Who Let the Dogma Out (The Elven Prophecy Book 1)

by Theophilus Monroe

  “Your kingdom?” I asked, rolling my eyes. She had ripped off a Jesus quote. Can’t buffalo a minister that way.

  “This cult you speak of. They are not altogether wrong. Their methods are misguided. My kind does not particularly appreciate humanity polluting your air for the sake of wealth and imagined progress, but progress toward what end? Your destruction? Not to mention, your eyes are always glued to your phones, so much so that you’re blind to one another’s plight. If the elven legion ever came to your world, they’d have no more use for the cultists than the rest of you.”

  I narrowed my eyes. I’d been fed bullshit before. I could tell when people were making stuff up and when they were convinced that what they were saying was true.

  Layla could be mentally ill. She might be deluded. But I knew she believed what she’d said. And when dealing with people who suffered from such delusions, I’d learned in the single seminary course we had on counseling, it’s sometimes better to play along rather than contradict them.

  “So, you said you’re a queen?”

  “I was meant to be one. One day. A princess, technically. But our kingdom is now threatened by the Legion of the Night.”

  “The Legion of the Night?”

  “A legion of orcs.”

  “Sounds serious,” I said, playing along with Layla’s delusions. I mean, there’s a threat to the noble elves. What else would it be if not orcs?

  I’ve read the Lord of the Rings. I’ve played World of Warcraft, obsessively. A divorced minister and recovering alcoholic needs something to do to fill his spare time, to prevent himself from losing his mind. Anyone who knew a single thing about any kind of fantasy world would tell you the same thing: orcs are bad news.

  “And that man in the alley?” I asked, trying my best not to betray my incredulity by maintaining a straight face. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Was he an orc?”

  “You don’t believe me anyway,” Layla interrupted. “Perhaps you should sleep. Allow me to tend to your wound.”

  “As I said, I need a doctor.”

  Layla snapped her fingers, and a cloud of something pink enveloped my face. It smelled sweet, almost like cotton candy. Then, a golden glow emanated from one of her hands as she pressed it to my wound. Once again, the world went black.

  Chapter Three

  I awoke to find myself on the floor of a bathroom, cuddling a toilet. I moaned. It wasn’t the first time that had happened. Back when I used to drink…but I hadn’t had a drink in five years. I had the coin to prove it.

  I felt my abdomen. No bandage, no pain. I lifted my shirt. Not even a wound.

  I grabbed the edge of the bathtub and pulled myself to my feet. The room spun around me. I’d stood up too fast. I took a deep breath and looked at myself in the mirror.

  My irises had changed. Dark brown before, now they had a gold hue to them. They almost sparkled in the dim light of what I surmised was a motel bathroom. How had she brought me here?

  I splashed some water on my face.

  I looked at myself again.

  It wasn’t an illusion. Whatever had happened had somehow changed my eye color. Could blood loss do that? Maybe I’d finally eaten too many Twinkies. It was only a matter of time before whatever chemicals they’d packed in those things altered my DNA.

  I reached for the doorknob.

  Then I heard a voice and let the doorknob go. Best to know what you’re walking into when waking up in a strange place. Again, it was a lesson I’d learned from experience.

  “He’s the one, I’m sure of it.” It was Layla’s voice. She had a kind voice, no doubt, but there was exhaustion in it, and her every word betrayed it. She’d been through something. I doubted it was the sort of otherworldly elfish battle she’d told me about, but she had been through a lot.

  “But a human cannot be the one, Layla!” another voice replied. There was something odd about the voice. It was slightly muted, almost like it was on a speakerphone.

  “The prophecy did not say the chosen one had to be an elf, Father!”

  Father? If she was a princess, she must be speaking to the elf king! Collective delusions are a thing, especially when it comes to cults.

  “It’s blasphemy!” the elf king screamed.

  “Says who?” Layla responded. I could tell by the tone of her voice she was perturbed. “Look, I don’t like it much more than you do. But we must face the fact that this human survived a strike by the Blade of Echoes! No one has ever survived so much as a cut from the dagger before.”

  “The magic of that world, daughter. It is primal. Untapped. We do not know what might have been possible when you used it to try to heal him. I cannot accept that this human is the chosen one.”

  “The magic of this world is no different from ours. It’s just more abundant. And like you said, untapped.”

  “Just be careful, daughter,” the male voice replied. “Chosen one or not, you must retrieve the Blade before the Night Legion can bring it back to New Albion, because if they do what they intend…”

  “I know, Father. It will mean our end.”

  “Just so long as you understand what is at stake, Layla.”

  I heard a thud. And a sigh. Whatever phone call she was on was now over.

  I turned the knob and stepped out.

  “So, someone finally woke up,” Layla said, grinning as she glanced at me.

  I looked down. I was in my boxer shorts. Holey underwear. Not because I was a minister, but because I have a bad habit of holding onto things a lot longer than I should. This pair had a growing hole in the middle of my right butt cheek and another one in the crotch. Was this God’s way of punishing me for my frugality? I wouldn’t put it past him.

