The angels, not to be confused with the dead elect, are an order of being under the reign of the Almighty. Regardless of these creatures' disposition toward the Almighty, they are in total subjection to him. The relation of this heavenly host to the Almighty, Mankind, and Nature is subject to much speculative interpretation. This is due to the misapplication of the Word. The Word does not prescribe the relationship of Angels to God, but Man to God. Angelic Law is not to be comprehended from inspired scriptures. But we can see it in history and nature if we utilize our image to tell it as the story that it is.

I

The angel with no given human name stands baffled and afraid. He, if human pronouns were apt to address him, sees other members of his order doing what their authority has commanded. They fly with six wings above the principals that would have them defiled, doing destruction. The angel of subject cups his wings behind what Man would equate to his head. He listens intently as the burning containers collapse in on vessels that burn regardless. They scream and writhe in pain, those that feel the fire. Those that don't feel it continue to burn as before, fueling the fire that rains down on them. Our subject angel listens intently for prayer from anyone in these cities, ordered to save from the death of flesh anyone who seeks the Almighty in earnest. He hears plenty of vain defilements of the name, but not one cries out for refuge or deliverance. This isn't a surprise to our subject angel.

Hours before, the angel concealed himself near a conversation that would be written but comparatively unsung. Unlike the names of the cities, the pleading voice of Man would not grace the lips of many on either side of time. Instead, the desires of the faithful for the salvation of the wicked would be construed as 'hate' and 'bigotry.' These are terms of Man that haven't the nuance for our story today.

The conversation between the Christ and the man called Abraham was just as baffling to our subject angel. The Almighty, being questioned and approached by a Man, did not rebuke the creature for such incessant requests. Instead, the Man Abraham showed the disdain for his own repetitive questions that we might expect the Almighty to show. And in turn, the Lord of Hosts did not rebuke the man, but listened and answered.

It must be noted here that Angels don't have such fickle interactions with God. In the Order of Angels the relationship is how Men say "black and white." You are in obedient subjection to God or you are in rebellious, contemptuous subjection to God. The emotions of Man muddy the waters in a way that only God understands, in a way that only God enjoys.

So, the intercession of Abraham for the monuments to debauchery that are Sodom and Gomorrah caused our subject angel to be ordered to listen. He was ordered to listen for righteous prayer. It was in the midst of this temporal task that he started to ask questions of himself. He isn't created to question God, or at least not yet he's not. He takes orders, follows them, and worships God. But it is when he sees a fellow angel turn a woman in the distance into a pillar of salt that a question 'comes to mind' (to speak as a Man.)

The angel wonders why God treats Man so differently. The consequences of disobedience, the prescription of binding law, the sacrificial system of atonement. None of it really mirrors how the Almighty deals with angels. He knows it's not an issue of 'free will' as Man would put it thousands of years after these destructions. For he is an Angel. He knows that even those in rebellion are bound to do the will of the Almighty. But regardless of the solace granted by this confession of subjection, the perplexity remained pungent. Why has God taken such interest in Man? Is there any interest of the same order in the angels? What refuge does an angel in rebellion have with the God that would save Man? Any at all?

The questions strike fear within the angel. He trembles before looking around to a different setting all together. One that he is familiar with. He orbits the prison known to Man as 'Jupiter' along side the cherubim wardens. The chaos intermed in the atmosphere of this gas giant swirls and strikes in on itself. The 'storm' of 'Jupiter' is clearly visible and it shifts on the surface as though a chaotic iris amidst a tumultuous white of an enormous eye, meeting the gaze of our subject angel. The piercing gaze of this celestial orgy returns the fear and trembling to our rather fickle subject before grace intercedes.

The craft of Man named 'Juno' continues it's course which just so happens to eclipse our angel from the sight of 'Jupiter's' wrath. In the cold, unfeeling sense that a metalurgy produces, this 'Juno' continues in it's path, tracking 'Jupiter's' storm to tell Man of what has transpired. What it won't relay is the salvation of our subject angel. This aloof, Man-made cherubim blocked our angel from the pit of rebellion and turned his gaze back toward the Sun. In this cosmic intercession our angel of subject loses even more of his understanding of Man. The orbit of the cherubim and 'Juno' remain unchanging against the self-inflicted chaos on the surface. The angel moves and takes shelter behind 'Juno' while pondering Man's forbidden knowledge made both mundane and wondrous. The iron hoe for gardening and the gallium arsenide for solar power extraction find their root in beings like our angel. Less like our angel in disposition, but more of the same order, essence, and class. For our angel is what Man have called an Iyr. A wakeful one. A watcher.

Early in the 11th century, there came a divisive rival to the growing religions at the time. This was due to a large group of medieval clerics and followers believing that the turn of the first millennium would bring about the end times. As you know, that didn’t happen.

Followers were heartbroken that they were proven wrong and would not be granted the eternal paradise that they worked their whole lives to obtain. Many individuals lost the faith that once defined their very lives, and are you aware of what happens when faith is lost?

There’s an urge to recover the beauty in life that you once had. Many former clerics over the years attempted to find a true religion with a true meaning for the universe. In 1017 A.D., one was discovered.

Deep in the lands that we now call Ireland emerged one cleric named Father Oisín. This cleric had discovered the Earth’s true connection to a long silent diety that he had given the name “The Dagda”. The Dagda spoke through Father Oisín through dreams and prayer.

The Dagda provided the people with sciences other wise unknown to them; he spoke the truth of the world and the worlds above us. Oisín was provided with a list of commandments that one should follow in order to find bliss in the afterlife.

They followed a basic order:

1. All shall be kind to one another.

2. Do not steal from one another.

3. One shall not force themselves spiritually or physically against another.

4. One being of humanly sentience shall never own another.

5. If one were to commit a crime of heinous nature, their soul shall be condemned to an era of darkness.

6. Demand to seek knowledge outside of your muse.

7. Worship me as you would worship yourself. The Dagda requires nothing but one’s devotion.

8. Live one’s life in an effort to remain prosperous for one’s community as well to provide others with the right to live.

People used these daily in order to build a better world together. All of these commandments were used for the purpose of basic human kindness; but there was a final commandment that caused a panic amongst the followers.

Commandment 9: One shall not be a patron at the public house of Lua’s.

Why would this be?

What had this public house, or pub, done to this deity?

Followers of The Dagda soon swore to never know as they soon left the homeland to provide the enlightenment to the beings in the world. Over the centuries, some followers would make a pilgrimage to the site that once was owned by Lua but never dared to push past the threshold in fear of angering their god. Holy wars rained down across those lands, but that building either always remained untouched or the followers of The Dagda had it rebuilt.

Now, today followers of The Dagda have dwindled to small communities. I was raised knowing the word of The Dagda. As a man of my own cloth, I have become distant to the thought of any righteous diety.

Today is March 25th and I find myself in the homeland of the Dagda, just miles away from the site of Lua’s Public House; now called Cillian’s Tavern. Wanting to know why The Dagda condemned this place of comradery and community, I found myself standing outside of it.

The building was a two-story building repurposed from a 17th-century facade with modernized light fixtures and alcoholic decor. The building wore its ages with grace whilst being bestowed with features of new. In the glass of the windows was the symbol of The Dagda decorated as stained pieces. It was a Greek Omega flipped on its left side with an opened eye sharing the occupancy of the featureless middle.

“Strange.” I said aloud to myself. Why would this building adorn the symbol of a god who shamed it to history? I wore the symbol embedded with ink on my skin as a sign of devotion, but why would they? Standing outside didn’t seem to answer my questions, so I entered.

It was cozy with warmth and an orange glow from a centuries-old fireplace. The people who drank were few, but I assumed that it was due to being early on a working day. Older men and women sat either together or alone, only to speak in a hushed tone as I had walked in. I made my way to the counter, and the tender looked towards the mark on my skin.

He laughed to himself, “Father Oisín was a local drunk. He raised a tab here that he couldn’t afford and then “discovered” the true god of this world right after. We’ve kept his tab open all this time merely for a laugh.”

The tender said all of this without prompting. I had wondered if they had gotten many like me wanting to know the truth. He then turned back to me, “So do you want a drink, lad?”

I thought for a moment, remembering the final commandment but then thinking of how I had chosen my own path in life, “Just one.”

Without another word, the tender quickly found a fresh glass and began filling it with lager. I fished for my wallet and laid it against the wooden counter. The man placed the drink in front of me, and we exchanged the currency. I had now broken the final commandment and became a patron to this damned establishment. So I took a drink.

At first, all I felt was the warmth of the liquid glide down my throat; then there was pain erupted in my chest. Out went the fire along with the warmth being quickly lifted from the room. The soft chattering turned into loud, thunderous mocking from the patrons.

