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A Gym Battle and Other Troubles
.
The institution of the Pokemon Gym is perhaps the most controversial out of all the public services offered by the Association. I doubt whether we are sufficiently attentive to the importance of these Gyms in terms of theological importance, but examining the motives for piety in the current world order will help us no more than looking back to the past when there were still Pokemon Gyms. I do not think the philosophical credentials going for or against the establishment of Pokemon Gyms really affected Bronze's pro-League position. This position was based on the need for the success of the Plan and not any real love for the League itself.
Before the Gym's doors was a sign that quoted a silly advertisement of a pleasure cruise, the kind of which Bronze had long been inoculated against. The advertisement said that those who buy tickets for this cruise will go "across the Western Ocean where Elwin of Hisui once went," "adventuring after the treasures of the Undying Lands", and bringing home themselves also a "treasure" of "golden hours" and "glowing colors". It was a bad bit of writing, of course: a venal and bathetic exploitation of those emotions of awe and pleasure that men feel in visiting places that have striking associations with history or legend.
"They ought to stop putting signs like that there," said Bronze.
"Why?" said Jake. "Because it's foolish? That the treasures are metaphorical and that they really won't go where Elwin went?"
"That when recognizing that it is foolish, a boy will learn quickly enough, and perhaps indelibly, the belief that all emotions aroused by local association are in themselves contrary to reason and contemptible. He will have no notion that there are two ways of being immune to such an advertisement — that it falls equally flat on those who are above it and those who are below it, on the man of real sensibility and on the mere trousered ape who has never been able to conceive the Great Western Sea as anything more than so many million tons of cold salt water. A boy will be encouraged to reject the lure of the 'Western Ocean' on the very dangerous ground that in so doing he will prove himself a knowing fellow who can't be bubbled out of his cash."
"Bronze, most people would never think such a thing. You would, but not others. No sense worrying about it."
"Spare me!" cried Bronze. "You know to put up with my criticism of contemporary society. Most are too foolish to see the proper way of writing those descriptions: how better authors elicit the same feeling with different words."
They came to a place inside the building where a lobby was spread before a single reception desk. Just as Bronze reached it a woman came out of a bathroom, cut across his path, and then took his arm. He was so close to her that, despite the dim lights, he saw her very clearly, in isolation from all other objects: the background was all grey walls and passing feet and the harsh sounds of that unaccustomed traffic which never ceased in Silvent. It was Erika, the inquisitor against Emrett.
She would have known Bronze, anywhere: not Samuel Oak's face, not her own face in a mirror, was by now more familiar. The Association had shown her image after image. She remembered him as he stood against Emrett: Emrett, with the black hair, the magician's robes, the face that somehow reminded her of a waxwork face. She had no need to think what she would do when she saw Bronze. Her body, walking quickly past, seemed of itself to have decided that it was heading for the boy and thence for Logaria itself. Bronze's face was something different from Emrett's; one caused a feeling she would never be able to describe and the other something apart from fear (though she was frightened of Emrett too, almost to the point of nausea) that drove her so unerringly forward to stand against the Eclipse sorcerer. It was a total rejection of, or revulsion from, Emrett on all levels of her being at once. Dreams sank into insignificance compared with the blinding reality of the fallen man's presence. She shuddered to think that he would have talked to her further.
"Erika?" said Bronze in surprise. "But what is this!"
"You know already that you are in danger," she said. "I come with help from the Association. There are still a few enemies of Team Eclipse, those savages, those man-eaters, that will destroy the entire world."
"Then, my lady," said Bronze, "if it is help you offer, then please, reveal whatever it is. But if my aid is required in return, then know that I cannot do much, for my Pokemon is still small and I am by myself only one Rorian boy and a dagger."
"This gift is not in counsel," said Erika. She gave him a Poke Ball. "Take it! Do you think that you will overthrow the might of the Eclipse Alliance with one Pokemon, or defeat the Gym Leaders alone?"
