Battle for His Soul

by Theresa Linden

  Peter answered on the fourth ring. “Hey, man, what’s up? Haven’t heard from you in a good long time. You getting roasted out there?”

  His loud, cheerful voice made Roland picture his grinning face. He missed Peter. “Yeah, it’s pretty hot. I stay inside during the day, mostly.”

  “You still ghostly white or have you gotten yourself a good tan, or more like a burn?”

  Roland laughed but he checked his arm. Pale as ever. “I don’t know. Hey, I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  “Sure. Shoot.”

  “Jarret needs some help.”

  “Uh-oh. What’d he do?”

  “Nothing. It’s just . . . Well, I thought maybe you could ask the group to pray for him . . . by name. He needs some help. I’m worried about him.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. I still got revenge on my mind.”

  “Come on. Forgive already. He needs help.”

  “Maybe. So tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CRUSHED LIKE GRAPES

  Ellechial

  Jarret strolled to the stables, limping a bit and clutching his side.

  Ellechial attended him, alternating between prayers for grace and whispers of counsel. “Hear me, Jarret. Don’t do this. The Lord has allowed your suffering for a reason. Turn to Him. Let Him comfort you.”

  “You’re a loser.” Deth-kye hovered close to Jarret’s ear, and his words shot forth like flaming darts. “You’re a selfish, wicked brother. Your father is right. You could’ve gotten your brother hurt, killed. What if one of those men had had a gun? They would’ve shot him down in cold blood. Roland would be dead.”

  Deth-kye shifted his evil glare to Ellechial and his voice mellowed. “That was my plan. One of them did have a gun. I’m not sure what went wrong.”

  Ellechial smiled, recalling the boy with the gun. His guardian angel had helped him to avoid mortal sin. Ellechial lifted his wings and praised God.

  “Roland was meant to die last night.” Deth-kye’s face twitched. “If we cannot turn his soul from God, we can at least hurt him or shorten his life. How I hate that boy. How I hate them all.” His black eyes shifted back to Jarret. “You worthless, miserable . . .” He lifted off the ground, vomiting curses.

  Ellechial brought up his shield, using grace to stave off the fiery darts of Deth-kye’s present fury. If only he had a sword. He needed more grace from prayer and sacrifices.

  Jarret reached the stables and stepped into their cool shade, wrinkling his nose at the strong odor of hay and manure.

  One of the stable hands, Laszio, was mucking out the nearest stall with a rake and a bucket. Two demons flew back and forth above him. One swooped down whispering lies, but the guardian angel swatted him away, preventing him from perching on Laszio’s shoulders. The demon resumed its aerial attack.

  When Laszio looked up, Jarret gave him a nod and said, “Hey, man, you seen Rufino?”

  Laszio simply shook his head, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

  At the far end of the stable, Enyeto stepped out of a stall, a medical bag in hand. He saw Jarret and his eyes narrowed, but he kept walking and disappeared into the tack room.

  At Deth-kye’s prompting, Jarret cursed Enyeto under his breath as he headed for the tack room. Deth-kye laughed with evil delight, as he often did when Jarret took his suggestions.

  Jarret stopped in the doorway of the tack room. “Uh, excuse me.”

  Enyeto leaned over a saddle and scrubbed it with circular motions, water dripping off the workbench and onto his tan work boots. He kept his back to the door and made no sign of having heard Jarret.

  Jarret stepped into the room. “Your name’s Enyeto, right?”

  Enyeto turned his head. “What is it you want? You cannot take the horses out in this heat.”

  “Well, I hadn’t planned on it.” Jarret grimaced. “But why not?”

  “It is too hot. Horses heat up much faster than humans.”

  “Oh yeah?” Jarret smiled, but it looked terribly insincere.

  “You may come back in the evening. The horses are used to early morning and evening rides in the summer.”

  Jarret shook his head, one eye twitching. “I ain’t here to ride a horse. I’m looking for Rufino. You know where he is?”

  Enyeto turned away and continued scrubbing the saddle with circular motions.

  Jarret huffed and stepped back, about to leave.

  “I have not seen him. Perhaps you will find him at home,” Enyeto said, facing his work. “He will not come to the stables until later today.”