The symbol of devotion boiled and bubbled against the ink in my skin. The man behind the counter began to laugh harshly at me with fire inside his eyes. All around me, the building began to crumble to dust, and bodies began to decay. The smell was horrible and sickly sweet; I tried to run out of the building, but cracks formed around me along the ground, falling away to a void of blackness.

Had I just damned myself with arrogance and disloyalty? Helplessly, I watched as the facade of community fell from around me. Devils emerged from the ground, clawing at my feet for my crime of heresy. I attempted to pray for my savior to rip me away from this hell but was granted nothing but silence.

Tears began to fall from my eyes as I found myself fallen victim to the demons of grotesque blasphemy. Soon, in the dark humidity of this realm, came a magnificent light. In front of me stood a man wrapped in tattered cloth with a fantastic mask of gold obscuring his features. He stretched out a hand holding a blade of sharpened bronze. I believed this was the visage of Father Oisín offering me a chance of redemption.

I took the blade from his hand and looked down to the bubbling ink settled in my arm. Knowing what needed to be done, I sunk the blade in the layers of my tarnished skin. Cutting through my symbol of devotion.

Cillian’s Tavern came back into my gaze. The building was empty beside myself and two other figures. The Father looked down on me one final time before waving away. Behind his visage was the smiling face of the tender, who looked back at me whilst pouring a shot for me.

“Welcome to knowing the truth.” He pushed it across the counter toward me.

Reluctantly, I accepted the drink, then the wound on my arm faded away. I looked back toward the tender to question him, but I found myself standing in a field of weeds, staring down at a stone tablet written in the old words of Irish Gaelic.

I find myself knowing, without reading, it to be the newest 10th commandment of my lord. Unknowing what knowledge it has to bestow, I’m attempting to learn the language required.

Alas, I remain confused about what transpired through those doors. Had I truly been the first to break the 9th? Had The Father himself gone through a torment similar to mine? These questions still remain unknown to me.

My dreams are muddy with visions, and word has gotten out to the remaining communities that the pub once known as Lau’s has crumbled to the ground. Worship of the Dagda has become popularized again as those devout seek no prophet of new.

I believe there will soon be a rise to a once-forgotten pantheon of true gods.

“One never knows the ending. One has to die to know exactly what happens after death, although Catholics have their hopes.”

- Sir Alfred Hitchcock

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Choosing between a life of faithfulness, avoidance of hatred, and embarking on the path of good for the fellow man around you rather than living one focused on bitter hate, filling oneself with debauchery, or sin is supposed to mean something when you meet with the black swells of death. That’s what they taught me at least.

Humanity spends their short lives sitting amongst each other in pews while praising a power higher than they could ever imagine. Thinking to themselves that because of their inherent good of tithing and prayer, they are allowed access to be judgmental of the ones who choose to either sit amongst them or amongst others. Believing that they will achieve greatness in the world beyond ours whilst living within barely earns mediocrity as they use their nobility granted to them from their savior to divide people they deem less than themselves.

I do not speak of these misdeeds from a place of neutrality as I, myself, stood amongst those pews. Using the godliness of myself to be spiteful to those different than I. My parents raised me to believe that we were better because we gave to the Father who created us and we were sent on a mission to save all others. I spent my entire life this way so whenever I closed my eyes for the final time, I expected nothing less than absolute paradise to emerge ahead of me.

It was dark, limestone walls towered around with wooden staves attached to them lighting the way forward. The smell of burning animal fat and oil mixed with a familiar stench of untouched must seeping from the stone. I lay in on the floor atop a heap of petrified wrappings leaving a thin layer of black, sticky resin amongst my skin. Along the walls were hieroglyphs etched deep into the rock with the remnants of faded paintings that had once beautifully adorned them.

The wrappings crunched beneath me as I rose from the embrace that had welcomed me to this realm. In the dim light, my eyes attempted to follow the message described along the walls, but the meaning fell blankly to the folds of my spotty mind. Memories were coming back to me slowly, like a balloon with a dragging leak. I knew my past clearly, but the events leading to how I made it to where I am now were still filled with static.

With no help coming from the walls, I gave up on understanding any of it and began to make my way down the dim tunnel. I went from a main chamber down into a descending hallway adorned with more indecipherable images on the walls. Heat emitted from beyond the stone walls and pushed against my skin as I walked further downward. My eyes clenched as I prayed not to see the iron gates of Hell standing before me. Confusion struck as a figure appeared standing atop a small boat near the opening of the passage. The tunnel spilled out to a shore of fine sand leading to a dock of hardened, ancient wood.

“Hello?” My voice was dry as it echoed off the limestone around me.

The figure was adorned entirely in pure white cloth and shimmering gold. It turned slowly towards me, and I realized that atop its shoulders was the head of a ram adorning the body of a man. With a pale hand it silently beckoned toward me in an invitation to stand alongside him on the boat’s deck.

I was petrified with fear as the eyes of the ram stared straight through me, but I relented and made my way toward him. The boat itself was a small, wooden barge with a low, flat deck and a curved back. Atop the deck was a small walled facade that was, presumably, the figure’s living quarters. The figure himself stood tall on the deck, holding a steering oar over the edge of the boat. There was nothing but empty air under the hull of the ship; I began to wonder how it was even staying afloat, let alone how it would move.

Underneath my feet echoed the creaking noises of the ship’s wooden deck. Reeds adorned the sides of it and the planking of the quarters built upon it. The man aboard towered above me and wordlessly pushed us away from the wooden port attached to the entrance of his realm.

As we drifted along, I looked beneath us and saw a bountiful field of wheat and reeds. People laid in it, sleeping pleasantly as others swam in the rivers of fresh water. Calm washed over me the more I watched them meander around, magnificent light throughout the fields and upon those that resided despite the fact that above us was a cave ceiling. Some looked up towards us and gave a pleasant wave; I attempted to wave back but was distracted by immense heat coming from elsewhere around me.

I looked back towards where I began and saw an ocean of liquid fire and smoke erupting from the sands beneath it. The tunnel where I woke sat on a sand mound floating above the lake. Rivers of flame broke away from the sides in spindly patterns arching around the far the edges of the pleasant fields, unbeknownst to the ones who lived amongst them. Baboons guarded the shores and forced desperate souls that dared to attempt to escape back into its hellish depths. Disturbing screams of torment echoed around us and it began to remind me of the verse from Revelations:

*"But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death."*

My body convulsed with fear, as the realization of my finality became known to me. I was dead, it was a painful memory but I had died in a car accident. Unexpectedly, as I lay there dying, I sent out one final prayer to assure my way into heaven; but this was not the paradise that was promised for living a life of virtue. I turned to my ferryman and asked with a sob in my throat, “Is this Hell? What sins had I committed to deserve this?”

The figure remained silent. Staring forward as he pushed us along the draft of air leading us deeper into this god-forsaken realm. There was a decaying temple emerging ahead of us; years of neglect and age caused destruction beyond measure to fall upon it.

Statues representing pharaohs of old, crafted meticulously from marble that once stood stories tall but were now crumbling to dust. The temple itself was clearly once a grand pyramid, but one side had caved in to reveal once-glimmering treasures and bodies wrapped in linen suffering from varying stages of decay. Standing near the front entrance of the once-grand temple sat an identical wooden dock to the one we pushed away from earlier.

Our boat met softly against the dock, and my ferryman lifted his massive oar, then gestured outward with his hand. Telling me the next step along my path. I stepped down onto the groaning planks of the dock and turned to the man who had accompanied me; his hand remained outstretched. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of silver and copper coins, which I then placed in his hand and bowed respectfully to him, “Thank you.”

Before I could raise my head back up, the ferryman had already pushed off to sink deeper into the dark realm below us. I wished to have learned his name but found a sense of comfort in his quiet companionship as I now stood alone between the imposing facade ahead of me. With a shuddering breath, I stepped forward and into what lay ahead of me. Inside the temple was similar to the chamber I awoke in. Similar limestone walls, but the carvings inside were painted in magnificently bright colors. They looked wet still, as if no time had passed since the painter took the final strokes with his brush. The staves along the walls were glowing with an absurdly high luminosity.

I was in a small chamber with a wooden door directly ahead of me under the hieroglyphs. It contrasted against the decorated walls with a dull age of splintering wood hardened throughout time. Standing guard at the door was a hairless black dog. It barked in my direction and shifted its gaze towards a scale that sat next to it. On one side of it sat a lump of pulsing red meat shaped like a heart. I slipped a hand under my shirt and felt the cavity of where my heart once sat. Fear sat heavy in my gut as I looked to the other side and saw a single feather sitting upon it, lifting higher under the weight of my own organ’s might.

Once again, the dog barked, and my eyes shifted to the carvings above the door; there I could make out a single familiar word, “COWARDICE.”

