Sword & Spirit Trilogy: Sword & Spirit, #1

By John Stacy Worth

Elven Prince by birth, Southern by the grace of God!

Elijah Hatton just discovered three secrets. His stolen birthright, an ancient weapon—and sanctified moonshine.

Born in another realm, he lost everything, his family, his kingdom, even his true name. But his enemies made one mistake: they didn't kill Eli.

Raised the Deep South this country boy now sets out on a path to reclaim his lost kingdom — with righteous determination, enchanted six-guns, and the flaming sword that once guarded Eden.

However, the ones who killed his parents have sensed the return of a sacred magic which marks the The Time of Reckoning—when doorways to other worlds are reopened.

All they need is a certain elixir, a legendary blade, and the blood of an orphaned Prince.

Thus the showdown begins: They're tracking down Eli, while he's gunning for them. With the fate of the fallen realms caught in the crossfire.

Read this faith-filled fantasy today. A coming of age tale where magical realms and blood betrayals collide with a modern backwoods Georgia.


Published by Fiction Worth Reading: Faith-filled Fantasy & Sanctified Sci-Fi — Where Spiritual Truth meets Speculative Fiction!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiction Worth Reading
• Release date: Jan 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393885023

John Stacy Worth

About the Author John Stacy Worth here.  I write from a Christian world view, but as I once told my wife, “This ain't your Mama's Christian Fiction.” My fiction is more like, “Did you ever wonder what a Behemoth was, and how you might kill one?” Or, more importantly, "What's Leviathan taste like?" I also explore questions such as, "Can a vampire get saved? What were the Nephilim like? And whatever happened to that flaming sword guarding Eden?"  I grew up in rural Georgia, reading every comic book I could get my hands on, then moved on to Asimov, Tolkien, ... you get the picture.  I've served in the U.S. Navy (14 countries and about every island in the Caribbean), survived a year as a High School Science Teacher, then worked a Chemist for Merck Pharmaceuticals, and now I'm at a Nuclear Power Plant. I love God, still live in Georgia, and am happily married with two awesome sons. My books are finally available online. And if your mama is that rare and precious type that wonders "What's up with Nessie?" or "You know, I believe that Bigfoot critter might be real...", point her my way. This might be your Mama's Christian Fiction after all. God bless, JSW

Book preview

RENEGADE REALMS

Sword & Spirit # 1

John Stacy Worth

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by Fiction Worth Reading

Copyright (c) 2019 John Stacy Worth

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

ALSO BY JOHN STACY Worth, Published by Fiction Worth Reading: 

THE GRACE FINDER SAGA

Remnant - Book 1

Reprobate - Book 2

Requiem - Book 3

Standalone works

(short story collection)

Weird Winds - free when you join my Fellowship of Readers at FictionWorthReading.com.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my patient, loving wife - Staci Elizabeth.  You are beautiful in every way, and I adore you.

To my sons, Caleb and Levi.  I'm so proud of you both, so glad you're my sons, and excited to see what life has in store for each of you.

And to my Fellowship of Readers. You're an awesome group of friends. I'm so very thankful for you all.  So grateful for the encouragement, feedback, and belief in me and my work.

Peace and blessings,

JSW 2019

1 - Everything you know

I AIN’T YOUR REAL DADDY, Joe Hatton said, as his eyes locked with Eli's.

They sat opposite each other in an ancient shack—really nothing but four cypress posts topped with a dozen crossbeams. The outside was covered in weathered, heart-pine planks. A tin roof rusted above.

Eli Hatton swallowed hard. Like Joe he sat with a fully loaded twelve gauge in his lap. Looking back into the man’s eyes, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel: sorrow, relief, anger?

Truth was, none of these stirred in his heart. If anything, the words just confirmed what he’d felt most of his fifteen years: a nagging sense of aloneness. Besides that, it explained a lot.

Joseph Hatton was of average height and muscular, tanned easily, had deep blue eyes, and black hair beginning to salt throughout.

Elijah, on the other hand, was lean and tall, with dusty blond hair—kept long in the front and tapered in the back. His eyes were a piercing green.

Well, Eli finally said. Then who is?

Joe lowered his head, breaking eye contact with the boy he'd raised from an infant. The brim of his worn Stetson angled down, cloaking his face in shadow. He leaned his shotgun carefully into the corner, reached for a jug planted on the dirt floor between his feet and picked it up.

Never found out. He raised the jug and sipped. Closed his eyes and nodded approval of their latest batch. He opened them again. She never told me. Suppose she didn’t have time to go into all the details.

Why not, Elijah shot back, impatience slipping in. I was almost one when she died, right? She’s smiling in that picture ‘cause she just found out she was pregnant.

There was a single photo back at their cabin, a 5 x 7 on the slate mantle above the fireplace, Julie carved into its wooden frame. It was just a close up of a young woman, maybe mid-twenties, the background a fuzzy mix of autumn leaves starting to turn.

Joe sighed. No, Eli. That’s just a picture of an old girlfriend. Not your mama at all. Wasn’t even named Julie—neither of 'em. Joe hunched forward in the wooden chair and propped his arms on his knees, leaning closer. I’ve been as honest with you as I could. Which I reckon is to say everything you know about yourself is a lie.

At last the emotions came. Not just a sense of aloneness, but of betrayal, and a slow burn that Eli knew would grow into anger if he let it. He pushed it away.

