Fire Of Heaven Book II Threshold

by Bill Myers

  And how could he blame her? He’d been a first-class jerk. He knew how arrogant and uncaring he’d sounded back at the Institute. But what other defense did he have? There were too many things that she didn’t know, that she shouldn’t know. Add to that his natural inability to talk to any woman he found attractive and, well — there they were.

  He glanced over at Sarah. She sat sullenly, as close to the passenger door as possible. Yes sir, he’d really outdone himself this time.

  He looked back at the road. Twilight was settling over the fields. Off to the right, between the stands of trees, he noticed glimpses of a dark, billowing cloud. Grateful for a conversation starter, he motioned toward it. “Looks like we’re gonna finally get ourselves some rain.”

  The woman glanced in that direction but said nothing. Brandon shifted his weight. This was going to be harder than he’d thought.

  The road took a slow turn to the left. As he followed it, the cloud came more into view. There was a faint glow reflecting off the bottom. At first he thought it came from the setting sun, but the glow had movement. It seemed to shift and flicker.

  The road continued to turn, and once again the cloud disappeared behind some trees. Brandon hesitated, then decided to keep it in view by slowing and turning off onto a side road.

  “What are you doing?” Sarah asked, her voice still a few degrees below freezing.

  “Looks like some sort of fire.” He motioned toward the bottom of the cloud. “Check it out.”

  Sarah craned her head. “Where?”

  “Right there, right in front of us.”

  She looked in the direction he pointed, then turned back to him, a puzzled expression on her face. He wasn’t sure what her problem was, but this cloud was definitely weird, and worth investigating. As they approached, he realized that it was the only cloud in the sky. He estimated it to be a hundred feet wide and nearly three times that tall. It could have almost passed for a miniature thunderhead. And there was something else … it seemed to be drawing closer to the ground.

  The road angled to the left and for several seconds a large stand of poplars completely blocked the cloud from sight. When it came back into view, it was off on Sarah’s side. They were much closer now — so close that he could see a tremendous turbulence inside it as the cloud churned and boiled upon itself.

  Another turn, this time to the right. And another stand of trees. When the cloud finally came back into view, it was dead ahead, less than two blocks away. And it was hovering directly over the church. His church. Brandon stared in unbelief as it slowly descended toward the structure — as if the building, itself, was somehow attracting it. Trees on both sides of the road started to toss and bend from the approaching wind. But there was something else, something even more astonishing.

  The glow on the bottom of the cloud was not reflecting a sunset or a fire. It was reflecting light, yes, but a light that blazed through every window and opening of the church below it.

  Urgency filled Brandon, and he quickly sped up.

  “What’s going on?” Sarah demanded.

  “It’s Monday night — they’ve got choir practice in there!”

  Now they were a block away. Dust and debris flew all around the truck. And still the cloud descended, dropping closer and closer to the building until, finally, to Brandon’s alarm, it enveloped the steeple.

  He pushed harder on the accelerator.

  He could hear the wind now. Like a roaring freight train, it grew louder and louder. And something else. Something inside the roar. A type of … groaning. Almost a wail. Voices, human voices. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of them.

  The wind kicked up more dirt, making it nearly impossible to see the road. Brandon leaned over the wheel, peering through the windshield.

  “What are you doing?” Sarah called, “Brandon, what’s going on?” But he could barely hear her over the noise.

  They were almost there. The trees writhed and twisted violently. The pickup shuddered, and Brandon had to grip the wheel just to keep it in the road. There was a loud snap, and suddenly the windshield exploded into a spiderweb of cracks as a tree limb smashed into it.

  Brandon hit the brakes, and they skidded to a stop across the road from the church. He threw open the door and staggered into the wind. It pushed and pulled at him, throwing dirt and grit into his eyes. He squinted, covering his face with his arms, and continued forward.

  “Brandon!” Sarah called from the other side of the pickup. “Brandon!”

  He turned to her and shouted. “Get under the truck! Get under the truck!”

