by Bryan Davis
“Then how did you manage to kill the other one?”
“By the only method that always works against oracles sent by God. Betrayal.”
“I see. A most vicious and effective weapon. But take care. Such a weapon can be turned against you.”
Morgan sighed and nodded. “Well spoken, my love. But I have chosen my weapon, and he has already forged his way into the heart of the second oracle. He will soon be ready to plunge my final dagger into Mara’s heart.”
“Her name is Mara?” Samyaza chuckled. “This will be a bitter pill indeed.”
“Yes, and don’t be surprised if she comes here. She is the one who found you for me, and knowing her curiosity, she’ll be back.”
“I will be sure to listen for her. What is the name of the betrayer?”
“Elam. He is a special prize, stolen from the family of my greatest enemy. The pain his departure caused his father and grandfather was sweet to witness.”
Samyaza laughed again. “Ah, Lilith! Your conniving genius fills me with confidence. We will wait patiently for your plan to unfold.”
“Yes, Samyaza.” Morgan rose to her feet and withdrew Chereb from the leather scabbard. “Everything has been set in motion,” she said, gazing at the shining blade. “Nothing can stop us now.”
The second week of language training had finally ended. As she trudged back toward her hovel, Sapphira laid her hand on her aching head, Mardon’s shouts still ringing in her ears. He caught on pretty quickly, but his patience was as thin as her coif veil. Whenever a new word flustered him, he screamed louder than Nabal ever did. At least Nimrod wasn’t around anymore. He would surely have made the training sessions much worse.
Exhausted, Sapphira slipped quietly back into her hovel, a dim lantern in hand. Paili snored gently, her angelic face peaceful under the glow of the flaming wick. After setting the lantern on the floor, she whispered toward the hole. “Elam? Are you there?”
There was no answer.
She pressed her uninjured cheek against the floor and whispered again. “Elam?”
Again, no answer.
The lantern’s light revealed something new, an object resting in the hole to Elam’s chamber. She reached in and caressed something soft and delicate. Pulling the object out, she laid it in her hand, a large flower that covered most of her palm. Though the light was too dim to tell for sure, its seven petals looked white, each one protruding from a golden center. The petals felt as soft as the pod of a newborn spawn. She held the blossom by its thin green stem, turning it in the dim glow. It had to be from the tree in Morgan’s room. She pressed her ear against the cold wall. Obviously Elam got out of Morgan’s room safely, but where was he now?
Feeling the sting in her cheek again, Sapphira set the blossom on her bed and stepped quietly back to the hovel entrance. The oozing cut seemed to get worse and worse, even though she had washed it every evening. Tired as she was, it had to be washed again. There was probably time to hurry to the spring and still get a few hours of sleep later.
After shuffling sleepily through the corridor and into the spring’s cavern, she set the lamp at the edge of the sulfur pool and gazed into the still waters. The flickering light cast waves of orange over the mirror-like surface, a glare that shimmered across her reflection. Sliding the lantern farther away, she kept her eyes on the water until she could see her image clearly. She touched her wound, feeling the ugly gash that scarred her face. Seeing her cheek made it sting even worse. It was more than a physical blemish; it seemed to expose her soul, an ugly rut in her smooth skin that undressed her wounded heart.
Sapphira pressed her lips together, trying not to cry. The empty cavern reminded her of her cruel slavery. Morgan hated her. Naamah wasn’t much better. Mardon seemed to view her as a science experiment that could be thrown away whenever she was no longer useful. Even her spawn now glared at her in disgust, learning more hate from Morgan every day. And the king of all the upper realms, who once sang the praises of her beauty, had delivered a cutting blow, scarring that beauty forever.
Taking a handful of water, she dabbed the cut, tears beginning to flow as heat surged through her face, making it feel as though a bat had dug its claws into the wound and was tearing it wide open. Now, every lash, every cut, and every bruise Nabal and other slave drivers had gouged into her skin began to throb. She pulled down the shoulder of her dress, exposing the whip laceration Nabal had delivered just before Acacia died. It burned like fire.
