Prophet Maker

"For Heaven`s Sake!"

...

'They say no prophet everything went to hell....

...But was not the devil once in Paradise?'...

The weather bore no fierce sun, only the faintest pallid blaze that waned beneath the zenith, as the hour crept toward noon. I recall it well, clad in my favored summer raiment, venturing forth to the open fields of Rosnouveo—parting brambles and treading softly upon the pale bronze grasses. Even from afar, the leaves—emerald, gold, and fiery orange—fluttered like scattered gems, torn loose by the wandering wind, strewn where mine eye could grasp them.

Crossing the ancient bridge, I beheld the river’s hurried course. The bridge, though worn and rotted, had never broken—fashioned from a long line of teak, it linked two flatlands clothed in verdant grass.

Had I not seen her then—by God, I should not have been there at all! I ought only to have passed carelessly, heedless of that summons; perhaps the curse would have spared me. But no sooner had my footfall touched the far shore than I discerned, at the distant edge, a small and delicate apparition within the temple I fancied.

Swiftly, I hastened, cleaving a narrow path through thickets, and stood before the shrine.

I dared not enter, nor summon her name; she was still bowed in devout prayer before Lord Gaullle, and I was no man to disturb worship. The woman seemed aware of my presence, for she hastened her devotions, then rose and turned with measured grace. Nearly bare was her form: tattered cloth hanging loose, revealing the contours of flesh beneath; skin pale as milk, cheeks flushed with a faint rose, her visage otherwise impassive. Upon her head rested a tangled crown of straw—no common circlet of thorns, but a shape perplexing, cruelly fashioned beyond mortal artifice.

I confess, words faltered at my tongue, uncertain to greet such an unexpected sight.

“Miss—” I ventured, bracing my courage, “If you—”

“You may go—” she cut me short.

“What? ‘Tis I who should speak so! See your garb, so reckless, so unseemly!” I reproached sharply.

She bowed, surveying her disarray, then lifted her gaze again. “You should be swift to leave,” she repeated, “’Tis you who must depart!”

I sighed, striving to temper my vexation.

“I shall leave, once you have gone!” I declared, voice pitched higher in reflex to the curve of her form, a daring audacity I could scarce contain.

Her eyes held me, stark and innocent, their black depths framed by that grim crown…

“Come, what dost thou wait for? Begone!” I bade once more.

Yet she did not comply; instead, she shook her head and turned back to Lord Gaullle’s statue, folding her arms in prayer. Then she bent low—revealing what I ought not have seen. Hastily I averted my gaze, but when I looked again, she faced me once more.

Her hand stretched forth; near enough, I could discern the bruises, deep-purple and healing slowly, upon the knuckles and back of her palm. A torrent of confusion seized me. What foul wretch would harm so fair a creature? Such marks bespoke countless wounds upon her flesh; surely, the torments and despair had visited her oftener than any unbeliever’s lament.

“Take this!” she implored.

I stepped from shadow, fixating upon her countenance once more… Setting aside her tattered apparel and exposed flesh, I smiled softly and asked, “What is this?”

She held out a book, edges worn and curling, the cover aged and cracked. I reached out, took the tome, and met her gaze again.

“You must read it now,” her faint smile veiled by strands of hair whispered. “But open not the second chapter,” she warned, glancing at the unremarkable cover, “for that is forbidden—those who disobey often meet foul ends.”

“Then why entrust it to me? Wouldst thou curse me with misfortune?” I jested lightly.

She did not laugh. I sighed and honored her command, beginning with the opening verses: “No reason hath man been wrought save a chain of events;

Nor doth reason belong to any who worship save the Devil’s vile designs.

Thus were two worlds forged, to be one; yet one world barred the other’s way,

For a barrier stood—the intermediary and the King.

Should the intermediary perish, both fade and fall to oblivion,

And the King shall no longer defend that which is forgotten and lost.”

