Part 1 – Upon The Rock
Part 2 – In The Upper Room
Part 3 – The Lord of Hosts
Part 4 – The Uninvited Guest
Part 5 – The Gift
Part 6 – The Truth About Soldiers

Part 7 – The Loss

An uneventful week passed.

Dillon and Mark had, after some difficult theoretical discourse, concluded that ‘righteousness’ basically boiled-down to being nice. Dillon was back to the discouraging business of trying to be a good guy. He felt no tingling on the nape of his neck to confirm this was right, but decided that maybe some things really did revolve around keeping the faith and behaving oneself.

“So far, so good,” he thought after arriving home from work on Friday. He had successfully managed the week without any known scriptural breaches. There had been a close call on Wednesday afternoon with an off-color joke told by a co-worker, but Dillon had managed to be gracious without showing any amusement. That, he reasoned, was the appropriate response.

Dodging infringements or outright violations was work, but it was the kind of manageable goal that Dillon liked. The broader range of “good works” was slightly more daunting. He was worried that he had not done enough for the needy around him or missed an opportunity to share his faith. He spent most of the ride home pondering the question of what degree of involvement in community and religious service would be enough.

Checking his messages, Dillon realized that he was supposed to meet Mark for coffee later tonight. He weighed the option of spending the meantime in the gym and decided that he would. He enjoyed the mental vacation that a half-hour on the treadmill afforded.

He took off his shirt and tie and slipped on a pair of running shorts. As he tied his shoes, he was considering the implications of the crossover that he and Mark had discussed earlier in the week. Caleb had told him that he would eventually be able to control his perceptions of the supernatural and had likened it to walking through a door. Dillon found the metaphor appealing. He glanced up at the door leading from his apartment into the hallway and smiled.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” he thought out loud.

He slid from the couch to the floor and began to stretch. Reaching for his toes, he pulled and felt a slight burn in his hamstrings. He grunted audibly. As the tightness in his muscles began to lessen, he continued his musings. If there was indeed a crossover, he could conceivably check his armor there for deficiencies. He could make contact with Caleb purposefully, rather than just waiting for him to show up. There were a number of arguments in favor of attempting to crossover, in spite of the fact that Dillon had no idea what sort of peril might also be out there.

Dillon headed for the door, stopping briefly in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He went through his mental checklist: water, keys, and stopwatch. Everything was in order and he had plenty of time.

Opening the door, he felt a rush of cold air and something in his vision shifted. He was aware of a continued chill and the faint sound of voices. The sound was vaguely familiar, like listening to a dinner party from the next room, but a dinner party where all of the guests were unrelievedly bored. Closing the door, he noticed that the generally vivid paint was severely desaturated, as if it had been subjected to harsh sunlight for several decades. The light, he decided, was a bit too bright, resembling the harshness of the afternoon sun but lacking warmth. Shadows appeared proportionately darker. Everything resembled a television picture with the contrast turned way too high.

Dillon was suddenly aware of a presence behind him, at once potent and ambiguous. He couldn’t sense a clear purpose but his gut reaction was one of self-defense. He pivoted on his left foot and dropped into a crouch, simultaneously raising his left hand to shield against an assault.

The attack came quickly and the dull din of far-off voices was replaced by the ringing of steel on steel. Then came the laughter; a good-natured and affable sound in this strange environment. Dillon looked up and saw Caleb standing before him, sword in one hand and something resembling a small mace in the other, head to toe in white armor. In his own hand, Dillon held a short, two-edged sword. It was with this weapon that he had deflected the onslaught. His right hand rested on the hilt of the silver sword Caleb had given him, still in its scabbard on Dillon’s left hip.

“I see that you’re ready for a little workout,” Caleb said, jovially. “Care to test your mettle against me on my playing field?”

“Somehow, I doubt that you need a home field advantage to give me a sound thrashing,” Dillon retorted, humorlessly.

“Don’t be so somber, my friend. Come along.” Caleb spun on his heel and began walking briskly down the hall, continuing as he went. “I am very impressed with your reflexes.”

“You could’ve killed me with that thing!” Dillon accused, jogging along to keep up.

“Let that be your first lesson, then,” Caleb turned on him with a stern face. “You could have encountered anyone, anything, coming through that door. You got lucky this time.”

Sufficiently rebuked, Dillon took a more civil tone. “So, you’re here to train me then?”

Caleb continued down the hall with long, martial strides. “That is my assignment, yes.”

Dillon didn’t speak for a few minutes. He followed in silence as Caleb led him out of the building and across the street to a small park. A jogging trail circled a small lake with a fountain in it. On the far side of the lake, there was a grassy slope that was popular for picnicking on the weekend. Today, however, it was deserted and Caleb made for it purposefully. Dillon noticed a change in Caleb’s manner and finally commented on it.

“You certainly are bossy tonight.”