She knelt again at the pool and gazed at her tear-stained face. Resting her hands in the shallows, she sighed. Who could ever love an ugly little slave girl, an underborn who scarred her body chiseling rocks all day in dark, lonely caverns? She wasn’t a king. She wasn’t a scholar. She knew nothing more than what she read in dusty scrolls salvaged from haphazard piles and squirreled away for clandestine reading during the chilly hours of the night.
While shivering at her own memories, she imagined Morgan catching her out of her hovel after bedtime. In her mind’s eye, the swinging hand of King Nimrod appeared in the pool’s reflection as it ripped across her cheek, pounding her to the floor in agony. As she writhed at Nimrod’s feet, the sound of Morgan’s haunting laughter echoed, joining a chorus of others as they chanted in mocking hatred. The pitiful girl in the pool could only gaze up at her conquerors and cry.
Sapphira slapped the surface of the water. “You deserved it! You’re nobody! You’re just a dirty, ugly slave!” As her reflection began to congeal again on the surface, she pointed at her rippled image. “You’re not Sapphira Adi. You’re just Mara, an ignorant underborn! Nobody loves you! Not Morgan. Not Mardon. I’ll bet even Elohim hates you!” She spat into the water. “If you had been alive back then, he would have kicked you off the ark, and you would have drowned in the flood with all the others.” Covering her face with her hands, she wept bitterly, her body heaving in wave after wave of sobs.
As her convulsions began to ease, a familiar warmth penetrated her thigh and radiated slowly across her skin. Still kneeling, she reached into her pocket and withdrew the Ovulum. It pulsed, sending crimson halos toward her that expanded into fiery rings all around her body. The rings stroked her arms, like the baking rays of the sun in the upper lands, chasing away every chill. In the pool reflection, her skin blazed with fire, flames leaping from her face and hands, as though the halos had kindled an unworldly power within.
Some of the rings passed over the water, sending ripples across the pool that deepened with every stroke of the caressing red light. Soon the water seemed to dance, thousands of droplets jumping high and falling back to the pool like silvery baitfish fleeing a predator. A swirling breeze buffeted the flying waters, sending a spray across Sapphira, sprinkling her hot cheeks with soothing coolness.
She gazed at the sight in wonder, inhaling deep draughts of the fresh, cool air. As the droplets grew and began to coat her face, she spread out her arms, the Ovulum still pulsating in her hand as she whispered into the breeze. “Let the rain fall, Elohim. Let me drown and join all the others. I am Mara, a worthless slave, and I deserve to die.”
The rain dampened her hair and trickled down her forehead. The Ovulum’s warmth radiated through her arm, and as the heat approached her body, the sound of singing drew near, a man’s voice that seemed to travel along with the warm sensation. The voice crooned in her ear.
“Sapphira Adi,” it sang softly. “You are a precious gem. You are loved more than you will ever know. Bask in the warmth of Elohim’s love. Feel his pleasure in the coolness of his soothing rain, for this is not the rain of floods and destruction; it is living water that will heal your heart.”
Sapphira trembled. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Who . . . who are you?”
With the cadence of a herald’s proclamation, the voice resonated in the cavern. “I am the Eye of the Oracle, the prophet who first told of the great flood. I am Elohim’s bard, the singer who foretells blessings and curses upon generations to come. An
d now I have a song for you.”
Sapphira swallowed hard, barely able to speak. “A song of blessing?” Her lips trembled. “Or a curse?”
A gentle laugh flowed through her mind, then a whisper. “Listen to the words of Elohim . . . and believe.” The voice sang again, this time in a beautiful tenor.
In days gone by the water fell
And draped the world in silent death;
A rain of judgment drowned the earth
Demanding life and snatching breath.
But now the raindrops fall afresh
On hearts rejecting hate and sin,
In blessings crowned with love and grace
To heal the wounds of soul and skin.
