This Present Darkness

by Frank E. Peretti

  “Pastor Farrel—”

  “I’m not a pastor. Call me Jim.”

  “That’s what the gospel is all about, fighting Satan, shining the light of the gospel into the darkness …”

  “Hank, all the nice homilies you can dig up won’t help you there. Now I don’t know how equipped or ready you are, but to be perfectly honest, if you come through it all with even your life I’ll be surprised. I’m serious!”

  Hank had no other answer he could give. “Jim … I’ll let you know how it turns out. Maybe I’ll win, maybe I won’t come out alive. But God didn’t tell me I’d come out alive; He just told me to stay and fight. You’ve made one thing clear to me: Satan does want this town. I can’t let him have it.”

  Hank replaced the receiver and felt he would cry.

  “Lord God,” he prayed, “Lord God, what shall I do?”

  The Lord gave no immediate answer, and Hank sat there on the couch for several minutes trying to regather his strength and confidence. Mary was still busy in the kitchen. That was good. He couldn’t talk to her right now; there were too many thoughts and feelings to be sorted out.

  Then a verse came to his mind: “Arise, walk through the land in the length of it and in the breadth of it; for I will give it unto thee.”

  Well, it sure beat sitting home just fussing and fuming and not really doing anything. So on went his sneakers and out the door he went.

  Krioni and Triskal were outside waiting for their charge. Invisibly they joined Hank, one on each side, and walked with him down Morgan Hill toward the center of town. Hank was not a man of great stature anyway, but between these two giants he looked even smaller. He did, however, appear very, very safe.

  Triskal kept a wary eye open, saying, “What’s he up to, anyway?”

  Krioni knew Hank pretty well by now. “I don’t think he even knows. The Spirit is driving him. He’s giving action to a burden in his heart.”

  “Oh, we’ll have action, all right!”

  “Just don’t be a threat. So far it’s the best way to survive in this town.”

  “So tell that to the little pastor here.”

  As Hank neared the main business district he paused on a corner to look up and down the street, watching old cars, new cars, vans and four-by-fours, shoppers, walkers, joggers, and bicyclers stream in four and more directions, regarding the orders of the traffic light as mere suggestions.

  So where was the evil? How could it be so vivid last night and a distant, dubious memory today? No demons or devils lurked in the office windows or reached out of the storm drains; the people were the same, simple, ordinary folks he had always seen, still ignoring him and passing by.

  Yes, this was the town he prayed for night and day with deep groanings of the heart because of a burden he couldn’t explain, and now it was taxing his patience, unsettling him.

  “Well, are you in trouble or aren’t you, or don’t you even care?” he said aloud.

  Nobody listened. No deep, sinister voices answered back with a threat.

  But the Spirit of the Lord inside him wouldn’t leave him alone. Pray, Hank. Pray for these people. Don’t let them escape your heart. The pain is there, the fear is there, the danger is there.

  So when do we win, Hank answered the Lord. Do You know how long I’ve been sweating and praying over this place? Just once I’d like to hear my little pebble make a splash; I’d like to see this dead dog twitch when I poke it.

  It was amazing how well the demons could hide, even behind the doubts he sometimes felt about their very existence.

  “I know you’re out there,” he said quietly, gazing carefully over the blankly staring faces of the buildings, the concrete, the brick, the glass, the trash. The spirits were teasing him. They could descend on him in a moment, terrorize and choke him, and then vanish, slipping back into the hiding places behind the facade of the town, snickering, hide-and-seeking, watching him grope about like a blind fool.

  He sat down on a sidewalk bench feeling miffed.

  “I’m here, Satan,” he said. “I can’t see you, and maybe you can move faster than I can, but I’m still here, and by the grace of God and the power of the Holy Spirit I intend to be a thorn in your side until one of us has had enough!”

