Reluctant Demon (2 page)

"One scroll," she agreed, overriding training and experience with a gut-level intuition that told her to pay attention to what was before her.

"Thank you, thank you, Dr. Yale." He jumped to his feet and reached for her hand and shook it fervently.

"You'll see. When can you do it?"

"I'm not sure. I'll get to it as soon as I can. Give me your card and I'll call you."

His face fell. "I don't have a card or a phone. I'll have to call you." Leaving the scroll on the desk and fastening his satchel, he hurried to leave.

"No phone? Not even a cell phone?"

"No, no." He stumbled as he caught the satchel strap on the arm of the chair almost turning it over. "I'll call you. In twenty-four hours I'll call you." He moved to the door.

"Impossible," she began, but before she could protest or ask any more questions, he was gone.

Samantha was still standing when at last she shook her head as if reviving from a trance. "What happened here?" She surveyed the empty room, confused as to how this strange man could have disappeared so quickly. She carefully opened the heavy oak door and peered out to see if he might be lurking in the hallway.

Satisfied the corridor was empty, she closed and locked the door and returned to her desk. Staring at the scroll and trying to decide what to do, she became aware of the strange disquiet she felt toward it.

Through her open window she could hear the chiming of a faraway clock. "I shouldn't do anything with this until tomorrow." Half rising from her seat, she abruptly sat back down as if an invisible hand had rested on her shoulder, compelling her to stay where she was. Fingering the scroll, but reluctant to open it, she attempted to reconcile her uneasiness with the excited curiosity of an explorer rising up within her.

"You don't need this distraction, Samantha Yale," she said aloud, as if hearing her own voice would convince her that whatever it was, tomorrow was soon enough to find out. "Thou shalt not kid thyself, Sam. You know you wouldn't sleep anyway."

It had always been like that for her—captivated from her youth by the intrigue of the past. "What is,
was,"
her mentor had insisted. "What was,
is."
She closed her eyes to remember the wisdom in his eyes as he taught her.

"You cannot understand the end, Samantha, until you understand the beginning."

But where was the beginning? How far back could the human mind go in search of it? Gently unfurling the ancient document, she took it captive, placing paperweights at each corner to forbid its escape until it gave up its secrets. With the magnifying glass in hand, she looked intently at each marking as words emerged and came alive with the voice of someone long ago who beckoned her to listen.

CHAPTER 2

"ALL RIGHT
," she said as she gave in to the lure of antiquity. "Talk to me." Taking her pen in hand, she began a careful translation.

It's not like I didn't try to fight. I swung the sword with all my might, but Rafael did not even duck. He ripped the blade from my grasp and wielded it right back at me as if it were nothing and I was less. If utter terror had not propelled me to jump much higher than I was able under normal circumstances, well, that would have been the end of me right there. Some of us were warriors, and some of us were not. I was among the "nots." No sane person would confuse me with a warrior. That's why Rafael lost interest in me so quickly and went after a more worthy opponent. He realized I was neither a threat nor a trophy.

I may not have a lot of courage, but I do have common sense. I quickly began looking for someplace to hide. The safest place for me would be the throne room—if I could make it there. Not a chance. From a distance I could see it was so heavily guarded that it would be certain destruction to try to break through that line.

I was afraid to stand up and run lest I get in the way of those flashing swords. Abandoning any pretension of pride I might have once had, I dropped on my belly and crawled like a worm until I found an unguarded rock where I curled in a ball and tried to make myself as small as possible. The lightning flashes from the swords were so terrifying that I got a cramp trying to force myself lower still behind the rock that couldn't possibly protect me anyway. With my eyes shut tight, I waited for it to be over.

That's why I didn't see what happened. I was too afraid to look until the thunderous crashing around me became so horrible that what I couldn't see scared me more than what I could. Sensing a pause in the action, and hoping I wouldn't make my situation worse, I opened one eye to see if I could get away before the fighting started up again.

When I looked up and saw Michael the archangel and captain of the host not three feet from where I was hiding, I squealed as if I had been sliced in half.

