The Veritas Conflict (3 page)

George’s eyes slid to the easel holding the model of Pike’s suggested “revision” to the university’s shield. No more flowing banner, no place for the motto
Christo et
Ecclesiae
. It was so stark, the triangular talisman somehow emasculated by the absence of it’s trailing banner. The remaining motto:
Veritas,
alone, out of context. Truth in a vacuum.

“Gentlemen,” George said, “we’ve already been through this. And our previous vote was binding. This board may have only a few remaining members following our tragic losses last year, but such a proposal still requires a unanimous vote. And I cannot and will not allow either the motto or the shield to be altered to lessen the cause of Christ just because certain members believe that doing so will advance the cause of business for an already wealthy university. Those who founded the college were very clear about our ultimate goal. Just because you who remain no longer agree with that goal doesn’t mean it should change. Rather, I respectfully submit that
you
should be persuaded to alter your opinions, giving way to the inexorability of the ultimate Truth.” He looked directly at Pike. “Truth … in the cause of Christ. There is no other.”

Pike arched his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and slowly nodded. “Of course we are willing to alter our opinions … and have, my dear boy. Quite often, as a matter of fact. I consider myself to be an open-minded man and am only seeking the ultimate good of the college after all. I am only seeking to apply the business talents for which I was chosen.”

Pike’s fingers played with the silver teaspoon, and George set his jaw and tried to match Pikes patience. With a click, the spoon came to rest again on the table, pointing at George. Pike looked around. “Well, gentlemen, I think we’ve had enough for one day, don’t you? What do you say to reconvening next week? I was not prepared to outline my analysis of the university’s financial situation today, but next week we could revisit—”

“I think not.” George’s voice was sharp. “We’ll wait until our next regularly scheduled meeting, Whelen.” George seethed at the smooth usurpation of his prerogative as chairman. In the next moment he was washed with shame. He was being ruled by pride at Whelen’s tactics, opposing a suggestion simply because of the source. He breathed a silent prayer for forgiveness. Then, looking across the table, added a plea for Whelen Pike and his family.

But he was not inclined to back down, especially when he noted the other board members looking thoughtfully at the man. He lifted the gavel and tapped it on the grand mahogany table. “This meeting—and this debate—is closed, gentlemen. We’ll reconvene in three months’ time.”

Whelen Pike spoke a soft order, and his manservant approached to refill his cup. The servant poured deftly, careful to avoid spilling a drop on the small ribbon-tied package
that sat nearby. He stopped when his master raised a hand and, stepping back in silent deference, returned to his place against the wall.

Whelen raised the cup to his lips, his eyes on the portrait hanging on the opposite wall. The wooden frame was intricately engraved with leaves and branches. The woman’s dark eyes stared into his, their challenge unabated even now so many years after her death.

His lips hardened to a thin line. A torturous death. In the hellfire the hypocrites had accused her of fanning.

Their matriarch should have lived out her life in peace, surrounded by material comforts. Instead, her property had been seized, her family ostracized for generations. That she indeed practiced the dark magic was beside the point. Those who pointed their fingers were no better than she. His fingers tightened on his cup. It had taken them years to come back, and they would not let it slip away. Their mandate would prevail.

He took another sip and closed his eyes. He could feel the vital forces moving, their strength gathering like the thunderclouds. After a long moment of communion, he set the cup on it’s saucer. He gestured with his hand, and his manservant bowed and departed.

Whelen sourly regarded the small stack of papers wrapped in a blue velvet cover and bound with a slender cream ribbon. Back when he was married he had reveled in the accolades of visitors admiring his wife’s eye for detail, her “delightful” adornments to their opulent home. But that was before. He heartily wished he did not have to touch those adornments now.

Best to get it over with, he supposed. Now that she had passed on—he shuddered—to her
reward,
as she had so ridiculously put it, her journal would certainly provide the information he needed. He did not want to wade through pages of sentimental sop, but it would be worth it to find access to the valuable keepsakes she had refused to return.

He pulled the loosely bound pages toward him and opened them at a random spot.

I continue to pray, O my Lord and God that Thou would intervene in this family. Down through the generations break through the darkness and open their eyes just as Thou hast opened mine
.

He slammed the volume shut. Thank the gods the little traitor had not been allowed to raise his son.

Two Weeks Later…

George emerged from the grand house just off the west side of campus, pulling on his leather gloves. A small boy scampered past him and down the steps to the carriage. The
doorman gave a subtle assist as the child clambered inside. The young master didn’t want any help.

George was halfway down the steps when he stopped and hurried back up. Opening the door wide, he pulled his wife to him and planted a firm kiss, then playfully patted her backside. She shooed him back out the door with a smile.

High above, several dark beings followed the carriage, frustrated as the man and his grandson stopped on a few simple errands. They could see a familiar warrior watching over them—the result of his wife’s accursed prayers, no doubt—and several more were always around the university due to the increased warfare over the last few years. Although they were willing to enter direct battle, they preferred to face minimal opposition from the host of heaven. Their support was still too weak. But by direct order, it had to be done today.

Suddenly, their leader came alert and pointed. Their charge was heading for a bridge across the Charles River. Another group of people was strolling across that bridge a few hundred yards ahead enjoying the sunny day. A few boys were jumping on and off the stone railing. The voices of scolding mothers could be heard. With a tight smile the leader barked out his orders.

