left
in his billfold.
The
robber’s free hand came down and clamped on his wrist. The touch of the man
boiled his blood.
The
man turned his hand, and the silver ward ring on his finger glinted in the lamp
light.
“What’s
that there?”
“Let
me go,” the Rider hissed.
“Sure,
I’ll let you go, Pigtails,” the man said, releasing his wrist and leaving
streaks of white and red across his skin. “You just be sure and drop your
wedding band in that sack.”
“No,”
the Rider said.
The
robber thumbed back the hammer on his pistol. The woman in front of the Rider
pressed her lace-gloved hands to her ears and hunkered down in her seat.
“I
didn’t hear you.”
The
Rider’s eyes went from the mask to the dark hole of the man’s gun barrel. He
could almost imagine the blunt nose of the bullet waiting to spring at the end
of it. His eyes went out of focus for a second, and he considered dying. He had
no fear of it, having already seen much of the country that lay beyond. He was
a man with the assurance of continued existence and long experience with out of
body travel. No need for the faith most men had to falter through their days
with, the Rider knew what to expect.
His
regularly interrupted sleep had left him with a ragged edge, as well. He was
constantly tired, and could see no end to his condition in sight. Indeed, it
seemed to worsen. His food and drink had begun to taste bad, and he did not
like to think what the ruahim must be doing to it.
Why
not just die and be done with it, then? Let his brains get splattered over the
sickly dentist. Let him fly from this world of rot, assume his garb of glory
and take his place in the halls of the Yeshiva shel Malah in the precincts of
the learned in shel Elyon, studying Torah under the wise angel Zagazagel with
all the great sages and his departed friends and teachers of The Sons of The
Essenes. Each day would be a full life with a morning of joyful childhood, a
blazing afternoon at the summit of youth, and an evening of peaceful, measured
adulthood. No more slow, dragging years of creeping age, no more restless
nights of dwelling on the long, drawn out expiration, the dilapidation and
failure of body and mind that waited at the precipice of a hard mortal life. It
was a sure temptation, one that his teachers had warned him of early on.
They
told him that anticipation of death was God’s test for men of hidden knowledge,
and the Adversary’s greatest temptation. The counterpoint was that although God
had laid aside an idyllic place for them, they must not abandon life. Life was
the crucible of the Lord, in which the spirit was tempered for the unknown
rigors of its new existence. To cut it short was to impede one’s enjoyment of
the life yet to come.
One
old teacher, a rebbe named Levi, had advised him that the trick was finding one
thing, just one, to savor about the material world; something that could only
be enjoyed in this life. Something one would dearly miss in the next. Levi had
confided to the Rider that for him, it was strawberries. Plump,
freshly picked strawberries.
The
Rider’s one thing had always been knowledge, and experience of this Earth. He
had as a youth marveled at the breadth of Creation and the philosophies of men.
But that simple joy had lately been replaced with an altogether different
motivation to stay alive.
At
the end of the bandit’s gun barrel was the shadow of Adon, lurking and leering
in the dark with the blood of the Sons of The Essenes black on his hands. The
Order had taken the Rider from a mindless job as an apprentice shopkeeper
sweeping floors, balancing ledgers and putting his mind to the arrangement of
canned goods and opened up the world, the very universe to him. They had taken
away his fear of death.
Adon
had no small part in that, and it was that personal betrayal that aggrieved him
all the more. Shopkeeper his real father may have been, small and
profit-minded, but he had loved the Torah enough to sacrifice
in his billfold.
The
robber’s free hand came down and clamped on his wrist. The touch of the man
boiled his blood.
The
man turned his hand, and the silver ward ring on his finger glinted in the lamp
light.
“What’s
that there?”
“Let
me go,” the Rider hissed.
“Sure,
I’ll let you go, Pigtails,” the man said, releasing his wrist and leaving
streaks of white and red across his skin. “You just be sure and drop your
wedding band in that sack.”
“No,”
the Rider said.
The
robber thumbed back the hammer on his pistol. The woman in front of the Rider
pressed her lace-gloved hands to her ears and hunkered down in her seat.
“I
didn’t hear you.”
The
Rider’s eyes went from the mask to the dark hole of the man’s gun barrel. He
could almost imagine the blunt nose of the bullet waiting to spring at the end
of it. His eyes went out of focus for a second, and he considered dying. He had
no fear of it, having already seen much of the country that lay beyond. He was
a man with the assurance of continued existence and long experience with out of
body travel. No need for the faith most men had to falter through their days
with, the Rider knew what to expect.
His
regularly interrupted sleep had left him with a ragged edge, as well. He was
constantly tired, and could see no end to his condition in sight. Indeed, it
seemed to worsen. His food and drink had begun to taste bad, and he did not
like to think what the ruahim must be doing to it.
Why
not just die and be done with it, then? Let his brains get splattered over the
sickly dentist. Let him fly from this world of rot, assume his garb of glory
and take his place in the halls of the Yeshiva shel Malah in the precincts of
the learned in shel Elyon, studying Torah under the wise angel Zagazagel with
all the great sages and his departed friends and teachers of The Sons of The
Essenes. Each day would be a full life with a morning of joyful childhood, a
blazing afternoon at the summit of youth, and an evening of peaceful, measured
adulthood. No more slow, dragging years of creeping age, no more restless
nights of dwelling on the long, drawn out expiration, the dilapidation and
failure of body and mind that waited at the precipice of a hard mortal life. It
was a sure temptation, one that his teachers had warned him of early on.
They
told him that anticipation of death was God’s test for men of hidden knowledge,
and the Adversary’s greatest temptation. The counterpoint was that although God
had laid aside an idyllic place for them, they must not abandon life. Life was
the crucible of the Lord, in which the spirit was tempered for the unknown
rigors of its new existence. To cut it short was to impede one’s enjoyment of
the life yet to come.
One
old teacher, a rebbe named Levi, had advised him that the trick was finding one
thing, just one, to savor about the material world; something that could only
be enjoyed in this life. Something one would dearly miss in the next. Levi had
confided to the Rider that for him, it was strawberries. Plump,
freshly picked strawberries.
The
Rider’s one thing had always been knowledge, and experience of this Earth. He
had as a youth marveled at the breadth of Creation and the philosophies of men.
But that simple joy had lately been replaced with an altogether different
motivation to stay alive.
At
the end of the bandit’s gun barrel was the shadow of Adon, lurking and leering
in the dark with the blood of the Sons of The Essenes black on his hands. The
Order had taken the Rider from a mindless job as an apprentice shopkeeper
sweeping floors, balancing ledgers and putting his mind to the arrangement of
canned goods and opened up the world, the very universe to him. They had taken
away his fear of death.
Adon
had no small part in that, and it was that personal betrayal that aggrieved him
all the more. Shopkeeper his real father may have been, small and
profit-minded, but he had loved the Torah enough to sacrifice
Similar Books
