Eye of the Oracle (19 page)
As her convulsions began to ease, a familiar warmth penetrated her thigh and radiated slowly across her skin. Still kneeling, she reached into her pocket and withdrew the Ovulum. It pulsed, sending crimson halos toward her that expanded into fiery rings all around her body. The rings stroked her arms, like the baking rays of the sun in the upper lands, chasing away every chill. In the pool reflection, her skin blazed with fire, flames leaping from her face and hands, as though the halos had kindled an unworldly power within.
Some of the rings passed over the water, sending ripples across the pool that deepened with every stroke of the caressing red light. Soon the water seemed to dance, thousands of droplets jumping high and falling back to the pool like silvery baitfish fleeing a predator. A swirling breeze buffeted the flying waters, sending a spray across Sapphira, sprinkling her hot cheeks with soothing coolness.
She gazed at the sight in wonder, inhaling deep draughts of the fresh, cool air. As the droplets grew and began to coat her face, she spread out her arms, the Ovulum still pulsating in her hand as she whispered into the breeze. “Let the rain fall, Elohim. Let me drown and join all the others. I am Mara, a worthless slave, and I deserve to die.”
The rain dampened her hair and trickled down her forehead. The Ovulum’s warmth radiated through her arm, and as the heat approached her body, the sound of singing drew near, a man’s voice that seemed to travel along with the warm sensation. The voice crooned in her ear.
“Sapphira Adi,” it sang softly. “You are a precious gem. You are loved more than you will ever know. Bask in the warmth of Elohim’s love. Feel his pleasure in the coolness of his soothing rain, for this is not the rain of floods and destruction; it is living water that will heal your heart.”
Sapphira trembled. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Who . . . who are you?”
With the cadence of a herald’s proclamation, the voice resonated in the cavern. “I am the Eye of the Oracle, the prophet who first told of the great flood. I am Elohim’s bard, the singer who foretells blessings and curses upon generations to come. And now I have a song for you.”
Sapphira swallowed hard, barely able to speak. “A song of blessing?” Her lips trembled. “Or a curse?”
A gentle laugh flowed through her mind, then a whisper. “Listen to the words of Elohim . . . and believe.” The voice sang again, this time in a beautiful tenor.
In days gone by the water fell
And draped the world in silent death;
A rain of judgment drowned the earth
Demanding life and snatching breath.
But now the raindrops fall afresh
On hearts rejecting hate and sin,
In blessings crowned with love and grace
To heal the wounds of soul and skin.
The one who loves is Elohim,
Rejoicing now in song and dance;
I shout for you to come and play,
Enjoying love, the great romance.
So dance, my child, and feel my love
In rain, the healing drops of life.
Forsake your cares, your toils and pain,
The wounds and scars of slavish strife.
O cast aside the chains of grief
And reach for heaven’s grace above;
Sapphira Adi, dance with me!
Enfold yourself in arms of love.
As the song died away, the rain began pouring down, drenching her hair and clothes. The coolness penetrated her skin and seemed to wash away every sorrow, every pain, every image of slavery that tortured her mind. She peeked at her shoulder, now exposed as the water weighed down her dress. The wound had vanished without a trace. Cool drops of tingling water trickled over her cheek. She touched the spot where the wound had festered, now soft and smooth, and pain free.
Clutching the Ovulum tightly, she lifted her arms and laughed, allowing the swirling breeze to catch her body and spin her in a slow pirouette. Lights twinkled through the prismatic mist, spraying her with a dazzling splash of rainbow colors. She closed her eyes and felt loving arms taking her into a tender embrace, and she returned the favor, hugging her image of Elohim, the God of love. As the bard’s song returned, repeating each phrase amidst the sounds of tumbling waters, she drank in every word, allowing her body to flow with the leading of her gentle lover.
And Sapphira Adi danced.
Chapter 1
But we all, with open face beholding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord. (2 Corinthians 3:18)
Circa AD 62
Makaidos flew high over the parched valley, buoyed by a hot, arid updraft. Sunshine energized every muscle and sharpened his vision. The conditions had been ideal bright light and clear skies a perfect day to satisfy his rekindled sense of purpose and fulfill this duty to which he had been called. Accomplishing such an important task had made the day complete, and the sun’s slow descent into the reddening western sky gave notice that his successful mission was drawing to a close.
