The Secret Sacrament
by John Shiloh
© 2011, 2012 by John Shiloh. All rights reserved.
Author’s Note
The e-book that you’ve downloaded on your Kindle reader device is a special preview copy that I am offering to the world for free. It’s for my upcoming novel “The Secret Sacrament,” which is still a work in progress.
As an avid reader myself, I would appreciate your feedback. Please leave a comment on the book’s Amazon listing. Both positive and negative feedback is welcomed, so don’t be shy with your comments, support or critique.
As of December 2011, I don’t have an estimated date of release for the full novel, but I do have the plot and characters fully mapped out, with dozens of notes about the novel.
Thank you for taking the time to download this free preview and give it a whirl. Enjoy!
Happy reading,
John Shiloh
Prologue
Gripping onto the cliff's edge, John Michael held his breath, fearing for his life.
The details of how he got there are fuzzy. He did recall being chased down the mountaintop, past a number of large, thorny bushes, and falling a few times. Men were hunting him, and in the process he fell, hitting his head on a boulder. For about sixty yards he rolled downhill until he blacked out.
Now, he was here, hanging on the edge. Hoping someone would save him. That would most likely never happen, as he remembered brief moments of the vigorous, life-threatening chase that lead to this do-or-die situation.
As he held on with one hand, John knew his fate and that he was doomed.
In his semi-conscious state, blood dripping down the side of his face, he looked up in hope. That's when he spotted two shadowy men, standing on the earth above. As he squinted feverishly, making out the details of their faces was a hopeless effort. All he could see were the outlines of their bodies, dark silhouettes hovering over him.
He mustered every effort to hold on, but as he did, one finger let loose, then another. His palm and three fingers is all that connected him to the mountain.
He was moments away from plunging to his death. He knew the men, though he couldn't see their facial expressions, wanted him dead.
Another man, somewhere in the distance, shouted a command.
John couldn't understand what it was, because it was in a foreign tongue. He was never good with learning new languages. He dropped out of both his Spanish and French classes in high school and never picked up a class at the university. Even with his poor language skills, he knew the men weren't speaking a language he recognized.
The man in the distance shouted another command, and then one of the men suddenly left. That's when it happened, without warning.
A surge of pain struck his hand and bare knuckles. It shot all the way up his spine like a fireball, into his cranium, blistering hot pain. With the excruciating pain, he hadn't noticed he let go of the ledge. After a few moments, he realized he was falling, falling quickly. All his body's weight was in his legs and feet, pushing him down as fast as a lightning bolt.
There was no more hope!
There was too much pain and he was falling too fast.
In those moments before he knew he'd hit the earth below, he realized one of the men must have smashed his hand with a size twelve boot. This caused him to lose his grip. Not like it was much of a grip to begin with.
Now, he was sure as dead.
In his final moments, he began praying to God relentlessly, asking for forgiveness. As he prayed, he got carried away in a sea of emotions.
Only God knows what he prayed for.
Chapter 1
Completely soaked from head to shoulder, a young man abruptly sat up in bed. It was John Michael. And he was alive. But not well.
His body trembled, a terrified look clearly painted on his face. It was all a dream. A terrible nightmare where he had fallen off the side of a mountain. And into a pit of encroaching darkness.
He literally woke up seconds before he would've hit the ground. Luckily, he didn't die in his nightmare. After all, who really knew if you woke up after dying in the dream world. At least, that's what he thought now as he sat there, upright in his girlfriend's bed, dripping profuse amounts of sweat.
He glanced around, but his girlfriend was nowhere in sight.
Calming himself, he exclaimed, "Where's your girlfriend when you need her the most?"
The words fell on the silence of the room. His girlfriend was gone for the day. She left at the crack of dawn. An hour before John woke up in a whirlwind of panic.
He rested his head back down on the pillow. Most of it was still drenched in sweat, but he didn't care. It was the least of his concerns.
He paused for a beat, "You don't need her, it was just a dream. Just a bad dream."
Knowing John, it wasn't just a dream. It would bother him for the rest of the day. He'd revisit the circumstances, surroundings, and characters of the nightmare over again. Replaying each piece, or at least as much as he could remember. John was the type of person who took the nightly encounters in dream land personally, analyzing each bit in great detail. It was his nature.
He was fascinated by his dreams. By dreams in general. And even with his fascination he never got around to recording his frequent episodes in a dream journal.
"Crap!" John bolted up, now sitting at the edge of the bed. "What time is it?"
In a panic, he looked at the alarm clock on the oak dresser. It read 7:34.
He was thirty-four minutes behind schedule. He had a very important presentation this morning, which was necessary to pass his final class of his junior year. John was working toward his bachelors in psychology at Harvard.
