The Outlaw Prophet: Part VI

Author’s note: The following continues the firsthand accounts of Mr. Blackwood, in his own tongue, which was relayed to me after the fact regarding his whereabouts between Kansas City and Springfield when he went missing.

Perched high upon a windswept mountain along the Turkish coast, the ruins of ancient Pergamon gaze proudly—almost defiantly—over the azure Aegean Sea. While most of its splendid monuments lay in disarray and buried under millennia of dirt, grass, and rubble, the abandoned remains of the acropolis belie its former grandeur. He’d been here before shortly after his encounter with the condemned Christ. Back then, the Temple of Zeus stood proudly, a tribute to the greatest pagan god of the Greeks. Once a rival to Alexandria, Ephesus, and Antioch in culture and commerce, Pergamum was also renowned for its advancements in medicine, which continues to influence modern medical practices for centuries to follow.

In the years following his encounter with Jesus, and after escaping his indentured servitude under Pontius Pilate, Cartaphilus wandered far and wide, eventually making his way to these parts in search of the Apostle John. Word had it that John was in Mysia, tending to Jesus' earthly mother, Mary, and founding churches as he went. John had long since left, before Mary's passing and his exile to the island of Patmos by Emperor Domitian. Cartaphilus himself had ventured north, into the dense forests of Germania, seeking solitude with the Lord for many years.

It wasn't until nearly the middle of the second century that Cartaphilus journeyed back south. There, he encountered one of John's disciples, a man named Polycarp of Smyrna. Polycarp handed him a precious document—the Revelation of Jesus Christ, penned by John during his imprisonment on Patmos. It was here that he learned that Jesus called Pergamum, the place where Satan dwells and has his throne, which Cartaphilus found odd, considering how modern and culturally savvy the place had seemed. It shouldn’t be surprising he remembered thinking. Most folk think Satan lives and rules in the smoke-filled shadowy caverns of hell. Nope. Satan’s got himself perched up on high, looking down on all the humans as if they were insects and he was their god. Looking at it now, time has not been kind to this place. As he walked, he surveyed the ruins and remnants of this once great city. That place had become so desolate, even the ghosts had abandoned it. So lost in thought and memory he’d become, he’d neglected to recognize the dark figure sitting on a fallen marble pillar off to his three ‘o clock position watching him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you,” the figure said in Aramaic shocking Cartaphilus out of his nostalgia.

Turning and drawing his pistol faster than the blink of an eye, Cartaphilus faced the figure who now was coming off the pillar and slowly walking toward him out of the shadows.

“And you are?” Cartaphilus asked, realizing only after the words had come out that he’d responded likewise in Aramaic; a language he hadn’t spoken in nearly nine centuries.

“You know who I am,” the figure replied now in koine Greek.

“Your voice does sound familiar,” Cartaphilus replied in Greek. “Why are you lingering in the shadows. Come forth, let me see your face.”

The moon was full that night, and stepping forward, Cartaphilus noticeably recoiled when he saw Lucifer step out of the shadows into the moonlight.

Author’s notes: Samuel…, Cartaphilus confided in me after the fact all of these details as true. Upon asking him what Lucifer looked like, he gave a most curious description. He said he looked both incredibly beautiful and yet profoundly ruined at the same time.

“You haven’t aged a day Cart…or should I call you by your preferred name now, Mr. Samuel Blackwood.”

“I’d just assume you didn’t come calling at all,” Samuel replied holstering his pistol. Lead and iron wouldn’t vanquish this kind of monster.

“Touché…Saint Germain.”

Ol’ Beelzebub was messing with his mind by using all of his previous alias and dialects.

“I reckon you’re the one who put them goons on me and then opened the portal? What do you want from me?”

“I was hoping for your soul, but seeing that’s off limits, perhaps just an answer to a question.”

“I ain’t got nothing for you Satan. You want answers, you know Who you have to ask,” Samuel replied.

“I know I know. It’s much more delightful to get them the old fashioned way though.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t got anything for you.”

“Why does the Father have you passing messages to this young man in the New World?”

“What makes you think I got a mission?” Samuel asked.

“Unlike Him (referring to God) I can’t be everywhere at the same time. But I do have eyes and ears everywhere, and a little bird told me you’re on this mission to that young, eager, idealistic politician in Illinois. Who is he to you, or rather, Him (pointing upwards).”

He’d already been standing there for a few minutes dialoguing with Lucifer before realizing that the longer he stood here having the conversation, the more likely he was to spill the beans so to speak. He began running through the biblical rolodex his mind searching for that perfect verse.

“I can see the wheels in your mind turning. Which verse shall I use today? Look young Cartaphilus, you’re no Jesus and this isn’t the wilderness. Just shoot straight with me and you can be on your way. And mind you, I’ll know if you’re lying.”

At the word shoot, something animalistic or even primal rose up in him and his hands instinctively drew his pistols and unloaded twelve shots straight to the devil’s face. He didn’t know why he did it, but it felt better than standing there letting Satan mess with his mind.

The rounds hit Lucifer in the face but seemingly dissipated into his serpentine flesh. Still, the surprising violence of it provided the necessary split-second distraction Samuel needed to pray for another opening in which he stepped backward into leaving Satan standing there in a hazy cloud of gun smoke.

Author’s note: This is where Mr. Blackwood rejoins our venture in Springfield, appearing before both Mr. Lincoln and myself out of nowhere, and startling us like frightened polecats.  

“Uhm…. Mr. Abraham Lincoln, this is Mr. Samuel Blackwood,” I said unsure of what else to say in such alarming circumstances.

“Mr. Blackwood I presume?" Abraham asked rising to meet this mysterious stranger. "Our mutual reporter friend here states you're a prophet?"

“I am a prophet of the Lord,” Samuel replied shaking his hand.

