The Fall of Arnon

Chapter 8

The church of the City of Arnon was built long years ago, upon the memory of a forgotten religion. A gravestone for a life from another time, it still watched wearily the town below. Set upon a small hillock, it faced the much grander castle of Arnon.

Although it had long ago fallen into ruin and disrepair, it still held a kind of regality in its stone-hewn sides. A towering bell house still rung in its deep rich tones and gold tipped archways still heralded the arrival of men and women. And, though few in number, the few still gathered as one every day to plead with God for salvation, to whisper a hurried prayer, or to join the choir in singing praises to God.

Across the years, many men had led their congregations in worship and still their amassed wisdom could be felt in the very fiber of the old temple. It had been years since the mantel had been laid down and taken up again, and few remembered a time before Father Thomas.

Every day, the old man made his slow, meaningful way back from one of his haunts in the country and came haltingly up the carved-out stone steps to the church. Every once in a while, he would stop to look at a particular daffodil, one of the many growing on the small hillock. His thin, veiny hands would reach out and tenderly stroke the soft, yellow petals. With a smile on his pink lips, he would continue on.

A more kind, respectable, and loving man, you have never met. But, what praise flowed from the mouths of his parishioners was more for the repentance that poured from him through his services and through his friendships that somehow seemed to be made of iron and rock, unbreakable to the last. Though he was a man many described as perfect, his heart continued to ache with hatred for his wrong-doings.

Today, however, his heart sang. It sang with the dancing leaves of the daffodils. It sang with the sparrows larking about the old bell tower, but most of all it sang with the joy of new purpose.

His entire life, Father Thomas had one clear objective: the salvation of souls, the cleansing of dusty, worn-out lives, and the renewal of men and women from across the land of Talefarnid. But, somewhere along the way, Father Thomas had begun to feel somewhat stale himself. Like a branch long dead, cracking at a touch of resistance. It was an uncommonly frustrating feeling, but one defeated in the light of new meaning.

His steps brought him to the door of the temple. An ornately built masterpiece, the door stood tall and proud against the grey, stone walls. Carved deep into the dark, oaken wood, the figure of a man atop a stallion could be seen towering high above the priest. The man was tall, broadly built, with the bearing of a king. His face shone with unrestrained zeal as he flashed dangerously against the dark wood. His jaw was square, set in a line of conquest. In the sun, one could almost see the dragon of Arnon shine from his chest. The horse beneath him foamed from its mouth. Its fiery eyes stared angrily into the distance. Sinews of muscle pulsed through the statuesque body, every one tightly wired until his master released him.

With a nod of recognition, the priest left the two, forever embalmed in their own memory, a memory still strong in the minds of even the simplest of the townsfolk.

It was the year 71,017 of the Talefarnid calendar, and once more the world had come under a tyrant intent upon ruling the world. For three years, men, women, and children were slaughtered mercilessly, houses and lands were burned and destroyed by angry mobs of soldiers until one day one man rose up. And, with him, the rest of the people banded together and after many bloody battles, years of starvation and even more death, the evil dictator was finally defeated. It was a victory won through pain and death, but the world would never forget the one man who dared oppose the evil tyrant Nitoran. His name was Father Andrew.

Father Thomas passed through the doors and was greeted by an extraordinary sight. Sunrays flooded through beautifully painted windows. Scenes of peaceful meadows, lively animals, and majestic mountains burst with light high above the rough wooden pews hewn not by the tender strokes of a paintbrush, but the harsh chops of an ax.