by Stan Mason
’No... you’re wrong!’ intervened Dobson sharply. ’The date on this newspaper in only eight years old!’
’That may be so,’ retorted the messenger, ’but I assure you the incident occurred over twelve years ago. Perhaps the newspaper ran short of news that week and printed something from way back. I don’t know. You’d have to ask them about it.’
Dobson was furious at the change in emphasis. He had cornered the other man who was now casting doubt on the evidence. He recalled the words of one of the members of the Christian Action Group at the last meeting who warned him of the risk he was taking.
‘I was arrested by the police on charges of arson and of killing my parents in the fire,’ the messenger went on to explain. ‘I was sixteen years old at the time but new evidence soon came to light and they caught the man who was responsible. He’s now serving a life sentence for the crime. They found me completely innocent of the crime and, in fact, I was granted compensation by the police for the false arrest. However, at the age of sixteen, I lost both of my parents.’
Dobson fell completely silent. All the enthusiasm and excitement that had built up inside him faded away in an instant. He felt desperately hot under the strong television lights and his throat seemed to seize up.
‘Well thank Heavens we’ve resolved that matter, Mr. Dobson,’ said the presenter, a little disappointed at the outcome. ‘Tell me, what’s your view about Mr. Warrior’s claim that he sees visions of Gods and Goddesses in his sleep?’ He may have not bothered to have spoken at all because Dobson was a man of diminished spirit... a shell of his former self. He was so humiliated by the truth that he failed to run the index finger of his right hand across his white moustache. He simply sat stock-still like a dummy in a tailor’s shop window with his mouth opening and closing at regular intervals. Trevor-Edwards switched his attention to the messenger realising that he had lost Dobson as a participant in the programme.
‘So you’re completely innocent of the charges made against you twelve years ago. You were never brought to trial. What about the allegation of the body in St. Michael’s church?’
‘I know nothing about it,’ lied Warrior blatantly. ‘It’s a wild accusation by the Christian Action Group to try to discredit me. A very unchristian act if you ask me.’
At that moment, Dobson closed his eyes and collapsed, falling off his chair on to the floor of the set. The result of his false allegation and its rebuttal had been so monstrous that he suffered a severe heart attack and would never rise again to leave the building. Pandemonium broke loose in the studio as television staff ran on to the set to carry off the body. It was the last anyone saw of him alive. He was driven by ambulance to the nearest hospital, pronounced dead on arrival and taken to a mortuary for an autopsy and subsequent interment. It was the end of Gordon Dobson and the final curtain for the Christian Action Group.
The television programme continued shortly but Dobson had been robbed of any further interest. He had been right when he told the Christian Action Group that mud sticks. Despite his simple explanation and the fact that someone was serving a life sentence for the crime, there were still some people who were sceptical of the messenger’s innocence. But that was the way of public opinion. People thought the way they wanted to. As Shakespeare wrote in Julius Caesar: “The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred in their bones!” It was so true. Nonetheless, the serious allegations had been dealt with satisfactorily and messenger felt a high degree of relief. There were no secrets haunting him in his life with the exception that he was deeply in love with Xantha Vesta, the Goddess of Love and the fact that he was living with two different women both of whom he had recently serviced sexually. However, those matters related to his personal life and had nothing to do with anyone else.
After the programme had ended, when they left the set, Trevor-Edwards faced him directly. ‘A strange business. Eh?’ he muttered solemnly.
‘The only thing in that man’s mind was evil,’ returned Warrior. ‘He was invited as a member of a religious group but his intentions were anything but religious. He went all out to discredit me regardless of the topic to be discussed. How could he believe I’d killed my parents when I was still walking the streets. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘He thought he’d cornered you on that newspaper story. I tell you one thing. I’m going to watch the expression on your face when I replay the tapes.’
‘I wonder why that newspaper printed the article so many years after the incident,’ went on the messenger with a puzzled expression on his face, ‘Perhaps Dobson changed the date to fabricate the information... you know, to bring it up to date. He was so Hell-bent to discredit me.’
They made their way towards the exit, leaving the Professor some way behind them.
‘I wonder why Dobson did that?’ asked Trevor-Edwards puzzled at the turn of events. ‘What makes a man act so maliciously on a television programme? I mean he didn’t even have his facts straight.’
‘What I’d really like to know is whether there is a Christian Action Group. Do you check up on things like that?’
‘Brendan looks after that side. He’s usually very meticulous. I’m simply the anchor man. But he did say that Dobson rang in and asked to be invited on to the programme.’
The messenger looked askance at him. ‘Well if you invite me back here again, tell Brendan to check out all the guests carefully.’
‘You’re reading my thoughts. I think we have another programme before the public tire of it. How about coming back in three months’ time. We should have a good following what with the newspaper reporting the events of today,’
‘Sure!’ returned Warrior tersely, ‘Same time. Same place!’
They shook hands warmly and he left the building as Trevor-Edwards turned to face Brendan Moses. ‘Great show!’ he uttered delightedly. ‘Just as well it worked out. We can’t have criminals using the show to pass on messages.’
