Robert Barlow

         The main gates to the shining city yawned open only a few paces farther on.  The Fallen One faced one obstacle before his host could make entrance.  The gate scribe.  Parchment skin wrinkled around the boundaries of scraggly beard.  Milky eyes peered up at the approaching host.  The Fallen One exercised control over the host's mouth, though he barely contained the man's fear.

         "Name?" asked the scribe.

         "Damon."

         "Ah, a goodly Urbanite name.  Means 'loyal friendship' if I remember right."

         "As you say, Master Scribe.  I beg entrance as a refugee fleeing from the Sylvites."

         "As did those before you and likely those after you as well."  The scribe flicked a crooked finger at the line of ragged travelers.  Then the aged public servant looked up from his quill marks.  "You seem to have a slight Sylvite accent."

         The host immediately stiffened, forcing the Fallen One to lull his mind with repeated promises even as he moved the man's tongue again.

         "My mother suffered from a Sylvite raider.  I am the result of their loveless union."

         The Fallen One felt some satisfaction at twisting the truth.  Now this old fool believed the host to have been raised by a violated Urbanite rather than by the violator.  He soothed the host's mind with reassurances that the man looked sufficiently like his mother's people to easily pass amongst them.

         "You have my sympathy, Damon, refugee from those who shun the light.  Enter and find succor."

         The man entered to the glare of buildings and streets crafted with golden bricks.  On closer examination, it was revealed to be only superficial, a mere hint at the quality of city the Urbanites longed for.  The host's chestnut-brown hand shaded his eyes against a golden brightness that the darker wilderness hadn't prepared him for.  He pulled his hood deeper to better visor his sight as he plunged into the flow of refugees. 

         Not more than a block passed before the host stumbled, though not from the press around him.  Rather, the Fallen One sensed a danger that was also sensing him.

         The Fallen One desired to reach out and know where the caster sought him from.  Yet, he could not perform that search and still maintain control over the host.  To make matters worse, the human swirled with conflicted feelings over what he now witnessed.  The cursed Urbanites were confusing the man with their superficial efforts.  The refugee crowd thinned all around the host, with the sick ushered off to Care wards, the hungry to bowls of stew, and the threadbare to stalls draped in new tunics.  The Fallen One averted the host's eyes while constantly warning the man that all such acts were whitewash and a mere token effort meant to deceive the simple.

         The Urbanites, thicker of feature and larger of nose than the Sylvite tribes, greeted each refugee with a cup of water.  The host eagerly accepted his after the Fallen One realized the extent of the man's thirst.  The man actually reeked of gratitude for it.  The burden of possessing such a fickle creature might have discouraged the Fallen One if something hadn't happened, just then, to renew his image of fallen humanity.

         A middle aged Urbanite woman in a gray robe--with hair to match--offered directions to a much younger refugee.  During this distraction the woman lost her purse and the Fallen One gained an inward smile.  It was obvious to him that the two male refugees worked in league.  The Fallen One thought nothing more of the pleasant distraction and was about to redirect his host toward the great temple when a command gained the attention of all those around him.

         "Stand fast for the city guard!"

         A dozen guards surrounded the host and the purse-cutting victim.  Sunlight reflected from hundreds of studded plates embedded into the boiled leather on the guards.  Their Captain wore a helmet plumed in lion's hair.  The guards pushed forward the two refugee thieves, each now bound by leather loops extending out from stout capture poles.  Other guards stood ready to draw shortswords from tanned leather scabbards.

         The Captain addressed the woman in gray.  "You, comforter of the needy, how do you call yourself?"

         "I am Alexa.  How may I be of service?"

         "It is I who will serve you.  These men took the purse that I now return."

         Accepting the small leather pouch, Alexa gained a heavy face, then whirled on the thieves.  "You had only to ask and I would have freely given." 

         The refugees gave no response to this.

         "What would you see done to them?  There is ample reason for me to deliver them for judgment," said the Captain.