  After a long silence, Jarret said, “Thanks.”

  On the walk to Rufino’s, Jarret passed two stable hands, Alamar and Vincinte, who were mending a fence. They made eye contact with him, whispered to each other . . . then laughed.

  Indignation flashed in Jarret’s eyes.

  “Leave it,” Ellechial said, but it was too late.

  Jarret strode over to them, taking long steps and wincing at the pain they caused his ribs. He stopped a few feet away and assumed a wide-legged stance. “You got something to say to me?”

  They looked at each other and sniggered. Two small demons peeked out from behind them.

  “Let it go,” Ellechial said as Jarret lunged forward.

  The stable hands jumped back, but the two demons sprang up for Jarret.

  Ellechial brought out his shield, kicked one demon back and cracked the other in the head, keeping them at bay.

  “Easy there, amigo.” Alamar lifted his hands and smiled. “No-body is laughing at you. We are only talking about the fence.”

  “Si,” Vincinte said, nodding. “We have a green horse making work for us, destroying all the fences.”

  Jarret gave a squinty-eyed look at the fence and then at the men before walking on.

  Deth-kye rolled on the ground with laughter.

  Ellechial put away his shield. That skirmish was an easy victory, but a sword would help. He needed prayer and sacrifices . . . or Jarret’s openness to grace.

  Since trouble had temporarily passed, Ellechial took advantage of his ability to travel and made a visit to Monettello. After requesting prayers, he returned to Jarret’s side.

  Jarret reached Rufino’s backyard and stood gazing out into the distance.

  Ellechial gazed with him. The smooth lines of distant mesas and their color, red against the clear blue sky, proclaimed the simplicity of love and the beauty of God. The dry and barren land, thirsty for rainfall to bring forth life, reminded Ellechial of a soul in sin, thirsty for the grace of God.

  “Beautiful, is it not?” Ellechial knew that Jarret would not sense him or his thought, but he also knew that Jarret appreciated this beautiful view of God’s creation. God’s gift of creation gave joy and moved the hearts of believer and non-believer alike. The Lord found pleasure in giving this joy to all.

  With a deep breath, Jarret turned and set his gaze on Rufino’s house, on the sliding glass door off the back.

  Rufino slid open the door. Shirtless and with heavy-lidded eyes, he glanced in the direction of the Zamoranos’ property. “Hey, amigo. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem,” Jarret said. “Can I come in?”

  Rufino glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe now is not a good time. I will come out.”

  Jarret smiled. “Why? Have you got a muchacha in there?”

  Rufino made a slow, stuttering laugh. “No, man. It’s just I . . .” He rubbed his bare chest and glanced over his shoulder again. The smell of marijuana traveled out the door.

  “Is that pot I smell?” Jarret gave a crooked grin.

  “Uh . . .” Rufino peered toward the Zamoranos’ house.

  Jarret stepped up and pushed past Rufino to get inside. “That’s kind of why I’m here. I was hoping you might, uh, share?”

  Rufino’s mouth hung open. He watched as Jarret scanned the kitchen counters and Formica-topped table. A smile spread across his face, revealing tobacco-stained teeth,
but then he frowned and shook his head. “No, amigo. If your papa found out—”

  “He ain’t gonna find out. Unless you’re gonna tell him.” He maneuvered past Rufino to get to the living room. A half-spent joint lay in an ashtray on the coffee table. He picked it up and got out his lighter but paused before lighting up. “Whaddya say, amigo?”

  Rufino plopped down in the recliner and reached for a bag on the cluttered end table. “I guess so. Looks like you are going to anyways. I do not want your papa finding—”

  “I told you, I ain’t gonna tell him. You think I’m nuts? This’ll be our little secret.”

  Before long, they were laughing and gossiping about the stable hands. Deth-kye sat at Jarret’s feet, toying with a thick chain. Another demon leaned back against the sofa, a bored expression on his gnarled face. He had restrained Rufino with the Chain of Addiction long ago.

