The Stranger

The Stranger





By

James. A. Hall




The scout motioned from up ahead, and the armed team forged up the winding trail. Though carrying a wounded comrade, their movements were stealth-like. A deep sable sky offered a pale moon and steady wind rattled the trees and combed back the tall grass.

A force of twenty paused near the top of the hill, in sight of a pasty old edifice. Their eyes scanned the stylishly detailed windows for the subtlest of movements. Their ears sifted the light breeze for even a whisper. Keeping formation, they moved like phantoms to the side entrance of the safe house.

Strategically spaced, the motley-attired team entered the house. By unit, they searched the cobwebbed and splintered old mansion. Their blue laser beams of light crisscrossed the darkness like the light sabers. With the house swept clean, their movements became relaxed.

The kalunking of their heavy boots against the hardwood floors resonated throughout the ground floor. The house was empty except for a few sticks of dusty furniture, which seemed as out place in the elegant old manor as sandwiches at an opera.

The group, in workman-like fashion, fortified the windows with wooden planks and bolted the doors with 2x4s’. With the points of entry sealed, they spread out their backpacks, weapons and sleeping bags over the ballroom floor.

Finally, their wounded comrade was bedded down upstairs, the fireplace was lit and supper was prepared. Rations consisted of stale bread, vegetable broth, and water. Tristan, tall, blond, and strapping, paced while the others ate. He was also the only one still holding on to his weapon. Twice he peeked through the firing slits in the planks.

“Monroe, after you and Mooch finish, I need you to get upstairs and relieve Lee and Asija. They need to get some of this chow. Monroe, a pit bull of a man, threw down the last of his meal and rose from the floor.

“Tristan, maybe we shouldn’t stay the night,” whined Monroe. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Monroe, we’ll be fine here. Besides, we got a wounded man.”

“But, Monrovia’s secret police have killed or captured everyone associated with the underground. If the police can’t get them to give us up, there’s Monrovia. Some say that she can read minds.”

“If she could read minds, don’t you think her assassins would’ve been waiting for us when we arrived,” answered Tristan. Tristan’s response left Monroe scratching his head.

“Monroe, it’s going to be okay,” interrupted Isabella. Monrovia’s surveillance crafts and spy cams will locate us before she has to call on her telepathic powers.” Monroe, face stoic, searched Isabella’s face. Realizing that she was joining, Monroe belted out a hearty laugh. The others soon joined him.

Isabella was a stunning beauty with a long, dark tress that she wore in ponytail. Her velvety soft skin was the color of the Sahara and her eyes were as soothing as a summer drizzle. Isabella was peculiar mixture of tomboy and Sunday school teacher. Still chuckling, Monroe motioned to Mooch to follow him upstairs. Tristan and Isabella exchanged long glances before Tristan grabbed up a bowl of broth and sat down to eat.

After the fire died down, the group bedded down for the night. Suddenly, a tapping sound, mimicking the cadence of a dripping faucet, pieced the sack time chatter. Sitting up, they stared at each other. Then, just like that, the sound was gone. But, before they could relax back into their calm uneasiness, there it was again. The group sprang to their feet, clutching their weapons.

Tristan gestured with his weapon in the direction of the dinning room. By candlelight, Tristan crept across the room, snatching up a flashlight as he went. The others followed, spread out behind him. Stopping just short of the doorway, Tristan pointed to Lee and Asija, who had just descended the stairs and was closest to the connecting door. Tristan silently counted to three, and he, Lee and Asija charged the room, the muzzles of their guns casting blue shafts of light.

The room was still more shadow than substance. No one had spotted the blanketed shape occupying the far corner. Isabella then entered with a large candle, peeling back the shadows.

“It would seem that we have a guest,” Tristan whispered, moving on the balls of his feet toward the threat. Guns pointed, the group closed in.

