copyright (c) 2001, Theodore Beale. All rights reserved.
The white-haired pastor lifted the purple stole from around his neck, folded it carefully, and gently placed it in the cabinet drawer. He drew his robe over his head, and as he did so, he noticed that its thick cloth looked faded and yellow beneath the overhead lights. It was time to get a new robe; how long had it been since he’d bought this one, six years ago, maybe even seven?
He glanced at the clock on the corner of his desk. Nine thirty-six, and he’d missed dinner again. Ah well, it wouldn’t hurt him to miss a meal, he thought as he ruefully patted the round curve of his paunch. Vanity, my goodness, but everything is vanity. He stared at his reflection in the dark window that looked out over the parking lot. Even past the promised three-score and ten, a man might cling to the tattered shards of his vanity, to the sagging, wrinkled remnants of his youth.
He might, but it would be foolish of him. The pastor frowned at his reflected image and picked up the telephone. There was a single ring, and an answer.
“Hello?”
“Marjorie, it’s me.”
“Gerald, where have you been?” His wife’s voice was neither accusing nor concerned, only mildly curious. “I thought the board meeting was going to be over at eight-thirty.”
“So did I.” He manfully resisted the temptation to share the uncharitable thoughts that were still flowing rancorously through his mind. “Ed and Linda are concerned about the associate pastorship. They didn’t come right out and say it, of course, but they may as well have. It seems that the general view of the congregation is that I’m liable to drop dead at any moment!”
His outrage was apparent to his wife of fifty-one years, but she betrayed no hint of the knowing smile that crossed her lips to the other side of the telephone line.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she told him sincerely. She listened patiently as he vented his wounded feelings before weighing in with her own opinion. He paused to take a breath, and she seized her opportunity. “But they do have a point, you know.”
“A point?” Pastor Woodhouse stopped his pacing at this attack from an unexpected front. “You think… I mean, you agree with them? You think I’m too old?”
His wife chuckled.
“Not for me, Gerald. And surely not for God. But I always knew the day would come when it would be time for you to step down from the pulpit, and I knew it would be hard for you. Now, maybe that day isn’t here yet, but it is something you need to think about. And pray about.”
Gerald was silent for a long time. Then his wounded sense of pride abruptly disappeared, like a balloon popping before the pinprick of his wife’s gentle wisdom. He laughed suddenly, the same hearty, rolling laugh that had won her heart so many years ago.
“Of course, you’re right, Marjorie. What was I thinking? This church needs new blood, a young man with spirit and energy, not a tired old Methusaleh like me.”
He heard Marjorie make a clucking noise over the phone line.
“Now don’t you be writing your resignation tonight either, Gerald Woodhouse!” She knew her husband very well, and his thoughts were transparent to her. “Come home, I’ll put a log on the fire, and we’ll talk about it over a nice hot cup of tea.”
“Okay,” he agreed ruefully. “I’ll be home in ten minutes.”
“Drive carefully, my love. That nice young woman on Channel Nine says the roads are rather slippery tonight.”
“I will,” he promised her. “Be home in a bit, honey.”
“Bye, dear.” There was a click and the line went dead.
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In like a lion, out like a lamb. Those words sounded nice enough, but whoever wrote them never lived through a March in Minnesota, Gerald thought critically, as he fumbled for his keys under the parking lot lights. It had been fifty-six degrees only two days ago, but the temperature had dropped below freezing again, and the misty rain of the early evening had hardened into pellets of ice that now pelted his exposed face and hands. It felt as if he were being bombarded by a barrage of invisible needles, tiny jabs that stung but did not penetrate.
A sudden tightness gripped his chest, like a massive hand grabbing him over the left shoulder, and he dropped his keys. As they struck the pavement with a jangling sound, the invisible hand squeezed, and Gerald grunted, first in surprise, and then in pain. He clutched the roof rack of his Oldsmobile to steady himself, and he tried to inhale, but found that he couldn’t, for the pressure on his chest prevented him from taking any but the shortest of breaths.