"I do not," replied Bronze. "But lady, the Pokemon I would take should be on my own time and choosing."
"Scorn not help given from a true heart!" said Erika. "Here is an Electabuzz of Kanto, trained in the laboratories of the Association in the practices of ancient days. My command was to bring it to you."
"I cannot believe that the Chairman would send such a precious thing to me by having it go with one woman, no matter how skilled, on the off-chance that she might encounter me."
"We knew where you were," said Erika. "I came to this Gym because I expected you would come. I was trailing you at the rally. Could it not have been a more subtle meeting, you say? I fear not. There are Eclipse spies in the Association everywhere. They are looking for you; they have you pinned down but cannot yet discern where exactly you are in Silvent. How would they look for a Pokemon being sent to you? Through the Storage System or the Postal Service. It would be folly to them that a Gym Leader should come and bring it. Well, let that folly be a veil, I say! A veil against the eyes of Team Eclipse."
"My lady," said Bronze, "why do you think that Team Eclipse is my enemy?"
"We already know about your encounter in Cheshma. Linda has been taken, questioned, and reprocessed, but we do not know if she is dead."
"But why did you come here and not the Elactabuzz's trainer?"
To this Erika sang:
...
"Tri martolod yaouank,
Tri martolod yaouank i vonet da veajiñ!
E vonet da veajiñ, gê!
E vonet da veajiñ!
Gant 'n avel bet kaset,
Gant 'n avel bet kaset beteg an Logaria!
Beteg an Logaria gê!
Beteg an Logaria!
E-kichen mein ar veilh,
E-kichen mein ar veilh o deus mouilhet o eorioù!
Hag e-barzh ar veilh-se,
Hag e-barzh ar veilh-se e oa ur servijourez!
Pelec'h on-oa konesañs, gê?
Pelec'h on-oa konesañs?
En Taurlonde er marc'had,
En Taurlonde er marc'had on-oa choajet ur walenn!"
...
Bronze saw that she was speaking in the old Rorian style, in which the speaker would mix many different tongues amid their speech, slipping from one to the other in song or discourse as the talking went on or turned to different purposes. Erika's words were in a tongue that a few thousand Rorians spoke near the Havens of Rosecove City (where the Water-type Gym was), a melding of Old Rorian and whispered influences from the fantasy-land of Galar said to dwell in the Western Sea, though it was only an old Logarian cradle-myth.
He sang back in the proper speech. Keep in mind that Southernesse is Logaria and Taurlonde is Rosecove.
...
"Three young sailors, three young sailors went traveling!
Went traveling! Went traveling!
And the wind pushed them, the wind pushed them to Southernesse!
All the way to Southernesse! All the way to Southernesse!
Next to the windmill stone, next to the windmill stone, they dropped anchor!
They dropped anchor! They dropped anchor!
And in that windmill, and in that windmill was a servant girl!
There was a servant girl! There was a servant girl!
And she asked me, and she asked me where we met!
Where have we met before? Where have we met before?
In Taurlonde at the market, in Taurlonde at the market, we chose a ring!"
...
"However far I test you my doubt finds no place to stand on," said Erika. "You would only know that song if you really were as they say you are."
"And what do they say I am, lady?"
All the light in the room seemed to run towards the dark hair and dark eyes of the boy. The light of the eyes with their strong reflection and the gloss of the hair with its weaker reflection contended in Erika's eyes. Suddenly she realized that he was not a boy—how could she have thought it so? The fresh skin on his forehead and cheeks and on his hands had suggested the idea. But no boy could have so full a voice or a glance so strong. For an instant she saw in him the figures of the old Logarian Emperors as they stood in splendor, carved in stone and porphyry. Yet his head had all the power of life and seemed full of light. Bronze, if he had sat at this solemn moment, resembled the kings in those old tales who were flesh above and marble below.
"They say you are an Emperor. I do not know how this could be true. Did you know this?"
"Yes," said Bronze, in the tone one uses for tenderness.
