Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet

  * * *

  A heaving seism followed the proclamation of the motto, and the euphoria that erupted throughout the Capitol drowned out the volume of the broadcast for a good 10 seconds. The lights in the little tavern flickered with the tremor.

  The barkeep set another glass on the counter with a sigh as the President’s speech went on.

  “Ah, the President…”

  “She is a good woman,” said the old man, looking up.

  “The people sure as hell believe in her … for now,” said the barkeep. “But when the shit hits the fan – and when those martials come knocking – they won’t be cheering her name anymore. No, sir… Hell’s a-comin’ our way. A whole lot of it, too.”

  The old man drank the last inch of water in his glass.

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  “I d’know…” The barkeep shook his head. “Might just move out of the region at this rate.”

  “I hear many people already have.”

  “Can you blame them?”

  The old man paused and sighed. “They are fearful,” he said.

  “Well, they’ve got a lot to be afraid of – Ezra, get the man a refill…”

  The young boy rushed over to the old man’s table again and took the empty glass.

  “You are afraid too?” the old man asked.

  The barkeep paused with his answer. “Maybe more than I should be,” he replied, and as he said this, he looked over his shoulder just as the young boy disappeared into the back room.

  The old man watched the door swing back and forth before looking back at the barkeep.

  “He is … your son?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” The barkeep stacked the last glass and started buffing the dishes. “Ezra’s an exile – got transferred here from a DP camp three years ago.”

  “His parents?”

  The barkeep shook his head.

  “I see,” the old man nodded slowly.

  The barkeep’s eyes peered up from under a knotted brow. “He’s had enough hell for one life,” he said, his tone sullen.

  The boy returned from the back room with a full glass of water and set the glass down on the table with a faint smile. The boy stopped nervously with the old man’s intense eyes. He raised a weary, veined hand and laid a tender palm on the boy’s head, as though imparting something with his touch. The barkeep watched suspiciously.

  The old man lifted his hand again and the boy walked off. “I understand you,” he spoke quietly, after a brief hiatus. “I have a child too … a daughter.”

  “You don’t say.” The barkeep stacked up the last glass and drained the sink.

  “To be sure, she is a child no longer.” The old man hummed. “You are a good man … A good father,” he said. “But, you must know the days are gone when it was enough for a father to protect his child’s life. Far more important it is today to teach. And the most important lesson is the hardest precisely because we are driven to protect.”

  “And what lesson is that, old man?” inquired the barkeep.

  The old man lifted the glass to his lips, drank, paused and answered: “There are things in life more important even than life itself.”

  The young barkeep dried off his hands and chuckled.

  Sounds like our president’s got inside your head too.”

  “I suppose you might say that,” the old man smiled. “Tell me, friend, have you the time to spare?”

  The barkeep regarded the old man with intrigue.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “A story,” the old man replied, setting his cane aside.

  The barkeep seemed to squint, as though something vaguely fascinating about the olden figure that had wandered into his little borough was only just dawning upon him. He nodded, took out two short glasses and set them down on the counter.

  “Name your poison.”

  C. 5: Day 691