Chapter 1 The Devil Goes to Church Gentle reader, our travels together through time and across many borders will not be brief, and I apologize that many depravities of man shall we endure, before any just resolution might reward us in the end. And, should you choose to share this journey with me, then I must confess that much of what we shall witness is not entirely of this world. For this is a tale of heroes and villains, knights and cowboys, musketeers and monsters, witches, warlocks, assassins, and creatures much darker still. But I would ask that you come with me, to witness events both brave and cowardly; to honor the selfless and condemn the darkness marching against them. To kneel with me and comfort the dying, then stand with me that we might condemn their oppressors. To follow armored knights shining in the sun across the fields of war, to travel into dungeons deep, where devils lie in their own filth gestating sin, and to witness grace, beauty, and long raven hair, seen only once every generation of men. I ask only that you come with me to witness this journey, and, despite the darkness sure to cover our path at times, I promise you now, before our very first step together, that I believe in happy endings. I would not bother to tell you this strange tale if I was not sure that in the end we should smile together, and be glad that good triumphs over evil before all is told, though often the price we must pay for that triumph is costly, and dear to our hearts. For we know that there can be no true understanding of light if we do not also walk down roads shrouded in darkness. But I digress. If you will walk with me, I will not start us in dungeon deep, nor set us first amongst the flash of blades under a noon sun, with blood soaking the ground about us. No, let us instead begin this journey
of ours on a crisp Sunday morning, in the southern United States of America, in that year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and ninety-nine. We walk together under a sky of blue, as an old-fashioned hymn eddies across the lawn of an old-fashioned church, next to an oldfashioned cemetery, in the old-fashionedest part of Southeast Texas. The spring green is in full bloom here, and the trees rustle their leaves dutifully through each chorus. We enter near the end of That Old Rugged Cross, and then assume an inconspicuous seat off to the side. In the pew furthest to the rear sits Mr. Dedhart, an elderly gentleman who sat quiet during worship. About halfway through the service he began to unwrap the cellophane from several pieces of candy, which he had produced from somewhere in his coat. An old lady, wearing a yellow spring dress and bonnet, seated several pews forward, cast him a fresh glare with each piece he began to unwrap during the reading from scripture. Her eyebrows slanted sharper, and her lips pressed tighter, with each consecutive offence, until, at last, the gentleman securing the rear pew yielded. Obliging her with an apologetic wink, he repaired the implicated sweets to his pocket. Satisfied, the old woman returned her undivided attention back to the sermon, which, for the record, did little to inspire the moral sensitivities of Mr. Dedhart. This peculiar parishioner then glanced about the church, observing the faces directed to the pulpit, curious as to whether any members of this flock had been here the last time he visited this particular house of the Lord. It was not uncommon for Mr. Dedhart to visit different churches as he traveled about, but he had been abroad for many long years, and, even after returning stateside, had not been in this part of the country for a very long while. He was unlikely to recognize anyone here this morning, for even the ancient candy-enforcer would have been just a little girl, the last time he had passed this way.
How long had Mr. Dedhart been wandering this world, you ask? Few could say. However, Mr. Dedhart s fashion had changed many times over the long years, as styles had come and gone, and come again, with Mr. Dedhart yielding to most. His hats had grown taller, then shorter, then taller again. His buttons had changed to clasps, then back to buttons again. His collars had grown sharp, then rounded, then sharpened again. And while he bowed to the fickle mistress of fashion, down through the generations of men, his color had never yielded an inch. Not once. Mr. Dedhart wore black. His jacket, his trousers, his cap, his tie; his gloves covered his hands like an ebony skin, and you could floss your teeth in the shine of his shoes. Now, it should be noted that there was a single exception to this monochromatic existence adopted by the sharplydressed Dedhart, and that would be the crimson carnation which he wore upon his left lapel. His silver hair lay flat across his scalp, and hung down the back of his neck. His forehead was pronounced, his hairline was preserved, and his nose was aquiline. His cheek bones were high, but not too high, to in any way threaten his handsome manner. His chin was strong, but not too strong, denoting a healthy combination of both physicality as well as intellect. Mr. Dedhart was tall, but not too tall, always seeming to look down at you, but never appearing to be an above average height. He was well built, but not too well built; he was clearly thin, but in no way gangly, or bent. If there did, however, exist a distinction in appearance worthy of note, it would be his eyes. Ask four different people, all in a row, each having just conversed with Mr. Dedhart, what the color of his eyes were, and you ll most likely get four different answers. Or, you might, later that same day, ask another four, and none will be able to remember. And so, upon the full measurement and inspection of Mr. Dedhart, from silver head to shiny toe, one might have a real devil of a time trying to determine just how old he might be. For, if there was one thing in this world which Mr. Dedhart did well, it was age.
But our sermon is complete now, and, having passed God s plate, into which he made no contribution, he waits patiently for the final benediction. Having then received it, Mr. Dedhart stood to his full height (not too tall, remember) and turned to exit. He stepped into the sunlight, took a strong breath of the spring air, stretched out his frame, and began to cross that old-fashioned lawn, pausing only for a moment to tip his hat to the old lady in yellow, whose appreciations did not include hard candy in church. Good day. Mr. Dedhart nodded. Good day. Her curt response was accompanied by no kindness, or any display of general courtesy. This caused just the very furthest corners of Mr. Dedhart s mouth to curl up, but his eyes expressed no malice to accompany the grin, only the sense of one who entertains himself upon the conceit of others. The gentleman in black did not direct his footsteps north to the small town, with the rest of the rapidly aging congregation; rather, he resumed his steady gait and sure footing down the dirt road running beside the cemetery, where it disappeared into the woods just south of the church. The crows in the trees cawed their welcome as they saw him approach. Several circled just above, while the boldest of the bunch dropped to perch upon his shoulder. He seemed to mind not at all the large bird, now his traveling companion. Mr. Dedhart had a very important meeting with a young man not far from here this morning, though the young man was entirely unaware of their appointment, as well as the great importance this man in black attached to it. Seeing as it was now time for church to be finished, he felt reasonably sure the sleepy little heathen should be awake. Mr. Dedhart had been watching this young man for a long while, and it was time to begin the collection he had put off starting until just today, waiting for all things to be in their present and proper order.
We cannot follow this man in black any further at the moment, for there is much elsewhere for us to see which will not wait. Fear not, gentle reader; so important a character is Mr. Dedhart in this story that we shall surely meet him again very soon, and even sooner, perhaps, than we might wish. Copyright 2015 by Timothy Raymond Kazmarek All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.