"Then I will leave," said Erika. It was the tone of austerity that answered the tone of mild severity. "Do not thank me too much. All I did was give you one Pokemon."
"More than that," said Bronze. "It is a good thing to know that the Association is watching over my path. But I have a question. What of Cypress? Is he unharmed?"
"Cypress is alive and with the Rorian Chairman. He is trying to help you."
"I was worried," said Bronze. How had that man escaped the Eclipse operatives? He did know the land better than they, surely, though it was still a surprising revelation, like when a perception that a man has is suddenly torn away. "It's about time that I got this Gym done and over with."
"How can you be sure of victory?" said Jake.
"I am more sure of it than anything," replied Bronze.
They had all been talking in low voices and the hum of the air conditioning was now the loudest sound, for the traffic seemed to be stopping. Cautiously, like troops who fear the eye of the enemy, they began to skirt back to the reception desk. Erika turned away from the boys and proceeded out the door.
Moments later, though Bronze could not remember asking for admission, two attendants made themselves known and brought him to the swinging metal door that led to the Gym Arena. He thought that they were sent by Erika, but ever after he would never know.
...
The Gym room, at first sight, was an anticlimax. It appeared to be an empty committee room with a long table, eight or nine chairs, some pictures, and (oddly enough) a large step-ladder in one corner. Here also there were no windows; it was lit by an electric light which produced, better than Bronze had ever seen it produced before, the illusion of daylight—of a cold, grey place out of doors. This, combined with the absence of a fireplace or heater, made it seem chilly though the temperature was not in fact very low.
There were also pictures. Some of them belonged to a school of art with which he was already familiar. There was a portrait of a young woman who held her mouth wide open to reveal the fact that the inside of it was thickly overgrown with hair. It was very skilfully painted in a photographic manner so that you could almost feel that hair: indeed you could not avoid feeling it however hard you tried. There was a giant mantis playing a fiddle while being eaten by another mantis, and a man with corkscrews instead of arms bathing in a flat, sadly colored sea beneath a summer sunset.
He turned his back on the surrealist pictures and sat down. Soon he became aware of subtle vibrations in the room. He guessed they were coming from below; there was a nightclub that operated beneath the Gym which the Leader was the owner and proprietor of. The apparent lyrics were surely something profane and Bronze thought that the music was some kind of stripped-down infrablack hop. It had not only been the clothing styles of the day the Eclipse Alliance had gotten their hands into. Bronze thought that the composers of such noise, if he could call them composers in the classical sense, were insane. He did not know that the definition he had hitherto applied to "insanity" was seldom anymore applicable.
Soon the Gym Leader joined him. Gabe was a fast man of thirty, and well-preserved. He noticed that Bronze's ten-or-so minutes in the long, high coffin of a room had not had the effect he desired or anticipated. The very painted perversity of the room was designed to put off the challengers. All this did with Bronze was to rub his lifelong desire for the esoteric, and make him increasingly aware of what was the room's opposite. As the desert first teaches men to love water, or as absence first reveals affection, there rose up against this background of the sour and the crooked some kind of vision of the sweet and the straight.
"Challenger, I will tell you the rules," said Gabe. "Do not gain any impression that these are particularly objective. As a Gym Leader I am allowed by the Association to do whatever I feel with the part of the Challenge I represent. I must be fair and impartial, of course."
"Does the Association know about this room?" said Bronze. "Is it in your interest to scare away underage contenders?"
"There are no underage contenders in Roria," said Gabe. "Save you, who are green as grass, boy. Today two challengers came through. I beat one and lost to the other. A fair fifty-fifty wager. The one I defeated was nothing but a churl. The other was a mercenary from the southern coasts. I expect to make short work of you. Ah! I am even feeling generous. If all your Pokemon can defeat even one of mine, I will give you the badge."
"That is much to give me," said Bronze, "that I should earn so easily what others have worked harder for."
"It will be," said Gabe, "but only if you win. Stand up, now; move away from the table."