Even though Joe was the cause of these feelings, the man he’d called Daddy—up until today of course—was never cruel. Not warm or prone to show affection, but not mean-spirited either. Eli knew there must be reasons. And he expected they’d come quickly on the heels of such a confession. So he kept his face neutral and waited.

Moonlight lit the small room, slipping through a cracked, dirtied pane in the shack’s lone window. Though dead of winter, and in the low twenties outside, the air within was warmed by white hot coals of the brick oven beneath their moonshine still. Deep in the woods of Kerrsville, Georgia, bordering the Okeefenokee Swamp, they sat, tending their brew in the dark.

Finally the man spoke, "You were only about four or five months old, near as I can figure. And she did die, but it was on the same night she passed you to me. So we didn’t have much time. She was ... beautiful." He barely whispered the word.

Then Joe sighed deeply and rubbed his chin. Eli recognized the signs as the Green Beret in Joseph Hatton took over, recalling in vivid detail, and relaying the information as he saw and went over it again in his mind. Like running through an inventory of the past. 

I was sitting right here, when I heard footsteps. Had this old thing. Joe jerked a thumb at the shotgun propped beside him. "I held it out in front of me and waited. A knock, just one small tap, so I knew right away it weren't the law. They’d just bust it down.

I stood up, faced the door, and raised my gun, a load of buckshot in the chamber, used the barrel to throw the latch and then stepped back and centered on the door. I expect she heard that block of wood slide from its cradle. She eased the door open, and I could hardly believe what I saw. Joe stopped to take another sip.

Eli said nothing, just waited.

After he’d set the jug down, Joe started back, "She was like an angel, long blond hair, skin that seemed to glow in the moonlight. All dressed in green and brown cloth, braided leather cords here and there on her wrists, forehead, biceps, with leaves and feathers tied and tucked all over.

"And then I noticed you, bundled in a rust colored blanket that was stitched in gold thread along the edges. With a tiny pink fist you held a lock of her hair, while the rest of it covered you like a veil. She turned her head, as if to look behind her, and lost her balance.

"I let my shotgun fall to the ground and held my breath, prayin’ quick. The stock hit, kicked up a clot of dirt and then turned as the gun toppled sideways—barrel was aligned with that window when it finally hit.  But the shell stayed put.  And the gun fell far enough from the still that the heat weren't no issue.

"I lifted my left arm and caught your mama just right. With her body twisting at the waist, you shifted from between us and she dropped shoulder first into the crook of my arm.

"That’s when I noticed the sweat on her skin, the flush of exhaustion in her face. I bent so as to cushion her fall, slipped my other arm behind her knees, then stood up straight, with her on her back and you snuggled up to her breast.

"Didn’t stop for nothin’. Not to put out the fire under my still, not to fetch my shotgun, didn’t even close the door behind us. Was wearing this same old army jacket, and had just took off two small jars of shine, had one in each side pocket. I would’ve set them out, for fear of breaking 'em, but she was already in my arms, and I had the feeling she needed to get someplace safe.

"So I carried you both to the old ferry, set you down gentle as I could, unhitched it and poled us across the slew. Tossed the line over the post on that side, scooped you both back up, and ran hard as I could through two miles of winding trails.

"Every now and then she’d try to raise her head, her green eyes always glancing back, like a stalked animal. So, yeah, you’ve got your mama’s eyes—without that fear. But it wasn’t fear for herself. That much was obvious by the way she held onto you.

"Finally I got to the cabin, took her straight to the bedroom, eased you both down, and was about to fetch her some water. But she stopped me. Reached out and grabbed my wrist.

"She thanked me, told me your name. But her accent was strange. Never could place it. Which occurred to me later of course. At the time, I just wanted to get her stable. Maybe bring down a fever or ease her mind, anything I could do. But she wouldn’t let go my wrist. And funny thing was, I couldn’t break free. She was so strong."

Joe took another sip. Last one, he said to himself, then resumed, "She gave me a few instructions. ‘Don’t tell anyone - trust no one.’ Told me where she’d ‘come through’ and where she’d hidden the ‘Lahat Khehreb’, that’s what she called it.

"Told me to bury her next to it, then said a bunch of words in a language I’d never heard. Sounded like she was speakin’ in tongues the way they do down at that Church over on the edge of Wolf Creek.

"I thought maybe she was out of her mind with fever or chill. It was cold that night. There were so many questions in my head. And then she took you from her breast, you were still nursing, that’s how little you were. She had to slip a finger in your mouth to break the suction. And I saw again that fear in her eyes.

"She said two words: ‘The poison.’ You gurgled and that’s when I noticed, right above her opposite breast where she’d cradled your body, everything was bloodstained. I grabbed you, moved you to that deer hide rug and set about to tend her wounds.

"My Army training come in handy all of a sudden. It was clearly a projectile wound. I was about to apply pressure, when I saw the shaft where she’d broken it, just a half inch showing above the skin. An arrow had entered her chest.

"She didn’t seem to be bleeding out, so either the arrow had missed the major vessels or the blood had clotted around the shaft. I looked closer and it didn’t seem to be clotted up, so I turned her careful to one side to check her back.

"Like I expected, the arrow had gone through, but not all the way. Only a quarter inch of a stone point poked through. Looked like it entered at an angle, from below her on one side so that it went in above her breast, then exited near the top of her shoulder blade. Since she hadn’t been coughing up blood, it had missed her lung. Or so I hoped.

Tools were out in the shed, and I wasn’t about to leave her. So I took one of the jars from my field jacket, opened it and poured it across both wounds. Then I pressed my lips to her back and pinched the arrowhead tight between my teeth. Would’ve used my hands, but my fingers were slippery with sweat and her blood.

