This Present Darkness

by Frank E. Peretti

  Rafar thought that was funny. “And you disagree?”

  “One could think, Ba-al, that your work was merely the capstone on the years of my labor wrought before your coming.”

  “Years of labor nearly undone by your blundering, you mean!” Rafar retorted. “Which does give one pause. Having won the town for the Strongman, do I dare now leave it in the hands of one who nearly lost it before?”

  Lucius did not like the sound of that at all. “Rafar, for years this town has been my principality. I am the rightful Prince of Ashton!”

  “You were. But honors, Lucius, reward deeds, and in deeds I do find you lacking.”

  Lucius was indignant, but he controlled himself in the presence of this giant power. “You have not seen my deeds because you have not chosen to look. Your will was set against me from the beginning.”

  Lucius had said too much. Immediately he was snatched from the ground by Rafar’s burly fist around his throat, and now Rafar held him up and looked him straight in the eye.

  “I,” said Rafar slowly and fiercely, “and only I, am the judge of that!”

  “Let the Strongman judge!” Lucius responded very brazenly. “Where is this Tal, this adversary whom you were to vanquish, whose little pieces you were to hurl across the sky as your victory banner?”

  Rafar allowed a slight smile to cross his face, even though his eyes kept their fire. “Busche, the praying man, is defeated and his name sullied. Hogan, the once tenacious hound, is now a worthless and defeated wretch. The traitorous Maidservant is destroyed, and her scum of a friend is also eliminated. All others have fled.”

  Rafar waved his hand over the town. “Look, Lucius! Do you see the fiery hosts of heaven descending over the town? Do you see their flashing and polished swords? Do you see their numberless guard posted around about?”

  He sneered at Lucius and Tal at the same time. “This Tal, this Captain of the Host, now commands a stricken and debilitated army, and he is afraid to show his face. Again and again I have defied him to confront me, to stop me, and he has not appeared. But don’t worry. As I have spoken, so shall I do. When these other pressing matters are settled, Tal and I will meet, and you will see it take place … just before I vanquish you!”

  Rafar held Lucius high as he called to another demon, “Courier, take word to the Strongman that all is ready and that he may come at his will. The obstacles are removed, Rafar has completed his task, and the town of Ashton is ready to fall into his hands”—Rafar dropped Lucius as he said it—“like a ripe plum.”

  Lucius bolted up from the ground and flew away in a humiliated flurry while the demonic ranks laughed and laughed.

  CHAPTER 33

  EDITH DUSTER HAD felt a certain stirring in her spirit before she went to bed that night. So when she was awakened abruptly by two luminous beings in her bedroom she was not entirely surprised, even though awestruck.

  “Glory to God!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide, her face enraptured.

  The two tall men had very kind and compassionate faces, but their expressions were serious. One was tall and blond, the other dark-haired and youthful. Both towered as high as the ceiling, and the glow from their white tunics filled the room. Each had a magnificent golden scabbard and belt, and the handles of their swords were purest gold, with fiery jewels.

  “Edith Duster,” said the big blond one in a deep, resonant voice, “we are going into battle for the town of Ashton. The victory rests on the prayers of the saints of God. As you fear the Lord, pray, and call others to prayer. Pray that the enemy will be vanquished and the righteous delivered.”

  Then the dark-haired one spoke. “Your pastor, Henry Busche, has fallen prisoner. He will be delivered through your prayers. Call Mary, his wife. Be a comfort to her.”

  Suddenly they were gone, and the room was dark once again. Edith knew somehow that she had seen them before, perhaps in dreams, perhaps as unimpressive, normal people here and there. And she knew the importance of their request.

