3 Gates of the Dead (The 3 Gates of the Dead Series)

by Ryan, Jonathan

  Mike furrowed his brow as I stared at John. What in the world could he object to with the words ‘wise man?’ That part had lasted maybe two minutes and had only been a clarifying point in Mike’s sermon, which had been on the subject of worship.

  “I am not sure I understand,” Mike said, his hands clasped behind his head.

  Sunday, Bloody Sunday, Sunday, Bloody Sunday…

  All eleven heads turned to me as I reached for my cell phone. I must have forgotten to turn off the ringer. Heat rushed to my cheeks as I fumbled in my jacket pocket.

  “Sorry, everybody!” I hit the button to stop the ring and saw it was Olan calling again. What in the world?

  I looked at Mike. “Oh, it’s Olan; I wonder if he’s okay … should I answer it?”

  He shook his head. “No, Aidan, just call him back.”

  “Sorry again, everyone.” I put the phone back in my pocket.

  John smiled, his expression oozing the oil of condescension. “There is no need to ask for forgiveness, Aidan. Your concern for the flock is laudable.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes. Only conservative Presbyterians talked like that anymore. They ate this sort of stuff up like pancakes covered in syrupy, false humility and a glob of spiritual pride with the butter of the desire to beat the shit out of anyone who disagreed.

  “Mike,” John continued. “I’d seriously object to your understanding of the word ‘magos,’ in that you said it actually means ‘magician’ and not ‘wise man.’”

  “That’s not quite what I said.”

  “Yes, it is. I have listened to the recording twice since yesterday.”

  I’ll bet he did. The jerk didn’t have anything else to do since he retired. My anger rose.

  “Yes,” Elder Bill said. “But he also clarified that the term ‘magos’ in the time of Jesus referred to a person who was both a practicing magician and advisor to an authority figure, usually a king. This is especially true of the wise men that were from Persia.”

  “But that implies they were astrologers and that God spoke to them through astrology by watching the skies,” countered Jude, a lawyer whose face was plastered on half the billboards in the poorer areas of Columbus. In one of those strange ironies that proved God — if He existed — had a strange sense of humor, Jude had been named after the Beatles song and not the book in the Bible.

  “I think that is exactly what the text says, doesn’t it?” Mike pointed out, smiling a bit.

  No, Mike, don’t smile. They will eat you alive. They can’t stand to be laughed at.

  Everyone got out their Bibles, and the room filled with the sound of rifled paper.

  “My translation says ‘wise man,’” John said, smiling again.

  I couldn’t take it any longer. I wanted to wipe that stupid smile off John’s face with one of the large Bible concordances on the shelf behind him. It would certainly give new meaning to the phrase, “Thy Word shut my mouth.”

  I spoke up. “Yes, John, that’s true. The Greek word’s literal translation is ‘wise man,’ but if you look at the history of that word, it is directly applied to magicians. The people in the first century would not have recognized the distinction you’re trying to make.”

  “So, Aidan, what you are both saying is that the Bible encourages magical practice? No wonder you love Harry Potter. I’m beginning to wonder about our seminary!”

  “Listen, guys,” Mike said, holding up his hand. “I can give you my books and all the reference material I used. All of them are from theologically conservative commentaries that say exactly what Aidan and I are saying. And also…” He broke off at the low rumble of my cell phone vibrating in my pocket.

  I glanced down. “Olan is calling me again. I think I better answer while you all finish. He was in the hospital the other night, after all.”

  I didn’t tell them that Olan just had acid reflux. I wanted an excuse to get out of the room. I stepped out and answered.

  “Olan, is everything okay?”

  “Well, no. Edna had another dream.”

  I sighed. “Okay, what was it?”

  “She had a dream of Joseph again. He just kept saying one word over and over again.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He drew his hand across his throat and said, ‘Cut. Cut. Cut.’”

  I felt as if someone had slid ice down my neck. I didn’t want to tell him about the text message. “What do you think it means?”

