《Brimstone Crimson》


 Chapter One: Harvest

    Harvest Season, 2732 BC, Dusk, Mesopotamia


    Shem was being hunted. The silence of the forest, the hair standing on the back of his neck and that now familiar feeling of disquiet told him so. To Shem, there was no mystery in the identity of his shadows. The mystery was in how many, how soon and how to avoid the situation altogether.


    Muted light cast by the setting sun as it reached dying tendrils through the forest canopy did little to assist the young man in his late teens as he squinted in the half light and strained to hear some new sound that would give away his enemies'' position. He knew their identity because he''d been brought up on their lore. For ten generations, the tribe known as the Ben Cana had unceasingly perpetuated their ancient and intensely personal war against Japheth''s people ¨C and today it would seem, against Shem.


    Against community rule, the youth had ventured outside of his village without a companion and the irony was not lost on him. Of course, he had known that leaving the village unattended was forbidden. He had always known. But, as usual, this knowledge hadn''t kept his ego-needs from taking precedence over tribal rules and regulations. Letting a goat wander off that had been in his care was not only a personal embarrassment, it could also bring about stiff punishment if discovered by the elders.


    Not to mention Father ...


    Shem had thought about the possibility that at least one of his friends wouldn''t talk afterward if he brought him along. But, in the end he reasoned that risk to both pride and hide exceeded the reward of communal obedience.


    I''m alone ...


    The snapping of twigs and the soft rustle of brush brought him back to the present. He discerned that the sound had come from behind him and off to his right. Slowing his gait then stopping completely, he dropped into a defensive crouch. Thankfully, he wasn''t defenseless and silently breathed a prayer of thanks to the Ancient for reminding him to arm himself before setting out.


    It rankled him to admit it, but due to his youth and incomplete training, Shem hadn''t yet attained to the full rights of the Hakkanah, the warrior¨C guild of his people. Presently, he was two¨Cthirds of the way through a training process that began for boys who showed aptitude around the age of five cycles. This process culminated at young adulthood only after the acolyte had passed the Rites. The first rites centered on battle prowess and strategy with the Haddar. The final rites dealt exclusively with the Fire.


    Listening to the sounds of the forest, His calloused hands twisted around the comfortably familiar weapon. The Haddar was the weapon of choice among the Hakkanah. As far as weapons technology went, it was relatively simple ¨C a long cedar staff, approximately six feet in length, sealed and hardened with a special coating of sap manufactured by the elderly women of the village. At one end of the staff was a bronze spearhead ¨C flat, triangular and honed to a razor sharp edge. At the opposite end was a three¨Cinch diameter bronze orb, which through the correct application of momentum and centrifugal force, could easily crush the bones of any assailant. The spearhead was composed of the same quantity of metal as the orb, giving the weapon remarkable balance. The only real defensive concession was a layer of hammered bronze plating that wrapped around the center of the staff.


    Shem''s muscles tensed as his crouch lowered and his hands gripped the smooth wooden shaft of his Haddar more deliberately. The air remained still and the forest silent; no trace of his stalkers was evident. Several minutes passed before Shem allowed himself to relax, breathed deeply and stood from his crouch, the tension dissipating from his unconsciously knotted shoulders. Apparently, he mused, the Ben Cana had been too few in number or too poorly armed today to risk an attack. He smirked and relished the thought that he, himself, had intimidated his enemies into abandoning the kill (on the day of his first encounter, no less)! As Japheth reached out to stretch his stiff and idle limbs, he rehearsed in his mind the boast he planned on relaying to his fellow acolytes back in the village:


    My friends, you wouldn''t believe ...


    A goat''s head fell from the canopy above and thudded to the ground in front of him.


    As Shem stepped back from the gruesome appendage staring up at him with sightless eyes, everything seemed to happen at once. From the branches above, three forms dropped to the earth, forming a rough, triangular perimeter around him. Almost as quickly as their feet touched the ground, they were upon him, crude, bronze blades hacking away. Shem''s Haddar came up instinctively, blocking the initial two blows and twirling swiftly, creating space between he and his attackers.


    Even as he settled himself into a defensive posture, his mind began to rapidly replay the lessons drilled into his skull for years regarding Ben Cana warfare.


    The Ben Cana are crude and undisciplined in their manner of war, but make up for it with their reckless abandonment and ferocity ...


    The Ben Cana style of battle is to throw themselves into the fray without fear, then relish takes of glory around the campfire if they survive the encounter ...


    The Ben Cana take no prisoners ...


    For one brief moment, Japheth considered using the Fire.


    His knowledge of the Fire was rudimentary, as was the knowledge of all the Hakkanah acolytes at his stage of development. They had seen element drawn by others. They had been instructed as to its origins and applications. But, their actual experience of drawing it had been limited to only the most fleeting of sensations.


    He pushed the thought from his mind. Even more frightening than the whipping he would receive from the elders for drawing the Fire before passing the Rites, Shem feared the tales told of what the power could do to those that were ill-prepared for the experience. His teachers used every opportunity to tell communal stories of the burned out bodies and minds of the foolish ones who had drawn the Fire into them in either precocious ignorance or prideful rebellion. He would take his chances with his Haddar.


    Dodging one blow and parrying another, he gripped his Haddar with both hands toward the spear end and swung the bronze orb down sharply toward the legs of his foremost attacker. Soft metal met bone and the kneecap of one bearded and wild¨Ceyed Ben Cana shattered, sending the screaming warrior crashing to the ground. In the downing of the first assailant, the perimeter was broken and Shem sprinted out of reach of the two remaining attackers. The Ben Cana quickly gave chase down the twisting path, with the younger and fleeter of foot of the two outrunning his partner and quickly closing the gap between himself and his fleeing quarry. Shem could hear the man''s labored breath on the trail behind him and smell the reek of his soiled rags. But, as his assailant approached to within arm''s reach, he spun the staff under his right arm, positioning the spear head behind him, then planted his feet and thrust backwards as he came to a skidding halt. The shocked Ben Cana had the blade of a spear head protruding through the back of his right shoulder before he even realized what had happened.


    Pain and surprise showed on the man''s grimy face as he fell to his knees ¨C alive, but incapacitated. Planting his foot on the stunned man''s chest Shem wrenched the Haddar free with a technique he had rehearsed countless times on the sparring grounds, causing the man on the forest floor to writhe in agony, anew. He barely had time to lift his weapon before the trailing Ben Cana was upon him, slashing with his serrated blade. The initial blow was swiftly parried and countered with a well¨Cpositioned foot to the chest of the much larger man, knocking him off balance. Shem turned and bolted in the general direction of the village, praying silently that he might still outdistance the remaining Ben Cana lumbering after him. Recovering quickly, the huge warrior gave chase with a snarl of rage, building up a bear¨Clike momentum that belied his great size.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Winded and frightened, Shem tore down the trail, cresting a rise that revealed a steep decline just yards ahead. Heedless of the steep angle, down the embankment he skidded, sometimes scree-running, sometimes recklessly sliding downward toward the forest floor.


    He risked one quick glance behind and was able to see the remaining Ben Cana beginning his initial descent. The glance proved just long enough for Shem to miss seeing the root which jutted up from the uneven hillside. His foot caught the root, sending him sprawling headfirst down the embankment. He landed hard on his right side, continuing to skid down the slope. The Haddar fell from his grip and before being able to come to a complete stop, the Ben Cana was on top of him. Shem dodged the first blow, hearing the crude sword thud into the hard clay to the left of his skull.


    The second blow, however, found its mark and scored a deep slash into his left shoulder. A shockwave of pain gripped the boy and he screamed out in agony. Yanking the blade free of its mark, the Ben Cana raised his arms for the killing blow, lifting both his head and his voice in a chilling scream that cursed both Shem and his God.


    In desperation, Shem groped with his left hand blindly, discovering the shaft of his fallen Haddar. Lifting the weapon, he blocked the falling blow and felt the Haddar crack and give way in its middle, center bronze playing severely creased and compromised. But, the weapon still retained just enough of its rigidity for Shem to swing up the orb¨Cside of the staff, catching the Ben Cana flush on the left side of his skull. The man toppled to the ground, rolled to the base of the hill and lay motionless.


    Silence settled back over the forest as Shem lay in a puddle of his own blood. Gasping for breath, he breathed a quick prayer to the Ancient for His mercy, then gritted his teeth against the pain. Slowly, he struggled to rise to his feet, faltered, and fell to his hands and knees. He calculated that the village was only a half¨Cmile off and believed that with a moment''s rest he could still traverse the distance even though both strength and sun were fading quickly. Leaning on tired and burning arms, Shem attempted to gather his wits as he stared dully at the path beneath him.


    The ground before his eyes trembled, slightly.


    He thought he had hallucinated. In his dazed and weakened state, it took Japheth a second to process what was taking place, but in moments a recognizable pattern could be detected. At intervals of three seconds, the muffled thud of a large object pressing its enormous weight into the earth could be both felt and heard. His chest vibrated with each successive footfall as he watched, transfixed at the sight of the soil beneath him bouncing in cadence with what he now knew could only be the footsteps of a nightmare. This fear was confirmed by the crackling of tree branches and the enormous shadow suddenly cast over him by a form that now stood between him, the setting sun and most importantly, home.


    Shem raised his sepia-brown eyes, following the contour of the shadow that lay on the earth before him until it touched sandaled feet easily three times the size of his own. His eyes continued their journey upward, taking in legs thicker than ten¨Cyear¨Cold oaks, knotted with muscle and seeming to go up forever. They passed over a ragged loincloth, a torso that seemed chiseled of granite, a stout neck and pronounced jaw, until they finally came to rest on narrowed, red eyes.


    Nephal.


    How many nights had Shem lay awake as a child, shivering at the images this word implied. He had never seen a Nephal. He had never been allowed to travel far enough from the village to risk being seen by one of the behemoths.


    But now, for the first time beholding the monster that personified all of his childhood nightmares, Shem knew that all of the tales, rumors and warnings could never do justice to the reality.


    A humanoid biped approximately eighteen feet in height stood before him; a being he knew was spawned from the seed of the fallen Watchers and frightened, unwilling females. A creature that now gave its full, undivided attention to the broken man¨Cchild before him.


    Its skin was bronzed and hairless. Above the fiery red eyes jutted a protruding forehead, championing the sawed¨Coff stub of a four inch diameter horn, reminiscent of the rhino. Long, red hair fell to its shoulders and in his hands he held a simple, but enormous spear, the shaft of which had to have been crafted from an entire sapling. It was a giant, easily twice the height of any man in Shem''s village and three times the weight.


    Strange, feral eyes gazed upon Shem in what seemed to be cold indifference. The boy was an amusement to it, a trifle. It could kill him or pass him by without giving greater thought to one option or the other. It didn''t speak. It didn''t move. It just stared at the cringing form before him for what seemed to Shem to be an eternity.


    He couldn''t think. He couldn''t pray. He couldn''t do anything but gaze up into those blood¨Cred eyes. He was the mouse and the Nephal was the viper. It was no more in his power to move or cry out at the moment than it was for him to fly away from the scene like a bird. At long last, the creature raised one corner of his mouth in a bemused smirk then hefted his enormous spear over his shoulder. Rounded muscles tensed for the killing thrust and Shem knew that his days on this earth were over.


    The spearhead flashed in the dying light as its tip fell toward the intended target.


    On blind, pain¨Cfogged instinct Shem awoke from his fear¨Cinduced trance and rolled quickly to his left as a spearhead that contained more mass than his skull thudded into the hard¨Cpacked, blood¨Csoaked clay where he had lain only seconds before. He rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered several feet back from the behemoth. The smirk remained on the lips of the as he slowly walked toward him, taking his time, enjoying the game.


    Shem brought up his Haddar before him and prayed silently. As the giant approached to within ten feet of him, Shem suddenly reared back and with all the strength he could muster, hurled the Haddar directly toward the Nephal''s crimson right eye. The Haddar wobbled like a broken arrow in flight over the short distance until an enormous hand snatched the weapon from mid¨C air, with no more effort than it would have taken Shem to catch a child''s ball.


    With his last reasonable option gone, Shem''s mind became strangely contemplative. He now thought of his parents. He now thought of his friends. He now thought of a maiden whose name he did not know, and now never would. For one brief moment, he grieved. For one brief moment he prayed, then in the next moment he made his decision.


    Halting his retreat and facing the monster in what he knew would be one last foolish and fatal stand; Japheth kicked off both of his sandals, dug his toes into the rich loam bordering the path and drew the Fire into himself ...


    From deep beneath the earth''s surface it came, racing up through the mantle, penetrating bedrock and hurling itself through the earth''s crust, through granite, lava rock and soil at the speed of lightning. It came from the fathomless depths known only to the Ancient until, milliseconds after being summoned; the Fire surged into Shem, crackling with the intensity of summer lightning, as it entered his surrendered body at the juncture of feet and earth. Japheth felt as if his bones were igniting, and simultaneously, he felt as if he was being plunged into an icy mountain stream. The scintillating sensation raced up his frame beginning with the toes, moving up the legs, filling the chest cavity, pouring into his arms, then finally filling his mind with equal parts fire and ice.


    The ensuing moments were lost to Shem except for a vague memory of a crimson¨Chued, shimmering wave spreading out from him in all directions, resembling the waves of heat rising from the surface of rocks on a hot summer day.


    All went light.


    Then all went black.


    _____________________


    Shem awoke to the sensation of strong hands lifting him from the earth and water being poured from a pottery jar into his opened mouth. he thought, groggily, as consciousness returned to him.


    Turning his head from side to side, he took in his surroundings and realized that he''d been discovered by a familiar band of traders who were returning home to his village. He must have been unconscious, but for how long Shem wasn''t sure. The sun had sunken beneath the western horizon, leaving only the twilight of dusk. But, as he opened now scorched and blistered eyelids, the failing light was still sufficient enough for him to see that he and four other villagers now knelt in the center of an enormous, blackened crater, easily ten yards in diameter and four feet deep.


    Drifting in and out of lucidity as his wounds were being tended with salve, Shem considered whether he would be hailed as a hero or beaten as a fool when his tale was told in the village tonight.


    Mostly though, he thought of the eyes ...


    Before drifting totally back into oblivion, one final thought tickled at the back of Shem''s mind and he started. Turning his head from side to side, he noticed the absence of one thing as he surveyed the glassed over landscape around him ¨C the Nephal was nowhere to be seen.

 Chapter Two: Nightmare

    Autumn, 1363 AD, Three hours past Vespers, Britain


    It was the sound of a muffled cry that awakened Brother Lawrence. The cramped confines of his monastic cell remained pitch black, prompting him to fumble for his candle and flint before thinking the better of it. He stilled himself and listened, a discipline he had practiced daily during his twenty year tenure at St. Bartholomew Abbey.


    Is Joachim the gardener up early stretching his legs, again?


    But instead of bipedal steps, many footfalls could be heard padding upon the earthen floor of the hallway outside, seeming to come to a halt just down the hall from Lawrence''s cell. The muted sound of a door opening could be heard, then ... nothing. Silence for the better part of a minute, then the sound of another brief, stricken cry, seemingly closer this time. Again, quiet descended upon the abbey like a shroud.


    What is this?


    More footsteps padded in the hallway, seemingly down to his left but drawing steadily closer. This time as they stopped, the door that opened slowly was obviously the one of Brother Justin, just next door to Lawrence''s cell. Brother Justin was the Order''s chief musician and Lawrence''s closest companion. As quietly as his middle¨Caged bones allowed, Lawrence rose to a standing position and crept soundlessly to the peephole near the back of the cell; the one through which he and Brother Justin would pass notes to each other in the hours of silence after Vespers, when neither of them could find sleep.


    Lawrence peered through the two¨Cinch diameter hole and took in the dark and restricted scene before him. Brother Justin''s bed rested against the far wall with the freckled and jovial monk (always a heavy sleeper when he finally did fall asleep) reposing on its dry, sweet-smelling straw, breathing heavily. Lawrence strained to arch his neck in order to view the limited panorama, craning to see who it was that had entered Justin''s room at this hour, uninvited. Faint torch light could be seen at the right hand corner of Lawrence''s view, giving him the assumption that others waited just outside the sleeping musician''s door.


    The torso and legs of a robed figure came into Lawrence''s view, walking slowly and, what seemed to Lawrence, stealthily toward the sleeping figure. He considered crying out in order to wake his sleeping friend, but halted as he considered the possible intentions of the intruder. If Brother Justin was being given a private, confidential summons, then it wouldn''t do for Lawrence to reveal himself and be seen as an eavesdropper. If the possibility did exist that Brother Justin could be in any danger, certainly the least likely source would be a brother, wearing the robes of Lawrence and Justin''s own Order, no matter what strains and frictions had arisen of late. If it were a simple prank, then of all people in the Abbey, Lawrence wanted to be in on the joke. Besides knowing Justin''s sleeping patterns well; Lawrence knew that he could bang pots and pans for an hour solid at this time of the night and still not disturb the log¨Csawing woodsman in the straw bed next door.


    The legs of the mysterious and intruding brother took two more steps, drawing abreast to Justin''s bed and a single hand could be seen by Lawrence, reaching out from the folds of the dark robe and resting itself lightly on the forehead of the slumbering Justin. To Lawrence''s utter surprise, Justin suddenly opened his eyes and gazed up at what must have been the completely enshrouded figure standing above him.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Without warning, the room filled with a faint, ruby-red glow for one brief instant before a brilliant burst of intense fire of the same hue exploded from the shadow¨Cmonk''s hand, completely enveloping the head of Brother Justin for three full seconds before dying out as quickly as it had come. No cry escaped from Brother Justin''s lips as the room, again, fell silent.


    The robed and cowled phantom took one step back as two of his companions, one with a lit lantern, stepped into the room and gazed down at the still form lying before them.


    With the room now lit clearly, Brother Lawrence could make out two distinct faces in the flickering light. The first face was the lean, angular face of Brother Rugio, the taciturn and most outspoken member of the Order, his deep¨Cset gray eyes glinting in the fire light. The second face belonged to the now blackened, brain¨Cboiled skull of Brother Justin, still smoldering, with the remains of his widened eyes pointed upward vacantly at the thatched ceiling.


    Lawrence stifled a gag with the back of his hand and drew back from the peephole.


    Rugio!


    His brain screamed the name silently, while simultaneously puzzling over the bizarre incongruity between the action he just witnessed and any conceivable motive the treacherous monk might have.


    Rugio is our brother!  Whatever differences Justin and he may have had were merely academic, easily solved through debate not murder ... Rugio!


    Lawrence''s mind roiled with a dozen possibilities before one piercing thought finally asserted itself. Whatever had been the black monk''s motives, this night, one thing was certain ...


    My cell is next!


    Lawrence inched his way toward the back of the room, eyes fixed upon the unlocked and unlockable door only feet in front of him. Shuffling footsteps could be heard moving in the hallway once more. This time they stopped just outside of Lawrence''s cell door. He could make out quivering, phantasmal shapes writhing beneath the door''s threshold; the only entrance to and exit from his cell. Lawrence''s eyes remained riveted on the small, wooden latch that was constructed to hold the door shut against field mice, not treacherous assassins.


    It began to move slowly.


    With no other recourse coming into his mind, Lawrence first considered, then finally conceived what would have been to him just five short minutes ago an unthinkable course of action. He dug his bare and calloused feet into the hard packed dirt floor of his cell and reached deep beneath him for the Crimson.


    The subterranean element was drawn up instantly from the foundations of creation into Lawrence''s trembling body, its reddish hue spreading out as arcs of streaking power crackled at the juncture of soil and sole, filling the room with its muted iridescence.


    Thou!


    He held the Crimson in unseen reserves cultivated in the mind and body through decades of study, discipline and practice.


    Shalt!


    He continued to draw in Crimson in measures greater than he had ever dared before, until his bones seemed to liquefy.


    Not!


    The latch to Lawrence''s door released and the door began to swing slowly inward.


    Kill!


    Lawrence released his hold on the crimson fire and hurled it toward the wooden door before him. A shockwave of intense red liquid plasma shattered into oblivion every object that stood between Lawrence and the doorway. Shards of wood, vellum and glass exploded into the air, then vaporized into nothingness as the heat of a thousand blast furnaces enveloped them.


    The Crimson exploded into the doorway, into the hallway and finally into every living creature that stood in its path.

 Chapter Three: 440

    September 5th 2012, 10:05 am, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin


    He allowed the knife-point to touch his arm tenderly, almost lovingly, softly letting its polished blade slide lightly and harmlessly across his wrists, along the inside of his forearm, then completing the circuit by crisscrossing the palms of his slightly trembling hands. Thin white furrows of disturbed skin left a flaky trail marking the blade''s shallow, meandering path. No blood, no pain, just a quick macabre distraction from the ceaseless train of thoughts, anxieties and problems that poured through his mind in the manner of a mountain stream flowing swift and swollen from a long winter''s snow melt. Jed never fully understood his fantasy fixation with self-harm. He had never actually broken skin. He just mused. He just imagined. He just "practiced."


    Why do I do this?


    Jed had long ago come to the conclusion that it was the Critic he was hiding from during these episodes ¨C always the Critic. That incessant inner voice of "ought" which served as a constant evaluator of his thoughts, deeds, and motives. On his better days, his rational mind thought that it understood where the Critic had come from. On his better days, his rational mind thought that at the very least it should be able to offer up a fair resistance to the Critic''s influence by now. But, all days weren''t better days and the mind was not always a rational creature. Jed knew from experience that his beautiful brain could lie in green pastures as a docile lamb or howl at the moon like a ravenous wolf. Today, his mind was howling and for reasons beyond his understanding, the Critic was shouting and demanding his attention much in the same way a nineteenth century hawker of snake oil vied for the attention of passersby at the county fair.


    "You ought! You should! You can''t! You won''t! You''re not! You''ll never!"


    Jed''s eyes returned to the shining 440 steel blade poised over his wrist, waiting to begin another pass.


    He had read all of the self-help books and had watched Dr. Phil. Jedidiah Matthews had tried it all. Still, it would always come back to this ¨C this desire for distraction, this desire for mental rest, this desire for escape.


    Here it comes, thought Jed.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    He allowed himself to go numb. He knew this feeling, the numbness born of soul¨Cweariness that muted the voice of the Critic, but also left him feeling strangely vulnerable. These were the scariest times; times when he thought he could almost do it. These were the times when, in total mental and emotional exhaustion, Jed shoved all the voices and sensations to the side and gave up the will to care anymore. In this state of mind anything was possible. Jed wasn''t a fool. He knew that men had lost their careers in such a state. Men had lost their families.


    Men had lost their lives.


    His breathing slowed and the tension in his shoulders finally began to release. The voice of the Critic faded into buzzing white noise at the back of his mind. There was only numbness, now. Slowly and in an increasingly calm and detached state, Jed watched as his hand lowered the blade, inch by inch, until the fine tip rested against the white skin of his inner forearm.


    Then he kept on pushing.


    The sharpened blade slid silently and unhurriedly into his skin at a point about six inches above the wrist. Jed watched in rapt fascination as the blade stayed itself, a quarter inch into his flesh. It seemed as if the arm belonged to someone else; as if it was far away and he watched the whole scene in the manner of an objective scientist watching a distant quasar through a telescope.


    One small bead of blood began to run from the puncture forming a small rivulet running down Jed''s arm, slowly descending toward the elbow. He watched the stream descend slowly and lazily with that same feeling of numbed, detached coolness. When it reached the elbow, the blood pooled briefly into one single drop, then dripped silently from his arm. Jed watched the drop fall in what seemed like slow motion to his dulled senses until it sloshed noiselessly onto the pile of notes he had spread out before him, earlier.


    The creation of the tiny, puddled mess woke Jed out of his morbid reverie, blinking and shaking his head in the short, quick manner in which one would displace a pesky fly.


    You did it! You actually did it this time! Not now, Jed, this is not the time for this ...


    Reaching behind him, he quickly grabbed a tissue and began the process of cleaning off his bloodied arm. A second tissue, this one doused with hand sanitizer stung painfully as it more thoroughly erased all passage of the thin, crimson river. Finally, a hastily constructed bandage formed of tissue and masking tape covered the small puncture. It would have to do for the moment. Thankfully, Jed had worn long sleeves today.


    Now is not the time for this, Jed rehearsed again in his mind as he stood up from his desk. Now was the time to pull it together. Now was the time for one last look in the mirror and a fresh stick of gum. Now was the time to step out of his office, shake hands and kiss babies.


    Now was the time to step into the pulpit and preach God''s Holy Word.

 Chapter Four: Obsession

    September 5th 2012, 5:35 pm, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin


    With his Sunday responsibilities over, Jed had relished the thought of an afternoon and evening free from intruding ministry obligations. But, like so much of his free time over the past years, it seemed easier to fold motor oil than to truly relax and rest.


    Do the next right thing.


    He was actually beginning to hate this recurring motivational meme that looped within his inner monologue. Though this hatred only served to bring upon him more feelings of guilt and self-loathing.


    Snapping back to the present moment, Jed''s attention was briefly drawn from this crazy cycle by an awareness of easy listening music playing in the background; an old Michael Jackson hit from the ''80''s put to string orchestra. His gaze moved from inward to outward as he noticed for the first time how the setting sun fought valiantly through the fortress of blinds to compete with the pasty fluorescent bulbs of his favorite Sunday night haunt, Barnes & Noble. Jed stood in line for the third time this month at the sprawling bookstore, wasting another perfectly good Sunday evening wrestling with the scruples of conscience that prodded him to return the novel he had begun to read two days ago.


    He''d become so weary of the inner stream of conscious looping incessantly over the past 48 hours.


    Don''t you think you''re getting a little old for fantasy novels about elves, wizards, sorcery, blood and gore? Would a person who was truly committed to God entertain themselves through books glorifying witchcraft? Come on, Jed ... do the next right thing!


    The argument, though painfully familiar by now, never failed to convince him. When the Critic''s voice got loud and insistent enough, Jed always caved. It just wasn''t worth the emotional energy it took to fight it off. Reading was supposed to be relaxing, right? Inevitably, he''d take the book back to the store and attempt to find something "safe" and "godly" to read. The problem seemed to be that the criteria for a "safe and godly" novel was getting more stringent with each passing month.


    He''d rehearsed this cycle countless times: the conscience would soften enough to seek out another fantasy fiction title (Jed''s secret but favorite genre), then building guilt feelings would compel him to question if reading this book was really the next right thing.


    Rinse and repeat.


    Jed looked at the harried mother of two standing just in front of him with her Ritalin¨Claced urchins held in a matronly vice¨Cgrip. He wondered if she or anyone else in this bookstore would think him totally crazy for returning a book half the teenagers at the local high school (not to mention his church''s own youth group) had read already. No matter. Jed was God''s man. God wanted Jed''s devotion. And what God wanted, Jed gave.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The mid¨C40''s clerk smiled disingenuously as she told the book from Jed''s hand.


    Does she recognize me from last week?"


    Is there anything wrong with the book?" asked the clerk."


    No," said Jed, "I just decided not to read it."


    "Oh, didn''t you like the story?


    Trapped. Jed hated to get painted into a conversational corner like this. His conscience wouldn''t allow him to lie; he was thoroughly enjoying the story. But, he also didn''t want to look like a fool or give an answer that his inner tormentor would later chide him for as being legalistic.


    "It just wasn''t for me."


    Seemingly satisfied, the woman accepted back the "almost" new


    Christopher Paolini fantasy novel and let Jed exchange it for a "safe" copy of C. S. Lewis'' Out of the Silent Planet.


    Relieved that the experience was over, Jed checked his watch and headed out the door.


    The cool, fall breeze tickled the thick brown hair (a blessing from his paternal forebears) whose sides were beginning to show some streaks of gray (a blessing from his maternal forebears) as he headed for the family minivan.


    Pulling out his iPhone, Jed perused his schedule for Monday morning while making his way across the crowded parking lot. It never ceased to amaze him how the life of a typical pastor in a church of 150 was less "spiritual" than the average person might think.


    While it may have once been the norm 100 years ago for the bulk of a minister''s time to be occupied with prayer, study and the visiting of shut-ins; today''s pastor functioned more as a CEO than shepherd. Emails, staff meetings, financial reports and endless phone calls took up the bulk of Jed''s day. While the counseling of troubled souls (most often with the same counsel he had given those same souls last week) took up most of the rest.


    No meetings in the morning. Good, he thought.


    As his brain drove home on subconscious autopilot, Jed mused about how he used to be a people person. But, that was before the Critic appeared. He couldn''t remember the day or hour, but he could remember the season when the Critic first rented space in his mind.


    As a College Student, Jed had used fiction to divert his mind from the rigors of study. One novel that impacted him greatly was This Present Darkness, by Frank Peretti. The hero in the story was a small town pastor who had a remarkable ability to discern the voice of God speaking to him throughout his day. In response to the book, Jed resolved to be more attentive to God''s voice in his own decision making. What he didn''t count on was the legalistic spin his brain would place on an otherwise wonderful truth.


    Jed began to consider most all "promptings" he received in his mind as being from God. This led him to question every thought and action, then rack his brain for appropriate ways to make restitution.


    While on the surface all of these things seemed like good, purging, things for a young man of God to accomplish, these "promptings" became stricter as the days, months and years went by.


    The voice prompted him to pursue morality to the point of absurdity, to confess to God the most minor scruples and avoid giving offense to anyone.


    That voice eventually drove him to a psychiatrist where he was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Jed still fumed when he thought about it. That voice was not God. It was a squatter in one of his mind''s apartments.


    Enter the Dragon.


    It was his own brain separated from joy by one teaspoon of chemicals.


    The diagnosis came five years ago along with therapy, meds, and shame.


    Damn.


    ...


    ...


    ...


    Forgive me for cursing, Lord ...

 Chapter Five: Vagabond

    September 5th 2012, 5:50 pm, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin


    Jed snapped out of his reverie as he drove by Hope Community Church, the place that had been his spiritual family for the past three years. Living only one block from the church gave him the luxury of privacy when wanted, but also allowed him to keep a watchful eye on the church''s property. As would be expected on a Sunday night, the lot was empty of cars. But, as he slowly drove by, Jed noticed a lone figure standing beneath the carport overhanging the church''s main entrance.


