The professor shook his head. “I’ve come to talk.”
“Did someone die?”
“I’m afraid so.” The professor sat down and held his head in his hands. “Mr. Blair was killed.”
“What happened?” Jones had no remorse in his green eyes.
“He and Jeremiah Pruitt were facing off in the street, like in the dime novels, when a third man stepped in and began shooting Jonathan. As soon as he gunned him down, he took his body away in a wagon.”
“Where would he take him?”
“I don’t know. I can only guess the man’s intentions were to make sure he succeeded in killing him.”
“What else would you expect for someone like Pastor Blair? There was probably money on his head.”
“He was a good man.”
The pastor scoffed.
“I didn’t say he was a nice man. But he was a good man like many others. That is the veil you need to see behind.”
“Is that what you want to talk to me about?” Jones scowled at him.
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I need you… this town needs you to see what is happening around you. The evil is real. The demons are real. And we lost our best hope to save us.”
“Do you mean Blair?” The pastor nearly chuckled.
Worthington’s heart rate quickened as the anger built up. “You laugh because you don’t want to admit the truth. So you ridicule it, demean it. That doesn’t change the truth, just your faith.” The professor stood up. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Professor.”
“Pastor, and I use that word only out of respect, you have much to learn.” Having a man of God on his side would help, but Jones wasn’t up to the battle. “I suggest you get on your knees and pray, because that will be your only chance of survival. You have no armor to handle this situation. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, not men, Pastor. But demonic principalities. Against the rulers of the darkness of this world. Against spiritual wickedness.”
“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” Jones stood there like a bitter school teacher scowling at a pupil. “Are you going to preach that in the streets?”
Worthington halted the foul curses and choice words waiting on his tongue. He closed his eyes to gather his composure. Vulgarity would be no help. “Pastor, you’re about to realize everything you think you know is not wrong, but incomplete. Incomplete to point of a collapse. And that is a sad and lonely place for a man.” The professor slammed the door shut before Jones could say anything else.
Worthington stomped his way down the stairs. He glanced back at the cabin. “Fool.”
* * *
With only words Mr. Tab guided the horses up to Steven and Theodore Weinberg’s mining claim. The wagon stopped outside the door to the shack where Steven lost his head. Mr. Tab climbed down and nudged the unlocked door. He lifted Jonathan Blair into a sitting position, then slung him over his shoulder with ease.
Inside the shack, coal dust bloomed into the air as he laid Blair onto a soiled mattress on a metal bed frame. Unconscious, the bounty hunter moaned. Mr. Tab moved dirty cans, food-caked pots and smelly bottles as he searched for water.
The man wiped his hands together. “Despicable. They lived like swine.”
He found a clean bucket, which he assumed belonged to a water pump somewhere near. A quick glance at Blair—he wasn’t going anywhere— then out the door. He studied the ground and discovered four foot trails. One, easy enough to follow, travelled down the hill. He was sure one went to the mine and the last two had to be an outhouse and a water pump. But which was which? It didn’t take long to smell the answer.
He brought a cool bucket of water back into the shack. With a wet rag he cleaned Blair’s wounds. The bullet holes were through-and-through, with no bone or organ damage. They were healing unnaturally—skin and tissue had started to regrow.
“You are fortunate, Mr. Blair.”
* * *
Gunshots echo in the darkness. Screams of pain follow. A black silhouette stands over me. The dark figure transforms into Jeremiah Pruitt. He smiles, aims shiny pistols and shoots me in the chest. I try to block the bullets with my hands. The bullets sting like lightning.
“Hey, Preacher Man,” he calls.
Pruitt blurs back into a silhouette, except for the pistols. In a blink, a snake-skinned demon shoots me.
“Preacher Man.”
The voice is a distorted version of Pruitt’s. Its wings block out all light, except for the pistols. They shine brightly, hurting my eyes.
I plead for the shooting to stop. The bullets don’t stop. The pistols glow red-hot as gun powder ignites, discharging lead. The pistols continue to burn brilliantly. The demon form alters again. The light of the pistols overtakes the silhouette.
* * *
Jonathan Blair closed his eyes tight, then rolled over to stop the sun from beating down on his face. He felt the unfamiliar cot underneath him. At first the comfort eased his mind, and then the memories of taking bullets overrode his consciousness. He jerked up and reached for his absent pistols.
“You are safe,” the voice said.
Blair sprang from the cot as he continued to search for a pistol or a knife. No guns or clothes hung from his naked body. He lunged for the stranger in the chair, but collapsed on the floor.
“Mr. Blair, please settle down.” The man moved toward him. “Let me help you up. I am not here to harm you.”
The man slipped a hand under his arm to pick him up and then moved him back to the cot and wrapped a blanket around him. “You lost a lot of blood. You need more rest.”
Back on the bed, Blair missed his chance to attack, though he wasn’t sure who he would be engaging. He was lightheaded and could barely concentrate. Blair sat with his head down trying to figure things out. “Where am I?”
“We are in the poor excuse for a home that once belonged to the Weinberg brothers.”
