The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  Sam kept his arm extended and cocked his head to one side, staring tenderly into Ammon’s eyes. He extended his fingers, then beckoned to him. “I have missed you so much, Ammon. Won’t you be my friend?”

  And with that, it was over. Ammon ran into his arms. Even now, as an adult, he remembered the feeling of comfort and love. Sam held him tight, as they rocked back and forth in the hall. Then Sam lifted him quickly and tossed him in the air. Ammon squealed with delight and held his hands to his eyes. “Come on,” Sam whispered in Ammon’s ear. “Let’s get out of here. I understand you and Luke have been busy building a flying machine. This is so great! Will you show it to me? Then let’s go for a walk, just you and me. I want to hear about your friends. I want to hear everything.”

  The two brothers spent most of Sam’s vacation together, reading, talking, listening to music, and playing games. They spent a lot of time in the garden, for Sam loved it there. He had a genuine touch, an almost uncanny ability to make things blossom and grow. Ammon came to believe Sam could feel the plants and flowers, that somehow he could sense what they needed in order to thrive.

  Sam also had a wonderful voice, soft and tender, like a whisper in the night, and he sang to Ammon in the darkness, tender songs of loved ones and robins and strawberry leaves, his sweet voice so quiet it was barely heard in the dark. Sometimes they would talk through the night. Sam knew so many things about people and places that were far, far away.

  The days passed quickly. It seemed to Ammon that it was only one long summer afternoon, but the time soon came for Sam to go back to school. Once again, Sam bent down to look his baby brother in the eye and held out his arms, asking for one more embrace. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “I love you. We are brothers. That will always be true.”

  Several days later, Ammon’s mother had found him hiding under the bushes in the enormous backyard, wailing in agony, his cheeks stained with huge, rolling tears. She picked him up and held him, brushing the tears from his eyes. “What’s the matter, Ammon?” she asked tenderly.

  Ammon buried his head in her shoulder. “I can’t tell you,” he cried.

  “Of course you can, baby. Now tell me, what’s wrong.”

  Ammon pulled back and shamefully wiped the tears from his eyes. “Go ahead,” his mother prodded in her comforting way.

  Ammon buried his head on her shoulder again. “I just miss Sam so much!” he cried through his heartbroken tears.

  * * *

  As Ammon stood in the drizzle and looked down the long, empty street, as he felt the cold chill and wet mist on his face, as he stood in the darkness in a city he no longer recognized, the tall buildings around him and the rain on his cheek, he realized that he missed his older brother as much as he had ever missed anything in his life.

  Is this what earth-life will be like? he wondered to himself. Somewhere deep inside, will I miss my home then like I miss my big brother now?

  * * *

  Ammon heard the sound of footsteps and turned to see a group of men walking toward him. They came from far down the street, down near the park, which was now a wet, muddy mess. Marching toward him, they stayed close together and held their heads low. There were five, maybe six, and none of them spoke as they walked. An older woman followed them closely, wearing a dark, flowing robe, holding one corner of the garment to keep the hem off the wet street. The group approached him in silence and formed a small circle, four or five feet away.

  “Hello,” Ammon greeted them.

  None of the young men replied.

  Ammon turned quickly to look into each of their faces. The strangers watched him closely, their eyes cold and intense. He felt a sudden shiver of something he had not felt before. The woman pushed through the circle with a large and powerful arm, her face tightly puckered, her lips pressed into a cruel frown.

  “What do you want here?” she asked before she even came to a stop.

  Ammon paused. “I have business,” he answered.

  “You have no business here. We know our own kind.”

  Ammon shot a quick glance at the men and felt another shiver run down his spine. He turned back to face her, his shoulders defiant and square. He took a step toward her, but the woman did not step back. The circle tightened up with a shuffle of feet.

  “What do you want?” she demanded again.

  “I’m looking for my brother,” Ammon replied.

  The woman snorted, an exaggerated look of surprise on her face. “Oh, he’s looking for his brother,” she cried sarcastically. “But we’re all brothers, boy, isn’t that what all you guys teach? Or don’t you believe Him? Have you too turned away?” She laughed to her men, then thumped him once on the chest. Ammon recoiled at her finger. No one had ever touched him in anger before! And it offended him. It stirred him unlike anything he had ever felt before.

