The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  Ammon didn’t move as he thought, taking in a deep breath of night air. He shook his head again, looked at Balaam, then stood at his side. The sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving the western sky a deep pink. Behind him, the moon was just beginning to rise. It was white now, not yellow, a sliver of pale light.

  “I guess the battle continues,” Ammon said.

  Balaam raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “The forces of good and evil have been in conflict since the beginning of time, since the heavens were formed, since we first took breath. And this is no different. It’s all the same struggle, though in a different time, different place. Dark clouds and dark feelings. Yes, the war clouds are near.”

  Balaam studied his student with a critical eye. “Ammon,” he asked. “Do you know who will win?”

  Ammon didn’t hesitate. “There is no doubt in my mind.”

  “Then are you ready to join us?”

  Ammon turned away from his friend.

  Chapter Four

  Ammon and Balaam talked until darkness settled over the mountain, their quiet voices rising and falling in the night wind. A gust of cool air blew up from the valley, musky with scent, and the moon rose behind them, providing a shimmer of light that cast a dim shadow on the valley below. As night grew deeper, the stars grew more intense and the wind suddenly became calm, the air heavy, like a blanket, brooding and thick. The two men stood close together, their voices suddenly intense. Ammon grew angry. Balaam hissed in reply. Lifting his fist, he tapped his friend on the chest. Ammon pushed back, then walked away furiously. The teacher called him back with a simple command. They talked a little longer, Ammon shaking his head, and then the two parted quickly, moving along separate trails.

  As Ammon walked down the path that led off the back side of the mountain, he paused and looked back. How could this happen? he wondered. He needed to know. One of the great teachers! One of the most respected individuals he knew, a man who influenced a thousand students each day. He swallowed and called out, but the teacher didn’t slow. “Balaam,” he shouted again through a dry mouth. Master Balaam slowed and looked back, his eyes seeming to glint in the light. He stood there, impatient, obviously anxious to go. There was no more use talking; it was only wasting his time. He scowled, then turned quickly and disappeared down the trail.

  As Ammon watched, a great sense of darkness washed over him. Had the whole world gone crazy? Was there no one he could trust?

  * * *

  Balaam entered his house. It was gloomy and quiet, for none of the lights were turned on. He walked down the dark hallway, tossing his outer cloak on the rack.

  A shadow was waiting for him in the darkness, anxious and impatient, his arms folded across his chest. The man watched Balaam closely, his breathing even and slow. Balaam started when he saw him, almost stumbling back. He gasped, then, embarrassed, quickly turned on the light.

  The man looked up and smiled with a fiendish grin, mischievous, almost hateful, alive and intense. He leaned forward, always eager, as if he were ready to pounce, prepared to find insult, prepared to offend. “I frightened you,” he offered in his great and powerful voice.

  Balaam replied weakly as he glanced at the floor. “Yes, sir. I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

  The intruder laughed lightly as a wonderful shiver moved through his bones. Fear! Yes, they feared him! Even his friends. He laughed once again, then commanded, “Turn the light off.”

  Balaam hesitated, and the stranger waved to the light with his hand. “The moon is high now. It will provide enough light. Let’s sit in the darkness and enjoy the night. The dark is more intimate. The dark is for friends. It takes away inhibitions. And I want you to be open with me.”

  Balaam sensed the burning eyes and felt a black chill. He did as he was told, then moved to the table and nervously pulled out a chair. As he sat, he bowed slightly, a nearly imperceptible drop of his head. He glanced at his visitor, then looked quickly away.

  The man sat in the shadows, his face an unfeeling mask, handsome, even striking, his features rugged and lean. But a spider web of creases now ran from the corners of his eyes, and the brow on his forehead was furrowed by deeply cut lines. A thin line of silver-gray ran through the center of his hair, an otherwise beautiful mane of jet-black which hung to the back of his neck. As always, his hair was tied back with a deep purple bow. He had a masculine face, angry and unpredictable. His eyes were pale and piercing and incredibly intense, questioning and suspicious behind a dark stare. His fingers were long, even elegant, though mortal age, if it came, would make them bony and weak. He wore a simple gray robe tied with a red sash.

