes opportunities and thus controls his destiny."
Virga was straining to see through the shadows that obscured the man's face. He had the impression of sharp features, of high cheekbones and narrow eyes. "I've come a long way. I'd like to see him."
Baal smiled; Virga saw the teeth flash in an obscene grimace. Something oppressive radiated from this man that filled him with alarm. "Dr. Naughton has been working day and night on his research. His book will be completed shortly."
"His book?"
"I believe he discussed it with you before he left America. His book on the false messiahs that distorted the truth before I came to cleanse it. His final chapter is devoted to my philosophy."
"I'd like to see him. Surely you won't turn me away after I've come all this distance. He's here, isn't he?"
"He's here," Baal said. "But working."
Virga waited but Baal sat without speaking. As a final effort Virga said, "I have a message from his wife."
"He has no wife."
Virga had decided he would have to see Baal more clearly. He stepped forward, almost to the edge of the chessboard.
The power, the menace, in Baal's eyes almost staggered him. He found he couldn't gaze into them; he had to avert his own eyes. They were dark and deepset with a cruel intelligence, a glimmer of utter hatred. The man was lean but there was a suggestion of raw physical strength in his wide firm shoulders. Virga guessed that he was in his late twenties, possibly thirty but certainly no more. He spoke perfect English with no trace of an accent. Indeed, his voice was as soft and soothing as the first wave on the shore of sleep. It was only those eyes, those terrible things moving in a white firm-jawed face, that gave him the aspect of a death's head.
"You're an American?" Virga asked.
"I am Baal," the man said, as if in some way this answered his question.
Virga suddenly noticed the chess pieces, carved of a fine and lustrous stone. The white pieces, on the side on which Virga stood, were monks in flowing robes, demure nuns, somber priests, thin towers of cathedrals. The queen was represented by a woman in a shawl, her eyes cast to heaven. The king, a bearded image of Christ, stood with hands imploring the Father. On the opposite side, and Virga saw now that the man had moved some of the black pieces to begin the game, were sorcerers, sword-wielding barbarians, hunch-backed demons; the king and queen were, respectively, a thin crouching figure with a beckoning forefinger and a woman with the tongue of a snake.
Baal had noticed his interest. "You're a chess player?" he asked.
"Occasionally. I see you're attacking. But you lack an opponent."
"Attacking?" he asked quietly. He leaned forward. His eyes were burning through Virga's forehead. "Oh no, not yet. I'm still learning the art of maneuver."
"A time-consuming art."
"I have time."
Virga raised his eyes from the chessboard and looked into Baal's face; he held his gaze as long as he dared. "Tell me," he said, "who you really are. Why have you chosen the name of a god of savagery and sacrifice?"
"Then who is the true God?"
Baal smiled again, as if he knew some secret Virga could never hope to fathom. "You have eyes. You've seen the forces at work in this land, even in the entire world. Now you can answer your own senseless question. Who is the true God?"
"I see here men becoming less than men. I've seen brutality and murder and I want to know the part you're playing in it all. I want to know your motives. Is it political power you seek? Money?"
Baal's eyes had become more threatening. Virga felt the need to back away a few paces. "I have all the money I want at my disposal. Political power is worthless. No. Mine is the power to reinforce the will of the true God of this world. And reinforce it I will. They listen; they listen. They've grown sick of a teaching for mindless children. Real men must live in the real world and the real world teaches one law - survive. Survive if you must break the bodies of those who hope to break yours. It is a world of the living and the dead, the wise and the foolish."
"Yours is a dog-eat-dog philosophy that leads to... what I've seen happening here. This city has gone mad. I've seen what I never thought was possible in a civilized country."
"This city has regained its senses."
"Then," Virga said, "you're the one who must be mad. You advocate death and destruction, fire and hatred. Your name is well-chosen. The Baal who preceded you was a festering sore to Jehovah."
Baal sat without moving. Virga thought he felt something clutch at his throat, something cold and solid. Baal's head slowly, slowly came up; in his white face were the eyes of a snake. "No Baal," he said, "preceded me. I know Jehovah," he spat the name out as if it were pus, "better than you dream. Bethel, Ai, Jericho, Hazor... all the glorious cities ash." His face suddenly distorted. His voice changed from silken smoothness to the rough guttural voice of the storm. "War," he breathed, "war is the scepter of my God and he wields it so very very well. To take the name of Jehovah and induce men to betray their cardinal nature is the sin. To distort the world with lies is the fall of Jehovah. He wishes to hide the truth."
Baal's eyes flashed. "Enough games," he said.
"My God," Virga said, transfixed. "You actually want havoc and death. Who are you?"
"I am Baal," said the man across the chessboard, and Virga caught a brief, frightening glimmer of red in the man's gaze, "and I hold you between my fingers."