Blair remembered the shack from the other day when he witnessed the Hungarians decapitate Steven Weinberg.
The crown of the man’s black hat stood low and its wide brim was flat as a floor. Underneath, his hairless facial features—nose, chin, cheekbones—were sharp. His skin was too clean, too smooth, like he’d never spent time in the elements of nature. He wore a long leather coat over a clean suit. “Who are you?”
“For now, you can call me Mr. Tab.”
Blair felt for the bandages and bullet holes that should be on his chest.
“You will not find what you are seeking.”
“What’s going on? Is this another...” Blair stopped himself. If this situation was another one of his demented dreams, the guy in the chair wasn’t going to be of any help.
“No, it’s not a dream.”
Blair’s studied the man. A strange contentment embraced him even though his mind said to get out of there.
“Tell me what you know.”
“After I shot you—”
“You’re the one who shot me.” Blair’s eyes searched the room for a weapon. He remembered the man firing at him with two pistols.
“It was the only way I could think of to save you.”
Blair rubbed his head and face with both hands trying to wipe the confusion and vulnerability away.
“Mr. Blair, let me explain your situation. Your former companion planned to kill you—either by his own hand or by one of the four men hiding on the rooftop. He saw you leave town and waited for your return. You placed yourself on an unsafe street.”
“I tend to do that.”
“Sarcasm is such a waste of words.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
“By shooting you, I assumed Mr. Pruitt would step aside and let me kill you. Six bullet holes convinced him of such.”
“Six? You shot me six times?” Blair again probed his skin for the holes.
“I placed your body in the wagon and brought you to this dirty dwelling.”
&
nbsp; “If you shot me then how come there are no bullet holes in me?”
“I healed you.”
“This is a dream.” Blair was sure. He went from one dream right into another. The morning’s events were foggy in his mind. Maybe the wagon had an accident and he hit his head. Or Pruitt shot him. Or he was still asleep and this entire day was all a dream.
Was he dead? No. Hell would be hotter.
“I have already addressed that question. I don’t tell untruths, Mr. Blair.”
“That doesn’t help me any.”
“Look at your shoulder, you can feel and see the scar. Now your stomach.”
Blair checked his body. There were four new scars among the old ones. He found a broken piece of mirror the size of his hand and used it to get a better perspective of his shoulder. He located two other scars on his legs.
“This is some kind of trick, like a magician’s show.” Logic had to prevail.
Mr. Tab shook his head. “The scars will fade even more. I attended to them when they were fresh.”
“Where are my clothes?”
Mr. Tab pointed to a pile of rags in the corner.
Blair held up his bloody shirt. The cotton was stiff, sticky, and black with his dried life fluid. He poked his finger through the bullet holes and matched them up to his pink scars.
“Mr. Blair, we have much to accomplish today. I need you to accept what I shared.”
It could be someone else’s blood or even from a pig or chicken. Holes are holes. He picked up his boots.
“You should clean those out first.”
He tilted the leather boot by its heel. The coagulated blood oozed out and dropped on the dirt floor. More pig blood.
“No, the blood is yours. That is why you feel weak. It will take time to rebuild your blood supply.” Mr. Tab sat visibly emotionless in the chair. No smile, sneer, or haughty expression.
Blair plopped down on the cot and covered himself with the dirty blanket. For the first time he noticed the coal dust sticking to his skin.
What if this is real? What if I was shot and he healed me? That would make him an—
“An angel,” Mr. Tab said.
The words crumbled all Blair understood about good and evil. He stared into the man’s gray eyes.
“Why are you surprised?”
What kind of question is that? Angels don’t shoot people.
Do they?
The questions flew through his mind like golden aspen leaves in the fall breeze. He stood up again. His gun belt was slung over the man’s—the angel’s—chair. Could he reach them before the man—the angel—stopped him? How weak was he?
“Why do you want these?” Mr. Tab peeked over his shoulder at the guns.
“You can read my mind.” The words came out before Blair realized they held the truth.
“I can read your spirit.”
Blair reluctantly returned to the cot. Was there something he thought that the man—no, the angel—could use against him? To stop him from leaving? From killing him? What’s an angel doing in Gothic?
“Mr. Blair, please relax. You are in no immediate harm.” Mr. Tab adjusted his hips in the chair and put one leg over the other. “To the question you ponder, the one you fear to ask.”
Blair’s eyes opened wide.
“I am a fallen angel.”
Chapter Eleven
Missed Again
Resting on the cot, Jonathan Blair leaned against the unpainted wooden wall of the shack. He longed for his pistols, but the fallen angel, a demon, sat between him and his comfort, his reassurance. Thoughts and questions swirled through his mind, but they all led to one.
“What do you want with me? Why am I still alive if you’re here to kill everyone?”
“You must get past your own mortality. I am here to help you.”
“Why don’t you explain that. You shoot me then heal me, just to help me before you destroy this town.”