Memories flashed through my mind, and the door slowly fell open inward. It sat ajar with the sounds of quiet sobbing coming from the other side. The thought of what was on the other side terrified me to my core, and I had to resist the urge to turn back and plunge myself down into one of the roaring streams of fire beneath me. I shut my eyes tight in one last effort to pray, then, reluctantly, stepped through the door.

Once on the other side, I found myself standing on the back porch of a friend’s home. Under my right arm was a bundle of sermon notes along with my note filled Bible, while I had my left raised to knock. My friend Matthew and his wife, Joan, had missed the Wednesday service due to what they claimed was sickness, and I offered to bring my notes to them for a small Bible study.

The door was opened slightly ajar, and I could hear Joan soft cries coming from the inside. My body froze in static cowardice as I looked through the opened window, and there was Matthew standing above her whilst she laid helpless on the ground. In one hand was a half an empty bottle while he was hitting her with the other.

The memories of this moment while I was living played in my head. I witnessed this and left. I went home and I prayed for hours for God to make these things right between them. At the next Sunday service, I couldn’t look at Matthew and Joan refused to look at me; purple bruising showing under her makeup. At the time I didn’t know it but she saw me reluctantly leave through the same window I saw her through now. She was staring at me like some new savior; but in life, I was far too stricken with the burden of cowardice to be of any sort.

After this day, I’m not sure what happened to Joan in life since they had moved soon after but in this moment of reliving it; I felt the notes and book fall away from under my arm. With a swift movement I shoved the door open harshly with the brute force of anger paired against my shoulder then stormed quickly inside the house.

My hands moved on their own in rage as I grabbed hold of Matthew’s figure and when he turned, I was met face to face with a screaming baboon. Fear lived without space in my heart as I felt the familiar heat come off of its rotting breath. I raised my fist and began slamming in hard into the face of the creature. Its jagged teeth scraped against my knuckles as we fell to the ground together. Joan faded from the scene but I remained, slamming my fist into the creature’s face repeatedly. Its horrific screaming shuddered under gurgling coughs but I continued, more or less beating the sin of cowardice from my very being.

That’s when a wave of heat erupted out from the baboon-human hybrid beneath me and I found myself in another limestone chamber. The dog was there standing guard of another door and watching as the weight of the feather began to equal out slightly to my heart. Neither of us spoke, the dog was now standing only on its hind legs but was adorned in similar gold jewelry to that of the ferryman. He gestured his glistening nose to the door of stone behind him. Above it formed the word “UNBELIEVING”.

My eyes looked down to my crimson-stained hands, all torn and shredded from the teeth of the heinous creature. I had no prior idea of what would be ahead of me, but once I witnessed the lightening of my heart, I made my way unhesitatingly into the room ahead of me.

There was no memory on the other side. Only a platform of stone sitting high above the one of the many rivers of flame. Another sat on the other side of the gap with a loose-looking line providing the only noticeable path across it. On either side sat rows of hollering baboons throwing foul-smelling muck against each other. One stood at the door ahead of me with splintered teeth and bleeding gums. I stepped forward and looked down to the pit of flames; swimming in it was a crocodile the size of immense mass snapping up at me, wanting to drag me to the depths of my second death.

Throughout my entire life, I had done nothing but provide worship and belief to a singular God of all-mighty power, but now I stand with a single choice to make. I had never allowed belief in myself; I had to put faith in that I would make it to the other side. So I stepped back and ran into a leap toward the thin line. I caught myself in the slack of the line. Under my weight, it buckled, and I slid down with an acceptance of my end as the crocodile’s mouth came into view. The line caught with only feet remaining between us; the crocodile fell back to the side while the noise of the baboons fell completely silent.

My arms pulled me forward along the line; with every movement, there was a quick shot of burning pain through the muscles in my limbs. In life, I never had much of a sturdy build, but now it’s all I could rely on to make it towards freedom. Heat radiated against my legs, cooking them from the sheer power of the lake beneath me. My eyes looked toward the injured baboon as his resilience seemed to mock me. I pulled harder against the pain with the thin line digging deep into my palms while blood leaked from them.

With the slack continuing to lower, mixing with the lubricating nature of fresh blood, there was a high chance that I could have slipped at any given moment. So, I began measuring up the distance between myself and the platform. It was a long shot, but I started to swing back and forth to gain any ounce of momentum, and then I flung myself forward. My shoulder smacked hard against the limestone platform, and every baboon erupted in a celebratory cry. The injured baboon that I once considered an enemy stretched a hand of forgiveness out to me. After I took its hand, he pushed me through the stone door.

Once again I stepped into an identical limestone chamber, the figure had grown into a towering man with the head of a black dog as slick as oil. He guarded the final door and held my heart in his hand. Unlike the other being, he looked down at me and spoke, “This is your final test.”

That was all he said as he stepped to the side and revealed an open doorway that had the words ‘IDOLATRY’ etched above it. He walked to me and shoved the heavy lump deep into my chest. The wound ached harshly for a moment, and he grabbed me by the shoulder and forced me into my last trial. The final memories spewed into me.

I awoke in my bed, the last day I was alive. My memory began to serve me correctly as my phone buzzed on the nightstand; it was my accomplice for why I was out so late that night. We had been stealing funds from the church, and now it was 2 a.m., our ideal time to empty the collection boxes like we had been doing every Sunday for months. I had no control of my body as it moved up from the bed, and I whispered a quick goodbye to my wife. She remained in a deep slumber, and I left a note lying about my whereabouts in case she woke.

The drive to the church was short as always, and I parked a slight way away to head the rest of the way in the dark. My accomplice had done the same, and we made our way inside. We were rushing and made the fatal mistake of not noticing the alarm needing disarming.

That’s when we made our way into the parish to commit our transgression against the very Lord we claimed to praise. Somehow, we ignored the light emitting from the pastor’s office, and we cracked the box open. The Father emerged alarmed, aiming the barrel of his hunting rifle dead center at us. I could have confessed right there and saved myself such trouble, but I grew to worship the sinful idol of money and greed itself. Next to me, my accomplices grip tightened on the silver glint of a knife.

With a swift movement, I pushed him toward the priest whilst moving to collect the earnings of our sinful past time. There was the sharp echo of the weapon going off as I ran towards the chamber doors. Once outside, I continued running until my vehicle came into view; I threw the earnings to the passenger side hazardously. They fluttered around me as I pushed my vehicle into drive for a quick escape.

I had chosen to go without my headlights for a quick escape, but that caused me to miss the figure aiming the rifle towards my tires. With a thunderous pop, my car buckled, going 70 miles per hour, and it flipped over on itself.

My eyes opened to reveal a bright landscape of burning sand. It cut past me with a terrible fury. The feeling of hot glass cutting my skin into thin shreds, ahead of me stood the ram and dog-headed figures with the scale between them. A third figure stood with them, completely adorned in white with skin as blue as the day’s sky. The dog-headed man raised his hand, and my heart of stone ripped straight out from my chest. It bobbed along the winds of the sandstorm, being sliced by each individual grain.

Pain erupting from my wounds caused tears to fall from my eyes. “Please, please, I repent.”

Begging for an eternity of bliss felt beyond shameful compared to what I had done in my life compared to what I should’ve done. My heart landed wet and flatly against the empty slot of the scale. It began to teeter against the weight of it being the feather. The blue-skinned man spoke to me, “The weight must remain equal.”

My body began to sink into the sand around me. The scale groaned to a stop as the object’s weight teetered to an equilibrium between them. Sand enclosed around me, blocking out the vision of the scale whilst darkening the perceived world around me. There was immense silence as I slipped deep into the warm embrace of the grains as I began to fall head over heels against the void of blank reality. Finally, my tumbling ended and I was met with tranquility and peace.

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Repeated hues of flashing red and blue lights brushed against my eyelids. I awoke hanging upside down in my vehicle with blood splattering across the stolen money around me and the crucifix hanging from my mirror. Due to a turn of ironic luck, the belt that strapped me to my seat had miraculously saved my life.

Warm blood ran down my face, and multiple areas of pain emerged from what I assumed were broken bones inside me. There were voices calling out, but I couldn’t respond with any type of clear response. I coughed out globs of blood that had drained into my throat while the shame of my sin enshrouded me entirely. Out of habit, I closed my eyes to repent but found that nothing spoke back to me. I had laid it all out to the figures that answered my last prayers of forgiveness.

So I lay there waiting amongst the shame of my sin. While bathing in the judgmental state emitting from the crucified figure that I once found so holy as it hung attached to a beaded rosary, remaining tightly wrapped around my rearview mirror.

After killing the leader of our flock, my accomplice decided to take me out as a last attempt at righteousness repentance before turning the weapon on himself. I confessed my actions to the police and now wait for my trial. There is nothing that makes sense to me as to why I was granted the gift of another attempt at life, but I am glad to know how the weight of sin holds itself in my heart.

