Old Dogma New Tricks (The Elven Prophecy Book 2)

by Theophilus Monroe

  “Well, shit,” I said. “What the hell do we do now?”

  Brag’mok stared blankly at the water. “With B’iff’s body, the elven king will be able to open the gate himself when he’s ready. There’s nothing we can do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Agnus piped up. “That’s what you get for worrying about saving a human.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We did the right thing.”

  “At what cost?” Brag’mok asked.

  “At less of a cost than it would have been if we’d allowed that man to linger in the cage any longer,” I replied.

  “One man at the cost of your world?” Brag’mok asked. He released a massive roar and slammed his fists on the ground. It was hard enough I suspected it might have registered on any nearby Richter scales.

  Layla put her hand on my shoulder. “I still believe in you.”

  I shook my head. “Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe it’s time I start doing what you tell me to.”

  “There’s a reason you are the chosen one,” Layla said.

  “Because I got fucking stabbed and happened to survive?” I shrugged her hand off my shoulder. “A bunch of bullshit. Your prophecy, or whoever the asshole was who made the prophecy, chose wrong.”

  Layla bit her lip. “Wait, Caspar. That’s brilliant.”

  I chuckled. “What is? That your prophet was an asshole? I have to admit, it might be the smartest thing I’ve come up with since all this shit started.”

  “No,” Layla said. “I mean, he might have been an asshole. Who knows? But the prophet was the one who opened the first gate to the world we now call New Albion. If he could do it, you should be able to do it, too. You have level-five magic.”

  I chuckled. “Aside from flying, I haven’t been able to do a whole lot.”

  “He can’t do it,” Brag’mok said. “But there might be a way.”

  “With enough magic drawn from the source?” Layla asked.

  “And with the help of the fairies,” Brag’mok said. “At least one stayed behind, and based on the way he was harassing Caspar, I think he’s a loner.”

  Layla cocked her head. “Fairies don’t travel alone. They’re always in herds or flocks or whatever the hell you call a swarm of fairies.”

  “Unless he’s an exile,” Brag’mok said. “A fairy who opposed the will of the collective.”

  “Still,” I interjected. “Say we do open the gate from our end. King Brightborn has your brother’s body. He has the magic. He’s accomplished what he originally hoped to do with the Blade of Echoes.”

  “Again,” Brag’mok said, “the fairy might be key. If the original prophet used the fairies to help create the gate to the new world, perhaps it was also with the fairies that he created the original Blade of Echoes.”

  “What would be the point of doing that?” I asked.

  “To recharge the ley lines on New Albion,” Layla said. “It would give the giants magic they could use.”

  “For more war?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Brag’mok said. “But necessary to thwart King Brightborn. If we can deliver magic to New Albion, at the very least, our hordes should be able to slow down the elven legions. We might not be able to stop them indefinitely, but we could buy time for the rest of the prophecy to unfold.”

  I sighed. “Again, you’re putting faith in my ability to unite all the people. I’m sorry, but I think your prophecy is crap.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you think of it,” Layla said. “You’ve still been chosen, and you’ve been preparing for this.”

  “I’ve been working out and learning basic fighting maneuvers in the park,” I said. “That’s not going to be helpful when it comes to unifying races that are at war.”

  “I’m not talking about that training,” Layla said. “Your other training.”

  I cocked my head. I’d had the thought already, but really, I wasn’t ready for that either. “You mean, with the church? The people at Holy Cross just got me back, and now they’re fixing to run me out of town.”

  “But they haven’t yet,” Agnus piped up. “Don’t you have a plan?”

  “Well, sort of,” I said. “From when I met with my bishop the other day. But I don’t know how that plan could work now. That’s different.”

  “Is it?” Agnus asked. “You told me the people at the church condemn because they don’t understand. That they need to walk in the shoes of the people who are flocking to the church so they can understand and learn to embrace them.”

  I sighed. “I was hoping the soup kitchen would help with that. I don’t know that soup is going to help this situation.”

  “Let’s focus on the issue at hand,” Brag’mok said. “The path forward to fulfill the prophecy will be revealed soon enough. When the time is right, the final two seals will open, and you’ll know what to do.”

  I sighed. “All right. What do we need to do?”

  “First,” Brag’mok said, “we need to get your pesky fairy’s attention again.”

  I sighed. “In other words, I need to use more magic.”

  “As often as you have the chance,” Brag’mok said. “And even better if you use it around humans. The fairy won’t be able to resist intervening.”

  “And when he does,” Layla said, “we’ll be waiting to catch him.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tonight was one of the nights Evelyn was running the soup kitchen. It was my best chance, and I hoped the fairy would be there. So far, every time I’d been, he was.

  I walked through the door, Layla at my side, with her hood pulled up to hide her ears. Not that people at the soup kitchen, not even the Methodist volunteers, would have cared much. All sorts were welcome as long as they were hungry. But she didn’t want to cause a distraction.

  I saw a lot of familiar faces. Many of them were part of the crowd who’d joined us at Holy Cross the Sunday before.

