A stranger walked into the city of Emmanuel. The House of Nod, the family line of the king, resided here in this chief city of the Realm. The palace of the king, Leole, stood there surrounded by great, white granite walls on every side of the city. The southwest and northwest walls sat upon white granite cliffs, descending into the sea with the Bay of Emmanuel beyond, and the Royal Naval Armada moored at one hundred piers stretching into the clear blue waters of the Azure Sea.
Strangers of every sort commonly traveled here, but this man differed altogether from most. People recalled his appearance but not his name. He may have once been a great man, perhaps even a warrior, but their memories failed them. Folk simply did not remember with any accuracy.
Clouds prevailed on this day-thick, dark clouds fighting with the bright sunshine for dominance. The Old Storyteller, as we called him, regarded the weather with a slight nod as he sat at the King’s Fountain. We expected rain, but something in his expression said the struggle between the light and growing darkness concerned him.
He wore deep, scarlet colored robes-clearly quality made, but they bore tattered fringes, revealing much age and wear. The Old Storyteller carried a leather bag draped over his right shoulder with the bag itself resting upon his left hip. He leaned upon a straight, unadorned piece of oak, standing the height of a man.
A fair crowd of children had gathered to listen today. The children of the city had played games in the streets, but this man, whom the adults spoke of in hushed tones, tore their attention from play.
We sat upon the polished stone path encircling the fountain, waiting for the storyteller to speak. He sat there on the fountain’s short retaining wall, watching us through bushy, white eyebrows with a full beard lying upon his chest. He turned his head and regarded the idol statue, Dyfore, adorning the center of the fountain. The old man cleared his throat of mucus and spat upon the idol in disgust. Then he turned around and caught our astounded expressions.
We looked at one another, then to him ready to devour his words. Profaning an idol held a death sentence in Emmanuel. Only a prophet dared to do such a thing. Perhaps, at the very least, we might witness his arrest if someone reported this to the authorities.
The old man gave us a knowing wink as we stared. He leaned his walking stick upon the fountain’s edge, preparing to speak. His every movement caused us to stir in anticipation. Knowing the stories our parents had shared, we expected a real treat.
My name is Phineas Bogg and I sat among the children that day. When this man finally began to speak, he told us, “The story I am about to share with you, regarding Shaddai’s Deliverer, is the absolute truth as it occurred nearly one hundred years ago. You see, children, the strangest thing about Ethan’s first encounter with a demon was not that he could see the creature, but rather that it could not see him.”
By the time the old man concluded the telling of his tale, my life would never be the same again.