    Great, he thought.


    Being so close to the interstate, it came as no surprise to Jed as he pulled into the parking lot to find a disheveled man leaning against one of the support posts of the aging carport. It had always irritated Jed that the transient population in Hickory Grove was so substantial in comparison to the town''s twenty-five thousand citizen populace. The new interstate bypass, constructed fifteen years ago, had blessed the town by attracting the attention of the fast-growing organic grocery store chain, "Whole-Life," and enticing them to establish their corporate headquarters in the once sleepy town of Hickory Grove twelve years ago. However, along with the blessings of financial prosperity came the twin frustrations of previously unheard of traffic congestion, as ten thousand commuters filtered into town to fill the cubicles in one of Whole-Life''s four sprawling office complexes; and the unsightly cardboard placards of vagrants keeping vigil at the highway off ramps and flooding the local churches, food banks and street missions with requests for physical, financial and emotional assistance.


    Pushing aside the temptation to just keep on driving, Jed attempted to bolster his sagging motivation by accentuating what he considered to be the bright side of the situation.


    At least he''s not a repeat customer, he thought to himself as he pulled up under the overhang and lowered his driver''s side window.


    "Good evening," Jed said with as much sincerity as he could muster during the time when he was supposed to be off. "Can I help you with something?"


    The man didn''t smell of booze from Jed''s vantage point, but the vagueness in his eyes and expression led Jed to believe that the man wasn''t fully present. After a few seconds, the vagrant uttered the six least favorite words Jed liked to hear after office hours in a voice that was reminiscent of the rock polisher Jed kept in his garage.


    "I need someone to talk to."


    Jed considered asking the man to come back tomorrow, but as "do the next right thing" began to play in his mind, he nodded curtly, gave the man a thin smile and turned off the van. Stepping out of the vehicle, he attempted to firmly and professionally shake the fish¨Clike grip of the "gentleman" standing before him.


    His tendency, albeit one he was admittedly working on, was to size up an individual within the first three seconds of meeting them. At around 70 years of age, with unkempt hair, beard, clothes and especially - teeth - the guy had "alms request" written all over him.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Desiring greatly to give the man his standard: "I''m terribly sorry, but all we can provide for you is assistance from our food pantry, if you would be so kind as to come back tomorrow ...," speech, Jed instead unlocked the front door of Hope Community Church and invited the man back into his office.


    Once inside an office that always seemed far too spacious to Jed for a church this size, he waded into his alms routine.


    "It''s a pleasure to meet you, Mister ...?" said Jed, trailing off in his most obsequious minister''s voice as he offered the man a seat.


    After a sufficiently awkward pause (how Jed hated awkward pauses) the man came back with the absent¨Cminded and monosyllabic reply of, "Sage."


    "Sage" repeated Jed, slowly, "Thanks, Sage. I''m Pastor Jed Matthews, but please feel free to call me Jed. How can I help you today?


    Keep it short and sweet, Jed. Short and sweet.


    Awkward pause number two ensued.


    Jed fidgeted slightly as "Sage" or "Mr. Sage" or "whomever" failed to reply in a socially acceptable manner for the third time in their short relationship. This time, seconds could be heard ticking off of the wall clock hanging above the threadbare couch reserved for Jed''s guests.


    The stranger didn''t seem to care one bit about Jed''s social discomfort as he gazed up at some unseen bogey in the upper left hand corner of the office.


    Clearing his throat, nervously, Jed was preparing to repeat his initial query when "Sage" finally responded in a breathy tone, "It is you."


    Jed just stared at the man for a full five seconds, clearly caught off guard by the cryptic answer.


    "I''m sorry sir, but did you say ''It''s me?''"


    "The one whom he loves has the gift!" Sage breathed out, even weaker than before.


    "Excuse me, Sage, wasn''t it?" By this point in his career, Jed was adept at ending meetings with crackpots, but before he could get into to his rehearsed closer ("I''m not following you, sir, but if you''ll just ...")


    "There is no time!"


    Sage was on his feet now, raising his gravelly voice for the first time, only still maintaining his dull, cow¨Ceyed stare up into the far corner of the room. Sinking, slowly, back onto the couch, he repeated in barely above a whisper, "There is no time." But, added to Jed''s already sizable confusion by concluding ...


    "They are coming."


    That was all Jed was able to get out of the man. The phantom bogey at two o''clock seemed to fully occupy what little was left of Sage''s attention span. So, after waiting for almost another minute, just in case Sage had any other meaningless proverbs to bless him with, Jed politely but firmly helped the man off of the couch and escorted him out of his office, pausing only for a moment beneath the carport to extend a parting hand, which Sage simply stared at.


    Jed rolled his eyes once his back was turned to the bedraggled fossil and returned to his office, leaving Sage standing outside alone. Deciding to rifle through his inbox and check his office email briefly before finally heading home for the evening, he took one last look out his office window to make sure that Sage was leaving the property promptly. A moment later he had knocked over his chair in his haste and bolted out of the church office.


    In that brief look out of the window, Jed hadn''t seen an aged, confused homeless man working his way back toward the busy street.


    He saw a man lying face down in the middle of the church parking lot.

 Chapter Six: They

    September 6th 2012, 2:15 am, Wetterstein Mountains, Germany


    "He has been found, then?"


    The vaulted room had a tomb¨Clike feel with the only light shining down upon a huge, three inch thick granite slab table that had been cut into the shape of a triangle. Three men occupied its equilateral sides, their forms wrapped in shadow. In the air, the aromatic scents of incense and cigar smoke mingled, giving the room the ambiance of a transcendent, otherworldly place.


    "Of that you can be certain," replied a second voice. "Centuries of searching have brought us to the final two."


    "Patience," replied the first voice.


    The curious room with its enigmatic guests remained secluded amidst the mountains of Germany beneath a picturesque ski lodge.  Housed in caverns long ago cut and quarried to hide both their presence and their activity from prying eyes, the seclusion and impenetrability of this particular locale was not of vital importance to its occupants. They had similar bunkers in similarly exotic and opulent locations all over the globe. This was no apocalyptic Illuminati holed up in their sinister castle  just daring some British super¨Cspy to infiltrate it. These men had long ago learned the value of mobility, secrecy and diversification. This locale simply served this purpose at this time. That was all.


    The "Three Kings" was the only label their associates used in reference to them. These men had become the fathers of a society so ancient and secret that its name was not even spoken openly among its own brotherhood. The Kings represented the kind of power that even their associates only dreamed of: power over the minds of men, power over the machinery of nations and most notably, power over the elements of the earth, itself.


    A bluish haze of smoke floated wraith¨Clike into, then out of the single beam of light boring into the center of the table. The curious, triangular table served as more than an eccentric nicety. The brotherhood had always been led by three. Even from the beginning it had been so.


    "What of the object of the fool''s interest?" continued phantom number one.


    "He is inconsequential," replied voice number two. "Even if he possessed the gift, which we''re not certain that he does, he will have little means of learning what it is, let alone knowing how to control it sufficiently."


    "And besides," he added softly, "the old man won''t live long enough to be of any real help to him."


    Over the centuries, the influence of the brotherhood had become increasingly global. Associates could now be found in every industrialized nation of the world. They held some of the highest positions of power in those nations, either through legitimate prowess or illegitimate coercion. The associates possessed wealth, influence and the lives of those beholden to them. Most notably, they possessed Brimstone Crimson.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    "What of the last? Where did you find him?" the inquisitor continued.


    The third shadow that had remained silent up until this time entered the discussion, quietly. He was an enigma even to the other two and had sat at the granite table longer than either of them. In fact, no one knew for exactly how long. Ignoring the last query he said in a voice barely above a whisper,


    "He is mine."


    The third King was not one to assert himself. He had no desire to overtly lead, only to subtly control. He was content to let the others manage the assets, the constituency and the logistics. His only interest was the end¨C game. And, for the first time in his long career it was in sight. Whether his power was greater than the others was neither known nor tested by them. They simply knew their place in relation to him and were content to occupy the stations he placed them in and the freedoms he allowed them, which were many.


    "You will go, then?" said shadow number two.


    "The vagabond is easily dealt with," said the third, "however, I will not trust an associate with the cleric. I have waited too long."


    The others waited, deferentially, making certain that the last speaker had finished completely before daring to continue.


    "That settles it, then. The time has finally come," replied speaker number one. "Geist, we will await your return from America before moving inside the EU. By then, the Servants will no longer be a concern to us."


    With that, the meeting ended and each man stood from his high¨Cbacked chair. Slowly, each of them reached out and rested both hands on the triangular, granite slab before them. With no signal passed, each began to draw up the elemental fire known to them as Brimstone Crimson from below, their bared feet siphoning its power up through the limestone cavern floor. In moments, crimson lightning could be seen crackling underneath each man''s feet as the room''s shadows were driven away by an ephemeral reddish¨Chued glow.


    The crimson fire entered their surrendered bodies. Slowly, it began to be released through their hands still resting firmly on the stone table. In seconds, the table glowed with the power''s red tinge then began to turn white¨Chot as the intensity of Brimstone Crimson increased, exponentially. In seconds, the table was a blazing inferno of liquid light and the three began to strengthen themselves and each other by filling hidden, inner reserves anew, stretching their capacity to hold the ephemeral element in preparation for times of future need. Each face became a mixture of total concentration and pure rapture. Each hand had become so one with the slab that it became impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.


    Then, as subtly as the Crimson had heated the rock, it dissipated leaving each man standing with his head bowed and eyes closed as if in prayer. With no noticeable signal each man rose to full height, removed his hands from the table, then turned and exited the room; each from his own door opposite the chair he had occupied. The last trace of red vanished from the stone slab like a dying ember.


    Then the room went dark.

 Chapter Seven: At First Sight

    Harvest Season, 2732 BC, Mid morning, Mesopotamia


    He had never learned her name. She was beautiful, but forbidden.


    Shem had seen the young woman on several occasions, but in spite of his yearning, his life''s calling didn''t allow him the luxury of idle time for chasing beauties. Even if it had, casual conversation with one of the Seers was strictly forbidden. Seemingly oblivious to his musings and secret, sheepish glances, the young woman busied herself about Healing House.


    He was half asleep during her last visit, vaguely remembering the lithe form approaching to tend his wounds and wipe his brow with a damp cloth. At that time he had been unable to respond coherently, overcome with fatigue, loss of blood and fright. Now, however, the young apprentice of the Hakkanah wasn''t about to miss the girl on her next round. He watched her graceful form as she performed her tasks ¨C slight of build and possessing a simple yet elegant beauty, her long, chestnut hair trailed down her back in a single shimmering braid.


    Her eyes had most captivated him during those few times he had observed her from afar and even more so today as he stole glances at the girl.  Beautiful seemed too shallow an adjective for them. They were a unique nut brown color - lighter than what was common to Shem and her people; filled with both an intelligence and insight that belied the girl''s young age. They made him nervous when they weren''t trained on him. He couldn''t imagine how he would feel if they actually held his gaze.


    For propriety''s  sake, he had never met the girl nor knew anything of consequence about her. He did know, however, what she was. If her simple garb and distinctive golden earrings that hung from her right ear didn''t reveal the vocation she was in training for, those penetrating, knowing eyes certainly did.


    Stealing another glance when her head was turned, Shem focused on the three identical rings of gold hanging from the girl''s right ear. One ring pierced the ear while the other two intersected the first and then each other, forming a "triangle of circles." This was the distinguishing symbol of the School of Seers, where the girl must have spent the bulk of her life studying and preparing. The three rings, as a whole, represented the Ancient, the God who had revealed Himself to the fathers as a plurality of unity. One ring represented the Speaker, one represented the Speech, and the Third represented the breath itself. Three yet One. Distinct from each other, yet conjoined. This was the God the Seers served. They were the oracles of the Ancient, listening for His words and speaking to the people on His behalf. The prophetic gift could be imparted to either male or female. They were set apart as soon as their gift materialized, usually at a young age, and required to live as virgins all the while they served.


    Deep in reflection, Shem didn''t realize that he had been staring and caught his breath when he saw that two calm, yet piercing eyes were returning his gaze. Embarrassed, he looked away and pretended to struggle into a sitting position. He desperately thought of something intelligent to say as she moved across the room to attend to him. To his disappointment, she said nothing, silently removing the old bandages from his shoulder and washing the wound. Desperate to begin some sort of conversation, lest the moment pass him by, he started,


    "So ... you''re a virgin aren''t you?"


    Shem caught the slip immediately and raced to recover, "I mean ... a seer." Just as he was wishing that the Ben Cana had killed him outright, the girl finished applying the bandages and quietly replied, "I someday hope to be."


    Another awkward period of silence ensued until Shem worked up the courage to try again. "I''m in training also," he said.


    "I know," came back the soft and clipped short reply. "But, your training almost came to an end this afternoon, didn''t it."


    He smiled, a measure of confidence returning to him, "I suppose so, but it seems I''ll live to fight another day."


    "I''m confident that you will be just fine. My prayers, tonight, will be for those who will risk their lives turning away the retaliatory attacks that are sure to come."


    She seemed to catch herself and blushed suddenly, seemingly as surprised by her words as Shem had earlier been of his. Looking away, she went about her work all the more hurriedly.


    Stung by the unexpected remarks, Shem allowed the silence to return, which now didn''t seem so awkward.


    Moments later, as if feeling a degree of remorse, the girl said softly, "How are you feeling?"


    "Are you talking about my shoulder or my conscience?"


    "Both, I guess."


    Assuming the appropriate pout, he answered, "They both ache at the moment."


    Her tasks finished, she paused, drew in her breath and looked directly into Shem''s eyes. He stopped breathing. Whatever the girl was about to say, be it apology or rebuke, he found himself wishing the moment would never end.


    "Please, forgive my harshness. It was not my place. But, it pains me to bandage needless wounds ... even yours." With that, she turned and was off.


    Shem wasn''t sure if he should be feeling reprimanded or flattered by this parting remark. She was almost out of the room when it hit him. Her name! He''d forgotten to ask! He called out after her, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I''ll accept it!"


    The young woman slowed her gait and turned her head slightly, "Accept what?"


    "You''re apology," replied Shem, "on one account."


    "And that would be?" she asked, turning away to conceal a faint smile crossing her lips.


    "Tell me your name."


    The girl turned again to face Shem, looked at him for a moment, and said softly, "Na''amah."


    "Na''amah." repeated Shem. "Thank you ... for everything, even the rebuke. And for what it''s worth, I am sorry. I pray, also, that no blood will be shed because of my foolishness, save my own."This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    When she didn''t reply, he continued, "My name is ..."


    "Shem," she finished, turning to face him once more. "I know your name ... and many other things about you." Those eyes held his for a moment longer and he almost thought that a coy smile had crossed her face, before she turned and was gone. He spent the remainder of that afternoon pondering what she could have possibly meant.


    __________________________


    "Hail, the conquering warrior!"


    "Shem, the scourge of Ben Cana and Nephilim devil, alike!"


    The youth grinned and received the good-natured ribbing of his brothers as they strode into Healing House. He noticed the reddish glow of the setting sun as it painted the room crimson through the west window and reasoned that he must have dozed off, briefly.


    Japheth, the eldest, loudly swaggered through the common room, completely unconcerned about the hushed atmosphere he''d disturbed.


    H''am, the middle of the three brothers, appeared just as untroubled as he haughtily ignored the hushes and reprimands from the healers on duty.


    "To Sheol with the trials!" Japheth blustered. "The Hakkanah need this giantkiller on the front lines, immediately!"


    Shem smiled all the more as he returned his Hakkanah brothers'' banter.


    "You''re both drunkards and rogues! How could you possibly know what I''ve done? I haven''t even been dressed down by the elders yet!"


    "Your nursemaids hear you talking in your sleep," replied Ha''m with a smile as he raised a booted foot to Shem''s bed.


    "And," he continued with a twinkle in his eye, "your nursemaids, in turn, look for every opportunity to confide in me."


    "Now I know that you''re drunk!" replied Shem as he stole a glance over his brothers'' shoulders.


    The surreptitious gesture didn''t go unnoticed.


    "Looking for father, are we?" asked H''am with mock sincerity as he lifted a dramatic hand to his chest. "Fear not, young Shem, our father knows of your plight and is greatly concerned for your welfare."


    The manner in which the words were delivered cast a shadow of doubt over the issue as far as Shem was concerned.


    "It''s just the need for haste and all that," continued H''am, theatrically, "so much work left to do and so little time. He knew you''d understand."


    Shem didn''t. He had never understood their father''s obsession and grew ever more weary of bearing the stigma of his name.


    He saw Japheth''s countenance sober.


    "It was a foolish thing that you did, brother," he paused a moment before continuing, "and I''m not referring to the goat."


    Shem stiffened, but answered in a measured tone. "What would you have had me do? Lay down and die?"


    Japheth stroked his beard in thought before answering. "A just question for another time," he said, thoughtfully. "A more troubling one occupies my mind at present."


    Silenced returned to the room, briefly, before H''am filled in the blank for his bewildered brother. "The real question is why the devil was that close to the village in the first place?"


    _______________________


    Faces. Lights. Clamor. Confusion. War. Fire. Suffering. Death. At first, the images came slowly. Then, as each minute passed, they seemed to grow in clarity, intensity, and volume. Na''amah laid upon a soft straw mat that served as her bed in one corner of the room. She lived in a hut that served as housing for the females attending the School of Seers. She knew that she wasn''t dreaming. When the visions came, there was no mistaking them for random dreams in the night. Her eyes were closed and her body was in a relaxed position, but she was far from sleep. Her entire being was focused on the revelations that the Ruach Elohim, the Spirit of the Lord, was showing her, and as always, He found her to be an astute daughter.


    As a young child of three, her parents had thought her to be only overly imaginative. The practice of Na''amah telling her cute stories at mealtimes soon became a regular family practice. But, after a while the tales began to take on a more specific nature. Memories of the past, before the time of her birth, were told in perfect detail. Secrets of the present, those that only the Ancient could know, were laid bare. And, events that had not yet come to pass were foretold, involving her family, friends and community.


    Her record in these matters was perfect and not one of her words ever fell to the ground without coming to pass. She was five when her parents finally decided to take her to the village Elders in order to be examined as to whether or not the child had a genuine, God-given prophetic charism. The Elders and Seers, after thorough questioning, testing and debate, came to the conclusion that Na''amah did indeed possess a prophetic gift and should be immediately admitted into the School of Seers.


    The School served as a dormitory, general education facility and spiritual training center for those proven to have the gift. Each "seer" or "see-er" as they were called was assigned a mentor who was considerably more advanced in their training than their understudy. Na''amah''s mentor, Eliazah, was over two hundred cycles old and had served as a Watcher for decades. In addition to their education, devotional practices and times of solitude, each Watcher was required to serve in some benevolent capacity in the village. Na''amah had seen much suffering in her short lifetime and this bred compassion in her heart for the sick and dying. Therefore, three afternoons of her week were spent in Healing House, doing odd jobs and assisting the caretakers.


    Upon finishing their education, the Seers then became the mentors, educators, and oracles to the next generation. Being both a woman and a prophetess gave Na''amah a cherished position in her community.


    This night, the images kept coming. At first they were pleasant, but vague. People in the village, community life, wedding celebrations, the harvesting of crops. But these images didn''t last long and a short time later took on a darker tone: Ben Cana raiders, an unholy sacrifice on an unholy altar to unholy gods. Dark, shadowy, silhouetted figures casting their shadows over young women ¨C some filled with wonder, some filled with fear. Na''amah knew what this portended, for it had been happening for centuries. Then came the beasts. She knew what these were, as well ¨C the Nephilim - though she had never seen one in the flesh. The picture kept coming; creatures of awesome power and cunning came into her mind. They were everywhere, crushing, destroying, killing, and burning everything in sight. The Nephilim were multiplying.


    Many of the pleasant faces she had seen earlier now screamed out in horror, falling into pits of darkness. She saw village walls crumble. She saw swords flashing, Haddars being split asunder and Hakkanah falling helplessly to the ground. She saw the fire billowing forth in waves, scorching and destroying good and evil alike. She saw the Ben Cana writhing and contorting their bodies in pagan acts of sacrifices with their swords held high in victory.


    These images went blank and were replaced by scenes she could not interpret. The people, their clothing, their cities and their chariots seemed to be from another world. Yet, in their midst was the fire, still consuming, still raging unchecked.


    Just when Na''amah was about to be given over to despair she witnessed two confusing images of hope: the first, a lone man standing resolutely on a cliff jutting out over the sea as an enormous tidal wave threatened to break over him. The second image was simply of a man kneeling in the dirt with broken fragments containing strange symbols in his hand. With that, the visions faded and the images receded and rolled back as a scroll in her mind. Na''amah sat up on her mat, face streaked with tears and arms folded around her as she gently rocked back and forth. Shivering as her cold sweat met the night air she breathed out a prayer,


    "Why, my God? Why was this shown to me? What does this mean? What would you have me to do? What would you have me say?"


    The rest of her night was spent in restless rocking, tossing and turning, as she prayed, questioned and wondered, not for the last time, what these images held for her and for her people.

 Chapter Eight: Flight in the Night

    Autumn, 1363 AD, Predawn, Britain


    The twelve-inch shard of splintered wood had entered the left leg, just below and behind the knee before lancing through muscle tissue and bone to finally expend its energy thrusting its leading edge four inches through the shin bone, just above the ankle. The end result formed a macabre "X" as the wood and bone conjoined at 45 degree angles to each other. Strangely, there was very little blood.


    Lawrence had not expected the resulting shock wave of his blast to hurl countless ruined shards of broken fragments back in his own direction. Then again, several unexpected events had transpired this night.


    Coming to himself, he looked through a darkened haze upon what was left of his monastic cell, his home of twenty years, now barely recognizable. Before him, what had once been a humble door frame now lay in a smoking heap, the carnage extending into the outer hallway where its thatched roof had collapsed, revealing the starry heavens above shining down upon the scene like mute witnesses. The moonlight peering into the dilapidated room mingled with the dusty haze permeating the air, giving the entire scene an otherworldly, surreal feel.


    Nothing moved under the pile of rubble that had once served as the entrance to his room, but Lawrence knew better than to presume his safety. It would be safest to assume that at least one of his would-be assassins had raised up a Crimson-generated protective shield around themselves, either prior to approaching the door or a split second before the hellish fire was unleashed. At least, Lawrence surmised, that is what I would have done.


    A crawl hole had opened at the back of his cell as the building had shifted in the blast and Lawrence made toward it. Scrabbling at the dirt floor, he used his shaking arms to drag the weight of his broken body toward the makeshift exit. He knew he had to escape this room and sound a warning. But ... to whom? A chill worked its way down Lawrence''s spine as he suddenly realized that he could hear no anxious feet running, no concerned voices shouting, no comforting words of rescue and assurance. In fact, Lawrence realized that since the moment he came back to his senses, he had heard nothing.


    What if there is no one left to warn?


    The thought shot through his hazy mind like a dart. To Lawrence, the conclusion was unthinkable, but entirely plausible under the circumstances. Could his wing in the Abbey have been the last to have been defiled by the dark brothers?


    My Lord, please no ...


    And, wasn''t it true that Lawrence''s cell was the last one to be reached in his wing upon entering its main hallway?


    Dear Jesu ...


    Lawrence was forced out of his dark musing by the sound of a faint scratching coming from the direction of the ruined hallway. He took no time to investigate, but rather, pulled himself, hand over hand, through the two foot diameter hole and out into the cool night air beyond. The light of the full moon illuminated the courtyard around him and he lifted his head. All was still, save for the wild beating of his own heart, keeping time with the steady throbbing of his ruined leg. A few more crawls and he was free. But, free to do what? Lawrence''s mind raced. If any true brothers were left in the Abbey, they would have heard. The destruction wrought by the Crimson would have woken the dead, let alone a cloister of middle-aged monks. Instead, the silence of the courtyard was palpable. Lawrence grieved to know that this absence of all noise was actually filled with the silent screams of over forty of his beloved brothers, whose lives had been snuffed out in a single night.


    He kept moving. The stake in his leg greatly impeded his movement, with the pain growing more noticeable as the initial shock of trauma began to wear off, but Lawrence gritted his teeth and concentrated on pulling himself forward, one arm-length at a time.


    Think, Lawrence, think!


    He took two calming breaths and endeavored to make some semblance of a plan. The Order was decimated; reduced to a handful of murderous traitors and one lame monk. If it was true that he was the only true Servant left, then his duty was clear. As Lawrence continued to crawl, he rehearsed in his mind his life''s calling. For millennia, it had been the stewardship of The Servants to safeguard all knowledge of one hidden and ancient body of lore ¨C the Crimson Fire.


    Lawrence knew that in the wrong hands, or any hands for that matter, the consequences and effects of the Crimson''s misuse would be unthinkable. Whatever else happened this night, the monk knew his sacred calling to safeguard all teaching concerning this secret.Stolen novel; please report.


    Lawrence raised his head and saw the community wood pile, not twenty yards away to his right. He had to get to the Scriptorium. Within its ancient walls nearly four thousand years of recorded history and instruction concerning the Crimson had been preserved; first, on animal skins; when animal skins failed, on papyrus; when papyrus failed, on vellum; when vellum failed, on parchment.


    Hand over hand, Lawrence made his way to the large stack of both cut and uncut branches and brush. Looking past the rusty shears that had been absentmindedly left in the dewy grass (again) by Joachim the gardener; Lawrence found what he was looking for. It was a six foot long, sturdy tree branch nearly the diameter of his wrist. He grasped it, set one of its ends vertically into the soil and attempted to raise himself onto his good leg. His first attempt failed and he slumped back onto the damp, musty earth.


    A shout rang in his ears, not far behind in the direction of the ruined wing. Lawrence glanced behind, but could see nothing revealed in the dim moonlight. He attempted to raise himself again and this time he succeeded, gritting against the pain. Step by agonizing step he made his way, slowly, toward the Scriptorium on the far west side of the compound. As he hobbled forward, it was not lost on Lawrence that if he had any living pursuers, he certainly wouldn''t be able to outdistance them, that is, unless their wounds rivaled his own. For a moment, Lawrence swooned and paused to fight off the vertigo.


    All is lost!


    His mind reeled with the enormity of what was happening. His life''s calling, his home of twenty years, his brothers that were dearer to him than flesh and blood.


    No, all is not lost!


    Lawrence steeled himself, then setting his teeth on edge, he launched himself forward with renewed determination, simply putting one foot in front of the other until, minutes later, he had reached the huge, oaken doors of the Scriptorium. The structure that housed his Order''s library and manuscript duplication facilities was a weather beaten stone building; the first to have been constructed upon the Abbey''s creation. Lawrence opened the door, careful to mute the creaking hinges that he had always jokingly chided the Scriptorium''s steward, Brother Renault, about oiling. Stepping inside and quietly closing the cumbersome door, Lawrence turned around and immediately caught his breath. One lone candle burned in a niche at the far end of the building''s main hallway. Laying face down on the floor, within the radius of the dim candle-light, lay a dark, cowled and unmoving form. Lawrence didn''t have to look any closer to know that his dear brother, Renault, was dead. He didn''t feel the need to check for a pulse, for the pungent aroma of burned hair and flesh told him all the tale he needed to know.


    It probably all started here, thought Lawrence, stifling a sob. But, what to do now??


    Lawrence had arrived at his destination with nothing more than a sense of duty. He paused for a moment to consider what he could possibly do. How could thousands of years of writings and thousands of pages of priceless literature be protected and preserved by one lone monk running for his life?


    I am only one man and probably a dead man before the sun crests the horizon.


    Lawrence''s ears perked up ¨C more shouts and stray voices could be heard from the direction of the Abbey''s main courtyard. They were searching for him and there was no more time. He took five seconds to bow his head in silent prayer, then the answer came to him. Hobbling forward in the direction of his fallen friend, Lawrence opened the first door on his right, reached in and grabbed a worn, leather shoulder bag made to transport books and manuscripts at need. Leaving the Scriptorium''s supply closet, he averted his eyes in order to step over the fallen form of Brother Renault, then took the corridor''s last left into the library proper. He walked the length of the silent room, noticing how its rows of bookshelves lined with ancient scrolls and parchments stood silent vigil, much in the same way that stone statues guarded the entrance of ancient tombs. These sentinels, however, were guardians of knowledge, not remains.


    Lawrence walked slowly, but deliberately, toward the back of the library where tome after tome of bound leather books lined the shelves along the back wall. Limping to the far right end of the last shelf, he removed the last book of the bottom row, placed it in his satchel and hefted it, testing its weight. He reached for the second to the last tome, half a hands-breath thick like its companion and placed it also within the satchel, testing it again for weight. Lawrence repeated this process three more times until his bag bulged with the five heavy books. Then hefting the satchel onto his left shoulder and supporting his broken leg with his staff, he strained under the added weight, ponderously putting one foot in front of the other. He nearly blacked out again before righting himself; then returning in the direction he had come, he retraced his footsteps back through the library and into the main hallway. Renault still manned his post silently and, this time, Lawrence allowed himself one final look and prayer for the prone figure before him. Then, reaching to his left, he grabbed the solitary candle and turned back toward the first row of books.


    One by one, he visited each shelf, lighting a sufficient number of books and scrolls to ensure the continual spread of the flames, before passing on to the next shelf. By the time he had reached the library''s back door just to the right of the last shelf now missing five of its treasures, tears were streaming down his face and sizable flames were beginning to lick the ceiling of the aged building.


    Lawrence snapped out of his grieving as multiple shouts arose just outside the front door of the Scriptorium. Pursing his lips in resolve, Lawrence gazed one last time upon his life''s work going up in flames, before dragging himself to his right, fumbling with the latch of the library''s back door and heading out into the night.