  I scanned the crowd and saw Cecil, his wife Shanda, and their daughter Grace. They were seated at one of the cafeteria tables, the sort they have at schools that fold up with little stool-like seats attached.

  I approached them.

  “Cecil and Shanda?” I asked.

  “Reverend!” Cecil exclaimed, smiling as he hurried to his feet and extended his hand.

  “This is my girlfriend Layla,” I said.

  Cecil nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Layla said. “And this must be Grace?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How are you, sweetie?” Layla asked, kneeling to talk to Grace.

  I’d let them have their moment. Layla and Shanda were laughing as they looked at Grace, who was saying something. Not sure what, but I’m sure it was cute, whatever it was, based on the response she was getting.

  “Cecil, do you have a moment?” I asked.

  “Sure, Reverend. Of course.” Cecil straightened his shirt.

  “When Grace was being treated before she was healed, where did you take her?”

  “Cardinal Glennon Children’s Hospital,” Cecil said. “Very generous people. They took care of everything. I mean, they didn’t heal her. Not like you did.”

  “And were there support communities? Other parents with children who had similar conditions, or other groups you were part of?” I asked. Cardinal Glennon was, as you might guess, a Catholic children’s hospital. I hadn’t had many chances to visit anyone there. We didn’t have a lot of children at Holy Cross, and of the few we did have, none of them had been unfortunate enough to fall seriously ill or require hospitalization since I’d been the pastor there. But since I’d also attended the local seminary, I had made a few rounds at Cardinal Glennon as part of my training. If things hadn’t changed over the last several years, they had pretty extensive support systems for the parents who brought their children there—the sort of support system that becomes like family.

  “Of course,” Cecil said. “I was meaning to talk to you about tha
t, but I didn’t want to cause any more problems than I already did.”

  “What problems?” I asked. “You haven’t caused any.”

  “You don’t think I couldn’t sense that we weren’t welcome last Sunday?” Cecil asked.

  “You’re always welcome,” I said. “The members there are fairly set in their ways. I think it was just a shock to see so many people.”

  “So many black people, you mean?” Cecil asked.

  I bit my lip. “Yeah. I hate to say it. Don’t get me wrong. They aren’t hateful people. They’re just…”

  “I get it,” Cecil said. “Trust me, I’ve lived with that sort of treatment from white folks my whole life. You get used to it.”

  “I’m so sorry about that,” I said. “I’m hoping to bring some of them here. Give them a chance to get to know some of the folks who live in the community.”

  “I think that would be really nice, Reverend,” Cecil said. “But you were asking about the support community at Cardinal Glennon?”

  I nodded. “How many of them could you get hold of on short notice?”

  “All of them,” Cecil said. “There’s a Facebook group.”

  “Tell any who’d like, any who want to know how your daughter was healed, to come to Holy Cross tonight at seven o’clock. I think it’s high time I used this gift I’ve been given to do some good.”

  Cecil smiled even more broadly than usual, which was saying something because I don’t know if I’d ever talked to someone whose face was happier than Cecil’s, at least since his daughter was healed. “I can do that, Reverend. But aren’t you worried that if you do something like that, you might get into trouble? With your church, I mean?”

  I sighed. “People condemn because they don’t understand, but I won’t be hindered by their ignorance.”

  Cecil nodded. “I can respect that, Reverend.”

  “I don’t think most people intend to be hateful. They’re just afraid. They fear change.”

  “Hate is the secondary emotion, Reverend. Fear is more often than not, at least in my experience, the primary emotion hiding behind it.”

  “Well, you know what they say about dealing with fears, right?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing to fear but fear itself?” Cecil asked.

  “That, too. But I was thinking more along the lines that the only way to overcome fear is to face it. Once people see that the change they fear is beautiful, that it’s at the heart of what they’ve always valued even though they never realized it, whatever hate or discomfort they have will fade, too.”

  “Perhaps you’re a bit naïve, Reverend,” Cecil said. “But I hope you’re right. Not just for our sake, but for theirs. That kind of fear; that’s no way to live.”

  I smiled. “No, it isn’t, Cecil. Not at all.”

  “Seven o’clock, you said?” he asked.

  I nodded. “As many who are willing to come are welcome.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Not because I’d probably face repercussions from the church. I knew Philip had my back, but if push came to shove, the elders could vote me out of there, go over Philip’s head, and have me censured. And the denomination’s archbishop, basically the president, the one to whom Philip had to report, was cut from the same cloth as my former bishop Matthias Flacius. If he found out I was holding healing services in our church, he’d blackball me in a second. As far as I knew, that would make me the only minister in the history of our denomination to be blackballed twice. It was not something you generally came back from. The fact that I did the first time was a small miracle. And technically speaking, while it was only a formality since Flacius’ recommendation hadn’t been processed by the bureaucracy yet before he got himself ousted, I’d never been excommunicated. But for all intents and purposes, this would cause a second blackballing if it ever got reported.

