The Sentinel, A Flash Fiction

Greetings, Fire Enthusiasts.

Any Prince fans in the house? I mean real Prince fans. Ones who are familiar with the entire catalogue. Fans who have been permanently banned from Paisley Park because they’ve been caught there after dark trying to sneak in!

I’m kidding. We don’t condone that sort of behavior here.

So, where am I going with this? If you know Prince - I mean really know his music, then you are well aware that he could write the most spiritually uplifting song, even mentioning Jesus by name, but then turn right around and pen the dirtiest song ever. What are we going to do? He was a genius, and that can’t be contained.

So, am I Prince now? No. Absolutely not. However, last time, I published snippets of my most recent novel. It had lots of demons and lots of profanity. This time, I’m going the other way…

I am the Secretary of CVFW (Central Valley Fiction Writers) here in California. We decided to run an internal Flash Fiction contest (We’re talking about opening it up to anyone next time). I had never attempted writing such a thing and ended up being awarded the Honorable Mention. The only thing was we were provided no prompt. I was so excited to launch into action, but no prompt left me stymied. I started reading through every 1001 Flash Fiction prompts list I could find.

So, while reading my Bible daily and spending time following what is going on in Iran, Israel, etc., I happened to stumble upon a prompt to do with a secret room.

And out came the following…

The Sentinel

Abarim Mountains, Jordan.

Dawn.

Deep below Mount Nebo, a tremor.

The sentinel takes note of it but stands at ease. Imposing to behold, though he wears no armor, holds no weapon. He is clad in simple garments, but a quiet confidence. He has little need of food, or water, or rest. His only light comes from one of the few objects about him. He has one charge.

In the distance, people and their machines. When close enough, like now, he can discern conversations. They are sometimes light-hearted, accompanied by laughter and excitement. Sometimes they are heavy with heartbreak and pain, disillusionment. They are drawn here from the four corners of the globe.

He closes his eyes. This next tremor is twice the strength of the last. He waits. If people have noticed, there are no audible signs. There comes another. This one carries significant power. There is a jolt.

He detects a gasp, and notices two conversations stop abruptly.

He turns and surveys the non-descript room about him with fresh eyes. It isn’t a room at all, certainly not by human standards. Animal, yes.

The whole earth seems to leap suddenly. It is followed immediately by the sound of rock falling. Lots of them. He neither stumbles nor must steady himself. There are screams, so that isn’t true of others.

The screaming doesn’t stop, rocks continue to fall, and the earth continues to shake.

He surveys the objects at his feet that have been entrusted to him. One is brilliant, somewhat blinding even for one such as him. It can also burn to the touch although he has never succumbed to that temptation.

The ground begins to roll and the walls, amazingly, bend and twist. The noise of it unheard of before. “Achtung!” he hears someone very close shout. Watch out.

More rock falls, and shafts of daylight enter the space like theater spotlights.

A quaint expression appears on his face as he steps back. He doesn’t bow to the objects about him but does allow a brief hint at respect at their parting. Suddenly, an entire wall gives way behind him, throwing brilliant light against the opposite wall. He hears shouts and the cacophony of foreign tongues as people panic and flee.

And then, nothing. The shaking stops. All is quiet.

The sentinel steps through the opening and out into sunlight. It should blind him but doesn’t. He makes light work of clearing the wreckage of rock and vegetation at the entrance to the cave, and then stands aside and surveys the vista before him, both far and near.

People stop running and turn back. Some need to be helped up. Many wipe dust from their faces, but everyone seems well despite the traumatic event. They stare his direction, but he is not detected.

The closest man draws near. His frame is bowed, and his lined face somewhat covered by tufts of scraggly white beard. The sentinel studies him. Arthritic hands clutch a small stack of books, a pamphlet and a map. He shuffles his feet, approaching tentatively. He raises his free hand to shield his eyes. He suddenly stops as if pushed and stands to full height. His materials fall. The sentinel does not follow his gaze. One famously became a pillar of salt once doing that.

“My Lord,” the man whispers and says nothing else.

People are speaking now all about them, but neither the sentinel nor the old man take any note of it. Everyone is growing curious. Questions are being asked in many tongues, and several approach.

“Que es?” one asks in Spanish. What is it? Others ask in Swedish, Japanese and Russian.

At first, the old man makes no attempt to answer. He just gapes, tears form in his eyes. He slowly falls to his knees.

“What…is…this?” a dark-skinned man asks slowly in a heavy accent.

“The ark,” the old man never takes his eyes from the object and says at last, tears cascading down his weathered face.

The sentinel gently touches the old man on the shoulder. “Arise, Brother.”

“What ark?” a young man asks as he walks past. Many others follow.

The old man stands and looks the sentinel full in the face. “It is, isn’t it?” he asks. “That is why you are here?”

The sentinel nods in return.

“W-we must tell the world.”

Immediately, they are both taken away.

Many others as well from all over the world.

Many are not.

So, no. Not Prince. Prince-like? Perhaps if one squints.

I’m still pissed he’s gone by the way. His death never made sense to me. It was the one that most caught me by surprise.

We’ll talk soon.