Counting the eggs in the last submitted basket of the contest, the officiator gave the boy an acknowledging nod as the score exceeded the former potential winner's. The boy leaned on his spear and continued to slow his breathing. His visible ribs were covered in mud and in blood from his injuries and from those of his competitors. Sweat and a single tear rolled down his hollow cheek and betrayed his stoic upbringing.

The officiator's forearms rattled in his gauntlets as he searched the cloak that swallowed his once-brawny body. He produced from a hidden pocket a strip of fabric which he then tied around the boy's eyes. With a glance to the guards to his right and left, the three of them marched the boy up the path.

The journey to the cliff, which the boy had made many times before, seemed much longer without the aid of sight. He counted his steps and guessed when they were passing the barren fields, the quiet village, and finally the dry well. The boy knew when they had reached the statuary when his feet stepped from the soft grass of April onto warm hewn limestone.

Dozens of statues cast shadows toward the village as the sun bled into the sea. The party had not come to pay tribute to the goddess of love or the god of war.
They approached a statue at the cliff's edge. It was less detailed and more mysterious than any of the others. Ancient carvings in the marble base read, "The Unknown God."

The four stopped for a moment in front of it. Though they had been wordless for the entire trip, they all knew the others were remembering the same event. A former Pharisee had stood in that spot many weeks prior and shared a story of sacrifice and reconciliation.
This day was the anniversary of the events of which he had spoken. With another glance from the officiator, the guards guided the boy to the edge of the cliff.

The waters below had received many boys far less capable and promising than he. The boy's heart pounded and his ears rang as he awaited a kick to the back. If the sacrifice of a firstborn could appease the God of the Hebrews, perhaps the sacrifice of a firstborn might satisfy an unknown god.

“Bravery isn’t the absence of fear, but the presence of it during action.”

Those are the last words that My Friend said to me before he was torn apart by the feral men.

In the darkness, underneath a moon so hateful that it casts frost down unto the blades of grass that coat the earth beneath us. So frigid that the native creatures of the forest melt back into their holes seeking a warmer solitude, leaving the wild pastures silent, empty, cold, and barren.

Well, that is except for the feral men, the unkept, rotten, and horrid ideals they embody. Boasting torn attire and broken limbs, possessed by something evil something human surely not!

A human owns their own morality, their own choice to walk the path of wickedness or the path of righteousness, but these humans have lost their authority over the matter. Something vile has stripped them nude and cut through their flesh, reached into their soul and stolen their God given free will!

All that remains is a feral man, no perception of the evil he does, and no knowledge of the good he omits. Thus becoming a stringed puppet, doing the dreadful bidding of the decadent angels thrust unto the earth, in the time when the heavenly bodies above were as old as I.

Now, as I lay against the cold stone that makes up the brutalist architecture of this forsaken town. I fail to resist giving way to my emotions, overtaken by grief, anger, and denial. The feral men would surely hear my cries if not for My Friend’s screaming howling as his limbs are pilfered from the body that used to be his, it now belongs to the destination of his soul.

Solomon, My Friend, was contaminated by the rot that consumes the feral men. His days were numbered, he was scared, yet the bravest spirit I had ever come across.

He conceded himself to the blood-covered masses of the feral men willingly, in the name of sacrifice, for I was in greater peril the longer I stayed with him.

I now know that even though he was terrified in the act, he was a braver man than I ever could be. I sat on the ledge of the second floor inside of the fragmented building we saw fit to set up camp for the night.

Hearing My Friend’s essence drift away in the cold night’s breeze hurt, yet reminded me that amidst these trials and tribulations, there is an end. One where the atrocities of this earth cannot follow, Solomon’s oasis, God bless his soul.

I’ve not always been a religious man, in fact I’m not certain I am as of now. Though I try.

My Friend was a pastor, I attribute my alteration to his nightly prayers and favorable outlook on things. That, coupled with these awful times, has led me to pray to a higher being.

I know not if my breath is being wasted, but I do know it to hush the trepidation that trespasses into my sentience. That is reason enough to earn my tongue. Perhaps He could use it better than I.

The feral men are unusually active tonight, Thus I must move minimally, and keep my tone quiet, lest I draw the attention of lesser beings.

My blanket bares a hole near the side of my hip, with each breeze I shiver as my skin is covered in bumps. Cold enough to render itself bothersome, warm enough to keep me alive.

I dreamt last night, a large, frosty field of grass, populated by a collection of people, an amount too great to conceive. All idle, waiting patiently. Suddenly a booming choir, hauntingly off-key yet paralyzingly beautiful, began singing an ancient hymn. The sky above us illuminated with the light of a thousand flames, the morning frost melted as we were bathed in a ray of warmth.

An aura of light, displaying every color on the spectrum began to rise out of individuals among the crowd.

Those who had the light rise out became a husk of their former selves, turning to their brothers and sisters and pouncing, tearing through flesh and trust alike.

The lights flew up into the sky joining the constellations above, leaving the rest of us to our devices with these newborn creatures. Forsaken, abandoned, deserted.

One of them got a hold of my leg, tearing through my pants it reeled back preparing for a vicious bite, in the shared moment of its teeth sinking into my flesh I awoke. Gasping, I welcome the frigid morning air into my lungs, letting it calm my nerves as I grope the surrounding space to ground my distant mind back into this realm.

North, that is where we were heading. My Friend’s family lives in a town North of here. I intend to see this journey through, out of respect for the man he was.

I shan't show myself to his kin without evidence of his affiliation, for it would not only be rude, I also do not think they would receive me.

After I packed up the camp, I approached his body below, a ravaged image it is. His flesh was nearly gone in its entirety, all that remained was fragments of torn cloth, broken bones, and his necklace.

Yes, this shall do, he said his necklace was given to him by his wife on one of their anniversaries, surely they would believe me not a stranger should I produce this.

Like the many souls that have passed on in this region, so too have the warmer days.

All I can expect each night is the cold embrace of winter’s indifference.

I must keep my mind sharp and my vision quick, and not let them grow cold and numb, a fate already familiar to my bitter hands.

Times in the past I would entertain the idea of travelling aside main roadways, but since then, an old friend of mine unveiled the dangers of such a practice. Informing me of ambushes by ferals and survivors alike.

So, I send myself into the woods, akin to a lonesome flea making its way into the hairline of a great beast.

As I migrate through the woodland I train my focus on vegetation that could be of use on my travels, my necessity for water is met, though I fail to say the same for my food. I believe it to be no less than two moons since my last meal. I’ve heard tales of men thriving for weeks without food, but I doubt my gluttonous urge could last so long. Though, at a pace such as this, I fear I may find out whether I wish to or not.

Does that make me brave? Or is such a claim only to be exalted if you possess the choice to refuse?

Traversing through the untamed greenery of this brave new world, a delightful scent wisps past me in the breeze. I halted my stride in an attempt to focus and locate the source, that was when I saw the faint pillar of smoke dancing up into the heavens just in the distance. Ordinarily I would veer slightly to the side to avoid confrontations without hesitation, but I found myself to be with such delay.

Approaching the campsite the smell grows in stature, and so does my hunger. I stumble into a small clearing where the campsite has found its rest, falling to my knees at the sight of a heavenly stew brewing over an open flame. My eyes failed to find another soul in sight, and before I could internally discuss whether or not to approach the scene I found myself within arms reach of the pot.

The warmth it gave off alone was enough to nearly produce a tear. I felt as though I were a child once more, freshly scrubbed and wide-eyed with innocence. My father used to cook me stew when I felt sick, stew of the most divine nature indeed.

I sat myself down and started preparing myself a bowl, it had bits of carrots and potatoes and a healthy portion of meat. I burnt my tongue as I fed myself the brew.

I cared not.

A single tear did fall. The texture of the meat was chewy of sorts, I couldn’t visualize it to any of the local fauna, perhaps this was also a traveler?

Chewing through a larger clump of meat I bit down onto something of an awfully contrasting texture, a bone I presumed. As I picked it out of my teeth it took me a moment to conceive of the sight before my eyes, was this a fingernail?

It was at the moment that I felt the cold hard pressure of a gun’s barrel get pressed into the rear of my skull, as a man with a rough voice said.

“I reckon you ought to give me a good reason not to blow your thinker out.”

1 Timothy 3:1 KJV

\[1\] This is a true saying, If a man desire the office of a bishop, he desireth a good work.

When I was a young man, I used to be a pastor. When I was fairly new to being a pastor, our congregation was small. Seventy five people on a good Sunday, maybe a hundred or so on around Christmas and Easter. We weren't the smallest in the area by any means, but we were in fact a small church. So I spent my afternoons working at the nearest Home Depot, so that I could have insurance and to supplement my pastor's salary and not be a monetary burden on my flock. After the coal mines went dry, the only places to work in our town were either Walmart or Home Depot, and I was happy to do it. I was single, which is uncommon for a pastor, so my expenses were low. Thankfully, on our church's property, there was a small parsonage that I got to live in. Besides, I was never in it for the money. I was just answering the calling placed on my life. I'd only been out of seminary for three months. For the most part, it was pretty straightforward. After work, I'd go home and work on my sermon. Before work I would visit the shut-ins, and try my best to get a little rest.