“Whoever you are, show yourself. You have nothing to fear from us.” As they closed in, it became apparent that it wasn’t a blanket at all, but someone clothed in a hooded robe. “Trent, you and De Andre have a look outside,” ordered Tristan. “And, tell Monroe to keep his eyes open.”

Tristan had inched to within arms distance as the others fanned out to the sides. Just as he was about to reach out and prod the robe with the nose of his weapon, it moaned to life. The stranger, still shrouded, attempted to stand. After several tries, the intruder lapsed back against the wall.

“I think he’s hurt,” said Lee.

“Maybe he’s wounded,” posed Asija.

“He’s not hurt or wounded, you dopes,” Isabella insisted. “Can’t you see he’s just an old man?” There was a collective sigh as their automatic weapons descended to their sides. Isabella pushed pass Tristan and the others and went and kneeled down beside the stranger. “No one is going to hurt you. Are you able to talk? The men nodded and slowly removed his hood.

His skin was chestnut-brown, and his hair cloud white.

“Well, what are all you gawking at?” asked Isabella. “You act like you’ve never seen an old man. Come; let’s get you in the other room where it’s warm. Are you able to walk?”

“Yes,” the man murmured. Gently, Isabella helped the stranger to his feet. The man’s movements were steady, but hunched and slow. Reaching the fire, she helped him into a old chair. The glowing light exposed an elderly, but gently aged face. His sharp eyes scanned the curious faces. Then he lowered his gaze to the floor as if he had grown tire of the scenery.

Isabella retrieved a bowl of lukewarm broth and hunk of bread. The stranger’s hands shuddered as he reached for the bowl.

“What are you doing giving him our food. We may be here for some time.” Isabella bushed Tristan’s comment off with a raised eyebrow. Annoyed, Tristan turned his attention to the old man. “Who are you and where did you come from?”

“Tristan, can’t this wait?” asked Isabella.

“Have it your way, but when he’s finished, he going to answer some questions. We can’t trust anyone. All of our lives are at stake. His being here is poses a problem. What do I do with him now? If I allow him to leave, he could talk. And, I can afford to assign a man to watch him twenty-four hours a day.

“He’s just an old man, Tristan. Besides…” Isabella paused, looking off for a split second. “I…I feel like we’ve met before.” She shook her head slightly, realizing how peculiar her words must have sounded.

“Oh, that’s just great. We should all feel reassured because you seen his face in a crowd somewhere. That cinches it then. He will be secured in the hall bathroom for the night…until we figure out what to do with him. Unless, of course, he identifies himself and tell us what he’s doing here. We searched the house from top to bottom. It was empty. Then, he just appears. No, there’s something not right here.


“What if he’s a Mystic?” added Asija.

“Then let him render something and I’ll let him go free,” answered Tristan, mockingly.

“You are consumed with anger, son?” muttered the old man, looking up from his broth. “Eliminate your fears, and you anger will disappear.”

Tristan, with scornful eyes, turned back to the old man. “After the Messiah pulled the nation back from the edge of the abyss, there was peace and plenty. The council, led by Mother Valora, kept the master’s word sacred. Under her spiritual leadership the nation flourished. Utopia was achieved. Each citizen was free to live and worship as he or she pleased. But, that has changed with the coming of Monrovia, the master’s unholy seed.

“Using her remarkable powers of persuasion, she has subjugated the will of the council. She has intimidated them into acquiescing to her twisted ambitions. By her thirtieth birthday, she had usurped the supremacy of the council and launched her reign of terror.

“Her first act was to expand the state police, including death quads. She outlawed all books, particularly books of faith. In the place of knowledge she substituted her own Declarations, a corrupted version of her father teachings. Her state police have arrest or killed anyone who disagreed with her actions, many of which were friends of ours. One of my people is upstairs with a bullet in her, courtesy of Monrovia’s goons. It’s even rumored that she’s aligned herself with dark powers, that she performs unholy rites.

