Piercing the Darkness

by Frank Peretti

  Sally examined the passage again. “So tell me: did it work?”

  Bernice leaned forward and said, “You be the judge. The Bible says that the penalty for sin is death, but after Jesus paid that penalty He rose from the dead on the third day, so something was different. He conquered sin, so He was able to conquer sin’s penalty. Sure, it worked. It always works. Jesus satisfied divine justice on that Cross. He bore the punishment in full, and God never had to bend the rules. That’s why we call Jesus our Savior. He shed His own blood in our place, and died, and then rose from the grave to prove He’d won over sin and could set us free.” Now Bernice started getting excited. “And you know what thrills me about that? It means we’re special to Him; He really does love us, and we . . . we mean something, we’re here for a reason! And you know what else? No matter what our sins are, no matter where we are or what condition we’re in, we can be forgiven, free and clear, a clean slate!”

  The lunch came—two soups and two salads. Sally was thankful for the pause in the conversation. It gave her a chance to think and to wonder, Who gave this young lady the script anyway? How was it that she could say so many things that spoke directly to Sally’s situation?

  Well, Bernice did go to Pastor Hank Busche’s church, and he had a way of hitting the nail on the head. His suggestion to read Psalm 119 was perfect, and his morning sermon on Isaiah 53 was just more of the same perfectly tailored message, exactly what she was ready to hear.

  But there was still a snag in all this. Sally took a few bites of her salad while she considered her next question, and then she formed it as a comment. “I don’t feel forgiven.”

  Bernice answered, “Have you ever asked God to forgive you?”

  “I’ve never even believed in God, at least not in the traditional sense.”

  “Well, He’s there.”

  “But how can I know that?”

  Bernice looked at Sally and seemed to know her heart. She replied simply, “You know.”

  “So . . .” Sally stopped short, and ate some more salad. She couldn’t ask the question she had in her mind. It would seem too silly, too childish, like a dumb question already answered. But still . . . she had to hear a direct answer, something she could carry away without any doubts. “Well, I hope you’ll indulge the question . . .”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s easy to speak in comfortable, generalized, generic terms . . .”

  “Be as specific as you want.”

  “Did . . .” She stopped again. Where was that emotion coming from? She pushed it down with another bite of salad. Now she felt all right. It seemed safe to ask. “Did Jesus die for me?”

  Bernice did not answer lightly or flippantly. She looked Sally in the eye and gave her a firm, even reply. “Yes, He died for you.”

  “For me, for . . .” She had to remember her alias. “For Betty Smith? I mean, Bernice, you don’t know me . . .”

  “He died for Betty Smith just like he died for Bernice Krueger.”

  Well, she got her answer. “Okay.”

  That was the last item on that topic. Bernice could sense her lunch guest was getting uncomfortable, and didn’t want to make things worse. Sally was afraid she’d opened up just a little too much to an innocent stranger, and dared not risk dragging this nice woman into her troubles.

  Bernice resorted to purely social conversation. “So how long have you been on the road?”

  Sally was even afraid of that question. “Oh . . . about a month or so, something like that.”

  “Where are you from originally?”

  “Does it matter?”

  After that, conversation was difficult, and both regretted it. Except for small talk and purely social conversation, the lunch was more important than any more words. The salads disappeared, the soup bowls went empty, the minutes slipped by.

  “I enjoyed meeting you,” said Bernice.

  “I guess I’d better get back to Sara’s,” said Sally.

  “But listen . . . why don’t you come by the Clarion when you get the chance? We could have lunch again.”

  Sally’s first impulse was to refuse, but finally she allowed herself to relax, trust just a little, and accept the invitation. “Well . . . sure, I’d like that.”

  Bernice smiled. “Come on. I’ll drive you back to Sara’s.”

  THE OLD FARM outside Bacon’s Corner had been deserted for years, the barn empty and graying. Ever since the owner had died, no human was ever seen in this place, not a sound was heard, not a single light glowed—except for certain nights no one was supposed to know about.

