Becoming Salvish Theander, pt 5

It had been a clear, cool autumn night, and the harvest moon hung full and golden in the sky, so that even the abandoned country back-roads had been well-illuminated. The errand had been a simple one, the purchase of a list of supplies from a chemist with particularly-late hours. The wooden crates, containing who-knows-what, had been heavier than Harris had expected, and carrying them from the basement shop upstairs to the cart had been wearing. The dry dusty air of the chemist's shop had just added to his thirst.
Business was apparently going well at the After Hours Tap, judging by the noisy ruckus of loud voices and music coming from there. Perhaps he could stop in and quench his thirst, and maybe play one game of poker, for old times' sake.
The bold entrance of "Salvish Theander" into this particular night spot caused heads to turn, and conversations to trickle into silence.
Arnie, the bar tender, was the first to speak. "Good evening, Mr. Theander. Would you… like something to drink?"
"Mister Theander," he shot back, mocking Arnie. "Call me Harry–er,Salvish. And, yeah, I'll have a beer!" The response had been quite out of character, and the thick accent was gone completely. Harris felt his face twinge in several spots as tiny cracks appeared, but no one seemed to notice them, or to hear the sharp twig-snapping sound they made when they formed.
The regulars laughed at his comment and the rest of the crowd relaxed. Harris strolled over to the bar and hopped up onto an empty stool with ease, Theander's shuffling gait all but forgotten. Click! Crack! The fellow next to him slapped him on the back and slurred, "Hey there, Shalvish! How're you doin', Buddy?"
"Eh, you know how it is! D.D.S.S!" The snapping sound thundered in his ears, and he almost dropped his beer. A sizeable fissure had snaked down his forehead from his hairline to his eyebrow.
The man to his left noticed it, and piped up, "Hey, what's happening to your face?"
Harris dodged the question, turning away, "How about a nice game of cards? I'll take you for all you're worth!" Crack! Snap! He began to amble toward the back room with an air of conceit.
Other patrons had begun to take note of this weird phenomenon, too. "What's the matter with your face? That line wasn't there when you came in!”
"Nothing to worry about!" he said, "Just a little skin condition!"
A firm hand grasped his shoulder, and he spun around. The face of Ellen, an old girlfriend, met his gaze. She looked hard at him. "Harry?" she asked.
He pulled away from her touch. "No! Of course not!" he said, regaining Salvish's voice and accent. "Harris Oldman is dead. Dead! Do you hear? Why do you look at me that way? Why are you all staring at me?" Harris face itched as more lines forked across his cheeks, crackling like a healthy bonfire.
Something fell from his forehead onto the floor, something triangular and whitish. Then another piece joined it. A sharp snap near his neck pinched him and he yelped.
His cry was followed by a loud tearing sound. His shirt was ripping away from him, and now his jacket! Pale fragments continued to land at his feet, as more and deeper lines appeared. The last vestiges of the image of Salvish Theander cracked and fell away like a shattered wax mask, taking the remnants of the fine suit with it. There, revealed beneath, was the shriveled, putrefying corpse of Harris Oldman, dressed in the tattered rags of a pauper’s graveclothes!

Becoming Salvish Theander, pt 4

Simply looking like Salvish was not enough to be convincing. Harris had to learn how to walk hunched over with that slow, lurching limp. He had to practice the vocal pitch, accent and speech mannerisms of his master until they became second nature to him. "And, most importantly," Salvish had reminded him, "remember that Harris Oldman is dead! Do not betray your old life to those around you!"
The first tasks had been simple--tests really. Buying a loaf of bread at the market. Delivering legal papers to attorneys. Taking a walk down the street and greeting people. Always there was the quiet voice of Salvish in his ear, guiding him, sounding like he was right behind him, whispering over his shoulder.
It was when he attended a meeting of the town council that things began to unravel. He walked into the room in far too effortless a manner.
"Why, Mr. Theander!" exclaimed Doctor Forrest, "You're walking with much less pain today, I see!"
There was an audible crack, like the snapping of a branch, but Dr Forrest seemed not to notice. "Yes, the pain has been less today," Harris replied.
When he reported home to his master, he asked about the noise. "When your imitation of me fails, my image does not fit you so well," Salvish explained, "and it cracks. But don't worry. You did not mean for this to happen, and we can certainly repair the damage."
It had been a very close call when he was to visit a construction site for a building that Theander was paying for. In asking questions about materials and changes to the blueprints, he spotted his old friend Ed McCulsky among the workers. Completely forgetting himself, he blurted out, “Hey, Big Ed! Good to see you working again!” Crack! Snap! Hairline fissures appeared in his forehead and one corner of his mouth!
Big Ed stopped and looked at the man who had spoken to him. “Harry Oldman?”
Harry panicked. Regaining his composure, he affected the voice and accent once more. “N-no. Of course not. Harris Oldman is dead.”
The cracks in his features from this last incident were more noticeable this time, and they were much more difficult to repair. But they could be fixed. So why all this struggle to imitate his master so closely, if the damage could always be repaired? And so what if Salvish's voice in his ear was becoming more faint? The old guy was becoming so demanding lately that it wouldn't really be a burden to not always hear his instructions!