“The land has fallen as barren as her heart. Where there were once ceaseless harvests, there are now state rations. The return of hunger and poverty has summoned the most visceral demons of our past, crime and murder. To display works of art or bare religious symbols is an offense punishable by death. With each passing day, the nation sinks deeper into despair. So, pardon me for being a little angry.

“Tristan, we all feel the same way or we wouldn’t be here,” Isabella broke in. “But, this old man is a victim the same as we. The only chance we have is to appeal to all those weary of a programmed existence, where every hour of our day is planned, where spiritual reflection and mediation has been replaced with mass ceremonies glorifying her name. Remember, the book that we found in last year?

“You mean the book featuring the girl, Dorothy, and her traveling companions,” answered Tristan. “How can we forget? You won’t let us. And, at the end of their spiritual journey, they discovered that the holy man was a false prophet.”

“Naturally, you would forget the most important part of the story,” Isabella pointed out. “In the end, they learned that they held the power all along. That is what the Master taught: it is done unto you as you believe. Maybe that is what the stranger is trying to say.”

“Yes, but, I’m no tin man and you’re no Dorothy. And what’s more, there is no wizard. But, what we do have is a wicked witch, Monrovia. And like the witch in the story, her powers are real.”

“Has any of you every seen her?,” the stranger asked. The stranger’s question drew chuckles from Tristan and some of the others.

“Yeah, we’ve dined in the palace on many occasions,” kidded Tristan. Everyone but Isabella exploded with laughter. But, their mirth was violently interrupted by jarring rumble followed by a burst of lightening. Tristan’s face grew solemn. “No one has laid eyes on her in 10 years. She never leaves the citadel she calls a palace. Her wicked deeds are all committed by a proxy, a dark, villainous man.” Pivoting around, Tristan pointed to a Munoz, a lanky boy still in his teens. “Tell Trent and De Andre to get inside. I want them posted upstairs. First the old man, then the storm. Some coincidence.”

“There is no such thing,” asserted the stranger.

“What are you talking about old man,” barked Tristan.

“There is no such thing as a coincidence. Everything happens for a reason,” responded the old man.

“I’ve had about enough of you. You remain heedless to our questions, and yet you speak when no one cares to hear your thoughts. For years the spiritual centers crammed that nonsense into our minds. We don’t need it from you.”

“Maybe, the message is sound, but your spirit is unwilling,” said the stranger.

Tristan, losing control, stomped toward the old man. Isabella stepped between them. “The stranger is not a threat,” she whispered.

“And, exactly how do you know this, Isabella?” asked Tristan, regaining his composure.

“It’s like I’ve known him all my life.”

“Oh, you know him, now. Be careful, Isabella. Next, you’ll be telling us that this old man is the Master returned to liberated the nation from the clutches of his evil and tyrannical daughter.”

“You will not bait me into another conversation on the Messiah.”

“The Messiah lives,” proclaimed the stranger, robustly.”

“Ah, he wades in again,” Tristan balked. “And, what can you possibly know that we don’t?”

“I know that the fifth messenger lives.” I further know that he has a second daughter. Flora, his wife, gave birth to a set of twins.”

This time there was no laughter. “You are all as bad as Isabella,” admonished Tristan. “This old man knows nothing. He’s just a vagrant. He is just one of the millions that the Monrovia’s propaganda machine claims to not exist. Everyone knows that the Messiah had but one child.” Tristan’s words failed to recapture the group’s attention, as their eyes never left the stranger.

Isabella cleared her throat before speaking. “What he says maybe true. There has always been quiet talk of a identical twin. You’ve heard the rumors yourself, Tristan.” Tristan was about to speak when Monroe called from the top of the stairs.

“Isabella, it’s Kendra. You better get up here.”

The group stormed up the stairs, all but Asija who was left behind to guard the prisoner. Isabella rushed to the side of her wounded comrade. Kendra had learned of the imminent crackdown and risked her life warning Tristan and Isabella. She succeeded, but only after taking a bullet in the side.

