Of Sorrow & Peace: Begluigar, #1

By J. T. Tobin

    Unprepared, they navigate different and unexpected worlds. In one world waits a mysterious traveler, a dark presence, and blood that supernaturally defies gravity. In the other, a man is struggling to cope with depression, feelings of incompetence, and a routine that threatens to destroy him. All the while, forces beyond comprehension pry at the edges of their perception.

    Trapped in a cycle of self-loathing and instant gratification, Christian faces challenges which make him question God and his own ability to achieve happiness. Enslaved by lust and a fragmented emotional state, he must survive each day as his growing awareness of these faults looms larger. When he makes a devastating choice that threatens his marriage, his sorrow expands and plunges to new depths as he faces the consequences; destined for a path he never planned on taking. 

    Meanwhile, another man is simply enjoying life. He daydreams and marvels at the beauty all around him. He's peculiar. He lets the rain soak into his socks and watches the clouds pass by for hours at a time. He lays down in a quiet street and listens to distant traffic whisper along the asphalt. Carefree and happy, he roams his world in search of nothing. Everything before him is as it should be. But when his pleasant daze is interrupted by an attack of unknown origin, he is forced into a flight that takes him to places he could never have imagined.

    In both worlds, God works mysteriously toward an end neither man thought possible. And in both worlds, as we begin to see the parallels between them, The Shepherd saves.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. T. Tobin
• Release date: Dec 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393367475

Book preview

Introduction

In Frank E. Peretti’s book, This Present Darkness, he wrote a forward which described a scenario nearly identical to the one I now face. Frank, though, seems to me to have written from a place of incredible experience, an innate talent, and a dream of writing. I, on the other hand, have arrived at this moment stumbling, by accident, for lack of pursuing a dream at all.

It is beyond this aimless wandering and stumbling in darkness that I’ve found the only source of light that has remained constant: God. And it is from a place of sincerely profound grief and regret, surpassed only by the peace and grace of God, that I send forth this message into the world; to the next Christian who happens upon it. I pray that he reads it, grasps its meaning, and applies it so that he can move as quickly as possible past some of these sorrows to a place of peace. More importantly, I pray that he finds a much better book to guide him: the Bible.

This book is a note from an older version of someone to their younger self, finding its way back through time to warn them of a danger they’ll face. But more than that, it’s a testimony of what God can build, despite the fallible clay with which He works so lovingly.

Proverbs 10:22

The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it.

Prologue

The assault was planned and executed long before he realized what had happened. Like a fatal infection, it began its work as a negligible itch. Oozing about in his brain, it defiled, crept, and sluiced its way into his matter. It poisoned, dismantled and disintegrated. It moved slowly; the pace of a boa constrictor awaiting the death of its captured prey.

Maniacal reconstruction occurred. Reconfiguration. Metamorphosis. Not from something unsightly and mechanically inferior to a flying beauty of nature. Instead, this unnerving and irrepressible change took place in reverse. It was as if a cosmic being toyed maliciously with flame and insect. He was the insect. He approached the flame, ignorant of its destructive power. Magnificence and splendor melted under the incredible heat. The delicate wings and carapace liquefied with the sizzle and scream of expunged life.

Back in the smoking days, Christian was carefree for a time. He was oblivious to the impending destruction. He would watch lazily as the smoke spilled out of the cigarette, flowing as a backward waterfall, curling and circling. Those were the days alright. No guilt or remorse had yet presented itself. The thought of consequences occupied no part of him. And yet the idea that there were none was just as much a cancer as the gradual buildup of toxins in his lungs. Years passed before he realized the magnitude of the vast, black emptiness which had swallowed him... become him.

His cold bitter reality was as spoiled produce reaped. And it was all that remained. As any other zombie, he wandered aimlessly, doing only those things necessary to sustain his footing for another day. He took no pleasure from this mundane and mono-dimensional existence, especially after he quit smoking. He was not even free to poison himself, being restrained by reason.