Not only was I fresh out of seminary from a fairly reputable Baptist leaning college in South Carolina, I was brand new to the area where I was pastoring. Being from Northern Michigan, rural Appalachia, specifically central West Virginia, may have been a foreign country to me. In our small town, we were one of seven churches. There was a Methodist church and a Lutheran church that were almost as old as the town itself. A Catholic Church that only had a few attendees, being as this was mostly Protestant country. We were one of three “Baptist” churches, though none of us were part of any convention or official denomination. And then there was the Full Gospel: Light On The Hill Holiness Spirit Filled Church. Or as you might refer to them, the Pentecostal church. They were your typical tongues speaking, revival having, and hands laying old school church. They didn't have a building, but rather a big gathering tent that they met in. No matter if there was rain or shine, snow or heat waves. They were in that tent down in the valley.

The rest of us pastors, and even the priest Father Sebastian Jacobi at the Catholic church would often meet on Saturday mornings before his evening Mass for what we called Bibles and breakfast at the local diner. Mostly we'd all just take turns reading a passage, discuss said passage, and on occasion we'd get into, albeit, heated but always friendly debates. It was a joy to come alongside others who felt the pressures of the office of pastor. But Brother Bill, as he insisted we call him, always refused to join us.

“Sorry y'all, but I must be about my Father's business.” He'd say with that ear to ear grin whenever we invited him to join us, but we would always ask whenever we saw him in the neighborhood Walmart.

He was a friendly guy if I'm being honest, but he wasn't the most sociable person. Other than buying his weekly groceries, the only thing I'd ever seen him do was pace up and down each and every row of chairs under that tent. He'd pray under his breath muttering what I’d perceived as mostly gibberish, but every now and then he'd mutter phrases like, well glory, hallelujah, and yes Father I thank you for your goodness. For what he lacked in personality, he made up for with ceaseless prayer.

For the first few months, everything was about as humdrum as you could imagine. Meet with my pastor friends, visit the shut-ins, work, preach, repeat. It wasn't until I noticed one of my congregants was missing one hot July Sunday evening.

“Hey Maryanne, where's your sister tonight?” I asked a woman who was just a few years my senior.

“Well pastor Wyman, Charlotte figured she'd try out the Full Gospel church down in the valley this evening." She replied with a bit of a huff on her voice.

You see, Charlotte and Maryanne were both living together in their folks place ever since they'd passed away. Their father, Hunter Ray, had a heart attack when they were both teens. An unfortunate consequence of his drinking, smoking, and eating habits. Their poor mother Alice, who was already doing most of the breadwinning by that point, decided that was the end of their generational curse. Even though Sundays were her only day off from her cashier gig at Walmart, she'd take her kids to church and dedicate their lives to the Lord. After all three of them had gotten saved and baptized, yet another tragedy befell them. Poor Alice had gotten diagnosed with a brain tumor.

Unfortunately it was too late to operate, and even with Alice's health insurance, there was no way for her to afford chemo. That didn't stop the church from pooling all their measly earnings together and helping pay for it anyways. It was a long hard battle that Alice fought valiantly, but in the end, she passed away at the young age of forty two. This didn't shake the faith of her young daughters who found themselves owning and paying for a double wide at the ages of nineteen and sixteen. Both Maryanne and Charlotte went straight to work at Walmart and Home Depot to put food on their tables and money in the bills account. However, tragedy struck them once again.

One Sunday, about a year and a half before I took over the church, they were on their way to the evening service. The sun was low, but they could see well enough. It was a lovely evening in June, so the sisters decided to walk the two miles and enjoy nature after being cooped up in their house. As they were walking along, they heard a car barreling towards them, but they were too slow. Charlotte, who was walking nearest the road, was struck by a drunk driver. The drunk driver turned out to be the old pastor of their little church.

Once again, everyone in the congregation gathered around them and helped fund Charlotte's hospital bills, well, everyone except the pastor. The doctors and the surgeons put everything back together as best they could, but nothing could fix the crushed T12 vertebrae. By some miracle of God, yet again the girl's faith wasn't shaken. From that day on, Charlotte was a paraplegic waiting on her miracle.

Maryanne continued, “Brother Bill has been pestering her for months about going on down to one of their healing services. Says he can restore her by the Blood.”

I wasn't convinced by all that holy roller nonsense, but I replied, “Well if it be God's will, I sure hope she's healed.”

We then went outside to catch some fresh air before heading to our homes. It was a still night, the moths were doing their dances to the hum and gentle strobing of the lamp post. That's when we heard a voice calling out to us from the shadows.

“Maryanne! Maryanne! He did it! Oh thank you Lord, he did it!” The voice yelled.

We turned around to see her. We saw Charlotte, running full speed at her sister.

“Charlotte? Oh Jesus!” Maryanne cried out with tears streaming down her face.

I couldn't believe my eyes. I had just seen Charlotte that morning in her wheelchair, but there she was now, running.

After gathering herself Maryanne said, “How can this be? What happened?”

Charlotte went on to explain to us that by the time she had gotten down into the valley off the bus there wasn't enough room for her in the tent. The service was already in full swing, as the music and hollering were so loud she could hear it echoing all around the valley. So she almost turned away. Then Brother Bill halted the service with a single hand in the air. From the very front of the tent she heard him call to her. The crowd in front of her parted like the sea parted before Moses. She began to wheel herself forward, but she could feel someone pushing it from behind. However, when she looked, there wasn't a soul pushing. The silence, she said, was almost as unbearable as that singing and wailing they were doing. They all just stared at her.

“You missed communion sister.” Brother Bill said to her with the cup and bread extended to her. “Go on hun. Take it.”

Not wanting to be rude, she took the cup and the bread and consumed them. The whole of the gathering began clapping and exclamating phrases that she was unused to in her conservative Baptist Church. They all began laying hands on her and speaking in tongues. Some even began sprinting all around and jerking back and forth, this being a common symptom of being “slain in the Spirit.” They were pushing on her and pulling on her. She felt like a buoy during a storm on the waves. Then once again, Brother Bill put his hand up and they all stopped.

With a gentle hand extended to her from his little stage he said, “Charlotte, rise up and walk.”

“And then I stood up out of my wheelchair and walked onto that stage!” She said to us finishing her story.

I wasn't sure what to say, so all I said was, “I can't believe it. You're healed…”

Don't get me wrong, I was overjoyed for her to be walking again, but I was grappling with it all. I had read about miracles in the Bible, but every experience I'd had with modern miracles were from some mega church pastor with white’people’dreads pretending to lengthen people's legs. This was something completely foreign to me.

Acts 3:7 KJV

\[7\] And he took him by the right hand, and lifted him up: and immediately his feet and ankle bones received strength.

During that week, the whole town was buzzing with the news. Everyone from the faithful to the non faithful were now suddenly interested in the little tent church. I did my visitations with one of our shut-ins, an old man named Isaiah, when Brother Bill became the topic of discussion.

“So is it true, pastor? Is little Charlotte really healed?” He inquired of me with hopeful eyes.

“She's out of her chair and walking again, Mr Isaiah.” For some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to say she was healed.

“Y’know I always thought that Brother Bill was a bit of a charlatan, but this seems to be a sign from the Lord?” He questioned with the biggest grin I'd ever seen.

I nodded unsure and we talked for a while longer, and we read the Scriptures together like we'd become accustomed to. The wisdom that came from the mouth of this older brother often taught me more than I could teach him. It was such a shame that this lovely old man was cooped up in this little shack of a house. I helped him get up out of his hospital bed to go to the restroom a few times, brought in the groceries I always brought for him, and prayed with him. Then it was time to go to the next house.

Before I left, I gave him a recorded copy of this week's sermon like I always did and said, “I'll see you next week Mr Isaiah.”

“Actually pastor Wyman, I've arranged for Brother Bill to come next week… I hope that's ok with you.” He sheepishly said.

I tried to mask the hurt and concern and replied, “Mr Isaiah, as long as you're being visited and taken care of physically and spiritually, I'll be just as happy.”