He scanned the landscape far below the outskirts of the port city with its single-story huts and trading posts; scrub trees lining a dry riverbed that wound its way to the sea; and, finally, a caravan of camels, horses, and pack mules in a snaking line following what had been, before the drought, a shallow but dependable stream. Still, the sandy bed provided an unobstructed route to the docking port, making it a well-traveled path, but also a haunt for highwaymen on the prowl for easy prey.
Makaidos snorted at the thought. The only easy prey would be anyone who tried to attack Joseph and his company. The cup of Christ would be safe if this dragon had anything to say about it. A couple of days earlier, just the sight of a patrol dragon had kept a small band of human predators at bay, but now the hint of a greater danger pricked Makaidos’s senses.
He circled lower and shadowed the company. Joseph rode high on the lead camel. The cup, the Holy Grail, as he called it, was probably tucked away in his saddlebag. He never let it out of his reach.
As they approached the first trading post, water muddied the riverbed pathway. The animals slogged through it, trudging closer to the sloped edge to find drier ground. A tall, bearded man at the post nodded to a stout woman next to him, a lady with a heavily painted face and at least a dozen gold and silver bangles on each wrist. She scurried down a path toward a large tent, her long gray skirts raising plumes of dust.
Makaidos’s danger signal flamed. He glided toward the caravan and flew in tight ellipses around the travelers. The bearded man glanced up at him, glaring at first, but his frown transformed into a bright smile as he waved his arms. “Stop! Stop and rest! Eat! Drink! Take your leisure!”
Joseph signaled for his company to stop, and he laid the reins on his lap. “Greetings in the name of the Lord Christ. I take it that you have lodging for myself and my fellow travelers? We must board a ship for Italy just after dawn.”
The man pointed at the large tent. “At my inn! The city is crowded and noisy, but out here you will find quiet and rest. The docks are not far, so you will have plenty of time to embark on your ship in the morning.”
“Very well.” Joseph climbed down from his camel, and the man immediately reached for the saddlebag. Joseph slapped his hand over it. “I will take care of this. You may see to the other bags.”
The man slid his hand away from the saddle and nodded. “As you wish. I will signal my helpers.” He glanced back at the tent and let out a shrill whistle. A man emerged through the opening, then a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth. Ten more men joined the others and dashed toward Joseph, some waving curved swords and dark oval shields, others fixing arrows to bows.
Makaidos swooped down, his wings outstretched and his teeth bared, fire blasting from both nostrils. He aimed the twin jets at the tall, bearded man, incinerating him in a breath, then landed and turned his fire toward the attacking band. Six arrows penetrated his wall of flames and zinged into his body, five clanking on his armor and one pricking a gap between the scales on his chest. “Joseph,” he shouted. “Run for cover on the other side of the riverbed!”
As the travelers dashed to the trees on the opposite bank, Makaidos cremated the remaining attackers, leaving more than a dozen heaps of ash smoldering under the baking sun.
“Makaidos!” a voice called. “Help!”
Makaidos jerked his neck around. More attackers swarmed toward the travelers on the other bank! He leaped into the air, but a rope flew his way and snagged a back leg. A second rope caught his other back leg. Clusters of men clinging to each rope emerged from the bushes and pulled against him with all their might. Snorting a quick fiery blast, Makaidos burned the lines and launched toward the new band of highwaymen. More arrows pinged his armor and fell harmlessly to the ground, but one plunged deep into his foreleg, drawing a stream of blood.
Ignoring the pain, Makaidos landed and blew pinpoint lines of fire, igniting the villains as they fought hand to hand or sword to sword with Joseph and his company. Within seconds, the battle was over. Three attackers fled on foot, dropping their weapons behind them. Makaidos stretched out his wings to follow, but Joseph grasped his foreleg, straining to hold the dragon back. “No, my friend. You are injured. It is time to rest and recover.”
Joseph’s arm brushed against one of the protruding arrows. Makaidos cringed and fell to his haunches.
