Rider on a Pale Horse, a Short Story

“Thank you, Jesus,” Umuelo whispered as he sauntered through the trees. Tired, he tried to sink down to the cool forest floor. Spiritual warfare is not an easy task! Yet he found the ground was receding away from him. He was floating in the air, riding high on a chariot of forty knives which no longer burned. He was heading directly into the evil forest where the oracle was built. Too tired even to whisper a prayer, he resigned himself to the journey.



In the twinkle of an eye, Ezeumwo was riding beside him on a huge bat. The pat-patting of its wings was irritating. Ezeumwo gave another eerie but sarcastic laugh that began low then grew into a loud crescendo and cycled down again, ending in a diminuendo. It sent chills down Umilio’s spine. Fear gripped him and he began trembling like a chameleon on a dry leaf. Had his end finally come? Where was his God?

As if upon a whim, the forty knives separated. Umilio dropped to the ground with a thud that could be heard for miles across the silent forest. He had fallen on a type of altar packed with firewood. Unseen hands secured him to the bundles of wood. Umuelo could not move. Forty heathens, each armed with one of the forty knives danced drunkenly around him. They were stark naked. He was in the shrine of Amadioha.

“Where is your power now?” came the challenge. “Your God cannot save you now. We are the destiny. We are the future.”

The oracle priest of Amadioha stood over Umilio, peering down at him domineeringly. The missionary wondered who had actually spoken the words. The voice was metallic and full of authority. Ezeumwo would not have said those words. Yet his lips had moved. Was this a god, a devil or a man?

Then, one by one, each of the forty naked knife dancers pricked him with a knife. The pain was overpowering. His tears flowed freely and, together with his blood, drenched him wet. He began to drift between consciousness and unconsciousness. He forgot who he was.HorseWhiteGreyerbabyPixabayCC0

Then……..

There was a soft whispering. It was so soothing that Umulio felt no more pain. It was followed by a loud rumbling of thunder. Flashes of lightning illuminated the whole area.

Then he saw him. He was riding on a white horse. It was dazzling like the sun and the rider was glowing like hot coals. The rider raised up the sword that he carried. There was a loud cracking sound, then the forty knives flew from the grasp of the forty weird dancers. The knives streamed across the air, melting into the sword of the mysterious rider. Then the sword flew from the rider’s hands, moving as if drunk. It pierced all the forty weird dancers through the heart. In seconds, all were lying dead at the foot of the altar.

The sword then turned to Ezeumwo. He sensed danger and showed a clean pair of heels. But no human or deity could escape a drunken sword which had swallowed forty knives. It caught up with him, circling him and rising up into the air. As it came down, it drove its point deep into his head and then came out through his heart. The sword then flew back through the air, landing squarely in the anonymous rider’s hands.

Sword in hand, the rider trotted his horse toward the altar. He touched Umulio with the sword, causing his bonds to snap. Umilio’s wounds miraculously healed. He stood up, his energy replenished mysteriously.

“I am the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end. I am the one who was, is, and will be.” The rider said. Then he disappeared, just as suddenly as he had appeared.

(This story is a continuation of “Mysticism Meets Spirituality.” The story and all therein is fictitious and my own creation)

 

 



Featured image: WenPhotos/Pixabay Free Images/CCO






  • Comments

    1. Profile photo of Gil Camporazo
      Gil Camporazo

      Is this the only outlet you have to show your write-ups? There are many opportunities for your to post this kind of article. I am just taking the opportunity to write for entertainment, for sharing. It would be later another task when I am fully grown. Nice short story. I read the African literature and I know there are so many good writers, poets, essayists, and probably you are one of them in the making.

    Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *