Showdown

by Ted Dekker

  Surprisingly, no one jumped on the boy. They were too lethargic to be jumping. Johnny seemed encouraged by this and continued.

  “I watched him walk into town yesterday. Me and Cecil were on the bench. I know this may sound crazy, but Black killed Cecil.”

  Steve wasn’t sure what to think about that, except to notice that the notion didn’t seem preposterous. On the other hand, he doubted the boy had a clue what he was talking about. Probably dreamed Black had killed Cecil, just like he’d dreamed Black kissed and skewered Paula.

  “You saying he actually killed Cecil?” Steve asked. “Or that Cecil died when Black was there, which is what he said.”

  “I mean he killed him.”

  “And how was that?”

  “He . . .” Johnny shifted on his feet. “He jabbed his fingers into Cecil’s eyes. Deep,maybe into his brains. I watched the whole thing. He killed him, and last night he threatened the whole town.”

  Did I hear that? I can’t remember. I remember the stakes, but do I actually remember Black threatening . . .

  “I remember it,” a soft voice said. The rest of them were staring past Steve. He turned to the front door.

  Marsuvees Black stood in the doorway, smiling at them. How’d he get in so quiet?

  “It seems that Father Yordon has taken a leave of absence, so I suppose I should explain myself to the rest of you.”

  The man walked up to the bar. “Smart boy, Johnny. The rest of you should listen to him.” He chuckled.

  Black’s sudden appearance had stunned them all. Steve had no doubt about his earlier judgment; there was something profoundly different about Black today. His eyes, though still blue, seemed a softer smiling blue rather than the drilling blue. His mouth had no mocking twist or angry snarl. He seemed almost earthy.

  Black dug into his breast pocket and withdrew two objects, which he held, one in each hand.

  “These look familiar?” he asked Johnny.

  They were plastic or glass eyeballs, Steve saw. Smeared with paint to look like blood. Black rolled them down the bar toward Paula, who stepped back, repulsed. The eyeballs rolled off the bar and over to Johnny.

  “Cecil’s eyeballs,” Black said gently.

  Johnny stared wide-eyed as the balls stopped three feet from his shoes. He looked up. “But . . . that’s not what I—”

  “You saw what I wanted you to see. You saw me stick my fingers into Cecil’s eye sockets and pull those eyes from his face. But those eyes are glass. Go on, pick them up.”

  Johnny bent, touched, then picked up the eyeballs. “Glass.”

  “Glass,” Black said. “This, on the other hand”—he pulled an apple from his other breast pocket—“is a real apple. The same one you all saw last night. And this”—the preacher tossed the apple into the air, and when it landed in his hand it was a mug of lemonade—“is sleight of hand.”

  Steve was sure he’d seen an extra movement in there somewhere. “An illusion,” he said. “You’re a magician?”

  “More than a magician. I’m a preacher who uses illusions to make a point, and I don’t mind telling you that I’ve never had a town so wholly swallow my nonsense as this town did yesterday. You,my dear friends, have been like putty in the devil’s hands.”

  They stared.

  “But Cecil’s dead!” Johnny said.

  The glint left Black’s eyes. He looked at the bar. “Yes, that was unfortunate.” Eyes on Johnny. “Cecil had a heart attack, Johnny. Plain and simple. My trick sent him over the cliff he was already headed for. The only reason I didn’t stop to pay him respects and administer rights was because I have been called to this town and I do have a message from God. I couldn’t compromise for the sake of one man. I know it sounds crass, but doing anything else would have compromised my mission.”

  He let the statement rest. No one challenged him.

  “And believe me, if you knew what I know about this town, you wouldn’t want me to compromise my mission.”

  He held out a fist, then opened it. There lay a small clear bottle containing a milky translucent substance. “This look familiar? It’s aloe vera mixed with a strong hallucinogen called peetock moss, which really isn’t a moss at all, but something excreted by a rare worm. It was often used by Indians to call up images of what they thought were spirits.”

