God's Devil

By Sam Ohan

Ever dreamed of an eight-foot giant who teaches you to telekinetically lift massive objects? How would you feel if this same giant professed to be from a different realm and promised that you are a super-human, destined for greatness? "God's Devil" follows Louis, a cerebral genius, who grew up in a clandestine techno-military academy that only chooses the elite. He discovers miraculous gifts under the tutelage of an ancient creature called The Guardian of Souls, who haunts his dreams and trains him in esoteric arts of the mind. Louis has vast telekinetic abilities and can heal people with his mind. He is enticed to join The Order of the Cobras, an ancient order charged with fighting the vile Shadows. The Shadows are led by the evil Marvogi, a malevolent mastermind with extraordinary gifts. Louis discovers the history behind his burgeoning powers and must use them to defeat The Shadows and come to terms with his own destiny. This gripping tale follows supernatural beings whose lives have spanned millenniums and moves from the Black Forest of Germany after the last glacial epoch, to barbaric Babylonian days under Nebuchadnezzar, dark days in Africa, rural superstitious India, and cosmopolitan Europe. "God's Devil" paints a rich tapestry of emotions, horror, technology, and the supernatural.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667853543

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I was in free fall.

I was falling into black void depths that seemed to have nothing but gravity, ubiquitously pulling down. This must be a dream, for I don’t remember why I was falling, or from where, nor from when. It was pitch black all around.

Suddenly - a shattering alien voice was screaming at the top of its vocal limits.

Devil Sequence. Devil Sequence.

I woke up with an adrenalin panic coursing through my veins.

The iridescent green clock beside my bed was showing three A.M.

The dozen LCD monitors stacked up against the wall, with mauve cables jutting out to the numerous latticed hubs, flooded the dark marble floor of my room with a ghoulish green light. The central monitor was displaying a rotating ellipsoid, which was peeling out and exposing a fluorescent yellow smiley face.

The animated face was screaming repeatedly in a robotic timbre.

Stack Overflow. Launch Devil’s Sequence.

That emphatic voice had woken me from a lucid dream.

I sat upright on the bed, just beneath the towering LCD displays, and with the quickness of a gunslinger, turbulently punched in a series of keys on my laptop. I always kept my laptop next to me, even when sleeping.

Things were getting interesting now. My palms were sweaty as they flew over the laptop that was wirelessly connected to all the big LCD displays. The images on the monitors quickly shifted to an arcane, Aramaic-like font that scrolled and seemed to perpetually flow into an infinite chasm. The monitors announced with a human chuckle - Conversion Sequence launched.

Instantly, the cascade of ancient alphabets morphed into binary codes. A glass tower encasing hard drives started glowing ruby red. The LCD speakers announced in unison - Copying identifiable data. The backup scripts were now scavenging the hacked server, devouring information with the thirst of a black hole sucking light.

Victory, at last!

I leaped out of bed with a muffled cry of triumph. I knew how Archimedes would have felt as he bounced naked through the streets, jubilantly hollering ‘Eureka!’ I felt like doing just that.

I was giddy with the realization that I was the first Samskrit to successfully hack into Chaos, the world-renowned, Israeli web-server with a synthetic brain script, and twelve layers of hack-resisting wrappers. HR was the short sweet name for ‘Hack Resistant’.

I grinned as I visualized General Barringer’s ecstatic face. He would be very pleased.

I opened the door and stepped into the long, empty corridor. I needed some fresh air.

The corridor had thirty pairs of black doors, including mine. The orange neon lights on the ceiling lit the blue floor, and the photons boasted their kaleidoscope skills. I scratched my shaggy brown hair that now reached my shoulders and tried to contain this overwhelming sense of satisfaction.

I had simply shut myself in my room, living and visualizing the various entry points into Chaos. The HR wrappers serenading the artificial intelligence of Chaos refused my intrusion countless times. But today, I had succeeded. This definitely was my most glorious moment at Samscritka.

I walked along the quiescent corridor, never taking my eyes off the floor, cherishing my own ingenious hack, and of course, the nifty orange circles on the floor cast by the light above. As I reached the corridor end, I made a right and walked up a short flight of stairs.

The cafeteria was empty. It had many wooden tables and matching chairs, and a big TV. Poppy was transfixed, watching news on some local channel.

Poppy was a short old man who did graveyard shifts at Samscritka. He spoke with a heavy Southern accent that somehow matched his white hair and moustache. The moustache was his big vanity. He had served fourteen years in a state prison in Texas. No one knew why. It was rumored that he had poisoned his wife.

