by Bart Hopkins
Muller slowly turned the little man to face him. His bright blue eyes filled with fear as he now gazed on what Muller had become. His eight-foot frame, no longer covered in the black and silver uniform of the Gestapo General—but almost naked in the freezing, winter night—seemed to put off heat. Patrice could see Muller’s eyes and he grasped the cross around his neck. Muller laughed.
“Do you really think your God will save you? He cares nothing for you, old man!”
“I am already saved,” said Patrice.
“Mapapa!”
Eduard and Sascha had returned when they lost sight of their grandfather.
“No, let him go…please!!” they cried.
Muller turned, looked at the children, and smiled.
“Come here, children…and I won’t hurt your mapapa…”
Patrice shook his head, but Muller shook his entire body, disorienting the old man. Slowly, the children moved forward, never releasing each other’s hands. Each held their pendants and Sascha wished that someone would save them. She prayed to God that someone would save their mapapa.
Muller watched and when they were in reaching distance, he dropped Patrice and took a step toward the children. Just as he was about to grab them, the earth shook with the force of an earthquake and Muller almost stumbled. He focused on the children, who had taken a step back, and narrowed his black eyes to slits—once again reaching out to grab them and take from them the prize his Master desired.
“Step away from my children, brother.”
Muller looked up into the forest as he recognized the voice behind him. He slowly turned and looked into the clearing.
There staring back at him was Azar Engle. He stood eight feet tall and his lean, muscular frame was dressed similarly to Muller, but his face was kind and light, surrounded by a halo of long white hair. Eduard and Sascha ran to their grandfather and dropped to the ground beside him.
“Hello, Raphael… It’s been a long time,” said Muller.
“Yes, brother…it has.”
“I need the relics, brother” said Muller.
“I can’t let you have them, Vassago. Nor will I let you harm my children to get them.”
The fallen one, Vassago—the finder of hidden things—smiled and held out his arm. From the nothingness, a sword appeared, engulfed in flames.
“Well then, I suppose I’ll have to take them. As always, the obedient child, Raphael…never questioning… Before I do kill them—were you punished for creating these half-breeds?”
Raphael smiled and shook his head.
“No.”
“He allowed it?” Muller asked, his furrowing brow growing ever deeper.
“He decreed it.”
Raphael placed his arm in the air as Muller had and another flaming sword appeared.
“He would never… Not after last time!”
Raphael smiled and again shook his head.
“You never did understand him, Vassago…any more than you understand humans.”
Vassago growled and then yelled—from his back sprang massive, black wings. Like a black cloud made of torn leather, they flapped back and forth, casually lifting Vassago’s massive form off the ground, his feet hovering several feet above land. Raphael, the archangel of divine healing and love, narrowed his deep, blue eyes and flexed his arms and shoulders—from his back wings also uncoiled. Like a flash of lightning, his wings expanded as if they were main sails on a clipper ship. Brilliant white and silver, they moved with such strength as to compel the trees around them to bend under the pressure of their force. The two giants circled one another, floating above the ground, and then Vassago struck. With blinding speed, he slashed at Raphael, who spun around. His wings engulfed him like a shield as Vassago’s sword connected, sparks flying as if metal against metal. Raphael’s wings opened and he struck with the same ferocity as his adversary. With each strike of their weapons, the brilliant sparks mimicked the bombing that plagued the European skies each night as fire rained down from the sky. Vassago struck at Raphael and then brought his wings down swiftly across his opponent’s chest, slicing through Raphael’s skin, causing crimson to pour down his belly. As Raphael collapsed to the ground, the earth shook with monumental force. Vassago flew at him, but Raphael beat his wings hard and fast, causing his body to be lifted in the air just as Vassago’s sword struck the earth. Vassago cursed him and stared at the heavens. Raphael wrapped his wings around his body and began to spin, faster and faster.
Patrice and the children clung to one another, just out of reach of the giants. They all prayed and held one another. Suddenly, the pendants began to glow and, as they did, Raphael began to glow with the same brilliance. Light radiated from every pore of his being as he spun faster. Vassago turned his gaze to the children and grinned. He flew at them, his sword raised behind his head, screaming furiously. The children clung to Patrice, who closed his eyes and prayed. Just as Vassago was about to strike, Raphael disappeared in a flash of light and reappeared in front of the children. The two angels stared at one another for only a moment, and then Vassago dropped the blade behind his head as Raphael withdrew his own sword. Vassago collapsed into Raphael’s arms, his breathing labored as he grabbed his brother’s shoulder.
“Does he still love me, brother?”
A tear fell from Raphael’s glowing face.
“Of course he does, brother… Whomsoever asks for forgiveness with truth in their heart, shall receive it.”
Vassago smiled, and then gasped as his head rolled back. Raphael lifted his brother’s face to his own and continued to cry as he gently closed his brother’s eyes, kissed his forehead, and then laid the fallen angel gently on the ground.
“May you be welcomed into the arms of our father, brother.”