  I pressed my legs together, a futile attempt at modesty given my current predicament. “You undressed me?”

  “Your pants were stained with blood. I didn’t have a choice.”

  I scratched my head. “But my shirt wasn’t?”

  “Not the same shirt. It was just a plain white shirt. Easy to replace. Got that one from Goodwill.”

  “Who were you talking to just now?”

  Layla shrugged. “My father. I suppose you know that if you were listening to our conversation.”

  “What is going on here? You said I was the chosen one? You said that before in the alley. What does that mean?”

  Layla cocked her head. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “How did you heal me?” I asked.

  “Just sit down, Caspar.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  Layla shrugged. “Your wallet is on the table.”

  “You went through my wallet?”

  “And saved your life. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that,” I said, realizing I was being a little rude. But how is one supposed to react to a situation like this? “I still don’t understand.”

  “Look, my people have a prophecy, something that’s been with us from the beginning. Whoever survived a thrust from the Blade of Echoes, and no one so far ever has, that person was the one destined to save our kind.”

  “To save the elves, you mean?”

  Layla nodded. “Of course.”

  “From what I gathered, your father doesn’t think I have the necessary qualifications.”

  Layla shook her head. “He doesn’t.”

  “I agree with your dad,” I said. “I’m just a struggling preacher, living on prayer and prepackaged baked goods. I don’t know about this blade or any prophecy, but I am grateful you managed to save my life.”

  “Tell me…Pastor Cruciger, is it?”

  “You can just call me Caspar.”

  “Caspar,” Layla said, gesturing at my slightly bulging belly. “How is it in such a condition?”

  “Like I said, too many prepackaged—”

  “I mean, your wound,” Layla said. “Even the best doctors couldn’t heal you without so much as a scar overnight.”

  I bit my lip. Overnight. The meet
ing I’d left had been on Saturday. This was Sunday morning. Crap.

  I quickly stood up. “Layla, I need some pants.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t get any.”

  “You got me a shirt at Goodwill, but not pants?”

  “I was in a hurry.”

  “Do you know what time it is? You have a phone, right? I heard you talking.”

  “I wasn’t using a phone.”

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t have time for this nonsense. Of course, she was on a phone. I pushed aside one of the motel room’s curtains and looked outside. The sun was barely on the horizon. I still had time.

  “I have to go,” I said. “Again, thank you for whatever you did, but I have to get to the church. I have a sermon to preach in less than two hours.”

  “Caspar, what if you are the chosen one?”

  “Hold that thought,” I said. “If I’m chosen for anything, if this is a prophecy and God is behind it, I won’t be able to escape it, right?”

  “Probably not,” Layla agreed.

  I nodded. “In that case, I have to get to the church.”

  I stomped my way over to the bathroom and grabbed a motel towel. I know you aren’t supposed to take those things, but I figured if push came to shove, petty thievery was a lesser crime than indecent exposure. “Look, I’ll pay for the towel. If they bill you for it, just find me at the Church of the Holy Cross on Grand. I’m there almost every morning before noon. I’ll pay for the towel.”

  “I’m not worried about the price of a towel.”

  I reached for the doorknob and looked back at Layla, flashing a courteous smile. “In that case, thank you again.”

  “Caspar?” Layla asked.

  “What?” Layla was holding up my wallet and keys. I nodded, and with the hand that wasn’t keeping my towel in place, snatched them.

  “Thanks. See you around.”

  “Probably sooner rather than later,” Layla said with a nod. I wasn’t sure what had happened since last night. Things didn’t make a lot of sense. Yes, Layla was probably halfway off her rocker, but I couldn’t deny that she’d somehow healed me.

  Here went nothing.

  Ever see a preacher streak? No? Me neither. And hopefully by the end of this little jaunt I was going to make across town, not many other people would be able to say they had either.

  Chapter Four

  This wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to preach without being sufficiently prepared. I held the towel around my waist as I ran through the streets. If I’d been thinking, I would have nabbed a second one to cover my head.

  The last thing I needed was whatever rumors might circulate about the preacher who was caught running through town in a bath towel. The council was already looking for a reason to put me away as it was. If I told them about what happened, they’d have me committed rather than believe me.

  God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can…

  I had no way to change my clothes since I didn’t have any. Accepting that wasn’t easy, but what else could I do? I needed all the courage I could muster to hoof it across five city blocks with nothing covering my lower half other than a bath towel and a pair of well-worn boxers.

  After one block, I was out of breath. All it took were a few awkward stares to reinvigorate my gait.

  My shirt was soaked with sweat by the time I reached the church. I quickly unlocked the door on the backside of the church. There were a handful of cars parked on the street out front. Going in the back was my best chance of not being seen.

  Dear Lord, please don’t let anyone see me.

  Have you ever had that dream where you show up to work in your underwear? I have. Many times. Probably not frightening if you happen to be an underwear model. Or a stripper. But it's quite the nightmare when you happen to be a preacher. It's even more terrifying when it's not a dream.

  My mother always told me that if I worked hard in life, all my dreams would come true. At the moment, I wished she had been wrong about that.