  If there was one word to describe him, that word would have been cold. Cold skin, cold hands, cold smile, and cold heart. He was a bitter winter morning; ice chips ran through his veins. Like an exquisite ice sculpture, yes, there was beauty there; but there was nothing in his presence that invited an embrace. To hold him, to touch him, was to bring a cold chill, for there was no warmth left inside him, no kindness at all. Like a dead, dried-out insect, he had a hard, brittle shell, but inside he was empty except for his hate.

  Over the years, the man had taken on several names, some respectful, some offensive, some old and some new. In the old days, long before, they had called him Son of the Morning, but he hated that name now from the depths of his soul. The connotation was insulting; he just didn’t buy any of it anymore. After Son of the Morning, he had been assigned other names: Rahab, the Deceiver, the Father of Lies, Destroyer, the Betrayer, Slanderer, and Adversary.

  He was sometimes called Master Mahan, but only by his closest and most secret friends, and then only in whispers, and always in the dark, when the angels weren’t watching and the wind wouldn’t carry the name. All of the others around him, those who fell under his spell, called him Lucifer or Satan.

  At this point in his life, in the premortal world, Lucifer was still a great prince, a spirit of incredible power, a leader among those who were still seeking their way. But the truth was that he had already fallen, though few fully knew his heart and what he ultimately intended to do.

  The great leader was rising, his star shining bright, for he had developed a scheme, a much easier way. Many believed him. And he was spreading the word.

  Chapter Five

  Lucifer sat back and looked Balaam in the eye, then placed his hands on the table. “So . . . ?” he asked intently. “What did he say?”

  Balaam hesitated, then answered, “He told me no.”

  Lucifer snorted in disgust. “We need him,” he cried.

  “There are others, master.”

  “Yes, there are others. And I want them all–the weak for their weakness and the strong for their strength. Every one of them is important. Haven’t I made myself clear? If we don’t defeat them here, we will have to fight them again. And I don’t want to do that. I want to take them all now!”

  “But there are so many children. Do you expect to approach every one?”

  “Yes! Absolutely! We will go after them all! There is not a single individual I don’t want on my side. Each of them is worth our effort, each is worth our time, especially these warriors, these brave, valiant ones. They have so much power, and they are so strong. They are godlike in spirit, and they will be powerful! So we need to defeat them before they can see, before they understand their potential and what they can be, before they can learn how to defeat me, before they learn what I know.

  “So, yes, Balaam, I intend to go after them all. The battle is looming . . . no, the battle is here; it began on the day they rejected my views. And the first thing we must do is to destroy their leaders, for Elohim and Jehovah are counting on them. If I cut out their leaders, they grow weak and I grow strong. For every leader I convert, we bring a thousand to our side; for once we have their leaders, we can send them into the world to convert their family and friends.

  “And though Ammon is young, he has much to give. He could lead an entire
division, ten thousand strong.”

  Balaam nodded slowly, his face tight with concern. The conversation with Ammon had left him frustrated and tense, and a simmer of doubt pulled his gut into a tight ball of nerves. “And if we can’t get Ammon?” he asked slowly.

  Lucifer scowled. “I gave you an assignment, Balaam. You ought not let me down.”

  “But, sir, as you said, Ammon is young but he’s strong. And my discussion with him, it didn’t go well.”

  Lucifer leaned angrily across the table. “I will be very disappointed if you can’t get Ammon,” he said. “That would force me to reevaluate my offer and what worth you might be to me.”

  Balaam fell back, a look of despair in his eyes.

  Lucifer tapped the table. “If we can’t get Ammon to join us, we will go after his younger brother instead. Luke is loyal, but naïve, malleable, and bent by the wind. I can win him; I know that. Then I’ll turn him against Ammon. We might not get everything, but either way, we will win.”

  Balaam paused and glanced down, a look of doubt in his eyes. Battles were rarely that easy when it came to men’s souls, and he needed reassurance. “But, master,” he questioned, “how do you know? It mightn’t be that easy. How can you be so sure?”