  Hank looked across the street at the impressive structure of the Ashton United Christian Church. Hank had known some terrific Christians who belonged to that denomination, but this particular bunch in Ashton were different, liberal, even bizarre. He had met Pastor Oliver Young a few times and could never get very close to him; Young seemed rather cold and aloof, and Hank could never figure out why.

  As Hank sat there, watching a brown Buick pull into the church parking lot, Triskal and Krioni stood beside the bench, also watching the car come to a stop. Only the two of them could see the car’s special passengers: sitting on the roof were two big warriors, the Arabian and the African, Nathan and Armoth. No swords were visible. They were taking a passive, noncombatant posture according to Tal’s orders, just like all the rest.

  MARSHALL HAD SEEN Bernice’s film. He had seen the minute scratches from some kind of mishandling: he had seen the clumsy fingerprints at regular intervals that could very well have been placed there by a hand pulling the film out of the camera, unrolling it in the light.

  Marshall had gotten his appointment with Young for 1 o’clock. He pulled into the vast, blacktop parking lot at 12:45, still downing a deluxe cheeseburger and large coffee.

  Ashton United Christian was one of the large, stately-looking edifices around town, constructed in the traditional style with heavy stone, stained glass, towering lines, majestic steeple. The front door fit the motif: large, solid, even a little intimidating, especially when you tried to heave it open all by yourself. The church was located near the center of town, and the carillon in the tower chimed each hour and gave a short concert of hymns at noon. It was a respected establishment, Young was a respected minister, the people who attended the church were respected members of the community. Marshall had often thought that respect and status just might be a prerequisite for membership.

  He engaged the big front door in a short Indian arm wrestle and finally got inside. No, this congregation had never spared the expense, that was for sure. The floors of the foyer, stairs, and sanctuary were covered with thick red carpeting, the woodwork was all deep finished oak and walnut. On top of that was all the brass: brass door handles, coat hooks, stairway railing, window latches. The windows, of course, were stained glass; and all the ceilings were lofty, with great hanging chandeliers and delicate scrollwork.

  Marshall entered the sanctuary through another ponderous door and walked down the long center aisle toward the front. This room was a cross between an opera house and a cavern: the platform was big, the pulpit was big, the choir loft was big. Of course the choir was big, too.

  Pastor Young’s big office, just to the side of the sanctuary, afforded a very visible access to the platform and pulpit, and Pastor Young’s entrance through the big oak door each Sunday morning was a traditional part of the ceremonies.

  Marshall pushed that big door open and stepped into the reception office. The pretty secretary greeted him, but didn’t know who he was. He told her, she checked the appointment book and verified it. Marshall checked the book too, reading upside down again. The 2 o’clock hour was marked A. Brummel.

  “Well, Marshall,” Young said with a cordial, businesslike smile and handshake, “come in, come in.”

  Marshall followed Young into his plush office. Young, a large-framed man in his sixties with a roundish face, wire-rimmed glasses, and thin, well-oiled hair, seemed to enjoy his position both in the church and in the community. His dark-paneled walls sported many plaques from community and charitable organizations. Along with those were several framed photographs of him posing with the governor, a few popular evangelists, some authors, and a senator.

  Behind his impressive desk Young created a perfect picture of the successful professional. The high-backe
d leather chair became a throne, and his own reflection in the desk top made him all the more scenic and impressive, like a mountain reflected in an alpine lake.

  He motioned Marshall to a chair, and Marshall sat down, noticing that he sank to an eye level quite below Young’s. He began to feel a familiar tinge of intimidation; this whole office seemed designed for it.

  “Nice office,” he commented.

  “Thank you very much,” said Young with a smile that shoved his cheeks into piles against his ears. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced and wiggling on the edge of his desk. “I enjoy it, am thankful for it, and I rather appreciate the warmth, the atmosphere of the place. It sets one at ease.”

  Sets you at ease, thought Marshall. “Yeah … yeah.”

  “So how is the Clarion these days?”