The one who loves is Elohim,
Rejoicing now in song and dance;
I shout for you to come and play,
Enjoying love, the great romance.
So dance, my child, and feel my love
In rain, the healing drops of life.
Forsake your cares, your toils and pain,
The wounds and scars of slavish strife.
O cast aside the chains of grief
And reach for heaven’s grace above;
Sapphira Adi, dance with me!
Enfold yourself in arms of love.
As the song died away, the rain began pouring down, drenching her hair and clothes. The coolness penetrated her skin and seemed to wash away every sorrow, every pain, every image of slavery that tortured her mind. She peeked at her shoulder, now exposed as the water weighed down her dress. The wound had vanished without a trace. Cool drops of tingling water trickled over her cheek. She touched the spot where the wound had festered, now soft and smooth, and pain free.
Clutching the Ovulum tightly, she lifted her arms and laughed, allowing the swirling breeze to catch her body and spin her in a slow pirouette. Lights twinkled through the prismatic mist, spraying her with a dazzling splash of rainbow colors. She closed her eyes and felt loving arms taking her into a tender embrace, and she returned the favor, hugging her image of Elohim, the God of love. As the bard’s song returned, repeating each phrase amidst the sounds of tumbling waters, she drank in every word, allowing her body to flow with the leading of her gentle lover.
And Sapphira Adi danced.
Book 2: Transformation
Chapter 1
A New Beginning
But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord. (2 Corinthians 3:18)
Circa AD 62
Makaidos flew high over the parched valley, buoyed by a hot, arid updraft. Sunshine energized every muscle and sharpened his vision. The conditions had been ideal bright light and clear skies a perfect day to satisfy his rekindled sense of purpose and fulfill this duty to which he had been called. Accomplishing such an important task had made the day complete, and the sun’s slow descent into the reddening western sky gave notice that his successful mission was drawing to a close.
He scanned the landscape far below the outskirts of the port city with its single-story huts and trading posts; scrub trees lining a dry riverbed that wound its way to the sea; and, finally, a caravan of camels, horses, and pack mules in a snaking line following what had been, before the drought, a shallow but dependable stream. Still, the sandy bed provided an unobstructed route to the docking port, making it a well-traveled path, but also a haunt for highwaymen on the prowl for easy prey.
Makaidos snorted at the thought. The only easy prey would be anyone who tried to attack Joseph and his company. The cup of Christ would be safe if this dragon had anything to say about it. A couple of days earlier, just the sight of a patrol dragon had kept a small band of human predators at bay, but now the hint of a greater danger pricked Makaidos’s senses.
He circled lower and shadowed the company. Joseph rode high on the lead camel. The cup, the Holy Grail, as he called it, was probably tucked away in his saddlebag. He never let it out of his reach.
As they approached the first trading post, water muddied the riverbed pathway. The animals slogged through it, trudging closer to the sloped edge to find drier ground. A tall, bearded man at the post nodded to a stout woman next to him, a lady with a heavily painted face and at least a dozen gold and silver bangles on each wrist. She scurried down a path toward a large tent, her long gray skirts raising plumes of dust.
Makaidos’s danger signal flamed. He glided toward the caravan and flew in tight ellipses around the travelers. The bearded man glanced up at him, glaring at first, but his frown transformed into a bright smile as he waved his arms. “Stop! Stop and rest! Eat! Drink! Take your leisure!”
Joseph signaled for his company to stop, and he laid the reins on his lap. “Greetings in the name of the Lord Christ. I take it that you have lodging for myself and my fellow travelers? We must board a ship for Italy just after dawn.”
The man pointed at the large tent. “At my inn! The city is crowded and noisy, but out here you will find quiet and rest. The docks are not far, so you will have plenty of time to embark on your ship in the morning.”
“Very well.” Joseph climbed down from his camel, and the man immediately reached for the saddlebag. Joseph slapped his hand over it. “I will take care of this. You may see to the other bags.”
