ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART SIXTEEN
The third morning broke cool and gray, the kind of city morning where the air still carried the faint scent of wet concrete and freshly trimmed grass.
A thin haze hung low, muting the skyline and softening every sound.
Behind Zionel’s office complex, the garden stretched neatly along a tiled walkway—glass walls catching dull reflections of palm leaves, security cameras humming softly above like distant insects keeping watch.
The space felt orderly, controlled, almost reverent in its stillness.
A security gate clicked open.
Thaniel stepped in quietly, his presence nearly swallowed by the wide compound.
An oversized maintenance shirt hung loosely on his frame, gloves tucked into his back pocket, a borrowed cap pulled low to shadow his face.
The metal cutter rested in his hand, its weight awkward, unfamiliar, like a tool borrowed for a purpose he had never sought.
He slowed near the flowerbeds and stopped.
Neatly aligned roses, hibiscus, and small palms swayed gently as a breeze passed through the compound. The leaves whispered against one another.
Thaniel’s fingers tightened around the cutter. He had never trimmed flowers in his life.
He bent down slowly, studying the stems with care, then lifted his head toward the glass-fronted office building, a quiet expectation settling in his chest—thinking Zionel would come out and meet him in the flower garden.
Upstairs, the curtains remained drawn. No movement. No sign.
A long breath left him, steady but weighted.
He knelt briefly on the tiled ground, resting the cutter beside him. The hum of the city dulled, as though distance itself leaned back. His lips moved quietly, reverence threading his breath.
The air stilled around him, leaves pausing mid-sway, as Thaniel’s voice emerged low and humbled, carried more by faith than sound.
Thaniel (softly):
“Lord… I don’t understand this path. But thou hast said, ‘Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.’ Lead me.”
The words lingered like incense. The breeze returned, brushing the petals, while unseen watchers—both earthly and spiritual—shifted in silence. The garden seemed to receive the prayer, holding it.
Thaniel rose, wiped his palms against his trousers, and began.
Snip by snip. Slowly. Deliberately.
The soft metallic click of the cutter set a steady rhythm. The scent of crushed leaves filled the air as stems fell cleanly to the tiles.
Sweat gathered at his temples as the gray lifted and the sun climbed higher, light pressing down with quiet insistence.
A security guard glanced at him once, uninterested, then turned away.
Hours passed, measured only by falling leaves, the whisper of movement, and the unseen tension stretching beyond the compound walls.
By afternoon, the garden stood transformed—balanced, open, alive.
Flowers rose clean and graceful, their colors vivid against the gray stone, as though order itself had been restored piece by piece.
An attendant paused at the edge of the compound, eyes widening slightly. He lifted his phone, snapped a picture, and typed quickly, fingers moving with sudden urgency.
Upstairs, in a quiet office cooled by a low, constant hum from the air conditioner, Zionel’s phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. The moment stretched. Then he pressed a button on the intercom.
The faint buzz of the speaker preceded his voice, calm and measured, carrying authority without strain.
Zionel (calmly):
“Tell him to come upstairs. Office. To get his payment.”
The instruction settled like a verdict. Down below, the attendant gestured toward the building.
Thaniel wiped his hands on his trousers, drew in a slow breath, adjusted his cap, and followed down the corridor.
The polished floor gleamed beneath his shoes. His footsteps echoed faintly, each step carrying him closer to a threshold he could not retreat from. A glass door opened. He stepped inside.
The office was spacious—wide glass windows, leather chairs, a broad desk, framed photographs lining the walls. Light rested evenly across the room.
Zionel sat behind the desk, composed, eyes steady. Thaniel stood opposite him, hands loosely clasped, the distance between them charged.
Zionel leaned forward slightly, fingers interlocked. His gaze lifted and traveled over Thaniel—borrowed uniform, quiet composure, the stillness beneath the disguise. One corner of his mouth lifted faintly.
The hum of the room seemed to lower as Zionel’s tone cut through, precise and observant.
Zionel (measured):
“You’ve been trying very hard to see me.”
The air tightened. Reflections shifted faintly in the glass as Thaniel remained still, the weight of exposure pressing in.
Zionel tapped a finger once on the desk, the sound sharp in the quiet. His voice came low and probing, edged with quiet challenge.
Zionel (inquiring):
“Why?”
Thaniel’s chest rose once. He removed his gloves slowly, placing them into his palm. His eyes did not wander; they held steady, anchored.
His tone came restrained, deliberate, as though measured against consequence.
Thaniel (quietly):
“I didn’t come for money.”
Zionel’s fingers loosened. He gestured toward the chair without standing, a subtle invitation layered with control. His voice was light, restrained, carrying measured approval.
Zionel (lightly):
“Sit. You’ve worked for it, at least.”
Thaniel sat, back straight, hands resting on his knees. The air conditioner hummed low.
Outside, the city pressed on, unaware.
Zionel watched him closely, waiting, the room suspended. Thaniel swallowed. His eyes lifted, burdened now, resolve settling deeper.
The moment thickened before his tone emerged, restrained but heavy with warning.
Thaniel (restrained):
“The Lord is angry… not with hatred, but with warning.”
A pressure rolled through the room, unseen yet felt. Light along the glass seemed to dull as Zionel’s posture stilled.
Thaniel leaned closer, his voice firm, carrying the weight of duty rather than fear.