  “Oh, pulling itself together. Did you get today’s?”

  “Yes, it was very good. Very neat, stylish. You’ve brought some of that big-city class here with you, I see.”

  “Mm-hmmm.” Marshall suddenly didn’t feel too talkative.

  “I’m glad you’re with us, Marshall. We’re looking forward to a very good relationship.”

  “Well yeah, thanks.”

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  Marshall fidgeted just a little, then jumped to his feet; that chair made him feel too much like a microbe under a microscope. Next time I’ll bring my own big desk, he thought. He walked around the office, trying to look casual.

  “We’ve got a lot to cover in an hour,” he began.

  “We can always have more meetings.”

  “Yeah, sure. Well, first of all, Sandy—that’s my daughter—ran off last night. We haven’t heard anything, we don’t know where she is …” He gave Young a quick synopsis of the problem and its history, and Young listened intently with no interruptions.

  “So,” Young finally asked, “you think she has turned her back on your traditional values and that disturbs you?”

  “Hey, I’m not a deeply religious person, you know what I mean? But some things have to be right, and some things have to be wrong, and I have trouble with Sandy just—just jumping over the fence from one to the other like she does.”

  Young rose majestically from his desk and walked toward Marshall with the air of an understanding father. He put his hand on Marshall’s shoulder and said, “Do you think she’s happy, Marshall?”

  “I never see her happy, but that’s probably because she’s around me every time I see her.”

  “And that could be because you find it hard to understand the direction she’s now choosing for her life. Obviously you project a definite displeasure toward her philosophies …”

  “Yeah, and toward that professor lady who dumps all those philosophies on her. You ever met that, what’s her name, Professor Langstrat, out at the college?”

  Young thought, then shook his head.

  “I think Sandy’s taken a couple of courses from her now, and every quarter I find my daughter more out of touch with reality.”

  Young chuckled a bit. “Marshall, it sounds like she’s just exploring, just trying to find out about the world, about the universe she lives in. Don’t you remember growing up? So many things just weren’t true until you could prove them yourself. That’s probably the way it is right now with Sandy. She’s a very bright girl. I’m sure she just needs to explore, to find herself.”

  “Well, whenever she finds out where she is I hope she calls.”

  “Marshall, I’m sure she would feel much more free to call if she could find understanding hearts at home. It’s not for us to determine what another person must do with himself, or think about his place in the cosmos. Each person must find his own way, his own truth. If we’re ever going to get along like any kind of civilized family on this earth, we’re going to have to learn to respect the other man’s right to his own views.”

  Marshall felt a flash of déjà vu, as if a recording from Sandy’s brain had been plugged into Young’s. He couldn’t help but ask, “You sure you never met Professor Langstrat?”

  “Quite sure,” Young answered with a smile.

  “How about Alf Brummel?”

  “Who?”

  “Alf Brummel, the police chief.”

  Marshall watched his face. Was he struggling for an answer?

  Young finally said, “I may have met him on occasion … I was just trying to match the name with the face.”

  “Well, he thinks the way you do. Talks a lot about getting along and being peaceful. How he got to be a cop, I’ll never know.”

  “But weren’t we talking about Sandy?”

  “Yeah, okay. Speak on.”

  Young spoke on. “All the questions you’re struggling with, the matters of right and wrong, or what truth is, or our different views of these issues … so many of these things are unknowable, save in the heart. We all feel the truth, like a common heartbeat in each of us. Every human has the natural capacity for good, for love, for expecting and striving for the best interests of himself and his neighbor.”

  “I guess you weren’t here for the Festival.”

  Young chuckled. “I’ll admit we humans can certainly misdirect our better inclinations.”

  “Say, did you make the Festival, by the way?”

  “Yes, some parts of it. Most of it was of little interest to me, I’m afraid.”

  “So you didn’t drop by the carnival, eh?”