  “Don’t know, but Joseph felt strongly about it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Edna said she could just feel it.”

  I couldn’t reply. The part of me that had just given up faith in the supernatural wanted to write the whole thing off. But doubt about my doubt gnawed in the back of my head like a zombie.

  I rubbed my eyes. “Olan, I don’t know what to say. I’m too tired to think about it. We were in the middle of a session meeting when you called.”

  “Oh! Forgot all about that. Sorry, Aidan. At my age, the ol’ attic gets full of cobwebs.”

  “Nah,” I said. “I think it’s what a Purdue education did to you.”

  “Ha, you ol’ son of a gun. Call me back when you think you have an answer.”

  “Sure thing, Olan. Have Edna drink some water and go back to sleep. See you soon.”

  I walked back in the room and heard Mike talking in a raised voice.

  “I am just saying that God can use any means He wants to get people’s attention. I’m not saying He does it every day, but in this case, He was using something the wise men could understand … a sign in the sky to point them to Jesus.”

  John shook his head, his face crunched in a grimace. “So, you are saying the Word of God is not enough? That He uses other means to bring people to Himself?”

  “No, that isn’t what I am saying. I’m just saying that God uses things in people’s lives to help them see the truth, and the Bible puts the final touches on that.”

  Silence filled the room. John again cleared his throat and spoke in what he probably thought was a grand, serious, and pious voice. “Well, I think I finally understand where Mike is coming from, and I am disturbed. I think at the next meeting, we need to question whether Mike should be our pastor in the near future.”

  The meeting broke up, but no one stayed to chat, leaving Mike and me alone. He looked at me, shrugged, and started to get up.

  “Mike, come on,” I said. “Aren’t you bothered in the least by all of this? You could lose your job.”

  “I doubt it will come to that. They’ve been after my job for months, and they haven’t gotten anything. All they have are half-baked complaints that fall apart on close examination. They would have to go through the presbytery anyway.”

  I nodded. “True, I guess.”

  “Unfortunately, if they keep on like this, they will destroy our witness in the community,” he said, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head.

  No, you screwing another woman will.

  “I know. That’s a problem,” I said, staring at the floor.

  Mike cocked his head. “Are the doubts still gnawing at you?”

  “No, actually, that’s over,” I lied. “I think I was just feeling down this morning. Now, I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

  Mike smiled and looked at me. His eyes were hollow and disturbing. There was no trouble. No panic. No guilt.

  Then I knew. He didn’t believe either. He had traded everything that was good about himself for the pleasure of a woman. The guy I looked up to — the one who taught me everything I knew — had no better answers than a woman dressed in red getting something that didn’t belong to her.

  “Yeah, I could use some rest myself. What did Olan want?”

  “Something about ushers on Sunday. He forgot we were meeting tonight.”

  He smiled. “Wish I could forget about it.”

  “Yeah.”

  Mike gathered his things. “See you tomorrow, Aidan.”

  “Sure.”
/>
  Enjoy your illicit fuck.

  I didn’t even remember locking up and getting in the car, but before long, I was on the highway heading south toward the city. My thoughts swirled around in a jumbled mess.

  If this was who God was, I didn’t want any part of Him or His people. His people were liars, hypocrites, and just downright mean. I always thought Christians should be nice, but they rarely were. And to me, that meant God didn’t exist, or if He did, He was just as mean as His people. I realized that Dawkins and Crossan had done their work on me intellectually. My emotional ties had been the only thing holding me to my faith, and now they were gone.

  Numbness seeped through me. I always thought the loss of faith would feel more like devastation, like a nuclear bomb going off in the soul. I felt nothing — just an aching, radioactive space.

  Chapter Seven

  I arrived home feeling beaten and bruised. Bishop danced in his crate, and I got him out for his night walk. We went down to his favorite spot, the condo complex lake that now had a thin layer of ice covering its surface. I thought he only liked it because other dogs left interesting smells for him to find.

