Christian Writing Contest

The Athanatos Christian Ministries 2009

JRR Tolkien Award

goes to

Elizabeth Chance

Warner Robins, GA

First Place

(Category: High School)

Bio:  Elizabeth Chance lives in Warner Robins, Georgia, with her parents, her sister, Rebecca, and their two dogs. She and her sister were homeschooled until high school when they entered Wynfield Christian Academy. Elizabeth graduated this year from Wynfield.

Elizabeth has enjoyed writing and acting ever since her best friend Hannah introduced her to these hobbies over eight years ago. She hopes one day to publish more of her writing.

To contact Elizabeth Chance you may seek her contact information through the contest administrators by sending an email to director@athanatosministries.org.

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Azrael

by Elizabeth Chance

Copyright 2009, All Rights Reserved

Black water, as still and as quiet as death. The water stretched out over the otherwise-empty expanse as smooth and innocuous-appearing as a plate of glass. But jagged rocks and other, more sinister, things lurked underneath the surface, just waiting for some unfortunate ship to run up on them.

A thousand derelicts lay impaled under the blackness, lulled by the false hope of land which was, in reality, deadly obsidian. Many were the ships that had sailed toward the rocks, naively sailing to their deaths. No true land in sight, no one to hear their dying cries, no one to help.

The bleak, frigid water with its hidden dangers cried out: desolate; desolate.

X 3000 B.C. X

Crack! Metal met flesh. A rivulet of blood ran down the slave’s back. “Faster, dogs!” the overseer ordered, a growl in his voice. The slaves obeyed quickly, fear propelling their tired bodies.

On the first level of the boat, Prince Nen stood, staring intently into the blackness. The sound of the oars plunging into the dark sea discomfited him. “By the gods,” he murmured, fingering his ankh, “I should have never sailed against Nut’s wishes.” A pang of fear, something foreign to the great Prince, swept through Nen’s body as the boat plunged on through the dark and deathly silent water.

“My Prince,” Sef interrupted fearfully, bowing low at Prince Nen’s feet. “Rise and speak,” Nen barked, his austere gaze showing a bit of fatigue and a lot of anxiety.

“The slaves are uprising!” Sef finally spoke, shifting his eyes about the deck nervously, “They say Isis and Nenet were not appeased by our sacrifices on the isle of Nerine, from whence we departed; they do not wish to continue the journey and risk angering them.”

The Prince drew himself up, sweat glistening on his well-toned body. Uncertain of what to do, he adjusted his golden headdress proudly; it glinted only dully in the crushing darkness, but it was respected nonetheless. The cool touch of the hammered gold infused him with courage, allowing him to speak with confidence. “I am the son of Pharaoh,” he snapped haughtily, “And I shall remind them of that. My father is the morning and evening star; he is Egypt! The power of Egypt lies with him as granted by the gods and goddesses; the deities always agree with him, and with me. We sacrificed two times our normal offerings, and the deities were appeased.”

Nen turned away from Sef and lifted his head to the sky. Surely Isis, his own personal goddess, would not let anything happen to him! Why, he was practically a god himself. . . . Still, Isis could be very unpredictable at times, and it would hurt nothing to please her and Nenet even more.

“Sef, bring the pyres and a white bull,” Nen decided, “I shall comfort the slaves and ensure a smoother voyage.”

A relieved smile on his face, Sef bowed once more, and hurried off to the ship’s storehouse. But just as he reached the storehouse, the boat ground to a halt, slamming him into the wall.

Pain shot through his neck and head, his body collapsing to the deck. “By the gods!” he muttered angrily, staring out into the black expanse.

At first the sea remained silent. Sef pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the side of the boat. The throbbing ache was beginning to ebb in his neck, and he shuffled toward the door.

A faint moaning sound caught his attention, and he froze. A blue streak of electricity arched out of the water, striking his chest. It hissed and crackled as it swarmed over his whole body in milliseconds. Sef let out a yell of pain before collapsing to the deck again, this time dead.

The whole boat began to shake as a guttural roar split the silence. Splinters of wood sheared off of the sides of the boat, plummeting to the waves below. Suddenly the boat imploded and shattered, raining debris over a large area. Water churned everywhere, throwing the crew into a mass panic.

