— and War
- apoemisasong
- Aug 13
- 8 min read
Updated: Oct 21
One: The Fire and the Sea
I see him with the face of a warrior. His eyes are sharp, and the coldness of his stare sends shivers across my nerves. My blood has ceased to flow, and I am frozen in shock. Who is this man, whose shadows flash amongst the lightnings and the raging seas? He is the eye of a storm, and he prowls about me, curious at the prey he’s caught.
“Who is she, in the distance?” he asks, and rows his boat to find his reflection, an unfortunate glimpse, a mirage alone.
Alas, how he has known the plight of a broken man, a beaten soul, a berated spirit! He desperately sinks into himself, and bows his golden locs. There is nothing here, but a rope. The rope seems attached above.
He wonders, and stares at his countenance in the waters. His eyes are changed into the billows and the whites of waves. He knows himself to be alone, but acknowledges he is not alone.
He receives a package at night— a seal, a green cord, and trinkets and pearls. They remind him of himself, and he places them where they are forgot— the dusty memories of his childhood youth.
In the raft he beholds a brand plucked out of the fire, a thorn in the rib. “Who is she? And who hath sent her?” I AM— says the Lord, the Lord of kings.
And the fire asked the Lord, “who is that man in the ocean?” And the fire fell upon the man, but did not burn the man. “To hell with this fire,” he thought, until the man fell asleep.
When he awakened, he was King Artaxerxes, angry with Vashti, and filled with wine. “How dare my wife disobey me?” he yelled in his heart, as he contained his darkened thoughts, and looked away from all gaze.
Vashti knew of the king’s anger, but chose dignity. She knew of the darkness within him, and chose to stoop no further. She denied him, and he was enraged.
He blinked again, and found himself cold upon the night seas, without a rib, missing the warmth of the fire, and hopelessly alone.
But he is not alone.
For the Lord will send light from above that the man may climb up, and join the saints in heaven, praising God forevermore.
Act Two: The Locket
Doth lightnings strike forth in forewarning? Or doth the forerunner sound forth at the voice of his thunder? Clap in awe, as in the final act of mercy toward the bellowing of the plaguing places.
The image in his locket is a woman in a dress, and sunshine on her teeth. She wore his favorite color, but blood was on the frame. And he shuddered. “She will eat me alive.”
She sensed his danger and ached for his soul. “Lord, open his eyes,” the woman prayed. The woman fasted. The woman sent a diadem of gold. The woman sent a songbird. The woman sent a dove, and the dove remained. The dove sent the woman.
His barque is empty; his light extinguished. The dead of night hath engulfed him within, and the stars of the firmament shine lightless. The waters above join the waters below, and the ducts of his eyes are opened. They have all perished in the blackness below, and I have but their memory to recall them by! It is not well with the man’s soul, for he is overwhelmed and stunned. I alone am left! and I shan’t last another night.
And in the whirlwind, in the mirage of the ruby locket, the man receives a vision of the hand of the Lord, reaching from heaven down the abyss, where the floating corpses lay. He will save that man at any cost to Himself. Death shall have no sting, nor the grave a victory.
Act Three: “You Are A Spy”
The deceiver arises to his own deception. He had been a wolf in his lifetime, and adopted the tongue of the wild. “You are a spy,” said one, unveiling the garb of his treacherous brethren. Their sin had found them out, and no wandering eye could escape his searching gaze. Send the second to prison, for he is responsible! Had not Judah interceded there’d have been no Savior, he to whom the Scepter belongs. For twenty years have the brethren suffered.
The deceiver is their father.
By fraud, he stole what would have been his. Now with four wives, the bickers, the shouts, the disdain of multiple women are all his alarms! And he must wrestle with God alone.
His match is the fire, sounding as from a distance, “You are a spy.” There is no cloak for his covering. What is thy name? From whence hast thou drifted? Name thy country of origin. What battles hast thou fought? Art thou an honorable citizen, or a criminal?
The man responds with silence, shame, and disappointment. He is lost at sea, and knows not where he has drifted.
“Apologies, sire. Enter in. Find shelter at our coasts.” (But keep a close eye on him,) he winks, as he passes along, wearing a torn black trenchcoat.
He is soaked with the rain, and fakes a smile. Snap! The camera rolls, marking his expression. He is not amused. His outward appearance is vaguely repulsive, therefore he must not be trusted. The lighthouse saw his form far at sea in the night watch. The woman at post sat eating, and did not register his previous whereabouts.
Bar the gates in the event of invasion!
Expect betrayal from without and within!
Take precious care!