  “Brandon, what are —”

  “There are people in there!” He turned back into the wind. It bit into his face as he fought his way across the road. The howling voices grew to a deafening roar. He looked up at the steeple. It was completely engulfed by the cloud.

  He was halfway across the street when he noticed another vehicle — a white VW bug approaching from the north. But no sooner had he seen it than he heard a thundering, rippling clatter. He spun back to the church just as the steeple ripped apart, flinging wood and rubble into the wind, creating a barrage of flying shrapnel. He ducked as pieces struck his legs, his back, his shoulders.

  “Brandon!” He could barely hear Sarah’s voice over the wind.

  Another explosion. He turned to see a side window of the church blowing out. Then another. And another, and another, in rapid succession. But they didn’t explode from wind rushing into the church; they exploded as its light rushed out — as shafts of blazing, piercing light burst through the openings.

  Just as Brandon reached the sidewalk, he heard a loud crack. He looked up to see a giant cottonwood falling toward him. He leaped aside, but a branch caught him from the back and threw him hard onto the concrete. And then there was silence.

  “Brandon …” Sarah’s voice was far, far away. Another world. “Brandon …” He felt her shaking him by the shoulders. “Brandon …”

  Dazed, regaining consciousness, he rolled onto his back. When his eyes focused, he saw her staring down at him, her face filled with concern, her hair flying in the wind.

  And directly behind her — the cloud, much closer now. So close he could make out what appeared to be faces — swirling, contorting faces. Faces that were inside the — no, they weren’t inside the cloud, they were the cloud. They were the source of the roaring winds, the deafening groans. It was these twisting, agonizing, tortured faces that made up the cloud.

  “No!” Brandon shouted. “Stay away!”

  But the faces continued their approach. As they came closer, they condensed, coming together, forming something new. A head. But not a human head. This was something more grotesque, more ferocious. It looked part leopard, part lion, part he wasn’t sure. He could clearly see it, suspended in the air. There were the eyes, the mouth — and there were horns. But not two horns. No, there were several of them. He guessed at least ten.

  “Stay away!” he shouted. “Stay back!”

  The head drew closer. But it was no longer approaching the church. It was coming after them. Its mouth opened as it closed the distance. Brandon went cold with fear. But he was feeling something else as well. A stirring. Deep inside his chest. A swelling. There was a power he couldn’t explain. A burning power that rapidly grew inside of him. It filled his chest then rose into his throat and his mouth. He gulped in air, but nothing would cool the searing heat. His lungs were on fire. The burning power had to escape. The approaching head had to be stopped. He took in another gulp of air; it did no good. The fire within him had to be released. He opened his mouth. A word came to mind; it formed in his throat, his mouth. Somehow it was part of the fire. And before he knew it, he had tilted back his head and shouted. “GO!”

  The word roared from his mouth. But it was more than a word. It was also flame. Burning, leaping flames that shot high into the air. They struck the vaporous head, momentarily igniting, then completely evaporating one of the horns. The head howled in agony as it veered
to the side, avoiding the rest of the fiery blast.

  When the flames ceased, Brandon turned to Sarah. She looked back at him, terrified. He saw it again. Beyond her. The monstrous head. Only now where the horn had been destroyed, another had replaced it — a hideous thing, covered in eyes. He pulled Sarah to the ground. “Get down!” he shouted. “Get back under the truck!”

  He struggled to his feet. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the thing coming directly at him. He raced to the church and ran up the steps, half staggering, half falling.

  “Brandon!”

  He yanked at the doors but they were locked. He banged on them, shouting, beating the glossy white wood with his fists. But the people inside were too frightened to help. Either that or they were already —

  He shoved the thought out of his mind and looked back over his shoulder. The vaporous head appeared below the awning and quickly approached, once again opening its mouth. Brandon turned and slammed his shoulder into the door. It budged, but not enough. He tried again. Still nothing. The swirling head closed in. He leaned back and tried one last time.

