Soul's Gate

by James L. Rubart

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Scott, but I’m supposed to find out how many bottles of water you want for tonight’s show.”

  “Do you work on the road crew?”

  “Yeah, I’m new.”

  “Don’t call me Mr. Scott.” Brandon winked at him.

  “Okay.”

  “Great to have you with us.”

  The kid glanced at the auditorium and smiled. “It’s so wild to be here.”

  “Do you play?” Brandon motioned toward his guitar.

  The kid nodded and as he did Brandon saw a flash around the roadie’s body. When it faded there were dark purple and black splotches on the kid’s face, neck, and arms. Across his forehead was stamped the word WORTHLESS. How ironic. exactly what someone might find stamped on his own forehead if they could see it. Physician, heal thyself.

  Brandon blinked and the bruises and word were gone. He glanced at his watch, then at his sound crew who sat waiting at their board at the back of the auditorium, then back at the kid. There wasn’t time for this. Yes, there was.

  Brandon held a finger up to his sound crew and called out, “One minute! I have to take a quick break.”

  First Kevin, now this kid. These spiritual X-ray glasses were getting really, really weird. And really, really cool. I need the right words, Jesus.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Toby.”

  “Good name. Stay here.” Brandon jogged to the back of the stage and grabbed two folding chairs, brought them back, and offered one to Toby. “You follow Jesus?” Brandon asked as they sat.

  “I’m trying. Some days are better than others.”

  “Me too. Can I tell you something? Something I feel about you? Something I think I’m . . . uh . . . sensing? I might be right and I might be wrong, so if it doesn’t fit, no problem.”

  Shame covered Toby’s face and he looked down.

  “I get the feeling you’ve never thought you’d amount to much. Maybe you even think you’re worthless. If that’s true, I have to tell you that’s a lie from the pit of hell. Don’t believe it. Don’t let it stay in your mind for one more second. I know what it’s like to feel that way. I still feel that way sometimes.”

  Toby looked up. “You do?”

  “I do.”

  “But you’ve made it, everyone loves you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I still feel it. Just like you. We’ve got to let it out. Let Jesus heal it.”

  The kid stared at Brandon for a few seconds, then started to weep. Through the tears he poured out the story of how when his grades slipped in junior high, his parents started ignoring him. “They’re both teachers of the year and grades are everything, and I’m just not that smart and I embarrassed them so badly.”

  “Did they say that?”

  “No, but they didn’t have to. My sister, you know, she four pointed all through junior high and high school, and all their time went into her. When I dropped out after my junior year, they . . .” Toby stopped and rubbed his face. “They don’t hate me, they’re not mean, they’re even polite, it’s just—”

  “Toby, look at me. They have missed out on you. You are so worth it.”

  A shimmer of hope appeared in Toby’s eyes.

  “So worth it and I’m so glad you’re part of this team. And right now we’re going to take some time to break the lie you’ve believed about yourself.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after more tears and a prayer for strength, Brandon stood and wrapped Toby in a huge hug.

  “Thank you,” Toby said as he turned to go. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Thank you is perfect.”

  “I’ll remember this day the rest of my life, Max.”

  “What?” Brandon squinted at Toby. “What did you call me?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My name’s Brandon.” He frowned.

  The kid smiled. “I know. They told me I should call you Mr. Scott or Brandon. I slipped.”

  “Slipped?”

  “Yeah. Max is all they’ve called you. That’s the name that popped into my mind—”

  “Who calls me Max?”

  “The crew.” The kid waved his hands behind and to the side of him. “All of them. Well, most of them. I thought it was a nickname or a middle name or something.”

  “I’ve had most of this crew for two years. I’ve never heard them call me Max.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ll call you Brandon or Mr. Scott.”

  “Like I said, never Mr. Scott, and don’t be sorry.” Brandon gave the kid a playful punch in his arm. “Why do they call me that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Brandon held up his forefinger. “Hang on.” He pulled out his phone and dialed Kevin’s cell.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing. It’s good. It’s a minor thing, so if you’re jamming we can talk about it later.”

  “I’m good. Are you doing a sound check?”

  Brandon glanced at his sound crew, who looked like they were sleeping. “Kind of.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Brandon turned back to Toby. “Go strong, my new friend, all right? Remember, don’t listen to the lies. And let’s talk again soon. Okay?”

  Toby nodded and smiled, tears still wet on his face, and trotted back the way he’d come. As the kid clopped down the stairs stage left, Kevin passed him coming up, taking the stairs two at a time. He jogged over to Brandon and slid to a stop, arms up.

  “Nice entrance.”

  “I try to please.” Kevin straightened his Canali shirt and looked up at Brandon. “What’s so urgent that you had to yank me away from an animated Facebook discussion with my cousin about the right amount of times to post in social media each day?”

  “I want to know about this Max thing.”

  “What Max thing? You mean about the crew calling you Max?”

  “Yeah. That Max thing.”

  “You don’t know about that?” Kevin squished up his face in surprise. “It’s been going on for at least a year. I thought we talked about it.”

  “No.” Brandon cocked his head. “We didn’t.”