  Black set the four-inch-tall bottle on the bar. Clunk. A red ring circled the neck, otherwise there were no markings on the glass.

  “It’s potent but harmless. Forty-eight hours ago, I introduced quite a bit of this into the town’s water supply. That was enough to soften up your susceptibility yesterday. Last night I put more into the communion glass. Most of you saw what I wanted you to see. Do any of you feel groggy?”

  They didn’t answer.

  “The side effects. You’ve been duped, my friends. And in so doing, I’ve revealed the depravity of your hearts. Which is important if you know what I know about this town.”

  “Which is what?” someone asked.

  “Which is that something very bad is coming. Without me, you poor folk don’t stand a chance. Consider this training.”

  Steve’s mind was still working a bit slow, but if he was catching all of this, Black was claiming to be nothing more than a magician who’d employed some drug called peacock or peetook or something or other, and he’d done it to make a point. Something bad was coming, and Black had a mission to protect the town from whatever that was.

  Steve grunted. “Huh. You do this often?”

  “On occasion. But not like this. Paradise is special. That’s all you need to know. From here you’ll have to trust me. Trust me, my friends, or die.”

  They stared at him, half in dumb wonderment.

  “You drugged us?” the Swede asked.

  “No, not really. I cleared your minds by feeding them something they wanted. Like feeding the body bread—no different. No lasting effect. No harm. I know it’s a bit unorthodox, but it’s the only way for the dumb saps in these parts to get a grasp on hope and grace, which is essential for what lies ahead.”

  “What’s that?”

  Black eyed Claude. “You’re not only dense, you’re deaf ? I told you, that’s it for now. Please try to concentrate when I speak. We don’t have enough time to repeat every last thing I say.”

  A bit of the old Black was back. Frankly, Steve didn’t mind.

  “So they were tricks, right?”Katie said. “I knew it.” She eyed the bottle on the bar and bit her lip. “I knew it.”

  It occurred to Steve that tricks or not, the stuff in that bottle was the real magic.

  “So what’s your point?” Paula asked. Her tone was harsh. She cleared her throat. “I mean how does this show us hope and grace? You’re saying that you frightened Cecil into a heart attack with a trick, and you don’t have a problem with that?”

  “Paula, the pure one. That’s good, I want you to question me. Of course I have a problem with Cecil’s heart attack, but there was nothing I could do about it. I do magic, not miracles. Anything could have made that old heart of his stop.”

  “Still doesn’t seem like anything a preacher would do,” she said.“Neither does doping up a whole town.”

  Black studied her for too long, then put both palms on the bar and rubbed the wood gently. “Lovely,” he said. “So lovely. Not all is as it seems, my friends. But the things that appear to us in everyday life are so compelling that we have a hard time looking past them to a greater reality. Sometimes it takes a very heavy dose of the other reality to get our attention. Think of me as the sword of truth, dividing bone from marrow.”

  He looked up and scanned them. “Preachers these days aren’t willing to hand out heavy doses of that greater reality. They talk in old clichés that mean nothing to real people with real problems. I use a different language, and believe me, I am ready to dispense a heavy dose of a greater reality. You’ll have to choose between your old way and my new way. The old way is to talk . . . all talk and no juice. My way is to sho
w. All juice. Not everything I said yesterday is a sham. I have every intention of rocking your world. I will show you true grace and hope, and it won’t look like the world’s version of grace and hope. I’ll show you a world swimming in the reality of God himself, but you’ll have to allow me.”

  Black drilled Steve with a blue stare. “Let go and let God. Do you want to do that?”

  Steve wasn’t sure the preacher wanted an answer. But he did want to let go and let God, whatever that meant. He nodded.

  “You’ll have to give up your doubts. You’ll have to trust me to remove the sliver that’s worked its way under your skin, the stake that’s been driven into your heart.” Black’s eyes shifted to Katie and the others at the end of the bar. “But in the end I will rock your world. Can I do that?”

  “Yes,” Katie said.

  Black looked at the Swede. “Claude? I need agreement.”