  The door broke open with such force that he stumbled, nearly fell, into the foyer. Inside, the room glowed with a brilliant, blinding light. So bright that he didn’t see the three-tiered water fountain until he ran into it. He threw out his hands to catch himself and they splashed into the water. He’d never seen the fountain before and looked at it with astonishment. But even more amazing was the water he’d touched — it had suddenly turned blood red.

  He pulled back with a gasp. Staggering, head reeling, he finally spotted the sanctuary doors. They were closed. On one side stood a strange olive tree, on the other, a giant lampstand holding lanterns identical to the one Jenny had held in the road. And directly over the doors was something else he had never seen before. A sign. But a sign whose words seemed vaguely familiar:

  ENTER NOT WITHOUT THE SHIELD OF FAITH

  With rising fear, he headed for the doors. He didn’t want to go in, but knew he had to. He grabbed the handles, hesitated a moment to gather his courage, then threw them open. He staggered inside two or three steps before finally coming to a stop.

  The sanctuary was absolutely calm. There was no storm. No howling wind. No blinding light. Only the sound of his gasping breath broke the silence.

  Up at the front, below the organ pipes and towering cross, he saw the choir. Members he’d known since childhood — his mother, the reverend, old man McPherson — they were all staring at him, their startled faces filled with concern.

  Brandon closed his eyes, then opened them again. He looked back out the door behind him. There was no light. No cloud. Only Sarah. She stood at the foyer doors, looking on with the same worry and concern as the choir. He reached out to the nearest pew for support. Unable to fight back the exhaustion and the flood of emotion pouring in, he slowly lowered himself into the seat. Tears sprang to his eyes. He leaned over and rested his head on the pew in front of him. The tears continued to form until one fell from his face. It splattered onto the worn oak flooring. Another followed. And then another. He tried fighting them back, but it did no good. They continued to fall, one after another, after another, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

  CHAPTER 8

  EVEN AT A QUARTER past nine, the living room was sweltering. Damp with perspiration, Sarah sat on a worn sofa, waiting for the next sweep of the electric fan. The meeting could have taken place out on Mrs. Martus’s porch, but at this time of year and in this part of Indiana, unless they had an extra pint or two of blood for the mosquitoes, it was better to stay inside.

  At the moment, Mrs. Martus was upstairs helping her son get into bed. Meanwhile, her husband, Brandon’s father, sat in a wheelchair, staring out the screen door. He hadn’t moved a muscle, hadn’t even acknowledged Sarah’s or the reverend’s presence since they’d arrived. She guessed that he was the victim of a severe stroke or some other brain injury.

  She petted Drool, a huge dog who did not get his name by accident, as she carried on small talk with the reverend. He was a handsome man in his late fifties — intelligent, well- read. Like everyone else in the community, they’d begun their conversation by discussing the drought — what it was doing to the crops, how it was affecting the farmers, the future impact upon corn and soybean prices. It wasn’t long before the reverend added, somewhat sardonically, “And in one more week we’ll finally hit the forty-day mark.”

  “Is that significant?” Sarah asked.

  The reverend shook his head with a sigh. “Not to you or me. But you would be surprised at how folks, particularly in these more rural areas, still look to the weather as a sign of God’s favor or disfavor.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m afraid so. And, like it or not, forty days and nights of the heavens being sealed has a distinct biblical ring about it.”

  Sarah nodded, then look up just in time to see Mrs. Martus make her entrance from upstairs.

  “Well, now.” The woman was all smiles as she glided down the steps from Brandon’s room. “I think he’s going to be just fine. ’Course it took a bit of doing, but I finally convinced him to take his medication.” She entered the room, full of poise and Southern grace. Still, there was a certain nervousness about her. An uneasy energy. “Gracious me, where are my manners. You’ve been sittin’ here all this time without anything to drink?” She turned toward the kitchen. “Let me get us some iced tea. I’ll only be a —”

  The reverend was immediately on his feet. “No, Meg.” He smiled. “Please, let me get that for us.”

  “Nonsense. It’s already made. The pitcher’s in the —”

  “Meg, please.” He motioned toward the sofa.