  Ammon stepped back. “Do you know my brother Sam?” he demanded. “If you do, I’d like to see him. If not, I’ll be on my way.”

  The woman turned and pointed with her hand down the street. “I don’t know your brother,” she grunted. “And neither do you. And now you should go. You have no business here.”

  Ammon hesitated, then pushed through the circle, holding her glaring eyes as he passed. As he moved by her, she leaned into him, her anger burning inside her, a yellow fire in her eyes. It smoldered so powerfully he could almost smell it on her breath; like a wet, musky smoke, she smelled of loathing and hate.

  “See you later, boy,” she sneered as he passed. He didn’t answer, but turned his back to her and walked again, all alone, down the dark, empty street.

  Three blocks later, he heard another set of footsteps behind him. Slowing, he heard a voice that he recognized.

  Master Balaam, the great teacher, one of his most trusted friends, one of the most respected instructors and mentors at the university, stepped from the shadows and into the light. Ammon turned quickly, a look of relief on his face. “Balaam!” he shouted. Then he took a step back, for Balaam looked different, and it startled him. His face was thin and dark, his eyes sullen and mean, his jawbone protruding over a long and sinewy neck. Ammon watched him a moment, then stepped toward him again.

  Balaam stood his ground. “You shouldn’t be here, Ammon,” he said in a gravely voice. “We just want to be left alone. Sam–all the others. We don’t need your interference. We are satisfied.”

  Ammon stopped suddenly. “You have talked to Sam?” he asked urgently.

  “Of course I have, Ammon. I talk to him every day.”

  “I need to see him, Master Balaam.”

  “Why?” Balaam snorted. “So you can try and convert him. Don’t you people ever give up? Like I told you before, we are satisfied. We don’t need anything. All we ask of your people is that you leave us alone.”

  Ammon took another step forward. “Sam is my brother, Balaam, and you know how I feel. Won’t you take me to him? I know he would talk to me.”

  Balaam shook his head. “He doesn’t want to see you, Ammon, he told me himself. He said I should tell you that it was time to give up. He wants you to leave here and never come back.”

  Ammon shook his head bitterly. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  Balaam knew that he wouldn’t. The young could be so naïve, so idealistic, as if people couldn’t disappoint or change. “You know, Ammon, you had your chance,” he said. “You and Sam could be working together. I made you an offer that night on the mountain, but you chose another way.”

  Ammon gestured around him. “From what I’ve seen, there isn’t anything here that I want to be part of.”

  “Don’t you want to be a part of Sam? Don’t you want to have him in your life?”

  Ammon answered slowly. “You know I love Sam. And he knows that too. But Jehovah is my Savior, and he is the one I will serve.”

  “Hmmm,” Balaam wondered, pretending to think to himself. “Then let me ask you something, Ammon. I notice that Michael the Archangel is forming his army. He has chosen his lea
ders from the good and the strong, and put them in charge of his messengers, valiant groups of women and men. And I noticed, Ammon, that when he selected his leaders, he did not choose you. What’s the matter, Ammon, aren’t you smart enough? Or good enough? Or is it that you aren’t one of his boys, you know, one of the group who always get recognized?”

  Ammon was slow to answer, and Master Balaam smiled. “So, you have thought about it. And why shouldn’t you? If I were you, I’d be angry. Doesn’t he care about you?”

  Ammon shook his head. “Won’t you take me to Sam? That’s all I came here for.”

  Balaam switched his voice. It was intense, almost angry, and bitter as brown water from a dead well. “Now you listen to me, Ammon,” he said in a sneer. “I asked you to join us, but you rejected me. I will ask once more, but this is the last chance you will get. Come! Join with us. Work with Sam and me. Lucifer will make you a leader over ten thousand strong. He will make you a commander of others. You will be recognized. Michael may ignore you, but we see your strength. We know your talents and what lies ahead. What a future you will have, if you come join with me. You and your brother, commanding together, rallying other soldiers for the salvation of men. And I’m talking all men, Ammon, both the weak and the strong, not just those who are fortunate enough to be chosen by God. Remember, my dear Ammon, you were not chosen before. Will you be selected to be saved by your unforgiving God, he whom you claim to be perfect, but whom I wonder about?”