With one arm Baal swept across the chessboard, scattering the white pieces around Virga's feet. Virga's head pounded fiercely; he wondered vaguely if he could have a concussion from striking the gate. But there was something else, the thing that he thought had grasped him around the throat. Now he was certain that something was there, squeezing with icy disembodied fingers. He put his hand to his forehead; he was sweating and seemed to be running a sudden fever. He staggered and shook his head, aware of the man's eyes burning, burning, burning. Oh God the pain, the pain.
"Yes," said the man softly. "The pain."
Black smoke whirled inside Virga's head. His brain had caught fire; the smoke clogged his sight and breathing. He shook his head to clear it but it was no good. He stumbled backward, away from Baal, and almost fell to the floor.
"It is no accident," Baal said, "that you're here. You were expected. Naughton's letter brought you."
It seemed as though Baal were speaking in more than one voice. The voices merged together and then split into hundreds of distinct sounds, strained through the kaleidoscope of whirling smoke that brought tears to Virga's eyes.
Baal said, "You are a respected theologian, known as a man of sound and logical intellect. I can use you..."
The pounding within Virga's head continued. He could not free himself of it. The voice shouted into his ears; he could hear nothing but the voice, the commands, of Baal.
"... to bring others to me. You will tell the story of how I was born in poverty in America, how the image of God came to me in a dream and commanded that I lead the people through the labyrinth of knowledge. This you will do and more. Much much more. You will publicly proclaim your faith to me and your rejection of the Jew disease. I am the cleansing fire."
"No," said Virga, struggling to keep his balance. He closed his eyes but still the voices hammered at him brutally. "No... I... won't..."
"Yesssss," hissed the thousand voices. They echoed from the library walls and tore through him like bullets from all directions. "Yesssss."
Virga struggled and shook his head. The black smoke was choking him. No. No. "Yes," he said, falling to his knees. "Yes. The pain. The pain."
Virga couldn't breathe. He was choking, gasping for air in the stinking chamber. He wrenched loose his tie, tore open his collar, and the sunlight glinted from the crucifix as it hung free.
Baal didn't move. "Take that off," he said very quietly. "Did you hear what I said?" There was something of the knife's edge in his voice.
Virga stirred, feeling that the disembodied fingers around his throat had, at least fractionally, weakened. He tried to rise but couldn't.
Baal stood his ground but still did not move. "Take that off," he said, his eyes red and widened.
"No," said Virga, bile burning within him. "No."
"DOG! YOU DAMNED WHORESON BASTARD!" Baal snarled, his teeth clenched like a ravening animal. "DAMN YOU TO HELL! DAMN YOU!"
Virga frantically shook his head to clear it. Baal kicked at him and then drew back; he would not move any closer to the crucifix. Virga tore it from around his neck and held it in the palm of his outstretched hand, defying Baal with the object's gleaming golden surface.
And he was aware too late that the doors had been violently flung open, that two men, one dark and the other fair, had burst behind him into the library. Baal motioned with a hand and Virga turned to meet the fist that slammed solidly into the side of his head. He groaned in pain and fell forward, gripping the crucifix with ebbing strength.
"GET THAT OUT OF HIS HAND!" commanded Baal, maintaining his distance.
The two disciples picked at Virga's closed hand as if it were red-hot; they worked at the fingers, trying to loosen the man's grip. Virga, in semiconsciousness, held on to it knowing that if he lost it he too was lost. The power of the man would swallow him into a bestial maw without its protection.
Virga's fingers would not open. The dark-haired disciple cursed violently and stamped down on the man's hand with his booted foot. There was the sound of shattering bone and Virga immediately lost consciousness. The man who had broken his hand found the crucifix and with the toe of his boot kicked it away into a dark corner.
"Bastard," said Baal, whispering close to Virga's head. "You thought it would be easy. No, my friend, it is not. You will come to love me and despise that. Its touch, the mere sight of it, will be hot like the diseased bowels from which it dropped. You weak bastard." Baal paused, glancing down to where a smear of blood showed on the palm of Virga's injured hand. Baal roughly spread the broken fingers and stared into the wound inflicted when a booted foot had smashed flesh against a golden object.
The wound was in the shape of a crucifix.
Baal dropped the hand with a shouted oath and wrenched away. "HIS HAND!" he said. "CLOSE IT! CLOSE IT!"
The fair-haired disciple hauled Virga up by his collar and then let him fall so he was lying on the offending wound. Then he too backed away, trembling, from the fallen man.
"We have come far," Baal said, "but not far enough. Someday we can withstand that, but not now... not now. Our good Dr. Virga - our fucking bastard Dr. Virga was to provide our passage. And now..." his eyes narrowed. "There is another way. There is another way."
"What about him?" the dark-haired disciple asked.
Baal turned, keeping his eyes averted from the far corner of the library. He towered over the motionless body. "He's contaminated by that mark. With the stub of a hand he'll do us no good. I don't want his corpse found near this place. Do you understand, Verm?"
"Yes," the other man said.
"Then you and Cresil do what you will with him; afterward leave the corpse for the vultures in the desert."
The fair-haired man, Cresil, bent and dragged Virga across the floor and through the doorway, leaving a trail of blood, while Verin followed like a jackal smelling death.