  Ellechial prayed. He knew, as only an angel could, that once a person crossed a moral boundary, it was easier for a demon to rein him in. What started out as a thread could become bigger and bigger until Hell was dragging that soul with a huge chain. Please, God, don’t allow this to happen to Jarret.

  “You’re all cooped up in your little house. You the only one around here who smokes?” Jarret indicated the joint then passed it to Rufino.

  Rufino took a hit before answering. “No, amigo. Sometimes Alamar and even Laszio. Do you know who I mean?”

  Jarret shook his head. “I don’t know their names. Never paid attention. I know two of those dudes don’t like me. And I know that old dude’s name is Enyeto.”

  “Si, Enyeto.” Rufino leaned and passed the joint. “He is the manager. He is in charge of everything and everyone. Keeps us all straight.” He chuckled.

  Jarret chuckled, imitating Rufino’s strange laugh. “I don’t like him. He seems sneaky.”

  “No, he is a good man. He is of the old world. He is Navajo.”

  “I still think he’s sneaky. Maybe he’s even the thief.” He took a drag off the joint. “He’s Native American? Don’t they smoke weed? I thought they smoked those peace pipes. What do they put in those?”

  Rufino laughed. “No, he is against any kind of illegal drugs, but he will drink. He likes his firewater, you know, whiskey. Now, though, even Laszio will not smoke. He does not like to spend the dinero except on his sick wife. Pot cost money, you know.”

  Jarret reached for his back pocket as if he wanted to offer some money, but he didn’t have his wallet. “His wife’s sick, huh? Was she at the party?”

  Rufino nodded. “I’m sure you saw her. She was up then. Sometimes, though, she is sick in bed, has some kind of cancer, only a few years to live. Laszio, he sent her to many doctors but it is always the same outcome, the same diagnosis.” Rufino dropped his gaze and shook his head. “He does not take this well. Then he learns about a woman who says she can help. She does not use traditional methods.”

  “You mean she uses herbs and stuff?”

  Rufino exhaled a stream of smoke. “No, that is not exactly what I mean, little amigo. I mean she is more like a shaman.”

  Jarret laughed. “Yeah, okay. You mean a witch doctor.”

  “No, like a medicine woman.”

  “Yeah. Witch doctor.”

  “No, but Señor Juan, he does not like for her to be on his property. He thinks she is evil. He is a Catholic, you know. When he first found out about her, he had a fit and threw her out. But Laszio, he still has her come. He thinks she will help.”

  “So, she uses the dark arts, huh?” Jarret took a long drag off the joint and held the smoke until it made him cough.

  “She says she can bridge the natural and the spiritual worlds. That is how she can help people. She casts out the evil spirits that cause problems, you know?”

  Jarret stifled a laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’m sure she can. Does she dress up in bizarre costumes and mix strange concoctions . . . dance around, chanting?”

  Rufino’s expression remained placid. “I have seen her do it. Do not doubt things because you do not understand.”

  “Yes-s-s, do not doubt, my little boy. Do not worry. Do not think.” Deth-kye closed his eyes and pretended to inhale, mimicking Jarret as he took a long drag off the joint. “Oh, the sweet victory.” Deth-kye wound the Chain of Addiction around Jarret’s ankle. “Breathe deep, my child. You are mine.”

  Ellechial had permission to do nothing. So he watched Jarret. And he wept.

  Jarret

  Jarret stayed at Rufino’s for over two hours before strolling back to the mansion, still high. By chance, he crossed paths with no one who wanted to talk to him and no one who wanted to know where he’d been or what he’d been doing. He’d even had the opportunity to snag a bag of tortilla chips from the pantry. Once he made it to the bedroom, he opened the glass balcony door in hopes of catching a warm, creosote-scented breeze. After eating half the bag of chips, he stretched out on the bed for a nap.

  As he gazed at the warm colors of the décor in the room, the yellow ocher, the fire orange, and the sage green, profound thoughts filled his mind. People in the southwest used vibrant colors to make up for the dullness of the desert landscape. On the other hand, they had more sky here than in other parts of the country, so they appreciated the colors of the sunrise and the sunset.

  He smiled. How long would the buzz last? The way his brain seemed to work under the influence, he could probably discover the deeper meaning of anything he set his mind to. Yeah, he would be able to make sense of anything, be able to find connections between little things, connections he previously hadn’t noticed.

