The Adversary:
Part One:
It's 1526 in London. A man carries a case of books, the contents of which will go on to build and destroy nations. It begins to rain, but the man cannot move with any more haste, as his destination is of the utmost importance. The door hinges yelp, and the candles prostrate their flames at the opening and closing door. He shakes his heavily dressed frame free of rainwater and removes his hat before hanging it on the wall. He sets his handled case on the table alongside a candle and disappears across the room behind a corner.
The candle burns behind the case as the morning sun creeps in through the window. Like molasses, the light of our star inches closer and closer to the case of leather-bound writings of ink. And as the light touches the bottom of the case, a sharp ping can be heard from the candle holder. The flame is erect and still, and the alarm pin is at the candle’s base.
The man rounds the corner again, having changed clothes and washed his face and hands. His swift steps slow to a meander as he marvels at the candle's stillness as it burns. He stops in his tracks when he sees him.
At the table, scratching at the case of books as an antsy child, sits a man wearing sackcloth. His head is shaven poorly, and there is dirt on his scalp. He sits in a chair with his back turned to the morning light, leaving just a silhouette to behold. The man that carried the case swallows hard in courage and opens his mouth to speak—but his throat is closed behind his Geneva gown.
The seated man, garbed with mourning attire, speaks instead, "It's quite alright, Billy. You've no less time when you speak with me than when you've first begun to leave."
These words confused William, as he's never been called "Billy" before... except by his long-dead paternal grandmother.
"You've gone in the wrong door, mate. Leave now please; I'll show you out," William says sternly as he briskly walks to the door.
The man in mourning remains still in obstinacy despite William's insistent gesturing. A long moment passes, painfully silent. William studies the man's figure from the door and finds a strangeness about his skin. It's pale and hairless with waves and ripples like cellulite, but the man is far from overweight. He's a gaunt man with skin clinging to his bones.
The man in mourning turns his head to meet William's eye. Given their positions, this turning gives William much pause. Standing behind his right shoulder, there should be no way for a mortal man to turn his neck this far. Yet this man in mourning seems to deny his mortality by his very being. And now, his head turned at an owl's angle, his face is illuminated for William to see. It's an alluring sight put off by a veil of uncanny details. He's a handsome man with hateful eyes—bright red and baggy eyes from lack of sleep, or perhaps too much of it—and a nose and mouth that complement his hardened, scornful expression.
"Sit down, William," the mourner says with a noticeably restricted windpipe from the angle of his neck and throat.
William shut the door and said a prayer in silence while walking back to the other side of the table. The mourning man's head turns, never breaking his gaze from William. His vertebrae grind and pop back into normalcy.
"You men of God think your prayers are ceaseless, but they're just incessant," he taunts grimly.
He looked to the mourner and spoke again, "Who are you? What do you mean 'I'll have no less time'?"
William finished the question and decided to stay standing for his safety. The mourner leaned forward, and William could barely make out a smile on his face.
"What's the matter, Billy? Afraid you're no longer a conqueror?"
The mourner begins to slowly rise from William's chair, hands planted flat on the table. William steps back at his standing. And as William catches footing, the mourner stomps his feet and jumps forward to frighten the already unsettled man.
William doesn't jump, but notices a sound under the table. He looks down under the table, directly under the case of books; a small pit in the floorboard. Out of this pit and connected to a manacle on the mourner's ankle is an iron chain.
William remembers what is written and ponders the flesh, the death-defying head turn, the inexplicable knowledge. He catches fear of another and steps toward the table in search of counsel, ignoring the wretched roar of the man with broken teeth. William pulls the case of books to his side of the table and unlatches it, retrieving one of the books within.
The mourner's roar dies into a whimper and he sits down, defeated but not done. William flips frantically and follows lines of text with his finger while looking up to the mourner as if confirming what is reading.
"So then it was you that made the earth tremble?" William asks.
The mourner winces and stretches his neck in discomfort. William smiles and continues.
"Overthrew cities? Of a world that you made like a desert?"
The mourner catches a glimpse of pride in William's questioning and plays into it. He continues wincing and covers his ears while groaning, putting on more pain than he's actually feeling. William views the act as truth and continues, looking away from his script, adlibbing his own questions.
"Does your pomp dare to bubble up from Sheol? Before me? A chosen man of God?" In the midst of William's rebuke, the Mourner is tittilated in pleasure. William continues, after having closed the words he sought just moments ago, "I-I look but I do not find your bed of maggots oh wretched Babylo-" William, having looked around at his own words to prove them true, catches the Mourner in an abominable state.
"Why have you stopped, Billy?" The Mourner, eyes closed, mouth downturned and bottom lip bitten. His left hand rubs his head, running his gray fingers through his newly grown thick curly hair sensually while his right defiles the chair that Williams' uncle built. William lingers his gaze in horror and subjects himself to more, knowing better but not acting it. The Mourner's worn sackcloth being pulled and pushed by his desires teases a gynocomastic body, reassured by his convincing impression of a female voice. William is snapped out of his haze by wisdom, and averts his gaze to a nearby bookshelf where he reaches for a thicker, fuller book of writings.
"No, don't stop now brother. I'm just getting started." The Mourner mocks William, only halfway trying his female voice to salt the wound of Williams thorn. William ignores the wretched imitation of humanity and shakily flips to a page and begins reading under his breath, tears burning his eyes as he blinks them away.
"Speaking to the choirmaster are we? Shall I recite it with you?" The Mourner leans in and joins in tandem with William's internal reading voice, "...and in sin did my mother concieve me. Behold thou desirest truth in the inward parts: And in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom." William, unphased and uninterested in anything the wretch is saying continues reading faithfully in his heart and his head. The Mourner stops his recitation and begins an interpretation, "You were desiring my inward parts just now. The wisdom of revealing what I had hidden made you want to know. And yet you now ignore me William. You ignore the truth that you and I are miserable wretches of the same order. We both-" A stomp of the foot and a shout interrupts the prisoners sermon. William, having finished his reading, places his book back on the shelf and retrieves his case of writings.
"We are not of the same order. I am a Man, the perfection of which reaches to that which you vainly aspire," William looks at the shackled mourner briefly before replacing his hat and says, "that's why His most glorious state is your eternal prison." William opens his door and leaves, the candle flame prostrating once again, and the entire mourner, his shackle, and his pit seem to vanish as he stops being seen.