  Technically, I wasn’t inviting anyone from the church, so there was a chance they wouldn’t find out. But who was I kidding? If I healed that many people in one service, the crowd that had come before would be nothing compared to the numbers who’d show if I pulled this off.

  There would be no hiding this or getting away with it. I’d have to face the music one way or another. All I could hope for was that either the folks of Holy Cross would come to embrace it, at least a majority of them, or Philip’s support would shield me from official heresy charges. Not likely, but it was possible. I didn’t expect him to support me publicly, either. I mean, if you defend a supposed heretic, you’re generally considered to be part of the problem. I didn’t expect or want Philip to sacrifice his career on my account. He could do a lot of good and make a lot of changes over time if he remained in his position.

  I wouldn’t allow him to shield me. Not if, or rather, when, things got nasty. This was my doing, and if push came to shove, I could testify to the church authorities that he’d recommended a different approach. That he’d only suggested I bring volunteers from Holy Cross to the soup kitchen. This healing service had been my idea and mine alone.

  I wouldn’t allow anyone else to take a hit for it.

  Layla and I went to the church and waited. Cecil had used his phone to post a message for the other Cardinal Glennon parents while we were at the soup kitchen. I hoped it would work, but there was no telling.

  You’d think that given an opportunity to have their children healed of irreversible conditions, parents would jump at the chance.

  But I also knew that people were by and large cynical about claims that involved the miraculous. And many of these parents had been jaded by treatments that didn’t work, surgeries that failed, and medications that only had a marginal impact on their children’s conditions. They probably wouldn’t be willing to listen to some preacher who thought he could do what the doctors couldn’t.

  I was beginning to think my plan was destined to fail. I’d have to resort to using my magic to fake my way through more workouts or to do other random shit in hopes of eliciting the fairy’s attention. But if it was true that allowing humans to learn of magic or how to use it was the thing the fairies were the most afraid of, this was the most effective way to welcome the little trickster back into my life.

  I mean, last time, it hadn’t been faking my workout with magic that did it. It was that I did it in front of someone. And I’d healed Grace a few days before.

  I looked at my phone to check the time. Fifteen more minutes.

  “Getting anxious?” Layla asked.

  I sighed. “I am.”

  Layla looked around the sanctuary. “You know, this place is very pretty.”

  I smiled. “It is, isn’t it? Not a lot of newer churches have this kind of aesthetic. When they built churches like this one, it was all about creating a space that fostered reverence. Today, in a lot of other churches, while I wouldn’t say it’s wrong, the focus is less on a transcendent God who has to be feared and revered and more on an imminent deity who walks among us, who embraces technology, even the music of the day, to speak to people’s hearts here and now.”

  “Sounds like that’s the sort of church you’d rather minister in,” Layla said.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. There’s something to be said for both styles. I mean, if God isn’t transcendent and holy and whatnot, that can’t by definition be God. On the other hand, if God is so other, so transcendent, that we can’t relate to Him and we always hold Him at a distance—if we revere Him but don’t allow Him to embrace us in our lives—what’s the point? That’s how religion becomes religion. It becomes reduced to a set of practices you do just because, without any real relevance to people’s lives.”

  “Again,” Layla said, “sounds like you have a pretty good idea of the sort of church you’d prefer to serve.”

  I chuckled. “Fantasizing about the ideal church is sort of like having a child and trying to imagine them being something they aren’t. In truth, all children can be a pain in the ass in their way, but we love them because th
ey’re ours. I think that’s how I view this church. There are some warts here, even some serious closed-mindedness, but it’s still my church. It’s the place where I’ve been called to preach, and I’ll keep doing that as long as they’ll allow it.”

  The front door of the church clicked and swung open. The evening sun shone through, illuminating the whole sanctuary as one family after another came through the doors. It wasn’t like a crowd trying to get in or out of a concert or anything. We didn’t have that many people to invite, only those who were members of Cecil’s and Grace’s support community.

  Still, there were probably twenty families there with their children.

  So many children. So many sick children.

  Some of them, like Grace had been, were in wheelchairs. Others were on crutches or wearing oxygen masks. There were more than a few without hair on their heads. It was heartbreaking.

  There was a sense of nervousness over the crowd. It wasn’t like one of those healing services you could catch on public access television. These people were anxious. They were tired. They were distraught. And they were desperate.

  I glanced at Layla, who smiled at me and nodded.

  “I believe I’ve been given a gift,” I started. “And I think it’s my responsibility to share it. I’m not going to preach at you tonight. If you want to hear that, I’m here every Sunday. At least, for now, I am.”

  One family, sitting in the back row, stood out from the rest. The mother had her head covered with a scarf, but the father had his hand raised.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “We are Muslim. Are we welcome, too?”

  I nodded. “Of course. As I said, I’m not going to preach, and I believe that God, however we conceive of him, loves each one of us. He made each one of us, and he isn’t so petty as to wait for you to sign on to a bunch of doctrines before he’ll deign to have compassion on you. I’m not here to tell anyone what to believe. Whatever happens tonight, if this goes as I hope it will, just be grateful. Not to me, but to the God you know and worship.”