  She rose and grabbed her pillow, placed it on the floor, and then knelt upon it there beside the bed. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to sing; there was a burden and a power deep within her, and she clasped her shaking hands together there upon the bed, bowed her head, and began to pray. The words flowed forth from her deepest soul, an outcry on behalf of God’s people and God’s righteousness, a plea for power and victory in the name of Jesus, a binding of the evil forces that were trying to take the very life, the very heart of that community. Names and faces cascaded before her mind’s eye and she interceded for all of them, pleading before the throne of God for their safety and salvation. She prayed. She prayed. She prayed.

  From high above, the town of Ashton was spread out like an innocent toy village on a patchwork quilt, a small and unpretentious community still sleeping, but now awash with the slowly rising flood of predawn gray and pink that grew over the mountains in the east. As yet, nothing stirred in the town. There were no lights being switched on; the milk truck was still parked.

  From somewhere in the skies, beyond the pink-edged clouds, a solitary, rushing sound began. One angelic warrior, soaring like a gull, spiraled quickly and covertly downward, until his form was lost in the patterns and textures of the streets and buildings far below. Then another appeared and he too dropped quietly into the town, disappearing somewhere within it.

  And Edith Duster kept praying.

  Two appeared, their wings swept back, their heads sharply downward, diving like hawks into the town. Then came another, gliding along a more shallow path that would carry him to the far side of town. Then four, dropping in four different directions. Then two more, then seven …

  MARY WAS AWAKENED from a fitful sleep on the couch by the telephone.

  “Hello?” Her eyes brightened immediately. “Oh, Edith, I’m so glad you called! I’ve been trying to reach you, I haven’t even gone to bed, I must have your number written down wrong, or the phones aren’t working …” Then she started crying, and told Edith all about the events of the previous night.

  “Well, you just rest and be quiet until I get there,” said Edith. “I’ve been on my knees all night and God is moving, yes He is! We’ll get Hank out of there and more besides!”

  Edith grabbed her sweater and her sneakers and was off to Mary’s house. She had never felt younger.

  John Coleman awoke early that morning, so shaken by a dream he couldn’t get back to sleep. Patricia knew the feeling—the same thing had happened to her.

  “I saw angels!” John said.

  “I did too,” said Patricia.

  “And … and I saw demons. Monsters, Patty! Hideous things! The angels and the demons were fighting it out. It was—”

  “Terrible.”

  “Awesome. Really awesome.”

  They called Hank. Mary answered. They got the story of last night, and they went right over.

  Andy and June Forsythe couldn’t sleep all that night. This morning Andy was crabby, and June just tried to stay out of his way. Finally, as Andy tried to eat some breakfast, he was able to talk about it. “It must be the Lord. I don’t know what else it could be.”

  “But why are you so crabby?” June asked as tenderly as she could.

  “Because I’ve never felt this way before,” Andy said, and then his voice started to quiver. “I … I just feel like I have to pray, like … like something’s really got to be settled and I can’t rest until it is.”

  “You know,” said June, “I really know what you mean. I don’t know if I can explain it, but I feel like we haven’t been alone all night. Somebody’s been here with us, filling us with these feelings.”

  Andy got wide-eyed. “Yeah! That’s it! That’s the feeling!” He grabbed her hand with great joy and relief. “June, honey, I thought I was going crazy!”

  Just then the phone rang. It was Cecil Cooper. He had had a very disturbing dream that night, and so had many others. Something was up. They didn’t wait to gather to pray. They starte
d praying right then and there.

  From north, from south, from east and west, from all directions, and so very silently, heavenly warriors continued to drop into the town like snowflakes, walk into the town like people, sneak into the town like guerrillas, glide through fields and orchards into the town like bush pilots. Then they hid themselves and waited.

  HANK WOKE AT about 7; the nightmare had not ended. He was still in the cell. His new cellmate continued snoring for another hour until the guard brought in breakfast. The big man said nothing, but took the little plate that was handed through the bars. He didn’t look too excited about the burnt toast and cold eggs. Perhaps this would be the time to break the ice.

  “Good morning,” Hank said.

  “Good morning,” the big man replied very half-heartedly.

  “My name is Hank Busche.”