Thaniel (firm):
“You have allowed the enemy to overtake you. You have drifted. And if you do not repent, you will die by the hands of those you cherish.”
The air seemed to thicken, as though breath itself hesitated. Shadows pressed closer to the corners of the room.
Zionel’s lips curved into a brief laugh. He shook his head once and leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk.
His tone came light, almost amused, but something colder moved beneath it.
Zionel (lightly):
“That’s exactly why I made all this difficult.”
The smile faded. His eyes sharpened, hardening like glass under strain. His voice turned cold, flat, stripped of warmth.
Zionel (cold):
“Everyone here has orders. Anyone who comes to tell me ‘the Lord said’… doesn’t leave alive.”
A low tremor passed through the room. Thaniel’s jaw tightened, his breath steadying as unseen resistance gathered around him.
Zionel’s voice dropped further, quieter now, edged with memory.
Zionel (serious):
“Others tried. They didn’t survive.”
The silence pressed heavier. Reflections in the glass shifted as though listening.
Zionel studied Thaniel again, his gaze narrowing. His tone was measured, controlled, carrying restrained calculation.
Zionel (measured):
“I didn’t want you dead. That’s why I hid you in plain sight.”
A brief pause settled between them, charged and deliberate. His voice turned reflective, edged with restrained curiosity.
Zionel (reflective):
“I’m surprised you didn’t give up.”
Thaniel’s chest lifted slowly. His tone came unwavering, anchored in calling.
Thaniel (steadfast):
“The watchman does not abandon the wall.”
He raised his hand slightly, palm open.
The air shimmered.
Light gathered beside them, unfolding into a living spiritual screen. It rippled like water, luminous and deep, shapes forming within it—visions layered with motion and intent.
Zionel’s posture stiffened as images emerged: Seraphina standing in shadow, Elara’s face shifting between tenderness and darkness, unseen hands weaving plans behind polished smiles.
The room seemed smaller beneath the weight of revelation.
Thaniel rose from the chair and stepped closer to the screen, fingers trembling as he pointed, urgency breaking through his restraint. His voice sharpened, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Thaniel (urgent):
“Your wife, Elara. Seraphina. Others with them.”
The light pulsed. The air vibrated. Zionel’s breath caught. Thaniel’s tone wavered briefly, pain threading through truth.
Thaniel (strained):
“They are agents of darkness. This is how they entered. This is how they planned.”
He leaned forward, resolve tightening, Scripture carrying the edge of his warning. His voice was firm, deliberate, weighted with conviction.
Thaniel (firm):
“You opened a door thinking it was grace. ‘There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.’”
The room seemed to bow under the weight of the words. Zionel’s jaw tightened, knuckles whitening against the chair.
Thaniel did not look away. His tone was grave, steady, carrying the weight of warning and truth.
Thaniel (grave):
“What you called God’s hand was a snare. What you called love was assignment. What you called rest was sleep.”
His throat moved as he swallowed, the final weight settling into his tone.
Thaniel (solemn):
“This is what I was shown by the Lord.”
Zionel stared, breath locked in his chest. With a sharp motion, he raised his hand and cut through the air.
The spiritual screen shattered into fading light, dissolving instantly, fragments vanishing like sparks extinguished.
Zionel stood so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor. His palms struck the desk once, the sound echoing against glass. His voice thundered with command.
Zionel (commanding):
“Enough.”
The word rang, vibrating through walls and air alike. Zionel’s eyes burned. His voice was cold and commanding, sharp with authority.
Zionel (cold):
“Stop talking. Leave my office. Now.”
The pressure broke sharply. Thaniel searched his face, pain flickering through his eyes. He nodded once, slowly, then turned and walked out.
His footsteps echoed down the hallway, then faded into distance.
Outside, evening traffic blurred into streaks of light as Thaniel climbed into the car with the others and shut the door. The engine started. The vehicle rolled forward.
His head leaned briefly against the seat. His lips moved in silent prayer.
Then—a violent jolt.
Metal screamed. The world spun. Glass shattered as the car flipped, rolling hard before slamming into a power pole. Dust and smoke filled the air.
Silence followed—thick, stunned.
Coughing broke it. Groans. Thaniel opened his eyes, hanging sideways in the seatbelt. Pain throbbed, but breath filled his lungs. He unbuckled carefully and crawled out.
Others stumbled from the wreck, shaken but alive. Voices shouted. Someone cried out in disbelief.
Thaniel pushed himself upright, blood trickling down his temple. Sirens wailed in the distance as he dropped to his knees on the roadside.
His voice rose, broken yet grateful, carried through smoke and trembling air.
Thaniel (grateful):
“Thank you, Lord… ‘Because thou hast been my help, therefore in the shadow of thy wings will I rejoice.’”
Around him, others echoed the words, trembling, shaken. The car lay ruined, twisted beyond repair—but every soul stood breathing. Darkness recoiled, frustrated, denied.
Later that night, in his room, Thaniel knelt beside his bed. A single lamp cast a warm circle of light on the floor as he lifted his hands.
His prayer flowed steady, surrendered.
Thaniel (praying):
“Lord, I have spoken. I have obeyed. Keep his life. Give him eyes to see. And give me strength not to give up.”
Outside, the city breathed—cars passing, wind brushing leaves. Peace settled quietly in the room, gentle and sure.
Elsewhere, unseen and enraged, darkness gathered, plotting swiftly.
The cage had begun to crack.
And the night deepened.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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