Otherworld (30 page)

Bering continued, and Mike half expected him to suddenly hop up and guffaw, and the whole thing would be a joke. A cruel charade.

But Mike knew it wasn't a joke. He believed Dr. Bering, believed in what the professor claimed to have access to. He believed because he wanted to, because he had to, and because his heart, his empty shell of blackened heart, yearned for it to be true. He was tired of the darkness and of death. He was ready to step into the light. To live.

Mike craned forward, concentrating on Bering's incantations. The room seemed to grow darker. And colder. Was it an illusion?

He could hear the words slipping from Bering's lips. Bering said, “Please come to us. We want to see you. Please show yourself …”

Two hours later, Bering lay facedown on the floor, muttering into the wood, and Mike fended off sleep. Nothing had happened.

He rose from his chair and left the professor alone, without saying a word. He closed the door quietly behind him and walked through the yard to his car. Dewdrops of ice glimmered in grass like sparkling crystal, lending a sense of magic to the house. Mike still believed, despite Bering's failure to provide proof.

He almost had his safety belt buckled when a great exultant cry resounded from within Bering's home. He jumped out of the car and rushed up to the door, flung it open, and dashed inside, heading for the study. In the doorway, he froze, and the color in his face bled away. His heart seized up. His flesh prickled with chills, the tickles of ghosts. Before him:

The most frightening …

… and the most exhilarating thing he'd ever seen.

Though all the switches were off, Bering's study sparkled with an array of dancing lights, tiny bubbles of brightness swirling about the room, shining seeds of light onto the walls from an invisible mirror ball. There seemed to be a stirring, a forceful breeze that came from nowhere and rushed back and forth through the room, sweeping over the floor. It stirred the cuffs of Mike's pants. The room had grown colder, but Mike's chills slid away from him, and warmth bathed him inside and out. The most marvelous rush took his body, making him high, kindling within him the fires of pleasure and enlightenment, almost erotically so. His flesh tingled as he watched the room come alive, activated from beyond and lit up with the electricity of phantoms. It was beautiful, and Mike had the sensation of standing in the middle of a golden field with the winds of spring filling his lungs and the sun bathing him with its warmth. Before him lay an altar, an ancient ruin of stone and the flesh of gods, waiting for a sacrifice.

Bering, in the center of the room, embraced by the field and the winds and the dancing lights, said, “Welcome to the otherworld.”

Mike said, “It's the single most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

“Would you like to meet him?” Bering asked.

“Who?” Mike nearly shouted, since it seemed that music was seeping from the otherworld.

“Malcam,” Bering said.

The breeze picked up speed, its waves becoming a whirlwind of energy circling the room. The spheres of light, caught in the current, spun around ever faster, and a small tornado of wind and light blossomed up between Mike and Dr. Bering. In the center of the twister, the form of a man took shape, at first appearing smoky, a weak projection, but then appearing very solid, very real. The spinning funnel did not affect him in the least. He faced Mike and smiled.

The tornado shrunk slowly and was swallowed up in a portal in the floor. The winds died, the lights vanished, and Malcam stood where Mike had previously seen the altar.

Dr. Bering switched on a lamp.

Malcam wore a black suit over a black shirt. His hair was black and combed back.

Bering said, “Mike, allow me to introduce you to Malcam.”

Mike swooned, felt nauseous, lost feeling in his body. Before he could collapse, Bering caught him under the arms and hoisted him upright. The professor held him there until the stiffness returned to Mike's bones and he recovered his balance and senses.

Mike peered at Malcam, suspecting that he was a hallucination but not really caring.

“What do I say to him?” Mike asked through feeble lips.

Malcam spoke: “My dear friend. Samuel and I do not share a secret language. You may say to me anything you'd like, and you may say it directly.”

“Are you really from another dimension?” Mike asked.

“From your position, yes,” Malcam said.

“And from yours?” Mike asked.

“I'm afraid you'd have no means of comprehending things from my point of view.”

“Can I ask you anything?”

“I'm not an oracle. I cannot predict your future. While I am immortal and have even witnessed your world's evolution, our time runs much the same as yours. There is no time traveling for us. Only world traveling.”

“But what about the link between hyperspace and time travel?” Mike asked.

“Your scientists have accomplished a great deal in their attempts to understand hyperspace, but the possibilities of exploration are limited to hyperspace alone. The future is being made every second. Tomorrow does not exist yet. It doesn't take a scientist to understand that. You can't go to a place that doesn't exist.”

“But what
can
you tell me?” Mike asked.

“Whatever your heart desires, chum. Consider me your friend. I want to give you your life back.”

 

The new morning of November cleansed Houston of Halloween night.