Howdy son! Poppy flashed his smile. Time for a drink, huh?

I just smiled and waved, and he knew what I wanted. I always ordered the same thing. That was when Chet walked in.

Chet was my short and chubby friend whose face had never been man-hammered by puberty. He had silky black hair, which he always wore in a ponytail, and he was quite used to people teasing him about his roundness. He was my closest friend.

He had his funny, incorrigible smile on, and he playfully slapped my back. With a single glance, he realized something was up.

Louis, my man. Didja? He was all excited. Don’t tell me you did it. Didja?

You’ve got to give him this - he had a way of sensing excitement. I remained silent.

Sonuvabitch! he still exclaimed, leaping from his seat. Once a sonuvabitch, always a sonuvabitch! He shook his head and was smiling, shocked.

General Barringer, the great man himself had once commented, "Chaos is the epitome of anti-hacker security!" Now what was he gonna say?

Chet rubbed his beady eyes and was still mouthing obscenities to recuperate from the pleasant shock. A couple of years back, he himself had given up on Chaos. Even Professor Baker had ruled out any possibility of a successful hack. But I had proved everyone wrong.

Poppy slammed the cold drink on the table, and watching his reflection on the plexiglass, ran his fingers over his moustache. Chet looked up and asked for a cold beer.

Shomme ID, Poppy teased querulously.

Chet laughed sarcastically, ignored Poppy, and turned his attention back on me.

But man, how in hell didja get past the HRs?

I smiled but didn’t reply. Let him wonder for a while.

Nowadays, specialized software companies started developing components that could be seamlessly secured onto any existing codebase. These anti-hacker components employed heuristics to block seemingly prone areas. They also imbued the codebase with booby traps and code-mines to decimate hacking systems. Normally, any web-server would use just one HR wrapper, but Chaos had used twelve. And on top of that, Chaos housed a new-generation synthetic brain, guarding it at all times.

Among the hacker community, it had been a widely confirmed belief that Chaos was practically unhackable. But so had been Arco. Just eight months back, on my twenty-second birthday, I had decimated that German server to its knees. Arco had reigned as a legendary server for three years, but not anymore.

Now I had blown the Chaos myth too.

The man’s nom-de-guerre was Eagle. He desperately wanted to learn more about Samscritka, but he was getting nowhere. His legendary telescopic insight was impotently myopic here.

Nothing fresh, dammit! he muttered angrily, curbing the sudden urge to hurl his laptop against the maps on his wall swarming with shiny, puniceous tacks.

The super-confidential NSA document that he had just hacked open had only one line about Samscritka - recognized by the US government towards the late 1980s as an advanced experimental military project.

Experimental military project! he snickered aloud, alone in his dark office. My ass!

He already knew that to be a fake front. He still couldn’t figure out the true purpose of Samscritka. Records weren’t adding up. He could smell smoke, but where the heck was the fire? From his own investigations, he had come to the conclusion that Samscritka was a clandestine society, a secret order of men and women. But what was their true purpose?

Focus on the tangibles, he chided himself, slapping the back of his head softly. Look at the physical trail.

He looked up at his dimly lit white board. There was one word written and circled - OC2. He knew that the only way to understand Samscritka was to decipher OC2. But OC2 was an onion that kept peeling. He fiddled with his pet torture device - his portable thumbscrew - and with a muffled rage, hurled it against the empty rodent chamber that had bared many truths. An enigma wrapped in a riddle, he cussed, surrounded by mysteries.

OC2 - Operation Center Two, the headquarters of Samscritka - its physical address. It boasted all the basic amenities that one could imagine. It was about thirty miles away from a major US city, in a semiarid desert. It was like a small town and had everything - a theatre, library, church - everything. Marked as a Military Security Zone, it was guarded by heavily armed commandos who patrolled all over the miniature town with Schutzhund dogs. No one was allowed inside, except people who had legal access.

It was rumored that no living person could decipher some of the scriptures stored in the OC2 vaults, and that Samscritka was actually established during a time when pharaohs sailed over the Nile. Of course, no one believed these rumors, but he did. But he had known all of this for a while now. He wanted more.

He had been surprised to learn that one man controlled everything at OC2 - the unflappable General Barringer. The general directly reported to the topmost CIA official - Mr. Capston. Mr. Capston had more power than the president.

