The Fall of Darkness

Hey guys, I need feedback on this one. I got an idea for a fantasy/allegory short story, and started work on it. I'd like for all of you to leave a comment letting me know what you think of its originality, feasability, readability and whether or not I should continue. Now you hold in your hands the power of life and death for this helpless foetus of an idea. :p Please be honest, k? I value each and every one of your comments.

General description of idea:
A novel take on the age-old battle between good and evil in the foo1tsteps of the eminent C.S. Lewis, the Fall of Darkness is an account of the siege of an ancient Fortress of the Shining One on the Emperor’s Land that terminates in failure due to the high treason of one of the key warriors of the Emperor’s Legion. The tables are turned and the looking glass turned inside-out as the story is told from the perspective of the besieged Fortress, here representing a deep-seated demonic stronghold in the mind of a Christian. The forces of darkness are portrayed as the Warriors of the Shining One, emphasizing the devil’s identity as the seductive Angel of Light, while the Christian is portrayed as a proud warrior of the Emperor’s Legion sent to besiege and destroy the ancient Fortress.

The blood-red sun sank into the grey seas framing the horizon beyond the misty mountains. Night began to cast its shadowy cloak over the Gladden Fields. The pale, cold light of the Moon gleamed on the blood-stained stones of the Fortress’ walls.

The sentinels of the Tower of Light paced back and forth in silent vigil, the steady clink of their metal capped boots echoing through the silence of the stone walls. Now and again the anguished cry of a wounded warrior rang through the Halls of the Healers as the healers worked through the night in a desperate fever. Grievous was the hurt that had been dealt by the Enemy.

There was a dread that hung over the Fortress, so thick one could feel its oppressive weight stifling, strangling, suffocating all hope. In the Chamber of Council, that dread seemed to be manifested in a heavy darkness that strove against the flickering torches that hung on the walls of the small room where the Captains of the Company held council.

A low, hoarse voice echoed in the dimly lit hall. “Blood, fire, foes! Five thousands fell at the gate, countless more wounded beyond healing. All hope is lost! If my lord had but heeded my counsel and lighted the beacons before we first saw the glint of the Legion’s spears…”

A second voice, a clear, proud and stronger voice cut through the first. “I will have no more of your petty whining (this word was pronounced with the air of one with gaping sores in his mouth painfully savoring a hunk of dry bread), Alcan! Pah! You speak of lost hope. Have we not driven back the Legion thrice now? Have we not bathed the impregnable walls of our Fortress with the blood of the Enemy’s feeble pawns? They say that against the bitter spears of the Legion there can be no victory. I defy the Legion! I say victory is within our grasp.”

The first voice belonged to Alcan, the counsel of Prince Eldair. His hoary head was bowed, and his face was buried in his gloved hands. Prince Eldair, the owner of the second voice, stood at the head of the Council Table. His head was hastily bound in a rough, blood-stained cloth. He was still bristling with the heat of battle: he had proudly declared to all that would hear his heroic tale of four-score doughty Legionnaires thrown off the walls. He was young and tall and fair. His long, flowing locks were at present hastily braided to make room for the rough bandage that now covered his high forehead. He was a son of the King of Realms, and he had inherited the tough sinews and lust for battle of his father. He was the type of prince that cared more for battles and horses and swords than love and lore and music. It was therefore not in the least surprising that his mind only retained the joy of the battle while easily dismissing as trivial the heavy losses his Company had suffered at the spears of the Legion. In his mind, the valiant Company could only be victorious, repelling the siege of the Legion and winning glory and songs for his own.

Seated around the rest of the Council Table were three other dark figures, each austerely garbed in black cloaks concealing the burnished steel underneath that protected their flesh. Ashwine, Fellwine and Holwine, three of the fearsome Seven Mighty Men of the King, proud and tall with dark eyes that flashed in the heat of battle and struck fear into all that stood against them. Their raven locks flowed underneath the dark hoods of their cloaks. They had been sent by the King Himself to the Fortress to assist in its defense. Many sturdy Legionnaires of the Enemy had found their end under the swift and deadly strokes of their bitter blades. Each of them carried two long retractable blades on each arm, instruments of death not unlike the cruel claws of the lion. Their faces always remained hidden beneath their hoods: only their fiery eyes flashed visible. Only the King and the Seven knew what they looked like beneath those mysterious hoods. They rarely spoke, preferring to speak with their feet, hands and blades rather than with overlong eloquent words. They alone, apart from the Prince, seemed immune to the horror and despair of the Enemy’s siege. They held their peace as Alcan rose and unrolled an old, yellowed map.

Between his teeth, in even, artificially controlled tones, Alcan spoke again. “I do not doubt your valor, nor disregard the overall success of our sorties. I am merely offering my word of caution to my lord: we have dealt with but a tithe of the Legion. The Enemy is toying with us.

(To be continued...)

Catch me if you can!

