“And a miracle happened. Blood and water splashed from the wound into Longinus' eyes, and cured his blindness. Also...”
He stopped so long that Lizzie, though still feeling tremendously humble, had to look up to meet his eyes.
He stared at her hard, as if she were a crossword puzzle he was trying to solve. He asked, “Lizzie, when you held the Spear, did you notice anything different?”
Lizzie nodded. “Yeah. Everything got real clear...and,” she hesitated because it sounded crazy to say what came next, “and I could see people through the walls.”
A slight smile came to her dad's lips and he nodded. “Yes. I knew it. Any descendent of Longinus that holds the Spear can see with amazing clarity—with a clarity that allows you to look even through walls to see the very soul of a being.”
Lizzie began to realize that, amazingly, she wasn't in big trouble. A whipping with the belt is what she'd expected—at the very least to be grounded. But her dad seemed so excited about the Spear that he'd forgotten what a bad girl she'd been. And that was fine with her. “What did it mean when you said I was going to be your 'Second'?”
“Well, first I need to tell you what the Spear Bearer does. The Spear Bearer's job—my job—is to send Fugitive Spirits to Hell.”
“Fugitive Spirits?”
Mr. Long nodded. “There are three types: Lost Souls, The Fallen, and Abominations.
“Lost Souls are what you would call ghosts. When a person dies, a door opens for their spirit to journey to the next world. But some spirits avoid the door and continue to roam the earth.
“The Fallen are fallen angels. They come in many different forms: demons, sprites, fairies, elves. They are very rare nowadays. I have only seen a few.
“The Abominations, or Nephilim, are half-mortals, the offspring of an unholy union of one of the Fallen and a human. They look like regular people, but they are unusually strong and fast. Sometimes they are magicians. They may grow to be very old, but they do eventually die, unlike the Fallen who are immortal.”
“So,” Lizzie asked again, thinking of the gnome’s question, “what does it mean for me to be a Second?”
“I'm coming to that. The Spear is very powerful and we must make sure that it does not fall into the wrong hands. It did once and for many hundreds of years during the Dark Ages the Spear passed from one greedy ruler to the next, each using the Spear to conquer his enemies.
“Luckily, a ruler by the name of Constantine gave the Spear, in secret, to the Catholic Church. The Church, in turn, gave the Spear to an heir of Longinus and it has remained in our family ever since. We are at the center of a secret organization within the Church. It is so secret not even the Pope is allowed to know of its existence.”
“But what is a Second?” Lizzie said, nearly stamping her foot.
“If something happens to the Spear Bearer, it is the Second that must see that the Spear is returned to safety.”
He gave Lizzie a hard, serious stare. “The Cardinal was right. I need to have a Second. I should have taken you to Ireland with me. I wasn't sure you were ready, and it scared me to think I might be putting you in danger. But I became your grandpa's Second when I was only ten, and you are every bit as ready as I was at that age.
“So, Lizzie, will you be my Second?”
Lizzie nodded. “I'll try.”
Mr. Long put his hands behind his back. “No. There is no trying. Either you do it or you don't.”
She thought about what the Cardinal had said. “You think I really can?” she asked.
“Yes. You can see souls when you hold the Spear, right?”
Lizzie nodded, but she wasn't convinced. “You told him you had been preparing me, but I've never even heard about the Spear before.”
“Ah, yes,” her dad said, lifting an index finger up instructively, “and yet you have been prepared. Controlling the Spear is only a small part of being a Spear Bearer; honestly, that is the easy part.
“Why do you think you have been studying all those foreign languages?”
Lizzie shrugged.
“Because Fugitive Spirits don't just exist in English speaking countries. We must hunt them all over the world.
“You are in karate because your primary function as Spear Bearer is to protect it and keep it out of the wrong hands. Cross-country running increases your stamina and mental toughness. Archery improves you mental focus and power of concentration. And so on and so forth. You are prepared. So what do you say? Will you be my Second?”
Lizzie nodded. “Sure dad.”
“Lizzie,” her mother called. “Lizzie? Where are you? It's bedtime.”
“Tomorrow I will introduce you to the business of gathering Lost Souls,” her dad said. “But now you need to go on to bed.”
“Okay,” Lizzie said, and she dutifully began to walk out of the room. But then she remembered her grandfather's keys, pulled them out of her pocket, and held them out to her dad.
For a moment he regarded the keys uncertainly. Then he shook his head, and with his large hands he gently closed her hand into a fist around the keys. “These are your keys now. We share this office, just like I used to share it with Grandpa.”
The Nephilim were in the earth in those days, and also after that, when God's sons came in to men's daughters. They bore children to them. Those were the mighty men who were of old, men of renown.
Genesis 6 verse 4, World English Bible
Chapter 9 – The Game
“Man-You-El! Man-You-El! Man-You-El!”
The only people that attended the games generally were family and friends. And generally the only cheers occurred after a score and, occasionally, when Manuel, as goalie, plucked the ball from the air. But today Margie’s cry of “Man-You-El” went on and on and Manuel wished he could crawl under the turf and hide.