  “You’re positive.”

  “Yes.”

  “Stop looking at me like that.” Kevin pulled his head back. “It’s a good thing.”

  “Sure it is.” Brandon smirked. “Roasting the boss when he’s not there to hear it. Injects some humor into the crew. Makes me human, right? That’s the good part?”

  “What?”

  “Just having a little fun with the guy who signs the checks, right? Who is Max? Someone’s dog?”

  “This is cracking me up.” Kevin shook his head. “You honestly don’t know what Max stands for? You have to know.” He laughed. “I can’t believe you haven’t overheard one of them call you that.”

  “Kevin. I. Don’t. Know.”

  “All right. I believe you.” Kevin folded his arms and looked up at Brandon. “It comes from a movie.”

  “A movie?”

  “Yep. Max is short for General Maximus Decimus Meridius.”

  Brandon balked. “From Gladiator?”

  “Yes.” Kevin shook his head, a thin smile on his lips. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what?”

  “You don’t see how much you inspire them.”

  Brandon shook his head, his mind in a daze.

  “Think about it. Think about what’s happened over the past fifteen years. You start out playing churches where the crowd is all of three people and you’re one of the three. People tell you to give up, that you’ll never conquer the music industry. But you put mufflers on your ears and ignored them.

  “You work your way up to playing in front of crowds of college students, then finally get a shot at making an album and it doesn’t sell. So you start your own record label, then sign with a major label, and now you’re one of the big
gest-selling Christian artists in the world.

  “You never gave up, you fought the empire. You were true to your vision.” Kevin tapped himself on the chest. “And you give people the courage to step into their dreams and fight for their own empire. Like you did with me just the other day.”

  Max was short for Maximus. From Gladiator. Brandon fumbled for the chair he’d sat in with Toby and sat down hard. He stared at Kevin, who grinned at him.

  “You’re a warrior. You’re swinging the sword. Think about your fans. Do you realize the impact you’ve had on them? How you’ve set so many of them free? Do you ever let the words in their e-mails sink in?” Kevin pointed at Brandon’s heart. “Into here?”

  Brandon tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Unbelievable. He had his name. God had given it. Just like Reece said he would. Brandon leaned forward and smiled at Kevin. “Tonight let’s slay some dragons.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  BRANDON WAS IN HIS DRESSING ROOM LEANING BACK on a tan couch, still on a high from God giving him a name, when Reece texted him a message that got him to his feet: YOU NEED TO BE CAREFUL TONIGHT. He dialed Reece’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m careful every night.”

  “I was praying for your concert just now and got two things.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I heard the Spirit say today would be good.”

  “It’s already been that. And the other thing?”

  “That you’d have a battle on your hands during the concert.”

  “What kind of battle?” Brandon strode from one side of the room to the other.

  “I don’t know, that’s all I got. But I will say it feels serious. I know you have to go on soon, but what was the good?”

  Brandon told him about his talk with Kevin and God revealing his new name.

  “I’m thrilled for you, Brandon. Maximus is a powerful name. And it’s interesting that you swung your sword just before you received it.”

  “I saw the shame and self-loathing all over Toby.”

  “Those with eyes to see.”

  Brandon smiled. “I almost blew the kid off.”

  “Now I know why the Spirit told me tonight is serious.”

  “Why?”

  “The enemy can’t be pleased that you got your name. Can’t be pleased about what you did for Toby.” Reece paused. “Dana and Marcus should be here soon. We’ll war for you in the heavens tonight.”

  “I’ll let you know what happens.”

  “I think your eyes are going to be opened.”

  Brandon rubbed his head and scuffed a light brown stain in the carpet with the toe of his shoe. “The last time you said that, Marcus saw demons.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Brandon hung up the phone and stared at his guitar. That was his sword tonight. He would swing it well.

  Brandon glanced at Kevin as his manager strolled through the dressing room door. “Is everyone tanked up?” He put the last new string on his guitar and started tuning the Taylor six-string. If Reece was right—and he usually was—his team needed their spiritual radar to be finely calibrated.

  “You have guitar techs who would install new strings for you.” Kevin grabbed one of the folding chairs and sat backward, his arms resting on the back of the chair.

  Brandon repeated his question. “Is everyone tanked up?”

  “That question could be interpreted in a number of ways.” Kevin laughed and mimicked taking a swig from a bottle. “Let me just say I strictly prohibit the band from getting drunk before they go onstage.”

  “I’m not kidding around, Kevin. Yes or no?”

  “Why are you so worried if we’ve been praying?” Kevin gave Brandon an exasperated look. “We always pray before a show.”

  “Reece said something weird to me on the phone a few minutes ago.”

  “What?”

  “That there would be some kind of spiritual battle at the concert tonight and that my eyes would be opened even more than they have been.”

  “Cool, you always play better when you can see.”

  Normally Brandon would appreciate Kevin’s humor. But this time it fell flat. He’d felt a tingling at the back of his mind all day—which he’d ignored till now—but it seemed like it had grown exponentially in the last few minutes. He didn’t know if the increase was the Spirit putting him on red alert or his own imaginings because of his conversation with Reece. It didn’t matter. Either way Brandon needed to be ready.

