by Dan Edmund
Chapter 32 - The Slayer and the Slain
I awoke to the sound of voices. So, this was it, the day when the murderer would meet up with his victim in the afterlife. My earnest supplication to God last night had indeed allowed me to sleep peaceably, but today was another day. I again felt the pangs of distress, and once more resorted to the power of prayer. My nerves steadied; I was ready to face the day. But only just.
After breakfast, George and I dressed into our special thermal garb, then went out into the inhospitable beyond, stomping through the snow up the steep track that led towards the jagged, barren pinnacle of Eleos. It would have been bitterly cold had it not been for our protective clothing, and our incredibly resilient bodies. There was already a strong gust of wind on the mountain, but by midday, the wind was howling, and together with the ever-increasing snow, it felt as if we were in the middle of a blizzard. Together with the rugged, rocky outlines covered in snow, the occasional stunted or dead tree, and the white mist surrounding us, the whole environment seemed to me like a frozen hell. I simply could not believe it. How could such a world exist in Paradise!
I began to loathe Ron Bristol once again, not just for the bullet in my heart, but also for being forced to come to such a miserable world as this. I tried to focus on the good and the beautiful that I had always encountered since my life here in Paradise. Yet, as hard as I tried, I simply could not; this bleak and dismal environment was just too strong. It seemed to reek of evil, as if some diabolical force was behind it all. I had to fight this feeling; I could not let my imagination and anger get the better of me. However, I failed. The emotions were simply too strong. I once again saw his menacing eyes, heard his taunting voice, and felt his vice-like grip around my collar and throat.
"David! Come on, man, what's the matter with you?" George bellowed above the howling wind.
"What...what did you say?" I meekly asked.
"Hey! I've been calling out to you, but you just ignored me, as if you're in some sort of trance or something."
"I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. It's this place. It does something to the mind."
George held me by the hand. "Just take it easy, okay. It seems we're soon going to reach the top. Just hang on. There's nothing to worry about."
Then I saw it, something that made absolutely no sense at all up here in this hellish mountain. In front of us stood a ramshackle shack, the type, I imagined, was seen in the South during the Great Depression. Many of the timber boards along the walls and the floorboards of the porch were loose, the windowpanes cracked and dirty. From the dilapidated chimney, wisps of white smoke could be seen.
"Remember, just stay cool!" George again reminded me.
My heart was racing; I felt anything but cool. I again petitioned God for help. Miraculously, another wave of calmness swept over me. We then sloshed several more yards in the snow when, just as we were about to step onto the front porch, George said, "I think it might be best if you just wait here for a moment."
He then gingerly stepped onto the rickety porch and called out: "Ron! Ron! Are you there? We're here to help!"
No reply.
He gave two quick raps on the door. "Hey, Ron, it's okay. We're only here to help you get away from this place."
Still no reply.
George gingerly turned the handle and opened the door. He stepped inside and turned towards me, waving me to follow. I had another quick prayer and then approached the porch and entered into the house. Instantly, a cold chill ran down the back of my spine. It felt as if I had just entered into a house of horrors, haunted by the vilest ghosts and demons imaginable. Apart from the faint but bizarre reddish hue, it was dark and gloomy inside. Worse still, it absolutely reeked with a queer pungent odor that almost made me vomit. My immediate reaction was to flee; but an inner strength within gave me the courage to stay. It took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust, and then I saw him, wrapped in a blanket, and huddled next to a smoldering fire. His back was towards us, but he made no effort to turn around.
"Ron, it's me, Big George! Remember me? I used to be from your neighborhood." George took a few steps towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Ron, look at me. I'm here to help you," he said softly.
Ever so slowly, he raised his head and turned towards us. My heart thumped like a sledgehammer, yet when I saw his face, he no longer looked like the menacing monster I had remembered, just a scared, pathetic looking kid. All the fear and anger melted away. Incredibly, I felt only compassion now.