Thereupon, Gabe climbed the step-ladder and opened a panel on the wall that was there. He pressed a button and climbed down. At that the table sunk lower and lower into the floor like a street-bound drunkard into his bottle. The chairs went with the table and the whole plaz surface of the floor covered them. The irregular shape of the room soon resolved itself into being entirely square as the walls shifted. On both sides it now resembled an arena.
Gabe sent out a Manectric. Bronze saw that it was a contemptuous creature that gave blind obedience to those above it and bullied those beneath it. I do not remember how long it took me to get all in order, but mostly I had already prepared. I went with Charmander first.
...
I am not a Pokemon and cannot describe how a Move is performed. The experts say that it is accomplished through an exertion of Willpower, with fists and jaw clenched and eyes steely. The Move itself is anomalous, composed of energy which itself is sourced out of microscopic dimensional rifts that lead to Movespace. It is said that whatever scientist named the realm was too tired to entertain a better name. The existence of this dimension was unknown at the time of this story, and it was assumed that the energy floated up, pell-mell and confused, into the Seen World whenever a Pokemon performed a Move. Further research proved necessary in cynically eliminating this assumption, though I question whether that world-breaking discovery was really motivated by scientific desire, a good and beneficial thing in itself, or rebellion against Arceus.
Charmander's blows came first. They were too quick, too wild, too eager. Bronze had only been a few practice battles with Jake and its desire for other foes was now very strong. This overmastered Bronze's strategy: he knew if Charmander's caution was removed, then its disciplined opponent would win.
That is what happened. Manectric treated the attack with indifference, and perhaps a little respect, before dispatching its enemy with one clawed stroke. Charmander lay unconscious and breathing heavily. Bronze had never seen it listless before: the silence was like the quiet of a gutted house.
A quarter of a minute later Bronze sent out Electabuzz. Three times Manectric left its defensive position to attack, but each time it was beaten back. Electabuzz was stoked with anger, but Manectric was older and more guileful. Bronze had been thinking about this for a while. He saw, so it seemed, a huge road that led into the abyss of history. The desire and the inhibition for victory were now both very strong. Sometimes his mind wandered in fear from the battle and once he nearly lost focus. In the end he got down on his knees in a stress position. He saw that Manectric was slowing.
Bronze was a ranged specialist, and felt the effects of this. The foundation of this wonderful trainer was the man who said that one projectile could defeat six Pokemon. All his current plans of battle were arranged for projectiles. The key to his victory was to make the desperate munitions converge on one point. He treated the strategy of the hostile trainer like a citadel, and made a breach in it. He overwhelmed the weak point with melee skirmishing; he joined and dissolved battles from far-away. There was something of the sharpshooter in his genius. To beat in squares, to pulverize Pokemon, to break lines, to crush and disperse masses; for him everything lay in this, to strike, strike, strike incessantly, and he intrusted this task to ranged Moves. A redoubtable method, and one which, united with genius, rendered this gloomy athlete of the pugilism of battle invincible for the space of fifteen years. First, he needed to break his enemy.
"Cut up its legs!" Bronze cried.
Electabuzz dived low and struck out at Manectric's paws with razor-sheened fangs. It was too late for any swift feint on Menactric's part to escape. It was now half blind with rage and pain, and also very weary with battle, whereas Electabuzz was Associaton-trained and was fresh and fell and full of power. Soon Manectric made a great lunging bite with all its strength that remained, but Electabuzz darted aside and kicked its foe's head, so that the fangs splintered on the plazcrete where it had stood, but Manectric stumbled forward. Then Electabuzz with a swift swing hewed its neck with a charged claw-strike. The skin of the Manectric was tough and withstood the blow, but the shock was so heavy that Manectric twitched and fell fainted.
...
That was how the battle was won. In victory Bronze praised Arceus with this song, according the Rorian custom:
...
"Oh Arceus the Son, when you were laid in a tomb,
The heavenly soldiers were amazed and praised your descent.