 Chapter Nine: Rabbit Trails

    September 5th 2012, 10:15 pm, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin


    Naomi Matthews gently pressed the "end call" button on her Android powered cell phone and cradled the mini super-computer under her chin for several long moments. Jed had sounded both weary and anxious; a combination that she was becoming more and more accustomed to, of late. This had been Jed''s third courtesy call, updating her on the stranger''s condition, since he had arrived at the emergency room earlier that evening.


    Courtesy call ...


    Naomi bit her lip to stifle the emotions that threatened to rise up within her.


    Keep it together, girl.


    These feelings were hardly new. During many of these long nights where she was condemned to play the role of "ministry widow," Naomi would think back upon a time when the days didn''t seem to have enough hours in them for all that she and Jed had to say to each other. Then, she had been the center of Jed''s universe and he gladly would have put the entire planet on hold just to share one more moment of heart to heart conversation with her.


    But now ...


    Naomi chided herself for giving in to that now familiar mental rabbit trail and went into the restroom to finish getting ready for bed. Brushing out her long, chestnut tresses, she looked at the woman staring back at her in the mirror.


    Am I still beautiful? Do I still attract ...


    Naomi, stop it!


    Another rabbit trail. Besides, Naomi finally surmised that it was an unfair question to pose to oneself when the image in the mirror stared back at you with the goofy glasses only worn in the secrecy of home when the eyes were screaming to have the contacts peeled away from them.


    Naomi returned to her bed and removed the half eaten bag of popcorn.


    Pride and Prejudice has gotten many a lonely wife through long, cold evenings. I wonder, if Jane Austin had written a sequel, would Mr. Darcy have eventually turned back into the self-absorbed grouch he appeared to be at the beginning of the story?


    Naomi''s mind meandered ...


    When did our turning point begin?


    There wasn''t a defining moment, but at least for the past few years, she had felt like just one more "obligation" that Jed''s conscience required him to attend to. Take this evening, for example. It wasn''t that she didn''t appreciate being kept in the loop on nights like tonight; it''s just that she always felt like an interruption to her husband when he did call or even worse, text, as if his checking in with her was more duty than delight. It was always this way, of late - the emotional detachment, the preoccupied voice, the oblivious nods and grunts when addressed. Naomi felt that she had been romanced by Captain James T. Kirk, seven years ago, only to end up married to Lieutenant Spock.


    Lowering the phone to her side, she took a calming breath, adopted her best "pastor''s wife" demeanor and pushed the thoughts of resentment and loneliness back into the inner closet of her mind. At least, she told herself, Jed had a reasonably good excuse for being distracted tonight. This last call had come from just outside that man called Sage''s room. As Jed had predicted at the time of his first call that evening, "Sage" had no identification and therefore no discernible next of kin to notify of his condition. Naomi had tried to assure Jed that it was alright to leave the matter in the doctor''s hands until morning, but from the resigned tone in his voice, she could immediately tell that he was conscious-bound and would dutifully take up the role of both father and son to this total stranger until the doctors gave the "all clear." This had meant another four hours in the ER, until Sage could be moved to the Intensive Care Unit and Jed was able to, politely, take his leave.


    A person can eat a lot of chocolate in four hours.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    Earlier in the evening, amidst corralling her two children, Naomi had put the ministry machinery in motion on Sage''s behalf by activating the church''s prayer chain via email and detailing what little information that was known at the time. During his second "check in," Jed had relayed to her the doctor''s diagnosis; Sage''s heart had apparently been failing him for quite some time. Congestive Heart Failure had all but submerged the heart in a sack of syrupy fluid, while multiple blockages within Sage''s arteries had reduced it to a mere thirty¨Cpercent of its capacity. In layman''s terms, Sage was dying and had been for months.


    Naomi finally heard the house''s garage door groan and creak like an ancient portcullis around eleven p.m., followed by the muffled thuds of Jed entering their modest home in Hickory Grove. As Jed followed his puzzling, yet invariable routine of hanging up his coat and arranging his shoes by the front door, Naomi steeled herself. She sighed and took a long look around the bedroom that had been her prayer sanctuary and emotional "happy place" for the past three years, preparing herself to either emotionally buoy what she was certain would be her husband''s melancholy mood, or lay into him with the feelings she had pent up within her all day.


    Buck up, mama bird, at least you still have your next.


    "Modest" she had called the house when they first considered buying it. "Cozy" is how she viewed it now. Naomi loved living in the older section of town, even though the size of their home paled in comparison to the opulence of the new housing developments being constructed at breakneck pace in Hickory Grove to accommodate the town''s rapid influx of new employees.


    Naomi awoke from her momentary musing as Jed walked into the bedroom, bleary¨Ceyed and rumpled.


    "Are the kids down?" Jed asked softly.


    Naomi gave a look of attempted sympathy and nodded. She knew that he was not surprised, but no less disappointed, to discover that their two children ¨C Amanda (age 5) and Jedidiah Joel Jr. or "Triple J" as he liked to be called (age 3) ¨C had already been in bed for three hours. Naomi signed off of Facebook and shut down the computer for the night as Jed peeked into each of his children''s rooms in order to take in their cherubic faces, glowing softly in the radiance of their night lights.


    He''s a wonderful father. Now, if we could just work on the husband part ...


    Naomi chastised herself inwardly for even thinking the thought and silently repented as Jed entered the bedroom.


    "You''re wearing your Garfield pajamas tonight," said Jed quietly, as he began unbuttoning his shirt.


    "Am I?"


    "You don''t think that I''ve figured out what the Garfield pajamas mean after seven years of marriage?" said Jed.


    Biting back the sarcastic reply that immediately formed itself in her mind, Naomi pondered what strategy she should take with Jed this night. She could play the confrontational nag, the petulant victim, the frigid mistress; a thousand hurts, accusations, and pleadings rose to her mind as she silently cried out in prayer ...


    Lord, how can he not know what I''m feeling inside! Am I supposed to just paint on a happy face? His moods may be able to turn on a dime, but not mine!


    With an effort of will, Naomi decided to forgo the confrontation she had been practicing for all evening and instead choose to play the dumb dame and go along with Jed''s weak attempt at conversation.


    "And what would be the existential meaning of a woman greeting her husband wearing Garfield pajamas?"


    "It usually means that the aforementioned woman has had a headache all evening, and fully expects said headache to linger throughout the night," said Jed, a weak smile forming on his lips.


    "Touch¨¦, darling, touch¨¦," replied Naomi, turning down the bed, but making no move to rectify the pajama politics.


    Please, not tonight, Lord.


    Changing the subject as Jed continued to change into his flannel p.j. ''s, (hint taken, thought Naomi) she asked, "Any new news about our mystery guest?"


    Sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing his temples, Jed switched back into business mode.


    "Not much. His heart has been failing for a while. The doctors really don''t expect him to last out the week."


    "That''s horrible," she answered softly. "Do we know anymore about him?"


    "No. It''s impossible to figure out who he is or where he came from," Jed said with a yawn. "His communication is so vague and scattered that we can''t get anything useful out of him. Hopefully, we can find out more tomorrow."


    Naomi waited patiently while Jed yawned for a second time and climbed into bed.


    "OK, babe ¨C then, let''s leave tomorrow for tomorrow," she said with what she hoped was at least a sincere attempt at sympathy as she climbed into the other side of the bed and turned off the small lamp on the nightstand.


    Is now a good time to speak my heart, Lord??


    Not waiting for an answer, Naomi spoke into the darkness, "Hon, the planet has had you for over fourteen hours today. Can I request at least a few minutes of adult conversation?"


    "I''m here for you, babe," yawned Jed. "What''s left of me is all yours."


    Jed was snoring softly before Naomi could think of how to begin.

 Chapter Ten: Revelation

    September 7th 2012, 10:35 am, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin


    Jed spent the bulk of his office hours the next four days at Sage''s bedside. As medication took effect, Sage''s vital signs stabilized and his waking hours and energy level began to show signs of increase, much to Jed''s pleasure. Still getting him to speak in coherent and full sentences seemed a nearly impossible task.


    It was on the morning of Sage''s second day in the I.C.U. that Jed began to gather scraps of information, piecemeal, about the aged wanderer''s life. Although his answers were still cryptic, Jed was able to make out that Sage had lived on the streets for much of the past several years. Major cities like Cincinnati, Detroit, and Chicago, were mentioned, as was his proclivity for drifting from place to place.


    "Sage, tell me why you''re here," Jed finally got around to asking pointedly, that morning.


    "The Voice ...," rasped the old man. His breathing seemed to come with great effort, as if a great billows had to be expanded and contracted in order to move air forcefully through his lungs.


    "The voice, what voice?" asked Jed.


    "The one whom he loves has the gift."


    "Sage," said Jed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, "you''ve lost me again. Who is it that you''re talking about?"


    At this time and the multiple times following, in response to this question


    Sage would lapse into a coughing fit or a spell of incoherent mumbling until Jed finally would become so frustrated that he''d walk briskly from the room in pursuit of yet another cup of coffee. Then, perhaps an hour later, Sage''s eyes would flutter open and he would spontaneously begin again, as if no time had seemingly passed.


    "The one whom he loves has the gift."


    It was mid-afternoon of Sage''s second day in the I.C.U. Jed dropped the magazine he had been staring at and looked up.


    "Alright, Sage, I got that," said Jed, trying to pick up the last strain of conversation and attempting to keep a lid on his growing impatience.


    "Sixteen years ... no one helps ... no one looks ... but me."


    Easy, Jed.


    "Please Sage, just tell me who you''re talking about."


    "The gifted one ... the one whom he loves ... he must find them ... he must stop them."


    Then there would be nothing more for the rest of the day. Jed could have almost shaken the man awake if prudence would have allowed him to. It had occurred to Jed, more than once, to ask himself why he should even care. Sage was obviously either a nut or sick beyond any ability to think rationally. Jed was wasting valuable time ¨C his time. Certainly, there must be a retired couple at the church he could ask to play nursemaid to the old man.


    Yet ... he couldn''t quite shake the unnerving feeling that Sage had, indeed, come looking specifically, for him. Why him? "It''s you," he had said. "You must stop them."


    As unlikely as it was that Jed had anything to do with this man''s rambling, the Critic still held him captive.


    It''s you that he asks for, Jed. You can''t abandon him now. What if he is sent from God? What if he has a message for you? Will you just abandon him and go?


    What would Jesus do?


    But, even deeper than the voice of the Critic was an inner conviction that he had to stay with this man, to tend to him, to seek out the meaning of his cryptic replies. In a strange, unexplainable sense, Jed was surprised to discover that he actually wanted to be this mysterious that Sage had spoken of, even if he had no idea who or what this one was. A moment later, he would think himself a perfect fool getting himself trapped into this whole mess.


    ____________________


    The third day passed without Sage uttering a word. Jed lingered at his bedside, hour after hour, hoping for some sign, any sign, of movement. An overhead clock that could have been absconded from Jed''s elementary school loudly jerked out the minutes, alerting him of the sluggish passing of time as the room in the I.C.U. increasingly depressed him. For hours, Jed stared at the sterile white walls, the incomprehensible chromed instruments, the white and black checkered floor tiles and reflected on what a horrible place this would be to spend the last hours of one''s life. All of this (coupled with the temperature being set ten degrees too low, the fluorescent lights buzzing like a swarm of angry gnats and giving off a pasty, bluish¨Cwhite glare that seemed like a cross between a back¨Clighted optometrists reading chart and a violet, electric bug zapper) only increased one''s sense of alien discomfort. It angered Jed. Rather than providing a patient and their kin with the comforts and assurances of home, rooms such as this one slowly eroded away any sense of peace, dignity and well-being. He was well aware that most hospitals had overcome this sickly vibe, but in some ways Hickory Grove was still a very small-town.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    By the fourth day, Naomi had begun to join Jed during his long vigils, temporarily freed from her responsibilities as a substitute teacher at the local school for special needs children. The seemingly fruitless watch lasted until four p.m. that afternoon when, without any forewarning, Sage''s eyes fluttered open and in a hoarse whisper he rasped,


    "The one that he loves ..."


    Startled out of his meandering reverie, Jed nearly fell out of his chair in his haste to spring to Sage''s bed side, "Sage, I''m here, it''s Jed!"


    "Je ¨C di ¨C di ¨C ah," wheezed Sage.


    "Yes, Sage, Jedidiah, I''m here!"


    "The one that he loves ..."


    "The one that he loves," Jed whispered, shaking his head and turning to his wife with an exasperated look, "Sage, I still don''t ..."


    "Jedidiah, the one that he loves."


    Suddenly, Naomi raised her hand to her lips then grabbed her husband''s arm, "Jed, I think I understand!"


    Trying to politely hide his annoyance, Jed took a deep breath and answered, "Understand what, Naomi?"


    "Your name ''Jedidiah!'' It literally means, ''Beloved of the Lord,'' don''t you remember?"


    "Sure I remember! My mother never lets me forget, but ..."


    "Don''t you see it?" interrupted Naomi, "Jedidiah ¨C the one that he loves!"


    Still confused with the riddle, Jed turned back to Sage and asked, "Is that what you''re saying, Sage? That you''ve been looking for someone named Jedidiah?"


    "Not someone," said Naomi softly, "you, Jed."


    Jed''s irritation ratcheted up another notch, "Babe, there could be ten thousand ''Jedidiah''s'' in the Midwest, alone! He could have just picked me out of the phone book! This doesn''t mean anything!"


    But, that quiet inner conviction that he had felt two days ago, told him otherwise.


    Who is this guy! Why can''t I shake this feeling?


    Sage spoke again, "The one whom he loves has the gift ..."


    Naomi jumped in before Jed could start in again, "Please, Sage tell us, what gift does Jedidiah have?"


    Jed rolled his eyes and began to pace around the room.


    "Sixteen years," breathed Sage, as if speaking to himself.


    Something clicked in Jed''s brain and he walked back to the bedside, "Sage, are you saying that you have been traveling from city to city, looking up people with the name of "Jedidiah," for sixteen years, all because some voice told you to find ''the one that he loves?''"


    "I will show you ..." came back the gravelly reply.


    "Sage, this is crazy," said Jed, turning away and beginning another circuit around the room.


    "Honey, please," said Naomi, but Jed charged ahead. He could feel the anxiety level ramping up inside him.


    "I hate to break it to you, Sage, but the only gift I have is a really jacked¨Cup brain!


    "Jed!" exclaimed Naomi.


    "No, Naomi!" Jed''s mind was in overdrive now, the curious muscle in his neck that tensed whenever his anxiety grew now pulled at him like a pit¨C bull on a chain. "This has gone on long enough! Sage, you''re a very interesting, but very sick man. I''m sorry, but I''ve spent all the time I can at this hospital. It''s time for me to go."


    "I will show you," said Sage quietly.


    "No, Sage, this is goodbye! I wish you well!"


    "I will show you."


    "No, Sage!"


    "Please, honey," interjected Naomi.


    "No!"


    "JEDIDIAH JOEL MATTHEWS!"


    The words were spoken with the authority of an Admiral on the deck of his flagship. Now both Jed and Naomi stood and gaped at the man lying before them, for his voice in that moment had taken on such a tone of authority that it was all that they could do to keep themselves from answering meekly, "Yes, sir."


    Quietly, with a slight upturn of the left corner of his mouth and a wry twinkle in his eye, Sage repeated again, "I will show you."


    With that, he slowly and laboriously began to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed.


    "Whoa!" cried Jed, "hold on Sage, you can''t ..."


    "I will show you," said Sage again, this time removing the sensors from his chest, the oxygen tube from his nose, then rising to his feet using the IV bag stand for leverage.


    Even Naomi began to protest by now, "Sage, you can''t do this! You''re too weak! The nurses will be in any minute ..."


    "I will show you," was all he said, before rolling the stand ahead of him, his feet shuffling afterward in his hospital-issue slippers, inch by inch making his way toward the door of his room.


    Jed just looked at Naomi then wryly said, "Well, you''re the one who got him all riled up," motioning her toward the doorway.


    Naomi gave him a look of exasperation then headed out the door to follow the shuffling Sage who, by now, had turned the corner and was out of sight.


    Jed followed a few seconds later, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

 Chapter Eleven: Fire By Day

    September 9th 2012, 4:15 pm, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin


    "Good afternoon, Mercy Hospital Patient information, how may I help you?"


    "Room number, please, patient name of "Sage."


    "I''m sorry, is that a first or a last name?"


    "Just search for the name ''Sage,'' please."


    "Ok ... just a sec ... well, you''re right. I do have a patient in I.C.U. listed as "Sage," no last name given. Would you like me to ...


    The other end of the line went dead.


    ________________________________


    Jed squinted in the late afternoon sun. Other than Sage taking an extra lap around the revolving exit door, their descent to the main entrance of the hospital was uneventful, if painfully slow. The sun now stood half concealed by the enormous parking garage that stood adjacent to the main wing of the hospital fifty yards away; its dying rays shining down upon a sea of asphalt that docked the land-yachts of the Mercy Hospital professional staff.


    Sage made his way, stalwartly, to the one isolated oasis of green grass, flowers and shrubbery floating in the vast sea of black tar sitting in the shadow of the monolithic parking garage. Jed and Naomi followed; the former grumbling to himself the entire way and pretending to ignore the warning looks of his wife every time he began to ask Sage where, exactly, they were supposed to be going.


    At long last, the three arrived at the curb-encircled patch of green. Sage turned to face Jed and Naomi and, to their utter confusion, quietly removed his slippers.


    __________________________


    The three hospital orderlies, a woman and two men, converged upon the central hallway of the hospital''s fourth floor, each arriving from separate directions. After making the briefest of eye contact, they made their way, single file, past the I.C.U. reception desk that was manned by a dozing geriatric volunteer and walked the twenty yards necessary to stand, shoulder to shoulder, before the entrance of I.C.U.''s bay 6.


    After a nod from her companion on the left, the female orderly lifted her hand slowly to the concealing curtain and quietly pulled it off to the side as it made a slow, whispering swoosh.


    All three looked upon the rumpled, but empty bed before them.


    __________________________


    "For crying out loud, Sage," blustered Jed, "would you just tell us what this is all about, already," the last threads of his limited patience beginning to fray.


    He shrugged off Naomi''s staying hand and took a step closer to the old man.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "Sage, if you don''t ..."


    The wizened figure put a hand on Jed''s chest, the gesture being so strange that it stopped him in mid-sentence.


    Sage leaned his hoary head forward until his nose was mere inches from Jed''s own. "I will show you," he said, quietly.


    With that, he removed his hand slowly from Jed and gestured open handedly to the ground between them.


    Jed thought his mind must be playing tricks on him. Or, at least, he thought that he must have taken an accidental overdose of his medication this afternoon. For in that moment, his eyes became riveted to Sage''s gnarled feet as tiny tendrils of reddish fire crackled around their edges, like a miniature thunderstorm gracing the feet of some ancient Greek demigod.


    The blood-red fire grew in its intensity, holding Jed mesmerized and drawing Naomi, open-mouthed, to her husband''s side. A moment later, Sage raised his lowered hand to chest level and made a fist, allowing both Jed and Naomi''s bodies to block the view of any prying eyes. To their mutual astonishment, the violet lightning surrounding Sage''s feet now manifested in his balled fist; faintly at first, then growing in intensity until both Jed and Naomi had to wince for all its brightness.


    Breathless, Jed''s eyes lifted to the old man''s face and found that Sage was already gazing intently at him; a faint smile tracing his cracked lips. Nodding faintly downward, Sage drew Jed''s attention back to his hand. The brilliance of the fire had waned to half its former glory before Sage slowly opened his hand and extended it, palm-forward, before him.


    To the stunned couple, it appeared as if a three dimensional, vertical arc had magically formed a transparent, purple, and body-length barrier between Sage and the two of them; its concave side facing inward toward the old man. They watched in fascination as the living membrane began to slowly extend itself outward from Sage''s body, until it came into contact with them. Jed experienced the strangest of sensations. There was no pain, but rather a cool, tingling sensation as the red-hued half-bubble came into contact with his exposed skin. Against his will, he found himself moving backward, unable to resist the gentle, but insistent pressure of the transparent sphere. Naomi, also, back-pedaled three steps, as she was nudged by Sage''s violet shield.


    "Sage, what is this?" whispered Naomi with a hoarse and shaken voice.


    Instead of answering, Sage slowly retracted his shield until it appeared to draw itself back into the crackling tempest surrounding his hand. Looking, deliberately, from Naomi''s face to Jed''s, Sage again inclined his head, this time in the direction of a shrub on their left. Within its embrace could be seen a weather-beaten soda can lodged in one of its lower branches. Sage balled his wrinkled hand back into a fist, then suddenly one thin tendril of lightning shot forth from his clenched hand. Jed and Naomi watched in rapt fascination as the bolt latched onto the can and slowly pulled it out of the bush until it landed softly on the ground between them. Jed noticed, momentarily, that the electric fire still burned beneath Sage''s feet, before his eyes were drawn back to the aluminum can. The arcing thread of fire linking Sage''s hand to the can multiplied into two, then four, then dozens, before the engulfed can began to melt slowly under the intense heat. Less than ten seconds later, there was nothing left of the can, save for a silver puddle of molten slag staining the ground before them.


    With that, the fire in Sage''s hand slowly withdrew, drawing Jed and Naomi''s eyes back to the ground beneath Sage''s feet. The elemental fire crackled for a few seconds more before dying out altogether; seeping back into the soil that spawned it.


    Jed became aware that he was shaking. Naomi placed an unsteady arm around her husband to keep her own knees from buckling. Both of them pulled their eyes away from Sage''s feet and looked intently and questioningly into his watery eyes.


    "Sage," Jed managed hoarsely, "what did we just ..."


    He never finished his sentence. For, at that moment, the air around the three exploded in a blinding flash and Jed felt himself crumpling to the ground.

 Chapter Twelve: Altitude

    September 9th 2012, 7:35 pm, John F. Kennedy International Airport, New York City


    The luxury Learjet circled New York''s John F. Kennedy International Airport for the second time, awaiting the tower''s signal to begin its final approach, thus allowing the one known as "Geist" an extra fifteen minutes to muse before the mundane ritual of landing and refueling began.


    This trip was not his style.


    Not that he minded killing. He killed often, but usually only out of whimsy these days. It had been years since he had played the role of "hitman" or "assassin" and both of these titles felt trivial and beneath him. Under other circumstances, he would have ordered this murder; deeming his time too important to suffer the indignities of international travel. But this particular quarry had proven too elusive for too long. A faint look of pleasure crossed his wrinkled, but not uncomely, face as he mused about how the most valuable trophies were, at one time, the most difficult to track - and this game had quite a history. Others had already failed in the attempt - many others - and if the truth be told, Geist was anxious to test himself. Not that the outcome of this particular encounter was in any doubt. No one commanded Brimstone Crimson as Geist did. Even at the current altitude of fifteen thousand feet, he could feel its energy stirring deep within the earth below. It would be a nigh impossible draw at this distance, but even so, he was convinced that he could still siphon off enough of the Crimson to rip the plane in two if he so desired; and even then his life wouldn''t be in any peril. Such was the power that he wielded. Neither heights, nor depths, nor men, nor machinations held any fear for him. He commanded Brimstone Crimson and no one commanded him.


    The lone male steward on the privately chartered Lear peered his youthful, shaggy, blonde head around the corner of the small airplane''s galley and; seeing that his only guest''s glass was still half full, quietly retreated back into the serving area.


    Smart lad, thought Geist.


    His thoughts returned to the sole reason for this trip. There were others who also commanded Crimson. The Three Kings, their associates and the infrastructure they had created and sustained for over five centuries didn''t hold a monopoly on all knowledge concerning Brimstone Crimson - not yet, at least. This would soon be rectified, which meant that one of Geist''s chief life-goals was in sight. Others would quickly follow.


    As he gazed out the window, Geist''s buoyant mood turned melancholy. It should have all ended that fateful night, long ago. All the Servants were present. The plan was flawless and undetected. But, all it took was one savvy monk sneaking off into the night to preoccupy the Kings for centuries; hunting down all the Crimson Servants that had been raised from that single thorn in their flesh. Five hundred years of researching, ferreting out, hunting and, yes, killing. Hundreds had been whittled down to two; two verified Servants, both with one foot in the grave. The candle was one hair''s breadth away from being completely snuffed out - that is, unless its final spark was used to kindle another. This is what Geist had come to prevent.


    He lifted his glass of spirits, swirled it out of habit and emptied the remainder of its contents in one practiced swig. How he hated flying. Beyond the normal vertigo he experienced as the natural result of being an aging human being, Geist hated not having the earth directly underneath his feet. He wanted - no, he needed - to feel the reassuring presence of Brimstone Crimson, beneath him and available in vast quantities. It reminded him of who he was. It reminded him that anything was possible.


    _____________________


    The Learjet''s early thirties, bleach-blond attendant peeked around the corner, again, noticing that his guest''s glass was finally empty. Ducking back around the corner unnoticed, he returned to the galley and pulled out his mobile phone, sending a quick text to the co-pilot on the other side of the bulkhead, before reaching up for his backpack in the overhead storage bin.


    _____________________


    Geist felt the gentle pressure of gravity pressing against his body as the Lear slowly began to ascend.


    Curious, he thought.


    Ever alert to change, especially unplanned change, Geist readjusted himself in the handcrafted leather chair and returned to his previous train of thought. He rehearsed in his mind, for what seemed to be the hundredth time since leaving London, his current mission objectives:


    Land at J. F. K. ...


    Refuel and connect in Chicago ...


    Drive a rental car to the Abbey ...


    Face the cleric ...The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The cleric.


    How Geist longed to confront this man ¨C this Servant that had set back his plans for so many years. It had taken the better part of twenty-five years to locate his whereabouts, this having been achieved three years ago. Five different attempts had been made on his life during that time, all by associates on American soil. Not one had succeeded. Even the last mission involving five of the best trained and experienced associates in the States had resulted in the loss of four and a dismal report from the last, before he was executed. The cleric knew the Crimson; not only how to use it, but also how to convey its use to others - and that was the greater threat. One, lone candle would burn out in time. But, if its flame spreads ...


    The Lear continued to climb away from J.F.K., much to Geist''s disappointment. How he hated unwanted complications. He unbuckled his seat belt and faced the front of the plane, waiting.


    As if on cue, the bushy-blond steward twisted around the corner, brandishing a hand-crafted, ceramic 9 mm handgun that had been designed for such airline assassinations. He extended it in his right hand, professionally, and in less than half a second, three rounds at the point blank range of five feet were sizzling toward Geist.


    He''d had his misgivings about this crew from the very first moment he''d set eyes on them in London. Geist had misgivings about everything, especially arrangements that had been made by others. Assassination attempts on Kings were not common, but had happened before, even to him. Some associates simply didn''t have the patience to wait their turn.


    The Crimson is a heady cocktail, he thought.


    Geist effortlessly drew upon his stored internal reserves to raise up a fire induced shield that melted the bullets, instantaneously, upon impact. These reserves, however, were not limitless and Geist assumed that his assassins knew so. They were, obviously, trying to cut him off from the Crimson through the physical distance of altitude and the numbing effects of drink. How little they understood ...


    But, truth be told, stopping three bullets at that range had nearly depleted Geist and as a final measure, he used the last of his stores to strategically hurl the red, concave shield that had initially saved his life toward the young man. It collided with him, violently, knocking him to the floor.


    Geist dove to the deck and began to crawl toward the back of the plane, hoping to reach the cover of a rear set of chairs before his attacker could regain his feet. Sliding behind a swiveling, leather chair, he quickly removed his shoes and socks, then strained with all the substantial skill he possessed in order to draw any measure of Crimson into his being at this height, which he assumed to be in excess of twenty thousand feet, by this time.


    If any other plane had been in the vicinity at the moment with a passenger whose eyesight was extremely keen, they would have noticed the faintest bolt of reddish lightning licking the bottom of Geist''s Learjet. And, if it were still possible for that same witness to trace the origins of the bolt far beneath them, they would have seen that it extended all the way to the awaiting earth below.


    But, it wouldn''t be enough and Geist knew it.


    If such a charge were to be directed at his killer, it might be felt, but to no more degree than if the man had stuck his tongue on the posts of a nine volt battery. Geist needed other options and looking immediately to his right, he found them.


    It was the exit door.


    He could hear his assailant regaining his feet and beginning to methodically make his way, step by anxious step, toward his target''s position.


    Geist used what little of the power he had at his disposal to produce a brief flash in the direction opposite his position in order to draw away the gunman''s attention, before he lunged toward the door, threw down the bar marked with the large red letters, "OPEN," and felt himself being sucked from the plane and out into the wide open expanse of sky.


    Twenty thousand feet ...


    Geist felt himself tumbling and spinning in the freezing evening air, occasionally being flipped onto his back where he could see the Lear majestically poised above him, as an eagle in flight.


    Fifteen thousand feet ...


    With each passing second, he could feel his connection with the earth increasing. Already, a substantial link to the Crimson had been established and, like an automotive trickle charger, Geist was replenishing his depleted stores, still spinning and falling uncontrollably toward the ground.


    Ten thousand feet ...


    Geist drew Brimstone Crimson into his being steadily now, with more confidence, even using its power to bathe him in a reddish-hued shield that righted his body and placed him in a reclining position, facing the fast-shrinking plane far above him.


    Five thousand feet ...


    While still lacking the power to produce an offensive attack, Geist was able to slow his descent noticeably, no longer hurling to the ground at terminal velocity, but falling at a pace of his own choosing - even taking the time to turn his head in order to choose a more secluded field to eventually land in.


    One thousand feet ...


    He continued to slow his descent as thin tendrils of red lightning seemed to leap from the earth and stab themselves into his surrendered body. His whole frame was aglow as the final few hundred feet were traversed. The lightning bolts were supplemented, now, by wave upon wave of cupped force fields that rose from the earth, two per second, intersecting Geist''s body and slowing him to an almost imperceptible speed, righting his position vertically. Geist landed softly, embraced by the field that he had spied from above.


    Touchdown ...


    The moment Geist''s feet touched the ground, he lifted his gaze in the direction of the Learjet, now only a tiny speck in the expanse above him, extended his left hand skyward and released a blinding fireball in the airliner''s direction.


