Casca 3: The Warlord (13 page)

The seasons came and went in their time. The sleeper in his bed of stone was unaware of the years passing. Only the endless weaving of the brown spider marked the passage of the years as she spun a gossamer web over the still form of the sleeping man, covering him from head to feet in a delicate pattern of webs in which she trapped smaller insects to feed her brood. When she died, others took her place, spinning their own silken threads until the sleeper appeared to be more of a giant embryonic larva waiting in his cocoon for time to hatch. Beneath the rocks, the earth periodically shifted and shuffled, causing tremors on the surface. The year's frost killed the blossoming cherry tree buds by the hillside and for another three weeks, the branches were bare, but spring finally came, as she must. The winds blew gently over the grass and the peasants in the fields labored planting; their backs bent early from constant stooping as they painstakingly strived to make the earth produce the necessities for their existence.

The planting of the peasants was broken by the sound of a bell ringing. They stopped, turning their heads to the sound from the hillside. A figure made its way down to the field, a staff in one hand, and in the other, a bell of bronze which he rang with every other step. An unintelligible chanting issued from the scarecrow caricature that came closer into view; a foreigner and one touched by the gods, obviously mad and therefore blessed.

The peasants
waited, their faces in the shadows of the woven straw conical-shaped hats worn by men and women alike, their legs encrusted with dried mud to above the knees. They waited to see what the stranger wanted.

"Peace and the blessing of the Messiah on you," spoke the stranger in Chinese. "Praise God, you heathen, for I bring to you the greatest gift of the world; the word of the living God and salvation awaits those who will listen and heed. Bow your heads you heathen dogs." The mad man pointed one gnarled finger at Wing Sung, the man in whose fields the others toiled: "Down you slant-eyed barbarian and I shall save your soul, though I don't know why the Lord has placed this burden on me." His voice rose to a moderate bellow: "Down!"

Startled, Wing Sung obeyed. After all one never knew about these mad monks who wandered the earth, for did not Buddha do much the same? It was considered unwise to offend those the gods had touched and unlucky, especially during the seasons of planting when all luck is needed. If he's just a madman, we will stone him to death later; for now, it's best to play it safe.

Wing Sung's laborers followed his action. All bowed low from the waist, wondering what was going to happen next.

The madman strode toward them, his clothes a nondescript mixture of castoff items from a dozen tribes; though just which, by this time, none could tell. His beard reached to his waist and a look of blind fanaticism was clear in his red rimmed eyes.

“I am Peter. I have come to you at the bidding of the Lord Jesus Christ, for in my dreams he commanded me to go forth and save souls of those who have not heard his words. Fifteen years I have wandered and preached the gospel to the benighted heathen and always the Lord has provided, though not as well as I would have liked sometimes – indeed, I have lost more pounds
than I started with, but I am well enough and if the Lord chooses to test me, who am I to question Him?" The question was as much to himself as to anyone else and as it did not require an answer, he continued, "Now, you sloe-eyed idol worshippers, you are in luck today, because today and today only, I am going to bring to some salvation and eternal life in paradise. Those of you who are so ignorant as not to recognize the truth of my words will just have to go to Hell and that's fine with me. I will have given you a chance and it's your tough luck if you pass it up."

Wing Sung peered up through the epicanthic folds of his eyes. "Are you from the lands to the West?" he queried, still not certain if the stranger was blessed or just nuts.

"Indeed I am, you poor miserable idolater. I have come from a land called Dacia. There I heard the words of the Gospel and knew I was to bring the Lord's word to all within range of my voice," his eyes flashed as he recalled his own salvation, "I learned your tongue while living with a tribe of nomads in the great desert where I saved many souls for the Lord. Now, which of you wishes to be saved first? Step forward, don't be bashful: I don't have all day you know." Wing Sung kept his opinions to himself but addressed the madman once more. "Holy man, there is another of your own race entombed nearby, a great warrior who served the Emperor Tzin. He was put into the great stone sarcophagus there," pointing to the nearby valley where the tomb of Casca lay.

Peter the madman looked to the place where Wing Sung had pointed. "A man of my race you say? Was he a Christian?"
"What's a Christian?" Wing Sung asked.

"A Christian is a follower of the crucified God, Christ." Then showing Wing Sung what the Chinese considered a particularly gruesome item, a small silver crucifix with a man nailed to it, Wing Sung shrugged. "I don't know if he was what you call a Christian or not, but he was entombed with honors due a noble of the royal court by the Lady Li Tsao, consort to the Emperor Tzin."

Peter drew himself up to his full height, his bony cheeks flushed with the thought he might be able to save a soul. "Why you miserable heathen, if he was buried by your idol worshipping practices, he will never know paradise. The least I can do is say the last rites over him to give his soul a chance for salvation. Show me the way."

Wing Sung did as he was told and showed the ragged messenger of the one called the Messiah to the place of Casca's entombment.
The villagers gathered in the background, anxious to see what this weird ragged, pale-faced stranger would do. They squatted in a semicircle, their knees almost to their chest and waited.

Peter, full of righteous fervor approached the tomb. Standing before it he saw the embossed emblems of eternal life and the four-toed dragon, given only to those of the royal household and the tree of life with spreading branches. Raising his silver crucifix, he began to chant and preach, his voice gaining strength as he got into his act. His eyes raised, body twitching, he gained power such as he had never known. The power was on him. His voice echoed throughout the hills and valleys. He got into his thing as he spoke the words of the gospel and finally the words of Revelation.