The outside world knew nothing of Samscritka or OC2, or anything about the twenty-eight Samskrits and their six eccentric professors. The Samskrits were mainly orphans with a filed death certificate, all prodigies with an IQ measurement well beyond the level of genius. If there ever was a fine, demarcating line between genius and insanity, the Samskrits were well beyond that line; insanely genius and eagerly absolved from mingling with the outside world, cocooned in their own darn little world.

There was something going on at OC2. He had a nose for such things. He resolved to dig deeper, even if it meant excavating through Hades’ inferno.

CHAPTER 2

Sunlight occasionally penetrated my room, pugnaciously deceiving the window curtains. The rays flitted through the small aquarium placed close to the window and trysted in a ceylonese tribal dance, causing me some discomfort. It made me squint.

I rolled out of bed and closed the damn curtains, hoping to get back to sleep. The laptop beeped, indicating the arrival of new email.

Louis - Meet me at one at Kretam. It was the general. I immediately cancelled my rendezvous with the luring womb of my bed.

Instead, I opened the curtains fully. Sunlight flooded in, freshened and cozened every corner of the small room. The warm yellow beams callously hit me.

I slapped some cold water on my face and forcefully drove out the last remnants of sleep. Brushing with a minty-fluoride toothpaste, the freshness brought back the events of last night and a renewed sense of achievement. Strolling into the shower with a toothy grin, the hot cascade pricked like soothing, pleasureable needles.

It was past noon. I hurriedly toweled, threw on a black t-shirt and faded jeans, gelled and gruffly combed my unkempt hair. The general’s personal office, Kretam, was at the heart of a major city located on the outskirts of a desert. At sixty-five mph, taking the traffic into consideration, Kretam was thirty minutes away from home, OC2. I hurriedly jumped into my dark-green Lexus, with its comforting russet-leather seats. The guards at the OC2 entrance cleared me within minutes.

It was a sunny, yet mildly cold afternoon. The sun had exploded on the sky after a week of hibernation and was spreading its wings, and the streets were slowly getting warmed up. The Lexus rolled smoothly on the concrete road, like an ivory ball on a pool table. It had been a gift from the general. I rolled down the windows and savored the refreshing gust of eroding breeze. Within thirty minutes I was in the city.

I inhaled deeply and looked at the busy shops and walking pedestrians. It was a charismatic city that outshone other cities, not by its grandeur, but by its mere simplicity. Anything with harmony stirs me, and this pulsating city had never failed to capture my imagination. The businessmen in rich-textured robes, slender women walking pompously on high-heels, kids on bicycles - it was a good show for people who enjoyed watching people. I confess that I like watching people. I like looking around at my surroundings and do get distracted sometimes. The glass windows encasing polished old rifles, policemen strolling along the sidewalks, kids in fountain parks running like untamed mustangs, soaring buildings with their mirrored windows patiently showcasing the human bustle - all this made me sigh with pleasure. This city was the embodiment of things that were soul-stirring. Even the tall skyscrapers fell into the grand design. God must have spent many million years designing mankind, so that one day man would build this city for him.

My destination suddenly loomed ahead, forcing me to rein back my gallivanting mind - a stylish, petite mansion seductively nestled between two private buildings.

After clearing a retinal scan at the mansion gates that now served as Kretam, the bouncer-sized guard waved me in.

The garden surrounding the mansion was unchanged. Even the small Grecian fountain was spouting water in the same zigzag pattern. I sauntered through the lush emerald garden with its tangled ivy and gorgeous blossoms and opened the main door to the suave mansion.

He’s waiting, Mrs. Palmer, the general’s assistant, waved me in with her melting chocolate smile.

I knocked on the ornate oak door with Romanesque designs of vines and grapes.

A deep voice came from within the room, Come in!

I turned the ormolu knob and stepped inside to the serene sound of Brahms.

General Barringer was peering through papers on his rosewood desk and didn’t even look up. The room had always looked this way - the cushiony couch with the arty mahogany frame, the same old painting of a dark angel with crimson eyes and scaly wings, ominously facing a luminous seraph with stately white wings, red carpeted floor, the burnished trophy case and a quaint turquoise chandelier - all radiating their distinctive charm.

Still pouring his attention on the crispy paper, the general commanded, Sit down.

I fit my six-foot frame onto a comfortable chair.

The general never raised his voice, but his resonant tone always had a hypnotic effect. I had known him for fifteen years and had grown up admiring him. He was the father that I never had. He would never keep me waiting outside his door, but wouldn’t speak until he had consumed every piece of detail from whatever he was currently reading.