He would have never chosen Harvard on his own. It was his recently deceased uncle who insisted that he attend America's most prestigious and oldest university. His uncle wanted him to attend a university where the brightest and greatest leaders were educated and began their noble public careers. Apparently, in his uncle's mind, that was in the halls of Harvard.
The school, properly known as The President and Fellows of Harvard College, was founded in 1636. The academic institution was named after John Harvard, a young English clergyman, whom he felt some connection too.
John Michael was not religious though. Like a growing number of young adults his age, he believed himself to be more spiritual than religious.
John would tell his Harvard buddies: The church in America is falling short with the youth, and in many respects, failing them too.
His friends were sympathetic with this philosophy. They were living in a new reality where the Catholic Church equated to a slew of pedophile priests and a crusty old man with a funny hat.
But none of that mattered right now, because if John didn't hustle and get his ass to class, he'd fail. And he didn't want to take Mr. Burgess' class over. Not because it was hard, but because Mr. Burgess was a complete asshole.
As he scurried around his girlfriend's tiny apartment, he opted to forgo a shower. There wasn't enough time. He barely had time to brush his teeth and comb his hair. But he swiftly managed those tasks. He figured he had to look halfway presentable. Plus you couldn't go out in public without brushing your teeth. To do so is just wrong.
In seven minutes, he was dressed in clean clothes with his hair looking nice and pearly whites. Walking out the bedroom and into the kitchen across the hall, he grabbed a package of bear claws. One of his favorite breakfast treats. He'd take a bear claw over a donut any day of the week.
He was now walking out the apartment door and locking it behind him. As he flung down the small flight of stairs ahead of him, he pulled out his cell phone. He looked at it and saw he had a text message.
The message read:
sorry got a last minute call from my sister. she needs me. explain more later. I LUV U! – Bethany
He looked up from his phone smiling. He knew his girlfriend did love him.
Even with all her love, John thought, something doesn't seem right about today.
Chapter 2
Five months earlier.
It was a solemn day. A day of remembrance. A day where loved ones gathered to honor the dead.
John Michael chose to keep a low profile at the funeral. He stayed mostly in the back as everyone paid their final respects. It was a large crowd. From the overflow of people, it appeared everyone loved his uncle Jonas. Without a doubt, he deeply loved his uncle, too.
After John's father died, Jonas stepped in and helped his mother with raising the boy. That was nearly twelve years ago. Now John and his family were mourning the passing of his beloved uncle.
If it weren't for Jonas, then John wouldn't have attended an Ivy League school. He was like a father to John. He even paid for a majority of the tuition costs. At least everything that scholarships and federal grant money didn't cover. In fact, Jonas had paid the full tuition balance for John's four years in college on his very first day.
It was utterly remarkable how wealthy this man was, but how selfless he had been all his years. He always put family and friends above all else. And on a day like this it definitely showed.
There were at least four hundred in attendance. Easily four hundred. Maybe five hundred people.
He wasn't a celebrity, or a politician, or a saint.
Jonas was just an honest, hard-working man who loved life and put people first. And that's how everyone remembered him. You could hear it in his eulogy, and the verbal tributes they paid during the service. It was moving and beautiful, touched the heart. Each person who spoke had a way of highlighting the man's loving-kindness, friendliness toward others, and charitable heart.
Chapter 3
Present day.
A new moon lurked behind the clouds in the night sky. The air was fresh and crisp, full of potential.
It was a quarter past midnight. John was standing behind the old abandoned building like his uncle's friend instructed him. He was only waiting about five minutes before he heard a rustling noise coming from the bushes. The knee-high bushes were on the hill to the north. On John's left side.
A man emerged from the bushes, walking down the front of the hill. He was solo, dressed in all white. The only thing that wasn't white were his tan sandals and the burgundy shawl. It was draped around the back of his neck with the tail ends evenly distributed, hanging from his shoulders to the top of his stomach.
John hadn't noticed it before. But his uncle's friend glowed a deeply spiritual presence. He walked with a confident attitude, but calmness flowed from his being. In that moment, John thought the man exuberated the aura of a saint.
He wasn't sure why he was meeting him here. In this secluded location. Away from the public's eye.
The area was very private. You could murder someone out here and get away with it. No one would ever hear the screams and cries of such a brutal act.
John knew that wouldn't happen. He trusted Thomas with his life.
John's uncle and Thomas were friends for over twenty-five years. Probably longer. You know how old men grow forgetful as time slips away.
Earlier that day, when John walked out of Mr. Burgess' classroom, his cell phone rang. He picked it up and Thomas was on the other end. He explained it was urgent and highly important that he meet with John tonight.