A great length of dullness led him to accept his demise. He was certain his physical death would be one wrought with torture and all manner of emotional pain. No longer would he spend precious time hoping that things could be better. He developed a cynical outlook. If suffering was the way, so be it.

But he wasn't all doom and gloom. Brief moments in time would freeze in his memory and he adored them. Lights, sound, color, temperature and many other elements often aligned to create a special atmosphere he could not explain. He took to calling these moments moods, though he knew the word was inadequate. During these moods, for one small fragment of time, everything was perfect. Sometimes only a second, but on great occasions, they lasted a minute or more. A mood was nostalgia, but so much more. Many times he would feel a mood slip away or flicker into his vision for only a fraction of a second, leaving him ultimately empty but pining for the mood he’d nearly grasped.

Either way, the past had a perceivable influence on his course. His home was no longer built of straw. Solid brick and formidable mortar were the only materials with which he would now build. Those inside this new home had no escape and those outside could gain no entry. There were no doors by design. If you secreted entry you were permitted solace and haven, but no battering ram ever conceived could breach these walls by force. He was comfortable in this solitude and seclusion. Confidence was a byproduct of his apathy.

Christian had no idea what was in store for him. His persona became a blank slate; a smooth box of sand in which to dig. Christian was as good as dead.

1 Peter 2:11

Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul;

For Christian:

May your travel through this nighttime forest be illuminated by the torches of those who have gone before you; your choices guided by The Light that cannot be quenched.

It's complicated times

Three perforated lives

I've come to clear this up

Just stop and hear me out

1

Three leaves sat on the misty roadway at seven in the morning. A distant car whispered over the rainy asphalt, fading even further into the distance. The slightest breath of wind pushed one leaf over, exposing it's red-auburn underbelly. The street was clean. The litter and gray-green gutters of the city were far away.

A man was lying on the road. He could feel the wonderful moisture on his cheek. He listened with his right ear to the pavement and his left to the sky. Vibrations from unseen piping beneath the road hummed to him. Birds and various insects sang above. He could feel water seeping into his suit pants and his dress shirt. It would have been something of an aversion for most. But this feeling of dampness encroaching upon dry clothing delighted him. It was cool and clean. He hadn't felt this good in a long time. No aches or pains bothered him. He was numb in a way that didn’t rob him of sensation – feeling everything well and good.

The smell of rain washed through him. Petrichor, some called it. Earthen scents of soil, grass, and foliage swam to his mind. With his eyes closed, his imagination painted his surroundings in vivid greens, browns, and vermilion shades. He slowly kicked his derby shoes off, letting the water seep into his socks. He spread out his arms, allowing the moment to take him away to a place that only existed in dreams. His mind began to wander.

He daydreamed of his youth and the carefree days spent in the forest with similar smells. He remembered hastily-built rafts, fishing, hiking, and throwing snowballs from behind the walls of expertly designed snow fortresses. He remembered long, slow walks in the darkened streets with nothing but the occasional streetlight to interrupt the silky blackness of night. He remembered feeling no pain, no age. He remembered feeling... alive. Not alive the way an adult feels alive, but the way a child does who is first becoming truly self-aware. That alive that comes when a child first starts to feel the butterflies in his stomach; that electric and biological hum that accompanies the first roots of what will someday be nostalgia.

Wind washed over the man. It spoke in hushed tones about dozens of things. It flowed and froliced the way conversations do. It spoke, then listened, then passionately argued, then acquiesced. It painted in broad strokes of thick sky-blue across the landscape bringing life to the static, stoic landscape. Then it sailed away on a vessel of its own making. The man breathed deeply in, holding the air as his lungs reached capacity. He sighed with the greatest of comfort as the air escaped back into the world in its new form, ready to feed the hungry trees. He dared not open his eyes.

