Prophet

by Mark J Rose

  “Screw it,” Matt said aloud as he stood up to get ready for work.

  **********

  Matt spent a couple of hours setting up a new aspirin synthesis and then wandered over to a large storefront on Market Street that advertised “Fighting and Swordplay.” An uneasy feeling washed over him as he stepped onto the porch and reached for the door. A dream had warned him about this place, but there was also something pulling him forward. He expected to find both adversaries and friends here.

  Matt calmed himself and pushed the door open. He had seen this place before in a vision. There were about a dozen men inside working at various stations. Two were circling each other with wooden swords and others were wrestling in a large ring on a worn leather mat. Off in a corner, he saw a man with practically no neck, built like a bull, repeatedly lifting a crude iron block over his head. Another man beside the ring looked up and yelled from across the room, “Good day, sir!”

  “I’m interested in fighting,” Matt yelled back. He stood there for a moment waiting for a reply, but none came, so he stepped closer and said loudly, “Can you tell me where the owner is?”

  “I’m the owner,” the man said. He bowed. “At your service.”

  “Can you tell me what you teach?” Matt asked. The room went quiet. He saw the stranger right before he tried to sweep Matt’s feet out from under him. What the? Matt hopped to avoid the sweeping legs and stepped back and away. He swore at himself for letting his guard down; he had known something was amiss as soon as he stepped onto the porch. The stranger spun again, this time toppling him to the ground, and Matt found himself in a headlock that was choking him to death. Matt could only struggle and gasp for air.

  The owner now stood over him. “Let him go, Seamus,” he said. Seamus loosened his arms and it was enough for Matt to force them from his body. Matt popped immediately to his feet, backed away from both men, and put his hands up.

  “It’s all right, lad,” the owner said, motioning. “No permanent damage.” Matt looked around, confused, as the motion and noise in the gym resumed like nothing had happened. “No permanent damage, right?” the owner repeated. “I’m Solomon McCalla and this is my brother Seamus.” Solomon shook his hand. “You’ve had training.”

  Now Seamus approached with his hand extended. Matt adjusted his body to keep both opponents in his line of sight and stepped back again to emphasize that both should keep their distance.

  “Nothing personal,” Seamus said, putting his hands up. “It’s either me or my brother makes first contact.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Matt reached his hand out cautiously and shook Seamus’s hand.

  “Seamus could’ve killed you,” Solomon said. “You didn’t see the threat when you entered?”

  “I felt it on the porch,” Matt replied indignantly, “and chose to ignore it.”

  Solomon considered this for a moment, then gave an “oh well” gesture and said, “Next time, pay attention to your instinct.” He spent a moment looking Matt up and down while Matt held the casual defensive stance his Korean master taught him for when he was unsure whether he was facing a friend or foe.

  “It must have been embarrassing to let Seamus get the better of you.”

  “I know how to fight,” Matt replied.

  “Show me, then,” Solomon said as he stepped back.

  Matt nodded and scanned the room. He settled on a leather bag hanging from a wooden beam. He walked purposefully to the bag and spun his body into a sidekick that tore the bag from its hinges. Next, he moved around toward a slatted wooden divider that separated two areas of the gym and drove his fist through one of the inch-thick slats. One piece of the broken slat was pulled from the wall and went crashing to the ground while the other remained swinging like a pendulum on a single nail. Matt turned back toward Seamus, stepping into a spinning roundhouse kick. He stopped his foot inches from the man’s head. Seamus already had his hand up and was laughing. Matt lowered his leg slowly to emphasize his physical control.

  “He’s a dancer, like in the theater,” Seamus said, glancing knowingly at Solomon.

  Irritated, Solomon focused on the leather bag and boards lying on the floor. “You’ve defended yourself against my building.”

  “Dancer in the theater?” Matt said, looking at Seamus.

  Seamus gave him a good-humored smile. It was the grin of a man who wasn’t afraid of anything.