  Claude glanced at his wife. “I guess.”

  “Then I would like to have dinner with you and your lovely wife tonight.”

  The preacher was looking at Claude, but Katie answered. “We’d love to have you.”

  Black faced her and bowed his head. “A wise choice, ma’am.” He put his hand on the bottle, hesitated a moment, then slid it down the bar toward her.

  “A little more won’t hurt you,” he said.

  Then Marsuvees Black tipped his broad-rimmed hat, turned around, and walked out the door.

  For a moment no one moved. Except Johnny. The boy slipped out the back the moment the screen door slammed shut.

  “Wow,” someone said.

  Yeah, wow. Steve’s eyes lingered on the bottle. They were all staring at Katie. She took the bottle and held it up to the light. Steve eased down the bar toward her.

  Without further hesitation she spun the lid off and set it on the counter. Smelled the contents as if it were perfume.

  “Seems harmless.”

  Katie splashed a little in her beer, swirled the drink around with her finger, and sipped at it.

  Ten minutes later they had all tasted Black’s concoction, some more than others. Although to say Paula tasted it might be an overstatement. She sniffed it then finally touched her tongue to the inside of the lid.

  Tasted like nothing, she said.

  But to Steve it tasted like wood.

  Like wood stakes.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE MONASTERY

  Thursday morning

  BILLY STROLLED into the cafeteria for a late breakfast, feeling self-conscious without knowing why. He’d missed the morning prayers, but that was no cause for guilt. He had violated the most sacred of monastery rules by entering the caverns below, but none of his classmates suspected anything.

  Besides, if they knew what he knew, they would probably do the same. Marsuvees Black had been right. The impulse was in them for a reason. An animal created to be fed.

  He’d spent half the night in the one tunnel, feeding the animal, and in the end it felt more like an hour. Maybe half an hour. He wasn’t even sure what he’d done to eat up so much time. He had explored deeper—didn’t matter. He could have sat on the couch and been just as happy.

  Everything down there was exhilarating. He’d been awake less than an hour, and the thought of going back was already driving him crazy.

  Half the kids had finished eating and vacated the cafeteria, but Darcy sat next to Paul at the far table. Billy went through the line, politely wishing the two overseers on serving duty a good morning, and shuffled to the table.

  “Morning, Billy,” Darcy said, smiling sheepishly. “You sleep well?”

  Billy plopped his tray down and arranged his silverware. “Sure.”

  Paul shoved a piece of meat into his mouth.“Running a little late, are we?”

  “Yeah.” Billy nibbled on some eggs.

  “You’ve been late a lot.”

  “Leave him alone,” Darcy said. “So he’s late now and then. So what?”

  “I’m not saying it’s a big deal. I’m just making conversation. I never said it was in any way significant. Although now that you mention it, being late repeatedly, as our Billy has been, is indicative of distraction, don’t you think?”

  The Brit’s highfalutin tone irritated Billy. Always had. He ate his eggs without looking up. In writing class they’d memorized a quote from the philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, who’d once described writers as “spies who kept their eyes on suspicious characters,working on espionage, taking notes, observing particulars that everyone else overlooked, scouring the world for clues of meaning.” The monastery was brimming with petty spies, because they were all writers.

  “Yes, you’re probably right,” Darcy replied. “But just because a distraction is indicated doesn’t mean it actually exists. Either way, his being late isn’t necessarily significant.”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Billy said. “You sound like two stuffed shirts from a university book.” He raised his head and saw both staring at him with raised eyebrows.“I’m serious. You guys barely know the meaning of puberty, and here you are, discussing the fine points of a student’s tardiness. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “Not really.” Darcy’s eyes flashed with mischief.

  “It does me. We’re too young for so much responsibility. We should be out playing baseball and splashing in the ocean. Not discussing tardiness and speaking like we’re graduate students of the English language.”

  “I don’t consider my life here that way,” Paul said. “I rather enjoy it.”

