It is Friday and Chris and Brad share a taxi for the very brief ride to Father Crowley's house from the base. The taxi drives by the ruins of Inverhaven Castle through the twilight as the castle eclipses the nearly descended sun. Chris can see the tulips of the vast gardens starting to bloom and he recalls his day with Karen. He smiles as broadly as he ever has in his life.

Crowley—while waiting for the two—is anxious. He left the chapel half an hour earlier than normal, telling the Protestant chaplain that he needed to go the home of a despondent sailor off base. When Chaplain Lambert questioned him about who he was going to see and the nature of the crisis, Crowley replied that it was confidential, between himself, the sailor, and God.

Chaplain Lambert didn't respond. Crowley took his silence as approval, but he knows Lambert is suspicious of him, ever since the death of Lee Rodgers. The priest has felt that Lambert doesn't regard him as a peer, but more of a nuisance, a monstrous nuisance.

Crowley sped home. He laid the table as garishly as possible with a somewhat dusty linen tablecloth that is part of the furnishings that came with the house, using polished silverware that he purchased from a resale shop and wineglasses that also came with the house, rather offensive wineglasses with frosted impressions of flowers against a glass that is tinted red.

He has his goblet in his hand, and he has nearly drained a bottle of his favorite South African wine. He constantly checks himself in the bathroom mirror, smoothing out his clothes and his hair, tucking and untucking his oxford shirt, which he wears underneath a thin sweater now, as the evenings aren't quite so chilly. He splashes water on his face and checks his eyebrows and nostrils for renegade hair. Finding several, he plucks them by hand and somewhat enjoys the pain.

He will start to prepare the food when they arrive, simple dishes: spaghetti, garlic bread, salad. He will lean on a well stocked refrigerator full of tins of varied British beers.

The cab pulls in front of the house, and as he watches Chris pay the cab driver, Father Crowley removes the swastika from his mantel and hides it in a kitchen cabinet. He doesn't want to reveal too much too soon. He could tell that Chris is more intelligent than either Hinckley or Rodgers, and knows he will probably be alarmed by the sight of the swastika.

He watches as the two young men approach his cottage, Brad in front, swaggering with the familiarity of entering this house, and Chris walking timidly behind him, looking around, studying the elm trees that are starting to show signs of life.

Crowley swings open the front door as they approach.

"Welcome, welcome," he says, and he is quite jovial.

The sight of Chris without a window or desk between them makes him tremble.

"You got beer, Father?" asks Hinckley. He pulls off his jacket and places it in a stuffed and disorganized front closet.

"Of course, of course. Help yourself." Crowley reaches for Chris's coat and stores it in the same closet. He hangs it with care, as if it has just come from the dry cleaners.

Hinckley returns from the kitchen with two tins of beer. Chris is impressed by the size and takes one gladly.

"Sit down, sit down." Crowley points at the couch. "You two fine gentlemen sit down and relax, and I will prepare dinner." He walks into the kitchen, and asks Hinckley to retrieve coal for the fireplace from the bin outside. Hinckley grabs a tin pail next to the fireplace and walks outside. Chris is alarmed with the familiarity that Brad seems to display with the workings of the priest's house.

The house isn't what Chris expected. He thought it would be light and clean and somewhat cheerful based on the conversations he had with the priest. Instead, he finds the house dark, even though the sunlight has just started to wane and is still streaming through very dirty windows. It also seems damp, and Chris feels a chill that is intensified as the beer first hits his throat.

Brad returns quickly, straining from the weight of the coal-laden pail. He sets it down on the ash-covered hearth and feeds the fire, which shows only embers. Chris feels heat instantly and the chill he felt dissipates. He starts to feel warm inside as the beer starts to affect him.

"I told ya he was cool." Hinckley sits down and quickly drains his beer in just over three swallows. He crushes the empty tin with his hand and asks Chris if he is ready for another. Chris hurriedly finishes his and nods, handing Brad the empty tin.

"Like I said," says Brad as he returns from the kitchen, "he's a real nice guy, not like a priest at all. He makes you feel like you're at home."

