Word Made Flesh

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Relax. They will not bother you. These are simply a group of local fanatics. They follow the old whiskey priest. They are waiting to see if his prophecies of Armageddon come true. These are not the ones you need to fear. Calm yourself, please. This kind of stress will kill you, most certainly. I’ve seen it happen again and again. You should be happy we were able to get a booth. Drink your coffee. Try some of the food. Mr. Tang serves only the freshest of wares.

You owe yourself one final meal in the city. Can you walk away without so much as a last dinner? Reward yourself. You have been watchful and you have been patient. What you have done has required dedication and intelligence and I compliment you. Seriously now, not everyone would have persisted as you did. To be honest, I, myself, did not expect you to last so long.

And now we come to the end, the terminal moments of our time together. Do I embarrass you if I say that after what we have been through I feel entitled to call you friend? Embarrassment or not, this is the case. Who else have I been so close to? I do not mean to turn this into a confession of any sort, don’t get the wrong idea, as they say, but I think you will understand when I tell you that I am not what one would call an extrovert. I do not make friends easily. My days are spent much like yours — watching, waiting, trying to make sense of it all. I simply don’t know what else we can do. I am always open to ideas on the subject, but I have racked my brain for years and I can see no alternative. It is a lonely burden, yes? A difficult path to walk.

We are all plagued to one degree or another, I would think. Look at Gilrein there, on the pay phone. He is speaking to Mr. Willy Loftus. Yes, the Mortician. Very good, you catch on quickly. He is asking Mr. Loftus for assistance, requesting some aides be sent to the son’s farmhouse, some janitors to straighten up the place before the owners return home. Look at his face as he speaks. Watch the tension around the mouth, the biting of the lip as he listens to the Mortician’s instructions. Is he not the definition of the troubled man? And in this way is he not the mirror that each of us resists?

Did you see that? The way he shoved the disciples on his walk back to the hacks’ booth? Was there not just a bit more force than was necessary? Yes, they are blocking the aisle, swarming around the radio, but was this mundane aggression really necessary? Study the body language. Notice the rage in the musculature itself. If I’m not mistaken we’ll next see him reach into his pocket—

Yes, but allow me to confess. I’m not quite the psychic you believe. I noticed him out the window when he pulled into the parking lot. While you were praying, I saw him using a pry-bar to detach the medallion from the hood of the Checker. We should not treat this action lightly, however. Do you know how much livery medallions cost these days? And after all, this was his father’s medallion. The father’s legacy to Gilrein. The only thing of substance left to him but for the cab itself. Which, if I’m not mistaken—

Forgive me, I am not trying to show off or exhibit a skill that I do not possess. I saw him take the registration from the glove compartment and sign on the rear. And logic would ask what good is the medallion without the cab to go with it?

I want you to observe the woman, Wylie Brown, as he hands them both to her, medallion and registration. Try to notice the trembling. Perhaps a single shudder. Did you catch it?

She is not an intuitive creature by nature. But she is trying. Already she suspects the value of the things she has been given. She has been made witness by Gilrein’s gift. Baptized, if you will forgive the dramatic pronouncement. The medallion is the holy water and the registration is the balm.

The keys?

Well, my friend, sometimes a key is just a key.

But were I clairvoyant, there are certain predictions I might make.

Wylie will never finish her book. Does the world need another book about worms and madmen? I see her seeking asylum at the gates of Brockden Farm with her new charge. After a time, she might come to offer assistance to the owners. Reading to the children. Perhaps tending a garden of some sort.

But I could be wrong. She has the Checker now. What more does she need? This will be her livelihood and her mission. There is a beautiful convenience in the duality, I think. Once a day she might bring pastry to the old man, Langer, up at the Toth Facility. Otherwise, she will drive Gilrein’s old routes, collecting the new stories. Maybe telling some of her own. What else does one do with a functional tongue?

And Gilrein?

Well, remember, he made a promise years ago to his wife. Can there really be peace until he pays his debt to Ceil? He said he would build the Church of Imogene Wedgewood. I think at the time they imagined a smoldering lounge, a dark torch club full of passion and mystery. If I recall, there was an ongoing debate as to location. One favored Paris and the other wanted something more tropical. But after all that has happened, can we blame Gilrein if he cannot sustain this kind of romance any longer?

No, no — do not misunderstand me. I still believe he will build the Church. It is simply the location that is in question.

Very soon now, Wylie will drive him to the bus station. Her first fare. He will tip her magnanimously.

Yes, I have some ideas about where Gilrein might be going. He could be heading north, eventually finding the last freighter — I believe it is the Jhain Gei—that will take him to the Palmer Peninsula and a lonely parish in desperate need of entertainment. Or perhaps he is traveling east. In the general direction of Old Bohemia. I am told there is a vacant parcel of land available. In the city of Maisel. The government owns the property and has been trying for some time to sell it. They would listen to any offer.

Oddly enough, I have no problem seeing Gilrein as the first priest in his new church. Ministering to the faithful, hearing their unique myths, and absolving them with the arrogant conceit that sooner or later we will all speak the same language.

Excuse?

I’m sorry, I’m having trouble understanding you. Is that a sore on your tongue?

Ah, yes — the priest is climbing up onto the counter. Look at Mr. Tang grimace as the preacher’s muddy sandals muck up the Formica. Look at how the cleric manages to silence the crowd. They hang on his every move. They all flinch as he leans forward to turn up the radio. This must be the big moment.

Perhaps the Rapture does indeed approach.

Take my hand, friend.

I can think of no one I would rather be with.