[Zutroy]

The Debate

Jerald Gilman sat reclined in his bergère, legs crossed, drowning in his Jameson. Around him, seated in a circle, were a half dozen or so of his fellow academics. They polluted the stale lounge air with cigar smoke and drank well while discussing the recent exploits of two brothers from North Carolina.

“Quite amazing, really.” said Alabaster Jones. “Absurd even. To think, men flying about like birds. Absurd.”

“Balderdash!” roared Everett Walker. “Absurd? Why so? Because it is not a part of nature’s designs?”

“Why, yes, put simply, I suppose.”

“Really now, do stop that! We have all read the Descent of Man, have we not? Nature’s plans change, quite often I daresay. Do you still truly believe in His divine plans? That is the absurdity here, my dear fellow!” He made sure to shout the last remark so that the host standing at the doorway, William James, could hear him clearly. He and Everett were currently, and had been for what seemed like years, engaged in an ongoing debate over the existence of God.

It had begun with an innocent comment, the specifics of which have long since been forgotten, that William had made while seating Everett and his party. Everett, never failing to seize an opportunity to “educate” his fellow man, retorted promptly. William, replying in a jovial and mirthful manner, believed the matter settled but it was far from.

The very next day Everett returned to the lounge, scientific papers and journals in hand, visibly sleep deprived, and began to lay out in considerable and deliberate detail his argument, to which the host listened graciously in between bouts of seating and seeing to patrons. The two carried on with no real conclusions ever being reached. Everett continued to produce more and more scientific papers he claimed as evidence that no God could possibly exist and still William held rigidly to his belief, being as courteous as the debate would allow. The war of words was eventually reduced to mere quips here and there but it was clear neither side was prepared to yield.

William James, hearing Everett’s latest, smiled politely. An awkward silence engulfed the circle, as had often happened since it had begun. Jerold tended to side with Everett and his science, though he loathed the debate altogether. Deciding it was time to go, he downed the remainder of his whiskey and gathered his hat. He bid his farewells and, struggling for control of his legs, made his way through the club and into the deepening dusk. It was not particularly late, though the streets were vacant. It was a crisp, but not overtly cold, night and Jerald began to stumble westward toward his apartment.

He passed an open alleyway and noticed, out of the corner of his eye, something emerge from it. A large, wolf-like figure with piercing golden eyes stood at some distance from Jerald, a streetlight casting a spotlight between them. It moved slowly into the light and Jerald knew, even in his intoxicated state, that this was by far the largest cat he had ever seen.

Its sleek, black fur looked polished to almost a mirror shine. It appeared to be just north of 3 feet tall as it stood on all fours. But it did not stand on all fours for very long. The great beast dipped its shoulders, loaded its front legs and, with a sudden and forceful propulsion, righted itself. It stood arrogant and tall, arms hanging limply. Jerald was frozen by not only the sheer absurdity to which he was a witness, but also an eerie feeling of great, impending danger.

He met the cat’s eyes and its mouth abruptly curled into a malicious and terrifying smile. The cat seemed to have no trouble balancing and began to walk toward Jerald, gracefully and without hindrance, as if it had never walked along four legs in the first place. As it approached, Jerald, unsure what to do, turned and continued walking, shooting frequent nervous glances over his shoulder.

The cat gained steadily and grew closer every time Jerald dared to look. He quickened his pace and still the cat grew closer, the menacing eyes and crooked smile ever present in the dimly lit night. Jerald broke into an instinctive sprint and ran to the door of a nearby dwelling. He pounded loudly, pleading for help, but received no response. The cat stood some distance away, erect and grinning. Jerald ran to the next house and the next and received no answer. After the fifth, the cat had disappeared.

Jerald combed the streets swiftly but it was nowhere to be found. He cautiously began to drift up the street once more, scanning and turning constantly. Backing into the junction of an alleyway, he felt an unseen force seize his neck and throw him violently to the ground. He spun his head to catch a glimpse of his attacker when an enormous black blur leapt across his body and into the alleyway. Its figure was invisible in the lightless void but the eyes still burned golden. They hung there, suspended in the bitter night air, starring. Jerald gathered himself and, rising to his feat, began to run once more.

