Shadow Chaser

by Jerel Law

  Was he about to get sick right in the middle of a prayer? Jonah inadvertently raised his hand to cover his mouth. He really didn’t want to throw up in front of everyone.

  But even though something was welling up inside of him, this felt somehow different. Something was coming up. The hand he had placed over his mouth wasn’t going to stop it. Jonah looked to the right and left for the nearest bathroom or escape route.

  His feet wouldn’t do what he wanted them to, though. In fact, they began to move him forward until he was in front of the quarterlings, instead of away like he wanted. He stopped right next to Camilla, who was still praying.

  She glanced up, distracted by his footsteps toward her, and her eyes grew wide. She paused mid-sentence.

  Jonah’s cheeks felt as if they were about to explode. Keep it down, Jonah, he told himself. Keep it down! What are you doing up here? Whatever you do, don’t open your mouth!

  But the urge was too great. He looked around at the bowed heads of the quarterlings, wild-eyed. He was going to vomit on the floor of the New York Public Library.

  How embarrassing.

  He squinted his eyes and gritted his teeth with one last effort of defiance, but there was no stopping it. When his mouth opened, though, only words poured forth. He raised his hands in the air, and suddenly a calmness washed over him as he gave himself over to what was inside him.

  “Friends,” he said, with power in his voice that caused every quarterling to snap to attention. “Don’t be foolish—Abaddon is still lurking, prowling around like a lion, waiting to trap us. His Fallen are plotting to destroy us, even now. Be strong in Elohim, and trust Him. Also, trust one another. A dark day is coming . . . in that time, you will have to find your strength in Him or you will not find it at all.”

  Jonah closed his mouth and lowered his hands, and felt a deep sense of relief. He was pretty sure that the message had come from Elohim Himself.

  He was lost in his own thoughts for a few seconds, unaware of anyone else in the room. What a rush.

  Then he looked up again and remembered where he was. Twelve faces stared at him—plus the three angels.

  “I . . . uh . . . ,” he muttered, running his fingers through his matted hair. “Sorry to interrupt.” He had gone from momentary elation to awkward discomfort in a matter of seconds.

  Camilla regained control, but she was watching Jonah carefully as she spoke. “Okay, quarterlings,” she said, clapping her hands and snapping everyone back to attention. “It’s time to head to your classes for the evening.”

  Jonah began to slink off toward Angelic Combat with Marcus and Taryn.

  “Jonah, just a word, please?” Camilla said, stopping him in his tracks.

  He sighed, bracing himself for more humiliation. The blood had already rushed to his face.

  Camilla folded her arms, studying him. “What was that, dear?”

  Jonah shrugged his shoulders, unable to look her in the eye. “I don’t know . . . it just kind of . . . happened. Like I couldn’t hold it in, and if I did, I was going to explode.”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “It’s your prophetic gift, coming to life.”

  “Seriously?” he asked. It had felt like the words were coming from Elohim. It was a relief to know he wasn’t going crazy. “Well, I’ll make sure I don’t let it interrupt again.”

  “No, no, you mustn’t say things like that,” she said, drawing nearer. “It is textbook prophecy. You are given something to say, and no matter what, you have to say it. It is the blessing of being a prophet.”

  “Yeah, well, it feels more like a curse,” Jonah said, blushing. “I mean, it’s kind of embarrassing.”

  She smiled. “Maybe the right word is a burden. But remember, speaking the words of Elohim is never a curse—and it’s certainly not embarrassing. Be proud that Elohim chooses to spread His messages through you.” Camilla’s eyes were drawn to Jonah’s forehead, and she frowned.

  “What is that?”

  He had forgotten all about the massive pimple on his face until then.

  “Ugh,” he said, realizing that he had just been standing in front of everyone with the huge blemish in full view. “It’s just a zit. I don’t suppose you have any special angelic zit cream, do you?”

