Outlaw Prophet: Part V

Horace Finch

The Californian

April 15th, 1858

A week out of Kansas City and my near miss with an angry mob, I haven’t heard hide nor hair of Mr. Samuel Blackwood. No campfires. No stories. No rescued settlers. Nothing. It’s as if on the way to Springfield, he up and disappeared from human history again.

Well, not really.

If Samuel, or Cartiphilus, whichever you prefer, could shoot lightning from his fingertips, I’m assuming he could probably fly or magically appear wherever he wanted. Whelp, add lightning bolts to the long list of fantastical things he never told me he could do.

But what was even more curious was his sudden disappearance when he was so close to his mission. I think it odd, given his vast public appearances over the last ten years, or hundreds of years if you ask the natives, for him to suddenly go dark.

            According to my map, Springfield, Illinois was about a four-day ride from KC. I had intended on changing horses at the last stop, but seeing as the hospitality was less than appealing, I never got the opportunity. I decided, given the lack of signs, to head on to Springfield and go to the one place I knew he’d turn up…at Abraham Lincoln’s home.

            Springfield, Illinois was far more cosmopolitan than Kansas City, but not as much as San Francisco. Still, it was bustling with commerce in all directions. But as nice as it was to be back in civilization, that made finding this young Lincoln all the more challenging. After a few hours of chasing down false leads, I finally came into a dry goods store to ask the clerk if he knew of this young man.

         “Excuse me, good sir, would you perhaps know of an Abraham Lincoln?” I asked.

         “I should know him,” he replied curiously.

“That’s great. Do you know where I might find him?”

“Of course, I know where he is,” he replied leaning on his broom.

“Are you him?” I asked sheepishly as he stood upright to an impressive height.

“I am Abraham Lincoln. Who’s asking?”

“Mr. Lincoln, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said reaching for his hand. “My name is Horace Finch, with The Californian newspaper out of San Francisco.”

“Why would a Californian newspaper want to cover a political event in Illinois?”

“I understood you to be a lawyer, not a store clerk,” I asked.

“I am a lawyer, but I get free room and board here at my old job, but I still help out in the evenings for the hospitality.”

“In all fairness, my interests here for the paper are not necessarily you, but someone who is on his way to meet you.”

“That sounds interesting,” Abraham said leaning in again. “Who is this fella?”

“Oh, yeah, it will be very interesting,” I said probably a little too enthusiastically. “His name is Samuel Blackwood, and he is a prophet.”

“Oh, is this supposed to be a hit piece to tarnish my reputation as a Republican candidate?” he asked, perplexed.

“Nothing like that I assure you. Mr. Blackwood is our paper’s person of interest. Been following him around the West for a good bit now, and his feats are alive in this evolving legend. I didn’t know his mission was to talk to you until my last meeting with him in Colorado.”

***

Author’s note: The following contains 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.

At the same time, nearly four miles east of Springfield in a thicket of woods, lay a motionless Samuel Blackwood on the ground. Around him stood three darkened figures who were not but red eyes and humanoid shapes but faced outward as if guarding a prize.

“We know who you are Cartaphilus the cursed,” one of the shadows hissed.

         “Quite the demonstration you put on back there in Kansas City,” another shadow added. “We’d thought we lost you, but you couldn’t resist using your powers?”

         “Matter’s not,” the final shadow said in a deep growl, “our job is to keep him from his final mission or else.”

Feigning unconsciousness, Cartaphilus awoke but remained motionless, eyes shut. He couldn't move his fingers or wiggle his toes. It seemed his captors had cast a form of sleep paralysis on him, hoping to freeze him in a state of terror. But who would dare to thwart his mission? Satan, undoubtedly. Yet the Prince of Darkness was too entangled in the Old World's affairs to concern himself with a nobody from the New World. Unless this nobody was destined to become someone of great importance, and Satan had gotten wind of it.

But no, he had already been told what was to come. This man would be the next president of the United States, and Cartaphilus's mission was to keep the union together at all costs. But who were these shadowy fiends? No mere mortal could bring him down so swiftly. Who had hired them? Would they answer his questions? Given their penchant for inflicting pain, direct dialogue seemed unwise. As long as they believed he was unconscious, they might inadvertently reveal the answers he sought.

"The master has seen fit that this nation should not survive," one of the shadowy fiends said proudly.

"All it needs is a little nudge." At the word "nudge," the trio burst into laughter.

Cartaphilus lay there, motionless, suppressing his urge to strike them down. They knew who he was and had some inkling of his mission, but they didn't know everything. He deduced they weren't fallen angels, as they couldn't physically manifest as humans. They weren't Nephilim either, confined to physical forms like giants. These were something else—perhaps disembodied spirits of malevolent beings from ages past. His patience wearing thin, he waited until they were engrossed in discussing the impending bloodshed before making his move.

He tried to say, "In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I command you to dissipate and leave these lands!" but no sound came out. The paralysis included his vocal cords. Summoning all his mental strength, he thought the words with such fierce intensity that the words appeared audible even without moving his mouth, causing all three to clutch their ears and shriek in pain at the name of Jesus. Sensing the paralysis lift, he rose to his full height, invoking Jesus' name to drive them back to which they gave into full retreat as their screams grew louder. They should have known better than to attack one appointed by God.

Not knowing how long he'd been there, but sensing he was already late, he surveyed the place one last time. How had they managed to ambush him? One mentioned they were drawn to the power he'd used against the Mormon mob. But he'd used his powers many times before without attracting extra attention. Why was this time different? Pondering this, he picked up his hat and revolver, wiping off the dust. Stepping toward Springfield a portal materialized before him.

This wasn't the first time for this to happen. Usually, this was a quick update from on high, but the portal remained eerily opaque with no clue as to what lay on the other side. Stepping forward in faith, to his shock, he found himself no longer in Illinois, but at Satan's throne in ancient Pergamum (now in the heart of the Ottoman Turk's Asia Minor).

To be continued...