Immediately an intense heat filled the room, the smell of sulfur filled his nose, and a low buzz started directly in front of him. It changed to a guttural snarl almost too faint to hear before it abruptly stopped.
The fear in the room became physical, pounding him, intent on grinding him into the carpet. But it wasn’t carpet anymore. He stood on a floor of massive flat stones, ice cold, that reached out with tentacles of pain, piercing, winding their way into the soles of his feet.
Micah’s tongue was thick as he spoke again. “Jesus is Lord. His cross is between us. I bind you by His power. His authority. Given to me by Him and His Father, the host of angel armies.”
The snarl returned, louder, longer this time before it again snapped off.
A razor-thin beam of light passed in front of Micah like a windshield wiper across a dirty window. In that flash a silhouette materialized like a black panther emerging from the dead of night.
Utter evil.
The light grew.
He saw the outline of a chair, black wrought-iron with ornate carvings on it.
In it sat the demon, a pinprick circle of black in the center of its pure white, unblinking, dead eyes—its ashen gray lips turned up ever so slightly in a sneer of confidence.
Its face was stunning.
Beautiful.
And horrific.
Chiseled cheekbones and thick, pitch-black hair swept straight back from a perfect forehead, above a perfect nose.
Its skin was a pallid gray, lips a shade darker, eyebrows matching the midnight tone of his hair. Its grotesque beauty stirred something inside Micah—drew him.
Revolting.
Captivating.
“Jesus,” Micah whispered. As the word came out of his mouth, an intricate series of thin, black scars started at the demon’s hairline and spiraled down its cheeks, down over his perfect chin, twisting and circling along his throat till they disappeared into a black, skin-tight long-sleeved gauze shirt.
A second later the scars vanished.
Its rancid eyes flitted around the room as if its gaze could stop the darkness from lifting, then settled back on Micah.
Micah couldn’t move. The reality of a demon sitting only ten feet away paralyzed him. His mind froze, and blood pulsed in his head as the demon’s thoughts echoed in his head.
Death.
Excruciating pain.
“Lord, help,” Micah whispered.
A flicker of peace. Only a flicker.
“I will destroy you for presuming to challenge me, Micah Taylor.” The demon drew the words out, then licked his perfect lips with a black tongue. “To throw that name at me like a weapon? No mercy now. No mercy.” The demon sat back in its chair, and although its mouth didn’t move, a shriek rang in Micah’s mind, and his stomach felt like it was being torn by a jagged blade.
Micah cried out in pain.
“That is nothing compared to what is coming.” The demon crossed its legs.
“Jesus. I need You here. I need help.”
The peace increased, as did the demon’s attack.
“I will crush you. Destroy you and everything and everyone you hold dear.” The demon spoke each word slowly, quietly with a guttural voice, supremely confident. “Annihilation is your destiny now.”
Each word pressed into Micah’s chest and tunneled into his heart.
“Your supposed king will not, cannot, help you. You have built a fortress for me stone by stone that I will not leave. Ever. You have made agreements giving me the right to your very life. But I will give you one chance for survival. Surrender to me now and live. Give up your pretend religion, and I will show you true might, true power, true dreams.”
The demon breathed through its teeth, then silence. When it spoke again, its voice was honey. “Who do you think brought you your fame? Your fortune? The favor of the world? And what do you have now by following this pretend king? You said it yourself, not less than a day ago. Nothing. But surrender now, and I can bring it all back. All of it. You have my word.”
Micah’s mind flooded with images of the power and money he’d had and of the people who clamored for him. A life part of him longed for again.
“I can feel it. You want those things to return. Why wouldn’t you? You’ve not forgotten your dreams. You’ve tried to bury them, but they remain. Return to them. The tangible ones. Not some fairy tale, romantic religious fantasy hollow down to the core. And that’s not all. Far, far from it.” Its voice, so smooth, like water in a summer pond easing down into a stream, drew him in. “I can even bring back Sarah.”
Micah gasped.
“Yes. Yes. You’ll be with her again. All your times together back in her memory. It can be done in an instant. Just surrender. Sweet surrender.”
Could it be true? Could the demon make it happen?
“Yes, Micah. I can make it happen. Instantly. Surrender to me.”
He pictured her running up to him, burying herself in his arms. Yes. He needed her. With her back—
“No! You lie. Not even Sarah is worth turning my back on my King. Get out of my head.”
“So be it.”
Instantly Micah’s lungs felt like they were being squeezed in a vise. Tighter. Tighter. He couldn’t breathe. Stars swam in his eyes and his throat constricted. Laughter played at the corners of the demon’s mouth. In seconds Micah would black out.
“Yes, my dear friend. You are about to die.”
“Jesus, help me,” he rasped with the last of his air.
Immediately the pressure on his lungs and throat vanished, and the demon’s gaze shifted to something behind Micah. Recognition flickered in its eyes, and the quiet, penetrating cadence it had been using changed to a snarl.
