When Darkness Comes

by W. Franklin Lattimore

  “It’s a very real possibility, Sweetheart,” replied her dad. “And to be very honest, I had hoped I would never have to deal with anything like this again.”

  “But that’s not the way God works, is it?” asked Jenna rhetorically. “Okay, so what’s next?”

  “Good question,” her father said. “Hon? Ideas?”

  “Just one. I think we need to call an old friend.”

  3:43 p.m. MOUNTAIN TIME

  KAREN STANTON—FORMERLY MCGLAUGHLIN—SAT working on a project at her desk at home. The light of the mid-afternoon sun came cascading through her office window. The view across the flat vista that was her backyard, still caught her attention from time to time. Wyoming. Not exactly where she thought she’d end up after college in Ohio, but it did have a certain charm.

  Cheyenne was a famous location in the western United States … if one were a cowboy—or if one loved cowboys—which, of course, Karen did, having married one.

  Cheyenne Frontier Days brought in the best cowboys from around the world to compete at the “Daddy of ‘Em All” rodeo. Ten days of music, food, fair rides, and, of course, every sort of cowboy—and cowgirl—competition one could imagine.

  Her husband, Steve, was a judge at different rodeo events, having been a champion bronc rider, himself, more than two decades prior.

  Karen clicked search in her browser window when the very-loud opening strains of Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro blared from her phone, startling her. She picked up her Droid and saw that the incoming call was from Tara. She smiled.

  “Hi, you!” she said with no small measure of delight. “How are you?”

  “Karen! It is so good to hear your voice! It’s been far too long since we’ve talked!”

  After several minutes of pleasantries and a quick catch-up on each other’s lives, Tara got to the reason for the call. “Karen, I need help, and I’m hoping that your memory can make a twenty-four-year leap backward.”

  Karen let out a light laugh and said, “You always were the difficult one.”

  Tara laughed, too. “My tattoo. Do you remember it?”

  “The triskele?”

  “Yep.”

  Tara was apparently just going to let the answer sit there to see what the undirected response would be.

  “Well, I do remember seeing it on your shoulder for the first time when we went backpacking our senior year of college. I may have even commented on it. Did I?”

  “I distinctly remember you bringing it up, because I was startled that it had become a focus of your attention. I didn’t want it to be something that directed attention to my practice of witchcraft. I can’t remember you saying anything about its relevance, though.”

  “I don’t think I did. I think I wanted to see how things played out and if your tattoo was simply a piece of artwork.”

  “So, even back then, you knew it was an occultic symbol?”

  “Yes.” Karen paused, then said, “Come with me as I go downstairs to grab a book.” She got up from her desk and headed down to the small library in her husband’s den, as Tara told her the few details that she already knew about the symbol; which wasn’t very much.

  Book in hand, and back upstairs in her office chair, Karen thumbed through the pages until she settled on a chapter dealing with occult symbolism.

  “Your tattoo is pregnant with meaning, Tara. Even I had no idea. I’m reading from a book called A Scottish Grimoire of Celtic Witchcraft, by Gordon McGowan. On page 247 it details that there are two different components to the triskele. The first component is that of motion and represents moving forward, revolution, cycles, competition, action, and/or progress. The second component can be any of several three-piece representations: Spirit, mind, and body; creation, preservation, and destruction; power, intellect, and love; creator, destroyer, and sustainer; past, present, and future…”

  “There! Wait! Past, present, future. Karen, do you remember me talking about a woman named Stephanie O’Leary?”

  “Yes, she was your mentor in the craft.”

  “She used to say that what she practiced was all about the past, present, and future. What else does the book say?”

  Karen skimmed the page for anything else that may be germane to their conversation. “It says that it must be remembered that the two components relate. So, take a first component like ‘moving forward’ and couple it with a second component like ‘past, present, future’ and you’ll have a fuller meaning of what the symbol means to those who’ve adopted it.”

  “One of the first components was ‘revolution.’ What if it was taken not to mean spinning, but overthrow? Couple that with ‘past, present, and future’ and you have … what?”

  “Overthrowing the status quo? Current beliefs? Replacing the way something is done now with something from the past, for a different future?”

  Almost as quickly as it escaped her mouth, Karen was struck by something else she had seen in the book. “Tara, the book also says that the triskele could mean ‘The Otherworld, where spirits, gods, and goddesses live.’”

  Karen heard something like a slight gasp on the other end of the phone connection. “What is it, Tara?”

  “Shalinar.”

  “The spirit guide you had cast out?”

  “The demon I had cast out, yes. It kept telling me to join him in the Otherealm.” A momentary pause, then, “Karen, I love you. I’ve got to go.”

  “Love you, too. Don’t keep me in the dark for too long. I want to know what’s happening so I can pray for you.”

  “I’ll try to call you back this evening and share everything that we know that’s going on. Bye, for now.”

  “Bye, Dearheart.”

  Karen looked from her phone to the book. Then she looked from her book to God. “Father, I don’t know what’s going on, but I pray a hedge of protection around the Lawton family. Give them wisdom and insight into what they’re dealing with. In Christ’s name, Amen.”