I sat still, admiring the captivating confidence that he exuded.

I could hear the clock ticking, measuring the dimension that many a scientist wanted to conquer. I sat still, listening to passing time.

The general was tall and muscular, in his early sixties, but seeing his energetic pace, you would think he was in his early forties. He had short silvery hair and arched, heavy white eyebrows. His gray pupils eruditely sparkled with experience, revealing an intelligent mind. As far as I can remember, he has always looked like this. At an age when people complained of arthritic pain, he jogged four miles and spent an hour at the gym every day.

I now shifted to admire his trophy case, which was neatly stacked with a variety of trophies obtained from golf tournaments to theories on mitochondria, and of course the coveted Noble Prize for his ingenious theory on protoplasmic substrates.

So you found the delta, huh? the venerated general rhetorically asked, finally finishing his work.

Now I knew what report he had been reading. Delta was a term used among the hacker community. I had developed a script to track the overall size of Chaos. Whenever the size increased by more than hundred kilobytes, the synthetic brain protecting Chaos was with root privileges. I had targeted my scripts against that particular delta and, through that, got into Chaos. It had been a tough melody to choreograph to.

The general looked at me, impressed. Even he was amazed at what I had accomplished and that did make me proud. He had always made it a point to dine with me on Friday nights, whenever he was close to OC2. He travelled a lot. As an adolescent, I had flown all over Europe with him. We both had taken pictures standing before the Eiffel Tower, many spectacular sculptures in Florence and the refreshing streets of many old Slovene towns. I was the only student at OC2 that he paid this much attention to. And that always made me feel special.

I knew you could do it! He was smiling, exulted. There was pride in his voice - the pride of a father. You don’t know the magnitude of your help, he continued his plaudits. This gives us full access to the trouble brewing in the Middle East.

I had downloaded the information and had successfully run the decrypting script, but had never bothered to even glimpse at the data. I had done my job, and that was it for me. I wasn’t surprised as he poured out the preciousness of the contents.

Their biochemical weaponry is in an impressive state, almost as good as ours. Now our strategists are viewing the Middle East situation from an altogether different perspective.

He spoke about the divulged information in a torrent, about the meticulously drafted power hierarchies, defense programs, espionage networks and current infiltration patterns. He liked to talk about his work, and only with me.

Finally, he got up and walked to his filing cabinet. Every drawer on the cabinet was protected by a FPA - Finger Print Analyzer. He placed his thumb on one such FPA, and with a mechanical sound it popped open. He took out a brown leather folder, which bore the stamp - Confidential.

You don’t know how proud you make me feel. He fixed his gray eyes on me. Never forget that! He handed me the folder, and the rough leather felt good in my palms. I wanted to run it on my face, and suddenly had the urge to smell it.

You may leave, he said abruptly, walking over to his chair and lighting his pipe. He didn’t even look up.

I was surprised by the brusque jettisoning, but still walked out indelibly happy.

CHAPTER 3

I was eating with a few of my friends at the cafeteria.

There was Dan McPherson, with his thick spectacles, which made his eyes look as though they were sunken within his face, Jeff Snake Halligan, who with his long hair looked like the legendary Medusa, and then my close friend, Chet Horton. All four of us were hailed as the best hackers at OC2.

My friends were speaking about the new girl - Kristen Langley.

Man, she’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen! Chet was happy just thinking about her.

Amen, Dan approved.

Did ya know that the general himself dropped her here? Jeff pointed. I think she’s one of those elite decoders, or something like that.

We all looked at him curiously. Jeff was a neurotic ultra-introvert. It meant something for him to even open his mouth.

I had not yet seen Kristen and so had nothing to offer.

Look guys - ol’ snakey smells of soap, Chet was teasing Jeff, I can’t remember when he took his last bath. And do you see what I see - the dirt bag has shaved! He then added sportively. You don’t stand a chance, man. Stay away from her - she’s mine.

At least, I’ve got something to shave, Jeff retorted listlessly.

The teasing and bragging went on and on.

I was curious. I had never seen my friends patter so much about any girl. When Dan had asked Nelly out on a date, we had teased cruelly but had stopped after a couple of days. But the talk about this new smoldering beauty was going on for almost a week now. Anyway, today we had the MAD gathering where new Samskrits were always introduced. I would know about this girl soon.