Chris can't help but agree. Even Karen hasn't invited him to her home, and here is this priest—an officer no less—having him over, giving him beer, making him dinner.

After a few minutes, the priest summons them to the table and gives them their salad, and then arrives with their spaghetti and a bottle of wine. He fills their wineglasses nearly full. "Eat and drink, and drink and eat as much as you like. You're in a house of family, so to speak. I want you to feel like you're at home here."

Chris appreciates the gesture. He does feel like he belongs.

They all sit down. Chris expects the priest to say some sort of blessing, but he doesn't. He pushes up his sleeves and attacks his pile of spaghetti with a certain vigor.

They eat mostly in silence, but the priest talks of current events: the bombing of Libya, the threat of nuclear war, which he feels won't last forever, and the problems in Israel, between the Palestinians and the Jews. "That," he says of the latter, "should worry us more than the Russians, and in a while, I am sure you will see why."

"Yup," says Brad, "you surely will." The priest stares at Hinckley with mild irritation, as if he intends to be the lone speaker for this evening, and interruptions won't be permitted. Brad feels the stare, sees the mirth in the priest's eyes, and in embarrassment, quickly drains his glass of wine.

The things Crowley will use to lure Chris into his realm are different than what he used on Hinckley. Hinckley was very simple, just alcohol with a little rage. With Chris, he knows his approach will be with alcohol, and food for the intellect. Chris may be enticed by the Nordic gods, and learn how a Caucasian fellow such as himself can only find happiness with the only religion nature ever intended him to have. He has never discussed such things with Brad more than briefly.

Chris eats slowly, but Crowley and Brad eat quickly. The priest notices with growing irritation that his pants are constantly getting tighter. Chris tries to eat neatly, taking care to place a napkin on his lap the way his mother taught him when in the presence of company. He rolls his spaghetti tightly on his fork, in contrast to the priest and Brad, who slurp the noodles almost directly from the plate, using the fork more as a prop than as a utensil.

Crowley brings out an apple pie that he bought from the freezer section in the base commissary, along with vanilla ice cream, which he scoops liberally onto the pieces of pie that he takes right out of the oven. This is one of Chris's favorites, and this he eats not so casually. The priest offers coffee, but Chris and Brad refuse in favor of beer, which they drink while Crowley cleans the kitchen rapidly with little regard to perfect cleanliness.

Chris and Brad retire to the living room while Crowley finishes in the kitchen. Brad wordlessly piles more coal on the fire. The extra warmth makes Chris realize that he is indeed intoxicated. But the feeling is not at all unpleasant, and he feels as comfortable as he ever has at any point in his life. It feels almost like Christmas at his grandparents' in northern Michigan so many years ago, when he was just seven or eight. They had a fireplace and he remembers feeling very safe as the wind and the snow swirled outside the window as he and his brother opened presents in their pajamas that had feet sewn in while in front of the warm fireplace, and his parents and grandparents were all smiling, casually sipping steaming mugs of coffee.

He feels that way now, as if he is in the cradle of someone who cares. The fireplace reminds him of that scene so many years ago. By the following Christmas, his parents had stopped smiling and his grandfather had had a stroke. His grandparents moved closer to Detroit for access to doctors and clinics. They spent their remaining years in a walk-out apartment in a cinderblock building designed for seniors.

Crowley enters the living room, the goblet in his hand. He smiles at Chris and then briefly studies a fresh set of maps above the sofa.

"Well, Chris," he begins as he sits down on the sagging armchair that Brad knows is reserved just for him, "was the dinner good?"

"Oh, yes, sir, very. Thank you."

"We're off base now, my good man. You can dispense with the 'sir's. Call me 'Father', as I am used to it and will be sure to answer, or you can call me Alex, whichever you prefer."

Hinckley is jealous. He has always called the priest 'sir', and had never been invited to refer to him in any other way. He didn't even know that Crowley's first name is Alex.

"I think I would feel more comfortable with calling you Father, if that's okay."

"Yes, yes. Absolutely, absolutely, whatever you like and whenever you like."