A plump and gentle water droplet slid playfully off the branch of a nearby maple tree. Time slowed as it tumbled effortlessly downward, chained to the gravity which summoned it. Were the man to open his eyes he would have seen the clouds and the trees bubbled and magnified through the drop as it fell. Instead, unseen, it drifted and lazily glided on the tail of the wind's brushstrokes before finally landing inches from the man's placid face. Tiny portions of the drop showered upward, then alighted onto his nose and mouth. He smiled and thought to himself, If only others could see the world like I do. The beauty. The peace.

Footsteps approached, furtive but swift. The man caught his breath mid-exhale. He listened. He waited. Even silence itself paused to listen. Then the silence could no longer hold itself together. It sent waves of itself in a sudden, thick, cotton-like billow. Several seconds passed as the silence-cotton collected in the man's left ear. Ever so slowly he raised his right ear off the pavement to focus on the footsteps. His heartbeat began to attack from within. His right hand snuck closer to his chest preparing to push him off the ground if necessary. Sweat pushed its way out of his pores despite the coolness of the morning.

Unwilling to wait any longer, the man sprung to his feet, whirling toward where he sensed the presence. He saw nothing. All appeared quiet, yet he was sure that something was coming. Rain sprinkled in a fine mist.

On the left side of the street the man saw a hut with a flat roof. The white paint of it seemed brighter than it should be this early in the morning. For a second he could swear it was actually glowing. But before he could wrap his mind around the magical paint on the hut, he swung his eyes to the right. The empty field across from it was home to weeds, rogue flowers, and a rusty culvert spewing forth muddy water. The field looked especially empty. He could have sworn that there was some sort of shop front there as he'd approached not 10 minutes earlier. He couldn't be sure. All there was now was emptiness. Something was wrong with the field. Something...

His right ear suddenly throbbed like a speaker uttering low bass. Pain escalated in the same ear as if he were high above the ground, hurtling through the atmosphere in a space capsule at perilous speeds. Instinctively, he covered his right ear with his hand, leaving his left exposed. His ear continued to throb and he felt a warm trickle on his palm. Pulling his hand away he saw a ribbon of blood snaking between the pools of rain water. As he watched, the blood swam upward, defying gravity, defying everything. Rainwater continued to drip in its normal fashion off his moistened digits. But the blood... He began to shake his hand to rid himself of the illusion. The pain in his ear stabbed away with fury and what felt very much like hatred.

He heard footsteps again. They were closer. He had to get in control. Nothing seemed to be near and yet the overwhelming presence of something approached. The pain throbbed. He shook his hand. The blood ascended.

His gums began to ache beneath his teeth. His jaw clenched and relaxed repeatedly. A pressure began to build behind his right eye. It pushed with aggravating menace. It seemed to tear away muscle and nerve as it bore its way through toward his left eye. The intensity of the pain increased with each passing moment. Sweat ran into his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his left fist against his temple. He consciously pushed against the pain which seemed on the verge of overtaking him completely. The pressure continued. The pain throbbed. He shook his hand. The blood ascended.

He screamed. It was a scream that meant many things. It was frustration, fear, anger, and madness, yes, but also more. It was a surprising triumph. It was a resistance. It was refusal to submit. He screamed again. Louder this time. Angrier. He stopped shaking his hand. The pain throbbed. The blood ascended. His left hand began to tremble as he redoubled his efforts to combat the unexplained intrusion.

Then the pain stopped. Silence-cotton began building up again. The wind painter returned. It brushed and rolled blue, soothing colors across his brow. A chill showered him and dangled the hairs on his neck from invisible strings. The wind played and danced for a moment before departing once more.

He opened his eyes. The hut was white; regular white that showed no signs of being anything other than ordinary. The field was still empty. And it was still... off.

His gaze shifted to three leaves sitting in the road. What a peculiar sight to only see three, perched together, on the otherwise empty roadway. And yet all was normal. All had returned. Except...

The leaves. They rose upward in a manner that suggested a force beyond gravity, or any known law of physics. It was as if... yes. Something now held the leaves. Something had watched him as he'd suffered. It stood there watching still. But he could see nothing. His only indication of its presence was a feeling he could not explain.