  “I fought the toughest man in Richmond,” Matt said.

  “Then why come here?” Solomon asked.

  “He’s an ox,” Matt explained. “He wants me dead.”

  “How do you know he wants you dead?”

  “He hired men to kill me.”

  “Richmond is far away,” Seamus said. “Why not avoid this man?”

  “I’m betrothed to a woman there.”

  “Is there money between you and this man, or maybe this lady you will marry?”

  “The man’s family and the woman’s compete for the same business,” Matt admitted. “He’d hoped to marry her.”

  “Seems he has many reasons to kill you,” Solomon said, laughing heartily.

  “I won’t be able to avoid the fight.”

  Solomon motioned for Matt to follow him. Matt checked first to make sure Seamus was keeping his distance. Seamus gave him a satisfied smile when their eyes met. “At your service,” he said, bowing slightly, and then peeled away to help two men who were wrestling on the other side of the gym. Matt followed Solomon into a back room and sat down.

  “You’re sitting with your back to the door,” Solomon said. “How do you know Seamus won’t return to hit you on your head?”

  I would have felt it from my dreams. Matt looked over his shoulder into the gym, then shifted his chair to the side.

  “Always on guard,” Solomon explained. “They’ll not dress in fighters’ costumes or wave flags before they stick a knife in your belly.”

  “I refuse to live in fear that someone is always about to attack me, though.”

  “Do you wear shoes?”

  “Yes,” Matt admitted reluctantly. The man’s line of logic was already clear.

  “Do you live in fear of stepping on a stone?”

  “No.”

  “And so it should be as you walk among men. You’ve skills, but you don’t wear them.”

  “Are you going to teach me or not?”

  **********

  Matt started at the McCallas’ gym the next afternoon. When he arrived, he was waved over by Seamus to an elevated boxing ring.

  “You’ve returned?” Seamus said jokingly. Matt thought of one or two snide remarks, but he chose to remain silent, thinking that Seamus would have no qualms about teaching him a painful lesson. Seamus waved to another man, pointed at Matt, then walked to a shelf and pulled down a leather helmet and body armor. He transferred them to Matt’s outstretched arms. “Put it on,” he said, “and then you’re up.” Seamus tilted his head at the boxing ring.

  Matt struggled with the equipment until Seamus got impatient enough to step down and help him fit the chest protector and lace the gloves and helmet. Seamus then led him into the ring and called over another man, who had been punching a bag with padded hands. The man was about half a head shorter than Matt. His gloves didn’t look nearly padded enough to Matt.

  “William is the best fist-fighter we have,” Seamus said. “Nothing better in close quarters than fists.” Seamus pulled William to the side to talk and then pointed him to the center of the ring. “Punches above the waist,” Seamus said to Matt. “No kicking or dancing.”

  Matt acknowledged him with a simple nod, again struggling against the urge to answer with a smart remark. Seamus signaled them to begin. Matt faced William, put his hands up, and adopted a traditional upright tae kwon do stance. It was much like a boxer’s stance and gave no hint that it would let Matt strike with his legs. He held the pose as he slowly circled his opponent while William turned to follow him in his orbit.

  “You ever going to
hit each other?” Seamus jeered.

  Matt ignored Seamus as he circled the shorter man, then snapped his right hand into William’s face. To Matt’s surprise, William’s head disappeared halfway through the motion and Matt’s hand collided with air. Matt followed immediately with a left to the man’s body but missed again. William had dodged his punches with uncanny speed. On Matt’s third attempt, William sidestepped the punch and countered hard into Matt’s face. Matt felt the familiar scrambling in his head, but he shook off the blow. He saw Seamus motion to William to ease up. Easing up consisted of Matt being hit ten more times over the next five minutes. Matt was breathing hard and sparks were firing indiscriminately in his head, mildly disrupting his vision.

  “Enough!” Seamus shouted. Both men stopped. “Fine job, William.”