Nature picked this particular time to let the mountainous rocky plates beneath the earth shift once more, the shock from below traveling to the surface like a stone in a lake rippling its way out in widening circles, cracking the granite boulders into splinters and changing the course of an underground hot spring; the one that fed the baths of the village of Feng Shang. The vibrating waves of the earthquake cracked further the stone tomb, letting the boiling waters of the hot spring flow into the interior, cooking all the assorted vermin that had chosen to make Casca and his tomb their home. Rats as well as spiders, died in a steam that would have driven Casca mad with pain had he been able to feel the heat. The waves of the earthquake reached the surface, the ground swaying as if at sea.

Peter,
totally involved with orations, feeling filled with the power of the spirit of the Lord, took the earthquake to be a manifestation of the Lord's power. He filled his lungs and bellowed even louder, while the peasants, terrified, scurried for higher ground, leaving the madman to his magic. Peter cried out in fanatic fervor: "And the earth shall give up her dead!"

At that moment, Casca's tomb opened. The huge covering stone split down the center, the sides buckled into dusty fragments as clouds of steam poured forth, the earth roared and stones shrieked as they were torn apart – the steam, shocks and air let into the tomb bringing Casca back to awareness.

Peter was really getting off on his sermon when in the center of the steam cloud issuing from the ruptured tomb, a figure stepped out.

Casca, back from the dead and mad as hell, came out of the steam and dust from his wrecked sarcophagus, hair past his shoulders and an even rattier beard reaching to his chest, dead insects in matted knots from his face and hair.
The silken robes long since had turned into rotting fragments of their former glory and hung in web-matted shreds. A dead rat dropped from one of the sleeve folds. It had been parboiled and so was Casca, his skin a bright cherry red with pale blisters the size of wine cups standing out. His sword in his hand, Casca was ready to kick ass and take names. The steam and the air, along with the vibrations of the earthquake had restored him and with awakening came instant remembrance. Casca was pissed. The earth gave one more spasmodic surge, heaving several trees up by the roots and then was still.

Peter froze, his mouth hanging open at the apparitions that had come forth at his words.
And the earth shall give up her dead.

"A miracle," he cried, his eyes filling with tears that he should be blessed with power from the Lord Jesus Christ to restore the dead to life. He always knew that he would be rewarded for his piety, but this was more than he had ever dreamed of.

Holding his crucifix high above him, he rang the bell at Casca as he approached crying: "Blessed be the name of the Lord. On your knees and pray."

Casca ignored him.

"On your knees heathen," he repeated, "It isn't every day you're brought back from the valley of the dead."

Casca strode on, bits of cloth dropping from him leaving a trail of silk and bugs behind, and faced the mad preacher. Peter shook his cross in Casca's face and rang his bell even harder. Reaching over, Casca took the bell from Peter's hand and whacked him across the head with it, laying Peter out cold. The preacher lay spread out on the ground, his cross in the dust. Casca gave both a look of distaste and grumbled through cracked lips, "that damned bell was giving me a headache."

Ignoring the prone body of Peter, Casca moved off still grumbling to himself, and peeling strips of burned skin from his face and arms, stripping off his rags as he walked until finally he was naked, carrying only his sword...the sword that Lady Li Tsao had been gracious enough to place in the tomb with him. Spying the fields, Casca made for them and the village beyond.

"Food," he thought, "I need something to eat, anything." His scarred hide had turned almost fish white during the years of his confinement; only the multitude of scars were lighter in color.

Walking through the deserted streets, there were some signs of minor damage from the quake, but nothing of any import. Wing Sung and the others had taken to their homes when they saw him approach. Whoever the preaching madman was, he certainly had some strange powers.

Smelling cooking rice, Casca entered the third house on the dirt street and walked in, scaring the crap out of the family living there. The mother hid her three children behind her while the father screwed up enough courage to face the pale, parboiled, bug-infested intruder. Performing Kowtow, he bowed low almost bent double in front of Casca and said quivering, "Please lord, we are poor people here and have nothing but the rags we wear and a few grains of rice to eat." Noticing Casca eyeing the cook pot where their dinner was simmering over a charcoal brazier, he hastily scooped out a. large bowl and proffered it to the walking dead man.

Casca grunted his thanks between mouthfuls, choking the food down as fast as he could and swallowing water from a handy pitcher. The rice set like cement in his gut, but it was there and soon he began to feel more human. He smiled at the frightened family and spoke for the first time now that his throat was lubricated.

"Thanks and don't be frightened of me," he said in Chinese, "I am no devil or dead man come to life." Knowing the superstitions of the people, he thought it better to feed them a fairy tale.

"I was not dead when I was buried. No. A spell was put on me by a witch and I have slept until the earth set me free." Twisting the silver ring from his finger, he gave it to his host, "Here, this is for your food. Would you also find some clothes large enough to fit me?"

The excited peasant scurried away to do as he was asked, going immediately to the house of Wing Sung where he told him what had transpired. The only omission was the gift of the silver ring, now hidden in his waistband: That one piece of silver was enough to buy a young cow and make him a man of means.

Wing Sung quickly found a robe for the stranger. He wanted no part of him. He ordered the peasant to take the robe and go, saying when such strange things happened, this usually meant no good for the common people.

Casca's reluctant host brought him the robe which was a little snug around the shoulders and arms but would serve. Casca put a pack of food under his arm, thanked his host and left. The day was still young enough for him to get some miles down and besides...he had a score to settle.

The preacher, on regaining consciousness, nursed his aching head and wondered why, when he was given the power to raise the dead, the first person raised had to be crazy. Coming to a rapid decision, he decided to leave this land and head back to the civilized lands of Rome and the Empire where a saint would be properly appreciated. He couldn't wait to show his new power to some of those stuffy smart-ass hermits who felt so smug in their lousy holes and caves meditating and praying. “By God, they would sit up and take notice now."

Picking up his bell, he rang it a few times tentatively and then stopped, putting it in his belt. Maybe the resurrected one wasn't so crazy after all...that damned bell could give a person a headache.