As he pondered, he sensed the entity before him moving swiftly to within inches of his own face. The pain palpitated. The presence seemed to throb like a blistered headache. His throat suddenly burned and dust scratched its way through his tear ducts.

What are you? What is this?! the man demanded. What do you want? he said through clenched teeth. All at once he felt the futility of his questions. Whatever this thing was, it wouldn't answer him. It had come to do something worse than kill. It had caused a paranormal pain. No. He was alone on this one.

The presence inched closer.

An image formed in his mind of a house in the bleakest corner of a forest. Not just any forest, but a forest that looked as if no man had ever ventured near it; a place of ominous shapes and sinuous twigs and branches that hindered passage through it. It was a hideous place that was strangely active in its own defense. Small spindles of light breached the forest wall but were quickly dissipated by its thickness. The trees themselves were not like any others. Their trunks were much like that of sequoias, tall and wide, but they more closely resembled twisted black oaks with all of their cracked and splinter-gray bark. If it were to have played its own music, it would have played unquestionably horrendous squeaks and warbles in a scale that hadn't before been recorded.

The ghost before him became... darker.

What...are you?

It shifted. It was such a subtle shift that had it been any further away it may have gone unnoticed. Somehow the man knew what it meant. He knew it was amused and apathetic to his pain. It was brackish and sociopathic, yet it still drew some sort of entertainment from the situation. It shifted again. This time the man sensed it sink to the ground and skew at an unlikely angle. It made a sound. It was a cruel rip like a tree branch forced against its will into breaking. It continued to shift and the man’s pain became red and gray.

No... stop!

The sound intensified as if the unexplained presence had grown angry.

NO! NO! It's over! Stop!

Blood appeared around the leaves and rose. Absurdly, the adversarial specter continued to creak and moan. Bile rose in the man's fiery throat. He screamed in rage. His own face shifted. More importantly, his mind shifted. This would happen no more. This ... thing... would not take him. It would no longer plague him. It would leave. It would vanish. It wouldn't cause any more pain. It would flee in its own fear. It would scurry away back to where it had come from. It would be gone! It would be! His face shifted. He felt confidence growing. The pain throbbed. His heart quivered. The creaking tree limb sound intensified. The red-gray torment flashed in waves that threatened to end him. This thing would not win today. It was over. He would end it.

The man grew silent. Lethargic, time crept onward, ready to cut or cure, but seemingly indifferent to which. The man’s arms relaxed at his sides. His hands hung loosely. His shoulders drooped as his breathing slowed. An anvil weighed on his lungs but he breathed. Slowly. Surely. Deeply. He breathed.

He closed his eyes. He thought of snowy walks. He pictured spaghetti and barbecued chicken. The river carried him gently in his inner tube as his toes skimmed the mossy water. The sun warmed his chest and his shins as he watched the clouds. Pecan pie teased his senses. He salivated as the lid was popped off of the brand new whipped cream. Frosty mist escaped from the freezer as a fresh half gallon of vanilla ice cream made its way to the table to join it. Crickets leaped away from his upturned palms into freshly cut grass.

He wouldn't be sure that the thing was gone until he opened his eyes – but he refused. This place in his mind was far too amazing to abandon. He thought of farm team baseball, bottled soda, and the first ski trip of the year. He walked down railroad tracks looking for nickels he had taped to the rail the day prior. He built tree forts high into the tallest oak trees with home-made rope ladders; the materials for his construction funded by his collection of cans and bottles from the summer before. He thought of the bicycle on which he could perform a perfect 180 maneuver – the one with the cool racing number attached to the front. He thought of the terrible paint job he had sprayed onto it that had given him the idea to dub it insect.

He was far from the guise. He was safe. Slowly he opened his eyes, smelling fresh rainfall as he did. The street was quiet. No pedestrians wandered here. No cans rolled in the wind. The hut was white and the field was empty. And the horrible presence was... right in front of him. It laughed a throaty, gurgle that reeked of rot and fungus. But as if it had been loudly beckoned, it suddenly shifted to the right and vanished.