Steve Woodbridge met with the church's Personnel Committee in the conference room attached to his study. The committee consisted of five men, two of them church deacons, all of them considered pillars of the congregation. Most of them served on other committees, and they all made the church's business
their
business, for better or worse.

Steve found himself at the table with these men, allegedly the best of his flock, the leaders of the church. He did not trust most of them, and he did not like any of them. He knew that several of them had said some pretty harsh things about him behind his back. He figured they would feign dismay over his announcement but would secretly rejoice.

The pastor said, “Why don't we start with prayer? Don, would you do the honor?”

Everyone bowed their heads, and Don prayed: “Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for Thy many blessings. We praise Thee for Thy lovingkindness and Thy mercy. We worship Thee with our hearts and mouths. Thank You, Lord God, for Your Son. Thank You, Lord God, that we are not like those who do not know You. We know that we find favor in You. Thank You for bringing us men here this beautiful morning to set about the business of Your church. Guide us, O Lord. Guide our hearts, hands, and minds, that we may best serve Thee, and let our plans be diligent and holy. We pray these things in the name of Your precious and holy and wonderful Savior-Son, Jesus. Amen.”

Everyone awoke, grumbling amens and opening their notebooks and manila folders, pens ready.

“Well, okay, Pastor,” Mr. Leeds said. “What's on the agenda?”

“Well—” Steve began.

“You leavin'?” Simon interrupted.

How could he know?
“Well—” Steve said.

“Well, are you?” Bob asked.

Steve took a deep breath. He looked around the room. He'd already lost control. He found on each face a frown. Why wasn't it easy to do this? He looked out the door that led into his study. He could see some of his cherrywood shelves, filled with his books (Lewises and Schaeffers and Bonhoeffers, oh my!). The church had built him the study as an extra incentive to get him hired.

“Fellas,” Steve said, “I've been doing some thinking. And this comes by a lot of prayer. I've really sought the Lord on this, and I …”

The frowns remained, permanently pressed.

“I've decided to step down as your pastor. I feel like God is leading me into another ministry.”

“What ministry?” Bob asked. “Where? Here in Houston?”

“Well—”

Dave asked, “Mills Road Baptist? They're looking for someone. You going there?”

“No,” Steve said.

“We've never had a pastor quit before,” Mr. Leeds said.

“Well, yes, I know that,” Steve said. “You've fired them all.”

“Well, I wouldn't exactly say fired,” Don said.

“You asked them to leave,” Steve said.

“There were very good reasons for those dismissals,” Bob said.

“Okay, but that's beside the point. I'm not going to another church.”

“Where you goin'?” Bob asked.

“I don't know. Wherever the Lord wants to take my wife and me.”

Simon rolled his eyes.

“You just leavin' for the heck of it?” Mr. Leeds asked.

“No, not for the heck of it.”

“Something wrong with this church?” Bob asked.

“We too small for you?” Simon asked.

“No, it's none of those things,” Steve said.

They were bombarding him, keeping him unfocused. He could already feel them sucking away his resistance like telepathic leeches.

“You unhappy here?” Dave asked.

“Yes. I mean, no. Not exactly.”

“What is it, then?” Dave asked.

Steve didn't respond. He felt the heat of their intrigue on his face. His forehead began to perspire.

What's going on here? These guys don't care about me, and they never have. Why aren't they shaking my hand, faking disappointment, and offering to help me pack my bags?

He looked around at them, trying not to stare at each for too long. Despite a persistent sadness, Steve almost felt like laughing. He was surrounded by caricatures.

Two minutes seemed to pass. Silence. Don Figaro pretended to pray. Finally, Mr. Leeds said, “How can we change your mind?”

 

Graham could not get an answer from Sam Petrie's house. Petrie had not checked in at the station since leaving the day before either.

“He's probably sleeping,” Lane said.

“Maybe,” said Graham. “I'm gonna run by his place, see what he's up to. Give me a whistle if he shows up here.”

“Will do.”

Graham drove out to Petrie's one-bedroom home. Petrie's cruiser was not in the driveway.

 

Mike spent the night at Bering's home, and the two of them stayed up talking to Malcam. It never really hit Mike that he was conversing with a hyperspatial being. The visitor was friendly and charming. He brought Mike in. Reality wasn't questioned; Mike's previous doubts were forgotten. Malcam told Mike as much as he could about his world. That is, as much as Mike could understand.

“You would die instantly if brought into my world,” Malcam said. “Your three-dimensional body would not mesh with a higher dimension. Even if you did survive, you would not be able to see anything. It would be limbo. All would be a void.”

“How do you come into our world?” Mike asked.

“You would not understand how we do it, but let me put it this way: could a fish survive out of the water?”