         "I have received mercy and would give likewise," she said.  With that said, the helper dumped the contents of her purse in one hand and divided the six coins between the two thieves.

         "So be it," said the Captain.  "You have spared them a judgment they both deserved.  And now I will determine whether or not such mercy will bear fruit."  The Captain threw his voice outward.  "Discerner!  I need a Discerner to serve the city."

         Not more than a moment passed before a young woman in white robes pushed past the gathered throng to gain entrance between the circle of guards.

         "Has the Spirit gifted you with discernment?" asked the Captain.

         "So I have been told.  What ask you of me?"

         "Discern the hearts of these two."

         The dark haired Discerner laid hands on each of the two thieves in succession.  The searching prayer she uttered grated at the Fallen One.  When she completed her task, she pointed first at the purse-snatcher.

         "That one feigns regret for what he did.  His heart remains hard and snuffs out any spark of repentance.  For the other, there yet remains hope.  The helper's mercy was a tiny seed that has still to bear fruit, if not picked away by the Evil One, withered by trouble, or choked by worry."

         "So be it.  The hopeful one must learn a productive trade if he is to remain amongst us.  The other shall be cast out of the city."

         At this, the soon-to-be-outcast gnashed his teeth and produced tears that streaked the dirt caking his cheeks.  The Fallen One gained some satisfaction that the man's expression remained for his own loss and was not a sorrow that might lead to a change of heart.

         "And what of you?"  The Captain pointed toward the host.  "You witnessed the theft, but took no action to either stop it or shout warning."

         "I am newly come here and unknowing of your customs in such matters," the Fallen One responded via the host.

         "Even the Sylvites know the truth of such things.  This has nothing to do with custom.  Failing to do good isn't much different from what these men did.  In spite of your failure to do good, I too shall show mercy and allow you to remain in the city."

         "Thank you, Captain.  From now on I will do as you have said."  The Fallen One made the host bow low and hoped that his immediate agreement would prevent the sure disaster to follow if the Captain were to ask the Discerner to test the host as well.

         "Then go freely once more, having learned from your witness here."

         The Fallen One quickly directed the host away from the area, fearing that the caster might be closing in due to the delay.  With the day already half gone, there was little enough time to reach the temple and the Fallen One dreaded discovery if the host spent a night in the city.  He had to reach the temple before dusk, when the Prophet ceased his cursed ramblings prior to the dawn of a new day.

         The previously simple task of controlling the host became more and more unbearable the further into the city he trekked.  The Caster who sought them distracted the Fallen One almost as much as the Urbanite assemblies disturbed his host.  Every open square sported either preaching and teaching or prayer and praise.

         "Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you."

         The words of a preacher in a golden robe penetrated the ears of the host and pricked against the Fallen One.  He steered the host away from it for fear of what it was doing to the man's heart.  The Fallen One felt his control slip each time his host discovered a gathering offering up adoration and exultation.  Fervent missives of petition steeped in thanksgiving eroded his grip upon the host.  Yet every effort to avoid the gatherings seemed to bring the Fallen One into closer proximity to the Caster.

         Eventually, it was an older quarter of the city that offered a respite from the Urbanite assemblies.  The Fallen One passed amongst buildings that had been built much closer together.  The narrower ways initially brought comfort and then panic when the guards surrounded the host.  He dodged several of them before the leather loop closed around the host's arms.  Supernatural strength expanded flesh against the binding until the leather stressed and then snapped.  More capture poles jabbed toward him and he ducked away from them with an agility unnatural to humankind.  The guards in his way left the ground only long enough to crash into their fellows.  This created a hole in their ranks that formed a way of escape.  The host raced down the street, breath chuffing and heart thumping.

         The Fallen One skidded the host to a halt after sighting the wall of guards anchored to each side of the red robed caster.  With the way blocked before and after, there remained but one route of escape.  Fingers dug into the mortar between bricks so that bloodied fingertips might pull the man up to the roof.  Once there, the Fallen One dared not let the host rest, lest he miss the opportunity to break free from the pursuit.  With a power far surpassing mortals, the man leapt and scrambled, clawed and sprinted from roof to roof, leaving a trail of broken tile.  Rest came later in the shadow of a building on the outskirts of the temple.