The whole time Joe spoke, Eli just sat. The level of detail and the steady, serious tone held him transfixed. It was like all his past had been a trove of secrets tucked away inside a hidden treasure box. And, for the first time in his life, Eli was given a key.

Still, even though a crack in Joe's dam had spread wide and let forth a torrent of description, Eli sensed there were some things being held back. So, he waited patiently... and listened.

Joe kept on, "With that arrowhead in my mouth, I pulled slowly away from her. On the way out, the base of the stone opened the exit wound wider, but she didn’t even gasp. The rest of the arrow followed it out and I flipped my head sideways, tossing it away from her, and you.

"It skidded right across the wood floor and into the fireplace, which was still warm with embers. Later I’d pull it out and study it. Side-notched, pressure flaked all around. The skill it must’ve took to work that point, perfect bevels on both sides, dark blue flint with streaks of red and purple all around, like evening sky after a swamp fire. It’s up there in that display over the mantle now, the one in the center.

"Anyway, I used a bottle of shine to disinfect both wounds. She still seemed fine, bleedin’ of course, but not like you’d see if an artery was hit. I set a silver dollar on the entry wound and my driver’s license over the exit. Wrapped 'em tight with strips from a fresh t-shirt.

"Should have been enough. She didn’t show signs of a punctured lung. Didn’t seem there’d been that much blood loss either. Pulse was good and strong, at first anyway. But slowly she started to fade.

"She thanked me for tryin’. I kept one eye on you, but you wasn’t even crawling yet. Just rocked on your back, playin’ with your own bare feet, like a turtle flipped upside down.

"When I looked back at her, I saw she was smiling at you. And Eli, I swear, whatever it is folks call love, it was all inside her eyes and somehow made its way to my heart in that one moment. A lifetime of it.

"I told her she was gonna be alright, but she just shook her head. She looked over to the fireplace where I’d flung the arrow, and said it again ‘Poison’. She must’ve seen me touch my own lips, realizing the same time I did that I’d pulled it out with my teeth. ‘That potion,’ she said. ‘Rinse your mouth. Give my babe a sip. It’s much too late for me’.

"At first I couldn’t figure why she’d want you to have any. Then I realized you’d been taking milk that may or may not’ve been tainted.

"Her eyes started to glaze over. ‘Kind warrior,’ that’s what she called me. Joe smiled at the memory, then said, And this part I know word for word. Seared into my soul, I’ve thought back on it so many times; ‘Kind warrior,’ she said. ‘Take care of the prince, tell him nothing of this night, of his heritage, nothing until he is of age. To do so might hasten him to action which will get him killed. But when he is ready, tell him... everything.’ And just like that, the light left her eyes, and I was alone with you."

Eli wanted to lash out in denial. But it was all too bizarre. With Joe there were seldom wasted words, but this had been a steady stream of detail.

And though the night’s confession had proven Joe a liar, the words did nothing to condemn the man. Quite the opposite. So, despite the strangeness of the tale, Eli completely believed it and asked the few questions he could.

So my name ... is it really Elijah? And I’m a prince?

Joe shrugged. Well, close enough for English. What she called you was El-eyah. I just played with the consonants a bit. And I took her at her word, so yep, I think you must be a prince, but of what I have no idea.

Without looking down, Eli zipped his wool vest, snugging it closed over his black flannel shirt.  "And the Lahat Khehreb, what is that?"

Joe motioned to the still. This batch is about done. Once it’s off, I’ll show you.

2 - Lahat Khehreb

IT WAS ALMOST DAWN when they reached the island. Eli had never seen this part of the swamp. Deeper than he’d ever been taken, the land showed signs of an early settlement long abandoned.

Securing the jon-boat to a sturdy cypress knee, Joe fetched a camper’s spade and folded it over his belt. What you’re about to see may upset you. And that’s fine. Be mad at me if that’s what you need, but you ought to know this was what she wanted.

They grabbed their shotguns, and Eli followed him past towering stands of Cypress, pine, and various oak. Their passage was slowed by thick ground-cover of briers and a layer of mulch so deep Eli doubted their feet ever truly touched earth.

Then the underbrush cleared, and Eli saw a thin worn path. He began to recognize the criss-crossing trails of larger animals, hoof-prints of deer and feral hogs. He stood a little taller then, gripping his shotgun with resolve, thankful now he’d brought it.

We might need our guns, Joe said, as if reading his mind. But if you happen to see a boar or deer big enough, don’t take 'em down lessen you have to. Freezer’s full enough I reckon.

Eli nodded, understanding. The wildlife here would be wary of their presence and probably stay well out of sight. It was too cold for snakes. They’d be hibernating in tortoise dens or wherever there was room enough to coil together for warmth.

There it is. Joe pointed. A pile of rotting lumber lay directly ahead. There was a slight sense of order to the planks, indicating they had once been aligned in rows. Now they just looked like one side of a building collapsed into another, leaving each board oriented in a general direction, but haphazard enough that an untrained eye might simply see a bonfire never set ablaze.

But it was the wrought iron gate beyond this pile that Joe led them toward, raising his eyes so they could be seen beneath the brim of his worn Stetson.

Eli followed the man’s gaze. In the light of dawn the archway above the gate came into view, and Eli read the words Bramblewood Cemetery. Joe headed straight for the small plot of headstones.

She’s buried here, Eli said.