The thrashings and vociferous yells of one hundred doomed souls echoed over the wasteland of water for but a few moments before they were silenced one-by-one.

The black ocean slowly calmed down as the last bits of wood sank into its depths.

‘Another one claimed without a fight,’ the cause of the desolation thought, slowly sinking down into the black oblivion along with the shards of the devoured ships. The darkness began to absorb its body as it smiled to itself, ‘Once again I prevail.’ It rested the mass of its body on the bottom and closed its eyes, the frigid water slowly lulling Death to sleep.

X 2000 B.C. X

“Reprehensible Hebrews,” Abiah muttered, gripping the side of the ship in anger, “We will destroy them.” He glared across the dark water at his fleet.

Four of the massive war vessels were filled with stallions of royal birth and the finest chariots; seven contained the very best of Canaan’s warriors; and his own ship . . . on it he carried ten prophets of the supreme Baal.

It also carried Havivah, the elect priestess of said god. A smile crossed Abiah’s normally stern face as he thought of Havivah; in her short days she had sent so many accursed Hebrew dogs back to the pit where they belonged. Once she had conducted a ceremony that lasted all night, and during it she had sacrificed twenty false Hebrew prophets to Baal! So much for the pitiful Hebrew God. . . .

“Surely we shall overcome all,” Abiah said to himself, “With Baal on our side, who can beat us?”

He drew himself up taller and unsheathed his sword from its scabbard. As he turned the weighted blade in his hand, Abiah admired the honed metal edge of the dark weapon. Soon this edge would taste the blood of the Hebrews.

Abiah’s thoughts were interrupted by Haskel, his second-in-command.

“My lord,” Haskel said quietly, giving a salute. “Ah, yes, Haskel,” Abiah replied warmly, turning to face the younger man, “How fare the troops?”

“Well, my lord,” Haskel stammered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously, “they . . . are . . . well . . . good, that is, sir,” he gave a nervous twitter of a laugh and a half-bow, “but the lady . . . Priestess Havivah . . . she is distressed. She–she would speak with you, my lord.”

Abiah re-sheathed his blade, smiling in satisfaction as the heavy metal clanged home. “Bring her to me,” he ordered, “But make sure no one slows his ship, even by a cubit per hour, or I shall treat him as a Hebrew!”

Haskel bowed fully this time. “I hear and obey, my lord,” he mumbled, hurrying away to fetch Havivah.

The ascetic man watched Haskel walk away, his mind already in battle mode.

He gave a small, nearly inaudible sigh, and looked back out into the ocean. The deathly silent water looked as bleak as his mood was becoming. How long he stood there staring, Abiah did not know. But stare he did, with a tight frown on his face. The water was so black, so hopeless, and so impenetrable. For all he knew, they could be sailing over an unfathomed abyss now.

A shiver of fear shook his normally resolute being; this stretch of water struck terror in him—terror from his very soul, it seemed. He felt a tremble course through him as the water reflected in his eyes. Stilling his tremors, he remained lost in thought.

“It is well and good to fear,” a mystical voice spoke up from behind Abiah, “There is much evil here.”

Abiah turned to see Havivah, the Priestess of Baal. She pulled her silken scarf tighter around her shoulders and boldly walked up to Abiah’s side. Her low-cut, scarlet gown did nothing to protect her from the cold air, and she shivered.

“Baal is not feared here, Abiah,” she whispered, her gaze distant, “but I can feel its presence.”

Mesmerized, Abiah stared at Havivah for a moment, completely lost under her spell. Her voice held an accent none of them had ever heard before, and she was exotically beautiful; most men, Abiah included, believed her to be some sort of goddess herself.

“What do you mean by ‘it,’ Lady Havivah?” Abiah asked slowly, his eyes never straying from her mysteriously calm face. He felt half-way in a dream as he drank in her beauty, but her next words shocked him fully awake in an instant.

“You do not know what you feel?” she laughed cynically, a half-smile gracing her face, “It is Death, mighty man. Death. . . . Can you fight with Death and win? No man has in over two thousand years of life!” Then she turned abruptly and glided away, the scent of her perfume lingering only moments after her departure.

And just like that, every bit of hope left Abiah’s body. He doubled over as if in pain, clutching the rail so tightly he nearly crushed it. His breath came in heavy, short gasps as pervasive despair wound its way through his pores and into his very soul.