"Thanks," says Chris.

"Now," the priest begins, rubbing his hands together, "I promised you something when I invited you here, didn't I?"

"Yes, I think so."

"If I can recall correctly, though it was several Masses ago, I think I told you how you could find peace, the kind of peace that most people spend a lifetime searching for."

"Yes," Chris says.

"You're still interested?"

"Yes, very much. I've been wondering lately, about God, you know, the meaning of life, why I'm here, what all this means, this stuff that I've been through, you know, what life is supposed to be about."

"Well, some of those questions, I am afraid, will have to go unanswered, at least for the time being. But I can tell you the answers won't be found in the Bible, the Koran, or the Torah. I should know; I know all the works intimately, especially the Bible." Crowley sips his wine, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"I only know about the Bible," explains Chris. "I've never heard of those other ones."

"Not to worry," says the priest. "They're not worth knowing about. The Koran is the holy book for Islam, the Torah is for the Jews, and they're all dribble. They're all rubbish, and so is the Bible."

Chris stares at the priest wide-eyed. He knows little of the Bible, except that it is divided into the Old and New Testaments. He does know, and has always felt intuitively, that it is a book to be revered and never bad-mouthed. He has always had the impression that to talk ill of the Bible was a sin in and of itself. He recalls some of the black recruits from the south in his company in boot camp. They gave their little pocket version of the New Testament its own revered place in their footlockers. Nothing could be placed on top of it. They showed the book that much respect.

Crowley notices Chris's look of morbid confusion. "I fully expect you to be shocked by what I have to tell you. It is information that is not easy to digest, but as it all becomes clear, you will feel like a great fog has been lifted from your eyes and the order of the world—the nature of predisposition, and the reason for many of life's mysteries—will be revealed to you. That revelation will give you an incredible sort of power that a mere mortal can hardly contend with."

Chris likes the sound of that. He has felt everything but powerful throughout his life. Even though the Navy has given him more freedom than he has ever realized, he is as near to the bottom of the ranks as is possible. The weight of the entire Navy stands above him. He has no power, no authority over anything or anyone, except his own destiny and the course he wishes it to take.

"Any questions so far?" the priest asks.

"No, Father, none."

"Very well, but first let me refresh my drink. Beer, anyone?"

Chris declines and Hinckley asks for another tin. The priest goes to the kitchen to refill his goblet. He returns to the living room with a freshly opened bottle of wine. He does not bring Brad a beer.

"Now," he continues, "where do all three of the major religions have their origins?"

"I don't know," Chris says.

"The Jews come from Israel," inserts Hinckley, starting to feel starved for attention.

"Very good, Mr. Hinckley, very good. I didn't think you would know that, but looks can be deceiving," he says, paying Brad a compliment followed by a back-handed insult. The insinuation is lost on Hinckley.

"Yeah, I knew that, and Jesus was Jewish, and the Christians probably came from Israel too?"

"Yes indeed, yes indeed. Christianity did spread from Israel. And Islam, where do you suppose it started?"

"I don't know." Chris's conscience has been bombarded with images of Palestinians across countless television screens and photographs in newspapers and magazines, throwing rocks at Israeli soldiers. He knows the Palestinians to be Muslim, and he also knows the Libyans are Muslim, as is the rest of the Middle East, a region of the world that he regards rather darkly, based on his impressions of current events. "I guess the Middle East, somewhere in there," he says, not entirely sure of his answer.

"That is correct. Saudi Arabia, to be precise, is where that religion took wing, fairly recently, actually. In the grand scheme of things, it's a mere babe compared to the other religions, especially to the one I am going to introduce to you shortly."

Chris lights a cigarette, and Brad, without asking, takes one from Chris's pack, which is set upon the coffee table.

"Now, unless I am entirely mistaken, I would say you're a Caucasian, a white male, one hundred percent, not a drop of black or red or yellow or Arabic blood in you. Is that correct?"

"Yeah, sure, of course," replies Chris.