Since it wasn’t exactly a question Joe answered the unspoken one. The cross behind our cabin is another part of the lie. Nothing’s there because everything is here.

I was just a baby, how did you—

Hold that thought, Joe said. Then he put a shoulder and most of his weight against the gate, which screeched in protest, but opened enough to let them through. Joe headed to a corner of the plot.

The iron fence surrounding them was far from intact. Rust and time were doing their job, so that the bars no longer stood at attention—bound together by unbroken rails. A few sentries stood arm in arm, holding their ground, but most were tired and leaning, their pointed tips only pitted nubs angling askew. Of course a few had surrendered completely, flat on the ground, relinquishing themselves back to the earth.

As they slowly traversed the yard, Eli noticed Joe was careful to step around the markers and attempted to avoid placing foot directly atop any space where bones might lie. Eli read a few of the headstones.

Like the gate, time had ravaged several of the marble slabs. But some were still legible: Phineas Hatton, born 6-14-1842 died 7-2-1863, 10th Regiment - Georgia, CSA. Beatrice Sapp, 1851-1918. Eli began to understand.

The newer stones were granite, covered in a thin layer of dust, but much easier to read. The most recent was carved from rose granite twice as wide as the others, since there were two beneath: Charles Hatton, May 18, 1930 - Sept 2, 1985, and Ruby Hatton, Oct 30, 1935 - June 5, 2000. She died not even three years before Eli was born.

Then Joe stopped at the far corner where a huge Live Oak towered. There was no headstone beside it. No weathered marble or dust layered granite. But there was a white stone, about the size of a sand dollar, just lying on the ground a few feet from the tree.

Joe pointed to it. She’s buried under there. I don’t know her name, reckon she didn’t think it was worth mentioning. If you want, I can step away and give you a few minutes...

Eli shook his head. No need. He looked Joe directly in the eyes. This is your family’s plot ain’t it. Again not a true question.

Joe nodded. We passed my parents walkin’ in. Last time I came was when I buried your mama. The morning after she brung you to me.

And you brought me all the way out here with you?

Joe closed his eyes and smiled. Nope. Left you back at the cabin, all alone. He opened his eyes again and nodded, affirming the stupidity. I was thirty three, Eli. Never married, no younguns. I just figured you’d be fine if I corralled you in and left a few things. Was only gone a whole day. You didn’t die.

In spite of everything, all the lies he'd been told, Eli found himself grinning at that. A helicopter parent Joe had never been. Even on day one, apparently.

Banishing the grin, he forced a somber expression and motioned to the stone. So is there something down there with her we need?

Joe raised an eyebrow. Eli, what do you think I am? Crazy? He propped his shotgun against the Live Oak.

Eli shrugged. Thought has crossed my mind... a lot lately.

Joe gave a wry smile. Okay. Well there’s crazy and there’s downright morbid. We ain’t here to disturb the dead. Pay respects and get what we came for, that’s all we’re doing. He looked around. You got a shell chambered?

Yeah? Eli glanced around nervously.

Keep an eye out, while I fetch this for you.

Uh... Alright. Eli shifted his grip, putting his shotgun at the ready and thumbed off the safety. We expecting trouble?

Joe stepped to one side of the tree to a spot across from the white stone. He looked up at the branches above, then at the stone, the roots, even the pile of lumber on the other side of the cemetery, judging his location and getting his bearings from the landmarks around him. Been expectin’ trouble nigh on fifteen years, he finally answered. Just try not to show it is all.

With that he unhooked the spade, opened it to lock the handle in place, and started digging. Since the shovel was short, he was soon kneeling as he dug. About two and a half feet down the shovel hit with a chink. Joe tossed the spade next to the fresh mound of dirt and reached into the hole with both hands. He started clawing out the dirt.

Eli kept looking over, while pretending to stand guard. He strained to see what the payoff would be.

Finally Joe lay flat and put his left hand on the ground next to his head. His right arm was in the hole. Obviously, he’d gotten a good hold on whatever it was. With a grunt he pulled with his right hand and pushed up with his left. Then he perched next to the hole, wrapped both hands around something, and stood up.

Eli stared in disbelief. The metal blade was about three feet long. The surface held swirling designs of metal folded over on itself and beaten down repeatedly, Damascus steel. But this was like no steel Eli had ever seen. Fifteen years in the ground and, though bits of gray earth and dark clay clung to it, there was no hint of rust. Even the burnished handle seemed flawless.

Joe tapped it against the trunk of the oak, knocking the dirt from it in one effortless motion. The blade shone in the morning light. The edge glistened as Joe tilted and turned the blade. It looked razor sharp.

"The Lahat Khehreb, Joe said, holding it up in the morning sun. You know it never seemed strange to me that she ‘crossed over’ near this graveyard, inside that old pile of wood in fact. He gestured toward the collapsed lumber pile. It was an abandoned church then. She hurried out here into this graveyard and put the sword down close to the oldest living thing in a plot of my ancient dead.

"Somehow the proximity of those two spokes in life’s wheel created a place where the sword couldn’t be seen by her killers. Because that’s what they turned out to be. Didn’t happen right away, but she died from their poison.

"When I got out here, the church was a heap of old lumber, like it is now. Just a little bigger was all. Nothing rotted yet. But there was no reason for it to be in such a shape. Those were Heartwood planks, posts and crossbeams so thick with old sap that they’d take centuries to decay.