“Just feeling a bit pressed,” Caleb said without turning. “You should not have been able to walk in this reality for some time. They said you’d be a quick study, but your presence here advances the timeline and we still have much to do.”

“What do you mean: ‘Advances the timeline’ in what way?” Dillon had a sinking feeling.

They had reached the hillside and Caleb turned to face Dillon. Drawing his sword, Caleb challenged him, “No time for chit-chat. Show me what you’ve got.”

Dillon was suddenly aware of the other people in the park. “What about all of these people? Can they see us?”

“Their perception of you is a fellow sitting in the grass reading.”

“Reading?” Dillon asked, a little too incredulously.

“This is a spiritual discipline, Dillon,” Caleb said with a hint of impatience, “regardless of your perceptions on this plain, to them you’re just meditating.”

“Oh.” And with that Dillon launched a two-handed attack that he instinctively knew would catch Caleb by surprise. Dillon was surprised by the speed of his opponent’s parry and found himself on the defensive after a furious exchange of blows. At every opportunity to gain some advantage, Dillon found himself dodging or ducking or jumping back to avoid the mace-like weapon that Caleb swung with his left hand.

“What is that thing?” Dillon asked, leaping back and to the left to avoid another swing. Caleb could hold him at bay indefinitely, and with very little effort, by swinging the small, spiked weapon.
“We don’t have a word for it in our language,” Caleb answered, swinging it again. “It is fashioned after a weapon that the Enemy calls durog. In Mortal terms, it is Condemnation. Very effective, especially against you modernists with your dual blade kit and fighting style.” He swung again, this time only barely missing Dillon’s body armor.

Dillon was tiring quickly and the fact that Caleb continued to lecture and fight energetically was discouraging. “How do I defend against it?” he croaked between labored breaths.

“Poorly.” Another near miss, this time aimed at Dillon’s head. One of the longer spikes on the durog grazed Dillon’s cheek, leaving a burning, bleeding wound that seemed to swell instantly, obstructing his vision. “I draw first blood.” Caleb’s voice was cold.

Dillon flailed blindly with his long sword; Caleb ducked under the swing, stepped boldly forward and planted the durog squarely in the center of Dillon’s chest.

Dillon heard a sickening wet crunch as the spikes pierced his body armor and breastbone. He felt his chest stricken with the same instantaneous swelling that had occurred on his face. In a sudden panic, he realized that he could not draw a breath. His legs gave way and he faltered to his knees.

The last thing Dillon saw before blacking out was Caleb’s saddened face.

<Continue to Part 8>

Part 1 – Upon The Rock
Part 2 – In The Upper Room
Part 3 – The Lord of Hosts
Part 4 – The Uninvited Guest

Part 5 – The Gift

He had a sudden realization that Caleb was a potent and dangerous being with the strength and skill to wield powerful armaments of defense or destruction.

Picking up an empty bottle from the bar, Caleb sighed, “I come all this way and all you have for me is light beer.”

Dillon smiled, in spite of himself.  Caleb was very disarming, even dressed for some sort of battle that Dillon was hesitant to ask about.  “Sorry.  You’re the second person to complain about the beer tonight.  I didn’t really expect to be entertaining.  Guess I should look into something more palatable.”

“Sorry, chap,” Caleb pushed the bottle aside and turned to face Dillon.  “I shouldn’t be so glib tonight.  You had a brush with disaster.  Your friend Mark really did save you a world of trouble.”

“I felt that, too.”  Dillon began tidying up; it was his way of dealing with the stress and frustration of his encounter with his other self.  He avoided making eye contact with Caleb, but he asked the question that was burning in his mind.  “Was he telling the truth?  I mean, the other me; Do I really think that God…I mean…all that stuff that he said?”

“In a manner of speaking, you do.”  Caleb paused, as if trying to frame his statement carefully, and continued.  “You Mortals have something called a ‘subconscious.’  We don’t completely understand it; but apparently you sometimes ask yourselves rhetorical questions about Him that are faithless.  He says that it’s in your nature to doubt.  It’s one of the reasons that the Comforter comes into you.”

Dillon wrestled with the syntax of Caleb’s explanation.  It was the first time that he had tried to explain a complex reality and it made Dillon realize the broad chasm that separated their worlds.

“Was it your voice that I heard?”  Dillon asked, “Telling me that he was my Flesh?”

“Yes.”  Caleb seemed pained.  “I am a messenger, after all, and I had to get that message delivered before he started making sense to you.  He’s very good at twisting your experiences to fit his desires.  I couldn’t let you go into that battle completely unprepared, no matter how busy I was attending to other matters.”

“Other matters?”

“I don’t want to trouble you with that right now,” Caleb said, honestly, “But I will tell you that I was dispatched to you two days after our last encounter.”

“In the church?  That was a month ago.”

“Yes.  But as I said, I was detained.”  Caleb paused again.  It seemed to Dillon that he would stop there but he continued, “There is an Enemy, Dillon, and he is aware of you now.”