  “Afraid not, dear,” she said, brushing the hair off his face gently. “It does look awfully . . . painful.”

  Jonah pulled back before she could touch it. “It is,” he said. “It popped up this morning. I’m sure it will be better tomorrow.”

  She stared at it a little longer, and it was impossible for him to tell what she was thinking. Breathing in, she seemed to want to say something but then thought better of it.

  “On your way, Jonah,” she said softly, ushering him to class. Jonah walked over toward Marcus and Taryn, glancing back at Camilla as he felt her eyes upon him still.

  SOLITUDE

  When Jonah joined David, Frederick, Hai Ling, and Lania in Angelic Combat, Marcus was in the middle of a demonstration on firing arrows while running.

  “And so, what you want to do is continue moving your feet, focus on your target, pull your arrow like so”—he moved across the center of the room, an arrow appearing in his fingers—“aim, and . . . fire!” Marcus was at almost a full sprint as he aimed at the target across the room. He dove as he released the arrow, falling down behind an overturned table. It pierced the red bull’s-eye he had posted against the wall, then disintegrated as it touched the special paper they used for target practice.

  “Nice shot!” David said as he and Lania clapped loudly. Frederick and Hai Ling continued to stand with their hands in their pockets, but they nodded. It was an impressive shot by any standard.

  “Thank you for the demonstration, Marcus,” said Taryn, turning to the five quarterlings. “As you experienced in your battle here in New York, you don’t often get to shoot an arrow when you are standing still.”

  “Too bad we can’t have a suit of armor made out of that angel paper,” commented Frederick. “That would be kind of nice in battle, don’t you think?”

  Taryn smiled. “Too bad it only extinguishes our arrows, Frederick. Not those of the Fallen.”

  They began to practice shooting while they moved. Marcus had made it look easy, but all of them struggled to even come close to the small target on the wall. At least I’m not the only one having a hard time with this, thought Jonah. Even Frederick, who usually excelled in archery, had a tough time getting used to shooting on the move. All of their arrows continued blasting into the wall around the target.

  Jonah did his best, and he was glad to be back in training, but he felt rusty and distracted. His mind kept wandering back to his outburst of prophecy. Just thinking about it made him feel a little queasy. It had been uncontrollable. He also noticed how the others—even David—were watching him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Were they staring at him because of what he’d said or because of the giant zit on his forehead?

  He touched it gently. It seemed to be growing.

  And what was worse, it felt like another one was starting to emerge on his cheek.

  None of his arrows came even close to the target.

  “We’ll try again tomorrow,” said a tight-lipped Taryn, who did not seem happy with their performance. “But I would suggest you all work a little harder on your focus.”

  Jonah’s group’s next class was Scriptural Studies with the angel Samuel. They sat down at the other end of the large room, which had been arranged with two tables and chairs. There was an ornate podium in the front where Samuel stood, wings folded behind him, his neck craning over the large book. He barely noticed when the students sat down in front of him.

  “Oh . . . when did you all get here?” he said, finally looking up from his book. “Well then, let’s begin.”

  A stack of Bibles and notebooks was on each table, along with a cup full of black pens. Jonah pulled one of each toward him and waited for Samuel to begin.

  The skinny-ne
cked angel had what must have been a few hundred papers strewn across the podium. He searched through them intently, some of them falling on the floor, which he ignored. There were a few scrolls there too. He opened up one of them, frowned, and then opened another, frowning again.

  “Do you need some help, Instructor Samuel?” asked Lania. She bent down and picked up the handful of papers he had dropped.

  “Thank you, dear, thank you,” he said. His eyes grew brighter as he held up one of the papers in his hand. “Aha! There they are: class notes!”

  He thrust himself into a lecture about Abraham, the father of the Israelite people. He spoke with passion about the time Elohim called Abraham to follow Him and told him that He was sending him to the Promised Land. But Elohim only told Abraham to get up and leave, not telling him exactly where to go.