"And so is Mr. Hinckley and so am I, which is why we're all here, together, in this house, without the company of blacks or Hispanics or any other lesser race of man."

Chris notices the use of the word "lesser" in reference to minorities, but his mind is too intoxicated to take offense.

"Where do people of our race traditionally hail from?" asks the priest, enjoying the flow of this conversation, of this instruction. Every statement he has made has been unchallenged, and he feels smug in his intellectual superiority.

"I guess we all came from over here somewhere, you know, Europe."

"Right, mainly northern and central Europe, to be more specific, but not the Middle East, wouldn't you agree?"

Chris nods and sips his beer.

"Now, I can tell you most assuredly that Europe was civilized and populated long before the birth of Christ, long before the Zionist spread of Christianity. You see, those religions—the three big monstrosities—weren't designed for people like you and me. We had our own religion, a library of beliefs and gods that were natural to us, given to us, and meant for us alone. It is blasphemous for people of our race to worship any god other than what was intended for us. You, my kind young sir," he points at Chris, "are a descendant of pure and noble and superior European stock, and your ancestors were born under the all-knowing and illuminating eye of Odin.

"Our true religion, mine, yours and anyone of European descent's, has a written history going back some eight thousand years, long before that lousy little Jew was born. The religion is called Odinism, and our Father is a god called Odin, who sits right now in his hall in Valhalla, smiling upon us. He is the father of all the gods, and also the god of magic, the god of poetry, the god of death, essentially all that is beautiful and ugly in this world. We are all a result of his union with the goddess Frigga. She is the mother of all the gods, as well as the goddess of marriage, goddess of birth and the goddess of the dawn. She is the Earth, Mother Earth, and Odin is the sky, Father Sky. And their union, their marriage, if you will, is responsible for the conception of all of us and our world, a world not meant to be intruded upon by false gods and prophets and the blood of lesser races. You see, Chris, have you ever noticed that there are so many different churches in America, but all supposedly Christian in nature? I should know—I am a part of one of the biggest. Yet there is so much conflict between them, differences of opinion, and you know why? Because each follower has an organic doubt and instinctive knowledge that what they're hearing in church and reading in the Bible is not true—certainly not for them. They are born of a higher god, and his reason resonates in their soul.

"Simply put," Crowley continues, "it is against your nature to believe in Jesus, just as it would be against your nature to live in the water like a fish, or in a tree like an ape. Did you go to church as a child?"

"Yes," says Chris.

"Me too, sometimes," says Hinckley.

"And did you enjoy it?" asks Crowley, still talking exclusively with Chris.

"No, not really."

"Exactly. Even at a tender age, it is obvious that Christianity requires a slavish devotion, a denying of oneself, everything that goes against human nature. It is a religion that plays on guilt and doubt. Your Father in heaven loves you, therefore, don't disobey, and one doubts where his soul will land when his life is over. It is a religion with a figurehead, a religion that has it all mapped out for you in a convenient little package over a thousand pages thick, vague enough to be interpreted a thousand different ways, causing a thousand different cults to arise from it, because that's all the Christian Church is—a giant tree of cult—with countless branches twisting and turning away from the same basic trunk.

"And the good thing about your natural religion is that there is no guilt. Surely common sense does prevail—you shall not kill your brother, say, or sleep with his wife. But other than that, well, I shall reveal to you further. Is any of this sinking in?"

"Yes," says Chris, "I think so. But can I ask you, if you hate Christianity so much, why are you a priest?"

"A bit hypocritical of me, isn't it? Yes it is, yes it is. Well, first of all, this is all I know, and I have a lot of training and time invested in it. I am not exactly employable in any other occupation, at least not one that could provide me with any sort of living. And most importantly, there is a certain amount of privilege being a priest. I can meet people such as yourself, and I can typically do no wrong. My actions are seldom questioned. Even the harshest of policemen tremble in front of a priest. Villains tremble before a priest. So, in order to do what I must do, I need to hide behind the collar of the clergy. In due time, if all goes well, the collar will no longer be necessary. Are you interested?"

