The Word of God

by Christopher Cummings

  INSPECTOR GOLDSTEIN

  The Black Monk!

  Peter’s heart rate whipsawed with fear. The Black Monk! And he has Joy as a hostage!

  A second Devil Worshipper in a black balaclava moved to stand on the veranda beside the Black Monk and a third appeared at the corner of the building. The sun was shining directly on the Black Monk and Peter received a vivid impression of the man.

  His face was harsh and drawn, the skin brown and wrinkled like leather. His eyes were a glittering black and he had bushy black eyebrows which met in the middle. Uneven, yellowish teeth were bared in a snarl of hate. The man’s black cassock and cowl were ragged and filthy. Over his right shoulder was slung what appeared to be a huge sword. In his hand was a snub nosed automatic pistol.

  A claw-like hand shot out. “Drop the guns and move over there! Quick! Or the girl dies a horrible death while you watch.”

  Peter gaped, aghast. He glanced at Joy in anguish, then at Graham who was biting his lip. There did not seem to be any option although Peter suspected that they would die anyway so he might as well fight and get it over with.

  If only the Confederates will attack now! he thought; knowing it was illogical as he had just been desperately hoping they wouldn’t. At least they might not shoot us.

  For a minute they stood like a frozen tableau. Then Frank shrugged and dropped his shotgun. Sir Miles stood up and let his revolver slip to the grass.

  The Black Monk snarled again: “Quickly! Drop der guns! Zen move over zere. Move or I shoot!”

  One of the Devil Worshippers had a pistol trained on Graham. Peter could almost see Graham’s mind at work: He’s thinking, ‘Can I raise my rifle and shoot before he hits me?’

  Peter wondered the same but in his heart he knew the Black Monk was not bluffing. Then, to Peter’s relief, Graham gave a shrug and a grimace of disgust then lowered the M16 to the lawn. Reluctantly, and sick at heart with dread, Peter did likewise with the SMG. Gwen was the last to put her weapon down.

  The Black Monk pointed again: “Over zere, near der building in von line. Move! Batoff, collect zer guns, schnell!”

  Peter remained where he was between the concrete path and the veranda of the L shaped part of the building. Gwen moved to join him, then Graham, Stephen, Megan and Frank. Old Ned scuttled across, whimpering with fear. Sir Miles stood defiantly near the tree.

  The Black Monk aimed his pistol at him. “Move, or die now!”

  Sir Miles stared back, his face impassive. He said: “You will kill us anyway so what is the difference?”

  “Because you can die a hideous death or a mercifully quick vone,” the Black Monk replied.

  Sir Miles nodded and moved to stand beside Peter. The Devil Worshipper on the veranda then came down the steps and began picking up the weapons, placing them well away. The second Devil Worshipper moved from the corner to stand on the path down near the gate, an automatic shotgun levelled at the group.

  The Black Monk released Joy and pushed her down the steps. “Join der ozers!” he snapped. Joy stumbled and fell heavily, then managed to grip the railings and steady herself. She made her way across to stand on the end of the line near Peter.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “They were already inside and I wasn’t looking that way.”

  “Silence!” rapped the Black Monk. He gestured to where Sir Richard was smirking at them from the tree. “Batoff, cut der Schwarze Ritter free.”

  As Batoff moved to do this the deep sound of engines became audible. The noise rose in volume until it filled the valley. Peter knew at once what is was.

  Aero engines! The Confederates are escaping! he thought.

  A large aircraft flew low overhead. Peter glanced up and saw that he was right. It was a Flying Boxcar with its distinctive twin tail booms and twin engines.

  No chance of the Confederates attacking now, he thought bitterly, aware of the irony of the desire.

  As the aircraft flew on up the valley, gaining height as it went, Batoff used a razor sharp knife to slash the ropes which bound Sir Richard’s hands. Sir Richard struggled to his feet and stood rubbing his hands and wrists painfully. His face was a mask of malice.

  The Black Monk moved down onto the lawn to stand facing them from near the tree. The appearance of the man was enough to make Peter’s heart chill with fear.

  They will kill us now for sure, he thought.

  This was almost immediately confirmed. The Black Monk bent down and seized the sack containing the Scroll. He tipped the Scroll out onto the lawn and bent to pick it up. For a moment he examined it. Then he grunted with satisfaction and turned to look at the group.