  The big man slid his plate out under the door for the guard to pick up. He hadn’t touched the food. He stood there, looking out through the bars like a caged animal. He did not respond to Hank’s introduction, nor did he tell Hank his name. He was obviously hurting; his eyes seemed so longing, and so vacant.

  All Hank could do was pray for him.

  STEP, STEP, STUMBLE, then step again. All morning long, through fields of corn, pastures of cows, thick forests, Bernice trudged along, slowly making her way north on a meandering route that ran roughly parallel to Highway 27, somewhere off to her left. The sound of the vehicles roaring along the highway helped her get her bearings.

  She was beginning to trip over her own feet, her thoughts getting sluggish. Row upon row of cornstalks marched past her, their big green leaves brushing against her with a steady, almost annoying rhythm. The dirt under her feet was softly tilled and dusty. It was working into her shoes. It absorbed the strength from her strides.

  After crossing the sea of corn, she came to a very long and very narrow grove of trees, a windbreak planted between the fields. She went into the middle of it and immediately found a patch of soft, grassy ground. She checked her watch: 8:25 A.M. She had to rest. She would get to Baker somehow … it was the only hope … she hoped Marshall was okay … she hoped she wouldn’t die … she was asleep.

  BY THE TIME lunch was brought in, Hank and his cellmate were a little more ready to eat. The sandwiches weren’t that bad and the beef vegetable soup was quite good.

  Before the guard got away Hank asked him, “Say, are you sure I couldn’t have a Bible somehow?”

  “I told you,” the guard said rudely, “I’m waiting on authorization, and until I get it, no dice!”

  Suddenly the big silent cellmate burst out, “Jimmy, you’ve got a stack of Gideon Bibles in your desk drawer and you know it! Now give the man a Bible.”

  The guard only sneered at the man. “Hey, you’re on that side of the bars now, Hogan. I’ll run the show out here!”

  The guard left, and the big man tried to shift his attention to his lunch. He looked up at Hank, though, and quipped, “Jimmy Dunlop. He thinks he’s a real man.”

  “Thanks for trying, anyway.”

  The big man heaved a deep sigh and then said, “Sorry for being rude all morning. I needed time to heal up from yesterday, I needed time to check you out, and I guess I needed time to get used to the idea of being in jail.”

  “I can sure identify with that. I’ve never been in jail before,” Hank tried again. He extended his hand and said, “Hank Busche.”

  This time the man took it and gave him a firm shake. “Marshall Hogan.”

  Then something clicked for both of them. Before they had even dropped their hands again, they looked at each other, pointed at each other, and both began to ask, “Say, aren’t you …?”

  And then they stared for a moment and didn’t say anything.

  The angels were watching, of course, and brought Tal word.

  “Good, good,” said Tal. “Now we’ll just let those two talk.”

  “YOU’RE THE PASTOR of that little white church,” Marshall said.

  “And you’re the editor of the paper, the Clarion,” Hank exclaimed.

  “So what in the wide world are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know if you’d be able to believe it.”

  “Kid, you’d be amazed—I’m amazed—at what I’d believe!” Marshall lowered his voice and leaned close as he said, “They told me you were in here for rape.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That sounds just like you, doesn’t it?”

  Hank didn’t quite know what to make of that statement. “Well, I didn’t do it, you know.”

  “Doesn’t Alf Brummel go to your church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever cross him?”

  “Uh … well, yes.”

  “So have I. And that’s why I’m in here, and that’s why you’re in here! Tell me what happened.”

  “When?”

  “I mean, what really happened? Do you even know this girl you supposedly raped?”

  “Well …”

  “Where’d you get those bite marks on your arm?”

  Hank was getting some doubts. “Say, listen, I’d better not say anything.”

  “Was her name Carmen?”

  Hank’s face said a yes that was almost audible.

  “Just thought I’d take a stab at it. She’s really a treacherous gal. She used to work for me and last night she told me she’d been raped and I knew then that it was a lie.”