It didn’t help that he played goalie. If he were playing forward—which is what he would have chosen if the coach would have let him pick—then he would be busy and not feel so much like he was on display.
Years ago he had played forward, where he could run free, weaving between defenders who seemed to move in slow motion, the ball bouncing from his feet like a disembodied part of himself, stopping with him, bending around obstacles. Then, with absolute knowledge of where the ball would go, he would blast a kick at the goal; always near the edge, as far from the goalie as possible, often caroming off the bar.
It felt so good, and Manuel had done it often. Too often.
Parents from the other teams had complained. They said it wasn’t fair. He was too old, they complained. Must be, they said. Look at how tall he is.
They wanted to see his birth certificate. And when that checked out they still weren’t happy.
Parents on his team complained too. He scored all the goals. He was a ball hog. He needed manners.
So the coach had told him to try not to score so much. And he tried to keep it under five a game. And he passed the ball more; he learned how to pass the ball at just the right time, in just the right place, so his teammate would score.
And the parents on his team were happy. But the parents on the other teams still weren’t happy. They seemed even more upset because now the scores were even more lopsided.
Manuel noticed that some of the other team’s boys stopped trying to go for the ball; now they were just trying to take his legs out from underneath him. Their parent’s anger had infected them too, and if they were going to lose badly, then they would also lose ugly.
So Manuel had been moved to goalie. This is how he described his new position: boring boring boring boring tense exciting bang boring boring boring boring tense exciting bang... When the other team was taking a shot it was great…he loved reading the other boy’s eyes, his leg muscles taut and ready to spring, ignoring the feints; then the shooter would decide to pull the trigger, and Manuel would know where the ball was going before he did. He would jump up, or dive sideways—but he didn’t try to bat the ball away—he tried to catch it. Some
times he didn’t catch the ball—when it was spinning fast, or wet, too hard or just too far at the edge of his reach—but never did he let anyone score. Not once since he had been goalie.
But usually he caught it. Then he would take the ball and drop kick it, loving the pop of his foot on the ball, the high arc as it headed toward mid-field, and everyone’s heads staring up at it like a firework about to bloom.
Then the game got boring again while he waited for the next shot on his goal.
But tonight wasn’t going so bad. There had been six shots on goal he’d had to defend already, and they hadn’t even reached the end of the first period. A good night, all in all, if not for Margie’s “Man-You-El.”
At the end of end of the period he ran back to the bench to find his mother holding his water bottle in her hand.
“What’s up?” Manuel asked. She had that look on her face.
“Why are you ignoring her?” she asked, speaking in Spanish so that their conversation could be somewhat private.
“Mom,” he answered, in English.
“I heard that chico call her your girlfriend. Does that embarrass you?”
Manuel shrugged.
“Do the right thing, Manuel,” she continued. “You’re a leader. Someday you might be the President. But you have to do the right thing and not worry about what everyone else thinks.”
Manuel nodded. He thought his mom was being more than a little optimistic as far as him being president, considering that she was an illegal alien. And he didn’t like being guilted into being nice to Margie; he wasn’t five years old and if he didn’t want to talk to someone he shouldn’t have to.
“Group up,” Coach yelled.
The boys gathered around him. “We’re going to make some changes. Manuel, you’ll take Lucas’s place at forward. Scott, you have your goalie gear?”
Scott nodded, wide-eyed. He hadn’t been allowed to play goalie yet in a close game.
“Manuel, give him the goalie jersey. Hurry up, five minutes.”
Manuel wondered why he suddenly was getting the chance to play forward. He wondered if he’d be rusty; he wondered if it would be like when he played before.
“Man-You-El!” Margie cried as he ran onto the field.
“Man-You-El!” Lucas repeated sarcastically from the sidelines. “Man-You-El!”
Manuel turned back and looked over his shoulder. Lucas had a sour look on his face, obviously not happy to be on the sidelines.
“Score a goal for Margie,” Lucas yelled again, loud enough that even the people in the stands could hear him.
Manuel couldn’t help himself, he glanced at Margie. She had a wide smile on her round face and her hands were clasped together.
Why, Manuel wondered, did Lucas want to embarrass him?
On one hand he had his mother trying to guilt him into being nice to Margie. On the other hand he had Lucas trying to embarrass him. Both of them were trying to control him.
“Man-You-El,” Margie yelled.
“Man-You-El,” Lucas parodied.
The ball was in play, and Manuel waited patiently and when it came into his area he was on it. He flew down the field, the ball was a part of him, and the other team’s defenders were caught flat-footed and Manuel knew no one would keep him from taking a shot. The goalie came a few steps forward and held his arms out like he waiting for Manuel to come hug him. Manuel drove straight toward him, staring into his wide blue eyes, then planted his left foot and swung through with his right catching the ball on the laces. The ball zipped past the goalie in an arc and made the net jump.
Manuel jogged and smiled. This must be what it was like for the tiger released into the wild from his zoo cage. Freedom. Power. Being where you belong.
“Man-You-El!” Margie screamed.
Manuel looked back at her, the smile still on his face, and she beamed back at him. She thought, he realized, that he was smiling at her.
“Man-You-El!” Lucas yelled. “Man-You-El!”
