Piercing the Darkness

by Frank Peretti

  All warriors were in place. They were ready.

  Cree waved a quick little signal with his blade. A warrior appeared from behind a rowboat, skimmed across the water, zigzagged through the trees, and joined Cree in the shack. Another warrior emerged from a boathouse, shot across the water, ducked behind the swimming dock, then made it to the shack as well. Two more, darting from tree to tree and flying low, completed the number Cree wanted. They remained for a moment in the shack, tight against the walls, listening, watching.

  “She’ll be awakening soon,” said Cree. “She’ll have four guarding her. They aren’t strong, but they do have big mouths. Don’t let them cry out.”

  They drew their swords and set out across the campus, working their way from building to building, tree to tree, smoothly, steadily.

  “’COURSE NOW, THE drones aren’t much good for anything after they’ve gone flying with the queen, so they just get thrown out of the hive with the garbage. Heh! I know a lot of men who are just like that, only good for eating and mating.”

  Mr. Pomeroy, a jolly retiree in jeans, flannel shirt, and workboots, was talking about bees, his hobby and obsession, and Sally just let him talk; the more he talked, the less she would have to, and the less questions she would have to answer about herself.

  They were riding in Mr. Pomeroy’s old Chevy pickup with the rack over the bed and the dented right side—he’d run over a stump trying to pull out another one and he told her all about it. He was just on his way up to a fellow-beekeeper’s house to check his hives when he spotted this lone, wandering gal out on the highway, dressed in jeans and an old blue jacket, a blue stocking cap on her head, and a large duffel bag over her shoulder. He was a neighborly sort and didn’t like to see a woman hitchhiking alone; so he pulled over, picked her up, gave her a short lecture about the dangers of hitchhiking, and then asked her where she was going.

  “The Omega Center,” she said.

  She almost expected a negative reaction from this local, traditional thinker, but apparently he’d grown used to the Center being around and had no hard feelings, just curiosity.

  “Must be an interesting place up there,” he said.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been there in years.”

  “Well . . . we’re all searching, aren’t we?”

  Sally didn’t want to get into any deep discussions, but she answered anyway. “Yeah, we sure are.”

  “You know, I’ve found the God of the Bible to be a terrific answer to my questions. You ever thought about that?”

  Sally noticed the bee helmet and veil behind the seat and used that to change the subject. “Hey, you take care of bees?”

  And that was what got Mr. Pomeroy started about workers, drones, queens, hives, honey, extractors, and on and on. Sally was glad. It got them off the uncomfortable subjects and excused her from having to talk.

  “That Center’s just up the road here a few more miles. I can drop you off right at the front gate . . . How about that?”

  THE FACULTY DORM was a new structure, two-storied, with twenty units. The dark-stained, grooved plywood siding and shake roof matched the general motif of the campus—rustic, woodsy, but functional. Cree and his warriors found plenty of places to hide in the thick shrubbery just beneath the rear windows.

  At one end of the building, a dark, slick-hided arm hung through a closed window pane and dangled outside, the silver talons walking absentmindedly, playfully back and forth along the wall. Yes, there were enemy spirits about. This one must belong to another resident faculty member. That was his room.

  The opposite end of the building was a blank wall, void of windows and flanked by some large trees. Cree appointed a sentry, and then, as the sentry watched from the bushes, the other four warriors ducked around that end of the building, floated up the wall, and disappeared into the attic space. Then the sentry followed.

  They crouched just under the rafters, their feet in the pink fiberglass. Now they could hear a faint, whining sound, not unlike a violin in the hands of a beginner. It was coming from one of the rooms not too far from them. They moved forward, the roof bracing passing right through their chests as they walked. Now they were above the sound.

  Cree pitched forward, sinking slowly through the fiberglass and ceiling joists until he could look into the room.

  Yes. They’d found the room of Sybil Denning, a kind and matronly educator of many years, just dozing in her bed, not quite awake. She was apparently enjoying some half-dreams still playing in her head, and was not ready to open her eyes just yet.