I’d seen demolition like that before. Something had imploded that old building, tearing out its heart so the outer shell would just crumple down on itself. I figured that once she ‘crossed over’ she either did it herself, or somebody followed her through and imploded the passage once they couldn’t find her. Or did it on their way back through. I dunno. That’s all speculation on my part, but I figure it’s something like that. Maybe something we’ll find out before this is through. Anyhow... Joe held the sword out to Eli. I believe this belongs to you now.

Eli reached, but as his hand neared the hilt, the blade began to change color. It went quickly from a silvery gray to a glowing red, as if freshly pulled from a forge. Then it burst into flames and lurched quickly from one side to another. What’re you doin’, trying to kill me? Eli yelped.

I’m trying to hold onto it, Joe said through gritted teeth.

Eli moved back and, just as quickly, the blade returned to normal, and the strain left Joe’s face.

Try that again, Joe said. But slowly, and be ready to back away.

Eli stepped toward Joe and raised his hand as if to take the sword. The process repeated itself. They did it a third time, and Eli said, I don’t think I’m supposed to take it. Not yet anyway.

Joe shook his head. Don’t make no sense. I know she meant this for you.

Maybe so. But for some reason, this just ain’t the time.

Joe sighed. Reckon you could be right. He reached down with his other hand and picked up the spade, quickly pushed the mound of dirt back into its hole and tapped his shovel clean. You mind carrying this, so I ain’t got three things to tote? He presented the handle to Eli.

Sure. Eli set the safety on his shotgun and leaned it next to Joe’s, took the spade, folded it, and took a length of para-cord from his pocket. He tied the shovel to his side, fastening the cord to a belt loop. Then he picked up his shotgun and waited for Joe.

Joe found a way to slip the sword into his belt, then picked up his own gun. He started to lead them back out but stopped. Hold on...I got a feeling.

Someone watching us? Eli looked around, thumbing his safety again.

No. Joe knelt at the base of the tree, mindful of the sword on his side. He picked up the smooth white stone. This was on your mama, tucked into an armband. Probably just a version of jewelry where she came from. But I got a feeling you should have it. He held it out in his palm. "More like you need it."

Eli reached, but slowly, half expecting it to turn blue or flip out of Joe’s hand. But it did neither. It simply remained a stone. So Eli finally placed his fingers around it and slipped it into the breast pocket of his vest.

3 - Water of Life

THEY HEADED TOWARD the jon-boat, and then paddled home.

Back at the cabin, Joe locked the sword in the gun cabinet alongside their shotguns. Then they sorted the moonshine from last night’s brew. And, though they’d been up all night, it was Sunday, which meant they had only a few hours before the church doors opened.

Tired as he felt in his bones, Eli still had to force his mind to settle down and surrender to sleep.

Joe woke him up at ten. They cleaned themselves, ate, made it to the sanctuary on time, and stayed for communion. Then they returned home. Around five in the evening the Sun started its slow decent, and Joe urged Eli to bed again.

Get your rest, Joe said from the doorway. Something tells me we’re both about to need it.

Eli heard the doorknob of his room click shut. With fingers tight around a flat white stone, he fell asleep.

ONCE ELI STARTED SNORING, Joe went to the fresh batch of moonshine. He closed his eyes, passed his hands over the mason jars as he uttered the words, Uisce Beatha. 

From his fingertips came sparks of blue and white energy. They sprayed over the containers in a shower, like a silent cascade of fireworks. Joe opened his eyes to see the sparks pass through the metal lids and swirl their way into each jar.

This had been his ritual for fifteen years, since the night he was given Eli. A part of the story he’d kept from the boy, though he knew in his bones time was growing short. 

The first time he'd heard the spell, Joe thought it was one word.  Years later, he'd learned it was actually two. From the ancient Gaelic, it meant 'water of life' and was pronounced wishgebah, which would later be shortened to whiskey.

The spell was from the Angel, as he thought of Eli’s mother. Among the set of instructions she’d given to him, swearing him to secrecy until what she called the Time of Reckoning. Only then could the truth be revealed, and only in doses, to keep destiny at bay until the boy was ready. After he was fifteen but before his sixteenth birthday. 

Joe hoped his timing was right. He had his doubts after the episode with the sword, but maybe that was how it was supposed to act. Joe felt the time was right, but knew there was something missing too.

He’d thought the white stone might hold answers, but so far it had done nothing. At least not so far as Joe could see. Then an idea presented itself.

Joe let the last sparks fade into the shine. Then he put the jars into the hidden compartment of the pantry and made his way to the living room. He approached the fireplace.

Joe took down the glass display case then sat on his couch and put the case on the coffee table. He undid the metal clasp and opened the lid. The artifacts were held in place against the glass by a cushion of batten and a thick green cloth - a remnant cut from the Angel’s garment. All but the centerpiece were relics from the surrounding fields. He reached out to take the arrowhead.

As he touched the stone he was surprised by how cool it felt. Until now, he’d never taken it out. Then the stone grew warm in his hand. So much so that he shifted it to his other palm. Then it was cool again, almost frigid. This time he kept the stone in one hand. It pulsed in temperature, warm then cool, hot and freezing. But it never harmed him.

Joe marveled at the phenomenon, then drew a quick breath as a barrier slid away in his mind. A new memory emerged, but it was more than that. Like he had slipped back in time fifteen years and was reliving a forgotten part of that night.

Angel propped against pillows on the bed, pale as moonlight, speaking in a tongue Joe could not understand ... at first. Then the words began to make sense, though she still spoke them in that foreign tongue.