         Before him wrapped the temple's outer wall.  It contained but one gate through which the last crowd surged to hear the Prophet's final word for the day.  The Fallen One had only to follow the human herd to reach his target.  Halfway to the gate, he saw the guards checking the face of every person passing within.  He stopped the host, reconsidering.  The sun hovered ready to fade.  He'd nearly convinced himself to make a suicidal rush to claw through to the prophet when someone called to him.

         "You there.  We need your help."  A bearded man with two younger ones not much past boyhood struggled to lift a stretcher loaded down by a body covered in a blanket.  "We must take this one to the Prophet.  If you will lift the remaining corner of the pallet, the crowd will part for us."

         Out of sheer desperation the Fallen One surged forward and lifted the fourth corner of the stretcher.  He could only hope that the guards would neglect their current scrutiny to make way for the one in need.  For a brief moment, the host's hand brushed the person that they carried.  A momentary spiritual flash surprised the Fallen One, but he could not determine what it had been and still maintain his control over the exhausted host.

         The throng parted before them, guards included in the effort to grant them passage.  Through this human corridor, they passed the gate and then the courtyard until only the temple steps remained.  Then the Fallen One saw the prophet through the eyes of the host.  That ragged little man, speaking his piercing words, with his long hair blended into his camel coat. Somehow that small voice carried to the hundreds spread out from the steps below him.

         "You are the light of the world.  A city on a hill cannot be hidden.  Let your light shine..."

         The words stabbed at the Fallen One, and yet he suffered it for the sake of reaching the Prophet.  For the sake of killing him.

         "For here we do not have an enduring city, but we are looking for the city that is to come."

         The Prophet lapsed into silence at the litter's approach.  At twenty paces the Fallen One, made ready to release the stretcher and leap upon his target.  He expected that his host would die soon after he had silenced the Prophet.  And so, it was with eyes locked upon the target that the Fallen One failed to notice the person sitting up on the litter until she grabbed the host's wrist.

         "Possessed by the Fallen," said the woman on the litter, the very same Discerner that he had seen before.  She stifled his control over the host.

         "I have waited for this day, though I knew not when."  The Prophet's voice resounded much stronger and was layered with the intensity of personal revelation.

         "Spare me," said the voice of the host.

         "You will not speak for him again."  The Prophet motioned with a hand that brought the red caster forward.  "Before you are driven out, I will tell you this one thing.  Even in your rebellion, you have served the Lord of Hosts by bringing us this one.  He will become our greatest Evangelist.  His message will unite the Urbanites and the Sylvites through the Messiah.

         "What is your true name, young man?  For I sense that it is not the one given to the gate scribe by the creature that possesses you."

         "Zuriel.  My mother called me Zuriel."

         "Zuriel.  An apt calling if indeed the Lord is your rock and foundation.  Do you desire it to be so?"

         "I do."  The man's voice rang true, his alone and completely unfettered from the Fallen One's compulsion.

         "Then stand ready to receive the Spirit of the Living God.  Yet first, you will be emptied of that unholy thing poisoning your soul."  The Prophet stepped aside for the Caster.

         "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I..."

         The Caster's words faded against the unveiling of the heavens that the Fallen One alone witnessed.  Radiant light beckoned from the throne of the Almighty, casting illumination on what might have been an eternity in His blessed service if only the Fallen One had not listened to Lucifer's words.  Such was the torture he always experienced during deliverance.

 

 

Copyright 2005, Robert Barlow

Robert Barlow has sold short fiction to Alien Skin Magazine, The Sword Review, Far Sector SFFH (Published on Fictionwise.com), and Dragons, Knights, & Angels Magazine. Robert works as a police detective in Oregon.