And then it came. A roar split the air, sounding like the very demons of hell were at his gate! A blast of fire welled up from the water, engulfing the ship in a matter of moments. Perhaps this was hell! All of the ships were incinerated in less than thirty seconds, leaving behind only a few scattered ashes and one partially charred, yet barely alive man.

As the survivor, more corpse than man, floated in the dark sea, he tried to draw his weapon. He would not go down without a fight! But it was useless. The dark shape moved quickly through the ruins, making quick work of the only survivor: Abiah. No, the mighty man could not fight Death and win.

XXXX

It scanned the depths with its yellow eye, so full of malice and hate that it could barely see.

‘Yet again I prevailed. . . . Their Baal was powerless against Death,’ it thought with pride; it would have even smiled, had it been able to do so.

‘But I do wish people would not mention that . . . that . . . Hebrew God. . . .’ It thought, shuddering for some reason unknown even to it.

Slowly Azrael sank back to the floor and fell asleep, confident in its victory and security.

X 300 B.C. X

“Kyros, please turn back,” Dessa pleaded, grabbing her husband’s arm, “This unnatural dark is a bad omen!”

“Nonsense, Dessa,” Kyros snapped, pushing her away, “You worry too much.” He shook his head, going back to his work on the mainsail.

“But Poseidon is angry!” Dessa whimpered, falling to her knees on the deck.

Kyros shook his head, muttering an oath under his breath. “Silly, superstitious female,” he grumbled, shooting her a withering look, “you know I don’t believe in such things. But if I did, what would be bad luck would be to let this head wind pass by. . . . *grunt*. . . . All right, let’s sail. . . . Wait. Where did the wind go?”

He dropped the rope from his hands, letting it slide slowly to the ground like a limp snake. Their small caravel was now dead in the water, surrounded by the suffocating shadow.

“Noooo,” Dessa wailed, beginning to cry as she rocked back and forth, “Zeus! Oh, Zeus! Save us! No, no. . . . Hades is coming!”

Kyros ignored his frantic wife and strode to the front of their tiny vessel. Lifting an oar, he tried in vain to paddle the boat.

“We’re not going anywhere until a good, stiff breeze come up,” he grumbled after a minute, “I should have built a smaller boat.” (They were only poor peasants and could not afford slaves to row their boat; it required at least five people to propel it, though it was small.) “The planets had aligned,” he muttered to himself, going back to the rigging and pulling a rope tighter, “I thought for sure a heavy breeze was to follow. . . .”

“Kyros,” Dessa whispered gently, laying her slender hand on her husband’s broad shoulder, “Please, let’s turn back! Surely Zeus will hear our cries and send us a strong win-”

“Shah, woman,” Kyros spat, backhanding her across the face, “speak not of the gods again in my presence!” He glared at her, then spun on his heel and stomped to the back of the boat, muttering angrily under his breath.

Dessa lifted a trembling hand to her swollen cheek, then fell to her knees, tear after tear rolling silently down her thin face. She let her head droop forward until it came to rest on the mast.

“He’ll never turn back,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands, “We’re doomed!” Through teary eyes she watched, only slightly stunned, as something black and leathery inched over the side of the boat.

“Kyros,” she began timidly, her voice strangled from crying. But she never got to finish her sentence.

Crack! The boat exploded, wood flying everywhere.

Dessa screamed as she flew through the air; she hit the water hard and her cries were instantly silenced by a slimy, thick, living rope.

It scanned the decimated wreck lazily as it choked Dessa’s corpse, then plunged downward into the pit below, savoring the feel of bloody water trickling over its hide.

‘I win yet again,’ Azrael gloated, ‘Their gods were weaklings too. Death still rules!’ He gripped Dessa’s body tighter and settled onto the jagged stone floor with a smirk.

X A.D. 0 X

The small fishing boat tossed wildly in the waves, nearly capsizing one moment and nearly sinking the next.

“We have to get out of this storm!” Simon yelled, grabbing onto the side of the boat, “Aim for that cave!” Thomas grabbed at the wildly flapping sail and struggled to hold it. “We probably won’t make it,” he muttered gloomily, but he pulled the ropes taut anyway.