“Heavenly Father, be with me!” he gasped aloud, and the cold, and the wind, and the pain abruptly disappeared. A peaceful warmth enveloped him, as if a pair of strong arms were holding him from behind, offering gentle support and strength. He closed his eyes, leaning back into those restful arms, and then he smiled.
“Ah, how great thou art,” he silently praised the God he had served for so many years. “How great thou art!”
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Melusine watched nervously as the white-haired old man breathed his last in front of her. The freezing temperature did not bother her in the least, although her meager attire would have been more suitable for Maui than Minnesota at this time of year, at least if she’d been human. But she wasn’t human, and her black-feathered wings and slender, snaky tail would surely have attracted a good deal of attention on the beaches of Hawaii. Or anywhere, for that matter.
But right now, attention was the last thing Melusine sought. In fact, she was doing her best to keep the large, horned mass of Ar-Balazel between her and the giant black-skinned archangel who was holding the dying man in his muscular arms. Tears of grief streaked the guardian’s face as he whispered reassuring words of comfort to the man. The old man did not speak, and his lips did not move, but Melusine felt the silent echo of his final praise to Heaven’s King rip through her spirit like an electric shock.
The unpleasant sensation was only momentary, and as it faded, she saw the guardian laying his mortal charge’s lifeless, empty vessel down gently onto the cold asphalt of the parking lot. Melusine cringed as the archangel dashed away tears from his dark face with one hand and reached for the giant sword he’d dropped with the other. That sword had already cut down Gezerael, the mordrim who’d instigated the old man’s heart attack, and judging by the fire in the Divine angel’s grief-stricken eyes, he wasn’t the only Fallen who was going to feel its bite tonight.
“You have won no victory here!” the big guardian shouted, pointing his sword at Balazel. “You thought to destroy him, but already he stands in glory before the Lord Most High!”
The powerful archdemon did not trouble to argue with the angry angel, instead, he spread his hands in open defeat and ducked his horned head in a gesture of submission.
“It was within my authority to pursue him, Ar-Shakael, you must admit that. This is within the Prince Bloodwinter’s demesne. But his soul has escaped me, and the victory is yours.”
“The victory is not mine, it belongs to Him who sits on the throne.” The Divine angel sheathed his weapon, but his grieving rage was undimmed. “And to the Lamb!”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Balazel conceded easily. “Whatever you say. But this battle is over now, isn’t it? Go find some of your white-winged friends, and you can all sing praises for the safety of your blessed mortal’s soul all night long.”
Melusine quietly breathed a sigh of relief as Shakael nodded slowly.
“I will do just that, Balazel. And though you are graceless and defeated, I will say a prayer for your spirit as well.” He started to turn away, then stopped and turned back to face the two Fallen angels. “When you next see Gezerael, tell him I have forgiven him, but I have not forgotten.”
And with those ominous words, the archangel leaped into the sky, arcing heavenward like a shooting star in reverse.
Balazel shook his head as they watched the Divine angel depart. “I thought he’d never leave.”
“Yeah, well, I thought he’d take us out,” Melusine hissed, more than a little irritated at the other demon. Balazel had risked much by taunting the archangel, and for all his great power, his style was far too risky for her liking. Still, the way he’d choreographed the mortal’s end had been rather amusing, she admitted to herself, at least it was now that they were safe. “Oh, did you see the look in his eyes when he realized what Gezerael had done?”
“I did indeed,” Balazel snorted. “His agony was exquisite. Sheer poetry! I didn’t think poor Shaka would lose it like that, but those Divine fools never see the whole picture.”
Melusine nodded. “They always get wrapped up with their little trees and forget about the forest, as it were. How many more lives do you hunt here, Baron?”
“Four, but only two of them are of real import.”
Balazel sounded relaxed, so Melusine was taken by surprise when he suddenly reached out and seized her face with one horny hand. She gasped and tried to pull away, but it was no use, the demonic baron’s grasp was far too strong. He squeezed her cheeks uncomfortably hard, grinding them painfully against her teeth as he leaned towards her, whispering softly and deliberately into her ear.
“And you, my lovely temptress, must keep your little boy out of my way, understand? If he interferes just once, I’ll add him to the list. Understand me? And if that costs you his soul, I’ll be sure you pay the price!”