  On this night, the dull orange glow of candles appeared through the cracks in the clapboard siding and through the chinks in the weather-warped door of the massive old barn. Inside, human voices muttered, murmured, and rumbled through rhythmic chants and incantations.

  There were about twenty people inside, all clothed in black robes except for one woman who wore white, standing around a large pentagram etched in the bare earth floor. In the center of the pentagram, two front legs cut from a goat lay crossed in an X, and a candle burned at each of the pentagram’s five points.

  At the head of the circle, the woman in white led the meeting, speaking in low, clear tones, a large silver cup in her outstretched hands. “As from the beginning, the powers will be brought forth through blood, and restitution by our hand will balance the scales.”

  “So be it,” the others chanted.

  “We call forth the powers and minions of darkness to witness this night our covenant with them.”

  “So be it!”

  Demonic wings rustled in the rafters as dark, destructive spirits began to gather, looking down with gleaming yellow eyes and toothy grins, basking in all the adoration and attention.

  In the peak of the roof, clinging to the rafters and overseeing it all, Destroyer could mouth the ceremony even as he listened to it.

  “May their fury be kindled against our enemies, against all who oppose. May their favor be with us as we dedicate this offering.”

  “So be it!”

  “May the woman be found.”

  “So be it.”

  “So be it,” agreed the demons, exchanging glances.

  “It will be,” said Destroyer. “It will be.”

  “May she be driven from hiding, and crushed as powder,” declared the woman.

  “So be it,” chanted the others.

  The demons nodded and cackled in agreement, their wings quivering with excitement. More spirits arrived. The rafters, the hayloft, the gables of the roof were filling with them.

  “Defeat and division to the Christians, ill health, ill will.”

  “So be it.”

  Destroyer spoke quickly to the gathering demons, pointing to this one and then that one, assigning hordes to every task as the spirits murmured their acceptance.

  “May they grant a court decision in our favor! We give to them the heart and mind of Judge Emily Fletcher!”

  “So be it.”

  Destroyer looked around their group and finally settled on a larger, hulking spirit roosting on a diagonal brace. He’d handled courtrooms before; he would be in charge of that.

  “And now . . .” The woman drew the silver cup to her lips. “Through blood we seal the success of the powers, the death of Sally Beth Roe, and the defeat of the Christians!”

  “So be it!”

  The demons all leaned forward and craned their necks, wanting to see. They giggled, they slobbered, they gave each other happy pats and pokes. Destroyer became drunk with exhilaration.

  The woman pulled back her hood and took a drink from the cup. When she withdrew the cup, the stain of fresh goat’s blood remained on her lips.

  Claire Johanson, high priestess of the coven, passed the cup to Jon, who drank and passed it on to the next person, and every witch, male and female, drank to seal the curses.

  Then, in chorus, their arms shooting upward, the witches let out an eerie wail: “So be it!”

  “Go
!” said Destroyer with a clap of his wings and a point of his crooked finger.

  The marauding spirits shot out of the barn, pouring from the roof like black smoke from a fire, like bats from a cavern. They dispersed in all directions, howling and cackling, full of lustful, destructive mischief.

  ON MONDAY MORNING, the day of the hearing in Westhaven, Pastor Mark Howard was thankful he’d arrived at the church earlier than everyone else. Hopefully he would be able to clean up the mess before any of the school kids saw it.

  He’d already opened the school building and turned up the heat; so the facility was ready, and he still had about forty-five minutes before the parents started dropping off their children. He hurried down into the church basement, opened his office, and grabbed the telephone.

  His voice was quiet and somber as he spoke, almost afraid of being heard. “Good morning, Marshall. This is Mark. Sorry to wake you up so early. Please come to the church right away. I’m going to be calling Ben, and I hope to have him here as well. Yes, right away. Thank you.”