“I have to be honest Mr. Blackwood, or Samuel if you prefer, I didn’t know what to make of Horace’s preliminary description of you or what you claim to be, until just now. You certainly know how to make an entrance.”

“He has that kind of effect on people,” I added still trying to get my nerves under control from his frightfully dramatic and preternatural entrance.

“Sorry about that Horace. I’ll have to fill you in after this on where I’ve been and who I’ve been with.”

“Horace says you got a message for me,” Abraham asked. “Might this be about my upcoming election?”

“Yes and no,” Samuel replied. “You will win the election, but I’m not sent here for that.”

“What is it then,” Abraham asked drawing up to Samuel and noticing they were roughly the same height. “Not a lot of tall men like us around these parts, it’s nice to look someone in the eyes without bending down.”

“Abraham, you might want to sit down for this part,” Samuel said.

Finding a wooden stool next to the counter, he sat down hesitantly before looking back at Samuel. “Good sir, I can handle the truth of whatever you have to say.”

“As I said, you’ll win the election. But in so doing, your victory will trigger a war, a civil war between the northern and southern states, that will be the bloodiest, most deadly conflict this nation has seen, or will ever see.”

Watching Abraham’s face as he received this news, was like watching a man aged 20 years in just a few seconds. The weight of this information hit him like an avalanche.

Abraham sat silently for a few minutes taking in this weighty news and trying to process the gravity of it. “Is the war about slavery?” he asked.

“Yes. But the war was going to come anyway, either now, or in just a few short years. This is how it’s supposed to happen, and that is why I am here,” Samuel said reassuringly. “God has chosen you for this mission from even before the foundation of the world. You, Abraham Lincoln, are the man who will hold this nation together in its darkest hour.”

“I see,” Abraham said as if that was all he could muster.

It looked like Abraham was lost in thought somewhere deep in his mind. For my part, I sat there scribbling notes as furiously as I could take them. I also managed to get an outline of a sketch going trying my best to capture the moment, although I’d have to finish it later.

“Why me?” he asked inquisitively.

“I don’t know, I’m just the messenger. I reckon that information is between you and the Almighty. But what I do know is that there are forces, both seen and unseen, that will do anything to tear this nation apart. It’s as if they know something is coming down the pike, and they need this country out of the way,” Samuel replied. “And if He’s chosen you, and He’s sent me here to forewarn you of the gravity of the situation, it must be a good reason.”

“Well, I thank you for bringing me this sobering news,” Abraham said politely as he stood up and walked over to get a drink of water.

“Mr. Lincoln,” Samuel said walking over to him, “I’ve been around for a very, very long time. Not sure all what Horace here has told you about me, but what I can say is, that God uses men like you at these pivotal points in human history to keep His divine agenda moving in the direction He wants it to go. This is a great honor you now possess. Embrace it and let the weight of it reinforce your commitment to keeping this nation united no matter the cost, even when everyone around you tries to convince you otherwise, even to the last full measure of your devotion.”

“Mr. Blackwood, I’ve been in politics since the 1830s, and I’ve never felt surer in my convictions that slavery has become the great stain of injustice on our young nation. I don’t know how freed slaves fit into such a divided nation, or how even to cool the fiery flames of passion, rather than fan them, on so terrible a subject. I dread the thought that my victory means the death of an untold number of my countrymen. I haven’t even won, nor has the war begun, and I am already weary.”

“You’ve played coy with your faith all these years Mr. Lincoln, wondering whether religion is a virtue or a hindrance, politically speaking. It’s time to get off the fence and choose a side. You’ve seen the hand of God here with my arrival. I’ve seen the other side face to face, and I tell you as honestly as I’ve ever uttered, with God, all things are possible. He will give you the strength and courage you need to see this done. All you need do, is draw closer to Him.”

“I reckon so,” Abraham said.

“I reckon so as well,” Samuel said tipping his hat and walking out the door.

            Quickly collecting my things and bidding Mr. Lincoln a rushed farewell, I headed out the door only to find Samuel was nowhere to be found.

***

Truly, a stranger in a strange land so far from where he began, it seemed only fitting that this mysterious Cartaphilus, St. Germain, or Samuel Blackwood if you prefer, could up and slip away as a phantom in the night. I found a boarding room there in Springfield and continued to refine and add to my tattered journal, doing my level best to recall things with as much clarity as human possible. One morning, I found several notes inserted into my journal, not in my handwriting, but clearly from Samuel detailing things I wasn't previously privy to. How he got in here or even thought to bring me the notes in the first place, heaven only knows. But he left no other clue as to where he was now.

Would anyone believe this fantastical story? I suppose we’ll find out soon enough should Samuel’s terrible predictions come true about what is to befall our great nation. I hope he is wrong, but I fear is right.

Two weeks later, I’m on a new horse riding out of Illinois and heading back into Kansas territory and I’ve not seen hide nor hair of Mr. Blackwood. I’d wanted to stay longer and cover more of Abraham Lincoln’s rising political star there in Illinois, but my paper was threatening to cut off my funds if I didn’t return post haste. They’d feared I’d just been gallivanting around the country chasing phantoms and faeries.

Supposing their right in some regards, Mr. Blackwood was a phantom of sorts. He was a rumor, mysterious, yet strangely familiar. Someone known and unknown. He was a man of all ages, and also a man out of time. I don’t know if or when he will resurface again. I’ll just have to keep my ear to the ground and listen for the wild and unbelievable stories of a tall drifter, an outlaw if you prefer, making tall tales of his own amongst the wild and rugged people of the American West.  

Respectfully,

Horace Finch

The Californian

April 30, 1858

P.S. I'll begin posting these short stories in the Short Stories tab on the website in PDF form that you can read all at once.

Next up: The Mandela Defect