The preacher stood on the hill and watched Ithaqua burn.
The bitter wind which tugged at the hem of his long black coat egged the flames onward, coaxing them howling and careening through the streets like drunken revellers. Faintly he heard the people slam doors and spill terrified into the streets, their quiet Sunday evenings violently interrupted by the carnage come knocking at their doors. He watched as the fire grabbed the town tight in its greedy hands and squeezed, slobbering all over the awnings and wooden columns until the café and the corner shop were bathed in it. Night had long since fallen, but Ithaqua shone bright as day.
He had prayed for it. He reminded himself of this as wisps of screams drifted from the burning town to curl around him. He had prayed for the Lord to send fire and brimstone to remind the godless that they were not above His laws. That no one could sin forever; their misdeeds would catch up to them one grim morning. He had prayed and prayed and now his prayers were answered. Now Ithaqua would join the ranks of Sodom and Gomorrah, a reminder to the world that devilry and mortal sin would not go unpunished.
When he turned to face his flock gathered behind him they saw him framed in the red glow of the burning town, and they bowed their heads in reverence and terror. Here stood the wrath of God, the instrument of his will in this world. Some wept. Most were silent. All knew they were a part of something far bigger than their insignificant selves.
‘The devil lived here, my sons and daughters. The devil crept into this town and made it his nest, a breeding ground of vice and madness. That all ends today. We have cast the devil from this town.’ Some of the dwindling devout gathered before him raised their hands and muttered amen, nodding entranced in the half light. They began to sing, in quiet reverence at first, but gradually their voices lifted joyful into the night.
The preacher turned and watched the black smoke claw its way upward until it blotted out the stars. And for the first time in fifteen years, his troubled heart was at peace.
When the preacher woke, the smell of smoke was gone from his nose and the night was quiet. He peeled back the blankets and stepped from his warm bed into the cold, aware of his wife’s soft breathing in the bed behind him. He shuffled to the window and leaned heavily on the sill, his mind racing with scattered remnants of a dream. He cast his eyes out into the winter’s night, a soft new snow falling behind the icy glass.
Ithaqua slept below the hill, blissfully unaware, untouched by the maelstrom he had seen consume it. But he was a man of faith, and he would not be deterred by physical evidence. His eyes and ears, his mortal body, these were fallible. The state of the world was temporary. God had shown him how it should be, how it would soon be. And although that hive of sin still prospered in the temporary, he knew he could return to bed contented and sleep soundly. For he had seen the will of God.