George crouched towards him, opening his arms as if awaiting an embrace. However, Ron remained as motionless as a statue. By his glazed look in his eyes, it appeared as if all the life had gone out of him. George touched him gently on the shoulder. "Ron, do you remember me? We came from the same neighborhood. I was kinda older than you, but I knew your momma."
The word 'momma' must have triggered something deep within him. I saw Ron's eyes move, and then slowly his head turned towards us. George drew nearer and started talking to him as if he had been a baby, trying to break through the almost impenetrable barrier of his demented mind. "Listen to me, Ron, and try to understand. You died, but you're alive again. There's a much better world waiting for you, but you got to do your part. Do ya understand?"
Again, there was no response.
"Ron, listen to me." George now raised his voice ever so slightly. "You shot a guy, and just a little later you got shot. You then died, but you're now alive! Do you understand?"
Ron violently shook his head. "No!" he bellowed like a wounded animal, yet George never flinched an inch.
"Yes, it's true. Try to understand."
Silence.
George pointed towards me. "Here, look at this man!"
"No!"
"Look at him!" Then with all the brute force of a lion, George physically turned his head in my direction. "See this guy here, this is the one you shot!"
He violently shook his head. "No!"
"Yes, it's him! You shot him, but like you, he's alive, alive like you! Do you hear me?"
He again violently shook his head and bellowed a string of profanities. The calmness I had so recently felt suddenly deserted me. I was again in a state of shock.
George faced me, then told me to try to reach out to him. However, I just stood there and stared. "Come on, David, try to reach out to him. Show him that you're alive, and that you're willing to forgive him."
I nodded, then stretched out my arm towards him, although not daring to actually touch him. "It's me, Da...David," I stammered. I continued to stretch out my hand, but Ron remained motionless. Then, for a brief moment, he looked up at me, his eyes betraying a sign of recognition.
I heard George's voice, as if in a distance, pleading, "Come on, Ron, take it! Reach out to him."
However, he made no move towards me. In fact, he looked away and then continued to stare lifelessly into the dying embers of the fire. It was only then that I realized how bitterly cold it was in here, and that the kid's only protection being a tiny ramshackle shack, a pitiable little fire, some rags for clothing, and a moth-eaten blanket.
"Ron! Ron!" George vainly pleaded several times. Finally, the giant lost his temper and roared: "Darn it, Bristol! Do you want to spend all eternity in this hellhole?"
It had the desired effect. Ron violently shook his head. "No!" he bellowed so loud that even George recoiled. Ron then convulsed uncontrollably, "No! No! Get away from me! Get away from me!" he shrieked. He sprang to his feet and held his hands in front of him, as if shielding himself from some invisible predator.
"What's happening to him?" I yelled.
"I don't know. He looks like he's hallucinating. Maybe something to do with him being a drug addict, perhaps the crack. But whatever it is, let's pray for help."
We did, and again the effect was instantaneous. Ron's spasms and yells stopped as if he had been injected with massive doses of Valium. Pitifully, he gazed towards us. "Help me!" he pleaded. It was only then that a scene flashed before my eyes, where
I saw a young child and a big man standing next to him, a bottle of beer in one hand and a big leather strap in the other. He started swinging it, repeatedly hitting the child across his face. I then saw a frenzied woman trying to hold onto the man's arm, only to be flung to the ground. Suddenly, all my inhibitions left me. I again reached out my hand and lightly touched his shoulder. "It's all right, Ron, it's all right," I soothed.
The next instant, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the ghostly appearance of a man. I turned my head and recognized that it was the one we knew as the Apostle John. He seemed to be smiling.
"Well done, my friend," I heard him telepathically say.
Then, once again, he vanished. Having had his back towards him, I knew George had not seen him. But I did. Intuitively, I also knew that this was not just a victory for Ron, but also for me, a first step along the long spiritual road to perfection, a road whose final destination was still beyond my wildest comprehension.