Kind Warrior, come closer. There are things you must know, things that will be hidden in your heart and mind.

Joe bent, moving without willing it. Like an observer in his own head, looking through his own eyes. This mixture of memory and Vision was beyond any experience he’d ever known.

Angel reached up and cupped his face in one hand. "What I’m about to tell you will begin to fade from memory once you bury me. This is for your safety, and for that of my child. Rear him as your own. Keep him here.

"I’ve spoken enchantments over all your lands — for many days’ ride in any direction. I’ve told you my son’s true name and given you the words to speak over the elixir, those you will remember, but will not reveal to El-eyah until he is of age.

You will know the time. Even if you have your doubts you will be unable to speak those truths to him until the Time of Reckoning. Now I give you something more. She removed her hand and pointed to a leather cord on her other forearm. A flat, white disk was tucked beneath it.

Once my spirit has departed, take this and place it over my burial spot. On the night you retrieve the Lahat Khehreb, remove the stone as well. I’ve placed all the knowledge of my ancestors in that stone. You will give it to my son when you have taken the sword. He won’t be able to wield the sword until the stone has spoken to him. When he has proven himself worthy. 

Then Joe found that the meaning seemed to fade from her words, though she continued to speak. She went on in that strange, yet beautiful language for many minutes. He lost sense of time after a while, then sensed she was fading.

Finally, she twirled her hand in the air, as if gathering all the words she spoke. She then flexed and closed her fingers in succession toward the fireplace, as if casting the words in that direction.

There, she said, and Joe could once more understand. I’ve sealed all these secrets within the arrowhead. Though stained with poison and my own blood, it will hide my words until you need to hear them. Take it from the coals, but keep it nearby. Not on your person. Not yet. On the day you give El-eyah his stone, take that one as your own. It is for you. Wear it about your neck. It will protect you and whisper my secrets to your heart once the Time of Reckoning has begun. And with that said, she died.

Joe felt himself stand and move to the single jar of moonshine he’d used to sterilize her wounds. Uisce beatha. Those were the words she’d said to send the sparks into it.

He held it up to the moonlight shining in through a window. The shine looked no different than any batch he’d ever seen. Still, he fetched a spoon from a kitchen drawer and knelt at her side. It was all still memory, with him yet a prisoner watching powerless through the eyes of a self long passed. 

It hurt to see again how feverishly he’d worked, trying to steady his shaking hands and get just a spoonful into her mouth. He finally succeeded but nothing happened. She remained dead.

Then he realized what was about to take place and felt both despair and relief for what was coming.

His body stood again, remembering the babe on the deer hide. 

He recalled thinking that the infant had fallen asleep, but then noticed the blueness around the lips, the utter stillness of its chest. The child wasn’t breathing, was instead dying or perhaps already gone. 

Joe watched his hands pick it up, felt his body softly sobbing and then administering CPR as carefully and correctly as he could. The boy never stirred.

But then the moonshine came into play as the words of the Angel were remembered. He fetched the jar and spoon. As he parted the child's lips, which were already starting to turn the lightest shade of blue, and slipped in the tiniest dose, Joe noticed then what he’d missed the first time around.

The ears! Why hadn’t he seen that before? Probably for the same reason he couldn’t understand the language. Certain things had been kept hidden. But now he saw clearly, though he was gazing backwards through fifteen years of time. The child was not quite human.

The ears were pointed, the eyebrows straight, slanted lines. An elf — if he had to name the boy’s race, this would be his closest guess. And then the infant wriggled and took in a huge gasp of air. The color returned to its skin. The lips flushed into a healthy pink again.

Joe took the boy into his arms, crying with relief and a sudden joy. His tongue tried out the babe’s name, El...El- yah. Not quite right is it fella? How ‘bout I just call you Elijah, how’d that be?

The child snuggled into his neck and laughed. Joe held him at arm’s length to smile at the boy.

Though outwardly he knew that this was exactly what was happening, he took this second chance to examine every detail more closely. He noticed as the ears began to change, to shorten and round out until they were completely human. Likewise, the tiny blond eyebrows curved into arches.

Then he watched as his arms set the boy down and began to close him about with overturned furniture and strategically placed couch cushions. It wouldn’t be enough. He hadn’t the sense to know that then. But he recalled explaining it to a grown version of Eli with the words, You didn’t die. Which wasn’t entirely true. The boy had died. But not due to the neglectful actions of this thirty three year old Joe.

He continued watching as his former self went to the mother’s side and tenderly stroked her pale skin. Felt her cool lips, as he kissed them. Watched as he stroked the long tresses, running his hands across the fine golden strands, then slipping his fingers around a strangely sculpted ear.

He realized that hers transformed in that very moment, pointed ends rounding away at his touch, another detail he hadn’t remembered the first time around.

But he did remember cutting away a torn swatch of the green clothing with his hunting knife, then placing it on the mantle. He watched as the arrowhead was fished from the coals with an iron poker. Then as the hunting knife was used again to cut away the thin tendons which lashed it to the broken shaft.

His hands brushed the stone clean and then set it carefully upon the green swatch. He looked back to the infant, who was lying again on his back, in the middle of the enclosure upon the deerskin.

Joe had made so many bone-headed assumptions, so many wrong decisions from that time until the present. But still he watched as he went back to the Angel, took the stone from her armband and carefully put it in his pocket. He bent to pick her up, then felt his back catch.