He laid his hand on Vassago’s chest; a great light came from underneath and spread across Vassago’s body, then flashed as his appearance changed. His hair lightened, his features softened, and his wings became silky as they turned white. Raphael lifted his hand and Vassago’s body lifted into the air. After it had risen twenty or thirty feet, there was a flash and the body was gone. Raphael smiled as he turned back to Patrice and the children.
“Azar? Azar Engle?”
Raphael turned and looked at Patrice.
“Hello, Patrice.”
“You are what I think you are?”
“I am a servant of the Father. One of his messengers.”
“Could you not have saved my Miriam?” Patrice asked, bitterness seeping into his voice.
“She did not need saving, Patrice. She is home…but I have little time.”
Raphael looked at the children, who smiled and ran into his arms.
“Papa,” said Eduard.
“You are so beautiful—both of you are so strong.”
“Did you ever love her?” asked Patrice.
Raphael looked over at Patrice and frowned. He took Patrice’s hand and, from the connection, a glow, warm as a fire, grew. Patrice felt his bitterness and anger slip away, replaced by love and forgiveness.
“Well, at least now I know where they get it from…”
“Patrice,” said Raphael. “I loved Miriam from the moment I saw her… It was the Father’s idea to strengthen your bloodline with the blood of the Seraphim, but I did and do love Miriam.”
Patrice and the children looked at Raphael.
“What bloodline?” asked Patrice.
Raphael smiled, took the pendants the children wore, and held them lightly in his giant hands.
“Have you never truly looked at these tokens? The age, the wear… Do they not look like something else, fashioned into a piece of jewelry?”
Sascha took the pendant in her fingers and turned it over and over. Then she looked up at her father.
“A nail… It looks like a giant nail,” she said.
The angel nodded.
“They held his hands in place as he died on the gibbet…then they were given to his widow for safekeeping—and to each generation�
�to guard from those like my brother, Vassago. For if they were to fall into the hands of the Morning Star, a great darkness would descend on all humans.”
“Who is the Morning Star?” asked Sascha.
“Another brother of mine… He was favored above all others, but his pride caused the Father to cast him out of His Kingdom… He is still very angry with the Father for this.”
Patrice rubbed his head, his aged face scrunched into a confused squint as he tried to understand everything he had seen and everything he was being told. In awe, he looked at Raphael, the realization of his lineage now reflected in his eyes.
“You don’t mean we are descendants of…?”
“Yes.” Raphael turned to his children and lightly touched their faces. “You are the protectors of these relics, always keep them safe. You will do wondrous things and your mother and I will always be watching.”
Sascha began to cry.
“You won’t come back?”
“Only once more, but not for a very long time,” Raphael said. “I love you…always remember that. Patrice, please take the children away from this place. Take them far away… They must be kept safe.”
The angel grabbed the children into an embrace and kissed their foreheads one last time as they sobbed quietly. He took Patrice’s hand and they stared at one another. Patrice nodded and smiled with understanding and acceptance. Raphael released the old man’s hand and walked to the center of the clearing. He smiled. Unfurling his mighty wings, he beat them twice, and then shot straight up into the air with a flash of light, disappearing into the night.
“Come, my dears, we must go,” Patrice said.
“Where, Mapapa?” asked Eduard as he wiped his eyes.
“You will see soon enough, Eduard…soon enough.”
Sascha opened her eyes and allowed them to become familiar to the darkness of the room. She glanced over at the tiny round window and got up. Walking over to the pane, she looked out. The ocean looked black in the moonlight. The soft swooshing of the waves against the massive ship reminded her of a little creek not far from their home in France. She picked up the pendant and spun it around in her hand as she thought about what their new home in America might be like. Would there be a little house? Lavender at the gate? A little creek? Snow?
“Sascha…come back to sleep,” Eduard whined.
“Sorry.”
Sascha climbed back into bed and smiled. They were going to America. They were going to do wondrous things. She closed her eyes and slept.
Metronome
Eaton Thomas Palmer
Author Dedication
To my love for the written word. The click of the keys as the story unfolds. And the telling of a good story.
About Eaton
Eaton Thomas Palmer was born and raised in the Midwest, and entered the business world because it was the thing to do. It has never been satisfying to him. He has always been creative and finally realized that he is a storyteller. He began writing when he was fifty. Writing is a passion for him and he want to share his stories with people.
Metronome
In a building adjacent to the maximum-security prison, attached to the main facility by a corridor with five high security barriers, and manned twenty-four hours a day by twenty highly armed guards, a select group of mass murderers and various other psychopathic criminals resided in the isolation wing for the criminally insane.
The group was growing larger and the state needed to do something about it before they lost control. In their current state, these prisoners could not be allowed into the general population under any circumstances.
After twenty years of private practice dealing with severely troubled patients, Dr. Edgar Collins had a reputation for getting positive results. Having written two books followed by a brief touring circuit, the state approached him to design a special program in an effort to normalize some of their more delusional prisoners and return them safely to the prison’s general population.