  As we walked around the lake, snow began to fall, and I looked up into the night sky. The descending white flakes looked like the hyperspace scenes in Star Wars and opened up the thoughtless void I had erected against my feelings. The questions poured through like floodwater, chaotic and messy.

  Was everyone in the church like me? Did they all hide their doubts until some crisis set off a cratering of the soul? Why didn’t anyone talk about it? Everyone was encouraged to share their feelings about everything else, so why not our doubt? Why hadn’t I been warned about it?

  I gripped Bishop’s leash until it almost cut into my palm. I could understand that sort of attitude in the general population. Doubt wasn’t exactly a comfortable conversation. When the subject came up at church, you could practically see the tumbleweeds blow past the altar. Why hadn’t I learned about the possibility of losing my faith in seminary? Why hadn’t there been any classes on what to do when ministry burned you out to the point of abandoning everything you were taught to believe?

  A chill ran up my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. The God I once felt so close to me seemed to have vanished for good. I could no longer call my parents. I wouldn’t call my brother. He had too much on his plate. And I didn’t want to disturb Brian. Even those who cared about me didn’t understand my struggles, or at least didn’t understand them enough to help. Brian listened well, but I didn’t need anyone to listen. I needed answers. I pulled my coat tight around me.

  The snow fell harder, and a solid curtain of white descended from the sky. Bishop pawed around, looking for a place to take a dump or reading a pee message from another dog.

  “So, Bishop, any answers in the urine that might help me? What does Josie have to say about the existence of God?” Josie was a little Chihuahua owned by my neighbor, Fred — a gay stockbroker who gave me fantastic investment advice. He dropped by with soup when I had the flu or even the slightest cold. The kind of guy who did what the church should be doing.

  “Why? Bishop? Why is that? The church deserves for me to stay. They don’t have a right to fire me.”

  Bishop looked at me with deep dark eyes and droopy cheeks.

  “Yeah, I know. No hypocrisy.”

  I guess I had been fooling myself. I couldn’t work at this job very long. Not with the situation like it was. I just needed time to figure out my escape plan. I would have to start looking at the want-ads. Maybe I could find a job where my training and experience in the ministry would be considered an asset rather than a liability.

  My shoulders slumped. “All right, Bishop, let’s get inside.”

  I turned to head back when Bishop stopped and stared across the lake. His ears stuck up, and he sat down, his head cocked with a look of expectation on his wrinkled face.

  “Bishop, come on, let’s go.”

  He turned to me then looked out over the lake again. As he did, a faint crackling echoed toward us as if something had stepped onto the thin layer of ice.

  “What is it, an animal? Cat? Rabbit? Sorry, you can’t go after it; you might fall in.”

  Bishop whined, and it sent an unexplained charge up my spine. Bishop hardly ever made any noises. He didn’t bark at strange sounds in the night or even at other dogs. Amanda and I always thought his stillness came from the fact his previous owners had beaten him.

  Bishop whined again and batted at the snow with his paw. He hadn’t done that since … no, that wasn’t possible.

  I knelt down beside him and patted his rump. “What is it, boy?”

  The noise of the ice crackling moved closer as if someone was popping a sheet of plastic bubble wrap. I peered into the snow but couldn’t see any animal that might be attracting his interest. “Come on, boy. There’s nothing there. Let’s go inside.”

  He refused to move.

  “Bishop, come!” I said, nipping him on the neck with my fingers, trying to assert dominance. I could never quite get him to obey.

  He looked at me and gave me a muted woof.

  “Come on, I’m freezing my ass off and…”

  A loud crack caught my attention. I looked up from Bishop’s eyes, and goose bumps erupted all over my body. My heart thumped in my chest, and I took deep cold breaths to slow it down.

  Bare footprints appeared in the snow over the ice around halfway across the lake. I looked to see if there was anyone nearby and saw no one. The footprints kept appearing and formed a path in our direction.

  I grabbed Bishop by the collar. “Come on, Bishop, let’s go!”

  The damn dog refused to move and woofed again.