  Ammon’s chest tightened in anger. He would do it right now; he would stand up and fight. Balaam saw his face tighten, and he took a step forward. “He won’t do it,” he whispered. “You believe in Him; I know that. But deep down inside, I think you wonder too. Will Jehovah go down and be perfect? Not even one tiny sin? Think about that, Ammon. Is it possible? He will be spit upon and reviled, mocked and hated by far lesser men, and yet he will never, not once, have an uncharitable thought, not a single pang of regret or ounce of self-pity. He will be hated and beaten, like some mongrel dog, while lesser men pass their judgment–and you believe he will never, not once, feel any anger or wish for revenge? Remember, it won’t be good enough that he do the right thing. He can’t even feel the wrong way, for that too is a sin. He must have perfect control over his body, his will, and his mind. He can’t experience a moment of selfish anger or miss a single opportunity to serve. He can’t entertain one self-serving notion, unkind thought, or harsh word! Not even one sin! Who can do that, I ask? It is impossible.

  “So ask yourself, Ammon. Will he go down and be perfect. Or will he spoil the plan? It is foolishness, and you know it is.”

  The great teacher moved forward, glaring into Ammon’s face. “Look at me, Ammon,” he sneered in disgust. “Look at me, Ammon; look into my eyes. Do you see hope and salvation? Is this the face of the damned?”

  Ammon lowered his head as his heart slammed in his chest. But he swallowed and turned, forcing the anger down. He refused to get caught up in an argument with Balaam, for he had heard everything, heard all of their arguments before. “Will you take me to Sam?” he asked a final time.

  “Don’t you see?” Balaam sneered, his lips curling into a dark scowl. “Sam’s not your brother. He doesn’t care about you anymore. He wants you to join him; but if you don’t, that is fine. In that case, he has pledged to fight you. Now go, Ammon, go! But keep this in mind. We have one of your brothers, and we are coming for the other one. And we are not through with you.”

  Balaam snorted and Ammon turned away. Walking down the street, he felt a cold stare, the dark piercing eyes boring into the back of his head.

  * * *

  Sam watched the exchange from a dark window that looked out over the street. He leaned against the glass, a lonely look on his face. Inside he was torn, almost twisted in two. A part of him, a hungry part buried deep in his soul, wanted to run to his brother, fall on his shoulders, and cry with relief.

  He wanted to go home. He had been gone too long.

  But he knew that he couldn’t. There was no way he could now.

  He felt a heart-wrenching shudder as his brother walked away. And as he leaned against the window, watching Ammon walk down the long, lonely street, the blackness inside him seemed to only grow worse, the isolation more bitter and the frustration more sharp.

  He swallowed and turned, jamming his fists in his eyes.

  How he longed for the comfort and feel of his land. How he longed for his family. How he wished he could go home!

  Chapter Ten

  The sun was just coming up when Ammon walked through the front door. The first thing he noted was the silence. Normally there would have been some kind of music–Beth would have made certain of that, even if it were merely her singing to get the day under way. But not this morning. She was quiet, and there was no music there. The enormous house seemed lonely and deserted, its huge rooms and open balconies begging for the voices of friends.

  Elizabeth was waiting, her face drawn in worry, her cheeks moist and soft beneath her red eyes. Luke was resting on the couch, but he bolted upright at the first sound of Ammon’s footsteps. Beth rushed toward Ammon, with Luke only a half step behind.

  “Did you see him?” Luke asked as he moved to Ammon’s side. Ammon looked at him wearily and barely moved his head to the side.

  “Nothing?” Luke demanded. Ammon shook his head sadly again. Beth grabbed his hand and squeezed. “You should have let us go with you,” she cried.

  Ammon pulled away, walked toward a white couch, and fell back wearily. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, “but he is gone, and there’s nothing any of us can do.”

  Beth sighed in despair, then glanced toward Luke, knowing he would be crushed. Ammon watched her and they exchanged a quick look before she turned away.

