"Who else would it be?" he asked, careful to keep the scorn from his voice.

"As your flyer intimated," Agnes sighed, "the woman has attracted quite a few youthful disciples. Two of them were with her during that . . . unfortunate event last month, weren't they? Could none of them have been involved?"

"I have no reason to suspect that mere children-"

"I am not referring to mere children," she cut him off with startling sharpness. "There are some very nasty creatures roaming this pleasant little town in children's clothing, Robert, but they are in no way mere children. They've inflicted countless acts of truly hateful vandalism on many of our shop owners, and regularly terrorize their customers in broad daylight. Just last night they virtually demolished my own house."

Ah! Ferristaff thought dryly. He'd read her little letter to the editor, and he thought her more brainless than blameless there.

"I see no reason to assume that driving spikes into a handful of your trees would be beyond them. Not at all," she said, seeming sure she'd made her point. "Were there any real threat of consequences here, I think we might see a very significant decrease in the troubles that increasingly plague us all."

He was drawing breath to express polite condolences about her house, and demure her request, when a horrendous crash caused them both to spin and stare in shock at the scattered shards of glass that remained of one of his large picture windows, and the large rock resting at the center of the mess.

"Goddamn her!" Ferristaff raged, running to the shotgun he now kept by his front door, then racing outside in hopes of settling this escalating nonsense in the good old-fashioned way. He found no one to aim at, of course. The woods around his property were as still and silent as ever. "Greensong, you bitch!" he shouted. "I know it's you! Everybody knows! Your butt is bound for prison any day now!" Unable to contain his rage, he fired both shells into the trees, hoping for a scream. But there was nothing. When he turned around, he found Hamilton standing on his porch, looking gallingly self-satisfied. "What the hell," he spat. "Put me on your roster. I'll sign the damn letter."

"I'm so sorry about your window, Robert," she commiserated. "But I do appreciate your help. I'll send the letter by tomorrow."

"Gonna do some painting," Cotter explained with an uncomfortable grin, shoving two gallons of paint thinner onto the counter. "Time to spruce up the mission a little."

"Looks like you'll be sprucin' up things more'n a little." Franklin grinned, trying to be friendly, though Cotter had always given him the creeps.

"Gonna take a lot of painting, that old place," Cotter said defensively. "Inside and out, you know."

"Outside too!" Franklin said, trying to sound impressed. "Gotten that past Hamilton's Preservation Council, have you?" He gave Cotter a sympathetic smile to show he understood how trying that must have been.

But Cotter shook his head, and said, "That's next on my list to do."

"Oh," Franklin said, nonplussed, as Cotter paid him. "After the thinner?"

"Well . . . I can't get the paint 'til the Preservation Council tells me what color's okay, now can I?" Cotter sputtered irritably.

"Hey," Franklin apologized. "Didn't mean to pry, friend. Just makin' small talk."

"No harm done," Cotter said, leaving with his thinner, but forgetting his change.

26.

( Revelation ) As twilight approached, Joby and Ben finally heard the falls ahead of them, having walked for half an hour in apprehensive silence.

"Maybe I should go up first and check things out," Ben suggested quietly.

"Yeah," Joby teased uneasily. "Then they can knock us off separately." He looked up into the woods overhanging the path; always so peaceful and picturesque before, they seemed full of lurking shadows now. "If they want to hurt me, they've had years to do it. . . . I just hope Ander shows up at all when he sees you."

They crested one last rise and stood looking down on the ferny hollow into which Burl Creek plunged in lacy veils. A primitive wooden bridge spanned the pool beneath it, and, leaning heavily against the bridge's railing, stood the last person Joby had expected. Father Crombie looked up at them, and waved.

"What are you doing here?" Joby called.

"How'd you get here?" Ben added, before the old man could answer.

"Waiting for you, of course. And rather carefully," Crombie said amiably.

Unsure whether to feel relieved or dismayed that even Father Crombie was involved, Joby said, "I was expecting-"

"Ander," Crombie finished with a kindly smile. "I know. But it was decided I might be the better messenger, given our long acquaintance." As Joby and Ben descended toward the bridge, Crombie's smile faded. "You boys look as if I were a ghost."