  Sitting beside her on the bed, a playful, elfin spirit moved his finger about in her brain as if stirring a bowl of soup, singing quietly to himself, giggling a little between his singsong, scratchy phrases as he painted pictures in her mind.

  “You will enjoy this one,” it teased in a crow’s voice. “Go ahead . . . leave your body and touch the moon . . .”

  There were three other spirits in the room, one hanging from the wall like a bat, one flat on his back on the rug with his clawed feet in the air, and one lying on the end of the bed as if asleep. They reminded Cree of young delinquent boys hiding in some forbidden hangout, gleefully committing sin in secret.

  “Oh, don’t give her that one again,” said the spirit hanging from the wall.

  “Why not?” said the dreampainter. “She always believes it.”

  “I can do one better.”

  “Tonight will be your turn.”

  Cree looked up at the warriors. They were ready.

  The dreampainter’s yellow eyes danced with delight at his own cleverness. “Oooo, remember this place? You’ve been here before. It is a part of you!”

  A blinding flash! Four angels, four demons! Flashing swords, red smoke!

  Mrs. Denning awoke with a start.

  Oh. It was morning. What had she been dreaming? Walking on the moon, touching it, knowing it as if she’d made it. Yes. How beautiful. Maybe it was true, just buried behind a veil of forgetfulness. Someday she must analyze what it could mean.

  She sat up. She felt rested, but not energetic. Somehow her usual inspiration wasn’t with her. Maybe the previous week’s work had drained her power.

  Cree and his warriors regrouped in the attic to watch her. The room was empty now except for her.

  She got up, got dressed, and went down the stairs. Perhaps a short walk on this crisp, clear morning would reawaken her inner potential and get the creative juices flowing. It always worked before.

  “YEAH, HERE IT is,” said Mr. Pomeroy, pulling over next to a wide, gravel drive that wound back into the woods. Just next to the road was an attractive, sand-blasted sign: OMEGA CENTER FOR EDUCATIONAL STUDIES.

  Sally swung the door open and hopped out. “Thanks a lot.”

  “God bless you now,” said the kind man.

  More traditional thinking, Sally thought. “Sure. Take care of yourself.”

  He nodded and smiled. She closed the cab door and pulled her duffel bag from the truck’s bed. She gave him a wave, and off he went, apparently with bees and hives on his mind.

  The sound of the old pickup faded away, and then there was only the quiet of this mountain morning. Sally stood motionless for a moment, just looking at that sign. She figured they had probably repainted it at some point, but apart from that, it was still the same. The gravel drive looked the same as well. How many years had it been? At least ten.

  She was afraid, but she just had to take the chance. She started walking up that gravel drive, watching carefully on all sides. She tried to remember what it was like, where everything was. She was hoping nothing would escape her notice and surprise her.

  MR. POMEROY’S OLD pickup roared up the mountain road and around a long, steady curve. When the road passed behind a thick grove of trees the sound of the truck faded quickly, replaced by a whispered rushing of silken wings.

  Where the road reappeared, Si, a dark East Indian, was aloft, his wings unfurled and his sword in his hand. With a burst of
power he went into a steep climb and circled back toward the Center.

  MRS. DENNING FELT a little better out in the fresh air, walking on the smooth, asphalt path between the classrooms and meeting halls. Soon the campus would be full of people again and this restful solitude would be ended. It was certainly pleasant now; there went a chipmunk up that tree, and how the birds were chattering!

  Oh, what was this, an early arrival? Just beyond the sports field, a young lady was coming up the main road into the complex. Their eyes met.

  Cree touched Mrs. Denning’s eyes. Easy now . . . don’t see too well. Then he darted into the trees and out of sight. Somewhere the other warriors were present, ready and invisible.

  Sally looked carefully at this woman she was approaching. She wasn’t sure who she might be. She was afraid they may have known each other before. She kept walking.

  Finally the two women came face to face in front of the quaint Log Cabin Cafe.