  Lucifer stood abruptly, his eyes flashing bright, the façade of his smile twisted into a tight frown. The rage that simmered inside him seemed to boil over. “Don’t question me, Balaam!” he said in a snarl. “There are things I can do, unspeakable things, torments so exquisite you will wish you could die. So don’t question me, Balaam. Keep your doubts to yourself. If you can’t be strong when I need you, then get out of my way.”

  The teacher pulled back, his eyes wide open in fear. “I didn’t mean to question,” he sniffled in pain. “I just wonder, dear master, how it is that you know.”

  Lucifer cut him off with a furious wave of his hand. “I know I’m not like Him!” he hissed in rage. “I’m not perfect. I can’t see the future like the Father can. But I do know his children. Since the beginning of time, I have studied them every day. I know how they think. I know how they feel. I know what they hope for and what they really want. And I can always predict how they are going to react. And though all people are different–and oh, how they glory in their diversity!–they have one thing in common, and I am a master at that. Pride is the seed from which all other sins sprout: jealousy, hate, lust, ambition, criticism, or sloth. All of these sins sprout from the pride in their hearts. If I can breed pride inside them, I can turn that pride into hate. Once I have made them feel jealous, then I can bend them to follow my will.

  “So even though I can’t see the future, not like Him anyway, I can still predict the future with comfortable certainty. And I can promise you, Balaam, that many, no . . . most of His children will end up on my side, all of the weak and even many of the strong. It won’t happen today and it won’t happen next week, but I will defeat them; I promise you I will. As long as the Father and the Christ continue to guarantee their agency, something their laws seem to have bound them to do, then we can manipulate His children to steal them away. And if we control enough of His children, if we pull enough to our side, then we can cast out the Father and His precious Son, cast them out into darkness and eternal woe.”

  Balaam shivered lightly as a cold chill ran down his spine. Yes, they could do it. His master was right!

  “And remember,” Lucifer added, as he narrowed his eyes, “this battle we are starting will never end. We have an eternity to destroy them, and time is on our side. This isn’t a quick skirmish that will be resolved in one fight. It will go on and on, until we say it is over or until we have won. Remember that, Balaam. We choose our battles. We choose our terms!”

  “Yes!” Balaam answered, his eyes burning with excitement, even in the dim light.

  Lucifer moved around the table, his face pale and tight. “I want Ammon,” he hissed in a low, lusty voice. “I want Ammon. And the girl. Elizabeth is a part of my plan. And if we can’t convince them to join us, then let’s go after Luke. The little brother, the innocent, loved one–what would Ammon do for him? And Elizabeth–how she loves him! Would they sacrifice themselves for this brother? I believe that they would.

  “So go. Now! Talk to Luke. I want you to bring him to me.”

  Balaam nodded solemnly. “Yes, master, I will.”

  Lucifer smiled, then pointed a bony finger and tapped him on the chest. Turning quickly, he walked from the room, slipping into the darkness and disappearing into the night.

  * * *

  The argument with Master Balaam had left Ammon feeling agitated and angry. After returning from the mountain, he stood on a wooded pathway near his home and looked over his head, taking in the incredible array of stars. He glanced around, then sat on the grass to watch the night sky. A wisp of cloud passed, carried by the wind, and the night grew more dark as the cloud moved in front of the moon. He listened to the cicadas and the rustling breeze; like the waves on the oceans, the trees rolled and swayed. The grass smelled damp and sweet, and he took a deep breath. For a long time he remained motionless, his thoughts hazy and thick.

  He felt restless and weary, anxious in body and soul. He had been agitated for several days, ever since his brother had left, and the conversation with Balaam had only made him feel worse.

  He took another deep breath, then lay back on the grass and closed his eyes to the dark.

  The dream came unexpectedly, as they all did, though dreams were one of his gifts. The vision stuck in his mind, an image of mortality and what it might be.