Becoming Salvish Theander, pt 3

When Harris Oldman awoke, the world had taken on an ethereal, dreamlike quality, shifting light filtered from everywhere at once. He could hear nothing except his own breathing—which roared loudly in his ears. Simultaneously, he realized both that he was coldly numb all over, and that he couldn’t breathe! Alarmed, he leapt to his feet, slipped, and fell forward to his hands and knees.Then he regained his balance, maintaining a kneeling position, gasping for air. He felt as weak as a newborn baby.
Minutes later, his breath and heart rate finally slowed to normal, Harris realized that he had been lying in some sort of transparent tank of water, slightly larger than a coffin, illuminated from within in a manner he could not ascertain. The water's surface, which had been an inch or two above his face when he woke up, now rose to only slightly over his waist. With the exception of the strangely-lit tub, which was now casting eerie wavering rings on the ceiling, floor, and walls around him, the room was in darkness.
A long sliver of light appeared in one of the chamber's walls and widened to reveal the silhouetted figure of Salvish Theander standing in the doorway. The room brightened gradually as he entered in an odd shuffling step. Harris wondered if he had always walked that way. He really hadn't had much time to notice details like that before. Salvish came right up to Harris, his large nose mere inches from his face. The strange man squinted his eyes and exhaled loudly through his nostrils. Then he straightened up and said, "Welcome back to life, my friend!”
“What’s going on? Where am I?”
“It’s alright. You’ve merely been dead.” He helped Harris step from the crystalline coffin and handed him a towel.
“I’ve what?”
“You’ve been dead. Here,” he handed him a newspaper, “See for yourself.”
“The body of Harris Oldman was pulled from Horseshoe Creek yesterday,” it began.
“Yesterday?”
“That paper is several days old.”
“So . . . you pulled me out of the river and, what? Resuscitated me? I only appeared to be dead, right?”
Salvish shook his head. "Make no mistake. Harris Oldman is dead, and his debts are canceled."
"But I'm Harris Oldman!"
"No. Harris Oldman is no longer. You have been reborn! A new man with anew life! You think I'm crazy." He smiled. "Here. Look for yourself!" He pointed him to a small mirror. "In order for your new life to work, you needed a new identity." Harris looked into the mirror. Staring back at him was the face of Salvish Theander!

Becoming Salvish Theander, pt 2

When Harris woke up, a glass of cool liquid was being held to his lips. He was lying in a bed, but it wasn’t his own.
“Have some more water,” a man’s heavily-accented voice said.
Harris’ eyes focused, and met an olive-skinned man, with a prominent hooked nose and dark eyes—of middle eastern descent, he guessed.
“Dinner will be served downstairs, when you feel ready to eat something,” he said, and then vanished from the room.
Harris finished drinking his water and swung his feet around to the floor. Something in that motion filled his mind with passing, seemingly-disconnected images: A dark, cold, hard place... A looming figure stepping from the shadows toward him... The sound of something like horses’ hooves… and then nothing.
The hallway, like his room, was dimly lit by candles, their flames guttering as he passed. The staircase was narrow and the banister firm. The soft-pile carpet absorbed any sound of footfalls, but the stairs still creaked audibly as he descended into the reddish glow at the bottom. The living room was spacious, to say the least, and the large fireplace crackled loudly as it devoured the wood. The shadows of furniture and other objects danced in yellow-orange light across the walls; but one, Harris noticed, seemed to move more than all the rest. That shadow spoke to him.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Oldman!” The voice was coming from near the fireplace. Again, Harris noted the strong accent, the carefully-placed syllables. “Are you cold? Come stand by the fire. And then some dinner, perhaps?”
It was while they were seated at the table that Harris’ host finally introduced himself. “I am Salvish Theander,” he said. (His last name rhymed with “gray gander.”) “I can help you, Mr. Oldman. You have much debt. You would like to be free of that debt, wouldn’t you?”
“What makes you think I have a lot of debts?”
“Have you ever looked closely at the paper your bills are printed upon?” Salvish reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. He tossed it deftly to Harris. It was a notice from the gas company—addressed to Harris Oldman!
“Yes,” said Salvish, “I know much about you. But, please, look at the watermark on the paper!”
Harris held it up in the light of the candelabra on the table. The seal was a circle with a large, stylized “S.T.” Salvish Theander.
“This will be hard for you to understand, Mr. Oldman, but all debt is ultimately owed to me. This is why you will find my initials on all of your bills.”
“You’re right,” Harris replied, “I don’t understand.”
“Understanding will come with time, perhaps. That you accept it is all that is required of you for now.”
‘Required of you.’ Who did this guy think he was?
“Or perhaps you would like to check the rest of your notices as well?” he said, setting a small strongbox on the table and opening it. It was full of envelopes.
“No. I believe you.” Strangely, Harris found that he did believe what this odd man was telling him.
“Good. Now then, do you want to be free of your debts?”
“Well, sure, but—”
“Then turn yourself over to me, and that debt will be gone.”
“Turn myself over to you? What does that mean, exactly?”
“You would be my servant. You’d do my bidding, but nothing shameful or beyond your ability. Think of it, Mr. Oldman! Steady employment, and no more debt!”
Harris mulled it over in the intervening silence. “Okay, Theander, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Then it is done!” Salvish said, rising quickly to his feet. He outstretched his arms, and a sudden gust of wind from behind him extinguished all the lights at once! Even the fireplace went dark.