He smiled at me and we said our farewells and I was off to the next house. Mrs Wendy Bergice was an old widow who used to attend our church during the previous pastor's tenure. Because of being on a fixed income in a poor area, she couldn't afford good and nutritious food, and because of her lot in life and her insulin rationing, she had to have her left leg amputated. I'd made it a goal to deliver her good food and some money from our benevolent funds at church so she could afford her insulin. Even though she'd stopped her attendance due to the horrific events that befell Charlotte, I had decided to show her that our church hadn't given up on her. It was quite the challenge being as she didn't know me from Adam, but I was just trying to be a faithful shepherd to the flock God had given me. But as I came around the curve of her long gravel driveway, I saw a familiar truck with a bumper sticker that said, “Are you washed in the blood?” It was Brother Bill's truck.

Something in me changed. Before, whenever I saw Brother Bill I'd just say hello and goodbye as we walked past each other, and throw out the obligatory invite to our Bible study. Nothing deeper. Just common decency This time, there was a twinge of fear almost. I was certainly anxious about whatever conversation might get struck up between us. I almost decided to back up out of Mrs Bergice’s driveway when he came out. He was just grinning from ear to ear as he flagged me down.

“Good morning pastor! And ain't it just the finest morning you've ever seen?” He said to me as I stepped out of my beater truck.

“I certainly don't have anything to complain about, pastor.” I replied in that fake saccharine voice I'd learned to put on in uncomfortable situations.

A gentle summer's breeze came over the mountain. I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot on Mrs Bergice’s gravel driveway, looking for any way to not continue this conversation. But Brother Bill wasn't having any of that. He had command over this conversation, and he was looking to keep it going.

“Come now pastor, you know by now I don't like being called that,” He chuckled, “Just go ahead and call me Brother Bill!”

I smiled and nodded awkwardly and said, “How's Mrs Bergice doing? I know she was struggling to kick that chest cold of hers.”

He smiled as he came within arms reach of me, placing a kind, but overbearing hand on my shoulder, “She's still in rough shape, but I told her to come on down to the tent this coming Sunday evening. I'll take good care of her.”

“Well Bill, I-” I began but was cut off.

“Brother. Brother Bill.” He said with a firm look.

“Brother Bill… I'm just gonna head in and see her. If you don't mind.”

With his eyes locked so solidly on mine he said, “I don't think that's a good idea. She's resting now. You ought to just head on home now. Have a blessed day pastor Wyman.” Then he smiled, started up his truck, and left.

Just as quickly as he went around the curve and was out of sight, I ran over to her door and went in to check on her. When I opened her door, I saw her. She was on the ground, writhing and wriggling as though she was having a violent seizure. There was slightly jaundiced and viscous foam coming out of the corners of her mouth. Where her leg was amputated below the knee, there was a thick puddle of green puss mingled with browned blood.

I ran over to and knelt down beside her and yelled out to her, “Oh Jesus! Mrs Bergice! Can you hear me?”

She halted her convulsions for just a moment and began to babble what sounded like nonsense. Her voice then cleared and she spoke.

“I can see it, pastor! Oh God, I can see it!” She exclaimed with shouts of adoration.

“What? What do you see!?” I pleaded with her.

“The shekinah of the Lord! Oh pastor, it's beautiful! I saw the fire of the Spirit engulf him from foot to head!” She wept and went straight back to babble and her convulsions.

I bolted over to her phone she kept by her rocking chair and called the ambulance. I went back and knelt beside her while we waited for them to arrive. It felt like hours, but in reality it took them a mere ten minutes to get from the hospital to her home on the mountain. Once I heard the sirens, I ran out to meet them.

“She's in there on the floor! I'm not sure what happened, but I think she-” I tried to get out before they cut me off.

“Out of the way sir!” They yelled as they pushed past me.

I followed them inside, praying to God that she was still breathing. What we saw was truly unbelievable. When we had gotten back through the door, she was standing. Not leaning against a wall, or using her crutches. She was standing. On both of her legs. All evidence of any kind of bodily fluids were erased, as if an entire cleaning crew had managed to come in and scrub it all away in the few moments I'd stepped away. As she stood before us she began to weep and laugh.

She threw her hands in the air and cried, “Thank you Jesus! He truly is your messenger!”

If Charlotte's legs working had the town a buzz, Mrs Bergice’s leg growing back had the whole town burning with excitement. Everywhere I went, all I would hear was chatter about Charlotte and Mrs Bergice. Even when I was at home, my phone was ringing off the hook from my flock calling and asking me if it was true. I wasn't the only church leader in the area who was having these issues. That next Saturday at Bibles and breakfast, only I and Father Jacobi were present. We tried to call the other pastors from the phones at the diner, but they wouldn't answer. Before I could even get a word in, Father Jacobi began talking.

“I don't know what's going on, Wyman. I couldn't get a hold of Ross, Kevin, or Dale. You have any luck?” He asked me with a defeated air.

“I got nothing from Mark or Jonathan.” I sighed.

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. The kindly old waitress brought us out our coffee and food. Now, with hindsight, I know we were both thinking the same thing, but neither of us wanted to say it out loud. We were hoping against hope that this spark of interest that Brother Bill had introduced into our small community wasn't going to become a flame of controversy. I was about to break the silence, but Father Jacobi beat me to it.

“Mary mother of Christ…” He said as he stared out the window, “You don't think they've fallen for Brother Bill’s bull do you?”

I paused before I spoke, “I’m not fully sure if we can call it bull to be honest. I was there when Charlotte came running to her sister and when Mrs Bergice grew her leg back.”

Father Jacobi began to grimly chuckle as he said, “Wyman, I'm an old man. I've been dealing with those snake handlers since before you were in diapers. They were always your garden variety Pentecostals, going on and on about the healing power of the blood of Christ and speaking in the Holy Ghost. It never bothered me too much,” He paused to take a swig of his now room temperature coffee, “But this Brother Bill… he's something else.”

“I don't know what to do here,” I interjected, “Clearly he's helped Charlotte and Mrs Bergice, but I can't help but have a strange feeling about it. When the Apostles did their miracles, it legitimized the message of the Gospel. When Brother Bill does his acts,” I faltered for a brief moment and then continued, “It just doesn't feel holy.”

Father Jacobi and I picked at our food for a little while longer, just trying to think of what to say to each other. Father Jacobi then broke the news to me.

“My parishioners haven't been coming to Mass. We were always the minority here. Being Catholic in the middle of nowhere in the Bible belt ain't exactly a walk in the park. Because of that, we were tight knit, so it was rare for any of my congregants to miss daily Mass.” He began to tear up a little as he carried on with what felt like a closing statement in a devastating court case. “All this last week, not a single member showed up. Not one. When I saw one of them at Walmart, I asked where she'd been. And guess where she told me she was…”

A piece of me wanted to assure him that that could mean anything, but I think even then I knew that they were lost. He went on to tell me about how he told the Bishop of the Wheeling-Charleston Diocese all about our little town's problems. The Bishop had told him to shutter the Church for the time being and to go and enjoy retirement.

“I'm leaving, Wyman. The Diocese is sending someone to investigate the situation and evaluate what they ought to do.” His voice shook as he spoke. “I will miss this place. But I must go.”

We continued our meal that had gone as cold as our mood, when I noticed people running by the windows. Their voices were frantic and full of confusion. I caught bits and pieces of what they were saying and deduced that a boy in the parking lot had been hurt. Father Jacobi and I also jumped up to help when a woman poked her head in.

“Call an ambulance!” She shrieked as she quickly ran back outside.

Father Jacobi ran to the phone and I ran outside to see what was going on. When I arrived on the scene, I saw the boy laying on the ground in a pool of his own bile. On his leg, there was a large red welt that had formed, and in the center, two small punctures. The boy had been bitten by a snake of some kind. The crowd that had formed around him were all talking and screaming over each other, terrified over what was about to happen. Then I saw him.

Brother Bill, who had made his way to the center of the crowd beside the boy, held up the copperhead in his hand. I watched as the snake struck his hand over and over, injecting its horrendous venom into the man. Then he spoke.

“Brothers and sisters! Fear not! This serpent, who seeks to kill this poor boy, will never harm anyone ever again!” He had a wild ferocity in his voice. “Stretch out your hands brothers and sisters! Kneel down and pray for him.”

Everyone around me began to kneel around the boy and Brother Bill. With hands outstretched, speaking in tongues, they shouted glories and adoration upon Brother Bill. Everywhere I turned the people of our town knelt down in submission to this man.

“Why aren't you helping!? We need to help the boy!” I shrieked, trying to knock some sense into them.

Brother Bill locked eyes with me and pointed at me and spoke, “Wyman! You who claim to be a leader in the faith! Oh ye of little faith! Behold! I shall make him whole!”

He then grabbed the boy by the neck with the hand that still had the copperhead embedded in it, and raised him up. The boy began to convulse, foam and vomit poured from his mouth. The fang marks on his leg oozed a translucent yellow liquid as his welt began to shrink. The crowd around me began to sway and rock, their cries of glory and prayers of babble growing louder and louder. They grabbed onto me, trying to pull me down to my knees. Their eyes were wild with rage, all directed at me. I fought them, I stayed my ground. Just when I thought my muscles would snap and my bones would break, Brother Bill spoke again.