  * * *

  There was a small, white, wooden frame schoolhouse, a two-story building with a bell tower perched atop a wide, wooden porch. The playground was crowded, and the sounds of children playing filled the air.

  Ammon saw himself as a child, hopping down the front steps and running through the schoolyard. At the corner of the building he stopped suddenly; his heart jumped in his chest. He saw the group of bullies and was instantly afraid. The group of older boys had formed a tight circle around a much younger child and were jabbing at him, taunting and teasing and calling him names. Ammon watched the assault with a knot in his throat. He shifted his view, but he couldn’t see who the young child was. The child tried to push through the circle, and the older boys pushed him back. Other children gathered around, laughing and pointing in scorn. One of the bullies approached an older girl and pulled a pink sweater from her arms. “Put this on!” he sneered as he thrust it toward the young boy. “Come on, little sissy, pink is perfect for you!”

  The little boy cried and pushed the sweater away. The older boys howled and the circle drew tight. Ammon stepped to the side, trying to see again who it was, but the little boy’s face remained hidden behind his raised arms. “Hey!” Ammon called angrily, and a couple of tormenters turned to face him. He started toward the circle, but the largest boy scowled. “Stay out of this, Ammon, or you’ll get the same thing!”

  Ammon froze, a stone of fear in his chest. He felt his neck tighten and the air rasp in his chest. He felt his blood boil. It was six against one! Six against one, and a child at that! It was disgusting and cowardly. What had this child ever done? He took another step forward and the ringleader sneered, “Get out of here, Ammon, or I’ll take this pink sweater and shove it down your throat.”

  Ammon tried to walk, but his feet wouldn’t move. He tried to call out, but the sound didn’t get past his throat. The ringleader glared at him, his lips a crooked sneer. Then, satisfied, he snorted and turned back to the child. Pushing him to the ground, he kicked him once in the back. The little boy rolled on his stomach, and several boys moved forward and draped the pink sweater over him. Then, at some unseen signal, they all turned and ran.

  The little boy pushed himself up and held his face in his palms. The dirty sweater draped over his shoulders like an ugly pink cape. As the older boys scattered, Ammon finally moved to his side. He put his arms around him, and the little boy cried. He buried his face on
Ammon’s shoulder and heaved in great sobs.

  Ammon stroked his matted hair as he rocked him back and forth, resting his cheek against the blond curls.

  As Ammon held the young boy, something drew his eyes toward the school. He turned and saw a man watching from the window on the second floor. It was clear from his face he had seen the whole thing, for he looked deeply dejected, disappointed and sad. Ammon felt a shudder pass through him as he stared up in shame. The man met his eyes sadly, holding him with his stare.

  Ammon had not helped this child, but had frozen in fear. He had stood by, afraid, unwilling to get in the fight. The man shook his head, then turned away from the glass. Ammon closed his eyes and lowered his head in disgrace.

  * * *

  The shameful dream passed and Ammon found himself staring at the night sky again. He felt the cool darkness around him and the soft grass under his back. His heart pounded inside him, and his throat was bone dry. An overwhelming sadness settled through him, leaving him shaken and weak.

  He lay there a long time trying to regain his bearings, while staring blankly at the stars and moon overhead.

  The dream left him dejected and full of concern. Was that what earth-life would be like? Why didn’t he fight? How could he just stand there? Was he a coward at heart?

  He replayed the dream until he couldn’t stand it anymore, then pushed himself up from the grass and turned for his home. As he walked he flexed his back and lifted his arms. The tension was growing, making him anxious and tight. Like a thousand strands of steel, the energy screamed through his veins, twisting and building, wanting to burst from inside.

  He wanted a body. He wanted to fight! If that was what earth-life would be like, fine. He wouldn’t cower or turn his back on the fight. He wouldn’t sit on his hands, like he had in this dream. He thought of the matted hair and the little boy’s sobs. He thought of the bullies and what they had done. If he saw that on earth, no way would he stand by, no way he would let such an ugly thing go. He would fight for this child, fight anyone, anytime. If his Father was looking for someone who wasn’t afraid of a scrap, then he was the one and he was ready to go.