And Manuel realized that Lucas no longer had control over him, because he didn’t care anymore. He smiled at Margie for real this time and he waved at her. She jumped up and down and spoke to an older woman next to her, probably her mother, and her short little pigtails shaking with her animated motions.
The next time Manuel got the ball he took his time, letting his teammates get into position. When he drove in on the goal, the goalkeeper came toward him, and Manuel flipped it out to Fred who took the easy shot and scored.
“Man-You-El!” Margie cried.
“Man-You-El!” Lucas cried.
Manuel smiled his brightest and waved at them both.
Lucas stopped yelling his name.
When the referee blew his whistle indicating the end of the game Manuel huddled with his teammates. His coach said a few words and then they cheered for the other team and separated. Manuel began to head to the stands toward Margie.
“Manuel,” Coach called.
Manuel turned to find Coach standing with another man.
“This is the high school soccer coach,” Coach said. “Coach Simpson.”
The man extended his hand and Manuel shook it.
“You’re quite a player,” Simpson said.
“Thanks.”
“Would you consider moving up and playing for me?”
“Uh...after middle school?”
“Now.”
Manuel thought about Lucas and Scott and the rest of his teammates. Would they miss him? They might lose some games. But Scott would get to play more; and Lucas wouldn’t always feel second best. Which maybe was why Lucas was always trying to annoy him.
“It won’t be easy,” Coach Simpson said. “The older kids probably won’t like playing with a middle-schooler, but I think you might be tough enough to deal with them.”
Manuel nodded. Playing with kids his own age was too easy. “Sure,” he said, “I want to play for you. But right now I need to go, okay?”
The two coaches nodded and Manuel ran to the stands. Margie and the woman she was with had already left, so he ran around behind the stands.
“Margie,” he called when he saw her.
She turned around. Her mouth moved silently but Manuel could make out the syllables on her lips. Man-You-El.
“Thanks for cheering for me,” Manuel said, as he came up to stand before her.
“You’re welcome,” Margie said, quiet and shy now that he stood talking to her.
Manuel looked at the woman next to Margie and caught her wiping a tear from her eye.
“Can you do me a favor?” he asked Margie.
“What?”
“When you cheer for me will you please call me Man-Well?”
“Man-Well,” she whispered.
“Man-Well,” Manuel repeated.
“Man-Well,” she said louder, her eyes sparkling and a smile at the corner of her mouth.
Chapter 10 — Rocky Springs
It was hard for Lizzie to get to sleep that night. Wonder and excitement filled her. What would it be like “gathering Lost Souls?” Would it be hard? Would the ghosts be scary? And tomorrow was just the beginning. Eventually they'd be tracking down demons and fairies and...
And what about Nick? Was he one of the Fallen? Was she supposed to send Nick to Hell? Was that part of her job?
The thought hit her like a punch in the gut. She had only met him once, but he seemed nice and no way did she want to hurt him. Still, she knew now that her dad would definitely want to know if a gnome lived in the woods beyond their back yard. On the other hand, she had promised Nick—swore on the Bible even—that she would not tell anyone about him.
The next morning she had her lessons as usual, but she had a hard time keeping her mind on them.
Her mom didn't complain though. She knew. “Can't think about anything but the trip?” she asked, looking at Lizzie's mostly empty worksheet.
“Trip? Where are you going Lizzie?” Lori asked.
“I—” Lizzie started.
<
br /> “She's going to work with dad today,” her mom jumped in. “From now on, she'll be working with him often.”
“I want to go too,” Lori whined.
“Sorry honey, but you'll have to wait until you are older.”
“But where are they going?”
“When you are older, honey. When you are older.”
Lori looked back and forth from their mom to Lizzie hopelessly trying to figure out what the secret was. Lizzie almost laughed.
After lunch, Lizzie and her dad climbed into his old pickup and headed off on their trip.
“Dad, what do the Fallen look like?” she asked after awhile.
“I've only seen a few myself,” he answered. “Most of what I know about them I've learned by reading the journals. All the Spear Bearers keep a journal—before long you'll be starting one.”
“But how will I know if I've seen one?”
“Well, it's easy if they're three inches long and flying about on dragonfly wings. But sometimes it can be hard. They're shape changers. They can look like ordinary animals, and they can look like ordinary people. They can even be invisible. So usually you can only catch them when they do something magical. If you're ever in doubt, the Spear will tell you. When you point the Spear at one the aura you see is brighter and green instead of white.”
Lizzie sighed. She didn't need the Spear. Though she didn't want to believe it, there was no escaping the fact Nick was one of the Fallen. She shook her head and muttered, “And then you send them to Hell.”
“We banish them. Whether that means Hell or somewhere else, I can't say. It can be difficult. They have very strong magic and move fast as lightning. As a Spear Bearer, you must be very fast and banish them before they know what hit them. And the most important rule of all—the journals say this over and over—is never ever talk to them.”
Lizzie gulped. “Why? Why shouldn't you talk to them?”
“Because they have magic as old as the world. They can trick you.” Mr. Long looked at her and pointed at his temple. “They can get right inside your head. They can bring you under their spell and control you.”