Michael's eyes flamed, and his bulging muscles pulsed as he swung his sword in my direction. I fell over and pretended to be dead.

With my eyes closed again, I didn't move a feather as I listened to the sounds of war around me. Michael never missed, so I knew I was not his target, but it didn't take long to figure out who was. It was Damon, the platoon leader, who had met the might of Michael's sword. I swallowed the scream rising up in my throat and continued to play dead.

I was desperate to find out how badly Damon might have been hurt. If it wasn't too bad, maybe he would give me cover while I ran away. I cracked my eye again in time to see Damon's severed head roll across the ground and land right on top of my left foot. Playing dead was no longer working for me.

I nudged Damon's head away with my toe, then jumped up and ran, flew, stumbled, and tumbled back toward the throne room, babbling all the way. I knew I must get through somehow. What would I say? I would plead for mercy. I would plead insanity. I would grovel at the feet of the guarding angels. Call me a traitor or call me a coward, I did not care. I was working out my plea in my head as I ran along the streets of gold, dodging the lightning bolts bursting forth from both sides.

I was almost there, but I was too late. A thundering silence settled in like a fog over the city of God. As quickly as it had begun, the war in heaven was suddenly over.

CHAPTER 3

SAMANTHA LOOKED IN
the mirror over the lava-tory of her private bath—one of the few perks she had as a fellow at the university. With her tousled black hair and faded makeup from the day before, she knew she was fast beginning to resemble the absent-minded rabbis and professors who slept in their clothes. She remembered how her mother had told her as a teenager that African American girls like her had naturally beautiful skin and didn't need costly cosmetics like her friends painted on their faces. "Mama, you were so wrong," she thought as she tried to freshen her tired face with a splash of water.

She had not left her office in more than twenty-four hours. A lone cookie from a box lunch days before was all she had eaten since beginning the translation. Now she waited eagerly for Wonk Eman's phone call.

Pacing the length of her office and occasionally looking out the window for some sign of him, her mind raced through the possible implications if the scrolls were authentic. At last the phone rang. She picked it up and waited before speaking.

"Is it you, Dr. Yale?" asked the whispering voice on the other end.

"Yes, Mr. Eman, it's me."

"Please call me 'Wonk.' I am so uncomfortable with Mr. Eman."

"As you wish." She did not suggest he call her

"Samantha."

"Did you read it?" he asked anxiously.

"Yes, I did. When can I get the other scrolls?"

Silence.

"Are you still there, Mr....uh...Wonk?" she wondered if the connection had been lost.

"I'm still here." He paused again. "I'm sorry, Dr. Yale.

I hadn't thought this far ahead. I wasn't sure you would translate the scroll. Now that you have, I'm not sure what to do next."

"The first thing you must do is bring me the other scrolls." She hoped she did not seem overbearing; he was such a nervous type, and she did not want to scare him away.

Silence.

Intentionally using her softest tone, she prodded him.

"Wonk, I cannot translate the scrolls if I don't have them.

You do want them translated, don't you?"

"Yes, of course," he replied. "They must be translated."

"Can you bring them to me—today?" she gently pressed.

"I will have them delivered to you. I can't come myself.

Someone could be watching me. There could be consequences."

"Now, listen, Wonk," she struggled to keep her tone soft. "You assured me the scrolls had not been stolen. If they're contraband, I can't touch them."

"No, no, nothing like that. They belong to me."

"Then bring them to me yourself. You should be careful about sending them by messenger. If you must, then use a delivery service like FedEx—or an agency that issues a tracking number so they can't disappear."

"I will do it. By tomorrow I will have them to you. But you must be in your office to receive them. They can't be left to anyone else."

"Don't worry, Wonk. I will stay in my office tomorrow until they are delivered."

"Yes." His voice seemed unconnected to his thoughts.

"Yes, of course, they must be translated. I know it must be done."

Samantha attempted to reassure him. "It is the right thing to do. I need to see all of them to ascertain the true historical value of such a discovery." She paused; hearing no response, she continued to affirm his decision. "After all, I know you are anxious to know what they will reveal."

