The Second Prophecy

© 2001 Cisco Bradley
All rights reserved.

I

"We find the defendant guilty on all counts of high treason!" The juryman's voice rang through the chamber and was followed by whispers of approval in the crowd.

Silence seized the hall as all eyes fixed upon the judge. Nehi Volstein was a retired knight of the highest order and had held his post for eleven years. He turned resolutely to face the convicted man and studied him. He spoke solemnly.

"In the case that the accused felt some remorse for his actions or that he openly retracted his words, mercy would yet be his. But as he has persisted in his blasphemy, even after being silenced by the emperor, I am left with only one acceptable course of action. With all the power granted to the imperial high court of Kronmere, I sentence thee, Stephanus of Spotsford, on charges of high treason, heresy, and social misconduct, to be put to death. Due to the degree of the crime, the execution shall take place at dawn."

The crowd rustled in excitement.

The old man stood huddled in his black robe and turned his hunched back and downcast face to the door. He muttered, "It is done," and gave no resistance to the guards who led him away.

II

The old man sat in his cell, awaiting execution. Night descended upon the prison and the cool, early summer air chilled the cell. He huddled in one corner, shivering.

"Stephanus of Spotsford," he chuckled to himself, "a man renowned for his intellect." His words bit with sarcasm. His face contorted between a smile and a grimace. "If they could see you now!" He laughed between bursts of coughs and wheezes.

"You should have known that prophecy would be bad business!" He rolled onto his knees. "Ah hah! You did know! Had faith in humankind, didn't you?" He pointed into the air as if facing himself in a mirror. "But they don't listen! To emotion, yes, to reason, never. Huh ha!" Another row of coughs followed mixed with hoarse laughter. When his fit was finished, he collapsed in a heap and did not move.

His thoughts focused on one thing—Plague from the Gods.

Possessed by a feeling so basic to his being, like a child to its mother's breast, a voice had spoken to him, revealing the coming apocalypse. He remembered every word even now, each one imprinted upon his soul forever. As the messenger from divine to mortal, he published his vision in a pamphlet and distributed it throughout the empire. The prophecy spoke of dying gods, new divine powers, and a plague that would envelop all civilization.

The emperor and chief priests had declared the publication an act of heresy and arrested the old sage. Now he awaited his fate as the prophecy unfolded upon the earth. New faiths had arisen, vile demon-worshipping cults, some performing human sacrifice and the defilement of life beyond comprehension. The plague had stricken victims for over a decade, yet still people clung to the authority of the emperor and the safety of his imperial decrees.

"Ooooh! Not again!" he suddenly shrieked. Sitting up, tugging clumps of white hair from his head and beard, he mumbled, "Why me?"

"Child," a warm, feminine voice comforted him. Released from his anxiety, his muscles relaxed and he laid back. "You have done so much for your people already," the voice continued.

"But they betray you still," a whisper sounded in his thoughts but was erased by the ecstasy he felt.

"How can this disaster be averted?" he asked.

"Faith," the voice said, using an older word that also meant 'courage.'

"But the world is unraveling. The gods ... they are dying," the whisper again sounded. Again his reason subverted itself to the will of another.

"But it is people's faith that gives the gods their power. People choose what they believe in. Whatever they envision becomes reality."

"But why must we be tested?" he asked. This time reason dominated his being.

"Because the people's faith has shifted. Many, in the guise of serving the divine, serve themselves. Others are so subsumed in ritual that they have forgotten the purpose of the actions they perform. Hordes of gold are spent constructing holy relics and monuments while the sick die and the poor go hungry. Yes, my child, in the temples of the land, faith is dead."

A long silence hung upon Stephanus as he lay paralyzed in his cell, but the feeling did not leave him. After a long pause, the voice again spoke, as if finished with its contemplation.

"The powerful have never been the beloved of the gods. The arrogance of the emperor shall be short-lived. To think that he could outlaw worship of the queen of justice!"

"He has forbidden the rites of Tirane, but the people still follow her."

"As the faith of people always shall!" the voice stated triumphantly.

"Your faith in people is constant, never-ending," Stephanus reasoned.