  William reached out and patted Matt on the shoulder before he left the ring. Matt hadn’t landed one punch.

  Still trying to catch his breath, Matt said, “I’ve never seen anyone react so quickly.”

  Seamus laughed. “You were announcing your punches before you threw them. Punch me in the face.”

  “You don’t have any equipment.”

  “You won’t be able to hit me.”

  Matt was indignant. He had a black belt and these men were acting like it was nothing. He stepped up to Seamus with every intention of knocking him out. Matt knew after he threw his first punch that he would have to wait for another day to put him to sleep. He couldn’t connect.

  “Frustrated?” Seamus asked. He reached out and slapped Matt on the face.

  Matt countered, but he missed again.

  “Give up?”

  “I don’t ever give up.”

  Seamus smiled. “There’s hope, then.”

  Matt still had his hands up. “Are you going to tell me what I’m doing?”

  Seamus gave him a sly smile. “Build your strength.” He pointed to the bag Matt had kicked off the wall, which had been repaired. “Five hundred hard punches into that bag and then you can go.”

  Seamus walked away leaving Matt frustrated. His head was hinting at a migraine, but the flashes had stopped. He made it through two weeks of fighting before he was hit hard enough to go completely blind.

  36

  Second Sight

  The building Jacob selected as their second location was almost new construction. It was originally built as a tobacco warehouse and retail store, but the owner took on debt during a downturn in the market and sold the building as an alternative to debtors’ prison. It had been empty since, but still had a rich and pleasant smell of tobacco mixed with fresh lumber, like a humidor filled with fine cigars. Matt was immediately drawn to the building since the smell reminded him of harvesting tobacco on the Taylor farm. The building had a central location on Market Street, the main Philadelphia thoroughfare, which almost guaranteed high foot traffic. The owner stood on the porch while Matt and Jacob wandered through the structure.

  “It’s almost too big,” Matt said quietly.

  “We could triple our sales.”

  “The rent’s high.”

  “We should buy it,” Jacob said. “It’s been sitting idle for months.”

  “Grace Apothecary doesn’t make enough. I don’t want to stick my neck out for something like this.”

  Jacob answered him with a look that was somewhere between irritated and befuddled. “Of course we make enough.”

  “We can buy it once we’re sure,” Matt said.

  “Mr. Pollock deals with my father. He’ll watch our business grow and then have no scruples charging a higher price.”

  “You’re that confident?”

  “Business has increased every week. We’ll be adding items that are guaranteed to sell.”

  Matt shook his head. “You can’t predict.”

  “My father owns the Atlantic Trading Company,” Jacob said. “I know what’ll sell.”

  Matt inspected Jacob’s face for some indication that he was joking. Matt had often speculated about Jacob’s background but had avoided asking serious questions. Based on Jacob’s short and uncomfortable descriptions of his father, Matt was under the impression that Jacob’s family was either very poor or somehow abusive. Now Jacob’s involvement in Grace Apothecary made even less sense. Matt exclaimed, “Why are you and your brother working for me?”

  “We need to do it on our own,” Jacob replied.

  Matt waited for more of an explanation, but Jacob had already returned to examining a wooden counter that could serve as a natural divider for items displayed in the front and those stored in the back. “My father’s store is nearly this large,” Jacob said. He raised both his arms to point at the front and back rooms of the tobacco warehouse. “He does one hundred twenty pounds per week and doesn’t have the headache tablets, toothpaste, and whatever else you’ll invent.”

  “I’d think if you wanted to prove something, you’d start your own business,” Matt said. “What keeps me from buying this building and you deciding to leave?”

  “Even my father started in a partnership.”

  “There’s no partnership. You work for me.”

  “I wanted to speak about that.”

  “We just wrote a contract,” Matt said, incredulous.

  “This building changes that.”

  Matt was trying his hardest to keep an open mind. Jacob had increased profits substantially, and he paid attention to the kinds of details that bored Matt to tears.