  “Imagine the faith it took to say, ‘All right, I’ll go!’” Samuel exclaimed. “‘I don’t know where You’re telling me to go, but I’ll take the first step!’”

  Jonah had heard that story, and the others Samuel told about Abraham, like about putting his son Isaac on the altar as a sacrifice, dozens of times. But he had never heard them come alive like this. He found himself captivated by the old stories, as if he were listening to someone who had witnessed these things firsthand. Samuel probably did see these things with his own eyes, he reminded himself.

  One other student didn’t seem quite as enthralled as the rest, though. After forty-five minutes in which Samuel had barely caught his breath, Frederick raised his hand impatiently.

  “I’m sorry, but where is all of this going?” he asked bluntly, looking around at the others. “Is this going to have a point anytime soon?”

  Jonah glared at him, as did the others. It was typical Frederick—rude and arrogant. Even though he had given his heart over to Elohim at the end of the battle last year, the old Frederick still came out pretty often.

  Samuel was undaunted, however. “Behind all of our study is a purpose and a plan, my friend Frederick. Even if you cannot see it at the moment. It’s not unlike life,” he said, looking up above them as he spoke. “You never know how what you’re doing in the present is going to influence the future. Elohim has a plan, but He works in unexpected, mysterious ways.”

  “Well, it just seems like—”

  “Enough!” Samuel snapped, grabbing the podium. His papers went flying onto the floor again, and Lania scrambled to help him pick them up. Frederick shut his mouth but snickered to himself.

  Jonah thought about Samuel’s words. He wasn’t sure he fully grasped what Samuel was getting at, but something inside of him agreed.

  He lingered after class, fidgeting with his notebook until he was the only one who hadn’t moved to the Spiritual Arts class with Reverend Bashir.

  Samuel looked up from shifting his papers around. “Ah, Jonah. How are you, my son?”

  Jonah stood up from the table and approached the wise angel. “I am not quite sure how to ask this . . . but I’m just wondering about the prophets in the Bible.”

  Samuel looked at Jonah, and his eyes began to dance. “Studying the prophets could consume a lifetime, and much, much more. There is a lot to learn from them.”

  Jonah nodded. He knew that he probably needed to dig into them more in his reading. “I just . . . it feels weird. I’m supposedly, well, according to Abigail, at least, one of them.” He hesitated to even call himself the word. “She said that I’m a prophet.”

  “And if your statement a little while ago to the students is any indication,” Samuel observed, “then indeed, you have the gift.”

  Jonah shrugged, nodding as he stared at his own shoes.

  Samuel moved from around his podium and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Jonah, I know it’s difficult for you to accept and understand. I can imagine it makes you feel different from the others. I have no help to offer you there. All of the prophets in the Bible felt that way. It was part of their burden, what they had to carry. But I can tell you,” he said, squeezing him firmly and making sure he caught Jonah’s eyes, “that it is a gift with great honor. And consequence. You must learn as much as you can about it and embrace it.”

  Jonah thanked him, knowing it was time to get to his next class. He left Samuel, though, with more questions than answers, his mind stirred up once again by the thought of somehow being different from the rest.

  He exited the hidden realm and caught up to the rest of the kids making their way toward the Spiritual Arts classroom. The Pakistani-born pastor greeted them at the door, smiling easily, dressed in jeans and a simple white T-shirt.

  “It’s great to see you again, friends,” he said as they took their seats in a circle in the small stone-walled room. A friend of the convent and the pastor of a big New York City church, Reverend Bashir had been invited in last year to teach Spiritual Arts. Jonah had no idea at the time how powerful these ancient practices could be. Prayer, after all, was something he thought only pastors or older people in the church did. How wrong he had been. “You guys look great, and all of you look older. And taller. Man!”

  “We are quarterlings, you know,” said Jonah. “We grow taller a little faster than normal.”