It is highly distressing to note in myself the conspicuous absence of any adequate power to hold control over the passions, whims, and leanings of my mortal body. Of particular and special significance is my inability to keep my mind in check. As my composition once again wriggles free of my weak grip, my vagrant mind takes advantage of the lull in my defenses and undertakes a breakaway for the umpteenth time. I am attempting (with little success, I regret to note) to apply my prodigal brain to the study of a legal file. I suppose it does little or nothing to relieve my struggle that the words and phrases in many of the legal documents tend toward obscure and obtuse masses of words cloaking the germ, the real meaning behind all the big words and commas, semicolons and perplexing nouns and adjectives. WHY can’t they just get to the POINT?!

My restless mind roves this way and that, squirming and writhing in my weakening grip like a petulant child anxious to get out of the house for a romp in the park under the glorious golden rays of the morning sun. My repeated attempts to feed it information seem to have the same effect as a mother attempting to feed soggy asparagus to her carnivorous 5-year old son. Invariably, bits and pieces of the delightful green herb find themselves in new and unfamiliar territories, some on the flushed face of exhausted Mother, some on the newly painted walls, but precious few in their intended destination: the boy’s mouth. The same may be said of the straggling bits of information strewn haphazardly in my cranial crevices. The visual reports from the ocular organs splash onto my thickly clouded brain and roll off like water off a duck’s back for all the effect they have on my grey matter.

I turn my back for a moment to attend to the deafening prayers of my body for sleep. In a flash, the mischievous brat takes off, vacating my skull. In vain I give chase, willing myself to ignore the heavy shackles of weariness on my feet. It’s a lost cause: the blasted child is hiding behind a bush, playing with a butterfly. Curse him! He’s taunting me with his unnaturally long tongue, rolling his eyes up and down and stretching his face by the ears. Sticks, stones, and spatulas! If I could only get near him, I’d give him such a hiding…oh, what’s the use? He’s just too quick for me. Now climbing a tree, now frolicking in a pool, up and down, left and right he darts around the Fantastic Fields of Imagination, Distraction and Daydreaming. Who would guess that that fat little brain-child could run so quick? I warrant he and I operate in different time zones, and that by some cruel stroke of fate, the laws of physics and gravity seem to make special concessions for that infernal brat.

I fall to my knees in exhaustion and shriek in despair. “COME BACK!! PLEASE come back! Please?”

My cry is swallowed up by the thick fog that covers the Fields. Presently I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to see the beaming, grimy face of my brain-child peering at me over my shoulder. He gives me that mischievous chuckle I hate so much and proceeds to latch his sweaty, dirty body to my quivering shoulders. I take a deep breath and slowly straighten up with his pudgy arms firmly slung around my neck and his stubby legs wrapped around my torso. “All right, you sniveling scoundrel. Ready for more asparagus?”

No response from him. He’s sound asleep on my shoulders. His deafening snores make my ears buzz and his repulsive drool is dripping down my shoulders and back.

I wearily trudge back to his high chair, plug him into it and…now where’d that bowl of asparagus go?