"My sustenance rests upon faith! Eliminate people's faith in a god and that god ceases to exist. But it is my belief that the gods offer something in return, too. Our existences are inseparable."

"But what of the rise of a new order of gods?" Stephanus asked.

"The avenues through which some people worship other things have always been there—greed, intolerance, arrogance. Whenever people feel they are in complete control of their life, they divorce the divine presence from their being."

Stephanus lay still, contemplating everything the voice had said, saying nothing more.

"Now rest, my child. Your faith is true. Soon you will return to the home that produced you."

Stephanus drifted to sleep in the happiest state he ever experienced. Thoughts of his coming execution comforted him, knowing that he would soon be at rest.

Outside his cell, the guardsmen listened. All night they had heard only his voice as he ranted insane gibberish. Jokes were made and bets were placed about what crazed babble the old lunatic would cry from the stake.

III

The sun rose a wicked red and exerted its heat upon the plains of Kazan. In the empire's capital, an old man was to be executed. Horns sounded throughout the city, beckoning its citizens to go to the palace courtyard where the event was to take place. Soldiers, clerks, maids, merchants, mothers, smiths, and fishermen flocked to the grounds in great numbers. Some came to see the emperor, as many town criers had promised. Others wanted to see the criminal put to rest.

The trumpets sounded and a page shouted from a balcony high above, "His most revered and esteemed majesty, Emperor Pearse IV!" The crowd cheered as they pushed each other aside to see him.

Out strode a short, thin man dressed in flowing robes of gold and wearing the crown of his ancient dynasty.

"My brave people!" he addressed the crowd. "Wise are those who come here today, for we shall see what fate comes to heretics. This man's stories may have frightened you, but pay them no heed. His false words shall die with him. I am proud to maintain justice throughout my realm and to ensure the safety of all its citizens. Blessed be the citizens of Kronmere!" His short appearance ended and he disappeared into the palace. The crowd cheered again and its members grew louder as they saw the prisoner led from the cell block.

The old man was hunched and disheveled. He stared uneasily at the crowd. Was his faith misplaced? he wondered, then suppressed the thought. He concentrated on the feeling that still flowed within him and he knew he could not be wrong.

Two guardsmen pulled him along to the thick wooden stake, to which they bound his ankles and waist, and tied his hands behind his body. He did not resist, but instead focused his attention on the crowd.

In a voice stronger than any thought he could muster, he addressed the crowd.

"Have faith, good people, and this fate will not befall you." His voice wavered and he stared at his feet where a pile of of his pamphlets were gathered to be used as fuel for the fire: Plague from the Gods.

He looked about the crowd, studying each face intensely. A woman in a brown dress shouted something in a harsh voice. A well-dressed merchant spat at the old man. A boy hurled a rotten apple that glanced off his rib cage.

Tears flooded the old man's face as he felt the ecstatic feeling that had possessed him since the previous evening begin to wane. The salty droplets ran down his face and coalesced in his patchy beard. Had he been betrayed? Had that voice that had comforted him the night before been his imagination? Had the throes of insanity pushed him to invent it? The rational part of his mind reeled at its mistake, fleeing deep within his consciousness, and fear took hold of him.

"No! You cannot! All shall perish!" he bellowed, struggling with his thick bonds. The nearest guardsman lit the fire beneath him.

The panic resided to a resolute calm and smoke wafted up and through the crowd. He gazed out at the faces again searching for relief. There! An old fisherman stared intently at the old man, his faced fixed in horror. The feeling of peace returned to the old man as his eyes darted about, faster, faster. A blacksmith turned away unable to watch the fire. A child whispered words to her mother as she wept. Stephanus saw more and more faces filled with pity and remorse. Together their voices seemed to whisper to him, "Yes, faith shall save us! Faith in god is faith in human beings! The unbreakable circle!"

The words repeated themselves until they could be heard no more. The fire burned itself out. The feeling of revenge that many had arrived with was long forgotten, and the crowd dispersed back to their shops, homes, and gardens. Peace hung low like a cloud over the courtyard. Last seen, amidst the dwindling smoke, was a fisherman, staring at the corpse that still clung to the smoldering stake.

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