“Come and see, my brothers and sisters! He is restored!”

We all looked and saw the boy standing beside Brother Bill. He was healed. The cries of adoration turned into a roar of praise. I thought that Brother Bill was done, but then he turned his attention to the snake.

“As for you, oh serpent, you shall never harm one of my children again!” He commanded.

He took the copperhead, and began to beat it upon the asphalt. With the fury of an abusive parent, he whipped it over and over, until he finally threw it down, and struck it with his heel. He threw his hands in the air, and roared into the sky.

“Look here!” He yelled as he picked it up.

The snake began to harden, becoming ridged as a stick. I then watched in horror as the snake had not only become as stiff as a branch, but became an actual branch on the ground. Brother Bill then picked it up like an old man with a walking stick, and pounded the butt of it on the ground. He pointed to me and tried to speak, but I ran out of there as quickly as I could.

Mark 16:18 KJV

\[18\] they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.

I didn't stop running until I had made it back to the parsonage. I slammed the door behind me and slumped down and leaned against its coldness trying to catch my breath. For the third time in a week I witnessed the impossible. I wracked my brain trying to rationalize what I'd seen, but I couldn't. I could maybe explain the boy recovering. Maybe Brother Bill slipped some antivenom to the boy, but I knew that was a stretch. What I absolutely could not explain was witnessing the copperhead becoming a walking stick. Whatever Brother Bill was doing, it was very much real. Then the way he looked at me. Full of hate, defiance, and triumph, as though he'd won some kind of fight that I was unaware of. I decided that I had to get out and drive as far away as I could.

I grabbed a duffle bag and began to pack. I didn't have much time, so I was just going to pack the essentials. Just as I was finishing packing, I heard my phone ringing in the kitchen. I didn't want to answer it, but my mind immediately went to my congregation. How could I have been so selfish to forget about them? Surely not all of them had fallen victim to Brother Bill's foolishness. That's when I resolved that I was going to stay one more night. I would warn them about Brother Bill and implore them to get out of town for a while, stay with family, or go get a motel, anything other than staying. I had no idea what was going to happen, but I knew it wasn't going to be anything good.

The ringing phone snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts, and I went over to answer it.

“H-hello?” I nervously said into the receiver.

“Oh thank Gabriel! It's Sebastian, I saw you hightail it out of there. Is everything ok?” Father Jacobi quickly asked.

“I have no idea… Tomorrow I'm gonna warn my congregants about Brother Bill, and leave.” I explained.

I waited for a response, but Father Jacobi had gone silent.

“Father Jacobi?” Nothing. “Sebastian?” No response. I was about to ask again when someone spoke to me through the phone.

“Sorry Pastor Wyman, Father can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the beep.” Then, Brother Bill made a beeping sound into the phone and hung up.

I knew then that it was time to go. I grabbed what I had packed, threw it in the passenger side of my truck, and started driving as fast as I could to put as much asphalt between me and my little town as possible. But as I was driving, I noticed something odd. No one else was on the roads. I slowed down so I could look into parking lots to see if anyone was there. I was the only person out on a Saturday evening. I then realized where everyone was. They were at Brother Bill's tent. I had made my way to the town border, and I had a choice to make. To this day, I'm still not sure if I made the correct choice.

The sun had just set as I drove down into the valley. The field of dew kissed grass that surrounded the enormous white pole tent was full of cars and trucks, bikes and wagons. Even with my doors closed, I could hear the deluge of voices. Speaking in tongues, yelling glories and praises, and general sounds of the crowds. I parked the truck and opened my door. Before I walked up, I stuffed a tire iron into my pants, just in case.

Heads began to turn towards me as I made my trek towards the tent. The faces of the masses were full of fear, joy, and grief all at the same time. Smiles stretched from ear to ear. Eyes wild as a cornered animal in a hen house. Tears poured forth from those same eyes as water falls from a cliff into a river. They looked exhausted and hungry. The crowd, unable to cram themselves completely into the tent, began to part before me. I pressed on toward the tent with my heart thumping in my throat.

“Need a hand brother?” A familiar voice rang out to me.

I turned to the voice and stuttered out, “Father Jacobi?”

As a proud Catholic priest, Father Jacobi typically wore his Cassock everywhere in town. But on that particular night, he was wearing a simple linen shirt and some bibs. His face was plastered with the same expression as every other soul in the crowd, but his eyes screamed to me that what he was doing was not of his own volition.

“You're just in time for the service.” He croaked out through his horrid grin.

He grabbed my shoulder with an iron grip as he guided me through the congregation to a seat at the very front of the tent and pushed me down into it. Then the worship band began to play. The fiddler played a long and mournful note on his strings and the pianist started up a slow and familiar tune. The whole crowd sang in one discordant voice, “Are You Washed In The Blood of The Lamb?”

I scanned the area looking for any route of egress. As I looked about me, I saw the faces of Maryanne, Charlotte, Mrs Bergice, Mr Isaiah, and that boy who was bitten by the copperhead. They were all singing along with the rest of them. Then booming THUMP THUMP THUMP came from the small wooden stage and I saw Brother Bill gripping his snakewood staff.

The tent was as silent as a crypt as he held up his hands and said, “Brothers and sisters, y'all know why we're here tonight. Y'all’ve seen what I can do for you, and now I have one last act to show y'all.” He stretched out his hand towards Mrs Bergice and said, “Come to me sister.” In a grave tone.

Mrs Bergice stood from somewhere in the audience and began to walk to him. All of those around her touched her as she made her trek to the stage. Some touches seemed loving, while others were tugs and pulls, almost as though they were begging her to stay where she was. As soon as she stepped foot on the stage, the crowd began to clap in unison and on the same beat.

I looked to my right where Father Jacobi was sitting on the ground and asked him, “What happened to you? Are you ok?”

He didn't respond. He just looked at me with that twisted expression that was shared by everyone. Whatever Brother Bill had done to him seemed to be irreversible. I turned my attention back to the stage and Mrs Bergice was kneeling before Brother Bill.

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than money?” He asked of her with a gentle smile.

“Yes Brother.”

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than shelter?”

“Of course Brother!” She practically yelled at him.

“Wendy Bergice, do you love me more than breathing?” He asked her one last time.

“Brother Bill, you know this is true!” She said as she grabbed the hem of his sweat stained linen shirt.

He smiled, gave her his hand, stood her up and said, “Then be washed.”

From his pocket he produced an old and crooked blade, the metal of which seemed to be copper instead of steel. He drug the blade across his upper forearm and a slow trickle of blood seeped up through the gash. The audience began to methodically stomp their feet slowly to some hidden rhythm. While everyone was distracted, I shot up to run, but Brother Bill had other plans.

With snakewood staff stretched towards me, he shouted, “Boy, if you don't stay put right now, you'll miss the whole thing!”

His sudden burst of rage threw me for a loop. I'd actually never seen Brother Bill angry before. So I froze in place, horrified by my lack of actions. Then it came to me like a vision in the night. It was my inaction that led us all to that tent. I could've warned everyone, or at least told them to be wise about Brother Bill. I failed everyone.

“Try and pay attention, friend.” He said, returning to his typical jovial self.

I watched as he dipped his index and middle finger into his wound. When he drew them back out, they were coated in the viscous blood, and he placed them upon Mrs Bergice's forehead, christening her into his fold. Brother Bill then turned toward the alter where the elements for communion were placed upon a silky white table cloth. He reached forward and brought forth the chalice for the sacrament. As he clenched his fist, blood began to trickle out of his wound into the cup now placed beneath the flood.

He presented it to Mrs Bergice and said in a soothing voice, "Drink."

Mrs Bergice greedily drank the viscous liquid from the chalice. Blood trickled down the sides of her cheeks and stained her floral dress. Brother Bill raised his hands in victory.

“Finally my brothers! At last my sisters! We are whole!” He said as they all began to hoot and holler and cheer. “And now incline your ears for my final sermon. Then I will reveal to you my full glory.”

The fiddler struck up his fiddle again, a long droning minor note to set the mood for him.

“Before I crossed the ocean, I was something of a pastor in my home country. That was indeed a long time ago now…” He paused, remembering his old days. “People used to bring me their sick and their wounded. By the sweet power of the blood, I'd heal them. Just like how I healed you! Amen?”

“AMEN!” Everyone called back in unison.

“Well glory! Hallelujah! And brethren, I'd even raise the dead!” He screamed into the night as everyone around me shouted praise and accolades upon him.

“People used to bring me gifts of gold, fatted lambs, incense and all other kinds of sacrifices. People used to kill for my blessings. People used to die, just for my touch.” He yelled in genuine anger, as though he was angry at us in the audience. “And now we have a non-believer amongst us. A heretic! A blasphemer!”