More people started trickling into the cafeteria, for it was almost lunch time. We four were the nocturnal kind - we prolifically worked at night and slept all day. So my friends headed back to their rooms to catch some sleep. I wasn’t sleepy. So I went to the library. Mr. Bower, the librarian, smiled as I entered.

The library was a paradise for the thirsty minds here at OC2. I have always been amazed at the endless array of books here. Books ranging from anthropology to astronomy, from cuisine delights to nuclear physics, were nestled on the numerous shelves. I was happy, like an ant trapped in a sugar jar. Books made me feel this way. I could be transported to the world of quarks or the surface of Europa, to the microscopic structure of nucleotides or to numerous gargantuan Victorian delights, and what not? There were more than a million books housed here. It was a pleasant place endowed with soundproof walls, scattered black boards, plush garnet cushions, and private rooms for study. I never went into the private rooms. I liked to hear the ticking clock and notice the stack of books covering me from all sides.

I stopped beneath my favorite section - ‘Artificial Brain’. I instantly picked a book titled ‘Intelligent Stored Procedures’ by Alexander Monahan and fell back into a chair nearby. I was instantly captured by the exemplary narration.

That was when I heard an aphrodisiac-like voice. It reminded of happy notes flowing from a flute, utterly feminine. Since I grew up here, I knew everyone. This was a stranger’s voice. It must be Kristen. A huge shelf was blocking my view, but I could clearly hear her.

I’ll take these books, she said.

Can I see your ID? Mr. Bower asked, and your name, please?

Kristen, she spoke softly. Kristen Langley.

Yes, it was her. I was damn curious to see her.

A moment later, as she was walking out, I caught a glimpse of shimmering flaxen blonde hair, nothing else.

Ah! Well, I’d soon see her at the MAD meeting.

I continued reading, soon getting lost in the world of artificial neurons. Time flew by fast and soon it was seven P.M. It was time for MAD. I exuberantly hurried to the meeting place.

All Samskrits were already assembled at the main auditorium, which was the size of a basketball court. It had numerous paintings hung on its wall and an embellished ceiling with many bright chandeliers.

At one corner of the room, there was a stage on which sat my five professors - Ms. Huttington at the center, cordoned by her male colleagues - Schonger, Zapata, Baker and Khanna. Mr. Baldwin was already stammering on the lectern as usual. These were the six masters of the twenty-eight Samskrits residing in this campus, teaching us everything that science had to offer. Actually, twenty-nine now, including Kristen.

Thought you’d be mad to miss MAD, Chet whispered, as I sat in the last row next to him. He always reserved a spot for me. Monahan had successfully teleported me into his world. I was lucky to break that trance.

The lenient, eccentric faculty was always upset when someone forgot to show up for MAD - Monthly Analysis Discussion. It was a four-hour meeting in which everyone updated their current status, as each Samskrit was assigned some government or scientific project. Outstanding breakthroughs were commended here. I knew that today I was going to surprise many people with my breakthrough hack.

Mr. Baldwin, my frail tutor, with his receding forehead and twitching confused eyes, cowering behind the glossy lectern, was reading about the current progress of projects. He blinked constantly and gave the impression of an eight-year old speaking in his first oratorical competition and forgetting everything. Everyone here knew that he spoke the language of mathematical formulae a thousand-fold better than speaking to us.

Chet had his mischievous smile on. It meant trouble. He was tying Jeff’s long hair to his chair. Jeff didn’t have a clue about the devious deed happening right behind his back.

Look, Chet suddenly ribbed me, pointing with his eyes, that’s the hottie I was talkin’ about. All I saw was a silky cascade of golden hair in the front row. Kristen was seated between Nelly Sullivan and Kerry O’Brian, both good friends of mine. Even the pleasant light from the chandelier was attracted to her glossy mane and seemed to caress her.

Now…ahem…what was I saying? Even after fifteen minutes, Mr. Baldwin continued to stutter, Oh yes, we’ve completed the Nessy project. He blinked a few times, trying hard to remember what exactly he wanted to say. Our study of the ternary fission pheno… pheno…phenomenon seems to be go…going good.

OC2 dealt with projects that were related to four unique fields: molecular biology, parapsychology, weaponry, and computers. Samskrits were well-versed in all four fields. A handful of Samskrits also possessed psychic faculties, acting as the lab rat as well as the experimenter for their paranormal research.

Mr. Baldwin finished his update and looked at Ms. Huttington as though she was his nanny, and he was pleading her to stop this punishment. He started to say something, paused, and then walked towards his seat on the dais. Midway, he stopped and walked back to the lectern.