  “Listen to you. I rather enjoy it,” Billy mocked, wagging his head. Paul was black and British by birth. Although he’d grown up in the monastery without the accent, he fancied his heritage and practiced it whenever he could. By contrast, Darcy was the perfect Dutch blonde who tended to lift her language only when in Paul’s company. They were the perfect pair, black and white, spouting high English.

  “You sound like you’ve eaten a barrel of pickles,” Billy said.

  Darcy laughed.

  “I rather like pickles, actually,” Paul returned without missing a beat. “We were just talking about Marsuvees Black before you sat down, Billy. I think his sudden vacancy wasn’t planned. What do you think?”

  Billy had a spoonful of eggs lifted halfway to his mouth. He stopped, then finished the bite. “I don’t know. What’s your reasoning?”

  “He seemed a bit off at the end there, encouraging the class to reach for the edges and such,” Paul said. “To go out and search for the limits. Nothing wrong technically. It was just the look in his eyes when he talked about it. He seemed more interested in pushing us into the darkness than into the light.” He turned to Darcy. “You saw it, right?”

  “At times, yes. But the desire to explore boundaries is part of the human condition. Maybe it’s better to explore them here, in the confines of the monastery, than out there.”

  “Maybe, within the context of the rules,” Paul said.

  Billy glanced around the cafeteria and saw that only a handful of students remained. “Please, Paul, don’t tell me you never feel like blowing the rules. Take the rules of writing, which mirror all of our other rules. Who decided those particular rules should be the rules of writing anyway? Who erected those walls and said, ‘Here, you be a good boy and only write stories that lead to love’?”

  Paul looked thrown off. “Why would any writer want to go beyond the four rules?”

  “Because they just want to, that’s why. Because this little voice in their head keeps whispering that there’s more out there than this,” Billy said, waving his hand to the ceiling. “Believe me, there is.”

  The smile left Darcy’s face. “Come on, Billy. Don’t be like this. You’re not making a lot of sense.”

  The same desire that had propelled Billy to explore the tunnels rose in his chest, urging him to tell. If Darcy could just see what he had seen. Touch what he’d touched.

  Only one student remained bent over his meal on the far side of the room.
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  Billy turned to Darcy and Paul. “I not only think there’s more, I know there is more.” He whispered, looking directly into Darcy’s eyes. “I know there’s more because I’ve seen more.”

  Neither responded to that, so he continued, watching her eyes. “I’ve been below. I’ve seen the subterranean levels.”

  Darcy’s mouth opened in shock. She glanced around. Paul sat unmoving, bug-eyed.

  “Below?” Darcy asked in a whisper. “You’ve been to the forbidden levels?”

  Billy nodded. “Yes, and they are more wonderful than you could ever imagine. Ever.”

  “But . . . you can’t, Billy! It’s forbidden!”

  “Why? Have you ever asked that? You have no idea what the lower levels contain. I, on the other hand, do know what they contain, and I’m telling you that they’ll expand your mind like nothing else you know.”

  “But it’s prohibited,” Paul said.

  “By whom?”

  “By David. By the overseers.”

  “And who are they?”

  “Who are they? They built this place! They’re our . . . teachers.”

  “Yes, but do they run your mind, Paul? Maybe Marsuvees was right. Think about what he’s been saying here for the last few months. It’s in the fourth rule of writing. There are no boundaries. Why? Because each of us makes our own way.”

  “The rules of writing aren’t the only rules we live by,” Darcy said.

  “Yes, but they do make my point. Consider our writing, for example. We create our own stories. Don’t you see it? We are writers.We choose our own stories. No one forces us to write this plot or that plot. No one insists we do or don’t do this or that. It’s for us to choose! And as long as we have the free will to choose, we have an obligation to explore those choices.”

  “You stop this talk right now, Billy!” Darcy whispered harshly. “You’ve lost your senses. Talk like this will get you thrown out of here.”

  “Talk like this got me to the subterranean levels. And I found the most wonderful halls imaginable there, filled with images and powers that took my breath away and left me shaking.”