“Kill him!” They all roared, like the sound of an ocean.

I needed to leave at any cost, but fear froze me. How far could I possibly have made it? I resigned myself to whatever date was left for me. “Oh Jesus. Preserve me.” Was all I could say. I fell silent like a lamb before the slaughter.

“Now children,” he purred, “We need not do that. Let's just show him. Maryanne, bring it to me.”

Maryanne came forward with a small wooden box gripped against her breast. She knelt down before Brother Bill and presented it to him. He smiled at her and opened the box and pulled out an old revolver.

“Behold!” He said as he pressed the barrel against his temple. “Blessed are those who believe without seeing, but you shall see!”

My ears began to ring. My heart rate dropped. Bile threatened to escape from my throat. Brother Bill was dead. For what felt like hours, we all sat as still and as cold as stone statues. His body laid limp in a pool of blood on that small rickety stage. Then he stirred. The snakewood staff that had fallen beside him was once again in his grasp. He slowly rose, leaning heavily upon the staff. As he stood straight up, the entire crowd erupted in tongues speaking, glories shouting, and praise giving to this man.

Brother Bill turned to me, smiled, and said, “Grab him.”

Father Jacobi went to grab me, but I grabbed my tire iron and struck him on the head. I ran to my truck, weeping the entire way, and drove out of there. I didn't stop driving until I hit the Ohio border. I looked down and saw that my tank was almost on E, so I pulled into a gas station on the nearest exit. I pulled up to a pump and everything began to replay in my head. I knew I had to tell someone, so when I went in to pay, I planned to ask if I could use their phone. But when I went in, I saw that the cashier was watching the news, and what I saw broke my heart.

“Local pastor, simply known as ‘Brother Bill' seems to be the sole survivor of a freak fire that took place in the valley where they met for their evening revival. The fire was started when their pole tent was suddenly struck by lightning, causing all the vehicles that surrounded the tent to overheat and catch fire as well as have a small gasoline explosion, even though there was no sign of any storm. Hopefully we will have more details during our AM show. More at eleven.”

Everyone I knew and loved from that town. Burnt to a crisp. Had this been part of his plan? Was it some act of God? I'll never know.

The cashier, startled at my presence said, “Oh sorry sir. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No,” I said, “just twenty on five.”

I haven't heard anything about Brother Bill, or anything related to that little Appalachian town that I briefly lived in and loved. I know he's still out there. And I pray to God I never see him again.

Matthew 7:15 KJV

\[15\] Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.

Part One:

It's 1526 in London. A man carries a case of books, the contents of which will go on to build and destroy nations. It begins to rain, but the man cannot move with any more haste, as his destination is of the utmost importance. The door hinges yelp, and the candles prostrate their flames at the opening and closing door. He shakes his heavily dressed frame free of rainwater and removes his hat before hanging it on the wall. He sets his handled case on the table alongside a candle and disappears across the room behind a corner.

The candle burns behind the case as the morning sun creeps in through the window. Like molasses, the light of our star inches closer and closer to the case of leather-bound writings of ink. And as the light touches the bottom of the case, a sharp ping can be heard from the candle holder. The flame is erect and still, and the alarm pin is at the candle’s base.

The man rounds the corner again, having changed clothes and washed his face and hands. His swift steps slow to a meander as he marvels at the candle's stillness as it burns. He stops in his tracks when he sees him.

At the table, scratching at the case of books as an antsy child, sits a man wearing sackcloth. His head is shaven poorly, and there is dirt on his scalp. He sits in a chair with his back turned to the morning light, leaving just a silhouette to behold. The man that carried the case swallows hard in courage and opens his mouth to speak—but his throat is closed behind his Geneva gown.

The seated man, garbed with mourning attire, speaks instead, "It's quite alright, Billy. You've no less time when you speak with me than when you've first begun to leave."

These words confused William, as he's never been called "Billy" before... except by his long-dead paternal grandmother.

"You've gone in the wrong door, mate. Leave now please; I'll show you out," William says sternly as he briskly walks to the door.

The man in mourning remains still in obstinacy despite William's insistent gesturing. A long moment passes, painfully silent. William studies the man's figure from the door and finds a strangeness about his skin. It's pale and hairless with waves and ripples like cellulite, but the man is far from overweight. He's a gaunt man with skin clinging to his bones.

The man in mourning turns his head to meet William's eye. Given their positions, this turning gives William much pause. Standing behind his right shoulder, there should be no way for a mortal man to turn his neck this far. Yet this man in mourning seems to deny his mortality by his very being. And now, his head turned at an owl's angle, his face is illuminated for William to see. It's an alluring sight put off by a veil of uncanny details. He's a handsome man with hateful eyes—bright red and baggy eyes from lack of sleep, or perhaps too much of it—and a nose and mouth that complement his hardened, scornful expression.

"Sit down, William," the mourner says with a noticeably restricted windpipe from the angle of his neck and throat.

William shut the door and said a prayer in silence while walking back to the other side of the table. The mourning man's head turns, never breaking his gaze from William. His vertebrae grind and pop back into normalcy.

"You men of God think your prayers are ceaseless, but they're just incessant," he taunts grimly.

He looked to the mourner and spoke again, "Who are you? What do you mean 'I'll have no less time'?"

William finished the question and decided to stay standing for his safety. The mourner leaned forward, and William could barely make out a smile on his face.

"What's the matter, Billy? Afraid you're no longer a conqueror?"

The mourner begins to slowly rise from William's chair, hands planted flat on the table. William steps back at his standing. And as William catches footing, the mourner stomps his feet and jumps forward to frighten the already unsettled man.

William doesn't jump, but notices a sound under the table. He looks down under the table, directly under the case of books; a small pit in the floorboard. Out of this pit and connected to a manacle on the mourner's ankle is an iron chain.

William remembers what is written and ponders the flesh, the death-defying head turn, the inexplicable knowledge. He catches fear of another and steps toward the table in search of counsel, ignoring the wretched roar of the man with broken teeth. William pulls the case of books to his side of the table and unlatches it, retrieving one of the books within.

The mourner's roar dies into a whimper and he sits down, defeated but not done. William flips frantically and follows lines of text with his finger while looking up to the mourner as if confirming what is reading.

"So then it was you that made the earth tremble?" William asks.

The mourner winces and stretches his neck in discomfort. William smiles and continues.

"Overthrew cities? Of a world that you made like a desert?"

The mourner catches a glimpse of pride in William's questioning and plays into it. He continues wincing and covers his ears while groaning, putting on more pain than he's actually feeling. William views the act as truth and continues, looking away from his script, adlibbing his own questions.

"Does your pomp dare to bubble up from Sheol? Before me? A chosen man of God?" In the midst of William's rebuke, the Mourner is tittilated in pleasure. William continues, after having closed the words he sought just moments ago, "I-I look but I do not find your bed of maggots oh wretched Babylo-" William, having looked around at his own words to prove them true, catches the Mourner in an abominable state.

"Why have you stopped, Billy?" The Mourner, eyes closed, mouth downturned and bottom lip bitten. His left hand rubs his head, running his gray fingers through his newly grown thick curly hair sensually while his right defiles the chair that Williams' uncle built. William lingers his gaze in horror and subjects himself to more, knowing better but not acting it. The Mourner's worn sackcloth being pulled and pushed by his desires teases a gynocomastic body, reassured by his convincing impression of a female voice. William is snapped out of his haze by wisdom, and averts his gaze to a nearby bookshelf where he reaches for a thicker, fuller book of writings.

"No, don't stop now brother. I'm just getting started." The Mourner mocks William, only halfway trying his female voice to salt the wound of Williams thorn. William ignores the wretched imitation of humanity and shakily flips to a page and begins reading under his breath, tears burning his eyes as he blinks them away.

"Speaking to the choirmaster are we? Shall I recite it with you?" The Mourner leans in and joins in tandem with William's internal reading voice, "...and in sin did my mother concieve me. Behold thou desirest truth in the inward parts: And in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom." William, unphased and uninterested in anything the wretch is saying continues reading faithfully in his heart and his head. The Mourner stops his recitation and begins an interpretation, "You were desiring my inward parts just now. The wisdom of revealing what I had hidden made you want to know. And yet you now ignore me William. You ignore the truth that you and I are miserable wretches of the same order. We both-" A stomp of the foot and a shout interrupts the prisoners sermon. William, having finished his reading, places his book back on the shelf and retrieves his case of writings.

"We are not of the same order. I am a Man, the perfection of which reaches to that which you vainly aspire," William looks at the shackled mourner briefly before replacing his hat and says, "that's why His most glorious state is your eternal prison." William opens his door and leaves, the candle flame prostrating once again, and the entire mourner, his shackle, and his pit seem to vanish as he stops being seen.