“Those cowards won’t be back anytime soon.” Joseph stooped next to the wound. He pushed his thumbs against the adjacent scales, and his deeply creased face contorted. “Hmmm. It is not shallow. We will need to get it out soon. The edges of your scales are already cutting through the arrow’s shaft.”
“Go ahead and pull it,” Makaidos said. “I heal quickly.”
As his fellow travelers gathered around, Joseph nodded at one of them. “Lazarus, take Trophimus and whomever else you need and find suitable lodging.” Lazarus bowed and laid a saddlebag at Joseph’s feet.
Joseph stood and gripped the shaft. “I am glad God sent you, but I would like to know why you risk your life for our cause. Your faith is the most unusual I have ever seen.”
“My family and I want to follow wherever you go.” Makaidos felt the pressure on the arrow and spoke through clenched teeth. “You have taught me so much about the Messiah, but I need to learn more.”
“Yet when will you learn that I am human, and you are a dragon?” Joseph gritted his teeth and pulled the arrow, grunting, until it finally came out. He held it up for Makaidos to see, a bloody shaft with a pointed, barbed end. He nodded at it, his white hair blowing in the dry, dusty breeze. “I have told you many times that Jesus bled and died to save human souls. Of course, it’s an argument from silence, but I have my doubts as to whether the atonement includes dragons.”
A woman removed her white headscarf and tied it around Makaidos’s leg wound. Makaidos nuzzled her shoulder gently. “Thank you, Salome.” He raised his head and twitched his ears toward Joseph. “Dragons have souls. We must. The soul of Arramos has gone to another place, for I cannot believe the evil dragon who calls himself my father really holds the true spirit of Arramos. And I cannot believe the Maker would put a soul in me and not provide a way to save it.”
“If, indeed, it needs saving.” Joseph laid his hands on Makaidos’s chest just below another protruding arrow. “Your race was not included in Adam’s curse, and I have never known a soul as spotless as yours.”
Makaidos braced for another round of pain. “My mistakes have cost me my eldest son and daughter as well as others in my brood. My eyes were too set on the Maker’s commands, and I missed the signals that might have helped me see the rebellion before it was too late.”
Joseph yanked out the arrow, but this jolt was far less painful.
“Dear Makaidos,” Joseph said with a soft chuckle. “Listen to yourself.
Too
obedient to God?
Might
have helped? These are not sins; they are limitations. You cannot see and know all. Don’t condemn yourself for lacking God’s attributes.”
Salome borrowed a headscarf from another woman and blotted the chest wound. Makaidos cringed. Now it hurt! He exhaled, trying to ignore the pain as he stretched his neck toward Joseph and lowered his voice. “You have proven that I still have more to learn. Let me come with you to the islands of the North and protect you until you find a safe place to house the Holy Grail. Then I will come back and bring my family to live wherever you dwell.”
Joseph raised the second arrow, blunted on the tip and less bloody. “Of course you may come, and I welcome your protective shield. Who am I to tell you what to do?”
“My wounds are minor,” Makaidos said, pushing his weight down on his bandaged leg. “I will be ready at dawn.”
Joseph shook his head and laughed. “As old as you are, you still remind me of a young man I encountered in Ephesus Timothy, a disciple of Paul the apostle.”
Makaidos rotated his ears. “How so?”
“Well, he is enthusiastic and wishes to follow his mentor wherever he goes.” Joseph raised a finger. “But he is also learning the same lesson you must learn.”
“What lesson is that?”
“One that I must drive into your brain so you will never forget it.” Joseph spread an arm out toward the sea. “Since we are sailing on a Greek vessel tomorrow, I want you to remember a Greek word.
Autarkeia
.”
“
Autarkeia
? What does that mean?”
“It means ‘contentment’.” Joseph stooped, reached into his saddlebag, and withdrew a small wooden goblet. He held it in his palms as if swirling liquid inside. “A vessel that seems destined for common use can transform into a great treasure when touched by the finger of God. Whether dragon or human, we must be content with who we are and be patient as we wait to see what God will make of us.” He laid a gentle hand on the dragon’s long, narrow jaw. “You are not human, Makaidos. Be content with the fact that God made you a dragon for a reason. Rest in God’s will for you, serve him with all your might, and he will transform you into what he wants you to be.”
