Chapter Eight: The Wanderer
The girl's appearance atop the Temple had shaken his resolve and chilled him to the bone. She was powerful, he had known that; Jack had told him that, and more, he had seen her abilities first hand. But Sera had appeared and disappeared in a matter of moments, and not only had she appeared, but his former Master's voice had commanded him to be silent from the lips of a mere boy. Ah! The Boy, who had trained under his very eye had pointed a weapon at him! Seth growled to himself in indignation at that. He, who had received reports from the boy, and giving encouragement and advice. Granted, the boy had his uses, something ingrained in his character from birth, but how much use would he be now that the Master had shown his own power through him? Strange to say the least, and more than a little disheartening. It might turn to his favor, but when that could be was anyone's guess. Just a few more hours . . . the witch would appear with the boy at her side, and his trap would be triggered. Yes. He giggled to himself. The boy would betray the whore.
He smiled and licked his lips, laughing inwardly at his own craftiness. The girl would never suspect it coming from Gabriel, and that was the most delicious part of it all; if she didn't suspect it, how in the world would she ever prevent it?
But hearing Jack's voice bellowing forth from the boy unaided was another thing. Did the Master suspect him of any treachery? Had Jack probed his or the boy's mind for that matter? Seth shook the doubt from his mind. He thought of simpler things, attempting to wrest control of his thoughts once more.
The Wanderer . . .
A title granted him by the last prophet of the Mormons. How had he known of the strange turn his life would take? Jack certainly hadn't laid anything out for him. In a time difficult for anyone to seek audience with the leader of any church, let alone one with the presence of the Mormons in Utah, of all places, the strange recluse of a president had met him immediately, greeting him with a handshake and a look of despair.
His words had stung, striking him in the same way as his first meeting with Jack had, in fact, that particular encounter was still fresh on his mind at the time.
“Hello, Wanderer. You have crossed many paths.” The voice of Esaius was old, filled with a foreknowledge of events as they would be laid out.
“Who do you think I am?” he had responded.
“You are his creature, and while it leads toward the godhood He currently holds, you are but a shadow of it, with real power just beyond your reach.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Esaius shook, nearly falling before Seth reached down and grasped his forearm. The prophet stared up into his eyes, once grey, now shot through with veins of violet, and saw past them, coldly staring into his soul. If that was, one existed. Seth nearly laughed aloud, but his innards were icy and pained by the look.
“It would taunt you, and you may listen, for it makes no difference. You would be forsaken, and he shall grant it.”
Seth pulled the old man closely then, face to face, eye to eye. “Now you listen, old man, I came for reasons of my own, and not to be questioned by someone who has long since passed from the world of reason and into the realm of abstraction!”
The prophet's eyes glowed then, full of insight. He whispered into Seth's ear, “You think you can escape the one who holds you chained? You think he doesn't know you already for who you are and who you would become? Do you think he knows nothing of your visit here? He allowed it! He directed it!”
Then the Last Prophet, the Final Seer, He was known by the ancient name, the one who would foretell things far and distant in the stream of time as it was conceived and birthed by the universe, the one called Esaius had pushed him from his presence, proclaiming in a voice loud enough for the blind scribe who listened for prophecy at the small desk in that tiny room to hear.
His voice did not tremble, did not waver, and power oozed from it as he saw past the downward flow of time, down the waterfall, past the stone, and called:
“You would beg my words and seek my wisdom, yet you would not prostrate yourselves before God, before the maker and his creation. You would ask that I might give, and you partake, yet you would not listen. Great shall be your suffering in that burning lake and long shall you be tormented by your own sins. Wroth were you with the world and with the hand you were dealt, yet you did not seek to improve on it. Wroth with anger and the fires of the heavens, God would smite you for your blasphemies, your lies, and your wickedness.
“These are not only yours, but the burden of the world, and a great many nations bemoan your place in their lives. Vengeance shall seek you out and find you, that its blade might be sheathed in your blood, and your lies should cease as your tongue is cut from its root.
“Forgiveness was given to all, but as you forsook it, so shall it forsake you, leaving your mutterings in the dark and you are cast aside. There shall come one who could save you, but you turned her out, and gave her no quarter. She hungered and you gave her no bread. She was naked, and no cloth could you spare.
“Wars and rumors of wars plague the land, and hers is but another hand to defend, to guide and lead. A light in dark places. And blood shall flow like a river, and the earth shall tremble before their might as if the sky did yield its secrets to them. Mountains shall part as in the days of old and the seas shall dry and wither that she may walk on dry land.
“The mount shall be cleaved as a sacrifice unto her, as she ascends in heaven's light, and long are the days upon the land in which you mourn her passing. And you were right to mourn! The dead yield their secrets unto her even as the sky above and ground below, that it is no bar before her.
“Many shall quake and tremble before her might, wielded as a great sword, and the land still rife with shadow. The sleeping woman shall quake in sorrow, as she falls, and great shall be your sorrow in her passing.”
The great and last prophet, Esaius, fell silent as these last words crossed his lips, and his eyes fell from Seth's face, sightless, and glazed. His frail form went limp and he fell to the ground, the scribe scribbling furiously the words of prophesy.
For that, if for nothing else, Seth had felt unending guilt. Not that Esaius had blinded himself from seeing too much, too far, but that the gift of far too few people had been wasted looking into the future for a single man, instead of looking to the prevention of wars, disease, famine, a great many other things had been possible, and instead, they looked for a second coming.
Or maybe, a voice told him from deep inside, they hadn't been wasted.
Did he have the power to change history? Could he possibly hope to alter in some small way the flow of human life as it huddled around a ball of dirt spinning maddeningly and whirling around the universe?
Maybe.
So he had weaved and plotted his his dangerous treachery into existence, setting points in place as surely as Jack had, presupposing that anything at all could change the girl's path. All the while doubting that she would ever come.
But she had come, and he works were slowly coming to fruition, freedom just around the bend, whether that freedom meant his life, or his death. He only hoped that his plans weren't unraveling as was his sanity.
And could he break free his bonds? Could he have forsaken the Master of his destiny as easy as this? But it hadn't been easy, and his guile was wearing thin, spread wide over a gaping hole. The other two must surely know of his plans, and they were the only ones who could stop him. Not even Jack, but could they?
Only time would tell.
He shivered from the cold rain, and the strangely familiar feeling of liberty.
Copyright 2006