“Let your words be steel! Let your tongue be a flint! Do not waver, do not hesitate!” the Prophet announced, eyes on fire, hands raised in proclamation. People on the sidewalk gave him wide berth and would not make eye contact. “Beware the coming darkness! Do not be at peace, and neither rest, for war is upon you! War I say, war is upon you. Gird your loins for battle and prepare your hands for war, beat your plowshares into swords, slay your oxen and join the fray. Ha!” The old man jumped up once, and bent low, then jumped up again, his frayed clothes flapping in the windy evening, his beard pushed over against the side of his face. Laughter somehow gripped him and he bent low, holding his sides, laughing boldly into the ground. When he once again regained composure, he brought his head back up and stared down several passer-bys before speaking again.
“Let the joy of the warrior’s zeal grip you, I say. The warrior’s zeal!” and a whoop, a battle cry echoed off the buildings and down through the street. Then the man broke into another fit of laughter, this time his head thrown back, his arms stretched out to either side like a man enjoying the feeling of rain coming down on him. “Oh Father, let them hear my voice, let my words be words of steel, oh yes, striking, oh yes, striking.”
Suddenly the Prophet stopped speaking, stopped moving, and stared down at his feet, quiet, swaying. Then he turned on his heel and walked into the front entrance of the building that he had been standing in front of, the Regence County Hospital.
- posted by Timothy @ 1:11 PM