In all the excitement, adrenaline had surely fueled him, for now his war injuries came raging back. The incessant ringing in his ears from the firefight, which had left him bloody and broken during the POW uprising at Qala-i-Jangi.

Riding horseback, Joe had been among the first Green Beret’s to engage the Taliban after 9/11. Traveling across the rocky terrain, they’d fought alongside Afghan warlords of the Northern Alliance to coordinate tribal warfare against Taliban and Al Qaeda enemies.

Even as his tinnitus flared, the pins in his lower back made their presence known with a sharp, crippling stab of pain. Joe's body, bent at the waist, struggled over to the jar of shine one last time and did more than just rinse his mouth. He took a long, steady drink. Then he screwed on the lid and hid it in the cupboard where the child, should he escape, could never reach it.

Reliving the entire sequence, Joe now realized how quickly the pain abated, how the ringing had ceased within minutes. Then how easily he moved to open the cabin door and set the lock on the doorknob so he could pull it closed behind him.

With the door ajar, he returned to his Angel. How light she seemed in his arms as he carefully picked her up and carried her to the front door. A booted foot eased the door open, and he stepped outside with her.

Then he reached with the arm supporting her beneath the knees, her body between him and the door. Joe pulled it closed and checked the knob. Everything was locked up tight.

One last look through the window at the boy. Still on his back, playing with his own feet again and giggling. This was the last thing Joe saw, as he felt his consciousness lift from within his younger self and move rapidly through a flash of light.

He emerged on the couch again, the arrowhead still in his palm. He found that he was breathing hard and sweating profusely. He rubbed the stone between his fingers.

Nothing. It was neither cool nor warm. Just stone at room temperature. Maybe there would be more later. One thing he decided right then; he’d never part with it willingly, nor ever be without it.

He went to a nearby closet and rummaged for a moment. When he came out he had a narrow, sturdy length of cord and a tiny, but strong wire. With the wire, he fashioned a lash around the arrowhead, put a loop at the base, and threaded it with the cord. He knotted the ends of the cord together, then placed it all over his head and tucked the arrowhead beneath his shirt.

He quickly returned to the display case and rearranged the points. Put them back in their place above the mantle.

Then he saw the picture of the girl. No more use for that lie. He took it down and shoved it in the closet with the rest of the cord, wire, and randomness.

Then he took the sword from where it lay on the kitchen table and wrapped it in his old army jacket. He took it to bed with him, placing it beneath the covers, close enough to touch, but not so he’d accidentally roll against it.

Finally, he closed his eyes, determined to catch whatever sleep he could.

4 - Something more tactical

SHEKINAH RUBBED HER aged knuckles and pulled the wooden plug from her jar of sanitizer. That’s what she’d chosen to call it. She knew most people simply drank the stuff, but she was wary of doing so. Not that she completely abstained, just that she didn’t entirely trust the concoction. She’d seen what it did to her father’s side of the family.  But that was long before Joseph started making it of course. Just the same, a teaspoon or so dripped into her palm then worked into the skin of both hands up past the wrists seemed to alleviate her arthritis for several days.

She sighed as the hand sanitizer quickly eased her pain, then she glanced at the wall clock. 6:35 a.m. Her students would be arriving soon. Shekinah went to the oval antique mirror to check herself one last time. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun, streaks of the original bright red now faded, but still present. Though time had wrinkled her skin from forehead to fingertips, her ruddy complexion lent a glow of youth to her face. Pale blue eyes sparkled behind the thick lenses of her gold framed glasses. Shekinah smoothed her sun-flower patterned dress, winked at her reflection, then walked over to the table where three chairs were now placed.

For so long there had only been one wooden desk, but starting today there would be two more young minds to mold. The twins had arrived in town over the weekend, so she hadn’t the time to tell anyone. She hoped Elijah would welcome his new classmates. Sometimes the boy could be so... stoic, and somehow far-away. Something of a day dreamer she supposed, but there was a sadness in him too. Not exactly loneliness. But an aloneness. As if he were the only one of his kind in the entire world. She smiled and shook her head. If only that young man knew.

Pacing around the table now she ran her hand around its edges, touched each chair in turn as she passed it, and spoke aloud, praying: Lord, bless the young bodies and souls that sit in my classroom today. Give them minds eager to learn, hearts that are kind and generous. Lift them to their destiny, their potential, to Yourself. Thank you for using me in whatever way you can. It’s such a joy to co-labor with you. Keep my mind razor sharp so I can impart the knowledge and wisdom they will need in this world. And above all else, help me represent you well—to glorify you—give a true representation of your person, your loving heart, your never ending mercy and grace. Amen. She prayed that way for about thirty minutes then spent another thirty going over the day’s lesson, one last preparation before the day began.

At 07:45 sharp, there came a knock at her door. She quickly moved to the cottage foyer, peered through the peephole, and then let them in. Welcome, she said, throwing her arms wide—one toward her new students and the other toward the room where they’d study.

The twins, a boy and a girl, age fifteen, stood there a moment, then, nudged from behind by their mother, took a faltering step and entered the foyer.

Sarah and Cody, said their mother, stepping in behind them. This is Miss Shekinah. And like I said, she is one of the best teacher’s you’ll ever have.

Shekinah brought her arms together across her chest and tapped her bottom lip with her right forefinger, smiling as she studied Jennifer a moment. My dear, it has been too long. She spread her arms wide. Hug.

Jennifer Brannon obliged, but with less enthusiasm. It’s good to see you Miss Shekinah. Thanks so much for doing this.