"I think so." And Chris is somewhat interested. A religion that is not too bureaucratic does have a certain appeal. And if someone as nice as Father Crowley is a part of it, then it can't be all bad.

"Excellent. I knew you would be, but first, I must get to the bad news. As you know, growing up in Detroit, there is an assault of the white race going on in America, and, unfortunately, it is spreading throughout the world. This is done by the Jews. Our mortal enemy."

Chris looks puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Just as it isn't natural for you to have a religion other than what is innate, it is not natural for the races to live and work amongst each other. I have never been to Detroit, but I can only assume that the suburb where you lived was virtually all Caucasian, and the city is all black?"

"Yes."

"And tell me, can you tell me if there is a neighborhood or suburb where the races meet, where they live side by side, where they live in harmony? Can you?"

"No," answers Chris, and he now knows where Brad has learned his point of view. He originally thought Brad was capable of his own thinking and forming his own values based on his life experiences. He now realizes that it isn't true; Brad has learned much from the priest.

"Same way in Omaha," says Brad. "Niggers stay on their own side of town, and if a white kid like me moves in, let me tell ya, it ain't cool."

Crowley acknowledges Hinckley. "See, the voice of experience. It is against your instinct to coexist. Brad can tell you, it doesn't work, and seldom do you see it. I will grant you, and I've noticed it since I've been in the military, there is a rash of mixed marriages going on. The reason is simple. Whoever the white party is in a mixed relation has had one of two things happen: the person of the lesser race has put them under some sort of spell, or there is some sort of possession, evil or demonic, if you will, and surely, their souls will perish. Have you ever been attracted to a black woman?"

"No," Chris says, starting to feel slightly swayed by the priest.

"Exactly. You probably wouldn't even look at one twice, and, naturally, a black girl wouldn't give you a second glance, either."

Chris nods his head, thinking that no girl will probably ever give him a second look.

"Well then, are you now willing to proceed down the path to everlasting inner peace and a fulfillment that can't be extended by any other belief, religion, or way of life?"

Life has had no better offers, so Chris thinks for a moment, a little uneasy about the xenophobic views of the priest. But no other hands of masculine or paternal friendship have been extended to him. Karen is a lukewarm companion that he happens to work with, and though he does find her beautiful and intelligent, he doesn't think he has a shot in hell of ever forming a relationship with her, at least not the kind he desires.

He nods. "Sure, why not?"

"No, no," says the priest, "there can be no equivocation on your part. You either want it or you don't. If you don't, that's fine, may the gods bless you and lead you their way at another point in your life, but if you accept, I can only tell you that I will guide you like a son."

This last statement makes Chris's heart tremble. His father has never even called him "son". In fact, he barely uttered his name in Chris's recent memory.

"Okay," he says. "I want it. I want in. What do I have to do?"

"There is a bit of initiation. Brad here has gone through it. A harmless prank, really, no different than what you might expect in a college fraternity or something like that. Grab your coats and take some beers. We're going on a trip."

Quickly and with some confusion, they don their jackets, as does the priest, grabbing his leather coat from the back of a kitchen chair. He stands on the couch and rips down the map of Aberdeen, studies it, and haphazardly folds it and places it in his pocket.

Each of them stumbles as they walk out of the warm house and through the front door into the cold night. It is still early, not quite 10 p.m., and the sky is as clear as Chris has ever seen it since he's been in Scotland. The black and cloudless night is filled with a multitude of stars, so thick and clear that the outline of the Milky Way, a thick white ring, can be seen arching across the sky.

The priest opens his Austin Allegro and looks at Brad and points at the back seat. Brad frowns and climbs in the back, his oversized body very cramped and uncomfortable as he squeezes himself behind the pushed-up driver's seat. He sits amongst a pile of debris, paper and wrappers and food containers. The priest has never bothered cleaning out the car since he purchased it.

Chris climbs in the front and slowly the car starts as Crowley pulls the manual choke and then returns it to the running position as the car begins to idle smoothly. He wipes the inside of the windshield with his sleeve; their breath has already cast a fog upon the glass.

