The Oracle Year(16)

“Delicious, isn’t it?” Branson said. “This is the Byass Apostoles. I don’t think there’s a better Palo Cortado to be found.”

Jonas nodded politely.

“It’s very good, Reverend. I’m not much of a drinker, but this is very tasty.”

He watched Branson, waiting for him to explain why he’d been summoned, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming. The reverend lifted his half-empty glass, swirling it in the air, his expression turning pensive—but only for a moment, until the broad smile returned, right on the edge of unsettling.

Jonas found himself getting annoyed.

It was as if the man had no idea what was happening outside his home. In his church. His people left leaderless while he boozed it up in his living room. The congregation was asking questions. They thought the reverend was frightened.

“Sir, I realize that the Oracle naming you on the Site must have come as a shock, but please, we need to know what to do. We need a plan.”

“Oh, I have one, Jonas. After all, it’s been three days. Time for me to rise again, eh?”

Branson turned toward the heavy wooden door, considering. He took another long sip of his sherry, then looked back at Jonas.

“Do you think I’m a good man?” he asked.

To this question, Jonas knew, there could only be one response.

“Yes,” he said.

“Good,” Branson said. “I’m glad. I do too. The Branson Ministry brought in over a hundred and thirty million dollars last year, and a lot of that went right back out. The clean water initiative in Africa. The schools. The drug outreach work. I’m not one of those huckster preachers taking his flock for every penny and spending it on Ferraris and plastic surgery.”

He glanced at the wooden door again for a moment, then back to Jonas.

“To put it another way, would you agree that this Ministry is valuable, and it would be a great loss to the world if it were to disappear?”

“Well, of course, Reverend. I’m not sure anyone could say otherwise.”

“I agree with you,” Branson said. “Therefore, we’ve established that I’m a good man, and that everything I’ve built is important.”

He rubbed the side of his face, causing a distinct, weary scratching noise as his palm was abraded by his stubble. He stared into the middle distance for a long moment.

“I’ve got a secret,” he said.

Branson pointed at the wooden door.

“It’s in there.”

Jonas took an involuntary step backward. He set his mostly untouched glass of sherry down on the coffee table.

“Reverend, I think maybe I should go.”

Branson walked toward the wooden door, pulling a heavy iron key from his pocket.

“Don’t be foolish, Jonas,” he said.

He unlocked the door and opened it, revealing dimness beyond. He stepped inside, vanishing into the gloom.

“Come in here,” the reverend’s voice floated back. “And bring your sherry. It’s expensive.”

Shaking his head, Jonas picked up his glass and followed Branson into the next room.

It was a study of some kind—a dim, windowless chamber with its illumination generated by a single, small lamp on a table in the middle of the room. The pool of light was too small to see much—a few glints of metal from the walls.

Branson closed the door, sealing the room with a smooth click as the latch engaged, then flipped up a bank of switches to the right of the entrance.

A series of spotlights set into recesses along the walls came to life. Below each light sat a niche containing a small, ornate object of metal and glass. The walls were crimson, and the few pieces of furniture were carved from dark wood, with leather upholstery. The aesthetic could not have been more opposite to the calculated, milk-bath neutrality of Branson’s office back at headquarters, or even the bland ordinariness of the rest of his home. It was lush, almost sensual.

Branson tapped another switch. A gas fireplace leapt to life, sending warm, dancing reflections off the metal objects in the alcoves arranged around the room.

He walked to a niche containing a glass cylinder about a foot high, chased with silver, standing on four little golden feet. Inside, an unrecognizable yellow-brown lump. He picked it up and turned, showing it to Jonas.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked.

Jonas looked, his face puzzled.

“I’m not sure, Reverend.”

“A reliquary. These are the mortal remains of Saint Gratus of Aosta. He died in AD 470. I believe it’s a vertebrae. Or so they told me when I bought it.”

Jonas glanced around the room, taking in the many other alcoves, each with its own little chest and container of glass and metal, holding a lump of flesh and bone nearly indistinguishable from the one Branson was holding.

“Are all the rest of these . . .” Jonas gestured helplessly around the room. “Reverend, these are Catholic saints. I don’t understand.”

Branson smiled thinly.

“Don’t worry, Jonas. I’m not a closet Papist. I’m still a good, old-fashioned American Protestant.”

“But then why do you . . .” Jonas began.

Branson stepped closer to the fire, which, to Jonas, seemed like a bizarre choice. The room was much too warm.

“Saintly relics are tourist attractions,” Branson said. “For thousands of years, churches all over the world have used relics to pull in the faithful, and next to every single one is a donation box.”