“I tried to wake her to see if he wanted to eat, but he wouldn’t respond,” said Monroe. Isabella grabbed a towel and basin off the nightstand.

“She burning up with fever,” Isabella declared, dabbing her friend’s forehead with the wet towel. “And, I’m afraid that she’s gone into shock. Maybe if we had with some antibiotics…”

“She’s dying,” interrupted the stranger crossing the threshold. Isabella continued pressing the cool compact to Kendra’s face.

“How did you get up here?” Tristan asked, his forehead undulated and his eyes knitted. Then Asija appeared in the doorway, slightly winded. “I turned my back for a second and he was gone. But, it was no way he could have made it up the stairs this quickly. I told you that he’s a Mystic.”

“Who are you, stranger,” Isabella asked, looking up from her feverish patient. Her question went ignored as the stranger proceeded to the side of the bed opposite her. He touched his palms to the wounded woman’s forehead and then ran both hands down the length of her body. “The bullet has torn into his vital organs and she’s bleeding internally.”

“We must get her to one of the spiritual health centers!” Isabella insisted.

“She will be dead before morning unless…” The old man stopped.

“Monroe, lock the old man in the bathroom for the night,” Tristan ordered, with disgust. “In the morning, I will take a team and see if we can scrounge up some medical supplies,” he said, looking at Isabella.

“What if the stranger is right?” asked Isabella. Tristan just shook his head and walked from the room.

That night while everyone except the lookouts was asleep, Isabella visited the old man.

“Without being seen, she slipped into the bath room. Once inside, she lit a candle. The old man was sitting up in the dark, as if he had been waiting for her.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said.

“I came to apologize for Tristan. He wasn’t always the man you see. When we joined the underground, it was just to put out a crude newspaper. It was our way of fighting back. But, when Monrovia began her crackdown, we were forced to defend ourselves. We were all dreadfully inexperienced when it came to weapons and tactics. However, Tristan had an undiscovered talent. He instantly took charge. Under him and with support from the underground, we formed a cell. It was during this time that Tristan’s mood darkened and his devotion to the master’s teachings faltered. However, I have another reason for coming.

“I know why you came, Isabella. All things are possible if one has enough faith. Isn’t this what the master taught, and are these not the words of the Carpenter who preceded him. Man is divine by his very nature. His thoughts tie him to the Universal Mind, which is all of existence. What man pours into the Great Void will be returned to him. Therefore, our true enemies are our very own fears, doubts and disbelief. You, my sister, can summon the supreme agency that lives in the realm of infinite possibilities if you but slay these three demons.

“You tell me nothing new, stranger. The spiritual centers and meditative retreats taught us that since we were old enough to attend.”

“That’s just it. It has been taught to you, instead of being demonstrated for you. As a consequence, the truth of the Master’s words has lost its spiritual vitality. Its true meaning has been lost. After the Master departed, Mother Valora lead the way, encouraging the practice of her son’s teachings as it spread throughout the world. However, she resisted direct interference. She understood that the son’s message was a mighty as the ocean, yet as delicate as a drop of dew on the rim of a rose pedal. That is, it couldn’t be institutionalized in the tradition of world religions.

Nations thought that they were fostering the Messiah’s teachings, when in reality they were suppressing them. Mother Valora with the help of the Mystics waded in to stem the tide. Nonetheless, schools, churches, and spiritual centers grew more dogmatic, their religious hierarchies growing in power and corruption. After her death, the Mystics soon withdrew to the mountains, practicing the teachings of the Messiah in seclusion.”


“Are you a Mystic?”

“No.”

“Can you save our friend?”

“No, but you can.”

“How, I harbor the same fears as Tristan and the others?”

“How long have you known your friend?”

“I’ve known Kendra all my life. She’s been like a sister to me.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes, as much as I love myself,” Isabella answered, her eyes teeming.