Dillon did not know how to respond to that, so he let the statement hang in the air for a moment before asking, “Why is this happening?”

Caleb was incredulous, “You don’t know?  You Mortals always are forgetting what you’ve asked for.”  He shook his head and then chuckled to himself.  “Do you remember the day we met?”

“Yeah, in the woods.”

“You’d been sitting on a rock all day praying.  Do you recall what you asked Him to do for you?”  Caleb stood and paced across the room.

“I was asking Him to show me some sign or give me some insight,” Dillon was embarrassed that he could not recall more than that.

“Do you remember any of your exact words; anything specific?”  Caleb stopped beside the phone and was toying with the answering machine.

“No.”

“Let’s see if I can jog your memory a bit,” Caleb pressed a button on the machine and Dillon heard his own voice playing clearly.

“I wish I could be more aware of the things going on around me.  Please give me the ability to see beyond the mundane.  Help me to see the supernatural realities.”  As if purely for dramatic emphasis, the answering machine beeped and clicked and fell silent again.

“That was cool,” Dillon said dryly after a moment.

“A parlor trick,” Caleb affected an air of mock humility.  “Not as difficult, really, as turning your trekking pole into a snake.”

“You can do that?”

“Do let’s try to stay on-topic for just a few moments more, Dillon.”  Though Caleb chided him, Dillon sensed no real rebuke.

“So, you’re saying that I’ve been given the ability to see supernatural realities?”  Dillon stared at the floor for a few minutes before going on.  “How long will I be like this?”

“Indefinitely,” Caleb said in a matter-of-fact tone.  “Eventually, you will develop skill to control this gift and use it to encourage others.”

“Control it how?”  Dillon felt a sinking feeling that his “gift” was going to be a real hassle for him.

“In many ways, really,” Caleb continued.  “You might be able to enter into our realm at will, much like stepping through a door.  You might learn to coach others to join you there.  Someday soon, Dillon, you might face the Enemy as my people do: in literal single-combat.  As with most of His gifts, the limits are generally only in your mind.  However, I would focus on the basics right now if I were you.”

“And what are the basics?”

“You must learn to arm yourself against this present enemy.”

“Who was he?”

“As he said,” Caleb explained, “He is a part of you; he is you as you could be.  He was lying, of course, about being better.  He is your Flesh, the parts of you that continue in a non-regenerated state.”

“Unregenerate.”

“Your theological term falls short of conveying the deeper truth.”  Caleb almost rolled his eyes.  “I understand the need to convey Truth verbally, but it is almost always lacking, particularly as it grows more technical.  It’s why the Master always spoke in parables and metaphors.”

“I thought that He used parables because the people back then were so simple-minded.”

Caleb chuckled.  “People are still simple-minded, Dillon.  He used stories and metaphors to speak to your Hearts, not your minds.  The reality of regeneration is a good example.  You have intellectualized the Master’s words, ‘born again,’ and in the process lost the imagery and drama.  You’ve traded the language of the heart for the language of the mind.”

“You miss how beloved you are as newborn children to the Father, how perfectly helpless you are without His care and how He nurtures your maturity.”  Caleb paused and the silence in the room weighed heavily on Dillon.  “For the sake of your intellect, let it suffice that there is a moment of regeneration and a process of regenerating.  That’s the best I can do without giving you a lesson in the grammar of the ancient tongues.”

Dillon nodded.  It seemed that Caleb had already given him the keystone:  the Language of the Heart.

As if he knew Dillon’s thought, Caleb concluded, “But if He thought you needed a lesson in theology, He’d have sent the Apostle.  Instead, He sent me, so we must assume He had some purpose in that.”

Caleb reached into a sheath over his shoulder and drew a long, silver sword.  The ring of its unsheathing and the gleam of its blade made Dillon flinch.  There was a flourish and almost martial air about the Messenger in that moment that took Dillon by surprise.  He had a sudden realization that Caleb was not just the benign person that he had been chatting with; Caleb was a potent and dangerous being with the strength and skill to wield powerful armaments of defense or destruction.  But then Caleb did something even more dramatic and unexpected.  He flipped the hilt in his hand and tossed the weapon to Dillon.

Dillon reached out and caught the sword by the hilt.  He felt the heft of the weapon in his hand.  He had expected to feel awkward since fencing was not something he had studied.  To his surprise, he found that it felt like an extension of his arm.  He took several test swings with it and then looked up to see that Caleb had vanished again.

The answering machine beeped to life and Dillon heard Caleb’s voice, “Careful that you don’t sever anything important practicing.  You’ll do well to take note of the inscription.  I’ll call again later.”  Dillon lifted the sword to read the inscription and was startled to find that the sword was no longer in his hand.

In its place, he held a familiar, leather book: his own Bible.  Dillon could not help but laugh.

<Continue to Part 6>