by Mark Carver
He was just as afraid as we were.
But I admired him for putting on a strong face and attempting to rally our faith, which is what we all needed. Bishop Valenti was right – we were sheep without a shepherd. I hadn’t seen the enigmatic bishop since our conversation but I had a feeling that he was close by.
And now the hour of our testing had arrived.
Father DeMarco looked down at us and I saw his jaw muscles clench tight. His gaze seemed to linger on me for a moment, and I couldn’t tell if he was warning me or calling me to action. I hated this new identity: a defender, a fighter. A man of violence.
It was just one moment of insanity. It could have happened to anyone…
I almost laughed at my ludicrous excuses.
I rose to my feet and stood shoulder to shoulder with the priest. I heard him inhale a deep breath, then there was a rustling sound behind me. The rest of the brethren were on their feet as well.
Father DeMarco stared out into the dull gray light that streamed through the open chapel door, cut in half by the monk’s silhouette.
“Let us see what they want,” he announced solemnly.
He marched forward, and we all followed in a well-rehearsed line behind him. As we stepped out of the chapel, we fanned out across the grass, forming ranks of sorts. We had no weapons and I immediately saw the fear creeping across the faces of the brethren.
The young monk was right; they were coming. A lot of them. A long stream from the town, dozens of people. I couldn’t be sure, but they appeared to be unarmed as well. I don’t know why, but I had been expecting torches and pitchforks and scythes.
Their stride was fast and purposeful, though. They were running, and as they drew nearer, I was shocked when I saw their faces.
They were also afraid.
For a moment, relief washed over me in a soothing wave. But it ebbed almost immediately.
If they are afraid, then that must mean…
I craned my neck, squinting as I peered towards the back of the line. There seemed to be some kind of movement back there, something chaotic.
In an instant, my heart froze. I seized Father DeMarco’s sleeve and tugged his attention towards the back of the line.
“Father,” I whispered, “they’re not attackers. They’re coming here for safety!”
Father DeMarco gasped. The brethren scattered across the grass froze in place as they realized what was happening. There wasn’t much time before the first refugees reached our property, bringing the violence with them.
I shot a firm glance at the priest, and the message in his eyes was clear.
Do what you must.
I was surprised at the strength of my voice, considering how frail I felt at that moment.
“Brothers! Defend the monastery! Bring them in through the gates!”
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like a film reel suddenly spinning to life, the brethren snapped out of their paralysis and rushed towards the low wall surrounding our property. I noticed several of them scooping up tools and logs, anything that could be used as weapons.
The terror and desperation on the faces of those being pursued up the road cut into my heart like a knife. They were literally running for their lives. I didn’t recognize anyone, and I didn’t even know if they were believers, but I wasn’t going to risk their lives to find out. The fact that they were running towards us for help was confirmation enough.
“Help us!” they cried as they stumbled towards the gate. “Let us in!”
The brethren stationed at the gate looked at me and I gave a quick nod. They pulled the gates open wide and the hinges creaked in protest. For a split second, I was wrenched into a memory at those gates, touching the smooth skin of an angel’s hand…
“Tourec!”
I peered over the wall and suppressed a cry of horror. The attackers weren’t people; they were animals. Their faces were twisted into masks of murderous rage that scarcely looked human and I watched them swarm over a middle-aged woman who had fallen behind. The wall blocked my view of the carnage but I heard the screams and I saw the arcs of blood flying through the air as they brought their clubs and blades down upon her body again and again.
At that moment, I knew that I had nothing to feel guilty about. These monsters deserved to die. There would be no reasoning with them.
“Bring them in!” I shouted. “Don’t let the heathens break through!”
The monastery grounds were rapidly filling with exhausted and terrified believers, many of whom collapsed on the grass. The mob that pursued them was only about ten people, but they looked as ferocious as a pack of wolves.
I rushed towards the gates, hoping to close them before any attackers broke through. But I knew it was futile; the walls were low enough that anyone could vault over them with ease.
My peaceful monastery was about to become a battleground.
With a savage roar, the assailants hurled themselves against the gates, knocking the brethren to the ground. Eyes flashing and teeth bared, they streamed into the courtyard in front of the chapel. In their hands, they clutched machetes, shovels, chair legs, and other crude bludgeoning objects.
The brethren who had been herding the fleeing Christians towards the chapel froze with horror. We all stared at the intruders and they stared at us. The air fell silent; even the wind vanished.
None of us knew what to do. We felt like a coop of chickens that had suddenly discovered a cluster of foxes in our midst.
I saw movement to my right. Father DeMarco was walking swiftly across the grass towards the intruders. He carried nothing in his hands except for a large brass cross swinging from a silver chain.