  “Hello,” said Mrs. Denning. “And who might you be?”

  Sally smiled, but her mind was instantly far away, more than eighteen years away.

  I know this woman.

  The woman before her, dressed in gray pants and a casual Omega Center sweatshirt, was eighteen years older, grayer, with more lines in her face. But the gray eyes still had that same sparkle, the head still had that same playful tilt when she spoke. This was Sybil Denning!

  Sally found her tongue and the name she’d decided to use. “Um . . . I’m Bethany Farrell. I was just passing through the area, and someone told me I might find a place to stay up here.”

  Mrs. Denning smiled. “Oh, you just might. We have overnight camping here, and some nice cabins. We’re expecting people to arrive for a weekend retreat this afternoon, but they’re a small group. I’m sure we’ll still have some rooms empty. What did you have in mind?”

  “Oh . . . just a warm place out of the rain, some blankets, maybe a mattress.”

  Mrs. Denning laughed. “Oh, we can do better than that! Listen, the office doesn’t open for a few more hours. I think the Galvins are up by now; maybe they’ll open the cafe and we can get a cup of coffee, all right?”

  “All right.”

  Mrs. Denning turned toward the Log Cabin Cafe, and Sally followed her.

  “By the way, I’m Sybil Denning.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Excuse me. What was your name again?”

  “Bethany Farrell.”

  Mrs. Denning paused on the large patio in front of the cafe. “Bethany Farrell . . .” She stared at Sally for a moment. “Don’t know why you seem so familiar to me. How do you spell your last name?”

  “F-a-r-r-e-l-l.”

  Mrs. Denning shook her head just a little. “No . . . that doesn’t sound familiar. Tell me, have we ever met before?”

  SERGEANT MULLIGAN DROVE over to the Post Office the moment he got the call. He parked the car quietly, went up the steps quietly, and quietly found Postmaster Lucy Brandon, then just about broke a blood vessel containing himself.

  “Hi, Lucy,” he said, probably too loudly.

  “Oh hi, Harold,” she replied from behind the counter. She was helping a patron decide whether to send something first or fourth class, and the little lady couldn’t seem to make up her mind. She turned to Debbie, who was just handing a giddy junior-higher a box of baby chicks. “Debbie, could you finish helping Mrs. Barcino?”

  Debbie stepped over and began checking the weight of the package on the scale. “Fourth class?”

  Mrs. Barcino still wasn’t happy. “Well, I don’t know . . . That’s kind of slow, isn’t it?”

  Lucy hurried to the back room and opened the Employees Only door for Mulligan. He stepped inside, his hand on his hip and his feet shuffling nervously. Lucy said nothing, but quickly stepped behind a partition for privacy. Mulligan followed her, and when they were both safe from any watching eyes, she showed him a letter, still in a sealed envelope.

  He took it in his big fingers, read the address and the return address—actually just a name, and said nothing. He couldn’t think of what to say.

  It was a letter addressed to Tom Harris. The name in the upper-left corner was Sally Roe.

  “When did this come in?” Mulligan asked.

  “Today. And look at the postmark: just three days ago.”

  Again Mulligan couldn’t think of what to say.

  Lucy was quite troubled. “I don’t understand. I guess it could have gotten lost somewhere, or rerouted, I don’t know, but . . . there’s only one postmark, and that’s . . . that’s halfway across the country.”

  Mulligan murmured, “Somebody’s being a real sicko. It’s a joke.”

  “Well, there’s no address to return it to. I just don’t know . . .”

  “Can we open this thing?”

  “No, we can’t tamper with the mail . . .”

  “Mmm.”

  “It’s kind of scary, though. The postmark is after Sally Roe’s suicide. What if Sally Roe is still alive somewhere?”

  Mulligan didn’t handle that question very well. “She isn’t! That’s crazy!”

  She put her finger to her lips to shush him.

  Debbie’s attention was caught, however, by that outburst. She was finished with Mrs. Barcino and could see just a little of what was going on behind the partition.