The man waited several minutes before daring to imagine that the encounter was over. He had dried blood and dirt in his hair as if he'd been standing there for hours. The street ran with water except for a circle immediately in front of him, four or five feet in diameter. There it was as dry as a desert whisper. The rain which fell slowly erased the spot, patching dryness with moisture.

The man imagined a film camera soaring away into the sky, quickly increasing its distance from him. He looked up in response to his thoughts and saw nothing.  After a time he walked away.

Three minuscule piles of ash sat on the misty roadway.

Tomorrow awaits a new escape

Moments you can't anticipate

2

Meet Christian. Meet sorrow.

JUST AS MANY OTHER men, who in times of distress seek a modicum of peace, this man, on a crisp, overcast Tuesday morning, three years into the past, needed to do so in the form of a cup of coffee. Not too sweet or bitter. Not too black or white. In everything moderation. We join this man now, on the top of the sixth hour amid his recent history, as he takes the first sip of his ground bean beverage, delighting in the caffeinated brew which is so remarkably average in every way. And as talented as we just so happen to be, we are capable of flowing from these distant, third party seats into the much sought after pilot's chair from which we can more keenly witness the onslaught which is sure to follow. Words form in his head and by virtue of our skillful endeavor, and subsequently rewarding vantage, we can hear his thoughts as clearly as if we were being spoken to directly.

And if we could speak aloud, oh the confusion we could devise. And wouldn’t that be a sight, wandering about proclaiming where and what we are, the onerous martinets of the cloudy edges. Oh the mysteries we could tangle together! Wouldn’t they squirm at what plans we have; what fun we intend to impart upon those willing to play. That would be a sight and sound to behold indeed.

But of course that is not our way. This man cannot - oh but wouldn’t he like to - know of us. We watch. We wait. And it is never long that we must. For willing are many, of those which we pursue, to walk the trails we so carefully paint in broad strokes, with brushes made of wire and string. And with our skillful, mangled hands, placed ever so gently onto the reaching, grasping arms of those that follow a broken guide, we paint. Our palette, being adorned with magical colors, those that don’t exist until we want them to, is close by. It is closer by than one would realize, not having sought us openly, detained by the palace of the One. But detained this man needn’t be. Detained he shouldn’t be.

And so in pause and in play we turn our focus now to this unfortunate man. Oh little one, we’ve much to discuss.

And when the time comes, that truly astounding time which we can already taste in our necks, he’ll be free to roam on the roads of his own making. Free, indeed, to travel the pathways of earth he so desires.

This man need only to step forward and claim his prize. This man is welcomed, as quite so many were before him, to our temperate embrace.

CHRISTIAN NEVER UNDERSTOOD what was wrong with his mouth. It never seemed to get the proper seal on a mug. He would take two sips and inevitably leave two brown, crescent shaped spots on the rim. Seeing these marks, he’d turn the mug so as to avoid seeing the brown mark, only to leave yet another mark and another, yielding in the end a mug with a coffee colored, mouth-stain which he couldn't stand to look at. What if someone were to want a sip? They would probably look at the stains on his mug and think better of it immediately. To him it looked as if the mug from which he’d been drinking was filthy. Sometimes he would swoop his lower lip down in an attempt to cleanse the affected area which worked, marginally. But then he’d be forever lip swooping, which in and of itself could not be remotely considered appropriate or acceptable. At any rate, he wasn’t alone in this restaurant. But with luck, perhaps no one would notice his mug after all. With luck, perhaps no one would notice him at all.

He was never quite sure how to hold the mug either. Should he slip two fingers through the handle, curling excess digits around the mug, while his pinky and index finger opposed his thumb? Or should he grasp the handle with his whole hand, despite how uncomfortable it was, to appease the ever watchful eye of society? What did the cool people in the movies do? How was the mug positioned for them? If he could match the proclivities of one of those people he should be set. But why? And why should he appease them? Why shouldn't he do the exact opposite of what was expected in rebellious futility just to make a point? Ah yes. He’d been here before. Reality sank in again. He could remember nearly every incident during which he’d attempted to exercise his rebellion. It never failed. He ended up being embarrassed. He must remind himself from time to time why he struggled to remain at least partially normal. The last thing he wanted was to be banished to the outskirts of society; that place where the behaviorally inept lived. If he were to live there he wouldn't even....