    With that, the first of the three kings turned his head in order to take in his surroundings, then began to resolutely walk due west toward the nearest road that he had spied during his fall.


    It took nearly ten seconds before he heard the faint explosion from above.

 Chapter Thirteen: Dark Wind

    Harvest Season, 2732 BC, Night, Mesopotamia


    Invisible to human eyes and vast in number, the Watchers descended slowly, like fog blanketing the hills, eventually covering the landscape until it resembled a dark and stagnant pond. Their once glorious forms had been shed just as a snake sheds its skin and they now bore little resemblance to the light-bearers they once were. These shadows - dark, ephemeral and wraith-like - were vaguely human in form, though somewhat larger and stood as silent as the standing stones bordering the field they now occupied.


    As one, the shadow-wraiths turned their heads toward the Ben Cana villages of the hill country, then silently began to melt into the ground; seeping into the earth like oily stains and vanishing from sight.


    ___________________


    The wind blew chill through the old man''s dilapidated hut. As he closed his now dim eyes and lifted his withered, flaky head to sniff the air, a faint smile crossed his lips. To him, the dark night bore tidings of a coming storm.


    His Ben Cana brethren referred to him as the Sentinel. No one knew for how long he had borne this moniker, nor remembered what his original name had been. It mattered little, for a sentinel he was. For long ages he had watched the planets, listened to the night whispers, sacrificed innocent blood and prostrated himself before the dark ones that had given wisdom, counsel and strength to the Ben Cana people for centuries. His Ben Cana brethren didn''t know why he''d been chosen to mediate between the people and their gods; they just knew that he had been chosen and therefore the Sentinel was both highly venerated and greatly feared.


    He was a wicked old man, filled with dark thoughts, dark ambitions and memories of dark deeds long past. In his youth he had been a warrior, an unstoppable one that wrought havoc among the Hakkanah. When moved upon by the gods, his strength was superhuman and no mortal could stand against him. To this day, he still wore a necklace bearing the assorted bones of his fallen victims. But, with age came change and the dark ones had seen fit to use their tool in his later years as an oracle instead of a weapon. The Sentinel had welcomed his new role and delighted in doing the dark work given to him.


    With his head bowed and now ruined eyes closed in meditation, he listened to the night sounds, trying to detect the will of the spiritual forces concealed in them. From his throat arose a guttural chant whose cadence swelled as it was carried along on the night wind. Thus occupied with his worship, the Sentinel failed to notice the handful of shadowy figures rising from the floor of his hut and filling the room. One by one, slowly and silently they seeped from the dust floor; humanoid in form, black in color, featureless in detail.


    As the last of the six wraiths completed its ascension from the depths, the spirit lifted its head and nodded silently to the others. As one, they began to solidify ¨C black, seal-like skin giving way to human flesh; featureless skulls transforming into the faces of human beings. In moments, the figures of six hulking men stood as silent as shadows before the blind and unsuspecting man kneeling before them.


    "Arise, fool," spoke the leader, in a quiet but commanding tone, startling the unsuspecting worshipper from his trance.


    The Sentinel, shaken by the voice that seemed to come out of nowhere, tumbled backward, stumbling over crude furniture and cooking utensils.


    "Who are you?" He whispered angrily, in a hoarse, yet harsh voice; his cataract-filled eyes useless and squinting.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Such a thing had never happened to the Sentinel before and he deemed the intrusion highly unacceptable. Suspecting that the voice came from a youthful, but fool¨Chearty prankster, he grabbed a nearby cooking utensil and launched out into a tirade of curses and threats.


    The old man never finished his scolding, for with a quick wave of his hand, the dark leader propelled him across the room by an unseen force, slamming the Sentinel against the mud wall with such impact that segments of the straw roof fell to the floor. Pinned against the mud bricked wall by the invisible power, the Sentinel gaped in surprise, unable to generate sound from his fear¨Cstricken throat. It slowly dawned on him that he was in the physical presence of his gods and his shock turned to awe. Never before had they manifested themselves to him in such a way.


    "Who am I?" replied the voice, as cold as stone and hard as iron. "I am beyond your comprehension."


    While the Watcher''s facial features were those of a man in the fullness of strength - chiseled and ruddy - the eyes betrayed the unnatural origins behind the fleshly fa?ade. They were black as the deepest night, with no color or whiteness to compete with their utter deadness. They sank into themselves like open graves, beckoning the fool-hearty to gaze through them like windows and peer at the darkness of soul within. Now, those same smoldering eyes trained themselves mercilessly upon the helpless, whimpering man pinned to the wall before it.


    Unable to move or speak, the old man''s face remained frozen in horror until the unseen force that held him aloft vanished and he crumpled into a heap onto the dusty floor. Wheezing and sputtering, the Sentinel groped to his knees and held his hands before his face in a pleading gesture; not daring to speak.


    The silence remained until it felt like a physical presence before the lead spirit spoke once more.


    "You shame your gods."


    With arms folded across his chest, the dark one paced slowly around the crumpled form as he continued.


    "Generation after generation, you have become weaker. Generation after generation, you are humiliated. We give you our knowledge. We give you our spawn, mating with your pathetic females; yet all the while those who worship the Tyrant grow stronger, while you wallow in your filth!"


    The Sentinel trembled, yearning to defend his devotion and the efforts of his people. They had given the blood of their infants, they had given the bodies of their daughters, receiving them back as empty husks; their only use then being to give birth to the Nephilim before they died of terror and despair. There were so many victories, so much territory claimed, so much glory won for the dark ones. But, none of these defenses dared escape the Sentinel''s lips. Not with the feeling of those eyes burning into him.


    The dark one continued his emotionless tirade. With each phrase, the dead eyes burned deeper into his subject as his voice, while not growing in volume, grew in meaning and intensity.


    "Generation after generation, your worship of us has become diluted. Your offerings have waned and your community has fallen further and further into disarray. You have failed us. Your failures have maligned our names among our enemies. Your sacrifices to us have been found wanting and we have come for recompense."


    Slowly and painstakingly rising to his feet, the Sentinel pleaded, unable to remain silent any longer.


    "My lord what recompense can we offer you, that has not already been given? We have given you our blood, we have you given our offspring and we have given you the corpses of our enemies. As you well know, if you are who you claim to be, I myself have heeded every voice that has spoken to me."


    Speaking his mind had gotten the Sentinel far in his twisted life, but as soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them and cowered all the more. In a split second, the old man''s entire body was covered with a multitude of tiny, white and wriggling maggots ¨C crawling over every inch of his body, biting into his flesh, suffocating him with their sheer number and terrifying him by their presence. The Sentinel writhed in pain and fear, shrieking out and begging for mercy.


    As soon as it began, it stopped. The maggots  disappeared, as did the effects they produced. Drained of all strength, the Sentinel, again, fell to the dirt, curling into a fetal position.


    "What is it that you want, my lord?" the Sentinel sobbed.


    Lifting his head slightly, with the trace of a smile beginning to form on his lips, Watcher replied ...


    "We want more."

 Chapter Fourteen: When Bone Burns

    Autumn, 1363 AD, Night, Britain


    The fever burned relentlessly even as the chills racked his broken body. It amazed Brother Lawrence that one could be so hot, yet so cold at the same time. For the better part of two days, Lawrence had steadily distanced himself from St. Bartholomew Abbey and made his way toward the high ground off to the west, using the dense forest as cover.


    By means of the waning moonlight spilling through the canopy overhead, Lawrence could make out the spike of wood that had been his constant companion ever since the events that had changed his life forever had taken place, exactly two nights ago. The jagged plank still jutted out from his blood-encrusted shin, fulfilling its only useful purpose by acting as kindling; albeit, not the kindling of a wood fire, but the slow and steady kindling of Lawrence''s fever. Both the entry and exit wounds excreted a putrid, green and oozing puss that, upon inspection, didn''t take a professional healer to foresee that a crisis was fast approaching for the haggard monk.


    Another crisis was fast approaching as well, thought Lawrence. He had sensed their presence on the very dawn that he had first made his escape from the Scriptorium.


    Two pursuers ...


    Lawrence had deduced this from his feeling of the Crimson stirring beneath him as his hunters attempted to scry his whereabouts. Such an attempt was not apt to succeed unless Lawrence, also, was drawing upon Brimstone Crimson; something that he was desperately trying to avoid for reasons beyond the giving up of his own position.


    In the first hour of his flight, mind racing, Lawrence had assumed that the rest of the traitors had remained behind to try and save the Scriptorium and salvage whatever they could of its priceless contents. From what he had seen during his one last, long and sorrowful glance back at the library; there wouldn''t be anything of substance left to save.


    After hobbling along for three hours on that first morning, Lawrence had gratefully come across a familiar stream that he had encountered several times before, during one of his many wilderness wanderings. Risking a brief rest, he had attempted to dislodge the shard from his leg.


    The attempt nearly caused him to faint, outright.


    Although he had used every ounce of his strength in the attempt, the gargantuan splinter never gave an inch. So, for the next day and a half he dragged his broken leg behind him, staff in hand, as he wove his way through the increasingly unfamiliar forest; thankful that he was being followed by monks, not trackers. Lawrence mused on more than one occasion that it was only the mercy of Jesu that enabled him to elude his would-be murderers. It surely wasn''t his speed.


    At various points during his escape he had attempted to disguise his trail by fording streams and creating, what to Lawrence seemed like, very unconvincing switchbacks. In the end, he was forced to concede that subterfuge was just as much a lost cause as speedy flight. At the rate he was able to hobble by means of his shattered shin, it was only a matter of time until the murderous monks caught up to him; and then ... what?


    More treachery? More death?


    His commitment to the precious books that he had been lugging around to the point of utter exhaustion, remained stalwart. At all cost, they must survive. At all cost, they must not return to his new-found enemies. But, in order to ensure this outcome, he simply had to move faster.


    Which meant that the shard had to be removed.


    Which meant that he had to do what he had known from the beginning that he needed to do.


    Which means pain, Lawrence thought, resignedly.


    Both pain and the inevitable revealing of his whereabouts to those seeking to snuff out his life. Heaving a great sigh, Lawrence set about making preparations for the deed that he knew needed to be done. He returned to the small stream that he had forded a few short minutes ago and, after hanging his bulging satchel onto a tree branch and removing both of his sandals, he cleaned the wounds at the entry and exit points of the shard to the best of his ability. This done, he sat upon the fallen husk of an old oak lying parallel to the bank of the meandering stream and lifted his wounded left leg, inch by excruciating inch, onto the length of the decaying trunk. Finally, dangling his good, right leg over the side of the trunk, he made certain that it could reach all the way to the muddy ground, inches away from the water''s edge. Once settled, he ground his right foot into the cool, slick clay at the base of the fallen tree ... and prayed.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Biting down on a short stick that he had picked off the ground moments before, Lawrence began to draw Brimstone Crimson into his body through the juncture of foot and clay. He knew that he had just given away his whereabouts, but there was nothing for it. Continuing to draw up Crimson steadily, he reached out with both of his trembling hands and grasped the two ends of the troublesome shard. Eyes lifted heavenward and teeth biting down hard on the stick, he released the Crimson fire through his fingertips, thus producing a brief burst of power sent directly into the shard itself. Red lightning licked the visible edges of the wood''s surface for just an instant before reducing the entire shard to ash in one sudden flash of white.


    Lawrence screamed aloud as the searing fire entered his body. Forcing himself to remain conscious, he rolled off the log and dragged himself, hand over hand, back into the awaiting stream, submerging his now blistered leg entirely into its blessed waters.


    He wasn''t sure how long he stayed there, sitting motionless on the muddied stream''s bottom and allowing the tepid water to soothe and rinse the open wound left in the absence of the incinerated shard. But, Lawrence knew that such brackish water would do little to cure the infection that still ravaged his fevered body. So, steeling himself once more, he climbed from the stream and made his way back onto the muddied surface of its bank.


    Not waiting for his leg to dry, he touched both ends of the open wound with the fore and index fingers of each hand and drew Crimson back into himself once more. Again, through trembling hands he drove living torrents of Brimstone Crimson into the gaping cavity of his flesh until, in one brief burst, the fire had completely cauterized the wound.


    Suddenly, off in the distance Lawrence thought he heard a wretched, bloodcurdling scream and he stopped to ascertain it''s source.


    Only then did he realize that the scream had been his own.


    ____________________


    Lawrence awoke from his pain-induced faint, what he hoped had been, only moments later. As consciousness slowly returned, the first thought that occurred to him was that he had to get moving. Pulling himself onto his knees, he lifted up his right foot and placed it firmly on the ground. Grabbing the trunk of the small sapling next to him, he raised himself to full height, swooning in the process, but maintaining his balance as he breathed the cool night air in and out, heavily. Only then did he dare to test out his tortured leg. The pain was only nominally better than before, but already he could feel the chills abating from his body. It would have to do for now.


    Slowly slipping on the sandals that had been left at the foot of the fallen log, Lawrence reached out for the satchel and gingerly hung in over his right shoulder. With that, he grabbed the makeshift staff that he had garnered from the Abbey''s wood pile and slowly continued his arduous climb up the hillside.


    The immediate crisis of death-by-fever averted, Lawrence returned to his rumination concerning his preferred destination and future. In the end, what was he to do with the books? Whom could he trust? Should the hidden knowledge concerning Brimstone Crimson be passed along to others - to good men who would protect it, even if they didn''t have the gift to wield it? In his mind''s eye, Lawrence visualized the tattered map of Britain in the Scriptorium that he had consulted often. There was the town of Chester to the south. There were any number of Abbeys and Convents within a hundred mile radius of Lawrence''s current position. But, who could be trusted with Crimson?


    These thoughts and others wormed their way, to and fro, through his wearied brain for hours, with no obvious course of action coming forward to assert itself. But, with the steady abating of his fever in the wake of Brimstone Crimson''s scourging, clearer reasoning slowly returned and with it, more stable and logical conclusions about his next course of action.


    Who could be trusted with Brimstone Crimson?


    The answer to this question was now clear - no one but himself. He was the last true Servant left; and at present, be it from fatigue, fever or foes, his life was in grave danger. Therefore, priority number one, for Lawrence, in following through with his sacred trust to safeguard Brimstone Crimson all came down to one, simple thing.


    Stay alive.


    He had to escape his pursuers, which meant that he had to be able to rest and heal. Earlier in the evening, Lawrence had remembered that an old, abandoned tracker''s cabin existed approximately twelve miles from the Abbey. In the early days of St. Bartholomew''s, the monks had occasionally assisted the trackers in emergency or provisioning situations. Later, some brothers had used the cabin as a hermitage. At present it stood empty and dilapidated, but Lawrence surmised that it could still offer up a modicum of cover in order to rest his tired bones, bandage his blistered wounds and come up with a more comprehensive plan than his current one of just living through the night.


    His immediate course determined, Lawrence lifted his face toward the moon, renewed his bearings and headed off into the night.


    ______________________


    Brothers Silas and Thomas, three miles miles away from their quarry, felt the stirrings of the fire beneath them and, as one, gazed in the vicinity from which they came. Shouldering their packs, they set out in the general direction from which the Crimson signature had come; black looks on their determined faces.

 Chapter Fifteen: Disadvantaged

    September 9th 2012, 4:40 pm, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin


    When Naomi Matthews lifted her head from off of the cool, coarse concrete it was without any recollection of how or why she had gotten there. The first images that imprinted themselves on her retinas were not decipherable to her still-foggy mind. She would later describe these first moments of lucidity as like being trapped inside an reddish-hued soap bubble, floating high in the atmosphere during an electrical storm.


    When her vision cleared she saw that to her immediate right lay Jed, unconscious, with a trickle of blood oozing from a gash on his forehead. Fear gripped her heart as she rose to her knees and reached for her unresponsive husband. She felt him stir beneath her trembling hands and only then did she allow herself to turn away her gaze and take in the unfolding maelstrom about her.


    Standing within the center of the shimmering, crimson bubble that now enveloped the three of them was Sage, arms extended fully to his right and left, with what appeared to be red lightning spewing from his extended palms, pooling two feet away and arching to create the bubble-shield that she now realized had saved their lives.


    She took in the tranquil, almost detached, look on Sage''s face before her gaze was drawn beyond the safety of their translucent shield to the heat shimmering parking lot beyond. Three indistinct figures formed a triangular perimeter around the shielded trio, each standing equidistant from each other, slowly closing the twenty yard distance separating them from their cringing quarry. They advanced, barefoot, on the asphalt with hands extended and wicked reddish lightning springing from their fingertips and lancing into Sage''s mysterious force-field.


    Naomi looked straight into the eyes, first, of a woman seeming to be a few years younger than herself, her blond hair trailing behind her in the afternoon breeze as she slowly advanced toward the curbed-in grass oasis where Naomi, Sage, and Jed huddled. Shifting her gaze, Naomi noted that the young woman''s two partners, both male, also advanced step by agonizing step toward them, hands extended and crimson fire shooting forth.


    How is he withstanding all three of them? Naomi''s mind involuntarily questioned.


    Returning her gaze back to Sage, she noticed for the first time that the same red-hued fire crackling around his feet that she had witnessed earlier when he reduced the pop can to liquid metal. Her eyes jerked back upward when, unexpectedly, Sage thrust his left hand even further forward and shot forth a crackling arc of fire toward the man furthest to their left, even while simultaneously maintaining the life-saving shield surrounding them. Sage''s fire met this assailant''s fire head-on; but instead of a stalemate, Naomi was shocked to see Sage''s fire methodically pushing the other''s crackling stream backward - the brilliant arc from Sage''s hands appearing to burn with a noticeably brighter intensity than his foes, just as she also noticed the fire beneath Sage''s feet shone with a brilliance that dwarfed the fire that leapt from the asphalt to the attacker''s feet.


    The asphalt!


    Naomi suddenly realized the significance of Sage''s choice of location to reveal his powerful secret to Jed and herself. The mysterious fire was coming from the ground, from under the earth. It occurred to her that Sage and their three assailants were only conduits, or relays, through which the reddish fire passed through and that this was why they all were barefoot. The fewer the impediments that the fire had between earth and feet, the more powerful the conduit''s connection to the strange element.


    Shoes, asphalt or anything else that the fire had to pass through weakened its intensity. On the green grass island, Sage held the metaphorical high ground ... for now. All at once, the significance of the assailant''s forward progress toward the lone patch of grass upon which they were held at bay now became all too clear to Naomi.


    She felt Jed stir beside her and looked to see him rise to his knees. She reached out to hold him and directed his gaze to the drama enfolding all around them. The shock of awe that Naomi had been experiencing gave way to fear at the precariousness of their predicament. The only thing keeping both she and Jed from being turned to ash was Sage''s bubble; and the focus of his power was diffused among three different foes.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Both Jed and Naomi huddled together, mesmerized as Sage''s lightning continued to advance toward the man on their left. His forward progress was now halted under Sage''s intense barrage, but as Naomi turned her head quickly from side to side, to her dismay she noticed that the young woman and second male were still advancing, now only ten yards from the curb that divided earth from asphalt.


    Sage must also have been aware of the potential of what would happen if any of the three should reach the grass, for the brilliance of the fire beneath his feet intensified even further, as did the crimson lightning spewing from his hand until, driving back entirely the weak, opposing fire of his enemy, it reached the man in seconds and engulfed him from head to toe in torrents of living flames. One stricken cry was all that came from the overcome man before he exploded in a flash of blinding light.


    Naomi was forced to close her eyes against the light, but when she blinked back sight, one instant later, the man was gone, reduced to a pile of gray ash that could be seen blowing across the lot in the evening breeze.


    With that, Sage turned his attention to the second man to his left. For the second time, a brilliant red arc shot in the direction of his foe, meeting the asphalt-weakened fire of the man and halting his forward progress. In half the time it took his fire to overwhelm the fire of the first attacker, Sage drove his fire through that of the second until, in a blinding haze, the second man was overwhelmed and disappeared from sight. Naomi released the breath in her lungs that she seemed to have been holding for hours.


    "We''re going to be OK ..."


    Suddenly the shield surrounding Jed, Sage, and her disappeared and a searing rush of hot air assaulted her lungs, causing her to catch in mid breath.


    Finding herself, mysteriously, lying back on the ground, she felt Jed''s strong hands grabbing her and dragging her backward. As she quickly regained her feet and stumbled in the direction of the parking garage as Jed continued to pull at her, Naomi strained to turn her head back in the direction from which they had come. She stifled a cry, for she saw that the blonde young woman had indeed reached the grass and that Sage was down on one knee attempting to raise himself upright once again. The bubbleshield was gone, apparently upon the arrival of the woman onto the grass, and two distinct arcs of brilliant lightning spewed from each of the two combatants'' palms and fingertips meeting in the no-man''s-land between them. Sage regained his feet, but despite the intensifying once again of the fire beneath him, no advantage could be gained.


    Jed and Naomi arrived at the parking garage and stationed themselves behind a concrete barrier, peering over the top to take in the horrifying spectacle unfolding before them. Naomi prayed fervently that Sage would be delivered as she watched the young woman take yet another step closer to him, fire lancing out of her in crimson thunderbolts, now a faint smile tracing her lips. Sage''s face, once a mirror of placid calm, now was twisted in anguish, a slight trickle of blood running crimson from his nose.


    A siren could be heard wailing in the distance. In the confusion of the melee, Naomi hadn''t even stopped to consider the fact that they were in a public parking lot, albeit at a slow time of day. She looked past the two remaining combatants to see a handful of stunned onlookers gathered at the hospital doors, gawking with looks of disbelief. She was drawn back to the battle when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sage fall back into a squatting position.


    Oh Sage ... dear Lord, please!


    All of a sudden, Sage dropped his hands.


    "No," Jed and Naomi screamed in unison!


    In that instance, the female''s fire completely engulfed Sage. But, instead of reducing him to ash, Naomi was shocked to see the old man lunge forward from his squatting position, hands extended, while a red-hued shield like the one he had used earlier to gently push back Jed and Naomi this time swiftly hurled toward his attacker. It overran her incoming stream of fire and violently pushed her backwards, lifting her off of the ground, leaving her to drop painfully onto the asphalt ten yards away. With her connection to the earth severed, Sage pressed forward his advantage once again, lightning bolts flashing. The pitiful resistance the woman was able to mount lying on her back on the sunbaked asphalt was no match for the blazing torrents of fire hurled toward her from Sage''s hands and in a moment''s time, her powdered remains, too, were blowing across the parking lot, carried swiftly away on the afternoon breeze.

 Chapter Sixteen: Triage

    September 9th 2012, 9:10 pm, Interrogation Room B, Wapsi County Sheriff''s Department


    "We just watched three people die, Naomi, how do you think I''m holding up right now!"


    Jed didn''t intend for his retort to come off so sharply, but sitting in a stuffy, narrow police interrogation room straight out of some B grade 70''s cop drama for four hours (two of them, doing nothing but waiting) had pared back his already frayed nerves to their roots.


    Jed had fastidiously answered every question to the best of his memory, lest his conscience trouble him later when he mentally sifted the experience. It was an embarrassing, arduous experience to say the least. The dubious investigators had reduced Jed to a mumbling, repeating fool by the end as far as he was concerned. What was he supposed to tell them? The truth was fantastic enough, let alone coming out of the mouth of someone with a documented history of mental illness. Naomi was his only saving grace, finishing his sentences and corroborating his very unlikely story.


    Now, waiting alone for the second time with his wife in the cramped and dimly lit cracker-jack-box of a room, the Critic rehearsed with him over and over again his previous answers and offered up an unceasing and unwanted rolling commentary.


    Were you completely honest, Jed? Did you hold anything back for fear of sounding foolish or to protect the old man? Perhaps you should call the officers back and fill in some more of the details ...


    Naomi rubbed her husband''s back, without replying to his clipped tone in kind. She could always tell when his mental machinery was spinning rapidly and had learned from experience when it was best to distract him or just leave him to muse.


    Her own thoughts were on Amanda and Jed Jr., lying asleep on the couch of their close friends. The Readers had graciously picked up the kids from preschool/daycare and continually occupied them, reassured them, and most importantly, fed them all evening in the wake of their parents'' unexpected absence.


    After a minute''s silence, Jed''s inner conversation took on verbal form.


    "This whole week, I''ve thought I was obeying God ... some spiritual antennae I have, Naomi ... the guy''s some sort of a warlock or something! You saw what he did!"


    Naomi took a calming breath.


    "Jed, you''re obsessing," she replied gently. "You know that both of us were trying to help Sage and I don''t feel guilty. Honestly, I don''t know what I saw in that parking lot, but don''t for a minute start accusing yourself for ''aiding and abetting the enemy.'' We don''t know who or what Sage is."


    The Matthews'' had related their experience just as they remembered it: the backstory before Sage entered the I.C.U., his cryptic replies when asked about who he was and what he was doing in Hickory Grove, his personal interest in Jed and finally, their unfathomable ordeal in the Mercy Hospital parking lot. The sheriff deputies were most interested in what had unfolded there, of course. Similar stories, albeit from a farther vantage point, had been given by the few onlookers who had witnessed the confrontation from the hospital entryway. Most of them, to the best of Jed and Naomi''s knowledge, had been questioned and subsequently released after giving the deputies on scene their contact information. But, there was no easy out for Jed and Naomi. Each witness had seen the couple somehow enmeshed in the reddish-hued chaos that had resulted in the disappearance of three unknown and now mysteriously absent people.


    "They disappeared in a flash of red lightning?"


    This is what the youngest of the two interrogators had kept repeating throughout their long and tedious conversation, his tone bordering on the edge of mockery. The only thing that saved them from being locked up instantly at the local mental ward, they assumed, was that the officers had apparently heard some of the same explanations given by other witnesses.


    In the end, after having them repeat their story, again, for what seemed to them to have been the tenth time, the two officers had stood and left the two to themselves.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    "Of course we know what he is, Naomi" said Jed; quieter this time, but no less agitated. "When''s the last time you saw a Bible-toting Fundamentalist spewing magic from his fingernails! He''s some sort of sorcerer and I didn''t even see it."


    "Jed ..."


    "The one whom he loves has the gift," chuckled Jed, his voice laced with irony as he slowly shook his head. "Apparently he wasn''t talking about the gift of discernment."


    Jed went silent again and bowed. Naomi knew he was praying, repenting, and pleading for forgiveness in his invariable, though puzzling, way for whatever supposed part he had unwittingly played in this evening''s bizarre events. Frustration began to build inside Naomi, despite her outwardly placid demeanor.


    Why is it always about him? Didn''t I almost get burned to death tonight, too? Wasn''t I the brunt of the same embarrassing questions? Haven''t I also been at Sage''s bedside? When do I get to be comforted?


    Naomi, stop it!


    Rabbit trail. With substantial mental discipline, Naomi pulled herself back from the pity party.


    It never does any good, anyway ...


    Ten minutes later, the older of the two officers opened the door, double checked their contact information one last time, then escorted them to the entrance of the Sheriff''s office and gave them leave to go home.


    After a brief argument in the parking lot about whether they would immediately go check on Sage (Jed''s idea), or immediately go pick up the kids (Naomi''s idea); a compromise was reached as Jed drove Naomi to the Readers, retrieved his sleeping children with thanks, dropped off his family members at home, then reversed course and headed back toward Hickory Grove''s only hospital.


    _______________________


    He was practically unrecognizable. After convincing the sheriff''s deputy who stood guard at the entrance to Sage''s room in I.C.U. that he was his pastor, Jed was gruffly admitted entrance. But, in spite of seven years experience doing hospital calls, he remained totally unprepared to see the now bloated and blistered figure lying before him.


    Removed from the scene of the crime (as Jed had now come to think of it) by the twenty-five yards that had separated the grass oasis from the parking garage, Jed had no vantage point to witness what the last barrage of the young woman''s fire had done to Sage''s unprotected body, in spite of victory that had ensued. A third-degree burn victim that had been pulled from an apartment fire couldn''t have looked worse. Sage''s face and hands were double their original size. Blackened and oozing blisters now pocked his haggard face and what had once been facial hair now hung limp like the blackened ends of twigs stamped out from a morning campfire.


    Jed felt a wave of nausea wash over him, but took a deep breath to overcome it.


    He was surprised to see Sage''s puffy eyelids open and yellowed, glassed over orbs staring up into his face, with apparent recognition. In spite of his new misgivings about the old man, Jed was immediately overcome with confused emotion.


    "Sage," he whispered.


    Sage''s blackened lips began to move, silently. Jed bent over the bedside to catch any hint of what the man was trying to say. Ragged breathing met his ear for long moments before Jed thought he discerned three vague and whispered words.


    "I cannot help ..."


    Sage''s eyes fluttered shut as Jed pulled away from the bed; the stench of the old man''s burned flesh finally registering to his nostrils. He looked up to the heart monitor as it coldly beat out its regular cadence on the blued, monochrome screen and knew that Sage was still with him.


    What would Jesus do?


    He would love his enemies, thought Jed. Was Sage an enemy? If so, then why had Jed come back tonight? The Critic''s insistence, to be sure; but wasn''t the Critic even now playing "devil''s advocate" and condemning him for giving any more support to a man who must obviously be in league with Satan? Jed hated the stalemate within. Half of his confused conscience knew that he owed no more allegiance to this strange, confusing man, while the other half felt constrained by "what would Jesus do?"


    Yet, even in the light of all he had witnessed and the unrelenting rationalizations of the Critic inside of his skull; that same, unexplainable and subterranean sense of purpose remained.


    It is you ...


    As Jed mused back upon he and Sage''s initial, disjointed, interview. The Critic was again right at his shoulder ...


    What is he recruiting you for, Jed, some bizarre cult? Why are you still here?


    He didn''t have an answer. Wearily, with head bowed, Jed did the one thing he knew he was still allowed to do for Sage, be he friend or foe - he prayed.


    Lord, what is the truth? I need to know why you allowed this man into my life. Who is he? What is he? What did I just witness him do, today? I don''t want to miss you by identifying with Sage. I don''t want to miss you by not identifying with him. Please, Jesus ... I just don''t want to miss you.