“What right do you have to come here now?” the demon spat out.
Micah turned. Rick stood in the doorway, his face unmoving, as if carved from marble. He said nothing in response but stepped forward till he stood beside Micah. Rick stared at the demon and fear flashed across its face.
“Turn now, Micah Taylor, or the destruction promised will fall on you.”
“I’m scared, Rick.”
“Look at its wrists,” Rick answered softly.
Micah looked at the demon’s wrists lying on the armrests. Two white cords, thick and rough, cut into its skin. The demon strained against them, but there wasn’t the slightest flexibility.
“You know you did that, don’t you?” Rick said.
Micah stared at the demon’s wrists and then back at Rick. The realization staggered him. He had done it, through his words, through Christ’s power in him.
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood. . . . The weapons of our warfare are powerful, for the pulling down of strongholds, of principalities, and demonic forces in high places,” Micah said.
“Yes,” Rick said.
Even in the midst of the revelation of what he had done, fear swirled, searching for a crack. For a way into his heart.
“One last chance before you die,” seethed the demon.
“How do we get rid of it?”
“Send it to Jesus,” Rick said without emotion.
“No. You will not. Not there.” The demon tried to steady its quavering voice. “Listen to me, Micah. We can go to heights you’ve only imagined. Will you throw it away for nothing?” It screamed; its back arched, straining to be free of the chair.
“Don’t answer him, just send it.”
The demon writhed in the chair, an inky blackness oozing from its eyes and its wrists where it wrenched against the cords.
“Finish it, Micah.”
Micah clenched his jaw and stepped forward. “It’s over. I will never listen to your lies from the pit again. By His blood and His glory, go. Now!”
Micah shouted the last word with everything in him, and before its echo had died, the demon vanished. A moment later the chair was gone as well. A stench lingered a few seconds more, and then light filled the room along with the scent of wheat fields.
&
nbsp; He walked forward to where the demon had sat, puzzled to see the white cords lying on the carpet. He bent down and reached out his forefinger to touch them. They were warm, and a faint white light circled them. He looked back at Rick who nodded slightly.
Micah picked them up and held one in each hand. Heavy. The warmth grew till the heat penetrated his entire body. They felt more solid and more real than anything he’d ever touched. Then they faded. Their color changed from white to the color of his skin before they sank into his palms, slowly at first, then more rapidly till they disappeared completely.
He turned to Rick, and they grabbed each other in a crushing embrace.
||||||||
Micah stood on the beach in front of his home and watched the last shards of the sun sink into the ocean. An older couple to his left lit their fire; to his right a young family packed up their plastic buckets and shovels and headed for the path up to the parking lot a quarter mile north of Micah’s home.
A hint of smoke from the campfire squiggled up to him; he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Yes.
“Thank You.” He opened his eyes to gaze at the sky above.
This day would be burned into his memory forever.
As he ambled back to his home, he pondered what the next few days would bring. Great things. He knew it. There was no doubt in his heart. Tomorrow he would rest. Monday he would open the second to last letter from Archie. It would take him to a place unimaginable.
CHAPTER 43
Monday morning Micah rose before the sun, a cup of coffee laden with hazelnut creamer in his right hand, Archie’s eighteenth letter in his left. He sat on his couch in front of his massive river-rock fireplace. After switching on the lamp next to the chair, he slipped a table knife under the lip of the light brown envelope and sliced it open.
November 25, 1992
Dear Micah,
The room has always been ready for you, and now you are ready for the room.
You know, of course, the room to which I refer.
1 Corinthians 3:16–17.
For eternity and His glory,
Archie
Micah stood in front of the door of the brilliant room only a moment before it opened on its own. Light streamed out in a flash flood of power, surrounding him like a tidal wave.
It was too much ecstasy to contain. He stepped into the room and froze. It was glorious and overwhelming. Bliss flooded his heart, spilled over, and didn’t stop. His mind said this place was too holy, too right, too pure for him. But his heart didn’t agree. Micah fell to the floor, stunned. He knew where he was.
He stood in the presence of God. Surrounded by Him.
And this room was his own heart.
His heart.
His.
The holy of holies. The place where the Spirit of God dwells within the hearts of men.
Rick said it yesterday on the cape. The verse in Archie’s letter confirmed it. Yet till that moment it had been words. Just words.
Tears came, a hidden well broken open. Deep, cleansing tears. Freedom. Forgiveness. Peace. Nothing could separate him from this unquenchable love. Nothing he could do would make this Spirit of God love him any less.
Utterly and relentlessly loved beyond all imagination.
He had entered into the holiest place in the universe. It was inside him. Because God was in him and he was in God. And He had been there all along.
After ages passed, Micah rose to his knees. Images flashed across the walls all around him: mountains, oceans, deserts, lakes, all in the most brilliant colors he’d ever seen. The images shifted; now they were of him running, flying, lying in an emerald field hundreds of miles across, his face bathed in elation.