The soldiers are weak and inexperienced. We speak of a warrior, whose face is in the battle, who ruggedly wears his strength. His depths are impregnable but by God.
“We pray for our enemies, if so he be. What have we, but the balm in Gilead?” prays the church of the townspeople. “The woman at post warned us of your coming, and we collectively offered to God prayers on your behalf. Are you well? Is your family well?”
Act IV: He is a Greek
Fear took hold upon the fire, as the man seized it with a regard. The fire had drawn him to the church of the townspeople, and the man knew it not. He recalls the brand and the raft, as the voluptuous seas had gathered above upon the man’s head. He recalls the fire’s bite, and the prey that fought back. He recoils, shuddering inwardly at the land upon which he has stumbled. This is foreign territory. Stones had been cast at him. He bears a wound and a mark; the wound from the hand of his brother, and the image of a Greek.
The fire could not burn him. But as they spectacled at the reflection of their inward corruption, they were for a time bound. The dross must be exposed, then sifted away.
I stared deeply at him and recognized the beam in my own eye. We were rivals. But it was never sealed. I was plagued at the thought, gripping into my sides, clawing at the line of Adam’s fingertip.
He was an empire, the body of Nebuchadnezzar, the enraged king. He was a root cut at the tree. He was enraged. He was enraged; growling, prowling. His hairs were combed backward and wrapped around itself. I knew him at a glance, and rejected him.
But he was important. The seal, the seal, the seal. Two women of the church of the townspeople regarded my estate. It was I who was enraged.
“Lord, who is this man?” in the nights I cried, and burned the man again. The man answered not a word. He’s done me no wrong, but I pester him. Is this how I treat Jesus Christ? Is this how Christ treats me? Is he but a stone to whet my sword? It cannot be. I wait with patience the answer, desperate for an alternate form of questioning.
He is a Greek, who grew up in a “loving” home. … Then his countenance grew dark. And he stared at me as to murder me instantly. I know the place of thy habitation, thou criminal. He and I stand deeply as to devour. I knew at once I must show him kindness.
Act V: Free Moral Agent
His lair was empty and quiet. I stepped cautiously, awed at the vast nothingness. When an evil spirit leaves a man, and his house is swept and cleaned, he returns with seven more wicked devils, and the state of that man is worse than the previous. Who cleansed the bloody house?
I shan’t inscribe a verdict onto a man I do not know. The filth is behind the mirror. Without the shedding of blood, there can be no remission of sins. Whose blood is on the doorposts?
Live. I say again, live.
I’d cease to exist at once for that seal, that seal, that seal. But the seal is sacred, and I must cherish the bond of separation. I pulled away at heart, placing my hands upon his back. He was unscathed.
But he was a spirit. And he vanished. Then I’ll see him again in war, when the letters become iron and steel; when the clay has formed and hardened; when the fire has burnt over; when the sea has hurled its nasty waves; when the wolf’s skin shall unfurl, and he howls.
Yea then, I shall see him as he is. When his armor shall have stones; when his eyes shall pierce the cover of my leather girdle, and our swords shall collide.
I fight on my knees. And the God of heaven shall be glorified. And all flesh shall bow before Him. The kings shall be stars. One star shall dazzle upon my crown, and we shall cast it at the feet of He whose blood won once for all.
Save him, O God, lest he tear my flesh with his teeth, and find pleasure in my destruction. Save me, O God, lest I grin his enchanted grounds, and leave off consulting Thee.
Act VI: Then He Fled
I despised him deeply for fear, and for the stickiness of his soul beneath my soles. He was mucky like mulch, rolling upon itself, and crummy. Leaves shriveled like corpses from the trees when I beheld his countenance. The shadows beneath his brows were mean.
But he was unarmed.
I despised the coat on his back, lingering like the tail of an oil spill, a blotchy trail of ink, a bat’s wing. “Deathly Incompatible” was written on his forehead, and I recognized him in the dark, and watched him like an owl. He was a wolf, and wore the appearance of a lamb. I crouched my head and bent my neck to attack. The watch was alarmed. He was death incoming.
“Who sent him, LORD? I beg of thee, save his soul.” My extremities are cold. My flesh has deprived itself of warmth. I throw ice upon his back, threatening him with a wintry chill.
And the warrior obliged.
He does not recall his consent, neither does he recall that I’ve met him before— in others. But he was evil, and his heart did not know it.
And for the third time, he blinked. I stepped back, shuddering at what had awakened. His humanity was restored, and I fed him boiled dough. I sent some to his father away from home. I invited him until he grew weary of my pestering needs.
I left him. Then he fled.