  He struggled for an answer. “Well . . . listen, I don’t know what this is all about, but let me take this with me and check into it.”

  “But . . . it’s mail!”

  He held his hand up. “Hey, we’re only delaying it, that’s all. We need to check into this.”

  “But—”

  “If Tom Harris ever got this letter . . . You never know, it might hurt your lawsuit.”

  Lucy hesitated when he said that. “But I’m concerned about the law . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll cover for you. I’ll just have some friends check this out, and we’ll get it back to you.”

  “You’re not going to open it . . .”

  “Don’t worry. Just don’t worry.”

  He put the letter in his pocket and got out of there, leaving Lucy troubled, curious, nervous, and yes, worried.

  When he put the letter in his pocket, Debbie saw him do it. She didn’t know what it all meant; she just thought it might be something worth remembering.

  Debbie wasn’t the only one who saw it. Two little spirits were following Mulligan, flitting about his shoulders like oversized mosquitoes, carefully eyeing that letter, snuffing and hissing in a frantic, secret conversation.

  Mulligan climbed into his car and cranked the engine to life. He would have some phone calls to make when he got back to the station.

  The two spirits had seen enough.

  “Destroyer!” hissed one.

  “He will reward us for this!” slobbered the other.

  They shot up the street, careening over the tops of the trucks and cars, dodging the utility poles, darting this way and that between and through the stores and businesses. Destroyer must still be nearby; they would find him.

  Just beneath them, unnoticed, a brown Buick eased down Front Street. The big man driving the Buick was taking it easy going through town, just getting a feel of the place. It wasn’t much of a place. On the one side was the only gas station in town, boasting cheap prices and fixing flats for ladies free. Next to it was the Bacon’s Corner Mercantile, a sagging old veteran of many a hard season, just like the old rusted tractor parked alongside in grass as high as the hubs.

  On the other side of the street was the Myers Feed and Farm Store. That place seemed to be getting a lot of business—there were a lot of weathered pickup trucks parked around it and a lot of John Deere hats around. Then came the grain elevators, the towering sentinels that were visible for miles and bore the name of the town for anyone who might be wondering what all these little buildings were doing out in the middle of nowhere. The PriceWise grocery seemed out of place—it needed a mall around it to look
right.

  “So where now?” the big man asked his wife.

  She sat next to him, at least as radiant in real life as she was in that picture he always kept on his desk. “What was that church we passed back there?”

  “Methodist, I think.”

  “Oh, here’s a Lutheran.”

  “Yeah. Very nice.”

  “So where do you put a Community Church?”

  “We’re running out of community, Kate. We’ll have to turn around.”

  “Guess we’d better ask somebody.”

  He pulled over in front of Max’s Barber Shop, much to the interest of the two easygoing retirees sitting in their wooden chairs on the front porch.

  “Hello there,” he said, and they both stood and came closer.

  “Well, hi,” said Ed.

  “Yeh,” said Mose.

  “I’m looking for the Good Shepherd Community Church.”

  The two grayheads looked at each other and exchanged a silent, inside joke with their eyes.

  Ed leaned against the car and just about put his head through the window. “You another reporter?”

  Well . . . in a way, he was. “Uh, not exactly.”

  Mose stood behind Ed to ask his question, even while Ed just stayed there, his nose almost through the window, looking this big fellow over. “Don’t think anyone’s there now. The school’s in session, though, and maybe the pastor’s there, but he and that other lady . . .”

  “Mrs. Fields,” said Ed.

  “Yeah, they’d be up to their gizzards in kids right now. But Tom Harris is the real hot item. If you want to see him . . .”

  The man looked at his wife. She already had one eyebrow raised. This thing was big news around this town. He turned to Mose—and Ed, who was unavoidable. “Okay. Where can I find Tom Harris?”

  “You’re almost there. Head on up to the bank there, turn right. That’s Pond Road. You go about half a mile, and you’ll see the church first, on the left, and then Tom Harris’s place is just the other side of the pond, on the right, a little white house with a glassed-in south side.”