Quickly he drives away, causing the tires to spin on the gravel driveway as he accelerates towards the main road out to the A92.

Something suddenly comes to Chris as he stares out the passenger window, searching the now empty and black fields that during the day contain sheep and farmhouses and trees, interrupted by the occasional side road leading towards another village.

If Crowley tends to have racist views, no matter what his justification, what was his role in the treachery of Lee Rodgers? Chris shivers. He fears what he has gotten himself into.

He is afraid to ask, but he must. He had asked Brad in the past if he knew about Lee, and Brad had said no, but he was skeptical even then and didn't enquire any further for fear of having to know the truth. But now he must, as he has made a sort of commitment, willingly, with the priest, as if he has become a part of a family, a bizarre and macabre family more closely knit than the one from his past, who are now scattered from Scotland to Michigan to Arizona or god-only-knows where.

"Umm, Father Crowley?" Chris asks, retrieving his nearly empty packet of cigarettes from the shirt pocket of his best button-down shirt, his Sunday church shirt.

"Yes?" Crowley replies, knowing that he is too drunk to drive but also sensing that the angels from Valhalla, his white angels, are twinkling in the night sky and swirling around the Allegro as it cuts through the evening, speeding north several miles faster than the legal limit. Crowley is not concerned in the least, not worried in the least about the police who heavily patrol this highway, which is the main thoroughfare for Eastern Scotland. He now feels the white lights are elves known as the Alfar, the holy elves who reside in the uppermost part of heaven and who do Odin's bidding, traveling to Earth to guide him and to protect his chosen ones.

"Well, no offense, but I know that Brad here and Lee Rodgers were friends, and I heard you were with him when he committed suicide. I heard about what he did, and from what you've told me tonight, you know, it just seems…"

Crowley is prepared for the question, and he fields it the same way he dealt with the halfhearted inquiries from his commanding officer, from Chaplain Lambert, from the base security department, and the easy questions asked with doubtful eyes from Chief Wilson, the master-at-arms.

"It must appear awkward," Crowley replies without hesitation, "especially in light of my faith, but I assure you," and he turns to glare at Hinckley, as this is a topic they didn't think to address before bringing Chris into their fold, "that Lee acted alone. I wouldn't condone such careless actions. I knew what he believed, and that in itself wasn't bad, he just went about it the wrong way. Neither Mr. Hinckley nor I had any idea about what he was up to, but we did have discussions—you understand, discussions only—about the topic of race and the injustice the white man receives in American society, and how that injustice is especially amplified in the military, where there is no natural separation of the races. They are all forced to live together, unlike in the States, where people have instinctively settled amongst their own kind. Lee was a disturbed young man indeed, and what he did in Dundee and his suicide later can be marked as one of the most cowardly acts I've ever seen in all my years as a priest. I will agree with the Church on one score; suicide is indeed a most blatant act of selfishness, and a sign of weakness. Our religion tells us that weakness makes us vulnerable to attack, and whatever hardships we face only can make us stronger. Lee was faced with hardship. He had a deep sense of guilt and an even deeper fear of being caught and arrested for murder. He could have been a shining example for our faith and for our race. Instead, he chose to flee, in a most permanent way. Neither Mr. Hinckley nor myself had anything to do with his demise. Brad lost a dear friend, and I lost a potential student of the faith."

Chris is satisfied, mostly, with Crowley's answer. He opens a can of beer. He drinks it greedily, as the effects of the alcohol previously consumed are starting to recede, leaving a dull headache in its wake.

"Okay, good. I was kind of wondering, you know, because of some of the things you said tonight and all that stuff he did. It seemed kind of like, you know, you could have been doing things with him. I'm sorry for doubting you, Father."

"No need for apology. I suspected you may ask about that situation, a situation I wish to discuss no further." Again he turns to glare at Hinckley in the back seat, who already has a collection of empty tins of beer gathering at his feet. "Leave in the past what belongs to the past. Life moves forward, not backward."

"Okay," says Chris.