  “Bishop, I mean it!” My own voice rose to almost a shriek. “Let’s go!”

  The footprints continued to crunch their way toward us. They were bare feet, just like the ones at Olan and Edna’s. They were larger than a kid’s but not as large as a man’s, indenting the snow with light pressure that barely broke its surface.

  “Hello?” I called into the darkness.

  No answer. I gripped Bishop’s collar. The footprints stopped right in front of him. My legs went into lockdown as my breath came in short gasps.

  Bishop whined and got up.

  “Easy, boy. It’s okay. Can’t be what it looks like,” I croaked.

  Bishop bent his head down as if something was petting him. He let out another little woof.

  My stomach clenched, and the goose bumps became an invading army. The hairs on my neck stood up, and I began to shake from a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. He stared at the footprints, his ears pricked straight up, and his hair bristled. He looked around and began to bark.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Dozens of bare footprints began to appear on the ice as it cracked with whatever put its weight on the dusted surface. My scalp started to prickle, and when I touched the metal on Bishop’s collar, I received a small shock.

  Whispers began to my right. I couldn’t make out any coherent sentences.

  “Hello? I can’t understand you. Could you speak up?”

  The whispers became more urgent, but they still didn’t make any sense.

  “Okay, funny joke. You got me. Come on out.”

  No response — just more whispering.

  “Well, I’m going inside. Don’t let your feet get frozen or anything.”

  I tugged hard at Bishop’s leash, and he finally gave way with a reluctant walk forward. He bent his head again and tried to lick whatever had touched him.

  As I turned to drag Bishop back to the condo, I heard one phrase. “Find the Priest.”

  “What priest?” I answered.

  “The Guardian. Find him. He’s the only one who…”

  “Who? What?” I called.

  No Answer.

  “The Guardian? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Nothing.

  I dragged Bishop back to the condo as h
e kept staring back at the lake. I shut the door, ran upstairs, and splashed warm water on my face.

  What was going on? Hallucinations brought on by stress? If so, Olan must’ve been stressed out too. No, it couldn’t be that. Maybe someone was pulling an elaborate prank on me. If so, I wanted to know how they did it. It was the best I’d ever seen.

  That thought made me laugh a little, and I heard the jingle of Bishop’s tags as he thumped down onto the floor. He woofed at me as he sat in the frame of the bathroom door.

  “What was that out there, Bishop?”

  He looked at me and woofed again.

  I laughed. “I know it’s probably our imagination. Too much stress for the both of us lately, huh? Maybe we should take a vacation. We are both starting to see things. Maybe I will take you to a doggie therapist, and you can tell her what a horrible owner I am. Or maybe we can go on Dr. Phil and work out our problems as he calls us both idiots.”

  He looked up at me with sad eyes.

  I patted his head. “Let’s go to sleep.”

  I got into bed and stared at the ceiling. Bishop laid down next to me and whined.

  “It’s okay, boy, go to sleep.”

  A few moments later, I heard his loud, slow breathing as his paws stretched out to take over his side of the bed.

  I was awake most of the night, the sound of crackling ice in my head and the sight of bare footprints filling the in-between places of sleep and wakefulness.

  Chapter Eight

  “Pastor Schaeffer?”

  A voice brought me back from the world of invisible crunching footprints, woofing dogs, and worrying about my sanity.

  I smiled. “I’m sorry, Julie, just thinking about what you said. Please, go on.”

  “It’s okay. I was just saying I don’t feel like Jake listens to me. He ignores me, and well, he hasn’t touched me in months.”

  Jake and Julie Evans, a couple who had only been married for a few years, had come to me for marriage counseling. Why they sought marital advice from a single guy whose last relationship had blown up in his face, I had no idea.

  To be honest, I struggled to have compassion in marital counseling. Most of the problems I counseled weren’t really problems, just people neck deep in their own selfishness. I thought married people forgot what it was like to be single and alone, so they stopped being grateful for the presence of the other person.