Bryan Davis - Eye of the Oracle

The rain dampened her hair and trickled down her forehead. The Ovulum’s warmth radiated through her arm, and as the heat approached her body, the sound of singing drew near, a man’s voice that seemed to travel along with the warm sensation. The voice crooned in her ear.

“Sapphira Adi,” it sang softly. “You are a precious gem. You are loved more than you will ever know. Bask in the warmth of Elohim’s love. Feel his pleasure in the coolness of his soothing rain, for this is not the rain of floods and destruction; it is living water that will heal your heart.”

Sapphira trembled. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Who. . who are you?”

With the cadence of a herald’s proclamation, the voice resonated in the cavern. “I am the Eye of the Oracle, the prophet who first told of the great flood. I am Elohim’s bard, the singer who foretells blessings and curses upon generations to come. And now I have a song for you.”

Sapphira swallowed hard, barely able to speak. “A song of blessing?” Her lips trembled. “Or a curse?”

A gentle laugh flowed through her mind, then a whisper. “Listen to the words of Elohim. . and believe.” The voice sang again, this time in a beautiful tenor.

In days gone by the water fell

And draped the world in silent death;

A rain of judgment drowned the earth

Demanding life and snatching breath.

But now the raindrops fall afresh

On hearts rejecting hate and sin,

In blessings crowned with love and grace

To heal the wounds of soul and skin.

The one who loves is Elohim,

Rejoicing now in song and dance;

I shout for you to come and play,

Enjoying love, the great romance.

So dance, my child, and feel my love

In rain, the healing drops of life.

Forsake your cares, your toils and pain,

The wounds and scars of slavish strife.

O cast aside the chains of grief

And reach for heaven’s grace above;

Sapphira Adi, dance with me!

Enfold yourself in arms of love.

As the song died away, the rain began pouring down, drenching her hair and clothes. The coolness penetrated her skin and seemed to wash away every sorrow, every pain, every image of slavery that tortured her mind. She peeked at her shoulder, now exposed as the water weighed down her dress. The wound had vanished without a trace. Cool drops of tingling water trickled over her cheek. She touched the spot where the wound had festered, now soft and smooth, and pain free.

Clutching the Ovulum tightly, she lifted her arms and laughed, allowing the swirling breeze to catch her body and spin her in a slow pirouette. Lights twinkled through the prismatic mist, spraying her with a dazzling splash of rainbow colors. She closed her eyes and felt loving arms taking her into a tender embrace, and she returned the favor, hugging her image of Elohim, the God of love. As the bard’s song returned, repeating each phrase amidst the sounds of tumbling waters, she drank in every word, allowing her body to flow with the leading of her gentle lover.

And Sapphira Adi danced.

Circa AD 62

Makaidos flew high over the parched valley, buoyed by a hot, arid updraft. Sunshine energized every muscle and sharpened his vision. The conditions had been ideal bright light and clear skies a perfect day to satisfy his rekindled sense of purpose and fulfill this duty to which he had been called. Accomplishing such an important task had made the day complete, and the sun’s slow descent into the reddening western sky gave notice that his successful mission was drawing to a close.

He scanned the landscape far below the outskirts of the port city with its single-story huts and trading posts; scrub trees lining a dry riverbed that wound its way to the sea; and, finally, a caravan of camels, horses, and pack mules in a snaking line following what had been, before the drought, a shallow but dependable stream. Still, the sandy bed provided an unobstructed route to the docking port, making it a well-traveled path, but also a haunt for highwaymen on the prowl for easy prey.

Makaidos snorted at the thought. The only easy prey would be anyone who tried to attack Joseph and his company. The cup of Christ would be safe if this dragon had anything to say about it. A couple of days earlier, just the sight of a patrol dragon had kept a small band of human predators at bay, but now the hint of a greater danger pricked Makaidos’s senses.

He circled lower and shadowed the company. Joseph rode high on the lead camel. The cup, the Holy Grail, as he called it, was probably tucked away in his saddlebag. He never let it out of his reach.

As they approached the first trading post, water muddied the riverbed pathway. The animals slogged through it, trudging closer to the sloped edge to find drier ground. A tall, bearded man at the post nodded to a stout woman next to him, a lady with a heavily painted face and at least a dozen gold and silver bangles on each wrist. She scurried down a path toward a large tent, her long gray skirts raising plumes of dust.

Makaidos’s danger signal flamed. He glided toward the caravan and flew in tight ellipses around the travelers. The bearded man glanced up at him, glaring at first, but his frown transformed into a bright smile as he waved his arms. “Stop! Stop and rest! Eat! Drink! Take your leisure!”

Joseph signaled for his company to stop, and he laid the reins on his lap. “Greetings in the name of the Lord Christ. I take it that you have lodging for myself and my fellow travelers? We must board a ship for Italy just after dawn.”

The man pointed at the large tent. “At my inn! The city is crowded and noisy, but out here you will find quiet and rest. The docks are not far, so you will have plenty of time to embark on your ship in the morning.”

“Very well.” Joseph climbed down from his camel, and the man immediately reached for the saddlebag. Joseph slapped his hand over it. “I will take care of this. You may see to the other bags.”

The man slid his hand away from the saddle and nodded. “As you wish. I will signal my helpers.” He glanced back at the tent and let out a shrill whistle. A man emerged through the opening, then a second, a third, a fourth, and a fifth. Ten more men joined the others and dashed toward Joseph, some waving curved swords and dark oval shields, others fixing arrows to bows.

Makaidos swooped down, his wings outstretched and his teeth bared, fire blasting from both nostrils. He aimed the twin jets at the tall, bearded man, incinerating him in a breath, then landed and turned his fire toward the attacking band. Six arrows penetrated his wall of flames and zinged into his body, five clanking on his armor and one pricking a gap between the scales on his chest. “Joseph,” he shouted. “Run for cover on the other side of the riverbed!”

As the travelers dashed to the trees on the opposite bank, Makaidos cremated the remaining attackers, leaving more than a dozen heaps of ash smoldering under the baking sun.

“Makaidos!” a voice called. “Help!”

Makaidos jerked his neck around. More attackers swarmed toward the travelers on the other bank! He leaped into the air, but a rope flew his way and snagged a back leg. A second rope caught his other back leg. Clusters of men clinging to each rope emerged from the bushes and pulled against him with all their might. Snorting a quick fiery blast, Makaidos burned the lines and launched toward the new band of highwaymen. More arrows pinged his armor and fell harmlessly to the ground, but one plunged deep into his foreleg, drawing a stream of blood.