He was a drop of water in the ocean of the universe. Microscopic in the vastness of time, space, and history. Caught up as if the ocean of that universe were pure delight pouring up out of him only to swirl back and bury him again in its intoxicating waves.
A framed parchment on the wall caught his eye:
Utterly engulfed,
And wanting more.
Buried,
Drowned,
Intoxicated,
With the vastness of Love.
Losing myself as the waves wash over me,
Through me,
Surrounding me,
Caught up in a hurricane of overwhelming peace,
I have let go,
And He has found me.
Micah didn’t leave the room till evening fell on Cannon Beach nearly nine hours later. He eased out to his deck, down the long set of stairs to the beach, and padded across the sand toward the surf.
Three teenagers laughed as they tossed their oval skimboards into the water at the edge of the ocean, leaped onto them, and floated across the thin water cushion.
The perfect visual.
Micah was floating and never wanted to land.
||||||||
A rare cloudless horizon filled his vision as Micah sat on his deck that night with strawberry lemonade in his hand. He sat without thought and without care, his only focus the waves caressing the darkening beach.
His cell phone vibrated, and he looked at the caller ID. His dad. Take it. Don’t take it. Take it. The choice ping-ponged through his head.
“Hello?”
“Micah, it’s Dad.”
“Not, it’s your ‘father’?”
His dad sighed. “I probably deserve that.”
“No, you don’t. Low blow. Sorry.”
Silence.
“How are you, son?”
“Good. Really good. And you?”
“Good.”
Again, silence.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” his dad said.
“Yours, too.” A small part of him meant it.
His dad cleared his throat three times.
“Micah . . . I know ever since your mom died I’ve caused you so much . . . I mean, a lot of . . .”
The line went still.
“What I’m trying to say is, I was just thinking about, you know . . . You see, I checked the Mariners’ schedule. We could—I could get us a pair of tickets to a game coming up in the next few weeks. Not that you’d want to drive up—”
Wow. Not what he’d been expecting. Not what he wanted. After all these years, he was supposed to run to his dad with open arms? Pretend everything was okay? Yeah, right. Forgive? Yes, he’d forgiven his father, but . . .
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t think that’s going to work for me.”
“Not a problem. I understand. I didn’t think you’d be able to get away.” His dad coughed. “Maybe next season.”
Suddenly Micah’s body flushed with heat, and tears threatened to spill onto his cheeks. Love. Not his. God’s. He tried to sweep away the emotion that fluttered through his heart, but it wouldn’t leave. “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Let me check my calendar and get back to you. I’ll make it work. I’ll be there.”
||||||||
As he went to sleep that night—more at peace, more whole than he’d ever been—Micah still couldn’t rid himself of one sliver of pain: Sarah.
There had to be a way back to her, but if there was a path, he couldn’t see it.
But it didn’t mean he would stop looking.
CHAPTER 44
A breeze dropped in from the north Thursday morning as Sarah and Rick trudged along the beach next to Haystack Rock. With the tide out, the pools around the rock were ringed with people poking at the jade green sea anemones and pointing at the purple-and-orange starfish clinging to the rocks.
Rick said he wanted to talk about something important but wouldn’t say any more than that.
“Do you think fathers give good advice?” Rick asked after they’d moved beyond the tide pools.
“Depends on the father.”
“Say I’m the father.”
Sarah laughed. “Are you saying you’re old enough to be my dad?”
“Many times over.”
> “You look pretty good for being so ancient.” Sarah cocked her head toward Rick. “Yes, if you’re giving fatherly advice, I’ll definitely listen.”
Rick nodded. “Micah Taylor.”
Two boys raced by on recumbent beach bikes, sand kicking up behind their tires. She didn’t answer till they’d shrunk to specks, five hundred yards down the sand. “You’d need a very persuasive argument for me to have any involvement with Micah.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Sarah told him about the scene at Osburn’s the previous Thursday night, and Rick listened without comment. “I’ve gone out with guys who tell me they love me after the first date. Ones where the guy says five words to you the whole time and thinks he’s poured his heart out. Guys who talk about their conquests on the golf course like they’re Jack Nicklaus and ask zero questions about me. But I’ve never had someone pretend we were madly in love with each other after one dinner. After that dinner I thought it might go somewhere. But he has one too many bulbs burnt out in that house of his.”
Rick snagged a wayward Frisbee as it floated down in front of them. He spun it back to the thrower with a perfect toss. “If an intelligent, perceptive man like Micah tried to win your heart, would it make sense for him to pretend you were in love in a parallel life?”
“I’ll assume that’s a rhetorical question.”
“So then you have to consider the fact that his saying those things makes the story more plausible, not less.” Rick zipped open his Windbreaker.
“Unless he’s crazy.”
“Do you really think he’s crazy?”
She looked away and sighed. “He walks into my ice cream shop unannounced and proceeds to tell me that I need to fall in love with him because we were together in a parallel universe? That God has ordained it? That’s sanity?”
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