CHILDREN OF GOD
by Rycke Foreman
The old man was quite uncomfortable. Clerical robes draped protectively around him, he sat stiffly in the old, Mediterranean-style chair, eyes cautiously taking in the other man whom he’d known so long. But for the past few days something has seemed...amiss? No--no. Sinister, perhaps? Yes. Ah, but the other man was speaking:
“...says, ‘The wages sin pays is death.’ Correct?”
“Ye-es. So what, exactly, are you trying to tell me?”
“The truth. Are you familiar with folklore?”
The old man nodded, puzzled, on guard.
“Think back to the old legends, Father, to the creatures of the night: Werewolves, dragons, vampires, ghouls. What one thing--besides the need for blood--do these creatures share in common?”
The old man remained silent. He felt it best to do so.
“Immortality!” the younger one cried, “The ability, by one means or another, to live forever.”
Eternal life? Fairy tales? Romans 6:23...?
“But of course, there is a catch. Tell me, Father, who crusades against these creatures?’
The old man did not answer.
“What fells a vampire? The sunlight, hallowed ground, holy water, the crucifix...All objects held dear by the so-called forces of Good. That is what thwarts the hand of Evil.”
The so-called forces of Good? Oh dear, oh...
“Yet the Bible says, ‘The wages sin pays is death.’ Do you now see, Father, what I am driving at?”
The old man did. Spying the cross that hung behind his desk, he tried to get up quickly. But alas, age had made the clergyman slow: the other one towered above him long before the full attention of his feet was had.
“The church, all of Christianity--they are the sinners! You, Father, are a sinner. I was a sinner...”
The old man again made a feeble attempt to rise, but the other pushed him easily back into his chair.
“You claim to worship God,” he sneered, “and hold sacred all of His creation. Ha! You claim to be of the Children of God; but really, Father, who would the true Children be?”
The old man began squirming. Weeping. Praying...
“Listen...The vampire. He remains intact and whole--immortal--so long as he crosses not the path of the church, or misguided men such as you, or the impurity of what you would call salvation. We are not tainted until the cross--the grossest misrepresentation of your sins--is thrust burning into our faces. We are not punished until your corruptions befall us, making us impure...”
He grinned at the priest.
Fangs.
“For the love of God! No!” the clergyman shouted.
Smiling, the other leaned forward. “Yes, Father. For the love of God.”
Originally published in Dead of Night Newsletter (Summer Issue - July 1994)
Scheduled to appear in Deadtime Stories in 1999, but I never received a comp copy or replies to further queries...