  6:19 P.M.

  BRENT AND JENNA had listened to the one side of the phone conversation intently, gleaning as much as they could. But now that Tara was off the phone she was apparently fair game for a gaggle of questions. The first question was expected.

  “So?”

  Tara looked down at her pad of scribbled notes then up to Brent who had remained on his feet for the entire call. “Hon, could you grab me a couple Aleve and some water? I’ve got a headache coming on.”

  As Brent went to get his wife the pain relievers, Jenna repeated his question.

  “So?”

  Having received and swallowed the two blue tablets, Tara looked again at her notes, apparently trying to piece together the best explanation for what she was feeling and thinking.

  “Okay, here’s the thing. The first time I saw the triskele, which is what my tattoo is called, was on a woman named Stephanie O’Leary.” She looked up from her notepad to Jenna. “She was my mentor in witchcraft. I wanted to be just like her.

  “One day I was able to clearly see the tattoo that she had on her shoulder blade, and I made my best hand-made drawing of it and took it to a tattoo parlor to have the symbol inked onto me, as well. I had no idea that it held any relevance at the time, except that it probably had some sort of occult meaning, which was just fine by me.”

  “Why did you keep it? After you got saved, I mean,” asked Jenna.

  “That, my dear, has been an ongoing mental debate from 1987 until now. I have no love for it, but it does remind me where I came from. And, while I have no desire to keep it, it effectively serves as a great conversation starter that leads to sharing who Jesus is with people.”

  Jenna accepted this without further comment.

  Turning back to her notes, Tara went on. “Karen has a book that deals with Celtic witchcraft and symbology. In it, it says that the triskele has different possible meanings. There are two components, each with its own possible interpretations. But certain things that Karen read to me seemed to hit home. Component One: Revolution. Component Tw
o: Past, Present, Future. Then there was an overarching meaning that it could have as a whole: The Otherworld, where spirits, gods, and goddesses live.”

  Tara produced a sigh and looked up at Brent. Then she said, “We can’t know anything for sure, but my gut tells me that we’re looking at a group of people who are going to try to start a spiritual uprising, a ‘revolution’ that has something to do with the past, the present, and the future. It has to do with what I once knew as the Otherealm where this spiritual war that we’re getting into will either be won or lost.”

  Brent pursed his lips and nodded. It appeared as though he was about to speak when Jenna chimed in.

  “But why a Celtic symbol? Aren’t there other symbols that could represent similar things?”

  Good question, my smart girl, thought Tara. She considered the question for a moment, then said, “Brent, do you remember my deliverance night?” Tara immediately closed her eyes then turned to look at Jenna. “Something else I’ll have to share with you later.”

  “Yes, of course. What about it?”

  “Karen had told Pastor Jonathan that she believed everything had to do with my Scottish roots.”

  “Mom! The three girls with the accents!”

  Tara had almost forgotten. “That’s right!” She looked back to Brent. “Today in Pittston one of the girls that we saw with the tattoo was talking with two other girls, and all three had Scottish accents.”

  Brent sat down again in the recliner. “Okay, now it sounds like we’ve got a case. Jenna, will you run up to my office and grab two more legal pads and some pens? We need to start piecing things together to see if we can come up with a discernible path to follow.”

  The two evenings of general sessions had gone well. There was a new and growing expectation amongst the Picti about who they would become as they advanced their common agenda. There was a definitive purpose, and all now understood the road map to growth—in numbers and in individual and collective power—over the coming months and years. What had yet to be clearly defined were the precise details, the practices and true nature, of their ancient religion. These were particulars that had been hidden for well over a thousand years. The first step to those discoveries, though, would come this night.

  Stephanie watched as the people once again gathered to the arranged seating area by MacKay Hill. Tonight the Key of Bridei would be inserted into the Key Stone. Not the actual Key Stone, of course, but the plaster replica which earlier this afternoon had been temporarily fixed atop the mound in its proper standing position.

  This night they would get beyond guessing and begin hearing from the ancient Picti themselves, about who they were, what they believed, and what they practiced. To Stephanie it was all still a bit surreal. Decades of waiting had come down to a lingering fifty minutes.

  Brendan was in the house. He had asked to be sequestered until he brought the Key of Bridei out. He wanted to submit his inner being to the hag, Cailleach, in the hope of having proper eyes to see and understand all that would be revealed through the uniting of key and stone.

  What would be found? Stephanie knew that the coming evening would not reveal the ultimate answer; that there would be more ceremony than revelation. The reuniting of the stones would be just the first step of several required to fully understand what they had their hands on. Those steps would include a lot of translation work.

  Step one would be deciphering the Picti language on the front of the Key of Bridei using the Latin inscribed on its backside; something that Brendan could have done with relative ease, considering how well versed he had become in Latin. Instead, he opted to share in the crowd’s excitement and anticipation. He would translate the key’s ancient text in person before his Picti followers.