  “Now you must all die. You owe Satan a sacrifice and the Lord of Darkness does not like to be cheated. So prepare your souls,” the Black Monk rasped.

  At that a wave of absolute terror gripped Peter. His stomach churned and his bowels weakened. He began to sweat and shiver. Above all his mind grappled with the concept of God. Without conscious thought he began to pray fervently.

  Beside him Old Ned began to gabble for mercy. He dropped to his knees and began crawling forward, hands out, pleading. Megan started to sob. Gwen started to pray aloud. Batoff moved quickly forward. In three strides he reached Old Ned. With a vicious kick to the head he sent the old man sprawling backwards.

  Peter tensed himself. If he comes that close again I will try to grab him, he thought.

  But he made no move. Fear was having a paralyzing effect.

  Where are the police? Oh why doesn’t Inspector Goldstein arrive? he wondered. He knew he was shaking and sweating and wiped his palms on his shorts.

  Sir Richard jabbed a finger at Sir Miles. “I will kill this one. It is my right. Give me the sword Friar.”

  The Black Monk grunted, tucked the Scroll under his arm, then reached up over his right shoulder and drew out the sword. Peter gaped in surprise and fear. It was a real sword, a broad sword with a double edged blade nearly as long as the Black Monk was high. The blade rasped out of the scabbard and glittered in the sun. The Black Monk handed it to Sir Richard. The traitor took it in a two-handed grip and turned to face Sir Miles, his face a mask of hate. To Peter’s horror he saw that the traitor was actually licking his lips in savage anticipation.

  The sword was pointed at Sir Miles. “Kneel you pious, sanctimonious filth!” Sir Richard snarled.

  Sir Miles stepped forward out of line. To Peter’s surprise he bent his knee to kneel. At the same time he made the sign of the cross and said a prayer in what Peter presumed was Latin. Sir Richard sneered and braced himself. The sword was swung back.

  Peter tensed himself, appalled by the tragedy about to happen. “Don’t look Joy,” he gasped.

  Sir Richard began his swing. As he did Sir Miles moved. In a desperate lunge he dived forward, his hands clawing for Sir Richard’s legs. He missed; but so did Sir Richard. The mighty blade whistled in a savage arc and clanged onto the concrete path. Sir Richard sprang clear of Sir Miles’s clawing fingers and raised the sword for another swing.

  Again the sword slashed down. Sir Miles rolled to one side and scrambled to his feet. The sword flashed in the sunlight and Sir Miles sprang back. He let out a gasp and Peter saw with horror that the blade had made contact with his right forearm. Blood began to drip and trickle from his fingers.

  Sir Richard swore foully and raised the sword for another scything blow. This time Sir Miles ducked and rolled sideways. The sword slashed the air just above his head. He sprang aside and dodged behind the tree just in time to avoid the next savage swing. The blade chopped deep into the tree.

  Sir Richard tried to swing the blade but it was stuck. Sir Miles instantly rushed in and punched him hard. Sir Richard lost his grip on the sword and both men went down in a struggling heap. For a minute they were locked in a desperate wrestle. Peter found he was cheering and urging Sir Miles on.

  Batoff and the other man fingered their guns nervously and ordered them to stand back. The Black Monk moved forward and sent a brutal
kick into the side of Sir Miles’s head. Sir Miles reeled back, blood showing in one eye and on his lip. The Black Monk aimed the pistol at his head. For a second Peter thought the Black Monk was going to fire but instead he gestured to Sir Richard.

  “Finish der job!” he snapped.

  Sir Richard, panting and dishevelled, sprang back to the tree and wrenched the sword free. The Black Monk moved further away across the lawn to be clear of the fight. Sir Richard swung the sword from side to side in vicious swipes which audibly cut the air. Each time Sir Miles backed off until he was at the bottom of the stairs.

  Gwen gasped. “Look out Sir Miles!” she screamed.

  Too late! Sir Miles, in trying to leap aside, had crashed into a metal garbage bin. Down he went, the bin falling over with a clatter. The sword slashed down. Just in time Sir Miles twisted away and in doing so kicked the bin with his feet. The bin rolled in front of Sir Richard and he stumbled. Swearing loudly he kicked it aside, then slashed downwards again.