Underneath the violent waves Azrael swam slowly, carefully eyeing the boat. ‘I think a few more waves should do it,’ it mused, sending a bolt of electricity through the water to create larger swells, ‘Idiots! It is useless to resist. You will soon drown by my might!’ It muttered some foul words under its breath, strengthening the squall.

By now the waves were breaking over the boat, and the men inside truly believed they were going to drown! Well, twelve of them did; the thirteenth lay in the back of the boat, sleeping peacefully.

“We’re going down, Simon!” Andrew yelled to his brother, “I’ve never seen a storm this bad in all of my days as a fisherman!” Simon nodded ruefully, grabbing the side of the boat to steady himself.

The boat careened to one side as the creature forced more water to churn about the tiny craft with more evil words. In only a few minutes it planned to claim its next prize! But what it had not planned on was the thirteenth Man in the boat. . . .

XXXX

A huge wave rose over the boat; it broke fiercely, nearly swamping the craft. “Bail!” Andrew ordered, beginning to shovel water back out of the boat, “And somebody wake the Master up!” He continued to bail energetically, his muscles straining at every bucketful of water he tossed out of the craft.

Thomas dropped the bucket that he had been bailing with and staggered toward the stern of the boat, nearly falling over twice. Once as he hit the side, he thought he saw a large, black shadow underneath the vicious waves, but he did not stop to ponder about it. Finally he reached his destination—the rear of the boat—where Jesus was sleeping peacefully on a cushion.

“Teacher!” Thomas screamed to be heard over the howling wind and rain, “Don’t you care that we’re going to die?”

Jesus sat up, fully awake now, and merely looked at Thomas. Then He stood and addressed the storm.

XXXX

Azrael whipped the water around faster and faster, intensifying the storm to the fullest extent of its abilities. ‘Any moment now, they will fall out!’ it hissed in anticipation, pouring its pure fury into the waves and lightning.

The angry spells it spoke writhed upwards, building the storm until Azrael nearly lost control itself. But it managed to hang onto the reins as the storm built and built, fueled by its dark soul.

Every word it spat caused the clouds to slowly grow. They inched downward like fingers from the sky, stretching out, reaching to crush the ship between sky and beast. Now the boat was literally between the Devil and the deep blue sea.

The beast shot one tentacle up, ready to obliterate the men. It hissed a few words to stupefy them, rendering them dullards. Now, when they were absolutely helpless, it attacked!

But suddenly a Voice thundered out, “Silence! Be still!”

Instantly, white hot pain shot through Azrael. ‘CURSE YOU!’ it tried to scream, but Death was mute and powerless. It could not move forward or backward. Light was everywhere; holy, pure light from that Man!

The storm was finished, over, done. Azrael shrieked again and again with its silent voice, writhing in pain as it sank back down to the darkness below, leaving the men untouched and the ocean as smooth as glass.

In the presence of the Fisherman, Death found it had no power. How was this possible!?

X A.D. 1400 X

The canoe shot swiftly through the water, slicing it as cleanly as a knife. Six braves, faces as blank and hard as stone walls, paddled the canoe silently.

Chief Waban stood board straight in the front of the boat, his dark eyes absorbing his surroundings. The tall eagle feather in his headdress kept the braves silent; this man had faced many dangers to retrieve that feather and he was not to be questioned.

This mission could, in no way, shape, or form, be more dangerous than his journey for the feather, the Chief had told his men. For any of them to speak out now would be great dishonor; not one brave would risk it.

And so they paddled: silently; quickly; obediently. Waban’s tall visage encouraged them as well. Not only was he very courageous, but he was also good medicine. Very close to the Great Spirit and brother nature, Waban led his men wisely. His men felt no fear or anxiety, for their chief said the spirits were pleased.

And so the canoe pressed onward toward its demise . . . or so Azrael planned.

XXXX

A shadow bled across the water beneath the canoe, barely visible in the inky blackness. Azrael stared upward from beneath the waves, waiting patiently.

Green-tinged light wafted outward from its large, spherical eye, making its fangs glow in the eerie aura. The light settled on the bottom of the wooden vessel, marking a single figure for the first hit.

A low growl emanated from its maw, but other than that it remained very quiet. The prey must not know they were being hunted.

