Piercing the Darkness (58 page)

Then the young lady who worked at the newspaper, Bernice Krueger, spoke up. “Let’s remember to pray for Marshall and Kate while they’re away. I guess things are getting pretty difficult, and they’re encountering a lot of spiritual resistance.”

“Right,” said Pastor Hank, “we’ve all been following that. We’ll be sure to pray about it.”

And then the pastor led the congregation in prayer, glorifying and praising God, and then asking God to supply all the requests that the people had made.

“And we remember Marshall and Kate as well, involved in spiritual warfare . . .”

That topic caught Sally’s interest. Spiritual warfare. Wow! If these people only knew what
she
was going through.

CHAPTER 31

“‘BUT HE WAS
pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.’”

Bernice Krueger read the words in a soft voice from her Bible as Sally followed along in the Bible she’d brought from Sara Barker’s. They were sharing a booth at Danny’s Diner on Main Street, not far from the
Clarion.
They’d ordered their lunch, it was on the way, and now, over coffee, they were taking a second look at Hank’s sermon text for the morning, some verses from Isaiah 53.

Bernice read the next verse. “‘We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.’”

“Sin and redemption,” said Sally.

Bernice was impressed. “Right. So you know
something
about this.”

“No, nothing really. It’s a phrase I’ve heard in some circles, apparently a quick way to define the typical Christian view of things. We always hated the idea.”

Bernice sipped from her coffee. “Who’s ‘we’?”

Sally brushed off the question. “Just some old friends.”

“And what did you hate about it?”

Sally sipped from her coffee. It was an effective way to buy time to formulate an answer. “The notion of sin, I guess. It’s hard enough for
anyone to feel good about himself, and it seemed so negative and oppressive to teach that we’re all miserable, no-good sinners. Christianity was the curse of mankind, enslaving us and holding us back from our true potential.” She felt a need to qualify that. “Anyway, that’s what we thought.”

“Okay, so that’s what you thought about the sin part of it.” Bernice smiled, and tapped the passage from Isaiah 53 that still lay open under Sally’s nose. “But did you catch the redemption part? God loves you, and He sent His Son to pay for that sin with His own death on the cross.”

Now Sally remembered Aunt Barbara and Mrs. Gunderson telling her that. “So I’ve heard.”

“But getting back to what the Bible says about sin, since when is that such a shock? Mankind has been proving for thousands of years the kind of stuff he’s made of. Listen, man’s problems aren’t due to politics or economics or ecology or levels of consciousness; man’s problems are due to his ethics—they’re lousy.”

Sally heard that. It sank in. That was putting it simply enough, and hadn’t she demonstrated the truth of those words in her own life? “I guess I’ll agree with you there. But let me just confirm something: I take it the Bible is the ethical standard by which we determine what’s ‘lousy’?”

Bernice gave an assertive nod. “
And
what’s good, what’s righteous.”

Sally pondered that. “That being the case, I imagine this standard puts us all on the wrong side of the fence.”

“I think you’ll find that idea acceptable if you’re honest with yourself. You’ve lived long enough to know what we as human beings are capable of.”

Sally even chuckled. “Oh, yes indeed.”

“And here’s God’s answer for it.” Bernice pointed out the phrases and reviewed them. “‘He carried our infirmities and our sorrows . . . he was pierced for our sins and crushed for our iniquities . . . the Lord has laid on Him all our sins.’”

“Why?”

Bernice thought for a moment. “Well, let’s talk about justice. You do something wrong, you end up in prison, right?”

Sally definitely agreed. “Right.”

“Now, in the ideal sense, all legal loopholes aside, there are only two ways out of there: change the rules so that what you did isn’t wrong so you aren’t guilty, or pay the penalty.”

“I’ve tried changing the rules,” Sally admitted.

“Well, in God’s scheme of things, rules are rules, because if they weren’t, they wouldn’t be worth much, and right and wrong would be meaningless. So what’s left? The penalty. That’s where God’s love comes in. He knew we could never pay the penalty ourselves, so He did it for us. He took the form of man, took all our sins upon Himself, and died on a Roman cross two thousand years ago.”

Sally examined the passage again. “So tell me: did it work?”

Bernice leaned forward and said, “You be the judge. The Bible says that the penalty for sin is death, but after Jesus paid that penalty He rose from the dead on the third day, so
something
was different. He conquered sin, so He was able to conquer sin’s penalty. Sure, it worked. It always works. Jesus satisfied divine justice on that Cross. He bore the punishment in full, and God never had to bend the rules. That’s why we call Jesus our Savior. He shed His own blood in our place, and died, and then rose from the grave to prove He’d won over sin and could set us free.” Now Bernice started getting excited. “And you know what thrills me about that? It means we’re special to Him; He really does love us, and we . . . we
mean
something, we’re here for a reason! And you know what else? No matter what our sins are, no matter where we are or what condition we’re in, we can be forgiven, free and clear, a clean slate!”

The lunch came—two soups and two salads. Sally was thankful for the pause in the conversation. It gave her a chance to think and to wonder, Who gave this young lady the script anyway? How was it that she could say so many things that spoke directly to Sally’s situation?

Well, Bernice did go to Pastor Hank Busche’s church, and
he
had a way of hitting the nail on the head. His suggestion to read Psalm 119 was perfect, and his morning sermon on Isaiah 53 was just more of the same perfectly tailored message, exactly what she was ready to hear.

But there was still a snag in all this. Sally took a few bites of her salad while she considered her next question, and then she formed it as a comment. “I don’t feel forgiven.”