The man slid his hand away from the saddle and nodded. “As you wish. I will signal my helpers.” He glanced back at the tent and let out a shrill whistle. A man emerged through the opening, then a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth. Ten more men joined the others and dashed toward Joseph, some waving curved swords and dark oval shields, others fixing arrows to bows.
Makaidos swooped down, his wings outstretched and his teeth bared, fire blasting from both nostrils. He aimed the twin jets at the tall, bearded man, incinerating him in a breath, then landed and turned his fire toward the attacking band. Six arrows penetrated his wall of flames and zinged into his body, five clanking on his armor and one pricking a gap between the scales on his chest. “Joseph,” he shouted. “Run for cover on the other side of the riverbed!”
As the travelers dashed to the trees on the opposite bank, Makaidos cremated the remaining attackers, leaving more than a dozen heaps of ash smoldering under the baking sun.
“Makaidos!” a voice called. “Help!”
Makaidos jerked his neck around. More attackers swarmed toward the travelers on the other bank! He leaped into the air, but a rope flew his way and snagged a back leg. A second rope caught his other back leg. Clusters of men clinging to each rope emerged from the bushes and pulled against him with all their might. Snorting a quick fiery blast, Makaidos burned the lines and launched toward the new band of highwaymen. More arrows pinged his armor and fell harmlessly to the ground, but one plunged deep into his foreleg, drawing a stream of blood.
Ignoring the pain, Makaidos landed and blew pinpoint lines of fire, igniting the villains as they fought hand to hand or sword to sword with Joseph and his company. Within seconds, the battle was over. Three attackers fled on foot, dropping their weapons behind them. Makaidos stretched out his wings to follow, but Joseph grasped his foreleg, straining to hold the dragon back. “No, my friend. You are injured. It is time to rest and recover.”
Joseph’s arm brushed against one of the protruding arrows. Makaidos cringed and fell to his haunches.
“Those cowards won’t be back anytime soon.” Joseph stooped next to the wound. He pushed his thumbs against the adjacent scales, and his deeply creased face contorted. “Hmmm. It is not shallow. We will need to get it out soon. The edges of your scales are already cutting through the arrow’s shaft.”
“Go ahead and pull it,” Makaidos said. “I heal quickly.”
As his fellow travelers gathered around, Joseph nodded at one of them. “Lazarus, take Trophimus and whomever else you need and find suitable lodging.” Lazarus bowed and laid a saddlebag at Joseph’s feet.
Jose
ph stood and gripped the shaft. “I am glad God sent you, but I would like to know why you risk your life for our cause. Your faith is the most unusual I have ever seen.”
“My family and I want to follow wherever you go.” Makaidos felt the pressure on the arrow and spoke through clenched teeth. “You have taught me so much about the Messiah, but I need to learn more.”
“Yet when will you learn that I am human, and you are a dragon?” Joseph gritted his teeth and pulled the arrow, grunting, until it finally came out. He held it up for Makaidos to see, a bloody shaft with a pointed, barbed end. He nodded at it, his white hair blowing in the dry, dusty breeze. “I have told you many times that Jesus bled and died to save human souls. Of course, it’s an argument from silence, but I have my doubts as to whether the atonement includes dragons.”
A woman removed her white headscarf and tied it around Makaidos’s leg wound. Makaidos nuzzled her shoulder gently. “Thank you, Salome.” He raised his head and twitched his ears toward Joseph. “Dragons have souls. We must. The soul of Arramos has gone to another place, for I cannot believe the evil dragon who calls himself my father really holds the true spirit of Arramos. And I cannot believe the Maker would put a soul in me and not provide a way to save it.”
“If, indeed, it needs saving.” Joseph laid his hands on Makaidos’s chest just below another protruding arrow. “Your race was not included in Adam’s curse, and I have never known a soul as spotless as yours.”
Makaidos braced for another round of pain. “My mistakes have cost me my eldest son and daughter as well as others in my brood. My eyes were too set on the Maker’s commands, and I missed the signals that might have helped me see the rebellion before it was too late.”