As I read, faint voices seemed to echo—thin and unearthly, far from human speech. My mind pieced them together as warnings:

“Best cease thy reading!”

“Thou hast gone too far!”

“She sends thee a warning!”

“Stop now!”

The whispers stilled me. I closed the book at the end of the first chapter, which ended grimly:

“For I dreamed of a sign.”

A portent of darker trials yet to come.

Then, as I neared the second chapter, its opening dialogue lain bare upon the page, suddenly the woman snatched the parchment and drew it away, lifting it skyward.

My gaze was fixed—between the crumpled pages, the fragile text, and her bone-forged crown of sharpened thorns, cruelly wrought and polished to terrible perfection. I made no move to reclaim the book; the story had faltered, its worth diminished… yet in my heart, tumultuous and defiant, curiosity burned still, I must see the second chapter.

“Enough. Begone now!” she commanded.

“Is that all? I know not what ‘Hell’s Emissary’ means…”

“Thou knowest more than thou dares admit,” she replied, brow furrowed. “No soul wishes to witness the second act!”

She closed the book, clutching it as one would a burden. Her face, still marred by gloom and half-anger, revealed no reason for such ire, though earlier I had seen a tender smile.

“If I go, shall I learn the meaning of Hell’s Emissary?” I pressed, turning from her face to stare at the book’s cover.

“See!” she said.

I looked up.

“What?”

“Thou art drawn to it,” she said, raising and lowering the tome once more.

“Thy head follows where this book goes,” she explained.

“Why then? The book is naught but rubbish!” I snapped, anger kindling, yet my eyes never left the cover.

“That is its danger,” she spoke softly, “and why I intend to burn it.”

“What!” I gasped.

“I linger here,” she began, “not as a fool at play. The town’s sorcerers held counsel but a week past—this book,” she glanced at it, “harbors a careless emissary.” Her gaze locked mine.

Descending a step, she stood before me. Her stature barely reached my shoulders—mine a full 175 centimeters. Close, her skin was porous, pale, flushed and slick with sweat. How long had she tarried in the temple? A night? A day? The sunlight haloed her like a prophetess. I said nothing, bracing to hear her sermon—soft as the piping of reed and wind.

“For thou, I see it plain, this book ensnares, enchains! To enslave, in truth… Though sin it be, I doubted the sorcerers’ claims until thy actions made it clear.

“This book is empty, the careless emissary within hath penned its contents in fervor, he casts seductive spells in the first act, a ritual guide to summon spirits in the second, and in the third and beyond, when the victim’s soul is fully bewitched, each reading causes the emissary to slowly graft his essence upon the victim’s frame. Unwittingly, spirit and soul exchange places, and the careless emissary walks anew among men!”

“So...”

“Thou art ensnared,” she cut me short. “Fear not! I have watched thee and held fast to my vigil… that is why I did not lose focus as thou neared the second act.”

The realization struck me dumb, undone and sullied. A flicker of magic coiled unseen within my form, binding me unknowingly. Perceiving my unrest, her left arm lifted, fingers caressed my cheek. Blood rushed to my face, and when I found breath again, I bade her lower her hand. She opened the book once more, turning page after page, heedless of poetry or prose, until the final leaf. She raised it high, draping fabric gently falling, shielding her head from the sunlight.

“Dost thou hear it? The voice of Hell’s Emissary?”

I looked up to the lower cover.

“No. I hear nothing!” I answered honestly.

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But ere my words were done, a muffled, anguished groan rose from nowhere, an agony entwined with supplication. As I sought the sound’s source, it issued from the book itself—its pages and cover burning and blistering with eldritch fire! In that maddening moment, I understood

... The girl had conjured the flames. Her lips trembled, weaving incantations; I saw tongues of flame licking before bursting forth, scorching her fingers and palm until blisters swelled and bruises bloomed. What spectacle was this? None of mortal realm, but a madman’s vision! When the flames died, the fire vanished, yet my mind reeled, whispering: “How many attempts hath been made to destroy that small Hell?”

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