The Maze The Lost Labyrinth

CHAPTER 22



Crows squawked a shrill song, only to be quickly silenced by the waving of a clawed hand. The birds tumbled out of the sky, spiraling to earth like falling leaves in Autumn. The Piper surveyed the house on Pinecrest Avenue and saw that it was good. Not only had his destructive music changed the heart of a man, it had completely transformed him.

The minions he’d sent out into town to do his bidding had now returned and chattered nervously amongst themselves in the chamber room behind him.

“You’ve done well.” He turned away from his scenic view of Fairpointe. “You’ve turned this man’s heart to stone, and you‘ve destroyed a family in the process. What sweeter music can be made than that of a broken heart? Even now I can hear them hurting, hear them crying, hear them feeling sorry for themselves.”

The minions gave themselves applause with grimy, soot-covered hands. The Piper motioned for them to be quiet.

“We’re not done with him yet. There have been challenges where he’s concerned. Prayers have been offered up.”

The minions recoiled at the word.

“You must be vigilant. Keep singing to him. Keep filling his ears with the sounds of your voices. This man needs to hear a chorus, and you, my fine children, are the choir.”

With another wave of his hand, the minions were gone, speeding through the air again to that old familiar street. The Piper stood there for a moment, looking out into the world. Silent.

He waited until he was sure they had gone back to their work before putting his pipes to his lips. He loved his work, certainly, but there were times, even for him, where the music wasn’t enough. This was one of those times.

The song he played was a familiar one. It was a tune composed of suicidal thoughts, curses, and a complete separation from God. It was the first song he learned after being hurled out of Heaven like a falling star.

As he played, tears streamed down both cheeks. He wanted so very badly to raise his eyes to Heaven and catch one more glimpse of the glory, but he was ashamed.

Instead, he cradled the pipes tightly and played his mournful dirge. It was a funeral song for his soul, and never had it seemed more fitting than now.



******



Darrell Gene’s carpet was a mess. It was stiff with dried blood and black ichor. The state of his house, however, hardly mattered anymore. He was a different creature-barely even human. The world and the air were his domain, not some quaint little brick house in the middle of suburban America.

A pile of wet skin lay behind the recliner. Some of it he’d cut away with the pocket knife, and some he’d sloughed off like a snake. He’d torn away the rest in his haste to rid himself of every last trace of humanity.

All that remained of the old Darrell Gene were his green eyes. The rest of him was covered in glistening black scales. Parchment thin wings covered in maroon feathers folded behind him, eager for the chance to stretch and take flight. His breath stank of sulfur and rotten meat.

He was a monster, and now he embraced that fact.

And monsters, of course, were supposed to do monstrous things.

He looked in the mirror and studied himself in amazement. Never in a million years would he have guessed that this was his true identity.. He tried to remember the war in Heaven, the moment when he’d been thrown out of the Eternal City. He couldn’t though: the amnesia was extensive.

“You’re one of us,” the wingless angel had told him. “Part of our family.” Now he knew it was the truth.

Unsure of how to act now that he was no longer human, Darrell Gene spent the next couple of hours ransacking his house, practicing the fine art of destruction. He ripped the couch apart with yellowed talons. He gouged holes in the sheet rock with the curved horns that jutted from his forehead. He cracked the ceramic tile in the kitchen with his cloven hooves. He crumbled the washer and dryer into wadded balls of metal with his overlarge hands. He was just about to reduce the kitchen table to kindling when he heard a knock at the door.

Darrell Gene panicked for a moment, wondering if he should hide from his visitor. Then he remembered who he was. What he was.

He didn’t need to hide from anyone now.

The potted plant in the hallway wilted and began to rot as he passed by on his way to the door. He narrowed his eyes when he saw Carl Beckett knocking again. The man was whistling a melancholy tune this time. It sounded like a hymn.

Darrell Gene flung open the door, fully expecting to send the good Christian into cardiac arrest. Carl merely smiled at him and offered his hand in greeting.

“Hi, Mr. Rankin. I was just driving through and thought I‘d pay you a little visit. I received another note, and I think that must be the Lord’s way of putting you on my mind. Is this a bad time?”

“No, it‘s not a bad time at all.” Darrell Gene spoke in a deep, booming voice that scarcely resembled the one he’d grown accustomed to. “Won’t you come in?”

“I’d love to.” Carl stepped over a ratty heap of yellow foam that had been ripped from the guts of Darrell Gene’s recliner.

If he noticed that the house was a wreck, Carl gave no indication. He simply found a place to sit amidst the couch springs and sheet rock dust and waited for Darrell Gene to have a seat as well.

“Did you have a chance to think about our conversation?”

“I did,” Darrell Gene sharpened his claws on what was left of the recliner’s upholstery. “But I don’t think church is right for me. I’m different than most.”

“Different? How?” Carl looked him in the eye. “You’ve sinned. You want to be loved. You want to be forgiven for all the bad things you’ve done in your life. You’re just like everyone else. You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Don’t you see me?” Darrell Gene wondered why Carl hadn’t noticed his black skin, his talons, his wings.

“Sure, I see you. And please don’t take offense, but all I see is someone who needs God’s love. That’s what we all need. You‘re no different in that respect than anyone else.”

“I’m a monster!”

Carl smiled again. This time it was a smile of understanding. “Darrell Gene, all of us have done things that we think are unforgivable. We listen to the world and give in to the flesh and we sin. That’s the condition we’re born into, but Jesus died to atone for those sins. There isn’t a single thing you’ve done that’s so bad that His blood can’t cover it. When you repent from your sins and accept Jesus Christ as Savior, those sins are gone. Forgotten. And you’re a new creature.”

Darrell Gene stared intently at Carl, wondering if the man could really see him as he was or if he was just pulling his leg. “I am a new creature. Surely you see that.”

“Not until you accept Christ,” Carl clarified.

“I’m a pariah. A rebel. If I did manage to make it to Heaven, God would cast me out.”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Sure it does.”

“It doesn’t,” Carl explained. “A few words and an honest heart are all it will take to keep you out of Hell.”

“I’m a monster,” Darrell Gene repeated, trying to convince himself of that fact now. “And this is my Hell.”

The tears that streamed down his obsidian cheeks were like drops of blood. All Carl Beckett saw was a broken man weeping under the conviction of God.

“I’ve been praying for you. I’ve asked God to soften your heart.”

“I don’t have a heart!”

“Your heart may have hardened but it’s there.”

“Don’t you see the way I’m living now? Don’t you see? My life’s a wreck.”

“I see the way you’re living,” Carl stood up and stepped over what remained of the coffee table. “That’s why I keep praying.”

“I’m not human anymore. I’m something else.”

Carl smiled. “It’s easy to think you’ve lost your humanity. But I can assure you, you aren’t a monster. You’ve just convinced yourself that you are. There’s a sense of good just under the surface. I’m sure of it. You just need to be convinced of that yourself.”

“I need some time alone. Please go.”

“I understand. I’ll keep praying for you. It’s not always easy to admit that we’re headed down the wrong path.”

“Goodbye.

“God bless you.” Carl Beckett walked out the door with a wave. “And remember, you’re only human. Don‘t beat yourself up too much.”

The moment the door was closed Darrell Gene found his blood-encrusted pocket knife. He needed to prove to himself that there was no good beneath the surface. He needed to prove Carl wrong. As he’d done before, he made another incision at the wrist and cut all the way around his arm.

He gasped as he saw unblemished skin there beneath the scales, pink and fresh like the flesh of a newborn baby.

“It can’t be,” he said. But it was.

This changed everything.