  Hank was completely flabbergasted. “This is too much! How do you know about all this?”

  Marshall looked around the cell and shrugged. “Ah well, what else is there to do? Hank, have I got a story for you! It’s going to take a few hours. You ready for that?”

  “If you’re ready to hear mine, I’m ready to hear yours.”

  “HELLO? MA’AM?”

  Bernice jolted awake. There was someone leaning over her. It was a young girl about high school age, maybe older, with big brown eyes and black, curly hair, dressed in bib overalls, a perfect farmer’s daughter.

  “Oh! Uh … hi.” It was all Bernice could think of to say.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” the girl asked in a slow and easy drawl.

  “Um, yes. I was just sleeping. I hope that’s all right. I was out for a walk, you know, and …” She remembered her bruised face. Oh, great! Now this kid will think I’ve been mugged or something.

  “You looking for your sunglasses?” the girl asked, reaching down and picking them up. She handed them to Bernice.

  “I … uh … guess you’re wondering what happened to my face.”

  The girl only smiled a disarming smile and said, “Aw, you ought to see how I look when I first wake up.”

  “I take it this is your property? I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, I’m just passing through, like you are. I saw you lying here and thought I’d check up on you. Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

  Bernice was about to say an automatic no, but then she looked at her watch. Oh no! It was almost 4 o’clock in the afternoon. “Well, you wouldn’t happen to be going north, would you?”

  “I’m heading up toward Baker.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect! I could catch a ride with you?”

  “Right after lunch.”

  “What?”

  The girl walked out of the trees to the next field of corn, and then Bernice noticed a shiny blue motorcycle parked in the sun. The girl reached into a side saddle and brought out a brown paper sack. She returned and set that sack in front of Bernice, along with a carton of cold milk.

  “You eat lunch at 4 in the afternoon?” Bernice asked with a conversational chuckle.

  “No,” the young lady answered with a chuckle of her own, “but you’ve come a long way, and you have a long way to go, and you need something to eat.”

  Bernice looked into those clear and laughing brown eyes, and then at the simple little lunch bag in front of her, and she could feel her face turning red and her eyes filling up.

  “Eat up, now,�
�� said the girl.

  Bernice opened the paper bag and found a roast beef sandwich that was truly a work of art. The beef was still hot, the lettuce crisp and green. Below that was a carton of blueberry yogurt—her favorite flavor—still cold to the touch.

  She tried to keep her emotions down, but she began to quake with weeping, and the tears ran down her cheeks. Oh, I’m making a fool of myself, she thought. But this was so altogether different.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m just … very touched by your kindness.”

  The girl touched her hand. “Well, I’m glad I could be here.”

  “What is your name?”

  “You can call me Betsy.”

  “I’m—well, you can call me Marie.” It was Bernice’s middle name.

  “I’ll just do that. Listen, I have some cold water too, if you want that.”

  There came another wave of emotion. “You’re a wonderful person. What are you doing on this planet?”

  “Helping you,” Betsy answered, running to her motorcycle for the water.

  HANK SAT ON the edge of his cot, enraptured by the story Marshall was relating.

  “Are you serious?” he responded suddenly. “Alf Brummel is into witchcraft? A board member in my church?”

  “Hey, call it what you want, bub, but I’m telling you, it is spacy! I don’t know how long he and that Langstrat have been bosom buddies, but enough of her cosmic consciousness crud has rubbed off on him to make him dangerous, and I mean that!”

  “So who’s in this group again?”

  “Who isn’t in it? Oliver Young’s in it, Judge Baker’s in it, most of the cops on the local police force are in it …” Marshall went on to give Hank just a small segment of the list.

  Hank was amazed. This had to be the Lord. So many of the questions he had had for so long were finally finding their answers.

  Marshall kept going for another half an hour or so, and then he started losing momentum. He had come to the part about Kate and Sandy.