 Chapter Seventeen: Requiem

    September 10th 2012, 7:42 am, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin, Mercy Hospital I.C.U.


    Jed''s right foot, which had been resting on the hospital room''s elevated counter, suddenly slipped off the side and hit the tile floor with a loud smack as he jerked awake at the sound of his ringing iPhone. He had spent the entire night at Sage''s bedside, much to the chagrin of both the sheriff''s deputy (who, grudgingly, had given him permission) and Naomi (who, decidedly, had not given him permission).


    A strange combination of compassion, guilt and calling kept him bolted to his chair throughout the night as he dozed in small patches. He valued these small snatches of sleep, for they were the only times his mind could rest. All of his waking hours seemed to blur together, forming a hodgepodge of reasoning, recrimination, and reasoning some more.


    Ok, Jed ...


    Exhibit A - Sage demonstrates supernatural powers.


    Exhibit B - The only sources of supernatural powers come from either God or Satan.


    Exhibit C - God does not melt pop cans with red lightning.


    Come on, Jed, take this seriously!


    He took a deep breath.


    Ok ...


    Exhibit D - The red lightning was drawn up from the ground and killed three people ... and one pop can.


    Jed!


    Exhibit E - Since God doesn''t deal with people or pop cans through the means of red lightning, this can only mean that Sage was using magic.


    Exhibit F - Magic = sorcery = witchcraft = a tool of Satan.


    Inevitable Conclusion - Sage is a tool of Satan.


    ... and you''re in league with him, Jed.


    Jed would bounce from this line of reasoning, time and time again; his higher mind knowing that he hadn''t been doing anything other than trying to help the old man for the past few days. But, with nagging persistence, the obsessive thoughts would return; unbidden and unstoppable.


    Blessed O.C.D., thought Jed, groggily, as he answered his mobile phone in a voice pitched somewhere between Barry White and Yoda.


    "Good morning, Naomi," Jed croaked.


    "Jed, you sound horrible."


    "I love you, too. What''s up?"


    "Ew, I can smell your morning breath through the phone."


    "Naomi ..."


    "Take it easy, Jed" said Naomi in a slightly wearied tone, "I''m just trying to lighten things up. How''s our patient?"


    Jed pinched the bridge of his nose, "They''re not telling me anything. His vitals seem steady, but I don''t know how to read this thing."


    "Do you want me to come up?" "It''s your call," said Jed wearily.


    "Jed," replied Naomi, flatly.


    ______________________


    This was not the answer she wanted to hear and Naomi could feel her temper rising as the words "courtesy call" reverberated in her mind. Why couldn''t he just give a rip or at least act like he wanted her near him? Was that so much to ask?


    Rabbit trail, Naomi.


    After debating with herself for fifteen minutes, Naomi had, indeed, made the short trip from the Matthews'' home to Mercy Hospital. Why she had finally decided to make the attempt, she wasn''t exactly sure of. It certainly wasn''t because she felt wanted or needed.


    Naomi parked the car, walked to the massive, over-paced revolving entrance door and made her way to the fourth floor Intensive Care Unit.


    Ushered to Sage''s room by a young nurse in a pony-tail wearing the standard-issue, green hospital scrubs, the woman pulled back the curtain, hesitantly, and allowed Naomi entrance.


    Upon entering the room, what she found was a quietly sobbing husband, a flatlined heart monitor and an unresponsive old man.


    Sage was dead.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Naomi spent the next fifteen minutes trying to console her husband. Not from grief over losing someone that he cared deeply about, but rather from the guilt he felt over not leading Sage to Christ when he had the chance.


    As she reassured, patted, and soothed her conscience-stricken husband (just like a good little pastor''s wife, thought Naomi), inside she was seething ...


    This is not about you, Jed! Why can''t you be sorry for Sage, not for yourself! It''s not your job to save the whole world! You''ve not even concerned about Sage''s eternity, you''re concerned about your own! You''re sorry that you didn''t perform well enough and that his blood might be on your conscience! Even your desire to convert people is all about you, Jed!


    She almost cursed, silently, but checked herself. She knew it was the O.C.D., but it was so hard to separate the man from the mind. She loved this man, but at times like these, she couldn''t stand to be in his presence.


    Why can''t I have a strong husband?


    Once Jed was momentarily pacified, she was able to, haltingly, pull from him the events of the last twenty-five minutes.


    Sage had, indeed, awoke briefly from his drug-induced coma. Jed had reassured him of his presence and tried to buzz the nurse, but before he could press the button attached to Sage''s bedside, the wizened man had gently laid his clammy hand on Jed''s arm and whispered.


    "Abbbb ... bbbbeeee ..."


    The word was elongated in such a way that made the "b" seem to last for three seconds.


    "Abby? Abby? Is that what you''re trying to say, Sage? Is there someone named Abby you want me to contact for you? Is she your daughter?"


    Sage slowly shook his head, no.


    "Mell ... llorrrr," he wheezed in a barely audible voice.


    Jed had him repeat the word three times, but he still couldn''t make any more sense of the two syllables than he had the first time.


    "Mellor?" Sage, help me out! I can''t understand what you''re saying? Please, try ..."


    Sage''s grip tightened on Jed''s arm and for one brief moment, his dulled eyes took on a sparkling clarity.


    ___________________


    He had been born, Message Samuel Dort. His mother had given him the peculiar name in the belief that God had, indeed, given her son a special purpose on this earth, as well as a God-given "message" to proclaim to mankind. The unusual name had been shortened to "Sage" in his early childhood, because his family had deemed "Mess" to be a completely unsuitable nickname.


    Sage had never known privilege or respect, except among his small family from the South; and later, where the Brimstone Crimson Servants were concerned. Neither had his mind always been unclear, though no one had ever accused Sage of being especially swift on the uptake.


    It was in adolescence that he had come to him, an old man even then, to show him his unique gift and why it had been given. Long days he spent with the old man: learning, experiencing, and occasionally, even cooperating in local adventures. Sage shared his secret with very few in those days and even those closest to him drove him from their presence eventually, deeming him a freak or some sort of wizard.


    As an adult, the old monk continued to visit him at various points during his life''s pilgrimage; offering guidance, providing understanding and instilling renewed purpose. During those salad days, Sage undertook many adventures at the Clerics request; traveling abroad, righting wrongs and standing against those who had distorted Brimstone Crimson into a selfish weapon of control.


    But, despite his affinity for the monk, it was the Voice that had so transfixed him. It spoke to him, first, a short time after the monk had entered his life. Infrequently he heard it, welling up from within, but when he did he was forever changed from that moment on. The Voice told him he was loved. The Voice told him who it was that was speaking to him; and Sage believed. The Voice showed him how to apply his gift; and the very last time it had whispered to him in the night, sixteen years ago, the Voice had told him to seek out "the one that he loves."


    As the years passed, Sage''s mind had slowed, as had his speech. But, his sense of identity and purpose remained. He was a Servant. He possessed a gift. And it was time to give what little he had left to give, to another.


    Suddenly, as if from very far away, Sage heard the Voice speaking to him once again, un-muted after all of these years and his eyes began to fill with tears.


    You are my beloved. You have served me well. It is time to come home.


    As Sage gazed up through tear blurred eyes at the confused minister standing over him, he realized that it was not only the Voice who loved this man. He loved him as well. Like the Voice''s, it was a love born out of compassion for Jed''s brokenness, not merit for Jed''s worthiness.


    Let it go and pass the burden ...


    Sage''s weak and pale hand tightened, briefly, on Jed''s forearm as it rested on the side rail of the hospital bed and, to Jed''s utter surprise, Sage released what little reserves of Brimstone Crimson he still possessed into the young man''s shocked, open-mouthed, and wide eyed body.


    Jed saw a brief crackling of crimson fire leave Sage''s hand, travel through his fingertips, then run up his arm and enter his chest in the place where he had always assumed that his heart was. His breath caught, momentarily, then both the lightning and the tingling sensation he had felt during its passage disappeared.


    Jed watched as Sage tried to expel one last word, but failed as his final breath wheezed out of his tortured body.


    "Sage!" Jed called out, over and over again, to the old man until a nurse rushed into the room; more out of the need to silence the shouting and sobbing visitor than to resuscitate her patient. She knew that Sage was gone.


    Sage is in Hell because of you!


    Sage was a magician, a sorcerer, a warlock, an occultist and you didn''t even see it or sense it! Why didn''t you use your last moments with him to help him renounce his agreement with darkness and turn to the light?


    Sage was in touch with everything you say you stand against! You let him into your church! You introduced your wife to him! You opened yourself up to him and how what was in him is in you!


    You could have done more! You should have done more! More was asked of you! More was expected from you! You are such a disappointment, a failure, a hypocrite, a loser, a phony, a powerless, selfish, pathetic excuse for a father, husband, friend and pastor!


    Jed awoke with a start. It was three a.m., the night of Sage''s death and he remembered every word that the Critic had hurled at him in his dream.


    He believed every one of them.


    Quietly slipping from his bed and leaving behind his soundly-sleeping wife, Jed walked to the door of his garage, opened it and entered the moonlit, mini-van''d man-cave. Feeling the coolness of the concrete on his bare feet, he walked to his supply cabinet, grabbed his bone-handled hunting knife and silently exited through the garage''s back door into the night; the cool grass tickling beneath his feet.

 Chapter Eighteen: Dig Dug

    September 12th 2012, 3:15 pm, Archaeological dig near Nadschaf, Iraq


    The metallic sound of digging tools striking stone reverberated with staccato regularity throughout the dig site, filling the air with a fine dust that coated everything: equipment, animal and human alike.


    Two men with Armani suits stood at the lip of the crater which framed the thirty foot deep site; their dress and demeanor standing in stark contrast to the rustic and khakied atmosphere surrounding them.


    The first of the two Kings was a middle-aged man, stockily built and swarthy, his dark hair oiled back and in obvious competition with the desert winds. His older companion stood ram-rod straight with a lean and hard frame, his short-cropped, blond hair streaked with gray and a thin hawk-like nose over which he looked down upon the proceedings.


    Like their fellow King, currently in America, this assignment was not normal fare for them, thus accounting for the incongruity of their appearance. However, a watershed event was about to take place; a discovery of such importance that neither of the three Kings wanted it to go unwitnessed. Therefore, expedition took precedence over propriety.


    Within the wide, man-made crater, archaeologists from the University of Baghdad and their students had discovered an ancient bog of such density that the fossils pulled from it, thus far, had evidenced remarkable preservation. It wasn''t, however, the interesting array of human and animal remains thus excavated from the strata that had drawn the Kings two thousand miles away from their current base of operations.


    It was the single, intact skeleton of a twenty-four foot long humanoid that the University scientist''s ground penetrating radar had discovered, just two days ago.


    The information had come, via video conference call, directly from the site foreman himself the moment after the discovery was verified by technicians.


    "It is a remarkable specimen!" gushed the Iraqi scientist, his thick accent barely able to contain his excitement.


    "Our equipment located the skeletal remains shortly after sunrise. There appears to be no breakage. I have never seen humanoid skeletal remains of this size! The world shall be amazed!"


    The Kings on the other end of the data stream had looked at one another, briefly, both knowing that the world would never hear a single word about the monumental find.


    Grainy ground penetrating radar images of the colossal skeleton, shown in gray-scale, had been seen by means of the video feed on the Kings'' encrypted display, thousands of miles away in Germany. Embedded within layers of ancient silt, clay and fossilized remains that were represented on the screen by various shades of gray, a clearly defined skull could be seen, complete with enormous, gaping eye sockets. The jaw bone was hinged agape but intact, showcasing flawless, pointed teeth. Although it was difficult to visually ascertain the size of the find, relative to a normal sized human being, a computerized grid and graph had been overlaid onto the image in order to demonstrate and accentuate the twenty-four plus feet of the giant''s frame.


    The conference call had ended with strict warnings to maintain total radio and media silence until the Kings had arrived at the dig site, personally, to oversee the final excavation of the find. As it was the Kings'' money that funded the Universities'' interests on this site, the archaeologists and their team were only too happy to oblige.


    Concealed within their mountain hideaway, the two Kings had turned off the display and looked at one another.


    So, another Nephilim has been found," said the swarthy King, thoughtfully. "The existence of such beings comes as no surprise to us, as you well know," replied the other. "We have in our collection similar remains from every corner of ancient Mesopotamia, collected over the past one hundred years, some even larger than the current specimen being exhumed."


    "True. However, the fossilized remains in our possession, though fascinating and worthy of study, are of no value to us as far as our current need is concerned," said the first.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    "Which is why, I take it, that you believe this find, being in such a potentially unique state of preservation, is so worthy of our attention?"


    "I do."


    With that, preparations for their journey to Iraq had commenced, with all due haste.


    The Kings knew their history - a history that still was hotly contested amongst anthropologists, archaeologists and theologians, alike. The Nephilim didn''t exist, to any scientist or clergyman who valued their credentials. Myths and legends, they were called, and a blind eye was turned to any data, fossil, or scripture that indicated otherwise. The Kings knew better; not because they valued literary historical evidence, such as Genesis chapter 6, the book of Enoch or mythologies surrounding the Greek Titans. Their history was derived from much more personal sources. Their forebears had known of the ancient war. They had known of the fallen ones and their offspring. They had known of the ancient cataclysm that brought the Nephilim to their knees. But, they also had known of their proliferation after the flood that was so quaintly named after the man, Noah.


    The Kings traced their lineage back to the Servants and though much of the ancient lore was lost, enough had been passed down through the centuries to warrant an extensive and costly search for the Nephilim''s ancient remains.


    The Kings had known that science would one day catch up with ambition. What was once intriguing history had now become a priceless, scientific resource. If the right remains could be found, then the Kings knew that the Nephilim would walk the earth again.


    They were not ignorant about how these creatures had come into being, nor were they short-sighted about the dual nature of their existence. The


    Nephilim had been a supernatural hybrid of flesh and spirit. Science had found a way, popularized by Michael Crichton''s Jurassic Park, to resurrect creatures that were long extinct. But, as for the spiritual component needed to fully animate such beings, the Kings were positive that their long-standing alliance with certain spiritual powers would produce more than enough willing volunteers.


    Breaking the silence that had lasted for the past twenty minutes as they gazed out over the bustling dig, the taller of the two men asked, "How much longer until the full extraction takes place?"


    "Difficult to say," murmured the darker of the two. "It is of vital importance that the specimen be unearthed whole, with the least possibility of contamination."


    A shout rang out from below and the two Kings shifted their position to the right several yards in order to make eye contact with the pith-helmeted individual below; the site foreman and highly gifted professor and archeologist at the University, who was currently acting as their personal liaison to the dig.


    "We have finally made contact!" said the dark skinned, dusty and khakied archaeologist in heavily accented English. "You will want to witness what we have found, firsthand!" he shouted up, excitedly.


    Without giving any indication of a response, the two Kings made their way around the bowled perimeter of the dig site to the industrial lift that acted as the site''s makeshift elevator. A turbaned worker lowered the two suited men onto the floor of the fifty meter wide crater; where upon their arrival at the bottom, the crowed of anxious workers gathered at the opposite end of the crater parted in order to allow their esteemed guests easy access to the cause of their substantial excitement.


    Witness what we have found, firsthand, repeated the thin King to himself.


    This was a most apt description, for as they stepped into the middle of the gathered onlookers, directly in front of them and jutting out from the crumbling, clay hillside was an enormous decayed hand, easily dwarfing that of any other man''s present. To the great satisfaction of the Kings, the hand - rather than displaying only bleached out bones - was covered in a leathery hide; even displaying the frayed and discolored remnants of muscles and tendons.


    The Kings looked on in silence, for the better part of a minute, before the swarthy King spoke to his companion, switching to German to mask the conversation''s content.


    "It is remarkably well preserved. Viable DNA just possibly might be extracted."


    The other replied, "It would mean the end of a decades-long search and the beginning of designs long anticipated."


    "What of these?" spoke the first, nodding his head to indicate the crowd surrounding them.


    "They will be dealt with as soon as the specimen is crated for transport. Three of our associates stand among them."


    ____________________


    Three days later the remains of the intact Nephilim - having been expertly wrapped in polymer, pressurized and crated - was finally off-loaded from a nondescript cargo truck into the hold of a lavish 727 passenger jet.


    Back at the dig site, silence reigned; the only evidence of recent work being, first, a gaping hole at one end of the crater''s crumbling wall and, second, the nearly undetectable gray ashes swirling at the bottom of the dig whenever the hot desert wind found its way onto the crater floor.

 Chapter Nineteen: Crazy Kids

    Winter, 2732 BC, Midday, Mesopotamia


    Shem''s right shoulder pounded itself into the soft soil of the sparring grounds, with his torso, hips and legs following in swift succession. He''d been training rigorously over the past month since being cleared by the healers, in order to recapture the strength and endurance he''d lost due to his injury and long convalescence. Despite his unflagging will, it still remained slow going. His left shoulder, bearing a jagged and raised six-inch scar, ached terribly and hadn''t yet regained its former strength.


    Which meant that he often was bested by his faithful sparring partner, Jared.


    Which meant that he often sustained cuts, bruises and sprains in the course of his training.


    Which meant that he often reported to Healing House, on the average of three times a week.


    Which meant that he often saw the young Seer, Na''amah.


    Which meant that, thus far, his plan was working perfectly.


    On  Shem''s third visit, Na''amah had caught on. On his fourth visit, she''d just stood in the corner of the room and glared at him the whole time, with hands on hips; refusing to even take part in his ministrations. On the fifth visit, she''d grinned sheepishly when she saw Shem hobbling in the doorway and quickly turned her back before being seen. But, by the sixth visit Na''amah had at first, reluctantly, then dutifully taken on the task of bandaging his wounds personally; not even minding the small scraps of conversation they shared.


    Much to Shem''s pleasure, on the seventh visit Na''amah had actually greeted him at the doorway with light-hearted, mock formality:


    "And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company this day, O Shem, young and valiant apprentice of the Hakkanah?"


    "You''re the seer, my lady, pray tell!" replied the limping young man, holding her gaze with a confident half-smile that would have been impossible for him to endure just a few short weeks ago.


    With his bold, yet sincere, strategy for beginning a relationship with Na''amah working out so well, Shem had finally decided to abandon all pretense and feelings of intimidation as far as the girl was concerned. If the Ancient''s blessings favored the bold, then he was not going to be found wanting in forthrightness.


    From that day forward, their conversations ranged far and wide during Shem''s never-ending Healing House visits; though Shem did most of the asking. The weather, the harvest, Shem''s health and, eventually, more personal questions concerning Na''amah''s hopes, fears and dreams became common grist for the conversation mill. With each new visit, Na''amah surprised Shem as she opened up more and more to his questions about her future hopes and present fears. He didn''t fail to notice, however, that her dreams continued to remain the exclusive property of the Ancient and herself alone.


    ______________________


    Six weeks out from Shem''s death-defying ordeal, Na''amah found herself snuggly tucked into her coverings of animal skins, lying on her soft straw pallet in the Seer''s hut that she shared with three of her fellow acolytes. After ending her day in silent prayer and thanksgiving, Na''amah had lain quietly in the darkness of her hut and silently listened to the winter winds moan softly outside as she released herself to the blessed bliss of slumber.


    That is until, through heavily-lidded eyes, she noticed a small hole forming in the thatched roof above her that widened quickly as small fragments of straw fell from the roof onto her coverings. Two stars shown brilliantly in the night sky for one brief moment before the vacancy was filled with a silent and shadowy figure who dropped onto the dirt floor next to Na''amah''s mat and soundlessly sat cross-legged, just inches away from her head.


    The shadow whispered urgently, "Don''t make a sound! It''s just me, Na''amah!"


    Not a soul stirred in the small, one-roomed hut; though a slight coolness began to seep into the room due to Shem''s makeshift entrance.


    "What are you doing here!" whispered Na''amah with startled incredulity. "You know you can''t be in here! Eliazah would skin me alive if she found a man in our sleeping chamber!"


    She made to go on, but Shem gently raised his calloused finger to her lips.


    "Shhhhh. Then come with me."


    Na''amah could hear his grin, even without seeing it.


    "I can''t! You know it''s forbidden!" scolded Na''amah, pulling his hand away; both peeved and strangely excited at the unexpected intrusion.


    "Forbidden?" chuckled Shem, quietly. "So is having a man in a female Watcher''s bedroom; so, what''s it going to be? Me found in here or you found out there?"


    "Shem, leave!" she pleaded.


    "Sorry, but I''m not going anywhere without you," replied Shem in a tone that reminded Na''amah of one of her stubborn younger brothers.


    "Get out!" she begged once again the words sounding like more pout than threat, this time. "You''re impossible! There''s no way I''m leaving with you!Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    I''m a ..."


    Shem stood and began stretching out his arms over his head, emitting an audible, mock yawn.


    This time, it was Na''amah''s turn to leap off of her pallet and reach up a hand, quickly, in order to stifle the sound coming from Shem''s mouth. "Alright! Stop it!" hissed Na''amah, looking around to verify that her roommates were still sleeping. "Please, don''t let me get caught with you in here!" she said with her hand clamped over Shem''s mouth as she looked pleadingly into his eyes, now only inches away.


    "Then come with me," Shem''s muffled voice mumbled between her fingers.


    "How?"


    "This way," said Shem, beginning to tip-toe around the other girls'' mats as he made his way toward the door.


    "I can''t!"


    "You can!"


    "Shem!"


    He reached back to take her hand and this time, she didn''t resist. Letting herself be gently pulled along after him, Na''amah followed Shem as he, quietly, opened the door, pulled her quickly through and crept silently out into the cool night air.


    Having heard the door close quietly behind the two fugitives, Na''amah''s three roommates lifted their heads, looked at one another, then giggled softly before laying back down on their mats and returning to their feigned slumber.


    ________________________


    "Spiders," said Na''amah. "I''m terribly afraid of spiders and thank you, so much, for asking Shem! Can''t you think of anything more pleasant to talk about on the very first night of my life that I''ve broken a rule?"


    Na''amah smiled and nudged him with her shoulder as she said the words. Wrapped in Shem''s outer garment of skins, she still shivered slightly in the evening chill as they both looked out over the village from their perch on the hillside just north of the School of Seers and only yards outside the boundary of the towering forest.


    "Sorry," replied Shem with a grin. "My plan went only as far as getting you out of your hut. I didn''t take the time to plan any intelligent, thought provoking questions for when we were out of the village."


    They sat silently in each other''s company for a few moments; taking in the glorious night sky above them and the humble panorama of the only home that they had ever known as it sat bathed in the light of the half-moon.


    "So, what is the brave, young, apprentice of the Hakkanah afraid of?" said Na''amah teasingly, breaking the silence. "Or, do they remove all traces of fear from you during your training?"


    Shem was silent for several moments. In the awkward quiet that ensued, Na''amah began to feel that she''d touched upon a subject that was best left alone.


    "Them," he said, finally.


    She let a few more moments pass before gently repeating, "Them?"


    "You know," answered Shem.


    It was Na''amah''s turn to be silent this time before she answered softly, "I do know, but I try not to think about it much."


    Na''amah pulled her knees up to her chin. She knew that Shem was referring to the beast he had encountered several weeks ago and she silently chided herself for letting the conversation take such an unpleasant turn.


    "What do you know of them," asked Shem, quietly.


    Na''amah shivered again, this time not from the cold.


    "From my earliest childhood, my elders have been telling me not to stray from the village."


    She paused for a moment and took a deep breath before going on. "I mean, they always told me what the Ben Cana did to girls who ..."


    Na''amah trailed off and the silence returned.


    "You don''t have to talk about it, Na''amah," interrupted Japheth. "I''m sorry I brought it up."


    More silence ensued before Na''amah spoke in a soft voice, barely above a whisper.


    "You know that it can''t be, Shem."


    Shem just sat silently, having known that this moment would come. He desperately tried to think of something, of anything, to say that would convince Na''amah that their worlds didn''t have to be separate.


    "Is that what you want," he asked softly.


    "What I want is not important," she answered, looking down.


    Na''amah''s mind was awhirl. She couldn''t interpret either her feelings or the will of the Ancient concerning the brash, impetuous warrior-to-be sitting next to her. She belonged to the Ancient. It had never occurred to her, until very recently, that there was room in her heart for any other.


    "What you want is everything, Na''amah."


    "Shem," she said, turning to look into his eyes.


    He held her gaze, even now marveling how the moonlight danced in her eyes.


    "How can you say that?" responded Na''amah softly, but intensely. "You know that I was given a gift for a purpose, just as you were. Would you abandon your ability to use the fire to protect the ones that you love, just for a dream?"


    "I would," replied Shem, continuing to look into her eyes, "if you were in that dream."


    "You don''t even know me Japheth," said Na''amah, looking away.


    He paused for a moment, then reached out to take her hand.


    "I know my heart, Na''amah and it speaks clearly. Tell me that yours does the same?"


    Na''amah could feel her own heart beating rapidly. This boy was opening doors within her that she didn''t even know existed. All of this was happening too fast.


    "My heart is confused, Shem. I have never known ..." she trailed off.


    After a moment''s silence, Shem asked, "Known what, Na''amah?"


    She lifted her head to return his gaze, "Known what it feels like to be ..." Na''amah hesitated.


    "To be?" continued Shem.


    "Shem please," said Na''amah, looking away once more.


    "Na''amah," whispered Shem softly as he reached out to take hold of her chin and gently turned her face back in the direction of his own.


    His eyes widened, suddenly.


    "Na''amah!"


    This time, the name was said with a shout as Shem reached up to grab the sword arm of the Ben Cana warrior who had crept up silently behind them, catching it in mid-swing and halting the killing blow that would have ended his life swiftly.


    The warrior righted himself and planted a well-aimed kick into Shem''s sternum, sending him reeling, head over heels, down the grassy hillside.


    Shem regained control of his momentum and brought himself to a skidding halt. Looking back up the hillside, he was shocked to see hundreds of Ben Cana warriors pouring from the cover of the forest and bearing down upon his village.


    Retaliation was the first word to enter Shem''s confused mind.


    Na''amah''s name was a close second as he looked back up the hill to see the first Ben Cana warrior scoop her up off of the ground, sling her over his shoulder and race for the cover of the dark forest.

 Chapter Twenty: The Best Laid Plans

    Autumn, 1363 AD, Dawn, Britain


    Lawrence circled the dilapidated cabin, warily, in the misty half-light of a forested sunrise. It had occurred to him, in the early morning hours, that it wouldn''t have taken much thought or effort for one or both of his fallen brothers to guess his intended destination and make for the cabin directly, instead of continuing to track him in the dark. Now that he thought of it, maybe coming to the trackers'' cabin wasn''t such a good idea after all.


    His bloodshot eyes took in the worn wooden exterior planks, the partially caved-in roof and the rotted shutters hanging loosely from darkly shadowed windows. The cabin certainly looked empty enough.


    Completing his second circuit, Lawrence mustered all of his courage and stepped onto the porch, taking extra care to step lively around broken boards that had created treacherous holes leading straight down to the damp earth, four feet below. He reached for the cabin door, marveling that it at least still hung on its hinges, as he drew in a small measure of Crimson fire to cover himself in a protective shield before slowly pushing the door inward.


    The air in front of him exploded.


    Lawrence cowered as dozens of bats burst forth from the interior of the cabin, disturbed from their brief slumber after a long night''s hunt. In seconds the flurry was over, leaving the startled monk lying flat on his stomach, the musty odor of rotten boards assaulting his nostrils.


    He chuckled to himself, feeling relieved that the gift of chuckling was still his to enjoy, as he slowly raised himself from the porch and dusted off random pieces of debris from his already soiled mantle. Knowing now that the fruit bats wouldn''t have shared their sleeping quarters with any creature on two legs, Lawrence confidently pushed open the cabin door for the second time and stepped inside.


    It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim, interior light. Squinting in the darkness, Lawrence was eventually able to make out the jumbled and disappointing squalor surrounding him. The interior of the cabin was hardly any more accommodating than its exterior; containing only a broken table, a few rotting chairs and several empty cabinets with doors hanging by one hinge, when they had any doors left at all. It was clear that no one had used the cabin in years, save for the bats; with the unbearable odor of their guano making certain that no one, including Lawrence, was going to be taking up residence anytime soon.


    He pulled over the heartiest looking chair and gingerly sat down, making sure that its integrity was still intact before committing himself fully to its embrace.


    His wearied thoughts turned melancholy.


    The cabin is unusable. There is no rest to be taken here.


    Lawrence rubbed his hands over his grimy face and sighed heavily.


    The cabin is unusable, but ...


    A thought began to tickle at the back of his mind.


    The cabin is unusable, but ... my dear brothers don''t know this.


    A half smile played across Lawrence''s face as the genesis of a plan began to form in his mind.


    It occurred to the monk that his nemesis, Rugio, hadn''t exactly sent the sharpest tools in the shed to track him. This observation was evidenced by two facts: first, they hadn''t caught up with him yet; and second, they hadn''t taken the initiative to head him off as he made for, what should have been, an obvious destination. Any number of brothers came to Lawrence''s mind who had the potential to show such ineptness in the forest, but in the end he decided that it didn''t really matter. What mattered was that the cabin now stood empty and he was the only one who knew it.


    Uncertain of exactly how much scheming time he had before his guests arrived, Lawrence set about the task of making the cabin look occupied. Handfuls of kindling were stacked at the front door. A hasty fire was built in the dirty, but usable, fireplace and the window shutters were closed in as much as they could be in their various states of disrepair.


    Satisfied, after an hour''s work, that anyone who stumbled upon the cabin would consider it presently inhabited, Lawrence retrieved his satchel from the tree he had hidden it behind and went about the next phase of his plan by constructing a makeshift blind, twenty-five yards away from the cabin at the forest''s edge; formed mostly of fallen tree branches and mulch from the leaf-covered ground. Marking off fifty paces from the blind, back in the direction of the rising sun, Lawrence hid his satchel of books behind an enormous maple tree; covering it completely with half-decayed, musty leaves, before returning to his lookout.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Able to sit still, finally, Lawrence breathed deeply and took stock of his situation. The morning definitely hadn''t gone as he''d originally planned. He hadn''t slept soundly in two days. His fever was gone, but his body still ached from head to toe, due to fatigue and malnutrition. He indulged himself in a brief moment of self-pity. There would be no sleep by a warm fire. There would be no days of rest and recovery from his wounds. There would only be more hiding, more running and eventually, more death.