“This is a house of God!” he declared, his voice carrying across the monastery grounds. “How dare you attack these people!”
One of the intruders, a young man with flecks of blood on his face, stepped forward. He cradled his pickax gently, as if it were a child. “Your God has abandoned you, old man. He has abandoned all of us. This world has a new master now.”
“So you slaughter helpless people in the streets? What have they ever done to you?”
The young man took another menacing step forward. “What have they done to us? What haven’t they done to us? All our lives they’ve judged us, condemned us, preached against us, shut their doors in our faces, shoved their dead religion down our throats, imposed their sanctimonious rules and regulations on us, thinking they could fit us into their righteous molds. But now it’s our turn. The true master of this world has shown himself to us, and your supposedly ‘Almighty God’ hasn’t done anything to stop him. It’s payback time, and this is your judgment day too, old man.”
Growling like a dog, the young man cocked his weapon over his shoulder, ready to strike.
The air snapped, like a clap of thunder concentrated into a narrow burst. The man with the pickax stared at Father DeMarco but his face was no longer dark with murder. His skin became pale, and his eyes seemed to be begging for help. Then he toppled forward and landed face-down on the grass.
“Nobody move!”
In direct violation of the command, we all spun around and saw Bishop Valenti creeping forward. In his hands was an ancient hunting rifle. Thin wisps of smoke drifted from the barrel.
Father DeMarco stared at the bishop for a few moments, then looked down at the dead body lying in front of him. Slowly, he knelt down and performed last rites for the young man.
The rest of the intruders remained as still as garden statues. In a moment of panic, I wondered if one or more of them had guns as well, but a quick scan revealed that they only carried weapons made for bludgeoning or slashing. Strangely, I found myself feeling grateful that I wasn’t living in America.
The bishop came into our midst, holding the gun with a rock-steady hand, swinging the barrel in a slow, constant arc in front of him. Everyone got the message: he could kill any one of them in a heartbeat.
“Get these people in the refectory,” he ordered, motioning toward
s the dining hall with his head. A slight breeze stirred his beard and the hem of his robe, but otherwise he was motionless.
I couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. Here was the man that I had imagined in the chapel, the mighty oak tree that would not bend. I looked at his wrinkled face. There was no fear this time.
There was no anger, either. No hatred, no sorrow. Just grim determination. He looked like he could have remained in that menacing position until the day he died.
“Drop your weapons,” he said loudly.
The attackers glanced at one another, then obeyed. Their machetes and clubs clattered on the grass and they all took a step back together.
Bishop Valenti stabbed the air with his gun.
“Now you listen to me, all of you. Our world has changed, and everyone is scared. And I know you might be thinking that this is the time to get some revenge for the wrongs done to you by the church. But this is not the answer. These people have done nothing to hurt you, and they certainly don’t deserve to be murdered in cold blood. These are your fellow townsfolk, your neighbors. They follow a different master than you do, but that is no reason to attack them. Or us. This monastery has been a blessing to the town of Susa, and it will not be violated in this way. Go, take your dead and leave. Anyone seeking refuge or comfort will be welcome here, but this place is under God’s protection and anyone who threatens this sanctuary will be cut down before they can set one foot upon this land.”
To punctuate his speech, the bishop yanked the bolt back on the rifle, sending the spent cartridge sailing through the air. It landed less than a meter from the dead man’s body.
The attackers exchanged nervous glances again, then raised their hands.
“All right, old man,” one of them said as a few of his comrades bent down to pick up the corpse. “We’re going. But remember, it’s not God that protects you. It’s that gun.”
I glanced at the bishop, but his face and hands didn’t move. We all watched the intruders file out through the gates and trickle down the road towards the town. My heart was clutched with fear that they would take their frustrations out on whatever Christian targets remained within the town limits. We had saved our beloved monastery, but at what cost?
I called to several of the brethren and told them to go down the road after the attackers had disappeared. There were a few bodies scattered across the pavement and whether they were alive or dead, we couldn’t leave them out there for the crows.
With a satisfied nod, Bishop Valenti turned around and started shuffling back towards the buildings. I shot a quick glance at Father DeMarco.
Are you just going to let him walk away without an explanation?
But the priest didn’t do anything. He just stared at me with sorrow in his eyes. Then he turned as well and headed towards the chapel.
The brethren and I watched the two old men go their separate ways. None of us knew what to make of the surreal event that had just taken place. I looked down at the grass, watching the last of the blood soak into the soil.
****
Our tiny monastery now had forty-two guests, thirteen of whom were wounded, two of them seriously. The brethren had also brought two dead bodies from the road, which were quickly buried in the small cemetery behind the chapel. The survivors told us their names and we promised that we would notify their families as soon as we could.