For He was alive when he tasted Death.
He freed people from Death and has given to life to everyone
A stream of water flowed around Him
If we drink from it, it will give us eternal life."
...
"Why do you sing?" asked Gabe. "No one has sung such a thing, whether in victory and defeat, as long as I can remember."
"It's an old tradition," said Bronze. "Would you like to hear the original Logarian?"
"No, but I will give you your badge." The token had a blue center like sapphire, but opposed to each other at the center's rim were wings of golden thunder. Immediately when Bronze touched it the core flashed. It had registered his genetic profile and would be trackable and inadmissible if stolen. The new badge system had been introduced after the attack by Ho-Oh and Lugia on the Johto Pokemon League well over fifteen years before, certainly beyond Bronze's birth. A one Pokedex Holder Silver had stolen eight badges with his Sneasel and gained admission due to the administration's incompetent examination. He might have fought against the Masked Man but was also a wanted criminal, and soon the World Chairman made serious reforms to the security of the League.
Such dealings in defeat were grievous to Gabe, and he rued some of the harsh words he had spoken. He said that he had misjudged. With this Bronze left, and though he would see Gabe again, and there would be cordial relations between them, it would never become a strong friendship.
...
Bronze left the Gym and he and Jake made plans for their journey to Brimber. A minute after he was gone a motor van came into sight. It was driven by a man in the livery of the Eclipse Alliance and another man in the same dress sat beside him.
"Hello, I say," said the second man. "Pull up, Sid. They said he would be here."
"What?" said the driver.
"Haven't you got your eyes in your head? The Gym is right there."
"Oh, God!" said Sid. "Len, there's nothing there but a big pile of garbage. I say, they have poor sanitation in this city."
"Get on," said Len. "The Gym is in front of us!"
"We haven't got no real orders."
"No. But we failed to find that blasted kid. None of the other scouts have seen anything. We did our best. Never been told so many lies in one morning of my life. Gym here, they say. But it ain't there."
"Course this isn't our fault. But the Big Bosses won't take no notice of that. It's find the Gym and the target or punishment."
"I wish I knew what the hell to do," spat Len. "Anyway, what's the good of wrangling some teen?"
Sid sat in the driving seat, sitting still for a few seconds. By now both he and Len saw nothing but a great refuse heap in a wide alley between two buildings. Both were muttering "Christ" at various intervals. Then Sid started the engine up and drove away.
...
In order to understand why these two men were so fooled it is necessary to dip into the Unseen World. The New Agers call the Spirit World, though it is an incorrect assumption that only immaterial can exist there. There are beings that can dwell in both flesh and spirit at once. Still in those days some gods still defended the Light, the chief foes of the Enemy from older days, lords of Deep Heaven from beyond the farthest reaches of the Solar System. They fight evil spirits, and do not fear them, for these gods that have dwelled on earth and in the presence of Arceus live at once in both realms, and within the Seen world and Unseen world they have great power. These gods the Hisuians and Logarians called Elohim. The Arceans call them angels.
Three of these gods moved swiftly, unfaltering, passing through the main part of Silvent at a brisk pace. Their final destination was a mile past the center of town, right on Poplar Street, and up to the top of Ruthford Hill about a half mile. Practically no time at all had passed before they stood before the little white church on its postage-stamp lot, with its well-groomed lawn and dainty service billboard. Across the top of the little billboard was the name "Western Silvent Community Arcean Church," and in black letters hastily painted over whatever name used to be there it said, "Gabriel Kandar, Pastor."
The three visitors did not perceive with eyes only. Even from this vantage point the true substratum of the earth weighed very heavily upon their spirits and minds. All the world was swallowed in one present darkness. They could feel it: restless, strong, growing, very designed and purposeful, something that they had not fought for years beyond memory. Stirrings in the Enemy's House Below all but confirmed the intelligence they had been given by Arceus: the Evil Djinn was growing in strength.