"What about your hips?" Joby asked uncertainly. "I mean, I thought you were . . ."

"A cripple?" Crombie smiled. "I am, and had a great deal of help getting up here, of course. Now, please, relax-both of you."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on," Joby asked, wondering if anyone in Taubolt hadn't been deceiving him, "or just give me the runaround again?"

Father Crombie's expression grew sober. "I am prepared to tell you a great deal more than you may wish to hear," he said. "No one has ever wished to deceive you, Joby. But neither did we wish to trouble you with burdens that were not yours to bear. Even now, I must warn you that the answers you seek may leave you far more troubled than continued ignorance will. Are you really certain that you wish to know?"

Ben's laughter surprised them both. "Bull elephants couldn't drag me away without an answer now, Father. So, what's the story? You all Martians, or what?"

Father Crombie had the grace to smile. "Come, boys. This will likely be a rather lengthy conversation, and these old legs are no longer fit to stand through such endeavors. Let's find a place to sit while I abuse your credulity." He turned carefully, and began shuffling toward the far end of the bridge.

After exchanging a look, Joby and Ben followed him toward a jumble of fallen logs and mossy stumps. After helping Crombie to get seated, they found perches for themselves, facing him with their backs to the creek.

"I recall that you boys were fairly comfortable with miracles once," Crombie said after a reflective pause. "Do you remember asking me how to fight the devil?"

Joby felt his face grow warm. "We were little kids," he mumbled.

"And have you never found children wiser than their elders?" Crombie asked.

Joby shrugged uncomfortably.

"You asked that morning if the chalice in my sacristy was the Grail. Remember?"

Ben chuckled under his breath, intensifying Joby's embarrassment.

"What if I told you that the Grail is no myth, nor the devil, angels, or magic itself?" Crombie asked. "Could you still gather enough of that childish faith to trust me?"

"What are you saying?" Ben laughed. "That what Joby saw was magic?"

Crombie simply gazed at them with a kind of severity that made it seem he was saying exactly that and expected to be taken seriously.

"You don't mean magic magic," Joby insisted, " . . . do you?"

"I suppose I should begin by telling you a story that you'll likely find still harder to believe. I ask only that you listen until I'm through. Then you may write me off as mad and walk away, or . . . you can tell me how much more you wish to know. Agreed?"

Joby and Ben nodded together.

"Then, here is a bit of history I'm sure you've never been taught, though I've acquired ample reason to believe it true. I assume you boys have heard somewhere how the archangel Lucifer made war against God in Heaven when humanity was young."

Joby nodded. Ben shrugged.

"You may recall that Lucifer and the angels who sided with him were cast down to earth in defeat, like stars swept from the sky, to become the demons of Hell."

"What's that got to do with Taubolt?" Ben asked gruffly, clearly as uncomfortable with these old catechisms as Joby was.

"What's been forgotten," Crombie continued unperturbed, "is that a third group of angels sided at first with Lucifer, then, realizing their error, turned to fight at God's side against him. To this day, I am told, Lucifer blames his defeat on their defection."

"Told by who?" Joby blurted out. "I mean, who'd have been there to know?"

"Their descendants," Crombie said gravely, "whose very survival depends on passing down the memory of Lucifer's enmity even now, all these millennia later."

"Their descendants?" Ben scoffed.

"You agreed to listen," Crombie reminded him gently.

Joby saw the muscles in Ben's jaw clamp down around some further protest.

"Since they had sided with Lucifer, impartial justice demanded that this third angelic faction be cast to earth as well. But the change of heart that had led to their timely shift of allegiance also preserved them from becoming demons like Lucifer and his kind. Though barred from returning to Heaven, they still enjoyed the same rapport with their Creator that every other earthly creature does. They chose to make of their new home here, not a prison, but a garden reflecting what they recalled of Heaven, filling it with beauty and what we call magic, though to them it was no more magic than speech, thought, or breath are to us.

"So it was for ages afterward. The legends we know today of fairies, djinn, and spirit beings are not just empty tales as most suppose. They are our own distant memory of the time when these fallen angels, good and evil, still lived openly in our presence. At first, there was frequent conflict between the two factions, but as ages passed, they grew almost indifferent to each other. Finally, however, Lucifer saw how dearly God loved humanity and perceived his opportunity for revenge. When the fallen angels still serving Heaven sought to protect humanity from his attacks, his anger at them was rekindled.