  Step two would involve lining up the key’s six spokes with the six corresponding divisions on the standing stone. He would then be able to interpret the Rune—the hidden—language on the standing stone by using the newly-translated Picti language on the key. The Rune language had obviously not been the common language used by the Picts, but it was still exclusively Pictish.

  The third step would be the longest of the tasks, which would be the translation of the hundreds of Picti standing stones that stood throughout Scotland. While some of them still weathered the elements, others were preserved and on display in various museums. Brendan and David had spent many weeks overseas traveling from place to place carefully photographing each of the standing stones so as to have all of their information available to them in the U.S.

  The inscriptions discovered on the standing stones of ancient Pictland would provide, so they hoped, much valuable information on their heritage, not to mention their religion.

  Stephanie walked up to the men who were working as technicians for the event. She asked that they make sure that the lighting units that were facing the mound not allow for any deep shadows on the surface of the Key Stone nor upon Brendan’s face. He would need the best lighting possible to do the first level of interpretation of the Rune language before the onlookers.

  She walked up onto the mound and knelt in front of the key stone and yelled to the men, “Okay, turn them on!”

  The lights came on. Though the sun was still casting its own illumination upon the stone, Stephanie could see how the ground lighting would affect Brendan’s ability to see the images properly. She called back and had them swing two of the lighting units forward a little bit and raise two of the others.

  Satisfied, Stephanie walked down from the mound and back to the farmhouse. She would change into her tunic, as would both Brendan and David. No one else was required to do the same this evening. Once changed, she would sit on the front porch waiting for Brendan to end his seclusion.

  9:00 P.M.

  BRENDAN, STEPHANIE, AND David approached the amphitheater, Brendan taking the lead. Stephanie followed carrying the Key of Bridei on a large, blue velvet pillow trimmed in gold. David took up the rear carrying a leather-bound blank journal, into which would be written all of the translations to come over the next few weeks or months.

  At the moment they were sighted, the crowd of Picti rose from their seats with great applause. The ovation lasted until the three stood atop MacKay Hill side by side.

  “My dear brothers and sisters of the Redeeming Age,” began Brendan, “this marks the fourth day of our assemblage. I hope that this gathering has, so far, met with your approval and expectations.”

  Again the crowd cheered.

  “Tonight we gather for our final night of formalities. Tomorrow will be our farewell feast and celebration, and the following day most of you will be on your way back to your homes. I am pleased to have your priests and priestesses remain one additional night with us before rejoining you in your homelands. They will be a part of a special rite of initiation into the Picti faith.

  “Do not forget what you’ve seen and learned here. Take your knowledge and plant it into fertile soil that it may yield an even greater harvest for next year’s gathering.

  “Much of what the Home Coven learns from the ancient Picti standing stones throughout Pictland over the next several weeks and months will be disseminated to your respective priests and priestesses. Respect them. Honor them, for in doing so, you honor Stephanie, me, and the Home Coven.

  “Do not allow our enemies to come between you and your destinies. Christlings, Jews, and Muslims will hate what we stand for, as much as Muslims hate Christlings and Jews. You will hear from them that we are an illegitimate religion. But the fact of the matter is that we will now have ancient writings that are older than those that established Islam. I believe that when we’ve compiled all of the information from the Picti standing stones around Scotland, we will have a holy book that rivals that of the Torah and New Testament. You will be able to hold your heads up high knowing that you have one of the most accurately-translated books of religious and cultural writings to ever exist.

  “Be patient with us, though. With hundreds of stones to translate, we may not have it rea
dy next week.”

  The crowd let out a rumble of light laughter.

  Brendan turned to Stephanie and gave her a big smile. She returned it in kind. Walking to the outstretched blue pillow and taking the Key of Bridei into his hands, he turned to face the crowd and held the stone high above his head.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of Pictland! I give you the legendary Key of Bridei!”

  The crowd erupted into shouts and screams and whistles and thunderous applause. A single flash of light came from the official photographer’s camera. (No one had been permitted, for sake of security, to carry onto farm property any photographic devices, including all of the cell phones that had to be left in hotel rooms.) Brendan stood there for a good thirty seconds before lowering the key and turning toward the plaster key stone.

  Kneeling down before the massive standing stone, Brendan reached up and placed the key into the hole at its center. It fit perfectly and didn’t require him to hold it in place. He stood and looked at it with awe. For fifteen-hundred years this key had waited to fulfill its destiny for the Picti people. Moving out of the way to allow the crowd to see the joined stones caused the applause to ratchet up another notch. Another flash of light commemorated the moment.

  “My Picti family!” shouted Brendan in order to quiet the throng. “My family! Shh! Please!”

  The applause and raucous vocalizations hushed.

  “My family, this is the moment that I’ve been waiting for nearly my whole life.” Brendan cleared his throat as emotion began to rise up within him. “From the first realization of who I really was and whence I had come, I have been dreaming of the moment at which I would become fully alive. This is that moment! Please, honor this hallowed event with silence as I strive to do the first translation of the ancient text.”