Servant of the Bones

"I want to change everything," he said. "Look back over those conquerors. Look back over their accomplishments. Use the finest reach of your spirit mind."

"I will. Go on."

"Who really changed the world forever? Who changed it more than any single man?"

I didn't answer.

"Alexander," he said. "Alexander the Great did it! He dared to kill empires that blocked his path. He dared to force Asian to marry Greek. He dared to break the Gordian knot with a sword."

I considered. I thought. I saw the Greek cities along the Asian coast, long after Alexander had died in Babylon; I saw the world as if I were standing back from it. I saw it in patches of light and dark.

"Alexander changed your world," I said. "The world of the West. I see what you see. Alexander is the cornerstone of the rise of the West. But the West isn't the world, Gregory."

"Oh, yes, it is," he answered. "Because the West that Alexander built has changed Asia. No part of the globe has not been changed by the West that Alexander built. And no mind today stands ready to change the world as he would, and I ... as I would."

He drew in close to me, then suddenly with a darting motion, pushed me with both hands. I didn't move. It was like a child pushing a man. He was pleased and sobered. He took a step back.

I pushed him with one hand. I pushed him into a stumble and then a fall, from which he rose slowly, unshaken, refusing to be shaken.

He didn't become angry. He was knocked back a step, but he planted his feet squarely and he waited.

"Why are you testing me?" he asked. "I didn't say I was a god or an angel. But you've been sent to me, don't you see? You've been sent on the eve of the transformation of the world, you are sent as a sign! As was King Cyrus of old, that the people would go home to Jerusalem!"

Cyrus, the Persian. My whole frame ached; my mind ached. I struggled to be still.

"Don't speak of that!" I whispered. My mind went blank with rage.

You can well imagine. I was beside myself. "Speak of Alexander if you will. But don't speak of Cyrus. You know nothing of those times!"

"Do you?" "I want to know why I am here now," I went on, holding firm. "I don't accept your fervent prophecies and proclamations. Did you kill Esther? Did you send those men to kill her?"

Gregory seemed torn. He reflected. I could read nothing from him. "I didn't want for her to die," he said. "I loved her. The greater good called for her death."

Now this was a lie, a brittle, technical lie.

"What would you do if I told you, yes, I did kill Esther?" he said. "For the world, I killed her, for the new world that will rise from the ashes of the dying world, the world that is killing itself with small men and small dreams and small empires?"

"I swore I'd avenge her death," I said. "And now I know you're guilty. I'll kill you. But not now. When I want to." He laughed. "You kill me? You think you can?" "Of course," I said. "Remember what the Rebbe told you. I have killed those who have called me."

"But I didn't call you, don't you see, it was the plan, it was the world! It was the design! You were sent to me because I need you, and can use you, and you will do what I will that you do."

It was the world. Those were the very words I'd said to myself in desperate hope. But was it to be Gregory's world?

"Surely you must help me," he said. "I don't need to be your Master. I need you! I need you to witness and understand. Oh, but this is too remarkable that you came alive to see Esther murdered, and to kill those three, you did say that to me, that you killed those three."

"You loved Esther, didn't you?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, very much," he said. "But Esther had no vision. Neither does Rachel. That's why you've come. That's why you were given to our people, to my grandfather's father, don't you see? You were meant to appear before me in all your glory. You are the witness. You are 'He who will understand everything.' "

I was puzzled by his words. Plan, scheme, design. "But what is it I am to witness?" I asked. "You have your church. And what does Esther have to do with it?"

He thought a long moment, and then he said with innocent candor:

"Of course, you were meant for me. No wonder you struck down others." He laughed. "Azriel, you're worthy of me, don't you see? This is what's so supremely beautiful, you're worthy of me, of my time, my brilliance, my effort. We are on a par. You are a prince of ghosts, I suspect. I know it."

He reached to touch my hair.

"I'm not so sure."

"Hmmm, a prince, I'm sure, and you've been sent to me. All those old men; they kept you, passed you down through the generations. It was for me."

He seemed almost moved to tears by his own sentiment. His face was soft and radiant and confident.

"You have the pride and decisiveness of a king, Gregory."

"Of course I do. What does the Master usually say to you, Spirit?" he asked. "What do you remember?"

"Nothing," I said adamantly. A lie of my own. "I wouldn't be with you if I could," I said. "I stay with you now because I'm trying to re member and to know. I should kill you now. That would probably be like your precious Alexander when he cut the Gordian knot."

"No, that won't happen," he said calmly. "That cannot possibly be meant. If God wanted for me to die, anyone could do it. You don't realize the scale of my dreams. Alexander would have understood."

"I am not yours," I said. "I know that much. Yes, I want to know the scale of your dreams, yes. I don't want to kill you without understanding why you had Esther murdered. But I am not yours. Not meant for you. Not necessarily meant . . . for anything."

Somewhere the mother was crying again. That I'm sure I could hear. I turned my head.

"Do as I say," he said, touching me again, clamping his hand on my arm.

I pulled away. I hurt him a little.

My strength had gone past exhilaration. I was restless. I wanted to walk, to touch things. I wanted to touch these couches of velvet, and run my hand on the marble. I wanted simply to look at my hands. I was holding utterly fast. I wasn't sure that I could dissolve now if I wanted to.

It was a strange feeling, to be so strong, and not to know if the old tricks would work. But then I had only lately made myself Esther. I was tempted . . .

. . . But no, this was not the time.

I glared at the bones. I reached down and covered up the bones with the fragile lid. There lay the Sumerian letters for me to read.