I for…forgot, he said, stuttering apologetically. There’s Miss… Langley. She’s new. Miss… Langley, can you introduce yourself?

Kristen stood up confidently. All I could see was her back. She was dressed in a loose blue t-shirt and matching jeans - completely informal. Slowly, she turned to face us.

I gasped inwardly. I felt my heart leap and touch the base of my throat. I was in love.

She was tall, slender, in her fledgling twenties, with flawless porcelain skin that was drawn smooth over a devastatingly beautiful face. She had the most seductive chin, as though all the mischief in the world was converged on them. Her large aquamarine eyes, hypnotic vivacious orbs under perfect bow-shaped eyebrows, sparked with total ignorance of her sultry beauty. The smile on her pink lips - words cannot transcribe the power of such a seductive smile - was divine and playful. At first glance, I was a besotted victim of Cupid’s arrow. I couldn’t tear my eyes off her. I was a rose petal crushed by a mammoth.

Hi, she said, mellifluous, casually brushing her golden tresses. I’m Kristen. I’m from Seattle. And I’m very glad to be here - because it looks like it doesn’t rain here every day! There were a few low laughs.

Kristen will be assisting me in our metaphysics program, Ms. Huttington cut in, walking over to the lectern, She has created a huge splash with her insights on the paranormal. I’m sure that her work here will have a huge impact. Please welcome her!

Everyone applauded, and I clapped the loudest. Chet sheepishly stared at me. I stopped clapping.

Yeoow! Jeff screamed.

Everyone turned to look at the last row, except Kristen. Chet was laughing hard with tears rolling down his cheeks.

That night, I was tossing and turning in my bed. I couldn’t comprehend my own breathless stupor. Yes, she was beautiful. So what? I have seen many beautiful women. The world was full of them. But there was something else about her, something intangible and alluring, altogether different.

As my drowsiness solidified to sleep, I reminded myself not to be overwhelmed by her heavenly voice, sweet demeanor, or by that soulful smile.

Louis has broken Chaos! Mr. Schonger had beamed at MAD. When every other pair of eyes had measured me, Kristen hadn’t even turned to look.

Soon sleep enveloped and caressed me. My last thoughts were about the article that I had read six months earlier - ‘Paranormal: A Parallel Universe by Kristen Langley’. And yes, that paper had been exceptional, revealing a new level of granular connectivity between science and telepathy. I had then thought that Ms. Langley would be a frail lady in her sixties.

What a surprise!

CHAPTER 4

As far as my eyes could see, all I saw was luminous, white, concentric circles, and eternal darkness.

I was standing at the epicenter, as the circles around me issued a pleasant light and were about a foot thick. The innermost circle started about ten meters away.

Around the circles, I could see an absorbing darkness. The lights that issued out of the circles maintained their regality only for a few feet, and then surrendered to the endemic darkness.

I was gripped by an urge to touch the circles but couldn’t move. I tried to look at the void on which I seemed to be suspended, and all I saw was bottomless pitch darkness.

What’s happening to you Louis? I questioned myself, clueless.

A few minutes back, I was sleeping on a solid bed. But now I was standing on a vacuum in space - on thin air. This must be a dream.

Slowly, the circles started rotating, with me still at the center. Or was I imagining that? The place smelled of rotten eggs and spoilt milk. It was nauseating.

I was dressed in crimson satin robes that were flowing from my shoulders to my feet. I never dressed so old-school. With these concentric circles and blackness all around me, I must look like the red dot on a dartboard. I pinched myself. The pain was genuine. Even my olfactories felt the awful stench of burnt decay.

A cool breeze stroked and kissed my forehead. Even my skin cringed as the cool breeze brought with it an emetic stench. This has to be a dream. But I could feel the breeze and it was so real!

Somewhere, bees started humming.

I tried to move towards the first circle. Yes, I could move now. But the circles moved with me. The spinning circles were trying to keep me as the epicenter. I made a dozen attempts, from all possible angles, but the circles maintained their distance.

I could see, walk, smell and sense the precise passage of time, but everything here defied logic. My senses were approving this dark luminous world, and yet my sixth sense was hammering the fact that it cannot be real. I must be going mad.

The humming of the bees, which had been very mild, started increasing. It kept on increasing steadily, till I could bear no more. Stop it! I screamed, not sure at whom. I closed my ears, but the humming only increased. I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to shut off the dream and the brain-rattling noise. It still increased. Someone must be enjoying torturing me this way.

