by Bryan Nowak
“Do you think this is part of the prophecy? I mean, we all know the stories. We’re trained on them since our selection. Is this the prophecy?”
Donny leaned back in the huge leather chair, rubbing a whiskery chin while examining the trees dancing in the wind outside the huge bay window. The pair sat in silence for a moment. Matthew held his breath in anticipation of an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.
“Deacon Matthew, I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone knows. It’s a good question for The Master. I’m going to ask him, but you know how these things work. We’ll either get a concrete answer or more questions. I have to tell you, out of all of the things I was prepared to deal with today, this wasn’t one of them.”
Matthew shook his head. “Me neither. Well, Donny, have a good rest of your day. Sorry to spring this on you like we did. I had a duty to report it right away.”
“You did well Matthew. That idiot Waylon would’ve completely screwed it up, if left to his own devices. You’re a good brother to him.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Keep an eye on him, make sure no one else finds out about this. If he gets out of line, you know what you have to do. I authorize you to take matters into your own hands.”
They locked eyes for a brief moment, and then Matthew nodded resignedly. “I understand. If it comes to it, I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“That’s why you are a deacon. Go with the Master’s grace, Brother Matthew.”
“Go with the Master’s grace, Brother Donny.”
Matthew walked out of Donny’s office, closing the heavy wooden doors behind him. He took a moment to admire them. The first time he’d seen them was when he had been commissioned as a deacon. The intricate workmanship suggested the artist was master craftsman.
All of the more private ceremonies were held here. In addition to the Reverend’s house, the office also served as the church’s main office when no one was at the sanctuary.
Matthew found Waylon slouching in one of the hallway chairs, staring at a spot on the floor. “C’mon Waylon, time to get you home.”
Waylon stood up wordlessly, his gaze still fixed to an undefined spot on the floor. To Matthew, Waylon appeared more frail than just an hour before, as if being in Donny’s office shaved a few years off his life.
Matthew knew part of Waylon’s down-trodden look was due, in part, to his continued battle with his illness. The sickness advanced quicker than anyone thought possible. Not even Donny knew the extent of the sickness. The stress took a heavy toll on him.
Waylon turned to face Matthew as his friend started the engine. “Matt, what happens now? I mean, for real?”
Matthew hadn’t gone by Matt in years; he’d always been Matthew to anyone who knew him. Matt was the name Waylon used when they were kids. The use of the name reminded him of a time on the playground, where Waylon sat under the oak tree. He tried to stop a nose bleed after Eric Wickerman beat the crap out of him. Waylon had balled like a five-year-old. He’d asked him the exact same question then, “Matt, what happens now?”
As kids, what to do always was black-and-white. Mathew found Eric Wickerman and beat the shit out of the boy until Eric promised not to pick on the much-smaller Waylon ever again. Today, Matthew wished the answer was as simple as tracking down Eric and beating him up again. Times were simpler then. “I don’t know buddy.”
“That’s what I thought. Do you think this is the prophecy?”
Matthew put the truck in drive and navigated the long, winding driveway back to the main road. He thought about the question his friend had asked. Even as kids, Waylon turned to Matthew for guidance when life fell out of alignment. As adults, given the right stresses, they fell into their traditional roles as leader and follower.
“I’ve got to tell you, Waylon, I really have no idea.”
Matthew came back to the city by choice. After finishing the state law enforcement academy, Riapoke made the perfect home base. The town municipal and religious leadership, one and the same, pulled strings to get him assigned to the region permanently. Matthew grew up here and knew the people. He’d do anything for them and they would do anything for him.
Although familiar with the goings-on of the community and managing to stay in touch with the people, he knew little about the Church of the Master before returning home. The reverend had come to town three years before his return and took everyone by storm. Neighbors who’d never seen the inside of the church transformed into the most devout fanatics. Donny, a local boy who’d moved away in his college years, was welcomed back as a prodigal son after his parents died.
Donny Swenson had a gift for preaching and knew how to get people to see things his way. Radiating charisma, the man worked crowds into a frenzy, and soon Matthew understood what many others did. In addition to serving as pastor, Donny served as the town’s Mayor. In the last two elections, he ran un-contested.
Different from his conservative Baptist upbringing, Matthew enjoyed the services, becoming more and more involved in the church over time. They’d introduced a training program for both children and the adults. He liked this approach and it helped him become more involved. Eventually, Matthew received a commission as a deacon and was handed a key to the church. He also learned the awful truth. At that point, it was too late to back out.
“Matthew, what are you thinking about?” Waylon asked, disturbing his reverie.
Matthew sighed. “I was thinking about when I moved back to this town. You remember when I arrested you for being drunk on your old boat? Boy, you sure were lit that day.”
“I do. I never thanked you for that.”
“Thanked me for what? I arrested you.”
A congenial note tinged Waylon’s voice. “True, you arrested me. You also treated me like a person, not just another drunk off the street.”
Waylon had his fair share of problems with alcohol over the years. Although he’d gotten drunk on a regular basis, rarely did it harm anyone or anything beyond his own liver. Matthew took it upon himself to take care of him, to be the older brother Waylon didn’t have. As the years went on, the drinking increased.