  In desperation Sir Miles grabbed the metal lid of the rubbish bin and held this up as a shield. It was just enough to blunt and deflect the blow which clanged off the lid and into the lawn. In the process the lid was almost sheared in half, leaving a sharp, jagged edge. The blow obviously missed Sir Miles’s arm as he rolled quickly aside and sprang to his feet, still gripping the improvised shield.

  Sir Richard swore and advanced again, the sword weaving across his front as he looked for the best cut. Both men were now sweating and gasping for breath. Sir Richard lunged and Sir Miles parried with the shield. They sprang apart. To Peter it appeared that the unequal combat could have only one terrible ending.

  Another slash by Sir Richard was only just parried by Sir Miles. Instead the blade nicked the knight’s leg. Blood showed through a rent in the camouflage trousers. Sir Miles stepped back and spread his arms. At the top of his voice he shouted: “May God defend the right!”

  The words sent a thrill of goose bumps though Peter. Sir Richard reacted with a savage snarl and another scything swipe with the sword. But instead of springing back Sir Miles jumped forward, taking the blow squarely on his shield at close range. His right arm groped for Sir Richard’s throat, but the traitor was able to fend this off and spring back.

  The sword went up again, shimmering in the sunlight, but now streaked with blood. Sir Miles stepped back, his eyes questing for an advantage. The two knights circled on the lawn. Sir Richard swung one massive slicing blow which missed, then jumped away and jabbed twice. Sir Miles sprang in but was taken in the cheek by the point. He reeled back, his right hand to the wound. More blood flowed.

  Sir Richard jeered and mocked him. “Where is your God now fool? Prepare to meet the Lord of Darkness!”

  He stepped forward and swung the sword. Sir Miles jumped backwards, almost falling over on the border of the garden bed which ran along below the other veranda. Sir Richard advanced to take another swing. As the sword went back Sir Miles moved. Still gripping the shield he snatched up a garden rake from against a post. Holding it in both hands like a quarter staff he swung it up.

  The sword hacked down, splintering and shearing off half the handle of the rake, then clanging off the shield. Peter let out a cry of horror, which was instantly repeated as Sir Miles swung the other end of the rake in an underarm blow. The sharp steel tines caught Sir Richard in the groin.

  For a shocked instant neither knight moved. Sir Richard hunched himself as the agony struck. He tried to step back but the tines were embedded and gripped him. He tried to swing the sword back for another blow. His mouth opened and closed and beads of sweat stood out on his brow. Peter felt his own body cringe in sympathy with the injury.

  With a scream of rage and agony Sir Richard wrenched himself free and swung the sword back. Sir Miles tried to grip the man’s throat with his right hand but Sir Richard held his arm. That he was in great pain was obvious as he clutched his groin and screwed his face up in agony. Sir Miles did not wait. He stepped forward and smashed the shield into Sir Richard’s face.

  Sir Richard let out a scream and staggered back, dropping the sword in the process. Peter was appalled to see that the jagged edge on the shield appeared to have ripped Sir Richard’s right eye from its socket. Blood gushed from the wound and the traitor clapped his hands to his face.

  Sir Miles sprang forward and bent to pick up the sword.

  Bang!

  The Black Monk fired from close behind Sir Miles. Sir Miles was knocked flat. Sir Richard screamed and stumbled backwards to lie in a moaning huddle on the lawn, begging for help.

  Peter realized that now was the time. He tensed to spring but the Black Monk swung to face them. A glance showed Peter that the Devil Worshipper at the end of the line was fingering the trigger of his automatic shotgun.

  If he fires he will hit the lot of us at once, his rational mind told him. Terror gripped his bowels and a sour taste of defeat welled up into his gullet. But we are going to die anyway so why not die fighting? Some of us- Joy perhaps- might escape.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Graham was crouched ready to spring. He hissed: “When I saw go, attack.”

  The Black Monk turned a malevolent, glittering eye on him. Hatred seemed to flow from it in a mesmerizing beam. Peter’s consciousness narrowed down to that single eye and the muzzle of the pistol just below it.

  The Black Monk’s mouth opened. “Now die for Satan you interfering filth!” he shouted.

  Peter saw the finger tighten on the trigger and he screamed: “Go!”