    He dozed, on and off, for the next hour as the sunlight worked its way, lazily, up the silent trees and the shadows shortened. Lawrence deemed it mid-morning when he heard the first indication of his pursuers. It began as a soft rustling off in the distance and grew more distinct with each passing moment; eventually becoming the steady cadence of the type of men''s footfalls who clearly didn''t know how to mask their presence in the woods.


    In due time, he saw two cowled forms approach the edge of the small clearing and pause to take in the crumbling cabin before them.


    What happened next set Lawrence''s already hazy mind reeling.


    The two men called out to him and stepped, openly and without pretense, into the sunny clearing.


    "Lawrence, brother!" shouted the taller of the two, now easily recognized by Lawrence as Brother Thomas, one of the Abbey''s cooks.


    His companion, Silas , echoed the plea, "Lawrence, we mean you no harm! We have escaped the treachery at the Abbey, just as you have! We only seek your company and counsel! Please, will you not hear us out?"


    Lawrence remained concealed and motionless. He didn''t deem himself to be such a fool as to take these men at their word.


    Yet ...


    Lawrence had to admit to himself that Silas and Thomas hadn''t been on his short list of supposed "dim ones" he assumed Rugio had sent. Was there another reason that he hadn''t been caught in the night? Was it because the brother''s intentions were pure and they were running for their own lives, even as he was?


    As Brothers Silas and Thomas approached the entrance to the cabin and continued to entreat him to come out, Lawrence puzzled out the problem in his mind. How had these men escaped, if their story was true? Thomas was a cook and easily could have risen early to begin his preparations for breaking fast. He could think of no such excuse for Joseph. Yet, if Lawrence had been alerted about the massacres by seemingly random bumps in the night, might not someone else have also been alerted? In their defense, the two men certainly weren''t approaching the cabin with any overt stealth or cunning. Most notably, as he stealthily probed the power beneath him, he couldn''t sense any trace of Crimson being used.


    The two black-mantled forms carefully stepped onto the front porch, avoiding the maze of trip holes, even as Lawrence had. Silas knocked once, then twice. Hearing no answer, Thomas slowly began to push open the door. They still hadn''t drawn in the Crimson and Lawrence, concealed yards away in his blind, was becoming more conflicted by the moment.


    Seeing both of the monks fully enter the broken down building, Lawrence knew that the opportune time had come. He had them both in a confined space. He could still feel no indication that they had covered themselves with the Crimson. So, stepping out from his blind in clear view of the cabin, Lawrence drew greater measures of Crimson fire into himself; preparing a massive discharge that would incinerate the building whole, along with every occupant within.


    The Lord had delivered his enemies into his hands!


    Or has He ... thought Lawrence, pausing. Lawrence had released Crimson fire into his enemies, just days before. But, at that time he had clearly known their intentions. He had seen Rugio murder dear Justin. He had known that the motley crew was working their way down the Abbey''s south wing and, just prior to Justin''s death, he had also heard the cries of two others before their lives were taken from them.


    Then, he didn''t have a choice.


    Now, he did.


    Lawrence''s weary doubts began to dissuade him.


    How can I destroy the lives of two men, not fully knowing their intent? They may be my killers - my heart warns me that they are. Yet, the heart is easily deceived, especially in the face of fear.


    It would be so easy. Just one quick release and his life would be saved as well as his precious trust. Even if he was mistaken, wasn''t protecting the books worth the risk of error?


    An inner debate of seconds seemed to take hours before Lawrence surrendered his hold on the Crimson, feeling its power drain from his body; lightning crackling underneath his feet before fleeing into the awaiting depths below. He knew that he was not the Almighty. Such life and death decisions were not his to make. If the books were to be kept safe, then Jesu would keep them safe. Lawrence would not become like those who had taken the life of Justin, especially in the face of self-doubt.


    Stepping into the clearing, he shouted in the direction of the cabin.


    "Brothers, here I am! Seek me or slay me! My life is bound up in the will of the Almighty! I abandon myself to your intent!"


    With that, Lawrence kneeled onto the leafy ground and awaited the Sovereign Lord''s will for his life.


    Brothers Silas and Thomas slowly opened the cabin door and looked off in the direction of Lawrence''s voice. Spying him at the forest''s edge, they carefully made their way off of the withered porch and walked across the clearing to stand only yards away from their kneeling brother.

 Chapter Twenty One: Wounded Healer

    September 12th 2012, 7:00 am, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin, Mercy Hospital Mental Health Floor


    The scratchy sheets reminded him that he wasn''t home. As the seven a.m. alarm began chiming in every private room and public area within the locked down ward on the sixth floor of Mercy Hospital, the events of the past thirty-six hours came rushing back at Jed and he closed his eyes tightly in order to will himself back to "life as it was." But, as the bothersome alarm struck seven chimes, he knew that the gift of time-travel had eluded him and he opened his eyes once more to face the harsh reality of the new world that he had created for himself.


    Glancing both to his right and his left, Jed noticed the bandages still taped to his upper arms, just below the shoulders.


    He couldn''t believe what he had done.


    The Leupold hunting knife had plowed three identical furrows on the inner, fleshy portions of each arm; six reminders of this past week''s events that would remain with him for the rest of his life.


    They would have to be symmetrical, thought Jed wryly as he threw his feet over the side of the twin-sized hospital bed and reached out for his shirt, gingerly wincing from the pain. Shirt in hand, he sat on the edge of his bed for several, long moments.


    Naomi, what have I done to you?


    Jed''s aching guilt and regret returned to the forefront of his mind after having been briefly banished by drug-induced sleep.


    He remembered Naomi relating to him her experience as he sat silently across from her in his room, just before she had left last night. She had found him the morning after Sage''s death, curled up on the backyard swing, unconscious through fatigue and loss of blood. Naomi told Jed that the only thought which had crossed her mind, after frantically searching the house and spying him lying bloodied and motionless just yards away from the kitchen window, was that she was now a widow and her children were fatherless. She had cried out Jed''s name, over and over again, until he finally stirred and opened his eyes. Then, her desperate cries had turned to angry shouts. Jed couldn''t remember the content of her tirade and he was glad. Dragging him into the house, she had called 911 in spite of his groggy protests and with that, "the end of Jed''s world as he knew it," had commenced.


    Sitting in the empty room, his mind naturally gravitated to the worst possible scenario: he would lose his church, his career and possibly even his marriage and children.


    Jed slowly and painfully slipped the hospital issue shirt over his bandaged shoulders and reached out to the chair opposite his bed for the matching pants and robe. The film in his mind rewinded from the dismal future to the hazy events of yesterday''s past.


    Jed''s first day at the psychiatric unit had been a blur of medical forms, intake interviews and inward, burning shame. He numbly answered each question directed at him in short, monotone sentences, while Naomi at his side provided the real and necessary information the doctors needed. There was a small group meeting at which he had been present, but silent, as he stared at the frayed carpet between his feet. There was the increased medication that sedated his mind and troubled his brief naps with twisted dreams. Jed''s foggy mind thought he also remembered a visit from one of the church elders, Steve, who assured him that everything was being taken care of and that all he needed to do was rest.


    In the medicated haze of that day, Naomi came and went - always with a look of concern upon her face - always with the reassurance that Jed didn''t need to worry about anything. She was fine. The kids were fine. The church was fine. His wounds were fine. Everything was going to be just fine.


    Now, as the window in his room displayed the pitter-patter of rain drops falling from the dreary sky, Jed knew that things were far from "fine" in his life. In fact, he was certain that nothing would ever be fine for him again.


    Even now, in spite of the sedating medication, Jed wasn''t fine. It was all that he could do to keep himself from dropping to his knees immediately and confessing the multitude of sins that he was sure his account had accrued over the past two days. He had done so repeatedly since arriving at the hospital.  Presently, however, he simply didn''t have the strength to deal it. At times, such confession brought him peace and a sense of closeness with God. But, when he felt as he did right now, such scrupulosity just drove him into deeper levels of despair. He couldn''t remember all of his sins. He couldn''t work up the remorse that he felt was necessary for his sins to be truly forgiven. He just couldn''t purge his conscience from the accusations that assaulted him, constantly.


    So why try, thought Jed?


    Twenty minutes later after brushing his hair and teeth to what he considered to be an acceptable degree, Jed trudged out of his room, walked down the hallway to his right, and entered the mental health ward''s small public kitchen. He retrieved a tray of lukewarm eggs and found his way to the most secluded table he could find.


    A few other occupants filled the remaining tables; one being a middle-aged, white man possessing an epic display of bed-head, a scruffy salt and pepper beard, and a standard-issue hospital robe. He stared continually in Jed''s direction while Jed did his best to ignore him.


    It was in that state, thirty minutes later, that Naomi had found him staring dully at his plate of untouched food. The remaining occupants of the kitchen had all cleared out, save for Mr. Bed-head who seemed to have given up all interest in Jed in favor of studying his hash browns.


    "Good morning Jed," Naomi said quietly as she approached his table.


    "Don''t worry, I won''t ask you how you''re holding up right now."Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Jed just looked up at her and smiled, weakly. "After what I''ve put you through this week, Babe, you can ask me or tell me anything you want."


    Tears began to well up in his eyes as Naomi took the seat opposite his.


    "Naomi ..." he started, "I am sorry. I don''t know why ..."


    She reached across the table and took Jed''s hand.


    "Shhh, Jed please, I know," she whispered. "Honey, I know it''s not the real you. I know the real Jedidiah Matthews and I love him with all of my heart." She squeezed his hand firmly. "We''re going to win, Jed. We''re going to beat this thing and I''m going to be right by your side the whole way."


    Now Jed''s tears began to flow, "But Naomi, the kids, my career, our home, other people''s ..."


    Naomi interrupted gently, "It''s all going to work out, Jed. The kids just know that daddy''s away for a couple of days. The church board is behind you and praying for you, fervently. No one else at the church knows, nor do they need to. As far as anyone else is concerned, we''re just on a family vacation. All that matters right now is getting you better, Jed.


    Naomi looked down at the table before speaking again.


    "Jed, I''m so sorry," tears now welling up in her eyes, "for all of the anger, the misunderstanding, the self-pity ..."


    Now, it was Jed''s turn to interrupt.


    "Hey ..." he said as he reached out to take hold of her other hand. "Naomi, this is not your fault! I own up to what I did. I may not understand it all, but it was my own doing. It was a lame, selfish, immature cry for help and I promise that I will never put you through this again."


    Naomi just looked into Jed''s moist eyes and nodded. They sat like that, holding hands and enjoying the silence for the better part of a minute.


    "So, where do we go from here?" they both said, simultaneously and laughed.


    "I think the doctors want to keep you in for the next twenty four hours, pending your good behavior," answered Naomi as she smiled and dried her tears with a tissue. "They want to see how you''re reacting to the new medication before they ..."


    "Naomi, don''t let them turn me into a zombie," interrupted Jed.


    "They''re not, Jed" assured Naomi. "It''s just a different direction than they''ve tried before."


    "I just want to trust in God for this thing," began Jed.


    "Honey, we''ve worked through this before. I also want you free from medication. But, I also want to be free from my contact lenses. My aunt wants to be free from her insulin and my father wants to be free from his high blood pressure medication. We''re all broken, Jed, and we all believe that God can mend us. It''s just a matter of when and how."


    Naomi took a deep breath and continued.


    "Please Jed, let''s just give this a try."


    "Babe, I will do whatever you ask of me," said Jed, looking into his wife''s eyes. "I just want you to have a husband that makes you smile; and I prefer that husband to be me."


    Naomi stood from her chair, walked around the table and - to the mutual surprise of both Jed and the now attentive Mr. Bed-head - sat down on Jed''s lap, lifting her hand to his face.


    "You just try and get rid of me," she said, before kissing him softly.


    Jed was pleased to discover that, for the moment at least, he felt fine.


    The couple sat in each other''s arms for one brief moment before they suddenly seemed to remember their audience of one. Naomi extricated herself from Jed''s lap, then took his hand in order to help him to his feet.


    "I''ll walk you to the door, hon" said Jed.


    Hand in hand, they skirted the empty tables and dislocated chairs; passing by Mr. Bed-head on their left as Naomi gave him a small smile and nod. Just as they were about to exit the kitchen and turn to their left, heading back toward the psychiatric ward''s main entrance, Jed felt his wife pulled, violently, from his grasp. He spun around - first in confusion, then in horror - as he beheld his wild-haired breakfast companion holding Naomi from behind with his arm around her neck and brandishing a butter knife.


    "Pretty lady," said the man in syllables that sounded as if his mouth was full of marbles.


    As the wild-eyed patient slowly began to drag Naomi back into the dining area Jed reacted without thinking. He reached out one, desperate hand toward the retreating pair; suddenly feeling a strange, cool sensation fill his chest. As he called out Naomi''s name, the sensation raced down his left arm and leapt from his extended hand in the form of a brief, crimson burst of lightning. The blinding bolt lanced into the exposed shoulder of the disheveled man, knocking him backwards onto the table directly behind him. His grip involuntarily released Naomi as he tumbled, head-over-heels, backwards and landed in a noisy heap onto the linoleum floor.


    Jed pulled Naomi to himself as the pounding of feet could be heard running down the hallway outside. Two staff members pushed themselves past the embracing couple, the first of the two rushing to Mr. Bed-head''s side.


    "What happened here!" called out the first staffer, a twenty-something African-American man whose muscles bulged inside his blue scrubs as he reached down to lift the crumpled form off the floor.


    "He tazed me!" warbled the man, wildly, as he got to his feet and shook his finger at Jed. "He shocked me ... he''s packing something!"


    The second female orderly looked askance at Jed while he desperately tried to think of some way out of this bizarre situation.


    What did I just do? he thought, his body trembling involuntarily.


    Naomi intervened quickly, "Jed''s not carrying anything! This man just grabbed me from behind and held a knife to my throat!"


    "Gary, did you do that?" asked the black man, in a gruff voice that indicated it wasn''t the first time he had reprimanded "Gary" for such behavior.


    Gary just stood with his mouth agape, not answering.


    "All the same, sir, if you''d lift up your hands."


    Jed raised his hands and allowed the middle-aged, bleach blonde woman to check him for any concealed weapons. In his hospital gown, there weren''t many places to search.


    "He''s clean," said the woman.


    "Gary, you''re never gonna get outta here if you keep this stuff up!" scolded the big man as he gripped the protesting patient''s arm, firmly, and herded him down the hallway toward the isolation room.


    "Are you alright, ma''am?" asked the female orderly. "I wish I could tell you that this hasn''t happened before. Gary''s harmless, but he can scare the bejeebers out of you if you''ve never met him."


    "I''m ok, thank you" said Naomi, shakily. "But, I would really like to leave now."


    "Sure, ma''am, just follow me.


    Jed followed Naomi in numb silence, incredulously staring at his hands.


    Sage, what did you do to me?


    Arriving at the psychiatric ward''s main entrance, Jed felt Naomi kiss him on the cheek and heard her say something incomprehensible before the large metal door clanged shut and he felt himself being led, gently, by the arm back to his own room.

 Chapter Twenty Two: Sleuths

    September 12th 2012, 5:25 pm, Hickory Grove, Wisconsin


    The pig-pile that ensued upon Jed''s entrance into his home was a pleasant diversion from the twelve hour inner debate he had been having with himself as to whether or not Sage had infected him with evil spirits. He was pretty sure that Christians, technically, couldn''t be demon possessed. But, he was also pretty sure that Christians, technically, couldn''t spew lightning from their fingers, either.


    The Hospital had shortened his twenty-four hour period of observation to twelve hours, due to overcrowding, and Jed couldn''t have been more relieved. He gathered Amanda and Triple-J into a great, double bear-hug on the carpet floor and delightfully weathered the rapid-fire barrage of communication that was hurled at him. "Daddy, we missed you!"


    "Daddy, did you bring us anything?"


    "Daddy, I have another loose tooth!"


    "Daddy, can you play with us?"


    Jed playfully wrestled with the children, taking extra care to protect his hidden bandages, and doing his best to answer each question that he could and deflect the ones that he couldn''t. Twenty minutes later, Naomi called them all to the table for a hastily prepared supper, before which Jed performed the nightly family ritual of selecting which child would bless the meal.


    "Triple-J, would you pray for us tonight?"


    Jed Jr. beamed and nodded his head eagerly before folding his hands, closing his eyes and bowing his dishwater-blonde head.


    "Dear Jeeesus ... Thank you for Daddy and food and Mommy and crabs ... Amen."


    Jed opened one eye and peered at his son.


    "Crabs?"


    "Mommy took us to the pet store yesterday!" answered Amanda, laughing. "We saw a crab and liked it. But Triple-J wouldn''t touch it!"


    "Neither would you!" said the three year old with all the conviction of a cross-examining trial lawyer.


    "Ok, kids," intervened Naomi, smiling over at Jed. "Let''s eat our dinner before it gets cold."


    Dinner was set against the backdrop of the beautiful, but unceasing, questions and chatter of small children. Jed thought that he had never heard anything so beautiful in all of his life.


    Wrestling and hide-and-seek, followed by even more wrestling, occupied both Jed and the children up until 7:30 bath time, leading into 8:00 bedtime, leading into 8:01 story time, leading into 8:11 prayer time, leading into 8:12 second story time, finally leading into 8:15 and 8:16 random and unnecessary question time (hosted by Triple-J, who had mastered the finer art of prolonging the moment when he was actually expected to go to sleep).


    _____________________


    By 8:30, the kids were silent and Jed and Naomi were able to quietly remove themselves to their own bedroom and close the door. Naomi, intending to celebrate Jed''s homecoming in a different way now that the kids were down, took one look at Jed''s face and knew that all such celebrations would have to wait.


    "I take it that we need to talk about ''the elephant in the room'' right now?" she asked inquiringly, coming over to sit by Jed on their pillow-topped bed and beginning to rub his shoulders.


    Jed waded right in. "Not trying to be insensitive to what you went through back there, N''ome."


    Naomi could never decide whether or not she liked this nickname ...


    "... but, I just really need your help unpacking my own little contribution to the party."


    Continuing to knead her husband''s knotted shoulders, Naomi pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment before answering. "I saw the ''taze'' as Gary called it," she finally said. "It was definitely the same type of phenomenon we saw Sage manifest, although I didn''t notice any ''foot-fire,'' so to speak." She shrugged, "I guess I was a little preoccupied at the time."


    Jed shook his head and stared at the bed''s plush, down comforter. "I don''t know ... it happened so fast and I couldn''t control it. The thing just leapt out of me in the same way that it leapt in. I didn''t feel anything either good or evil about it. It just was ..."


    Naomi stopped the massage and answered thoughtfully, "So, what do you think it was, Jed?"


    He pulled away from his wife''s embrace and turned to look her in the eye. "I''ve gone over it, both experientially and theologically, all day Babe. It was either a miracle or magic. It if was a miracle, then I need to be on my knees tonight thanking God. If it was magic, then I need to be on my knees tonight begging for forgiveness and deliverance. I just don''t know."


    Sidling up next to him, Naomi wrapped her arms around Jed and sympathetically placed her chin on his shoulder. "There was only one person who could have given us the answers we''re looking for, Jed, and he can''t help us anymore."


    Jed nodded, thoughtfully, fighting off the lump that was quickly developing in his throat.


    "I cannot help," said Jed, huskily, after taking a moment to gather himself.


    "What was that?" asked Naomi, softly.


    After clearing his throat, Jed answered, "Remember, I told you that Sage whispered those words to me the night before he died? At least, I thought that''s what he said."The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "I cannot help ..." repeated Naomi, trailing off. "Then who can?"


    Jed just let himself be held by his wife for the next few moments before a thought began to form in his mind.


    "Abby Mellor," he said, softly.


    "Who?"


    "Sage''s last words to me; ''Abby Mellor'' or something that sounded similar to that," said Jed.


    Naomi nodded her head before responding. "I remember you telling me about that now, but I never considered that it might be a name."


    "Well, it''s not his daughter," replied Jed, "That''s about the only thing that Sage ever made clear to me."


    "Then who is it?" asked Naomi.


    Jed shrugged and took a deep breath. "I guess it''s time to let Uncle Google shed some light on the mystery," he answered. "I''ve decided that my brain is always going to obsess about something, whether I want it to or not. I might as well pick the obsession, for the time being."


    Jed started to get up from the bed, before Naomi gently held him in place.


    "Jed, can we do one other thing, first?"


    "Sure, Hon, what?"


    "Pray?" she said tenderly, trying not to sound pushy or super-spiritual.


    A little chagrined that he hadn''t thought of it first, Jed answered, "Sure, N''ome. Would you mind doing it?"


    Naomi nodded twice, embraced Jed anew, and spoke out gently.


    "Lord, we don''t understand what''s going on. You know that we want to please you in every way. Whatever is manifesting itself in Jed, we submit it to you. If it''s of you, then please reveal to us its purpose. If it''s not of you, then please set us free from it. We''re at a loss to know what to do in so many areas of our life, right now. But, you''ve promised us that if we trusted in you with all our heart, then you would direct our path. Please, direct our path in regard to this strange power within Jed, this mental battle he wages, and my own spirit in relation to all of these things. In Jesus'' name, Amen."


    "Amen," repeated Jed just before lightly kissing his wife on the forehead.


    As Naomi began her preparations for bed, Jed sat down at the desktop computer in their room, pulled up Google Chrome, and typed the words "Abby Mellor" into the search window.


    ______________________


    With Naomi at work, the kids in school and himself on administrative leave, Jed had plenty of time to obsess over the identity of "Abby Mellor" over the next few days. It began, that first evening, with a simple word search for the name. Without being exactly sure of the interpretation of Sage''s garbled and whispered words, it was impossible for Jed to nail down an air-tight pronunciation and spelling. Beginning with his best guess, he landed several Facebook pages, Twitter accounts, email address, White Page listings, and Wiki hits. To the individuals that could be reached electronically, Jed sent off quick messages asking if any of them recognized a man fitting Sage''s name and description. As one day led into the next, this same practice was expanded to different spellings of the name; Mellar, Meller, Mallor, and Maller being among them.


    Jed pursued the social network avenue for the better part of two days. Most inquiries went unanswered, but the few individuals who did respond, all responded negatively. Day three of Jed''s search produced an unexpected paradigm shift in his research approach. While continuing to browse hits for the spelling "Abby Mellor," he noticed a Twitter post from the account "Hexham Abbey" commenting about a recent choir they had hosted at their church named the "Mellor Parish Choir." Although each of the titles contained only one portion of the name that Jed had been searching for, and although there was no obvious organizational relationship between Hexham Abbey and the Mellor Parish Choir other than the performance listed; Jed couldn''t help but think that maybe he had been approaching this thing all wrong.


    What if ''Abby Mellor'' isn''t a person at all, but a place?


    His interest suddenly revived, Jed jumped mental rails and narrowed his search to the spelling "Abbey" instead of "Abby." For good measure, he also opened a new tab and brought up the Mellor Parish Church homepage. The site turned out to be unhelpful, just as searching for the new spelling "Abbey Mellor" didn''t produce any better results than any of his previous attempts. But, on a whim, he reversed the words in the search window to "Mellor Abbey" and was immediately rewarded by two recommended searches by Google: a website for The Mount Melleray Abbey, located in County Waterford, Ireland; and a second website for New Melleray Abbey located in Peosta, Iowa.


    Jed sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. His hope was renewed for the first time in days, but the nagging voice in the back of his head couldn''t help but wonder whether or not all of this wasn''t just a colossal waste of time. Jed thought back to the events of last week. Had Sage been really trying to give him any coherent information before he died? Or, had Jed just heard the random firing of neurons in the final throes of death?


    He reached for his cup of coffee, took a sip, and stared at the two, blue hyperlinks on the screen before him.


    No, he insisted to himself. Sage had been trying to communicate something important to me.


    Pushing the doubts aside, Jed set down his coffee cup and switched back into research mode. He debated with himself as to which of the two Abbeys would have been the most likely destination that Sage would have been trying to direct him to.


    He read the description of Mount Melleray Abbey, first.


    Mount Melleray Abbey is a community of Cistercian [Trappist] monks. The monastery is situated on the slopes of the Knockmealdown mountains in County Waterford, Ireland.


    He took in the pastoral landscapes and beautiful buildings displayed on the site and was momentarily transported to another time and another place. But, snapping out of his brief reverie, Jed strongly questioned whether Sage had been trying to direct him toward Ireland. In what snatches of conversations they had shared in their brief relationship, no mention had ever been made of any international travels.


    Possible, but unlikely, he thought.


    Opening up a new tab, Jed brought up the second of his two options: New Melleray Abbey in Peosta, Iowa.


    Never heard of Peosta, thought Jed.


    He hurriedly opened yet another tab and Google-mapped the distance between Hickory Grove and the obscure town of Peosta. He was surprised to discover that the distance from Hickory Grove, Wisconsin to Peosta, Iowa was only a little over three hundred miles. Clicking back to his former tab, he read the brief bio on New Melleray Abbey.


    New Melleray is a Cistercian (Trappist) monastery that was founded in 1849 and is located in the rolling farmland south of Dubuque, Iowa. We support ourselves by farming and making wooden caskets (visit us at Trappist Caskets).


    That''s a little creepy, thought Jed as he read on.


    Currently, about 30 monks live, work and pray at the Abbey. We hope that you will find one of Cistercians'' best-filled missions is providing hospitality to guests.


    The monks of New Melleray are Catholics, professing the Rule of St. Benedict in the spirit of the founders of Citeaux, as handed on in the tradition of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, within a community wholly orientated to a contemplative life of prayer.


    At the bottom of the page, Jed found a simple address and phone number for the Abbey, located in the neighboring state to his west.


    Can anything good come out of Iowa? he thought as he smiled, reminiscing about the many Badger/Hawkeye football games he had enjoyed with his father during the crisp, fall afternoons of his youth.


    "Only one way to find out," said Jed out loud as he picked up his iPhone and dialed the ten-digit number that stared out at him from the computer screen.

 Chapter Twenty Three: Abbey Road

    September 15th 2012, 3:15 pm, Peosta, Iowa


    Brother Tobias leaned back in his vintage 1970''s office chair after answering New Melleray Abbey''s hospitality phone using his most mellifluous monk-voice. Cradling the equally vintage phone receiver in the crook of his neck, he resumed his game of Angry Birds on the iPad sitting in his lap as he listened to the polite, male voice on the other end of the line.


    "Um ... Hello, my name is Jed Matthews and I''m a minister over in Wisconsin. I have ... kind of a strange question to ask. Do you think you could help me out?"


    Accustomed, by now, to all manner of questions from seekers and supplicants; the rail thin, shaven-headed monk in his early thirties replied in a manner that he hoped didn''t sound too distracted. He was, after all, approaching his high score.


    "Sir, I''d be happy to help you in any way that I can," said the monk as he re-positioned the receiver on his clavicle. He had only one attempt remaining with which to solve the current puzzle and clear the entire level. "Please, feel free to call me Tobias" he said as he prepared to launch his last canary. "What question do you have in mind?"


    The voice on the other end of the line paused, nervously, before continuing.


    "Is your Abbey familiar with an elderly wanderer who goes by the name of "Sage?"


    Brother Tobias slowly set down his tablet, mid-bird, and leaned upright in his chair, pausing for a moment to collect himself before responding.


    "Forgive me, Reverend Matthews wasn''t it?" Tobias furrowed his brow in concern, "May I ask how, exactly, you came across that name?"


    The minister on the other end of the line seemed candid as he recited the events surrounding his brief relationship with the mysterious "Sage." But Tobias still knew far too little about this man to entrust himself, fully.


    After the inquirer had ceased his synopsis, Tobias remained still as a statue, wondering what he should do next.


    "Hello, sir, are you still there?" asked the minister.


    "Yes," said Tobias, snapping out of his rumination. He chose his next words carefully. "I''m terribly sorry, sir, but ... I think that it would be more appropriate for you to discuss the individual whose name you''ve brought forth with my superiors, in person."


    Tobias didn''t know where else to go with this.


    He continued, "Would there be any possible way that you could pay us a visit at the Abbey? I''m certain that there are some of my brothers who would be most interested in discussing the individual that you have mentioned."


    The monk held his breath.


    "Sure ... of course," said the voice on the other line, with all the puzzlement that could be expected from a person who had received such a cryptic response. "I''d be happy to visit you in person but," the man hesitated,


    "There''s one other thing you ought to know about Sage before I come."


    "Certainly, Reverend Matthews, and what would that be?"


    The disembodied voice from Wisconsin paused briefly before saying, "I''m sorry, but Sage passed away last week."


    Tobias'' end of the line remained silent as his eyes darted, too and fro, in shocked disbelief.


    "Brother Tobias, did you get that?" asked the minister, softly, after waiting a moment.


    "Yes, sir" Tobias replied, huskily, before clearing his throat. "Thank you ... thank you for letting us know."


    He paused, again, gulping in deep drafts of air to steady himself before continuing. "Reverend Matthews ..."


    "Please, call me Jed" interrupted the voice, gently.


    "Thank you ... Jed," he continued in a grief restricted voice. "I beg of you ... to come to us."


    The shaken monk''s voice tightened with resolve as he concluded, "I beg of you to come to us at once."


    _________________________


    Naomi set the steaming cup of Keurig coffee on the computer desk next to Jed and listened to his description of the strange phone conversation he''d shared with Brother Tobias at New Melleray Abbey, earlier that afternoon.


    Like Jed, she''d been intrigued with the notion that "Abby Mellor" could actually be "New Melleray Abbey." She had been even more surprised to discover that Jed seemed to have hooked his fish on the first cast.


    "So, the monk never really claimed to have heard of Sage," asked Naomi?