  An hour later Brandon strapped on his guitar and strode toward the stage. Kevin stood at the end of the hall, a Cheshire-cat grin on his face. When Brandon reached him, he gave a smile of his own in return.

  “Someone is happy.”

  “Would you care to share in my joy?” Kevin made a mock bow.

  “Speak.”

  “Sold out. We turned people away. And we’ve already sold the majority of the T-shirts. You are still loved, mon frère.”

  A thought streaked through Brandon’s mind. He didn’t care about sold-out crowds anymore. It didn’t matter if one person came or one hundred thousand. This concert was about an audience of One. As Brandon took the stage, the crowd roared and he grinned and waved at them, which increased the volume of their greeting.

  “Hello, Dallas.” Brandon adjusted the mic clipped to his ear and gazed out over the crowd. “I love you! But God loves you more! And he wants to set you free!”

  The crowd yelled its approval as Brandon turned to his band and gave a countdown. “One, two, three, four . . .”

  They kicked into a sped-up version of his megahit from two years ago, “Flying Faster,” and the crowd surged to their feet, arms raised, bodies moving in rhythm to the music.

  Lord, this is for you. It’s about making you more famous. Lead me tonight.

  Brandon prayed that at the start of every concert, but this was the first time in ages he’d said it with his heart instead of his head. Maximus. The thought of his new name bypassed his mind and went straight to his heart. He gazed at the crowd. Tonight he would fight for them with all his strength.

  Brandon turned and grinned at his band. This was right. He was at the center of the universe onstage. It hadn’t been like this in so long. The music flowed out of him almost without effort.

  “This is so cool, Jesus,” Brandon whispered as his lead guitarist played a blistering solo.

  The next forty minutes flashed by in what felt like seconds. In between songs he spoke out of his heart and the words flowed like the river at Well Spring.

  After their eighth song, Anthony, his bass player, slid up to him. “Something is different tonight.”

  Brandon covered his mic with his fist. “You think? You’re feeling it?” Brandon threw his other arm around Anthony’s shoulder.

  “What changed?”

  “The Spirit. He’s here and we’re flowing in it again. Like the old days.”

  “You’ve had a wake-up call.”

  “I’ve been spending some time with a guy who’s helped me get back on the sometimes straight and always narrow.”

  “That retreat you went on?”

  “Yeah. I’ll have to tell you more about it.”

  “I’d love it.”

  Brandon turned back to the audience and shouted, “Are you free tonight?”

  The crowd roared.

  “It’s what he wants for you!”

  The band kicked into their next song and Brandon soaked in the audience, the music—his head went light and he felt like he was floating. As the song finished Brandon glanced at the set sheet taped to the top of his guitar. Next up was “Water in the Wasteland.” But a thought filled his heart: Play “Free Me.”

  Brandon glanced behind him at the band, then took a step toward the crowd. “We haven’t played this next song in a while. But I think God is saying it’s time to bring it out of hibernation. No vocals to this one, just music, so let the Spirit put whatever words to it he wants to.”

  Brandon glanced at his
band members, asking with his eyes if they were good with the song. They all nodded. He turned back to the crowd and smiled. “On this song I don’t do much more than play the opening chord, so when we’re done, if you like the tune, be sure to give it up for my band.”

  As the crowd cheered, Brandon formed the opening chord high on the neck of his guitar and pulled his pick hard across the strings. An instant later the room went black. The only light he could see was a razor-thin sliver at the back of the auditorium. Faulty lighting? This had to be the attack of the enemy Reece had warned him about. But it didn’t seem to faze his band.

  Thirty seconds later the lights still hadn’t come back on, but the song continued to ring out. That his band remembered the song well enough to keep playing in the dark surprised and pleased him. But it would be nice to be able to see.

  Brandon fumbled his way over to Anthony and gripped his arm. “Any idea where the lights went?”

  “What do you mean? You want the lights on over the audience?”

  “Any lights would be nice at this point.”

  “So the ones in our eyes aren’t enough?” His bass player laughed.

  “What are you talking about? I can’t see a thing.”

  “You have three spotlights on you right now. Are you blind?”

  Brandon didn’t answer because an instant later he could see again. But he didn’t like the view. He knew he was the only one onstage who saw what was coming out of the chests of the audience. What was coming for him.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  MARCUS GLANCED FROM BETWEEN THE GPS ON HIS phone to the road as he tooled down Paradise Lake Road just north of Woodinville, trying to imagine what reece’s home would look like. According to the map on his phone, he’d know in a few minutes.

  From what he knew about Reece, marcus imagined it wouldn’t be much to look at. But as soon as he started down the long gravel driveway lined with Douglas fir trees, his presumption was proven incorrect. Thirty seconds later Reece’s house came into view and marcus smiled.

  It was a cabin, average in size, but striking. Dark beams protruded at the top of the steep-pitched roof and on the sides of the home. A massive picture window filled the front, a river-rock fireplace towered over the structure on the left side. It was a brother of the cabin at Well Spring.