It was not unlike any of them to ask questions, to study, to probe. More often than not it came with their job. So they naturally hesitated in their business, pausing to wonder why they were not watchcaring over Bronze. They had already cast a spell of dumbness over the scouts that had come to the Gym looking for him. This moment of reflection lasted only for an instant. It could have been some acute sensitivity, an instinct, a very faint but discernible impression, but it was enough to make them both instantly vanish around the corner of the church, melding themselves against the beveled siding, almost invisible there in the dark. They didn't speak, they didn't move, but they watched with a piercing gaze as something approached.
The twilight scene of the quiet street was a collage of stark blue moonlight and bottomless shadows. But one shadow did not stir with the wind as did the tree shadows, and neither did it stand still as did the building shadows. It crawled, quivered, moved along the street toward the church, while any light it crossed seemed to sink into its blackness. But this shadow had a shape, an animated, membranous shape, and as it neared the church sounds could be heard: the scratching of claws along the ground, the faint rustling of breeze-blown, carapace-laden wings wafting just above the creature's shoulders.
It had arms and it had legs, but it seemed to move without them, crossing the street and mounting the front steps of the church. Its leering, bulbous eyes reflected the stark blue light of the full moon with their own jaundiced glow. The gnarled head protruded from hunched shoulders, and wisps of rancid red breath seethed in labored hisses through rows of jagged fangs.
It either laughed or it coughed—the wheezes puffing out from deep within its throat could have been either. From its crawling posture it reared up on its legs and looked about the quiet neighborhood, the black, leathery jowls pulling back into a hideous death-mask grin. It moved toward the front door. The black hand passed through the door like a spear through liquid; the body hobbled forward and penetrated the door, but only halfway.
Suddenly, as if colliding with a speeding wall, the creature was knocked backward and into a raging tumble down the steps, the glowing red breath tracing a corkscrew trail through the air.
With an eerie cry of rage and indignation, it gathered itself up off the sidewalk and stared at the strange door that would not let it pass through. Then the membranes on its back began to billow, enfolding great bodies of air, and it flew with a roar headlong at the door, through the door, into the foyer—and into a cloud of white-hot light. It was like a star had descended from the heavens into the firmament, searing the air in its glory.
The creature screamed, its insides in agony, wracked by internal blasts of lightning, and covered its eyes; then felt itself being grabbed by a huge, powerful vise of a hand. In an instant it was hurling through space like a rag doll, outside again, forcefully ousted.
The wings hummed in a blur as it banked sharply in a flying turn and headed for the door again, red vapors chugging in dashes and streaks from its nostrils, its talons bared and poised for attack, a ghostly siren of a scream rising in its throat. Like an arrow through a target, like a bullet through a board, it streaked through the door.
Instantly it felt a cold blade pierce its vitals. It beat the air with its arms, heedless in pain, and gave a death-pang. There was an explosion of suffocating vapor, one final scream, and the flailing of withering arms and legs. Then there was nothing at all except the ebbing stench of sulfur and the three gods, suddenly inside the church.
Cobalion replaced a Sacred Sword as the white light that surrounded him faded away.
"A spirit of harassment?" he asked.
"Or doubt and fear," said Virizion. "I guess that our skill has not wholly left us."
"And that was one of the smaller ones," said Terrakion. "I've not seen one smaller. What evil that moves through the Earth waxes daily."
"No indeed," said Cobalion. "And just how many would you say there are?"
"More, much more than we," said Terrakion. "And never idle, crawling everywhere. All the power of the Dark Lord is in motion for the End of Days. But even now he is weak, a sliver escaped from a weakening cage. I fear that our doom will be near if he escapes and regains much of the power that he lost."
"So I've seen," said Cobalion, sighing.
"But what are they doing here?" said Virizion. "We've never seen such concentration before, not here. Not since the days of the War of Wrath have the spawn of the Evil Djinn walked abroad so freely."
"Oh, the reason won't be hidden for long." Cobalion looked through the foyer doors and toward the sanctuary. "Let's see this man of Arceus."