I desperately wanted to talk to Father DeMarco, and I found him patrolling the outside wall. When I caught up with him, he was very close to the secret stone that had hidden Isabella’s gift for me. I considered telling him about the Bible but I wasn’t sure how he would react. Another time, perhaps.
“Father,” I said as I fell into step beside him. “Can I bring you anything? Some water?”
The priest shook his head. “I want to thank you for your leadership today,” he said without looking at me. “You acted quickly and with a clear head. Most people would have panicked and ran.”
“Thank you, Father.” I should have been proud but I wasn’t. The monastery grounds had almost become a field of slaughter. I had been prepared to fight, and I’m sure most of the brethren would have also come to the people’s defense, but there was no question it would have been a bloody day. Only Bishop Valenti’s timely appearance stopped it from happening.
“Father? Where did the bishop get that gun?”
Father DeMarco looked at me as if I had asked him an obvious question.
“It’s mine, of course.”
My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Yours? Father, why do you have a gun?”
The priest shrugged. “I was quite an enthusiastic sportsman before I took my vows. But a priest’s mission is life, not death, even if it breaks no laws and serves a useful purpose. Those deer that are constantly eating our crops breed like rabbits, but I leave the tending of their numbers to others now. That gun was a gift from my father and it always worked beautifully and…well, I just couldn’t bring myself to part with such an excellent piece of craftsmanship that had been in my family for so long.”
He paused for a moment, then said, “And I was hoping that one day, Isabella might enjoy the thrill of the hunt as I once did.”
His voice trailed away like a leaf carried downstream. We followed the wall for several minutes in silence.
Then I said, “So how did Bishop Valenti find it?”
Father DeMarco frowned, then opened his mouth to speak. He was interrupted by Brother Christopher, who came running down the hill.
“Father!” he said breathlessly. He was too heavyset for such strenuous activity, and he put his hands on his knees to steady himself.
“What is it?” Father DeMarco asked.
Brother Christopher took a deep breath. “His Eminence…he wants to see you in your office. He says it’s urgent.”
The priest looked at me, holding my gaze for a moment, then marched up the hill. We watched him go, then I turned to Brother Christopher.
“What is going on?” I asked. “Is it about Rome?”
Brother Christopher shook his head. His face was still a bright shade of red. “I don’t know exactly. I was at my desk, running through the inventory to see how what kind of provisions we have, since we have a lot more mouths to feed and wounds to dress. Then the phone rang, and I was going to answer it, but when I looked into the office, I saw His Eminence on the phone. He gave me a look that said that he wanted privacy, so I went out, but I left the door open a crack.”
“What did you hear?”
Brother Christopher looked around, then leaned forward. “I didn’t hear anything about Rome. The bishop was talking about someplace else.”
I glanced up at the monastery on the hill. I felt like it was watching us.
“What place?”
Brother Christopher also looked up at monastery, then back at me. His voice was almost a whisper.
“Jerusalem.”
****
TOUREC'S STORY CONTINUES IN VOLUME FOUR OF
THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES:
THE DESECRATION
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I hoped you enjoyed The Age of Apollyon Trilogy. Writing it was a tiresome ordeal, but I am pleased with the result and I hope that you are too. There is one issue, though, that I feel I should address, as it may be of some concern to some readers.
It is apparent that I have taken substantial theological liberties, specifically in regards to the extent of Satan’s power and the power of his demons. I believe that Satan is real, just as I believe that God is real. However, I do not believe that true Christians can be possessed by demons, as occurs in these books. They can be influenced by demons, but actual demonic possession of a soul that belongs to God is a leap into fiction.
In writing this trilogy, I sought to illuminate just how inconceivably evil Satan is. I do not know what he looks like, and I do not know where he lives. Yet two things are certain: he despises God’s creation, especially the human race, with more hatred than we could ever comprehend, and he
loves corrupting what God has made pure. These are the characteristics that I wanted to expose in this story, and though Satan’s strength is an insignificant speck compared to the power of God, a story with a weak villain would be no fun, right?
So I ask you to pardon the liberties I have taken and to remember this story as just that: a story, a work of fiction. Satan’s depravity and God’s majesty are beyond our pathetic abilities to comprehend, and I’m simply trying to do my small part to show just how deep the darkness can be, which in turn reveals the brilliance of the light.
“…Your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.” – 1 Peter 5:8 (NKJV)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARK CARVER spent more than eight years in China before returning
to the USA with his wife and two children. Besides writing, Mark is passionate
about art, tattoos, heavy metal, Gothic literature, and medieval architecture.
He lives with his family in Atlanta, GA.
You can find Mark online:
http://www.markcarverbooks.com
http://www.facebook.com/markcarverbooks
http://www.twitter.com/markcarverbooks