  Thankfully, my congregation was old-school and traditional. People still sat in pews, sang from hymnals rather than screens, and the preachers wore robes. At least I'd have something I could cover myself with.

  The back entrance of the church was only a few feet from the vestry, where the robes and such were kept and where I vested myself before services.

  I heard voices down the hall. I just had to make it halfway down the hall so I could duck through the vestry door.

  Running both fast and quietly is a challenge, especially for someone who isn’t used to running much. Like a cat. I had a cat, and he was just as out of shape as I was. I did my best imitation of him as I tiptoed, my calves burning all the while, down the hall and ducked through the vestry door.

  Phew. Made it.

  I checked the clock on the wall—ten minutes until the service.

  I still hadn’t had a chance to survey the text I’d be preaching from. This was going to be an improv job. An episode of Whose Line is it Anyway, clergy edition, hopefully with fewer laughs.

  I double-checked to make sure the switch on the power pack of the lapel microphone was off. I always make sure it’s off. I once had to pee in the middle of a hymn and forgot to turn it off. People still talk about that incident.

  I clipped the microphone to the collar of the shirt Layla had purchased for me at Goodwill. At least, that was what she’d said. I doubted it. She probably stole it because I’d left my meeting the night before after it had closed, and they probably didn’t open that early on Sunday mornings. How she had acquired the shirt was still a mystery. Though, as far as mysteries go, it was only one of many that had confronted me over the last twelve hours, and it was probably the least important of all of them.

  I slid my arms into my robe and tied it around my waist. I didn’t know why we still wore these things. Bishop Flacius insisted it symbolized that the sinner who was preaching was doing so clothed by Christ’s righteousness. That it was as if Jesus himself was preaching, and we didn’t dare let something as radical as a suit and tie suggest we were speaking for ourselves. It was BS. There’s a lot of BS when it comes to traditions in our denomination.

  Jesus never told his apostles to dress a certain way when they went out preaching. The alb, a fancy word for robe, was one of those vestiges from days gone by that traditional-minded folks saw necessary to vest with meaning (pun intended) later on. Originally, it was worn because that was what people wore. Sort of like the candles. Supposedly they symbolized the light of Christ, the tongues of fire from the Holy Spirit descending on the apostles at Pentecost. In truth, when they started using candles, it was because they didn’t have electric light—that simple. But now we had a whole ritual, a whole set of rules about the appropriate way to light them and extinguish them. Better light them in the right order. Don’t blow them out with puffed cheeks; that’s irreverent. God will smite you for it because he loves candles more than you.

  A lot of it was silly, but given all the nonsense I had to face from the powers that be in the council, I’d decided to choose my battles. At least this morning, the fact that we wore robes had saved my ass.

  There was a knock on the door. Not unheard of that someone would sneak back if they needed to see me before services. Besides, I was usually out in the narthex, greeting people on their way in by now.

  Doris was standing there. Doris might be one of the wisest Christians I’d ever met. She didn’t know the Bible as well as I did, and she wasn’t theologically trained, but she’d learned how to live the faith by accumulating nearly a century’s worth of experience. Long before I’d arrived, she had been in charge of the altar guild, a group of ladies who made sure we had flowers in the chancel every Sunday, who set up Communion if we were having it, and generally ensured that everything was clean and presentable.

  “Pastor Caspar?” Doris asked. Most of our members used my first name. I’d have been fine if she just called me “Caspar,”
in truth. Hard to convince someone who’d grown up in the church during the Second World War that it was now acceptable to drop the habit of addressing a minister by his title, though.

  “Yes, Doris?”

  “Bishop Flacius is here. I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Bishop Flacius? Why would he be here?”

  “He said he’s doing visitations.”

  I rolled my eyes. Of course he was. It meant he was doing his rounds to make sure everything we were doing conformed with denominational prescriptions and that everything I was teaching was doctrinally pure. That he should show up here for a visit after our little altercation the night before could hardly be considered a coincidence.

  Doris looked at me and smiled. “He isn’t your judge, Pastor.”

  I chuckled. “I know that. But thank you for saying it. Sometimes it feels that way.”

  Doris nodded. “Is everything okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Your hair, pastor,” Doris was smiling broadly. “It looks like you just rolled out of bed.”

  I quickly glanced at a mirror in the vestry. If I’d stuck my finger in a light socket, it probably wouldn’t have stood up more than it did now. “How about that,” I said. “I was running a little late this morning.”

  Doris knew about all I’d been through. When I went through the divorce, when I struggled with alcohol, she was on the board of the congregation that defied the bishop’s attempts to censure me for it all. They gave me a unanimous vote of confidence. In cases like that, while the bishop could still have pressed forward with disciplinary action, it would have been in defiance of our congregation, and Holy Cross’s contributions to the district our bishop presided over matched those of all the other congregations combined. The long and the short of it was if he contradicted their vote of support, he risked losing funding, and in turn, his salary.

  Not that he’d played it that way. He’d said that in my case, God’s grace prevailed. But Flacius was kind of like a dunghill covered in snow. On the surface, he always appeared pure and pleasant. It was what was beneath the surface that stunk.