He had covered near four blocks before the sickness took him and he collapsed retching in the open field of a small park. Much like the streets before it, the park was barren. Once he had finished freeing himself of the irate Jameson, he fell backward, recoiled a few feet and sat up. The sky was empty of all stars and clouds. Only the moon remained, full and brilliant.

Jerald looked at the park and the large bronze monument that, encircled by besmirched birch benches, stood not too far from where he lay. At its base stood nine figures in varying positions of repose. Some conversed with one and another, and still others pondered peacefully. A soaring stone obelisk stood between them and at its pointed peak perched a rusted bronze angel. Her wings were extended and her arm outstretched, reaching to the heavens, with eyes keenly fixed upward. He gazed at her magnificence from below and a feeling of tranquility passed over him, as he had forgotten about the behemoth that had tormented him not five minutes ago. The feeling, however, was short lived.

The great bronze angel, twisting her head downward, returned Jerold’s stare and he was once again seized with feelings of impending danger and fear. Her wings began to flutter, smoothly and fluidly, and she descended to the foreground of the stone memorial. Feet landing gently, she stood before Jerold, glorious and judgmental.

Her wings then began to work themselves furiously and yet she kept her ground. Powerful gusts of wind struck Jerold and he noticed in them specs and flakes of rusted bronze. Soon he could no longer see through the dense, driving clouds of shed metal. They relented and before him stood a woman with an impossibly pale radiance and massive, folded wings. Her skin was ghastly and colorless, making it difficult to tell where her ivory robe began and ended. Her jet-black hair flowed wild and untamed. Clouded ebony eyes starred at Jerold and in them he could see both great sympathy and hatred. She loomed for a moment and then began to walk toward him. He rose to his feet in a flash and fled.

It was then he noticed the church across the street, it’s door ajar, flanked by two lanterns. It was a sprawling structure, ornate and elaborate, steeples protruding from the sharp, slate shingled slopes. Jerald deftly darted and picked his way through the garden and into the church. The entrance way twisted right and left and Jerald found himself in the main hall.

Rows of study oak pews, opaquely lit by candles resting on nearby stone pillars, led to an adorned alter. The cavernous ceiling was chiseled with Christian carvings. At the front knelt a priest, deep in prayer. Jerold walked up the aisles, nervous and vigilant, and sat a few rows behind the praying priest. He clutched his hat in his hands, amazed that it had managed to stay on his head throughout this ordeal. He laid it on the pew.

The priest rose. He was a tall man, with swarthy, slicked and greasy hair. His face was clean-shaven and knowing. He turned to face Jerold. The priest knew.

“You have seen terrible things tonight, haven’t you, my son?” he said.

“Yes, father” Jerold replied.

“Do you know why, my son?”

Silence.

“You have sinned, have you not? You have doubted Him, have you not, my son?”

“Yes, father.”

“But you were wrong, were you not, my son?”

“Yes, I was terribly wrong, father. Please, help me.”

“I cannot help you” the priest said. “You must help yourself. Allow Him to protect you. Repent and accept Him, my son.”

“How, father?”

“Let us pray.” Together they knelt and prayed with amazing intensity. The priest rattled off Latin phrases while Jerold fell deep into concentration, regret and desperation. The priest stopped and Jerold opened his eyes. The priest stood righteously before him, hand outstretched, and he pulled Jerold to his feet. “You will be safe now. He will protect you from them, my son. Go in peace.”

Jerold was silent in gratitude and, bowing slightly, left the main hall, his footsteps echoing wonderfully. He exited the church and starred down the empty streets, confident and protected. Outside the night air seemed sparkling and the effects of the drink were long since gone. He ambled westward, toward home, before he remembered he had forgotten his hat. I need that hat and He will protect me, he thought and headed back to retrieve it. As he wound his way through the entrance hall, Jerold heard boisterous, booming laughter echoing in the main hall.

He walked up the aisle, curiously at first and then fearfully once he saw the source of the now cruel cackling. It rested upon the alter, eyes still burning golden, bearing that twisted and malicious smile. To its right, she stood, wings folded and skin dead, eyes filled with nothingness. And to its left, stood the priest, face frozen in an understanding and knowing smile. His eyes met Jerold’s and Jerold knew. He picked up his hat.