Makaidos lowered his head and closed his eyes. The word did pierce his brain, painful and deep like one of the arrows, yet there were no scales to blunt its penetration. He sighed and nodded. “
Autarkeia
. . . . I will remember, Master Joseph.”
“Excellent.” Joseph patted Makaidos’s good leg. “It will be a pleasure having dragons in the northern islands.”
Circa AD 490
Morgan bent forward and stroked the man’s rugged chin, her eyes flaming red. “Are we agreed then?” she asked. “Your perfect allegiance to me in exchange for immortality?”
“Without question, my lady.” The man, sitting straight on a low footstool, picked up a black helmet from his lap and tucked it under his mail-clad arm. “Although the king has outlawed dragon hunting, I trust that you will prepare the way.”
Grasping the hilt of a beautiful sword, she leaned back in her throne-like chair. The dim chamber echoed every squeak of antique wood, the sounds bouncing off an open balcony encircling the airy lower floor. A dank odor of disuse hung in the air, as if neither door nor window had been opened in years.
As Morgan fingered the sword’s hilt, lantern light glimmered on the shiny, etched blade. “I will prepare the way. Makaidos and his followers have had over four hundred years to endear themselves to the people of the North, but the spirits of the Nephilim are guiding another brood of dragons to our shores. Goliath and his company will repulse human hearts with their, shall we say, onerous behavior. In any case, I will personally see to Arthur’s enchantment. The laws against dragon hunting will soon be only a memory.”
The man rose to his feet and set the helmet next to a chessboard at the end of a long table. “And what of Merlin? He is not so easily enchanted.”
“Leave Merlin to me.” She ran her thumb along the edge of the blade and smiled. “There are many ways to skin an old gray fox.”
The man reached for one of the chess pieces, but Morgan slammed the flat of the sword on the table. “Don’t touch that!”
The man jumped back and smoothed out the banner draped over his mail shirt. “Oh! Sorry . . . well . . .” He cleared his throat nervously. “My squire has been of great service to me. Shall I tell him of our plans?”
Morgan pulled the sword back and propped it against the chair’s headrest. “Only that you are ridding the world of the dragon menace. Tell him nothing of our plot to overthrow Arthur until the time comes. He will gladly fill his moneybags and enjoy unnaturally long life while keeping his questions to himself.”
The man bowed. “I am confident of that, my lady, and we both look forward to serving you.”
“Of course you do.” Morgan stood and angled the blade toward the chess pieces. “As long as you play this game well, your rewards will be great.”
The man swallowed hard and backed away. “I will play it well. I do not wish to consider the alternative.”
With a deft stroke, Morgan sliced the chessboard’s black knight vertically in half. “No,” she said, glaring at him. “The alternative is not pleasant . . . not pleasant at all.”
Circa AD 492
Edward shivered. Rarely had it been so cold this early in the season. He shifted his feet, trying to stay as quiet as possible while listening to the generals who surrounded the king, but the freezing rain spattering the fallen leaves sounded like a hundred slabs of sizzling bacon, drowning out the conversation. Walking on tiptoes as he strained to see the king, he wedged his way between two soldiers. They stank badly, but at least they shielded him from the cold, wet breeze.
He tightened his scabbard belt and folded his arms in behind his shield. The lining his mother had sewn into his tunic really felt good now. She had warned of an early winter, claiming that her aching bunions and arthritic elbow agreed with the forecast of the early migrating birds. She was right, as usual. Now if only he could prove himself to the king and move up in the ranks, he could afford to send some money back to her for medicines and a thicker cloak. Ever since Father died, sewing soldiers’ uniforms had been their source of income, and that barely put food on the table.
He elbowed to the front line of soldiers and settled next to a burly man who smelled even worse than the others. But it was worth it. Now he could see the king sitting on a rotting stump in the center of his ring of advisors. With his arms propped on his knees, King Arthur leaned his sword against his shoulder. He spoke loudly enough to be heard over the winter storm. “I know of Goliath’s evil deeds, Sir Devin, but I trust King Makaidos. He did not teach his son to murder and steal.”