They turned from the door and walked through the small foyer. The bulletin board on the wall carried requests for groceries for a needy family, some baby-sitting, and prayer for a sick missionary. A large bill announced a congregational business meeting for next Friday. On the other wall, the record of weekly offerings indicated the offerings were down from last week; so was the attendance, from sixty-one to forty-two.
Down the short and narrow aisle they went, past the orderly ranks of dark-stained plank and slat pews, toward the front of the sanctuary where one small spotlight illumined a rustic two-by-four cross hanging above the baptistry. In the center of the worn-carpeted platform stood the little sacred desk, the pulpit, with a Hisuian Coda laid open upon it. These were humble furnishings, functional but not at all elaborate, revealing either humility on the part of the people or neglect.
Then the first sound was added to the picture: a soft, muffled sobbing from the end of the right pew. There, kneeling in earnest prayer, his head resting on the hard wooden bench, and his hands clenched with fervency, was a young man, very young, Cobalion thought at first: young and awfully vulnerable in the eyes of the trio of gods. It all showed in his countenance, now the very picture of pain, grief, and love. His lips moved without sound as names, petitions, and praises poured forth with passion and tears.
The three could not help but just stand there for a moment, watching, studying, pondering. "The little warrior," said Virizion.
Terrakion formed the words himself in silence, looking down at the contrite man in prayer. "Yes," he observed, "this is the one. Even now he's interceding, standing before Arceus for the sake of the people, for the nation, the world. Almost every night he comes here."
"He is not so small, is he?" said Virizion.
"But he is the only one. He is alone," said Cobalion. "That hideous strength has taken all the rest."
"No." Terrakion shook his huge head. "There are others. There are always others. They just have to be found. For now, his single, vigilant prayer is the beginning."
"He will not survive the war, most likely," said Cobalion.
"He must. So will Bronze. So will we."
"But will we win, indeed?" said Virizion.
Cobalion eyes burned. "We will find no help in Men. This is one among many of the dying Arceans: most are dead or faithless. Some have even been digested into the dark power. I am weary of these mortal lands. Did we love them to our own ruin? Till our task is complete, and the Enemy is overthrown forever and the Last Battle and Day of Doom come, we cannot return to Deep Heaven. The Blessed Land is fading, fading across the sea." His voice was sad like the sadness of an iron blade left rusting in the snow.
"But we will fight," said Terrakion.
"We will fight," Virizion agreed.
They stood over the kneeling warrior, on either side; and at that moment, little by little, like the bloom of a flower, white light began to fill the room. It illuminated the cross on the back wall, slowly brought out the colors and grain in every plank of every pew, and rose in intensity until the once plain and humble sanctuary came alive with an unearthly beauty. The walls glimmered, the worn rugs glowed, the little pulpit stood tall and stark as a sentinel backlit by the sun.
And now the three gods were brilliantly white, their former bodies transfigured by a holy light that seemed to burn with intensity. Their faces were bronzed and glowing, their eyes shone like fire, and each had a glistening golden sword that came from their brows. They placed their heads near the shoulders of the young man and then, like a gracefully spreading canopy, silken, shimmering, nearly transparent membranes began to unfurl from their backs and shoulders and rise to meet and overlap above their heads, gently undulating in a keen wind from Otherworld.
Together they ministered peace to their young charge, and his many tears began to subside.
...
Soon the young man, who was sixty-two years old, but younger than a babe to the three great archons, stood up. He pushed a little more dust and dirt down the center aisle until he stepped into a beam of light coming through a stained glass window. The air felt warm on his back and brought him comfort, as if it were the Original One's hand resting on his shoulders. From this spot he could look up at the carved wooden Arcean knot, the shape of the rings of Arceus, hanging above the altar. He caught the gaze of the maimed figure of Arceus, representing the Passion that He had gone through during the Incarnation at the Temple of Hisui.
