Jeremiah Rivers: Demons Inside and Out

4

Behind the counter a doorway opened to a closet-sized storage room. A small table lamp provided the only light. Boxes piled in the corner sagged on to old-style school desks haphazardly stacked against a pile of wooden doors. Paul turned sharply to face a wall of makeshift shelves had been nailed a bit unevenly.

“I keep these back here because you never know. People do bring kids in here, occasionally.”

Crucifixes of different sizes filled one shelf, mixed there with rosaries and metal crosses. Below that was a collection of Bibles and below that a series of cherub-faced angel figurines. The bottom shelves contained knives and ancient-looking handguns and even a samurai throwing star. Set next to that on the ground was a metal bucket holding a dozen swords.

“Afraid I don’t get it,” Jeremiah said.

Paul picked up one of the chubby angel figures, held it before him like a magician showing the card, and pulled off the angel’s head. It snapped free with a slight click. From the bottom of the figurine’s head protruded several long needle-like spikes.

“What is that for?”

Paul shrugged. He reattached the head, placed the angel on the shelf next to its other misleading friends. He slipped a rosary off a shelf. All black beads and silver cross. Again, magician-like, he dangled it there, and then he was pulling it taut as if to break it, only the beads pulled back to reveal a foot-long length of metallic wire.

“Feel it.”

The wire was strong and sharp.

“It’s called a garrote. Sometimes they’re made of piano wire but this is even stronger, sharper too. You know, movie villains use them all the time.” He mimed wrapping the wire around someone’s neck and pulling back to strangulate and maybe even sever. His smile this time made Jeremiah take a slight step backwards. He wasn’t scared, not exactly, just cautious.

“Why would anyone want something like that?” Jeremiah asked, though a few ideas had begun to take hold.

Another shrug. “Religious people have problems too.”

Paul looked over the shelf of crucifixes and chose a silver one. Instead of playing magician, he held it out. “Here. Maybe you’ll like this one.”

Jeremiah took it and was a bit surprised at the weight that sagged his arm for a moment. But then the weight felt good, strong, reassuring. Unlike the Jesus in the display window, this one stood straight against the cross, his face bright with confidence and power. No stakes held his hands or pierced his feet. This was the Jesus ascended. The savior billions worshipped.

“Go ahead,” Paul said. “Pull it apart.”

Jeremiah examined the crucifix for a moment and then wrapped one hand around the horizontal bar, what was called the patibulum, something good old Dad had taught him, and the other around the vertical end (the stipes) where Jesus’ legs hugged close down toward a tip he realized was rather narrow.

Paul made a go-ahead gesture and Jeremiah pulled. The crucifix came apart easily. The top slid free with the metallic smoothness of a knife along a steel sharpener. From Jesus’ waist extended a long, double-sided silver blade ending in a sharp-pointed tip. It was maybe five-inches long. The end with Jesus’ feet was hollow in Jeremiah’s hand. He turned the blade over slowly. The lamplight caught the edge and slid along to the tip where it bloomed as a momentary star. He held it up. Jesus’ head rested on the cross against Jeremiah’s palm and the blade extended up between Jeremiah’s middle two fingers, the crossbar beneath his knuckles. Jesus’ wide silver eyes said he was no weeping God. This was the savior who knew what would happen. The man who knew he would never be forsaken. The one for whom Heaven would never be withheld.

“I’m not sure how much I want to know about it,” Jeremiah said. The words came slowly and trilled with awe.

“There’s nothing to know,” Paul said. “It found you.”