Heading toward the Anderson bridge, Gael rested a powerful hand on the carriage below him. He had been with this child of God for years on and off and was looking forward to watching the meeting in Boston unfold. He noticed that his charge had his head in his hands, praying for the meeting. Gael joined his prayers, asking God to intervene. He had felt the excitement of the host of heaven when this meeting had been announced; perhaps the tactics of the enemy would soon be countered!

He had barely started praying when he felt a swift, distinctive chill. Gael whipped around, his hand on his sword. Nothing.

He looked ahead at the group of people on the bridge and noticed a commotion. Two children had slipped from a ledge and were dangling above the cold water. Several women were hollering, desperate, leaning far over the verge.

As Gael rose to a better view he could see a skirmish in the air opposite the bridge. Four brilliant warriors were fighting off a second malevolent attempt to yank the children down. The enemy was swarming, suddenly too numerous for the angelic team. The children fell screaming into the water, and Gael reflexively prepared to help his comrades.

Then he stopped, hovering in the air, scarcely breathing. The instinct honed from
eons on the front lines of the Great War was sending an urgent message. He settled to the roof of the swaying carriage, eyes intent. George had seen the fracas on the bridge and was urging the driver forward. Gael turned a full circle, sword unsheathed and held low and ready.

A diversion. Somehow, he was certain.

George stripped off his waistcoat. Through the small front window the driver hollered back that two men had plunged in after the children, who were being swept closer to the opposite shore. The river was swift, and George prayed that God would help him reach them before they were swept from reach.
O God, save those children!
They were scarcely older than his grandson, who had started whimpering as the carriage hurtled toward the bridge.

Gael risked a glance forward—they were almost there, and all attention was focused on the four people in the water. Flashes rose like lightning as the angels fought off the demonic swarm. The other angels were calling for assistance, but Gael didn’t leave the carriage.

ON YOUR GUARD
. The unmistakable voice of the Lord made Gael jump. And something else.

He listened briefly and closed his eyes. The carriage lurched below him, and he could feel the wheels click onto the stone of the bridge. His eyes opened, burning with purpose. Rising to his full height, he spread his wings and raised his sword. The carriage slowed, and George leaned out the door as they swept past, one foot on the running board, calling to the stricken families that he would follow the opposite shore.

From every side, below the bridge and from the air, they attacked. As one, the dark forces turned abruptly from the existing fracas and focused on the carriage. Twenty demons went for Gael and another two for the horse. Gael knew what would happen even as it unfolded: desperate moments fighting an impossibly large ambush, his sword ripping through the demon ranks but not enough, not enough. Huge hands pummeled Gael from every side, swords ripping, pushing him back. He gasped in pain, wings fluttering, trying somehow to reach the front of the carriage, trying to cry for help.

The carriage was moving faster again, picking up speed down the slope, the man of God looking ahead now, still with one foot on the running board, the child wailing inside. In anguish, Gael saw two hulking bodies, faces burning with glee, reach the horse. For just a moment they looked back at him in triumph. Then one plunged his claws deep into the horse’s brain.

Laura Grindley slipped from the richly brocaded stool to the floor. Her breath came out in great ragged sobs. Her son Cleon knelt beside her, holding her, equally overcome. Finally, Cleon looked up at the two men seated on the divan opposite them. One leaned awkwardly over the space between them and placed his hand on Laura’s shoulder. He explained that it had been instantaneous, the moment head hit cobblestone. They were sorry, so sorry. At least somehow, miraculously, Cleon’s son had been saved from the bucking, rampaging carriage. At least he was unhurt. The men on the divan began to pray for the heartbroken wife and son.

A dozen angels stepped out of time, kneeling around the crumpled body of the man of God. The world around them was paused in shadow, the people with half-formed words still on their lips, the crazed horse’s legs pointing at the air. Demonic cheering and celebration could be heard, and the countenances of the massive angels spoke of rigid self-control.

One warrior of very high rank stood to his feet. He spoke a fierce word and pointed an upright hand. The demon forces became suddenly silent in swift retreat.

Gael walked across the bridge toward the group. For a moment he paused in surprise at the presence of the ranking angel, then moved forward and dropped to his knees. He stared at his charge, sorrow glimmering in his eyes.

“I don’t know what the Lord’s plan is this time. Often I do, but this time …” Gael shook his head. “Oh, Petras, we were so excited. And on today of all days.”

“I don’t know what the Master’s plan is either, my friends. But He does all things well, and I’m eager to see what will come, especially since He sent me here. I am sorry for your pain, trusted friend. You served this child of God well. And I know how hard it is to hear the Lord’s voice and be aware that your watch-care is at a sudden end.”

Gael was silent for a moment, then reached out his large hand and laid it on George’s chest. “I have been striving with this godly man’s team for over forty-five years.” He looked up at Petras, and an intent light suddenly shone in his eyes. “But, like you, I have stood and worshiped at the throne of grace for the ages. Worthy is our Master of our praise and our trust.”

“Well said, my friend. Worthy is the Lord; His purposes will prevail!”

A sudden thought hit Gael, and he looked up sharply. “What about his wife? Laura! She’ll be—”

“That is being taken care of. Those in your usual company will minister the Lord’s comfort to her when she learns.” Petras extended his hand to Gael and pulled him to
his feet. “We know that their reunion will be all the more joyous on her appointed day. My friend, you did your part well in this darkening time. And it will be your honor to escort him home.”

For several minutes, Laura struggled to fight her way out of the dark pit. And then she could feel herself being wrapped in arms stronger than any on earth, arms of infinite love and shared grief. She clung to the almost tangible comfort. Her Father understood the boundless pain. After a few moments, her anguished tears settled.