Oddly, that made sense to Alia. After all, Poole had been the recipient, or the victim, of Morag’s restoration. He knew what was being offered; he had lived through it.

And then there was Poole himself. After a lifetime of Witnessing Alia knew Poole as well as she knew anybody of her own time. Michael Poole was flawed but decent, a loving and courageous man who tried to cope. He was everything that had been best about the humanity of his era, she thought. “Yes. Michael Poole.”

Leropa looked surprised, as if a bluff had been called. “Then you must prepare him, Alia,” she said.

“Very well…”

A deep tremulous fear ran through Alia. What had she got herself into — and how had she got to this point? Was she, little Alia, changing the course of its destiny, and therefore reshaping the path of humanity?

But she was part of the Transcendence now, and all her doubts and questions were a necessary projection of its own inner turmoil. Maybe it would have come to this decision point by some other route, even if she had never existed. But I do exist, she thought. And I have made this happen. Me. And maybe this strange exercise really would help the Transcendence resolve its epochal confusion over the Redemption. It was a moment of defiant, quite un-Transcendent pride.

Drea stared from one to the other, her mouth slack, excluded. Alia saw she shivered with fear — of her, of her sister, as much as of the strange old undying, Leropa.

A couple of days after my talk with Rosa, we gathered in the lobby of the Deadhorse hotel, which we’d reserved for our purposes: me, my reincarnated wife, Tom and Sonia, John, Rosa, Gea. Gea had saturated our environs with counter-surveillance technology. We most assuredly did not want stories of what we were attempting that evening to leak out to the press.

We drew upright chairs into a horseshoe, and we all took our places. John’s lips were pursed, his arms folded, his opinions obvious. Sonia was wide-eyed. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking — maybe, What the hell kind of family am I attaching myself to here? The little Gea toy robot just rolled backward and forward on the floor, somehow reassuring in her absurdity. Rosa sat in her chair, or appeared to; she had a stack of leather-bound books in her lap, and she wore a surplice and a purple stole.

At the head of the horseshoe, the focus of the group, Morag just sat there, head up, eyes wide open, watching us, expressionless. She was wearing a simple dress, open at the neck, her favorite blue color; her hair was brushed back. When she moved, the chair creaked under her weight. It might have been funny if it wasn’t so strange.

Tom gazed around the room mournfully. “I cannot believe we’re doing this. Dad, do we have to be here?”

“But an exorcist doesn’t usually work alone,” Rosa said. “I would expect to work with a younger priest. Someone who could take over if I die, or am possessed. There would be a doctor, to provide medications if necessary. And there would be a family member — somebody strong, in case things get, umm, interesting.”

“This is all quackery,” John said sternly. “Mumbo jumbo.”

“It’s an ancient ritual,” Rosa said, admonishing him. “It derives from the New Testament. Christ Himself drove out demons: ‘My name is legion.’ ”

“I remember that line,” I said. “Lots of pigs got drowned, didn’t they?”

“The word exorcise actually comes from a Greek root meaning to swear. You bind the demon to a higher authority — Christ — so that you can control it, and command it against its will.”

Sonia asked, curious, “And is that what’s written down in your little books?”

Rosa held up one battered-looking volume. “This is the Rituale Romanum, a priest’s manual of services. This contains the formal exorcism rite sanctioned by the Church. Dates back to 1614. I don’t think we have to be too formal today, however.”

John was mocking. “What, no bell, book, and candle? I’m disappointed.”

“But I am wearing the required uniform,” she said, smiling. “And I took confession before coming here. I’m absolved of my sins; there’s nothing a demon could use against me during the ritual.”

“Quackery,” John said again. “After all, what was ‘demonic possession’ but the symptom of some illness — hysteria, multiple personality, schizophrenia, paranoia, some other neuroses — even just a chemical imbalance in the brain? I wonder how many hundreds, thousands of mentally ill people had to endure the cruelty of rites like this?”

Rosa said, “Maybe a little humility is in order. There may come a time when diagnoses of ‘hysteria’ and ‘schizophrenia’ will seem just as foolish, ignorant, and superstition-laden as talk of demons. Besides,

John, belief isn’t necessary for your participation. A funeral doesn’t change the fact of death, but you wouldn’t refuse to attend one, would you? And having attended you would feel better, for through our rituals we feel we have some control over such an extraordinary and powerful part of our lives, even death. This rite is merely a way of managing the ineffable.”

“So is that what you’re trying to do today? Make us all feel better?”

Rosa replied, “No. This isn’t just cosmetic. What we have here is a ritual of proven power. And it’s the only way I can think of to break through the barriers inside Morag — to communicate with whatever she truly is, or whoever sent her here. If nothing else this will surely make it clear that we want this state of affairs to change: maybe just the fact of our desire will get through, our sincerity.”

“Get through to where?” John demanded.

“I don’t know,” Rosa snapped. “If I did, perhaps we wouldn’t need to do this. But if you have a better idea I’ll gladly hear it.”

He had no reply, but I felt he was covering a deeper fear. As he sat there, arms folded, face knotted into a scowl, I felt a surge of helpless, protective love for him; after all he was my brother.

Morag’s face was expressionless. She said now, “I sure don’t have any better ideas. Maybe if we push at the door, we may find there’s somebody pulling from the other side as well. Let’s do it.” Her voice was clear, calm, strong.

We all stared at her.

Rosa said, “Fine. Michael, do you have the props?”

I had a small bag under my seat; now I brought it out and opened it. “Props? Is that the right word?”

“Just hand them over,” Rosa said, sounding grumpy herself.

I produced a small bag of salt, which I set on the floor to one side of Morag’s chair. There was a vial of wine, bloodred, which I put down on the other side.

Tom asked, “So what’s with the salt and the wine?”

“Salt represents purity,” I told him. “The wine the blood of Christ.”

John said, “Shame we haven’t a few relics to hand. A bit of the True Cross. A saint’s toe-bone.” He laughed, but it was hollow, and nobody laughed with him.

“Wow,” Sonia said. I thought it was the first time she had spoken. “I haven’t felt this way since I messed with a Ouija board when I was twelve.” She sounded as if this were fun, like a haunted-house theme park ride. She held up her arm. “The hairs on my flesh are standing up. Look, Tom—”

He hushed her. But I envied her lack of imagination.

I reached into the bag again, and drew out a crucifix. It was a small silver pendant, in fact a legacy from my grandfather Poole, a Manchester Catholic, who died when I was ten. It was only the size of a quarter, with a little Christ like a toy soldier. But it was an extraordinary moment when I held up the crucifix before Morag, and I was aware of everybody staring at the little medallion, the way it caught the light.

I passed the crucifix to Morag and leaned over her. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I can’t believe I’m putting you through this.”