"As more ages passed, the fallen angels still in grace longed ever more keenly for their lost celestial home, envying the mortal creatures around them who, dying in love with God, were returned to Him in Heaven. This made them beg their Creator for something no angel had ever suffered-mortality. They would gladly die, they told their Maker, if, in death, they could return to Heaven as well-no longer angels, just simple souls gathered back with all the rest into the intimate presence of their Lord.

"Moved to pity, God granted their request, offering the same to Lucifer and his demons. But Hell's proud and embittered faction refused the offer out of hand. Thus, only fallen angels loyal to Heaven became mortal, though their lives were still measured in centuries rather than in years. Made mortal, however, they became vulnerable flesh as well, and Lucifer's campaign to destroy them for what they had done to him in Heaven was renewed with vigor. The angels fallen in grace were still very powerful, but in time, more and more were overcome and slain defending themselves and those in their care.

"Grown more lonely as their companions died, some took mortal spouses and bore children with angelic blood running in their veins. These children grew to be powerful men and women with lives vastly longer than ordinary mortals. Some served the light heroically, others were legendary for their darkness, for Lucifer was especially keen to bring his angelic enemies to grief through their children, preferring to seduce rather than slay them when he could.

"As the Roman Empire waned, the last of the true angels fallen in grace died, but their descendants lived on, bearing new generations of children, each less potent in the blood than those before and thus more vulnerable to Lucifer and his horde. By the Renaissance, those of the blood were terribly diminished in power and lived always in hiding, hardly daring to reveal their heritage even to their own children. Many of these, left ignorant of their own nature, did not know to hide their strange gifts and abilities, so were easily found and destroyed by Lucifer's servants, who took particular delight in seeing these murders done in the name of God."

Father Crombie gazed sadly toward the falls. "The very church I have given my life to serve," he murmured, "has too often lifted in prayer hands spattered with such innocent blood . . . imagining that God was pleased." He shook his head and seemed to shudder. "How the devil must howl with laughter."

The old priest looked so forlorn that Joby was sure he believed what he was saying, but he felt Ben's rigid silence beside him like the charge before a thunderstorm.

"Father Crombie," Joby said. "I don't want to offend you, but if you're saying that Taubolt is full of . . . angelic half-breeds descended from demigods at the dawn of time, I, uh . . . I have some trouble with that." He glanced at Ben, who nodded once, sharply. "No one could still remember any of this, and any such bloodline would be spread atom thin through most of mankind by now. Besides, why Taubolt? Aren't there lots of more remote places to hide from . . . well, the devil, I guess, than a tourist town in California?"

Crombie gave him a weary, if unsurprised look. "They are here because there is something in Taubolt that protects them-something unique in all the world, Joby."

"And that is?" Ben asked in something close to a growl.

Crombie gave them each a measuring look, then said, "The Grail."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Ben exclaimed, shooting to his feet in unbridled frustration to pace off toward the falls, where he turned back to snap, "What's next, Father? Merlin the Magician?"

"I know how odd all this must sound, Ben, but have you ever known me to lie?"

"Of course not." Ben scowled. "You're no liar, but-"

"A fool then?" Crombie cut him off.

"Father, you're the kindest, most honest, most . . . most virtuous man I ever met, but either people here are tangled up in some pretty delusional folklore or someone's been playing you for a sucker. And now they're using you to try playing us for the same."

"A fool then after all," Crombie said, unable to hide his disappointment.

"Have you actually seen this Grail, Father Crombie?" Joby asked.

"Almost daily," he said. "I have the unthinkable honor to be its principal guardian at present."

At this, Joby and Ben fell silent, staring first at Crombie, then at each other.

"You have seen it as well, Joby," Crombie said. "In church, your first Christmas morning here. I am not likely to forget the effect it seemed to have on you-as if the hounds of Hell were nipping at your heels. You nearly ran from church after Mass that morning." He smiled sadly. "Not the response I had hoped for, I'll admit."

Joby suddenly recalled his agony that morning, ignited by a single glimpse of-"The Communion cup," he murmured in astonishment. The memory sent snowflakes down his spine. "That's . . . that's it? The actual Grail?"