    "Not in so many words, but his response was immediate and powerful; especially after hearing of Sage''s death." Jed turned to look at his wife. "The guy knows something and he wants me there, yesterday."


    "Do you think there could be any danger?"


    "From a bunch of monks?"


    "Jed," replied Naomi with a look of concern on her face, "nothing is as simple as it appears in this drama and we seem to be getting drawn in, deeper and deeper, against our will. These people may be able to do the types of things that Sage could do."


    "And that I can do."


    Naomi pursed her lips.


    "Sorry, Hon, it''s a fair question." Jed sighed. "No, I think they''re legit. I''m beginning to believe that Sage might have been one of them. That would explain the man''s grief when I told him of Sage''s death, but it still doesn''t explain his insistence that I pay him a visit, immediately."The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    "Not a visit to him, specifically," responded Naomi. "You said he indicated that there were others who would be interested in talking to you. Could this thing get any stranger?"


    Jed blew on his coffee and took a sip before answering, "Don''t tempt providence, Babe."


    Naomi looked over Jed''s shoulder as he surfed New Melleray Abbey''s website.


    "You said it wasn''t very far away. Are you thinking of making a day trip of it, or possibly staying the night as a guest?"


    "You''re assuming that I''m going?"


    "Aren''t you?"


    Jed smiled, "Just kidding, Hon. You know my curiosity. I have to check this thing out in order to have any peace. I''m not sure about staying the night, though. I guess it kind of depends on the weirdness factor."


    "Want a buddy?"


    "I''d love to have you come along, N''ome, but what about the kids and work? Besides, if this thing does get weird, I''d feel better knowing that you''re safe at home."


    Naomi didn''t respond.


    "Is that OK?" asked Jed, turning to look at his wife.


    "Oh sure," she said, coming to herself. "I just liked hearing you say that you would love to have me along with you."


    "I guess I owe you a few of those, don''t I?" said Jed, holding her gaze momentarily before turning back around to face the monitor.


    She reached down and hugged him from behind. "It''s a good start," she whispered into his ear, sending shivers down his neck. "But, Jed, this still worries me. Who''ll be there to look out for you?"


    "It seems that I already have some kind of electrical company inside of me. I think I''ll be fine."


    Naomi bit her lip. "Can you control it?"


    "I don''t know," said Jed. "I haven''t tried, intentionally. I can feel a sort of coolness in my chest, at times, but it hasn''t reacted in the same way that it did at the hospital."


    "Good to know," she replied, peering over his shoulder. "What are you looking at now?"


    Jed scanned the page in front of him. "They have something they call "The Monastic Associate Program."


    "What is it?"


    "It seems to be some kind of immersion experience. They take a limited number of men into the fold, Catholic or Protestant, and let them live among them for a few weeks."


    "Interested?"


    "So long as I don''t have to work in the casket factory."


    Naomi thought for a moment before continuing. "Seriously, Jed, would it help your O.C.D. if you could get away and have some peace and quiet for a while? Your administrative leave lasts a whole month."


    "I don''t think so, N''ome. It would just be replacing my already rigid routine with an even stricter one." Jed took another sip of coffee. "Besides, I don''t want to be away from you and the kids that long."


    "Good answer," Naomi smiled and said.


    _________________________


    The following morning, after sharing one additional phone conversation with Brother Tobias in order to nail down some more details of his visit, Jed buckled himself into his Chrysler Town and Country, plugged New Melleray Abbey''s address into the navigation app of his iPhone, and followed the directions given by his Australian accented co-pilot onto Highway 151 leaving Hickory Grove, across the Mississippi, and into the rolling hills of eastern Iowa.


    Five hours later, Jed rolled into New Melleray Abbey''s circular drive. The Abbey was an imposing, many-winged structure, built as a rectangle around a central courtyard with well-manicured, ornamental landscaping displayed throughout the entire property. Jed thought that it looked exactly the way a monastery should look.


    He parked in the visitors'' stall and slowly approached the huge, oak double doors that seemed to be glowing with their own inner light as the early afternoon sun glinted off of them. As he began to reach toward the monolithic right door, it slowly began to swing outward toward him of its own accord. One moment later, the black cowled arm of the monk who had manipulated it became visible, followed by the shaved head of a young man, appearing to be about Jed''s age, who peered around the door''s edge at him and smiled.


    "Reverend Matthews" said the monk, "Welcome to our Abbey. I hope I didn''t startle you."


    "No sir," replied Jed with a hesitant smile. "I take it that you''re Brother Tobias?"


    "Yes, I am."


    "Please, call me Jed" he said as he clasped the man''s hand, firmly, in greeting.


    "Jed," repeated Tobias. "I''m so glad that you have come. My behavior over the past two days must have seemed very unusual to you."


    "I''m sure that my own inquiry must have appeared equally as unusual," said Jed as he accepted the monk''s nod of invitation and stepped through the enormous entryway into the vestibule, proper.


    "Then, perhaps both of us will be put at ease, very soon," said Tobias. "Please, if you will follow me."


    Jed followed Brother Tobias deeper into the cavernous vestibule, marveling at its Gothic architecture and the tasteful use of native limestone. The monk''s sandals padded silently across the marble-tiled floor in stark contrast to the sharp heel-click of Jed''s leather Florsheim''s.


    As his gaze followed the beautifully beamed ceiling above him, its east/west vault was intersected by a north/south wing, which Tobias followed to his right for a few, short steps before stopping before a door marked "Abbot."


    "Our Abbot, Father Antonius, is expecting you, Jed" said Tobias. He knocked three times, gently, on the oak door and opened it slowly at the muffled word, "Come," uttered from within.


    Jed followed Tobias into a simple, but neat office that boasted only a plain wooden desk with two matching chairs facing it and three walls lined, row upon row, with books. Rising from the room''s third chair behind the desk was a courtly, but weathered old man, wearing a robe matching Brother Tobias'' with the only addition being a large, hand-crafted, wooden cross hanging from his cowl by means of a worn, leather strap.


    "Reverend Matthews," said the Abbot, warmly extending his bony hand. "I am Antonius. It is such a pleasure to have you with us."


    Jed nodded courteously and returned the man''s handshake.


    "Thank you, so much, for coming to us so soon." said the Abbot as he eyed Tobias, without accusation.


    "Please, won''t you have a seat?"


    Jed sat in the offered chair to his right, taking note of how Brother Tobias closed the door behind them and remained in the room, still standing.


    Antonius continued, "Reverend, I''m sure that there are a great many questions you must have about us and the man we are now meeting to discuss. But, if you will forgive my impropriety; would you, first, be willing to share with me what you had begun to share with our esteemed Brother, yesterday? In time, I believe that I will be able to justify this awkward caution that I now display to you."


    As Jed listened to the Abbot''s forthright words, a deep sense of trust welled up within him, insomuch that he felt that nothing this gentle man could ever say to him would be offensive.


    "Yes sir," he replied, not knowing officially how to address the Abbot. "I would be happy to tell you all that I know."


    And with that, he did.


    Jed had not driven to the Abbey expecting to speak in such an unguarded fashion. But, in the warm atmosphere of fellowship he found himself in, step by halting step, he told his whole story: Sage''s visit, Sage''s words, Sage''s collapse, Sage''s purpose, Sage''s secret, Sage''s heroism, Sage''s mystery, Sage''s gift, and Sage''s death.


    Jed had also not expected to shed tears in the presence of strangers, but was comforted by the fact that his tears weren''t the only ones being shed in the room. He concluded by describing his own breakdown and display of power in the psychiatric ward; explaining that he could feel the presence of the mysterious fire in his chest, even now, and was at a loss to know what to think or do about it.


    With that admission, Jed lapsed into silence.


    The Abbot allowed the holy hush to linger in the office for several moments before he lifted his head and directed his next words to Brother Tobias.


    "Brother, I believe that our dear new friend is fit to be introduced to our Father."

 Chapter Twenty Four: Rivalry

    September 16th 2012, 8:05 am, Amtrak Business Class Passenger Car, Rural Illinois


    The coffee was bad.


    Geist considered the incongruity that had marked his life over the past three days and sighed heavily. Seventy-two hours ago, he had awakened in his posh Gotham Hotel Skyline Room - four hundred and twenty-five square feet of luxury, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking New York City. He had been greeted upon his arrival with a complimentary bottle of wine and had enjoyed his gourmet breakfasts, delivered to his room, each of the three mornings he had stayed there.


    This morning, however, his day had started out in a stinking Amtrak train car, with no breakfast served, whatsoever. His coffee had to be retrieved from a swaying dining car and, after one sip, he was certain that it could have also doubled as an engine degreaser.


    Setting his cup aside as he attempted to recline in the rumbling passenger car''s burgundy, vinyl chair, Geist rehearsed the indignities that had brought him to this moment.


    His Learjet had exploded on the evening of September ninth. This was a most disagreeable setback that had introduced an unforeseen element into his meticulous plans. Now, he not only had an assassination to perform, but also an assassination attempt to investigate and prevent from recurring. In an effort to disguise his trail from the ones who had planned the botched murder, Geist had bided his time in New York City, laying low for three days in order to hide his trail and research any possible leads into the identity of his new enemies.


    He had many contacts in New York City and Gotham Hotel''s communications technology was sufficient enough for him to run down many world-wide rabbit trails - each to no avail.


    On the morning of September thirteenth, he had boarded an Amtrak train leaving New York''s Penn Station, bound for Chicago. Geist reasoned that no one would ever suspect a King to travel in such an uncouth chariot. But, although the accommodations were not to his liking, his proximity to the ground was.


    Twenty-eight bleary hours later, he had arrived at Chicago Union station on the morning of the fourteenth. He had hailed a cab and spent the rest of that day and the next in the city, reacquainting himself with civilization at the Chicago Hilton, before boarding the train he was currently on. It was christened the "Illinois Zephyr" and provided daily service between


    Chicago Union Station and Quincy, IL by way of Galesburg. More suited to Geist''s plans, the route also provided what it called "Thruway Service" north for one hour to the river city of Davenport. It was an inconvenient way to get as close to Dubuque, Iowa as possible, but it would suffice.


    He would be practically on the cleric''s doorstep, by then.


    Geist was thirty minutes into his three hour journey in the sparsely occupied passenger car, when the uninvited stranger sidled his way into the seat opposite his own and faced him, squarely.


    "Well met, little brother," intoned the elderly man.


    Geist took in the impudent intruder at a glance; his dark, pinstriped suit accented with an elegant, white scarf draped around the neck; his black, fedora hat gracing flowing, silver hair; and his black, silver-tipped cane resting on his knees. For one moment, Geist considered roasting the man on the spot, just for the unwelcome intrusion, before thinking the better of it.


    Little brother ...


    The words crept out of the recesses of Geist''s shrewd mind like spiders crawling from a drain.


    It cannot be, he thought as he sat forward and focused his hard, blue eyes on the distinguished looking man before him.


    "Stop gawking like a school-boy holding a National Geographic," said the man. "Geist, is it now?"


    Geist sat back in his chair, the smile crossing his age-lined face never fully reaching his eyes.


    "However, did you find me here?"


    "Oh, come now, brother," replied the older man in a deep, sonorous voice. You didn''t expect to release that amount of Crimson without it being detected now, did you?"


    The man removed his hat and added it to the cane on his lap, revealing the two-hundred dollar haircut, underneath.


    "You must have known that I always maintain a slight connection, myself ..." He paused for effect, his eyes narrowing, "... for just such an occasion."


    Geist felt no fear of the man sitting before him, only intrigue. How long had it been? Over the years, he had believed it to be wishful thinking to consider him dead. He had envisioned meeting the man before him thousands of times, in thousands of ways. But, never like this - on a westbound commuter train, heading toward Iowa.


    "So," Geist said in an attempt to dispel the atmosphere of condescension that had characterized the brief conversation, thus far. "I supposed it is you that I have to thank for the little ''incident'' on my flight to the States?"


    "Incident?" said the man. "Dear heavens, no, brother!" he said, chuckling, lightly. "I know nothing of it. Do you think that I have waited all of these years ..." He trailed off as his eyes lost their focus for a moment before continuing his train of thought, more softly this time, "... all of these years, just to pass off the pleasure to someone else?"


    He leaned forward and smiled, menacingly. "I have come to kill you, my brother."


    The man leaned back and crossed his legs, returning his demeanor to one of cool nonchalance.


    "I would have done so years ago if you hadn''t been so blasted hard to find. Never did I expect you to come to me."


    Geist smiled back at the blustering man. "Oh Gardener, you always did have a flair for the dramatic. Come to kill me, have you? Well, perhaps you''ve saved me many fruitless years of searching."The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    The man''s previous tone of mockery hardened into steel as his aged face creased into a thousand lines.


    "You are a disgrace to our father''s name and everything he stood for! You are a betrayer, a liar, and a thief. I have murdered thousands by letting you live this long and my conscience will be burdened by your existence no longer!"


    "Our father''s name ..." Geist hissed, "what did that drunkard ever give to me except curses!"


    He gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white. "Posterity praises the old fool! Would that I had put my hands around his throat when I had the chance ..."


    "Enough!" shouted the other.


    Heads turned in the passenger car for the first time as the conversational level finally exceeded the loud rumble of the tracks below.


    The man rapped his cane against the tiled floor three times. From five rows back stood a middle-aged, Asian man dressed in a plain black suit and wearing a matching bowler hat. He retrieved a four-foot long fiberglass case from the upper storage bin and walked slowly toward the two men.


    "I could roast you where you sit, old man!" spat Geist.


    "Unlikely, little brother. As I seem to recall, your gift never seemed to be any more exceptional than mine. And besides," he said, nodding at the case in his companion''s hand, "I had always envisioned a more elegant demise for you."


    With that, the third man bent on one knee and rested the case upon his other. Unsnapping the hinges, he opened the lid to reveal four, carbon-fiber rods of equal length, resting in molded foam. In each of the four corners of the case, fitted into their foam slots, rested a titanium component. The two at the top resembling round, metallic spheres; the two at the bottom resembling the razor sharp blades of military-grade knives.


    The man reached into the case and fitted two of the rods together, much in the same way that one would assemble a pool cue. He completed this procedure for the remaining two rods. Then, reaching back into the case, he removed one of the titanium orbs and expertly snapped it into place at the end of one of the carbon-fiber staffs. After completing the same procedure for its mate, he carefully removed the first of the four-inch long razors and deftly snapped it into place at the opposite end of the first staff. The last razor was fitted into place before the man closed the case, snapped it shut, rose to his feet and extended a Haddar to each of the men sitting before him.


    _____________________


    Flames engulfed the passenger-car as it thundered at break-neck speed down the railroad tracks. Most of the Amtrak passengers who had shared the quarreling duo''s car had escaped through the forward exit at the first explosion of Brimstone Crimson and twirl of the Haddar. Only one sad soul, caught unaware in the embrace of sleep, had failed to move in time.


    In the midst of the rail-car, turned blast-furnace, battled the two estranged brothers. Each was bathed in a Crimson shield, with Haddars a-blur, as they hacked and slashed at one another with a strange combination of maniacal intensity and deft precision. Neither man felt the searing heat surrounding him. Neither man cared that his battleground was limited to the narrow, three-foot wide aisle of their passenger car. Instead, each man''s mind was totally immersed in the duel at hand - one moment hurling bolts of indigo lightning at their opponent, the next stabbing and parrying with their high-tech Haddars. The spell-binding combination of physical and elemental battle gradually morphed into a bizarre ballet, complete with its own unique movements, interludes and harrowing climaxes.


    Geist twirled the Haddar around his body, lashing out at his opponent in unpredictable explosions of fury. He dodged and feinted as he simultaneously drew in torrents of Brimstone Crimson from the earth below as it rolled underneath him, sending it hurling at his nemesis in brief, stabbing lances.


    The other''s ruby-red shield held true against the onslaught of might and energy, returning the aggressive attacks with equal fury and intensity.


    "Welcome to Hell, my brother!" shouted Geist over the roar of the fire and rumble of the tracks, as each one broke from their most recent melee.


    The elder brother grounded his Haddar and breathed in heavily, several times, before responding.


    "You will know Hell!" he shouted back, severely. Spreading out his hands to indicate the fiery cacophony surrounding them, he continued. "This will seem but a dip in a cool spring compared to the fires that eternally await you! There is no circle of Hell deep enough to account for your crimes, brother!"


    "Ever the preacher, aren''t we!" shouted back Geist with a sneer. "You''re beginning to sound just like father!"


    Parrying the violent slash that came in response to his words, Geist quickly balled-up his fists, spread out his arms to the side, and released an enormous Crimson-induced force-shield at the older man. The crimson, concave wall rushed past the eldest''s defenses and knocked him awkwardly to the floor.


    Not waiting for his opponent to regain his footing, Geist gathered more of the Crimson into him and released one short burst from his hand directly upward into the hatch above. In one mighty leap, he exited the interior of the rail car to stand on its sizzling and warped metal roof, balancing himself against the intense rush of fire-heated wind that buffeted against him. Looking ahead through the flames rising from below and waves of heat wafting off of the car''s metal roof, Geist noticed that the Amtrak crew had separated his car from the original fore and aft cars of the train. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the seven cars that had trailed his own, slowly fading off into the distance. Returning his gaze ahead, he saw the engine and bulk of the train''s cars steadily pulling away from the one upon which he stood. The train raced off at 60 miles an hour toward an enormous and outdated railway bridge only one mile away, spanning a river that surged beneath the tracks several hundred feet below.


    Geist backpedaled toward the rear of the car as his Crimson-shield continued to protect him from the intense heat underfoot. The hatch he had exited from now stood, equidistant, between himself and the front of the car.


    As if on cue, the once distinguished looking vigilante, having recovered from his fall, rose up through the hatch as he was carried on a shimmering platform of Brimstone Crimson. He stepped off of his elemental elevator onto the searing metal roof, now beginning to glow with a tinge of red as its surface increasingly warped and buckled. Facing Geist from the opposite side of their escape hatch, with his back now turned toward the swiftly approaching bridge, he called out loudly over the roar of the wind.


    "You are cursed, brother! You could have repented a thousand times over by now! But what you have become now only validates our father''s prophecy!"


    "You are a fool!" shouted Geist. "Prophecy? Don''t you see that half of the world is already mine and the other half is soon to fall into my grasp?"


    Geist looked over his brother''s shoulder, seeing the bridge approaching, now only seconds away.


    "I curse my father and I curse you!" He screamed over the wind and flames at the top of his lungs. "This day, your birthright passes to me!" With that, Geist cast aside his Haddar and leapt into the air as Brimstone Crimson siphoned into his body from the speeding earth below, crackling brightly as it intersected with his bare feet. With each hand he simultaneously discharged a blinding orb of fire. The first orb blasted into the passenger car''s weakened roof, collapsing the structure in upon itself and sending the now wide-eyed old man tumbling into the burning interior below.


    The second orb sailed from Geist''s hand, high over the rail car. It swiftly outdistanced the slowing car and, within seconds, collided spectacularly with the imminently approaching bridge. He watched as the juncture between bridge and earth skewed slightly and tore the connecting rails between the bridge and earth away from each other.


    Hovering safely above the carnage, Geist floated upon supporting tendrils of the Crimson and watched as the front two-thirds of the Amtrak train cleared the far end of the bridge and sped safely away into the distance.


    Seconds later, he also watched as his own gutted and doomed passenger car, still bearing its defeated occupant, hit the broken segment of railway, flipped end-to-end violently, and fell over the edge of the chasm, plummeting hundreds of feet into the raging waters below.


    The remaining seven cars soon followed after.

 Chapter Twenty Five: Flight or Fight

    Winter, 2732 BC, Midnight, Mesopotamia


    Retaliation.


    The word pounded in Shem''s consciousness with a pulse even stronger than the throbbing heartbeat felt in his ears. With effort, he regained his feet halfway down the grassy knoll that he and Na''amah had shared only seconds ago and gave chase.


    The Ben Cana warrior that had scooped up the unsuspecting maiden was breaching the timber line as Shem finally gained enough traction on the dewy grass to give pursuit. Fifty yards separated him from the nightmare unfolding before him - a nightmare he knew that he alone had created by recklessly coercing Na''amah from her bed chamber and foolishly choosing such a secluded place so close to the dark forest canopy in which to talk.


    Na''amah''s helpless screams resonated in his ears and oriented him, roughly, as to her location in the trees ahead. One fleeting glimpse of her struggling form, silhouetted in the full moonlight uselessly resisting her repugnant abductor, seared itself into his retinas as he gave chase.


    Heart pounding, mind racing, Shem stumbled up the hill in pursuit, convinced that his legs had somehow magically managed to turn themselves into lead. With his focus so narrow, he barely caught out of the corner of his eye the glint of moonlight off of a second Ben Cana raider''s blade that bore down on him, suddenly, from the right. Shem reacted instinctively, diving forward and curling into a controlled roll as the bronze blade arced uselessly through the now unoccupied air where his skull had been only an instant ago. He came out of his roll, now possessing the high ground and charged his assailant before the Ben Cana had time to regain his balance after the errant swing. Shem reached the Ben Cana in three strides, lowered his head and lunged at the enemy''s mid-section. He could hear the explosion of air bursting forth from the fetid man''s lungs as he bore him to the ground, pinned down his sword arm with one knee and ripped the ragged piece of metal from his surprised foe''s grasp.


    The Ben Cana never felt the piercing blow to the sternum, wrought by his own weapon, that snuffed out his life in an instant and sent him straight to his dark destiny.


    With sword now in hand, Shem sprinted toward the woods, watching other determined Ben Cana warriors lumbering in the opposite direction toward his village, streaming to either side of him. Na''amah was nowhere to be seen, but still he plowed into the forest undergrowth with reckless abandon, careening forward, uncaring about any obstacle that might loom in his path. The suffocating darkness of the black forest embraced him like a shroud as he stumbled repeatedly before his eyes finally adjusted to the faint moonlight flickering through the canopy above. Having regained his bearings, Shem gave chase with a more disciplined stride, unaware of which direction the girl had been taken, but knowing well the topography of the land about him and the formation of this particular copse of trees.


    He edged toward his right, hoping to corral his quarry toward the western edge of the copse where Shem knew that a cliff-face loomed, dropping seventy feet to the hard trail below. The trail served as an entryway into the valley where the now besieged village lay and Shem knew that if he could trap the Ben Cana against that cliff, there would be nowhere else for him to turn. Making no effort to mask his approach, he continued to cut off any escape route to the east edge of the forest hoping that the clumsy sound of his footfalls in the Ben Cana''s ears edged him further and further to the west.


    Fifty yards ahead he spied a clear patch of moonlit sky through the trees and knew that the impassable cliff lay just beyond. He covered the short distance in seconds, bursting out of the forest''s grasp, quickly scanning his eyes from left to right in an attempt to locate Na''amah and her abductor.


    His sweat-stained eyes finally found them ...


    ... and he pulled himself up and abruptly skidded to a halt.


    The Ben Cana stood at the cliff''s edge ...


    ... with his closed fist grasping thick locks of hair, his eyes returning Shem''s glare.


    Attached to that hair and dangling precariously over the cliff''s edge was Na''amah ...


    ... her two hands grasping her own hair at the roots in an attempt to keep it from ripping.


    Shem tore his eyes away from his enemy and looked at the girl he loved ...


    ... their gazes met for one brief moment.


    Then Shem sprang forward like a gazelle, lowering his shoulder ...


    ... and before the bewildered Ben Cana could respond ...


    ... he bore into the couple and sent all three of them tumbling recklessly over the cliff''s edge.


    __________________________


    Meanwhile the Hakkanah had taken their stand against the oncoming Ben Cana raiders, having been alerted of their approach by the night watchman manning lookout towers spread out equidistantly around the circumference of the village.


    Even as Shem withstood the surprise attack by the first Ben Cana, the Hakkanah warrior band, led by Japheth and H''am, took up their positions just outside of the city gate. Two hundred Hakkanah spaced themselves, evenly, around the village''s makeshift northern walls and watched as the horde of Ben Cana surged out of the forest and rushed down the valley slopes. Twenty-five yards beyond the village walls, purposely unkempt tall grasses formed a flimsy barrier between the Hakkanah and their approaching enemy. The wild-grasses which stood shoulder high bore a sheen of dust on their stalks that evidenced the drought brought on by the winter dry season.


    It would only take a spark ...The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    As the first of the Ben Cana reached the far border of the tall grass, Japheth raised the war cry, Esh Elohim! "Fire of God!" - and the cry was taken up by all the remaining Hakkanah as it was passed down the line from person to person. One by one, spreading out from Japheth like a wave, each Hakkanah drew the fire into themselves; the crackling power beneath their feet becoming too intense to gaze directly at. An instant after each warrior drew in the fire it was released through extended hands toward the base of the tall grasses yards away, kindling an eager and spreading fire which quickly surged away from the village toward the Ben Cana who had entered the trap, unaware.


    The fleetest and fittest of the Ben Cana leading the charge ran headlong into the inferno before what was occurring registered in their minds. Flaming dry grasses met with ragged clothing, hair, and flesh; killing the first fifty Ben Cana before they even reached the far perimeter of the grasses. Screams filled the air, along with the acrid smell of burning flesh as the doomed Ben Cana ran heedless and burning through the fray, all sense of direction lost. The bulk of the invading horde, seeing what was happening to their battle chiefs, halted wide-eyed before the blazing grass.


    As the last of the grasses were consumed, the Hakkanah leapt forward, pulled Haddars from leather slings on their backs and rushed ahead as one. They leaped over the fallen husks of the smoldering Ben Cana forward ranks and sped toward the bewildered enemy line.


    As whirling Haddars decapitated the heads and crushed the skulls of the foremost Ben Cana, the remainder of the raiders awoke from their stupor and began forming up ranks, hastily. By the time an offensive was raised by the Ben Cana, one quarter of their raiding band was already dead, roughly evening the numbers of the two armies.


    Japheth whipped around his Haddar with one hand and sent forth the fire from the other as dozens of foes fell beneath his feet.


    Not to be outdone by his older brother, H''am chose a patch of grass on the hillside, squatted down, siphoned the fire into his body and released it in the form of violet electricity. He sent it out in concentric waves even as a pebble does when it is dropped into a placid pond. In a matter of ten seconds, the nearest twenty Ben Cana within H''am''s kill-radius were reduced to ashes.


    The rest of the Hakkanah slashed and burned their way through the remaining raiders; the battle over, it seemed, before it had even begun ... that is, until the foremost warrior felt the earth tremble ever so slightly underneath his feet.


    The bewildered Hakkanah - Norst, a veteran of dozens of skirmishes and father of four - cocked his head to one side as he squinted aged eyes up the hillside. He had only one moment to register the presence of several Nephilim bearing down on his village - turning the retreating Ben Cana back into the fray through the sheer fear of their presence - before a spear the size of a sapling pierced his bowels and passed through his body; completely severing torso from legs.


    Having either eliminated or put to flight their enemies, Japheth and H''am also raised their heads at the unmistakable sound of giant footfalls.


    Japheth counted quickly twelve, no thirteen, Nephilim approaching the Hakkanah front line - two of which he noticed had ruby-red fire emanating from beneath the souls of their feet.


    Fire Casters, thought Japheth.


    "Time to gird up your loins, brother," replied H''am, patting Japheth on the back.


    ______________________


    Shem grappled with the flailing Ben Cana in an un-choreographed free fall, while with his left arm he clutched onto Na''amah''s bed clothes and inwardly vowed to never let go. The ground raced up at the trio, prompting Shem to hastily implement his plan - the problem being that the "plan" hadn''t been fully formulated in his mind when he took the three of them off the cliff, seconds ago. A fleeting thought crossed Shem''s mind reminding him that in the moments before he had tackled the two, he had assumed that he''d just slow he and Na''amah''s descent with the fire, as they neared the ground. Now, at terminal velocity, five seconds from impact it dawned on him that he had no idea how to do that. He''d only used the fire once, and that with dubious effect.


    Improvising in mid-air, Shem kicked the Ben Cana away from himself, reached out with his free arm to the fire he intuitively felt stirring just below the surface of the earth, and with a prayer forming on his lips he funneled the fire through arching fingertips and endeavored to send it back down to its source of origin.


    The Ben Cana slammed into the earth, bounced three feet off the ground, then impacted the hard path for one final time; his back, broken and his life ended.


    The feedback loop that Japheth initiated, to his own shock and amazement, had the desired effect of slowing the two teenagers'' descent by half, causing them to hit the ground hard, but alive. Cradling Na''amah close to his chest, Japheth took the brunt of the impact and felt all the air rush out of his lungs like a billows.


    All went black ...


    Then all went white ...


    A moment later, he discerned the concerned face of Na''amah hovering over him and shouting his name. He couldn''t seem to hear properly and the clouds above whirled in endless circles until Na''amah''s gestures caused him to focus back on her. He thought she was shouting at him to get up as she wildly gestured back down the path, opposite the village. With light-headed indifference, Shem raised and turned his head in the direction Na''amah was gesticulating. All he saw was a man walking toward them. A man that grew bigger and bigger each step he drew nearer. A man with red eyes and a bronze capped horn thrusting itself out of his forehead. A man that was not a man, but a monster.


    In that moment clarity returned and he knew that the monster meant to kill them.


    He found himself being dragged on wobbling legs into the undergrowth on the north side of the trail. Na''amah held Shem with one arm around his waist and the other warding off branches and twigs. He tried to speak something into her ear as they ran, but the words wouldn''t formulate. He wanted, desperately, to tell her that this copse of trees was no larger than the last they had traversed and ended, not in a cliff, but in a cloudy, deep watering hole; a pond used by animal and villager, alike.


    Na''amah was shouting at him, again. It sounded like a faint buzzing in his ear, yet he was beginning to make out some of her words.


    "Can ... you ...?


    Shem tried to express his confusion.


    "Shem ... swim ...?


    He tried to puzzle out the meaning of her words in his foggy mind.


    "Shem, can you swim!" They had stopped and Na''amah was holding his head in her hands, shouting into his ear.