Becoming Salvish Theander, pt 1

Becoming Salvish Theander

“For all of you who have been baptized into Christ

have clothed yourselves with Christ.” Gal 3:27

Harris Oldman awoke to the sound of rustling on the bedside table. He opened one eye and observed the stack of envelopes shifting to one side. They stopped and he closed his eyes once more, hoping to go back to sleep. No such luck! The pile of envelopes landed heavily on his chest like an angry cat, and slid down to one side of his neck. The envelopes contained notices, indicating that money was owed, and threatening severe consequences if that money did not appear in the office of this company or that one.

It was his own fault, Harris knew. He had incurred these debts. Some luxuries were just too delightful to go without, and the terms of credit had seemed so pleasant at the time. But not everything had been frivolous. Why, a man must eat, after all, and heat his home, and be able to see in the long dark winter nights! And then there were those unexpected bills! How could he know that this would be the worst growing season on record for fifty years? And how could he predict that business would dry up, and that he would be suddenly unemployed, like so many others? Why must everything be so expensive?, he asked himself. How am I going to pay for all this?

The fine people at Bloch & Feinstein had been very gracious to lend him money to help him over the first rough patch… and the one after that… and the one after that. But the interest had been exorbitant, and now he was at their mercy.

It amused him to think for a moment as he lay there, that if the bills continued to come in like this, and continue to pile up and fall off the night stand into his bed, he could—one day—literally drown in his debts!

He arose, with little enthusiasm, bathed and dressed, and headed into town to check into another long list of places that would likely also refuse to hire him. He was either too qualified, or not qualified enough. Or, “If you had only been in here last week! There was a position open that would have suited you perfectly!” Or, “We’re not looking to hire anyone at this time, but if you’ll leave your contact information with us…”

“D.D.S.S.,” muttered Harris. “Different Day, Same Stuff.”

It was early evening, but the After Hours Tap was already open. Harris had some money left, and a good poker face. He entered the familiar spot, and waved to the bartender.

“How’s it goin’ Arnie?”

“Can’t complain, Harry. And you?”

“Ah, you know… D.D.S.S. Any action in the back room?”

“There’s a game waitin’ for a fourth player.”

In the haze of smoke around the table sat Big Ed McCulsky, one of Harris’ coworkers who had also been laid-off, and Johnny Deeds—who, as best as Harris could figure, sat in bars and played poker. One of the chairs was his, but where was the other player?

“Hey fellas! Who’s our fourth?”

“Harris Oldman,” a voice behind him said, “I believe we have some business to discuss.”

Michael Bloch. Of Bloch & Feinstein. Terrific. D.D.S.S.

“You missed your appointment with us today, Mr. Oldman. But it can wait ‘til after the game. Who knows? You might get lucky and win big today!”

“Well I don’t play to lose,” he said, sitting down. “Deal ‘em, Big Ed!”

Harris had a very good poker face—and even better instincts. After a couple of games, the pile of cash in front of him would make a nice dent in his bills.

“Well fellas, it’s been a real pleasure—and I do mean ‘pleasure’! Johnny, Big Ed,” he nodded to each of them as they left. He began stacking up the bills to put in his pocket.

“Just a moment, Mr. Oldman. I believe that belongs to me. Your debt repayment is a little behind schedule. That amount should be a sufficient offer in good faith to prevent our collection agency from breaking your hand.” Yeah. They were that kind of lending firm! “Just the pinky should be enough, I would think.”

Bloch sauntered out into the night, having turned Harris over to Bloch & Feinstein’s “collection agency”—a six-foot-four-inch brute who went by the name of Thor.

In retrospect, resisting Thor had been a bad idea. Trying to fight back was an even worse one. It was a very bruised and bloodied Harris Oldman that left the After Hours Tap that night. He made it as far as the alley, leaned against the cool brick wall, and slid slowly to the pavement.

“D.D.S.S.,” he whispered, before everything went dark.

Becoming Salvish Theander Introduction

This short story was Sunday's sermon. It went over pretty well, I think, but I'm generally deluded, so...
This will be in several parts to make it easier to digest, but I'll release them all today.

The extended metaphor is fueled by Scripture texts like Rom 13:12-14; Gal 3:26-27; Eph 4:22-5:2; Col 3:1-17; and just about any movie Bela Lugosi ever made. I heard his voice in my head when I was writing Salvish's dialogue.