Mr. Tab removed his hat revealing commanding eyes. “I have followed most of your life, Mr. Blair. I know your circle of influence. It reaches past where you have ever imagined. The actions and words of one can touch someone emotionally, which inspires the next, then encourages another, which can stimulate the mind of a dreamer who will write history. I understand the ripple effects of your life.”
Blair pointed at his guns. “So how many of those ripples have I destroyed with those?”
“If I said none of significance, that would downplay the importance of every life, every soul. The Christ came for all of you, Mr. Blair. Don’t ever forget that.”
Blair took the statement like a punch in the stomach and sulked into the cot.
“With that said, I am here because I chose to prevent a few situations in your life.”
“Chose to prevent?” Blair leaned in. “Like what?”
“I did not fall with the others. Lucifer, with his grand influence and treachery, mesmerized so many. The action was unfathomable at the time. He understood God’s plan more than most of us. He could not tolerate it.”
“So, are you a demon?” Blair had to ask.
“That depends on perspective.”
“Yes or no.”
“If a demon is an angel that steps way from God’s will, I guess I am. Though I am not in alignment with Lucifer,” Mr. Tab said. “Angels don’t have free will as you and the rest of mankind have. We have the ability to choose, but not the right. We are not slaves, nor is a flower a tree. We were designed with purpose as yourself. When Lucifer decided to run from his purpose, it changed Heaven and Earth. I believe God knew Lucifer would falter. And with that, His plan of grace emerged.”
“Then when did you fall?”
“I am not sure you want an answer to that question. I know things about you that would change your opinion of me. When someone does something wrong for the sake of good, what does that foster? Good or evil?”
“Good, I guess.”
“What if that person chose to act after a time of great sorrow instead of before it, to prevent it? What does that do for those who suffered?”
“I guess that would depend on the greater good.”
“That sounds so righteous. But humans are selfish. You have proven that.”
“What did you choose to prevent?”
“I was there with you in Mexico. The priest died before anyone could speak with him.”
“No, there was an old man who heard him tell of the other American, the crazy… the possessed man.”
“That old man was me. If I had not intervened, you would have been hanged immediately.”
The only memory he could muster was of an old man dressed in rags that smelled of fresh soil.
“I was there in the New Mexico barn when your gun did not fire.”
“I was alone.” Blair’s voice shook.
“Because you see me now, doesn’t mean I am always visible. I touched the hammer, preventing it from striking the bullet which you pointed at your temple.”
That was a memory Blair did not like. He was drunk at the time and blamed the liquor for both allowing himself to try and for screwing it up. It knotted his stomach knowing someone else knew he tried.
“You stopped me the other day when I was going to kill Pruitt.” He remembered his voice. It made sense now. “You were behind me.”
Mr. Tab nodded.
“Where else have you been?”
“At some point, I hope I can explain it all to you. But your heart must be open.”
“Then why here, why now?”
“Because great evil is lingering in this valley. Daniel Stone will kill you. Because you know what he is. He, the being within, has discovered this. He knows who you are, even though you don’t. He, too, knows the ripple effects of your life and that scares him.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have the eyes of God—that is—we see truth. We see the purpose God has given your lives. Though humans tend to cower from their true identities, they fear it like it is a disease bec
ause they don’t believe they are worthy of it or can control it. Lucifer and his horde use this fear against you.”
“Then what is my purpose?”
“That is the great question.” The angel smiled. “But most refuse to search for that answer. I will not gift you with that answer, Mr. Blair. It is for you to discover. Though I am here to help you find it. I have been there to keep you, and others, from killing your purpose. Because it will have an impact on you and other generations.”
“The ripple effect?”
“Yes, Mr. Blair. You, like most humans, don’t see the aftermath of your decisions. Abusive fathers turn children into abusive fathers, who turn their children into abusive fathers. At some point they will lose all respect for life—suicidal individuals, murderers and apathetic creatures are created. It could be one generation or twenty before it happens.
“Legacy. You all have one. God sent Israel out to war for generations to keep His blood line alive, pure, until the coming of the Christ. But humans are so egotistical. It is hard for them to think of what they are doing to their own families, let alone their communities. You can blame Eve for eating the apple, but you have to take responsibility for your own life, your own actions.”
“I don’t have any children.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to know, all of you need to know. Knowledge leads to responsibility. You are responsible in the eyes of God for what you comprehend and what you will do with that knowledge.”
“Isn’t that for the church to teach?”
“The church.” The angel scoffed. “The church is not what God aspired to. Is a church a real community of believers? No. It is a triage center for the brokenhearted and wounded—though no one seems to want to get their hands bloody. Relationships are messy, too messy for most.
“The Christ spoke against the laws and you rejoice and tell others what that meant, that He fulfilled the Old Testament. So what happens? Constantine created the bible and now every pastor, church, and religious person lives by these latest self-imposed laws. Living the lie. Instead of being relevant, the church has become a place to hide. They want the pastor to do it all. That is not his responsibility. The position was never meant to be like that. God doesn’t want followers or converts, he wants relationships.”
The Color of Gothic Page 16