What do you want? I yelled at the black cosmos, at this invisible aggressor, if indeed someone was doing this to me. It still increased more.

The sound bombarded every tiny pore on my skin, consumed every corner of my soul, seeped and exploded through every vein in my body, and made me quiver in shock. It reached a crescendo, and I shivered in pure agony, obliterated. Blood started trickling out through my nose and ears. My vision turned watery. I flaccidly slumped to my knees, ready to die.

The humming suddenly stopped. I heard blissful silence, nothing but my own panting. That was when I saw the silhouette on the far horizon walking towards me.

Unbridled power emanated from the silhouette. The profile was that of a tall man. If not for the white circles, I wouldn’t have seen him. I felt a distinct menace exude from him. He walked slowly, like a spider walking towards an insignificant insect captured at the center of its webbing.

Was this the place the dead came to? I was too young to die. I must be dying in my sleep. I shuddered as a liquid fear passed through my spine. I felt cold perspiration.

Suddenly, a strange calm enveloped me. I stopped analyzing this strange world, and how I got here. I was somehow convinced that the silhouette would answer all my questions before probably killing me, if I wasn’t dead already. But my looming death no longer caused any trepidation. I was surprised by this new sedating calmness.

I patiently watched the silhouette, and he was now some fifty feet away. Still I could not see any features, just the sharp profile that was darker than the ominous darkness all around. Even the bright light from the circles didn’t reveal the fiber of his clothes or any skin. He was very tall, about eight feet - the largest man I have ever seen. The edges of his profile fluttered as though he wore long, flowing robes that grazed the circle. It was as if the light from the glowing circles was getting sucked in as they struck this man - this animated black-hole thing. Every sense in me said that he was not a normal human.

A voice echoed and filled the corners of the black cosmos.

My dear Louis, at last we meet! The tenor of his voice brimmed with an earnest affection.

Who - who are you? I spluttered. This must be a dream. I could always speak with clarity in my dreams.

I am your savior, he replied in the same booming, exalted voice.

Even though the voice was majestic and powerful, it had a soothing effect on me. Now, any remaining fear completely subsided, replaced by a curious reverence.

I am the answer to all your questions, the man casting the silhouette added.

What was the question? I promptly asked. What’s the answer for? Are you my conscience or my soul? I pointed at the black and white panorama. What’s all this?

The eight-foot man laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, and even the laugh exuded unbridled authority. It was a mother’s laughter when her five-year old asks a stupid question.

My curious Louis wants answers right away. You have been searching for me even before you were born, and now you do not see as I stare straight at you. I know you want to know all. And it is my duty to reveal and remind you all, for you have forgotten the quest of your soul. You have forgotten the blood that flows in your veins. Each syllable was delivered with a deliberate slowness, as though he was cherishing the idea of a linear time. Without you, I am nothing. You are all I have got. I will spell out all. I couldn’t place the accent, but it boomed fluidly without a speck of imperfection, with no contractions.

Ah! So you do like my voice. I knew you would. And of course, I can read every pulse of thought gushing through your mind. He paused as the shock visibly registered on my face. And no, you are not dying. You are as alive as a lion chasing its prey. Nor is it a dream.

I was marble white. The man had not only read my thoughts but had answered as well.

Then why am I here? Instead of speaking, I just thought.

The date approaches. The time draws near.

For what? And what’s this place?

I had so far been looking at the silhouette, but now realized that the voice was pouring out from all corners. It had been that way right from the beginning.

All excellent questions. I have many things to say to you, but not now.

I walked towards him, hoping to glimpse his face.

All I can say is, the anointed time for your crowning is near, he declared. You will lead the souls along the streets of heaven and hell and deliver justice. The time of metamorphosis is near. And this is the realm of the souls. I am its guardian. I am your guardian too, and you my precious student for now.

I was just a few feet away from him but still couldn’t see his features. But he must have seen my bewilderment.

Do not be agitated, he said softly. Let not your thoughts cloud your spirit and deteriorate your mind. He paused, contemplating, as though he was in a different place, as if he was gazing into the future, and then continued, The ritual is long and the lessons to be learnt are many and arduous. You have learnt them already. But you will have to realize them in the carnal realm. I will guide you all along. You are the chosen one. Nay, what a lie that is, for you are not the chosen one, but you are the only one for me.