The old woman pulled back, but held Jennifer above the elbows. You’ve aged remarkably well, young lady. And it was true. Jennifer was petite and athletic. Her skin nearly flawless, only the smallest of creases on the corners of her eyes. Her hair still hung in thick brown curls, and her sense of fashion had only improved.

Jennifer beamed at the praise. To the twins Shekinah said, You two are blessed to have this wonderful woman for a mother. She released Jennifer and turned to them.

The girl was almost a carbon copy of her mother’s younger self. The only differences were that her hair was a touch lighter, her eyes were hazel instead of brown, and her skin was a beautiful dark complexion. The boy had the same brown skin as his sister, but his straight hair was a glossy black and fell in jagged locks all around. His eyes were a bluish green.

Shekinah smiled softly. Very nice to meet you both. She extended a hand.

Nice to meet you, said Sarah, taking the handshake.

Which Cody followed up with, A pleasure.

Shekinah motioned to the study again. Go ahead and take any seat you’d like, while I see your mother off.

JOE GOT UP MONDAY MORNING long before daylight. He prayed, read his Bible, and asked for guidance. Then he went to his gun cabinet and entered the combo: 12-17-20-03, the day he was given Elijah. Their usual shotguns were in their place, unloaded, with the ammo secured in a shelf compartment beside them.

This day, however, he chose something more tactical. Another 12 gauge, but this time a Mossberg 590A1 - shorter in the barrel and easier to maneuver. He put a shell of 00 buckshot in the chamber. Then loaded the magazine, alternating ammo between buckshot and slugs so that his second shot fired would be a slug. He’d put six loads of buckshot in the side saddle strapped to the stock.

Down at the shop, he kept another just like it, but for this day he felt the need to travel with a fully loaded weapon. Something he hadn’t done in a long time. Not since the war. The Vision of the previous night left him unsettled. He felt a foreboding in his gut. Something serious was about to go down. Experience had taught him to trust this instinct.

Once armed, Joe closed the cabinet and slipped outside to his truck. He set the shotgun into the floorboard behind the front bucket seats, its muzzle pointed toward the back corner of the cab. Locking the truck, he looked around at the moonlit surroundings. Nothing. Not yet. He went back in to make breakfast.

TWO THINGS WERE MISSING from the mantle when Eli got up that morning. The picture of Joe’s old girlfriend and the arrowhead. He decided right away to let it go and said nothing during breakfast. He also kept quiet when Joe walked out to the truck with the sword wrapped in his old Army jacket. He heard Joe open a truck door, shut it again, and then noticed his arms were empty when he came back in.

You ready? Joe asked.

Eli drank down the milk in his cereal bowl and belched. He grabbed his backpack from under the table and stood. Just about. He slung the pack over his shoulder, put his dishes in an aluminum pail filled with soapy water—which would be waiting for him when they got home, and followed Joe back outside.

Joe was about to climb behind the wheel when Eli said, How about lettin’ me drive? Got my learners last week, so I’d actually be legal this time.

Joe took off his Stetson and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, trying to come up with a reason to say no. He squinted up at the sky, dark blue eyes searching. Finally he shoved the Stetson back into place and tossed the keys. Keep her under forty.

Eli caught the keys. Alright! He opened the back door to toss in his backpack, then saw the Army jacket in the seat, sword poking out the other side.

Best toss your books in the bed, Joe muttered. And try to keep your distance from that sword. Don’t want to catch the truck on fire.

Eli shook his head, shutting the door. What’s with the Mossberg? He asked as he set his pack in the truck bed.

Like I told you before, Joe said, opening the passenger side to get in. Been expectin’ trouble nigh on fifteen years.

They got in. Eli put key in the ignition and fired it up.

As he got going down the road, gaining speed, Joe said, Slow down. We got plenty of time. He opened the glove box and took out an 8-track at random.

Eli smiled, so happy to be driving he momentarily forgot about their strange weekend and the tension it caused. Just watch your knee over there. Don’t accidentally hit the NOS while I’m driving.

Joe smiled. It was exactly what he said to Eli about once a week. He ran his hand across the dashboard, remembering his first ride on the passenger side. Truth was, he loved this old pickup with its 400,000 plus miles - on the body anyway. A 1985 F-250 4X4 SuperCab, the first new truck his daddy ever bought. And the first automatic transmission.

Charlie Hatton paid cash for it about a month before he died. Like everything Joe inherited due to his father’s early death, he’d used it a few years, then asked his mama to watch it until he returned. Then he left home, in ‘88, right after High School by joining the Army. In ‘91, he made it into the Green Berets just in time to liberate Kuwait. About nine years passed, and so did Ruby Hatton in June of 2000. The next year 9/11 happened. And Joe slowly accepted that, with nothing to tie him there, he would have to let the homestead go.

Joe remembered how he’d dreaded that decision. But the battle of Qala-i-Jangi flipped the script on him, and he found himself back in Georgia, clearing the land, making the house livable, and coaxing the old Ford to life again.

In the passenger seat now, with Eli behind the wheel, he realized how, even when life took unexpected turns, things could still turn out all right. More than all right. Life was good. Joe had since made a few modifications to the truck, given the line of work he’d inherited. Not that he had to run from the law, but years in the military taught him that being prepared—even when it seemed you were in the clear—often meant the difference between life and death.

Solid white with black and gray interior, he called the truck ‘Lightning’, which was appropriate given what the relic could do. He looked absently at the 8-track still in his hand, and finally pushed it into the