Velvet Paws

The slow passage of time by days, weeks, months and years, with all its attendant experiences, circumstances, persons, and lessons, has revealed in me many frustrating deficiencies of intellect, wisdom, character, and experience, specially in the area of my character, or the lack thereof. As the years fall behind me, close to nineteen all told, I am left to reflect upon nigh two decades of a life lived, sadly I would venture to suggest, so far from the original perfect course charted out by the Creator upon my conception. It is not in the least difficult to envisage the Lord sitting by my side with his head in his hands, wondering (if such a word may be used of an omniscient God) at the degree to which I continue to diverge from his original intention for my life.
How many times have I turned away? If I should tell all my sins and mistakes and fallings away, their number would be the same as the sands upon the seashore. And yet always my Lord has stood by my side, patiently waiting, quietly speaking and pleading in his still, small voice, ever loving, and ever too courteous to coerce me by force into the right way. As it is said of Israel by the Lord, “All day long I have stretched out my hands to a rebellious and perverse generation”, and so it may be said as well of this wretched soul. As I reflect upon the years that have passed, my heart sinks with heaviness as I attempt to comprehend the magnitude of my transgressions, and the immeasurable hurt and pain I have caused to the heart of God, notwithstanding the fearsome measure wrath that I have stored up for myself in the day of reckoning. He loves me, that much I know. He loves me too much to let me go, and he loves me too much to sidestep my free will with anything more than gentle pleadings. Oh, that the full knowledge of the awesome and terrible power that is in his gentle hands, like the velveted paws of a powerful lion, would dawn upon my dull wits, perhaps I would be sufficiently roused to turn from my wicked ways.
My life may be compared to a twisted mass of tangled cords, circumventing, diverging, straying from the straight line that has been plotted for my life. Many sorrows and struggles lie between those twists and tangles and knots, each a pitiful tale of willful disobedience with attendant consequences that have left a mark on my soul.
Oh, the wretchedness of the human condition! We are cursed by our inheritance of that vile sin nature, ever at odds with the free spirit within us that yearns for righteousness and holiness. “For the good that I would I do not: but the evil that I would not, that I do”, and “I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with me, For I delight in the law of God after the inward man: But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. O wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?” Consider for a moment the significance of the authorship of those desperate cries: Paul of Tarsus, eminent and prolific missionary, valiant warrior of the cross, the same who witnessed ere he died, “I have fought the good fight, I have kept the faith, I have finished the race”. How? Is there contradiction in his words? Did he die a confused hypocrite, wracked with internal struggles that he could not divulge?
No! I myself take great heart and encouragement in those seemingly dark passages of scripture. For me, they reveal an honest confession of the daily struggle of Christian living that is not to be construed for utter failure as a Christian. In the space of one chapter, the same author triumphantly declares, “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus!” No condemnation. That is the key.
Too often we strive after the ideals and principles of scripture, their goodness notwithstanding, and paint unrealistic targets for ourselves to shoot at with our feeble bows. And then we cry out in despair when our crooked shafts miss the mark and shake our fists at the sky and ask, why? Why do you mock us by laying down ideals that cannot be attained? Why do you not lift one omnipotent finger to propel us toward that lofty goal that you have set for us? And then we break down in desperate sobs and retreat into our dungeons of self-pity and despondency, cursing ourselves, our fleshly weakness, the world, even God. We pine and sulk under a gourd tree like Jonah, or retreat into our caves, into the mountains of Horeb to plead for a swift end to our misery. Such is the tale of many a discouraged and disillusioned Christian, I would warrant. I can attest to that. It was for me, at least, a sorry tragedy that occurred not infrequently.
Is that God’s plan for us? To be forever on a doomed quest for perfection? I think not. I think we would do well to learn from Paul. I am fairly certain that very few of us have ventured to set higher standards for ourselves than Paul of Tarsus. He strove for perfect Christ likeness, preached an undefiled conscience with all men, unwavering submission to authority, rejoicing in ghastly trials and tribulations. How? I dare not admit that he even came close to completely fulfilling those standards. Undoubtedly, men fail. It is ingrained into our very DNA. That is why we need God. That is why it is so important to join with Paul’s glorious cry of “no condemnation!” Failure is not the end. Indeed, failure is oft a harsh, but efficient schoolmaster, provided always that we respond to him correctly. Failure, I have learned, should drive us to our knees and hands, crawling to the feet of the omnipotent risen Savior, to lay hold of his nail-pierced feet and sue for mercy and grace. He has promised grace to the humble, exaltation in due time to those who humble themselves under his mighty hand. We cannot hope to shoot our feeble darts anywhere near the lofty targets of the Law. That is not the point.
May I be so bold as to suggest that, notwithstanding its nobility and powers of motivation toward holy living, attainment of Christ likeness is not an end in itself? May I suggest that the journey is of at least equal importance? After all, if it were so, why would God make it so difficult to do it? Perhaps we are missing the point, the intention of God laying this mechanism, if you will, into place. Perhaps the very purpose of these ideals, these principles and laws, is to compel us to cleave to him. Were we not fashioned for intimate fellowship with him? Is not the supreme good that men strive toward heaven, being by definition eternity spent in the awesome presence of the Most High God?
Would it not then be prudent for us to familiarize ourselves with the exercise of intimacy and fellowship with our Creator, the way being now opened for us to have direct access to him through the redeeming sacrifice of the Lord Jesus Christ? Would striving after the likeness of his son then not be an exercise in intimacy, since our very success in that pursuit depends upon the degree of our intimacy with him and the degree of our dependence upon him?
Perhaps it is time for us Christians to stop beating up ourselves and enjoy the journey. I find the words of the psalmist infinitely comforting: “For he knows our form: he remembers that we are but dust”. God knows us! Surely he cannot expect his imperfect creation, marred forever by the ravages of sin, to attain to the standards of righteousness that he requires? God is awesome, terrible, frighteningly white and holy; but he is also love, and mercy, and grace, a justice. His paws are velveted.
He invites us to enjoy the journey, to let him carry us along. He smiles at our little baby steps, and his chest can barely contain his pride when we begin to walk, exchanging milk for meat. He laughs with us and rejoices with us in our triumphs. He weeps with us when we fail, and picks us up and gently coaxes us to continue walking when we fall. He is our loving father, our loving shepherd, who leads us by green pastures and quiet streams, who lays a table before us in the midst of our enemies, who promises goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our lives. Can you not love such a God? Can you still shake your fist at such a benevolent Creator and blame him for the guilt and condemnation that you feel?
By all means, acknowledge your failures and inadequacies. Paint those targets. But remember: no condemnation! Don’t let the evil one bog you down with his snares of guilt and despair. Heed the call of the Savior. Release your guilt and despair to him! Throw off your garments of heaviness and join him as he invites you to romp in the fields of righteousness, to dance the dance of holiness! Revel in his presence, in the light of his countenance as he smiles down upon you, as you strive to attain to his likeness. Rejoice in the softness of his velvet paws as he carries you through the hard times. Enjoy the journey, and look forward to that glorious day before he calls you home, where you will be able to say, “I have fought the good fight, I have kept the faith, I have finished the race”. Then, savor the moment at the gates of heaven, when the Lord shall say to you, “Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord”.