  She hesitated, seeming to waver. And for the first time since she’d arrived, Sarah caught a glimpse of the strain she was under.

  “Please,” the reverend repeated, “you’ve had a very trying evening, Meg.”

  At last Mrs. Martus nodded and the reverend headed for the kitchen. He’d no sooner left the room than she turned to Sarah with a smile. “Well, now, this is service, isn’t it?”

  Sarah smiled back as the woman sat beside her.

  As if unable to endure any silence for long, Mrs. Martus continued, “So tell me, Dr. Weintraub —”

  “Please, ‘Sarah.’ ”

  “All right, Sarah.” Another smile. “How long have you known Brandon?”

  “Actually, not very long.”

  “I didn’t even know he had friends at the Institute.” She pushed a damp tendril of hair to the side. “’Course gettin’ any information from him these days is like squeezin’ blood from a turnip — if you know what I mean.” She chuckled quietly.

  Sarah nodded. Now, at least, she understood his silence. If he was having such experiences as this, no wonder he was afraid to talk to anybody about them. “Mrs. Martus? How long has he been having these — attacks?”

  “Oh, they’re not attacks, dear. Sometimes — well, sometimes he just thinks he sees things that aren’t there, that’s all.”

  Sarah nodded. “How long?” she gently repeated.

  “Dear me.” The woman scrunched her eyebrows in thought. “As a boy, he always had himself a real vivid imagination. Tellin’ stories that’d take your breath away.” Once again she pushed her hair aside. “ ’Course his daddy, there” — she indicated her husband — “he’d always be encouragin’ it. Thick as thieves those two; no separatin’ them. But that was a long time ago.”

  Once again Sarah could sense the woman’s weariness. “Mr. Martus — he’s suffering from… ?”

  “A stroke. Been almost six years now.”

  “And he has no use of his arms or legs?”

  “Or speech,” Mrs. Martus added. “Least that’s what the doctors tell us.”

  Something about that last line led Sarah to believe there was more. “And you believe them?”

  “Me?” Mrs. Martus chuckled. “Well, of course I do, honey. If the good Lord wants to s
end us a trial or two, then that’s his business. Ours is to take what comes in life and make the best of it.” She paused a moment, then glanced upstairs. “’Course, not everyone can accept that fact.”

  Watching her carefully, Sarah ventured a guess. “People like Brandon?”

  Mrs. Martus nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Poor soul.” She glanced at Sarah with a nervous smile.

  Sarah waited, cocking her head inquisitively, making it clear she’d like to hear more.

  The woman looked toward the wheelchair, then down at her lap. And then, after another pause, she started to talk. “The first few months he used to stay up, sometimes all night, praying at his daddy’s side. He was so positive that if he prayed hard enough, if he just had enough faith, he could make his daddy walk.” Her voice trailed off into sad memories.

  Sarah looked back toward the wheelchair, touched by the woman’s emotions but even more moved by this unseen, sensitive side to Brandon. She was about to ask her to continue when the reverend entered carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and three glasses. “Here we go.”

  Suddenly Mrs. Martus was all smiles and good cheer. “I do declare, reverend, you are a man of many talents.” He smiled as he set the tray before them and began filling the glasses. “Sarah was just askin’ how long Brandon’s been havin’ these spells.”

  The reverend nodded. “They really didn’t get bad until after the accident, wouldn’t you say?”

  Mrs. Martus agreed. “At least that’s when the dreams started.”

  “Excuse me?” Sarah interrupted. “Accident?”

  “Oh, didn’t you know?” Mrs. Martus asked. “We lost our little girl about seven months ago. An automobile accident. Brandon was driving.”

  Sarah’s heart moved with compassion.

  “’Course as Providence would have it, he barely had a scratch — but you can hurt a person deeper than in the physical, if you know what I mean.”

  Sarah glanced down. She knew exactly what the woman meant. That’s why she had the lab, her work, the long hours. But what did Brandon have? She turned back to Mrs. Martus. “You mentioned dreams?”