  As he did he saw the Black Monk’s mouth open even wider and seemed to gasp. His head suddenly jerked and blood sprayed from it. Peter was conscious of several whip-like cracks and the Black Monk was suddenly bowled over.

  Peter heard more sharp cracks and saw Batoff flung backwards as though snatched away by an invisible hand. For an instant Peter could not comprehend what was happening. Then he saw the blood. He looked left and saw the second Devil Worshipper was also down and that blood was pumping from a hole in his skull onto the concrete path. Shot! he thought.

  The Black Monk lay in a shapeless black bundle, one arm flung out and the hand forming a grisly claw. Beside him was the Scroll.

  A voice shouted: “Don’t move!”

  Peter swung his head in surprise. Running across the road from the houses opposite was Inspector Goldstein. He wore a clean, grey suit and had a pistol in one hand and a mobile phone in the other. Two other men, both dressed in faded jeans and denim jackets, appeared from the garden of the houses. Both carried automatic weapons of some sort.

  Megan gasped. “The police! We are saved!” she shrieked.

  A wave of relief surged though Peter. He glanced to check that all the Devil Worshippers were in fact down, then turned to Joy and opened his arms. With a sob she rushed to him. He held her tight.

  “Don’t look. You are safe now,” he whispered. He found he was shaking and that tears were streaming down his face. Joy sobbed and buried her face in his chest. He stroked the top of her head and hugged her tight.

  Inspector Goldstein arrived on the run. He quickly bent to check the Black Monk’s pulse. A grunt indicated he must be dead. Peter watched over the top of Joy’s head, his gaze held by the ghastly fascination of it all. The other two plain clothes policemen arrived.

  Graham shook his head. “You left it a bit late,” he chided Inspector Goldstein.

  “Hummpf! Better late than never,” Inspector Goldstein replied. He bent and pocketed the Black Monk’s pistol, then picked up the Scroll in its frame. The glass had been broken but it still appeared intact. “Is this the Scroll?” he asked.

  Graham nodded. “Yes it is,” he replied. He pointed to Frank, who still couched in stunned horror. “He had it. Check with him.”

  Inspector Goldstein turned to Frank and held up the Scroll. “Is this the authentic article? The one your father brought back from the Middle East?”

  Frank nodded and moved over to talk to Inspector Goldstein.
Gwen stepped forward and rolled Sir Miles over.

  “He’s still alive!” she cried. “Quick!”

  Joy let out a gasp and let go of Peter. She moved over to help Gwen, who cradled Sir Miles’s head in her lap.

  “Use your phone and call the ambulance,” Joy called to Inspector Goldstein.

  “It’s not a phone, it’s a radio,” Inspector Goldstein replied. Having said that he raised the radio and said into it: “You hear me Mordechai? Good. Move now! Fast!”

  Peter moved over to where Sir Miles lay. As he watched the knight opened his eyes. He saw them and gave a weak smile.

  “What happened?” he whispered. The pain of talking made him grimace.

  Gwen stroked his face. “Don’t talk, you’ve been shot,” she said.

  Sir Miles shook his head. “No… no I haven’t. I am wearing a bullet proof vest. All knights wear one. It is our modern version of armour. I am only stunned. I think my heart may have stopped for a moment from the shock. I will be alright. What is going on?”

  He glanced at where Sir Richard still lay in a whimpering huddle nearby, then at the bodies sprawled on the lawn. He saw Inspector Goldstein and smiled.

  “You have the Scroll Inspector? Good. Could I now have it please?”

  To Peter’s surprise Inspector Goldstein shook his head and tucked the Scroll under his arm. He put his radio inside his suit and took out his pistol again. “Sorry, but I have orders from my government to get the Scroll,” he said.

  Sir Miles frowned. “But the Australian Government gave me authority in writing to collect the Scroll,” he replied. A puzzled look crossed his face, followed by a look of pain as he moved to sit up.

  “It may have,” Inspector Goldstein replied. “But I do not take orders from the Australian Government.”

  “But.. What? Then who?” Sir Miles asked in puzzlement. Then his face cleared. “Goldstein! You are a Jew!”

  Inspector Goldstein smiled then nodded. “Correct. I work for the Government of Israel. These ancient documents are a vital part of our heritage and they belong in Israel. That is where I am taking it now.”

  Gwen gaped. “But… but you can’t!” she cried.