TURNING TO EACH OTHER from our particularly well-positioned perch inside the mind's eye of the man, we begin to ponder the meaning of the ramblings that float, unknowingly, to our ghostly ears. Certain that each portion of this man's character will lend credence to the whole, we stifle an ever-inflating chuckle (which will at any moment explode and quite possibly be heard by our as of yet unsuspecting victim) at his petty, but whimsical, musings. How is it that a man of such simplicity and innocence warrants our attention? The thoughts and tendencies of the prey of our usual hunt reek of spoiled and unending blackness, the stench of which can single-handedly destroy some of the weaker animals upon which we feed. And yet this man, in all of his childlike demeanor, harbors only a small portion, some unfertilized seed of this same putrid darkness. It festers within him, so near to being tangible, yet safely outside the borders of his consciousness, waiting patiently for its full strength to gather before unleashing its fury. Savoring this peculiar realization we turn again to the scene in the just now sunlit diner, curious as ever we could be, and gaze upon the countenance of the man who will soon fall, in unbelievably delightful torment, into our crushing embrace.

To our amusement, as we return our focus to the man, the dusty radio in the corner of the eatery begins to sing out what those in the current age might label a classic. A-Ha soulfully croons forth Dark is the Night. We listen with many ears as it traverses the decades and rattles out of the clever device. It’s time indeed, young one. It’s time to break free.

SILVERWARE CLANKED and dishes rattled as the aroma of breakfast drifted into the dining area. Christian continued to pummel himself with thoughts which gained him no advantage of any kind. Why did he even think about stuff like this? His brain was a wreck. It was no wonder women didn't find him appealing. He was constantly bickering with himself in his head. God only knew what was happening out loud. All he wanted was a woman that he could find attractive and who would find him attractive and ... well.. true love was the ticket wasn't it? If that really did exist it was all he wanted. The magic eight ball had told him to keep hoping. What kind of an answer was that? Stupid, plastic gizmo.

Breakfast arrived. He smelled the bacon, the fried eggs, and the hash browns. Golden and delicious.

Good morning, Christian. Having a good chat with yourself again?, said the waitress. Her intoxicating perfume wafted over the table and her jovial green eyes crackled with amusement. She was marginally attractive, but the way she presented herself, her friendliness, and her perfume combined to conjure a sexual tension which may or may not have been justified. Christian wasn't quite sure.

Morning Claire. You know how difficult it is to find intelligent conversation these days, he managed.

I certainly do. Will there be anything else? Or will your usual do the trick yet again?

It's about tradition, Claire. You know...

Say no more, handsome. Enjoy your breakfast, she said with a flirtatious wink as she left the table.

Claire, thought Christian, was such a nice girl. It was too bad she wasn't a little more beautiful and he was a little less married. Feeling only slightly self-conscious, he looked over his shoulder toward Claire, unable to prevent himself from examining every curve of her body in the process. As his wandering eyes made the return ascension toward her hair, she turned. It was only for a second, but it was enough. She raised her eyebrow in a knowing gesture, smiled, and picked up the next order as Christian pretended to nonchalantly return his focus to the meal before him.

What was it about her smell anyway? He knew it was just perfume. He knew it wasn't really her skin that naturally smelled that way. It wasn't as if he had a choice between a woman whose natural smell was good and one who smelled of yesterday's garbage. He was fully aware of that. So what was it then? Perhaps it was just an assault on his senses. He was already seeing her with his eyes. Now he was smelling her. He wondered if that was all it took for him to desire her so strongly. Was he so animalistic that these two meager senses overwhelmed his mind and forced him