Eventually, Waylon confided in Matthew his terrible news. Drinking, for him, was the only defense against the pain of the cancer, incurable and aggressive, taking over his body.
“You’re not a bad guy, Waylon. You just need help every once in a while. Well, here you go, safe and sound.” Matthew brought the truck to a stop in front of his apartment building. “Remember, stay away from your truck. And I don’t want to see you down at The Oyster tonight. I find you down there, I’ll put you in lock-up until tomorrow. Got it? I don’t care if you drink at home. But sure as shit, stay home.”
“Okay, Matt. I will. Thanks for taking care of me … again.” Matthew watched as Waylon stepped out of the truck and headed up the stairs to the apartment. His friend looked old, moving slower than he’d ever seen before, he guessed that little boy who held a bleeding nose in the playground now had a life measured only in a few weeks or months if he was lucky.
The Oyster Bar was the only place in town open past ten. On top of making a mean corned beef sandwich, they also served liquor to the local residents until the town’s unofficial curfew. Waylon was a regular. Despite his friends frail state, and assurances, Matthew knew he’d have to check later to make sure Waylon resisted the temptation.
A sudden drenching rain made the streets vanish until the wipers caught up with the onslaught. Lost in thought, the darkness overtaking the sky impressed itself upon him and complimented his melancholy mood. He hadn’t remembered any bad weather in today’s forecast, though this time of the year it was hard to predict impending storms with any certainty.
Expecting chaos to ensue, Matthew drove to the ramp. Surprisingly, things moved a lot more smoothly with the storm than without it. A couple of people waited patiently to get boats on trailers and the sudden downpour didn’t bother anyone. He watched as the last group just finished ratcheting a pontoon onto a trailer. As soon a
s it was secure, they would pull it out of the water to finish the rest of the work in the parking lot.
Parked in the corner, he continued to observe the quickly dissipating boating population of Riapoke. Matthew watched each boater drain their boat’s bilge at the lake rather than just drive off with water still accumulated, a ticket-able offense with the rise of the zebra muscle; an invasive crustacean which traveled from one lake to another in the bilge water of boats. They likely only behaved themselves because he was watching them, like a strict parent insisting they clean their rooms or eat their broccoli.
The moment the final trailer pulled off the boat ramp, the worst of the rainstorm hit. He could barely make out the light at the end of the dock. Unfortunately, the unenviable task of checking the grounds to make sure no one remained out on the lake fell to him. Right now the idea of getting out of the truck was absurd, the noise of the rain pelting the roof of the cab was almost deafening. Steeling himself and taking a deep breath, he pulled a green raincoat and rubber hat out of the center console, hoping they would keep the worst of it away.
Matthew had made mistakes in his life. However, his dedication to the residents of Riapoke wasn’t one of the things he regretted. He’d learned to ignore the world outside of town. Within the city lines, however, he made sure all was as well as possible. Cautiously stepping out of the truck, a six-inch deep hole in the parking lot instantly swallowed Matthew’s boot, soaking through to his bare skin instantly.
Damn it, I need better boots.
As he approached the docks, he was relieved to find them completely empty. A flash of lightning passed overhead. The rain, draining off the main road, formed an appreciable river in the center of the parking lot which sliced its way down the boat ramp and into the lake.
Casting a cautious glanced toward the sky, he stepped out onto the dock. While the planking was recycled, non-conductive building material, the frame underneath was aluminum and could carry the electric charge from a lightning strike with terrifying efficiency. Any more lightning and he’d abandon this task until conditions were less dangerous.
A small, yet powerful light sat on an eight-foot pole at the end of the pier. Installed to help late night boaters, without it the boat ramp sat in complete darkness, posing a hazard to people returning from their fishing trips. The light was set to activate with a timer or if a sensor in the parking lot sensed rain.
As a boy, he remembered standing on the end of the dock, skipping rocks across the lake. The lake had been a huge part of his life, almost like a family member. As the rain pummeled his hat and raincoat, he quietly worried about the implications of Waylon’s find. Carl Jensen was one of several dozen unfortunate souls calling the lake their final resting place. The population of Riapoke had long since collectively sworn this fact to secrecy.
This bothered him. As a sworn officer, under oath to uphold the law, he should be the one to speak for the innocent. By the time the terrible secret of the town of Riapoke took hold of him, the web had proved inescapable. If Matthew were to turn his back on Riapoke, which he would do in an instant, his family would suffer the consequences. He had to protect his mother, father and sister, who were still within The Master’s reach. They were the only things tying him to Riapoke and the awful secrets it held.
As a deacon, the prophecy The Master foretold became his secret to bear.
One who had given of themselves for all and should remain hidden, would be found at the water’s edge. A stranger brings upheaval, while a native son betrays. A mother’s courage refuses to abandon a task as she represents a false offering. A son saves that which he cannot live without, and Riapoke sees its own end.
