Stephen Lawhead - The Paradise War

I knew the cause of my slide into oblivion: my conscience was pulling heavy overtime trying to attract my attention. From the moment I crawled into the cairn and realized Simon had vanished, my subconscious had begun hand-to-hand combat with my reason. The object? Getting me to admit to myself that what might have happened actually did happen, and that I had done absolutely nothing about it.

Still, it wasn't so much Simon's disappearance that hastened my decline. Unnerving as that was, the object of my inner conflict was not Simon's vanishing act, it was his destination. Where, then, had Simon gone? That was the sixty-four trillion dollar question. And I knew the answer.

But I didn't like to say it.

No, I would rather stew slowly in my own juices than admit what I knew to be true. Nature, however, has a subtle way of dealing with these amusing little dysfunctional games one enjoys so much. It's called a nervous breakdown.

I began seeing things.

The first incident happened very early one morning. I had spent another sleepless night and decided to take a walk along the river. I slipped through the quad and took the lane leading to the meadow and the riverwalk. That early in the morning I had the place to myself, and just as I was passing the field where the college's cattle are kept, I saw a large gray hound loping across the pasture, coming at an angle towards me.

At first, I didn't think anything of it. There are lots of dogs around, after all. But, as it drew nearer, the size of the thing registered-the animal was seriously large: almost as big as a pony. It had a short, curly coat and extremely long legs that ate up the ground at an astonishing rate. And it was coming right for me. I stopped and stared, as it leapt the cattle fence without breaking stride. The dog landed in the lane a scant few yards away. Only then did it see me, for it turned as if startled and flattened its ears, baring its incredibly long teeth in a snarl.

I stood stock still, my heart racing. The dog, if that is what it was, growled menacingly low in its throat and raised its hackles. But I did not twitch a muscle-I was too scared to move, The great hound, still growling, turned down the lane and dashed off. It vanished in the morning mist from the river. But, in the instant it turned, I saw that it had an oddlooking collar made of iron chain-the antique kind with curious hand-forged square links.

Despite the fact that I had never in my life seen a dog so huge, I told myself that someone's pet had escaped from its kennel. Only that, and nothing more.

And then, a few days later, sitting by the window sipping tea on a rainy afternoon, I glanced out into the quad and saw something brown and hairy moving on the lawn. In the gloom of a thick overcast, I could not be certain exactly what I saw. At the time I would have sworn it was a pig-but a different sort of pig from any I was familiar with. Longlegged and lean, with a thick, bristly coat of dark reddish-brown and two curved tusks issuing from the sides of its pinched and narrow face, it carried its tail in a comical flagpole fashion-straight up over its sloping back.

With my face pressed against the glass, the window quickly steamed up. When I rubbed away the fog, the creature had disappeared. And with it any certainty that I had seen anything at all.

Next day, I saw a wolf in Turl Street.

Tired of being cooped up all day, I had ventured out late and it was growing dark. The streetlights were lit and some of the shops were already closed. I had gone to the covered market for a loaf of bread and, returning, I turned down Turl Street, which bends so that you cannot see either end from the middle. I had just entered the narrow street when my scalp began to prickle-as if someone were watching me with evil intent. I walked a few yards, and the prickly sensation spread down the back of my neck and across my shoulderblades. I felt evil eyes boring into my back. Instantly frightened, I imagined I heard a faint scratching click on the pavement behind me. I walked a few steps further, listening to this strange sound, whereupon, utterly convinced I was being followed, I turned abruptly.

I had never seen a real live wolf before, and thought it another giant hound, but then saw its shaggy coat and its great pale yellow eyes. It walked with its head low, its long snout to the ground as if scenting a trail. When I stopped, it stopped, giving me the distinct impression that I was being stalked. The door of a camera shop stood not ten feet to the right of me and I thought to run in the door and escape. I took one cautious step sideways. The wolf tensed. I heard a sound like gravel churning in a cauldron, and realized it came from the animal's throat. We stood looking at one another across a distance of no more than fifteen or twenty feet. I decided to make a rush for the door, and was just working myself up to it when the door swung open and someone came out of the shop. I half turned, flung out a hand to the stranger to stop him. «Wait!» I said. The fellow grimaced at me-I suppose he thought me a beggar after loose change-and pushed brusquely past. When I looked again, the wolf was running up the Turl towards Broad Street. I saw its gaunt sides gleam silver in the streetlights and then it was gone.

I told myself I hadn't actually seen it, that the episode with the giant dog had unnerved me. But the next morning the Daily Mail carried a story about a wolf seen running loose in the streets of Oxford. Numerous people had witnessed it. Police had been called out, and animal control, but they couldn't locate the beast. Speculation was that the wolf had escaped from someone's illegal menagerie and had fled to the open countryside.

I was afraid to leave my rooms for three days after that-afraid of what I might see next. And, when I did screw up my courage to go out again, almost immediately I stepped off the sidewalk on the High Street smack in front of an Oxford Experience bus. I got knocked down, but not run over-those tourist buses do not move very fast and the drivers are skilled at bumping into unwary pedestrians.

It came home. . . as I lay in the street. . . staring up into the ring of ripely disgusted faces gathered above me… that something had to give. A bus today, a train tomorrow. Or would it be a screaming freefall from one of the dreaming spires? More to the point: was this denial really worth my sanity, my life?

One gets a singular perspective on life while gazing up from the gutter. When the policeman who helped me to my feet asked, «You all right, then, son?» I was forced to consider the question in all its greater philosophical implications. No, I decided, I was definitely not all right. Not by any stretch of logic or imagination.

I spent the rest of the day wandering around the streets, aimless and sick at heart. I lost myself in the usual stream of shoppers and simply drifted. I shuffled here and there; I watched chalk artists and Street musicians without heeding what they drew or played. I knew something was happening. I knew it had something to do with me. I knew also that I could not hold out against it much longer. But what was I to do? What was required of me?

These and other questions, barely formed, occupied me all afternoon. And when I finally gave up and headed back to my rooms it was nearly dark and the weather had turned rainy. The streets were all but deserted. At Carfax I stopped for the traffic light, though there were no cars on the street. I felt silly standing in the rain, so I ducked under a nearby awning.

As I stood there, waiting for the light to change, a very strange feeling came over me. I was suddenly lightheaded and weak in the knees, woozy and unsteady as if I might pass out any second. Perhaps getting knocked down by the bus had hurt me more than I knew, I thought. Perhaps I've injured myself after all. I grabbed my head with both hands. I gulped air, and my throat felt tight. I couldn't breathe.