  He opened the utility closet under the stairs and grabbed a mop and bucket. He was so upset he forgot he would need a garbage can as well. With his heart racing, he ran upstairs and out onto the front porch of the church.

  The blood on the front door was dry. It would take some scrubbing to get it off.

  Oh! I’ve got to get the garbage can! No, not yet. I’d better wait until Marshall and Ben get here. I hope they get here before the children do. O Lord Jesus, we pray for the covering and protection of Your shed blood over this place!

  Come on, guys, hurry up! I can’t leave these things here!

  At Mark’s feet, crossed like an X and staining the church steps red, were two hind legs from an animal, most likely a goat.

  AT NINE O’CLOCK that morning, representatives of the press, the ACFA, the National Coalition on Education, and even a few churches converged on Room 412 at the Federal Courthouse in Westhaven, the courtroom of the Honorable Emily R. Fletcher.

  Wayne Corrigan and Tom Harris were already seated at the defendant’s table; Gordon Jefferson and Wendell Ames, Lucy Brandon’s attorneys, were seated and ready for combat, with Lucy seated between them. In the first row of the gallery, Dr. Mandanhi was waiting to testify.

  KBZT Channel Seven News reporter Chad Davis was there, prowling about for any news tidbits or comments while Roberto Gutierrez set up the television camera.

  John Ziegler was there as well, and Paula the photobug had already snapped some pictures—uninvited—of Tom and Corrigan.

  The bailiff stood to her feet. “All rise.”

  They all rose.

  “Court is now in session, the Honorable Emily R. Fletcher presiding.”

  The judge took her place behind the bench. “Thank you. Please be seated.”

  They sat. So far everything was going the same as last time, and just like last time, the judge perched her reading glasses on her nose and looked over the documents before her.

  “The defendant has requested today’s hearing to determine whether or not the child in this case, Amber Brandon, should be excused from any deposition or testimony. It is the court’s understanding that counsel for the plaintiff strenuously opposes any deposition or testimony from the child, and so the court has been asked to rule on the question.” She looked up and seemed just a little impatient with the whole matter. “Mr. Corrigan, please proceed.”

  Corrigan rose. “Thank you, Your Honor. Our request is simple enough, and not at all irregular. The complaint against my client includes charges of harassment, discrimination, and outrageous religious behavior. But may I remind the court that thus far, any testimony pertaining to these charges has not come from the plaintiff’s key witness, Amber herself, but secondhand, through Amber’s mother, Lucy Brandon, and from the plaintiff’s expert witness, Dr. Mandanhi. We’ve made many requests to talk to Amber, to have our own psychologist visit with her so Dr. Mandanhi’s opinions can be balanced with those of another expert witness. But counsel for the plaintiff has adamantly refused to cooperate, and we are concerned that my client’s right to confront his accuser is being infringed. Also, with no opportunity to question Amber and hear her testimony for ourselves, we have no assurance that the indirect testimony coming through Mrs. Brandon and through Dr. Mandanhi is not in some way colored, tainted, or embellished.

  “Counsel for the plaintiff has insisted that Amber is in too delicate a condition, at too fragile an age to go through a deposition or a court trial. But we can assure counsel that we would not in any way resort to harsh tactics.

  “Also, the record is clear that Amber is a strong-willed child and has stated conflicting facts, even to her mother. In addition to that, Amber’s mother has testified in deposition that there are other influences affecting Amber’s life which she was exposed to outside the school. Only Amber herself can answer the many unanswered questions that arise in these areas.

  “All we’re asking is that we be allowed to hear the details from Amber herself, and that our own psychologist be allowed to examine Amber to verify or refute the findings of Dr. Mandanhi.”

  Corrigan took his seat, and the judge recognized Wendell Ames.