"I will say this," Crowley says, scratching his cheek. "Lee did give me an idea for our initiation rite tonight. This I will reveal to you as soon as we arrive in Aberdeen."

The rest of the drive is silent in the smoking of cigarettes and the drinking of beer while Chris stares at the moon, which hovers full over the ever turbulent North Sea. Chris stares at the sea and wonders about the life on the other side. Crowley stares at the sea and longs to be on the other side, Norway, where he knows there are many adherents to his faith and he could find friendship in between the fjords and the mountains and the infrequent cities.

As Aberdeen approaches and the signs loom indicating the turn-offs for the city center, Crowley retrieves his map from his pocket and unfolds it on top of the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve and causing the cars traveling in parallel lanes to sound their horns, but he is oblivious to their irritation. He is in deep concentration and in frustration hands the map over the seat to Hinckley. "Find me Dee Street, and get us there."

Hinckley takes the map and flips it over several times, unable to detect in the moonlight and the now present street lamps which way the map should be read.

"Hell, I don't know," he says, too intoxicated to focus on the seeming irrational lines of the map. "I don't know where the hell we're at now."

"Chris?" Crowley looks at Chris, and Chris understands that he is looking to him for help. Chris takes the map. He knows they have just entered the southern edge of the city along the A92. The light is better in the front seat than in the back, and the lights from the buildings along the edge of the city provide even more illumination. Chris quickly finds Dee Street. After a quarter of an hour, they cross a bridge over what must be the Dee River and find the street they're looking for.

Crowley slowly drives down the street. A line of cars forms behind Crowley's Allegro, and again the sound of horns slices through the night. He is looking for an address, number 74, and all his attention is focused on the numbers on the buildings, which are hard to distinguish, as many of them are only seen in recessed doorways.

Finally, he finds the building and speeds up to drive around the block. He points to the building and things start to make sense to Chris.

It is a synagogue.

Crowley parks the car illegally a few streets over, in front of an institution of some sort, perhaps a school. The sign indicates they are parked in a fire lane, but Crowley ignores it. He instructs Brad to stay in the car, to keep an eye on it, as he and Chris have business to conduct.

They step out of the car and walk back towards Dee Street, the Friday night sounds of downtown Aberdeen audible nearby. Chris can feel the edge of the oncoming spring in the air, a feeling that he has always enjoyed, even as a child. The air has a warm and damp quality, and the odorless chilly air gives way to an air that carries all the smells of its surrounding earth, soil, and the grass and flowers and trees that are about to enjoy a reincarnation.

"Chris, you are a lucky young man indeed. Very few are initiated so quickly into our faith. Often, months of study are required, but I can tell you're an apt pupil, and time is wasting. We have a war on our hands, and you are about to enter into the fray." Crowley says this as he walks hurriedly down the street, Chris's shorter legs working hard to remain in a walking stride to keep up with him.

The initiation rite that Crowley is about to administer is a fictitious one, one he made up on his recent trip to Edinburgh, but the idea came to him as an epiphany as his mind raced throughout the week to come up with a way to quickly indoctrinate Chris—and a way to make him culpable also, at least to make him think he's culpable, for whatever they may attempt in what is the very immediate future.

They approach the synagogue. Crowley is disappointed that so many cars are streaming by and their actions will not go unobserved; the doorway to the building is quite well lit underneath the high streetlamps and the harsh moonlight.

But as they approach the front of the synagogue, Crowley rubs his eyes and there he sees dancing in the streetlights and in the air above the door and walkway of the synagogue the white and flickering lights he has come to know and love so well.

"Alfar," he says, and Chris looks at him. Crowley points into the air. Chris follows his finger and sees nothing, just a long sidewalk going uphill in front of shop windows and cars parked in the road.

"Don't you see them?" asks Crowley, hoping that Chris, too, has been deigned significant enough to be given that glimpse of the hand of Odin.

Chris shakes his head. "Do I see what, Father Crowley?"

"Never mind," replies the priest, sighing with a certain gravity. "The emissaries of Valhalla are here, here for your initiation."