  “We split profits from the store by half,” Jacob explained. “We agree on some fair value for Grace Apothecary and I pay you until I own half.”

  “Half?” Matt said. He was thinking aloud rather than questioning the fairness of the deal. “You’ll have to start paying half on this building too if we buy it.”

  “I can pay over time.”

  “Headache tablets are off the table.”

  “Why should they be singular?” Jacob said, surprised.

  “My invention. I’ll sell them to Grace Apothecary at a discount. It’s a business within the business.”

  “I expected half the profit on the headache tablets,” Jacob exclaimed.

  “At some point I’m moving out of town, and I’m taking the tablet manufacturing with me.”

  “Then everyone will be selling them,” Jacob said, distraught.

  “We can negotiate a discount and maybe some exclusive rights, but that’s it.”

  “I want this in writing.”

  “You’re demanding a lot, considering it’s still my business,” Matt said, smiling.

  Jacob ignored him. “We should decide on the building today.”

  “I’m not ready to take the risk on buying the building,” Matt declared.

  “Do you have enough money?”

  Matt glared at the young man long and hard, waiting for him to flinch, but only saw confidence and resolve. “Fine,” he finally said, against every careful bone in his body. “I have someone who could probably lend it to us.”

  After some haggling with Pollock, they reached an agreement and Matt gave him a deposit. Matt was soon in a carriage, business records in hand, on his way to speak to Phillip Ricken.

  **********

  Matt searched for a glimpse of Isabelle as they walked through the long hall that led to the back of the Ricken mansion. He smiled when he thought of her since she was hard evidence of a real contribution he had made to the world. He considered saving Isabelle’s life one of the pivotal experiences of his own life, not only because of the great satisfaction it gave him, but also for the series of strange coincidences that had aligned him with seemingly random people and events. It fed his need to believe that there was a plan for the world and that he had some role to play. Quite simply, saving Isabelle was one more piece of anecdotal evidence to support his very scientific hypothesis that God was real.

  Matt’s musings about his place in God’s plan were interrupted as he was shown into Phillip Ricken’s office. It was a grand room, adorned in shades of light grey and h
ung with tapestries. Eight panes of glass filled a large window that overlooked a lush green garden of trees, flowers, and well-trimmed hedges that surrounded a series of connected marble fountains. The evolution of Matt’s psyche had made him less impressed with the trappings of wealth, but the view from Ricken’s office filled him with envy. He imagined it was a great place to sit and think.

  Ricken stood as Matt entered the room, walked around his desk, and met him with an outstretched hand. “How can I be of service, Mr. Miller?”

  “I need a business loan,” Matt replied. A twinge of fear went up his spine. He felt like he had stepped off a cliff and was falling into a financial abyss.

  “Let’s see what you have,” Ricken said simply. He motioned for Matt to sit while he moved back to his chair behind the large Victorian-looking desk. He held his hand out to accept the folder of documents.

  Ricken nodded a lot and didn’t say much as Matt explained his need for a new building. He inspected Matt’s balance sheet, and after some time he said, “I’ll have my man draw up the papers by the end of the week. He’ll pay the sum to Pollock directly, and the building will serve as collateral for your loan. You agree to pay one third of the cost of the building in advance, and we’ll furnish the remainder. Not making the agreed payments constitutes a default and the property would revert entirely to my ownership after three months of nonpayment.”

  Matt walked fearlessly out of the mansion when the deal was complete, and he managed to resist the urge to pump his fist into the air until his carriage cleared the driveway.

  **********

  Jacob was with a customer and had two others waiting when Matt walked through the door. “We got the money,” Matt announced. Jacob smiled happily, then returned to his customers. Matt went into the back and spent two hours finishing up a large batch of aspirin. He’d had trouble drying all the batches recently because of their size and was already thinking about how the process could be improved in order to deal with the high yields he was producing. Even with the expected sales growth, he figured he had almost a six-month supply of aspirin for headache tablets. He’d need to get more package inserts printed.