another bout of uncontrollable weeping.
He wept noisily and wetly as he prayed at his altar. Sobs wracked his skinny torso so violently, they almost rattled the bones within his skin. He prayed earnestly and with contrition because it wasn't Gillian's failure alone. It was also his. He had failed. Miserably.
But prayers of confession weren't enough. In order to atone for his dismal failure, he must be punished.
Lifting up the fringed cloth draping the chest that served as his altar, he opened one of three drawers. Inside was a leather whip with several wide strips. He clasped the sweat-stained handle in his right hand, said a quick prayer, then, reaching over his shoulder, lashed his back with it. He repeatedly lashed himself until blood was running down the sharp ridge of his spine and dripping onto the floor.
He fainted.
Finally he stirred to discover himself on the blood-spattered floor, knees curled up to his chest, shivering. Stiffly, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered into the bathroom, which was separated from the rest of the room only by a threadbare curtain. He took a cool shower. Then, letting his skin air-dry, he carried a towel to the altar and tried to wipe up the blood on the floor.
It was a mess. He had made a bad, bad mess. But the red streaks smeared by the towel also reminded him of Jesus' blood, which had flowed from him as he hung on the cross. Comparing himself to that most revered prophet and martyr was vainglorious, he knew, but he derived comfort from it.
The lashing, however, was only the first stage of his punishment. He must confess to Brother Gabriel. As humiliating as it would be, he must tell Brother Gabriel that he, Dale Gordon, had betrayed his trust and failed at his mission.
With tears streaming from his eyes, he moved to his telephone. He clutched the receiver in his pale hand, dreading what he must do. It was late. Maybe he should wait until morning.
No, the time of day was irrelevant. Brother Gabriel's work never ceased. He was tireless. The phone lines at the Temple were answered twenty-four/seven. Besides, Brother Gabriel had mandated that he be informed of good news immediately. The same went for bad news.
Dale Gordon knew the telephone number by heart. He had called it just that morning. That call had been cause for rejoicing. He had called to report that the mission entrusted to him had been accomplished. Oh, he'd been so proud!
Now... now this.
His heart pounded painfully against his rib cage as he listened to the hollow hissing sound in the receiver, signaling him that the call was going through. After five rings, a telephone in the mountaintop compound far away from Dale Gordon's squalid apartment was answered.
"Peace and love. How can I help you?"
CHAPTER 5
It promised to be a damp, oppressive day. The temperature was seasonably cool, but the humidity was high. Dale Gordon was sweating copiously again. The salty perspiration caused the abrasions on his back to sting, but he was unmindful of the discomfort.
Undeterred, he marched along the sidewalk like the soldier he was. A good and obedient soldier focused on his mission, not on the obstacles that might prevent him from accomplishing it. In the surrounding predawn silence, his ragged breathing was the only sound. He didn't hear it.
There was nothing to light his way. The moon was a mere sliver lying on its back just above the western horizon. Sunrise was still an hour away. But even in the gloom, Dale Gordon didn't miss a step. Although he'd never been here before, he knew the way.
He attributed his surefootedness to divine guidance. Brother Gabriel had assured him that his path would be made straight and sure, and, as with all things, Brother Gabriel had been right. He could work miracles. He could make miracles happen even in his absence by the sheer power of his mind. He had even caused the neighborhood dogs to remain mute. Not a single one had barked a warning.
Dale Gordon hadn't written down
He wept noisily and wetly as he prayed at his altar. Sobs wracked his skinny torso so violently, they almost rattled the bones within his skin. He prayed earnestly and with contrition because it wasn't Gillian's failure alone. It was also his. He had failed. Miserably.
But prayers of confession weren't enough. In order to atone for his dismal failure, he must be punished.
Lifting up the fringed cloth draping the chest that served as his altar, he opened one of three drawers. Inside was a leather whip with several wide strips. He clasped the sweat-stained handle in his right hand, said a quick prayer, then, reaching over his shoulder, lashed his back with it. He repeatedly lashed himself until blood was running down the sharp ridge of his spine and dripping onto the floor.
He fainted.
Finally he stirred to discover himself on the blood-spattered floor, knees curled up to his chest, shivering. Stiffly, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered into the bathroom, which was separated from the rest of the room only by a threadbare curtain. He took a cool shower. Then, letting his skin air-dry, he carried a towel to the altar and tried to wipe up the blood on the floor.
It was a mess. He had made a bad, bad mess. But the red streaks smeared by the towel also reminded him of Jesus' blood, which had flowed from him as he hung on the cross. Comparing himself to that most revered prophet and martyr was vainglorious, he knew, but he derived comfort from it.
The lashing, however, was only the first stage of his punishment. He must confess to Brother Gabriel. As humiliating as it would be, he must tell Brother Gabriel that he, Dale Gordon, had betrayed his trust and failed at his mission.
With tears streaming from his eyes, he moved to his telephone. He clutched the receiver in his pale hand, dreading what he must do. It was late. Maybe he should wait until morning.
No, the time of day was irrelevant. Brother Gabriel's work never ceased. He was tireless. The phone lines at the Temple were answered twenty-four/seven. Besides, Brother Gabriel had mandated that he be informed of good news immediately. The same went for bad news.
Dale Gordon knew the telephone number by heart. He had called it just that morning. That call had been cause for rejoicing. He had called to report that the mission entrusted to him had been accomplished. Oh, he'd been so proud!
Now... now this.
His heart pounded painfully against his rib cage as he listened to the hollow hissing sound in the receiver, signaling him that the call was going through. After five rings, a telephone in the mountaintop compound far away from Dale Gordon's squalid apartment was answered.
"Peace and love. How can I help you?"
CHAPTER 5
It promised to be a damp, oppressive day. The temperature was seasonably cool, but the humidity was high. Dale Gordon was sweating copiously again. The salty perspiration caused the abrasions on his back to sting, but he was unmindful of the discomfort.
Undeterred, he marched along the sidewalk like the soldier he was. A good and obedient soldier focused on his mission, not on the obstacles that might prevent him from accomplishing it. In the surrounding predawn silence, his ragged breathing was the only sound. He didn't hear it.
There was nothing to light his way. The moon was a mere sliver lying on its back just above the western horizon. Sunrise was still an hour away. But even in the gloom, Dale Gordon didn't miss a step. Although he'd never been here before, he knew the way.
He attributed his surefootedness to divine guidance. Brother Gabriel had assured him that his path would be made straight and sure, and, as with all things, Brother Gabriel had been right. He could work miracles. He could make miracles happen even in his absence by the sheer power of his mind. He had even caused the neighborhood dogs to remain mute. Not a single one had barked a warning.
Dale Gordon hadn't written down
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