“Your love will be enough. Go to your friend and pray over her. Visualize her as she once was. Let your love for her open the door to infinite possibility. Isabella went and kneed beside you dying friend and prayed throughout the night.

Tristan entered the room the next morning to find Isabella’s head resting on the foot of Kendra’s bed.

“Isabella, wake up. We’re about to take off: I want you in charge. Several others entered just after him.

“There is no need to go?” she said, stretching and wiping the sleep from her eyes.

“What are you saying? Is she…?” All eyes turned to Kendra.

“No, she’s not. Her fever has subsided and her pulse is growing stronger. She will be fine.” Just as she said that, Kendra’s fingers curled into a fist. Isabella smiled as Tristan, Monroe, Mooch, and Trent looked on in amazement.

“The old man’s prognosis was wrong,” added Tristan.

“No, his diagnosis was accurate. She was dying. He told me to pray for her. When I entered the room, her pulse rate was close to critical. And, there’s more. As I slept, I dreamed of Monrovia’s secret police. They have found us. Already, they’re swarming the hillside.” Before Tristan could fix his mouth to speak, Lee bolted into the room.

“Tristan, there is movement outside. I think that they’ve found us.” Tristan gazed long and hard at Isabella before he turned back Lee.

“I want everyone in position while I work out a plan of escape. Oh, and bring me the old man. Before Lee could relay his leader’s orders, an explosion jarred the house to its foundation.

“Tell everyone to get up here. It’s our only chance,” Isabella said, calmly yet resolutely.” Tristan stared at her unblinking, and then he looked over at Kendra. Her eyes were beginning to flutter open.

“Do as she says, yelled Tristan, after some hesitation. Lee tore from the room.

The entire group crammed into the room, deep concern on their faces. “They’ve blasted away the south wall, reported Monroe. “They’ll be pouring in soon enough. Up here, we trapped like rats. What do we do now?” Tristan asked gazing over at Isabella.

The sound of machine gun fire erupted. The group clutched their weapons as all eyes turned to the door. “Lay down your weapons,” said Isabella. The group stood motionless and confused.

“Do as she said,” Tristan commanded. One by one the heavy armaments hit the floor with multiple thuds.

“Are we surrendering” Monroe asked fretfully.

“On the contrary,” said the stranger, appearing in the doorway. Let us join hands in a circle.” Isabella was the first to reach out to the others. Soon they had formed a circle around the bed with Isabella holding one of Kendra’s hands and Tristan holding the other. “Now, close you eyes and visualize the house the way we found it last night,” the stranger instructed. “Visualize the house as it was. See only that which was here when you arrived.”

The sound of heavy boots echoed up through the floor. Sporadic burst of gunfire rattled the walls and floors. Several men pulled away and gathered up their weapons. Not even Tristan could deter them from the course of self-preservation. Then Isabella gently called to them.

“My brothers, our guns will not save us now. It is only by our faith shall we be saved. Come now, join us.” Isabella, with the gentleness of a saint, reached out her hand. One after another, they relinquished their weapons and returned to the circle. The sound of boots rushing up their stairs failed to unnerve them this time. A few feet from the bedroom, they footsteps fell silent. Moments pass before they began to open their eyes.

Monroe was the first through the door. “They’ve gone,” he yelled, jubilantly.

No, they were never here,” said Isabella.

Downstairs they found the house was as it had been the night before. There was no sign of an explosion, or gunfire. It was if they had dreamed up the attack. Their bags were even packed. Then, they realized that the stranger was missing.


“Search the house for the…” began Tristan.

“Don’t bother, he’s gone,” interrupted Isabella.

“What’s next, Tristan asked, looking at Isabella.

“We must go. The stranger gave us a mission.”

“What are you saying? What mission?”

“We must find Monrovia’s twin.” With that, the group followed Isabella out the front door and down the trail.