"Really?" Chris asks. He believes Crowley is sincere, as the man seems very spiritual to him, as if he is gifted with an extra sense of the world unseen, the world of spirits and realms and principalities that Chris has read of in many of his horror books, but has never known.

"Yes, really." Crowley loses his fear of being seen by any passersby. He feels again somewhat invincible, and he removes a safety pin from the pocket of his leather coat. The coat seems phosphorescent as it reflects the artificial light of the illuminated night.

He grabs Chris's right hand and says nothing in a sort of mock Icelandic, a language he longs to speak but is too lazy to attempt to learn, and his mind is too preoccupied with the scope of his own private race war to devote any additional intellectual energy. The artificial Icelandic is for Chris's benefit and deception; it is meant to lend credence to this mock ceremony and to help ensure Chris's belief in Crowley's spiritual prowess.

He pokes Chris's right index finger quickly. Chris can barely feel the prick, as the air and evening breeze mixed with the alcohol of the beer serve as a sort of anesthesia. Crowley squeezes the finger until the blood comes in a current. Still holding his hand, he leads him to the front door of the synagogue, a darker door than the one in Edinburgh, but this does not discourage the priest. He takes Chris's hand and with his index finger leads him to draw a swastika, though a vague and sloppy one, and again signs it "The Trinity".

Crowley is still holding Chris's hand he steps away from the door to get a look at their work. Satisfied, he turns and walks away. Chris shakes his hand loose and reluctantly, the priest loosens his grip.

"There, there," the priest says. "There is no turning back now. You've just committed in blood."

"What did all that mean?" asks Chris solemnly. "Why the swastika? What is the Trinity?"

"Well, the swastika is quite intimidating to the Jews. As you know, it is a symbol for the German Nazis, who were on the right track, I must say. The Trinity is you, me and Mr. Hinckley. You indeed are one of us now. We were 'The Trinity of the Great White Brotherhood of Eastern Scotland', but the name is too grand sounding and a bit bombastic. I—we—simplified it. The Trinity is much neater sounding, more precise. Holy. It's a name that can mean different things to different people, but it carries a certain power."

"Oh," says Chris, not sure of what certain power the priest is referring to.

A god whispers in Crowley's ear, and the white lights swirl around his eyes. "Don't trust the boy."

He is startled. This is the first time a god has spoken during a conscious moment. The voice in his ear was powerful yet old. It spoke with a certain authority that causes Crowley to feel fear for the first time since his father was alive.

I've just heard the voice of Odin. Instantly, a plan is hatched in his brain and he thinks the inspiration is Odin-sent. His mouth forms words that come from nowhere in mind, but deep, deep from the caverns of his much-blackened heart.

"Now, Chris," the priest says, inspired by the voice as they approach the car, where an unconscious Hinckley is slumped in the back seat, "there is no turning back now. You're with me one hundred percent. Ours is a faith not without discipline, and it will require a certain amount of devotion and a certain amount of work. All religion has a cost. I suggest strongly that you keep no other friends other than Brad or myself or whomever we let in. Our secrecy must be maintained, and the risk of compromise is too great."

This the priest says without looking into Chris's eyes, unlike the rest of the evening's conversations, as he has constantly kept eye contact with Chris throughout every verbal exchange.

Chris thinks of Karen, and already he can feel her slip away. This gives rise to a certain amount of anxiety. In his mind he can see her waving farewell to him, as if all they have shared would now only be a memory and not an active friendship or relationship that he longed for. However, Chris realizes that she doesn't feel for him the way he feels for her, so he can justify the severing of his longing and transfer that emotion to the priest and whatever the priest requires.

The priest's words do cause a certain amount of fear; there is a finality in what he says, in his call for unequivocal devotion. Chris feels like he has just stepped off of a deep ledge and he is feeling terror for the first time in many years, perhaps the first real fear he has ever felt.

They approach the car. Hinckley is unconscious in the back seat, a collection of empty tins of beer surrounding him. Chris thinks briefly about leaving on his own and severing his ties with the priest as quickly as possible, but he doesn't. He climbs into the front seat and resigns himself to fate.