  Luke missed the exchange as he moved to stand in front of Ammon. “Tell me what happened. Did you see anyone?” he demanded.

  “I talked with Master Balaam,” Ammon answered. Luke cringed, looked surprised, then cast his eyes to the floor.

  Elizabeth sucked in her breath. “Master Balaam!” she muttered in astonishment. “He’s over there? But he was the chancellor! He had everything! Look what he is giving up! It doesn’t make any sense.” Luke remained silent, and Beth took a step toward him and studied his face. He couldn’t meet her eyes, and she covered her mouth. “Luke, you knew about Balaam?” she asked in a soft voice.

  “Ammon told me a few days ago,” he replied, then looked away, afraid of revealing his secret time spent with Balaam.

  “But Master Balaam . . . !” she sighed.

  Luke glanced over to Ammon. “Balaam has seen Sam, hasn’t he?” he pressed.

  Ammon was slow to answer. “Sam and Balaam are working together,” he finally said.

  “That’s good!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “If the two of them are together, if Master Balaam is with Sam, maybe he will be able to–”

  Ammon lifted a hand. “No, Beth, I’m sorry. Balaam isn’t the same person you knew before. He isn’t going to help Sam. Quite the opposite now. He is a demon, a monster, part of the reason Sam’s there.”

  Beth looked away sadly, her eyes wet with tears. Luke bent down to Ammon and stared into his face. The brothers stared at each other, as if reading each other’s minds. “I’m tired, Luke,” Ammon finally said as he pushed himself up. “I’m so tired. And weary. I don’t know if I have ever quite felt like this before.”

  Luke nodded as he held out his hand to help his brother stand. “Ammon,” he said as the two stood side by side, “before you go, there is one more thing.”

  Beth turned quickly around and took a step toward Luke. “Not now,” she pleaded. “You need to give him time to rest.”

  “No, Beth, there is no time,” Luke replied. “He needs to know Teancum was here.”

  Ammon looked up suddenly upon hearing Teancum’s name. Teancum was a warrior, a man who knew no fear, a wild and impetuous fighter who was the first to defend. Ammon focused on Luke. “You talked to Teancum?
” he asked.

  “Yes. He came here looking for you.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I don’t know,” Luke replied. “He wouldn’t say.” Luke thought back on Teancum’s visit, remembering him stalking through the room, his long hair streaming back, his oversized white shirt flowing with each movement of his arms. He was agitated and anxious, restless as a cat in a cage. “He was very anxious to see you,” he said to Ammon, thinking of Teancum’s determined face. “Something is happening. You could see it in his eyes.”

  Ammon thought of the frenzy of the rally. Yes, something was happening. Events were speeding forward, and he had a momentary sense of spinning out of control. A darkness fell upon him, a black sense of frustration and defeat. He stared at his hands. He felt empty and hopeless.

  “I’m so tired,” he repeated, fighting the depression inside. “I’m so tired. I’m so tired. Let’s talk later.”

  * * *

  Time passed, and the battle with Satan grew more intense. As time went by, and as the battle grew more violent, Lucifer became more and more secretive, until he was rarely seen moving or working in the light. He became bitter and resentful, the anger and jealousy growing like a cancer inside. It ate him, cell by cell, maggots of hate feasting on his cankered soul, until after a time he was completely consumed by his rage. At times he was seen by his lieutenants to raise his fist to the light and curse the Father openly, threatening and spitting out hateful words of revenge until even his followers, even his former friends, avoided his presence, for he instilled loathing and fear.

  But though his followers feared him and even resented his presence, still they were loyal, even devoted to him. He was their god now. He had promised them salvation, power, and revenge. He had promised them dominion over all eternity. And he would deliver. One way or another, they knew he would produce.

  At one point, when a messenger came with particularly worrisome news, Lucifer fell in a heap of rage on the floor, writhing and groaning as if in great pain. He cried in frustration as his lips curled back, his eyes cold, almost yellow, the pupils constricting in anger. “I am the Begotten,” he hissed in rage. “Worship me! Worship me!” He slapped his hands and feet on the floor.