  “Certainly not. It’s a waste of money. But about Sandy …”

  “Yeah, we were talking about what’s true, and everyone’s view … like the whole subject of God, for example. She can’t seem to find Him, I’m just trying to pin Him down, we can’t agree on our religion, and so far you haven’t helped much.”

  Young smiled thoughtfully. Marshall could feel a very lofty homily coming.

  “Your God,” said Young, “is where you find Him, and to find Him, we need only to open our eyes and realize that He is truly within all of us. We’ve never been without Him at all, Marshall; it’s just that we’ve been blinded by our ignorance, and that has kept us from the love, security, and meaning that we all desire. Jesus revealed our problem on the cross, remember? He said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not …’ So His example to us is to search for knowledge, wherever we may find it. That’s what you are doing, and I’m convinced that’s what Sandy is doing. The source of your problem is a narrow perspective, Marshall. You must be open-minded. You must search, and Sandy must search.”

  “So,” Marshall said thoughtfully, “you’re saying it’s all a matter of how we look at things?”

  “That would be part of it, yes.”

  “And if I might perceive something a certain way, that doesn’t mean everybody’s going to see it that way, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right!” Young seemed very pleased with his student.

  “So … let me see if I’ve got this right. If my reporter, Bernice Krueger, perceived that you, Brummel, and three other people were having some kind of little meeting behind the dart throwing booth at the carnival … well, that was just her perception of reality?”

  Young smiled with an odd what-are-you-trying-to-pull grin, and answered, “I suppose so, Marshall. I guess that would be a case in point. I was nowhere near the carnival, and I told you that. I abhor that kind of event.”

  “You weren’t there with Alf Brummel?”

  “No, not at all. So you see, Ms. Krueger had quite an incorrect perception of someone else.”

  “Of both of you, I suppose.”

  Young smiled and shrugged.

  Marshall pressed a little. “What do you suppose the odds are of that happening?”

  Young kept smiling, but his face got a little red. “Marshall, what do you wish me to do? Argue with you? Certainly you didn’t come here for that sort of thing.”

  Marshall took a real stab at whatever it might catch. “She even took some pictures of you.”

  Young sighed and looked for a moment at the f
loor. Then he said coolly, “Then why don’t you bring those photographs next time, and then we can discuss it?”

  The little smile on Young’s face hit Marshall like spittle.

  “Okay,” Marshall muttered, not dropping his eyes.

  “Marge will set another appointment for you.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Marshall checked his watch, went to the door, and opened it. “Come on in, Alf.”

  Alf Brummel had been sitting in the reception area. At the sight of Marshall he jumped awkwardly to his feet. He looked the way one might a split second before being hit by a train.

  Marshall grabbed Alf by the hand and shook that hand excitedly. “Hey, buddy! Say, seeing as how the two of you don’t seem to know each other very well, let me introduce you. Alf Brummel, this is Reverend Oliver Young. Reverend Young, Alf Brummel, chief of police!”

  Brummel didn’t seem to appreciate Marshall’s cordiality at all, but Young did. He stepped forward, grabbed Brummel’s hand, shook it, and then pulled Brummel quickly into his office saying over his shoulder, “Marge, make another appointment for Mr. Hogan.”

  But Mr. Hogan had left.

  CHAPTER 8

  SANDY HOGAN SAT dismally at a small lunch table in a campus plaza shaded by an expansive grape arbor. She was staring at a slowly cooling, microwaved, packaged hamburger and a slowly warming half-pint carton of milk. She had made her classes that morning, but they had all slipped by her, mostly unabsorbed. Her mind was too much on herself, her family, and her belligerent father. Besides, it had been a horrible way to spend the night, walking clear across town and sitting all night in the Ashton bus depot reading from her psychology textbook. After her last class of the day she tried to take a nap out on the lawn in the sculpture garden and had managed to doze for a short time. When she awoke, her world was no better and she had only two impressions: hunger and loneliness.