she not be using temporal means to fulfill an eternal end? If she were to seek love apart from God, she would be denying that he could love her enough. What irony it is, that those who are the nearest the truth are those whose conscience mourns the most.
When Willard or her father laughed at the apparent simplicity of her mind, or of her supposed naivety, she could only smile slightly and close her eyes. Do not the simple think all to be simple? Do not the doubters think all to be doubt? If they did not know, it was only because their eyes were closed from above. So she did not grow angry. Excepting the Fardy brothers, can one prove a peaceful point through unpeaceful means?
“Arise, men,” Blaine Griffith as the briefing came to an end and each knew his part. “Arise and take up your arms. Tonight the battle begins; let us hope it does not end with our defeat.”
Chapter 34
Meanwhile, in Castle Plantagenet, Gylain was also holding a counsel, though he was the only participant. He paced about his bedchamber, in front of the stained-glass window that covered the outside wall. It was illuminated by the bright moonlight, which diffused through it and gave a silvery glow to the room. Far above hung a single chandelier, of simple design. During the reigns of the Kings Plantagenet, the room was the castle’s sanctuary, where the religious services were held. To Gylain, however, such things were foolish – what purpose was there in worshiping the great beast who ruled the lesser beasts? Gylain himself was one of the middle beasts, as he said, between God and man. He was the oppressed and the oppressor. Therefore, the room was taken to be used by himself, the son of man.
“Why must they look to me for leadership?” he said. “Why must they look to me to endorse their sins as righteousness – as if my word declares what is right and what is wrong. They come to me with hate and anger in their eyes, and beg to be allowed to inflict some savage cruelty upon the innocent. And they seem to
Here he turned toward the stained-glass window, gazing upon it.
“I, myself, do not enjoy such actions. But it is my fate, and what dam can a mortal man hold against the tides of fate? It swells and overpowers us, taking us up into its morbid grasp and moving us about in every which way. Our meager strength cannot resist. How can a man who is forced by fate to do a certain deed – no matter how hideous or inhuman – be blamed for what he does? For it is not his desire, but God’s, that he carries out.”
He walked to the humble writing desk, the only piece of furniture in the room, sitting to write a proclamation for the arrival of the Queen of Saxony. But the words did not come. At last, he gave up, and left the ink-filled quill lying on the paper. He raised his face to heaven.
“Curse you, oh cruelest of beings,” he cried out, “Oh God the Just – for you equally abhor all of your creations! You have created the beast that is man, as well as the beasts of the field and the beasts of the air. But tell me, who created you, oh beast of the heavens? Am I such a fool that I do not know? You are God, indeed, and you are powerful above all other beings. For you were before time and before matter, and so you are beyond them. It is you who holds the stars in place and makes the sun to shine. It is you from whence the energy for these things originates. But from you also originates the energy of man: his hate.”
“You created man and instilled in him the spirit that he has, breathing into him his pride. It is not in his power to go against your will, for how can the clock tick apart from what its maker tells it? How can a piece of pottery form itself? If man could rule his own destiny, than you would not be God, but only a superior man. Why would a being of goodness give man the aptitude and the will to commit wrongs? Why would a being of love make man to commit acts of hatred? To reveal his own glory by contrast? To make his own light brighter in their darkness? What type of sadistic being would create another for the sole purpose of failure, that he himself would not look so bad in comparison? I look around me at the hate and villainy which possesses humanity, and I see only one thing: that man was indeed created in the image of God!”
Gylain clenched his fists and waved them at the heavens in his anger.
“It is
“When my gut is wrenched in sorrow and my bosom beats with brokenness and the desire to do what is wrong is far from me, you come and inhabit me. You whisper in my ear, and speak to me through me conscience, saying, ‘Do this, for it is evil,’ or ‘Do not do this, for it is good.’ Who am I – a mortal man, a weak man, a broken man – to deny the will of God – who created me, and who has power over all things, including my will and my desires? You who harden the hearts of some and soften those of others, how can you pretend to be a God of justice? You who condemn one and bless another, who sets the fate of man to what it is that he most desires not to do, who makes the desires of a man point to the very thing which is an abomination to him – how can you, of all beings, claim to be good? If God is for you, who can be against you? None, for no one needs to be!”
Gylain fell to his knees and lowered his head, for he no longer had the strength to raise it to the heavens. He began to weep, as if he were a little child, as if he had no strength to move or to think, yet could only sit and weep and beg for another to save him. His features became soft and placid, so unlike the fierce, vengeful scowl they had worn before. His limbs became limp, for he no longer had the spirit or the strength of mind to control them. Instead, he was consumed by the sense of his weakness, his frailness, his inability to exist without the sustaining hand of another, far greater, being. He was a broken man, for his desires for good and for evil were engaged in a great civil war, tearing his spirit apart in the process.
At length, he lifted his despairing face to the stained-glass window and the pale moonlight that shone through it hit his face, giving it a deathly hue. He held his gaze to heaven as if in supplication, until a voice floated through his mind:
“Whosoever will cause one of these little ones that believe in me to stumble, it would be better for him if a great millstone were hung about his neck and he were cast into the sea. And if your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off – it is good for you to enter into life maimed, rather than having your two hands to go hell, into the unquenchable fire. And if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off – it is good for you to enter into life crippled, rather than having your two feet to be cast into hell. And if your eye causes you to stumble, cast it out – it is good for you to enter into the kingdom of God with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell, where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched. For everyone will be salted with fire.”
Gylain cast his eyes to the floor, saying in a weak and faltering voice, “And if my heart should cause me to stumble, should I cut it out as well?”
At that moment, Nicholas Montague burst through the door – to which Gylain’s back was turned – and spoke to his master in haste. “My lord, we have intercepted a message between the rebels. They will attempt to rescue the prisoners.”
“And?” Gylain asked, obviously annoyed at the interruption.
“And I’ve come to ask your permission to deal with the situation.”
“In what way?”
Montague’s voice did not shudder as he said, “By execution, my lord. The securest prisoner is a lifeless one.”
Gylain glanced once more at the silvery window. Then, with a look of inward division and in a voice barely above a whisper, he said: “In death will they part. Let it be done.” He dropped his head, as if in shame at his weakness, as if he had wanted to say something else, yet it would not pass his lips.
“Very well, my lord,” and Montague was gone, dashing to the dungeon far below, that he might sooner do his devilries.
Gylain stretched out upon the floor, to sleep upon its stony surface without covering. It was all he could do to relieve his mind – to suffer in body as well, to put himself into the lowliest of positions, that by contrast he could know paradise.
“The poor wretch – he has no conscience in that wicked soul of his. God has spared him that, at least.”
Chapter 35
Those held prisoner in the Devil’s Door had not been fed that day, except what they could gather from the insects and rats that flocked about them. Neither did they have water from above, though the walls and floor were damp enough to drink from. The small lanterns on either side of the stairway had long ago burnt down; the cell was