Warrior caught a bus to take him home reviewing the events of the evening. It had turned out to be quite a debacle with the allegations made about him and the death of one of the guests. In the first programme, he had ranted on indiscriminately, trying to inflict his message in the widest possible sense. This time he was satisfied that his arguments were more cogent., strong enough to persuade many of those who watched the programme. Although he had proved his innocence with regard to his arrest by the police in the past, he perspired slightly as the incident was recalled in his mind. It had been a horrendous moment when his past reached out to him in front of millions of viewers. Even worse was the accusation that he may have killed Gabby Saunders in St. Michael’s church. In truth, he had been about to be murdered by the man until Xantha Vesta intervened. It was his protector who was to blame, if anyone was to be blamed. He was only an accessory after the fact. Nonetheless, Dobson had struck very close to home and, as far as the messenger was concerned, it was far too close for comfort!
Chapter Eleven
A few days after the article concerning Warrior’s healing powers was reported in the local newspaper, a large number of people came to visit him at his home. They were the halt, the lame, the deformed, the disfigured, the blind, the deaf, those with gruesome symptoms, those with terminal diseases, a number of hypochondriacs, and two dying children brought to him as a last resort in desperation by their mothers. It was a sad reflection that surgery, drugs and tablets provided by doctors were insufficient to cure so many unfortunate people. Each individual arrived with a degree of hope somewhat tarnished by suspicion about the healer, in the recent past, they had trusted their lives to their physicians while waiting for cures for their allergies and ailments only to learn that nothing more could be done for them. Subsequently, those who came to see the healer were the no-hopers ditched by their medical practitioners. Most of them had run the gauntlet of specialists and medical experts only to be cast aside without repair.
Their plight was a sad reflection of the insufficiency of modern medicine with regard to their ailments. Every month, newspapers printed articles about the advancement of medical care with the new technology to hand and the wonderful cures stemming from research and they claimed that most illnesses would be cured in the next fifty years. That was of little use to a person needing urgent help at the present time, By the time such research came to fruition, all the people attending Warrior’s home would be dead. His front room was filled with patients, many of them having to stand because there was insufficient room to accommodate them all. Everyone one of them clinging to life by their fingernails in the hope that he would be able to cure them. And who could blame them? In the absence of medical assistance, faith healing was their only hope and they huddled together in the tiny room hoping that the healer could cure them. He was the only life-line left to them and they came to him as a last resort. For all they knew, he may have been a charlatan but, in their desperation, they wee willing to try anything.
They waited for some time until he appeared from the bedroom. He looked exactly what they expected to see of a faith healer... a man with straggly hair, unshaven, and wearing dull unkempt clothing. He stared at them solemnly and called out for his first patient. A woman brought forward her young son who had fair hair and blue eyes. She brought him over to the couch and helped him on to it. The eyes of all the other waiting patiently were directed towards him to watch him in practice. This was no ordinary doctor’s surgery where people waited reading out-of-date magazines. This was a crowded room where everyone could see the healer at work. In their hearts, they prayed for him to be successful for if Warrior could heal one of them he might be able to cure them all. It was an act of blind faith on their behalf with nothing to lose if he failed.
Warrior stared hard at the child on the couch. He was a young boy, only eight years old, with a disease that his mother was unable to pronounce because it had such a long Latin name. He stood quite still for a moment and then knelt down and took the boy’s hand. Shortly, he placed his other hand on the boy’s head and waited for a while before closing his eyes as if in prayer, although his lips failed to move. Everyone watched him closely even though there was nothing to see. Eventually, the messenger’s body went taut and his back stiffened but he still maintained his position. It was as though the disease was being transferred from the boy to the man. The healer’s face became racked with agony, he began to perspire, and then he started to shudder violently as the boy lay still, his eyes glued to the healer’s face. Warrior released a series of painful utterances as though he was being tortured but his hands remained in the boy’s grasp and upon his head. Suddenly, the boy closed his eyes and moaned loudly, clearly being drawn into some kind of invisible mental conflict, before starting to shudder violently like the healer. The expression on his face showed that he was in severe pain but his mother stood by without interfering. Both the healer and the boy became locked in the same position for quite some time and the patients waiting to be treated wondered whether they should halt the operation and separate the two. They had never seen anything quite like this before. In due course, however, the man and boy stopped shaking and the expressions on their faces returned to normality. The boy opened his eyes first and looked around. Immediately, Warrior removed his hands and blew out a sigh of relief as he regained his composure.
‘Well that was really something,’ he told the mother. ‘It’s a tough disease.’
‘Do you think you can cure him?’ she asked in desperation. ‘Is it possible?’
‘I believe I can cure him,’ returned the healer hesitantly. ‘Not yet... but I helped him to some degree in this first session. I’d like to see him again very soon. Although we made some headway today he needs further treatment. He responds extremely well. Come back in a couple of days.’
The woman wasn’t sure whether to thank him or kiss him in her elation. Two doctors had told her that there was no hope for her son predicting that he had only six months to live. Now there seemed to be hope on the horizon. It all depended on a man she didn’t know, had never met before, one without medical training or certificates to prove that he was a healer. Of one thing she was certain... she would return in two day’s time to continue with the treatment.