He liked to think that Arceus was happy with him. He considered himself happy enough with Arceus, except for one thing, one minor grief he had to carry as he moved slowly down the center aisle pushing his prayers. He couldn't help wishing that Arceus would pay a little attention to his arthritis. It used to flare up occasionally; now it was only on occasion that it didn't. He was ashamed to think such a thought, but he kept on thinking it anyway: Here I am serving the Original One, but He keeps letting it hurt. His hands throbbed, his feet ached. His knuckles cried out no matter which way he gripped the ground. He was never one to complain, but today, he almost felt like crying from it.
"I don't want to complain," he said. Already he felt he was overstepping his bounds. "But what harm would it do? What difference would it make in this whole wide world if one little man didn't have so much pain?" It occurred to the man that he'd addressed Arceus in anger. Ashamed, he looked away from those gazing wooden eyes. But the eyes drew him back, and for a strange illusory moment they seemed alive, mildly scolding, but mostly showing compassion as a father would show a child with a scraped knee. Sunlight from another window brought out a tiny sparkle in the corner of the eyes, and the man had to smile. He could almost imagine the eyes were alive with wet tears.
The sparkle grew, spreading from the corners of the eyes and reaching along the lower eyelids.
The man looked closer. Where was the light coming from that could produce such an effect? He looked above and to the right. It had to be coming through that row of small windows near the ceiling. To think he'd been attending this church for so many years and never noticed this before. It looked just as if it was crying.
A tear rose over the edge of the eyelid and dropped onto the wooden cheek, tracing a thin wet trail down the face and to the bottom of Arceus's head.
The man stared, frozen, his mind stuck between seeing and believing. He felt no sense of awe, no overshadowing spiritual presence. He heard no angelic choir singing in the background. All he knew was that he was watching a wooden image shed tears as he stood there dumbly.
Then his first coherent thought finally came to him. I have to get up there. Yes, that was the thing to do; that would settle it. He hurried as fast as the pain in his feet would allow him and brought a ladder from his storeroom in the back. Pausing before the altar to bless himself, he stepped around the altar and carefully leaned the ladder against the wall. Every climbing step brought a sharp complaint from his feet, but he gritted his teeth, grimaced, and willed himself up the ladder until he came eye to eye, level to level with the carved face.
His eyes had not been playing tricks on him. The face, far smaller than life-size, was wet. He looked above to see if there was a leak in the ceiling but saw no sign of a stain or drip. He leaned close to study the image for any sign of a device or some kind of trickery. Nothing.
He reached, then hesitated from the very first twinge of fear. Just what was he about to touch? Dear Lord, don't hurt me. He reached again, shakily extending his hand until his fingertips brushed across the wet trail of the tears.
He felt a tingling, like electricity, and jerked his hand away with a start. It wasn't painful, but it scared him, and his hand began to quiver. Electric sensations shot up his arm like countless little bees swarming in his veins. He let out a quiet little yelp, then gasped, then yelped again as the sensation flowed across his shoulders, around his neck, down his spine. He grabbed the ladder and held it tightly, afraid he would topple off.
A strong grip. A grip without pain. He stared at his hand. The vibration buzzed, and swirled under his skin, through his knuckles, across his palms, through his wrists. He tightened his grip, tightened it again, held on with one hand while he opened and closed the other, wiggling and flexing the fingers.
The pain was gone. His hands were strong. The current rushed down his legs, making his nerves tingle and his muscles twitch. He hugged the ladder, his hands glued to the rungs, a cry bouncing off the wall only inches from his nose. He was shaking, afraid he would fall. He cried out, gasped, trembled, cried out again.
The electricity, the sensation, whatever it was, enveloped his feet and his screams of joy echoed through the building.
Somewhere in Silvent City the Swords of Justice were fighting in the dark so that the light might win. Their young charge himself was not wholly oblivious to their presence. The dim consciousness of friends about Bronze which had haunted his solitudes from infancy was explained in the Arcean doctrine of guardian angels; that central music in every pure experience which had always just evaded memory was caused by spirits from the Original One.