Bernice answered, “Have you ever asked God to forgive you?”

“I’ve never even believed in God, at least not in the traditional sense.”

“Well, He’s there.”

“But how can I know that?”

Bernice looked at Sally and seemed to know her heart. She replied simply, “You know.”

“So . . .” Sally stopped short, and ate some more salad. She couldn’t ask the question she had in her mind. It would seem too silly, too childish, like a dumb question already answered. But still . . . she had to hear a direct answer, something she could carry away without any doubts. “Well, I hope you’ll indulge the question . . .”

“Sure.”

“It’s easy to speak in comfortable, generalized, generic terms . . .”

“Be as specific as you want.”

“Did . . .” She stopped again. Where was that emotion coming from? She pushed it down with another bite of salad. Now she felt all right. It seemed safe to ask. “Did Jesus die for
me
?”

Bernice did not answer lightly or flippantly. She looked Sally in the eye and gave her a firm, even reply. “Yes, He died for you.”

“For me, for . . .” She had to remember her alias. “For Betty Smith? I mean, Bernice, you don’t know me . . .”

“He died for Betty Smith just like he died for Bernice Krueger.”

Well, she got her answer. “Okay.”

That was the last item on that topic. Bernice could sense her lunch guest was getting uncomfortable, and didn’t want to make things worse. Sally was afraid she’d opened up just a little too much to an innocent stranger, and dared not risk dragging this nice woman into her troubles.

Bernice resorted to purely social conversation. “So how long have you been on the road?”

Sally was even afraid of that question. “Oh . . . about a month or so, something like that.”

“Where are you from originally?”

“Does it matter?”

After that, conversation was difficult, and both regretted it. Except for small talk and purely social conversation, the lunch was more important than any more words. The salads disappeared, the soup bowls went empty, the minutes slipped by.

“I enjoyed meeting you,” said Bernice.

“I guess I’d better get back to Sara’s,” said Sally.

“But listen . . . why don’t you come by the
Clarion
when you get the chance? We could have lunch again.”

Sally’s first impulse was to refuse, but finally she allowed herself to relax, trust just a little, and accept the invitation. “Well . . . sure, I’d like that.”

Bernice smiled. “Come on. I’ll drive you back to Sara’s.”

THE OLD FARM
outside Bacon’s Corner had been deserted for years, the barn empty and graying. Ever since the owner had died, no human was ever seen in this place, not a sound was heard, not a single light glowed—except for certain nights no one was supposed to know about.

On this night, the dull orange glow of candles appeared through the cracks in the clapboard siding and through the chinks in the weather-warped door of the massive old barn. Inside, human voices muttered, murmured, and rumbled through rhythmic chants and incantations.

There were about twenty people inside, all clothed in black robes except for one woman who wore white, standing around a large pentagram etched in the bare earth floor. In the center of the pentagram, two front legs cut from a goat lay crossed in an X, and a candle burned at each of the pentagram’s five points.

At the head of the circle, the woman in white led the meeting, speaking in low, clear tones, a large silver cup in her outstretched hands. “As from the beginning, the powers will be brought forth through blood, and restitution by our hand will balance the scales.”

“So be it,” the others chanted.

“We call forth the powers and minions of darkness to witness this night our covenant with them.”

“So be it!”

Demonic wings rustled in the rafters as dark, destructive spirits began to gather, looking down with gleaming yellow eyes and toothy grins, basking in all the adoration and attention.

In the peak of the roof, clinging to the rafters and overseeing it all, Destroyer could mouth the ceremony even as he listened to it.

“May their fury be kindled against our enemies, against all who oppose.
May their favor be with us as we dedicate this offering.”

“So be it!”

“May the woman be found.”

“So be it.”

“So be it,” agreed the demons, exchanging glances.

“It will be,” said Destroyer. “It will be.”

“May she be driven from hiding, and crushed as powder,” declared the woman.

“So be it,” chanted the others.

The demons nodded and cackled in agreement, their wings quivering with excitement. More spirits arrived. The rafters, the hayloft, the gables of the roof were filling with them.

“Defeat and division to the Christians, ill health, ill will.”

“So be it.”

Destroyer spoke quickly to the gathering demons, pointing to this one and then that one, assigning hordes to every task as the spirits murmured their acceptance.

“May they grant a court decision in our favor! We give to them the heart and mind of Judge Emily Fletcher!”

“So be it.”

Destroyer looked around their group and finally settled on a larger, hulking spirit roosting on a diagonal brace. He’d handled courtrooms before; he would be in charge of that.

“And now . . .” The woman drew the silver cup to her lips. “Through blood we seal the success of the powers, the death of Sally Beth Roe, and the defeat of the Christians!”

“So be it!”

The demons all leaned forward and craned their necks, wanting to see. They giggled, they slobbered, they gave each other happy pats and pokes. Destroyer became drunk with exhilaration.

The woman pulled back her hood and took a drink from the cup. When she withdrew the cup, the stain of fresh goat’s blood remained on her lips.

Claire Johanson, high priestess of the coven, passed the cup to Jon, who drank and passed it on to the next person, and every witch, male and female, drank to seal the curses.

Then, in chorus, their arms shooting upward, the witches let out
an eerie wail: “So be it!”

“Go!” said Destroyer with a clap of his wings and a point of his crooked finger.

The marauding spirits shot out of the barn, pouring from the roof like black smoke from a fire, like bats from a cavern. They dispersed in all directions, howling and cackling, full of lustful, destructive mischief.