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Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

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So she had met Mr. Apple. Now she sobbed aloud and twisted the beads in her hands as she strove<br />

toward the tabernacle, wishing she could have the Host, could some­how hold Him before her as a<br />

protecting shield. Her vision of the altar blurred and fluttered. From the depths of the church came avid<br />

scuttling. She clapped her hands to her ears, scattering beads across the granite floor. Her mind screamed<br />

frantically at her, Run, for the love of God, run.<br />

People, hundreds of them, were filtering into the church from the side doors, from the crypt, filling the<br />

aisles and then the pews. There were shuffles and murmured apologies, and an occasional stifled cough.<br />

"My God, protect me!" Her own voice was a cracking moan. Hard upon her words came another sound,<br />

soft, stifled, gleeful. "You laugh," she shouted into the dark. "You're laughing at me!"<br />

She swept her hair out of her eyes.<br />

"Don't be afraid, Patricia. I've told you that you won't be hurt."<br />

"You must be crazy, all of you!"<br />

"We're activating your subconscious minds, yours and Jonathan's. The church, the night—all the trappings<br />

are to help your imaginations create a new reality."<br />

"You think you're conjuring evil spirits, don't you, Mr. Apple? This is a black mass."<br />

"Nonsense. It has nothing to do with superstition."<br />

"It's blasphemy and I'll have no part of it!"<br />

"You don't know what you're saying. You belong to us, Patricia. You always have and you always will.<br />

Your parents gave you to the Church. Our Church."<br />

How dare he talk about her parents! They could never even have known this vicious old man. They<br />

would never have allowed him to touch their daughter, much less ... do the things they did at a black mass.<br />

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou—"<br />

The laughter again. Pitying laughter. Embarrassed.<br />

Mr. Apple wanted to make others as foul as he was. Evil is always missionary.<br />

Patricia clasped her hands tightly, huddling against the crowd behind her. She was soaked through from<br />

her run down the wet Queens streets. Behind her she heard a heavy, scraping tread. She moaned.<br />

The congregation began very softly to clap. The sound was terrible because it was so gentle; a<br />

quickening, savage rhythm as intimate as the rustle of leaves.<br />

Patricia raised her eyes until she was again gazing at the tabernacle. Inside lay the living Mystery itself,<br />

the God to whom she had given her loyalty and love. She needed intercession now. His customary silence<br />

had to end; this was the time and place for a miracle. "Send the Archangel Michael," she whispered.<br />

"It's starting, Patricia. Don't be afraid."<br />

"Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry—"<br />

"Help her, Mary." "I will try."<br />

Mary was no Catholic nun—Patricia knew that by the deep red of her habit. There was no red habit in<br />

the Church. She came sweeping up, now pale and agitated, floating in oceans of wine-red silk, her face<br />

framed by starched black linen. A real nun's wimple would be white. A hand came around Patricia's<br />

shoulder and starch crackled in her ear. "Now, now, darling, you let me help you."<br />

"Don't touch me!"<br />

"Patricia, you don't understand. You're under hypnosis and it's made you forget your role. You must trust<br />

us. This is to create something beautiful and important for the world."<br />

"You're committing an act of desecration. You're a Cath­olic. We've been to Mass together—I've seen<br />

you pray!"<br />

"I'm going to hold a cloth over your nose and mouth, and I want you to breathe deeply."<br />

When Mary's face loomed close, smiling, Patricia almost recognized, almost remembered—but the place<br />

her sup­posedly new friend actually had in her past was, like Jona­than's, just beyond the reach of her<br />

conscious mind. Mary placed a golden bowl full of clear blue liquid on the floor and dipped a cloth in it. She<br />

took Patricia's head in her hands and held up her face. Her arms were strong; Patricia lacked the power to<br />

resist.<br />

The cloth obscured her vision. She held her breath. "Now, Patricia, breathe. Come on, darling." Patricia<br />

held on. She resolved to die just as she was, simply by not breathing again. Not ever.<br />

A male voice rumbled behind her. "We can't hold him!"<br />

Another: "Franklin, this is hopeless. You can't make this work with both of them uncooperative."<br />

"Quiet, all of you!" A loud clap of hands. "Music! Now!"<br />

A long, low note vibrated in the atmosphere. Patricia was beginning to be desperate for air. The wet<br />

cloth was stifling her. Mary whispered reassurance, her flat green eyes brim­ming with what appeared to<br />

be pity.

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