A.C.

Part 1

"My Lord! My God!"

The scream, a deep-throated death roar, rattled Byron as the volume of those four little words echoed off the drab painted walls of the little room he occupied with the others. Byron felt a cold shiver rush down his spine as the muscles tighten at the rear of his neck. Instinctively, the priest brought his Bible around in front of him, gripping it tightly in both hands, the knuckles turning white with the effort applied.

A loud thud could be heard coming from beside him and Byron knew that his once good friend, Richard, had fallen to the floor, the sounds of his softly murmured prayer came to him from the floor.

"Father God, Whom art in Heaven, I come onto thee a humble servant…"

Richard's low whispered voice was soon swallowed by the deep gravelly voice of the much larger Bishop Martin as the vocalizations of his prayer came out in an indecipherable tongue of his own personal prayer language. Soon the whispering prayers of others joined in. But Byron suspected most, like him, stood silently. Some may have closed their eyes, but he could not, they were transfixed on the closed wooden door that separated their little room from his.

A barrier that separated them… him… from witnessing whatever torment was being suffered by the one that brought them together.

The second scream came as suddenly as the first, as a feeling of horror and anguish flowed out from that restraining portal. When the tormented words to his God reached Byron's ears, he found himself suddenly upon his knees, an old childhood prayer bubbling up through his throat, trained over his tongue and parsed between his lips.

"Our Father, Whom art in Heaven, Hollowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done…"


Autumn broke with two weeks of bitter cold air coming in from the north across the border. Today though, the slight breeze, though still coming from the north, brought with it a bit of warmth. Byron knew the proprietor of the tailor shop. Both the owner and his wife attended the Spanish services at the same church where he was a junior pastor. But on this Tuesday, husband and wife were both away, leaving their son, a very nice young man that Byron had not seen in the chapel for quite some time, in charge of the business.

The gentleman recognized the preacher as soon as he walked in and after a few vulgar word, directed towards his parents for trapping him there, escaped his mouth before his good business sense overcame his slight anger and he greeted the pastor warmly. After a quick check on Byron's order, and confirmation that his suit would be ready by Friday, the pastor was able to quickly guide their conversation towards the younger man's salvation.

The owner's son was a good man at heart and he understood that belief in Jesus was necessary for his salvation. But like many he was confused with the call of God and a commitment to The Body of Christ. This was becoming a common problem, and not just with the younger generation. It seemed as if both young and old alike were falling away from this church or that church. The rising economy, the unstable market, the war and the bad new from the world in general made these confusing times. And with all the uncertainty, Byron thought that the solidness brought by God would draw many to the temple doors. This was one of the main reasons that Byron's church had converted over to non-denominational. With sermons held four times on Sunday, twice in English, once in Spanish and again in Korean, their attendance at one time soared. But now the congregations were beginning to once again dwindle, almost as fast as they had originally risen.

Salvation was becoming a very tricky business, Satan was a very powerful adversary and man was falling more and more unto himself. But Salvation was Byron's job, and he liked nothing better then the warm feelings he received while performing his God appointed mission. A warmth he was now feeling as he impressed upon the young store attendant the worries of his parents and extracted a promise that he would join them come next Sunday. Then while he was reaching for his credit card and receipt, his jacket pocket erupted into praise.

"Praise The Lord! Praise The Lord! Praise The Lord!"

Deafly, with his left hand, Byron retrieved the singing device out of his right pocket and with a practice motion flipped open the little handset. Still holding both card and receipt he stole a quick glance at the little lighted screen and saw a name that momentarily froze his world.

'Richard'