I was baffled. I no longer smelt the repugnant rot. There was no vile humming throbbing within my skull. I felt light as a feather, and a redolent happiness bubbled within me. It was as though the chirpy mood was forced upon me. I couldn’t figure out how.

What are you saying? Are you God? Are you Death? I asked in a torrent.

I must have said something funny, for the giant gave a hypnotic laugh.

No and no. What I said was the truth in its entire form and not a cryptic puzzle. Time and I will unravel all. But now it is time for your seething mind to let go. It is time for you to return to your realm - the realm of carnal spirits. It is time for me to take leave.

No! I screamed. You can’t leave me. I’ve understood nothing.

But the giant had already turned and was walking away. I tried to grab him but could no longer stand on the invisible floor. I was plummeting into an empty space. The rings had disappeared. Everywhere I turned, all I saw was consuming darkness. I was bleeding again, screaming and falling.

I woke up with a start, a sense of déjà vu.

The clock beside my bed glowed 6:12 A.M. I could see the first streaks of morning light. For a second, I was happy, realizing that it was all a dream.

There was something hot and wet on my ears.

I rolled out of my bed, panicky, and looked at the bedside mirror. There were lines of blood all over my face. The blood had just stopped oozing. There was also a humming sound serenely playing within my skull. I shook my head but still couldn’t shake off the droning noise. Now, I knew it wasn’t just a dream even though I had been sleeping.

I was scared. I was going insane.

CHAPTER 5

Human character was gray. He had found that after fifty-four years of association with people. Human character was a blend of the black, evil Lucifer and white angels.

In his earlier years, he had staunchly believed that man, by nature, was incapable of evil, that only the evil forces seized humans to commit brutal atrocities against their own kind. But now, he knew he had been wrong. Man was both good and evil. Father Fleming had learnt that the hard way.

Father Fleming grew up in beautiful British Columbia, in the lovely, bright streets of Vancouver. His dad owned an antique store on Robson. He had spent his childhood running along the fresh streets of Vancouver, chasing many unsuspecting doves and seagulls.

From a boy who looked at wonder at every creation of man, he had now aged into a tall, fifty-four-year old man who was still mesmerized by the blissful creations of God. Now he had the broad forehead of the intellectuals but still possessed the ineffable blue eyes of a child. His flint jaw, long hands, and peppered black hair somehow made him look forceful. The black robe with the white collar added an aura of dignity to his tall figure.

Father Fleming often thought of his pleasant childhood. His parents were staunch Catholics. He had grown up in an environment where thanking God and Sunday masses were like bread and water. Right from time immemorial, his mother had soaked in the idea of an all-seeing God. His earliest recollections of his mother were her bedtime stories of the Chief of the Archangels, Prince of Heaven, Michael. He had grown up with a deep conviction in the power of God.

He had never been a kid for mischief. He had not grown up wanting a bike, even though his father bought him one on his tenth birthday. He had never grudged when his father asked him to abandon his bike escapades and come over to the shop. In fact, he had loved sitting in the old antique store, smelling the fragrance of time. He had loved the old, golden lanterns, rusty knives collection, ornate clocks, and stone-carved wax stands. He had simply loved the shop. He still did. His parents had pampered little Frank Fleming. His teachers loved him for his grades. Throughout his schooling he had been the class topper almost without any effort. With an IQ of 192, he had completed high school at the age of sixteen. His parents were planning to send young Frank to America, to Harvard. They dreamt of seeing him walk the courtroom as a successful lawyer. His teachers were all queuing up to write him recommendation letters to elite American universities.

Frank shocked them all by revealing his plans to serve God.

You are sixteen! his father fumed, You know nothing about life!

But young Frank had not been deterred. He stayed home for one full year, convincing his shouting father and lamenting mother. Eventually they gave in to his dreams of priesthood.

He moved to Ontario to receive his priestly education. At the age of seventeen, the Messiah’s message of love clung much easier to him. It was as though he already knew what the priests taught him. His mentor, Father Crowe, loved him like a son.

When he was posted to Vancouver, his own people admired and welcomed him back. The young priest with a booming voice, determined loving eyes, and conviction in his steps was well known for his resonant Sunday preaching.

All along, Father Fleming had not ignored his thirst for knowledge. Even as a young kid, he had loved romantic comics with super-powered heroes. He had loved the Western novels, where the heroes uncannily shot their way through adversity. He had loved the futuristic Wells, the creative beauty of Shakespeare, and the poetic prose of Charlotte