  Brother Maurus always spoke with phrases that seemed to hold meanings beyond his grasp. He would get them now. What was it he used to say? Something about grapes.

  ❖

  Jarret dipped a scrub brush into a bucket of dark, sudsy water and stretched up as far as he could to clean the last of the white junk off the interior steel walls of the cylindrical fermentation tank. The eight-foot-high, five-foot in diameter enclosure amplified the sound of every drip. Soapy water ran down his plastic gloves and his arm to his pink-speckled, white muscle shirt. He’d never felt so drippy and disgusting in all his life.

  “Tank’s clean! Am I done?” he hollered, his voice echoing. “I’m starting to feel claustrophobic.” He squatted, ready to stick his head through the knee-high, circular manhole when Brother Maurus poked his smiling, egg-shaped head inside.

  The monk looked up and around the cylindrical tank. “It looks good, Brother Jarret. Let me get the hose. Here, I’ll take that.” He reached for the bucket of sudsy water.

  “I can get it. It’s kind of heavy.” Jarret snatched the handle away from him.

  “Oh, no. You don’t get out until it’s done.” Brother Maurus placed a hand on each side of the bucket.

  “You’re a slave driver. Who cleans these things when I’m not here?” Jarret helped scoot the bucket closer to the little manhole.

  “Be thankful. All the tanks will need cleaning in late summer, and you will not be here.”

  Finding no consolation in that thought, Jarret huffed. “So, did you finish reading my paper?” His English teacher had had the bright idea of making him write about his experiences whenever Papa took him out of school for a trip. Keefe used to write the papers for him, before he got all self-righteous. This was the second one that Jarret had had to write on his own. Surprisingly, it wasn’t half bad.

  The monk lifted the bucket with two hands and disappeared as he spoke. “I’m almost done reading it. It is very good.” A hose appeared through the manhole, followed by Brother Maurus’s head. “I’ll turn the water on. You might get wet.”

  Jarret chuckled. “I might, huh? There’re two feet between me and the walls of the tank. And you think I might get wet?”

  Water blasted from the hose. Jarret jumped back and aimed the stream at the top of the wall. Stray sprinkles burned his face. “Man, the water’s boiling hot.”

  “It has to be.”

/>   The manhole door closed a little, dimming the light inside the tank.

  Jarret did a double take at the door then kicked it back open. “Don’t be closing me in here. I feel trapped enough at this place.”

  “Sorry, Brother Jarret. I shall leave it open.”

  The claustrophobic feeling passed at the sight of Brother Maurus’s black and white habit outside the manhole. All this time in the tank only magnified his agitation at having to live at the monastery. He’d already decided that he wouldn’t tell anyone about it when he returned to school. He’d make something else up instead.

  “I’m sorry you still feel trapped here. I’d hoped you had begun to enjoy yourself. You won’t be here that long now.”

  “Enjoy myself? You put me to work every day.”

  “Work is good, Jarret. You know, the thing that really traps us and makes us prisoners is sin. One can be locked in the darkest dungeon and still be free, or one can have all the freedom of the world and still be in bondage.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Those words meant nothing to him, just some gibberish that certain people spouted, people like monks . . . and Keefe. Would Keefe ever see straight again? “So, how far did you get on my paper?”

  “I am near the end. I appreciate that you included the history of our Monastery and the work we do making wine. Very descriptive. You even wrote a little about our daily life and prayers. It’s a nice paper. I’m sure your teacher will like it. How did you get all that information?”

  “Talking to you.” He lowered the hose and watched the water swirl around the drainage hole. “Okay, I went over the walls three times. Am I done?”

  Brother Maurus shut off the water.

  Stooping, Jarret eyed the manhole while considering his exit strategy. He’d struggled climbing in. The access was about three feet above the ground and too small for him to put one leg in and then his head. He’d tried that. Then he’d tried going head first but couldn’t figure out how the rest of his body could follow without him looking ridiculous. So he ended up holding onto a ladder and shoving both legs in first. Maybe getting out would be a breeze.