Seth Grahame-Smith: Unholy Night

“On your knees,” said Peter, drawing his sword.

Oh well… it was worth a try.

Balthazar didn’t budge, so the soldiers helped him, pushing down on his shoulders and making him kneel in the dirt. He braced himself, wondering if he would feel his spine break or feel the blade tear through his neck and throat. He wondered if he would still be able to see as his head fell to the ground and rolled across the sand. What a strange sight that would be… rolling along with no breath or body, fading to nothing as the blood ran out of me…

Balthazar examined the faces of the Judean soldiers closest to him, felt the binds on his wrists with the tips of his fingers, smelled the desert air. He looked at the sand beneath his feet and the sky above his head, taking it all in. Relishing it. Here it was, the sum of his twenty-six years. He would die on his knees in Bethel — or “Beit El.” Or whatever the hell they called it. His blood would run into the dirt. The soldiers would spit on his corpse, hack it to pieces, and leave it to the dogs. And that would be that.

Lesser men would’ve prayed at a moment like this. Would’ve begged God’s forgiveness as they were confronted by his imminent judgment. Balthazar took comfort in the fact that even now, he felt no such compulsion. Even now, in the final seconds of his life, he stood firm. And while he couldn’t help the fact that his heart was pounding harder than it ever had — which will make the blood shoot higher from my headless neck and hopefully right into this captain’s face — he refused to give his executioners the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

What’s this?

Balthazar was suddenly confronted by a vision. A sea of stars dancing before him.

It had already happened.

Here he’d been, wondering about what it would be like when his head was cut off, and he’d missed the actual moment. The world narrowing, darkening into a single, distant point. Somewhere, far away — where the winds blew cool and the naked women bathed — he felt a sharp pain wash over him. And he could see something in that distant light, something moving. It was hard to make out, but yes, there was definitely something there. A man. A man leading an animal through the desert… a woman on its back…

So… this is what it’s like to die. Funny… men spend so much effort, so much anxiety trying to avoid this moment. But really, when it’s all said and done, dying isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s kind of…

The soldiers watched Balthazar slump forward, then fall to the ground, his blood running into the dirt. Peter examined the blunt handle of the sword he’d bludgeoned him with, making sure it hadn’t been soiled by flecks of blood or tufts of hair, then returned it to its sheath. He’d given the Antioch Ghost a ferocious whack on the skull, and it’d done the trick.

Balthazar was out cold.

Decimus had ordered the thief executed on the spot, his head brought back to Tel Arad to be displayed as a warning. And as much as Peter would’ve enjoyed that — as much as he would’ve liked to behead this piece of filth for slaughtering his men and making him spend an entire day in the desert — he had orders to take the Antioch Ghost alive.

And those orders came from a power higher than a Roman governor.

The spirit that had once called itself “Balthazar” was swimming.

Swimming through an ocean without end, an ocean of space and time, where all that had ever been and all that ever would be converged into one. As Balthazar looked up at its infinite, shimmering surface, he could see the whole of creation reflected back, every detail of the universe — from the stars in the heavens to the smallest insects of the earth. He could see every moment of his past and future. But as he swam, his movement created ripples in these images, warping them into ever-changing suggestions of the truth: Here was the man again, leading an animal through the desert… the woman on its back. Here was the distant star in the heavens and the trees with a secret. Here was the face from his past.…

And the faster Balthazar swam, the farther into the future he went. The stronger the ripples became, the harder those reflections were to see: Here was an army of strange soldiers and a wooden beam, splitting in two. Here was a great city in flames and his brother, Abdi, as a grown man. At least that’s what it looked like.

Balthazar was suddenly aware that he was no longer swimming. He was flying — floating above the earth, as if carried by a pair of outstretched wings. The shimmering surface he’d been looking up at was now miles below him, and the whole Judean Desert — no, all of Judea — stretched out as far as his eyes could see. Deep ravines were suddenly nothing more than jagged little lines in the sand. Soaring mountains were suddenly scaled with the tip of a finger. He could see flocks of birds beneath him, flying in formation above the waters of the Jordan River. He could see the tops of clouds and the shadows they cast on the desert floor.

Balthazar had never felt such peace. Such freedom.

I’m descending.…

The tops of the clouds were growing closer. Almost close enough to skim with his outstretched feet. Closer… until the birds were above him, and Balthazar was immersed in the dense fog of the clouds themselves. And when he broke through the bottom, the desert was much closer than it had been. Close enough to make out the scattered bits of green that had managed to push their way through the rocks… and close enough to see the tiny procession of Judean soldiers and cavalry below.

No…

The victorious captain and his hundred men, trekking from Bethel to Jerusalem with their unconscious prisoner in tow.

No, not there!

Balthazar could feel himself being pulled out of this glorious world, could feel the memory of his former self come flooding back. And he could see the prisoner beginning to come around.…

No… no, I don’t want to trade places with him ! I want to stay up here! I want to st —

Balthazar woke up retching. He felt the muscles of his stomach contracting against his will and its contents climbing up his throat. Instinct told him to cup his hands, but his hands told him they were still tied behind his back. He thought about fighting the urge — thought about bearing down and commanding his muscles to obey. But it was too late. His body had taken the reins. He was just a passenger now. And so the paltry contents of his stomach were ejected over his chin, down his front, and onto the tail of the horse below. The horse he was riding backward .

This was immediately followed by a chorus of cackling and harassment on all sides. And though Balthazar couldn’t see the men who were laughing and hurling insults at him, as his eyes were still only half open and flooded with the involuntary tears of his involuntary purge, he had a pretty good idea who they were. Just like he had a pretty good idea where he was, and how he’d gotten here.

He’d been knocked out with a blow to the head. That much was obvious, thanks to the blurred vision and the skull that throbbed in a way he’d never thought skulls could throb — the pain broadcasting all the way to the tips of his fingers. And while he wasn’t able to check at the moment, on account of his hands being tied, Balthazar also suspected that the hair he felt clinging to his scalp was glued there with dried blood. He was dizzy and nauseated from the force of the blow and from dehydration — judging by his maddening thirst and cracked lips. His neck was too stiff to turn more than a few degrees in either direction.