"I already know, Dr. Yale."

CHAPTER 4

SAMANTHA ARRIVED AT
her office much earlier than usual. Although the package would not be delivered until 10:00 a.m., she took no chances on missing an early delivery. No matter how many times she looked at her watch, the minutes passed at the same speed. Finally, she heard a knock on her door.

"Dr. Samantha Yale?" asked the delivery man in a blue uniform. She nodded.

"Sign here." Giving her a copy of the delivery confirmation, he carried the box into her office and set it down on the small conference table. "This OK?"

"Yes, right there is fine. Thank you very much." She quickly ushered him out the door.

Taking a letter opener and a pair of scissors from her desk drawer, she began the task of cutting through the tape that bound the box on all sides. Lifting the lid and removing the bubble wrap, she paused a moment to consider how she should remove the scrolls. She hoped they were in some kind of order.

The scrolls had been carefully arranged in layers of four across. Assuming this to be the chronological order, she took them out one by one and laid them cautiously across the rectangular table. "How will I keep them in order if I have to move them?" Looking around her office for a solution, she spied a pad of Post-it notes on her desk.

"Why not?" She took the pages from the pad, numbered them, and attached one to each scroll. "Twenty-first-century bookmarks meet antiquity."

She carried the first scroll to her desk and carefully rolled it out. She paused for a moment to consider the task she was about to undertake. Looking intently at the markings on the strange parchment, she thought, "If this is a hoax, it is artfully done."

Taking her pen in hand, she began to unravel the secrets of—she wasn't exactly sure of what. An angel? A deranged person of long ago? Her anticipation escalated as she set about the search for the elusive writer.

I have a name. But no one has called me by name for a long, long time, so I don't suppose it matters much what it is. No one could understand what happened to me on that awful day. It was not my fault, but I was blamed and punished as if I were as guilty as the rest. Let me remain hidden in the shadow of anonymity. At first, I dared to hope there might be some restitution if I just had the chance to explain how such a disaster came about—as if confessing would somehow bring redemption for the foolish and tragic thing I did that, let me be clear, was not my fault. If any modicum of redemption were available to me, I would risk anything to attain it. But it is not so. Redemption is not possible for me. It was not only a terrible mistake, but also an eternal one.

None of what happened is fair to me. W h y should redemption be available to humans and no one else? What makes humans more worthy than I am? I have feelings.

I tried my best. I made one mistake—just one—ever.

Shouldn't I be entitled to a second chance? When I tell you what happened, you will see it was not my fault.

You can only understand the lunacy of the rebellion if you first know about Him. Everything begins and ends with Him, so I shall try to tell you what He is like. He is called the Ancient of Days, Elohim, Yahweh, Jehovah, I Am, and God. He is without beginning and without end. He did not come to be; He was, He is, and He will always be. His existence defies the limitations of the finite minds that He has created. His creation would call His name by what they saw Him do. And we, those who are like me, saw Him do marvelous things. Indeed, we were some of the earliest part of His creation. I don't know when we came to be or how we came to be, but suddenly we
were,
and it was as if we had always been.

And so we knew Him as the Creator God who existed in three persons: Yahweh (the Father), Adonai (His Son), and Ruah Ha Kadosh (whoever He was because no one was ever sure). Three distinct beings and yet in such perfect oneness with one another that it never occurred to any of us that an outsider might be perplexed as to how such a thing could be. This is how it was; how it always was. Not one of us questioned how or why. They were One, and we were the host of heaven.

Adonai, His Son, was forever making things. I often wondered where He got His ideas. (Some thought He really didn't have any ideas of His own. They were His Father's wishes, and He just carried them out.) Whatever the case, one could never be sure what He was going to make next. For example, He would make a useful thing one day and the next make something that seemed to have no purpose at all. Like the planets—what was He thinking? After taking a look at a few of them, it was obvious to me He had truly not thought through what He planned to do with them before He started. As far as I could see, all but one were duds. Still, He kept on making them until a good part of the universe was clut-tered with them. To me it seemed He just could not get the formula right.