Solomon's Grave

Him with everything he had. In any way He chose.

Chapter Six

The dream was different this time, as details of those which came before returned with sharp clarity.

The sky was still the red of an eternal sunset; the sand still blew across his shoes. Nathan stood on a hill, looking down into a valley through which the long line of hooded worshippers marched toward the temple. They were close to their destination, nearing the steps leading to the massive, open doors. In past dreams, the monk-like figures had always been traveling toward the temple, but had never reached the steps. Each time, they drew closer.

Nathan was wearing the black vestments of a Jesuit priest, black shoes this time, not sneakers. He dug these into the sand in anticipation of the inevitable pull from the distant structure, waited to be lifted into the air toward the horrifying darkness inside. It did not come. Maybe he was far enough away.

Smoke rose out of the door, swirling into a tempestuous but almost familiar form. Cloud-like arms stretched from its amorphous body, collapsed back, stretched out again. It was like seeing a birth, the emergence of a demon revealing its shape in dust and smoke. It rose above the temple, dwarfing the structure with its own formidable size.

The glow of the sunset burned through the demon’s body in a red aura. The light focused, reformed into molten eyes. These eyes cast a burning light across the hooded procession, further back along their ranks. Traveling, searching for something. Drawing closer.

Nathan understood, as one could only understand such things in a dream, that the eyes were searching him out. He tried to turn, run down the opposite side of the hill, hide from the searching gaze of the monster floating above the temple. He couldn’t move. The demon’s light moved past the worshippers, up the sand dune, then shone across Nathan’s face. He raised his hands to shield himself. His arms literally burned in the heat. His sleeves burst into flame. The paralysis ended. Nathan threw himself backwards and rolled down the sand dune.

The smell of burning flesh, like overcooked bacon. He buried his arms in the hot sand to extinguish the fire. A voice called to him—his father’s voice. Nathan, it said, you are the chosen, the first born. You are the sacrifice.

He wanted to scream, but dared not open his mouth. His hair was on fire. Rather than extinguish the flames, the sand fed them, and they spread down his back. He rolled down the dune, burning, feeling no pain but sensing his body blackening to ash.

He reached the bottom of the hill, curled and thrashing, unable to scream. The smoky demon passed overhead with a tail made of wind, roaring with ethereal laughter. Nathan shielded his face and prayed for God’s protection. For the dream to end.

Coolness. The smell of damp grass, freshly cut.

He lowered his arms. They were bare, unburned. He looked down at his naked body. Around him, impressions of trees towered overhead like sentinels, blocking out the starlight. He was safe here. Shapes around him were slow to reveal themselves, more as outlines and suggestions.

Massive wings came into focus above. The light of a moon which he could not see revealed the calm faces of two angels standing guard overhead.

No, he realized, that wasn’t quite true. The angels didn’t notice he was there. They stared without seeing, facing each other in silent, intimate communication.

A voice, different than that of his father’s, more powerful, deep and without malice said, You are the caretaker.

“What?”

A wind picked up behind him. Nathan turned. The demon of smoke emerged from the blackness, its bright eyes covering him with fire and pain and his flesh bubbled and burned away—

He jolted awake and sat upright on the crooked mattress, hoping he hadn’t shouted as he’d done on the bus. Reverend Hayden had enough on his mind without worrying about the nightmares of a grown man. Nathan breathed quickly. Sweat dripped across his face, but he did not wipe it away. He waited for any sounds coming from the bedroom. Nothing. He took in a deeper breath, held it a moment and exhaled.

Why was he still having these dreams? He’d arrived in town. No more worried anticipation. They should have stopped.

Slowly, reluctantly, he lay back down. This time the details of his nightmare did not fade. In his memory, he stared at the shadowy outline of the angels’ wings—each stretching toward the other’s—thankful for the comfort they offered amid such a vivid, horrific vision. Dream, he corrected himself. Dream, not vision.

Chapter Seven

“Nathan!”

Beverly Dinneck swallowed her son in a hug and did not let go until Nathan pleaded for the right to breathe. His mother was a large woman and, as far as Nathan could remember, always smiling. She backed up a half step but continued holding him by the shoulders. “When you said you were chosen, I refused to believe it until I saw you in person!”

She finally released him and brushed at his shirt and tie. Nathan had decided this morning to dress his best, especially these first few weeks. He’d slowly work himself back into jeans and sneakers as he became more established in the parish.

His mother tried to restrain herself a moment longer, but could not. She attacked him with another choking hug.

From behind them, a man’s voice said, “I hope you’ve got more than one suit. By the time your mother is done with you, that tie’s going to be twisted beyond recognition.”

Nathan gave his mother another quick hug, then pulled himself free. He walked up to his father, leaning against the counter, and gave the man time to put down his coffee mug before embracing him. Art Dinneck’s hold on his son didn’t last as long as his wife’s but was nonetheless longer than usual. Before he gently pushed Nathan back a step he whispered, “Welcome home, Nate.”

“Thanks, Dad.” With great relief he realized the warmth of this place, his home, had not changed with the fact that he was now his parents’ pastor. It was a good feeling, something secure to hang on to. He added, “How come you’re not at work?”

Art fished out a second coffee mug from the cabinet as he answered. “Took the morning off. Left a message with them as soon as you called this morning. You almost missed me. Had my briefcase in hand.”

“Hope I don’t get you in trouble.”

“Naw.”

His mother rinsed out two cereal bowls in the sink—they’d been finishing a late breakfast when Nathan arrived. “Is Pastor Hayden giving you the morning off?”

“No, not really. We’re going to meet with the elders and a couple of committees. Some quiet introductions before my Grand Entrance on Sunday. I’ve got to be back at the church in about an hour.”

Art poured the coffee for his son and gestured for him to sit at the table. Nathan did.

“So, how is the old guy? He’s got be almost a hundred by now.”

Nathan smiled. “Not quite. In his eighties, though. He’s doing all right. No different than when you saw him on Sunday.”

Beverly made a noise at the sink and turned around. “Well, maybe if your father came to church more often, he would know that. Pastor Hayden asks about you every Sunday, Art.”

Nathan looked at him. “You’re not going to church? Since when? The only time I can remember you missing services was when you had your gallstones yanked out. Even then, you insisted we record the entire thing so you could listen to it in bed.”

Four slices of bread popped from the toaster. Nathan had already eaten, but his mother insisted he have something. She buttered them with the speed and efficiency born of routine and cut the slices diagonally the way Nathan liked them. Art made a dismissive gesture with his hand, much like Reverend Hayden, and took a slow sip of his coffee before answering.

“It’s not as easy at my age to get up early on Sundays.”