    He nodded dumbly, as she shoved him ahead of her into the murky, depth-less bog. Shem swallowed a mouthful of water before his arms started stroking and his legs kicked rhythmically, mimicking the swimming form he had practiced for hour upon hour in his childhood. He could hear Na''amah in the water beside him. It was all he could do to stay afloat and stay conscious.


    The journey to the other side of the bog could have taken seconds or hours to Shem. But, somehow, the two staggered out of the water and onto the far bank.


    Shem knew he had to save them. He willed his body to turn back toward the pond. He willed his head to be still and the world to stop spinning. He willed up the fire from the cold, muddy bank and felt its flame and frost climbing up his spine. He willed the fire out of his outstretched palms and into the body of the Nephilim wading not twenty feet away, climbing from the water. He willed the fire to continue its path from his feet, through his hands and into the giant until, moments later, the blackened torso jerked backwards into the water, the body sank under the weight of its own weapons, until Shem and Na''amah saw it no more.

 Chapter Twenty Six: Veritas

    Autumn, 1363 AD, Morning, Britain


    Brother Lawrence''s heightened awareness was following the path of a vein on the surface of a withered leaf directly in his line of sight as he knelt silently before the two cowled brothers.


    He awaited the Lord''s providence for his future ... life or death.


    With a wry twist on his mouth, Brother Thomas extended a kitchen-calloused hand toward the kneeling figure before him.


    "There will be no more slaying my friend," Thomas intoned sadly. "Come, let us break fast together. There is much to talk about."


    Lawrence lifted his eyes to the figures standing above him and took in the moist sheen that glazed Thomas'' eyes and the stern set to Silas''s jaw before reaching out and accepting Thomas'' outstretched hand. Rising to his feet, he followed the brothers back toward the withered cabin, carefully leaving the book-laden satchel concealed in the forest behind.


    A lump - born of grief, exhaustion, and fear - formed in Lawrence''s throat and prevented him from speaking until long after the trio had reached the porch of the cabin. Brothers Thomas and Silas set about the task of arranging a makeshift eating area and pulling provisions from their packs.


    It was long into their salted pork and stale biscuits before Brother Silas lifted his broad frame from the dirt and broke the silence.


    "Before we begin brother," he said in a deep, gruff voice that had always reminded Lawrence of what a sea captain must sound like, "I must ask for your own explanation for being here and how you ..."


    "Friend," interrupted Thomas, "is now really the time for suspicion and alibis?"


    "Can anyone be trusted, fully, after what we''ve just ..." retorted Silas with some temper rising in his voice.


    "Brothers," intervened Lawrence, hurriedly, lifting his hands in a placating gesture, "It would be well for each of us to share our stories, in turn, and I would be only too happy to begin."


    With that, Lawrence gave a candid description of how he was alerted to the treachery that had unfolded days earlier, as well as his eyewitness account of "Brother" Rugio''s murder of Justin. He concluded with an account of his wounds and flight to the cabin, but intentionally made no mention of the Scriptorium fire or existence of the hidden books.


    Silence returned to the three as Thomas nodded his head thoughtfully and Silas''s glare bore into the cracked soil beneath them.


    "I believe you brother," interjected Thomas into the silence, his voice distant and sad. "My escape wasn''t nearly as eventful as yours, nor as fraught with hardship.


    With that, he told the tale that Lawrence had previously presumed. His routine as a cook had stirred Thomas earlier than most of the other brothers that morning and it was within the confines of the kitchen that he had heard the explosion resulting from Lawrence''s escape. Running into the common eating place, he found two cowled forms; face down, smoldering and unrecognizable. He had deduced that they could only have been the forms of Brothers John and Paulus, who were scheduled to prepare the tables for the remaining monk''s arrival from Lauds in an hour to break fast.


    In fright, he assumed something was amiss and hid in the kitchen, stealing glances out of its solitary window every few moments until he noticed the smoke billowing from the Scriptorium. Escaping out the side door of the common hall, Thomas made for the woods opposite the burning building, nearly colliding with the solid form of Brother Silas as he breached the timbers.


    "Follow me," was all Silas had said to him, and he had done so; quietly following the line of the forest, ducking beneath the Abbey''s entrance gate and entering into the continuing forest which backed the Scriptorium. It was several hours before Silas allowed them to rest and Thomas received an explanation from his taciturn brother as to what was happening and where they were going.


    Silas grunted his assent that this was, more or less, what had happened that morning before returning to silence. The brothers knew better than to rush their gruff companion and it was a full five minutes before he shared his story.


    "I killed four men that morning," he said without emotion. "Rugio''s band must not have been the only killing team. They must have assigned one group per wing. As you know, my room is the last in the west hall, as yours is in the east, Lawrence."


    "So, your neighbor Joachim then is ..."


    "Probably," replied Silas, "unless he chose to trim the border hedge extremely early in the morning."


    He paused before continuing.


    "I was not as blessed as you were to know the approach of my assassins, beforehand. A secret that I''ve never told anyone and ..." he eyed the two of them, grimly, "a secret I expect you to keep until the grave is that I have practiced sleeping shielded in the Crimson for years. I learned it on my own and promised myself to never teach it to another."


    "So don''t ask," he said as he eyed each of them in turn.


    Silas ran his hand through his beard before continuing. "Of course it wasn''t strong enough to save my life, alone. But, it gave me just enough warning to wake me and cause me to instinctively increase the Crimson flow within me. I still don''t know who the foolish bastard was, but he didn''t expect to be resisted by a sleeping man ... and I burned him to the bone before he knew what had happened. His lackeys within the room fared no better when I hurled a shield toward them, breaking their necks against the wall."This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Turning his head back toward the woods he concluded, "I didn''t stay to find out who I had killed."


    With that, the brooding silence returned. Lawrence''s mind was too frayed at the moment to sift each of the men''s stories for inconsistencies. Even if he could have done so, he surmised that his conscience would never have allowed him to. He reflected briefly that he had committed not only the books, but his very life into Jesu''s providence and thus far, it would seem that trust was the only option.


    But trust to what extent?


    During the conversation thus far, it had taken no small measure of discipline for Lawrence to not keep looking back in the direction of the books within the forest. As the other two monks each remained preoccupied with their own thoughts, a special quandary presented itself to Lawrence as he poured over his options silently. He had entrusted these men with his life and told them his story, up to a point. Dare he, now, trust them fully? What other option did he really have? He couldn''t leave a leather satchel with perishable books out in the elements forever; certainly not tomes of such inestimable value.


    For a moment, he considered the notion of leaving the brothers behind under a ruse and coming back for the precious anthologies at a later time. But, under what pretense? As he had already concluded, eluding them physically wasn''t an option and no tale that his heart would allow him to tell would be convincing enough.


    In the end, he concluded that if God had shown his faithfulness, thus far, then the safety of the anthologies were in His hands, not Lawrence''s.


    Breaking the silence brought on by Silas''s startling confession; Lawrence unburdened his heart and revealed what he had done at the Scriptorium, days earlier, to brothers Thomas and Silas. No words of condemnation came from their lips as, together, the three of them walked the short distance into the forest and retrieved the precious anthologies from behind the tree where Lawrence had hastily secured them.


    "Thank you, Lawrence," said Thomas after they had returned to the cabin. "You needn''t have done that."


    Silas only grunted and continued staring at the ground.


    "Brothers," said Lawrence after a thoughtful pause. "I meant what I said when I called out to you from my concealment. My life is bound up in the will of the Almighty. You have spared my life and I have no choice but to trust that your intentions are good."


    He reached for the water skin that the three had been passing and continued. "Our treasure will either preserve or perish at our Lord''s pleasure. In truth, I am weary of carrying the burden alone."


    He paused and added with a slight smile, "literally."


    Thomas chuckled, catching the inference and patted Lawrence on the shoulder. But, his demeanor quickly returned to its somber cast.


    "What then, brothers?" he said, thoughtfully. "An immeasurable task has been set before us. What shall now become of us and our precious charge?"


    "We must go back."


    Both Lawrence and Thomas turned to Silas in stunned disbelief.


    "What did you say?" asked Lawrence, thinking he had heard incorrectly.


    Silas''s gruff voice seemed to allow for no argument. "We must go back!


    Don''t you see?" he said passionately. "The secret of the Crimson is not safe from the world through the hiding of a few books. Even though the anthologies contain mysteries that mankind has not even conceived of, those mysteries still exist in the minds of the murderers we''ve left behind at the Abbey! As long as they live on, the Crimson lives on!"


    "Are you suggesting that we return and kill those responsible?" retorted Thomas, his voice rising. "Have you gone mad?"


    Lawrence waited for the ill-tempered Silas to turn on the other man at this rebuke. But he was surprised when Silas''s tone, instead, softened.


    "Here me out friends ... both of you," he said, looking at each of them in turn. "The anthologies contain what all of the Order knows by rote. But, as you well know, they also contain script from the ancient language unknown to all but a few in antiquity."


    Silas stood to his feet and paced as he continued. "What is common knowledge to us all, if released to the world, would damage the future irreparably. But, what is written in the ancient tongue supersedes all that you''ve ever seen or been taught."


    Thomas interrupted, shaking his head. "Wait, Silas. The ancient tongue is dead to us. We have always been told so. It is unreadable and always has been since the death of the founders of our Order."


    "That is true," continued Silas, "but ... not all of the founders are dead."


    Lawrence joined Silas on his feet at this revelation. The air had gone still. "Friend, what are you saying? Our order is over five hundred years old. Even if the fathers had lived to be one hundred, their secrets would have died with them.


    Silas offered up a grim smile and shook his head, slowly. "Have you not even noticed?"


    "Noticed what?" answered Thomas passionately, finally joining the standing brothers.


    "For middle-aged men, both your health and your appearance show remarkable preservation."


    Silas let the phrase hang in the air as the others only looked back at him in confusion.


    "To make this simple," continued Silas, "I will only say that not all of the founders and fathers have died. Extensive use of Crimson has preserved them; as it has you, though you are too young to have fully noticed it yet. In truth, brothers, three of the original fathers remain among us and ..." he ground his teeth before continuing; "one of them has gone rogue!"


    "Rugio," said Lawrence, matter-of-factly. "You''re saying that Rugio is over four hundred years old?"


    "Are you dehydrated, friend?" said Thomas with a nervous laugh. "Let me get this straight," he said as he pinched his nose, "Rugio is one of the original fathers of St. Bartholomew? He is more than a few centuries old, he speaks the ancient language, and he has just decimated the Order that he, purportedly, had created?"


    He shook his head incredulously. "What other revelations do you have for us?"


    Lawrence interjected, with furrowed brow, "Brother, how could you know all of this?"


    Looking straight at his fellow monks, Silas replied, "Because I am the third father."


    Denying the stunned men time to reply to this unbelievable revelation, Silas continued. "Just listen. We must return the anthologies to St. Bartholomew and hide them under Rugio and his lackeys'' very noses.


    "And," he concluded with a menacing stare at each of them, "we must hunt down and destroy every last traitor. But, even if some manage to escape ..." Silas trailed off as his violent stare grew strangely dull.


    "What, Silas?" whispered Lawrence.


    Silas looked into his eyes and answered "I must kill my brother."

 Chapter Twenty Seven: Clerical

    September 15th 2012, 5:05 pm, Peosta, Iowa


    Father Antonius, Brother Tobias and Jed quietly left the Abbot''s office and made their way down the east hallway. All around them, doors could be heard opening and closing, footfalls came and went and odd clangings and clickings bore witness to an active community full of its own comings and goings, routines, responsibilities and rules.


    The east-west corridor, styling a white, gray and black marbled floor intersected with a north-south wing, that seemed to have been built quite earlier than the other parts of the Abbey that Jed had seen. High windows poured forth beams of sunlight onto the quarried limestone floor, exposing millions of dust motes, high above, floating lazily in the dying sunlight. The sound of communal activity was nowhere to be heard now and Jed felt that with each footfall, he was walking further and further into the past. They quietly followed this passage, past endless doors and alcoves, until they came to a single, ancient wooden and iron-bound door on their right.


    Upon opening the creaking door, what met them was a stone set of steps that wound their way into the underground levels of the building. Upon begin their descent, every so often a door would appear to their right that would be ignored by the monks who both had switched on flashlights just moments after entering the stairwell.


    Torches would fit the vibe better, thought Jed to himself as he ran his hand continuously along the limestone blocks on his left. To Jed, the temperature seemed to drop every few seconds as the trio continued to descend - level after level, passing door after door - until Jed''s left hand noticed a marked change in texture as he continued to run it along the dry surface. He noticed that he was no longer touching uniform, limestone block but uneven, natural stone. Jed was no architect, but it seemed to him that they had just passed out of a man-made structure into a naturally formed cave. Beneath them all the while, the curving stairs continued to burrow their way into the inky darkness.


    What have I gotten myself into? mused Jed who was beginning to feel more like a character in an Indiana Jones movie than an average minivan owner.


    His skin was genuinely cold by this time and the rock to his left was just beginning to feel damp when the stairwell finally came to an end and one finally doorway - this one seeming even older than the one at the top of the stairs - presented itself.


    We have to be at least ten stories down ... who built this place!


    Jed''s incredulity was interrupted by Abbot Antonius'' gentle voice which seemed to echo endlessly upward as he spoke.


    "My apologies, Reverend Matthews, but I must leave you with Tobias for only a moment."


    With no other explanation, the Father withdrew an ancient-looking brass key from the folds of his robe and inserted it into the lock of the iron wrapped door. As it turned, a prolonged scraping followed by a dull thud that echoed up the stairwell could be heard as the latch gave way. Both Jed and Tobias watched as the aged man opened the door, entered silently without comment and closed it behind him. They heard the bolt slide back into place, once more, then it was just the two of them.


    Like trolls at the bottom of a well, thought Jed as he nervously smiled at Brother Tobias, who returned the gesture, but remained silent.


    They waited in that manner for several minutes, neither of them willing to break the absolute stillness at the bottom of the stairwell that seemed to be filled with a substance of its own. All at once, the sliding bolt of the door jarred each of them back from their personal reveries and in contrast to the silence they had been experiencing, jarred them into the present moment.


    The ancient door creaked open on its hinges and Abbot Antonius, without a word, gestured for the two of them to come inside. To Jed''s surprise, upon stepping through the doorway he was met, immediately, with a solid stone wall only four feet in front of him. Looking both to his right and his left, he could see the wall curve away in each direction, gently fading into shadow as it passed out of the light of the two monk''s flashlights.


    Antonius led them to the right for about twenty paces as the wall gently curved inward, before turning abruptly to his left, entering a new doorway and following a second, identical, hallway back in the opposite direction this time curving itself away toward the right. They followed this new passageway for a full two minutes, Jed surmised, before Antonius stopped and turned again, this time to his right. This time, they were given the choice of turning either to the right or left, at this intersection, but Antonius never wavered from his course and performed a complete switchback into a third passage.


    It''s a labyrinth! Thought Jed to himself, with no little amount of excitement.


    He had always wanted to walk a labyrinth, having studied them in church history courses, but to find one ten stories below the earth and built within a natural cave under an obscure Abbey in Iowa was dumbfounding to Jed.


    It took the men a full ten minutes to work their way through the labyrinth, the duration of time bearing witness to its enormous size, before Antonius stayed the two younger men with his left hand, and motioned silence with the index finger of his right before making the final left turn into a domed rotunda at the heart of the maze.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Jed squinted in the candlelight that circled the room in scones as he tried to put some semblance of order to the images that appeared to him. The room at the heart of the labyrinth was perfectly round with a high, domed limestone ceiling. What made the room especially unique, however, was that it was tri-leveled in concentric circles. The level on which Jed stood was the highest in the room, appearing to be six feet wide and running the entire circumference of the room. One lower circle, running on the inside of the one they currently stood on was visible three feet below them. One hundred and eighty degrees opposed to where Jed stood was a short set of stone steps that led to this second concentric circle and he could see that when one reached that set of steps and followed the second level around one hundred and eighty degrees a final set led to the ground level of the room. It was also perfectly circular at about twenty-five feet in diameter. This bottom circle contained only one object - a raised platform, carved from the indigenous limestone of the floor, that served as a bed for a wizened man that lay upon the coverlets that draped it.


    "Welcome Jedidiah," rasped the man laying upon the slab. "I have been waiting a long time for you."


    ________________________


    The Cleric turned his head, slightly, as the young man entered the room and a light sigh escaped his lips as he reflected. So many of his hopes rested on the unimpressive man approaching him. Would he be equal to the task? He waited for the three men to complete their circuits of the room and approach the foot of his stone-carved bed before he spoke again.


    "I am old, Jedidiah Matthews. I have become a man of few words and fewer pretenses during my life, therefore I will say what I have to say to you, tell you what you must do, and leave the answering of your questions and pointless arguments to Antonius and his monks."


    As the Cleric sensed Jed gathering up his courage to question this rude arrangement, he prevented him with a weak, but stern voice.


    "It would be best to hold your tongue, young man," he said.


    The Cleric narrowed his eyes as he continued. "You have no idea who you''re talking to, nor what I have experienced over thousands of years, nor why someone such as the likes of me is so desperately in need at this time of someone such as the likes of me."


    Jed''s original complaint died on his lips. Thousands of years he thought in alarm? Did he just say, ''thousands?''


    The Cleric noticed the young parson pale and allowed a light smile to touch his lips. He gave a knowing look to Father Antonius, who remained respectfully silent along with Brother Tobias, before continuing. "Young man, you have been given a rare, and probably altogether unwanted gift. But nevertheless, that gift is needed at this time and it is for this reason that our dearly loved and departed brother, Sage, sought you out. This was both at my behest and in response to an authority much higher than I."


    He adjusted his position on the thin pillow that he was resting on and continued. "Antonius tells me that you are already acquainted with Brimstone Crimson.


    After a brief pause, the young man found his voice and answered the Cleric, meekly. "Brimstone Crimson, sir?" He nervously cleared his throat. "I assume that you mean the magic that Sage ..."


    The Cleric interrupted, "Let me make one thing very clear, young man. The Crimson is not - he raised his voice to emphasize the word - magic, nor has it ever been. It is elemental, to be sure. Just as fire in the forest or lightning in the sky is elemental. But just because mankind was not prone to understand or harness these great things that are so manipulated and taken for granted today, doesn''t make them "magical," and so it is with Crimson.


    He entered into a brief coughing spell, at this point, and Antonius walked to his bedside and slowly handed him a cup of water which sat on a table. The Cleric tipped up his head and slowly drank, before returning to his resting position and fixing his eyes back on Jed.


    "Brimstone Crimson was an element woven into the fabric of creation, just as fire, water, wind and man," he said. "Before the Great Fall, our original father and mother had use of it. Afterward, the capacity to sense and subdue it waned throughout the generations. At the time of the Great Flood ..."


    The Cleric''s eyes grew distant for a brief moment, as if remembering something misted over by great lengths of time.


    "At the time of the Great Flood, perhaps less than ten percent of the world''s population retained use of the part of the human brain that it needed for drawing, storing, and manipulating Crimson. Today that percentage is down to perhaps one percent of one percent - most of them not even realizing that they possess the gift."


    The Cleric could see a thousand questions forming on Jedidiah''s lips, but he pressed on.


    "Now enters the sinister note to the developing drama. Most of the gifted


    who knows that they are gifted, have given themselves to the employ of our adversaries?"


    "Adversaries?" Jed interjected, this time before being censored.


    The Cleric continued, "An organization, both ancient and modern, that far exceeds our numbers and unceasingly scours the earth for those who can wield the Crimson fire. Those with the gift are either given the opportunity to join their employ which leads to great riches and power - or they are destroyed."


    His eyes misted over before he continued on. "Until recently, only two of our Order lived. One given over to recruiting and the other to convalescing. As you might surmise, the recruiting branch of our fledgling army is no more." The Cleric cleared his throat and went on with more determination. "But, he has succeeded in his task. He has found one with the gift, previously unknown to our enemies, and he has brought him to me."


    The Cleric reclined fully, without warning and closed his eyes. "That is all for now, young man. My strength is not what it once was, a thousand years ago, and I will answer none of the questions that I can tell are ready to burst from your lips. Our dear father, here, is well suited to that task."


    Even with this admonition, the Cleric could hear the beginnings of an argument rising from the young man''s lips before Antonius shushed him. Then he heard the shuffling of men''s feet on the hard stone floor grow fainter and fainter before his world was returned to silence.

 Chapter Twenty Eight: Tapestry

    September 15th 2012, 6:03 pm, Peosta, Iowa


    "Could somebody please tell me what just happened!" stammered Jed as he was led the final few steps back into Father Antonius'' office; each monk gently grasping him by an elbow to steady the shaking man. Their return to the main level of New Melleray Abbey had taken much longer than their original descent, due to gravity and tired legs. But, after his initial grumbling, Jed had remained silent during the entire journey upward until his nerves and muscles began to fail him and he had called for a halt, just shy of their destination. His last few steps were aided.


    "Please, be seated my friend," encouraged Father Antonius as he nodded to Brother Tobias, implying that he should fill a glass with water from the perspiring, beaded decanter sitting on the corner of the main desk.


    Once filled and passed to Jed, the weight of the glass only exacerbated the shaking of the man''s hands.


    "Thank you, but please!" said Jed with no little impatience, "who was that man, what in heaven''s name did he mean and why am I sitting here in Peosta, Iowa of all places!"


    Jed''s conscience kicked in, immediately. His intention wasn''t to come off as being rude to these kind men, but the absurdity of the past hour had him grasping, awkwardly, for any straws of normality. He took a shaky drink of water and listened with a more disciplined demeanor as Antonius gently replied.


    "Pastor, I realize that all of this is much to take in at one sitting. However, now that you have seen and met the one who leads us, I believe that we can now shed some light on, not only who he is, but who you are as well.


    "Who I am?"


    Brother Tobias continued where his Monseigneur had left off, "Jed, you have just met the head of our Order. The head of all Orders, if truth be told; though even Rome is unaware of his existence."


    Jed lifted his head briefly in surprise, but lowered it again as Tobias continued on.


    "Our father, the Cleric," he paused and glanced at his superior who simply nodded before he continued, "is steward of Brimstone Crimson. He is ancient beyond reckoning due to the extensive use of Crimson which has prolonged his life far beyond normal mortality, and ..." Tobias paused before concluding, "that life is finally nearing its end ... whether by the fingers of natural death or the eventual cunning of his enemies."


    Jed lifted his bowed head from the table and finally managed to look both


    Antonius and Tobias in the eyes. "All this is very interesting, Brother


    Tobias, but your words are just as cryptic as everything else both you, Father Antonius and this ... man have told me since I walked into this ... movie set you call a monastery. Would somebody give me a straight answer and please tell me who this man is that is presumed to dictate my entire future to me?"


    Antonius put his hand on Tobias'' shoulder, returned Jed gaze and answered.


    "Very well, my friend. I will be succinct." He put a finger to his lips, in thought, before continuing. "Pastor Matthews, the one whom we call our father - whom his enemies call the Cleric - was once known simply as Brother Silas at the very beginning of our order - The Crimson Servants . Antonius eyed Jed meaningfully before concluding, "over one thousand years ago."


    "One thousand!"


    "Pray, let me continue Pastor Matthews," interrupted the monk. "Yes, one thousand years ago he was known as Brother Silas. But, five thousand years ago he was known only as Shem; brother to Ham and Japheth; the youngest son of Lamech''s firstborn ... Noah."


    "Noah," replied Jed with a dull stare, swiveling his head from one monk to the other.


    "Yes, Noah," replied Tobias.


    "The Ark variety of Noah."


    Antonius replied with a straight face, "Yes, Mr. Matthews, we are speaking of the same man."


    Jed tilted his head upward and covered his face with both hands, in an exasperated gesture.


    "I mean no disrespect," Jed muffled through his hands, "but am I to understand that I was just introduced - and rudely spoken to - by the Shem, son of Noah, from the Book of Genesis who, as you have said, must be over five thousand years old?"


    The two monks looked at each other, briefly, and replied in unison, "yes."


    "You don''t really expect me to believe that, do you?"


    "You must believe what you will, Reverend Matthews. I know what we are asking of you is a leap of faith beyond all natural expectations. But, as God above is my witness, I proclaim to you now that what we are speaking to you is the absolute truth."


    Jed removed his hands from his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. "OK, for the sake of argument, assume that I''m suspending my substantial disbelief for a moment. If that man is Shem, what did his words about needing me mean?"Stolen novel; please report.


    Father Antonius pulled around a chair from behind his desk, as Tobias continued to stand near the doorway, and continued in gentle, measured tones.


    "Reverend Matthews, to our knowledge, there are only two men left in the world who possess the mental capacity to manipulate Brimstone Crimson to their will that are not wholly given over to evil - that would be Father Shem and yourself."


    Tears glistened in the aged monk''s eyes before he continued, "all love, loyalty and friendship aside; this is what makes the loss of our beloved servant, Sage, all the more tragic."


    Jed couldn''t help but tear up at the older man''s display of emotion; his brief memories of Sage, again, returning to the forefront of his mind. But, his frustration persisted.


    "So ... what," he said horsley, after a moment. "I''m like Batman or something." Jed nervously chucked before continuing. "I''m Luke Skywalker ... it''s me against the Evil Empire and Yoda is dying? With all due respect, what do you really expect me to do?"


    He stood from his chair and began pacing in what little space was given to him in the tiny office.


    "Guys, you''ve got me with the whole Crimson fire business. I can''t deny that something is churning on the inside of me nor can I doubt what I''ve seen this stuff do through both Sage and myself."


    The anxious muscle in Jed''s neck steadily tightened as he continued, "You all seem like sane individual''s, so if this fire or whatever is real, then your story about Yoda ... sorry, I mean Shem, is probably real as well."


    "But," here he stopped pacing and looked Brother Antonius in the eye, "again, what do you expect me to do about all this? Do you want me to take the Ring to Bree, then cast it into the fires of Mount Doom? Don''t you realize that I am nothing!"


    In spite of himself, Jed''s voice rose to an angered pitch, "I am a sidelined pastor, psych-ward patient who can''t even fathom that any of this is really true, let alone imagine that I can do anything about it. If what Joseph or Shem or the Cleric - or whoever he is - said is true; then it''s the two of us again a network of thousands. But wait, it gets better! Gandalf is dying and it''s up to poor little Frodo to save the day! Do I have this about right!"


    It was at about this time in his tirade when Jed began to swoon and the brothers hastily ushered him back to his chair and refreshed his glass of water.


    "Unfortunately," said Brother Tobias, once Jed had taken a moment to compose himself and nodded for the monks to continue, "your assessment of the situation is not far from the mark. However, Jed, we are here to assist you and all is not hopeless. We have a body of lore available to us that will give us the advantage over our enemies."


    "We have a plan, Jed," added Father Antonius, gently. "We only need your help to bring it to pass."


    After a long pause, Jed lowered his forehead to the table and whispered the words, "I''m listening."


    ___________________________


    Father Antonius'' voice lowered to an almost conspiratorial level before he continued.


    "Jed, before Father Shem fled from Europe and arrived in the New World, certain books containing not only what is common knowledge of Brimstone Crimson to its users; but also, hidden lore in a language that was unknown during the middle ages, were hidden by him. Our enemies know nothing of this monumental secret.


    This time, it was Antonius'' turn to rise and begin pacing.


    "The Latin portions of these books, if studied and practiced, would put you on par with any practitioner of Crimson who walks the earth today, save but a few. However, the previously untranslated lore written in those books goes back to the most ancient of times and contains secrets that would make you as powerful as the most lethal of our enemies."


    Jed''s mouth dropped open as Antonius continued, "It is these hidden books that you must find."


    "Me?" Replied Jed, incredulously. "So, now I''m Indiana Jones as well as Batman," he said sarcastically before catching himself and adding, "I apologize, Father, and I mean no disrespect." Jed sighed, "please continue. I am paying attention."


    Antonius nodded and gave a small smile before continuing. "Pastor, thirty minutes more with Father Shem will clue you in on the whereabouts of these priceless books - books that he risked his life to protect and preserve against time and the elements."


    Antonius'' smile widened as he added, "Once acquired, any modern scholar in Egyptian hieroglyphics will be able to translate the body of obscure lore. That language was lost to all, including the Servants, until the mid nineteenth century." The lore that it contains is much, much older and it has been transcribed more times that can be imagined. But, it was transcribed and translated correctly - the last time in hieroglyphics before that language became dead to, what was, modern man at the time.


    He, again, paused then held Jed''s gaze with renewed intensity. "Jed, our


    Father is only willing to release the whereabouts of these books to a Servant, at the onset of his death. He perceives that his days on this earth are finally coming to an end. Sage couldn''t have helped us. In the early days, Father Shem was healthy enough to maintain the secret whereabouts of the books. In recent years, Sage simply wasn''t healthy enough for travel and wouldn''t have survived the quest. Our father wouldn''t send one of us, for none of us possessed the gift.


    "The one whom he loves has the gift ..." whispered Jed, as a lump formed in his throat.


    Antonius gave Jed a moment, then continued quietly, "This leaves you as the only trusted and qualified individual left to obtain the books, learn their secrets and employ them as a weapon against our enemies."


    Stopping before Jed''s chair, Antonius intoned ominously, "If you fail to do this then a reign of terror and evil will sweep across this earth, the likes of which none of us have ever seen."


    "Jed, will you help us," said Brother Tobias softly. "You would be bringing to a conclusion the life''s work, not only of ourselves, but also of Father Shem, Sage and countless other Crimson Servants who devoted all their years to safeguarding it to the end of days - which undoubtedly, are almost upon us."


    Jed thought of Sage''s burned body and watery eyes before he passed. He thought of the Crimson induced shield that saved not only his life, but the life of his wife in the Mercy Hospital parking lot - all at the cost of Sage''s life.


    In a horse whisper, he heard himself simply say, "yes."


    Moments passed between the three men before something tickled at the back of Jed''s mind.


    "Father Antonius, you mentioned that there were still a few who also knew of the ancient lore inscribed in Egyptian.


    "Ah yes," replied Antonius. "We will speak, sometime, of Shem''s brothers."


    TO BE CONTINUED IN JANUARY 2025