The plan was to relieve some of the pressure from the doctors and nurses who dealt with these people on a daily basis. Constant contact with these prisoners was causing a lot of burnout and turnovers among the medical staff.
Edgar was in his mid-fifties, bald, unassuming, and getting a little paunchy. He had been assigned to test and evaluate these special prisoners and delve into their psyche. These types of cases were his life. He felt that anyone could experience reclamation of normalcy from wherever their disturbed minds had taken them.
Over time, he held true to his ideas and achieved a high degree of success with most of them. Twenty had already been returned to the general population without mishap. He was happy with the overall results except for that of one troublesome patient. Matthew was a particularly frustrating case and one of the more horrific of the murderers ensconced in the small cells that served as their permanent homes.
The sterile odor often associated with a laboratory assailed Matthew’s nostrils as he sluggishly opened his eyes, struggling for an eternity against the hated drugs. By sheer force of will, he regained consciousness ahead of schedule.
Fluorescent lighting forced him to squint as he listened to the collective noises that swirled disjointedly around him. There was a flurry of activity behind him. Judging from the sound that their shoes made against the terrazzo floor, there were only two other people in the room with him—the doctor and his faithful nurse. However, they were very busy, too busy to realize that he was almost fully awake.
Matthew’s mind was jumbled with random thoughts. He strained to focus their clarity. Why do they persist in keeping me so heavily drugged? I’m not mad; I don’t need this continual assault on my mental faculties. Before they discovered me, I was the perfect killing machine. I was like a spider... yes I remember now. I was tending my territory with ruthless efficiency.
But that seems so long ago… long before they brought me here… long before I met “IT”.
“He’s coming around, Doctor,” said the nurse anxiously as she turned and found him awake. The administered dosage should have caused him to sleep for at least another hour. She hastily checked her charts to confirm the proper dosage had been placed in the drip line.
Matthew smiled inwardly. The rustle of rapidly turning pages was but a small reward for him. These were the small victories that reinforced his sense of superiority over his captors. Still the perfect killing machine...the spider.
Removing a penlight from her uniform, she pulled back his eyelids and shined the light directly in his left eye first, then the right. It was always the same routine.
She’s a functionary, incapable of variation—a pathetic creature of habit. These were Matthew’s last thoughts as the light seemed to pierce directly to his brain. It caused the acid to churn violently in his stomach. Nauseousness swept over him.
As he began to regain control of his body, he thought, Bitch! You’ll be the first to die when it’s time for me to leave. I’ll savor every delectable moment as I escort you from this life and guide you painfully into the waiting arms of death. You will dance the last dance with me… I promise.
Matthew jerked spasmodically as he mentally surmounted the pain and the rapidly growing wave of nausea. It was then that the back of his hand brushed the cool steel of the bed rail as she plodded through her examination. An involuntary shudder of pleasure rippled deliciously through his body as he momentarily imagined that he’d found his knife. The pain was gone now and he reveled in his musings. His lovely, sweet knife was the tool he used to tend his territory.
Over the years, the lethal weapon had become an extension of his delusional self. A cold, steel weapon of destruction in his crusade to rid the world of those he deemed unwanted and a burden on society. The homeless, sick, and alcoholic husks of human debris that littered the alleyways and streets of the cities must be culled from society to improve the overall condition of humanity. This tool, this magnificent tool, devoid of any emotions, was perfect for the job. It was the natural order. The st
rong preyed on the weak and the weak provided fodder for the continuation of a stronger species.
They had deprived him of his mission for so long now, too long by any standards. Society would soon be top heavy with useless, unnecessary people. His brain burned with urgency, necessity. It was nature’s way—he provided the necessary means to ensure the survival of the fittest. His life was being wasted in the imprisonment of the drugs and his confining cell. The state didn’t understand or didn’t care. Prison was a punitive action taken by puny, unenlightened bureaucrats. They could imprison his body, but his mind roamed free to plan for the future and the freedom to continue his mission.
Matthew ached with yearning for the feel of his knife once more. The steel of the bed rail pleasurably seared the back of his hand with a wanton desire. Pulsing quickly throughout his body, the ecstasy of his memories concentrated in his loins and he became aroused immediately—a fact not lost to the nurse’s ritualistic examination.
Letting his earlier rage slip away completely, Matthew surrendered to his thoughts. Following a practiced path, he drifted back to a time before here. He went to a time when his body, mind, and soul were free. It was a cherished time before his confinement… before “IT.”
Flexing his fingers, he wrapped them delicately around the bed rail in a practiced motion. In his mind, he was holding his knife once more, recalling the first moment he conceived its design. It would take several months before he could locate the right steel. He spent countless hours on research about the numerous varieties of stainless steel.
Settling on 316L, a surgical quality stainless, he found a short length of one-inch plate stock at a small supply house out west. Traveling there over a weekend, he made the purchase while disguised, using an assumed name, and with a fictitious address. No one even looked at him, or even cared, but it never hurt to be overly cautious.