The next person to come forward was a man sitting in a wheelchair. He had become immobilised after being knocked down by a motor vehicle in a road accident and, despite a plethora of drugs and physiotherapy, he was unable to summon sufficient strength in his legs to climb out of the wheelchair and walk away. The healer recognised that the chances of returning the man to normal life was fairly high because the problem in such cases was generally psychological. Inside the brain of each individual is a mechanism which protects the body against damage and shock. Sometimes it became overworked so that recovery from incidental damage was inhibited. It suppressed both reason and logic to replace them with alarm and fear. Consequently no amount of drugs or other kinds of treatment would overcome the barrier in the patient’s mind, allowing them to understand that no damage had actually been done. One had to find a method to reverse the situation, proving to the brain that no damage had actually been done. Faith was a great healer in such matters and Warrior was about to show how it could be done. Calmly, he leaned forward and placed both hands on the patient’s legs, looking at him straight in the eyes.
‘Keep your eyes looking directly into mine!’ he ordered slowly. The man obeyed and the healer began to chant. ‘By all the Gods and Goddesses in the celestial kingdom, allow me to do my duty to this man who claims that he cannot walk! I beseech you to let him use his legs to his own ability, so that he may climb down from this chariot and walk away from it outside this house! I ask you, Magester, mighty ruler of all those in the celestial kingdom, to look after him carefully and to protect him. I pray that you let him give you the faith he desires to offer you... to allow him to pray to his protector who you will name. And we both thank you for your kindness.’
He paused for a while although his eyes never left the face of the other man. Then, as though revelation had come to him, he removed his hands from the man’s legs and uttered in a solemn tone: ‘Magester, the mighty ruler in the celestial kingdom has appointed the Goddess of Wisdom to protect you. Her name is Hygramorph and she’ll come to you in mind whenever you need her help. Tell me you understand what I’m saying. Think of Hygramaorph and she will come to help you. Do it now!’
The man mumbled the name and sat deeply in thought, staring at the healer. ‘Hygramorph,’ he repeated. ‘Hygromorph... the Goddess of Wisdom!’
‘Do you believe in the Gods and Goddesses in the celestial kingdom?’ asked Warrior bluntly.
‘I do now... if she’s going to help me. Hygramorph! Come and help me out of this contraption, I beg you! I’ll do anything you say but get me out of here!’ He closed his eyes and opened them again. There before him was the vision of the Goddess of Wisdom although she could be seen by no other people in the room. ‘She really does exist!’ uttered the patient with surprise.
‘I will support you in every way,’ stated the Goddess staring directly at him. ‘Stand up and leave this house. You have my permission to do so. Do not delay!’ The man placed his hands firmly on the arms of the wheelchair and slowly lifted himself up. ‘Come on!’ urged Hygramorph urgently. ‘You can walk away without any trouble whatsoever. Do it!’
The man eased himself out of the wheelchair on to his legs and stood up unsteadily. Then he placed one foot in front of the other and slowed edges towards the door. ‘I’ve done it!’ he shouted with delight. ‘I can walk again. Thank you... thank you!
A buzz of excitement echoed around the room. If there was any doubt in the minds of the people waiting there as to the capability of the healer it quickly vanished. Here was absolute proof that the man was a successful healer before their eyes. Their hope was suddenly restored as they harboured the belief that they had a chance he cou
ld relieve them of their misery. It mattered little to them whether Warrior professed to be in touch with the Gods and Goddesses in the celestial kingdom. If they were required to follow suit in order to be healed, they would all be willing to change their faith. If the truth were know, most of them had already been to a church to pray for help in this dilemma even though it had made no difference to them physically at all. They were now all convinced that the God they prayed to had forsaken them. Now that they had seen the man in the wheelchair walk out of the house, Warrior was their guide, their mentor, their healer!
There was a sudden rush of patients pushing forward to gain his attention. Outwardly he smiled at their efforts to reach him first, but inwardly he was appalled to realise that al these people had suffered so much at the hands of medical practitioners who should have been able to do more for them in their hour of need. The next patient was a woman aged about forty-five dying from a cancerous growth in her womb. Even without the medical knowledge required, he was fully aware he would be unable to snatch her from the jaws of death. She should have been enjoying a healthy life following an appointment with a hospital for an operation but, in her wisdom, she had been a coward and cancelled it. As a result, she was going to lose her life shortly. It was now too late for an operation and she was doomed to die! Warrior remained silent during his treatment of her. He felt unable to tell her that he could do nothing to save her life. He placed his hands on her stomach and prayed to the Gods despite the fact that he could never return her to good health again.
That was the problem. Many people coming to him to be healed were beyond redemption. Some of them left it far too late to be cured. Warrior was a healer but it was beyond his control to instil new life into dying people. He doubted whether Christ had done so either. The story was merely poetic licence of the writers of the Holy Bible who had scribed fiction into the work. When he had finished with the treatment, the woman thanked him and said farewell. He knew that he would never see her again... not in this life!