  He smiled at Jonah and then began. “I want to remind you that the Spiritual Arts are not simply for your own personal growth. They are a battle tool, just as much as fighting with arrows and swords,” he said, pointing toward the door. “I’m sure you remember the power of your prayer, and those of the sisters in the convent, against the fallen angels.”

  How could they forget? An entire wall of protection had formed all around them, based on prayer alone. None of them, not even Frederick, could take prayer for granted anymore.

  “There are other practices that are just as powerful,” he said, sitting down in the circle with them, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “We will be studying and practicing them together this year. They are designed to connect you more deeply with Elohim and help you fight the battle. One of them is called solitude.”

  He launched into a lecture on the practice of solitude. He described it as a listening kind of silence. According to Reverend Bashir, solitude was different from prayer because solitude was about hearing, not speaking. The more the pastor explained, the less comfortable Jonah became. He didn’t particularly like being left alone to his own thoughts.

  But that was what Reverend Bashir was instructing them to do, and soon, Jonah found himself with an assignment—go find a quiet place in the library and spend the next fifteen minutes being perfectly still.

  Just. Listening.

  The quarterlings looked at the reverend uncertainly but filed out of the room.

  “Remember,” he called out to them as they left, “reenter the hidden realm. And all you have to do is focus on Elohim and listen.”

  Jonah looked at David, shrugged his shoulders, and walked down the empty hallway to the right. He was back in the hidden realm and didn’t worry about being spotted by anyone. The place was deserted anyway.

  He found a set of steps, wandered down them to the floor below, and sat down on the cold marble floor in the corner of a hallway. Jonah tried to get himself to be quiet and still, but it was harder than he realized. His eyes darted around, looking at the pictures on the wall, a scrap of paper on the floor, a statue of the head of some bearded man . . . When it was quiet, everything seemed to try to get his attention.

  Jonah sighed, closing his eyes, and emptied his thoughts, listening.

  What could he hear? His breathing was slowing gradually. His heartbeat drummed in his ears. The rush of air from a vent nearby whooshed gently.

  He strained to hear more deeply. Was anything there? Any voice other than his own, echoing around in his head? He had just spoken the words of Elohim to everyone, and yet now he couldn’t hear a thing.

  He cheered silently when the time for this exercise was up and he was able to return to the classroom.

  “How did it go, everyone?” Reverend Bashir aske
d.

  To Jonah’s surprise, several of the others had something to share. Lania had heard the word trust and David had heard I am your comfort—even Frederick shared about his mind going back to the mountains of South Africa, where he grew up, and how he finally saw that this beauty was from Elohim alone.

  Jonah sat quietly, shifting his feet on the dusty floor. He had nothing to say.

  “Remember,” their instructor said, “it’s not always about what you hear. Solitude is about being quiet and letting what happens happen.”

  Jonah couldn’t help but think that what had happened was that he had wasted fifteen minutes of his life listening to the building creak.

  A SPECIAL GUEST

  The next two weeks of Angel School were much the same, filled with evenings of practicing the spiritual arts, listening to lectures, and honing their combat skills. After all of that, and keeping up with their regular schoolwork, the quarterlings didn’t have a lot of free time left over.

  But every spare minute Jonah could find, he spent in the convent’s library, reading about the prophets. Even though Jonah had never been accused of being a big reader, he tore through every book he could find, taking notes in a small notebook.

  So far he had learned a lot, and none of it was very comforting. Prophets were often picked on, singled out, and misunderstood. People sometimes even tried to kill them. But they all seemed to be so focused on speaking the words of Elohim that they ignored everything else.

  As Jonah realized this, he looked up from his books and stared for a while at the brick wall in front of him, sighing loudly. How was he ever supposed to be like that? He always cared what people thought. He genuinely did want to learn more about prophets, but his other reason for hiding out in the library was to avoid the others. His one pimple had turned into dozens, and his face was covered in oozing zits.