"Joby," Ben said edgily, "don't you go loopy too now."

"Ben, he's right," Joby said in a rush of wonder. "I remember seeing . . . colors, sort of, in the glaze, and . . . something happened. I don't remember what. But I freaked completely. I was afraid to go back into that church for, well, years."

"So you freaked out a little, Joby!" Ben protested. "After what Father Richter did for you, I'd have freaked out sitting in a church too. It doesn't take the Holy Grail to explain that! This is a full-on myth we're talking about! A Monty Python movie! Remember?"

Ignoring Ben's outburst, Crombie spoke solely to Joby. "Those of the blood have followed the Grail for centuries, because evil cannot come near it. The more evil the being, the more lethal the Grail's presence. But the Grail has a will of its own and may travel where it chooses without a moment's notice. About four hundred years ago, it chose to come here for reasons still a mystery today, and the remnants of what you and I might call 'fairy' found it and followed. Every year its presence draws more of those who possess any trace of the blood to this place, while keeping all others at bay-that is it did until you arrived. Since then, Taubolt's borders have failed somehow, and now it seems the world has found us."

"And you think that's because of me?" Joby asked in dismay.

"Hellooo!" Ben exclaimed in exasperation. "Can we step away from the edge, please?"

"I have no such conviction," Crombie said, still ignoring Ben. "I merely observe that the two events seemed to coincide."

"No wonder they've been hiding from me," Joby groaned. "Father Crombie, if the chalice made me freak . . . does that mean . . . am I evil somehow?"

"No No NO NO NO!" Ben suddenly roared, stamping his feet like a child in full tantrum. "You're going to ruin him all over again!" Swiveling to face Joby, he said with less volume but even more intensity, "This is totally, shit-for-crackers crazy, Joby! I am not letting you go back to being a self-doubting, scared shitless, suicidal little wreck! You are not evil! You were never evil! And you're not going to be evil if I have to beat the sense back into you with my bare hands!" He seemed to run out of words then, breathing like a sprinter yards short of the finish line, while both Joby and Crombie stared at him in stunned silence. With a start, Joby realized that Ben might be going to cry. "Damn it, Joby," Ben pleaded, "you're finally happy. . . . We're all together again. Please, please don't go backward now!" He turned to Crombie. "For God's sake, Father, tell him!"

Nodding sadly, Crombie turned to Joby. "Ben is right, Joby; I was foolish not to see what my words might mean to you. If you were evil, the Grail would have driven you from Taubolt long ago, but you have been welcome and happy here where only the good are welcome and happy for long. So listen to your wise and faithful friend. You are, and have been as long as I have known you, as far from evil as the sun is from the sea floor."

"Then why did the Grail affect me that way?" Joby asked, unsatisfied. "And why did Taubolt's protection end when I arrived?"

"As for the first," Crombie shrugged, "the person you were may have found what he longed for as frightening and painful as what he feared-if not more so. As for the second, I cannot say, except that it can have nothing to do with your being evil, for you are manifestly not."

"This all means nothing anyway," Ben insisted, the tantrum seeming to have drained him, "unless that cup is really the Grail, and Taubolt's really a secret fairy refuge; which, I'm sorry to say, I still do not for one second believe, or understand why you do, Joby." He turned back to Father Crombie. "Or you either, frankly." His expression became contrite. "And . . . I'm really sorry I yelled like that."

"I am not," Crombie replied. "Your outburst was the roar of genuine love and loyalty." He tilted his head up to look Ben squarely in the eyes. "I believe these outlandish tales only because I have seen a steady stream of miracles performed, practically since the day I arrived here, by people more good-hearted and less deluded than any I have ever known. And, of course, I have held the Cup itself, in my hands, and been blessed to drink from it on too many occasions to be mistaken about its nature."

In the waning light, Ben looked uncertain for the first time that evening. "I don't know," he sighed. "It might be easier if I could see some of these miracles too."

"Have you not?" Crombie asked. "I thought that's what brought you here."

Ben shook his head. "Joby may have. I haven't. And . . ." He hesitated. "I'd just like to believe it way too much, I guess. . . . Maybe that's why I can't. It feels . . ."