XXXX

Chief Waban turned his head slightly and barked the command to stop. Instantly the canoe ground to a halt in the water. “I know not this water,” Waban mused, gripping his bow tightly, “Be ready to fight, Warriors.” Then he gave a short nod and once again the canoe rushed forward.

But before they could travel even a yard, a screech split the air, raising the hair on the back of Waban’s neck.

The last brave in the canoe made a strange sound, then collapsed forward, headless. Blood spurted from his severed arteries, spattering the occupants of the canoe.

“Paddle!” the chief yelled, shoving the decapitated body out of the canoe.

Instantly another brave dropped, also headless. Blood was flowing wildly now, running in tiny rivers down the canoe’s curved sides and pooling in the floor. The men began to panic as their feet were covered in an inch of blood; they rowed frantically, their strokes erratic and uncoordinated.

But it was no good: no man can outrun Death. A few minutes later, a blood-filled canoe floated on the icy waters, spinning slowly in the weak current. From the Abyss below, it watched in delight.

‘Once again, all gods bow to me!’ it thought in sheer glee, ‘Death can conquer all!’ It was getting cocky now, beginning to forget the humiliating Fisherman incident. Azrael slipped up to the canoe, tipped it back boldly, and drank the blood in one gulp.

X A.D. 1996 X

Alyssa giggled, teetering drunkenly. “Whoa, the ship’s moving,” she slurred, collapsing onto a deck chair with a stupid grin, “Sho, Mikey, whatcha’ doin’ tonight?”

“We–ell,” Michael drawled, drawing the world out into two syllables, “It’s like this, hon: first the bar’s calling me, then the boys ‘n’ me are gonna play a little card game, and after that,” he gave a shrug, “I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Maybe another round at the bar.”

“Excuse me, Miss, Sir,” a voice with a thick Scottish accent interrupted them, “but I’ll have ta ask ye ta go below decks. We’ve spotted something fairly strange on our radars, and we’re not quite sure what it is. It’s movin’ in at a fairly fast clip, so we’re goin’ ta try’n outrun it.”

“Thanks, Captain O’Heen,” Michael said, taking Alyssa by the shoulders, “We’re so gone.”

“Thank ye, laddie,” the old captain sighed, his voice sounding tired. Somehow he sensed that this was far from over.

XXXX

“Sir, we’re moving at thirty-four knots, and the object is overtaking us like–like we’re standing still!” the first mate informed Captain O’Heen frantically, “What are your orders?”

“We’ve got ta hide,” Captain O’Heen decided, running a hand through his graying hair, “Set course for that cave over there.”

The huge cruise ship, the Emerald Day, swung slowly toward the cave and slipped in. Now all that they could do was to wait. Hours passed and nothing happened. Slowly the crew began to relax, feeling that their scare was over; the casinos reopened, and Michael and his buddies started a drinking game.

But Captain O’Heen was not fooled. “It’s still there,” he murmured to himself as he stared out into the sinfully black sky, “It knows where we are.” He bowed his head in thought, but there was no solution. If the Emerald Day stayed put, they would become a sitting duck and eventually it would find them; if they ran, it would overtake and catch them.

“Ye cannot escape, laddie,” the captain told himself sadly, “This’ll be the end of ye, O’Heen. . . . But I’ll not go down in here! Nay, Captain Brogan O’Heen will go down honorably.”

The old man pulled his body up, then walked out onto the deck as one doomed. He took the helm again, called out an all-clear, and allowed the ship to sail on to its death.

Less than half an hour later, blood-curdling screams and cries decorated the air as the Emerald Day slowly sank into the water. Tentacles wrapped tightly around the ship, squeezing the very life from its engines.

The creature sent a pulse of energy through the ship, crossing the wires from the engine room. The Emerald Day lit up briefly with a hissing sound, and then burst into a raging inferno. The black waters lapped at the sides of the ship, but refused to quench the flames.

Finally the rooms all filled with the heavy water and the Emerald Day slipped below the water line and sank into the depths.

Azrael seemed to laugh, mocking the cruise ship’s demise as the derelict settled into the graveyard below. ‘I win again,’ it thought, ‘and no wonder. These people were their own gods. Pathetic!’

