Babylon the Great (excerpt)

 

The windows were open during the evening service at the small white church, the mimosa tree in the sideyard sweet on the breeze. Samuel watched with half-closed eyes as a fly buzzed drowsily around the air in front of him. In his sonorous voice, Preacher Caleb told the congregation how everything that comes from God is in the Bible, the Bible being a perfect revelation of God’s will.

Samuel listened, blinking against a spike of pain behind his forehead. It faded, but another pulsed on its heels. The headaches came every night when he dreamed and lately in the daytime as well. His little sister had noticed something different and asked about it, but he’d just shrugged.

“And there came one of the seven angels which had the seven vials, and talked with me, saying unto me, Come hither; I will shew unto thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon many waters,” Preacher Caleb read.

The fly lit on the hymnbook in the rack in front of Samuel, scrubbing its round head between thready black legs. Pain like a sullen red coal burrowed deeper into Samuel’s head, flaring larger. He rubbed his forehead and tried to push it back, Preacher Caleb’s voice fading as the pain swamped him. He struggled to be still and quiet, to sink down into himself and hide, wait it out, but an unbearable white pain unfurled from the heart of the coal. It burned like the sun, hot and terrible. He moaned, a low noise, unaware he’d made it. His mother looked at him and touched his arm. He didn’t feel it. He stood, swaying, holding onto the pew to keep himself upright. The fly buzzed before his face, monstrously loud, then flew away. Samuel stumbled over the row of feet, making his way to the center aisle. When the support of the pew ran out beneath his hands he fell to his knees in middle of the church. His body jerked, long legs jittering against the maroon carpet.

The congregation stared, necks craning.

“Samuel!” his sister called. His father made his way to Samuel and lowered himself stiffly to his knees, his mother right behind him and Clare following. Preacher Caleb came from the podium and ran down the aisle to kneel beside them. The air was close and still and too sweet.

“Sam?” The preacher touched his shoulder.

At the touch Samuel’s body lost its rigidity, collapsing back onto the carpet. For a moment Preacher Caleb was horrified at the dreadful stillness of the boy.

“Son.” His father’s voice was hoarse and afraid.

Samuel opened his eyes, brown-gold swirling around slits of pupil. “You are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.” The voice was his but deeper, older, slower. He clapped his hands over his ears. “Make them stop make them—”

“Samuel? Sam, what’s wrong?” Clare asked. 

“She’s coming for me.” Samuel squeezed his eyes shut, the lines of his face taut, terrified.

 Preacher Caleb gripped Samuel’s shoulder gently. “Who’s coming for you, Samuel?”

“She is. Nonono—” Samuel grabbed his father’s hand. He looked up at his parents and sister and then Caleb, beseeching, his eyes wet and wide.

“Nobody’s going to hurt you, Sam,” Caleb said, his voice gentle.

Samuel’s face shifted, sardonic and bemused, eyes slitted and older than the ancients. “She won’t like you calling her whore like that. Even if that’s what she is.”

“What— Caleb looked confused, but then his face cleared. “The Bible names her whore. Who are you?” Caleb said.

“It’s Sam, preacher,” Samuel’s mother said, looking puzzled and afraid, and, “Of course it’s Samuel!” his father exclaimed, but the preacher shook his head.

“Look at him. Does it sound like Samuel to you?” 

“No,” Clare said, her voice small and shaking. “Sam, please.”

“I’m not a devil, Preacher. It’s only me. Me and the angels.” It was Samuel again, voice low and tired and afraid. He looked up. “They talk to me. And now they’re talking to all of you. Through me.”

Caleb’s face was gentle but firm. He shook his head. “No, Samuel.”

“I didn’t want you to know,” Samuel whispered. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I would have,” Clare said, and Samuel stared at her.

Caleb’s hand tightened on Samuel’s shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he’d uttered a word Caleb’s face changed, eyes growing wide and fearful. He clutched harder at Samuel’s shoulder, knuckles going white as he struggled against something unnamable. “The first angel went and poured out his bowl on the land, and ugly and painful sores broke out on the people who had the mark of the beast and worshiped his image," the preacher hissed, thrusting his face close to Samuel’s. He laughed when Samuel jerked away, but his face was chalk white. He looked trapped. Horrified. “Repent, Samuel!” he cried, his voice deep and powerful, then whispered, “Or she will eat you alive.” He licked his lips and smiled. “Or…is that what you want?”

Caleb sagged to the floor. 

A smile uncoiled over Samuel’s face. “You see? You are our vessel when the need arises, the same as Samuel. She will tear your town apart. Heed us. Pray for your people.”

Caleb pushed himself off the floor. “God our Father, I pray in Your Name, I ask for your loving mercy—” Caleb turned to his congregation, pleading. “Pray for Samuel, pray for us all. All of you!”

“He is already lost. Or won. Nothing you do will change it,” said the voice out of Samuel’s mouth, and then Samuel screamed, the sound of it shocking in the still church. “Oh GodohGodohGod, please, please get out of me—”

“Samuel!” Caleb gripped Samuel’s shoulders again.

Samuel stilled, then shrugged Caleb’s hands off and stood slowly. He looked over the congregation. “You are slow of heart to believe in all that the prophets have spoken—” His voice was deep and huge, inhuman, booming over the small church, growing louder with each word. As one, the congregation threw their hands up and covered their ears.

Samuel stood, something huge and powerful roaring through him, filling him unbearably. He couldn’t hold it all.

Couldn’t.

Could hold nothing.

 

****

 

When Samuel awakened, Caleb lay on the floor in the aisle. A flap of skin hung jagged and loose on his face, slow spill of red vanishing into the blood-colored carpet. Samuel’s mother pressed a handkerchief to the wound. Her hands shook, and she didn’t look up at her son.

Caleb winced at the pressure. His eyes were wide, watching as Samuel stood over them both. 

“I did this? Mom?” Samuel whispered. “What happened, I don’t know what happened—”

“You smashed the pews,” his mother said. Her voice trembled. 

You didn’t hurt me,” Caleb said quickly, trying to mask his fear. “It wasn’t you, Sam. I know it wasn’t really you.”

Clare took his hand in her small one, and Samuel stared at her. Tear tracked down her face, and her blonde pigtails wobbled as she cried. He looked around the room as if in a dream, at the surrounding pews pulled from their brackets in the floor, splintered, jagged pieces scattered over the carpet, a giant’s toys torn apart and flung away. His father stood beside where his mother knelt. It looked like they were the only people left in the church. The rest had fled. 

“I don’t understand,” Samuel said, slow. “Did I—did I hurt anyone else?”

“No,” his father said, so low it was hard to hear. “They all ran.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Samuel. I’m all right,” Caleb said.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anybody.” Samuel stared at his father, then his mother, beseeching. “I don’t.” Then he spoke to Caleb. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes. I told you I did.” Caleb’s voice was gentle.

“You were wrong, you know,” Samuel said, his voice young and lost. “You know the truth now.”

Caleb didn’t answer. He closed his eyes.

“You can’t hide from it. Are you listening, Preacher?”

Caleb opened his eyes and nodded. “Yes, Samuel.”

“You know what they were.”

Silence.

“Caleb?” Samuel prompted.

“I…I believe I do.”

“What do you believe?”

“The angels, Samuel,” Caleb said meekly. “They spoke through us.”

Samuel nodded. “Yes. And they’re nothing like what you said. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes,” Caleb said finally, after the silence stretched on. “Yes.” His eyes were fixed on something no one else could see. “They’re so much worse.”