  Ames wasn’t quite as exciting to watch as the younger Jefferson, but he did exude a dignity of experience that was in itself persuasive. “Your Honor, this entire case is being brought to court because of severe damage done to an innocent child, the extent of which is clearly shown in the affidavits and the reports of Dr. Mandanhi. As attorneys for the plaintiff, we wish to right a wrong, to redress a grievance, and to somehow undo the harm that has been done. It was never our intention, as responsible human beings, to only increase Amber’s pain by putting her through the trial process, dredging up all her old wounds, and putting her hurts on public display.

  “We have presented an additional opinion from Dr. Mandanhi, detailing for the court Amber’s current emotional condition and establishing that it would not be in her best interests to be made to testify or give a deposition. If the court so requires, Dr. Mandanhi is here to testify in person as to Amber’s fragile state of mind and emotions at this time.”

  Judge Fletcher looked at Mandanhi and then at Ames. “Would the doctor have additional statements to make not included in his written opinion?”

  “I’m sure he could clarify for the court any items the court may need clarified.”

  The judge quickly perused Mandanhi’s report. “I think it’s clear enough. Any further oral testimony would most likely be cumulative.”

  “Very well.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Even though there are strong arguments on either side, we would hope that common sense and decency will speak more loudly and persuasively than any argument, and that the court would spare this innocent child the pain and grief of reliving her hurts, of being challenged and doubted by the defense, of being put on display, as it were, in open court.

  “We understand the legal process, of course. We understand that the defendant does have a right to confront his accuser. But we remind the court that we are dealing with a case of child abuse, a fact the defendants have already admitted.”

  “Objection,” said Corrigan. “The defense has made no such admission.”

  Ames responded, “Your Honor, I was simply referring to what has already been established, that spanking does occur at the school, and that the school does teach pervasive and imposing doctrines . . .”

  The judge was a little impatient. “The affidavits are clear on what the school practices and teaches, Mr. Ames. If the defendants want to stand by their practices, this in no way constitutes an admission of guilt. The objection is sustained.”

  Ames regathered his thoughts and continued. “At any rate, Your Honor, we hold that Amber is a child of tender years who needs to be protected. That is, after all, the motivation behind this suit in the first place. Given that, we must plead that the court spare Amber any further pain and trauma by ruling that she need not be deposed
and she need not testify, or go through any more grueling examination by still another psychologist.”

  Ames sat down.

  The judge looked at Corrigan. “Anything else?”

  Corrigan stood. “I suppose it might be effective to point out why I don’t have anything else I can say. If, as the plaintiff argues, Amber Brandon is in such a pitiful state of mind and emotion that she simply must not be allowed to testify or participate in the trial, we are left with having to take counsel’s word for it, with no way of knowing how true these claims are. Amber could actually be in this bad a condition, but we could never confirm that. The plaintiff might be conducting a clever, purposeful cover-up, but we could never know that either. Counselors for the plaintiff obviously think they know all they need to know about Amber and what she allegedly went through at the hands of the defendants, but the defendants and their counsel know virtually nothing apart from the filtered hearsay provided thus far. Without Amber we are being restricted, expected to present a persuasive defense, but forbidden to cut through to the real heart of the matter, to the real source of these complaints. I repeat again, we do not want to hurt Amber in any way or add to her trauma—if there be any trauma. We simply want to get to the facts so we can prepare to answer the charges. You have our brief as to the law which shows that Amber must be made available.”

  Corrigan sat down, and the judge looked at Ames and Jefferson. “Anything else?”

  “No, Your Honor,” said Ames.

  “Court will recess, then, and reconvene at 2 this afternoon for my ruling.”

  “All rise,” said the bailiff, and they all rose, and out went the judge.

  Tom whispered to Corrigan, “How do you think we did?”

  Corrigan wasn’t very happy. “I have no idea. I think that’s the weakest argument I’ve ever presented for anything.” He fretted, fumed, replayed the hearing in his mind. “I should have stressed the law more; it’s supposed to be on our side . . . Did you see her reaction to Mandanhi’s affidavit? She took it as gospel!”