X A.D. 2020 X

“Move!” Falcon ordered, lifting his Barrett M98B sniper rifle to stare down the barrel. The recoil-operated .50 BMG gun was capable of killing quickly, something Falcon liked. He checked his rifle for readiness, and sat back into his seat.

The sub shot through the depths like a bullet, its floodlights barely piercing the extreme darkness. It was composed of a lightweight, extremely durable titanium alloy and was equipped with enough atomic weapons to nuke the whole world twice over.

Occupying the sub were one hundred men, each one a weapon in his mind-set and body. They had trained for years before even setting foot on this sub, and each one carried M16A4 guns . . . two of them per man.

They also had an array of knives, ranging from switchblades to KA-BARs. They could run on Epinephrine for days without rest; they fought wounded or half-dead as well as they did completely uninjured. They were called the Death Hawks.

Their motto? ‘Do not mess with us, or we will mess you up.’

XXXX

“Target: Kraken. Objective: locate and destroy,” Falcon growled, his coal-black eyes staring into the even-blacker waters.

He clenched his jaw, the scar down his left cheek whitening. His claw-like nails tapped on the table, nicking pieces out of the deep cherry wood. The scars left behind were his mark; even if he died today, all would know that Falcon had killed the Kraken. The door to his private chamber burst open, but Falcon continued his vigil, his fingers gouging deeper into the fine wood.

“Sir!” Maddox called, saluting sharply, “We found it!”

Falcon refused to even turn and face his subordinate. “Ready the nukes,” he hissed, cocking his head like an eagle, his dark black locks of hair falling to one side, “Let’s go kick som–”

Suddenly the sub began shaking violently, knocking Maddox and Falcon to the floor. Falcon, rifle still clutched tightly in his clawed hand, crashed into the edge of the desk, the wood now gouging him. “Fire!” he cursed, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, “Fire you idiots!”

Moments later they head a whoosh as twenty tons of nuclear weapons fired directly into the creature. A shockwave scuttled across the water until the still-silent darkness engulfed it. Lights flashed wildly as the bombs found their target.

Maddox flinched as the shockwave blasted into their sub, wondering for a moment how well-constructed their vehicle actually was. Finally everything went still, and a cheer rang out from the Death Hawks. They had won!

Falcon pushed himself off the floor, barely believing what had just happened. “We beat it,” he murmured, holding onto the railing as if it were his life-line, “We . . . won.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the pain in his mouth slowly begin to subside as victory numbed his whole body. The blood trickling down his face no longer stung.

“We won!” he roared, throwing up his fist in a victory salute. His excitement spread faster than anthrax throughout the mini-sub. The Death Hawks were too excited to notice danger now.

When the hatch began to slowly inch around with a metallic creak, it went unnoticed. The hatch paused momentarily as the creature feared discovery. Still the celebration rang out loudly, so it continued boldly opening the metal portal.

Suddenly the hatch flew open and water and tentacles surged into the machine. Falcon was the first to notice as a tentacle wrapped around his leg.

“Fire!” he screamed, ripping off the tip of the Kraken’s arm with his bare hands. He raised his Barrett M98B and let loose with a volley of bullets, but the gun slipped from his blood-soaked hands.

Maddox leapt up and fired off several rounds into the beast, but the bullets passed through the animal as if it were liquid or . . . or a ghost.

Men threw down their guns and drew their knives, but they never got the opportunity to use the weapons. A wave of fire blasted through the sub, splitting it down the middle like a wet sheet of paper and incinerating the metal walls.

Not one Death Hawk had a chance.

XXXX

It settled on the bottom, quite content.

‘Their weapon gods were futile,’ Azrael reveled, ‘I am everything! You cannot outrun Death . . . you cannot hide from Death . . . you cannot fight Death and win forever. . . . Sooner or later, every mortal will face Death, and Death will win. The only ones that got away were the friends of that lowly Fisherman. None of the others were ready to meet Death.’

XXXX

Are you ready?

James 4:14 – ‘How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow? Your life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, and then it’s gone.’ NLT

Luke 12:20 – ‘But God said to him, “You fool! This very night your soul is required of you; and now who will own what you have prepared?”’ NAS

John 3:16 – ‘For God loved the world so much that He gave His one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life.’ NLT

Tags: Azrael, JRR Tolkien Award, leviathon
Filed under: High School Award Winners