While many residents spent countless hours attempting to decipher it, the cryptic meaning of the message eluded them. Even The Master himself remained unclear on what it meant, only that it was something they must always be on guard for.
Off in the distance, just past where the waves formed a solid mass of gray, something caught his eye. At first, the form wasn’t clear. A mass of shadows solidified, and a boat emerged from the chaotic downpour. Its passengers trying desperately to make it to the dock. A woman rowed desperately in the center of the craft while a man, seated aft, worked the motor, trying to steer them. It would be comical if the rain and the waves weren’t threatening to sink the boat.
They needed help, and quickly. Matthew waved his arms at them to get their attention, while searching the dock for the rescue rope.
The Penitent Man
Donny navigated the roads toward the church. The day, beginning as nicely as it had, took a turn for the worse. News like this couldn’t wait, and The Master may provide direction. Reflexively, he breathed into his hand, catching whiff of the bourbon. The Master hated it when people came smelling of booze. While encouraging underlings to drink as much as they pleased to keep them compliant, the higher up you went in the order the more sobriety was demanded.
The Master issued a standing order that he was to be immediately informed of any strange events. Everyone from deacon on up knew the prophecy. They read a copy of the proclamation while the original parchment sat under glass, protected as a foundational document of their faith. In many ways, it served as a central tenet of Riapoke’s religion. If they wanted to keep their way of life, teaching vigilance for the fulfillment of the prophecy took prominence. In essence, these events stood as a final warning before it all came crashing down around them. Missing the signs also meant missing the opportunity to forestall the town’s demise.
Donny’s car turned into the parking lot of the sprawling church complex. Centered on one-hundred-fifty acres of mainly pine forest, it physically dominated the area. In addition to a huge sanctuary, a bell tower rose one-hundred feet into the air. Two wings extended out on either side of the sanctuary, each standing two stories tall. One wing serving as church offices and meeting rooms. The other served as an education wing and storage area. In the back of the church a large pond with a fountain in the middle made up a contemplation garden. It’s parking lot, huge compared to most churches, had parking for over five hundred cars. The church was far larger than a congregation of this size would ever need.
The buildings enormous size was never planned with the size of a congregation in mind, however. The church had been built over The Master’s cave and planned to be large enough to keep prying eyes away from The Master’s inner sanctum, and those never destined to leave his lair from ever being able to escape.
Legend spoke of the Powhatan Indians finding the cave. Exploring the hole in the earth they found springs of fire protruding from the walls. Following the cave to its terminus, they met The Master. He told them of time, before time; of love and loss; of formation and destruction; and many stories captured in legends and ancient tales told around the camp fire.
He foretold their ultimate demise and the epoch which saw the end of the Native American dominance on this continent and subsequent enslavement to the white man. Years later, the stories were handed down to the descendants of those early cave explorers.
The cave sat largely forgotten for many years. Future explorers would discover the cave and The Master; however, the tone changed. Presenting himself as a God, someone they relied upon to keep them safe, they built a house at the entrance to the cave. Eventually it became a larger structure. Now it stood in its present form, a brick and mortar church building. Complete with an altar, a secondary, and rarely used cave entrance, remained hidden directly under the floor of the sanctuary. The main entrance to the cave was accessible behind a door in the pastor’s office.
Waiting at a light that stubbornly turned red just before he reached the intersection, Donny wondered about the early Indians. Why did they never ask The Master to ensure their survival? The Master could do anything including protect them. Either they chose not to ask for those things, or their fate was already written in stone.
The rain continued its assault as he drove the short distance to church. The weather station had suggested the
rain would eventually give way to beautiful blue skies later that morning, which fit his mood in some ways. The rain was cleansing, and yet destructive at the same time. The prophecy, although confusing and nebulous, could be interpreted the same way. Both cleansing and destructive at the same time.
“I really must stop over analyzing this,” Donny said to no one. “The Master will know how to handle things.” No one, in the history of their order, had ever come across anything like this.
He pulled into the church parking lot. The space reserved for the reverend featured its own carport, which kept him from getting soaked during a rainstorm, right before preaching. A three-foot area of space remained uncovered where the carport ended, and the large awning covering the front of the building began. That point always felt symbolic. One side represented the church and everything serving The Master, the other side represented everything he could control and his home. The gap stood as a chasm between sweet ignorance and oftentimes terrifying knowledge.
The questions ran deep; and he hoped The Master would make it all clear. Sometimes, gaining a little knowledge can be just as frightening as the lack of it.
Leaping across the short expanse, Donny repressed the trepidation which always came with entering the church. A short walk up the stairs brought him face to face with the heavy wooden doors, carved years ago by a master craftsman, the man’s name now lost in time. The artistry that went into the doors was so great, in fact, The Master determined the man should be sacrificed as a tribute. A little unusual, since tributes were usually nobodies passing through town to other destinations.
The Master told them, years ago, that every tribute should be someone on the fringes of society, those no one would miss. Someone who’s starting point was as unknown as their ending point. This way they would add their own unknown journey to his. Plus, such people would be far less likely to have anyone looking for them.
